The Exclusive Brethren

 Reading is a solitary pleasure; it's almost getting that way with gigs these days...

Music:

Having reacted to the new Alex Rex album Paradise with feelings adjacent to hysteria, I was equally agog at the prospect of catching a live performance on his latest tour, at The Cumberland natch. The shame was that Lavinia Blackwall had to postpone her tour, which would have seen her pitching up at Bobik’s two days later. Instead, we will wait patiently until April for that one

The realisation drew on me that Alex, with neither Lavinia nor Marco Rea accompanying him, was going back to basics. Just like in the old Tight Meat days with him and David Keenan, this would be a duo; Alex on drums and Rory Haye on guitar. However, I thoughtfully didn’t suggest they could possibly rename themselves Loose Vegetables when I ran into the great man, bearded and resplendent in a tweed jacket and high polo neck sweater, coming out of The Cumberland bogs. How different he looked when contrasted with the outfit of Harrington, DMs, Fred Perry and suede cut on his last visit. Despite his travails with digestive issues on his previous two visits, Alex had still eaten at Al Baik, though Rory assured me he’d stuck with vegetarian options. Loose vegetables are preferable to loose stools I suppose.

Support was provided by the immensely entertaining Spanish guitarist and singer Victor Herrero, of whom more lately; and the passionate and beguiling Yakka Doon, with a set of plaintive, self-written regional ballads.  When the main act took the stage, there was no hint that being reduced to a duo would limit Alex Rex’s power. For a start, Rory’s guitar was like the rebirth of That Fucking Tank and for another thing, the less cluttered, punishing sound gave further space to Alex’s self-immolatory lyrics.  Is he the most confessional lyricist ever? While that may be the case, he managed to find a cover, Man in the Tree by Pearls before Swine, which outdid the great man himself for misery.

One of the main effects of being a duo was the fewer than expected numbers from Paradise that got an airing; only 5, including The Great Experiment, dedicated to Faustino Asprilla and Scandalise the Birds, because I asked for it, which meant in return that I missed the last encore getting him and Victor a pint. Small beer eh? However, Alex is nothing if not creative and he debuted a minimum of 4 new songs in the set that, as ever raised the bar on his art. The bloke is a genius and quite why the turnout was so depressingly low is a mystery to me.

 

One very cheering element was Victor Herrero’s set; I’m not sure if the eccentric troubadour was playing classical guitar, Flamenco flourishes or what, but I loved what he did. Standouts included a song about a horse and a final improvised number with Alex and Rory had reminded me of a Velvets rehearsal or a NEU! demo, adorned perfectly by Alex’s anti-Motorik drumming.  Victor’s performance was so good, I invested in a copy of his 2020 album, Hermana, which means Sister, but has little in common with the Sonic Youth album of that name.  Accompanied only by his own playing, Victor has 10 beguiling tracks that vary between complex yet gentle instrumentals and insistent vocal numbers where his voice complements and challenges the fluent guitar work. A thoroughly engaging album and one I’m glad I bought.

As mentioned above, Lavinia Blackwall has postponed her tour until next April, though this has not put paid to her releasing music, as the very beautiful, self-titled Wyndow album that she made remotely with Laura J Martin has seen the light of day. Their partnership was forged by a mutual love of Robert Wyatt, which is writ large by their sensitive and soothing version of his Free Will and Testament. I first saw Laura supporting Euros Child, who had the wonderful Marco Rea and Stu Kidd as his Roogie Boogie backing band. No doubt this helped forge links between the two angelic voiced singer / songwriters who have produced a female duo folk-ish album as seminal as Silly Sisters by Maddy Prior and June Tabor. Throughout the piece their superb voices complement each other and are augmented by Laura’s subtle, but brilliant keyboard work and some superb guitar from Marco. The whole 11 tracks are of the highest quality, building a stronger and perceptible dream like atmosphere as the record progresses, which is possibly why I feel the closing two tracks When Winter Comes Shadowing In and Tidal Range are the strongest and most powerful on here. I’ve no idea if Wyndow will prove to be a samizdat lockdown project, or if there’s a niche second string to their bows, but the album will last long on regular repeat in this house.

Another of the Byres Road cognoscenti to regularly collaborate with an array of sympathetic souls is the storied Alasdair Roberts, who last played here in October 2019 as a bandleader, with a certain Alex Neilson on drums. Now he returned, after an 18 month Covid delay, as part of the Green Ribbons unaccompanied singing project, along with Debbie Armour (better known as Burd Ellen, who I shamefully missed at Bobik’s a while back) and Benjamin Webb (aka Jinnwoo and Bird in the Belly), though there was no sign or mention of the fourth member of the recorded output, Frankie Armstrong. The 62 bus never showed up, so I had to get the 63, which meant I arrived in the middle of a very brave set by Cath & Phil Tyler. Cat hasn’t been well of late, but she really put her heart and soul into a set of Northumbrian Americana; great to see you back. The 5 performers were slightly outnumbered by a simply appalling turn out of 6 punters, but even if the room was almost bare, the standard of performance was stunning. The three of them, individually and severally, were absolutely outstanding, from Alasdair’s opening Geordie to the collective closer of Sheila Stewart’s The Parting Song, by way of an Aberdonian skipping song Debbie learned from Isla St Clair, of all people. Great gig, wonderful people and a late night listening back to the CD with a couple of beers. Well worth Friday’s hangover, even if it made me hors de combat for The Blue Orchids the night after. Ah well…

 

One of the things I missed most during lockdown was popping out to a midweek gig alone on a school night, sipping on soft drinks and heading home, entertained and ready for bed, soon as the last encore finished. This was situation I found myself in when going to see the glorious Burning Hell at The Cumberland. I’d seen them twice before at The Cluny 2 and Cobalt Studios, so I knew exactly what to expect. They don’t disappoint. They never let you down. Their songs are wonderful and nourishing.  If you ever wanted to know what a cross between Yo La Tengo and King Missile would sound like, then check this lot out.  Touring as a four piece, the sound was superbly beefed up, with the emphasis more on out rock’n’roll than whimsy.  Fantastically, this was a sell-out, because Newcastle loves the Burning Hell and the Burning Hell love Newcastle.

Paul Flanagan has been my mate for 35 years now. I met him in 1986 and in 1990, he started playing live gigs and recording songs, firstly with Puppy Fat, whose baggy and indie grooves I loved, then with the slightly recondite Nancy Bone, who sometimes hit the spot with their creative Lee and Nancy style updates. At the end of the previous millennium, he called time on his musical career, save for a single Nancy Bone support slot with Penetration at The Cluny in 2013 as far as I can remember. However, just before lockdown, he told me of the existence of a new band he was playing with; Emergency Librarian. They’ve played a few gigs, but I hadn’t managed to see them until I caught the first date of their winter 2021 mini tour (Friday October 29^th, Newcastle and Saturday October 30^th, Salford) at the Cobalt Studios.

With a spring in my step I’d walked from home to Newcastle Cricket Club for Peter and Gillian’s 60^th birthday then, after a couple of free pints, headed on down to Cobalt. Not only was I delighted to be seeing Emergency Librarian in the flesh, but also running into my old mate Knaggsy for the first time in far too long, was a highlight. Anyway, Emergency Librarian were the support act to some mixed media doo dah called Marra, which was supposedly a rumination on life in West Cumbria. I’ve no idea what the denizens of Workington and Whitehaven would have made of a performance piece that consisted of a load of straw scattered over the venue floor, and a malfunctioning PC, but it was enough to send me away down to The Lodge in an Uber.

However, Emergency Librarian were worth the price of admission. I found their combination of atmospheric drone and strident local folk to be particularly endearing. Like a cross between Fairport Convention, Godspeed You! Black Emperor and Hawkwind, they fused brief vocal parts with lengthy proggy workouts. I liked almost everything about them, save for the slightly too strident percussive parts that dominated the latter part of their set. I’d certainly go and see them again, even when the bespectacled bassist becomes a sexy sexagenarian.

Books:

Perhaps one of my most incompetent on-line purchases was my dealing with Roddy Doyle’s latest novel, Love. Published in June 2020, I immediately ordered it as a click and collect from Waterstone’s, not realising, in my attempt to save pennies, I’d bought the paperback edition that didn’t come out until this year. It was worth waiting for, but a bloody frustrating salutary lesson nevertheless. So, when learning of the imminent publication of a collection of his short stories, Life without Children, this October, I bit the bullet and bought the hardback. I must say I’m very glad I did too. This is Doyle’s third collection of short stories; first there was 2007’s The Deportees, in which all the stories were specifically written for Metro Éireann, as an attempt, not always successfully, to reach out to Ireland's immigrant population and explore their experiences. The stories were written in 800 word chapters and published monthly; as Doyle explains in the foreword:-

The stories have never been carefully planned. I send off a chapter to the Metro Eireann editor Chinedu Onyejelem, and, often, I haven't a clue what's going to happen next.  And I don't care too much, until the deadline begins to tap me on the shoulder. It's a fresh, small terror, once a month. I live a very quiet life; I love that monthly terror.

 Such circumstances made for some pretty uneven writing. In contrast, 2011’s Bullfighting, acting almost as a precursor to 2013’s The Guts, is when Doyle starts exploring middle age in a serious way, rather than simply using Jimmy Rabbitte Sr as a figure of fun and the butt of most of the jokes going around Barrytown. Bullfighting sees men turning 40, losing it at the temples, gaining it round the waist and failing to understand why. It’s a sobering collection and it paved the way for Jimmy Rabbitte Jr’s bowel cancer, Victor Forde’s examination of his abusive childhood and Joe saying goodbye to his auld fella after a day on the batter.

 In Life without Children, the Fir na hÉireann, or at least ones who live in the nice bits of da Nort Soide, are really getting on. They’d love to retire, if only the crash hadn’t knocked the bollox out of them and their money back in 2008. They’re drinking too much, or not enough. They’re at daggers drawn with the missus, or falling head over heels in love with her all over again.  This lockdown is the worst thing ever, or perhaps it’s the best. Doyle gives us ten glorious stories where your sympathy is always with the main character, whether he’s a hero or a terrible bastard. As ever, Doyle turns the ordinary into the extraordinary; the unelected voice of modern Ireland’s moral conscience focuses on the pandemic from a dozen different angles and hits the bullseye with every poison arrow and popgun floater he fires off.

 It’s a long time since I read any Graham Swift. Back in the mid-80s, my old school pal Anna Dodd gifted me a copy of Waterland, which she’d read when domiciled in East Anglia. I remember finding it thoroughly depressing from start to finish. A load of bourgeois navel gazing dressed up as philosophical import, causing clenched teeth revulsion in the same way as I respond to the thoroughly detestable Ian McEwan’s writing. Being the charitable sort, I gave Swift another go when Last Orders won the Booker Prize, finding it a much more conducive read, as I’m a sucker for character based fiction. Some 25 years after finishing Last Orders, I found myself changing trains at Carlisle station, on route to Motherwell v Ross County, which formed part of the blog http://payaso-de-mierda.blogspot.com/2021/09/ian-paisley.html If you’ll remember the problems I’d had with starting Monument Maker by David Keenan, as I was intimidated by the sheer size of it, as alluded  to in another fairly recent blog, http://payaso-de-mierda.blogspot.com/2021/09/unmade-bedside.html then you’ll appreciate why I’d travelled without a book to keep me company. Thankfully, Carlisle station has a British Heart Foundation charity book stall that operates on trust, with an honesty box. All books are 50p, but only one appealed to me. Amidst the Grishams and Clancys and other such detritus, I was amazed to find Swift’s debut novel The Sweet Shop Owner.

 Of course I bought it and thoroughly appreciated my charitable act as I travelled to Motherwell, then Glasgow, then Paisley and back again the next day. Published as long ago as 1980, it is an enjoyable and controlled debut, where characters and the passage of time, an obsession throughout Swift’s works, vie for equal importance. The plot, replete throughout with flashbacks and memories, describes the routine events of what turns out to be the last day in the life of Willy Chapman, the eponymous owner of a South London sweet shop, who dies of heart failure on a sunny Friday in June 1974. Central to the book is his relationship with his beautiful and yet distant late wife Irene, who bore him a daughter on the unspoken agreement that no love would be expressed between them. Interspersed with flashbacks to his earlier life, Willy attempts to justify his meek surrender of all ambition and independence, to his estranged, unforgiving daughter Dorry via an internal monologue. It is a vaguely sentimental portrait of the dying man, craving reconciliation with his headstrong daughter, who appears to have inherited all her mother’s cruel traits. Yet Willy dies fulfilled, knowing that Dorry will inherit the three bedroomed suburban semi-detached she recoiled from when leaving for the semi-bohemian attractions of University, as well as the eponymous, decaying sweet shop that stands as a modest memorial to Willy’s modest life. A damn fine read for ten bob I must say.

 Incidentally, I’ve got to page 364 of Monument Maker; only another 450 to go. It’s not bad actually…

The People's Game

 AFC Newbiggin Central 3 Blaydon Community 5 saw me complete my Northern Alliance set. Until the club inexplicably moves grounds that is...

While I’m very pleased that Percy Main Amateurs are the side I’ll watch the most this season, it doesn’t automatically follow that I’ll take in all their away games. For instance, on Saturday 23 October they were away to Newcastle Blue Star. As everyone with a keen eye on local football knows, the resurgent Scotswood-based outfit don’t need much in the way of support or publicity, so I decided to give this one a swerve. The subsequent 4-0 win for the home side was probably one of the least surprising results of the weekend, so I felt vindicated in keeping away.

My choice of game was dictated by the need to complete the Northern Alliance, as it is currently constituted. While Ponteland are due to move into their new home soon, and other teams may move at the drop of a hat, as it stood on that Saturday morning, the only ground I’d yet to visit was Ashington’s People’s Park; the current home of AFC Newbiggin (formerly based at Newbiggin Sports Centre) and AFC Newbiggin Central (previously at Newbiggin Welfare). The fixtures had Newbiggin Central at home to Blaydon Community and so a trip on the X22 was in order.

I headed off around noon, took the Metro to town, picked up the new Roddy Doyle from Waterstone’s and caught the 12.50 bus that dropped me off an hour later, after a totally forgettable trip on a near deserted double decker, on Park Road. One regular problem on adventures like these is the frequent inaccessibility of hot drink vendors; hence, I get a coffee where I can, sometimes benefitting from the growing number of shops that have basic barista facilities. Just by the bus stop, I spied Park Stores, with a sign proudly boasting that it is “open 7 days a week;” we’re out in the sticks remember. Could they have a Costa machine? I intended to find out. However, my progress stalled when I realised I’d lost my wallet. Frantic searches of every pocket confirmed the bad news. It must have fallen from my unzipped coat pocket during the journey.

My immediate thought was to call Arriva and get them to radio the driver to secure my property.  After frantic googling, it became clear that, unlike Park Stores, Arriva customer support was only open 5 days a week. Not only that, lost property reporting protocols required you to fill out an extensively detailed on-line pro forma, or send an email. I wasn’t really in any frame of mind to do that. In terms of this customer’s experience, things could not have been any less convenient, so it was no surprise that the phone number for Ashington Bus Station was shrouded in secrecy. In short, I was stranded about 30 miles, as the bus flies, from home, with about ten bob’s worth of slingy in my pocket, facing the prospect of a highly expensive Uber home and a Saturday evening on hold to a myriad collection of call centres, attempting to cancel my cards. Having lost both my Instagram and Twitter (@PayasoDeMiera2) accounts to hackers in the previous fortnight, the digital world was no longer a place I wished to inhabit.

In American football, a Hail Mary is a very long forward pass, typically made in desperation, with an exceptionally small chance of achieving a completion. Due to the difficulty involved, it references a prayer for divine intervention. Now, as an atheist there was no way I was going to issue imprecations to celestial entities, but I did detect that fleeting sensation of hope when I saw the X22 returning from Ashington bus station to the Haymarket. I thrust out my hand and the bus stopped. This was my last chance.

The same driver who’d borne my northwards peered quizzically at me; “The game can’t have been that bad surely?” he inquired, only for me to respond with a garbled account of my misfortune. He invited me on board; luckily, the upper deck was as deserted as it had been earlier. Incredibly, my wallet sat where I’d sat. Third from the back on the passenger side. It was untouched, amazingly. As I went to alight I offered the driver a £5 for his help, but he waved it away telling me not to be daft, though encouraging me to be more careful in future. Indeed, I will and I’m sure it is time to break the old thermos flask out of hibernation as the Park Stores coffee machine was out of order, so a big bottle of water it was, which I slugged from then stashed as I made my way across People’s Park to the football pitches. On the farthest of them, a North Northumberland League encounter between Newbiggin Reserves and a side from Berwick, attired in a Partick Thistle kit. This had kicked off at 1.30, so by the time I arrived it was in to first half injury time. I caught a few minutes, but not enough to form an opinion on the standard of play. Despite being an open public park, bedevilled by ignorant dog walkers allowing their beasts to shit everywhere and at risk of damage caused by motocross morons on trails bikes, the playing surface of both pitches looked pretty good; well grassed, flat and drained. Really, it’s better than almost anything I got to play on in my career, though I must admit I was crap.

So preoccupied had I been with the saga of my wallet that I’d failed to notice a DM to my @GloveLitZine Twitter account, from Newbiggin Central, asking if I’d be blogging about my visit. Thankfully, the fella who’d sent it to me, Ben, a sociable and informed bloke, soon made contact and we watched the first half together. It turns out that Newbiggin Sports Centre is having a complete overhaul; re-laid pitches, small sided 4G courts and, crucially, a protective fence round the whole development. That should be enough to keep the localised plague of horses out, unless they are proper show jumping equines of course.

As far as this game was concerned, having seen Newbiggin butcher Morpeth Town Reserves last year about this time, and Blaydon edge past Gosforth Bohemian Reserves in a truly awful contest at the end of April, I was convinced I’d see a comprehensive home win. I wouldn’t say I was amazed, but I was highly impressed by the massive improvements shown by Blaydon. Newbiggin Central were of a similar standard today, as they were last year, but they came up against a rejuvenated outfit that showed, yet again, that the quality of football played in the Alliance third division is often far better than in the divisions above. The curse, as ever, is teams folding, meaning limited outfits avoid relegation and others unprepared for higher standards are unjustly promoted. Meanwhile, new and vibrant teams come in at the bottom rung and demonstrate the ability to play neat possession football, mainly on the deck, with young lads new to the senior game showing an array of tricks and skills quite out of place in their surroundings.

And so it was today; I saw the best Alliance Division 3 game ever. Blaydon started off like a team possessed and took the lead from a superb volley on the turn within 5 minutes. Newbiggin were not fazed and drew level soon after from their first dangerous attack. Until half time, things were nip and tuck as the sides played good football, but failed to take their chances. I had a quick chat with ref Barry Sweeney at the break, who was thoroughly enjoying the contest, which is always the sign of a quality game.

Things went off the scale in the second period. Within 5 minutes of the restart, it was 2-3. Blaydon took the lead with a neat finish into the bottom corner, then doubled it a minute later when an isolated away player tapped in after a header hit the bar with the home defence absent without leave. Newbiggin roared back with a venomous finish that showed how much pent up aggression was coursing through their red and black shirts.  Despite renewed and redoubled efforts, it was Blaydon who restored their 2 goal advantage on the hour with the goal of the game. A short corner routine saw an attacker bear down on goal and finish intelligently from a tight angle. Soon after, the big bottle of Evian began to make its presence felt and I took off for the cubicle bogs outside the adjacent Covid testing centre, missing Newbiggin’s third goal. Again they plugged away, but couldn’t get level. Instead, Blaydon wrapped up the scoring after 83 minutes with a very soft penalty, making the final score 3-5.

As I caught the bus, I could see Newbiggin players taking down the nets and collecting the corner flags. This was a fitting conclusion to pair of proper community teams providing 90 minutes of top drawer entertainment. I saw my first ever Alliance game in August 1998, when Heaton Stan beat Berwick Highfields 2-0. I was immediately impressed by the skill, passion and sense of community the league showed back then and it is still the same now. Other than my trips to Scotland, I really can’t see me watching football at any other level any time soon.

P.S. Just to update things, Blaydon lost 6-1 at Walker Central in their next game, while Newbiggin were without a game because the referee cried off. What I love about football is how predictable it is...

Dark, Sardonic Mills

 Magnus Mills is a national treasure. Read my blog if you must, but make damn sure you read his books. All of them. 

I suppose it was the sense of guilt provoked by my furtive glances cast at the unopened copy of David Keenan’s gigantic Monument Maker on the bedside bookcase that told me I needed to get back into reading. Having so far failed to even peer inside Keenan’s masterpiece, I decided it was time to plug a few bibliophilic holes with low hanging fruit, so to speak. Over the last couple of years, I’ve completed the entire works of Michel Houellebecq, BS Johnson and Harry Pearson, so I decided that specialist of short novels, Magnus Mills, would be my next target.

Mills was born in Birmingham in 1954 and raised in Bristol. After a degree at Wolverhampton Poly, he put his classical education to good use, erecting high tensile wire fences for a living, before moving to London in 1986 to become a bus driver. His debut book, The Restraint of Beasts, was shortlisted for both the Booker Prize and Whitbread First Novel Award on its publication in 1998, allowing Mills to quit his job and become a full time writer. If you’re looking for points of reference to draw comparisons with his work, I suggest looking in the place where Samuel Beckett, Franz Kafka, Flann O’Brien and Kurt Vonnegut intersect.

I first became aware of Mills in the late of autumn of 1999, when my good mate Paul Webb loaned me his copy of The Restraint of Beasts soon after I’d first moved to Bratislava. I loved it from the first page; the elusive, allegorical depiction of the baffling, surreal world of the itinerant fence builder, combined with the deadpan naiveté of the unnamed narrator’s version of events, had me howling out loud repeatedly. And yet, the madcap, inexplicable adventures of Tam, Ritchie and their unnamed foreman seemed to me to be of far more import than simple, uproarious comedy. Their repeated inability to complete tasks, establish human relationships and to interact with the world in general suggested to me some kind of an underlying, deliberate Marxist critique of the futility of work and the inevitability of alienation. Tam and Ritchie’s failure to build fences reminded me of Godard’s Sympathy for the Devil and the Rolling Stones’ serial failure to complete a satisfactory version of the title song. However, for the apolitical reader, Thomas Pynchon offered the opinion that the book was merely "a demented, deadpan comic wonder.” I don’t buy that judgement as a stand-alone review; there is far greater philosophical depth than mere surreal humour in all of Mills’ books. Especially the unsuccessful ones.

By the time I became aware of Magnus Mills, his second novel, All Quiet on the Orient Express, had already been published. I caught up with it the following summer and adored it even more than his first one. Again, and this was to become a staple of almost all his books, an unnamed narrator finds himself away from home, out of his depth and completely at a loss when searching for a way out. This time, we find ourselves on a campsite in the Lake District, observing the narrator attempting and failing to complete a seemingly straightforward job of work, on account of ever more ludicrous and labyrinthine external factors and pressures on his time. Initially he is supposed to paint the entrance gate, but soon he ends up distracted from his primary task by the need to write A Level coursework essays and the intractable problem of an ice cream van’s jammed jingle. Amidst this pastoral absurdity, a sinister realisation occurs to the reader; unlike in The Restraint of Beasts where gory episodes pepper the pages, nothing grotesque happens in All Quiet on the Orient Express, but the mood perceptibly darkens until it’s clear that nobody is ever going to leave this Cumbrian dystopia.

Having left my Slovak utopia for the reality of England in June 2001, I found my return coincided with the publication of Mills’ third novel, Three to See the King, which I have to confess is the one I’ve enjoyed the least, both back then and recently, when I briefly revisited it as part of my preparations for writing this piece. Unlike his first two novels, this has no pretensions of reality; it is more of a parable than a novel, with the comic content reduced to absolute zero. The nameless narrator lives in an isolated tin house situated on a windswept sandy plain, miles from his nearest neighbours whom he meets infrequently. He is quite happy with his lonely self-sufficient existence, until a woman comes to live with him. Unsettled at first, the narrator gradually gets used to the companionship. Then news comes of a new community being established on the edge of the plain by a charismatic, yet enigmatic figure who is digging a canyon and gaining more and more followers to his revolutionary cause. One by one, the narrator’s neighbours join the canyon project, moving their tin houses to the new community as the narrator feels under increasing pressure to join them. It transpires that the end-goal for the project is not for there to be a city of tin houses, but a city of clay houses. Many of the previously convinced citizens of the plain and beyond are frustrated by this news, and decide to return to their previous existences… And that’s about it; while I eagerly flicked the pages, hoping to come across a trademark episode of thigh-slapping insanity, instead I found suggestions of an elusive examination of the notion of a communal society and a vague critique of mass hysteria. Perhaps my expectations were wrong, but I found Three to See the King profoundly unsatisfying. Mills himself said the writing of the book was a "project" to prove to himself that he could be a full-time writer.

Thankfully, this minor aberration was soon swept aside by his next book; 2003’s superb The Scheme for Full Employment, which refers to the seemingly fool proof plan to provide thousands of jobs, driving UniVans from depot to depot, picking up and unloading cargo. The absurdity behind the scheme is that the cargo consists solely of replacement parts for UniVans. As Mills observes, "gloriously self-perpetuating, the scheme was designed to give an honest day’s wage for an honest day’s labour. It was intended to be the envy of the world: the greatest undertaking ever conceived by man.” As the novel unfolds, it reveals itself to be a satire of labour relations, as the scheme is brought to the brink of disaster by a workforce that is partly Stakhanovite and partly infested by shirkers. We are back in The Restraint of Beasts territory in terms of the clash between workers and bosses, which Mills addressed even more profoundly in 2009’s The Maintenance of Headway.

Based upon his experiences as a bus driver in London, Mills shows public transport to be a giant game of cops and robbers, or snakes and ladders, in which the drivers are the good guys and the inspectors are the baddies. The title refers to the concept, to which the inspectors are devoted, that "a fixed interval between buses on a regular service can be attained and adhered to by the maintenance of headway". The novel examines the generally farcical tension and conflict between the officious inspectors and the drivers themselves who aim to arrive early. In this novel, Mills adroitly exploits the comic potential of speech, especially the management-speak of the inflexible, robotic inspectors. Unlike the subtle philosophy behind The Scheme for Full Employment, here the reader is left in no doubt who is ultimately responsible for all strife and alienation in the work place.

In between The Scheme for Full Employment and The Maintenance of Headway, Mills published his only third-person narrative novel, Explorers of the New Century. Framed loosely on the contest between Amundsen and Scott to reach the South Pole first, it tells the story of two rival expeditions mapping a hitherto uninhabited wilderness from the coast to "the Agreed Furthest Point." They adopt two different routes, both of which are exacting and inhospitable, losing men and the “mules” who carry the supplies along the way. Dextrously interspersing accounts of the two expeditions, Mills slowly reveals the book not to be merely an account of stubborn folly in the face of hostile environmental factors, but a thoughtful examination of the nature of imperialism when it suddenly becomes alarmingly clear to the reader that the “mules” are not equine, but human. It is the single most chilling revelation in all of his novels and one that marks Explorers of the New Century as the first, non-comic triumph in Mills’ career.

Early in his career, Mills published two jolly collections of his short, almost flash, fiction; 1999’s Only When the Sun Shines Brightly and 2003’s Once in a Blue Moon. I bought the pair of them in 2004 from a bookshop in York and had read both by the time my train pulled into Central Station, finding them to be very funny indeed. Then, in 2010, the two slim collections were reprinted in one volume, with 3 extra, previously unseen stories, under the title Screwtop Thompson. This still reasonably slim volume brings together eleven short stories that "trundle gently between the ordinary, absurd and the outright surreal." As in almost all his novels, the stories are recounted by an unnamed narrator.

In "Only When the Sun Shines Brightly", the narrator watches as a large plastic sheet is caught on a viaduct above a joiner’s workshop in strong wind. "At Your Service" involves his attempts to help his diminutive Chinese friend cut branches from a tree that is obscuring the light entering his flat, but also growing in a neighbour’s garden. "The Comforter" presents an architect narrator who meets an archdeacon on the way to an interminable cathedral meeting. In "Hark the Herald", the storyteller spends his first night and day at a West Country guesthouse over Christmas, but repeatedly fails to meet the other residents, which is extremely creepy and superbly funny, but not as insane as "Once in a Blue Moon", when he acts as negotiator in an armed siege between the police and his mother. "The Good Cop" sees him interrogated by one or possibly two identical policemen.

The titular "Screwtop Thompson" tells of when he was a child and received as a present a toy whose head unscrews and which came in several guises. The narrator wanted a policeman but received a schoolmaster, without a head. In "They Drive by Night" he is picked up hitch-hiking by a large lorry. He sits in the noisy cab between the driver and his mate and attempts to make sense of the conversation. The three previously unpublished stories begin with "Half as Nice", which tells how his Auntie Pat had enjoyed four hit singles in the 1960s with an all-girl vocal group, and had married their producer, Dwight. "Vacant Possession" sees Noz and the narrator employed to fit a cattle grid at a large, but empty country house, staying there for three days while they complete the work; soon, the house begins to feel more than a little sinister. Finally, "A Public Performance.” In Bristol in 1970 a sixth former, more than possibly based on the author, buys a Russian great coat but it doesn't have the desired effect of establishing his countercultural credentials as he attends a Pink Floyd concert at Colston Hall.

Having read that collection, I secreted the book at the appropriate place in my library and promptly forgot about Magnus Mills for more than a decade, until David Keenan inspired guilt sent me back to him, where I discovered that I had 5 novels to catch up on. A quick scoot around Amazon and Ebay provided me with the missing parts of the Magnus Mills jigsaw and I was away.

Looking at the 5 novels I’ve just read, I’ve the feeling that 3 of them are amongst his finest work, while the other 2 don’t advance his reputation one iota. Thankfully, the first of these, 2011’s A Cruel Bird Came to the Nest and Looked in, is as imaginative as Explorers of the New Century and as funny as The Maintenance of Headway. We’re on allegorical territory here; the uncrowned ruler of the Empire of Greater Fallowfield has dropped out of University and gone missing, leaving eight nominated commoners, all of whom are inexplicably named after obscure birds, to act as a kind of War Cabinet. While they manage to change the clocks so that tea can be taken in the Imperial Drawing Room at 5pm every day, they fail abysmally in their main task, that of preventing the disintegration of the Empire. In time, the neighbouring economic powerhouse of the City of Scoffers bankrupts the fey and indolent Fallowfieldian realm. The cabinet find themselves to be economic migrants, working at backbreaking tasks in a foreign land to earn a crust. Needless to say, throughout the book, insane and hilarious events beset every character.

While the book could be construed as a reflection on the nature of leadership and human dignity, it is also a very satisfying riff on the primacy of aesthetics over industry. Who can truly say a railway line is of greater benefit to humanity than an oil painting or a string quartet? I think we can tell whose side Mills is on in the war against utilitarian tyranny.  Sadly, Mills followed this triumph with the book of his I like the least; The Field of the Cloth of Gold takes its name from a summit meeting between King Henry VIII of England and King Francis I of France from 7 to 24 June 1520, held at Balinghem, between Ardres in France and Guînes in the then English Pale of Calais. The summit was arranged to increase the bond of friendship between the two kings following the Anglo-French treaty of 1514.

From such a minor point in history, Mills takes his inspiration for his account of the events surrounding the fate of nomadic, rootless drifters who live in tents in a huge field, setting the action in an era long before the Agrarian Revolution. Where they come from, what they eat, how they sustain themselves is not explained; nor are the reasons behind successive, non-violent invasions by tribes from elsewhere. The whole atmosphere is one of passive aggression, but so unlikeable are the narrator’s neighbours, the reclusive Hen, the aloof Thomas and the intimidating Isabella for instance, that we do not feel compassion for them. Nor does the reader judge the narrator for accidentally collaborating with the incomers to construct a drainage ditch and accidental ha-ha that hides the size of the new encampment from the inquisitive eyes of the original dwellers. Instead, when the novel dribbles to its end, if not conclusion, there is a sense of being nonplussed by events and characters with whom it is impossible to forge any meaningful connection. Then again, knowing Mills, that could have been his intention.

If I had to recommend one Magnus Mills novel for you to read, then The Forensic Records Society just breasts the tape ahead of The Maintenance of Headway and Tales of Muffled Oars. Two social inadequate blokes, the narrator and his pal, meet up every Monday night in the back room of The Half Moon under the guise of the Forensic Records Society, which has been established for the express purpose of listening to records closely, in detail and without comment; forensically if you like. The rules, including a proviso of 7” singles only, titles but no reference to artists, and finishing in time for last orders,  are strictly enforced which leads to friction within the fledgling society and the forming of an alternative Confessional Records Society meeting on Tuesdays with the contrasting invitation to "Bring a record of your choice and confess!". Tensions increase between the rival societies, as well as a short-lived scion the New Forensic Records Society, leading to hilarious and disproportionate 'bickering, desertion, subterfuge and rivalry.’

Mills could be ruminating on the nature of male obsessions, the Russian Revolution, the Sunni / Shia schism or any great falling out in human history, with the added benefit of a glorious soundtrack that can be found on Spotify. Seriously, this book is an absolute corker and I defy any middle-aged, anal retentive, borderline OCD bloke not to see himself in its pages.

Incredibly, bearing in mind he had just produced the book of his career, Mills lost his deal with Bloomsbury after that. I don’t know who his agent is, but they can’t have been worth employing, as it was to be another 3 years before Mills was published again. In fact 2020 saw the appearance of two novels, Tales of Muffled Oars and The Trouble with Sunbathers; the latter isn’t bad. Two blokes employed as gate keepers for an enormous gateway to the wilderness central England has become once everyone moved to the sea, to spend every daylight hour sunbathing, don’t do much and meet a load of people on a superficial and inconsequential level. Yes, it’s amusing, but while he isn’t quite phoning it in, there is an element of Mills by numbers at work here.

In contrast, Tales of Muffled Oars is an absolute tour-de-force and may well be my third favourite of his books. Again two blokes, who could be the Forensic Record Society chaps in false beards and moustaches, meet in their local pub to drink Guinness and engage in discussions about England’s history, piloted by the erudite if eccentric Macaulay. His theory is the natural state of the nation is “England at peace,” going back to Edgar the Peaceable being rowed down the Dee by eight tributary princes in 943AD. Consequently, all his lectures avoid reference to anything remotely violent, whether that is the Battle of Hastings or the Wars of the Roses. It makes for an extremely funny, highly inventive take on our past. Considering Mills’ quintessentially English style that could almost be a pastiche of PG Wodehouse meets Look and Learn magazine, that is very fitting.

The sad thing is that these last 2 novels were produced in paperback form by Quoqs Publishing, having only been Kindle releases before then. With evidence that Mills has ideas by the bucket load and undimmed talent for the correct phrase or surreal flight of fancy, it would be a crying shame if his subsequent works do not receive the attention of mainstream publishers as he is a genuine jewel in the contemporary literary crown.

 

 

 

Main Lines

With all this NUFC takeover hysteria, there's only one place I want to watch my football; Purvis Park. Happy to be back sampling the best hot dogs in the world and writing home match reports for the website and the programme. Sadly, results haven't been too encouraging so far -:

Newcastle Blue Star: Lost 2-0; Saturday 2^nd October

The rain fell incessantly from a slate coloured sky. The wind was bitter and unforgiving. Winter coats and wooly hats had their first public airing. There could be no mistake; autumn had arrived at Purvis Park with a menacing, vengeful intent. Newcastle Blue Star provided as unforgiving a set of opponents as the challenging elements, dismissing Percy Main from the Northumberland FA Benevolent Bowl at the first stage.

Expectations had been high in the week leading up to this game against visitors who can boast quality players throughout their squad, ambitions to join the Northern League and a support that dwarfs most clubs in the Northern Alliance. In the end, hopes of Percy Main setting a new ground record attendance were to be dashed; perhaps it was the awful weather or the bafflingly early 1.30pm kick off for a game that would go straight to penalties if scores were level after 90 minutes, but the actual crowd of 175 was a little disappointing.

In the first half, the Villagers had the benefit of the strong breeze coming off the river behind their backs. It acted as an extra barrier to repel any thoughts of attack by a Blue Star side for whom one time FA Vase winner Michael Dixon stood out like a colossus at the back, repelling most efforts by the home side, resulting in Blue Star’s former North Shields keeper Sean McCafferty being somewhat underemployed. Meanwhile, the Main custodian Reece Monaghan was the stand out performer for the home team, showing faultless handling, impeccable anticipation and accurate distribution, as Percy Main continued to probe, in search of a way of breaching the seemingly impregnable black and white defence. The nearest either side came to a breakthrough in the opening period was visiting number 9 Ethan Bewley running through on the left and sending a shot across goal, but agonisingly wide of the far post, meaning the sides went in at the break with a blank score line.

The strength of the wind was demonstrated almost from the kick off in the second period as Percy Main found it nearly impossible to successfully clear their lines, as the ball was caught by the stiff breeze and returned towards the home goal. Conditions dictated that Newcasle Blue Star were able to up the ante and pin the home side back, with thwarted clearances denying Percy Main any chance to rest and regroup. If Michael Dixon had been the outstanding NBS performer in the opening period, the second half belonged to Reece Havelock-Brown, who relentlessly drove forward and was a constant menace to the Percy Main defence. Firstly, he brought the best out of Monaghan, who was at full stretch to tip a curling effort round the post. The resulting corner saw Blue Star captain Steve Little head over when well placed.

Havelock-Brown again came to the fore shortly after, when a delicious curling effort struck the inside of both posts and bounced clear. Sadly, this incredible escape was not to prompt Percy Main into an attacking renaissance; rather, it merely delayed the inevitable. Havelock-Brown broke the deadlock on 67 minutes with as sweet a volley as you’ll see all season. Profiting from an astute knockdown by Bewley, Havelock-Brown struck a glorious first time effort from outside the box that flew past Monaghan before he had a chance to react. It was a truly special goal and Ethan Bewley’s exquisitely placed looping header from a Zach Bewley cross in the 78^th minute was almost its equal.

The second goal effectively sealed the tie and Blue Star were able to play out time against a gallant, but ultimately frustrated Percy Main side who had given their all.

Wallington: Lost 1-2; Saturday 9^th October

After being comprehensively outplayed by Newcastle Blue Star when exiting the Northumberland FA Benevolent Bowl the week before, Percy Main Amateurs put in a massively improved performance at home to Wallington in a Northern Alliance Premier Division game. Sadly for a Villagers side decimated by injuries and unavailability, the result was the same, as a brace of late headers in the 85^th and 93^rd minutes by Jack Palmer meant the points were claimed by the men from Oakford Park.

The weather blessed us with a warm, still, pleasant, late summer day, unlike the howling wind and driving rain that had besieged us the week before. As a result of such clement conditions, the standard of play was of a higher standard as well, with the game switching from end to end on an immaculate pitch that had drank deeply and beneficially from the torrential storms of the week just ended.

Wallington carved out the game’s first chance after 4 minutes, when a clearance fell to Kris Willis. His volley had meat behind it, but an out of position Reece Monaghan clutched the ball and danger was averted. On 10 minutes, Wallington’s first corner caused mayhem in the home box, with blocked shots and claims for a penalty aplenty. Thankfully the ball was smuggled away, resulting in Main’s Dylan Taylor attempting to lob Aaron Carr in the Wallington goal. Taylor found the elevation but not the accuracy, as the ball dropped just wide of the far post.

This was only a temporary respite for the visitors as on 22 minutes, when Joe Kelly broke the deadlock. Winning the ball in midfield, he surged down the right wing before cutting inside and burying a glorious finish beyond Carr’s despairing dive. Wallington almost responded immediately when a bout of pinball in the box ended with a contested header bouncing off the bar and going over. One final chance of the half saw the visiting number 9 John Paxton bend an effort just wide of the post, allowing The Main to go in at the break a goal to the good.

Paxton was again at the forefront of Wallington efforts after the resumption, turning sharply and firing an effort that Monaghan saved with his legs. Perhaps the key moment in the game came when Kelly’s surging run down the left saw him create space and fire in an effort that Carr managed to palm away. If tat ad one in, a 2-0 lead for the home team would surely have sealed the win, but Wallington drew belief from this let off. Monaghan again came to The Main’s rescue with an astute tip over on 84 minutes, but it was all to no avail when an unmarked Palmer nodded in at the back post from the resulting corner. Just as the Villagers were coming to terms with that blow, Palmer comprehensively broke home hearts with a deft, cushioned header into the corner. Despite a further three minutes of stoppage time, a visibly shattered Percy side were unable to mount any credible attacks. Instead the lads must regroup and go again next Saturday when Prudhoe YFC visit Purvis Park for a Northern Alliance Premier Division encounter. Kick-off is 2.30.

Prudhoe Youth Club FC Seniors: Lost 0-5; Saturday 16^th October

Newly-promoted Prudhoe YCFC Seniors have been on something of a roll recently. Straight from the kick off, it was clear why as the visitors from the Tyne Valley tore into Percy Main from the first whistle. The opening goal on 6 minutes, which saw Kieran Russell stoop to nod in a well-worked short corner routine, was just rewards for the level of dominance Prudhoe had exercised to that point. However, the game settled down after this and both sides enjoyed periods of controlled possession.  Indeed, the home side could have equalised on 20 minutes when Dylan Taylor’s delicious cross from the right bypassed the entire Prudhoe defence but eluded the lively Adam Beattie. Unfortunately this came back to bite the Main on 29 minutes, when Luke Banks sprang the Villagers’ offside trap and calmly slotted the ball under the advancing Reece Monaghan.

Prudhoe continued to dominate and Sam Dibb-Fuller, the younger brother of Hebburn’s Ben, so often a thorn in Percy’s side when appearing for Stocksfield, skipped through several challenges and finished with a cushioned effort into the corner. The 3-0 score at half time reflected the quality of play by a determined and skilful Prudhoe side, who didn’t give up after the break. Arron Fletcher thumped a powerful effort off the bar, before turning home a loose ball after Monahan had made a good, diving save from Adam Bell’s shot from distance.

On the hour mark Percy’s Joe Kelly had the home side’s only serious effort of the half, curling a beautiful effort inches wide of the far post. Sadly, the final goal when it came, went the way of the visitors, from the penalty spot. Substitute Craig Fairley was barged over and got up to send Monaghan the wrong way. Well, if a 5-0 home thumping is good enough for Claudio Ranieri, then it’s good enough for Percy Main I suppose.

Pigs. Pigs. Pigs. Pigs. Pigs. Pigs. Pigs.

 1312...

It’s no great secret that I hate the Police. I have done all my life. I don’t I knew a single bloke I grew up with in Felling who didn’t despise them. Frankly, there’s been little change to my opinions over the years, especially in the last 10 years when I’ve come to learn that Northumbria Police aren’t just evil, but corrupt as well. Initially, the Filth’s obsequious compliance when offered an opportunity to collectively tongue the corn holes of repeat, vexatious informants Robin Fisher and Elaine Cordes-Gray-O’Connell was bad enough. It became worse when serving Officer PC Kevin Doyle began a campaign of harassment against me, via the illegal but unchecked use of the force national computer and a whispering campaign that had me barred from the place I love best.

Obviously I complained about Doyle, but no avail. The institutionally corrupt internal investigations procedure, as ministered by Northumbria’s “Professional Standards” (don’t laugh) Department always finds in favour of the flatfoots and that goes back to Liddle Towers in 1975. Despite incontrovertible evidence to show the veracity of my allegations, Doyle and the clowns in charge of the “investigation” got off scot free, even after I’d taken it to the mealy-mouthed cautious collaborators at the IOPC. Not only did this grotesque abuse of police powers go unchecked, but a criminal, physical assault on me in March this year saw the Officer supposedly in charge, manipulate the CCTV to the extent that she threatened me, the victim, with assault. It wouldn’t be the last time Northumbria Police illegally tampered with CCTV footage on my account either.

There is one other case to discuss, and believe me we’re just getting started with the Misconduct in a Public Office involving Winton’s Peelers.  Last New Year’s Eve, about 3pm in the afternoon, I was attacked and harangued outside the Co-Op on Front Street by a pair of vicious thugs in uniform; 2242 Duffy and 8020 Oliver. Obviously I complained about this, but the corrupt weasel who was supposed to investigate this, 7720 Seymour, simply brushed it under the carpet. So I took this to the IOPC in early May, but with little hope of success. Imagine my reaction when I received this on September 24…

Dear Mr Cusack,

I have concluded that the outcome of the complaints procedure by Northumbria Police was not reasonable and proportionate; therefore, your appeal is upheld in relation to the first part of your complaint.

The specific reasoning behind my adjudication is based squarely on the fact the police did not supply the Body Worn Video (BWV) or the CCTV from outside the police station that the investigator relied upon in order to answer your complaint. I asked the police investigator to explain what had happened. Inspector Seymour stated that she was unfamiliar with the BWV viewing system and accidentally deleted them, though she thought she had archived them. With regards to the CCTV she wrongly assumed that in viewing it with the operator and telling them it was needed for a complaint it would be saved. Apparently, it was not. Both of these were key pieces of evidence in investigating your complaints and are no longer available. Your lack of trust in the police has no doubt been compounded by Inspector Seymour’s actions as the justified suspicions raised in your review regarding the deletion of evidence by the person investing your complaints have been realised. I have contacted the Head of the Professional Standards Department in relation to this, which I will discuss further.

You have alleged that it was the way the officers spoke to you compared to how they spoke with the Co-op staff and the words they used that made you feel discriminated against. The officers have denied the allegations and the police investigator has used the BWV and CCTV to corroborate their accounts.  Crucially, there is no evidence within the background papers provided by the police that the investigator has considered any previous complaints of a similar nature against either officer, as per the IOPC’s guidelines in handling complaints of discrimination. For this reason I have given serious consideration to sending this complaint back to be reinvestigated. However, in this case I do not believe it would useful to do so; the reason being the paucity of any further evidence that could be gathered. The Co-op staff could be spoken to, but due to the passage of time it is unlikely they will remember the particulars of the conversation between you and the police.  In complaints of discrimination we would also usually ask for comparator data. However, these are more useful in stop and search situations.

As the key evidence in determining how the officers spoke to you, and others and the content of their conversations with you has been lost, and the CCTV showing whether or not officers gave you the middle finger has been lost, I am left with two differing versions of events and no real corroborative evidence in favour of either. I cannot therefore determine whether they did or did not treat you differently or give you the middle finger. I cannot give you any real outcome to this complaint which is frustrating for you and no doubt a relief for the officers involved. The force has found the service level to be acceptable. However, I cannot agree with that determination due to the lack of evidence and the way the evidence available has been handled. I cannot agree that the outcome was reasonable and proportionate as I cannot access the same evidence as the police investigator. Your appeal is therefore upheld in relation to this complaint.

As a result I will be instructing the force to issue you an apology for the way the investigation was mishandled, thus hampering my deliberations.

Powerful stuff eh? Needless to say the Filth’s mealy mouthed; grudging apology went straight in the recycling. In fact it disgusted me so much, I made another complaint -:

On 31st December 2020, I suffered aggressive, intimidating and disrespectful conduct from PC Duffy and PC Oliver outside Tynemouth Co-Op. After making a formal complaint, Inspector Seymour was appointed as investigating officer. Her eventual response was a complete whitewash and failed to address any of the issues I was upset about. I appealed to the IOPC who have upheld my complaint about Inspector Seymour. They instructed Northumbria Police to apologise. However, I do not regard this drivel as sufficient to address Inspector Seymour's conduct. She deleted the body worn footage of PC Duffy and PC Oliver, as well as failing to secure the CCTV footage from North Shields Police Station, making it impossible for the IOPC to adequately investigate my appeal. My contention is that Inspector Seymour, in either deliberately or accidentally losing this footage, could be construed at worst as a deliberate act of sabotage intended to exonerate PC Duffy and PC Oliver, whose previous complaints she improperly did not consider as part of her investigation, or a level of incompetence that proves her utterly unfit to hold the level of responsibility she currently has. As aresult, I feel Inspector Seymour should be dismissed from Northumbria Police, prosecuted for Misconduct in a Public Office and that I should be awarded compensation for Northumbria Police's responsibility in allowing such corrupt practises to happen.

You’ll not be surprised to learn that Babylon didn’t agree with me and so I received this offensive pile of pig shit, entitled Final Response… Final Solution more like.

I have made some enquiries following the receipt of your complaint to help me gain a better understanding and ensure a reasonable and proportionate outcome is reached. I have specifically reviewed your previous complaint CO/10/21 and the letter sent regarding this, the IOPC response to the review that you submitted and I have reviewed your correspondence in relation to the allegation. I believe it is reasonable and proportionate to take no further action in respect of your complaint. Your previous complaint was comprehensively reviewed by the IOPC. The determination of the IOPC was that an apology was to be sent to you on behalf of Northumbria Police, which I am satisfied has been done and Inspector Seymour was to be reminded of the IOPC recommendations for investigations of allegations of discrimination. I am satisfied that this has been completed. I can confirm that neither officer subject of complaint CO/10/21 have had previous allegations of discrimination made against them.

Please note; Inspector Seymour did not deliberately delete footage. The officer believed that the footage had been archived; however it had not, so the footage was automatically removed from the system after a period of time, in line with data protection rules. This was, as explained, due to her unfamiliarity with the system used to retain footage. This element was addressed in the outcome letter to you from the IOPC. There is no further right to review the IOPC findings in to your complaint. This allegation has been made solely due to your dissatisfaction with the outcomes and recommendations made in the response provided to you by the IOPC.

Thank you for taking the time to share your concerns with Northumbria Police, as your experience and view point is extremely important to us.

Inspector 7436 Waller(Force Assessor)

So that’s it then? No further right of appeal, while the corrupt Seymour who deliberately deleted evidence to ensure Duffy and Oliver got away with it, also gets away with it. Corrupt, self-serving, evil scum. No wonder everyone despises the Filth.

ACAB

999 Emergency

 I am 100% against the Saudi funded takeover of Newcastle United on moral grounds -:

Currently, we are in the midst of a break for autumn Internationals or, as Steve Algarve-Bruce calls it, his annual holidays. At the time of writing, the bit of Newcastle United we all care about, namely the first XI, are ticking along nicely, in the manner of Ronnie Drew’s famed couple of sticks of gelignite and an auld alarm clock. Since I last had cause to consider the fortunes of our club, they have slipped one place to 19^th in the table (that’s second bottom in old money), having accrued 2 points from the 12 available, in between Brucey Breaks. As yet, with the leaves falling from the trees during shortening days of mellow fruitlessness, the Mighty Mags are still to win a game. Such footballing brilliance can only be attributed to the innovative coaching methods of Steve Algarve-Bruce, revitalised and rejuvenated by 10 days of Sagres, chicken piri piri, Super Bock and the odd round of golf.

Contrary to popular belief, football managers aren’t born with the innate ability to bluster, obfuscate and deflect all criticism onto someone else, be they fans, local journalists or previous incumbents. Such effortless bullshitting skills have to be honed over time; in Algarve-Bruce’s case, we are talking 999 games at the helm of a litany of small to medium clubs; not forgetting sunderland of course. That propitious number tells us that we need this preposterous, fraudulent windbag out the Emergency Exit now; providing another untenable Paper Tiger like Chris Wilder doesn’t take his place. Of course, regime change, whereby Newcastle United exist only as an investment project for Saudi Arabia’s billionaire elite, makes it more likely that someone of the stamp of Antonio Conte could come in. Ask Ruud Gullit just how well our last former Chelsea manager did. I digress…

Looking back, the first game after Algarve-Bruce’s flight touched down from Faro last month was Manchester United away. As it was Ronaldo’s second debut, Algarve-Bruce no doubt seized the opportunity to practice his faltering Portuguese on the preening narcissist; Duas cervejas grandes e um enorme tonel de cataplanya, por favor ... Você sabe onde fica o campo de golfe?

I’d had a ludicrous premonition that we’d win 1-0 and Ronaldo would be sent off for spitting at referee Anthony Taylor. Needless to say, that didn’t happen. I attempted to factor the whole circus out, by watching Tynemouth away to Whitburn on the last day of the NEPL season, where we won by 6 wickets, though media silence proved impossible on account of the pervasive, invasive nature of the smartphone culture. It’s almost impossible to avoid endless action replays whenever you pick up your phone, so I was able to see an infinite loop of Fernandes scoring every time I answered a message. Frankly, it wasn’t worth trying to talk sense to anyone that day, as the Twitter Wolf Pack, having already ripped the throats out of Rich Oliver, Steve Hastie and Graeme Bell over the previous fortnight, decided to turn on me. I can handle it though, as there’s always real life to distract you.

The next Friday saw the Leeds game. I wasn’t there because I was at the funeral of my childhood friend Paul “Little Wilka” Wilkinson. He’d passed away from throat cancer, aged 56 and, in all the time I knew him, I never heard him express a single opinion about any kind of sport, let alone football and Newcastle United. This was unlike his elder brother Steve, domiciled in Stockport these last 35 years, who retains an obsessive interest in his football team; sunderland…

Wilka had a good send off in The Cluny and, having arrived home somewhat refreshed, I didn’t stir from sofa slumberings until 77 minutes had elapsed. From then to the end of the game, not a great stretch I must admit, NUFC looked the better side. It was only after the game I learned that the first half had been as bad an opening period as Algarve-Bruce has ever mismanaged. The only bright spots being ASM’s equaliser and the complete failure of the ludicrous paper aeroplane protest. And people question NUST’s methods? Although it must be said, they did bottle having a pop at the PL top brass live on telly. Not that any of that matters now…

It appeared during NUFC Civil War that any disinclination by a fan grouping to storm the Barrack Road Winter Palace led to on-line brawling and cyber fisticuffs. The appalling attacks by the Wolf Pack on Steve Wraith, as ever, and poor Holly Blades are both sickening and frankly deserving of a good hiding. However, violence only exists in the real world where, with the weight of his mysterious 3-year contract extension behind him, Dwight Gayle belaboured Graeme Jones in a training ground spat, while Steve Harper’s issue and his flashy gang of public school pugilist pals engaged in a bar room brawl with NUFC’s Under 23 squad. No doubt a dozen of the latter will be out injured until their contracts end next summer. It also shows exactly why the fans are so tetchy when the staff go on like this.

While the January transfer window is viewed with the kind of hysteria Tories have for the start of the hunting season, there is the pertinent matter of our current dire circumstances. Watford, like Southampton in the first tranche of games, should have been the moment our season sputtered into life. I was at Motherwell v Ross County, but read a BBC match report telling of repeated chances squandered in ever more unbelievable circumstances. According to the MotD footage, we truly were Algarve-Bruce’s front foot Mags. This surprised me as I sensed we’d lose 4-0; even more of a bonus, we moved out of the bottom 3 when Leeds lost at home.

 

And so to the tumultuous last 10 days, when a predictable and pedestrian 2-1 loss away to Wolves was the least important part of a story that has mainly been fought out in the law courts and on line. Suffice to say, Newcastle United, despite suddenly acquiring a level of wealth that would make Croesus jealous, are in a sorry state of affairs, with the legacy of Ashley’s ownership and Algarve-Bruce’s management running the club into the ground. I make no apology for saying that, in my opinion, it’s all about to get a whole lot worse, morally, with the Saudi sportswashing, blood money takeover being waved through, simply because the Saudi authorities (the use of such terms as government, royal family and billionaire businessmen are interchangeable and largely irrelevant in that totalitarian state) have agreed to stop broadcasting Premier League games without a licence. Incredibly, after all months wasted in internecine tit for tat sniping by football oligarchs and in panelled courtrooms, as well as on headed vellum by our learned friends, this is now enough to rip up 130 years of club history and turn Newcastle United into a meaningless plaything of petrodollar billionaires.

Last week, the so-called CAT case was followed over the internet by more than 30,000 Newcastle fans. For the vast majority of on-line observers, their only previous dealings with the legal profession have involved shamefacedly allowing a brief to speak in mitigation over some late night pagger in a taxi queue, or stonewalling Babylon, a duty mouth in shabby pinstripe at their side, with endless utterances of no reply after being nabbed for going equipped. On the day that Wayne Couzens, the vile epitome of state-endorsed toxic masculinity, was sentenced to die in jail for his abhorrent crimes, Newcastle United supporters uncomprehendingly cheered on the cause of a country whose misogynistic ethos isn’t far short of the Metropolitan Police’s. Many of these cretins then incorporated the blood spattered rag that is known as Saudi Arabia’s flag into their Twitter avatar.  The irony of these Tyneside Talibanophiles creating the hashtag #cans to celebrate the marriage of soccer with Sharia Law appears lost on them. When women are banned from the ground, unless attired in a niqab, most of the Fat Kissing Couzens won’t care, because they’re too thick to process just what the hell we’ve let ourselves in for. I’d advise them to learn the meaning of haram in pretty short order.

 

Make no mistake, and I’ll reaffirm this point until I the day I die, I am vehemently opposed to any Saudi takeover of Newcastle United, because of the human rights abuses associated with that rogue dictatorship. Newcastle United have been bought by a sordid consortium that tracks back to the tyrant Mohamed bin Salman, who approved journalist Jamal Khashoggi’s murder. We are now a club with owners far worse than Mike Ashley and not just because Amanda Staveley looks common when smoking cigarettes in the street. It amazes me that so few fans are bothered about a new set of owners who think it is fine to chop up opposition journalists in foreign embassies with a bone saw.  Then again, this only replicates the attitudes of the Premier League who concern was ultimately about broadcasting and not human rights.

Newcastle United. The club of Colin Veitch and Jackie Milburn. Of Tony Green and Shay Given. Of Fumaca and Pat Heard. This is what we’ve become. This is where our moral compass points. This is an anti-humanitarian emergency. I want my club back.