Lines In The Sand

(Published in issue #1 of "Toon Talk" on 22nd August 2010 and slightly edited on 25th August 2010)

Welcome to the debut issue of “Toon Talk.” Having previously scribbled about Newcastle United for (deep breath): “The Mag,” “The Mighty Quinn (aka “The Number 9”),” “Half Mag Half Biscuit,” “Talk of the Toon,” “The Giant Awakes” and, of course, “Players Inc,” I’m looking forwards to this new venture immensely. Personally speaking I’ve 20 years of experience of writing for fanzines and it’s fair to say that during that time I’ve seen my fair share of squabbles, turf wars, personal vendettas and childish strops between writers of various publications; I’ve even been part of a few. However, those point-scoring, nit-picking days are gone. I am a member of NUST, I write for “Toon Talk,” I buy every issue of “The Mag” and I’ve got www.nufc.com as the homepage on my computer; I think that allows me access to a broad spectrum of fan opinion and shows I have a real interest in ensuring we all rub along together. I have to say, right from the start, that we need a broad, inclusive spectrum of opinions to act as a representative cross-section of Newcastle United’s support, both on paper and in NUST.

I recognise that my information intake doesn’t cover every single base, but I don’t have any interest in wasting my time by expending energy familiarising myself with the deluded ramblings of the cyber lunatic fringe and their ultra absolutist Geordie Taleban style position. I must state that their craven failure to either put up or shut up in the recent NUST elections shows them to be an irrelevant self-serving ragbag of persistent naysayers with nothing positive to contribute to our just and righteous cause. They are as relevant to supporting Newcastle United as the Flat Earth Society are to a conference of cartographers.

Wrapped up in the minutiae of supporting our team, we fans often fail to see the bigger picture. This summer, not having been able to attend the famous 1994 UEFA Cup game because of work, I finally righted a geographical wrong and holidayed for fortnight in Bilbao, a beautiful and amazing city, also taking in the rest of the Basque Country, from the seaside of Donostie to the architectural splendours of Vitoria-Gasteiz. As well as visiting the Guggenheim Art Gallery, not to mention taking tours of Athletic Bilbao’s San Mames and seeing the other Basque teams’ grounds of Alaves (Vitoria-Gasteiz) and Real Sociedad (Donostie), I found myself in friendly bars of an evening, enjoying tinctures of Rioja and litres of Voll Damm, along with complementary tapas, where conversation always turned to football. While Basques were, at best, ambivalent to Spain’s success in the World Cup, Bilbao fans especially were delighted with Newcastle’s promotion and were keen to wish our club, whom they hold in the highest esteem, the very best of luck for the coming season. It’s important to remember that the world out there isn’t populated by Lousie Taylor and Sod Liddle snipealikes.

Returning home, I found myself to be in the most relaxed and optimistic of moods. Admittedly Perch and Gosling weren’t Puyol and Villa, but we’d won at Carlisle and all seemed right with the world. My positive mood was blown to pieces firstly by a November style cloudburst as I stepped out of the arrivals terminal attired in Hawaiian shirt and Bermuda shorts and then, once I’d got home and dried out, by an email “Toon Talk” had received that day -:

Dear Steve

Thank you for your kind offer of space in the forthcoming first issue of Toon Talk magazine. Unfortunately, the Trust Board feels it is unable to take you up on this offer due to the current online imagery being used in connection with the magazine.

Regards

Tony Stephenson (Chair, Media Committee NUST)

I have to declare an interest at this point, having stood in the elections for the NUST committee. While I gained 105 votes and avoided the wooden spoon, I was as far from success as our esteemed Editor was from winning a seat on Gateshead Council when he stood for the Tories in Felling (where my late uncle John had been a Labour councillor). That said, no doubt like Steve when the citizens of Heatherwell Green and Split Crow Road had given their verdict, I commended the democratic process, congratulated the victors and pledged to give them my support. Obviously, unlike in Local Government, there were no party lines to observe; NUST is a vehicle for all Newcastle United supporters who aspire to the achievable goal of fan ownership of the club and who want to influence the future direction of our team.

In many ways, writing for fanzines is a similar exercise to being a part of NUST. Steve might be a Tory, whereas I’m a lifelong Marxist, who voted for the Communist Party in this year’s election (he didn’t get in by the way), but it doesn’t essentially matter. We’re both Newcastle United fans at the end of the day and the ability to cooperate, compromise and set aside personal vanity and hidden agendas is essential in compiling a fanzine as it is in every aspect of life, if progress is to be made. Obviously, referring again to NUST, lines in the sand have to be drawn when it comes to potential compromises relating to the “Yes We Can” campaign, or when underhand politicking is seen to be afoot. Unfortunately, at the moment, any form of interactive debate with the NUST committee seems impossible.

I have to admit to a gathering unease as to the nature and direction of NUST, who seem politically inert and oblivious to the existence of the ordinary member. The NUST election results came out at the end of March; at the time of writing, 4 months later, there has not been a single public meeting whereby the elected committee has accepted questions or comments from ordinary members as to the future policies, tactics, direction or role of NUST. Time is not standing still, even if NUST’s committee seem to be.

Admittedly the Trust has been commendably active in combating media lies about Newcastle fans, as perpetuated by “The Grauniad,” whether they are wildly inaccurate claims that there was a racist demonstration on the day Andy Cole made his debut or that Newcastle fans were singing offensive songs at Carlisle. Also, the attractive website is good at keeping readers up to date with events involving other clubs’ trusts, but there is seemingly no interactivity with the ordinary rank and file of the NUST membership. This is a grave error and one I urge the NUST committee to address at their earliest convenience, if inertia is not to give way to moribund indifference.

Nowhere on their website is there any reference to the constituent membership of the Media Committee, other than the mention of Tony Stephenson as its chair in the email received by “Toon Talk.” I respect the content of this email, as I have to say I’m not comfortable with sexist imagery; then again, adverts for lap dancing bars such as “For Your Eyes Only” or strippers in “The City Vaults” which I found equally discomfiting appeared in “The Mag,” which the Trust were happy to provide articles for last season. I note from the first issue of “The Mag” for this season that this is no longer the case.

Let’s be honest about this, if the NUST Media Committee have drawn a line in the sand, stating that they will refuse to work with any publication that uses images of scantily clad young women, then we have to respect their decision, even if we don’t know who made this decision. The fact I agree with this decision is irrelevant on two grounds; firstly, decisions of this magnitude made in secret seem to be undemocratic and an indication that NUST is failing to consult with the membership. Secondly, as NUST has happily provided material to go alongside the salacious adverts alluded to before, it seems both a disproportionate response and a tactical error in seeking to have a go at someone who wants to help NUST and Newcastle United, rather than the current ownership of the club who seem to treat both the Trust and the team with disdain.

At least we now know that the NUST Media Committee’s decision is not simply a snub directed at “Toon Talk,” so it isn’t just a terrible slap in the face for Steve and all he has done to give NUST publicity, both in print in “Players Inc” and on air. However, it is an absolute disgrace that NUST are no longer communicating with the membership in either Newcastle fanzine. Frankly, unless NUST’s committee are prepared to engage with the membership to discuss exactly who is on the various sub-committees and to explain the reasoning and legitimacy behind the decision making, then I fear for not only the integrity but also the future of the Trust and, consequently, for the future of our club.

I have to say that my fear has been heightened by the shallow, anodyne platitudinous press release NUST put on their website on Tuesday 24th August. They may wish to pretend that the trust is “Moving Forward,” to steal the title of their article, but frankly I disagree.

NUST, despite the best efforts of good men like Steve Hastie, Neil Mitchell and Colin Whittle, NUST post election has become moribund, impotent, directionless, irrelevant and unapproachable. Why have the elected board not once consulted with the membership post election? Where was the public meeting immediately post promotion to discuss strategy, tactics & ideas? Sadly, it seems as if NUST has failed; it has turned in to almost as much of a joke as NU$C

Y Viva Euskadi (Part 1)

Unquestionably, the finest football journalist in Britain today is Patrick Barclay of “The Times.” Not only did he once spend the first two paragraphs of a match report on Sheffield Wednesday versus Watford in the Wilkinson and Taylor eras, discussing Samuel Beckett’s “Waiting For Godot,” he also invoked the spirit of Voltaire when debating Vinnie Jones’s disciplinary problems on Sky TV with Brian Woolnough of “The Sun,” which is more than enough to garner hero worship from me. Perhaps the most apposite of Paddy’s aphorisms is his claim that his favourite ever tournament was Euro 1984, when Platini’s France ran riot, as the absence of British teams meant that he could enjoy the football without considering how events on and off the pitch would have to be refracted through the mirror of jaundiced jingoism. As Paddy is a native Dundonian, he has had many opportunities to enjoy international tournaments without his bravehearted countrymen spoiling things for him.

In the absence of Ireland, scandalously cheated of a place in the finals by Gallic chicanery, I watched World Cup 2010 with something akin to the disinterested eyes Barclay had in Paris 1984. While the People’s Democratic Republic of Korea were the team I picked out in the work sweepstake and provided politically compelling reasons to follow them, their 32^nd place in the FIFA Merit Table tells its own story. Slovakia, where I lived for two years, were a more realistic option and their slaying of the loathsome Italians provided the tournament’s keynote game, though Dutch efficiency (had we ever heard that phrase prior to this tournament?) did for them in the last 16. Consequently I was able to watch each subsequent game on its merits until the final itself (and the third and fourth place play off that nobody admits to seeing but which is always top notch), by which time I was away on holiday.

Where did I go? Spain, allegedly. I flew to Bilbo (Bilbao) and stayed in Gasteiz (Vitoria) in Euskadi (the Basque Country). Having missed out on Newcastle’s UEFA Cup game at the San Mames because of work back in 1994, I decided to combine a break with research to find out for myself how this (as I was to discover) beautiful, idyllic, welcoming part of the world would respond to Spain’s appearance in the World Cup final.

I arrived on the Friday before the game and was immediately struck by the total absence of Spanish flags and football shirts in Bilbao, where all road and shop signs were in Euskerra (Basque) with Spanish in smaller letters underneath. Vitoria is slightly more Spanish, both culturally and ethnically, though the Basque University has its headquarters in this gorgeous, grand city. On the Saturday night, those watching the Uruguay v Germany bronze medal game in the marvellous Groucho Bar favoured the Latin Americans, presumably on account of a shared history of Castillian oppression, or possibly because new Germany are still universally mistrusted. After “Deutschland Uber Alles,” one customer turned to the barman and said, “now I feel like invading Poland.”

On the day of the final, I started to notice a few Spanish shirts, but they were exclusively on the backs of teenagers. I’m not sure if my eyes deceived me, but it appeared that an inordinate number of blokes were wearing orange as a subliminal message, including 6 holidaying Dutch students in Van Der Vaart and Sneijder replica tops. The first Spanish flag I saw was hanging outside the Town Hall in Vitoria’s main plaza where we chose to watch the game on a huge screen, near the monument to the Battle of Vitoria, when the British and Portuguese routed Napoleon in 1813 to end the Peninsula War and free Basques from the burden of having to speak French.

As kick off approached, the plaza filled up. Thousands of happy young people and a smattering of older blokes, many of whom were immigrants in the shirts of their native country; Colombia, Chile, Morocco, accompanied by their children who wore Spanish flags and tops, made up the crowd. This was not Francoism; this was a new Spain, similar to how the German team with Ozul, Podolski and Boateng had embraced and celebrated the multi-cultural, multi-ethnic composition of the country. To be honest the Spanish side hadn’t, but with 10 Catalans in the starting line up, what the hell?

The party atmosphere solemnised briefly as the National Anthems were played. ITV’s Peter Drury remarked that none of the Spanish players sang along with theirs; well, as “Marcha Real” is an instrumental, a situation necessary to avoid inflaming regional and linguistic sensitivities, they wouldn’t, would they? In contrast, Holland’s utterly bizarre “Het Wilhelmus,” which appears to share a tune with “Little Town of Bethlehem,” comprises 15 verses in which singers are required to pretend to be William of Orange and contains the line “den Konig van Hispanje heb ik altijd geeerd” (“the King of Spain I have always honoured”) was lustily belted out by the team with the same gusto they attacked Spanish shins for the next 2 hours. Post anthem, an incredible roar went up and it was game on.

Then, no football was played for 116 minutes until a palpably offside Iniesta scored and everything went crazy. Fireworks, screaming, tears; it was like being back in Belfast in the early 80s without the rain. Seriously, despite two deaths elsewhere in the country (one fell off a balcony, one drowned in a fountain), it was a genuine pleasure to behold; the naïve, innocent joy of the youthful fans, the blaring of car horns and the free beer in the pubs (provided by a barman in a snide Man Utd top with RONNEY on the back in one instance) made me feel honoured to be there. Spanish passion had won me over.

As the first World Cup I remember is 1974, I had gone with a residual affection for Holland, even if Cruyff himself had expressed a preference for Spain (based on a great respect for manager and Gordon Kaye lookalike Vincente Del Bosque, whom he described not an “un hombre” but “un senor”). However, such pro Dutch feelings soon evaporated as the crowd in the plaza greeted each despicable foul with baying choruses of “hijo da puta.” Particular scorn was poured on Howard Webb, who was regularly referred to as a “payaso del mierda” (“shitty clown”) as he failed to reduce the Netherlands to a 5 a side team. Post match Webb was the object of abuse from both sides, especially from a drunk and incoherent Louis Van Gaal who proved on Spanish TV, when being interviewed by former Liverpool and Brighton forward Michael Robinson who is the country’s main football pundit that he’d forgotten all the language and manners he’d learned while in charge at Barcelona. The abuse of Webb continued in the Spanish (and apparently Dutch) media for days afterwards. Frankly remembering the goal from Mark Viduka he disallowed in May 2009 that condemned Newcastle to a home defeat by Fulham and consequently relegation from the Premier League, I had no sympathy for Webb. Petty? Me!

One of the most heartwarming sights in the early hours of the morning was Puyol and Fabregas, at almost 2.30am South African time, sat in training kits enjoying bottles of San Miguel by the side of the pitch at Soccer City. The lads had earned it. They also had plenty more partying to do as Spanish TV followed their return in minute detail. Bizarrely for a British audience, it appeared that Pepe Reina isn’t simply a competent Premiership keeper or the Liverpool player most likely to score for Spain at this tournament; he is the non-playing court jester of the squad. While captain Iker Casillas, whose girlfriend is Spain’s second most important football pundit, dons the gloves and lifts the trophy, Pepe wears silly hats, does funny walks and daft impressions, as well as persuading Fabregas to wear a Barca shirt at the team’s reception on arrival back in Madrid. Not to mention asking Wimbledon champion Nadal; “what are you doing here? None of us hang around with you when you win.”

The wall-to-wall 48 hour TV coverage post final showed that new Spain has unquestionably come of age; wracked by economic crises and incompetently governed by a centre-right coalition (sound familiar?) the country may be, but 35 years after Franco’s death, this win can act as a unifying social force and a final exorcism of the past, even if 21 were arrested in Barcelona and 2 in Bilbao, where cars flying Basque flags drove through the town, for protesting against Spain’s victory, not to mention reports of foreigners supporting Spain being attacked in Donostie. In Vitoria, on the other hand, it was the Basque radicals who had to be quick on their toes to avoid a stiff talking to in casco viejo.

Next time, a mazy dribble through club football in Euskadi itself, featuring Darren Peacock, a QPR fan from Vitoria, Reading’s U17 women’s team and the mysterious opening hours of the Alaves Club shop.

Bonfire of the Vanities

(from Percy Main programme, 31/07/10 v North Shields)

“Welcome back my friends to the show that never ends,” as Emerson, Lake and Palmer phrased it in 1974, a date that is remembered by all football fans as the year when the World Cup was stolen by German pragmatism from the grasp of serene, Dutch artistry. 36 years later, the domestic football season arrives with no such feelings of compassion for the Netherlands after Holland’s abysmal non-performance, epitomised by Van Bommel’s thuggery and Robben’s theatricals, at Soccer City in Johannesburg.

To be honest, I had intended not to be able to write about the World Cup, as my initial aim had been not to watch any of it. This piece was going to about how my summer had been filled with the sublime joys of Teenage Fanclub’s peerless “Shadows” album that came out in early June, the incredible night I had seeing them at the Cockpit in Leeds (when Network Rail delivered me home nearly 4 hours late) or how much I’d enjoyed getting my capacious nose in a book, with Roddy Doyle’s “The Dead Republic,” the final part of his “Last Round-Up” trilogy, being a particular favourite. However, I only managed 2 days of WC abstinence, before schadenfruede got the better of me. Mind I’d had good excuses for giving the tournament a wide berth in the early stages.

The tournament kicked off while I sat in a Solicitor’s Office in Winlaton, where I’d gone to apply for Probate on my late father’s estate, confusing the learned friend by refusing to swear on a Bible as I’m an atheist, causing him to redraft what I was subsequently required to affirm. As South Africa and Mexico drew 1-1, I travelled by public transport to North Shields and ate cheaply if not sumptuously with graduating former students at Sambucca’s while France and Uruguay played out a stalemate.

Day 2 saw me forswearing the supposed joys of South Korea v Greece and Argentina against Nigeria, despite the appearance of the only Geordie at the tournament, Jonas Gutierrez, for my annual delve in to the Scottish Junior set up for the East of Scotland League Cup Final, which saw Linlithgow Rose overcome Musselburgh Athletic 2-1 in a thoroughly compelling game witnessed by over 900 people. The only downside for me personally was that the game was played at Creamery Park, home of Bathgate Thistle, where I’d been last year for their astonishing 6-2 demolition of Forfar West End, as I’d hoped to fit in a new ground. No matter; there’s always next year, or even mid December as Teenage Fanclub play Glasgow Barrowlands on December 11^th. The Scottish Juniors is a positive boon for those who like to keep the season going as long as possible, with the last game of 2009/2010 taking place on June 20^th.

Heading back from Linlithgow to Auld Reekie, I was reminded of the FIFA carnival taking place in Cape Town and several points north, when I saw a couple of dozen punters resplendent in t-shirts bearing the legend “Official Algeria, Slovenia and USA Supporters’ Club” on the front and “Anyone But F*****g England” on the reverse. Perhaps Robert Green had one of these garments beneath his England keeper’s top; there can be no other explanation for his error against America.

I confess it was this event that caused me to switch on to the tournament. Not having seen the goal live as I was being whisked south by rail as the game unfolded, the barrage of intemperate and bemused texts relating to it caused me to watch the ITV highlights. This programme was presented by a lardy oaf by the name of James Corden. Previously unknown to me, he appears to be another of these banal, estuary English accented media nonentities that the television programmers believe represents not only what viewers need but, by implication, what they deserve. Personally a loathsome, contemptible figure who appeared to be a post-lobotomy Tim Lovejoy who has been fed exclusively on fish cake and chips is not who I want to be talking about the beautiful game, in my living room.

After this distressing experience, I flicked over to the reassuringly grey temples of Lineker, Hansen and Lawrenson, whose steady analysis of Green’s personal trauma was a sensible warm up to a genuinely moving documentary piece about the history of the secret inmates’ football league on Robbens Island political prison during the apartheid era.

While ITV steadfastly refused throughout the tournament to look at the wider political implications of South Africa’s history pre 1993, preferring instead to allow a barely coherent and clearly unhinged Kevin Keegan (wonder if he noticed a certain Ignacio Gonzalez in Uruguay’s squad?) explain the yellow and red card system in a way that a foetus would find childish and patronising, the BBC relentlessly traversed the fascinating and still socially divided South African landscape, producing a daily piece about the lives of ordinary South Africans and how the tournament and football as a game affects their view of life. Stirring stuff they were too. These features, including interviews with Afrikaners farmers who supported the Dutch and hated England because of the Boer War, not Russell Brand’s fiancée or Simon Cowell talking shit about a game they don’t understand, kept me hooked on the unfolding drama in Durban, Port Elizabeth and elsewhere. Indeed, so beguiling were the real life stories, one could factor out the breathtaking hypocrisy of Shearer criticising Capello for not being able to motivate talented players enough to get the results the team were capable of.

So, how was South Africa 2010 for you? As this is the Main’s third game, following other friendlies against Newcastle East End and Annfield Plain, our lenses may have refocused on to a more localised image, but it is useful to return our gaze to the coldest World Cup in history. Frankly, I’m glad I don’t support England. Alright, so I may be pushing bitterness a little by saying I’d cheer on the Taleban if they were playing Capello’s Cretins, but as an Ireland fan, I have no love for the three lions. Indeed, following Thierry Henry’s basketball tactics last November, I had to reassess who to follow in the finals. Having lived in Slovakia for 2 years, it seemed natural to cheer on the side managed by Vladimir Weiss, who used to coach Petrzalka the side I followed during my Bratislavan sojourn. Back in those days Weiss was not a sober-suited, dignified figure, but a ranting Henry Rollins lookalike who nearly caused a Slovak referees’ strike by threatening to cut the head off one official following a controversial 2-4 home loss to Presov.

However, my support was not entirely for the Transdanubian team at the expense of the other 31 qualifiers, as the side from the People’s Democratic Republic of North Korea gained favour in the Cusack household, mainly for political reasons. After all, one side had to take up the mantle of sporting opposition to the running dog lackeys of Yankee imperialism. Also, I drew them in the work sweepstake.

I was led to believe PDRK television would only show their games, if the side did well. The fact they finished 32^nd in the FIFA Merit Table for the tournament says a lot about what was on the screens in Pyongyang, but nevertheless, I got in to the mindset of the Eternal President’s Men by claiming they beat Brazil 1-0, as I’d only got home and switched on after the Samba shamblers had scored a brace of their own. The Portugal game may have ended up 7-0, but as I was at work, it remained effectively scoreless for me, as did their final game against Cote d’Ivoire as the BBC chose to show the Brazil v Portugal non-event.

Actually, if Didier Drogba wasn’t Ivorian, I may have supported them as their gold, white and green flag is the reverse of Ireland’s tricolour. Then again it was amusing to see Sven Goran Erikkson, same as that other charlatan, Paul Le Guen shuffle apologetically out at the first hurdle, in common with all African teams bar Ghana, who were the only team in their home continent to give it a go.

This was a problem with much of the first stage, exemplified by Slovakia’s terribly timid 1-1 with New Zealand and their shot-free slumber to a 2-0 loss v Paraguay. Quite where the game of the tournament, their 3-2 victory that sent the detestable Italians home, came from, nobody knows. While ITV got themselves in to a state of near hysteria over Howard Webb officiating this game, Robert Vittek (repeatedly called Vittel by Jim Beglin) kicked Lippi’s side square in the “catenaccios.” I also enjoyed seeing Everton’s despicable Tim Cahill red carded v Germany; actually I was hoping Winnie Mandela would necklace him.

Up and down the land England-shirted buffoons drank venomously at vats of Carling while Rooney shambled around like a Scouse Tiny Tim with gripe, while I only saw 2 games in the pub; the loathsome France’s defeats to South Africa and Mexico, when a side in green shirts sent them and their buffoonish Graham Lister lookalike manager home to pursue fights between their fitness coach and a Manchester United squad player in the departure lounge, like Bellamy and Carver all those years ago. Allegedly.

Enough of those French and Italian ponces, what about a real one? Chile’s central defender was the stunningly named Waldo Ponce of Universidad Catolica, though his team mates were not far behind him in the silly surname stakes. Rodrigo Millar should have married Ghana’s Johnathon for a start and poor Estrada’s red card against Spain really pissed on his CHiPS. If Chile went out with a whimper against Brazil, then at least Ghana died bravely.

While I don’t think any of the tedious clamour for a penalty goal after Uruguay’s Suarez handled on the line was justified, I do found it tragic that the hopes of a whole continent were invested in Mackem loanee John Mensah (a man so injury plagued he’s known as an occasional table), with predictable results, though not as predictable as England’s shambolic thrashing by Germany.

Actually, I think the England fans showed a maturity in their measured response to defeat that was far more than the dreadful performances merited. When bonfires should have been lit outside Soho Square, most gave a contemptuous glance and an indifferent shrug to the vain millionaires whose narcissism and avarice has perhaps caused the general public to fall out of love with a national side they embraced so enthusiastically at Italia 90. In fact, when I saw Peter Beardsley in Four Lane Ends Post Office on the day of the Holland v Uruguay semi, I almost embraced him on the spot. That day I was embraced by my Dutch neighbour Fred, who stood swaying in his garden singing “Het Wilhelmus” at the top of his voice while slugging from a vat of Heineken. Fred is a senior researcher at Newcastle University Medical School incidentally.

As regards the fluent, attacking German team, I have to say that the fashion choice of manager Joachim Low (no shirt, v-necked woolly jumper, Primark jeans and suit jacket) should have seen his side expelled for reasons of aesthetics. Instead a bullet header by the bizarrely bouffanted Puyol sent the Catalan Castillians in to the final.

The final itself took place two days after I arrived in Spain for my summer holidays. Whereabouts did I go? Bilbao, in the Basque Country, or Euskadi as the residents, who have fought a bitter campaign for independence from Madrid since the 1930s, call it. I’ll tell you all about my adventures there in the next update.

"Village Voice;" a book about Percy Main Amateurs (by me)

New Book Release

Village Voice

The story of PERCY MAIN AMATEURS 2009/10 SEASON

THE NORTH EAST has been known as “the hotbed of soccer” ever since Arthur

Appleton coined the phrase with his book of the same name in 1961. Yet, how true is the

description? The 2009/2010 season saw recently relegated Newcastle United storming

back to the Premiership in front of the biggest attendances the Championship had ever

seen. However, less than 10 miles away from those rarefied climes, Percy Main Amateurs

celebrated the 90th anniversary of their triumph in the Northumberland Minor Cup

by striving to gain promotion from the Pin Point Recruitment Northern Alliance First

Division.

Village Voice tells the semi-dramatic story of the Main’s sometimes nerve shredding,

sometimes triumphant but always expletive-strewn, ultimately successful attempt to escape

from the 11th tier of English football. With a couple of cup final appearances thrown in,

we follow the Villagers’ season on and off the pitch as the economic realities of running

a club where players on the pitch outnumber fans on the terraces are never far from the

author’s mind.

Topics such as the incomprehensible fashion choices of most of the squad, a winter of

such severity that the Villagers go 112 days without playing a league game and the need

to offer the best quality hot dogs in the Northern Alliance are addressed alongside mere

fripperies such as the 2010 General Election by a world-weary, all-seeing author who

discovers, despite himself, that his love for Percy Main deepens by the day.

Ian Cusack’s affectionate and articulate book provides a fascinating and supremely honest insight into the world of grassroots football in the North East, with the bonus of a happy ending thrown in. Village Voice will make you adopt Percy Main Amateurs as your second team.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Ian Cusack was born on Tyneside in August 1964.

A lifelong football fan, he saw his first game on New

Year’s Day 1973 when Newcastle United drew 2-2

with Leicester City. Having developed a passion for

the non-league game in the North East during the

previous decade and a half, Ian finally “retired” as

a Newcastle fan in May 2009 to dedicate himself

to Percy Main Amateurs FC, where he is Assistant

Secretary and chief dishwasher. Ian has written about

football for a huge range of publications such The

Guardian, When Saturday Comes, Non League

Monthly, Players Inc and The Mag, currently contributing

to Toon Talk and, of course, the

Percy Main Amateurs programme. His interests

include Teenage Fanclub, ultra left wing politics,

Real Ale, urban cycling, the novels of James Ellroy

and emphasising the cultural significance of nonleague

football in the North Tyneside area to anyone

prepared to listen.

ISBN: 978-0-9565736-0-5

BINDING: Paperback

COVER PRICE: £9.99

SIZE: 138mm x 216mm

PAGES: 192

PUBLICATION DATE:

September 1st, 2010

Available from all good bookshops and online

retailers, or by mail order at the cover price of

£9.99, post free in the UK, from

PMA PUBLISHING

(make cheques payable to Ian Cusack)

52 River View, Tynemouth, NE30 4AF

Mobile: 07900 431379 Tel: 0191 209 9284

Email: iancusack@blueyonder.co.uk