Up For A Bit....

 

There are many things I’ve stated with tedious regularity over the years, but two of my most frequent mantras are that the finest and most uplifting music in the world has its roots in the post C86 era Glaswegian jangle pop and that my trips to see Scottish Junior games each summer are the best possible ways to end a long hard season of football watching. The opportunity to combine seeing The Pastels hometown showcase, following the release of their superb new album Slow Summits, at the Centre for Contemporary Arts on Sauciehall Street (especially after my heart-breaking failure to see Lightships there in May 2012) with a 90 minute free for all of swearing, threatening behaviour and problem drinking, on the terraces and touchline, was one that could not be missed. While The Pastels gig had been announced months earlier, with me purchasing my ticket on March 9^th, having received assent from Mick in Paisley that there would always be a corner of Renfrewshire for me to crash in, the actual game I’d be attending remained something of a mystery until the last week of May.

The West Region of the Scottish Junior Football Association has an informative and easily navigable website (http://www.scottishfa.co.uk/sjfa/scottish_football.cfm?page=1793) that stands in complete contrast to the skeletal cyber offerings of the East and North (there isn’t a South region). The West Region site will tell you all about the myriad divisions, leagues, league cups, sectional cups and regional cups that the 63 member clubs compete in. However forward planning is hard as fixtures are often only released about a week in advance and are subject to last minute change; apocryphally, in pre computer days, club secretaries would be stood by their letterboxes on Tuesday mornings awaiting the arrival of the official documentation that told them of their weekly fixture, though things have moved on since then admittedly. However there’s still no explanation why the West Region kicks off at 2pm or the East Region half an hour later though; Mick informed me that pre-season friendlies between clubs from different regions involve a compromised 2.15 kick off. The eccentricities are what I love best about Scottish Junior football.

In the past, I’ve visited Pollok (1-2 v Arthurlie in February 2003 after a Teenage Fanclub gig at the Barras ), Benburb (5-1 v Royal Albert in September 2006 after a Teenage Fanclub gig at the Barras), Petershill (1-2 v Cumbernauld in a friendly in July 2007), Bathgate twice (6-2 v Forfar West End in May 2009 and for the East of Scotland Cup final that ended up Linlithgow Rose 2 Musselburgh Athletic 1 in June 2010), Arthurlie (4-3 penalty win after a 2-2 draw in the Evening Times Cup semi-final v Irvine Meadow XI in June 2011) and Shotts (5-3 win over Girvan in June 2012). Other than the second trip to Bathgate, Mick had been my companion and guide at all of those, but I felt confident enough to strike out on my own this time. As Mick was reporting for The Sunday Mail on Glenafton Athletic v Glasgow Perthshire in the West of Scotland Cup final at Pollok, I decided to visit somewhere new; specifically, the romantically named Gasworks Park, home of Larkhall Thistle for their Central First Division promotion decider home game with Port Glasgow Juniors.

I’d heard quite a lot about Larkhall; none of it good. Mick had told me that “Scotland’s most bigoted town” (according to The Daily Record) makes “the Shankhill seem like the Vatican.” As June 1^st marks the start of the official marching season, the place would be decked out in red, white and blue bunting, which is why I was informed that under no circumstances was I to wear anything green (Subway have ditched their livery for their outlet in the town, though ASDA stuck to their guns, even if Tesco and presumably Sainsbury’s enjoy more favour with the locals), or tell anyone I’d been to the Hibs v Celtic cup final the week before. Or, presumably, tell anyone my surname….  However, as well as football and flute bands, Larkhall has ghostly goings-on to recommend it, as the local tourist (don’t laugh) information leaflet tells -:

The black lady of Larkhall was the wife of Captain McNeil, then owner of Broomhill House. She was brought to Larkhall by Captain McNeil after one of his many seafaring voyages. She was happy with her new life but her ignorance of Scottish customs made her a social outcast. The Captain forbade her to leave Broomhill House during the day.

Soon she was not seen at night either and the Captain claimed she had disappeared, but locals were suspicious. She soon returned, as her ghostly form appeared in the windows of Broomhill House and then later in Morgan Glen. It is not known if she ever got her revenge on the Captain but he did die prematurely.

When Broomhill House fell into disrepair the five hundredweight door lintel was moved to The Applebank Public House by five men. The next day it was found lying across the road from the public house.

In the 1960s a team from the "Tonight" programme visited Larkhall as they tried to perform the first televised exorcism. The cameras were frozen over in fine weather and after filming finished the director was killed in a road crash on his way to another location. He was found with a fence post impaled in his heart.

Heading up on the 9.35 from Central, I remembered the worst thing about travelling on Saturdays in summer; the preponderance of EDL and related fascist boneheads on the trains, travelling hither and thither to drink Carling and cause mayhem in the streets of pleasant, unsuspecting towns the length and breadth of both sides of the border. However, having walked down the Corridor of Hate, as Pink Lane will forever onwards be known, past the site of vile, prejudiced, Francophobic hatred, as well as EDL sympathising bars Rafferty’s and Gotham Town, I was aware that intolerance is amongst us, every step of the way. Noting a few random groundhoppers on the platform, I buried my head in to the latest YPSM to help me sleep until Waverley, chortling at references to late winners against Swansea (they did the double over us last season), the fact the 1897 Cup Final took place at Wembley (26 years before it was built) and the inability to tell the difference between Paul Dummet and Connor Newton, as well as grimacing at the endless screeds of abuse directed at Anita and Cabaye.

The journey up was a breeze; early in to Waverley, allowing me ample time to catch my connection and to ignore the dozen or so ideologically confused Scottish Defence League yahoos waving England and Ulster flags (what the hell is that about?) as part of an apparent tribute to Drummer Rigby that was about to take place at Holyrood House. Arriving at Queen Street at noon, I didn’t immediately feel as much at home as I had the previous week in the company of 25k Hibees; instead the usual weekend shoppers were augmented by some serious looking cases in British & Proud t-shirts. I had a fancy they may be ready for their walking season, rather than being an integral part of the Tommy Sheridan endorsed Anti Bedroom Tax march that hadn’t received Police assent that day. Clearly, it would be childish to point out that bedrooms are very close to Tommy’s heart or that the intense looking No Surrender chaps may have been “contacts” for the CWI, or indeed however one understands the complexities of the word “contact.” I’m joking…

Arriving at Central, my plans fell to pieces as a catastrophic signalling failure on the lower level services meant that there were no trains to Larkhall, or to the other games in the West Region at Thorniewood or Lesmahagow. At this point I didn’t even think about a trip back to the East Region, partly because I’d not internalised the fixtures that had been available at http://www.ultrasoft.hostinguk.com/Arniston2/Pink.asp#Current_league_tables_and_this_weeks_results and partly because I knew my failsafe position was a return to Pollok and the West of Scotland Cup final. A revisit wasn’t ideal, but as I’d only missed one Saturday since July 7^th last year, it kept up my record.

To get to Pollok, one heads south from Central on the Cathcart loop local train, alighting at Pollokshaws East station. Don’t get off at Pollokshields East station, because that’s miles away and you’ll need to get a taxi to get to the ground to make it in time for kick off, which will set you back an extra £6, or so I’ve been lead to believe. Anyway, I soon found myself outside the main entrance waiting for Mick with plenty of time to spare, courtesy of the rather lovely taxi driver who assumed I was part of Pollok’s fan base and relentlessly questioned me about the squad and crowds, despite my insistence that I’d only ever been here once before in my life and really should have been sashing it up down in Lanarkshire.

Like every Scottish Junior club I’ve visited, Pollok gave me a tremendous welcome, to the extent of assuming I was a gentleman of the Fourth Estate and allowing me in for free, along with Mick and his mate Chris, who also lives in Paisley, also writes match reports for newspapers and also supports Ashington, even if he comes from Newbiggin. In the clubhouse, I gulped down the obligatory stewed, builder’s tea and made notes about the teams in my programme, even if I hadn’t a clue who was playing (teams not just personnel) and intended to produce a very different written account of the day than Mick and Chris did. Frankly I was as much out of place here as YPSM were at Darsley Park on their work experience trip the other year.

The game was between Glenafton Athletic from Ayrshire, who’d finished fourth in the West Region Super League Premier Division (the top flight) and Glasgow Perthshire from Possilpark in the city, who’d been related from the Super League First Division (second flight) to the regional West First Division (equal third flight) the week before. Not only were Shire the underdogs, they wore black and white stripes, so I had to support them, especially as I found out they’d already been knocked out the competition in Round 3, 1-0 away to Saltcoats, who’d then been thrown out for playing an unregistered player.

 

 

Frankly, the first half was as bad a game as I’d seen all season; in alternating driving rain and blinding sun, neither side managed a serious effort on target and my attention was drawn to the profoundly terrible language of a 70 year old granny in front of us, who was dandling her grandbairn while simultaneously abusing the referee in the most profane way imaginable. As well as the serious drinking going on all around on the terraces, I was becoming distinctly light headed as a bloke a few rows back kept up a constant series of tokes on his hash pipe; he wasn’t the only one partaking, as the whole enclosure boasted a pervasive, cloying aroma of skunk. The viscous, Bovril-flavoured coffee I swallowed at half time back in the clubhouse was accompanied by a couple of chocolate biscuits for some reason…

The second period was as superb as the first had been dire; fast paced, end to end, football on the deck broke out as both sides probed and harried at top speed. Glens took the lead when a rebound from a shot off the post was tucked home. Shire came again and equalised when a cross from the left was nodded in by a confused defender, before Stuart Brodie put the Shire in the lead with a thumping volley from the edge of the area. Not having won the trophy since 1940, the Possilpark outfit came so close until a melee in the area resulted in a late, desperate toe punt in to the top corner after 87 minutes. With no extra time and the game straight to penalties, both sides tried for a winner, but in vain. In the shootout, the higher division side held their nerve and prevailed 4-3, with each keeper making a save before a Shire player hit the underside of the bar with his decisive effort. Cue a mass pitch invasion by 200 Tennents fuelled Ayrshire neds, while the Shire lot picked up the remains of their carry-out and headed off, swearing.

 

 

Mick and I hung around the clubhouse for an hour or so, drinking more viscous coffee and nibbling on complimentary Scotch pies, listening to the Jimmy Cagney lookalike sponsor in his white tuxedo promise to continue sponsoring the tournament next season, before Mick headed home with my luggage and I took the train, from the correct station this time, back to Central and then up to Sauciehall Street to begin the evening’s entertainment.

If I had to list exactly what I love about Teenage Fanclub and the musical and social world they inhabit, such is the wonderful, supportive nature of the environment the band and followers have created then I would probably place the actual songs a  fair bit down the list of greatness. The followers of Teenage Fanclub provided me with an incredibly supportive network of friendship and compassion during my dad’s illness and death 4 years ago; the turnout of people to the Motherwell gig in August 2009 and the help they provided me with can never be forgotten. Similarly, the December 2010 gig at Glasgow ABC and the charity bash in honour of our late friend Tom O’Grady the night before was one of those occasions that can never be forgotten. Consequently, seeing my mates Terje from Norway and Ruthie from Buckinghamshire and having a group hug in the lobby of their hotel on West Nile Street was the most natural thing in the world.

We walked up to the CCA, meeting old (as in long term) pals Macca, Barry, Del and many others in the bar of this fantastic little venue. Smiles, pints, handshakes, hugs; it’s why music is the most joyous force for good on this earth. The only problem was that the CCA is a small venue and several members of our community hadn’t managed to get tickets; they were missed and we will see them all again in the future, hopefully in Glasgow as I can’t think of a better place in the world to see a live band, honestly.

At around 8.30 the doors opened and we trooped up the internal metal staircase and queued to get in; all so good natured and fun. The support were The Wake, who I’d last seen in March 1982 opening for New Order at Newcastle Mayfair and, from the few songs I caught, they appeared to have the Power, Corruption & Lies era sound off to a T. Perhaps I’m being unfair, but I was so excited to see The Pastels for the first time in more than 2 decades; I’ll need to consult my Riverside printout to see exactly when it was.

They’d not released an actual full album since 1997’s Illumination, so to say this year’s Slow Summits was warmly welcomed would be an understatement. Their last release was Two Sunsets with Japan’s Tenniscoats in 2009, which I missed out on as it came out just round the time of my dad’s death, but to make up I used Tenniscoats’s two other albums, Ending Theme and Tan Tan Therapy as my train soundtrack on the way up; a pair of gloriously off-kilter, charming formal pop records they are too. Thanks to Bill for burning them for me; they are a band I will certainly keep my ears open for in future.

 

 

In the six months since it was announced, the anticipation for Slow Summits has reached a fervour that was justified by the glorious, lovable single Check My Heart that was as scrumptious a slice of juicy pop pie as could be imagined; it was like they’d never been away. The rest of the album is stunning as well, featuring not only happy pop, but introspective instrumentals, such as the soaring title track, as well as a thumping slab of guitars on the coda to the otherwise gentle Summer Rain; endings are really big on Slow Summits and it is vying with British Sea Power for the accolade of my album of the year (thus far), which is a pretty big compliment. Live, they did the whole thing justice, from the opening moments of the even more essential title track, that builds to such a persuasive climax, to the last seconds of final encore Nothing to be Done, which saw Aggi reunited with the band for a glorious few moments.

My highlights were Secret Music that opens the album and, unsurprisingly, a driving, impassioned, electric Baby Honey that gets better every time I heard it; it would be churlish to complain that Speeding Motorcycle and Truck, Train, Tractor didn’t make the set list. However, I don’t give up hope, as they’ve announced a gig in Preston on Friday 26^th July that I may just make the effort to go and see. By then, the Pastels may have told us who exactly performed all the 21 tracks on their mix CD Insane Energy Drop that accompanied Slow Summits, acting as a soundtrack to their inspiration. As you’d imagine it is filled with classic pop, soaring harmonies, fuzzy guitar and much gentle eccentricity; shame I’ve only recognised Flashback Caruso by Faust, Please Stay by Teenage Fanclub, If I Could Write Poetry by the Television Personalities and Three Acre Floor by Swell Maps so far…

 

 

After the gig came my only true moment of sadness of the whole weekend when I wasn’t able to say goodbye to everyone as we needed to get back to The Bull in Paisley to complete my trip in to intoxication, but I suppose it was made up for by Norman Blake, the man who wrote Everything Flows, asking me how I’d enjoyed the game that afternoon; that is why I love Teenage Fanclub, because they care and they value us as fans and people. The Pastels gig and the West of Scotland final, even if I was too hungover on the Sunday to even attempt revisitinbg Livington for Auchinleck Talbot’s 1-0 win over Linlithgow Rose in the Junio Cup final, watxhing it back home on BBC alba instead, are why I love Scottish music and Scottish football.

Isn’t it lucky that Saturday 8^th June includes Kello Rovers versus Yoker in the West Superleague First Division and Camera Obscura at night?