le bouclier et l'épée

 I've been to Benton FC, Boro Rangers & Willington Quay Saints in the recent past...

While I’ve enthusiastically blogged about my trips to places I’d never been to before in Scotland, my accounts of visits to new grounds in England have been non existent until now. This is entirely because I’ve been utterly remiss in my attempts to tick off local unvisited stadia. I can’t write about places I’ve not been to, can I? 

I’ve mentioned before that the Northern League is evolving rapidly, as many teams from this region funnel upwards into the Northern Premier League, especially the relatively new East Division that includes Ashington, Bishop Auckland, Consett, Dunston and Newton Aycliffe, all formerly of this parish. Hence, new teams arrive from the feeder leagues at the south of the region, such as the Wearside and the North Riding, none of which I’ve ever had any inclination to visit. As a result, I’m still 4 grounds away from my NL set because of newcomers. Kendal Town in Division 1 is in my sights, though not in the immediate future. Benfield are heading there on April 5th, so I hope I can tag along with Big Gary, who fetched me to Boro Rangers, as we shall see in a bit. In Division 2, visits to Darlington Town, FC Hartlepool and Grangetown Boys Club are yet to be scheduled. Frankly, only Hartlepool’s venerable Grayfields Enclosure appeals in the slightest, but I’ve not seen a convenient date for a fixture as yet. Darlington Town are in a new 4G cage, but they’re close to a railway line and at home on successive Saturdays in late December when Percy Main are inactive. Grangetown Boys Club are somewhere in Middlesbrough, without any immediately attractive fixtures, so hopefully the fact they are second bottom of the table may remove the need for me to visit for reasons of Sporting Darwinism.

One club I did tick off was Boro Rangers, who hosted Benfield back on August 28th. Crying off from Percy Main v Ponteland, which we lost 6-1 incidentally. To get there, I took a lift down the A19 with Gary, as well as club stalwarts Allan and Trevor. Being honest, it isn’t much of a ground. Another 4G cage in a high school that teaches one of these worthless football diplomas to sullen teenagers. A small, seated stand, a small covered standing area and bouncy artificial pitch. That said, Boro were one of the friendliest clubs I’ve visited in years. They really did make you feel welcome, especially over half time snacks. Although it is easy to be magnanimous when you’re 4-0 up and could have scored twice as many, but for the heroics of the visiting keeper. Things may change over time, but the one constant about Benfield is the presence of Andrew Grainger between the sticks. He’s currently out injured after a horrific collision in a Northumberland Senior Cup game against Morpeth Town, but back in August, a month shy of his 42nd birthday, he performed heroically for the Lions as Boro battered them from the off. Amazingly, Benfield didn’t lie down and pulled two back after the break, but they were never going to rescue anything from the game. Boro Rangers feel similar to Stockton Town, in the sense of a huge community club for underage teams that have nothing in common with the likes of Crook Town or Seaham Red Star, who are only in the Northern League in passing. Fair play to them, if that’s what the demographics of their club dictates. I doubt I’ll ever be here again though.

Now, aside from the Northern League there is the football equivalent of the Sistine Chapel Ceiling, the quest to tick off the entire Northern Alliance. At the start of the season, it looked like I needed to pay a visit to 6 different clubs to effect my annual recompletion of the set: Benton, Hazlerigg Victory, Ovingham, Westerhope, Willington Quay Saints and Wrekenton Blue Star. However, despite only ticking off one new ground, I’ve got that list down to 2 visits needed. How? Well, Westerhope have moved and changed their name to Walbottle Seniors. I’m not bothered about this as I wasn’t particularly well-disposed to the club who didn’t play a home game at their proper venue of Lemington Road Ends against Whickham Under 23s, at the back end of last season, choosing to move it to Newburn Leisure Centre without saying a word to anyone. Additionally, Hazlerigg Victory are still peripatetic, awaiting the completion of the refurbishment of their Welfare Ground. As soon as they’re back, I’ll be sponsoring a game, but at the minute their return home looks as likely as the Ashington and Blyth train line reopening before Christmas or the new fleet of Metro trains ever coming into service. As we’ll see shortly, Benton and Willington Quay Saints (formerly resident at Churchill Playing Fields and High Flatworth respectively), are sharing the work in progress that is the new Northumberland FA HQ at St. Peter’s Fields. This leaves me with Ovingham (home to Wideopen Reserves on 21 December) and Wrekenton Blue Star (hosting Prudhoe YC Reserves on the same day) to be visited, when the weather is clement. So, where have I been?

Back in August, on Wednesday 21st to be precise, I took the bike down the side of the Coast Road to Battle Hill Shops (or Coastway Retail Park as it likes to be known), spent 15 minutes reading the graffiti in the underpass and emerged at the building site where the NFA had moved to. Now, with the amount of Roman remains in the Segedunum area, you’d be inclined to think the quarrying and tunnelling going on was to search for ancient artefacts. It isn’t.  Back then, and now almost 4 months later, there’s a lot of slow progress being made to build a home fit for local administrative heroes. In August there was one Portaloo halfway down to Holy Cross and little in the way of shelter. Now there are 2 of those small stands you see at the likes of West Allotment / Forest Hall, offering shelter for 50 apiece, as well as floodlights and a pretty good 4G pitch. You need to bring your own bait and beverages though, as facilities are non-existent. Still, why cater for spectators when less than a dozen turned up for my second visit and perhaps only double that amount for my first one?

I like Willington Quay Saints and have seen them play home games at the Barking Dog as well as High Flatworth. They’ve done well since progressing from the Tyneside Amateur League and look keen on establishing themselves in the top division of the Alliance. Certainly, they weren’t unduly taxed by a woefully weak Forest Hall side, who started this campaign poorly and have continued to struggle all season. Back in August they were bottom and hadn’t won a game. That situation remains unchanged and, if they are still as bad as they were that night, when Willington Quay cuffed them aside by a margin of 4-0, without even breaking sweat, then things won’t get better. The Saints sit in third, behind Heaton Stan A and above Bedlington, but with a vastly inferior goal difference to both. At the halfway stage, it looks an intriguing contest as ever in Alliance D1, with resourceful leaders Hebburn Town Reserves almost certain to pull away from the rest.

For my return visit to St Peter’s Fields, I braved Storm Darragh on Saturday 7th December. While games on 4G at North Shields Athletic, Newcastle Chemfica and Wallsend Boys Club were called off, the NFA pitch proved perfectly fit to play football on. Unfortunately, the howling wind and driving rain, acting as le bouclier et l’epee for the worst the weather could throw at us, stopped most attempts to play football on the deck. The balls flew aerially towards Newcastle and the hammering of the horizontal downpour both deafened the impressive crowd of 11 and half blinded the poor players enduring the conditions. Hexham, lying fifth in the table, proved to be the hardier outfit and pulverised a desperately poor second-bottom Benton side 6-0. That said, Benton looked better than Newcastle did in the second half at Brentford; a performance I tortured myself with once getting home for 4pm, on a warm and comfy 307, which was probably the best thing about the day. 

Percy Main are without a game on both December 21st and 28th. Let’s hope for calm weather and two more ticks for this ground collector.

Loon Safari

I went to Forfar Athletic 3 Stirling Albion 3 on Saturday...

On the appropriate date of St. Andrew’s Day, I crossed the border to complete my 34th of the current 42 Scottish Professional Football League grounds. I travelled first to Edinburgh Waverley, on a train packed with the usual array of middle-aged Prosecco glugging ladies who lunch. On arrival, I opted not to attend the memorial service at St Giles Cathedral for Big Lexo Salmond, the man who saw the madness in your area when facing down Jeanette Mugabe, who was not only a voracious collector of mobile homes, but the self-appointed Uncrowned Queen of Scotland, Her Excellency, President for Life, Field Marshal Al Hadji Doctor VC, DSO, MC, CBE, Ruler of All the Beasts of the Earth and Fishes of the Seas, Conqueror of the British Empire. Within minutes, I was heading onward to Dundee on a far quieter service, frequented by a slack handful of Buddies en route to Tannadice to support St Mirren. However, I was going further than them, and I made my way through the pleasantly festive Discovery City I’ve developed something of an affection for, to catch the 21 to Kirriemuir from Seagate Bus Station, while I mused about my actual destination, Station Park, Forfar for the visit of Stirling Albion in the Scottish FA Cup. 

Despite its name, Forfar Athletic are based over 14 miles from the nearest railway line, with it being a toss up between Dundee and Arbroath which is the closer. Stagecoach buses are more frequent from Dundee, so as I sat struggling to cope with the noise pollution occasioned by some screaming bairns, I considered the potential titles for this blog. Station to Station, for the Bowie fans out there. Arrayed for the Bridie, as a nod to Bellini’s operatic air and the gorgeous local delicacy. However, bearing in mind Forfar Athletic’s parlous position at the foot of SPFL League 2, it may have been 42nd Street. Instead, as Station Park is my favourite Scottish ground I’ve visited since Somerset Park, my tribute to Air (Ayr) is the fact I’ve been on a Loon Safari. Of course, it could have been worse; if they’d lost, it would have been Loon Pants, as Forfar’s nickname is the Loons.

I got off the bus at around 13.50 and, travelling alone, felt no urge for a pint. Instead, I took the longish but straightforward route to Station Park on foot. With the relegation of Brechin City to the Highland League, Forfar was the third and final leg of my Angus Odyssey. I’d say that Montrose is my favourite of the three places, in terms of scenery and ambience, with Forfar in second place as a solid, somewhat stolid burgh, without the air of hedonistic bonhomie that seeps from every corner of Arbroath. I had bought my ticket in advance, though with the eventual attendance being 437 there wasn’t a lot of chance I’d be locked out of a 6,777-capacity ground. Although I was, as the turnstiles hadn’t opened yet. Instead, I nipped in the social club attached to the ground, prepared for a glass of pop but pleased to find coffee on sale.  

At 2.30, the gates opened, and I made my way in, stopping immediately for one of the iconic local snacks, a Forfar Bridie, from a concession run by Saddlers of Forfar, which had me wondering if there’s a Loons of Walsall at the Bescot Stadium. While the steak and black pudding pie at Arbroath was a rare delicacy, the macaroni pie at Montrose probably contravened the Universal Declaration of Human Rights. This, on the other hand, was stunning. Shortcrust pasty, minced steak and onion. A delicious snip at £2.50. I could have eaten half a dozen. If Forfar won the Angus food prize, they also claimed the football ground one. Station Park is an absolute gem. Not only can you walk around all 4 sides, with both sets of fans swapping ends at the break, you can watch from either a covered or uncovered stand. The ends are open, with one resembling Crook Town’s Millfield Ground and the other the Brian Moore Stand at Gillingham’s Priestfield Stadium. In the first half, with drizzle in the air, I took cover in the covered, side terrace and saw Forfar immediately show just why they’re bottom of the league. On 12 minutes, a regulation cross was dropped by home keeper Mark McCallum, allowing Brown to lash the visitors ahead, to the delight of their 50 or so fans. Within 10 minutes, things got worse as Stirling played the ball around a static Loons rearguard, allowing Kerr to roll it home.

Suddenly, it all changed. Stirling, managed by the intriguing Alan Maybury, shut up shop and went into their shell, no doubt assuming the tie was won. Bad move, as it allowed Forfar, tentatively at first, to come forward. From a right-wing flag kick on 39 minutes, the experienced Ross McClean began his eventual hat trick, with a thunderous header. This gave the Loons renewed hope. For the second period, I took a spot on the impressive Mert Bank terrace, to which Forfar were attacking and saw almost the entire pattern of play. On 52 minutes, McClean had his second, tying the game up with a cool finish at the near post after a rather impressive display of short passing. Forfar’s ground gives you a brilliant view from every side and the 4G pitch encourages passing football. 

However, the devil was in the detail. My post-match travel arrangements were set in stone. I was on the 20.56 from Waverley. To catch that, I had to be on the 18.47 from Dundee, which meant my only choice if I wished to make that connection was the 17.11 number 20 from Forfar. Extra time and penalties would not be happening on my watch. And, despite the very best efforts of both Forfar and, belatedly, Stirling Albion, this is what came to pass. After the referee had played an age of stoppage time, things ended at 16.53, so I headed straight through the gates, without a backwards glance, to make my bus. I even ignored the pinging of my phone. Imagine how pleased I was, stood outside Forfar Police Station, to learn the notification had been of a 94th minute Palace equaliser. Whoopee, eh?

On the bus, I followed Forfar’s Twitter feed. Firstly, the Loons went 3-2 ahead when McClaren grabbed his hat trick after 102 minutes, only for Brown to get his second on 107 minutes to complete the scoring. I didn’t hear any cheering from the bus stop. I did cheer on the bus when Forfar prevailed 4-2 on penalties. Watching the highlights on YouTube, I was pleased to spot myself behind the goal as McClaren made it 2-2. Even more enjoyable was his brilliant header to make it 3-2. Best of all were the two penalty saves by McCallum, making up for his earlier error and seeing Forfar through to the last 32. Come on the Loons, eh? 

My journey back was quick and pleasant, so I’m looking forward to St Johnstone v Hibs on January 2nd for my next trip. 

Dummy

Wrote a thing for Mudhutter, about Paul Dummett signing for Wigan -:

I must admit that when I saw ex Newcastle defender Paul Dummett had signed for the Latics, I was quietly pleased for both him and for you, although I had hoped he’d one day sign for Bristol City, so Portishead could have Dummy living there (sorry). Seriously, I think he’s a good player who can help you out with his experienced head, astute positional sense and calm demeanour. I thought it was a crying shame he’d been without a club since leaving SJP at the end of last season, so let’s hope following in the footsteps of another limited but honest player, James Perch, this is a mutually beneficial union, however brief. Please don’t think Dummett’s with you just to pick up a wage; he’s a proper professional and will do the job that is asked of him and more. One of the good things that Nice Guy Eddie Howe has done since he’s been in charge, is to allow former players who become free agents to continue training with the club, to help them keep sharp during their search for a fresh start.

Anyway, what are you getting for the next couple of months? A vastly experienced 33-year-old defender, who has mainly played as a left back, but prefers (and is arguably better as a) centre half. He isn’t a commanding, snarling presence or a no-holds-barred marauding stopper, but rather a calm and assured ball player who is decent in the air. Over 12 seasons on Tyneside, he made 196 appearances, the overwhelming majority in the Premier League, and scored 4 goals, the most celebrated of which was a diving header from about 18 inches above the turf in a bonkers 3-2 League Cup win away to Palace in September 2014.

You may be surprised to learn that, despite being born on North Tyneside, Dummy is a Welsh international. His international career wasn’t a stellar one, making only 5 appearances and being left out of the 2016 European Championships squad, but it’s a decent thing to have on your CV. Similarly, his greatest achievement at club level was in black and white stripes, but not with Newcastle. He spent two loan spells with St Mirren in 2012/2013, sandwiching a return to SJP to make his Magpies debut in an FA Cup game against Brighton (we lost). With The Buddies he not only made 30 appearances and scored his first senior goal against St Johnstone but played the full game in St Mirren’s unexpected triumph in the Scottish League Cup final, being instrumental in setting up the second goal in a 3-2 win over Hearts. Whatever he achieves in the game, he will always have a winner’s medal to cherish, and he was never going to get one of those with NUFC was he? 

Generally, he played about 50% of games, often filling in across the back line for injuries and suspensions, with notable highlights including goals at home to Liverpool in November 2013 and Manchester United in January 2016, both rescuing draws right at the death. His other goal was in a thoroughly enjoyable 4-2 win away to Leicester on a Friday night in an empty ground at the tail end of the COVID-blighted 20/21 campaign. Looking at the stats for his time on Tyneside, his season totals veered between 45 appearances in the 16/17 Championship winning side, to zero minutes on the pitch in 22/23, though he did get a runner-up medal when we lost the League Cup final to Manchester United. In fact, his last 3 seasons saw him hardly play at all, as injury and the appearance of better players post takeover relegated him to minor walk-on roles. 

Sadly, his final campaign will probably be remembered for a wholly unnecessary wrestling move on Calvert-Lewin that gave Everton their injury time equalising penalty in a dogshit draw on a Wednesday night in early April 2024, though he did make other appearances after that. He rang the curtain down on his Newcastle career with an injury-time appearance off the bench in the season ending 4-2 win away at Brentford. The potential offer of a further 1-year contract extension for both him and Mitt Ritchie (who seemed to get 1 year deals every year, despite hardly ever playing) was withdrawn after European football failed to materialise for Newcastle in 24/25. Hence, this is where we are. Good luck to him and good luck to Wigan.

Fraud Squad

Newcastle United; quite good, most of the time...

When I last turned my thoughts to the fortunes of Newcastle United during the previous international break (https://payaso-de-mierda.blogspot.com/2024/10/bad-blood.html), the team lay 8th in the league and I had this to say about the month in store: We need 6 points minimum and a cup victory to be achieving anything close to a reasonable set of results. And so it came to pass that as we enter the November international break, Newcastle stand in 8th place in the table, having accrued 6 points and a League Cup victory since we were last here. The end of this blog? Not quite.

As ever, the devil was in the detail of the events I’m about to discuss. With 4 of the 5 games being shown live on television, it was par for the course that I only got to see one of them. However, by reading social media (hashtag #NUFC on Twitter) and absorbing the sagacious opinions of True Faith, I know exactly what I should think which, you’ll not be surprised to know, is often the diametrical opposite of what those with the loudest voices, biggest egos and stupidest opinions have to say. All in all, it remains a solid, indisputable fact that Eddie Howe is the best English coach around, even if Graham Potter’s reputation grows with every minute he spends away from the training pitch, and there is no doubt in my mind that to dispense with Howe, regardless of circumstance (I’m not holding out much hope for the January window now the PIF have lost interest in Newcastle) before the end of the season, would be an act of crass folly. Mind, a loss at home to Bournemouth in the League Cup will result in the cyber pitchfork and on-line flaming cross brigade virtually creating havoc at the bottom of Barrack Road.

Things got a little bit feisty in cyberland after the month began with a profligate loss to Brighton, where our inability to put the ball in the net was seen as evidence of Isak’s lack of interest, Gordon’s refusal to commit to the club, Howe’s substandard tactics and Osula being worse than Rob MacDonald in Bobby Shinton’s shorts. That’s what I gleaned from on-line comments anyway, as I didn’t see a second of the game, mainly because Ben and I were quality testing Cantillon beer in Brussels and enjoying RUSC 0 KAA Gent 0 straight afterwards. Despite our Airbnb having a clear stream of BBC1, we chose not to watch Match of the Day and so it was a week later, with the first part of our double header against Chelsea when reality hit. I mean, it should have done but having been to Montrose 0 Cove Rangers 2 the day before, I owed Shelley some quality time. Instead of seething on a comfortable sofa, I allowed myself to be dragged around Byker Retail Park, as she looked for Christmas presents. I think I made the right choice and for the right reasons, which is a bit of a first for me.

Obviously, I saw the goals on my phone within 30 seconds of them being scored and could read, with mounting disbelief, the apparently undeniable truth that Isak has been a disgrace all season. Indeed, blame for the defeat was to be shared equally between Isak, for his lack of commitment and Howe, who has apparently lost all his powers of motivation, not to mention any sense of tactical acumen. Well, that take looks good on the back of the Arsenal and Forest results, but no matter. Sadly, and I hate agreeing with Jamie Carragher about anything, NUFC’s support is so volatile that nothing less than a 180 degree turnaround in performances and fortunes would have been enough to silence, albeit temporarily, the hot-headed jumpy jacks whose phone is a kind of 4G enabled therapy toy, where their vacuous words gain unmerited traction when amplified by the thoughts of similar twisty faced manchildren who can’t accept that your football team sometimes has to lose.

Sometimes you have to give your team a miss; sometimes, this is because you’ve got tickets to the ballet. That’s exactly what happened for the Chelsea League Cup game. Shelley and I were watching Swan Lake by the English National Ballet at the Odeon Silverlink. I’d never seen a ballet before, and it was beautiful and beguiling. I was so totally engaged in it that I didn’t even check my phone until the interval. We were 2-0 to the good, so I stuck the trusty Blackberry (seriously) back in my skyrocket until the curtain fell to tumultuous applause. So caught up in discussing and dissecting the fate of Prince Siegfried and his amour fou with Odille / Odette were we that I didn’t even look for highlights on the telly. Good win though and special thanks to Enzo Maresca for putting out a side that almost guaranteed our passage to the last 8. Being fair, you can only beat what is in front of you and, from the brief highlights I saw, it could have been a hatful. 

That was never going to be the case against Arsenal. In fact, once we’d got ahead, one goal was comfortable enough, until Rice missed that chance in injury time, and we all exhaled in collective relief. I think what really stuck in Paellardyce’s craw was the fact he actually had nothing to complain about. Newcastle played better, especially the previously derided Gordon and Isak, as tactically, courtesy of the efforts of the supposedly incompetent Howe, we wiped the floor with them. The Gunners didn’t lay a glove on us all afternoon and that’s why they won’t be Champions, because their tendency to twist and whine when things won’t go their way is as much of an Achilles Heel as their contemptible cowardice under pressure of the latter Wenger years. Mind it was unfortunate that results elsewhere saw us tumble from 8th at full time to 11th at the end of the weekend’s fixtures. No doubt some on-line nutters were seeing mathematical realities as indication of Howe’s incompetence.

I wouldn’t like to speculate what their thoughts were at half time at the City Ground. I tell you what I thought about; our trip to Boundary Park almost exactly 31 years ago to the day. That Monday night fixture was supposedly the start of Sky referring to Keegan’s team as The Entertainers, and rightly so. What is often overlooked is that we went in at the break trailing, before absolutely blowing Oldham out the water in the second period, way back when. The same thing happened here. Truly, we should not have been losing at the interval, but no matter, I wasn’t worried in the slightest. Let’s be honest, if Bruno’s effort had gone in, Christmas would have come early. As it was, Joelinton’s winner was a pretty decent substitute highlight. I thought the full backs were excellent, BDB put a proper shift in, and we suffocated them in the middle of the park. Barnes showed exactly why Sels was a textbook Benitez signing, with an embarrassing concession at his near post. Worse of all was, as my mate Tom calls him, James Fraud Prowse. The footballing equivalent of The Scotch Play, his is a morality tale of the dangers of venal ambition. Rather like the Titanic, he ought never have left Southampton.

So, and there’s no point in whining about this because everyone thinks the same, just as we’re running into a bit of form, there’s another bloody pointless international break to ruin the momentum. In fact, our next game isn’t until November 25th when West Ham visit. In a packed schedule, we’ve got Palace (A), Liverpool (H), Brentford (A), Leicester (H), Brentford League Cup (H) and Ipswich (A) before Christmas. I’ll be looking for 10 points and a cup win, before some tough tests against Villa (H), Man Utd (A) and Spurs (A) over the Festive Period.

Mo Surrender

Montrose 0 Cove Rangers 2; here's all you need to know about it. Links Fahren, as they say in Kinnegad...

I’m definitely making progress, ticking off the grounds on my quest to complete the whole of the SPFL. In a bit I’ll tell you about my trip to Montrose 0 Cove Rangers 2, but there’s also St Johnstone against Hibs on 2^nd January and Stranraer versus Spartans on 1^st February booked in. In addition, there’s an even money chance I’ll be sampling a bridie at Station Park in Forfar before Christmas, though that’s a bit up in the air at the moment.

So, ground 33 of the current 42; Links Park, Montrose. After an ill-advised impromptu sampling evening on Belgian brown beers and Chilean red wine, I still got up in plenty of time to make the 09.43 train but made catching it an unnecessarily hair-raising experience by accidentally booking an Uber going to Tynemouth Cricket Club rather than the Central Station. Luckily, the driver saw the funny side (not) and after a bit of App juggling, I was on my way, only £10 worse off than I expected to be. Worse news greeted me at the Central; Costa was closed for refurbishment and Greggs, whose coffee is appalling anyway, was queuing out the door. I settled for a litre of Brecon Carreg from Boots. Sensibly I kept some back, to rinse away the taste of an ill-judged coconut latte from Costa at Waverley. Never again.

With it being half term, the trains were packed and having to take 3 to Montrose (Newcastle-Edinburgh, Edinburgh-Dundee and Dundee-Montrose), the best things I can say about the outward journey is that the trains were warm, on account of the number of punters on board, and punctual, as we arrived in Montrose on time, at 13.35, saying farewell to a couple of carriage loads of bevvying Arabs en route to Pittodrie for their 17.30 kick off. Having both sampled the demon drink rather too liberally the night before, the demon drink was the last thing on our minds. The gusting wind off the sea at Montrose Basin, which is possibly 10 yards from the up platform at helped clear the cobwebs, as did a pleasant saunter through the well-tended streets of what appears to be a genteel, well-heeled former seaside resort. The charming main street is still home to several independent small shops, to the extent that a visitor from Tyneside would be struggling to find the three essentials of life, according our local retail outlets; vapes, tattoos and a spray tan.

After about 15 minutes, we came to the entrance of Links Park and, eschewing the last potential port of call for a drink, the adjoining British Legion, we went through the turnstile. Obviously, I was subject to a highly intimate body search, in case I was carrying “alcohol or pyrotechnics” as the stuffy little man in a hi-vis informed me. Being without fireworks or hooch, entrance was afforded me and I took in the miniscule club shop, where a braying Cumbrian groundhopper was hectoring the lassie behind the till regarding the authenticity of the club crest on the pin badges. I got a programme (dull) and a drinks coaster (no fridge magnets), before exiting and contemplating the need for refreshments.

For me, food was a priority and, all praise to Shelley, she had prepared me an awesome, healthy lunch; bulgar wheat and feta salad. It was gorgeous and so much better than the hideous looking ball of battleship grey rendered fat that was the mince pie at Links Park. The stained enamel greased (in)edible pipework that comprised the filling of the other option, a macaroni pie, was even more offensive to look at. Indeed, the taste was confirmed by Big Gary as being worse than the look. Nice coffee though; Douwe Egberts no less.

At about ten to three, the teams finished their warm-up and headed back inside for their final instructions. For the first time since we’d entered the ground, the voluble DJ fell silent. After an ominous pause, The Clash’s Should I Stay, or Should I Go? was the prescient song of choice, before silence descended once again and the teams emerged to the desultory clapping of what was later revealed to be a crowd of 691 resolute punters.

 

Of the two starting XIs, I only knew of one player on each team: the veteran former Staggie, Michael Gardyne, for Montrose and the could have been ex Hibby Fraser Fyvie for Cove. It was the latter who made an impression on the game and ended up on top. The first half veered between sterile and unwatchable as neither side was able to create a meaningful attack or exert any pressure on the opposition. Stood on the far, uncovered side, we had a good view of the imposing main stand and charming covered shed of a home end. The rest of the ground was two sides of shallow, uncovered terrace; decent enough in this weather, but I’d imagine it to be torture in the depths of winter, especially as Links Park boasts a 4G surface that doesn’t succumb to intense downpours or frost.

At half time we changed sides, to the standing section in front of the pie hut, between the stand and the covered end. Certainly, a different location seemed to do the trick in terms of improving the standard of play, as the game opened up and became considerably more adequate. This was no doubt helped by Cove taking the lead soon after the break when the splendidly named Mitch Megginson rolled a pass into the path of Michael Doyle who hit it hard and true into the bottom corner from the edge of the area. A very good finish and enough to stir Montrose from their lethargy. However, despite the best efforts down the left of both the veteran Steeves and the youngster Lyons, Cove repelled every Montrose attack, often by deploying a big boot down the middle to release the pressure.

As we became more emotionally invested in proceedings and the mutterings of the home crowd grew more intense, Cove effectively ended the contest with a lightning break from defence, which saw Fyvie squaring for Megginson to sweep home. Another good goal and sufficient to ensure the vast majority of the crowd instantly melted away, cursing darkly in the gloaming, as I reflected this would probably be the last time I left a football ground in daylight for the next 4 months or so.

By the time we got to the station, the lights of the departing 17.06 to Edinburgh ensured our journey back was a long one; 17.55 to Dundee, 18.47 to Edinburgh, 20.56 to Newcastle and a correctly booked Uber to the door. Thank goodness for the clocks going back after that. Roll on St Johnstone, Stranraer and hopefully Forfar. After that, the real work begins on the inaccessible Highland 6.

Boire Manger Pisser / Lambic Gueuze Kriek

An old man in a slightly steep city; some time with the Belgians....

I’m not sure when I first felt a longing to visit Belgium. Probably after I saw the family oriented romcom C'est Arrivé près de Chez Vous (or as it was called in English, Man Bites Dog), so that’ll be at least 30 years ago I’d imagine. This vague wanderlust was further reinforced once I’d read Harry Pearson’s A Tall Man in a Low Land: Some Time Among the Belgians (1998). Of course, rather typical of me, I then proceeded to do absolutely nothing about the urge, other than listening to the odd bit of Jacques Brel, putting mayonnaise on my chips and quaffing as much Cantillon beer as I could afford, so not much then…

Like much else good that has happened to me of late, turning 60 provided the motivation for actually getting off my backside and visiting the place. That and the retirement bounty I received from Teachers Pensions, which has also enabled me to lash out on a new kitchen, a new bathroom, a Vox 50-watt combo (how loud?) and to finally get the jungle of my back garden tamed by a chainsaw wielding professional (not Benoit Poelvoorde, in case you were asking). However, enough about the grown-up stuff, here’s an account of an oldish man in a slightly steep city.

Before I go any further, I have to thank my young’un Ben for not only being the best possible company I could have asked for during our trip, but for navigating the internet and the city itself in a way that kept us fed, watered and moving in the right direction at all times, though much of our activities were based on a secret dossier of pubs and cafes in the St Gilles district, prepared for us by Harry. Merci mes braves!

When planning the trip, the first important consideration was finding somewhere to stay. Fresh from his recent trip to Bologna with his beloved Lucy, Ben was fully conversant with Airbnb’s subtle nuances and, with Harry advising us that St Gilles was the most interesting and appropriate suburb for the likes of us, we booked a 3-night stay in a modest but comfy apartment on the catchily named Overwinningsstraat, which turned out to be the only word of Dutch we heard in that area all weekend. In fact, I probably heard more Arabic than Dutch in St Gilles. Considering 59% of Belgians claim Dutch as their mother tongue, compared to 40% who opt for French, it was remarkable how little the former is spoken in the capital. English, in contrast, is almost universal, though I did attempt my own version of Le Bon Usage as often as possible, with generally favourable results. You know it’s amazing how far you can get with a 44-year-old A Level Grade D, when circumstances demand it.

Once we’d got the digs sorted, we then needed to find an appropriate weekend. This involved consulting the Jupiler Pro League fixtures and, on discovering that local lads Royale Union Saint Gilloise were playing host to K.A.A. Gent on Saturday 19 October, we simply had to make it that weekend. Further investigation allowed me to discover that on the Sunday, a Challenger League (second division) local derby between Anderlecht’s Under 23 side (known as RSCA Futures) and the magnificently named Racing White Daring Molenbeek (2015) would be taking place at the Stade Roi Baudouin/Koning Boudewijnstadion, the ground formerly referred to as the Heysel Stadium. A two-game weekend is heaven on earth, especially when mixed with Belgian beer, frites and waffles…

I’ve been to Brussels main airport several times before; using it as a transit point for flights onward to places such as Bilbao and Vienna. However, it is no longer somewhere you can fly to directly from Newcastle. Having investigated the other options, involving flights to either Amsterdam or Dusseldorf, and from either Edinburgh or Manchester to Brussels, we opted for the latter, with Ben agreeing to drive. We did break our journey down on the Thursday night, staying with his grandparents and my former in-laws in South Yorkshire, which allowed us to reach Manchester with time to spare. An easy check-in, an expensive coffee and a three-quarter full plane, populated mainly by what I thought was a sex offenders outing, but turned out to be adult Pokemon game players on their way to a convention in Lille (I kid you not), saw us landing 20 minutes early in Charleroi Brussels Sud.

As the name suggests, this is Wallonia at its most Francophilic, but it was well-organised and dead easy to find the shuttle bus to Brussels Midi from outside. During the 90-minute journey, as an endless loop of banal covers of copyright-free  soul jazz, europop anthems from Smooth Operator to It’s My Life droned endlessly over the coach PA, it occurred to me that while Belgium may be home to Jacques Brel and Front 242, you never get to hear any of that sort of stuff in public. Thankfully, most pubs we frequented seemed to prefer a soundtrack of low volume Nick Cave and Leonard Cohen, which went well with the ambience they sought for.

To be perfectly honest, the main sounds I’d associate with Belgium that weren’t made by Modern Talking copyists would be emergency sirens (I’ve never heard so many ambulances in my life) and car horns, which Belgian drivers seem to prefer over indicators when signalling an impending turn. Almost ironically, despite the jarring soundscape, I found Brussels to be a very relaxed and indeed safe city. Even near the apparently notorious Midi/Centraal Station, there was little sense of unease or tension and no visible street crime. Women were able to walk freely and alone late at night, without any palpable sense of fear. That’s the sort of city I want to live in and frankly I don’t feel that safe in central Newcastle after dark these days. Perhaps I’m just a nervous person.

On the Friday night, I was an excited and then an intoxicated person. Ben directed us from Brussels Midi to Overwinningstraat on foot, collecting the keys from a dull looking pub called Café BJ that I never even set foot in, even though it was directly opposite. On the way we’d seen a grown-up version of Manneken Pis, or Vir Mingens if you’re a classicist, emptying his bladder in Porte de Hal Park, just across the road from where we were staying. Lovely, but not as lovely as the Vlaamse Karbonaden(Flemish Beef Stew) and Braadworst met Stoemp (pork sausages with potatoes), washed down with a stunning Chimay Blanche that Ben and I enjoyed in La Porteuse D’Eau, a glorious Horta-designed art deco Belgian restaurant.

From there, we slogged it uphill to the best pub in Brussels, Moeder Lambic Original and settled down for a fine session of Cantillon Gueuze, Cantillon Kriek and several other beers I no longer recall, apart from the stunning bottled Oud Bruin that is one of the finest and most punishing astringent ales I’ve ever supped. Harry has this to say about Moeder, which describes it more eloquently than I could ever manage; it is the most famous bar in St Gilles, rated as the best in Brussels. It serves about 350 different beers and a range of Belgian cheeses from small producers https://www.moederlambic.com/?lang=en   Just to show we were still capable of speech, we headed back down the hill, past a collection of Portuguese bars and restaurants, with customers supping Sagres and Super Bock, dropping in on a newish bar just round the corner from the digs, L’Ermitage, to enjoy an almost English IPA, before a knockout 12% Grape Saison that really put my lights out.

Next morning, feeling rough, we decided to do the tourist trail, but with one eye on a trip to the Cantillon Brewery that shut at 4 and wasn’t open on a Sunday. We needed to take one for the team. So, fortified by a stunning vegan breakfast of Soya Latte and a massive lentil and feta salad, we visited Manneken Pis, noticing the magnificent slogan: Boire! Manger! Pisser! on a café opposite and had a nose around the central square and palace. All very nice, but as Ronnie Drew said about a guided tour round Dublin, sightseeing’s grand but it’d give you an awful thorst. Hence, equipped with an awful thirst, we made our way, across the tracks, to Cantillon, to enjoy three of the finest bottled beers I’ve ever had. It's not perhaps a traditional tourist spot, hence the signs insisting NO FOOD outside the bar area, and it is blessed with some of the most uncomfortable seats I’ve sat on outside of non-conformist places of worship, but the slogan painted on the wall is one you can’t disagree with: Lambic Gueuze Kriek. And so say all of us…

Three bottles between us was enough to provoke somnolence and we took a rapid Metro ride back to the digs for a siesta. I fell asleep just as news of Percy Main’s 4-3 win over Great Park was confirmed, waking to news that Newcastle had lost 1-0 home to Brighton and Hibs 3-2 away to Dundee United. Perfect for putting us in the mood for our game. With a 20.45 kick off, we had plenty of time to make our way to Stadion Joseph Marien to see Les Unionistes at home to Koninklijke Atletiek Associatie Gent, who are also known as De Buffalo's and have an American Indian headdress as their logo, ostensibly because William Frederick Cody supposedly brought his Wild West show to Ghent at the turn of the last century. We stopped on the way for some traditional Belgian frites, which I had with curry and which Ben, for the second day running, had with Vlaamse Karbonaden. You can see their website here: http://www.friteriedelabarriere.be/ This did give us another awful thirst, which we slaked with regular 33cl cups of Jupiler at €2 a pop, once we arrived at Stadion Joseph Merien. Outside the ground, thousands of fans milled happily, chatting, drinking and chilling out. The evening was warm but brought with it a great atmosphere, like any game under lights, apart from the couple in front of us, sat on blue painted railway sleepers that lay on top of solid cement blocks in the visually pleasing West Stand. Clearly on a date night, it wasn’t going to plan. They arrived on 15 minutes and left on 75, didn’t speak to each other all game and while he drank prodigiously, she was welded to Snapchat. Hello Young Lovers.

We’d had trouble getting tickets. Initially, it seemed sold out and then only disabled tickets were available which Ben, unschooled in the French language, bought a pair of that the club subsequently cancelled. Thankfully, after I’d already grabbed two for the Anderlecht Futures v RWDM (2015) game, a whole load came on sale for Union. Just as well, as frankly our stand was only 75% full, with home bit behind the goal half full and the away end similarly occupied. The only packed part was the home ultras side opposite us, from where the Union Bhoys gave an incessant and impressive vocal backing to their team all game. Probably the only Unionists I’ve ever enjoyed hearing from. Fair play to De Buffalo’s; they were even more manic, with pyrotechnics aplenty at the start. Then after that ferocious overture, sadly, the game didn’t quite live up to it, ending in a fairly tame 0-0 draw. Good standard though; Gent are second top and RUSG are in the Europa League. Both of them would give the likes of Wolves a run for their money. Or Newcastle probably.

Full time, we took an impossibly full bus back towards St Gilles (RUSG play in the neighbouring district of Foret), stopping off in the home pub of RUSG, Brasserie Verschuren, where the saison beer was truly the only disappointing one of the whole trip. Saturday was much quieter than Friday all over the city, so we ended the night with a couple of quiet ones in L’Ermitage and turned in just as Match of the Day was finishing. We’d managed in our secondary task of avoiding seeing the Newcastle headlights, thankfully.

Sunday seems a busier day in Belgium, or certainly in the morning and afternoon. As we took a long Metro ride from the South East to North West of the City, the train was quite full. Strangely, there were no obvious football fans on the train, though there could be geographical reasons for this. Anderlecht, whose first team had lost surprisingly 2-1 away to Beerschot on Friday night, play their first team games at the 22,000 capacity Constant Van Der Stock Stadium in West Brussels, but take their support from the whole country and RWDM (2015) are from the West of the city. Hence, our journey was not from the historic areas of RWDM support. However, even dafter than the Pokemon nutters on the plane, were a load of weirdos heading for a Heroes convention, dressed mainly as Disney characters. The fact this gathering was taking place in the National Balloon Museum, opposite the location where 39 innocent Italians were killed at the 1985 European Cup Final, was a sobering vision that did not sit right with me. However, it seems as if there has been a conscious decision in Belgium to erase brutal memories of the past, not just Heysel but the Marc Dutroux case and the infamous Brabant Killers have been airbrushed from collective public memory.

While the Heysel Stadium Disaster was almost 40 years ago, it seems to have been explained away by the fact that stadiums were all unsafe in those days. I’m not so sure if that’s an adequate response to the events of 28^th May 1985, and I do feel it is appalling there isn’t any memorial to those who lost their lives that night, other than the ornate main gate of the stadium, which is all that remains of the original ground in the functional, antiseptic 53,000 capacity home of Belgian football.

There were more than 50,000 empty seats for this one, begging the question why Anderlecht Futures opt to play here, as the crowd was split evenly between raucous RWDM (2015) fans, waving huge flags, and quiet family groups of Anderlecht fans, bolstered by loads of their junior teams and coaching staff in club outfits. It was a bottom versus top contest, and it went the way of form in the first half, with RWDM scoring the first goal we’d seen on Belgian soil. It should have been 2-0 before the break, but a wildly miscued header would prove costly. In the second half Anderlecht were on top the whole time as RWDM (2015) made terrible errors of technique and squandered possession. The two home goals were predictable, deserved and celebrated lustily, possibly as an excuse to get up from the typically uncomfortable Belgian seats. Certainly, the diving header for an equaliser had me punching the air in appreciation.

Come full time, we were starving, so a huge tuna baguette and a naughty custard croissant from a local boulangerie filled a hole until we sat down to eat in Bistro Waterloo just across Porte de Hal Park in the early evening. Ben went for meatballs while I had hoped for rabbit stew but ended up with pork knuckle in a mustard sauce. So much for my linguistic competence, eh? Whatever we had, it was excellent and a superb prelude to another night in Moeder Lambic Original. We got home for midnight and enjoyed watching Belgian football highlights on a Dutch language channel. A proper treat.

Monday morning, it was lashing down. With a quick farewell, we left St Gilles behind. A baguette and a waffle in the station, then a bus to Charleroi. Another quick flight and expert driving by Ben saw us in the house for 8pm. Forest v Palace. The one you’ve got to come back for? No, actually.

All in all, this was a wonderful trip to a wonderful city with wonderful company. I’d love to do another euro weekend with Ben, and I’d love to take Shelley to Brussels, for the culture and food, more than beer and football I must say. Let’s hope my aging limbs can stand another trip away in the near future.

 

Dancing About Architecture #2

The very wonderful TQ #72/73 is out this week. Please buy it & not just because it includes the following piece by yours truly that discusses the autobiographies of Sonic Youth alumni Kim Gordon & Thurston Moore -:

There are many different musical routes and experiences that have brought us all to this issue of TQ . Our interest in underground, experimental, outsider music could well have been engendered by an initial interest in one or more of the following genres, whether they encompass improvised or scripted practice: classical, jazz, folk, electronica (be that one or more of the ambient, dance or prog varieties) or rock, in any of its myriad forms. However, if your path involved detours among the many substrata of American post punk, including hardcore, straight edge, noise, or No Wave, I'd imagine the work of New York's Sonic Youth , especially during the 1980s, will have been of paramount important. Without a doubt, the vinyl triumvirate of Bad Moon Rising (1985), EVOL (1986) and Sister (1987), though markedly less avant gardethan the band's earliest material, are crucial highlights in the history of American art and noise rock, though everything the band released between their establishment in June 1981 and dissolution on November 14 ^, 2011, is of exceptional merit, even allowing for the fact that from Goo in 1990 onwards, Sonic Youth were a major label act, signed to Geffen Records .

Although Sonic Youth used both Richard Edson and Bob Bert as drummers in their early years, as well as Jim O'Rourke and former Pavement member Mark Ibold as bassists towards the end of the group's life, the quintessential line-up that played on most of Their greatest works consisted of Kim Gordon (bass/vocals), Thurston Moore (guitar/vocals), Lee Ranaldo (guitar/vocals) and Steve Shelley (drums). I only saw Sonic Youthin the flesh once. Having missed their 1986 tour, on account of residing in County Derry at the time (bands just didn't play in the north of Ireland back then), I caught them at Newcastle Riverside on March 17th ^, 1989. They were incredible. A stunning sonic maelstrom that almost literally lifted you off your feet. Perhaps not as extreme as Swans or as uncompromising as Big Black or as primal as Killdozer, but a seminal experience, nonetheless.

Musically, all the members of Sonic Youth were endlessly creative. As well as the band's 16 studio albums, the four of them participated in a baffling number of collaborations with many different musicians and released a shelf-bending series of solo records. Since the band's demise, both Moore (twice) and Ranaldo have played solo shows in Newcastle, at The Cumberland Arms in Byker of all places. Tickets sold out instantly and I didn't get to any of these gigs, but I did have dealings with both of the other members in 1994, interviewing them for Newcastle based listings magazine, Paint it Red . Steve Shelley, affable and charming, drummed for The Raincoats when they first reformed and I caught up with them backstage at Riverside between soundcheck and set for a relaxed chat. The other, considerably less enjoyable, encounter was a telephone interview with a tetchy Kim Gordon about her Riot Grrrl project, Free Kitten , that she'd formed with ex- Pussy Galore guitarist Julia Cafritz. I thought at the time, and still do now, that the Free Kitten project, especially the debut album Nice Ass , was an ill-disciplined, self-indulgent mess. I wasn't the only one to express that opinion, which Gordon was all too aware of. Presumably this is why she slammed down the phone on me after half an hour of small talk that studiously avoided reference to her new project, I asked when Sonic Youth would be getting back together. Fortunately this incident doesn't get a mention in Gordon's excellent 2015 autobiography, Girl in a Band , though in its pages, she still bristles at the reception Free Kitten got. Good job I didn't make mention of her Harry Crews outfit who released a steaming 12” pile of ordure in 1989.

Some important facts to consider: Kim Gordon and Thurston Moore married in 1984, had a daughter Coco in 1994 and precipitated Sonic Youth's public disintegration in 2011 when their marriage ended in highly acrimonious circumstances after Moore left Gordon for Eva Prinz, who he is now married to. Last year, Moore published his autobiography, Sonic Life , which is a very different beast to the one his ex-wife released 8 years previously, both in terms of content, approach, and attitude. In some ways, you'd think the two books are talking about a completely different set of experiences, rather than a shared, if disputed, narrative.

It was always a nagging regret of mine that I'd not read Gordon's book, which had been released to universal critical acclaim. That regret became an unquenchable thirst once I'd got about halfway through Moore's take. Her book is 273 pages long, concentrating on her childhood for about the opening quarter of the book, but focusing mainly on her and Moore's partnership, both from a personal and a musical perspective, with considerable emphasis on their daughter and her impact on their life . I know the cliché that time is a great healer, but back in 2015 both Kim Gordon and her daughter were absolutely decimated by Moore's desertion of the two of them. Girl in a Band features an unflinchingly honest account of the sudden disintegration of a previously happy, if not perhaps idyllic family circle, and how badly it affected both mother and daughter. In contrast, Sonic Life is 480 pages long, he spends the first couple of hundred pages cataloging all the records Moore loved in his early teenage years, then the gigs he and his best friend Harold drove to New York City from their home in suburban Connecticut , before he found a place to live in the Big Apple and formed Sonic Youth . From that point, we get an exhaustive, though completely fascinating, account of every album and tour the band embarked upon. In only the last chapter, barely a dozen pages in length, does Moore give his guilt-free account of how he turned his life round 180 degrees, in a matter-of-fact way that is astonishing for its lack of both emotion and insight . Frankly, I simply can't understand how such selfish, narcissistic actions can be validated by Sonic Life being awarded the accolade of Rough Trade's Music Book of the Year for 2023.

I'm glad I read both books and I certainly won't allow the revelations, or otherwise, gleaned from either publication to influence my attitude to Sonic Youth's extensive back catalogue, though I was certainly more interested in investigating Gordon's 2024 album , The Collective , than in anything Moore may release in the future.