Fight Imperialism!

On account of my relative disengagement with UEFA’s beanfeast in Poland / Ukraine and Newcastle United’s abeyance in the transfer market, I had hoped it would not be beholden of me to take up my metaphorical pen as an even more metaphorical simple sword of truth until the Northern Alliance fixtures were released on 19^th July. However, events on Wearside have forced my mind. As noted last time, Cornelius Cardew declared “Stockhausen serves Imperialism;” sadly it appears that Martin O’Neill does too.

In point of fact I’ve been to Wearside recently; I attended a conference at sunderland University this week on Gothic Literature, where one of the keynote speakers was Dr Alison Younger, whose lecture on Gothic monstrosities included the fascinating theory that the essential differences in ideological motivation between Bram Stoker’s “Dracula” and Mary Shelley’s “Frankenstein” were related to class conflict. Count Dracula was presented by Stoker and interpreted by many readers as being exotic, charming and intriguing because of his otherness; he symbolises old money and pre industrial privilege. In contrast Dr. Frankenstein, coming from the world of science, represents the unsettling values of the unknown and the forces of change relating to ambition; he almost exactly maps the unease pre Gothic romantic writers such as William Blake had for Newtonian principles in physics. What is more, Frankenstein’s monster can be interpreted as the inescapable rise of the working classes, especially how they are viewed by the bourgeois; nameless, sinister, massive in scale, destructive and unstoppable.

Dr Younger’s lecture was taking place at the same time as sunderland were launching their new kit, with the support of a predictably fawning and slavering puff piece in the repugnant “Guardian.” This garment has been unveiled to include the seemingly laudable sponsorship slogan of “Invest in Africa.” The publicity photos accompanying the launch included months old shots of former chief executive Niall “Mr Charity” Quinn, whose unexplained and hurried departure from the club has still to be adequately explained. Unlike the deep thinking that accompanied Dr Younger’s talk, it appears that scant regard for the implications of their actions in accepting this Faustian shilling has been undertaken by the so-called caring club, as they will henceforth be doing as much for that continent as manufacturers of baby milk did in the 1980s, even if they pretend their actions are Live Aid with shin pads. In short (no pun intended), the Mackems will be wearing shirts emblazoned with a slogan that has as much moral validity as if it said “Give heroin to toddlers.”

Because of this deal, sunderland AFC will be promoting the interests of Tullow Oil, a rapacious, unscrupulous, grasping, multinational conglomerate, dedicated to profiteering, exploitation and land despoliation. It is indeed a grim organisation to climb in to bed with, but not unsurprising for a club whose support would no doubt opt for Skrewdriver as their half time entertainment if such a choice was available. Make no mistake, this is not comparable to Barcelona putting UNICEF on their shirts; no grand philanthropic gesture this by Ellis Short. Think I’m being unreasonable? Well, read this article then see the veracity of my reasoning; http://platformlondon.org/2012/06/26/blowing-the-whistle-on-sunderland-fcs-oil-sponsorship-deal/ For me, the crucial parts are; Three years ago, Barcelona won praise for putting UNICEF on their shirts – this is an attempt to get similar credit, while effectively just getting money from an oil company aggressively expanding its operations across the continent… The result of this particular “Investment in Africa” represents a significant transfer of wealth from some of Africa's poorest to British and Irish investors…

While economic realities and the celestial dance of capitalism mean that shirt and other forms of corporate sponsorship are a reality that borders on to being a necessity, there are limits. Certainly, the renaming of grounds, such as Ashley’s crass attempts to ditch120 years of history relating to St. James’ Park (though protests against it from self-appointed gauleiters in Sports Direct attire who, to paraphrase Francois Mitterand, have the mouth of Caligula and the morals of Marilyn Monroe, lack a certain integrity) should be resisted at all times. At Percy Main Amateurs, we take any sponsorship we can; perhaps we are Maoist in outlook as local businesses offering us £100 now and then seems to be the extent of what is out there. However, I know for certain we would not accept money from an organisation we regarded as ideologically suspect; if only all clubs shared our probity.

The novelist Joseph Conrad wrote of the evil nature of European imperialism in Africa at the very end of the 19^th century in his masterpiece “Heart of Darkness.” While that text may be equally instructive for all those of a red and white persuasion who seek to justify their club’s actions, Conrad had earlier expressed his view of European activities in the Congo in a succinct but incredibly apposite phrase that sunderland apologists would do well to consider; the vilest scramble for loot that ever disfigured the human conscience.

The Enver Hoxha Experience

A couple of years back I used to be able to upset pretty much every football fan in the North East in some way or other with one single sentence; sunderland have got the best fans, but Newcastle have the best chairman. Those dozen words caused incalculable offence at every level among Mags and mackems, but sadly time moves on and nothing dates quicker than humour, however vindictive. Ever since Niall Quinn left his job as Wearside’s own Lord Haw Haw in circumstances that have still to be adequately explained, there really isn’t any point in dignifying the relentless mackem straw clutching they engage in as regards their settlement’s standing in the regional pecking order. Regardless of the criteria used; they really have been mastered by Black & White Bastards, end of story.

However, while we accept that there’s no realistic contest between the two in football terms (on the pitch or in the stands), then what happens if we move the debate on to music? Without getting in to the historical minutiae of the relative gig, band or club scenes of the two conurbations over these past 5 decades or so, while graciously acknowledging the fact my cousin Graeme’s band The Monoconics released a superb Comsat Angels flavoured 7” in 1981 when living in Hendon; the unvarnished truth is that there really isn’t much of a contest in this realm either.

Wearside’s current allegedly finest beat combo are apparently The Futureheads; purveyors of lame, identikit, indie by numbers and famous only for an uninspired cover version of a Kate Bush song. Truly, they are Lee Cattermole and Jordan Henderson with guitars; cheap plastic ones from out the catalogue. Tyneside, of course, can boast of Heaton habitués Maximo Park as the entire region’s current poster children; none of them come from Newcastle, but just like NUFC’s squad, they comprise a talented, articulate, popular, multicultural coterie of effortlessly effective, handsome individuals. They are not from Tyneside, but they are of the culture that breeds such creativity. Singer Paul Smith was apparently chosen for the role because of his eye catching dancing to Stevie Wonder’s “Superstition” at a student party. Times really do change; in my day he’d probably have been started on by Garry Blythe or another of the Felling Punks (FPX).

This summer, while my mind is more focused on Euros Childs and The Wellgreen’s gig at the Star and Shadow than on the Euros in Poland and Ukraine, the desperate devotees of the mackem cause are trying, and failing, to market Albania on Wear as a kind of presumed regional rock hub, by cashing in on SJP’s use as an Olympic football venue (another sporting event that won’t cross my radar this summer), by putting on some gigs at El Stadio de Mierda. Which ground-breaking acts are the dissolute cognoscenti from Downhill and Plains Farm being asked to enjoy? Well, the first ones up were the frankly appalling Coldplay, whose gig significantly coincided with 24 hours of incessant rain mixed in with torrential downpours and a one day strike by Metro drivers. If ever there has been such a definitive, localised example of false consciousness and Gramsci’s theory of hegemony in the region’s recent past, then I’ve missed it.

Local media outlets shamefully branded the strikers as cruel tyrants, hell-bent on destroying “tourism” in the region. The idle of thought and ill-informed of opinion took to the airwaves and internet, decrying these so-called Labour aristocrats who earned a seemingly mind-boggling £32k a year for working 3 successive 12 hour shifts, with no say over rest days or work patterns, on a public transport service that charges £70 a month; as if these drivers set the prices! As if they are anything other than exploited workers! As if they are as much to blame for the crisis of capitalism as the banking and bourgeois elite! All they were doing was striking to save their pensions; if it coincidentally meant several thousand people were saved from enduring the trite, smug blandishments of Coldplay, so much the better. Mischievously, I asked Ben if he fancied attending this gig; his response was “I’d rather shit in my hands and clap,” which proves I’ve brought him up properly. Perhaps he is even better a judge of audio quality than I am, as I’d considered the phrase “If they were playing in the back garden, I’d shut the curtains” to be adequately contemptuous.

The next gig at SoS is the relentlessly banal Bruce Springsteen, rolling up to trot out his blue collar dirges a mere 27 years after he played the same set of ponderous banalities at SJP. I missed that one away at University, but remember at the time several member emeriti of FPX bought carry-outs and listened to Springsteen from the comfort of Exhibition Park band stand; “shite” was Gord’s one word summary of The Boss. I have no reason to expect he will have improved with age; Springsteen that is, not Gord. Finally, Sunday 24^th June sees the last night of the Pallion Proms, when The Red Hot Chili Peppers take the stage, which is one gig Ben is actually going to. I’m not, but then again, I did see them on 6^th February 1990 at Riverside, for considerably less than the £45 the bairn is shelling out to endure The Futureheads as support. Here are edited extracts of the review of RHCP I penned for Paint It Red at the time, showing that the Decca employee who told The Beatles guitar groups were on the way out may have been a distant relation -:

This should have been one of the gigs of the year; a sold out venue and a highly vaunted band debuting in the city meant expectations were running high. However, the gang didn’t deliver the goods and for 50% of the time, I was bored witless. The supposed collision between Funkadelic and Big Black was only a pale imitation of what The Beatnigs can offer. The vital spark of energy, that extra yard of pace was missing and the whole set dragged. Ok, it was good to watch; crazy haircuts, confrontational tattoos and 5 bare chests, but the sound was lost in a sludgy mix. Indeed only a straightforward reading of AC/DC’s “Back In black” for an encore salvaged anything from a disappointing night. I wouldn’t write them off just yet, but I fail to see quite why so many people are frothing at the mouth about them.

It was only much later we were to learn that this tour coincided with the Chili Peppers at their drug fuelled, lowest ebb, which presumably explains why they were so dire that night. Personally I never really got in to them after that, other than “Give It Away,” mainly because that one used to be on the Egypt Cottage jukebox about 15 times a night in the early 90s, but I imagine they’ll put on a top quality show for the eager Sixth Formers journeying to the dark place at the weekend.

I have to say that at 17, which is the age Ben turns on 27^th June, there is absolutely no way I would have found myself attending a stadium gig, though 12 days before I turned 18, I went to Gateshead Stadium to see The Gang of Four and The Beat support The Police, in what was billed as Sting’s homecoming gig, though I was away out the door long before that tantric charlatan took the stage. Frankly, I’ve always been a wilful and contrary advocate of the obscure and, being honest, those of questionable or even negligible talent, as well as an inveterate opponent of the mainstream. From the age of 11 or 12, I used to spend inordinate amounts of my school holidays leafing through records in shops such as Felling Square’s Pop Inn. Poring over racks of unattainable vinyl (albums cost about £3; I used to get £1 a week pocket money), the ones that appealed to me the most were not releases by the famous or even the celebrated, but those unknown sounds of recondite bands with intriguing names; The Amazing Blondel, Brand X, Henry Cow, Snafu and a thousand other forgotten early to mid-70s outfits that never received any music press or, in some cases, even a CD reissue. Those that did, I sometimes bought a couple of decades or more later when spotting them in a bargain bin or the back page of an unsolicited mail order catalogue. In general, I listened a couple of times, before ruefully accepting that Social Darwinism can have a musical edge to it after all. To this day, I will always lend a sympathetic ear to the purveyors of Folk, Prog or Jazz Rock from 40 years distant, if I see a gig listed or a CD or album in a bleak corner of a record shop or in a forgotten pile at a market stall; anything other than blues or metal will command a degree of my attention and often a purchase. If you feel yourself in need of a Matching Mole, Hatfield & the North or Lol Coxhill album, just drop me a line.

As a young and enthusiastic observer, on the periphery of music, Christmas Eve 1976 changed me, forever. I became the involved and passionate consumer I still am today. Listening in to John Peel that December night, as I’d also become accustomed to doing in school holidays, he announced that tracks 50-41 of his inaugural Festive 50 would be played. While the cut that came in at number 50, the decidedly pedestrian, if not soporific, “And You And I” by Yes had no discernible effect on me, nor did any of the other Festive 50 tracks, bar “Go to Rhino Records” by Wildman Fischer that I eventually bought on CD in about 2001, one contemporary cut the great man played altered my perception of what music is about and what it can do to a person’s mind. The Sex Pistols “Anarchy in the UK” received its debut radio play that show, but it wasn’t that record. Basically other than the eternally adored pairing of The Clash and The Buzzcocks, the initial wave of British punk left me cold. The Sex Pistols were glam rock, The Damned a cartoon approximation of rebellion and the rest too tame for words. The Models? Chelsea? The Cortinas? Perhaps not…

No, the record Peel played that exploded my consciousness was Richard Hell and the Voidoids’ “I Belong to the Blank Generation,” a snarling, insouciant arty drawl of a song; I loved it instantly and still do. It sums up everything about how I felt and still do about refusing to compromise or bow down to the mainstream; on 30^th December 1976, aged 12 years, 4 months and 19 days, I bought the “Blank Generation” EP on Stiff and Bob Dylan’s “Highway 61 Revisited,” inspired and intoxicated by Hell’s NY punk attitude and the impossibly beguiling flights of imaginative fancy weaved by “Desolation Row,” which was number 3 in the Festive 50 I believe. Two purchases from Windows of the Central Arcade that I will never regret; the combination shows my earliest embracing of the ethos DIY and studied incompetence, as well as a profound love for imagination, innovation and an utter refusal to compromise; “Blank Generation” and “Like A Rolling Stone” don’t just make the hairs on my neck stand up, they make me stand up and cheer every time I hear them.

When I compare the music I love, whether it be the work of any of those listed above (seriously, Matching Mole were great!) or any or all of Teenage Fanclub, Trembling Bells, The Fall, The Wedding Present, The Velvets, The Dubliners, The Clancy Brothers, Planxty or Christy Moore, then by comparison, the RHCP seem dull and Springsteen utterly beyond parody. Yet I don’t see either of them as evil in the way I view Coldplay as being both profoundly wrong on every possible level. Anyone choosing to listen to Coldplay, on the spurious grounds that their anodyne, supposedly inoffensive, adult orientated, low-carb indie style pop pap, is offering an intelligent choice for an ageing, but still trendy demographic is reinventing themselves as John Major with an Ipod.

Whilst Edwina Currie’s Pooterish fuck buddy said with a straight face that Little Chef restaurants provided the kind of menu choices he liked best of all, ignoring a whole world of flavours, tastes and experiences he was too weak, too shallow and too pitifully pathetic to even imagine could exist outside his self-imposed cultural vaccuum, a swathe of 30 somethings are his de facto social descendants a generation later, by lapping up these trite slices of inanity. Those who seek to legitimise Chris Martin’s continued presence in the world of contemporary music are either pretending, or deluding themselves that Coldplay or the likes of Paul Weller provide anything worth listening to. Frankly I’d rather hear a recording of a boarding kennels full of Labrador puppies being napalmed than the Modfather’s latest pointless twaddle. With his Bert Van Marwijk hair and performances, the man has taken the apogee of wallpaper music in the Style Council and effortlessly raised the blandness bar again and again over these past 4 decades. Someone should stop him. Now!

Of course, Weller’s not the only one who needs some kind of aesthetic intifada visited upon him; what about the Stone Roses? Dull, plodding, pub rock performed by arrogant cokeheads with an illogical, messianic belief they were The Stones reanimated. Though their first album wasn’t bad, it was only really “What the World is Waiting For” and “Fools Gold” that lifted them significantly above the workaday and the humdrum. What possible reason other than unimaginably large piles of cash money could they have for getting back together now? I don’t gamble, but I’d wager any subsequent Stone Roses product that limps out won’t have the vibrancy, force or integrity of, say, Wire’s “Red Barked Tree.” That 2011 album is the quality of release that justifies a reformation, 34 years after “Pink Flag”; “The Third Coming” simply won’t do that.

However much I object to Coldplay on aesthetic grounds and The Stone Roses on moral ones, I feel it has to be stated quite unequivocally that the very worst of the indie Uncle Toms are New Order as, unlike the previous two ludd gangs, they did achieve absolute and utter genius, though not under their current name. Unquestionably, Joy Division were one of the greatest bands in the history of popular music; their music is both timeless and impossibly brilliant. New Order had to exist to allow the members to come to terms with the death of Ian Curtis, though after 1983’s “Power Corruption & Lies,” they have been utterly irrelevant, even if the occasional track, such as “Murder” or “Thieves Like Us” really did shine like polished diamonds in a cess pit.

Twice this year, in Newcastle and in Dublin, I’ve avoided going to see New Order, in the same way I ignored them at Glastonbury in 1987. While their relentless flogging of a creative horse that’s been certified as needing burial for over two decades, it isn’t as distasteful as Peter Hook finding some session singer to do Curtis karaoke-style as he tours with note for note recreations of “Unknown Pleasures” and “Closer.” In Hook’s defence, at least he’s honest about trying to rake in the cash and has got some publicity for his antics. The only time New Order were mentioned with anything other than withering contempt was in relation to Canadian gay porn actor and suspected cannibalistic murderer Luka Magnotta (aka Eric Clinton Newman), who apparently slayed then dismembered his lover Jun Lin in a flat in Montreal, before posting various parts of the corpse to Canuck political parties. What does this have to do with New Order? Well Magnotta filmed his grisly act and uploaded the video, entitled “One Little Ice Pick,” with “True Faith” as the accompanying soundtrack. I wonder what the baldy, beer boys in their Sports Direct leisure wear that make up New Order’s audience thought of that; actually I don’t wonder at all.

So, if that is what we shouldn’t be listening to (bearing in mind I’ve not even mentioned U2); what should we be exposing ourselves to? If you check my earlier blogs this year, you’ll see I laud the usual suspects: Fairport Convention, The Wedding Present, Trembling Bells, Lightships, Snowgoose and Christy Moore. In the near to distant future, there are gigs by The Fall, Patti Smith, Euros Childs, Plainsong, Half Man Half Biscuit and Dirty Three to look forward to. However, being me, I still have to have my Pop Inn moments, when the bizarre, the arcane and the downright ridiculous grab my attention. In 2012, I have been dazzled by Pecker Dunne, Godspeed You! Black Emperor and Cornelius Cardew; to whom I dedicate this blog.

In terms of fame and modernity, Godspeed You! Black Emperor (note the positioning of the exclamation mark) are the nearest of the three to being down with the kids. Possibly this semi-ambient, avant garde, Quebecois, post rock, nonet may be known to some of you. Having formed in Montreal in 1994, they released 3 albums around the turn of the millennium and toured the UK in 2001, while I was living in Slovakia; they probably didn’t play Bratislava as me and my mate Webby would have been the only ones in the audience. After that, the band announced an indefinite hiatus. In essence, I missed out on them first time round and it was only when news of their reformation in 2011 spread that I began to take notice and educate myself. Their three albums are: Yanqui UXO, Lift Your Skinny Fists Like Antennas To Heaven and F#A#~ which includes their finest moment, The Dead Flag Blues. How can anyone not love a song that has these lyrics?

the car's on fire and there's no driver at the wheel

and the sewers are all muddied with a thousand lonely suicides

and a dark wind blows.

the government is corrupt

and we're on so many drugs

with the radio on and the curtains drawn.

we're trapped in the belly of this horrible machine

and the machine is bleeding to death.

the sun has fallen down

and the billboards are all leering

and the flags are all dead at the top of their poles.

it went like this:

the buildings tumbled in on themselves.

mothers clutching babies picked through the rubble.

and pulled out their hair.

the skyline was beautiful on fire.

all twisted metal stretching upwards;

everything washed in a thin orange haze.

i said: "kiss me, you're beautiful -

these are truly the last days."

you grabbed my hand and we fell into it

like a daydream or a fever.

we woke up one morning and fell a little further down;

for sure it's the valley of death.

i open up my wallet

and it's full of blood.

Compared to Godspeed You! Black Emperor, Pecker Dunne is like Rick Astley. Actually Pecker Dunne is an octogenarian Irish traveller, who plays banjo and fiddle, either in pubs or outside GAA matches, particularly in Munster, passing the hat round and never asking for a definite fee. His peripatetic life has seen him roam from his birth town of Castlebar in County Mayo in 1931, to Wexford, where he spent most of his life, to his current abode in County Clare. Often his material consists of Irish folk standards, such as Whiskey In The Jar, Roisin Dubh or McAlpine’s Fusiliers, as well as forays in to C&W schmaltz, like Ballybunion By the Sea, that thankfully don’t stray too close to Kevin Prendergast or Big Tom territory and comic numbers, such as the Black Velvet Band parody The Ould Morris Van, which may be resolutely unfunny but is still a thousand times better than anything Seamus Moore produced.

However, what intrigues me, apart from the gratuitous and unconvincing, populist, pro Republican sentiments in the final verse of the almost risqué Down by the Liffeyside are his own numbers. In particular his breakthrough hit from the 1960s Sullivan’s John and his signature tune Wexford, which tell a compelling tale of his life and the hardships he endured in the town he called his home and in the life he has lead -:

My family lived in Wexford town, stopped travelling and settled down,

Though my father kept a horse and car, we lived within the town,

The people there misunderstood, or they did not know our ways,

So with horse and car, back on the road, I began my travelling days

My father was called the Fiddler Dunne, and I'm a fiddler too,

But although I often felt his fist, he taught me all he knew,

I know I'll never be as good, and yet I feel no shame,

For the other things my father taught, I am proud to bear his name.

He taught me pride and how to live, though the road is hard and long,

And how a man will never starve, with a banjo, fiddle or song,

And how to fight for what I own, and what I know is right,

And how to camp beside a ditch on a stormy winter's night.

O times were good and times were bad, and people cruel and kind,

But what I learned of people then, has stayed within my mind,

I'll honour friends with all my heart, do for them all I can,

But I've learnt to go the road again, when they spurn the tinker man.

O Wexford is a town I like, but the travelling man they scorn,

And a man must feel affection for the town where he was born,

I know one day, that I'll go back, when my travelling days are done,

And people will begin to wonder, what has happened to the Pecker Dunne.

Perhaps he can teach it to Mick Wallace, who could then busk it outside Leinster House as he tries to pay back the £21m he owes in unpaid VAT. Frankly, it seems Wexford Youths must be on the way out, as they are the last of his problems, so he may as well do it as a duet with Roddy Collins after Monaghan United’s shock departure from the League of Ireland.

The final member of my obscure musical trinity has been dead for over 30 years. The classical composer Cornelius Cardew died in a hit and run accident in east London on December 12^th 1981. Having been in London two days prior to this at a University interview, I can confirm the weather was dreadful and a thick fall of snow had covered the capital. Nevertheless, Cardew’s political friends still maintain it was a Secret Service hit than finished him off.  This is a long, weird story…

Cardew was born to Bohemian parents in Devon and, as a prodigiously talented chorister and pianist; he first attended Winchester Cathedral School and then the Guildhall. It was while studying piano and composition he found himself drawn to the avant garde; initially this meant Stravinsky and Bartok, but eventually contemporary German music was where his interests were focussed. Moving to Munich after graduation, he studied under Stockhausen and from the late 50s and during the whole of the 60s, he became one of Britain’s foremost composers. His work is this period proved to be part of a natural continuum that began with Stockhausen’s dissonant systems music and led to John Cage’s more freely improvisational pieces. Cardew’s genius was seen in the Wittgenstein inspired Treatise and the wildly ambitious The Great Learning, where he invented a whole new system of musical notation, based on Chinese philosophy. He performed initially as part of the trio AMM, before forming the large, amateur musical collective the Scratch Orchestra, who were closely aligned with left wing causes and who regularly performed more and more outlandish from the seemingly endless Great Learning.

As the 60s turned to the 70s, Cardew, having undergone a political awakening, made an ideological decision to abandon the avant garde and dedicate himself to what he termed People’s Liberation Music. In deference to the Maoist self-critical practice of Jingtao, he published Stockhausen Serves Imperialism, denouncing the classical music world as being interested only in maintaining capitalism by means of a self-perpetuating oligarchy that were opposed to class struggle, of which he had been part while producing his earlier body of work that he rejected outright. Eventually, Cardew went further and was one of the founders of the pro Albanian Revolutionary Communist Party of Britain (Marxist Leninist). From 1972 until the end of his life, Cardew’s obsession with People’s Liberation Music led him towards compositions that were characterized by their belligerently Marxist lyrics and stridently accessible music; “compositions of the utmost crassness,” as his biographer John Tilbury described them.

Cardew’s earlier compositions were not easy listening; I find the CD “Works 1960-1970” to be challenging, but his later efforts, such as the CD “We Sing of the Future” are simply too bizarre for words. They comprise either Irish Republican folk songs performed irritatingly slowly, with the words sung by plummy voiced, classically trained opera divas, or indigestible chunks of Marxist dialectics, often composed in conjunction with RCPB (ML) theorist Hardiel Baines; a man so preposterous in his opinions that one must speculate whether Kurt Vonnegut based Kilgore Trout on him, or whether Baines sought to emulate Trout’s prose stylistics. While I can find no evidence of recordings of such classics as The Emancipation of Women is an Essential Prerequisite to the Dictatorship of the Proletariat, Tirana the Citadel, O Albania or When Comrade Enver Sharpens his Sword, I can point you in the direction of such gems as Smash the Social Contract or British Working Class You Are The Revolutionary Force.

Now, look me in the eye and tell me that you prefer Coldplay, The Stone Roses and New order to Pecker Dunne, GY!BE or either oeuvre of Cornelius Cardew. Go on, I dare you!!

Park Life

The full time whistle at Hannah Park on Saturday 9^th June saw Girvan players prostrate themselves across the turf in paroxysms of agony at their unfortunate relegation, while the Shotts Bon Accord team celebrated their victory with clenched fist salutes and a profound, yet manly, group hug. Of course a single goal defeat at Thorniewood on the Monday and a stalemate in their final game at Rutherglen Glencairn (that isn’t a typing error) meant Shotts came up short and handed the West Superleague First Division title to Glenafton Athletic after all, but my day out in Lanarkshire did serve to end the domestic season for 2011/2012 in the tumultuous fashion that is the wont of Scottish Juniors football, or at least my experience of it.

Moving forward, the obvious question posed by the ending of the domestic football calendar was just exactly what was I going to do with my leisure time, especially on Saturdays, before the round of pre season friendlies begin in mid July. Most people would probably keep one eye on the papers and internet to see for news of Newcastle United, though I’d regard that as a fruitless exercise fit only for the most desperate of scandalmongers, as the essentially secret nature of the club’s dealings in the transfer market these past 5 seasons has meant that all surprise entrances and exits, both pleasant and unpleasant, have come completely out of the blue. Thus all idle speculation about the club’s intentions is precisely that; idle speculation.

Obviously, for the Carling and sofa tendency, there is the semi important matter of the European Championships unfolding in Poland and Ukraine, though to preview or review the tournament in any great detail would be an unhelpful act on my behalf, as the sheer weight of verbiage spewed forth about the tournament means that any new comments must be both insightful and original; two qualities my writing may always aspire to but rarely achieves.  To be frank, though I’ve not seen all the games (I missed France’s opener as I was at work, while a riotous night on the gargle down the Ouseburn stopped me from taking in Sweden’s second match), I’ve enjoyed almost of all I’ve seen. Sad to see Russia going out, but fair play to the Czechs for coming back from such a battering in the opening game. In addition, Ireland’s performances (and I’m writing this in advance of the final game against Italy) have been the cause of great sadness for me. To be frank, the squad is the weakest one of the 16 qualifiers, but the shameful spectacle of an ageing, washed-up Shay Given conceding the sort of soft goals I let in at 6 a side, is almost too tragic for words. We’ll leave it there eh?

Instead, let us return to the mantra; “football always lets you down, but music never does.” Bearing this in mind, Saturday 16^th June, as well as being Bloomsday, was dedicated to music on my part. Last October, Hazel Plater and Carl Taylor published their book about Newcastle’s premier independent venue Riverside (RIP). I contributed to the book and blogged about it here http://payaso-del-mierda.blogspot.co.uk/2011/10/riverside-remembered.html Since then, Hazel has started her own site (http://www.hazelplater.com/) which includes information about their next project, which is a film about the venue. You can contribute to this very worthy cause by going to http://www.indiegogo.com/rivfilm and pledging what you can. If they raise the money, and I intend to contribute at the top end, the film will get made; otherwise….

On Saturday, I attended a little gathering at Reflex records, where punters from Riverside were to be filmed, saying the name of a favourite band they saw at that venue, to appear as extras on the DVD; I chose Fugazi and was lucky enough to be the first person filmed. As I pointed out in a fortnight ago’s blog, I’m no longer able to amuse myself by wandering around city centres. This was a problem as on Saturday, I’d 2 hours to kill because I wanted to catch one of the free shows that Maximo Park were doing in town. While I like some of what they do, I’m not exactly a devotee of the band, and I seriously wish the singer would take that bloody daft trilby off once in a while, but I have enormous respect for them. Despite none of them coming from Tyneside, they still live and work in Newcastle, making no bones about who they are and how much they love the place; for that we have to admire them. Not only that, but they do their bit for the local music community.

Their Bloomsday had started with an in-store in Stockton at noon, followed by one in sunderland at 2, before the Tyneside triple header. Having been informed by my Ben, who’d just seen them at Evolution the other month, that he was going to see them in both Reflex at 4.30 and Beatdown at 6, it was made clear to me in no uncertain terms that if I wished to see them, I was left with the option of RPM at 3.30, or of doing without.

Leaving Reflex after the filming around 2, I grabbed a coffee and a sandwich then meandered off to RPM, which I discovered had moved from High Bridge opposite the Duke of Wellington, to the alleyway leading from The Old George; in other words, behind the Duke of Wellington. In steady drizzle that occasionally turned in to torrential, driving rain, a crowd was beginning to mass in the courtyard. To be frank, I was the oldest one there by 20 years, but I’m glad to have seen them, even if it was no “Get Back” moment. Of course I’ve seen them before; in 2005 at the Cluny and in 2009, with Ben, at the Academy. It’s impossible to state just how big they are among the soft beer boy tendency; Maximo Park surely are the definitive musical soundtrack of lower middle class academically underachieving call centre employees with pointy shoes and tousled, distressed hair.

The RPM courtyard gig drew, I’d guess, about 200 well-behaved, expensively attired, heavy smoking 20 somethings on a wet afternoon, to hear 7 songs. The first half dozen were from the new album, which I bought for Ben and had autographed (what charming young men they are too). Particularly impressive to me were both the title track, “The National Health,” and the relaxed, friendly banter and demeanour of the band; they like their audience, because they used to be their audience.

All in all, an excellent afternoon, made all the better by the sight of Ben and his pals making their way to Reflex for the second gig; the curt nod of acknowledgment in my direction was vindication enough of my existence; the Iphone snap of Ben with the band that arrived a couple of hours later was a touching moment; almost as touching as the CDs of “Screamadelica” and “Lust For Life,” to replace well loved but battered vinyl, that I received on Fathers’ Day afternoon (once he’d got up of course).

Thanks to Ben, Hazel and Maximo Park for making my weekend.

Golden Shotts

My personal definitive end point to the domestic football season for the last four years, has been a climactic sojourn to Scotland to take in a juniors match with my old mate Mickey Hydes; a native of Ashington, he has been resident in Scotland, firstly in Cowdenbeath then latterly in Paisley, since 1997. In 2009, we saw Bathgate Thistle avoid relegation and send their opponents Forfar West End down in a 5-2 thriller, in 2010 I returned to Bathgate’s Creamery Park to see Linlithgow Rose beat Musselburgh Athletic 2-1 in the East of Scotland Cup and last year, Arthurlie defeated Irvine Meadow on penalties after a 2-2 draw in the Evening Times Cup semi final at a slightly crazed Dunterlie Park. All three trips have seen the absolute cream of the groundhopping fraternity descend upon small towns in the Central Belt; today, of course, was no different in this respect, as upwards of 50 camera and notepad wielding weirdoes disembarked from the same train as I did.

This year, the trip was to Hannah Park, in the no horse Lanarkshire town of Shotts, famous only for the large open prison on the outskirts of the settlement, to see local heroes Shotts Bon Accord (not the ones who lost 36-0 to Arbroath in 1885, but the ones who’d just won the Scottish Junior Cup 2-1 over Auchinleck Talbot) attempt to maintain their quest to win the West Superleague Division 1 title by defeating Girvan, one of the 9 games in hand their various cup runs had saddled them with. A win for the home side (who had opted out of the end of season Evening Times Cup before they’d even qualified for it) would not give Shotts the title, as they would still need 2 points from their remaining fixtures away to Thorniewood United on Monday 11th and Rutherglen Glencairn (that is not a misprint) on Wednesday 13th to deny Glenafton Athletic the championship, though both were already promoted to the West Superleague Premier Division, but it would relegate Girvan (alongside the already doomed Dalry, Lanark United and East Kilbride Thistle), who could feasibly have moved from 13^th to 6^th with a victory, even though a point would have made them safe and demoted Hurlford United.

The 14 team Division 1 boats a rapid turnover of clubs each year; as well as saying goodbye to the 4 bottom sides, the two promoted sides could be joined in saying their fond farewells by Renfrew, if they defeat 3^rd bottom Pollok in a two-legged play off taking place on Monday and Wednesday 11^th and 13^th June, meaning that 50% of the division would be playing their football at a different standard in 2012/2013 than in 2011/2012. Meanwhile, Ashfield FC, who had upset the form book by winning 1-0 away to Auchinleck Talbot in the first Evening Times Cup semi final on Friday evening, awaited the outcome of the other Saturday game, which saw Maybole host Irvine Meadow, with the final pencilled in for Thursday 14^th, to ensure the whole season could be wrapped up in advance of the Scottish Juniors West Region AGM that always takes place on the third Saturday in June each year. Who says the end of season is littered with games that are meaningless kickarounds?

These Scottish trips have their own rituals; I always leave on the 10.30 train from Central Station, having selected an Ipod soundtrack that is entirely devoted to Teenage Fanclub. I arrive in Waverley in plenty of time, then panic as I scan departure boards looking for the correct train and platform.  Thankfully I had plenty of time for my connection, so I was able to select the appropriate destination option, then  settle down to enjoy the 11 stops on the near deserted (save for the members of the groundhopping brotherhood) rattler that took me to Shotts. Emerging from the station, I took a left past the Railway Hotel bar, the Beer World off licence with its polygonic freehand globe signage, crossed the street and was collected by Mick, who drove us up the road to Hannah Park.

As ever in the Juniors, the welcome oscillated between effusive bonhomie, as evidenced by the Shotts secretary Drew Wood (who achieved a degree of fame by mentioning on the television coverage on BBC Alba of the Juniors Cup final, that he’d been banned at the age of 8 from attending Shotts’s previous SJFA Cup Final victory in 1958 by his mother, as he’d been suffering from chickenpox), who invited us in to his office to give us the team lists, then asked Mick to write them out on the whiteboard to be displayed outside the changing room block, to taciturn suspicion. The latter was palpable as we entered the hospitality area and asked for 2 coffees; such a request for this bizarre alien brew was met with a mixture of fear and hostility, as the gents serving conferred as to whether such an exotic beverage was available. Eventually, two cups of fearsomely strong Co-op own brand espresso style instant were produced. Learning from the experience, we accepted the proffered cups of stewed tea, not to mention chocolate digestives, at half time, so as not to cause a scene.

By that stage, Shotts Bon Accord were 3-0 up and Girvan had missed a penalty. While I tend to be relatively neutral during my Junior visits, I did have a feeling for Givan, having been there aged about 7, while we holidayed on the Wigtownshire peninsula; I remember eating an ice cream on a cold day in August 1971, watching the similarly aged Scottish children returning to school. Such Proustian reveries are enough to provide reason to follow a particular team and my half time gloom was replaced by unfettered joy, as by halfway through the second period, Girvan had pulled it back to 3-3, including their second and third penalties. With 15 minutes to hold on and with them sitting in 9^th place, Girvan lost the head completely; two players were red carded and four minutes in to injury time, Shotts scored a wickedly deflected winner to send Girvan down, produce a mass pitch invasion from the local pissed Ned contingent (who’d kept up a nonstop barrage of singing showing their grasp of 17^th Century Irish politics) and then have one of their own players sent off. It was as devastating and inevitable as Manchester City’s Premier League victory.

However, let’s be frank; Shotts Bon Accord 4 Girvan 3 was the best fiver I spent all year. Prior today, I simply didn’t believe any game could stir the blood as much as Hebburn Reyrolle 1 Percy Main 2 or Newcastle 2 Liverpool 0 had done, but this one was the absolute, solid gold game of the season. I simply couldn’t even begin to do the action justice, so allow me to guide you in the direction of the match report Mick filed for The Sunday Mail -:

Shotts moved to within one point of Glenafton at the top of the Super First Division, leaving them with two games in the coming week from which to clinch the title. In a frenzied game at Hannah Park, Paul Finnigan’s injury time piledriver procved to be the winner against nine-man Girvan. This defeat finally relegates Girvan to life in the Ayrshire League and means Hurlford are safe for another season.

Bon Accord raced into a three goal lead inside 25 minutes with Stefan McCluskey's opener the pick of the bunch, when he outpaced three defenders to fire home from fifteen yards. Mark Sideserf quickly added two more by firing home solo efforts from both wings. Girvan wasted a lifeline just before the break when from a soft penalty award Lee McCrea blasted over.

Incredibly Girvan drew level by scoring three inside the opening 21 minutes of the second half. A handball gave John Bradford a penalty award which he duly dispatched. He then grabbed a second after converting when a corner was not cleared and then claimed a hat-trick with another penalty. Girvan then proceeded to lose two players, both to two yellow cards with Scott McGilp and Tom Maitland both falling foul of the referee’s notebook. 

A draw would have made Girvan safe but there was more drama to follow when the nine men finally conceded when Finnigan's low drive took a deflection to find its way into the far corner, sparking a wild pitch invasion. Paul Burns gained a second yellow card and his own dismissal on the final whistle for comments to the referee.

Shotts manager Tony McInally commented "It is no fluke that we score late goals to win games, as the spirit and the attitude is there and has been all season. We can now move on to get the extra point or two required to claim the title and it would be fully deserved. Credit to Girvan who battled back; it’s a shame for them to finally go down in this way."

At full time, with disconsolate Girvan players on tears in the centre circle and jubilant home fans up to their knees in whatever it was they sang about, an elderly Shotts fan added some perspective by confiding in me that he’d not cheered the winner as he felt so sorry for poor Girvan. The hysterical home support who made their way back down the road would not have shared his sporting fellow feelings and, who could blame them? These were happy lads, if a little ambiguous in their intentions to the uninformed onlooker. A hatchback containing 4 lads in Rangers’ shirts drew alongside me and the driver asked “hey pal, is this an Orange walk?” In many ways I could see his point. 

Roll on June 2013……

Welcome Here Kind Stranger

As soon as I had fully processed the information that Elizabeth Mountbatten was having some form of celebration for the 60^th anniversary of her unelected accession, at the start of June 2012, I knew I had to get out of this country. Throughout my entire conscious life, I have never stood for her anthem, never pledged any allegiance to her or her family, never bought in to the myth of Britain as an entity, nor ever been able to bear listening to those who, infected with ideological impurity or wrapped up in the demotic, mass hysteria of patriotic fervour, believe waving mini butcher’s aprons or holding street parties is the right way to go about things. Faced with such a spectacle replicated across the whole country, there was only one place for me to go; Ireland.

I’d not been back in Ireland for a year, a scandalously long break, as last August’s trip had to be cancelled for a raft of tedious personal reasons. This year, for many other, unrelated personal reasons, I had to be back in the only country where I can truly breathe, where I connect completely with all aspects of the culture and where I can stand for Amhrán na bhFiann and feel the hairs of my neck stand on end, as well as the incessant pricking of tears at the corner of my eyes as the music builds.

While everyone else was still unwrapping presents or gorging on leftover Turkey last December, I booked my flights, offering thanks to the head of the British state for the rearranged Whit Bank Holiday that meant I could head out on Thursday May 31^st and come back on Tuesday 5^th June, without missing any work or catching any of the so-called festivities in Britain. Obviously, it goes without saying that if I got to see some football while over there, then so much the better for everyone concerned.

Thirty years ago, heading from Newcastle to the north of Ireland for university was an exhausting slog by train, boat and bus that necessitated a 2.52am departure from Central Station, in order to arrive in The Anchor in Portstewart just after 18.15. Flights existed, but were an unimaginably expensive luxury; these days it costs £40 return if you book it quick enough and while Ryan Air tend to treat you slightly worse than a herd of cattle en route to the slaughterhouse, the positive side is it takes 4 hours door to door.

Heading down to the quality (Hello Declan) in Dalkey, I took the AirCoach and arrived just too late for a pint, but there was to be plenty of opportunity for that sort of carry on the next day. The bus journey in darkness was initially unremarkable, as we sped down toll roads and through the tunnel, until we emerged across the bridge in Ringsend, the original home of Shamrock Rovers (if you go back far enough). At every other lamppost, posters asked voters to ratify or reject what was pompously, though accurately, referred to as the Irish European Fiscal Compact referendum, 2012. In other words, the vote about the repayments on the bailout that supposedly saved the country in 2009 had taken place that day.

While Spain, Portugal and Greece continue to teeter on the brink of fiscal oblivion, nowhere is the sickening legacy of the corrupt avarice and blinkered, grasping, rapacious arrogance of the ruling elite more obvious than in Ireland. Picture the scene whereby honest, hardworking couples, who sought nothing more than to provide a decent future for their children, were caught up in an insane and unsustainable property bubble five years ago, that resulted in them buying property at a ridiculously inflated cost, supposedly helped by easy, available credit. Having paid the thick end of half a million for a two bed semi, the average couple finds that a couple of years later, their home is worth less than half of what they paid and the disappearance of credit means they now have no possible way to possibly repay the money they owe (as their debts build because of interest charges) unless they rob a bank or win the lottery. They are left with the spectre of bequeathing debt to their children, or handing back their home to NAMA, while still being required to find the shortfall between what they bought the house for and the current market value.

Meanwhile the unacceptable face of Irish capitalism, in the shape of the greedy developers who attempted to cover the country with a million new houses (Did no-one ever stop to think just when Ireland’s population was going to grow to 10 million? And if it did, where were these people going to send their kids to school? Or which hospitals they’d use? Or which buses?) that stand empty in ghost developments from Kinsale to Letterkenny and all places in between, walk away scot free from billions worth of debt, by forming new companies and putting the debt on the state, who pass it on to the electorate (who are utterly blameless for all of this) via welfare cuts, tax rises and all manner of other obscene measures in the name of austerity. Is it any wonder that levels of emigration are the same as in the 80s and the 50s? If all the empty properties that exist in County Longford were occupied tomorrow, the population would more than double. Perhaps that would help them to beat Wexford in the Leinster QF replay…

The whole situation is insane; while it is almost entirely Fianna Fail’s fault that they allowed the unregulated Irish financial sector to behave like pissed-up mug punters in an unscrupulous casino at 3am on a stag do, the current coalition clowns from Fine Gael and Labour are no better. Enda Kenny may look like the prissy little primary school teacher he was, unlike the boozy gombeen Biffo Cowen, but while his farcical Yes campaign, selling fear to the Irish electorate under the banner of stability, managed to scare 60% of those who voted in to accepting the treaty, he can offer no solution under capitalism to the problems faced in Ireland, as there are no recipes for success under this current system.

The fascinating thing about the NO campaign, heroically piloted by Joe Higgins and Paul Murphy of the Socialist Party, with the assistance of Richard Boyd-Barrett of People Before Profit, is that the constituencies that said No, apart from Donegal which always rejects any proposal, regardless of the question, are in working class areas. Does this mean, almost 100 years after Connolly, Pearse and Ceannt rose against British rule, that Irish politics is finally moving in to an era of class consciousness? I would love to think so. Until we have conclusive proof of such ideological advancements, seeing Yes posters with “like shite” daubed on them in Ringsend will have to do.

Friday dawned late enough and after the first of 5 successive rasher sandwich breakfasts, we took the DART to Pearse Station. While Declan met up with the head of Dubai GAA in Davy Byrne’s for a working lunch, I did some sightseeing. It’s a bit hard to wander up and down in a city you know like the back of your hand, when all you want to look at are book and music shops; while I found stuff by Pecker Dunne and Colm Toibin I quite liked the look of, I bought nothing. A quick scout around Elverys sports shop allowed me to learn that GAA jerseys are only available in the home county; hence all they had were Dublin ones.

An hour and a half killed, Declan emerged and I had my first pint in O’Donoghue’s; slightly bitter. We moved on to the Stag’s Head; two great ones and the barman took the piss out of me. Thence, we moved to the Ha’penny Bridge Inn, where we met Chris, a lifelong Shamrock Rovers fan, who was escorting us two Bohs supporters out to Tallaght on the LUAS for the game against Cork, via a couple more pints in the Maldron Hotel. I’ll admit that Shamrock Rovers are my least favourite Irish team; a lot of that has to do with attending their game against Derry in August 2007 at Tolka Park, when they groundshared with Shelbourne. The incessant choruses of “your next queen is Camilla Parker Bowles” started to irritate and I punched the air when Pat McCourt grabbed Derry a late point. Surely lightning couldn’t strike twice?

While Bohemians are my Irish team, I suppose I should have more of an affection for Cork City than I do, what with it being the historical home county of the Cusacks. Astonishingly, this was to be my first time of seeing them; what a good support they had too! Over 400 had travelled from their own lovely homes on the Lee, as part of a highly respectable crowd of 2,900, especially when one considers that Bohs versus top of the table Sligo attracted 1,400 and Monaghan versus second top St. Patrick’s Athletic had 600 punters the same night; 0-0 and 0-4 in case you’re asking.

One thing about Tallaght, with it being newly built, is that unlike Dalier, Tolka or Richmond Park, it is in tip top condition, though bizarrely tea and coffee are available from separate huts at either end of the ground, rather at the same location. However, given the large crowd and show of flares, flags and instruments by the Shamrock Rovers Ultras, in memory of their founder Joe Merriman, who had recently passed away, there was no real atmosphere during the game. Perhaps that’s why Declan slept through the first 80 minutes of a tight, intriguing contest that Shams ought to have won. Just after Declan woke up, it appeared they had when lethal marksman Gary Twigg bulleted a header home, causing a real atmosphere in the ground as “Flower of Scotland” was sung in his honour. Of course, seconds later, the song died in their throats as Cork scored a brilliant diving header to grab an equaliser, causing Declan and I to jump up and punch the air; Corcaigh Abu indeed. The standard of the game was decent; certainly no lower than League 1. I always enjoy my excursions in to the League of Ireland.

Full time, we escaped and took a taxi back to Dalkey for late pints and the chance to watch Declan fall asleep again, this time in an armchair. A sober Saturday followed, whereby I passed up the chance of travelling to Derry to see Christy Moore, or heading out to Longford versus Limerick, opting for Offaly v Wexford in the hurling on television instead. Offaly won a tight game in pouring rain as I mugged up on GAA in time for Sunday. It was the only good thing on television; having missed Vincent Browne’s political shoutathon on Thursday night and the 50th anniversary of The Late, Late Show on Friday, because of being in drink, we were stuck with the appalling Brendan O’Connor and his dismal Saturday Night Show; other than a short interview with former Ireland physio Mick Byrne, the whole thing pandered to the basest instincts of tabloid television. I was particularly appalled to see Paul Brady, who I’d just lamented about missing in Newcastle, doing a terrible European Championships related number. Surely he’s better than that?

I retired to bed, to be lulled by the drumming of incessant rain that, Sunday morning, meant the DART was off from Bray to Dun Laoghaire because of flooding on the line. Still, a helpful lift and I made the train with seconds to spare, changing at Pearse to meet John at Drumcondra, so we could go to Croke Park for the Leinster quarter finals.  We’d chosen this rather than the Bavaria Grand Prix racing in the city centre as it seemed slightly more authentic for an Irish trip than watching Jensen Button doing wheelspins; I mean you can watch that sort of thing in Parnell Square North or down Dorset Street any time can’t you?

Perhaps the most glaring cultural omission in my Irish cultural CV is the fact that I had never set foot inside Croke Park, nor indeed seen a live GAA game; considering that the Gaelic Athletic Association was formed by Michael Cusack, this was something I needed to rectify. Sadly, the 6,000 or so who had bothered to show up for the Longford v Wexford undercard meant the place wasn’t exactly buzzing. That said, I thoroughly enjoyed my view from the Cusack Stand (where else?) and appreciated a late comeback from Longford that meant they got a draw (2-09 to 0-15), so the game is to be replayed for the chance to be crushed by Dublin in the semi-finals. Dublin booked their place by beating Louth 2-22 to 0-12 in a game where the crowd finally showed up; over 32,000 made it in for that one. The second game was appreciably faster and more exciting than the first; 2011 All Ireland Champions Dublin really ought to have doubled their goal tally at least.

Perhaps the strangest event was the clearly ironic sound of “Rule Britannia” being played on a trumpet on Hill 16, considering that this part of the ground is named after those who were murdered by British forces on Bloody Sunday in November 1920. Yes, it’s fair to say it was ironic and fair to say I thoroughly enjoyed my afternoon. If I come back again in August for my birthday, the hurling semi-finals will be on August 12^th, so I may get to see those as well. Interestingly, the Olympic Torch was being carried through Dublin, with a couple of GAA representatives getting involved; on the face of it, that sounds surprising, but considering they allowed “God Save The Queen” to be played when the rugger buggers were sharing, it shouldn’t be.

We trained it back to Maynooth, ate in Caulfields, had a pint in The Roost, then loads of pints in The New Town, retiring very late. Up early on Monday, we took a rasher sandwich then John drove out west; Kildare, Meath, Westmeath, Longford, Leitrim, Roscommon and Sligo were the counties we went through, to the accompaniment of a 2 hour interview with Paul Brady on Shannonside FM, which was far more representative of his career and conducive to my mood (I was not angry once during my whole time over here; pretty good considering the anger management issues I’ve been enduring this last while). In this location, how could anyone be angry? Frankly, I love heading out west; I love the land, the air, the smell, and the sights. I also loved that, despite not having set foot in the place for 14 years, I knew my way to the Showgrounds far better than the fella who was brought up not 30 miles down the road.

We parked up, had a stroll round Sligo (that Yeats statue is still bloody awful) then bought our tickets for the Ireland v Italy Under 21 qualifier. The Showgrounds is a great little 2 sided ground, with capacity to improve; it was just a shame the club shop was shut as I would have liked a scarf. It was good to see Davide Santon captain Italy as they strolled in to a 2-0 lead, before the improbably happened and Ireland, driven on by the excellent Rob Brady of Man United (no relation to the UWS  columnist of the same name I’m sure) came roaring back for a point. Here, as at Croker, the playing and singing of Amhrán na bhFiann stirred and touched me; I love Ireland, in a way I can never fully articulate without sounding patronising or twee. I just do.

After the game, it was Sligo, Roscommon, Leitrim, Longford, Westmeath, Meath and Kildare again, stopping off in Carrick on Shannon on the Leitrim side. Eating in Cryan’s Hotel, the music was an orchestral version of “Flower of Scotland” on an endless loop; I didn’t notice Gary Twigg in the bar I have to say. The radio this time provided an interview with novelist Richard Ford, most famous for “The Sportswriter.”  I love a holiday with plenty of porter, plenty of football and plenty of irony; I’ll be back soon. Of that, there is no doubt.