The Golden Age of Rock & Roll

 The very wonderful new double issue of TQ magazine is out now. Please buy it. Within its pages, you'll find this article by me; a plaintive cry into the wilderness, regarding my aching desire to be more creative. Hopefully, someone will listen -:

Ello….

Right at the outset, I’ll hold my hands up and admit that Glam Rock is one of my least favourite kinds of music, though I’d insist that Mott the Hoople, whose Bowie connection via “All the Young Dudes” is probably, sonically speaking, the only thing that keeps Mott from being shoehorned in with other long haired, early 70s, greasy trucking hard rockers like Man, Pretty Things, Nazareth and a whole load of others. Instead, history has wrongly lumped them in with Slade, Wizard, Sweet and all those other spangly jumpsuit attired posers and ponces.

Perhaps that’s why legendary Mott frontman Ian Hunter tried to present himself as a kind of rocking Renaissance Man with Diary of a Rock'n'Roll Star, his scabrous and strangely naive account of their Fall 1972 US tour. The book eventually came out in December 74, just as news broke of Hunter’s decision to carve out his future career away from the band, which subsequently heralded the release of his classic solo single Once Bitten Twice Shy. Since then, to rather more critical acclaim than record sales, Hunter, born in the months leading up to the outbreak of WW II has continued to plough his own furrow and good luck to the fella who will be 84 on his next birthday. As he so presciently observed about a career in pop music: It may look flashy, but it's over and you are finished before you know it.

The start of 2022 saw me undergoing a profound personal crisis, that was almost existential in nature. Aged 57, I found myself desperately dissatisfied with the mundane confines of my everyday life. I wanted to do more with my time on earth, to be creative, see places, meet people in what could be my declining years, but was unsure how that might happen. Alright, I’ve always been a writer, but that can be a somewhat solitary vice (cue raucous Syd James style canned laughter…), so even though I edited glove magazine, edition #9 of which came free with TQ #52, I still wasn’t meeting people and sparking off their creative energy. Things changed for the better after the first live performance I saw this year: Auntie Joy 2 on March 19^th at Holy Cross Church in Ryton. Now I’ll make it clear from the start I’m not a member of the Anglican Communion, so when I say the proceedings inspired me, I mean creatively, not spiritually, even if my relationship to the Shunyata Improvisation Group was instantly forged and subsequently maintained at a seriously cerebral level that day.

One of the most important things to happen on March 19^th wasn’t Ryton & Crawcrook Albion’s last minute winner against Bedlington Terriers that I witnessed after the gig was over, but meeting TQ paterfamilias Andy for the very first time and subsequently arranging to go for a pint together in town. At that second meeting, in The Bodega on Westgate Road, I poured out my heart to him, regarding the creative frustrations I felt were impeding my quality of life. Yes, I loved writing, but I desperately wanted to break out of the no readership underground (NRU anyone?) and present my work to people in a more challenging way. Additionally, as a confirmed anti-musician, I have been unable to play guitar properly for many years now, nearer to 5 than 4 decades, and every day I ached, yearned, pined to do so in a performative context. On that Tuesday afternoon, having acquired the necessary supportive assent from Andy, I made a firm decision that I would embark upon a creative escapade to see what I could achieve in 2022. Without spoiling the ending of this piece, I can say, in recognition of Chairman Mao’s sagacious observation that “even a journey of a thousand miles must begin with a single step,” I’ve made a start, which is okay, but I’m desperate to do more, go further and make a tangible impact upon the Newcastle NAU scene. Being perfectly honest, I don’t think I’ve done that as yet.

My first tentative toe dip into the luxuriant pool of performative creativity was with the estimable Shunyata Improvisation Group at Cobalt Studios on Friday May 13^th. As part of the annual Late Shows events, they were hosting an improvised evening around the theme of “Escape” and were seeking collaborators. I put my name forward as I’d recently written a piece on such a theme and was delighted to be accepted. Having printed the relevant document out and taken a copy with me, I realised that scripted words were not the expected mode of delivery for this mode of performance, but that didn’t matter in the end as I discovered I couldn’t read from a 12 point printed document with my contact lenses in, so I ended up improvising the piece from memory and, despite being wracked with nerves to the point of vomiting before the performance began (in the toilets not on the stage a la John Lydon 1976), I think it went quite well and I actually enjoyed it. Whether the audience did or not was a moot, and perhaps irrelevant, point, but it certainly ennobled me to pick up an acoustic guitar on the invitation of Nigel from Shunyata, to accompany Andy in his performance later that evening.

After this gig, I felt utterly elated by the sense of achievement engendered. A discussion with Andy led to an introduction to recent arrival from London, sound artist and electronics wizard Chris Bartholomew. There was also an offer to play the second TQ live event at the Lit & Phil on August 19^th, providing we felt our endeavours were worthy of public consumption. A second potential show at a wannabe barista style bistro in Prudhoe was quickly, and properly, withdrawn as we didn’t appear to appeal to the target Tyne Valley demi monde demographic. I did, however, appear solo at a spoken word evening at The Engine Room on North Shields Fish Quay, reading a couple of short pieces (printed in 18 point to render them legible), including “The Deer Hunter,” which became one of Chris and I’s performance cornerstones, as well as being accepted for publication in the Scottish literary magazine Razur Cuts. Being honest, I found the experience of simply reading aloud a little less satisfactory than I had in all the years I’d previously done the same. It just felt pedestrian and two dimensional. Time needed to move on. I knew I wanted sound to go with my words, which is why I embraced the scheduled performance with Chris, that we’d decided would go under the name of BARTHOLOMEW/cusack.

Three practises at First Avenue Studios in Heaton later, we’d assembled a 30 minute set, comprising three spoken word recitations that would be accompanied by Chris’s musical backing and three semi-improvised instrumental pieces where I was given licence to abuse a guitar and Chris found ways to complement the maelstrom. In short, we’d bonded immediately and found a common purpose and vision that seemed almost telepathic. The performance at the Lit & Phil was well received and made us determined to forge ahead, to the extent we recorded “The Deer Hunter” on August Bank Holiday Monday, as well as agreeing to ditch the other two spoken pieces and look for other examples from my oeuvre that we could develop. As yet, that is a job of work we haven’t undertaken, and I see it as a priority for the future, if we are going to continue as a viable entity. Especially if we are going to perform live though, at the point of writing, there have been zero offers of other gigs and I’m at a complete loss where to go or who to ask to find an opportunity to play live. Anyone prepared to make us an offer?

 

While I’ve put all my musical eggs in one basket with BARTHOLOMEW/cusack, Chris is a superbly talented musical polymath. He can compose, produce, plan, create, mix and so much more, all with consummate ease and I am in awe of his abilities. To be frank, I am pleased to be a tiny part of his create universe. To this extent, I was delighted to go as a punter to Chris’s solo show at The Globe on November 3^rd as part of the usual Thursday Evening Prayer Meeting session.

I think the last time I set foot in The Globe would have been 40 years ago, when it was one of the few bars that sold draft Bass; we’re talking long lost treasures like The Glendale in Byker, The Burton House and other palatial pubs long torn down in the name of progress. Almost in memory of those days, I was required to skirt an enormous pile of vomit on the pavement near Jury’s Inn. Once I’d affected entry and managed to find the correct upstairs room, after escaping the clutches of a bloke on the door who thought I was looking for a religious gathering, I found the relevant room that seemed to have been a slavish recreation of the much missed Broken Doll upstairs venue.

The evening was supposed to be Chris playing an opening set and then improvisation from trios drawn from a hat full of volunteers. Well, names on bits of paper at least. I knew Chris would be good value as soon as he picked up a frying pan and said he’d be using this as a percussive device as the sound it produced was “reliable.” Being honest, I am so much in awe of Chris’s talents that I find it impossible to review his work objectively. Not only do I marvel at the creativity of his practice, but I like him enormously as a bloke and I’d advise you to get on his Bandcamp page ASAP, then tell him to do more stuff with his pal cusack.

So, what is to be done in the immediate future by BARTHOLOMEW/cusack? Create more pieces. Record new tracks. Play some gigs. Release product. Get a website. Try and have a visible profile. That’s a lot of work, but I’m certain we’re up for it.   Being positive, what we have done is record versions of the musical pieces we’ve created and are happy with. On October 15^th, Chris and I spent a loud and productive morning at the John Marley Centre making digital footprints. That means there are now 4 BARTHOLOMEW/cusack pieces in the archives that I’d hope we could eventually release as a CD one day. Obviously, it would be great to balance these recordings with 2 further spoken word pieces, but we’ll need to work on those. Also, we’ll need to sort out the logic of how to communicate with our potential audience, which will presumably mean a Bandcamp page. As someone who doesn’t go for downloads, I’d like it to be an adjunct to physical CD sales, but I’m aware that how audiences consume their music is very different to me wandering up to Listen Ear and asking about the latest post punk releases on a Saturday lunchtime in the late 70s. But, to conclude, if I’m completely honest, I’m as excited today about the future of music and my involvement in it, as I was buying Rough Trade and Fast Product singles in 1979.

Carpe diem, motherfuckers…

 

 

Forest Fired

 A glacial afternoon at Newcastle East End 2 Forest Hall Celtic 0 -:

I took a day off last Monday but was still woken up before 9.00am by a breathless, near hysterical Shelley, who felt I needed to know it had been snowing. After thanking her, and before falling back asleep some 30 seconds later, I gloomily considered that this was undoubtedly bad news for the prospects of local football on Saturday 21^st. Despite an appreciable thaw kicking in on Friday afternoon, the damage had been done in the freezing days before; predictably, every game on grass, from Gateshead downwards, was called off. The one that I’d planned to be at, Percy Main v Haltwhistle, was called off extra early, to save the visitors from a lengthy, wasted journey and so I began to plot my afternoon entertainment. Thankfully, the existence of 4G pitches made this possible.

If there’d not been the spectre of Crystal Palace v Newcastle at 5.30 on the horizon, I think I would probably have chosen Whickham Under 23s v Ellington in the George Dobbins League Cup, which was taking place on the astroturf at Killingworth’s Amberley Park with a 2.30 kick off, as the losers would host Percy Main in the Bill Gardner Cup. Unfortunately, it was a bit of a hike, so I looked elsewhere for my entertainment. These new £2 busfares are making me even meaner with money!!

I’d visited every ground in use that day, comprising Newbiggin at Hirst Welfare, Ponteland United, Independent Cabrito, who beat Chemfica Amateurs by the preposterous margin of 8-3, Newcastle Blue Star and Gosforth Bohemians Reserves, both at Cochrane Park, Morpeth, Blyth Town Under 23s, who subsided 8-0 to Hazlerigg Victory at Great Park and Whitley Bay Sporting Club at Walker Activity Dome. Instead, I moved a little further down the Fossway to Walker School, or the Riverside Academy as it is now known, for Newcastle East End against Forest Hall Celtic.

I chose this game for a couple of reasons; firstly because I like the 4G pitch at Walker, where West Jesmond used to play, as the ball bounces true and not too high, as well as the surface not slowing the game down by being excessively long. Add to that, both sides were in the Tyneside Amateur League back during my stint as chair, so it is good to see then progressing to Alliance Division 1, with East End challenging for a place in the top flight for next year. Finally, having done some work for AQA exam board at Walker School back in the day, I knew of a quick way to the back entrance of the campus. It was still a bit of a hike from Crosslings at Benfield Road where I got off the bus, but having cut across the field at The Turbinia, I could see both teams warming up when I got to the top gates, which is when my problems began. Locked. Barred. Bolted. These gates were harder to pass through than a rich man trying to effect entrance to the Kingdom of Heaven via the St Peter’s Pearly ones. Obviously that 10 foot high metal fence surrounding the school wasn’t an easy option either. I mean, I couldn’t have scaled those spikes when I was 12, so the only choice was to walk the perimeter. In retrospect, back up to the Fossway and round the corner would have been a better way, but instead I went right and discovered that Ennerdale Road is a hell of a lot longer that you’d think. All in all, this meant I didn’t get in the place until about the 15 minute mark.

As I headed up through the car park, East End took a free kick, from distance I presume, that smacked the top of the bar, went over the fence, and rolled down the car park. I know it’s rude of me, but I didn’t go to collect it as I’d missed enough action already. Instead, a whippet-paced sub who confirmed the game remained goalless, did his duty for the team. Sorry pal, but at least it counted as part of your warm up and I’d done more than my 10k steps trying to get to the game already.

There was a decent smattering of casual observers watching procedings, possibly on account of the lack of other games, but also I’d like to think on account of the quality of East End’s play. Having seen table topping Gosforth Bohemians before Christmas at Hexham, I’m very pleasantly surprised with the quality of play in the Alliance second flight. East End may not be quite as fluent as Bohs, but they’re a good side to watch, combining a steady defence with some fine, experienced playmakers in the middle and a degree of pace up top. Forest Hall are struggling near the bottom and gave a decent account of themselves, never giving up or being totally outclassed, but 2-0 flattered them.

East End took the lead on 30 minutes with an unmarked, close range header and doubled their advantage on 55 minutes when an intricate passing movement outfoxed the Forest Hall defence, allowing a free shot into the roof of the net. In truth, it could have been far more, on an afternoon when Hungarian ref Dora Jakob effortlessly kept control of the game, allowing plenty of robust but fair challenges to go unchecked, but both sides seemed to lose impetus after a particularly nasty clash of heads between two Forest Hall defenders. They were sensibly substituted immediately; one with a nasty gash to his scalp and the other seemingly dazed from the impact. A total accident, same as the poor lad from East End who was severely winded when bodychecked by a team mate in the first half.

Injuries apart, I thoroughly enjoyed the game, though the appreciable amount of stoppage time meant it was almost dusk when I stiff-leggily marched up past Daisy Hill to catch the number 1. It was nice to see Johnny Decker on board, looking a lot better than he has in years, but my own problems were more of a concern as I was still shivering when I wandered into the Tynemouth Cricket Club to watch the Newcastle game. Too cold for beer, I stuck to coffee and mused how much more enjoyable the Northern Alliance is than the Premier League.

Incidentally, Ellington won 3-1, so Percy Main are away to Whickham next Saturday in the Bill Gardner. Weather permitting of course…

Sunday Evening Run Out

 Quite unbelievably, I played indoor cricket for the first time in 45 years the other day...

One of the hardest things about doing Dry January I always find, is the temptation caused by the sheer volume of drink lying around the house after New Year. Not just the usual boatload of cans in the fridge, the array of bottles in the wine rack and the secret stash of single malt at the back of the sideboard, that’s there for emergencies only, but the prohibition-busting lake of various, nefarious spirits that only get bought in late November and, seemingly in our house at any rate, only get drunk in early January.

We’d got through the first week back at graft without any alcohol temptation related mishaps, but then Saturday 7^th came along and, on the back of Percy Main’s home loss to Rutherford in the Alliance League Cup and then Chris Wood’s inexplicable miss at Hillsborough that went a long way to assisting Sheff Wed’s dismissal of Newcastle from the FA Cup, it seemed a long, dreary evening of shit television lay ahead when the final whistle went. This is when a litre of dark rum and half that amount of Spanish citrus gin, as well as the appropriate mixers, that our drinks cabinet (aka the downstairs netty) coughed up, can act as a port in a storm. Port you say? Well, there’s also a bottle of that and some pongy cheese that needs eating up. You know where this is going, right? Fairly soon, we moved on from simply smirking at Liverpool’s defence against Wolves to blasting out Give ‘Em Enough Rope in singsong memory of friends passed. Suffice to say, I retired later than at New Year, in a very jolly frame of mind.

Things weren’t so amusing about 6 hours later when I had to take the dog out for his morning constitutional, when the wind stung my teeth and my eyes. Being rational, all that the day seemed to offer was a dozen lethargic hours, spent in front of televised FA Cup action, before an early night in preparation for the working week. As Joe Strummer once so sagely observed; Monday’s coming like a jail on wheels.” And then, just when obscure mediocrity beckoned, my phone went. It was a text from my old mate Martin Pollard.

Poll’s a good lad; off spin legend at a rake of NEPL clubs this past quarter of a century, he’s still doing his thing, despite serious health issues in recent years, for my beloved Tynemouth. One of his particular things is organising the club’s annual tilt at indoor cricket over the winter. Before lockdown, I’d twice followed Tynemouth to Old Trafford (and once to a leisure centre in Horwich, directly opposite the Reebok Stadium when Old Trafford was double booked) to the northern finals of the national indoor 6-a-side competition, only a step away from the grand final at Lords. Things aren’t so grand for the team from Preston Avenue these days; despite beating Cowgate, subsequent losses to Benwell Hill and South North in the North East group competition, meant there was no chance of progressing in 2023. The final game against Seaton Burn was therefore a total dead rubber. Presumably, that’s why I got asked to fill the vacant slot. Despite the raging juniper-fuelled hangover that afflicted my brain, I said yes immediately, failing to recognise that the 8pm start would prevent me from watching Call the Midwife. Result, eh?

Being serious, it is an absolute honour to be asked to represent Tynemouth at whatever level, wherever, whenever and in whatever competition. Despite not having played indoor cricket since about Year 8, I would not have missed this opportunity for the world. So it was, in a snug-fitting, borrowed TCC hoodie (we third teamers don’t require multicoloured pyjamas at our level of the game) and my padded goalkeeper strides, I trod the green vinyl at South North’s indoor cricket centre, on the darkest day in Tynemouth’s proud 176-year history. Having refuelled in the afternoon with several gallons of Vimto and a bunch of bananas, I took my place alongside 5 first teamers (Phil Morse, Andrew Smith, Joe Snowdon, Richard Stanyon and Poll) in as good a state as could be expected for a 58-year-old with a raging hangover.

Briefly, indoor cricket is a 6-a-side game, where batters retire at 25, but can come back. Indeed, you play last batter standing. Runs are scored by hitting the ball against the side or back netting (1), far end netting behind the bowler (4 or 6), or by running (2). You can be caught off the roof, side or back netting. The general standard is 12 overs a side and it’s expected that 5 of the fielding side get to bowl, which is what caused me a little unease as I’m not used to mixing with such elevated company, well apart from my famous appearance at Shotley Bridge in the NEPL 1^st XI T20 competition last year of course…

We batted first and did alright. Smudger and Morsey both got to 25 and had to retire, while Stanners and Snowy holed out, smashing the hard but light hollow plastic ball around the place. This was my cue to simper nervously to the crease to join Poll. His knee reconstruction surgery and my age and heft meant quick singles weren’t on the agenda. Indeed, in similar situations I’ve seen batters deliberately get themselves out (hello Poll), to get the big hitters back in. In the event I did get out first ball, but totally unintentionally and perhaps a touch unluckily. Unbelievably I made a good connection (we’ll not say timed it though) and on a Saturday it could have gone to the rope, but instead a tallish bloke stood at approximately mid-wicket, reached up and snaffled it. Could have been a contender…

Morsey continued the good work and we amassed 127/5 from our 12 overs. The rule of thumb for indoor cricket is that you’ll never win unless you’ve set the opposition at least 10 an over. When I’d played at Shotley Bridge, first XI skipper Matt Brown knew exactly what to do with me in the field; stick me at short fine leg out of harm’s way. In the end I fielded the ball once and found my ideal role in telling Barry Stewart whether the batter was left or right-handed, so he knew where to stand. Similarly for this one, I was kept as far from the action as possible at long on. I think I got to touch the ball about 5 times in total, including one of the most inaccurate shies at the stumps you’ll ever see. It looked like I was suffering from triple vision, though there is the fact that until my recent physiotherapy on my shoulder, I couldn’t throw overarm for about 3 years.

When fielding, I found it difficult to judge the flight of the ball, especially after it bounced. The thing seemed to stop abruptly and fly lower than I expected. Luckily though, it is reasonably easy to bowl with. I did my usual mincing 3-step and then deliver, without attempting to do much other than get it on target and, being honest, I didn’t do badly. A couple of overs for 15 runs, including a wide (not leg side incredibly), when I had to bowl at a left-hander as well, wasn’t a bad effort. Smudger also ran one of theirs out while I was bowling, which I’m claiming as a wicket for no good reason. Incredibly, all 6 of their batters were run out. I wouldn’t say we were the greatest team in the field, but they seemed to panic with the victory target in sight. The result was we won by 20 runs with an over to spare. It may have been a meaningless game in the greater scheme of things but taking part in it is a memory I’ll treasure forever.

 

Heed Space

 I've been Southside recently....

I don’t know about you, but I generally find I became unstuck in time during the Festive Period. How this generally manifests itself is by a loss of comprehension of the relevance of the Calendar. I always know what the date is, but I fail to connect that numerical knowledge with an actual day, as I grow increasing uncomprehending, shorn of the usual weekly appointments that delineate the actual days of the week. Like almost everyone else, a normal week revolves around football on a Saturday and the fact we lost two of them in a row to Christmas Eve and New Year’s Eve knocked me all to pot.  Newcastle’s Boxing Day win at Leicester was a great spectacle, but from that point onwards any relationship between days, dates and football itself stopped existing in any meaningful way in my head. Indeed, it was like that after I got back to work, when I returned exhausted from the first day back at graft, astonished to find out we were playing Arsenal that night.

In the weeks leading up to it, I’d long harboured a belief that somehow, mysteriously if not mystically, a magical ticket for Newcastle versus Leeds would turn up for me. It didn’t and, while you could say I had a lucky escape as the DYBs channelled the ghost of Don Revie’s anti-football tactics to undeservedly steal a point from SJP, sitting on the sofa listening to Radio Newcastle’s commentary was a non-too-pleasant throwback to those far gone decades when, before I’d discovered the beauty and purity of non-league football and in the absence of cash or a ticket for a Newcastle away game in the Arthur Cox, Jack Charlton and Willie McFaul eras, listening to Charles Harrison’s burbling inanities on Metro was the only way to keep (loosely) connected to the outcome of a game. Frankly, I didn’t enjoy my return visit to those far-flung days. Give me the Northern Alliance and regular updates on my phone any day.

I suppose I could have ventured out to Dunston, Spartans or even Spennymoor on Boxing Day, to try and soothe my football-starved soul, but the lack of regular buses spoiled that possibility for a dedicated non-driver such as me. Instead, I focussed on sampling the January 2^nd fixture list, as I simply couldn’t countenance not seeing a single game during my time off work. There were 4 possible candidates: Consett v Dunston and Morpeth v South Shields on 4G pitches would definitely be on, providing fog or a fall of snow didn’t intervene. However, the sheer distance of these relatively inaccessible grounds put me off. When it became clear that clement weather would allow for a full programme of games, choices narrowed to 2 potential candidates: Hebburn v Shields or Gateshead v York. The former appealed because it was cheaper to get in, but I decided on Gateshead for sentimental reasons.

On New Year’s Eve I learned of the death of one of my closest friends from my teenage years, from back in the days we called ourselves the FPX (Felling Punks). Geoff Johnston was only 59 when he passed away and, while I’ll admit to having lost touch with him over the last decade or so, I knew life was tough for him and that his health was failing. While we were growing up, Geoff was the best footballer and most talented musician among us all. He was also devilishly handsome and roguish Ladies’ Man, when such a phrase was still in vogue. For the rest of my life, I’ll never be able to hear Stay Free by The Clash without shedding a tear for him. In short, having already made one trip south of the river to lay flowers on my dad’s grave on December 28^th, I was compelled to make another visit to NE10, to be among those I called my own kind.

I knew that another FPX alumni, Raga, was a Gateshead season ticket holder of a decade and a half standing (he quit SJP even before Ashley bought the place) and would be at the game so, having persuaded my son Ben to join me and to take the car, we headed off down the dirty back lane that leads to the International Stadium. I’ll freely admit to not being a regular visitor to Gateshead games over the past few decades; probably for nigh on 40 years since Bob Topping was banging them in during the early 80s, helping to get the Tynesiders promoted to the GM Vauxhall Conference, as was. I can recall being at an away game at Wealdstone in 1987 when I lived in London and home wins over Barrow and Witton Albion, in front of tiny crowds, in 1992. After that, it took a freebie for a home FA Cup loss in extra time against Oxford in 2013 and a stupendous 4-1 destruction of Grimsby in the play-off semi-final the year after, with nigh on 7,000 in the ground, to reawaken my interest.

My main barrier to enjoying watching the Heed was not the ground, surprisingly enough. Yes, the IS is a terrible, windy, desolate place to watch a game when there’s only a few hundred rattling round the place, but my absence was more to do with the non-football in the bad old Colin Richardson era; a rigid 5-4-1 formation, with the ball belted, high and hard, up top for the big man to try and win a knock down, so the midfielders could pick up the pieces. It never worked and it was ugly, sterile and futile, especially with a gale howling across a pitch that resembled a ploughed field, in front of circa 300 hypothermia sufferers.

Nowadays, under Mike Williamson, the pitch is perfect and the team, revitalised after a couple of years back down int the National League North, courtesy of a shameful punishment caused by the wrongdoings of the previous board, play great football. Face it, if you’ve got Adam Campbell running rings round the opposition, there’s no need to play it above ankle level. As yet, the team hasn’t been rewarded with the amount of points that reflect their style of play, and sit just outside the relegation zone, but they came into this game on the back of a thumping 3-0 win away to York on Boxing Day.

For the return fixture, York brought 740 fans. Almost all of them were in The Schooner before kick-off, so we abandoned all thoughts of a pint and went in the ground early for a Bovril and a blether. The crowd was an impressive 2,203, with home fans supportive throughout, creating impressive noise both times the Heed scored and not getting on keeper James Montgomery’s back when he was caught hopelessly out of position for the first equaliser. Frankly, York were terrible and Gateshead should have been out of sight long before the fortuitous bounce in the area presented them with a late equaliser, but if you don’t take your chances, you will learn to regret it.

I thoroughly enjoyed the afternoon and, while I feel £18 is still a bit pricey, the product on offer isn’t ludicrously expensive. Indeed, if they’d won, I wouldn’t mention this fact at all. It was great to catch up with Raga and I hope to see him and the Heed again soon.

GCJ RIP xxx

 

 

Winter Summary

And here we are at the end of another year, so it’s time for me to run the rule over the final few books and sounds I’ve come across, as well as listing all I’ve heard and seen during 2022. As ever, and I don’t know why this is, I’ve not done the same for the books I’ve read. Perhaps I will do next year. Certainly, I wish I could do more to recognise the achievements in print of Jim Gibson, Michael Keenaghan, David Keenan and Harry Pearson.

One important difference from previous years is that I’ve not placed the music I’ve consumed in rank order. For many years I’ve felt that gigs should be listed in that way, as the experience of live music is one highly dependent on many factors detached from the quality of music itself: venue, audience, security, company, and other variables. Hence, I’ve now decided to list gigs chronologically and releases alphabetically, as I’m acutely aware of the effort that goes into producing music, so I do not have the right to pass judgement on people who create sounds for the betterment of human culture. This is especially true as I’ve tentatively dipped my toe back into the waters of musical creativity, as well as the written word.

That said, it is an incontrovertible truth that Glasgow has always been one of the greatest cities for producing music, whether the musicians resident there are Scottish women, Irish American women or blokes from Leeds, as I’m sure Alex, Debbie and Jill would agree. It’s a great place to see gigs as well, whether that’s in a huge ballroom in the East End with a Quebecois post rock nonet deafening 2,000 beguiled devotees or a power trio of two local fellas and an Irish American genius laying waste to a snug cellar up the West End. You hear what I’m saying…

2022 Releases:

Burd Ellen – A Tarot of the Green Wood

Essential Logic – Land of Kali

Freakons – Freakons

Jill Lorean – This Rock

Posset – Fresh Like Irish Moss (given away free at 19 August gig)

Alex Rex – Mouthful of Earth

Sea Power – Everything was Forever

Soundcarriers – Waves

Swell Maps – 6 Track Ep (given away free with Jowe Head book)

Wire – Not About to Die

Earlier Releases:

Audiac – So Waltz

Bailey, Bevan, Hession, Yoshihide – Good Cop, Bad Cop

Bardo Pond – Bufo Alvarius

Bartholomew – Umami Music

Dementiol 3 – Last Test

Sandy Denny – Gold Dust

Herb Diamante and Friends – A Spoonful of Yeast

Godspeed You! Black Emperor – Lift Yr Skinny Fists like Antennas to Heaven

Godspeed You! Black Emperor – Slow Riot for Zero New Kanada

Godspeed You! Black Emperor – Yanqui U.X.O.

Mekons - Exquisite

Mogwai – Central Belters

The One Ensemble Orchestra – Other Thunders

Craig Scott’s Lobotomy – War is a Racket

Shunyata Improvisation Group - Balances

Shunyata Improvisation Group – Pivot Moments

Snowgoose – The Making of You

Various – Bring My Love to Connemara

2022 Gigs:

March 19: Shunyata Improvisation Group, Holy Name, Ryton

April 2: Teenage Fanclub, Beckett University, Leeds

April 15: Band of Holy Joy, The Engine Room, North Shields

April 30: Wedding Present, Boiler Shop, Newcastle

May 13: Shunyata Improvisation Group, Cobalt Studios, Newcastle

May 31: Jill Lorean, Hug & Pint, Glasgow

June 10: Shunyata Improvisation Group, Lit & Phil, Newcastle

July 10: Shunyata Improvisation Group, Saltwell Park, Gateshead

August 6: Sea Power, Crescent Club, Cullercoats

August 19: Posset, Lit & Phil, Newcastle

September 2: Ball Peen, Anarchy Brewery, Newcastle

September 18: Godspeed You! Black Emperor, Barrowlands, Glasgow

September 26: Snowgoose, The Engine Room, North Shields

September 30: Adam Johnson, Lit & Phil, Newcastle

October 14: Culver & Molar Crime, Bound Books, Whitley Bay

October 15: Dave Johns, The Stand, Newcastle

November 2: Bartholomew, The Globe, Newcastle

November 12: The Wedding Present, Gosforth Civic, Newcastle

November 19: Shunyata Improvisation Group, Shieldfield Centre, Newcastle

December 22: Bartholomew, John Marley Centre, Newcastle

 

My 2022 Gigs:

May 13: Escape, with Shunyata Improvisation Group, Cobalt Studios

August 2: Open Mic night, The Engine Room

August 19: TQ2, Lit & Phil, as BARTHOLOMEW / cusack

November 18: Just This, with Shunyata Improvisation Group, Shieldfield Centre

Now we turn to the final tranche of books and bands I’ve encountered at the back end of the year just ending.

Books:

Remarkably, I’ve finally finished Monument Maker by David Keenan. It was a tough ask, ploughing through 760 pages, but a rewarding one. Like reading Ulysses, it works best when you realise it isn’t one book, but several different ones combined. As a devotee of Keenan’s work, I’m delighted I can say I got through it, but for enjoyment purposes, I much preferred London is Dead by Michael Keenaghan. I first came across Michael as a fellow contributor in the same small press magazines that were publishing me. Along with Jim Gibson, who I also have praised here, as well as publishing the two of them in glove, Michael has now made it into print on his own. London is Dead is a distillation of the Keenaghan oeuvre in extremis: a violent, brutal and decidedly unsentimental portrait of the gangs of London, east and north west, present and past, and the strict, inflexible amoral codes they live by. The characters are real, the plot is credible and the narration rips along at breakneck pace. This is a real page turner and should be made into a film ASAP. I’m absolutely delighted Michael has been able to get a book in print as I’ve been saying for years, Michael Keenaghan is the finest underground prose writer in this country. He means it man.

At completely the other end of the scale, I adored Frank O’Connor’s Short Stories, Volume 2, transplanting myself to Cork city in the 1940s and 1950s, where the fallout from the War of Independence and The Emergency influenced life in a way that the already declining powers of the Church did not. We meet so many good people, trapped in failed marriages, whose ambitions and aspirations are hampered at every turn by thick priests, blustering schoolmasters and scheming local dignitaries that you’d think we’d dropped by on a Jack Lynch constituency surgery. An esoteric but delightful pleasure.

Same could be said of Harry Pearson’s latest wonderful cricket book. First of the Summer Wine is a detailed and devoted paean to three of Yorkshire CCC’s greatest players of the Golden Age, telling the lives and achievements of Schofield Haigh, George Herbert Hirst and Wilfred Rhodes. In exhaustive detail, we learn of the rise of The Triumvirate, as they were known, from local club cricket around the village of Kirkheaton near Huddersfield, to Ashes winning tours, multiple County Championship triumphs and a volume of cricket scarcely credible in these times. It, as ever, is told in Harry’s inimitable informative, but gentle style. How different I’d imagine David Peace’s tome about Boycott, close, Illingworth et al, will prove to be.

Music:

It has been an absolute pleasure to see Shunyata Improvisation Group on five separate occasions in 2022, during which time they have become one of my very favourite bands in the world. The last time I saw them this year was on Saturday 18 November at the Newbridge Project in the Shieldfield Centre, as part of a day long workshop entitled Just This; Between Zen and the Arts. I’ll just reinforce that date; I chose to spend a Saturday afternoon away from the playing fields of the Northern Alliance and in a community centre, attending several workshops and performances. This is how important things involved in this debate were to me, and to Shelley, who accompanied me.

First off, Shunyata’s Martin Donkin, the poet Alex Reed and the artist Catherine Dee introduced the topic. From my perspective, Martin was the person I was keen on listening to. He explained that his intent on forming the first iteration of Shunyata was to interpret the teachings of secular Buddhist philosopher Stephen Bachelor in terms of music. Bachelor’s credo is contained in the mnemonic ELSA -:

E – Embrace reality

L – Let go of your first response

S – Stop to think before responding

A – Answer in a positive way

In short, Martin sought to declutter his practice in the Tyneside free improvisation scene, by providing a space free from loud, chaotic or unconsidered elements. By removing unnecessary colour and noise, it provides a more inclusive atmosphere that embraces co-operative aesthetics. Bachelor, and obviously Shunyata, emphasise that the result must always be a failure to remain true to aesthetics, but the whole point is to fail better. I learned this for myself by taking part in the Shunyata workshop, while Shelley attended Alex Reed’s poetry workshop. My experience was of participating in two improvisations, each of 10 minutes in length, where the point was to adhere to the Shunyata style, where each player should be sensitive to the need to play distinctly and quietly, to display meditative and reflective restraint, offering stretches of emptiness. I thoroughly enjoyed cradling an acoustic guitar and looking to intervene where I could. Everyone in the room similarly responded. Well, apart from the bloke who’d brought his tenor sax and mini Hammond organ, who seemed keen on recreating the greatest hits of Weather Report and didn’t really get the purpose of the day.

After a vegan lunch, we settled down for a performance by Shunyata, with Alex Reed reciting poetry in certain parts. While I was already familiar with the poetry of love and loss Reed composed after his wife’s death, this was the most moving and spiritual I’ve ever heard Shunyata. NofC’s ability to make his accordion breathe like an elderly relative is enough to make you weep with nostalgia. Over the years I’ve seen bands booed off and bottled off, but I’ve never come across a band being drowned out by a snoring punter, but that’s what we had here. Shelley and I saw it through to the end, enjoying the wonderful stringed work and percussive genius of Shunyata at their absolute peak, but it was a gruelling day and I’m not sure if I’d volunteer for a full day’s entertainment again. I also picked up a CD by Craig Scott’s Lobotomy called War is a Racket, that was available for a donation. I’m not sure about the veracity of the title, but the music contained within is a terrible racket that breaks every one of the Shunyata style tips, as well as your windows if you play it loud enough.

There are plenty of opportunities for interested observers to see Shunyata live on Saturday afternoons between 1 and 3 at The Globe, in a series of concerts that will explore the 7 Zen Aesthetic principles throughout 2023. I’ll almost certainly be at football or cricket on all of these dates, but for the interested observer, here are the dates -:

1.    Asymmetry (Not adhering to perfection).  Saturday 14 January. Support: Thomas Dixon   

2.    Non-attachment (Open minded and detached, being without any form completes every form). Saturday 11 March. Support: Tobias Sarra.

3.    Naturalness (Artless in its natural form, without pretence). Saturday 29 April. Support: Molar Crime.

4.    Simplicity (Not complicated or gaudy). Saturday 24 June. Support: Mobius.

5.    Silence (Limitless Silence, the inward-looking Mind). Saturday 9 September.

Support: Richard Scott

6.    Wizened Austerity (Solitary, dignified like an old tree). Saturday 11 November. Support: Paul Taylor

7.    Profound Subtlety (A hidden memory lingering deep inside, limitless implications).

Saturday 9 December. Support: Katie Oswell.

 

The other gig I’ve been to of late was my sometime musical partner Chris’s Christmas performance, as Bartholomew, at the John Marley Centre in Scotswood. This is where Chris has his rehearsal and recording space and a crowd of 8 humans and a dog assembled on Thursday 22 December, for eats, beats and bevvy. Flurries begins proceedings, involving Chris crushing and then tearing pieces of A4 paper. I’m not sure if they were lined or unlined, but it was absolutely delightful to see. Just a shame more of the glitterati of the much vaunted North East no-audience underground couldn’t manage to turn up. I mean, I was even wearing a Stone Island coat, but I was there. Universe features percussion and plaintive trumpet, like a sombre Mariachi. In Like A Lion has elements of mental, headache-inducing free jazz and random harsh beats, as well as more trumpet. It’ll be on his new album, and I can’t wait to hear it.  

Looking into 2023, there’s a TQ live event at the Lit & Phil on 20 January 2023, when Breather, Firas Khnaisser and Culver perform. The Saturday after that sees Chris Bartholomew and Faye McCalman host a Tyneside Improvisers Workshop at Ye Olde Cross pub in Ryton, between 2pm and 4pm, followed by a TQ and NofC curated Auntie Joy event at the Holy Cross Church opposite, when Christian Alderson, Faye McCalman, Sally Pilkington, Sally Pope, Holy Cross Bell Ringers and Tyneside Improvisers provide “secular sounds in a sacred space,” between 4.30 and 7.00. I’m intending to head along to this after Ryton & Crawcrook Albion v Billingham Town.

The other live event I’ve got tickets for is Mogwai at the Sage on Sunday 13 February. I’m really looking forward to this one and managed to plug a lot of holes in my Mogwai collection by getting hold of the triple CD retrospective set Central Belters. Starting with Summer and Helicon, by way of Mogwai Fear Satan, The Sun Smells Too Loud and I’m Jim Morrison I’m Dead, before finishing with the impeccable ear crusher, My Father, My King, it is over 200 minutes of brutal brilliance. Really can’t wait to see them again.

I’ve never seen Essential Logic live and I wonder if I ever will. Currently I’m content enough with the release of their first album in 43 years, Land of Kali, that is a tremendous pot-boiling stew of dub, white Rasta skank, late 70s electronica and indie funk. You could be on Ladbroke Grove in the early days of the counter culture’s opposition to Thatcher. It’s a marvellous, happy album, where Lora’s seemingly unbroken Krishna belief system doesn’t grate too much. I really prefer how her music has developed compared to William Bennett’s. It’s wonderful to have her back.

And that’s it. All the best for 2023 everyone. I’m hoping to release some music and publish some words myself. Exciting huh?

 

 

 

 

 

 

Cold & Qatar

 My World Cup blog...

And so it came to pass, the first World Cup finals tournament to be held during the European winter, in a Muslim country, that began amidst mass indifference from most football enthusiasts, augmented by hand-wringing whataboutery from the likes of Emily Bishop’s son, alongside other members of the Fourth Estate, most of whom were being put up in 5 star hotels in Qatar on limitless expense accounts, courtesy of their employers, abetted by fellow travelling, wannabe social media influencers, some of whom like Denver Humbert had actually once been paid employees of the House of Saud, whose personal axes were being ground in a thoroughly mendacious manner, ended in almost universal acclamation for the greatest final in the competition’s history, with the finest player of all time lifting the trophy and possibly the biggest helmet ever to play the game waggling a garish golden glove like it was a Tralfamadorian strap-on.

Alongside such brainless, brilliant or bizarre events, we must not forget the lives lost in the building of the stadia and staging of the tournament, nor the fate of those migrant workers left behind in a state of semi servility in locked camps in Qatar, but the sheer weight of compassion fatigue engendered by the incessant virtue signalling by the likes of Denver Humbert and his pals, creates a kind of numbed indifference to the whole grotesque carnival in the minds of those of us still free to think beyond Shachtmanite parameters. What did these idiots think about tournaments such as Argentina 1978, Brazil 2014 or Russia 2018? Didn’t the sordid track records of human rights abuses by those three grisly regimes deserve being held under the microscope? For those who simply can’t let this topic go, David Squires, as ever, summed things up in the best manner possible with his latest Guardian cartoon -: https://www.theguardian.com/football/ng-interactive/2022/dec/20/david-squires-on-a-salty-end-to-qatar-world-cup

The 2022 World Cup saw 64 games over 29 days, involving 172 goals scored by 32 teams, all of whom lost at least one game during the tournament. Here is how I saw things unfold, sometimes in front of a screen, for 35 games and sometimes not, for the other 29.

Day 1: Ecuador 2 Qatar 0

Things kicked off with the mouth-watering prospect of seeing the host country, whose timid take on the beautiful game reminded me of a division 1 League of Ireland side doing their best to avoid physical contact at all costs, being wholly dismantled by a thoroughly mediocre Ecuadorian outfit. Bang average former Everton and West Ham non-entity Enner Valencia put himself about like Joe Jordan on steroids, scoring both and being denied a hat trick by nonsensical a VAR decision. Perhaps the most entertaining part of the second half was seeing the stands empty rapidly, as if part of a secret or silent fire drill.

Day 2: England 6 Iran 2

Netherlands 2 Senegal 0

USA 1 Wales 1

The fact the World Cup took place in Qatar precluded the usual tidal wave of snarling, pissed-up, middle aged sub-human detritus in remaindered Belstaff jackets from throwing patio furniture around scenic, medieval town squares. Instead, the media focus, that inexplicably veered between the censorious and obsequious in tone, was on the refusal of FIFA to allow captains to wear rainbow armbands, for fear of upsetting Qatar and the state’s institutional homophobia. While still feeling a little surprised that the legacy of Harvey Milk is being maintained by the Alan Turing Loyal, I was pleased that England, inspired by their wholly decent manager Gareth Southgate, decided to take the knee before kick-off, even if their execution of the gesture was a little ragged to say the least. What actually impressed me the most was the endless booing of the Iranian anthem by their own fans. Rather than cloaking their rampant Islamophobia behind a so-called desire for human rights, the No Saudi Toon clownshoes and their simpleton followers from Ready to Go ought to stand with the Iranian working class who have had enough of the repressive fundamentalist regime in that country. Sadly, that won’t get them many retweets or invites to appear on pitiful podcasts, so they don’t bother.

Never has working from home been cushier than during this tournament; tucked beneath a duvet on the sofa, I felt the pain of the Iranian keeper with the enormous sneck when his bugle got battered. No wonder he had to go off; it was just a shame his replacement appeared to be some random bloke from the crowd as a surprisingly assertive England banged in half a dozen. Callum Wilson proved himself to be the bigger man by passing to Grealish for a tap-in, in a gesture that showed the West Midlands Roger Casement has been forgiven for his thoughtless jibe at Miggy at the end of last season. As for the other England players with a Newcastle connection, Trippier was woeful and Pope surely has to come in for Pickford following his calamitous involvement in both Iran goals.

Following that crazy goal fest, things calmed down with the Netherlands seeing off an unimpressive Senegal. This showed that if a game is particularly dire, you can always nip into the back bedroom to do some work from home, especially when Senegal didn’t have the desire to score and, until half time at least, the Netherlands didn’t have the wit, much to Van Gaal’s chagrin. I headed out to play 6-a-side and missed the two late goals that decided this encounter. After an 8-4 victory under lights, on the 4G up the West Road, I did my usual weekly shop in Sainsbury’s, getting home just in time to see the Ronaldo of the Valleys win and then convert the penalty that denied the Great Satan a victory. The quality of the game was poor, which sort of invalidated my theory that football at this World Cup would be of a higher standard than the usual borefest, as most of the players would be fresh as only a quarter of a season had gone, rather than playing it at the end of a gruelling campaign.

Day 3: Argentina 1 Saudi Arabia 2

Denmark 0 Tunisia 0

Mexico 0 Poland 0

Australia 1 France 4

Despite the shock result of the early game, I think this was a good day to work from the office. At this stage in the tournament, I desperately wanted Saudi Arabia to do well, not just because their shirts are modelled on Newcastle’s third kit, but because of the endless small-minded, mendacious sniping at the country, which is a murderous cesspit I think we can all agree, as a way to have a dig at Newcastle United, especially by hypocritical former employees of the House of Saud like Denver Humbert. The fact is, Saudi Arabia aren’t a bad side and I’d imagine we’ll probably end up with a couple of Saudi squad players at SJP in the near future, which will be no bad thing if they can play quick, one-touch football like their national side.

I got home from work in good time to see the France game, which was the best of the tournament so far, whereby the plucky Antipodean SPFL Select XI took a glorious lead, before Les Bleus ground their faces into the desert sand. So often teams that begin the tournament like an express train run quickly out of steam, but it was clear from the outset that to beat France to the title, it would require a side to touch celestial levels of genius, or for the reigning champions to implode viciously. Quite impressively, the latter speciality of those wonderfully funny Raymond Domenech years was never a threat.

Day 4: Croatia 0 Morocco 0

Germany 1 Japan 2

Costa Rica 0 Spain 7

Belgium 1 Canada 0

Another somnolent start to the day, spent again in the office, meaning of the 4 games I’d missed by this point, 3 were goalless bores. I do wish I’d seen Japan come out on top in the Axis Trophy though, but instead I got in for the most vicious Spanish assault on Central America since 1519. It was an utterly marvellous display of attacking football, which made one wonder why they so maddeningly insisted on retreating to their shells in subsequent games. At this point, only France looked like they could hold a candle to them, but appearances can be deceptive. They weren’t in Belgium or Canada’s cases; the latter couldn’t score and the former looked uninspired and jaded. Neither of them impressed me in the slightest, which would continue to be the case in later games.

Day 5: Cameroon 0 Switzerland 1

South Korea 0 Uruguay 0

Ghana 2 Portugal 3

Brazil 2 Serbia 0

The first two and a half games were the epitome of the kind of laboured, prosaic, conservative football that blights so many major tournaments for the neutral observer, making games, that consist mainly of play acting and time wasting, more of an ordeal than a spectacle. Then suddenly, after an opening period of stupefying inanity, Ghana v Portugal exploded into an orgy of attacking football and woeful defending. Of course it had to be the arrogant arsehole free agent at the centre of things, didn’t it? After 45 (or 52 more accurately) breathless minutes, the following clash of the great democracies was a bit of a damp squib at first, I have to say, but once Brazil got in their stride, they were impressive.

So, all 32 teams had played a game at this point, with Brazil, England, France and Spain looking genuinely impressive. Qatar were clearly the worst team, even if Costa Rica shipped 7, but the likes of Poland and Belgium didn’t exactly bring much to the table either.

Day 6: Iran 2 Wales 0

Qatar 2 Senegal 3

Ecuador 1 Netherlands 1

England 0 USA 0

Now, this was a proper day of football, or at least the first 75% of it was. The second half of Iran v Wales saw an absolute fiesta of Farsi fantasy football, with by far the better team running out comfortable winners. I pondered whether Robert Page is nicknamed Jimmy Plant by Bron-Yr-Aur Stomp loving Welsh longhairs; those of us who remember Budgie and Man will know that there were plenty around back in the day. Even more thought provoking was the erotic asphyxiation celebration indulged in by breath control enthusiasts Carlos Queiroz and Sardar Azmoun after the second goal went in. Perhaps Qatar’s sexual morality laws aren’t quite as ferociously repressive as we’d been led to believe…

The Qatar v Senegal contest saw two of the hitherto most passive sides in the competition giving it a real go, though the hosts still belied their distaste for heading, tackling and indeed all physical aspects of the game. One good thing, they didn’t have far to go home after becoming the first side to exit the tournament. The Dutch showed their propensity for self-implosion by throwing away a winning position against a half-decent Ecuador side and then England v USA proved to be the worst waste of a Friday night in living memory, being dross from start to finish in that typical, nauseating, timid way we’ve been so long accustomed to.

Day 7: Australia 1 Tunisia 0

Poland 2 Saudi Arabia 0

Denmark 1 France 2

Argentina 2 Mexico 0

Up early on a Saturday to see Australia win it with a great goal, I ducked out of the Poland v Newcastle United XI game, heading off to the Newbiggin v Percy Main game at Hirst Welfare in Ashington. As we lost 4-1, you’d think I’d made the wrong choice. Well, I don’t think I did, as seeing football in the flesh is far more important to me than seeing it on telly. And, in my opinion, the Northern Alliance is better than the World Cup anyway. My match report from the PMA game can be read here, if you so desire it -: https://payaso-de-mierda.blogspot.com/2022/12/cold-comforts.html

I got back just in time to see France’s second half performance, but as we had a night out planned, the Argentina game was only viewed courtesy of brief highlights via the BBC website. To be honest, I’d been more intrigued by the FA Cup 2^nd round ties taking place that day; Kings Lynn v Stevenage, Forest Green Rovers v Alvechurch and Clyde v Dumbarton in the Scottish Cup; that’s the sort of stuff I should have watched live, but sadly didn’t.

Day 8: Costa Rica 1 Japan 0

Belgium 0 Morocco 2

Canada 1 Croatia 4

Germany 1 Spain 1

Frankly, this day saw my worst performance of the tournament. Still afflicted by strong drink, I slept through the first game, which was described as the worst of the tournament, then missed most of the second having a haircut (only my 3^rd since 2015 incidentally, and all in the last 6 months), though I did catch Courtois playing his part in Belgium’s catastrophic disintegration. As well as keeping an eye on Ebbsfleet v Fleetwood and Newport v Derby in the FA Cup, I did see Canada take the lead, before promptly falling asleep and waking to see a slight turnaround in fortunes in that game. I managed to stay awake through Germany v Spain, but rather wished I hadn’t. The penny was beginning to drop; it was clear that Spain weren’t all they were cracked up to be.

Day 9: Cameroon 3 Serbia 3

Ghana 3 South Korea 2

Brazil 1 Switzerland 0

Portugal 2 Uruguay 0

The last of the 4 consecutive game days, saw all 32 nations having played 2 games at the end of it. The opening two encounters on this day, saw a pair of absolutely mental, hell-for-leather contests, played with the handbrake off. It was great to see teams just going for it, almost as if they accepted that the whole purpose of a World Cup is not to line the pockets of Infantino and his pals, but to celebrate football by trying to score goals, not holding on to possession for dear life to strangle the will to live from the opposition. By contrast, the Brazil game was a little more staid, though I did enjoy seeing Bruno on the pitch. It being a Monday, I ducked out of the last game in order to play 6-a-side. I feel it was the right choice as seeing Ronaldo up against Suarez, two of the nastiest specimens ever to play the game, was not something that appealed on any level. Coming home from football, I was overjoyed to find Ayr United v Pollok on BBC Scotland in the SFA Cup, as I identified more with the level of play, ground and atmosphere than with the World Cup. Ayr won incidentally.

Day 10: Ecuador 1 Senegal 2

Netherlands 2 Qatar 0

England 3 Wales 0

Iran 0 USA 1

I was in the office, so saw nothing of the first two games. The only feeling I had was a degree of sadness for Ecuador going out as they’d given it a good go in their first two games. For the later game, I actually ventured out to the pub, watching it in The Lochside with Tom, who’d decided watching it in his local in Leith may not have been the most positive of atmospheres. While the pub was busy, it certainly didn’t have the numbers it draws for an average NUFC game, nor indeed the passion. To be honest, it would have been more fun watching it in Tiger Bay or Llanfairpwllgwyngyll, as Wales comprehensively demonstrated that only Qatar and Canada were worse sides than them, as England pulled them to bits in the second period. Sadly, in the contest of the 2 Islamic Republics, USA beat Iran and so advanced to the next stage. It was good fun going out to watch a game, but I couldn’t see myself doing it again for other fixtures in the tournament. Too bloody cold for starters…

Day 11: Australia 1 Denmark 0

France 0 Tunisia 1

Argentina 2 Poland 0

Mexico 1 Saudi Arabia 2

Another day of deskbound drudgery caused me to miss a pair of engrossing early games, where the surprising results enabled Australia to make it through to the next stage. After work, the necessity of heading to town to run some errands meant I only made it back in time to see the second half of the Argentina game. Mexico become the first side I’d not seen kick a ball as they lost to Newcastle United XI, who tragically didn’t make it through to the next stage. Instead Poland, who are by a long chalk the worst of the remaining 16 sides in the tournament, somehow, shamefully crept through to the knock out stage. It must have been particularly upsetting for former House of Saud employee Denver Humbert, as he turned 61 on this day. All the best to him and his 7 mates.

Day 12: Belgium 0 Croatia 0

Canada 1 Morocco 2

Costa Rica 2 Germany 4

Japan 2 Spain 1

I felt sorry for Canada finishing bottom of their group, but thoroughly enjoyed their game with Morocco. Well, I suppose I enjoyed it more than the Canadian keeper did at least. The dire Belgium v Croatia stalemate showed that Ally McCoist’s view this tournament was one too far for many of the fading stars of World football, was a sensible one. Belgium were terrible throughout and justifiably went home early. The other two games were mad and, for 6 delicious minutes, offered the chance of both Germany and Spain going out at the first hurdle. Sadly Germany’s revival, while doing nothing for them in the long run, aided a stubbornly introverted Spanish side, who were justly losing to an invigorated and entertaining Japan side. Typically enough, even this shocking defeat wasn’t enough to rouse the Spanish from their torpor and their fall was already in the post. Germany simply aren’t very good these days, it has to be said. So, after 44 games, we’d seen 110 goals, which equates to exactly 2.5 goals a game, which seems a reasonable return, despite the disappointing number of sterile stalemates we’ve been forced to endure.

Day 13: Ghana 0 Uruguay 2

Portugal 1 South Korea 2

Brazil 0 Cameroon 1

Serbia 2 Switzerland 3

As I was having physiotherapy on my damaged right shoulder, I was unable to see the opening two games. I was, of course, delighted to see Uruguay knocked out and Portugal beaten, even if Ronaldo’s lot (and I really don’t mind them as a group, other than him and that other simpering prick from Man Utd, Bruno Fernandes) didn’t include the foul free transfer. In the evening I made a bad choice, in predictably opting for Brazil v Cameroon. While the other game swung from one side to the other, I watched a slow and uninspiring contest that was characterised by our Bruno having an absolute nightmare of a game, missing chances, wasting passes, losing possession, that did loads to reduce his value in the transfer market. Indeed, this game had only the winning goal and its aftermath to recommend it. Has anyone ever been given a red card by a smiling ref, who has just high fived and hugged you? Absolutely insane, but also ultimately pointless as the Swiss got through and sent Mitrovic’s miserable lot home. Ha! Ha!

Day 14: Netherlands 3 USA 1

Argentina 2 Australia 1

The phony war is over. We are down to the last 16 and proper knock-out football. First up, the Netherlands continue to have a decent tournament by beating the USA with ease. As I was at Percy Main 2 Newcastle Independent 3, I only saw the second Netherlands goal when we trooped into the clubhouse at full time. Subsequently, I headed home to write my match report, which is again available at -: https://payaso-de-mierda.blogspot.com/2022/12/cold-comforts.html getting it finished in time for the Argentina game, which was nuts. Messi, who showed his class by shaking hands with Jason Cummings at full time and not asking him who he was, and his mates could have had half a dozen, but Martinez won the game for them with an astonishing stop in the last minute of stoppage time from NUFC’s new lad Kuol. A good, breathless contest.

Day 15: France 3 Poland 1

England 3 Senegal 0

Despite losing to Tunisia in a group stage game, France continue to serenely progress through the tournament, with Mbappe demonstrating he’s the only rival to Messi in terms of goals and influence over proceedings. Poland were no competition at all, only getting on the scoresheet in farcical circumstances. Lewandowski’s retaken soft penalty seemed to suggest the referee had staked his mortgage on both teams scoring. Meanwhile, England made things unnecessarily difficult for themselves in the opening half an hour against a spirited but limited Senegal. Then, Southgate’s tactical masterstroke of lacing the ball up field as hard and as quickly as possible bore fruit and an easy victory opened up. It seemed clear, even at this point, that this was as far as England would go in the competition.

Day 16: Croatia 1 (3) Japan 1 (1)

Brazil 4 South Korea 1

Japan began at full tilt, but their inability to take their chances came back to haunt them against a side who appeared to be Poland impersonating Spain, or vice versa. The crushing inevitability of Japan’s implosion didn’t make their loss to one of the tournament’s least enjoyable sides any easier to stomach. Still, at least Roy Keane won the commentators’ prize for excessive acerbity, by finding hitherto unimaginable levels of contempt for Brazil’s goal celebrations. His puritanical loathing of dancing or indeed any form of joy must make him Cork City’s only Calvinist.

Day 17: Morocco 0 (3) Spain 0 (0)

Portugal 6 Switzerland 1

Work got in the way of the first game, and I only made it back in time for the spot kicks as Islam once again ruled the Iberian Peninsula. Could anything had summarised Spain’s inability to get anything right, more than their woeful efforts from the spot? It’s genuinely sad to see them waste their ability by playing such aimless possession based football, where keeping hold of the thing seems to be an end in itself. I didn’t see any of the goals in the second contest as Chris Bartholomew and I were putting the finishing touches to our potential CD release as Bartholomew / cusack for early next year. This involved me doing the spoken parts for two tracks, Hair and Broken Bread that will form part of a 6-track release. More details will be available soon, I promise. Also, delighted to see Ronaldo being dropped for this one, but slightly concerned that Fabian Schar went off at the break.

Day 18: Rest Day

Day 19: Rest Day

Day 20: Brazil 1 (2) Croatia 1 (4)

Argentina 2 (4) Netherlands 2 (2)

The quarter finals, with 7 of the 8 predicted sides through, and only Spain missing out. Their departure became somewhat insignificant when Brazil, who turned up seemingly convinced they’d already beaten Croatia, were sent packing by a side that are difficult to love, but even harder to beat. Modric may be a junk shop Pavel Nedved, but he played his part in ensuring Brazil got what they deserved; nothing. It wasn’t a great, or even a compelling game, but it had me off the sofa cheering the result. Mind, the next game was the moment the knock-out stages really caught fire. Argentina were strolling to the semis when the referee went mad, booking 18 players, and a bloke who’d got the elbow from Burnley after relegation became the new Van Basten. Crazy goals, mad penalties, shithouse celebrations of the very worst kind and Denzil Dumfries kung fu kicking any Argentinian within a three metre radius after the match; this game had it all. Needless to say, whoever won would have my support for the rest of the tournament.

 Day 21: Morocco 1 Portugal 0

England 1 France 2

Again Saturday meant a return to real football; in this instance, Hexham 2 Gosforth Bohemians 9 in the company of Harry Pearason. You can read about why I chose this and not Morocco v Portugal here -: https://payaso-de-mierda.blogspot.com/2022/12/high-school-confidential.html

I just got back in time for kick off in the second game, so was able to enjoy a rubbish opening 45 minutes whereby England contrived to give the ball away at every possible opportunity. VAR decided to rear its ugly head and I’m completely at a loss to explain why the opening goal wasn’t chalked out as the foul on Saka was clearly a part of the build up to the goal. I think I understand why the first penalty shout wasn’t answered in the affirmative though, as VAR were checking only to see if it was a penalty or not. Consequently, having opined the foul happened outside the area, they did not have the power to award a free kick on the edge of the box. The parameters of their potential judgement meant it was a penalty or nothing. Stupid I know, but those were the rules.

Cards on the table, I thought England were excellent in the second half and, bar one superb poacher’s instinct by Giroud and an over egging of the pudding by Kane, everything pointed towards England reaching the semi-finals, until France went ahead again. From then to full time, it looked a bridge too far and Rashford’s free kick was truly the only effort on goal after the penalty miss. While France aren’t World Champions for nothing, Saka was the best player on the pitch by miles and Bellingham had an excellent World Cup. I’m glad Southgate has stayed on as manager, if only because the only logical choice to replace him would be Eddie Howe, and I hope this thoroughly decent squad of young men can do themselves proud in the 2024 European Championships. I’m still at a loss to understand the workings of the European Nations League though…

Day 22: Rest Day

Day 23: Rest Day

Sunderland 1 West Brom 2. Yuk! Yuk! Yuk!

Day 24: Argentina 3 Croatia 0

Now this was a proper hammering, just at the part of the tournament where you least expect to see open, attacking football. It was a masterclass by the little genius himself and anyone who begrudged him the chance to play in the final has no heart and no soul. Seeing the back of Croatia, who would have been the least popular winners of a major tournament since Greece at the Euros in 2004, was also a positive as a combination of sublime talent and incorrigible shithousery won the day.

Day 25: France 2 Morocco 0

In the end, it was easy enough for France. They got a scrappy early goal and held their nerve as a massively depleted Morocco, running almost on empty, suffered more injuries and failed to take their chances. Their spirit was never broken, but the second French goal did for them and the first African team to reach this stage knew their race was run. Well played Morocco, for being the first team to get within a country mile of Pele’s prophecy that an African team would win the World Cup before the turn of the 21^st Century…

Day 26: Rest Day

No football played, apart from Hibernian losing 3-2 at Castle Greyskull, increasing my fears of relegation somewhat. Why oh why did we sack Jack Ross? Or John Collins even?

Day 27: Rest Day

Day 28: Croatia 2 Morocco 1

I’ve not got a great deal to say about this one, mainly because I got home with 89:13 on the clock. You see, the freezing blasts and snow flurries of the week previous had caused me to panic that there would be zero Northern Alliance fixtures to watch. In the event, 7 games made the cut, but I’d lost my nerve on the Friday night and got myself a ticket for Newcastle’s friendly with Rayo Vallecano. I wasn’t the only one, as an insane crowd of almost 35k turned up to see a first half that was ridiculously open and a second period played almost at walking pace, where 3 callow youths of unknown provenance made their senior bows from the bench. The 2-1 victory for Newcastle was effectively immaterial, as I was glad to have been there, as it made things easier to meet up with Shelley for a bite to eat and a wander round town post-match. After the Croatia v Morocco game, we headed for Percy Main Amateurs and the Christmas do at the newly spruced up clubhouse. It was a quality night in the company of some quality people. How wonderful it is to see this glorious old club making such magnificent strides on and off the pitch. It warms my heart, almost as much as that photo of Modric and his old man embracing in the stand at full time. I really am an old sentimentalist at times.

Day 29: Argentina 3 (4) France 3 (2)

Sentiment was my main reason for wanting Argentina to win the World Cup. That and the fact Las Malvinas siempre son Argentinas of course. You don’t need me to tell you that this was the greatest ever final (just shading Germany v Argentina in 1990 obviously), or that Messi wearing a sponsor’s comfort blanket was a disappointing note to end the tournament on, or that they’d have cruised to a 3-0 win if Di Maria had stayed on. But let’s be honest, it wasn’t just fitting, it was right that Argentina won for, across the tournament as a whole, they were the most interesting, intriguing and unpredictable side of all, including a bunch of young lads (hello Mac Allister) who grew up in public. This was a team full of mates who deserved to win, as they never gave up and always put their daft mistakes behind them. Remember though, the only side to beat them were the Newcastle United XI of Saudi Arabia and for that gesture alone, I’m glad they won out in the end.