17 Green Fields (And Counting): Part 2

I'm just back from my annual trip to the Old Country. One of the highlights was a trip with the Shelbourne supporters' club to see their team win in Waterford. That outing will form part of next week's blog. In the meantime, here's the second part of an article that I wrote for their fanzine Red Inc, which will be available from 31st July, starting with their home game against Wexford Youths -:

In my first article, I explained my love affair with Irish football, as a Geordie part of the Irish diaspora, as a kid living in Newcastle and as a student in County Derry. In this one, I detail my travels around the League of Ireland.

Once I’d finished university, I had a year kicking around in London, before doing a postgraduate course in Leeds and then ending up back where I started in time for the 1988/1989 season. I purchased my first NUFC season ticket in the newly opened Milburn Stand, saw us win only 3 home games all season (1 on a Saturday) and finish bottom.  Grand; especially as I’d missed most of the promotion season in 83/84 when I’d first moved away. The tone was set for the campaign when Tony Cottee scored after 32 seconds of his debut as Everton tore us apart 4-0 on the opening day and didn’t get appreciably better from there on in. However, I found a great way of dealing with disappointment; instead of just drowning myself in gargle, I wrote about my angst in fanzines, such as The Mag, which published 283 issues from 1988 until 2014. I wrote for it and hundreds of other fan publications and, during the period of contraction when many fanzines went either to the wall or on-line following the digital revolution of the past decade or so, I resolutely kept the flame going. These days, like with vinyl records, there has been a renaissance in print media in England, even if it is still a niche market, with several great publications on the go, like Duck from Stoke, West Stand Bogs from Barnsley, general ones like The Football Pink and Stand, not to mention a certain NUFC publication called The Popular Side (@PopularSideZine) that I’m involved with.

One of the best things fanzines do is to bring fans of different clubs together; these days it’s done via Twitter (which is how I got chatting to Barry), but years ago, people used to send letters. In summer 1993, we got one at The Mag from a fella in County Kildare, though a native of Boyle in the County Roscommon, who told of the Irish NUFC supporters club and his support for the club going back to 1975. Now after I finished university, I went back to the north for a couple of nostalgic visits in summer 88 and 89, but with no Irish relatives left (all either emigrated or dead; sounds a bit like Spancillhill no?), I found my relationship with the old country becoming further and further distant. However, that all changed when I met John McQuaid, the fella who wrote that letter, on the day Newcastle battered Wimbledon 4-0 at Halloween 1993.

We hit it off straightaway and he stayed at our house, subsequently introducing us to other Irish Mags, such as Declan McGrath originally of Glenamaddy, but a resident of Dublin since the 80s when he came up to College. Where I lived at the time was close to St James Park and, until my son was born in 1995, we had 2 spare bedrooms; most home games we’d end up with drunken Irish Mags crashed out all over the place. However, I’d not been back to Ireland for years, so in 1996 we booked a summer cottage out in Westport, drove over and bookended our stay with a few days in Dublin at Declan’s place in Whitehall, which is when my love affair with the League of Ireland was reignited.

At the Iveagh Grounds in Crumlin, Declan and I joined half a dozen inebriated Albion Rovers fans, to watch the side from Scotland win a game on a glorious Friday evening in late July by 2-0. It wasn’t great, but it was a start, though for St James Gate, it was an ending as they resigned from the league soon after. The next day, we had to come west along the road to Mayo and thence to a couple of nights in Sligo (just missing sunderland playing against Rovers), but we were back the following Bank Holiday Monday. Declan broke the news that there was a game to see that day; with the (now ex) wife’s blessing, me and him took off to Tolka for a friendly against Tranmere Rovers. To be perfectly honest the main reason for going was to try and catch a word with former NUFC legend Liam O’Brien at full time. We didn’t manage it (I think the game was a 1-1 draw), but I encountered for the first time the bearded, dishevelled legend that is the ubiquitous Tom. I think I’ve seen him at 80% of the League of Ireland games I’ve attended. Gesticulating wildly at the almost deserted stand, he repeatedly proclaimed if dis was Kark, all dese seats’d be taken….

As well as the football, it was a great holiday in all respects and so we decided to return in 1998; money was tight with a young bairn so I couldn’t afford to fly over on a whim, so this was my next chance to see a bit of Irish football. Astonishingly, no sooner had we booked ferries than Newcastle announced a pre-season friendly against Bohs, for the day before we travelled. However, all was not lost, as they also pencilled in a game at the Carlisle Grounds for the Friday after we arrived. As this was an NUFC game, we met in the traditional Irish Mags bar The Ha’penny Bridge Inn, before taking the DART and a few more pints in The Hibernia, then seeing Newcastle stroll to a 6-0 win, though the way the team plays now, the score could be reversed. Anyway, the next day we went west again, to Bonniconlon in Mayo for a fortnight, arriving back in Dublin on Saturday afternoon. Ironically, Declan wasn’t at home; he was over in Newcastle staying at our house and watching NUFC draw 0-0 with Charlton. It seems I ended up at the better game; leafing through The Evening Herald, I noticed more coverage of English football (especially the range of teams who had supporters clubs, from Arsenal to York it seemed), but I did see something worth watching that night, which is how I ended up at Home Farm (Everton) 0 UCD 2. This and the one at Tolka had been two games I’d been able to walk to from Declan’s place in Marino. They were to be the last games I’d see on League of Ireland grounds for almost a decade and not just because Home Farm eventually departed the senior scene in the aftermath of my trip.

That Saturday had been the day of the Omagh Bombing; a terrible event that came out of nowhere and changed things forever for people. Without wishing to compare the two events, I had life changing moments in 1999; my marriage failed, I quit my job and I moved to Bratislava in Slovakia for 2 years. Irish football was not top of my list of priorities.  Returning to Newcastle in 2001, I got myself a new job, a new home and a new partner, but it was a while until I returned; summer 2007 for Declan’s wedding to be precise. There were football games of course; in the raging unreality of the Celtic Tiger, Drogheda United were to be crowned champions in the autumn, courtesy of a goal by former NUFC junior Guy Bates, but on August 1st they hosted SP Libertas in the UEFA Cup at Dalymount Park and I took this game in with Declan and John, who continue to indulge my bizarre hobby to this day. In the Conan Doyle before kick-off, RTE news announced the death of my dad’s idol Tommy Makem; I called the old fella to break him the news and he was desperately sad. Ironically, two years later to the day, my dad died. RIP Eddy; still miss you mate.

Drogs had won the game on a glorious evening, but the weather soon turned and the Saturday saw torrential downpours, but there was a game to go to. It was a trip back to Tolka to see Shamrock Rovers draw 1-1 with Derry City. Frankly, I like all League of Ireland teams, apart from the Tallaght Corinthians and being up close and personal with their fans that night, who repeatedly sang your next queen is Camilla Parker Bowles to the Derry supporters, reinforced my opinions. What truly awful people they are, despite a lifelong Irish Mag called Chris carrying the flag for Donabate Rovers. Perhaps he’s no good at geography either.

2008 was a busy year; a trip in the summer saw me take in Bohs 2 Shams 1 at Dalier (I couldn’t believe the whole stand singing Hold Me Now after Mark Rossiter scored a sublime free kick) and Longford 2 Salthill 2, courtesy of John driving us out there. I’ve a mate from home who is Newcastle’s only Salthill fan; I even got him a jersey for his 50^th in 2013, just as the club went out the league. At the end of October 08, I came back for the two FAI Cup semi-finals; St Pat’s 1 Bohs 3 on a Friday night at Richmond Park, followed by  a trip to Declan’s home turf for a night in Glenamaddy, followed by Galway 1 Derry 3. I really should get to a final one year.

With my dad dying, 2009 was a write-off, but I was back in late May 2010 to see Athlone 2 Salthill 0, on a night when the crowd was 104 (John drove us) and it showered hailstones, almost obscuring the lines. Declan, now living among the quality in Dalkey, took me to the UCD bowl to see St Pat’s win 3-1. Every spectator was given free Lynx shower gel; a quick downpour saw some of the more foolish Inchicorians attempting an al fresco wash and brush up. 2011 was an example of bad planning, with only Bray 1 Sligo 4 on the agenda, though I did manage to be privy to a conversation between Roddy Collins and Tom. It’s debatable who talked the most sense, or bollocks…

In 2012, I came over at the start of June and took in a game at Sligo; the Under 21s lost 3-1 to Italy, who included NUFC’s Davide Santon. Immediately I got home, I decided to take my son Ben over in August to see the old country; we’d arranged to fly from Newcastle to Cork, arriving on Friday tea time, giving us time to get to Turners Cross for the game against St Pat’s. Typically enough, St Pat’s were still in the Europa League qualifiers, which as you know happen almost weekly in July and August, so the game was postponed and a friendly against Blackburn Rovers pencilled in. Typically, that was moved to the Saturday night, when we’d headed up country, to watch Cork v Galway in the hurling semi-finals at Croker on the Sunday, my birthday. We lost.  On the Monday, Ben, Declan and I (John refuses to watch Shams having been employed by South Dublin Council for so long and understanding their funding) met Chris from Donabate in The Ha’penny Bridge Inn before heading to Tallaght for the game with Sligo Rovers. It was a decent 1-1 draw, but Declan saw none of it. After getting fired into the pints, he fell asleep at kick off and only woke up with about 10 minutes to go. A memorable evening, or perhaps not.

I didn’t make it over in 2013 as I had to deal with my elderly mam going into a care home and all the hassles to do with selling property, but I was back in 2014. I’d persuaded John and Declan that a trip to Wexford to see the Youths take on Shams B was what we needed to do. The lads in pink won 2-0, I got to meet Mick Wallace and share a bottle of his special red wine (no VAT obviously), while singing the praises of Clare Daly and Boyd Barrett and slagging off those chancers Joe Higgins and Paul Murphy, then we had a grand night out in some craft ale palace. I don’t think the taxi man was over enamoured by me playing the greatest hits of Pecker Dunne on my phone at 4am though. Next day, in the teeth of the worst hangover in my life, we went to Tullamore to see the GAA 4A (or was it 4B?) games; Cork beat Sligo and Galway beat Tipperary, so everyone was happy and the President was there. At full time, Declan bailed out for home, but John and I are made of sterner stuff, which is how we kept it going for the Sunday night in Dundalk, as they took Bray to pieces 4-0, when the artificial pitch was a necessity as about six inches of rain came down during the game. The highlight for me was seeing the ubiquitous Tom singing along to Three Pubs in Bohola at half time.

So; 2015. I did contemplate a trip over for June 12^th, but whether that would have been Drogheda (still not been to Hunky Dorys you see) against Derry or Cabinteely versus Athlone, became immaterial as I couldn’t get over. Thankfully, late July is booked for a trip down the country, as there’s still Cork, Cobh, Limerick and Waterford to tick off my list. I’ll keep you posted.

Principles and Scoundrels

Social media has been righteously frothing at its collective mouth over the Labour Party’s abject abandonment of its history, principles and natural constituency on Monday 20^th July with Harriet Harman’s craven capitulation to the Tories’ abhorrent Welfare Bill.  Make no mistake; this was Labour’s worst and most serious betrayal of the working class and all the weakest sections of society since Ramsey MacDonald’s formation of the National Government in 1931. 

The fact that 48 Labour MPs ignored the loathsome instruction to abstain and voted against the imminent reintroduction of childhood poverty as a de facto part of contemporary life and not some kind of specious lifestyle choice, is not something to be celebrated; it should be something we must never forgive the rest of the parliamentary party for. However, even if Kendall, Cooper or Burnham wins the leadership, such simpering cowardice is not something to despair about; over 50,000 people have joined the Labour Party since the election and we, the newly recruited, must stand alongside the activists who despair at the arrogance, selfishness and / or cowardice of elected representatives, to rescue this great party and steer it back towards principled Socialism and away from venerating the idea of government and electoral success as an end in itself. These careerist lickspittles have no place in the Labour Party as a whole, never mind the parliamentary party; activists and recruits must work together to drive them out.

No doubt when the votes were counted, Kinnock senior would have been rejoicing at his son’s abstention, though how Tony Benn would view his offspring’s dereliction of duty is a moot point. Here in the North East region, I was not surprised at the craven conformism of my own MP Nick Brown; if there was one person you’d rely on to slavishly follow Harman’s idiotic decision, it would be him.  I was surprised, nay shocked, at Ronnie Campbell’s abstention, but apparently he was already absent on parliamentary business, so an apology is granted. Many congratulations to Ian Mearns, Mary Glindon, Ian Lavery and Dave Anderson; they had the conscience, the principles and the awareness of what is morally right, to vote against that despicable bill.

Of course, there is one notable absentee from the Tyneside MPs who showed they cared; considering she represents some of the most deprived parts of this country, I am absolutely disgusted with Chi Onwurah’s abstention. Despite a mealy-mouthed unconvincing attempt to justify her conduct on her website, I simply cannot understand how her conscience allowed her to abandon her constituents in this manner. I wonder just exactly how she squares endorsing Jeremy Corbyn for leader with her inaction on July 20^th. Of course, there have been other recent incidences of Chi’s refusal to accept the consequences of her deeds and wholly mendacious press releases attempting to justify her actions. Is Chi actually the campaigning, principled constituency MP that she aspires to be, or is she an unprincipled opportunist who would make Alan Milburn look like Konni Zilliacus? I think Chi needs a period of sober reflection on the impact of her actions. Then an abject apology to all party members and constituents would go some way to distancing, though not absolving, her from this shameful, collective dereliction of principles. The disconnect between ordinary party members and the parliamentary party is becoming a yawning chasm; it is not unbridgeable, but it must be addressed immediately.

Interestingly, the very people who were most unhappy with Labour for abandoning their principles seemed to be the ones most vigorously excoriating West Brom’s James McClean for standing by his.  Having recently signed for the Baggies from Wigan, his first game for his new club was a friendly on the club’s USA tour. As seems to be the way in America, the game was prefaced by the national anthems; McClean, an Ireland international from Derry (and I use that word very consciously, not just because it is the term favoured by 90% of those dwelling on the island of Ireland), bowed his head and looked away from the flags while the two songs played. The result was a slavering cyber shitstorm of painfully uninformed comment from those who know little of the historical situation on the Foyle and understand even less.

McClean came to prominence playing for Derry City in the League of Ireland.  However, he actually played first of all for Institute, Stroke City’s second club, who were formed as The Presbyterian Working Men's Institute, before stepping up to a higher grade of football, or as he probably calls it; soccer. McClean came from a nationalist background, lived in a nationalist area and made his presence felt for a team imbued with a nationalist philosophy that was no doubt honed by the bitter sectarian experiences that saw Derry kicked out of the (Northern) Irish League in the early 70s, only gaining admittance to the southern L of I in 1985. Everything that McClean was taught in school, in his community, by those he grew up with and around, would have been totally at variance to the accepted British educational and media-driven narrative as regards the causes and consequences of The Troubles. If you think Derry City football club were hard done by, try to familiarise yourself with what the citizens of Derry had to endure for the thick end of 30 years. Now such an ideological baseline is of absolutely no consequence at all when playing in the League of Ireland, though I have heard Shamrock Rovers’ fans singing “your next queen is Camilla Parker Bowles” to Derry fans.

The question of McClean’s ideological, political and cultural beliefs only came to prominence when he moved across the water to join sunderland, though he had gained minor notoriety when he turned down the chance to represent Northern Ireland versus The Faeroes a week before his transfer. McClean said he would prefer to wait for the Republic of Ireland to select him.  Despite being born in Derry, McClean has the right, like all citizens of the six counties in the north of Ireland, to choose between British or Irish passports, nationality and (theoretically in 99.9% of cases) which country’s football team to represent. While he was signed by Steve Bruce in August 2011, it was only after the arrival of Martin O’Neill that McClean made his debut for sunderland in December that year.

For the next 11 months, things went sparklingly for McClean, even if the “Party with Marty” revolution on Wearside never actually happened. McClean won international honours and was feted by supporters of the Wearside club, until his decision on 10 November 2012, not to wear a special club shirt that included a Remembrance Day poppy motif.  The intolerant British social trend of rampant militarism and conspicuous patriotism that began with the Iraq War, whereby the veneration of servicemen acts as a decoy from any serious examination of the causes and effects of such imperialistic foreign policy, means that the ruling class through their media partners, have created a climate whereby any questioning of the accepted narrative is seen as an assault on the supposed accepted truism that soldiers are heroes. Never has the concept of false consciousness been better illustrated and, as a pacifist, I feel deeply uncomfortable with this state of affairs.

McClean was subject to death threats on social media, poison pen letters and the obloquy of his own supporters. Effectively Martin O’Neill’s departure saw McClean out on his ear, resulting in a transfer to Wigan Athletic. Of course, the wheel continues to turn and McClean’s international manager is none other than that other famous son of County Derry, who actually opted to play for Northern Ireland during his own playing career, Martin O’Neill.

The move to Wigan was not a success and after 2 largely unproductive seasons, Tony Pulis has thrown McClean a lifeline with what will undoubtedly be his last chance of a regular game in the Premier League. It appears that the presence he showed in his early days with sunderland has not been built on and, at the age of 26, his career is now at the crossroads. Certainly, it would probably be beneficial for him if he could make his headlines for his on-field displays rather than his political beliefs. In saying this, it must be recognised that McClean comes from a background that would make it highly difficult for him to be accepted if he had either worn a poppy or stood to attention for the British anthem. Roy Keane, Ireland’s assistant manager remember, states in his latest autobiography that he had no respect for Irish players he saw singing “God Save The Queen.” That’s Roy Keane of course; more rational people may have a less extreme attitude to this; or to anything really. Being serious, McClean comes from a city where the scars of The Troubles and particularly the events of Bloody Sunday have not and may never heal. To conform would be seen as collaboration, resulting in serious problems for his family. Whether it was deep rooted convictions or awareness driven by peer pressure, I am not surprised at all by McClean’s actions. As an aside, if he played for Celtic, would anyone have been surprised?

An interesting contrast with McClean would be Newcastle’s Shane Ferguson, also a native of County Derry. Born ironically on 12^th July, Ferguson is also from a nationalist background, but from the small, quiet and relatively peaceful country town of Limavady, approximately 20 miles east of Derry. His initial refusal to commit to playing for Northern Ireland, reputedly ignoring then manager Nigel Worthington’s phone calls, as a full international in 2011 is what gave McClean the opportunity to play for NI that he turned down. While The Troubles were a fact of life when Ferguson was growing up, it wasn’t a doorstep, daily reality in the way it was for McClean, who was raised in the Creggan estate. Perhaps this is why Ferguson opted to play for Northern Ireland and, quite incredibly actually, went on loan to Glasgow Rangers for the second half of last season, though he only played twice for them.

In many ways, Ferguson would have had to wrestle with his conscience to agree to that move far more than McClean would have to wear a poppy. When it comes to international allegiances, it would have been far easier for McClean to choose the Republic than it would have been for Ferguson to choose the North. Remember, those claiming McClean ought not to be making his living “in this country” are actually denying someone who could opt to be a British citizen from expressing their basic democratic right to freedom of speech, however unpalatable you find his actions.

Such nuances are a fact of life when discussing any aspect of life in Northern Ireland, or at least they used to be when I lived there. People would routinely ask each other on first meeting what school they went to, what their mother’s maiden name was and even if they had any middle names, to try and establish which tribe someone belonged to. As an outsider, I thought such questioning nonsensical and beyond parody, but living there you came to understand the particular mindset of the times. It probably wasn’t somewhere you’d want to have lived from about 1969 to 1998, though I loved it there as it helped me to recognise that all concepts of flags, anthems, borders and nationalities actually create divisions among people and, idealistic though it may be, you have to wonder what place these anachronisms have in the modern world.

That said, I’ll still be standing for and inaccurately singing Amhrán na bhFiann before the hurling quarter finals at Semple Stadium on Sunday.

The Glorious Twelfth

The second weekend in July was busy. Friday night offered the opportunity of watching Newcastle United’s first pre-season friendly away to Gateshead. £15 entry put me off that one though. The Mouth of the Tyne Festival started and the appalling Paul Heaton headlined and if the entry fee had been 15p I wouldn’t have wasted it on him. However I did go down  on the bike to check out support act I Am Kloot, who were fun, or at least as much fun as you can have standing at the top of King Eddy’s Bay steps looking at a giant screen half a mile away.  What I’d really hoped to be doing on Friday was attending a public meeting at Blakelaw Club, where Dennis Skinner was scheduled to be the keynote speaker. Sadly, Dennis was indisposed, which I hope isn’t code for a serious health problem, and had to cancel this and his proposed appearance at the Big Meeting on the Saturday.

I used to go to the Big Meeting as a kid, but hadn’t been for decades until two years ago, when I carried my union’s banner from the market place to the race course in a journey that took nigh on 3 hours; it was a privilege and an honour. Sadly, last year and this I’ve had to pass on attending the greatest annual gathering of working class culture in the north, in order to play in a pre-season friendly for Winstons, ironically against Blakelaw Club. Good game yesterday morning, and then a superb one in the afternoon as Benfield walloped Frickley Athletic 4-1. I even took in a bit of cricket at Jesmond as County Club went down by 2 wickets to Durham Academy, before Laura and I stepped out to listen to The Specials at Mouth of the Tyne. They weren’t bad, a bit safe and predictable, but we met some friends we’ve not seen in a while and had a decent drink. The subsequent late night meant I decided against getting up for the Labour leadership hustings; anyway, I’d only have been thrown out for heckling Liz Kendall (she carried the RMT banner at the Big Meeting you realise; sometimes the truth is beyond parody). Instead, Laura and I went along to the Irish Centre, on Orangeman’s Day, for a public meeting where the speaker was leadership candidate Jeremy Corbyn (and to see Tipp beat the Deise in the Munster final as well).

Jeremy Corbyn was brilliant; inspirational, logical, reasoned and humble. There were 350 people in a packed room; young old, long time activists and those new to the party, who were all drawn to attend by a shared belief in social justice, equality and the reanimation of the Labour Party, based on the ideas held as normal during the post war social democratic consensus. Jeremy Corbyn is a fine man and he believes passionately in Socialism; hell, he even recited Clause 4.  I will feel energised to vote for him and would rejoice if he were elected. You see, in the wake of the election disaster, I have belatedly come to realise that the Labour Party are our only hope and that we must rescue the party to correct the terrible evils being visited upon ordinary working people, young and old, by the wicked policies of the Tories.

Consequently, one of the first things I did on the morning of May 8^th when I woke late, hungover and in despair at the prospect of 5 more years of Cameron and his cronies was to re-join the Labour Party. It would be inaccurate to say my membership had simply lapsed, as the last year I had paid my annual subs would have been 1984. Why did I leave? Well, partly it was absolute disgust with Kinnock’s point blank refusal to back the NUM during the strike; partly it was because I’d grown up and moved away from the Militant dominated Felling ward in the Gateshead East constituency that I was unfortunate enough to have been born in, but mainly it was because I read Socialist Standard and realised that the nonsensical, reformist Leninist belief in vanguardism that brainwashed, social inadequate Militant zealots endlessly parroted (when they weren’t trying to bleed people dry for the “fighting fund”) was plain wrong. If I realised this aged 19, how come others as intelligent as me have wasted their lives in blind, obsequious devotion to Peter Taaffe’s Leninist vanity project? It’s tragic to see the waste of talent poured down the drain in unblinking devotion to “the organisation” that perpetuates gross distortions of Marxist thought, while simultaneously controlling every thought, every action and even the personal lives of weak, foolish adherents.

Immediately I understood the full meaning of the declaration of principles of the Socialist Party of Great Britain, I realised I had found an explanation for how the world could be transformed. The SPGB vision didn’t involve autocratic, absolutist leaders requiring disciples to fund the lavish lifestyles of the vanguard’s dynastic super elite. It didn’t involve violence. It didn’t involve venerating workerism to the extent that adopting anti-sexist, anti-homophobic anti-racist attitudes was seen as evidence of being “sectarian” and “middle-class” or, worst of all, “undialectical” by “comrades” (yes, they still call themselves that, without a scintilla of irony).  Since that day in summer 1984, I have described myself as a supporter of the SPGB, rather than a member. Sadly, I’ve come to accept that my party political activity over the past 30 years has been an abject failure. Not just my activity, every single one of us who stood outside the Labour Party since the late 60s onwards. Instead of uniting in the only organisation capable of harnessing and mobilising mass working class support and activism, we’ve wasted decades on snide ad hominem abuse, internecine warfare and irrelevant recondite theorising. It is still happening; Owen Jones suffers the vilest slander from Militants, simply because he turned away from the grotesque parody of a “revolutionary party” he was born into. The fact is this, despite venal claims that “somebody has to be right,” which I still believe is the SPGB, we are no closer to changing society than we were the day my Labour Party membership expired.

Ultimately, while I know the SPGB and other companion parties in the World Socialist Movement are correct in their analysis of capitalism and the failings of the so-called revolutionary left in Britain, especially the Trot factions, my sense of reality, honed through many years of trade union activism, does not allow me to sacrifice pragmatism for impossibilist theory, however alluring. I cannot  fully accept the SPGB position, which states that Socialists need to be equally hostile to all other parties or to remain indifferent as to the need to strive for the best possible conditions for our members, as piecemeal reforms apparently do nothing other than perpetuate the wage system within capitalism. As regards the first of these positions, I’ve taken every single opportunity to cast my vote to the left of Labour over the past 30 years, believing that  impossibilism needs to be tempered with gestures of opposition, however small or even futile. This means I’ve voted variously for: SPGB, Respect, Communist, Green and once, to my utter shame and regret, for TUSC; though in defence I was voting for myself. Not one of them has won; they’ve almost invariably finished bottom of the poll and the lot of the working classes under capitalism has not been improved one iota.

Despite such voting history, I’ve never been entirely comfortable with the idea that everyone in the Labour Party was inherently evil. Up here, most of our MPs, bar the repugnant Nick Brown, are pretty good. In October 2011 I went to London on union business to meet Mary Glindon in the House of Commons. As it was half term, I took Ben down with me. He’s a Socialist by breeding and instinct, so when Mary took us out onto the terrace and we met Dennis Skinner, it made Ben’s day. When we were introduced I said to Dennis he’d always been a hero of mine. He expressed thanks but also announced “we must avoid the cult of personality. Ideas are what matters.” The power with which he delivered these words mesmerised Ben, who says that was the moment his political die was cast. I’m proud to say my son became part of the Labour Party a few days after the election as well; like 50,000 others. I doubt all the other left wing parties in the country combined will have 10% of that total. To me, this is incontrovertible proof that our movement must be a synoym for the Labour Party; to be outside of it is a futile gesture destined to result in the political and social wilderness.  Socialists openly laugh at the antics of the Militant cult; it’s the brainwashed zealots who’ve wasted their lives in unquestioning devotion that I feel sympathy for.

When I first heard of TUSC, I was naively enthused by the idea of a left of Labour coalition, probably because Bob Crow had just died and I’d found his speech at the Big Meeting in 2013 utterly inspirational, as I still saw some merit in the idea of a “new” party for workers. Of course if Bob, whose union RMT had a policy of forming a new workers’ party to replace Labour, were around today, he’d be appalled by the behaviour of Militant. I’m sure he would not want any dealings with the bizarre Leninist cult under the dictatorial rule of Kim-il Taaffe who have hijacked TUSC. Militant are still in the business of being the Trot equivalent of the Moonies or Jim Jones and the People’s Temple; ruining people’s lives by destroying their ability to think or act independently. It’s tragic and terrifying and incredibly dangerous for the kinds of weak and inadequate people, who are preyed on by the Trots with mendacious promises of jam yesterday. Before I realised a Militant leopard never changes its spots, I stood as a TUSC candidate in the Dene ward for Newcastle City Council in 2014 and polled 180 votes, which was 6% of the total vote; it wasn’t an earthquake, but it was a respectable showing I thought. Contrast it with the fact TUSC got 170 (0.2%) votes in Newcastle East at the general election, when fielding the Liverpudlian Leninist’s second most unquestioning devotee.  That was not just a disappointing result; it was pathetic. It was humiliating for those who continue to pretend, or even believe (if they’ve been controlled sufficiently by the Walton Wehrmacht) that Militant are revolutionary. Or even relevant.

The general election result, with particular focus on TUSC’s farcical flatlining, made me rethink my whole political approach. Did I support the ideas and philosophy of the SPGB? Definitely yes. Could I see myself spending another 30 years outside of the Labour Party arguing the SPGB’s case considering how little had been achieved over the previous decades? Definitely no. The simple and unavoidable truth is this; even now, the Labour Party is our only realistic hope. It is our party. It is the party of the working class, the party of trade unions and trade unionists, the only party ever to have granted us concessions to make life under capitalism bearable. Universal free healthcare. A cradle to grave welfare state that protects the weak. A party that seeks to make society fair. To make citizens healthy, educated, securely housed, suitably and gainfully employed, regardless of ethnicity, nationality, class, creed or sexuality.  The Labour Party did all these things in the past and it still exists; the structure is in place to reform the party from within. If enough of us get active, we can transform the party and make it a crusading mass, Socialist party that includes all manner of left wing opinion. The terrible mistakes of the failed New Labour experiment need to be learned from. 

This country needs massive investment in social housing, education, health care and welfare benefits. It does not need Trident or to reward devious, rapacious banking criminals. The only way we can possibly hope to turn the country round again is to involve ourselves in reforming the Labour Party, wresting it back from idiots like Liz Kendall (blaming the Greek situation on the people for electing “extremists” for fuck’s sake!!) and ensuring Labour stands on a socially inclusive, socially just and broadly Socialist platform in 2020. That will be so much easier if Jeremy Corbyn is our leader. Join the Labour Party if you support him and lead the fightback for our class against the evils of society.

No Redemption

On July 1st, something astonishing happened to me. A panel of distinguished medical professionals made the announcement that, in their judgement, I should be protected under the 2010 Equality Act (replacing the 2005 Disability Discrimination Act) as I have been suffering from a medical condition so severe that it has had a profound, repeated and long term effect on my life in the past, does so in the present and, as far as can be reasonably foreseen, will continue to do so in the future. While I would never seek to define myself as disabled, this judgement means that I am, legally, a vulnerable adult, which is a status I will bear for the rest of my life in all probability.

My condition is related to my mental health. As a result of the repeated physical and sexual abuse I suffered as a child from my father and other men in my close family and his friendship group, as well as my mother and one other female, I have spent my entire life plagued by feelings of worthlessness and inadequacy, with an unshakeable belief I’d be better off dead, that have profoundly affected my interactions with both genders.  As the report says -:

Ian recognises that many men frighten him, particularly if they are confident “alpha male” individuals, as he perceives them as potentially aggressive or confrontational. He describes his feelings of fear when close to such individuals as overwhelming. His levels of anxiety remain high. In my opinion, these are connected to trauma he experienced as a child which has left him with long standing and deeply entrenched feelings of low self-esteem, poor self-confidence, lack of personal value and rage. The key to Ian’s recovery will be his capacity to unlearn ingrained responses and negative patterns of thought that he has lived with and repeated for decades and consistently and reliably replace them with positive, adult alternatives. These will take practice.

To reiterate; I do not see myself as disabled, but having endured serious bouts of mental ill health from the age of 16 onwards, I am delighted that I have medical and legal protection, to help me move forward. The realisation that I have a long-standing fear of aggressive, confrontational males explains almost everything in my life so far. I have always sought to have the last word and stand up to what I perceive is bullying, not with my fists but with words, as I see something of my father and the repeated years of vile abuse he inflicted on me. It is something I’ve never been particularly successful with.

This explanation, which I will need to explore further in the years of psychotherapy that lie ahead, occurred to me when cycling through from High Heaton to Tynemouth, as I tried to count up just how many people I have ever been engaged in some sort of ultimately meaningless on-line and real life feud with.  You’ll not be surprised to know I lost count, though the most crucial points to note about these people is that they’re either fans of Newcastle United, non-league football, or both, or they’re related to me. Generally they are working class and aggressive as well.

I’ve been here before.  I had my first episode of mental ill health in 1981, when I attempted to take my life because I could not endure any more abuse from my parents and their circle. All I ever wanted in my early life was protection, or intervention; many people in my extended family knew of the abuse (indeed several of them were enthusiastic participants in it), but not one of them sought to protect me. On being discharged from hospital, with bandaged wrists and a burning throat from reflux occasioned by the stomach pump  used to get the tablets I’d taken out of my system, my father beat me up in the Queen Elizabeth car park. Back in the house he smashed my head off the television stand and hit me in the testicles with a golf putter. Ever wondered why I’m terrified of bald men? I’ve not even mentioned the time he punched me so hard it broke the fence between our house and next door when I crashed through it.

My previous episode of mental ill health began in 1994 when I learned I was to become a father, as received wisdom held at that time that all those who were abused become abusers. Thankfully, I have broken the circle and have been a good father to my son, though I believe it took until 1999 for me to recover sufficiently to function as human being, which was when I left Newcastle, forever or so I thought at the time. What I have come to realise is that I’ve never really recovered and have always been at a constant, though fluctuating, level of mental illness; hence why the Equality Act applies to me.

Back in 1994, I wanted to die; I really did. I had just turned 30 and I found the world to be empty, meaningless and utterly without value. I hated myself and my life; had profound feelings of failure and self-loathing, repeatedly thought of death as the only escape. This was, to those on the outside, baffling and inexplicable as I had it good; newly married to a wonderful woman, soon to be a father, living in a nice house, with a good job and a wide circle of friends. However, I simply couldn’t cope; the pervasive sense of my worthlessness (ingrained by years of abuse) made me feel like I was an imposter and I wanted to escape. I wanted to stop being me. Believe me, I tried. Despite the love, support and help of those around me, not to mention medical intervention that extended as far as psychiatry and psychotherapy, all that was good about my life melted away. It took until the late spring of 1999 when I finally accepted that I didn’t need to die. I may have been worthless, evil and beneath contempt, in the eyes of both me and many people who knew me, but I deserved to live a while longer, though how and where was another question.

In the last Summer of the Millennium, marked by a total solar eclipse  on my 35^th  birthday, I had divested myself of my family, my job, my home, most of my friends and my season ticket and taken myself across the Irish Sea for a month to try and gain a sense of perspective on my next move. The inescapable conclusion I came to was that I needed to disappear and turn the lights out on my past, forever. I returned home to make a funeral pyre of all the tatty emotional wreckage of my life. Before getting away forever, or so I thought, I wrote what appeared to be a social suicide note that appeared in The Sunday Sun on September 12^th 1999. Many people would have preferred to slip silently away, but my trademark lack of control and judgement, as well as an almost pathological need to be hated by others to reflect my own self-loathing, meant I felt compelled towards making a grand, futile gesture. I did this as I wanted it to mark a complete and total break with the past and all my previous relationships and connections on Tyneside. Nobody ever started on me for writing this, but it went down rather badly with a whole raft of NUFC fans when, much to my amazement, I arrived back in Newcastle and had to face up to it.

Now, almost 16 years on, it’s out the closet again, in the shape of a series of complaints against me, some of which have merit, though others are fanciful nonsense, that resulted in me being summoned to attend a tribunal of NUST committee members to discuss these allegations. It appeared I may have been expelled from an organisation I joined voluntarily and to which I paid an annual subscription of £10. Do I have any defence for my words? No. Do I wish it had not been made public again? Obviously. Anything to say in mitigation? Not really; it was stupid and ill-judged, but when I wrote it, I knew what my motivations were for saying those things. Did I mean them? Of course not; I’m sure even then anyone who knew me could understand my bizarre motivation. The impact I’d wanted was to leave a mark in the consciousness of all those who knew me, as I prepared to depart Newcastle forever on the 6am train to Kings Cross on Saturday 18^th September 1999 (next stop Orient 0 Torquay 2). I hated myself (I’ve always had next to zero self-esteem and can’t remember a time in my life when I didn’t loathe and despise myself) and wanted everyone else to hate me too. While I’m disappointed at this letter becoming public knowledge again, I would wonder who hasn’t said something foolish or ill-judged a decade and a half ago.

That sunny morning, as I kissed my son and my soon to be ex-wife goodbye on the platform, I thought I was saying farewell forever, as I didn’t imagine for one second that I was ever coming back. But I did come back and, somehow, I rebuilt my life. I had 3 peripatetic years of being vulnerably housed and vulnerably employed, living out of holdalls in towns and cities where I knew no-one and could live anonymous and ignored; London, Dublin, Bournemouth, Oxford, Slough and York, which felt like coming home almost.

Serendipitously, I returned, which was the right thing to do; the young boy who’d just started reception when I waved him goodbye was coming up 7 and had been bitten by the Newcastle United bug. He needed me in his life and I needed him in mine; I haven’t been a perfect father by any stretch of the imagination, but I’ve loved him unconditionally and I’m very proud of the way he has turned out. In time, I got a new home, a new job, a new partner and reconciled myself with many members of my family as well as a section of my old friends, who’ll tell you what a nice bloke I am. I recognise, accept and regret that there’s a horrible, nasty, unpleasant Mr Hyde side to my personality that makes me reviled and hated for the horrible things I’ve said and done to a whole range of people who’ve done nothing other than disagree with me, or prevent me from having my own way, either on line or in real life.

In essence, I respond badly to anyone standing up to me; I always have to be right and I always have to have the last word. Emotionally, I am still the little boy who suffered years of abuse from my parents and other men and women in my extended family, as well as my father’s network. The only way I found to “cope,” or so I mistakenly thought, was to try and outdo the strong men I feared so much. I tried to “stand up” for myself, by dishing out abuse, in a horrible way and seemingly without any awareness or insight, much less care, for the other person’s emotions. Consequently, the wave of obloquy and approbation I was forced to endure seems part of a perfect storm where all my chickens have come home to roost, at the very time I would hope to be able to avoid any further conflict. Trouble is; I’m reaping what I sowed. During the period 2002 to 2007, I was a keyboard terrorist, inhabiting the fetid waters of messageboards in the time before Twitter came on the scene.

Why did I behave in a manner that would appal and disgust anyone who knew me? Either because I am genetically and inherently evil, or because my ability to deal with stress and conflict had not recovered from the 1994-1999 episode of mental ill-health. I found that I couldn’t rationalise or gain any sort of perspective in cyber space; I simply could not allow anyone to have the last word and would not allow what I saw as illogicality or stupidity to go unchallenged. This brought me endless hours, days, months of conflict and a massive array of grudges and feuds with people in front of keyboards elsewhere in the world. These people were not real to me; it was as if I was arguing with a machine, like some kind of weird game of verbal chess. Not for one second did I contemplate these people had opinions or feelings; all I was concerned about was me getting the last word. At the time, I felt it was a way of dealing with stress, which was crazy. Why didn’t I go for a walk or read a book? I don’t know; perhaps I was almost addicted to both the internet and to conflict. In effect, what I was actually doing to my mental health was adding to my stress levels and upsetting innocent people. I said some vile things to supporters of various teams and eventually, once I gained an insight into the very real effect it could have on people after I was attacked in The Bodega by a Newcastle United fan, in front of my son, I began to extricate myself in late February 2007, though the scars and relics of my terrible legacy of bile still exist. I have no defence about this set of activities either.

Now, I’d guess at some level I’ve always been argumentative, or disputatious about anything and everything; music, politics and books are as important to me as football and the interpretation of such topics is obviously far more contentious and personal than the events of a football match. This is presumably why I’ve always been enduringly fascinated by the sociological and political aspects of football culture, rather than the actual minutiae of how the game is played. Because I’ve spent so much of my life discussing recondite interpretations of literary texts with other effete bourgeois pseudo intellectuals, this is why I’ve always struggled to deal with ordinary, working class men. This attitude may sound simply like snobbery, but I’m convinced it has a clear psychological basis in the fact I am unconsciously standing up to my late father, who repeatedly abused me up to the age of 21.

My father was a weak man; a violent, dictatorial bully who treated me like a dog. He made it clear he owned me; I had no right to personal freedom, in a physical or mental sense. Certainly these days his conduct and that of his co-abusers would not have been tolerated in normal society. They would be in jail.  He never allowed me to have opinions of my own, he belittled every single aspect of my life and he assaulted on a weekly basis, but I forgave him because he was coerced into this behaviour by my mam, whose sexual abuse of me is simply too horrific for me to detail here, and because I had no choice but to love him. It occurred to me that there may be some dreadful relevance to the fact that the other female who sexually abused me on the instructions of my mother, organised for my parents to stay at the infamous Dolphin Square complex several times in the 1990s and early 2000s. This female also went on record, saying the following -:

1.  November 2, 2011 at 2:03 pm # 

   Sir Jimmy Savile was an early influence on me. I noted his connection to Stoke Mandeville Hospital when I was four. I didn’t realise he fundraised for the hopsital. I thought he was a doctor and was impressed by the way he held down two jobs: doctor and DJ! Sir Jim inspired me to declare “when I grow up I want to be a ballerina nurse!” I wanted to entertain as well as look after patients in hospital.

Bearing this is mind, it is no surprise that our corner of Felling was infused by Stockholm Syndrome. Relatively late in his life, my dad and I were reconciled and he was a wonderful grandfather, but the damage had been done on my psyche. My entire life has been blighted by the abuse I suffered. It seems obvious to me that the reason I seek out conflict with strong, aggressive male types, often in authority, is because I see in them something of my father and I suppose I am unconsciously expecting to suffer the same kind of abuse as I suffered for the first couple of decades of my life. Because all I knew in my childhood was hatred, intimidation and aggression; all I understand is hatred and aggression. Because I hate myself, I behave in a way that invites those I find myself in conflict with to also hate me.

My dad died the day after Bobby Robson and was buried on the day before my 45^th birthday, 10 years after my infamous letter in The Sunday Sun. The day of the funeral, I promised my mother I’d look after her and she’d never end up in care. At first, my mam did really well to look after herself, but by 2011 it became clear she was getting old and needed help. She may have been a monster of a parent; an evil, perverted, callous sociopath, but she was the only mother I was ever going to have. I didn’t forgive her (I never will), but I put it to the back of my mind and dedicated myself to helping her, in her absence of any other living relatives prepared to talk to her. 

The situation was exacerbated by her living in Swalwell and me at the coast, but not driving. I did my best, triangulating three times a week between Tynemouth, High Heaton and Swalwell, often by bicycle, but I was fighting a losing battle. Back then I really ought to have sought help for her, in terms of carers and me, in terms of support groups or social services, but I struggled along. Now I wish I hadn’t; instead of putting on a brave face in the real world and a sneering scowl on line, I should have had the self-awareness to call a halt to things and ask for help. Unfortunately, when one is mentally ill, self-awareness is in scant supply. For almost the entire period since my mother started to need a higher level of care, I feel as if I have not been in control of how I live my life. Ironically, it has taken until that same state of affairs has involved my mother before I am able to start addressing the enormity of the problems I have. Now she lives in a secure nursing home with a sea view on the border of Cullercoats and Whitley Bay. I hope she is happy there. I am sure I will never fully know if she is or not.

I am now faced with the task of saying goodbye to someone who is not dead; someone with whom I had a difficult and fractious relationship for most of my life. Someone who will never, ever apologise to me for all the terrible things she did to me, because she doesn’t (or didn’t) feel she did anything wrong. She told me that as my mother, she was entitled to use inappropriate sexual contact with me as a means of control. Grief and loss are profound emotions; ones that affect the strongest of personalities. Those of you reading this who have already been there will presumably understand what I’m talking about. It would be fair to say my relationship with my mother was made by my dad’s death. Since then, we’ve learned to love and respect each other, in a way that hadn’t been possible before, though I will never be able to reconcile the encouragement she gave to my father when he abused me and the level of sexual satisfaction she gained from observing him abusing me, or her own actions, performed for her own sexual gratification as well as my utter and absolute humiliation. The other female involved in the sexual abuse with my mother did so for reasons of my mother’s control over her, rather than her own sexual gratification. However, I am now considering, in the light of the Crown Prosecution Service's decision to revisit the case of Sir Greville Janner, whether I ought to inform the police of the sexual abuse I endured from my mother and her accomplice. My father and all of the men in his circle, or so I understand, are dead and thus beyond prosecution.

At the same time as I attempted to grasp the enormity of my mother’s departure and my own health problems, every single thing I’ve done wrong over the past however many years has been regurgitated. The motivation for this is  a moot point and in many ways irrelevant. Certainly it isn’t very pleasant to be on the receiving end, forced to face up to the consequences of my activities over the years, and it undoubtedly added to my stress levels and delayed my recovery as I lived in terror at the revelation of the next skeleton from my cupboard.

There is no point in explaining or defending my actions.  This is an end game. I offer no empty apologies and accept I have no option other than to resign from NUST, while continuing to receive medical and psychiatric help for my conditions, in the hope I can live out my remaining years as a more self-aware person. I am 50; I rebuilt my life once previously. I crave indulgence that I am not required to do so again.

Those who seek restitution in whatever form they wish may contact me via email on iancusack@blueyonder.co.uk or by phone