Peace Talks.....

I'm very proud to be involved with Push, the most exciting litzine around (copies available from joe.england64@gmail.com for £3 via PayPal - buy one!!). In  the new issue, number 7, I have a story , A Quiet One, which will soon be up on my parallel fiction & poetry blog http://gilipollez.wordpress.com/ but what I'm most proud of is the interview I conducted with my favourite contemporary English novelist David Peace, which I've published below -:

David Peace was born in Ossett, near Huddersfield in 1967. After graduating from Manchester Polytechnic in 1991, he embarked upon a career teaching English as a Foreign Language, firstly in Istanbul and then in Tokyo, which has been his home since 1994. His first published novels were the Red Riding Quartet (1974, 1977, 1980 and 1983),  adapted for television by Channel 4 in 2009, which led to him being described as “the British James Ellroy,” albeit with from much more pronounced left-wing perspective. Having been named as Granta Young British Novelist of the Year in 2003, Peace produced his greatest work GB84 in 2004, before his most famous work so far, The Damned United, which tells of Brian Clough’s ill-fated spell in charge of Leeds United. After a detour to his adopted homeland, in the shape of his two-thirds completed Tokyo Trilogy, set in immediate post war Japan, Peace’s latest novel, RED OR DEAD, finds him on familiar thematic and geographical turf; Bill Shankly’s departure from Peace’s own Huddersfield Town to Liverpool, chronicling both his time in charge and retirement in 1974, after Liverpool flukily won the FA Cup over Newcastle United. One major departure for Peace is his focus on a “good” protagonist rather than the flawed or downright evil figures of his earlier novels. Push spoke to David in August 2013 in Durham and September 2013 via email.

Those of your novels set in England are set in very specific locations (Yorkshire primarily) and equally specific points in time (1959-1985 to be precise); do you see your role more as a chronicler of untold history and defender of those no longer able to defend their reputations or as an interpreter and prosecutor of the torrid obverse world of politics and the behaviour of the ruling elite during the post war period that marked the decline and destruction of the Social Democratic consensus?

In a word; both. Because I think both roles go hand in hand. It’s an old cliché that history is written by the victors. But the reason it is a cliché is because it is so bloody true. With GB84, for example, I wanted to show exactly the nature and the scale of the forces and the violence used to crush the mining communities and their union, both to defend those people who had suffered and lost so much and to accuse those who had caused that suffering and loss. And if we don’t have an accurate account or understanding of history then it is obviously impossible to make decisions about the present or the future.  I mean, one of my main motivations for putting Bill Shankly’s socialism front and centre in RED OR DEAD, aside from it being front and centre for the man himself, was that, thinking of my own two kids and their education, they would have never even come across the word socialism, if they hadn’t the misfortune to live with me. Say or think what you like about socialism, but growing up in the 1970s, we at least knew what it was and what then its potential might be. That knowledge, and therefore choice, barely even exists these days. At least, for now. Because I also do believe these things return and, more-often-than-not, stronger and more potent than before. As long as we keep writing and talking and dreaming about them, that is.   

You have lived in Japan for almost 2 decades now and published 2 novels of a proposed trilogy set in post WWII Tokyo; how do you view your relationship with Japan? Is it easier to write about your homeland or adopted country?

Well, Japan – specifically Tokyo, which is the only place I’ve ever lived in Japan – is where my kids were born and, as you say, where I’ve lived for the best part of twenty years. And so it does feel like home now. And oddly, perhaps, that only really hit me properly when I was sat on my sofa in Ossett watching the pictures of the earthquake and tsunami of March, 2011. But it is much, much harder for me to write about Japan, or at least in the way I do, than about England. I mean, I’ve read a fair few books written about Japan by non-Japanese and come across a fair few “mistakes”. So I am very wary of adding to those mistakes with my own. So I suppose I feel slightly more confident writing about England. But only slightly!

It has been reported you left England after a sojourn between 2009 and 2011, as you found it hard to write back in this country. How true is that? To what extent do you feel distance adds perspective to your writing? Certainly James Joyce didn’t find it necessary to set foot in Dublin while writing Ulysses or Finnegan’s Wake; can you see any parallels with his love / hate relationship with Ireland and yours with Yorkshire and England as a whole?

Yes, I did find it hard to write – well, I was writing, just even less well than usual – during that time. And I did miss the routine I had had in Tokyo, particularly the discipline and the concentration it gave me. And there is also the issue of distance and perspective which, when writing a book like RED OR DEAD, is very necessary. For me, at least. But, to be honest, rather than any dramatic Joycean desire for exile, my inability to write well while I was back in Ossett was more down to my own bloody willingness to be very easily distracted by the likes of Sky Sports News. And again to be honest, I don’t think I really do have a love / hate relationship with Yorkshire; I loved being back, I just hated not writing well. So, as I say, I think the most important thing for me and my writing is to be able to have a routine. And that, for many different reasons, but mainly because the lack of distractions is easier for me to achieve in Tokyo than in Ossett.

You have written about Tokyo’s Year Zero as being immediately after World War II; do you feel England has endured an epoch defining Year Zero? If so, would 1979 be the year in question, or was it another time?

I always think 1979 is a bit of red (or blue) herring. You read the Conservative Party manifesto for that election now and it almost reads like a bleeding socialist tract. So I always think 1983 was more of a turning-point. I mean, after all that had come to pass under that first Thatcher government, and all that they were planning for their next term, for the majority of people to still vote them back in, regardless of the so-called “Falklands Factor”, is harder to either understand or forgive. And if, then, there was a Year Zero for the UK, for me it was 1984-85 and the defeat of the National Union of Mineworkers. 1985 was also, of course, the year of the Bradford Fire Disaster and Heysel, the Battle of Beanfield, and then the Handsworth, Brixton and Tottenham riots. A bloody rotten year. But, in my opinion, the defeat of the National Union of Mineworkers was really Year Zero in terms of the end of the post-war social democratic consensus we talked about above.     

You spent time in England in the summer of 2013; how do you feel the country has changed since you left originally? I know you’re a big fan of, for example, Huddersfield Town and The Fall; do you miss the ease of access to such items of culture as an exile? Has there been any marked change to the social fabric of England over the recent past? My cousin who has lived in the Basque Country for 20 years finds England to be more and more repressive with each passing year. Any truth in this?

Big questions, Ian. The easy one first: yes, I miss having the opportunity of watching Huddersfield Town and The Fall. But I do get back about once a year, usually. And as we were talking above, I was back from 2009 to 2011 and got to see quite a bit of Town and also The Fall at the Balne Lane Working Men’s Club in Wakefield. I think that must have been the first time I had seen them in over twenty years and they were as great as ever. Huge crowd, too, a lot of old faces. And the woman behind the bar told me it was the most money they’d taken since the wrestling. But to less easy, more contentious things: I always get a bit of stick for saying this, and I know it’s only my opinion, but I think the biggest change I’ve noticed in England, while I’ve been away, is in places like Dewsbury and Batley. I went to school in that area and it was very mixed. In our class there were about ten white kids and twenty or so black and Asian kids. I wouldn’t ever pretend it was all sweetness and light but, basically, folk got on. Or learned how to. Now it seems me to those towns are not as well integrated as they were. Mates of mine talk about “no-go areas” and the like. Of course, you go down to Dewsbury market and it’s very mixed. But, in terms of housing and schooling, there are more divisions than before. And in those two years I was back in Ossett, the only time I met or spoke with anyone who wasn’t white was in a take-away or a taxi. My feeling is there is a lot more distance and suspicion, on both sides, than there used to be. But, then again, I know that is all very subjective; same with your question about the sense of England becoming more and more repressive. There always seems to be a new rule about something. But that is true in Japan, too. And I’ve been stopped by the police in both countries in the last two years. So, in both countries, the police seem evermore curious about where I’m going and what I’ve been doing.     

  

What are your future writing plans? Will the Tokyo Trilogy be next? What of other suggested titles like UKDK, The Yorkshire Rippers (possibly about Geoffrey Boycott?) and Nineteen Forty Seven?  You’ve mentioned in the past you may give up writing novels after you’ve completed 12 and publish a collection of “very bad poetry;” if this is so, we’d be happy to consider them for publication in Push…

Very kind of you, Ian. Ta very much! But before I foist my poetry on Push, I have to finish the Tokyo Trilogy, which I am doing now, and then UKDK; I see that book as the last of a very loose quartet with GB84, THE DAMNED UTD and RED OR DEAD. Briefly, UKDK is about Wilson, and his fall, and Thatcher, and her rise. I also keep boxes of notes and stuff for possible, potential books and there is a very big one dedicated to Geoffrey Boycott. The one thing, though, that writing RED OR DEAD - and about a man in his retirement - taught me is to think very carefully before you retire. So the bad news is I no longer intend to stop after twelve books. But I should spend less time talking about all these books and more time writing them!

Finally, Ossett Town or Ossett Albion; who do you prefer?

Town, always Town. My Grandparents lived very close to Ingfield, where the ground is now, and when we were back living in Ossett recently, the house we rented overlooked the ground, too. But I think it is more to do with me coming from North Ossett, than anything else. Albion are South Ossett. A different world. And as we know, north and south rarely mix. 

Shifting Allegiances

Monday 30th September was the deadline for erecting floodlights at Heaton Stannington FC; unfortunately some problems with the ground works have delayed this. As a result the moaning minnies on www.nonleaguezone.com have had about a thousand hysterical fits each, but no matter. The lights will be up soon and The Northern League will no doubt be supportive of us. I really hope so as I adore Heaton Stannington, in a way I never quite managed with Percy Main. I attempted to articulate this in a piece I wrote for "Stand AMF," which seems to have had troubles of its own with editorial changes and potential relaunches galore. We'll see if it makes it in to print and whether my piece passes muster in the fulness of time. Regardless of that, here's my bit on The Stan -:

The ex-brother in law Mark is a bit of a knob; frankly he’s the sort of bloke who’d fail a personality test. He’s from Keighley but calls himself a lifelong Liverpool supporter (full kit to play 5-a-sde, Shankly t-shirt to go round ASDA; you know the drill), not that he ever goes to see his team, unlike his missus and their daughter Molly; the ex-sister in law Lisa has watched Barnsley all her life, so it’s natural for her and the bairn to have season tickets at Oakwell. They never miss, now Molly is old enough to stay awake at midweek games on school nights, even doing League Cup ties and the odd away game. All this while Mark is curled up on the sofa with Jeff Stelling, though Mark did get to one game last season, as he somehow got hold of a pair of tickets for the League Cup Final and rediscovered a hitherto dormant love for the side closest to his place of birth, Bradford City; a team I’d never even heard him mention before. Clad from head to toe in claret and amber, the sedentary scouse sympathiser and Dominic, his son from his first marriage, became 90 minute Bantams on an absent father and distant son’s bonding weekend in the smoke. What seemed particularly odd about this to me is that Dominic willingly went along with the charade, as has been a supporter of seemingly most of the Premier League teams over the past decade.

Framed portraits of Dominic, who resides with his mother, adorn the walls of Lisa and Mark’s house, telling the tale of a boy’s journey into adolescence. The photos show his hair and his complexion changing annually, as do the football shirts he wears; Leeds, Chelsea, Arsenal, Manchester United and Barcelona, depending on who was most successful that season, though neither Bradford nor Liverpool get a look in. Obviously it’s easy to speculate that Dominic’s lack of a fixed football allegiance is a product either of a psychological need to be different to the father who deserted him at a young age, especially in the context of a domestic situation where he has no direct parental influence (his mother hates the game) or siblings to side with. This is a sad state of affairs for the young man concerned, but there is an even more depressing potential lesson for society to be addressed. A dozen or more years ago the loathsome Tim Lovejoy announced that to be a football fan you didn’t need to go to games, you didn’t even need to follow a team; all that was required was to have Sky Sports. Obviously he was talking errant nonsense, but the concept of the floating voter in football terms may be a reality because of the satellite-dominated times we live in.

One of the interesting effects of the pre-Christmas Sky and BT Sports schedules is that they have provided me with a cast-iron excuse not to set foot in St. James’ Park until the Stoke game on Boxing Day, simply because not a single NUFC home game has been moved to a Sunday or Monday. The idea of giving up the opportunity of watching my beloved non-league game for the pleasure of lashing out north of £30 to see the products of the labours of Alan “Lord Haw Haw” Pardew and Joe “Laverenty Berya” Kinnear makes me feel giddy with rage. Those of you who read Stand #4 may remember an article I penned on the rights and responsibilities involved with being a committee member at Percy Main Amateurs, at Step 7 in the Northern Alliance Premier Division; how I told of the sense of fulfilment and appreciation associated with the hard work involved in running a club at that level. Professional football simply can’t provide me with that kind of buzz any longer.

I will never stop supporting Newcastle United at any point in my life, as far as I can predict, nor would I ever wish them to lose, even if a particular defeat could hasten some semblance of regime change, but the once seemingly unbreakable emotional ties between me and my club, have been severed forever. As an example of this, I entered a competition to win tickets for Newcastle United v Fulham on 31^st August, by submitting some important memory of a game at St. James’ Park. As I’m keen on recycling, I dug out a piece I’d written for a book that never got published a decade ago, which eventually made it in to the Percy Main v Westerhope programme in September 2007, did a quick proofread, added a couple of sentences, changed some dates then sent it off. You can read it here; http://payaso-del-mierda.blogspot.co.uk/2013/08/false-memory-syndrome.html. Two days later, I got an email saying I’d won a pair of tickets; clearly I’d no intention of using them, so I passed them on to my son Ben who took his mate Webby and had a decent afternoon enjoying a reasonable performance and a stunning winner from Ben Arfa.  I wasn’t jealous of him at all; even as I watched my club Heaton Stannington frustratingly lose 1-0 at home to Stokesley in a Northern League Division 2 game.

I’ll just run that past you again; my team Heaton Stannington, not Percy Main Amateurs. In case you’re wondering, to make up for the lack of signings at SJP, the big transfer news of the summer north of the Tyne was my switch from Purvis Park to Grounsell Park. Considering my very public proclamations of my undying love for Percy Main (a club I still have the utmost affection for), you may be asking how I can walk out on them and not face charges of hypocrisy, especially considering the condemnatory tone of the opening part of this article? Good question; difficult question.

Firstly, Heaton Stannington play in black and white stripes, which always helps. Secondly, I only became involved with Percy Main at the age of 43, so it wasn’t as if I’d betrayed generations of family loyalties and after 6 years I fancied a new challenge. Thirdly, Heaton Stannington asked me to edit the programme and run the website (www.heatonstanningtonfc.co.uk), which was a job description that I felt suited my skill set perfectly. At Percy Main, huge amounts of time was spent on ground maintenance and being completely impractical, the idea of me as a kind of DIY specialist handyman was laughable; in contrast, I know I can write reasonably cogently and I am decent at administration, which were things Heaton Stannington needed help with and Percy Main didn’t.  That said, since I’ve got involved with The Stan I’ve found that I’m operating the turnstile, selling the raffle tickets and serving behind the bar (£2.25 a pint with minimum 2 hand-pulls always available, if you’re in the area), not to mention deputising for Geoff our Secretary when he was on holiday; I don’t mind though, as I’m absolutely loving it. I feel like I’ve come home.

In rationalising my involvement with non-league football, I find that the longer I’m involved in it and the more I learn about the grassroots game on Tyneside, the more convinced I am that I have made the right choice to turn my back on Newcastle United. I still love The Magpies, but the boiling anger I had with them has subsided. That said, I’m not cynical, indifferent or in despair; my involvement in Newcastle Fans United is as committed as ever and I remain convinced that 100% Fan Ownership is the only way forward for football at all levels. My mantra is that whoever plays for or manages Newcastle united, or where the team ends the season is utterly irrelevant while Ashley owns the club. I want him out and an elected board of supporters in; it make take the rest of my life, but I’m prepared for the long haul. I will earnestly debate with anyone who says we can’t change the game; we can and we will, but the idea of attending games and putting money in the pockets of an owner, a management team and many players whom I hold in abject contempt is absolute anathema to me; give me Grounsell Park any time, where I will #FollowTheStan as our hash tag says.

Pink Flag

On Saturday 21^st September, I took my usual place between the sticks for Wallsend Winstons in Division 4 of the North East over 40s League. Towards the end of our 5-2 victory away to Hartlepool Owton Manor, one of their players responded to the award of a foul against him for a trip on our captain by shouting “get up, you puff.” Nobody other than me complained about this phrase. From Hartlepool I caught the train to Northallerton, where my team Heaton Stannington won a close contest in the Northern League Division 2, by a margin of 2-1; a home supporter called the linesman a “faggot” for flagging a Northallerton player offside as they desperately pressed for an equaliser. Again, I was the only person in the crowd who demurred at the speaker’s choice of language. Later that night, an acquaintance commented on Facebook that Tim Krul was “a big, soft queer” for allowing Robert Brady to score Hull’s first equaliser at St. James’ Park. I was a lone voice on the thread, complaining about the words uttered. Why is this? Sadly, it is because I must admit to finding the North East to still be largely a rancorous, seething pit of vile homophobia, which is condoned, legitimised and tacitly approved in football and in many areas of everyday life.

In the current social and sporting climate, racism is seen as utterly socially unacceptable, with the idiots responsible for much of the most reprehensible outbursts of linguistic barbarism on social media and life in general being brought to book for their criminal behaviour. This is exactly how it should be. Equally, one of the most gladdening sights I’ve ever seen was the other summer; on a warm July, Sunday afternoon, cycling back over the Redheugh Bridge from Gateshead, I passed several gay pubs near the Centre For Life; many of them had customers outside, several relaxing over a few drinks in their Newcastle shirts. In general, I hate the idea of people wearing replica kits, but the incontrovertible evidence of football fans being welcomed into the LGBT community was heartening; oh how I wish such tolerance  was reciprocated.

The question I want to ask is this; why is casual homophobia and heterosexism not only tolerated but seemingly promoted as an acceptable ideology in football, perhaps not by the game’s authorities, but by players and fans alike in our region? Saturday 21^st September was the centrepiece of the Stonewall inspired Right Behind Gay Footballers campaign, whereby the campaigning organisation that was formed in 1989 as a reaction to the loathsome Section 28 of the Local Government Act, which expressly prohibited the “promotion” of homosexuality, distributed rainbow-coloured laces to all professional clubs; the idea being that players would wear the laces to show their opposition to homophobia. However, even if you watched wall-to-wall Sky Sports and every edition of Match of the Day over the weekend you would be forgiven if this event passed under your radar. It simply isn’t in the interests of football authorities and their legion of economic camp followers and itinerant symbiotic media proselytisers to either admit there is something decidedly heterosexist if not phallocentric at the core of the game; much less to draw attention to this fact.

Of course, if you had heard about the campaign and weekend of action and wanted to show your support, pairs of laces could have been sourced from Stonewall’s partner organisation, Paddy Power bookies. The joint press release explained the campaign in the following terms -:

Stonewall has teamed up with leading bookmaker Paddy Power to challenge players to show their support for gay footballers by wearing rainbow coloured boot laces. The laces have been distributed to every footballer across all 134 professional clubs in the UK. Each player is asked to wear the special laces in their club fixtures on Saturday 21 and Sunday 22 September. The campaign’s simple message of Right Behind Gay Footballers is designed to kick start a change in attitudes and make our national game more gay-friendly. Paddy Power and Stonewall are asking fans and the public to back the campaign by taking to social media and using the hashtag #RBGF, Right Behind Gay Footballers, during the week and in the build-up to the weekend fixtures.

Kicking off on Monday 16 September there will be a week of activity shining the spotlight on homophobia in football. The campaign will see daily advertising and editorials across traditional media, billboard sites, and through social media with the aim of getting support from footballers, celebrities, fans and the public. Stonewall Deputy Chief Executive Laura Doughty said: ‘It’s time for football clubs and players to step up and make a visible stand against homophobia in our national game. That’s why we’re working with Paddy Power on this fun and simple campaign. By wearing rainbow laces players will send a message of support to gay players and can begin to drag football in to the 21st century.’

 Paddy Power, the bookmaker’s spokesman, said; ‘We love football but it needs a kick up the arse. In most other areas of life people can be open about their sexuality and it’s time for football to take a stand and show players it doesn’t matter what team they play for. Fans can show they are right behind this by simply tweeting using the #RBGF hashtag whilst all players have to do is lace up this weekend to help set an example in world sport.’

As someone who is vehemently opposed to gambling in all its manifestations, as much as I am opposed to homophobia, I was therefore left in a quandary; would wearing these laces compromise my principles by forcing me to enter a betting shop? In the end, I was able to resolve this complex moral issue and decline to wear the laces with a completely clear conscience, mainly on account of the highly persuasive arguments put forward by the Football v Homophobia campaign in their press release on the subject, which may also be found on their website www.footballvhomophobia.com -:

In response to requests from the press and from football clubs for our opinion on Stonewall and Paddy Power’s current ‘Rainbow Laces’ campaign, Football v Homophobia would like to offer the following comment.

Football v Homophobia was invited by Paddy Power to be a part of the campaign in its early stages. Whilst supporting the overall aims of the initiative, we did not feel comfortable with some aspects of the language and tone, and so felt that we did not wish to take our involvement any further. However, we welcome the opportunity for further discussion and debate around some of the issues of language raised by the campaign.

Football v Homophobia works to address homophobia, biphobia, and transphobia in football, in conjunction with all stakeholders in the game – the players, the fans, and the organizing bodies. We welcome any attempt to tackle homophobia in football around the world, and any attempt to take this message beyond the LGBT community. We therefore applaud the sentiments behind the laces idea central to the ‘Rainbow Laces’ campaign, namely solidarity with gay players.

Our discomfort is with the reliance on sexualised innuendo and stereotypes about gay men and anal sex, as exemplified by the tag line ‘Right Behind Gay Players’. As an initiative with a strong focus on education, we feel it is incongruous to run a campaign aiming to change football culture whilst using language which reinforces the very stereotypes and caricatures that, in the long term, ensure that homophobia persists. There is a long history, perhaps best captured by the infamous Robbie Fowler incident, whereby anal sex has been the focus of homophobic abuse in the sport.

A number of organisations, like ours, have been campaigning for years for a ‘zero tolerance’ approach to discrimination, and we are disappointed to see that the wording of this tag line gives license for a blurring of the already difficult territory between implicitly and explicitly homophobic and transphobic language, and football ‘banter’. For example, the following comments have been posted on Paddy Power’s own Facebook page, under the “Right Behind Gay Footballers” banner:

“I wouldn’t want TO BE IN FRONT…”

“Playing on a muddy pitch haha.”

“Tight at the back, pushing on with a hard man up front…”

“Stand up if you can’t sit down.”

“Kick gays out of football,”

“Sponsorship deal with Brighton imminent.”

The final comment, referring to Brighton, is of particular interest. It was only four months ago, in the wake of a report that showed overwhelming (72% of matches) homophobic abuse, that the Brighton & Hove Albion Supporters’ Club (BHASC) called on the football authorities for help to tackle abuse aimed at fans, often couched as ‘banter’.

Whilst Paddy Power are not responsible for the general level of homophobia and transphobia we witness in football, and indeed are trying to counter this with ‘Rainbow Laces’, aspects of the campaign have acted as a catalyst for the kind of attitudes and language that BHASC and Football v Homophobia have been working hard to challenge. ‘Rainbow Laces’ may have an important short-term advantage of drawing attention to the issue of homophobia in football, but this needs to be followed in the long-term with an informed and sensitive discussion around the contested nature of what constitutes discriminatory, offensive language as opposed to acceptable ‘banter.’

We would therefore invite people to applaud the positive aspects of ‘ Rainbow Laces’ and at the same time reflect on the language used, in particular how appropriate the tag line “Right Behind Gay Players’ is as a means to tackle homophobia in football. The Football v Homophobia campaign runs throughout the year. If you would like to join us in tackling homophobia, biphobia and transphobia in football, there are three simple things you can do:

Follow us on Twitter and like our Facebook page

Become a ‘Football Fan v Homophobia’: sign up to our fanzine that goes out 4 times a year

Encourage your club to get involved with FvH 2014 by dedicating a home match to the month of action in February 

Immediately, I must state that as regards the last point raised by Football v Homophobia’s press release that I have personally undertaken to sponsor Heaton Stannington’s home game versus North Shields on 8^th February 2014, to publicise this campaign.

While my sexuality is my own business, I must say that while I have friends from the LBGT community who are fanatical football fans, I don’t believe I’ve ever played on the same team as an openly gay player; considering the percentage of friends I’ve got from the LBGT community, I find that saddening if not depressing. What is it about football in our region in particular, but also throughout the country as a whole, that suppresses the right of gay people to be themselves in all aspects of their life?

Perhaps the answer can be demonstrated by how Match of the Day, with crass insensitivity, used Robbie Fowler, whose provocative homophobic conduct towards Graeme Le Saux marked a low-water mark in Neanderthal macho attitudes in professional football, as a pundit on Saturday 21^st September. The truly tragic thing is that it isn’t just the football authorities and the broadcasters who ignore homophobia, heterosexism and phallocentrism in football, but the hegemonic prevalence of a false consciousness among fans themselves. The argument that is tacitly propounded is that football is a working class, macho sport; consequently any behaviour that is tough, bloke-orientated and by extension and definition, homophobic must not only be tolerated but venerated as part of a fetishisation of soi-disant working class attitudes, regardless  of how  reactionary such beliefs and practises may be.

Therefore, the logical conclusion of such attitudes is this; as Robbie Fowler is a footballer from Liverpool, his conduct towards Graeme Le Saux wasn’t crass, boorish, unpleasant and misplaced (Le Saux is actually straight), it was actually acceptable as coming from a working class part of Liverpool and previously having worn a t-shirt to demonstrate his for support striking dock workers makes Fowler a figure who is beyond criticism. Anyone seeking to say otherwise is denounced as demonstrating bourgeois values. It is as if their sexuality is a petit bourgeois lifestyle option, ripe for castigation.

It has to be said that granting legitimacy to the conduct of Paul Gascoigne is an act forged from the same heterosexist, phallocentric base metal. Then again, Saturday 21^st September also marked a glitzy Tyneside formal dinner, marking the 30^th anniversary of the programme Auf Wiedersehen Pet, an endless fountain of macho Geordie rhetoric.

Personally, I would rather celebrate the existence of an open member of the LBGT community in north east sport than the antics of Dennis or Neville; it is 2013, not 1983 and as football fans, we need to accept this. Unfortunately, Saturday 21^st September saw Tim Healey and Kevin Whatley as half time guests of honour at St. James’ Park, rather than an unequivocal club statement denouncing all manifestations of homophobia among our support. How the hell can Newcastle United pretend to be a club for the whole region if we don’t actively seek to build bridges with the LGBT community, who are every bit as important to our support as every other section is.

Brazilian Bland

My good friend Michael Hudson put me in touch with the website The False Nine  (http://www.thefalsenine.co.uk/) for whom he'd written a piece about Fumaca, the worst Brazilian footballer in history, for their Samba Series. I was only too happy to write them something about another low quality Brazilian import who turned out for Newcastle United, namely Cláudio Roberto da Silva aka Caçapa; here it is -:

While it is notoriously difficult to define or even divine the ultimate historical importance of on-going situations, the summer of 2007 must be regarded as pivotal in the chronology of Newcastle United. Following the resignation of Glenn Roeder towards the end of the previous campaign, outgoing chairman Freddy Shepherd’s last significant act before selling the club to Mike Ashley, wherein lies a whole different narrative that we simply don’t have time to touch on here, was to appoint Sam Allardyce as manager. If the arrival of the infamous long-ball merchant and his litany of snake oil selling, blue-toothed, laptop-wielding, technocratic, camp following boffins was met with a severely underwhelming welcome, several of his signings were afforded a fair hearing, on account of the fact nobody had never heard of them before.

Alongside the perennially loathsome Joey Barton, back in the days when he cultivated an image of being the Gallagher Brothers’ Scouse cousin rather than an amalgam of Malcolm Muggeridge and Rosa Parkes, who promptly broke his foot in a pre-season game at Carlisle and disappeared until Christmas, Allardyce brought in the porcine, indolent Mark Viduka on a free from Burragh, the woeful, pedestrian Alan Smith, who’d never be a top flight player again following his broken leg at Old Trafford, the glacially-paced Geremi from Chelsea as well as unknown quantities David Rozenhal, a scrawny, incompetent centre back from Paris St. Germain who disappeared to Lazio on New Year’s Day, Jose Enrique, who turned into a superb left back after a wobbly first season and Caçapa, about who this piece is dedicated.

Having begun his career with 5 seasons at Atletico Mineiro, Caçapa left Brazil to spend 6 years with Lyon, between 2001 and 2007, where he was captain of the title winning side for 5 successive campaigns. Somewhat surprisingly, having been granted French citizenship in 2006, he opted to leave at the end of his contract the following summer; consequently, Newcastle United found themselves in receipt of a 31 year old Brazilian international for no transfer outlay. What could go wrong? At first, nothing; he made his debut as a 90^th minute substitute in a 0-0 with Villa, becoming our 1,000^th player used in the Premier League in the process and his full debut on September 1^st as we beat Wigan 1-0. Until this point, all well and good; Newcastle were unbeaten, if a bit dull to watch and Caçapa seemed a steady, unspectacular stopper, with a large physical presence.

Newcastle’s season began to unravel with a 1-0 loss to Derby County (their only league victory all season) in the next game, that marked the end of Allardyce’s “honeymoon,” such as it was; actually it was more like a passionless union based on mutual distaste verging on loathing, with the partners staying together for the sake of the children. Following the Derby defeat, Caçapa played 4 of the next 5 games, which saw 3 convincing home wins (he even scored a header in a 3-1 victory over Spurs) and 2 atrocious away losses, until his career on Tyneside spontaneously combusted in the most spectacular fashion imaginable.

On November 3^rd, Newcastle lost 4-1 at home to Portsmouth with a woeful, bedraggled showing that would not have been out of place in the North East Sunday League F Division; within 11 minutes the hosts were 3-0 and all of the goals were in some way Caçapa’s fault as the burly stopped appeared slow to the point of immobility, cumbersome in the challenge and utterly bereft of any sense of position; Allardyce hauled him off after 18 minutes and bizarrely claimed the player “shouldn’t have started because of a hamstring injury.” Go figure…

After 6 weeks on the naughty step (1 draw, 2 draws, 2 losses), Caçapa returned to the side for the frankly unwatchable 1-0 away win to Fulham, achieved by a 95^th minute Barton penalty, and was improbably named Man of the Match.  While the NUFC support had lost all confidence in Caçapa as a player after the Portsmouth debacle, he slotted anonymously back in the side and was not responsible for any major disasters as the hated Allardyce administration gave way to the populist fiasco of Keegan’s second coming. Indeed Caçapa scored in Keegan’s return game, a 4-1 battering of Stoke City in an FA Cup replay.

With Rozenhal gone, NUFC were short on defenders; consequently Caçapa got his game almost by default, though his limitations were obvious in results such as 0-6 and 1-5 versus Manchester United, 0-3 against Arsenal and Liverpool and 1-4 at Villa Park. He was too slow, unable to turn, poor in the tackle and positionally atrocious. Dropping out of the side in mid-March, ostensibly because of a groin injury, coincided with NUFC going on a 7 game unbeaten run that saw us finish 11^th. Caçapa returned as a substitute for the second half of a meaningless 3-1 loss to Everton on the final day, in what ought to have been his farewell appearance. Surely now, with Keegan back in charge and Ashley’s billions to bankroll the club, Newcastle United would be on an upward trajectory from the summer of 2008 onwards?

The slow-motion car crash that was 2008/2009, ending with relegation and recriminations at Villa Park, saw Caçapa appear 6 times for Newcastle United; a terrible 3-1 loss to West Ham, an even worse 2-1 reverse at home to Blackburn, a lucky point at Everton, an out of character comfortable 2-0 win home to Villa, an infuriating 2-2 at home to Stoke when we’d turned round 2-0 up and finally, his swan song at Fulham. To simply state we lost 2-1 does not do Caçapa’s complicity in this spirit-crushing reverse any justice. Having clawed our way back into the game courtesy of a Shola Ameobi goal, it looked likely that Newcastle would return from the capital with a draw. Bearing in mind we were relegated by a single point, the events of the 77^th minute still has a degree of resonance to this day.

A Fulham cross from the left was too strong for any attackers; Caçapa at the back post six yards out ought to have allowed the waist high ball to drift harmlessly away. Instead he swung an unnecessary boot at it, misconnected and cannoned a sliced clearance off captain Coloccini’s back; we conceded, as Danny Murphy seized on a flick courtesy of the quick thinking of Andy Johnson to win the points for the Cottagers. Baldy bastards.

Throughout the rest of that pitiful pantomime of a season, whether (mis)managed by Kinnear, Hughton or Shearer, no Newcastle United team featured the ageing limbs and dim-witted thought patterns of Cláudio Roberto da Silva aka Caçapa, as Newcastle United slid out of the top division after 16 years. On July 1^st 2009, Caçapa slunk unmourned out of SJP forever when his contract expired, the club failing to take up their option on a third year.

Caçapa wasn’t the worst player in Newcastle United’s history; he wasn’t even the worst Brazilian  we’ve had (hello Fumaca), but he was painfully below Premiership standard and typical of both Allardyce’s inability to spot a decent player and Ashley’s refusal to spend the money we fans stump up on season tickets on players fit to wear the shirt.

Stockholm Syndrome

You may have noticed that since June 19^th, the small matter of 11 weeks ago, I’ve only made 3 blog posts about Newcastle United, with two of those Straky Do Toho (http://payaso-de-mierda.blogspot.co.uk/2013/07/straky-do-toho.html) and False Memory Syndrome (http://payaso-de-mierda.blogspot.co.uk/2013/08/false-memory-syndrome.html) being nostalgic pieces about the Inter Toto Cup in 2005 and the Portsmouth home game in October 1990 respectively. The only one to deal with the recent goings-on at St. James’ Park, Herding Cats (http://payaso-de-mierda.blogspot.co.uk/2013/08/herding-cats.html), was actually penned for #9 fanzine, which I hope you’ve all signed up for, meaning this is the first post about the farcical institution on Barrack Road since June 19^th, when Jesus Fucking Krist (http://payaso-de-mierda.blogspot.co.uk/2013/06/jesus-fucking-krist.html), written in response to an appointment that is beyond parody and beneath contempt, achieved the distinction of being my second most read blog  post ever, since I established the site in July 2010. To fight against charges of inattention or indeed dereliction of duty occasioned by my lack of direct comment over the summer, I feel I must explain the reasons for such relative inactivity on my part. It isn’t because of the supposed absence of football action to pass judgement or, more likely, pour scorn on, as the off pitch events relating to Newcastle United are of far greater interest and importance than the frankly banal attempts of 10 men in black and white shirts to do anything creative or even useful with an inflated pig’s bladder.

Certainly my dog days media silence has nothing to do with any possible personal diminution of interest in the affairs of the club, which is a common theme I am hearing, with deepening anguish on my part, from increasing numbers of long term fans; why else would a sizeable percentage of season ticket holders of my acquaintance sack off the home game with Fulham to go and watch the England versus Australia 20/20 cricket at the Riverside? A test match I could understand, but to choose pyjama party cricket over an NUFC home game shows a few lines have been crossed, which doesn’t bode well for the future. Indeed, I’m beginning to detect among certain of my acquaintances a feeling of self-satisfaction (perhaps it’s relief?) when they can find a plausible reason not to attend a home game; Mike Ashley has caused that you know.

From my arms-length perspective, it seems that home games have now become relatively unsuccessful social events, whereby middle aged men in leather jackets, replica shirts, crimpelene Primark slacks and slip-on, tasselled loafers meet similarly attired middle men they’ve befriend on the internet and drink pasteurised beer, while making vague promises of organising games of golf, while their younger Hollister-clad descendants guzzle Blue WKD in Shark Bar and sing “witty” songs about Shola Ameobi. Eventually, they troop up to SJP and sit in mute boredom as badly coached and poorly motivated players go through the motions in order to pick up enormous sums of money. Mind, the NUFC squad are a study in motivation compared to Fulham’s front pairing of Bent and Berbatov; however no longer can we use the term “mercenary” as pejorative term for footballers. These days it is simplay a factual description of them all.

This sorry state of affairs manifests itself on average once a fortnight, as the club sinks deeper in to the mire; obviously if anyone points this depressing fact out or tries to fight back against the regime, socially inadequate keyboard warriors gleefully seize on the personal lives of those brave enough to stand up and be counted, regarding them as legitimate targets for abusive, on-line invective that cannot be answered as the perpetrators remain hidden behind a cyber-cloak of anonymity. The on-line response to the replacement of the Leazes Gates was particularly foul, though I have to say, the club played  NUFC Fans United as patsies in this instance; affixing the gates to the wall like a kind of high-specification, wrought-iron climbing frame was a non-too-subtle 2 fingered gesture in the face of those who had tried to maintain a dignified channel of communication with the club; exactly how Lee Marshall, the club’s Fans’ Liaison officer views this is probably a matter for conjecture.

The fact is, I won’t be at SJP in the near future, barring the totally unlikely situation of a home tie in the 4^th round of the League Cup during October half term, because the rearrangement of fixtures for television purposes has resulted in the bizarre scenario of zero Sunday home games during the remainder of 2013, meaning my non-league commitments with Heaton Stannington will preclude me from setting foot inside St. James’ Park until Boxing Day when Stoke City arrive in town. However, please do not ever dare to assume that my proposed non-attendance, as well as lack of blog posts over the summer, can be explained away by a lack of passion for the team.

It would have been all too easy to post up a weekly tirade against Ashley, Kinnear and Pardew, for that is my analysis of the order of culpability when it comes to apportioning blame for the shambles that Newcastle United currently resembles, all of which would have scarcely altered from mid-June until late August: we haven’t signed anyone, the club ownership refuses to comment about anything while the director of football and manager seem to be engaged in a contest to see who can spout the most inane,  revisionist bollocks about the recent history of Newcastle United would have been my stock-in-trade items for discussion. All of the previous points have the utmost validity and indeed veracity, but as the pre-season tortuously dragged on I found I was partly insanely busy helping my mother move house (with the valued practical help of the Mike Ashley Out Campaign, who are dab hands at reassembling dining tables I have to say; cheers Graeme!!), which cut down the hours available to me to think, plan, write  and revise articles about NUFC, though mainly I found I was not inclined to speculate or second guess on the motives and intentions of the club in the short, medium or long term, in the continued absence of any meaningful communication from the soi-disant hierarchy  to outline this, until we had reached a point whereby it seemed natural, timely and necessary to respond to the situation. This decision did not necessarily mean I was in a rush to express myself after a ball was competitively kicked or even uncompetitively, as in the case of the opening day capitulation at CoMS.

I have to say that I’ve not seen a single second of live Newcastle United action this season. I took no pleasure in accurately calling the 4-0 defeat on the opening day at Manchester City, though I did enjoy the cycle from High Heaton to Tynemouth that I opted for instead of an evening in the company of griping dullards in the pub, as the journey engaged me from the moment the first goal went in until the score had reached its final tally, by which time frustration had given way to acceptance tinged with gallows humour. Though reflecting on that opening obliteration, I realise that at this point I could, and perhaps should, engage in a 4,000 word tirade against the oafish conduct of the most embarrassing player on the club’s books, Steven Taylor, but what would be the point? Anyone among the support with a scintilla of self-awareness knows that Taylor’s lack of dignity and repeated immature confusion of passion with petulance makes him an object of scorn in the eyes of all clued-in supporters.

At least in the aftermath, the only buffoon blaming the loss on Cabaye’s non-appearance was the joker in the dug-out. The farcical events relating to the eventual failure to sell Cabaye by the end of the transfer window, when by all reliable accounts, only a disinclination on the part of Arsenal to pay the required £20m fee for a player they saw as a squad member and not the fulcrum of their side the player in question no doubt believes himself to be, resulted in the continuation of a loveless, doomed marriage between club and Cabaye, and turned the West Ham game almost into a sideshow, as news of a fresh bid from the Emirates was awaited. Certainly Gouffran’s miss seemed more akin to the kind of slapstick, knockabout farce one sees in a clown show than at a football match, though without the tragicomic undertones relating to the appalling state of affairs that means Shola Ameobi continues to command a starting place for a side in the Premier League, 4 months after Pardew announced it was time for him to find a new club. I do concede that even Shola would have scored the one Gouffran missed, which I hope isn’t used as a stick to beat the talented and diligent ex Bourdeaux man (who isn’t a central striker, Pardew) with by the already radged-up Francophobes in les maillots jaunes down le couloir de la haine. There is certainly a case for suggesting we should keep all our players (bar the woeful Shane Ferguson who has thankfully departed to Birmingham City, hopefully never to return,) and get shot of a load of our most idiotic fans, whether they set off flares at away games, drink in The Forth or both.

Doing a spot of early season groundhopping (Gateshead Redheugh 4 Bedlington Terriers 0 in the Northern Alliance Division 1 at the vastly improved Eslington Park, which reminds me very much of Monkchester Green, the home of Walker Central), I missed the Morecambe game, though travelling westwards on the 49C for my last ever night on Western Way at full time, I caught up with the Twitterati’s posturing anguish as Marveaux failed again in his occasional walk-on role as Lionel Messi’s Tyneside-based dauphin. I’d imagined a 3-1 win in advance of the game, so the eventual margin of victory was the same, even if the sub-standard performance caused a few raised eyebrows. Leeds at home in the next round eh? I’m at work that night, but I still wouldn’t be going, because there comes a point when you simply have to stand up and be counted, by saying no to any further personal complicity in the disgraceful charade that the current regime is responsible for. As I pointed out at the start of False Memory Syndrome, I had no intention of using the tickets I won for the Fulham game, the fourth consecutive season I’d acquired freebies for that fixture, though typically enough Ben and his mate had a better time watching 30 minutes of fluent football at the end than I did as The Stan lost 1-0 at home to Stokesley, though that is coincidental.

My mantra is unchanging; it is irrelevant who plays for Newcastle United, who is sold, who is bought or even who manages the club. Indeed the eventual finishing place for the club in 2013/2014 and the performance in the cups are also irrelevant. The only thing that matters is getting rid of Ashley; by that I don’t mean replace him with another alleged benevolent despot venture capitalist billionaire; I mean urge Ashley to abandon the club and to give it to the fans. If this means he takes out his £130m loan and we end up in League 2, so be it; if Newcastle United become 100% fan owned, as we must surely be, it does not matter to me whether we then call FCUM or Barcelona as our closest rivals, because we will be a club reborn. Yes Pardew is a shifty, smarmy, weasel-worded, tactically-incompetent invertebrate; yes Kinnear is a loudmouthed, deceitful, bellicose bullshitter, but they don’t matter in the wider context of things,  though I would never call for Pardew’s dismissal as the identity of his successor is as obvious as it is appalling. It’s important not to despair about our current situation (if Gouffran had scored we’d be top 4 incidentally) and keep our eyes on the eventual long-term target; we have to get rid of Ashley. Once that has been achieved, we can address the question of the Vichy Magpie regime, in the full knowledge that incompetent functionaries and minions can be replaced and forgotten about

I spent the evening of September 2^nd at Team Northumbria 0 Marske United 2, concentrating fully on the game, while many of those surrounding me engaged in endless smartphone interaction and idle conversation with other spectators about the looming transfer deadline. Obviously,  my philosophical standpoint made it an irrelevance; the comings and goings of players didn’t advance the date of Ashley’s departure one iota, so I didn’t allow myself to become irate. I was more annoyed with myself for assuming the Team North game kicked off at 7.45; it didn’t and by the time I got there, Marske had scored both goals. However, Alan Pardew’s statement in relation to Newcastle United’s utter lack of permanent player acquisition in the period July 1^st – September 2^nd 2013 did raise my hackles slightly. This is what he said, via the club’s official website -:

“We are delighted to have brought Loïc Rémy to the club in this window and we believe he will form an exciting and effective partnership with Papiss Cissé. Joe has worked hard on numerous targets, particularly an additional offensive player. However, some of the options that were available within our financial means were not as good as the players we already had and there is no point bringing in new players unless they can improve us and take us forward. We did the majority of our business in the January window, signing five excellent first-team players. With the strong squad we have we should all approach the season in a positive, optimistic frame of mind.”

It would be frankly ludicrous to dignify this abject tissue of horseshit by seeking to claim that while we may disagree with it, at least Pardew has communicated with the fans and explained his philosophy, because unless he’s Saul on the road to Damascus, his tune has changed so much in 10 days as to be unrecognizable. One wonders just how this official statement squares with his utterance of August 23^rd; “We have to make sure we get one or two transfers over the line before deadline." Or, perhaps even more telling, his detailed response to last season’s shortcomings, issued in his post-match press conference after the final game at home to Arsenal on May 20^th -:

"We're very, very lucky to have the support that we got and therefore we owe them a debt next year to make sure that we serve up a better standard of football and better quality of results. We know, in that (dressing) room, we’ve got 80 per cent of the team. We still need to make sure we get two or three recruits in there which take us forward. If we can do that, they’ll grow as well, and we’ll be much, much better next year.You hear managers taking about needing three players to make the perfect side but we genuinely, genuinely need a couple in that first team that complement the others."

As I pointed out back in June, the contempt in which Pardew was held by many of our fans was replaced by a sense of pity following Kinnear’s appointment. If Pardew had either resigned, on account of the fact he is obviously undermined and utterly without authority in the club, or just stood up and told the truth, the support would have respect for him. Such mealy-mouthed twaddle does him no favours whatsoever and I’d venture he is viewed with even greater scorn than he was at the end of last season. Though his words seem positively bombastic when compared to the simpering, hand-wringing otiose oratory from the discredited, ideologically bankrupt NUST who issued this grovelling, small minded press release, to universal contempt -:

Newcastle fans have reacted in disbelief to the events of this summer. To say the return of Joe Kinnear was 'surprising' would be the understatement of the millennium. At a time when every other Premier League club is strengthening their squad, it defies belief that Newcastle United's is numerically weaker than the one that finished last season. To not make one player purchase this summer is astounding and calls into question the ambition of Mike Ashley and those tasked to run Newcastle United on his behalf. A squad that narrowly avoided relegation is now once again left right on the edge with no margin for error, only two or three injuries in key positions would lead to potential disaster. NUST hope that one day we will see a management structure worthy of the name at St.James' Park and the club run with the ambition to match that of the fans, the same fans who make Newcastle United the tenth best supported club in Europe. While in addition the money the supporters plough into the club has helped push NUFC back into the top twenty football club turnovers in the world.

Returning to Pardew, the only two explanations I can see for his lickspittle volte face are that he really has so little self-respect and dignity as a human being that he will do whatever he is told to by Kinnear and Ashley, simply to keep his job, or that he has somehow developed Stockholm Syndrome, which is a psychological phenomenon where hostages express empathy and sympathy and have positive feelings toward their captors, sometimes to the point of defending them. These feelings are generally considered irrational in light of the danger or risk endured by the victims, who essentially mistake a lack of abuse from their captors for an act of kindness.

 

Stockholm Syndrome is named after the Norrmalmstorg robbery of Kreditbanken at Norrmalmstorg in Stockholm, Sweden, in which several bank employees were held hostage in a bank vault from August 23 to August 28, 1973, while their captors negotiated with police. During this standoff, the victims became emotionally attached to their captors, rejected assistance from government officials at one point, and even defended their captors after they were freed from their six-day ordeal. In Pardew’s case, he’s had the 11 week ordeal of working with Kinnear and the 2 month one of the transfer window, but not to worry Alan; the window is shut and you don’t have to pretend you’ve got the cojones to ask Ashley for the cash to buy a player until January. Until then, let’s see if Shola, Sammi, Gosling and Williamson can show us exactly the sort of flair and panache a Premier league side needs.  Frankly, Pardew has gone from being a potential Jan Palach, who would have professionally self-immolated for the sake of the club’s future, to football’s version of Patti Hearst, helping the Sports Direct Symbionese Liberation Army to steal from the poor and give to the rich.

Despite Neil Cameron’s 10 questions for Ashley in Wednesday 4^th September’s Evening Chronicle weren’t the Thompson House equivalent of Martin Luther’s Disputatio pro declaratione virtutis indulgentiarum, but they did show signs the paper has the potential pluck to stand up and ask the club the kind of hard questions Mark Brophy so astutely pointed out that they had singularly failed to do (http://markbrophy.wordpress.com/2013/09/04/chronicle-capitulation-to-wonga/), that evening’s  NUFC Fans United meeting almost made me question my faith in the organisation. Zero publicity on supposedly sympathetic websites or in the papers, meant a significantly lower turn-out than the previous 2 meetings; only 46 people showed up in The Irish Club to hear Lee Marshall alternatively presenting on-the-hoof response to Cameron’s questions and then attempting to present the club’s sponsors as the nearest we’d had to wealth distribution in this country since the 1945 Labour Government, while a couple of loudmouths in the audience asked irrelevant questions to the wrong people and some smarmy blow-ins tried to hijack the meeting for their own ends. That said, Robbo from The Shite Seats was utterly brilliant in his analysis of where NUFC Fans United needs to go next. Thus, it occurred to me that I was in danger of failing in to cynicism and despair in the way that so many others have. We need to keep the faith; I need to keep the faith. This club is 121 years old in December; we’ll be here a lot longer than Mike Ashley will be. We all need to remember that fact on a daily basis.

My passionate hope and my sincere belief is that the club will be better run and have its future properly safeguarded if we can get Ashley OUT and 100% Fan ownership IN. Therefore, after my personal summer of political inactivity that was almost as indefensible as the club’s lack of signings, the closing of the transfer window, during which time Newcastle United brought in one player who: turned us down in January to play for a club that were relegated, had no pre-season training, arrived injured, is on Police bail following an allegation of rape, is on a season long loan, seems to be a fairly sensible point at which to make my feelings known. I’ve written over 3,500 words in this blog, but they can be summed up in one sentence -:

Ashley OUT; 100% Fan Ownership IN

 

 

Ciervos Blancos / Calor Blanco

Hola!! As I type this, the editor of "Push" magazine is en route for Barcelona. In his possession is the following document, which will gladden the heart of every Catalan, telling as it does, the secret shame of Madrid's latest acquisition. You can read it in English by buying the superb new "Push" magazine,  issue #6, by £2.50 via PayPal from joe.england64@gmail.com which is a Football special including brilliant work from Raymond Gorman, Michael Keenaghan, Ian Scanlon, Kevin Williamson & yours truly....

Gareth se dirigía a un partido en casa entre el Real Madrid y el Getafe en una húmeda tarde de verano tarde. Santiago Bernabéu no es un terreno particularmente fácil de encontrar, y la parte trasera de cola en la autopista no estaba ayudando . Gareth se recostó en su gris metálico Ferrari y puso sus escarpadas y ampollas en las manos por la parte superior camisa y empezó a masajear suavemente sus pezones planos y poco inspirador. Aceleró el ritmo de las caricias , pero fracasó en sus esfuerzos para conseguir sus pezones erectos. Con habilidad , decidió utilizar otro tipo de estimulantes. Gareth lánguidamente abrió el hielo dispensador y sacó un puñado de cubitos de hielo , entonces agresivamente manchados los cubos por todo su escuálido pecho decrépito. Dentro de un instante de hacerlo, sus pezones sobresalían 25 milímetros de diámetro y que se sentía lasciva .

Sin pensarlo dos veces que instantáneamente se tambaleó a su enorme auto -windows para asegurarse inocentes ojos no estaban viendo este momento de indulgencia privada. Comenzó a desabrochar los botones de su pantalón de pana , que fueron muy bien replegada alrededor de su región abdominal. Gareth pelado por sus frentes y- en el muslo inferior y luego lanzó su pene palpitante , que ya estaba en el disco . Entonces optó por llegar a una tina de helado , que fue sin querer al acecho en el asiento trasero . él volteado la parte superior fuera , con las manos temblando de emoción. Huelga decir que este acto de vergüenza viene con un elemento de peligro que se vio rodeado por los coches llenos de aficionados al fútbol , un resbalón y su moral y social de estado serían marcados de por vida.

Él comenzó a manchar la ondulación frambuesa gruesa de hielo crema sobre el pene seca y el eje anal enorme , la sustancia de color blanco cremoso llenando cada grieta y grieta debajo de su prepucio y el anillo . Se frotó y acarició sus órganos externos al punto del orgasmo , pero sabía que tenía que salvar el momento, por un par de minutos por lo menos y dejar que prospere. Gareth se decidió eliminar el encendedor de cigarrillos del debajo del tablero , dejando una huella hueca , lo que obviamente fue pre- planificado , porque sin vacilar, inserta su pene en esta pequeña área oscura del coche.

“Como un guante ! " -gritó , tanto eufórico y sorprendido fue capaz de adaptarse a su pene erecto en un agujero tan exigente como el que ofrece el encendedor de cigarrillos . Luego dejó lentamente su pene para frotar arriba y abajo del agujero, masturbándose con alegría enigmática , a la vez que preguntaba cuánto iba a arrojar . En cuestión de segundos se había dado de alta a sí mismo y su pene estaba rodeado de un líquido caliente y espumosa . Gareth cerró los ojos con deleite mientras se ponía en el disco -hombro más cercano, donde se quedó dormido en el esplendor post- coital, esperando a que su pene erecto para aflojar , por lo que podría hacer su camino hasta el suelo .

Sound & Vision IVb........

'Summer's End' 

is a hill 

bleared by rain 

a first trembling  

wind 

the memory 

that into autumn's room 

winter will dip a glass 

hold up darkness  

to a chittering lantern 

moon. 

(Gerry McGrath)

And so, with September amongst us, here is the codicil to my cultural meanderings. August is the month of my birthday and my presents this year included the very wonderful painting of Gram Parsons by Jon Langford that introduces this article. I particularly love Gram’s work and I think Jon, whose music I have similarly adored for the thick end of 35 years, has produced a quite superb visual tribute to that awful trustafarian arsehole as my dear Laura insists on calling the Grievous Angel.

Also for my birthday, Ben was kind and considerate enough to allow me to take him and Laura to Barca in Tynemouth for fine food and the finest wines known to humanity as a warm up for his Amsterdam sojourn. However, I have nothing but praise for the lad after a fine set of AS results and a wonderful birthday present in the shape of a vinyl bootleg of Jimi Hendrix recorded live in Stockholm on May 24^th 1967. This was the night before Celtic’s Lisbon Lions won the European Cup, but I’d rather have been in the audience in Sweden, as Jimi puts down some of his finest tracks; the version of The Burning of the Midnight Lamp is wonderful enough, but this take on The Wind Cries Mary is without doubt the finest thing that Jimi ever recorded. The whole set is astonishing, with Hendrix clearly starting to outgrow the Experience and starting the improvisation that would lead on to The Band of Gypsies. Ironically, there are still are few nods to his earlier show band days, in the shape of cover versions of Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band and a very fine instrumental Sunshine of Your Love; a wonderful present from a very fine young man. I’m obliged son.

I’m similarly obliged to Trembling Bells and especially Lavinia who designed it, for the superb poster for The Circle is Unbroken tour with Mike Heron, which is now framed and hanging at home as well.  Next year, Laura is treating me to a ticket to Cropredy Festival, for my 50^th; don’t worry, we’re not camping as I’ve booked us into The Brasenose for the duration. Hopefully, Fairport will invite Trembling Bells to play, which would be my version of heaven I must admit. Trembling Bells are, unfeasibly, supporting Paul Weller in October, but not in Newcastle, which is a double edged sword; Alex offered Laura and I guest list spots, which is lovely (even though we can’t make the Carlisle gig), but the thought of being in a room with 2,000 Paul Weller fans makes me queasy.

In the meantime, with 49 weeks until Cropredy, I kept in the spirit of things by treating myself to the vinyl release of Maidstone 1970, a kind of documentary soundtrack to Fairport convention and Matthews Southern Comfort playing a free festival in Kent. Matthews Southern Comfort do a wonderful version of My Front Pages to close the disc, but the real highlights are the Full House line-up Fairports doing an all-too-brief Now Be Thankful and Sir Patrick Spens. Ah man, Richard Thompson and Dave Swarbrick on stage at the same time; what a fantastic show that must have been. I can only hope for something similar next summer in Cropredy.

One person who would despise English folk music is Jimmy Rabbitte, once the manager of The Commitments and second eldest son of the Rabbitte clan who Roddy Doyle has so memorably kept us apace with through the 5 novels (count them) that have told the saga of the Barrytown family. In the latest edition, The Guts, Jimmy is 48 and still grimly hanging on to the frayed coat-tails of the Celtic Tiger by selling downloads of obscure 70s Irish punk bands to nostalgic 40 somethings; more importantly Jimmy has bowel cancer. Luckily, he survives it and meets up with former Commitment, the terminally ill Outspan, heads down to the Electric Picnic in Stradbally, County Laois, gets totally wasted and sees his eldest son’s band steal the show ahead of all other bands. Perhaps his biggest epiphany is that he actually likes Christy Moore, but that’s what being face to face with death can do for a man.

Like every Doyle novel, the dialogue is a joy and a pleasure; pages fly by without you realising or even imagining this is fiction and not the lives of people you know and love. Roddy Doyle is perhaps the finest living exponent of the spoken word and character exposition; the genuinely touching scenes between Jimmy and his dad Jimmy Sr will strike chords with every middle aged male who picks up this book. What is even better is the hint that because there is so little about the rest of the clan, then Doyle must return to them again soon. A simply wonderful novel, by a simply wonderful writer; and he liked it when I told him that on Facebook as well!! Although, that contact was almost dwarfed by an email from David Peace.....