Best League in the World

The 2015/2016 football season begins on Saturday, July 4^th, with the first of the pre-season friendlies. Benfield are playing Broomhill Sports up in Glasgow at Maryhill’s ground, where I’ve already been. I’m not going, though the main reason preventing my attendance is Ben’s imminent departure on a month long inter rail jaunt on Sunday 5^th. As a result, not only am I unsure what game to watch next weekend but, at this stage, what sport to attend, which is the point of this blog. Remember, there’s more to football than Newcastle United and there’s more to sport than just football. As the last game I saw during 2014/2015 was on June 6^th, when I was pleased to be present near Glenrothes in Fife when Thornton Hibs clinched the McBookie North Division title with a 4-0 win over Lochee Harp in the East Region Scottish Juniors, it hasn’t exactly been the longest of close seasons. Consider this; from July 5^th 2014 to June 6^th 2015, I saw a game of football on 49 consecutive Saturdays, though to be strictly accurate two of those saw deviations from a diet of association football; July 26^th was the 4A All Ireland qualifiers in Tullamore and May 30^th was Magic Weekend at SJP. Semantics aside, it’s a pretty astonishing statistic and testament to my monomaniacal obsession with utilising Saturdays properly.

So, what have I done with these last few spare Saturdays in June? Well last year I wrote about how glad I was to have discovered the joys of watching Northumberland play Minor Counties cricket. The £30 annual membership fee is an absolute steal and I’m delighted to say I’ve seen Stuart Tiffin’s team, captained again by Jacques Du Toit with Benfield player Chris Youlden behind the timbers and 7 or 8 Durham Academy players gaining valuable experience of the long form game, reach the semi-finals of the Unicorns knock out trophy at home to Norfolk on July 26^th after crushing home wins over Lincolnshire at Swalwell and Cumberland at Jesmond. County Club is a ground I’ve written about before, but it was a new experience visiting Swalwell. My parents used to live next to where the old Swalwell Cricket Club was, but that land was sold for a couple of estates of large new builds (sample street name; The Covers) and the developers laid out replacement football and cricket clubs out along the road to Rowlands Gill. The football club I’d been to before; perennial strugglers at the foot of Alliance Division 2, but with a great set up. The turn off before that ground is the new cricket club. Scenic, sympathetic to the landscape and blessed with a top notch pavilion, it’s a great spot. Mind the day was so windy I saw a sight screen blow over.

Unfortunately, Northumberland’s fortunes in the 3 day game remain at rock bottom; Lincolnshire gained revenge at Sleaford and Cumberland did the same at South North. I attended the first and last days of the Cumberland game, suffering sunstroke on both occasions, leading me to my first ever purchase of sun block at the age of almost 51. The defeat to Cumberland was a heroic one; with Adam Craggs absent hurt, the final wicket pairing of Michael Allan and Connor Harvey repelled the Cumbrians for over 2 hours, until Harvey fell to what was scheduled as the penultimate ball of the day. Sometimes a loss, even by 131 runs, can be cruel and unjust.

However, I’ve also discovered the joys of watching club cricket, mainly in the North East Premier League, and I can state conclusively that I am falling in love with this competition in the way I fell in love with the Northern League and north east grassroots football in general well over 20 years ago now. If Harry Pearson’s wonderful book The Far Corner expressed what I’d already found out for myself about the Northern League, then it will seem as if the circle has been squared when Harry lends me Jack Chapman’s definitive book about the history of north east club cricket, Cream Teas and Nutty Slack. Who is Jack Chapman? He’s a Sunderland fan, but that’s irrelevant. He’s Blaydon Cricket Club’s stalwart member, who used to be an English teacher; he taught my pal and local cricket devotee Gary Oliver and Jack’s daughter taught my sister. I also used to be a GCSE English examiner under Jack’s guidance. It’s a small world and a great world and I’m looking to learn more about it.

The first spare Saturday was June 13^th. While there were 2 Scottish Junior finals that day, I’d been to the grounds hosting them, Pollok and Bathgate, twice each already, so I opted not to head north. I had noticed that Newcastle Thunder were at home to Gloucester All Golds and so that was a fall back plan. However, having taken a skeg at the fixtures on http://nepremierleague.play-cricket.com/ I saw that Tynemouth were hosting Gateshead Fell. Games start at 11.30 and are 65 overs a side and so I got on the bike, cycled the half a mile to the ground and nearly passed out when I discovered Graham Onions was playing for bottom of the table Gateshead Fell. As could be expected, Onions was lethal at this level, taking 4/15 from 10.5 overs as Tynemouth were dismissed for 181 in 51.5 overs. Sadly, Gateshead Fell aren’t bottom of the table without good reason and they subsided to 59 all out in 24 overs. Literally moments after the players headed off the pitch, there was a massive cloudburst which meant nearly all the other games in the area were abandoned.  If they’d held out for 2 more overs, they’d have claimed a losing draw. Ironically, as the game was over by mid-afternoon, I could have made it to Kingston Park to see Thunder wallop Gloucester 59-6. Instead me and Ginger Dave went on the pop.

We also went on the pop the following Friday, along with Laura and Gary, at the South North beer festival. Last year, Gary and I had watched Northumberland v Hertfordshire on the last day of the 2014 beer festival, when they gave the stuff away after tea to anyone who wanted it. We got well and truly hammered in 2 hours. The same thing happened to Boldon at this festival. While Ginge took Laura to see the sights of Gosforth High Street before the beer festival got underway at 7.30, Gary and I took in the South North innings in the Friday evening 20/20 competition. South North have former Australian test star Marcus North as their professional; this is a little unfair on the opposition I’d suggest. South North amassed 164/3 and their innings closed just as the doors opened.

Beer festivals are now big business; the same night my mate Bill was at the Corbridge Festival at Tynedale Rugby Club, which has about 4,000 visitors. There were probably about 200 at South North, almost all attired in Ralph Lauren polos and Gant shorts, but they’d made the right choice. South North is a fabulous place to watch cricket; superbly maintained and a fascinating blend of old and new architecture.  A great selection of beers, free entry, £5 for 3 tokens and a quid for a souvenir glass, as well as a free, high quality Indian buffet. Despite the insistence on playing snatches of music after each boundary, over and wicket, it was almost the perfect night out, unless you were a Boldon supporter. At one stage they were 14/7, so I suppose they rallied to make 43 all out. As the NEPL has two divisions and clubs were allocated to a 20/20 group from an open draw, there will always be mismatches like this. However, the spectacle wasn’t ruined and I had a bloody good sup.

The day after I had intended to get to Newcastle v Chester Le Street, but the beer at South North slowed my progress and so instead, I opted for a Northumberland Division 1 fixture between Whitley Bay and the Civil Service. Now I have an awful lot of work to do to understand the myriad divisions and leagues in our region, but I do appreciate the fact that Whitley Bay are a good few steps below the NEPL premier Division, playing in Northumberland Division 1. You can tell by the ground; West Park, just down from the football ground and ice rink on Hillheads Road may be a natural 

amphitheatre, but it is completely Spartan compared to leafy NE3 or County Club. There is no fence, no sight screens and nor are there seats, other than a few school chairs for the players, sat in front of the small pavilion, waiting to bat. Players work the scoreboard and take turns to umpire. This is social, recreational cricket; 45 overs a side and a 1.30 start. Civil Service batted first and were 160 all out after 40 overs. In steady drizzle, Whitley began their reply; there was no chance of these going off for rain. The lads, some of whom were older than me, wanted the game played to a conclusion. It may not have been a great standard (one poor fella bowled 5 successive leg side wides), but this was cricket played for the sheer love of the sport. Whitley won by 5 wickets with 10 overs to spare and I was glad to have been present.

Last Friday saw the final group games in the 20/20 competition. One game stood out for me; Felling against South North. Having escaped from Felling aged 19, I’d not seen a game on that ground since about 1974 when a combined XI made up of Newcastle and Sunderland footballers lost to the home team. I’d also not been in the bar since a few 18^th birthday parties at the start of the 80s. I took the metro over to Heworth and walked up; I got there a bit early, so I thought I’d have one in The Ship, but it’s now a supermarket. Oh well, back to the cricket. Both sides wore coloured clothing, but thankfully there was no musical accompaniment this week. There was little to write home about in the home side’s innings, as they made a less than stellar 79/9 from the full complement. South North eased home by 7 wickets with 7 overs to spare, but it was a glorious, sunny evening and the cricket club looked splendid. It was one of the few happy instances I can recall from my infrequent returns to NE10 since I escaped. Felling Cricket Club, unlike so much else in the place I grew up, is vibrant and decorous; I wish them all the luck in the world.

One of the most despicable lies told about cricket by those who know nothing of the game, is that it is a middle class sport; the fact the game not only exists, but flourishes in such solidly proletarian areas as Felling and Benwell Hill proves that cricket transcends all classes. Certainly, it’s cheaper than football as, other than the £30 I paid for my Northumberland membership, I have never been charged entry to any games. I really think they should; even £2 would help boost club coffers, when the average attendance is probably about 100, except at Whitley Bay where I was the only spectator to watch the whole game, though the odd passing dog walker stopped and took in a few overs. 

Unfortunately, the only time I haven’t seen a full game was Benwell Hill versus Newcastle. I took the 38 from High Heaton halfway along the West Road, then strolled down towards the ground on a glorious morning. Like every ground I’d been to, bar Whitley Bay, Benwell Hill was picture postcard beautiful. Newcastle batted beautifully too; Graham Clark scored an elegant 106 and Du Toit chipped in with a quick-fire 44, including 3 enormous sixes, allowing County club to declare on 276/7 after 58 overs. As I was going out for a meal for Ben’s birthday at 6.30, I couldn’t hang around to watch the full reply. I cleared off at tea, with the Hill at 25/1. When I got in the house, I checked Benwell’s twitter feed and was astonished to see they’d subsided to 60 all out. Perhaps Newcastle Cricket club were also going out for a meal?

Well, that’s my account of my delicious experiences watching North East club cricket so far. What I particularly like is that I don’t have a particular allegiance to any one team; I simply enjoy seeing the game in different locations, though I’m not intending to become a cricket ground hopper just yet. Looking ahead, I’m intending to take in Newcastle v Eppleton 20/20 quarter final next Friday and probably Tynemouth v Hetton Lyons on Saturday. Football can wait for once. 

Notes & Jottings

For this cultural bulletin, there’s a slight change of emphasis. While music is still heavily represented, with 5 albums, 1 single and 2 gigs to be discussed, it’s the printed word I’d like to concentrate on first of all, as I’ve managed to gainfully squander some of my recent ill-health imposed inactivity by getting stuck into some proper reading again.

Books:

Last year I thought Irvine Welsh’s The Sex Lives of Siamese Twins was so lame and predictable as to almost self-parodic. When I learned his latest effort, A Decent Ride, was to be a comic account of legendary Leith lothario “Juice” Terry Lawson’s priapic exploits around Edinburgh, I shuddered at the thought of a banal Caledonian Robin Askwith pot boiler. However, I am delighted to say that Welsh has returned to form with this latest novel, mainly because of the affectionate, detailed and nuanced portrait of the central character. It often feels to me that Welsh is on firmer ground when writing about his home turf than exploring his stateside home, though Ray Lennox’s American adventures in Crime is an exception that proves the rule. In A Decent Ride, Welsh doesn’t just rehash previously introduced characters, but creates new and vivid ones, such as the gormless, well-endowed Jonty McKay, who is naturally depicted as a Hearts fan.  Plot, as is often the case in Welsh’s work, is of secondary consideration to the picaresque, uproariously grotesque set pieces. Welsh has managed to create the funniest and least erotic novel about sex that I’ve read in a long time.

A considerably less enjoyable read was the final journal of William Burroughs, Last Words, which retells his final months on earth in 1997. Whether it was the methadone, his age, infirmity or simply a deliberate, stylistic choice, the barely connected passages consist of stream of consciousness reminiscences, detailed retelling of dreams and sentimental depictions of his pet cats fail to engage the reader beyond a superficial level. You turn the pages hoping for insights or arresting images; there are none. This is only of interest to Burroughs completists, as even the most serious scholar of the Beats and beyond, will struggle to glean anything of note from these frustratingly opaque doodlings.

At the end of May, Laura finally decided to have a cull of her books; 13 boxes of police procedurals headed to Tynemouth Market. Sadly, 10 unsold boxes came back, which will have to go to Barter Books or somewhere similar at some point in the future. I hope. However, doing a little bit of crate digging, as I steadily and carefully alphabetised the unwanted tomes, I came across three books that intrigued me. The first was Studies in a Dying Culture by Christopher Cauldwell, which was the nom de plume of Christopher St John Sprigg, a British Marxist who died fighting in the Spanish Civil War in 1937.

When I say Cauldwell was a Marxist, I am indulgently and mischievously using the term he erroneously misappropriated for himself. As any Socialist with even a rudimentary understanding of Marxist theory would agree, Cauldwell was actually a doe-eyed Leninist, with an unquenchable belief in the essentially anti-Marxist doctrine of the revolutionary vanguard party. Cauldwell wrote openly and engaging about British society and ideas in the mid-1930s, but his ideological panacea for all society’s ills was the seizure of power, in all possible manifestations, by that dread phrase “the advanced sections of the working class.”  It is used in relation to Bernard Shaw, HG Wells and DH Lawrence when he discusses literature and, rather more predictably perhaps, in response to Freud’s theories. Cauldwell fulminates against psychoanalysis as “a bourgeois pseudo-science,” while praising the more “robust” discipline of sociology. It isn’t just Taaffe’s trots who are scared of sex; it seems vanguardistas have been stripping with the lights out for 8 decades of more. A well-written, but naïve and misinformed read.

Graham Masterton is a bit of a one-off. Formerly the editor of Penthouse and Mayfair, he turned to novel (and sex instruction manual) writing in the mid-1970s, with an emphasis on horror. Indeed, he also co-authored a short piece of fiction with William Burroughs. However, by early 2002, Masterton was living in West Cork. After sufficient time in the Rebel County, he managed to both master the nuances of the guttural, urban north Cork estate accent and the cadences of rural speech west of the Leap. He used this newly discovered talent to full effect by turning to police procedurals. These are not a genre I often have time for, but Broken Angels, the account of Detective Superintendent Kate Maguire and her attempts to hold her disintegrating personal life together at the same time as discovering who is behind the brutal slaying of a number of priests, linked to child abuse naturally, is a great read. The fact the 3 serial killers are a castrato choir of ageing orphans, taking an eye for an eye revenge by emasculating the very holy men who took their manhood from them in their boyhood, may be completely unrealistic, but the gory details that make you cross your legs almost involuntarily are grotesquely compelling. I’m now on the lookout for the other two novels in this trilogy.

The final of the 3 rubbish pile treasures was A Madman’s Defence by August Strindberg. I’d not read anything of Strindberg’s work since I was required to plough through The Father in first year at university. Depressing and oppressively grim would be the way I’d describe that play, though I had little more appreciation of Strindberg’s sworn enemy (“the Danish bluestocking”) Henrik Ibsen’s A Doll’s House. If “Juice” Terry’s activities were seen as being potentially misogynistic by several reviewers, then goodness knows what they would have made of Strindberg’s extended tirade against women that serves as a character assassination of his first wife, Siri von Essen. While it is widely accepted that Strindberg was always slightly unhinged, this book, written after he’d abandoned his belief in Socialism under the influence of Nietzsche’s philosophy, is as clear evidence of Strindberg going completely off the radar as you could imagine. The bloke was a complete head the ball, to be frank.

Being serious, the main reason why this is evidence of Strindberg’s insanity is his oft stated belief that this book is not only based on his life, it is the absolute, factual truth of the events of his first marriage. Without any conscience, he describes how he persuaded Siri to abandon and divorce her first husband, where Strindberg was named as co-respondent in the explanation of adultery. From then on, Strindberg portrays his wife as a bisexual, alcoholic nymphomaniac, whole squanders all his money and persecutes the so-called loving husband. All of this was utterly untrue of course; Siri may have been a spoilt, social gadfly, but she was not the voracious sexual predator Strindberg describes her as. Frankly, I’d be amazed if anyone read this and took it seriously as a work of literature, though it does include some memorable phrases; Siri’s friends are described as “pestiferous oafs,” while those who denounce his work are “scrofulous criticasters peddling devious rodomontade.” This is a description of me I must accept, as I found the book a bizarre, anachronistic tirade.

If you’re one of the many people who former NME rock journalist Nick Kent fell out with, that is a phrase you’d either ascribe to him, or he to you. In Apathy for the Devil, Kent’s drug crazed rite of passage from the early 70s to late 80s, there are hundreds of emotional and drug casualties he came across, whom he either abandoned or who abandoned him. Those who survived have mainly lost contact with him, which Kent is only too pleased to confirm in uncomfortably private detail. It is a wonderful portrait of London of the time; almost like Withnail and I in its depictions of seedy bedsits, ropey pubs and the post hippy ennui. Kent puts us there at the time and expresses his love and contempt for many acts, several long forgotten or unknown in the first place. He successfully tracks his progress from wide-eyed, enthusiastic innocence, to jaded, junk-ravaged despair, without any self-pity. The only thing that gets me is, how on earth could he fall in love with Chrissie Hynde?

Music:

The election seems a long time ago. On the day of the vote, I learned I didn’t have cancer. Great news, though following the result, it may have been sensible to actually have the disease so I could get treatment while we have a health service to speak of. The night after the election, The Band of Holy Joy played The Cluny 2. I know I’ve loved this group for coming up three decades now, but they do keep getting better and better. I’ve subsequently done an interview with Johny for PUSH magazine, which will be out this week. I really don’t know what else I can say; they were brilliant this night, starting with Rosemary Smith and ending with an incendiary version of The Velvets’ What Goes On, via stunning takes of Tactless, There Was A Fall / The Fall and Crass Harry. There’s a new album out soon; buy it please.

The polar opposites of the Band of Holy Joy are Ride. While both bands were feted by the music press as the 80s turned into the 90s, Ride were able to translate this critical acclaim into massive popular appeal.  Unfortunately for me, while I adored their early trio of EPs (Ride, Play and Fall), I felt that once they’d released their debut album Nowhere, they fell between two stools; seeing them at the Mayfair in October 1990, I wrote them off as neither as anthemic as Swervedriver or as ethereal as Slowdive, both of which I loved. Despite seeing a stunning show in May 1990 at the Riverside, after the release of Play, it appeared they’d lost relevance once it was time to record an album. Rather like Chapterhouse, Ride were a bit safe and a bit predictable, certainly when compared to grunge or shoegazing, neither of which genres they successfully encompassed. Creation would release truly epochal albums the year after Nowhere, when Bandwagonesque and Loveless came out. Apparently Ride were very successful commercially, but I wouldn’t know about that.

News of Ride’s reunion sort of passed me by, until I realised I’d be in Glasgow at the end of May. On the same Friday night, Belle & Sebastian and Ride were playing the Hydro and Barrowlands respectively. As I thought the new Belle & Sebastian album stunk to high heaven, bar two tracks, I decided to see Ride, even though I was staying right next to where Belle & Sebastian were playing. A trip to Mono ensured I met up with old TFC buddies (hello Terje, Brogues and Stephen Pastel) for a few drinks and a slow walk up to Barras. There really isn’t anywhere quite like the old place for atmosphere; Glaswegians know how to enjoy themselves on a Friday night and the mood was hedonistic, despite the age of the crowd and Ride lived up to the expectations invested in them. Tellingly though, the highlights were Chelsea Girl, Drive Blind and Like A Daydream, all from the opening three EPs, though the closing Leave Them All Behind was marvellous as well. A great night and a good gig, certainly preferable to Belle & Sebastian’s current material, but I seriously doubt I’ll bother with Ride at the Academy on October 18^th. If you do go, try not to laugh at Mark Gardener’s ridiculous trilby, which fools absolutely no-one, you baldy bastard.

As regards recorded material, I’ve been gifted a couple of burned CDs recently. Ginger Dave, who loaned me the Nick Kent book, burned me Jackson C. Frank’s solitary solo album. Frank was an American folk singer who came to England in the late 60s, did some recording with Joe Boyd, had a relationship with Sandy Denny, broke up, went home, became a homeless derelict after being in a fire and died young. His actual album hasn’t particularly stood the test of time very well, other than his signature number Blues Run The Game, a singer / songwriter standard of the late 60s and early 70s folk club circuit. Interestingly, an additional 5 tracks that Frank recorded in 1975 as part of an uncompleted second album, which appeared when his debut was released on CD, are excellent and hint at an enduring talent that had developed from the stentorian hesitancy of a decade earlier.

The other CD was given me by one of the fellas from the Over 40s team; the Irish instrumental band Lunasa with the RTE Orchestra. Lunasa use Irish traditional instruments to record their own compositions, with “an authentic, timeless Celtic appeal.” Actually they sound like the Penguin Café Orchestra impersonating The Chieftains; the sort of bland, inoffensive mood music that could be used as a backing track for a BBC1 property programme. Meh.

Before we get on to recently released albums, can I just point out the two I’m most excited about are the mythical Teenage Fanclub and the imminent Trembling Bells offerings. The latter outfit were the only thing that enthused me about Record Store Day this year; the sight of door staff controlling the queues outside Reflex and counting how many were allowed in at a time, acted as conclusive proof of the corporate takeover of this formerly independent show of strength. Thankfully, queuing up was worth it what I got my hand on the latest splendid slice of hippy-drippy, proggy-folky Glaswegian glory in the shape of Halelujah; it’s a magnificent madrigal, with a video that reminded me of The Wicker Man. Roll on the end of the month and the release of the album; Sovereign Self, as well as the August 13^th date at The Cumberland Arms.

The best live performance I’ve seen in 2015 was Wire at the Radio 6 weekend at The Sage. The best album I’ve heard in 2015 is Wire’s eponymous release. Following 2013’s Change Becomes Us, which re-worked early 1980s song sketches into full songs, Wire feels at first almost strangely normal. Cryptic song titles have been replaced with more prosaic tags like In Manchester, High, Swallow and even Blogging, the moody, drily observational, and tense opener. Lyrics like "fucking by proxy…selling on eBay" show Wire simultaneously engaged and removed, which has always been their unique gift. The unease with the self, with the band as a fixed organizational point, that sense of relentless questioning and observation, continues. In Manchester, for instance, could almost sound like something from early Factory Records days, except that the lyrics have nothing to do with the place aside from the title. And it’s still a lovely singalong.

At points, you can hear Wire nodding to themselves; the brisk chug of Joust & Jostle and the even more thrilling Split Your Ends show once again how they can create a clean, stop-and-start energy. Wire could have just done a 154 album tour or the like for a lot more money and attention.  Instead Wire chose to make an album for our times, which ends with the eight and a half minute Harpooned; a slow, churning leviathan song of madness and anxiety, of someone pushed past the breaking point. The crushing weight of the music seems to suck all the air out of the room as it dissolves into wordless wailing before breaking down into a scraping grind; a brutal, ugly, pitiless sound. Thank goodness for a band that had no plan but continues, as they choose, to succeed far more than many who did.

One of the reasons Teenage Fanclub haven’t managed to release their new album yet is because Norman is always so busy with his other projects; Jonny with Euros Childs, The New Mendicants with Joe Pernice and now Yes with Jad Fair, teaming up together for the first time since 2002’s Words Of Wisdom And Hope. Predictably, the results are rather lovely. Yes ticks all the boxes you’d expect; Jad unleashing adorably wide-eyed spiels of squeaky-voiced positivity, while Norman’s sweet, hummable arrangements keep the sugar down to palatable levels. It's quietly marvellous. Norman’s on fine form here, whether dabbling in sombre piano minimalism, cutesy college rock or just straight-up guitar heroism, as he does for three thrilling minutes on the excellent Thank You. As a bonus, steering away from Half Japanese’s noise actually makes the Michigan veteran seem less manic; his proclamations hit home harder. It’s not all sweet guitar pop though; Now Is Your Time is built around banjo and piano, with a drifting country swagger. A fun album. A good album. I do wish Norman would concentrate on his day job though.

One of the reasons I was so pleased to be in Glasgow at Whit weekend, was so I wouldn’t be at SJP when Newcastle had to stare down the barrel of possible relegation against West Ham. Additionally, The Fall were playing the night before and I would do anything these days to avoid having to see them live, though I still buy all their releases. While NUFC amazingly stood up and were counted with a 2-0 win over the Irons, I’ve yet to talk to anyone who did The Fall gig, though the reviews on the snarling bear pit of a forum at www.thefall.org are uniformly positive.  The set list was, apparently, Systematic Abuse, Venice with the Girls, The Remainderer, Dedication Not Medication, First One Today, No Respects, Auto Chip 2014-2016, Weather Report, Fibre Book Troll and an encore of Snazzy. So, the only track that was pre 2015 was 2013’s The Remainderer; the rest were off the new album Sub Lingual Tablet. Glad I missed it.

I approach each new Fall album with the kind of dread I used to unwrap Christmas presents of clothing from relatives; expecting garish, unsuitable, ridiculous or just plain ugly contents meant I wouldn’t be disappointed. Frankly, this album is none of those things; it’s just what The Fall are. A tight, organised, proficient outfit making straight ahead, uncompromising modern krautrock with a veneer of electronica, topped off by a huge dollop of incomprehensible lyrics by a toothless derelict. To my ears, it’s neither good nor bad; it’s just The Fall. There are highpoints and juddering lows; Stout Man, a reworking of Cock in my Pocket by The Stooges, sounds like karaoke in a care home. However Venice with the Girls is great. The problem for me is that The Fall are just too proficient and, dare I say it, predictable these days. It’s time for Smith to sack the band and take some risks again.

Taking Ownership

While the concept of fan ownership of Newcastle United is something we can all aspire to, the fundamental question should actually be; what will fan ownership look like? Here are some of my thoughts...

Recently I was asked by some colleagues to set down my vision of what I envisaged a fan ownership could look like and how it would best be implemented at Newcastle United. The question rocked me back on my heels. To strike a theological comparison, I felt like a priest, sure in his knowledge and understanding of both doctrine and scriptures, yet unable to delineate a cogent and credible explanation of what life after death would actually involve. Politically, it’s rather like the SPGB’s absolutist position as regards Socialism; we know the radiant future under workers’ control won’t be like capitalism, but we can’t quite describe how things will pan out, other than mentioning the abolition of money. Sadly, there is one reality we do know about attempting to transform Newcastle United into a fan owned entity; it will take a lot of money. We need a nuanced debate about this; one that does not descend into distortion and calumny.

I’m a conceptual person, but I’m not so hot on the precise details to follow on from my vague theorizing. My mantra has always been that we need Ashley OUT and 100% Fan Ownership IN, though I’m prepared to take 51% as a transitional demand.  I’m not, and I freely admit this, particularly conversant on the finer points of detail regarding fan involvement and ownership models in La Liga, the Bundesliga, FC United of Manchester or the proposals for Bath City. I’ve read Reclaim the Game by John Reid, which was Militant’s banal, opportunistic response to the formation of the Premier League. As you could no doubt imagine, this Leninist lunacy advocates a cadre of vanguardista fans drawn from “advanced sections of the working class” to run the club by committee on democratic centralist terms, meaning a self-selected elite of super trots will call the shots. As you could imagine it contains as much sense and logic as your average ponytailed TUSC pestiferous oaf, so we can safely ignore the xz of the messianic, cultist fringe. Consequently, the only model I’m personally acquainted with is the failed project that sprang from  www.myfootballclub.co.uk   which involved the purchase and administration of Ebbsfleet United.

In 2007, almost 27,000 of us, many after reading an article in When Saturday Comes, paid £35 each to create a fund to buy a club. The one that was chosen was Gravesend & Northfleet of the Conference South, whose name was changed to Ebbsfleet United after the takeover. As the club didn’t have two pennies to rub together, the takeover was broadly welcomed by the fans as a means of securing the club’s future. Each stakeholder received one vote, which could be exercised in all major decisions, but no dividends. Unnecessarily and unhelpfully, in my opinion, stakeholders also could vote in team selection and transfer dealings. To me, this caused a major problem; the stakeholders are not as knowledgeable about the technical intricacies of the game as the football people. When, not if, we take over Newcastle United, I am convinced we must appoint a robust, effective management structure, that encompasses every aspect of the club from the first team to the catering operation, that has the best people possible, remunerated accordingly and competitively though without any incentivised element, working autonomously in their role that they were appointed to after a rigorous selection processes in which all full club members (a definition of who they will be is to follow) are involved at each step. Obviously, all those in managerial roles will be fully accountable and subject to immediate recall, whereby they would be required to explain their actions at an EGM.

At the end of Ebbsfleet United’s first season, the team won the FA Trophy, as well as the Kent Senior Cup. All well and good it seemed, except that over 50% of stakeholders failed to renew for the 2008/2009 season. By the third anniversary in 2010, which coincided with relegation from the Conference, membership was down to 3,500. You do the maths; the club income from the stakeholders was now negligible. Despite this, promotion back to the Conference was achieved in summer 2011 but before the fourth anniversary of the takeover came round, the club announced it needed an immediate cash injection of £50,000 to simply survive. Begging letters were sent out. At this point, I decided not to throw good money after bad and checked out of the project. The valiant few remaining stakeholders voted to hand the club over to Fleet Trust, a group of concerned supporters, who eventually brokered a deal whereby KEH Sports Limited, a Kuwaiti registered firm, took control of the club for a nominal amount and settled the debts. From democracy to dictatorship in ten short weeks; the experiment in fan ownership was over. At the end of 2014/2015, Ebbsfleet United finished 8^th in the Conference South. Despite this bizarre story, they remain solvent and stable, which is no bad thing. Interestingly, FC United of Manchester have reached the Conference North; I wish them well, but my instinct tells me (though I hope I’m wrong) that this level, the one below full time professionalism, is perhaps the glass ceiling for 100% fan owned clubs. Time will tell and I hope to be disabused of my reservations by the course of events.

Obviously the main problem for those investing in the www.myfootballclub.co.uk experiment was that people were becoming involved in a club they had no connection with. The lack of emotional ties meant walking away when the annual renewal notice turned up wasn’t a hard decision for many. Unlike certain rapacious venture capitalists we could name, it’s almost certain people didn’t sign up to try and make money from this scheme, but out of curiosity and possibly a naïve hope to effect change. With Newcastle United it will be very different; the loyalty, passion and affection for the club, the city and the region will draw in, potentially, hundreds of thousands of members. Yes, I know the ground only holds 52,000, but there’s far more to Newcastle United than just the match day experience.

I think that there needs to be two levels of membership at Newcastle United. For the sake of argument, we can call these ordinary members and full members. Ordinary members pay a nominal sum each year; say £60, or a fiver a month, which is what Labour Party membership costs. For this they get a vote in all structural and philosophical questions and resolutions about the club mission statement, the ethics of any sponsors, future plans for the ground and with the community. In short, they will help shape the vision and policy for the new Newcastle United, by being involved in the writing and adoption of the club’s constitution. I envisage that ordinary members will encompass everyone from lapsed attenders, exiled Geordies and members of the local community (by that I mean everywhere from Darlington to Berwick) who cares about Newcastle United. Any and every local sports team, union branch, social club, residents association, pub, small business or other properly constituted organisation, could buy themselves an ordinary membership. It would be the choice of the individual organisation how they ascertained a democratic mandate for all voting matters. For instance, if we bought ordinary membership for The Popular Side, we would consult with all contributors as to their opinions, before voting. Of course, I could also purchase my own membership, as well as persuading my union branch, employer, constituency Labour Party and every other club and organisation I’m a member of, to take out membership. We are talking at a potential membership of at least 1 million people, though 10% of that would be nice.

Then, there is the idea of the full member; these would be season ticket holders. Whether that’s in Level 7 or a private box, it doesn’t matter; one season ticket, one vote, but on every single aspect of club policy, other than team affairs beyond the hiring and firing of the head coach, who would have sole, ultimate responsibility for performances on the pitch. The head coach, like all senior managers, but not all employees, would be subject to immediate recall by full members. The question of the internal structures and committees that would show fan ownership in practice would need to be established around the time of our new club constitution and mission statement post takeover. I’m open to persuasion whether full members should pay the £60 per annum ordinary membership fee as well as their season ticket money.

Hand on heart; I know the money raised from fans wouldn’t be enough to buy the club. My fervent hope would be that fan investment could constitute 51% of the capital involved in the club; the rest could come from larger investors. I would be particularly happy if local councils (Newcastle, North Tyneside, Gateshead, South Tyneside, Castle Morpeth, Wansbeck and Derwentside at least) were able to use finance from any future plans for devolved government to become the kind of ethical investors we would hope for.

Am I naïve? Am I hopelessly romantic? You tell me…

Curriculum Vitae 2014/2015

UEFA regulations used to state that all club football had to end by May 31st, though obviously leagues could finish sooner. It appears this is no longer the case as Saturday June 6th saw me bringing the curtain down on this campaign by attending Europe's foremost club game; Thornton Hibs 4 Lochee Harp 0 in the North Division of the McBookies East of Scotland Juniors. As yet that experience is unwritten, though the following are my collected published works for 2014/2015, other than the 30+ non-league programmes I edited and / or contributed to for Benfield. As I pointed out this time last year, the position of my personal Boswell is still unfilled....

The Football Pink #5: “No Tournament for Old Men.”

Stand #9: “Strawberry Fields.”

The Popular Side #1: “Popular Front” editorial.

Northern Promise #1: “Top Dogs on the Tyne” and “The Strongest Alliance.”

The Popular Side #2: “Popular Front” editorial, “Fraternal Greetings” and “Pardophilia.”

The Popular Side #3: “Popular Front” editorial and “Top of the Pops.”

Stand #10: “Popular Front.”

The Football Pink #6: “Absent Bloody-Mindedness.”

West Stand Bogs #6: “RED NOT DEAD.”

The Popular Side #4: “Popular Front” editorial and “Hill of Beans.”

The Blue & White #11: “Political Football.”

Stand #11: “Hill of Beans.”

The Popular Side #5: “Popular Front” editorial, “Off the Buses” and “22 going on 23.”

All at Sea #53: “22 going on 23.”

The Football Pink #7: “The Lords of the Flies”

The Popular Side #6: “Undefeated” and “Funeral Blues.”

Popular Stand #74: “Remembering the First Time.”

Stand #12: “Undefeated.”

The Football Pink #8: “On the One Road.”

The Popular Side #7: “Popular Front” editorial and “Funny Handshakes.”

Reds Inc #53: “17 Green Fields (and counting…)” part 1.

Wars of the Roses

Rugby league's Magic Weekend came to Newcastle during the last 2 days in May. Here's an account of my experiences at SJP watching the 13 man code -:

If you read my blog about my Good Friday trip to Kingston Park for Newcastle Thunder versus Barrow Raiders (http://payaso-de-mierda.blogspot.co.uk/2015/04/rolling-thunder-review.html), you’ll know I’m not an aficionado of rugby league by any stretch of the imagination, but I am a keen student of the 13 man code, partly because of my son Ben’s appetite for and experience of playing the game. He even wrote a rather fine article about the sport for The Popular Side #2 when it became public knowledge that Super League’s Magic Weekend 2015 would be held at St James’ Park. Consequently, when my very dear friend and Widnes fan Niall Mercer told me in The Tanners that he had a brace of free tickets for this event, I was more than grateful to take them off his hands, especially as Ben was arriving home the day before after successfully completing first year at university. Cheers Niall; very much appreciated!!

As I said in the previous RL blog, I enjoy the game, but don’t know huge amounts about it. Both times I’d been to see Thunder in the past they’d won, but I didn’t exactly find it to be riveting fare. For a game with a reputation of being fast paced, the victory over Barrow seemed very stop start. However, that was League 1 level rugby league; Super League is two divisions above that. What Magic Weekend showed me is that rugby league, like football, sees a marked step up in standards at the higher echelons of the game, to the extent that Wigan against Leeds was equivalent to watching Chelsea against Arsenal, or something of a similar ilk. Initially I’d compared it to Barcelona versus Real Madrid, but received wisdom tells me that the club game in the southern hemisphere is stratospherically better than our domestic product. However, more of Wigan later.

In a week where the sporting headlines were dominated by eventually successful attempts to replace Sepp Blatter as the whole corrupt FIFA edifice begins to totter alarmingly, accompanied by ever more vociferous calls to boycott the 2018 and 2022 World Cups in Russia and Qatar, on the basis of the squalid dictatorships than run those countries, the attendant human rights abuses and the shameful death toll of migrant workers, forced to toil in unsafe conditions to complete the stadia, it is instructive to note that the second tier rugby league Championship held their Magic Weekend the week previously at Bloomfield Road. You couldn’t make it up could you? Blackpool and then Newcastle United the week after; a game lining the pockets of the infernal trinity of Oyston, Ashley and Wonga. Still, at least Newcastle United had successfully maintained Premier League status the week before; not having been at the game, as I was on a Glaswegian odyssey, it was fitting that our seats for Magic Weekend were in the Gallowgate, where Jonas had scored that special clinching goal to assure our safety.

Heading up towards SJP from Haymarket, it was clear the bars were doing brisk business; whatever Old Orleans is called now was full of Leeds fans, The Hotspur was rammed and approximately 200 Wigan supporters were on the pavement outside The Trent singing lustily and getting it down their necks. Indeed serious drinking was the common factor amongst almost all the fans on the first day. In the ground, seats were allocated for certain stands, but on unreserved basis, with cursory attempts being made to keep people in their appropriate stand via the use of demotivated stewards and limp lines of police incident tape, though such fruitless measures were abandoned long before the second game had finished. We took a position in the Strawberry Corner, directly below the large screen used for video referrals and what we discovered was the stage where a competent but uninspired covers band would blast out limp versions of populist “classics” at half time in each game.

Seeing the ground metamorphosed on Magic Weekend was strange and almost unsettling; some things were very different, for a start the sets of posts, which showed a rugby league pitch is perhaps 20 yards shorter than a football one. Also, the preponderance of Lancashire accents surrounding me was a little weird. I’ve hardly any experience of the far side of the Pennines other than Manchester, so it was odd to hear such voices. Undoubtedly, rugby league is a working class sport; indeed it seems far more skewed towards attracting those from lower socio economic groupings than football does, possibly because of ticket prices I’d guess. The vast majority of the crowd were attired in a baffling array of replica shirts, ancient and modern, home and away, which were mainly beyond my ken. Without trying to sound like I drink in The Town Wall, the other items of attire sported by those in attendance, were of lower quality than you’d expect in a football ground. Rugby league does shabby rather than casual on the whole. They also do zany, as there were innumerable fancy dress outfits and t-shirts proclaiming Daz’s Stag Do and the like.

The strangest sight was the amount of drinking in the seats; with Kingstone Press cider a main Super League sponsor, empty bottles of that acidic pop and rakes of Carlsberg bottles, not to mention discarded 2 pint pots of Guinness and John Smith’s, as well as Pringles tubes, chip trays and burger wrappers, carpeted the stands to ankle height by the end of the day. I’d say a good three quarters of the crowd who were old enough to drink, were bladdered. It made Ben and my normal SJP routine of a litre bottle of Evian to share and a latte each at the interval seem very restrained.  Good job we got stuck into the pints in The Bodega afterwards then carried on imbibing at home. Gin and Fanta at 3am? Once a student I suppose….

The one familiar thing in the ground was seeing those in the the Gallowgate centre attired in black and white stripes, belting out “there’s only one Bobby Robson.” These were Widnes fans and, off the pitch, they were the heroes of the weekend. Having made the decision to produce a one-off kit in black and white stripes for the occasion, when a hooped version in the same colours is their traditional choice, they endeared themselves to the north east by donating all profits to the Sir Bobby Robson Foundation, whose name they emblazoned in the place of an advert on the front of the jersey.  Thus far, the SBR Foundation has benefitted by £20,000 and Widnes, previously only famous to me as the site of the famous Spike Island Festival I sold my ticket for back in 1990, will always have a place in the hearts of Tynesiders. It was fitting they absolutely pulverised Salford, owned by the kind of egotistical, arrogant dictator who’d be at home in the Premier League, by a score of 38-16 in the opening fixture of the weekend.

From where we were sat, it became apparent that certain clubs had been allocated tickets in various areas of the ground; Widnes and Hull KR in the Gallowgate and East Stands, Hull and Salford in the Leazes and Milburn, with Leeds and Wigan still in the pub at this point. Despite tickets being valid all day, many people were taking the chance to nip in and out, but I’d wager the fullest the ground was would have been during the Hull derby that was the middle game of day 1. This game presented a moral quandary for us; Hull play in black and white, but they were instrumental in removing Gateshead’s Super League licence back at the turn of the millennium. However, Hull KR play in red and white, though their fans were all around us. In the event I’m glad Hull won, as it’s not often the team in black and white thumps the team in red and white two games in a row at SJP. The final score was 46-20 to the bizarrely named Airlie Birds, who groundshare with Hull City, while Hull KR play at Craven Park.

Perhaps the most surprising thing about this game was the amount of scrapping going on in the seats; ironically, in the East Stand where the only noises you hear on normal NUFC match days are Werther’s Originals being unwrapped or tartan blankets being unfolded over arthritic knees. As I say, with the idea of fans being allocated certain stands, this was not inter club aggression; this was pissed, frustrated Hull KR fans battling with each other. It was a proper pagga like; the kind that would get you a 5 year banning order if it had been football.  Clearly the stewards weren’t expecting this and simply couldn’t handle the situation, calling for the 3 or 4 coppers on duty, who’d no doubt been pleased to be rostered onto such a supposedly cushy number compared to policing the Quayside or Bigg Market, to intervene. It took the poliss a good couple of minutes to restore order and remove a couple of the talented amateur pugilists from the East Riding.

Now I’m not going to suggest this ought to have been front page news and reason enough for the forces of oppression to clamp down on rugby league fans, as it was fairly clear those involved were willing and indeed enthusiastic participants, but as I pointed out to Ben, it shows that as football fans, we are the most repressively legislated against sports fans in the country. While I know the real reason the media chose not to report on this, or any of the other clashes in the ground, was because it does not fit with the accepted and unchallenged narrative that rugby league is a safe, family orientated sport, which I’m sure it is normally, I’m glad they didn’t get all hysterical about it. To be honest I can understand where the Hull KR fans’ existential angst was coming from; this was a big local derby on the biggest weekend of the season; the chance for the annual away day piss up to somewhere different. Magic Weekend is the 27^th fixture of the season for rugby league clubs, rather similar to Scudamore’s discredited 39^th game suggestion for the Premier League, with the difference being this is a concept that is bought into passionately by the fans. Drunk, frustrated and miserable, the unsophisticated travellers from athwart the Humber responded in the only way they knew how; they ploated someone in the face for disagreeing with them. It isn’t right, but it seemed to help them work out the profound misery that gnawed at their souls. As I pointed out on the Sunday after seeing Bilel Mohsni go postal after Motherwell trounced the Huns, at least in rugby league they keep the violence off the pitch and restrict it to the stands.

So then, to the last game of the opening day; Leeds against Wigan and the one I was looking forward to. I know the lads from Mudhutter despise the egg chasers who share their ground, but I’m going to hold my hand up and say Wigan produced the most scintillating display of rugby league imaginable, both in terms of the inventiveness of their attacking play, but also their incredibly resolute defence that prevented Leeds from scoring a single point in the second half. The performance of full back Matty Bowen, both in defence and in attack, with a sparkling brace of tries, was almost breathtaking. To me, this was as good as Messi’s performance in the Copa del Rey, but what do I know? Well, I suspect the single point drop goal that Wigan grabbed with 2 minutes to go, sealing a 27-12 win, was the equivalent of taking the piss, such was the laughter it provoked. Certainly it had the sulking Leeds fans marching altogether out of the ground, windmilling each other as they went, though not to Hull KR levels. Indeed Leeds and Wigan fans mingled amiably in The Bodega afterwards.

Day two dawned to prolonged downpours, making handling the ball threacherous for players in the opening game of Huddersfield versus the Catalan Dragons. I’d naively assumed the Catalans to be from Barcelona, which seemed to be the case with the number of Catalan flags they were waving in a small knot of perhaps 200 fans in the Bar 1892 section closest to the Leazes. However, it appears they are French, from Perpignan, in the Pyrenees. Obviously I was supporting them, but this seemed a fond hope as Huddersfield cruised into a 16-0 lead at half time. Astonishingly though, the Catalans came back to lead 22-16 until the last seconds when Huddersfield touched down. The hooter went as the kicker lined up the conversion attempt on the touchline, meaning this was the final incident of the game; unerringly, he slotted the ball over for an invigorating 22-22 draw that came to life in the last twenty minutes.

The crowd was discernibly smaller on the second day; 27k compared to 41k on the Saturday. Not only that, but they were more abstemious as the chilly weather sent many scurrying for hot drinks rather than cold beers. The muted atmosphere was partly because of the empty seats and partly because we were in the Huddersfield and Castleford sections; the former were leaving and the latter hadn’t arrived as St Helens, rather splendidly sponsored by Typhoo Tea beat Warrington 20-16 in a game that was high on errors and low on skill. What should have been the second most anticipated game was something of a damp squib and, sadly, Ben and I decided to bail out after this one. Citing six tackle fatigue and lacking any real preference for either Castleford or Wakefield, we made our excuses and left. Typically enough, we missed the highest scoring game of the weekend as Castleford ran in 10 tries in trouncing rock-bottom Wakefield 56-16.

It appears that Magic Weekend at SJP was a huge success; fans, broadcasters and rugby league administrators are all very keen to come back again next year. Certainly, it was a symbiotically lucrative experience for all parties. Would I return? Yes I would, but probably only for 1 day. Despite the hideous cover versions band, the competitions to win selfie sticks and the general mintiness of many of the fans, I will concede that rugby league is a more than enticing sport and if I can’t find any Scottish Junior football on Saturday 13 June, I’ll head for Kingston Park to see Thunder take on Gloucester that day.