Monday 30 January 2017

Apocalypse (Not) Now



Donald Trump… frankly the start of his dictatorship has been worse than anyone could have predicted. While we all reeled impotently at the blow of his victory over the dislikeable, though not potentially Armageddon-inducing, option of Hilary Clinton, especially as it came on the back of the Brexit Tragedy, there was a minimal level of residual complacency among the ageing liberal intelligentsia. The crumb of comfort we sought to feast on was the knowledge we’d endured the Thatcher and Reagan Folie a Deux, yet lived to tell the tale. Surely, almost 30 years later, what William S Burroughs described as the cattle, oil, real estate… poker playing, whiskey drinking evil old men who run the United States of America… back stage operators for whom presidents and ambassadors are just jokes and errand boys would have taken Trump to one side, in the manner of Old Man Bickford, and explained the reality of political office. Alas not; the only thing Trump had explained to him was the Geneva Convention by Angela Merkel at the end of a momentous and miserable week that saw the death of human rights in the States.

Instead we’ve had the Mexican Wall plan reaffirmed and the hideous, racist, empty-headed Muslim Ban. At least the decision has been stayed, to allow some kind of sense to prevail. However it’s gratifying to see the enormous level of popular protest on both sides of the pond.  Astonishingly, one the 45th anniversary of Bloody Sunday, tooled up Babylon didn’t go round firing off volleys of semi-automatic gunfire into crowds of innocent people, exercising their democratic rights. No doubt this will come, as shown by the refusal to consider the implication of over 1 million signatures and rising for the on-line petition opposing any state visit by this despotic fucktard by the toadying filth in the British Government.

Maybe we should let Trump visit Britain, then waterboard the bastard to within an inch of his life. Now I’ve jokingly referred to America as the Great Satan and called upon Britain to align ourselves with the Democratic People's Republic of Korea for a long time now, but with the increasingly incompetent Theresa May, visibly transforming from Thatcher Lite to Major Minor in front of our eyes, while seeking to blend the accountability of Pontius Pilate with the vengeful aggression of Neville Chamberlain, now must be the time to sort out one’s passport to Pyongyang.  After all, it’s not as if the leader of Her Majesty’s Opposition is doing much to help.

I’ve been a loyal supporter of Corbyn from the get go, despite wavering slightly when that other bloke stood against him last year… oh you know; Owen Thingy. Well, I’ve finally had it with Facefuzz Farage, after he insisted Labour MPs should back Article 50 on the basis that’s it’s the democratic will of the people. How many more times do we need to say that for the most part, the fact that 52% voted Leave in response to a binary question that none of them appeared to understand, for reasons that had nothing to do with the EU? By and large, pro-Brexit voters were snidey Carling drinkers from your local, unfriendly Wetherspoons who, if they came from up here, probably regard Mitrovic as the next Alan Shearer.



And that, sadly, brings us to Newcastle United. You know if Trump, May and Corbyn have difficult and potentially epochal weeks ahead of them, the pressure on them probably pales into insignificance when you look at Rafa Benitez’s forthcoming agenda. Win both home games against QPR then Derby and the NUFC wobble will become a distant memory; take less than 4 points and the mounting clamour for the manager’s head on a spike will become deafening.

Actually, hold it right there. There is no actual evidence of any significant groundswell of opinion expressing any desire to see Benitez replaced, other than Ashington’s resident Eeyore Glenn Wallace, who would rather we still had Souness as boss, because “at least he took the cups seriously.” I really can’t begin to answer that point…

Now admittedly the result at Oxford was not the best, though we lost 4-2 there in the 92/93 promotion season of course, while the modern day fan is predictably hysterical when things aren’t going their way and the lack of progress in the transfer market this month has been more than a little frustrating, both for the support and for Rafa. Indeed, words from close to the club do say that Ashley has made it clear Benitez is the best paid manager with the best paid squad in the division. He promised Ashley the playing staff were good enough at the start of the season to win promotion and he’s been asked to keep that promise. Hardball tactics perhaps, but I can see Ashley’s point, even if we are crying out for another striker and a creative midfielder. Now it’s at this point I see Rafa’s point as well; he feels he’s been let down by three players. It’s not hard to work out they are Mitrovic (not enough goals), Colback (tries his best, but simply too limited) and, sadly, Perez (just hasn’t shown enough application in a tough division).  Ayoze can and will come good again, of that I’m sure, but the other two are lost causes I’m afraid. We need to get shot of them and this would have been an ideal time to replace them.

If I were asked if Benitez is doing as well as I expected, the answer would be no, simply because, other than the remarkable Norwich turnaround, Newcastle have failed to come from behind this season. Indeed, I think that only Brentford away and Reading at home have seen the team recover to win after conceding an equaliser. This is why we’ve lost 7 games already; alright Wolves deserved it and Forest was a farce, but both Blackburn games ending up as single goal defeats is very disappointing. If I were asked did I want Benitez to remain as boss; I’d say, without hesitation, absolutely and for as long as he wants the job. It is ironic at a time when the Tory government has the temerity to launch an inquiry into false news sites and their effect on the general population, that certain NUFC fans are questioning the right of any of us to express even a modicum of reasoned discontent, regarding it as heresy to be vociferously denounced. I really hope Glenn doesn’t head to South Tyneside any time soon….

However, and this may change if the next two home games don’t go according to plan and there are no incoming players this window, if you check out the hashtag #RafaOut on Twitter, it becomes abundantly clear there aren’t any actual, real-life Newcastle United fans demanding that. Do some research if you don’t believe me, because what you’ll find is those daft sentiments are being expressed by a collection of self-deprecating NUFC followers as gallows humour following the cup collapse, several Mackem WUM accounts that lie dormant between our defeats, the ill-informed wittering of  followers of other clubs (notably Villa and Leeds) who claim we’re saying it when we’re not and angry NUFC fans ready to flay the hide off any other Newcastle supporter who has uttered such treachery, even if nobody has.

Rather fittingly, in the post-truth era of false news, this is a non-story. It isn’t happening and it should be on www.snopes.com to disprove the gloating of ill-informed opposition supporters eager to bandy the “deluded Mag” term about the place and calm the ire of fiery ultra-loyalists who are ready to hang all Doubting Thomases from the lamp posts on Strawberry Place. Of course while a week is a long time in politics, it could be an eternity in football….


Thursday 26 January 2017

Step Sideways


Hands up if you remember Michael Gove? Hard to credit now, but about 9 months ago that appalling piece of worthless shit was considered to be a serious politician, with realistic designs upon top office. Now, in the post truth, post normality world that is 2017, Gove’s star has waned and he’s only known as a figure of scorn and derision, following his adoption of the role of a toadying Tory lickarse, hanging out of Trump’s hole, in the hope of a well-remunerated sinecure as the Four Horsemen get ready to saddle up and ride their ponies. Whether it’s waterboarding or water sports Trump has in mind for Gove is unimportant, as in point of fact, the only visible skid marks Gove has left on the soiled boxers of British society are the catalogue of administrative fiascos that were his education reforms. Free schools and academy trusts; they were a roaring success weren’t they? Sadly, the only real change of any note effected by the specky shitbag, has been to the exam system.

Gove, like all Tories, think that a balanced curriculum should consist of Latin grammar, English history, trigonometry, rugger, Scripture, public oratory, flogging, sodomy and Kipling’s poetry learned by rote; all underpinned by shedloads of prep, with weekly spelling and fractions tests.  There’s no place for coursework in Gove-land; swotting and cramming the night before exams is back in style, which also seemed to push the buttons of Gove’s cretinously limited successor, the bovine Nikki Morgan, who is now also an ex-minister. Consequently students and educational professionals have the ogre of linear exams and the bizarre 9-1 results system to contend with. Most importantly, we have traditional British values at the core of every child’s education again, as the scourge of PC multicultural education has been slain by St Gove’s simple sword of British justice. How has this been achieved? By the brainwave of proscribing foreign literature of course! Now, in practice, this means schools up and down the country will be knee to throat deep in superfluous copies of Steinbeck’s no good pinko Commie tract Of Mice and Men, denying a whole generation of tall, thick lads from Dover to Carlisle, the chance to be nicknamed Lennie on the bus to school each morning.

Now, don’t get angry with me, but I can almost see Gove’s point. After endless exposure to the 136 pages of deceptively trite moralising in Soledad over almost 3 decades, I’m heartily sick of Steinbeck’s sentimental paean to male bonding, though I recognise many compassionate teenagers discovering the chaste Brokeback Mountain for the first time will continue to be deeply touched by both the plot and the characters. However, I don’t blame underfunded schools and overworked teachers for playing it safe, as the criticism lies elsewhere.  I’ve long moaned the reductive nature of GCSE Literature syllabi since the Tories expunged the wonderful 100% coursework spec in 1994. For the first few years of my career I taught Larkin, Auden, Salinger, The Tempest and many other quality texts, safe in the knowledge that 100% coursework allowed time for understanding to develop alongside writing skills. I was teaching kids to understand and appreciate, not to memorise or regurgitate. Though I will admit I worked with a certain percentage of brain donors who felt their learners only deserved to be served up stuff like Buddy or Kes, or as it is properly titled, A Kestrel for a Knave.

Comprehensive schools all across the north were awash with copies of the Penguin paperback with Billy Casper giving a v-sign on the cover. Everyone taught it and I was no different. Indeed, at the end of my PGCE year, a few of us travelled down from Leeds to Barnsley with a couple of borrowed video cameras to make an educational film about the book. One of the blokes I worked with Nick drove us down to St Mary’s School in Monk Bretton, which was the location, used in the film, while the other one Dave, a former actor and Man Utd fan, donned a red shirt and a bald wig, then stuffed a cushion up the jumper, to play the part of Mr Sugden, the PE teacher. At the time, I’d only ever been to Barnsley once; to see Newcastle win 5-0 in May 1983, unaware that personal circumstances would dictate I’d spend most of the 1990s in the S75 region.  During that time I found most Barnsley residents to be solid, salt of the earth types who couldn’t have been more helpful, unlike the caretaker of St Mary’s, who set his Alsatian on us as soon as Dave emerged onto the school field in football kit. We explained the purpose of our visit, but the caretaker told us to piss off and talk to t’Director of Education. We didn’t bother; we just skulked back up the M1 in a gloomy, deflated mood, as rain scudded across the windscreen.

I told that story to Ken Loach who directed Kes, when I met him at the 1999 Bratislava Film Festival. He was the guest of honour, where his monumental My Name is Joe was the star attraction. He was gracious and laughed like a drain at my story. I’d always liked his films anyway; from first seeing a repeat of Cathy Come Home to being passionately stirred up by The Wind that Shakes the Barley. However, I’ve not seen his latest and apparently most vital piece of work, I Daniel Blake, though I perhaps should have done on Thursday 26 January.

There have been truly magnificent compromises going on behind the scenes among the fanbase at Newcastle United, which has resulted in a cordiality not previously known breaking out between NUST, the club and NUFC Fans Utd; indeed all 3 organisations are working together, and not just in the Fans’ Forum either. Although I’m still disappointed that there isn’t a place reserved for a specifically LBGT member, rather than just an “equality” representative, I won’t create a stink about this. More importantly and most significantly, this triangulation of congeniality has coalesced to support the work of the Newcastle West foodbank, on whose behalf the showing of I Daniel Blake took place at the Tyneside Irish Centre. As any sane person knows, foodbanks, soup kitchens and all the other voluntary organisations, running on donations to plug the gaps where the Tories have ruptured the cradle to grave concept of the Welfare State, should not exist in 2017. The fact that they do, and provide such a vital and lifesaving role for the vulnerable and impoverished, are a shameful stain on those entrusted with running society. However, I am a pragmatist; I may disagree with the concept of charity, but I won’t let people starve or suffer in despair if I can help it, so I’m donating to this cause. No quibble, no argument; this is one initiative that is beyond criticism.

The main reason I wasn’t at the film was sheer exhaustion after work; the older I get, the more of a toll education takes on me. I’m not complaining; it’s an honour to do the job, but it does deplete my energy levels. It may not be much of an excuse for my non-appearance, but it is more of a one that simply not being bothered, which is why I won’t be at Newcastle’s home game against QPR on Wednesday 1 February. There are plenty of tickets left and I really should be there to firstly support my team and secondly to try and flog the last few copies of issue #14 of The Popular Side, but I’m probably just going to watch it on the telly, hopefully roaring the team, the manager and any new signings, on to victory, as the promotion race gets very interesting indeed.  Don’t get me wrong; it’s not an antagonistic gesture of disaffection to stay away. I was at the Birmingham replay with Ben and Ginger Dave and thoroughly enjoyed it, especially the latter part of the first half. I’m simply reflecting on my age and other priorities that are better served by not spending £30 on a ticket and possibly a similar amount on gargle.  


You see I have a new project on the horizon; early February will mark the launch of glove magazine, whereby by long-harboured ambition to produce a lit zine will be realised. I’ve managed to persuade 20 of the finest contemporary poets and short fiction writers on both sides of the Atlantic I know to share some of their work in this venture. We’re talking:  Michael Keenaghan, Gwil James Thomas, Terence Corless, John Grochalski, Christopher Iacono, Josephine Allen, Jason Jackson, Jim Gibson, Joe England, Mark Beechill, Ian Parris, Martin Appleby, Ford Dagenham, Anna Wall, Emily Richards, Rob Plath, Ron Gibson Jr, Jared A. Carnie, Wolf Orff and Chris Milam. Small steps at first though; I’ve only had 120 published. That’s costing me £150, so plus the postage for the contributor copies, I’m looking at an outlay of £180, which is why I’m selling glove at £2 from me in person, or £3 via PayPal to iancusack@blueyonder.co.uk Because the margins are tight, I can’t give free copies away as, if I don’t break even, it’ll be a one-off issue, never to be repeated.

Obviously I’m not giving up my non-literary writing activities; this blog will still be updated once a week, I’m intending to edit the Benfield programme until the end of time and I’ll continue to write for any fanzines that will publish me. However, one publication I’m going to take a back seat with is The Popular Side. I’ve compiled, edited, advertised and sold all 14 issues of the fanzine since August 2014, publishing 85 different writers in that time. I’m going to do the final issue for this season and then hand over control to someone else. This isn’t a kneejerk decision or one bound up in bitterness, though I must admit Biffa from www.nufc.com refusing to mention the fanzine on the website, because he doesn’t regard it as a Newcastle United related publication, was a massive metaphorical hoof in the bollocks. I don’t really mind the fact that hardly any of the contributors are interested in selling and only a few, notable exceptions are prepared to take some to distribute (for which I’m eminently grateful). A load of folk seem only concerned with getting their name in print and a copy through the door, which has always seemed selfish to me.

That said, they aren’t the reasons for my imminent departure. Basically, I’ve used up all my energy and I don’t think I can take the magazine further forward. The founding principles of an A5, cost price, no advertising and no website old style fanzine are well established and I’m sure there are people out there who can do a better job than I could, so they are welcome to try. I’ve already got a couple of names in mind.


Personally, I know I won’t be missed by the overwhelming majority of NUFC fans, as they’ve never heard of me. If everyone is getting along fine and the club are doing well enough on the pitch, nobody needs an instinctive contrarian around to muddy the clean waters that the rest of folks are plain sailing along. 

Thursday 19 January 2017

Posts & Telegraphs

I was contacted by The Torygraph to ask my opinion; not about Brexit sadly, but whether I preferred the Championship or Premier League. Here's what I had to say, even before the Birmingham game -:


The Championship is a much more honest and traditional football league than the Premier League could ever be. It's refreshingly lacking in hype and gamesmanship. A fortnight ago Chelsea were going to win the title and now suddenly it's all over because of the Diego Costa saga; or you've got Jose Mourinho, who has gone from being totally unsuited to Manchester United to being the next Fergie. At least in the Championship it's a bit more sedate.

Don't get me wrong, I don't want to have more than one season in the Championship, but I am certainly enjoying it. The last time we were down here under Chris Hughton [in 2009/10], it was a real healing process for the club because it brought everyone back together and stopped the exclusive focus being on hysterical supporter anger at Mike Ashley’s latest nonsense. Now we've got Rafa Benitez and I've not known a manager this popular since Bobby Robson or Kevin Keegan, when he came for the second time. We're all singing from the same hymn sheet.

When you're fighting at the bottom of the Premier League it's just depressing. It must be like working for a failing organisation where redundancy is always in the air. There is no level of enjoyment there. Even our biggest victory last season came after we had been relegated when we beat Spurs 5-1. It's a miserable existence.

There was always the sense that the stakes were almost too high in the Premier League. We've actually lost four games at home this season, which always makes people miserable, but people haven't been storming out of the ground or saying they will never go back. Defeats have brought disappointment, rather than fury.

Of course, this is all dependent on us going back up at the end of the season. If this time next year we're sat 14th in the Championship then it might be a different case.  Championship? We're certainly having a laugh, but you have to be in the Premier League - for the money if nothing else.

Verdict: Premier League (grudgingly)




Monday 9 January 2017

A Sense of Detachment

The greatest happiness of the greatest number is the foundation of morals and legislation; Jeremy Bentham

It is better to be a human being dissatisfied than a pig satisfied; better to be Socrates dissatisfied than a fool satisfied. And if the fool, or the pig, is of a different opinion, it is because they only know their own side of the question; John Stuart Mill


Well over 35 years ago I used to read a considerably greater number of books than I do now. Partly it was because I had sufficient leisure time to sit a while and voraciously devour the printed word, but mainly it was an insatiable desire to intellectually better myself as a prelude to escaping the NE10 culture bunker. Consequently, in the period 1981 to 1983, I was never away from the literature section of Gateshead Central Library on Prince Consort Road, while I took the concept of reading around the subject to world record levels. For my A Level English Literature, the exam board were insistent on examined texts being chosen from a set of common themes, rather than allowing a solid overview of the canon, with a reading list comprising regular multi-era and multi-genre stops from Chaucer to Hardy, as had been the case in years prior. Perhaps they were responding to the decisions made by universities, or more likely polytechnics, to offer great specialism at undergraduate level than had been the case. I’m not saying we didn’t get a proper literary grounding, as the three options we were presented with were all of intellectual merit: Revenge Tragedy (Othello, Faustus and The White Devil), the Victorian Novel (Jane Eyre, Hard Times and Jude the Obscure) and 1950s Drama (Look Back in Anger, The Birthday Party and Waiting for Godot), the latter chosen instead of the Romantics, rather implausibly, but it does seem somewhat perverse we didn’t study any poetry doesn’t it? Probably that’s why I took it upon myself to become as well-read as I could, though in a somewhat scattergun way.

Predictably, I didn’t seek to particularly broaden or deepen my knowledge of Jacobean 
dramaturgy or 19th century prose; my obsession became 20th century plays, whether that meant those drenched in home grown Kitchen Sink reality, continental surrealism in the tradition of the Theatres of Cruelty and the Absurd, or transatlantic, dynastic tragedy by the likes of O’Neill and Williams. Ignoring almost all other literary genres, I immersed myself in 6 decades of modern drama, as well as dramatic criticism by the likes of John Lahr and Bamber Gascoigne. Aged 17, I was as familiar with the works of Stephen Poliakoff and Barry Keefe as I ought to have been with Shakespeare or Keats, for instance. Having abandoned my earlier veneration of existentialism, as learned through the works of Camus, De Beauvoir and Sartre from mid-1979 onwards, I had allowed my head to be turned by the trenchant ideologies of the likes of Albee, Brecht and Hare. No longer was it my ambition to craft taut, enigmatic, cerebral prose; my stated aim in those heady, class conflict-soaked days was to become a revolutionary dramatist and actor. Through the force of my words, I wanted to write and to perform in plays that created the conditions necessary to bring down capitalism. There was no doubt about it; the stage was my calling and from it, I would foment insurrection. The future was written; I was off to London, to Goldsmiths College or North London Poly, to take a degree in drama and theatre studies. An actor’s life for me? I can scarcely credit I believed it possible. And a playwright; goodness, dialogue is the aspect of my writing I’ve always felt least satisfied with. In the end, I abandoned my theatrical dreams having become transfixed by Ulysses around the 100th anniversary of Bloomsday and headed to County Derry and a degree in Anglo Irish Literature. I’ve never regretted that decision for one second.


But back to the early 80s; when I wasn’t reading, listening to John Peel or displaying incompetence with a guitar in my hand or football boots on my feet, I did watch a bit of television in those bygone halcyon days of gore. Mainly Open University sociology programmes, but also those stalwart pillars of left-wing pretension, Arena and the South Bank Show. Regardless of subject, I kept the diary clear on Sunday evenings, in the years before even VHS, to immerse myself in the world of the arts, as refracted through the reassuring, Cumbrian nasal tones of Melvyn Bragg. One particular episode in the spring of 1981 involved a lengthy interview with John Osborne, who had just published his first scabrous, vindictive volume of autobiography, A Better Class of Person. This was a must-see, on account of the fact I was studying Look Back in Anger, though I’d already denounced Jimmy Porter as a politically vacuous bourgeois dilettante to the utter disinterest of the rest of my class.
My contempt for the Angry Young Man of Straw seemed well founded, as Osborne puffed complacently on fine Cuban cigars and guzzled expensive fizz in the bucolic garden of his charming rural pile in Worcestershire, while issuing bile-flecked tirades against all those, mainly women, he felt had wronged him. Intercut with the interview, scenes from a revival of his ostentatiously offensive, dramatic disaster A Sense of Detachment seemed almost mild in comparison. Idee fixes characters, such as a pornography obsessed grandmother and a drunken lout in a football scarf were Osborne’s ham-fisted attempts to embrace Peter Handke’s doctrine of Insulting the Audience.

It’s not a play that has been remembered warmly, if at all. However I do wish the supporters of Newcastle United would take a hint about how to respond to the club’s recent on and off field events from the title of Osborne’s theatrical turkey, rather than basing their reactions on the immoderate outbursts of the characters therein. Personally, I’ve had about as much as I can take of the dull, internecine, pettifogging, grandstanding, self-publicists who comprise a significant proportion of the active NUFC social media profile and their equally vapid foes from other clubs. So many of them hail from South Tyneside, which appears to give them a sense of attachment based on insecurity regarding their black and white credentials; so much so that they seek to justify themselves by venturing some of the most illogical, foolish, immoderate opinions imaginable about Newcastle United. Presumably their hope is that they become recognised as the You Tube channel and podcast generation version of shock jocks; a lamentable aim.
Over the Festive Period, subjects as varied as: hospital visits to sick children by Newcastle and Sunderland footballers, the murder conviction of Sergeant Alexander Blackman, claims that the FA were either heroic victims of hectoring FIFA intransigence in allowing England players to wear poppies on their shirts in November,  or corrupt persecutors with an anti-NUFC agenda after banning Jonjo Shelvey for a volley of abuse directed at Romain Saiss, not forgetting the relative demerits of racism versus paedophilia have been used as kith and kindling for the vast bonfire of vainglorious babel that is the internet. In short, the season of goodwill to all men has been characterised by ranting, ill-informed tirades about crime and punishment, with retributive attitudes, as ever, shouting the loudest.

In some ways, I welcomed the Shelvey Tribunal’s verdict, as the abhorrent news vacuum created by the fixture gap after Burton away on December 17th had allowed the most farcical of non-stories imaginable to gain traction. As has been the case for as many years as I can remember, players from football clubs visit the children’s ward of their local hospital in the run up to Christmas, dispensing gifts and hopefully learning a thing or two about humility and grace while they’re about it. This year, as ever, cameras followed Newcastle’s players into the RVI; no big deal, as it’s a story I’ve seen on the box dozens of times before. The problem, according to some on Wearside, was that Sky cameras accompanied the NUFC party this year, rather than local news reporters. Now if they were accusing the Mags of wanting to score cheap publicity by affecting a more compassionate than thou stance, I could possibly see where they were coming from; however, the righteous red and white ire was occasioned on the basis that Sky didn’t film the SAFC squad when they went visiting poorly bairns in the Royal Hospital. The suggestion was made that Sky Sports and Newcastle United were working in concert in an attempt at downplaying the deeds of the Black Cats, by denying them a similar level of televised exposure. It wasn’t and to pretend otherwise was simply the kind of pitiful, paranoid, point-scoring that does nobody any good and devalues the conduct of players and involvement of both clubs. Surely we’re all better than this? Then again, why am I surprised at senseless, false outrage?
After two losses in three league games by Newcastle United, all of which Shelvey has been suspended for, resulting in Brighton taking over at the top of the table and, more ominously, Reading closing to within 6 points with a game in hand, the chucklehead tendency on Tyneside are questioning whether Benitez should be shown the door (no really, there are some saying that). Such buffoonery has enacted the emergence of a diametrically opposed response that inflexibly denounces the nay-sayers, then goes even further by denying all supporters the right to express any criticism or dissatisfaction, with Benitez or many of the players, on pain of the Doubting Thomases or serial bedwetters being branded as traitors to the cause. My favourite pataphysical morsel from this astringent broth of stupidity, launched in the NE33 or NE34 postcode you’ll not be surprised to learn, was the proposition that stated Benitez must not be criticised because he has united all fans. Well, presumably apart from the ones who are criticising him that is. 

Sadly, as the EU referendum and the evils of democratic centralism show, binary thinking isn’t really thinking at all; it’s kneejerk, posturing populism. Our glass doesn’t need to runneth over, though nor does it have to be dashed against the rocks of despair and used to slash our collective NUFC supporting wrists. Let’s be adults about this and acknowledge this wobble is a trifle concerning, because Shelvey is apparently so indispensable as we lack any effective replacement for him. Remember it is acceptable to say we’re disappointed to have lost 7 league games thus far this season, that we feel certain players have (temporarily?) lost their power to influence play or are not really good enough now, never mind in the future, but that we trust Rafa Benitez to sort things out, providing we get a few more bodies, of the required standard to get us promoted, through the door and take the chances early on in games to put teams away. Most of all, we would appreciate it if the Twitterati  stop responding to every minor setback like Macduff learning the fate of his family in Act IV of the Scotch Play.


From my perspective, it seems that the one person who has been absolved of any blame for the club’s recent dip in form is the very person whose absence is presumably the main reason for it; Jonjo Shelvey. Back in November, I wrote a piece after he’d been charged with abusing Saiss (http://payaso-de-mierda.blogspot.co.uk/2016/11/moroccan-roll.html), in which I stated I’d been reliably informed he’d described the Moroccan player as a fucking cous cous nonce. Now I was told this, in confidence, by an impeccable source who has subsequently explained he’d been “deliberately misinformed” by a member of the Fourth Estate. The report of Shelvey’s hearing discusses the nature of his abuse of Saiss in depressing detail and is in the public domain, so if you fancy depressing yourself a tiny bit more, go and read it yourself.

Unbeknownst to me, the huge(and I mean huge) number of hits that blog post got was mainly on account of the immoderate social media reaction of someone I know slightly, but who I didn’t think had a problem with me. Thankfully, after asking him directly about it, he apologised most profusely for his conduct and I wish him well for the future, especially in his search for a job. Statistics wise, I suppose I should thank him for the publicity.

Of course, to discuss the minutiae of the fallout from my blog is again to allow Shelvey’s responsibility to disperse into the ether. This must not happen, as the facts are clear: he was found guilty of using abusive language that was racially motivated in content and did not seek to appeal against this decision, despite claiming not to have used the terms ascribed to him. As far as I’m concerned, the main problem with Shelvey’s refusal to accept any wrongdoing, much less to display contrition, is that he has accepted the ban, which the tribunal said was meted out because of the “clear and compelling” evidence against him, rather than appeal against the decision. If Shelvey felt he was wrongly convicted, remembering that in an FA hearing like this, the verdict is reached on the balance of probabilities, unlike being proved beyond reasonable doubt as in the criminal law, he should have appealed. As he did not, he must be regarded as guilty, regardless of his futile protestations otherwise. Otherwise, the whole basis on which the FA disciplinary code is founded, namely a modified replication of the English legal system, is utterly invalidated. If we accept democracy, in the shape of free speech, human rights and the right to a fair hearing, we must embrace it in its entirety, rather than simply cherry picking the elements we agree with.

At this point, I feel it would be a good idea to suggest Rafa’s next 2 signings should be a pair of top quality utilitarians; Jeremy Bentham and John Stuart Mill. They may not adequately solve the creativity drought NUFC are suffering in Shelvey’s absence, but they can explain the logic behind why he is banned, as well as why Adam Johnson and Marine A are both in jail. As, in the absence of any appeal, we must accept Shelvey is guilty, then the next question to be addressed is what punishment is required in this instance, to maintain a sense of order in society as a whole and the professional game of football in particular.

Theories of punishment can be divided into two general philosophies: utilitarian and retributive. The utilitarian theory seeks to punish offenders, in order to discourage, or deter, future wrongdoing, while the retributive theory seeks to punish offenders because they deserve to be punished. Utilitarianism is the idea that the morally correct act is the one that produces the most benefit to society as a whole; therefore laws should be used to maximize the happiness of society.  The utilitarian theory is consequentialist in nature, recognising that punishment has consequences for both the offender and society and holds that the total good produced by any punishment should exceed the total evil. In other words, punishment should be firstly a deterrent to both the person who committed the crime from any recidivistic urges and any others who may be tempted to follow suit. Shelvey has been issued with a 5 game ban and fined £100,000; this should act a financial and personal punishment for him, as well as acting as a deterrent for others. The idea behind such sanctions is to ensure players think twice about the possible consequences of their actions, both for themselves and the potential victim, before issuing any volley of abuse at opponents.

However, of rather greater importance is the notion of rehabilitation in the utilitarian rationale for punishment. The noble goal of rehabilitation is to prevent future crime by giving offenders the ability to succeed within the confines of the law. Rehabilitative measures for criminal offenders usually include treatment for afflictions such as mental illness, chemical dependency, and chronic violent behaviour. Rehabilitation also includes the use of educational programmes that give offenders the knowledge and skills needed to compete in the job market and society as a whole. This is why Shelvey has been instructed to attend an FA education course on cultural sensitivity, which to me is of the utmost importance, as I hope he may come unilaterally to understand why his words were unacceptable and deserving of censure. I think what he was found guilty of saying was racist, but born of ignorance rather than malice; hence I believe this punishment, rather than sacking, is an appropriate sanction.

If Shelvey does embrace the fact he has done wrong, then perhaps Newcastle United fans who have hung onto his claim he didn’t say the things he was accused of, as their clear and compelling evidence of his innocence, will grasp the complexities of the case. Similarly, the Sunderland fans who accused Newcastle of hypocrisy, by seeking to compare the criminal wrongdoing of Adam Johnson with Shelvey’s conduct and demanding a parity of retribution for these unrelated cases, may begin to see the crucial illogicality inherent in their demands, providing they haven’t already worked out which is the more severe crime on the basis of the differing punishments handed down; 6 years in jail or a 5 match ban. Not only that, Shelvey’s outburst was done in a fiery anger of temper, while Johnson’s calculated abuse was characterised by the ice cool demeanour under which he cloaked his grooming.

The counterpart to the utilitarian theory of punishment is the retributive theory which states that offenders are punished because they deserve it, as their criminal behaviour upsets the peaceful balance of society. Retributive theory focuses on the crime itself as the reason for imposing punishment, which can be based on notions of vengeance that insist punishments should fit the crime. Where the utilitarian theory looks forward by basing punishment on social benefits for all, the reassurance of victims and the rehabilitation of offenders, the retributive theory looks backward, seeking to provide the victim and society with retribution and removing the human rights of the offender that utilitarianism seeks to defend. Retribution, at its most elemental level, can be seen as little more than cold-blooded revenge.

The Shelvey verdict sparked a couple of further crazy claims by internet weirdos, seeking to draw risible parallels with both FIFA’s fine on the home nations for wearing poppies on their shirts and making official, choreographed displays in the stands, in the November international series and the Ministry of Defence’s treatment of Alexander Blackman. I’ve said this before, but ten years ago these two were non-stories, before the Help for Heroes veneration of militarism, as the first wouldn’t have happened and the second wouldn’t have been regarded as newsworthy. For instance on May 8th 1995, the 50th anniversary of VE Day, we played away to Blackburn and a minute’s silence was observed before kick-off. The only obvious display of conspicuous patriotism I saw in Ewood Park that night was a small, plastic Union flag, presumably from a child’s beach toy, held aloft by a bloke a couple of rows in front of me. Before the referee’s whistle, he had taken the folded, plastic A4 flag from his back trouser pocket, smoothed it out, then held it aloft. Nobody commented; perhaps, like me, we were all a trifle embarrassed and unsure what to say. Those days are long gone. At the current level of nationalistic fervour, the 75th anniversary of the end of WW2, as observed in football grounds, will be more akin to May Day in Red Square circa 1975 than anything so understated as a simple moment of reflection. Surely we’re getting things out of proportion here?

As a pacifist I don’t, won’t and never will wear a poppy, but it didn’t offend me that England, Scotland and Wales did in the recent internationals. As an Ireland fan, I thought the commemoration of the 100th anniversary of the Easter Rising on shirts for the friendly with Switzerland was a wonderful gesture of remembrance. I also knew as soon as I heard about it, that FIFA would fine the FAI for the use of a political symbol in a sporting context, which they did to the tune of about £5k. Now, that was back in March 2016, while the poppy games were in November, long after FIFA had already turned down a request from the English and Scotch FAs to allow a poppy motif on their shirts. Furthermore, FIFA had warned the respective FAs not to make any political gestures before or during games. This instruction was ignored and inevitable fines, far higher than Ireland’s, were imposed. Let’s be clear about this; the reason for that was to punish the two associations for ignoring a clear instruction, not for commemorating the sacrifices of those who had bravely fell in fray. Now the choice is clear for the panjandrums at both St. George’s Park and Park Gardens; either pay up, having made your point, then put forward a resolution to FIFA, ask for them to clarify the regulation regarding political symbols, or fail to pay the fine and get kicked out of international football, like a Sunday pub side obtaining a sine die ban until they pay off the money they owe for yellow cards. Obviously, the account, as well as the dust, has been settled, though I do find it deeply depressing how, in the minds of the ultra-Brexit new nationalists, the FA were able to go from being bastions of poppy armband wearing, patriotic fervour, to contemptible, politically correct witch finder generals when it came to punishing Shelvey.




The craziest of all opinions was the one comparing the fines the English, Scotch and Welsh FAs had imposed on them for wearing poppies with the case of Alexander Blackman, but not in the way you’d imagine.  As has been pointed out, the home football associations all knowingly broke FIFA rules, by displaying what could be regarded as political symbols in their stadia, while Blackman himself admitted immediately after the murder of an the Iraqi civilian that has caused his incarceration, "I just broke the Geneva Convention." Therefore, it would logically seem that guilt is the common factor; au contraire in the Twittersphere. Apparently what binds the home FAs and Alexander Blackman with either Jonjo Shelvey or Adam Johnson, depending which football team is forced to endure the ludicrous patronage of the terminally hard of thinking, is that they are all victims of tragic miscarriages of justice and political correctness gone mad. Now considering Blackman has had his sentence for cold-blooded retributive murder reduced from a fairly modest 10 years and has another appeal pending, I think he has been treated remarkably leniently when compared to a common or garden killer in Civvy Street. One wonders just what the hell Stuart Mill and Bentham would make of such illogical, anti-syllogisms.  For a start, they’d be rightly nonplussed by the insistence on finding points of commonality between football and military invasions. Presumably they’d then suggest the world would be a much better place if we all shut up and did some thinking, before attempting to comment from a slightly more informed perspective than is the norm these days.

Monday 2 January 2017

2016 Albums of the Year




One of the rituals I have in the week between Christmas and New Year’s Day is putting away all the records and books I’ve accumulated over the preceding 12 months. As is often the case, much of what I’ve read and listened to has been part of the on-going work to plug gaps in my cultural knowledge. However, there were still enough new albums purchased to enable me to compile a Top 10 of 2016 -:

1.     The Wedding Present – Going, Going: A sumptuous, kaleidoscopic journey in sound through the by-roads, backwaters and roads less travelled of David Gedge’s life and loves. Truly genre hopping and always inspired, this album is the reformed Wedding Present’s magnum opus.
2.     Teenage Fanclub – Here:  Rather like the Wedding Present, Teenage Fanclub have produced a tantalisingly ambiguously titled work of beauty, joy and power. While Gerry Love still has the copyright on wistful, sentimental pop balladry and Norman Blake owns every aspect of inspirational rock numbers, it is Raymond McGinley  whose star shines most brightly, with 4 fuzzy, proggy slices of utter genius.
3.     Trembling Bells The Wide Majestic Aire: Effectively the final act of the Sovereign Self project, this release sees the Bells stretching and extending their trademark blend of prog wigouts that still have a hint of their earlier folk roots. As a band they mature, evolve and create at an alarming pace; the next album is already in the can. I can’t wait.
4.     Pete Astor Spilt Milk:  Ex Loft and Weather Prophets frontman turned occasional visiting professor of C86 studies comes out of a decade and a half’s hiatus with a storming set of post jingly jangly unpolished pop diamonds. The Getting There was my song of the year not by the first 3 bands named.
5.      Wire Nocturnal Koreans: Closer in spirit to 2011’s introspective Red Barked Tree than the visceral ache of 2015’s self-titled volley of indignation, this release combines the usual bafflingly opaque lyrics with an impeccable low-fi backing. They’ve got a lot to say still.
6.      Christy Moore Lily:  After a few years of retreads and overhauls of the back catalogue, the Bank Clerk from Newbridge is back with an album dedicated to his home County of Kildare, whereby he interprets songs especially written for him. The voice is rich and warm as ever.
7.      Leonard Cohen You Want It Darker: So much has been said about his passing that any review of his album appears superfluous. Suffice to say, the title track and Treaty stand out, but it may take a while before a proper appraisal of Cohen’s farewell in song is possible.
8.      Various It Was Great Altogether: Topic Records 3 CD set of Irish music sessions in London pubs in the 40s, 50s & 60s is scratchy, muffled and as authentic as the porter stiffened sleeve of a fella from Letterfrack with his head on the bar at closing time. Beautiful nostalgia.
9.      Various It Was Mighty: Another 3 CD set from Topic, again curated by Reg Hall, but this time studio recordings of London Irish musicians in the studio. Technology takes the shine of it, but it is easier to listen to.

10. The Fall Wise Ol’ Man: Mediocre sub-Killing Joke electronica with the inaudible droning of a geriatric drunk on top. I really don’t know why I waste my money and time on them.