The Only Way Is Aesthetics

On Sunday coming, Newcastle United travel to sunderland in the Premier League, marking the overdue end of another two week international hiatus, of which the supposed highlight was the aquatic farce in Warsaw.  Consequently, this fortnight saw the Magpies, as is the wont of the current “owners,” predictably exploit a golden opportunity to spend the entire quinzieme on the front and back pages of both regional and national press, for matters completely unrelated to the game of football. One small shred of comfort for careworn and battle fatigued Newcastle fans can be taken from the fact that the next international break is not until March 23^rd; this does give Ashley and Llambias plenty of time to plan a real jawdropper for the week before Easter of course.  But will it be as shocking as the GAA’s decision to relegate seemingly perpetual All Ireland Hurling champions Kilkenny to the English GAA Football Championship? Some may see this as perfectly logical, bearing in mind that not only do the Cats view any game that isn’t hurling with utter contempt, but also Antrim and Galway fight off the shackles of geography to play in the Leinster Hurling Championship. I’ll avoid commenting further, as my interest remains in the people’s Garrison Game.

This week I had hoped to avert my gaze from the Premier League, though not to the subject of music this time, despite the fact I was delighted to pick up vinyl copies of a first pressing of what has become regarded as the finest folk rock album of all time “Liege & Lief” by Fairport Convention, as well as a double album collection of Trembling Bells’ sometime collaborator Bonnie “Prince” Billy during the past week. In addition, posthumous rumours of sexual impropriety by the venerated John Peel had spread rapidly across the internet. On Saturday night, I put such gossip to one side and danced, badly, to Teenage Kicks at the splendid Popklubb, where the simply wonderful Pat Nevin was the guest DJ. I kissed him on the forehead to forgive him for the goal he scored for Chelsea in a 1-1 draw at St. James in the 83/84 promotion campaign. I’d like to think he enjoyed that more than the Belgium v Scotland game I happened across after the Polish postponement, for which he was a summariser.

Actually, I had hoped in this Blog to be allowed to consider the widely perceived recent increase in radginess at local non-league level, in the wake of the Whitley Bay versus West Auckland, post-match pagger, courtesy of the Alex Francis tag wrestling and urban sprinting squad. I attended Hillheads last Tuesday, but there was no need to lay a wreath in the car park for Lee Paul Scoggins, as Bay tend to do their talking on the pitch. I speak as I find and I have to say, I’ve always enjoyed chatting with West Auckland boss Peter Dixon; apparently his team did not lose control when they had 3 sent off on Saturday, when losing 4-2 at home to Billingham Synthonia, while I enjoyed a glorious autumnal afternoon in the lesser Tyne Valley with Harry Pearson, at Ryton & Crawcrook Albion’s 1-0 home win over Washington, with 4 former Percy Main players spread between the sides.

Peter may be a hothead, but he’s an angel compared to the Wallsend Town kickboxing squad, who have recently been suspended by the Northumberland FA from all football until further notice. Those who’ve seen them in action in the Northern Alliance premier division this season will probably understand why. Similar grumblings of utterly unacceptable conduct, on and off the pitch, continue to haunt the impeccably attired Hebburn Town managerial Cosa Nostra, especially as regards their less than philosophical reaction to a last minute home loss to Bedlington. This is a subject to which I may return in the coming weeks, but unfortunately I must return, in this missive, to the vexed question of Newcastle United’s sponsorship deal with Wonga; it is a subject I had hoped I’d dealt with in sufficient detail last week. However, events require comment, opinions must be examined and clarifications issued.

As ever, there has been considerably more heat than light generated during the on-going debate that has involved all levels of Newcastle’s support, at various levels of intellectual and ideological complexity. The ludicrous non-story of Muslim players refusing to wear shirts sponsored by usurers was exposed as a farcical, mendacious canard on account (no pun intended) of the fact Ba, Ben Arfa, Cisse and Tiote didn’t bat an eyelid about donning the current Virgin Money design. However, this journalistic work of speculative fiction did serve a useful purpose in keeping the atrociously misused terms morality and ethics centre stage in this debate.

I’m not one to hide my light under a bushel; it gives me great pleasure to announce that last week’s Blog gained the greatest numbers of hits of any of the 121 different posts I’ve made since I established the site in July 2010. Clearly this question is far too important to be reduced to the level of a popularity contest. On such matters, being in the right, whether that makes one liable to accusations of being the only one marching in time while the rest of the battalion is out of step, is the most important thing. A lone, truthful voice can of course, be the one who points out that the emperor’s new clothes shouldn’t be sponsored by semi-legal loan sharks.

We’ll not dwell on the fact that the increase in traffic on this site translates in to just shy of 400 visitors in 7 days, with only one person leaving a comment, flattering though it was. The really encouraging aspect of this is the fact I’ve had almost 100 messages of support and comments in agreement on Twitter and Facebook, by text, email, phone call and face to face conversation, notwithstanding the previous paragraph’s points about being right and being popular existing as sometimes contrasting states. In fact, there have only been two people who have directly opposed my views on ideological grounds; one made an impassioned comment on The Independent website after my initial article, while the other published this superbly written polemic that can be seen here -: http://blackwhitered.wordpress.com/2012/10/11/wonga-not-fit-and-proper-for-toon/

While I fully appreciate the author’s points; there remains one particular intractable bone of contention where all our subsequent marginal disagreements spring from. I simply can’t agree that there are certain capitalist companies who are more acceptable as sponsors, as their business practices aren’t as reprehensible as Wonga’s; to me, all capitalist companies are equally contemptible. I don’t fully accept that there are those organisations that aren’t as bad as others. However, I’d concede that is a minor, recondite philosophical point and that author’s main intention isn’t to promote responsible capitalism. His main disagreement with me stems from perceived meaning behind my choice of language at certain points in the initial Independent article, specifically the phrases willing suspension of disapproval and waste of breath, that he claims can be interpreted of tacit support for Wonga if a Faustian pact can be entered in to, resulting in the arrival of 3 players in January. Ignoring the cheap point that I have to watch the team and I know how badly those 3 players are needed, let’s examine the words I used. Sadly, I can take no credit for inventing the phrases in question; the former being a corruption of the words of Samuel Taylor Coleridge, often used in relation to audience response to Shakespearean tragedy and the latter un hommage to William Butler Yeats, whose An Irish Airman Forsees His Death I’d been reading almost immediately before penning my article.  It’s wryly ironic that a misquotation from Yeats has resulted in the birth of the terrible beauty of Newcastle United fans denouncing each other for the degree and nature of their objection to the Wonga deal.

A couple of days after the initial news of the deal broke; the unrepresentative, discredited rump of NUST appeared embarrassing, rather than fashionably, late to the party with a predictably limp and mealy-mouthed email. Taking time out from bellyaching about Ashley for ignoring their letters asking for a meeting, or even a day’s work experience at Darsley Park, their press release consisted of banal platitudes about the effect of pay day loans on our supporter base being phoned in by an organisation who didn’t fully grasp the motions they were going through. While pay day loans may be a blight on the lives of our supporters from Blakelaw to Meadowell and Marsden to Blaydon, that’s far less territory than the Casablanca to Cape Town constituency of arch imperialists Tullow Oil, whose meaningless slogan Invest in Africa adorns the shirts of our local rivals.

The latest, soporific issue of The Mag includes several articles that seem to object to the new sponsors, mainly on the grounds that the club’s public profile may be damaged by the Wonga deal, as they’re not a sufficiently glamorous or prestigious brand to be associated with our club. Perhaps the contributors would prefer Harvey Nichols or Prada instead? Either that or we can call in the cast of Geordie Shore to advice which companies are a la mode enough for Newcastle United. Basically, other than the Blog mentioned above, almost all of the criticism of the Wonga deal is not based on ethics but on aesthetics, at which point morality becomes irrelevant. Will we soon hear atrichorous chuckleheads chanting Ode to a Grecian Urn to the tune of Blaydon Races?

As the clamorous response begins to appear as formless and confusing as Altman’s Pret A Porter, the campaign in the press continues to be led by David Con-Hot-Air of The Grauniad. Perhaps aware of the vast numbers of redundancies on his title and a need to make himself indispensable, he’s taken time out from retweeting, whether for reasons of personal insecurity or rampant narcissism, any example praise for his latest book he can find, to assuming the self-elected role of the white knight on a pantomime horse, wielding his simple sword of truth and sense of British fair play against the money lenders. All well and good, but if you lay down with the aesthetes, you’ll catch their fleas; his paper has been responsible for a merciless anti Newcastle United agenda, promoted by Marina Hyde, Barry Glendenning and Lousie Taylor for a decade now. While blaming Con-Hot-Air for the behaviour of his predecessors may be akin to castigating Karl Robinson’s slick MK Dons outfit for the sins against football of their previous incarnation as the Wimbledon Crazy Gang, it must be stated that The Grauniad has never apologised for the scarcely believable screeds of anti NUFC bile they produced.

The matter has even been raised in the House, as the Northern Group of Labour MPs took time out from campaigning for a bold Socialist programme designed to confront the evil, anti-working class agenda of Cameron’s Tories (yes I’m being ironic, tragically), to get their mugs on Look North by making shallow, vaguely censorious pronouncements about how they opposed the club’s deal with this immoral company. Presumably, erstwhile NUST board member Chi Onwurah and her comrades will soon be publishing The Ethical Potential Premier League Sponsors Table, naming those moral capitalist finance houses and multinational corporations it is deemed acceptable for clubs to cut deals for shirt sponsorship with in the future. Perhaps we’ll see Newcastle United sponsored by The Body Shop in future?  Amidst this rhetorical, quasi political, populist posturing, the serious issue of the utter abandonment of both their principles and responsibility for effectively representing the interests of those who elected these MPs has been pushed to one side.

The member for Wansbeck, Ian Lavery, a man who combines his job at Westminster with the Presidency of the National Union of Mineworkers and being the Chairperson of Ashington FC, responded to the Wonga deal by sending back his season ticket to SJP, no doubt fuelled by moral indignation and not because he’s presumably got enough things on his plate to keep him busy without tipping up to see the Magpies twenty-odd times a year. His season ticket was in the Platinum Club incidentally; personally I’d not be able to afford a seat there unless I took out a loan. Does the Northern Group of Labour MPs have a friendly credit provider they can recommend to me? Of course, if Mr Lavery finds at any time in the future that he’s missing his visits to St. James, either for sporting or networking reasons, I’m sure he’ll be able to find another fella called Ian in the Irish Centre who can always get his hands on spare tickets.

However, to be scrupulously fair, I’m sure most, if not all, north east Labour MPs will be at the TUC organised A Future That Works march and rally in London this Saturday, against the vicious Tory austerity measures, along with an estimated 200,000 others. Despite the fact that I call myself a Marxist and that I am a union activist, I’ll not be there, even if 2 members of my branch are going in my stead. Personally, I’ll be at North Shields v Alnwick Town in Northern League Division 2, doing my bit for the armchair class struggle. Perhaps the unpalatable truth is I’m more of a dilettante than a militant, which may not be a beautiful thing to say, but it is the truth…

Filthy Lucre

Tuesday 9^th October marked a watershed in shirt sponsorship deals; when it was assumed by fans and media commentators alike that all questions of just what was ethically repugnant and morally reprehensible to sports fans had finally been answered, new depths were plumbed. I’m talking about the decision of Meath’s county GAA board to strike a deal with Tayto Park (www.taytopark.ie), the potato crisp Disneyland just outside Ashbourne off the N2. In County Meath, they may have a high transfat snack product on their shirts, but they also have the East Meath Credit Union providing affordable financial solutions for ordinary people in that area. 

Meanwhile, the clownish circus at the bottom of Barrack Road that simply keeps on creating copy for the Fourth Estate, announced that squalid loan sharks Wonga had handed over something in the region of £24m to get their names on the front of Newcastle United shirts, rumoured to be made by Sondico in future, from the start of the 2013/2014 season. However, as a simpering codicil to the deal, the ground would be renamed St. James’ Park, which was all anyone had called it any way, other than quisling apologists for the Ashley administration. Indignation swiftly followed; some of it opportunistic and false, especially among the jaded NUJ contingent and some of it passionate and heartfelt in the NUFC family. Attending Whitley Bay 4 Marske United 0 that night, I spent much of the time with The Independent’s Martin Hardy, who reacted with genuine disgust to the news and fair play to him for that, as many of his colleagues saw the deal as simply another wearisome opportunity to give the club, and especially the support, an on-line shoeing.

As ever, the international break had been viewed by the current “owners” of the club as the appropriate time to launch yet another initiative that seemed, on the surface, designed, as per usual, to piss off the fan base and allow for some shallow handwringing and petty point scoring by the various hacks and scribes on both local and national titles. The Grauniad’s self-mythologizing narcissist David Conman took time out from retweeting obsequious praise of his latest dull book to fire off some sombre and shallow pronouncements that were gobbled up by similar ahistorical chuckleheads, meaning they could temporarily abandon their endless questioning of the validity of Graham Carr’s role and his 8 year contract.

Of course, criticism of Pardew and his team’s similar long term deals has pointedly been lacking; then again the chance of another day’s work experience at Darsley Park and an opportunity to hobnob with the first team squad may mean it’s hard to judge people who’ve splendidly indulged you in the past. This is especially important when one considers that the new sponsors have offered to set up meetings with fans’ leaders in the future, considering some of the fiercest critics of this deal are ones who’ve been the most keen to spend time with club top brass, from Chris Mort onwards, at various times in the past; perhaps they may exploit any opportunity to hook up with the current “owners” or their underlings, not to mention Wonga apparatchiks in the future. Who can tell?

Much of the criticism, both from fans and journalists, has centred on the “morality” or otherwise of the deal and Wonga as a company. It seems that the use of such terms within the context of football arguments has steadily been gaining popularity, perhaps since the 1998 News of the World sting involving Hall fils and Shepherd that became known by the vile soubriquet, Toongate. I am not happy with the loose bandying about of the term “morality,” as it generally seems to be a lazy, catch-all explanation by many users for why the opposing point of view is wrong, rather than looking in detail at the mechanics of the deal. Money lending is wrong, according to both Christianity and Islam; this makes it immoral to adherents of these religions. Yet much of the criticism of this deal is based either on aesthetic grounds, in terms of the media profile and public image of Wonga, or because of the business practices of a company that charge 4,217% on their pay day loans.

The former argument is specious, as it presupposes that other companies, regardless of their business practices, will be more acceptable, because of their advertising campaigns or the product they sell. In harking back to the days of Northern Rock, surely far more NUFC minded people suffered penury and financial hardship as a result of that, previously long-respected and popular local business hitting the buffers than Wonga? The latter argument is about the ethics of how the sponsors operate; undeniably, Wonga prey upon vulnerable people in this harsh economic climate and that stinks. It’s a repulsive way to make a living and my conscience wouldn’t allow me to drive people to the verge of destitution as a way of making a living.  

Sadly, we are talking about capitalism; a system without conscience existing purely to make money for the ruling elite by exploiting the working class. Pre-paid electricity and gas meter cards that are set at a tariff considerably higher than the ordinary charges for punters paying monthly by direct debit, cash machines in corner booze shops that charge £3 for the privilege of accessing the customer’s money, endless parades of fast food outlets offering diabetes, obesity and early death to young and old alike, sub-standard health, education, welfare and housing facilities; Cash Convertors (sponsors of Hull City don’t forget) on every high street; this is the reality of poverty under capitalism. Let us not delude ourselves, Wonga are no better or worse than any other financial corporation or multinational company operating in the world today; many of who, such as Capital One with the League Cup or our soon to be ex-sponsors Virgin Money, have taken the cynical opportunity of associating their rapacious brand with a football club.

Let’s be clear about this; “morality” and capitalism are mutually exclusive terms. As fans, we have the right to object, vociferously if needed, about the deal, but it can’t end with just a few random moans and groans. The deal must not be viewed simply as another snide attempt to wind us up by Ashely and Llambias, so getting angry about it is pointless; look at things from a wider perspective. We must be tough on poverty and tough on the causes of poverty, to bastardise a phrase; save questions of “morality” for discussions about why John Terry got away with a 4 game ban for racially abusing Anton Ferdinand. Fair play to PFA leader Clarke Carlisle for putting his head above the parapet and announcing he feels the ban is disproportionately minor for the transgression Terry was found guilty of; racism in the game is decidedly immoral.

On Tuesday afternoon, I was approached by The Independent to provide a 400 word comment piece on the Wonga deal. I took the opportunity, with some misgivings, as I prefer not to react to events immediately, but to take a longer term view on them. Xhou Enlai’s 1971 comment when asked about the importance of the French Revolution of 1789, it’s too early to tell, being a particular favourite of mine. However, with apologies for the telegraphed nature of my thoughts imposed on me by the constraints of the word limit, this is what I had to say -:

The news that Newcastle United’s first team shirts will next season carry adverts for Wonga has left me feeling particularly underwhelmed; I neither rejoice nor despair at this deal with a crowd of on-line usurers of dubious provenance. Frankly, having seen the effects of last summer’s pitiful lack of investment in the squad in the shape of a 3-0 loss to Manchester United exposing further our stretched, injury ravaged squad in dire need of a right back and centre half, I am forced to state that there are more things to worry about in this world than the morality of the company sponsoring my football team. After the international break, our team travel to Wearside; that fixture is occupying more of my thoughts that next season’s shirt sponsor. If this sponsorship brings in 3 new players in January, I’ll willingly suspend my disapproval.

In terms of damage to the north east region, I’d imagine the products that rolled from the former Scottish & Newcastle Brewery opposite the ground blighted more lives, both instrumentally and influentially, than Wonga has, thus far. I don’t wish to be flippant but mere outrage at this sponsorship deal is simply a waste of breath; rather like the mendacious, provocative renaming of St. James’ Park, the machinations of the current owners will be met initially with an indignant clamour that gives way to a contemptuous distaste. No-one ever referred to the ground as anything other than St. James’ Park anyway.

As regards the betrayal of those suffering under the yoke of poverty, or whatever else this deal is supposed to have resulted in, it seems fair to ask just where were the howls of derision in the environs of Bloomfield Road or Tynecastle when Wonga struck deals in the past. If this arrangement means my team can dismantle their local rivals 5-1 in the cup final, as Hearts did last season, then I say bring it on, even if Hibs are my Scottish team.

Frankly, as a Marxist and a passionate believer in supporter ownership, I can’t imagine a situation whereby I would approve of the business practices of any commercial partners, though this old punk would die happy if Rough Trade records decided to sponsor my club.

I don’t think I expressed myself particularly eloquently, but at least The Independent didn’t traduce me in the way the loathsome Grauniad did back in 2007.

In many ways, it is more than annoying that the Wonga deal has been announced at this point in the season, as it deflects attention from the football activities of the club which, during the period since I last commented, have seen the team take steps forward, backwards and sideways akin to a series of complicated dance steps that remain impossible to learn. Away points at Everton and Reading were garnered in a pair of 2-2 draws that combined abysmal opening halves, astute tactical readjustments and a brace of Demba Ba goals in each. Equally important, the rub of the refereeing green has been with us on each occasion, making displeasure at Cisse’s “goal” versus Manchester United less than credible, as we remain 2-1 up on dodgy decisions. Perhaps it is true; the big clubs, like us, get all the decisions against the smaller ones. I have to say that Demba Ba’s honesty about his handball goal at the Madjeski proved yet again that the man is an absolute gentleman; what a wonderful ambassador for the club he is.

Europe has been intriguing. Last Thursday’s 3-0 battering of Bordeaux, easily the season’s best performance, was as heralded as it was unexpected. I’d gone there in full expectation we would lose 2-0 as Bordeaux, despite their collapse after the second goal went in, are a handy outfit. The youngish nature of the crowd, on the back of dirt cheap tickets for under 18s, added some sparkle and verve to the atmosphere, as well as allowing me to get in for £5; it wasn’t a deliberate fraud on my part, just an administrative error, acting as an example of my technological incompetence when buying tickets for Ben and his mates on line. Somehow I ended up with an extra one about four rows behind them; still it was nice to be back in the Gallowgate centre, without wanting to repeatedly ploat the gobshites who used to sit behind me in the face, as obviously they weren’t there. They’d have hated the comfortable win and encouraging performance. While Tiote is more Rambo than Rimbaud, he put his “Season in Hell” behind him to run the game, with his withdrawal for Gosling being akin to replacing Unknown Pleasures on the turntable with Black Lace’s Greatest Hits. On National Poetry Day, it was fitting that Yohan Cabaye’s glorious cross field ball to Obertan that set up the opener was as beautifully crafted as Baudelaire’s verse. The less said about the bladdered streaker who emerged from the Strawberry Corner after Cisse wrapped up the scoring the better; suffice to say our visitors from the Gironde no doubt viewed this spectacle of contemporary interpretative dance with Gallic indifference, as the rest of us cringed.

Prior to this, the banal 0-0 away to Maritimo had seen 2 points tossed away in what appeared to be a belated pre-season friendly; a shadow squad playing in an almost empty ground with a tea-time kick-off, while numerous chances are spurned with indulgent smirks by the perpetrators. While Vukic continues to underachieve and Marveaux and Gosling demonstrate they provide nothing for the team, bizarrely, only Rob Elliott, seen as the weakest player in the first team squad at the season’s start, has enhanced his reputation, both in Funchal and in the predictable 2-1 loss at Old Trafford in the League Cup. Apparently, it’s the Capital One cup now, but I’m choosing its original name, more out of habit than indignation at the thought of moneylenders cosying up to the Football League’s temple. In all seriousness, when Newcastle qualified for the Europa League at the end of last season, my first thought was how it would mean another season of failure in the League Cup; don’t get me wrong, even if we’d put out a first choice XI and won in Manchester, the next round’s draw at Chelsea would have probably seen us out on our arses. Unfortunately it now means, the season will consist of attempting to qualify for a Europa League competition we seem indifferent to this time around; Newcastle United could be renamed FC Tautology.

On the basis of home league performances, we will struggle to match last season’s league placing, but we knew that when the chance to augment the squad was passed up in the summer. The 1-0 home win over Norwich wasn’t the most convincing, but thankfully we were only up against Comrade Chris and his meagre store of tactical acumen; in the absence of Peter Lovenkrands, he was only able to bring on Grant Holt. Just when we looked vulnerable, and the unnecessary indulgent arrogance of allowing Cisse to take a penalty that would have won us the game seemed ready to haunt us, the Canaries restricted themselves to blasting aimless high balls to someone who looks like an extra from The Bill and we saw the game out. I didn’t make the Manchester United game, selling my ticket on to the incoming Boyle & Maynooth Flying Column, but, farcical defending in the opening 15 minutes apart, it was a far better performance than the Norwich one. That is of no consequence in the long run as three points were lost, almost entirely down to weaknesses in the team. To be frank, I’ve conceded loads of goals like the one Harper let in from Cleverley; then again, I’m 48 and play in division 4 of the North East over 40s league.  Looking at the current playing staff,it is blindingly obvious a centre back, a right back and a striker would do wonders for the squad; you know it, I know, Pardew knows it, probably even Llambias knows it. The time to buy them was last summer; we didn’t and we’ve failed to progress. 

With the Mackems on the horizon, January’s window looks a long way off; 17 games away to be precise, 13 of them in the league. In this context, it’s hard not to demand the club spends big to make up for the smug prudence of the summer; perhaps Wonga can forward us the money. I wish I was joking…

Musical Notes: Summer of 76 & Spirit of 69

As 2012 moves in to its final quarter, it is beholden of me to return to the subject of popular music, for the purpose of explaining what I’ve been listening to and who I’ve been to see since we last talked. With work coming back in to play and September’s annual autumnal month of abstinence from alcohol, I haven’t been to see everything I might have done; Patti Smith was just too damn expensive at the Academy, then C86 revivalists Allo Darlin came to the Star & Shadow  on a night I had football training, while I couldn’t justify risking the £20 entry fee to see ex Fairport guitarist Ian Matthews playing the Sage with his reformed Plainsong on their farewell tour (perplexing logic to say the least) when I’ve never heard anything they’d done and A Certain Ratio simply passed me by. If I’d remembered ACR were playing, I doubt I’d have bothered to be frank; I saw them last year and while they were still great in the unemotional, brutal post funk way they’ve always been, I really didn’t appreciate how their audience has been colonised by the kind of atrichorous chuckleheads in polo shirts who were more likely to have listened to Shakatak than “To Each” back in the day. Also, they don’t do “Winter Hill,” which is their finest moment.

This weekend I’m missing out on 3 gigs on Saturday night, just to ready the homestead for the incoming Kingsbry Flying Column’s regular visit. The Lindisfarne Story, featuring Ray Laidlaw and the Billy Mitchell Band at the Whitley Bay Playhouse, Parastatic at Morden Tower (more that place in a bit) and Michelle Shocked at the Cluny, have all been kicked in to touch just so I can make a casserole and put mints under the pillow in the spare room. So, domestic beautification excepted, what have I actually been listening to?

You’ll be no doubt aware of my tendency to slip back in time whenever possible; well it’s no surprise that I’ve been riding the nostalgia train again. However, in my defence, I have to say it was Laura who fuelled my indulgence by finding a copy of “Gaye” by Clifford T Ward. The greatest hits, such as they are, of this long dead minor marvel of early 70s English singer / songwriting, come on a single CD that she snapped up for a measly quid at Tynemouth Station Sunday market back in August. It’s gentle, it’s earnest with a pinch of whimsy and it shouldn’t be forgotten for 3 songs alone; his only hit single “Gaye” shaved the top 10 in March 1973, while its b-side “Home Thoughts From Abroad” is probably Robert Browning’s only chart name check and the delightful “Scullery” has been committed to posterity by appearing on probably every festive anthology of “The Old Grey Whistle Test” I’ve seen since BBC4 came on air. Strongly recommended.

As well as delving back to the early 70s, the more militant end of that decade always gets a hearing in this house; The Mekons and Gang of Four are always on heavy rotation on my Ipod. This is even more the case since I purchased “Content,” Gang of Four’s stunning 2011 album that manages to sound both incredibly modern and the logical follow up to 1981’s “Solid Gold.” Tracks such as “You don’t have to be Mad” and “Second Life” are up there with the very greatest tracks from “Entertainment.” I would pay literally hundreds of pounds to see them live again.

I’d also love to see The Mekons live again, but I must admit their 2011 release “Ancient & Modern” was more of a loyalty purchase than one fired by enthusiasm. There are moments of true glory, such as “Warm Summer Sun,” but it’s perhaps because Tom Greenhalgh is able to keep his quirky and charming songs for Mekons albums, while Jon Langford spreads his talents across several bands, such as the Pine Valley Cosmonauts and Waco Brothers, that the material isn’t uniformly strong. I like my Mekons cynical and unpredictable rather than simply giving dull narratives in an ersatz Americana style. Tom still lives in Brixton, while Langford’s been way out west for 20 years or more. More Harehills; less Beverley Hills is the message they need to internalise….

In a similarly acoustic style but far more engaging on the ear, Randolph’s Leap are a gorgeous, low-fi, twee octet from Glasgow and their self-titled, home recorded debut is the best £5 I’ve spent this summer for sure. Contained within this release, there are several absolute classic cuts; “Counting Sheep” and “Dying in My Sleep” are both contenders for the most joyful slabs of optimistic, good time Caledonian indie I’ve heard in what is turning out to be a bumper year for Scottish music (Lenzie Moss, Teen Canteen and Jo Mango are all scheduled to release stuff before year’s end, which is enough to make my overflowing heart burst with expectation). At the same time, Lightships  issued the “Fear and Doubt” 10” single, including the best track from “Electric Cables,” the gossamer glory that is “Silver and Gold,” alongside 3 other tracks, the pick of which is the baroque and beautiful “University Avenue” that really wouldn’t be out of place on “Astral Weeks.”

The same day as I purchased the Lightships 10”, I also picked up an 8 track Trembling Bells EP that shows them to be the hardest working band in the world. Not content with releasing the absolute number 1 nominee for album of this year, “The Marble Downs,” they’ve found time to release another 4 tracks with Bonnie Prince Billy and 4 more with Glasgow Socialist choir, Muldoon’s Picnic. This work is as uniformly stunning as ever, especially “Yorkshire in October,” but when Laura and I saw them in York in late August at the excellent Duchess, it was abundantly clear Trembling Bells are moving on; no “Carbeth,” though thankfully they still dedicated “Goathland” and “Just As The Rainbow” to us, but 4 new songs already integrated in to the set. Two of them, “The Bells of Burford” and “Broad Majestic Aire” are as good as any they’ve released so far and that really is saying something. In 1969, Fairport Convention released both “Unhalfbricking” and “Liege and Lief;” of all the bands currently on the scene, only Trembling Bells have it in them to match that level of creative output and better the quality of those landmark releases. Oh it’s going to be so exciting waiting for them to do that. I love this band; love them beyond words. Coming back from York, Laura and I were on the same train as John and Yulene after they’d flown in to Manchester from Bilbao and were heading up home; he’s taken a copy of “The Marble Downs” back to Euskadi, as I keep trying to spread the word about Trembling Bells, by palming off burnt CDs. Even if their gigs are sparsely attended, which both baffles and appals me, at least my conscience is clear about loving them and doing my best by them, as well as the two acts Laura and I went to see for her birthday; more fabulous Scottish indie pop from The Wellgreen and the entirely adorable Euros Childs at the wonderful Star & Shadow.

The longer this year goes on, the more I’m convinced that we’ve all fallen in to a musical time warp and that the sounds we’re hearing are all from the post Middle Earth, pre 100 Club generation. A few months ago I actually believed we were back in 1972, now I’m not so sure. Trembling Bells in York felt like a 1969 era Fairport Convention performance (remember; Snowgoose are 1969 era Pentangle as well), so good was it. In contrast Euros Childs and The Wellgreen could have been happening at any moment in the time between early 1974 and mid 1976; not only does it feel like punk never happened a lot of the time these days (unlike what BBC4 is telling us every Friday night), but that seems to be a good thing.

Until February 2011, I hadn’t even heard of Euros Childs, much less heard anything by him; since then I’ve seen him live on 5 occasions in 5 different venues, bought 3 of his albums (including his latest “Summer Special” at this gig) and found myself bowled over by the incredible, prolific creative genius of the man who held the audience (including a boozy, boisterous element near the bar that initially seemed more intent of getting loaded than watching the show) enraptured. Frankly, and I don’t say this lightly, the man reminds me of David Bowie in the period from “Hunky Dory” to “Low;” wildly electric, brilliantly creative & able to switch styles effortlessly from song to song.

The Star & Shadow is a great venue; an independent cinema co-operative that recalls the spirit of more ideologically earnest times and acts as the antidote to hideous corporate venues like the appalling 02 Academy. Could that have been the hint we were in the 1970s again? Well, the next time I visit Vic Godard, Davey Henderson & Pauline Murray are sharing a bill, so that gives us a clue. We arrived around 9.00, missing first act Adam Stearns as we’d popped in to The Cluny down the bottom of the bank to wish my mate Dan from work good luck, as his band Dennis were playing a gig that night as well. Typically, their next gig is November 30th; Vic Godard night. I’ve got a copy of their debut EP and it is well worth a listen; a solid, honest local acoustic indie band with a brass section and immaculate proletarian credentials.

Last December, Euros had played a solo piano show at The Literary & Philosophical Society in town, where it was limited to 80 tickets; this evening the Star & Shadow was pretty close to capacity, not to mention stiflingly hot after a day of unseasonal warmth. This all added to the really positive, fun vibe. The Wellgreen were the first act we saw; more succulent fruits from the glorious tree of Scottish indie. It could have been The Monkees we were watching, it could have been David Cassidy, though it was CSN&Y when they did “Teach Your Children.” The harmonies, the lyrics, the understated musicianship, the banter, the bonhomie, the integrity; within 2 songs I knew I was buying their album. Afterwards I got to have a chat with Stuart (and briefly Marco); charming, friendly, erudite young men, who it is a pleasure to encourage. The Wellgreen are everything we need a band to be. It honestly fills me with hope and with pride to know that there is a rich and glorious creative seam of independence that cuts through the corporate shit and the falsity of so much of the mainstream. Yet this wasn’t arty or challenging music we were hearing; it was beautifully crafted intelligent pop music.

When Euros arrived with The Wellgreen and Andrew Stearns as his backing band, in the guise of the Roogie Boogie Band, it was pub rock with a hint of glam. Elements of Dr. Feelgood, Kraftwerk, Wings (I’m not making this up) all melded together in to what honestly could have been Euros Childs & The Spiders from Mars to provide one of those rare sets where there wasn’t a duff number. Despite my catch up activities over the past 18 months, I’m still woefully ignorant of much of his back catalogue, so bear with me if I don’t know all the titles.

Stand out moments included the beautifully daft ghost story of “Cavendish Hall” and the saddest song of all time “Parents’ Place” from “Ends,” not to mention the 12-bar goodtime stomp of “Roogie Boogie” and “That’s Better” from the no doubt consciously mid-70s culturally referenced “Summer Special.” Songs I’d not heard before that brought the house down included a demonic, rock god “Horse Riding” and “The First Time I Saw You,” that encapsulated everything on side 2 of “Low” in one synth riff. No encores after that; just 75 minutes of superb, engaging, commercial pop rock suffused with the endearing world view of a man I’ve come to admire so profoundly. Thank you Euros Childs for making the world a better place. Needless to say, he was wonderful company afterwards; diffident, charming & humble. There really aren't enough superlatives for this man. And The Wellgreen are wonderful too.

To end the month, I went to see Stuart Moxham from the Young Marble Giants, supported by Gina from The Marine Girls in her current project The Fenestration at Morden Tower. This incredibly intimate venue, accessed down the back alley behind Stowell Street and up a staircase in the medieval west walls of the city, struggles to hold more than 50, but surely is the true hidden jewel of Newcastle’s music venues. Used for spoken word and acoustic events since 1964, it is to my eternal shame that I’d never been there before. It felt like a missing scene from “Get Carter” as I trudged, knee-deep, through Chinese restaurant detritus, the tang of sweet and sour sauce shot through with MSG permeating each pore in the brickwork, trying to find the place.

Once inside, I began to feel a little claustrophobic as the audience pushed up towards 30, comprising the parents and the children of the 1990s Slampt generation. First on was Wilt Wagner; a one man Thomas Leer and Robert Rental tribute act. It was like 1978 all over again as a low-fi synth and attendant electronics took us on a sometimes pastoral, sometimes painful 15 minute musical exploration. I liked it enormously, unlike the next act.

The Fenestration, a husband and wife team who won’t see 45 again, wore pastel cardigans as if they were auditioning for an AmDram version of “Pee Wee’s Big Adventure” and, rather than a band, they appeared to be a pair of benevolent, ageing, formerly trendy Primary School music teachers attempting to coax a particularly reluctant cohort through the greatest hits of Trixie’s Big Red Motorcycle for the end of term concert. Without being insulting, this was an almost unbearable, unlistenable 30 minute excursion in to the unacceptable hinterlands of twee. Bear in mind, this woman wasn’t invited to join Grab Grab the Haddock after The Marine Girls folded. She sang, atonally and unpleasantly sharp, while he doodled on a cheap Casio and Strat-shaped electric mandolin, as well as interminably farting about with a mini drum machine before each song, like he was answering a particularly intractable proposition from Wittgenstein via text message. It was a terrible load of tripe. Please don’t encourage these people.

Stuart Moxham must be encouraged; post YMG and his later solo vehicle The Gist, he got a job as an illustrator and brought up a family. Now in his 50s, divorced and downbeat, he has returned to music, with the beautiful, cathartic “Six Winter Mornings” album I purchased at this gig. It’s a dry run to see if he can do the old material with a full band, including his daughter on vocals. Also he’s done some tender acoustic stuff with a mate Derek Halliday; it sounds like post Sandy era Fairport, so they fact that Stuart and Derek look like Mulligan and O’Hare just added to the Cropredy vibe. As regards his previous musical output, I sincerely hope he takes the plunge and tours with a full band; leaving early because I was knackered and wanted to see The Football League Show means I still haven’t heard “Final Day” performed live.

So, there we have it; October looks a quiet month, before The Wedding Present, Half Man Half Biscuit, Dirty Three and the previously mentioned Vic Godard / Sexual Objects extravaganza hint that November will be the live month of the year…

GB89

I’m not sure if it’s the same at all clubs, but fans of Newcastle United simply can’t deal with international breaks; forced inactivity turns the support in to ADHD sufferers that have discarded their Ritalin prescriptions, preferring instead to dabble with heavy doses of psilocybin. Consequently, the pregnant non-competitive pause between the Villa game on 2nd September and the Everton fixture 15 days later saw a tidal wave of preposterous bilge on social media that bore the scantest passing resemblance to reality. According to the 140 character Schopenhauers, Ba, Ben Arfa, Cabaye, Cisse and Tiote were all for the off in January, with season-long injury victims Colo and Krul also heading for the exits come next May when the club would no doubt have been relegated; all the cash raised by the big money departures would be going in to Ashley’s pockets of course, to help him fund his buyout of NewHuns. Just as the paint pots and marked pens were being primed for more bed sheet bravado, the truth came out; basically, Ba was unhappy at being left on the bench against Everton. He said this after coming off the bench and scoring the two goals, allied to the kind of fortunate decisions big clubs like us get from the officials, which got us a point. End of story.

While remarking that Newcastle United’s foolhardy policy of parsimony in the transfer market over the summer has rendered the Europa League more of an encumbrance than a joy, as we’ll be sending out the likes of Danny Gosling to represent the club on the European stage out of necessity rather than choice, bearing in mind the pressure placed on our small squad by injuries to Colo, Krul, Tiote and (I feel almost embarrassed to type his name) Simpson, the only other Newcastle United story over the past fortnight was the reserve derby. It ended 2-2, there were 1,800 there, mainly below the ages of 16, all housed in the East Stand. At full time, buses 12, 21, 39 & 40 must have been completely empty as the West End and East End Year 10 lads took it to the 50 fare-dodging Mackem charvas, who promptly ran away through Leazes Park when the volume cranked up; strange how intimidating singing can be.

Of course, a rather more important story was how ignoring a proffered hand can be seen as an inflammatory gesture. At the QPR v Chelsea game, Anton Ferdinand pointedly refused to shake the loathsome John Terry’s hand, nor that of the equally contemptible Ashley Cole, in relation to Terry’s utter lack of contrition for his self-confessed racist abuse of Ferdinand last season in the same game. Disgracefully, it is now seen by sections of the media, and among bovine fans who seem content to be led by the nose by Talksport and tabloid loudmouths, that Ferdinand is the one to blame for the continuation of this apparent feud. What a terrible rewriting of the facts; what an atrocious red herring. This situation was started by Terry’s ignorant, abusive, foulmouthed comments in the first place; the legal process may have ended, but the FA has yet to act. Presumably JT’s brief has told him not to apologise to Ferdinand publicly, to avoid any admission of guilt before a disciplinary tribunal sits. As a result, Anton Ferdinand has still not seen justice done. Once Terry’s case has been heard and the man finally shows contrition for and understanding of the wrong in his actions we may be able to move on. However, if Ferdinand still chooses not to shake Terry’s hand, and if the Premier League then uses this as a reason to dispense with this farcical pre match ritual, then I’ll be pleased. Frankly, if you want to shake hands, then perhaps you should consider joining the Freemasons; if you do, you can meet loads of retired and serving police officers. Perhaps you could ask them their take on the recent Hillsborough revelations, which have been the real football story over the past few weeks.

The news that incompetence and complacent avarice at the heart of the English domestic game was the root cause of the Hillsborough disaster and appalling police tactics on the day itself the main contributory factor as regards the scale of the tragedy, bearing in mind the complete contempt and outright hostility with which all football fans, regardless of club, social class or social demographic, were viewed by the entire ruling sectors of society, will come as absolute no surprise  to anyone who has the slightest insight in to the nature of British society during the Thatcher Years. You don’t need to have been a regular matchgoer, or even to have lived through the era, though obviously both of those things are relevant in terms of the insight they give to the prevailing social conditions of the time, to understand the brutal, repressive nature of the Police State that Britain was during the 1980s; a cursory, dispassionate appraisal of the legislation passed during this period, allied to the outpourings of pro-Government propaganda on television and in the press, shows exactly how hard it was to assert individuality during that era. Orwell’s image of the boot heel repeatedly stamping on a human face was as much a literal fact as a metaphorical image in the year of 1984.

From the Brixton Riots of 1981, to the South Atlantic imperialist adventure in the Malvinas in 82, to the decade long utter dismantling of manufacturing industry and the attendant social problems caused by the lumpenization of the British working classes that blight cities throughout the land to this day, the Thatcher agenda of reverse class war is evident from day 1; nothing sums up this repulsive ideology of brutalising hatred more than the Miners’ Strike of 1984/1985. This tragic defeat cut deep wounds in to the social fabric of mining communities throughout the land; in parts of South Yorkshire these wounds still have not healed. My ex-wife is from Barnsley; her best friend from school married a miner from South Elmshall. When his pit shut in 93, in the second wave of Hesletine-inspired cuts, he joined the police force. From that day onwards, his family refused to speak to him, using a single word by means of explanation for their actions; Orgreave. Who can really blame them?

Don’t just take my word for it, read David Peace’s mesmerising, brilliant fictional retelling of Governmental malfeasance and the tragic impact it had on the lives of ordinary, dignified working class lives in GB84. Once you’ve read that book, you’ll be prepared for the soon come revelations that deceit, corruption and the vile manipulation of a complaint media by the forces of social control were involved in the shameful absolving of blame of South Yorkshire Constabulary in the Hillsborough disaster. The bastards may have got away with it for 23 years, but the facts will out and they will show that the Government fixed it for the Police to get off scot free in the aftermath of 96 tragic, preventable deaths, as a way of saying thanks to SYP for ensuring the Miners’ Strike failed and ensuring that the boys in blue would continue to act as state condoned shock troops, hell-bent on social repression and drunk on power.

Remember; 96 innocent people died at a football match. That should never happen. Even at the time, the newly-released Hillsborough papers, made available on the day that the contemptible Michael Owen tweeted “Big thanks to the Police” after Cheshire plod had apprehended a trespasser at his racing stables, show the admission at the time that 41 lives, at a conservative estimate, could have been saved were it not for police tactics. These tactics may be seen, and to an extent excused, as being merely incompetent, but that is wrong. The actions of SYP were actually based on the prevailing attitude of the ruling elite that regarded all fans as potential criminals and an enemy to be confronted and tamed by any means necessary. A new inquest, allowing for evidence beyond the farcically imposed cut off point off 3.15, must follow and, though I’m not holding my breath, proper justice must be seen to be served by a series of court cases against those involved in the disaster and subsequent cover-up. However, bearing in mind the supine, obsequious nature of the CPS when required to take on the establishment, at best we may be looking at a few sacrificial lambs, hauloed up to be given suspended sentences, mainly on account of the fact they’ve gone off message from the wall of silent deceit and the closing of the thin blue line in obfuscatory contempt. Witness the Head of West Yorkshire Police, who was on duty that fateful day, stating last week “Fans’ behaviour … made the job of the police, in the crush outside Leppings Lane turnstiles, harder than it needed to be.” The blame is still being heaped on the innocent and the dead and that truly sickens me.

At the time of the disaster, the ruling class attitude of repression and contempt was as pervasive as it was effective, both tactically and ideologically. The day of Hillsborough, I was watching Newcastle lose 1-0 to a Paul Davis penalty against Arsenal at Highbury; they’d be champions and we’d finish bottom. In a ground where the facilities knocked spots off the crumbling concrete and rusting girders I was used to, stewards treated away fans with dignity and decency; unlike the hideous crushes and appalling views of White Hart Lane, or air of impending violence that hung over Stamford Bridge like noxious cigar smoke, Highbury was a decent place to watch a game of football. We still lost. Nick Hornby writes brilliantly about the day and the kneejerk reaction of fans in Fever Pitch. I hold my hand up as guilty as the rest in assuming, when I heard the news of the disaster, that “Scouse bastards” had gone on the rampage and caused an abandonment. Basically, the media stereotype of football hooligans permeated the consciousness of other football fans, giving an indication as the effectiveness of the state propaganda machine. There is no better example of false consciousness prevalent among ordinary fans than the anti-Liverpool comments I heard inside and outside of Highbury that day. That said, all of us learned very quickly that we’d made terrible false assumptions. Don’t blame us; blame hegemony, as wielded by the Thatcher state apparatus. Divide and rule was their mantra and their casus belli.

I was in London that weekend for a gig; Dinosaur Jr in Kentish Town, staying with some mates who simply didn’t do football. Attired in bike jacket, Butthole Surfers t-shirt, tartan lumberjack shirt, split-knee 501s and paint-spattered 7 hole DMs, it was fair to say I was at variance to the football casual fashions of the day. Indeed, I didn’t look like a football fan at all, which enabled me to blend in with ease as I made my way from Highbury back towards Finsbury Park and the pre-gig meet up in The World’s End pub on Upper Tollington Park. All the way up, I eavesdropped on conversations about the goings-on at Hillsboorugh and to those carrying transistors tuned to Sports Report, as the news from Sheffield unfolded. A sense of unease, mingled with guilt, that turned to shock, horror and eventually boiling anger, as further revelations about the day emerged; it wasn’t “Scouse bastards” to blame at all; it was “Tory bastards.” 23 years on, it is still the “Tory bastards” we must blame. Strangely, I didn’t hear a single word about the disaster at the gig; in those days, music and football were different worlds. Mind, I’d still contend that arena gigs of landfill indie that many fans seem to consider the cutting edge of popular culture are as contemptible as the Luther Vandross and Gloria Estefan soundtrack 80s footballers seemed addicted to.

Despite the poisonous lies spread by Murdoch’s minions in the immediate aftermath, the real truth was to be found in the samizdat accounts of supporter zeitgeist in the fanzine movement. These days When Saturday Comes may be a toothless billet doux for AFC Wimbledon, but back then, it was a crusading mouthpiece for the articulate disenfranchised. WSC was clear about Hillsborough; this was not our fault, it was the fault of the authorities who’d treat us like cattle for so many years. Sadly, the events of 15^th April 1989 meant so many of our fellow supporters were lambs to the slaughter.

The emergence of a percentage of the truth related to Hillsborough means that we must never forgive and never forget; the petty whining of Newcastle fans about squad strength or the first half against Everton has been put firmly in context, as has the Ferdinand / Terry situation. Red herrings such as these and the excoriation of Manchester United fans for singing “it’s never your fault” to a Liverpool fan base who continue to chant about Munich to this day, revealing both sets of fans need to get their house in order and a blame or victim culture does nothing but play in to the hands of enemies of the game, must not deflect from the inalienable truth; 96 innocent football fans lost their lives. Those responsible for those deaths, historically and on the day of the tragedy, as well as those who smeared the victims and covered up the corruption and incompetence that followed, must be brought to book. Only when this has happened can we truly say we will have seen Justice For The 96.

Careful now.....

If you read last week’s blog, you’ll no doubt have picked up on the fact that I’m a bit of a bibliophile. While the pretentious, post-modern analysis of football from a smug, pseudo-intellectual standpoint was the main motivating force behind my creation of this blog, I’ve enough love of both books and music to give those two passions an equal billing with my sporting life. In contrast, you may have noticed I’ve not got a great deal to say about representations of the moving image; in general I don’t go to the pictures and other than watching the news, Match of the Day and The Football League Show, television is frequently outside of my cultural domain.

While I’m not fully in accord with Holden Caulfield (If there's one thing I hate, it's the movies. Don't even mention them to me. J.D. Salinger Catcher in the Rye, opening page), I really can’t abide the cinema, as a building. In our 6 and a half years together, Laura and I have been to the pictures twice; to see Control and The Damned United, which if you know either feature, make for predictable choices. It’s not films themselves I don’t like, as I regularly watch DVDs and downloads of films (generally selected by Ben and purchased by me), it’s the sitting still and being quiet for 2 hours, in the the midst of the great unwashed that I can’t handle, although I used to love those little tubs of Haagen Dazs at the old Warner Brothers at Manors. Sadly, I must concur with Jean-Paul Sartre; “hell is other people.”

Television is another thing entirely; 99% of what is spewed in to our living rooms is mind poison, bereft of wit, intelligence or imagination, designed purely to sedate the populace and I avoid it at all costs, regardless of the reputation of certain shows. Sopranos? Missed it. The Wire? Never seen a second of it. Don’t get me wrong; there have been shows in the past that I adored, generally comedies and cop shows. To this day I’m word perfect on every episode of Fawlty Towers, The Sweeney and Father Ted.

The latter show was voted the best ever comedy shown by Channel 4 in its 30 year history, defeating other classic sitcoms like The Inbetweeners, The IT Crowd and Peep Show, on one of those Saturday evening list shows, broadcast the night Newcastle lost 2-0 at Chelsea. The same day had marked an FPX reunion, involving the Vitoria-Gasteiz and Low Fell branches taking in Percy Main’s 4-0 walloping of Rutherford and then some delicious hand pulled ales in the NE29 and NE30 areas. We’d watched the first half of the Newcastle game, but once it got to 2-0 Chelsea, the die had been cast. We supped up and sought out real ale bars without televisions.

Wandering back home, slightly squiffy, just before 10 (rock and roll or what?), I opted for the aforementioned Channel 4 list show in preference to Match of the Day’s fawning and slavering over the rebirth of Fernando Torres. Afterwards, there was an airing of the episode The Passion of St. Tibulus, where Dougal and Ted mildly protest against a supposedly blasphemous film, by standing outside the Craggy Island Cineplex, carrying placards bearing the less than hysterical slogans Careful now and Down with this sort of thing. It is a tribute to the show’s enduring appeal that no political demonstration or protest in Ireland to this day would be complete with homemade banners proclaiming Down with this sort of thing or Careful now.

Other than classic comedy, I do have a bit of a soft spot for police procedurals, especially when they’re tinged with nostalgia; Life on Mars was an absolute must-see and while New Tricks may be as lame as a geriatric pit pony, I enjoy it. However, the current show I really enjoy is Inspector George Gently, mainly because I can actually remember a time when Tyneside looked, sounded and felt the way it does in that programme. I must say I’m not a particular fan of Geordie themed programmes; as a kid I did like When the Boat Comes in, but when Auf Weidersehen Pet was shown, I found the stereotypical portrayal of North East males and concepts of maleness to be embarrassing and almost impossible to justify to those I associated with a quarter of a century ago, when living in Ireland for series 1 and London for series 2, even if I did try my best to stick up for my city and my football club.

However, while Oz, Dennis and Neville were all dyed-in-the-wool Newcastle United fans, both as characters and in real life, I don’t think Auf Weidersehen Pet is relevant to Newcastle United at this particular moment in time. In contrast, the actions and activities of Inspector Gently and placards bearing the slogan Careful now are absolutely crucial to understanding where the club is at this moment in time.

Where is the club at this moment in time? Well, the start to the season hasn’t been the most inspiring; after the encouraging win over a timid Spurs side (I loved Pardew clouting the linesman; “he shoves who he wants”), the Chelsea defeat was perhaps overdue, especially after 4 unbeaten trips to Stamford Bridge, culminating in last May’s glorious 2-0 victory, courtesy of Cisse’s magnificent double. The 2-1 stumble past Atromitos on aggregate wasn’t a fluke, but it was very far from being straightforward; not just because the score line was too tight for comfort, but because of the shapeless, limp and uninspiring play by so many of the back-up players who singularly failed to grasp the opportunity afforded to them, other than perhaps Vukic and Obertan. Perhaps the person we should be most grateful towards should be referee Stephan Struder for not giving a penalty against Tim Krul when he clearly upended Chumbinho, after dropping a routine shot from Epstein. However, on a quid pro quo basis, we’re paying for that good fortune with a mini injury crisis: Ryan Taylor, Cheik Tiote, Shola Ameobi and now Danny Simpson are all unavailable, which has added fuel to the fire of a restive fan base.

The big problem among the support wasn’t the poor performance against Atromitos, it was the fact that transfer deadline passed without further addition to the squad. Unbelievably, the Debuchy and Douglas acquisitions weren’t concluded, so we failed to add to our defence or attack, though the latter didn’t surprise me. As I’ve said before, I thought any deal for Andy Carroll was dead in the water once it became clear Demba Ba was staying on Tyneside, though there were twinges of sadness when he looked so effective for West Ham on his debut against Fulham. The surprising arrival of Anita, who looks a decent player, seemed to pave the way for the departure of Tiote or Cabaye; when neither of them left, it seems clear Pardew was told he had nothing to spend. Add to this the fact that our only realistic chance of a shot at domestic silverware, the ludicrously named Capital One (League) Cup, seems unattainable for another season after we drew Manchester united away and you can understand why the mood among certain sets of fans was becoming decidedly tetchy.

The fact I could simply switch off from our 2-0 defeat at Chelsea, by going to a different pub at half time, shows I have reached that level of detachment and disengagement with the club, meaning I don’t get carried away by the whole hysterical breast beating and tearful ranting that accompanied the transfer deadline passing. I had initially explained the situation to both myself and any poor sod unfortunate to be stuck within earshot by reference to Inspector George Gently. Last week I believed the intemperate support and mischief making fourth estate are represented, in synecdoche, by Sergeant John Bacchus: emotional, overwrought, mercurial and quixotic locals, often unable to see the wood for the trees. In contrast, Ashley, Pardew and Llambias are Inspector Gently incarnate; intelligent, perceptive, undemonstrative outsiders from the south east, up here to sort things out for the natives. Then, the Villa game gave a chance for the anti-Ashley murmurings to become a chorus, not a deafening one, but loud enough to require the issuing of a need for perspective, both for the already restive ranks and my previously unflappable self; rather than heading back down the queasy emotional rollercoaster of conflict, to a soundtrack of “Get out of our club,” it is time for us all to be Careful now….

Let’s be honest, the first half against Villa was rank. While Stephen Ireland played out of his skin, Newcastle handed the initiative to the previously pointless visitors with some woeful crossing, immobile attacking and lame tackling. It is no surprise that we are currently the worst tacklers in the Premier League. Sadly, we are struggling with several players who are badly out of form; Ba, Cabaye, Cisse, even Krul (though he is yet to be punished for suspect handling) are shadows of last season, thus far, while we also have the burden of the mini injury crisis and the effects of such modest close season transfers, even if it must be stated Bigirimana was fabulous against Villa in the second half; perhaps he is really Baby Cheik?

Unsurprisingly, Monday’s Chronicle was full of doom and gloom, despite Ben Arfa’s brilliant equaliser and the fact Cabaye was millimetres away from winning it (if Shay Given had been playing, he’d never have stopped it). One gloomy customer said the Villa game demonstrated “the folly of Ashley and Pardew’s non-efforts in the transfer window for all to see,” despite Anita and Bigirmana having great games. Another Stalinist revisionist stated “Ba and Cisse don’t look like a natural partnership. It is time to give Marveaux his chance,” despite the fact they did look the business last season, both for us and Senegal and that Marveaux was absolute bilge versus Atromitos.

Obviously a bad result, following on from a poor performance and the lack of signings has brought the mood of the support down quite low and I include myself in that. The crucial question is whether there is an element of overreaction coming in to play, or if the gloom is justifiable as we’ve missed a big opportunity to push on by not “signing big,” whatever that may mean these days. Well, before we start burning effigies of the manager on Barrack Road, let’s see what the next month of Premier League games has in store; Everton (A), Norwich (H), Reading (A) and Man Utd (H), as well as Man Utd in the League Cup and Europa games away to Maritimo and home to Bordeaux. Perhaps after these 7 games, we’ll be better placed to decide whether gently does it, or whether it really is time to bring Xisco back home. If you’re tempted by the latter, you’d best be Careful now….

Printhead

I love my job; I wouldn’t exactly say that I love work per se, but I do love my job. It is rewarding and an honour to be paid for what I love doing. It wasn’t always this way; fifteen years ago I’d do almost anything to stop more than the merest fraction of my mind being occupied by what I was paid to do, as I felt resentful giving any of my mind’s capacity away, but as I’m a devotee of Philip Larkin, it seems that as I’ve grown older, I’ve unconsciously replicated the emotional journey he made between “Toads” and its successor companion piece “Toads Revisited.” While I’m not yet ready for Cemetery Road, I find that the older I get, the greater the amount of energy work takes out of me and consequently my stated interests / hobbies /obsessions (Real Ale, literature, obscure Indie music, non-league football and loony left politics) are being squeezed by the sheer amount of effort it takes to keep body and soul together by doing my job. Clearly, something has to give and while football is obviously sacrosanct (Monday 27 August: Team Northumbria v Hebburn Town, Bedlington Terriers v Ashington, Tuesday 28 August: Birtley Town v Chester Le Street, Wednesday 29 August: Whitley Bay A v Percy Main Amateurs, Thursday 30 August: Newcastle United v Atromitos, Friday 31 August: Team Northumbria v Newcastle Benfield, Saturday 1 September: Whitley Bay v Bedlington Terriers, Sunday 2 September: Newcastle United v Aston Villa, Monday 3 September: Team Northumbria v Penrith, Tuesday 4 September: Whitley Bay v Sunderland RCA), this is why I take September and January off the drink each year to allow my head to recover, why I’ve already decided to pass up the opportunity of seeing gigs by Patti Smith, Plainsong and Allo Darlin in early September, why I’ll not be at the 20th October Coalition of Resistance demo in London and why, sadly, I feel unable to read a book for personal pleasure from New Year to Whitsuntide each year.

I must read, at a rough guess, 250,000 words a week when I’m at work (which means term time and all holidays, bar the Christmas break); the level of concentration and critical awareness needed to plough through that amount of prosodic verbiage and still come up with cogent and evaluative comments for each chunk digested is not an onerous task, but still is one that requires a responsible, sentient response. After so much reading for profit, I find that reading for pleasure needs to be unchallenging in the main; metonymic moaning about Newcastle United and banal cyber chatter will do for me in autumn, winter and spring. Consequently, I park books at my bedside until the last week of May each year and as the students wrestle with exams, I relish the chance of finally being able to read what I want until September arrives.
Actually, that’s not strictly true; I’m so polite, I can’t turn down books proffered with the usual, predictable insistence that “you must read this; you’ll love it.” I point out I’ll not be able to return it until June, but often that works in my favour as my rusty critical faculties and tired eyes are knocked in to shape by these literary equivalents of pre-season friendlies, as I feel beholden to get these books out the way before I start on what I really want to read. So, what was on the Cusack bedside cabinet this summer?

First up was Brian Kennedy’s exhaustive tome on League of Ireland football, “Just Follow the Floodlights.” I’d borrowed this from my mate John McQuaid, having to get it read so as I could take it back to him on 31 May when I flew over for the first of my 2012 Irish pilgrimages. Kennedy’s book is useful; indeed I found its existence profoundly irritating as it knocked my idea for my proposed second book on the head. However, Kennedy’s book falls between two stools in that it is neither a detailed account of a season, even though all the games took place in 2011 and he visits every League of Ireland ground, nor is it a scholarly historical account of the game of football in Ireland, either from the late 19th Century or post Partition, depending on the defining political and geographical compass of the book. Kennedy doesn’t touch on the game in the Six Counties, other than describing the quality of hot dogs in the Brandywell and the idea of discussing any links between sport, politics and cultural traditions in the whole island of Ireland is way beyond his remit. Perhaps this subject is the book on football / soccer in (the Republic of / Northern) Ireland that needs to be written in the future.

Also related to Ireland was a novel loaned to me by my friend Ceri; “The Cove Shivering Club” by Michael Curtin, who was a name unknown to me prior to early June. Frankly, I’ll not be searching out any more of his stuff. Suffering from bad editing and a surfeit of minor characters, picaresque interpolations of little interest to the reader or relevance to the plot and a damp squib of an ending, it was part nostalgic Bildungsroman, with the emphasis on “dung,” and part dull examination of gender politics in Celtic Tiger Ireland. Curtin’s book appears to have disappeared without trace after an initial printing; I hope he has learned to write with more discipline in the interim, as I see he has other books out there, which I don’t intend to read.

A borrowed book I loved was “Rip It Up: Post Punk 78-84” by Simon Reynolds, which talked to me in minute detail about the bands  who meant so much to me in my formative musical years and who, as I approach 50, still dominate my Ipod. The Gang of Four, Wire, The Mekons, The Raincoats, Cabaret Voltaire, The Fall, Pere Ubu and a litany of others on Rough Trade, Fast Product and Postcard were the soundtrack to Reynolds’s upbringing and while he doesn’t include himself in the narrative, I can imagine he’s talking on behalf of thousands of teenage, pseudo-intellectual wannabe intellectual artistes who listened fervently to John Peel on transistors underneath pillows in darkened bedrooms as the Winter of Discontent ground on in the real world. This book is definitely highly recommended; cheers to Knaggsy (High Heaton’s Number 1 Killing Joke and Dancing Lessons fan) for lending it to me.

The final borrowed book was the touching and incredibly important “As If,” by Blake Morrison, which examines the James Bulger case and subsequent trial of Jon Venables and Robert Thompson. It is a tough read, but a rewarding one; Morrison manages to be sympathetic and outraged, without being vengeful in his prose. Published back in the mid-1990s, one can almost sense the mantra “tough on crime; tough on the causes of crime” seeping through each paragraph. However, we live in less tolerant times and the concept of rehabilitation for offenders seems to be as immoral in the eyes of the press and media commentators as revenge was after the Bulger case. Perhaps it is time for Morrison to revisit this subject for his elegant prose will certainly prove that society would benefit from understanding more and condemning less.

So, as June moved towards July, it was time for me to reduce the pile of unread books from years gone by that had gathered dust on the bedside cabinet. Firstly “Twenty Years of the Nobel Prize for Literature,” given to me by a departing student, Wendy, in 2009, was tackled. Surprisingly, I found it intriguing and rewarding; Harold Pinter’s “Art, Truth and Politics” was as inspiring a read as I had all summer, though I also found myself touched by the words of Imre Kertesz, VS Naipaul, Gao Xingjian, Wislawa Szymborska, Nadine Gordimer, Joseph Brodsky and Wole Soyinka. It is a book I shall use in my teaching and one that humbled me to read.

I’d had Andrew Marr’s “A History of Modern Britain” since 2008, but the size of it and the freshness of the TV programme (and many of the events mentioned in it) in my memory put me off, not to mention the fact my dad and I were devotees of the programme and discussed it in detail each week. However, when my son Ben announced it was on his A Level History reading list, I knew I had to get to grips with it. If you don’t mind Marr’s voice, which leaps out from every line, and his cynical libertarian politics with their streak of intolerance for state interventionism, then it is a rattling good read. Is his analysis of post war Britain the correct one? I take as my text Xhou Enlai’s 1971 response to the question whether the French Revolution had been a success; “it’s too soon to tell.”

It was not too soon to finally read Tim Parks’s superb account of “travels around Italy in search of illusion, national character and goals,” which is how he subtitled his book “A Season with Verona,” that minutely and magnificently analyses the club’s ultimately successful fight against relegation in 2000-2001. I’ve not been to Italy and pay only scant attention to Serie A, but this book had me gripped from the start to the finish; perhaps what Parks has that Brian Kennedy and Michael Curtin lack, is the true author’s ability to manipulate words to portray and describe situations, characters and their significance. “A Season with Verona” is a glorious book, as is Anthony Cronin’s “Dead as Doornails,” which I bought myself as a treat in Dublin in August. It is an account of the 1960s Dublin literary scene; Behan, Kavanagh, Brian O’Nolan and a cavalcade of minor talents drink, snipe, brawl and ponce their way through a decade of wasted promise. Cronin, who is still alive aged 84, laments the dissipation of talent and the squandering of energy in the wrong fashion, while offering lucid literary analysis of the work of people who were his best friends, but who were all dead as doornails by the end of the 1960s. This is another book I’d recommend.

Three rubbish non-fiction ones I wouldn’t are now to be discussed. Firstly, Jim McDowell’s banal and exploitative “The Mummy’s Boys: Threats and Menaces from Ulster’s ParaMafia,” in which the notorious lush who edits the NI rag “The Sunday World” retells the Peace Process in the north of Ireland, to suggest his attempts to stagger away from the public bar of “The Duke of York” were the reason why the Loyalist paramilitaries decided to decommission their weapons. Simplistic and narcissistic by turns, it is a colouring book compared to the writings of Peter Taylor on the subject. Another load of rubbish is “Hotel Nirvana” by Melanie McGrath, a formless, shapeless account of travels in New Mexico, Texas and California among New age communities in search of spiritual enlightenment. She doesn’t find it and I only read the book on account of the fact she shares a name with my mate Declan’s wife. Equally awful is “Hang The DJ: The Alternative Book Of Music Lists” by Angus Cargill, whereby he’s asked a whole load of his mates, who wouldn’t even qualify as Z List Celebs, other than David Peace (when the hell is the final episode of the Tokyo trilogy coming out, eh?) to give their all-time Top 10 tracks, providing there’s some spurious premise behind the choice; theme tunes, murder ballads, instrumentals, great guitar solos, whatever. It’s a half decent idea spoiled by a lack of cohesion in the execution, but frankly more suited to a pub discussion than a book.

In the world of fiction, I continued my intermittent appreciation of Iain Banks, with his sadly dated, but superbly structured and compelling “Complicity,” combining unhinged yet deeply moral serial killing with chronic illness for the narrator. Like all Banks’s books, I was drawn in by his taut prose and unexpected plot elements. I should read more of his stuff I know. I read Mike McCormack’s “Crowe’s Requiem,” a tragic love fable set in Galway, because many years ago I’d read his short story collection “Getting It in the Head.” Similar to that book (and Banks in a way), a gallery of young grotesques deal with their doomed existence by paying homage to a trinity of booze, fags and fucking. Crowe’s imminent death at the end had me almost in tears; surely the mark of a good book is one that draws you in. Joseph O’Connor I can take or leave; his detective fiction appeals, while his historical intellectualism bores me rigid. “The Salesman” was a gripping read; a deeply flawed narrator living through terrible personal tragedies, struggles with the concept of revenge and reconciliation with his daughter’s attacker. The fact I knew the setting (O’Connor’s beat is Dalkey to Bray) made it seem so real, I struggled to put it down.

A book I initially struggled to pick up, out of fear of being let down (despite everyone I knew saying it was as great as could possibly be expected and then some more) was “Skagboys.” In the end, Welsh’s brilliant prequel to “Trainspotting,” with the minute personality details explaining that earlier book so much more clearly than on first reading, had me wishing it was longer. I truly hope Welsh returns to the same gallery of characters when they approach their 50s or later; how on earth do they turn out? It is almost too sad that we just don’t know.

The final 5 books I read were all by Cormac McCarthy. Having fallen in love with “No Country for Old Men” and “Blood Meridian,” I needed to read all his works; if I get through “The Border Trilogy,” I will have done. Not all of his work is of the same standard as the first 2 works mentioned, or even “The Road.” In reverse order of quality, “The Sunset Limited” is a fairly formulaic prose drama that examines questions of morality, regarding life and death; it needn’t detain us much. “Outer Dark” has the elements of gothic grotesque that recur in his other novels, but without the narrative force or breath taking turns of phrase we are used to; in effect, it is juvenilia. “The Orchard Keeper” is about a juvenile, but is an interesting account of prohibition in the land of hillbillies, with an utter lack of the grotesque that normally accompanies McCarthy’s descriptive passages.

“Child of God” is grotesque to the point of nausea, but it is also bleakly comic and unerringly crafted. I loved this book, mainly because it was so horrible, but the book I loved most the whole summer was McCarthy’s beautiful, elegiac semi-autobiographical masterpiece “Suttree,” which I’d rate higher than “Blood Meridian” in his personal oeuvre. A simple narrative involving a disenfranchised fisherman, living in Knoxville, Tennessee, who befriends the marginal and the mad, then watches them struggle on before falling by the wayside. Suttree survives, but knows he must move on and, dignified, humble and wise, the book ends as he prepares to do so. This is the finest book I’ve read all summer.

I go back to work next Monday; “The Border Trilogy” is 1,037 pages long, unread and on my bedside table; I’d best make a start.