The Wettest Corner

 Issue #16 of View from the Allotment End, the very wonderful North Ferriby fanzine, is now available to pre-order from @VFTAE and includes this article by me about a rainy night in Haltwhistle with Harry Pearson -:

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 classy, ball-playing midfielder who weighed in with his far share of goals, Balderstone represented The Cumbrians on 386 occasions, bookending his career with stints at Huddersfield Town and Doncaster Rovers. Additionally, 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.

Perhaps his most notable sporting feat took place on 15 September 1975; having just joined Doncaster from Carlisle, he participated in a County Championship match and a Football League game on the same day. After close of play on day two of Leicestershire's match at Chesterfield, he changed into his football kit to play for Rovers in a 1–1 draw with Brentford. He returned to Chesterfield the following morning to complete a century and take three wickets to wrap up Leicestershire's first ever County Championship. Absolute Boys’ Own stuff, which meant it was unsurprising Chris opted to play the whole of the 1976 cricket season, which saw him selected for two tests against the West Indies. To those of us of a certain age, the phrase “doing a Balderstone” is still instantly understood.

To a muted fanfare, I decided that I would “do a Balderstone,” as for the first time in almost 50 years, I have no football team to follow. From 1972 until 2008, I wasted my love and money on Newcastle United, before my decision to walk away from the rotten edifice the club had become, saw me unexpectedly invited into the bosom of Percy Main Amateurs, a club I still have the utmost affection for. Sadly, despite the success of my book about the club, Village Voice, it became increasingly obvious that my cerebral talents were not a relevant skillset for a club that required practical, hands-on, physical graft to keep the ground in serviceable order. However, in July 2014, I really felt I had come home, when Newcastle Benfield asked me to assume the role of programme editor. I was honoured beyond words to be involved with my beloved Benfield, the club I’d loved the most since they’d joined the Northern League in 2003.

Unfortunately, my passionately left wing principles became a sticking point in post-Brexit England, where even amateur football clubs came under the control of those espousing authoritarian populist, ultra-right wing views. Hence in October 2019, I was sacked as programme editor for an article decrying the racist abuse of one of our players. In December 2019, I was banned from the ground for the rest of the season because I’d been canvassing for the Labour Party in the General Election. I appealed to be allowed back as a spectator only for 2020-2021, but this was rejected.

I suppose, I could have cast about for another club needing volunteers, but my heart wasn’t in it. Consequently, rather than scuttling around trying to watch friendlies and then competitive games, until 19 September, my Saturdays were dedicated to Tynemouth Cricket Club.  However, in the spirit of the totally dysfunctional nature of 2020, the football season didn’t begin in competitive earnest on a Saturday. The 2020/2021 season began on 31 August with the FA Cup Extra Preliminary Round tie between Woodford Town and London Colney, which the home side won 3-1. In the North East, there were a dozen FA Cup games, all limited to 300 punters and mainly accessible by advance ticket only. While my heart was at Sam Smith’s Park, where Benfield beat Seaham Red Star on penalties, my body remained in the house, as my brain worked out a route map for my return to competitive spectating. I may not have been able to enjoy that very particular, specialised frisson of anticipating my team’s line-up in the first game, but at least I had some idea of where I’d be going.

My New Year’s Resolution for 2020 had been to get as close to completing the 42 Scottish League grounds as possible. It didn’t quite work out that way. When my first attempt to visit the seemingly impregnable 4G surface at Alloa was rained off on 11 January, it was a hint of things to come. While I did get to Recreation Park for a 2-0 loss to Ayr United at the end of March, the subsequent lockdown saw me glumly accept refunds from rail companies, as planned trips to Airdrie, Dundee and Motherwell bit the dust. While my desire to enjoy a load more Caledonian visits still burns brightly, there is little to no chance I can take the High Road while Janette Mugabe keeps the border closed. The obvious next choice would have been to explore the Northern League, except I’ve already been to every current ground. Instead, I chose to focus on my beloved Northern Alliance.

Established in 1890, the Alliance is the proud, beating heartbeat of Tyneside and Northumberland football, boasting 4 divisions of 16 clubs, with only 9 I was yet to visit. Despite the doomsday prophecies of the mass disappearance of football clubs, only 2 Alliance teams went under before the season started; Blyth Town and Burradon were both from the third tier and played on council pitches I’d not yet shivered at the side of. You see, the Alliance is at step 7 in the Pyramid, where ground requirements are less stringent. No lights, seats, cover or hard standing needed, though a permanent rail around the pitch is required in the Premier Division. However, I’d managed the tick off all the Premier Division teams, leaving me with the following 7 members on my hit list: Haltwhistle Jubilee, Rothbury and Whitburn in Division 1, Ellington and Seaton Sluice in Division 2 and the inaccessible duo of North Sunderland and Wooler in Division 3.

The lack of lights at this level means that there can only be 1 set of midweek games at the start of the season, on 2 September, and even then, kick off was 6pm. When searching for a game, circumstances ruled out Ellington v Cramlington Town and North Sunderland v Wooler, as getting back after the game by public transport was simply impossible. Seaton Sluice v Wideopen was perfectly accessible, to the extent I’d go there on the bike, but they were at home on 26 September, the first post cricket Saturday, so I plumped for the Tyne Valley derby between Haltwhistle Jubilee against Hexham; El Reiversco as it should be called.

Years ago, Haltwhistle Crown Paints were a force to be reckoned with in the Alliance, but the closure of the factory meant the team folded; even their pitch lost its lustre when the town’s new by-pass cut it adrift. Then, about 4 years back, Haltwhistle Jubilee decided to concentrate on Saturday football, which meant they entered the Tyneside Amateur League, of which I was the chair. They blew the opposition away, winning the title while remaining unbeaten, before ascending into the Alliance, where the same story repeated itself; after three full seasons unbeaten, the Hexham game was their debut at this level.

I’d only ever seen Hexham once before; a crazy 5-4 home loss to Newcastle University in a blizzard back in 2014. While it always amazes me that a town of such size and relative prosperity as Hexham doesn’t have a team at a higher level of non-league, such as the long gone Hexham Heaerts in the North Eastern League back in the 50s, the place is at least home to the best football writer on the planet; Harry Pearson, who I’ve been proud to call a pal for a quarter of a century now. Harry was keen to see the game, so I arranged to meet him on the train which, less than half full, pulled out of Central Station at 16.23 on a chilly, overcast afternoon.

It was just starting to drizzle when we arrived in Haltwhistle, half an hour before kick-off. Being functionally illiterate when it comes to map reading, we wandered aimlessly around the pretty, but closed, Main Street, observing such fascinating retail outlets as the slightly disturbing Centre of Britain Army Surplus, which I doubt has ever displayed a Vote Corbyn poster. Deciding we’d never make kick off without help, Harry grasped the nettle and inquired of a local rural type just where the “football field” was. Gesturing with a rolled golf umbrella, he sent us on our way and we quickly found Willa Park. While we waited patiently for the late arriving Hexham team, our guide arrived just after us. Being honest, Willa Park is simply a pitch, though a flat, well-grassed, perfectly maintained and billiard table flat pitch. There are new changing rooms and a fair sized car park, and the local community can be very proud of the ground, fringed on two sides by impressive, stone built houses and the other by countryside, as well as their team.

We took our vantage point among the Hexham contingent, who were the minority part of a crowd that numbered approximately 75. Then, the rain started in earnest; an incessant biblical torrent that saturated everyone, umbrella-toting or not. In the first few minutes, the Hexham keeper distinguished himself with 3 superb saves, an instinctive block and two tip-overs, as the home side took the game by the throat from the off. By way of contrast, the visitors had a solitary chance: one of the forwards kneeing a loose ball over at the back post. Hexham rued this spurned opportunity when Aaron Hardy put Haltwhistle ahead, finishing off a well-structured passing move with a composed finish. Soon after, the same player struck the bar in a one-sided first half that ended in disaster for Hexham when Dan Parker doubled Haltwhistle’s lead by stroking a loose ball home.

Two minutes after the abbreviated interval, Parker seemed to have put the contest beyond all doubt with another composed finish following a fine move from front to back. At this point, Harry and I swapped viewing positions, by heading to the other side of the pitch, which coincided with an unlikely comeback, as the visitors climbed off the canvas. Unfortunately, there were no team sheets to consult to identify the visitors, though as the rain reduced my copy of Requiem for a Dream by Hubert Selby Jr to literal pulp fiction, I doubt it would have survived the conditions. COVID-19? I was more at risk of contracting trench foot. The weather didn’t discomfit Hexham who pulled one back after a bit of a scramble, before a quality free kick and a sublime outside of the foot 30 yarder into the top corner tied things up with 10 to go.

Here we were, soaked to the bone in a former farmer’s field in the wettest corner of rural west Northumberland, but it could have been a Champions’ League decider, so important were the stakes for players and spectators alike. Then, in the last minute, we had a winner. Paul Wilson stormed into the box, shrugged off a challenge, then clipped the ball home, past the despairing lunge of the wrongfooted keeper. The celebrations were as fervent as the despairing anguish was real. It had been an immense struggle; do not be deceived, football in the upper regions of the Northern Alliance is far superior to what is on offer in the bottom division of the Northern League. The final whistle was greeted with a throaty roar and appreciative applause. We set off for the station, our shoes sloshing with rainwater, and only 100 yards down the road, did we realise the rain had stopped, so absorbing had the game been. It had been a fitting return to competitive football after 6 long months.

I was still wet when I got in the house at almost 11, so I made a nice mug of hot chocolate, perused the Northern Alliance results and fell asleep dreaming of my next new ground. Rothbury v Hexham? Ellington v Stobswood? Wooler v Blaydon? Only time will tell…

 

 

The Creative Urge (and how to avoid it...)

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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!