The Golden Age of Rock & Roll

 The very wonderful new double issue of TQ magazine is out now. Please buy it. Within its pages, you'll find this article by me; a plaintive cry into the wilderness, regarding my aching desire to be more creative. Hopefully, someone will listen -:

Ello….

Right at the outset, I’ll hold my hands up and admit that Glam Rock is one of my least favourite kinds of music, though I’d insist that Mott the Hoople, whose Bowie connection via “All the Young Dudes” is probably, sonically speaking, the only thing that keeps Mott from being shoehorned in with other long haired, early 70s, greasy trucking hard rockers like Man, Pretty Things, Nazareth and a whole load of others. Instead, history has wrongly lumped them in with Slade, Wizard, Sweet and all those other spangly jumpsuit attired posers and ponces.

Perhaps that’s why legendary Mott frontman Ian Hunter tried to present himself as a kind of rocking Renaissance Man with Diary of a Rock'n'Roll Star, his scabrous and strangely naive account of their Fall 1972 US tour. The book eventually came out in December 74, just as news broke of Hunter’s decision to carve out his future career away from the band, which subsequently heralded the release of his classic solo single Once Bitten Twice Shy. Since then, to rather more critical acclaim than record sales, Hunter, born in the months leading up to the outbreak of WW II has continued to plough his own furrow and good luck to the fella who will be 84 on his next birthday. As he so presciently observed about a career in pop music: It may look flashy, but it's over and you are finished before you know it.

The start of 2022 saw me undergoing a profound personal crisis, that was almost existential in nature. Aged 57, I found myself desperately dissatisfied with the mundane confines of my everyday life. I wanted to do more with my time on earth, to be creative, see places, meet people in what could be my declining years, but was unsure how that might happen. Alright, I’ve always been a writer, but that can be a somewhat solitary vice (cue raucous Syd James style canned laughter…), so even though I edited glove magazine, edition #9 of which came free with TQ #52, I still wasn’t meeting people and sparking off their creative energy. Things changed for the better after the first live performance I saw this year: Auntie Joy 2 on March 19^th at Holy Cross Church in Ryton. Now I’ll make it clear from the start I’m not a member of the Anglican Communion, so when I say the proceedings inspired me, I mean creatively, not spiritually, even if my relationship to the Shunyata Improvisation Group was instantly forged and subsequently maintained at a seriously cerebral level that day.

One of the most important things to happen on March 19^th wasn’t Ryton & Crawcrook Albion’s last minute winner against Bedlington Terriers that I witnessed after the gig was over, but meeting TQ paterfamilias Andy for the very first time and subsequently arranging to go for a pint together in town. At that second meeting, in The Bodega on Westgate Road, I poured out my heart to him, regarding the creative frustrations I felt were impeding my quality of life. Yes, I loved writing, but I desperately wanted to break out of the no readership underground (NRU anyone?) and present my work to people in a more challenging way. Additionally, as a confirmed anti-musician, I have been unable to play guitar properly for many years now, nearer to 5 than 4 decades, and every day I ached, yearned, pined to do so in a performative context. On that Tuesday afternoon, having acquired the necessary supportive assent from Andy, I made a firm decision that I would embark upon a creative escapade to see what I could achieve in 2022. Without spoiling the ending of this piece, I can say, in recognition of Chairman Mao’s sagacious observation that “even a journey of a thousand miles must begin with a single step,” I’ve made a start, which is okay, but I’m desperate to do more, go further and make a tangible impact upon the Newcastle NAU scene. Being perfectly honest, I don’t think I’ve done that as yet.

My first tentative toe dip into the luxuriant pool of performative creativity was with the estimable Shunyata Improvisation Group at Cobalt Studios on Friday May 13^th. As part of the annual Late Shows events, they were hosting an improvised evening around the theme of “Escape” and were seeking collaborators. I put my name forward as I’d recently written a piece on such a theme and was delighted to be accepted. Having printed the relevant document out and taken a copy with me, I realised that scripted words were not the expected mode of delivery for this mode of performance, but that didn’t matter in the end as I discovered I couldn’t read from a 12 point printed document with my contact lenses in, so I ended up improvising the piece from memory and, despite being wracked with nerves to the point of vomiting before the performance began (in the toilets not on the stage a la John Lydon 1976), I think it went quite well and I actually enjoyed it. Whether the audience did or not was a moot, and perhaps irrelevant, point, but it certainly ennobled me to pick up an acoustic guitar on the invitation of Nigel from Shunyata, to accompany Andy in his performance later that evening.

After this gig, I felt utterly elated by the sense of achievement engendered. A discussion with Andy led to an introduction to recent arrival from London, sound artist and electronics wizard Chris Bartholomew. There was also an offer to play the second TQ live event at the Lit & Phil on August 19^th, providing we felt our endeavours were worthy of public consumption. A second potential show at a wannabe barista style bistro in Prudhoe was quickly, and properly, withdrawn as we didn’t appear to appeal to the target Tyne Valley demi monde demographic. I did, however, appear solo at a spoken word evening at The Engine Room on North Shields Fish Quay, reading a couple of short pieces (printed in 18 point to render them legible), including “The Deer Hunter,” which became one of Chris and I’s performance cornerstones, as well as being accepted for publication in the Scottish literary magazine Razur Cuts. Being honest, I found the experience of simply reading aloud a little less satisfactory than I had in all the years I’d previously done the same. It just felt pedestrian and two dimensional. Time needed to move on. I knew I wanted sound to go with my words, which is why I embraced the scheduled performance with Chris, that we’d decided would go under the name of BARTHOLOMEW/cusack.

Three practises at First Avenue Studios in Heaton later, we’d assembled a 30 minute set, comprising three spoken word recitations that would be accompanied by Chris’s musical backing and three semi-improvised instrumental pieces where I was given licence to abuse a guitar and Chris found ways to complement the maelstrom. In short, we’d bonded immediately and found a common purpose and vision that seemed almost telepathic. The performance at the Lit & Phil was well received and made us determined to forge ahead, to the extent we recorded “The Deer Hunter” on August Bank Holiday Monday, as well as agreeing to ditch the other two spoken pieces and look for other examples from my oeuvre that we could develop. As yet, that is a job of work we haven’t undertaken, and I see it as a priority for the future, if we are going to continue as a viable entity. Especially if we are going to perform live though, at the point of writing, there have been zero offers of other gigs and I’m at a complete loss where to go or who to ask to find an opportunity to play live. Anyone prepared to make us an offer?

 

While I’ve put all my musical eggs in one basket with BARTHOLOMEW/cusack, Chris is a superbly talented musical polymath. He can compose, produce, plan, create, mix and so much more, all with consummate ease and I am in awe of his abilities. To be frank, I am pleased to be a tiny part of his create universe. To this extent, I was delighted to go as a punter to Chris’s solo show at The Globe on November 3^rd as part of the usual Thursday Evening Prayer Meeting session.

I think the last time I set foot in The Globe would have been 40 years ago, when it was one of the few bars that sold draft Bass; we’re talking long lost treasures like The Glendale in Byker, The Burton House and other palatial pubs long torn down in the name of progress. Almost in memory of those days, I was required to skirt an enormous pile of vomit on the pavement near Jury’s Inn. Once I’d affected entry and managed to find the correct upstairs room, after escaping the clutches of a bloke on the door who thought I was looking for a religious gathering, I found the relevant room that seemed to have been a slavish recreation of the much missed Broken Doll upstairs venue.

The evening was supposed to be Chris playing an opening set and then improvisation from trios drawn from a hat full of volunteers. Well, names on bits of paper at least. I knew Chris would be good value as soon as he picked up a frying pan and said he’d be using this as a percussive device as the sound it produced was “reliable.” Being honest, I am so much in awe of Chris’s talents that I find it impossible to review his work objectively. Not only do I marvel at the creativity of his practice, but I like him enormously as a bloke and I’d advise you to get on his Bandcamp page ASAP, then tell him to do more stuff with his pal cusack.

So, what is to be done in the immediate future by BARTHOLOMEW/cusack? Create more pieces. Record new tracks. Play some gigs. Release product. Get a website. Try and have a visible profile. That’s a lot of work, but I’m certain we’re up for it.   Being positive, what we have done is record versions of the musical pieces we’ve created and are happy with. On October 15^th, Chris and I spent a loud and productive morning at the John Marley Centre making digital footprints. That means there are now 4 BARTHOLOMEW/cusack pieces in the archives that I’d hope we could eventually release as a CD one day. Obviously, it would be great to balance these recordings with 2 further spoken word pieces, but we’ll need to work on those. Also, we’ll need to sort out the logic of how to communicate with our potential audience, which will presumably mean a Bandcamp page. As someone who doesn’t go for downloads, I’d like it to be an adjunct to physical CD sales, but I’m aware that how audiences consume their music is very different to me wandering up to Listen Ear and asking about the latest post punk releases on a Saturday lunchtime in the late 70s. But, to conclude, if I’m completely honest, I’m as excited today about the future of music and my involvement in it, as I was buying Rough Trade and Fast Product singles in 1979.

Carpe diem, motherfuckers…

 

 

Forest Fired

 A glacial afternoon at Newcastle East End 2 Forest Hall Celtic 0 -:

I took a day off last Monday but was still woken up before 9.00am by a breathless, near hysterical Shelley, who felt I needed to know it had been snowing. After thanking her, and before falling back asleep some 30 seconds later, I gloomily considered that this was undoubtedly bad news for the prospects of local football on Saturday 21^st. Despite an appreciable thaw kicking in on Friday afternoon, the damage had been done in the freezing days before; predictably, every game on grass, from Gateshead downwards, was called off. The one that I’d planned to be at, Percy Main v Haltwhistle, was called off extra early, to save the visitors from a lengthy, wasted journey and so I began to plot my afternoon entertainment. Thankfully, the existence of 4G pitches made this possible.

If there’d not been the spectre of Crystal Palace v Newcastle at 5.30 on the horizon, I think I would probably have chosen Whickham Under 23s v Ellington in the George Dobbins League Cup, which was taking place on the astroturf at Killingworth’s Amberley Park with a 2.30 kick off, as the losers would host Percy Main in the Bill Gardner Cup. Unfortunately, it was a bit of a hike, so I looked elsewhere for my entertainment. These new £2 busfares are making me even meaner with money!!

I’d visited every ground in use that day, comprising Newbiggin at Hirst Welfare, Ponteland United, Independent Cabrito, who beat Chemfica Amateurs by the preposterous margin of 8-3, Newcastle Blue Star and Gosforth Bohemians Reserves, both at Cochrane Park, Morpeth, Blyth Town Under 23s, who subsided 8-0 to Hazlerigg Victory at Great Park and Whitley Bay Sporting Club at Walker Activity Dome. Instead, I moved a little further down the Fossway to Walker School, or the Riverside Academy as it is now known, for Newcastle East End against Forest Hall Celtic.

I chose this game for a couple of reasons; firstly because I like the 4G pitch at Walker, where West Jesmond used to play, as the ball bounces true and not too high, as well as the surface not slowing the game down by being excessively long. Add to that, both sides were in the Tyneside Amateur League back during my stint as chair, so it is good to see then progressing to Alliance Division 1, with East End challenging for a place in the top flight for next year. Finally, having done some work for AQA exam board at Walker School back in the day, I knew of a quick way to the back entrance of the campus. It was still a bit of a hike from Crosslings at Benfield Road where I got off the bus, but having cut across the field at The Turbinia, I could see both teams warming up when I got to the top gates, which is when my problems began. Locked. Barred. Bolted. These gates were harder to pass through than a rich man trying to effect entrance to the Kingdom of Heaven via the St Peter’s Pearly ones. Obviously that 10 foot high metal fence surrounding the school wasn’t an easy option either. I mean, I couldn’t have scaled those spikes when I was 12, so the only choice was to walk the perimeter. In retrospect, back up to the Fossway and round the corner would have been a better way, but instead I went right and discovered that Ennerdale Road is a hell of a lot longer that you’d think. All in all, this meant I didn’t get in the place until about the 15 minute mark.

As I headed up through the car park, East End took a free kick, from distance I presume, that smacked the top of the bar, went over the fence, and rolled down the car park. I know it’s rude of me, but I didn’t go to collect it as I’d missed enough action already. Instead, a whippet-paced sub who confirmed the game remained goalless, did his duty for the team. Sorry pal, but at least it counted as part of your warm up and I’d done more than my 10k steps trying to get to the game already.

There was a decent smattering of casual observers watching procedings, possibly on account of the lack of other games, but also I’d like to think on account of the quality of East End’s play. Having seen table topping Gosforth Bohemians before Christmas at Hexham, I’m very pleasantly surprised with the quality of play in the Alliance second flight. East End may not be quite as fluent as Bohs, but they’re a good side to watch, combining a steady defence with some fine, experienced playmakers in the middle and a degree of pace up top. Forest Hall are struggling near the bottom and gave a decent account of themselves, never giving up or being totally outclassed, but 2-0 flattered them.

East End took the lead on 30 minutes with an unmarked, close range header and doubled their advantage on 55 minutes when an intricate passing movement outfoxed the Forest Hall defence, allowing a free shot into the roof of the net. In truth, it could have been far more, on an afternoon when Hungarian ref Dora Jakob effortlessly kept control of the game, allowing plenty of robust but fair challenges to go unchecked, but both sides seemed to lose impetus after a particularly nasty clash of heads between two Forest Hall defenders. They were sensibly substituted immediately; one with a nasty gash to his scalp and the other seemingly dazed from the impact. A total accident, same as the poor lad from East End who was severely winded when bodychecked by a team mate in the first half.

Injuries apart, I thoroughly enjoyed the game, though the appreciable amount of stoppage time meant it was almost dusk when I stiff-leggily marched up past Daisy Hill to catch the number 1. It was nice to see Johnny Decker on board, looking a lot better than he has in years, but my own problems were more of a concern as I was still shivering when I wandered into the Tynemouth Cricket Club to watch the Newcastle game. Too cold for beer, I stuck to coffee and mused how much more enjoyable the Northern Alliance is than the Premier League.

Incidentally, Ellington won 3-1, so Percy Main are away to Whickham next Saturday in the Bill Gardner. Weather permitting of course…

Sunday Evening Run Out

 Quite unbelievably, I played indoor cricket for the first time in 45 years the other day...

One of the hardest things about doing Dry January I always find, is the temptation caused by the sheer volume of drink lying around the house after New Year. Not just the usual boatload of cans in the fridge, the array of bottles in the wine rack and the secret stash of single malt at the back of the sideboard, that’s there for emergencies only, but the prohibition-busting lake of various, nefarious spirits that only get bought in late November and, seemingly in our house at any rate, only get drunk in early January.

We’d got through the first week back at graft without any alcohol temptation related mishaps, but then Saturday 7^th came along and, on the back of Percy Main’s home loss to Rutherford in the Alliance League Cup and then Chris Wood’s inexplicable miss at Hillsborough that went a long way to assisting Sheff Wed’s dismissal of Newcastle from the FA Cup, it seemed a long, dreary evening of shit television lay ahead when the final whistle went. This is when a litre of dark rum and half that amount of Spanish citrus gin, as well as the appropriate mixers, that our drinks cabinet (aka the downstairs netty) coughed up, can act as a port in a storm. Port you say? Well, there’s also a bottle of that and some pongy cheese that needs eating up. You know where this is going, right? Fairly soon, we moved on from simply smirking at Liverpool’s defence against Wolves to blasting out Give ‘Em Enough Rope in singsong memory of friends passed. Suffice to say, I retired later than at New Year, in a very jolly frame of mind.

Things weren’t so amusing about 6 hours later when I had to take the dog out for his morning constitutional, when the wind stung my teeth and my eyes. Being rational, all that the day seemed to offer was a dozen lethargic hours, spent in front of televised FA Cup action, before an early night in preparation for the working week. As Joe Strummer once so sagely observed; Monday’s coming like a jail on wheels.” And then, just when obscure mediocrity beckoned, my phone went. It was a text from my old mate Martin Pollard.

Poll’s a good lad; off spin legend at a rake of NEPL clubs this past quarter of a century, he’s still doing his thing, despite serious health issues in recent years, for my beloved Tynemouth. One of his particular things is organising the club’s annual tilt at indoor cricket over the winter. Before lockdown, I’d twice followed Tynemouth to Old Trafford (and once to a leisure centre in Horwich, directly opposite the Reebok Stadium when Old Trafford was double booked) to the northern finals of the national indoor 6-a-side competition, only a step away from the grand final at Lords. Things aren’t so grand for the team from Preston Avenue these days; despite beating Cowgate, subsequent losses to Benwell Hill and South North in the North East group competition, meant there was no chance of progressing in 2023. The final game against Seaton Burn was therefore a total dead rubber. Presumably, that’s why I got asked to fill the vacant slot. Despite the raging juniper-fuelled hangover that afflicted my brain, I said yes immediately, failing to recognise that the 8pm start would prevent me from watching Call the Midwife. Result, eh?

Being serious, it is an absolute honour to be asked to represent Tynemouth at whatever level, wherever, whenever and in whatever competition. Despite not having played indoor cricket since about Year 8, I would not have missed this opportunity for the world. So it was, in a snug-fitting, borrowed TCC hoodie (we third teamers don’t require multicoloured pyjamas at our level of the game) and my padded goalkeeper strides, I trod the green vinyl at South North’s indoor cricket centre, on the darkest day in Tynemouth’s proud 176-year history. Having refuelled in the afternoon with several gallons of Vimto and a bunch of bananas, I took my place alongside 5 first teamers (Phil Morse, Andrew Smith, Joe Snowdon, Richard Stanyon and Poll) in as good a state as could be expected for a 58-year-old with a raging hangover.

Briefly, indoor cricket is a 6-a-side game, where batters retire at 25, but can come back. Indeed, you play last batter standing. Runs are scored by hitting the ball against the side or back netting (1), far end netting behind the bowler (4 or 6), or by running (2). You can be caught off the roof, side or back netting. The general standard is 12 overs a side and it’s expected that 5 of the fielding side get to bowl, which is what caused me a little unease as I’m not used to mixing with such elevated company, well apart from my famous appearance at Shotley Bridge in the NEPL 1^st XI T20 competition last year of course…

We batted first and did alright. Smudger and Morsey both got to 25 and had to retire, while Stanners and Snowy holed out, smashing the hard but light hollow plastic ball around the place. This was my cue to simper nervously to the crease to join Poll. His knee reconstruction surgery and my age and heft meant quick singles weren’t on the agenda. Indeed, in similar situations I’ve seen batters deliberately get themselves out (hello Poll), to get the big hitters back in. In the event I did get out first ball, but totally unintentionally and perhaps a touch unluckily. Unbelievably I made a good connection (we’ll not say timed it though) and on a Saturday it could have gone to the rope, but instead a tallish bloke stood at approximately mid-wicket, reached up and snaffled it. Could have been a contender…

Morsey continued the good work and we amassed 127/5 from our 12 overs. The rule of thumb for indoor cricket is that you’ll never win unless you’ve set the opposition at least 10 an over. When I’d played at Shotley Bridge, first XI skipper Matt Brown knew exactly what to do with me in the field; stick me at short fine leg out of harm’s way. In the end I fielded the ball once and found my ideal role in telling Barry Stewart whether the batter was left or right-handed, so he knew where to stand. Similarly for this one, I was kept as far from the action as possible at long on. I think I got to touch the ball about 5 times in total, including one of the most inaccurate shies at the stumps you’ll ever see. It looked like I was suffering from triple vision, though there is the fact that until my recent physiotherapy on my shoulder, I couldn’t throw overarm for about 3 years.

When fielding, I found it difficult to judge the flight of the ball, especially after it bounced. The thing seemed to stop abruptly and fly lower than I expected. Luckily though, it is reasonably easy to bowl with. I did my usual mincing 3-step and then deliver, without attempting to do much other than get it on target and, being honest, I didn’t do badly. A couple of overs for 15 runs, including a wide (not leg side incredibly), when I had to bowl at a left-hander as well, wasn’t a bad effort. Smudger also ran one of theirs out while I was bowling, which I’m claiming as a wicket for no good reason. Incredibly, all 6 of their batters were run out. I wouldn’t say we were the greatest team in the field, but they seemed to panic with the victory target in sight. The result was we won by 20 runs with an over to spare. It may have been a meaningless game in the greater scheme of things but taking part in it is a memory I’ll treasure forever.

 

Heed Space

 I've been Southside recently....

I don’t know about you, but I generally find I became unstuck in time during the Festive Period. How this generally manifests itself is by a loss of comprehension of the relevance of the Calendar. I always know what the date is, but I fail to connect that numerical knowledge with an actual day, as I grow increasing uncomprehending, shorn of the usual weekly appointments that delineate the actual days of the week. Like almost everyone else, a normal week revolves around football on a Saturday and the fact we lost two of them in a row to Christmas Eve and New Year’s Eve knocked me all to pot.  Newcastle’s Boxing Day win at Leicester was a great spectacle, but from that point onwards any relationship between days, dates and football itself stopped existing in any meaningful way in my head. Indeed, it was like that after I got back to work, when I returned exhausted from the first day back at graft, astonished to find out we were playing Arsenal that night.

In the weeks leading up to it, I’d long harboured a belief that somehow, mysteriously if not mystically, a magical ticket for Newcastle versus Leeds would turn up for me. It didn’t and, while you could say I had a lucky escape as the DYBs channelled the ghost of Don Revie’s anti-football tactics to undeservedly steal a point from SJP, sitting on the sofa listening to Radio Newcastle’s commentary was a non-too-pleasant throwback to those far gone decades when, before I’d discovered the beauty and purity of non-league football and in the absence of cash or a ticket for a Newcastle away game in the Arthur Cox, Jack Charlton and Willie McFaul eras, listening to Charles Harrison’s burbling inanities on Metro was the only way to keep (loosely) connected to the outcome of a game. Frankly, I didn’t enjoy my return visit to those far-flung days. Give me the Northern Alliance and regular updates on my phone any day.

I suppose I could have ventured out to Dunston, Spartans or even Spennymoor on Boxing Day, to try and soothe my football-starved soul, but the lack of regular buses spoiled that possibility for a dedicated non-driver such as me. Instead, I focussed on sampling the January 2^nd fixture list, as I simply couldn’t countenance not seeing a single game during my time off work. There were 4 possible candidates: Consett v Dunston and Morpeth v South Shields on 4G pitches would definitely be on, providing fog or a fall of snow didn’t intervene. However, the sheer distance of these relatively inaccessible grounds put me off. When it became clear that clement weather would allow for a full programme of games, choices narrowed to 2 potential candidates: Hebburn v Shields or Gateshead v York. The former appealed because it was cheaper to get in, but I decided on Gateshead for sentimental reasons.

On New Year’s Eve I learned of the death of one of my closest friends from my teenage years, from back in the days we called ourselves the FPX (Felling Punks). Geoff Johnston was only 59 when he passed away and, while I’ll admit to having lost touch with him over the last decade or so, I knew life was tough for him and that his health was failing. While we were growing up, Geoff was the best footballer and most talented musician among us all. He was also devilishly handsome and roguish Ladies’ Man, when such a phrase was still in vogue. For the rest of my life, I’ll never be able to hear Stay Free by The Clash without shedding a tear for him. In short, having already made one trip south of the river to lay flowers on my dad’s grave on December 28^th, I was compelled to make another visit to NE10, to be among those I called my own kind.

I knew that another FPX alumni, Raga, was a Gateshead season ticket holder of a decade and a half standing (he quit SJP even before Ashley bought the place) and would be at the game so, having persuaded my son Ben to join me and to take the car, we headed off down the dirty back lane that leads to the International Stadium. I’ll freely admit to not being a regular visitor to Gateshead games over the past few decades; probably for nigh on 40 years since Bob Topping was banging them in during the early 80s, helping to get the Tynesiders promoted to the GM Vauxhall Conference, as was. I can recall being at an away game at Wealdstone in 1987 when I lived in London and home wins over Barrow and Witton Albion, in front of tiny crowds, in 1992. After that, it took a freebie for a home FA Cup loss in extra time against Oxford in 2013 and a stupendous 4-1 destruction of Grimsby in the play-off semi-final the year after, with nigh on 7,000 in the ground, to reawaken my interest.

My main barrier to enjoying watching the Heed was not the ground, surprisingly enough. Yes, the IS is a terrible, windy, desolate place to watch a game when there’s only a few hundred rattling round the place, but my absence was more to do with the non-football in the bad old Colin Richardson era; a rigid 5-4-1 formation, with the ball belted, high and hard, up top for the big man to try and win a knock down, so the midfielders could pick up the pieces. It never worked and it was ugly, sterile and futile, especially with a gale howling across a pitch that resembled a ploughed field, in front of circa 300 hypothermia sufferers.

Nowadays, under Mike Williamson, the pitch is perfect and the team, revitalised after a couple of years back down int the National League North, courtesy of a shameful punishment caused by the wrongdoings of the previous board, play great football. Face it, if you’ve got Adam Campbell running rings round the opposition, there’s no need to play it above ankle level. As yet, the team hasn’t been rewarded with the amount of points that reflect their style of play, and sit just outside the relegation zone, but they came into this game on the back of a thumping 3-0 win away to York on Boxing Day.

For the return fixture, York brought 740 fans. Almost all of them were in The Schooner before kick-off, so we abandoned all thoughts of a pint and went in the ground early for a Bovril and a blether. The crowd was an impressive 2,203, with home fans supportive throughout, creating impressive noise both times the Heed scored and not getting on keeper James Montgomery’s back when he was caught hopelessly out of position for the first equaliser. Frankly, York were terrible and Gateshead should have been out of sight long before the fortuitous bounce in the area presented them with a late equaliser, but if you don’t take your chances, you will learn to regret it.

I thoroughly enjoyed the afternoon and, while I feel £18 is still a bit pricey, the product on offer isn’t ludicrously expensive. Indeed, if they’d won, I wouldn’t mention this fact at all. It was great to catch up with Raga and I hope to see him and the Heed again soon.

GCJ RIP xxx