Up For A Bit....

 

There are many things I’ve stated with tedious regularity over the years, but two of my most frequent mantras are that the finest and most uplifting music in the world has its roots in the post C86 era Glaswegian jangle pop and that my trips to see Scottish Junior games each summer are the best possible ways to end a long hard season of football watching. The opportunity to combine seeing The Pastels hometown showcase, following the release of their superb new album Slow Summits, at the Centre for Contemporary Arts on Sauciehall Street (especially after my heart-breaking failure to see Lightships there in May 2012) with a 90 minute free for all of swearing, threatening behaviour and problem drinking, on the terraces and touchline, was one that could not be missed. While The Pastels gig had been announced months earlier, with me purchasing my ticket on March 9^th, having received assent from Mick in Paisley that there would always be a corner of Renfrewshire for me to crash in, the actual game I’d be attending remained something of a mystery until the last week of May.

The West Region of the Scottish Junior Football Association has an informative and easily navigable website (http://www.scottishfa.co.uk/sjfa/scottish_football.cfm?page=1793) that stands in complete contrast to the skeletal cyber offerings of the East and North (there isn’t a South region). The West Region site will tell you all about the myriad divisions, leagues, league cups, sectional cups and regional cups that the 63 member clubs compete in. However forward planning is hard as fixtures are often only released about a week in advance and are subject to last minute change; apocryphally, in pre computer days, club secretaries would be stood by their letterboxes on Tuesday mornings awaiting the arrival of the official documentation that told them of their weekly fixture, though things have moved on since then admittedly. However there’s still no explanation why the West Region kicks off at 2pm or the East Region half an hour later though; Mick informed me that pre-season friendlies between clubs from different regions involve a compromised 2.15 kick off. The eccentricities are what I love best about Scottish Junior football.

In the past, I’ve visited Pollok (1-2 v Arthurlie in February 2003 after a Teenage Fanclub gig at the Barras ), Benburb (5-1 v Royal Albert in September 2006 after a Teenage Fanclub gig at the Barras), Petershill (1-2 v Cumbernauld in a friendly in July 2007), Bathgate twice (6-2 v Forfar West End in May 2009 and for the East of Scotland Cup final that ended up Linlithgow Rose 2 Musselburgh Athletic 1 in June 2010), Arthurlie (4-3 penalty win after a 2-2 draw in the Evening Times Cup semi-final v Irvine Meadow XI in June 2011) and Shotts (5-3 win over Girvan in June 2012). Other than the second trip to Bathgate, Mick had been my companion and guide at all of those, but I felt confident enough to strike out on my own this time. As Mick was reporting for The Sunday Mail on Glenafton Athletic v Glasgow Perthshire in the West of Scotland Cup final at Pollok, I decided to visit somewhere new; specifically, the romantically named Gasworks Park, home of Larkhall Thistle for their Central First Division promotion decider home game with Port Glasgow Juniors.

I’d heard quite a lot about Larkhall; none of it good. Mick had told me that “Scotland’s most bigoted town” (according to The Daily Record) makes “the Shankhill seem like the Vatican.” As June 1^st marks the start of the official marching season, the place would be decked out in red, white and blue bunting, which is why I was informed that under no circumstances was I to wear anything green (Subway have ditched their livery for their outlet in the town, though ASDA stuck to their guns, even if Tesco and presumably Sainsbury’s enjoy more favour with the locals), or tell anyone I’d been to the Hibs v Celtic cup final the week before. Or, presumably, tell anyone my surname….  However, as well as football and flute bands, Larkhall has ghostly goings-on to recommend it, as the local tourist (don’t laugh) information leaflet tells -:

The black lady of Larkhall was the wife of Captain McNeil, then owner of Broomhill House. She was brought to Larkhall by Captain McNeil after one of his many seafaring voyages. She was happy with her new life but her ignorance of Scottish customs made her a social outcast. The Captain forbade her to leave Broomhill House during the day.

Soon she was not seen at night either and the Captain claimed she had disappeared, but locals were suspicious. She soon returned, as her ghostly form appeared in the windows of Broomhill House and then later in Morgan Glen. It is not known if she ever got her revenge on the Captain but he did die prematurely.

When Broomhill House fell into disrepair the five hundredweight door lintel was moved to The Applebank Public House by five men. The next day it was found lying across the road from the public house.

In the 1960s a team from the "Tonight" programme visited Larkhall as they tried to perform the first televised exorcism. The cameras were frozen over in fine weather and after filming finished the director was killed in a road crash on his way to another location. He was found with a fence post impaled in his heart.

Heading up on the 9.35 from Central, I remembered the worst thing about travelling on Saturdays in summer; the preponderance of EDL and related fascist boneheads on the trains, travelling hither and thither to drink Carling and cause mayhem in the streets of pleasant, unsuspecting towns the length and breadth of both sides of the border. However, having walked down the Corridor of Hate, as Pink Lane will forever onwards be known, past the site of vile, prejudiced, Francophobic hatred, as well as EDL sympathising bars Rafferty’s and Gotham Town, I was aware that intolerance is amongst us, every step of the way. Noting a few random groundhoppers on the platform, I buried my head in to the latest YPSM to help me sleep until Waverley, chortling at references to late winners against Swansea (they did the double over us last season), the fact the 1897 Cup Final took place at Wembley (26 years before it was built) and the inability to tell the difference between Paul Dummet and Connor Newton, as well as grimacing at the endless screeds of abuse directed at Anita and Cabaye.

The journey up was a breeze; early in to Waverley, allowing me ample time to catch my connection and to ignore the dozen or so ideologically confused Scottish Defence League yahoos waving England and Ulster flags (what the hell is that about?) as part of an apparent tribute to Drummer Rigby that was about to take place at Holyrood House. Arriving at Queen Street at noon, I didn’t immediately feel as much at home as I had the previous week in the company of 25k Hibees; instead the usual weekend shoppers were augmented by some serious looking cases in British & Proud t-shirts. I had a fancy they may be ready for their walking season, rather than being an integral part of the Tommy Sheridan endorsed Anti Bedroom Tax march that hadn’t received Police assent that day. Clearly, it would be childish to point out that bedrooms are very close to Tommy’s heart or that the intense looking No Surrender chaps may have been “contacts” for the CWI, or indeed however one understands the complexities of the word “contact.” I’m joking…

Arriving at Central, my plans fell to pieces as a catastrophic signalling failure on the lower level services meant that there were no trains to Larkhall, or to the other games in the West Region at Thorniewood or Lesmahagow. At this point I didn’t even think about a trip back to the East Region, partly because I’d not internalised the fixtures that had been available at http://www.ultrasoft.hostinguk.com/Arniston2/Pink.asp#Current_league_tables_and_this_weeks_results and partly because I knew my failsafe position was a return to Pollok and the West of Scotland Cup final. A revisit wasn’t ideal, but as I’d only missed one Saturday since July 7^th last year, it kept up my record.

To get to Pollok, one heads south from Central on the Cathcart loop local train, alighting at Pollokshaws East station. Don’t get off at Pollokshields East station, because that’s miles away and you’ll need to get a taxi to get to the ground to make it in time for kick off, which will set you back an extra £6, or so I’ve been lead to believe. Anyway, I soon found myself outside the main entrance waiting for Mick with plenty of time to spare, courtesy of the rather lovely taxi driver who assumed I was part of Pollok’s fan base and relentlessly questioned me about the squad and crowds, despite my insistence that I’d only ever been here once before in my life and really should have been sashing it up down in Lanarkshire.

Like every Scottish Junior club I’ve visited, Pollok gave me a tremendous welcome, to the extent of assuming I was a gentleman of the Fourth Estate and allowing me in for free, along with Mick and his mate Chris, who also lives in Paisley, also writes match reports for newspapers and also supports Ashington, even if he comes from Newbiggin. In the clubhouse, I gulped down the obligatory stewed, builder’s tea and made notes about the teams in my programme, even if I hadn’t a clue who was playing (teams not just personnel) and intended to produce a very different written account of the day than Mick and Chris did. Frankly I was as much out of place here as YPSM were at Darsley Park on their work experience trip the other year.

The game was between Glenafton Athletic from Ayrshire, who’d finished fourth in the West Region Super League Premier Division (the top flight) and Glasgow Perthshire from Possilpark in the city, who’d been related from the Super League First Division (second flight) to the regional West First Division (equal third flight) the week before. Not only were Shire the underdogs, they wore black and white stripes, so I had to support them, especially as I found out they’d already been knocked out the competition in Round 3, 1-0 away to Saltcoats, who’d then been thrown out for playing an unregistered player.

 

 

Frankly, the first half was as bad a game as I’d seen all season; in alternating driving rain and blinding sun, neither side managed a serious effort on target and my attention was drawn to the profoundly terrible language of a 70 year old granny in front of us, who was dandling her grandbairn while simultaneously abusing the referee in the most profane way imaginable. As well as the serious drinking going on all around on the terraces, I was becoming distinctly light headed as a bloke a few rows back kept up a constant series of tokes on his hash pipe; he wasn’t the only one partaking, as the whole enclosure boasted a pervasive, cloying aroma of skunk. The viscous, Bovril-flavoured coffee I swallowed at half time back in the clubhouse was accompanied by a couple of chocolate biscuits for some reason…

The second period was as superb as the first had been dire; fast paced, end to end, football on the deck broke out as both sides probed and harried at top speed. Glens took the lead when a rebound from a shot off the post was tucked home. Shire came again and equalised when a cross from the left was nodded in by a confused defender, before Stuart Brodie put the Shire in the lead with a thumping volley from the edge of the area. Not having won the trophy since 1940, the Possilpark outfit came so close until a melee in the area resulted in a late, desperate toe punt in to the top corner after 87 minutes. With no extra time and the game straight to penalties, both sides tried for a winner, but in vain. In the shootout, the higher division side held their nerve and prevailed 4-3, with each keeper making a save before a Shire player hit the underside of the bar with his decisive effort. Cue a mass pitch invasion by 200 Tennents fuelled Ayrshire neds, while the Shire lot picked up the remains of their carry-out and headed off, swearing.

 

 

Mick and I hung around the clubhouse for an hour or so, drinking more viscous coffee and nibbling on complimentary Scotch pies, listening to the Jimmy Cagney lookalike sponsor in his white tuxedo promise to continue sponsoring the tournament next season, before Mick headed home with my luggage and I took the train, from the correct station this time, back to Central and then up to Sauciehall Street to begin the evening’s entertainment.

If I had to list exactly what I love about Teenage Fanclub and the musical and social world they inhabit, such is the wonderful, supportive nature of the environment the band and followers have created then I would probably place the actual songs a  fair bit down the list of greatness. The followers of Teenage Fanclub provided me with an incredibly supportive network of friendship and compassion during my dad’s illness and death 4 years ago; the turnout of people to the Motherwell gig in August 2009 and the help they provided me with can never be forgotten. Similarly, the December 2010 gig at Glasgow ABC and the charity bash in honour of our late friend Tom O’Grady the night before was one of those occasions that can never be forgotten. Consequently, seeing my mates Terje from Norway and Ruthie from Buckinghamshire and having a group hug in the lobby of their hotel on West Nile Street was the most natural thing in the world.

We walked up to the CCA, meeting old (as in long term) pals Macca, Barry, Del and many others in the bar of this fantastic little venue. Smiles, pints, handshakes, hugs; it’s why music is the most joyous force for good on this earth. The only problem was that the CCA is a small venue and several members of our community hadn’t managed to get tickets; they were missed and we will see them all again in the future, hopefully in Glasgow as I can’t think of a better place in the world to see a live band, honestly.

At around 8.30 the doors opened and we trooped up the internal metal staircase and queued to get in; all so good natured and fun. The support were The Wake, who I’d last seen in March 1982 opening for New Order at Newcastle Mayfair and, from the few songs I caught, they appeared to have the Power, Corruption & Lies era sound off to a T. Perhaps I’m being unfair, but I was so excited to see The Pastels for the first time in more than 2 decades; I’ll need to consult my Riverside printout to see exactly when it was.

They’d not released an actual full album since 1997’s Illumination, so to say this year’s Slow Summits was warmly welcomed would be an understatement. Their last release was Two Sunsets with Japan’s Tenniscoats in 2009, which I missed out on as it came out just round the time of my dad’s death, but to make up I used Tenniscoats’s two other albums, Ending Theme and Tan Tan Therapy as my train soundtrack on the way up; a pair of gloriously off-kilter, charming formal pop records they are too. Thanks to Bill for burning them for me; they are a band I will certainly keep my ears open for in future.

 

 

In the six months since it was announced, the anticipation for Slow Summits has reached a fervour that was justified by the glorious, lovable single Check My Heart that was as scrumptious a slice of juicy pop pie as could be imagined; it was like they’d never been away. The rest of the album is stunning as well, featuring not only happy pop, but introspective instrumentals, such as the soaring title track, as well as a thumping slab of guitars on the coda to the otherwise gentle Summer Rain; endings are really big on Slow Summits and it is vying with British Sea Power for the accolade of my album of the year (thus far), which is a pretty big compliment. Live, they did the whole thing justice, from the opening moments of the even more essential title track, that builds to such a persuasive climax, to the last seconds of final encore Nothing to be Done, which saw Aggi reunited with the band for a glorious few moments.

My highlights were Secret Music that opens the album and, unsurprisingly, a driving, impassioned, electric Baby Honey that gets better every time I heard it; it would be churlish to complain that Speeding Motorcycle and Truck, Train, Tractor didn’t make the set list. However, I don’t give up hope, as they’ve announced a gig in Preston on Friday 26^th July that I may just make the effort to go and see. By then, the Pastels may have told us who exactly performed all the 21 tracks on their mix CD Insane Energy Drop that accompanied Slow Summits, acting as a soundtrack to their inspiration. As you’d imagine it is filled with classic pop, soaring harmonies, fuzzy guitar and much gentle eccentricity; shame I’ve only recognised Flashback Caruso by Faust, Please Stay by Teenage Fanclub, If I Could Write Poetry by the Television Personalities and Three Acre Floor by Swell Maps so far…

 

 

After the gig came my only true moment of sadness of the whole weekend when I wasn’t able to say goodbye to everyone as we needed to get back to The Bull in Paisley to complete my trip in to intoxication, but I suppose it was made up for by Norman Blake, the man who wrote Everything Flows, asking me how I’d enjoyed the game that afternoon; that is why I love Teenage Fanclub, because they care and they value us as fans and people. The Pastels gig and the West of Scotland final, even if I was too hungover on the Sunday to even attempt revisitinbg Livington for Auchinleck Talbot’s 1-0 win over Linlithgow Rose in the Junio Cup final, watxhing it back home on BBC alba instead, are why I love Scottish music and Scottish football.

Isn’t it lucky that Saturday 8^th June includes Kello Rovers versus Yoker in the West Superleague First Division and Camera Obscura at night?

My Heart is Broken....

Let’s go back in time; just over 40 years, to the Christmas and New Year period of 1972 and 1973. I was 8 years of age and in the first real grip of my lifelong obsession with football. My actual first football memory was watching my dad leap off the sofa to applaud Charlie George’s winning goal in the 1971 FA Cup final, but I didn’t actually understand what the FA Cup was, or who was the long haired bloke lying on the grass, being cuddled by a load of other blokes in yellow shirts. However by the year after, I had much more of an understanding of how football was actually more than just 50 lads kicking a penny floater around the school yard at break time; perhaps the game that brought the significance of football home to me was Hereford United 2 Newcastle United 1. Aged 7, I became acutely aware of NUFC’s propensity for abject humiliation on the national stage. Still, at least this game has disappeared into the ether and no-one is likely to resurrect footage of that particular debacle any time soon…

Consequently, with Newcastle United having helpfully stepped aside, the 1972 FA Cup final was a contest between holders Arsenal and the hated Leeds United, who were in search of a potential double. At the time, electrical goods were rare and expensive commodities; I can distinctly remember bringing a couple of friends home from school in the autumn of 1971 to show them our new fridge, with my mam producing the amazing treat of an ice pop each from the tiny freezer component that contractually was required to only ever include a bag of frozen peas. Bird’s Eye, of course. While we were able to keep milk and meat fresh in high summer, we still only had a black and white television, showing only 2 channels; it was a real style icon on legs, with a walnut cabinet and lockable screen door, though my friend from down the street Paul “Sten” Stonehouse’s family had a DER colour one and that’s where I watched the final.

Sten wasn’t actually a football fan; on Saturday afternoons he’d take advantage of his 3 channel luxury by flicking over from World of Sport to watch Brian Cant’s Playaway, which was a kind of prog rock concept album version of kids’ TV; longer, weirder and much more self-indulgent than the prosaic and patronising weekday Play School. However Sten’s older brother Perry (incidentally I’ve never met anyone else in my life named after the Singing Barber, Mr. Como) was a proper football fan and, so he claimed, a leading light in the Leazes End Agro Boys, which was doubtful as he was about 12 at the time. However, he did go to St. James’ Park with his mates, woollen scarf round his neck, silk ones round his wrist, in a Wrangler jacket and pin stripe Oxford bags, which made me idolise him as I’d yet to see a real live game. To this day, I envy his fashion sense.

Back in those days, BBC used to also show little snippets of action from the Scottish Cup final at half time and full time. At that age, I struggled to concentrate on a full game and the first half stalemate at Wembley wasn’t particularly conducive to keeping my childish mind focussed on the match. However, the half time highlights from Hampden did. Try as I might, I simply couldn’t find any footage of the 1972 Scottish Cup final on line, so I’ve no idea if this is actually fact, or whether my memory is playing tricks from 41 years ago. You see, May 6^th 1972 marked the day I fell in love with Hibernian FC; one glimpse of that breathtakingly beautiful emerald green shirt with white sleeves and I was smitten; any interest I had in the English final, eventually won by Leeds 1-0 with an Allan Clarke diving header, was gone; I wanted to see more footage of the game at Hampden. For no reason whatsoever (historical and familial ties ought to have made me a supporter of FC Paranoid of Parkhead), I became a Hibs fan, on the day we lost 6-1 in the cup final to Celtic. It makes 2013’s loss seem mild in comparison. Please don’t disabuse my fond, romantic notion by telling me Hibs didn’t play in green that day…

From the start of the 1972/1973 season, I was functionally literate because of the classical education I was in receipt of at Falla Park Juniors, courtesy of class 4 teacher Miss Gartlan, who’d a ‘tache Salvador Dali would have been jealous of. As a result, I did the kind of homework she suggested, by avidly reading each night, even if it was merely every inch of my dad’s Evening Chronicle sports section, rather than the Bancroft Children’s Classics editions of Jane Eyre and Silas Marner she palmed off on me. On a Sunday, my widowed Nan on my mam’s side used to visit us for Sunday lunch. The plates were cleared away by 2pm, which was when Tyne Tees used to show Shoot!, their weekly regional football highlights package, that lagged far behind The Big Match in terms of glamour. While Dad and I watched the football, Nan would read her paper of choice; The Sunday Post. I’ve no idea why she used to opt for Dundee’s version of Völkischer Beobachter, but I’m glad she did as it meant I could read Scottish match reports, once she’d settled down for her snooze in mid-afternoon.

By now, I was 8 years old and a fully-fledged football obsessive, regularly pestering my dad to take me to see a live game, which he finally agreed to do on 25^th November 1972, when Leicester City were the visitors to St. James’ Park. Imagine my desolation when the game was postponed on the Thursday, because the Filbert Street outfit had been struck down by a flu epidemic. Dad’s promise to take me to another game soon just didn’t suffice; I was heartbroken. I was even more bereft when the next Newcastle home game came around; Southampton were the visitors on 9^th December, but Dad and Mam were going out to some posh Christmas do that night, so he claimed he couldn’t spare the time to take me, making me feel absolutely worthless, as I hunkered over an old transistor, listening to updates on Radio Newcastle. The fact it was freezing outside and ended in a 0-0 draw in no way placated me…

Nan came to babysit me and my 2 year old sister that night, while Mam and Dad went off for chicken in a basket and 50/50 dancing, whatever that was. This was a very rare occurrence and I exploited it wickedly. At that time, my bed time was still around 9pm, about the time Cannon was starting on BBC. Obviously Nan wasn’t to know this and, having checked the telly listings, I knew the following programme was Match of the Day at 10.15; I managed to persuade her, easily enough as I’m a born liar, that I was allowed to stay up to watch this every week because it wasn’t a school night.

The great thing about MotD back then was that they always used to end the programme with very brief highlights taken from Sportscene. Obviously in 1972 there was no way of knowing the results unless you’d either memorised them at tea time, or bought a Saturday evening football special, The Pink, as the Tyneside version was called, but Dad hadn’t bothered to get one, probably as he was going out and a 0-0 draw wouldn’t be the most riveting read. Therefore, it was an utter shock when MotD ended with footage from Hampden of the League Cup final. We won 2-1, gaining revenge on Celtic for May’s humiliation. Obviously I wasn’t old enough to understand the historical significance of this result, but it made me a happy Hibby as I crawled in to bed at the incredibly late hour of 11pm, about half an hour before a bladdered mam and dad waltzed in, having taken a taxi (a taxi mind you…) home from their glamorous social event.

Frankly, to say my parents were “disappointed” in my deceit the night before was an understatement, once Nan told them how late I’d stayed up, but the emotional frost melted in time for Santa to come and the promise of a trip to see Newcastle was part of my Christmas box. For reasons I’m unsure of, I didn’t get to see 2-1 wins against Manchester City on December 23^rd or 4-1 versus Sheffield United the week after. 

Instead, my first trip to St. James’ Park was for the rearranged Leicester City game on Monday 1^st January 1973, a very auspicious date I’m sure you’ll agree, which was also the last time New Year’s Day wasn’t a Public Holiday in England, though it was a regional one in the North East.  In fact Newcastle United 2 Leicester City 2, a game of which I have no memory whatsoever other than the fact we (me, dad, my cousin John and his dad my Uncle John) were in the Gallowgate Strawberry Corner, was the only fixture played in the English top division that day. As a result, there was neither a Pink to keep as a memento, nor Match of the Day to watch the highlights on that night. However, there was the report in the next day’s Evening Chronicle, alongside an in-depth feature on a certain game that had taken place in Tynecastle, which made me almost faint with joy; not at the opponents, just at the score. You see, as sunderland were in a lower division to Newcastle from 1970 until 1976, my formative football years were spent without the concept of a local rival. Thankfully, I’ve made up for this in terms of contemptuous enmity since, but that’s another matter. Amazingly though, I’ve no memory of a friendly between Newcastle and Hibs that took place at St. James Park on 9^th October 1976, where Newcastle won 2-1; no memory of this at all…

So, you’ll be expecting me to tell you, now I’ve established the context of my support for Hibs, of how I finally consummated my passion with a trip to Easter Road, in the company of dozens of other Newcastle based Hibs fans. Sadly, that wasn’t the case; for a start, most people in these parts who express a preference for an Edinburgh team tend to take Hearts, mainly on account of the name Tynecastle, which is about as logical as me falling in love with the shirt. Consequently, my love affair for the Hibees was a long-distance one for the next quarter of a century; NUFC, music, geography (university in Ireland and postgrad in Leeds, employment in London and Slovakia), family and finance all got in the way. Shamefully, I didn’t make it to Easter Road until February 1^st 1997, for an atrocious, abject 1-1 draw with Raith Rovers, in the company of my mate Mick from Ashington, who was a Hibs supporter. The important thing for me that day was my immediate sense that this was home. This was my club, by adoption not birth admittedly, and I sang and cheered through the first half until I sobered up, then yawned and grumbled my way through the second; just like everyone around me on the East Terrace.

My next two Hibs games were happier affairs; accompanying Mick to the 4-2 play-off victory over Airdrie at Broadwood was a glorious occasion and a solo trip to the 2-1 victory over Celtic in the opening game of the next season a brilliant and unexpected pleasure, which ended up as a false dawn as we were relegated. At this time, Mick moved from Ashington to Scotland; firstly to Cowdenbeath and then to Paisley, where he remains to this day. Instead of cementing his passion for Hibs with regular visits, he opted to follow the Blue Brazil when in Fife and he’s now both a connoisseur and a passionate devotee of the junior game, with a soft spot for St Mirren. At his instistence, I’ve seen many junior games and find it a fascinating side of Scottish society, but I remain a fan of Hibs.  

In 2002/2003, I saw 2 fixtures at Easter Road; a 1-1 draw on 15^th February in my only ever Edinburgh Derby (we should have won) and on 24^th May, when I brought my son, then aged 7, to the last game of the season, in the hope of passing on the Hibernian supporting baton in NE7. We lost 3-2 to Partick and he’s not been back, but I’m sure he will return. Eventually…

By profession I’m a college lecturer, with English Literature my specialist subject. Involving Hibernian in the curriculum is fairly easy, especially with the works of Irvine Welsh to exploit. As I was teaching Trainspotting as part of a unit dedicated to literary representations of capital cities, it seemed logical to organise a field trip, which is what I did in December 2005. Having taken the students on organised Trainspotting tour of Leith, with a guide and everything, we finished off with a visit to Easter Road, where Derek Riordan’s last minute goal gloriously defeated Motherwell 2-1, in what could have been my second last day on earth. The next afternoon, driving back from my parents’ house, I was rear ended by a Tesco 18 wheeler on the A1 going north; “you should have died you know,” were the words the paramedic who stitched my scalp back together at the side of the road said to me. The reason we didn’t was an instinctive comment to my son as we were about to pull away; “sit behind your mam please.” If I’d not said that, I wouldn’t be here to write this; more importantly, neither would he… Still, within 6 weeks we were all right as rain and, despite the car being a write-off, I still managed to retrieve the 3 copies of Saturday 17^th December’s Pink, which was the last ever edition, that told of Michael Owen’s hat trick in a 4-2 win for Newcastle at West Ham, but mentioned nothing of the events at Easter Road.

Astonishingly, and embarrassingly, that was my last visit to see Hibs. There was the aborted trip on 11^th August 2007, my birthday, to see the Gretna game we won 4-2, so I’ve not had the chance to see NUFC and Hibs legends Alan O’Brien and Shefki Kuqi at Easter Road, but the less said of them the better. In my defence for my non-attendance, the fact I play veterans football on Saturday morning and I’m involved with Percy Main Amateurs, as well as still seeing about half of Newcastle’s home games, means I struggle to find an opportunity to come up. However, courtesy of the very wonderful Graham Ewing, editor of Mass Hibsteria, an opportunity presented itself once the English season ended on 25^th May with Gosforth Bohemians Reserves defeating Winlaton Queen’s Head 4-0 in the John Hampson Memorial Trophy at Purvis Park, to get to the final. Despite the result, I’ll be eternally grateful to him. I must say, I felt somewhat guilty that that I would be going, while proper Hibs fans like Bruce in Oxfordshire or Declan from Galway were forced to miss out, but I couldn’t turn down this opportunity, could I?

When it comes to football, there is no option but to adopt a Manichean approach to games involving your team; we are right and they are wrong is simply a fact of sporting life. Elsewhere in life, such an approach may not always be helpful, but when it comes to the racist scum of the BNP and their fellow travellers in suits, UKIP or their street brawling wing the EDL, absolutism is the only way forward. Following the murder of a British soldier in Woolwich, the already planned EDL march in Newcastle took on a much more sinister tone; the Islamophobic racist bastards behind the EDL would use events to influence the foolish, the ignorant and the easily led into supporting the boorish, Carling swilling Stuart Hazell lookalikes that make up the EDL’s Sturmabteilung as they brought disgrace to the streets of my home city. Thankfully an umbrella demonstration, hastily but intelligently organised by Newcastle Unites showed that our city does not embrace racist rhetoric as a political credo. Without wishing to display my eidetic memory, this was shown in 2010, the last time the EDL marched here and ambivalent attitudes, seeking to compare EDL hate speak with the supposed events in Dublin over Easter of 2006, when all NUFC supporting eyes were actually on a certain 4-1 victory when even Luque scored, are simply not credible. Support your team and fight fascism; end of story.

While the massed ranks of Northumbria Police, and we all know where that organisation’s ideological sympathies lie, ensured the two sides did not lay a glove on each other, it is instructive to remember that certain pubs encouraged the fascists to drink in them. Pink Lane appeared to be a haven for moronic filth; both Gotham Town and Rafferty’s, which are at either side of The Forth, coincidentally where some of the most vile abuse imaginable has been spoken about former NUFC striker Nile Ranger and many of the club’s current French stars, in particular Yohan Cabaye and Yoan Gouffran, encouraged EDL supporters to drink in these establishments before the march. As far as I’m concerned, this is the point de repère for me; there can be no possible justification in setting foot in these bars ever again. I’ll still use the Town Wall though.

In contrast to the hatred and bigotry displayed by the EDL on Saturday, the support for Hibernian on Sunday was as life-affirming and touching as I have ever seen in a football ground; the massed ranks of Hibees stood gloriously, defiantly belting out a ceaseless chorus of pro Hibs anthems during the last 10 minutes, at 3-0 down, was the very epitome of what it means to follow a team; I am beyond grateful I was present at such an event. I hate to say this, but if it had been Newcastle United, a sizeable zany element would have been waving their shoes over their heads and telling Celtic your support is fucking shit. While there was an admittedly pissed and idiotic Ned element among the Hibs support, thankfully they were few in number and seemed to piss off at half time. The only other people I saw leaving were four Celtic fans who’d secured tickets in our end and were invited to leave this part after celebrating the second goal. Pricks.

The day began on an empty train from Newcastle to Waverley, then a packed one to Queen Street. As I’m heading up to Glasgow next weekend (Larkhall Thistle v Port Glasgow in the Juniors, followed by The Pastels at CCA), I didn’t dawdle as I made my way to Central for a completely deserted special to Mount Florida. Not having been to Hampden before, except to the museum with Mick, I wanted to get there early and soak up the atmosphere. The gates weren’t even open, so I took a stroll around the Tesco Family Fun Day, which was every bit as grim as the name suggests, in Lesser Hampden, mainly so I could use the toilets. These were a unisex Portakabin, also equipped with 5 showers; is it too cheap a gag to ask why they’ve got those in Glasgow? When I finally got to have a tinkle, a plastered, middle-aged Celtic fan in the next cubicle was dropping his load, noisily and fetidly, while slurring the words to Kevin Barry; they’re such a classy outfit, aren’t they?

At 2.00, the turnstiles opened and I went in the ground for a coffee and a Hampden pie, steak not Scotch though. My seat gave me a splendid view of the pitch and I was very impressed with Hampden. Even more impressive was the mass singing of Sunshine on Leith before kick-off; the mass dabbling of moist eyes immediately afterwards showed just what this final meant, especially after the previous year’s humiliation. As for the game itself; well if Doyle had taken that early chance, and he really should have, things could have been different. As it was, Williams was desperate on the first goal (how on earth did he miss that cross?) and we were up against it. The second goal was the killer and despite the fact we played neat, controlled football on the ground, in contrast to the ugly, route one anti-football game plan that Celtic relentlessly relied on, we were unthreatening. I do feel the third goal was unfair on us and that Hibs did enough to deserve a consolation goal, but it wasn’t to be.

Come full time, a few defiant chants, a massive round of applause to the players and, I have to say, an expression of gratitude to Fenlon (Bohs are my Irish team) and O’Brien (a certain free kick he scored at Joker Park in October 1992 will always be the best goal of all time), then I was away for the train before the cup was presented. I got the 17.07 from Mount Florida, the 17.34 from Queen Street and my first pint, of several, in The Guildford at 18.50, in the company of several NUFC fans I recognised who’d been at the game, supporting Hibs. How come I’d never known this before?

A good drink, an enjoyable train journey home, a few late drinks at home to a musical accompaniment and I almost felt like I’d recovered. Still, my dismal record remains of seeing my teams in 3 cup finals, losing them all and not scoring a goal. However, I remain a proud supporter of Hibernian and I’m determined to be up for the Europa League qualifiers in July.

GGTTH!!

Partly Political "Broadcast"

My union is UCU; our Annual Congress begins today in Brighton. Unfortunately, I'm unable to attend. However I have written a piece for UCU Independent Broad Left's organ "Broadcast," which will be issued at Congress today. Here's hoping the delegates who read my words agree with my sentiments and help save our union -:

May 11^th 2013 was the first Saturday since August 4^th last year when I didn’t watch an amateur football match somewhere in North East England. As there were 30 or so games to choose from that day, my non-attendance was purely voluntary and not an indication of the arrival of summer or some other alien meteorological phenomenon. Consequently, I needed a compelling reason to do something else with my weekend; I am utterly convinced I had one and made the correct decision, as I was with 20 other likeminded souls at the inaugural planning and organisational meeting of UCU IBL at Manchester Metropolitan University, which came together after a serious amount of thinking and hard work by committed UCU activists. However, the cogent and informed debate in that room on that day was only the first step on a long march to recovery in our union; a march that UCU IBL is well prepared for.

Without wishing to put too fine a point on it, it is my belief that the success of UCU IBL, together with the good will and support of non-aligned colleagues in all sectors of our union, in winning the debate about our union’s future, is essential if we are to have any realistic chance of maintaining the integrity and indeed the very existence of UCU in any meaningful capacity. Vacuous sloganeering and inflexible political posturing are the very things our members must not have imposed on them.  

In UCU IBL we are independent of party or cadre affiliation and from a Left Wing perspective; we take a broad and pragmatic view of the needs of ordinary members. Above all, UCU IBL takes a principled stance on the issues that matter to our members; we seek to defend jobs, to maintain contracts, to campaign on these issues and against pernicious casualization and the disgrace of educational privatisation. However, we are aware that if UCU is to be rescued, tough decisions must be made. UCU IBL is aware of this, but we are flexible and prepared to listen; other cadres may not be so open minded, which is dangerous.

Unfortunately, family commitments mean it is impossible for me to travel from Tyneside to Brighton for Congress, so I am unable to practically support and enact the passionate resolve displayed in Manchester on May 11^th. Instead, I beg those of you who attend Congress as delegates, whether from FE or HE, whether you are politically active or not, to avoid adopting resolutions that will effectively rush the entire union, under the influence of a pack of zealous ultra-leftist lemmings, headlong over the cliffs of dogma to be dashed on the rocks of financial ruin below.

Please, I urge you, safeguard the future of our union; support UCU IBL.

Lions led by Donkeys

In my opinion, the best of the 3 current Newcastle United fanzines is "toon talk," with the historical / irreverent "Black & White Daft" second and "The Mag" trailing in last place. The only think I don't like about "toon talk" is the name; that's no problem as next season it's being renamed "Number 9," which was the name of editor Steve Wraith's first fanzine back in the early 90s. Here's the piece I had published in issue #12, which I wrote the evening after the Mackem debacle....

When Percy Main Amateurs crashed 5-1 at home to Blyth Town on Saturday 13^th April 2013, I thought my weekend couldn’t get any worse; how wrong I was. Having passed on my season ticket to my son, I wasn’t present at St. James’ Park to see the Mackems’ biggest win over us since 24^th February 1979, which was so long ago; it was back in the days before Margaret Thatcher became Prime Minister. Just like the post-match pagger on 14^th April, there was a huge kick off that day as well, in the shape of the infamous Battle of Bath Lane. I wasn’t involved; being a Felling lad, I headed grumpily down to Worswick Street for my bus and promptly fainted for the one and only time in my life on the 60 somewhere on Split Crow Road. It turned out I had contracted glandular fever, which pretty much incapacitated me for the rest of that term (I was 14 at the time) and meant I missed our 5-3 thumping of Charlton the week after; unfortunately, despite a bit of a sore throat from screaming in frustration at the radio as I alphabetised 250 non-league football programmes in Percy Main’s clubhouse as an attempted distraction, I have no medical condition to insulate me from the harm this latest game has done to my wellbeing. Instead, I took my frustration out on my bike, by spending the aftermath of the game cycling aimlessly around the coast, trying to get a sense of perspective on the car crash week that seemed to have put the tin hat on a car crash season.

By the time I’d arrived back in Tynemouth around 5, things were falling in to place in my mind; even if the very drunk, very angry, well dressed middle aged people who were congregating outside the bars on Front Street were struggling to process the enormity of what had just occurred, if the large amount of pissed balding, blokes in tight fitting grey shirts or yellow polos, shouting profanities in to mobiles was anything to go by. Basically, losing to the Mackems was both a humiliation and an embarrassment, both on and off the pitch; the sobering facts are they were better in every position, wanted the win far more and scored three blinding strikes, while our team offered nothing other than Cisse’s endeavour and off the pitch, our lot handled defeat in a manner similar to the way a poorly toddler with colic handles insomnia. My mantra has always been: gracious in victory, dignified in defeat; there wasn’t much sign of the latter when some brainless, replica shirted prick, who’ll probably never blow less than a half century of candles out on his birthday cake again, thought the best way to respond to defeat to one’s local rivals is to punch a horse. Conduct like that is just not on; if you can’t cope with defeat, then don’t follow football. In the 40 years I’ve been going to Newcastle United, the only thing we’ve won, bar the Second Division title twice, is the Inter Toto Cup in 2007. Even then, that was because Auxerre beat Livorno and nothing directly to do with our efforts!! However, I have never sought take my frustrations at our ineptitude out on a blameless equine.

I just want this dreadful season over with. While, at the time of writing, we still have 5 games to go, I don’t think we’ll get relegated, as I’m utterly convinced we’ll do enough to stay up; our players may have been abject against the Mackems, but they still have undeniable talent, even if it is not being harnessed properly. I must confess though Benfica broke my heart more than the Mackems game. Against the talented Portuguese, Pardew, for once and I’ll return to this later on, got his tactics absolutely spot on in that game; we soaked up the pressure in the first half and when it looked as if there was still some hope for us, we went for it in the second half and effectively cranked up the pressure. Cisse’s goal gave us the belief that we could pull this off and if Ben Arfa’s shot had been a foot lower, we could well have done. Then we would have had Fenerbahce in the semi-finals and either Chelsea or Basle in the final; frankly, we’ve blown our best chance in years to actually win something. Santon’s back pass and Taylor’s idiotic hand-ball sent us out in the final analysis. However, the mainly positive vibe after our Europa League exit was that this campaign had been a great adventure and it demonstrated we could effectively build up a head of steam to go for a cup competition. Consequently, if Pardew wishes to remain in post and any level of positive approval from the support, we need to make a serious, concerted bid to win the League Cup next year. The fact is, as soon as we qualified for the Europa League last season, I told anyone who would listen that we’d just effectively resigned from the domestic cups for this season and condemned ourselves to a lousy league campaign; those chickens have come home to roost, as they did for Fulham two years ago and Stoke last year, because the sheer number of games in the Europa League shows participation in it to be a double-edged sword.

Of course, the Europa League is only part of the reason why we’ve underachieved in the league; a shameful lack of investment last summer is the main cause for the fact we are still at the business end of the table in mid-April, closely followed by a quite horrific and scarcely credible series of major, high profile injuries. Put it this way, our first choice XI and a full-strength substitutes bench should be enough to have us somewhere between sixth and eighth.  I’m assuming our current best team, if everyone was fit, would be: Krul, Debuchy, Santon, Yanga-Mbiwa, Coloccini, Tiote, Cabaye, Sissoko, Ben Arfa, Gouffran, Cisse with a bench of: Elliott, Anita, S Taylor, R Taylor, Marveaux, S Ameobi and presumably Obertan. Admittedly, we’re desperately short of another striker, possibly two, but that is a pretty decent line-up and it should be far higher in the table than it is. Consider this though; of the 18 players mentioned, 11 of them have been injured at some point, 7 of them from the starting XI. Consider also; 4 of them arrived in January. Consider finally; 9 of the starting XI “played” against the Mackems and 12 of the whole 18 made it on to the pitch. This has led me to the uncomfortable conclusion that Pardew is skating on thinner and thinner ice as the unconvincing performances in the league begin to stack up. He may not lose his job if things don’t rapidly improve, but he will undoubtedly lose the respect of almost every fan.

The most damning description of the manager I’ve heard was by my mate Gary, who described Pardew as “basically Glenn Roeder with better aftershave and more nightclub confidence.” While I don’t think Pardew is a charlatan, a clown, as bad a boss as Souness or any number of the abusive comments hurled in his direction on countless occasions this season, I do think he has been found to be wanting in many respects, not least in his inability to make a convincing case that he’s his own man and not just a stooge for the owners. Worse than this, he has been tactically appalling in too many games this season to allow things to continue in this fashion much longer. It is a complete indictment of him that, at the time of writing, he has managed a solitary away win in the whole of this season; that is simply unacceptable however you dress it up.

Newcastle United have a very talented squad of players, but it seems to be that these lions are led by donkeys; neither Carver nor stone convince me that they have the necessary wherewithal to be coaches at a top club. Are they, along with Steven Taylor, simply token Geordies, used as publicity fodder to make bland pronouncements in the local press that, as fans, they are “hurting” just as much as the rest of us after another dismal defeat? Pardew and his staff need to take a long, hard look at themselves this coming close season and return in August with a brand new A Game and also a Plan B, because neither of those things have been anywhere near SJP in 2012/2013.

Amateur Hours

The Tyneside Amateur League booked Percy Main's Purvis Park for two finals that marked the end of the English football season me; the Neville Cowey Cup (West Jesmond 4 Kenton Bar Community 1) and the John Hampson Memorial Trophy (Gosforth Bohemians Reserves 4 Winlaton Queen's Head 0). I penned an article for each programme about Percy Main's 2012/2013 season and the Northern Alliance in general, so here they are -:

The 2012/2013 season for Percy Main Amateurs ended last Saturday, when a late Scott Pocklington brace gave us a share of the spoils at home to Killingworth in a game where we’d seemed dead and buried at 2-0 down with less than 15 minutes remaining. However manager Shaun Galbraith, who has only been in position since late November, has instilled a commendable never-say-die attitude in to his team; it was clearly evident and warmly welcomed last weekend. As a result, the Main finished the season in 11^th place in the Pin Point Recruitment Northern Alliance premier division, a drop of one spot on the year before.

The season just ending kicked off on August 11^th with a 3-3 home draw against Stocksfield, before a midweek mauling 5-1 away to Amble United on a night so filthy that the notebook our secretary Norman de Bruin was compiling his match report in, was turned in to pulp by the incessant rain. It was dry and sunny the following Saturday, but we lost again, 3-1 away to Walker Central. Things improved with three successive victories to end the month. Firstly we beat Wallsend Town 5-3 at home, with a Chris Bell debut hat trick, before seeing off Rutherford 4-0 here, despite it being goalless at the break. Most impressively, we went to Hillheads and defeated Whitley Bay A by the single goal in the final night fixture of the first part of the season.

September saw us lose 2 league games, away to Ashington Colliers (4-2) and eventual champions Heaton Stannington (5-1), though we gained a point from a home draw with Hebburn Reyrolle. We bowed out of the divisional Challenge Cup with a 3-0 loss in Cumbria at Harraby, but defeated Morpeth Town A in the George Dobbins League Cup by 3-1. October consisted of only 2 cup ties; firstly Blyth Town checked our progress in the League Cup, by dismissing us 5-1.

However, the highlight of the season was a Northumberland FA Senior Benevolent Bowl tie at home to Heddon on the first Saturday of the month. The game was won by a single goal by club captain James Leggett, but what really made the occasion was that it marked the 80^th birthday of Percy Main legend Ronnie Robinson, who was guest of honour for the day.

November saw us lose 3-0 at Blyth Town, before winning a thrilling game 4-3 away to Wallsend Town, when manager Gareth “Beanie” Allen dropped a bombshell by announcing his resignation. Despite a subsequent short-lived stint as Jarrow Roofing assistant manager, Allen’s departure was a bolt from the blue. The next week, a shocked side lost 6-1 at home to Whitley Bay A, before Shaun Galbraith arrived; despite losing his opening pair of game to Rutherford and at home to Walker Central, when we found ourselves without a keeper, things improved after the enforced winter break. Our first fixture of 2013 saw us win 4-3 at Stocksfield, followed by successive 3-0 home wins over Ashington Colliers and Seaton Delaval in the Benevolent Bowl.

In early March, we won away to Harraby for the first time ever, before the biggest disappointment of the season; a 3-2 home loss to Ponteland in the semi-final of the Benevolent Bowl, when we’d taken the lead after 15 seconds. Despite a superb 3-3 draw at Killingworth in the next game, this loss caused heartache; we lost to relegated Hebburn Reyrolle and runners-up Blyth Town, before rallying with a point at Delaval and good win over Shankhouse.

After safety was assured, a pair of home drubbings to Heaton Stannington and Carlisle City in early May were followed by a 3 match unbeaten streak; we defeated Delaval (again) 3-1 at home, won 2-1 away to Shankhouse (our third season in the row when we’ve done the double over them), before the closing day draw with Killingworth.

I feel I can safely say that here at Percy Main, you’re always assured of a warm welcome and plenty of goals; please do visit us again.

Today’s game at Purvis Park marks the final piece of silverware to be won in the Tyneside Amateur League this season. On Wednesday gone, Wallsend Town retained the Bill Gardner Trophy by defeating Walker Central 3-2 here at Purvis Park, in the final Northern Alliance final of the campaign just ending. The competition, named after the late and eternally popular former Northern Alliance press secretary is a kind of repechage for teams who fall at the first hurdle in the George Dobbins League Cup. This year, that latter trophy was one of three competitions won by the impressive Heaton Stannington, who brushed aside Division 1 champions Wallington by the flattering margin of 6-2. In addition, the Stann, who discovered on Wednesday night that they have been accepted in to the Northern League for 2013/2014, claimed the Northumberland FA Senior Benevolent Bowl, seeing off Ponteland United 3-1 in the final and mostly importantly for their future plans, they retained the Premier Division title, after overcoming the determined challenge of Blyth Town, who ring down the curtain on the Alliance season by travelling to Harraby United in Carlisle today. The other trophy on offer for top flight teams was the divisional Challenge Cup, which was also won at Purvis Park by Amble United, who defeated Carlisle City 3-2. Sadly, Amble United have resigned from the league and are disbanding. Their departure and that, for more pleasant reasons, of Heaton Stannington, may have an effect on the fortunes of bottom two sides Hebburn Reyrolle and Gateshead Rutherford, not to mention Prudhoe Town of the Wearside League.

Coming up from Division 1 are Wallington, who won their league by a point from a Red House Farm side that completed their season with a crazy 6-4 away win at Ponteland United, which may have extracted a modicum of revenge for their loss on penalties in the divisional Combination Cup final to the Leisure Centre outfit. In addition, Red House Farm also claimed the Northumberland FA Minor Cup, beating Hexham on penalties after a 1-1 draw. At the foot of the table, Morpeth Town were considerably out of their depth and have resigned, meaning only second bottom Willington Quay Saints will be demoted, though the future of Bedlington Terriers Reserves is a matter of speculation also. Until the very end of the season, the sole supposed relegation place was in doubt; for a start Newcastle University sailed close to the wind, having been deducted 11 points for administrative transgressions, while Cullercoats needed a 6-3 win over Chemfica on the 4G pitch at Coach Lane to secure their status last weekend. Forest Hall were deducted 3 points for failing to attend an away fixture at Wallington, but went to the rearranged game and beat the Champions 3-2 at scenic Oakford Park. Fair play to them; let’s hope they make it to third top Northbank in Carlisle today to complete their season though!!

Division 2 champions by a considerable margin are North Shields Athletic, who will be joined in Division 1 next term by newcomers Birtley St. Joseph’s who capped a memorable debut campaign with a 2-0 victory in the divisional Amateur Cup over another new team, Blyth Isabella, who stepped up from the Tyneside Amateur League and finished sixth. Other former Tyneside Amateur outfits Longbenton and High Howdon Social Club finished in adjacent places in mid-table, showing the gap between the leagues may not be as wide as some have suggested, though Grainger Park faced more of a struggle, finishing 4 off the bottom. Alston, who ended the campaign a place below them, have tendered their resignation, which means the Alliance is looking to accept 3 new teams at its AGM on Thursday 6^th June, by which time the 2012/2013 season will be history, providing the weather allows today’s remaining 8 fixtures to take place.

The Dead

A way a lone a last a loved a long the / riverrun, past Eve and Adam's, from swerve of shore to bend of bay, brings us by a commodius vicus of recirculation back to Howth Castle and Environs (James Joyce; Finnegan’s Wake).

The first word I went to type for this piece was our current manager’s first name, but my ham-fisted pounding of the keys caused me to hammer out the slightly inaccurate Aslan Pardew. On reflection, I suppose a rather fitting analogy for 2012/2013 would have been to talk about C. S. Ashley’s allegorical fable Toonarnia, featuring the kindly, anthropomorphic Mr. Tumbias, in a land where it is always winter, but never the January transfer window.  However, if one must make a literary analogy to sum up Newcastle United in the season just ended, whereby the news that Tony Pulis has left Stoke and is therefore available for managerial work, alongside freed West Ham donkey and infrequent goal scorer Carlton Cole, is of more relevance to our current plight than news of Manchester City’s repulsive franchising venture in to the MLS with New York Yankees, then I feel we should turn to James Joyce.

Of late, Alan Pardew’s post-match press conferences have been as syntactically idiosyncratic, lexically complex and ideologically ambiguous as the adventures of the Earwicker family in Finnegan’s Wake, specifically ALP’s closing monologue quoted above, which is of course delivered as she disappears in to the ocean. However, I had hoped our manager would have internalised some of Joyce’s earlier, more accessible work; specifically the character of Gabriel in what I consider to be the finest short story written in the English language, The Dead. Towards the end of this piece Gabriel Conroy, facing up to the hollow shell of his loveless marriage, his own worthlessness and the inevitability of death, undergoes a trademark Joycean epiphany, while musing how glorious it could be to die for what one truly believes, love in the instance of his wife’s dead childhood sweetheart Michael Furey, rather than atrophying impotently on the vine -:

Better pass boldly into that other world, in the full glory of some passion, than fade and wither dismally with age.

I doubt our manager (henceforth referred to as Aslan Livia Partridgebelle) could comprehend the eternal veracity of such a sentiment, whether it be delivered by Joyce, Dylan Thomas ("Do not go gentle into that good night") or even by Neil Young (“It’s better to burn out than fade away”), much less apply the truth of it to the style of play that has bored and infuriated Newcastle United fans in the season just finishing. If he does become better ontologically versed, would it be too much to ask that he leaves his post on June 16^th?

Seriously; other than Spurs, Southampton and Chelsea, have any of our home league games really been worth watching? Have any of our players, excellent though many of them are, put in a full, quality season? Fitness issues may be unavoidable, form problems can be addressed with proper coaching, but idiotic tactics and farcical formations are the responsibility of those employed to manage the club and cannot be defended at any level. I’m simply amazed that Pardew hasn’t tried to play up the fact we finished above the Mackems as evidence that the season hasn’t been that bad after all. Thankfully, I’ve not heard any of our lot claiming we’ve won the accolade of North East top dogs, after finishing fifth bottom. Then again, closer inspection of the tournament rules show that the title is only awarded when they finish above us.

Newcastle United’s first team squad are not like sunderland’s; these are not bad men who cannot be governed, except by transgressing fundamental principles of employment law in a dictatorial style, these are good players whose skills have been badly utilised. This must stop; now. By the way, have you noticed how soft the press are on fascism on Wearside? Perhaps because their fans have accepted it, unquestioningly, in the same way they failed to address the imperialist ideology underpinning their sponsorship deal with Tullow Oil.

I did not expect to see Pardew shown the door immediately after safety was assured at QPR, though this would have been nice. In fact, in the days following that game I was able to wake up with a smile, knowing I’d not need to spend large parts of my day, worrying about relegation; it felt like emotional freedom and I revelled in it. By the end of the week I was almost happy to allow Pardew to stay in his job, but news of his cancelled phone in on Radio Newcastle alerted me to the dangers of such sentimentality. Why was that phone in cancelled? Presumably because he’d been told to axe it, to stop him unconvincingly mumbling his way through any searching questions about the ownership or the team’s underperformance, but also so everyone’s time wouldn’t be wasted by listening to bland platitudes and soft queries by planted stooges. 

My opposition to Pardew hardened appreciably after seeing his “team” one last time. On Sunday May 19th, I saw a Newcastle side, limited by injuries and woefully short of any credible threat in front of goal, give it a real good go in the second half but still lose unluckily to a single, questionable goal that had more than a hint of offside about it. Sadly, I’m not talking about Newcastle United’s performance against Arsenal, but Newcastle Benfield’s defeat by Spennywood / Evenmoor, the Northern League franchise outfit and FA Vase holders, in the League Cup final that was the last game to be played at Consett’s decaying Belle Vue ground, which will soon be replaced by another flat pack miniature from the non-league design conveyor belt, equipped with the de rigeur 4G all-weather surface.

Frankly, the only thing the two games had in common was the final score; 0-1, resulting in a third successive home loss without scoring, where the aggregate was 0-10 and a preposterous final home record of 9-1-9. What I found particularly sickening about Newcastle’s performance was Pardew’s timid acceptance of a “narrow” defeat, reinforced by his tactics and substitutions, as he no doubt felt it would provide him with a stronger bargaining position when fighting for his job, rather than considering what was best for Newcastle United, in his post season “summit” with Ashley and Llambias. To me, it seems abundantly clear that the cowardly, unadventurous approach that has blighted the 2012/2013 season was crystallized perfectly in the last half hour of this game.

The first substitution saw Anita, who has gone from being “shit” in the eyes of the intolerant Twitterati to Platini’s natural heir on account of not playing it seems, replacing Cabaye. This was not like for like; Cabaye is our creative force, when on form (which he hasn’t been since Benfica second leg), while Anita is a neat and tidy, bits and pieces player who admittedly didn’t put a pass out of place on Sunday, but is most effective as a Tiote without the unnecessary fouls. Anita played his natural game on Sunday and his introduction meant we ceded 15 yards in the middle of the park that a half interested Arsenal strolled lazily around.

Next for the hoist was Yoan Gouffran, a player who, like Cabaye, has been the subject of ignorant, totally Francophobic abuse from the kind of self-selected superfans who got so battered before QPR away they were heading away from Loftus Road twenty minutes before kick-off, no doubt singing Please sell Cabaye (Ironically? Unironically? Who knows?), until the intervention of some kindly old timers put them right. Perhaps it was their first time at that ground. As far as Gouffran is concerned, I like him tremendously as a player, as he is about the only attacking option we have, in the absence of Sissoko bursting from midfield (sigh), who can run on to the ball over the top or round the back. Despite his ability to pop up with important goals of late, at West Brom and QPR in particular, Gouffran is always substituted, regardless of how he is playing.

On in his place came Sylvain Marveaux, another who has been transformed in to a superstar because he hasn’t played; indeed his two passes to Cisse for the winners versus Stoke and Anji, have elevated him to the same level as Messi and resulted in him gaining an award from the massed ranks of NUST for being their Most Improved Player of 2012/2013. They gave their overall Player of the Year to Krul, presumably because he can kick it further than anyone else, or something. Let’s be honest, if you’re sick to the back teeth of Pardew’s aimless hoofball tactics, where Krul has been the player most responsible for such ugly play, then it is a cause of rejoicing that Andy Carroll is seemingly on his way to West Ham and not us; otherwise, imagine how zero dimensional our play would be next season…

Incidentally, NUST had linked up with Hadrian Border Brewery to market Black & White Ale, whereby 5p a pint goes to NUST to distribute to local charities. I’ve not tried it but, according to someone who has, apparently the beer “is both bitter and bland, promises much yet delivers little, being hampered by an anonymous body and a non-existent head.”

Marveaux tried his best on Sunday, but as his introduction meant we were effectively playing 4-5-1, he created nothing. Quite why Adam Campbell came on to replace Yanga-Mbiwa is beyond my comprehension. I don’t wish Campbell any ill and find it amazing that he’s playing in such a game in the Premier League while his peers still play for Whitley Bay Juniors and Wallsend Boys Club in Under 18 finals at Percy Main, but putting him on for the last 10 minutes was the surest sign that Pardew expected nothing out of the game; we may as well have given one of the ball boys or a pissed bloke from the Gallowgate middle a run out. Or Obertan…

I must say that while I’ve been one of his harshest and most severe critics, I felt enormous respect and affection for Steve Harper on Sunday. The emotion he showed in the 37^th minute as his name was sung was very moving to see; I just wish more people had joined in with me on 74 when I tried to get a chant of “there’s only 2 Steve Harpers” off the ground. Harper’s honesty in talking about his mental health problems will obviously have struck a chord with some of our supporters and, rather than bleating on in tribute to a murdered drug addict and suspected child molester who brought nothing but shame on this club, perhaps they can reflect on that. We should support those who deserve it.

Unfortunately, and in trying to guess what will happen next at SJP one may as well read tea leaves, it appears that Pardew will be given another chance. Without wishing failure on our club, that probably means up until Christmas, before the time comes for yet more “transition.” The unappealing and indeed unacceptable truth of our club’s situation under Ashley is that whether Pardew goes now or halfway through next season, we won’t materially improve while Ashley owns this club. It seems that any potential Newcastle United manager needs to fulfil the essential criteria of being out of work, so as not to incur compensation payments, timid of spirit, so as not to question the decisions of those above him, grateful for employment, thus prepared to work for buttons and happy that all transfer decisions, in and out, have precisely nothing to do with him.

Would Rafa Benitez or Roberto Di Matteo be prepared to accept such working conditions? Don’t be ridiculous!! We may as well dream of Jose Mourinho coming in. The fact is; if Pardew goes, we’re looking at someone of the calibre Pulis, Hughes or Warnock, I’m afraid to say. Even Roberto Martinez wouldn’t come; mind, I’m not sure he’s good enough. He may have won the FA Cup (the day after my late maternal grandfather, a certain Ben Watson, would have been 103; sadly he died in 1967), but he also relegated Wigan. Personally, I’d have settled for that; I’d have settled for winning the Europa League then going down, but it does show the need of being careful for what you wish for.

On Sunday, I gave a final cursory clap to Steve Harper, and then headed for The Bodega before the “lap of honour” started. Apparently the last ones off the pitch at the end were Williamson and Shola; while this may be even beyond parody, it seems clear looking at some of Pardew’s quotes, that they are both out the door this summer. It is a shame that Pardew won’t be joining them, but in the same way another cumbersome centre half and journeyman forward will arrive to replace them, another prosaic, underachieving, limited tactical dinosaur and smooth talking bullshitter will end up in the dugout.

From my perspective, agitating against Pardew is not enough of a solution for our club’s problems; it is Ashley and Llambias we really need shot of, if Newcastle United are ever to be credible participants in the Premier League again.