Free Jazz

 I'm still going to games; Whitley Bay SC 2 Chemfica Amateurs 7 last week & Ellington 0 Stobswood Welfare 3 this week -:

Last week, I was in a state of high dudgeon at the NEPL’s dreadful decision to prevent all spectators from seeing Tynemouth 2s in the Banks Bowl Plate final away to Willington. Instead, I had decided to tick off another of the half a dozen unvisited Northern Alliance grounds on my hit list. Seaton Sluice versus West Jesmond was the intended destination, until news came on Friday afternoon of a late postponement, as one of the West Jesmond lads had tested positive for Covid-19. With no realistic hoppable alternatives, the chance of seeing my pal Matty Leadbetter vaping on the touchline for Chemfica Amateurs away to Whitley Bay Sporting Club at Churchill Playing Fields was my only option, though my thoughts were mainly concentrated on events in Willington.

Normally, Tynemouth Cricket Club take a cynical, luddite view of modern scoring technology; live updates on Play Cricket are not normally available, for reasons of principle. However, Willington, despite their remote location, are fans of modernity and presented a ball by ball update on the final game of the strangest and shortest season ever.  Willington batted first and made a par score of 164 from their 40 overs. Williams, Brown and Blackmore all topped 30 but some steady bowling and keen fielding from all of the Tynemouth players held the home team in check. Opening bowler, the bronzed Adonis James Carr took 4/31 from his 8 overs, while skipper Andrew Davison, whose brother Mark conceded a penalty in the opening minute to see Chemfica go a goal down, bowled very tidily with 1/19 off his 8.

In reply 15 year old Dan Thorburn and 16 year old Patrick Hallam began steadily before opening up to build a terrific partnership of 85 for the first wicket before Dan was caught for an excellent 43. Patrick was out soon after for a well-made 32 but then a minor collapse saw us reduced to 135/6. At this point, broadband in the West Durham area must have suffered an outage, as the score wasn’t updated until the following Tuesday. After about an hour of nervous pacing and futile refreshing, news came through that 16 year olds Joe Snowdon, playing with an old head on young shoulders, and Evan Hull Denholm, rock solid at the other end, had seen us home with an undefeated 30 run partnership. Congratulations to those who played and to those who helped get us there in previous rounds. Whilst there were no spectators allowed to enjoy it and no real opportunity for the players to celebrate in the usual way, the half dozen over the age of 18 anyway, nothing should detract from a fine victory nor the outstanding contributions from a clutch of young players who performed well when it mattered. It was a deserved victory and a good way to end the 2020 season. I just wish I’d been able to see it.

Meanwhile, Chemfica Amateurs bounced back from that early blow to take the lead with a couple of well taken tap-ins from pleasing passing moves. Whitley Bay Sporting didn’t react well to this misfortune and almost immediately compounded their task by going down to 10 when one of their players was red carded for an unnecessary and petulant, though wholly unsuccessful attempt at kicking an opponent. It did nothing to turn this game in to an edifying contest, as Chemfica scored at will and completed an emphatic, but ultimately unsatisfying, 7-2 win, to the delight of the assembled throng of 16 or so, including passing dog walkers, a family kicking a penny floater about, a brace of furtively courting teenage sweethearts, and a trio of recuperating cyclists.  Clearly, the public assembly of such an unruly and dangerous mob of ambulant viral infections was the main reason why North Tyneside and Northumberland Public Health Areas are displaying a terrifying dozen or so cases of the Miley Cyrus at the minute.

I’m not a virus denying, swivel-eyed loon, like David Broadmoor or Jamie Tinfoil, but I absolutely and unreservedly condemn the appalling curbs, recently imposed on my liberty by the criminals in power and their lickspittle collaborators in the town halls of our region. I don’t know how many times I’ve said this, but it bears repeating; since the Cummings Episode, the Tories have ceded all moral right to any imposition of restrictions on the behaviour of citizens. Despite their unconvincing rhetoric about safety and stuff like that, all the Tories are interested in is preserving the interests of capitalism. This is why factories, offices and schools are open; keep them at work to maximise profits and keep the bairns under observation to maximise attendance. Fuck the health considerations; let’s make lots of money by exploiting workers. Not only that, but the bars are being shut down early and attendance at sporting events prohibited to stop citizens socialising in an era of dissent.  Keeping students, the stormy petrels of youth, under illegal house arrest, is the evidence we live in a fascist police state. Comrades, let us seize the time…

 

Anyway, in this context of social repression, the idiocy of those involved in the charity game at Fencehouses that resulted in 300 plus Covid infections would inevitably result in ostentatious, public repression. While Nick Forbes squealed and sobbed loud enough to ensure Newcastle was seen as the most willingly compliant, quisling council, actually welcoming this latest wholly unnecessary, repressive lockdown, the Durham FA’s John Topping maintained his reputation as a Machiavellian, back room operator who can peel oranges in his pocket with a boxing glove on, by drawing up a document that seemed to be not so much a response to a second wave, but a blueprint for football under Martial Law. Zero debate with local leagues was allowed; compliance was compulsory and the Northumberland FA, still smarting from the Clive Oliver debacle, willingly signed up to the worst infringement of my personal liberty I’ve ever been forced to ignore. Here’s an extract from the document that Topping forced the NFA, Northern League, Northern Alliance and Wearside League, not to mention a myriad number of recreational leagues, to adhere to -:

National League System Steps 3 – 6

-          Spectator numbers must not exceed 15% of the minimum ground grading capacity.

-          All spectators should wear face coverings at all times, as stated in line with government advice

All Adult Football Outside of the National League System

-          No spectators at training or matches.

 

Let’s not kid ourselves; this is utterly ludicrous, not to mention completely unnecessary. For a start, any pub, restaurant or shop that isn’t dying on its arse will have more punters than your average Northern Alliance game, Killingworth v Blue Star excepted, in any 90-minute period. Secondly, the number of Alliance teams who play on public parks, or afford unhindered viewing from an adjacent location, is almost certainly in the vast majority. Whose responsibility is it to police these restrictions? The home club’s Covid-19 officer? The referee? The local flatties, who should be out dealing with real criminals without masks in the local Spar? Finally, what on earth is the point of a face mask on the touchline of an open air, uncovered Alliance pitch? Be realistic; it must be nigh on impossible for the virus to stay in one place to create infections when Force 10 gales batter exposed football pitches from all angles.

Consequently, having selected Ellington v Stobswood Welfare in Alliance Division 2, I thought I’d be sure it would be possible to actually see the game. So, using my writer and journalist credentials, I contacted Ellington, who could not have been more helpful and hospitable. A conversation took place via Twitter and, despite the ferocious downpours of Wednesday and Thursday, the pitch was pronounced immaculate and I set off on Saturday morning, a mere 3 and a half hours before kick-off. With the Metro having one of its rest weekends between Tynemouth and Shiremoor, I walked to Shields and took a train to Monument. It was Record Store Day (Albums), so I nipped into the original indie paradise, JG Windows, to lash out a scandalous £30 on Dinosaur Jr’s Swedish Fist; a live album, recorded in Stockholm. No doubt I’ll discuss it at length in a later blog.

To get to Ellington from Haymarket, the hourly X20 is the best bet. In fact, it’s the only bet. The journey up to Ashington is standard stuff, but once we head out past Woodhorn Museum, I’m in uncharted territory. The old Lynemouth Biomass Power Station is as scenic as ever; a grey concrete sentinel, whose enormity almost masks the world effects of the gusting winds that howl in from Norway. Fringed by caravan and motor home storage facilities, Lynemouth serves as a warm-up act for Ellington. I disembark a mere 40 minutes before kick-off and struggle to fill the time. When the wind blows, it is freezing; those rare seconds when it abates are warm and temperate.

Having spotted the sign for Ellington FC, I take an unfinished road, past the edge of an estate too new for Google maps, winding round unused fields to the entrance. Ten yards on, I check in with the NHS Covid app, sanitise my hands and cast a glance round the facilities. My goodness, this is an impressive facility; loomed over by a dozen enormous wind turbines that spin like a Sopwith Camel propellers before take-off in a grainy, First World War newsreel, it boasts: a full-size floodlit 4G pitch, a small-sided grass pitch and two full-sized ones, the main of which has been furnished with a solid, wooden, perimeter fence, ideal for leaning your elbows on. It would have been a great place to balance my notebook to write down pithy anecdotes, except it was so cold I had Thinsulate gloves on, making the manipulation of a pen somewhat difficult.

Thankfully there is very little to write about during the game. To clarify, there is no lack of effort, but the hurricane that gusts across the pitch ruins all attempts at fluent football. It is a raw-boned, red-toothed Northumbrian derby, where constant volleys of the F word, for both emphasis and in anger, swirl and fly off into the vast beyond at speed. Neither keeper is forced into a serious save in the first half before Stobswood captain Jake Baker sweeps in a loose ball on the edge of the box in the 43^rd minute. I can concede that Stobswood play with a fraction more finesse than the home side, whose endeavours are inspired by an admirable esprit de corps.

 

When the whistle goes for the break, the players stay out, discussing tactics in a tight huddle, while I nip off for a loo break, regretting my choice of short trousers as I appear to have frostbite of the shin. The clubhouse and changing room is covered of proud posters, exhorting us to #HallaElla. I must admit I’d hoped their nickname was the Dukes, or the Fitzgeralds, but I see no references to trad, bebop, cool or any other style of Jazz, perhaps predictably.

By the time I get back to my pitch side eyrie, Costello has doubled the Stobby lead. Fair play to Ellington, they respond positively to such misfortune. The home side never stop and push their visitors back for the rest of the second period, but without tangible success. Instead, Stobswood wrap things up with a quick break and eye-catching finish in the last minute. Soon after, the whistle blows and I half hobble, stiff-legged and frozen, for the bus. A great day, but not a great game; I’d love to come back if the weather is ever better.

 

Next week, I had hoped to visit Wooler with Chemfica Amateurs, but Matty has opted to go on the gargle for his birthday, so I’ll have to beg either Rothbury or Whitburn to allow me a safe watching berth. Five grounds to go and the NHS app tells me I’m safe.

 

 

Timed Out

 My cricket adventures have been unfairly curtailed because of COVID-19 hysteria, so here's all I can say about cricket for this year -:

I had hoped to be writing this blog next week, so as to include an account of Tynemouth 2s in the Banks Bowl Plate final away at Willington. However, this has not been possible as the new and, in my considered if uninformed opinion, wholly unnecessary set of lockdown rules and recommendations, mean that the game can take place, but only behind closed doors. In other words, this recreational club cricket game is being treated in the same way as Sunday’s Chelsea v Liverpool Premier League game.

Now, other than this will be the only Saturday I’ve not seen Tynemouth all season, the fact this game is going ahead in these circumstances is frankly barmy. The NEPL had scheduled 7 finals for the final weekend of the season. When Hopeless Hancock’s contradictory crap finally dribbled into the public realm, the NEPL abdicated all sense of responsibility, never mind leadership, by putting the onus on to the home teams, not the away ones, to decide if they wanted to play the game. South North decided their 2s couldn’t play the Banks Bowl against Benwell Hill and the Academy wouldn’t fancy the Banks Cup v Washington on the Sunday. Ashington and Blaydon similarly declined the chance to host the Banks Salver Plate versus Sunderland the Banks Salver Plaque v Lanchester, respectively. However, we didn’t get unanimity, as there are 3 games going ahead: The Banks Salver, comprising Chester-le-Street v Burnmoor, the Banks Bowl Plate that we already know will be Willington v Tynemouth, as well as the neighbouring Banks Bowl Plaque at Crook Town v Philadelphia. The latter games includes two new entrants to the NEPL  and, despite me being denied an opportunity to see JED Carr win the Bowl Plate singlehandedly, the biggest injustice of the whole season is that not one of their club will be able to watch, other than the scorers presumably.

While the T20 first class competition and the final of the Bob Willis Trophy represent a few more games of cricket, it now means my spectating season is over. Obviously at one point, I’d not imagined I’d see any cricket this year, so to have caught all or part of 26 games at 10 different grounds, 4 of which I’d not visited before, is something of a triumph and not a set of memories that should be sullied by the closed doors final. Therefore, picking up the thread from my last cricket blog, we must take ourselves to Shiney Row on a sunny Thursday evening. Having embraced the start of the football season with Whitley Bay 2 North Shields Athletic 0 the night before, I took the X1 from Eldon Square to the magnificently named settlement of Success; an estate where my dad’s equally magnificently named mate Bryan Ferry used to live. He was a council electrician and looked nothing like the Roxy Music frontman; in fact, he looked like the actor William Conrad from Cannon. He’s probably dead now; the old Shiney Row site of Sunderland College has definitely gone, transformed into a swanky new build estate. The Philadelphia pub remains, but I didn’t drop in, heading instead for the adjoining cricket club, where the game was slated to begin at 5.30, on account of the nights cutting in.

Philadelphia is a neat, compact, and enclosed ground that reminded me of a more urban Sacriston. As the Banks midweek Shield is an entirely Durham based competition, I’ve seen very few games in this tournament, though I do recall seeing Whitburn win it about 3 years back. They were tonight’s opponents, and in the absence of any other evidence, I thought they may be favourites, so the fact they skittled the home side for a meagre 81 seemed to back that up. How little I knew; 20/3, 21/4, 23/5, 24/6, a recovery to 32/7, 36/8, 39/9 and finally, 41 all out in 12 overs. Whitburn only managed 50% of Philadelphia’s total. It was a great game if you like wickets; not so good if you like batting. Unfortunately, the night was ruined by having to wait an hour and a half for a bus home, as the hourly X1 let me down, meaning I got into the house around 11 o’clock, starving but totally sober, though I could have got shitfaced on the exhaled air of plastered, unmasked 16 year olds, celebrating their GCSE results.

The best thing about the Philadelphia trip was that I reduced my target list to 2 clubs; sadly, Shotley Bridge and Castle Eden must wait until next year, pending NEPL approval, of course. I had, whimsically, thought of Castle Eden v Philadelphia for the Saturday following, but with trains to Sunderland off, I stayed closer to home with Tynemouth’s visit to South North, which was threatened but not visited by rain. Incredibly, for the second week in a row, we lost off the last ball, this time by 1 wicket. We didn’t really get started batting until George Harding came in and started hitting a few lusty blows, enjoying a great stroke of luck when a fielder on the boundary misjudged a catch and chested the ball over the rope for 6. Without George’s half century, we wouldn’t have been competitive, though at 48/0, the game seemed up. Suddenly, they were 73/7 and we’d won, or so it seemed. Alas, these South North lads have a will to win stamped through their DNA like a stick of rock. Ben McGee may have run Oli out, making up for being bowled by his brother, but the last wicket pair brought it home with 12 off the last over, including successive clubbings over cow corner by Jonny Wightman. The trip home with Di and Liz was akin to a ride from the crematorium to the pub. On the Sunday I headed up to TCC for the inquest, but a biblical flash flood curtailed proceedings with the Academy 83/3 against Gateshead Fell.

The next week was the coldest recorded day in August for something like 50 years, but I still attended the visit of Ashington in shorts and a Hawaiian shirt, like any normal person. Rain during the week restricted the game to 34 overs a side and a wet outfield hampered run scoring, so our 132/4 seemed a decent score, especially when we’d reduced them to 10/4. At this point, the younger Harmison brothers came together and steadily rebuilt the innings.  It came down to Ashington needing 2 off the final ball, with which Ben Harmison connected powerfully, thus a four seemed a certainty. Out of nowhere, Polly leaped and stuck out a hand, somehow clutching on to a catch, then celebrated like Maradona at USA 94 as we reversed recent misfortunes to win by a single run. Meanwhile the 3s crushed Monkseaton 2s on the back pitch. As their 1s were off with a wet pitch, I was surprised they didn’t stiffen their team, so fair play to them for playing in the spirit of the game. Mind, after we’d posted 162/4, it seemed a little unbalanced as a contest when they crawled to 39 from 26 overs, though they put on a smidgen of a spurt to end up 66/6. Perhaps they thought a losing draw was an option.

And so, we moved on to Blaydon on Bank Holiday Monday, where we needed to avoid defeat, not necessarily win, to reach the knock out stage of the Salver. The first thing that confused me was why the club is called Blaydon, when their home is in Winlaton? On a glorious morning, the adjoining chip shop was packed out with hungover proles seeking a trans fat cure. A good crowd, a recurring theme of the 2020 season bar finals day of course, gathered to watch an intriguing contest. My favourite event was my old mate Trev Robinson showing up for a much needed chat and catch up, even if cricket isn’t his sport. Apparently, rowing is what floats his boat these days, which shows that you can’t take the FPX out of the lad.

Blaydon posted an impressive 192, but it appeared as if we’d win with ease when George and Mike Jones were knocking it around the place. Suddenly, when umpire Peter Woodley harshly gave Mike out caught when he didn’t appear to get a nick, we fell to bits.  With 14 needed from the last over and our last pair at the wicket, all seemed lost. However, a straight 6 onto the road from Polly gave us hope, which was increased when they were no-balled for having too few in the circle. Polly then repeated the shot from the free hit and the scores were tied with 2 balls to go. The next one was a full toss that Polly hit down mid wicket’s throat and the game ended in a tie. You can’t say Tynemouth haven’t provided entertainment this Summer and this result gave us another fixture; away to the Burnmoor Globetrotters in the quarter final.

Sadly, after 4 incredible tight games, we ended up suffering in a very one sided encounter. Fielding a very weak side, only Ben Debnam and the renaissance man Polly, with a startling unbeaten 27, offered any real resistance. It’s a big ground at Burnmoor, with 3 scenic sides, including the former school turned clubhouse, on a lovely day when there was no smell of anthracite in the air. We quickly lost by 8 wickets, while in the reverse game our 2s dismissed Burnmoor 2s for 38 and knocked them off without mishap in 6 overs to set up a home semi against Sunderland. We weren’t back quickly enough to see the end of that, but we did see the dying embers of the 3s easing out Newcastle 3s, courtesy of two magnificent catches at the end by Benno.

The last game I saw in the 2020 season was our 2s posting 200 and dismissing Sunderland for 179. Anthony Turner top scored with a watchful 42 and skipper Andy Davison weighed in with a useful 40. Matty Walton was the pick of the bowlers with 3/22 and JED Carr ended proceedings with the last wicket, caught by Andrew Linehan to the noisy approval of our half pissed first XI, who were downing alarming amounts of Guinness on the players’ balcony. It looked like everyone was on for a good session, with the Newcastle game on at 8, but I went home, hoping to conserve energy for after the final. The best laid plans eh?

Roll on mid-April 2021…

 

 

 

Masks & Anarchy

 Television is an effective vaccine against reality.......

I’m going to have to get up early in the morning, as I need to talk to my GP. The reason being is that my anxiety levels are rising rapidly, and I think I need to double my Propranolol prescription. What has caused the increase in anxiety is the fact I’m soon to start grafting again. No chance of me revealing the identity or location of my new employers but suffice to say they can’t be any worse to work for than Tyne Met or Sitel. The anxiety isn’t about the work I’ll have to do, which I’m sure I’ll complete with ease, but simple things like meeting a whole load of new people for the first time, managing to realign my body clock so I can deal with the working week and, most frightening of all, coping with public transport and the possible effects of sustained close proximity to the great unwashed.

I had intended that this piece would be a light-hearted account of all the different ways I’ve found to waste time during lockdown, home working, furlough and unemployment, but circumstances meant that just wasn’t possible. You know the sort of things I’d be talking about, feeling proud of myself for lousing from my pit any time before noon, achieving Free Cell level 463 on the laptop and becoming a connoisseur of shite television. In the afternoon, I’ve developed an affection for Everybody Hates Chris, Modern Family (that Colombian character is brilliant) and Parks and Recreation, where the opinions of Ron Swanson provide me with a daily dose of hysterics.

I hope this doesn’t come across as Requiem for a Dream relocated to North Tyneside, but around tea time, I turn the clock back thirty years to visit Erinsborough and Summer Bay. Let’s face it, both Home & Away and Neighbours are and have always been a load of fucking shit; they still are incidentally. However, Home & Away has now adopted an almost cerebral undertone, whereby Alf Stewart, probably the only character other than Marilyn, not to have been eliminated in one of those typically preposterous soap opera deaths, has evolved into a gnomic, gnostic soothsayer, wandering the streets of Summer Bay, dispensing takes on moral philosophy and interpersonal ethics.  It’s bizarre, boring and the only thing the show has to recommend it. Meanwhile, there’s still a few of the originals aimlessly dropping into Lassiters at inappropriate times in the working day, including former aspiring Hell’s Angel turned criminal defence lawyer, Toadfish Rebecchi. The ponytail has gone, but the gormless expression, vital for courtroom advocates the world over, remains. The plot, such as it is, seems to continually consist of Karl Kennedy, GP turned landscape gardener turned pop star turned GP again, and his wife Susan, who is still a pain in the hoop teacher, getting married, then divorced and then married again. Four times they’ve been down the aisle together, as well as getting their kit off with all and sundry, as Ramsey Street mutates into a Pier Paolo Pasolini buttock ripper. What they need is some proper relationship counselling from Alf.

At night, I’ve been watching Doc Martin, which I use to find repugnant, but I’m actually thoroughly enjoying, though the fact that ITV4 and UK Gold are showing different series simultaneously can be confusing.  Him and Louisa are, by turns, unmarried, married, split up or back together. They have relationship counselling, but that’s not something Barry Foster needs; in Van der Valk, Piet and Arlette (played by 3 different actresses) discuss confidential police business over vats of Genever, cheroots and numerous half litres of Amstel in wood-panelled restaurants and dingy brown cafes. Piet generally has an epiphany then solves the crime 10 minutes from the end, allowing for metaphysical ruminations over the impermanence of human life in a socially liberal society.

The one thing all these television series have in common is a far greater sense of reality than Her Majesty’s Government have displayed in their response to the Covid-19 situation. I’ve not written specifically about the pandemic for a few months now, but it is obvious the incompetent clowns in charge need to be brought to book once again. First and foremost, anything that Matt Hancock says can be safely disregarded as ludicrously preposterous; it often appears he’s been set up to talk bollocks on camera as a way of distracting the general public from the imposition of a fascist dictatorship by stealth. Then again, I’ve never particularly subscribed to the conspiracy theories about a shadowy secret super state, mainly because this shower of moral degenerates couldn’t find their arse with both hands. Perhaps Hancock really is as thick as he seems, though he’s a Mensa shoo-in compared to Gavin Williamson. Interestingly, the Education Secretary described doing his A-Levels as “the hardest decade of my life.”

As far as the Brexit five act tragedy is concerned, I’d expect the EU to launch a pre-emptive nuclear strike on the Palace of Westminster if that cunt Michael Gove insists on reincarnating Ian Smith’s 1965 declaration of UDI in Rhodesia. It simply is not acceptable to ignore international law and will result in blood on the streets. However, it is unclear whether face coverings will be mandatory during the inevitable forthcoming dystopian civil war. They still are in shops and on public transport and I’d like to remind some of the tinfoil hat wearing anti Vax lunatics of that. I don’t necessarily believe in the efficacy of face masks, but they simply don’t do any harm, so there’s no harm in conforming to regulations.

My uninformed opinion about Covid-19 has moved slightly from the apocalyptic fear I endured during the first three months. While I still believe it is a highly dangerous and destructive condition for us old, fat bastards, I really don’t see it as being the catastrophic end of days plague it was originally marketed as. The medical profession, from front line practitioners to back office researchers, are geniuses; in 6 months they’ve got a handle on the virus and how to ameliorate the effects if not the symptoms. Of course, cases are rising, we’ve got better quality tests now, just not enough of them. The majority of those contracting Covid-19 will suffer mild symptoms, the overwhelming majority will not require hospitalisation and only a tiny minority will die. I can accept that as a new normal. Life must include an element of risk and another complete shutdown of society is not a tenable proposition for two main reasons.

Firstly, the Dominic Cummings fiasco removed any moral authority the Government had. A second lockdown will be ignored for that reason alone. Secondly, the Government’s only loyalty is to the capitalist system that lives for profit and profit alone. They want everyone back at work to fill the pockets of the bosses and the schools open so teachers can continue to act as childminders and gaolers of working class youth. Interestingly universities, long the cradle or organised political dissent, are being encouraged to use on-line tutorials to stop gatherings of intelligent young radicals. Pubs and shops will remain open, with bafflingly different distancing and PPE regulations, for the purpose of maintaining a flow of money into the economy and liquid opium for the masses. As long as there’s beer to be supped and free to air Premier League football to watch, a workers’ insurrection can go on the back burner.

It looks like I’ll have to accept local non-league football as my sporting attraction until 2021; the decision not to proceed with admitting fans in Scotland until October has almost certainly put paid to my intended Caledonian japes. Even worse, all gigs are off for the foreseeable. Looks like I’ll have to stick with the retro telly when I come home at night and rip my breathing mask off.

Balderstone Island

As a kid, one of my sporting heroes was Chris Balderstone, who combined captaining a Carlisle United side he guided to promotion to the top flight in 1974 with a distinguished cricket career, initially with his native Yorkshire, but mainly at Grace Road, during  Leicestershire’s glory years from the early 70s until his retirement in 1986. A distinguished ball-playing midfielder who weighed in with his far share of goals, Balderstone represented The Cumbrians on 386 occasions, bookending his career at home town Huddersfield and Doncaster Rovers, before winding down with a couple of years north of the border with Queen of the South. He was a stylish and attacking batsmen who could bowl more than presentable left-arm orthodox spin, winning 6 trophies with Leicestershire, before taking up umpiring after retirement, standing in a pair of one day internationals. Balderstone’s death from cancer at the criminally early age of 59 was mourned by both football and cricket fans when it was announced in March 2000, though he seems a forgotten hero in the current era.

To those of us of a certain age, the phrase “doing a Balderstone” was instantly understood. Chris Balderstone made history on 15 September 1975, having just joined Donny from Carlisle, by taking part in a County Championship match and a Football League game on the same day. He was 51 not out against Derbyshire at the end of day two of Leicestershire's match at Chesterfield. After close of play he changed into his football kit to play for Doncaster Rovers in an evening match 30 miles away; a 1–1 draw with Brentford. He then returned to Chesterfield the following morning to complete a century and take three wickets to help wrap up Leicestershire's first ever County Championship title. Absolute Boys’ Own stuff, which meant it was unsurprising Chris opted to play the whole of the 1976 cricket season, causing Doncaster to release him from his contract, which indirectly enabled Balderstone to score enough county championship runs to see him selected for two tests against the West Indies in 1976’s notorious Blackwash series during the hottest summer of the century.

With less fanfare, I have decided that in 2020 I will “do a Balderstone,” as for the first time in almost 50 years, I have no football team to follow. Consequently, until 19 September, my Saturdays will be dedicated to the summer pursuit, weather permitting of course. This, I must stress, is not in any way a second choice scenario; knowing how some, though perhaps not all, football clubs treat their supporters and volunteers, I feel absolutely no compunction about giving my heart and soul to Tynemouth CC. Even if we lose the cup games against Burnmoor this weekend, there will still be friendlies to watch on 12 and 19 September. My decision is one that I’m sure Chris Balderstone would have approved of.

 

Words of Excoriation

 Gentle music and harsh words...

Music:

 

Back in January when I first heard Alex Rex’s stunning third album, Andromeda, I would have been incredulous to be informed that it was not to be my favourite album of 2020. Further, were I to be told that with 4 months of the year to go, that Andromeda would be languishing in joint 4^th place in my personal poll, I’d have assumed somebody was telling lies. However, such is the strength of the competition, this is manifestly the case. Having already ceded pole position to Cornershop’s peerless England is a Garden and Ed Askew’s personally passionate London, the release that has denied Alex’s still brilliant effort a podium spot, is the fragile, spellbinding beauty of Hello Sorrow, Hello Joy by Three Queens in Mourning. This tribute to Will Oldham, aka Bonnie “Prince” Billy, consists of a dozen interpretations of some of the finest moments of Palace Music by Glasgow based trio Alasdair Roberts, Jill O’Sullivan (aka Jill Lorean) and a certain Alex “Rex” Neilson, which is slightly ironic I guess.

 Three Queens in Mourning are the perfect pacific trio, making a stand for the underappreciated, low-fi sub-genre of powerless pop. In this latest creative iteration, Alex is indispensable on drums; his fluent and nuanced, intuitive playing, comprising the deftest of brushes and lightest of touches, acts both as a counterpoint to his own bellowing in the style of a drunken donkey (in a good way), and as the scaffold that supports the understated and almost apologetic musical contributions of Alasdair and Jill, but it is the latter pair’s soaring, fragile vocals that make a virtue of gentility. Of course, the material they have to work with is of an impeccable standard, so they’ve a head start, like Trembling Bells did on their live set The Bonnie Bells of Oxford with the Big Yin himself, where Riding stood out as even more affecting than the original. Here, we have truly blinding takes of Christmas Time in the Mountains, No More Workhorse Blues and Madelaine May, which are then trumped utterly by probably the finest pair of songs of this entire year; Alasdair and Jill duetting on a tear-jerking New Partner, before bringing the curtain down with an anthemic Ohio River Boat Song. Truly, this is a special and superb album that also boasts a quartet of songs with Oldham at the helm; the covers of Alasdair and Jill songs are pleasant, but it is his take on Alex’s heartbreakingly bitter Coward’s Song that justifies his appearance here. The least said of the daft and dirty Wild Dandelion Rose, a kind of Kentuckian rugby song that closes the album, the better.

Having known Alex and his work for approximately a decade and Alasdair’s for a slightly shorter period, I first encountered Three Queens in Mourning live at the Star & Shadow back in October 2018, when I was delighted to make the acquaintance of Jill O’Sullivan. Naturally therefore, I found it necessary to purchase her Not Your First EP under the moniker of Jill Lorean from Bandcamp. What a blinder it is too; 6 tracks weighing in at 22 minutes plus, this half album is really the bee’s knees in psychedelic pop with a driving dirty bassline running rapidly through it. Like a contemporary, Caledonian-based Suzy Quatro, Jill’s great and groovy release packs a powerful punch. The opener Strawberry Moon is a stomping sock to the jaw that grabs your attention and doesn’t let go. Eyes on the Bird, by contrast, has that essential folk-tinged wistful contemplative tone that leaps out from every doorway on Byres Road. I’ve got a strong affection for Your Younger Self and the closing Axe to Grind as well. You probably won’t get this in the shops, other than Monorail perhaps, so I’d suggest you take yourself over to https://jilllorean.bandcamp.com/releases and bag yourself a copy. There’s also Alasdair’s latest project; the acapella outfit Green Ribbons, who are theoretically still slated to play The Cumberland on November 9^th. I am intending to pick up their CD that night but, if as expected, the gig is pulled, then I’ll get my copy from https://greenribbons.bandcamp.com/album/green-ribbons

Wire’s Mind Hive was another early 2020 triumph, which is why it was slightly surprising to hear about the existence of 10:20; a quartet of demos and outtakes from both Red Barked Tree, a decade back when Matthew Simmons was a guest rather than an integrated member of the group, while Margaret Fielder McGuinness also contributed, and Mind Hive. It is the earlier material that is of greater interest; both Boiling Boy and German Shepherds are quality, melodic numbers, unimpeded by any residual hesitancy occasioned by a band feeling their way back into a creative groove. Best of all is Underwater Experiences that is a dead ringer for a hi-tech Pink Flag outtake, with a frantic 2-note lead guitar line, shouted vocals and a ferocious minor chord rhythm part. Fantastic stuff. The modern tracks are less intriguing, but there is no good reason why the 35 minute Mind Hive set wasn’t bolstered by the inclusion of these cuts. Small Black Reptile is 154 reincarnated; catchy, pleasant and lyrically incomprehensible, while closer Over Theirs is a compelling Krautrock pastiche that ends with a powerful drone coda that makes it a memorable cut.  A decent release, but not a vital one; two Wire albums a year is one too many.

Books:

 

About 15 years back, once I’d abandoned my faith in The Fall, I began to take less and less interest in most activities to do with Das Gruppe, though I did read Steve Hanley’s masterful account of his two decades of devoted service, The Big Midweek. What struck home most forcefully about that book was the undisputable fact that all musicians who passed through The Fall, after the initial line-up that recorded Live at the Witch Trials disintegrated, were merely employees, who worked in Smith’s backing band. The Fall were not a democracy. After MES passed in early 2018, I thought of reading all those books about The Fall I’d previously studiously ignored but put that thought to one side. As 2020 has been designated the year of reading voraciously, I consented to the inevitable and picked up Paul Hanley’s Leave the Capital, a detailed and persuasive piece of cultural agitprop that successfully makes the case for Manchester being the only viable centre of musical creativity in England outside of London. Did you know The Beatles never recorded a second of music in their own city and that Merseybeat was invented in a Denmark Street office? Well, there you go. Hanley focuses on seminal Mancunian groups and their hometown recordings; The Hollies, 10CC, The Buzzcocks and the whole Factory shebang get more than mere namechecks. The Fall get a mention as well, which spurred Paul on to write an account of the recording and importance of Hex Enduction Hour musically, culturally, and personally, entitled Have a Bleedin’ Guess, which started me off on a journey of discovery.

As a long time Fall fan, I’ve always said the absolute epitome of their art comprised the period from 1979’s Dragnet to 1983’s Perverted by Language. Paul Hanley joined in 1980, just before his O Levels, and left in 1985. Hex Enduction Hour came right in the middle of this period and remains The Fall’s finest moment, by a short head. By almost writing himself out of the narrative, though he contextualises with much autobiographical detail from the pre and post Hex Enduction eras, Hanley is able to forensically examine the individual tracks, while recalling the recording sessions in Iceland and Hitchin and giving an insight to how things were in the band. It’s fascinating, brilliant and drove me straight back to listening to the crucial period of The Fall’s oeuvre, which I was more than glad to revisit. Hanley’s a great writer and, while I’m happy to see him and his older brother forming the rhythm section of Brix and the Extricated, I’d like to read more from him in the future.

Simon Wolstonecroft occupied the drum stool for a decade in The Fall, having previously missed out on the gig as The Stone Roses’s stickman, despite being school pals with Brown and Squires,  though he graciously admits Reni is a superior drummer, and a similar job with The Smiths, because he couldn’t stand Morrissey, which is a good enough reason for me. Known as Funky Si, Wolstonecroft has been an itinerant musician with dozens of obscure Mancunian outfits from the whole spectrum of musical genres from the early 80s to the present day. He tells us about these in his autobiography You Can Drum but You Can’t Hide, as well as fronting up about his failings as a husband and father, not to mention coming clean about a near 40 year skag habit. Obviously, The Fall section was the bit I was most interested in and, in his disarmingly honest way, Si says how much he liked MES, which goes against the received wisdom expressed in just about every other summary of Smith’s character I’ve read. Wolstonecroft, the eternal optimist, is now happily settled with a partner and makes a living on the former celeb treadmill of tribute bands, reformations, and podcasts. Good luck to the lad.

The final two Fall related books I’ve read of late, are Dave Simpson’s exhaustive search to interview every former member of the band, apart from the elusive Karl Burns, The Fallen and Smith’s poorly ghostwritten autobiography, Renegade. With the latter, MES is, as John Peel said of The Fall, “always different; always the same.” His cruel and unapologetic tone reflects the kind of monomaniacal need for total control he exhibited as band leader from 1978 until his death. There are, of course, some laugh out loud interjections, such as claiming his favourite Australian singer is not Nick Cave, but Dr Karl Kennedy from Neighbours, but the book mainly consists of self-justification for terrible acts of cruelty and retribution. Smith wholeheartedly embraces the never apologise, never explain mantra, justifying every act as necessary for the greater good; the cantankerous old pisspot he was.

At least you can laugh at Renegade; the same cannot be said for The Fallen, which is a brilliant idea ham-fistedly executed.  I’m really sorry for Dave Simpson that his then partner left him while he was writing the book, but it really wasn’t important enough to have the whole story of a relationship breakdown in a book about as important a band as The Fall. Simpson does succeed in tracking down almost all former members, but despite interesting revelations from the wonderful Una Baines and tetchy Martin Bramah, what all Fall fans want above all else, are the unexpurgated memories of Craig Scanlon and Karl Burns. We need them and I need to read Brix’s autobiography to understand the full picture.

I’d had my eyes on Give Us Tomorrow Now, David Snowdon’s detailed examination of the Alan Durban era at Sunderland, for some time. Detailing the period from 1981, after Ken Knighton’s dismissal to the appointment of Len Ashurst and his incredible fringe in 1984, Snowdon forensically deals with the travails of a manager who may have aspired to be Brian Clough revisited, but ended up resembling a kind of slightly less belligerent Dennis Smith. Sunderland spent 5 successive seasons in the top flight from 1980 to 1985, without ever finishing top half, struggled to attract 20,000 fans on a regular basis and were eventually undermined by the boardroom incompetence of Tom Cowie. In retrospect, as a Newcastle fan who didn’t keep both eyes on our nearest and dearest, I didn’t appreciate just what an absolute shithouse of a man Cowie was; he combined the loudmouthed, empty headed bullshit of John Hall with the seemingly deliberate attempts to alienate support and sabotage the team that Mike Ashley has a reputation for. The small-minded parsimony and abrasive manner of Cowie ensured Durban was doomed to fail, though the karmic conclusion was the club’s relegation under the hapless Ashurst, who also received his marching orders. This ushered in the era of Lawrie McMenemy; what could possibly go wrong?

Tony and Penny Miles compiled Smiles from the Summer Game, a short but engaging anthology of cricket writing from pre-WWII Punch. Sure, the jokes and stories are anachronistic to the point of incomprehensibility, but the sketches of late Victorian county games and the players involved provide a diverting and charming way to lose yourself for a couple of hours when bad light stops play.

Sean O’Callaghan’s autobiography The Informer tells of how he was a PIRA volunteer from Tralee in Kerry, a Republican stronghold during the Free State’s birth and adolescent agonies. His father had been involved during the 1957 Border Campaign, so when the whole of the Six Counties exploded into bloody civil war in the late 60s, O’Callaghan did his duty and signed up. Showing a flair for planning and organisation, he moved on from doing jobs to ensuring others did so. However, in what I found to be a surprising revelation, he quit the Ra in the mid-70s, convinced of the futility of the Armed Struggle and moved to London with his Glaswegian hippy wife, to run a contract cleaning business. Unfortunately, their marriage fell apart and he headed back home around the time of the Hunger Strikes. In a less-than-convincing plot turn, he rejoined the Provos, having established contact with Gardai top brass, for whom he acted as a tout. Alas, this is as far as it got as I left the book on the bus from Lanchester to Durham. Oh well… 

 

 

 

 

Cancellation Culture

One single, solitary game; that's all summer 2020's Tynemouth Bad Boys cricket season consisted of.....

 

We started up our long-running, Monday night six-a-side game again on July 20^th. First time out, bearing in mind I’m 56 and we’d not played since March 17^th or thereabouts, I wasn’t exactly agile, or even competent, between the sticks. However, we’ve played 5 successive Mondays since then and finally, on August 17^th, I felt like I knew what I was doing once more; we lost 4-1, but none of the goals were preventable, much less my fault and I pulled off a dozen saves, some of which were more than just instinctive blocks. I suppose the point I’m trying to make is that after a long period of inactivity, even the best of us (which I’m not) can lose their touch and only practise can bring it back. So far, so good in my quest to play until I turn 60.

 There is a stark contrast between my football and my cricket playing experiences this summer. Initially I’d not imagined we would play any cricket in 2020, so it was a lovely surprise when the greatest game returned on July 11^th. Even better, the NEMWCL announced that, while league cricket was not feasible at that stage, cup competitions would go ahead, giving all sides a theoretical minimum of 2 games and a maximum of 5. The main competition is the Just Sport Cup, which 24 of the 28 teams took part in, with the 12 winners advancing to round 2 and the 12 losers dropping into the Paddlers’ Plate. Interestingly, unlike most captains who tend to think along the lines of whether to bat of bowl, this year’s Bad Boys skipper Dan Storey’s first thought always seems to be “should we concede?” He inquired as such after our first attempt to play our round 1 cup tie at home to Belmont Tigers was rained off on July 23^rd. He asked again when Belmont initially refused to play the following Thursday, as it was the end of Eid and they were celebrating. Thankfully, league supremo Don Catley intervened, and the game went ahead on July 30^th.

Despite Belmont being from the division below us, they won easily; their 122/3 far outweighing our 90/9. Speaking personally, my personal performance was a disaster; a disgraceful, humiliating parody of cricket. I bowled one over at the cost of 20 runs, the only consolation being their scorer didn’t catch my name, so I’m down on the Play Cricket scorecard as Unsure. Perhaps that summarises my bowling performance more gently than Incompetent or Shit. It could have been a bit different of course; having been clouted for 3 boundaries by their big boned and big mouthed wicketkeeper batsman, I bowled one ever slower than usual, which is the nearest I ever come to a plan. Sure enough, he races down the pitch and hits it straight up in the air. He doesn’t initially try to run; whether because he thinks it’s over the rope or a catch, I don’t know. It really should have been a catch, which is how I’d imagined the scenario panning out, but the ball fell between two stationary fielders and the batsmen ran 2. The last ball goes for 6, obviously, and I go off to self-recriminate at Backward Point.

It didn’t get much better when I came to the crease. Bear in mind I scored 6 runs in 2018 and 2 runs in 2019, there was little tangible reason for promoting me to 10, other than the fact Benno hadn’t got his pads on. Normally my innings are as brief as my scoring is negligible; this time I faced a marathon 7 balls. The first four I missed completely, the fifth I somehow hit back to the bowler, who missed it and so I called the skipper through for a run. Clearly the fielding side knew the best way to go about wrapping things up, so they tried to run Dan out, not me. Somehow it didn’t happen and, not only was I off the mark, I’d successfully farmed the strike. Next over, the first ball sailed past me, as I didn’t even see it. The next one I saw, took a swing and missed by a mile, hand to eye co-ordination being tough at my age. I didn’t just miss the ball though; I fell over, landing face first, before attempting to right myself and successfully taking the arse in a gesture unlikely to be replicated anywhere in a sporting context ever again. When I opened my eyes, still prone on the deck, I knew I’d more than likely been stumped at some point during the intervening 30 seconds, though the scorecard erroneously lists me as being caught behind. As if… Creeping sheepishly from the field to gales of derisive laughter from my team mates, I cast a backwards glance at Benno belting the first two balls he faced for maximums. Still, at least my performance gave me something to reflect on, other than the scandalous £5.50 The Spread is charging for Beavertown…

Having ended our Just Sport Cup involvement, we dropped into the Paddlers’ Plate, to face Eaga Odd Boys, who play home games on a Tuesday at Seaton Burn, with ours scheduled for 4^th August. Typically, in a summer that took ages for cricket to arrive, bad weather has become an increasing menace, meaning another postponement for rain was not unexpected. The really glorious thing about the rearranged date, a week later, was that it was my birthday. As a nod to my team mates’ unflagging support, I splashed out on 4 bottles of Prosecco for a pre and post-game toast. Then, things went rapidly down hill as Captain Storey lobbied for concession rather than replacements as 5 of the team dropped out. The bitter irony was that they dropped out to go and see Sam Fender at this socially-distanced arena by the Racecourse. Not only were they within 2 miles of Seaton Burn CC, but Tinfoil’s nephew had cancelled just about every gig he should have played in the last year!! This one went ahead, Eaga understandably wouldn’t reschedule, so the skipper got what he wanted, a 0% win rate, and our season was over after a single measly game. If I’d known the cricket season was going to be so miserable and unfulfilling, I’d sooner have died of Covid-19 in the Spring. If I don’t succumb to the virus this winter, I hope to be making a complete show of myself in 2021.

Thankfully, there’s been plenty of stuff to watch, mainly involving Tynemouth, to keep my mind occupied. Saturday July 25^th saw the start of the Banks Salver North Group, with the visit of Newcastle to Preston Avenue. Unlike the previous week at Jesmond in the Smithson Cup final, there was to be no pulverising assault by the visitors. With a celebrity pair of umpires in Phil Mustard and Chris Rushworth, our slow bowlers held the opposition in a vice-like grip; Polly got the prize scalps of Oli Hairs and Kieran Trevaskis as part of a 2-14 return, while Mark Watt and Ryan Macciocchi posted 1-12 and 3-28 respectively. After Newcastle fell to 156 all out, skipper Matty Brown and former skipper Ben Debnam put on 154 for the first wicket, with Ben chipping in with a tremendous 79 before a daft run out, allowing Ben McGee to post a stylish 0* from 0 balls, as we won by 9 wickets with 17 and a bit overs to spare. This early finish allowed me to pop over the back field and watch the 3s snatch defeat from the jaws of victory against Blagdon.

On the Sunday, being at a loose end, I struck out to do some cricket groundhopping. Despite having visited all top division NEPL grounds, I’d only been to half of those in the second division. Two pieces of low-hanging fruit were the proximate double of Crook and Willington, thus I set off early and spent 3 stifling hours in a mask, on the Metro to Gateshead, X21 to Durham and X46 to Crook for the Banks Cup game against Washington. Crook Town’s Millfield is a decaying jewel of the Northern League, while the compact cricket ground is in much better condition. Basic, modernised and quaintly rustic, it’s a good place to watch a game. I saw the home side, older and chunkier than the young, spritely visitors, capitulate from 102/3 to 131 all out. It would have been good to hang around and see how the response went, but I had work to do. This involved another journey on the X46 back to Willington for their game in the same competition against Burnmoor.

 I’ve been to Willington many times for football; the first time involved much confusion when trying to meet up in the pub as there were 2 Black Horses, though the one of them, which still exists, is theoretically in Low Willington, which is the closer to the cricket club, while the other is now a Vape Superstore.  Crook has always seemed to me to be a pretty little market town, while Willington is as friendly and prosperous as Katowice in the early 70s. I’ve no idea of its community value, but I can state Willington Cricket Club is twice the size of Crook CC and an impressively modernised and maintained facility.  It also boasts scenic views of rolling hills beyond the boundary fence. Unlike Crook, they took COVID-19 conspicuously seriously, by taping off benches, denying access to the pavilion, bar the umpires’ bog and only accepting card payments. It didn’t bother me, but I’d like to return when things are back to normal. I plonked my arse on the grass just as Dwight Gayle gave Newcastle the lead against Liverpool, as Burnmoor began their chase of 160. Their batting line-up consisted of more swingers than the St. Mary’s Lighthouse car park after dark, but for every couple of boundaries, a wicket fell and, from a position of strength, the home side won by 9 runs after a suitably calamitous run out, allowing me to catch an earlier X46, X21 and terminal Metro, to end another fabulous day exploring the sporting hinterland of West Durham.

The following Saturday was August 1^st; on the 11^th anniversary of my dad’s passing, it was perhaps appropriate Tynemouth were at Felling. That said, I made initial attempts to watch the first innings at newly promoted Philadelphia against Burnmoor. However, the skies grew increasingly dark and by the time we reached The Galleries, it was bucketing down. I escaped the X1, taking the 56 back to Heworth. A short walk later and I was watching Sean Longstaff collect an impressive 3-23, while his Matty sat watching, often being gently pestered for selfies by bairns in NUFC shirts. Aside from Sean, only Polly showed any control, with 2-16, allowing Felling to recover from 90/6 for 172 all out, including Trotts contributing a first-baller that made me feel better about my batting performance and the lad himself advising they declare 9 down in future.

However, when it came to bowling, I don’t believe I’ve seen Trotts bowl as well as he did in this game. He acted as able support to Paul Leonard who was running through our top order at the other end, by bowling through and looking dangerous with almost every ball. The other Felling bowlers did their bit, while the whole team fielded ferociously as we didn’t get close to the total and they fully deserved their win. Same was true of Newcastle Academy on the Sunday, who got the 173 required with 3 down and 3 overs to go. Nice to see Dan Thorburn contribute a superb 77 for the young side though.

August 8^th was a glorious day, ideal for glorious hitting. Or perhaps not if you were Tynemouth 3s who batted like they were auditioning for a Robert Altman movie, crawling to 90/5 from 30 overs, which Benwell and Walbottle saw off in short order. Thankfully, there was more enjoyment to be found on the front field. Against a modest Gateshead Fell, Tynemouth accumulated 303/4, though Ben Debnam’s first baller didn’t suggest we’d do so well. Luckily Mike Jones, Mark Watt, Ben McGee and David Mansfield were in good form. In response, Gateshead Fell never really threatened, ending up on 191/9. Not that I saw much of it, as the massive queues at the bar saw me called into action, while my colleague Paul Lonnberg bathed, and indeed almost drowned, in a tsunami of Moretti.

Come Sunday, despite the night before’s carousing, I felt the urge to travel again, with distant Lanchester my destination. At Eldon Square bus station, I met Glenn Wallace who was off to Billingham for an NYSD cup game. He admired my desire to travel so far. Let’s face it; anywhere that’s half an hour outside Consett is seriously in the sticks. Mind at least travel broadens the mind; an hour in closed Consett without any sign of a bog was torture in the sunshine. However, the second bus journey was super smooth and with no subsequent navigational issues other than getting off a stop too late, I found the gloriously picturesque Ashley Park without any difficulties, incredibly enough. Despite the distraction of reflected traffic noise from the adjacent A691, Lanchester is a lovely settlement, affluent and consequently unlike most villages of a similar size in County Durham. The home side batted first and made a very steady 192 in a mild breeze that contrasted with the stifling masked atmosphere of the buses. It was more than enough to beat a disappointing Chester le Street who were skittled for 129.  Game over, I took the last Sunday bus to Durham and thence an express to South Shields that appealed to my sense of adventure, allowing the gentle breezes coming in from the North Sea to caress me as I took the Ferry across the water and thence a short walk home. Another tremendous day and only 3 grounds left to go, although Shotley Bridge’s year off make Castle Eden and Philadelphia my only realistic targets.

There were no inroads made the weekend after; instead I enjoyed 3 straight days at Tynemouth. On the Friday night a 20:20 friendly versus Durham Academy took place in dank and miserable conditions, when any NEPL game would not have started. It was a good workout in front of about 200 punters and thus a decent payday for the club, even if the bad weather kept the same amount again away from the place. Personally, I was delighted to meet up with my old pal Dave Jameson, making a solid recovery from cancer, and Michael Noble, who kindly accompanied me to the Enigma Tap for my birthday sup. Before then, Tynemouth had amassed 142, thanks mainly to Graham Clark’s hitting, before dismissing Durham, including 3 first team players, for 68. Thankfully, it was our lads who took the wickets, including 3 in an over by Ryan Macciocchi.

 Unfortunately, not taking all the wickets was the main reason we lost against Benwell Hill on the Saturday. A fairly sedate, stop-start innings saw us close on 147, but a fine unbeaten knock by Peter Halliday and a determined supporting 32 by Phil Nicholson saw The Hill home from the penultimate ball, despite Andrew Smith’s impressive 4-30 in his first game of the season. In the Sunday game, The Hill recovered from 22/4 to beat us with 3 overs to go, though I’d bailed out halfway through, either still suffering from my birthday celebrations or stunned by skipper Richie Hay’s memorable 44* and 2-5 for the 3s in their 80 run win over Kirkley. Fair play to the lad.