Monday 26 September 2016

Full Time

At the age of 52, I've just retired from 11-a-side football; here's why.....

On Sunday 10th June 2001, aged almost 37 and having spent two academic years working in Slovakia, as well as, more importantly, keeping goal for the expatriate Bratislava Academicals club, I flew home from Vienna via Brussels. The day before I’d scored a penalty in our last game of the season, an 8-2 victory over the Slovak Railway Police, which seemed as good a point to bow out as any. You see at that time, I believed I’d completed my last ever season of 11-a-side football, just shy of 27 years after making my competitive debut for Falla Park Juniors against High Felling, in a thoroughly convincing 7-1 win. I scored two goals on that September afternoon in 1974 and can still visualise them; both left footed, both from distance, the second in off the post.  I played up front in those days; did so until 1996 when I chucked in Sunday mornings after getting 2 red cards by the end of September. As a side-line, I had my interest in the small sided game, having taken up 5-a-side keeping in 1990 and loving it; I still do.

Memories don’t pay the bills though. Back on Tyneside, I was unemployed, vulnerably housed, recently divorced and the father of a 6 year old son, so securing paid employment and a permanent roof over my head were of more immediate concern than finding a team to play for. That said, I did pick up a couple of regular 5-a-side kickabouts each week, topped up with infrequent challenge matches at work. 

Consequently it was still something of a bolt from the blue when my workmate Hezza asked if I fancied a game in the North East Over 40s League in late summer 2005, as his team’s regular keeper was on holiday. Formed in 1979, the league consists of 5 divisions of 16 teams, extending from Richmond in North Yorkshire to Ashington in Northumberland, giving well over 1,000 blokes in their 40s, 50s, sometimes 60s and very occasionally 70s, the chance to play competitive football at 10.30 every Saturday morning for 8 months of the year, with the only concessions to age being 5 roll-on / roll-off substitutes and a truncation of the game to 80 minutes. This isn’t walking football; it’s a deadly serious business, where you have to provide proof of age before you can be registered.  Ringers and wrong’uns, as well as culpable secretaries, get sine die bans if caught. I’d been required to show both my passport and driving licence to prove my bona fides in advance of my debut.

So it was on Saturday 20th August 2005, over 4 years since I’d last stood in front of a full sized set of goals in a properly competitive context, I made my debut for Heaton Winstons in Division 4 of the Steels Over 40s League, away to The Welcome Inn at Blue House Fields in Hendon, Sunderland (the original home of SAFC in 1879 no less) and conceded half a dozen unanswered goals. We changed by the side of the pitch. New players were introduced to old campaigners in the warm up. The only person I knew was Hezza.  I was a bag of nerves, but couldn’t be blamed for any of the goals as the opposition, a right bunch of hairy arsed Mackem radgies, steamrollered us. At full time, everyone paid £4 subs and went to the pub. I loved every second of it, despite the result and had a considerably better time than I did at SJP later that afternoon, watching a stale 0-0 draw with West Ham.

The following week, with John the regular keeper still away, I kept my place as we went to top flight Cramlington Burton House in the whole league Villa Real Cup first round. This time I felt a little less terrified about playing, partly because we took the lead after about 15 seconds; I can still see skinny Robbie Morrow, a whippet of a winger, scampering down the touch line, then slinging in a cross for Brian Jones, a secondary school deputy head rather than his more exotic, iconic 60s namesake, to power a header home from the penalty spot. I made a couple of  smart stops, but their class told and we eventually lost 3-1, which was no disgrace.

Week 3; we are away again, this time in the League to Hartlepool Navy Club on a pitch absolutely decimated by mole activity. John the regular keeper is back, but it’s agreed we’ll play a half each. Tim, our bouffant-haired professional trombonist left back, takes a free kick on the halfway line. It sails into the box, lands on a molehill and proceeds to die, scuttling along the floor, before apologetically dribbling into the net. We’re still giggling about it at half time when we change round a goal up. Having had little or nothing to do, I go off for John, who I’m expecting to be some kind of latter day Sepp Maier considering the hushed tones in which he’s spoken of. He proceeds to concede 3 absolute jokes in 10 minutes, before we get a late consolation. The full time inquest concludes that, as we’ll be back to full strength next week once the holiday season is over, there’s no need for panic; especially as our manager Danny, an absolutely lovely bloke whose death in January 2011 is the one tragic event I’ve known with Winstons, is off on holiday for a month. This means our secretary steps in as boss; he’s called Dave and is a solicitor. John the keeper is a solicitor as well. Perhaps that’s why he shrugs off his howlers. Perhaps that’s why I get an email on the Friday evening saying thanks for my efforts, but that my services were no longer required. An offer was extended for me to meet up with everyone for a post-match drink on Saturday lunchtimes, ending with the caveat “but I suspect you have other things to do with your time.”

To say I was devastated by this brush-off was an understatement. The sense of rejection and crushing blow to my self-esteem was almost incalculable. I felt worthless and stupid for daring to assume I could actually dream of playing regular football again aged 41.  I went out and got absolutely plastered alone and cried myself to sleep, then tried to forget about it. Winstons lost 8-0 to Pennywell Comrades the next morning, but the result was immaterial.  About three weeks later, everything turned out nice again though; Danny was back from his holidays, heard about Dave’s dealings with me, then picked up the phone to extend a personal invite to rejoin the fold. He couldn’t promise me a game, but he said I deserved a place in the squad on merit. Of course I accepted his offer. Danny, that phone call is something I’ll be eternally grateful to you for my friend.

I immediately got into the routine of away games that autumn. For some bizarre reason, our pitch at Benfield School was unavailable until the New Year. Therefore my travelling companions became Rod the full back and Robbie the winger; a pair of displaced Mancunian reds. We’d set off from Robbie’s in Jesmond at 9, always listening to Sounds of the Sixties with Brian Matthew,  regularly getting lost and being hopelessly late in those pre Sat Nav days. The entire squad used to meet up at Washington Services  (A1) or the Echo building in Pennywell (A19) for our forays into deepest darkest Durham, Wearside or Teesside.  Memorably, we went to West Cornforth and got so hopelessly lost, we stopped at the first football field we could find, and then attempted to get changed in a Scout Hut at Ferryhill where the South West Durham Under 9s tournament was taking place. We avoided being placed on the Sex Offenders register, before finally arriving at the pitch in Mainsforth at about 11.15, to see their players lounging around on the floor and the ref practising his golf swing with a metal wood in the centre circle. I’m almost ashamed to say we won 2-0; mind I didn’t play. In fact got 2 more games in goal that whole season when John was on his February skiing break, though I found myself playing in a variety of outfield roles as an emergency substitute when we were severely depleted, on about a dozen occasions. That became my signature role; unused spare keeper, flag waving assistant ref and bit part sub. Meanwhile m’learned friend in nets conceded an average of 3 goals a game, at least one being a lob and another at his near post.

We finished 4th bottom that year and in a desire to improve out lot, Danny and Dave stepped aside from selection matters, in favour of Ash, who had been a player before my time. He’s a bit of a tactician Ash and he certainly had an effect on our league position. It got worse as in 2006/2007 when we secured the antepenultimate berth, though I did score my first and only competitive goal for Winstons and second one this millennium. Away to Peterlee Hearts of Oak, I was told to “make a nuisance of yourself up front.” Their full back was trying to run the clock down by knocking the ball back to his keeper when I intervened.  

Remembering the poor touches he’s displayed when fielding backpasses previously, anticipating the ball bouncing slightly higher than normal because of the hard pitch, feeling it hit the top of my right thigh and rolling free as the keeper fails to get it under control, taking a steadying touch with my right foot to take it away from him, then rolling it in to an empty net with my left instep from the angle of the six yard box, before running off behind the goal and punching the air with my left hand. Going in to injury time, we were now losing only 5-2.  It was one of the highlights of my life.

That summer, we went on a recruitment drive and signed some less than terrible players, such as Jules, Scoot and George, to finish 6th in 2007/2008. The tough thing about the bottom division is that each season a couple of new clubs, often from sizeable communities, such as Easington or Shildon, generally consisting of Sunday morning teams who have grown old together, join and more often than not, run away with the league, while teams higher up find they’re just too old to carry on and pack in. As a result occasionally more than 3 teams are promoted to fill up the gaps; in 07/08 the top 5 went up. We missed out by a point and it looked like our ship had sailed, as in the following years we finished 8th, 9th, 11th, 12th and 9th again. In all those seasons, bar an extended run in 08/09 when John was out injured from January onwards, I played a maximum of 6 games a season, but remained involved as webmaster, treasurer and linesman. I was the archetypal clubman; the spare keeper at one of the worst sides in the region. Dozens of players came and went; they retired or transferred, or just stopped coming without saying why, including Hezza who’d recruited me in the first place. The hardcore 15 were always there; if there were only a dozen of us, I’d still be the one on the touchline, but I didn’t care.

Why did I put up with this this? Because I loved it; I loved the sense of camaraderie and belonging it gave me. For the first time in my life, I felt fully secure and accepted in male company, despite having played for hopeless football teams all my life. Basically, while growing up I didn’t have a proper family experience, which is partly why I struggle with rejection, as I spent so many years being repeatedly told I was worthless by the monsters who were my parents. My dysfunctional childhood lead me towards searching out surrogate units with which to bond and Winstons, like the post punk music scene of the late 70s and early 80s, ultra-left wing political groupings and various writers co-operatives I’ve been involved with over the years, provided me with a safe haven. I was able to be myself and, in the main, to be accepted for who I was.  Of course, Winstons wasn’t a cult or a commune, it was a sports team and obviously I’m well aware of my limitations as a keeper. I’ve always prided myself on good reactions, safe handling and decent kicking, but I’m lousy in the air when it comes to crosses, susceptible to getting lobbed and ponderously slow, though I never considered myself the inferior of John in any way; however these limitations were outweighed by my willingness to help the club out, in whatever role, for as long as I was needed.

Summer 2013 saw a revolution at Winstons. We’d moved pitches firstly from the prohibitively expensive Benfield School, firstly to the sometimes swamplands, often dustbowl Paddy Freeman’s Fields in High Heaton and finally to the Bigges Main home of the legendary Wallsend Boys’ Club. A subtle change of name from Heaton to Wallsend Winstons enabled us to recruit half a dozen top quality, youngish players; blokes I’d paid money to watch in the Northern Alliance and Northern League. Fellas who’d turned out for my club Newcastle Benfield in the past, like Tom Rantoul who got 46 goals that season, the same as his strike partner Chris Arnott.  Wallsend lads, who looked upon it as an honour to represent their home town. One of the new arrivals was former Percy Main keeper Ian Hall; I couldn’t hold a candle to him. Sometimes you just know when it is time to go and I prepared for my imminent retirement with good grace. Suddenly John the keeper announced he “wasn’t standing on the touchline for anyone” and transferred to Mill View WMC, meaning I was able to resume my place as back-up keeper. Except Hally then broke his foot in our season-opening cup tie win over South Shields Catholic Club. This mishap meant was I was back between the posts for the next 8 games. Despite a catastrophic false start away to Hartlepool where we got blitzed 4-0, we won every subsequent game, scored loads and I had virtually nothing to do while deputising for The Halls.


That season, we roared to a league and cup double, winning the division by 27 points. The trophy was presented live on Football Focus, in a special edition from Wallsend Boys’ Club. To paraphrase Larkin, I’d never known success so whole and unexpected. Hally knew the score and would voluntarily go off to allow me some game time whenever the points were safe; I really appreciated the way he thought about me. It hadn’t been like that before.  Being on the field at the final whistle when we won the cup 4-1 over Horden Veterans was one of the most special sporting moments I’ve ever known.

In 2014/2015, we missed a second successive promotion by 2 points, but won the higher divisional cup. I played a few games, including conceding 7 at home to Horden, when Hally was stricken with flu and I’d spent the entire night previous in North Tyneside General Hospital A&E department with my mother after she’d fallen. I felt like retiring, but in retrospect I simply shouldn’t have played.


In 2015/2016, the cup remained in our possession and we eased to promotion as runners-up. Hally had a few injury niggles and I had about half a dozen games in total, which was great. In the season closer, for the first time ever, I was named Man of the Match. To me, it was an honour I could never have dreamed of being awarded. During the summer, I celebrated my 52nd birthday and the club changed its name to Wallsend Boys Club Over 40s. With Hally on his jollies, I joined the hallowed ranks of Alan Shearer, Michael Carrick, Steve Bruce, Lee Clark and Alan Thompson, debuting for “the Boyza” in a 2-1 loss to Newton Aycliffe Cobblers’ Hall in the Villa Real Cup. Neither goal was my fault. The next week, a league game at Durham Stonebridge, some of them were; lobbed for the first, beaten in the air at a corner for the second and left flatfooted by a curling free kick for the last. I simply wasn’t good enough any longer. The combination of a higher division and the passage of time had checkmated me.

August 20th 2016 marked the 11th anniversary of my first appearance; things had changed a bit in the interim period in terms of playing strength. We went in 8-0 up against Gateshead Teams Club and I came after the break on for Hally as part of wholesale changes to give everyone a run out. The final score was 10-0 and, in all honesty, I didn’t even touch the ball. I remained sub not used in subsequent weeks as we defeated Pelton Crown 4-2 away and Hartlepool Catholic Club 4-1 at home on the first Saturday in September, but didn’t worry about not playing as I knew Hally was away for the following Saturday when we were due to play North Shields Pineapple.

I’d not been well in the week leading up to the Hartlepool fixture; the tail end of a summer cold had given way to a chest infection which, allied to my constant intimations of mortality, in the shape of clicking, arthritic knees and incessant lower back pain from a dodgy SI joint, had me beat. I’d come in from work on the Friday, worn out and struggling for breath as I sat down to take my shoes off. There was no other explanation for my decrepitude; I was actually feeling properly old for the first time in my life. Allied to that, I somehow managed to forget my boots that morning and had been forced to root through the bag of abandoned kit for a pair that were almost the right fit. Half a size too large, they chafed my heel, leaving a blood blister that lasted the whole of the following week.

Limping back to the changers, Ash took me to one side and informed me he’d not be playing me the week after when Hally was away. Instead, Davey Mauchline one of our younger players, a very versatile one too, was going to play in nets as he had experience of doing to.  Three years on from my previously presumed retirement, this time I knew the game really was up. Clubs at our level don’t have third choice keepers, so I shook hands and wished him all the best, before announcing my immediate retirement, except in dire emergencies.

I let everyone know by a mass email and was incredibly touched by both the kindness of those who sought to dissuade me and the support of those who backed my decision. We had a team night out that Saturday and it is one of the best we’ve ever had. I didn’t know it was physically possible to drink so many G&Ts. Throughout the night, I explained my reasons to a whole load of the lads.

In the end they all understood that this decision wasn’t a strop or a sulk; it was made in the best interests of the team, as had been Davy’s selection as deputy for Hally. In point of fact, Hally had been sent off in the cup final at the end of the previous season and Davy put the gloves on as we won 4-2, keeping a clean sheet in the process.  Secure in this knowledge, I knew my retirement was also a decision made for my best interests, as I realised the process of ageing catches up on us all. In my 11 years with Winstons, I must have played with the thick end of 100 players; only 4 of us who played against The Welcome Inn still show up now. Aidan, still getting his game in centre midfield, is 56; Rod is 67 in November and will always make himself available when we’re short, while Trev is 61 and made 2 appearances last year and still comes along to watch. Like the latter pair, I’m determined to remain involved, however tangentially, by following the lads and cheering them on from the sidelines, as they are representing the club I’ve been proud to call my own for more than a decade.

In contrast to my first appearance, Davy saved a penalty as we won 4-2 against North Shields Pineapple. Halls was back in goal the week after when we went joint top after beating Darsley Park 3-1. I saw both games, held the flag, kicked every ball and punched the air when we scored. It’s in the blood you see.

I haven’t retired from playing completely; 6-a-sides on Monday and Thursday will continue until I physically can’t play any longer. There are still 2 pairs of £50 keeper gloves and a brace of proper keeper tops and bottoms I intend to get full use from. However, I have rationalised and thinned out the amount of kit in the bottom of the wardrobe. Rolls of tape, spare laces, boot spanners and a plethora of half empty tubes of tiger balm; all gone to charity, recycling or land fill. In some ways it reminded me of emptying my dad’s wardrobe after his passing.  The essential difference between death and retirement, is that my departure from the 11-a-side game is both voluntary and without regrets.



Over 40s football gave me not only 3 winners’ medals (my only previous one was from the D&P Garages Trophy from Sunday football in 1993), but endless glorious memories of minor triumphs (penalty saves against Willow Pond in 2008 and Darsley Park in 2013), close friendships, savage but gentle mickey taking, lots of serious drinking and an unbreakable bond of belonging that I’ll take to my grave.

Winstons, I gave you everything for 11 years, but I gained an infinite amount more in return and for that I’m eternally grateful.




Monday 19 September 2016

Twlight's Last Gleamings


Sunday September 18th; one of those glorious, late summer days that we’ve cause to exalt global warming for. Tynemouth 2nd XI are hosting Newcastle 2nd XI in the Roseworth Cup final at beautiful, immaculate Preston Avenue; my last game on the final day of the 2016 local cricket season. An insane state of affairs whereby games in April and indeed May are abandoned because of drifting snow, while Indian Summers delay hints of mists or mellow fruitfulness until the supermarkets stock fireworks and pumpkins, whose viscous, burning odours mingle with the beating wings of still vibrant moths.

Perhaps not even two decades ago, outfields would be strewn with golden leaves, the air thick with floating spores of dandelion clocks and the whirling of hawthorn helicopters by mid-September, but no longer. Four decades ago, social class determined whether October half term was blackberry or tatie picking week; now Jersey Royals are available in shops all year round and the bushes and briars that snag sleeves with venomous protectiveness are fecund with berries and fruit by August Bank Holiday. Children, supervised by health and safety conscious parents and carers, pick the currants before school has returned and compile Christmas lists once the clocks go back. 

As the amateur game packs up its old kit bag for the year and the County Championship prepares for the final round of fixtures, it may be pitch dark not long after 7, but the thermometer points upward of 25 degrees as Newcastle begin their innings at 1.30. A sedate crowd drinks the ambience of the occasion and the cut-price remnants of the perennially successful Tynemouth Beer Festival; 80 ales and half of them Welsh. Most quality tested by Vince Howe I’d imagine. Clouds of smoke drift across the field, courtesy of Doug Hudson’s aromatic stogies and mingle with the earnest battle cries of pink eared tyros doing battle Webb Ellis style in the adjoining Under 16s tournament at Percy Park RFC.

In shorts and sun hat, I rehydrate with sparkling water after a busy time the night before. My dearest Laura enjoys a 4.6% craft cider I’d sponsored, becoming ever more of a convert to the greatest game as Newcastle solidly build a total that is intermittently flashed up on a scoreboard bedevilled by its loose wi-fi connection.  A post-Christening party have commandeered the pavilion; well-attired, convivial and respectful of surroundings, several curiously observe the dearest actions of the tented field from the temporary awnings of the Beer Festival, which have caused the rope to be moved in a fraction. 

Newcastle amass an impressive 206/5 from their 35 overs; Phil Hudson, tempted to call this his last game, compiles an elegant 4 before stylishly playing on. His replacement Keith Brown, who can only be 18 months my junior, takes 5 unbeaten from the Tynemouth bowling as received boundary wisdom has the home side as distant outsiders. Appreciate nods greet the news from Twitter that South North have won the national knock-out cup, defeating Swardeston from Norfolk by 75 runs at Wantage Road. A coach of fans left Gosforth at 6.00; I’m delighted for them, but satisfied with my own agenda for the day.

No longer thirsty, but slightly tired, my dearest Laura heads home for cat therapy time with Paw Paw and Tromszo. I accompany her to the exit and find the time for a languid lap, while Tynemouth approach the daunting total with ponderous solemnity. The eldest McGee lad is there; fresh from a sunshine and lager break, shivering in a puffa jacket as clouds move in from the west and a slight breeze reminds us autumn is in the post. Keith Brown remains almost unhittable, bowling his spell right through as Tynemouth attempt to force the pace and sadly crumble.  Vince goes off to pour a few beers and the home side lose 4 wickets. And then 4 more.


Soon it is 90/9 and deck chairs are folded, picnic detritus bundled for land fill or recycling as the end is nigh. Thankfully Phil Hudson makes a bit of a game of it; 6-0-38-1 including the only pair of maximums all day and some trademark stops with the ankle, sometimes without yelping. Tynemouth eventually subside to 128 all out, as the 2016 season ends shortly after 6pm in great spirit. Handshakes, conversation, best wishes, camaraderie; the sight is touching, affecting and inspiring in equal measures.  An enthusiastic observer, my role is complete; I take my leave, exchanging words and nods with those I know from the teams and clubs. I’m tempted to walk backwards for a final panoramic view of one of the many temples and citadels of sporting magnificence where I’ve spent endless happy hours these past few months. Instead, I stop regularly, take greedy eyefuls of memory, then strike out for home, almost tearful with regret before I’ve even reached Washington Terrace. How civilised, how perfect, how joyous are the times we spend watching club cricket. Well, almost all of them; the only cross words today were reserved for still raw analysis of the events of 10th September on Osborne Avenue, as I shall explain.

Since last I wrote about cricket, the final month of the season has seen all manner of trophies handed out and situations resolved.  On Friday 26th August, I ventured south of the Tyne, by bicycle and ferry and bicycle again, to the Village Ground, Whitburn for the Midweek Cup final against Sacriston. It was a pleasant journey, which almost made me wonder if I can stretch things further next year by heading for Ashbrooke or even Bournmoor by pedal power, down Ocean Road, along the sea front, past Marsden Grotto, Souter Lighthouse and into Whitburn itself. In recent years, my experience of the quaint village has been Over 40s football against Mill View Club on a blasted clifftop pitch at the High School on howling January mornings. No such privations tonight, though I scandalously failed to fetch my phone, so was unable to take photos of the sunkissed, bucolic splendour. Certainly, it is one of my 5 favourite grounds I’ve visited in the NEPL, especially for the arboreal magnificence of the boundary.

Predominantly, midweek 3rd XI cricket is a social sport; Whitburn included a female pace bowler Amy Hearn, who was clearly in there on merit, while Adam Cochrane the Sacriston opener  who notched a half century in his team’s 136/5 from 20 overs, was required to retire even as the applause for his accomplishments rang round the ground. I spent the game in the company of South Shields FC secretary Phil Reay; a knowledgeable and convivial companion who clearly knows and loves the sport. Whitburn in response didn’t quite get there; they made 123/7, helped by an incredible first over by Neil Dawson, who conceded 15 wides, including 6 successive ones. He didn’t bat and didn’t bowl again, so perhaps he’ll look back less favourably on this game than I did.

Next day, I attended Benfield’s thrilling 2-2 draw with Bishop Auckland, before cycling down to Preston Avenue, for the usual post-tea proceedings, only to find the field deserted. A lack of tweets had not perturbed me unduly; these sorts of things happen in the NEPL if nobody is available to do them. However, in this instance it could have been shock that caused radio silence, as Tynemouth were dismissed for a paltry 73, before skittling Eppleton for 60. The game was over before Benfield had even kicked off. If I’d known of this, I’d have taken in the last session of Newcastle’s victory over South Shields by 40 or so runs, despite Gordon Muchall’s 5 for 48, where Oli McGee took a best ever 7 for 54.

Thankfully, there was another game to see that weekend; as a result of patches of intense wetness earlier in the season, whereby the coldest spectating day was the Ponces’ Picnic at Gateshead Fell against Benwell Hill on July 9th, the Banks Bowl final was held on August Bank Holiday Monday.  Chester le Street versus Tynemouth; same teams, same location, same baking hot weather and same one-sided result as last year.  Chester posted a mammoth 286/6 from their 45 overs on an airless, arid afternoon. Irritated by the incessant yapping of intemperate lapdogs in an adjacent garden and half blinded by the unceasing brilliance of glints from car windscreens, I took a tour of the boundary and was immediately touched, reassured and empowered by the rich and wondrous tapestry of the local cricket community.

The Hallam family were sincere in their thanks for the references I made to their contribution to Tynemouth 3rds v Stockton 3rds back in early August. In addition, I finally met and had great craic with CLS stalwart and twitter pal Ian Willis and his other half Karen. Tynemouth made an untroubled start in their reply, reaching 59 without loss, but once the wickets started to fall, Chester are like sharks scenting blood. Tynemouth were all out for 186, lost by exactly 100 and finished the game early enough so I could catch the 6pm train home.

Despite the glorious weather I’ve alluded to so far in this piece, there’s always the chance of rain stopping play; so it proved on Saturday 3rd September, when a total washout of all the fixtures handed the title to Chester Le Street. On 11th September they completed the double, by crushing Benwell Hill to win the Salver. Well done to them; they deserve it for being the most consistent of performers, though Newcastle ran them close in the League, but not close enough and Tynemouth can be delighted with a highly creditable 3rd place finish. South North will be disappointed to end up 4th, but I’m sure the national knock out cup will provide them with plenty of consolation.  Relegation eventually came the way of Gateshead Fell after several years of Houdini like escapes. In a sense that is no surprise, as I’ve felt there to be a somewhat downbeat and deflated atmosphere around Eastwood Gardens on my recent visits.  At the bottom of Division1, Tudhoe were replaced by a resurgent, well-appointed, financially secure Burnopfield. I look forward to visiting there, as I failed to make it to the Northumberland game there this season, mainly because it was rain-ruined. Statistically, I have visited 13 NEPL grounds this season and 14 in total; however, Burnopfield for Tudhoe means I’ve actually ticked off 13 current member clubs, though with only Hetton Lyons and Stockton in the top tier needing a visit. I’ve also been to Sunderland and Burnmoor, but not seen a game this year, as well as Mainsforth years ago.

So, to the last Saturday of the season, 10th September; Tynemouth completed a routine 6 wicket win away at Whitburn, while I was destined for Newcastle against Chester le Street, while the big story was the game of death at the top of Division 1 between leaders Felling and unbeaten Sacriston, with a place in the top flight as the reward.

I arrived at Jesmond with Newcastle preparing to resume on 44/1, chasing 233 to beat the champions. The competing attraction in the bar was Derby County versus Newcastle united, but I was there for the cricket. Having opened the batting with his brother Ben, who was out for 4, Oli McGee was there with Callum Harding, who was out at 50/2. Soon after Mickey Allan departed, heralding the arrival of Chris Youldon, the week after he’d taken advantage of the NEPL washout to play for Guisborough in the Northern League; they lost 8-0 at home to North Shields. He had a marginally better time of it this day, run out for 10, though I doubt there has been a shorter pair of batsmen outside of Papua New Guinea than Yosser and Oli. The former’s dismissal saw him replaced by Jacques du Toit. At this point, things got interesting….

A defeat or a losing draw soon became unthinkable negativity as the South African had his eye in. The score moved on to 213/4; JDT made 109 of those from 63 balls. His hundred, featuring 7 boundaries and 7 maximums came from 56 balls, many of which had to be rescued from Manor House Road. It was a privilege and joy to watch this display of effortless, majestic power. He was seeing it as big as a basketball, CLS had no answers and with 20 needed from more than 7 overs, he’d have won the game in the length of time it takes him to chain a pair of Marlboro Lights. His 8th six coincided with a cheer from the bar. Venturing to investigate as the fielder retrieved the ball; it became clear the Magpies had secured victory with a late second goal. I watched the replay, and then headed outside again for the inevitable climax.



To my astonishment and absolute disgust, the umpires had called time because of bad light. Oli, marooned on 47 not out, was disconsolate on missing out on a half century, while JDT was understandably pissed off but publicly decorous. In the last game of the season, the Chester players had invoked the spirit of Don Revie’s Leeds to avoid defeat by getting in the umpires’ ears until they decided, farcically, to end the game early. Du Toit could have finished it himself that bloody over, the way he was batting. Still, that’s how you win titles and not friends I suppose. Frankly it was the exact opposite of the spectacle I witnessed at Preston Road, so I’m delighted it wasn’t my final memory of the season, even if it was the finest batting I’ve seen all year.

At the same time as Chester Le Street were celebrating a losing draw, the umpires were also taking the teams off at High Heworth. Felling’s 223/9 from 55 overs didn’t look nearly enough and when Sacriston were 180/3 from 40 overs, there was only one winner. The umpires’ scarcely credible decision to call a halt denied unbeaten Sacriston the title and a sheepish Felling side’s 8 points from a losing draw, earned them promotion. Surely, with better weather in September, there is an argument to play on until the last Saturday of the month, even if it means games starting at 10.30. Well done Felling; I look forward to visiting again next season. Commiserations Sacriston; I hope you can bounce back.




And that’s all there is to say, other than congratulating Durham on managing secure top division status for another season. Roll on April 2017; let’s hope for more glorious weather on our glorious grounds making for many, many glorious games. Thank you to all the players and clubs who have made my 2016 season such a fabulous one to watch.



Wednesday 14 September 2016

Here We Going....

 

In some ways Friday 9th September 2016 is a day that can never be matched in terms of its significance to my life. For a start, it was my partner Laura’s 50th birthday and all our neighbours threw a wonderful, celebratory, surprise party that made Laura realise just how loved and appreciated she is by everyone. Unfortunately, I was unable to attend this gathering as, neither of us being birthday people, I had already committed to attending The Wedding Present’s audio visual tour at the Sage, whereby they would be playing their new album Going, Going in its entirety. You can imagine just how awful this made me feel, but Laura was fine with it.

Also released on Friday 9th was Teenage Fanclub’s new album Here, which made this not so much a red letter day as seminal rite of passage in my cultural progress through early middle age. The two bands I’ve followed for the longest (more than a quarter of a century in each case) were releasing product at the same time; alright so the Weddoes came out a week earlier, but you get my drift.

Finishing work on Friday, I cycled home and tore open the cardboard package from Monorail Records that contained Here. Having already heard the opening two songs I’m in Love, perhaps the only lyric in history that utilises the word “trajectory” and Thin Air, there was already an element of comforting familiarity about the autographed, clear vinyl album I held in my hands. Reassuringly, the album was rigorously assembled with the trademark democracy integral to the band’s ethos; Gerry, Norman and Raymond, as ever, contribute 4 songs each. This is one of the facets of Teenage Fanclub I love the most; what band other than the Fannies, and I include The Beatles in this, can boast 3 distinctive songwriters whose work is all of comparable quality. Norman with the positive, upbeat, rockier numbers, Gerry with the glorious shimmering, gentle pop sensibility and Raymond with the more cerebral, quirkier, road less travelled songs that reward the careful listener, in contrast to the effervescent immediacy of the other two’s work. It is no surprise that the band sought to make public a Norman and then a Gerry song; more than anything else it reassures and pacifies an anxious Fanclub fanbase. As the late John Peel said of The Fall (when they were good), this is a band who are “always different; always the same.”  However, and this is where things really do take an unexpected gear shift.

Without doubt, the positivity enshrined in Live in the Moment could be seen as the keynote message of the album. We’re all getting older, though some of us are getting better.  Norman and Gerry have come up with the goods as ever, in terms of crowd pleasing singalongs, even if Darkest Part of the Night has an almost sombre undercurrent rarely present in a Blake composition, and slices of dappled beauty, whereby I Have Nothing More To Say is glittery electro pop with a solo that could be a cousin of Eno’s Here Come the Warm Jets. The beautifully cluttered It’s a Sign shows a seamless link with Gerry’s Lightships work, while Norman’s songs have little in common with his side projects; both approaches are fine by me.

But let me tell you something; the Raymond numbers are the ones that beguile and fascinate me the most at this point.  Hold On is unexpectedly jaunty in tone, music and words, while I Was Beautiful When I Was Alive is an awesome contemplation on the impermanence of existence with an almost confrontationally rocky coda. At this point, the best track for me is Steady State, which is Alka Selzer for the hangover on the morning after the 60s. It’s reminiscent of Tomorrow Never Knows, but we could equally be in 1972; a swooning, transcendent, proggy, psych anthem that is probably the finest thing he has ever written.  I love it.



TFC album explored, I headed out to see The Wedding Present with my pal Ginger Dave. At the Sage, the venue was approximately 80% full and Mr Gedge was doing his usual gladhanding at the merch stall; I love this about him. He’s genuinely honest and engaging with the people who go to see him. I suppose that’s exactly the same with TFC, or specifically Norman as the others can seem a bit shy. I bought a CD of Going, Going for £10 and had it signed by the auteur himself. Not only did it contain 20 tracks, comprising an impressive 73 minutes of music, but it was accompanied by a DVD of all the promo films the band would be playing along in front of. Now don’t get me wrong, some of the images were quite affecting and intriguing in a quiet way, but when the band really hit form, as they did for most of the night, you simply forgot about the back projection and watched them absolutely tear the place up. The energy David Gedge expends during live shows is something to marvel at.

In total contrast to the Fannies, The Wedding Present are not a democracy, but an absolute monarchy. I’m not saying the man in black is a dictator or an autocrat, but this is his band and he calls the shots. Perhaps this is why he is transmogrifying into a disturbing hologram of Sam Allardyce and Nigel Farage. I’ve long speculated that he may be on the OCD spectrum as so much of the activity related to the band is always rigorously addressed in exactly the same manner, regardless of year or personnel: they don’t do encores (we know that), the bassist is always female, the inflexible insistence on playing the back catalogue in a particular order, the fact Gedge always wears a black shirt and black trousers, his unnerving habit of staring intently at his fretboard. Yet this is not a problem as, rather like the reassuringly familiar nature of Gerry, Norman and Raymond’s style of songs, this provides security and comfort for the listener. We are in our constantly evolving and expanding comfort zone, being guided gently to new horizons by TFC and belligerently shoved on our way by The Wedding Present.

The one way in which TWP really shook things up at the Sage was in not playing the album in the exact order it appears on record. Indeed, they took the stage to a backing track of a poetry recital. The last time I heard something similar, The Manic Street Preachers came on stage to Allen Ginsberg’s Howl and proceeded to sound like a pale imitation of The Lurkers. This time, it was my favourite English poet, the one on whom I wrote my dissertation, Philip Larkin reading his 1974 poem Going, Going; a rather vicious, nostalgic barbed attack on big business and the destruction of the English countryside. This was followed by the 4 incredible instrumentals that introduce the album; Kittery and Greenland out-Mogwai Mogwai in terms of the quiet to loud, slow to fast explosions of aural abuse layering over pastoral beauty. Sprague utilises female crooning in a way that makes it achingly reminiscent of a Manga theme tune, Studio Ghibli style.

Don’t ever get the idea these four instrumentals are fillers or self-indulgent b-sides promoted unfairly; they are essential, integral parts of the album that lead delightfully into the songs for singing. Some of the numbers we know already; Two Bridges, an elegant West Coast rock stomp, came out on 7” back in 2013, Fifty Six, which I believe to be Gedge’s age at the start of the recording process has been around on earlier tours and Rachel is simply gorgeous; a mature slice of summer love pop with nary a hint of the sardonic side to which we’ve become accustomed. There are sonic terror assaults like Bear and Birds Nest, weird wigouts like Wales and an efficient pastiche of 78 NYC punk thrash on Secretary. All in all, I’m getting the vibe it’s their best album since the reformation and it simply wipes the floor with 2012’s Valentina that sounds tame and timid in comparison. Is it as good as Seamonsters? We’re getting close.

Live, the Sage was the perfect environment for the new album; the excellence of the sound quality and comfort of being sat down helped with the whole recital ambience. I sincerely doubt that a traditional Weddoes gig would have worked with the seats in, but this did. So far in 2016, I’ve seen The Wedding Present in 3 venues, play 3 completely different sets and make each one a triumph; how I look forward my final glimpse of them in sunderland on Friday 2nd December, Ginger Dave’s birthday. Although, before that, there’s the beguiling prospect of Teenage Fanclub at Whitley Bay Playhouse on Wednesday 16th November, and before that Vic Godard with the Band of Holy Joy at the Cumberland on Friday 14th October. Incidentally, if you ask me to make a choice between Here and Going, Going then the answer is BOTH!!



Finally, on a musical theme, Fledg’ling Records are to be commended for tracking down the incredibly rare 1966 BBC session Anne Briggs recorded for Robin Hall and Jimmy McGregor’s Folk Cellar series. The programmes were recorded in the basement studio at Cecil Sharp House, London. Anne Briggs sang three songs during the launch episode broadcast on Saturday 13th August 1966 and these rare, simple, unadorned and intimate performances, aching with poignancy, make their first appearance on record, fifty years after recording and capture Anne Briggs singing at the very apex of her powers. Polly Vaughan and The Recruited Collier are as powerful a pair of unaccompanied ballads as one could imagine; they will provoke you to tears. My Bonny Boy is a more jaunty and optimistic number. Finally, the fourth track, The Verdant Braes of Skreen, recorded live in a Nottingham folk club and rescued from a long, presumed lost, reel to reel tape completes the set. This 4 Songs EP makes a wonderful companion piece to the Fledg’ling re-release of English Songs by Shirley Collins that appeared back in April.

Meanwhile, my reading habits have extended as far as another 2 books. The first of these is The Blade Artist by Irvine Welsh. As ever, the characters and plotting in his best work are never far removed from the Leith of his youth, which is the case with the updating of Francis Begbie’s life story, whereby the implausible success the eponymous anti-hero has enjoyed as a sculptor is made to seem plausible. Rather like Juice Terry Lawson in A Decent Ride, there is the hint that Welsh’s deification of violent, heterosexual men from the underclass is a way of cocking a snook at the rarefied American literary demi-monde in which he now finds himself. That said, this is Welsh’s most taut and compelling prose excursion since Crime in 2008. He doesn’t play it for laughs; it’s a tense, affecting tale of death and revenge, with appropriate levels of thuggery and gore to make this revenge procedural a success. I enjoyed it tremendously and hope that Welsh can maintain this level of output in the future, as well as steering away from crass, populist excess such as the execrable Sex Lives of the Siamese Twins.

Having finished The Blade Artist, I found myself in Ireland bereft of holiday reading matter, so took a browse through the always intriguing, always reduced stock in Dalkey News, where I picked up a copy of Patrick McGinley’s curious Bogmail. Set out in the wilds are Inishowen, the book was condemned on its publication by no less of an august publication as The Donegal Democrat as “a disgraceful insult to the fine people of our county.” It isn’t really that; it’s more a kind of Samuel Beckett meets Gabriel Garcia Marquez on the road to Ballyshannon, with an unmistakeable slice of Flann O’Brien’s surreal take on rural Irish life on every page. This is above all, a novel of character; the central protagonists, both present and missing, have their stories told in loving, quirky detail and the intricate relations between the various sub-plots on love, money, revenge and morality, all tie up in an ever so neat ending. McGinley wrote the novel when living in England and the exile’s emotional and physical distance from the hills, bogs and fields he called home make it all the more effective.


I also finally managed to read the 125th Anniversary book published by The Northern League, Northern Conquest; a long form diary meets potted biography of the major figures involved in the local game in the north east. A thoroughly enjoyable read, where the human interest levels are always higher than the slavish attention to statistical detail, making it all the better for those who regard football as far more than 22 blokes kicking a bag of air about.

Wednesday 7 September 2016

Momentum Mori

The Labour leadership election....


Here’s a test of your memory; can anyone remember the post Brexit referendum constitutional crisis we were all tearing our hair out over a couple of months back? You know, that anarchic episode when the suophilic First Lord of the Treasury decided to spend more time in his counting house, counting all his money, rather than white water rafting the ship of state over the post EU rapids to be dashed on the rocks of oblivion below. Surely you can recall the moral delirium of the Tory leadership election; the unspeakable, loathsome weasel Gove holes avuncular gobshite Johnson’s campaign below the water line leading to a free for all among puissant social inadequates. The Abominable Dr Fox secured last place by an impressive margin, while sexting Stevie Crabb the priapic canting, Christian cock-end fell on his simple sword of truth. And then there were three; the unspeakable, loathsome weasel Gove and the delusional leaderene Leadsom, barking at the heels of monochrome May. And then there was one. And then there was no more constitutional crisis, as the Tories had absorbed the body blows of Brexit, returned; remade and remodelled; as the party of complete bastards the world over, where austerity and oppressive intolerance exist hand in glove as methods of social control.

Just for a second there, I thought we’d had them; that there was going to be some manner of social breakdown, whereby a general election was the least likely way of ensuring the profound change that was going to come, but they’re smart those Tories. The fascist bastards have shaken off the threat of implosion and look impregnable in every way. Brexit; you don’t really believe it’s ever going to happen do you? Not in the way that the headbangers from UKIP and that unspeakable, loathsome weasel Gove envisioned anyway. The Tories are just happy they’ve been granted a free hit to go about turning the whole of the country into one big Wallsend meets North Shields theme park; the underclass living off cider and takeaways, blaming their lack of jobs, shit housing, lousy schools and crap health on their next-door neighbours in the private rented sector, who’ve arrived from Syria and Afghanistan, to work for minimum wage in menial jobs the indigenous post-civilisation bevvy and kebab addicts are too unhealthy and too detached from ordinary life to countenance. This is the real legacy of Cameron; the Big Society he harped on about. Reality is the world is fucked, I’m telling you.

Meanwhile, the one person whose election as leader of the Labour Party gave us all some actual hope for the future has been repeatedly abused, traduced and denigrated by the elected members he was chosen as first among equals from. Three months ago, the Tories didn’t have a leader, though neither did they have a leadership election. Meanwhile Labour has a leader, but is also having a leadership election we don’t need. And this is causing me no end of personal and political turmoil. You see, I think Jeremy Corbyn is a wonderful bloke; a principled, articulate, intelligent, traditional Socialist, but I also think he’s bloody appalling as leader of the Labour Party and I’m half sorry, half relieved to finally say that in public.

Let me just say that Jeremy Corbyn has reignited the rank and file of our party. We’ve gone from being a talking shop source of funding for election broadcasts, back to being a movement, where membership is rightly seen as a badge of honour. In July 2015, I attended a rally for Jeremy Corbyn at the Tyneside Irish Centre and he totally blew me away with his disarming honesty and frank, unapologetic arguments for a better society. I’d rejoined the Labour Party after the 2015 General Election, precisely because I wanted to be involved with taking the party back to its core values and principles; making us a movement once again. Without question, Jeremy Corbyn stands for the policies and philosophy I regard as being traditional Labour ones. His mere presence as a figurehead has acted as a touchstone whereby half a million people and more have engaged with our movement, ready to share their energy, passion and enthusiasm to shape the movement’s vision for a better life for all. However, all that effort and positivity isn’t worth a thing, when there are something like 230 Labour MPs, even so-called radicals such as Chi Onurah who is proving to be one of the hardest faced, Blairite careerists imaginable, hell-bent on pursuing their own agenda. They have successfully destabilised and undermined Jeremy Corbyn’s role in the parliamentary Labour Party and standing among the chattering classes. In the Blairites’ world, the opinions of ordinary members and the leader himself only exist so that they may be discredited and abused at any given opportunity.

But what of the limited patsy who has put up against Corbyn? The right wing know that Owen Smith is merely an easily manipulated useful idiot, prepared to take on the role of the fall guy responsible for Corbyn getting an even larger landslide mandate than last time. Smith is a vacuous non-entity, harvested from the same stagnant pond of neo-liberal, power at all costs New Labour smarm and spin that Angela Eagle crawled out of and then right back in again. Let’s be honest; the New Labour cabal know they are going to lose, but they don’t care. Their mantra is the Anti-Socialist ABC; anyone but Corbyn. The possibility of another 1981 SDP style series of mass defections can’t be ruled out post leadership result; no doubt plans are in place for the establishment of a party of Pro EU, compassionate capitalists led by Chuka Umunna or some other hideous poster boy for the grandchildren of Cool Britannia. You may say “good riddance,” but I don’t.

I rejoined the Labour Party because it is the only legitimate mass workers’ party in this country; suggesting that people should quit the party because I disagree with them is as nonsensical as the right wing pretending that there’s an enormous number of Trotskyists who’ve rediscovered a taste for entrism crawling all over the place. There isn’t and there aren’t; SPEW have about 500 members, nearly all of whom are weak, emotional failures who enjoy being told what to think by Kim il-Taaffe. The massive increase in Labour Party membership is both organic and a product of our times. New members haven’t come from a background of devout conformism; they’re part of a freewheeling semi-anarchistic post-ideological culture that joined up because they believe in Jeremy Corbyn. Democratic Centralism has as much of a place in the modern Labour Party as Sharia Law has. Unfortunately, Corbyn worship can only take us so far and it is up to us as members to ensure the movement is about all of us, not just one man.

Jeremy Corbyn is probably as uncomfortable and frustrated with the cult of personality of his worshippers as he is with the refusal of his opponents to discuss things on a mature, ideological basis. Then again, Jeremy Corbyn never expected to be elected leader in the first place. The archetypal back bench voice of the under privileged and disenfranchised simply doesn’t have the skill set to run the party in the way the Blairites, the right wing media and the capitalist class want it to be run. Corbyn isn’t a natural leader and he shouldn’t be the leader, because the idea of leaders is wrong per se. We need a more collegiate approach to running the party, where the importance of a figurehead is greatly reduced. Otherwise, Labour will continue to tear itself apart and be ridiculed by the capitalist press; we’re not very good at playing their games, so we should play by our own rules.

I’ve been sent my security codes to vote for leader by email, though I had been holding out for a postal vote. I know it costs more that way, but voting by email doesn’t afford one the chance to voice disapproval over the whole business by returning a blank ballot paper. I simply wouldn’t vote for Smith, so I’ve given my faint-hearted support for Corbyn as leader, because he is legitimately our leader and the overwhelming choice of rank and file members. However, the debate is only beginning; what the Labour Party really needs is not a leadership contest, but a root and branch reform of the party’s internal organisation and structure. Then, and only then, will our ideas lead the way, rather than our leaders fall by the wayside.






Friday 2 September 2016

Settling Down

I’ve been tempted to write about Newcastle United’s start to life in The Championship for about a month now, but I kept putting it off as so many things were happening at the club, any opinions I expressed ran the risk of being out of date within the day. Hence why I’ve waited until now, as the combination of the international break and the closing of the transfer window affords the thoughtful scribe some kind of respite from the breakneck pace of events, at least until the Derby County game on Saturday 10th at 5.30.

The season started early; Friday 5th August is a crazy time to be playing competitively. Expectations were at fever pitch before the Fulham game, which is probably why the defeat, courtesy of a scruffy goal, where Citizen Smith was afforded the freedom of Tooting and Mitcham to score at the back post, and two penalties not awarded, resulted in such an outpouring of dramatic, excessive breast-beating on social media. Aside from the deflation of a hubristic balloon of arrogance, the defeat was a useful reminder that Newcastle won’t get 120 points this season and won’t win 15-0 away to Rotherham United. Just because you don’t know who the opposition players are, doesn’t mean they aren’t any good, which is precisely what Huddersfield Town proved in the second game.

I didn’t make it to The Terriers defeat, as Benfield were at home that day, but I followed the fall-out with interest. With a 50k crowd and the impressive Gallowgate Flags display before kick-off, the scene was set for a triumphant declaration of intent. However, Huddersfield hadn’t read the script and a Wagnerian tragicomedy was rounded off by the mass theft of over 80 flags, reduced to about 75 after a very public amnesty. What a vile bunch some of our supporters are; what amoral yobs they can be.

So, two games; two defeats and for some it was already time to hit the panic button. I’m absolutely convinced that a load of the self-appointed super fans on Twitter don’t actually believe their prophecies of doom; suggesting that the squad was “inadequate” or that Benitez was “completely out of his depth” or “totally unsuited” to the Championship after 2 games is knee-jerking quicker than even Usain Bolt manages. These lonely and inadequate people who seem to genuinely believe their opinions count for anything in the greater scheme of things simply to feed off the conflict their nonsensical utterances provokes; we should pity them. The clear facts are these; the players need time to gel and adapt to the system Rafa wants from them, while the support needs to be educated about the kind of play we should expect. Think about our last 2 campaigns at this level; Keegan’s glorious gung-ho approach in 92/93 that culminated in the incredible blitzing of Leicester’s defence on a sunny Sunday afternoon in May, then 17 years later, Comrade Chris Hughton’s management by sub-committee, when the work ethic, esprit de corps and shared sense of common purpose among both players and fans saw an almost untroubled procession to the title. We’re not going to have either of those shoo-in coronations this time around; there are too many other decent teams in this division to allow that to happen.

That said, I remain quietly confident we will go up, as Rafa has built a squad with the sole purpose of gaining promotion and he will utilise the players at his disposal accordingly, as he sees fit. Additionally, he knows exactly how he wants his teams to play and we ought to let him get on with that, because he understands the game at a slightly higher level than most of us do. Don’t get me wrong; I’m not saying he’s infallible, as a couple of the games last season showed he can select the wrong people and play them in the wrong positions, but a few points from the Reading game are worth recalling. Having obtained a freebie in the top of the Gallowgate on the Milburn side, I was far further from the pitch than I would like, so found it initially difficult to assess the impact of many of the new players, probably because I couldn’t recognise them. However, the pattern of play was easily discernible from that lofty perch. I heard my first moan after about 11 minutes; something along the lines of an exasperated “get on with it man,” which shows that instinctively our crowd yearns for high-tempo play;. While under Keegan that meant glorious, expansive attacking; under Pardew and Carver it was a long ball laced aimlessly forward to surrender possession. Patient, passing football is probably what McClaren fondly expected his side would produce, rather than the impotent, sluggish bollocks that we actually endured. Rafa Benitez wants ball retention, zonal marking and incisive passing from his players, as a bare minimum level of performance. Being honest, we didn’t get that in the first half against Reading; our goal came from a scramble in the box and their equaliser was caused by hesitancy and a lack of communication at the back.



However, the second half showed the first indications that the Benitez trademark philosophy was being internalised by our team. Admittedly this wasn’t totally the case as an attacking unit, whereby a penalty and a magnificent free kick set us on the road to victory, though the final goal saw some nice interchange passing. It was in defence where I was more impressed, not specifically by the players as individuals, but by the collective attention to duty and sheer hard work that meant Reading couldn’t get anywhere near our penalty area in the last 20 minutes. Now you can be churlish and point out this was Reading, not Barcelona or Bayern Munich, but we are where we are. Instead of harking back to the good times of a decade and more back, or imagining a mythical future of trophy-laden success, let’s just concentrate on getting out of the Championship at the first attempt. If we can do this by playing zonal defence, then so much the better.

Being honest, the Reading win wasn’t a glorious renaissance in 90 minutes; it was a single step on a journey of a thousand miles. The Bristol City game was another step; three points and a clean sheet. I returned to SJP for the Cheltenham game to see a sideways step; progress in the Cup, an untroubled victory and a clean sheet. Again though, some of the support just doesn’t get it; a podgy, elderly couple with whiney voices and a pair of thick as bulls’ excrement Hartlepool Mags with allough Bearny accents, pierced ears and Sports Direct wardrobes, hemmed us in and droned incessantly all game. They complained about slow play, negative tactics and every single player at one time or another. What did they expect? What precisely did they want? We beat a lower division team without breaking sweat, dealing with 3 injuries on the way. Incidentally, we weren’t in Level 7 listening to this cack; it was the Platinum club, where you expect a better class of gobshite, rather than the vulgarity of new money.



Then, last time out, we moved on to the visit of Brighton and the return of Chris Hughton. I’m delighted this decent and honourable man received a great reception, but I’m even more delighted that Newcastle coasted to a win with the season’s most effective performance thus far. Despite the absence of Gayle and Mitrovic, goals were scored, a clean sheet was kept and the style of play impressed almost all who saw it. Crucially, this was against one of the sides who are viewed as being potential challengers for promotion at the end of the season. Ironically, the two teams currently occupying the promotion slots are the very sides who’ve beaten Newcastle thus far, which should tell us something. Indeed, it’s probably time to reflect fully on events so far.

Really it’s only when everything stops for a minute that you can sit back and reflect on the scarcely believable state of affairs that sees Rafa Benitez as the permanent manager at SJP. You can give your head a shake all you want; the truth is we have one of the finest coaches in world football in charge of our recently relegated club. Bonkers isn’t it? Almost as crazy as Rafa being El Mister on Tyne is the fact we’ve persuaded Palace, Liverpool and Spurs to cough up nigh on £70 million for a midfield trio that got us relegated last season. Just how mad is that? Additionally Rafa has somehow managed to remove over two dozen liabilities, non-entities and vaguely promising youngsters from the club, albeit some of them temporarily, with only really the sale of Andros Townsend being anywhere near a source of regret for the overwhelming majority of fans.

Let’s have a look at those departures in detail; a grand total of 26 players have left Newcastle United since relegation was confirmed on May 11th. Of those, 8 are ones who I’d describe as young or emergent players, primarily farmed out to gain competitive experience as part of what may be a make or break season for most of them: Adam Armstrong (Barnsley), Kyle Cameron (Newport), Macaulay Gillesphey (Carlisle), Alex Gilliead (Luton),Tom Heardman (Hartlepool), Kevin Mbabu (Young Boys Berne), Jamie Sterry (Coventry) and Ivan Toney (Shrewsbury) were very unlikely to get anything other than bench time with the first team or League Cup cameos, so it makes sense for them to have a spell elsewhere.

Another 7 loanees are allegedly senior professionals, who are hopefully embarking on a fresh start, initially on a temporary basis, though looking at a list that comprises: Ameobi (Bolton), De Jong (PSV), Krul (Ajax), Riviere (Osasuna), Saivet (St Etienne), Thauvin (Marseilles) and Vuckic (Bradford), it’s fair to say only the Dutch keeper looks in any way a potentially saleable asset, with the other half a dozen having done the square root of jack shit for us in their entire time at NUFC. Ameobi is less effective as a footballer than his midwife sister, never mind his brothers. De Jong may be the more talented one in his family, but he boasts the fitness record of a Victorian consumptive. Vuckic may well be entitled to a testimonial by now, but he’s never played more than 3 games a season for more than half a decade, while Riviere and Thauvin are exponents of Gallic incompetence par excellence and should never have been allowed to darken our doors in the first place. A few weeks ago, I would have said Saivet at least deserved a chance, but such is the trust and respect I have for Senor Benitez that I would no longer contemplate questioning his decisions about who needs to leave SJP.

After the August deforestation of dead wood, a dozen and a half no-hopers have bid us a fond farewell. The very fact that Vurnon Anita and Yoan Gouffran, two of the most reviled and denigrated players of the Pardew-Carver-McClaren eras, are not only still with us, but integral parts of the first team, performing at their highest level since joining, tells us everything we need to know about Rafa’s coaching abilities, not to mention the level of football comprehension displayed by large sections of the support. I simply can’t begin to express my delight at the rehabilitation of two of the most intelligent, nuanced players at the club.

So, let’s look at the 11 permanent departures; Gael Bigirimana (returning to Coventry after 6 months of potential and 4 years of inactivity),Fabricio Coloccini (back to Argentina at last after a life threatening calf strain kept him hors de combat for the last 3 months of the season), Sylvain Marveaux (whereabouts unknown, but no doubt gaining a higher reputation the less often he plays), Gabriel Obertan (banished to some Siberian wilderness after 3 decent games in 4 seasons) and Steven Taylor (no longer required in the village idiot role, so currently scoring own goals for Portland Timbers reserve side and presumably out canvassing for Donald Trump) were all given freebies or had their contracts paid up. There’s always a possibility that Haidara and Tiote will do the same, but the erratic Ivorian who could be the Championship’s greatest midfielder if he fancied it, which I doubt he does, is more likely to find a lucrative sinecure somewhere in Asia. Meanwhile, we actually got proper cash money for Remy Cabella, Papiss Cisse, Daryl Janmaat, Moussa Sissoko, Andros Townsend and Gini Wijnaldum.

While Cabella was a loss making deal and Cisse could only have left for buttons, the rest of the deals show NUFC turning in a very healthy profit. Janmaat was a definite upgrade on Debuchy as a player, but not as an individual; in a like for like deal, we were saddled with another multi-millionaire in his early 20s whose personal agenda is dominated by ego and avarice. Watford indeed! As I only do home games, I thought Wijnaldum was pretty damn fine, though his non-existent away form infuriated many; £10m profit after a single season is good business though. Townsend was great for us, but not good enough for Spurs, which is why Palace is probably about his level; however if the Rinus Michels of the Home Counties holds fast to the reins of power at Selhurst Park, Andros will find himself at centre half or operating as a lone striker before the clocks go back.

Finally, there is the mind-blowing Sissoko deal. Let’s be honest about this, never has Ashley and Charnley’s wrongheaded business strategy of buying cheap, foreign talent in the hope of using the club as a glorified shop window to sell players on for a massive profit been more clearly discredited than with Moussa Sissoko, nor has it been so lucrative. Arriving in a blaze of glory at Villa and home to Chelsea in February 2013, he failed to show what he was actually capable of on a regular basis again until appearing for France in this summer’s European Championship. Three years of mundane, disinterested performances of low intensity and peripheral involvement, augmented by atrocious technical skills and woeful passing for Newcastle United, swept away by half a dozen examples of taking the game by the throat for Les Bleus once relegation had blighted his CV, not out of patriotic duty, but selfish self-aggrandisement in trying to engineer a move to his beloved Arsenal. After a hilarious flirtation with Everton, Moussa did find a new home in North London, not at the Emirates, but the well-worn path to glory at White Hart Lane, following in the footsteps of Kevin Acott and Ruel Fox, with hopefully the same level of success.  

Let’s turn now to look at the arrivals, of which there are 12; 7 I’d heard of and 5 I hadn’t. I knew absolutely nothing of Matz Sels, other than his arrival hinted that Krul would be leaving and Elliott wasn’t close to a return. While I’d have been happy with Darlow to be first choice, it’s good to have 2 decent keepers about the place and Sels is starting to look more assured by the game. Jesus Gamez has a track record of success at the highest level; if Rafa rates him, then that’ll do for me. He looked good against Cheltenham, though you’d expect him to, wouldn’t you?  I don’t know anything about Achraf Lazaar or Christian Atsu, but the former has got to be an upgrade on Dummett and the latter is spoken of highly; I’ll give them a chance. Yedlin had a decent season for the Mackems last time and should be a success at this level.

Four of the new signings look ideally equipped to do the business for us this season; Diame, Gayle, Hayden and Ritchie are a class above what most other teams have at their disposal in this division. I’m not going to make rash pronouncements, but Hayden could be the best bit of business between English clubs this summer. Ritchie and Diame are creative and dangerous, while Gayle looks likely to score plenty this season. Certainly, I’d be looking to this quartet, along with the hopefully rejuvenated Shelvey, to be the ones to fire us to promotion. I will admit to being a little more sceptical about the 3 remaining newbies, though I don’t imagine Clark, Hanley or our legitimate target man Daryl “Slab” Murphy will be anything other than bit part players in the main. That said, not one of them is worse than those they’ve allegedly replaced. Remember again though, this squad is being assembled with one aim only; to get us back into the top flight, so don’t lose any sleep about what’ll happen next season. No doubt El Mister already has a plan.

One thing is for certain, Rafa’s interview after the conclusion of transfer business has provided quotes that will be remembered as fondly as Keegan’s love it outburst or Sir Bobby’s ruminations as to what is a club. When Benitez explained;  we are only interested in bringing players to Newcastle who want to work hard for the club and the team, not players who want to be at another club maybe next year or the year after. We are not a stepping stone, we are Newcastle United, not only did he draw a clear line in the sand regarding future transfer dealings, he instinctively and intuitively aligned himself with every single person who has the best interests of Newcastle United at heart. Of course there are those whose love for the club has been eroded by years of toxic mismanagement by Ashley, tactical incompetence by the buffoons in the dugout and the under motivated shamblings of preening non-entities on the pitch. They may require more tangible evidence of a sea change at the club than Rafa’s words, especially as NUFC ended the transfer window more than £30 million up on the various deals. Will this money be spent? Will the players we get in be adequate replacements? The only answer I have is to trust Rafa Benitez, rather some of the idiots who watch us.