Rock & Dole Years: 2005/2006

(The series first started in Summer 2004 with the 1974/1975 season and has continued up to the present day, in both players inc and now in Toon Talk)

What were you doing on the night of May 25^th 2005? I’d guess a sizeable percentage of those reading this page were watching in rapt amazement as Liverpool came back from 3-0 down to win the Champions’ League final on penalties against AC Milan in Istanbul. Personally I’ve not seen a single second of highlights of the game as I was watching Teenage Fanclub, the greatest band in the history of the Universe, at the University. Having seen the Fannies 28 times now, that particular gig tends to blend in with many others, but the importance of the night to Newcastle United remains crystal clear.

Liverpool had finished 5^th in the Premiership, but because of their CL win, they were given special dispensation to appear in the 2005/2006 Champions League as the holders. This meant that Bolton would be accompanied in the UEFA Cup not by Liverpool, but by the Smogs, meaning there was an Inter Toto Cup place up for grabs. Freddy Shepherd was many things, but he never missed a trick and Newcastle’s application was straight in. Despite finishing 14^th and as close to going down as achieving a UEFA Cup spot in terms of points in 2004/2005, we were back in Europe. Presumably because none of the sides finishing 8^th to 13^th wanted to play a collection of Moldovan Welders or Byelorussian Psychotherapists in mid July.

Exempted to the third round, we were drawn against Slovak side Dubnica. As someone who spent 2 wonderful years living in the Slovak capital of Bratislava, I was honoured to be one of the 83 Newcastle fans, most of who drink in The Newton in High Heaton, who made the trip to see my team in my adoptive country. 35 degree heat, 35p pints and a sleepy 3-1 win, with Michael Chopra scoring his first ever Newcastle goal made for a fantastic weekend, far away from the reality of our club under Souness.

The dull 2-0 home win courtesy of a Shearer double, where Amdy Faye’s alarming incompetence finally shone through in emphatic terms, and back to back 2-1 losses against Deportivo La Coruna in the next round meant we could concentrate on another season of ponderous mediocrity, or so it seemed. Those players departing SJP had included Patrick Kluivert, to Valencia, Laurent Robert, to Portsmouth and Nicky Butt, to Birmingham (on loan) of the team that had disgraced the fans in the FA Cup semi final v Man United at Cardiff in April 2005. Also out the door were honest journeymen Darren Ambrose to Charlton and Aaron Hughes to Villa, both of whom could justifiably still be with us now, not to mention Andy O’Brien who seems to be linked with a return every third Thursday. Craig Bellamy also finally left, for Blackburn, victim of Souness’s principles, that had been so on display after Bowyer and Dyer had got stuck in to each other in the previous season. Jermaine Jenas would move to Spurs in August, where he still struggles to reach his potential.

In their place came Scott Parker from Chelsea, the unknown Emre from Inter Milan and the unacceptable Luque from Deportivo. Significantly down on bodies, we also brought home Lee Clark from Fulham and signed up the unattached Craig Moore. Frankly, we didn’t look world-beaters and I had little compunction in taking a family holiday in the football season for the first time in years.

Sunning myself in the Bordeaux region, I was glad to miss our start of 1 point from 4 games; Arsenal 0-2 in our last game at Highbury, a bland 0-0 home to the Hammers, a shocking 0-2 at Bolton and a routine 0-2 home to Man United, when Luque gave a 15 minute cameo of why we’d wasted £10m on him. However, I did get back in time for the worst piece of transfer business this club has ever conducted, in the shape of the incredible £18m capture of Michael Owen. Five years on this looks to be the worst deal in the history of the world never mind Newcastle; it probably was. Still, at least Nobby Solano came back the same time.

Owen made his debut in a 1-1 home draw with Fulham when N’Zogbia rescued a point, before Shearer and Owen tore Blackburn apart as we won 3-0 at Ewood Park. The next week Owen grabbed his first home goal as we beat Man City 1-0 at a still unconvinced SJP. A dull 0-0 at Portsmouth was followed by our first visit to our latest bogey ground, Wigan, where a clearly over the line Shearer header was ignored as we lost 1-0. Owen was injured that day, with a groin or ankle or something, and missed the game the week after. I’m glad I didn’t.

We’d laughed very much when sunderland gained 19 points in 2002/2003, but we guffawed loudly at the 15 points they were to amass in 2005/2006, though there was no sign they’d be as poor as that when we beat them 3-2 in late October. Normally Derby games are lousy to watch, but this was a superb spectacle; two storming Shola headers and a pair of fine finishes by a couple of their lot left it nicely poised with 20 minutes remaining. Cue a piece of Turkish delight as Emre curled in a fabulous 30-yard free kick at the Gallowgate to win it for us. Some goal and some game, but an example of the all too rare commodities of skill and flair in the Souness era.

Amazingly, Owen was back the next week and him, Shearer and forgotten man Kieron Dyer all played blinders as we won 3-0 at The Hawthorns. We were only 10^th, but seemingly improving. Birmingham lost 1-0 at SJP as November dawned with an Emre effort squirming away from Maik Taylor. We followed this up with three defeats, comprising a 3-0 pummelling at the Bridge by Chelsea and a1-0 loss at Goodison, sandwiching a limp League Cup exit 1-0 at Wigan, to show we weren’t really any good.

The knives were out for Souness and if Gareth Barry hadn’t blasted a last minute penalty in to the Leazes, needlessly given away by the hapless Bramble, he’d have gone in early December, but he hung on. This 1-1 draw was supplanted by a praiseworthy 1-0 win home to Arsenal; Nobby scored it, but Scotty Parker won us the game with a dynamic showing.

The week after, December 18^th 2005, saw the last ever edition of The Pink and what a story they had, with an Owen hat-trick winning us the game at West Ham in a 4-2 thriller. I nearly died. Actually, I did nearly die in a car crash the next day when an articulated lorry ploughed in to us as we drove north on the A1, but I survived and was able to see Liverpool and Spurs both beat us 2-0, with Owen breaking his foot at White Hart Lane on New Year’s Eve. It was a case of no footing rather than first footing.

In early January Lee Clark rescued a point with a 93^rd minute leveller home to the Smogs, before Shearer finally matched Jackie Milburn’s goalscoring record in a 1-0 win over Mansfield in the FA Cup. It wasn’t Souness’s last win; that was a spawny 2-0 at Cheltenham in the next round of the cup. However, he left at the end of January following 3 league losses in a row; 0-1 at Craven Cottage, 0-1 home to Blackburn and 0-3 against Man City. While all three games stunk to high heaven, the last non-performance was as rotten an epitaph for his muddleheaded rule as he deserved; a man out of time and out of touch, he was as bad a boss, in my opinion, as Allardyce, Kinnear and McGarry combined.

Who was to take over? Well, humble, honest Glenn Roeder was running our Academy and he diffidently assumed the spotlight. The likeable Cockney took us from 15^th to 7^th at season’s end, by the simple expedient of playing 4-4-2 with Nobby and N’Zogbia out wide; it wasn’t rocket science, but it worked.

In his first game Shearer broke Milburn’s record as we swept Pompey aside 2-0 in a happy, vibrant, rocking SJP. We went to Villa and won 2-1, with Given saving a penalty, drew 0-0 with Charlton when we’d bossed the game, before stuffing Everton 2-0 with a Nobby pearler and Bolton 3-1 without breaking sweat.

Of course there were setbacks; 4 successive losses, 0-2 at Old Trafford, 1-3 home to Liverpool, when Boumsong was sent off on his last appearance, 0-1 at Stamford Bridge in the Cup and 1-3 at Charlton, where Scott Parker scored his first goal from about 40 yards. However, there was also April, when we won 5 in a row.

Firstly, Spurs were comprehensively outplayed 3-1 with Jenas getting dog’s abuse and Dawson a red card, before an easy 2-1 stroll at smogland where they scored in the dying seconds and then a 3-1 element of revenge over Wigan on Easter Saturday.

Of course, you’ll remember Easter Monday; 4-1, “We’ll Meet Again,” “We Only Played For 7 Minutes,” the corner flag collector in tears and even Luque scoring. The original demolition derby saw Alan Shearer get his last ever goal, a penalty fittingly enough, in his last ever game as we lorded it over the unwashed in the best way possible. Happy days.

Subsequent games included a 3-0 win over also relegated West Brom, 0-0 at St Andrew’s and a 1-0 win over Chelsea, but they were pretty much after the Lord Mayor’s Show after the Mackem massacre. However, the Chelsea result guaranteed we finished 7^th and qualified for the Inter Toto Cup, which we were to win, in 2006/2007.

Sadly this season marked the end of Alan Shearer’s playing career, with no clear indication of who was to replace him (Owen played a sub’s role at Birmingham after breaking his foot and nothing else). His testimonial against Celtic was an emotion charged affair that I was proud to have attended.

Sadly also, in retrospect, Shepherd took the easy option and made Glen Roeder, against his better instincts, permanent manager. Looking back on the latter half of this season, it is clear than in our post Sir Bobby Premier League days, it was only a window of adequacy in a booked-up diary full of dross. Come back next issue for 2006/2007; we win the Inter Toto Cup but the Premier League is a huge pile of fetid mediocrity.

Slovensko DO TOHO!!

(Originally published in Percy Main v Rutherford programme 28th March 2009 & repopularised at http://britskibelasi.footballunited.com/ in October 2010)

This week we have the opportunity to exorcise painful memories of last season’s 5-0 home stuffing by Rutherford, while supporters of Newcastle United can take stock and have a breather, as their team’s seemingly inevitable breakneck hurtle in to the Championship goes in to abeyance for a week. The reason for this is that it is the wonderful spectacle of meaningless fixtures, mass substitutions and sterile non-football that tells us it has to be international week.

I must admit international football isn’t really my thing. If the Rutherford game was a week later, I’d be penning my usual drivel about the start of the Irish football season (Galway United and Bohemians battling it out for top spot) or the new film based on Brian Clough’s ill-starred 44 day reign at Elland Road, The Damned United, based on David Peace’s magnificent novel of the same name, which every football lover should read as a matter of urgency. However, for the sake of journalistic integrity, I’ll give these examples of nationalistic nonsense my full attention.

Unsurprisingly, Ireland are my footballing nation (and a big well done to the rugby lads for the Grand Slam last week, which took my mind off Steven Taylor’s latest arrogant sporting suicide mission), so the 17.45 kick off at Croke Park versus Bulgaria will occupy my mind later on today. I’ve only ever seen Ireland once, and that was at U21 level at St. James’ Park in 1994. They lost 2-0 but I enjoyed myself as mackem Martin Smith’s every touch was booed mercilessly, rather like Nick Pickering’s versus Russia at the same venue and same level had been in 1983. Indeed the majority of my other international footballing experience has either been at that ground or that level; Bulgaria 1 Romania 0 at Euro 96 and England U21 4 Holland U21 0 at the Madjeski Stadium in August 2000, accompanying the Chinese U17 team, to whom I was acting as English tutor (it’s a long story…), for example.

Despite the fact that I’d probably cheer the Taleban XI on if they were playing England, their home friendly with Slovakia at Wembley today did grab my attention. I thought about going, but frankly how could I miss out on Purvis Park after last week’s marvellous showing against Killingworth? The reason for toying with travelling is I spent 2 years, between 1999 and 2001 in the capital of Slovakia, Bratislava and loved the place, especially its football. Remember Newcastle 1 sunderland 2 in a thunderstorm with Shearer and Ferguson on the bench? Or Sir Bobby in the hot seat as Newcastle trounced Sheff Wed 8-0? Guess which was the last game I saw and first I missed when heading to Bratislava in September 1999?

Slovakia is the less glamorous bit of the old Czechoslovakia, utterly opposed to the tolerance and (literal) Bohemian atmosphere of Prague. Football wise, there has been no Pavel Srnicek, Pavel Nedved, Peter Cech or Karel Poborsky to boast of; recently their most famous players have been Szilard Nemeth at the smogs, Stano Varga at the mackems, Lubo Moravcik at Celtic and Martin Skrtel at Liverpool. Club wise, Slovan Bratislava are the most famous team. Winners of the Cup Winners’ Cup in 1969, Slovakia’s only European honour, they were eclipsed for about 8 years by their very local rivals Inter Bratislava (we’re talking Dundee and Dundee United levels of proximity here). I lived in a flat that looked in to Slovan from the living room and kitchen and Inter from the bedroom and balcony, but supported neither.

Slovan’s ground is the national stadium and is full of Nazi boneheads in Rangers or Millwall shirts and swastika armbands, while Inter played in front of about 1,000 in a soulless athletics stadium without cover. My side were (Artmedia) Petrzalka, who played in the scenic Stary Most ground and wore black and white striped shirts. You may remember them trouncing Celtic 5-0 in the Champions League qualifiers in 2005, but when I saw them they finished just above relegation both years. Crowds were only 6,000, but they played in a proper old style ground and the fans were close to the pitch. Just after I left, they embarked on their glory years; winning the Cup in 2003, League in 2004 & 2005 and Cup again in 2006. Sadly, with Inter going boom and subsequently getting relegated, Petrzalka made a sound business but terribly unromantic decision and sold their lovely old ground for hotel and office development and are now playing at the soulless Pasienka athletics stadium. What a shame! I still look out for their results and would love to go back again some time.

While following Petrzalka, I had the chance to travel around and see a few small towns that boasted teams in the Slovak top flight; Senec, Trnava, Sala and Trencin for starters. While I enjoyed these days out, especially as tickets, travel and beer were all dirt cheap, my two favourite trips had more than a passing hint of the outfit from Barrack Road about them.

In Slovakia one of my best mates was another Newcastle fan, Brendan from Durham, and one drunken Thursday night we concocted a plan to travel across the border to Ostrava, home of Pavel Srnicek, to see his home town team and first club, take on their local rivals Sigma Olomouc. Arriving hopelessly early on the Saturday following, having misread the train timetables; we found the nearest pub to the ground, the originally titled Futbalpub, to while away the hours to kick-off.

Walking in, with a sense of travellers’ trepidation, we found the place looking like the old supporters’ shop opposite The Farmers’ Rest; black and white from floor to ceiling, with framed Pavel shirts behind the bar and a huge mural of the 1993 Promotion winning side with him in a “Pavel is a Geordie” tee shirt, covering one wall. As soon as our loyalties were discovered the locals embraced us like long-lost cousins and we drank for free for 12 hours solid, in the pub and in the ground, which included a memorable 2-0 home win, when the Ostrava Ultras sang “The Blaydon Races” for the last 10 minutes, with perhaps more enthusiasm than accuracy.

Even better was seeing Newcastle play mid ranking Slovak side Dubnica in the Inter Toto Cup in 2005. Only 84 Geordies made the trip, but it was one game I would not have missed for the world; we won 3-1, Michael Chopra scored his opening 2 goals for The Mags and I had a chance to show a load of drunken Geordies one of the best countries and cities in the world. One day I’ll recount how Douglas Hall asked me if I liked sex and travel in an Irish pub in downtown Bratislava at 4 in the morning, but not right now!

I went over there to teach English to University students and business bigwigs, but my favourite student was Stano Griga, who managed the Slovak U21 side at the time, then went on to boss Slavia Prague. He was a former player with Nitra, Sparta Prague, Feyenoord (where he played against Spurs in the 1992 Cup Winners’ Cup) and Austria Vienna, where he wound down his career. He was also a Czechoslovak international who played at the 1990 World Cup and used to sort a few of us out with tickets for Slovakia internationals; 0-0 v Sweden and 3-1 v Azerbaijan, when Nemeth scored after 19 seconds, stand out in the memory.

One tournament that stands out is the 2000 European Under 21s; I remember mouthy, drunken Chelsea fans watching England beat Turkey 6-0, then lose 1-0 to Italy and 2-0 to Slovakia, who won their group and lost to Holland in the final. At least there were only 100 Three Lions scumbags in town then; when England played in Bratislava in October 2002, Michael Owen scored a double and there were clashes between the local police and England fans. When I saw Slovakia lose 2-1 to England Under 21 at Stadium of Shite in 2003, only 35 Slovaks were there. They are a good people and I hope the ones at Wembley today enjoy their day out.

*”Come on Slovakia,” in Slovak

Ijen Kjusak (as Ian Cusack sounds like Eye-ann Tsoosats to a Slovak)

Flying the NUST

(Published in Percy Main v Heddon programme, 9th October 2010)

You’ll remember that in my article for the Carlisle City programme, I expressed my unease about the direction and pace of travel exhibited by NUST. In short, following the discredited false start of NU$C and the shameful, undemocratic leaflet put about at the Blackburn game in September 2008 calling not for democratic fan ownership but for a mythical, benevolent Geordie billionaire to spend his cash exactly as he was told, NUST had really got their act together by putting clear red water between them and their egotistical antecedents. The “Yes We Can” campaign had harnessed the enthusiasm of all sectors of our support and was driving the organisation forward. The election of a full committee seemed to be the final piece in the jigsaw.

However, following publication of the results at the end of March 2010, precisely nothing of any relevance or moment happened. Actually positions and roles were divvied up in secret, an MP was co-opted and the NUST Media Committee, chaired by the obsequious, toadying non-entity Tony Stephenson, a man who would voluntarily clean the chair of the NUST chair with his tongue and regard it as an honour, decided that, despite the free publicity and good wishes Steve Wraith had given NUST on his radio show, they would have nothing to do with “Toon Talk” because of the imagery associated with it (my italics).

In issue the Carlisle city programme, I pointed out that this was all well and good if such a policy was applied consistently. Then, lo and behold, issue # 250 of “The Mag,” a publication I have bought from its first issue in August 1988 and that I hold in the greatest esteem, had a full-page article about NUST. All well and good you might say; it’s great that NUST are taking the trouble to communicate with members and other interested parties in one of the 2 Newcastle fanzines. Fair enough, but what does it say about NUST and their policy of not dealing with “Toon Talk” on grounds of taste, decency and sexual politics when “The Mag” has an advert on its inside back cover for “Newcastle’s Finest Topless Totty Show?”

Of course NUST would not necessarily be aware of the adverts in “The Mag,” but as the Chair of NUST is also the editor of that publication, there is a chance the two organisations may have communicated. I am not suggesting for one minute that there is any kind of nest feathering going on, and if NUST want to formalise the relationship with “The Mag” by making it their official theoretical journal, all well and good, but I think the waters have been muddied and such a turn of events is being seen by many members as further evidence of an otiose streak at the core of NUST.

Since my last article, I received an email encouraging me to renew my membership that included as an attachment the newsletter NUST produced in September. The first official communication I had had with NUST since the election results repeated the bland, anodyne imprecision of the August press release about the future of the trust. It was high on cliché and simpering rhetoric, but low to non-existent on tactics and analysis. There was a mention of the rebranding of SJP which the Trust noted with “sadness,” in a typically downbeat, understated manner that is more Women’s Institute than Bolshevik Revolution in tone.

However, the proposed erection of the giant SportsDirect.com@StJames’Park signs gave NUST their Custer’s Last Stand opportunity. Surely there would be a chance for all membership to exchange opinions on this issue? It was the first major thing to happen since the alleged Glasnost and Perestroika era that has been ushered in by the “Moving The Trust Forward” statement. Admittedly, talking to the Newcastle City Council Planning Committee and handing in a petition is not the same as storming the Winter Palace, as grounds for compliant were restricted as objections on the grounds of taste and morality were beyond the remit of the hearing.

As you’ll know the objection failed and the signs are going up. Sure they’ll look terrible and sure the club will get no income from them, but if they did get income, I’d be all for it in the current economic climate. We have to be realists. NUST’s mealy-mouthed suggestion that it’s ok for new grounds to have sponsorship, like at Arsenal or Bolton, but not as old grounds is an illogical non position that attempts to blend aesthetics with tradition and looks simply laughable in the cold light of day; a bit like NUST it has to be said.

Frankly, I’ve had enough; there is no chance whatsoever of me paying up, despite a rallying call that appeared to be the Eve of Agincourt delivered by John Major on ketamine -:

“Your support is absolutely vital to the NUST and underpins all we try to do and is greatly appreciated. We’re proud of what we have been able to achieve in our first year and we could not have done it without you. Only by increasing membership and influence can the Trust hope to move forward, with your help we can all look forward to a bright future.”

Being brutally honest, I don’t see any possible hope that NUST in its current form with its current malaise can become a campaigning force for Newcastle United and the supporters in particular. Regardless of league form, and it has to be said relegation is possible if losses against Blackpool and Stoke are to be the norm, we must never lose sight of the greater good of the club. That’s why I’m not going to be wasting any more energy wondering just why NUST has failed; never mind the question of whether I’m better outside the tent pissing in or inside the tent pissing out, I’ve decided to simply piss off because I’m pissed off.

The Charlatans

(Published in Percy Main v Harraby CC programme on 2nd October 2010)

The Dell was never a happy hunting ground for Newcastle United. The Magpies final, ever success at Southampton’s old ground was back in February 1972, a mere fortnight after their last away victory over Manchester United, in the same month that Ronnie Radford scored a tap-in against the Toon as well, curiously enough. In 8 Premiership visits to the Saints’ former home, Newcastle picked up a solitary point, in Kenny Dalglish’s first game in charge, back in January 1997. Even then, they were 2-0 up with 6 minutes remaining before Matthew Le Tissier got involved. While that was bad, it didn’t rank as low as the 2-1 defeat on Sky TV when Keegan had a hissy fit with Lee Clark in October 1993 or the 3-1 loss in March 1995 that saw Paul Kitson’s goal separating the sides as injury time began. All things considered, the routine 2-1 loss on 28th March 1998 didn’t raise too many eyebrows.

That day I was in the Midlands, paying my first and so far only visit to Meadow Lane, to see Notts County clinch the Division 3 Championship with a 1-0 victory over Leyton Orient. It’s a decent ground, albeit generally far too large for the needs of England’s oldest league club and the impromptu pitch invasion at full time was jovial and good-natured. I’m glad I stopped by, though I didn’t hang around for the boss’s speech after the trophy was presented, mainly because I remember him turning out for the Mackems under Ken Knighton’s tedious tenure.

Who was the visionary manager who had achieved the remarkable feat of obtaining promotion before the clocks had gone forward that I chose to cock a deaf one to? Well, he was recently in the news for issuing the following bold statement as regards his modest analysis of his own managerial abilities -:

“Personally I feel I would be more suited to Inter Milan or Real Madrid. It wouldn't be a problem for me to manage those clubs because I would win the double or the league every time. Give me Manchester United or Chelsea and I would do the same. It's not a problem to take me into the higher reaches of the Champions League or Premier League.”

This is the manager who, on the day he made such pronouncements, made the groundbreaking tactical decision that his main striker (a loathsome individual with serial convictions for spitting on fans and opponents, the racist abuse of a ball boy and a season with the Mackems on his CV) should ignore the ball whenever it was pumped predictably high, hard and hopeful in to the opposition box, preferring instead to barge the visiting keeper to the ground. The player, who was instructed to act like a gridiron linebacker at a third down scrimmage, is the nauseating El Hadji Diouf and the manager, none other than the uniquely despised bastard lovechild of Matthew Kelly and Malcolm MacDonald, Mr Samuel Allardyce.

Yes, that’s right, the quotation that comprises the vain and smug analysis of his own minimal talent by the monstrous ego of a monstrous narcissist, suggests that he regards himself to be the equal of Jose Mourinho. You are not dreaming; Allardyce actually said these things, though it has yet to be confirmed whether he was tripping at the time.

Let us not forget, Allardyce is the man who, when given a large amount of cash to spend at Newcastle United, brought in the delights of Abdoulaye Faye, Cacapa, Geremi and David Rozehnal for the grand total expenditure of £15 million for the precise net gain of jack shit. Indeed it is a moot point whether Allardyce's most notable achievement for Newcastle United SJP was a laughable, mincing run across the turf at Craven Cottage while both sides waited to kick off the second half or his solitary substitute appearance for West Bromwich Albion in November 1989, when the Magpies won 5-1 at The Hawthorns.

To be scrupulously fair, I must acknowledge that Allardyce isn’t only famous, in his terms, for failing to win a single trophy with Blackpool, Bolton (bar a play off final in 2001), Newcastle and Blackburn, which is how we normal football fans will judge him. He is equally notorious for a “Panorama” investigation in to corruption in football that saw his son banned by the FA from working in the professional game. Also, Big Sam (his words) does wear a natty earpiece that makes him look like Morrissey would if he’d been fed on steak and kidney pudding four times a day since he was potty trained.

This earpiece is linked to Allardyce’s 25 strong backroom op centre, which consists of innumerable snake oil salesman and other barely credible boffins, allegedly conducting several kinds of spurious tests and crunching numbers in to dozens of hi-tech gizmos and gallimaufries, for a yet to be discerned purpose.

Supporters of Allardyce, who presumably compromise these lads in the lab coats, him and his family, regularly tout the hippo-headed fool as the next England manager and to be fair, he probably wouldn’t have done a lot worse than Sven, Second Choice Steve or Bo Selecta. Remember, Sam has a European pedigree, having led Limerick City to the First Division title in the League of Ireland back in 1991.

At the same time as Allardyce continues to acclaim his own talents, Irish society is reeling as yet another example of incompetence by Allardyce lookalike Taoiseach Brian Cowen (aka Biffo, the Big Ignorant Fella From Offaly) sees the man charged as being single-handedly responsible for the loss of 150,000 jobs in the last 6 months alone, bladdered out of his head in a Galway nightclub at 3am on a Tuesday morning. Frankly, such behaviour is not unusual in Irish public life; the secret though is being able to get away with it. Ensconced in the City of the Tribes for a Fianna Fail policy summit, Cowen comprehensively let his hair down, shouting and roaring until closing time and, by all accounts, giving a grand version of the Christy Moore classic “The Lakes of Ponchartrain.” Unfortunately, Cowen’s voice betrayed the lateness of his hours on an interview regarding the state of the economy on “Morning Ireland” at 7.30 the following morning. Cowen stopped short of an apology, though he did display a degree of clarity the man who sees his imminent elevation from Ewood Park to Old Trafford as a given would never dream of stating, when he commented on the media storm by stating, "it wasn't my best performance.”

However, we are being unkind; Sam has got one thing in common with Sir Alex. Not the 2 Champions League wins, the 8 Premier League titles, 6 FA Cups, 4 League Cups, European Cup Winners’ Cup or any of the trinkets picked up by the Govan Genius when in charge at Aberdeen. No, the sole thing they have in common is a refusal to talk to the BCC. Sir Alex does it out of principle; Hippo Head is presumably taking the Fifth Amendment in relation to the “Panorama” programme.

Still, silent or voluble, those of us who know the beautiful game agree; Allardyce’s long ball robots and shoulder charging psychos are a stain on our national game. In the same way that the Irish public have seen through Biffo’s boozy bluster, we won’t be fooled by Fat Sam’s execrable egotism and ridiculous rhetoric.

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.