Blue Murder

 

As you can imagine, the last developments in the three cases and two complaints I’ve been actively pursuing against the Filth, have provided me with zero satisfaction. At the time of writing, I’ve been fucked off by the IOPC as regards the complaints about evil PC Doyle and his two enablers, ACI Hall and the semi-mythical CI Lowther. I’ve had a typically anodyne response from the IOPC, exonerating the three of them for their disgracefully abusive and corrupt conduct. All I could do was fire off an angry response to the one at the IOPC who allegedly investigated the Filth’s investigation. I’ve no expectation of acceptable redress, as I’ve reached the end of the road in the appeals process, but here’s my response for what it’s worth…

Dear Ms Turner,

Thank you for your response to my appeal to the IOPC regarding Northumbria Police and the conduct of officers Doyle, Hall and Lowther. You will no doubt be unsurprised that I am bitterly disappointed with this latest, establishment approved kick in the nether regions, during my exhausting and exhaustive search for restorative justice against a force who, collectively and individually, I regard as lazy, incompetent and corrupt administratively and vicious, domineering and corrupt operationally. I intend to respond to your judgement sequentially, but I must state at the outset that the headline question I would value an unambiguous response to is this; do I have any further avenues for appeal or complaint against Northumbria Police for what I consider to be an unarguable case of institutional and individual incompetence, intimidation and corruption?

As regards the body of your report, I am somewhat bemused by your reference to “allegations” that I received 15 threatening emails from one of Doyle’s few close personal friends, who served time in prison for football hooliganism. These emails were a matter of indisputable truth; I forwarded all of them to Northumbria Police’s investigating officer Victoria Dawson, who passed them on to operational officers, with whom I discussed their content, deciding not to opt for the prosecution of the sender as I pity him rather than feel anger or any need for retribution. Similarly, you refer to the fact I “allege” Lowther didn’t contact me. There’s no disputing this point either; he did not contact me. Your suggestion that these two facts are matters of conjecture shows your own objectivity has been seriously compromised from the outset. I would ask if you were working, not independently as you claim, but for the exclusive benefit of Northumbria Police, in the completion of your evaluation of the treatment of my complaint.

Why are you satisfied Doyle’s Twitter account was subject to adequate scrutiny when he was permitted to deactivate, and delete huge numbers of Tweets that contained abusive comments about me? I refer again to the description of me as being a “scruffy, fat, irritating keyboard warrior.” Is this a professional opinion, or a personal one, that you seem so keen to uphold? Of course, later you do go on to defend Doyle’s right to hold his own opinions, while purposefully invalidating my right to regard Doyle as a “swaggering bully.” What gives you the right to hold such contradictory opinions?

Doyle lied to Hall by claiming that he had left Benfield FC in summer 2019. He had not. He left in summer 2020, which is why he was able to stir up hatred against me later that year, partly because I am a member of the Labour Party and was an active campaigner in the December 2019 General Election. We must remember, of course, that PC Doyle had vented his spleen at me in a vicious tirade after he discovered I had voted Remain in June 2016, which is why he was so happy to see me threatened by ultra-right wing known risk supporters from North Shields in December 2017. On reflection, the conduct of Hall in relation to Doyle’s lies about this situation is not “sloppy” as I previously described it. Rather, it is dangerously incompetent or wilfully corrupt. This is where a legal intervention is needed, rather than you absolving them of all responsibility. They need arresting for this. Incidentally, I realise discussion of your motives for your conduct may be beyond this current forum and something that needs to be looked at by another agency later.

Whatever form the professional reflection Hall undertook is of little consequence to me; I do not accept she shows any insight, much less contrition, into her unacceptable conduct. Clearly Doyle will have no insight of his behaviour, having been exonerated at every turn.

To conclude, I am more than unhappy with the response I have received from the IOPC, which has amounted to nothing more than granting carte blanche to the thugs and morons of Northumbria Police, while simultaneously denigrating my character and right to oppose the vicious conduct of the so-called upholders of law in the North East.

I have one final question; how do I complain about you and the disgrace of a report than you have produced to maintain the appalling miscarriage of justice that has been visited on me?

Her response shows that the IOPC look after their mates and so Doyle is off the hook, when he should be inside -:

You ask whether you have any further avenues for appeal or complaint against Northumbria Police for what you consider to be an ‘unarguable case of institutional and individual incompetence, intimidation and corruption.’ With regards to this complaint, investigation and review by the IOPC there Is no further course of action you are able to take. If you have any new complaints against officers at Northumbria Police, then these will be considered by Northumbria Police.

Still, at least I had a response, however inadequate, as the report into the abuse and intimidation I got from those two imbecilic Flatties, Oliver and Duff, not to mention their invisible superior Henderson back at base, outside the Co-Op on New Year’s Eve is still awaited. The investigating plod Seymour submitted her report to “Professional” Standards (don’t laugh) more than a fortnight ago, but they are still “quality checking” (I said don’t laugh) the thing, or more likely correcting her spelling, punctuation and grammar, as well as making me look like the guilty party, which is what the supposed investigator of my third complaint, about the 3 neds in the VW Golf who gave me grief the other Sunday managed to do.

Having had to deal with 6 Plod that day, the only one to produce any sense was phone copper Moffat, who managed to give me 2 crime numbers; one for the assault and one for the drive-by screaming I suffered later. A week or so after some Polis called Page dropped me a line and said she was the investigating officer and would call me in a few days, after she’d looked at the SILENT CCTV. She didn’t. Instead I got this email…

The CCTV shows you and the vehicle on opposite sides of the road but with ample room for moving around. You pass the vehicle, and a male exits the passenger side before approaching the shop. You then return to the car (BECAUSE THEY WERE SCREAMING ABUSE AT ME, YOU BRAINLESS TWAT) as it is moving off and it then parks outside the shop. You approach the car and open the driver’s door. The passenger appears to be recording using his mobile phone and you approach the passenger and slap his hand (TO STOP HIM FILMING ME, YOU BRAINLESS TWAT). These actions could amount to assault and criminal damage.

It is at this point that the passenger picks up your bike and throws it a short distance away (CRIMINAL DAMAGE, YOU BRAINLESS TWAT). You approach the passenger repeatedly, coming within a very close proximity to him, even when he is getting into the car. At this point, you hold the door open; preventing it from closing and the passenger pushes you backwards once. Whilst this action is an assault, it appears to be self-defence since you continue to approach the passenger and prevent him from closing the door (IT IS STILL ASSAULT, YOU BRAINLESS TWAT).

The CCTV footage would form the key evidence for any prosecution and unfortunately your actions are very undermining in that you appear to be the instigator of aggression (IT IS SILENT, YOU BRAINLESS TWAT) before any action is taken by the male passenger and it is extremely unlikely that any prosecution would be successful. I am willing to obtain a statement from you; however it is very likely that there would be counter allegations made against you.

So, there you go; don’t you dare make a complaint or we will fit you up. Not only that, the second crime isn’t even referred to, much less investigated. On account of being left high and dry by the menacing tone of this email, I’ve just let the thing die. No wonder everybody hates the pigs. ACAB? You bet!

 

 

Men Behind The Wire

 In the week the European Super League was born and died, I'm here to eulogise over the Northern Alliance..

You know what? I was bored by all this European Super League horseshit before I went to bed on Sunday night; both the bare faced greed of the participants and the crocodile tears of those opposing it. The sheer predictability of an underhand money grab by a collection of avaricious bastards once UEFA hinted at a rejigging of the already unwatchable Champions’ League may be an outrage, but it’s been in the post for years now. Don’t you dare allow Newcastle United supporters to take the moral high ground over this; nothing is more certain than they would have been demanding a spot in this whole new ball game if the Saudi blood money injection had come to pass. The Premier League may well be corrupt, but at least it is transparent in its greed.

The thing that really did tickle me was the utter hilarity of inviting Spurs to take on the role of continent-wide Lanterne Rouge, matched only in base avarice by the hand-wringing and breast-beating by Sky Sports Haw Haws Carragher and Neville. The thirty-year Faustian pact between the top division and the broadcasting cash dispenser feared being blown out of the water this potential parting of the ways. Fear not kids; as Gerry Adams so memorably quipped “they haven’t gone away you know.” In about a year’s time, after months of Camp David style negotiations, UEFA will bend over backwards to give “the Big Boys” what they want; a hermetically sealed, midweek footballing IPL that nobody with any romance in their soul will pay attention to. The product will, of course, be hidden behind a pay wall that will take your eyes out to view it. Just as the Premier League is currently doing, strangely enough.

Meanwhile, to return to the subject of football, the Northern Alliance has returned and I have drunk deeply from this fountain of footballing purity. While the Northern League decided to abandon any thoughts of organising a compensatory end of season kickaround, presumably because the absence of fans meant an absence of income, the Alliance stood up for grassroots players and fans across the region by reorganising their 4 divisional cups into mini-leagues. Additionally, the Northumberland FA decided to persevere with the Benevolent Bowl and Minor Cup, which is what took me to Seaton Sluice’s Crag Park on Easter Saturday for an NFA Minor Cup third round clash with North Shields Community Christians FC.

Having cycled up from Tynemouth, past the homes of Cullercoats and Whitley Bay Sports Club, where zealous volunteers were assiduously tending to the hanging of goal nets and correct placement of corner flags, the frisson of excitement enacted by the return to competitive football was maintained when my first game of 2021, at a new ground to boot, kicked off on a sunny and breezy afternoon, perched atop a cliff face overlooking St Mary’s Lighthouse, under the solicitous gaze of ref Chris Seach.  There were uncontested walkovers elsewhere, most notably by Wooler, meaning that Seaton Sluice was my final destination in my desire to complete the full Alliance set, but this tie was played at a furious tempo, though with little discernible skill on a bobbly, windswept pitch, other than from ex-Percy Main left back Rob Watson for NSCC, who looked imperious at this level.

Despite it being Easter, it was the Christians who handed out the crucifixion, outclassing the home side from the very start.  In front of about 20 spectators, which was perfectly legal on this patch of common, unenclosed land, the visitors took the lead from a free header at a corner just after the half way point of the first half. Within 10 minutes, the game was brought to a grinding halt with the arrival of the Tynemouth Volunteer Coastguard helicopter, which had winched a foolhardy rockhopper who had fallen and twisted his ankles while the tide was out. Soon Crag Park was thronged with the kind of simpleton rubberneckers who wave at trains, watching the shamefaced patient being wheeled to a waiting ambulance. Drama over, the emergency services and interested observers melted away, leaving the same couple of dozen zealots to watch the Christians complete a routine win with another sloppy goal from a corner. It wasn’t a classic, but it was good to be back.

 

Game two saw me take the bike to High Flatworth, the current home of one of my favourite Alliance teams, Willington Quay Saints, who were hosting Cramlington Town in the Alliance Amateur Cup. I’ve always had a soft spot for WQS since one of my former students, Jon Ellis; lead the line for them when they reached the NFA Minor Cup final, only to lose 1-0 to Alnwick Town in 2007. Back then they played at the Barking Dog, which I consider a far better pitch than Flatworth. However, WQS are one of several sides who have changed their home pitch since I first saw them, so they required a revisit.

I arrived at 18.07, moments after kick-off, in time to see WQS take the lead with a chip that outstripped Phillippe Albert’s effort against Man Utd. There were very few there to celebrate on open parkland, while the road up through the deserted and closed Tyne Tunnel Trading Estate was half full with parked cars. A blanket of low, grey cloud on a freezing evening suggested there was no chance of the Coastguard stealing tonight’s show. Instead, North Tyneside’s parking enforcement Sturmabteilung cast a menacing shadow over proceedings, backed up by the incompetent, institutional muscle of the local Peelers in a transit. Fifteen minutes into the game one of the Wehrmacht Wardens wandered across the pitch and informed the ref all cars on the pavement needed to be moved or they’d be impounded. Like a scene from The Firm, players abandoned the pitch at full pelt, to rescue their cars.  The tin hat was put on proceedings when the plod in the van put his flatfoot to the metal and unintentionally rammed a WQS player’s car; the shuddering sideswipe almost certainly wrote the vehicle off and eventually, to ironic cheers, the car and the meat wagon were carted off on a low loader.  Meanwhile, on the pitch, WQS remained in control throughout and eased to a 4-2 win, with a couple of fine strikes for either side, as well as a goalmouth scramble that wouldn’t have looked out of place at Eton College in the mid-Victorian Era. The parking interregnum saw the game finish in sub-zero temperatures in near darkness. I pedalled creakily home, cursing my failure to don a second pair of socks.

One of the things I’ve not done during this lockdown has been to visit my old fella’s grave since before Christmas. When I saw that both Winlaton and Blaydon were at home on Saturday 10^th April, I saw this as a perfect opportunity to kill 3 birds with one bus ticket. Travelling by public transport from Tynemouth to Blaydon, I found myself on the 45A sat in front of Dora Jakab, the Hungarian female referee who was to take charge of the Blaydon versus Gosforth Bohemian Reserves Neville Cowey Cup game. Somewhat to her consternation, I identified myself with a jaunty Hiszek egy Magyarorszag, making me appear to be Viktor Orban in the guise of a groundhopper. Perhaps it was an ill-judged conversational gambit I mused, as I bought flowers to lay atop Eddy’s tomb, that appeared utterly untouched since my last visit in the late Autumn.

 

From Blaydon Cemtery, I took a 49A up the hill to Winlaton, where the Vulcans were hosting Blue Star in the Challenge Cup. Considering the home team are the successor outfit to the woeful Ryton and Crawcrook Reserves, who scraped along the bottom of the Tyneside Amateur League, their development has been spectacular. Their ground, in the rugby complex that I’d seen the Thunder’s reserves have their collective arses handed to them by a pub team from Dewsbury a few years back, is well developed too. Of course, being located behind wire fencing, it isn’t public land, so those of us who came to spectate, including 50 or so vociferous Blue Star Ultras, who appear to have taken up the ideological baton from the retired Ridges reprobates, were directed to a spot adjacent to the complex and were consequently obliged to squint through the gaps, in order to see the game unfold.

Not only was the protected pitch appreciably better than anything I’d seen thus far, so was the standard of the game, with both sides looking sharp and incisive. Winlaton took the lead after a flurry of short passes and a precise, low finish into the corner. Blue Star, taking over the mantle of Northern League galacticos slumming at this level from Killingworth, are no slouches and a formidable front pairing of Josh Scott and Andrew Bulford fired in a quickfire double to put the visitors ahead. This was greatly appreciated by their followers, who were rocking the 80s vibe of football behind a fence, even if stood in a bucolic copse, and attempted a few desultory, slurred songs in a raucous, tuneless style. Great to see somebody watching and caring about football at this level, though I’d imagine they’ll be in the Northern League next season.

As soon as the whistle for half time went, I was off to catch the bus back down the hill, to see the second half of Blaydon versus Bohs Reserves. It was, as I quickly found out, a terrible game on a terrible pitch, with an excellent referee. In fact, Dora Jakab was the most competent performer by miles, though it wasn’t a bad tempered game by any stretch of the imagination. Blaydon, the younger side, brought the play endlessly towards the Bohs goal. The aged and almost entirely bearded visitors eventually cracked on 75 minutes, when a looping header from a corner dropped in at the back post. Despite their best efforts, neither side created further chances worthy of the name, as perspiration won out over inspiration. That said, I felt much more at home with the honest endeavours of the lads at Blaydon, than up the hill where NBS eventually prevailed 3-2.

 Having decided watching 2 games was the way to go, I found myself at Chemfica Amateurs v North Sunderland in the Neville Cowey Cup on the grass and Newcastle University A hosting East End on the 4G in the Amateur Cup at the Longbenton Sports Ground at the top of Coach Lane on Wednesday 14^th April. I had originally intended to take in Ponteland United against Percy Main in the Challenge Cup, but the home side’s temporary home at the High School is apparently a maximum security facility. Rather like most of the residents of NE20, Ponteland have adopted a “get off my land” stance when it comes to being Covid-secure. I’m not sure if they actually employ armed guards to secure their property, but the message they sent me on Twitter was unambiguous; hence my search for another game, or games as it turned out. 

In the Corinthian corner were Chemfica Amateurs, who put in a really spirited and encouraging performance against a North Sunderland side that must be commended for travelling 50 miles down the coast for an almost meaningless midweek game. The visitors scored the only goal of the game from their sole clear cut chance with 10 minutes to go. Chemfica, dignified in defeat as ever, took defeat philosophically and didn’t display any petulance at their unfortunate fate. In contrast, poor old Chris Seach had a hell of a job with the hotheads from East End, who disputed every decision and tried to kick their way to revenge as the University Reserves breezed past them by a wholly unflattering 4-0. In fading light and falling temperatures, I cycled home, musing on the fact that good guys don’t always win, but neither do bad guys either.

 

In fact, sometimes nobody wins. Having decided against a double header in Daisy Hill, opting out of the second round of East End versus the Uni A at Miller’s Dene, the only ground where I’ve ever seen someone ride a horse across the pitch at half time, and East End Reserves hosting dear old Bohs Reserves at Stotts Road, my choice of Newcastle Independent’s top of the table Amateur Cup tie against Gateshead Redheugh ended in a 1-1 draw. Frankly, it was the least appealing game of any I’ve seen since the restart and that wasn’t just because I got there at 18.29 to find it had kicked off at 18.15, with both goals coming in the opening few minutes. My main grouse was the reluctance of both sides to use the lush pasture of Coach Lane’s immaculate 4G, preferring to hoof and chase.

Redheugh were a decent set of lads but, despite repeatedly breaching the Independent centre back pairing in the opening period, never seemed likely to score again. The home team were on top for all the second half, but simply couldn’t force the ball home and so the two of them play each other in the last group game on Saturday 24^th, when I’ll be at the cricket; Tynemouth v Felling.

 

 

 

 

University Challenge

Sunderland University Sports Journalism student Jackson Byrne asked me a few questions about how COVID has affected my Northern League viewing experiences this season. Here are my answers -:

1.     How has Covid affected you and your experience of the Northern League?

Without question, the primary impact of Covid on my club Newcastle Benfield was the death from the after effects of the disease of our chairman Dave Robson, who had given 14 years of devoted service to the club. Coming hard on the heels of the death of our previous chairman Jimmy Rowe, in September 2019, it is a grievous blow for the club and I miss them both enormously.  Additionally, my dear friend Gary Thompson, who is also Benfield’s secretary, was also struck low with Covid, though he is now on the road to recovery. Impact in such a profound way shows just how Covid has devastated certain sectors of society.

As regards the impact on my experience of the Northern League, I simply found it almost impossible to see a game.  That said, I’ve attended 20 games in 2020/2021, but almost entirely in public parks at Northern Alliance level. The season, such as it was, saw Northern League grounds struggling with an uneconomic 150 capacity, which meant no room at the inn when we played at Ashington, Consett, Hebburn and Stockton, where over half the home support were locked out, never mind finding space for travelling fans. Not every club is so well supported, as I could easily have accessed the terraces to see us at Billingham Town, Newton Aycliffe, Penrith and Thornaby, save for the fact they were midweek games, I don’t have a car and don’t finish work until 5.30 in North Tyneside. The curtailment of fixtures at Northern League level meant the last game I saw Benfield play was a crushing 5-2 Vase defeat at Liversedge in West Yorkshire, the day the second lockdown was announced. Great memories eh?

Without wanting to come across too smug or wise after the event, when the first lockdown took effect in March 2020, I immediately suggested we did not abandon that season, as future waves of the virus and pitifully reactive lockdowns were obviously in the post. To me, rolling it over to be a 2019-20-21 campaign, especially as there were 8 teams left in the Northern League Cup and 8 others in the Ernest Armstrong, was a no brainer. As how most clubs played around 15 league games in 2020/2021, a similar number of fixtures would have been enough to complete a hybrid, aggregate season, allowing both the league reconstruction that the FA are so keen on and making meaningful cup games possible in spring 2021. I think the fact the 2020 Vase final hasn’t taken place yet shows the folly of embarking upon 2020/2021 at any level above grassroots. 

2.     Apart from size, what would you say is the biggest difference between a Northern League ground and a football stadium? 

It’s the quality of the welcome at most grounds; the sense that your attendance is appreciated. It is being treated like a human being in the bar, club shop or pie hut, where you aren’t just a walking wallet to be exploited. At just about every ground, you can choose to stand among other folks, ready to discuss events, or pick a spot away from the numbers, if you just want to watch the game.

Obviously certain clubs have a minority of puddle drinking meatheads who go out of their way to be as brusque and unpleasant as possible, but these are only a tiny minority and can safely be ignored. After all, you won’t pass that was again for another year. Instead you’d be better focussing on the wonderful little eccentricities to be celebrated in all the grounds; for instance, you wouldn’t find a cement mixer in the bogs at the Emirates, unlike at RCA’s Meadow Park.

3.                 Which ground would you say is your personal favourite to visit? 

If I’m being nostalgic, it is a dead heat between Crook Town’s Millfield and Shildon’s Dean Street. Both are venerable throwbacks to an era when local grounds would be thronged by supporters of the local team. Whether work or poverty kept them from Newcastle or Sunderland, who knows or cares, but local pride took centre stage and still does in such theatres of football. At Crook you have two distinct structures along the side of the pitch; a cavernous standing terrace and a charmingly brittle aged grandstand. At Shildon the famous pagoda main stand is apparently to be replaced. Alright, it’s a death trap, but it’ll be missed.

Whitley Bay is an excellent venue at our level, comfortably accommodating 2,500 if necessary and I have to say my beloved Benfield’s Sam Smith’s Park is the most improved ground in the whole league, just shading West Auckland’s Darlington Road.

 

4.                 What is the best game you’ve seen at Northern League level?

 

As a neutral, Whitley Bay 5 Bedlington Terriers 2 in December 2008. It was tipping it down all day; while most other games had fallen foul of the weather, at Hillheads over 400, all squashed in the main stand and paddock, took in a magnificent contest that ebbed both ways. Bay, in the season they’d claim the Vase at Wembley, had a magnificent side, though Bedlington were no slouches either, and the home side ran away with it in the second half. Each goal was volubly cheered to the echoing rafters by a crowd who had incredible value for money. It was also the first time I’d ever seen a player take a penalty, hit the woodwork and tuck the rebound home. Luckily as I’d seen this same scenario in a 1974 Roy of the Rovers, I knew it would be a goal kick. And it was.

Being biased, I can’t look any further than Penrith 0 Benfield 1 on May 4^th 2009. It was the last league fixture of the season, which saw Benfield win the title courtesy of an 86^th minute goal by Stephen Young in the final game ever played at Penrith’s old Southend Road ground. We had never topped the table at any point during the whole season until it hit the net. Seemingly compelled to constantly play catch up, an unbeaten run from mid-February to the end of the season saw us reel Consett in. I can still see Young’s curled finish into the top corner and will remember forever the crazy on field celebrations at full time. Sadly, I couldn’t have a pint to celebrate, as Penrith used to go back to the Conservative Club after games and you have to draw the line somewhere.

5.                 Are there any grounds you haven’t visited yet that you would like to visit?

 

I’ve managed to visit every current Northern League club, though I need to revisit Sunderland West End’s Ford Complex as it has been totally remodelled since my last trip. Also West Allotment Celtic are moving to Northern Alliance side Forest Hall’s East Palmersville home, which has been upgraded to Northern League standard, so I’ll be calling in to see how it has improved. Apart from that, at the other end of the scale, the ground I most want to visit is Tottenham’s new home, mainly because they sell Camden Ales and have a gourmet cheese stall instead of a pie hut.

6.                 Finally, what would make up the perfect Northern League ground? 

Ideally, a windproof structure, if such a thing were possible, would be heaven on earth.  In all seriousness, a large, modern stand and clubhouse, similar to those at Ashington, Bishop Auckland and Penrith, offering easy access to shelter, toilets and liquid refreshment, on hand pull if possible, would be essential. Stepped, concrete terracing behind both goals, such as the glorious examples at Chester-le-Street, Crook and Whitley Bay would provide the best possible spectator experience for those rare occasions when we get good weather on a match day and, to finish this imaginary non-league palace off, a covered standing terrace opposite the main stand, such as the one at Shildon’s Dean Street, for the 90% of the time when it isn’t. Add in a club shop, selling programmes and miscellaneous other goodies, as well as a bait cabin offering a wide range of hot food, including vegetarian options, then you’ve got the closest thing you’ll get to a perfect ground for our level. 

Critical Wraith Theories

 It wasn't the Frost Nixon interview, but Steve Wraith's chat with Yaxley Lennon caused a furore. Here's my take on it -:

On Thursday 25^th March, around 2pm, Steve Wraith created a social media pandemic when he announced on Twitter that he was to interview convicted mortgage fraudster, serial public order offender and unapologetic brawling stalker, Stephen Yaxley Lennon. Steve invited questions and so, within 5 minutes of the announcement, I began a 7 day Twitter ban for a direct personal attack on Yaxley Lennon, after inquiring why the odious little shit didn’t top himself. In retrospect, you can understand the automated banning response, as it was triggered by oath-edged talk that could be seen as targeted abuse.

Of course, this banning order was an ironic by-product of my long-held belief that fascists (including TERFs) should be vigorously deplatformed. You’ll notice that I’m not shouting and bawling about the suppression of free speech, which I’ve long regarded as a farcical canard, mainly on account of the fact that those who shout loudest on this subject regard Free Speech as the supposedly legal right to say what they want and listen to others who mimic their opinions, while calling for the muzzling of anyone who has a different opinion. In England’s repressive, quasi Police State, only those whose authoritarian populist, pro-militaristic, Islamophobic rhetoric strictly parallels the fascistic ideology of the ruling elite, are allowed the honour of Free Speech. Witness how long it took for the Met, home of murderer Wayne Couzens, took to investigate the neo-Nazi activities of Benjamin Hannam, who was banged up last week.

Witness also the kerfuffle concerning Batley Grammar School, where some unthinking oaf of an RE teacher used the Charlie Hebdo Mohammed cartoons, in total defiance of the words of the Qur'an, which has caused outrage in the local Muslim community. The teacher has been suspended and will probably tender his resignation, which is a better result than if the lads from the local Mosque got hold of him, but the wider point remains that the teacher, not the followers of Islam gathering at the school gates, is the one who inflamed the situation, by the misuse of Free Speech.

Perhaps the biggest irony of Steve Wraith’s announcement was that it took place in the week that the appalling report of the Commission on Race and Ethnic Disparities was published. This mendacious tissue of horseshit was allegedly an investigation into institutional racism in England; instead, it was a collection of lies and half-truths, attempting to portray a country, rent asunder by strife, as living in racial harmony. Ray Honeyford, Roger Scruton and probably Bernard Manning would have blushed in shame at the weasel words it contained.

With the 7 day ban in force, I spent little or no time on Twitter, so I had no idea of the magnitude of the rancour and bad bloodletting that was taking place among the NUFC Twitterati over Steve Wraith’s proposed interview. Suffice to say, the whole platform was divided into two distinct camps, with endless cyber finger pointing and gesturing disfiguring a debate that generated far more heat than light. When I returned to Twitter, I posted a tweet saying I’d be addressing this subject in my next blog. In a surprisingly touchy outburst, Steve Wraith expressed disappointment with this and anger at my expense. This took my breath away as, in all the time I’ve known him, Steve and I have never had cross words. Let’s put this in context, shall we? I’ve known Steve Wraith nigh on 30 years now, first meeting in 91, back when he used to edit The Mighty Quinn fanzine, which then became The Number 9 after our erstwhile Scouse goal getter was first injured and then sold.

Unlike The Mag, Steve’s publication had a different tone, including interviews with the likes of John McVicar and references to many London underworld figures. This apparent veneration of a criminal demi monde has been used as a stick to beat Steve with ever since, generally by unscrupulous bullshit artists with their own agenda, but has never bothered me; while I was reading The Mighty Quinn, I was also collecting all 150 issues of Murder Casebook, which I’ve still got in binders incidentally. I’m no longer as interested in serial killers as I once was, because people change their hobbies, don’t they? Considering other NUFC fanzine editors have lost everything and almost bankrupted their business partner because of a pervasive gambling problem or collected more Nazi memorabilia than the late Frank Wappatt, I don’t have a problem with Steve’s interests as a younger bloke. I don’t judge Steve for how he was aged 20 and I’ll always be grateful for how he intervened and helped protect me from the relentless cyber campaign Mental Mickey conducted against me back in 2015. He’s not the only ex fanzine editor I’d have a drink with either; Half Mag’s David Jameson is a blinding fella and Talk of the Tyne’s Derek Graham always cheers me up when we run into each other, but they’ve both long abandoned writing about Newcastle United. Sensible lads.

Politically, I’ve never had a problem with Steve either. Sure, he’s on the other side of the spectrum to me, but I fully understood his decision to stand as the Tory candidate for the Felling ward by-election for a seat on Gateshead Council. You see that by-election was caused by the death of my uncle: long-serving Labour Councillor John Hird (the dad, not the unhinged Leninist loony son of the same name). John’s death came at a time when the BNP, who had a history of activism in the Felling, Deckham, Leam and Shipcote areas going back to the 70s, were possibly at their strongest as an electoral force around that time. It’s not certain but if Steve, who was a resident of the ward at that time, hadn’t stood for the Tories, the BNP could have won, which would have been an absolute disgrace for one of the most impoverished areas of the entire region. Of course, we’re talking about, what were for the bits of my family left standing, emotive events that happened 15 years ago. It seemed possible at the time, but the actually voting figures completely disprove my memory, which is unreliable in this instance. Steve got 74, the BNP got 96 and Paul McNally succeeded John with 896 votes. Heck, there was even a Lib Dem candidate who got 206. Apologies for this; I didn’t do my research. Let me be clear about this; on that occasion Steve Wraith stood up against Fascism and I have absolutely no belief that he is a follower or fellow traveller with the organised ultra-right wing. You may disagree with his decision to give Yaxley Lennon publicity, but to depict him as a card-carrying, far right thug is way wide of the mark.

Now, looking at his decision to interview Yaxley Lennon, I have to say I was in opposition and would not, under any circumstances, have gone ahead with this interview if I’d been in his position. I look upon his grinning photo with Yaxley Lennon as an ill-judged publicity disaster. To be frank, I was worried that the final product would be potentially ruinous for Steve’s reputation and a crass own goal. However, while being aware of the righteous anger and utter condemnation of large numbers of decent, salt of the earth Newcastle fans who I’d like to think of as friends, as well as many hypocritical opportunists who climbed on the bandwagon to get publicity for their loathsome Twitter profiles, despite being Fascist sympathisers themselves, I promised not to comment until I’d sat through the entire 1 hour and 45 minutes of the encounter.

It was a tough listen, but not fawningly hagiographic. The headline conclusion is that Yaxley Lennon’s paranoid ranting will only appeal to the terminally hard of thinking underclass whose ignorance is matched only by their malleability. For some reason I’ve never really got on board with the podcast revolution, so I tend to find them either stilted or embarrassingly enthusiastic. In this case, it was a bit of both. Steve was true to his word and asked the questions he’d been sent, but perhaps because they weren’t his invention, he hadn’t anticipated the answers he would be given; thus, he wasn’t there with follow up questions to really nail his victim. Don’t get me wrong, this wasn’t soft-pedalling, but perhaps an indication that if Steve wishes to expand his horizons and explore what hard talk really means, he needs to sharpen up. My advice would be to secure an interview with former Benwell Labour Councillor Dipu Ahad, who would be diametrically opposed to Yaxley Lennon on any ideological continuum.

Yaxley Lennon, other than endlessly betraying his hatred of Islam, Marxism, Black Lives Matter and “student” politics, didn’t say anything particularly inflammatory, or interesting. Hence, the news he has a warrant out for his arrest after this, suggests talking shite is now an offence. Yaxley’s demeanour is that of a barely controlled, tightly wound fighting machine, ready to explode in the face of anyone who questions or doubts him. His rhetoric is endless banal, superficial populism. Any experienced political interviewer would absolutely wipe the floor with him. Yaxley Lennon is utterly unapologetic for his prior misconduct and refuses to accept that his criminal past is anything to be ashamed of. Rather like his pitiful grizzling over his ex-wife’s decision to cut all ties, he lacks any understanding of the result of his previous actions.  The most piteous thing is how, when animated, Yaxley Lennon’s voice rises to a hysterical, camp falsetto that makes him sound pathetic. In short, anyone with any basic level of education can discount Yaxley Lennon and his squalid gang of low life followers; the bloke is as thick as pig shit and no threat to the ruling elite. I simply cannot envisage a situation where Yaxley Lennon, or indeed any other right wing demagogue, will succeed at the ballot box. However, whether it is in the company of the nefarious hoods behind the discredited and despicable Justice 4 Chelsey campaign, or mobilising his squad of street thugs the next time a Batley type local incident blows up, we know Yaxley Lennon has the power to make the lives of ordinary people, especially if they are Muslim, an utter misery. That is why we should oppose him by word, or deed if you prefer, at every opportunity.

Two final points; firstly, I’d like Steve to clarify if he had met Yaxley Lennon once or twice prior to this. It seems that Steve met Yaxley Lennon after his visit to Sunderland ended in a pub in Whickham and during his ill-fated trip supporting Luton in the FA Cup, when he was reputedly put on his arse by an Asian Antifa activist. Secondly, if Yaxley Lennon prides himself on his research, how come he didn’t know that legendary anti-Fascist campaigner, Councillor Nigel Todd, had died the weekend previously? Nigel was a good man, whose life was both well lived and considerably longer than the loathsome Piers Merchant.

 

 

The Filth & My Fury

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Far too often, I find myself furiously nodding in total agreement with George Henrik von Wright’s analysis of his friend and peer Ludwig Wittgenstein’s influence on humanity -:

His ideas were generally misunderstood and distorted even by those who professed to be his disciples, while he doubted he would be better understood in the future. He once said he felt as though he was writing for people who would think in a different way, breathe a different air of life, from that of present-day men.

In so many ways, politically and philosophically, that is my experience of the world; beating on, a boat against the current. However, often almost imperceptibly and at a glacial pace, I all too infrequently see evidence of those who may have decried my words in the past, coming to a broad agreement with me. Take, for instance, my attitude to the Filth; the revulsion and hatred that I hold them in was once seen as wild or excessive nihilism by many of my associates. Now, other than those bald authoritarian populists whose neo-Fascist conformism obliges them to regard Babylon as their enemy’s enemy and so a surrogate friend, vast sectors of society hold the Peelers in abject contempt. 

You wonder why I think like this? Parking the conduct and influence over the local Blue Meanies held by Robin Fisher and Elaine O’Connell-Gray, come and enjoy a typical Sunday with me. It may help you understand why I feel like I’m the new Alan Barnes.

Mid-afternoon I say goodbye to Laura and the cats, then head home from the coast, in preparation for the working week ahead. I’m turning right on Park Terrace by Davinder Singh’s corner shop, heading to Linskill Terrace. Opposite me is a bright red boy racer VW Golf, number plate NG11 BBF. There’s three of them in there; a little cunt driving, a big cunt in the front passenger seat and a scrawny cunt in the back. The little one does an oh so hilarious wobble with the steering wheel, as if he’s going to run me down, before pulling up at the shop. I say out loud, “clever lad,” as the big cunt gets out. From inside the vehicle I hear “get some cat treats” and a squeal of infantile laughter.

At this point I should leave it, but frankly I’m sick of this kind of taunting. Yes, events of June 19^th last year were less than memorable, but I’m sick of being made fun of. I go back to the car and open the rear passenger door on the driver’s side, asking the two occupants what the joke was. Things escalate; the two squealing cunts in the car scream for the Lenny lookalike, who grabs my untended bike and hurls it across the road. They abandon this shopping trip and tear off. I feel hurt, angry, upset and, most of all, vulnerable. Naively, I call the Pigs. The call handler, who doesn’t give his name or collar number, isn’t interested. The best he can offer me is a call back on Tuesday, which I tell him is inadequate and ask for a call on the Sunday. He ends the conversation and I’m feeling no further forward.

After spending 10 minutes rethreading the chain and checking the bike is still in working order, I pedal slowly into the teeth of a stiffening headwind, making slow progress. About 10 minutes later, I’m heading up Queen Alexandra Road, about halfway between The Gunner and The Alex when NG11 BBF crawls past. Skinny cunt is leaning out of the window screaming, “you fucking little nonce. We’re go to fucking do you, nonce” repeatedly, while filming me. I get off the bike and call Babylon again. This time the handler is quite sympathetic, promising me a call back on the Sunday, but no chance of a Plod coming to see me now.

All I can do is head slowly home, feeling tearful and worthless. About 100 yards from home, I get a call from Sergeant 3114 Simpson, who is frankly the most arrogant, objectionable and unsympathetic Rozzer I’ve had to deal with in years. She ends the call abruptly as I’m not immensely grateful for her efforts (there’s a complaint going in about that one I’m telling you). Twenty minutes later, I get my 4^th different Pig on the line, who is ever so pretend sympathetic, but the best I can get is a Tuesday 6pm slot to receive a call, to discuss this incident. The call, when it first comes, is at 4.50pm when I’m still at graft. I explain this and then get my proper call 15 minutes late. Yeah he’s sympathetic and that, but all he’s doing is second stage triage; six phonecalls and I’m yet to give a statement. Fucking pointless, and further evidence of Northumbria Police’s agenda against me. The local Pigs are corrupt and incompetent; they do not investigate any complaints I make in a satisfactory manner, but are only too keen to persecute me when Fisher and O’Connell-Gray are greasing their palms. No wonder the whole country hates them.

It’s not been the best of times for the Scuffers of late. Following the arrest of a serving officer for the brutal abduction and murder of Sarah Everard, the Met showed their true colours when launching an abhorrent, ill-judged, but institutionally absolved, attack upon a socially-distanced, peaceful vigil in Sarah’s memory on Clapham Common. The utter lack of empathy and point-blank refusal to accept responsibility for such an outrage by Cressida Dick, Head of the Met, made her force’s behaviour appear to be a planned show of strength in support of Wayne Couzens.  No doubt it was. No doubt the same flat-footed psychos in DM shoes and Primark dress pants will have donated to some secret rainy day fund for Dorset pig Tim Brehmer, who has recently had his risible 10 year stretch for throttling his lover Claire Parry to death in a pub car park, doubled.

Not all violence towards women is perpetrated by members of the Constabulary, but all of it is condoned by the Po Po; especially when it is against members of the Trans community. The murder of Amy Griffiths by Martin Saberi showed which side the dated, dangerous, dungareed Millie Tant Tendency were on, when their leading spokestermagant claimed Amy’s murder not to be a hate crime. These hatchet faced TERF crones oppress Trans women in a way akin to Yaxley Lennon’s thugs beating down on Islam. These Spare Rib anachronists are still to be found worshipping at the feet of evil Graham Linehan; a straight, white male so eaten up by his hatred of Trans women that he registered on gay dating sites, pretending to be a Lesbian, to out Trans women. Unsurprisingly, his wife divorced him, out of revulsion at his obsession, though he can now take the pick of whichever Andrea Dworkin and Bea Campbell soundalike he fancies. Lucky bloke eh?

Fair play to the sisters and brothers down in Bristol whose heroic Kill the Bill demos have exposed the Avon and Somerset bacon for telling lies about broken bones and punctured lungs. In the words of the late, great Bernie Grant, the Five-O have taken a bloody good hiding on at least three occasions now. The Manc Filth showed themselves to be as evil as when Anderton was in charge; 60 of them wading into a couple of dozen student sit down protestors.  What a shame Dale Cregan couldn’t have been there.

Meanwhile Northumbria Police continue to be the focus of my ire. You’ll recall the complaint I made last June when I grew weary of PC Doyle’s continued campaign of social media vilification against me. Well, after Winton’s witless wankstains completely arsed things up, the Office of the Police and Crime Commissioner stepped in and the Forth Banks fucktards were told to do their job properly, which encouraged me to donate to Kim McGuinness’s re-election fund. The Filth didn’t do much of a job, as you’d expect, but at least they actually looked into my 3 complaints.  In short, they rejected 2 and accepted the other.

The easiest one to deal with is my assertion that the elusive CI Lowther who never even sent me an email, but took Doyle to one side for a cosy chat about Twitter, didn’t do his job properly. Presumably this was rejected so they could heap the blame onto Lowther’s subordinate ACI Hall, who they found to have fucked up. I have to say at this point, she is one feisty customer and, reading between the lines, it is absolutely clear she does not accept for one second that she has done anything wrong; more fool her. Doyle, as you’d expect, was utterly exonerated and is therefore free to continue his vendetta against me, no doubt with the aid of his only three friends.

Good news though; I’ve put in an appeal to the Independent Office for Police Conduct against the decisions related to Doyle and Hall.  I explained that it was both the way my complaint about Doyle was handled, which I do not regard to have been rigorous enough, and the outcome of this complaint, which seemed to be an inevitable whitewash after the desultory manner in which it was investigated, that made me appeal. I admitted that I am content to allow the complaint about the mythical CI Lowther to lie, though I did point to the absolute lack of insight and contrition by ACI Hall, which to my mind constitutes serious professional misjudgement, leading me to question her suitability for any role in the Police.

My specific complaint about the inquiry into Doyle's bullying and intimidatory conduct towards me is the utter disinclination of Northumbria Police to research the content of his Twitter account, where his abusive posts were simply hidden by him protecting his account. This prevented me from presenting compelling evidence of his bullying and intimidatory conduct towards me and made me wonder exactly why he was not compelled to show his tweets to the investigating officer. I also queried why Doyle claimed, when interviewed in July 2020, that he had left Benfield a year previous. In fact, he left almost synchronously to that interview and, in December 2019, had been the leader of a witch hunt against me that saw me banned from the club. Doyle proves himself a liar here and the sloppy approach to the investigation by ACI Hall allowed him to get away with this.

Secondly, I pointed out in the most strident terms possible that I am appalled Doyle was allowed to make the value judgement that my tweets were "offensive," and this not be challenged when he said it, or in the subsequent evaluation of my complaint against him. It is further evidence of his personal vendetta against me, as is his interpretation of the events of 2 December 2017, when he, as a serving police officer, shows his approval of an attempted attack on me by several known risk supporters. It is my contention that Doyle is a swaggering, unprofessional bully of limited intellect. Therefore, I believe Northumbria Police's investigation, as conducted by ACI Hall was not fit for purpose. In an ideal world, I'd like them both facing criminal charges or, at the very least, a professional disciplinary hearing. If they want to fob me off with an apology, I want a face to face one. This case needs investigating properly to eradicate this miscarriage of justice.

But if I do get justice for this one, there are still other cases to deal with. Remember how I started off this piece with an account of how the first day of spring was ruined by 3 Neds and 4 hopeless Coppers? Well, New Year’s Eve just gone wasn’t that great either. I headed into Tynemouth to get some last minute things for the Hogmanay gargle and, on entering the Co-Op things went awry. Obviously the incident of last June had a negative effect on my privileges in the NE30 area, but I hadn’t suffered direct discrimination until the cocksucker who I’d had the run in with, tried to fling me out of the shop. I stood my ground, so he dropped his arse and called for the Pigs.

Now, if you still think I’m paranoid, why did it take 2 coppers in vans to come screaming up Front Street to sort this? And what a pair they were; 2242 Duffy was a stunted, spherical brain donor, while 8020 Oliver (no, seriously) was the tough guy. His Paddington hard stare at me was the most pitiful attempt at intimidation I’ve come across. Although, to be fair, he was engaged in fairly heavy duty flirtation with the cocksucker in charge at the time.

Following 20 minutes of hard man, fat woman interrogation by a pair of the thickest polis I’ve had the misfortune to meet since that clown Pilgreen threatened to take me into custody the night before my mother’s funeral, they left. I wasn’t going to take their shit, so I biked it down to North Shields sty to make a complaint. Turns out, the only way to do that is to pick up the battered Freephone outside and dial 101. Three different call handlers failed to get anyone to come down and see me, so I was left with no choice but to fill out an online complaint. I did so and, to be fair, the Professional Standards (don’t laugh) investigator hasn’t done a bad job, though March 29^th was the deadline for her to respond to my answers to her questions below.

1.      What was it that made you believe the person serving with the police’s words or actions were discriminatory?

I may have a different set of values and social expectations than serving members of Northumbria Police, or indeed the force as a corporate entity, but I would expect that innocent civilians who have broken no laws and are behaving in a co-operative way would be spoken to with a degree of respect and calmness, rather than the hectoring, intimidatory and indeed accusatory fashion that PC 2242 Duffy used in the entirety of the incident outside the Co-Op. When she asked what “the likes of you” were doing in Tynemouth, it was clear to me she was referring to my cultural identity as a Rastafari. PC 8020 Oliver may not have been quite as fulminating as PC 2242 Duffy, but the look of contempt and intimidation he gave me, obviously not recorded by his bodycam, showed the utter contempt he held me in.

2.      Do you feel that the person serving with the police made assumptions about you because of your protected characteristic? What were these assumptions? How did they impact on the actions of the police?

I feel that both officers made judgements about me; PC 2242 Duffy made her negative judgement about me on sight, because of my cultural identity and that it was reinforced by her response to my unwillingness to adopt a subservient attitude to the police. PC 8020 Oliver had a friendly and almost flirtatious encounter with the Co-Op manager and set his brows in a steely grimace of rebuke when seeking to badger me for my presence in Tynemouth.

3.      Did you note any differences in the way you were treated compared with others?

I was the only person presenting as culturally Rastafari in Tynemouth as I could see. I was the only person cajoled, browbeaten and bearded by the two officers.

4.      Did you note any differences in the way that this person serving with the police behaved compared with other persons serving with the police (either on this or other occasions)?

Over the past decade, I have been subject to repeated harassment from Northumbria Police, from both Newcastle and North Tyneside scions. In particular, the zeal with which the police have sought to investigate a litany of unfounded, mendacious allegations made against me by Elaine O’Connell-Gray and Robin Fisher, as well as David Caisley, that has seen me pursued, detained and interviewed on about a dozen occasions.  As can be seen, despite the incessant, intimidatory tactics of Northumbria Police, not one single allegation has resulted in so much as a caution; the actions of the officer who arrested me at Mr Fisher’s request in January 2017 (I do not have her name), plus the grievous conduct of PC 8151 Pilgreen in September 2017 are enough to demonstrate the severity of the persecution against me, as should the two reports I made of assault against my person in January and May 2020, neither of which were investigated.  Northumbria Police have a policy towards me that is repressive and intimidatory; it is from such a culture that the officers’ actions towards me sprang.

Now in contrast, whenever I’ve had cause to ask for the help of the police, the response has been considerably less than adequate. In December 2013, I was mugged on the Metro between Wallsend and Hadrian Road, where the attackers escaped. I pulled the emergency brake and the cops came. Unsurprisingly, the CCTV on the train didn’t work and the cameras at both stations missed taking any images of the 3 of them who jumped me. Case closed; unsolved. Shoulders shrugged; I was left to deal with it. In May 2015, outraged by the Greville Janner case, I finally plucked up the courage to report my mother for the years of sexual abuse I’d suffered as a child. I didn’t do this simply for my own sake, but for other potential victims. However, despite having clear evidence of my mother and sister’s extremely close relationship with a notorious resident of Dolphin Square, who boasts of being a worldwide authority on Lewis Carroll, nothing came of my statement. Seems abundantly clear to me that some families get better protection than others from the constabulary; looks like I’m not inside the tent. Indeed when my sister was finally warned as to her conduct towards me by Northumbria Police, I rather feel it was more a case of a word to the wise from another one of the gang from around the camp fire, than a case of helping a victim. The police in Newcastle and North Tyneside simply do not respond with any degree of professionalism when I require their assistance; am I paranoid or are they incompetent? Or worse; corrupt? It’s up to you to decide.

5.      Was there anything about the person serving with the police’s language that added to your concern? Did anyone else witness the incident and were any comments or reactions expressed to you at the time or since?  What was the impact on you? How did it make you feel?

It was their tone of voice rather than the carefully chosen words of PC 8020 Oliver and the limited, infantile vocabulary of PC2242 Duffy, as well as their menacing, intimidatory body language that concerned me. The fact they effectively kettled me in front of the Co-Op meant there were only a few onlookers, none of whom could hear the verbal intimidation I was being subjected to. This incident made me feel worthless and oppressed. It ruined New Year for me.

6.      What would you see as a good outcome from the complaints process?

The reason why Northumbria Police are so despised by the average citizen is because of the way they conduct themselves in matters such as this. It’s all about power trips. It’s all about social control.  The strategy they employ, often at the behest of their benefactors, involves harassment, persecution and intimidation of those who do not unthinkingly obey them, or pay tribute. Northumbria Police deny the right to freedom of speech; they violate human rights and degrade those who oppose them. I will not remain silent and allow them to persecute me any longer. I would like a verbal apology, delivered in person, by both officers.

Unsurprisingly, there was no contact, either by phone or email, on March 30^th. No doubt there will be some prickly, confrontational response in the days to come, justifying their indolent inaction, as a prelude to another whitewash. Whatever; ACAB.

The Scenty Bottler

 Three distinguished North East writers: Dan Jackson, Joe Sharkey and Theve Broooooth. Which one of them is the least qualified to keep NUFC in the Premier League?

Be honest now; we all knew that Brooooth would be a load of shite as manager. Just because he’s been marginally less hopeless than Benitez, Carver, Kinnear and the car crash Souness administration that is no excuse for him remaining on the payroll at SJP. I was wrong to have any faith in him. The epicurean fraud should be driven out of the city with a sharpened pitchfork teasing his capacious buttocks, to school him against returning. Let the deserving poor feast upon his store of buffet Scotch eggs, mini pork pies and crates of John Smith’s.

Even less than a month ago, I still didn’t accept the stark reality of our situation. However the 90 minutes shot shy shit show at the Hawthorns saw the scales fall from my eyes, following an utterly witless non-performance where we turned up with the sole intention of grabbing a wholly undeserved nil-nil draw against a side who are even worse than us. Fair play to Brooooth; that is exactly what we got. If West Brom hadn’t been such an abhorrent load of inadequate hoofers, we’d have got turned over. The tin hat was put on our display by Fulham, like Brighton and Burnley before them, collecting three points at Anfield from the dying embers of the Liverpool supernova.

From then on, it got appreciably worse. We may look stupefyingly dull without St Maximin or Wilson, but we were a hell of a lot better than a Villa team without the Midlands Quisling, Grealish. Again though, minimal creativity and inadequate finishing saw 2 points spurned. The stunned feeling of revulsion when Clark’s unfortunate intervention hit his own net was literally nauseating. Many of us were away from the screen, choking back or clearing out vomit when Lascelles scored a bullet header at the Gallowgate for the second game running. Like Wolves, a point wasn’t enough, but it was something to hold on to as Fulham lost to Man City and then, semi-climactically to Leeds, which left many of the former NUFC Twitterati inconsolable with grief, on the Friday before we went to Brighton.  

Blind optimism made me lose the run of myself beforehand, as I was convinced we’d get all three points, despite the 3-0 annihilation we’d suffered back in September when Potter’s wizards crushed Brooooth’s lizards 3-0.  After 30 inept minutes, while Brighton toyed with us like a stricken mouse under a sadistic tom cat’s front paw, our return to the Championship was confirmed when Isaac Hayden, the only outfield player other than our injury blighted duo of Schar and Wilson, who has proved to be anything like reliable and consistent this season, crumpled with a knee injury. As he departed on a stretcher, not to be seen again this campaign, so did our hopes; three, stylish unanswered goals, including a brace of glorious strikes from Danny Welbeck (who most of us thought was probably playing for chump change in the Belgian second tier these days) saw Newcastle United collapse like the interior of the Grand Hotel after the Bhoys had done a spot of redecoration back in October 1984.

This was a bigger hammering than the pretty boy conformist Mods took at the hands of the anarchic rebel Rockers on the stony pebbles athwart the decaying pier in Quadrophenia.  Our game plan was sliced apart quicker than Spicer’s cheeks by Pinky’s shiv. So much for my theory that Brooooth’s one tactical masterstroke was to bring back Dubravka for Darlow, as I’d assumed we’d concede far fewer goals, though I don’t seek to blame the Slovak stopper for any of the goals and agree that it was time to take Darlow out of the firing line post Man United.

The final whistle, after a game where, other than the injured Hayden, not one player left the South Coast with their reputation intact, never mind enhanced, should have marked the immediate termination of the current management team’s terms of engagement. Incredibly, this did not happen, which suggests to me that our absentee owner and his underling have both lost all interest in the fate of the club, which begs the question why anyone else should care. In the week that Percy Main Amateurs announced their intention to close down after 100 years of history and tradition, it seems almost shameful that Newcastle United are continuing as a going concern. Perhaps the avarice in Brooooth’s heart is what makes him remain in situ. What else could his motivation be?

So now we sit 2 points above the drop zone, the same place as we were a fortnight ago, and still with a game in hand. Despite a potential 17 point run-in under the stewardship of any competent coach, Ashley and Charnley’s stubborn inaction, means Newcastle United look utterly shot and certainties for their third drop in a dozen years under Ashley’s ownership, whatever the current table says. Those who have been comparing the Brighton game with Southend on New Year’s Day should remind themselves that low-water mark did not signal the end for poor Ossie Ardiles, as there was the run of Watford (A; 2-2 after being 2-0 down in 4 minutes), Charlton (H; lost 3-4 to an injury time own goal, after being 3-0 up in half an hour), crowned by a 2-5 thumping at Oxford in a pea-souper that saved us frozen diehards on the Cuckoo Lane open terrace from seeing the reality of what happened on the pitch. I’ve not even mentioned the Bournemouth cup debacle. The message from history is; we might not even have hit rock bottom yet.

I’ll tell you one thing though; if we do go down, it’ll be exactly what some of the fans deserve. In some ways, I can understand the cowardly deserters who hope for the drop as they’ve now nailed their similar colours to Scott Parker’s mast. I myself cut the umbilical cord from Newcastle in 2009 and would not be anywhere near as interested in their fate, or wildly optimistic about their prospects until recently, if proper, non-league and grassroots football were available on a weekly basis. Once they are, come Easter Saturday, I will be able to walk away from the bawling, brawling Tower of Babel that the on-line world of NUFC supporters has become. I’m not just talking about the watch and sandshoe obsessed nouveau riche out in the Desert who deserve to see their empire of sand come tumbling down once all talk of a Championship takeover is stilled, but the local scourgesayers who’ve come up for air after a couple of years in social media solitary. Unsurprisingly perhaps, Moaning Minnie is wrestling with his poison pen at True Farce once again. The sheer volume of bile that drips from his nib is matched only by the repetitious nature of what he has to say. Yes dear, I know Ashley is a tyrant, Charnley couldn’t run a bath and Brooooth is a bad joke. Give it a rest eh? What I really don’t want to hear, ad nauseam, is that Brooooth doesn’t sound like “a Geordie” and may even not be “a Geordie.” Well, neither are many of our supporters by birth or, in my case, by inclination

Slightly late to the Book Club coffee morning as ever, I’ve recently read two pivotal texts about our region; Dan Jackson’s compelling The Northumbrians and Joe Sharkey’s slightly less convincing Akenside Syndrome.  At this point, I must pause to offer my sincere condolences to Dan on the recent loss of his wife.

Being honest, I initially found The Northumbrians a challenging read; Dan’s academic style took me back to those days of study when you read a book, not with the intention of enjoying it, but with a deeply critical eye in the hope of finding points you agreed with and others you took issue with. There were plenty of both. I have to say I totally concur with Dan’s thesis that the majority of those who hail from the North East are not revolutionary firebrands, but social conservatives with a small C, who show a greater allegiance to the Establishment and ruling elite than to their class comrades. Perhaps this is why the Follonsby Lodge banner is so well known and prominently displayed at the Big Meeting; the images of Marx and Lenin are as rare as streets named in their honour, such as those in wild and desolate Chopwell. As a region, it’s nowhere special. Same as the club’s support is no great shakes. We’re no better or different than anyone else really.

In the North East, on the banks of both Tyne and Wear, we hear endless proselytising about the merits of our home turf. It has never stirred me. I’m happy to say I’m from Newcastle, ignoring how my first 20 years saw me dragged up in desperately unhappy circumstances in Felling. This means I have developed a distinct loathing and a degree of fear associated with anywhere south of the river. But it isn’t just a geographical phobia; it’s an utter revulsion to and rejection of toxic masculinity with a bald head and a Stone Island jumper. For me, it is the case that, while growing up, I identified more with John Hurt’s portrayal of Quentin Crisp than Jimmy Nail’s take on the demotic yob Leonard Osborne. Oh how I hated those boorish blokes in Auf Wiedersehen Pet. Years before that, I’d only come to enjoy When the Boat Comes In after it abandoned the mean streets of Gallashield for the wide expanses of the Iberian Peninsula and the Spanish Civil War. I chuckled with glee when learning how my mam’s school pal Alex Glasgow, who sang the theme song, had immigrated to Australia and punched the air with delight as I read of James Bolam’s loathing of the North East and refusal to return.

All I wanted, once I was old enough to understand what University had to offer, was to escape the North East for a world of books.  Yes I loved Beamish Museum, but as an outsider and not a nostalgic native, for I’ve never felt that. However, there was little else bar a few friends, a ropey Division 2 football team and a few pals that I would miss. Certainly nobody I was related to.  Despite my accent, birth certificate, passport and place of residence, I’ve always gone back a generation and felt, from an early age, to be Irish. I don’t just mean I held an affinity with my ancestral homeland, but that my very essence and soul were in thrall to the kind of certainty of identification that those born in a gender they instinctively know to be unnatural feel for their actual one. However long I’ve lived, I’ve never felt any spiritual or elemental attachment to the Geordie identity. Simply put, I was born here, but I am not of this region.

In many ways, I feel Dan venerates the Stakhanovite work ethic of “the Geordie.” I’ve never felt that; long periods of time spent on tiresome labour with other grunting men, returning home filthy and exhausted, but proud of having made a rich man richer just wasn’t for me. Surrounded by books and bathing in words; that’s where I’ve spent most of my life, despite entreaties by relatives to put great works aside in my teenage years and “read more comics you headbanger.” In Akenside Syndrome, Joe Sharkey identifies such sentiments as what makes Tyneside historically an uncomfortable place for artists, intellectuals and all those who did not fit the Geordie stereotype of beer, birds and mindless violence. However, while he tells a cracking tale, it is a thin theory rather than a convincingly elucidated philosophy (everyone knows St Cuthbert’s Old Boys run this city, as most of the RGS lot head south for careers in the City or the Law); many people abandon their home town for a more congenial anonymity in the artistic milieu south of Watford. Or they did; Newcastle is a considerably more tolerant, multi-cultural and multi-ethnic city and football team compared to when I grew up. And much the better for it.

Now I don’t want to be regarded as Beatrix Campbell with bollocks, but the negative attitude to Steve Bruce in many NUFC fans’ minds, is based on his accent. The bloke who moved to first Gillingham, then Norwich, then Manchester, then Birmingham and then loads of places for about 18 months until his teams turn to shit, and has needed to communicate with players from about 50 different countries who spoke 20 different languages,  is abused, as is his son, for not having a Geordie accent. Indeed, he apparently speaks with something called a “Scenty Bottle” voice, whatever the hell that is supposed to mean. So what? Theve Brooooth, as most ultra-Geordies call him, is totally unsuited to his current job not because of his voice, but because of his timid and terrible tactics and it sickens me to my core when otherwise sentient adults refer to this, then dig up aged, unfunny Oz memes to have a pop at Bruce. I don’t care that he can’t talk the talk, I’m just frustrated he won’t walk the plank.