The Ministry of Silly Rules

(Bearing in mind that there's been no action involving Percy Main Amateurs since 6th November 2010, I thought I'd resurrect this unpublished piece from March 2009, which made it in to the Northern League Club's monthly bulletin "Northern Wisdom" in a modified form under the title "The Ministry of Truth," but never actually appeared in a PMA programme)

In George Orwell’s seminal novel 1984, the nightmare scenario of a pervasive state machine that controls every single element of a human’s life is frighteningly explored. Published in 1949, it is set in the eponymous year and focuses on a repressive, totalitarian regime. The story follows the life of one seemingly insignificant man, Winston Smith, a civil servant assigned the task of perpetuating the regime's propaganda by falsifying records and political literature. Smith grows disillusioned with his meagre existence and so begins a rebellion against the system that leads to his arrest and torture. The novel has become famous for its portrayal of pervasive government surveillance and control, and the state's increasing encroachment on the rights of the individual.

Winston Smith is employed by The Ministry of Truth, working in an enormous pyramidal structure of glittering white concrete rising 300 metres into the air, containing over 3000 rooms above ground. On the outside wall are the three slogans of the Party: "War is Peace," "Freedom is Slavery," "Ignorance is Strength." The Ministry of Truth is involved with news media, entertainment, the fine arts and educational books. Its purpose is to rewrite history and change the facts to fit party doctrine, for propaganda effect. Within the novel Orwell elaborates that the deeper reason for its existence is to maintain the illusion that the party is absolute. It cannot ever seem to change its mind (if, for instance, they perform one of their constant changes regarding enemies during war) or make a mistake (firing an official or making a grossly misjudged supply prediction), for that would imply weakness and to maintain power the party must seem eternally right and strong.

If the Ministry of Truth were in existence today, they would find themselves challenged by the Internet. They would by panic stricken by the lack of control they would have on information, such as announcements pertaining to the postponement of Northumberland FA Senior Benevolent Bowl games. However, their panic would be perhaps understandable if matters of opinion rather than fact were the issue. For example website owners would be worried if all their contributors were posting things such as the following, which alleged account of a former Black Cats player’s behaviour appeared on a sunderland message board a few years back -:

Novice Poster Join Date: Feb 2005 Location: SUNDERLAND

Well he’s always just bein an absolute prat, he started with drugs and one night when me and my friend were out we saw him and he started on my friend so I kicked off and then he tried to grope me when I went to the loo's, its a good job he was so gone cos I fought my way out and if he gets knocked over by a bus tomorrow i shall be happy

However, it has to be said such nonsense is a rare commodity in the cyber world. Often, the internet can provide valuable information at the touch of a button. For example, I’ll always be indebted to the Dutch newspaper Algemeen Dagblad’s English language site for their unique broaching of the subject of Patrick Kluivert’s departure from St. James’ Park -:

Kluivert definitively gone at Newcastle: Patrick Kluivert have got United of the club control of Newcastle that to hear its contract is not extended. Oranje topscorer aller tijde have not left behind the desired impression in United Kingdom. There are ready him already as much as enough clubs for. Now Kluivert can leave therefore transfervrij, he is a wanted player. AZ have already once to him geinformeerd but also Ajax are already connected with Kluivert. Also the Turkish top clubs Fenerbahce and Galatasaray gladly would incorporate him. They say be able meet both the salary requirements of the amsterdammer. Before Kluivert came to Newcastle, he played at Barcelona. Here he however no longer belonged to to game, because scoring him went not well more finished. For that he still played at REPORTING OFFICE Milan and he zat in the Ajax that in 1995, the Champions League conquered.

I believe that Valencia, PSV and Lille, who all gladly incorporated him, eventually came to similar conclusions about the Oranje topscorer and his inability to leave a desired impression in relation to his salary requirements. In all seriousness, surely no one could possibly see any harm, other than grammatically, in allowing the above information to leak out.

In the North East, information about football at our level and above is provided by the website www.nonleaguezone.com which is completely independent and completely unofficial. The moderators provide an information service and are completely opposed to any form of debate, deleting posts and accounts if anything controversial, such as criticisms of officials, players, clubs or committee members, is aired. It is most useful when used in conjunction with the Northern League postponements line (0191 385139). Without this, many supporters, players and officials would be left making long and wasted journeys to cancelled fixtures.

There is no such facility available for Northern Alliance fixtures. While the Alliance’s website is vastly improved and a source of information about fixture changes or altered kick off times well in advance, there is nothing available in the immediate pre match period. Until (some hope!) such a facility exists, the Alliance will continue to appear to be a league for participants rather than spectators, that views punters with suspicion and opposes change on principle.

I’ve no idea if Orwell had any affection for the beautiful game at Step 7, but if he were living now, he would possibly not compare the edict banning clubs from announcing postponements on www.nonleaguezone.com to the kind of behaviour adopted by Big Brother; instead, he’d probably find a more telling comparison with the surrealist nonsense of Monty Python’s Flying Circus in this crazy, bewildering instruction.

Rock & Dole Years: 2006/2007

(Published in "Toon Talk" issue 3)

One of the things that I like about Chris Hughton is that he has a quiet dignity to his personality that shows he bears the stamp of a gentleman, much in the way that Sir Bobby did. In the recent history of Newcastle United, only one other manager stands out from the blabbering self-publicists and pretend tough guys who’ve occupied the dug out at SJP as being anywhere near as fine a fellow as the two previously mentioned; Glenn Roeder. Sadly, despite the fact he won us our first trophy since the Fairs Cup in 1969 when the Inter Toto Cup arrived on Tyneside (confusingly as a result of Livorno’s 1-0 win away to Auxerre in the final group stage match of the UEFA Cup on December 14th), Roeder was an atrocious manager once he’d been given the job on a permanent basis. If Shearer was Diet Souness, Roeder was Zero Carb McFaul.

Following the encouraging end to the previous season, Roeder continued to do good things initially by peddling the calamitously crap Boumsong to Juventus, but alarm bells pealed softly when a thin squad, now shorn of the retired Shearer, was not significantly strengthened in the striking department. Damien Duff arrived from three seasons of trophies that he’d done little to win at Chelsea, James Milner came back from a season on loan at Villa, Antoine Sibierski turned up on a free from Man City and put in a good season, leaving the club in the unique position of being the only French player whose exit from SJP saw his reputation enhanced by his time with us and we took Guiseppe Rossi on loan from Man Utd, for no readily apparent reason. The number 9 shirt was given to a £10m signing from Inter Milan whose age was either 21 or 28 depending on which paper you read; Obafemi Martins. In the course of the season, Roeder gave debuts, generally out of desperation, to Andy Carroll and Tim Krul, but also to David Edgar and Paul Huntington. Ironically, the latter two both notched crucial goals.

The season began in mid July with a dull 1-1 draw at home to Lillestrom on a warm afternoon, when Luque scored. Faced with a tricky away tie in the return, an Emre thunderbolt and a Shola finish saw us ease towards a 3-0 win. Three weeks later we joined the qualifiers for the UEFA Cup and won 1-0 courtesy of a Bramble goal away to Ventspils in Latvia, in a game switched to the capital Riga. The return saw us squeak through after an incident free 0-0 at home. The final qualifier for the group stages saw us continue our Baltic excursion with a trip to Levadia Talinn in Estonia, where a Sibierski goal gave us a narrow lead. The return was won by 2-1, courtesy of a Martins brace, including a stunner at the Gallowgate, taking us in to the UEFA group stages.

Suddenly, up against good sides, we began to click rather than stumble. Fenerbache were defeated 1-0 with a clinical Sibierski finish, Luque got the winner away to Palermo, when Krul’s debut saw him perform heroics to keep a clean sheet, Steven Taylor’s Forrest Gump celebration when scoring the winner as we triumphed over Celta Vigo 2-1 was a moment of sheer adulation and a 0-0 draw away to Frankfurt was a complete non event, though the variety and quality of local beers was apparently out of this world.

Through to the qualifying stages, with the Inter Toto Cup already won, we drew the hitherto obscure Belgians Zulte Waregem. A 3-1 away win was simplicity itself and a routine 1-0 home win set us up nicely for a place in the last 16 with Louis van Gaal’s AZ Alkmaar to come. Two years earlier and a round later, the Sporting Lisbon tie had seen us just fail to make the away game a formality; history was about to repeat itself. After 23 minutes, we were 3-0 up courtesy of an own goal and a quickfire double by Dyer and Martins; at half time a second by the Nigerian saw us 4-1 ahead. In the second half we could and should have had more, but they grabbed a second after a dubious decision against Steven Taylor gave them a free kick. No matter, 4-2 should have seen us through. However, put Glen Roeder in a tactical battle with Van Gaal and there’s only going to be one winner; Roeder opted for a 5-4-1 formation for the return in Holland that simply didn’t work and Alkmaar swamped us; the 2-0 score reflecting exactly how many attempts we had on goal. From this moment on, Roeder and the fans knew the game was up. The likeable Cockney was a dead man walking, with good reason it has to be said when the domestic form is studied.

In the League Cup, Portsmouth were despatched 3-0 on a soaking night on Tyneside, before Watford managed to lose on penalties to Newcastle. A quarter final 1-0 loss at home to Chelsea was a fairly standard pre Christmas punch in the face by the team, though a gentle slap compared to the frankly farcical 5-1 home defeat by Birmingham in the FA Cup after a 2-2 at their place. The Premier League, where we finished 13^th, offered no real consolation either.

After an opening 2-1 over Wigan in a monsoon that saw puddles all over the SJP pitch in the second half, a lousy 2-0 loss at Villa was followed by a 2-1 reverse by Fulham, with both their goals in the last 5 minutes. A surprisingly good performance at the Boleyn Ground saw a 2-0 win and Roeder abused by all sections of the home support. More crucially Shay Given stopped being invincible; a tangle with Marlon Harewood saw him stretched off with a tear to his bowel that resulted in him never quite being the genius he was previously ever again. An idea of what we were missing came in the next game when we lost 2-0 at Anfield and Alonso beat Harper from 70 yards as we went down 2-0. Our first draw of the season was a 1-1 home to Everton, courtesy of Shola scoring from 5 yards offside, to end September in 12^th place. It got worse in October; 0-2 at Old Trafford, 1-2 home to Bolton courtesy of the repulsive Doiuf, 0-1 at Smogsville and 0-0 home to Charlton.

When Sheffield United won 1-0 at SJP, on November 4^th, we lay 19^th in the table. A 0-0 away to Man City and a highly creditable 1-1 at the Emirates stopped the rot, before we finally won for the first time in two and a half months; Sibierski got the crucial goal at home to Pompey, then Emre’s stunner won a fabulous 5 goal thriller at home to Reading and we went to Ewood Park to turn them over 3-1 with Martins scoring an utter pearler from 40 yards. We had our usual loss to Chelsea next time out, before back-to-back home wins over Watford and Spurs, where Pavel Srnicek came on as sub for Harper to a tumultuous reception, saw us going in to Christmas in good cheer. As ever, the team spoiled any festivities, losing 2-1 at Bolton and 3-0 at Everton.

January was our last decent month of the season; David Edgar’s first goal rescued a point in a scorching 2-2 versus Man United in front of a hysterical, drunk SJP on New Year’s Day. Spurs were beaten 3-2 at the Lane; Huntington got his first, Martins scored a goal of the season contender and Nicky Butt rolled in a deserved winner. We came back from 2-0 down to draw with West Ham and edged a thrilling game 3-1 versus Villa. We stood 9^th and things were looking up.

Typically, we won 2 more games this season. After losing 2-1 at Craven Cottage, we notched our last home win of the season 2-1 over Liverpool, with Nobby Solano, as so often, the hero. Then, it started to really go wrong; 0-1 at Wigan, 0-0 home to the Smogs, 0-2 in a woeful game at Charlton and 0-1 in a worse one at home to Man City brought us to Easter. Thankfully a large, loud and lairy away following at Bramall Lane saw Steven Taylor’s thumping header win us the game 2-1 and we played well in subsequent 0-0 draws at home to Arsenal and Chelsea, where Carroll was a superb home debutant from the bench, but dire losses at Portsmouth and Reading meant the 2-0 capitulation to Blackburn in the penultimate game saw Roeder fall on his sword. The final day 1-1 at Watford was notable only for misbehaviour by N’Zogbia and Martins in claiming injury and Dyer getting booed by Newcastle fans after scoring our goal.

The club was a mess and the fans were restive. Shepherd and the Halls were desperate to sell their stake and this gave us the chance to find stability in the boardroom, credibility in the dug out and support from the stands. What we got was Ashley and Allardyce. Tune in next time for the next instalment in the NUFC Relegation Rollercoaster.

The Maryhill Chain

I suppose it is beholden of me to comment on the latest managerial farce at Newcastle United and, to explore a Gallic metaphor, to see which fans are part of La Resistance and who are the reincarnation of the Petain administration. However, taking my lead from Zhou Enlai who apocryphally commented when asked to assess the importance of the French Revolution that “it’s too early to say,” I’ll express my thoughts on those who are now walking in a Pardew Wonderland at a later date.

Despite a marginal cessation of the climactic horror show on Tyneside in the week previous, it was clear that there would only be one game played on Tyneside on Saturday 11^th December. In contrast, despite much of the Central Belt taking on the impression of the set of The Day After Tomorrow early in the week, a somewhat mind boggling 22 degree turnaround in temperatures from –14 to +8 in the space of a day on Tuesday to Wednesday, Scotland looked like a country with footballing prospects. In addition, there was the promise of Teenage Fanclub ending their tour with a Glasgow gig at the ABC on Sunday night, with a definite lift home on offer afterwards. Having seen The Wedding Present the previous Saturday and Belle & Sebastian the night after at a sold out Sage, I was on a musical roll.

I’m not as well travelled in terms of Scottish football as I should be, with only 10 ticks across the Scottish leagues and a smattering of Junior clubs, so I was theoretically spoiled for choice. My number one target was the SPL game between Hamilton and my Scottish club Hibs at New Douglas Park, but despite an army of volunteers shifting tons of snow off the pitch, the referee deemed the surface unplayable early on the Friday morning and so the game got the hook. This left me with two choices: St Mirren v St Johnstone, also in the SPL, or Partick Thistle v Ross County in Division 1. The latter clash between The Jags and The Stags was my preference as my hotel for the Saturday night was within a mile walk of Maryhill, whereas I’d have to get from Glasgow out to Paisley for the former and wouldn’t even have the company of Pasiley resident Ashington Mick, who was doing the journalism bit at Morton v Dundee, which was totally off my geographical agenda.

Thankfully, despite the pitch taking a pounding when tenants Glasgow Rugby took on Toulouse in a Heineken Cup match on the Friday, Saturday morning saw the Thistle game given the thumbs up. Of course, to be on the safe side, I had The Jags number written on the back of my hand, just in case I needed to call.

The journey up was smooth and swift; a £20 late seat in First Class saw me pile in to free coffee and orange juice, arriving at Queen Street with my ticket not having been checked, irritatingly enough. Four stops on the clockwork orange Subway to me to Kelvinbridge, a quick bag drop later and I was buying my ticket from the kiosk outside the Jackie Husband Stand for the afternoon’s entertainment.

Perhaps I’m naïve, but with only 1 game taking place in Glasgow, I’d naively thought there would be something of a walk-up crowd for this fixture, but the staggering £17 entry cost probably put more off than the weather did, with a final attendance of 1,504 being announced. Firhill itself is a good ground. Having benefited from Partick’s time in the previous incarnation of the SPL, the club sought to develop the ground with 3 all seated stands and a grass bank for advertising. Tragically, the current economic climate, which resulted in dozens of references in the programme to sponsorship opportunities and corporate packages that would help the club raise the £300,000 they need to make it through the season, allied to an unimpressive campaign that meant they could theoretically go bottom if they lost this one, meant that everyone was sat in the third full Jackie Husband Stand for this game. It is a lovely stand though it has to be said.

The home team made their entry to 1973 Dutch prog rock classic "Hocus Pocus" by Focus, which was quite an enjoyable blast from the past (Did you know “Live At The Rainbow” by Focus was recorded on 5^th May 1973? The same day as the mackems beat Dirty Leeds in the FA Cup Final). However, surveying the crowd, I thought that Thijs van Leer’s other hit single "Sylvia" may have been more appropriate as I’ve honestly never seen such a high percentage of women fans before. Fit ones as well, in an earnest semi-left wing Glasgow Herald reading sort of way.

Frankly, despite the fact that Maryhill itself does not seem an aspirational, up and coming suburb, this was a very well heeled crowd. In fact a lot of them looked liked they would be Teenage Fanclub Fans. I suppose such a supporter demographic was inevitable as Partick is handy for the chic West End of Glasgow boho alt quarter. Passing two cheese merchants on Great Western Road, I was forced to conclude this area was more Glasgow Quiche than Glasgow Kiss. To paraphrase Fletch in Porridge “I used to think I was middle class until I went to Glasgow and I realised I was working class.”

5 seconds in to the game I’d come to see, Thistle’s Simon Donnelly, the former Celtic and Sheffield Wednesday treatment room habitué, shanked the 20 yards ball out of play when attempting to play it out wide. He was the only player I’d heard of from either squad. On a positive note, the pitch looked to be in amazing nick, considering it had been under 18 inches of snow on Wednesday and had had 30 hairy arsed rugger buggers pounding it the night before. Obviously the under soil heating, a luxurious remnant of The Jags’ SPL good days a decade and a half ago, had done an admirable job. Ross County, having travelled 6 hours from distant Dingwall to get there, looked the better side in the early parts, but it was sobering to remember that they’d reached the Scottish Cup final in May and were kicking off only a place above Thistle.

It started to look bleak for the home side, when it became 0-1 and Jags went down to 10 after 19 minutes. The referee gave a penalty for trip by Alan Archibald on Richard Brittain, who got up and slammed home the spot kick himself. While it seemed a mite harsh to issue the red card, Archibald was the last defender and it had been quite a blatant trip. The home support, previously so urbane and witty, didn’t see it that way.

On the way up, I’d read an article in WSC about the Scottish referee’s strike. Frankly so labyrinthine and recondite were the details of both this strike and the content of the article, that I found it akin to wading through a proposition from Wittgenstein, being neither enlightening nor comprehensible, though it was nice to see WSC taking time to focus on something other than their monotonous abuse of Milton Keynes Dons. Suffice to say, Scottish refs are getting a bit sick of the criticism levelled at them. They should have heard the 60-odd year old bloke 10 rows in front of me at this one.

Springing to his feet and gesticulating in the direction of the official, with an index finger trembling with anger, he launched in to a tirade along the lines of “nae wonder youse bastards get your windaes put in; nae fuckin wonder youse get razor blades through the post,” with several variations on this theme over the next few minutes. When entreated to resume his seat by those behind him, he graciously rejected this suggestion; “I will not sit down; I will have my fucking say!” For the rest of the game, every free kick to Ross County was greeted with the question “Is that no’ a penalty ya bastard?”

He did cheer up after 40 minutes when Thistle’s gangling front man Chris Erskine ran smartly on to a quick free kick from Donnelly and slammed in an equaliser from 18 yards past a sprawling Stags keeper. It considerably lightened the mood and provoked ironic chants of "Erskine for Scotland." At least I hope they were ironic. They were also the only chants of the half.

The second period saw no more goals scored, but some good pressure by The Jags, without looking likely to score. County spurned a late golden chance when Craig volleyed over with just the keeper to beat, but honours even it was.

I wended my icy way back to my hotel and proceeded to fall asleep on the bed, waking to find Newcastle drawing 1-1 with Liverpool. Showered and changed, I headed out to the Wise Monkey pub, where I was attending a charity fundraiser for Cancer Research, in memory of Tom O’Grady, a wonderful bloke and massive Teenage Fanclub fan who’d passed on in May this year, that involved a load of middle aged blokes playing TFC covers. I arrived seconds after Barton had scored the winner and, saying hello to everyone, I looked away as Carroll powered home the third. Never mind; I’d had a great football day and was about to have a great couple of musical experiences, especially TFC’s Orange Juice inspired encore of “Dying Day,” “Falling & Laughing” and “Rip It Up.” It was worth arriving home at 1.30 on Sunday morning for.

Music never lets you down, but football sometimes does, though not this weekend! Thanks to Barry for organising the night, Jim for the TFC ticket, Steve for the lift home and Teenage Fanclub for providing 20 years of musical perfection. The best fucking band in the world.

Wicklow Mountain Language

Now hear this. You are mountain people. You hear me? Your language is dead. It is forbidden. You may only speak the language of the capital.  Can you hear me? I am speaking to you in our own language. Your language is dead. It is forbidden. It is not permitted to speak your mountain language in this place. It is outlawed. You may only speak the language of the capital. You will be badly punished if you attempt to speak your mountain language in this place. This is a military decree. It is the law. Your language is forbidden. It is dead. No one is allowed to speak your language. Your husbands, your sons, your fathers, these men you have been waiting to see, are shithouses. They are enemies of the state. They are shit houses. (Harold Pinter; Mountain Language)

The other day I received an email from the Socialist Party of Great Britain inviting me to take part in a debate that the north east branch of the SPGB were having about fielding a candidate in the 2015 General Election. As someone who is supporter of the SPGB and all companion parties in the World Socialist Movement (http://www.worldsocialism.org/), I was both humbled and gratified to be afforded the opportunity to participate in the only truly democratic political party in this country, especially as I had, to my intense, subsequent regret, stood in the May 2014 council elections for the supposed left of Labour umbrella organisation TUSC.  Initially I had misgivings about this organisation because of the involvement of the SWP, though thankfully that discredited Trot faction is almost moribund these days. What I should have realised is that a leopard never changes its spots after half a century and that Militant, tragically, haven’t tactically changed one scintilla since their heyday. Thankfully, the SPGB haven’t either and I’m glad to note they don’t hold my ideological aberration against me and will probably understand the genuine nature of my profound personal and political regret for allowing myself to be used in the way I was.

My regret, based on my own stupid naiveté, has been caused by the eventual realisation that, despite assurances to the contrary, Militant (or the erroneously titled “Socialist” Party as they have the temerity to refer to themselves as) are still up to what they’ve been doing for the last 50 years; namely operating as a top-down dictatorial Leninist, vanguardista vanity project that has no real interest in revolution, but concerns itself entirely with wielding power, both instrumental and influential, over the weak, the vulnerable and the inadequate who they seek to recruit as unthinking, unbliking followers. Politically, the SPGB have always called it right about Militant’s undemocratic structure; read this link for a far better analysis of their political position that I could ever hope to express http://www.worldsocialism.org/spgb/socialist-standard/1990s/1997/no-1110-february-1997/militant-dishonesty  Instead, I will discuss their methodology and tactics. I realise that in doing this, I will probably be putting my personal safety at risk, but it needs to be said. I’m doing this for the sake of good people who have been brainwashed into acting for Militant.

The twin approach of flattery and indulgence, backed up by impossible promises of jam tomorrow, is used to recruit members in a way that is disturbingly redolent of paedophile grooming, not that I suggest for one moment that sex is part of Militant’s artillery, despite their Milipaeds nickname; indeed, if anything they are opposed to physical, human relationships as can be seen by the tactics and conduct towards Clare Daly TD when she began a relationship with my good pal Mick Wallace TD. The conduct of Militant in Ireland, overseen by Bishop Len Taaffe’s great mate Father Ted Higgins, saw the attempted destruction of the United Left Alliance, now restricted as People Before Profit  and the ourselves alone lot in the “Socialist” Party or their Anti Austerity Alliance front organisation, is disturbing and dangerous. So repugnant are the tactics and alliances formed by  Irish Militant in their AAA guise, that the only possible party a Socialist could vote for in the recent Dublin South West bye election were People Before Profit, the ethical Irish offshoot of the SWP, who had no complicity in the covering up of rape allegations in the SWP in Britain. However, Father Ted’s glove puppet and former Strasbourg dauphin “Father Dougal” Murphy managed get himself elected in Dublin South West, with bitter irony on the 30^th anniversary of the Brighton Bombing. While Ireland may have sought sporting vengeance for Mairead Farrell by dismissing Gibraltar 7-0, it is the British State that had the latest, if not the last, laugh with the Fresh Prince of Tallaght taking his seat in the Dail. The last laugh will be the realisation by the Irish working class that they have been duped, presumably necessitating another walk, dig and discovery of a bullet-riddled corpse in the Wicklow hills by An Garda Síochána.

Rather more disturbing even than Militant’s recruitment policies, is their closed ranks, cultish rejection of the notion that there may be a shred of validity of any criticism made of them. In the 80s, for instance, anyone advocating gay rights in the macho, butch world of the RSL would be told that homosexuality was a “middle class” deviancy, as ideologically suspect as skiing or lacrosse. Though the indulgence of prejudicial attitudes as part of Militant’s slavish devotion to workerism, a stance acknowledge and apologised for by some and vehemently denied by others in “the organisation,” has passed, even if they do repugnantly make eyes at EDL members, claiming they are “misguided” rather than bonehead fascist filth, what has stayed at the very core of Militant’s ideology is the savagery with which they respond to criticism. The violence with which Militant functionaries react to those on the left offering other opinions, with the catch-all excuse of “dialectics” can be equated to a pack of rabid Rottweilers savaging a baby in a pushchair.   They are au fait with modern technology though, as often their scorn is visited on infidels by employing endless attacks via social media, backed up by on line threats and a whispering campaign of the utmost ferocity, directed at anyone who deviates from their inflexible screed of accepted opinions or strays from the flock. I know, because I’ve endured it.

The Militant world is one where vile ad hominem abuse is dressed up by the judicious employment of phrases such as the oft-repeated, meaningless “undialectical,” as an explanation for all thinking that is not bang on the party line. Militant functionaries demonstrate that Militant’s brand of dynastic, democratic centralism and Leninist tactics, involving an embarrassing, obsessive veneration of the city of Liverpool,  are not about revolution at all, but about control; emotional and financial. Their twin tactics are the suppression of dissent and the oppression of dissenters. So effective is the cult style tactic of brainwashing that Militant devotees are simply unable to recognise what they have become. For their sake, to save them on a personal level, as well as for the sake of the working class, we must declare immediate ideological war on Militant.

In Mountain Language Pinter portrays both the mindless banality of oppression and the hidebound, mechanistic approach adopted by oppressors in a way that could have been based on the tactics of Militant; the Walton Wehrmacht have their trained functionaries who are endlessly schooled and drilled in their ideology, then given their instructions and their modus operandi; nothing will distract them from their work or from their unshakeable conviction that what they are doing is right, because they intuitively KNOW they are right. Recruit the weak; crush the independent. Consequently what may be assumed to be "dissent" by the “ideologically unsound” towards the oppressors may not actually "dissent" at all, but "variance" from a rigorously adhered to ideological screed that may actually be either unconscious in its provenance or conscious for reasons of either conscience and belief or a lack of knowledge, by "dissenters," many of whom are shocked or intimidated by the obloquy their ideological "impurity" enacts in the response by oppressors. For Militant operatives “debate” equals “dissent” and must be eradicated if the dynastic, democratic centralist hierarchy declare this to be the case. 

The deepest irony is that in Militant and their front organisations TUSC in the UK and AAA in Ireland, these tactics of state oppression are forcefully utilised by those whose apparent aim is to supplant the current ruling elite, where endless abuse and scorn is visited down on those who deviate one scintilla from the rigidly inflexible ideology that "oppressors" seek to promulgate, with the incessant restating that those who do not accept unquestioningly the programme of the "oppressors" are ideologically suspect. Any political post on social media that does not slavishly parrot the What We Stand For mantra is countermanded by a dozen abrupt, abusive, insulting personal attacks; one wonders whether the Kim-il-Sungist style Liverpudlian Leninist autodidacts monitor social media for all such dissent, issuing instructions to functionaries to obliterate discussion, or whether highly trained functionaries respond in a Pavlovian manner to anything that would not be approved by the Taaffigensia.   It seems clear that such oppressive tactics are not adopted to persuade the "dissenter" of the veracity of the "oppressors'" ideology, but to destabilise the "dissenter." The effect of Militant tactics on the “dissenter” is a kind of ruthless psychological warfare designed to destroy articulate opposition, while at the same time, the weak, vulnerable and intellectually immature are courted, flattered and given privileged insights, as the "oppressors" seek to control those who are easily manipulated, emotionally and financially. In that sense they most closely resemble the Reverend Jim Jones and his followers in Guyana, with messianic, Liverpudlian Leninist autodidact Peter Taaffe adopting  what appears to me to be the role of sinister absolute monarch.

The inescapable conclusion to be drawn is that, in sharp contrast to their rhetoric, it is not a question of political ideology at all for these “oppressors;” their  actual motivation is a veneration of power and a desire for total control of the weak, the vulnerable and the intellectually immature, with the consequent adjunct that absolute intolerance of any form of opposition, conscious or unconscious, must manifest itself in the ruthless public denigration of all “dissenters,” regardless of the effect that such ad hominem abuse has on the persecuted victims. Consequently, I will also be giving my full support and efforts to the SPGB’s candidate in Easington at the 2015 General Election, as well as maintaining ideological war against Militant, for the sake of those trapped inside the body of that horrible machine.

Green Cheese, White Flags and Gold Medals

It’s Christmas Time (well, almost) and I’m off to a pop concert on Saturday; Leeds indie veterans The Wedding Present are playing the O2 Academy on the occasion of the 21^st anniversary of the release of their groundbreaking “Bizarro” album that’s probably best known for the classic track “Kennedy” that was a student disco floor filler as the 80s morphed in to the 90s and well beyond. As it’s a Saturday, the doors open at 6.30 and the main band is on at 8.15, as the promoters want the gig over and done with by 9.45 to allow the youngsters to get in for their club night afterwards, providing it’s on of course as Paul Weller was off on Wednesday Dec 1^st. Apparently it was to do with the weather, but it could just be because he’s shit. However, the Weddoes are made of sterner stuff and will be there and gone at a reasonable time. Suits me like; at my age I like to be home for “Match of the Day.” Mind there’s life in this old punk rocker yet!

I’ve been to quite a few gigs lately; there was the glorious sight of me, various members of FPX and the Percy Main chairman cutting a rug as former Orange Juice front man Edwyn Collins, still battling back from a life threatening brain aneurysm, charmed the birds from the trees at The Cluny, while I took the parts of Chas Chandler and Alan Hull (it’s a long story) in a theatrical warm-up piece to the Band of Holy Joy show at the Star and Shadow the day Ponteland beat us at home.

Perhaps the biggest gig I attended, in terms of venue, audience and, at 35 notes, ticket price, was Irish folk legend Christy Moore at The Sage on a chilly night at the very start of November. Arriving on stage he inquired if anyone present had seen the football the day before, to tumultuous applause, before announcing “a lot of people reckon sunderland’s an Irish club. Well I’m not so sure about that you know. I’m not a drinking man these days, but when I took a pint of porter I knew the importance of the black and the white,” to predictably raucous cheers. The audience was his after that and a grand crowd there was too.

In the context of EU banking bail-outs and economic meltdowns, it’s always nice to see a middle aged Irish bloke not being relentlessly barracked by his own kind, unlike incompetent pisshead and Taoiseach Brian “Biffo” Cowen, whose personal Facebook page proudly displayed this message, posted by one Cara Delaney of Westmeath; “you bastard, you sold us out! People DIED to claim Ireland’s independence and now you go and ruin it all! You think you’re so high and mighty but nobody likes you Cowen. TIOCFAIDH AR LA! SAOIRSE IN EIREANN GO BRACH! I speak for all my fellow patriotic Irish people when I say it’s because of clowns like you we should have a death penalty, you fat, ignorant ugly BASTARD!”

The popular press aren’t his best mates either; the Irish Daily Star had a picture of the Fianna Fail front bench captioned with the unequivocal phrase USELESS GOBSHITES. The Irish football team’s not doing too well either, with only just over 20,000 turning up to see Norway fluke a friendly win at the AVIVA the other week and Trappatoni looking every inch the same shape of elderly incompetent that Capello does. At least they can stay upright in public and don’t need a gallon of Guinness or a few verses of “The Lakes of Ponchartrain” to act as a smokescreen for their inadequacies, unlike Irish politicians, whose latest attempt at kickstarting the economy, apart from accepting £100 Billion in loans, involves distributing free cheese parcels as Christmas gifts to the elderly and unemployed. Yes, cheese; a kilo each. Honestly.

Frankly, it is time for the citizens of Ireland to respond to the IMF intervention by having another six month Bank Strike. Back in 66 it paralysed the economy, but even more importantly, it made Christy Moore stop being a teller in Newbridge, Co. Kildare; consequently, a withdrawal of labour by financial employees will both bring down The Two Brians & their Cheese Party and reinvigorate the traditional folk scene. "Ireland's difficulty is music's opportunity," so to speak.

One amazing source of adequacy and indeed optimism in Irish society that doesn’t go equally well in a salad or grilled on toast, is the domestic football season that came to a classic conclusion at the AVIVA on Sunday 14^th November when a quite breathtaking 36,101 turned up to see Sligo Rovers defeat Shamrock Rovers 2-0 on penalties in a thrilling game to lift the FAI Cup. Watching it on line via www.rte.ie I can honestly say I’ve not enjoyed a goalless draw as much since we hosted Harraby; certainly it was preferable to the Newcastle v Fulham blank scoreline I’d seen the day before, on a freebie it has to be said.

The astonishing thing about this penalty shootout was that Sligo keeper Ciaran Kelly, who had been the villain last year when conceding a late spot kick as Fingal came from a goal down to lift the cup, saved all 4 of Shamrock Rovers’ kicks; I’ve never seen that before. I’ve seen kicks missed (the 86 European cup final between Steaua Bucharest and Barcelona comes to mind), but never have I witnessed a keeper quite so inspired. Having already lifted the EA Sports League Cup, this victory saw the Bit Of Red from WB Yeats County claim their second bit of silverware of the season and well done to them.

Shamrock Rovers, managed by former Newcastle striker Michael O’Neill, could console themselves with the thought that they had ended their 16 year wait for the top division title by claiming the Premier Division crown after a fascinating, titanic struggle with cross Dublin rivals Bohemian that went down to the last game of the season.

With 2 games to go, Bohs had been in the driving seat; if they won them, the title would be theirs for the third year in a row. Astonishingly, Galway United, who had already defeated Bohs 3 times already in the season, won their 4^th game of the year against Big Club courtesy of two late goals that, allied with the Shams beating Dundalk, meant that the title now seemed destined for Tallaght not Phibsborough as the final fixture card came round. So it turned out, as Bray drew 2-2 with Shamrock Rovers, who trailed twice, to allow the Hoops to win the title on goal difference, despite Bohemian beating Dundalk 3-1, after going a goal down. However, during the course of the night, the title relentlessly swung between north and south Dublin; at one point the Gypsies were a point ahead, at another the Hoops led by 4. It was one of those nights.

Poor Bohs are now in dire economic circumstances as the proposed sale of their aged, decrepit Dalymount Park home and the construction of a mythical new ground out by Dublin Airport have both gone by the board. Rumour has it that if a sporting dig-out is not forthcoming, Bohemian could be relegated to the First Division, much like Cork and Derry were last year. As I write, their licence to play in the Premiuer division has not been granted and Galway United look like they need quite a sizeable amount to stay afloat too. Well they did make Nick Leeson their Chief Executive…..

At least Derry City, who claimed the title on a tense final evening as the top 4 played each other, have made it back up at the first time of asking, replacing Drogheda who, in 3 short years, have gone from the Champions League qualifiers to relegation. Mind in the same period of time, Guy Bate has gone from Hunky Dory Park to Benfield. Spare a thought for poor Shelbourne, who remain Dublin’s lowest ranked club; two years after missing out on the title after Limerick grabbed a 94^th minute equlaiser in the final game of the season, they conceded 2 in the last 5 minutes to allow Waterford to overtake them.

Now, after the straight swap of Premier wooden spoonists with D1 champions, things get complex. Premier 8^th place Galway hosted 9^th place Bray in a one-off relegation play off, winning 1-0. This meant losers Bray were in to the repechage and were required to play the winners of the D1 play-off, where third place Monaghan triumphed 2-1 away at runners-up Waterford, in a two-legged affair. Bray were no strangers to this, having lost over 2 legs to Fingal last year, but were later reprieved because of financial impropriety by the banks of Foyle and Lee.

This year, The Seagulls came out on top. Having drawn 0-0 up in Gortakeegan at the Kingspan Century Carpets Stadium, it seemed as if Monaghan were on their way to the Premier Division when they took the lead after 117 minutes. Astonishingly, after 207 barren minutes, 2 goals came in 40 seconds as Bray went up the other end and scored. Their victory 7-6 on penalties over a Monaghan side, who’d also lost the League Cup final to Sligo, was inevitable. As Bray attract home crowds pushing a thousand, compared to the few dozen at Gortakeegan, the league were no doubt punching the air.

This isn’t quite the full story; at the foot of Division 1, Galway teams Mervue United with 19 points and Salthill Devon with 15, were cut adrift from the rest as if they’d played their home games on The Aran Islands rather than Terryland Park and Drom Soccer Pitch respectively. Anyway, Mervue were safe, but Salthill were required to play-off against Cobh Ramblers, who’d been kicked out the league for financial reasons in 2008. Same as they got past Kildare County in the play-off in 2009, Salthill Devon managed to squeeze through 3-1 on aggregate, which will give them another 12 months of being pummelled by the likes of Wexford, Limerick and Athlone.

And so, the League of Ireland goes in to hibernation until March 2011, at which time my gaze will again turn westward. Say Cheese & Up the Republic!!

Rock & Dole Years: 2005/2006

(The series first started in Summer 2004 with the 1974/1975 season and has continued up to the present day, in both players inc and now in Toon Talk)

What were you doing on the night of May 25^th 2005? I’d guess a sizeable percentage of those reading this page were watching in rapt amazement as Liverpool came back from 3-0 down to win the Champions’ League final on penalties against AC Milan in Istanbul. Personally I’ve not seen a single second of highlights of the game as I was watching Teenage Fanclub, the greatest band in the history of the Universe, at the University. Having seen the Fannies 28 times now, that particular gig tends to blend in with many others, but the importance of the night to Newcastle United remains crystal clear.

Liverpool had finished 5^th in the Premiership, but because of their CL win, they were given special dispensation to appear in the 2005/2006 Champions League as the holders. This meant that Bolton would be accompanied in the UEFA Cup not by Liverpool, but by the Smogs, meaning there was an Inter Toto Cup place up for grabs. Freddy Shepherd was many things, but he never missed a trick and Newcastle’s application was straight in. Despite finishing 14^th and as close to going down as achieving a UEFA Cup spot in terms of points in 2004/2005, we were back in Europe. Presumably because none of the sides finishing 8^th to 13^th wanted to play a collection of Moldovan Welders or Byelorussian Psychotherapists in mid July.

Exempted to the third round, we were drawn against Slovak side Dubnica. As someone who spent 2 wonderful years living in the Slovak capital of Bratislava, I was honoured to be one of the 83 Newcastle fans, most of who drink in The Newton in High Heaton, who made the trip to see my team in my adoptive country. 35 degree heat, 35p pints and a sleepy 3-1 win, with Michael Chopra scoring his first ever Newcastle goal made for a fantastic weekend, far away from the reality of our club under Souness.

The dull 2-0 home win courtesy of a Shearer double, where Amdy Faye’s alarming incompetence finally shone through in emphatic terms, and back to back 2-1 losses against Deportivo La Coruna in the next round meant we could concentrate on another season of ponderous mediocrity, or so it seemed. Those players departing SJP had included Patrick Kluivert, to Valencia, Laurent Robert, to Portsmouth and Nicky Butt, to Birmingham (on loan) of the team that had disgraced the fans in the FA Cup semi final v Man United at Cardiff in April 2005. Also out the door were honest journeymen Darren Ambrose to Charlton and Aaron Hughes to Villa, both of whom could justifiably still be with us now, not to mention Andy O’Brien who seems to be linked with a return every third Thursday. Craig Bellamy also finally left, for Blackburn, victim of Souness’s principles, that had been so on display after Bowyer and Dyer had got stuck in to each other in the previous season. Jermaine Jenas would move to Spurs in August, where he still struggles to reach his potential.

In their place came Scott Parker from Chelsea, the unknown Emre from Inter Milan and the unacceptable Luque from Deportivo. Significantly down on bodies, we also brought home Lee Clark from Fulham and signed up the unattached Craig Moore. Frankly, we didn’t look world-beaters and I had little compunction in taking a family holiday in the football season for the first time in years.

Sunning myself in the Bordeaux region, I was glad to miss our start of 1 point from 4 games; Arsenal 0-2 in our last game at Highbury, a bland 0-0 home to the Hammers, a shocking 0-2 at Bolton and a routine 0-2 home to Man United, when Luque gave a 15 minute cameo of why we’d wasted £10m on him. However, I did get back in time for the worst piece of transfer business this club has ever conducted, in the shape of the incredible £18m capture of Michael Owen. Five years on this looks to be the worst deal in the history of the world never mind Newcastle; it probably was. Still, at least Nobby Solano came back the same time.

Owen made his debut in a 1-1 home draw with Fulham when N’Zogbia rescued a point, before Shearer and Owen tore Blackburn apart as we won 3-0 at Ewood Park. The next week Owen grabbed his first home goal as we beat Man City 1-0 at a still unconvinced SJP. A dull 0-0 at Portsmouth was followed by our first visit to our latest bogey ground, Wigan, where a clearly over the line Shearer header was ignored as we lost 1-0. Owen was injured that day, with a groin or ankle or something, and missed the game the week after. I’m glad I didn’t.

We’d laughed very much when sunderland gained 19 points in 2002/2003, but we guffawed loudly at the 15 points they were to amass in 2005/2006, though there was no sign they’d be as poor as that when we beat them 3-2 in late October. Normally Derby games are lousy to watch, but this was a superb spectacle; two storming Shola headers and a pair of fine finishes by a couple of their lot left it nicely poised with 20 minutes remaining. Cue a piece of Turkish delight as Emre curled in a fabulous 30-yard free kick at the Gallowgate to win it for us. Some goal and some game, but an example of the all too rare commodities of skill and flair in the Souness era.

Amazingly, Owen was back the next week and him, Shearer and forgotten man Kieron Dyer all played blinders as we won 3-0 at The Hawthorns. We were only 10^th, but seemingly improving. Birmingham lost 1-0 at SJP as November dawned with an Emre effort squirming away from Maik Taylor. We followed this up with three defeats, comprising a 3-0 pummelling at the Bridge by Chelsea and a1-0 loss at Goodison, sandwiching a limp League Cup exit 1-0 at Wigan, to show we weren’t really any good.

The knives were out for Souness and if Gareth Barry hadn’t blasted a last minute penalty in to the Leazes, needlessly given away by the hapless Bramble, he’d have gone in early December, but he hung on. This 1-1 draw was supplanted by a praiseworthy 1-0 win home to Arsenal; Nobby scored it, but Scotty Parker won us the game with a dynamic showing.

The week after, December 18^th 2005, saw the last ever edition of The Pink and what a story they had, with an Owen hat-trick winning us the game at West Ham in a 4-2 thriller. I nearly died. Actually, I did nearly die in a car crash the next day when an articulated lorry ploughed in to us as we drove north on the A1, but I survived and was able to see Liverpool and Spurs both beat us 2-0, with Owen breaking his foot at White Hart Lane on New Year’s Eve. It was a case of no footing rather than first footing.

In early January Lee Clark rescued a point with a 93^rd minute leveller home to the Smogs, before Shearer finally matched Jackie Milburn’s goalscoring record in a 1-0 win over Mansfield in the FA Cup. It wasn’t Souness’s last win; that was a spawny 2-0 at Cheltenham in the next round of the cup. However, he left at the end of January following 3 league losses in a row; 0-1 at Craven Cottage, 0-1 home to Blackburn and 0-3 against Man City. While all three games stunk to high heaven, the last non-performance was as rotten an epitaph for his muddleheaded rule as he deserved; a man out of time and out of touch, he was as bad a boss, in my opinion, as Allardyce, Kinnear and McGarry combined.

Who was to take over? Well, humble, honest Glenn Roeder was running our Academy and he diffidently assumed the spotlight. The likeable Cockney took us from 15^th to 7^th at season’s end, by the simple expedient of playing 4-4-2 with Nobby and N’Zogbia out wide; it wasn’t rocket science, but it worked.

In his first game Shearer broke Milburn’s record as we swept Pompey aside 2-0 in a happy, vibrant, rocking SJP. We went to Villa and won 2-1, with Given saving a penalty, drew 0-0 with Charlton when we’d bossed the game, before stuffing Everton 2-0 with a Nobby pearler and Bolton 3-1 without breaking sweat.

Of course there were setbacks; 4 successive losses, 0-2 at Old Trafford, 1-3 home to Liverpool, when Boumsong was sent off on his last appearance, 0-1 at Stamford Bridge in the Cup and 1-3 at Charlton, where Scott Parker scored his first goal from about 40 yards. However, there was also April, when we won 5 in a row.

Firstly, Spurs were comprehensively outplayed 3-1 with Jenas getting dog’s abuse and Dawson a red card, before an easy 2-1 stroll at smogland where they scored in the dying seconds and then a 3-1 element of revenge over Wigan on Easter Saturday.

Of course, you’ll remember Easter Monday; 4-1, “We’ll Meet Again,” “We Only Played For 7 Minutes,” the corner flag collector in tears and even Luque scoring. The original demolition derby saw Alan Shearer get his last ever goal, a penalty fittingly enough, in his last ever game as we lorded it over the unwashed in the best way possible. Happy days.

Subsequent games included a 3-0 win over also relegated West Brom, 0-0 at St Andrew’s and a 1-0 win over Chelsea, but they were pretty much after the Lord Mayor’s Show after the Mackem massacre. However, the Chelsea result guaranteed we finished 7^th and qualified for the Inter Toto Cup, which we were to win, in 2006/2007.

Sadly this season marked the end of Alan Shearer’s playing career, with no clear indication of who was to replace him (Owen played a sub’s role at Birmingham after breaking his foot and nothing else). His testimonial against Celtic was an emotion charged affair that I was proud to have attended.

Sadly also, in retrospect, Shepherd took the easy option and made Glen Roeder, against his better instincts, permanent manager. Looking back on the latter half of this season, it is clear than in our post Sir Bobby Premier League days, it was only a window of adequacy in a booked-up diary full of dross. Come back next issue for 2006/2007; we win the Inter Toto Cup but the Premier League is a huge pile of fetid mediocrity.

Slovensko DO TOHO!!

(Originally published in Percy Main v Rutherford programme 28th March 2009 & repopularised at http://britskibelasi.footballunited.com/ in October 2010)

This week we have the opportunity to exorcise painful memories of last season’s 5-0 home stuffing by Rutherford, while supporters of Newcastle United can take stock and have a breather, as their team’s seemingly inevitable breakneck hurtle in to the Championship goes in to abeyance for a week. The reason for this is that it is the wonderful spectacle of meaningless fixtures, mass substitutions and sterile non-football that tells us it has to be international week.

I must admit international football isn’t really my thing. If the Rutherford game was a week later, I’d be penning my usual drivel about the start of the Irish football season (Galway United and Bohemians battling it out for top spot) or the new film based on Brian Clough’s ill-starred 44 day reign at Elland Road, The Damned United, based on David Peace’s magnificent novel of the same name, which every football lover should read as a matter of urgency. However, for the sake of journalistic integrity, I’ll give these examples of nationalistic nonsense my full attention.

Unsurprisingly, Ireland are my footballing nation (and a big well done to the rugby lads for the Grand Slam last week, which took my mind off Steven Taylor’s latest arrogant sporting suicide mission), so the 17.45 kick off at Croke Park versus Bulgaria will occupy my mind later on today. I’ve only ever seen Ireland once, and that was at U21 level at St. James’ Park in 1994. They lost 2-0 but I enjoyed myself as mackem Martin Smith’s every touch was booed mercilessly, rather like Nick Pickering’s versus Russia at the same venue and same level had been in 1983. Indeed the majority of my other international footballing experience has either been at that ground or that level; Bulgaria 1 Romania 0 at Euro 96 and England U21 4 Holland U21 0 at the Madjeski Stadium in August 2000, accompanying the Chinese U17 team, to whom I was acting as English tutor (it’s a long story…), for example.

Despite the fact that I’d probably cheer the Taleban XI on if they were playing England, their home friendly with Slovakia at Wembley today did grab my attention. I thought about going, but frankly how could I miss out on Purvis Park after last week’s marvellous showing against Killingworth? The reason for toying with travelling is I spent 2 years, between 1999 and 2001 in the capital of Slovakia, Bratislava and loved the place, especially its football. Remember Newcastle 1 sunderland 2 in a thunderstorm with Shearer and Ferguson on the bench? Or Sir Bobby in the hot seat as Newcastle trounced Sheff Wed 8-0? Guess which was the last game I saw and first I missed when heading to Bratislava in September 1999?

Slovakia is the less glamorous bit of the old Czechoslovakia, utterly opposed to the tolerance and (literal) Bohemian atmosphere of Prague. Football wise, there has been no Pavel Srnicek, Pavel Nedved, Peter Cech or Karel Poborsky to boast of; recently their most famous players have been Szilard Nemeth at the smogs, Stano Varga at the mackems, Lubo Moravcik at Celtic and Martin Skrtel at Liverpool. Club wise, Slovan Bratislava are the most famous team. Winners of the Cup Winners’ Cup in 1969, Slovakia’s only European honour, they were eclipsed for about 8 years by their very local rivals Inter Bratislava (we’re talking Dundee and Dundee United levels of proximity here). I lived in a flat that looked in to Slovan from the living room and kitchen and Inter from the bedroom and balcony, but supported neither.

Slovan’s ground is the national stadium and is full of Nazi boneheads in Rangers or Millwall shirts and swastika armbands, while Inter played in front of about 1,000 in a soulless athletics stadium without cover. My side were (Artmedia) Petrzalka, who played in the scenic Stary Most ground and wore black and white striped shirts. You may remember them trouncing Celtic 5-0 in the Champions League qualifiers in 2005, but when I saw them they finished just above relegation both years. Crowds were only 6,000, but they played in a proper old style ground and the fans were close to the pitch. Just after I left, they embarked on their glory years; winning the Cup in 2003, League in 2004 & 2005 and Cup again in 2006. Sadly, with Inter going boom and subsequently getting relegated, Petrzalka made a sound business but terribly unromantic decision and sold their lovely old ground for hotel and office development and are now playing at the soulless Pasienka athletics stadium. What a shame! I still look out for their results and would love to go back again some time.

While following Petrzalka, I had the chance to travel around and see a few small towns that boasted teams in the Slovak top flight; Senec, Trnava, Sala and Trencin for starters. While I enjoyed these days out, especially as tickets, travel and beer were all dirt cheap, my two favourite trips had more than a passing hint of the outfit from Barrack Road about them.

In Slovakia one of my best mates was another Newcastle fan, Brendan from Durham, and one drunken Thursday night we concocted a plan to travel across the border to Ostrava, home of Pavel Srnicek, to see his home town team and first club, take on their local rivals Sigma Olomouc. Arriving hopelessly early on the Saturday following, having misread the train timetables; we found the nearest pub to the ground, the originally titled Futbalpub, to while away the hours to kick-off.

Walking in, with a sense of travellers’ trepidation, we found the place looking like the old supporters’ shop opposite The Farmers’ Rest; black and white from floor to ceiling, with framed Pavel shirts behind the bar and a huge mural of the 1993 Promotion winning side with him in a “Pavel is a Geordie” tee shirt, covering one wall. As soon as our loyalties were discovered the locals embraced us like long-lost cousins and we drank for free for 12 hours solid, in the pub and in the ground, which included a memorable 2-0 home win, when the Ostrava Ultras sang “The Blaydon Races” for the last 10 minutes, with perhaps more enthusiasm than accuracy.

Even better was seeing Newcastle play mid ranking Slovak side Dubnica in the Inter Toto Cup in 2005. Only 84 Geordies made the trip, but it was one game I would not have missed for the world; we won 3-1, Michael Chopra scored his opening 2 goals for The Mags and I had a chance to show a load of drunken Geordies one of the best countries and cities in the world. One day I’ll recount how Douglas Hall asked me if I liked sex and travel in an Irish pub in downtown Bratislava at 4 in the morning, but not right now!

I went over there to teach English to University students and business bigwigs, but my favourite student was Stano Griga, who managed the Slovak U21 side at the time, then went on to boss Slavia Prague. He was a former player with Nitra, Sparta Prague, Feyenoord (where he played against Spurs in the 1992 Cup Winners’ Cup) and Austria Vienna, where he wound down his career. He was also a Czechoslovak international who played at the 1990 World Cup and used to sort a few of us out with tickets for Slovakia internationals; 0-0 v Sweden and 3-1 v Azerbaijan, when Nemeth scored after 19 seconds, stand out in the memory.

One tournament that stands out is the 2000 European Under 21s; I remember mouthy, drunken Chelsea fans watching England beat Turkey 6-0, then lose 1-0 to Italy and 2-0 to Slovakia, who won their group and lost to Holland in the final. At least there were only 100 Three Lions scumbags in town then; when England played in Bratislava in October 2002, Michael Owen scored a double and there were clashes between the local police and England fans. When I saw Slovakia lose 2-1 to England Under 21 at Stadium of Shite in 2003, only 35 Slovaks were there. They are a good people and I hope the ones at Wembley today enjoy their day out.

*”Come on Slovakia,” in Slovak

Ijen Kjusak (as Ian Cusack sounds like Eye-ann Tsoosats to a Slovak)

Flying the NUST

(Published in Percy Main v Heddon programme, 9th October 2010)

You’ll remember that in my article for the Carlisle City programme, I expressed my unease about the direction and pace of travel exhibited by NUST. In short, following the discredited false start of NU$C and the shameful, undemocratic leaflet put about at the Blackburn game in September 2008 calling not for democratic fan ownership but for a mythical, benevolent Geordie billionaire to spend his cash exactly as he was told, NUST had really got their act together by putting clear red water between them and their egotistical antecedents. The “Yes We Can” campaign had harnessed the enthusiasm of all sectors of our support and was driving the organisation forward. The election of a full committee seemed to be the final piece in the jigsaw.

However, following publication of the results at the end of March 2010, precisely nothing of any relevance or moment happened. Actually positions and roles were divvied up in secret, an MP was co-opted and the NUST Media Committee, chaired by the obsequious, toadying non-entity Tony Stephenson, a man who would voluntarily clean the chair of the NUST chair with his tongue and regard it as an honour, decided that, despite the free publicity and good wishes Steve Wraith had given NUST on his radio show, they would have nothing to do with “Toon Talk” because of the imagery associated with it (my italics).

In issue the Carlisle city programme, I pointed out that this was all well and good if such a policy was applied consistently. Then, lo and behold, issue # 250 of “The Mag,” a publication I have bought from its first issue in August 1988 and that I hold in the greatest esteem, had a full-page article about NUST. All well and good you might say; it’s great that NUST are taking the trouble to communicate with members and other interested parties in one of the 2 Newcastle fanzines. Fair enough, but what does it say about NUST and their policy of not dealing with “Toon Talk” on grounds of taste, decency and sexual politics when “The Mag” has an advert on its inside back cover for “Newcastle’s Finest Topless Totty Show?”

Of course NUST would not necessarily be aware of the adverts in “The Mag,” but as the Chair of NUST is also the editor of that publication, there is a chance the two organisations may have communicated. I am not suggesting for one minute that there is any kind of nest feathering going on, and if NUST want to formalise the relationship with “The Mag” by making it their official theoretical journal, all well and good, but I think the waters have been muddied and such a turn of events is being seen by many members as further evidence of an otiose streak at the core of NUST.

Since my last article, I received an email encouraging me to renew my membership that included as an attachment the newsletter NUST produced in September. The first official communication I had had with NUST since the election results repeated the bland, anodyne imprecision of the August press release about the future of the trust. It was high on cliché and simpering rhetoric, but low to non-existent on tactics and analysis. There was a mention of the rebranding of SJP which the Trust noted with “sadness,” in a typically downbeat, understated manner that is more Women’s Institute than Bolshevik Revolution in tone.

However, the proposed erection of the giant SportsDirect.com@StJames’Park signs gave NUST their Custer’s Last Stand opportunity. Surely there would be a chance for all membership to exchange opinions on this issue? It was the first major thing to happen since the alleged Glasnost and Perestroika era that has been ushered in by the “Moving The Trust Forward” statement. Admittedly, talking to the Newcastle City Council Planning Committee and handing in a petition is not the same as storming the Winter Palace, as grounds for compliant were restricted as objections on the grounds of taste and morality were beyond the remit of the hearing.

As you’ll know the objection failed and the signs are going up. Sure they’ll look terrible and sure the club will get no income from them, but if they did get income, I’d be all for it in the current economic climate. We have to be realists. NUST’s mealy-mouthed suggestion that it’s ok for new grounds to have sponsorship, like at Arsenal or Bolton, but not as old grounds is an illogical non position that attempts to blend aesthetics with tradition and looks simply laughable in the cold light of day; a bit like NUST it has to be said.

Frankly, I’ve had enough; there is no chance whatsoever of me paying up, despite a rallying call that appeared to be the Eve of Agincourt delivered by John Major on ketamine -:

“Your support is absolutely vital to the NUST and underpins all we try to do and is greatly appreciated. We’re proud of what we have been able to achieve in our first year and we could not have done it without you. Only by increasing membership and influence can the Trust hope to move forward, with your help we can all look forward to a bright future.”

Being brutally honest, I don’t see any possible hope that NUST in its current form with its current malaise can become a campaigning force for Newcastle United and the supporters in particular. Regardless of league form, and it has to be said relegation is possible if losses against Blackpool and Stoke are to be the norm, we must never lose sight of the greater good of the club. That’s why I’m not going to be wasting any more energy wondering just why NUST has failed; never mind the question of whether I’m better outside the tent pissing in or inside the tent pissing out, I’ve decided to simply piss off because I’m pissed off.

The Charlatans

(Published in Percy Main v Harraby CC programme on 2nd October 2010)

The Dell was never a happy hunting ground for Newcastle United. The Magpies final, ever success at Southampton’s old ground was back in February 1972, a mere fortnight after their last away victory over Manchester United, in the same month that Ronnie Radford scored a tap-in against the Toon as well, curiously enough. In 8 Premiership visits to the Saints’ former home, Newcastle picked up a solitary point, in Kenny Dalglish’s first game in charge, back in January 1997. Even then, they were 2-0 up with 6 minutes remaining before Matthew Le Tissier got involved. While that was bad, it didn’t rank as low as the 2-1 defeat on Sky TV when Keegan had a hissy fit with Lee Clark in October 1993 or the 3-1 loss in March 1995 that saw Paul Kitson’s goal separating the sides as injury time began. All things considered, the routine 2-1 loss on 28th March 1998 didn’t raise too many eyebrows.

That day I was in the Midlands, paying my first and so far only visit to Meadow Lane, to see Notts County clinch the Division 3 Championship with a 1-0 victory over Leyton Orient. It’s a decent ground, albeit generally far too large for the needs of England’s oldest league club and the impromptu pitch invasion at full time was jovial and good-natured. I’m glad I stopped by, though I didn’t hang around for the boss’s speech after the trophy was presented, mainly because I remember him turning out for the Mackems under Ken Knighton’s tedious tenure.

Who was the visionary manager who had achieved the remarkable feat of obtaining promotion before the clocks had gone forward that I chose to cock a deaf one to? Well, he was recently in the news for issuing the following bold statement as regards his modest analysis of his own managerial abilities -:

“Personally I feel I would be more suited to Inter Milan or Real Madrid. It wouldn't be a problem for me to manage those clubs because I would win the double or the league every time. Give me Manchester United or Chelsea and I would do the same. It's not a problem to take me into the higher reaches of the Champions League or Premier League.”

This is the manager who, on the day he made such pronouncements, made the groundbreaking tactical decision that his main striker (a loathsome individual with serial convictions for spitting on fans and opponents, the racist abuse of a ball boy and a season with the Mackems on his CV) should ignore the ball whenever it was pumped predictably high, hard and hopeful in to the opposition box, preferring instead to barge the visiting keeper to the ground. The player, who was instructed to act like a gridiron linebacker at a third down scrimmage, is the nauseating El Hadji Diouf and the manager, none other than the uniquely despised bastard lovechild of Matthew Kelly and Malcolm MacDonald, Mr Samuel Allardyce.

Yes, that’s right, the quotation that comprises the vain and smug analysis of his own minimal talent by the monstrous ego of a monstrous narcissist, suggests that he regards himself to be the equal of Jose Mourinho. You are not dreaming; Allardyce actually said these things, though it has yet to be confirmed whether he was tripping at the time.

Let us not forget, Allardyce is the man who, when given a large amount of cash to spend at Newcastle United, brought in the delights of Abdoulaye Faye, Cacapa, Geremi and David Rozehnal for the grand total expenditure of £15 million for the precise net gain of jack shit. Indeed it is a moot point whether Allardyce's most notable achievement for Newcastle United SJP was a laughable, mincing run across the turf at Craven Cottage while both sides waited to kick off the second half or his solitary substitute appearance for West Bromwich Albion in November 1989, when the Magpies won 5-1 at The Hawthorns.

To be scrupulously fair, I must acknowledge that Allardyce isn’t only famous, in his terms, for failing to win a single trophy with Blackpool, Bolton (bar a play off final in 2001), Newcastle and Blackburn, which is how we normal football fans will judge him. He is equally notorious for a “Panorama” investigation in to corruption in football that saw his son banned by the FA from working in the professional game. Also, Big Sam (his words) does wear a natty earpiece that makes him look like Morrissey would if he’d been fed on steak and kidney pudding four times a day since he was potty trained.

This earpiece is linked to Allardyce’s 25 strong backroom op centre, which consists of innumerable snake oil salesman and other barely credible boffins, allegedly conducting several kinds of spurious tests and crunching numbers in to dozens of hi-tech gizmos and gallimaufries, for a yet to be discerned purpose.

Supporters of Allardyce, who presumably compromise these lads in the lab coats, him and his family, regularly tout the hippo-headed fool as the next England manager and to be fair, he probably wouldn’t have done a lot worse than Sven, Second Choice Steve or Bo Selecta. Remember, Sam has a European pedigree, having led Limerick City to the First Division title in the League of Ireland back in 1991.

At the same time as Allardyce continues to acclaim his own talents, Irish society is reeling as yet another example of incompetence by Allardyce lookalike Taoiseach Brian Cowen (aka Biffo, the Big Ignorant Fella From Offaly) sees the man charged as being single-handedly responsible for the loss of 150,000 jobs in the last 6 months alone, bladdered out of his head in a Galway nightclub at 3am on a Tuesday morning. Frankly, such behaviour is not unusual in Irish public life; the secret though is being able to get away with it. Ensconced in the City of the Tribes for a Fianna Fail policy summit, Cowen comprehensively let his hair down, shouting and roaring until closing time and, by all accounts, giving a grand version of the Christy Moore classic “The Lakes of Ponchartrain.” Unfortunately, Cowen’s voice betrayed the lateness of his hours on an interview regarding the state of the economy on “Morning Ireland” at 7.30 the following morning. Cowen stopped short of an apology, though he did display a degree of clarity the man who sees his imminent elevation from Ewood Park to Old Trafford as a given would never dream of stating, when he commented on the media storm by stating, "it wasn't my best performance.”

However, we are being unkind; Sam has got one thing in common with Sir Alex. Not the 2 Champions League wins, the 8 Premier League titles, 6 FA Cups, 4 League Cups, European Cup Winners’ Cup or any of the trinkets picked up by the Govan Genius when in charge at Aberdeen. No, the sole thing they have in common is a refusal to talk to the BCC. Sir Alex does it out of principle; Hippo Head is presumably taking the Fifth Amendment in relation to the “Panorama” programme.

Still, silent or voluble, those of us who know the beautiful game agree; Allardyce’s long ball robots and shoulder charging psychos are a stain on our national game. In the same way that the Irish public have seen through Biffo’s boozy bluster, we won’t be fooled by Fat Sam’s execrable egotism and ridiculous rhetoric.