Gone For A Burton...

A few thoughts about Sunderland's unfortunate relegation...

In the modern era, received social media wisdom holds that to display any form of interest in the fortunes of your football club’s local rivals ensures that you will be labelled as obsessed. This is plainly ridiculous. I can’t really see a comparable attitude taking off in any other realm of life; for instance, would it be advisable for Labour to ignore every policy fiasco and underhand act of despicable evil by the Tories in case they are labelled obsessed? Of course not; that would be ridiculous. However, these touchy, self-perceived victims of hopeless players and even worse governance should apparently be granted indemnity from having the mickey taken out of them. Frankly, it bothers me not one iota if I am labelled as obsessed, as someone needs to tell the truth about why Sunderland’s demise is the best thing to have happened since they last went down to the third in 1987.

I state quite categorically, for the avoidance of doubt, that I am absolutely elated Sunderland have been relegated for the second season running. The suffering engendered by every single one of those 6 shameful defeats in a row by them was worth it, just to be able to laugh loudly and uproariously at their fate. In all seriousness, I hope the club goes out of business and that they reform in the Durham Alliance with Jack Rodwell as player manager, but my unbridled delight at their on-going disintegration has nothing to do with regional rivalry and everything to do with the sordid, evil nature of the institution that Sunderland AFC allowed itself to become. The names Margaret Byrne, Paolo Di Canio and Adam Johnson are the reason why I’ve said this in the past and why I’m saying it again now. A trio of former employees whose legacy will remain as an indelible stain on the reputation of a club formed back in 1879, who have been, to borrow a phrase from Nye Bevan, lower than vermin for the past 5 years and counting.

Obviously, there is the natural feeling of rampant schadenfreude when one’s noisy neighbours get taken down a peg or two. In that sense, every single moment from the appointment of David Moyes has been a glorious pantomime of incompetence, which has seen Sunderland AFC and all associated with her lurching downhill like a runaway express, driven by a plastered Darron Gibson with the accelerator jammed on full, careering out of control with ever greater rapidity as the force of events overtook them. Can it really be less than 2 years since that plane flew over SJP and the banner appeared on the Tyne Bridge, supposedly inflicted on us in some weak and desperate acts of supposed revenge? Well marras, how did that work out for you eh? Never mind; you’ve still got your 6 In a Row DVDs to fall back on. You can even line the pockets of the A Love Supreme merchandising dynasty still further by investing in one of their relegation celebration t-shirts. Don’t believe me? Check out this link -: https://www.a-love-supreme.com/product-page/i-m-still-here

It wasn’t quite a “where were you when Kennedy was shot?” moment, but I’ll remember for the rest of my life that I was applauding my beloved Benfield off the pitch after a satisfying 2-0 victory at Ashington’s sun-kissed Woodhorn Lane ground when Burton Albion scored their second goal at the Stadium of Shite and effectively relegated Sunderland. The one disappointment was that Darren Bent, a Sunderland legend driven out of the club after his mother was racially abused by fans of the club, only got the equaliser and not the winner. “Enjoy Burton” they crowed when Newcastle were relegated in 2016. Indeed we did, by collecting 6 points from the Brewers on route to winning the title and then taking great pleasure from seeing Nigel Clough’s side grinding the Mackems’ faces underfoot; trampling them deeper into the dirt. Pushing the one-time Bank of England club ever closer to oblivion. Those poor deluded saps phoning Gary Bennett on Radio Newcastle to express despair or search for straws of consolation had me in hysterics, especially the clown who said the very worst thing about his club was the fact all the stewards were Mags. You couldn’t make this sort of thing up.

It seems the one thing Newcastle United and Sunderland have in common is that they both got out of football’s second tier after a solitary season. The main difference is that Newcastle have never played in the third division, as was; the closest we came was in 1992, when we avoided demotion by winning our last 2 games to finish on 52 points. With 2 games to go, Sunderland have amassed a paltry, pitiful 34 points, having tasted defeat a scarcely believable 14 times on home soil this season. No wonder they have been relegated to the third tier for the second time. I can still remember just where I was that glorious May Sunday afternoon in 1987 when they took the tumble first time around.

After Lawrie McMenemy had done most of the spadework, Bob Stokoe, the former so-called Messiah on Wearside, came in and oversaw the Mackems being relegated on away goals against Gillingham. It was the day after Coventry had beaten Spurs in the Cup final. Radio 5 hadn’t been born then, so I followed it on a transistor with a loose aerial from my kitchen in South Harrow on BBC Radio Kent. Goodness how I laughed, in between grimaces as another blast of white noise aural scree assailed my ears. It is always a regret of mine that I wasn’t with the estimated 2,000 Newcastle fans who made the trip to Joker Park to cheer on the Gills that day. Despite the dreadful statue erected in his memory, which makes him look like a predatory, priapic paedophile emerging from the bushes in a playground that is outside their ground, Sunderland never forgave Stokoe for taking them down. The fans boycotted an FA Cup tie against Birmingham (they lost) played a couple of days after he died and Newcastle United hosted the reception after his funeral. After all he’d won the FA Cup with us first. They say what goes around comes around, so Sunderland will be able to visit the Priestfield Stadium again next season. Not to mention Peel Park; home of Accrington Stanley. Exactly.

Historically, I would contend that in many ways, Sunderland are far less of an establishment club than Newcastle United. Obviously, things changed for NUFC once the vulgarity of new money, in the shape of the demotic Hall and Shepherd dynasties and then the barbarous barrow boy Ashley, came into the reckoning. Before that, Newcastle United’s main boardroom players came from the landed gentry and the legal profession in the main, with the austere values of Scottish Presbyterianism at the heart of many of the attitudes and decisions made on Barrack Road over the decades. Sunderland, despite being formed by James Allan, a schoolmaster, were always a club that looked to self-made men of dubious personal morals to pay their bills; Colin Veitch would never have fitted in with that lot. Witness the difference between Wearside’s Bank of England club and their infamous catalogue of illegal payments in the latter half of the 1950s and Newcastle United’s contemptuous view of players as hirelings and errand boys, most notably Frank Brennan for having the temerity to open up a sports shop in competition with Stan Seymour and George Eastham, who took the club to the High Court to extricate himself from an indeterminate sentence of servitude. The Magpies begrudged paying wages, so they were unlikely to stuff brown envelopes with non-sequentially numbered bills. As late as 1990 Gordon McKeag, the county rugby player, Old Novocastrian and Gosforth lawyer, described Newcastle United as “the family silver,” without blinking an eye.  During the 1926 General Strike, Sunderland provided relief for starving pitmen and shipyard workers, as well as their families. Newcastle United would probably had had them all rounded up and shot for being Bolsheviks. Goodness only knows how Jack Charlton was able to loan his club car to striking pitmen for flying picket duty during the 1984 NUM strike.

Even in March of this year, Sunderland showed their compassionate side by opening up the ground for homeless people to sleep in on the coldest nights of the year. Thankfully, the first team were away to Millwall so there wasn’t a match ticket included in the deal. There is absolutely no way I could imagine Newcastle United engaging in such charitable actions, even if the club have been commendable in their support of the Newcastle West End foodbank, which provides a lifeline for some of the most marginalised and vulnerable people in society. Yet it is Sunderland, like Everton and ironically Celtic, whose supporters see themselves as being part of a people’s club, existing outside of the mainstream and acting as a beacon for the poor and downtrodden masses, though Sunderland’s support see themselves as an avowedly right-wing club, dedicated to authoritarian populist policies rather than principled concepts of social justice.

Ten years and more ago, the brief honeymoon period of the Drumaville Project, engineered and exploited by Niall Quinn, brought Sunderland a strange identity as a semi Irish club, that was the worst case of cultural misappropriation since The Black and White Minstrel Show or St Pauli FC wishing their fans a Happy Saint Patrick’s Day on Twitter.  The uneasy peace brokered by Quinn and his investor pals after replaced Bob Murray couldn’t last, not in an area that is still proud of having fought so tigerishly, though unsuccessfully, for Cromwell’s forces against the Royalists from Tyneside. On my first visit to their ground, a 0-1 loss to Norwich City in August 1997, Quinn was booed all game, with many of the insults in his direction focussing on his ethnicity and religion. Despite instructions from Roman Catholic pulpits in the South Tyne area in the 50s and 60s that Sunderland rather than Newcastle were the team with God on their side, Wearsiders have long embraced a simplified creed of Orangeism as a doctrine of repression and intolerance that fits snugly with their authoritarian populist ideals. This is the area that boasted the highest BNP vote in the region. This is the town that voted massively for Brexit. The streets of Hendon and Pallion are the ones where the vile, disingenuous Justice for Chelsey campaign, which fully exploited the tensions created by Celtic’s visit for a pre-season friendly (ahem!) in July 2017, gained traction. Bad schools, bad housing, lousy lifestyle options, zero social care, few work options and little or no family cohesion have reinforced the collective Wearside false consciousness, whereby refugees and asylum seekers are the ones blamed for the disintegration of the pillars that support everyday life, rather than the capitalist system.

Sunderland and its hinterland is a living, breathing Sociology textbook, where every index of social deprivation is turned up to 11. When every avenue of self-improvement is closed to you, the tendency to become insular and spikily protective, even when your own supporters are soiling themselves in the stands, is a simple choice. Their reasoning is that they can slag their club off, but nobody else is allowed to. Sunderland have fans who claim that relegation to League 1 is a price worth paying for 6 in a row. Others refuse to protest against Ellis Short, because that is the sort of thing Newcastle fans do. Apparently stoic silence for an hour, then leaving the ground early to whine and twist about things on the internet is a more effective way to save their club. Honestly, they really do believe that. With that kind of wrongheaded thinking, you can understand how Newcastle United have been installed as first choice folk devils on Wearside, causing endless panics and social media meltdowns. Sunderland, in response to some daft Twitter posts by mischievous Mags, cancelled all cash turnstiles for the visit of Norwich City, resulting in their most important game of the season having their lowest crowd. The Burton Albion and Wolverhampton Wanderers games had ticket sale conditions as stringent as FIFA have for the World Cup final; all because someone got cold feet at the thought of 100 beered up Geordies turning up for a giggle at their rivals’ expense. With the club £130 million or whatever in the red to Ellis Short, you’d think they would have welcomed the income. Instead a moral panic ensues because some 15 year old NUFC fans broke a couple of seats at an Under 23 game  and they feared a re-enactment of the Peterloo Riots.

 In all seriousness, the appointment of self-proclaimed Fascist Paolo Di Canio as manager in April 2013, following the curtailing of the non-existent Party with Marty, marked the start of the club’s utter moral bankruptcy. Di Canio may only have been at the club for 5 months and 13 games, but the Sunderland board’s decision to hire him in the first place was indication of the insensitive and ignorant ideological path the club had embarked upon. It seems as if they were trying to wrest Millwall’s “no-one likes us, we don’t care” crown from them. For those wanting other evidence of this bizarre course of action, just look at the case of Adam Johnson. In any other profession, he would have been suspended by his employers as soon as any allegation of sexual abuse came to light. It would have initially been a neutral act, designed to allow evidence gathering. Certainly, he would not have been allowed to remain employed and performing his contractual obligations for the entire 11 months between his arrest and his guilty plea. Sunderland’s conduct, in the shape of chief executive Margaret Byrne’s role in this whole sordid affair, was a disgraceful, callous and wholly immoral one. As I said at the start; Byrne, Di Canio and Johnson are the 3 reasons why I’m glad Sunderland are in such terminal decline. There are Sunderland fans I know, good people, who don’t deserve to have their club conducting itself in that manner. Surely now those of good character must walk away from the poisonous wreck of their club? Whether they do or the don't, all I can see for 2018/2019 is another car crash of a season.

 Mind, there’s also a whole load of wankers that follow them who’ll completely fail to understand what I’m objecting to, especially the morons from the Ready to Go message board, that is less affectionately known by Newcastle fans as On the Buses. To say I’m unpopular with that lot, despite the fact I’ve not been a member for well over a decade, is a bit of an understatement. However, some of those who have a bee in their bonnet about me have so many personal life problems that I’m sympathetic to their circumstances and their plight, so we’ll grant forgiveness to the likes of Superintendent Derek Footwear, the Gillsbridge Podiatrist and Mr 18%. The same compassion cannot be granted to the number 1 most bitter Mackem bastard in the whole world; Dave from Jarrow. Known as Bittatash,the facts are that of the 5,960 posts he has made since March 4^th, 2006, 4,893 of them, which is over 86%, have been snide, often personal attacks on Newcastle fans, made from behind the anonymity of his computer. Strangely nothing he ever posts engages his fellow Mackems and his bile goes unrecognised, which makes him even more pathetic I suppose. Of course, he has other interests than internet trolling as well; motor cars for one. Under the name Rokerlad, he was an active participant on the scoobynet forums designed for other Top Gear worshipping social inadequates. However, on a swingers’ forum, with the alias NE Sexy Guy, he seemed rather less keen on active participation -:

watching tonight

Warming the Bed

watching tonight

hi we are a couple wanting to be watched screwing tonight in newcastle

NESexyGuy 

Hi there, would love to watch you tonight. Drop me a line at rokerlad@hotmail.com

SHOPPING

If Dave the Dogger is reading this, I’d like to tell him he was the very first person I thought of when the Mackems went down. I really hope he was doing what he likes best of all; watching…

Social Spectacles

The consumerist festival of dubious moral provenance that is Record Store Day 2018 is upon us and I am glad to say, still smarting from being fleeced for £16 for a Best Coast 7” last year, that nothing on the extensive and eclectic list looks utterly essential for me. I am intrigued by the possibility of Snatch and Alternative TV reissues, but the thought of shelling out £40 for a Mogwai compilation doesn’t appeal. This is just as well as I’ve been enjoying plenty of other new purchases in both aural and printed formats in the last while. Let’s take an alphabetical amble through my latest acquisitions.

BOOKS:

During his lifetime, Iain Banks wrote 28 novels; exactly half of these were volumes of speculative fiction under the name of Iain M Banks and I do not feel it is likely that I shall ever read these, as my preference is for earthy, grounded realism. As regards the 14 volumes of what can loosely be called “mainstream fiction” he published, I have now managed to read 6 of them, the latest being 1987’s Espedair Street. I have thoroughly enjoyed every one of Banks’s novels, as I find both his characterisation and sense of place utterly compelling and intend to read more, as and when I come across them. I’m less convinced by some of the plot devices he employs, as there’s rather too much reliance on chance and coincidence to unravel seemingly intractable narrative dead-ends for my tastes, but I suppose this isn’t a problem if one accepts all of his narrators as unreliable. In Espedair Street, Dan Weir, the rich as Croesus former bassist of Scottish prog rock heroes Frozen Gold, who appear to be as much Fleetwood Mac as they are Stone the Crows, finds meaning in his empty post-superstar days, by escaping his anonymous Glasgow existence, explained away by lengthy autobiographical interpolations, by reuniting with the girl he left behind a decade earlier. It’s sentimental and unconvincing, but the little vignettes about his life and the narrative of 70s excess he retells, keep the book moving forward. At the end the reader is genuinely pleased for the happy ending, which seems fine by me.

If I could have my life over again, I’d like to have been either a bassist in Godspeed You! Black Emperor or an orthodox left-arm spinner for a First Class county. Aged almost 54, I realise neither proposition is likely to come to fruition, especially as I used to bowl right arm, though I live in hope and read as much as I can about such bowlers. The absolute epitome of the uncompromising, querulous genius, seething at his captain’s incompetence from the colonial posting of Long Leg, is Philippe-Henri Edmonds; the uncompromising, maverick serial underachiever and fully paid up by direct debit before the red letter comes out, member of the awkward squad. The appropriately titled biography, A Singular Man, by noted cricket writer Simon Barnes, gives a flavour of the wilfully antagonistic and arch character who combined bowling brilliance with cantankerous contempt in equal measures. The African colonialist whose family provided safe haven for Zambian independence fighters. The Cambridge graduate who bemoans wasting time enjoying himself as a student. The only spinner ever to be no balled in a test match for more than one bouncer in an over. Edmonds is all of these things, but he is no clown; a reticent, intelligent competitor, he keeps Barnes at arm’s length throughout, minimising the number of potentially embarrassing anecdotes from past or present, making the author rely on second-hand tales of Mike Brearley’s exasperation with and Geoffrey Boycott’s affection for the man who retired from Middlesex aged 35, but was already a multi-millionaire because of an extensive property and share portfolio. The truly surprising thing is that, post playing career, Edmonds and his gloriously unapologetic snob of a wife Frances haven’t had a higher media profile. Still, fame is temporary whereas wealth is permanent.

I’ve said this before, but one of the best things about the social media revolution has been the removal of barriers between creative types and their audience. Just like it was back in Punk Rock days when we used to write letters to The Mekons at their Richmond Mount address in Headingley, there is no real impediment to direct contact with musicians and writers. Sometimes, almost incredibly, you discover that you can become friends with people whose work you admire. Ironically, two of my favourite writers have become friends because I wrote them fan letters; Harry Pearson, who has just won Cricket Book of the Year for his biography of Learie Constantine, and David Peace. Obviously with Harry living in Hexham I see more of him than I do of David in Tokyo, but email is a great way to keep in touch across the miles. David sent me a copy of his new novel Patient X, for which I was enormously grateful. Flicking through it, I was almost overcome to discover I was one of those he’d listed for thanks. Simply put, I couldn’t be more humbled to learn this, especially as it came straight after Trembling Bells namechecked Laura and I on the sleeve of Dungeness, of which more later.

Patient X is the telling and retelling of the life and death of Japanese novelist Ryūnosuke Akutagawa, who committed suicide in 1926. The book takes the form of 12 thematically and chronologically linked tales chronicling the writer’s life from birth to death, all in the trademark style of repetition, monologue, multiple narrators and precise detail. The effect, as ever, is hypnotic and disorientating. We are Ryūnosuke Akutagawa and we are also his friends, his family and his judge and jury. The meticulous attention to detail and character makes Patient X a compelling and convincing read. The book is both accessible and evocative of times, places and the deteriorating mental condition of the protagonist. While we are not required to love the central figure, unlike Bill Shankly in RED OR DEAD for instance, the accessibility (and relative brevity of 289 pages) of the novel makes it, to this reader, the most enjoyable of the 3 Japanese novels David has published so far. While other writers slip into obscurantism or self-parody (I’m almost afeared to begin Welsh’s latest, Dead Man’s Trousers), David Peace has become broader in scope and even more skilled in his craft as his writing has progressed. Patient X is another triumph, though a considerably different sort of victory, than all of his other works.

John O’Farrell published Things Can Only Get Better in 1997, no doubt intoxicated by the heady sense of false hope engendered by Blair’s landslide. You see, John O’Farrell, as well as being a noted television comedy writer for the likes of Spitting Image and Have I Got News for You was also, and still is, a lifelong Labour Party activist. His ex-patriate Irish parents ended up dealing antiquarian books on the western fringes of the Home Counties, where their love of social justice marked them out as tolerated eccentric oddballs. Young John followed in their footsteps, including 3 years of fruitless campaigning in the rock-solid Tory bastion of higher education that was Exeter University. Come graduation, the need for work took him to Wandsworth, in the febrile post 81 riots and pre-Malvinas atmosphere of SDP defections and Tony Benn’s deputy leadership campaign. O’Farrell was not a revolutionary by temperament or instinct and chronicles the decade and a half of opposition through a prism of then as yet undiscredited New Labour centrist smarm. Events have not been kind to his political ethos, with the Blair and Brown years rightfully regarded as a shameful betrayal of Labour principles, though to be fair to O’Farrell, he is an engaging writer who seems unable to restrict himself to cheap, self-deprecating gags about the Livingstone London Loony Left in glorious technicolour. There are elements of light and shade, of self-doubt and recrimination that show O’Farrell, back in the day, as a writer of some promise. Thankfully he has subsequently abandoned cracking gags and is now a serious novelist of some repute, so I’d commend this curiously anachronistic period piece to those who enjoy his oeuvre and seek to learn if child was father to the man.

Music:

Just under 2 years ago, former Loft and Weather Prophets frontman turned university academic Pete Astor broke a decade and a half long musical silence with the cracking solo album, Spilt Milk. On the back of its release, he played a handful of dates, though none up here, before concentrating on the day job once more. Right at the start of 2018, he followed up Spilt Milk, with One for the Ghost, as well as announcing a gig at The Cumberland Arms at the end of March. Brilliant stuff. This would be the first time I’d seen him live since May Day Bank Holiday 1987 when The Weather Prophets played the Riverside; the same day Newcastle lost 3-0 at home to Charlton Athletic and I twisted my ankle stepping off the kerb outside the long-gone Rose and Crown. As I developed tonsillitis overnight, I could neither walk nor talk next morning. Thankfully this evening wasn’t so traumatic as Astor, using the support act as a pick-up band, combined half a dozen solo acoustic numbers with a similar number of traditional rocking stompers. The live set veered backwards and forwards from the mid-80s to the present day, though without any nods to his first band The Loft, surprisingly enough. One for the Ghost, a charmingly positive exploration of the meaning of death in twelve immaculately crafted, sugary indie acts, featured in considerable detail, giving Astor the sheen of the ideologically correct Phillip Larkin of the C86 generation. There was also time for a couple of real highlights; a rumbling, triumphant The Getting There from Spilt Milk and a closing, piledriving take on the Weather Prophets classic, Almost Prayed. A great night and a great album to add to the collection.

When Mekonville, a festival to celebrate the 40^th anniversary of one of the most enduring and beguiling bands to emerge from the 1977 musical realignment, was announced last summer, I was aghast at being forced to miss it, on account of the fact it coincided with Ben’s graduation in Leeds. This sense of anguish was doubled when I got my hands on the fantastic 12” Still Waiting and realised just how vital and empowering the band’s music could be. However, in a way that wondrously squared the circle, The Mekons 77 (the original line up of the band) had actually recorded a whole album and announced a short tour scheduled to end in Leeds, on a Saturday night. Ben, currently engaged on his MA dissertation about the influence of the Situationist International on Factory Records, suggested we attend this gig. I didn’t need asking twice. In preparation, I ordered and absorbed the fabulous album It Is Twice Blessed, which comprises a load of recordings they did last summer, proving that The Merchant of Venice and The Mekons will never grow old or lose relevance. Yes, there is nostalgia, from the opening thump and glorious thud of Healey Waving onwards, as all of these tracks could feature on The Quality of Mercy or my personal favourite, Devils, Rats and Piggies: A Special Message from Godzilla. However, sometimes that’s a good thing; the excoriating genius of Evening All, holding police to account for the state-sponsored murder of 70 civilians since Blair Peach, is the finest criticism of the violence inherent to the patriarchal society since Corporal Chalkie. The whole album deserves proper recognition; after all, it isn’t just Guy Debord, Griel Marcus and me who love this band.

And so, following a 3-0 home thumping for my beloved Benfield at the hands of Jarrow Roofing, 4 train cans from Centrale and a smooth ride to Leeds, I meet Ben at the station. We hit The Fenton (where else?) for a pint before finding our way to the Brudenell Social Club. I’ve seen The Pop Group, The Wedding Present and now The Mekons here; a venue doesn’t get acts like that by chance. It gets them by being brilliant. Thankfully, the bands reciprocate and The Mekons 77 gave us a spectacular dose of reality. This was the future, and this was the past. Ranging backwards and forwards from the late 70s to the present day, the overwhelming awareness of history repeating itself as austerity, repression, war and false consciousness continue to be used as tools of social control, was hammered unequivocally home from the opening bars of 32 Weeks, Fight the Cuts, Never Been in a Riot and The Building. It wasn’t just polemicist agitprop; The Mekons were always too cute for the obvious. There was the love and loss epics of Rosanne and the beautiful bathos of Lonely & Wet. The first sighting I’ve had of Tom Greenhalgh in 20 years saw him tackle After 6, with the customary fragility at the song’s heart. All doubts the band could replicate their original fire were cast aside by a closing salvo of Dan Dare, followed by the encores of What Are We Gonna Do Tonight? and Where Were You? I don’t know, and I don’t really care if this was all we’ll ever get from the original line-up, but it was life-affirming and proof enough that fighting the cu(n)ts for the past 4 decades has been the right thing to do. Thank you for being geniuses.

Trembling Bells are also geniuses. Everything they have ever released is brilliant. I didn’t think they could top The Sovereign Self or Wide, Majestic Aire, but Dungeness has aced everything in the band’s back catalogue. Frankly I am so far beyond being able to discuss their music in a disinterested or objective manner that one wonders as to the value of any words I expend on them. Suffice to say, in my opinion it has reached the point where it is futile to try and spot the influences on and cultural references within the band’s work; suffice to say Trembling Bells are a synthesis of the entire history of popular, folk and classical music, as well as harbingers of what there is to come. They stand above and beyond all other bands making music in this world today; a perpetually replenishing cup to drink from the fountain of eternal creativity. Yes it is possible to discern a nod towards Scarlet Rivera’s violin work on Desire in Christ’s Entry into Govan, while every review I’ve read has namechecked Black Sabbath emerging from the shadows in The Prophet Distances Himself from his Prophecy, not to mention Alex Neilson’s drumming getting more like Ginger Baker’s every day; and that’s not a tonsorial comment neither. But so what? If, as has been suggested, the 1960s finally said goodbye with The Last Waltz, in the process laying down the gauntlet of challenge that the future has failed to either emulate or surpass, then what is humanity to do other than accept Rebecca, Dressed as a Waterfall as all that can be said in return?

I was appalled by Trembling Bells omitting Newcastle from their April tour, but elated to learn of an impending return visit to The Cumberland in July; the same night as The Oh Sees are doing the Boilershop Steamer apparently, but there’s no contest for me. I know for certain that Trembling Bells will mean as much to me during the rest of my life as Teenage Fanclub, The Mekons, Godspeed You! Black Emperor, The Wedding Present and Fairport Convention have done so far. I simply cannot fathom how Dungeness hasn’t sold a million copies. Also, I’m dead chuffed the band namechecked Laura and I on the cover.

Roaming around the internet, as one does, I found reference to a Swedish duo called Us and Them, whose sound was apparently redolent of the Pillows and Prayers era Cherry Red stable. While this sub-genre was always a little winsome and asexual for my tastes, I did sit up and take notice when it was revealed that once of their releases comprised their versions of four of the mad songs from The Wicker Man soundtrack. Now it’s a film I love, as much for its sheer silliness as anything else, but I wouldn’t put the musical interludes as anywhere near as important as Christopher Lee’s wonderful hairstyle for instance. However, I was intrigued by reference to the fact that Us and Them had recently released an EP of Sandy Denny covers on the wonderfully zany British prog and psych label Fruits de Mer, with the brilliantly pretentious title of Dwindling Within the Fading Sun. It was only a tenner, so I immediately invested. Almost inevitably, the 5 song 10” release is something of a curate’s egg; vocalist Britt doesn’t get within a country mile of Sandy’s range and power, with a voice that echoes the tremulous warbling of Vashti Bunyan. The opening Winter Wings is formal and respectful, as is the elegiac Take Away the Load. Unfortunately, Next Time Around is a terrible dirge, though the purchase was justified by the superb take on the traditional Banks of the Nile and a glorious reading of the Fairport classic Farewell, Farewell, though even I could make a decent stab at such a wonderful creation as that one. An interesting and varied recording; one of my favourite obscure impulse purchases of recent times.

Yo La Tengo are touring soon. They aren’t playing Newcastle of course; that last fiasco in the deserted big hall at the Sage will keep them away forever. I’m ambivalent about heading down to Leeds on May 3^rd to see them, partly because it’s the Tyneside Repeal the Eighth fundraiser at the Irish Centre and partly because I’m not so sure I need to hear much of the new album, There’s A Riot Going On, played live. Sharing a title with Sly Stone’s 1971 classic of the same name suggested to me this was going to be some kind of pre-apocalyptic, amps turned to 11, visceral howl of protest at the final days we’re living through, but that’s exactly what it isn’t. YLT’s 15^th album is pretty much the other side of their oeuvre, boasting several slices of gentle pop rock with sweet melodies and restrained instrumentation. George sings a few and Ira sings the rest, without finding the need to trash the equipment at any stage. It’s very good though; a calm and rational response to these terrible times we’re enduring. This is their least song-centric album, anchored by 12 minutes of largely wordless ambience; “Dream Dream Away” and the fluttering organ drone and staticky radio transmissions of “Shortwave” that makes them sound more brooding than ever. There’s love too; “Shades of Blue,” a lullaby of romantic longing, and the romance of “For You Too.” Let’s be clear about this; Yo La Tengo are not murdering the classics, they are offering counsel to those enduring post-traumatic stress at the sheer evil and insanity in our world. It’s camomile tea rather than bourbon and hemlock cocktails all round. There’s no riot and there’s nothing going on, but that doesn’t matter when the tranquillity of stasis is as beautiful as this. Stay indoors; you don’t need to see a 60-year-old guy battering a Marshall amp with a sunburst Telecaster. Or perhaps we do…

Pyramid Scheme

I see it’s tipping it down again. Not torrential or anything, but just enough to unlock the catalogue of emotions, known to all followers of non-league football, that begins with a sense of unease, then worry, anger, resignation and closure as the certain knowledge that the weather has beaten us again. It’s a worry when you’ve only played 30 of your 42 league games with less than a month of the season to go. When the fixtures came out at last summer’s Northern League AGM, my beloved Benfield’s final game was scheduled to be Ashington away on April 21st. We now have a minimum of 8 games after this point, including the farcical situation where, on successive nights, Stockton Town (Wednesday April 25th) visit us and we travel to Shildon (Thursday 26th). There’s no point in complaining to the Northern League as their hands are tied; the FA are the only body who can agree to any extension of the season. Having already deigned to give us another week, their latest crumb of comfort is a further 2 whole days, until May 7^th, for games not involving promotion or relegation issues and until the following Saturday for the rest which, at our level, includes both the semi-finals and finals of the two league cup competitions.

If we were to win all of our games in hand, we’d move up from our current 8^th place to third, as we’ve played a minimum of 5 fewer games than all bar one of the teams above us. Except, when you’re faced with the situation of needing to play 14 league games (one third of a season) in 29 days, plus a league cup semi-final to be slotted in after that, games in hand become an encumbrance rather than a potential bonus. Undoubtedly fatigue, injuries and player unavailability will conspire to ensure we fail to reach our full potential this season; there are daft defeats in the post, of that there can be no doubt. Then again, we won’t be the only side to experience an unexpected pratfall or two.

Not only has this winter been one long chain of climactic disasters after another, our adventures in the FA Cup, where we reached the third qualifying round, and FA Vase, where we reached the last 16, not to mention a Northumberland FA Senior Cup semi-final, meant we already had all manner of rescheduled games to contend with during the milder weather. The north east monsoon and permafrost micro-climate first intervened on November 25^th when our trip to Jarrow Roofing fell afoul of a frozen pitch; ignoring called-off midweek games, which by and large were attempts at getting already postponed fixtures played as soon as possible, we’ve subsequently been inactive on the following 12 Saturdays: December 9^th, 16^th and 30^th, January 20^th and 27^th, February 10^th and 17^th, as well as every single Saturday in March.  The only weekends where there were any mitigating circumstances were March 24^th, as we’d agreed to play our away game at North Shields the night before, being rewarded with a 4-3 win for our graciousness and February 17^th, when Newcastle United insisted the only possible time their storied Under 23 team could play their Northumberland Senior Cup semi-final against us was on Friday 16^th, meaning we had to put our home game against Ryhope CW off the following day. As well as getting thumped 3-0, maddeningly we lost the best Saturday of the year so far, weather wise.  If Newcastle had agreed to a midweek date, as per the competition rules, we’d be one game closer to completing the campaign.

This season has also been played out to a discordant soundtrack of the unfinished symphony of league reconstruction. The FA, in their wish for consistency verging on homogeneity, have introduced the spectre of mandatory promotion, relegation and lateral movement, as a way of enforcing their ideal scenario, whereby the non-league pyramid will be as follows: Step 1 (1 league of 24 teams), Step 2 (2 leagues of 22 teams), Step 3 (4 leagues of 22 teams), Step 4 (8 leagues of 20 teams) and Step 5 (16 leagues of 20 teams), which is Northern League division 1 level. Below that, the details all seems to get a little bit fuzzy around the edges, to the extent that Step 7 has no ideal number of clubs or leagues, though as floodlights aren’t necessary at that level, 16 teams in each competition is seen as par for the course.

Going into this season, we knew that the Northern League would be reduced from 43 clubs to 40 for 2018/2019, but how this would be achieved was always a matter of conjecture. It still is, but for the avoidance of doubt, we had a league briefing on Sunday April 8^th to sort this out. Gary fetched me with him to act as immoral support. Once we got to the Ramside Hall hotel, we knew it was serious business. Despite it still being morning, refreshments were conspicuous by their absence. A meeting without coffee, with chairs set out in rows for a lecture, rather than round table workshops, murmurs of disapproval regarding the 4 clubs who didn’t show their faces, and a stated desire to wrap things up in an hour. At stake was the Northern League’s very membership of the non-league pyramid.

Now you’d think even countenancing the idea of disaffiliation would be like turkeys voting for an early Christmas, but just look at the Brexit vote; a whole load of Help for Heroes clad Giro Johnnies in betting shops and Wetherspoons, backed up by educationally subnormal lorry drivers with anger management issues, voting out on account of ignorance and prejudice, creating penury for generations to come, because of being allowed a say about something they didn’t remotely understand. That’s the problem with democracy; everyone gets a vote, including those who don’t deserve it. Now in the dim and distant past, the Northern League, when under the stewardship of the likes of the late Arthur Clark and the fearsome Gordon Nicholson, practised the kind of splendid isolation that the Plymouth Brethren would have appreciated. When offered direct entry to the Conference, along with the Southern, Isthmian and Northern Premier Leagues, dear old Arthur said no and cast us adrift for a decade or more, eventually allowing the Northern League to drop from a potential Step 2 to an actual Step 5 status. The unspoken wisdom around the league is that he got it completely wrong, which is why clubs should be loath to pass up the chance of FA prize money and ground improvement grants by trying to fly solo, into the side of a mountain.

Thankfully, the show of hands vote to remain under the FA’s benevolent despotism was declared “pretty unanimous.” From there, we got down to business. The indisputable facts are: two teams, almost certainly Morpeth Town (absent) and Marske United (still with 13 games to play), will be promoted to the Northern Premier League North; the division South Shields are cutting a swathe through currently. Experience has shown us that when teams go up, such as the aforementioned Shields, Spennymoor and Darlington, we don’t get ones dropping down in return and with the need to trim the total number of clubs, it seems a knocking bet there will be no new arrivals from above. Lateral movement could come into play with Penrith who, cognisant of the fact Carlisle City from further north, travel down the M6 every other week, may be transported to the North West Counties League. It is division 2 where real heartbreak and anguish may occur.

There will be a net loss of 1 team from the current 21, possibly seeing the bottom 3 clubs heading out of the league, as 5 clubs from Step 7 (specifically drawn from the Northern Alliance and Wearside League as Boro Rangers of the North Riding League failed a ground inspection) are eligible for promotion, though Cleator Moor Celtic have indicated a preference for the North West Counties League should they finish high enough in the Wearside League. Of course only 2 of the remaining 4 (Birtley and Newcastle University from the Alliance and Boldon CA and Redcar Athletic from the Wearside) can be promoted. I’ve been to Birtley several times at it will be great for the superbly enthusiastic club man Colin Beat if they make it back up. Boldon CA actually adjoins Jarrow Roofing and always did have lights, so I presume they’ve got themselves a small stand; well done to them. Redcar Athletic I’ve never been to, though I’ve played Over 40s in close proximity at the far end of the rugby club. They’ve been there or thereabouts for several seasons now and will presumably be a credit to the league.  If I stand on my garden shed, I can see the pitch where Newcastle University currently play; the only fenced one in the splendidly bucolic Cochrane Park complex. As it has neither lights nor cover, I presume this will not be their ground, though it has not been revealed where they intend to play. Rumour has it; Ryton may have a westerly rival sometime soon.

While I have the utmost sympathy for any team being relegated, I am aware that several clubs in the second division are run by a tiny number of, often elderly but always overworked, volunteers. Others are more of a social than sporting concern. Beer and free food for lonely people who are new to the concept of non-league football and thrive on the companionship they’ve found among other lost souls certainly have their place, but the meritocratic principle at the heart of striving for sporting excellence doesn’t really apply to them. In some ways it wouldn’t matter to these kinds who or where their team played. Personally, I have followed Northern Alliance football for many years and regard it as a league of the utmost integrity, superbly run by Derek Booth, ably assisted by both Peter Riley and George Penman. I’m sure Peter Maguire and his team are equally efficient at the Wearside League.

From all I’ve seen and heard over the years, there is nothing to fear from going down a step but, or so it seems, plenty to worry about when going up, which is why the Northern League put their own proposal forward to run a step 4 league from Tyneside to Doncaster; needless to say, it was rejected by the FA on what appear to be specious and contradictory grounds that are both pettifogging and inaccurate. Instead, the FA has decreed the new Step 4 league will reach as far as Leicester. To use Morpeth Town as an example, currently their longest trips are to Marske United (144 miles) and Penrith (170 miles). With a suggested boundary of Doncaster, the longest journey would be approximately 260 miles; Leicester would be a 330 mile round-trip, or another 90 minutes travel minimum. This season South Shields are required to go to Colwyn Bay, which is 440 miles or so there and back, but that is undoubtedly a red herring as the Welsh side are one of the prime cases for lateral movement, because the NPL will be split into 3 divisions, not 2, on an east, west and midland basis. That said; the Northern League’s proposal would have saved clubs between £12 and £40k on travelling expenses alone. Those figures are not invented either.

To the complete frustration of all gathered in the room, the FA remains impervious to logic and reason. They will have their structure, whatever the clubs think. Surely all the time, resources and money spent on this could be better utilised? While I applaud the idea of 4G hubs, providing facilities for many teams to play on a series of artificial pitches, with Blakelaw and Bullocksteads being identified as sites in Newcastle, as this will certainly provide youth leagues, as well as the Tyneside Amateur and lower parts of the Alliance, which tend to consist of teams rather than clubs, with a readily available and reliable surface on which to play their games, I don’t feel this is the answer for Step 6 and above. I’m not saying clubs shouldn’t have 4G pitches; indeed I wish more did, but I do believe in all sincerity that the FA, in the light of global warming and ever wetter winters, should invest money in providing specialist pitch care assistance for clubs in the pyramid.  Rather than paying for Dele Alli to add to his Ferrari collection, give clubs at Step 5 money towards 4G pitches or provide help from a team of pitch experts to aid the willing volunteers who put in untold hours of back-breaking slog for little if any reward. I feel my words may be incomprehensible to senior administrators in the national game.

And so the meeting broke up. I went home to work on programmes for the 5 successive home games (Monday – Wednesday – Saturday – Monday – Wednesday) Benfield have coming up, in full knowledge that we are no nearer knowing the exact composition of the Northern League next year. It is undeniable that we have been given unequivocal assurances that everything will change. Whether it is for the betterment or detriment of the league, only time will tell. 

Pardophobia

Back in December, I penned a piece for STAND magazine entitled Jobs for the Boys, ( http://payaso-de-mierda.blogspot.co.uk/2017/12/jobs-for-boys.html) bemoaning the woeful tendency for the boards of struggling football clubs to peddle one failed manager and replace him with another one from the list of tried and tested homegrown has-beens. Reading up the Premier League table from the bottom we can see such illustrious names as: Paul Lambert (Livingston, Wycombe, Colchester, Norwich, Blackburn, Wolves and now Stoke), Mark Hughes (Blackburn, Man City, Fulham, QPR, Stoke and now Southampton), Roy Hodgson (Bristol City, Switzerland, Inter Milan, Blackburn, Udinese, Fulham, Liverpool, West Brom and now Crystal Palace), David Moyes (Preston, Everton, Man United, Real Sociedad, Sunderland and now West Ham) and Allardyce (Limerick, Notts County, Bolton, Newcastle, Blackburn, West Ham, Sunderland, England, Crystal Palace and now Everton), while in the Championship we’ve got Tony Pulis (Bournemouth, Gillingham, Bristol City, Portsmouth, Plymouth, Stoke, West Brom and now Middlesbrough). Six blokes who, with the exception of Roy Hodgson, are already regarded as joke appointments by the supporters who pay their wages. Indeed, Allardyce is the target for such hatred from Evertonians that even the hippo headed arrogant fraud of a man must begin to question his previously unshakeable sky-high opinion of his abilities and worth.

There is, of course, one notable absentee from that list: Alan Scott Pardew, whose installation as Baggies boss was the direct inspiration behind my original piece. Sadly, the former Reading, West Ham, Charlton, Southampton, Newcastle and Crystal Palace supremo has been invited to clear his desk at The Hawthorns, after achieving the grand total of 1 win in his 22 Premier League games in charge. With characteristic humility, Pards began his final press conference by stating “without putting too much blame at my door," before deflecting all criticism and absolving himself of any responsibility for the 8 successive league defeats that have left Albion 10 points from safety with 6 games to go. West Brom are one of those clubs that everyone seems to like, other than their Midlands rivals of course, so the sight of the vacuous, preening narcissist smugly patrolling their technical area made me positively unwell. I know blogging about how much of a clown Pardew is, will be seen by many as playing to the gallery, but I am absolutely delighted that vain, egotistical charlatan has been shown the door. Without doubt, only Allardyce rivals Pardew in the disdain felt for him by Newcastle supporters. Even the clueless Steve MacClaren, who is more often pitied than condemned on Tyneside, has a higher standing with Newcastle fans than either of those two utter abominations. While Mike Ashley had Allardyce forced on him, as Freddy Shepherd’s last, reckless parting gift and sought, perhaps unwisely, to jettison him at the earliest opportunity, there are no mitigating factors to consider when appraising Pardew’s tenure.

Following the eternally popular and respected Chris Hughton’s unnecessary sacking after thumpings away to Bolton and, ironically enough, West Brom in late 2010, Pardew was installed to considerable annoyance and zero acclamation.  Nailing the myth right from the start, Pardew from Wimbledon was replacing Hughton from Forest Gate. We disliked the former and suitably approved of the latter; their places of birth had no relevance in the prevailing attitudes towards them. Hughton was a dignified and honourable man in his whole time at Newcastle United, while Pardew was seen as a washed-up, smarmy wideboy. His later conduct did nothing to dispel that instinct. At that point in his career, he’d guided Reading to promotion from League 1, lost the FA Cup on penalties with West Ham, got the bullet at Charlton after relegating them and looking likely to repeat the trick the season after and won the Football League Trophy with Southampton, before being given his cards for winding up the chairman. To be frank, his was an unexpected appointment outside the inner sanctum of Ashley and Llambias, and boy was he grateful for the gig, lavishing praise on the owner at any possible opportunity and dedicating wins to him, much to the chagrin of the support. To be fair, that first season did include some notable games; the 3-1 win over Liverpool in his home debut, a 5-0 trouncing of West Ham and the astonishing comeback against Arsenal in the 4-4. Only a late collapse against West Brom (them again!!) from 3-0 up to 3-3 denied the Magpies a place in the top 10, finishing 12^th courtesy of Tchoyi’s hat trick on the final day.

As we all know, before Benitez arrived, Newcastle managers under Ashley didn’t sign players; that was the responsibility of Graham Carr and Pardew was blessed with a spineless streak that allowed him to work under such conditions. When the players you’ve been given are as good as Yohan Cabaye, Demba Ba and Papiss Cisse, not to mention the return from injury of Hatem Ben Arfa, then even a mug like Pards can’t foul things up. However, most observers believed the 4-3-3 formation that Ben Arfa, Cisse and Ba thrived on, was happened upon by chance. Cisse was also on an amazing scoring run, including the legendary pair at Stamford Bridge and a beautiful brace at Swansea, as away wins were collected without breaking sweat. Whatever the cause, it was reason enough for Pardew to be named Manager of the Year for steering the club to a fifth-place finish and a Europa League spot. Amazingly and recklessly, Ashley also handed Pardew an 8-year contract, which makes the £3.5m compensation we got from Palace when he hauled himself back down the Smoke seem like a business deal of complete genius.

The first signs of impending doom were noted during the 2012-2013 season. In the opening game, a 2-1 win over Spurs managed by that Portuguese Straw Man Andre Villas-Boas, Pardew pushed over a linesman who hadn’t given Newcastle a throw in. It was the start of a litany of crass acts and appalling lapses of judgement that sickened the NUFC support almost as much as his obsequious deference towards the detested Ashley. While Europe went swimmingly enough, where Newcastle reached the quarter finals only to lose out to Benfica after a brave effort, the league was a different matter. The team were flirting with relegation when Ashley summoned Carr to raid La Ligue once more, with Sissoko, Debuchy, Yanga Mbiwa, Gouffran and Haidara arriving, to various degrees of success or otherwise. Sissoko was the one who brought home the bacon, eventually being sold to Spurs for a ludicrous £30m. Debuchy, as shown by his deliberate red card in the 0-6 humiliation at home to Liverpool, never really seemed that keen on being here in the first place, so achieved little before moving to Arsenal where he has been largely anonymous. Yanga Mbiwa was totally mismanaged by Pardew, who preferred the more cerebral talents of Mike Williamson at centre half and stuck the lad out at right back, because he never trusted him, then flogged him cut price to Roma. Gouffran became the target for organised abuse by a section of the support, before a late flowering renaissance saw him become an integral part of the 16/17 Championship winning side under Benitez. Haidara is still at the club, but ever since Callum MacManaman almost crippled him at Wigan on St. Patrick’s Day 2014, he’s not looked remotely like a first team player. However, all 5 made contributions to the cause in turning 2013/2014 into a damp squib and not a disaster as Newcastle finished 15^th, 5 points clear of relegation.

2013/2014 started terribly; Cabaye on strike and a 4-0 coating at Man City with Steven Taylor sent off (there’s a surprise). It didn’t get much better with a home defeat to Hull and a loss away to the Mackems before the end of October. Suddenly, a window of adequacy opened; 7 wins and a draw from the next 8 games, a place in the top 5 and Pardew named Manager of the Month, basking in his less than sincere Pardiola nickname. It didn’t last; the remainder of the season saw 15 defeats in 21 games and while a 10^th place finish was solid enough, this didn’t tell the full story of Pardew’s meltdown. During a 2-0 home loss to Man City, he became embroiled in a touchline spat with Manuel Pellegrini, telling him to “shut your noise; you fucking old cunt.” As if this wasn’t bad enough, he headbutted Hull’s David Mayler in a game we won 4-1. For this brilliant gesture, he received a 7-game ban, with 3 of those excluding him from the stadium, forcing Jihadi John the Badge Carver to assume control. After a semi-successful fans’ protest before the 2-2 with Liverpool in October, a plan by some self-selected super fans to organise a walkout after 69 minutes of the final home game with Cardiff City turned into a complete fiasco; only about 1,000 bothered to leave their seats and the team scored 2 late goals to secure a 3-0 win. Nevertheless, The Chronicle presciently made this observation regarding the atmosphere; This was arguably the worst personal abuse a Newcastle manager has had to endure at any game. It was an excruciating afternoon for all concerned. Actually, having walked into the ground when the gates were opened at 1-0, I quite enjoyed it.

There was very little to enjoy about the remaining period of Pardew’s reign. 2014/2015 started with a loss at home to Man City, followed by a 0-0 at Villa that was fondly remembered only for Pardew’s ludicrous jig on the touchline, intended to inspire Remy Cabella. Home draws with Crystal Palace, who equalised in injury time, and Hull, where two goals from Cisse in the last 15 minutes saved the manager from further derision sandwiched a 4-0 stuffing at Southampton, where Jihadi John got into an altercation with some of the travelling support, querying just why we were so terrible. The 1-0 loss at Stoke in a monsoon on a Monday night showed the whole country how devoid of strategy and fight this shambles of a team had become. Cisse again saved Pardew’s blushes with both in a 2-2 at Swansea. So, come the middle of October Newcastle are in the bottom 3 with 4 points from 21 when, suddenly, wins arrive in a cluster: Leicester, Spurs, Liverpool, West Brom and QPR are all beaten in the league and Man City are downed at the Etihad in the League Cup. Incredibly Pards gets the Manager of the Month gong once again, presented on the pitch before we beat Chelsea at home in early December.

Obviously, this streak of hot form wouldn’t last and Pards the alleged gambler took a punt on trying to plot an escape route on his own terms: losses to Arsenal, the Mackems (again!!) and Man United are further examples of his limitations. He struggles in big games, being seemingly incapable of motivational team talks, tactical nuances or getting any luck at all. Ironically, his final game is a surprisingly entertaining 3-2 home win over Everton on December 28^th. The day after, he receives permission to talk to Crystal Palace about their vacancy after Neil Warnock was sacked. On New Year’s Day, he is installed as the Eagles boss, while Jihadi John the Badge Carver is appointed boss until the end of the season, as part of a Comic Relief stunt presumably. His record will read played 19, won 3, drawn 4, lost 12; that’s a paltry 13 points in half a season and reason enough why relegation fears weren’t ended until the final day with a 2-0 win over West Ham that saw Jonas Gutierrez score a memorable goal and stick two fingers up to Ashley after doing so. The same day Allardyce was sacked by West Ham; the news appearing on their website as the game was still in progress.

Of course, Pards was initially in his element at Palace; he took them to a 10^th place finish after assuming control with them in the bottom 3. The next season they sat 5^th at Christmas, before having a traditional post festive Pardew inspired calamitous decline, finishing 15^th. They did get to the cup final though; that they lost after Pardew’s vile, hubristic attempt at some form of sexually provocative dancing to celebrate taking the lead, was particularly pleasing.  It was the beginning of the end for him at Selhurst Park and a woeful start to 2016/2017 saw him sacked at Christmas with the club 17^th. Allardyce replaced him and kept them up, amusingly enough.

There is nothing funny about Pardew’s time at West Brom though. Four months that shook the club and turned Gareth Barry from a model professional to someone stealing a taxi at 4am on Las Ramblas. Being honest, the foolish owners who panicked when Pulis seemed to have lost his touch got what they deserved, though it was not what the fans were entitled to; sadly, relegation seems inevitable for The Baggies and Pards will spend the rest of this campaign spouting nonsense on Sky Sports, before winding up at another club and doing the two or three season cycle of boom to bust all over again. I’d imagine the Ipswich vacancy or a return to Reading would appeal, though personally I’d love to see him take the Mackems down to League 2…