Shopping Mad

I've been editing the Heaton Stannington programme all this season, but haven't really had to write many articles. I made an exception with this one, which was in our programme on Saturday 14th December when we beat Thornaby 2-1....

Coming into the Northern League didn’t initially seem to be as much of a culture shock as we all had feared. Obviously on the pitch, things have gone fairly well. Okay we’re not top of the tree any longer, but we’re nicely placed in the promotion pack with a good chance of going up at the end of the season. Off the pitch, the on-going struggles with getting the lights up appear to have been resolved, with attendant support and scorn from other teams and fans, generally in terms of faceless on-line keyboard warriors grinding axes and airing their ignorance, appearing in equal measure. As regards the rigorous administration regime expected of us, it’s a tough, exacting and busy set of tasks that need to be followed in a clockwork routine each match day, with jobs differing depending on whether it is a home or away game.

One clear difference is in the tolerance of referees to transgressions of the law; while no-one could argue Joe or Weeksy didn’t deserve to see red versus Tow Law Town and Brandon United respectively, Lee was very unlucky in the cup game at Team Northumbria in the League Cup. I don’t think it is too controversial to say he’d probably not have been dismissed in an Alliance game for that challenge. Sadly, bad luck, bad tackle and bad language mean we have now fallen to the foot of the League’s Fair Play table, which is rather disappointing. I wonder whether this is part of our learning curve, as I’m sure some of our bookings for dissent would have been ignored last year. However, this is part and parcel of playing at a higher level of football and is something we must accept, rather like the Northern League’s (in)famous Secret Shopper initiative.

Now in its second season, and widely praised by some (including the FA who gave it an award last season) and mercilessly ridiculed by others, who’ve generally received negative reports, the system involves a panel of unaligned spectators who visit all teams throughout the season, marking each club on a 0 (terrible) to 5 (faultless) scale in the categories of: player behaviour, technical area language, technical area discipline and supporter behaviour. Currently we’re 44^th out of 45 teams in the Northern League. At first sight, this is both terribly embarrassing and an awful indictment of this wonderful football club. However, there are mitigating circumstances and the picture may not be as terrible as I’ve just painted it.

Let me state unequivocally that I am 100% behind any campaign that will effectively minimise indiscipline on and off the pitch, as well as potentially increasing the amount of spectators that come through the turnstiles, but I must admit to having grave unease with the way the current system operates as I feel there are avoidable variations in practice and anomalies that need to be addressed and hopefully eliminated, if the Secret Shopper scheme is to retain any credibility moving forwards.

As far as I’m aware, we’ve been “shopped” on 4 occasions so far. The Ryton home game saw us gain straight 5s across the board, which was encouraging. Brandon away wasn’t perhaps the team’s finest hour in any circumstance, but among the intensely embarrassing verbatim quotations of Weeksy’s Tourette’s meltdown were suggestions that two other players who’d been repeatedly foul-mouthed during the game were Mark Davison and William James. Yes I’m being serious. Willsa, who is renowned as being quiet to the point of virtual silence and Mark, who wasn’t even at that game, were blamed for things they did not do and have absolutely no right of appeal or recourse to what has been said about them.

The Willington away game included an observation from the Shopper that Gary Dixon’s yellow card ought to have been a red. Well, pardon me, but that decision was absolutely nothing to do with the Secret Shopper; if the referee deemed it a booking, then a booking it was. Finally, and most preposterously, there was the Seaham Red Star away game for which the club was given straight 3s. This was the game where our away support consisted of 4 people, three of whom were in their 70s, with me playing the juvenile lead. Not one of us said a curse all night, yet we got the same marks as the players when Gary McGarrigal had, shall we say, a frank exchange of opinions with the technical area occupants. Where’s the consistency?

I believe I’ve identified 2 major areas of concern with the Secret Shopper scheme. Firstly those compiling the reports may assume that their role is to comment on every single aspect of the “match day experience,” rather than confining their attention to the 4 clearly defined criteria on which they’re supposed to comment. In addition, there is a palpable divergence of both standards and consistency among the panel compiling these reports. Thankfully I am not just here to find fault with the system, but to offer concrete advice on how to plug these gaps and help to maintain or restore confidence in the Secret Shopper initiative.

Firstly, there is a very simple way to ensure those marking games do not stray from their required brief; tell them in no uncertain terms what they should be looking and listening for, then remind them that while they may have an opinion on many other matters from the quality of the pies to the availability of pin badges, such thoughts are beyond the scope of their remit and should not appear on their final written report. If they make such comments, they must be disregarded; perhaps to the extent of regarding such a report as the equivalent of a spoilt ballot paper. Secondly, something urgently needs to be done to introduce some kind of moderation system that standardises the marks on an agreed set of principles that can be referenced as required. Unfortunately this may compromise the Secret part of the Secret Shopper initiative and strip it of its sibilant nomenclature.

The only way to assure quality control is by a standardisation exercise. As far as I can see it, the best way to do this would be to get every Shopper to watch the same game and then to give their marks. One way to do this would be to make attendance at a game, for instance the Craven Cup curtain-raiser at the start of each season, compulsory and then to perform the moderation exercise immediately afterwards, with a defined set of standards put in place to give Shoppers an unequivocal mark sheet to work from. Alternatively, if anonymity is required, then I’m sure Hayley Revell’s excellent NLFPP service would be happy to record a chosen game and send DVDs to all those who need a copy. A League official could also mark the game and provide a written commentary on points of interest and a clear explanation of how the marks were arrived at. Whether the game in question was faultless or appalling is immaterial; it is simply there to provide an agreed standard. In time, a compilation DVD of clips of games of differing standards could be compiled to build on this rigorous system of moderation.

If the scheme is to continue with any degree of confidence and credibility in the future then I believe such 

standardisation and robust post report moderation must be introduced. Otherwise nagging doubts about bias and questions of competency can rear their head; especially when one considers that there is currently absolutely no appeals procedure against what has been submitted.  For me, the best idea for subsequent seasons would not be independent observers, but internal quality control, whereby each club submits a mark in each of the four categories for both their own club and the opposition, on the completed team sheet when it is submitted to the league. This is, I feel, the best way to ensure compliance not only with the requirement to improve the conduct of players, supporters and management, but also with the spirit of this initiative.

It is far better to have people inside the tent micturating out, than outside micturating in…

Sound & Vision VI

As this is the last Sound & Vision round-up of 2013, other than my Best Of  lists that will appear on here between Christmas and New Year, it is perhaps fitting that this time around I’m able to talk about both the best gig I’ve seen this year, as well as eulogising over what I think to be 2013’s best album, or more accurately a triple album. If I could have been more organised with my leisure hours, I may well have been able to include another film review, where hopefully I would have enjoyed the main feature a bit more than my experience seeing Filth; unfortunately pressure of time meant I was unable to find a window of opportunity in order to see the Cormac McCarthy scripted The Counselor. However all the reviews I’ve read have slated it, so perhaps I’ve done well to save myself the entry fee, which I can spend on buying the DVD and then watching it once…

One thing I did see was ITV 4’s magnificent documentary Keane and Viera; The Best of Enemies which provided a superb insight into the minds of two of the finest midfielders to grace the Premier League. Whilst they both came across as perfectionists, Viera seemed to the more urbane, tolerant, loyal and conciliatory, while Keane was everything we knew he’d be; intense, driven, unforgiving and unspeakably callous. 

Basically, to return to Cormac McCarthy, Roy Keane is the Anton Chigurh of football. Obviously the one element missing from the narrative, over which Alex Ferguson’s presence hung like Banquo’s ghost, was any acknowledgement by either the interviewer or Keane of how his managerial career was derailed at the Mackems before he crashed and burned at Ipswich, where a certain Mick McCarthy (no relation) seems to be doing very well. Anyway, this blog isn’t about football, so let’s turn to cultural matters.

Books:

Returning from the Christy Moore gig I blogged about so enthusiastically last time, I serendipitously found a book on Tynemouth station platform when I exited the Metro. The castaway tome was entitled Magnetic North, which is an anthology of writing from this area published by New Writing North back in 2005, a time when I struggled with the muse and was effectively out of the literary game for a decade, which saddens me now as it is time I won’t get back. It also saddened me to read this book as many of those published were contemporaries of mine in the late 90s while I sought to establish a credible voice and profile for my writing. It was also a chastening experience as I realised many of those I rubbed shoulders with and sought counsel and advice from are no longer with us.

The first section of Magnetic North contains pieces inspired by visits to Moscow and Sofia. Andrew Crumey’s An Expedition to the Taiga touches on the conflict between ‘civilization’ and ‘wilderness’, the contradictions we can have in our own personalities, even the question of what is and isn’t real. There are also poems in this section like the wonderfully evocative Going and How I Learned to Sing by Mark Robinson. In the section titled Small Things, I was particularly struck by Fiona Ritchie Walker’s two poems, where she spins gold from the most unlikely sources: public toilets and dust mites. In Small Things in the Cupboard of Long Relationships, the late, lamented Julia Darling rummages poignantly through a couple’s random bits and pieces. In Rural Mischief, John Murray contributes The Warlick, an amusing tale of a prankster, but with a sting in the tale provided by the foot and mouth crisis of 2001. Then come a set of works inspired by songs, such as The Road and Miles to Dundee by Val McDermid, which chronicles the relationship between a girl and her father in four sharply observed episodes. Similarly effective is the dear departed Chrissie Glazebrook’s The Girl with Earthworms in Her Mouth, the story of two friends whose lives go in rather different directions, which the spirit of the late Gordon Burn would have enjoyed as it so successfully reimagines the life of Dusty Springfield. The stories in the final section, Bound, were first published in a separate volume described in Magnetic North as a colourful rainbow sculpture whose readers had to construct each page. Charles Fernyhough’s Joyful Lagers of the World is the best one; a beautifully written tale of Carl, a man aiming to do his bit to help save the Tow Law’s brewing industry. I found Magnetic North to be not so much a nostalgic read, but an inspiring one; I will keep writing to show there is some literary talent in the Cusack family.

Last time I sought to review Rory Waterman’s debut collection Now That Summer’s Over and found that the necessary critical vocabulary in terms of the technical detail and knowledge required to successfully impart my response to the poems within was sadly missing. Having read two editions of New Walk magazine, replete with the work of contemporary poetry utterly unknown to me, that Rory co-edits, my sense of critical inadequacy has deepened alarmingly. Suffering from stanzaphobia or not, I simply am unable to cogently summarise the work within, impressive and dazzling though much of it is, without returning to my A Level lit crit days and laboriously giving a line by line metrical analysis of the form and content rather than meaning and effect of the work published. A man has to know his limitations and my palpable relief on finding the prose section of the magazine, one story is included in each issue, was as real as it was anti-intellectual. It is a great venture and I have subscribed, as well as submitted a story but I don’t hold out much hope of it being accepted into such elevated circles. New Walk also looks stunning; if Push is Sniffin’ Glue, then New Walk is Village Voice and I don’t mean my book about Percy Main Amateurs either.

Snowdrops by A.D. Miller is a rattling good thriller, with a somewhat predictable conclusion, set in Moscow in the early years of petrodollar hedonism. The gauche, expat ingénue of a central character is played as a patsy by a pair of Siberian Mata Haris, out to empty his bank account and ballsack, while carrying on a pretence that this is a grand passion that will last forever. The depressingly inevitable double-cross denouement that reveals the long suspected equation of sex and stupidity equals cash and corruption is a logical ending that is both necessary and unsatisfying. Miller’s depiction of the crumbling buildings, foul weather, rampant boozing and unchecked avarice of post Deformed Workers’ State (I’m joking you realise) Russia struck a chord with me as I remembered my Bratislava sojourn. Snowdrops is a thoroughly excellent book that I devoured in one sitting.

I’d never read an Ian Rankin novel before; partly because he’s a Jambo and partly because I’d never got round to it. Indeed I think I’ve only ever seen one episode of Rebus, though I’ve caught it several times of different channels over the years. Having recently read one of his stand alone novels, Doors Open, I doubt I’ll bother with him again. The banal plot and clichéd word choices deadened my spirt from about 50 pages in, but I kept going out of a sense of duty rather than enjoyment. A cash rich but relationship poor former company director comes upon a plan to steal beautiful but undisplayed paintings from the bowels of Edinburgh’s galleries with the aid of a nefarious squad of chancers: a Professor of Art, a financier and a crime boss, while carrying on a tug of love with a beautiful female auctioneer and a dogged detective, who is his rival for her affections. In the end they unrealistically nick the paintings, the Professor escapes with the loot to Algiers, the financier sings like a canary, the gangster puts his hands up and the auctioneer promises to wait for the playboy until he gets parole. Shite.

The last thing I’d read by Spike Milligan almost put me off the bloke for life, but Spike: An Intimate Portrait by his former manager Norma Farnes has almost rehabilitated him in my eyes. It’s not that Milligan is any less foul in this book; he is still selfish, vain, arrogant and appallingly egotistical, but his conduct is almost angelic in comparison to that of the atrocious Peter Sellers, who is memorably and indeed accurately described as “a cunt” by one of his children to the author. The book is drenched in the kind of outrageous name-dropping and air-kissing luvviedom that Private eye would remorselessly satirise in the 70s and 80s, but it provides an accurate portrayal of how hard it must have been for an ordinary, normal person to deal with a genius who was half the time an unspeakable tyrant and half the time a madcap clown.

Music:

Despite my constant desire to find and discover new, exciting music, it is with no sense of guilt that I tell you the finest album I’ve heard this year is Christy Moore’s 3 CD collection Where I Come From. A fortnight after the wonderful gig at The Tyne Theatre, where I was honoured to have Spancillhill dedicated to me, this parcel dropped through the letterbox.  Rather than assembling old tracks, Christy re-recorded 43 songs from his epic career for this three-CD retrospective, adjusting lyrics and adding two new songs. It's both entertainment and history lesson, recalling the turmoil and injustices of the UK's recent past on cuts like The Birmingham Six, and celebrating Irish joy on The Ballad of Ruby Walsh. The more dulcet tones of Moore's later years doesn't diminish his anger; the naked vocal of Scallcrows 2 skewers tabloid bloodsuckers and Arthur's Day is an unrepentant two fingered salute to the festival of excess that September 26^th has become. Wherever you look, and my favourites are the paean to Francis Hughes The Boy From Tamlaghtduff and the Nicky Kelly inspired Give The Wicklow Boy His Freedom. The album is a still unique mix of politics, humour and lyricism. When Michael D gets too old for Áras an Uachtaráin, Christy will be the ideal replacement.

This is the first time the Kildare fella has released an album of all his own songs and although most of the songs have been released before, he has actually re-recorded all the tracks and updated some of the lyrics too. The main advantage of this approach is that there is complete consistency in the sound and the feel right through the three CDs, with even the four tracks that were recorded live fitting perfectly. There is also a really intimate feel about the whole recording, due in no small part to the sparse acoustic backing that allows the vocals to get the message across, which is really what Christy Moore is all about; he has the knack of sounding as if he is singing just for the listener. That is a rare talent. The eclectic mix of songs is like a social record of Ireland over the years as they cover the humour, the injustices, the hard times of the ’70s and the shameless greed and excesses of the 2000s. An absolute joy from start to finish.

Perhaps that isn’t a phrase I would have used about Television’s performance at The Sage in mid-November, excellent though the evening was. If I’d had some sense and got a ticket in the standing section at the front, I would have been able to fully integrate with the evening, but sat at the side, I felt a sense of detachment from proceedings. Yet, for Television, this is no bad thing as the distant, introspective nature of their music allows space for thought and contemplation rather than encouraging a participatory imperative. This was a performance and a thoroughly beguiling one as well.

The aloof New Yorkers that stared provocatively at the audience in 1977 are now old men. Tom Verlaine uses the microphone only when singing, maintaining the aloof distance and using the in-between song time to retune his guitar. The lack of equipment is the stunning thing; a Fender and a Vox AC30 each are all this band requires to imaginatively transport us to the precipice of the sublime and beyond.

Rather like the similarly aloof, angular and artistically challenging Wire, Television's rare appearances mean that the back catalogue is richly appreciated and effectively reinterpreted, meaning  songs such as Prove It and Venus, a highlight of the evening, sound as fresh and tense as the day they were recorded. Of course Marquee Moon is the apex of the evening; extending into a stunning maze of dizzying, interlocking guitar runs and lyrical poetry. It is truly a stunning moment of magical artistry to hear this seminal band play that seminal song; it is a joy I never thought I’d be party to. It was an honour to hear this performance.

As ever it was also a joy to see Vic Godard doing his annual late November Friday night gig at the Star & Shadow. Having first ventured back up north in 2005 for the (then) Freevolution Festival, Vic has been a regular in these parts ever since; by my reckoning it’s the seventh time I’ve seen him and the fifth at this venue. When he first toured again back in 2007, it was primarily the 1977 era Subway Sect material that brought the punters out and while both Nobody’s Scared and a familiar, tumultuous Chainsmoking end the set to uproarious applause, Vic is happy to explore his back catalogue in greater detail, with 1981’s What’s The Matter Boy? and 2011’s We Come As Aliens providing a substantial portion of the set. Interestingly, drummer Paul I Was A Teenage Sex Pistol Cook was previously in these parts with Edwyn Collins in 2010 and so the last twice he’s been here I’ve heard him play Vic’s Holiday Hymn. It was lovely to see Vic centre stage with his regular Sect bandmates, rather than vying for attention with the less than shrinking Davy Henderson with The Sexual Objects, who I doubt would be the right band to play the Northern Soul tinged stuff. That said; it was still Ambition that had me almost dancing. Roll on November 2014 and our next annual installment.

Another annual visitor to The Star & Shadow is the eternally delightful Euros Childs. Touring on the back of his fantastic Situation Comedy album, he arrived with usual backing band The Wellgreen, whose Grin And Bear It album is another in the list of fine Scottish indie albums that the West Coast keeps on producing. Being unavoidably stuck in The Tanners, drunkenly dancing to the Gang of Four’s To Hell with Poverty, we unfortunately missed The Wellgreen’s spot. However the album is a great reminder of the lush vocals and thrilling pop sensibility that mean this band will purposefully and delightfully continue to re-enact everything good about mid-1974, easy listening pop music; only 40 years later. Also on the bill was multi-instrumentalist, singer songwriter and regular flautist on Euros’s albums, Laura J Martin, whose Dazzle Days long player was also purchased. While I enjoyed her endearing eccentricities and diverting mixture of the coy and coquettish on stage, the fact I’ve only listened to the album once and haven’t downloaded it as yet may tell us something about the lasting impression of the young lady’s music. Perhaps I’m being too harsh on her; if she plays with such exalted company, there must be some talent.

However, both Laura J Martin and The Wellgreen were in fine form as the backing band as Euros put in another simply stunning show, with highlights drawn from every aspect of his career; this year’s Tete A Tete was a classic, last year’s Roogie Boogie was a proper floor filler and the encore of Horse Riding was simply magnificent. It’s not often I feel the need to hug the band I’ve been watching, but that’s what this performance made me do. A simply lovely night and some interesting music that I may need to investigate more thoroughly before making a judgement.

Impulse buying when it comes to music can have mixed results, often from the same record company. Having been made aware of Clay Pipe Music (http://www.claypipemusic.co.uk/), I signed up to their website in the hope of finding out about new releases. I’ve bought two things from them; firstly, the brand new Dream Life of Hackney Marshes by Jetsam, a kind of English Kronos Quartet with free jazz and improvisational undertones, and wordsmith Gareth E Rees, author of The Marshman Chronicles blog about the area the project is inspired by. Released only in an edition of 200 copies, it is now sold out and, well if anyone would like it, please get in touch, as it is rather tough going and probably the purchase I’ve liked least this year apart from the grimly glutinous Camera Obscura album. I’m a great supporter of the avant garde and wildly experimental, but this does not connect with me. Fractured, discordant reed and percussive elements of Cardew, Cale and Birtwistle, allied to shards of electronic noise and feedback, accompany Rees’s stark, brutal imagist poetry and prose. Clay Pipe’s stated aim is to release “atmospheric instrumental music, with a strong theme or sense of place,” which they have certainly achieved here, even if the end product has left me cold.

However, that is not the case with the quite beautiful rerelease of Plinth’s Music For Smalls’ Lighthouse, which is as glorious an ambient, atmospheric album as I’ve heard since Eno’s Music For Airports. This project was originally released in 2010 and is now available in a limited run of 500 albums; I strongly urge you to investigate as there are few more sublime and stunning pieces of music around than Sirens from this disc.  It is a real shame that this was not a 2013 release as it would have run Christy Moore close for album of the year in my eyes, or ears.

As we look forward to 2014, early indications are of releases by The New Mendicants in January, as well as some dates, though I’ll miss the Glasgow one as I’m up the week before to see a one-off gig by The Pop Group (as well as Queens Park v Elgin City), followed by a Band of Holy Joy album and Newcastle date in February. However, if Sunday December 8^th’s gig at The Cumberland Arms is any measure of future greatness, then whatever album is put out by Trembling Bells in 2014 will be a shoe-in for the best release of the New Year.

I love Trembling Bells; I make no bones about that fact. Alongside Teenage Fanclub, The Wedding Present, The Mekons, Fairport Convention and (I wish) the Gang of Four, I would go anywhere to see them. This night was, of the half a dozen times I’ve seen them, their best performance yet. How wonderfully encouraging was it to see a band who have released 4 albums in 4 years, able to  compile a set including 7 unreleased songs, with every one of them being a winner. The evening began on a high with handshakes, hugs and real ale in the bar downstairs with the band. They are genuinely lovely people and it is a crime that they don’t pull the audiences their music deserves. On this occasion, they began at an almost stratospheric level with Just As The Rainbow, which they dedicated to me and simply got better. The Willows of Carbeth has gone to be replaced by the mighty Swallows of Carbeth, while The Bells of Bulford is a towering song, trumped only by simply their finest moment Wide Majestic Aire. The sooner that song gets released the better.

Trembling Bells, including a marvellous surprise in the shape of a guest spot with Mike Heron and his daughter, were simply stunning, they are simply stunning and they will continue to be so while the muse drives them on; please support them. I would give anything to see them perform their last gig of the year on December 22^nd in Glasgow, but on that night I’ll be at my last gig of the year; Ray Jackson’s Lindisfarne at the City Hall on the 37^th anniversary of my first ever gig, which was Ray Jackson’s Lindisfarne at the City Hall. I may be forced to write about it….

Middle Age Head

Je déteste mon enfance et tout ce qui reste de celui-ci - Jean Paul Sartre (Les Mots)

Being born in a stable does not make one a horse – The Duke of Wellington

It would be fair to say I have a troubled emotional relationship with Gateshead; the “dirty back alley that leads to Newcastle” (Robert Louis Stevenson), which was my place of birth and home for my formative years. While I often retell the story of how, when applying for University, my dad took me to one side and urgently suggested I investigate the courses on offer at Aberdeen or Exeter that was done more with a desire to see me make my way in the world than to get me out from under his feet. Or at least that’s what I try to tell myself. Mind I think I trumped him by ending up in County Derry, which prompts the question; just what the hell was he doing allowing me to move there in 1983? The Sunday after I arrived set the tone for my studies, as I saw huge brawls in the Student Union bar when news broke of a mass escape from the Maze by Republican Prisoners. I think the short answer is that I was a teenage twat and they were delighted to see the back of me; this was reinforced when I got home at the end of my first term to find all my punk, new wave and indie vinyl shunted into a box at the bottom of a walk-in cupboard and my bedroom walls transformed from a collection of garish, non-parallel hand-painted black and white stripes and a huge McEwan’s Lager poster of the Inverbraw Grouse Beaters to a pale floral pattern flock wallpaper. 

In the way that we all seek to rewrite our lives, my personal narrative has incorporated the detail I left home the day Peter Beardsley signed, two days after a routine 3-1 home win over Crystal Palace early in our promotion season, never to return. This, of course, isn’t true. While I did spend 5 peripatetic years studying, loafing and skinning up in Ireland, London and Leeds, I returned in late summer 1988 to start work properly, as a teacher. What I often fail to mention is that I bought my first property not in High Heaton, where I arrived in 1998 or Spital Tongues, which saw me purchase a house in 1991, but back in Felling. I was 27 when I finally left NE10 and so I’ve only been effectively away from the south side, which I’ve never call the Geordie Left Bank for obvious reasons, for considerably less than half my life.

While a refracted portrayal of the influence of my youth will probably be best served by fictional reimaginings of my formative years that will end up at http://gilipollez.wordpress.com/ I think it is beholden of me to write about my relationship with Gateshead Football Club, especially on the back of the terribly unfortunate loss to Oxford United in the FA Cup first round replay on an unspeakably cold Thursday night in early December.

When I mentioned the fact I would be writing about this to two of my dearest friends, Adrian Ragsdale and Shaun Smith, both of whom are Gateshead fans, their immediate and instinctive reaction was that they wouldn’t read this blog, perhaps out of fear that I’d say something harsh or callous about their club. Let me put their minds at rest straightaway; I won’t. After all, I was at Gateshead’s first ever game at the International Stadium back in 1974 when they beat East Fife 3-2 in a pre-season friendly. Back then they were known as Gateshead United, assuming that name on moving from Simonside Hall ground and consequently changing their name from South Shields, though they kept the claret and blue colours of the Mariners in those early years. Clearly I’m too young to have known anything about Redheugh Park, the Callender Brothers or being kicked out of the Football League for Peterborough in 1961. Such tales were not part of my childhood narrative either as my Dad always maintained he was much more likely to watch Newcastle Reserves when the first team were away than visit Gateshead.

I have little or no memory of that East Fife game, other than the fact it was on a Monday evening as I accompanied my dad, who had had to attend his weekly meeting of his trade union, EETPTU (no he didn’t like Frank Chappell, always describing him as “a bosses’ man”) in Dunston before we got there. I remember Dad finding us a spot just to the right of where the main stand is now, while I can only recall clambering around on the banks of loose shale behind the goal and half watching the game. Back then, aged 10, I was an avid reader of the Gateshead Post sports pages and every Thursday I would pore over match reports, learning of Gateshead’s progress in the Northern Premier League. My next visit was for an FA Cup second round tie on December 13^th 1975; a bitterly cold day and a frozen pitch saw Gateshead draw 1-1 with Rochdale, only to lose the replay 3 days later. I have a dim memory of attending the International Stadium again on New Year’s Day 1976, with my dad and my Uncle John and vaguely recall the Heed, as nobody ever called them before the internet was invented, winning 2-0, but I can’t find results grids for this competition so can’t confirm that.

I also can’t recall Gateshead United going out of business in 1977, when they’d finished in 8^th place as well and reforming as Gateshead, in a bizarre all red kit, for the start of the next season. Indeed, as music, literature and a particularly unsuccessful interest in women overtook football as my main obsessions for a few years, the fortunes of the team from the International Stadium didn’t cross my consciousness until late in the 1982/1983 Championship season. Working in The Greyhound in Felling Square, I headed down to see the mighty Bob Topping bag a couple of goals in a midweek game, opponents unknown, that saw the title secured on the night with a bunch of regulars, ending up in a lock-in in The Old Fold Tavern. The Tynesiders were in claret and blue that night, but by the next time I saw them, the familiar white shirts and black shorts combination had been adopted.

My first ever Vauxhall Conference game was at Lower Mead, the former home of Wealdstone FC in April 1987, to see Gateshead trounced by the non-league double winners of the previous season, The Stones; the year before automatic promotion to the Football League was introduced. I was working in North West London at the time and living in Harrow. Two of my work mates were Steve, a QPR fan and Ed, a Wealdstone supporter; when Newcastle were at home or away in an inaccessible location, the three of us would visit either Lower Mead or Loftus Road, or even Meadway where Harrow Borough played. So it was I made up 20% of the travelling Gateshead support on a day they were sounding hammered.

Another huge gap then appears; it was half a decade until I next managed a trip to see Gateshead. On the day Newcastle United lost 5-2 at Oxford, February 1^st 1992, in what was Ossie Ardiles’s final game in charge, I saw a terrible 1-0 win over Barrow in the FA Trophy, courtesy of a ridiculously deflected goal. October of that year saw a visit to a midweek 3-1 win over Witton Albion as a bloke I used to correspond with in the early days of fanzine friendship was at that game for a groundhopping “tick.” To be honest though, while I was falling in love with the non-league game, Gateshead never did it for me, mainly on account of that appalling lack of intimacy or atmosphere at the International Stadium; one stand and acres of open space with nothing but gusts of wind to fill it. Consequently I confined my visits to watching Newcastle there, either when the reserves had it as their home pitch or when a pre-season friendly took place.

I did see a few games under Ian Bogie; mainly because the former boss, a lovely bloke it has to be said, was a work colleague (I was his union rep in point of fact; same as I am for Rob Blamire from Penetration, proving I’m still equally obsessed with music and football as I approach 50) and was happy to provide me with the occasional freebie. Memorable encounters included a 3-0 walloping of Kendal on Good Friday 2008, on a day so windy that both wheeled dug outs blew away down the track, like a bizarre parody of Asafa Powell breaking the 100 metres world record on the same stretch two years previous. I was also there for 2 successive play-off victories; the 2008 win over Buxton that took the team into the Conference North and the defeat of Telford a year later that brought them back into the Conference proper. I also saw both legs of the superb back to back double over Blyth Spartans on Boxing Day and New Year’s Day that season; great atmosphere, great games, great times and great to see The Tynesiders doing so well.

I must admit I was delighted to see Gateshead prosper under Bogie and was disgusted when he was shown the door as I felt it showed deep ingratitude for all he’d achieved with them; two promotions and stability in the upper half of the Conference should be success in anyone’s terms, especially a club so previous riven by financial disasters as Gateshead. This is why I was delighted when the next boss, ex Mackem Anth Smith, was shown the door as, let’s be honest about this, Gateshead are a Newcastle United leaning team. It’s not scientific, but I’d imagine that the 90% plus of Gateshead residents who follow Newcastle are probably reflected in the demographic of the active supporting element of Gateshead football club; indeed, I’m not even prepared to discuss specious arguments to the contrary.

What isn’t up for debate is that Gary Mills is doing an amazing job as Gateshead manager. Taking over a club ripe for a fiasco of a season, he’s got them almost halfway up the league and into the last 16 of the FA Trophy, with a stated aim of winning it. I hope they do. Indeed, if they get to the final I’d imagine I’ll go. That said I only got to the Oxford replay because Raga was able to pass on his ticket, being unavoidably away with work.

Having blown a 2-0 lead in injury time at the Kassam Stadium, Gateshead should not have even been playing this game. However, they were. The original replay on Wednesday 20^th November had been postponed because of a waterlogged pitch and the rearranged date of Thursday 5^th December allowed me to make the game. A freezing, awful night it was too; too cold for a yellow polo shirt and cashmere sweater combo, as often sported by the Absent Friends of Derek Llambias, with the Saltmeadows micro climate making it treacherous underfoot. Oxford, boasting Dave Kitson and Matt Clarke were truly awful, perhaps unsettled by news their manager Chris Wilding was in talks to take over at Portsmouth, but Gateshead, despite lovely approach play, failed to find a killer goal. Surely if Liam Hatch had been introduced sooner, one of the numerous aimless crosses would have been meat and drink for his prodigious heading skills; sadly it wasn’t to be and the referee, frozen to the marrow like the rest of us, brought things to a farcical close with the softest of penalty awards after 115 minutes.

It was tough on Gateshead, who’d hit the post and had one disallowed; they ought to have been away to Wrexham in round 2. At least the FA Trophy dream is alive. I would love to think that a proportion of the 2,632 who attended (even if many of them had shivered through the exits after 90 minutes) will return to cheer them on again. Sadly, I doubt I will, unless the mythical proposed ground on the site of the old North Durham cricket and rugby pitches becomes a reality. The worst thing about Gateshead Football Club, as ever, is the desolate wind tunnel that is the ground. The club is a jewel in the Geordie football crown and I wish them all the very best.

Season's Greetings

Another of the raft of brilliant new fanzines I've come across in the last 12 months is "Duck," which is dedicated to Stoke City. The following article appears in issue #4, which came out last Saturday for their home win over the Mackems, even though it had been supposed to come out on Saturday for the away game at Everton. Needless to say I'm delighted it appeared on a day the filth lost at the Britannia, but also because the game will go down in history as the day Gus Poyet took his coat off... It's just a shame I went to the NUFC v Massive Club citeh League Cup game to ruin the chronology of this piece, but no matter. Anyway, let's get festive.....

As far as I understand these things, issue #4 of Duck is being published to coincide with Stoke’s game at home to Everton on November 30^th. If you’re reading it on that date, I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you it is St. Andrew’s Day, though you may not be aware it is also my cousin John’s 52nd birthday. Happy birthday to him.

However, I’m writing this piece quite a long way before that date; a whole two months to be precise, on September 30^th, the very day my team, Newcastle United lost 3-2 to Everton at Goodison Park. Of course I wasn’t there. Frankly I couldn’t think of anywhere I’d less like to be than at a football match 200 miles from home at 10pm on a Monday. I’m 50 next year you realise; I need to be tucked up in bed by that time on a school night. Actually, I didn’t even watch the predictable, though as I’ll explain, ultimately meaningless defeat at the hands of the Scouse Mackems, as I’ve cancelled all my subscriptions to Sky Sports packages. Though I must confess that I did watch St Mirren’s 1-1 draw with Aberdeen on line, having borrowed my 80 year old mother’s BT Sport log-in details. Although, as it was frankly terrible, that’s nothing to brag about is it?

On November 30^th, Newcastle United play host to West Bromwich Albion, with a 5.30pm kick off. Quite a few years ago, before professional football sickened me, I used to love those Saturday tea-time kick offs; plenty of time for pre match boozing and a noticeably more raucous crowd as a result. Also, we seemed to do better at that time, never losing at home for instance. However, such feelings are in the past and what is a racing certainty is that I won’t be there for the Baggies game; not only that, I feel it’s very unlikely I’ll even get to see it on television, as I’ll be travelling back from watching my other team Heaton Stannington, of Northern League Division 2, playing away to Washington. Obviously this will be no great loss, as the only option available to me that of watching a game in the pub surrounded ill-informed cretins who know as much about the game as I know about marine microbiology, is about as pleasant as being painfully sodomised in a Turkish jail. Apparently.

The day after November 30^th is December 1^st; time to get your Advent Calendars up. I know that many of us view Christmas with the kind of enthusiasm turkeys have for the festive season, but despite the revulsion I feel when seeing adverts for Christmas parties appearing in the local press from mid-August onwards, acting as a nauseating counterpoint to the “back to school” adverts in supermarkets before the bairns have even broken up for their holidays, I’ve been looking forward to Boxing Day since the end of June. This is because I am going to see Newcastle United versus Stoke City on the Feast of Stephen, a fixture that last took place at The Victoria Ground in 1989, which will be my first NUFC experience of the 2013/2014 season. For the avoidance of doubt, I am solvent, able bodied and live, according to Google maps, 3.1 miles from St. James’ Park.

In 2009 Newcastle United were relegated for the third time in my life. Unlike 1978 and 1989, there was more than just footballing grief to cope with as I also had to deal with the fact my dad died and my son came out as an unapologetic rugby player. The cumulative effect of these traumatic events was such that I felt I had no choice but to bin the array of NUFC season tickets we’d had in the family since 1989 and 2003 respectively. While I was unable to comprehend my son’s sporting choice (he’s a second row, apparently) and left utterly inconsolable by my old man’s passing (still am I guess), it was a blessed relief that I no longer had to watch Newcastle United. For so many seasons, other than the Keegan and Robson eras in all honesty, the Premier League just hadn’t been any fun; mean-spirited, moaning twats in the stands, hysterical commentators mendaciously talking up the quality of the fare on offer, pampered prima donnas on the pitch and grasping owners fleecing the fans had broken my spirit. For years, I’d been delighted when games were switched to Sundays so I could get out and see real football, at a non-league level on a Saturday. Tyneside is home to the Northern League, which has produced the last 5 FA Vase winners, in Whitley Bay, Dunston and Spennymoor, so you can see a cracking game for £4 or £5 rather than lashing out the thick end of £40 to be defrauded by the likes of Michael Owen; on the rare instances he was fit.

Despite my intended abandonment of the Magpies 4 years ago, I found it almost impossible to stay away while Newcastle spent a pleasant, restorative gap-year in the Championship; in the end I saw a dozen home games, but in my defence, all bar 2 of them were Sunday or midweek (there’s loads of those in the Championship). I liked the atmosphere at the lower level; the away fans singing instead of grumbling and glowering,  teams trying to attack, the stick-thin wingers and porky goalkeepers and the fact we cruised to the title. I still watched the non-league game, but I was almost falling back in love with my club. Thankfully the Premiership stopped all that; the year after, I managed 5 games including a cup tie, all on free tickets. I don’t know if it was something to do with the fact we failed to win any of them (drawing 3-3 with West Brom after being 3-0 up for example) or because of the higher stakes of the Premiership, but the moaners were back in force. At that point I should have wised up and walked away, but like a dog that returns to its puke, my curiosity kept drawing me back.

In 2011/2012, my mate Chris took a 2 year contract abroad and I agreed to take on half of his season ticket, on the proviso I could have the Sunday and midweek games, in order to keep Saturdays free for non-league; it worked out well as I saw 7 wins, 2 draws and only 2 losses as the team finished 5^th. I wasn’t to know it at the time, but the 3-0 win over Stoke in April 2012 was the last decent game I would see at SJP. The following season’s UEFA cup run saw, like Stoke the year before, huge numbers of NUFC’s fixtures changed because of the Europa League and the club’s form and fortunes plummet as a stretched squad failed to cope. Despite a chronic campaign, I managed to see 6 wins, 1 draw and 3 defeats, but the majority of these victories were like the 2-1 win over Stoke in late February; late, spawny and totally undeserved.

A blinding insight occurred to me after a 93^rd minute Cisse winner in a 1-0 triumph over Fulham in early April; while Newcastle’s form, playing style and management were absolutely awful, none of that mattered. Whoever played for or managed the team, whatever position the club finished or even which division the side plied its trade, all of that was utterly irrelevant while Mike Ashley remained as owner of the club. Pardew could be sacked and replaced with another low-rent yes man from the diseased gene pool of failed second tier bosses, or even Joe Kinnear and it wouldn’t make a blind bit of difference; selling Cabaye and replacing him with Messi or a kid from Tranmere’s reserves would be equally pointless. Indeed, even if Ashley flogged the club to another shifty, avaricious venture capitalist concerned only with lining their own pockets, it wouldn’t matter one iota; all that matters is getting Ashley out and establishing fan ownership, hopefully at 100% though 51% will do for now. If that is the case, I’d be just as happy rubbing shoulders with FC United of Manchester as with Barcelona or Real Madrid, though I’d imagine most of our fans would settle for competing with Swansea City, an example of a fan owned club in the Premier League.

Sadly, I don’t have a recipe for either a plan of attack or the seamless transformation of my club from Ashley’s plaything to a fan owned democracy, but that won’t stop me from idealistically, perhaps unrealistically, hoping that one day we can bring about regime change on Barrack Road. Until then, I’ll continue supporting Heaton Stannington (and editing the programme), while repeating my mantra that whatever happens on the pitch, the training ground or in the dressing room is utterly irrelevant while Ashley is there.

As Christmas Day is a Wednesday this year, we get the treat of a full programme of Premier League fixtures on a Thursday. With no competing non-league fixtures, I have no choice but to head to St. James’ Park and the visit of Stoke City. I’ve known this would be the case since Sky Sports butchery of the fixture list for the autumn left Newcastle without a Sunday home game. I hope many of you reading this will be making the journey; if you can find The Bodega on Westgate Road, I’ll buy you a pint. I’d love to say “may the best team win,” but that wouldn’t be the truth; what I will say is that unless a miracle has happened at my club, it really won’t matter all that much who wins.

All Apologies

I can be a complete arsehole at times; especially on Twitter. On Saturday 16^th November, for no good reason, I posted a couple of stupid, childish tweets that were comprised of some childish, unnecessary digs at a pair of middle aged blokes I’ve never met before and who, I’ve been reliably informed by some independent intermediaries who I’m happy to call friends, are actually two very sound fellas. The tweets weren’t aggressive, threatening, intimidating, abusive or anything that could be deemed to be illegal; they were just childish, unnecessary and the work of someone who could only be described as a bit of a sad prick, with nothing better to do with his Saturday night than to act the cock on line. Basically I’ve let myself down, yet again, as really I should know better and prove that I’m a better person than this. 

As a result of my actions, two people I’ve never met before have had an on-line exchange with their mates where I was the main subject of debate, in highly derogatory and totally justified terms it has to be said. This is bad enough, as no-one likes to be thought badly of (especially those as insecure as me), though I am aware enough to know I’ve brought enmity on my head by my own daft actions, but what is far worse is that I’ve annoyed and let down someone who I like tremendously and who has been a firm and loyal friend over a number of years. Whatever explanation I try to find for my actions (I was half cut and in a bad mood, despite a thoroughly enjoyable evening with some vinyl classics from the past and a few drinks with my son), there are no excuses or even any justification for my conduct. Yes I’ve got a busy schedule and a lot of stress caused by my role as carer for my elderly and increasingly frail mother, as well as certain other difficulties going on in my life, but the existence of that stress doesn’t justify a snide and unnecessary pop at totally innocent people who went about their business without giving me even a second thought on Saturday. Despite the fact I deleted the offending tweets, their content was noted, offence was taken and there’s nothing I can do to repair this damage, other than making a sincere offer of sending £100 to the charity of choice of those I made mischief about. Even if they take me up on that offer, and I’ve no reason to think that they will, it doesn’t mean they’ll suddenly begin to think I’m a decent bloke, which I think I am most of the time. Perhaps I’ll find out at North Shields v Esh Winning in the Ernest Armstrong Cup on Wednesday 20^th November.

Most importantly for me, someone I regard as a friend and who only days before made a wonderful gesture that I’ll be eternally grateful to him for, will think badly of me for the foreseeable future. I hope I can mend fences with him, but that is dependent on time I’d imagine, not to mention me proving that there are the actions behind these weasel words to show I’ve learned my lesson, rather than just moping around the place all day Sunday. If it is of any consolation, the two I had a pop at probably didn’t give me a second thought all day and my wronged friend no doubt had a great day with his family; meanwhile I thought of little else all day and could only find a degree of ease by penning this belated, ineffectual apology.

It is of course interesting to compare my self-inflicted, on-line wounds with the difficulties faced by Steven Taylor after his latest crass indiscretion on Twitter. Having had the mickey taken out of him by Massadio Haidara for his lack of skills, while struggling to learn French, Taylor responded by posting an insensitive tweet, including 3 stereotypical images of black people and one of Vurnon Anita. Following a universal negative reaction to it, Taylor belatedly wised up, took the tweet down and apologised profusely for any offence he may have caused. While his post was allegedly made in humour and apparently was accepted with good grace by Anita, Cisse, Haidara and Sissoko, it shows an appalling lack of tact, class and awareness by Taylor who may be charged by the FA for his indiscretion. Of course we are able to discount The Daily Mail’s manufactured, opportunistic outrage as it came at the end of a week where they endlessly campaigned against the presence of Slovak Roma in Sheffield. In addition, I was astonished to discover that Taylor is now 27 years of age. Indeed, next March will be the tenth anniversary of his debut for the first team. Where does the time go?

Taylor is an increasingly divisive figure among Newcastle United fans; initially being seen as the great Geordie hope, which resulted in him being inappropriately christened the Cullercoats Cannavaro, the Monkseaton Maldini or Steven “The Power” Taylor by those who really ought to have known better, he became better known as a figure of fun for his ridiculous theatrics to try and avoid being sent off for handball on the goal line against Aston Villa in April 2005 and a farcical run down the full length of the pitch after his debut goal in the 2006 UEFA Cup, which gave us a 2-1 win over Celta Vigo. Also, a stupid, impetuous streak entered his game that meant he was often more interested in kicking the player than playing the ball; the 5-1 loss at home to Manchester United in February 2008 demonstrated this, as did his red card on the opening day of this season away to Manchester City. In many ways this explains why, post 2009 relegation, no other top flight clubs came in for him; he just isn’t as good as he should have been or thinks he is. Certainly, I’d put Mike Williamson as our third choice centre back ahead of Taylor. When one considers Taylor’s glib quotations to the media and his arrogant persona, it isn’t far from the truth to state he is equally unpopular with Newcastle and sunderland fans.

However, despite the fact he had his jaw broken by Andy Carroll after a training ground fracas allegedly caused by Taylor’s big mouth, Taylor is still at St. James’s Park, though Carroll obviously isn’t. Taylor hasn’t been in any sort of bother off the pitch, other than this Twitter idiocy, but Carroll’s difficulties are legion and legendary; yet many Newcastle fans would forgive him still and some harbour a desire to see him back at the club. Personally I prefer to stick with Loic Remy, despite the continued presence of the pair of elephants in the room; his loan deal and the as yet unresolved rape allegation against him that is next up for review on November 21^st. Without seeking to prejudice the outcome of that investigation or the legal process involving former Newcastle striker Nile Ranger, who is in court to answer a charge of rape in February, I do feel Carroll and Remy were given far more understanding, support and an easier ride by fans of Newcastle United than Nile Ranger.

It is my contention that Nile Ranger will prove to be the great lost talent at Newcastle United this century. Of course his off field antics don’t help him, especially as they appear to be continuing at Swindon Town, where he has repaid their faith in him by going missing without permission from training for the past week. While Swindon have now given Ranger leave of absence to prepare for the trial, where he intends to plead not guilty, the whole grubby mess seems to show all parties in a bad light. While Carroll’s antics off the pitch were seen as high jinks by a Geordie lad and Remy’s conduct is seen as none of the club’s business as it happened before he arrived at SJP, Ranger was relentlessly pilloried for any mistake he made; to the extent that one middle aged NUFC fan offered to meet Ranger for a pagger outside The Forth after the Chelsea home game last season. Such conduct is totally uncalled for; Ranger made mistakes and failed to do the business on the pitch in any sustained way, but he deserved more support than he got and he certainly didn’t warrant the kind of relentless personal condemnation he attracted.

I feel that Ranger suffered because he was English, black and a Londoner; all these elements combined to make him antipathetic to many of our fans. Remy is foreign and exciting, Carroll is a hot-headed local, but Ranger is arrogant and antagonistic. While Remy is French and therefore exotic, granting him a degree of latitude, and Carroll is a Geordie and therefore “one of our own,” Ranger pushes the button for many regionally intolerant types. I suppose it is relevant to point out Steven Taylor was actually born in Greenwich at this point.

I hope Steven Taylor grows up and realises the folly of his actions on Twitter, as do I; we’re both idiots, we both should know better, we’ve both apologised, we both need to learn from recent events, and we both hope that a line can be drawn under the past few days. However, even more sincerely, I hope Nile Ranger can get his life back on track and harness his undoubted talent to ensure he has a career he can look back on his pride and not regrets. I hope Andy Carroll can also achieve something tangible from his career once he is over his injury problems. All of these things are in some doubt, but it does put my stupid conduct in context.

Apologies again to all those I’ve offended. 

ill communication

The pace of events influencing the current state of Newcastle United, both on and off the pitch, shows no indication of slowing below a breakneck gallop at any time soon. With most clubs, the near fortnight’s break from the Premier League provided by a couple of meaningless international friendlies would be seen as the ideal opportunity to step back and view recent happenings with a sense of perspective and detachment. Certainly, maximum points and clean sheets from successive fixtures against Chelsea and Spurs, the latter involving the finest Newcastle United goalkeeping performance since Krul’s debut away in Palermo 7 long years ago, should be reason to celebrate and allow the side a modicum of forgiveness for the appalling loss on Wearside at the end of last month. However, this is Newcastle United we’re talking about and while 9^th spot, a negative goal difference and 17 points may not be enough to send the supporters into a frenzy of ecstatic street parties, it is probably better than many of us dared hope for at this stage of the season. That said, as the owner supports one or other of the two sides we’ve recently vanquished, he’s probably responded to Pardew’s idiotic post Spurs presser where he referenced the chance of us qualifying for next season’s Europa League, by demanding two home losses to Norwich and West Brom in the next couple of fixtures to ensure we don’t drift too far from the Premier League’s pelagic zone between 8^th and 15^th. To paraphrase the Socialist Workers’ Party; neither Europe nor relegation, but mediocrity.

While stating that Krul’s display at White Hart Lane was wonderful to behold, clearly this level of performance must be maintained on a regular basis by the Dutch keeper to prove that this wasn’t just a flash in the pan and he actually has the dedication and humility to knuckle down and become the goalkeeper he has the talent to be. Personally I feel that Frazer Forster is the far more accomplished keeper, but I’m happy to be proved wrong in the fullness of time. This issue, however, is a minor detail on the expansive canvas that is the intricate, abstract triptych of Newcastle United’s ceaselessly evolving self-portrait. 

It is a matter of some amazement to me that elsewhere in the North East, the insane and loathsome Di Canio, whose vile attitudes under the cloak of antics had appeared to have been granted carte blanche by his employer on the back of a certain 3-0 result back in April and the baleful Cro-Magnon impersonator Mowbray, who everyone assumed to have a job for life, both found themselves out on their ears by mid-October, while the hapless, tactically clueless, smug, bland, spineless, toadying yes man who is Alan Pardew continues in employment at SJP. That said, if the rumour mill is to be believed Pards, as no-one of any worth as a human being would call him except as a term of abject contempt, is being linked with the Crystal Palace job and lined up to replace the frankly detestable Ian Holloway. Aside from wondering just exactly why the current boss of a club the size of Newcastle United, regardless of the relative histories or the current situation of either team, would want to leave in order to assume control at Selhurst Park, where relegation is  assured, even if he did play for them for the better part of his career, this potential change of roles demonstrates the contempt in which Pardew is held by almost all Newcastle fans, by cognisance of the fact that the only voices expressing any disquiet about his possible decamping to the Eagles, Glaziers or whatever their current nickname is, are those whose worry is categorised entirely as a fear whether Ashley would apply one final humiliating dig in the ribs for the support by appointing (strictly speaking,  reappointing) Kinnear as manager as a cynical coup de grace and an attempt to empty the stadium forever.

And, despite learned tactical debates as to whether Cisse is worth a place in the team or exactly how Pardew manages to leave Anita out every week, this is precisely the point where Newcastle United goes from being quite interesting to utterly fascinating. Rather than between the touchlines and in the minutes from kick off to final whistle, it is in the labyrinthine machinations of the club’s third rate communications department, the fourth estate at both a local and national level and despicable fifth columnists among the support deviously pursuing their own agenda, that the club truly engages the minds of a city and the Geordie diaspora worldwide. All of which yet again proves the veracity of my mantra; wherever the team finishes or whoever plays for or manages them, is utterly irrelevant while Mike Ashley remains at St James’ Park. We need Ashley OUT and 100% Fan Ownership IN as an eventual aim, though I admit I am being swayed by the idea of 51% Fan Ownership as a time-constrained, transitional demand.

The essential meaning of the complex strands of related events that interweave and diverge throughout the bemusing, garish tapestry that represents the day to day life of being either an integral part of or a parasitic entity living off the body politic of Newcastle United, may not be immediately discernible, but a clear pattern is emerging and it is one that does certain elements no credit whatsoever. Just when it seemed like communication was providing a potential way forward in uniting the fans and exploring links with the middle echelons of management at SJP, hard faced confrontation and an utter disinclination to  compromise have now been adopted as the default position of most of those on both sides of the fence. Perhaps this is by design or perhaps it is by accident; whichever, the result is a depressing dearth of meaningful dialogue among fans and with the club. Even more alarming, strange alliances and unlikely liaisons have been formed for reasons of expediency that have the effect of alienating other elements of the support who find themselves rusticated and consequently otiose.

Towards the end of last season, Newcastle United banned The Daily Telegraph’s Luke Edwards from St. James’ Park because of a wholly inaccurate, mischievous article dripping with Francophobic enmity that suggested there was a schism in the dressing room between French speakers and non-French speakers. Subsequently, rather like Martin Hardy’s embarrassingly hysterical claim that the Wonga deal would see every Muslim player at Newcastle United depart the club in protest at this grubby, tawdry commercial tie-in, Edwards was shown to have written something that was either pure fantasy or deliberate lies, depending on your interpretation. Edwards had little or no sympathy among NUFC’s support or even his colleagues in the press, which was telling.

Rather like the messianic, arrogant narcissism that blights the career and reputation of David Conn, I don’t like Edwards’s work, his stance, his employers or his modus operandi and so I warmly applauded the fact he was kept out of the ground. I don’t hate journalists; many of them are excellent at their job. There are national journalists who report brilliantly on Newcastle United; George Caulkin is obviously the best of all, but Simon Bird, when he isn’t implementing savage Government spending cuts on the poor and weak in Newcastle in his role as a Labour councillor, and to an extent Martin Hardy also tell the truth about our club; critical fans with the interests of the club, not their own CV, at heart. However, please don’t assume I think journalists have to be fans of Newcastle United to report accurately on the team. As regards the local press; suffice to say that Bradford City supporting Mark Douglas of The Journal is unique is his ability to construct a simple declarative sentence involving both balanced thought and articulate expression. Consequently, it is with an immense amount of shock I am forced to accept that many NUFC fans now view Lee Ryder of The Evening Chronicle as the Rosa Parks of Thompson House.

With the kind of crass timing that has become an integral feature of the endless series of public relations disasters which have been the touchstones of the Ashley regime, the post-match press conference following the defeat at the Mackems was seen as the ideal moment to reveal that the club had placed an embargo on dealings with NCJ Media. Just as Alan Pardew was about to speak, Wendy Taylor the club’s Communications Manager, or whatever spurious title this Albert Speer in court shoes is working under, made it clear Ashley’s puppet would not be responding to any questions posed by The Journal or Evening Chronicle as they’d been sent to sit on the naughty step for having the temerity to give positive coverage to the Time 4 Change march that had taken place before the Liverpool game. The bizarre thing about this is that by no means did Time 4 Change attract universal approval; the depoliticised and the Wonga wearing sheep who would accept any outrageous act by the ownership as they simply “support the team” are not the only constituent parts of NUFC’s support that had no engagement with the Time 4 Change march. Realising that we’ve many inroads to make on the political consciousness of a support that apparently includes 37% who earn more than £50k a year, it is more depressingly to realise there are others who made a great show about their voluble lack of engagement with any public shows of opposition to the Ashley regime and I find that troubling.

One of the catchphrases of the Casual Connoisseur attired sticker brigade is Against Modern Football. However, despite endless use as a slogan, hash tag or both, it is becoming less and less clear to me just exactly what this statement means. To me, rather than a committed call to arms against the problems in the game, it actually appears to be an empty statement used by those who don’t stop to think exactly how conformist their stance actually is. Rather than being part of a solution, the stickerati seem content to hide behind a glib expression that, in their minds, justifies an obsession with fashion, as they consequently eschew any political stance that rejects all of the things that have gone wrong with our game. If they are Against Modern Football, are they in favour of Ye Olde 80s Football, embracing threats of violence, casual racism and unsafe grounds? I seriously doubt it, though I also seriously doubt they’ve stopped to think for a nanosecond just what they do stand for and, frankly, it’s time that they did think a bit more about the future of the game and a bit less about knitwear.

The Time 4 Change march was an opportunity to actually get involved with a visible protest against the evils of the current regime at SJP. However, it appears for a certain kind of podgy, bespectacled Chris Griffin lookalike that being Against Modern Football doesn’t actually mean involving yourself in fan led protests against the club being torn apart, but rather seems to concentrate on festooning pub toilets with brightly coloured bits of paper and posting selfies on Instagram of your latest hat taken on the bus each morning. Why is this the case? It is even more ludicrous than the behaviour of the club to ban NCJ Media.

Implausibly it appeared that this ban had been issued on the Monday before NUFC’s trip to the dark side, but had been hushed up by NCJ Media in the hope of maintaining a sense of unity of purpose in the build-up to this game. Frankly this struck me as about as morally defensible as Frau Fritzl encouraging her brood to send Fathers’ Day cards to Herr Jozef. In support of NCJ Media, or more accurately to complain about the club once again moving to suppress any form of dissent, an idea came from Twitter, not initiated by Time 4 Change or NUST, though unequivocally supported by both organisations, specifically that supporters took a copy of The Journal or Evening Chronicle to wave over their heads as a protest, as the front page featured a direct address to Ashley; bland, naïve and depoliticised in tone, naturally enough. There was also a mooted sit-in at full time in protest, but Remy’s late strike to seal the points probably put paid to that idea. 

I’m not sure of the efficacy of the newspaper gesture, but I am mildly surprised that NUST didn’t suggest fans waved copies of The Mag or some vehicle claiming to have an independent voice as a show of both strength and as a clear indication of whom precisely runs the Time 4 Change show these days.

It is interesting to think about the idea of a coherent independent voice inside the ground, whereby voice in this instance actually means the sound of supporters, rather than the philosophical concept of fans expressing their opinions in an official capacity. From the incoherent ashes of the Toon Ultras, whose sole raison d’etre appeared to be filling the Strawberry Corner with noxious fumes from smoke canisters in Europa League games last season, there has appeared the inchoate organisation Division 92 (http://division92.co.uk/) whose purpose appears to be to bring the noise back to St James’ Park. For this end, they “worked with” the club to identify a section of the Gallowgate Upper in which to wave their shoes during the Man City league cup tie. The particularly interesting thing is that while most of those interested in such public displays of uber fandom, as opposed to watching the game, remained loyal to their instructions from the club, a sizeable minority (Continuity Division 92?) drifted off to the Strawberry Corner to chant Get Out of Our Club to Ashley, when not informing Massive Club citeh that their support was fucking shit. Drawing a veil over the idiocy of such remarks, it is intriguing to wonder just whether NUFC will be prepared to allow such an experiment to happen again, consequently providing an established space in the ground for teenagers to abuse the owner. I’d guess this may have been a one-off opportunity and Division 92 will be restricted to pogoing because they love the Toon at the likes of Hull later in the season.

The serious point about all of this is just exactly how far fans can communicate with the club and not be manipulated, as Division 92 undoubtedly were in return for vague promises of a permanent singing section. The long hoped for NUFC Fans’ Forum, that Fans’ Liaison Officer Lee Marshall had worked so hard to bring to fruition, is in a state of crisis following the resignation of Gallowgate End representative Paul Robson, who is also part of the team behind the estimable Shite Seats blog (http://www.shiteseats.co.uk/), because of his disgust at the NCJ Media ban. While I can understand Robbo’s position and applaud him for both his honesty and integrity, I wonder whether he would not have been better inside the tent as it were; then again, he will be replaced and hopefully by someone of equal quality. Rather more ominously, also missing from the next Fans Forum meeting in December will be NUST who have been excluded from all future meetings because of an inexcusable breach of protocol after the first meeting that they are seeking to unconvincingly explain away as a minor indiscretion.

Having become disenchanted with NUST’s abject inaction following the 2010 elections to the Trust board, I allowed my membership to lapse at the end of that year. However, I recently re-joined, as have a number of people of my acquaintance. My reasons for doing so are twofold; while NUST has demonstrated itself to be largely toothless, impotent and complacent over the past few years, it exists as a democratic organisation and thus it is ripe for reanimation at the next set of elections for board members. I believe such a policy is known as entrism and was rather successful in the Labour Party in the 1980s. Basically: join, stick together, take over and use the structure to achieve something tangible. Watch this space…

The other reason I’ve re-joined NUST is to register my disgust at the way their representative Peter Fanning approached the matter of posting minutes of the Fans’ forum meeting on line. Rather than allowing the club to put it on their site, NUST had their version of the minutes, written in a cynical, negative tone it has to be said, up within a day. I’m not sure this was Peter Fanning’s idea, or whether he simply wrote the minutes. Whatever the reason, I have to say that to me, this was an unprofessional and discourteous act to all in attendance, especially as they had all agreed to and subsequently signed a code of conduct. Let’s be clear about this; the Trust were not banned from the Fans’ Forum for speaking their mind, but for behaving in this crass manner. Now, personally, I do not know whether the decision to place the minutes on-line in breach of protocol was done in error or as a deliberate act of sabotage, but the effect of it was not only to get themselves banned, but to ultimately render the Fans’ Forum almost an irrelevance, mainly because of the increased profile recent events have given NUST. I’m not sure if this is simply my instinct, but it certainly feels as if the actions of NUST have had the effect of totally discrediting an idea that both Lee Marshall and NUFC Fans United have worked so hard and so painstakingly to make real. Rather than being a cause of regret, their exclusion has been a publicity opportunity they’ve seized with both fists.

The actions of NUST have further, in my eyes, utterly side-lined NUFC Fans United; this umbrella organisation that I have long supported and involved myself in sought to provide a conduit of communication between fans and the club. Because of the club’s idiocy in banning NCJ Media and NUST’s actions in getting themselves thrown out of the Fans’ Forum, whether accidentally or on purpose, the very idea of communication between the warring factions (The Chronicle, despite several bald men fighting over combs on Twitter, is now in a shotgun marriage of convenience with NUST) is simply off the agenda. As a result, excellent, hard-working supporters like Bill Corcoran, Zahra Zomorrodian, Steve Hastie and Steve Wraith have seen all of their hard work go to waste. Consequently, NUST, The Mag and others in their corner have been able to harness the energy, ideas and organisational ability of Time 4 Change, despite the need for a few Stalinist purges of those not quite “on message” and reposition a large section of the organised fan base into a conflict setting that serves their purpose.

As a result, it appears to me that NUFC Fans United can only really exist in future as a conduit to take items to the Fans’ Forum as suggested by participants and then to feedback on what has been learned, but all the while realising that the meetings convened by the club are not representative of the whole support, not to mention running the risk of another mercurial, confrontational decision issued from on high, guaranteed to upset the fans. Consequently, I won’t be attending the NUFC Fans United meeting on Wednesday 13^th November (I am at work in any case), but I would urge all those who do, to also join NUST as that organisation is ripe for change and appears to be the vehicle most suited for the purpose of both leading the support forward and for re-engaging with the club in a meaningful way, providing we join in enough numbers to sweep away the current leadership.

North by North West

Dublin may have won the football final and Clare, much to my despair, the hurling after a replay against Cork, but the garrison games still have a central place in the Irish sporting consciousness. While Ireland beat Australia in the compromise rules series and Scotland in the hurling meets shinty tests, proper football was drawing to a close as the 2013 Irish domestic season concentrated on the FAI Cup Final at the AVIVA Stadium.

Anthony Elding’s 93^rd minute winner helped settle a pulsating final in front of a disappointing crowd of 17,753 when Sligo Rovers, who came third in the league overall, overcame a spirited Drogheda United side 3-2 in a game that managed to outdo the drama of the other excellent FAI Finals  that have taken place since the showpiece event moved to the AVIVA in 2010. The Bit o’ Red’s third success in 4 years at this venue was achieved with 5 Englishmen in the team: Elding, two-goal Man of the Match Danny North, ex Newcastle United trainee Jeff Henderson, captain Danny Ventre and former AFC Wimbledon player Kieran Djilali, not to mention their former Scunthorpe United boss Ian Barraclough. In addition, 38 year old Cameroonian international Joseph Ndo, the finest player in the League of Ireland for 10 years of more, bossed the centre of midfield all game. Sligo are a great club, with a smashing ground in a fabulous part of the world and I’m delighted to see them doing so well.

The cup final brought down the curtain on the 2013 domestic season that saw the usual collection of superb games and farcical financial malfeasance that characterises the Airtricity League. St Patrick’s Athletic were deserved champions, winning the title from Dundalk, who had a great campaign to finish only 3 points behind. The EA Sports League Cup saw Drogheda United again fail at the final hurdle, going down 2-0 to Shamrock Rovers, who finished the league in a disappointing 5^th place, but who have apparently signed a pre contract agreement with departing Hibs boss Pat Fenlon, to bring the former Bohs supremo to Tallaght. Lucky him. Unlucky Drogs, who lost their third cup final of the season early on, when Shams won the largely ignored “cross border” Setanta Sports Cup, by the enormous margin of 7-1. After all those cup adventures, it’s no wonder that Drogs ended the season down in 8^th place. Poor sods.

Consequently, the European qualifiers are St Patrick’s Athletic in the Champions’ League and Dundalk, Sligo Rovers and Derry City in the Europa League, where they’ll all be granted the opportunity of having their pants taken down by a double digit two legged loss to the likes of Sheriff Tiraspol in mid July 2014. 

Cork City were a solid 6^th and Limerick, featuring former Newcastle United reserve Patrick Nzuzi, had a commendable first campaign back in the top flight to finish a place below them and above the cupless Drogs. UCD were 9^th and former Big Club Bohemians were just about safe in 10^th. Oh how Da Boez have come to regret not selling Dalier at the height of the Irish property bubble and relocating out by the airport; the club, Ireland’s finest, still struggles along. This all meant Shelbourne, who finished bottom, went back down after 2 undistinguished seasons in the top flight that they’d struggled so bravely to get back into. Bray Wanderers went into the play-offs and overcame Longford Town over 2 legs to maintain their status in the top flight, much to the relief of denizens of what is always referred to as Wicklow’s soccer-mad town.

As ever, the first division held the most intrigue and farcical happenings. Athlone Town were champions by 5 points from Longford, who were required to play off home and away against Mervue United to face Bray. If Longford had lost, Bray would have been safe without a play off as Mervue had no intention of accepting promotion as, after their best ever season in the senior game Mervue have, along with fellow Galwegians Salthill, who finished adrift by 14 points, both served notice of their decision to quit the league. They may also be joined in the departure lounge by 5^th placed Wexford Youths, on account of the business troubles of owner Mick Wallace TD, the love interest of purged former Socialist Party TD Clare Daly. Unless some kind of reanimated Galway United are admitted to the league, which is the FAI’s dearest wish, then the first division will presumably run on 5 teams next season. Absolutely insane. Waterford United, as is their wont, blew any chance of the play-offs by finishing 4^th, only 3 points behind Longford, while Finn Harps and Cobh Ramblers, the latter re-joining the league after a 4 year hiatus, were second and third bottom, both on 31 points.

Of course, all this is subject to the machinations of the FAI licensing committee, who’ll not confirm the make-up of the league until mid-February 2014. Before then, they’ve the unenviable task of persuading a cynical support (especially me) that the ideal solution to the hangover lingering after the terrible Trappatoni era is to appoint Martin O’Neill with Roy Keane as his assistant, to the gig of national team boss.

Two mad, paranoid, self-obsessed failed ex Mackem managers; what could possibly go wrong? Expect Ireland to win the 2016 European Championships…..