Eyes & Ears V

And so to my final cultural blog of the year, covering the period October to mid-December. This missive isn’t a complete warp of 2014 though, as there are two albums, Eilaaig by Euros Childs and The Golden Boat by Crying Lion, that are presumably coming down the chimney on December 25^th, together with a brace of books that comprise Roy Keane’s latest autobiography, ghost-written by Roddy Doyle but already out of date as the Villa departure wasn’t covered, and Dave Kidd’s debut collection of short stories. Also, the final gig of the year, Ray Jackson’s Lindisfarne at the City Hall (where else?) on December 23^rd is still to take place. More of those cultural delights early in the New Year.

Books:

 

The first and most important book to be mentioned is James Ellroy’s magnificent, visceral tour de force, Perfidia, which is the first part of a new LA Quartet, set before the previous one and including many of the characters that appear in his later, fictionalised chronicles of the appalling malfeasance at the heart of American darkness. Here we are in 1941, from Pearl Harbour to the end of the Christmas holiday, seeing evil but alluring men like Dudley Smith, commit appalling acts of violence and treachery, in the usual Ellroy style. He seems to have reined in the metronymic grammatical assaults of The Cold Six Thousand, but the overall impact of the usual complex, labyrinthine narrative is as exhaustingly amoral as ever. I love his work and this novel in no way disappoints; all that one can do, together with the work of his estimable British counterpart David Peace, is stare, agog and agape, at the inevitability of destruction and wonder at the evil at the heart of so much of our world. An amazing read.

The other work of fiction, if we can call Perfidia that, is Jon Tait’s First Plane Home. Jon is the Northern Alliance’s Press Secretary, a member of the British Communist Party and a native of the far north of Northumberland, which enables him to call on his own Border Reiver heritage. First Plane Home is a chronological, rite of passage, bildungsroman set in 4 year gaps that chronicle Scotland’s qualification for 5 successive World Cups from 1974 to 1990, with each tournament showing how the narrator and his friends develop, from snotty nosed bairns kicking a ball around the back yard, to E-generation love children exchanging Ashington for Ibiza. It’s a heart-warming, affectionate portrait of an era I remember very well, which is suffused with Jon’s left wing sympathies in terms of the asides related to current affairs of the time. I enjoyed it tremendously.

Moving into non-fiction, I found Dave Zirin’s social and political history of Brazil, Dance with the Devil, a fascinating read. Zirin is a sportswriter from Chicago, but an unabashed lover of proper football, which he proselytises endlessly in this book. Written specifically for an educated American audience, it is as much a historical account and sociological survey of current Brazilian social mores, as it is a primer for those wondering just what the World Cup and Olympics will do for Brazilian society. Zirin’s contention, passionately and impressively expressed, is that nothing good will come of these tournaments and it is hard to argue against him. Sadly, it is not exactly groundbreaking news to conclude that FIFA and the IOC are rogue organisations, corrupt and avaricious in equal measure, prepared to ride roughshod over human rights considerations for the sake of global television markets and the needs of merchandising megacorps. Instructive and sobering words on every page.

Michael Walker and I crossed the Irish Sea in September 1983 when heading for university; me to Derry to read English and him to Newcastle to study the same. The main difference being I returned and he stayed; we now both live in Heaton. Michael was for many years The Guardian’s North East football correspondent, though now he writes for The Irish Times, despite being “of the other tradition.” He can be a defiantly spiky character in real life, often seeming to glory in the misfortunes of North East teams (at Benfield v Bridlington with Harry Pearson back in September, Michael took great delight in informing us Newcastle, Boro and sunderland were all losing, though Newcastle did pull back to draw with Palace), though his beautifully written book Up There is as warm and affectionate a portrayal of the game in our region as you could wish to read. Walker’s prose style is effortlessly alluring and he paints affecting and effective images of the importance of football between Tyne and Tees, even down to Northern League level. I read the book in one go and found it to be a highly moving counterpoint to The Far Corner, which must be updated soon you have to feel, eh Harry?

A former colleague of mine Damien Wooten sacked off education to try and make a living as a photographer. I don’t know how he’s doing, but his evocative series of plates about life on a farm on the edge of Gateshead, bizarrely close to both the A1 and Anthony Gormley’s signature statue, Beyond the Angel, shows him to be a skilled advocate of place, time and character. The monochrome slices of a hard life tell a compelling narrative of an existence that seems out of place and out of time. It’s not quite Hannah Hauxwell territory in all senses of the word, but the dignity and difficulty of everyday existence is told in rich detail.

The final book this time is Sandy Macnair’s account of a life supporting Hibernian from 1970 to 1979, called Growing up in Green. As the author of a memoir of Irvine Welsh, Carspotting, Sandy is, as you can imagine, one of the more chemically influenced of Hibernian’s support, meaning this book is not a relentless, turgid account of statistics and match reports; it is more of an impression of an era, reading very much like a series of particularly polished fanzine entries and I enjoyed it greatly.  Despite following Hibs for over 40 years, I’ve huge gaps in my knowledge of James Connolly’s team and it was refreshing to find out exactly what it was like supporting the Hibees in a decade that involved glorious success and abject failure. Definitely well worth reading.

Theatre:

I should go to the theatre more often than I do, which tends to be about once a year.  2014’s visit was to Backscratch Theatre at the Mining Institute, next door to the Lit & Phil, mainly because their play, Hewin’ Goals, was about the Northern League. Let’s be honest, it wasn’t great; the actors were decent enough but the cobbled together script had more holes in it than a slab of Emmenthal. That said, it deserved more than a desultory dozen punters on a Thursday night with no competing sporting events. Hopefully, the theatre company will continue from this their debut show; with more support from the wider community than with a niche interest show, however admirable the subject.

Music:

I alluded in a previous blog to the closure of Volcanic Tongue’s Glasgow shop. However, one upside of this development is that the owners are turning up hitherto lost and obscure stock, which they punt at knock down prices. I bought a cassette (yes, a CASSETTE) of Saturn by Sun Ra and his Arkestra, comprising a series of 1960s radio sessions for a Jazz station in LA. It’s mad, as you’d imagine; completely and utterly mad to be honest. Free Jazz parping and squeals, together with improvised sound poetry makes this uneasy listening and challenging fun. Also, it’s good to have such a rare artefact.

Continuing on the Free Jazz theme, already having fallen in love with Death Shanties over the summer, I also enjoyed Hurt So Good by Viennese trio Blueblut. Comprising drums, guitar and Theremin, Blueblut are noisy, mischievous and extremely innovative. With pieces ranging from ear-splitting assaults to whimsical slices of found sound and stolen soundtracks, they’re not the most easy to listen to, though I’m still disappointed they pulled their gig on November 2^nd at the Bridge Hotel for the spurious reason of zero advance ticket sales. I was going to go!

 

The most important gig I got to see of late was taking Ben to the superb Brudenell Social Club in Headingley for The Pop Group. What a magnificent, unholy, furious row they created. This band were one of my favourites back in 1979 and nobody, ever, has produced a more bitter, angry, bile-spitting criticism of society than We Are All Prostitutes; 35 years later The Pop Group are as intemperate, as effective and as correct as they ever were. It was a cerebral and caustic experience that, from start to finish, showed so many other bands what political music should be about. This wasn’t dippy Billy Bragg shit; this was furious, righteous anger and I loved it, as did Ben. He even bought me the re-release of We Are Time, with some of the finest bass playing of all time on Where There’s A Will, showing the anarcho syndicalist path to funk righteousness. Absolutely amazing and there’s a new album in 2015.

Perhaps I was spoiled by this experience, but British Sea Power at The Sage two nights later doing Sea of Brass, on stage 7.30, lights on 9.05, seemed rather tame in comparison. It was exactly the same set as they’d done in Durham back in July, though with a much more integrated NASUWT Riverside Brass Band (many of whom had been necking pints in The Central beforehand). My comments from that night still stand; it took a while to get going, then was spellbinding, before drifting off to an anti-climax with A Warm Wind Blows through the Grass. I will always treasure hearing Lately done will a 28 piece brass band, but regret the bears never made it on stage. Let’s hope BSP now turn their attention towards a new album; I’m still glad I chose to see them instead of Real Estate or The Wave Pictures, who were also in town that night, but it wasn’t their finest performance.

My friend Jonathan Hope sent me a couple of Creeping Bent Organisation CDs he’d acquired; an interesting compilation called Popism, where Vic Godard and The Fire Engines stand head and shoulders above the rest and the great lost debut album by The Jazzateers. Despite their name, they weren’t very jazzy at all, but rather like a cross between The Fire Engines and Pere Ubu; this lost 1983 set is a bit of a minor masterpiece and I’m very glad to have it, even if I’ve no idea what any of the tracks are called as the cover doesn’t list them…

Finally, to a trio of gigs that I’d been looking forward to for a long time. Firstly, The Wedding Present’s 2014 tour was centrepiece Watusi at The Cluny. I have to say from the outset, that this isn’t a good venue for them; a balcony isn’t the best place to see them from, as I found out and the floor space isn’t wide enough for the whole audience. Consequently, for the first 4 songs, I couldn’t see a thing. I managed to crowbar a space by the side of the stage and then began to thoroughly enjoy it. Watusi is another minor classic; not as ferocious as Seamonsters but more coherent than Hit Parade, with a series of sure-fire pop classics like Click Click and It’s A Gas, as well as my favourite Catwoman. Obviously there are other songs as well in the latter part of the set, with Dalliance being the stand out moment for me. Apparently Gedge isn’t keen on touring Saturnalia next year, preferring to concentrate on writing new material; if that’s the caser it’s a shame as I’d love to hear Skin Diving again, but at least he’s doing it for the right reasons. The Wedding Present remain a singular, driven outfit and fascinating by every turn. I’ll stick with them whatever they chose to do.

Almost 33 years to the day since I first saw Wah! Heat, Pete Wylie was on tour; not in Newcastle, but down to Stockton’s Georgian Theatre for an acoustic set. It’s a great venue and I applaud the gig-going culture of Teesside; while there were half a dozen bladdered Stone Island Allough Bearny former Holgate Enders only there for Story of the Blues, there were plenty of other more musically astute punters, including gaggles of female punters. Well done Stockton. Well done Wylie too, for being engaging company and not name checking former Trotskyist fraudster Derek Hatton in Come Back. While it wasn’t brilliant (no Death of Wah, Somesay, Remember or Other Boys), Wylie’s natural raconteur’s delivery and a voice that has remained strong, even if he looks like Orson Welles these days made the evening a success. Admittedly he’s hardly written a note since 1985, but it didn’t matter with the likes of Better Scream to keep us entertained. I sincerely hope he can put a band together to rediscover the less obvious parts of his back catalogue, as shown by the superb revisiting of the previous overblown Hope (I Wish You’d Believe Me).

 

It’s not often you get a lift home from a gig from Pauline Murray and Rob Blamire is it? Sorry for the name dropping, but it was North East Punk Aristocracy night when the Band of Holy joy played the rather surprisingly fitting location of Bede’s World in Jarrow. Supported by Gary Chaplin, aka Quarterlight, who let us know just exactly what he’d been playing these last 35 years, Johny and the very best line-up he’s had in three decades, gave us a triumphant gig in superb surroundings. Honestly, Rosemary Smith should be the national anthem of Shields. Tactless is as fine as it was the day I first heard it and the final, climactic Fish Wives brought the house down. Even more encouraging, 4 new songs were debuted, with news of the lads heading into the studio in early January, it means that the Band of Holy Joy will remain at the forefront of challenging contemporary music in 2015.

So, there you have it; I suppose I’d best sort out my Top 10 albums and Top 10 gigs from 2014; watch this space…

 

 

 

Political Football

Saturday 13th December; I should have gone to Manchester for a UCU Further Education Sector Conference. Instead I went to Hedworthfield Red Hackle v Wallsend Winstons; it was a 4-4 draw. On the same day, Chester FC's "Blue & white" fanzine came out. I wrote this piece for it...

I’m not sure, but I’d imagine I’m probably a little bit further to the left than you or anyone else you’ve ever met. Politically, I am a supporter of the Socialist Party of Great Britain and companion parties in the World Socialist Movement (http://www.worldsocialism.org/). To clarify, we’re nothing to do with Deggsy Hatton’s Leninist vanguardista grandchildren in the “Socialist” Party and their thinly disguised TUSC organisation. Without getting all People’s Front of Judea on you, since 1904 the SPGB has maintained that the Labour Party is as irredeemably corrupt as all other parties that seek not to promote the interests of the working class, but to maintain the interests of capitalism. Consequently, the SPGB actively opposes all reforms to the capitalist system as being of negligible benefit in the broader scheme of things, while also opposing all top-down, reformist, so-called left-wing pressure groups and movements, as these are invariably organised by charismatic autodidacts more concerned with establishing power, whether instrumental or influential, for themselves than advancing the cause of the working class. We believe all change must be organic, peaceful, democratic and led by the united will of the working classes. Many political analysts describe the SPGB as coming from the “impossibilist” school of thought. I see their point.

At work, I’m the union branch secretary; which is as close as you get to a shop steward in Further Education. I make no bones to my members about my political beliefs and they’re happy for me to undertake my role regardless. Often, union work involves interminable wrangling with management over the interpretation of contractual obligations, where tiny victories are sometimes won after prolonged debate and negotiation; however any success over management is celebrated by individual members as a small piece of good cheer. When I’m at work, expedient pragmatism has to outweigh political ideology. Hence, I modestly celebrate these small achievements as well, while always acknowledging their ultimate futility, by remembering the SPGB comment on active trade unionism that it is our job as socialists to stand with our fellow workers in their necessary battles to defend themselves, but to point out at all times that the real victory to be achieved is the abolition of the wages system.

What has this red propaganda got to do with football? Well, as a supporter of Newcastle United, I look at your club’s fan ownership model, as I do with other clubs such as FC United and to a lesser extent Swansea City, with both admiration and envy. I’m not naïve enough to see a disparate handful of clubs coming under fan ownership as a panacea for all the ills of the modern game but, as a former shaggy haired Maoist, I hear what Chairman Tse Tung said when he commented “even a journey of 1,000 miles must begin with a single step.” My mantra is, while Mike Ashley remains, it is immaterial who manages or plays for Newcastle United, nor does it matter where in the table the club finishes this season, as I am firmly of the belief  we need Ashley OUT and 100% Fan Ownership IN, though I am prepared to accept 51% Fan Ownership as a transitional demand. However, in the same way that my political beliefs are shaped by the founding principles of the SPGB that go back to 1904, which I freely acknowledge are not likely to become reality at any immediate point in the future, I accept that Mike Ashley is not imminently about to hand over ownership of Newcastle United to the entire support in the region and Geordie diaspora worldwide, allowing us to democratically elect  executive officers, subject to immediate recall by the membership, who will be charged with running the club on a non-profit basis for the greater good of both Tyneside and the north east as a whole, as well as the wider community involved in the game of football, while remaining vehemently opposed, on principle, to the grotesque parody of sport that the Premier and Football Leagues have become. Still, it is good to have something to aim for, isn’t it?

In 2015, Newcastle United’s inevitable relegation to the Championship (despite what I said above about the irrelevance of the team’s fortunes, I obviously realize Pardew is a vain, narcissistic, populist oaf who couldn’t run a bath never mind a football team) will probably coincide with the General Election. Never before have I felt so attuned to the will of the majority of people, many of whom, in whatever facet of my life I converse with them, view all major parties, including Farage’s Estate Agent Wehrmacht, with a profound, embittered loathing and contempt. As a result, in a series of actions that reminds me of nothing less than rearranging the deck chairs on the Titanic to get a better view of the on-coming pretty lump of ice, the main political parties are vainly seeking a populist toehold in the public’s consciousness, by hauling the question of the regulation of football into the forefront of the political arena, for a couple of weeks at least.

First to dump their pustular backsides on board this shambling bandwagon are Labour, who have announced what is being touted as a “substantial manifesto commitment” (their words; not mine), ensuring that were Milliband’s class traitors to be returned to power after the election, “some” ownership of football clubs would be passed over to registered Supporters Trusts at every Football League and Premier League club, as well as placing at least two representatives on each board of directors. Wow.

Forgive me for not spontaneously combusting with excitement at this vague promise of sugar-free jam tomorrow, but I simply fail to see how such ill-conceived, tokenistic window-dressing can be regard as any kind of step in the right direction. Firstly, while Supporters’ Trusts are a good thing, the experiences I have had with my own club’s inert and bumbling NUST, as well as their mutual love-ins with the pompous and dirigistic Supporters Direct and Shachtmanite, dynastic FSA, are wholly negative ones and far beyond the scope of this article. Secondly, my vote will not be cast for a party who serve the interests of the capitalist class, support illegal foreign wars and who have gone on record as stating they will not seek to redress the actions of the last 5 years of Condem misrule. Finally, to suggest that anyone will find such proposed, minimal legislative intervention into the wrongs of the game as being a positive reason to vote Labour, is errant nonsense. If we wish to see our game run properly, the way to do this is to ensure that our clubs are run properly; for the fans and by the fans. Once such a state of affairs is in place, it will be comparatively simple to ensure the administrative bodies overseeing the framework of the game are run in an equitable, not-for-profit manner that will benefit every player and supporter from Under 8s to the highest rank of the professional game.

One of my favourite ever cartoons by the late Ray Lowry was in the NME around the time of Graham Gooch’s English rebel tour of apartheid era South Africa in 1982. The scene was the Roman coliseum; as a Christian slave is about to be fed to the lions, he cries out “imperialist bastards!” The betogaed and garlanded emperor turns to his flunky and announces “I do wish they’d keep politics out of sport.” However, you simply can’t do that. In my eyes, capitalism is wrong in all its manifestations; whether it’s Mike Ashley’s or Ed Miliband’s version, I’m opposed to it on principle and will remain so until my dying breath.

Unpopularity Contest

As I alluded to in last week's blog, the FSF had this glitzy awards ceremony on Monday, where Sergio Aguero, Phil Neville and Amy Lawrence were garlanded at a sumptuous banquet, where the real winners were sponsors William Hill. In a spirit of competition utterly anathema to any of us who hold the founding principles of fanzines dear, news that the Fanzine of the Year Award went to long-established Leeds United publication "The Square Ball," no doubt helped by my articles for it in April 1994 and October 1996, which was one of 3 publications, along with "United We stand" and "A Love Supreme" that were founded long before Sky TV existed, seemed to confirm that this awards ceremony was all about celebrating the entrepreneurial spirit at the heart of sporting SMEs. Two neophytic publications in the shape of "Stand," last year's winner and Stoke's glorious "Duck" were other nominees, while the last fanzine to be listed was Doncaster Rovers' "Popular Stand." I was at Doncaster Rovers v MK Dons back in late October and bought myself a copy. Suitably impressed, I penned them an article and heard nothing back... it happens. Anyway, here is that article -:

The first time I can recall being in Doncaster was Tuesday 18^th August 1992, when I made my one and only visit to Belle Vue to see Rovers lose 3-0 to Lincoln City in a League Cup first round, first leg tie. I believe Newcastle played a preseason friendly at Doncaster in either 92 or 93, but both times I was on holiday, so my only experience of a Rovers game was that one. Why was I there? Well, in the early hours of that Tuesday morning, we’d flown back in to Manchester from holiday in Corfu and, utterly exhausted, we’d decided not to head back home to Tyneside, preferring instead to stop off at my wife’s parents’ place in Barnsley to recuperate and / or watch shit football. Of course I had the delights of NUFC v Mansfield Town on Wednesday 19^th (won 2-1; Gavin Peacock double) to look forward to, but the chance of ticking off another on the road to completing the 92 seemed appealing; hence my visit for that match. In all honesty, I remember nothing about it, other than the ease of Lincoln’s win.

I made a couple of visits to Doncaster the town in the summers of 2001 and 2002. In July and August of those years, I was employed by York University as tutor and social co-ordinator on an academic English course for overseas potential students. In other words, they came over from China, Japan and Bahrain, paid the thick end of £5k for 4 days teaching a week and a day’s “cultural improvement.” Some weeks we headed to Haworth, where they ignored the parsonage and stocked up on knitwear from the Sweater Shop outlet; other times we went shopping in the town that Italian students believed was called Liz, while I sat in The Fenton watching the Racing Channel. Once each year, we came to Doncaster Dome. The students went ice skating and I wandered around outside the incredibly dilapidated Belle Vue for a couple of hours. I often wonder what the cream of the Mandarin nouveau riche’s offspring thought of Rovers’ old ground, though I never asked.  Can I just state at this point that I do not know Alan Kristiansen, Alan Cracknall or Ian Hay? Thanks.

Fast forward to 23^rd October 2009; Belle Vue has gone and Rovers are on an upward trajectory and in a new ground, when my son, who played rugby league for Wallsend RL under 15 team at the time, travels down with his club mates to be ball boys at the Keepmoat Stadium for England’s 34-12 victory over France. He goes home by coach that night and the next day, 24^th October 2009, he takes his usual seat at St James’ Park, with his grandfather occupying my generally unused one, to see Newcastle United defeat Doncaster Rovers 2-1 with a last minute Kevin Nolan goal, while I attended Peterlee Newtown 2 Percy Main Amateurs 4 in the Northern Alliance first division, having refused to watch Newcastle United while Mike Ashley owns the club. It’s a long story and I wrote a book about it; £2 via PayPal to iancusack@blueyonder.co.uk if you’re interested.  

Now, let’s come back to the present day; in June 2014, myself and two other 50-something NUFC fans are having a post work pint of a Friday evening, when we decide that it’s a tragedy our club no longer has a fanzine, so during the second half of the France v Switzerland World Cup game, we make some plans, send some texts and by full time, The Popular Side has been formed (@PopularSideZine price £1 via PayPal; same email address as before). So far we’ve released 3 issues of our old school, A5, not for profit publication, with a fourth due out on 22^nd November.   We were inspired by such publications as Duck from Stoke, A Fine Lung from FC United, West Stand Bogs from Barnsley and the general magazines Stand and The Football Pink. Registering our Twitter name, we came across your good selves, hoped you wouldn’t be litigious on grounds of intellectual property and I hatched a plan to make a pilgrimage back to South Yorkshire.

On 24^th October 2014, I headed from Newcastle to Leeds, where my son is now a first year history student and where I did my postgraduate diploma in 1987, to see the reformed, belligerently magnificent Pop Group at Brudenell Social Club, 35 years since I last saw them. I drink a lot of beer and feel proud my son is settling in to his new life and surroundings and listens to the same post punk music as me (my next trip down is to see The Fall on 28^th November). Currently, despite editing an NUFC fanzine, I still don’t watch Newcastle, on principle, throwing my lot in with Benfield of Northern League Division 1, whose programme I edit. As they were away to Ryhope Colliery Athletic (lost 3-0), and being of the opinion that any Saturday afternoon without football is a Saturday wasted, I decided to make that pilgrimage and watch Doncaster Rovers at home to MK Dons, since my resolution this season has been the only professional games I would watch would be League 1 games in Yorkshire (9^th August; Barnsley 0 Crawley 1 and 29^th November; Bradford City v Leyton Orient). In addition, I’ve always made the joke that if I’m not able to watch Newcastle on moral grounds, I’ll support the 1988 FA Cup Winners MK Dons instead, though many people fail to get the irony.

Wending my way down through Headingley, past my old home on Manor Drive, across Woodhouse Moor and through the University, where my old department was securely locked up, I emerged by the Merrion Centre at almost noon. I’ve no idea what the crowd was at Elland Road for their defeat to Wolves and monthly game of sack the manager, but Leeds city centre from The Headrow down to the station was absolutely teeming with expectant fans. I felt pity for them as I eased aboard the almost deserted 13.05 to Kings Cross.  It would be fair to say I was one of the very few who got off that train at Doncaster to head for the game.

I took a service bus (58 perhaps?) up to the ground, which had a few MK Dons fans on it. Bearing in mind these blokes were, at the outside, mid 20s, the chances are the only team they’ve watched regularly in their life are the side still known as Franchise FC in some quarters. Frankly, to have such a dismissive attitude towards fellow fans strikes me as unnecessarily confrontational absolutism; these people simply want to watch their local team. They had nothing to do with the Pete Winkelman era relocation and, unless you’re going to extend such obloquy to followers of Airdrie United in Scotland and Spennymoor in the Unibond League, or even Arsenal for migrating from Woolwich, it seems perverse to insist MK Dons fans shouldn’t see their local team and would be better off as sofa or bar stool Chelsea or Liverpool supporters. That said, while I defend their right to support their team, the witless droning of approximately 200 Buckinghamshironians through a predictable litany of “you’re not very good “and “shall we sing a song for you?” in flattened quasi estuary English tones was exceptionally grating.

We’ll not bother talking about the game shall we? The fact I stayed up until nearly 1.00 to watch 12 seconds highlights on The Football League Show astonished me, as I was amazed they found so many incidents to show. However, in all seriousness, you’ve got a lovely ground you know; if I could design a new football ground, I think the Keepmoat, as well as probably Hull City’s KC stadium, would be the blueprint I’d base it on.  Great access in and out of the ground, good signposting, plenty of facilities (decent coffee I must say) and helpful stewards who guided me to the correct car park for the bus back to town.  Even better, you’d allowed a lad called Curtis Main to play alongside the professional players; had he won a raffle to do that or something? I’m disappointed not to have seen James Coppinger as I actually remembered his only appearance for NUFC (won 2-0 home to Spurs in August 2000); mind I’m also disappointed I didn’t see any goals.

Back in town, I killed time before the train with a couple of pints in The Tut and Shive and marvelled at how drunk and obstreperous the racing fans were, when compared to the well behaved football supporters; I presume a nice suit and a badge giving you entrance to the Enclosure, or wherever, entitles you to be boorish and loud in a way that would get a football fan locked up. That’s by the by though; I had a great time watching Doncaster Rovers, despite the game, and wish you and your club well for the future.

Hill of Beans

On Monday 1st December, the Premier League sponsored Shachtmanite dynastic poodle organisation the Football Supporters' Federation has their annual glam and glitzy awards night at the Emirates Stadium. In 2013, each nominee had a pair of tickets for free. In 2014, somewhat contradicting the FSF's "twenty's plenty" campaign on Premier League prices, each nominee had 1 free ticket, but was also given the opportunity to buy a second for £50. Appallingly, one of the categories is Fanzine of the Year. In 2013, Stand won it and I hope Duck triumphs this time, but only because  I like the people involved with those two fanzines very much. Here is a longer take on the above statement, published in issue 4 of The Popular Side, available for £2 inc P&P or £1 for a PDF via PayPal to iancusack@blueyonder.co.uk

To paraphrase Bobby Robson’s famous quotation; what is a fanzine anyway? Well, at The Popular Side we agreed on our own definition of what the publication would look like at our founders’ meeting in The Northumberland Hussar back on June 20^th, which is why we’re an A5, old school, not for profit venture, without advertising, website or merchandising. We intend to stay that way; indeed, if we compromise on any of those principles, I’m out of here. Some of the decisions we made were philosophical, such as a disinclination to carry adverts or charge you more than £1 for each issue (unless you’ve bought a postal copy), as we didn’t want you to fund our leisure activities, while some were decisions made from expediency; we don’t have a website because we know, after the fraught experiences trying to keep Number 9 going a free, downloadable fanzine last season, that we’re writers and not designers. This is why we have concentrated from the get go on finding the very best writers out there and persuading them to produce articles for us; the fact we keep selling out suggests that aim has been reached. If you want a musical analogy, The Popular Side are the mandolin-playing folk singers and clog dancing troupe supping Real ale in The Cumberland Arms, while other bells and whistles, on-line merchandising operations are DJing with their iPads at the new Bier Rex. Good luck to them, but I reckon our version of A Sailor’s Life sounds more like Sandy Denny’s than theirs does.

Each month when I do the mail-outs to far flung contributors and subscribers, I also send fanzine PDFs (because this is a far cheaper method than posting out copies, as the costs incurred would mean we’d struggle to achieve our goal of breaking even on our small modest print run) to friends and allies; current contributors overseas, former contributors who deserve to be kept in the loop and a small band of other, inspirational publications to whom we feel a special bond as they’ve shown us that in this digital age, there is still a market for published fanzines. You really should investigate some of these magazines; West Stand Bogs (Barnsley), Mudhutter (Wigan Athletic), All At Sea (Southend United), The Football Pink (general), Popular Stand (Doncaster Rovers), A Fine Lung (FC United of Manchester), Duck (Stoke City) and Stand (general).

These latter three publications, along with well-established titles such as United We Stand (Man United), The Square Ball (Leeds), A Love Supreme (sunderland) have been shortlisted for the 2014 Football Supporters’ Federation (FSF) Fanzine of the Year Award, which will be decided by an on-line poll. Last year Stand, which I’ve written for since issue 2, won the award, but I was distinctly underwhelmed by this. Obviously as we’ve not been nominated, I could be accused of spite, but that really isn’t the case, for two main reasons. Firstly, I’m uneasy with the concept of direct competition among fanzines; we have enough to deal watching our teams compete with each other, without trying to create an unnecessary, pretend meritocracy involving supporter-led ventures. In my eyes, every supporter of every club, from Manchester City to the very base of the non-league pyramid, is of equal worth, as we are all in this together. Therefore, to attempt to try and impose a competitive edge to any independent, printed expressions of opinion seems to be contradictory to the founding principles of our own and every other fanzine.

Secondly, without even going into the question of the value and worth of the FSF, and this really sticks in my craw, the fanzine awards are sponsored by William Hill. Again, I realise I’m in a tiny minority here, but I don’t gamble; I never have and I never will as I find it incomprehensible how people can risk money on the outcome of sporting events. That is of course by the by in relation to these awards, but I have to say that I simply fail to understand how anyone can be up in arms about Wonga, without going into the question of gradated morality in relation to capitalism, when at the same time expressing a desire to win an award that has the name of a large chain of bookmakers plastered all over it. 

Gambling addiction, whether it be on-line poker, roulette machines or the local dog track, is as much of a destructive influence on individuals and families, often in the poorest sections of our city and Britain as a whole, as alcohol or drugs. I’ve no statistics to back this up, but I’d imagine that payday lenders (aka legalised loan sharks) are often the only source of credit for those who find themselves up to their eyes in debt because of failed punts on dogs, horses or cards. Surely, as independent publications providing a voice for disenfranchised and marginalised supporters, we should not be having any truck with multinational corporations that prey on human weakness and desperation? This is precisely why The Clash didn’t do Top of the Pops; once you become part of the mainstream, you can’t help but be tamed and controlled by the supporters and functionaries of The Man. I’d like to think that if The Popular Side had been offered a place on the list of nominees, we would have turned it down flat.

In all honesty, if you want to show support and give recognition to fanzines, go out and buy one. Most magazines have got a Twitter profile and accept PayPal; far better to pay a couple of quid and have an hour’s enjoyment out of it than pour more money into the pockets of super-rich corporations who’ve reached that spot our of exploiting all of us.

RED NOT DEAD

Back in August, I wet to see my friend David Peace read from his novel "GB84" in Barnsley Town Hall, at an event commemorating the 30th anniversary of what is known in those parts as The Strike. Afterwards, we had a pint and then headed to Oakwell to see the home side lose 1-0 to Crawley. This is my love letter to the town of Barnsley, a place that will remain forever in my affection and "un hommage" to David's writing. It is published in issue 6 of "West Stand Bogs" and I'm delighted to say it's proving to be quite popular, for which I'm eternally grateful -:

The dead brood under Britain. We whisper. We echo. The emanation of Giant Albion (David Peace; GB84 p2).

Alarm sounds early. 5.45. Shower while the kettle boils at sun up on a fresh morning. Soft banana breakfast on the deserted dawn bus. First one out the garage and then the first train from the sidings. Carriages full of nobody. Durham, then Darlington, Northallerton and York. By now handfuls of retail workers heading for Leeds to graft. Solitary cricket enthusiasts going early to Manchester and a clutch of teenage female weekend drinkers with unironed hair and wheely cases for Liverpool, but it’s time to change. Ignore three quid Cappuccinos on the platform; choose £1.25 Nescafe from Greggs. Splash water across face and shirt in the station bogs to try and come round. Too old for early mornings. Two days away from 50 and the season is about to start.

Connection heads for Nottingham (Scabs! Scabs! Scabs!). The fast one. Ignores Normanton. Stops at Westgate. Home of Wakefield Young Drinkers Club. 35 years ago they danced to 7” singles by The Fall in the bar of the Red Hut WMC. Train slowly describes a circuitous parabola through previously forgotten countryside between Darton and Barnsley. A dozen years since setting foot in the finest town in South Yorkshire, yet the route is familiar. The businesses are different, but the edifices unchanged.  Eldon Street. Market Hill. The Town Hall. Massive. Portland stone. Magnificent. George Orwell hated the place when he came to experience Barnsley. Said the council should have spent the money on proper housing for miners.

22 years and 10 days earlier. In that Town Hall. The unchanging edifice in Portland stone. A Friday afternoon. Glorious sun, just like today. Repeat some vows. Sign the register. Confetti. Laughter. Photographs. A chauffeured Beetle up to High Hoyland and a buffet for 60. A good day. A special day and then ordinary days followed, before too many bad days, some terrible days and the inevitable ending. Time passes and time shows how to remember people, places and events. Fondly and with respect. Ordinary people should never be enemies. The enemies are the evil ones who control and exploit and manipulate.

Ten o’clock sharp, automatic door into the museum swings open and the path leads through the story of this brave town. A noble town of strong, indefatigable special people who took on the enemies, with the dice loaded, the cards marked and the numbers uneven. They lost, heroically, tragically and maddeningly 30 years ago. There’s a crowd here to listen and to talk and to remember the boiling hate and anger that will never abate. That witch. That evil, evil witch who destroyed all that was good and, with the aid of her advisors and benefactors, her henchmen and apologists, enacted the destruction not just of the post war social democratic consensus and the welfare state, but of communities. Families. Friendships. Workplaces. Homes. Lives. Hope. The past. The present. The future.

All of this in David Peace’s GB84, the book that brings a crowd to the education resource room in the Museum in Barnsley Town Hall on Saturday 9^th August 2014. The crowd of good people. Ordinary, decent people who care and who love their kin and who won’t forget the past. Football fans. Workers. Students. Poets. Deep thinkers. Orgreave campaigners. Strike veterans. The ages vary, but these people are not Old Labour. They are Prehistoric Labour. Someone is reading Chavs, but they’ll tell you Owen Jones is a Pop Idol poster boy apologist for the party that betrayed the NUM in 84 and, by implication, the entire working class, then did so again and again between 1997 and 2010 and will do in 2015, if given the chance.

This crowd are engaged, respectful, informed. They know their history. They talk and debate and remember in anger, in sorrow and in the unshakeable belief that the system in this country and the ruling elite who destroyed the strike in 1984 are the enemy. The evil enemy so chillingly portrayed in the book they are here to talk about.

For 2 hours the crowd talks and listens and agrees. They know this book; GB84 by David Peace. My friend. A Huddersfield Town fan, who will not see his team concede a goal after 25 seconds, lose 4-0 at home to Bournemouth and have their manager (a former Barnsley boss) sacked that afternoon, because he is in a pub in Barnsley on Market Hill, drinking Barnsley Bitter on Saturday 9^th August 2014. That novelist will buy West Stand Bogs and ask contributors in Old No 7 to sign his copy, as he signs theirs. There is respect, affection and understanding. They are of the crowd from before and there are no barriers in this excellent pub selling superb ale in this fine, proud town that was right and brave and independent in 1984. And it still is. The pride is there in this pub as the glorious Acorn beer slides down until it is time to say goodbye and head for Oakwell.

In the glorious sunshine, to Oakwell. For the opening game of the season. Drain the glass. Emerge onto Market Hill. Turn slightly left and go down Eldon Street. Take a slight right onto Kendray Street and cross the train lines. Continue onto Pontefract Road, under the flyover. Turn left onto Bala Street, up the hill. Continue onto Belgrave Road and back down the other side. Turn left onto Grove Street and there’s Oakwell, where you went so often between 1990 and 2002.

There’s a man in a tasteful hat and another in a tidy jacket selling West Stand Bogs. You talk and you laugh and you sense the atmosphere build as more and more people arrive. The new season. This fine club in this brave town that plays in this noble ground Oakwell, where it costs £24 to see a League 1 game, but it doesn’t matter as the crowds keep coming and the atmosphere builds and everyone is relentlessly positive and immensely optimistic on a glorious day. The morning has been about history and the past, but this is about the present and the future. We are the crowd and we believe in good. 

The good men of this great club in this amazing town.But there is no happy ending. Crawley Town have 150 fans, a questionable past and the loathsome John Gregory as manager. They play no football. They kick it long and push and harry and barge. The loathsome manager waves and gesticulates and claims for everything. Authority again get it wrong. Gary Willard’s name is mentioned repeatedly. A stupid sending off. A loss of concentration. A soft corner. Weak defending. Unmarked header. 0-1 after 83 minutes. 10,000 people say BASTARDS in unison. The day deflates and people leave as the whistle blows, but keep their dignity.

A defeat, but not the end of the road. The sun shines glorious as proud, unbowed crowds go back up Belgrave Road and down Bala Street. Across Pontefract Road and up Eldon Street to Market Hill to another incredible pint and a free pork pie, before the train through Darton and Wakefield and Leeds, where that station buffet advertises not free pork pies, but half price sushi. It is not 1984 any longer.

Barnsley will rise again. The town. The club. The people. In Old No 7. In Oakwell. In the Museum and in the pages of West Stand Bogs.

Awake! Awake! This is England. Your England – and the Year is Zero (David Peace: GB84 p462).

Absent Bloody Mindedness

This weekend is another international break, apparently. For me, it's a typical, ordinary Saturday, with Winstons v Hartlepool Greenside in the morning and Whitley Bay v Shildon in the afternoon, as I can't feasibly get to Bishop Auckland v Benfield. Some people may seek to see this as another Non League Day, which is an idea I'd be happy to give two cheers for, as I explain in issue 6 of The Football Pink, which is a fabulous read and available from http://footballpink.net/

International weekends; September 6^th, October 11^th, November 15^th, March 28^th. Blank Saturdays that acted as the equivalent of wasted Bank Holiday Saturdays for the unapologetic supporter of the professional game, ignorant and unmoved by the purity of the grassroots. Now they stretch from Friday to Monday, with irregular times and incomprehensible television scheduling like a distasteful miniature close season break. Switzerland versus England moved to a Monday night for Sky coverage. Beyond laughable.

However, some good may have come from it. James Doe, not John, an arriviste follower of Queens Park Rangers, inspired by a pre-season trip to Tavistock, set up Non League Day on the September international weekend as a social media experiment in 2010, to afford fans of Premier League and Championship sides the chance to experience football at a level they may be otherwise unfamiliar with, hopefully enabling the curious neophyte to experience and hopefully buy into the sense of belonging and preservation of traditional values that remains so appealing from the Conference down over. Paternalist and patronising, though undoubtedly well intentioned Doe’s motivations may be, it appears that such an apparently organic and supporter led innovation has had minimal to zero impact on the amateur game in the North East, where the Northern League (established 1889), the Northern Alliance (founded in 1890) and the Wearside League (the bairn of the three, coming into existence in 1892) played their usual full fixture list, including qualifying round ties in the FA Vase, on September 6^th without a single reference on their websites, or that of any member club in their programmes, to this alleged mould-breaking, fan-led initiative to reclaim the game. Why is this the case? A lack of awareness partly, but mainly the status of the amateur game in the region, allied with traditional Tyneside bloody-mindedness in my opinion.

Personally speaking, Non League Day 2014 came at the end of a week when I’d taken in Whickham 0 Darlington Railway Athletic 0 in Northern League Division 2 on Tuesday, Whitley Bay A 4 Gosforth Bohemians 1 on the Wednesday in the Northern Alliance George Dobbins League Cup and attended a monthly meeting of the Tyneside Amateur League in my role as Chair on the Friday night.

The day began early for me. My alarm went off at 7.00 and by ten past; I was filling the water bottles in preparation for our game that morning. I play in goal for Wallsend Winstons in Division 3 of the North East over 40s League and Saturday 6^th September saw us travelling, with a massively weakened squad on account of work commitments, late season holidays and the understandable reluctance of those competing in the Great North Run to risk injury the day before, to Redcar Vets. Yes, that’s right; a 100 mile round trip for a bunch of blokes in their forties and fifties. Setting off at 8.45, we were parked up an hour later and soon sat in the changing rooms debating how we were going to approach the game with so many key personnel missing.

Twenty minutes into the game and all the planning we’d made and tactics we’d discussed were rendered useless as we were 2-0 down. Within the opening five minutes, our centre half slipped on the greasy surface and their centre forward raced through, before blasting a shot into the roof of the net as I came out. A quarter of an hour later, the left winger evaded our right back and drove into the area. I came to the edge of the six yard box to cut down his options, but to no avail as he laid the ball back and our left back was nowhere near their attacker who hit a first time shot in off the back post. With no attacking options, this was effectively game over and it was definitely so for me when, stooping to collect a loose ball at a corner, one of their players kneed me in the temple and I hit the deck seeing stars.

I’m not sure if he meant to hurt me, but he was reckless, as if a potentially injurious connection is made accidentally, the person responsible, at our level at any rate, apologises profusely. This bloke didn’t; he slunk away as the rest of his team appealed for a corner, or so I’m told. I was sat with my back to the post feeling decidedly queasy. I had to go off and the other keeper came on. Needless to say, he played a blinder as we put in a massively improved second half performance, got one back and were unlucky not to find an equaliser. I didn’t really join in with the team spirit during the rest of the game I’m sorry to say; while the dizziness and nausea abated, proving I wasn’t concussed, a thumping headache developed.

The post-match inquest over pie and peas in Redcar Rugby Club continued without me, as I took the chance of a lift straight back from one of our lot who only got the last 15 minutes as a sub and had his daughter’s birthday party to attend. Having checked the connections on Traveline, I’d half thought of jumping a train at Redcar East to Darlington, then taking a bus to Shildon, where my Northern League side Newcastle Benfield were playing, but the connections were tight and I wasn’t in the best of fettle for such a trek which would get me back to Newcastle after 8pm via a 3 bus homeward journey, so I half dozed in the car on the way back. Getting dropped off at Silverlink, I caught the 308 to the Ice Rink, popping into see my elderly mother in Monkseaton for half an hour, for a chat and a coffee, then headed up to Hillheads for Whitley Bay versus Celtic Nation. If I couldn’t see my team on Non League Day, seemed logical to watch the best game in the area and this one just shaded West Allotment versus Eccleshall in the FA Vase.

I had hoped that similar thoughts across the North Tyneside area would have resulted in a significantly larger crowd than usual, but the spike in Bay’s attendances occasioned by their hat trick of Vase successes between 2009 and 2011 seems to be a thing of the past, as just shy of 400, which is about average, were present. Having seen Benfield pulverise Celtic Nation, I expected something similar, but was rewarded by a tepid first half that, according to one wag, will “have people celebrating Premier League Day” next week. Strangely, texts from Shildon, Dunston v Bishop Auckland and Heaton Stannington v Esh Winning told similar tales of a dearth of goals and poor games. I felt slightly guilty about this, though obviously the quality of play was nothing to do with me, as I’d invited 4 friends along to Bay, who were starting to see their concentration wander and unsurprisingly headed off to the bar at half time, while I took another couple of Anadin Extra to calm my banging head.

Thankfully Whitley Bay upped the ante from the kick off and soon took the lead with a header by player manager Leon Ryan. With winger Alex Kempster playing a blinder, Whitley added two further goals and could have had many more as Celtic Nation were blown away in the second period. Meanwhile, Heaton Stan scored twice over Esh Winning, Dunston went ahead over Bishops and, most crucially, Benfield grabbed the lead at Dean Street, which would be a hell of a result. As relaxed conversation about the potential for further visits to Northern League games replaced sardonic mutterings about a waste of six quid, I surreptitiously checked Twitter for updates from Shildon. Nothing at all.

Full time, still encumbered by a kit bag of dirty clothes and a wave of tiredness that signalled the end of my headache, I bade farewell to my mates who were off for a drink to the Rockcliffe and took the 308 back home, basking in the glow of a warm afternoon, great second half and Benfield’s seeming victory. Only when an email of the league results some time around 5.30, did I find out Shildon had scored twice in the last 5 minutes to win the game. Another blow, this time metaphorical, but just as painful as the one at Redcar.

Back in the house, I put a load of washing in and spent the evening compiling Benfield’s programme for Saturday 13^th’s game at home to Bridlington Town in the FA Cup. Too tired to take in the Martin Carthy and Dave Swarbrick gig at the Tyneside Irish Centre, without even Match of the Day or The Football League Show to look forward to, I crashed out early after what is, for me, a typical Saturday from August to May. At least, checking the fixtures, I knew I had Team Northumbria v Norton & Stockton Ancients (Monday), Whitley Bay v RCA (Tuesday) and West Allotment v Bishop Auckland (Wednesday) to look forward to.

You see, for some of us, every day is Non League Day and that, allied to reasonably strong crowds that, ignoring Darlington’s one season dramatic effect on attendances, have continued to rise steadily over the past decade is another reason why initiatives such as this will fail to have much impact. Harry Pearson, famed author of The Far Corner, the definitive book on football in the region always equated Northern League games to church attendances; not many here, with those that are being elderly. While there is a degree of truth in that assertion, as much as there is a residual respect at an elemental level for established religion, even among the most zealous of unbelievers, there is also common in the area, an accepted belief among those match-going or sofa and bar stool Mags and Mackems who would never set foot in an amateur ground, that the local football is a source of great regional pride.

All well and good, but when there are at most 60 supporters at Benfield’s Sam Smith’s Park on a benign Saturday in mid-October for the visit of Billingham Synthonia with no Premiership games taking place anywhere, it rankles to know that The Lochside, The Newton, The Corner House and The Chillingham are packed with thirsty punters awaiting the tea time kick off between Estonia and England. These people will not be swayed by initiatives by Non League Day. The best we followers of the local game can hope for is a surge of interest if our team does well in a national competition. Benfield versus York City in the FA Cup 4^th qualifying round in 2006 attracted 926; Benfield won the Northern League double in 2008/2009 with average attendances of 73. That stinks, but it’s also reality. It won’t stop me being at an average of 100 non-league games per season, but I accept I may be a little on the zealous side…

Amateur Dogmatics

I wrote this piece for "Northern Promise" issue 2, which hasn't appeared yet, so I've decided to publish here, to try and get a bit of publicity for the Tyneside Amateur League, of which I am proud to be Chair....

In late May 2014, in that dreaded period of footballing doldrums between the final games in the Northern Alliance and its feeder leagues, of whom more later, and the start of the pre-season friendlies at the beginning of July, when your only hope of competitive football action is an expensive train ride to Scotland to watch a kicking festival in the Juniors between Carnoustie Panmure and Craigmark Burntonians or, worse still, the World Cup and other international inanities, I received a request from a fellow by the name of Paul Mosley. A good lad is Paul; some of you may know him as a referee and linesman in the Northern League, but he’s also the official appointments and fixture secretary for the Tyneside Amateur League, not to mention the ex officio press officer, who submits a lengthy and well written summary of each week’s games to the Whitley Bay Guardian. I’ve the utmost respect for any official, other than Howard Webb of course (how can you grow up in the shadow of Orgreave and still join the South Yorkshire Police?), so I listened to what Paul had to say. Incidentally, I’d recommend those of you who believe that once you get below the Premier League, football exists at a level one step removed from either keepy-up tournaments underneath flickering sodium streetlights, or mass games of 3 pots and in, played on post WWII bomb sites by innumerable scrawny, skinned-kneed tykes in raggy ganseys who could be Billy Casper’s body double, should pay attention to this article.

The Tyneside Amateur League was formed in 1949 and stands at level 14 of the English football pyramid acting, in effect, as a feeder league to the Northern Alliance Division 2. At a similar level are the Newcastle Corinthians League and the North Northumberland League (Duns is in Northumberland?). In its 65^th season, the Tyneside Amateur League boasts 15 teams in a single division; some as historic and venerable as the descendants very first winners of the league title, Hazelrigg Welfare, now Victory and some as neophytic as Lindisfarne Custom Planet Reserves, formed in July 2014. Regardless of history, all clubs also play in 2 knock-out competitions, the Neville Cowey Cup (named after the league’s treasurer and stalwart volunteer) and the Bill Upsall Trophies Tyneside Amateur Challenge Shield, as well as taking part in either the Northumberland FA or Durham FA Minor Cup, depending on their geographical location.

Like all leagues at this level, football is a struggle; finding players, pitches and volunteers is a thankless struggle that can expand to fill the whole of one’s life. Often, the outcome isn’t a happy one; witness well established Stocksfield of the Alliance Premier Division who folded a fortnight into the season, citing a dearth of players. If it is difficult at that level, especially for a club who run a successful Sunday side and dozens of junior teams, how much worse must it be for those several rungs down the pyramid? Perhaps this is why so many teams now choose to play under the umbrella of more established clubs as a nominal reserve side for Ponteland United, Chemfica or Gosforth Bohemians for instance. Indeed, the old South East Northumberland League was subsumed into the Tyneside Amateur League as Division 2 in 2002/2003, but that’s gone now.

It is an undeniable fact that there are fewer clubs now than in days of yore; the North Northumberland League was formed in 1898 and is running two divisions of 9, drawn from teams between the Wansbeck and Tweed, following Shilbottle’s promotion to the Alliance. The Corinthians League, founded a century later in 1999 for teams largely made up of graduates from Newcastle and Northumbria  universities (even if Newcastle Medicals and the rather well educated West Jesmond actually play in the TAL), also has 19 teams spread across 2 divisions. You are entitled to wonder, as I always did, why the Tyneside Amateur League and Corinthians exist in such close geographical proximity to each other, especially at exactly the same level in the pyramid. Good question and one that ought to be cogitated over by the brains trust at Philosophers United in the Corinthian League. Prosaically, the short answer is, we are where we are, though that may not be the case in the future, which is where I came in.

Catching me unawares, not being tied up with Benfield’s programme or editing new Newcastle fanzine The Popular Side at the precise second Paul contacted me, I was honoured when he asked me if I would consider taking on the role of Tyneside Amateur League chair with immediate effect. About to clear my throat and offer up a short but gracious acceptance speech, I had the wind knocked from my sails when he announced I was being offered the role because he couldn’t think of anyone else. Naturally I accepted the offer immediately and now have the duties of chairing the league meetings on the first Friday of each month at Four Lane Ends Club (the last one was over in 17 minutes), as well as making a speech and handing over the trophies at the end of the season finals. It sounds alright to me; I just need to get to see more of the teams in action.

At the present time, all 3 leagues offer something for the curious on-looker or willing volunteer to cast their eye over. The TAL has a historical pedigree; in the last dozen years top scorers have included such luminaries of the local game as Trevor Ford Femi Akinbolu and Over the past few seasons, when I was involved at Percy Main Amateurs, we used to host TAL cup finals, generally on the very last Saturday in May. There was always a healthy crowd, often bolstered by groundhoppers and other inquisitive sorts, and the quality of the game was often surprisingly high. Witness how Longbenton came so agonisingly close to promotion from Alliance Division 2 after making the step up from TAL last season, for instance. In recent years Blyth Isabella, Killingworth and Whickham Lang Jacks (now Whickham Sporting) have made the step up and not been disgraced. They are doing their bit for local football; are you?

In an era when it is easy to become either divorced from the reality of the grassroots game because of the superabundance of live matches, or disenchanted from the whole sport because of the excesses of the Premier League, I feel it is beholden on us all to at least try and give something back to the game that gave us so much, at least in years gone by. Watching Gateshead instead of Newcastle is all well and good, but there’s a whole world of amateur football out there which deserves praise. 

Tyneside Amateur League games kick off at 2.00pm and cup ties at 1.30; give one of them a go at some point. You’ll be glad you did.  Think about this; my very first Tyneside Amateur League game saw a scoreline of High Howdon SC (now of the Alliance) 2 West Jesmond (still of the TAL) 11. Not bad for free!!