Death Xisco

As part of my Master’s degree in Twentieth Century American Literature, I was lucky enough to spend some time studying The New Journalism. Obviously the likes of Truman Capote’s In Cold Blood, Joan Didion’s The White Album, Hunter S Thompson’s Fear and Loathing series and just about everything by Tom Wolfe featured heavily on the course, though the book that really struck a chord with me was Joe McGinniss’s The Selling of the President, which told the scarcely credible story of the loathsome Richard Nixon’s successful bid for the White House in 1968. McGinniss’s account of his time on the campaign trail with the GOP’s most successful crook topped the best sellers’ list for six months, which was an extraordinary achievement for a 26 year old left wing freelance writer, helped in part by a ringing denouncement of the book as “Communist crap” by William F Buckley, who’d obviously not read it. Perhaps my favourite section is when Nixon meets Rowan and Martin of Laugh In fame and tells them how he respects them for making him aware of the “funny lady with the little guitar.” Nixon is referring to Tiny Tim; seriously, he is.

The only other book I’ve read by McGinniss, who has had a 40 year career as a writer, is his superb account of both dignity and malfeasance in the land of both Dante and Machiavelli, The Miracle of Castel di Sangro, which tells the story of a successful battle against relegation from Serie B of a team from the tiny village of Castel di Sangro (population 3,500) in 1996/1997, despite the death of two players in a car crash, the arrest of another’s wife for cocaine importation, match fixing allegations and the kind of small town corruption that makes Belusconi and the Cosa Nostra seem like a local AmDram society. It is a wonderful read and a superb companion piece to A Season in Verona by Tim Parks. I only finished the book on New Year’s Day, as it has acted as a kind of safe haven from and appealing alternative to tiptoeing through the entirely preventable tragicomedy of Castel di Nuevo’s unnecessary but seemingly inevitable battle against relegation in 2012/2013.

As Rome burns, the Sockists fiddle with well-dressed away fans, accepting and donating reacharounds from anyone who can boast a North West accent, a wide array of designer labels and a taller set of tales of terrace trouble. The local fourth estate wash their hands of any pretence of impartiality or even competence, running stories cut and pasted from Dutch websites about a possible trial at Newcastle United of AZ Alkmaar’s striker Denzel Slager through Google translate and announcing the player’s name is actually Denzel BUTCHER; I am not making this up. At least I made it to the shortlist for Football Tweet of 2012, with my pretence of being in Athens for the away game against Atromitos in the company of Adam Johnson, who I claimed was about to sign for us; recognition is nice, but it didn’t yield any Premier League points. Neither did the Everton home game, which I didn’t make. The only person I owe an apology to for that is my son Ben, who took the ticket. On reflection, he would have been better revising for his AS Levels or accompanying me and the Hudson Boys to the Kingdom of Fife for the big local derby between Dunfermline Athletic and Raith Rovers at East End Park.

Regular readers will know of my passion for Scotland as a place and the twin joys of Scottish football and Scottish indie music in particular. Consequently the plan that was hatched on our way back from Horden on Saturday came to fruition as we left Tyneside at 10 for a three hour journey, ending on the far side of the Firth of Forth. I’d never been to Dunfermline, the unlikely twin town of Albufeira that’s referred to as “Vichy Fife,” by Jason, the professional Subbuteo playing protagonist of Irvine Welsh’s fine novella The Kingdom of Fife. Interestingly, it’s also twinned with Vichy, though I saw nothing in common with either the Algarve of the capital of Nazi collaborating France in the birthplace of Andrew Carnegie and former Scottish royal seat (we’re going back a while mind) that’s mentioned in Fairport Convention’s Sir Patrick Spens.

Parking up just before 1, we went to the ground to get tickets, as Dunfermline for some reason require people to purchase tickets from the club shop or a kiosk, rather than hand over cash at the turnstile. It cost £17 for a seat in the North West Stand, which was the same as Partick Thistle cost, two seasons earlier. The tickets we got were from the club shop, where the club insisted one slow moving queue for all purchases. One fella, obviously suffering the January Fear, was queuing up to buy an away shirt, perhaps the only person in the place wanting a jersey as opposed to a brief (I’ve been swotting up on my Scottish dialect), but the snail pace movement did nothing for his hangover and even less for his sartorial choices; his patience finally snapped and he flounced out like a theatrical luvvy in a gargantuan hissy fit, flinging the away kit on a nearby hanger, claiming ah didnae want the fuckin’ thing anyway.

Tickets eventually bought, we killed time in a deserted pub where the barman was English, with coffees and desiccated beanburgers that tasted like a dozen cork coasters fused together. As this was derby day, the police were out in force, with the Fife Constabulary paying us a visit; they withdrew shamefaced at the sight of 4 English idiots watching Sky News on mute, accompanied by a soundtrack of The Stereophonics. Dunfermline may be a reasonably scenic and seemingly sedate town, unlike Central Fife which is a trifle lawless in parts, but East End Park is a lovely ground; with a full house and a good team, this would be a hell of a place to see a game under lights. Even better, the teams come out to Into The Valley by local heroes The Skids; allied to the fact Dunfermline play in black and white stripes, it was a no-brainer who I was supporting, even if when we got to the game at 2.45, we found we’d been afforded a traditional Scottish welcome; the dirty English bastards had been sat behind a pillar. No matter; the seat next to me was free and anyway, the game was rancid in the first period, so who needed to see it?

Back in 1994 Raith Rovers beat Celtic on penalties to win the Scottish League Cup, qualifying for the UEFA Cup in 1995 as a result. Their first game in Europe at Stark’s Park was in late July and as we were, coincidentally, holidaying in nearby Crail (in the scenic East Neuk of Fife near St. Andrews) at the time, so I took the opportunity of a tick and saw them record a 4-1 victory over a Faroese team, where future Fulham and Bolton fullback Stephen McAnespie scored a beautiful free kick. Despite this, I’ve no residual affection for the Kirkcaldy outfit, mainly because Gordon Brown supports them. I wasn’t alone in this opinion in East Endf Park, though the locals held Raith in far greater contempt than I did. According to the Dunfermline zealots, every Raith player is a sex offender, which seems a good deal more extreme and far less advisable a recruitment policy than even Athletic Club’s Basque only stance. At least, this is what I assumed to be the case, from the constant shouts of ya baldy, wee, lanky, fat, ginger, skinny, paedo bastard to every Raith player who came within screaming distance.

After the break, the Pars stepped it up considerably and deservedly won it with a fine downward header by Andy Geggan after 70 minutes, which was the only goal, to the delight of a raucous crowd of 5,083. This was a first win in 5 for The Pars (I don’t know what it means either) and cemented their third place in the table, two points behind both Morton and Partick Thistle, in the hunt for the single Scottish Premier spot, that Dunfermline lost last season. We got away fairly quickly after full time (massive thanks to Andy Hudson for the driving and both him and Michael for being superb company as ever), but a build-up of traffic on the Edinburgh bypass delayed us slightly, meaning I was dropped off at the big match on Tyneside just as the half time whistle blew. We’re talking Wellington Road not Strawberry Place.

At that point, Dunston had come back from 2-0 down to lead West Auckland 3-2. I met up with the ever handsome Shaun Smith and we saw an enjoyable second half on a claggy pitch, with Dunston extending their lead and winning 5-2. Sadly, Cisse’s goal after 74 seconds that we’d celebrated with such gusto in the car had proved to be in vain as Everton won 2-1. This means Newcastle have lost 9 of the last 11 Premier League games; despite decent performances in more than half of those games (Stoke, Fulham, Man City, Man United, Arsenal), there is only a 2 point gap above the relegation zone that the Magpies may be in danger of spending the next four months hovering above. Even sunderland’s trouncing at Anfield, where a 3-0 score line could have been in double figures, was of neither consolation nor relevance.

After the Dunston game, I scrounged a lift to Gateshead from handsome Shaun and spent a slightly unreal journey home through the subterranean tunnels of the city, following the game that unfolded above my head on my phone. It isn’t a scenario I would really be that comfortable about replicating, especially as I read vastly conflicting accounts of the game. Now as far as I’m concerned, the very fact I didn’t see Wednesday’s game means that any comments I make about it are pretty much invalid, as all I’ve seen were highlights. I have to say though, Match of the Day did seem to suggest it had been a good game and one we were unlucky to lose; responses at full time on Twitter did not bear this out, with the vast majority of people absolutely furious at weak defence (Krul was awful for the equaliser) and spurned chances. However, as I say, my opinion is worthless; the opinions of two people whose opinions I value above almost all other (@tt9m and @LeazesTerrace) were at total variance. Take from that what you want; as far as I’m concerned, the FA Cup interlude is an opportunity to cool off. Just watch the useless sods get a draw…..

While Demba Ba’s departure to Chelsea and Debuchy’s arrival from Lille have not been completed; both seem inevitable. I am genuinely sad to see Ba go, as he has provided both quantity and quality in his goalscoring. Stories about his degenerative knee condition may have been exaggerated, bearing in mind it hasn’t kept him out of many games for us, though it does appear to be the case that only clubs with the cash reserves of Chelsea can ignore this and avoid insuring him. I’m not even that stirred up by claims that he has used us. Yes I’m very sad he has gone and I do realise money will be a massive factor in his departure, but I do find some consolation in the fact he has chosen Chelsea (a club with genuine aspirations to win things) rather than QPR (where we would definitely only have gone for cash reasons). I also find it amusing that a journalist with The Daily Telegraph, who moved there from a local paper is the most vociferous in his claims of Ba’s avarice; surely career advancement plays a part in such moves as well as cash money? It would be ludicrous to pretend it doesn't.

What does disappoint me is that when Ba arrived, in summer 2011, his transfer in and out, as well as seemingly all the dealings in between times, allowed Newcastle United to be strung along, hung out to dry and eventually checkmated by football agents, including the disgraceful Barry Silkman who apparently wished Sir Bobby Robson's cancer spread all over his face, after he failed to gain a kickback following the Clarence Acuna transfer. The more I know of these licensed parasites, and we should all remember the malign influence of Willie McKay on our club, the more I admire players who use the PFA to help them negotiate moves and improved contracts. Am I naïve in hoping that this approach could become compulsory in the future?

Anyone believing Matthieu Debuchy’s arrival, welcome though it is, will be enough to sort out our defence is being naïve. He is an excellent player, from what I’ve seen, but the need for a centre half and a striker remains more than pressing; more than imperative even.  Certainly, the period between the defeat by Everton and the next game, away to Norwich on January 12^th, is one of the most crucial on the training ground and in the boardroom, which this club has had in the past 3 seasons. January 2012 is as important to the future direction of this club as May 2009 was.

The result of the FA Cup game at Brighton is meaningless; Pardew needs to get everything ready for the trip to Carrow Road and the subsequent league games at home to Reading and away to Villa. Nine points may be beyond us, but 7 would be excellent and 5 the absolute minimum; less than 5 and relegation starts to look ominous and Pardew becomes vulnerable. He has to stand up to what Joe McGinniss has got me calling la presenza oculta of Mike Ashley and the Signor Gravina of the roulette wheel, his pal Llambias.  The alternative, of course, is that 2013 becomes the year of Francisco Jimenez Tejada. Number 32, Xisco; your day has come.

Goodness, I wish every person involved in football had the dignified courage of his convictions shown by Kevin Prince Boateng when leading his AC Milan side off after he'd been racially abused in a friendly against Pro Patria on January 2nd; Alan Pardew's statement that Nile Ranger would never play for Newcastle United look very shallow when compared to Prince Boateng's actions. Perhaps Pardew would do well to study Roberto Mancini's man management tactics with Mario Balotelli in future when "handling" Ranger. Closer to home, I wish every surrent NUFC player cared as much about Newcastle as the fella I saw shopping in Sainsbury’s High Heaton on January 3^rd.