Printhead

I love my job; I wouldn’t exactly say that I love work per se, but I do love my job. It is rewarding and an honour to be paid for what I love doing. It wasn’t always this way; fifteen years ago I’d do almost anything to stop more than the merest fraction of my mind being occupied by what I was paid to do, as I felt resentful giving any of my mind’s capacity away, but as I’m a devotee of Philip Larkin, it seems that as I’ve grown older, I’ve unconsciously replicated the emotional journey he made between “Toads” and its successor companion piece “Toads Revisited.” While I’m not yet ready for Cemetery Road, I find that the older I get, the greater the amount of energy work takes out of me and consequently my stated interests / hobbies /obsessions (Real Ale, literature, obscure Indie music, non-league football and loony left politics) are being squeezed by the sheer amount of effort it takes to keep body and soul together by doing my job. Clearly, something has to give and while football is obviously sacrosanct (Monday 27 August: Team Northumbria v Hebburn Town, Bedlington Terriers v Ashington, Tuesday 28 August: Birtley Town v Chester Le Street, Wednesday 29 August: Whitley Bay A v Percy Main Amateurs, Thursday 30 August: Newcastle United v Atromitos, Friday 31 August: Team Northumbria v Newcastle Benfield, Saturday 1 September: Whitley Bay v Bedlington Terriers, Sunday 2 September: Newcastle United v Aston Villa, Monday 3 September: Team Northumbria v Penrith, Tuesday 4 September: Whitley Bay v Sunderland RCA), this is why I take September and January off the drink each year to allow my head to recover, why I’ve already decided to pass up the opportunity of seeing gigs by Patti Smith, Plainsong and Allo Darlin in early September, why I’ll not be at the 20th October Coalition of Resistance demo in London and why, sadly, I feel unable to read a book for personal pleasure from New Year to Whitsuntide each year.

I must read, at a rough guess, 250,000 words a week when I’m at work (which means term time and all holidays, bar the Christmas break); the level of concentration and critical awareness needed to plough through that amount of prosodic verbiage and still come up with cogent and evaluative comments for each chunk digested is not an onerous task, but still is one that requires a responsible, sentient response. After so much reading for profit, I find that reading for pleasure needs to be unchallenging in the main; metonymic moaning about Newcastle United and banal cyber chatter will do for me in autumn, winter and spring. Consequently, I park books at my bedside until the last week of May each year and as the students wrestle with exams, I relish the chance of finally being able to read what I want until September arrives.
Actually, that’s not strictly true; I’m so polite, I can’t turn down books proffered with the usual, predictable insistence that “you must read this; you’ll love it.” I point out I’ll not be able to return it until June, but often that works in my favour as my rusty critical faculties and tired eyes are knocked in to shape by these literary equivalents of pre-season friendlies, as I feel beholden to get these books out the way before I start on what I really want to read. So, what was on the Cusack bedside cabinet this summer?

First up was Brian Kennedy’s exhaustive tome on League of Ireland football, “Just Follow the Floodlights.” I’d borrowed this from my mate John McQuaid, having to get it read so as I could take it back to him on 31 May when I flew over for the first of my 2012 Irish pilgrimages. Kennedy’s book is useful; indeed I found its existence profoundly irritating as it knocked my idea for my proposed second book on the head. However, Kennedy’s book falls between two stools in that it is neither a detailed account of a season, even though all the games took place in 2011 and he visits every League of Ireland ground, nor is it a scholarly historical account of the game of football in Ireland, either from the late 19th Century or post Partition, depending on the defining political and geographical compass of the book. Kennedy doesn’t touch on the game in the Six Counties, other than describing the quality of hot dogs in the Brandywell and the idea of discussing any links between sport, politics and cultural traditions in the whole island of Ireland is way beyond his remit. Perhaps this subject is the book on football / soccer in (the Republic of / Northern) Ireland that needs to be written in the future.

Also related to Ireland was a novel loaned to me by my friend Ceri; “The Cove Shivering Club” by Michael Curtin, who was a name unknown to me prior to early June. Frankly, I’ll not be searching out any more of his stuff. Suffering from bad editing and a surfeit of minor characters, picaresque interpolations of little interest to the reader or relevance to the plot and a damp squib of an ending, it was part nostalgic Bildungsroman, with the emphasis on “dung,” and part dull examination of gender politics in Celtic Tiger Ireland. Curtin’s book appears to have disappeared without trace after an initial printing; I hope he has learned to write with more discipline in the interim, as I see he has other books out there, which I don’t intend to read.

A borrowed book I loved was “Rip It Up: Post Punk 78-84” by Simon Reynolds, which talked to me in minute detail about the bands  who meant so much to me in my formative musical years and who, as I approach 50, still dominate my Ipod. The Gang of Four, Wire, The Mekons, The Raincoats, Cabaret Voltaire, The Fall, Pere Ubu and a litany of others on Rough Trade, Fast Product and Postcard were the soundtrack to Reynolds’s upbringing and while he doesn’t include himself in the narrative, I can imagine he’s talking on behalf of thousands of teenage, pseudo-intellectual wannabe intellectual artistes who listened fervently to John Peel on transistors underneath pillows in darkened bedrooms as the Winter of Discontent ground on in the real world. This book is definitely highly recommended; cheers to Knaggsy (High Heaton’s Number 1 Killing Joke and Dancing Lessons fan) for lending it to me.

The final borrowed book was the touching and incredibly important “As If,” by Blake Morrison, which examines the James Bulger case and subsequent trial of Jon Venables and Robert Thompson. It is a tough read, but a rewarding one; Morrison manages to be sympathetic and outraged, without being vengeful in his prose. Published back in the mid-1990s, one can almost sense the mantra “tough on crime; tough on the causes of crime” seeping through each paragraph. However, we live in less tolerant times and the concept of rehabilitation for offenders seems to be as immoral in the eyes of the press and media commentators as revenge was after the Bulger case. Perhaps it is time for Morrison to revisit this subject for his elegant prose will certainly prove that society would benefit from understanding more and condemning less.

So, as June moved towards July, it was time for me to reduce the pile of unread books from years gone by that had gathered dust on the bedside cabinet. Firstly “Twenty Years of the Nobel Prize for Literature,” given to me by a departing student, Wendy, in 2009, was tackled. Surprisingly, I found it intriguing and rewarding; Harold Pinter’s “Art, Truth and Politics” was as inspiring a read as I had all summer, though I also found myself touched by the words of Imre Kertesz, VS Naipaul, Gao Xingjian, Wislawa Szymborska, Nadine Gordimer, Joseph Brodsky and Wole Soyinka. It is a book I shall use in my teaching and one that humbled me to read.

I’d had Andrew Marr’s “A History of Modern Britain” since 2008, but the size of it and the freshness of the TV programme (and many of the events mentioned in it) in my memory put me off, not to mention the fact my dad and I were devotees of the programme and discussed it in detail each week. However, when my son Ben announced it was on his A Level History reading list, I knew I had to get to grips with it. If you don’t mind Marr’s voice, which leaps out from every line, and his cynical libertarian politics with their streak of intolerance for state interventionism, then it is a rattling good read. Is his analysis of post war Britain the correct one? I take as my text Xhou Enlai’s 1971 response to the question whether the French Revolution had been a success; “it’s too soon to tell.”

It was not too soon to finally read Tim Parks’s superb account of “travels around Italy in search of illusion, national character and goals,” which is how he subtitled his book “A Season with Verona,” that minutely and magnificently analyses the club’s ultimately successful fight against relegation in 2000-2001. I’ve not been to Italy and pay only scant attention to Serie A, but this book had me gripped from the start to the finish; perhaps what Parks has that Brian Kennedy and Michael Curtin lack, is the true author’s ability to manipulate words to portray and describe situations, characters and their significance. “A Season with Verona” is a glorious book, as is Anthony Cronin’s “Dead as Doornails,” which I bought myself as a treat in Dublin in August. It is an account of the 1960s Dublin literary scene; Behan, Kavanagh, Brian O’Nolan and a cavalcade of minor talents drink, snipe, brawl and ponce their way through a decade of wasted promise. Cronin, who is still alive aged 84, laments the dissipation of talent and the squandering of energy in the wrong fashion, while offering lucid literary analysis of the work of people who were his best friends, but who were all dead as doornails by the end of the 1960s. This is another book I’d recommend.

Three rubbish non-fiction ones I wouldn’t are now to be discussed. Firstly, Jim McDowell’s banal and exploitative “The Mummy’s Boys: Threats and Menaces from Ulster’s ParaMafia,” in which the notorious lush who edits the NI rag “The Sunday World” retells the Peace Process in the north of Ireland, to suggest his attempts to stagger away from the public bar of “The Duke of York” were the reason why the Loyalist paramilitaries decided to decommission their weapons. Simplistic and narcissistic by turns, it is a colouring book compared to the writings of Peter Taylor on the subject. Another load of rubbish is “Hotel Nirvana” by Melanie McGrath, a formless, shapeless account of travels in New Mexico, Texas and California among New age communities in search of spiritual enlightenment. She doesn’t find it and I only read the book on account of the fact she shares a name with my mate Declan’s wife. Equally awful is “Hang The DJ: The Alternative Book Of Music Lists” by Angus Cargill, whereby he’s asked a whole load of his mates, who wouldn’t even qualify as Z List Celebs, other than David Peace (when the hell is the final episode of the Tokyo trilogy coming out, eh?) to give their all-time Top 10 tracks, providing there’s some spurious premise behind the choice; theme tunes, murder ballads, instrumentals, great guitar solos, whatever. It’s a half decent idea spoiled by a lack of cohesion in the execution, but frankly more suited to a pub discussion than a book.

In the world of fiction, I continued my intermittent appreciation of Iain Banks, with his sadly dated, but superbly structured and compelling “Complicity,” combining unhinged yet deeply moral serial killing with chronic illness for the narrator. Like all Banks’s books, I was drawn in by his taut prose and unexpected plot elements. I should read more of his stuff I know. I read Mike McCormack’s “Crowe’s Requiem,” a tragic love fable set in Galway, because many years ago I’d read his short story collection “Getting It in the Head.” Similar to that book (and Banks in a way), a gallery of young grotesques deal with their doomed existence by paying homage to a trinity of booze, fags and fucking. Crowe’s imminent death at the end had me almost in tears; surely the mark of a good book is one that draws you in. Joseph O’Connor I can take or leave; his detective fiction appeals, while his historical intellectualism bores me rigid. “The Salesman” was a gripping read; a deeply flawed narrator living through terrible personal tragedies, struggles with the concept of revenge and reconciliation with his daughter’s attacker. The fact I knew the setting (O’Connor’s beat is Dalkey to Bray) made it seem so real, I struggled to put it down.

A book I initially struggled to pick up, out of fear of being let down (despite everyone I knew saying it was as great as could possibly be expected and then some more) was “Skagboys.” In the end, Welsh’s brilliant prequel to “Trainspotting,” with the minute personality details explaining that earlier book so much more clearly than on first reading, had me wishing it was longer. I truly hope Welsh returns to the same gallery of characters when they approach their 50s or later; how on earth do they turn out? It is almost too sad that we just don’t know.

The final 5 books I read were all by Cormac McCarthy. Having fallen in love with “No Country for Old Men” and “Blood Meridian,” I needed to read all his works; if I get through “The Border Trilogy,” I will have done. Not all of his work is of the same standard as the first 2 works mentioned, or even “The Road.” In reverse order of quality, “The Sunset Limited” is a fairly formulaic prose drama that examines questions of morality, regarding life and death; it needn’t detain us much. “Outer Dark” has the elements of gothic grotesque that recur in his other novels, but without the narrative force or breath taking turns of phrase we are used to; in effect, it is juvenilia. “The Orchard Keeper” is about a juvenile, but is an interesting account of prohibition in the land of hillbillies, with an utter lack of the grotesque that normally accompanies McCarthy’s descriptive passages.

“Child of God” is grotesque to the point of nausea, but it is also bleakly comic and unerringly crafted. I loved this book, mainly because it was so horrible, but the book I loved most the whole summer was McCarthy’s beautiful, elegiac semi-autobiographical masterpiece “Suttree,” which I’d rate higher than “Blood Meridian” in his personal oeuvre. A simple narrative involving a disenfranchised fisherman, living in Knoxville, Tennessee, who befriends the marginal and the mad, then watches them struggle on before falling by the wayside. Suttree survives, but knows he must move on and, dignified, humble and wise, the book ends as he prepares to do so. This is the finest book I’ve read all summer.

I go back to work next Monday; “The Border Trilogy” is 1,037 pages long, unread and on my bedside table; I’d best make a start.

Unpublished 1: Around The Grounds 22/08/12

Last season, every time a Percy Main home game fell victim to the weather, I put the stuff I'd done for the programme that would not now see the light of day on here. This season I'll do the same. However, the game versus Wallsend Town on 22nd August did go ahead (we won 5-3), but the programme didn't appear because of a computer malfunction. Regardless of reason, here's the piece I wrote for the programme -:

We should now be three games in to the Northern Alliance season, but the incredible rain of Wednesday and Friday last week has, as ever, caused havoc with fixtures. As a result, only 5 teams have played all their fixtures; poor Shankhouse have only managed a single game and that was a 3-0 defeat away to Carlisle city. The Cumbrians sit proudly on top of the Premier division after 3 straight wins, the latest of which was a single goal victory over a Hebburn Reyrolle outfit still looking for their first point. Amble and Harraby have 100% success rates, but didn’t play yesterday, while Whitley Bay A moved up to fourth with a 4-1 win over Rutherford, who prop up the division. Champions Heaton Stannington are 5^th, with 2 wins out of 2, the latest being a 2-0 success over Seaton Delaval. The other game to take place in the Premier Division on Saturday 18^th, saw Wallsend Town continue their unbeaten start with a 2-1 win over Killingworth sporting, despite having 2 players red carded in a fiery encounter.

In Division 1, the pace setters are Cramlington Town, who are benefitting from a long break after last season. Having opted out of the Supplementary Cup, they finished competitive action at the back end of March and have come roaring out the blocks with 3 straight wins, including a 2-0 success away to Cullercoats on Saturday. The other high flyers are newcomers Northbank Carlisle, who have also taken 9 points out of 9, the latest coming from a 2-1 success at Forest Hall. Heddon, who we face in the Northumberland FA senior Benevolent Bowl on October 6^th at Purvis Park, were inactive yesterday, but have 6 points from 2 games. Morpeth Town, who are here on September 22^nd in the George Dobbins League Cup, were trounced 6-1 at newly promoted Hexham on Saturday. Chemfica went one better, defeating a Bedlington Terriers side who’ve lost all 3 games and languish at the foot of the table, 6-0. The other 2 games saw a brace of 2-2 draws; Ponteland United being held at home by Gosforth Bohemians and Willington Quay Saints playing out a similar scoreline with fellow promoted club Red House Farm at the Barking Dog.

Things are tight in Division 2, with only new boys Wooler (3-1 victors away to fellow rural outfit Alston) and North Shields Athletic (who fell 2-0 victims at home to debutants Birtley St. Joseph’s) having played their full complement of 3 games. Wallsend Boys Club are top, having collected full points from 2 games, having beaten Longbenton 2-0 on Saturday, taking over from the inactive Wideopen. The other games saw 8 goals shared in a 4-4 cracker between Blyth Isabella and New Fordley, while Swalwell and Newcastle Benfield Reserves had a more modest sounding 2-2 draw at Derwenthaugh Road. The final game saw last campaign’s wooden spoon side Cramlington United win 3-0 away to Grainger Park Boys club at Newburn Leisure Centre. It is very early days yet.

That message must also be the mantra of Newcastle Benfield boss Perry Briggs, who saw his side dumped out of the FA Cup last week by a returning Durham City side and then fall 3-2 away to West Auckland. Whitley Bay started their league campaign with a 2-1 success at Billingham Town. Team Northumbria lost 2-0 at Spennymoor in the Craven Cup (the Northern League Charity Shield); then fell 3-0 to the same opponents in the league. Astonishingly, there was a sell-out crowd at Bishop Auckland, though it was for the visit of Darlington 1883, who prevailed 3-1 in their first game at this level since the 19^th Century. Gilford Park have changed their name to Celtic Nation, for some reason, and it was under this moniker they celebrated their first game in Division 1 with a 1-0 home win over South Shields. Not quite as impressive as Division 2 newcomers Ryhope CW, who won 7-0 away to Stokesley. North Shields lost 1-0 at Jarrow Roofing, after going out the FA Cup at Birtley Town in a replay and West Allotment Celtic drew 3-3 away to Seaham Red Star. In the Conference Gateshead were held at home 1-1 by Forest Green, in front of 531, while 494 saw Blyth Spartans lose 2-1 to Witton Albion.

The Semi-Midas Touch

First published in "toon talk" issue #10 in August 2012...

Let’s be honest, the biggest transfer of the close season was a long, tortuous process, involving many hours of fraught negotiations, whereby the deal looked to be dead in the water several times, only for interest to be resuscitated on an almost daily basis. Finally, after several weeks of to-ing and fro-ing, the player put pen to paper and a genuine Geordie hero centre forward has returned home to play in front of his own kind. Welcome back Anth Lormor; 22 years after Jim Smith sold him to Lincoln City, the lad has signed for Heaton Winstons in Division 4 of the North East Over 40s League, no doubt inspired by the journalistic double life of the team’s powerfully built keeper. Ahem….

In all seriousness, Anth’s signature for my bunch of over the hill has-beens and never-wases at the business end of the lowest level of veterans’ football in the area seemed a more likely occurrence than Andy Carroll returning to Tyneside, especially back on April Fools’ Day when the returning villain of the piece was booked for a dive, mercilessly taunted by those who used to adore him and then hauled off by Dalglish, for whom he had some special words of thanks. However, stranger things than Andy Carroll returning have happened; just ask Lee Clark or Mo Johnston. Obviously, the existence of the transfer window until the end of August means that any comment on where Carroll will be playing his football in 2012/2013 must involve a degree of speculation, though it is reasonable to assume that the choice of venues for his talents has narrowed with West Ham (having signed Malian striker Modibo Maiga, with whom we were linked this time last year) pulling out of the race.

On the surface, the end of the Demba Ba specific transfer window on July 31st suggests that Newcastle are now less likely to want Carroll back, even as second top banana at the club, despite the departures, with all good wishes of everyone associated with the Magpies, of Lovenkrands to Birmingham and Best to Blackburn. It was desperately unfortunate for Leon that he picked up a serious knee injury in pre-season and I fervently hope he gets back to full fitness soon, but frankly neither of those two (solid, honest, committed professionals they may be) is consistently good enough to warrant anything other than a peripheral squad place for any side aiming to finish above halfway in the Premier League. Yet, their departures do leave Newcastle light in terms of available attacking bodies for a season that may involve up to a dozen more games, if we are to have a decent run in the Europa League. Behind our Senegalese superstar duo, there is only the great enigma of Shola Ameobi as perennial benchwarmer and in reserve, the busted flush that is the discredited and disreputable Niall Ranger. While remaining in the bounds of reality, it is perhaps unlikely that a call will go out to La Coruna to call Francisco Jimenez Tejada back to his parent club; we are uniformly content for Xisco to wind down the final year of his NUFC contract in his Galician idyll.

At the end of 2011/2012, Newcastle United sold Leon Best, as has already been stated, as well as Frazer Forster to Celtic, where he had been on loan for almost 2 years, and then dispensed with the services of Peter Lovenkrands, Danny Guthrie, Alan Smith and 8 reserve and fringe players, of whom only Tamas Kadar had enjoyed significant game time for the first team, albeit not for 2 seasons.  I’m sad to see Guthrie leave as I was always a fan; he wasn’t the new Robert Lee we’d been promised when he arrived from Liverpool via Bolton in 2008, but he was a steady, reliable, safe pair of hands in central midfield (and a load of bollocks out of the wing, incidentally); I would have liked him to stay, but I can understand the appeal for him to be offered a central role at Reading. In contrast I was utterly elated to see Alan Smith leave the payroll; not only because his reported £60k per week wages were a final, damning indictment of the legacy of the surreal squandering of money that marred the Allardyce administration, but because in 5 years Smith contributed nothing worthwhile on the pitch, meaning it is almost a blessing he made only 94 league appearances (including 17 as sub) out of a potential 198. Many would say he made his mark, in a Ryder Cup non-playing captain kind of role, by chairing the no-holds barred inquest in to the 6-1 mauling at Orient in July 2009; I would counter that by suggesting any Newcastle fan would have assumed such a role for free, rather than the estimated £15m wages he pulled in during his time with us. Last season, Alan Smith played 6 minutes of Premier League football for Newcastle, at a cost of around £3m (assuming we still picked up the tab while he was away getting booked for MK Dons), which is a statistic that requires no further comment.

Looking dispassionately at the Newcastle United first team squad as it stood after the end of season departures, it was clear that the 3 areas that needed strengthening were: a full back, a centre half and a striker. The three names most often heard were: Debuchy, Douglas and De Jong. To date none of them have signed; indeed De Jong has gone to Borussia Monchoengladbach in the Bundesliga. As I write, Debuchy, after a fine European Championships, is in dispute with his club and Douglas needs to remain in Holland until such time as his citizenship is granted in mid-August. Being candid, I’d heard of none of them before June, but I’d welcome the two still allegedly available, because Debuchy is class and a clear improvement on Danny Simpson, while Douglas has to be a good bet, simply because he isn’t Williamson. I’d also welcome back Carroll, but with the caveat that this would only be in the absence of the availability of other credible options up top; remember though, we didn’t sign a striker to partner Demba Ba last summer and things worked out ok, both before and after Papiss Cisse finally arrived.

However, we have signed some players, though not in the positions where we most need strengthening:  Roman Amaltifano (winger; arrived from Stade de Rheims), Gael Birgirama (presumably as a replacement for Guthrie in midfield; from Coventry) and Curtis Good (centre back; Melbourne Heart). Clearly I’d not heard of any of them and I doubt many people reading this had either, though if we rewind 12 months the names of Cisse, Santon, Cabaye, Marveaux, Abeid and further back, possibly Ben Arfa, were utterly unknown to any of us. Thankfully, the bizarre insistence of ESPN on showing our half-paced kickabouts in Germany, Austria and Portugal against Monaco, Fenebache, Olympiakos and Braga (though Brazil v Honduras in the Olympic quarter finals at SJP won out over a shaky internet stream of the 0-0 against Den Haag) have allowed us sight of two of them; Amaltifano looks like a touchline-hugger who can sling over a good ball and Birgirama appears to be Tiote’s younger brother, so signs are promising. However, these are friendlies; 10 years ago the team would waltz off abroad and play half a dozen games against opponents you’d never heard of and Alan Oliver’s 2 paragraph report would appear in The Chronicle 72 hours after the game had taken place, so let’s not put too much of a store on the results or performances in such practice matches. Let’s just try and look at the bigger picture as it begins to emerge.

I know this takes a great deal of faith in the judgement of those in charge, but I am prepared to implicitly trust the scouting network, management and executives of Newcastle United to provide us with the players we need by the end of August. I am also reasonably confident that none of our major players will be sold either. Since relegation, bar the farcical renaming of the ground that still festers like an open sore among all supporters of the club, Ashley and Llambias have not put a serious foot wrong in the running of the club, much as it pains me to say that. Indeed, and this is an argument for a whole different article, perhaps boxing Keegan in to a corner whereby he felt he had to resign (not that Keegan needs much persuading to jump ship), then treating Shearer so shabbily, before flogging Carroll and replacing him with Shefki Kuqi,  are decisions that have actually, and amazingly, worked totally in our favour. Let’s just hope that the return of Carroll, if it comes to pass, continues to prove the current owners have their semi-Midas touch, whether this is the result of luck, judgement or a combination of both.

De Banks

Oh all that on earth I wish for or crave

Is that my last crimson drop be for thee,

To moisten the grass of my forefathers' grave,

On the banks of my own lovely Lee.

I’m unable to state the precise date when my grandfather Patrick Henry Cusack, accompanied by his brothers Dan and Tom, left his home in Bandon, County Cork forever. What I do know is that if they had not chosen to follow the examples of millions of other poverty-stricken Irish the 19^th and 20^th centuries, by emigrating and leaving their own native soil for good, in the hope of a better future abroad, my life would have been very much different, had I existed at all.

Perhaps typically, they displayed that streak of wilful, contrary obstinacy that I have by the bucket load, in choosing not to seek their fortune across the Atlantic in Boston or New York, nor to join the huge numbers of Irish in London, Manchester or Liverpool. Instead, they came to live among the smaller in number, though fiercely proud and supportive Tyneside Irish community. Population statistics from the 1870s onwards show on both sides of the river, the percentage of immigrant Irish grew rapidly in Walker and Wallsend to the north and on the south bank in Jarrow and Felling, where the Cusacks came to call home and I entered the world on August 11^th 1964.

Almost 48 years later, on Friday 10^th August 2012, I made the return journey from Tyneside to the Banks of the Lee with my son and my ex-wife, flying Jet2 to the city of Christy Ring, Rory Gallagher, Jack Lynch and, in some far distant way, my ancestors. Of course it’s not true that I’d never been to Cork before; as a small child we once holidayed there, though I have no memory of that visit, back in the summer of 1971. However I have been informed that I apparently developed Chickenpox during my time there and the small scar above my right eyebrow is testament to the physical, as well as emotional and cultural, influence that the city on the Lee has had on me.

Other than ancestral longing and a fancy for a birthday weekend on the gargle, the main reason I’d booked this sojourn was a drunken conversation, very late on Sunday 3^rd June in the Newtown Inn, Maynooth, County Kildare, during my last visit to Ireland. Regular followers of this site and articles I’ve published over the years will know that my passion for League of Ireland football is undimmed by personal experience. Regular trips over the past few years, not to mention the monotonous regularity with which clubs have gone bust (including Monaghan United as recently as June), meant that, other than the Louth pairing of Drogheda and Dundalk, my assiduous attempts at visiting such sites of sporting excellence meant  I was only requiring Cork City to complete my Premier Division set. I’m not so fussed on completing Division 1 as yet, especially as question marks over the nature of senior football in the City of the Tribes and Mick Wallace’s VAT wranglings down in Wexford, may have some effect on the make-up of the 2013 League of Ireland.

Despite being a good 30 miles from Inchicore, The Newtown is a bit of a haven for St. Patrick’s Athletic fans and, having consulted a fixture list while in my cups,  one game stood out in particular; Cork City v St. Patrick’s Athletic on Friday 10^th August. Even better, the All Ireland hurling semi-final between Cork and Galway was taking place in Croke Park on Sunday 12^th. It was written in the stars; I had to be at both games, so immediately on my return I booked the flight out to Cork, then back from Dublin, having obviously checked the Under 21 international on the Tuesday was in Sligo (been there; done that) and the full international on the Wednesday was away to Serbia; news of my non-attendance at this being enough to make Shay Given retire from international football.

It seemed a fool proof plan; my good friend John McQuaid arranged to come down to see the game and the city with us, then booked the hotel rooms at the Park Radisson (well away from the kip the St. Pat’s lads would be using), sorted the tickets for Croker and we started to count the days. Unfortunately, we didn’t factor in the quality of St. Patrick’s Athletic as a Europa League team. Having disposed of Icelandic opponents IBV on away goals, it seemed unlikely they’d have the mettle to trouble Bosnian outfit Siroki Brijeg in the second qualifying round. However, fair play to the Pride of Inchicore; they drew 1-1 away and finished the job in extra time at Richmond Park with a 2-1 win. All of this was great for the Irish domestic game and, regardless of the fact they lost 5-0 on aggregate to Hannover 96 in the third qualifiers, it improved the Irish UEFA coefficient. Regrettably, it also meant that their game against Cork City would be postponed from Friday 10^th until Monday 13^th, by which time we’d be safely ensconced back up in Kildare.

Despair did not take hold at this point; Cork City had arranged a friendly with Blackburn Rovers for Sunday 12^th. Surely, this would be moved back to the Friday or even Saturday, because of the hurling, not to mention the Pats game on the Monday and my personal groundhopping requirements. Well, the club did move it; it had an hour earlier kick-off than initially advertised, so as not to clash with the efforts of Jimmy Barry Murphy’s side up in Croker. In the end, Blackburn won 3-1, in front of 1,386; I’m unclear how many of these were Darwen End psychos who’d caused the cancellation of a friendly in Holland the week before. However, one thing worth seeing would have been Morton Gamst Pederson’s zimmer frame celebration after he scored, in reference to Blackburn’s “Global Advisor” Shebby Singh likening the midfielder to a pensioner in a meeting with fans the day before.

However, fixture rearrangements meant that what was now abundantly clear was the only one thing to do in Cork on Friday night was drink, which I suppose was good for Sara; not that she’s a drunkard you understand, just that she didn’t fancy a League of Ireland game. No wonder we divorced eh? Anyway, the trip over was incredibly smooth, with Jet2 treating us like humans and not cattle on the way to the slaughterhouse the way Ryan Air does. We touched down, transited quickly, observed the statue of Christy Ring (the greatest hurler ever, apparently), then checked in to the hotel. A quick coffee and we were on the bus to the city. Goodness I was excited and a little nervous; this certainly felt like a kind of homecoming and I was delighted to be here.

Perhaps the feeling was mutual; the first bar we took in was the Oliver Plunkett, where the singer in the corner regaled us with “The Lakes of Ponchartrain” and “Roddy McCorley,” almost as if he knew my mind and my repertoire. He was a better singer though, so I concentrated on the Beamish at a very reasonable £3.00 a pint. I preferred its plain character to the slightly sweeter Murphys, which cost more. After a couple of beers and a bite to eat, we looked for other bars. I entreat you to avoid the awful Ovens Bar, which was like an O’Neill’s transported to a place where there are plenty of great, authentic and eccentric pubs.

Two of them you must visit are Charlie’s, on Union Quay, a real spit and sawdust affair that’s the closest I can recall to the Atlantic Bar in Portrush of 30 years ago. Charlie’s has a shrine to Rory Gallagher and appears to be a hub for live music; I will go back there I hope. The music was off for the boxing on Friday night, when Michael Conlan lost his Olympic semi-final. In the other memorable bar The Hibernian (or Hi-B) on Oliver Plunkett Street, it was mobile phones that were off. This crazy one room pub, upstairs from Minihane’s chemist and downstairs from the Cork College of Hairdressing is as eccentric a place as I’ve ever been in; it’s honestly like drinking in a 1960s living room. Another spot I must go back to.

We made it back to the hotel for late ones; no music and no conversation in the bar, as mute businessmen watched the US PGA in silence, while Friday trickled in to Saturday and I became 48. Up in the morning for a full Munster fry, we took a look around Cork. While it doesn’t have the Georgian elegance of Glenamaddy, I mean Dublin, it is a charming place and I will return sooner rather than later. It’s a good job we weren’t looking for Turner’s Cross, the football ground, though, as we didn’t find it; instead we came across Sunday’s Well, the home of Munster rugby, then began our journey north through the Jack Lynch tunnel.

Our first stop, still in County Cork was Mitchelstown, the home town of a dear friend of mine and massive Teenage Fanclub fan, Tom O’Grady, who died in May 2010. Frankly, it’s a no-horse town that is dying on its arse; you can see why he exchanged it for the bucolic delights of Luton. We got out of it fairly quickly then moved on through County Limerick, where the roads were choked with Hiace vans full of Stanley knives. In County Tipperary, we passed through the beautiful town of Cashel, making sure to take a bad photo of The Rock of Cashel, before heading on to Thurles.

Here the photo opportunities were of the spiritual home of hurling, Semple Stadium, which was of course closed and Hayes Commercial Hotel (including the Cusack Bar), where Michael Cusack formed the Gaelic Athletic Association on 1^st November 1884. From there we headed northwards through Kilkenny, Laois, Kildare and Dublin, depositing Sara at the Red Cow Hotel with Declan, Mel and the kids, who’d come inland from Dalkey to collect her. John, Ben and I then headed out to Maynooth, where I celebrated my birthday by staying in, as it has become a tradition of mine not to go out on my birthday. One interesting thing was the appearance of Paul Brady on Saturday Night Live; I may have missed him at the Sage in May, but he’s with me every step of the way when I’m back in Ireland.

Sunday was hurling day and we took the 12.15 from Maynooth to Drumcondra, along with most of the population of the county of the Tribes, or so it seemed. The actual attendance at Croke Park was only 41,582 in the end, which is about 50% full, presumably because many Cork fans hadn’t bothered to travel as they felt sure they’d lose. I’d guess that the crowd were probably 60:40 Galway to Cork, but as we made our way to the Cusack Stand, it looked more 99:1 Tribesmen to Rebels.  Declan, being a proper Galway bandwagoneer, ignored the highly entertaining Clare v Dublin Minor semi-final on the undercard, in favour of taking in Hibs v Hearts. I have to say I was delighted that the Hibees grabbed a deserved point, but it was important for Ben and I to take in the Minor game, as this was our first ever sight of hurling and we needed to try and get our eyes in. I supported Clare, on the basis that they weren’t the Dubs, but they fell agonizingly short, losing 4-14 to 2-17 after being in front most of the game.

I’m very pleased we saw the Minor game as it almost prepared us for the fastest and most furious sporting encounter I’ve ever seen; a game that saw aggression and confrontation incessantly on the pitch, but not a scrap of bother nor any taunting off it. To Declan’s delight and my disappointment, it was the Joe Canning Show as the Galway man grabbed a dozen points in a 0-22 to 0-17 win for his county, after the two teams had been locked at 0-11 each at the break. It was a privilege to see such action and skill at close quarters.

Rather bizarrely though, the half time entertainment was an exhibition game of Rounders, which is a constituent sport of the GAA. Both Ben and I had played exactly this sport in Primary School, without any knowledge or indication it was in any way Irish. If I’d known, I’d have been better at it, though I did play for Green house at Falla Park in the inter house competition, if that counts. Certainly the Rounders was more entertaining than the awful on-pitch entertainment, a Limerick band that may or may not have been the Hairy Bowsies singing “I’ve got a Hiace full of Stanley knives.”

At full time, we wended our way back down through the truly blighted part of north inner city Dublin that is erroneously called Summerhill. I mused as we came on down through Parnell Square and the top of O’Connell Street and in to the safe haven of The Confessional Box for a pair of pints of Porter, that this is the part of Dublin the Irish government are keen the tourists don’t get to see. Smackheads, whores and all manner of poverty blighted marginals begging for loose change dogged our step as we went thence to the train from Connolly to Maynooth. A hungry feeling came over us stealing, so we took a spot of dinner in Brady’s, followed by the bizarre sight of the Olympics Closing Ceremony on RTE, in the Newtown Inn, surrounded by the same Pats fans as back in June, who were are still going to Cork for the game, despite it being on Monday. Luckily, Shamrock Rovers v Sligo had also been moved to the Monday so we had a game to go to in any event.

The next morning feeling rough, I persuaded Ben to join me on a tour of Dublin. It was a glorious day and would have made for a fabulous welcome home party for the Irish Olympic team, if that idea hadn’t been knocked on the head. Katie Taylor returned to a welcome in Bray, John Joe went on a pub crawl in Mullingar and the two Belfast lads had a low-key reception in the Titanic Centre. Presumably Cian O’Connor’s horse was somewhere around Parnell Square at a methadone clinic.

From Connolly, I took Ben up the Monto, down Talbot Street to the GPO, where we met Sara and Declan. Lunch in the hideously overpriced and poor quality Grand Central was followed by a wander over the river, past Trinity, up Grafton Street and on to St Stephen’s Green, to the fabulous Dublin City Museum. Everything on show has been donated and the elegant Georgian terrace is crammed full of touching, personal, nostalgic mementos of Dublin from the last 100 years. I implore you to go, as it pulls no punches about this enduringly fascinating, beautiful place that is, in all honesty, still actually two cities. Rather like Berlin in the 70s, there is a tremendous and jarring contrast between the two sides. In Dublin, it isn’t a wall that separates the two sides, but the River Liffey.

The poverty and drug abuse on the north side, compared to the ostentatious affluence on the south, should not be explained by 100 yards of water, but by centuries of the failures of capitalism.  The appalling legacy of heroin and unemployment in Dublin is most strikingly depicted by the hundreds of shuffling junkies on Da Nort Soide, many of whom have reached middle age, meaning they’ve been addicted for most of their lives, and who beg and plead from Talbot Street to Heuston Station; frankly it is appalling. I’ve always been aware of such shameful social conditions, but it was a real eye opener for Ben as we walked back through Temple Bar, along the Quay, over the Ha’Penny Bridge, past the Four Courts, through Smithfield, to Collins Barracks and the National Museum, before we caught the Luas to Tallaght for the game.

It was a beautiful sunny evening as we arrived at the end of the line. Of course I’m no stranger to Shamrock Rovers home games, having taken in the 1-1 with Cork back in June, as well as a 1-1 at Tolka Park v Derry in August 2007. My previous Tallaght experience told me the Maldron Hotel was the only place in the area for sustenance. As we took coffee in its luxurious lobby, I mused on how bizarre it would be for visitors to the Hilton in Newcastle to see the place rammed with football fans, never mind how bizarre it must be for football fans to enjoy pre match drinks in an upmarket chain hotel.

Reigning champions Shamrock Rovers started the game 10 points behind leaders Sligo Rovers and needed to win this one. Both sides were out of Europe, though Shams had reached the EA Sports League Cup Final and were in the FAI Cup that holders Sligo had been knocked out of by the now defunct Monaghan United.

With the game being on television, I hadn’t expected much of a crowd, so I was pleasantly surprised to see almost 5,000 in the 6k capacity stadium. As a point of contrast, 2,059 were at Turner’s Cross to see St. Pat’s steal a 1-0 win that kept them alive in the title hunt as they’ve two games in hand because of their European adventures.

Sligo, now managed by former Scunthorpe boss Ian Barraclough, looked really good; Jospeh Ndo in midfield is the best player in Ireland and didn’t waste a ball all night. Ndo was ably supported by Romauld Boco and Pascal Millien, while Ventre and Quigley, who scored a blinding goal to put Sligo ahead, were superb as well. Considering Danny North is out for the season and Rafael Cretaro was only on the bench, Sligo really do have a strong squad. They could have been out of sight by the break, but a fingertip save by Jansson from Boco right on the whistle kept Shamrock Rovers in it.

After the break, it all changed around once Ronan Finn curled in a beautiful equaliser after 50 minutes and Shamrock Rovers found themselves in the ascendancy. Sligo are cute though and Ndo took all the sting out the game as it headed to a tame draw that gave the visitors more pleasure than the hosts.

So, another trip to Ireland was over; I’d not been to any new grounds, but I had seen two great games, a pair of wonderful cities and a brace of deeply important museums. However, don’t be surprised if it is Cork that I head to next time I fly back to my spiritual home.

Prince Spiderbaby Huntley (16/03/96-03/08/12) RIP

Peacefully, at home, after a short illness, Prince was taken from us after a wonderful, fulfilling and deeply rewarding life. He was a beloved, adored companion for Laura and he will live in our hearts forever.

Goodbye Princey; love you forever xxxxxxxx

The Taking Part

International Football is not something that I’ve a great deal of experience of; strangely enough, the side I’ve seen the most is England Under 21. Back in April 1983, they played at St. James’ Park against Hungary, winning 1-0. I joined a fairly partisan crowd, for the express purpose of booing mackem player Nick Pickering. Of course, I was only 18 back then; when I was 30, in November 1994, Ireland visited St. James’ Park and I obviously attended to support the Boys in Green. We lost 1-0, but I managed to enjoy myself by booing the mackem Martin Gray.

While resident in Slovakia, I was able to see 3 games in the 2000 European Under 21 Championship finals; England 0 Italy 1, England 6 Turkey 0 and England 0 Slovakia 2, in a glorious, uproarious, raucous atmosphere. I wrote an article for When Saturday Comes about that one; read it here http://www.wsc.co.uk/the-archive/99-Crowd-control-&-policing/3655-the-bratislava-pack .  Returning to Bratislava for another academic year, I saw their Under 21 draw 1-1 with Sweden at Dubravka in October 2000, before seeing the full international between the two sides end goalless at Slovan the night after. My other full international was at Trnava the following March, when the home side overcame Azerbaijan 3-1.

Back in England, in summer 2001, I accompanied the Chinese Under 18 football squad, for whom I was English language tutor at their base in Slough, to the Madjeski Stadium (having already taken in Rotherham 2 Crystal Palace 3 on my birthday – it’s a long story that I wrote up in When Saturday Comes and you can read it here http://www.wsc.co.uk/the-archive/31-Players/3110-the-teachers-tale ) for the purpose of taking in England 4 Holland 0. Closer to my own fireside, St. James’ Park hosted England v Turkey in March 2003; I took Ben and my dad, who had worked in Turkey long before I was born, and none of us stood for the national anthem. Finally, I travelled to mackemland to support Shola Ameobi as England overcame Slovakia 2-0 in June of that year. My next, and most recent, international experience was the Ireland v Italy game in Sligo at the start of June that I blogged about at the time.

It isn’t that extensive a list of international fixtures it has to be said; in my defence I can say that I only really supported Ireland and Slovakia in any of the games I attended, though being neutral and attending just so I could say I was there is part of the reason why I was at Bulgaria 1 Romania 0 at St. James’ Park in the European Championship Finals in 1996. You’ll remember that tournament no doubt; clearly I wasn’t caught up with any of the 3 Lions on our Shirt bilge, as I was still smarting from Holland eliminating Ireland in a play-off the previous December. I did know, at an instinctive level, that I had to be at a minimum of one game in the tournament. Good job I was, as it was the game with the lowest attendance in the whole competition; less than 16k.

To explain this, the game featured 2 sides who’d brought the fewest fans and who, economically, were so stuffed by the cost of living over here, not to mention the ridiculous £30 minimum ticket price that many of them were forced to camp and couldn’t even afford to drink in pubs. Post-match I remember being in The Hotspur (we had a midnight extension in all bars in the NE1 area, which was unheard of Bohemianism in those Calvinist days) with jubilant Bulgarian fans who alternated between drinking a carry-out from the Co-op and minesweeping for slops. It had all started off to civilised as well; Chimay and croque monsieurs outside the late lamented Bier Rex in warm June sunshine. Still, at least I could say I was there.

Obviously, the current Olympics provides another opportunity for similar event spotting. For predictably contrary and curmudgeonly reasons, I’d affected a studied lack of interest in the whole proceedings, same as I had with the European Championships. Indeed, as the opening ceremony took place, I bored myself silly struggling to stay awake, watching a wobbly feed on the PC that kept me abreast of Olympiakos 1 Newcastle 1 in some low-key kickaround tourney at Faro in the Algarve. However, Danny Boyle’s superbly choreographed reanimation of the Post War Social Democratic Consensus inspired me to queue for football tickets at SJP on the Monday, but only after I’d watched Ryan Taylor’s free kick of the century win the highly important Faronese trophy as we beat Braga 2-1, not to mention feeling a slight flicker of jealousy watching Honduras defeat Spain at SJP on the Sunday night.

Monday morning saw me spending longer in the queue for tickets than I would in the ground itself. Perhaps the worst aspect of the wait was enduring Sir Clifford Ahmed of Laygate droning on in the background; still, at least I had my Ipod to drown out his inanities, and those of a tedious posh bloke who was welded to his mobile phone. I took the time to discover who it was I was actually going to see; I knew the Wednesday game would be Brazil versus New Zealand and that if they won that, they’d be back for the quarter final against Honduras on the Saturday.

I was delighted I’d not be seeing Team GB for a whole raft of reasons. Firstly, there’s the whole patriotism thing that leaves me cold. Secondly, there’s the issue of the worst football strip I’ve seen since Coventry’s chocolate brown away kit. Thirdly, there was the dismal spectacle of their truly atrocious showing in the warm-up game against Brazil. You could tell it was played in Smogland; a half empty stadium with the home side being crushed in to submission by vastly superior opponents who cruised through it all in first gear.

Most importantly, there’s the issue of the manager; I loathe Stuart Pearce. Punk fan he may be, but humourless, thick, nationalistic and dull is how he comes across to me. I’ve never had any time for him and disliked having to endure his presence in a black and white shirt as much as his hideous celebration after scoring a penalty in the shoot-out against Spain in Euro 96. However, as Team GB weren’t coming anywhere near Tyneside, I didn’t have to worry about him.

Wednesday 1^st August was the third anniversary of my dad’s death; a sad memory, but one I’ve now learned to accept. Despite warnings about needing to get there early, I had to go to the doctor’s, on account of impacted wax in the lug, at 2pm, so I didn’t get to SJP until 2.23pm, but I still made my seat by kick off. A great seat for £20 it was too; on an aisle, 3^rd row from the back at the Leazes end of the East stand, in line with the corner flag. The only drawback was Lord Ahmed in the row behind, but thankfully the football distracted me from him. Brazil, including Neymar, cruised to a 3-0 win. In fact, it could have been 6 if they’d wanted to score that many.

The atmosphere was rather too nice for me; all Mexican waves, photo opportunities (including me taking a snap of Maximo Park frontman Paul Smith in a Gremio shirt) and families sharing tubes of Pringles, but that was only to be expected in the context of the event I guess.  Indeed, Bradley Wiggins’s gold in the cycling was more a topic of half time conversation round me than the game we were all there to watch. Frankly, I enjoyed my evening with Winstons, now including former NUFC striker Anth Lormor, and our 3-1 victory over South Shields Catholic Club, allowing me to experience both ends of the football evolutionary scale that day.

Saturday will be a busy day; 10.30 Winstons v Mill View Club, 2.00 Percy Main v North Shields and 5.00 Brazil v Honduras. Read all about it here next week.

Memories of 2 Free Festivals

Early Friday tea time on July 20th, as I piled a Waitrose trolley full of picnic goodies (olives, chorizo, Camembert, artisan bread, pate, rioja, pinot grigio and so on; yee knaa the fuckin score), the local press and social media were antic with hysteria about the supposed return of Andy Carroll to St. James’ Park.  One pleasing irony on a personal level was the fact that the day Carroll moved to Liverpool on January 31^st 2011, I went to see a Shakespeare play (The Comedy of Errors at the Theatre Royal), while on this day I was about to see another (Much Ado About Nothing performed in Jesmond Dene). Frankly, I could not have selected a more appropriate brace of theatrical events if I’d tried, even if the Newcastle United hierarchy are more akin to Iago or Macbeth in their ruthless ambition, but I’m digressing.

Holidays notwithstanding, I try to get to see the Jesmond Dene Shakespeare festival each year, though I missed out on seeing last summer’s production on account of being unavoidably detained in Euskal Herria, which still meant I managed to keep up my intake of olives, chorizo and rioja at least. Although at times, the sustenance required to battle through an outdoor performance of The Bard is of a less sophisticated and undoubtedly more fortifying timbre; one freezing Friday in August 2005, when I paid my first visit to the Dene to see Heartbreak’s previous touring production of Much Ado, attired in hooded sweatshirt and fleece to keep the cold at bay, I microwaved a tin of Heinz tomato soup as soon as I returned in an attempt to thaw my frozen blood. Subsequently I’ve seen their versions of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Love’s Labour Lost, Romeo & Juliet and The Tempest; all of which have been at least good. Frankly, at a tenner a pop (plus whatever you choose to spend on the goody bag of munchies and libations), you can’t go wrong and while tonight’s show was the weakest cast Heartbreak have assembled, with a script that would have benefitted by being shorn of at least 30 minutes of extraneous material that formed an unconvincing and slightly irritating back story, I was glad I’d made the effort to see their labours.

Undoubtedly there is a clear and immediate need for a scholarly article comparing Newcastle United with Shakespeare, but this blog is not it. Suffice to say, the multiple layers of artifice, deceit, doublespeak and chicanery that make up the typical Elizabethan or Jacobean comedy lend themselves to a close comparison with events at St. James Park. However just as Benedick is able to silence Beatrice when he decides to “stop up your mouth with a kiss” and Iago opts to take the fifth after his arrest (“from this moment on I never will speak word”), the noiseless utterances of Ashley and Llambias are a study in silent malevolence.

While Carroll would be a useful addition to a squad that has lost Lovenkrands and Best, with Ranger totally out of the picture and Ba’s future remaining uncertain, with Pardew obviously tactically able enough to get the best out of Carroll and able to alter the team’s style of play according to personnel, the transfer activities of Newcastle United (including still to be concluded but apparently active deals for Debuchy and Douglas) remains a mummers’ play behind the arras. Perhaps the most preferable scenario is the supposed Machiavellian attempts of Ashley and Llambias to either get Carroll for £13m (effectively half of what he was sold for, minus the 20% sell-on clause Newcastle inserted in the deal) or to force Liverpool to sell him for more than that, gaining Newcastle a windfall in the region of £5m; what a pair of ruthless bastards they are. And I mean that as a compliment.

While the Carroll speculation raged on Tyneside, Newcastle United’s tour durch Mitteleuropa shaped up on ESPN. Years ago friendlies abroad would get 3 column inches in the Chronicle 48 hours after they’d taken place; now we get the full game live on satellite TV. I didn’t see the 1-0 loss Chemnitzer, but caught the first half of a walking pace 1-0 win over Monaco, where Ba scored a header the keeper deserved a hiding for allowing in. The day after Much Ado, I took in the soporific 1-1 draw in Austria with Fenerbache in The Newton with Knaggsy; another dull game was wrested from terminal torpor by an Abeid rocket that gave us a late lead, before an Elliott howler let them equalise with 30 seconds to go. If all we learn from this tour is that Elliott isn’t good enough to be the second choice keeper in the Premier League, it will have been a worthwhile trip.

Pre-season kickarounds are generally pointless, except for the purpose of gaining fitness or allowing managers to assess the quality of trialists or fringe players, though I did enjoy Percy Main 1 Redcar Athletic 2 on the Saturday. However, the real glamour tie in the region last weekend was Heaton Stannington hosting Gabon’s Olympic side at Grounsell Park at noon on the Sunday. Based at Northumbria University for training, as they play one of their fixtures at SJP, Gabon had flown in on the Saturday and were keen for a game; the Stann obliged. The score was 4-0 to Gabon and the attendance about 70; “less than they get for Shankhouse,” as Knaggsy commented.  Meanwhile the biggest football story of the weekend was that those idiots full of sound and fury, signifying nothing, The 3 Legends (Horswill, MacDonald and Slaven) have had their nightly phone-in 86ed by Real Radio, to the relief of football lovers from Whitby to Berwick.

You’ll notice I don’t include a review of the Stann v Gabon game; well, to my shame, I was unable to attend, as full time in the Newcastle v Fenerbache game had signalled my cultural move from football to music mode, as I sought to square the social circle whirl with trips to both the narc Fest in the Ouseburn area and Summertyne extravaganza outside The Sage. As ever, I barely scratched the surface of either event.

While it was commendable that there was so much going on, and all of it for free, surely the narc bods must have realised that Summertyne  happens the same weekend each year and that with the Sage booked out 3 nights solid, with afternoon and evening gigs in both halls, local bands should cede to major international artists. Without being overly critical, let’s hope this sort of carry-on doesn’t happen next year.

Anyway, full time in Austria, I caught the 63 down the road to The Tanners; my least favourite Ouseburn pub, on account of it being the nearest approximation to a normal venue in this area. The Cumberland and Free Trade had folk acts, which would have been my pub and musical preferences, while The Tyne opted for blues rock (no thanks) and The Cluny for indie rock (ditto). Fair play to The Tanners; at least they’d gone for an eclectic bill of oddball acts.

When I got there, this young lad with a guitar was playing along to backing tapes that built up to a 30 minute prog rock piece that had me in mind of Steve Hillage; frankly, this wasn’t what Sid Viciou had died for. It was the sort of stuff we’d respond to as teenagers by hurtling through Handysides Arcade to chin the hippies, en route to the match circa 1978. Frankly, I felt rather like the young lad seeing the Emperor in the buff and no-one ever listening to me. However, Charles Dexter Ward (as he styled himself in homage to Lovecraft) was showered with praise by his chums when it finally stopped. Perhaps it was all part of some post-modern joke; perhaps I’m just old and intolerant.

Next up were Parastatic; my mate Dave had insisted I come see them, as they are supposedly Newcastle’s prime Krautrock outfit. Perhaps they will end up like that, but only if they slow it down considerably as the drum machine and WASP synth dominated fast numbers sounded like New Order, or even Revenge (without the bass lines), though one number that was very similar to “Hallogallo” was an absolute treat. Top of the bill were The Exes, who made my heart sing with their three minute spiky numbers that seemed so fresh and original after the backing tape dominated electronica of the previous acts. Bass, drums and guitar firing out rapid, non-nonsense numbers that reminded me of Thee Headcoats. Well done lads; hope to see you again soon.

Having headed off straight afterwards, full of real ale and music, I approached Sunday’s festivities in a more circumspect manner. I visited my mam, did her shopping then arrived at The Sage just after 4. I’d hoped to catch The Treetop Flyers, but got my times wrong; they’d just finished to be replaced by the dire MOR AOR of Grainne Duffy, the Monaghan Pat Benatar; yes that awful. Still, I took the time to schmooze while her caterwauling blues droned incessantly on and caught up with Richy, Calla and several colleagues from work, all enjoying beers as they were free from the need to get up on a Monday for five whole weeks. Summertyne is Real Ale middle age writ large, it has to be said.

At 6, the act I really wanted to see were closing the event; Slim Chance, the backing band of the late Ronnie Laine, recently reformed and keeping his music alive. As a kid I’d adored his solo singles, “How Come?” and “The Poacher,” both of which featured today. Their folksy feel was almost equidistant between The Faces and Lindisfarne, to the delight of your typical Jumpin’ Hot Club punters, attired in cheap Stetsons, washed out denim jackets, needlecord shirts, bootlace ties and desert boots. If Charles Dexter Ward had been the unacceptable face of pre punk music, this was the glorious legacy of those days. I loved it, despite the atrocious quality of elderly dancers in front of the stage.

Summertyne only does it for me intermittently, but like Shakespeare in Jesmond Dene, Narc Fest, pointless friendlies or transfer speculation, it’s part of the essential fabric of Newcastle in July; here’s to next year. I only hope Xisco is around to see it....

Epatez La Bourgeoise!!

T.S. Eliot claimed that “April is the cruellest month,” and while there may be some truth in that, there is a persuasive argument that mid July is the most noteworthy week in the calendar for red letter days, with the period 12^th to 15^th July containing successive dates of equal portent and importance.

On Thursday 12^th, renowned racehorse and helicopter owner Michael Owen, two months after he was granted a free transfer following his 3 year sojourn sat either on the bench or treatment table at Old Trafford, took to Twitter to declare that he’d not be stepping down to Championship level football to further his career and would retire rather than play at a lower level; brave words from someone who managed the grand total of 6 goals during his time with Manchester United.

Clearly this announcement of a desire to continue “playing at the highest level” was on account of two factors; firstly because the amount of unearned income he’d be able to soak up for achieving the square root of jack shit from Cardiff or Bolton wouldn’t satisfy his insatiable avarice and secondly because the upholstery on physio couches in the second tier wouldn’t be luxurious enough for him to relax on in style while poring over “The Sporting Life” each morning. No doubt some billionaire-bankrolled vanity outfit offering him unimaginable wealth and zero commitment will come in with a deal; my tip is the man who is held in contempt by the fans of every club he’s played for (Liverpool, Real Madrid, Newcastle and Man United) will accept a 2 year sinecure in Dubai, before disappearing off to count his enormous pot of gold. The man embodies everything that is wrong with modern football and I struggle to cogently express the contempt I feel for him.

However, his trifling Twitter inanities have been superseded in the public consciousness by Rio Ferdinand’s less than subtle 140 character attack on Ashley Cole, following the latter’s appearance as a defence witness in support of John Terry. To claim Ferdinand was being racist is not a standpoint I can agree with. I am uncomfortable with Ferdinand’s terminology and if it had been a white person saying the same thing, it would obviously have been racist in tenor, but Ferdinand is a black man; someone who has endured the institutional racist structures of capitalism from the day he was born. He may be a fabulously wealthy footballer, but at the end of the day, his skin pigment has marked him out for abuse and prejudice at every step of the way. To claim otherwise is to be as wide of the mark as those who state, without evidence, that Celtic are as bad as Rangers, but more of that later.

As we all know, Terry was found not guilty of racially abusing Ferdinand’s younger brother Anton. This verdict, given by a magistrate rather than a jury, as the case was not heard in a Crown Court, has been widely and roundly condemned by those with sketchy understanding of the English Common Law. Legally, what Terry did or did not do is immaterial; he has been found not guilty and, regardless of the removal of the double jeopardy concept from the judicial framework, the Crown Prosecution Service will not reopen the case as, in line with their guiding operating principles, even where a revisiting of the case would be in the public interest, as there is not a realistic chance of a conviction, the affair is at an end. Basically, in English law, the principle of innocence until proven guilty is the founding rock of the whole judicial system. Scrolling through the entire 15 page judgement handed down by Senior District Judge Howard Riddle (http://www.judiciary.gov.uk/Resources/JCO/Documents/Judgments/r-v-john-terry.pdf), who was the presiding magistrate in Terry’s case, the last sentence of all is the most relevant when debating Terry’s guilt or not; there being a doubt, the only verdict the court can record is one of not guilty. I am no lawyer, but I feel certain the prosecution brief in Terry’s case failed to do the evidence justice, rather than the Magistrate wrongfully letting off a felon. Unfortunately, if you believe in justice and the legal system, you have to believe in all of it, not just the bits that you agree with. Consequently, there is no option but to abide by this judgement, even if the temptation is to set off on a coruscating critique of bourgeois justice and the role of the legal profession in maintaining the capitalist status quo.

Basically, the prosecution failed in its duty to prove beyond all reasonable doubt that Terry was guilty of the offence of which he was charged. Of course Terry is a thoroughly dislikeable man and as much of a folk devil for the wrongs of the modern game as Owen, but being a lothario with parasitic family members with career criminal tendencies, isn’t a hanging offence. What Terry said was appalling, unacceptable and downright disgraceful; it will surely lead to the FA charging him and issuing a lengthy ban. This subsequent course of action is possible, not just because Yohan Cabaye received a 3 game ban for a “tautening of the facial muscles,” that indicated malice aforethought in a challenge during the cup tie at Brighton (yes I still have a bee in my bonnet about that game and the fallout from it), but because FA rules require far a less stringent proof of guilt than in a court of law. They can and they must throw the book at him.

The Terry verdict was announced on July 12^th, which marked the 323^rd anniversary of the Battle of the Boyne, which was an event that was often sung lustily about in The Shed, back in not just pre Abramovich but pre Matthew Harding days, when Chelsea were that little corner of West London that remained forever stuck in 17^th Century County Louth. There was a fanzine about Chelsea and their comrades in sashes, Linfield and Rangers entitled The Blues Brothers that was at great variance from my own take on Irish history. Suffice to say, seeing the scowling faces of the No Surrender zealots, it makes you wonder just how miserable they would have been if they’d lost the Battle of the Boyne. Of course the weather has been so lousy this summer; they probably struggled to get the bonfires lit on the eve of The Twelfth.

Clearly, the future of Newco was weighing heavy on the minds of Billy Boys everywhere. Despite the gerrymandering machinations of the utterly discredited SPL Chief Executive Neil Doncaster and the nonsensical, alarmist protestations of his SFA counterpart Stewart Regan, the grandsons of King William were rightfully denied not only a place in the Scottish Premier League, but also a dangerously fudged compromise of a parachuted place in Division 1. Following a 10-1-1 vote against them in the top flight, a 26-5 majority wanted them placed in Division 3, which is where they will most likely be, if talks to bring this about are successful. The clock is ticking, as their first fixture is away to Brechin a week on Saturday and the vexed issue of a 12 month transfer ban has yet to be addressed. Perhaps the most heart-warming fact of all is that finally Rangers will be given a chance to play league football in England, as they’re due at Shieldfield on August 25^th to take on Berwick Rangers. Quite what genteel Tweedmouth will make of 2,000 lairy Teddy Bears is quite another matter.

In all seriousness, the placing of Rangers in Division 3 must be applauded from every angle, which is no doubt reflected by the fact that an enormously high majority of their own fans wanted to be placed at that level, to effectively start from scratch. The fact that Scottish league clubs have looked at the sporting integrity of their competition, listened to the wishes of all supporters in Scotland and not been swayed by vague threats of a drop in revenue, as alluded to by Doncaster and Regan and then voted in such huge numbers for the bottom tier option has to be applauded. It is a bit of a shame that this vote was knocked back a day from Orangemen’s Day to Friday 13^th, but there is a pleasing logic to the horror connotations provided, especially if you’ve ever visited Ibrox.

The thing that annoys me most about The Old Firm, and as a Hibs supporter I’m used to regular maulings by both clubs, is how those outside of a Scottish context (I’m including the overwhelming majority of English fans in this) have seen the decision to put Newco in Division 3 as a kind of principled suicide pact by the Scottish league clubs. English fans see the decision only in terms of income generated and not the integrity of the competition. When this is pointed out, the nonsensical utterances that “they’re both as bad as each other” are blandly trotted out, presumably by those who think Rio Ferdinand is a racist. No, they are not; Celtic are nowhere near as bad as Rangers. The number of charges against Rangers for sectarian chanting (“The Famine Song” is both the most offensive one imaginable and the most popular among the Gers most intense fans) is simply staggering and this, combined with the illegal accounting practices that have bought them most of their honours in the last 10 years, have combined to make them uniformly despised outside of their Ibrox home. In the opinion of the rest of the Scottish game, and as a Hibee I must pay tribute to Hearts for their unbending stance on this, it is time for Rangers to atone for their wrongdoings and to come back as a proper club and as a better club, on the pitch, off the pitch and in the boardroom.

Unfortunately, there are plenty of other opportunities for the less than tolerant elements of Scottish society to spread their poison. I told of the Orange Walk query at the end of my trip to Shotts; well on Saturday 14^th, at Whitley Bay 1 Airdrie United 1 in a pre-season kickabout at Hillheads, a shadow was cast over my enjoyment by the appearance of 2 Union Jacks with SDL embroidery on them. Ironically, Newco’s arrival has helped propel Airdrie United (a club born after the liquidation of Clydebank) to Division 1. However, if Newco means Year Zero for Scottish football, then so be it. At least the Airdrie fans didn’t have a song sheet to rival the Ibrox hordes.

Talking of songs, I must have been about 12 years old when I first encountered the music of Woody Guthrie. One Saturday afternoon during the baking summer of 1976, I was listening to Alan “Fluff” Freeman’s show on Radio 1. It must have been in the summer, as during the football season I’d either have been at St. James’ Park (35p in to the Gallowgate and 40p in to the Leazes in those days) or listening to the Magpies’ usual away day capitulation on Radio Newcastle’s “Home & Away” programme presented by George Bayley, as the newly launched Metro Radio’s distracting adverts ruined the continuity of second half commentary. Anyway, in preference to Jonny Miller’s triumph at Royal Birkdale in The Open, Bjorn Borg’s debut Wimbledon success or Tony Grieg’s England suffering a 5-0 trouncing by the West Indies, I opted for some music.

At some point on that breathless, stifling afternoon Freeman played “1913 Massacre,” the tale of the deaths of 73 children in a stampede at a Christmas Party held by striking copper miners for their families in Calumet, Michigan. The murders were occasioned by scabs erroneously claiming there was a fire in Italian Hall, where the party was taking place, then locking the exit doors, causing a mass panic and deaths by suffocation, in the manner echoed by the 1989 Hillsborough Disaster.

Never before had I heard such music; plaintive, declamatory singing about a tragic incident over a simple acoustic guitar backing. I found the song immensely powerful and upsetting at the time and I still do. I last listened to it on July 14^th, Bastille Day, as this marked the 100^th Anniversary of Woody Guthrie’s birth and the bitter tears of upset and rage still flowed, not just at the tragic events, but at Guthrie’s castigation of the conditions of capitalism that gave rise to the whole situation; “see what your greed for money has done.”

Last July, Ben, Laura and I took in The Mouth of the Tyne Festival, pogoing and skanking the afternoon away to the joyous, righteous sounds of The Buzzcocks and Neville Staples. Clearly such a quality line-up on the rates could not be repeated, so this year’s festival, featuring McFly and The Wanted, was given a wide berth. I’ve not heard any reports about their performances, but I am no doubt they didn’t come together for a final encore of “This Land Is Your Land,” to commemorate Woody’s centenary, which is just as well.

One person who has a reputation for covering Woody Guthrie songs, including a highly arresting version of “Deportees,” is unapologetic Liberal Democrat voter Billy Bragg, or Baron Bridport as I like to call him, in recognition of his sterling work in helping to dismantle the last vestiges of the Welfare State. Bragg first crossed my radar in 1984, not on account of his then wishy, washy, hand wringing, soft left, reformist politics, but because of his beautiful love song, “St Swithin’s Day,” a festival which takes place on July 15^th each year. On that basis, it is a shame Bragg couldn’t have been in the North East last weekend (he was actually in America, playing a festival on the eastern shore of Chesapeake Bay)as there was a great opportunity for a double header; Sunday at Tynemouth and Saturday in Durham for The Big Meeting, where he could have shared a platform with another firebrand loony lefty (I’m joking here) Red Ed Milliband.

A fella I work with, Dan, comes from the former Durham mining community of Hetton. He’s a good lad Dan; a lifelong black and whiter from the Mackem heartlands who plays in top quality new folk octet Dennis (I’ll return to them in the future where their EP is released and they’ve gigs to play), who include a brass section from the Hetton Colliery Band. Despite being a strong advocate of his local community and its traditions (his grandfather worked underground), Dan doesn’t take in The Big Meeting any more, on account of the fact that politics and comradeship have been replaced by crass, day long boozing and trivial local disputes that turn, with depressing frequency, in to alcohol fuelled brawls. Rather like the situation regarding some misinterpretations about the Old Firm rivalry, simple lies replace complicated truths and the spirit and philosophy of Gramsci is again the guiding principle to understand anti social behaviour. Pisshead pit yakkas having a collective false unconsciousness…

Sadly, we live in troubled times where the hegemony of reaction and repression is reinforced and redoubled at our every step. Mes amis, il est maintenant temps pour nous de épater la bourgeoise.