Too Many Chiefs

The clocks may have gone back the weekend before, but the transition from October to November always seems to psychologically mark the end of autumn and the onset of winter, regardless of the weather. It was particularly noticeable this year because of the dates falling over a weekend.  Friday 30^th saw the continuation of West Allotment Celtic’s fine upturn in form as they completed a double in the space of 6 days over North Shields, in front of 338. Not a bad crowd, but dwarfed by the 844 who made their way to Heritage Park for the FA Vase game between Bishop Auckland and South Shields. The reborn Mariners triumphed 2-1 and their large fan base appears to be making friends wherever they go. Fair play to them; they deserve it, after the years of strife and grumbles that have gone before.

Personally, I made neither game; my allegiance to the League of Ireland kept me in front of the computer, watching RTE’s coverage of Limerick’s 3-2 win away at Sligo Rovers. This result for Stab City XI, in conjunction with the 5-3 defeat of Drogheda United at the Halting Site versus the Tallaght Corinthians, ensured it was the Diamond Drogs from Hunky Dory who made the definite drop into Division 1, no doubt precipitating a severe financial crisis that will see the club teetering on the brink of oblivion. Meanwhile Stab City’s win saw them scrape second bottom place and a play-off with Finn Harps, who overcame UCD for a shot at the big time. A week later, Finn Harps completed a 2-1 aggregate game and Dundalk overcame Cork City, the only Premier League I’ve yet to visit, after extra time to complete a domestic double. So it looks like that in 2016 I’m on that Shels bus to Cobh, Drogheda and Limerick; we’ll take the DART to Cabo, if the L of I are still paying their subs.

Saturday morning was as glorious as the week before had been wet. Winstons’ home game against Wingate Cons (Convicts? Conservatives? Same thing really) had been called off the day before, allowing my trip to Atherton Collieries with Benfield to take place with a clear conscience. We assembled at Sam Smith’s for a 9.00 departure, which became 9.15; the players and a grand total of 3 supporters. We had further pick-ups at Washington, Rushyford and Brighouse, before a thirty-minute refreshment break at Hartshead Services.  The 20 of us clambered down to get coffees (committee) and eat KFC while losing money on poker machines (players), observing the presence of a dozen coaches of Norwich City fans en route to Man City. It wasn’t a scene from Green Street to be honest, nor was it when Whitley Bay, heading for their Vase game against Manchester Northwich Villa at Irlam, arrived. Two coaches from the coast; one of players and committee and the other of supporters, putting us to shame, especially as they left before us to continue their journey, while our team were still breaking the bank at Monte Carlo.

Eventually back underway, we arrived at Atherton, which is in Wigan but is really Bolton, about 1.45. The home committee had naively expected about 100 Benfield supporters, which was a little optimistic to say the least, though the number of fans swelled to 6 with the arrival of the suspended Steven Tobin, his dad and brother. Atherton Collieries are a lovely, genuine, welcoming football club. They graft off and on the pitch, which is muddy and on a slope like Tow Law’s. Frankly they deserved their 2-0 win and a home tie against the side that put us out last year, Chadderton.

Sadly, at full time Benfield manager Steve Bowey tendered his resignation, as he felt he’d gone as far as he could with the club. It was truly humbling to see how upset he was by the outcome and I wish him well for the future. There we all stood; 5^th bottom of the league, out of every cup before the end of October and three hours from home. Nowt for it but to get drunk; we imbibed in the clubhouse and got ourselves a large carry out from ASDA to get us home. About 9.30 I tumbled off the bus, half plastered, scrounged a lift home and fell asleep on the sofa during Match of the Day; apart from the game, it had been a blinding trip.

After the emotionally wrought events of Saturday, Sunday 1^st November saw me experience a whole new ball game; a trip to Kingston Park to see Newcastle Falcons versus Exeter Chiefs. Having managed to acquire free tickets for Newcastle Thunder versus Barrow Raiders and then the Magic Weekend at SJP, I’d seen a couple of games of Rugby League in 2015. Somehow because of this, I’d ended up on some database which sends me weekly emails from the RFU; back in September I’d noticed an initiative whereby, if you’d never seen Rugby Union before, you could apply for a pair of tickets to a number of games. I’d fancied Saracens v Northampton, but since I’d have to pay for my own travel, I thought it best to stay local. Obviously as I’ve been to some form of rugby before, I didn’t register my interest under my own name, but Laura’s. The alarm on her face when she thought she’d have to go and watch a sport she despises was priceless; instead I took my mate Jamie, on the basis he could drive me there.

If Halloween in Atherton had been pleasant, climactically at least, the Day of the Dead in NE13 was positively tropical, though I did recall that a year before, to the actual date, Benfield’s 3-0 win over West Auckland had been played on an afternoon so warm that mosquitos were discernible in Walkergate.  So much for global cooling; especially as Kingston Park’s micro climate has most often been compared to a Post-Apocalyptic Nuclear Winter.

Strolling in shirt sleeves on a baking lunchtime towards the ground, it seemed clear there were more heading to watch than NUFC Reserves, Blue Star and the Thunder could ever hope for combined, though the only time I’ve seen the place sell out was when Steve Wraith arranged a charity game between the 1996 NUFC and Liverpool teams, to replay the famous 4-3. It wasn’t as close as that scoreline when they repeated it; possibly because Steve replaced Pav in goal in the second half…

Anyway, into the stadium we went; no turnstiles, no searches, just a smiling steward ushering us in. If football is the working man’s game and rugby league is the long term claimant’s game, then rugby union’s demographic is surely hewn from the base metal of  Telegraph-reading, Tory-voting, Top Gear-watching, NE3-dwelling, public school and Russell Group educated, professionally-employed, bourgeois, class-enemies who will be first up against the wall when the glorious day comes. Well, not really; admittedly this well-heeled Ralph Lauren, Blue Harbour and Gant attired agglomeration would be more likely to trade stocks and shares than take out a Provy or hide under the table when the rent man came knocking, but it wasn’t wall-to-wall Nigel Farage body doubles either.

It’s undeniable that rugby union is middle class in our region; that may not be the case in Wales, Limerick or Cornwall, but it is up here. There were plenty students, plenty middle aged professional types and plenty of the Ponteland and Darrass Hall female horsey set; and their beverages of choice were telling. Blokes on the real ale (hand-pulled beer in a major sporting event; how I regretted my desperate hangover) and women on wine (and not a bubble-gum Rose by the pint either). The food was better too; hog roast baguettes and steak sandwiches rather than pies, several types of filter coffee instead of Bovril. All very civilised and pleasant. Not the sort of thing football fans would be allowed to enjoy. Then again, the rugby league crowd at Magic Weekend were getting it down their necks like the cast of Shameless on a freebie to the Munich Beer Festival and there was no serious mither then. It really does disgust me how we football fans are the most regulated, legislated and repressed sport supporters in the country. Debate rages as to whether fans at Northern League games ought to be allowed a pint while watching the game.

So, what about the rugger? Well, our boys took a hell of a beating. After going 3-0 up in the first couple of minutes from a penalty, given for something I didn’t understand (this was the case for much of the game for me, despite Jamie’s knowledgeable insights), the Falcons were then blown away by an Exeter side who seemed to view push-over tries as the highest form of sporting excellence, though the first try was courtesy of a charged down kick from a Falcons player. Five tries, none of them eye-catching, and three conversions, left the half time score 3-31. Interestingly though, none of the 5,196 crowd seemed keen on booing the team or the officials off; rugby union still contains vestiges of the “best team won” philosophy that went out of English football, either after George Eastham won his case or the Scotch invasion of Lancashire in the 1880s heralded the dawn of professionalism.

If the first half was depressingly one-sided, the second period was one of the dullest sporting events I’ve ever attended and I had a season ticket at SJP in 1990/1991 remember. Exeter soaked up 30-odd minutes of ineffective, impotent Falcons pressure, too often disfigured by poor handling and bad decision making, before easing to another converted pushover try and a last second penalty to win the game 41-3. The spectacle was interrupted by 16 replacements (8 for each side), which destroyed the fluency in the way mass substitutions do in international football friendlies. Sure there were grumbles and moans, especially by the RP-accented fellow in russet corduroys the row in front, who did 3 pints in each half, but the crowd were fairly philosophical about the loss, as it was expected. I enjoyed it on a freebie, but I can’t see any way I would pay to watch The Falcons again. I might be tempted by local rugby though; Blaydon? Tynedale? Percy Park? We shall see…

The Falcons have lost all 4 games so far, but so have London Irish. Only one team goes down from the Premiership and only then if they lose a play-off against the lower league champions, who have to pass a series of stringent financial tests before they can even take part in the play-off. Finishing one place above the drop zone will be as much a cause for rejoicing in Kingston Park as emulating such a finishing position will be at SJP.

Ashley OUT! Richards OUT! Come on Gos!

My Entertaining Friends

This is my 300th post on here. It's the penultimate cultural piece for 2015.

When I wrote my last cultural blog, I pointed out that I’d only been to 2 gigs in my life at Whitley Bay Playhouse (a certifiably deranged Charlie Chuck in 1997 and a wonderful, if slightly staid performance by Midlake in 2014). Lo and behold, I go twice in a week; firstly to The Lindisfarne Story which I referred to last time and then to Penetration on Friday 16^th October. At The Lindisfarne Story, I picked up a copy of Jack The Lad’s Live in Plymouth 1976, as I had nothing by the band, though I remember much of their stuff from back in the day. How enjoyable it was to find a band doing a Northumbrian take on what Fairport Convention were doing for the Home Counties and West of England at that time. It was also a great surprise that Ray Jackson, presumably after Lindisfarne II packed in after Happy Daze bombed, taking a place on stage with the band. A minor treasure and a wonderful little period piece.

Unlike The Lindisfarne Story, I didn’t take my homework away with me; I did my swotting in advance, by getting a vinyl copy of Penetration’s first new album since 1979, Resolution, to prepare me for the show. Frankly it’s incredible to think it wasn’t recorded in 1980, as the progression from Moving Targets and Coming Up For Air is absolutely seamless. That’s not to say it is perfect, as I do feel a couple of numbers are a little plodding, but it has 5 tracks that I would describe as utter classics. For their gig at The Playhouse, where they were supported by energetic New Wave local lads The Middens, Penetration played two sets; the first being Resolution straight through. From the opening Instrumata to the beguiling, avant garde closer Outromistra, the whole album shone. The band were tight, passionate and invigorated by this strong collection of new material.

After a short break, they came back to perform most of the hits; Don’t Dictate, Free Money and possibly the best version of Shout Above The Noise I’ve ever heard them do.  The encore was a storming I Don’t Mind, what with drummer John Maher being a Buzzcock, before ending with the joyous, uplifting pop classic The Beat Goes On, which is obviously from the new album. A brave but correct choice on a night where their judgement was as infallible as their playing; with a dozen new songs, they have more than enough reason to kick on and achieve even greater things in the future. And I’m so proud of them as well.

The next “gig” I attended was probably the second or third best I’ve ever seen in my life, behind only Pussy Galore at the Riverside in 1988 and Teenage Fanclub at Camden Koko in 2006. Other incredible gigs by Fugazi, Van Morrison, The Pop Group, My Bloody Valentine and a thousand others simply fade into insignificance compared to the utter majesty of Godspeed You! Black Emperor at the Sage on Saturday 24^th October. It wasn’t a gig; it was a performance. How much of the Quebecois post-rock octet’s playing was scripted and how much improvised, I do not know for sure; certainly I recognised most of the set as being drawn from the last 2 albums, Don’t Bend, Ascend and 2015’s Asunder Sweet and Other Distress, but the origin of the music was not the important thing. The crucial factor was being present for intense, swirling, anthemic, coruscating shards of jagged sound. There were superbly bleak back projections to accompany the music, but I spent half the time with my eyes closed, head pressed against the PA, drowning in sound. The cathartic effect was in no way lessened by a 10 minute hiatus, as a rogue fire alarm took us outside. Many thought it part of the set at first. Thankfully, we returned to be overwhelmed, deafened and improved again. Godspeed You! Black Emperor are quite possibly the most important musical entity of the planet at this point in time. Adore them for their genius.

The next gig for me was 2 nights later, in the same big hall of The Sage, when Christy Moore came to town. It was his first gig in the area for 2 years, which was at The Tyne Theatre and the year before had been the City Hall. Consequently, the last time Christy had played the Sage was Monday 1^st November 2010, the day after we’d stuffed the Mackems 5-1. Perhaps this omen was why I’d been so optimistic leading up to Sunday’s debacle. However, a sympathetic Christy said he was a Blyth Spartans fan, which is grand as they wear green.

As ever, the bank clerk from Moorefield, Newbridge, was in superb form. On stage at 7.30 and finished, after an encore, by 9.45; ideal timings for a school night. All the classics there, as usual; Don’t Forget Your Shovel, Viva la Quinta Brigada, Lisdoonvarna and Well Below The Valley in particular. However, the stand-out moment for me was getting Spancill Hill; even better it was the acapella version. You could literally have heard a pin drop as the great man’s stunning rendition of this magnificent song came to an end. Then, the deserved tumultuous applause. The only sad thing for me was he didn’t come a week sooner to be part of the Irish Festival.

I got myself along to a couple of events at the Irish Centre during this year’s festival. Firstly on Tuesday 13^th October, I attended the closing lunch for the Raised on Songs and Stories project, whereby Northern Stage has been collecting memories and recollections in an oral history project, chronicling the lives of Irish immigrants, first and second generation, in the north east. The idea is to synthesise these interviews into a production in the future. I think this is a tremendously valuable and important initiative and I look forward to its realisation with great anticipation.

The next night, I swerved Benfield’s 6-0 hammering at North Shields to take in Dr. Claire Nally’s lecture on W.B. Yeats and Irish Nationalism. It was a fascinating explanation how the Sligo grump went from being a fervent supporter of Larkin and the workers during the 1913 lock-out, to acting as a kind of 1920’s David Norris, before consorting with O’Duffy and the Blue Shirts and eventually ending up swamped in a kind of vague and tendentious Gaelic mysticism that had more in common with Aleister Crowley than Eamonn de Valera. Yeats was a tremendous poet with a sharp mind, who squandered his later days in rancorous recriminations and cynical contrarianism. Best ignored after 1925…

Another controversial Irish literary figure is the poet Paul Durcan. At a recent trip to Tynemouth Market, I picked up a copy of his Berlin Wall Café collection, written after his divorce. As ever, it combines comic, grotesque vignettes from his bizarre and dysfunctional family (they kidnapped him from University and forced him to endure ECT at one point), together with self-recriminatory evaluations of his married life and shortcomings as both a husband and father. Not pretty, but compelling and memorable, unlike the rather limp and tame proto Movement poems of Pauline Kirk, whose Scorpion Days collection was another purchase.

I hated Mr Nice by Howard Marks, so it was with a little trepidation I turned to his Canadian counterpart Brian O’Dea’s autobiographical tome, High. Thankfully it managed to steer a course between arrogant justification of squalid hedonism and dealing drugs, as well as avoiding the whining auto da fe of guilt-suffused addicts. To be honest, it’s long and O’Dea’s writing is plodding at times, but his insights into the Californian penal system where he was incarcerated, is fascinating.

Finally, I made it through David Firth’s unremittingly bleak Silence of the Heart, which chronicles cricketing suicides around the world, starting with the mid Victorian era. Quite frankly it is a distressingly solemn litany of thwarted ambitions, middle-aged regret, poverty, alcohol abuse and infidelity. I bet many cricketers wish they were more like footballers; thick, rich and happy.

So, we move on to gigs by The Wedding Present, Vic Godard and Euros Childs, who has a new album out soon as well. Also, it is almost time to put the releases into some kind of order as the lights come on at 4 at the end of another year.

STOP PRESS: Just arrived is the double vinyl album of British Sea Power’s Sea of Brass project. 14 tracks of varying quality with Foden’s Brass Band. In some cases the orchestra struggles to keep up with the band, and occasionally the band is drowned out. Yet, despite some imperfections, this project is yet another testimony to British Sea Power’s eccentric genius and innovatory creativity. There are some lovely moments, such as the glorious climax of Heavenly Waters, while Atom has a pulverising strength to it, though elsewhere, the two parties make for less sweet music: Machineries of Joy sounds as if the band are trying to play it while an orchestra blares away at another number entirely.

Best of all are the extended and noisy closers of side 4; Wooden Horse and Lately are reworked and improved.

Donkey Serenade

Issue 15 of Stand is out this week; as ever I recommend you buy it. It includes the following piece by yours truly, written in advance of Sunday's derby, where unpredictable events led to a predictable outcome. I don't really want to say much about that game other than two points; one trivial and one serious. On the point of triviality; yes it is cheese and small minded that the Mackems are doing "6 in a Row" merchandise, but then again, how do we defend LALAS 1 & 2? More seriously; Adam Johnson's goal celebration was ill-judged & confrontational, presumably borne from a desire to offend those who had relentlessly barracked him with an appallingly offensive song that has no place in a civilised society. However, it is safe to conclude that there is no link whatsoever between Johnson's celebration and the MH17 tragedy. To try and claim otherwise is mendacious at the very least. We lost a game; it happens, deal with it. To fall back on faux outrage and pretend morality is, to me, far more crass than Johnson's actions, though not as offensive as the chant he endured. The vexed question as whether Johnson should have been playing is a much more complex issue which I intend to return to at a later date. However, I have no wish to prejudice Johnson's trial, so it won't be in the immediate future. Instead, here's my article and the only photo that made me smile on Sunday -:

When it happened we walked through all the estates, from Manchester right to Newcastle.

In Darlington, helped a large man on his own chase off some kids,

Who were chucking bricks and stuff through his flat window.

He cussed us and we moved on.

(Mark E Smith, NWRA, 1980)

As a football fan, you’d surely laugh like a drain if your local rivals had reached the October international hiatus without winning a game, were languishing in a relegation spot and had commenced the search for their fifth manager in 3 seasons. Well you would, unless you were a supporter of Newcastle United, who were the only team worse off than Sunderland in mid-October. The state of affairs whereby two teams who pull in almost 100,000 disaffected and disillusioned punters a fortnight, have failed to register a victory in 16 league games, is beyond farce, beyond tragedy and almost beyond imagining.

Looking dispassionately at the Premier League table, anyone who enjoys the top flight of English football, regardless of their own supporting preferences, would surely fervently hope that the sides to be relegated at the end of this current campaign were the three occupying the drop zone when the league had its autumnal fortnight in abeyance. Let’s be honest, the minimal level of comic schadenfreude provided by the blundering travails of Aston Villa, Newcastle and Sunderland is far outweighed by the fact that the three sides have given absolutely nothing of note, much less value, to the division for at least the past 4 seasons. They are the sporting equivalent of landfill; prime detritus ready for fly-tipping into the Championship and ignominious anonymity thereafter. They won’t be missed.

Leaving Villa out of the equation, for reasons of geography more than anything else, the North East “Big” Two (please stop smirking at the back) have long been an utter irrelevance in the league, in Newcastle’s case since the end of 2011/2012, when Yohan Cabaye’s guile and Papiss Cisse’s goals propelled the Magpies to fifth place in the table. Sunderland had a heroic run to the League Cup final in 2014, but Manchester City denied them a fairytale ending, though their miracle run to safety at the end of that campaign, with wins at Stamford Bridge and the Etihad did stir the blood. Gus Poyet still got his P45 the next season because the drop seemed inevitable.

At the start of this season, Sunderland began to repeatedly apply the panic button after an opening day trouncing by Ranieri’s eclectic and joyful Leicester side, while Newcastle maintained an uncharacteristic air of stability until being dismantled away to Swansea in the second game. Remarkably, Newcastle have actually put in good performances in the supposedly more challenging fixtures against Southampton, Arsenal, Manchester United and Chelsea, though these have been offset by spineless capitulations against West Ham, Watford and Manchester City, where 45 minutes of graft and guile was undone by 20 minutes of cowardice. In contrast Sunderland have produced a mere 45 minutes of good football this season; the first half of Advocaat’s final game against West Ham. Reverting to type, they threw away 2 points and had a player sent off in the second period, precipitating the Dutchman’s departure. 

Since the spring of 2013, Sunderland have dispensed with the services of Martin O’Neill, a boyhood fan of the club in his native County Derry, the frankly unhinged Paolo Di Canio, Gus Poyet, an ultimately antagonistic empty vessel and the deeply frustrated and dignified Dick Advocaat. Now the ultimate Tyneside pantomime villain Sam Allardyce has inevitably got the gig and is no doubt is plotting an inevitable sixth successive derby win over Newcastle. Allardyce has plenty of experience of ensuring Newcastle United lose, generally when he was in charge at SJP.

In contrast to their local rivals, the Magpies have dispensed with the concept of sacking their bosses, however incompetent. Having endured half a decade of Pardew’s charm offensive (whenever he tried to be charming, he came out as offensive),  his departure to Crystal Palace, where he is proving his worth in a supportive environment by having an excellent season, ushered in the six month car crash of John Carver’s interim administration. Now, fresh from being shown the door for failing at Derby County, on the back of a similar experience at Nottingham Forest, also in the Championship, Steve McClaren is the one being asked to tame the raging beast of Tyneside anger and expectation. I must admit I thought his calm, rational approach would provide a measure of stability; so far, I’ve be totally wrong in that fond hope, as McClaren has been a conspicuous, anodyne failure. However as he was rewarded with a seat on the board when he was appointed, he’s probably safe for a while yet, which deflects the even stickier question of just who the hell would come in to replace him.

Ten years ago, Allardyce against McClaren would have meant Bolton versus Middlesbrough, which was the 2004 League Cup final. Despite the fact those two clubs are now both in the second tier (though Boro look destined for promotion until the superb stewardship of Aitor Karanka, who I’d hoped would get the Newcastle job in the summer), fans on Tyneside and Wearside would give anything for a day out, like the one enjoyed by Trotters and Smogs in Cardiff. The main problem is; Newcastle and Sunderland were both dumped out the League Cup at home in successive nights, where the final whistle called forth a torrent of booing from those left in their seats. Whining and moaning about the fate of the two clubs may be alluring if not an essential coping mechanism, but it doesn’t explain why they’re both such a joke.

If ever there was a club stalwart, both respected and eternally in tune with the nuances of the opinions of his club’s supporters, it would be Gary Neville who, as the terrace chants reminded us, “hates Scousers.” As well as being a grandstanding populist on the pitch, Neville was also an accomplished defender, though reappraisals of his career as a Mancunian Maldini are excessively fulsome. He is, and we have to remember the vacuous popinjays and intellectual plankton representing the biodiversity of the stagnant pond of television football punditry, a reasonably perceptive and articulate analyst of the game.  In his Daily Telegraph column at the end of September, Neville elaborated on a theme he’d touched on as a commentator during Newcastle’s last league loss at Upton Park, namely the seemingly irresistible drift southwards of footballing power and prestige, other than from his beloved Northern Powerhouse of Mancunia of course.

We could of course point out to Neville that the two Manchester clubs plus Arsenal and Chelsea (perhaps not this year though eh Jose?) have been the only realistic, credible clubs at the top of our domestic game, other than Liverpool’s inglorious slip-up with the title in their sights the other season. There are those far more conversant with the reasons why the Premier League sides have stunk the continent out in the Champions’ League so far this campaign and folks far more knowledgeable than I as regards the potential impact of Jurgen Klopp on Liverpool’s future standing in the game.  However, if we add Spurs as perennial Europa League qualifiers to the previously 5 nominated clubs, the stark reality is, other than the occasional muted glory of a cup run, there are 14 clubs in the Premier League who are left to do the sporting equivalent of busking in the tube station for chump change; marginalised, patronised, sometimes scorned and often impecunious.  

Ominously, with the insane levels of money sloshing around the Premier League, which rewards basic levels of competence in avoiding relegation with riches beyond the imaginings of mere mortals, 14 clubs are happy to aim for safety, pretending this is stability. The worst offender as regards this poverty of aspiration are Newcastle United. Despite a stated intent of finishing top 8 and winning a cup, the squad rebuilding was piecemeal, inadequate and tardy. If the club go down, it won’t just be McClaren’s fault, the dread hands of Mike Ashley and Lee Charnley are also gripping the tiller. Meanwhile, rich as Croesus hedge fund devotee Ellis Short has shown himself basically incompetent when it comes to building a solid foundation for the club he inherited in a cut-price deal from the Drumaville Consortium, headed by Ireland’s answer to Sir Roger Casement, Niall Quinn, when the Celtic Tiger foundered on the rocks of the 2008 recession.

The blame rests squarely on the shoulders of those paid handsomely to ensure the future of two of England’s flagship regional clubs. Sadly it appears the North East is going the way of Yorkshire; a barren playing field of broken promises and unfulfilled dreams. The forthcoming Tyne versus Wear fixture has been dubbed the Donkey Derby. This may be true, but in Alan Clarke’s memorable description of First World War trench combat,  in the North East the Lions truly are led by Donkeys.

Slovene Progress....

A couple of great fanzines came out this weekend; issue 54 of Wigan's Mudhutter appeared for their 5-0 win over Colchester on Saturday and, a day later, Newcastle's 6-2 hammering of Norwich was accompanied by issue 9 of  The Popular Side. I had the same article in both fanzines, about the stuttering career of Haris Vučkić, who is currently on loan at Wigan from Newcastle. Predicatably enough, he's injured...

As everyone who farts about on the internet knows, the received wisdom holds that Newcastle United fans are thick, deluded, morbidly obese Geordies (or Jawdies if you want to be really hilarious) in replica shirts, who never used to follow their team a quarter of a century ago (10,004 v Oxford in March 1991 is a favourite statistic), but then suddenly started watching them, even though they’ve never won anything, from 1992 onwards and, since Keegan finally left, they’ve spent all their energies trying to drive the manager out of the club because he wasn’t born within the sound of the Tyneside shipyard hooters. Utter horseshit all of that, of course; even the stuff about Pards, who left of his own accord for a pay hike at Palace.

One thing (positive or negative; you decide) about Pardew is his longevity; he was the second longest serving manager in the Premier League when he decamped to Selhurst Park between Christmas and New Year last season. The Silver Fox’s last game was a 3-2 home victory over Everton; a shade over 4 years after he’d taken charge in December 2010, recording a 3-1 win over Liverpool in his first game.

Sat on the bench as an unused sub on that freezing Saturday teatime almost half a decade ago, as sleet fell incessantly, was an 18 year old from Ljubljana.  Even though Haris Vučkić didn’t kick another ball competitively for Newcastle United in 2010/2011, after his third and final appearance in his second full season at the club, all in the League Cup, which saw him named Man of the Match in a loss to Arsenal in late October, he must have made a positive impression on his new boss as January 2011 saw the Slovenian pen a 5 ½ year contract, which has just been extended by an extra year at the same time he heads to Wigan on loan. Strange though that combination of factors seems, it isn’t unique; Steve McClaren gave a 2 year deal to out of contract Sammy Ameobi, before sending him to Cardiff City on loan before the campaign started. For both Vučkić and Ameobi, this season is probably their last chance to gain enough playing time, even if it is away from Tyneside, to convince the club hierarchy that they have any kind of a future at SJP.

It seems that Vučkić has been permanently enjoying a late-night lock-in at the last chance saloon for half a decade or more. He arrived from Domžale for an “undisclosed” fee in January 2009, aged only 16. That season ended in farcical circumstances, with Newcastle United relegated after the cowardly, arrogant and demotivated collection of has-beens on huge wages we called a squad couldn’t manage to accrue the 35 points required to stay up. Luckily, the next year didn’t see the club “do a Leeds,” as had been widely anticipated. Instead, following a raft of free transfers and a small scale fire sale, Chris Hughton’s remodelled and chastened side showed admirable application and moral fortitude in assembling 102 points to be promoted as Champions. Somewhere, in very small print, is a footnote that says Haris Vučkić made 2 substitute appearances in August of that season; both at home, both in injury time, against Huddersfield in the League Cup and Leicester City, then suffered a training ground knee injury that ruled him out for the rest of the campaign.  All I remember about his debut were people in the crowd commenting what a big, strapping lad he was. Well over six foot, barrel chested, good in the air and strong in the tackle. Why didn’t he go on and cement a place in the team? Tough question…

Not having appeared on the pitch in a first team game since the previous October and in a league game since his brief, late debut almost exactly 2 years before, Vučkić came on in the 70^th minute of a 2-1 league cup success away to Scunthorpe in August 2011. As the game went to extra time, he actually spent 50 minutes on the pitch and retained a spot on the bench for that weekend’s game.  In the 78^th minute of a 2-1 home win over Fulham, Haris made his Premier League bow; sadly he left the pitch 7 minutes later, having suffered a dislocated finger. You couldn’t make it up.

He returned to the side as a substitute in an emotion-drenched 0-0 with Swansea, that was first home game after NUFC hero Gary Speed’s tragic suicide. Events on the pitch mattered little that day, but Vučkić must have done enough to impress Pardew, as he kept his place for the next two games, starting both of them, which we lost. The first was a 3-2 reverse against West Brom in a storming contest, where Haris got Man of the Match and hit the underside of the bar with a stunning volley from 35 yards that would have rescued a point. He also played an hour of a tight 3-1 reverse at Anfield. As 2012 dawned, with Newcastle having a good season that saw us finish fifth, everything seemed to be geared up for Haris to cement a regular place in the first team, but it suddenly all fell away.

For no readily apparent reason, his star began to wane. He spent a month on loan at Cardiff City, playing 5 games and scoring his first senior goal returning in March 2012, with niggling hamstring and knee injuries that meant his season had been curtailed. Ironically, his next appearance was as an early sub in a Europa League qualifying round tie, coming on for cruciate victim Ryan Taylor, who’d not be seen for 2 years in a first team shirt. Vučkić made the most of his chance, grabbing the only goal, sending the Magpies through to the group stages. He started the first of these games, a 1-1 draw away to Maritimo, as well as a 2-1 League Cup loss at Old Trafford the week after, but he was withdrawn each time. An injury to his knee sustained in the latter game ended his season and, as far as can be told, robbed him of the pace that helped him to function as an attacking threat.

Perhaps this injury, as well as his slow recovery, meant his card was marked as an underachiever. Haris was now about to embark on his fifth full season as a Newcastle player. He returned for his usual League Cup outings against Morecambe and Leeds (you know that’s what Eric and Ernie would have been called if they’d both adopted their birthplaces as stage names), but was nowhere near the first team. Eventually, he left for Rotherham United on loan and stayed until the end of the campaign, making 22 appearances and scoring 4 goals as The Millers achieved promotion to the Championship via the play-offs.

It was widely assumed he’d sign permanently for Rotherham and Vučkić made it clear he was keen on such a move, but it didn’t happen for whatever reason and he returned to Tyneside, but now in the number 23 shirt vacated by Shola Ameobi as the laughable, alleged striker Emanuele Riviere had claimed 29 ahead of the Slovenian former Wonder Kid. 2014/2015 started late for Vučkić; his first appearance was as a substitute in a 4-0 League Cup howking at Spurs in mid-December, followed by 8 minutes at Old Trafford in a 3-1 reverse on Boxing Day, before his last appearance in an NUFC shirt, which was an atrocious 1-0 non-performance by the whole squad, away to Leicester in the third round of the FA Cup. Astonishingly though, this dismal failure was not the end for him; from that point on, the only way was up for Vučkić.

Whatever Mike Ashley’s connections are with Rangers these days, they were close enough to see 5 of our fringe players journey to Ibrox on loan on deadline day at the end of January. These included Swiss defender Kevin Mbabu who has never made a senior appearance, Burundian midfielder Gael Bigirimana who scored in the 3-0 win over the Latics in December 2012 but hasn’t been seen in a black and white shirt since, leaden-footed centre back Remy Streete who is now a Port Vale player and proud follower of County Derry’s Gaelic Football team Shane Ferguson, who presumably kept that interest and everything else about his family background quiet while on the payroll of Her Majesty’s Team. Of those 4, the first two were permanently injured and the latter pair only played a couple of games each. The only success was Vučkić.

My Scottish team are Hibs, so I’ve seen a fair bit of Scottish Championship “football;” it isn’t great to be honest. What I’d seen convinced me Vučkić would be a massive hit at that level and so he was. Frankly, he looked like Zinedine Zidane in such company. His lack of pace was countermanded by speed of thought, strength and the ability, unseen south of the border, to find the net on a regular basis. He scored 8 goals, several of them spectacular solo efforts or thundering drives, in 15 games as Rangers just missed out on promotion, losing in the play-off to Motherwell. Same as the season before, Vučkić was keen to move permanently to a club that had offered him a chance of regular football at a level commensurate with his impaired skill set. However the complex and intractable financial problems that the Ibrox outfit remain beset by meant they couldn’t afford him. Instead James Tavernier is looking like Roberto Carlos against Alloa and Dumbarton.

So, what can you expect? Strength, power, tackling, physical presence, a few goals and regular absences through injury. Being positive, his two successful seasons have been out on loan; if he stays fit and replicates his form at Rotherham, he’ll serve you well. If he gets injured and fails to get regular game time, I can see a “contract cancelled by mutual agreement” scenario in summer 2016. One positive thing is that there hasn’t been a scrap of gossip about the lad in his almost 7 years on Tyneside. He probably knows he hasn’t got it in him to succeed at the top level, but he’s an honest pro and he deserves an even break. As do the Latics.

Ferry 0 Hull 4

I'm incredibly proud to be featured in issue 5 of Northern Correspondent, alongside such superb writers as Harry Pearson. I urge you to buy the magazine from www.northerncorrespondent.com - the magazine is beautifully designed and packed with 130 pages of excellent writing from this region. My piece is a discussion on why I believe Alan Hull and Lindisfarne are of far greater regional, cultural significance than Bryan Ferry and Roxy Music. In addition, it seems clear to me Newcastle has always been a city of long haired, anti establishment types, rather than clean cut conformists.

Perhaps one of the most unexpected temptations granted by the social media revolution is the opportunity for those of us whose teenage lives were, in Philip Larkin’s phrase, “a forgotten boredom” to reinvent one’s younger self as, say, a glamorous, Bohemian prime mover in the Tyneside punk explosion. However the obloquy that would descend if one were to be caught reimagining the mid to late 70s by someone who remembers you were actually in the bar when Joy Division supported The Buzzocks, is reason enough to be truthful. Thus I can honestly state that in 1976, when the likes of Penetration and Speed were championing  the north east New Wave, I was 12 years old and listening, in equal measures, to Lindisfarne’s Finest Hour and Viva Roxy Music!

Though I was too young to realise it, I was straddling a key cultural divide, by liking the region’s two most successful bands. Then, the lines of musical and sartorial demarcation were explicit. Mid 70s Geordies  opted for either long-haired, scruffy, down-to-earth Lindisfarne: recently reformed and selling out the City Hall for a run of their legendary Christmas Shows, or immaculately attired, sophisticated and glacially aloof Roxy, who were in the midst of a mid-decade hiatus that allowed Bryan Ferry to pursue both his solo career and Jerry Hall. The band you preferred was often decided by social class; the shipyards, factories and pits employed the hairies in overalls and hobnails from North Shields, Longbenton and West Denton, while Bath Lane College, the Ministry and Civic Centre harboured deskbound smoothies from Gosforth, Monkseaton and Cochrane Park.

Despite Bryan Ferry’s claim that Newcastle in the 1960s was “a Mod town,” the evidence says otherwise. Scooters and parkas were a Home Counties phenomenon; Eric Burdon and The Animals knew the blues and they knew how to rock. No wonder their bassist Chas Chandler became manager of Jimi Hendrix and then Slade. On Tyneside guitars and facial hair held sway. Even the Skinhead movement in the early 70s was restricted to a handful of peripheral sink estates and soon died out, leaving no discernible stamp on the region’s identity.

Perhaps the most striking difference between Lindisfarne and Roxy, other than the former’s preference for denim-clad mandolins compared to the latter’s androgynous synthesisers, were their leaders; Benwell born former psychiatric nurse Alan Hull and Washington raised, though Holland Park dwelling, fine art graduate Bryan Ferry. Hull was an unapologetic, unreconstructed Geordie all his life; a committed socialist, a renowned bevvy merchant, who released a protest single when Scottish & Newcastle Breweries were subject to a takeover bid, and devoted family man whose horizons extended as far as moving to Whickham to bring the bairns up “somewhere safe.” Alan appeared on the Old Grey Whistle Test in 1972 attired in a full Newcastle United kit, singing (what else?) Fog on the Tyne.

Hull and fellow singer, Wallsend native Ray Jackson, looked what they were; normal, working-class lads, albeit supremely talented ones. They were role models because they were ordinary and credible. In an interview with Melody Maker in early 73, Hull pointed out “most of the groups we meet were born with silver spoons in their mouths; we were born with pickaxes in ours.” This may not have been strictly true, as bandmates Rod Clements and Simon Cowe had been educated at fee-paying Kings’ School in Tynemouth, but statements like these had the required effect on their intended audience. Geordies knew that Lindisfarne were decent blokes. Unquestioningly, the overwhelming majority of north east men under 25 in the 1970s selected a uniform that comprised hair worn significantly below the collar, bike jackets or Afghans, cheesecloth shirts, flared Wranglers and cowboy boots. These lads drank Brown Ale or Exhibition in bars like the Haymarket, the Farmers, the Percy, the Hotspur and the Jubilee. They didn’t attend gallery previews or contemporary dance shows. They headbanged to heavy rock at the Mayfair every Friday night.

In contrast to Alan Hull, few people nowadays associate Ferry with the north east, partly on account of him hightailing it to the Smoke in summer 68. By the mid-70s, he was viewed with suspicion verging on contempt by the vast majority on Tyneside, because there was something of the Smart Alec about him. Bryan Ferry’s escape from what he saw as stifling provincialism acted as a beacon for those marooned up here, who harboured pretensions of social advancement and adventure, if not the chance to wear outlandish fashions and step out with dolly birds.

There is good reason to forget Ferry’s roots; despite his subsequent rediscovery of regional ties (mainly during Kevin Keegan’s tenure of Newcastle United, when his professed love of the Magpies seemed as convincing as Tony Blair’s), he sought to distance himself from his upbringing. Indeed other than inserting the word “Geordies” into a live version of Do The Strand recorded at the City Hall in October 75 and his tell-tale enunciation of the line “how can he be happy” in Let’s Stick Together, Ferry has made it his business to sound like a minor member of the aristocracy the whole time he’s been in the public eye.

One interesting revelation in former Guardian journalist Michael Walker’s book about north east football, Up There, is that former England international and Everton manager Howard Kendall played for the same school team at Fatfield Juniors as Bryan Ferry. Unsurprisingly, Kendall confides, young Ferry wasn’t the most naturally gifted of players and gave up the game on starting Washington Grammar. These days Ferry’s interest in sport seems to be confined to unstinting praise of the hunting, shooting and fishing activities (referred to euphemistically as “country pursuits”) of his convicted felon son Otis. In a recent interview Ferry praised Otis for wanting to live a traditional rural lifestyle, which isn’t the only daft thing Ferry has said in an interview.

Never being one to turn down the opportunity to praise David Cameron (sample quote; “he’s a bright guy”), Ferry has amply demonstrated his adoption of a socially conservative value system, not Thatcherism but the ancien regime brand of Toryism, beloved of the landed gentry and other recipients of old money: playing benefit gigs for the Countryside Alliance and signing a letter to The Guardian urging a No vote in the Scottish Independence Referendum for instance. Rather more disturbing was his 2007 eulogy of the Third Reich’s imagery and iconography; “the way that the Nazis staged themselves and presented themselves, my Lord!...I'm talking about the films of Leni Riefenstahl...And the buildings of Albert Speer and the mass marches and the flags. Just fantastic. Really beautiful.”

Thankfully, Ferry apologised unreservedly for this, but it was a bizarre thing for someone who was born in September 1945 to say. One can only speculate what Alan Hull, born six months earlier than Ferry, who stood for the Labour Party in council elections, would have said about such foolish inanity. Sadly, speculation is all that is possible as Alan Hull died suddenly on November 17^th 1995. It was tragic someone so talented passed on so young. There is the legacy of his songs; Lady Eleanor, Winter Song and Clear White Light assure Hull’s name will live on, as will Ferry because of Virginia Plain, Street Life and Mother of Pearl.

Of course both bands had peaked before punk, with their later releases only pale shadows of their original genius, but I’d like to think Alan Hull would be delighted to know there’s a blue plaque on the side of the City Hall paying tribute to all the wonderful gigs he gave there.That’s why, when considering the influence of Ferry and Hull, Lindisfarne and Roxy Music, on the region, I always think of Ashington’s own Jack Charlton’s famous words; “our kid was the better footballer, but I’m the better bloke.”

Musical tribalism was once so ingrained in our region’s youth culture, as exemplified by the running battles in town and on public transport between long hairs and punks on June 12^th 1980, when Rush played the City Hall while The Clash were at the Mayfair, but such fanaticism now seems anachronistic. Teenagers and students these days seem so much more open-minded and eclectic in their tastes, giving download space to a multiplicity of genres and eras. It may make them less discerning, but also more tolerant and receptive to a wider range of styles than previous generations. However such cultural catholicism may be something certain oldsters are learning already; when Ray Jackson assembled his own Lindisfarne to play triumphant City Hall Christmas gigs in 2013 and 2014, as well as involving Alan Hull’s son-in-law Dave Denholm on guitar and vocals, Jacka persuaded Paul Thompson to play drums. That’s the same Paul Thompson who made his name in; you’ve guessed it, Roxy Music…

Octoberfest

It seems an absolute age since I last wrote about my cultural adventures; 22^nd June to be precise. The reason for my desire to talk about music and books now is mainly in response to the recent death of Lindisfarne founder member Simon Cowe. Camp Terrace reared Si left the north east and the music business for good in the early 90s, and emigrated to Canada, where he forged a new and highly successful career for himself as a real and craft ale brewer.

Si’s most famous composition was “Uncle Sam,” which remains my favourite song from “Fog on the Tyne.” Having already decided to ignore the so-called Lindisfarne Christmas Show at the City Hall this year as Ray Jackson has retired, only for Rod Clements to replace him in a less than authentic nostalgia fest, I had always thought about seeing Ray Laidlaw and Billy Mitchell’s Lindisfarne Story, but had somehow not got round to it, having twice opted to see Ray Jackson’s fabulous Christmas shows. Si’s death put things in perspective and I got myself a ticket for the almost sold out Whitley Bay Playhouse gig on 4^th October.

I’m very glad I did, as it was a fascinating show in two halves. Ray Laidlaw utilised a range of bongos, snare drums and other percussion instruments, while Billy Mitchell played guitar. Between songs, the two of them effortless narrated the story from their earliest days growing up in North Shields until Si’s death last week, aided by photos, film clips and sound excerpts from their whole career. Now as someone who adores the band’s oeuvre from “Nicely out of Tune” to “Roll On Ruby,” as well as the Jack the Lad and Alan Hull detours, I was particularly keen on the first half of the show, which ended around the turn of the 1970s. Great to hear versions of “Lady Eleanor” and “Meet Me on the Corner” as well.

At the interval, I thought this was one of the best nights I’d had all year. However, my personal preferences meant I lost a little interest once “Back and Fourth” came along. My suggestion would be, for the delectation of utter anoraks like me, that they get Jacka involved if at all possible. He could have given his side of the post “Dingley Dell” split, which was slightly brushed under the carpet. I must admit to not having heard the albums the band did from the 80s onwards; only feeling revulsion when I heard about their projects with Paul Gascoigne and the rock and roll covers album. Of course, for narrative completeness, those parts had to be dealt with. For someone without the devotion to their first few albums that I have, this would have been a 9.5/10 show, but for me it was 8.5/10, purely for reasons of personal preference. Wonderful to hear “Uncle Sam” in Si’s memory though. I may even go to The Sage shows in late November.

Other than this event, I’ve only been to 2 gigs since I last wrote about music. The first was the incredibly pedestrian and somewhat dull Home Fries Friday of the Americana weekend outside The Sage. At this stage, I remember nothing of the erstwhile charms of Caroline Mary, El Cid, Michael Littlefield or Gilded Thieves, though I did enjoy the blues shouter Miss Mary, who was accompanied by sometime Martin Stephenson collaborator Joe Guillen on guitar. After them, I cleared off to watch some cricket, with a clear conscience. Football and cricket kept me busy on the Saturday and Sunday, so I don’t feel I missed out on much. It all gets a bit samey, though a collection of bladdered Glaswegian gays and lesbians falling down Ballast Hill bank with their carry-outs, as part of Newcastle Pride, was a diverting sight. Shame the same couldn’t be said of the acts on stage.

However, the other gig I attended was a stunning evening; a landmark event in the development of a band I’ve long championed. It’s no secret that I adore anything and everything Trembling Bells have done. At last, with the release of The Sovereign Self the band are starting to get the kind of reviews, recognition and crucially, audiences they deserve. As far as I’m concerned, The Sovereign Self is the album of 2015, without question and Where is Saint George? is the song of the year. Whether they’re being folky, proggy or psych, Trembling Bells effortlessly and inspirationally scale the heights of artistic greatness. They deserve to be huge and I hope they will be; look at all their albums, there has been progression not deterioration from 2009 until now.

The best thing about their performance at The Cumberland Arms in Byker on 13^th August was the fact I had to stand at the back. You see, every other time I’ve seen them; the audience has been so sparse I’ve ended up right at the front. The vastly increased turnout meant people who’d never had the pleasure were seeing this astonishing band in the flesh before could do so without the distraction of a pissed middle-aged tramp ranting and raving in front of them…

Anyway, one tiny worry for me had been the lack of The Wide Majestic Aire on The Sovereign Self. However I needn’t have worried; this stand-out track will be the centre piece to an EP out late this year. Two other points; Alex needs to learn the proper words to The Auld Triangle and I wish Lavinia all the best on her PGCE Primary course. If she’s one tenth the teacher she is a singer, she’ll be Minister for Education in the Scottish Parliament by 2017.

I’ve bought two other albums recently; Yo La Tengo’s acoustic Stuff Like That There is pleasant enough, but it is far from being either memorable or essential. Two new tracks, three revisits, including In and Out of Movies, and a bunch of covers, played in a restrained, understated style are all absolutely lovely, but they didn’t really engage me. I understand with their punishing touring schedule and other projects, there may not be time to write a whole album’s worth of material, but exercises in treading water like this do little to widen their appeal or satisfy long term supporters. If Teenage Fanclub can take half a decade over each album, then so can Yo La Tengo.

At the other end of the creative spectrum are The Band of Holy Joy, who are undoubtedly in as rich a vein of form as their late 80s heyday. Live shows are applauded by all who see them, making my guilt at missing their two recent Teesside shows even more pronounced and their new album, The Land of Holy Joy is garnering fabulous reviews everywhere. I can only add to that, as it certainly vies with Godspeed You! Black Emperor as runner up to Trembling Bells in album of the year stakes. Together with last year’s Easy Listening, this pair of releases has established BoHJ as essential listening for anyone who wishes to understand the rotten core of current society. Johny Brown is a warrior poet of the dispossessed and his band, perhaps the first true rock Band of Holy Joy he’s ever put together, are the finest set of musicians imagine. For instance, James Finn’s guitar on the stunning Crass Harry is 2015’s virtuoso musical moment for me. If you want to buy 2 albums that sum up this year, get The Land of Holy Joy and The Sovereign Self; you will not regret it.

The other album I’ve come into possession of was my birthday present from Laura; an original Folkways release from 1955; Union Songs by Pete Seeger and the Almanac Singers, which was an augmented edition of the original 1941 version.  What a treasure; members of the American Communist Party singing songs of freedom and rebellion. Admittedly the delivery is the stentorian side of strident and this can cause fuzziness at the top notes in the recording, but I’m bloody glad I have it. However, I’m utterly amazed Joe Hill isn’t on there, but Casey Jones and Union Maid have me tunelessly barking along, with clenched left fist raised.

As far as reading goes, I’ve only managed to get through 3 books in all this time, which is frankly a disgrace. Indeed the only novel I’ve read is Texas Summer by Terry Southern; a minor, but diverting slice of southern gothic bildungsroman. Southern was a talented author and screenwriter, but Texas Summer is one of his last works, completed during his final, terminal illness and perhaps for that reason it isn’t either long or convincing enough to be a classic, though I enjoyed the wistful tragicomedy of small town USA in the immediate post war era.

I was delighted to be included in Jon Tait’s history of the Northern Alliance, which compiles exhaustive statistics with anecdotes from players, managers, officials and fans from the proper Geordie non-league. The book Goalmouth may have a restricted audience, but I’m convinced all those who read it will find it a treasure trove of recondite trivia and preserved ephemera.

The last book I’ve read is another sporting one. Jack Chapman’s wonderful account of 250 years of amateur cricket in County Durham; Cream Teas and Nutty Slack. Remarkably, it seems everyone I watch non-league football with has a connection with Jack; I used to be a GCSE English examiner under his tutelage, my pals Gary and the Hudson brothers were taught by Jack at Hedworthfield, Phil helped Jack with his research at the Central Library and Jack sent Harry P a copy of the book, which he loaned to me. It is an exhaustive, encyclopaedic labour of love and confirmed my desire to be a local cricket hopper when the wonderful NEPL starts again next April. I will also hunt down Jack’s history of Blaydon Cricket Club, where he has been a stalwart member for over half a century, as soon as I can.

Jack’s previous job was as an English teacher, so perhaps he’d be proud of my membership of Shakespeare Club at the Lit & Phil. On the first Thursday of every month, led by Northumbria academic Adam Hansen, a dozen of us, of all ages and backgrounds, gather to read the complete works, play by play, in First Folio order. I wasn’t in at the start, but so far I’ve participated in fascinating and rewarding sessions on Merchant of Venice, As You Like It and Taming of the Shrew. Our next meeting is 5^th November, when All’s Well That Ends Well is the text under the microscope. It’s free, stimulating and utterly democratic. Come along if you can…

After almost 5 decades of never setting foot in the Lit & Phil, I’m becoming a regular. There’s a talk on Shakespeare’s authorship on 24^th November and Euros Childs on 10^th December, but there was also Harry Pearson and Michael Walker in discussion a few weeks back. Knowing both fellas, having read their books and so on, it was a bit like the Trembling Bells gig; people who didn’t know their work enjoying two of the most eloquent commentators on local football in a charming atmosphere. Superb fun for free; and even better when he had a good session in the newly refurbished and highly recommended Head of Steam afterwards.

One other event of note was a talk at Northumbria University by Michael Chaplin, son of Syd, mate of Harry and who I’d last seen in the Lit & Phil. He was discussing his book; There is a Green Hill, which is an updating of his father’s 1951 The Lakes to Tyneside. Both are accounts of scenic walks in the north east, with added philosophical, political and cultural musing about the nature of the North East. Interesting Michael and the social scientist academic he was in discussion with both feel Teesside is no longer emotionally part of the North East as they align themselves more with Yorkshire. Useful to know if Boro come up and us and the Mackems go down. Anyway it was an engaging and informative event, as a prelude to the Jeremy Corbyn Campaign’s celebration do at the Irish Centre that saw an outbreak of unchecked, undialectical dancing…

So, what’s next? The Tyneside Irish Festival. Gigs by Penetration (plus an album), Godspeed You! Black Emperor, Christy Moore, The Wedding Present, Vic Godard and Euros Childs, plus some proper reading I hope.