Wednesday 24 October 2012

Nothing Matters Other Than This...



It’s not often that a question leaves me completely stumped, but it happened to me last week, when I was asked if there was an antonym for euphemism; flummoxed, I was forced to confess that I had absolutely no idea, and then got immediately to work on the internet to find out the answer. The correct term, I discovered, is dysphemism, which arises as a result of a process of pejoration. It may not be a common word, but it is a distinctly common concept, especially in relation to the latest outrages perpetrated by the human dust that classify themselves as sunderland supporters. This Blog isn’t explicitly about their latest appalling conduct, but we will take last Sunday’s game as a starting point. This means that thankfully in this week’s missive, I don’t have to mention the Toon Stasi’s latest urgings that next season the club should be sponsored by one of their three preferred corporate partners: Jacamo, Regaine or MIND.

As I pointed out in my Blog about the last Tyne Wear Derby (http://payaso-del-mierda.blogspot.co.uk/2012/03/barbarians-at-gate.html), things have got completely out of hand among the red and white contingent when it comes to this game, mainly because of the indulgent and malign conduct of their former Chairman in relation to repeated acts of  brutishness by sunderland fans, from the Bristol Airport debacle onwards. Despite Quinn losing his job in the early part of this year, there has been no attempt by the club to address the situation that has led to a legitimised lack of self-control that verges on mass hysteria on Wearside during derby week. On Tyneside, lads like Basher can attend North Shields v Alnwick Town the day before the clash at SoS in a relaxed and friendly state of mind; the idea of that happening on the other side of the regional divide is simply too ludicrous to countenance. Following on from the week before’s BNP march in sunderland, tactical planning for the scum game among the ageing, footwear obsessed messageboard mendicants no doubt took place in cramped rooms at the back of shabby back street boozers on Hylton Road.

If we can accept that with 11 on the pitch, Newcastle would have cantered to a 3-0 win and that Tiote’s punishment would only have been fitting if it had been mirrored Larsson’s for the Swede’s ignored chest stamp on Shola, then there is a slight air of disappointment because we’ve only taken a single point from the game. To say the very least, referee Atkinson didn’t have his best game; he booked 5 Newcastle players in addition to sending Tiote off. Goodness knows what would have happened if he’d be in charge of the Corsican derby between Ajaccio and Bastia that was taking place simultaneously, where each side lost a player after a mutual head-butting contest, the dug-outs were peppered with flares and smoke bombs all game and running battles were fought in the stands for the whole 90 minutes. If Joey Barton took to Twitter to complain about it, things must have been bad. I only hope the Mackems didn’t get to hear about it, as they’ll no doubt take it as their text for next season, if they stay up that is. Fair’s fair, they didn’t do what many had expected they would and attempt to outdo Leeds United after their carry-on at Hillsborough on Friday. Knowing Chris Kirkland, he’ll be out of action for six months after that fall, though it mystifies me why he was the victim of an assault. Let’s be honest, if anyone involved with Sheffield Wednesday deserved a clout, then it’s that awful brass band.

In short, achieving parity with Marty, the man who is rapidly losing the support of the less bovine elements of sunderland’s support as his dinosaur football and appallingly one-dimensional tactics have been so comprehensively found out, is nothing to shout about. That said, other than remarking that James McClean is simply a shit Keiron Brady, the relative abilities of Newcastle’s high quality outfit when contrasted with sunderland’s limited plodders need not detain us. Suffice to say Steven Taylor was correct in saying none of the sunderland players would get in our team, though Mignolet, Fletcher and Johnson could make the bench, at a push.

Taylor’s interview in The Daily Mirror on Saturday morning was obviously tongue-in-cheek, but I would suggest this was an inopportune time to be making such pronouncements. Simon Bird obviously had to run with the story as it made great copy, but I doubt either journalist or player expected the result of this article to be the entire sunderland support singing we wish you were dead to Taylor as he warmed up and subsequently came on as substitute. It is a mark of the man that Taylor laughed these chants off; it is a mark of those singing them that it wasn’t the worst example of their conduct during the game. The most erudite Newcastle United blog, replete with brilliant graphics and superb, logical analysis of the club, is to be found at http://tt9m.tumblr.com/ and I suggest you read it regularly. The gifted author behind this site was struck perilously close to the eye by a coin on Sunday, by some idiot unaware he was potentially destroying the sight of a genius; thankfully he’s ok. 

The inability of sunderland’s support not only to police themselves, but to accept the gravity of their actions is particularly disturbing. These are people who are actively wondering if they will be able to bring a coffin, bearing Taylor’s name, to SJP for the return game next April. However not only do their fans throw coins, they pretend Cabaye was pelted not with golf balls, but scrunched up paper, insist, in full knowledge they are lying, that Danny Rose was barracked by Newcastle fans when he was actually applauded on to the pitch by the visiting support and engage in racist chanting aimed at Demba Ba that they subsequently deny happened. This outfit still has the audacity to refer to themselves as The Caring Club and that sickens me.

Racist chanting is disgraceful and unacceptable at any time, but in the context of the week just ending, it becomes repulsive beyond words. These idiots at SoS on Sunday have a player, in the shape of Danny Rose, who endured repeated torrents of vile racist abuse when playing for England Under 21s in Krusevac. Did they not think of this before upbraiding Demba Ba, one of the finest strikers and most Corinthian of gentleman players in the Premier League? Or are these idiots, who no doubt talk about Danny Rose in more dysphemic terms than the Serbian crowd, thinking of referring their club as crne mačke in tribute to their ideological blood brothers in Belgrade?

If we can finally move away from the fall-out related to the Tyne Wear Derby, then we are faced, yet again, with the inescapable conclusion that the football authorities have failed to address the problem of racism in football in an adequate, or indeed timely, fashion. The Serbian FA, in a disgraceful example of doublethink, responded to charges of racism with a flat denial that laid the blame entirely at the door of the victim, announcing on its website that Danny Rose, behaved in inappropriate, unsportsmanlike and vulgar manner… and for that he was shown a red card, which is so nonsensical that it doesn’t even deserve comment. UEFA celebrated Football against Racism Europe (FARE) Week, by charging both teams and announcing they’d come to a decision within a month. If UEFA were serious in their desire to eradicate displays of racism from the game, they would not take so long to come to a decision, nor would they hold the likes of Danny Rose culpable for reacting to the incessant, unchecked abuse he received.

Of course, UEFA, despite their millions in cash reserves and influence as political lobbyists, have no possible way of combatting racism as a wider social problem, nor do they have an ideological panacea that can change racist attitudes, meaning the best we can realistically hope for is that conditions within grounds are effectively established to ensure racists keep their mouths shut in public. Hopefully by a process of education, racists will then realise the wrongheadness of their ignorant opinions and attitudes can be changed, though I’ll accept such a belief is optimistic to the point of idealism.

Being serious though, it should be relatively easy to stamp out conscious racism, in terms of verbal outpourings of racist language in grounds, by fans policing each other and, were the unfortunate situation to exist whereby this would not be possible (in Serbia or sunderland for example), a stringent series of fines, points deductions and ground closures would be enough to get the message across. The harder thing is combatting ingrained institutional racism and racist attitudes, whether that is among administrators, players, employees or supporters, which is where education, rather than peer influence or legal strictures comes in. 

The only time I heard any racism at a game last season, when Benfield’s Jordan Lartey was abused by a Guisborough Town player in January; despite video footage clearly showing this, the North Riding FA and the Northern League opted to do nothing about it. As I pointed out in my Blog of last April( http://payaso-del-mierda.blogspot.co.uk/2012/03/gravitys-rainbow.html), I’m sure there are racists at every game I attend, from Premier League to North East over 40s level; I can’t prove that as I’m not telepathic. However, I have to be content that they do not inflict their bile on me, or any other fan or player at any of the games I attend, and ruin the enjoyment of the game, or make black players feel intimidated or abused.

Closer to home, there is the ridiculous irony of the FA, a body that took almost a year to find John Terry, who brazenly and uncomplainingly wore the FARE Kick it Out captain’s armband during Chelsea’s loss to Shaktar Donetsk in the Champions’ League this week, guilty of the most public occurrence of racist abuse the game has probably ever seen, before issuing a pitiful slap on the wrist in terms of a 4 game ban, having finally abandoned their policy of collaborative appeasement, attempting to find the moral high ground over the Serbian FA. At the same time, the England under 21 manager Stuart Pearce also made his mouth go about Serbian racism, having previously admitted he was guilty of serial racial abuse of the father of one of his team. I wonder how Tom Ince feels about that.

Perhaps Paul and Tom Ince can reflect on the reasons why Jason, Roberts, The Ferdinand Brothers and several QPR players refused to wear Kick it Out t-shirts during the warm-up to games last weekend. It wasn’t compulsory for clubs to wear them then, as clubs had the option to postpone wearing them until this weekend coming; Newcastle and sunderland decided to delay for a week, on account of the supposed paramount importance of the Derby, while Reading Cem Karacan took his off as he was “too hot” doing the pre match shuttles and, shambolically, West Ham ran out of them for the substitutes. Half the Everton team chose not to wear them either, but that would no doubt be pure opportunism on their part, as it was a chance to have a dig at Liverpool over Suarez, rather than any ideological point as their support rival the mackems in terms of prejudiced and bigoted attitudes.

The first player to announce he’d not be wearing the t-shirt was the articulate, popular and respected Jason Roberts, for Reading’s game at Liverpool. Sir Alex Ferguson is never one to ignore the opportunity to wind up the Scousers and so, the man who allegedly led a strike of apprentices in the Govan shipyards, spent half of Friday’s press conference berating Roberts. For once the Old Trafford boss was hoist by his own petard, as Rio Ferdinand point blank refused to wear a t-shirt as well, which apparently “embarrassed” his boss, who said the player would be “dealt with.” Ferdinand missed Tuesday’s Champions’ League game with Braga, but there is every chance he would have been rested for this anyway; his celebrations on the touchline suggest he’d been rested and not dropped or disciplined.

There is, of course, the bitter irony of white middle-aged managers protesting that young black footballers aren’t adequately fighting racism by ignoring the t-shirts. Fair play to Brian McDermott for supporting Roberts, but the rest of the managers who’ve voiced their disapproval of Roberts or Ferdinand are totally out of step with the reality of what these players have to put up with and, most crucially, the lack of support the players feel they have from the authorities. Even more depressing are the managers who fail to grasp why there are black players who feel the FA has totally let them down. To suggest those not wearing Kick it Out t-shirts are promoting, or tacitly accepting racism is nonsense; black players and supporters know the score.

Those who claim not to understand need to listen to them. PFA boss Clarke Carlisle is a passionate and articulate spokesperson for players; those who are mooting an organisation purely for black players may wish to take time to listen to Carlisle’s comments on the subject, as it is important for players to remain united on this. I’d hope an organisation for black players, if it comes to fruition, would run alongside, not in opposition to, the PFA.

I would imagine that Roberts and Ferdinand made their choices for similar, but different, reasons; Roberts to make a general point about FA ineptitude in regards to racism, and Luis Suarez in particular, with Ferdinand showing support for his brother Anton, by focussing on the footling punishment John Terry received. Consequently, these players opted not to wear the Kick it Out t-shirts as they are produced by the FA funded Kick it Out initiative.

It would be easy to stigmatise Kick it Out as emasculated Uncle Toms, paying lip service to the problems the game has, while dampening the fires of righteous indication by pitiful publicity stunts such as last weekend’s alleged consciousness raising exercise, because their funding and policies are dictated from above by the FA, who have shown themselves unwilling and / or unable to deal promptly and effectively with racism in the game. It would be also easy to sympathise with them as the sporting equivalent of well-meaning early 80s Guardian reading CND supporters in a football context; they have impeccable ideals, but ultimately neither the clout nor the vision to move things on in the fight against racism.

There is one organisation that can do this, but they are utterly hamstrung financially, as funding for them is non-existent. Created on Tyneside by Newcastle United supporters and avowedly, unapologetically anti-racist in its policies and agenda, Show Racism the Red Card is an ideological beacon in the game and the organisation, supported and endorsed by former players such as Olivier Bernard or John Anderson, whose uncompromising educational agenda is doing so much at the grassroots of our local game, as well as working with clubs like Newcastle United, to promote anti-racism. However, the organisation receives buttons for funding and even less since the Tories began their austerity measures. Thus, it is time for the FA to accept Kick it Out has failed in terms of message and approach, which is where Show Racism the Red Card comes. For half a million quid a year, the FA could fund one full time official at every club, with extra ones at each County FA, to work full time on anti-racism; this would cover wages and a proper education budget. If the FA are serious about wanting to clean the game up, a national strategy such as this, funded by sponsors or even by the fines levied on John Terry and Luis Suarez, may not change the world, but it will achieve more than the hollow stunts like last weekend’s t-shirt fiasco.


In relation to racism in the game, like so much else, we need to agitate, educate, organise and that is the real story this weekend, not the bragging rights of a local derby or even the glorious renaissance of Xisco, who scored a hat trick in a 5-1 reserves win over Stoke city that I didn’t even know was taking place!! Francisco Jimenez Tejada; no sale, no sell out.


Wednesday 17 October 2012

The Only Way Is Aesthetics



On Sunday coming, Newcastle United travel to sunderland in the Premier League, marking the overdue end of another two week international hiatus, of which the supposed highlight was the aquatic farce in Warsaw.  Consequently, this fortnight saw the Magpies, as is the wont of the current “owners,” predictably exploit a golden opportunity to spend the entire quinzieme on the front and back pages of both regional and national press, for matters completely unrelated to the game of football. One small shred of comfort for careworn and battle fatigued Newcastle fans can be taken from the fact that the next international break is not until March 23rd; this does give Ashley and Llambias plenty of time to plan a real jawdropper for the week before Easter of course.  But will it be as shocking as the GAA’s decision to relegate seemingly perpetual All Ireland Hurling champions Kilkenny to the English GAA Football Championship? Some may see this as perfectly logical, bearing in mind that not only do the Cats view any game that isn’t hurling with utter contempt, but also Antrim and Galway fight off the shackles of geography to play in the Leinster Hurling Championship. I’ll avoid commenting further, as my interest remains in the people’s Garrison Game.

This week I had hoped to avert my gaze from the Premier League, though not to the subject of music this time, despite the fact I was delighted to pick up vinyl copies of a first pressing of what has become regarded as the finest folk rock album of all time “Liege & Lief” by Fairport Convention, as well as a double album collection of Trembling Bells’ sometime collaborator Bonnie “Prince” Billy during the past week. In addition, posthumous rumours of sexual impropriety by the venerated John Peel had spread rapidly across the internet. On Saturday night, I put such gossip to one side and danced, badly, to Teenage Kicks at the splendid Popklubb, where the simply wonderful Pat Nevin was the guest DJ. I kissed him on the forehead to forgive him for the goal he scored for Chelsea in a 1-1 draw at St. James in the 83/84 promotion campaign. I’d like to think he enjoyed that more than the Belgium v Scotland game I happened across after the Polish postponement, for which he was a summariser.

Actually, I had hoped in this Blog to be allowed to consider the widely perceived recent increase in radginess at local non-league level, in the wake of the Whitley Bay versus West Auckland, post-match pagger, courtesy of the Alex Francis tag wrestling and urban sprinting squad. I attended Hillheads last Tuesday, but there was no need to lay a wreath in the car park for Lee Paul Scoggins, as Bay tend to do their talking on the pitch. I speak as I find and I have to say, I’ve always enjoyed chatting with West Auckland boss Peter Dixon; apparently his team did not lose control when they had 3 sent off on Saturday, when losing 4-2 at home to Billingham Synthonia, while I enjoyed a glorious autumnal afternoon in the lesser Tyne Valley with Harry Pearson, at Ryton & Crawcrook Albion’s 1-0 home win over Washington, with 4 former Percy Main players spread between the sides.

Peter may be a hothead, but he’s an angel compared to the Wallsend Town kickboxing squad, who have recently been suspended by the Northumberland FA from all football until further notice. Those who’ve seen them in action in the Northern Alliance premier division this season will probably understand why. Similar grumblings of utterly unacceptable conduct, on and off the pitch, continue to haunt the impeccably attired Hebburn Town managerial Cosa Nostra, especially as regards their less than philosophical reaction to a last minute home loss to Bedlington. This is a subject to which I may return in the coming weeks, but unfortunately I must return, in this missive, to the vexed question of Newcastle United’s sponsorship deal with Wonga; it is a subject I had hoped I’d dealt with in sufficient detail last week. However, events require comment, opinions must be examined and clarifications issued.

As ever, there has been considerably more heat than light generated during the on-going debate that has involved all levels of Newcastle’s support, at various levels of intellectual and ideological complexity. The ludicrous non-story of Muslim players refusing to wear shirts sponsored by usurers was exposed as a farcical, mendacious canard on account (no pun intended) of the fact Ba, Ben Arfa, Cisse and Tiote didn’t bat an eyelid about donning the current Virgin Money design. However, this journalistic work of speculative fiction did serve a useful purpose in keeping the atrociously misused terms morality and ethics centre stage in this debate.

I’m not one to hide my light under a bushel; it gives me great pleasure to announce that last week’s Blog gained the greatest numbers of hits of any of the 121 different posts I’ve made since I established the site in July 2010. Clearly this question is far too important to be reduced to the level of a popularity contest. On such matters, being in the right, whether that makes one liable to accusations of being the only one marching in time while the rest of the battalion is out of step, is the most important thing. A lone, truthful voice can of course, be the one who points out that the emperor’s new clothes shouldn’t be sponsored by semi-legal loan sharks.

We’ll not dwell on the fact that the increase in traffic on this site translates in to just shy of 400 visitors in 7 days, with only one person leaving a comment, flattering though it was. The really encouraging aspect of this is the fact I’ve had almost 100 messages of support and comments in agreement on Twitter and Facebook, by text, email, phone call and face to face conversation, notwithstanding the previous paragraph’s points about being right and being popular existing as sometimes contrasting states. In fact, there have only been two people who have directly opposed my views on ideological grounds; one made an impassioned comment on The Independent website after my initial article, while the other published this superbly written polemic that can be seen here -: http://blackwhitered.wordpress.com/2012/10/11/wonga-not-fit-and-proper-for-toon/

While I fully appreciate the author’s points; there remains one particular intractable bone of contention where all our subsequent marginal disagreements spring from. I simply can’t agree that there are certain capitalist companies who are more acceptable as sponsors, as their business practices aren’t as reprehensible as Wonga’s; to me, all capitalist companies are equally contemptible. I don’t fully accept that there are those organisations that aren’t as bad as others. However, I’d concede that is a minor, recondite philosophical point and that author’s main intention isn’t to promote responsible capitalism. His main disagreement with me stems from perceived meaning behind my choice of language at certain points in the initial Independent article, specifically the phrases willing suspension of disapproval and waste of breath, that he claims can be interpreted of tacit support for Wonga if a Faustian pact can be entered in to, resulting in the arrival of 3 players in January. Ignoring the cheap point that I have to watch the team and I know how badly those 3 players are needed, let’s examine the words I used. Sadly, I can take no credit for inventing the phrases in question; the former being a corruption of the words of Samuel Taylor Coleridge, often used in relation to audience response to Shakespearean tragedy and the latter un hommage to William Butler Yeats, whose An Irish Airman Forsees His Death I’d been reading almost immediately before penning my article.  It’s wryly ironic that a misquotation from Yeats has resulted in the birth of the terrible beauty of Newcastle United fans denouncing each other for the degree and nature of their objection to the Wonga deal.



A couple of days after the initial news of the deal broke; the unrepresentative, discredited rump of NUST appeared embarrassing, rather than fashionably, late to the party with a predictably limp and mealy-mouthed email. Taking time out from bellyaching about Ashley for ignoring their letters asking for a meeting, or even a day’s work experience at Darsley Park, their press release consisted of banal platitudes about the effect of pay day loans on our supporter base being phoned in by an organisation who didn’t fully grasp the motions they were going through. While pay day loans may be a blight on the lives of our supporters from Blakelaw to Meadowell and Marsden to Blaydon, that’s far less territory than the Casablanca to Cape Town constituency of arch imperialists Tullow Oil, whose meaningless slogan Invest in Africa adorns the shirts of our local rivals.

The latest, soporific issue of The Mag includes several articles that seem to object to the new sponsors, mainly on the grounds that the club’s public profile may be damaged by the Wonga deal, as they’re not a sufficiently glamorous or prestigious brand to be associated with our club. Perhaps the contributors would prefer Harvey Nichols or Prada instead? Either that or we can call in the cast of Geordie Shore to advice which companies are a la mode enough for Newcastle United. Basically, other than the Blog mentioned above, almost all of the criticism of the Wonga deal is not based on ethics but on aesthetics, at which point morality becomes irrelevant. Will we soon hear atrichorous chuckleheads chanting Ode to a Grecian Urn to the tune of Blaydon Races?

As the clamorous response begins to appear as formless and confusing as Altman’s Pret A Porter, the campaign in the press continues to be led by David Con-Hot-Air of The Grauniad. Perhaps aware of the vast numbers of redundancies on his title and a need to make himself indispensable, he’s taken time out from retweeting, whether for reasons of personal insecurity or rampant narcissism, any example praise for his latest book he can find, to assuming the self-elected role of the white knight on a pantomime horse, wielding his simple sword of truth and sense of British fair play against the money lenders. All well and good, but if you lay down with the aesthetes, you’ll catch their fleas; his paper has been responsible for a merciless anti Newcastle United agenda, promoted by Marina Hyde, Barry Glendenning and Lousie Taylor for a decade now. While blaming Con-Hot-Air for the behaviour of his predecessors may be akin to castigating Karl Robinson’s slick MK Dons outfit for the sins against football of their previous incarnation as the Wimbledon Crazy Gang, it must be stated that The Grauniad has never apologised for the scarcely believable screeds of anti NUFC bile they produced.

The matter has even been raised in the House, as the Northern Group of Labour MPs took time out from campaigning for a bold Socialist programme designed to confront the evil, anti-working class agenda of Cameron’s Tories (yes I’m being ironic, tragically), to get their mugs on Look North by making shallow, vaguely censorious pronouncements about how they opposed the club’s deal with this immoral company. Presumably, erstwhile NUST board member Chi Onwurah and her comrades will soon be publishing The Ethical Potential Premier League Sponsors Table, naming those moral capitalist finance houses and multinational corporations it is deemed acceptable for clubs to cut deals for shirt sponsorship with in the future. Perhaps we’ll see Newcastle United sponsored by The Body Shop in future?  Amidst this rhetorical, quasi political, populist posturing, the serious issue of the utter abandonment of both their principles and responsibility for effectively representing the interests of those who elected these MPs has been pushed to one side.

The member for Wansbeck, Ian Lavery, a man who combines his job at Westminster with the Presidency of the National Union of Mineworkers and being the Chairperson of Ashington FC, responded to the Wonga deal by sending back his season ticket to SJP, no doubt fuelled by moral indignation and not because he’s presumably got enough things on his plate to keep him busy without tipping up to see the Magpies twenty-odd times a year. His season ticket was in the Platinum Club incidentally; personally I’d not be able to afford a seat there unless I took out a loan. Does the Northern Group of Labour MPs have a friendly credit provider they can recommend to me? Of course, if Mr Lavery finds at any time in the future that he’s missing his visits to St. James, either for sporting or networking reasons, I’m sure he’ll be able to find another fella called Ian in the Irish Centre who can always get his hands on spare tickets.

However, to be scrupulously fair, I’m sure most, if not all, north east Labour MPs will be at the TUC organised A Future That Works march and rally in London this Saturday, against the vicious Tory austerity measures, along with an estimated 200,000 others. Despite the fact that I call myself a Marxist and that I am a union activist, I’ll not be there, even if 2 members of my branch are going in my stead. Personally, I’ll be at North Shields v Alnwick Town in Northern League Division 2, doing my bit for the armchair class struggle. Perhaps the unpalatable truth is I’m more of a dilettante than a militant, which may not be a beautiful thing to say, but it is the truth…



Wednesday 10 October 2012

Filthy Lucre




Tuesday 9th October marked a watershed in shirt sponsorship deals; when it was assumed by fans and media commentators alike that all questions of just what was ethically repugnant and morally reprehensible to sports fans had finally been answered, new depths were plumbed. I’m talking about the decision of Meath’s county GAA board to strike a deal with Tayto Park (www.taytopark.ie), the potato crisp Disneyland just outside Ashbourne off the N2. In County Meath, they may have a high transfat snack product on their shirts, but they also have the East Meath Credit Union providing affordable financial solutions for ordinary people in that area. 

Meanwhile, the clownish circus at the bottom of Barrack Road that simply keeps on creating copy for the Fourth Estate, announced that squalid loan sharks Wonga had handed over something in the region of £24m to get their names on the front of Newcastle United shirts, rumoured to be made by Sondico in future, from the start of the 2013/2014 season. However, as a simpering codicil to the deal, the ground would be renamed St. James’ Park, which was all anyone had called it any way, other than quisling apologists for the Ashley administration. Indignation swiftly followed; some of it opportunistic and false, especially among the jaded NUJ contingent and some of it passionate and heartfelt in the NUFC family. Attending Whitley Bay 4 Marske United 0 that night, I spent much of the time with The Independent’s Martin Hardy, who reacted with genuine disgust to the news and fair play to him for that, as many of his colleagues saw the deal as simply another wearisome opportunity to give the club, and especially the support, an on-line shoeing.

As ever, the international break had been viewed by the current “owners” of the club as the appropriate time to launch yet another initiative that seemed, on the surface, designed, as per usual, to piss off the fan base and allow for some shallow handwringing and petty point scoring by the various hacks and scribes on both local and national titles. The Grauniad’s self-mythologizing narcissist David Conman took time out from retweeting obsequious praise of his latest dull book to fire off some sombre and shallow pronouncements that were gobbled up by similar ahistorical chuckleheads, meaning they could temporarily abandon their endless questioning of the validity of Graham Carr’s role and his 8 year contract.

Of course, criticism of Pardew and his team’s similar long term deals has pointedly been lacking; then again the chance of another day’s work experience at Darsley Park and an opportunity to hobnob with the first team squad may mean it’s hard to judge people who’ve splendidly indulged you in the past. This is especially important when one considers that the new sponsors have offered to set up meetings with fans’ leaders in the future, considering some of the fiercest critics of this deal are ones who’ve been the most keen to spend time with club top brass, from Chris Mort onwards, at various times in the past; perhaps they may exploit any opportunity to hook up with the current “owners” or their underlings, not to mention Wonga apparatchiks in the future. Who can tell?



Much of the criticism, both from fans and journalists, has centred on the “morality” or otherwise of the deal and Wonga as a company. It seems that the use of such terms within the context of football arguments has steadily been gaining popularity, perhaps since the 1998 News of the World sting involving Hall fils and Shepherd that became known by the vile soubriquet, Toongate. I am not happy with the loose bandying about of the term “morality,” as it generally seems to be a lazy, catch-all explanation by many users for why the opposing point of view is wrong, rather than looking in detail at the mechanics of the deal. Money lending is wrong, according to both Christianity and Islam; this makes it immoral to adherents of these religions. Yet much of the criticism of this deal is based either on aesthetic grounds, in terms of the media profile and public image of Wonga, or because of the business practices of a company that charge 4,217% on their pay day loans.

The former argument is specious, as it presupposes that other companies, regardless of their business practices, will be more acceptable, because of their advertising campaigns or the product they sell. In harking back to the days of Northern Rock, surely far more NUFC minded people suffered penury and financial hardship as a result of that, previously long-respected and popular local business hitting the buffers than Wonga? The latter argument is about the ethics of how the sponsors operate; undeniably, Wonga prey upon vulnerable people in this harsh economic climate and that stinks. It’s a repulsive way to make a living and my conscience wouldn’t allow me to drive people to the verge of destitution as a way of making a living.  

Sadly, we are talking about capitalism; a system without conscience existing purely to make money for the ruling elite by exploiting the working class. Pre-paid electricity and gas meter cards that are set at a tariff considerably higher than the ordinary charges for punters paying monthly by direct debit, cash machines in corner booze shops that charge £3 for the privilege of accessing the customer’s money, endless parades of fast food outlets offering diabetes, obesity and early death to young and old alike, sub-standard health, education, welfare and housing facilities; Cash Convertors (sponsors of Hull City don’t forget) on every high street; this is the reality of poverty under capitalism. Let us not delude ourselves, Wonga are no better or worse than any other financial corporation or multinational company operating in the world today; many of who, such as Capital One with the League Cup or our soon to be ex-sponsors Virgin Money, have taken the cynical opportunity of associating their rapacious brand with a football club.

Let’s be clear about this; “morality” and capitalism are mutually exclusive terms. As fans, we have the right to object, vociferously if needed, about the deal, but it can’t end with just a few random moans and groans. The deal must not be viewed simply as another snide attempt to wind us up by Ashely and Llambias, so getting angry about it is pointless; look at things from a wider perspective. We must be tough on poverty and tough on the causes of poverty, to bastardise a phrase; save questions of “morality” for discussions about why John Terry got away with a 4 game ban for racially abusing Anton Ferdinand. Fair play to PFA leader Clarke Carlisle for putting his head above the parapet and announcing he feels the ban is disproportionately minor for the transgression Terry was found guilty of; racism in the game is decidedly immoral.

On Tuesday afternoon, I was approached by The Independent to provide a 400 word comment piece on the Wonga deal. I took the opportunity, with some misgivings, as I prefer not to react to events immediately, but to take a longer term view on them. Xhou Enlai’s 1971 comment when asked about the importance of the French Revolution of 1789, it’s too early to tell, being a particular favourite of mine. However, with apologies for the telegraphed nature of my thoughts imposed on me by the constraints of the word limit, this is what I had to say -:

The news that Newcastle United’s first team shirts will next season carry adverts for Wonga has left me feeling particularly underwhelmed; I neither rejoice nor despair at this deal with a crowd of on-line usurers of dubious provenance. Frankly, having seen the effects of last summer’s pitiful lack of investment in the squad in the shape of a 3-0 loss to Manchester United exposing further our stretched, injury ravaged squad in dire need of a right back and centre half, I am forced to state that there are more things to worry about in this world than the morality of the company sponsoring my football team. After the international break, our team travel to Wearside; that fixture is occupying more of my thoughts that next season’s shirt sponsor. If this sponsorship brings in 3 new players in January, I’ll willingly suspend my disapproval.

In terms of damage to the north east region, I’d imagine the products that rolled from the former Scottish & Newcastle Brewery opposite the ground blighted more lives, both instrumentally and influentially, than Wonga has, thus far. I don’t wish to be flippant but mere outrage at this sponsorship deal is simply a waste of breath; rather like the mendacious, provocative renaming of St. James’ Park, the machinations of the current owners will be met initially with an indignant clamour that gives way to a contemptuous distaste. No-one ever referred to the ground as anything other than St. James’ Park anyway.

As regards the betrayal of those suffering under the yoke of poverty, or whatever else this deal is supposed to have resulted in, it seems fair to ask just where were the howls of derision in the environs of Bloomfield Road or Tynecastle when Wonga struck deals in the past. If this arrangement means my team can dismantle their local rivals 5-1 in the cup final, as Hearts did last season, then I say bring it on, even if Hibs are my Scottish team.

Frankly, as a Marxist and a passionate believer in supporter ownership, I can’t imagine a situation whereby I would approve of the business practices of any commercial partners, though this old punk would die happy if Rough Trade records decided to sponsor my club.

I don’t think I expressed myself particularly eloquently, but at least The Independent didn’t traduce me in the way the loathsome Grauniad did back in 2007.



In many ways, it is more than annoying that the Wonga deal has been announced at this point in the season, as it deflects attention from the football activities of the club which, during the period since I last commented, have seen the team take steps forward, backwards and sideways akin to a series of complicated dance steps that remain impossible to learn. Away points at Everton and Reading were garnered in a pair of 2-2 draws that combined abysmal opening halves, astute tactical readjustments and a brace of Demba Ba goals in each. Equally important, the rub of the refereeing green has been with us on each occasion, making displeasure at Cisse’s “goal” versus Manchester United less than credible, as we remain 2-1 up on dodgy decisions. Perhaps it is true; the big clubs, like us, get all the decisions against the smaller ones. I have to say that Demba Ba’s honesty about his handball goal at the Madjeski proved yet again that the man is an absolute gentleman; what a wonderful ambassador for the club he is.

Europe has been intriguing. Last Thursday’s 3-0 battering of Bordeaux, easily the season’s best performance, was as heralded as it was unexpected. I’d gone there in full expectation we would lose 2-0 as Bordeaux, despite their collapse after the second goal went in, are a handy outfit. The youngish nature of the crowd, on the back of dirt cheap tickets for under 18s, added some sparkle and verve to the atmosphere, as well as allowing me to get in for £5; it wasn’t a deliberate fraud on my part, just an administrative error, acting as an example of my technological incompetence when buying tickets for Ben and his mates on line. Somehow I ended up with an extra one about four rows behind them; still it was nice to be back in the Gallowgate centre, without wanting to repeatedly ploat the gobshites who used to sit behind me in the face, as obviously they weren’t there. They’d have hated the comfortable win and encouraging performance. While Tiote is more Rambo than Rimbaud, he put his “Season in Hell” behind him to run the game, with his withdrawal for Gosling being akin to replacing Unknown Pleasures on the turntable with Black Lace’s Greatest Hits. On National Poetry Day, it was fitting that Yohan Cabaye’s glorious cross field ball to Obertan that set up the opener was as beautifully crafted as Baudelaire’s verse. The less said about the bladdered streaker who emerged from the Strawberry Corner after Cisse wrapped up the scoring the better; suffice to say our visitors from the Gironde no doubt viewed this spectacle of contemporary interpretative dance with Gallic indifference, as the rest of us cringed.

Prior to this, the banal 0-0 away to Maritimo had seen 2 points tossed away in what appeared to be a belated pre-season friendly; a shadow squad playing in an almost empty ground with a tea-time kick-off, while numerous chances are spurned with indulgent smirks by the perpetrators. While Vukic continues to underachieve and Marveaux and Gosling demonstrate they provide nothing for the team, bizarrely, only Rob Elliott, seen as the weakest player in the first team squad at the season’s start, has enhanced his reputation, both in Funchal and in the predictable 2-1 loss at Old Trafford in the League Cup. Apparently, it’s the Capital One cup now, but I’m choosing its original name, more out of habit than indignation at the thought of moneylenders cosying up to the Football League’s temple. In all seriousness, when Newcastle qualified for the Europa League at the end of last season, my first thought was how it would mean another season of failure in the League Cup; don’t get me wrong, even if we’d put out a first choice XI and won in Manchester, the next round’s draw at Chelsea would have probably seen us out on our arses. Unfortunately it now means, the season will consist of attempting to qualify for a Europa League competition we seem indifferent to this time around; Newcastle United could be renamed FC Tautology.

On the basis of home league performances, we will struggle to match last season’s league placing, but we knew that when the chance to augment the squad was passed up in the summer. The 1-0 home win over Norwich wasn’t the most convincing, but thankfully we were only up against Comrade Chris and his meagre store of tactical acumen; in the absence of Peter Lovenkrands, he was only able to bring on Grant Holt. Just when we looked vulnerable, and the unnecessary indulgent arrogance of allowing Cisse to take a penalty that would have won us the game seemed ready to haunt us, the Canaries restricted themselves to blasting aimless high balls to someone who looks like an extra from The Bill and we saw the game out. I didn’t make the Manchester United game, selling my ticket on to the incoming Boyle & Maynooth Flying Column, but, farcical defending in the opening 15 minutes apart, it was a far better performance than the Norwich one. That is of no consequence in the long run as three points were lost, almost entirely down to weaknesses in the team. To be frank, I’ve conceded loads of goals like the one Harper let in from Cleverley; then again, I’m 48 and play in division 4 of the North East over 40s league.  Looking at the current playing staff,it is blindingly obvious a centre back, a right back and a striker would do wonders for the squad; you know it, I know, Pardew knows it, probably even Llambias knows it. The time to buy them was last summer; we didn’t and we’ve failed to progress. 

With the Mackems on the horizon, January’s window looks a long way off; 17 games away to be precise, 13 of them in the league. In this context, it’s hard not to demand the club spends big to make up for the smug prudence of the summer; perhaps Wonga can forward us the money. I wish I was joking…

Tuesday 2 October 2012

Musical Notes: Summer of 76 & Spirit of 69




As 2012 moves in to its final quarter, it is beholden of me to return to the subject of popular music, for the purpose of explaining what I’ve been listening to and who I’ve been to see since we last talked. With work coming back in to play and September’s annual autumnal month of abstinence from alcohol, I haven’t been to see everything I might have done; Patti Smith was just too damn expensive at the Academy, then C86 revivalists Allo Darlin came to the Star & Shadow  on a night I had football training, while I couldn’t justify risking the £20 entry fee to see ex Fairport guitarist Ian Matthews playing the Sage with his reformed Plainsong on their farewell tour (perplexing logic to say the least) when I’ve never heard anything they’d done and A Certain Ratio simply passed me by. If I’d remembered ACR were playing, I doubt I’d have bothered to be frank; I saw them last year and while they were still great in the unemotional, brutal post funk way they’ve always been, I really didn’t appreciate how their audience has been colonised by the kind of atrichorous chuckleheads in polo shirts who were more likely to have listened to Shakatak than “To Each” back in the day. Also, they don’t do “Winter Hill,” which is their finest moment.

This weekend I’m missing out on 3 gigs on Saturday night, just to ready the homestead for the incoming Kingsbry Flying Column’s regular visit. The Lindisfarne Story, featuring Ray Laidlaw and the Billy Mitchell Band at the Whitley Bay Playhouse, Parastatic at Morden Tower (more that place in a bit) and Michelle Shocked at the Cluny, have all been kicked in to touch just so I can make a casserole and put mints under the pillow in the spare room. So, domestic beautification excepted, what have I actually been listening to?
You’ll be no doubt aware of my tendency to slip back in time whenever possible; well it’s no surprise that I’ve been riding the nostalgia train again. However, in my defence, I have to say it was Laura who fuelled my indulgence by finding a copy of “Gaye” by Clifford T Ward. The greatest hits, such as they are, of this long dead minor marvel of early 70s English singer / songwriting, come on a single CD that she snapped up for a measly quid at Tynemouth Station Sunday market back in August. It’s gentle, it’s earnest with a pinch of whimsy and it shouldn’t be forgotten for 3 songs alone; his only hit single “Gaye” shaved the top 10 in March 1973, while its b-side “Home Thoughts From Abroad” is probably Robert Browning’s only chart name check and the delightful “Scullery” has been committed to posterity by appearing on probably every festive anthology of “The Old Grey Whistle Test” I’ve seen since BBC4 came on air. Strongly recommended.
As well as delving back to the early 70s, the more militant end of that decade always gets a hearing in this house; The Mekons and Gang of Four are always on heavy rotation on my Ipod. This is even more the case since I purchased “Content,” Gang of Four’s stunning 2011 album that manages to sound both incredibly modern and the logical follow up to 1981’s “Solid Gold.” Tracks such as “You don’t have to be Mad” and “Second Life” are up there with the very greatest tracks from “Entertainment.” I would pay literally hundreds of pounds to see them live again.

I’d also love to see The Mekons live again, but I must admit their 2011 release Ancient & Modern” was more of a loyalty purchase than one fired by enthusiasm. There are moments of true glory, such as “Warm Summer Sun,” but it’s perhaps because Tom Greenhalgh is able to keep his quirky and charming songs for Mekons albums, while Jon Langford spreads his talents across several bands, such as the Pine Valley Cosmonauts and Waco Brothers, that the material isn’t uniformly strong. I like my Mekons cynical and unpredictable rather than simply giving dull narratives in an ersatz Americana style. Tom still lives in Brixton, while Langford’s been way out west for 20 years or more. More Harehills; less Beverley Hills is the message they need to internalise….

In a similarly acoustic style but far more engaging on the ear, Randolph’s Leap are a gorgeous, low-fi, twee octet from Glasgow and their self-titled, home recorded debut is the best £5 I’ve spent this summer for sure. Contained within this release, there are several absolute classic cuts; “Counting Sheep” and “Dying in My Sleep” are both contenders for the most joyful slabs of optimistic, good time Caledonian indie I’ve heard in what is turning out to be a bumper year for Scottish music (Lenzie Moss, Teen Canteen and Jo Mango are all scheduled to release stuff before year’s end, which is enough to make my overflowing heart burst with expectation). At the same time, Lightships  issued the “Fear and Doubt” 10” single, including the best track from “Electric Cables,” the gossamer glory that is “Silver and Gold,” alongside 3 other tracks, the pick of which is the baroque and beautiful “University Avenue” that really wouldn’t be out of place on “Astral Weeks.”

The same day as I purchased the Lightships 10”, I also picked up an 8 track Trembling Bells EP that shows them to be the hardest working band in the world. Not content with releasing the absolute number 1 nominee for album of this year, “The Marble Downs,” they’ve found time to release another 4 tracks with Bonnie Prince Billy and 4 more with Glasgow Socialist choir, Muldoon’s Picnic. This work is as uniformly stunning as ever, especially “Yorkshire in October,” but when Laura and I saw them in York in late August at the excellent Duchess, it was abundantly clear Trembling Bells are moving on; no “Carbeth,” though thankfully they still dedicated “Goathland” and “Just As The Rainbow” to us, but 4 new songs already integrated in to the set. Two of them, “The Bells of Burford” and “Broad Majestic Aire” are as good as any they’ve released so far and that really is saying something. In 1969, Fairport Convention released both “Unhalfbricking” and “Liege and Lief;” of all the bands currently on the scene, only Trembling Bells have it in them to match that level of creative output and better the quality of those landmark releases. Oh it’s going to be so exciting waiting for them to do that. I love this band; love them beyond words. Coming back from York, Laura and I were on the same train as John and Yulene after they’d flown in to Manchester from Bilbao and were heading up home; he’s taken a copy of The Marble Downs” back to Euskadi, as I keep trying to spread the word about Trembling Bells, by palming off burnt CDs. Even if their gigs are sparsely attended, which both baffles and appals me, at least my conscience is clear about loving them and doing my best by them, as well as the two acts Laura and I went to see for her birthday; more fabulous Scottish indie pop from The Wellgreen and the entirely adorable Euros Childs at the wonderful Star & Shadow.



The longer this year goes on, the more I’m convinced that we’ve all fallen in to a musical time warp and that the sounds we’re hearing are all from the post Middle Earth, pre 100 Club generation. A few months ago I actually believed we were back in 1972, now I’m not so sure. Trembling Bells in York felt like a 1969 era Fairport Convention performance (remember; Snowgoose are 1969 era Pentangle as well), so good was it. In contrast Euros Childs and The Wellgreen could have been happening at any moment in the time between early 1974 and mid 1976; not only does it feel like punk never happened a lot of the time these days (unlike what BBC4 is telling us every Friday night), but that seems to be a good thing.

Until February 2011, I hadn’t even heard of Euros Childs, much less heard anything by him; since then I’ve seen him live on 5 occasions in 5 different venues, bought 3 of his albums (including his latest “Summer Special” at this gig) and found myself bowled over by the incredible, prolific creative genius of the man who held the audience (including a boozy, boisterous element near the bar that initially seemed more intent of getting loaded than watching the show) enraptured. Frankly, and I don’t say this lightly, the man reminds me of David Bowie in the period from “Hunky Dory” to “Low;” wildly electric, brilliantly creative & able to switch styles effortlessly from song to song.

The Star & Shadow is a great venue; an independent cinema co-operative that recalls the spirit of more ideologically earnest times and acts as the antidote to hideous corporate venues like the appalling 02 Academy. Could that have been the hint we were in the 1970s again? Well, the next time I visit Vic Godard, Davey Henderson & Pauline Murray are sharing a bill, so that gives us a clue. We arrived around 9.00, missing first act Adam Stearns as we’d popped in to The Cluny down the bottom of the bank to wish my mate Dan from work good luck, as his band Dennis were playing a gig that night as well. Typically, their next gig is November 30th; Vic Godard night. I’ve got a copy of their debut EP and it is well worth a listen; a solid, honest local acoustic indie band with a brass section and immaculate proletarian credentials.

Last December, Euros had played a solo piano show at The Literary & Philosophical Society in town, where it was limited to 80 tickets; this evening the Star & Shadow was pretty close to capacity, not to mention stiflingly hot after a day of unseasonal warmth. This all added to the really positive, fun vibe. The Wellgreen were the first act we saw; more succulent fruits from the glorious tree of Scottish indie. It could have been The Monkees we were watching, it could have been David Cassidy, though it was CSN&Y when they did “Teach Your Children.” The harmonies, the lyrics, the understated musicianship, the banter, the bonhomie, the integrity; within 2 songs I knew I was buying their album. Afterwards I got to have a chat with Stuart (and briefly Marco); charming, friendly, erudite young men, who it is a pleasure to encourage. The Wellgreen are everything we need a band to be. It honestly fills me with hope and with pride to know that there is a rich and glorious creative seam of independence that cuts through the corporate shit and the falsity of so much of the mainstream. Yet this wasn’t arty or challenging music we were hearing; it was beautifully crafted intelligent pop music.

When Euros arrived with The Wellgreen and Andrew Stearns as his backing band, in the guise of the Roogie Boogie Band, it was pub rock with a hint of glam. Elements of Dr. Feelgood, Kraftwerk, Wings (I’m not making this up) all melded together in to what honestly could have been Euros Childs & The Spiders from Mars to provide one of those rare sets where there wasn’t a duff number. Despite my catch up activities over the past 18 months, I’m still woefully ignorant of much of his back catalogue, so bear with me if I don’t know all the titles.

Stand out moments included the beautifully daft ghost story of “Cavendish Hall” and the saddest song of all time “Parents’ Place” from “Ends,” not to mention the 12-bar goodtime stomp of “Roogie Boogie” and “That’s Better” from the no doubt consciously mid-70s culturally referenced “Summer Special.” Songs I’d not heard before that brought the house down included a demonic, rock god “Horse Riding” and “The First Time I Saw You,” that encapsulated everything on side 2 of “Low” in one synth riff. No encores after that; just 75 minutes of superb, engaging, commercial pop rock suffused with the endearing world view of a man I’ve come to admire so profoundly. Thank you Euros Childs for making the world a better place. Needless to say, he was wonderful company afterwards; diffident, charming & humble. There really aren't enough superlatives for this man. And The Wellgreen are wonderful too.



To end the month, I went to see Stuart Moxham from the Young Marble Giants, supported by Gina from The Marine Girls in her current project The Fenestration at Morden Tower. This incredibly intimate venue, accessed down the back alley behind Stowell Street and up a staircase in the medieval west walls of the city, struggles to hold more than 50, but surely is the true hidden jewel of Newcastle’s music venues. Used for spoken word and acoustic events since 1964, it is to my eternal shame that I’d never been there before. It felt like a missing scene from “Get Carter” as I trudged, knee-deep, through Chinese restaurant detritus, the tang of sweet and sour sauce shot through with MSG permeating each pore in the brickwork, trying to find the place.

Once inside, I began to feel a little claustrophobic as the audience pushed up towards 30, comprising the parents and the children of the 1990s Slampt generation. First on was Wilt Wagner; a one man Thomas Leer and Robert Rental tribute act. It was like 1978 all over again as a low-fi synth and attendant electronics took us on a sometimes pastoral, sometimes painful 15 minute musical exploration. I liked it enormously, unlike the next act.

The Fenestration, a husband and wife team who won’t see 45 again, wore pastel cardigans as if they were auditioning for an AmDram version of “Pee Wee’s Big Adventure” and, rather than a band, they appeared to be a pair of benevolent, ageing, formerly trendy Primary School music teachers attempting to coax a particularly reluctant cohort through the greatest hits of Trixie’s Big Red Motorcycle for the end of term concert. Without being insulting, this was an almost unbearable, unlistenable 30 minute excursion in to the unacceptable hinterlands of twee. Bear in mind, this woman wasn’t invited to join Grab Grab the Haddock after The Marine Girls folded. She sang, atonally and unpleasantly sharp, while he doodled on a cheap Casio and Strat-shaped electric mandolin, as well as interminably farting about with a mini drum machine before each song, like he was answering a particularly intractable proposition from Wittgenstein via text message. It was a terrible load of tripe. Please don’t encourage these people.

Stuart Moxham must be encouraged; post YMG and his later solo vehicle The Gist, he got a job as an illustrator and brought up a family. Now in his 50s, divorced and downbeat, he has returned to music, with the beautiful, cathartic “Six Winter Mornings” album I purchased at this gig. It’s a dry run to see if he can do the old material with a full band, including his daughter on vocals. Also he’s done some tender acoustic stuff with a mate Derek Halliday; it sounds like post Sandy era Fairport, so they fact that Stuart and Derek look like Mulligan and O’Hare just added to the Cropredy vibe. As regards his previous musical output, I sincerely hope he takes the plunge and tours with a full band; leaving early because I was knackered and wanted to see The Football League Show means I still haven’t heard “Final Day” performed live.
So, there we have it; October looks a quiet month, before The Wedding Present, Half Man Half Biscuit, Dirty Three and the previously mentioned Vic Godard / Sexual Objects extravaganza hint that November will be the live month of the year…