Slow Play

This blog is dedicated to my Twitter pal Ian Willis who, at the age of 53, was pressganged into action for Chester Le Street thirds on the last Sunday in May, as three quarters of the team had opted for a day at the Test rather than Washington away. Ian made 6 not out and bowled 1 over for 6 runs; I don’t just admire him for this landmark appearance, I’m insanely jealous!

Almost from the minute the 2015 cricket season ended back on September 13^th when Chester Le Street seconds beat Tynemouth seconds in the final of the Banks Bowl at Ropery Lane, I started counting down the days until the 2016 season was due to start.  I had fully intended to take in as many games per week as I could manage, from the starting date of April 16^th onwards, with my stated intention being to “tick off” as many NEPL grounds I’d not been to as possible. However, the proviso would be I’d do my best to see as much of Tynemouth and Newcastle as possible; by a process of elimination, I’ve started to follow both sides, not just because South North are so well off they don’t need my support. Despite their magnificent beer festival, they have shirt sponsorship from Fosters, which may have something to do with Marcus North, but it means they’re doing just fine without me.  Whereas Tynemouth and Newcastle are both glorious citadels of the local club game, where I always feel my presence is welcomed. Additionally, I maintained my Northumberland membership, so there are also county duties to adhere to, with Bedfordshire visiting Burnopfield at the start of July, for instance.

Unsurprisingly, considering the winter we endured, the weather intervened early on, washing out the first weekend of the cricket season completely. The second weekend saw South North score 248/2, before Tynemouth replied with an honourable, plucky 237 all out. The game was at Preston Avenue, but heading straight home after Benfield’s 1-1 draw with Guisborough, I wimped out from seeing the last session, preferring to take in the FA Cup semi-final from the comfort of my sofa less than a mile away instead; I can’t even remember which one now. Mea culpa; mea maxima culpa.

April 30^th, I was down at West Auckland watching Benfield draw 1-1 again, so I got back too late to see any play at County Club, where Newcastle beat Whitburn by 10 wickets, or Gateshead Fell where the home side’s 84 meant they lost by 15 runs to Tynemouth.  It was a canny day on the Saturday, so I’d resolved to take in some cup action on the Sunday; typically down it came again and every Banks Slaver game was off.

We move on to May 7^th, which was the day Wallsend Winstons won the Over 40s Echo Cup; I started drinking at noon, then boozed all the way through my final Northern League game of the season as Whitley Bay trounced Durham City 4-0. Meanwhile, Tynemouth were completing a routine win over Durham Cricket Academy that I predictably missed. Finally, on Sunday May 8^th I saw my first game of the season; disappointingly Northumberland’s 198 all out at Benwell Hill was overhauled by Norfolk, who got 202/6 to win by 4 wickets. Despite the result, it was wonderful to be back; the weather was stunning, the ground impeccable, the reserved nodded greetings from regular acquaintances as modest as ever. Plus I got to chat with Chris Youldon and his dad about his future Northern League plans. My lips remain sealed.

On May 14^th, we held the Tyneside Amateur League Shield final at Benfield; Bedlington Town beat North Shields Athletic 2-1, deservedly so. A glorious day; the sun blazing down. Tynemouth were thrashing Chester Le Street by 8 wickets, while Newcastle squeezed home at Jesmond by 1 wicket against Durham Academy. I was sat in the beer garden of The Northumberland Hussar with a pair of fellas from County Kildare who weren’t much keen on the garrison game. Bloody philistines….

Saturday May 21^st, I got the Man of the Match award for the first time ever in 11 years of playing for Winstons as we saw out the season with a 0-0 against Houghton Cricket Club. It was the only connection I had with cricket that day as, Tyneside Amateur League duties at North Shields Athletic 2 Wardley 1 notwithstanding, I had a serious drinking session to attend in Durham with my ageing team mates. I still got up in time to see my second game of the season the next day; Northumberland doing really well to bowl Cambridge out for 142 to win by 80 runs. Nice to catch up with Jacques du Toit as well; Captain Nicotine has added regular cups of coffee to his strict Marlboro Lights warm up routine. It must be working as he took 9 wickets the weekend after, and then engaged in a Twitter chat while waiting for his supper of meat and rum. Some boy…

Finally, with the end of the football season in sight, there was the sheer joy of the return of the NEPL 20:20 competition, even if the draw was a mite unfortunate, pitting Newcastle, South North and Tynemouth in the same group as Blaydon, South Shields and Willington.  The first fixture pitted Tynemouth with South North; a tough opening, but the Croons were magnificent, restricting the Gosforth galacticos to 80/9, partly because of fabulous fielding, then knocked of the runs for the loss of 2 wickets, winning it with a 6 into Percy Park with more than 5 overs to spare.

Immediately I set foot inside Preston Avenue, I felt right at home. It was great to be back; great to chat with people I’ve seen all around the north east non-league football scene over the past dozen or so years, and also to be welcomed back by Tynemouth members. What a superb set-up they have there; I’m looking forward to going back regularly.  Indeed, having missed out on a Saturday game because of Birtley St Joseph’s 1 Felling Magpies 2 bringing down the curtain on the north east non-league season and The Wedding Present at Brudenell Club in Leeds taking precedence, I followed Tynemouth to Boldon, by means of the number 9 bus, on a freezing Whit Monday, to watch their innings in a Banks Salver second round game. I still haven’t tracked down the final score, but Tynemouth, who were 175/7 from 40 when I left, came out on top. I’d passed Boldon’s ground innumerable times in the past, but had never been in. Like almost every local cricket ground, bar a few unkempt bits of terracing at County Club that could do with a few RGS detainees weeding them, it was loved, treasured and immaculate. The sense of community at so many of the places I’ve visited is tangible to the touch. 

I could have gone to any of the days of the Test at the Riverside, but frankly it didn’t occur to me. Prices are prohibitive and the commercialisation so rampant as to be nauseating, but it’s more to do with falling in love with local club cricket rather than rejecting the First Class game. Unlike football, cricketers are still humans who interact with the fans at a normal level, so please don’t see my enjoyment of club cricket as being some kind of fake bullshit perspective; it’s just where my cricket love-in is right now.

So, after Boldon, I’ve visited 8 grounds in the Premier Division, but only 3 in the First Division. The choice is this; after 4 games so far in 2016, should I try to visit every ground, visit new grounds or simply follow Tynemouth? Plenty to think about, but with 3 months of baking weather forecast, plenty of opportunities to follow whichever course of action I choose. That said, the idea of paying £20 to watch Durham against Notts on a freezing Wednesday night doesn’t appeal.  Shamefully, this weekend will see me miss out on Friday because of Winstons’ AGM and Saturday on my annual pilgrimage to the Scotch Juniors. However, Chester Le Street v Newcastle in the Salver on Sunday looks enticing….

Planespotting

Seven years ago, on May 24^th 2009, Newcastle United produced a limp, somnolent non-performance as they slid to a hideous, preventable relegation, losing 1-0 to Aston Villa. Following that demotion, caused by boardroom incompetence and lazy, uninterested multi-millionaires phoning in their appearances, it seemed at the time that, unlike 1977/78 and 1988/89 where relegation was inevitable from early in the season (about 32 seconds in the case of 88/89) there was a kind of stunned, mournful air of unreality around the city. I got terribly drunk and staggered home, cursing. Of course, personally speaking, the pain was intensified as I was awaiting my dad’s imminent death from cancer (he passed the day after Bobby Robson, on August 1^st), which clouded my vision and my judgement. What I didn’t do though, was actively look for ways of torturing myself by feasting on gleeful predictions of NUFC’s imminent demise by polyversity media studies and sociology drops out supporting the likes of Huddersfield and Ipswich.

Less than a decade ago, social media was in its infancy; Facebook was still a way of reconnecting with long lost pals and not a place to share photos of cats with cute expressions and endless shaky clips of bands you half liked half a lifetime ago. There was no Twitter to my knowledge and the only way football fans could keep in touch with each other was through the fetid swamp of message boards, where lollygagging hobbledehoys essayed mendacious persiflage. If you went looking for it, you found foul, personal abuse, threats and all manner of disgusting comments, often between supporters of the same team. Nowadays, the abuse may be restricted to 140 characters or made by people using their real identities, but you can still avoid it; unless you enjoy being outraged about nothing much.

Even though it seemed fanciful to suggest it at the time, the 2009 relegation was the making of a generation of our support and those players who had the cojones to stay. It would be difficult to pick a particular game when everything fell into place during the Championship gap year, but somewhere around the last-gasp victory over Doncaster at SJP or the dogged win away to Sheffield United the week after, both courtesy of Kevin Nolan, once the clocks went back, Newcastle United went forward. It was an educational, humbling, life-affirming season and thankfully the club learned from its mistakes to ensure we’d never suffer the ignominy of relegation again… err, hang on…

Well, it’s happened again; Newcastle United have been relegated to The Championship. Unlike last time when an elusive single goal (specifically Howard Webb, the original Payaso de Mierda, disallowing Viduka’s header against Fulham in our final home game) was all we’d needed to stay up, things were sorted long before the final day. After the ultimately false hope provided by Andros Townsend’s winner over Palace that took NUFC out of the drop zone at the end of April, another spineless, shot-shy debacle in the 0-0 at Villa ultimately did for us, while the Mackems won their final two home games; 3-2 over Chelsea in a thriller and 3-0 against a disintegrating Everton who dispensed with Martinez the very next day.

You’d have to say that, providing you’ve suspended your moral judgement about the case of convicted predatory paedophile Adam Johnson playing for Sunderland with the full blessing of their senior management, the Mackems deserved to stay up by winning those two games. It is a real shame that John Terry has signed another deal with Chelsea as the idea of his final performance being curtailed by a red card after an agricultural scythe too many was a delicious prospect. On May 11^th, I played Over 40s away to Hedworthfield (drew 2-2; equaliser my fault – soz) and afterwards we went back to their bar, The Red Hackle in the Scotch Estate. The arrival of a dozen ageing Geordies appeared a popular move as most of the pub leapt to their feet as we entered. In actual fact, this was Sunderland’s second goal and it would be fair to say it polarised opinion in the pub. Unlike 2009, I’d didn’t get rotten drunk; I had 3 pints and headed home for a bath. Frankly I was over it by the next morning, relegation not the equaliser against Hedworthfield, and looking forward to what happens now at Newcastle United.

Rather like 77/78 and 88/89, ultimate failure was seemingly inevitable in 15/16, if not from day 1, then certainly after McClaren didn’t get his cards after the Chelsea scudding in February, or even the Palace demolition at the end of November. Charnley’s vacillating inaction after the slaughter at Stamford Bridge was ultimately fatal to our prospects. That said, my take on the season just finished is influenced by the fact I only saw home games; I know plenty of away games were live on Sky or BT, but I don’t have them, so the only one I saw was Chelsea, because it was free to watch for some reason. Mind, you wouldn’t pay for that shite would you? Honestly, my heart goes out to those who witnessed a series of abject surrenders from Sunderland to Southampton throughout the season, because that’s where the seeds of relegation were sown.

At home I saw 9 games live (as well as the Norwich and Liverpool games in The Bodega on fanzine selling duty); 2 wins (West Ham, convincing, and Spurs, more of that one in a bit), 4 draws (Southampton, Chelsea, Man United and the Mackems, when we could, perhaps should, have won all of them) and 3 defeats (Arsenal, Everton, both unlucky and Bournemouth, which was the only truly appalling performance I saw all season). If a comparable points per game ratio had been repeated across the whole season, we’d have accrued something like 42 in total, which was the sort of total I’d imagined McClaren would bring us. Shows what I know eh?

Being honest, I expected this season to be dull beyond belief, with McClaren’s trademark stifling, cautious football strangling games at birth; I thought 0-0 would be our most popular score. However, that was a prediction based on a belief that not only was McClaren still halfway competent and not a vastly retrograde step after John Carver even, but that Newcastle United would assemble a squad fit for purpose; some chance! Of last summer’s signings, only Mbemba has been a success, though the two lads we got from Forest the year before, Lascelles and Darlow, look exactly the kind of hard-working, passionate, dedicated players we will need next year. Mitrovic, despite a few goals, is the Serbian Billy Whitehurst; a carthorse masquerading as a hard man. Thauvin was a joke; as unsuited to the Premier League as his pal Cabella, though if he’d got his toe to the ball in the last seconds at Old Trafford, the tone of this piece may have been completely different. Ivan Toney is a bit part player for Barnsley, which says a lot about his prospects I feel. The most frustrating case is Wijnaldum; a player capable of stunning goals and utterly dominant performances at home, too often he has hidden away. I feel that he, Janmaat and Sissoko will be the first ones out the door; saleable assets with a selfish attitude and an utter lack of conscience for our situation.

Obviously, the players need to look at themselves, but the hierarchy are the ones ultimately to blame; this means Ashley for appointing the wrong people to sign the wrong players in the wrong positions at the wrong time. Look at January’s arrivals; yes Andros Townsend has been inspirational, but Shelvey has been a flash in the pan, while Saivet and Doumbia didn’t play so we can’t judge them properly. The captain didn’t play on account of a thigh strain that immobilised him for the best part of 4 months and we can certainly judge him as a coward and a fraud because of this; in retrospect, alarm bells should have started ringing when he got a new contract in summer 2015. It was a foolish decision and made McClaren fatally weak from the very start.

You may have noticed that, so far, I’ve not mentioned Rafa Benitez in this piece. Well, everything that needed saying was said on and off the pitch at the Spurs game. Twenty years on from the tears and heartbreak of the 1-1 draw that confirmed we’d finish runners-up to Manchester United, we assured 18^th place by simply thrashing Champions’ League hopefuls, becoming the only side to do the double over them. The team played like men possessed, winning battles all over the pitch, humiliating the opposition and gaining massive rounds of applause from the stands (other than the reaction one annoyed bloke gave Janmaat after the last goal). In retrospect, it was a logical result of Rafa’s influence; he has begun to sort the team out, stamp his authority and modify tactics. How my heart sings when I realise he likes Vurnon Anita as much as I do.

Going back to the Spurs game, I must admit to an uneasy feeling on the walk up to the ground. I’d previously expected SJP to be unpopulated by 7,000 empty seats, to boast a smug, packed away section, with the home following made up of 40k stoics suffering in mute disappointment and a handful of drunk, bald, middle-aged men in chunky Italian knitwear gesticulating impotently and making dicks of themselves. Of course the latter pile of human detritus surfaced on Twitter post-match to denounce all those who’d applauded Sissoko, Janmaat and Wijnaldum, as well as getting unaccountably angry at us playing well. The best part of the day, other than the fact we all but sold out of issue 12 of The Popular Side, was just how enjoyable the whole experience was; the entire ground united in adoration of Rafa Benitez.

You know, I know, every single person who has considered Newcastle United’s best interests seriously knows, if Rafa stays we have a great chance of bouncing straight back in significantly better health than we left the top division. I’m not saying we’ll get 120 points or beat Rotherham 15-0, but we should do well. Of course, if he doesn’t stay, all bets are off as to how bad the hangover / comedown / cold turkey will be when Nigel Adkins appears in the home dugout; it’ll certainly not be pleasant. However, I am an optimist and will hope for the best while hope exists. If it doesn’t work out, well that’s football and it is all part of following your team. The fact is, if you can’t handle defeat, then you shouldn’t follow football. Your motto should be gracious in victory and dignified in defeat. Well done Sunderland for staying up and well done Boro for getting promoted, with the boss I said I wanted at SJP when Pardew left. Imagine what it’s going to be like watching them play each other on Sky when we’ve conceded a late goal at Preston? Still, you have to laugh.

That brings me to my final point; when did our support become such humourless cry-babies? At what point did we adopt a Year Zero chronology after Easter Monday 2006? If you remember the two volumes of Let’s All Laugh at Sunderland that probably still fill half the cellar of The Back Page, the A4 posters distributed ahead of the 4-1 derby, the Save Chimp; Don’t Let the Mackems Win merchandise, the changing of road signs to say Stadium of Shite in 2003 and a billion other digs, DVDs, CDs, JPEGs, wind-ups and parodies, you’ll know that what the Mackems are doing is exactly comparable to what we’ve done in the past and will do again, given half the chance. The fly-past during the Spurs game and the banner on the Tyne Bridge are simply par for the course. We’re both spiteful, vindictive, cruel, inventive and unforgiving. Schadenfreude is our middle name, but surely that’s better than hammering the shite out of each other?

If you can’t handle these digs on social media, then grow up or turn your phone off; go read a book, listen to a record or watch a game of cricket. That’s what I’ll be doing all summer; it certainly beats spending your holidays poring over an opposition club’s accounts, when you should have taught yourself that the Magyar word for hubris is önhittség.

the old 2-1

over the last week, the Tyneside Amateur League, of which i am proud to be chair, has staged its two cup finals at Newcastle Benfield FC. both games ended 2-1, with both losing sides going 2-0 down and conceding a penalty when their keeper was sent off for a last man foul, before grabbing a late consolation. both games were great adverts for our league, so here are my two programme pieces for your delectation. well done the gallant losers from North Shields Athletic Reserves and Ponteland United Reserves, but especially well done to the deserved winners Bedlington Juniors and West Jesmond -:

In my capacity as Chair of the Tyneside Amateur League, it gives me enormous pleasure to welcome you all to the final of the Tyneside Amateur Challenge Shield sponsored by Bill Upsall Trophies. Today’s game is between Bedlington Juniors, who clinched the Tyneside Amateur League title on Wednesday 11^th with a single goal victory over Gosforth Bohemians Reserves, and North Shields Athletic Reserves, who are vying for runners-up spot with Ponteland United Reserves, who face West Jesmond here on Tuesday 17^th at 7.00pm in the final of the Neville Cowey Cup, which I hope to see many of you at. However, I’m getting a little ahead of myself here.

I’d like to welcome all players, officials and supporters of our two opposing teams today to Sam Smith’s Park, home of my beloved Newcastle Benfield FC. It is a source of enormous pride for me that Benfield have agreed to host our finals, as this is the home of Newcastle’s senior non-league side and, I would suggest, an appropriate venue for our league’s two cup finals. Indeed, following recent results on Wearside, today’s game is arguably the most important fixture in the North East this weekend, though the Whitley Bay A v Blyth Town Northern Alliance Premier Division decider at Hillheads runs it close. As the club formerly known as Newcastle United have failed to learn from bitter experience, football is meaningless unless there is aspiration; striving to improve, to better yourself and achieve more is the very reason why people still play the beautiful game. It is for that very reason, we at the Tyneside Amateur League vigorously support Bedlington’s application to the Northern Alliance; our champions of the previous two seasons Monkseaton (formerly Lindisfarne Custom Planet FC) and Hazelrigg Victory have gone on to distinguish themselves at a higher level and we hope Bedlington Juniors came follow suit, progressing up the non-league pyramid. This is why we’ve brought both of our finals to a Northern League Division 1 ground; it isn’t the San Siro or Camp Nou, but it’s a great place for local football games to take place. I sincerely hope many of those playing today will regularly play at Northern League Division 1 standard and above.

I hope today’s game is also a fitting end to this season, though our league still has games as far ahead as May 28^th, because 2015/2016 has been a uniquely appalling season in terms of weather. Has this been the wettest season on record? I’m not sure if simply calculating millimetres of rainfall adequately describes a season where snow flurries in May resulted in postponements, but I would imagine so, however one decides to measure inclemency.

More seriously, this has been the most difficult, frustrating and infuriating campaign for clubs, players and administrators at all levels of the amateur game and I give my heartfelt thanks to all those who give up their time so willingly to keep the game going at our grassroots level. Perhaps grass is the problem; with the impending onslaught of wetter winters on account of climate change, the paucity of 4G pitches at our level becomes ever more acute. If it hadn’t been for 2 clubs in our league boasting artificial home surfaces and several others digging deep to pay for the hire of facilities, the season may never have ended.

However, let’s be positive; today’s final is the only game in the Tyneside Amateur League, so I sincerely hope those associated with other clubs have come along to witness proceedings. I hope all of you here present will enjoy today’s game and, if you can spare the time, join us for our next final here on Tuesday. Even better, could you see yourself becoming involved with a local club? Don’t be shy; they all need help. There’s far more to the beautiful game than allowing Mike Ashley’s circus to depress you.

All the best,

ian cusack, Chair

Tyneside Amateur League

In my capacity as Chair of the Tyneside Amateur League, it gives me enormous pleasure to welcome you all to the final of the Neville Cowey Cup. This evening’s game is between Ponteland United Reserves, who are also vying for runners-up spot in the Tyneside Amateur League face, and West Jesmond.  I’d like to welcome all players, officials and supporters of our two opposing teams to Sam Smith’s Park, home of my beloved Newcastle Benfield FC. It is a source of enormous pride for me that Benfield have agreed to host our finals, as this ground is the home of Newcastle’s senior non-league side and, I would suggest, an appropriate venue for our league’s two cup finals.

Indeed, anyone who chose to attend the final of the Tyneside Amateur Shield here last Saturday, as opposed to the Whitley Bay A v Blyth Town Northern Alliance Premier Division decider at Hillheads for instance, would agree that Bedlington Juniors and North Shields Athletic served up a high quality game, enjoyed by all in attendance, that was a great advertisement for the standard of football on show in our league.  The decision to cancel all other league games on Saturday was vindicated both by the healthy attendance and the large number of clubs who were represented here. Let’s hope the decision to play tonight’s game on a Tuesday attracts similar numbers of interested onlookers. 

If this evening’s game is of a comparable standard to the game on Saturday, we will be in for a treat. Bedlington shaded that final and completed a league and cup double with a 2-1 victory. As the club formerly known as Newcastle United, despite a quite stunning performance on Sunday afternoon, have failed to learn from bitter experience, football is meaningless unless there is aspiration; striving to improve, to better yourself and achieve more is the very reason why people still play the beautiful game. It is for that very reason, we at the Tyneside Amateur League vigorously support Bedlington’s application to the Northern Alliance; our champions of the previous two seasons Monkseaton (formerly Lindisfarne Custom Planet FC) and Hazelrigg Victory have gone on to distinguish themselves at a higher level and we hope Bedlington Juniors came follow suit, progressing up the non-league pyramid. I sincerely hope many of those playing today will regularly play at Northern League Division 1 standard and above. This is why we’ve brought both of our finals to a Northern League Division 1 ground; it isn’t the San Siro or Camp Nou, but it’s a great place for local football games to take place. I implore you to make use of the superb catering facilities available in Snack Attack and to have a drink in our luxurious, well-stocked bar, which will be open before, during and after the game.

I hope tonight’s game is also a fitting end to this season, though our league still has games as far ahead as May 25^th, because 2015/2016 has been a uniquely appalling season in terms of weather. Has this been the wettest season on record? I’m not sure if simply calculating millimetres of rainfall adequately describes a season where snow flurries in May resulted in postponements, but I would imagine so, however one decides to measure inclemency. This has been the most difficult, frustrating and infuriating campaign for clubs, players and administrators at all levels of the amateur game and I give my heartfelt thanks to all those who give up their time so willingly to keep the game going at our grassroots level. With the impending onslaught of wetter winters on account of climate change, the paucity of 4G pitches at our level becomes ever more acute. If it hadn’t been for 2 clubs in our league boasting artificial home surfaces and several others digging deep to pay for the hire of facilities, the season may never have ended.

However, let’s be positive; I hope all of you here present will enjoy the game and, if you can spare the time, seek out another Tyneside Amateur League game before the end of the season. Even better, could you see yourself becoming involved with a local club? Don’t be shy; they all need help. There’s far more to the beautiful game than allowing Mike Ashley’s circus to depress you.

All the best,

ian cusack, Chair

Tyneside Amateur League

The Sound & The Fury

Issue 12 of The Popular Side is out this weekend. The fortunes of Newcastle United are so bleak I've written a piece about music in 2016. Here it is. Remember, football always lets you down; Trembling Bells never do....

They’re selling Hippy wigs in Woolworths man. (Danny; Withnail & I)

Huh you think it’s funny, turning rebellion into money? (Joe Strummer; White Man in Hammersmith Palais)

Newcastle has a proud and glorious tradition of independent record shops; not just second hand ones like Pet Sounds or Tony Fiddes’s wonderful Stay Free on Vine Lane that I’ve mentioned here before and where I recently found a copy of the very rare 12” Wedding Present John Peel session EP, including a blistering version of Orange Juice’s Felicity. Incidentally, the only gig I’ve been to this year so far was The Weddoes supporting The Wonder Stuff at the Academy. It was Good Friday; the Weddoes came on stage a 7.00 and were off by 8.10. How were they? Fabulous frankly; 12 songs, 4 new, 8 old. Tight, good humoured, superbly paced and blessed by a VERY appreciative crowd, which should ensure a sold out Sage for their next visit in September. Highlights? You Should Always Keep in Touch With Your Friends starting like a Fall pastiche with Mr Gedge coming on last, Click Click, blinding, 56 sounding like Big Black, Dalliance as ever, Corduroy as ever; simply superb. Obviously I didn’t stay for the headline act.

Now back to the main point, record shops. I’m talking about places to buy new stuff; emporia like Listen Ear or Volume which, in my youth, gave off a tangible frisson of excitement when you walked through the door, anticipating the imminent purchase of your latest slab of obscure John Peel inspired ephemera. These days we’ve got Reflex, Steel Wheels, RPM and the venerable Windows all catering for the expanding niche market that is vinyl sales.

Great eh? Well, let’s stick with two cheers for them at the minute; you see while they do a sterling job for 364 days of the year, there is the vexed question of the existence of Record Store Day on the third Saturday in April; initially it was a celebration of the highest format of music product available, though now it is rapidly losing credibility, possibly as a result of the likes of Justin Beiber having stuff pushed out on this date, but also the tragic spectacle of Undertones re-releases coming out for north of £40. That’s got to be wrong hasn’t it? Unfortunately, if you’re an independent record shop, you’ve no choice other than to buy into the hype and blatant profiteering of RSD.

Despite my principles, I still ended up lashing out just shy of fifty quid on a handful of 7” singles in my store of choice, Reflex. Now, don’t get me wrong, each of the 4 items I bought were of great merit, though I wonder at my sanity when I spent £13 on a Best Coast single that comprised two unreleased out-takes from their last album; Bigger Man and Late 30s are cute slices of sugary, C86 meets the Ronettes girlypop, but I’d have been happier to down load them in retrospect. The other 3 singles I purchased I am delighted with; I’ll return to Who Call the Law? by Trembling Bells later, but suffice to say grabbing the rerelease of Pere Ubu’s seminal debut single 30 Seconds Over Tokyo, replete with claustrophobic, paranoid guilt and a sense of primordial fear that equates to living on the set of David Lynch’s Eraserhead, gave me a sense of accomplishment.

Fifteen years before David Thomas (aka Crocus Behemoth) was stirring in the suburbs of Cleveland, Ohio, Shirley Collins was a fresh faced country lass up from Suffolk to record for Topic Records. The rediscovery of the master tapes of English Folk Songs 2 is a wonderful coincidence in Shirley’s 80^th year on earth and the 4 tracks, with minimal accompaniment by Robin Williamson on guitar and latterly banjo, allow the clarity and purity of her untrained voice to shine majestically through, especially on a glorious Dance to Your Daddy that pours scorn on Alex Glasgow’s hideously mannered theme to When the Boat Comes In.

Of course, records continue to be released at other points in the year; I’ve even bought a few. Speaking, as we were, of Topic, they’ve released a fascinating pair of 3CD sets of Irish traditional music recorded by the diaspora in London pubs over the past 60 years; It Was Mighty covers the 50s and 60s and It Was Great Altogether brings us up to the present day, showcasing stunning musicianship from fellas who also did 12 hours a day on the buildings before drinking their fill in Camden, Kilburn and bars all over the capital. It’s mainly instrumental, with a few attempts at lilting, but contains none of the clichéd rebel ballads, so unsuitable for expanding my last orders in the Tynemouth Lodge Sean Nos repertoire. Sadly.

Talking of boring old drunks, I wish I’d not bothered with Wise Ol’ Man by The Fall. Title song apart, it’s a live rehash of songs from last year’s Sub Lingual Tablet. Title song included, it’s a dull load of tripe that seems to consist of a homeless derelict mumbling unintelligibly over the top of a ponderous Killing Joke style electronic thud and sludge fest. Utterly without artistic merit.

You can’t say that about the awesome Spilt Milk by former Loft and Weather Prophets frontman Pete Astor. This is a classic album; pressed on milk white vinyl, it successfully harnesses the legacy of Astor’s two previous bands; the charming C86 goofy pop sensibility of The Loft and the slightly careworn Americana of The Weather Prophets. The languid, insouciant brilliance of The Getting There could be a spare track from the Velvets Live 69 it’s that good. Hat tips also to Really Something and Oh You; Astor is a singer with something to say and he leads a band in no hurry to make him say it too fast. Love this record.

Without doubt, the finest new (I’m taking relatively) band in the world are Trembling Bells. Last year’s Sovereign Self album raised their profile and showed a band at the height of its powers. Could they match the crazed, psychedelic early 70s atmosphere of that one? Oh yes indeed; this year’s companion mini album, Wide Majestic Aire, returns more to the folky roots of their early releases. Indeed one of the many stunning moments is Swallows of Carbeth, an optimistic postscript to their juvenile classic Willows of Carbeth. It is a song that they’ve been playing live for around 3 years, while Alex Neilson’s sublime a capella The Day Maya Deren Died has been available as a download from their website for even longer than that. Of course, this is not simply the equivalent of sweeping up fallen leaves for compost; there are some glorious new songs as well, such as England Was Aghast and Marble Arch. Though the absolute stand-out is Neilson’s autobiographical cri de Coeur that is the title track; never have the band flown so daringly high, never has Lavinia’s voice been more beautiful. If last year’s Where is Saint George? is their A Sailor’s Life, then Wide Majestic Aire is their Who Knows Where the Time Goes? A band I love, individually and collectively; you should do the same. The Record Store Day single, a whimsical cover of Dan Haywood’s Who Call the Law? Isn’t half bad either.

The final purchase I’ve made of late is Wire’s Nocturnal Koreans, a companion piece to last year’s eponymous album. Where Wire screamed, pummelled and petrified, Nocturnal Koreans caresses meditatively; as ever the songs tell of arcane existential crisis, but smoothly played intelligent pop sensibility than reminds one more of 154 than Chairs Missing is the keynote approach. A delightful and beguiling slice of the alternative side of Wire, which can still never be called optimistic.

So, what’s next? Gig wise, there’s The Wedding Present in Leeds 28/5, Trembling Bells at The Cumberland 29/6, The Wedding Present at The Sage 9/9, Vic godard and the Band of Holy Joy at The Cumberland 14/10, before the big one; Teenage Fanclub at Whitley Bay Playhouse on 16/11, which will no doubt coincide with their new album. Remember kids, football always lets you down; music never does.

Books:

Not content with listening to music, I’ve continued to read a mixed bag of books, on varying subjects and of varying levels of worth. Christian Ryan’s biography of the lost genius of Australian cricket Kim Hughes, The Golden Boy, is by turns fascinating and maddening. While Ryan clearly set out to write a worshipping hagiography, the refusal of Hughes to give his account of events that fatally undermined his captaincy and scarred, if not curtailed, his later career, is a major flaw. While we hear condemnatory voices of the likes of Lillee, Marsh, Thompson and various Cappell’s, offset by more measured and sympathetic noises by Inverarity, Lawson or Hogg, what would have made this book dynamite would have been the shy, bibulous batsman’s take on it all. Sadly, since his retirement, Hughes has kept his counsel and rarely puts himself forward into the public eye. Considering some of the savage attacks he’s suffered from the media, I can probably sympathise with him.

John Tennant’s Football; The Golden Age is a sumptuous picture book of hundreds of sepia and monochrome photos of football players, supporters, managers and grounds in the first half of the twentieth century. The achingly beautiful nostalgia of the images requires neither text nor commentary, as the human imagination is enough to immerse yourself in the world from when our fathers were infants and grandfathers thronged the terraces. Lovely.

Richard W Hardwick works with disadvantaged and marginalised youths in Sunderland and Newcastle. I’m amazed, therefore, he found time to write a novel proselytising the cause of the feral tac and cider radgies who jump the barriers from Shields to Byker to Pelaw and back again. In all seriousness, the moral force of Kicked Out is seriously diluted by a bafflingly large array of similar characters; there are too many for the reader to gain any sympathy with, especially as Hardwick struggles to delineate them properly. The novel is also too long, containing far too many needless interpolations. Worst of all is the weak, inconsequential ending. Kicked Out is a decent idea and, with judicious editing, could have made a decent book; unfortunately it’s a sprawling, unsatisfactory mess.

Quite the opposite is The Mermaid and the Drunks by Ben Richards. Part murder mystery, part travelogue, part love story, it a richly enjoyable love letter to Chile and her people. The effortless prose and understated descriptions made the tale of rejected amour and family fissures all the more alluring. An enticing and beguiling read. Now, time to get Welsh’s Begbie-based book, The Blade Artist…

Simply the Bez

Just over 24 years ago, Newcastle United staged a remarkable escape from relegation to Division 3, by winning our last 2 games at home to Portsmouth and away to Leicester. In the Pompey team that late April afternoon was a certain John Beresford. Here's a piece I wrote about him for West Stand Bogs #12; the fanzine of Bez's previous club Barnsley. I really hope Newcastle engineer another amazing escape from relegation, though I also hope Barnsley can make it into the League 1 play-offs as well -:

Over Easter, I decided it was time to have one of those infrequent blitzes on the mountain of worthless music and football related rubbish I’ve accumulated over the years, in the guise of memorabilia that “might come in useful.” Raking through a few cardboard boxes of crap, sorting the gig set-lists and team line-ups from the blurred photos of bands and grounds, I came across a letter in a Southampton FC envelope, postmarked February 1998. Curiosity got the better of me and I postponed my ethical cleansing for a delve inside. Turns out it was a response from John Beresford to a note I’d sent him, thanking him for his time on Tyneside and wishing him all the best for the future.

Now, if you’ll ignore the question as to why a 33 year old bloke was writing to a footballer he’d never met, you can’t fail to be impressed by the fact the letter was clearly typed and signed by Beresford himself. Fair play to the bloke for that and fair play to him for making no bones about the fact he loved the North East and played his best football with Newcastle United, because his respect and affection for the club and the region was reciprocated by all fans of the Mags. I’ve genuinely never heard a Newcastle fan with a bad word for Beresford or his understudy at left-back, Robbie Elliott.

Kevin Keegan arrived as Newcastle manager in February 1992, with the situation looking hopeless. However, in those far off, halcyon days, pluck and courage were more important than tactics, meaning he could persuade the shower he’d inherited they were good enough to stay up. Amazingly this worked, but once survival was assured, Keegan overhauled the squad. For someone whose reputation was based on reckless, blood and thunder, attacking football, it is a surprise to note his first permanent signings were Barry Venison, Brian Kilcline and Beresford. The latter, unknown to me during his Man City and Barnsley days, arrived from Portsmouth, where he found fame for missing the crucial penalty when Pompey lost to Liverpool after a replay in an FA Cup semi-final. More pertinently, from a Tyneside perspective, he’d been in the Portsmouth team that lost 1-0 to Newcastle the week previous, which effectively kept us up.

Beresford had been tipped to sign for Liverpool, but a problem with his medical stalled the deal and Keegan brought him to Tyneside instead. £600,000 was a lot of money for us at the time, but Beresford was worth every penny. The 1992/1993 season was a memorable one; Champions with 96 points, Newcastle put in some great performances all across the pitch. Beresford played in 45 league games, scoring once (in a 6-0 win over the Tykes at SJP in April) and even got an England call-up in March; though Graham Taylor opted to play Andy Sinton in the number 3 shirt instead. Such recognition was thoroughly merited as, despite his lack of inches, Beresford had a storming campaign, haring down the wing and slinging in crosses for David Kelly and Andy Cole to greedily gobble up. For the second successive year, Beresford was selected for the PFA Second Division Team of the Season by his fellow professionals. The future looked bright.

1993/1994 saw Newcastle dubbed “The Entertainers” by Sky TV, as we ended a debut top-flight campaign in third spot. Sadly, a nagging groin injury restricted Beresford to a mere 7 appearances, making little impact on the nation’s collective consciousness. Thankfully, he was back to his best in the following year, when Newcastle United hared out of the blocks, only to tail off into a disappointing sixth place. Keegan again rebuilt, bringing in the likes of David Ginola and Les Ferdinand for a tilt at the title.

Beresford played out of his skin for the first 8 months of the 1995/1996 campaign, as the Mags established a seemingly unassailable 14 point lead at the top. Sadly, a series of poor away displays and the relentless march of Manchester United, culminating in Keegan’s “Love it! Just love it!” explosion on television after a win at Elland Road, meant the impossible dream wasn’t to be. However, NUFC fans had detected a gathering storm before that; Beresford was blamed by Keegan for not closing down his man in a desperately tense 1-0 home win over Villa. Instead of accepting his manager’s word, Beresford bit back and blamed Ginola; the famously sensitive Keegan wasn’t having that and hailed Beresford off for Robbie Elliott after only 18 minutes. It was the last we saw of him that season.

Despite the bravado involved in signing Shearer in summer 1996, the reality was Keegan was finished. If he’d left then, we’d have got Bobby Robson earlier. Instead, Keegan left in January 1997 and Kenny Dalglish arrived. This was initially good news for Beresford, as he came back into the team at the expense of Elliott, who was sold to Bolton at the end of a season where Dalglish had somehow managed to avoid a post-Keegan slump and finish second.

Being runners-up parachuted NUFC into the Champions’ League qualifiers, where Beresford suddenly found his goalscoring touch. Having not found the back of the net since that penalty against Barnsley, Beresford hit both in a 2-1 victory over Croatia Zagreb that allowed us to progress to the group stages, where he grabbed another in a 2-2 away to Dynamo Kyiv. Not only that, he got the winner in a 1-0 victory over Villa and the equaliser in a draw against Leicester, both at home. You’d think that was his place at the club secure, but Dalglish had other ideas. Having sold Elliott, he bought the ageing Stuart Pearce and the cowardly Alessandro Pistone to compete for the number 3 shirt. The best left back at the club was being squeezed out.

Hence, unwillingly, Beresford made his way to Southampton. It went well at first, but a cruciate injury sustained in the opening game of the 1998/1999 season curtailed his time on the south coast and he retired at the end of 2000/2001, having made only 2 further appearances. It was an anticlimactic ending for a talented, wholehearted and committed player, who is still a regular in the region at talk-ins, expressing forthright opinions on the club he still feels a strong connection with.

From Misery to Inverness

This weekend, Hibs complete their regular season with a home game against Queen of the South, with the play-offs a definite chance to secure promotion. There's also the small matter of another cup final. Issue #12 of the utterly brilliant superb Football Pink allowed me to pen this piece on the emerald shirted sons of Leith -:

For 44 years, ever since I first clapped my eyes on the glorious emerald green jersey of Hibernian when watching highlights of the 1972 Scottish Cup final, I have been a distant though devoted supporter of Leith’s finest; despite the fact we lost 6-1 that day. I know I’m biased, but I think Easter Road is a fantastic football ground, which only Valley Parade and the original San Mames approach in terms of beauty and character. From my perspective, Hibernian are the most heroic and glamorous club in the world, who make Newcastle United seem tedious and one-dimensional in comparison. Then again, I could say the same of every other Premier League club, but we’ll not go there.

Where I do go, at least a couple of times a season, is up to Waverley, across Princes Street to The Guildford, down Leith Walk in a taxi to The Iona Bar and on to Easter Road. The anticipation, from catching a glimpse of the stadium as the train hurries into the station until pushing my way through the turnstile, is always the same and the appeal never dulls; it’s a kind of homecoming every time, regardless of the opposition. However, for reasons of aesthetics and safety, I’d not be seen dead going to a game against either of the Old Firm.

Taking the Pope’s Bhoys and Her Majesty’s Team out of the equation, my experiences of the culture surrounding Scottish football are that it is entirely different and distinctly preferable to the top levels of the game south of the border. From years of bitter experience, I have to say I do find both self-mythologising Glasgow behemoths to be entirely unpalatable: Celtic have cornered the market in self-righteous paranoia and Rangers display levels of condoned bigotry scarcely credible in a civilized society. Regardless of the team they support, Scottish friends and acquaintances of mine greeted the implosion of Rangers in 2011/2012, in the wake of a labyrinthine tax case, so intractable that it seemed like a Michael Crichton rewrite of Jarndyce and Jarndyce from Bleak House, with bounteous, boundless glee.

Their Tartan schadenfreude was measurably greater at the death of the Teddy Bears than it would have been if the ‘Tic had gone out of existence. It’s an undeniable fact that while a huge percentage of the Old Firm’s support can get slit-eyed and shirty after a few scoops, Celtic’s following can be primarily described as tediously repetitive in their monotonous references to the various sporting and social injustices they’ve suffered. Rangers, on the other hand, are largely followed by frightening Neanderthals, with a wildly unrealistic sense of entitlement and as vicious and depraved a songbook as I’ve ever heard. Their descent into the Stygian depths of the Scottish Third Division was acclaimed from Dumfries to Dingwall; not because of any pretense of a new era level playing field (even Steve MacClaren with John Carver as his assistant should win the title at Celtic), but simply because it removed the need to accommodate the Ibrox hordes twice a season.

The attendant era of calm is over and the resurrection of Rangers, under the guidance of ex-Brentford boss Mark Warburton,  allied to Ronny Deila’s hapless, shambolic reign at Parkhead, has the Caledonian media in an apoplectic frenzy at the thought of the imminent return of “the biggest game in world football” filling Scotland’s newspapers and Sherriff’s courts. Fans of the other 40 Scottish clubs simply roll their eyes and get on with the business of supporting their own team, while ignoring the hyperbolic droning of armchair and bar stool Hoops and Gers. These bores are as vacuous as the varying hues of glory hunter to be found in the pubs and living rooms of England. Thankfully, they are held in the same degree of contempt by match-attending fans in Scotland as they are down here. You see, the actual act of going to the game is where the two cultures begin to diverge and fans of almost every other club respect their fellow supporters.

Almost every fan in Scotland wears a scarf to the game; this isn’t a fashion statement, a response to the climate in chilly Jockoland (copyright Jimmy Greaves, circa 1983) or a consciously anachronistic affectation, it is the true mark of the regular attender. Replica shirts, face paint, curly nylon wigs and giant foam fingers, except for the wee bairns, are not seen as acceptable match day attire by your average Scottish football fan, unless on international duty of course, as the Tartan Army are allowed to stage Braveheart in the manner of Rab C Nesbitt.

Despite the superb rail infrastructure in the Central Belt, asthmatic, elderly coaches are the preferred mode of travel for most fans. This is because the traditional network of supporters’ clubs, mainly official, which exist as a distribution and support network for away tickets and travel, has retained a level of popularity unheard of in England, where even League 2 clubs come up with usurious membership schemes, requiring character references and a DNA sample before you can sign up for a stake in the away ticket ballot.  As a result, many Scottish fans not only travel together and sit together, they socialize together, at regular meetings and events, where the football club often sends former and indeed current players to meet the fans; imagine that in England eh? The result of such customer care is that the Scottish game breeds the kind of inter-generational devotion to your club that the Sky billions has all but eradicated from the higher levels of the English professional game.  In short, many clubs are poor but happy.

Don’t forget; England and Wales have a combined population of 58 million for their 92 professional clubs, while Scotland has 42 clubs and 5 and a bit million in a much smaller pool. If you also consider that 100,000 of those who attend games once a fortnight follow the Tims and the Huns, there are not a huge number of fans left to go round. Using relative success as a yardstick, counting downwards, a list of the other big clubs (I use the term advisedly) in Scotland would look something like: Aberdeen, Hearts, Dundee United, Hibs, Motherwell and then we’re struggling, though the Highland aggregation of Inverness Caledonian Thistle has done well to cement a place in the top flight and win last year’s Scottish Cup since arriving in the professional game 20 years back. While those listed previously can call upon a fan base of approximately 10,000, such an attendance cannot be guaranteed every home game. Partly that’s economics and partly it’s because there aren’t a great number of trophies to go round. The century-long Weegie duopoly has resulted in wins by other clubs being remarked upon mainly because of their rarity value; Dundee United won their first Scottish Cup in 1995, while Hibs haven’t won it since 1902. You hear what I’m saying?

However, the great thing about Celtic’s approach to the post-Rangers SPL era has been the utter disinclination to accept the seemingly obligatory trebles on offer each season. Ok, so the title has been a permanent feature on Janefield Street since the Inland Revenue fixed its gaze on Edmiston Drive, but in the past 4 seasons only the 2013 Scottish Cup (Hibs thrashed 3-0) and 2015 League Cup were adorned in green ribbons. Hearts took the 2012 SFA Cup, won subsequently by St Johnstone in 2014 and 2015, while the League Cup was taken in turn by Kilmarnock, St Mirren and Aberdeen in the period 2012-2014. One of the fascinating things about 2016 is that the Scottish League Cup will be won twice in one calendar year; the 2016-2017 final will be played in November, though the 2015-2016 competition was to be decided at Hampden Park on March 13^th.

Hibs haven’t had much luck in the League Cup since beating Kilmarnock 5-1 in 2007; I wasn’t at that one, nor was I at the 1972 win over Celtic, though I did see the 1991 victory over Dunfermline, courtesy of the legendary Keith Wright. A quarter of a century later, a strong series of cup performances saw us beat Premier League teams Aberdeen, Dundee United and Inverness in the semi-final, a game played at Tynecastle, the home of our dear rivals Heart of Midlothian. My joy at reaching the final was selfishly tempered by the thought of Celtic being odds-on favourites to beat Ross County in the other game, at Hampden the next day. Despite going a goal down after 35 seconds, the Staggies from Dingwall recovered to win 3-1.

This was good news on two fronts; firstly they wouldn’t wipe the floor with us the way Celtic could and secondly, I had a decent chance of a ticket, on account of the fact Ross County’s Victoria Park holds 6,500 and Dingwall itself has a population of 5,500. In the end, Hibs were allocated 30,000 tickets (the average crowd at Easter Road is a shade over 9k) and the Staggies got 15,000; the rest would be placed on sale on the day itself, for neutrals and “other interested observers” as the SFA’s website phrased it. Luckily, my good mate Graham, who edits the Hibs fanzine Mass Hibsteria was able to secure me a ticket in our bit, right on the halfway line, for the scarcely credible price of twenty five quid.

In England, the League Cup is viewed with contempt until the semi-finals by most clubs; not just European competitors, but the Premier League also-rans and Championship play-off hopefuls, trying to clear unwelcome additions from their fixture list. This year’s final saw Manchester City overcome Liverpool on penalties, whereby Willie Caballero’s agility was described as a “fairy tale;” do me a favour! At least in Scotland, the League Cup is genuinely valued and sought after by all clubs. Even the sides put out by Lennon and Deila that have so conspicuously underperformed should have been good enough to beat the opposition; though in 2015 they only won the thing after holing their opponents Dundee United under the waterline by signing their two best (cup tied) players a few weeks before the final.

Sunday morning March 13^th and I’m up early to catch an absolutely rammed cross country rattler up to Edinburgh. It’s a swaying, heaving mass of good natured sporting humanity. In kilts. With posh voices. Bouffant hair. Barbours.  Aberlour hip flasks. Murrayfield is hosting Scotland against France in the Six Nations and half the crowd appear to be on my train. Earphones in, I doze off, waking as a flash of green to my right shows Easter Road in the distance and I stumble awake as the magnitude of the day ahead kicks in. While 90% of my travelling companions exit the station for Rose Street boozers, I stay dry and catch the next one for Queen Street. It’s half full, but better dressed. More earthy. Green scarves. Green Aquascutum jackets. Green Stone Island. Green Spezials. Green tins of Heineken and Carlsberg. There’s a lid on the excitement and anticipation, but the roof comes off Queen Street when we arrive and the singing starts. Oblivious to my accent I join in. Out onto Buchanan Street and the crowd melts away to the myriad variety of Merchant City bars. Ignored by Sunday shoppers, I walk to Central, where I meet my mate Davey from Leith (who supports Livingston and is in the Ross County end). We grab a train to Mount Florida in the shadow of Hampden and take a few wet ones in a delightful Celtic-minded boozer called The Old Smithy.

Half an hour to kick off, we make a move. Only when we turn the corner to face Hampden, having been swept down the road on a chanting tide of green, do we see the first Ross County fans. There’s not a scrap of tension or bother. Just happiness. Singing. Scarves everywhere. I take a half tour of the ground, then enter the North Stand. Hampden used to be a slum, but now it’s great; perfect access and perfect views. I find my seat within seconds, shake hands and exchange hugs with Graham, Jenny and Sandy. Hail! Hail! The Hibs are here! All for goals and glory now!

Two years ago, in the same company, I watched Hibs (managed by the appalling Terry butcher) lose a relegation play-off on penalties to Hamilton Academicals, after being 2-0 up from the first leg. It was a stunning capitulation in a season when we’d won 1 of the last 18. Butcher left and Alan Stubbs came in.  We may not have been promoted, but the good times are back. The ball is on the ground and flowing football, the Hibs way patented by Willie Ormond and Eddie Turnbull, is on the agenda. Jason Cummings up front, John McGinn in midfield and the Celtic loanees Liam Henderson (what a player he’s going to be) and Anthony Stokes should win the game for us. Sadly, McGinn is quiet and Stokes ineffective, despite the best efforts of the other pair to prompt them into action.

In the event Liam Fontaine, an acceptable centre half signed from Fulham, has the crucial impact. After 25 minutes his attempt to tackle Michael Gardyne in the box sends the ball past keeper Mark Oxley for a simple tap-in. The cheers from the Staggies are barely audible, but our deflation is. It’s soon replaced by rancour; Hibs have some of the most impatient fans in the world and the extreme Tourette’s victim behind is taking this personally. He’s away for a pie when Fontaine atones by lashing us level from a corner right on the interval. The sheer joy and hysteria greeting the goal is like static going off in your head. I’m hugging people I’ll never meet again.

Second half, it’s all us; Cummings and Stokes repeatedly snatch at half chances and their keeper makes a couple of sound stops. Finally, Fontaine intervenes again; 89.25 on the clock when his attempt to cut out a cross puts the ball on the plate for Shalk two yards out. It’s a dagger blow to the heart. Half the support disappears. Extreme Tourette’s goes into overdrive. I can hear him cursing as he heads for the exit. The rest of us are too upset to watch. We should have won this. We almost draw when Fontaine (again!) has an 18 yard bicycle kick tipped over. Then we lose. We leave on the whistle. Proud, but vanquished.

Heading up to Mount Florida for the train, cops on horseback shout instructions through megaphones, block streets, send us round the houses and generally appear to be rehearsing their tactics for the upcoming Old Firm SFA Cup semi-final. It’s totally disproportionate to the event; we’re no fuckin’ Milwall ya bam explains one exasperated Hibee. The train to Central, the walk to Queen Street and the train to Waverley are glum, silent, orderly. The capital is full of lawyers singing Flower of Scotland and La Marseillaise. I cross Princes Street and hit The Guildford; the celebration was supposed to be here, instead I rapidly down half a gallon of 5.6% Orkney IPA, get myself a carry-out and take the last train back south. My heart is broken as The Proclaimers sing in our anthem Sunshine on Leith; that’s me, alone and in my cups after losing the final. However, Hibs are my team and we shall be back.

Wednesday 16^th March, Scottish Cup quarter final replay; Caledonian Thistle 1 Hibernian 2. Dundee United in the semi-final. A victory on penalties and the Huns in the final. Yaaassss!! As Craig and Charlie almost said We’re on our way from misery to Inverness…. Glory! Glory to the Hibees!

Secrets & Lies

The new issue of Stand is out now. You should buy it, of course. I am delighted they gave me the opportunity to pen this piece about the implications for sunderland AFC about the Adam Johnson trial. I note Johnson has appealed. I also note the judge's comments, when handing down sentence, of Johnson's utter lack of concern for the impact of his actions on his victim....

A couple of years back, an earnest, young, would-be entrepreneur of my acquaintance, fresh out of University and brimming with idealistic innovations, came up with the idea of launching a football magazine that would cover the whole North East region, from the Premier League to Sunday morning stuff. As part of his publicity strategy, he wrote to the 3 main clubs in the region, asking for their thoughts and comments about his proposed publication. Middlesbrough were full of support, wishing him all the best but asking, reasonably enough, that he refrain from trying to sell the thing on club property. Newcastle United, fairly typically, didn’t bother to respond. Sunderland on the other hand, replied with alacrity, though tellingly via their solicitors, who sent a strongly-worded cease and desist letter, which was enough to make our nascent tycoon ruefully abandon the project altogether, his enthusiasm conspicuously dimmed.

I’ve recounted the above story many times to NE football fans, who uniformly regard the responses of the various clubs as both predictable and par for the course; Middlesbrough are renowned and respected for being community-focused and outward-facing, while Newcastle United share their opinions on any subject about as frequently as a Trappist with laryngitis; as for Sunderland, well I’d best be careful what I’m saying here. You see the Wearside club have a reputation for being prone to consulting with M’Learned Friends at every possible opportunity. Thus it is no surprise that such a litigious lot had as their recently departed chief executive Margaret Byrne, a trained criminal lawyer.

Ms Byrne has not recently practised her trade, having left behind the role of a duty solicitor in north London when she took the job of company secretary with Sunderland in 2007, before her rapid promotion to the role she occupied until recently. That said, she no doubt retains sufficient knowledge of current statutes to enable her to speak with confidence and authority on matters of law. Certainly, as was stated from the witness box at Bradford Crown Court, since Byrne was made aware of the child sex offences Adam Johnson committed and has been convicted for, not only by the former footballer himself, but also by investigating officers from the Durham Constabulary, her continued employment with the club was rendered untenable. From the moment those claims made on the stand by the club’s former employee were proven true then, regardless of the content of any weasel-worded apology, Sunderland as an institution and Byrne in her role as a senior executive of the club, were guilty themselves of having betrayed the support, the city, the club’s proud history and traditions, but most of all, they have betrayed a 15 year old victim of the predatory paedophile they paid £60,000 per week for the 11 months after his initial arrest until his guilty plea. This is even before one considers the impact of allowing Adam Johnson to play in the Premier League after Byrne, who herself earned £663,000 basic during the period February 2015 to March 2016, was given full transcripts of the 843 Whats’App messages between Johnson and the 15 year old victim of his child sexual abuse.

Let there be no doubt about this case; the 15 year old girl, a devoted Sunderland fan who idolised Johnson, is a victim, who deserves not only our sympathy and her inalienable right to the privacy required to rebuild her shattered life and demoralised self-esteem confidence. She also warranted, as an absolute minimum, a full, frank and sincere apology from Sunderland FC, not only for the abuse she endured by one of their employees, but the scarcely credible situation of allowing  Johnson to turn out for the club, despite the knowledge of his sexual offending that Byrne was aware of. Her subsequent comment that she was ‘astounded’ when Johnson pleaded guilty simply does not square with a trained criminal lawyer’s understanding of the implications contained in Johnson’s statement containing. 

If Adam Johnson had worked in a job whereby a criminal record check by the Disclosure and Barring Service was a condition of employment, standard safeguarding policies would have unquestionably ensured he was suspended without prejudice as soon as he was arrested.  This suspension, without prejudice, would have continued until such time as the case was concluded. Obviously in an instance like Johnson’s, the employee would have been summarily dismissed for gross professional misconduct the moment a guilty plea was entered. Additionally, bearing in mind the nature of Johnson’s offences, an internal investigation would have taken place from the start of his suspension, rather than after the fact when the truth of the club’s Machiavellian malfeasance came out. In any major public sector inquiry, those at the top would be held accountable, despite Sunderland’s risible insistence the blame lay primarily with Johnson, who "very badly let down" the victim by "his despicable actions."

Contrast the essential and rigorous approach of the public sector with Sunderland’s cynical method of dealing with the case. While Johnson’s contract may have stipulated he could only be suspended for a period of 2 weeks, there was absolutely nothing in it to suggest he was guaranteed a place in the side. However, he continued to play, week in, week out; indeed, on the Saturday before the trial began, Johnson scored a goal at Anfield as the Black Cats came from 2-0 down to rescue a precious draw. It may be the point that keeps them up, which is the whole sickening, tawdry reason why Sunderland needed Adam Johnson in the period between arrest, being charged and the trial. It is impossible to conclude that Sunderland’s actions in repeatedly fielding Johnson were based on anything other than fiscal considerations; £3.2m is a hell of a lot of money to give to someone you know has sexually abused a child while an employee of your organisation, but it’s small beer compared to the riches available from Premier League membership. Just exactly how did the conduct of the club she supported make Johnson’s victim feel?

The lack of understanding shown by many people regarding the mechanism of the legal system in this country is depressingly predictable. Those claiming Johnson was “innocent until proven guilty” failed to understand the detailed investigation the police undertook, as well as the Crown Prosecution Service’s deliberation as to whether there was enough evidence to suggest a realistic possibility of conviction and whether it was in the public interest. Consequently, the absence of a guilty verdict is a red herring when assessing the morality of Johnson’s continued presence in the Sunderland side. There had been many, many meetings, interviews and statements taken before Johnson appeared in the dock. Margaret Byrne knew this. Despite Byrne’s insistence to the contrary, I find it inconceivable that she would not have advised the club’s owner Ellis Short and the then manager Dick Advocaat about the nature of Johnson’s conduct, though Sam Allardyce claims he was not informed about the detail of the Johnson case when taking over the manager’s job.  One wonders if he would have played Johnson if he’d been fully conversant with the facts; it would be a good thing to know, when judging the conduct of the club in totality.

As a trained lawyer Margaret Byrne should have understood every single implication of the case, from the probable dates of pre-trial hearings to the potential sentence that could be handed down. However, in the wake of the verdict, Sunderland FC have opted to admit as little as possible, which is simply not acceptable, not least for the sake of the victim and her right to justice and closure. The first mealy-mouthed statement released by the club after the verdict was as semantically mendacious as it was amoral.

Ignoring the fact that Durham Police confirmed what was said during Johnson’s testimony from the witness box, namely that the club were fully aware of what Johnson accepted had happened between him and the victim, as well as the narrative of their contacts on social media, Sunderland sought to distance themselves from any accusations of unethical conduct by claiming they sacked Johnson as soon as he entered a guilty plea. This may or may not be true, but it does not alter the fact that the club, in the shape of its chief executive, were aware of what Johnson admitted had occurred between him and the victim; conduct that would see him required to sign the Sex Offenders’ Register and be imprisoned.  To know this and then say they believed Johnson would plead not guilty is contemptible. Did Byrne take Johnson to one side after the meeting and say “this is our secret?” If she did, she has belatedly done the right thing. If she did not, and did share her knowledge of Johnson’s offences with others at the club, then she has been cast in the role of sacrificial lamb. Please don’t have any sympathy for her though. Basically, Sunderland were only concerned with ensuring their continued place in the Premier League. Having a £10m winger who scores and creates goals, even if he is a paedophile, increases the chances of Sunderland staying in the top flight.

What will happen next is educative when considering the base amorality and utter absence of ethical business practice in the professional game in this country. The PFA’s ungracious press release made it clear that their loyalties lie with the disgraced former footballer. As a trade unionist myself, I see the fundamental need for unions to represent their members and support them when appropriate, though I find it inconceivable that the National Union of Teachers , for instance, would seek to defend one of their members convicted of child sex abuse. Similarly the Premier League will not wish to get involved with Sunderland, as any whiff of scandal may tarnish the sales potential of the brand on a global basis. Rather they will seek to abrogate responsibility to the club, for whom it was “an internal matter.”

I’m not suggesting Sunderland be deducted points or fined, as that will not serve as adequate restitution for the victim in this case by any stretch of the imagination, but it would be nice to think Sunderland could spend maybe a fraction of the £3.2m wages Adam Johnson earned between arrest and dismissal, to fund a programme of counselling, or even just a phone line, to provide support and assistance for other victims of child sexual abuse, to help this poor, injured individuals come to terms with their ordeal and hopefully move on with dignity. I sure as hell hope Adam Johnson’s victim can do that, as Sunderland FC certainly won’t, despite sacking Margaret Byrne. The club’s name will forever be associated with the venal greed that has disfigured our game. Twenty five years ago, Sunderland used to describe themselves as “the caring club;” no more. Never again.