Joyous Listening (& Watching)

Culture time....

MUSIC:

My last music blog in early September was dedicated entirely to The Drummer himself;

Lord Neilson of Govan (http://payaso-de-mierda.blogspot.com/2019/09/the-drummer.html ). This meant other recently acquired music was put on a back burner, which was a little unfair on Josef K, whose Sorry For Laughing, accompanied with a CD of their initial demos, made under the previous name of TV Art was my birthday present from Ben. I wasn’t aware it had ever been released and it was quite a shock pitting it against 1981’s seminal suicide note, The Only Fun in Town, which found its genesis in the band’s busy, scuttling angular throb of the Brussels recordings for Les Disques du Crepuscule in January 1981, whose uncompromising power and volume took the band beyond Pere Ubu and towards the Gang of Four, compared to the summer 1980 recording of Sorry For Laughing that sounded like the Talking Heads; off kilter and uncommercial, but not confrontational or uncompromising. Comparing the two albums and the demos, there is a clear sense of progression from proto guitar and synthpop as TV Art, through to the sense of arcane guitar-based iconoclasm on Sorry For Laughing that includes 5 of the demo songs, 3 that appeared there and nowhere else and 5 that also appeared on the clattering, headstrong menace of The Only Fun in Town, that introduced 5 other songs. These 21 songs, plus Heart of Song’s other life as Radio Drill Time, are the legacy of Scotland’s second most important band of that era. In retrospect, I think the band were artistically correct and commercially crazy to scrap the SFL tapes in favour of TOFIT. However, I’m delighted to own the pair of them.

When it comes to live music, I’ve never previously been tempted by the various iterations of the annual Tusk Festival, which has been an annual feature of the Tyneside music scene for more than a decade now. However, news that legendary outsider bluesman Jandek and inspirational French prog iconoclasts Magma were playing stirred my attention. Sadly, they were on separate days so, at nigh on £30 a pop, I had to decide between the 2. Jandek won because he was on the Saturday.

On the day of the event, my legendary anxiety kicked in and my journey to Gateshead on a packed 57, longer than many short haul flights I’ve taken in the past, didn’t help. Entering the Sage, the first sound I heard was a repeated 2 note piano motif that I assumed was part of the Festival. Only when I reached the café did I discover that the noise was actually being made by a 6-year-old bairn, whose parents indulgently smiled on him as they took coffee. Knowing Tusk, it could well have been part of the festival.

Up the stairs and into the Northern Sinfonia Room for the first time ever, I joined a crowd of about 30, in a ration of about 30:0 male to female, awaiting the first act on; Swiss Barns. Assessing this small gathering and the larger audience later that day, it seemed as if every punter attending boasted at least 4 items from the following list: beards, baldness, spectacles, black t-shirt and a tote bag full of esoteric vinyl. This was explained by the racket Swiss Barns made; 2 viola players, one of each gender, wandered on stage, said nothing and then proceeded to make a Third Ear Band style drone for half an hour. While initially the scratching and shrieking seemed to be the sort of thing, you’d not give house room to, in case it scares the cats, a hypnotic undercurrent of Irish folk flourishes was discernible beneath the beseeching wails and pizzicato meanderings. What did strike me as interesting was the presence of a backing track, which showed this piece was not improvisational practice, but a structured, rehearsed piece. That said, I wasn’t sure whether the loud / quiet / fast / slow sections indicated discrete elements or one continuous piece, because of the absence of any recognisable, repeated motifs or phrasings. And then it stopped. They bowed and said nothing while a few people applauded. Fair play to them, though my interest did begin to wander about 15 minutes in. I suppose it would have been a treat for people who listen to Henry Cow voluntarily, but they couldn’t hold a candle in performance terms to Warren Ellis.

The afternoon promised lectures and some sort of experimental film show, but I opted for Benfield 4 Northallerton 3, which I thought was the better choice. I was back for 6pm to see Luke Poot introduce the evening entertainment. Attired in a surgical gown and mask, he adopted the persona of a mad ranting lad, babbling on about shopping options in Withernsea, accompanied by some rambling backing track that had little to do with what he was saying. He ended by repeating the word “fun” in a silly accent for 5 minutes, apologised and wandered off stage. I enjoyed him tremendously, unlike KA Baird who was next on in Hall 2. A woman with a bad perm in a white boiler suit doing a terrible Diamanda Galas impersonation and looking like Robin Trower. She began hitting herself over the head with a djemba, before picking up a flute, which was my cue to head out for a pint. Never mind putting this on at the Sage, if you herded everyone who really liked this together, you could hold it in the cupboard under my stairs. If we did, I’d still shut the door.  In 43 years of gig going, this was down in the bottom 5 performances I’ve ever seen.

Thankfully, Jandek made the trip worthwhile. Mesmerising, otherworldly and utterly uncommunicative, his 3-piece pick up band made the dirtiest delta blues I’ve ever heard. Nick Cave and Jon Spencer would give their eye teeth to have the authentic stench of the deep south that Jandek has. He spent 40 minutes on drums, then 20 on guitar and I’ve no idea if this was 2 pieces or more, but the weird and wonderful representative from Corwood Industries beguiled me. Strangely, a load of the audience were not impressed and a steady drift from gig to bar was discernible. Their loss.

I’d never been to Gosforth Civic Theatre before. I nearly went to an 18^th Birthday do in April 1983 but didn’t make it in the end. My NE3 musical virginity was ended a mere 36 years later when The Drummer Alex Neilson put Laura and I on the guest list for the Alasdair Roberts gig. I’m very glad he did as not only was it an excellent gig, but it gave me a chance to buy his new album The Fiery Margin that was simply unattainable from all independent record shops in Newcastle, which is both disappointing and worrying. Support was from Phil Tyler and a female singer / guitarist from Consett I didn’t catch the name of, impressively playing self-penned compositions from the folk tradition under the moniker Yakka Doon.

Alasdair was billed as being accompanied by friends; viola all the way from Leitrim, double bass (played in the Stray Cats style) and The Drummer, for an evening of acoustic excellence. Ranging across most points of his back catalogue, together with the strong presence of new material, it was a brilliant evening. Shamefully it was my first Alasdair solo gig and I luxuriated in the stories he had to tell. It was a beautifully paced and executed set, rounded off with a highly enjoyable chat over a couple of pints in a venue I’d like to go back to soon.

Following a fruitless search in all of Newcastle’s independent search, I was delighted to be able to purchase a copy of The Fiery Margin on CD from Alasdair himself. It’s a virtuoso triumph from start to finish; stunning musicianship, inspirational vocals and literate, narrative words that compel you to listen hard as the baroque folk stylings where traditional melodies float by as persuasive gobbets of pavane and plainsong. Standout tracks are: False Flesh, Actors and The Untrue Womb, all of whom stand close to the genius of The Drummer’s impeccable Otterburn from earlier this year.

 Being candid, the thought of a trip to the sterile Academy to see The Wedding Present do Bizarro didn’t fill me with excitement, to say the least. The lack of anticipation reminded me of the days when Ben and I had season tickets and, with a sense of duty rather than pleasure weighing heavily over our attendance at a game rearranged to Sunday lunchtime or Monday evening, we sighed and made the journey, nonetheless. However, unlike NUFC back in the day, the equivalent of a rip roaring 6-0 home win unexpectedly sprang out of nowhere. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve seen The Weddoes, but this must be in the top 5 times I’ve seen them, while Ben reckons it was the best show, he’s seen this lot do.  Alright, we knew we could rely on Brassneck, Kennedy, Granadaland and Take Me for highlights and none of these disappointed, primarily because drummer Charles Layton’s administrative role in compiling set lists has seen him take the crucial step of splitting the album up and inserting tracks at appropriate places in the set, but even minor Gedge moments such as Deer in the Headlights and Montreal were punched out with a frenzied panache that showed both pride and professionalism. No Boo Boo. No Corduroy. No Dalliance. No My Favourite Dress even. We did get new songs such as Telemark and a wonderful cover of Magazine’s A Song from Under the Floorboards, which really did make the evening feel special, with the absolute headlight being a simply monstrous Click Click. Mr Gedge is nigh on 60, but this gig was no nostalgia fest; it was a strong step forward, though Danielle Wadey’s maternity leave may have something to say about the band’s plans in the near to mid-future.

Another plus point was the relative lack of boorish boys in the moshpit. This gig saw loads of women getting totally into the band; word perfect singing along, dancing in an uninhibited way and just having a great time, without being showered in tepid lager by balding bozos.

As an aside, one half of Swiss Barns is Ailbhe Nic Oireachtaigh, who is also one of Alasdair Roberts’s friends, as well as a member of Woven Skull. Having been blown to smithereens by their magnificent debut album last time around, I sought out everything else that was available by them. This consisted of one 7” split single with Thor and Friends, who I’ve little time for. Thankfully, the Woven Skull side, The Cracking of the Limbs, is an utterly brilliant piece from much earlier in their career. It’s more like Sweet Tooth or Earth than GY!BE but the thunderous Turkish / Balkan influenced pummelling of instruments is to be greatly applauded. Very glad I tracked this down.

TELEVISION:

While I’ve always enjoyed Bosco, The Late, Late Show and Come West Along the Road, there’s no doubt the best drama that RTE have done this century was the intense Dublin crime series Love/Hate. Gritty realism doesn’t come near describing the scabrous, intense demi monde of Dublin’s violent gangland. All 5 series were brilliant and bruising, but the series never had a chance of appealing to the refined Brit viewing public, more accustomed to Minder and Morse, therefore it is with enormous personal pleasure I’ve not only watched BBC’s Dublin Murders agog with anxious anticipation, but enjoyed seeing the overwhelming positive reviews the series has garnered.

It’s important to note that Killian Scott, who starred in Love / Hate as Tommy is stealing the show as Detective Rob Reilly, with an absolutely faultless English accent for someone born in County Limerick. A brooding, vengeful plain clothes Guard with a backstory as detailed and scary as a Nort Soide family tree, his partner in crime solving is Cassie Maddox, played by Corkonian Sarah Greene, who exudes just enough Dublinese street slang to make her fortuitous ownership of a Blackrock pad  believable. Just about every character is given edge enough that we believe them. The taut, oppressive atmosphere filled with hateful secrets from the past is both credible and unforgiving. This is superb televised drama.

Anyone with a degree of intelligence and a grain of humanity will have come to the only possible conclusion about The Troubles; A Secret History.  Specifically, the British Government armed, funded, trained and sheltered the UDA, the UVF and every other Loyalist murder gang that spent half a century slaughtering both active Republicans and non-combatant members of the broader Nationalist community. Consequently, anyone who accepts this will also sympathise with the aspiration for self-determination by the Nationalist community in the north of Ireland. Read that last sentence properly; it does not say “I agree with the IRA.” However, what I will say is that the Catholic population in the Six Counties suffered institutional racism in a way comparable to the indigenous population during apartheid era South Africa.

This 6-part series, commemorating 50 years since the start of The Troubles brought this out, both in programmes from a Nationalist and, on 2 occasions, a Loyalist viewpoint.  The raving right-wing fundamentalist lunatics from post Reformation pulpits were given scant air time, such is the irrelevance of their ideological position, as were the landed gentry of the Tories in sashes OUP. The Loyalist position was expounded by both the dead eyed, shaven headed, tattooed men of violence and their plummy voiced puppeteers from Sandhurst.  For six weeks the tragic tale of two generations of Six Counties residents was told in intimate detail. Even after 20 years of relative peace, the scars remain; bloodlines in the sand. Let’s hope the imminent reunification of the island of Ireland gives both the economic and cultural sense of ease that both sides deserve.

Sorry there’s no books this time, but I’ve been busy with fanzines you see…

Binos > Brexit

I've now done 21 Scotch League grounds. Here's story of how Stirling Albion gave me the 50% mark -:

I’d like to dedicate this blog to Dave Robson, who has recently developed a far deeper interest in my writing than at any time during the past 5 years..... I'm only joking Dave!!

anyway, the question as to whether I am still barred from North Shields football ground is a complete irrelevance to me; with the greatest respect to all my Shields-supporting pals, I’ll never set foot in that ground again in my life. Consequently, I needed an alternative location for my weekly football fix, so I gave the Twitterati the choice of where I should go by putting a poll up. The four choices were; Motherwell v Aberdeen, as it looked an appealing tussle, North Ferriby v Nostell Miners’ Welfare, as it is a ground I must visit soon, Rotherham v Oxford, as I’ve yet to visit the New York Stadium, or Stirling Albion v Strathspey Thistle in the Scotch Cup.  I’m not sure how these things operate, but 72 votes were cast, and Stirling came out on top, beating North Ferriby with the other two options trailing in far behind. Certainly, this would have been my preferred option as I never turn down the option of a trip along the high road, north of the soft border, especially as this was potentially the last visit I’d make before Jeanette Mugabe declares independence for Chilly Jockoland.

In all seriousness, on a day when Comrade Oliver Letwin stuck another spoke in the wheel of the Fascist Brexit Nationalist Bandwagon who were ably assisted by half a dozen Labour quislings, including the functionally illiterate Ronnie Campbell, I felt I needed to be outside of purulent and pusillanimous Evil England, if only for a short while. Mind, I only just made it; some radgey headbangers on the tracks at Howdon delayed the Metro and I only made my 9.46 train because it was delayed until 9.54. I was riding with LNER, which is an altogether better experience than the cattle trucks of Cross Country or Northern Rail. It was express to Waverley, so I buried my head in the curate’s egg that is Mundial until stirring for the brief, heart-swelling glimpse of Easter Road that tells me we’re almost there. A quick coffee and then aboard the 11.30 to Dunblane via Falkirk Grahamston, Camelon, Larbert and Stirling; for most other passengers, lugging vast rucksacks, it was a gateway to the Highlands, but for me it was a well-known route that dripped football. Bearing in mind I would soon take my place among a crowd of 411, it was of scant surprise there were no other rail bound devotees heading to the Forthbanks Stadium.

I had been to Stirling twice previously; a summer trip out with my grandmother back in 1976, of which all I recall was the baking heat, and an open day at the University in December 1982, when I ended up rip roaring drunk on the way home in the company of various others who’d been there for the same reason that I never would get to meet again. These visits stored zero information about the place itself; luckily, as usual, I got helplessly lost and aimlessly wandered the attractive streets of a well-appointed city, where the English accents of students and academics were more than slightly prevalent. The utter lack of any river on my horizon informed me I was going the wrong way, so by the help of smartphone direction finder on spoken mode, I managed to find the correct track. Out of the charming city centre, across the eye-catching bridge that looks like a scale model of La Salve, fast by the Guggenheim in Bilbao and onto the Forth Path that skirts the demotic banlieue consisting of a Travelodge, a VUE and a Frankie & Benny’s. Once you’re past those, it’s a straight road to the ground, first left after the water treatment works; don’t you long for the days when we still had sewage farms eh?

 Next door to Forthbanks is a swimming pool and across the road is Stirling’s Morrisons; both car parks were rammed with happy shoppers and expectant families at a Gala of some sort. Football fans, bearing in mind scarves are de rigeur among every grade of supporter, were distinctly thin on the ground.  Despite today boasting the glamour of the cup, where League 2 sides join in with the survivors from other levels of the Scotch Pyramid, both senior and Junior and which had seen Bonnyrigg Rose and Edinburgh City progress the night before against Buckie Thistle and Banks O’Dee respectively, the Road to Hampden was clear of traffic.

This is when it dawned on me that Stirling Albion, formed in 1945, formerly dwelling at Annfield, where they defeated Selkirk by a margin of 20-0 in this competition back in 1984 and once managed by Bob Shankly, brother of Bill, are the very bottom team in Scotch League 2, the lowest professional division. They moved to Forthbanks in 1993, which is when Strathspey Thistle, perhaps the best tongue twister of a club name I’ve ever come across, were formed. Today’s visitors are based in the teeming metropolis of Grantown On Spey, population 2,400, and lie in 10^th place in the Highland League. They have been in that competition since 2009 after 16 barren years in the North Region Juniors. Their fans travelled in a minibus and, once affecting entrance, where free sweeties were on offer once you’d parted with your £12, it was clear only the main West Stand was open for this game.

 I really liked the ground; mirror image West and East stands and North and South terracing complemented each other and the whole place seemed distinctly well-kept, especially the pitch which is shared with Lowland League University of Stirling who were at home in the cup on Sunday against Linlithgow Rose (lost 2-0), and a source of pride to the fervent yet solicitous home support. On a day where the torrent of filth that is Brexit-enabled English racism was seen in the abandoned cup tie between Haringey Borough and Yeovil Town, not to mention the chants of Bristol City followers in their game at Luton Town, it was refreshing to sit in the cool, clear air and hear only positivity and advice, rather than antagonistic abuse. This is of course before news of Hearts fans racially abusing Moreilos on the Sunday. Stirling’s ground may not be called Ochilview, but it boasts a splendid view of the Ochil Hills to the north. For the first half, these hills were the backdrop to incessant waves of attacking play by the Binos, as Stirling are affectionately known.

After 10 minutes Man of the Match Sean Heaver ran on to a through ball and finished with aplomb, underneath giant, ponderous Thistle keeper Michael MacCallum. The custodian was required to block and parry throughout the game, mainly relying on his feet for low efforts and telescopic arms for high efforts, as diving appeared to be outside his conditions of engagement, though he was clearly the reason why a repeat of the Selkirk massacre was not likely today. After spurning several easier chances, Heaver finally doubled the Binos’s lead with a glorious bending finish past MacCallum just before the break. The 2-0 score should have been double that, but Stirling are League 2’s lowest scorers for a reason.

The second half? Not so good. News of Benfield’s 4-2 loss to Shields, Hibs conceding an equaliser at Accies and Chelsea getting the single goal necessary to beat NUFC brought my mood down a touch. Back on the pitch, Stirling missed 2 open goals than began to retreat, though the visibly exhausted Highland Laddies were nowhere near the standard required to lay a glove on them. The game turned into a midfield stalemate, when bald, burly enforcer Kevin Nicholl rescued the home time with numerous crunching challenges that would see FIFA delegates requiring smelling salts but were just played on in this game. The game petered out into a 2-0 win, but I’m glad I was sent here rather than to: Motherwell 0 Aberdeen 3, North Ferriby 1 Nostell Miners’ Welfare 0 or Rotherham United 1 Oxford United 2.

An unhelpfully slow return train got me to Waverley for 18.30, ruling out the chance of pints in the Guild Ford, so I collected some tinned Craft Ales from M&S, then took my seat in First Class (£2 cheaper than Standard for some reason) and alternately sipped then snoozed my way back to Central.  A thoroughly enjoyable day, despite other football results and the machinations of Campbell and his deceitful clowns. Scotland, I shall return.

Shoot Out the Lights

Saturday 5^th October was all about Benfield’s superb 3-0 win away to Ryhope CW, to the extent I filtered out most world events, including Jeremy Corbyn’s sold-out rally at Newcastle City Hall, where he was ably supported by the not at all shifty Member for Wansbeck; Comrade Ian Mortgage-Broker. Despite being a card-carrying member of the Labour Party, I’d not been aware that this event was taking place, much less how popular it had proved to be. To be honest, I’m still used to leaders adopting the Kinnock approach; stay in the house out of sight, unless you’ve got to pick up some beers or a curry, when you can get stuck in to the local ultra-right white trash and give them a good hammering in the offie or takeaway. Of course Corbyn is utterly unlike the Brussels Moneybag; he’s a hopeless leader but a brilliant ideas man, whereas Boyo was useless at everything. I also find it amazing how he can generate such support; clearly, he speaks for the marginalised everywhere. Can we say the same for his taller doppelganger Richard Thompson? He sold out the Albert Hall for his 70^th birthday bash the other week and it remains a source of real disappointment to me that I’ve never seen him live.

To be frank, I’m not Corbyn’s biggest fan, but when you compare him to the likes of Sunderland’s community leader, the incarcerated neo-Nazi thug Billy Charlton, or the recently deceased Scouse loudmouthed Trokskyist fraudster, bully, and lifelong groomer of the socially inadequate who flocked to his feet, Tony Mulhearn, then you’ve got to give at least two cheers for the Allotment Gramsci. Being in the toon, the night before the Ashley versus Glazer sludgefest, Jez the Gooner was in exactly the right place to make the uncontentious and highly logical points that -:

Football is our lives, our community, and it’s the place where people go to socialise and enjoy each other’s company…Football should belong to the people, not the billionaires and there’s only one party sending out that clear message. The Labour government will make the Premier League clubs pay money for grass roots football.

Of course, Newcastle United had to weigh into this debate two days late and totally against the tide of public opinion. Presumably the club’s gossamer-skinned billionaire baby owner screamed a few invective laced utterances down the phone to the hapless clown supposedly in charge of day to day operations, with the result being a snide, small-minded and self-pitying statement that seemed to suggest Labour were already in power when blaming the People’s Party for austerity -:

"We will not apologise for being financially sustainable, but we will push the boundaries of our budgets as far as possible to maximise the impact on the team. We agree with Mr Corbyn that ‘a football club is more than just a club; it is an institution at the heart of our communities’. That is why our vast work across the local community will continue, with Newcastle United Foundation providing services and support to tens of thousands of people in our region each year that truly need them. Often, Newcastle United Foundation’s projects fill in significant gaps that the public sector sadly cannot stretch to, particularly at a time when government cuts are so prevalent.”

These weasel words were released on the following Tuesday, when the club ought to have been moving heaven and earth to give Matty Longstaff a new contract, after him and Sean simply played Man United off the park on the Sunday and I even got to see it. A couple of weeks before, Virgin phoned me and congratulated me for 16 continuous years of loyalty to them. I remember. I moved in here on the Friday before a stunning 0-0 with Bolton Wanderers and had the cable set up to see us lose 3-2 at Arsenal, courtesy of a ludicrous handball in the box by Jenas, the Friday after. I cancelled it a couple of years later, but the loyalty reward deal was £10 a month for all sports channels, so I took it. And proceeded to watch the 5-0 annihilation at Leicester, where Brooooth’s team were without tactics, a plan or a spine, same as the Brighton game the week before. Mind the Man United v Arse Monday night sponsored sleep gave an indication of what would be in store at SJP the following week. Newcastle only had to be a fraction less shite than the Red Devils to beat them. Thankfully, Broooth didn’t bother trying to coach them and the players returned to last season’s well-drilled professionalism and were more than worthy winners, almost by accident or default.

What has become blindly obvious to me this season, giving Hayden a free pass for his rash tackle and red card at Leicester, is that by letting Diame go and keeping the ineffectual Ki and unprofessional Shelvey, our best midfield should always include Sean for his vision and passing, and Matty for his tenacious, all-action style. To see a couple of Tynemouth Cricket Club lads absolutely playing Man United off the park almost had me in tears. I can’t remember having such pride in the team for years; probably not since the “bunch of lads” 2010 promotion side to be honest. There’s Chelsea and Wolves up next, so no room for any complacency just yet eh?

Meanwhile, a million miles away from the glamour and glitz of the Premier League, third division Sunderland have, for no good season it seems, dispensed with the services of manager Jack Ross. Yes, the same bloke who guided them to 2 successful defences of the Trafalgar Square Trophy, is out on his ear. Clearly their failure to get promotion last year was a surprise; I’d expected them and Portsmouth to be head and shoulders above the rest of the division, surfing a wave of pro Brexit testosterone, tabs and coastal deprivation. Losing out in the play-offs to Charlton, whose manager Lee Bowyer looks like the only ex-Newcastle player who would ever have chosen to live on Wearside, was a hammer blow to the plans of their venture capitalist owners Donald Stewart and Crystal Methven. The promised land of the Championship was needed to make their dreams of un embarras de richesses come true. Sadly, with defeats to the likes of Lincoln City littering the path to the Promised Land, potential investors took Sage advice to keep their coin and counsel, meaning Ross’s P45 was inevitable. Now, having been turned down by Mark Robins and with Gareth Ainsworth’s caprices blowing in the wind like his flaxen locks, the reality is they might have to give it to Bally, which will appeal to the Billy Charltons of this world I would imagine.

Meanwhile, a couple of events in the calendar caused uproar during the week just gone. I’m talking about World Mental Health Day on Thursday 10^th and Non League Day on Saturday 12^th, both of which had intransigent zealots, who simply can’t recognise their actual enemies, barking at well-meaning outsiders who supported the two events for being tokenist dilettantes.  It’s no secret I’ve been engaged in a continuous battle with my mental health for getting on 40 years now. I’ve also pointed out that being mentally ill in the current era, even if the cuts to the NHS have decimated the kind of care so many of us need on a regular basis, whether that be residential or therapeutic, is far easier than 25 years ago. People listen. People care. People try to understand. Ordinary, everyday people; your friends, your family, your workmates. I’m glad that is the case and I’d not spend an afternoon haranguing someone who has volunteered as a Mental Health Champion in the workplace for not understanding the precise nature of my condition and why nothing is being done for me. It isn’t their fault and I’d be more than grateful for their support. The care of my pals in 2015 kept me alive when others were trying to push me towards suicide. I can never repay them. In the same way, the interested onlooker who takes in a grassroots game at a level they’re unfamiliar with has to be thanked for the pie, pint, programme, badge and admission they purchased. It is £15 a club wouldn’t have had otherwise.

Think about abortive our trip to Brandon United in the League Cup on Wednesday 9^th. This is part of the group stage of the Northern League Cup, introduced so clubs have more games and, theoretically, more income from the competition. Brandon had endured 2 waterlogged postponements before this game, so were yet to make a seasonal debut in the competition. When we approached the ground, including the only Benfield fan who would be paying entry, the pitch was in semi-darkness. Some local scumbags have taken to shooting the floodlight bulbs with air rifles, for what gratification I do not understand. As the lines were undistinguishable from the touch line on one side, the referee had to call the game off.  Here is a club, Northern League Champions in 2002-2003, who are on the bones of their arse, constantly battling relegation, vandalism and community disinterest, suffering a financial blow from this postponement; zero income from gate, bar or bait, but all the officials to pay and another midweek to rearrange. This is where Non League Day isn’t enough and where Corbyn’s plans for football really do strike a chord. All support is appreciated, but hard cash is what is needed.

Then again, Non League Day at Benfield was a massive success, despite the fact my resignation statement still hasn’t made it in to the programme, which also lacked any show of gratitude to the devoted service I put into the most important thing in my life. Anyway, not only did we attract Harry Pearson to our game, a cracking 4-3 win over Northallerton, but also the Newcastle University Non League Society, who recognise and respect our club for the asset of community value is undoubtedly is. Thanks to all of them for coming down, as well as the 250 Cumbrians up the road.

Glazed Expressions

On June 30^th, 2003, Joseph P. Overton, Senior Vice President of the Mackinac Center for Public Policy at the University of Michigan, died from injuries sustained in a crash while piloting an ultralight aircraft, soon after taking off from the Tuscola Area Airport near Caro, Michigan. He was survived by his newlywed wife Helen, though his main impact on the world was his concept of the Overton Window, which is a way to track the range of opinions tolerated in public discourse. Overton stated that an idea's political viability depends mainly on whether it falls within this range, rather than on politicians' individual preferences. According to Overton, the window encompasses the range of policies that a politician can recommend without appearing too extreme in the current climate of public opinion. After Overton's death, his colleague Joseph Lehman further developed the idea, postulating that the degrees of acceptance of ideas by the public can be roughly viewed as a 6 point continuum showing, from the least to most acceptable, responses that brand all ideas as falling into one of the following categories -:

Unthinkable

Radical

Acceptable

Sensible

Popular

Policy

As Noam Chomsky observes; The smart way to keep people passive and obedient is to strictly limit the spectrum of acceptable opinion, but allow very lively debate within that spectrum—even encourage the more critical and dissident views. That gives people the sense that there's free thinking going on, while all the time the presuppositions of the system are being reinforced by the limits put on the range of the debate.

On January 2^nd, 2012, Guisborough Town beat Newcastle Benfield for the first time after 8 previous unsuccessful attempts. The game ended 3-2 to the visitors and there was nothing controversial about the goals. The bone of contention for this game was a volley of abuse by Guisborough player Jamie Poole, which was directed at Benfield’s young winger Jordan Lartey whose response showed he was convinced he had been the victim of racist hate speak, which seemed to be backed up by a cursory examination of the sound recording of the game which had been filmed by Sky Tyne & Wear. Despite the clarity of the recording, no charge was brought by the North Riding FA against Poole or anyone involved with Guisborough, as video evidence was not deemed acceptable at that time by the county association, who had and who retain, overall responsibility for adjudication in all cases of player misconduct. The saddest part of this whole unhappy narrative was that poor Jordan was never the same player again. He lost heart, quit the club at the end of the season, played fitfully at a lower level and drifted out of the game for good in his very early 20s, no doubt disillusioned by the lack of support by the authorities for another young victim of abuse. He doesn’t play at all now.

On September 28^th, 2019 I included the paragraph immediately above this one in a piece I wrote for the programme I edited and published for Newcastle Benfield v Guisborough Town, which took place that day and ended in a somewhat acrimonious 2-2 draw. On October 2^nd, I was offered the opportunity to resign from my role and my place on the committee of Benfield, or to be unceremoniously sacked. As someone who refers to the club as my beloved Benfield, there was absolutely no way I would put my own agenda before the good name of the club so, with the heaviest of hearts I sent this email -:

I have been made aware of an official complaint about an article I published in a recent programme. Having reviewed the content, I totally accept it was an inappropriate item to appear in an official club publication. As a result, I have decided to resign as Newcastle Benfield programme editor and concentrate my energies on supporting the team from the ranks.

Succinct and accurate I thought. Unfortunately, the club opted not to use it and simply tweeted their thanks for my efforts and stated that I had resigned with immediate effect. Now that’s not strictly accurate as I was 75% of the way through compiling the upcoming programmes for the visits of Northallerton Town and Bedlington Terriers, so I ploughed on and finished the pair of them, while simultaneously temporarily disabling my Social Media accounts to get away from the noise and innuendo that casts a shadow even over Step 5 football. In the cyber world, a touching number of people inquired as to my welfare, so I took care to respond to every one of these mates and acquaintances in turn. Their compassion was deeply appreciated.  Of course, the rumour mill was in overdrive by this point; I was reliably informed by someone I play cricket with, who announced to the whole Whats’App group for our team that he’d heard I’d “been sacked for racially abusing a Guisborough player,” which is the diametrical opposite of the truth, but almost an inevitable slice of gossip, bearing in mind the human capacity for salacious gossip in the absence of a complete statement by Benfield. 

To put things in context, I was more upset by having to step down as programme editor than by the deaths of my parents. I’m not being overdramatic when I say that either. I’ve never been very good at being a bloke and so the written word has been my vehicle of choice when trying to shout above the noise of alpha males. The problem is, the written word, on paper or on screen, is more enduring than the spoken one, which is why it can come back to bite you on the arse. On the Wednesday I learned of the inevitable course events, I wanted to die. I stood at Palmersville Metro Bridge in North Tyneside and spent an hour searching for reasons not to climb over the side and grasp the electric overhead cables below. On the Thursday, I contemplated leaving the country for good, getting away from everyone and everything as I’d made yet another mess of my life. On the Friday anger and despair turned to acceptance and understanding, if not agreement. If I wanted to carry on supporting the team I’ve loved for 16 years, it would have to be on their terms not mine. The verbal pugilist needed to take a vow of silence.

While I stand by the veracity of what I put in print for the Guisborough game, I realise I was on a hiding to nothing. What happened stunk, but it happened. I couldn’t reopen the case as both judge and prosecution counsel. In the current world, the effect of the Overton Window on public opinion in an era of authoritarian populism means that the beliefs and views I hold dear, relating to Brexit, the Royal Family, the north of Ireland, benefits, militarism, immigration, the economy and almost every point of political debate, not to mention the style of football Newcastle United played under Rafa Benitez, are viewed by many as somewhere in the Unthinkable category. I’ve got the choice between a seat on the backbenches at Sam Smith’s Park, or being a firebrand who is unwelcome in our ground. For this reason I have to try to bite my tongue and keep my own counsel about anything other people may find controversial which, until our society turned insular and mean, I hadn’t ever thought could cause offence or upset. It isn’t just my club where such public circumspection is required, but possibly every single one at our level. Driving people away because of a supportive Facebook status about Greta Thurnberg may be an unlikely course of events, but it’s something to bear in mind.

Of course, my attempts to hide in the long grass on social media haven’t always worked and I know I am disliked by a vast range of associates known and unknown to me, to the extent I considered the idea of a blog about the 50 people who hate me the most, but I found the subject too depressing for even my self-abasing mien.  Instead, I decided that while my disputatious nature is never going to win me any friends, it has been running for 55 years and so I may need to keep a permanent eye on it, ready to rein it in like a frail pensioner taking an unpredictable Mastiff for a walk round the local park, lest it causes any further uproar. Whisper it, but I think I might just have found a way through the woods.

On Saturday October 5^th, 2019, I went to watch Benfield away to Ryhope CW; for the first time in six years, I was an ordinary punter and not a committee member. This meant I didn’t go on the club minibus as has been my wont over the years. Now if I’d been feeling really bitter, this is the point where I could make a bleak pun about being thrown under the bus; but I’ll not, because I’m not. Instead, I went by Metro, which was far too full of screaming kids, shouting parents and morose teenagers, but it got me from Tynemouth to Sunderland. In the week when a list of England’s most deprived, or possibly depraved, towns and cities was revealed, I find it amazing that Chisnau on Wear doesn’t get a mention. It’s like a full-scale version of Legoland remade my Banksy; it’s 2021’s post Brexit urban dystopia in living monochrome. Even the buses can’t wait to be out the place, judging by my driver dumping me halfway to the top of Tunstall Hill, about a mile after the stop I’d actually wanted to be off at.

Entering the ground, I’ll admit to feeling nervous, so instead of the usual coffee and a chat with the usual suspects, I did something I’ve not done in years before a game. I relied on some Dutch Courage to get me through things; a couple of bottles of Black Sheep, though the 5 minute wait to be served while the barman filled his lungs with rich, soupy, vape goodness out on the patio, did nothing for my paranoia.  Comfortably numb, I watched the goalless first half by myself, while we attacked the other end and turned down the chance of a half-time cuppa in the hospitality Portakabin. Of course, it’s difficult to be anonymous in a crowd of 71 and those of the committee who were there stood near me in the second period. It felt natural, though that could be because of Benfield putting in our best performance of the season and storming to a 3-0 win. Everyone was back in their clubhouse at full time, for a celebratory pint and hot dog; this was a very good day. I even got a lift back in the minibus, meaning this wasn’t just a good day; it was a vision of the future. It has nothing to scare me, as I can now breathe lungfuls of fresh, free air, now that the sash on the Overton Window has been thrown wide open.

Hudson Ford *

I suppose every football fan thinks their team is unique, but last weekend my beloved Benfield could truly live up to that claim. While our scheduled opponents Stockton Town were on FA Cup duty away to Guisley, gallantly going down to a single goal defeat to a side 2 steps higher in the non-league pyramid, we were the only Northern League side left kicking our heels, as there were no other sides short of opponents.

Having visited all the other 19 grounds hosting NL games, I decided to take in a Northern Alliance divisional cup game at a venue I’d never been to before. As the Alliance took over the running of the Tyneside Amateur League, there are now 64 clubs in 4 divisions. Of the 32 scheduled games, I was able to choose from 9 untrodden pathways; specifically, Haltwhistle Jubilee, Lowick, Morpeth FC, Newcastle Blue Star, New Fordley North Sunderland, Rothbury, Whitburn or Wooler.  There were two possible choices, both involving top division clubs in the Challenge Cup, that stood out for me; firstly, Newcastle Blue Star, a successor club to Hazlerigg Victory playing out of a rapidly redeveloping Scotswood Leisure Centre with Kenny Wharton in the manager’s chair and Keith Graydon in centre midfield against Seaton Delaval, who’d lost all their players in pre-season and all their games since the real stuff kicked off, including a 16-0 pulverizing by Winlaton Vulcans. Being candid, I could have seen this one outstripping Arbroath’s 36-0 annihilation of Bon Accord back in 1885. Thankfully, perhaps, Delaval conceded the game, being unable to raise a team. I sincerely hope this is one step back and two forward for them, as Wheatridge Park is of the most charming step 7 venues I’ve ever visited, and it would be a crying shame if such an aged and noble club called it a day.

While I love England’s border county, I was in no rush to visit some of its more arcane, if bucolic, delights, so New Fordley it had to be; a choice made partly because the opposition was Percy Main, a club I’ll always hold in the utmost respect. However, my main reason for being drawn to this one was the location; New Fordley play at Annitsford Welfare, a short distance from the epicurean delights of Annitsford Tandoori. I’ve never eaten in this establishment, but I’ve long wished to pay homage at its door as, being on the border between Tyne & Wear and Northumberland, it has been lucky enough to host a large billboard exclaiming Welcome to England’s Border County with a picture of Bamburgh Castle proclaiming the beauty of the North Sea coastline, just across the road. I’d always wondered whether Carter Bar has a similar sign for those coming south, but with a glorious image of Annitsford Tandoori framed and mounted at the side of the road instead of some ancient pile.

That homage didn’t get to happen as my Canucklehead colleague Wavy Davy was his usual 15 minutes late for the bus, meaning I’d waved the X8 off before his arrival and consequently we were left with no option than to board the self-same service 43 that took us to his first Alliance encounter back in May, when New Fordley had won 2-0 away to Shankhouse. The 43 is a Northern Alliance aficionado’s version of the Love Boat, as it passes Wideopen, Seaton Burn, Shankhouse and the currently vacant Willie John Sams Centre, formerly home to Newcastle BT. It also allows you to walk the country path between Dudley and Annitsford that takes you to the Welfare, which we did after only a tiny detour as I can’t read maps and Wavy Davy doesn’t understand smartphones. Still, we got there, bang on kick-off; £2 in and a free programme means it is a walk worth making.

As you may know, Percy Main are celebrating 100 years of football at Purvis Park this season. They’d had a mixed start, including some thumping wins (9-0 over Delaval and a glorious 5-1 triumph over Alnwick Town that I was delighted to see for myself), but had lost 4-2 at home to Fordley who, only 4 seasons after they joined the league, are one of the very top Alliance sides, alongside the Killingworth galacticos and the resurgent Blue Star. For today’s game, I only recognised 3 Main players; keeper Liam Mooney, winger Aaron Kah and former West Allotment stalwart, centre half Ian Dunn. Meanwhile Fordley boasted 2 players who’d recently turned out for Benfield, in the shape of Liam Hudson and Callum Uddgren, 2 former Main men, namely Scott Pocklington and the redoubtable Ian Lee and someone I’d taught GCSE English to; Trae Rowlandson who, despite covering his folder in Alan Barnes-related graffiti, gained the Grade C that has set him up for life.

Just to linger on the ex-Main players playing for Fordley; Scott Pocklington was a great little servant for PMA until he suffered a serious injury. He was also victim of the worst incident of cheating I’ve ever seen on a football field; playing Stocksfield at home in the NFA Benevolent Bowl, the game was finely poised at 2-1 to the Main. Stocksfield’s then captain Bruce Vause, who is now Head of PE at Heworth School, for whatever reason, took a blatant theatrical tumble, holding his face and screaming he’d been felled by a blow from Scott, who was about half a head shorter and more than 5 yards from the wailing thespian, writhing unconvincingly in the clarts. The referee bought Vause’s play acting and the red card he brandished with scarcely concealed glee could not be appealed against. Stockfield’s subsequent equaliser and win on penalties absolutely disgusted me; cheaters had prospered in the most despicable way imaginable. Hence, I was glad to see Scott playing today, until he was helped off with an ankle injury in the second half. Incidentally, it was 10 years almost to the day since Ian Lee signed for The Main from Whitley Bay, scoring 2 on his debut in a 3-1 win at Seaton Burn. Within 48 hours, he’d gone back to Whitley Bay and was next seen being sent off in a 4-2 loss at Purvis Park in December that year. Ian’s career has been, shall we say, peripatetic since then, but it was good to see he him still playing when he came on in the second period.

Among the crowd of around 80, there were no PMA heads I recognised, though I believe Norman de Bruin and Big Baz the chocolate Labrador were not in attendance, as Norman’s elder daughter Rachel gave birth on Saturday night. Congratulations to her, the hubby and the bairn, as well as proud grandparents Norman and Ann. 

We found a stop at the end of the rail part way round the pitch and watched from dead on halfway, opposite the dugouts, with many others opting to flop out and nurse cans on the grass bank in front of the excellent clubhouse at the same side as we were. Having sampled ice cold pop and large, tasty cheeseburgers, I can recommend the catering, almost as much as the absorbing football on display. In the opening exchanges, Fordley had more of the ball and all the chances, until suddenly Aaron Kah showed persistence down the right and slung over a neat cross that was expertly nodded home by James Walker just before the half hour. Main might have counted themselves a tad fortunate to be ahead, but it had the effect of stunning Fordley into inertia.

Come the second half, Main started to look value for their lead, but never looked likely to snatch a second goal. Instead substitute Pyle equalised with a disguised close-range effort that flummoxed Mooney on 65 minutes. With 15 minutes to go, the winner arrived as Hudson tapped in a rebound after Mooney had gone full length to save. From then on, Fordley played the ball retention game admirably, drawing all sting and fight from the visibly tiring Main lads, booking their place in the last 8 of the Challenge Cup, which will see them host Ponteland United on October 19^th.

We never did get to see Annitsford Tandoori close up, as we caught a helpfully late X8 back to town as soon as we arrived at the bus stop. In town, we allowed the crowds to disperse from the bars to the match while enjoying an expensive can from Centrale, caught up with Mrs Wavy for a while, then parked our arses in The Bodega for the Newcastle v Brighton game. It is almost 2 years since I last set foot in SJP, following a 0-0 draw with Brighton, after which I’d said I’d never be back until Benitez left. Watching Bruce’s abysmal and insulting take on total voetbal, I may as well just say I’ll never be back, not just while Ashley is still there, but while I’ve got a hole in my arse. At least we had peeve to numb the pain unlike the deluded buggers who’d shelled out north of thirty quid to endure that baloney.

Now, I’m a lover of Thornbridge beers, but a flat white IPA such as their Cortado doesn’t really work; it should be a stout for winter. Mind it was nectar compared to the atrocious Pina Colada tinged nonsense Davy brought back from the bar. In the absence of gratis sorbets, several pints of Jarl did the job. They cleaned my palate, made me forget about a first half performance that was possibly the worst I’ve ever seen in 45 years by any Newcastle team and make my legs all wobbly, to the extent an Uber was hailed, last orders in The Lodge achieved and then a good night’s unconsciousness to top it all off. God, I love the Northern Alliance.

* Hudson Ford were a UK rock band, formed when John Ford and Richard Hudson left The Strawbs in 1973. The original line-up featured guitarist Hudson and bassist Ford along with Chris Parren on keyboards, Mickey Keen on guitars, and Gerry Conway on drums.

Over

This is my 500th post on this blog. Thankfully it is about something important; the end of the 2019 cricket season...

Watching:

The 2019 cricket season is over for me. There remains one final round of county Championship fixtures to be played, though the ECB, in their usual infinite wisdom, have scheduled these to begin not on a Saturday or Sunday, which would provide for the maximum possible attendance, but on Monday 23^rd September. Despite the incredible summer we’ve had, with the World Cup and a drawn Ashes series courtesy of the stellar performances of Ben Stokes (influenced in no small way by Bad Boy JED Carr), the domestic long form game is half hidden away by the ECB, who seem to regard it as a kind of eccentric elderly relative, compared to the supposedly much-heralded all singing, all dancing 100 ball bollocks we’ll have foisted on us next year. Then again, our domestic game is managed by an organisation that also saw fit to start a series of Championship games on the weekend of the World Cup final and scheduled the 20/20 quarter finals with such aplomb that Lancashire, with Old Trafford in the middle of hosting the Fourth Test, were forced to play their knock-out tie at Chester le Street.

Personally, I watched some or all of 37 different games in 2019, the vast majority of which involved my beloved Tynemouth, at 10 different grounds, 3 of which I’d not been to before. My first cricket blog of the year (http://payaso-de-mierda.blogspot.com/2019/07/the-rainy-season.html) contained a precis of the first 22 of these and the week after, I wrote about my predictably emotionally fraught return to Felling with Tynemouth in my 23^rd game (http://payaso-de-mierda.blogspot.com/2019/07/slight-return.html), so it’s only right I bring things up to date by discussing the rest of my viewing pleasures. Except, there wasn’t a lot of cricket to watch for large parts of the season; having seen the game at Felling washed out in early afternoon on July 13^th, the week following saw an even earlier curtailment. We’d bowled well to restrict Eppleton to 76-4 at lunch, having already pouched a bonus point for bowling, when the skies opened even before the teams had properly sat down to eat. Clearly, there was no prospect of play. Indeed, North Shields had to call off a pre-season friendly that same afternoon and if you can’t play football because of a waterlogged pitch, there’s no way you can play cricket in such conditions. Ironically, it turned into a lovely evening by 6 o’clock, but the players had long dispersed by then.

The day after, which was predictably glorious, I did my bit to support the Midweek Cricket League, who were playing a challenge match against the West Tyne League at Corbridge CC, allowing me the chance to tick off a new ground. Corbridge, like the adjoining Tynedale rugby club, had suffered tremendously from flooding after the Tyne burst its banks a few years ago. Consequently, the replacement pavilion is a splendid structure, almost like a sporting version of the Sage.

I’d not really thought about coming to this game, but umpire Peter Woodley, who had been standing at the Tynemouth v Eppleton game and was standing in this one along with his wife Gillian, suggested I come along. As he’s our divisional officer in the Midweek League, I acquiesced and found myself willingly pressganged into acting as drinks monitor, in return for a goodly share of a stupendous tea. This made up for the fact that the train out to Corbridge was absolutely rammed to the gills with post-Pride revellers returning to the north Lancashire and south west Scotland corridor, not to mention a gang of Christian cyclists out on a jaunt. It’s a good job I wasn’t playing, though it was a shame to see morning cry-offs had reduced the Midweek side to 9 players, because I’d never have fitted my kit on the train. Batting first, the Midweekers amassed 163-6 from 30 overs, during which the main point of interest was Peter insisting one young lad, whose radar had gone awry, had to go off after bowling a series of unintentional beamers. In reply, the West Tyne team struggled to 72-5 before a lad from Haydon Bridge came in and won it by himself. All in all, a good day, but rather poorly supported.

The last Saturday in July was another desperate day for the weather, to the extent that Benfield’s friendly against the University was switched from their home ground at Prudhoe, to the astroturf 4G facility at their Cochrane Park training ground. The Lions eased home 4-1 and put in a great performance, under floodlights as well, so it was with a sense of incredulity I learned of a 3.45 start between South North and Tynemouth. Amazingly, the rain had ceased and so, post football, I headed to Gosforth, hampered by the lack of a direct bus (I wasn’t cycling in those conditions!), which meant I arrived at the start of our innings. South North, the NEPL galacticos, had been having a sticky season of gross underachievement for money invested, though at least with their state-of-the-art pitch technology and all-round hi-tech wizardry, they’d been getting the games on and avoided the maddening stop start playing time other teams had. It hadn’t done them much good, as Burnmoor, Chester le Street and my beloved Tynemouth had them in our sights. There was no way the NEPL title was going to Roseworth Terrace.

We should have won the game. If we had, the league would have looked very different come mid-September. South North had posted 152-5 and we began, with Nick Armstrong and Matty Brown opening, tentatively in the murky light. As Tynemouth are world renowned experts in the art of the inexplicable batting collapse, the first target was to avoid defeat. By the time we reached 50, that was out of the question, mainly because Nick Armstrong batted beautifully; not only was it the best I’ve seen him play, it was the best innings of the season I’d seen, up to that point, while Browny ably supported him with his own half century. As the realisation of first possible and then probable defeat occurred to the South North team, the whole array of shady gamesmanship was rolled out: moaning to the umpire about the light and the state of the ball, endless fielding changes and calls to the dressing room for changes of kit, all of which created a glacially slow over rate until, with poised for a victory charge at Tynemouth 123 without loss with 6 overs to go, the umpires, perhaps alerted by 2 dropped catches by South North fielders, decided to take the players off for safety reasons. Clearly, we demurred, but within minutes, heavy rain had returned, and the game had to be abandoned. South North knew they’d got away with one but, swings and roundabouts, I recalled us standing at 32-7 at home to Benwell Hill when Mother Nature saved our skin, though at least we had the decency to be shamefaced about our good fortune on that occasion.

We gained a modicum of revenge in the Banks Semi final the next day, when we played Crook at home. They are a new team to the league and I’d not seen them before. We made 232, which always seemed more than enough, and they replied with 169, setting us up for a home final against lower division title favourites Washington.

Into August and a real seaside special; Tynemouth v Whitburn, bookended by Whitley Bay v Benfield in the opening game of the season. I thoroughly enjoyed a very composed exhibition of batting in the opening session, that saw us go into lunch 111-2, as I pedalled off to Hillheads. The only contentious event had been a frankly risible appeal against Matty Brown for obstructing the field, when a wildly inaccurate throw hit him on the back as he scampered to make his ground after being sent back by Mike Jones when attempting an impossible run. Frankly, if it hadn’t been for Browny’s back, they’d have conceded 4 overthrows, such was the plight of the attempted run-out. Anyway, after a point secured in a somnolent 1-1 draw, I returned for 5.15, to finding Whitburn teetering at 29-8 in pursuit of 209. There was to be no Stokes and Leach miracle here. Whitburn were all out for 45 as we rediscovered our momentum after the South North disappointment, only for the week after to again see a game washed out, as our trip to Burnopfield was abandoned without a ball bowled.

There was no option than to find succour in sandwiches and cakes at the members tea on day 1 of Northumberland versus Hertfordshire. This annual treat is enormously appreciated by all of us who try to give the best support we can (my headcount was 60 for today’s crowd) to England’s border county, who are still sadly cast as the Cinderella of the Minor Counties. The 2020 season will see a realignment of what we must now call the Unicorns Championship and I’ll return to it, once I understand its ramifications fully. The lads put in a decent first innings here, though other than a flamboyant Michael Richardson knock and a few muscular blows by Oli McGee, there was something rather too circumspect about the rest of the batting. Hertfordshire showed how it was done, racing to 120 off 20 without loss in response to 290, though their efforts were in vain as, you’ve guessed it, rain washed out the next 2 days.

When we finally got some decent weather, it was awful to see Tynemouth 1sts implode through a combination of injury, unavailability, a lack of form and sheer bloody bad luck. Because of Benfield commitments, I didn’t make it to Burnmoor where, at the change of innings, the title seemed within our grasp, having skittled them for 113. Oh, how tantalising was our misfortune to be dismissed for 107, which in retrospect, signalled the death of all our dreams. To the Sunday following and the Banks final at home to Washington. Goodness I was excited for this one; got to the ground early, had a coffee and a chat with Sean about NUFC’s prospects, then saw some excellent bowling and fielding restrict them to 157-7 from 40. You could see it in the eyes of our lads as they came off for tea; confidence, not arrogance, belief, not entitlement. We thought we’ve won this; time to make up for the disaster against Eppleton in 2015. Sadly not; dreadful batting, tigerish fielding and inspired bowling, including a hat trick after successive wides on either side of the wicket holed us below the waterline. Once Mike Jones was out, we vainly clung to the hope Wes could take us home, as a fitting way to end his 2 years at the club, but there was to be no fairy tale here. We made 140 all out and Washington celebrated like crazy, as they deserved to do. It wasn’t funereal in the clubhouse afterwards, but a palpable sad sense of what should have been, hung heavy in the air. The weekend was a massive opportunity missed, with the final providing a result none of us had expected.

The week after, we dismissed Newcastle for 113, with Polly grabbing an astonishing 7-16, and reached 84-3, before subsiding to 99 all out. It was like post-traumatic stress meets mass hysteria. I didn’t make this one because of football commitments, but it was a horrible result. By the time I got to Preston Avenue, news of this loss had filtered through and the 2nds began to lose heart against Newcastle 2nds, to the extent that 54-year-old Keith Brown’s dogged batting saw the visitors home. A hideous stench of capitulation hung over the club, so I exited to the back field to join a crowd comprised entirely of Bad Boy parents, enjoying a picnic and piss up as the 3rds eased to victory over Greenside, courtesy of some lusty blows and immobile footwork from Jazzy. The news that they were now up to second in the table, with every chance of promotion because of the inevitable mergers and resignations the post season will bring, brought some cheer, making me willing to work the bar, solo and unpaid, until 10pm.

Bank Holiday Monday saw the rearranged 2XI 20/20 finals day at Preston Avenue. The second game was Chester le Street against Castle Eden, but we were up first against The Hill. For some reason, I had absolutely no confidence in us for this one, especially as we were required to chase after they won the toss and set off like an express train. While Sam and Benno reined them in, the 150 target looked an imposing one and, sure enough, we gave wickets away like clockwork, playing like the hungover dupes they were. The final total of 68 all out was a tragically fair reflection of our batting efforts. Despite the presence of several thirsty Bad Boys, the magnitude of the defeat broke my spirit and I disappeared home, missing the 2 remaining games. However, I did return to see the last knockings of the James Bell semi-final at home on the Thursday following, when the same two sides squared up again. We lost our grip on the cup with a 40-run loss which, in the context of a 15-over game, is pretty comprehensive.

Of course, it wasn’t just the 2nds that Benwell Hill were able to obliterate; the 1s were susceptible too. The following Saturday, I got to The Hill around 6pm after enduring a public transport marathon from Ryhope (Benfield had lost), just in time to see the best knock of the summer; Kyle Coetzer elegantly displayed his array of controlled attacking shots, with the kind of flourish you don’t mind seeing, even if it’s against your lads and only partly because it’s for nowt. We lost this one by 4 wickets and we lost the next two as well. The last fixture saw Eppleton do us by 3 wickets at their place, but I didn’t make it over there. I did see the final act of the Chester le Street game, arriving when we were 121-6 with a notional 117 needed. Wes and young Joe Snowdon did their best to perform a rearguard action, as did Finn and Evan, who has a classic forward defensive technique that must be applauded. CLS, sensing blood, rounded on our wounded esprit de corps like a pack of famished wolves around timid, orphaned lambs, sending us to another defeat.

Consequently, having seen Ashington play Benfield off the park, I arrived for the final part of the 2s at home to Gateshead Fell, my final game of the year, almost relieved to see the back of the cricket season. My love for the game wasn’t initially restored as, while chasing 238, we managed to stumble from 180-1 to 200-8 in the first half hour I was there, mainly because the shambling, bleary-eyed Bad Boys in the team, who’d been out carousing until the early hours, continued to suffer. That said, strong drink and a late night must have done something positive for Richie Hay as he took 2-30 and made a season’s best 45 for the 3s, who ended their campaign with a win away to Benwell and Walbottle. And then something magical happened; as news of Burnmoor’s triumph against the odds to win the NEPL came wafting across Twitter, we ignored the sad news that the 1s had gone from runners-up to 6^th because of the string of late season losses, as Sam Robson and Jimmy Carr came together to produce a wonderful cameo partnership of thumping and heaving, resulting in a totally unexpected 2 wicket win, that was greeted with mild hysteria akin to a Champions’ League success.

This victory seemed to lift a lot of spirits, as over 30 Tynemouth cricketers from all teams, including Wes for the very last time, got stuck into the pints, often including long draughts of the newly installed Moretti and celebrated the beautiful game for what it is. Our summer. Our pastime. Our own beloved cricket.

Yes, winning is nice, but it was this camaraderie, the piss-taking and plans for the future, including whispers of another shot at the National Indoor Championships under our own Mike Brearley (cheers Poll!) that made it all worthwhile. This, more than anything on the field, restored my love for the game and Tynemouth in particular. Thankfully, I was sensible enough to head home by 10pm, so avoided any chance of last season’s antics when I fell off a table while attempting an air mandolin solo during my dreadful karaoke version of Maggie May. If we win something next year, I’ll try it again! In all seriousness, I am ready for the challenge to carry on watching, carry on playing and, if the weather is clement and the fixtures amenable, to complete the full set of NEPL grounds: Castle Eden, Crook, Shotley Bridge and Willington, along with new arrivals Lanchester and Philadelphia. Roll on April….

Playing:

Last time I provided an update on the fortunes of Tynemouth Bad Boys, I’d just taken a lifetime best 4-23 against Whitley Bay, which led to me to ponder whether it could get any better than that. Frankly, it didn’t, as the rotten, stinking weather that plagued us throughout the whole summer conspired to curtail the second half of our fixture list, limiting us to only 3 further games. In the first half of the season we’d conceded a rain-postponed home Cup tie against Matrics Barbarians as we simply couldn’t find a suitable date to play the game, then lost our Plate contest with the Civil Service, but managed to win 4 league games, lose 2 and concede 1, which was the away game against Cramlington on Friday 28^th June when at least half the Bad Boys squad were a gallon deep at the Riverside, watching South Africa v Sri Lanka, by the time our game would have started.  As far as I’m concerned, Fridays are not midweek nights, so we should avoid playing on that day at all costs. I have suspicions that certain clubs pick these dates as a way of gaining points through concessions, but obviously that’s hard to prove and, at the most vibrant of clubs, there are so many teams that Friday may occasionally be the only option.

However, being frank, there are some lads amongst us who don’t fancy away games if we have to travel further north than Bates Cottages or west than Heaton Medicals. Consequently, the away game against runaway league leaders Merz & MacLellan up at far distant Ulgham only attracted 3 availables; Unknown Hat, Tynecastle and me. Luckily rain intervened as a weekend of monsoon conditions resulted in them calling the game off on the Monday, so we ended up with 1 point instead of -5 and a £10 fine for defaulting, as M&M never bothered trying to reschedule for late in the season. In that instance, we got lucky, but the opposite was true of the next fixture.

Our home game against Sparta was scheduled for Thursday 18^th July; as they were bottom of the table and we’d clouted them by over 100 runs at Heaton Medicals back in May, confidence was running high. Sadly, we fell foul of the labyrinthine Midweek Cricket admin regulations. When Merz & MacLellan called off the game on Monday 8^th July, we should have confirmed the home game with Sparta for 10 days hence there and then. We didn’t and because of that, they cried foul and said they couldn’t possibly play at such short notice. As required, we offered alternative dates of Thursday 8^th and 15^th August; no dice. They had a game on one of them and weren’t available for the other. We sent the matter to divisional officer Peter Woodley to adjudicate and he decided it should remain unplayed.  Now I like and respect Peter tremendously, but I don’t hold with his decision here. We should have had the points; I know his decision had more than one eye on keeping a struggling team afloat, but I doubt Sparta’s continued existence was dependent on that result. However, at the end of the day, I’d rather they played on next year than we got 8 points and they folded.

Right; time for some cricket, at last.  Tuesday 23^rd July was a glorious, sunny summer’s day. I finished work at 4.30, took the 54 northwards and arrived at Bates Cottages just in time to see suspended home captain Ross Symington mowing the wicket. It didn’t look helpful for spinners, which is probably why Benno and Strez had them on the ropes at 12-6. For Corinthian purposes, I sent down a couple of dreadful overs, allowing them to recover to an eventual 79-8, with Benno back at the death to claim two more scalps and return our best bowling of the season; 5-8.  In response, we had an early wobble before the glittering teeth and lustrous bouffant of JED Carr took on the mantle of all-rounder, tactician and player coach, gaining the win by 7 wickets.

Our last home game, following the Sparta debacle, saw High Stables in the neighbourhood on Thursday 1^st August. It started absolutely slinging it down around 5.30, but as their captain said; “we’ve travelled 30 miles to get here, so we’re playing.” Now that is an attitude I can empathise with. They put us in, and we amassed 127-7, which proved to be enough as they struggled to 89-8. I collected my shabbiest wicket of the season, which I’d like to blame on having to bowl with a bar of soap, but probably has more to do with my innate lack of ability. Let’s be honest, the hip high full toss on leg stump is not an integral part of the leggy’s attacking array. I could hardly look at the unfortunate batsman who hit it straight down Richy Hay’s throat at deep square leg. Fair play to High Stables, as they all came back to the pub afterwards and proceeded to outdrink us. Goodness knows how I cycled home that night. I must say it was great to catch up with my pal Ian Dowson who is their keeper; it was just a shame that Tuesday 6^th and Thursday 15^th August were so wet that the return fixture was again called off, having been postponed during a previous period of intense thunderstorms, back in week 6.

 We were back to basking in glorious sunshine when what turned out to be our final game away to Genetics took place on Monday 5^th August at the highly impressive Swalwell Cricket Club, where Northumberland have played Minor Counties 3-day fixtures. Unfortunately, we didn’t turn in a performance that fitted our surroundings, enduring our biggest thumping of the season, subsiding to 69 all out (I contributed a first baller) and seeing them rapidly accumulate 70-1, though I did take the only wicket with another stock delivery; a hip high full toss on leg stump that Captain Sturrock pouched.

And then, the morning after, it started raining again, so it was season over. We finished 4^th in Division 2, which was confirmed at the end of season league meeting at Blue Flames that I attended on account of the fact I was working when the Bad Boys end of season night of debauchery took place. Suffice to say, the captain’s blazer has been passed on to Dan Storey and the season begins again on 20^th April 2020. We have trips to Felling (Matrics Barbarians), Cochrane Park (NE Tamils), Belmont, Mitford and Harton & Westoe (South Shields Bangladeshis) to look forward to. Winter well everyone.