Feathering The NUST

(Published in Percy Main v Carlisle City programme; 18th September 2010)

Well, did you enjoy the Blyth Town game? Personally I’ve not seen a game quite as dull as that for many a long year now. That said, I’m glad I was at Purvis Park to see the Main’s sponsored snooze in preference to seeing plucky Newcastle humbled by the might of Blackpool in the Premier League, a fixture which saw me turn down my second potential freebie at SJP of the season of the two home games played thus far. Having spent the Villa game failing to shift a single copy of “Village Voice” (still available, price £10 from any club official; go on, you know you need another copy!) at the North Tyneside Health & Horticulture Show at The Parks, I did feel a twinge of regret at not seeing a 6-0 stuffing of the classless clowns from the second city, but none were evident during the visit of the Tangerines, as this one clashed with a Percy Main game and I know where my loyalties and responsibilities lie, never mind the fact I’d been predicting a 2-0 away win to all and sundry for the week leading up to the game.

However, I did get myself a sort of souvenir of the day, in the shape of issue 250 of “The Mag,” a publication I wrote for between 1989 and 2004. Flicking through it, I felt like Pastor Terry Jones in an Islamic petrol station and bookstore; I wanted to burn it to a crisp. Normally, I’ve a lot of time for “The Mag, but this issue of what I’d always viewed as the Newcastle united fanzine of record, reeked of rank, indefensible cant and hypocrisy, which I’ll explore in a minute.

Also available around SJP and, uniquely for a Newcastle fanzine it can be obtained from The Back Page, was issue #1 of Steve Wraith’s new fanzine, “Toon Talk,” which I’ve the privilege of scribbling articles for. I have to say that I’m in favour of any fan publication that is within the realms of decency, taste and moral probity, which is why I support both of the reputable Newcastle fanzines, by buying “The Mag” each issue. Indeed, I also take in the broader spectrum of independent Newcastle fan opinion by being a regular browser of www.nufc.com and a member of NUST.

You may remember NUST, who proudly rose from the ashes of the discredited, unrepresentative pressure group NU$C. Despite appearances, or rather lacking of appearances, to the contrary, NUST have not gone away; they’ve just taken a leaf from New Labour’s 1997 yearbook, by having an election, promising the earth and then doing the thick end of bugger all. Now as you know I unsuccessfully stood for election to the NUST board, but I hope you don’t regard this article as an example of sour grapes, as when the results were announced I immediately pledged my support for those who had been chosen by members. Mark Jensen, the editor of “The Mag,” who now combines that role with being the Chair of NUST, topped the poll. Now, theoretically I’ve no problem with him having two hats. Certainly since he stopped working in a shop, he’s probably had a fair bit of spare time he could do with using up, though there is the potential for a conflict of interest as time goes by.

Of course such a delicate state of affairs palpably wasn’t the case for 5 months following the NUST election result declaration on March 29^th as nothing whatsoever happened, despite promotion, the close season and the World Cup taking place. While it would have been nice to have an AGM, EGM or Public Meeting where members could meet the new board and discuss various issues in relation to NUST’s future direction, no such thing happened. They explained this state of affairs away by stating; “Despite the Elections being held in March - by the time the result was independently adjudicated, meetings were held to appoint positions, a secretary was found and Chi Onwurah MP was co-opted this took us to the end of May. Since then a lot of time has been, for example, spent writing and setting up policies required by the rules for an elected board, researching into new email systems and producing a Junior Trust plan. This also coincided with the close season and the holiday season.”

It still took until late August before a shallow, anodyne series of insincere blandishments appeared on the NUST website under the headline “the Trust moving forwards.” However many footling excuses NUST sought to make about General elections, close seasons or holidays, the fact there has not been an opportunity to take feedback from either members only or members and other interested parties is frankly inexcusable. To take 5 months to come up with such bland, platitudinous tommyrot as the statement on the website was simply pathetic. It suggests inertia, incompetence or complacency, perhaps not by all elected members, but certainly by some.

Equally dismal was the suggestion that NUST members could, in the absence of public meetings, email a query to the NUST board which they would look at and possibly get round to replying to. Their logic behind this was similarly idiotic; “NUST accept that our communication has been poor, but we are working at putting that right and accept that progress may seem slow - but it is as frustrating for Board members as members. We are currently redesigning the newsletter to be a 2 monthly issue and the first one will be out in September. A lot of meetings / contacts have been made behind the scenes and we are currently working on our business plan. Remember we are all volunteers and all Board members put in huge amounts of their personal time.” Well no one is forcing NUST Board Members to do this job; if they can’t handle it, resign with dignity!!

The whole situation was becoming even more of a joke, as simultaneous to this non-statement, “Toon Talk” was informed that NUST would not be co-operating with this new fanzine, despite the publicity “Toon Talk” editor Steve Wraith has given NUST on his radio show by having NUST Board members Steve Hastie and Neil Mitchell (two sound men who, along with Bill Corcoran and Colin Whittle, maintain NUST’s integrity) as weekly guests. The decision was made public by NUST Media Officer Tony Stephenson, on account of “Toon Talk” using photos of glamour models in Newcastle shirts as part of the pre publication adverts. These glamour models were fully clothed and whilst it was cheesy, it wasn’t pornographic, unlike the adverts for the strip tease at the City Vaults or the lap-dancing club For Your Eyes Only that “The Mag” carried.

When NUST failed to have an article in the first issue of “The Mag” this season, it seemed as if they were pursuing an even-handed policy in relation to both fanzines. Sadly, this was not the case as was demonstrated in issue #250, which came out for the Blackpool game. While For Your Eyes Only had been ditched, the advert for the City Vaults, boasting “Newcastle’s Finest Topless Totty” took pride of place on the inside back cover. Quite how this sits with the statement to Steve Wraith that NUST “are actively seeking sponsorship for the Junior Trust and for this reason felt unanimously that we could not actively promote “Toon Talk” magazine because of the imagery associated with it” is beyond me.

It seems clear to me that NUST’s Board have compromised both their integrity and their independence by effectively helping to feather the nest of an elected member. Frankly, I’d suggest a vote of No Confidence at the earliest possible moment, if there were any danger of an AGM of course. NUST; RIP? It looks like they’ve blown it, unless a radical change of policy and behaviour is in the post.

Aviva an Longfort

(Published in the Percy Main v Blyth Town programme on 11th September 2010)

Depending on your point of view, I’ve either got a brilliant or a terrible sense of timing. As my articles in the last two programmes explained, I was in the Basque Country in mid July to see Spain win the World Cup, which displayed a pretty astute choice of holiday destination I thought. However, despite 12 glorious days in Euskadi, my wanderlust had not been sated in its entirety. Hence, when it seemed certain that Percy Main and Heaton Winstons would be without a fixture on August 7^th, I booked a return flight to Dublin, on the basis that this would probably be my last free Saturday until June 2011.

Drawing a veil over Percy Main 4 Wallsend Town 3 and Houghton Vets 2 Heaton Winstons 1 (who organises these last minute games anyway?), I chose Ireland as I could doss with mates for free (Declan in Dalkey, South Dublin and John in Maynooth, Kildare, both of whom have visited Purvis Park before) and get to see some football. This was my fifth trip over to the land of my ancestors and the country I feel to be my natural home since Summer 2007; the fact I managed to do some groundhopping made it even more special, but this is, I suppose, where my bad timing comes in.

Declan moved to the affluent south side of Dublin in 2007 and the journey to his house involves a half hour trip on the DART (Dublin’s equivalent of the Metro). About 5 minutes from the city centre is what was known as Lansdowne Road stadium, where English hooligans disgracefully rioted in February 1995 because Warren Barton had been given his full debut, or something. Ever since Declan had moved out that way, Lansdowne Road had been a building site, but now it was finally finished. Lansdowne Road wasn’t the official home of Irish football; that was Dalymount Park, home to Ireland’s oldest club Bohemian. It isn’t the biggest ground; that is the 82,300 capacity Croke Park (home of the GAA and blessed with the Cusack Stand), where football and rugby had controversially lodged these past few years. However, the 53,000 seat redeveloped Lansdowne Road (dismally rechristened the AVIVA Stadium), is supposed to be a partnership venture between Irish Rugby and Football. Suffice to say the Irish economic meltdown, which has made the British recession seem like losing your small change down the back of the sofa in comparison, has resulted in some fairly harsh words about funding and further financial viability.

In the short term, that means Trapattoni needs to get his side winning games to get the crowds in during the upcoming Euro 2012 qualifiers, which they did with a 1-0 win in their first game away in Armenia. I’m writing before the second qualifier in this international week, but if they fail to beat Andorra at home, it will be a seismic shock. In the long term, well considering the preponderance of ghost estates of half built luxury houses that are scattered all across Ireland, the AVIVA Stadium could end up as decaying monument to the folly of venture capitalism, if the playing side goes wrong.

To be fair, there were very few empty seats on the opening night on Wednesday 4^th August (I was at Pelton Buffs 1 Percy Main 3), when a Manchester United side completely destroyed a League of Ireland Select XI by 7-1, with the overwhelming majority of those who had paid e60 or e45 being locally based Man United “supporters,” who were openly decrying and ridiculing home based players for their lack of skill. The AVIVA stadium is an impressive glass bowl that has been stylishly and artistically decorated, but I’m glad I wasn’t at this game as I’ve never been a fan of treachery (well except by Sir Roger Casement, but that’s a different matter).

The first game of my trip should have been the top of the table big Dublin derby between Shamrock Rovers and Bohemian at the Tallaght stadium on Friday night. However, here’s where the bad timing really comes in to it; the game was actually played on the Sunday, when I was already at the airport. The reason for the delay had been Rovers’ success in knocking out Israeli side Bnei-Yehuda from the Europa league qualifiers, to set up a lucrative clash with Juventus. The first leg had seen a 6,000 sell-out in Tallaght when “La Vecchia” strolled to a 2-0 win. The return, played on the Thursday I arrived, was not held in Turin, as Stadio Olimpico was hors de combat while AC/DC performed their leaden, irrelevant pomp rock there, but in Serie B Modena’s ground.

In fact, it could have been held in Atlantis as the Biblical rainstorm made conditions a farce, with pools of standing water making anything resembling football seem impossible. For much of the first half, it was water polo without hands. Presumably the weather was a great leveller, as Juve only won 1-0, courtesy of a tremendous 35-yard free kick from Alessandro Del Piero. Now, I have to say I’ve no time for Shamrock Rovers (I follow Bohemian as my Dublin team, who trail Shamrock Rovers in the title race by 7 points as I write), but I have to say this result and their performance was a great credit to the League of Ireland and something I hoped the 49k Man United “fans” at the AVIVA Stadium on the Wednesday should have seen and perhaps been inspired by, but no such luck.

On the Friday, after an enjoyable day out in the Wicklow Hills, Declan and I headed for the Carlisle Grounds, home of Bray Wanderers, for their clash with Sligo Rovers, to be part of a crowd later reported as 527, including former Carlisle manager Roddy Collins. I’d been to Bray before, in summer 1998, when Didi Hamann made his debut for Newcastle in a 6-0 friendly victory, but I have to say, this competitive match was far better than that one. We chose this ahead of second place St. Pat’s versus Drogheda (2-0; att 1,290) as I was at Richmond Park last time I was over and fancied seeing Sligo, who are managed by implausibly husky Paul Cook, the former Wolves, Coventry and Tranmere midfielder.

Bray, managed by former Doncaster and Carlisle striker Eddy Gormley, were rock bottom of the Airtricity Premier Division with 7 points and seemingly required snookers to stay up. This isn’t their fault as last season they were relegated after a play-off loss to Sporting Fingal from north Dublin and had cut their cloth for 2010 accordingly. Of course, Irish economic anguish played a part and both Derry City and Cork City were relegated for financial impropriety, reprieving a woefully ill-prepared Bray side. They lost again, 3-1, at this game, but at least they gave it a go.

Sligo brought about 50 fans and were cheered up when Padraig Amond nodded them in to a 10^th minute lead. The home crowd stayed supportive, but had no cause for optimism until Sligo’s former Mackem midfielder Richie Ryan was harshly sent off for a sliding tackle on wet grass on the half hour. His team are nicknamed “the bit o red” and after he’d seen something similar, the home side gave their all, though it took a woeful keeping error by John Gibson, who kicked the ball against Bray’s Kelly when attempting to field a pass back, to get them level.

However any hopes the home side had of a morale-boosting win were snuffed out by two Sligo goals, both orchestrated by the best player on the park, Cameroon international veteran Joseph Ndo and the latter expertly lobbed in by Benin international Romauld Boco. Sligo played some lovely stuff and thoroughly deserved their win. The only down side being I failed to get any memorabilia to display for our clubhouse, being confused when asking what the pennants cost and getting the response “Three Hail Marys” (it works better aloud; trust me!).

On the Saturday, Declan and I, in the company of John, struck out west. Travelling through 8 counties, namely Wicklow, Dublin, Kildare, Meath, Westmeath, Longford, Roscommon and Lovely Leitrim, we arrived at Flancare Park, home of Longford Town, via pint stops in Carrick on Shannon (Leitrim side) and Boyle in Roscommon (John’s home spot) for their home game with Salthill Devon in Airtricity Division 1. Salthill Devon, playing their home fixtures at Drom Soccer Field, are the third side from Galway, after Galway United and Mervue (who arrived in 2009 to replace Cobh Ramblers), in the Airtricity League. They beat perennial wooden-spoonists Kildare County in a play off and have replaced them at the bottom in their debut season, proving that 3 clubs from a place as small as Galway is nonsense. If the FAI had any sense, there would be a single 16 team division, with two regionalised leagues below this to give stability and permanence to a league that seems to be in a constant state of flux.

Longford Town were formed in 1924 and won the FAI Cup in 2003 and 2004, causing them to upgrade their stylish and smart Flancare Park to a 7,000 capacity all seated stadium. While they had a cup quarter final at home to Shamrock Rovers to look forward to, which they lost 2-0, there is no danger of any games selling out, as tonight’s crowd, including 4 visitors from Salthill and us 3 jokers, was reported as a less than staggering 170. The views of County Longford from the stand are fine and impressive ones, with verdant fields stretching away in all directions, with our westerly location meaning it was daylight until almost 10pm. Sadly the game may have been enthusiastically played, with Salthill manager Emlyn Long displaying Oscar winning histrionics on the sideline, but it was comically terrible in execution on a pitch with extremely long grass.

Longford captain John Lester missed an early penalty, harshly given for hands, before Salthill’s Victor Collins scored quite a presentable striker’s goal to give them a half time lead. A rapid double by Jason Odalele seemed to have turned things round, only for a mad scramble in the last few minutes to give Salthill an undeserved equaliser, which the manager celebrated as if they’d won the Champions’ League.

Interestingly the Longford programme included an impassioned article slagging off the AVIVA stadium opener, especially Irish Man United fans who don’t support the domestic league. It was accompanied by a photo, captioned “Man United international striker JOHN Owen scoring in Wednesday’s game at the AVIVA Stadium.” What can you say?

We headed back to Maynooth in Kildare to drink fine pints of black porter until 2.00am, before I awoke hungover, malodorous and dehydrated on the Sunday, to news of Irish Senator Ivor Callelly’s imminent arrest on corruption and fraud charges, having claimed thousands in expenses from a non-existent mobile phone. More cheeringly, Andrea Byrne of Leixlip has won the All Ireland Karaoke Championships, so it’s good to see the cultural traditions of The Clancy Brothers, Liam Kelly, Ronnie Drew (and his niece Hartlepool Drew) are continuing, as well as the political ones of Charlie Haughey and Bertie Aherne.

Heading back to Dublin Airport, we passed Croke Park where over 40,000 gathered to see Kilkenny beat my ancestral county of Cork (and their famously gay goalkeeper Donal Og Cusack) 3-22 to 0-19 in the Hurling semi-final. I must get to see a match at Croke Park next time I’m over. I also need to see Sporting Fingal’s Morton Stadium and Tallaghtfornia, as it is ironically known, but not today as Shamrock Rovers beat Bohemian 3-0, in front of a very healthy 5,200 onlookers. Perhaps my timing wasn’t that bad after all, though I would imagine Eddy Gormley disagrees, as he was relieved of his duties immediately after the game against Sligo.

Roll on next June!

Y Viva Euskadi Part 2

(Published in the Percy Main v Heaton Stannington programme on 1st September 2010)

Y Viva Euskadi (Part 2)

By the Wednesday after the World Cup Final, Spain was starting to get back to normal. The victorious squad had finally left their private reception with the Royal Family and Government, checked out of their Madrid hotel and gone on their belated holidays, two days after most top European sides had returned for pre season training. In Euskadi, most Basques began to accept what it was going to be like living the nightmare for the next four years. As one Gasteiz resident told me “Euro 2008 was bad enough, but this is far worse.”

To see if Basque nationalism could hold its own against Castilian triumphalism, I took the bus from Vitoria to Bilbao; there used to be a train line linking Spanish ruled Basques with their French counterparts, but Franco had it dug up in the late 1960s, isolating Euskadi. Thankfully, EU money has provided for swift motorways that are resolutely empty, meaning the trip to Bilbao took less than an hour.

Not having been to see Newcastle’s glorious defeat in the UEFA Cup in 1994, I was worried about finding the ground; I needn’t have been. Every road sign in Blibao includes a symbol pointing to San Mames, or the Cathedral as it is commonly known. Arriving at the mature but atmospheric ground, I was delighted to see than for a very reasonable E6 (a fiver basically), I could have a tour of the ground and unlimited access to the club museum. When the guide found I was from Newcastle, he immediately congratulated me on my team’s promotion; I didn’t realise Percy Main’s fame had spread so far!

Seriously, he could not have been more attentive to me, explaining where Newcastle fans had been sat and how the game had unfolded. The other two English speakers on the tour were a pair of Liverpool fans from Dublin who were “killing time until we go out on the gargle,” so they didn’t object to the personalised nature of the tour. If Newcastle had won 4-0 I wonder if the guide would have been as accommodating.

Bilbao are properly known as Athletic Club and had a history of using English players, especially from Blackburn in their early years, as well as adopting the strip of Southampton, a port linked with Bilbao for trading reasons. In 1913, local rivals Real Sociedad from San Sebastien (Donostie) objected to this and so Athletic Club were banned from using foreigners. As proud Basques, they took the term foreigner to its logical conclusion, so for 97 years, Bilbao have signed only Basques, though their most successful manager was Wolverhampton born Mr. Fred Pentland, who is the reason why all Spanish football managers are known, to this day, as el mister. It is a fascinating tour of a great historical club and as San Mames is due to be replaced by a new ground in 2013, which will be directly opposite the current home, I know I must return before then. Sadly there was no chance of seeing a game as the Spanish season doesn’t kick off until late August.

From San Mames, I took the immaculate tram that piped Vivaldi’s “Four Seasons” as we went, to the amazing Guggenheim Art Gallery to see exhibitions by Henri Rousseau and Anish Kapoor, I’d seen at the Baltic already, as well as installations by Geoff Koons, an amazing 100 foot puppy made of multi coloured flowers, and Louis Bourgeois. By 7pm I was stunned; reeling breathless from the culture, history and architecture of this crazy city. I simply can’t recommend Bilbao too highly, though I’m glad I’d arrived the week after Rammstein and Faith No More had headlined the Bilbao Music Festival.

As well as Bilbao, there are 3 other major Basque football sides; Real Sociedad, who have just returned to the top flight and 3 seasons of second tier football, first division Osasuna from Pamplona who are managed by the notoriously sweaty former Spain manager Jose Camacho and Vitoria’s own “glorioso” Alaves. Taking their name from the county in which Vitoria-Gasteiz is based, Alaves have sunk from 2001 UEFA Cup finalists, where they lost a pulsating game 5-4 in extra time to Liverpool via an own goal, to preparing for their second season in the regionalised third division.

There was no real prospect of visiting either Sociedad or Osasuna, but as the Medizarotta home of Alaves was 5km from where I was staying, I had to go and pay my respects. In fact I went twice, having checked the opening times of the club shop and museum on the website; both times it was closed, with no sign of life at the ground. Sadly it seems as if the economic realities of a double relegation are biting hard. Shame really; I fancied one of their pink away tops.

However, on the Friday, I struck lucky. Out on a bike ride in the Salburua district of Vitoria, I came across a football ground, that of Deportivo Municipal Betono, who are a local amateur side. It reminded me of Benfield or Nissan; hard standing, little cover and a smart stand, but in a complex like Team Northumbria’s Coach Lane, with 6 full size pitches, half of them grass and half 4G rubber crumb. Presumably the Municipal part of their name hints at the source of funding.

Purely for research purposes I wandered in, as entry was free, taking in what I subsequently discovered was Osasuna U19 v Alaves U19 in the Gasteiz Cup, an invitational youth tournament that was drawing to a climax. The game ended in a 1-1 draw and after a barren period of extra time, penalties loomed. Quite astonishingly, Osasuna won the shoot-out by the scarecely believable margin of 15-14, with their keeper dinking his second Panenka-esque finish past a statuesque home keeper to close out the contest. Shame he hadn’t been as good at stopping them or we’d have all been able to move on half an hour earlier. His first such finish had caused me to issue an oath of surprise in English, which resulted in an elderly gentleman engaging me in conversation. Turned out he’d lived in Shepherd’s Bush for 5 years in the 80s working as a chef; he was also a football nut and escorted me to the next pitch along to see an English women’s team.

“I think they may be my beloved Queen’s Park Rangers,” said the one time resident of W12. Sadly for him, they were from a little further west, being Reading’s U17 side, who were taking on an Alaves ladies side resplendent in appropriate pink shirts. It wasn’t a contest as the taller, stronger, heavier English girls proved the value of a high trans fat and alcopop rich diet by trouncing the home side 6-0. All the while I contemplated whether Reading’s ladies should be known as the Biscuitwomen or the Princess Royals.

Whatever the name, they deserved their cup and medals. I’ll be forever thankful to them for helping me to open my account for 2010/2011 and to see my first games on allegedly Spanish soil (once a groundhopper; always a groundhopper), the day before the Main got our season underway with the 2-0 win over Newcastle East End.

Lines In The Sand

(Published in issue #1 of "Toon Talk" on 22nd August 2010 and slightly edited on 25th August 2010)

Welcome to the debut issue of “Toon Talk.” Having previously scribbled about Newcastle United for (deep breath): “The Mag,” “The Mighty Quinn (aka “The Number 9”),” “Half Mag Half Biscuit,” “Talk of the Toon,” “The Giant Awakes” and, of course, “Players Inc,” I’m looking forwards to this new venture immensely. Personally speaking I’ve 20 years of experience of writing for fanzines and it’s fair to say that during that time I’ve seen my fair share of squabbles, turf wars, personal vendettas and childish strops between writers of various publications; I’ve even been part of a few. However, those point-scoring, nit-picking days are gone. I am a member of NUST, I write for “Toon Talk,” I buy every issue of “The Mag” and I’ve got www.nufc.com as the homepage on my computer; I think that allows me access to a broad spectrum of fan opinion and shows I have a real interest in ensuring we all rub along together. I have to say, right from the start, that we need a broad, inclusive spectrum of opinions to act as a representative cross-section of Newcastle United’s support, both on paper and in NUST.

I recognise that my information intake doesn’t cover every single base, but I don’t have any interest in wasting my time by expending energy familiarising myself with the deluded ramblings of the cyber lunatic fringe and their ultra absolutist Geordie Taleban style position. I must state that their craven failure to either put up or shut up in the recent NUST elections shows them to be an irrelevant self-serving ragbag of persistent naysayers with nothing positive to contribute to our just and righteous cause. They are as relevant to supporting Newcastle United as the Flat Earth Society are to a conference of cartographers.

Wrapped up in the minutiae of supporting our team, we fans often fail to see the bigger picture. This summer, not having been able to attend the famous 1994 UEFA Cup game because of work, I finally righted a geographical wrong and holidayed for fortnight in Bilbao, a beautiful and amazing city, also taking in the rest of the Basque Country, from the seaside of Donostie to the architectural splendours of Vitoria-Gasteiz. As well as visiting the Guggenheim Art Gallery, not to mention taking tours of Athletic Bilbao’s San Mames and seeing the other Basque teams’ grounds of Alaves (Vitoria-Gasteiz) and Real Sociedad (Donostie), I found myself in friendly bars of an evening, enjoying tinctures of Rioja and litres of Voll Damm, along with complementary tapas, where conversation always turned to football. While Basques were, at best, ambivalent to Spain’s success in the World Cup, Bilbao fans especially were delighted with Newcastle’s promotion and were keen to wish our club, whom they hold in the highest esteem, the very best of luck for the coming season. It’s important to remember that the world out there isn’t populated by Lousie Taylor and Sod Liddle snipealikes.

Returning home, I found myself to be in the most relaxed and optimistic of moods. Admittedly Perch and Gosling weren’t Puyol and Villa, but we’d won at Carlisle and all seemed right with the world. My positive mood was blown to pieces firstly by a November style cloudburst as I stepped out of the arrivals terminal attired in Hawaiian shirt and Bermuda shorts and then, once I’d got home and dried out, by an email “Toon Talk” had received that day -:

Dear Steve

Thank you for your kind offer of space in the forthcoming first issue of Toon Talk magazine. Unfortunately, the Trust Board feels it is unable to take you up on this offer due to the current online imagery being used in connection with the magazine.

Regards

Tony Stephenson (Chair, Media Committee NUST)

I have to declare an interest at this point, having stood in the elections for the NUST committee. While I gained 105 votes and avoided the wooden spoon, I was as far from success as our esteemed Editor was from winning a seat on Gateshead Council when he stood for the Tories in Felling (where my late uncle John had been a Labour councillor). That said, no doubt like Steve when the citizens of Heatherwell Green and Split Crow Road had given their verdict, I commended the democratic process, congratulated the victors and pledged to give them my support. Obviously, unlike in Local Government, there were no party lines to observe; NUST is a vehicle for all Newcastle United supporters who aspire to the achievable goal of fan ownership of the club and who want to influence the future direction of our team.

In many ways, writing for fanzines is a similar exercise to being a part of NUST. Steve might be a Tory, whereas I’m a lifelong Marxist, who voted for the Communist Party in this year’s election (he didn’t get in by the way), but it doesn’t essentially matter. We’re both Newcastle United fans at the end of the day and the ability to cooperate, compromise and set aside personal vanity and hidden agendas is essential in compiling a fanzine as it is in every aspect of life, if progress is to be made. Obviously, referring again to NUST, lines in the sand have to be drawn when it comes to potential compromises relating to the “Yes We Can” campaign, or when underhand politicking is seen to be afoot. Unfortunately, at the moment, any form of interactive debate with the NUST committee seems impossible.

I have to admit to a gathering unease as to the nature and direction of NUST, who seem politically inert and oblivious to the existence of the ordinary member. The NUST election results came out at the end of March; at the time of writing, 4 months later, there has not been a single public meeting whereby the elected committee has accepted questions or comments from ordinary members as to the future policies, tactics, direction or role of NUST. Time is not standing still, even if NUST’s committee seem to be.

Admittedly the Trust has been commendably active in combating media lies about Newcastle fans, as perpetuated by “The Grauniad,” whether they are wildly inaccurate claims that there was a racist demonstration on the day Andy Cole made his debut or that Newcastle fans were singing offensive songs at Carlisle. Also, the attractive website is good at keeping readers up to date with events involving other clubs’ trusts, but there is seemingly no interactivity with the ordinary rank and file of the NUST membership. This is a grave error and one I urge the NUST committee to address at their earliest convenience, if inertia is not to give way to moribund indifference.

Nowhere on their website is there any reference to the constituent membership of the Media Committee, other than the mention of Tony Stephenson as its chair in the email received by “Toon Talk.” I respect the content of this email, as I have to say I’m not comfortable with sexist imagery; then again, adverts for lap dancing bars such as “For Your Eyes Only” or strippers in “The City Vaults” which I found equally discomfiting appeared in “The Mag,” which the Trust were happy to provide articles for last season. I note from the first issue of “The Mag” for this season that this is no longer the case.

Let’s be honest about this, if the NUST Media Committee have drawn a line in the sand, stating that they will refuse to work with any publication that uses images of scantily clad young women, then we have to respect their decision, even if we don’t know who made this decision. The fact I agree with this decision is irrelevant on two grounds; firstly, decisions of this magnitude made in secret seem to be undemocratic and an indication that NUST is failing to consult with the membership. Secondly, as NUST has happily provided material to go alongside the salacious adverts alluded to before, it seems both a disproportionate response and a tactical error in seeking to have a go at someone who wants to help NUST and Newcastle United, rather than the current ownership of the club who seem to treat both the Trust and the team with disdain.

At least we now know that the NUST Media Committee’s decision is not simply a snub directed at “Toon Talk,” so it isn’t just a terrible slap in the face for Steve and all he has done to give NUST publicity, both in print in “Players Inc” and on air. However, it is an absolute disgrace that NUST are no longer communicating with the membership in either Newcastle fanzine. Frankly, unless NUST’s committee are prepared to engage with the membership to discuss exactly who is on the various sub-committees and to explain the reasoning and legitimacy behind the decision making, then I fear for not only the integrity but also the future of the Trust and, consequently, for the future of our club.

I have to say that my fear has been heightened by the shallow, anodyne platitudinous press release NUST put on their website on Tuesday 24th August. They may wish to pretend that the trust is “Moving Forward,” to steal the title of their article, but frankly I disagree.

NUST, despite the best efforts of good men like Steve Hastie, Neil Mitchell and Colin Whittle, NUST post election has become moribund, impotent, directionless, irrelevant and unapproachable. Why have the elected board not once consulted with the membership post election? Where was the public meeting immediately post promotion to discuss strategy, tactics & ideas? Sadly, it seems as if NUST has failed; it has turned in to almost as much of a joke as NU$C

Y Viva Euskadi (Part 1)

Unquestionably, the finest football journalist in Britain today is Patrick Barclay of “The Times.” Not only did he once spend the first two paragraphs of a match report on Sheffield Wednesday versus Watford in the Wilkinson and Taylor eras, discussing Samuel Beckett’s “Waiting For Godot,” he also invoked the spirit of Voltaire when debating Vinnie Jones’s disciplinary problems on Sky TV with Brian Woolnough of “The Sun,” which is more than enough to garner hero worship from me. Perhaps the most apposite of Paddy’s aphorisms is his claim that his favourite ever tournament was Euro 1984, when Platini’s France ran riot, as the absence of British teams meant that he could enjoy the football without considering how events on and off the pitch would have to be refracted through the mirror of jaundiced jingoism. As Paddy is a native Dundonian, he has had many opportunities to enjoy international tournaments without his bravehearted countrymen spoiling things for him.

In the absence of Ireland, scandalously cheated of a place in the finals by Gallic chicanery, I watched World Cup 2010 with something akin to the disinterested eyes Barclay had in Paris 1984. While the People’s Democratic Republic of Korea were the team I picked out in the work sweepstake and provided politically compelling reasons to follow them, their 32^nd place in the FIFA Merit Table tells its own story. Slovakia, where I lived for two years, were a more realistic option and their slaying of the loathsome Italians provided the tournament’s keynote game, though Dutch efficiency (had we ever heard that phrase prior to this tournament?) did for them in the last 16. Consequently I was able to watch each subsequent game on its merits until the final itself (and the third and fourth place play off that nobody admits to seeing but which is always top notch), by which time I was away on holiday.

Where did I go? Spain, allegedly. I flew to Bilbo (Bilbao) and stayed in Gasteiz (Vitoria) in Euskadi (the Basque Country). Having missed out on Newcastle’s UEFA Cup game at the San Mames because of work back in 1994, I decided to combine a break with research to find out for myself how this (as I was to discover) beautiful, idyllic, welcoming part of the world would respond to Spain’s appearance in the World Cup final.

I arrived on the Friday before the game and was immediately struck by the total absence of Spanish flags and football shirts in Bilbao, where all road and shop signs were in Euskerra (Basque) with Spanish in smaller letters underneath. Vitoria is slightly more Spanish, both culturally and ethnically, though the Basque University has its headquarters in this gorgeous, grand city. On the Saturday night, those watching the Uruguay v Germany bronze medal game in the marvellous Groucho Bar favoured the Latin Americans, presumably on account of a shared history of Castillian oppression, or possibly because new Germany are still universally mistrusted. After “Deutschland Uber Alles,” one customer turned to the barman and said, “now I feel like invading Poland.”

On the day of the final, I started to notice a few Spanish shirts, but they were exclusively on the backs of teenagers. I’m not sure if my eyes deceived me, but it appeared that an inordinate number of blokes were wearing orange as a subliminal message, including 6 holidaying Dutch students in Van Der Vaart and Sneijder replica tops. The first Spanish flag I saw was hanging outside the Town Hall in Vitoria’s main plaza where we chose to watch the game on a huge screen, near the monument to the Battle of Vitoria, when the British and Portuguese routed Napoleon in 1813 to end the Peninsula War and free Basques from the burden of having to speak French.

As kick off approached, the plaza filled up. Thousands of happy young people and a smattering of older blokes, many of whom were immigrants in the shirts of their native country; Colombia, Chile, Morocco, accompanied by their children who wore Spanish flags and tops, made up the crowd. This was not Francoism; this was a new Spain, similar to how the German team with Ozul, Podolski and Boateng had embraced and celebrated the multi-cultural, multi-ethnic composition of the country. To be honest the Spanish side hadn’t, but with 10 Catalans in the starting line up, what the hell?

The party atmosphere solemnised briefly as the National Anthems were played. ITV’s Peter Drury remarked that none of the Spanish players sang along with theirs; well, as “Marcha Real” is an instrumental, a situation necessary to avoid inflaming regional and linguistic sensitivities, they wouldn’t, would they? In contrast, Holland’s utterly bizarre “Het Wilhelmus,” which appears to share a tune with “Little Town of Bethlehem,” comprises 15 verses in which singers are required to pretend to be William of Orange and contains the line “den Konig van Hispanje heb ik altijd geeerd” (“the King of Spain I have always honoured”) was lustily belted out by the team with the same gusto they attacked Spanish shins for the next 2 hours. Post anthem, an incredible roar went up and it was game on.

Then, no football was played for 116 minutes until a palpably offside Iniesta scored and everything went crazy. Fireworks, screaming, tears; it was like being back in Belfast in the early 80s without the rain. Seriously, despite two deaths elsewhere in the country (one fell off a balcony, one drowned in a fountain), it was a genuine pleasure to behold; the naïve, innocent joy of the youthful fans, the blaring of car horns and the free beer in the pubs (provided by a barman in a snide Man Utd top with RONNEY on the back in one instance) made me feel honoured to be there. Spanish passion had won me over.

As the first World Cup I remember is 1974, I had gone with a residual affection for Holland, even if Cruyff himself had expressed a preference for Spain (based on a great respect for manager and Gordon Kaye lookalike Vincente Del Bosque, whom he described not an “un hombre” but “un senor”). However, such pro Dutch feelings soon evaporated as the crowd in the plaza greeted each despicable foul with baying choruses of “hijo da puta.” Particular scorn was poured on Howard Webb, who was regularly referred to as a “payaso del mierda” (“shitty clown”) as he failed to reduce the Netherlands to a 5 a side team. Post match Webb was the object of abuse from both sides, especially from a drunk and incoherent Louis Van Gaal who proved on Spanish TV, when being interviewed by former Liverpool and Brighton forward Michael Robinson who is the country’s main football pundit that he’d forgotten all the language and manners he’d learned while in charge at Barcelona. The abuse of Webb continued in the Spanish (and apparently Dutch) media for days afterwards. Frankly remembering the goal from Mark Viduka he disallowed in May 2009 that condemned Newcastle to a home defeat by Fulham and consequently relegation from the Premier League, I had no sympathy for Webb. Petty? Me!

One of the most heartwarming sights in the early hours of the morning was Puyol and Fabregas, at almost 2.30am South African time, sat in training kits enjoying bottles of San Miguel by the side of the pitch at Soccer City. The lads had earned it. They also had plenty more partying to do as Spanish TV followed their return in minute detail. Bizarrely for a British audience, it appeared that Pepe Reina isn’t simply a competent Premiership keeper or the Liverpool player most likely to score for Spain at this tournament; he is the non-playing court jester of the squad. While captain Iker Casillas, whose girlfriend is Spain’s second most important football pundit, dons the gloves and lifts the trophy, Pepe wears silly hats, does funny walks and daft impressions, as well as persuading Fabregas to wear a Barca shirt at the team’s reception on arrival back in Madrid. Not to mention asking Wimbledon champion Nadal; “what are you doing here? None of us hang around with you when you win.”

The wall-to-wall 48 hour TV coverage post final showed that new Spain has unquestionably come of age; wracked by economic crises and incompetently governed by a centre-right coalition (sound familiar?) the country may be, but 35 years after Franco’s death, this win can act as a unifying social force and a final exorcism of the past, even if 21 were arrested in Barcelona and 2 in Bilbao, where cars flying Basque flags drove through the town, for protesting against Spain’s victory, not to mention reports of foreigners supporting Spain being attacked in Donostie. In Vitoria, on the other hand, it was the Basque radicals who had to be quick on their toes to avoid a stiff talking to in casco viejo.

Next time, a mazy dribble through club football in Euskadi itself, featuring Darren Peacock, a QPR fan from Vitoria, Reading’s U17 women’s team and the mysterious opening hours of the Alaves Club shop.

Bonfire of the Vanities

(from Percy Main programme, 31/07/10 v North Shields)

“Welcome back my friends to the show that never ends,” as Emerson, Lake and Palmer phrased it in 1974, a date that is remembered by all football fans as the year when the World Cup was stolen by German pragmatism from the grasp of serene, Dutch artistry. 36 years later, the domestic football season arrives with no such feelings of compassion for the Netherlands after Holland’s abysmal non-performance, epitomised by Van Bommel’s thuggery and Robben’s theatricals, at Soccer City in Johannesburg.

To be honest, I had intended not to be able to write about the World Cup, as my initial aim had been not to watch any of it. This piece was going to about how my summer had been filled with the sublime joys of Teenage Fanclub’s peerless “Shadows” album that came out in early June, the incredible night I had seeing them at the Cockpit in Leeds (when Network Rail delivered me home nearly 4 hours late) or how much I’d enjoyed getting my capacious nose in a book, with Roddy Doyle’s “The Dead Republic,” the final part of his “Last Round-Up” trilogy, being a particular favourite. However, I only managed 2 days of WC abstinence, before schadenfruede got the better of me. Mind I’d had good excuses for giving the tournament a wide berth in the early stages.

The tournament kicked off while I sat in a Solicitor’s Office in Winlaton, where I’d gone to apply for Probate on my late father’s estate, confusing the learned friend by refusing to swear on a Bible as I’m an atheist, causing him to redraft what I was subsequently required to affirm. As South Africa and Mexico drew 1-1, I travelled by public transport to North Shields and ate cheaply if not sumptuously with graduating former students at Sambucca’s while France and Uruguay played out a stalemate.

Day 2 saw me forswearing the supposed joys of South Korea v Greece and Argentina against Nigeria, despite the appearance of the only Geordie at the tournament, Jonas Gutierrez, for my annual delve in to the Scottish Junior set up for the East of Scotland League Cup Final, which saw Linlithgow Rose overcome Musselburgh Athletic 2-1 in a thoroughly compelling game witnessed by over 900 people. The only downside for me personally was that the game was played at Creamery Park, home of Bathgate Thistle, where I’d been last year for their astonishing 6-2 demolition of Forfar West End, as I’d hoped to fit in a new ground. No matter; there’s always next year, or even mid December as Teenage Fanclub play Glasgow Barrowlands on December 11^th. The Scottish Juniors is a positive boon for those who like to keep the season going as long as possible, with the last game of 2009/2010 taking place on June 20^th.

Heading back from Linlithgow to Auld Reekie, I was reminded of the FIFA carnival taking place in Cape Town and several points north, when I saw a couple of dozen punters resplendent in t-shirts bearing the legend “Official Algeria, Slovenia and USA Supporters’ Club” on the front and “Anyone But F*****g England” on the reverse. Perhaps Robert Green had one of these garments beneath his England keeper’s top; there can be no other explanation for his error against America.

I confess it was this event that caused me to switch on to the tournament. Not having seen the goal live as I was being whisked south by rail as the game unfolded, the barrage of intemperate and bemused texts relating to it caused me to watch the ITV highlights. This programme was presented by a lardy oaf by the name of James Corden. Previously unknown to me, he appears to be another of these banal, estuary English accented media nonentities that the television programmers believe represents not only what viewers need but, by implication, what they deserve. Personally a loathsome, contemptible figure who appeared to be a post-lobotomy Tim Lovejoy who has been fed exclusively on fish cake and chips is not who I want to be talking about the beautiful game, in my living room.

After this distressing experience, I flicked over to the reassuringly grey temples of Lineker, Hansen and Lawrenson, whose steady analysis of Green’s personal trauma was a sensible warm up to a genuinely moving documentary piece about the history of the secret inmates’ football league on Robbens Island political prison during the apartheid era.

While ITV steadfastly refused throughout the tournament to look at the wider political implications of South Africa’s history pre 1993, preferring instead to allow a barely coherent and clearly unhinged Kevin Keegan (wonder if he noticed a certain Ignacio Gonzalez in Uruguay’s squad?) explain the yellow and red card system in a way that a foetus would find childish and patronising, the BBC relentlessly traversed the fascinating and still socially divided South African landscape, producing a daily piece about the lives of ordinary South Africans and how the tournament and football as a game affects their view of life. Stirring stuff they were too. These features, including interviews with Afrikaners farmers who supported the Dutch and hated England because of the Boer War, not Russell Brand’s fiancée or Simon Cowell talking shit about a game they don’t understand, kept me hooked on the unfolding drama in Durban, Port Elizabeth and elsewhere. Indeed, so beguiling were the real life stories, one could factor out the breathtaking hypocrisy of Shearer criticising Capello for not being able to motivate talented players enough to get the results the team were capable of.

So, how was South Africa 2010 for you? As this is the Main’s third game, following other friendlies against Newcastle East End and Annfield Plain, our lenses may have refocused on to a more localised image, but it is useful to return our gaze to the coldest World Cup in history. Frankly, I’m glad I don’t support England. Alright, so I may be pushing bitterness a little by saying I’d cheer on the Taleban if they were playing Capello’s Cretins, but as an Ireland fan, I have no love for the three lions. Indeed, following Thierry Henry’s basketball tactics last November, I had to reassess who to follow in the finals. Having lived in Slovakia for 2 years, it seemed natural to cheer on the side managed by Vladimir Weiss, who used to coach Petrzalka the side I followed during my Bratislavan sojourn. Back in those days Weiss was not a sober-suited, dignified figure, but a ranting Henry Rollins lookalike who nearly caused a Slovak referees’ strike by threatening to cut the head off one official following a controversial 2-4 home loss to Presov.

However, my support was not entirely for the Transdanubian team at the expense of the other 31 qualifiers, as the side from the People’s Democratic Republic of North Korea gained favour in the Cusack household, mainly for political reasons. After all, one side had to take up the mantle of sporting opposition to the running dog lackeys of Yankee imperialism. Also, I drew them in the work sweepstake.

I was led to believe PDRK television would only show their games, if the side did well. The fact they finished 32^nd in the FIFA Merit Table for the tournament says a lot about what was on the screens in Pyongyang, but nevertheless, I got in to the mindset of the Eternal President’s Men by claiming they beat Brazil 1-0, as I’d only got home and switched on after the Samba shamblers had scored a brace of their own. The Portugal game may have ended up 7-0, but as I was at work, it remained effectively scoreless for me, as did their final game against Cote d’Ivoire as the BBC chose to show the Brazil v Portugal non-event.

Actually, if Didier Drogba wasn’t Ivorian, I may have supported them as their gold, white and green flag is the reverse of Ireland’s tricolour. Then again it was amusing to see Sven Goran Erikkson, same as that other charlatan, Paul Le Guen shuffle apologetically out at the first hurdle, in common with all African teams bar Ghana, who were the only team in their home continent to give it a go.

This was a problem with much of the first stage, exemplified by Slovakia’s terribly timid 1-1 with New Zealand and their shot-free slumber to a 2-0 loss v Paraguay. Quite where the game of the tournament, their 3-2 victory that sent the detestable Italians home, came from, nobody knows. While ITV got themselves in to a state of near hysteria over Howard Webb officiating this game, Robert Vittek (repeatedly called Vittel by Jim Beglin) kicked Lippi’s side square in the “catenaccios.” I also enjoyed seeing Everton’s despicable Tim Cahill red carded v Germany; actually I was hoping Winnie Mandela would necklace him.

Up and down the land England-shirted buffoons drank venomously at vats of Carling while Rooney shambled around like a Scouse Tiny Tim with gripe, while I only saw 2 games in the pub; the loathsome France’s defeats to South Africa and Mexico, when a side in green shirts sent them and their buffoonish Graham Lister lookalike manager home to pursue fights between their fitness coach and a Manchester United squad player in the departure lounge, like Bellamy and Carver all those years ago. Allegedly.

Enough of those French and Italian ponces, what about a real one? Chile’s central defender was the stunningly named Waldo Ponce of Universidad Catolica, though his team mates were not far behind him in the silly surname stakes. Rodrigo Millar should have married Ghana’s Johnathon for a start and poor Estrada’s red card against Spain really pissed on his CHiPS. If Chile went out with a whimper against Brazil, then at least Ghana died bravely.

While I don’t think any of the tedious clamour for a penalty goal after Uruguay’s Suarez handled on the line was justified, I do found it tragic that the hopes of a whole continent were invested in Mackem loanee John Mensah (a man so injury plagued he’s known as an occasional table), with predictable results, though not as predictable as England’s shambolic thrashing by Germany.

Actually, I think the England fans showed a maturity in their measured response to defeat that was far more than the dreadful performances merited. When bonfires should have been lit outside Soho Square, most gave a contemptuous glance and an indifferent shrug to the vain millionaires whose narcissism and avarice has perhaps caused the general public to fall out of love with a national side they embraced so enthusiastically at Italia 90. In fact, when I saw Peter Beardsley in Four Lane Ends Post Office on the day of the Holland v Uruguay semi, I almost embraced him on the spot. That day I was embraced by my Dutch neighbour Fred, who stood swaying in his garden singing “Het Wilhelmus” at the top of his voice while slugging from a vat of Heineken. Fred is a senior researcher at Newcastle University Medical School incidentally.

As regards the fluent, attacking German team, I have to say that the fashion choice of manager Joachim Low (no shirt, v-necked woolly jumper, Primark jeans and suit jacket) should have seen his side expelled for reasons of aesthetics. Instead a bullet header by the bizarrely bouffanted Puyol sent the Catalan Castillians in to the final.

The final itself took place two days after I arrived in Spain for my summer holidays. Whereabouts did I go? Bilbao, in the Basque Country, or Euskadi as the residents, who have fought a bitter campaign for independence from Madrid since the 1930s, call it. I’ll tell you all about my adventures there in the next update.

"Village Voice;" a book about Percy Main Amateurs (by me)

New Book Release

Village Voice

The story of PERCY MAIN AMATEURS 2009/10 SEASON

THE NORTH EAST has been known as “the hotbed of soccer” ever since Arthur

Appleton coined the phrase with his book of the same name in 1961. Yet, how true is the

description? The 2009/2010 season saw recently relegated Newcastle United storming

back to the Premiership in front of the biggest attendances the Championship had ever

seen. However, less than 10 miles away from those rarefied climes, Percy Main Amateurs

celebrated the 90th anniversary of their triumph in the Northumberland Minor Cup

by striving to gain promotion from the Pin Point Recruitment Northern Alliance First

Division.

Village Voice tells the semi-dramatic story of the Main’s sometimes nerve shredding,

sometimes triumphant but always expletive-strewn, ultimately successful attempt to escape

from the 11th tier of English football. With a couple of cup final appearances thrown in,

we follow the Villagers’ season on and off the pitch as the economic realities of running

a club where players on the pitch outnumber fans on the terraces are never far from the

author’s mind.

Topics such as the incomprehensible fashion choices of most of the squad, a winter of

such severity that the Villagers go 112 days without playing a league game and the need

to offer the best quality hot dogs in the Northern Alliance are addressed alongside mere

fripperies such as the 2010 General Election by a world-weary, all-seeing author who

discovers, despite himself, that his love for Percy Main deepens by the day.

Ian Cusack’s affectionate and articulate book provides a fascinating and supremely honest insight into the world of grassroots football in the North East, with the bonus of a happy ending thrown in. Village Voice will make you adopt Percy Main Amateurs as your second team.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Ian Cusack was born on Tyneside in August 1964.

A lifelong football fan, he saw his first game on New

Year’s Day 1973 when Newcastle United drew 2-2

with Leicester City. Having developed a passion for

the non-league game in the North East during the

previous decade and a half, Ian finally “retired” as

a Newcastle fan in May 2009 to dedicate himself

to Percy Main Amateurs FC, where he is Assistant

Secretary and chief dishwasher. Ian has written about

football for a huge range of publications such The

Guardian, When Saturday Comes, Non League

Monthly, Players Inc and The Mag, currently contributing

to Toon Talk and, of course, the

Percy Main Amateurs programme. His interests

include Teenage Fanclub, ultra left wing politics,

Real Ale, urban cycling, the novels of James Ellroy

and emphasising the cultural significance of nonleague

football in the North Tyneside area to anyone

prepared to listen.

ISBN: 978-0-9565736-0-5

BINDING: Paperback

COVER PRICE: £9.99

SIZE: 138mm x 216mm

PAGES: 192

PUBLICATION DATE:

September 1st, 2010

Available from all good bookshops and online

retailers, or by mail order at the cover price of

£9.99, post free in the UK, from

PMA PUBLISHING

(make cheques payable to Ian Cusack)

52 River View, Tynemouth, NE30 4AF

Mobile: 07900 431379 Tel: 0191 209 9284

Email: iancusack@blueyonder.co.uk