I Can't Hear the Grass Grow

This week I saw a tweet from Percy Main amateurs, bemoaning the dry weather we've had in June, as their pitch is parched. Rather ironic considering how late the season ended, on account of the endless wet weather in the winter. I do feel there is a solution though, which is contained in the following article from issue #26 of Stand, which came out this week and that you really ought to buy -:

These days, I’m probably as much as a fan of grassroots cricket as I am of football. Aged almost 54, time has caught up with me and I’m no longer able to play eleven a side football, but cricket still offers a chance of team sport for all but the most decrepit, so I’m turning my arm over again in the Thursday Evening Midweek League; a dozen overs a side and a similar number of pints post-match. As regards the First Class game, I take a strong interest in test cricket, but eschew such fripperies as the IPL, Big Bash and the ECB’s suggested 100 ball fiasco. When it comes to counties, my support is firmly behind Northumberland in the Minor Counties East Division, but my real cricketing passion is for my local club Tynemouth, who play in the North East Premier League. On Saturday May 19^th, we were away to Felling; it’s a contest I normally relish as I was brought up in Felling and, despite moving away in 1983, still harbour a degree of affection for the team from High Heworth Lane. Sadly, I couldn’t make the clash that Tynemouth won by 101 runs, as I had both a wedding and a cup final to attend…

Before accusations of bourgeois conformism are thrown at me, I’ll just point out that I was one of a grand total of 4 guests at Grahame and Tracy’s fairly secret nuptials that surmounted a modest 17-year courtship and cohabitation, at North Shields registry office. From there, I left the happy couple to bask in the sunshine of their love and biked along the north bank of the Tyne on a glorious summer late morning until I reached Sam Smith’s Park in Walkergate, home of my beloved Newcastle Benfield FC of the Northern League Division 1. I’ve followed Benfield since we reached the Northern League in 2003 and edited the programme for the past 5 seasons, but the reason I was heading for the ground wasn’t to see my team in action. It was because we were hosting the Tyneside Amateur League Challenge Shield final between the clubs from the former Northumbrian pit villages of Ellington and Stobswood. In addition to my Benfield duties, I am also the volunteer, unpaid Chair of the Tyneside Amateur League (a competition that stands a mere 11 successive promotions away from the Football League); therefore, using Sam Smith’s Park to host the season ending TAL cup finals is a symbiotic no-brainer.

For those of you without a secure working knowledge of the non-league pyramid, Benfield are at step 5, which is 4 levels below the National League, or the Conference as I still call it. Other teams in our division include Whitley Bay, Bishop Auckland, Penrith (of whom more later) and Stockton Town. The latter outfit finished one place above us in 2017/2018; 6^th to our 7^th, on account of more goals scored (91 trumps 90), but their real achievement in this campaign just ending was to reach the FA Vase final, where they were to lose 1-0 to Thatcham Town at Wembley the day after, Sunday 20^th. It was a great accolade just to get that far; Benfield went out of the Vase in the last 16 in a replay away to Coleshill Town, on penalties, after conceding an equaliser 7 minutes into stoppage time. Frankly, I’ve not recovered emotionally from that disappointment yet, nor the fact we also went out of 2 other cup competitions at the semi-final stage and the FA Cup a mere two ties away from the first round proper. During 2017/2018, Newcastle Benfield played a total of 61 games; 42 in the league and 19 in 4 separate cup competitions. Our centre forward Paul Brayson, formerly of Newcastle United, Swansea, Reading, Cheltenham, Northwich, Gateshead and Blyth, turned 40 last September and played in 59 of them. He’s been with us 6 seasons now and has grabbed a minimum of 40 goals in each year. He scored 49 this year, the best of which was an instinctive lob from 30 yards out, almost on the touchline, at Whitley Bay in a 2-0 win in the Preliminary Round of the FA Cup on September 2^nd. It was a goal so good that the FA selected Brassy as one of the 137 players who’d scored in this season’s cup to have their names etched on the ball used at Wembley in the 137^th cup final.

A nice gesture, but we’d rather have some money if you don’t mind. Considering we exist on crowds of 100, paying an average of £5 a head admission, the tasks of plugging the shortfall by attracting willing local sponsors, who are being similarly targeted by our geographical rivals and their begging bowls, not to mention attracting new fans is of paramount importance. Additionally, finding committee members ready to give up their free time is also a struggle. It gets harder to balance the books and move the club forward each year, despite the magnificent progress manager Mark Convery and his evolving squad of talented players who are skilled exponents of the brand of attacking football played on the floor he has brought to Benfield, with the dominance of the professional game and a certain club down the road attracting 52,000 every home game, seemingly regardless of Mike Ashley’s continued presence. Therefore, winning 4 games in the FA Cup and a similar number in the FA Vase was a godsend, in terms of the prize money garnered for such progression. However, every penny counts, and the money made from renting the ground out for cup finals, especially on boiling summer afternoons when thirsty supporters almost drank the bar dry, is essential because, let’s face it, the FA aren’t going to bail out struggling non-league outfits any time soon. Hence the Stobswood v Ellington final was played on the hallowed turf of Sam Smith’s Park.

As someone who has been involved in grassroots football for quarter of a century now, I always find it amusing when someone alludes to the FA's masterplan for the game. While initiatives like the Respect campaign attract publicity and schemes such as the bureaucratically exhausting Charter Standard gain funding, most of the direct interventions made by the FA at our level are financially burdensome and of questionable provenance. After years of speculation, the FA has now introduced compulsory promotion from this season on; hence Northern League champions Marske United and runners-up Morpeth Town will play in the new Northern Premier League Division 1 East next season. For Morpeth, this will involve an extra 5,000 miles of travel per annum. They’ve got to find that cash themselves. The FA, in attempting to implement a one-size-fits-all pyramid structure of leagues on a 1 – 2 – 4 – 8 - 16 basis, where the 1 is the National League and one of the 16 is Northern League Division 1, are looking to impose lateral movement to iron out geographical anomalies. At Northern League level, this means Cumbrian side Penrith may be forced against their will to move to the North West Counties League and Yorkshire outfit Northallerton Town could be transferred to the Northern Counties East at some point in the future.

Ground grading is similarly a joke; the onerous burden of providing covered seating for 200 and hard standing for 1,000 when clubs attract barely 10% of that creates unnecessary expenditure that would be far better spent on things the clubs actually need. Of prime importance would be a decent playing surface. Clubs at steps 5 and 6, as in the Northern Leagues Division 1 and 2, have their own grounds and must maintain them to an acceptable standard. In the Northern League, only 3 teams have 4G pitches; Stockton Town, Consett and West Allotment Celtic. While any heavy fall of snow put paid to games on artificial surfaces, they at least stood up to the incessant rain that made this season one of the wettest ever. Even allowing for the hideous backlog of games, the FA refused to sanction step 5 leagues playing beyond May 7^th Bank Holiday. To put this in context, at Benfield we were rained off every Saturday in March, resulting in us playing our final 15 games in 30 days, with the last 3 weeks of the season involving games every Monday, Wednesday, Thursday and Saturday. It was insane. The players were shattered. The spectators unable or unwilling to afford so many fixtures. The pitch was rutted, and committee members worn out.

 At lower levels, it is even worse; the Northern Alliance acts as the bridge between the Northern League and the Tyneside Amateur. As teams in that league don’t have floodlights, midweek games are impossible from early September until mid-April. Consequently, the final game in that 3-division league will see Killingworth Town face New Fordley on Wednesday May 30^th. Ideal for groundhoppers, but an utter farce for everyone else. The vast majority of clubs in the Northern Alliance and Tyneside Amateur are teams who hire pitches from the local council or at high schools. Unless they’ve managed to find one with a 4G surface as standard, most clubs have either had to fork out the extra cash to book a synthetic surface or remain inactive for months until decent weather returned, then have half their season concertinaed into a few crazy weeks. Unsurprisingly, many teams are calling it a day, as the endless struggle for players, volunteers and cash is a thankless task. In the Tyneside Amateur, we’ve lost 4 clubs with only 2 newcomers to replace them. Even the Northern League saw Jarrow Roofing, FA Vase semi-finalists as recently as 2005, tender their resignation.

How do we stop this seemingly inevitable erosion of the grassroots game? Money and pitches is the short answer. The fact that every secondary school in the country does not have 2 full-size floodlit 4G pitches is an absolute disgrace. Such facilities would provide a decent surface and the chance for all levels of the game, from youth sides to veterans and clubs at Tyneside Amateur and Northern Alliance level, across the whole country, to play at a regular, timetabled slot. This could be from Friday evening through to Sunday afternoon, with midweek slots for training, not to mention providing the perfect surface for school PE lessons; whatever the age, level, ability or whatever, the game would be on. I realise the FA are starting to plan for game hubs in certain cities, one of which is Newcastle, with several synthetic pitches available in one area. Great idea, but possibly too little and too late.

For clubs from Benfield’s level upwards, who may not wish to abandon a traditional grass surface, grants for 4G pitches or regular input and expertise from professional, full-time ground maintenance and preparation experts would go a long way to reducing fixture pile-ups. Drainage, new turf, covers and so on cost a pretty penny, so remain beyond the pocket of most amateur clubs. However, there is one huge white elephant in the room that might come in handy. If the proposed sale of Wembley goes ahead, wouldn’t it make sense that, instead of funding Dele Alli’s 27^th Ferrari, the money could be used for the greater good and spread out among the grassroots game. All we want is a level playing field; the sale of Wembley could give every player that. Equally important, from my point of view, we could get the football season over and done with by early May, so I can concentrate on cricket.

Summer of 74

Never mind the current tournament that's currently unfolding in Russia, here's my memories of a 9 year old watching his first World Cup from West Germany 1974, as included in issue #8 of the newly published Hopeless Football Romantic -:

When I was a kid in the early 1970s, you could count on the fingers of one hand the number of televised games shown live each year. There was the FA Cup final, on both BBC and ITV, the European Cup final on ITV and the England against Scotland home international, which generally marked the end of the domestic season in the middle of May, on Grandstand. Edited highlights of lesser competitions, such as the Cup Winners’ Cup final and the UEFA Cup would be shown on Sportsnight with Coleman, while the League Cup final, played on a Saturday afternoon at the same time as a normal league programme, wouldn’t be seen until The Big Match on the Sunday. As regards international tournaments, I’m not sure what the deal was, as I’m too young to remember the 1970 World Cup and the 1972 European Championships fell off the BBC’s radar after England lost 3-1 at home to West Germany in the quarter final first leg; it had a very different structure in those days.

However, the 1974 World Cup was televised in its entirety and, as a football obsessed 9-year-old, I think I watched at least part of every game. In preparation, I’d also been able to see the emerging talents of Poland, who would finish third, in a couple of their qualifying games. On June 6^th, 1973, 53 weeks before the finals began with a stultifying 0-0 between Brazil and Yugoslavia, England’s attempts to book their passage began to go awry with a 2-0 loss in Katowice. BBC1 proudly announced they’d secured the rights to show the game live and in its entirety; consequently, a supine capitulation, aided by the dismissal of Alan Ball, shone out across the nation on a Wednesday tea time. Even worse, the return fixture at Wembley in October of that year, when Jan Tomaszewski made a fool of Brian Clough and his dismissive analysis that the Polish keeper was “a clown,” while Peter Shilton allowed the only shot the Poles had to slip under his body, was not only live on ITV, but conclusive proof that Poland were going to West Germany and England were not. Alan Clarke’s equaliser from the penalty spot on the night was really no consolation. This failure was not just a national disgrace, it was the beginning of the end for Alf Ramsey, who was replaced temporarily by the avuncular Joe Mercer until the ominous figure of Don Revie, fresh from overseeing Leeds United kick their way to the title, assumed control. Meanwhile, the rest of the world had a tournament to watch.

Unlike the garish hues and robotic, synthesised, satellite garbled commentary of Mexico 1970 and the uneasy and unspoken combination of photogenic ticker tape displays and brutal, military repression that came to represent Argentina 1978, the 1974 tournament is strangely lacking in iconic images. Neither is it lauded in the annals of the game’s history, partly because the 97 goals scored marked the lowest average per game in any final series, but mainly because, the same as in 1954 when the magnificent Magyars lost the final, the wrong team won. It isn’t the case that rose-tinted spectacles and a warm glow of nostalgia refined over 44 long, passing years have affected my objectivity, the most compelling truth about the 1974 World Cup is that Holland were an amazing side to watch and that Johann Cruyff was the best player on the planet. To this day, I regret that the prosaic, pragmatic and predatory West Germans were able to squeeze the life out of Het Oranje with a game plan of resolute defending and high tempo harrying. Although I do recognise that Helmut Schön coached his side to win by fair means, not foul. The contrast between the clean as a whistle tackling by the likes of Vogts, Hoeness and Beckenbauer with the serial thigh-high assaults of the psychotic Uruguayans and Chileans could not have been more pronounced. Even Brazil, only 4 years on from their spectacular triumph in the Azteca, had embraced the concept of the studs-up lunge as their default defensive tactic.

The world was a very different place in 1974; football was a much smaller deal for a start. Only 16 nations competed in the tournament and 9 of those were European. Zaire were Africa’s sole representatives, while Asia had none at all. Haiti were the CONCACAF participants and Oceania sent Australia to complete the line-up. The 16 sides were split into 4 groups, with the top 2 going through from each to play in 2 subsequent second stage groups. This was the first time such an approach was used; it was maintained for Argentina 1978 but subsequently abandoned after the tournament was expanded to 24 teams. By total coincidence, the fixtures fell in such a way that the final second stage group games were actually semi-finals, between Holland and Brazil, and Poland and West Germany.

As regards popular attitudes to these far-off countries of which we knew little, South Americans, other than Brazil, were cynical, Eastern Europeans well-drilled and Mediterraneans excitable, but prone to diving. The Cold War and the end of Empire combined to produce a world view that was equal parts paranoia and paternalism, meaning every game was viewed through a prism of political opposition or diplomatic tolerance. Obviously, Scotland were supported by the two television networks and, or so it seemed, by everyone I knew. At Falla Park Junior School, black and white tartan scarves were all the rage among the lads, while the lasses were all Bay City Rollers fans, so it was a no-brainer to follow Willie Ormond’s side. This seemed a good decision when Peter Lorimer and Joe Jordan scored the opening goals of the tournament as Scotland beat Zaire 2-0 in the second game. I remember celebrating wildly in our living room; perhaps it was out of a sense of relief, as I’d been bored to stupefaction by the Brazil Yugoslavia game and gone outside to kick a ball around with Mickey Bell and Marky Hodgson who lived around the corner.

This hints at a basic problem for young kids back then; we simply weren’t used to concentrating on football for the full 90 minutes. I’d only seen about 5 live games in the flesh by this point; at least in a ground there are many other things than the action on the pitch to distract you. This wasn’t the case with a televised game and quite a few of them were really rather boring. During the opening phase, Group 1’s only stand out game was Jurgen Sparwasser’s finest moment, when his goal enabled the socialists from East Germany to beat their capitalist neighbours 1-0. I still recall the hysterical celebrations by the small band of approved travellers from the far end of Checkpoint Charlie going wild on the terraces when the winning goal went in. A truly seismic Saturday evening in Hamburg.

Group 2 was Scotland’s, where the heroic draws with Brazil and then Yugoslavia counted for nothing when Valdomiro’s innocuous shot squirmed beneath the Zaire substitute keeper; eliminated by 1 goal and with the record of being the tournament’s only unbeaten team, Scotland went home with their heads held high. This was not to be the case 4 years later, but we’ll not go into that just now. Group 3 was lit up by Holland’s excellence, while Uruguay were dirty and the Bulgarians and Swedes desperately dull. Group 4 was dominated by Poland, which made England’s elimination by them a more respectable failure than previously assumed. Argentina, notably represented by the arse-length hair of Ruben Ayala, squeezed out Italy to qualify, while Haiti lost all their games, including a 7-0 thumping by Poland.

In the second stage, Argentina and East Germany ran out of steam, as the brilliant Dutch waltzed through to the final with 3 successive victories. West Germany were similarly imperious in the other group; their 1-0 win over Poland to reach the final was really the icing on the cake as a draw would have done them.

So, just as England completed a 3-0 home series triumph over India by bowling them out for 216 to win by an innings at Edgbaston, the World Cup reached its climax. Over recent years it has become the custom for television not to show the third and fourth place play-off. I really wish they hadn’t shown this one as Poland, with Gregor Lato getting his 7^th goal of the tournament, ground their way past Brazil in a truly terrible game. I remember turning over to Test Match Special on BBC2 where David Lloyd made 214 not out and skipper Mike Denness exactly 100 as England racked up 459/2.

The final was played on Sunday 7^th July and it was the first time I’ve known frustration so huge and impotent, with defeat rendering me as bereft as the FA Cup final of two months previous. Everything began so well with Neeskens scoring a second minute penalty. For 20 minutes Germany were all over the place; Rep, Krol, Haan, Resenbrink, van Hanegem, Cruyff and the rest controlled the game. And then Holzenbein fell in the area; Breitner, the dashing, left-wing firebrand who could have passed for a Baader Meinhoff operative, slotted the equaliser, before that damned Gerd Muller made in 2-1 to the hosts on half time. The sight of the hapless, flat footed Jan Jongbloed helplessly watching the ball roll past him could be the iconic image of the 74 World Cup. The second period was worse; Holland were shot. They had no answers and Germany ought to have had 2 more goals, one was wrongly disallowed for offside and another penalty wasn’t given. Sadly, the fairy-tale had no happy ending. West Germany won, and Der Kaiser proudly held the trophy aloft.

I switched off the telly, picked up my Woolies size 5, then knocked for Mickey and Mark to play 3 pots and in on the grass at the far end of Brettanby Road.

Never Mind The Polloks....

The only footballing benefit provided by the terrible winter we endured, is the attendant fixture pile-up that offered opportunities to see games until the very last possible dates. In the North East, this meant that after whinging about Benfield’s utterly exhausting closing schedule, I was able to forget my principles and enjoy several more games in lower level leagues. Obviously, there were the two Tyneside Amateur Cup finals where, in preparation for stepping up to the Alliance, Stobswood Welfare won them both. They defeated fellow promoted side, TAL champions Ellington in the first, then Jesmond in the second. Meanwhile, in the Northern Alliance, I saw Killingworth YPC effortlessly take down Hazelrigg Victory, to win the First Division title. Rather a strange postscript to that game; Killingworth YPC have now merged with Killingworth Town, while Hazelrigg will be starting 2018/2019 under the relaunched Newcastle Blue Star name.

Also, in the Alliance, I saw games on adjoining pitches at the Barking Dog on a sunny Wednesday evening, where Wallsend Community defeated Red Row 3-0 in the middle division, while Spittal Rovers travelled down from Berwick and battled their way to a tenacious 2-2 draw with Willington Quay Saints in the basement. Great to see Keith Scoffham and Peter Osgood refereeing the respective games in their usual inimitable style. Spittal were involved in my final English game, winning 2-1 at Wideopen, which was a new ground for me in my 94^th game of the season. However, I wanted more and that meant cross border raids.

Regular readers will be aware that nothing ends each football season more appropriately for me than a trip or two to the Scottish Juniors. Having first dipped my toe into this wonderful, parallel football universe in September 2006 with a visit to Benburb’s decrepit and subsequently demolished Tinto Park for the home side’s 5-1 thrashing of Royal Albert, I have returned on a further 15 occasions to sample the delights the Juniors have to offer. Since May 2009’s trip to Bathgate Thistle for a quite astonishing 6-2 demolition of Forfar West End, my adventures have been almost exclusively at the very end of the season. With typical cussed eccentricity, the UEFA imposed May 31^st deadline for all winter leagues is dutifully ignored by the West, East and North Regions, who decree that the Junior AGM on the third Saturday in June is the deadline for when all fixtures must be completed.

Of course, in years that have had mild winters this has meant a desperate scurrying around to find appropriate fixtures that fulfil the sole criterion of taking me to a new ground, even though I’ve twice been to Bathgate’s Creamery Park and twice to Pollok’s Newlandsfield. Luckily, a combination of the Beast from the East and a bewildering plethora of cup competitions, in the West at least, made the compilation of 2018’s itinerary a reasonably easy task. However, this may not always be the case in future; firstly, the increasing incidence of 4G pitches in the Juniors, which is something to be applauded, will result in less games called off because of waterlogged pitches. Secondly, and of considerably more significance for the East Region, the decampment of 24 of the 60 clubs who have competed this season to the senior ranks in the East of Scotland League for 2018/2019, to follow in the wake of Kelty Hearts who left the Juniors last year and were crowned champions this May, really does threaten the strength and quality of the Junior game on that side of the country. While it is encouraging to see clubs wishing to better themselves by moving within the glacially evolving Scotch pyramid, the burden of trying to get many ramshackle Junior grounds up to minimum standards will be an onerous and costly one. The 36 remaining East Region clubs will be split into a Premier, North and South 3 division structure, which will at the lower level, though perhaps not in the top flight, address the geographical difficulties of having teams spread out from as far south as Dunbar United to as far north as Montrose Roselea. In the West, geographical isolation is not as great a problem, because of the proximity of so many teams, not to mention a better standard of transport and road infrastructure; a testament to the legacy of community inclusion and provision provided by successive Labour local authorities in the days before the Tartan Tories under Jeanette Mugabe discovered their hitherto dormant sense of social justice.

Meanwhile, the East of Scotland League will operate with 39 teams in 3 parallel, loosely geographical “Conferences,” named A, B and C, in 2018/2019, with the winners of each progressing to the Lowland League, no doubt following a tortuous and exhaustive set of play-offs that will require all league games to be over by the end of April; a time of the year when significant numbers of Junior sides still have half their league games to play ordinarily. In the West, which seems to me the real citadel of the Junior game, there is far more brand loyalty, with only Dunipace, geographically anomalous as they hail from Denny between Falkirk and Stirling, of the 64 clubs quitting for the EoS. There will be some tinkering with the structure of the current 5 divisions (Premier, First, Central 1, Central 2 and Ayrshire) for next season, but let’s get this campaign out of the way first.

And so to June 2018’s expeditions. The dying embers of the East Region offered 4 league games on June 2^nd, none of which seemed to boast compelling locations, while the following Saturday saw only the East of Scotland Cup final at Linlithgow’s glorious Prestonfield, where Penicuik were to beat Tranent 2-0. Therefore, I decided to leave my East Region collection at 4 (Bathgate Thistle, Linlithgow Rose, Newtongrange Star and Thornton Hibs) and set my eyes on the beguiling pleasures of the West Region, intending to improve upon the total of 10 grounds I’d already ticked (Arthurlie, Beith, Benburb, Clydebank, Irvine Meadow XI, Kelloe Rovers, Maryhill, Petershill, Pollok and Shotts Bon Accord since you asked). Like so much else in Scotland, Junior football and the associated profane language, public intoxication and obsessive need to view life through the prism of late 17^th century Irish politics, is so much more intense in the West than the East. Without wishing to denigrate the burghers of Ayrshire and Lanarkshire, there really is something curiously compelling about the sheer vitriol at the heart of everything they say or do and the one fixture that stood out above all others on the first Saturday of the month, did not disappoint.

Somewhat strangely there is a direct train that goes from Newcastle to Kilmarnock three times a day. Other than me in early June each year, I am unsure who would choose to journey beyond Carlisle, when travelling either from the north or east. The recondite pleasure of the route does have the effect of making the tickets competitively priced and so for £24, I booked a return to deepest, darkest Ayrshire; to the home of Auchinleck Talbot (“the Bot”), who had come back from 2-1 down in injury time in the Scottish Junior Cup Final the week before to defeat another Ayrshire side, Hurlford United. If the Bot could win their final game, away to despised local rivals from 3 miles down the road, Cumnock Juniors, marooned in lower mid-table with seemingly nothing to play for, the West Region Premier Division title would be theirs. Anything other than a victory would hand the title to Beith, who were strolling to a 6-0 home win over bottom placed Girvan as the drama unfolded in Cumnock.

The irony was, I got off the train in Auchinleck, where I was collected by the admirable Davey Stoker, because there’s no station in Cumnock, though there is one in New Cumnock, where Glenafton play. Got that? Great stuff. Like many of these former Ayrshire mining towns, there’s not a great deal to recommend Auchinleck in terms of architecture or culture, though it is positively bucolic, festooned as it is in black and amber bunting that represents the Bot’s colours, when compared to the austere, grey, Presbyterian uniformity of neighbouring Cumnock. Davey parked up in Cumnock ASDA and we took in the sights for 10 minutes, which basically consisted of repeated gable end graffiti that told us how was a Junkie, House Tanner, Thief and other such pleasantries. It was a relief to pass through the turnstile of the well-appointed Townhead Park, where a crowd significantly in excess of 1,000 had gathered, including my friends Jonathan Hope and Euan Ramsey down from Glasgow. Because of the numbers attending, the enmity between the teams and the importance of the game, a kind of loose segregation policy was in place, with both sets of fans allocated an entrance and two sides of the ground each. Of course, the toilets and snack bar had no such regulation and the two tribes mingled with little visible or audible confrontation, though it’s always hard to be sure of this as even babes in arms in Ayrshire sound like Mick McGahey in a particularly belligerent mood.

The game, played on a 4G pitch at a relentless pace, was of an excellent standard; certainly, it was the equal of a top-end Northern League Division 1 game. Cumnock started quickly and were denied an early penalty after what seemed a clear trip in the box. Following that scare, Auchinleck took a deserved 2-0 lead, courtesy of two close-range, flicked headers from fast, accurate crosses either side of the break; though there was a suggestion the Nock keeper could have attempted to claim the ball on both occasions. However, despite Beith’s efforts, it seemed as if the title was heading to Auchinleck, until Cumnock woke up and turned the whole game on its head with a quickfire brace of goals just past the hour mark. Firstly, a goalmouth scramble saw the loose ball turned in, before an accurate long pass left the Nock left-winger in acres of space at the edge of the box. With no little bravery, he drew the keeper, held his nerve and slotted home. Pandemonium. This was the cue for 25 minutes of full-blooded, end to end jousting, with numerous chances squandered by both teams. After 5 minutes of injury time, partly as a result of an injudicious knee-high tackle by a frustrated Bot player that resulted in an inevitable red card, the game end level, meaning that Beith were champions. Cumnock’s players appeared to have won the Champions’ League themselves, such was the provocative cavorting they engaged in for the benefit of disappointed Auchinleck fans.

As we queued to leave, the two sets of players became involved in skirmishes on the curiously designed bridge, which looked like something from a willow pattern plate, that takes players from pitch level up to the changing rooms. Meanwhile home fans shook fists, waved V signs and issued innumerable volleys of profane abuse in the direction of their neighbours from down the road. After a significant wait to get out of the ASDA car park, we made it back to the functional Station Bar in Auchinleck, for a quick drink in the company of oblivious locals, before I took my train and headed away, frantically refreshing the forthcoming fixtures section of the SJWRFA website as the train headed for Tyneside.

On Saturday 9^th June, I had accepted the offer to read one of my pieces of short fiction at the launch event for Razur Cuts magazine in Falkirk. Initially, I had hoped that local side Camelon would have a game, but as pointed out, the East Region had only a cup final at already visited Linlithgow on offer. Even Stenhousemuir Cricket Club were away. Thankfully the wonderful Mr Stoker came again to my aid, by offering to collect me in Bathgate, drive to a game, and then drop me off in Falkirk for the evening do. This widened the possibilities available for potential visits. Games at Irvine Meadow (the Ayrshire Cup final between Largs Thistle and Kilwinning Rangers) and Yoker (who share with Clydebank) against Wishaw were discounted for the reason I’d already been there. Initially, having surveyed the abbreviated fixture list, I expressed a preference for the Central First Division contest between already relegated Thorniewood United and Shotts Bon Accord. Having sampled Ayrshire football the week before, I thought Lanarkshire deserved a chance to impress me with its take on profanity and belligerence. Davey wasn’t keen, pointing out that such was the irrelevance of the game, the crowd would be minimal and the standard abysmal. I took his word for it.

The game Davey suggested was Cambuslang Rangers against Hurlford United in the West of Scotland Cup quarter final. I was prepared to bow to his superior knowledge, until circumstance threw us a curve ball. On June 2^nd, the Central League Cup quarter final between Rutherglen Glencairn and Pollok had been postponed because of a “police incident;” a drug related murder in the early hours of Saturday morning. The winners of the replayed game, Pollok by 3-0, were scheduled to play Glasgow Perthshire in the Central League Cup semi final on Saturday 9^th. I’d seen Glasgow Perthshire once before; losing the 2013 West of Scotland Cup final at Pollok to Glenafton Athletic. Their support had been incredibly drunken, foul-mouthed and seemingly stoned that day, judging by the fug of skunk that hung low in the enclosure at Newlandsfield. I knew they played in Possilpark, the most dangerous and poverty-stricken suburb of Glasgow, and so I beseeched Davey into going there. As Jonathan, Euan and other pals including Mickey Hydes were intent on heading for this game at Keppoch Park, how could he refuse an afternoon amid the social deprivation, substance abuse and ingrained sectarianism of North Glasgow? Byres Road it ain’t.

The train up was a bit of an eye opener; packed to the gills with tattooed, middle aged, alpha male rock chicks, en route to the Rolling Stones at Murrayfield. They filled the journey by alternately swearing, vaping and glugging down gallons of Strongbow Dark Fruits. I kept my mouth shut and head down. The Waverley to Bathgate leg was utterly uneventful; soon Davey had collected me, and we were heading way out West, seeing the sights on the way. Depending on which way you’re travelling, Harthill Royal FC are the first or last team in the East. Standing almost on the Lanarkshire border, this is a village that definitely remembers 1690. We drove past but didn’t visit Gibbshill Park. Indeed, we didn’t stop until Glasgow, where we did a bit sightseeing at the old site of Petershill FC. In seems astonishing to think I was at the opening of their new ground 11 years ago now. From Petershill, we took in St Roch’s; there’s not much to see from outside but I really fancy seeing a game at Jimmy McGrory Park, preferably when Larkhall Thistle are the visitors, for cultural reasons of course. Finally, we saw Ashfield’s ground, which seems to have been colonised entirely by the Glasgow Tigers speedway team. Frankly, I can’t think of a more tedious sport than motorbikes chugging round a cinder track, while educationally subnormal lorry drivers cheer then on.

Ashfield’s ground actually borders Glasgow Perthshire’s Keppoch Park, but the confusing one-way system and endless series of blocked roads in the vicinity meant it took us another 15 minutes to get parked up between the Masonic Social Club and Needle Exchange Centre in the sociologist’s paradise of G22. After the intensity of Saracen Street and its environs, the spartan Keppoch Park was almost a tranquil oasis in comparison; well, until kick off it was any road. A sizeable crowd, including the venerable, petit bourgeois Pollok following of well-heeled gentlemen attired as if for golf of games of bowls, was swelled by many English and one Kiwi (hello Katie!) groundhopper, meaning the home side should have made a few quid at least. Of course, there were no badges, programmes or any other memorabilia available; unlike Maryhill, where I’d seen a club clock for sale.

I’d expected Pollok to stroll this about 4-0 and it seemed likely to go that way when Stefan McCluskey popped in the loose ball after home keeper Chris Calder had saved from Adam Forde in the third minute. However, Perthshire were made of sterner stuff and within 90 seconds, Baboucarr Musa equalised with a precise lob. It was a feisty and enjoyable first half where I found myself willing the home side on, partly because they boasted the best two players on the pitch; the aforementioned Baboucarr Musa and manbun-sporting Lee McLelland, who’d gained fame by calling Davey a “fat pudding” on Twitter a few weeks previously and partly because it almost seemed to be a clash of the social classes, with the underprivileged facing down the elite. Sadly, all of Perthshire’s endeavours were undone when, early in the second half after Pollok’s Nicky Little had grabbed who would be the winner with a smart turn and finish, both McLelland, for two fouls, and Musa, for foul and abusive language, were sent off. Perthshire tried, but with a two-man disadvantage, that was the end of their chances and Pollok really could have scored more. Their progress to a Central League Cup final against Cumbernauld United was relatively untroubled in the end. On reflection, I found the game exciting, but of a much lower standard, possibly akin to the Northern Alliance Premier Division, than the Ayrshire Civil War the week previous.

So, the full-time whistle brought down the curtain on my 2017/2018 season; 96 games at 50 different grounds, including 4 new Scottish visits. I’d enjoyed myself tremendously as ever, but it was time to read fiction and drink deeply in Falkirk. I had a brilliant night to match the two brilliant afternoons I’d spent with the Bot and Nock in Cumnock, then the Lok and Shire in Possilpark. My love for Scotland and Junior football remains undimmed; I’ll be in those parts again next season, of that there can be no doubt.

The Devlin You Know

Despite the Scottish Juniors season sill being on-going and the World Cup on the horizon, many clubs are getting ready for 2018/2019. My beloved Newcastle Benfield have already made a few signings. Here's a piece from Stoke City's Duck fanzine about a young striker, Jack Devlin, who has spent time both in the Potteries and at Sam Smith's Park -:

Saturday 5^th May 2018. Half an hour after Stoke City’s relegation had been confirmed, another burning issue in English football’s pyramid system was being decided 170 miles to the north east and 10 divisions below the Premier League. My club, Newcastle Benfield, two days after we’d lost a league cup semi-final on penalties, were playing our 14^th Northern League Division 1 game in 26 days at the end of a rain-ravaged season that had promised much, but ultimately left us empty handed. With an injury decimated, exhausted and disappointed squad of only 13 players, we had been cast in the role of dutiful handmaidens, required to dance barefoot at the coronation of already promoted champions elect Marske United. They duly garnered the point needed for the title and the vast majority of the 388 crowd burst onto the pitch at full time, just before 5pm, to carry their heroes shoulder high around the charmingly ramshackle Mount Pleasant ground, but at least we hadn’t lain down and died. The game ended 0-0 and we’d came within 6 inches of denying them the title with a late shot from our number 9, who’d run his blood to water all game, which had scraped the outside of the post with home keeper Rob Dean a stranded onlooker.

So what? Well, the name of our number 9 is Jack Devlin and he’s back at Benfield after a year at Stoke City, via a brief period with the upwardly mobile South Shields FC for whom he made 5 substitute appearances, without scoring. He may not have made the grade with Stoke, but the improvement in his touch, awareness and overall fitness is remarkable. He was a very good player at this level before, but now he’s an exceptional one.

Jack arrived at our home of Sam Smith’s Park (nothing to do with the Tadcaster brewery; this Sam Smith was the chief executive of Rington’s Tea Importers) in November 2016, having previously played for Easington Colliery Welfare and then North Shields in the Northern League, following his release from Sunderland’s academy. I’d first become aware of him when he scored an outrageous lob from 40 yards out, almost on the touchline, when North Shields battered us at our place 4-1 in April of that year. It became clear from talking to Shields fans that Jack was desperate to get back into the professional game; in that sense, he was very much the individual rather than a team player. Blessed with lightning speed and instinctive finishing, he was a marvel at this level and he knew it. When Shields left him on the bench for a couple of games, he decided to leave; passing scouts don’t recommend those left out of the starting XI.

Jack’s first stint at Benfield comprised 7 games and a solitary goal; the winner in a 4-1 triumph over Marske United on his second appearance. He provided explosive pace and the ability to forge chances from nowhere, much to the gratitude of our 40-year-old centre forward, ex Newcastle, Reading and Cardiff striker Paul Brayson, who has hit 40 goals in every one of his 6 seasons with us.  In mid-January 2017, Jack missed a midweek league cup tie at Ashington. Basking in the joy of a 3-2 win, I’d assumed he was cup tied from his North Shields days. Not true; he was eligible but had understandably cried off, having accepted the chance of a week’s trial with Stoke. He was back on the Saturday for a league game, also against Ashington, but didn’t feature in the 5-2 win as the trial had been successful and he’d been offered an 18-month deal. You don’t risk that opportunity by allowing a 17 stone centre half to tattoo your calves for 90 minutes.  As Jack hadn’t been on a contract with us, we received nothing for his services, but he left Benfield with our very best wishes and the whole club was elated when Jack marked his debut for Stoke reserves in a Staffordshire Senior Cup tie, by grabbing the winner against Rushall Olympic, signalling the start of a stellar career as a Premier League striker. Then again, perhaps it didn’t.

Jack is from south of Sunderland, so he didn’t have any real connection with Benfield, other than playing alongside some of his contemporaries from the Black Cats’ academy, such as Dylan McEvoy and James Martin, who are similarly trying to rebuild their careers with us. This is partly because of help from an agency for recently released trainees, Catalyst 4 Soccer; run by Neil Saxton, the son of Bobby, the former Newcastle and Sunderland assistant manager. It also helps that Sax was once our manager I suppose. Everything we’d heard about Jack’s progress was positive, though admittedly it came second hand. Thus, it was a complete shock that one of the casualties following the sacking of Mark Hughes was Jack. His contract was terminated by mutual consent; 5 months early, at the end of January 2018 and he swiftly joined South Shields on a non-contract basis. As South Shields are currently celebrating their third successive promotion to the Evostik Premier Division, with crowds bolstered by disaffected Sunderland fans and regularly exceeding 2,000, it seemed a good place for Jack to rebuild and try again. After all, he only turned 20 in April 2018.

For some reason, it didn’t work out at Mariners Park and Jack returned to Benfield, coming on as a surprise substitute in a thumping 4-0 away win at Seaham Red Star on a freezing Tuesday night in early March.  He marked his return with a superb finish to round off the scoring. Darting from the arc of the penalty area, he came near post and hammered home with his left foot, having shown a speed of thought far in excess of anything defenders at this level are used to.  In total, he appeared in 16 of the final 18 games of the season for us, including 2 substitute appearances in his first two games, and scored 9 goals. The highlights included a glorious hat trick in a 5-1 demolition of Bishop Auckland, with the third being the kind of sublime chip from the edge of the area that only the truly gifted can score at any level, as well as an unerring finish in the last minute to give us a 2-1 win over Dunston UTS. The twin aspects of flair and composure needed for those two goals are what sets Jack above the mundane level of the goal poacher or domineering aerial pugilist, seen so often in non-league.

As I said, Jack missed 2 games for us; we lost them both to FA Vase finalists Stockton Town and then away to Shildon on Tuesday and Thursday of the penultimate week of the season. He had a pretty good absence note, as he was playing in a reserve game and then training with Hartlepool United. On his return, he seemed pessimistic about his chances; not that he’d played badly, but the budgetary realities of a side who narrowly avoided going bust during their first season in the Conference mean there’s not a great deal of cash to throw around, especially to a raw 20-year-old who has been let go by a pair of professional clubs in the past. Of course, I’d love to see Jack back in the blue and white hoops of Benfield next season as we try to build on a sixth-place finish in the league, two cup semi-final exits and a last 16 spot in the FA Vase. However, as a football fan, I know he could and almost certainly will find a home at a more exalted level than Northern League Division 1. It’s just a shame Stoke City never saw the best of him and a symbiotic relationship wasn’t established to help him realise his full potential.

Organisational Chaos

How many football teams do you actively support? Just the one, or is your affection shared, equally or proportionately, between two or more clubs? Depending on your perspective, it’s either dead easy or very difficult to answer that question accurately, especially if you’ve abandoned participatory support for a particular outfit on the grounds of morality or principle. I’ve no way of quantifying this numerically, but I’m certain most card-carrying, match going FC United of Manchester followers morphed into such a being, having previously called time on actively supporting Manchester United for reasons of conscience or philosophy. Similarly, my beloved Newcastle Benfield turned from being the non-league club I followed into the centre of my sporting world when I decided I could no longer justify any capital expenditure on Mike Ashley’s Newcastle United. I’d first watched Benfield in 2003 when they were elected to the Northern League, but my decision to choose them over Newcastle United dates from 2008. FCUM, as you all know, came into being in 2005.

OK, here’s an easier question for you; how many football teams do you follow? I’m defining a follower as a considerably more passive entity than a supporter or fan; possibly only a short distance from the sorts who merely keep an eye on their teams’ results or perhaps catch highlights on the telly, when they don’t get beat that is. Using that yardstick, I’m able to draft a personal list that includes: NUFC, Hibs (my Scottish team since 1972), Bohemian (my Irish side), Athletic Club (everyone needs a Basque side for reasons of ideological credence) and FC Petrzalka (the pride of Bratislava and the side I watched when resident in the Slovak capital for a couple of years around the millennium). Obviously, my levels of interest and commitment fluctuate according to personal circumstance and the fortunes of the clubs involved, but I don’t see any contradiction inherent in following several sides, to a greater or lesser degree.

Another question; while paying heed to Heraclitus and his maxim, stolen by Marxists, that everything is constantly changing, do you broadly adhere to largely the same set of ideological beliefs you held when you first became politically aware? If Yes, does this mean you vote for, belong to and/or are a member of a specific political party or grouping? If No, what changed and what caused you to change? Personally, I still have the same, unshakeable faith in the veracity of the founding declaration of the Socialist Party of Great Britain, and other companion parties in the World Socialist Movement that I instinctively held from first encountering the SPGB in 1983. The document can be accessed here https://www.worldsocialism.org/spgb/our-object-and-declaration-principles In short, it’s the impossibilist position, but I believe in it. However, a sense of pragmatism that I developed over three decades as a union activist means I’m realistic enough to see the value of short term material gains for the working classes. Hence, in 2015, I joined the Labour Party, as I don’t see any other viable organisation that has the mass appeal and membership necessary to improve the living conditions of ordinary people, despite Corbyn’s idiotic failure to ditch Brexit. Don’t get me started on the crass, deceitful folly that is the supposed Left Exit position. Such foolhardy ideological posturing is akin to joining UKIP while still wearing dungarees. So, what’s all this got to do with football and FCUM in particular? Andy Walker mainly, but also, in passing, Andy Walsh.

Growing up on Tyneside in the early 70s, the things that kept our dysfunctional, extended immigrant Irish working class family together were the usual social touchstones of football, pubs, politics and religion. We equally loved and hated Newcastle United and the Labour Party simultaneously, while taking refuge in pints and piety according to circumstance. The enforced retirement of Joe Harvey in 1975 and sale of Malcolm MacDonald in 1976 almost finished my dad and uncles with NUFC for good. The same was true of the Labour Party, on account of Sunny Jim Callaghan and devious Dennis Healey’s inability to stand up for workers around the same time. The Thatcher Years were as hard for us as for every other ordinary family in the land, as grinding poverty, intergenerational unemployment and the death of all hope made people’s lives a misery.

As Guy Fawkes so presciently remarked; desperate times require desperate measures. In the same way that the lies and innuendo spread by the fascist scum associated with Farage and Yaxley-Lennon have been seized upon and given credence by the easily-manipulated, ignorant and uninformed in society, because their fear and confusion can be channelled towards hate-fuelled racism and Islamophobia, the late 70s and early 80s saw many embracing the simple solutions to complex questions provided by those at the margins of politics. In the modern era, we have seen the rise of a litany of fascist demagogues, such as Griffin, Frandsen and Yaxley-Lennon, who have proved to be more enduring than the ephemeral organisations they lead; the BNP, EDL and FLA have all imploded, while Britain First and whatever hate speech vehicle Ann Marie Waters is hiding behind are moribund at best. Back then, the extreme right couldn’t find their arse with both hands. Moneyed Nazi sympathisers like John Tyndall and Colin Jordan simply couldn’t keep a leash on their skinhead shock troops. Consequently, socially progressive movements such as the Anti-Nazi League drove the National Front from the streets, unfortunately while electorally the Tories ran the country like a squalid Police State.

One significant difference back then was the popularity of left of Labour political organisations. As a lifelong Marxist with a pronounced distaste for self-mythologising proponents of the theory of vanguardism, I had little time for Trotskyist cults like Tony Cliff’s Socialist Workers Party (SWP) or Gerry Healey and the Redgrave acting dynasty’s Workers Revolutionary Party. I had even less time for Ted Grant’s devotees who practised entrism into the Labour Party, by the semantic sleight of hand whereby they referred to themselves not as a party, but a “tendency;” the Militant Tendency. The organisation whose methods have fatally undermined FCUM to the extent the club may never recover.

Formed in Liverpool in 1964, Militant regarded themselves as a revolutionary organisation that operated within the Labour Party. Rigidly hierarchical and a cross between a religious cult and a military operation in their disciplined adherence to policies handed down by an unelected central committee, they followed the doctrine of Democratic Centralism, whereby once decisions had been made, generally by chief theoretician Grant or his shady assistant Peter Taaffe, there could be absolutely no debate as to the correctness of what the tendency advocated. Followers were required to be unquestioning obedient. All independent political thought was forbidden. Members of Militant referred to the tendency as The Organisation (I kid you not) and used a special vocabulary. Ordinary members were Comrades. Professional organisers were Full Timers who generally worked at The Centre in London. Potential recruits were Contacts. Other lefties whose programme varied one scintilla from The Organisation’s were Sectarians. Anyone who tried to argue their case about politics was Undialectical. All monies raised went to The Fighting Fund, apparently. Those with jobs were Workers. Those under 30 were The Youth. Anyone who dared suggest that racism and sexism were bad things and that Comrades ought not to make jokes about such subjects were Reformists. Worst of all, if you asked about gay rights, you were Bourgeois, as apparently sexuality was related to class orientation. The Organisation’s catechism was summed up in a document, helpfully printed on one side of A4, called What We Stand For. It was a shopping list intended to transform society. The Communist Manifesto reimagined for those who found Dr Seuss’s ABC too intellectually taxing.

While many good, honest, hard working people tried to co-operate with Militant, their Ourselves Alone approach to political isolationism often meant that while the leaders and Full Timers were charismatic in their own way, most of the foot soldiers were weak, socially inadequate and emotionally vulnerable people, who loved the sense of belonging and a common purpose that membership provided. Certainly, that’s why my cousin John signed up in early 1980, abandoning his education and any thoughts of a career, to become a revolutionary. After two decades of abject anonymity, he had finally become someone important. In his eyes at any rate. John changed from sort of non-entity who would have failed a personality test, to fanatically embracing the role of the most loyal and obedient of all converts, ferociously guarding the structural secrets he learned.  By 1982 he’d moved firstly to London to work as a full-timer and then, come 1984, he was in Liverpool as Militant’s glove puppet Horsebox Hatton became the public face of an entirely incompetent, wrongheaded attempt to take on the Tories, which resulted in even worse unemployment, social deprivation and near destitution on Merseyside, as Militant simply would not face the facts their approach was doomed to fail.

If you’re interested in the history of Militant, I’d suggest you seek out Michael Crick’s book about them, rather than Peter Taaffe’s hagiographic hokum, Liverpool; The City That Dared to Fight. One time my cousin confided the latter pile of hackneyed drivel would be his book of choice on Desert Island Discs. You see, in Militant world, it was an article of faith that all Comrades must unquestioningly venerate Liverpool, as a city, as an identity and, above all, as an ideological concept. “That’s why I support the Reds,” a chunky young Teessider told me at a New Year’s Eve party as the 80s met the 90s. “Anyway, Boro are shite,” he concluded.

This fella’s name? Andy Walker. A recently ordained Full Timer, who was living in Glasgow with our John. They were bunking down in the spare bedroom of legendary Militant hero, convicted perjurer and inveterate sex addict Tommy Sheridan, in the hope of fomenting civil war on Clydeside after the introduction of the hated Poll Tax. To an extent, Militant almost got this right, despite handing over names of rioters who belonged to the SWP and WRP to the Metropolitan Police, after the Trafalgar Square disturbances that marked the Poll Tax arriving in England.  This was one demo I didn’t make as Newcastle were at home to Brighton same day. Won 2-0. Mick Quinn and Mark McGhee.

Militant were box office Trots. Membership was at an all-time high, which no doubt why somewhere around this time, Peter Taaffe lost the run of himself. Perhaps overemphasising the volatility of the UK political scene following the fall of Thatcher, he changed horses in mid-stream and called for Militant to embrace an “open turn.” In short, grown fat on power and drunk on ambition, he outmanoeuvred Ted Grant who was callously purged in a manner so brutal Stalin would have wept, abandoning The Organisation’s 30-year policy of entrism and calling for Militant to become an independent political entity. As I’ve said, I was no supporter of theirs, but I recognised the one advantage they had over the lunatic fringe from the SWP and the WRP was the legitimacy of Labour Party membership. Giving it up seemed crazy.

It was. Within a year membership fell to the lowest level since the early 70s and almost all Full Timers lost their jobs. Our John did a Teaching English as a Foreign Language course, then took a job in Vitoria-Gasteiz, home of FC Alaves in the Basque Country, where he’s married, brought up a family and settled seemingly for good. For years his sense of bitter betrayal by Militant chewed him up inside; he couldn’t forgive them, even when he ran into Fat Andy from Boro at the 2000 UEFA Cup Final when Liverpool beat Alaves 5-4.

About a year before then, I’d been asked to appear on one of those dreary, hand-wringing, TV panel discussions about the future of football, on account of being a writer for the NUFC fanzine, The Mag. Recorded at Granada at 6pm on a Thursday, it wrapped early evening, allowing several of us to head out for a few beers as ITV were picking up the tab for travel and a hotel. Probably the most famous person in Peveril of the Peak that night was Nick Cochrane, or Andy MacDonald if you’re a fan of events in Weatherfield. However, the most engaging presence was that of IMUSA head honcho Andy Walsh; the bloke was a natural orator and had the whole room hanging off his every word. Without even mentioning politics, you could tell he’d been a Militant Full Timer. The only one who didn’t unquestioningly worship Liverpool I suppose.

Andy’s demeanour also showed just what you can do with your life if you’ve been made redundant by a Leninist revolutionary sect. Once you’ve had that vital experience of organising and controlling groups of angry, suggestible young people, running IMUSA comes as second nature. Similarly, this explains why the quasi-independent, well-meaning but dull talking shop, the Football Supporters Federation (FSF) has as its Chief Executive Kevin Miles, former chair of INUSA, presenter of 606 on Radio 5 and one-time Militant Full Timer. Interestingly “Air” Miles, so called because of his love of jet travel to international football tourneys, has as his dauphin a certain Michael Brunskill, whose mother Elaine and step father Norman are north east regional organisers for Militant, or SPEW (Socialist Party of England and Wales) as they are now known.

That evening in 1999 was the one occasion I met Andy Walsh, though he made a great impression on me. From 2005, I followed his involvement in FCUM with interest. While, at a distance, it seemed as if the whole project was going well, the first warning sign for me was the grotesque television news footage of Walsh showing Damian Hinds around Broadhurst Park; a former Militant kowtowing to a Tory minister. You couldn’t make it up. Obviously, his credibility was shot to shit for that rash act, meaning his time in the role was up after that incident and now he’s long gone from FCUM; I do wonder if he’s any relation to the Andy Walsh who is the FSF’s current National Game Development Officer. Answers on a post card.

If my attitude to Walsh is less negative than most FCUM fans, then don’t worry as my feelings about Walker are considerably more intense. This glory-hunting bar stool and sofa Liverpool fan, who’d never been to Merseyside before his mid-20s at the earliest, obviously became a hate figure for FCUM fans once he accepted the role of Walsh’s snooper and nark in chief. I have no direct experience of Walker’s scheming antics, but the bare-faced cheek he’s employed to rewrite his life, so as to claim a lifetime of supporting his home town club and airbrush the truth, is typical of Militant old boys. If Peter Taaffe can suddenly decide after 30 years that the Labour Party is not where The Organisation should make their home, then decide again in late 2016 that Militant should rejoin (he didn’t get through the selection process), without addressing the impact or legacy of such an ideological volte face, then Andy Walker can easily pretend he watched televised highlights of David Hodgson, Craig Johnston and Graeme Souness in the red of Boro not Liverpool, even if he knows it’s a lie. Spending time in the rarefied atmosphere of the upper echelons on Militant somehow enables you to peddle barefaced untruths without batting an eyelid. Never apologise. Never explain.

The tactics of denigration, subterfuge, obfuscation and deceit that came so naturally to Walsh and Walker were learned as soon as they signed up to The Organisation. Even if they moved on from The Organisation, the skills they accumulated were hard wired for life. They may not have changed the world, but they changed FCUM decisively, though not for the better. Whatever the future holds for FCUM, the club is better off ploughing its own furrow without the dread hand of failed Trotskyists on the tiller, especially one who doesn’t know whether to pretend to be upset at Boro losing in the play-offs or to fess up that Karius the Klown broke his heart.