Monday 25 March 2024

Lowland Flings

This week, here's my blog about trips to Scotland, which can be found in issue #24 of View from the Allotment End, which you really should buy from this link: https://vftae.bigcartel.com/product/view-from-the-allotment-end-issue-24 


 Saturday 9th December: Bonnyrigg Rose 1 Peterhead 1

Before this trip, the last time I was up in Scotland was at the very end of July 2023. As part of my glacially progressing quest to do all 42 SPFL grounds, I’d seized the opportunity to tick Dens Park off the list, when the Dee hosted Inverness CT in the League Cup on a random Sunday. That was ground #27 of the current membership (Albion, Berwick and Cowdenbeath are visits I can no longer count) and for a variety of reasons, another opportunity to venture north of the border didn’t present itself until December 9th. I don’t need to tell you how wet this autumn has been, but I’ll just point out that Percy Main were washed out on 6 occasions (September 16th, October 7th, 21st and 28th, November 18th and December 2nd) before this trip. Really, I should have made more trips up here, but engineering works, industrial action and a lack of cash conspired against me.

My travelling companion for this jaunt was my mate Gary, who is the Benfield secretary; their story is an equally wet tale of woe. While PMA were again prevented from playing our Alliance Challenge Cup tie away to Burradon and New Fordley, Benfield’s trip to West Auckland, pulled back to the Friday night by mutual consent, also fell foul of the weather. Hence, we found ourselves on the 10.41 GNER flyer to Waverley, comparing the qualities of Greggs and McDonalds’ regular lattes and instant porridge, with the US franchise winning hands down on both counts. As is generally the case, the train was rammed, mainly with day trippers looking forward to a session at the Christmas Market then as many bars as they could fall into and then out of again. Gary and I were also interested in a few bevvies, but football rather than the swally was the prime motivation for this visit.

The game of choice for me was the bottom division clash between Bonnyrigg Rose and Peterhead. Of course, with them having a grass pitch, which is becoming more of a rarity in Scotland of late, the incessant downpours could have put the game in jeopardy, which meant the second choice would have been a revisit to the mundane 4G at Ainslie Park, where I saw Edinburgh City play Elgin a few years back, but now hosts League 2 newcomers The Spartans, where Stirling Albion were the visitors. Thankfully, possibly because Peterhead had come one hell of a long way for this game, our Midlothian Question was given a positive answer, as the fixture of choice was given the goahead early and so Gary and I took the train from Waverley to Eskbank, on the fairly new Tweedmouth line, which is built equidistant between Dalkieth and Bonnyrigg.

Needless to say, Bonnyrigg is at the top of a steep hill and the rain showed no sign of letting up. Without knowledge of the local bus network, Gary and I were left with no choice but to slog it to the peak, which meant I did get my steps in for the day. We’d made a vow to stop in the first pub we passed to get out of the elements. This turned out to be Gigi’s Italian Bar and Restaurant, which was very welcoming and quite full of pre Festive lunchtime diners. It wasn’t the authentic Scottish pub experience though, so after a Cruzcampo for Gary and a Neck Oil for me, we made our way to the Bonnyrigg Rose Social Club, which was over the road and across the outdoor swimming pool of a car park, right opposite the main entrance to New Dundas Park. As a firm believer in the “when in Rome” principle, we both got on the Tennent’s, which worked out a fiver a round less than in the other place. We were made very welcome and chatted with several local fellas about the game ahead and the awful sodding weather. Topping up with a final measure of Black Bottle Scottish wine for a deoch an doras, we left the place at 2.58 and still made kick off.

Bonnyrigg, in their second season in the SPFL, sat in 5th place, while Peterhead, who have been in the league since the millennium, are second, on their first campaign back at this level after relegation last time out. The entry fee was £14, which initially seemed extortionate to me, but when you consider that’s far cheaper than Blyth Spartans, or that I was charged £22 at York City back in October, you can’t really complain. Well, of course you can, which Gary and I did loudly and monotonously, but that’s mainly because we’re a pair of miserable old sods in our late 50s.

The playing surface wouldn’t have passed an inspection south of the border in these hysterical, prissy times, when a cloudy afternoon is enough to get a game called off. Looking at the state of the centre of the pitch, I remarked to Gary that “and Tudor’s gone down for Newcastle” would be the best way to describe how it looked, which didn’t even factor in the delicious slope of this proper old style ground. However, that was all the better as it allowed for a proper blood and thunder contest. Stood on the halfway line on a covered shallow terrace, I was immediately impressed by the metal crush barriers on a grassy bank opposite and the tiny stand behind the goal on our right, which contained the 30 or so visitors from the far frozen North. Considering the crowd was 468, there was ample space for everyone to see events unfold.

Bonnyrigg took the lead on 22 minutes, when Kerr Young buried a powerful header from a corner. However, the home support’s cheers were short lived as Peterhead were awarded a penalty for handball a few minutes later. Paddy Martin in the home goal was the hero, diving low to his right and blocking a tame attempt by Kieran Shanks. Sadly, as the pitch became even more churned up and passing football was a scarce commodity, chances were almost non-existent. On the hour though, scorer Young turned villain, giving away a free kick in a dangerous position, which Joe McKee expertly guided into the top corner of the net. Despite the further efforts of a rapidly tiring set of players from both sides, the cloying surface took the honours, and the sides were forced to settle for a 1-1 draw. It didn’t put off the Bonnyrigg Young Team who, with microphone and drum, kept up a relentless beat and an incomprehensible torrent of verbiage. This accidental take on No Audience Underground sports chanting reminded me of The Prats, that infamous pre-teen combo of Fast Records fame. Check them out here; https://www.theprats.co.uk/index1.html  

So, full time and a quick step back down the hill, followed by a short pit stop to use the facilities in Tesco. We caught the train with the Peterhead squad, which seemed strange to me as Peterhead is the football club furthest from a train station in Britain; 32 miles from Aberdeen no less. Anyway, they seemed happy enough with the Moretti carry out they’d sorted out for the journey. At Edinburgh, Gary and I sorted out ours, as well as a quick pint in The Guild Ford, which was full to bursting, before catching our train and making it home without further upset or mishap. A great day out and still 14 others to come if I’m to achieve this ambition of mine to visit every Scottish ground.


Saturday 13th January: Kelty Hearts 1 Annan Athletic 1

As any serious ground collector knows, it’s the final furlong of the chase that is the toughest part, which is a sobering thought as I’ve now found my way into the final trimester of SPFL grounds. The only thing about the 14 I had remaining, ignoring the sole West of Scotland outlier of Stranraer, is that the ones accessible by train, other than St Johnstone (Perth), Dundee United, Arbroath and possibly Montrose, are impossible to get back to Newcastle from in one day. I think Ross County, Inverness Caledonian Thistle, Elgin City, Peterhead, Cove Rangers, Aberdeen and the almost impossible to visit Forfar Athletic, who play at Station Park even though the Beeching Act ripped up the tracks round there in the early 60s, will have to wait until after my retirement for my patronage.

By a process of elimination, I’m left with two pieces of reasonably low hanging fruit: East Fife, in the less than salubrious coastal hell that is Methil, and neophytic Kelty Hearts, formed as recently as 1975, both gettable via a train to Waverley and then a bus into the dark heart of the Kingdom of Fife. A helpful fixture list that saw Percy Main play Burradon and New Fordley on Friday 12th January, at the same time as Benfield were beating North Shields, gave Gary and I a free Saturday for further Caledonian bravery, after our pre-Festive trip to Bonnyrigg Rose against Peterhead.

This time, our destination of choice was the SPFL League 1 encounter between Kelty Hearts and Annan Athletic; two sides whose places in the professional game may be regarded as having as much to do with the incompetence of their local rivals Cowdenbeath and Gretna, as with their own sporting prowess. Gretna went bust in 2008 in the litigious aftermath of former benefactor Brookes Mileson’s death, to be replaced by Annan, and Cowdenbeath lost their place in League 2 after losing a play-off against Bonnyrigg in 2022. To be honest, once East Stirlingshire took the tumble, the Blue Brazil were inveterate lanternes rouges in the basement division. Since Scottish football embraced the concept of a pyramid a decade or so back, former SPFL clubs East Stirlingshire, Berwick Rangers, Cowdenbeath, Albion Rovers and a reformed Gretna have ended up in the Lowland League and Brechin City in the Highland League. This has seen Bonnyrigg Rose, Cove Rangers, Edinburgh City, Spartans and Kelty Hearts gain admittance to the SPFL. As Cove, Edinburgh and Kelty have all been promoted at least once, it shows that the pyramid is generally working well, though none of the relegated sides have shown any inclination to return to former glories, which is sad. Then again, the likes of Albion and Cowdenbeath, despite storied histories, play in shambolic grounds, largely unfit for purpose.

Gary and I boarded the largely deserted 09.46 Newcastle to Waverley express, intending to catch the X56 to Kelty at 12.15. Everything was on course until, just before 11.00, the train pulled to a shuddering halt in Drem, a rural, semi commuter station in the environs of North Berwick. A goods train had broken down ahead of us, blocking the route to Waverley and all we could do was wait until a replacement engine arrived to tow it away. This took over an hour, proving that Nancy Whiskey told us a pack of lies all those years ago, but it did mean that the train tickets would be refunded in full of course. For no readily apparent reason, our delay was exacerbated after a change of trains as ours headed back south, and we embarked upon the next one. Plans were hurriedly ripped up and, with minutes to spare, we caught the slightly delayed 1.15 X56, heading north across the Queensferry Bridge into the Kingdom, skirting Dunfermline, whose home game had been postponed because of a waterlogged pitch, surprisingly enough, as it was a dry and breezy day, before dumping us in the two-street former pit village of Kelty a little before 2.30.

We still had time for a pair of pints, Tennents of course, in The Kings Arms, before paying a hefty £16 to enter the tidy and well-appointed New Central Park, where we took our places in a crowd of 422; fewer than had been at North Shields 1 Benfield 2 the night before. One of the reasons for the low gate could well have been the abysmal standard of football on display. Mid-table Kelty were expected to dismiss bottom side Annan with the minimum of fuss. Ironically, the one thing that had decided us upon Kelty, namely the 4G surface that pretty much guaranteed a game during the wet months of Winter, was what spoiled proceedings. An overly bouncy pitch and a swirling wind meant neither side could control the ball effectively, endlessly surrendering possession cheaply and seeing it roll harmlessly, if frustratingly, into touch on a far too regular basis. This didn’t seem to bother the 30 or so Annan Ultras who were having a fine time, and engaging in sporadic singing, while the home support shivered beneath their overcoats and seemingly ubiquitous maroon scarves.

A desultory cheer rang out from the home terraces when Alfie Bavidge won and converted a penalty, awarded for a clumsy trip, in the 16th minute. However, this was not a signal for an improvement in fortunes, as the game was as frustrating as our train journey had been. The Club Shop offered little solace either. I’d wanted to get my partner Shelley a Kelty snood to keep out the chill during our Sunday walks, but none were available, so I bought some of last season’s socks, which seemed the best option available. I think I left them on the X56 when I got off at Edinburgh, sadly. We nipped into the Social Club for a half time pint where, if we’d been able to see the pitch from such a vantage point, we probably would have stayed. Of course, you can’t drink alcohol in sight of the pitch in Scotland, so back out into the elements we went, watching Annan’s Benjamin Lussint controlling the game and helping to bring about a smartly executed equaliser by substitute Tommy Goss in the 73rd minute. This was greeted with hysterical joy in one small corner of the ground and mute acceptance in the rest. The rest of the game saw Annan well on top, but no chances worth mentioning were forthcoming and so the game ended in less than satisfactory stalemate.

Our return journey was a breeze; a punctual X56, pints in The Guild Ford, a carry out and a punk rock singsong on the deserted 20.00 from Waverley saw us back in town for 21.30. East Fife has to be my next trip.

Wednesday 20 March 2024

Drowning

Newcastle United; things have been better...


Did you enjoy the FA Cup quarter finals? Great, weren’t they? A set of (mainly) superb games, all on ordinary telly, that seesawed in both directions; fantastic grit from Coventry to come again and see off Wolves (not that I saw that one live as Percy Main v Seaton Delaval obviously took preference), some of the most hilarious errors I’ve ever seen on a football pitch, in the shape of Disasi’s own goal and Sterling’s rib-tickling free kick (he gets paid £300k a week to do that you know!!), as Chelsea put in a bid to be the Premier League’s version of Billy Smart’s Circus against Leicester and Klopp’s famous tactical acumen enabling Liverpool to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory against probably the most mundane Manchester United side I’ve seen in half a century. Indeed, the only damp squib of the whole weekend was Newcastle’s predictably tame exit to a restrained Man City side who sleepwalked their way into the semis without breaking sweat. Far more energetic than anything on the pitch was the predictable wailing and gnashing of teeth on social media, when the endless calls for Howe’s head on a stick that cluttered up cyberspace were curiously absent at the game itself. Indeed, I don’t think there has been any audible dissent against the Newcastle management team in a stadium this season. However, this may yet prove to be the case, unless there is an upswing in fortunes between West Ham at home at the closing trip to Brentford.

Despite enormous pressure to do otherwise, I’ve done my best to keep my cool and remain positive about Newcastle United’s fortunes since the still, baffling exit from Europe before Christmas. However, it’s becoming more and more difficult not to want explanations, as that silly and avoidable defeat to Milan, as well as the wholly preventable loss on penalties to Chelsea in the League Cup, have acted as unfortunate harbingers of the disasters to come. As we endure the final international break of the season, we remain in the top half of the table only by the skin of our teeth. With 10 games left, even a place in the Europa Conference League looks a fond ask, considering the form we are in. It is, therefore, now time to ask those who constantly harp on about how much progress we’ve made in the last two years to finally face reality. Not only has this season, from December onwards, been one, long, sorry tale of regression in terms of results, the unpalatable truth is the football we are playing these days is possibly only a degree or two less awful on the eye than the regular doses of abject surrender Steve Bruce inflicted on us. Having based our success last season on an intense high press, we now appear to be sluggish, one-dimensional and utterly unable to respond to any sort of misfortune or drawback. Losses away to Arsenal, Chelsea and Man City, especially in the manner the points were surrendered, could have been overseen by any of Pardew, Carver, MacLaren, Benitez or Bruce. So much for progress, eh?

Another red herring proffered by those wristwatch-obsessed podcasters seemingly happy to unquestioningly back the ownership and management, is the intractable and interminable injury situation, whereby any defeat is attributed not to individual error, managerial stasis or a grossly incompetent transfer strategy, but solely to the fact Elliott Anderson or Matt Targett have been unable to take the field on a regular basis. Being objective, I can accept that Joelinton and Pope have been massive misses, as well as Botman, whose return to the team has seen him operating at only about 25% capacity of what he’d shown previously, but as for the rest; well, when have we ever been able to rely on Callum Wilson to regularly show up? It is abundantly clear that any properly organised top-flight club with European ambitions would have had a crisis meeting before the clocks went back to establish short, medium and long term plans to deal with both the effect of swathes of unavailability on the current playing staff and addressing the competence of the medical team dealing, or not, with those injuries. Unfortunately, Newcastle United are not one of those clubs, as organisation seems to be a dirty word around SJP and any planning is done by the seat of our pants. At times, it appears that the only way to fight fire in a treatment room that was standing room only for most of the season, was to panic like Corporal Jones in Dad’s Army, while searching for the magic sponge and screaming GET SOME WATTER ON!! like Sunday morning bucketmen of yore.

The facts are these: the blame for Newcastle United’s season disintegrating so appallingly should be shared between a hierarchy who have promised so much and delivered so little, especially in terms of recruitment and retention and a team management who have been found wanting when the hard work really started. Eddy Howe may be a great bloke and a quality motivator when things are going well, but he’s certainly proved himself a conspicuous failure when the chips are down, though whoever had the ultimate responsibility for allowing us to enter a pivotal season with only two senior strikers on the books, both of whom with appalling fitness records, needs a good hiding. Unfortunately, it isn’t just up top we’ve been found wanting. If I was asked now to name my players of the season, it would be a toss-up between Gordon and Schar, with honourable mentions for Livramento and Miley. However, even that quartet are starting to look jaded. The players, generally, look shot; exhausted, timid and lacking form and inspiration. This is why internet hot heads pour down scorn and ire on Murphy, Miggy and Sean. Be reasonable; it isn’t their fault we have a squad ill-suited to the purpose of advancing Newcastle United’s cause, both domestically and in Europe, though the latter probably won’t be an issue in 2024/2025.  

The shortcomings and limitations of the squad are well-known, but it bears repeating that Tonali’s recruitment smacks of incompetent research, Barnes was only sourced when we couldn’t get Maddison from Spurs and Lewis Hall appears to be as baffling an acquisition as Xisco or Saivet during the Ashley years. With signings like that, what hope did we have or repeating last season’s heroics when things got tough? It would be nice to pay tribute to Howe’s daring innovation in throwing Matt Ritchie on to grab a point at home to Bournemouth, who did win 3-0 at Old Trafford it should be remembered, but such a miniscule crumb of comfort isn’t worth the bother of acknowledging. In terms of recent results, the crushing of Wolves is a real outlier, especially considering the Molineux outfit, confidently predicted by so many to be a basket case this season, have climbed above Newcastle in the table. Considering we have Bruno and Isak, not to mention Gordon and Botman, this really isn’t a good enough return on our investments. You have to wonder what the club will need to do to persuade them to stay on Tyneside next season.

This brings us to tough questions regarding the remainder of this campaign and moving forwards to next year. As I said before, if this club is serious about wanting to progress, without any apologists for the Saudi regime ostentatiously bellyaching about financial fair play, or professional voices of the fans howling in outrage about ticket allocations for away games they’ve not attended in the thick end of three decades, there must be meetings going on now to set out a future strategy. Dan Ashworth, whatever his worth, is history. Is he being replaced? Well, is he? The truth of the matter is we need two strikers, more options in midfield and a new centre back, as well as bidding a series of fond farewells for those who have no realistic future at a top-level club. But the biggest elephant in the room is this; how poor a set of results between now and mid-May will it take for Howe’s tenure to be terminated? Tough question: he may still have credit in the bank, but a spring debacle could be a fiasco too far.

Do I want him sacked? On balance, probably not yet, but I am aware that a poor start to the next campaign will see him out the door by mid-September and another season’s blueprint torn to shreds before the ink is dry. I don’t have a credible alternative to him either, nor do I have a list of players we need to sign. I sincerely hope that someone has and that, in the fullness of time, Newcastle will be able to compete properly and for a sustained period of time, with those we are currently a million miles behind, on and off the pitch. We need to end with a flourish to banish the blues, recruit wisely and hit the ground running next season, or the whole thing could go to hell in a hand cart.

 


Tuesday 12 March 2024

Leven Early

I celebrated Eddy Cusack's 90th birthday by attending East Fife 3 Dumbarton 2 -:


Saturday 9th March would have been my auld fella’s 90th birthday. It also marked 50 years since the infamous Newcastle United v Nottingham Forest FA Cup sixth round tie. I remember that game like it was yesterday; Newcastle were 3-1 down after 56 minutes when Pat Howard was dismissed by referee Gordon Kew of Amersham for disputing a penalty, resulting in almost the entire Leazes End entering the field of play to discuss matters with the official who was away down the tunnel with the 21 remaining players pretty sharpish. Order was eventually restored, and an incredible turnaround occurred, with Bobby Moncur tapping home the winner in injury time, to give Newcastle a 4-3 win. One hell of a game, even if the spoilsports at the FA almost immediately declared the victory null and void, resulting in a replayed win at Goodison Park, of all places.

Sadly, I can only recall the events surrounding the first game at second hand, after watching the highlights on Shoot the following afternoon, because I was strictly forbidden from going to the game as I was only 9. On reflection, I think the auld fella just wanted a celebratory day on the gargle with his brother Brian and brother-in-law John. According to family legend, Eddy and John were debating the stupidity of the pitch invaders and asked Brian for his opinion, only to see the latter’s back as he retreated from view, storming across the pitch, pinstripe Oxford bags flapping in the breeze and SJP clarts adhering themselves to his mauve and tan platform shoes. Considering Brian looked and acted like Rodney Bewes in The Likely Lads (long leather car coat, sideburns etc), it’s no wonder it still gets brought up at infrequent family gatherings, which seem solely to consist of funerals these days, as every one of Brian’s siblings and their spouses have shuffled off this mortal coil.

To celebrate Eddy’s 90th, I decided to take myself off for a spot of quiet contemplation, by availing myself of competitively priced train tickets and even cheaper bus fares that enabled me to head for Methil and East Fife v Dumbarton in SPFL League 2 for my 30th tick of the 42 grounds that make up the Scottish set. Having enjoyed a mini crawl around Cullercoats the night before, I awoke with a bit of a sore head, no doubt occasioned by the poor quality of the beer in the Crescent Club, but still managed the bus and train connections, taking me effortlessly to Waverley. Unlike my last couple of trips to Bella Caledonia, I was not accompanied by Gary, whose secretarial duties for Benfield meant he had to deal with a home game against Shildon. Percy Main were away to Chemfica, ironically the third closest ground to my house, but I needed to be away and alone on this day. I know it is 15 years coming up since Eddy checked out, but certain anniversaries seem more poignant than others. Whether this has anything to do with my imminent 60th birthday is a moot point.

Anyway, my travelling time was spent reading the end of Witch Hunt and the start of Bleeding Hearts by Ian Rankin, though the books were initially published under his nom de plume of Jack Harvey. I’ve set myself the target of reading all of Rankin’s books in 2024 and I’m now left with 14 of the 23 (soon to be 15 and 24) Rebus books to complete this task. As part of this undertaking, I’ve been required to read the non-Rebus part of his oeuvre, which veers wildly in both style and quality between brooding, literary novels such as The Flood to espionage yarns like Watchman. I’ve enjoyed them all, to a greater or lesser degree, but it’s the scabrous, psychological police procedurals that I like the most and, like the labyrinthine plots of those books, I’ve needed to make the occasional trip to the Kingdom to tick off grounds in my other quest for Scotch completism. Thus, having started the ball rolling at Raith Rovers versus a Faroese team in the UEFA Cup in 1995 and Cowdenbeath’s home loss to Dumbarton in 1997, I was at Kelty Hearts in January with Gary and here I found myself, completing the Fife ration, on a painfully slow moving, delayed X60 from Edinburgh, crawling through the uniquely named but rather quaint Coaltown of Wemyss, en route to Leven for Methil. Sometime in 2025, Leven train station will open, slashing journey times from the capital in half. It looks pretty good, located just on the Leven side of the river (Leven and Methil are the Buda and Pest of this part of Fife) and will be even better when the track has been laid.

Arriving at 2.30, I didn’t have time for sightseeing, so headed for New Bayview Park, along with 570 others. I’d been outside of the original Bayview Park back in 1995, but nothing remains of that ground, since the newish ground was built in 1998. Having initially had my ticket refused as I’d inadvertently tried to access the away section of the single stand that comprises the facilities, I entered the right one and immediately joined a queue for a pie and a Bovril, which consisted of an Oxo cube semi-dissolved in a mug of scalding water, with predictable results upon the relative strength of my beverage as I made my way down the cup. Unable to locate a programme, I bought a fridge magnet and took my seat on an aisle in the back row of Block B, parallel with the 18-yard line.


Bayview Park is similar in many respects to Dumbarton’s ground, though without the imposing Rock behind it, but with the sea almost lapping the far end. The essential difference is that Dumbarton faces west and East Fife, unsurprisingly, faces east. The biting, incessant gale off the water is a common factor for both, it must be noted. Also noteworthy is the incredible selection of music East Fife’s matchday DJ provided us with; a full, unedited
Stairway to Heaven was followed by the Immigrant Song, suggesting this corner of Fife is still in thrall to hard rock, though this idea was partly quashed by the run-out music. I’d not heard Telstar by The Tornadoes in a couple of decades or more, but Joe Meek’s finest moment was loudly hummed along to by the 500 diehard regulars in yellow and black. It got even more surreal at half time, when Rick Astley was quickly supplanted by the whole of Love Will Tear Us Apart. Staring into the bleak, grey, broiling Firth of Forth, never has the song sounded more poignant, nor the listener felt more chilled, by climactic as well as cultural phenomena. Before then, we had some football to watch.

East Fife recently appointed legendary former Arbroath boss Dick Campbell to the manager’s position. He’s a pretty imposing figure and continuously patrolled the touchline, unleashing barbs of bile-inflected encouragement to his team who, cowed or inspired, took the game to Dumbarton from the off. The home side went ahead on 3 minutes when Man of the Match Nathan Austin touched in a loose ball at the back post. From then on, it was entirely one way traffic as East Fife, aided by a howling gale at their backs, overran the visitors and twice struck the frame of the goal. Somehow, the Sons kept the deficit to a single goal and remarkably found themselves ahead after a brace of unexpected goals. The first was a decent strike by Gray and the second a simple tap-in for Hilton, after some comedic defending. East Fife weren’t done, and veteran centre back Brian Easton nodded in an equaliser after 56 minutes. It had been a breathless start to the second period and Dumbarton adopted self-preservation mode, seeking not to lose the game and began an irritating amount of time wasting.


I hate leaving games early, but with my only guaranteed connection for the 19.00 from Waverley being the 16.55 from Leven, I felt I had no choice but to vacate my seat on 80 minutes. Typically enough, a muffled roar that was almost drowned out by the pneumatic hiss of the opening doors of the X60, signalled that Austin had popped up again, three minutes into stoppage time, to nod in the winner. Dumbarton had lost badly 5-0 at Stranraer in the week, but this defeat must have felt even more crushing. They still occupy the final play-off spot, but East Fife are within 6 points and don’t bet against Dick Campbell exhorting them to even greater wins than this.

All in all, a lovely ground and a great (sober!) day out, with all connections caught and only 12 grounds left to do. I’m hoping for St Johnstone or perhaps Dundee United next, though once Leven station opens I may visit Methil once more.

 

 

 

 



Monday 4 March 2024

Cricket Books For Sale

Below is a list of cricket books I'm selling to try and raise funds for Tynemouth Cricket Club. There's no price on any of them, so it is donations only. However, the cost of postage means I'm looking for £3 or thereabouts for me sending a book, though if you wish to collect them from the NE29 area, I'm happy for that to happen as well. Ideally, I'd like PayPal donations to iancusack@blueyonder.co.uk & you can send email questions to that address as well -:





Tuesday 27 February 2024

New Reviews

This is what I've read & listened to so far in 2024... 

Music:

Thus far, not being in a position to lash out £40 on a single ticket to see Slowdive, the only gig I’ve seen in the opening 2 months of 2024  was the TQ Live event at The Globe back in mid-January. Even then, Shelley and I had to leave early to attend a retirement do. The sole live act we saw was Shunyata Improvisation Group, who produced their usual hypnotic, spellbinding, ethereal soundtrack to a philosophical dreamworld. As ever, I lost myself in their beguiling incantations of guitar, flute, cello and gentle percussion. I’m looking forward very much to hearing them next at Cullercoats Watch House on March 8th.

Somewhat strangely, I’ve also been to the pictures this year. Considering I can’t shut up and sit still for 2 hours normally, it was quite an ask to go and see Poor Things at ODEON Silverlink. However, it was an absolutely brilliant, amusing and erotic slice of magic realism, which appealed to me after I’d heard it was based on an Alistair Gray novel. It was also great to see Matty Longstaff at the pictures at the same time, though he was escorting his lady friend to a screening of Wonka. Shelley and I also watched Saltburn on Netflix. What a bloody wonderful pisstake of Brideshead Revisited that was. It was like homoerotic Ealing Comedy. I’d recommend it unquestioningly.

As regards the music I’ve listened to this year, first I must remind you that there is the small matter of the earth is flat by a certain ian cusack. My first solo CD is a noise / experimental /avant garde piece that is available from my Bandcamp page for £3 plus postage; for £5 plus postage, I’ll also send you a copy of my chapbook, Violent Heterosexual Men. PayPal payments to iancusack@blueyonder.co.uk please!

Moving on to stuff by other people, I’ve so far accumulated a CD single, a pair of 7” singles, a brace of cassettes and a quartet of CDs. First up, I got myself a couple of good old fashioned Irish traditional singles; Dermot O’Brien’s 1974 take on Spancil Hill. Now, as everyone knows, the all-time greatest version of this classic ballad was the one Christy Moore and Shane MacGowan did on The Late, Late Show back in 1996. This version can’t hold a candle to that, though if Showband schmaltz is your thing, then you’ll probably appreciate the fact it has been turned into a waltz. I don’t. However, my other piece of Irish esoterica is of far greater importance; the still extant nonagenarian Sean O’Se’s brilliant interpretation of The Boys of Kilmichael will have you donning your balaclava and cursing the Saxon invader when in your cups. Well, that’s the affect it has on me, anyway.

We had a quiet New Year at home, but we did see Jools Holland’s programme. Bearing in mind Viz Comic’s legendary top tip; “persuade your friends you are Jools Holland by walking quickly round your house, listening to any old shit,” I did see a tremendous act on there. Donegal teenager Muireann Bradley is undoubtedly the contemporary queen of the Mississippi Delta Blues. Taught this music by her music obsessed father almost from birth, she eschewed an early interest in kickboxing in favour of an acoustic guitar and interpreting songs from a century ago. Drunk and astonished by her version of Candyman, I searched to see what was available online. Her debut CD, I Kept Those Old Blues, was sold out on Bandcamp and the vinyl far too expensive, so I bought the cassette. Frankly, I’m delighted I did, as versions of Vastapol, Stagolee, Green Rocky Road and Freight Train make this a wonderful experience. I do wonder where she goes from here? Further mining of a seam of old classics? I’d prefer that to her turning into another average singer songwriter or perish the thought, leading a dreary electric pick-up band.

One electric band I do love are Glaswegian trash post-punks, Dragged Up. They were kind enough to send me their new single, Missing Person. It’s another superb, slouching slice of screeching ennui and attitude. Even better is the remixed B-side, Machine Person, which reminds me so much of Y Records era Slits, such as Animal Space or Man Next Door with proper Prag Vec deadpan vocals.  A truly brilliant release and I’m desperate to see this band in the flesh. Apparently a new album is ready for release, which fills my heart with joy. If Dragged Up are the sound of the 70s turning into the 80s, then Peony are the soundtrack of a decade previous. Their first CD release, Live at TQ Live, was recorded in The Globe on a chilly Friday night last August and it is a marvellous document of a debut live performance that sounded like Cream meets Amon Duul II meets the Pink Fairies. This is hard and heavy music, but with zero pretension or histrionics. I’m agog for their next moves. These two bands are the only ones I’ve invested in who have released stuff in 2024 and I’m hungry for more.

Neil Young released his 45th album last December. Shelley bought me Before & After for Valentine’s Day and I’m extremely grateful to her. It’s acoustic revisits to 13 items from his back catalogue; as you’d imagine, the likes of Heart of Gold or Helpless don’t get a look in and, though the choices aren’t always the road less travelled, the versions are. Solo readings of Buffalo Springfield classics Burned and Mr Soul are fascinating asides, though the two absolute standout tracks are Comes a Time, which is the nearest you get to a crowd pleaser on here and, denuded of any Pearl Jam influences, I’m the Ocean. This is a wonderful album, if you can stop from gagging during the saccharine Mother Earth, and so laidback I thought I’d started toking again. All in all, it’s amazing a bloke a kick in the arse from his 80th birthday can still work so hard and produce valid, vital music like this.

I was delighted that Bandcamp provided a full release for The Mekons’s 2016 album, Existentialism. Despite not coming with the booklet that accompanied the original limited release, this is an absolutely stunning set and almost certainly their most eclectic since the criminally ignored F.U.N. 90. This is proper Mekons as well; everyone of them contributes wonderfully to the workload, with Jon Boy, Tom and Sally on top form. I’ve got the download first, which waiting for the CD and my laptop tells me this is the most played album I’ve got in a digital form, which tells me exactly how important Existentialism is to me. Really looking forward to seeing Jon and his band at The Central on May 18th.

Along with the latest issue of TQ, I was delighted to be one of the lucky recipients of Any Love is Good Love. This is a compilation CD, raising money for teenage LGBT+ projects in Manchester, which was curated by Emma Reed, aka Pettaluck, and it contains some gems on there such as Sailors by Das Wanderlust. In fact, it’s a great listen from start to finish, providing you skip the Lovely Eggs contribution. 

Books:

Thus far in 2024, I’ve read 18 books, though I don’t propose to discuss 12 of them in this blog. The relevant titles to be ignored are: Let It Bleed, Black & Blue, Knots & Crosses, The Hanging Garden, Westwind, The Complaints, A Cool Head, Tooth & Nail, Standing in Another Man’s Grave Rebus’s Scotland,, The Flood and Watchman. All of them are by Ian Rankin, with 6 of them being constituent parts of the Inspector John Rebus series and the remainder an array of different works of fiction. Once I’ve worked my way through the remaining 14 Rebus novels and 9 miscellaneous books by Rankin, I intend to write a blog dedicated entirely to Rankin’s oeuvre, but not just yet.

This leaves 6 other books for me to discuss: the first of which is John King’s London Country. Once I’ve ticked Rankin off the list, and worked my way through new titles promised in 2024 by Roddy Doyle, Paul Hanley, Michael Houllebecq, David Peace and Irvine Welsh, I intend to complete my reading of John King’s collected works as, having religiously made my way through the first 6 of his novels, I somehow missed out on Slaughterhouse Prayer, The Liberal Politics of Adolf Hitler and The Prison House; a gap I am keen to plug. London Country seems to tie up the loose strands and characters from both Human Punk and Skinheads. Set in Slough, though a long way from the admin department of Wernham Hogg, it takes us through a demi monde populated by numerous radical, independent thinking punks, elderly soul boys and semi-retired ravers, whose adherence to their own code of morals and ethics, vehemently opposed to the accepted ideologies of left and right, means they really don’t give a fuck. In the past, some of King’s work has strayed perilously close to the kind of suspect thinking shown by the likes of the Football Lads Alliance but, though there is clear joy at Brexit coming to pass, it is from a Lexit, proletarian standpoint that eschews any suggestions of racism, crude nationalism or xenophobia. You like these blokes; they might be a bit keen to use their fists to get their point across, but we’ve come a long way from The Football Factory’s mantra of punch first and ask questions later. I enjoyed London Country a great deal and remain deeply grateful to John for publishing my work in his Verbal magazine.

I’ve previously blogged about the madcap world of the novels of Magnus Mills, and his 2023 self-published instalment, The Cure for Disgruntlement, is another fine slice of his surreal Weltanschauung. This is the story of a boatload of immigrants who arrive at an unnamed English seaside resort after a perilous journey by boat. They are met with rudeness, hostility and aggression, which it seems is caused by the miserable mindset of the indigenous population who are, by turns, lazy, cunning, exploitative and stupid. The narrator and his pals soon find work on the margins of society, making a huge killing, before settling in to do the kind of ordinary humdrum jobs the locals are either too lazy or lacking the skills to do. Unsurprisingly, this involves running the benefits system, which the locals ruthlessly exploit, and the incomers refuse to adhere to. Funny and deeply depressing; I love Magnus Mills.

I have to say I’m a little frightened of former Sonic Youth bassist Kim Gordon, on the basis of a single unpleasant encounter with her, when I conducted a telephone interview with a tetchy Ms Gordon about her Riot Grrrl project, Free Kitten, that she’d formed with ex-Pussy Galore guitarist Julia Cafritz. I thought at the time, and still do now, that the Free Kitten project, especially the debut album Nice Ass, was an ill-disciplined, self-indulgent mess. I wasn’t the only one to express that opinion, which Gordon was all too aware of. Presumably this is why she slammed down the phone on me after half an hour of small talk that studiously avoided reference to her new project, when I asked when Sonic Youth would be getting back together. Thankfully this incident doesn’t get a mention in Gordon’s excellent 2015 autobiography, Girl in a Band, though in its pages, she still bristles at the reception Free Kitten got. Good job I didn’t make mention of her Harry Crews outfit who released a steaming 12” pile of ordure in 1989.

Some important facts to consider: Kim Gordon and Thurston Moore married in 1984, had a daughter Coco in 1994 and precipitated Sonic Youth’s public disintegration in 2011 when their marriage ended in highly acrimonious circumstances after Moore left Gordon for Eva Prinz, who he is now married to. Last year, Moore published his autobiography, Sonic Life, which is a very different beast to the one his ex-wife released 8 years previously, both in terms of content, approach, and attitude. In some ways, you’d think the two books are talking about a completely different set of experiences, rather than a shared, if disputed, narrative.

It was always a nagging regret of mine that I’d not read Gordon’s book, which had been released to universal critical acclaim. That regret became an unquenchable thirst once I’d got about halfway through Moore’s tome. Her book is 273 pages long, concentrating on her childhood for about the opening quarter of the book, but focussing mainly on her and Moore’s partnership, both from a personal and a musical perspective, with considerable emphasis on their daughter and her impact on their life. I know the cliché that time is a great healer, but back in 2015 both Kim Gordon and her daughter were absolutely decimated by Moore’s desertion of the two of them. Girl in a Band features an unflinchingly honest account of the sudden disintegration of a previously happy, if not perhaps idyllic family circle, and how badly it affected both mother and daughter. In contrast, Sonic Life is 480 pages long, spends the first couple of hundred pages cataloguing all the records Moore loved in his early teenage years, then the gigs he and his best friend Harold drove to in New York City from their home in suburban Connecticut, before he found a place to live in the Big Apple and formed Sonic Youth. From that point, we get an exhaustive, though completely fascinating, account of every album and tour the band embarked upon. In only the last chapter, barely a dozen pages in length, does Moore give his guilt-free account of how he turned his life round 180 degrees, in a matter-of-fact way that is astonishing for its lack of both emotion and insight. Frankly, I simply can’t understand how such selfish, narcissistic actions can be validated by Sonic Life being awarded the accolade of Rough Trade’s Music Book of the Year for 2023.

I’m glad I read both books and I certainly won’t allow the revelations, or otherwise, gleaned from either publication to influence my attitude to Sonic Youth’s extensive back catalogue, though I’m certainly more interested in investigating Gordon’s soon come album, The Collective, than anything Moore may release in the future.



Once we get into March, my thoughts will turn to indoor nets before the start of the 2024 cricket season, which will probably be my last as I turn 60 in August. Indeed, I’m holding my 60th birthday party at Tynemouth Cricket Club on Saturday 10th August. Everyone is welcome, apart from supporters of Heaton Stannington FC, who will not be admitted. In a couple of weeks, I’ll publish the playlist for the night; one song from every year, 1964 to 2024 inclusive. Not all of them are by Teenage Fanclub either. Anyway, back to cricket and another book I must read is Beyond a Boundary by CLR James, who posed the famous question; “What do they know of cricket who only cricket know?" The contention of Duncan Stone, author of the impressive Different Class, is that James failed in his writing to effect any kind of change to the domestic, recreational game of cricket in England. Stone himself is a recreational cricketer, from the Workers Republic of Surrey, who may also refer to himself as a Marxist. His brilliantly argued thesis is that recreational cricket in England was hampered in the south by the refusal of many cricket clubs, run along the lines of the sort of golf club Jerry Leadbetter from The Good Life would feel at home in, to play anything other than friendlies until 1968. Consequently, the institutional bias south of The Wash is both class-based and racist. While Stone does not explicitly state this, I’d imagine the LGBT+ community have been made less than welcome in the leafy lanes of Home Counties South. Before the Northern fraternity can start looking smug, the racism scandal that continues to bedevil Yorkshire cricket is a clear sign of the distance still to be covered before the greatest game can be regarded as fully inclusive. With the ECB still in control of cricket at all levels, it may be a cold day in hell before that happens.

Also, on the subject of cricket, my dear pal Harry Pearson, passed on a couple of issues of The Nightwatchman, Wisden’s quarterly journal of long form cricket writing and bloody great they are too, especially Scott Oliver’s exhaustive account of sundry Minor Counties putting one over the big boys in the Gillette Cup and B&H Trophy back in the day. Once I’m retired, I can see myself collecting and devouring the first 42 issues of this fine publication.

Goodness, I hope I don’t go blind. Or deaf.

 


Monday 12 February 2024

Working Your Notice

Newcastle United 2024; the first of an occasional series...


Sunday 11th February 2024. I am exactly 59 and a half years old. As per the regulations, I email my pension provider, giving them six months’ notice that I intend to retire on my 60th birthday, so they can do the necessary calculations and split my bit into a lumper and a modest monthly. This is presumably done to stop me squandering the coin intended to keep me solvent in my declining years on trips to Scottish lower league grounds, Cornelius Cardew CDs and Harry Crews first editions.

Rewind to Thursday 1st February 2024. After an uncomfortable month on Tyneside, the Premier League transfer window draws to a close without any of the rumoured departures, supposedly necessitated by a requirement to comply with the Financial Fair Play rules that are set to relegate Everton and Forest (though not Man City; heaven forfend), of Miguel Almiron, Bruno Guimares, Alexander Isak, Joelinton or Callum Wilson from the already stretched, shattered and underperforming Newcastle United squad coming to pass. Pausing only to consider in passing the asinine mindset of innumerable Newcastle United fans who appear to regard the Profit and Sustainability Regulations, as we must now learn to call the FFP rules, as inherently “biased” as they seem set to prevent NUFC from buying their way to success in the way Chelsea and City have done so in the past, it should be noted that probably the best way to ensure the Magpies never win anything seems to be keeping Eddie Howe in situ for the foreseeable.

I think it more than coincidental that the only incoming signing round Gallowgate way in January was a former Man City academy graduate midfielder, by the name of Alfie Harrison, for less than peanuts. I know nothing of him and, rather like the mythical trio of Harrison Ashby, Garang Kuol and Yankuba Minteh, I don’t imagine that will change any time soon. In terms of players we were linked with, it was much ado about nothing at the end of the day. The Ruben Neves rumours were nothing other than press-inspired waffle; a whole lot of hot air that linked our Saudi overlords with a player currently playing his trade in their country, with considerably more professionalism than Jordan Henderson; a man who, in his vile and unseemly scramble to feather his own nest at Ajax, revealed himself to be as much of a supporter of the LGBTQ+ community as Graham Linehan. Meanwhile, as Kalvin Phillips continues his one man mission to get David Moyes his P45, it becomes ever more apparent that the reluctance of the House of Saud PIF to open the purse strings in that instance may just have been an astute decision, though I believe this to have been made for different reasons than parsimony, despite the fact that the Tonali ban has really come back to bite us up the arse. Our 2023 marquee signing’s absence, as well as that of Joe Willock and Joelinton, has left us desperately shorthanded in midfield, resulting in Lewis Miley doing the sort of backbreaking double shifts we’ve not seen bairns forced into since the 1842 Mines Act stopped kids grafting underground.

In the same way I’m mentally preparing myself for clearing my desk in the next few months, I can’t imagine Eddie Howe has any illusions that he’ll be the boss on Barrack Road much after the end of this season. Sad to say, but the main reason our owners haven’t given him any money to spend is that they simply don’t trust him to use it, or any resources he is presented with, in a wise or effective fashion. As the feeble cries of “look where we were two years ago” begin to die out, January and the first half of February have proved to be another baffling period in an already contradictory season, marked by tremendous highs and dreadful lows, where predicting what happens next has become an almost impossible task. The only thing we can take for certain is that Howe is allergic to both team rotation and tactical substitutions.

The statistics show that in 2024, our league record is: played 5, won 2, drawn 1, lost 2, goals scored 12, goals conceded 14. Despite two comfortable away wins in the FA Cup, these are not the kind of figures you’d expect from any team with any pretensions of European football. Many scapegoats have been identified by NUFC’s seething fanbase as being somehow to blame for the fact we’re not running away with the title. Firstly, Dubravka. Now he may no longer be the keeper we were once thrilled by when he made his rock solid debut at home to Man United, but he’s no Karl Darlow or Matz Sels. Admittedly that dart off his line for Forest’s opener may have been a rash decision, but he was superb at Anfield when conceding 4. That game seems an aeon ago, when we brought in the New Year by having a farcical penalty awarded against us. We didn’t deserve anything from the game as a whole, certainly not being punished for non-existent fouls. If there was no rub of the green that night, there was even less when Man City came to town. I only saw the highlights of this one, having been on a Scottish jaunt to Kelty Hearts 1 Annan Athletic 1, but again there was that awful feeling of despair at the concession of a late winner. This is one area where Howe and his coaching staff badly need to tighten up. Far too often the latter stages of games have seen us look out on our feet, ridiculously open and prone to errors caused by exhaustion rather than concentration lapses. We need to get the basic psychology of closing a game out instilled properly, otherwise we’ll be forced to accept the tag of gallant losers forevermore.

This is, sadly, where Howe has to take responsibility for hanging Dan Burn out to dry, though the fans who’ve turned on him in the ground should be ashamed of themselves. Crying on social media may be a way for them to work off their anxieties, but they need to keep it buttoned in sight of the pitch. As regards BDB, I love the lad, who is undoubtedly the greatest Northern Alliance player you’ll never see, but Tino Livramento can do his job with more pace and zero fuss. Hell, we could even see Dummett, Krafth or Ritchie doing their bit at the back when times are really tight. At this point I’m going to take the fifth when discussing Lewis Hall as I don’t have a clue what is going on with the kid, but I doubt he’d have suffered the kind of torture Burn endured at Villa when Leon Bailey came on. However, and let’s be clear about this, we were bloody sparkling for the opening 75 minutes of that game, but the warning signs about Burn’s lack of confidence were not learned after that night, which is a negative mark against Howe, as Luton repeatedly exposed his limitations, in that crazy game the Saturday after. Now you’d have to say, conceding 4 at home to the favourites for relegation should ordinarily be a reason for howls of derision among the support, but nobody in town that night (I’d been to Newcastle University 2 Billingham Synthonia 2 at Prudhoe Town) was complaining too much, as the game was an entertaining one, which perhaps gives me hope for the future.

The Forest victory was an important one; not only was it our second away win in a row, but it was also a thoroughly absorbing contest. Bearing in mind that we’ve got to the last 16 of the FA Cup after two comprehensive away wins and have a game we should win away to a lower mid-table Championship side in the shape of Blackburn Rovers, why don’t we all stop stressing about getting European football from our league position and just enjoy ourselves? There are 14 league games left. The Champions League has gone, which is a pity, but not the end of the world. If we repeat the pattern of the first encounters in this last trimester, we’ll accrue 26 more points, which would have us finishing the season on 62. Last year, that would have seen us in 6th spot and qualifying for the Europa Conference League. I don’t know what that is, but it sounds alright doesn’t it?

Let’s cheer every win and brush off every defeat. The time for rebuilding and doing something about the physiotherapy arm of the club that seems to strike down half the squad with niggling muscular injuries week in, week out, is the summer. Postpone all inquests, savage recriminations and the search for reliable strikers with a decent fitness record until then. Who knows, with a favourable headwind, we might just fluke a win in the FA Cup that could save Nice Guy Eddie’s job. Mind, a good chasing at Ewood Park and the chances of him still being in post at Easter are slender to anorexic.



Wednesday 24 January 2024

the earth is flat

 


On a gloriously sunny afternoon back in May 2022 Andy Wood, Tyneside experimental music paterfamilias and editor of the wondrous TQ magazine, introduced me to Chris Bartholomew, genius composer and electronics wizard. This meeting, which involved a passionate discussion of the life and works of Cornelius Cardew, resulted in an agreement to collaborate on sounds and words that gave birth to two live performances, at the Lit & Phil in August 2022 for a TQ Live event and The Lubber Fiend on Easter Saturday 2023 (attendance: 2), as well as the Dresden Heist CD and a track on the Wormhole World Christmas 2023 CD compilation, under the moniker of BARTHOLOMEW cusack. We recorded the tracks for the CD in Chris’s back bedroom, my front room, and his studio space at the John Marley Centre. While I proved the words and guitar noise, Chris did the real heavy lifting, creating electronic soundscapes and producing the final edit of a CD that, amazingly, sold out. It is a period of my life that I look back on with tremendous fondness and a real sense of achievement, inspiring me to further creative endeavours.

My previous musical career was both brief and inglorious. For Christmas 1976, aged 12, I was given an acoustic guitar. Having just fallen in love with Bob Dylan’s Highway 61 Revisited, I was delighted by this gift. I taught myself a few chords, but never, ever learned to play any songs, mainly on account of my utter inability in any accepted sense, but that didn’t bother me. Christmas 1978 saw me up my sonic assault strategy when I received a Woolworth’s telecaster copy and a beaten-up amp from Santa. It was time to form a band, which I did with friends Chris Dixon (guitar) and Rob Gosden (bass), augmented eventually by Andrew Wilkie (drums) and Carol Rushbrooke (voice and occasional saxophone). After initially calling ourselves The Modernists and Panic in the Park, we settled upon Pretentious Drivel as our name. During our 3 years of existence, we wrote a series of songs that reflected our evolving post-punk influences, from The Mekons and Gang of Four when we formed to Orange Juice and The Bunnymen when we split up but were mainly dull and derivative on the whole. Andrew and Rob were brilliant musicians, but the rest of us weren’t, which is what eventually drove us apart. Sadly, I have lost touch with them all. I hope they have had happy and productive lives.

After this, I was in a couple of short-lived experimental noise outfits that never went anywhere, before heading off to University in 1983, where I spent 3 years making a terrible racket in Exodus of Farmers, with Maggie Donnelly (bass), Roy Ballentine (drums), Eunice Patterson (keyboards) and subsequent Cassandra Complex and That Petrol Emotion bassist John Marchini (saxophone). When, with graduation looming, we called it a day, saying our goodbyes with a riotous version of The Velvet Underground’s We’re Gonna Have a Real Good Time Together in The Derry Hotel, Portrush one Friday in mid-June 1986, it subsequently occurred to me that there was no point in me continuing to play guitar in any conventional way. I simply didn’t have the ability to be a “rock” guitarist so, with a couple of minor recidivistic episodes, I eventually gave up, sticking my guitar in the back of the wardrobe and concentrating on listening, voraciously, obsessively (that will never change) and writing, sometimes about music, but sometimes not.

I wouldn’t say I rediscovered an urge to compose, record and perform, as such ambitions never went away. Even during the 35 fallow years that followed the demise of Exodus of Farmers, it remained a longstanding dream of mine to eventually get back involved with music, at some level or other. I even bought myself a cheap bass and amp from one of my son Ben’s pals to mess about on, as I harboured a desire to somehow release a 7” single. As yet, this has not happened, but following the completion of the BARTHOLOMEW cusack project, I knew I had to record a solo album, which is why, 45 years to the day since I formed The Modernists with Chris Dixon on the 87 bus from Eldon Square to Newbiggin Hall, I have released The Earth is Flat. I’d like to tell you something about it.

Being in awe of Chris’s stunning array of gadgets and technical knowledge, I thought I’d need to invest in some new hi-spec gear to record it at home, in the shape of an iPad, pre amp, Shure mic and stand, not to mention the full Garageband programme. A quick skeg on line made me aware that I was talking the thick end of a grand for these new toys, which nearly knocked me sideways. A couple of quick conversations with my musical mentors and firm pals Paul Flanagan and Lee Dickson put my mind at rest. All I needed was to record stuff on my phone (I am the last known Blackberry user in the world) and download Audacity to mix the stuff, so that’s what I did. As a result I’ve made a no-fi, experimental noise album containing 9 songs and lasting 50 minutes that, while it could be better, is something I’m quite proud of.

1.      they killed my hair: Recorded in my back bedroom, this one dates back to memories of a forced haircut in February 1979, when the lyrics were written. I performed this on a broken toy ukulele that was put out of its misery with a hatchet and burned on Lee Dickson’s open fire in December 2023. I’d love to play this one live. 

2.      universe of life: The words for this piece were written in 1998 and published by Jim Gibson in Hand Job magazine in 2013. I came up with both the guitar and bass parts in 1982. Andy Wood hates one, but I think it’s my favourite on the whole album.

3.      where is bryan connors? Bryan Connors is a pal of William Florio, but I don’t know either of them. This piece was written in 2020, as a parody of the kind vacuous pretentious bollocks that passes for press releases in the New York art world. The backing was me messing around with the sound of a musical doorbell from my late parents’ old house on Audacity.

4.      richard richard richard: A friend of mine from my postgraduate days, the late, wonderful Steve Potter, was a cut-up obsessive. He’d do it with words and, latterly, with sounds. The words here came from an unknown Radio 4 play, broadcast in May 1988. I’ve no idea when I wrote the bassline, but it could have been back in 1981. My step daughter Chloe loves this one.

5.      usa: Thanks to Paul Flanagan for this one. He rescued the original loop of my voice and the opening bars of Springsteen’s Born in the USA, which I’d committed to cassette in July 1988. I spent an enjoyable Sunday manipulating this on Audacity.

6.      francis robson: Francis Robson is a musician, painter and cricket afficionado, living out in the back of beyond down the Tyne Valley. He composed, arranged and performed the music for this piece, and I augmented it with a Minions fart gun toy. Being honest, I wish I’d left it off the album for another piece, Words are Dead, but there you go. I sincerely hope to collaborate with Francis again in the future.

7.      tri amhran: The title is Irish for “three songs,” which is what this piece is supposed to be. Andy Wood loves this one. A musical backing of bodhran, lilting and Amhran na bhFiann slowed down and stretched, accompanies my attempt at sean nos versions of Wexford, Rocks of Bawn and Spancil Hill. It’s dedicated, with love and respect, to Pecker Dunne, Joe Heaney and Shane McGowan.  

8.      women: Other than Bloody Revolutions, this was always my favourite Crass song. I don’t regard this as a cover version per se, but as an interpretation of or homage to the original.

9.      you are my sunshine: My partner Shelley has a beautiful voice. Here she is demonstrating this at the end of our Christmas Lunch. Sorry I join in to spoil it.

So, there you go. If you’d like a copy it’s £5 via PayPal to iancusack@blueyonder.co.uk or you can get it from my Bandcamp account, https://bartholomewcusack.bandcamp.com/album/the-earth-is-flat - if you add an extra couple of quid, I’ll send you a copy of my poetry and fiction booklet Violent Heterosexual Men as well.

What I’d love to do next is play live. Getting gigs has been almost impossible since I started making noise again. I also intend to do another album at the end of this year (I turn 60 in august), which will feature field recordings and AI voices.

Thanks for reading, now please buy the thing…