High School Confidential

 Well, in footballing terms, that’s the Sistine Chapel Ceiling painted again for another season. On Saturday 10^th December, when the first cold snap of the winter decimated the local football programme to the extent that the only Northern League fixture to survive was Sunderland West End 4 Ryton & Crawcrook Albion 3, crowd 110, and the Northern Alliance was reduced to 5 games, all played on AstroTurf, I recompleted my set of all 59 clubs in that brave, brilliant and beautiful league, in the town that won the 2005 Britain in Bloom award, and in the same year was also named England's Favourite Market Town by Country Life magazine by taking in Hexham 2 Gosforth Bohemians 9 on the 3G pitch at Queen Elizabeth High School.

About 6 years ago, I came to see Hexham play at their former home of the Wentworth Leisure Centre, directly opposite the train station, which is the only non-league venue I’ve nipped out of at half time to buy a coffee from the adjacent Waitrose. News of their move to a school pitch, halfway up a frozen mountainside in the depths of the Tyne Valley that necessitates far more than any 10,000 steps to reach the place, but does offer the opportunity to pop your head round the door at Tynedale CC, newly promoted to the North East Premier League of course, is reason enough to visit the bonny and beguiling market town that was voted the  happiest place to live in Britain in 2019 and 2021 by visitors to the property website www.rightmove.co.uk, especially when your guide for the day is none other than the jewel in the crown of sportswriters, Harry Pearson. Boasting questionable knowledge of local geography, despite being a 30-year resident in the town, a windproof parka bought to withstand the blasting winds of the Alaskan tundra and wielding a flask filled 50% with proper Bournville and 50% Stroh rum, Harry met me at the station and led us on a route march that seemed akin to impersonating Captain Oates in a game of seasonal charades.

Eventually, we reached our destination, at which point Harry mentioned the day seemed to have warmed up. It hadn’t at all. His Alaskan parka was simply doing its job. Never mind; within minutes, the two sides we’d came to see, were soon thawing the freezing temperatures with red hot football that eclipsed the Morocco v Portugal game happening elsewhere. Gosforth Bohemians may sound like a late Victorian amateur dramatic troupe but formed in 1894 they are the oldest non-league club in Newcastle and look set for promotion to the Alliance top division next time around. Clad in red and white hoops, they were all over the green and white hooped home side from the off. The last time Harry and I had met was 51 weeks ago, to take in Cullercoats 1 Percy Main 5 and the time before that, when the post-lockdown 2021/2022 campaign kicked off on Wednesday 2^nd September, when Haltwhistle Jubilee won their local derby over Hexham 4-3 in a monsoon so ferocious that it caused my copy of Hubert Selby Jr’s Requiem for a Dream to disintegrate, so it’s fair to assume he knew the sort of standard to expect. Indeed, I have o say our expectations were more than met, as the helpful nature of the artificial turf for both teams, as well as a decent gathering of about 40 well-insulated locals in various styles of down jacket shouting encouragement, seemed to inspire the sides to go gung-ho from the off, to the extent that it was 3-1 to the visitors after 10 minutes. Poland v Croatia it certainly was not.

Bohs attacked with pace down both wings and harried Hexham into rushed balls that led to mistakes. Certainly pace and intelligence were the main weapons early on, though for sheer comedy, nothing could beat the expansive air shot by the Bohs keeper that presented Hexham with a charitable chance of a comeback at 1-2. Unfortunately, the rhapsodic Bohemians decided to be a little more parsimonious in their play after that. It was 1-5 at half time, with the pick of the goals an outrageously beautiful curling left foot shot from the edge of the area by the Bohs number 10. Well done to you sir; your strike was enough to cause Harry to break out the flask of Birmingham meets Klagenfurt cocktail to keep the cold out. Medicinal purposes, you understand.

 

The second half followed a similar pattern, though Hexham were unlucky to have 2 goals chalked off for offside, especially as the second of them was a beautiful header into the bottom corner. Both sides also hit the inside of the post, with the Hexham number 9 so unlucky not to score, having grafted from first whistle until last. The floodlights came on and illuminated the valley from Bardon Mill to Stocksfield, just in time to showcase Boh’s 8^th goal; a stunning, dipping volley that Harry likened to Josimar against Pat Jennings at Mexico 86.  When Bohs reached 9, it seemed as if Hexham would be buried, but fair play to the home side, they kept on going and got the final goal of a game. It didn’t restore much in the way of pride, but they tried hard all game against a damn fine side who now go level on points with Stobswood at the top of the table.

Afterwards, we half tip-toed, half skated back down the hill, through the Masonic Lodge car park, down past the Abbey and into Waitrose, where we parted and I availed myself of a couple of Emmental bagels and a pack of spelt rolls for laters, before heading back on a train full of eager incipient boozers from Prudhoe, and tired, fraught shoppers at the Metro Centre. They really didn’t know what they had missed. Northern Alliance forever.

Reading Festival

I've read some important books recently, as well as listening to some excellent music. The two situations are to an extent, linked...

Winter is such a bleak time that there’s no excuse for not shuttering your soul from the realities of the shitstorm that is the outside world by immersing yourself in a good book or three. Ironically then, I’m going to start this blog by talking about two of the worst books I’ve ever read. Back in August when I inherited nearly 150 football related books from Percy Main FC, I managed to quickly flog 100 of them at a quid a pop (all profits to the club). Consequently, I have since been left with a crate of ones that nobody wants (list available on application or £10 for the lot if you’ll come and fetch them from mine). I decided to take one, or actually two, for the team by thinning out this number and reading copies of duplicate books. Somehow, the person who’d donated his entire sporting stock to the club in the first place had managed to get hold of a pair of copies of both Glen Hoddle; the Man and the Manager by Brian Woolnough and Oliver Derbyshire’s sycophantic screed John Terry; Captain Marvel.

The first is phoned-in biography for dummies that ends at the moment England secured a fortuitous 0-0 in Italy to qualify for the 1998 World Cup, so we don’t have troubling elements such as his treatment of Paul Gascoigne or eugenicist beliefs that the disabled are being punished in this life for their sins in a previous existence. Instead, we get a plodding flat narrative, where Hoddle’s seemingly arbitrary choice to leave his wife and kids after two decades of marriage is described with less detail or empathy than his decision to drop Ian Walker for Nigel Martyn in the England squad. Hoddle may be an enigmatic combination of banality and the occult, but you’d never get that here as Woolnough appears to be at least 100 yards distanced from his subject at all times. The book is an utter waste of paper, but is only marginally less otiose than Derbyshire’s dross that clearly was composed by means of a slavish copy and paste job that harvested quotations from a dozen interviews Terry didn’t give to the author who, as if to make up for the utter lack of insight into the deeply unpleasant bar room brawler Terry still was at the time of publication in late 2005, decided to produce 250 pages of inane, hagiographic horseshit that would be better used as blotting material on a dysentery ward. There’s three hours I’ll never get back, eh?

Thankfully, I did read some very good books this month which, serendipitously, all seemed to be about broadly similar subjects. Firstly, Gavin Butt’s No Machos or Pop Stars which concerns itself with the influence of the Fine Art departments of both Leeds Poly and Leeds University on the post punk scene in that city, which gave birth to such vital, compelling and ageless bands as Gang of Four, The Mekons, Delta 5, Scritti Politti and The Three Johns, as well as giving floorspace to other less well known groups whose work and reputation has not been so well remembered. Secondly, Hungry Beat; the story of Scottish post punk from 1977 to 1984 by Douglas MacIntyre, Grant McPhee and Neil Cooper, as viewed from the perspective of initially those concerned with Fast Products in Edinburgh (hello to the Gang of Four and The Mekons again, as well as other Yorkshire based acts such as The Human League and the criminally underrated 2.3) which morphed into Pop Aural and gave us The Flowers, The Fire Engines and Boots for Dancing, then Glasgow and Alan Horne’s seminal Postcard Records, home to the enduring beauty of Orange Juice and Aztec Camera, as well as the angular majesty of Josef K, not to mention a dozen other great lost bands, such as The Jazzateers, whose long-forgotten debut disc has not been off my turntable these past few weeks. Finally, or perhaps not quite, Stuart Braithwaite’s Spaceships Over Glasgow, where the Mogwai frontman gives us a superb and sentimental journey through his hedonistic teenage years as a shoegaze and psychedelia obsessed underage boozer and enthusiastic acid head. It’s quite one of the most charming books I’ve read in years.

Taking the books in turn, I was most keen to read Butt’s account first, not realising that as a Professor of Fine Art himself (at Northumbria), the contents would be as much to do with a scholarly analysis of the Situationist International as it was about the mechanics of forming a band as a revolutionary act against the prevailing macho culture of West Yorkshire in the late 70s. As such, I felt slightly short changed by the book in its entirety, as my desires were not addressed by Butt’s methods. For my tastes, there was rather too much evaluation of the syllabus content and ideological methodologies of the two institutions degree programmes than there was reference to where The Mekons got the lyrics for 32 Weeks from. Perhaps we need another book about Yorkshire music? Indeed, do we need a book about Sheffield? If there is one about ABC, Cabaret Voltaire, Chakk, Clock DVA, Heaven 17 and the Human League, I don’t know of it.

In contrast, Hungry Beat spoke intimately, entertainingly and without any filter to the reader, as an oral history of the Scottish counter culture from 1977 onwards. Unlike Manchester, which defines its musical Year Zero as the Sex Pistols at the Lesser Free Trade Hall in July 1976, Scotland (specifically Edinburgh as punk was effectively banned from Glasgow by the Presbyterian city elders, with all progressive gigs taking place in Paisley of all places) looks to the Clash’s White Riot tour of May 1977 as the big bang moment. Wonderfully, it wasn’t the posturing English upper classes as embodied by Strummer’s throwaway lyrics that won Caledonian hearts, but the off-kilter inventiveness of the much missed Ari Up and The Slits, as well as the still revered Vic Godard and his influential, incomparable Subway Sect. From that point on, Davey Henderson with the Fire Engines (subsequently Win, Nectarine No9 and Sexual Objects) and The Scars became the cultural gauleiters changing and influencing the zeitgeist from Leith to the Royal Mile. Needless to say, those who expressed a liking for football followed Hibernian. How could it have been otherwise?

Fast Product may not have publicised and presented local musical talent in any meaningful way, but the need for a city based label that allowed all the significant heads in the scene to coalesce was taken on board when the flame of creativity went 40 miles west. Those early Postcard singles were well named The Sound of Young Scotland as, to this day, Blue Boy, Simply Thrilled Honey, Mattress of Wire, We Could Send Letters, Sorry for Laughing and Heart of Song still stir the blood in a way little other geographically specific music has ever done. Sadly, across both books, important people fade from the scene. Andy Gill’s death hangs like a veritable spectre across No Machos or Pop Stars, while the unexplained disappearance from view of Alan Horne and Paul Quinn is the undoubted elephant in Hungry Beat’s front parlour. It is, however, a splendid book and an essential reference companion to the Teenage Superstars film.

Braithwaite’s book has far less lofty aims than the other two. He just wants to tell us, breathlessly at times, how much of a blast his life has been and what great music he’s listened to, and made, on the way. The contempt with which he refers to Britpop warmed my soul on a particularly dreich day in mid-November. I must admit I listened to Ten Rapid, the compilation of Mogwai’s early singles, with a great deal more amusement and compassion in the light of information about the poverty and squalor the band were living in, as well as the amount of rotgut booze they were pouring down their necks in those days. Spaceships over Glasgow has the special skill of being able to humanise the author, as well as demystifying his creative process, which makes it essential reading. It also makes me even more excited about seeing Mogwai at Sage in February 2023. 

Another book that does exactly the same thing as Braithwaite’s is Pomona Press’s beautiful Sleeve Notes by David Gedge, whereby The Wedding Present frontman takes 15 of his songs, from My Favourite Dress to Rachel from Going Going and spills the beans on the back stories behind them. For instance, who on earth would have believed that Dalliance, one of the most autobiographical of confessions by a writer known for such punishing screeds of self-revelation, was actually about the woman having an affair with Jilly Cooper’s husband? Honestly, it knocked me for six learning that, as well as several other things from this book and an evening I spent at Gosforth Civic Theatre, watching a Q&A session with Gedge, followed by a semi-acoustic stripped back set from a slimmed-down Wedding Present, which is where I bought the Sleeve Notes book, as well as the guide to Valentina that I didn’t bother with when the album came out. It’s down to a fiver now, so I’m glad I got it; still won’t be buying the Cinema remake of the album though.

No need to panic; the music was great. Brassneck man; you know what I’m saying? Obviously, I’m a sucker for everything Gedge has done, but I am starting to get a little tired and wary of his endless pension booster tactics. I know he spent all his savings on keeping Cinerama afloat, but there’s a limit to how often you can rinse your fans without some of them occasionally feeling exploited. This 24 songs carry on for 2022 has passed me by; I’ve not bought one of the 12 singles (£10.99 each!!) and I certainly won’t be lashing out £135 for the whole lot of them in a presentation box. It’ll come out on CD eventually and I’ll get that. In the same way I never got any of the Tales from the Wedding Present graphic novels, but they can now be bought in two hardback volumes, which was what this tour was ostensibly trying to flog. I’m not a fan of comics, so I wasn’t likely to spend cash on that, not when I had the other 3 books I’ve just talked about to get. As an aside, I had intended to get You Must Get Them All by Steve Pringle, which is an appreciation of every record released by The Fall. Unfortunately, the fact it was £25 has put me off for the minute. I’ll wait until the price drops as, frankly, it isn’t going to go out of date, now, is it?

Interestingly, Gedge claimed that he can’t remember all the songs he’s written, so questioning him on specifics of an obscure b-side doesn’t necessarily mean he’ll be able to bring anything to the party. This is a shame as, while I’m elated to the point of leaping off my seat when My Favourite Dress gets an outing, I still feel a burning desire to know what Gedge thinks about a song like Maniac in retrospect? Here’s the lyrics, with the added information that the first verse is spoken by a female -:

I did get your message

I just can’t believe you’re doing this

What is wrong with you?

I told you, it’s over, I am not coming back

More importantly, I just don’t love you any more

Can’t you get that into your head?

 

And when I made that stupid oath

About how I was going to

Pay for someone to kill you both

It was just my way of showing you

That I wasn’t playing

Oh yeah, you’re right, I sounded like a maniac

But that’s just what I am saying

You’ll only see how much I’ve changed, if you come back...

Hmmm…

Elsewhere musically, I finally managed to plug the gaps in my Godspeed You! Black Emperor collection by availing myself of Music Magpie pre-loved copies of Lift Your Skinny Fists Like Antennas to Heaven, which lives up to its reputation of being one of the very finest post rock albums of all time and replaces the worn and stretched C90 copy I’ve been using these past couple of decades, as well as the curiously underwhelming, if not to say tame, Yanqui UXO. Despite the iconic cover art, the presence of Steve Albini at the controls and, in the shape of Rockets Fall on Rocket Falls, the best title in the history of humanity, the record as a whole fails to ignite. Still, at least I’ve got a copy of it at last.

I’ve also finally got a copy of Umami Music by my erstwhile musical collaborator Chris Bartholomew, who I also had the pleasure of seeing live at The Globe the other week. Partly because I find it invidious and indeed impossible to adequately critically assess Chris’s work, I won’t mention him further here, though I do discuss him at some length in an article, 2022; The Golden Age of Rock & Roll that will appear in TQ 58 early in 2023 and also, subsequently, on this blog. Be patient please everyone; my words will be worth it, honestly.

The final musical item I’ve purchased of late is Burd Ellen’s outstanding A Tarot of the Green Wood. In these awful times, there is nothing more enjoyable that to lose yourself in both a book and the beguiling, but almost frightening aural netherworld inhabited and delineated by the eldritch drones of the folk avant garde, which is where Debbie Armour and Gayle Brogan take us. An album of traditional witchcraft balladry, with the compulsory Alasdair Roberts track amongst it all, A Tarot of the Green Wood begins with the unrestrained jollity of The Fool, before taking a far darker journey, presumably on the say so of tumbling cards. En route, we come across my former pupil and underground homme terrible Mark Wardlaw as well as the demonic piping of Eoghan Ó Ceannabháin, as Burd Ellen combine the sweet melodies and sclerotic memories of a world too dystopian to be fake but too disturbing to be real. Undoubtedly, this is the best album of 2022 that doesn’t feature Alex Neilson.

 

 

Shachtman Denver Overdrive

 This World Cup is going to spoil one of potentially the best season's ever for NUFC...

It was just before the Manchester United game when I last blogged about Newcastle United. At that point, the season had seen a steady start, but nothing out of the ordinary, with some of the usual hysterical gripes on social media exploding from the great unwashed, such as the clown in the Peaky Blinders cap bellyaching that we were in a relegation dogfight after the Bournemouth draw. So, how’s that working out for you fella? Perhaps you were the one in The Gosforth Hotel at the start of the Chelsea game, also keeping the Birmingham millinery manufacturers in work, claiming we’d get beat with Woods and Willock in the team. Well said that lad…

Looking back now, in something of a sulk that the unwelcome distraction of the World Cup will stay our stellar progress, the most amazing thing about the Manchester United game is that it wasn’t on the telly, which is probably why it felt like such a low profile affair. No I don’t do fire sticks or any of that palaver, so I only got to see the highlights on Match of the Day 2. Should have won it in the first half; could have lost it after the break, so I suppose a draw was a reasonable result in the circumstances, though I do think we’d have had more of a go at them with the benefit of 6 weeks of hindsight after the way we’ve played since that point. The biggest shame back then was news of Isak’s injury, which I guess just proves football is a wicked game. Predictably ASM found some kind of injury to duck out of things and make his reputation grow by not actually playing. I’m becoming less and less convinced he is essential to the squad moving forward.

And so on to the Everton game, where the big pixels of Amazon Prime made the television coverage look like a tribute to the Blockbusters pieces that Bob Holness used to concern himself with, when not performing saxophone solos for Gerry Rafferty (yes, I do know…). What was still abundantly clear is that Newcastle were the best team by far and Everton, under the less than expert tutelage of Lampard minor, have not progressed a scintilla since El Fraudo was given the shove. Almiron scored a blinder, and we could, and should, have had a few more, but it didn’t matter too much in the end as Everton were so pedestrian, they didn’t threaten our goal in any meaningful manner throughout the entire game. It was an efficient victory with the added bonus of another clean sheet as we continue to demonstrate that the current Newcastle defence is almost unrecognisable from the shambles under Algarve Bruce.

If the Fulham and Brentford games had an air of unreality about them, on account of the crushing margins of victory in both, then that particular sensation was redoubled during the next pair of fixtures. The manner in which Newcastle crushed Aston Villa was redolent of the 5-1 scudding handed out to them when Andy Cole notched his 40^th of the season back in 1993/1994. Sometimes it can actually amaze you just how good a team we’ve become. The fact Villa had won well themselves the week before, having freed themselves of the shackles of Gerrard’s incompetence, was not a threat, more of an utter irrelevance. Courtesy of that stumbling carthorse Mings rendering his own keeper senseless and pensioner Ashley Young (ironic name alert) displaying the reactions of a tired Argentinosaurus when the ball was fired towards his arms, we got the first goal from the spot, which put us ahead at the break and allowed us to crush them underfoot in the second period. It could, and should, have been 6 as Wilson and Murphy both cracked the woodwork late on.

As for Southampton, having endured Hassenhuttl’s bellyaching after Wood and Bruno did for his side last year, it was even better to see them both on the scoresheet again as we obliterated his mob, despite not passing the ball that well. What we did was score a clutch of sublime goals, with the side netting feeling the caresses of our footwork on every occasion. Probably the most telling moment was Botman’s frustration as they pulled one back on 89 minutes; with an attitude like that, no wonder we’ve got the best defensive record in the league. Incidentally, Sean Longstaff was incredible; his indefatigable stamina showing the fruits of all those summers spent haring round the back field at Tynemouth Cricket Club, with his dad Davy shouting the odds from a prone position. Let’s hope young Matty reaps the benefits soon, as there’s not one true NUFC fan doesn’t love the bones of the pair of them.

When Palace rolled into town for the League Cup tie, it was great to finally get to a game. Courtesy of my mate John’s membership, he sorted out brilliant tickets in the Leazes North East Corner, which must be one of the most civilised parts of the ground to spectate from, for him, me and my Ben. This is a 70 year old bloke coming over from county Kildare for a midweek game you do realise. That’s what I call dedication. We had a superb pizza before the game in Pinocchio’s as well as the usual brilliant pints in The Bodega. It was just a shame we had to endure 90 minutes of football that teetered between tepid and terrible. I liked our initial team selection, but both Shelvey and ASM were still miles off the pace and turned in woeful displays over the 90. I liked Howe’s substitutions even more, but the crucial breakthrough just would not come and so we had the lottery of penalties. The least said about Bruno’s effort the better, but you have to say that Pope earned his money that night. When he came in the summer, I wasn’t convinced we needed another keeper, but he has demonstrated he’s a clear step up on Dubravka. The reward of a home tie against Bournemouth next time out is one I appreciate. I’ll definitely be at that pre-Christmas treat.

And so, the Chelsea game. Again, what can you say? They were absolutely horrific, and we ought to have smashed them out of sight. I’m still scratching my head at why we didn’t get a penalty when Chalobah almost took the laces out the ball, but it simply didn’t matter in the end, despite Kai Havertz’s toddler tantrum, as Willock scored as good a goal as any of Miggy’s recent superstar strikes. Almost incredibly, but totally deservedly, we head into this strange pause with 30 points from 15 games, having tasted defeat only once and that being in August. Without question, these players are responding to some superb coaching and man management; whether they’ve been here for several seasons and been able to shake off their post Algarve Bruce torpor, or if they’ve arrived in the last 12 months and have grasped the nettle in turn the club around, they are giving Eddie Howe at least 110% if not more. Howe himself has proved all doubters wrong, in terms of his coaching and his demeanour. It’s a while since we last had a manager I respected, probably Chris Hughton if I’m honest, but here is a man whose words I hang on. Except when he is unnecessarily forced into a corner by mendacious members of the Fourth Estate asking vindictive closed questions about Saudi Arabia. That we can all do without.

Ah Saudi Arabia; the investment by PIF. At some point, the elephant in the room had to be addressed. I’m guessing that probably 10% of our active support have some kind of moral dilemma about being owned by bloodthirsty, theocratic despots. However, most of them can sleep soundly in the knowledge of this. Being generous, I’d imagine only 1% of those have walked away from the club and then, they’ve done it without making a fuss for the most part because, being honest, as a single person you’re never going to right the wrongs of such investment, much less turn Saudi Arabia into a modern, democratic state.

Indeed, the only visible protest group who are voluble in their opposition to Saudi investment are the Denver Humbert group, NUFC Fans Against Saudi Sportswashing. The irony was, they had a silent protest before the Chelsea game; all 8 of them. Now the self-elected theoretician at the head of this miniature vanguard of the non-working class is my cousin, John Hird. He’s 61 and has been a resident of Euskal Herria since 1992. There’s still a season ticket in his family, used by his elderly mother I believe, but Denver Humbert himself doesn’t go. We come from a large, fractured, extended family and I do not have any contact with him or any of his relatives; a situation that will not change any time soon. However, I will say this; I feel it beholden of me to correct the endless inaccuracies on social media, about his biographical details and motives for doing this. Don’t get me wrong; I’ve made enough embarrassing errors on social media to last a lifetime, so I really hope he stops his protests sometime soon as, to be perfectly frank, his motives are far from praiseworthy.

Denver wasted most of his adult life as an obedient errand boy for Vanguardist megalomaniac Peter Taaffe in the discredited Trotskyite cult, Militant and whatever daft reformist scion they evolved into subsequently. He doesn’t really want to save Newcastle United, although there is more than a whiff of the Shachtmanite Steve Wraith about Denver. What he really wants to do, with his tiny band of pals, is to make unrealistic “transitional demands” to help foment class warfare. He actually needs to seek medical attention as he’s 61 in a fortnight. I know this protest group will peter out into nothing, like all of his other efforts over the last 40 years; I just wish he could have the self-awareness to see this and then, from the comfort of his Vitoria-Gasteiz bolthole, enjoy the NUFC ride, giving critical support all the way.

As I Was Walking down the Newsham Road

 Blyth Rangers 3 Heddon United 1,,,

Blyth Rangers FC were formed in 2000, which makes them a dozen years older than the famous Glasgow side with the same suffix who have just registered the worst ever performance in the Champions’ League group stage. Even this ignominious “achievement” is beyond the modest horizons of Blyth Rangers, who are beginning their first season in the Northern Alliance Third Division. In the past, there have been a couple of teams with Isabella in their name who have used the facility Rangers are operating from. Indeed, their opponents Heddon, or teams from the same locale, have previously participated at all levels of the Alliance; most noticeably Heddon Institute. However, the current Heddon side no longer playing in their home village, opting instead to operate from Walbottle Campus sport complex, also how to Benwell and Walbottle Cricket Club where I took a lifetime best 4-16 (all bowled) a couple of seasons back. Just thought I’d mention that.

Unlike my last trip to a new Alliance ground on the bus, Go North East proved themselves to be miles better than Arriva, sending a 309 on time in each direction. From New York, I took the 12.50 to Blyth, alighting at the Broadway about half an hour later. Being honest, I’m not a fan of Blyth as a place, certainly the centre, but all I saw today, on the A193 coming into town, was the usual sporting highlights; Blyth rugby club, Blyth cricket club and then Croft Park, which was my cue to ring the bell. Heading up Princess Charlotte Avenue, I crossed over by the Sport Centre and took a tour down a cycle path, adorned with tremendously illiterate graffiti, before emerging on to the main drag opposite Isabella Pavilion.

Whatever reason Blyth have for using the Rangers suffix, it wasn’t an indication they’d be in the same sort of kit. Indeed, Heddon were in blue shirts, though Blyth opted for orange it should be noted. The pitch was huge and, in the first half at least, used in contrasting ways by the two sides. While Heddon played an intricate short passing game that was easy on the eye, but ultimately fruitless in terms of putting the opposition under pressure, Blyth sought to play in a more direct, fast paced way, though their attempts at forcing the issue were to come up short because of overexcitement before the final ball. Ironically, the closest to a goal in the opening half hour was a Heddon defender wildly miskicking an attempted clearance on the volley and hitting the outside of his own post from fully 25 yards. Then, out of nowhere, Heddon took a lead that they kept until the break when a shot from the edge of the area took a huge deflection, completely wrongfooting the keeper and dribbling apologetically over the line via the post.

At that point, neither side could really say they deserved the lead, but Blyth were resurgent in the second period. As the pitch cut up and legs became heavier, play became less composed from both sides, though Blyth’s all-action approach game them renewed hope. It was no surprise when they equalised from the spot after 65 minutes, though the heavy challenge on a player miles away from goal was totally unnecessary. From that point, Heddon were a beaten side; the spirit went out of them as wave after wave of Blyth pressure saw the Rangers turn the screw. Despite a pair of blinding saves from the Heddon keeper, a Blyth winner was inevitable. On 78 minutes it came after a swift exchange of passes and a thumping finish. Straight from the kick off, Blyth came forward again and made it 3-1 after a pinpoint cross was artfully touched home at the back post. In short, you couldn’t argue with the result on the balance of play after the interval.

After the whistle, I headed back for the 309, eschewing the potential pleasures of firstly the second period of Spartans v Telford (3-0) and then the closing stages of Whitley Bay v Thornaby (3-0), getting home to celebrate news of Percy Main’s wonderful 3-1 win away to Killingworth in the Benevolent Bowl.

Dead on Arriva....

 How public transport nearly ruined my trip to Burradon & New Fordley v Seaton Delaval Amateurs....

With Percy Main somewhat inactive, having unaccountably been left with a blank weekend, despite the fact that Whitley Bay A were similarly free and have still to come to Purvis Park, I decided to make another tick in my ongoing attempts to recomplete my Northern Alliance set, on a sunny day that perhaps offered me my last chance to wear shorts to a game in 2022. As has regularly been alluded to, the rapid turnover of clubs and moving of grounds by others means completing the Alliance is a task somewhat akin to a sporting version of painting the Sistine Chapel’s ceiling with a toothbrush. On Saturday morning I was left with 3 grounds still to visit; Blyth Rangers at the Isabella Pavilion, Burradon and New Fordley at Burradon Welfare and, according to information only recently communicated to me, Hexham at Queen Elizabeth High School in the town. Predictably, the first and last of those mentioned were away and so Burradon versus Seaton Delaval Amateurs in the Challenge Cup was to be my destination. No doubt I’ll make the trip up to Burradon again with Percy Main later in the season for a league game, which will then be the third ground I’ve seen that fixture on, after Fordley Welfare and Action Park, as recently as last Easter Monday evening.

One benefit of visiting Fordley was the supposed ease of travel, when contrasted with both Blyth and Hexham; Arriva’s 52 could pick me from Four Lane Ends if I was coming from mine, or the 53 would collect me opposite New York Club if I decided to travel from Shelley’s, which is what I opted for in the end. Arriving at the designated stop in plenty of time for the 12.50 bus that would drop me directly opposite the ground at 13.30, I began a wait that predictably turned into a vigil. I realise that national politics are in vogue right now, but at a local level Newcastle Central MP Chi Onwurah is currently engaged in a series of fact-finding meetings with the top brass at Arriva, Go North East and Stagecoach to discover quite why bus services on North Tyneside are so dismally incompetent. This may be a fond task, as the services have been shocking throughout my adult life. Stood seething on Brookland Terrace, I composed many an email in my head before finally boarding the late running 13.20 service at 13.31. The 12.50 service did not operate. There was no explanation for this on social media or recognition of the fact on the Arriva website. Inquiring for a reason from the driver, I was given an insolent shrug by way of response.

Once the large knot of pensioners that comprised the vast majority of passengers on board had disembarked at Boundary Mills, the bus steadily made-up time, presumably on account of the fact that only Northern Alliance addicts or those with a strong love for Killingworth, Cramlington and environs would be likely to use this service, explaining why there were only 3 of us, excluding the driver, on board after Great Lime Road. The ground, beside Burradon Primary School, was adjacent to the bus stop, and game noises told me I’d missed kick off. Not to worry, the sounds guided me home, and I took up my place, arms resting on the permanent pitch barrier, just in time to see Delaval take the lead when a loose ball from a corner kick was swept home from inside the six-yard box. There seems to be a theme, unlike in previous years when North Shields Athletic and Cullercoats perennially struggled to avoid the drop, that whichever side falls to the bottom of the table then engages in a Lazarus-style renaissance, pulling steadily away to safety. We’ve already seen Winlaton hold us to a thrilling draw at Purvis Park, and now the other Amateurs are seemingly reinvigorated, coming into this one on the back of a 6-1 victory over Newcastle Independent.

Their opponents Burradon are a feisty set of battlers, and they came back strongly from this setback, though their equaliser on the half hour did have something of the unexpected about it. Again, a corner was not cleared properly, only this time it was a home player who swept the loose ball home. However, parity was not restored for long, as Delaval retook the lead with what turned out to be the winning goal and a fine strike it was too. A central free kick from pushing 30 yards was clipped serenely into the top corner with the Burradon keeper left vainly grasping at thin air. In all honesty, it was a fair score line at the break and a lovely piece of skill to bring us to that point.

Surprisingly, the second half produced no further goals, though not for a want of trying. In fact, a brace of well marshalled defences at either end of the pitch were profoundly on top in the contest and actually chances were thin on the ground, though the game remained compelling throughout. Despite oath-edged talk in the heat of battle, the final whistle saw good natured handshakes exchanged, just as it should be. It’s a basic facility at Burradon in terms of playing facilities, but the developments off the pitch look to be paying dividends. Sadly, I was unable to locate coffee anywhere and so took the amazingly punctual bus home with my thirst unslaked. For those who are interested in such things, the return journey took as long as Burnley did to score 4 unanswered goals on Wearside, which kept me happy and amused until I arrived home.

So, that’s another one ticked off, leaving only 2 grounds to go…

 

Ha Bloody Ha

 Humour, music and literature; a mid autumnal cultural blog....

COMEDY:

 

On Saturday October 15^th, Shelley and I had a good day out. First up, we braved wind and unseasonal hail showers to watch Percy Main win 2-1 away to Ponteland, in the company of pals John (over from county Kildare for the afternoon; I do not jest), Graham and, briefly, Phil. Following a helpful lift from Graham and a Metro into town, we enjoyed some absolutely blinding Indian street food from My Delhi on Clayton Street. Five stunning small plates and assorted dips and breads for £40, but make sure you book on a weekend, as we were exceptionally lucky to walk in and get a seat. From there, a quick beer in the Alpha Delta lounge and then on to the main part of the day; a trip to The Stand Comedy Club.

I’m really not sure why, but I’ve hardly ever seen live comedy. I really can’t believe I’ve never seen Stewart Lee live, but there you go. Hence, when Shelley expressed an interest in having a laugh on a night out, I readily concurred. Searching through the listings, I was delighted to see Dave Johns, of I Daniel Blake fame, headlining on this particular day. Tickets were bought instantly: mind, I have to say though, at £20 a pop for something that lasted for just over 90 minutes, it isn’t a cheap night out.

As regular readers know, I’m an ever expanding ball of neuroses and phobias, with a fear of crowds that gets worse by the year. The fact that The Stand is a subterranean cavern that was almost sold out on this occasion didn’t do my anxiety much good, but in the absence of a ready supply of Propranolol, I girded my loins, took plenty of liquids on board and grounded myself by taking my shoes and socks off. This relaxed both Shelley and I, allowing us to enjoy an excellent evening’s entertainment.

The Stand is a pretty regimented sort of place. They don’t allow big groups of lads, ban photography and seriously discourage heckling. Perhaps because of this, I didn’t make enough notes, so missed out on the names of the very funny compere, who lives in South Shields but comes from Jarrow (“I’ve moved up in the world to place with only 26% unemployment) or the two supporting acts; a woman from Kenton who riffed on her anxieties about having a posh boyfriend and a bloke from Manchester who was the epitome of a head-on collision between eccentricity and eclecticism. He steered just the right side of being blatantly offensive. As you’d expected, Dave Johns was great; bearded, bespectacled and sporting a woolly hat, he certainly wasn’t relying on his looks for laughter. I laughed out loud, almost continuously, at a seemingly random unconnected series of random observations that all hung together admirably. In short, a fab night out, though I don’t think I started breathing properly until I escaped the depths and stood sucking in lungfuls of High Bridge air.

MUSIC:

The main event that held my attention in the period since I last wrote about music was the long-delayed Godspeed You! Black Emperor gig at Glasgow Barras in the middle of September. Thanks to Dave, who did the driving, and Ben for being brilliant companions: in Mono for drinks and food as well as on the road and in the gig; not long until David Gedge in Gosforth eh? Unquestionably, this latest exposure to GY!BE was an incredible evening, as the venue’s decadent grandeur and ageing environs added to the atmosphere of surreal, anarchic degeneration, found in both the music and the visuals. As on every occasion I’ve seen the impossibly brilliant Quebecois post-rock nonet, the reassuring hum of Hope Drone hinted at the arrival of the wordless perfection ahead. There are no words with Godspeed You! Black Emperor because none are necessary to paint portraits in the air. I’d bought Slow Riot for New Zero Kanada from the merch stall in advance on the gig, having learned that neither Moya nor BBF3, the two stunning pieces contained therein, would be performed this time. I’ve really no idea how I’d not got round to purchasing this before. Instead, we had most of God’s Pee at State’s End, as well as a blistering Bosses Hang from Luciferian Towers and a deafeningly intense The Sad Mafioso to close proceedings. This was as immersive a gig as you could wish for: a sonic baptism in a magic, psychedelic river of ecstatic joy and unending pain. Godspeed You! Black Emperor make almost every other kind of music utterly superfluous.

Recently, I’ve done my best to support local venues and local acts as well, with some mixed results I must admit. The first Friday in September saw me at the Anarchy Brewery on Benfield Road, near Walkergate Metro with my pals Paul and Ale. Top of the bill were Leeds band Beige Palace, who apparently supported Shellac three years back, though I have no recollection of that happening. Instead, we were really there for a couple of local bands, tangentially part of the No Audience Underground scene. This seemed to be at variance with the other acts listed as forthcoming attractions at Anarchy. Aside from the usual Oasis tribute acts, there was a band dedicated to celebrating the work of Tony Hawkes, called The 900. Now I was at a complete loss why anyone would name their band after the Metro replacement bus and sing paeans to the bloke who wrote Travels Round Ireland with a Fridge and Playing the Moldovans at Tennis. However, unbeknownst to me, it seems there is another Tony Hawks, who is an adult skateboarder and the 900 is his signature move. Well, you live and learn, eh?

First up on the night were the excellent Lump Hammer, whose singer is part of Mobius. This was a very different kind of music and almost exactly what you’d expect from a band called Lump Hammer: brutal, destructive, visceral noise. They reminded me of Earth, and I enjoyed them tremendously. The other member of Mobius was the drummer in Penance Stare: a female duo who reincarnated the sound of 1979 with some aplomb. Close your eyes and it could have been John McGeoch on guitar. I sincerely hope to see both bands again. Sadly, we didn’t hang around for Beige Palace, whose interminable sound check melted any enthusiasm we had for them.

The last Monday in September saw Shelley and I down at The Engine Rooms on the Fish Quay, to see Jim McCulloch and his Snowgoose project, with stunning vocalist Anna Shear. Both of their albums, Harmony Springs and The Making of You (the latter of which I purchased on the night), feature the likes of Raymond McGinley and Dave McGowan as guest musicians, showing that we’re geographically and spiritually on Byers Road even when they tour as a duo. Anna’s voice is comparable to, in terms of sound and quality, the likes of Lavinia Blackwall and Jill O’Sullivan. I can give no higher praise than that. It was an excellent, compelling evening of intelligent pop folk, with glorious musicianship and stunning vocals. I’ve very glad I now have both albums in my possession and can recommend then to you without hesitation. They are the kind of sounds I love.

 

I’m not really sure anyone can love 4’33” by John Cage, but that period of silence gained a round of applause when Adam Johnson (no, not that one) “performed” it during a Friday lunchtime recital at the Lit and Phil as part of the Newcastle Festival of Jazz and Improvised Music (NFJIM) on the last day of September. I’d taken a half day holiday to see this, my only experience of NFJIM ever, as Johnson, blessed with enormous feet and attired in a Geisha style dressing gown, was performing excerpts from Cage’s Sonatas and Interludes for Prepared Piano. If I’m honest, I wasn’t sure what to expect, but hoped that it would be something a bit silly. It certainly wasn’t. It was piano turned into a percussion instrument, or even a set of gongs and bells, that would have been ideal as part of a gamelan orchestra and Johnson, who explained it took well over 2 hours to set up a prepared piano and has been playing this piece for over 15 years, gave an effortless, virtuoso performance that left this classical music neophyte stunned by the breadth of time sequences and impact of tonality on the audience. I thoroughly enjoyed this and would in the future to hear someone perform pieces by Cornelius Cardew, another of my modern classical heroes.

Finally, the No Audience Underground took a trip to the seaside on Friday 14^th October, when Bound Books in Whitley Bay hosted a brace of duos. Firstly, Posset and Chlorine performed as Molar Crime and superb it was too. The live drumming added a compelling urgency and sense of reality to Joe’s Dictaphone tape skronk, taking it from the realms of somnolent fantasy to a hard hitting slab of the everyday life we tend to avoid. A proper collision of distinct methods produced something memorable. Top of the bill Culver and Rovalesca were more of a hand in glove pairing; a pair of synth drone manipulators taking us on a journey through euphoria to dissonance courtesy of swathes of bestial aural scree. A great night, with loads of people I knew coming out for it. I like this noise. I like this ambience. I want to be more involved in it.

BOOKS:

If I wanted to make a football analogy about the autumn’s big Scottish literary clash, I’d probably say something like a startlingly inventive Aidrie comprehensively outplayed a complacent, lacklustre Hibs, which is another way of saying David Keenan’s superb Industry of Magic and Light, the loose prequel to This is Memorial Device, is a far better read than Irvine Welsh’s formulaic The Long Knives, the latest unrealistic dysfunctional polis procedural to feature Ray Lennox, the sidekick from Filth who got his own vehicle in Crime. A key to the supposed worth of this latest Welsh tome is his injudicious comments in interviews that The Long Knives is a kind of necessary plot device linking Crime to next year’s concluding Lennox novel. In other words, I’ve lashed out £18 and ploughed through 400 pages just so a Lothian cop can hand in his notice and move south. 

We get all the usual Welsh tropes here; the kind of racist and sexist bullshit his baddies have spouted by the yard for a quarter of a century, as well as dollops of sectarian football attitudes, though I am on his side when he insists that true evil is to be found among the environs of Tynecastle. His unhealthy obsession with anal sex is a persistent stain on the narrative, which features the usual battery of seedy characters from earlier works, as well as equal numbers of cartoon wrong’uns and unidimensional goodies appearing for the first, and sometimes last, time in his fiction. It isn’t a bad read, but it isn’t a great book. Then again, has he written anything memorable since Glue or, at a push, Skagboys?

Unlike Welsh, David Keenan never stays in his comfort zone, as has been demonstrated by the massive, eclectic jumps in subject matter from This is Memorial Device, to For the Good Times, Xstabeth and, most challenging of all, Monument Maker; 400 pages down with 350 still to go, it sits stubbornly on my bedside cabinet as the foundation stone of my yet-to-read pile. Thankfully, partly because of a return to the familiar territory of bleakest Lanarkshire and partly because of a return to narrative-based fiction, rather than recondite theosophical musings that have oft left me cold, I was able to race through this one in double quick time. I love the idea of Airdrie being a kind of low-rent Haight Astbury mixed with Greenwich Village, where Avant Garde creativity, hallucinogenic drugs and a strong seam of counter culture sensibility make the place a vital, if hidden, jewel in Scotland’s alternate history. When he’s on form, Keenan makes you believe the world he describes is real and not created. You devour the pages, looking for clues and explanations for madcap events from equally mad unreliable narrators trying to recall incidents half a century ago through the refracted lens of a drug-addled and broken memory. I love it.

Perhaps the only work I’ve read recently that is of equal merit as Keenan’s, is the impossibly talented Jim Gibson’s stunning debut collection, The Bygones. Having known Jim for a decade as an editor of and contributor to publications such as Hand Job and Low Life, as well as having the honour of publishing him in glove, I have long seen him as an especial, eccentric talent. Writing from a geographically precise blasted heath somewhere in the ex-minefields of the East Midlands, Jim does enough to assuage that area of the guilt of their conduct in the 1984 strike and the subsequent formation of the home for scabrous scabs, the UDM, by showing us the place is possessed; mad, deranged, bleeding with the running sores of evil that disfigure the landscape. The Bygones, from its disturbingly beautiful front cover onwards, tells tales of ordinary madness. Poverty, drink, drugs, mental and physical ill-health, bad housing and endless, grinding poverty are the touchstones of the madness in Jim’s area. In short, The Bygones comprises a stunning set of nightmarish slices of grim, gruesome reality that read like a terrifying docudrama about a real life dystopia. The stories hit home because of the credible and crushing mundanity depicted on every page. This is absolutely outstanding work. I can't recommend it highly enough.

Elsewhere, I quite enjoyed The Persistence of Memory by Martin Cooper, who I’ve met a couple of times through cricket. The book was given to me by our mutual friend Di Brown and it tells a compelling and credible love story of outsiders in Newcastle, from Germany and London, finding romance to replace the tragic emptiness in their souls. Set from 2005 general election day until the 7^th of July bombings at Kings Cross and Tavistock Square, a seemingly improbable narrative is held together by excellent depiction of characters. I read on because I cared. Martin should be proud of this work, and I wish it was more readily available so more people could appreciate how much he has put into the book.

Finally, another one of my Lit & Phil bargain books was Sally Belfrage’s unintentionally nostalgic The Crack: A Belfast Year. The fact this year was 1985 to 1986, which was my final year as an undergraduate in County Derry, makes it all the more compelling for me as my idetic memory means I remembered all the salient details. Like most people of sound mind, Sally arrived in the Six Counties with an open mind, met people from both communities and left a raging Republican. I can fully understand where she was coming from. Of course, it is hopelessly out of date following the events of the intervening period, but a superbly written vignette of yet another shameful period under Thatcher’s police state.

There are a few music books to read before we’re next here: Gavin Butt’s history of the Leeds post-punk agitprop scene, No Machos or Pop Stars, Steve Pringle’s guide to every Fall album, You Must Get Them All, as well as a couple of trips north of the border in the shape of Stuart Braithwaite’s autobiographical account of Mogwai’s life and times, Spaceships over Glasgow as well as Douglas McIntyre and Grant McPhee’s encyclopaedia of Scottish punk and post punk, Hungry Beat. I can’t wait to get dug in to that lot. I might even finish Monument Maker while I’m at it…

Denver Humbert

In advance of the Man Utd game, everything seems rather rosy in the NUFC garden, other than certain elements of the support of course. Here's a look back at the season so far -:

So far this season, I’ve not publicly spoken to the subject of Newcastle United, until now. Of course, there have been clear opportunities to do so, such as during the oddly timed international break at the back end of September or, more properly, throughout the sickening, obsequious self-inflicted period of ostentatious mourning following the death of Elizabeth Windsor. Don’t get me started on that craven example of administrative cowardice, when the whole game came to a grinding halt because of fears of a prospective media backlash, in response to the presumed conduct of one set of fans. You know, I know, everyone knows that it was fear of “football’s shame” style headlines as a result of what Celtic fans might have said or done, that caused the authorities to call all competition to a halt. Not that this had any kind of a tempering effect on the mischievous chanting of the Green Brigade at the St Mirren game when football finally restarted. As can be seen from not just the faint hearted forelock-tugging of the FA and SFA, but from so many aspects of public life, free speech is no longer a legal or constitutional right in Britain, as the law is interpreted by the forces of state repression; any deviation from the authoritarian populist line, whether it be poppy fascism or a potential disinclination to show servile deference to the established order, results in hysterical condemnation and probable legal consequences, on the grounds of a lack of respect for those who have spent the entire modern era treating us with contempt. It makes me puke I can tell you.

Anyway, conditions determine consciousness and recent events have compelled me to analyse the unfolding of the current campaign. This isn’t necessarily as a result of the first anniversary of the Saudi Arabian state takeover of a hitherto largely insignificant and deeply unsuccessful regional football club, nor is it on account of the last couple of superb results and, to an extent, performances. No, it is the further expansion of Algarve Broooooth’s savings account, following his jettisoning from The Hawthorns, having transformed the Baggies from promotion certainties to relegation fodder in just under 9 months, which is great work even for him. Not only will he be able to watch the football World Cup from the comfort of his sofa, John Smith’s and Melton Mowbray comfort foods at his elbow, he could jet off down under for the T20 World Cup, bringing back glorious memories of previous touring sides from the past that included such athletes as later period Botham and the Rubenesque off spinner Eddie Hemmings.

Revenons a nos moutons!! Undoubtedly, things are looking up for the fella who got Bournemouth relegated, though there’s a couple of testing away games to come, not to mention home contests with the ever detestable Scouse Mackems and Aston Vile to think about, so it may be politic to survey just how much distance we’ve travelled since things kicked off against Forest at the start of August, bearing in mind that of the 10 league and cup games Newcastle United have played so far, 4 have been shown live on television, though I only managed to catch 2 of those; home to City and away to Wolves. During the Forest game, I was playing cricket and only learned of Newcastle’s comprehensive win once we’d exchanged handshakes with the victors (no further comment needed). Catching the highlights later that night after Sea Power live at Cullercoats Crescent Club, it became clear why there were so many jolly, lubricated middle aged men in replica shirts stumbling around. Newcastle had cruised to victory, with a pair of stunning goals from Wilson and Schar. It’s always nice to start the season with an emphatic win.

I still haven’t seen a second of highlights from the 0-0 away to Brighton, on account of the fact Shelley and I were sunning ourselves on the terraces of Somerset Park, watching Ayr United draw 2-2 with Hamilton Accies that day. By all accounts, Pope was the main reason we escaped with a draw, proving the sense in buying an international class keeper (except when he’s playing international football that is). I mean, Dubravka was an excellent keeper, who is the best we’ve had since Shay Given, but a couple of injuries have seen him lose his sharpness and so it seemed sensible to trade up when the opportunity arose. I’m glad we sold Woodman, who never convinced, and I’m sure Darlow will be the next one to leave, unless Bedlington Terriers or someone come in for Gillespie.

I watched the City match on telly and, well, what came you say? It was a blinding game of football, with both sides producing cracking football from the off. At 3-1, I still didn’t believe we’d hold out, but I was so proud of our lot for having the best team in the world rocking back on their heels and then holding on for a point when the roared back at us. It was the kind of performance we used to see back in the day under Keegan and Sir Bobby. The fact Howe has managed to compile a team of signings augmented with previously underachieving and dispirited players who’d been ruined by Algarve Brooooth, pays enormous tribute to our boss and his squad of coaches. Just look at what Joelinton has become; he is the best example of what proper motivation and astute tactics can bring you.

The Carabao Cup isn’t the biggest draw in the world, so I had no hesitation in focussing my attention on Percy Main against Newbiggin on the same night. What a good choice that was, as the Main scored twice in the last 8 minutes to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat. Walking back to Shelley’s at full time, I followed the Newcastle game on my phone, seeing the predictable hysteria on social media at going a goal down that means I often factor out NUFC Twitter for the sake of my mental health. In the end, it all came good and a home draw against Palace isn’t a bad draw (well, not compared to the home draw with Palace that is coming up in a bit).

The Wolves game was the other fixture I’ve managed to see in full. Taking advantage of both the August Bank Holiday weekend and the newly reopened Lochside, Shelley went out for a few beers and to catch the game. Now I’ll admit that a busy pub and no commentary makes it tough to process events on the pitch, but I thought we did alright. Alright there were the usual grumbles about our lack of a cutting edge with Wood up top in place of the injured Wilson and Bruno also missing out, but the place was utter bedlam when ASM lashed home the equaliser. If it wasn’t for Almiron’s strike against Fulham, I’d suggest we saw Goal of the Season that day. In the end, several pints and a solid point was a good return for an afternoon out. It would have been even better if Anderson’s late effort had gone in instead of hitting the bar, but let’s not be greedy.

It's interesting to note that if Liverpool hadn’t grabbed their scruffy late winner, they’d be (at the time of writing) in 16^th place. However, and I say this through gritted teeth, we brought defeat on ourselves with some terrible timewasting, though it still feels appalling to take nothing from the game where Isak’s brilliant debut strike put us completely in control. We all know about the tight margins of VAR calls and, having benefitted from one against Wolves for a foul on Fraser, it went against us in this game with a margin so tight it is impossible to call it factual. Of course, if you thought that was bad, the goal we had disallowed against Palace on the Saturday following was one of the worst calls of the entire season. However, we can’t allow our front players to escape criticism that day; their succession of missed chances resulted in 2 points thrown away in a game we should have won at a canter. Whoever was to blame, the net result was a place in the bottom half of the table, which certainly didn’t reflect the quality of our play so far in the season. Unfortunately, it can be quite an ugly game at times.

And, suddenly, everything stopped for the most specious of reasons. A 96 year old woman died of natural causes and football sought to disport itself over her corpse and coffin in the most ostentatious of fashions, resulting in the West Ham game being postponed and forcing me to seek solace in Percy Park against Penrith. I don’t like rugby union, but I like royalty even less and so it was any port on a day too stormy for cricket. Incidentally, back in 1952 when George V died on February 6^th, a full programme of games was played on February 9^th; we drew 1-1 at Craven Cottage that day. So much for the meritocracy, eh? The British Royal Family: ruining sporting weekends since the Parisian hit in September 1997.

Anyway, once the whole circus restarted, Newcastle were blessed with a trio of seemingly easy games, involving the visits of Bournemouth and Brentford, as well as a trip to Fulham, that would no doubt have had members of the Bender Squad, Gremlins and NME feeling their pulses racing at the thought. Unfortunately, all the first game produced was the first murmurings of discontent of 2022/2023. Now, nobody can pretend that it was either a good result or an impressive performance against Bournemouth. Truly, the best part of the game was Isak’s magnificently placed penalty, but the injury list that saw ASM, Bruno and Wilson in the treatment room was explanation enough for the less than perfect result. However, such rational thinking was not enough to subdue the bellyaching of immature hotheads who slunk away from the ground screaming about the imminent relegation battle that the coming months would bring us. You know, at times, I think football banning orders should be handed out for being a miserable sod or for rank stupidity. At least there was an international break to cool some fevered brows following this one.

The day of the Fulham game, we were at Percy Main where our game kicked off at 2.30, so by the time our lot were having their half time oranges, Newcastle had the 3 points safely tucked away, courtesy of a very nasty foul and some very nice finishing. I was delighted to see Sean notch one today, as he’s been really upping his game this season. Almost enough to keep the whingers and moaners quiet, but not quite. Same goes for Almiron; the lad has done my head in since he arrived, but he’s finally showing the quality he really has. Not a second too soon either.

Brentford saw us at Percy Main again and a brief flurry of worry surged through the crowd when they “scored,” but a correct offside flag tempered our ardour, and this became as much of a procession as the 1993 clash that ended with the same score but shouldn’t have, on account of the scandalous decision to disallow Robert Lee’s famous 60 yard finish. However good Newcastle were that day, the first XI of 30 years later is growing up to be a far greater beast, such has the game moved on in the intervening decades. Now, we do have to accept Brentford gave us 3 goals (poor Ethan Pinnock was probably on suicide watch for the whole weekend), but a Bruno inspired NUFC did exactly what I’d hoped we would; eviscerated an honest, open attacking side that lack the flashes of genius that pepper our side.

One year on from the takeover, whose morality I still question, Newcastle are a team on the up. We have better management, better players, better motivated players and a fanbase prepared to shut its eyes. It seems to me the only alternative on offer is Denver, the Humbert Humbert of Vitoria-Gasteiz and his half a dozen frothing at the mouth socially inadequates Shachtmanites, reciting What We Stand For outside The Strawberry, so I’ll stick with Purvis Park and a semi-detached critical love of the club. It’s Man United in a non-televised game on Sunday. Let’s travel hopefully eh?