Limbo Danse Macabre

Newcastle United; 26/12/2025 to 22/03/2026.  

I last blogged about Newcastle United on 23 December last year (https://payaso-de-mierda.blogspot.com/2025/12/our-party.html ). Ordinarily, I wouldn’t have left it so long before writing another piece, except the main problem has been finding an appropriate time to put down my thoughts, because of the overwhelming torrent of games since Christmas and the scarcely credible fact we have not had a free midweek in all that time. I always feel that a gap in proceedings, such as the current international break, is the best time to share thoughts and observations, to avoid being overtaken by events. Now, thankfully, we have a fortnight without any fixtures to discomfit us, though to suggest Newcastle United won’t be at the front and centre of all our thoughts would be naïve in the extreme, so here goes…

Since Boxing Day, Newcastle United have played 25 games. In that time, we’ve won 11 (including the penalty shootout over Bournemouth in the FA Cup), lost 11 and drawn 3. We’ve scored 45 goals and conceded 44. We began this sequence in 11^th place in the Premier League and end it in 12^th. During this time, we also went out of the 3 cup competitions that we contested. Statistically, and as a matter of fact, this can be described as mediocrity writ large, and that is being generous. I am loath to say this, but questions need to be asked, not just of the whole squad, not just of the detached, uninterested ownership, not just of the seemingly ever evolving but largely invisible senior management, but of the manager and his coaching staff.

For the avoidance of doubt, I am not calling for Eddie Howe to be sacked at this point in time, though if he had offered his resignation immediately after the Sunderland game, I would have thanked him for the memories, respected his decision and moved on from this era. However, regardless of what happens in the 7 meaningless fixtures between now and the end of the season (wouldn’t it be sweet if we lost 6 of them but sneaked a win at the Emirates to end Arsenal’s title hopes?), there needs to be a full and frank inquest into all the mistakes that have been made during this campaign. For several reasons, I doubt this will happen. The main one is that I don’t think the owners are remotely interested in what happens to Newcastle United and the other is that the higher ups in the club, including the deluded but elusive CEO Hoppy (are we still on course to be bigger than Real Madrid by 2030?), haven’t any credible, or indeed tangible, plan for us going forward, other than increasing season ticket prices more than the rate of inflation. This includes a defined transfer strategy and concrete proposals for any ground developments. Is it any wonder that in his Press Conference before the Manchester United away game that started this mammoth sequence of games, Howe said the whole club’s plans remain “in limbo?” Four years on from the takeover and not a single concrete promise has been made, nor has a sod been turned. This is no different to the Ashley era; do nowt and hang the manager out to dry in public when questions get difficult. Derek Llambias was a better communicator than Hoppy is and at least he was honest about how the then owners didn’t care about the club. Then again, many more performances like the home losses to Brentford, Everton and Sunderland and we can probably think about mothballing large unoccupied swathes of seating from next season onwards.

What I want Eddie Howe to do is return to exactly what made him our best manager in my lifetime. He needs to develop a coherent playing strategy that utilises the players available to him in the most effective way. Is it a high press or something else? I don’t know. I’m not a coach or tactician. I do know that wilting under pressure and abjectly surrendering leads in the latter stages of games is not part of any masterplan. Howe needs time on the training ground, so sorely missing these last few months of fixture chaos, to get his ideas across. Perhaps he could think about fielding the best players available in their natural positions once in a while. In mitigation, he could also do with some luck in terms of players coming back from injury. That is beyond his control, as are the feverish rumours that so many of the squad are for the off (Bruno, Tonali, Gordon and Livramento for starters, but not Wissa surprisingly enough), we’ll be lucky to field a 6-a-side team next season. In all seriousness, let’s lick our wounds and move on. There are 21 points to play for and the outside chance of a Europa Conference League place, not to mention the North East Top Dogs Trophy.

So, how did we get here? Boxing Day saw us suffer the indignity of being tactically outfoxed by Reuben Amorim in a shoddy 1-0 loss at Old Trafford. Looking back to the notes I made then, I see that the support was fractured (a repeated feature of this campaign), between those who thought we’d been unlucky, citing 46 crosses into the box and several good saves by Lammens, and those who saw it as another away debacle. There were voices then calling for Howe’s head, suggesting Glasner or Iraola as his replacement. Well, three months on neither of those are pulling up any trees as both Palace and Bournemouth are below us in the table, for now at least.  The really sad thing about this loss was it reinforced the fact that winning a cup didn’t make everything alright forever. We neither settled down to enjoy the warm afterglow of that success, nor pushed on to the next level this season. We just carried on being mediocre, making people miserable and stumbling through the campaign without any indication of where we wanted to be.

After that loss, we actually won another away game, against Burnley. Even then, because Pope had been recalled ahead of Ramsdale and the Clarets had us rocking for part of the second half, the on-line moral majority decided we’d actually lost 5-0, not won 3-1. It made me think I’d been seeing double, which I possibly had as Ben and I had indulged in a pleasant selection of craft ales in House before watching this on the telly. Perhaps that why I was blinking so much when Joelinton and then Wissa (honestly) scored. The whole match had an air of unreality about it, topped off by missing Bruno’s final goal as I was micturating. Great night I must say.

I scored a ticket for the Palace game, despite the day being so cold I didn’t fancy crossing the doors. Then again, I made it, unlike the person who was supposed to be in the seat next to me. I was half expecting an invoice for the club for 2 tickets after I gradually strayed on to the neighbouring, unoccupied berth, partly because of the size of the silent, hirsute Richard Dawson lookalike to my right, who was squeezing me out of my seat with his heft. The game was poor before the break, with Palace showing zero interest in attacking and Adam Wharton being totally unimpressive for the second season in a row. In the end Miley, Thiaw, Bruno and Joelinton were outstanding performers on a day we cruised to a routine win by upping the ante after the interval.

The temperature hadn’t increased much when Leeds came to visit on the following Wednesday. I did notice 200 seats came up for sale on the club website that afternoon. Padded seats in the corporate section for £46, but with no meals. Literally, we do have fair weather fans, and I was one of them, especially with an 8.15 kick off. In a crazy game, we definitely deserved the win. More shots. More possession. Crucially, more goals. Leeds may whine about the lateness of the winner, but 3 subs in injury time and the keeper’s pathetic attempt at saving Barnes’ shot were where the blame really lies for their self-inflicted loss.

It seems almost surreal looking back on some of these games, which though only two months ago, seem like they’re from a different lifetime. Take for instance, the crazy FA Cup third round tie at home to Bournemouth. Do you remember it? We won 7-6 on penalties after a breathless 120 minutes ended level at 3-3. It was absolutely Baltic, after a predicted weather bomb didn’t materialise, and the game didn’t end until after 6pm. Personally I was warm in the living room, having taken in Newcastle East End 1 Haltwhistle Jubilee 3 at a slightly less packed Coach Lane. After the strenuous efforts against Leeds and with the up coming League Cup semi-final, I would have been happy to lose this one. I was still jumping around the living room when Ramsdale’s 3 penalty saves gave us a measure of revenge for the 1992 loss at the same stage. Although, when we got pulled out of the hat away to Villa, it seemed as if this had all been in vain. Eventually this was to prove the case, as we had our final of 4 defeats by Man City to deal with.

I’ll always love our experiences of the League Cup under Eddie Howe. Two finals, one won, a plucky quarter final loss and then, on reflection, a straightforward loss over 2 legs to City in the semis. It could have been different of course, if Wissa hadn’t wasted that early golden chance. In truth, we put in a good shift before the break, but as I say every time City beat us, they’re just too good for us in every department. This was the game when Jacob Ramsey started to show his worth for us. Like Thiaw and Woltemade, who are both woefully out of form, he’s a damn fine player. Even Elanga is starting to come into his own, but Wissa is the absolute turkey of last summer’s signings. Fluffed chance apart, he did nothing memorable in this game, shambling around like a podgy, aged dwarf. This was so apparent after the break as the theme of the season, the second half collapse, saw City stroll to victory. There’s no point in bellyaching about Semenyo’s appearance as rules are rules, even if they always benefit the top 6. Remember the disallowed goal? I think VAR took so long because they were wondering if Haaland deserved a red card. Woltemade was twice agonisingly close, but their late second just ruined any hopes we may have entertained of a second leg comeback.

This was no disgrace. What was total disgrace was the hurriedly withdrawn NUST sportswashing video a couple of days later, advertising Emirates Airlines. Because reaction was so overwhelmingly negative, it was quickly deleted. Typically, the NUST board didn’t offer to resign en masse for this woeful tactical error. Indeed, it didn’t even get mentioned at their AGM. Pitiful. Wrong. Appalling. And that just about sums up the 0-0 away to Wolves that followed it. Enough to get football done away with.

Then, we were back in Champions League action. The blur of fixtures had got my head scrambled, so I’d assumed it was PSG away next, but it wasn’t. It was PSV at home, and I didn’t even try to get a ticket as I’d not known the correct date. Funny game this one; PSV were woeful. Definitely the worst side I’d seen at SJP all season. Me and Knaggsy watched it down The Victory in South Gosforth. Great pub. Not too full. Excellent view of the screen and a storming pint of Citra for less than a fiver. That and the praiseworthy performance of the whole team put me in a good mood, as we were excellent all over the park. It was concerning to see Bruno go off with the injury that has effectively wrecked our season, but it almost brought a tear to the eye seeing Lewis Miley don the captain’s armband. Obviously, the injury he suffered, as well as Tonali’s travails are also responsible for us falling apart with the whole first choice midfield missing.

Back to normal next time out, with a very impressive Villa rolling us over at SJP. I’d scored a freebie in the Platinum Club for this one, courtesy of my pal Little Richard. I thought we’d lose this, partly because we’d won so often against Villa and they had such a rotten record up here, but such statistical anomalies don’t consider the fact they were a very good side on the day. Botman was in good form, but I had Tonali as our best player, even if he really should have closed Buendia down for the opener. Ramsey was lively in the second half, but I feel our attacking fire had burned out before they got their second. This was a cue for the biggest mass exit I think I’ve ever seen at SJP, which actually prevented me seeing the pitch for a good 5 minutes. Not a great look for the self-appointed most loyal (note the grammar, please) football fans the world has ever seen. Perhaps the most worrying aspect on reflection was Villa reacting to this by going out and buying Tammy Abrahams. Alright, he’s not brilliant, but it showed intent on their part that our owners don’t remotely appear to have. Our January transfer business was, predictably, non-existent.

When the PSG game finally came around, I was worried that the team selected would invite pressure on to us by having nothing in midfield. So it seemed for the opening few minutes, when Pope got us out of jail by saving the ludicrous penalty awarded against Miley. That was a woeful decision but was almost dwarfed by Elanga getting booked for being fouled. Insane. However, things calmed down and Willock, Woltemade and Ramsey were all excellent as we played some of our best football of the season in the last 75 minutes. If only Barnes had finished his late chance, we could have avoided another 2 games in the play-offs, but it was good to draw away to the holders when we were actually the better side for most of the game.

The Liverpool game passed me by. I’d ordered my Sainsbury’s delivery for 8pm on the Friday night. It didn’t come. Despite the app telling me, it would be delivered by 11.17pm, nothing showed up. Saturday morning, I was informed by text there had been a mechanical breakdown and that it would arrive by 8pm Saturday. It did. It came at 2pm when I was out at Willington Quay Saints v Percy Main. After a flurry of emails and unhelpful calls to customer service, they faithfully promised it would arrive that evening. It didn’t. The Liverpool game took place and I missed it all. The shopping finally showed up on Sunday at 8pm, just as Call the Midwife was starting. A total fiasco, but at least I got £30 in compensation, as well as a load of out of date produce for free. Next time, I’ll just do my shopping myself.

So we move on to February, with 10 of the 25 games played. First up was the second leg of the League Cup semi away to City. With defeat almost guaranteed, this felt almost like being made redundant from a job you’ve loved (if that is possible), as we surrendered our hold on the trophy. It had been great while it lasted, but there was nothing you could do about the inevitable.  Like the PSG game, the opening stages were a fiasco, with Trippier and Ramsdale particularly bad, but once the tie had been lost, we did come back into it, missing some more than presentable chances. Elanga scored a good goal and then missed an easier opportunity. In the end, a 5-1 loss on aggregate was a fair reflection on the chasm in quality between the sides. I suppose it is of some consolation, but not much, that we lost to the eventual winners. Actually, it’s more of a consolation that Arsenal lost the final, if I’m honest. I still maintain if we’d drawn Arsenal or Chelsea in the semis, we would have reached the final, where City would undoubtedly still have handed us our arses.

Brentford at home. Another rock bottom moment in a season full of them. The game when I realised Wissa was actually the reincarnation of Milton Nunez. He gets visibly worse by the game. The torrent of boos at the end was predictable, expected and justified. As yet, chants of “you don’t know what you’re doing” haven’t been aimed at Howe, but if they come, he really is finished.

Around this time, I started to grow tired of the relentless treadmill of games, feeling both the team and the crowd needed a rest, to try and recover some energy levels, but of course that wasn’t possible. Instead we headed to Spurs, the real basket case of the top flight. What looked to be a nailed-on shit show between two injury plagued, out of form sides, saw us stroll to a comfortable victory. Both Ramsey and Willock were superb, and the only regret was that Romero wasn’t on the pitch to play his part in getting Frank his P45.

I had thought the worst refereeing decision I was likely to see was the nonsensical VAR intervention that denied Willock a goal by the width of his forehead against Spurs, but this was nothing compared to the complete debacle at Villa Park in the FA Cup. What must not be forgotten was that we played well and Tonali gave a masterclass in midfield. It was also gratifying to see Woltemade back on the scoresheet. However, that all pales into insignificance when we examine the staggering incompetence of Chris Kavanagh, whose decision making recalled the ghosts of Trelford Mills, Brian Coddington, Gordon Kew and Uriah Rennie. To summarise: their goal was offside, Hall was fouled in the box, and nothing was given, Digne should have seen a straight red for scything down Murphy. Hence it should have been 0-0 at half time with them down to 9. Then, we should have had a penalty when Digne (who shouldn’t have still been on the pitch) handled. At least we scored from the subsequent free kick, even if Burn was offside. And then, we buried them, to deservedly progress into the next round. Kavanagh should never referee in the top flight again, if that is the best he can do. Imagine saying that after we won with ease. It just shows how terrible his performance was.

We followed this up with a good performance. We may have regretted having to play Qarabag as we didn’t avoid the play offs, but those who made the journey returned with tales of a beautiful city and wonderful hospitality. A 6-1 win wasn’t to be sniffed at either. Obviously the Fourth Estate, in seeking to make as much negative publicity about NUFC as possible, blew up the Trippier and Gordon penalty disagreement to be like another Bowyer and Dyer pitched battle. It wasn’t like.

On the Saturday, we went to City for our usual loss. I saw the first half in The Bodega before heading to The Lubber Fiend for Vibracathedral Orchestra. They were excellent incidentally. Burn’s goal was rightly disallowed for offside, but what a rotten piece of shithousing by them to render him offside with a push before the ball was kicked.

The Qarabag home game was a sloppy and unconvincing win. I was bemused by Howe playing Burn all game when he was a booking away from a suspension. I was even more perplexed by the introduction of Hall, who surely deserved a night off after his sterling efforts this season. There was more unjustified flak towards Woltemade, despite Wissa coming on and doing even less, as well as fulminating on social media regarding those who had committed the sin of applauding an away goal.  Sometimes, we just can’t be happy.

Certainly, nobody was happy with the disastrous loss to Everton. Alright so Pickford secured a point with a worldy from Tonali, but we should never have allowed ourselves to be in the position of chasing the game. What the hell was Pope playing at? Three home league losses in a row is unacceptable, but with a thin, inadequate and seemingly unmotivated and exhausted squad, things can always get worse.

March heralded 6 potential defeats in a row as the team staggered from one self-inflicted blow to another. However, there was a brief window of adequacy as we beat Manchester United, whose on-line support took defeat with as much grace as Matt Goodwin had shown after the Gorton by election. To quote Jacob Murphy; “who’d have thought it?” Certainly not the referee Mr Fernandes and his assistant Peter Bankes, who rivalled Chris Kavanagh in levels of incompetence. The red card given to Jacob Ramsey was as bad a decision as I’ve ever seen. It wasn’t simulation. He lost his balance and fell over. Even worse, despite the VAR panel confirming Bankes had made the wrong call, there was nothing to be done about it. Second yellows don’t go to VAR and can’t be rescinded, so he was banned for the next game. That didn’t matter in the moment as Osula scored one of those amazing last gasp winners that will be talked about for half a century. It reminded me of Mick Walsh’s for Blackpool against Sunderland in 1975. That said, the whole of the team put in a great shift the whole night.

This continued for probably the first half an hour of the City cup game on the following Saturday. By that point we were a goal ahead after a lovely Barnes finish and really taking the contest to them. Of course, reality had to intervene and as they stepped it up, as our belief withered away. It wasn’t really a performance to justify the outrageous season ticket price rises announced the day before, as another path to silverware was closed off to us.

It had been widely assumed that Barcelona would brush us aside in the Champions League, which they did eventually, but we really should have headed to Camp Nou with our noses in front. Yes their equaliser was a penalty (given only 10 seconds over the allotted 4 minutes of injury time, so not really a disgrace, unlike the lack of a booking for Yamal), but from the last 25 minutes I saw, having opted to take in Tyneside’s big game of Benfield 1 Thornaby 0 in front of 54 hysterical fans, we could and probably should have been more than a goal to the good. Still, at least we did better than Man City, Chelsea, Spurs and Liverpool did on the same night.

And then we went to the Premier League’s other current basket case, Chelsea. We don’t win very often here. I remember a 2-0 in March 1983 on my first visit, a 3-1 in November 1986 on my second visit and the insane Cisse double in 2012 as our only league triumphs in my lifetime. This one was sealed by a pass by Livramento that Schar would have been proud of, a determined run by Willock and a bobbly finish by Gordon that gave us the single goal needed. There was another desperately poor refereeing decision that saw Reece James get away with wrestling Thiaw to the floor from a corner, when we should have had a penalty, but we’ll take the points. It gave us 42, which should make us safe.

Talk then turned to which of the games coming up in the next week we wanted to win the most. Obviously, being Newcastle United, we lost them both. I missed the first half of the Barca game, stuck in a computer repair show trying to collect a lap top, but arrived at Tynemouth Cricket Club just as we conceded a penalty to go 3-2 down. I was there for the (postponed, inquorate) AGM, so instead watched in mute horror as everything that could go wrong, went wrong as we lost to the same score as Man United had treated us to in the League Cup in 1976. We had matched Barca for 135 minutes of this tie but then fell to pieces. Despite a good run in the competition, I saw no crumbs of comfort to be taken from this loss and feared the worst for Sunday.

The loss to Sunderland was as predictable as it was deserved. We may, theoretically, have the better players, but they are a better team, and their manager knows how to dictate things tactically. In contrast, one has to wonder what is said at the break in our dressing room, as the second half was as weak and pitiful a surrender as any seen this season, including the one at Barca four days earlier.

Strangely, the derby loss doesn’t sting as much as they normally do. After all, we should be used to not beating them at home as it is 16 years since we last did. Also, they totally deserved it. No arguments. No complaints. Well, actually, quite a lot of complaints, but they’re all directed at the players, the owners and the current management team. Where we go from here, I have no idea, but at the present time, I don’t really care. We’ve regressed to a Steve Bruce or Alan Pardew style paralysis, which isn’t a good look. Thank goodness it’s almost the cricket season again.

 

 

The Dimming of the Light

Monday 9th March would have been The Auld Fella Eddy Cusack's 92nd birthday, so in memory of him, here's a blog about how I'm ageing, rapidly, but not without a fight....

On Wednesday 4^th March, I woke up at the usual time (10.30 now I’m retired), emptied my bladder, brushed my teeth and then got on the scales. That morning I weighed 97kg, which is 210 lb or 15 stones dead in old money. Hefty? Sure, but as I’m 180cm tall (the one statistic that remains unchanged year on year in my medical records), this means my BMI is currently 29.9. Overweight certainly, but I’m no longer obese, for the first time in almost 18 years and able to fit back into jeans I last wore in 2008. Small victories like this are cause for celebration in my world, as ever since I discovered beer and junk food in my late teens, I’ve fought an unending battle with my weight, sometimes with a measure of success, but mainly abject failure.

The heaviest I ever got was an appalling 126kg, which is only a mild kick in the arse from 20 clem. It was a real wake up call. That was when I was emotionally at my lowest ebb in late 2004 and, having decided that I wanted to live and not die, during the following year, I shed about 25kg. Viewing that as job done, I suppose I became complacent, so the weight crept back on gradually over the years, but it was the inertia of lockdown really saw me in my worst shape, piling the beef back on until I ended up back at 121kg. The irony was, I remained reasonably active, playing football twice a week and riding my bike everywhere. Team sport ended in March 2020, which was bad news for me, mentally and physically. Admittedly I still rode a bike, but there was nowhere to go and nobody to see, so the motivation to do anything other than aimlessly tour the same old empty streets quickly waned. No exercise meant no social contact and no endorphin rush. I retreated into my shell, ate shit and boozed alone. It was a tough old time, as photos of me from that era will confirm. I looked and felt terrible.  However, the darkest hour is the one before dawn and getting rid of the beard and dreads in 2022, plus several lifestyle and personal changes, not least being diagnosed as a type 2 diabetic, gave me a kickstart to do something about it, which was sorely needed as I approached my 60s.

Right now, I’m 61 years and 7 months old. My body is starting to show signs of wear and tear from the pummelling I’ve given it over the years. Consequently, I take the following medication with my morning coffee: Metformin 2 x 500mg for type 2 diabetes (and the same with my evening meal), Dapagliflozin 10mg for type 2 diabetes, Lansoprazole 30mg to counteract acid reflux, Atorvastatin 20mg to lower cholesterol (I’m 27% more likely to have a heart attack this year than last, apparently), Lisinopril 2.5mg to protect my kidneys (the old fella died of kidney cancer the day after Bobby Robson passed in 2009), Propranolol 2 x 40mg for anxiety (the only medication I’ve ever taken that I can unequivocally state has had a real and sustained positive impact on me) and Citalopram 2 x 20mg for my “depression,” which I don’t think I have, so I don’t believe it does anything for me. That’s 10 tablets every morning and two more at night. You’ll not be surprised to learn I’ve got a proper old bugger dosette box to keep them in. My Saturday morning ritual is squeezing out all the blister packs with the appropriate dosage for the week ahead. Rock and roll eh?

I don’t just take prescription medication either. For whatever reason, I’ve started taking some of these supplements that social media algorithms push at me every day. Being candid, it’s mainly because the cumulative effect of all these pills I take is that I frequently suffer from quite distressing constipation. I can go a few days without a bowel movement, which makes me feel rancid: bloated, poisoned, embarrassed by my farts and gurgling guts. Doctors tell me to drink lots of water and strong coffee, as well as having more fruit and roughage in my diet, but I don’t physically think I can take more of those things than I already do. Hence, my descent into quackery. At the start of the year I tried mushroom gummies, to no discernible effect. When they ran out, I moved on to Oregano and black seed oil gels. They don’t seem to be doing anything either. Next up, I’ve got milk thistle to try, but I’m not holding my breath as to the supposed miraculous effect in cleansing my liver.

So, back to Wednesday late morning. Caffeinated and medicated, I eat a banana, pick up my water bottle and head to the gym. I’ve been going for about 18 months now, regularly 4 or 5 times a week, and it is having a hell of a positive impact on me, both physically and mentally. I put my weight loss almost entirely down to this, though it might be because I’m now lactose intolerant and am no longer able to be the cheeseaholic I once was. Being serious, the gym it gives me so much of a serotonin boost that I can face a world I’ve always viewed as bleak, hostile and cursed, even if it is, with confidence. My routine is pretty much the same. I don’t go on Mondays as I play football that night or Saturdays, as I’m currently preoccupied with Percy Main FC and, come mid-April, the Tynemouth CC cricket season starts. Another problem I’ve got is with my shoulders; the right one is arthritic, and the left one is partially frozen. All I’ve been offered is painkillers for the right and an interminable wait for physio on the left. Even if I could afford to, I wouldn’t go private on principle. Hence, I don’t do any lifting, because I can’t. Instead, it’s purely cardio, which means bike, treadmill and rowing machine. On Wednesday 4^th March, the bikes were occupied when I arrived, so I banged out 7.5 km on the treadmill, which took me 70 minutes and burned off 600 calories. I was literally shaking when I finished, but felt elated as I limped home, oblivious to the impending pains in my lower back and calves, though I knew immediately that Thursday’s workout would be bike and rowing machine only.

Back home, I discarded my soaking gym outfit, downed a litre of water, flavoured with effervescent electrolyte tablets, then took a long, hot shower before inhaling my brunch. Porridge made with oat milk, blueberries and a spoonful of vegan yoghurt. I don’t weigh the portions, but it’s a big bowl I have, and I need it because I’m always fucking clamming after being in the gym. These days, I try to limit myself to 2 meals a day, as well as not having any crisps or biscuits (other than Scottish rough oatcakes) in the house. So for dinner, it was wholewheat pasta with a pile of vegetables (onions, mushrooms, celery, broad beans and sun dried tomatoes) in a basic tomato sauce. The sort of shit I subsisted on as a postgrad student at Leeds Uni back in 1987, when I lived in a strictly vegetarian household. Generally tasteless, except for the excessive dashes of garlic, black pepper and smoked paprika I hoy in, but very filling. Pretty low fat, but short of protein, so I lobbed a tin of tuna in with it. Don’t tell the Headingley Vegan Mafia please.

Now, if that was it for the day, we’d all be praising my new healthy lifestyle, but there’s a sting in the tail. Wednesday 4^th March saw Newcastle at home to Man Utd. I didn’t get offered a ticket, which surprised me as seemingly the entire crowd at the Everton game were threatening never to go back while Howe was manager, or at least that is the feeling I go from Twitter. As is always the case, the game was on telly, so I legged it down to The Victory at South Gosforth, my hips and calves stinging from the treadmill, where I meet my mate Knaggsy. He’s the same age as me and our conversation always begins with a discussion of our latest ailments.

Knaggsy was diagnosed with prostate cancer last year and has just completed his course of radiotherapy at the Freeman. The prognosis is really positive and I wish him, and another mate Andy who is also suffering from prostate cancer and about to begin his course of radiotherapy, all the very best. I am eternally grateful for my surgery insisting on a whole barrage of annual check-ups, from blood tests to bowel cancer screening that, fingers crossed, has shown I’m still in decent health. However, my annual contact lens check up on Tuesday 3^rd revealed the fact I now have cataracts. Very small ones and no need to book in for a procedure yet, as my vision isn’t being impaired, but that could well be the case next year, if things become blurry. Knaggsy has glaucoma, so he sympathises.

We all know how the game panned out and Osula’s stunning late winner meant we were naughty and, instead of limiting ourselves to 4 pints, we had a fifth to celebrate. Five pints of Oakham Citra, a 4.6% session beer. A canny drink on a midweek night, especially as they keep it perfectly in The Victory. Obviously nothing compared to what I used to put away, but enough to tell me, as I weaved home, that I was reasonably well served. This, of course, didn’t stop me pouring a couple of generous measures of Irish whiskey when I got in and watched the highlights on Match of the Day. On Thursday, I felt a bit rough, but the Oakham Citra did the job it is best at and my constipation, which I’d endured since Sunday, was a thing of the past.

Yes I know I still drink too much, but as with ideal BMI measurements (I’d need to be 76kg not to be overweight and that is not going to happen), the regulations are inflexible. I know plenty of people who have endured the illness of alcohol addiction and several who have died young because of it, but I don’t think it is likely at my age that I’m going to suddenly become gripped by an insatiable urge to quaff white cider for breakfast. The fact is, I could have stayed in the house alone and watched the game, but as a social being, I crave interaction. That is why I went to Benfield 1 Marske 1 on the Tuesday to catch up with my mate Gary who is having a tough time of it, and why I met Knaggsy. After the health issues he’s had, and remembering all those close to me I’ve lost recently (at least 3 this year so far, for instance), I think it is imperative I keep in touch with my friends. So what if that involves exceeding the weekly number of recommended units? I would feel immeasurably worse if I didn’t meet up with my pals regularly. Having recently spent my first ever Christmas Day on my own, I can tell you loneliness is an awful thing to endure.

What I’ve come to realise is that death is inevitable and we have no way of predicting when it happens or halting it when it arrives. Ageing is a different matter. We all grow old and our bodies start to slow down and break but trying to keep moving forward in a reasonable shape is one of the best ways I know to keep my head right. For decades, the spectre of mental illness haunted me. It blighted so much of my life, for the worse. However, I decided not to let it define me. Yes, I’m a disputatious sod who can start a fight in an empty phone box, but I believe, fundamentally, I’m a decent person and that my life, thus far, has seen me do some good for humanity. I’d like to keep on living for a while yet, though if the Assisted Dying Bill becomes law and I end up terminally ill, I’ll certainly avail myself of it. While I still have breath and the energy to enjoy life, I’ll embrace it to the full. If the price of that is a dozen prescription pills a day, then so be it.

Overfilled & Half Empty Glasses

Culturally, this is what I’ve been consuming so far in 2026. I’m trying to make the most of reading and seeing bands, as I’ve just been diagnosed with cataracts…

MUSIC:

I had hoped my first live music of 2026 would have been John Garner and John Pope’s lunchtime performance at Northumbria University on Tuesday 17^th February, but despite being in town that day, the number of appointments I had made it impossible to get along (sorry fellas!), so my actual first gig was Vibracathedral Orchestra at The Lubber Fiend on Saturday 21^st. This was supposed to be with Ben, but the poor lad cried off with a nasty bout of flu and I couldn’t even give my spare away, despite strenuous efforts. This being The Lubber Fiend, nobody it checked either. This was my first time of seeing the legendary free ensemble in person and I was desperately disappointed by the paltry turn out. Predictably, none of the No Audience Underground Beautiful People made it along, on account of the fact they weren’t on the bill, in all probability. Having watched the first half of the Man City game in The Bodega, I missed support act Joe Posset, for which I humbly apologised. Indeed, the Vibracathedral Orchestra had already started by the time I got settled. They were brilliant. Hypnotic. Loud. Innovative. And it’s the first time I’ve ever had to put a sticking plaster on a bleeding musician’s index finger mid set. An hour and a half of beguiling free noise persuaded me to buy their 10” Live at Total Inertia (from 2016) for the knockdown price of a fiver. Tremendous it is, and this was a tremendous night, over early enough so I could test my pensioner’s prostate on the last 38 home. It failed. Just.

Inspired by Vibracathedral Orchestra and my regular emails from Café Oto, I sourced their former collaborator, percussionist, as well as one time member of Dream / Aktion Unit, Chris Corsano’s 2006 solo album The Young Cricketer from Discogs after hearing snatches on Bandcamp. It is a fabulous, punishing, atonal racket. Frenetic drumming and squealing, home made reed instruments on a series of short and loud pieces. It made this old cricketer very happy indeed. He’s touring this year and I’d love to see him.

The next gig I did see came hot on the heels of the first; Mogwai at The Glasshouse on Thursday 26^th, in the company of a largely recovered Ben, Dave, John, Marc and Charlotte. It was almost a year to the day since Ben, Dave and I had seen then in Leeds and two years since they last played The Glasshouse. Was it a case of familiarity breeding contempt at first? Possibly, but also the inability of The Glasshouse security staff to adequately manage the flow of punters into the main hall didn’t help. The stage left side was dangerously overfilled, to the point it was impeding enjoyment of the performance. Sensibly, Ben and I took the decision to shift round to the other side, ending up right next to Marc and Charlotte as it turned out, and this is when things got immeasurably better. From the fourth number in, the ferocious slavering monster that is Mogwai Fear Satan, we were back on familiar, tremulous ground. The Glasshouse has always been blessed with incredible acoustics and tonight was no exception. You could literally feel the floor shake, while hearing every nuance of sound.  If you consider Mogwai played only 12 songs in their 100 minutes on stage, you’ll know what territory we were in. A single encore, but that was My Father, My King. There’s nothing left to say after that. Brilliant as ever, after a bit of an iffy start. Next up; GY!BE in Leeds. Best keep those ear plugs handy, eh?

As regards music I’ve bought, I showed loyalty to Wormhole World Recordings for releasing my (now sold out) Hello Cheeky CD in January, by buying their February bundle. Four fantastic slices of outsider art: Deficit Piala Endependence, Gidiouille Collective Now, Here, Greg Nieuwsma and Antanello Perfelto Things Heard in the Fan and the peerless Shunyata Improvisation Group Wild Garden.

Obviously I was familiar with SIG, whose release is their first in their current iteration as a trio, and Gidiouille, whose album is a meditation on News from Nowhere by William Morris. These are both excellent riffs on the furrow these artists plough, but I was unaware of the other artists. Deficit is a Russian Asian sound artist and Piala Endependence is a tribute to bazaars. I quite like it but prefer the more menacing improvisational noise of Things Heard in the Fan by Greg Nieuwsma and Antanello Perfelto. Whatever the style, whatever the artistic merit, the fact that Wormhole World work so devotedly in putting obscure stuff out there is what really matters. I feel awfully guilty I missed out on their March bundle but will be poised for when the April one is announced. As you can see, I’ve become rather detached from the mainstream, which is no bad thing of course.

BOOKS:

Obviously the year began with the reading of my Christmas presents. First up was Whitley Bay’s number one exponent of Tyneside noir Austin Burke and his latest Shiver in the Dark, which is a follow up to 2024’s Crazy on the Waltzer. Like the first book, this is a realistic, hard-boiled tale of North Tyneside’s grim underbelly. It isn’t so much a police procedural, as a criminal caper. Starting with a botched robbery near Rotterdam, the action then switches location to the mean streets of Earsdon, where protagonist Paul Docherty (we’d best not call him a hero) finds himself in a real life, ultra-violent version of Traitors. After some hair-raising scrapes and several unexpected plot twists (a couple of which you’d never have guessed in a month of Sundays), he comes out the other side, ready to fight, steal and deal again. There will be a third book in this series and I’m looking forward to it immensely. If you like your crime fiction tough, brutal and in a series of locations you’ve walked and drank in, this is a book for you. I couldn’t recommend it highly enough.

Staying with the north east theme, Ian Fawdon’s detailed, if somewhat piecemeal, account of the region’s musical heritage from the early 60s to the present day, Too Far North, is an absorbing read. However, what intrigues me is as much what he misses out, the Riverside, dance music and No Audience Underground / Tusk movements in particular, rather than what he writes about. We get superbly detailed accounts of the Dolce Vita era 60s beat groups and a reasonably broad perspective on the 70s folk rock movements, with a highly praiseworthy account of Prelude after their moment in the sun, but after that the lens is less widely focussed. The punk period doesn’t include much about Penetration and their influence and subsequent activities, but it is fascinating to read what happened to the criminally underrated Neon. Strangely, Club Anti Pop and the Noise Toys from the Gosforth Hotel, not to mention Total Chaos and the Garage, are missing from this section, along with a whole litany of important bands of that time, such as The Model Workers, The Weights and the legendary Chris Gray Band. In contrast, the NWOBHM is given massive coverage that, from my perspective I’d wonder if it merits. I think I’ve still got the Mythra single somewhere you know, but having endured a Venom show at Heworth Miners’ Welfare in July 1980, there was little else I wanted to learn about that scene. Kitchenware, despite a total lack of input from the elusive and evasive Paddy McAloon, is dealt with in detail, before the book finishes by talking about the Sunderland scene (bizarrely including Maximo Park), based around Pop Recs, in hagiographic terms. As I say, Riverside is not mentioned, so I’d suggest you look up Carol Lynn and Carl Taylor’s brilliant, exhaustive account of that period of north east music instead. Dance music (Rezzerection, Bloated and what have you) is totally missing, as is the experimental side of things, starting at Spectro Arts, by way of Zoviet France, Tusk and the present day work of TQ, which is an unforgivable omission I feel. An interesting, thorough read, but perhaps concentrating on too few elements and in too much detail.

Sometimes, exhaustive detail is to be welcomed and that is certainly the case with Say Nothing by Patrick Radden Keefe. This is primarily the story of the abduction, murder and eventual discovery of the remains of Jean McConville, a widowed mother of 10 who was taken from her home in West Belfast’s Divis Flats in December 1972 by a vengeful Republican mob who claimed, correctly it appears, that the woman was a paid informer for the British state. The tragedy of the whole story is not just the dire economic circumstances that forced the starving widow into accepting blood money, but the sheer, undimmed outrage by resolutely unapologetic Republicans, many of whom had no sympathy for her fate. This was not only true of active IRA physical force veterans such as the late Dolours Price, named as the one who pulled the trigger, or Brendan Hughes, but of ordinary, working class West Belfast Nationalists, who despised the occupying British army with every fibre of their being. More than half a century on, there is still little pity for Jean McConville, nor for her blighted children, whose subsequent lives were lived in the torment of not knowing what had become of their mother. In such a story, despite the relative normality of the Six Counties post Good Friday Agreement, there are only losers, apart from perhaps one man. The former MP for West Belfast, TD for Louth and President of Sinn Fein, but never (as he is at pains to insist) IRA Chief of Staff, Gerry Adams. What Say Nothing establishes beyond all doubt is the centrality of Adams’s role in the execution of Jean McConville. He didn’t carry it out, but he ordered and planned it. This, as Keefe Radden so eloquently proves, is evidence of the sheer, self-serving, sociopathic streak that runs through Adams like a streak of seaside rock. And, at the end of the day he, like William Bloat’s wife, is still alive and sinning.

It is of course hard to imagine Gerry Adams without the beard. The Gerry Adams Beard is part and parcel of the Gerry Adams Persona. It symbolises his revolutionary ardour, his passion for constitutional change. And now as it whitens it cements his status as eminence-grise, aging philosopher king.

The above quotation is taken from David Ireland’s play, Cyprus Avenue. When first staged in Dublin, the central role of Loyalist terrorist and PTSD sufferer Eric was played by Dolour Price’s ex-husband Stephen Rea. In the play, Eric becomes firstly convinced his baby granddaughter has been fathered by Gerry Adams and then, as his mania worsens, is actually Gerry Adams. The shocking violence that ends the play makes it a chilling meditation on national identity, delusional beliefs and the desensitising effect of mindless violence on the individual. It is a strong piece, and I’d love to see it on stage.

J. G. Ballard’s final novel, Kingdom Come, also deals with delusional beliefs, mob rule and senseless violence. Set in the familiar M40 corridor of consumerist, cultural deserts out past Heathrow, Ballard takes a shopping centre (the Metro Centre, ironically) as a symbol of Little Englander avarice and intolerance. A whole cult of consumerist ethnofascism has grown up around a mall, where support for the English values instilled by sport, shopping and chain restaurants has been codified by regular worshippers at this Babel attiring themselves in flags of St George and flying them from their houses, as well as engaging in riotous racial vandalism towards Asians and East Europeans in the community. Sound familiar? It is, chillingly so. Of course it wouldn’t be Ballard without unbelievable acts of near Civil War and an implausible death list, but it provides a prescient warning about the potential future strategies of Farage, Lowe and Yaxley-Lennon.

The novelist Marc Nash recommended Geometric Regional Novel by Gert Jonke to me. Like his countryman Peter Handke, Jonke specialises in the brief, emotionless nouvelle roman, where symbolic description completely overtakes character delineation, credible plot development or almost everything else a normal story book includes. It is also, unlike Handke, extremely funny. Endless microscopic descriptions of mundane events in a nameless village square, along with bizarre invasions of vicious birds, a tsunamic artesian well and the removal of all trees and park benches, happen for inexplicable reasons. Then the book ends. Extraordinary.

Finally, I’ve done some proper reading. To prove I still had it in me, I tackled Satantango by 2025 Nobel Prize Winner, László Krasznahorkai. In English not Hungarian I must add. Published in 1985, it was Krasznahorkai’s debut novel. It ticks all the essential postmodernist boxes; narrated from multiple perspectives, structured to resemble a tango, with six steps forward followed by six backward, while every chapter is a long paragraph which does not contain line breaks. Orthodox heterodoxy. Set in a dystopian failed former collective farm that endures incessant rain, a group of hopelessly lost and inadequate characters are duped out of their money by a semi mythical returning son of the area. Did I enjoy it? It was hard work and I probably won’t bother with the 7 hour Bela Tarr cinematic version, but I’m glad I read it. Now it’s time to prepare for soon-come novels by David Keenan, James Ellroy and Irvine Welsh.