Buchaneering

As I'm off to Ellesmere Port to see Benfield in the Vase against Vauxhall Motors FC this weekend, I had a bit of a ponder about my previous trips to other non-league grounds. The title is a crap pun based on The 39 Steps. Sorry -:

This wet weather is playing absolute havoc with non-league fixtures. Incessant teeming rain put paid to another Benfield fixture on 23 November, when the home clash with Sunderland RCA became the second home Saturday game in a row to be called off because of a waterlogged pitch. Of course, this is where 4G surfaces are a lifesaver; in the top division Stockton Town cut the gap on leaders Hebburn Town by beating the South Tyneside outfit 3-1. In Division 2, top dogs West Allotment Celtic pulverised Sunderland West End 8-2, raising the intriguing possibility that both divisions could yet be won by sides who play their home games on a synthetic pitch.

As you know, I’ve long advocated 4G surfaces as standard for step 7 sides who don’t own their own ground. Yes, for clubs such as Percy Main, Seaton Delaval and Wallington, their historic grounds are emphatically worthy of preservation as they are, but other teams don’t have such storied histories or emotional investment in their home surroundings. It seems the message is getting through; certainly, the tranche of games down Coach Lane and beyond demonstrated positive action in the face of dreadful downpours. Having consulted the fixtures, the first half of Chemfica v New Fordley in the Alliance Premier, kicking off at 2.00, then Killingworth v Whitley Bay Reserves in the George Dobbins League Cup, beginning an hour later, were my games of choice.

 

I took the Metro from Tynemouth to Four Lane Ends, where a Brexit Party canvasser had the temerity to ask me if I’d like one of their leaflets. As you could imagine, this wasn’t the message I was hoping to hear, and I unleashed a volley of intemperate, oath-edged abuse in his direction. To be frank, it may not have been my most eloquent and lucid diatribe I’ve ever issued, but it needed to be said and I headed off with a spring in my step and a large Latte from Greggs to entirely the wrong game. According to New Fordley’s Twitter, their game against Chemfica was taking place at Coach Lane, which is where I headed for. In actual fact, they were playing at the Newcastle University Longbenton Sports Ground just a bit back up the hill. The game I ended up watching instead was a friendly between Benton Cons Club, a Corinthian League side I’d never seen before and the star-studded retirement home for former Benfield players, Cullercoats. Managed by former Heaton Stan and Bedlington full-back Dan Iredale, they boasted Carl Patterson in defence and a still classy Brian Dodsworth in midfield, as well as the impressive, sculptured facial hair of John Grey. They looked lithe and supple in attack, but conceded two silly, soft goals to trail 2-1 at the break when I left.

 

In the absence of my bike, I took a number 1 a few stops down the hill and arrived at the Benfield School 4G cage just in time to see kick-off. As expected, Killingworth were dangerous every time they attacked, with Malky Morien, who looks more like a Game of Thrones extra every time I see him, a constant threat. Alex Nesbit was more than a cut above every other player on the pitch, imperious in the middle of the park. At half time Killingworth lead 2-0, but Whitley, young and spirited, weren’t finished. The direct ball over the top gave them plenty of joy, as Killi failed to deal with it every single time. Twice they panicked into conceding first a free kick and then a penalty, both confidently dispatched, which bookended a horrific mix up that saw the young Seahorse walk the ball home. However, it wasn’t all Whitley; Killingworth got the goals to squeeze through 4-3, both from inside the 6-yard box. Firstly, the Whitley keeper got a back pass stuck under his feet and hit it against a Killingworth attacker and then Nezza nodded down a deep cross for Malky to stab home. A decent game with plenty of goals for free entry made for a good afternoon out, despite the persistent rain.

On the Metro home, I mused about my next trip which, weather permitting, will be away to Vauxhall Motors in Ellesmere Port with Benfield in the Vase next Saturday.  What occurred to me was how poorly travelled I am outside of my Northern League heartland in Steps 1 to 5 across the country. So, in preparation for next week, here are my recollections of previous visits to non-league grounds other than those in the Northern League.

Step 1:

Almost uniformly, my visits to teams playing at this level have been when the hosts were in the Football League. Alphabetically, Barnet come first; though I used to work next to their new Hive ground, it was dear old Underhill I visited in January 1998. On the day before Newcastle infamously drew at Stevenage in the FA Cup, my mate Jon Williams and I took in Barnet’s 3-1 win over Colchester United. It was a joyful, unpretentious ramshackle collection of mismatched sheds, with and without seats. Another dead ground is Saltergate, where I visited for a pre-season friendly in July 1998, to see the Spireites draw 1-1 with Nottingham Forest. Stood on the open terrace, it didn’t seem to be as decrepit as long suggested, though I didn’t get a close-up view of the death trap in waiting that was the main stand. The Shay is still in existence and it was rocking on New Year’s Day 1998 when Halifax cuffed Gateshead aside by a score of 2-0. The bizarre tarmacking of the old speedway track makes this one weird ground, which is the only one I visited at the same level as it is now.

In July 2002, Ben and I bought tickets 1 and 2 for the Newcastle end at Harrogate Town, ahead of even The Undertaker, who had been travelling back from Holland with the first team. I think the Reserves had been too; we lost 3-1, with the highlight being an absolute stunner from the now-discredited Peter Beardsley.  Hartlepool against Preston in February 1992 ended 2-0 to the home side on an achingly cold afternoon for a mid-table third tier clash. I’ve always loved the Victoria Ground and will go back one day. The day I visited Meadow Lane, the place was having a fiesta; Sam Allardyce’s side won the fourth-tier title in March 1998, beating Orient 1-0. I’ve always had a soft spot for the Pies and hope they recover their League status soon. Finally, Stockport County’s Edgerley Park was a powder keg of emotions on the opening day of the 2005/2006 season, when Mansfield came to visit. The appearance of former County boss Carlton Palmer in the away dugout was a cause for much consternation and invective in a breathless 2-2 draw on the night I had the worst curry of my entire life at the Stockport Tandoori, 375 Buxton Road; never, ever go there if you value your taste buds.

Step 2:

At this level, leagues begin to split regionally, but as you’d imagine, the North has far more impact on my totals. Firstly, Blyth Spartans; it took until April 1995 for me to visit Croft Park, where I saw the home side beat Workington 2-1 in a fairly drab game. Darlington are a strange club; I’ve seen them at every level from the Football League to the Northern League at 3 different home grounds. In September 1992, they battered Crewe 3-0 at Feethams, on a day when the PA was turned off, so it didn’t disturb the cricketers on the adjoining field. I was at the last ever game at Feethams when Shildon beat Synners on penalties to win the Northern League Cup, but I only frequented the white elephant Reynolds Arena on one occasion; a 2-2 draw with Morecambe on Easter Monday 2007. It was the most functional football ground I’ve ever been to; absolutely no economy was spared, to the extent that hot drinks were dispensed from a Maxpax machine! On Easter Monday a decade later, I visited Blackwall Meadows to see the Quakers wallop FCUM 4-1. If Darlo accept they’ll never be a Football League team every again, it seems to be an ideal home for them.

One place that will never be an ideal home for anyone is the International Stadium, which I first visited in July 1974 for Gateshead’s home debut in a 3-2 friendly win over East Fife. At the other end of the spectrum is St. Albans City’s eccentric and homely Clarence Park, where I saw them beat Boston United in the FA Trophy quarter final in April 1999.

Step 3:

Atherton Collieries were at Step 6, North West Counties Division 1, when I visited with Benfield in the 2015 FA Vase. They comfortably beat us 2-0, treat us like royalty in the clubhouse, then went on a run of good fortune and form that saw them get 3 promotions in 4 years. Well done to them; a good club. AFC Rushden and Diamonds are the opposite of Atherton Collieries, in that the plummeted from League 1 to dissolution. I visited for a pre-season friendly in July 1995, seeing Les Ferdinand score his first goal for NUFC. Now the phoenix club, without the patronage of Max Griggs, are crawling back up the Pyramid and sharing with Rusden and Higham, while Nene Park has been bulldozed. The other 3 clubs I’ve visited that are currently at this level were all Northern League members at the time; Morpeth Town 1 Ashington 0 for the first time on Good Friday 1996, when it was a far simpler affair than it is now, South Shields 1 Washington 2 in November 1995, which was the first time I met Harry Pearson and a sold out Whitby Town 3 Tow Law 0, in April 1997 a week after they’d reached the FA Vase final.

Step 4:

Another 5 clubs have been graced by my presence at this level, including Dunston, where I saw Shildon win 5-0 on my first visit in February 1996, and Marske United, who beat Ashington 1-0 in September 1996, both in the Northern League. Elsewhere, a random Tuesday night in April 1998 at Pickering Town for a 1-1 draw with Northallerton in the North Yorkshire Senior Cup was complemented by Hanwell Town 2 Rugby Town 1 in the FA Trophy in October 2006, with my pal Little Richard McLeod. Down in London for a wedding celebration, I took a trip out west to the home of The Geordies, as they are known, and found myself immediately supporting the home side in an absorbing game. Finally, Workington; I visited glorious, aged Borough Park for an FA Cup qualifying replay with Benfield in September 2018, which we sadly lost 5-3. Entertaining game mind!

Step 5:

Of course, I’ve been to all current Northern League Division 1 sides, but in addition there are a couple of Northern Counties East visits I’ve made. Both Goole and Knaresbrough Town, in towns diametrically opposed in terms of economic and social factors, hosted Benfield in the FA Cup, in 2017 and 2019 respectively. Happily, we won on both occasions; 1-2 and 1-3 being the results.

Step 6:

Again, we’ll take it as read that all Northern League Division 2 grounds have been visited and again a brace of Northern Counties East grounds have been graced by my presence. Recently that includes the glorious North Ferriby phoenix project that I wrote about a few weeks back ( http://payaso-de-mierda.blogspot.com/2019/11/light-out-of-darkness.html), while all the way back to Easter Saturday 1998, I was at the original Emley against the original Runcorn; it ended 2-1 to the home side and sadly I remember little of it. Perhaps it was altitude sickness?

Anyway, Vauxhall Motors should be my next Step 6 tick after a mammoth bus journey next weekend. I really wouldn’t mind about 4 subsequent trips to grounds at steps 5 and 6 after this one, if you understand what I’m saying…

Rock & Rock & Roll

For a change, this week’s blog begins with an apology. However before the Strawberry Blonde Sturmabteilung kick off their stirrups, dismount their high horses and start with their best Gene Awtry impersonations,  I need to clarify that my sorrowful imprecations are directed to the finest Man of Gwent, Jon Boy Langford. The friendliest Mekon in the entire world played The Cumberland Arms on Saturday 16^th November and, in the normal run of events, I’d have been the first one through the door. However, my attendance was prevented by prior engagements.  As a one of the most important figures in the post-punk era, I’m sure Jon is fine with knowing my absence was caused by Ben and me heading to Glasgow for The Raincoats at Mono. Jon’s devotion to Newport County will also allow him to nod in sagacious support of me and the young’un taking in Dumbarton versus Falkirk in the afternoon. Those of you who know your Scottish football nicknames will immediately recognise this as being a contest between The Sons and The Bairns. I’ve no idea if Dumbarton women’s team is called The Daughters, or whether Ayr United’s are the Bonnie Lassies…

 

Following on from trips to Stirling Albion and North Ferriby, this was my third trip away and second to Scotland in a month. At least I didn’t have to worry about Benfield’s fate in my absence, as the away game at Shildon was rained off well before Ben and I escaped the party of braying Proscecco loutesses en route to an Old Reekie birthday weekend piss-up, who’d thronged our carriage to Waverley.  Having blown kisses to Sam Smith’s Park and Easter Road at both ends of the East Coast journey, we took the typically empty service to Queen Street, averting our eyes from both Murrayfield and Swinecastle, arriving in time for the 13.06 way out west to Dumbarton.

The other week a few of us had been reminiscing how, in the olden days, the way to spot a football ground in an unfamiliar city was to look for the floodlights. Of course, since the predominance of identikit concrete bowls in the name of progress, most places don’t have floodlights these days. Dumbarton do, but there’s a slightly larger landmark to follow; Dumbarton Castle, which sits on a 240 feet high plug of volcanic basalt known as Dumbarton Rock, with the football ground at the foot of it. You can’t miss that notable landmark from Dumbarton East train station. However, we weren’t there to sightsee; instead we went in search of a pint.

 

In Scottish League 1, Falkirk are unquestionably the side with the largest home and away support, so Dumbarton made this game all ticket.  With the final attendance being 986, only marginally higher than the previous league best of 970 against Raith Rovers, which was still considerably less than the 1,394 who came for the visit of top-flight Motherwell in a League Cup group stage game, it is questionable whether this was the best decision economically, bearing in mind the C&G Systems Stadium has a capacity of 2,020. Whatever the arguments, it meant the 1872 Bar in the back of the stand was out of bounds for travelling fans, which was a shame as it appeared to have plenty of intriguing memorabilia about one of Scotland’s oldest teams. Instead, we headed down the very end of the spit of land beyond the Castle to Rock Bowling Club, where we were meeting Falkirk fan and Razur Cuts editor, my pal Derek Steel and East Stirlingshire’s celebrity fan (the Shire were playing Sunday), Dickson Telfer; an accomplished writer and musician, recently bassist in the delightfully lush and off-kilter L-Space. Check them out.

Two pints and then to the game, arriving right on kick off, when the venom began to pulse in earnest. In all my years of attending football, I can’t recall many more choleric away supports than the Falkirk zealots in the first block of the stand. From the very start, an undercurrent of abuse towards board members and manager Ray McKinnon in particular was never far from the surface. Only a few weeks ago, Falkirk had shown signs of shaking off their post-relegation torpor, by going top of the table. Since then, the expensively assembled squad, in Scottish League 1 terms, have gone completely off the boil. In this game, the only true quality was to be found in the play of former Dundee United and Senegal playmaker Morgaro Gomis, whose skills on the ball and effortless array of passing kept The Bairns on the front foot. Typically, after 3 presentable scoring opportunities, Dumbarton came up the other end and took the lead with their first serious attempt on goal. Rangy striker Isaac Layne touched in Joe McKee’s cross from a yard out, meaning the first 30 minutes of Falkirk industry went to waste. Their fragile confidence was demonstrated by the unimpeded progress of McKee’s hopeful ball and the subsequent disintegration of the Falkirk gameplan.

 

Half time saw the players, management and board booed off by the irate Bairns. And the second half got no better, as a modest Dumbarton side, managed by serial dug-out failure Jim Duffy, kept a maddeningly shot-shy Falkirk easily at bay. McKinnon’s insistence on 4-5-1, even when bringing on former Wigan and Ireland blunderbuss Connor Sammon, who was stuck out on the left wing, ramped up the vicious abuse. In the 90^th minute, Falkirk were awarded a somewhat generous penalty for handball, but even after Declan McManus proved his aim was true (geddit???) from 12 yards, there were no celebrations on the field or off. The final whistle was again greeted with a storm of invective and incessant booing. The game had been terrible; I’d enjoyed it immensely.

We bade Derek and Dickson farewell, then headed for the station. Amusingly about 20 Dumbarton neds who fancied themselves as a kind of trainee Young Team threw a few insults at Falkirk from 50 yards away in the park, where anonymity was provided by black darkness. Soon the train came and we headed to Charing Cross, booked into our miniature hotel room, before heading for Mono. Having eschewed the opportunity for a Scotch pie at the football, a snack was imperative, so we went less than native with a quick Subway before the gig. Waiting for it is when I received a text from Derek rejoicing at the fact McKinnon had been given his cards. Not a wasted day on the terraces for the travelling Bairns after all.

The queue for entry snaked almost to the road, so we abandoned thoughts of a quick one in the 13^th Note and showed patience, in the bar queue subsequently as well, then found a good spot at the end of the counter, to rest our pints of Merchant City New World IPA, which had a little too much of a banana tang for me, and Joker IPA, which consistently remains the most reliable of all Scottish beers and the reason why I’d loved to visit Alloa Athletic sometime soon.  You know, I could probably spend every weekend in Glasgow if it weren’t for the fact stumping up for the train and a bed means you’re looking at a baseline £100 before you’ve even had a coffee. I mean, Alex Neilson curated an evening the week before with Lavinia top of the bill at The Hug and Pint while this weekend coming sees The Pastels supported by Lightships up in Maryhill. What a city. What a venue. What a gig.

As I said to Stephen Pastel afterwards, after all the gigs I’ve seen in all the years I’ve been coming to Glasgow, this was perhaps not the best, but it was the most significant. The Raincoats were an incredibly important band to me; I fell in love with them after watching the South Bank Show special on Rough Trade, which sent me to Listen Ear on Ridley Place to purchase Fairytale in the Supermarket in June 1979. I’d almost played it to death by the time the first album came out in November that year; on the same day as all the macho tough guys were buying London Calling by The Clash.  In many ways, that’s a great album, with Lover’s Rock and I’m Not Down being my favourites, but it doesn’t hold a candle to The Raincoats.

Undoubtedly, the truly iconic nature of The Raincoats is reflected by how their first album changed the way women in the post punk scene were regarded by participants and non-participants alike. The main effect of Vicki Aspinall, Gina Birch and Ana Da Silva’s work was to establish women could be regarded as equals; as human beings. Sure, The Slits were great, but they didn’t set themselves up as feminist fighters, looking for equality. The likes of Kleenex, Delta 5, The Flowers, Essential Logic and Prag VEC similarly showed that in the inclusive DIY aesthetic of post-punk, creativity and integrity mattered most. As a gauche teenage wallflower, I loved these bands, and The Raincoats most of all, not just for their incredible music that inspires me to this day, but because their existence and body of work allowed me to reject all versions of masculinity and the patriarchal narrative. Most of this ideological rebellion was in my head, though I did wear a Rock Against Sexism badge, even when stood in the middle of the Gallowgate End.

The Raincoats had been due to play Newcastle on 18^th June 1980, at a long-gone warehouse on the Quayside, which I think was the day I finished my O Levels. For some reason, it didn’t happen, so I didn’t get to see them until June 1994 at the Riverside. They had Steve Shelley on drums and were promoting the release of their Blast First John Peel Session EP; it’s great and they were great, though they didn’t play most of the first album, which was sad.

This time, they began with a triumphant Fairytale in the Supermarket, before charging through the first album. Other than perhaps Thirteen or Bringing it all Back Home, I struggle to think of an album with a more powerful first side than The Raincoats. Joy; No Side to Fall In. Ideology; Adventures Close to Home.  Defiance; Off Duty Trip.  Celebration; Black and White (and how jealous I was of the London audience who got to see Laura Logic playing her part on stage). Revolution; Lola. Their passionate versions of these obscure songs from 4 decades ago elevated the audience’s attitude to stratospheric levels of love towards these strong, brave, indomitable women. Shambolic and endearing, but so fucking important, they played side 2; The Void, In Love, No Looking; you know what I’m talking about. The same night Liam Gallagher was playing Glasgow and Gerry Cinnamon Newcastle. Men are fucking shit when you think about it…

The final 4 songs were the Peel Session EP and they were so fitting in this context. Gig over, I purchased Ben a copy of The Raincoats and got myself Odyshape, the second album I’d only ever had on cassette. It remains an endearing and experimental step forward that requires closer listening than the first album, as it still eschews immediacy in favour of craft. Ben also got himself the EP by support act Hairband. Now this Glasgow quintet knows their feminist musical history and by goodness they can play a storm. Perhaps with more of a hint of C81 era funky pop than 78 industrial miserabilism, they understand what Rough Trade did for us all back in the day. Ordinarily, I often find myself trying to talk to bands post gig, but not this time. As a bloke I didn’t want to invade spaces where I wasn’t required. I still had a chat with Stephen and also the very wonderful Tam Dean Burn, both of whom loved the gig.

Drunk on nostalgia and rightful aesthetic inspiration, we grabbed an Uber and a late night pizza on Sauciehall Street, before crashing out. Cheers to The Raincoats, Mono, Hairband, Derek, Dickson, Dumbarton FC, Falkirk FC and Joker IPA. I wish I belonged to Glasgow, but I’ll see you soon.

Light out of Darkness

Apologies for the lack of a blog last week; I was hors de combat after a prolonged bout of man flu. Anyway, my trip to North Ferriby....

For me and many other football fans, the advent of Twitter has opened up a Pandora’s Box of delights, in terms of conversations, from the intense to the banal, with fans of other clubs. In no particular order, I’ve forged on-line friendships with followers of Stoke, Wigan, Everton, Man Utd, Man City, FCUM, Tooting and North Ferriby. To a greater or lesser extent, I follow the fortunes of these clubs, well apart from the Mancunian duopoly of course, with more than one eye on how their results are refracted across the internet.  Indeed, with some of them, I’ve gone to the extent of penning regular pieces for their fanzines, which is where my connection with North Ferriby comes from. I got to meet the founder of View from the Allotment End and all round good guy and semi-groundhopper Darren Norton, watching his dad’s team Bridlington knock Whitley Bay out the FA Cup back in about 2014. Whenever work has brought him to Tyneside, I’ve seen him at other grassroots grounds places, including my beloved Benfield’s Sam Smith’s Park, though as we lost to Dunston that night, we don’t want him back any time soon. Or his dad, whose Bridlington outfit put us out the cup two qualifying rounds later.

Darren’s Twitter account, and that or several of his pals, who were similarly disillusioned Hull City fans, driven away from their original club by the intransigence and wilful mismanagement of the Allams, reflected the events of a breathless 6-year helter-skelter ride up and down the non-league pyramid. In 2013, NFU won the Northern Premier League and were promoted to the Conference North. Two years later, the beat Wrexham at Wembley to lift the FA Trophy. In 2016, they won promotion to the Conference, which seems scarcely credible, considering the size of village and ground. One can just imagine the fevered twitching of net curtains in well-heeled Ferriby when the Lincoln Transit Elite arrived en masse. Sadly, this was the high water mark.  Ferriby were relegated in short order from the Conference in 2017 and National League in 2018. They began last season back in the Northern Premier League, under the ownership of a certain Jamie Waltham. Things didn’t go well. In the 33 games they played, the Villagers managed just two wins and four draws, accumulating 10 points and putting them at the foot of the table. North Ferriby's remaining fixtures were cancelled and the club was not permitted to finish the season, after Waltham petitioned to have the club wound up on 15 March 2019 due to outstanding debts of £7,645.25. Considering an 18 year old University student is expected to pick up a minimum of £9k in loans for their first year fees, it seemed and seems, a ludicrously disproportionate reaction, borne out of spite after fans revolted against Witham’s plan to move Ferriby into Hull, because of the supposed “potential” to “grow the business” this would have offered. Thankfully, the FA looked favourably on a supporter based phoenix club and North Ferriby won a place in the Northern Counties East First Division, two steps below where NFU would have found themselves at the start of 2019/2020.

Having seen the incredible supernova of the team from the prim and prosperous hamlet on the north bank of the Humber, with the bright lights of Hull and huge bridge that acts as gateway to Lincolnshire a few short miles to the East, interpreted through the on-line and printed thoughts and observations of fans of the club, I had long held an inkling to visit, which was transformed to an urge to see the place in the flesh and gauge how the phoenix club, now denuded of the United suffix, are coping in the less than exalted realms of the Northern Counties East Division 1. Hence, the visit of Swallownest, who hail from Rotherham, on November 2^nd, seemed an irresistible draw. As a fanatical remainer, it also amused me to think I could spend a day in the Haltemprice and Howden constituency, for so long represented with trademark idiocy and stylish incompetence by the most farcically inept of all the shower of UK Brexit Ministers, Super David Davis. The only unfortunate thing was that the game wasn’t taking place 48 hours after Boris Johnson had been found dead in a ditch.

The day broke in autumnal beauty on Tyneside; the gold and russet hues of damp but not drowned nature extended until almost Doncaster, where we had darkness at noon and vivid imagery of trackside trees bucking and rearing in response to squally gales. Changing trains at Donny, I took a deserted, freezing, two-coach rattler, where the smeared and filthy leaking windows ran slick with rain water, though the promising sight of players warming up as we passed Goole Town’s ironically named Victoria Pleasure Grounds strengthened my resolve.

I can never take the train towards Hull without thinking of a pal I went to University with. Chris was from Hessle; fond of beer, Throbbing Gristle and Hull City, he gained a third in Philosophy and returned to Humberside to manage a branch of Burger King. We kept in touch. He married, had 3 kids, was even best man at my wedding, and then decided he needed change. He spread his wings, travelling to teach English as a Foreign Language; a decade shared between Slovakia, Qatar and Korea, before changing gender. Chryssy, as she now is, completed a PhD in the politics of gender and is now a post-doctoral researcher at London University, investigating the effect of dementia on elderly trans people. I’ve no idea if she still follows Hull City, but she’s reinvented her world to make herself happy. Could supporters of North Ferriby United do similar?

The walk from Ferriby station to the ground is short and was completed in brisk time as the sight of receding green and white scarves and hats in the distance hinted at the location of Church Road. It’s a charming ground in a charming location; there’s a cricket pitch across the way, with a friendly cat that deserved a stroke and a pet, half hiding in the hedge of a house on the driveway to the entrance. Egress is obtained for the amazingly reasonable price of a fiver. If that doesn’t keep the fanbase loyal then nothing will. In the ground, there’s a club shop that takes card payments, so I get a hat to keep the rain out and a programme to read on the way back. Additionally, there are cheese, mash and onion pies the size of a bin lid, with a dash of mustard for added piquancy, at only £2 from the tea hut. I’m neither an epicure nor a vegetarian, but these are the best comestibles I’ve had in a football ground in years.

Suitably assuaged, I head into the bar and meet Darren. He’s here with his dad and grandkids; 3 of the 4 generations of Norton down on the rattler from Hull. Man United’s loss to Bournemouth is wearily unfolding on Sky, but most punters in the thronged room are concerned more with the prospects of Hull away to Fulham and for any play here, as the rain continues to sling it down. The ground drains well, so there’s no danger of a postponement and the Norton clan shuffle me outside, as we take our place among the 285 crowd (brilliant for this level, good for a lousy day, but a tad disappointing as Hull are away and many other local sides have called games off) behind the dug outs as the deluge stops at kick off. There’s a bunch of other friendly types to meet as well.

Without exception, the fanzine contributors and Ferriby fans Darren introduces me to, are salt of the earth football fans; they may have been driven away from Hull by the expense and idiocy and they may have feared the worst when NFU bit the dust, but they’re here and proud to support the phoenix by the Humber. This is their club and the lads on the pitch are doing them proud. The contest, such as it is, involves Ferriby’s strikers peppering the Swallownest keeper and the young lad repelling the attacks with everything he’s got. Finally he’s beaten; debutant Dale crashes a header against the bar, then follows up to knock the rebound in. It’s scant consolation for their dominance, but The Villagers are delighted to go in at the break with their noses in front.  Elsewhere Hull, Benfield and even Newcastle United have all eased into 3 goal leads.

The half time cuppa turns into a flask, as the second period is delayed because one of the assistants has a calf injury. She’s replaced by an apprehensive looking and somewhat aged assessor, as the game gets back underway somewhere near 4.10. The rain has returned, but presents no danger to the game; despite the very low bounce there is neither spray nor standing water. Where we do have a problem is the flickering of the far end floodlights. Any debate whether a few missing bulbs might cause a cancellation seems to be ended when Birch taps in for 2-0. Swallownest are football people; they know they’ve lost and certainly don’t want to be dragged back here with a bare XI and the management pretending to be the subs on a midweek night for a real mauling. Ferriby have their dander up and the fans are a fraction away from roaring the side home. Suddenly, on 81 minutes the referee, capriciously, calls a halt to proceedings; while it’s pitch black outside the ground, the 75% of lights illuminating the game, are more than adequate to get the home win done. This cuts no ice with the officials, who stump off even as the lights come back on. Rather like Brexit, the whole process has failed to reach a conclusion after dragging on unnecessarily long.  Nobody’s won. Nobody’s lost. Nobody’s satisfied. However, thoughts always return to the good news that there is still a football club in North Ferriby to support. Let’s all ensure it stays that way eh?

Unlike Brexit, North Ferriby FC is a good thing. Similar to my old pal Chryssy, rebirth has brought strength and satisfaction. I strongly recommend you get yourself along to Church Road for a game… on a dry day… when the clocks go forward again…

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.