Fragments of Unpopular Culture 4: Newcastle Bus Stations of the 1970s & 1980s

I cycle almost everywhere. When I can't, I take the bus. Here are some rambling comments about the Tyneside public transport network of my youth, written in late 2005 and previously unpublished.

Being brought up in Felling, we were blessed. We were God's chosen few. We didn't have any Corporation buses on our manor. Well, the 16 and 17 went along the by-pass but that was either Stoneygate or the Old Fold which wasn't proper Felling anyway. The 8, 9 & 10 went on to Springwell Estate up Old Durham Road, but that was top Low Fell on the right as you went up and Carr Hill on the left, which wasn't proper Felling either. We were Northern Buses only! The 60, later the 58, to the Leam up Split Crow Road, Windy Nook Bank and along through Whitehills. The 59 which went through the Square, down Watermill Lane to the High Lanes, bottom of the Leam and then on to Wardley. The 530 to Shields that tuned left at the Cricket club and went through Bill Quay, Pelaw, Hebburn, Jarrow, Tyne Dock and down through Laygate, Chi, Westoe and stopped at the Town Hall. There were loads went down the bottom, all from Worswick Street.

I loved Worswick Street, all the happy memories of battling with Jazz Funkers from Deckham on the last 60 every Friday, or saying "two bob keep the ticket" to the driver or even the clippy way back then. Worswick Street served the Eastern side of Gateshead, South Tyneside and central Durham from the Birtley side across. Worswick Street had the Western Saloon barbers at the top, a Crawfords bakery, a little newsagent and even a Church, Catholic obviously, opposite. Northern Buses were always there to serve you.

Marlborough Crescent was an amazing place. Buses went to semi-mythical locations such as Quaking Houses, New Kyo and Dumpling Hall. Far flung civilisations in Stanley, Consett and Leadgate were served by this magnificent place. If you were so inclined, you could get to Felling on the 13, later to become the 93, which went across the old Redheugh, through the teams, across to Bensham, through the Team Valley, up Chowdene Bank, through Low Fell, up to the QE then down Windy Nook Bank. Or there was the 529, now the 527 and formerly the 82, that did a magnificent sociological trip along Coatsy Road, through Bensham, up by Prince consort Road, through Deckham, up Hendon Road, Sherrif Hill, Carr Hill, Pottersway and along Windy Nook Road to the Black House then down to the square and off to Shields the long way.

The Haymarket; proud and resolute. The gateway to England's border county, my uncle who has just died, his wife and family took a bus to Seahouses from there one year for a summer holiday. Do people do that now?

I pitied those who took yellow buses that seemed to start and end at random places. Where was Whickham View? Surely Two Ball Lonnen was a cowboy not a place? What on earth could you find at Lemington Road Ends? Oblivion? I still pitied them when the rancid pile that was the subterranean gloom of Eldon Square was opened. An evil, fetid transportational Hades, cursed by Stygian gloom.

I pitied even more those from Low Fell. Not only could they take buses from Worswick Street, they could also adjoin Corporation buses such as the 27 to Allerdene. Were they not torn? How could they fail to be confused, befuddled and stumped by such a superabundance of buses? Although everyone in Low Fell was a Millionaire back then; Valley Drive was Beverley Hills.

And then, the 649 was born. From Winlaton down the bank through Axwell View, Swallwell, up to Dunston, through the Teams, Bensham, Gateshead, Deckham, Hendon Road, Carr Hill, Windy Nook Bank, the Square, High Heworth, Colgate and on to Fewster Square. It started and ended at a random place. It was the beginning of the end. There was no turning back

Now Marlborough Crescent is home to Newcastle's Gay night life district, Worswick Street is a deserted fly-blown husk, Eldon Square remains a place for human debris to be assailed by carbon monoxide and I take a bus that starts at Whickham View and ends at the Freeman. Tempus fugit. At least The Haymarket remains. 

Fragments of Unpopular Culture 3: Gambling

At the end of August I won £50 in the Percy Main Cricket Club weekly draw. Five years ago, I had this to say about gambling in the October 2006 edition of "Northern Wisdom," the Northern League Club monthly bulletin.

I am not a Puritan; the closest I ever get to that is a hearty bowl of Quaker Oats every morning (no sugar as it causes diabetes, no salt as it causes high blood pressure and no full fat milk as it causes obesity). I am not moralistic; indeed the characters of Trainspotting, fictional devotees of my Scottish team Hibernian, would take me to task in the bars surrounding Easter Road for my shiftless ambivalence to contemporary questions of social import.

I am, however, unashamedly judgemental and I defy any football fan not to be; especially bearing in mind what we put up with. On any given Saturday and many midweeks as well, the scenario I’m about to depict could well happen to all of us; the team you support is playing like a collection of incompetent mercenaries on tranquilisers, the pies are replete with botulism, the beer in the clubhouse appears to be the contents of a latrine shot through with copious amounts of carbon dioxide and the opposition’s programme is full of the sort of hysterical, biased ranting that would make a Paisleyite sermon on ecumenism seemed positively enlightened. Naturally, all of this is played out in force 10 gales, in driving rain on a bumpy pitch.

Naturally enough, your one possible avenue of hope is the bottle of Scotch in the half-time draw. It goes without saying that it ends up being won by someone who has the set of numbers immediately before you and just happens to be the ticket seller’s nephew and son-in-law of the chairman. And you wonder why, without exception, I respond to every single inquiry as to whether I’d like any raffle tickets with the stock response “I don’t gamble?”

Actually, the truth is I don’t gamble. I’ve never set foot in a betting shop, I’ve never been to greyhounds and my only trip to the horses was to Hexham in May 1987, when I spent the whole meeting quality testing various brews with former Newcastle and Everton full-back John Bailey, a bibulous gentleman of some repute.

I realise that to deny a club 50p or £1 in revenue because of a seemingly spurious and anachronistic moral objection may seem petty, but my conscience is clear when it comes to supporting this league. Not only am I a member of this august society, buy a programme from every game I go to, have an archive of almost all Northern League fanzines from 1991 to the present day and possess about a dozen lapel badges and various other items of memorabilia. I also imbibe a fair bit and allow my lad, who accompanies me to 90% of the Northern League games I attend, to have his choice of the snack bar.

There is often as assumption that those who don’t buy raffle tickets are simply mean in money or spirit, but this is not always the case. Of far worse concern is the abuse of club passes that is almost Mandelsonesque in its proportions. My contention is this; give me something to spend my money on in your ground and I will spend it. Just don’t expect me to indulge in a practice I find abhorrent.

Fulham Fallout

By rights, I shouldn’t even have been in the country, never mind at St. James’ Park watching my 9^th successive visit of Fulham. The last encounter between the two sides I’d missed was the 1-1 draw on a Monday night in April 2002 when I was at a conference in Bournemouth. I shouldn’t have seen this one either; I should have been in the Cusack Stand at Croke Park watching Dublin drag themselves past Donegal, the Stoke City of GAA, by the margin of 0-08 to 0-06, in what has been widely reported as being the worst All Ireland Semi Final in living memory.

However, the lousiness of the game would not have taken the shine off my intended first visit to Croker, as it is a huge mark against my assumed Irishness that I’ve never seen a game of bogball in my life. Well apart from Cu Chulainn’s versus Brothers Pearse (Huddersfield) at Killingworth in April 2009 that is, but we’ll not go there just now.

Anyway, it would also have only been a small part of a weekend that had been scheduled to begin  on the Thursday with the cricket at Clontarf, where Ireland were taking on England, captained by Eoin “William Joyce” Morgan. The FAI Cup last 16 Louth derby at Hunky Dory’s Park between Drogheda and Dundalk was to be my Friday entertainment, with Saturday a toss-up between coming west along the road for another FAI tie, between Sligo and Louis Copeland’s XI Monaghan United, managed by Roddy “Howyas” Collins or heading in to the heart of D4 for the rugger at the AVIVA where the Oppressors were the visitors in a World Cup warm up. I’d even contemplated rebooking the flight back, delaying my return until Tuesday early so I could finally get to Tallaghtfornia to see the Shams hosting UCD in the Cup. In the end, despite splashing out on a £19.98 return flight, I didn’t see any of it, because I didn’t go.

Frankly I didn’t end up missing much, other than stoking the fiery embers of my passionate, abiding love of the old country and sinking upwards of 5 gallons of liquid rope. The Dirty English Bastards won the rugby and the cricket, Drogs and Dundalk played out a dreary 1-1 draw and the GAA was as reported. Frankly, the best fun to have been had would have been winding up the St. Pat’s and Celtic fans in the New Town in Maynooth about Shams qualifying for the Europa League group stages, while the Tic crashed out (subjected to an appeal about some convoluted Sionist conspiracy; did you like what I did there?). For a variety of complex questions involving responsibility, obligation and duty, I missed out on a small lake of black porter, some grand craic and a cross-code sporting weekend par excellence. However, I had a decent time over here I must admit, even if the ethnic pangs of alienation and despair were keenly felt.

Thursday night involved watching Newcastle away to Scunthorpe in the League Cup second round. Now I’m not normally a fan of watching our games in the pub; while I can choose which bar to watch it in and what to drink, I can’t control the mindless inanities of those sitting or standing in the immediate vicinity. This goes back to a 6-0 loss to Man United in January 2008 when Allardyce had just been pedalled. Some clown in the bar declared Newcastle had tried to get Mark Hughes in as boss, but couldn’t because “it’s something to do with a transfer window for managers.” This was, and is, horseshit, so I told him so in unequivocal terms, but he was having none of it, as apparently his mate had texted him about seeing it on Facebook, which along with Wikipedia is the font of all knowledge in the post-cultural era. Cretins like this drink Fosters or, more often, Carling. They don’t sell those beers in The Cumberland, where I chose to watch it in the company of other middle aged Real Ale bores supping a nice steady 6 pints of Wylam Golden Tankard. Nobody complained when I was bouncing up and down on the seats when Raylor equalised and then Ameobi Minor won it either, which was a pleasant surprise on reflection. When Sammy scored I was on the piss.

Friday night provided some cultural pleasure. The magnificent Trembling Bells were playing The Cluny and, having adored all 3 of their albums and recommended them to play this place when I’d seen them back in April with the Unthanks, I felt beholden to be there. Obviously it’s nice when a band are setting up and they wave and smile to you from the stage, exchange a few pleasantries and then dedicate a song to you. For the second successive time, it was “Willows of Carbeth” and I felt duly humbled. They were brilliant as well; moving slightly away from the explicit folky roots of Fairport Convention towards an artier, progressive sound that reminded more of Incredible String Band or even, dare I say it, Henry Cow, though not quite that challenging.  Totally sober, I sang tunelessly but word perfectly along, exchanged warm handshakes at the end of the night and headed home.

 Saturday means football. Having been magnificent off the bench for Winstons last time out (3-0 when I went on after 15 and 3-0 at full time), I was disgusted to be dropped again. Then again, after a calamitous 4-1 loss to Billingham Vets, I was lucky to be SNU for this one. With Percy Main away to Blyth Town, I was unable to do both Over 40s and the Villagers, so I missed out on a glorious 3-0 win against a bogey side we’d never previously beaten in any competition. Instead, I met up with Michael Hudson (http://theaccidentalgroundhopper.blogspot.com/) for Chemfica v Gosforth Bohemians in the Alliance Division 1. After Benfield School, Cartington Terrace, Cochrane Park and now Coach Lane, this was the fourth home ground I’d seen Chemfica play at in a 2 mile radius during the past 4 seasons. It didn’t bring them any luck, as they went down 2-0 to a youthful Bohemians outfit, but you’d best read Michael’s account if you want to know the ins and outs of this game. From there, I headed back down Coach Lane to catch the last half hour and final goal of Team Northumbria’s 4-0 win over a very poor Thornaby side. With my proper football urges satisfied, it was time to focus on the loathsome Premiership.

In my last Newcastle themed blog post, “The Charmless Men,” I pondered how much I would be prepared to pay to watch a Newcastle game, providing I didn’t have something better to do with my time of course. I came up with the nominal figure of £5. That sum is based on it being a Premier League fixture; for a cup tie (especially a League Cup tie), I would probably go up to £15, depending on whether it was on terrestrial TV or not. After 37 years of support and 20 years of being a season ticket holder, including 6 years when I lashed out for 2 season tickets, I find it half insulting and half hilarious that the Newcastle United Box Office (yes, I know…) database has me down as being in possession of 41 Membership Loyalty Points. I honestly find it difficult to visualise what this concept actually means, as I don’t recall ever becoming a member of Newcastle United or just where these mysterious loyalty points came from. While I bought tickets and went to each and every home game at St James Park after returning from Slovakia in 2001, apart from the April 2002 Fulham game, until Keegan’s departure in September 2008, the number of away games I applied for was negligible. Possibly these 41 points have been awarded as recompense for my level of acceptable support, though I’m unsure what’s the maximum rating possible for dutifully observing the CONFORM! CONSUME! OBEY! mantra is.

Where I do believe the club deserves some kudos is in their swift response to the Fiorentina abandonment.  I’ve no doubt that under a previous administration, those who’d seen their afternoon curtailed by the inclement weather may have been fobbed off with a free pint or a half price cup ticket in return. Indeed, I remember the Oxford abandonment of March 1991; when it was replayed the following month, only those with season tickets got in for free. The poor buggers who’d half drowned in the Gallowgate and the Leazes had to shell out another £7; “league rules” said the McKeagues, behind beatific smirks that cemented their image for me as being the Barclay Twins crossed with a brace of Mr Punch puppets. The Ashley regime is nothing if not sensitive to money; empty seats in the ground don’t buy drinks, snacks or programmes. Not only that, acres of empty grey plastic looks bad in the sales brochure, like a broken garden fence or graffiti on the garage door when trying to sell your house. Consequently, they allowed those with Fiorentina tickets to exchange them for Category C Premiership games; Fulham, Wigan, Blackburn and the like, to try and nudge the attendance figure above the critical 40k mark.

The one problem with this is, and I’m speculating here, the crowd of 12,000 versus Fiorentina, a great name from the past but holding little cachet these days as Serie A flounders in the European doldrums, would probably have included only a small percentage of part timers or the curious. Most in attendance would have been regulars and overwhelmingly season ticket holders; so why would they need a free ticket when they’ve already got one? There was talk of NUFC Fans United (and I’ve a feeling I’ll be blogging about my involvement in this loose amalgam fairly soon) organising a redistribution of Fiorentina tickets to the needy but, like the scarf day against Fulham, it didn’t quite happen. That is a pity, but at least it meant I got a freebie (thanks Jamie) in the North East corner and a great view it was too.

Apart from my bicycle, my favourite toy is my Ipod. I don’t go anywhere without it. This day it had kept me company from home to the ground and all the way up until kick off, with the usual mixture of Teenage Fanclub, The Wedding Present and The Fall tracks to soothe me in my own personal happy space. As the game was about to kick off, I put it away. Within 10 minutes I wanted it back on, not because the middle aged woman next to me had warbled “Home Newcastle” in such an alarmingly maudlin way as the teams came on to the pitch, but because of the incessant whining of the three pricks sat behind me. If you are, or if you happen to know, those sitting in LL 6, 7 & 8 in the North East corner, please can you do me and all of those sitting nearby who tried to lift the team during the Fulham match, a great big favour by shutting the fuck up if you’ve nothing constructive to say.

One of the key factors in me abandoning the club in 2009 were the two tachey moaners from Ashington who sat 3 rows behind as I’d realised I’d have to kill them if I ever wanted to enjoy a game in the Gallowgate again. Right at the other end of the ground I had the same constant bleating today and I knew exactly why I would never be a regular at SJP again. At Percy Main if someone makes an error, you encourage and you support; here today mistakes were assumed and apportioned, even when none had been made. Possession football was frowned upon, which was insane when Cabaye looked a sparkling acquisition with the ability to run the game.  

Admittedly the first half, up until the 40 minute mark, was terribly cagey and despite the eventual outcome, the forward line of Best and Lovenkrands didn't inspire confidence in anyone. That said, what is achieved by repeatedly slagging off Best, Lovenkrands, Obertan, Tiote (who is apparently a “flash in the pan, one season wonder” and “a liability” according to these clowns) and Ba, who wasn’t even on the pitch? All it did was unsettle those who were trying to lift the team, not in the self-consciously Messianic, Level 7 ultra uber shoewaving kind of a way, but by being positive and encouraging their team. The pervasive climate of intolerant negativity allowed the waverers to side with the sulkers, as it seemed they were holding sway in our section. Like any form of bullying, those doing the name calling are a tiny minority of miscreants who are eventually aided and abetted by the weak and the wary, once they see it is acceptable to be antagonistic. This is wrong on every possible level.

At half time, with the game goalless, the three were discussing what sort of players Pardew needed to buy; left back, striker and creative midfielder were the obvious conclusions they reached. Despite the fact any one of the 7 year old ball boys at the perimeter of the pitch could have come to this conclusion based on the 45 minutes we’d just watched, they obviously felt they were a kind of Magpie Brains Trust. However I had to interject and point out what the club really needed above all was new fans that would be prepared to support the team rather than snipe, bitch and barrack. Thankfully two Best goals and three outstanding Krul saves meant maximum points for the Magpies, the first time I’d seen such an occurrence in the top flight since  May 2009; it also meant further discussions with those three were not needed. Anyway, they’d cleared off even before Clint Dempsey had cut the deficit, so they didn’t get to see me in paroxysms of fear we’d throw the game away. Goodness the full time whistle sounded sweet!

I did enjoy the game; the presence of Krul and Cabaye mean there are some potentially world class players on the pitch, while the imperious Coloccini and newly disciplined Steven Taylor are a great centre back pairing. However, the squad is paper thin and even before Enrique, Nolan and Barton left the club, we needed more bodies in. That is now an absolute imperative and as I write this, 48 hours before the window closes, I can’t say with any degree of certainty I expect new faces to appear. Those three departures have been debated to death, but suffice to say that if the latter had been true in his protestations of love for the club and fans, he’d not have gone to Loftus Road on a £70k per week gap year. It was a decision no better than Nolan’s to take West Ham’s money; at least Enrique was leaving with some semblance of ambition, rather than just to make even more money. In mitigation, Barton did look stylish in the stands at Wigan.

Despite the club’s sensible early spending with the June signings, Newcastle have reverted to type and are scrambling around looking for cast-offs in the bargain bins just as the shop shutters are being rolled down.  It isn’t good enough and it is worrying. Frankly I fear that there may be 1 more high profile departure before 11pm on Wednesday night.  Mind, having seen the state of Spurs and Arsenal in the televised games later in The Bodega, I wonder if we should all pack up and go home as the Premiership appears to be going the way of La Liga, with two behemoths out front, half a dozen plucky underdogs and the rest making up the numbers and trying to avoid relegation.

Monday morning saw me back on home turf; hungover and tired as I gloomily watched Percy Main Amateurs 0 Seaton Delaval 2. It was shite! Anyone got a spare for the Spurs game on October 16^th?

Fragments of Unpopular Culture 2: Touching From A Distance

The first Northern League side I followed was Ashington. From first setting foot in their ground in January 1996 until the Craven Cup Final of May 2004, I supported them. I was even Commercial Manager for a season (1998/1999), as well as writing for the fanzine "Pit Pony Express." Here's something I penned for their issue that came out to commemorate the last ever game at Portland Park in February 2008. I've only been to their new ground once; they lost 5-0 to Whitley Bay on the day I learned my dad had cancer; May 4th 2009.

Touching From A Distance

It’s a knocking bet that I’ll never set foot in Portland Park again. Indeed, it’s quite probable that I won’t visit Ashington during the rest of my life, which is quite sad, considering how much both the town and especially the football club meant to me for about 10 years of my life.

I have no connection with Ashington whatsoever; I was born in Gateshead in 1964, moved to Ireland aged 19, came back to Spital Tongues at 24, went to Slovakia at the age of 35 and settled back in High Heaton aged 37. However, between 1996 and 2004 I regarded myself as a fully-fledged supporter of Ashington FC. In 1997/1998, I was the only season ticket holder, in 1998/1999, I was the (largely unsuccessful) Commerical Manager, to this day I have over 100 Ashington programmes, every issue of Pit Pony Express, having contributed to the vast majority of them and most of the “musical” spin-offs from the club.

When Ashington won the Craven Cup at Brandon in 1999 with an extra time goal by Simon Waldock to beat Evenwood (RIP) 1-0, it was the first time I’d ever seen a team I supported win something. The second time was when the same competition was secured against the same opposition by 2-0, I believe, at Horden in 2003. The third time was seeing the Second Division Trophy held aloft by my son Ben at Nissan on a Friday night in May 2004. Ben’s first ever game was seeing Ashington draw 0-0 v Prudhoe in February 1998; he was 4 months short of his 3^rd birthday.

During the time I followed Ashington, I arranged for game sponsorship by the Dublin Branch of the Newcastle United Supporters’ Club, who visited about 3 or 4 times. Indeed, a very good friend of mine Catherine who was killed in summer 1996 by a drunk driver, saw Ashington 0 Prudhoe 1 as her last ever game. I’ve been to games at Portland Park with my son, my wife, my dad, my parents-in-law, students I’ve taught, good friends, nodding acquaintances, colleagues, potential extra-marital interest and loony groundhoppers I met on the X31 who I persuaded not to go and watch Bedlington.

When I moved back from Bratislava in 2001, I was initially going to move to Ashington and buy a house, but circumstances changed; I started a job in Sunderland, met a woman there and didn’t get to games very often. I simply could not get to home midweek games (I don’t drive incidentally), so I became only an infrequent observer of the team. Being out of the loop seemed to mean I’d missed out on what it now meant to be an Ashington fan; I wasn’t from NE63, far from it. Of course as I’d chosen to follow a team in the Northern League Division 2, I couldn’t be accused of being a glory hunter. Perhaps I just didn’t fit in with what it meant to be one of the new breeds of Ashington fans, where a kind of ethnic cleansing operation was taking place.

Missing out on Promotion in Summer 2003 seemed to be as a result of some extraordinary sharp practice and sleight of hand by the Blue Blazers in the Northern League management committee. Whether anyone liked it or not, Thornaby and Horden were going up, regardless of the morality of their decisions. At the 2003 Craven Cup final, Ashington’s support was passionate, dignified and defiant. The Craven Cup was won, but Promotion had been snatched away; instead of complaining, there was a palpable sense of sleeves being rolled up in anticipation of going up the next year.

Of course, that is what happened; the win in the rearranged game at Nissan on a Friday night denied Benfield, the team I now support, the Second Division title. However, there had been a seismic change in the style of Ashington support in that year. At the Craven Cup final, opponents Blue Star were regularly taunted in a fairly obscene manner, pelted with tea bags and League Chairman Mike Amos had his speech problem cruelly mocked by bearded drunks in the Ashington support. It was horrible; it wasn’t the Northern League, it was like Millwall versus Cardiff. I didn’t want to be part of it any longer.

Perhaps what eventually happened was that my lack of connection with Ashington meant that my superficial identification with the team would eventually wear off? I now support the closest team to where I live and when I saw Benfield beat Ashington 6-0 last season, I felt no pangs of regret. Indeed when Ashington beat Benfield 2-1 this season, I was deeply disappointed, though mightily relieved Newcastle hadn’t lost to the Mackems the same day.

I wish Ashington well and I wish I could have been to the ground to say my farewells, but that’s how it goes. I wasn’t sure exactly what kind of a reception I’d get from the more zealous sorts. Therefore, my final memory of Portland Park will have to be Alex Lawson’s last second penalty equaliser in a 3-3 with Dunston Fed in November 2005. A decent memory to have, I must say.

Here are my other favourites -:

1.January 13^th 1996: 5-2 v Shotton Comrades, my first visit

2. March 16^th 1996: 3-2 v Alnwick, accompanied by 25 Irish Mags

3. August 25^th 1997: 1-1 v Whickham, insane sliced 35-yard own-goal rescued late point

4. September 5^th 1998: 2-1 v Horden, FA Cup game won in 119^th minute by Chris Priest

5. February 27^th 1999: 3-0 v Ryhope, sponsored by Irish Mags

6. September 11^th 1999: 0-0 v Prudhoe, I sponsored this one, the day before I emigrated

7. April 3^rd 2001: 3-1 v Eppleton, best away keeping performance I’ve ever seen

8. October 11^th 2003: 1-3 v Grantham, appalling away fans

9. October 9^th 2004: 3-2 v Jarrow Roofing, Alex Lawson brilliant last minute winner

10. March 25^th 2005: 7-0 v Shildon, best Ashington performance I’ve ever seen

Fragments of Unpopular Culture 1: Grand Stann View

As my articles for the Percy Main programme this season are factual results round-ups, I've decided not to put them on here. Instead, bearing in mind it is Non League Day next Saturday, I'm resurrecting some bits I did in the past that never made it on to here. This is an article about Heaton Stannington from the Gilford Park programme of January 2008, which ended 2-0 to Gilford Park. Over the next week, several other uncollected scribblings of mine will appear here.

Grand Stann View

Here are a couple of dates to consider: Saturday May 2nd 1998 and Saturday August 22^nd. On the former date Newcastle beat Chelsea 3-1 at St. James Park and I moved in to the eastern Newcastle suburb of High Heaton; a petit bourgeois paradise that lies athwart and betwixt Jesmond Dene and Cochrane Park, which the astute reader will recognise as the name of the home ground of fellow Northern Alliance Premier division, probably only until the end of this season admittedly, side Newcastle University.

On the latter date, Newcastle drew 1-1 with Chelsea at Stamford Bridge in what was to be Kenny Dalglish’s last game in charge, and I attended Grounsell Park, which is literally at the end of the street I’d moved in to, for the first time, to watch Heaton Stannington beat Highfields (now Berwick United) 2-0. I was back then a regular watcher of Northern league football, but this was my first ever experience of the Northern Alliance. It impressed me so much that I moved to Bratislava a year later without watching another game.

Grounsell Park has been massively improved; there is hard standing and parking for 30 cars, 2 picnic tables, a wooden smoking shelter and the clubhouse where former joint manager and now secretary Derek Thompson is to be found watching Sky Sports News during Stann games. Hot drinks are available from the Maxpax machine in ATS tyres on the corner of Cleveland Gardens, opposite Cragside Primary School. Sandwiches may be purchased from High Heaton Newsagents, with hot food from the Newton Tandoori or Newton Chop Suey House a possibility for evening games. There is also a locksmith’s, a United Reformed Church, two hairdressers, an off licence and a reflexologist in this parade of shops. What more could one ask for? It’s the sort of place to call home.

In 2001, I moved back to High Heaton, to a house that is one street away from a Northern Alliance ground; Newcastle University’s to be precise. What other suburbs can boast two Northern Alliance sides, as well as 3 Northern league sides (Team Northumbria, West Allotment Celtic and Newcastle Benfield) within a mile?

Let’s get this straight; I’m not a Heaton Stannington fan, I am a Heaton Stann watcher. I have season tickets for Newcastle United and Benfield, who are my non-league team. I also keep an eye on Percy Main in the Alliance, though the side I watch the most in that league are Heaton Stannington, even if I don’t support them.

I’ve seen them 5 times at home this season: Shankhouse, won 1-0, 22^nd August, Ashington Colliers, won 3-1, 15th September, Harraby, lost 3-1, 29^th September, Newcastle University, won 4-3, 1^st December and Carlisle City, drew 1-1, 19^th January, if you’re interested. I really want them to do well and I hope they beat Gilford Park today, but I’m not a fan. I only watch them.

I won’t be at this game as I try to play myself in the North East Over 40s League and I’ll have spent all morning at Fulwell Grange picking the ball out of the net against the League leaders, so I’ll probably be at West Allotment v Nissan in the Northern League; Newcastle are at Arsenal and Benfield are at Shildon and I won’t be watching either of them.

I’ll get a match report either from Stann’s tousled-haired, workie-ticket midfielder Dom Elliott on Monday in my lesson (I am an adult education lecturer and he’s my student) or on Monday night from Decka Oman the Stann manager, who plays 6-a-side with a crowd of us has-beens each week. It’ll be biased, but I’ll believe them, as they’re harder than me.

2009/2010

(Originally published in "Toon Talk" #6

Following the catastrophic and avoidable, yet inevitable and fully merited relegation from the Premiership, courtesy of Damien Duff’s own goal at Villa Park in a limp and lousy 1-0 defeat, Newcastle United spent the Summer of 2009 not so much navel gazing as viewing the unimaginable void that lay below the precarious precipice on which the club had crash landed, while pretending to ponder on which direction to lurch towards. Almost immediately the curtain had fallen on the rancorous and incompetent previous campaign, the rats collected their luggage and disembarked in search of their next cushy pay day.  Of those out of contract Viduka retired, while free transfers saw the departures of Cacapa, Doninger, Edgar, to Burnley reserves, Lovenkrands, though he was back again in September, Marwood and everyone’s favourite tweeter Owen, whose self-serving, narcissistic publicity brochure saw him given the chance to lie on Manchester United’s treatment table while reading the Sporting Life.

Money was raised by the sales of Bassong to Spurs (£8m), Beye to Villa (£2m) and Martins (£9m) to Wolfsburg; decent touches, but drops in the vast ocean of debt the lack of Sky money would cause. In retrospect, the best departure from Newcastle United that summer was Alan Shearer, whose desperately bad impersonation of Graeme Souness had seen the club take the tumble from the top flight. Two years later he’s still on the Match of the Day sofa, perhaps demonstrating there’s more to running a club than making the players wear suits and switching their mobiles off. However, as Chris Hughton reluctantly took control again, it seemed as the breackneck voyage in to the pit of despair was gathering pace as Newcastle followed up a 3-0 win away to Shamrock Rovers, a 1-0 success at Huddersfield and a 7-2 belting of Darlington with a 6-1 humiliation away to Leyton Orient, which was possibly the lowest point in the club’s recent history. The subsequent 0-0 at home to Leeds United was instructive as, according to the media, not only were the fortunes of the Magpies alleged to be about to follow those of the Peacocks, but it was the last game Newcastle played during the lives of Sir Bobby Robson, who died on July 31^st and my dad Eddy Cusack, who passed away the day after.  I missed the Leeds friendly, sat in the Freeman watching the old fella’s life ebb away, but I told him the score and his comment was “at least they didn’t lose.” Small comfort perhaps, but it was an immensely important result following the disaster in east London.

Apparently, the Monday after the Orient game had seen a serious chat at the training ground, where the likes of Harper, Nolan, Barton and Smith pulled no punches; the team either grafted together or we were finished. It was the birth of “this group of lads,” in Chris Hughton’s memorable phrase and sowed the seeds of a season that was not high on quality, but saw an incredible 9 month long bonding exercise between players and fans as 100 points were accrued and only 4 league games lost, making 2009/2010 one of the most enjoyable and important seasons in our history. While everyone mucked in together, the singing reflected this; no more confrontational and ungrateful choruses of “get out of our club,” but the unifying, life affirming “all we care about is NUFC” was sung proudly every game. This truly was a family affair and Newcastle United was one big happy one; on the pitch and in the stands.

Obviously, it wasn’t plain sailing from the off; West Brom battered us in the opening game, but Tim Krul on for the injured Harper was in inspirational form and Duff grabbed us a point in his last game with a rare moment of adequacy from one of the worst underachievers we’d had on the books.  The smug media types, whether they be the whisky-soaked cynics from Fleet Street or the media studies Polytechnic drop-out bloggers in their John Lennon specs, all predicted crowds of under 20k at SJP; double that turned up to see Shola grab a hat trick as Reading were trounced 3-0 to set the scene on a glorious home campaign that saw us unbeaten on Tyneside throughout 2009/2010. Shola again proved the difference as we beat Sheff Wed in midweek, while Nolan and Ryan Taylor both scored stunners as we went to Palace and won 2-0, before August ended with a Danny Guthrie goal helping us past Leicester at a rain-soaked Gallowgate. So; unbeaten, with 4 wins on the spin and 4 clean sheets, as well as a cracking 4-3 win over Huddersfield in the league cup when we’d been 3-1 down. Championship? We were having a laugh!

In to Septembe andr Coloccini nodded the only goal at Cardiff, before we came to earth with a bump, losing 2-1 at Blackpool after taking the lead. It seemed a bad result at the time, but Blackpool went on to gain promotion, so hindsight excuses the team. Plymouth were cuffed aside 3-1 on the following Saturday, before a meaningless loss to Peterborough by a glorified youth team in the League Cup. The next match was live on BBC, away to Ipswich, now under the managership of the dog lover himself, Royston Maurice Keane. On an emotional day, all about the memory of Sir Bobby, Newcastle were untouchable; we won 4-0 with a performance that the Geordie Knight would have loved. It showed that “this group of lads” meant business and were determined to go up at the first attempt.

Unfortunately, some fans just didn’t get it; possibly because of the arrival of the cumbersome Marlon Harewood on loan, a midweek 1-1 with QPR, who looked the best team we’d played so far, caused disgruntlement, as did a subsequent 0-0 home to Bristol City, whose debutant keeper Dean Gherkin (class name!) saved everything we threw at him. After this, two successive losses, away to Nottingham Forest and Scunthorpe, in games we could have won, resulted in certain unrepresentative on-line uber ultras throwing their toys out the pram, demanding boycotts and public executions on Barrack Road. One young tyro even claimed “failing to beat Doncaster Rovers at home is the worst result in Newcastle’s history,” conveniently ignoring Kevin Nolan’s last minute winner, which was enough to reactivate our season. Perhaps our blogger buddy hadn’t been able to stay until full time; we’ll forgive as he probably had to be in for his tea and the X Factor.

November was a good month, with 5 straight wins; Ryan Taylor’s deflected winner and Harper’s best ever save gave us 3 points at Bramall Lane, before the only permanent new face at the club, Danny Simpson, got a flukey one as Peterborough lost 3-1 at SJP. Nolan won an awful game at Deepdale with the only goal, before Swansea were sent packing 3-0 with a trio of headers in the opening 25 minutes. Another new signing arrived at the start of December in the shape of the mercurial French free agent and free spirit Fabrice Pancrate; he scored the goal of the season as Watford were beaten 2-0, then did nothing much for 6 months. Shola and Ranger got one each as we eased to a 2-0 win at the Ricoh against a poor Coventry, making it 8 straight wins.

Fair play to plucky Barnsley;  they held us to a 2-2 draw, before the pretend derby saw the Smogs handed an utter humiliation on Tyneside the week before Christmas; how it was only 2-0 I’ll never know. With it being Christmas, Newcastle were constitutionally obliged to underachieve; 2-2 at Hillsborough and 0-0 home to Derby being par for the course. In the new year, we travelled to Plymouth in the cup, drew 0-0 then beat them in a replay 3-0 with a Lovenkrands hat trick. West Brom held us to a 2-2 draw in a storming televised Monday game, before knocking us out the cup 4-2 at The Hawthorns, not that we were bothered like. January ended with a 2-0 win at home to Palace and a 0-0 at Leicester, for whom Nobby Solano made his debut.

Suddenly, an outbreak of spending took place on Tyneside; while Harewood and Khisinashvili had not worked out as loan signings and went, unmourned, back to Villa and Blackburn respectively, this did not discourage Hughton from bringing in the uncompromising Fitz Hall from QPR and the promising Patrick van Aanholt from Chelsea on temporary deals. Cash money was also paid out for Leon Best, Wayne Routledge and Mike Williamson, as well as making Danny Simpson’s move a permanent one. The Premiership qualities of those players may be up for debate, but it has to be said that in the Championship they were the difference between us squeezing back up and winning the title at a canter.

February’s first game saw us completely obliterate Cardiff 5-1 with a performance as imperious as we’d seen in the previous half decade. We looked unbeatable, but weren’t; Derby trounced us 3-0 the following Tuesday, but that was the last loss of the season. Carroll’s late header grabbed a point at Swansea, before another sequence of 4 straight wins; 4-1 over Coventry, 3-0 versus Preston in home games, a 2-1 success at Vicarage Road on what appeared to be an allotment and not a football pitch, then a 6-1 crucifixion of Barnsley. The Smogs drew 2-2 with us in their cup final; before Scunthorpe obliging lay down to have their belly stroked on St. Patrick’s Day as we won 3-0. Long before this game, the situation in home games was that the opposition turned up, gave a spirited opening performance, tried to play football, and then folded like a broken deckchair as soon as we went ahead. Very much like 1992/1993 it has to be said.

Remember Dean Gherkin and his heroics at SJP in October? He didn’t match that at Ashton Gate, making two howlers as we came back from 2-0 down and should have won. A straightforward 1-0 win at Doncaster was followed by a crucial 2-0 success over Nottingham Forest, in the game that effectively if not mathematically put us up, when Jose finally scored and celebrated in style.

In to April and the wins just kept on coming; 3-2 away to Peterborough meant we needed a point to be up, 2-1 at home to Sheffield United, with promotion already assured after Forest had been held by Cardiff, 4-1 over Blackpool in 80 degree heat, 2-1 at Reading in a rearranged game and 2-0 at Plymouth to give us the title at last; 5,000 in Devon on a Monday night, evoking memories of Huddersfield in 84 and Grimsby in 93.  The last home game saw Ipswich steal a point with an offside goal in injury time, before the season ended with a 1-0 win away to QPR to push us over the 100 point barrier.

Truly, 2009/2010 was a marvellous season; the management, players and supporters all performed heroics as the club regrouped and emerged better, stronger and more united after a season in the Championship. Certainly, while nobody wants relegation, what 2009/2010 showed is that there’s nothing to be scared of playing at this level. Stoke city or Barnsley? There isn’t a contest! Of course with the main players of 2009/2010 long gone (Hughton – sacked, Carroll – forced in to a move, Nolan – solda against his will), we may find ourselves with another chance to savour the delights of Oakwell and Portman Road in 2012/2013  if Les Francais don’t work out this season for us.

Next time, in the last one in the series, I’ll look back on 2010/2011. It must be may age because I can immediately recall more games from 1990/1991 than last year!

The Charmless Men

I’ve been wanting to blog about Newcastle United since the close season transfer business and the other attendant circus sideshow attractions started to kick in, but made the decision to wait until the season itself got underway to try and make some sense of it all, hoping that I’d be granted a sense of  perspective by time. However, rather like Zhou Enlai when asked in 1972 about the historical importance of the French Revolution of 1789, I feel “it is too soon to say” exactly what the eventual impact of events such as the sale of Nolan and Enrique, the pitch invasion at Darlington, an insane pre-season jaunt across America when 3 players were denied entry visas and another had the unwanted distraction of a fortnight’s delay to his return, the signing of players mainly because they appear to be French speakers and presumably able to communicate with each other, not to mention the on-field and on-line saga of Joey Barton will be. I’ll have a go at interpreting things anyway.

When last season ended in a chorus of frustrated booing after the second half capitulation versus the Baggies saw us drop from 9^th to 12^th in the final Premier League table, to my mind there were 2 obvious candidates to be moved on from the Newcastle playing squad, as well as the assumed transfer of Jose Enrique, which assumed the role of a lo-cal Fabregas deal in its elongated timescale. However, he’s gone eventually and, like the Carroll money, we’ll never see it again, as Liverpool no doubt storm in to the League Cup quarter finals while heroically jostling with Spurs for the Europa League spot. Ho-hum.

What of those who seemed also likely to move? Well, we’ll ignore the likes of Leon Best, Niall Ranger and Danny Guthrie being put on the transfer list, as any and every player in the club has a price, as the on-going rumours about Coloccini’s move to Valencia may well have some truth in them by the end of August.  Firstly, Alan Smith, who has been abject in his 4 years here and basically, ought to have retired after his horrific injury for Man United against Liverpool back in 2004. Another was Fraser Forster; a stiff, lumbering wardrobe with the reactions of a plesiosaur on ketamine. I’ve seen him have the piss taken out of him by Ian Graham and Mickey Chilton against Benfield in the Northumberland Senior Cup. He seemed a shoo-in at Parkhead where he’d picked up a Cup Winners medal and looked to have a decent career ahead of him, picking up an array of domestic winners’ medals and humiliating defeats in the qualifying rounds of European competitions on thundery nights in late July in the Transdanubian basin. Surprisingly he’s still here, seemingly as back up to Krul with Harper out of the picture, which is no great loss as the cuprinol complexioned one can only get worse.  I have a feeling the presence of Forster and Smith is still much to do with the friendly loss to Leeds United at the end of July.

In recent years, friendlies have assumed semi-mythic proportions in the  history of Newcastle United; the post relegation 6-1 mauling at Orient in July 2009 and subsequent dressing room inquest  is largely credited with the birth of an indomitable democratic centralistbteam spirit among the vanguard of “this group of lads,” who embarked on the wonderful 2009/2010 promotion season.  Post Hughton however, the players’ Central Committee have started to look vulnerable as the silent sportswear Stalin and his assistant Derek Dzerzhinsky began to pick them off. Nolan, the most vocal and articulate of the alpha players, was sold to West Ham early this summer. Initially after many supporters received this bewildering news in a manner reminiscent of Macduff learning of the fate of his family in Act IV of the Scottish play, Nolan has been forgotten about. While he scored the winner for the Hammers in his second game for them, it has to be recognised he is playing his second season out of three in the Championship and has been replaced by a French Championnat winner in Cabaye. The jury is thus out as regards the effect on pitch activities by those charged with representing the black and whites.

There is no such doubt as regards the value or otherwise of the pissed pitch invasion by a few hundred beer up radgies and teenages charvas at Darlo when Sammy Ameobi scored. It has been roundly condemned in a way that pre-echoed the sombre, shallow and unhelpful rhetoric of the ruling classes in the wake of the post Tottenham civil disorder. To me, that’s bullshit. The pitch invasion at Darlo wasn’t shameful, it was daft. It certainly wasn’t 1974 v Forest re-enacted. Move on, there’s nothing to see. For goodness sake, don’t adopt the reactionary rhetoric of the ruling classes as displayed in the second week of August.

The Leeds friendly is more important than that night for several reasons. Firstly Forster was woeful; the club’s brinkmanship in trying to extract top dollar from the ‘Tic backfired as he spilled 2 in to his net, meaning the Bhoys are looking elsewhere for a first choice gloveman. Thus he’s on the bench for us, with Harper’s time on Tyneside looking to be at an end. Remember, Chris Hughton has sold Ben Forster at Birmingham. How ironic would it be for Harper to end up across the second city from his friend and rival, the wonderful, God-like Shay Given?  The Leeds friendly was also important as, seemingly unnoticed; it put the mockers on Alan Smith’s widely anticipated free transfer back “home,” as Ken Bates wouldn’t pay the bloke’s wages. However, with Simon Grayson under fire and a proposed takeover of the Elland Road outfit in the offing, we must again watch this space. Smith as player coach? It has a certain compelling logic.

Finally, the game was important for drawing the Joey Barton saga to another of its heads. Never mind the elephant in the room; this is the hydra in the club. Having been ready to sign a new contract when Carroll was flogged, Barton has been playing with the emotions of the fan base ever since, with the skill of a Jacobean dramatist exploring the nuances of character development in a 5 act tragedy, via the 140 character microblogging format on Twitter. Well, when he hasn’t been  calling journalists “massive helmets,” demanding (without apparent irony) rioters were “steamed in to” by the cops, presumably at 4.30am in McDonald’s, or quoting Morrissey and Nietzsche that is. Barton is a clever lad, but not half as smart as he’d like to be. Like many of those who’ve recovered from addiction, rather like small children or Alzheimer’s victims, he has a certain monomania that makes him feel the world is actually revolving round him; not in a mentally ill paranoid way, but in an egotistical way that betrays a lack of mature insight in to the significance and importance of events.

Time will no doubt give him perspective, but he will be long gone from the professional game never mind Tyneside before that happens. At the minute, he probably sees himself as the Rosa Parkes of Newcastle United when being dragged off the bus at Elland Road to be given a free transfer. His Mandela-esque exile to train with the juniors was replaced by a PW Botha approach to policing civil disorder, before he was called back in from the cold to take part in the 0-0 with Arsenal. At that point, I’d had enough of him, just wanting him out the club as I found his relentless self-publicity had gone from being intriguing and amusing, to vain and shameful and finally boring. However 90 minutes of being kicked to kingdom come by a rapidly declining and rudderless Arsenal made me Barton’s admirer again, especially seeing that disgraceful stamp by Song.

Ironically, that is the part I’m least able to comment on. While I admit to knowing nothing of Cabaye, Ba, Marveaux, Abeid and having only seen Obertan and the injured Ben Arfa on telly, I can’t even begin to comment on the opening day 0-0, having chosen to take in Heaton Stann 1 Harraby 4 before heading to Middlesbrough to see The Wedding Present. My personal tipping point has long been reached; with this gig on there was no way I was going to miss it for football. If it hadn’t been on I’d have taken a free ticket or even paid £5 to watch it, but no more. I certainly wouldn’t have watched it in a pub. In the end, I saw the last 15 minutes, walking in to a bar just as Gervinho trotted down the tunnel.

What I did see was Shearer’s bitter, intemperate rage at Barton on “Match of the Day.” I’m with Joey as regards slaphead; the Diet Souness took Newcastle down by focussing on banning mobile phones and wearing suits, rather than trying to take more than a single point from Portsmouth and Fulham at home. Sitting on a BBC sofa and working out a personal grievance is shameful and embarrassing, betraying him as lacking class, dignity or a sense of personal responsibility. He’s gone from hero to traitor at Newcastle United.

So, one game in and we’ve gained a point and had the club charged with failing to control the players. Happy New Season eh? Next up; the mackems away. We’ve no left back and the strike force looks impotent to the point of being actively improved by the presence of Leon Best on the pitch. I’m not making this up. Thank goodness for Percy 

Ezkaia Sorta Bat **

I arrived in Bilbao on Tuesday 19^th July, after a bit of a turbulent landing, to see the runway glistening from a recent deluge that had left puddles all across the shining tarmac. It felt like coming home; not just because of the crap weather, but because I’d adored the place last year. That said, it was also a relief to set foot in Euskadi (Pais Vasco or the Basque Country is you must) after a mind numbing 5 hours in Brussels Airport where a pair of coffees set you back €17.

Such trifling complaints were furthest from my mind a couple of hours later when, showered, snoozed and freshly attired, I sampled a half litre Voll Damm, in the appropriately named Stadium Bar that lay wreathed in shadows from the lee of San Mames.  Typically enough, I kept flicking on to Twitter for updates in the Percy Main v Morpeth town pre-season game. It ended 2-2 and I had another beer to celebrate, while noticing that in 12 months no appreciable progress has been made on the new San Mames that is growing, slowly, opposite to the original Cathedral of Bilbao sport. However, on arriving in Vitoria I realised this is par for the course with building projects in Euskal Herria, as the Gasteiz basketball arena is without a roof about a month from the season starting and the road outside our hotel, the wonderful Desiderio on San Prudencio, looks as if a team of archaeologists are resurfacing it with toothbrushes and miniature trowels.

In the future, few people will ask you where you were when Amy Winehouse died. Even fewer will inquire as to your whereabouts when Percy Main and Washington shared 10 goals in a pre-season kick about.  My answer, if asked, would be in the small town of Azpeitia, en route Donostia / San Sebastian, watching Real Sociedad beat Corsican visitors Ajaccio 4-0 in a friendly game, played not at the impressive Anoeta home of “Txuri-urdin,” but the more modest home of Tercera Division side CD Lagun Ognak. Same as last year when I saw Alaves play at Deportivo Betono, I seem cursed to watch La Liga sides in Tercera Division municipal grounds. Still it was football, though the complex also had a Pelota court, which is one weird Basque game that is like a particularly technical version of SPOT.

Indeed we watched the highlights of the Sociedad v Ajaccio game after a Pelota programme on EITB1, in the Taj Mahal curry restaurant in Donostia. It didn’t matter about not understanding the commentary as a CD of Foster & Allen’s Greatest Hits was playing instead. Welcome to the global village….   

After 5 nights in Vitoria and 2 in Donostia we came back to Bilbao for 2 final nights. What a city it is! Despite having shops named Coventry and Derby, the place has loads more in common with Newcastle than the East Midloands. Not just a love of football, a history of heavy engineering, the status of being the regional capital, but a strong and abiding love for public art. In Newcastle we have The Baltic and SJP; in Bilbao it’s the Guggenheim and San Mames.  They’ve got “Puppy by Geoff Koons and we’ve got Anthony Gormley’s “Angle of the North,” though I notice the scale model in Brussels Airport has gone.  Bilbao Airport had enough crazy, fascinating metal scultures to keep me entertained until the plane took off.

On the tour of San Mames, it’s wonderful to see an exhibition of imagistic portraits of football pitches as well as some serious wigged-out Henry Moore style football sculptures. Amazing stuff. Strangely, in a land where kids all play tiki taki on concrete basketball courts to hone their skills, I saw more Chelsea replica shirts than Athletic Club ones.  However, I’ll not hold that against my amazing fourth home, behind Newcastle, Ireland and Slovakia, the magical Euskal Herria.

** Euskara for “a bunch of thyme”

Northern Leagues United:

In a matter of days, I’ll be turning 47. At my age it’s fair to say I no longer have the kind of crazy weekends that I’ll remember forever; except I did on the 9th and 10th of July 2011. Scrolling backwards from the end of the two glorious days, I recall sipping quality draught Bass in the beer garden of the Tynemouth Lodge Hotel, recovering my strength after pogoing the afternoon away in the rarefied climes of the Priory as The Buzzcocks played a killer set to close the Mouth of the Tyne Festival. Tickets cost the amazing price of £2.50, which was less than when I’d seen them in October 1978 at the City Hall, so I’d like to thank North Tyneside Council Tax payers for subsidising one of the best afternoons I’ve had in a long time. While Martin Stephenson and Neville Staple on the undercard were fine, there really isn’t anything that comes close to slam dancing with your 16 year old son to “What Do I Get?”


While I’d been an enormous fan of The Buzzcocks back in the day, I hadn’t felt their music had aged particularly well; indeed, the more famous numbers such as “Ever Fallen In Love” seemed a little shallow and one-dimensional compared to the breathtaking “Spiral Scratch” debut EP that really did change my life when I first heard it. Thankfully, both “Boredom” and “Breakdown” were given an airing, as was the classic lost gem B side “Why Can’t I Touch It?” I’d have liked “Something’s Gone Wrong Again” or “I Believe,” but it wasn’t to be, though “Orgasm Addict” was a hell of a closing encore. Three days later and I still haven’t got my voice back from shouting along.

Bearing in mind the oft repeated mantra of my mate David that “music never lets you down, football always does,” I must take issue with him in this instance as I feel that however great Sunday’s gig was, Saturday’s Northern Leagues United day at Birtley Town provided me with a sense of wellbeing that is difficult to put in to words and almost impossible to quantify. Suffice to say, as is always the case in the North East, everything good about local football has nothing at all to do with professionalism or the Premier League. The grassroots is where the game retains dignity, class and honour; all three of these concepts were in evidence on a glorious Saturday afternoon, that thankfully avoided the biblical hailstone storm that came in the early evening, but sadly failed to see Scouting For Girls struck by lightning at Tynemouth Priory.

Many words of praise have been written about the Hudson brothers who organised Northern Leagues United; none of those words do justice to the work the lads put in, both last season for Northern League Day, which raised the profile and spirits of the Northern League in general and Ryton in particular, motivating them to actually win a home game against Billingham Synners and for the July 9th event. While Ryton was for a good cause, the day at Birtley was for an impeccable one; that of raising money for Cobaltore Onagawa. If you need to know more about this Japanese team and their heroic efforts after the devastating Tsunami of March 11th, please go to this link http://northernleagueday.wordpress.com/2011/03/27/whats-the-point-of-a-football-club/

Fair play to the Hudson lads for constantly keeping this purpose clearly in focus throughout; this was about far more than a daft kickaround and a few beers on a sunny afternoon. It was about reminding ourselves of the moral obligations of the worldwide community of football fans and the ability of the global game to do good, even at a micro level. Whatever was raised was about more than just money, it was about duty and responsibility. There were only a couple of exceptions to this playing in this game; some people just can’t get it in to their funny shaped heads that their egos should be sublimated to the common good.

Personally I’d been nervous about playing; at my age the end of every season leaves one with nagging doubts about whether it is time to give up on the 11 a side game to see the war out in Switzerland on the 6 a side court. The last thing you want to do is make a total clown of yourself in front of 300 people. However, despite not knowing the names of three quarters of my team mates, and being aware that the other keeper who would play the second half was a 19 year old former Derby County youth player currently turning out in a Step 7 league while I scuffed around in Division 4 of the North East Over 40s League, I got the gloves on and did my bit.

Three minutes in, their striker tries to bend one in to the top corner; it’s a clean strike, butI catch it easily. Five minutes later, a former fanzine editor tries to go round me, but I get down low and flick the ball away with my glove, so he can’t get his shot in. I’m starting to relax, catching crosses cleanly and scooping up loose balls in the area. Indeed, at the midpoint of the half, I’m enjoying it, even if it seems like we’re dealing with waves of relentless pressure by the fans’ team. Then, they bring on a couple of substitutes; Two Pauls, Robinson and Chow. The latter took 21 seconds to open his account in the 2010 FA Vase final, but we held him up a bit longer than that.

Admittedly, he set up Paul Robinson with the opening goal after 24 minutes. Chow came down the left and cut inside; I went to near post, narrowing the angle, but he chipped up a perfect cross for an on-rushing Robbo to nod home at the back post. Seconds later we equalise with a long-range shot; get in! Game on! A minute later, they get a corner and I don’t even see Chow’s movement as he rushes to head home, much less stand a chance of saving the goal. We don’t give up and someone else I don’t know scores a delightful chip. In to injury time and we’re level, but Chow isn’t finished, as he comes through the left and I go out to try and take the ball from him. Not a chance! He’s round me and slots home, without time for a restart. My last act is to take the ball out the net.

I take my leave of the game at the interval and watch a spirited, even contest that the Fans deservedly win 6-3. The score is meaningless; the game is what matters. The post match presentations show most of us what an honour it was to be involved. Trying to get a shower immediately post match is impossible, with the changing room having more of a crowd than most Northern League games tend to get. Eventually, suffering the kind of stiffness Ben Dover utilises in his films, I get to use my Lynx gel. Scoured and pomaded, I come out the changers at the same time as the Bay superstars and they confirm to me what I’d long suspected; Paul Chow will always remember the day he scored past Ian Cusack.

Outside in the sun, I commence drinking Koppaberg and chat to a couple of dozen good people, as Birtley beat Ryton 2-1 with each goal being a smart finish. Falling asleep in the car home, I reflect on what a great day it was. Most of all, a great cause was supported. It was well worth enduring agonising cramp in my left calf for.

Bathgate no more, Irvine no more....

I first met Mickey Hydes on Saturday 13th January 1996 at Portland Park when Ashington beat Alnwick Town 5-2 and immediately liked the fellow, mainly because we shared an affection for Hibernian and Teenage Fanclub. I last saw him attempting to interview the Arthurlie goalkeeper at Dunterlie Park on Saturday 12th June 2011. When Mick moved to Scotland in 1997, first to Cowdenbeath and then to Paisley, I was able to rely upon his hospitality to regularly indulge my passion for the latter whenever gigs at Barras or Motherwell were in the offing, but not for the former. Indeed at the end of September in 2006, up for the weekend to see TFC perform Bandwagonesque at Bible John’s favourite east end dance hall, the St. Mirren v Hibernian fixture was never an option (just as well as the home side won a drab game 1-0) as our deep and abiding love for the game at the non-professional level (non-league as it is known in England and the Juniors as the Scotch call it) meant that Benburb 5 Larkhall Royal Albert 0 got the nod over the Leith Brazilians.

During Mick’s Caledonian sojourn, my visits have seen me at Hampden Park museum, Cowdenbeath stock car track and Albion Rovers boardroom, but more importantly the aforementioned Benburb, but also Pollok, Petershill, Bathgate (twice) and now Arthurlie, as I attempt to make an annual pilgrimage to see a Scottish Juniors game. Over the past few seasons, the ritual has been for me to bring down the curtain on my football watching season by heading up north after all the English games are over. Two years ago, May 30th 2009 to be precise, we took in Bathgate 6 Forfar West End 2 in a crucial winner takes it all relegation crunch clash in the ACA Sports East Superleague (I simply don’t have the time or mental capacity to explain the structure of the Scottish Junior game, other than to mention it exists in West, East and Northern sections, with 63, 64 and 35 clubs in each area respectively). The welcome at this ground was the best I’ve ever had; they invited us in for a half time cuppa and handed out free shirts and scarves, so I was delighted they won this game, but don’t fret as Forfar came back up to the top flight after a year in the ACA Sports East Premier League, below which there are North, Central and South divisions.

In 2010, Mick was required to work on the only day I had free, so Saturday 12th June, when Robert Green made his hilarious howler in the England v USA world Cup game, I headed by myself to the East of Scotland Cup Final in which Linlithgow Rose beat Musselburgh Athletic 2-1 in a tight tussle. I had no trouble finding the ground as it was played at Creamery Park, home of Bathgate Thistle! In 2011, despite the terrible winter weather, the East region closed up on Saturday 4th June, though there were some outstanding (as in remaining not brilliant) cup fixtures in the West so it was definitely a case of Bathgate no more, as Craig and Charlie Reid said back in 1987.

With all of the league fixtures finishing the week before (apart from Newmacher United v RAF Lossiemouth in the twice postponed Northern Division 2 clash that ended up 4-2 to the home side), the last competition to be decided was the Evening Times Cup, a competition so labyrinthine and confusing that it could have been an element of a James Ellroy plot rewritten by Franz Kafka. The SJFA website puts it thus -:

“This is a knockout tournament played at the end of the season and features the winners of the ten West Region competitions during the preceding season. Clubs who win two or more competitions during the season enter as winners of the highest ranked tournament with runners-up qualifying from lower ranked tournaments. For the purposes of the Evening Times Cup Winners Cup, the order of preference for West Region competitions is as follows:

Order of

Preference Competition 2010–11 qualifiers

1 Super League Premier Division Irvine Meadow


2 West of Scotland Cup Arthurlie


3 Super League First Division Ashfield


4 Ayrshire Cup Auchinleck Talbot


5 Central League Cup Pollok


6 Ayrshire Sectional League Cup

no qualifier, as finalists Irvine Meadow and Auchinleck Talbot qualified through higher ranked tournaments

7

Central Sectional League Cup Shotts Bon Accord


8 Ayrshire District League Ardrossan Winton Rovers


9 Central District League First Division Kilsyth Rangers


10 Central District League Second Division Yoker Athletic






This is how the competition went (check the dates of the games):

Preliminary Round

1. Yoker Athletic 2 Ardrossan Winton Rovers 2 (8-7 pens): 28th May

2. Pollok 1 Shotts Bon Accord 2: 8th June



Quarter Final

3. Kilsyth Rangers 1 Irvine Meadow XI 1 (3-5 pens): 28th May

4. Arthurlie 1 Ashfield 1: 7th June

5. Shotts Bon Accord 4 Yoker Athletic 1: 10th June

6. Auchinleck Talbot bye

Hence, 31 years to the day since I’d seen The Clash at Newcastle Mayfair, I took a fast, packed, pricey, luxurious train to Glasgow Central and a smooth suburban one on to Barrhead, arriving under swollen, purple clouds in to the teeth of a stinging breeze slightly after noon and ran directly in to Dunterlie Park, home of Arthurlie and Mickey Hydes, notebook in hand, ready to pen his copy for the Sunday Mail.

We took a tour of the town as I searched for Bonjela to help sooth a raging mouth ulcer, realising that Barrhead is pretty much a no horse town, where the number one attraction at Rumours Nitespot that Saturday evening was DJ Nae Fitba Colours which made me glad I was here for the football and not the culture.

Mickey regaled me with a story about his role as a Community Relations Officer for the Fire Brigade in Barrhead, when he’d phoned up an elderly lady who’d won a Mothercare voucher in a tombola he’d been running. Realising that the woman was too old to need such a thing, he asked if she had children or even grandchildren who could have made use of it. The reply was she’d one daughter but “her sort don’t have children.” Further ramblings by the old dear revealed that they didn’t have girls like that when she was a lassie and that there are always programmes on Channel 4 late at night about these sorts of women, but she’d forgotten the word to describe this type of female. A deeply embarrassed Mick attempted to end the call, only for the woman to announce she’d remembered the word to describe her daughter. The word she’d been searching for was not what Mick, steeling himself for a Sapphic soundbite, had been expecting. The daughter in question was a career woman!!

Entering the ground around 20 minutes before kick off, it was clear that Dunterlie Park is an absolute diamond; a glorious 4 sided traditional ground with steep, uneven terracing at one end and a covered enclosure down one side, with a crowd of well over 700 in attendance, including about 50 malodorous English groundhoppers and one fragrant one; me.

I’d been to Irvine once before. Back in the late 80s I walked out with a young lady from Dublin who was training to be a histologist. Her clinical practice involved a stint at Ayrshire General in Irvine. The hospital may have been top quality but the town was a dump. We spent the weekend getting drunk and arguing in July 1988, so I didn’t even get to see any football. The Irvine fans here today were armed with carry outs (Tennents and 20/20 being the beverages of choice) and many were attired in that frightening Huns away shirt that looks like a Mackem one; never has a football top aroused such feelings of acute nausea in me. Therefore, bearing in mind the fantastic ground, the fact that Mickey had introduced me to Ed the Arthurlie official photographer and that the Irvine fans were scruffy sods, meant I was rooting for the home side attired in Coventry City style sky blue stripes.

After an uneventful opening 30 minutes, the Lie (sadly pronounced Lee) took the lead when Jan Koller lookalike John McLay, who was Man of the Match by a street, sidefooted home from inside the box. It seemed as if this would be the only goal, but two errors by home keeper Neil Parry, the second a foolish missed punch, late in the second period seemed to have handed the Medda, as they are known, the tie. However, deep inside the 3 minutes of additional time (after 92.56 to be precise), an unmarked Stephen McKeown lashed home a loose ball, to provoke a joyous pitch invasion by a couple ofd dozen exciteable young lads who’d kept up a series of pro Lie anti Medda songs all match. In the Juniors, extra time does not exist, so it was straight to penalties.

Happily, Parry saved 2 Medda kicks and so the Lie advanced to the final at Newlandsfield, home of Pollok FC, where they’ll play Shotts Bon Accord who defeated Auchinleck Talbot 3-1 in the other semi final on the Monday evening. As well as Bathgate no more, it was a clear case of Irvine no more, in the Evening Times Cup at any rate. I have to say the pitch invasion after the shoot-out was the most joyous celebration I’ve seen all season. This is what the Sunday Post said about the game -:

NEIL PARRY admitted he owed his Arthurlie team-mates the penalty heroics that booked their Cup Winners' Cup final place.

The big keeper denied Meadow hitmen Brian McGinty and Mick Hughes in the shootout as Lie dumped the holders in a dramatic finish.

Parry's blunder had let Hughes put the West Region champs 2-1 ahead with just a few minutes left, only for the West of Scotland Cup winners to level deep into injury time and take it to penalties.

The keeper's saves made it five stops in as many days after saving three as Sandy MacLean's Barrhead aces beat Ashfield on penalties in Tuesday's quarter-final.

Now Parry wants to sign off in style before signing for Queen's Park - by helping Lie lift the trophy in the final game of the junior season on Thursday, when they face the winners of Monday's second semi between Auchinleck and Shotts.

Parry said: "I owed the boys that after the mistake I made at the second goal.

"I shouted for it but never got near it and I should never have come for it, it wasn't my ball at all.

"But all credit to the boys for keeping going and forcing that equaliser right at the end, then it was down to me.

"I always fancy myself when it comes to penalties, I've got a decent record and it's been a good week for me in the shootouts.

"Now I want to help the lads lift the cup on Thursday. That would be a perfect way for me to bow out."

John McLay fired Lie into the lead but Meadow hit back and Hughes nodded in crosses from Keir Milliken and John Dillon. Arthurlie refused to give up and Stephen McKeown's effort took it to pens.

Dillon and Richie Barr netted for Meadow while Lie were perfect from the spot through McLay, Callan Adam, David Merriman and Andy Arbuckle.

Meadow boss Chris Strain said: "I don't know where the ref got all the injury time from."

Post match I emerged, dazed and happy, and took a direct train from Barrhead to Newcastle; a cold, deserted, freezing train that had no buffet car. All I’d had to eat that day was an Arthurlie pie which appeared to be filled with something from a Cormac McCarthy novel (Blood Meridian meets The Road I was thinking), so I dozed most of the way home and listened to Teenage Fanclub, turning my back on the evening redness in the West.

I love Scottish music and I love Scottish football; I can’t wait for my next fix of the Juniors.

Home for a while in the auld country...

My sense of timing is shit; frankly, there’s no other word for it. Despite having known for months in advance that I had Whit week off work, additionally bookended by a pair of weekends, I managed to schedule a trip to Ireland to cunningly avoid almost all the football taking place in the 32 counties at the end of May and start of June. I’d finished work on the Friday afternoon, but having booked the flights a couple of months in advance, I had simply assumed there would be some kind of footballing commitment on Tyneside that would stop me going straight away, which as it turns out would have been pointless anyway, as Thursday, not Friday or Saturday, was the scheduled night for the League of Ireland card that week.

As it happened, Saturday saw Percy Main kicking their heels as the Northern Alliance season had finished the week before, but I was still needed between the sticks for Winstons in the morning as we brought the curtain down on an inglorious campaign with a 2-1 win over The Philadelphia to finish in a less than satisfactory 11th place. I used the first spare Saturday afternoon I’d had since July 17th last year to visit my mam, before saying farewell to a couple of old pals who are off on a round the world jaunt for a year courtesy of redundancy and not having any kids. You’ve probably read the work of one of them, a lad by the name of Kriss Knights, who pens stuff as Billy Furious; if not, here’s his website http://billyfurious.com/

Half a dozen pints of Saltaire Pale Ale and the vague knowledge of the Champions’ League Final taking place in The Bodega meant I went woozily to bed. Sensible people would have got up dead early and flown to Dublin to see the Ireland versus Scotland game at the Aviva Stadium, but not me. I’d not booked a Sunday flight in case there was a final at Percy Main in the Newcastle Central Sunday Afternoon League, but there wasn’t, as these had finished the week before. Hence, I was left with a spare Sunday, which I frittered away watching Robbie Keane score the goal that defeated Scotland, and a Monday departure.

My trips back to Ireland, especially over the past 4 years, have started to be more and more frequent. It’s no secret that I’d give up almost anything, apart from those I hold dearest, to live in Ireland. Even the fact that my passport has the shameful words United Kingdom emblazoned on it makes me embarrassed to display it in civilised company. I really don’t want to be a dirty English bastard. That said, I wasn’t expecting the kind of fawning, slavering, obsequious toadying to accompany my arrival that had categorised the visits of Mrs Windsor, who singularly failed to provide a proper apology for the 842 years of social genocide enacted upon the island of Ireland by her state or Barak O’Bama, even though I was unspeakably delighted to see the Bus Eireann website proclaiming details of tours to Moneygall.

Indeed I was content to be a synecdochal version of the 15,000 bemused Portuguese football fans quizzically ambling round Temple Bar before the Europa League final, wondering why there were security checkpoints every 50 yards and the sky was dark with helicopters. Perhaps, in view of the fact Wales v Northern Ireland attracted the grand total of 529 paying spectators to the AVIVA Stadium, the next championships to be staged at the former Lansdowne Road could be the IMF NAAMA Bowl, with Portugal and Greece invited to take part. Even then I’d no doubt fly in 6 hours after the trophy was presented.

At least the good old Airtricity League had obliged me with a full fixture list for my visit. Initially I’d pencilled in Shamrock Rovers v Bohemians on the Monday, with Drogheda against Bray for the Tuesday, as it would mean 2 new grounds and the chance to see Big Club re-establish DNS supremacy over the Tallaghtfornian Halting Site dwellers in the Fair City classico. Tragically, all games were moved to the Monday to allow teams to prepare properly for the Third Round of the FAI Cup, which was scheduled for Friday 3rd June. This, naturally, was the day I was due to fly back because the Percy Main end of season do was on the Saturday night. Consequently, I was left with the stark realisation that I only had 1 game I could attend. These were my choices -:

Premier Division:

Derry City v Galway United

Drogheda United v Bray Wanderers

Shamrock Rovers v Bohemians

Sligo Rovers v Dundalk

UCD v St. Patrick’s Athletic

First Division:

Athlone Town v Salthill Devon

Limerick v Cork City

Mervue United v Longford Town

Monaghan United v Finn Harps

Wexford Youths v Shelbourne

Geography meant I simply had to discount Derry, Sligo, Limerick, Monaghan and Wexford from my calculations and I’d already seen a UCD v St Pat’s game, so that was a non-starter. A trip on the LUAS to D24 seemed the inevitable choice, almost by default, until my mate John, who was putting me up in Maynooth, County Kildare offered to take the car to the Westmeath and Roscommon border, to see the splendour that is Lissywoolen; Athlone Town versus Salthill Devon was my destination.

As someone who avoids driving at all cost, since a Tesco 18-wheeler almost made me an RTA statistic back in December 2005, I always rely on the kindness of others to fetch me places. My ex-wife Sara obliged with a lift up to the airport, where Ryan Air, despite being the Weatherspoons of flight travel, had me touching down in Dublin at midday, absolutely bang on time. Switching my phone back on, I sent the typical “arrived safely” texts then took the 747 DublinBus to Connolly, noticing the text wouldn’t send and that my phone was seemingly incapable of roaming. I took a trip to the Vodafone shop on Henry Street, where a long and frustrating phonecall to the UK support centre finally saw me having my roaming enabled, despite never having previously requested for it to be disabled. This finished, I skirted back along Talbot Street to Connolly, taking myself up to the historic site of Monto (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Wny_0pi4hR4) and availed myself of the stopping train to Maynooth, via Drumcondra, Phoenix Park, Ashtown, Leixlip and so on, arriving at John’s place just after 3.

John’s the conduit for my reconnection with Ireland; I first met him in October 1993 in Newcastle. A Magpies fan since the mid 70s, he makes a few trips over a season when I put him and his son Ciaran up, so he likes to repay the compliment when I’m in these parts. He may not be the most regular of attendees at League of Ireland games, but he makes the effort when I’m about and it was his suggestion that took us to Lissywoolen for the Athlone v Salthill Devon game, having driven me to Longford v Salthill last August. Of course John is also a great guide and a skilled chauffeur, so he invited me to come west along the road on a tour that took us through Counties Kildare, Meath, Westmeath, Longford, Roscommon and back to Westmeath as Athlone play on the Leinster side. Particular highlights on the journey included the “Good Luck” Chinese in Ballymahon, the power station in Lanesboro and Douglas Hyde Park in Roscommon Town, not to mention the incessant hailstorm that we encountered just on entering Athlone.

Within 5 minutes, about 2 inches of golf ball size ice particles had gathered in the gutters, but these were soon washed away by a tumultuous downpour that made me unhappily recall the only Airtricity game postponed in the 2011 season thus far had been Athlone v Monaghan. This could not happen again could it? No, it didn’t, as while I enjoyed two magnificent pints of black porter in Sean’s Bar, allegedly the oldest pub in Ireland, the rain was replaced by glorious early evening sunshine, which continued unabated until the night arrived at almost 10pm, reminding me we were far further west than at home.

By that time Athlone Town had won 2-0, in front of 104 less than hysterical onlookers. It was a dull game in a functional stadium; one impressive stand that has probably 1,000 or more seats, housed the entire crowd, with 3 basic uncovered narrow concrete walkways on the other 3 sides. It was like a slightly smaller, slightly better kept Flancare Park, home of Longford Town, where I’d seen Salthill Devon come back from 2-0 down to draw last August. Despite the presence of two-goal hero from that night Victor Collins, Salthill had no chance of repeating that result. A fabulous bullet header of an own goal broke the deadlock on 25 minutes, before Salthill attempted to get back on terms. Their 10 minutes of semi-pressure was undone when a loose cross saw the home side break against a badly organized defence. A desperate grab of a shirt saw Kevin Williamson tumble in the box. The impressive female referee gave a spot kick, but no red card and Williamson rolled it past a keeper who’d gone the wrong way.

From then on, nothing much happened, so the lad from the supporters’ shop was most excited when I splashed out on an Athlone Town scarf for the Percy Main clubhouse wall; he even had to open up a new packet of them to flog me one. The night stayed warm and I didn’t need to wear it. We headed back to Maynooth, with Shannonside FM giving us the full time scores, depressing though they were -:



Derry 6 Galway 0

Sligo 1 Dundalk 0

Drogheda 0 Bray 1

Shamrock Rovers 1 Bohs 0

UCD 1 St. Pat’s 3



Limerick 0 Cork 0

Mervue 2 Longford 1

Monaghan 1 Finn Harps 0

Wexford 0 Shelbourne 1



So, Galway and Drogheda were bottom and second bottom, respectively, nine points below UCD. The Premier Division will be expanded to include 11 teams in next season. D1 champions go up and the bottom 2 in the Premier play off, with the losers (pay attention now!) facing the winners of the second against third play off from Division 1. At least that is what is planned, but undoubtedly Galway, currently reaping the expected harvest of Nick Leeson’s time as their financial chief executive, will struggle to get a licence to operate unless NAAMA gets involved in football. Consequently Drogheda will presumably manage to make 3 successive Houdini escapes from relegation, courtesy of the fiscal improprieties of others. Of course, in terms of crowds attending games, if this means Cork and Shelbourne go back up, so be it. Obviously, as it’s the League of Ireland we’re talking about, what this means for Division 1, already running a club light after the Fingal disaster has not been thought through as yet. Don’t even mention the possibility that the A Division is about to disintegrate either!

We got back to Maynooth in time for 4 quick pints in the New Town Inn, before I went off visiting on Tuesday, while still assuming the role of an unabolished Domhnall Og Buachalla (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Domhnall_Ua_Buachalla) . John fetched me out to Tallaght so I could take a look at Shamrock Rovers’ very impressive stadium, paid by South Dublin County Council, which is affectionately known as the Halting Site for the Tallaghtfornian Corinthians. I took the LUAS (aka the world’s slowest train) in to town, met Declan on Jervis Street, skirted Smithfield, marvelled at the Private Shops on Capel Street, then embarked on a tour of pubs; The Halfpenny Bridge, the Foggy Dew, The International Bar, Grogans, the Lincoln and then back to Little Britain, or Dalkey as it is known, for some time with the quality, including a take-out curry laced with sleeping tablets that finished me off by 9.30.

I’d vaguely kept an eye on the news that day, which was full of stories talking about the presumed reintroduction of a version of domestic rates, or a property tax of some sort, and water charges, that will end up being metered. Apart from remarking this latter charge will probably be of little concern to those west of the Shannon, I found it wryly amusing to observe the level of anger at these charges, especially as I’m shelling out £130 a month in council Tax and Water Rates.

More importantly, the Irish presidential election was starting to take shape. With Mary McAleese coming to the end of her second term, the race to get the cushy sinecure and the big house in Phoenix Park was starting to hot up. While Labour and the Blue Shirts were being courted by the minor league great and the good, all wanting a party machine to help with their publicity once they’d found a ticket of convenience, and Dev’s Diehards were furiously looking at their shoes to avoid the poison chalice of candidature, the frontrunner was David “Dottie” Norris, who has one hell of a story to tell. Born in what is now the Congo, while it still had its Belgian prefix, to an English father who died when Norris was an infant and an Irish mother, Norris was a lecturer in English Literature at Trinity College until 1986. Since then he has been famous for being a campaigner for Gay Rights, which lead to the liberalization of Irish homosexuality laws in 1988, and an ardent campaigner for social justice. His sexuality is seen as being of little impediment to his political career, as is his membership of the Church of Ireland, even if he has gone perilously close to being culturally off message as regards 1916 and other sacred Republican and Patriotic cows. What may finally scupper his chances is the publication of a 2002 interview in which Norris makes clear his understanding of the ancient practice of pederasty, which in post Artane Ireland is inextricably linked to paedophilia. It seems as if the spectre of his hero Oscar Wilde is looming large over Norris and his ambitions.

Next morning, suitably refreshed after a grand night’s sleep, Declan and I headed up to Belfast, for him to meet with someone from work and me to hook up with Peter, a fellow Teenage Fanclub devotee, for lots of beers, to mark the centenary of the Titanic’s launch no less. As Ronnie Drew remarked; “sightseeing’s grand, but it’d give you an awful thirst.” We stopped being thirsty in The Kitchen, The Garrick, The John Hewitt, Whites, The Duke of York, The Morning Star and The Northern Whig, before being poured on to the train. The fact John then took me to the New Town after I staggered in to Maynooth around 10 was something I’m rather ashamed of. Still, I slept well.

Thursday saw me delicately head to town for a look around the National Museum’s 1916 exhibition, before taking coffee with Declan and the LUAS to Tallaght. John had noticed Shamrock Rovers Under 17s were supposedly at home to Drogheda U17s at the scenic location of Carolan Park on Kiltipper Road up in the mountains past Tallaght, which despite its reputation as hell on earth is really nothing compared to Ballymun or some of the places on DNS in Dublin itself. Indeed Kiltipper Road is a glorious country lane, but Carolan Park was little more than a field with posts in it, with no sign of a game, though some Shamrock Rovers youths were getting set for a training session. It seemed as if Drogheda hadn’t made it this far, so consequently I was limited to a single game during my visit.

We called it a day and headed back to Maynooth, for pints for John and Diet Coke for me in O’Neill’s, The Roost, where Longford’s superstar Keith Gillespie ended up on Saturday night apparently, and the New Town. The weather on Thursday and Friday was as glorious as any we’d had all year (no sign of hailstones), so I felt somewhat rueful getting on the plane just as 12 of the 16 scheduled FAI Cup 3rd round games, as well as the inaugural conference of the Irish Atheist Federation, were kicking off.

I arrived in Newcastle just in time to collect the scores, discovering the only major upset was Wexford beating Derry 4-1, the only draw was a 0-0 between Longford and Finn Harps (De Town won the replay 1-0) and the only non-league side to win were FC Sheriff (the ones from Fairview not Tiraspol in Moldova), who beat Salthill. It seems as if Victor Collins had almost as poor a footballing week as I did. No matter, I’ll be back in August; the question is, will Victor?