The Outsider

 I tried to watch Gateshead v Brackley, unsuccessfully...

Friday tea time, I’d been to Enigma Tap to get my craft ale prescription filled. Unlocking the bike, I noticed the fella from Three Kings Brewery had showed up to drop some bottles off and take back a few empty kegs. Him and Luke started discussing business in the second lockdown; the swift conclusion was that things are shit and getting worse. Flattening the R number may or may not be a justifiable reason for reducing our society to an endless, miserable cycle of sleeping then working, without any recreational respite in the pub or at the football, but the blame for the catastrophic mismanagement of COVID-19 that has caused the preposterous curtailment of our basic human rights, rests entirely with Johnson and his shower of Tory twats.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, whoever was responsible for the disgraceful decision to allow universities to open their doors for freshers from all over the country, put them in mortal danger by insisting on face to face teaching and charge the poor sods £9k fees and a further £4 grand or so for the pleasure of being held under virtual house arrest in soulless concrete blocks, should have their arse kicked until the cows come home. The cause of the second wave is almost entirely down to the hideous mismanagement of higher education. As my trips throughout the Northern Alliance in the autumn demonstrated, attending grassroots football does not spread the virus. Of course, sense and truth have nothing to do with the Government’s strategies (we must have had a dozen by now) against the virus, which is why we’ve been shut down at grassroots level since Bonna Neet, regardless of the deeply negative effect it has on our mental health. I feel most alive at a game of football, especially when the lads I’m watching are playing for love not money. Take that pleasure away from me and I get agitated, fretful and panicky; I truly suffer when I can’t get to a game. Mind I was suffering more from the beer than anything else last Saturday, the first under lockdown.

For Saturday 14^th, I had the inspirational idea of watching Gateshead versus Brackley from a vantage point outside the International Stadium, reasoning that stood by myself on a windswept hillside would still prove a more atmospheric experience than taking a seat alongside the Heed Army under normal circumstances. Blyth Spartans were also at home, to NUFC’s 1972 nemesis, Hereford no less, but I reasoned Croft Park offers little or no opportunity for unobtrusive, quasi-legal snooping. Shame as I was thinking of a tortuous pun for the title along the lines of Up the Hill and Without the Dale, as Robbie has retired. However, since I didn’t go to Spartans, you can forget what I’ve just said.

Back in the day, and I was at Gateshead’s first game at the International Stadium in July 1974 against East Fife of course, you could just wander all around the ground. I remember terraces of stepped shale behind the goal at the Old Fold end, but nothing on the East side or the end towards the river. Once the Brendan Foster stand was built, whenever I went, we used to congregate at either of the two corners in front of the seats, often on the tartan track itself; a victory over South Liverpool on New Year’s Day 1975 and a second round FA Cup draw with Rochdale in December of that year stick in my mind. Unfortunately, it appears GIS is now as secure as Camp X-Ray, free viewing spots are almost non-existent. Along the West and Northern sides, locked gates and two metre high fences preclude entrance. Even the old, though now re-laid and rejuvenated, all-weather pitch is ferme a clef. The Gateshead College sports campus athwart the Felling By-Pass has annexed and flattened the whole of the South and Eastern sides, transforming barren land fit only for iconic Newcastle Brown Ale commercials, into football and rugby pitches.

This seemed to leave only one option; either trying to look inconspicuous while staring through an open gate at the side of the main entrance or get up high in the diagonally opposite corner and look over the wooden fence. Pretty soon after I made the decision to go adventuring, I began to regret it as I’m getting old. Climbing the bank and crawling through the dense undergrowth of brambles, furze and tangled thorns, I realised I was out of my comfort zone. Thankfully I was wearing my old German Army surplus parka, which stopped me being shredded from knee to neck and Jack Wolfskin boots, which gave me a semblance of balance on the soaked earth. I fell, slowly and gracelessly, twice, before abandoning my quest and slowly descending to the terra firma of Saltmeadows Road.

Back in my original position, I found the door had been locked, so I took up a position looking through the main reception and at the penalty area Gateshead were defending. At some point keeper James Montgomery clenched both fists in celebration, signifying The Tynesiders had taken the lead. Brackley rarely mounted an attack, so I mainly set my gaze on a 30 yard section of pitch that had only one player occupying it, except when Brackley applied a bit pressure at the end of the half. I must admit I’ve been baffled by the description of the National League North as Elite football. Anyone who saw Brackley’s full backs taking turns to project long throws straight out of play, generally clearing the bar by a couple of yards, would surely have seen my point.

For the second period, I climbed a shallow incline that afforded an unrestricted view of the goal at the river end, but none of the Old Fold penalty box. Typically, Gateshead quickly opened up a 2-0 lead and threatened to score every time they attacked. Again, the majority of my viewing was of depopulated greensward. In the last 10 minutes as night and temperatures fell, I figured the game was in the bag, so I headed back round to the main entrance; somewhat unbelievably, Brackley contrived a quickfire brace to take a share of the points, though Gateshead almost won it with the last touch of the game, when a cross into the box bobbled agonisingly wide for want of a touch. Full time: 2-2 and I’d missed every goal. Next week, they’re at home again. Anyone fancy it?

Incidentally, I must point out that I was the only person attempting to view the game today, which probably tells you more about me than you’d ever need to know.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Big Dog's Breakfast

 

Let’s be honest; Joe Biden might be a decent bloke, but he isn’t a Socialist. He’s a billionaire Capitalist in actual fact but, thankfully, he isn’t a deranged, monomaniacal psychopath whose final curtain call would have been nuclear Armageddon. For that, at least, we can be grateful. Also, his election may be the first indication that the age of Xenophobic autocrats may be waning. Trump has been downed, leaving a bucket of shit list of cut-throat despots comprising: Bolsonaro, Johnson, Lukachenko, Orban and Putin who all need to be dethroned. The irony of Johnson is that, if he maintains his ludicrous lockdown strategy beyond the start of December, it’ll be members of his own party who’ll be drawing their long knives on a far from Silent Night. Regardless of his dangerous desire to cover his own back, rather like Benitez in a Russ Abbott wig, Johnson isn’t flameproof.

 

This has been amply demonstrated by the simple goodness of Marcus Rashford. The Man United player’s campaign to provide free school lunches for disadvantaged children during holiday periods, despite endless sniping from self-satisfied, well-fed, Tory bastards whose primary allegiances are to their wallets and the interests of big business, has resulted in a humiliating climbdown by the Government who are now providing £396 million to fund adequate nutrition for vulnerable youths. That’s almost 10 Joelintons or, if you’ve Steve Brooooooth, 82,500 portions of fish cake and chips with a battered sausage on the side. It might even get you a watch and a pair of trainers in Dubai.

However, before the wider football community engages in a collective bout of back-slapping at Rashford’s wonderful work, it should be remembered we’re only a month on from an appalling attempted power grab by the Big Six, with the craven complicity of Everton, Southampton and West Ham. The plan was named Project Big Picture and was an attempt to silence the Football League by tossing them a few crumbs of hard cash in these days of fiscal hardship. The key suggestions were as follows -:

-          The Premier League would be reduced from 20 to 18 clubs.

-          The EFL Cup and the Community Shield would be scrapped.

-          Current one-club one-vote principle would be abolished, as would rule that 14 clubs out of the current 20 need to agree on policy.

-          Power would be in the nine clubs that have remained in the Premier League longest (Arsenal, Chelsea, Everton, Liverpool, Man Utd, Man City, Southampton, Tottenham, West Ham).

-          Only six of the nine longest-serving clubs need to vote for major change.

-          A £250m payment up front to the EFL, plus £100m payment to the Football Association.

-          25 per cent of Premier League annual revenue (up from four per cent) would go to the EFL clubs.

Despite being presented as a fait accompli in early October, Project Big Picture was dead in the water a week later. Almost incredibly, the proposals were rejected by all 20 Premier League clubs, despite having been drafted by 9 of them, with the seemingly unbelievable reason being a pronounced dislike by top flight clubs of Rick Parry, the current chairman of the EFL, former chief executive of Liverpool and original CEO of the Premier League. Whatever the truth behind the baffling volte face by almost half of the FA’s elite clubs, do not be fooled into thinking that league and financial reconstruction is over; it isn’t. The unpredictability of the current situation, in the wake of the on-going spectre of COVID-19, has stayed the hand of avarice dressed up as progress; once any kind of normality is established, things will change and not for the better.

That said, do not discount the power of supporter anger to make the suits think again. The Premier League’s predictably crass solution to the shortfall in income occasioned by the continued absence of  paying spectators in grounds was not a reasoned appeal to allow a return to the terraces; instead, they came up with the stunning idea of charging punters £14.95 for the pleasure of seeing the remaining fixtures not deemed interesting enough to be selected for live transmission by BT or Sky. To be fair to the much maligned broadcasters, this wasn’t their idea, and they didn’t stand to benefit from the monies paid. Typically, the first side to host one of these games was Newcastle, when Manchester United came visiting. Having ended the first tranche of Premier League fixtures with a comprehensive win over an awful Burnley side, there was a degree of optimism coming into this one. We were wrong, but morally in the right.

Far too often in the past, Newcastle’s fanbase has splintered in the face of situations that require principles or ethics, whether that be the proposed Saudi takeover or shirt sponsorship from Wonga. Wonderfully, the unifying organisation that harnessed and benefitted from the loud and insistent dissenting voice of NUFC supporters, was the Newcastle United Food Bank. By asking fans to refrain from purchasing this game and donating the cost to one of the finest causes imaginable, it not only raised an incredible £40,000, but also sent out a message to fans of other Premier League clubs not to legitimise this sordid income stream. 

At this point, legendary philanthropist Mike Ashley intervened, praising NUFC fans and calling for the Premier League to drop the price of each game to £4.95. What a guy eh? It’s taken NUFC 6 months to finally stop taking direct debits for games season ticket holders didn’t get to see. Apparently, the refunds are being processed, though I’d suggest you don’t hold your breath waiting for them to drop into your account.

Remarkably, the Premier League responded to fan fury and have decided to abandon this sordid project. Once the latest international break is over, Pay Per View will be no more. Unfortunately, the same cannot be said of Steve Brooooth, whose tactics in that Manchester United game ought to have seen him hanging from a lamppost on Barrack Road. Here we had an utterly dispirited and demoralised Red Devils, seemingly there for the taking after conceding a calamitous own goal with 2 minutes. Of course, Newcastle can be relied on to kickstart any struggling side’s season. So it was here; a timid and terrible performance, ceding possession and territory hand over fist, seemed to have garnered an unlikely point after Darlow’s superb penalty save had kept the scores level. Then the sky fell in and a triple goal salvo inflicted a sobering 4-1 hammering. I almost regretted bothering to watch the illegal, free stream. 

Mind, the performance the week after at Wolves was no better. That’s what is so maddening about Broooooth; he simply can’t learn from experience. His idiotic insistence on 4-4-2, depressing wish to introduce Carroll and Joelinton from the bench at any opportunity and failure to respond to things going against us, characterise each and every game Newcastle don’t win. Even the draws where we come from behind, such as Spurs, still feel like defeats. This was the case at Molineux where, bar encouraging performances from Lewis and Murphy, Newcastle served up another deep dish of dog shit. The stink of incompetence prevailed long after Rui Patricio set up his wall so invitingly and was not dispersed until the surprisingly fluent win over a drab and limited Everton side, denuded of their 4 best players. The tragedy was that Jordan Pickford was dropped for this one, though his childish tantrum on the bench when Wilson put us ahead was priceless viewing.

Frankly, this win was a high water mark. We played well, front to back, looked fluent, composed and incisive. In reality, we could have had more goals, but we had 5 minutes of panic at the end when Brooooth fetched Carroll on and we enjoyed about 3% possession as we rocked and reeled from self-inflicted body blows. However, we held on and the Southampton game became an intriguing prospect as Danny Ings was ruled out. Predictably, we failed to turn up and Almiron and, loath though I am to say it, Sean were foolishly caught in possession for the two preventable, goals we conceded. Despite an excellent effort from Joelinton and a more straightforward one from Sean, Southampton held firm and deservedly remained in charge, allowing them to top the table at full time. Under lockdown everyone hears you scream on Twitter, but sometimes you have to accept that it isn’t just the players on the pitch who are the difference, but the bloke in the dugout. Who would you vote for; Hassenhuttl or Brooooth?

One of the saving graces of soi disant democracy is the collective power of the electorate; voter dissatisfaction with serving politicians can be best expressed through the ballot box. Rejected, failed leaders may take defeat with as little grace as Trump, but they have no choice but to accept rejection, or be compelled to. Unfortunately, distant, dictatorial potentates tend not to suffer discontent gladly. I’m not in the business of comparing Mike Ashley with Jair Bolsonaro, but the vice-like grip that both hold over their empires isn’t going to be voluntarily loosened any time soon. However, the one advantage Ashley holds is the incompetence of his useful idiot Steve Brooooth, who successfully draws most of the ire of Newcastle United supporters by bumbling his way through a far from hilarious series of pratfalls and custard pies down the back of his groaning strides. The only reason Brooooth doesn’t wear a full clown’s outfit is that he can’t find a credible prosthetic proboscis to fit over the squashed wreck of his sneck.

Once we return, the fixtures are potentially kinder until Christmas; Chelsea (H), trips to Palace and Villa, Fulham and the Baggies at home, plus a night game at Elland Road and the potentially season defining League Cup quarter final at Brentford. At the current time, I can see collecting something between 6 and 12 points as a likely haul.

 

 

 

Sedge Failed

I got to see Benfield in FA Vase action this weekend; it was a bittersweet afternoon...

As regular readers will be aware, I’ve been engaged in a series Northumbrian Autumnal pilgrimages to previously unvisited Northern Alliance grounds. The total of clubs required before I complete the set is 3; Seaton Sluice, Whitburn (not strictly Northumbrian admittedly) and Wooler. The initial plan for Halloween was Crag Park to take in Seaton Sluice and one of my favourite Alliance sides, Willington Quay Saints. Unfortunately, the sweeping torrential rains of Storm Aiden put paid to that game, while Wooler at home to Heaton Stan A was off because the visitors had been asked to play their delayed Northumberland FA Minor Cup tie away to Killingworth Reserves, though that was rained off as well. Hexham’s Wentworth Complex pitch was also underwater, but luckily Whitburn’s was playable. I bet they wish it hadn’t been, as Hexham thumped them 4-0. I wasn’t there though.

 There’s no need to go into it again but, suffice to say, I’m prevented from attending Benfield home games. Obviously, I can attend away ones, but I didn’t feel the motivation to visit Ashington, Frickley Athletic, Newton Aycliffe, Consett, Thornaby, Penrith, Billingham Town or Hebburn, while I still initially had cricket and then Alliance football to distract me. However, the Road to Wembley via the FA Vase and a trip to Liversedge piqued my attention. I’d not seen Benfield since a 2-0 win away to Northallerton on the first Saturday in March and I’d not seen my pal Gary since the week after, when our last game before lockdown was Percy Main’s stirring victory over Winlaton Vulcans. It felt right to see my boys in action.

Gary is one of the few people I know personally who have been struck down by COVID. In his case, it wasn’t just bad flu, as he’s needed a procedure to correct tachycardia, with other symptoms of Long Covid taking it out of him. Mind, his new regime, denuded of kebabs, tabs and San Miguel snakebites makes him look 20 years younger. The main problem he’s had this week has been the health of his car not himself, though he managed to get it through the MoT after some corrective measures, meaning our trip to Cleckheaton was a goer. So, Friday afternoon, after getting the green light, I got myself a ticket on-line; this was the first game I’d paid to attend in 2020/2021 and the shock of a 75p booking fee was not a pleasant one. I really hope this isn’t a precedent that won’t become a legacy in the future. Well, not the immediate future I realise.  

Gary, accompanied by Martin Right Arm Rapid, collected me at 11.00 and, for the next hour, we found out that South Tyneside had transformed itself into a giant, inactive, gridlocked real life version of Escape from New York.  The roadworks at Testo’s Roundabout had a catastrophic effect on all other routes heading south. The A195 was at a standstill past Lindisfarne roundabout. We essayed a shortcut via Jarrow, Hebburn, Bill Quay and Pelaw (enter at own risk), before crawling to Heworth roundabout, nipping off at the old Wardley Black Bull, heading up past Heworth Golf Club and joining the A195 at the incinerator, just as it struck noon. After such a tortuous start, the rest of the journey went swimmingly, despite regular tsunamis of rainwater, leaving residual grey lagoons of standing water on the carriageway, as we arrived at the incredibly scenic Quaker Lane ground at 1.30.

 

Normally, Liversedge attract crowds of 70-80, but today was a 300 sell-out, meaning a fella from Leeds I know from work, Eddie, missed out on a ticket. As there hadn’t been any physical tickets, it was impossible to wangle an extra place. In fact, the entry was very professionally handled; I had my name taken and ticket scanned, then I had my temperature monitored, before we effected entrance. I got a coffee, then took a seat on a park bench at the top of the hill, waiting for kick off. Probably the most wonderful and heart-warming aspect of the whole day was the number of players who greeted me; I might not have been around much of late, but the lads still know me for the unstinting support I’ve always given my beloved Benfield. In fact, this was probably the most effective thing most of the squad did the whole day. I also managed a couple of brief, cordial chats with members of the committee, encouraging me that one day, I may just be able to return to my beloved club. Sadly, several of the older committee I’ve known for years, such as Allan, Johnny and Tommy, are finding the years are catching up on them and can’t travel any longer, which is very sad to learn.

Liversedge are at the same level as Benfield, sitting near the top of the Northern Counties East Premier Division. Received wisdom has it the Northern League, with Consett and Hebburn still waiting to contest last season’s FA Vase final, is of a higher standard than the Yorkshire-based Northern Counties East and at a similar level to the Lancashire-focussed North West Counties. All well and good, in theory, but if your side has a track record for pitifully bowing out of the Vase against supposedly weaker teams like St. Andrew’s, Chadderton, Atherton Railway, Coleshill and Vauxhall Motors, then no away tie is a cakewalk. From the very early exchanges, it seemed clear that Liversedge were far more comfortable on the heavy, sloping pitch than Benfield were. Fair play to the home team, they absolutely ran their arses off and didn’t allow us to play. It didn’t help that Joe Robson was suspended or that Richie Slaughter had to go off injured right at the start mind.

On 20 minutes, they took the lead after a bout of pinball in the box, then created and missed a couple of presentable chances. For us, Jake Turnbull went round the keeper, but hit the side netting from a tight angle. Thankfully, Peter Glen-Ravenhill brought us level with a thunderbolt from the edge of the box, meaning we went in level. After the resumption, as I queued for a coffee on the steps outside the clubhouse, all seemed right in the world as Paul Brayson put us ahead with a sumptuous chip, which settled us down and put Liversedge on the back foot. For 20 minutes, we seemed set to go into the next round as little happened, until the sky fell in after they equalised out of absolutely nothing. Other than Peter Glen-Ravenhill miskicking in front of goal, we created nothing subsequently, as they hit us with a rapid triple goal salvo; 5-2 was the final score and, while it was a fraction tough on us, Liversedge were deserved winners.

We got away quite soon afterwards, stopping to allow Martin to get his Scrumpy Jack prescription filled at Tesco. Listening to the Johnson press conference in silence, it became clear that 5 November would see the cessation of non-league football hostilities, falling victim to the Tory incompetence. As I contemplated how much I’d enjoyed my day and how much I despaired about the new lockdown, to a soundtrack of Martin’s gentle snoring, the effect on my wellbeing will be catastrophic, but what can you do? Benfield take on West Auckland at home this Wednesday, but I won’t be there, alas.

 

Common People

 Here's the story of two superb, successive Saturdays in the company of Morpeth Town Reserves -:

I was a premature baby, born a fortnight early. If I’d arrived on my due date, I’d have shared a birthday with Sean Connery, which would have been considerably cooler than arriving on the same day as the decidedly lame duo of Hulk Hogan and Joe Jackson. However, as my sporting DNA deigned that I should be a keeper, I am happy to note that two other distinguished stoppers, Nigel Martyn and Martin Young, also blow out their candles on August 11^th. Old Martyn was born two years after me in 1966 and has long since retired, while Young Martin made his entrance on a Monday in 1986, even if the Northern Alliance website claims he was born on January 1^st, 1970. After a distinguished playing career for the likes of Chemfica and Newbiggin, the Young’Un is now in semi-retirement, while passing on his expertise as keeper coach for Morpeth Town Reserves, concentrating his energy on a property portfolio and a blue, low slung Beemer that befits his executive status.

As part of my on-going desire to complete visits to every Northern Alliance ground, I was already aware that Storey Park was no longer the home to the brace of Alliance Division 3 sides, Morpeth FC and Morpeth Town Reserves, that exist in a parallel but unrelated universe. According to the Alliance website, they both shared Craik Park with the first team, except they didn’t; a conversation with Martin informed me that the bucolic greensward of Morpeth Common, adjacent to Craik Park, was the place they called home. For the purpose of my groundhopping activities, a club would be ticked if they were playing at the pitch, I’d first seen them at, or if they moved, I’d already been to that venue. Hence, I’m not intending to visit Newcastle East End at Millers Dene, as I’ve seen them at Stotts Road before and I watched the now-defunct Jesmond when they played at Millers Dene. Similarly, Burradon and New Fordley are playing at the Willie John Sams Centre, but as I’ve seen Newcastle BT there, as well as playing in the Over 40s there, I don’t need to revisit it.

Morpeth Common is at least 2 miles from civilisation, so I was grateful to accept the offer of a lift to and from my bus stop, courtesy of the Young lad. What made it even more alluring was the fact the game I’d selected was the big derby between Morpeth FC and Morpeth Town Reserves (MTR for ease of reference), which dwarfed the atmosphere of other titanic clashes at Goodison, Parkhead and the San Siro that were taking place on the same day.

I had a busy morning, doing stuff in town, collecting books, swapping a phone charger, catching a later bus and getting off a stop early. Luckily, Martin is a patient lad and waited for me. Both teams were meeting in the wooded glade that is the car park for the vastly improved, though locked and bolted, Craik Park. One strange happenstance occurred to me immediately; specifically, it was Morpeth FC not MTR who wore the iconic black and yellow stripes of The Dandy Highwaymen.

As kick off approached, I bowed my head to avoid errant boughs, picking my way through the thicket to the pitch. Flat, well-grassed and damp, it lay athwart a rugby pitch, against whose posts interested dog walkers took their ease and the first half of the match amidst mountainous mole hills. Rustic types in pastel knitwear that peaked through protective layers by Barbour and Hunter ambled past, taking the air and their progeny and pets for a walk. It was all very bucolic until the game kicked off. Fast-paced, furious and displaying the intensity of a Galatasary home game, the two sides tore into each other. Morpeth looked the better side, relying on diagonal balls over the top to their fleet-footed wingers, while MTR were dogged, determined and defensively minded. When they came forward it was courtesy of a solid, attritional, pressing game.  Morpeth FC make and miss several chances, while their keeper is called into action to turn a header round the post.

After an opening half hour of nip and tuck play, Morpeth FC turn on the afterburners. The opening goal sees a ball over the top finally reach a speedy winger, whose deft touch rolls the ball home. A minute later and the lead is doubled after a cross from the right is knocked home by an improvised rabona. A third soon follows; a carbon copy of the opener, except it came down the left, meaning it looks like game over as the whistle blows for half time.

The second half begins like the first ended and Martin, on flag waving duty, chalks off a dubiously offside Morpeth goal, to leave the game at 3-0 and Morpeth manager, former £1m professional Trevor Benjamin, incandescent on the sidelines. Strangely, this is the last we see of Morpeth as a coherent attacking force as the determination of MTR pushes the ostensible home side back into their own half, pulling back 2 goals, courtesy of some horrendous flapping by the lad in the Morpeth FC goal. Of course, MTR are susceptible to the pacey breaks of the home team, but nothing they create ends up in the net, by a combination of wrong options and risible finishing. They hang on though and MTR have to be content with an encouraging second half showing that rattled the ball playing Morpeth FC.  Full time sees an exchange of oath-edged talk and empty threats, but bar some posturing and pushing, it’s good natured and they all head off to the pub, except me. Martin drops me at the bus stop, and I catch a helpfully late X18 back to the Haymarket, where I begin counting down to the next game; Newbiggin Central at home to, you’ve guessed it, Morpeth Town Reserves.

A week in which Marcus Rashford humiliates the Tory elite and Martin endures another Twitter ban goes slowly by, until I find myself on the 12.30 X32 to Newbiggin. I’m by myself, other than the driver, from Ashington onwards. I alight at the Sports Centre and walk past the pitches where I saw Newbiggin lose to Wallsend Boys’ Club, in the company of Andy Hudson, about 6 or 7 years ago. Newbiggin looked rough in May sunshine back then, with assembled crowds of tops-off lager swilling radgies, several feral horses and local ne’er-do-wells on trials bikes zipping all over the place. Frankly, Newbiggin is the closest I’ve been to a poverty-ridden Romanian village on British soil. Today’s game at the Welfare, in the lee of the Grace Darling Academy, has a preludial fly past by 4 lads on beach buggies, like a kind of itinerant, sea coal foraging, problem drinking Banana Splits, before the real business gets underway.

Today’s ref is Derek Thompson, a man who former Percy Main assistant Mick Ritchie demanded be breathalysed, such was his incompetence. However, Derek is a true original; unlike many thin-skinned, easily swayed refs, he doesn’t care who hates him. He’ll ruin the game for both sides simultaneously if the mood takes him. Today, he relied on his default position of cantankerous, uncommunicative capriciousness.  MTR displayed a much changed line-up from last week, but with the same results. A soft free kick was fired into the bottom corner after 13, followed by a tap-in made possible by fatal hesitation by both defender and keeper, before a fine, curling third just before half time left MTR in the same position as last week.

After the break, there was definitely a better showing, but little reward for it. Newbiggin are a decent outfit and their number 4 was head and shoulders above every other player on the pitch. The home side made it 4-0 with a stonewall penalty, were denied twice by excellent saves by the keeper and spurned a couple of gilt edged chances. At the other end MTR were denied a consolation as the ball had supposedly gone out of play before being tapped home. A shame and a 4-goal thumping on a dreich afternoon, but I enjoyed it, especially when Martin was called a “cheating cunt” for a correct offside decision. In all seriousness, all the very best to Morpeth Town Reserves; thanks for the last 2 games and best of luck for the rest of the season. Next week, I’ll probably be at Seaton Sluice v Willington Quay Saints.

 

The Hexhamshire Polymath

Harry Pearson is a brilliant writer. He is also my mate. You may think of him as the Poet Laureate of the Northern League; he is, but he is also a writer of impressive breadth and inspiring talent. Here is my reflection on his other dozen books that don't involve chunky KitKats at Dunston -:

Back in 1995, I read an article in When Saturday Comes about a book that had been named as the runner-up in the Sports Book of the Year awards. The fact this book was subtitled “a mazy dribble through North East football” suggested The Far Corner was ideally suited to my tastes. Indeed it was; I must have read it a dozen times or more in the past quarter of a century. Only recently has it been superseded as the best football book ever written, by the publication of its follow-up, The Farther Corner. In the next issue of Hopeless Football Romantic, I have an article that compares the two books that I’ll post up here once the magazine has been printed.

However, it should be noted that Harry has published the grand total of 14 books, of which only 3 are about football. His other works deal with agricultural shows, Belgium, specifically cycling in Flanders, cricket, dogs, the internet, playground games and war games. He’s a bloody nightmare to categorize and display for bookshop shelf fillers and non-fiction librarians. As I am honoured to call Harry one of my dearest friends, I would like to discuss the treasure trove of the dozen works that don’t discuss the merits of the tea bar at Esh Winning or the architecture of Ryton and Crawcrook Albion’s row of decommissioned bus shelters that provide cover on wet afternoons.

Harry’s second book, published in 1996, was also rooted in the North East, though rather than the devastated former pit villages and desolate concrete new towns of Durham, the picturesque and occasionally bleak Tyne Valley which Harry has called home these past 30 years or so. North Country Fair follows the quintessential Pearson approach; observational humour and lovingly-crafted, episodic narrative with regular, splendid interpolations, all delivered with Harry’s trademark laconic, deadpan humour. Within its pages are vignettes and snapshots of agricultural shows where everything from racing pigs to giant marrows are displayed and judged. Unfortunately, the original title was deemed too arcane for the casual reader, so it was retitled Racing Pigs and Giant Marrows, which seemed only marginally less opaque than the original. Whatever you call it, this is a charming read.

Perhaps the most informative of Harry’s books was his 1998 travelogue of an extended sojourn spent in Belgium, Tall Man in a Low Land. His parallel career as a writer for Conde Nast Traveller made him uniquely suited to writing travel books. The revelations that some visionary Flemish or Wallonian invented beer, chips, and pigeon racing, providing vast numbers of working class blokes from the Tees to the Tweed with the staples of their diet and an adored pastime, was a truly life-changing moment. Having known little to nothing of Belgium, especially the poorer, Dutch-speaking north, I came away from this truly enlightening volume with a fistful of useless knowledge; for that I’ll be eternally grateful, even if the promise I made to visit Belgium 22 years ago is still to be realised.

Strangely, it would be 7 years until Harry published his next book. Equally strangely, following a trip to Dunston 1 Fleetwood 2 in an FA Cup qualifier in September 2000, I wouldn’t see Harry again until a chance meeting in Newcastle Central Station in the summer of 2009. Somewhat fittingly, Harry’s next book when it came, was also about not seeing things for real. Around the World by Mouse is probably the greatest book ever published about the dial-up internet, which shows that, in light of the pace of technological advances, a book such as this could only have been written in the pre broadband era of screeching modems and glacially-paced downloads. The premise is that Harry doesn’t leave his living room and, hunched over an aged Compaq PC, uses the power of search engines, from Alta Vista to Yahoo to pilot a worldwide course by means of trains, boats and planes, stopping off to do on-line touristy things by putting himself in the care of rickety, homemade websites. What makes the book screamingly funny, is the use of a plot device, later popularised by Michel Houllebecq, that involves wholesale copying and pasting of wads of text, comprising terrible computer translations, suffused with inaccurate adjectives and bizarrely formal verbs. The cumulative effect is uncontrollable mirth. This is Harry’s least favourite of his own books, but I thoroughly recommend it to you, even if the last section of the book is a bit rushed.

As I’ve mentioned before, Harry and I are good pals, though there are interests he has that I know nothing about. An example of this is the litany of revelations contained in his 2007 publication Achtung Schweinehund! One of the first facts I learned about Harry is that he was schooled by kindly Quakers at the Great Ayton Friends’ School. As he is a most self-effacing and gentle bloke, it was a profound shock to discover Harry has been an obsessive war gamer for his entire adult life, though that is the second half of this fascinating book. The first is a rip-roaring, nostalgia heavy, trawl through the British obsession with World War II and how it influenced boys’ play in the late 60s and early 70s. It’s a superbly well-observed portrait of life in those almost far-off days that existed in a parallel universe to the swinging 60s, but it pales into the background when Harry waxes lyrical about his love of toy soldiers and the seemingly endless complexities of scaled-down battles and war campaigns. Rather like, Tall Man in a Low Land, Achtung Schweinehund! is a treasure trove of trivia and recondite facts.

2007 also saw the appearance of Dribble! The Unbelievable Football Machine. Harry’s journalism has seen him contribute to such publications as The Guardian, Conde Nast Traveller and When Saturday Comes, where he still shares his work on a monthly basis. This book is a distillation of the long-running series The A to Z of Football, collected in book form. Of course, it’s a load of preposterous lies mixed with devastatingly barbed attacks on the sacred cows of the game. Unlike a lot of these cash-in volumes, it is properly written and seriously entertaining.

As those of you who saw my cameo appearance outside Tynemouth Co-op will know, I am a cat person and definitely not a dog lover, except for Lexy and Poppy of course. Indeed, I’m rather more of an Andrew Newton than a Norman Scott when it comes to canines. That said, Hound Dog Days, Harry’s delightful account of his relationship with his dogs Ingemar and Little Man, has almost persuaded me to get myself a rescue mutt to look after. The idea of a gentle stroll down by the River Tyne out west of Hexham on a clear, early morning in summer with your best friend at your heels, is certainly an appealing one. Check this book out and I’m sure you’ll agree.

I referred earlier to a chance meeting with Harry in Newcastle Central Station. It was at the end of May in 2009; I was headed to Bathgate for the West of Scotland Cup Final between Bonnyrigg Rose and Musselburgh Athletic (2-1 to Bonnyrigg), while Harry was headed to a club cricket game in Yorkshire, as part of his research for Slipless in Settle; A Slow Turn Around Northern Cricket. Not only does it have a brilliant punning title, it is the cricket equivalent of The Far Corner, which was recognised by it winning the 2011 Cricket Society / MCC Book of the Year award, the Cricket Writers’ Club Book of the Year award and being named Best Cricket Book at the 2011 British Sports Book Awards. Cricket is the game Harry played the most and it is the sport to which, I feel, his writing is best suited. It also brings out the very best in him as an author; analytical, affectionate, detailed and dispassionate, the prose of Slipless in Settle is an endless series of Champagne Moments, Gold Awards and spontaneous applause from the boundary. I love this book as much as the two Corners.

 Harry’s next full length book was another cricket tome; The Trundlers, which is undoubtedly a labour of love, as well as a meticulously researched hagiography of S. F. Barnes, the greatest medium pacer the world has ever seen. Before this, he edited Conkers for Goalposts, another WSC tie-in, telling the lore of playground games. I must admit, this is an acquired taste that I haven’t fully developed. However, his next project, a pamphlet commissioned by New Writing North about rural sports clubs in Northumberland, involving archery in the Borders, quoits up by Allendale and cricket at Bomarsund, Housekeepers, Shortlegs and Flemish String is an absolute delight; a love letter to his adopted county in all its glory. Seek it out where you can; it is a treasure in miniature.

Harry gave me a copy of The Trundlers while watched Northumberland flay Staffordshire all around the County Ground in Jesmond. It was the day Andy Murray won Wimbledon for the first time in July 2013, but I’m proud to say we didn’t see a stroke of the final, as the summer game held sway. His next book was about cricket too; Connie was a biography, in loving detail, of the West Indian great Learie Constantine. Focussing equally on Constantine’s background, playing career and post-cricket legal and political adventures, it is beautifully rounded portrait of one of the most seminal figures in Caribbean cricket history. Connie was longlisted for the 2017 William Hill Sports Book of the Year and won the 2018 Cricket Society / MCC Book of the Year. Deservedly so in my opinion, as this is Harry’s longest and, probably, most important published work.

Finally, in 2017, Harry went back to Belgium to research his account of Flemish professional cycling, The Beast, the Emperor and the Milkman, as well as consuming many cakes and much ale. Again, Harry’s skill is in drawing pictures with words; we see the rain sheeting down across cobbles in market town squares, we taste the cream and chocolate of the regional treats and small the hops and fruit in 10% lambic and saison beers. We know the proud and reserved Flemish citizens, on buses, in cafes and by the side of hilly roads, who Harry introduces us to. The affection and admiration we feel for these model citizens has been inculcated in us by the quality of Harry’s writing. The Beast, the Emperor and the Milkman was the third of his books to be longlisted for the Sports Book of the Year. It didn’t win. News has come through that The Farther Corner has similarly been listed; for goodness sake, let common sense prevail and Harry win the blasted thing!

 

 

The X Factor

 I'm still enjoying my quest to visit every Northern Alliance ground, with Arriva buses giving me the means to do so -:

Amidst the swirling despair created by the maelstrom that is the Covid-19 first and a half wave redux, the least welcomed occurrence imaginable was the appearance of another international break. A fortnight’s sporting anomie is an unhelpful intrusion during ordinary days, but the forced fervour of an England triple header has nothing to commend it in these desperate times. At least we have been reassured that the incompetent, venal arrogance of our top clubs and their owners are all in rude health, for nothing else can explain how a league, whose members have just spent in excess of £1.2 billion in the recent transfer window, can have the barefaced audacity to introduce a £15 charge for Pay Per View games and then point out that many of these barren cash cows will kick off at the “iconic” (I’m not making this up you know) time of Saturday 3pm. Fair play to Leicester City for being the sole voice of reason in the towering Babelfest; massive respect to that club.

Now, let’s be honest, it’s of little surprise that Newcastle United versus Manchester United is the first game scheduled for this “exciting new opportunity for fans” to be ripped off, bearing in mind that the two clubs are the most blatant examples of shameful owners only interested in their clubs as money making enterprises. Last season, Matty Longstaff’s debut goal made this clash one of the few memorable moments in an eminently forgettable season; this season I’ll be more likely to watch Matty Leadbetter between the sticks for Chemfica Amateurs. In actual fact, I’m still torn between Seaton Sluice v Blue Star U23s and the titanic derby that pits Morpeth with Morpeth Town Reserves, depending on where the latter takes place. You see, I’m still in the business of counting down the remaining Northern Alliance grounds I’ve not visited. If you’re not attending a non-league game, I’d recommend donating your £15 to the Newcastle United Food Bank rather than Sky TV.

You’ll recall I blogged about my last foray into the wilds of Northumberland for Ellington against Stobswood in a game that actually transcended the Beaufort Scale? Well, that hike was like popping in to see the neighbours when compared to my last two excursions to Rothbury against Gosforth Bohemian Reserves and North Sunderland versus Heaton Stannington A. One of the most exacting features of any day out in Northumberland’s border county is the weather. The season’s first new ground saw Harry Pearson and I forced to endure a deluge on a soft evening in Haltwhistle. The rain that night was tumultuous, punctuated by periods of scarcely credible monsoon conditions, like a watery, Mogwai percussion track, but not incessant, whereas the downpour I forced myself to endure at Armstrong Park, Rothbury was a constant, heavy downpour. It made the howling gale at Ellington appear like a gentle summer breeze by comparison. The glorious sun on a still day as Harry and I looked out towards the Farne Islands from the beer garden of the Old Ship in Seahouses, before I headed to North Sunderland and he and Deryn back to their holiday cottage in Embleton, made an autumnal day out that had started towards the scenic on arriving in Morpeth, now seem beautiful, life-affirming and vital. Would I rather pay £15 to watch Joelinton and Shelvey than tour England’s Border County by bus? Like shite I would!!

Although, if you’d asked me that question the week before, as I splashed my way through deepening puddles from the bus stop in the centre of the village back towards Armstrong Park, I may have given you a different answer. More than 45 years since I’d last been there, Rothbury seemed to be the ideal spot to be shot dead by the coppers, rather than spending upwards of 2 hours in receipt of a natural cold shower of unrelenting grimness. The journey up had been fun; it always is on any deserted X-prefixed Arriva bus, surging bravely, without any need for socially distancing, through deserted, scenic villages, ruined by exclusive developments of 5 bed detached mansions for dormitory executives, where the only way to tell a sheep pound from a cricket ground is by the scoreboard in the corner. We made the usual sedate progress to Morpeth, which I’d once considered a decent journey by bus. The situation was ramped up a gear by a change of drivers as an imposing Goth with a decidedly manic cast to his eyes took the wheel. He tore the single decker X14 along saturated, deserted country roads, picking up a couple of passengers at Longframlington but nowhere else; perhaps they were hiding behind the shelters as he tore down bumpy stretches of tarmac glazed with rainwater. At least we were dry on board. By the time I’d walked 50 yards, you’d think I’d been for a bathe in the Coquet.

Armstrong Park should be a site of outstanding natural beauty. Hewn out of the hillside, it disappears away off in the direction of Cragside, giving way to bucolic, rolling countryside. To the right, it hugs the B6344 that stands between it and the river, while to the left an impressive pine thicket acts as a natural barrier. There is no cover against the elements, but suitably attired country folk either stand proud beneath capacious golfing umbrellas or sit in their 4x4 monster trucks with the heating on. Personally, I sat on one of the memorial park benches that fringe the pitch and immediately soaked my shorts from arsehole to breakfast time.

Rothbury won this one 2-1, but it should have been far more comprehensive than that. From my elevated viewpoint, it was clear the pitch was as vast as it was true, grassed and flat. Rothbury used the width to provide openings for their two strong frontmen and opened up a 2-0 lead by the interval. Bohemians were podgier and older, seemingly without answers to the strength of the home side. Strangely, the second period saw little real action, until Bohs pulled one back from a scramble, deep into stoppage time. Soon the whistle blew, and I squelched my way back into the village, in search of hot coffee. I found a cup in the unfriendliest deli it has ever been my misfortune to visit. Indeed, I cursed my impetuousness when, just the other side of the Co-Op Funeralcare concession where Raoul Moat was brought to repose, I spotted a delightful looking micropub, The Narrow Neck, only 50 yards further on; sadly, time was against me and an altogether more solicitous driver piloted the X14 back home. Rothbury, I’ll be back on a sunnier day than this.

Current government guidance as regards football spectators is, courtesy of the DFA and NFA’s illogical interpretation, as you can expect, a farce. Maximum crowds at Northern League level remain 150 for clubs in restricted areas, while for Alliance and Wearside clubs, a maximum of 40 spectators can see top flight games, but none are permitted below this, which is, of course, impossible to enforce in public parks. As a writer and journalist, I always contact clubs I intend to visit to establish press credentials and ensure my attendance is accepted and expected; my pal and fellow Communist Jon Tait was very accommodating at Rothbury, as were those who ran the Twitter accounts of Ellington and North Sunderland, for it was there I headed on a day of dappled sunshine, as the X15 and X18, by turn, ploughed through glorious piles of russet leaves. Leaving Tynemouth at 10.00 and arriving in Seahouses at 13.15, I had plenty of time to contemplate the benefits of County Lines drug delivery operatives, who provide an excellent service for otherwise untoxicated rural youths and the legacy of the famous Northumbrian anarchist punk band Crasster, famous for such classics as Banned From the Lobster Pot and Do They Owe Us a Kipper?

Having passed Embleton and Craster FC’s stadium a few miles south, Seahouses creeps up on you by the golf course. I alighted, wended my way down Main Street and met Harry and Deryn in the beer garden of the Old Ship to pass a wonderful hour. On departure, Harry gave me a valedictory bag of excessively spicy crisps he’d bought in Aldi and a can of craft ale he hadn’t. I left feeling like Grace Darling at low tide, then took a meandering, inaccurate walk to the ground, which I was required to access by clambering over a five bar gate. This really was the countryside by the seaside.

I must say both the ground and the pitch were immaculate; same as Rothbury, which made Wallington look like Walker Central, North Sunderland are obviously a superbly organised and well-run operation. Both clubs deserve to be the epicentre of their local community’s sporting life for years to come. The only strange thing was North Sunderland were attired in black and white stripes; what’s in a name eh? Their opponents were Russell Ward’s promising Heaton Stan A outfit. Having left his post at Shankhouse, where he’d led them to NFA Benevolent Bowl success, Russ is in his second season back at Grounsell Park and he’s assembling a squad of quality ball players, though none matched the North Sunderland number 8 who was a class above everyone else of the pitch; a lovely ball playing centre midfielder who wasn’t afraid to do the hard stuff when required.

It was a quality encounter of strength and endeavour from the home side, pitted against the guile and finesse of the big city visitors. Tied 1-1 at the interval, it wasn’t clear who would win it, though an early goal after the restart saw North Sunderland looking more likely, until a late rally by Stan saw them pinch the points. A tremendous 40 yard strike hit the underside of the bar, before being recycled for a thumping short range equaliser. The winner, when it came, was cruel; the home side lost it in midfield and a Stan forward streaked away and finished to grab the points. It wasn’t quite a smash and grab, but a draw would have been fair.

 At the final whistle, I wandered up to a hotel without hand pulled beer for a Moretti, took the 5pm X18 to Belford and thence the 17.45 X15 to Haymarket, arriving starved, dehydrated and in desperate need to micturate at 19.40. It had been another excellent day and the Morpeth derby, Seaton Sluice and Wooler, probably against Heaton Stan, are all I have left on my Northumbrian bucket list.

 

 

Bringing Home the Bacon

 Broooth's Front Trotter Mags are having a little rest. Here's my take on how they've done so far...

An underappreciated and oft unmentioned benefit of being a football fan is that joyous feeling of satisfaction you get on waking up the morning after a good win, which as a Newcastle you accept gratefully as it isn’t always obvious where the next reason to be cheerful is coming from. While mid-morning sanguinity perhaps doesn’t compare to bursting out laughing at the sound of the alarm on the Monday after the Spurs game, when recalling the last second penalty that was the best get out of jail free card ever tabled, that wistful smile of happy contemplation gets the day of rest off to a positive start. The two Sunday mornings after the victories over West Ham and Burnley were especially enjoyable; the cerebral equivalent of breakfast in bed. Breakfast in head, if you like…

Someone who must certainly appreciate the value of a full English is Steve Broooooth, not to mention his preference for large cod and chips with a portion of curry sauce from Gorman’s at Cowgate at lunch and teatime. And he certainly warrants an immense smorgasbord of deep-fried, lipid-infused comforting junk food for bringing home the bacon in the two performances against the claret and blue sides that Newcastle beat so comprehensively in the first and last games of the initial segment of the season, now ended by the unhelpful appearance of an international break. It’s best to enjoy our comfortable top-half position while we can, as there are games against: Man Utd, Wolves and Everton in the next tranche of games and to expect anything other than a trio of thumpings shows crass naivete, especially if Broooooth tries to impose his thinking on the players.

It’s an interesting statistic that Newcastle’s two successful outings in the Premier League have been against sides who are still wedded to an inflexible 4-4-2 game plan that, regardless of available personnel, must be strictly adhered to. A self-confessed tacticphobe, Broooooth is also one of the structural dinosaurs still carrying a torch for the football equivalent of black and white telly, Fray Bentos steak and kidney pies, half day closing on a Wednesday and taking delivery of two pints of gold top from the fella in the electric Unigate Dairies float each morning. This sepia-tinged nostalgia for Alf Ramsey’s wingless wonders can only get you so far and when it fails to pay dividends, the results make for grim viewing. Graham Potter may look like a Russell Howard impersonator, but he’s one of the newest English managers on the block and he certainly understands the need for flexibility in team selection.

Perhaps the single most damning fact about Brighton’s defenestration of Broooooth’s Front Foot Mags (I’m being ironic), is that the Just Eat gourmet sent out an unchanged side, including a plainly unfit St. Maximin, for that game. Despite his quaint, almost touching, sense that it was correct to stay as we were, to reward those who’d played West Ham off the park the week previous, the fact is, credible, tactically-aware managers pick the best team for the opponents they are facing. Dated notions that we should “let the opposition worry about us” are examples of lazy thinking and misplaced arrogance. David Moyes is possibly even more out of date in his approach to the game than Broooooth. It’s alright to celebrate a win against one of his sides as an example of a job done well, but to invest any importance to those 3 points when your next opponents come to town, unless they are Burnley, West Brom or Newcastle United, is a disproportionate reaction. Then again, West Ham have dismantled Wolves and Leicester in successive games, so what do I know?

I like Andy Carroll; he’s got the second best haircut at the club, behind Jeff Hendrick, now that Darlow no longer resembles Nick Cave, but he offers little or no threat up top. It isn’t as if he is missing chances; he simply isn’t having any efforts on goal. Alright, his aerial prowess remains relatively undimmed and he can still lay the ball off with unerring accuracy, but his mobility is so restricted he could justifiably apply for Disability Living Allowance. It’s like watching Duncan Ferguson in his second season, but without the goals. He tried his best, but the Brighton game was the day his race was run. Graham Potter understands the need for fluency; that’s why he shunted Glenn Murray out the door.

The point I’m trying to make is that not that we should dispense with Carroll entirely, as there will be a time when nuanced play must be jettisoned for aerial bombardment, but that discussions based around trying to pick a best XI are pointless. While Wilson must start every league game, as must St. Maximin, the appearances of Frazer, Almiron and Joelinton must be dictated by a differing tactical approach to each and every opposition side. Same with midfield: Hayden is a shoo-in, but his compadres in the centre should be selected from a revolving cast. I like Hendrick and Sean, but don’t get the reason Shelvey, who correctly identified how much better our football generally is when compared to the Benitez dictatorship, gets so little praise. He’s a good passer, scores the odd goal and generally thinks creatively. Also, I hope Matty gets back in the side when we need a muck and bullets battler.

Looking at our squad, I’d imagine there are quite a few contracts about to be paid up, especially considering the extensive list of those coming to the end of their deals next summer: the non-playing trio of Aarons, Lazaar and Saivet we can take as read, but I can’t see any futures for Atsu, Yedlin, Carroll or Gayle, unless something dramatic happens for either of the latter two. The jury is out on Fernandez, Schar and Clark, not to mention loanee Lejeune, but injury and loss of form makes centre back no longer a position of strength but one of concern.

Being a dinosaur does sometimes work in Broooooth’s favour. Witness his disarmingly honest reaction to the penalty at Spurs, especially in contrast to Mourinho’s increasingly bizarre stream of consciousness responses in interviews that appear to be based upon Michel Houllebecq’s template for discussing the disintegration of human society in these appalling times. Mind, Broooooth did himself no favours with his increasingly tetchy and hyper-sensitive reactions to criticism, real or imagined. Even his interview after Burnley was spoiled by crowing rather than simply celebrating.

Of course, to huge numbers of the Newcastle social media dysfunctional family, Broooooth can never do right and will always struggle to gain even grudging respect, though I must admit to laughing out loud at the observation the most enjoyable Premier League game we’ve seen where Broooooth was the manager, was the 5-1 twatting of the Mackems. That is slightly unfair, but nothing compared to the grudgeful, small-minded miseries who refuse to give the big man a scintilla of praise for getting us to a very winnable League Cup quarter final, bitterly observing we’ll probably be relegated by then. Alright so we stunk the place out against Blackburn and Newport, but at least we tried, however embarrassing that makes the Newport game in retrospect.

If you respond to any positive result for Newcastle United with anything other than joy unconfined, it’s not a question of red or brown on your bacon stottie, but arsenic or hemlock.

 

 

 

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.