Summertime in England

August 31st, Bank Holiday Monday, the last day of summer; incessant rain.... However there has been a couple of bright spots in this lame excuse for a summer; Northumberland County Cricket Club's massive improvement and the joy to be found from watching the North East Premier League every Saturday. Let me explain -:

Summer 2015 has been a crucial one in my life as a cricket follower. Two years on from taking the plunge and becoming a fully-fledged Northumberland member and supporter, I’ve discovered the beauty and the joy of the North East Premier League, following Newcastle, Tynemouth and South North with equal affection.  While I’ve fallen head over heels in love with this competition, it is desperately sad I’ve come to the party so late in life and rather late in the season, but the games I’ve seen have been a glorious introduction to the local scene. I can state now, without fear of contradiction, that my love of the NEPL is as profound as my love of the Northern League. I frankly can’t envisage a scenario where I’d not watch both of them for the rest of my life.

Consequently, Saturday 22^nd August was a particularly fine day; having steered Winstons to a 2-1 win away to Richmond Vets in the morning, I found myself at Blue Flames cheering on a fine display of Walkergate Tiki Taka in the Coach Lane Clasico as Benfield came from 2-0 down to obliterate West Allotment 6-2 at full time. Game over, Gary gave Phil and I a lift down to Gosforth for South North against Chester Le Street in what was, potentially, the NEPL title decider. Friday’s incessant rain had caused some lower level games to be abandoned, but those in the top divisions survived, because of the assiduous work of skill, devoted ground staff, though there weren’t many high scores, individually or collectively, around.

Kev had taken in the morning session before heading off to see Heaton Stan at Billingham Town and let us know South North had won the toss and put Chester in; a good decision as the visitors subsided to 112 all out in 41 overs. However, it wasn’t all plain sailing in the second innings; South North stumbled to 22/4 and were 67/5 at tea when we arrived. Marcus North was out bowled for 0 by Andrew Bell, who has something to tell the grand bairns. When Adam Cragg was out for 37, South North were 84/7 and, with ominous clouds massing, all four results were possible. However, you don’t win the title 8 times in a decade without learning how to tough it out and the home side made it over the line after 38 overs for the loss of 8 wickets. Only the lack of battling points accrued left the title still theoretically alive with 3 games to play and South North 28 points ahead in the table.

Scarcely had Gary and I recovered from that excitement than we headed off on a double header cricketing odyssey to Nottingham for the Royal London quarter final at Trent Bridge against Durham on Tuesday and then the main event on Wednesday; the Unicorns Minor Counties knock-out cup final at Wormsley in Buckinghamshire, between Cornwall and Northumberland. How proud we were to be supporting Jacques du Toit’s Marlboro Light Army, but before I go any further, I must thank Gary for his superb driving on both days; it was a pleasure to be chauffeured by him and to exchange anecdotes about our sporting and supporting lives.

Anyway, as we all know, the caprices of the weather are the key to enjoyable cricket. Tuesday 25^th August wasn’t a warm day by any stretch of the imagination, but we were both ruthlessly determined to stay true to summer shorts and, in the absence of early rain, it seemed a brave rather than foolish decision.  We arrived in Nottingham in plenty of time for the start at 2pm, but because the hotel wouldn’t let us check in early, the best option was to amble down to Trent Bridge. I’d not been in Nottingham for years; March 28^th 1998 to be precise, to see County under Allardyce win the Fourth Division title, beating Orient 1-0. It’s a city I’ve always loved because it’s quirky and different; independent shops and a lack of chain pubs, kind of like Leeds but on a smaller scale. Mind, it’s still a canny schlepp by foot out to Trent Bridge, with homely Meadow Lane and the faded glories of the City Ground as passing attractions.

Trent Bridge is a glorious ground; the closest I’d been previously was the adjoining Trent Bridge Inn (TBI) on May 2^nd 1992 before a minibus of us headed to Leicester to see Newcastle’s dramatic escape from Division 3 in one of the most crucial games I’ve seen in my life. That time it was full of Luton fans dressed as Eric Morecambe, before they played County, with both teams already relegated. Today it was full of gloomy Notts and Durham fans trying to keep warm and dry as the rain pelted down, curtailing play after 17.2 overs with Notts 102/1. We enjoyed a good chat with some lads down from Durham. They were fans of Burnmoor, who are scrapping it out at the top of Division 1 for the sole promotion spot, alongside Washington and Eppleton, who lead by 4 points. It was a great chat and, though our accents clearly marked us as potentially on opposite sides of the Tyne / Wear divide, the subject of football wasn’t mentioned once. That’s what I love about cricket and cricket fans; support transcends petty rivalries and the appreciation of the integrity of the game is paramount at all times.

As we sipped at pints of the ironically named Summer Daze IPA and checked weather updates on smart phones, not to mention staring at the rain-streaked windows,  it seemed likely play could be abandoned for the day, leaving us in a quandary about what to do the day after. We had no margin for error; work was waiting on Thursday morning, so it could only be a 1 night stay away from home. Amazingly, it stopped raining about 6.30. Even more amazingly, play began again around 7.45 in a game now reduced to 24 overs; the installation of floodlights and the pyjama game may not be to the liking of purists, but it got this game on. Notts advanced to 170/4, with Hales making a dashing 64. The vagaries of the Duckworth Lewis Method meant Durham were asked to get 192 to win; 8 an over, eminently possible if they played sensibly. Sadly, they didn’t; despite a steady start from Stoneman and Mustard, who put on 63, wickets fell in clutches to abysmal shots, though Collingwood was unlucky to be caught and bowled first ball courtesy of a lightning reflex reaction by Mullaney. After McLeod was out for 34, leaving Durham 132/5, things went rapidly downhill, as they subsided to 144 all out, ceding the cup they’d won last September at Lords, in pitiful fashion. A limp surrender on a freezing evening in front of scarcely 100 hardy souls, several of whom were attired in wooly hats and thinsulate gloves on an August evening, in what must be a brilliant arena for top class cricket on a sunny afternoon.

Undoubtedly, the best team won and would probably have done so equally emphatically in a 50 over game, but reducing it to 24 overs to finish it on the night, when there was a reserve day planned, is simply appalling. Sky, not content with ordering the football authorities around, is doing so as regards domestic cricket.  This wasn’t what I’d call value for £18; admittedly the weather is beyond anyone’s control, but insisting the game came to a conclusion so they could move their cameras to another quarter final the next day just isn’t cricket.

Game over, we skulked off, caught a bus, bought a sandwich and made it to England’s oldest pub, Ye Olde Trip to Jerusalem for last orders. The only other customers were 3 Czech tourists, drinking pop and lager, the heathens. Back at the hotel, we checked in and crashed out, or at least I did; Gary couldn’t get his door to pen. I think I was probably already asleep by the time he was in the lift back down to reception. The hotel was a tough contest for him, as he couldn’t get the telly or the shower to work either, so had a relaxing bath in silence. Surfacing on a cold and wet morning, having been briefly woken by rain hammering on my 6^th floor window at 5 o’clock, I surveyed slate grey East Midlands skies as we headed for the car, via the statue of Brian Clough by the town hall.

On the road for 9, we made decent time in decent weather, pulling off the M40 and into the surreal Portmerion meets Shangri La experience of JP Getty’s Wormsley estate just as play was due to begin at 11. Unbelievably, the rain started right on cue and didn’t let up for an hour and a half. This meant a scheduled 1.45 start and 42 overs a side instead of 50. With drinking off the agenda, we sought solace in coffees and a Jamie Oliver sausage roll; it cost £5. Finest sausage roll I’ve ever had, but it cost £5. Fitting for a place that was even leafier than Gary’s NE3 and boasted a cricket ground and opera auditorium cheek by jowl. I remarked to Gary I’d rather Northumberland won over 2 days and we missed it than lost in 1 and we saw it. However, Captain Nicotine himself, Jacques du Toit, told us when we had a brief chat that he was keen for the game to be a 1 day one, as batting the next day could be far easier if the sun shone.

Then, it rained again with the umpires out and the teams ready to take the field, as hard as before, for another hour. The ground staff were marvellous and got play underway for 3.00, though my feet were still in puddles as we did laps of the ground. It wasn’t an occasion for New Balance or the Three Stripes, as a pink Ralph Lauren shirted fashionista advised me. Sadly, Jacques had lost the toss and Northumberland were put in, with young Olly McGhee being left out as twelfth man. I felt sorry for him after the great season he’s had for Newcastle and Northumberland, but wearing a baseball cap backwards in indefensible these days. In truth, Northumberland never really got started; this was an unfortunate toss to lose and our cause wasn’t helped by some pretty ropey shots that saw Burham, Hickey, Cragg and Du Toit all hole out, leaving the score a parlous 59/5. Thankfully Gareth Breese and Mickey Allan steadied the ship. When they were out, Samir Brar sadly followed without scoring, but some great work by Sean Tindale and especially erstwhile Benfield winger Chris Youldon, who made 38 not out, took the score to 199/9 after 42 overs. Respectable at least.

Local knowledge held that this may be a tricky total as the sun went down, as Wormsley is in a valley and the wicket is soon covered in shade. Ominously though, the Cornwall lads we’d talked to, who were almost unconscious on 8.3% Henry Weston’s by the close of play, told us their side was comprised of many openers from Cornish PL sides. This seemed prophetic as the Kernow select strolled to victory by 7 wickets with 12 overs to spare. I was glad for Brar that he took a wicket at least, but defeat seemed likely from the first few overs, when the placid nature of the pitch asserted itself.

We stayed for the presentation, clapped politely and then headed home, arriving in Newcastle just after midnight. It was a comprehensive defeat, but I was proud to see Northumberland there and proud of all their efforts this season. Not only did they reach the final, but they won their final 3 championship games as well. The county is benefitting from the sage advice of Geoff Cook and the performances of young lads from Durham Academy. It offers promise for the future. I’ll be back next season and I’m delighted Gary is going to take out membership as well. I said all this on Twitter and Jacques tweeted back, expressing gratitude for our support. That’s why, at our level, cricket is such a wonderful game. The players actually appreciate the fans.

It was all back to normal on Saturday, with the antepenultimate round of NEPL fixtures. Having been to SJP and then Hillheads, where Whitley Bay beat Heaton Stannington 2-1 in the FA Cup, I took in the final session of Tynemouth against Whitburn. Having declared at 241/9, the home side had 50 overs to bowl Whitburn out, or restrict them to less than 210 for a winning draw. Resuming at 41/2, Whitburn made obdurate, glacially-paced progress, digging in to achieve a losing draw with 121/8. Again, it’s a wonderful part of cricket that temperament as much as technique can rescue a draw in such circumstances. Well done to the South Tynesiders.

Elsewhere, in Division 1 Eppleton had a winning draw at Brandon, while Washington got the nod in their draw with Burnmoor. As a result Eppleton hold a 4 point lead over Burnmoor and 8 points over Washington with two games to go. In the Premier  Division,  Blaydon would have been happy to be offered a losing draw against third-top Durham Academy at the start of play, but Gateshead Fell’s Graham Onions inspired win over Hetton Lyons by one wicket saw them climb off the foot of the table.  It wasn’t the only tight finish though; Newcastle, after having bowled Chester Le Street out for 108, slumped to 85/9, but managed to grind out a win that was another catastrophic blow to Chester’s slim title aspirations. The terminal blow was at Benwell Hill. After restricting South North to 159, the home side had 53 overs to get them in, or bat for a draw. They were all out for 121 in 52.5 overs, with the ensuing victory meaning South North’s lead at the top is 46 points.

In all probability, South North will win the title away to Stockton next week, while Chester Le Street host Durham Academy. For me, the choice is either the return between Newcastle and Benwell Hill at Jesmond, or the enticing contest at the foot of the table, between Gateshead Fell and Blaydon. On the Sunday, there is also the final of the Banks Salver between Eppleton and Tynemouth.  I’ll be there, cheering the Croons on. Sedately mind….

Life During Wartime

What a sporting day Saturday 22nd August was; firstly Winstons came from a goal down to win away 2-1 against Richmond Veterans, with yours truly playing well, then Benfield made light of an early 2-0 deficit to overwhelm West Allotment 6-2 in the Coach Lane Clasico, before South North went a long way towards retaining the NEPL title with a tense 2 wicket win over nearest rivals Chester le Street. Oh, and Newcastle United got a point at Old Trafford. We may not have won yet, but normality and calm appears to have broken out, just as the latest issue of Stand is published, whereby I cast my gaze over the seemingly dormant AshleyOut.com phenomenon -:

In April 1992, a General Election that was seemingly too close to call resulted in a narrow but decisive victory for the Tories, caused primarily by an unceasing media campaign of personal invective directed at Neil Kinnock. The subsequent political map of the country showed a stark split between the red areas of north and Inner London versus the blue south, which was of little succour to those of us in Durham, Tyne & Wear and Northumberland whose votes had bucked the national trend and returned Labour members with increased majorities. The resulting, unexpectedly damning ideological despair could be offset to an extent by renewed belief in the region’s main football club, as the second coming of the messianic Kevin Keegan gave Newcastle fans faith in the Magpies again. The next few years have supposedly attained semi-mythical status among followers of all clubs, as KK’s glorious, romantic style of play was always doomed to end in beautiful failure.  Or at least that is the accepted narrative told to supporters by the media. The reality is a more prosaic one; we’d have been happy to play dull football if it could have gained us a trophy. You win nothing with entertainers…

Fast forward 23 years; the 2015 General Election, viewed by many as odds-on for a hung parliament, creates despair and intense foreboding in the hearts and minds of all those with a social conscience as the Tories obtain an unexpected majority that enables them to enact a vicious programme of austerity that will condemn huge swathes of society to multi-generational penury. Perhaps the main cause for the result was the Labour Party’s inability, and indeed disinclination, to offer any meaningful rebuttal of the nonsensical lie, peddled by the Tories and proselytised by most sections of the media, that fiscal rectitude is essential because the economic crash of 2008 was not the fault of greedy, rapacious bankers and the essentially rotten nature of capitalism, but was rather an unavoidable natural disaster, comparable to earthquakes or flooding. Meanwhile, the north east woke late and demoralised on May 8^th, having returned a slate entirely comprised of Labour MPs with increased majorities. Sadly, there was one major regional cultural difference from 1992; Newcastle United had failed to maintain the respect and affection of its adherents. There was no Kevin Keegan; only John Carver. No Gavin Peacock or David Kelly, just Yoan Gouffran and Mike Williamson. Nor was there the ultimately discredited John Hall; in his place is Mike Ashley.

In the bizarre world of cyber football one-upmanship and the ratings obsessed gossips in broadcast and print media, there is a clear, negative narrative that holds ideological supremacy whenever the Magpies are discussed.  The argument runs like this; firstly, Newcastle fans are deluded because they have never been a big club, as they have never won anything (well, that’s not true; we’ve amassed 11 major trophies in our history, though none since 1969). Secondly, they are fickle because they used to get crowds of less than 13,000 (that is true, though not since the reign of Ossie Ardiles; imagine back in 1991 the bafflement that would have resulted from a rival fan referring to your club’s attendances in 1967 to make a snide dig?). Thirdly they are ungrateful and insular; Alan Pardew was hounded out because he was a Cockney (despite the atrociously ill-conceived Pardew Out campaign, that was an unmitigated disaster, he actually left of his own accord after 4 fraught years to take over at his boyhood club; his tactics, team selections and press conferences caused more unrest than his family ties) and Mike Ashley is hated because of where he comes from, despite all he’s done for the club (admittedly the Cockney Mafia Out bedsheet brigade are a cringe-inducing embarrassment, but they aren’t representative of the support as a whole; there are many reasons to denounce Ashley other than his birthplace).

Despite the rampant mendacity inherent to the statements listed above, it is sadly unsurprising that they are widely accepted as facts. Without going into arcane discussions about false consciousness and the Gramscian theory of hegemony, it is plainly obvious that if the Labour Party, with all of its history, resources and influence, is unable to effectively challenge the lie that austerity is the only possible response to a supposedly unavoidable financial catastrophe that has blighted our world these past 7 years, caused presumably by the caprices of the gods, then Newcastle supporters are never going to have the power to persuade the media and large numbers of other fans just what the truth about our club really is. Indeed, it is almost impossible to make them listen to us when we try to explain things.

The truth is this; the main problem with Newcastle United is Mike Ashley. My mantra is that it is essentially irrelevant where the club finishes, who plays for and who manages the team while Ashley is in charge. We need Ashley OUT now and 100% fan ownership IN, though I’m prepared to accept 51% as a transitional demand. However, I realise I am speaking only for myself and not for NUFC fans as a whole, a statement that contains the kernel of the primary impediment to previous attempts at organised supporter protest on Tyneside. It is no secret that Newcastle’s fanbase has been fractured and fractious for years now. The heady days of autumn 2008 when the organic Newcastle United Supporters’ Club grew from righteous rage at the departure of Kevin Keegan, are long gone. NUSC became a largely inert and ineffective supporters’ trust (NUST) that has haemorrhaged members over the years, but claims legitimacy by maintaining links with the FSA and Supporters’ Direct. Those frustrated at the lack of progress left to form NUFC Fans United, a loose amalgamation of the whole supporting spectrum,  which keeps in contact with the club by means of the Fans’ Forum, the brainchild of hardworking Supporter Liaison Officer Lee Marshall; though this body is viewed with cynicism if not hostility by many supporters. With the activists wasting energy in internecine spats of futile enmity, the remaining majority of the support, whether they were clad in Wonga tops or bona drag fashionista casuals in designer apparel, have been effectively emasculated to the role of passive conformists, marching mutely up to SJP once a fortnight to the sound of the Ashley drum.

Then, something changed; something that gave hope. Spurred on by a catastrophic run of defeats in the spring that made relegation, unthinkable at the turn of the year, a strong possibility, the faceless organisers of the failed Pardew Out project suddenly felt the scales drop from their eyes, as they relaunched as AshleyOut.com to focus their ire on the organ grinder responsible for making monkeys of us all. Instead of just words of frustration and anger, there were actions. A boycott of the Spurs home game in April was announced and almost 10,000 stayed away, many protesting outside the ground beforehand, though the club announced a nonsensical crowd figure based on ticket sales. This campaign, launched initially on social media, was a success for two main reasons; firstly, it was made clear that anyone attending the game would have their wishes respected (this wasn’t the Miners’ Strike after all) and secondly, the anonymity of the organisers meant that old scores did not need to be settled. Certainly, when compared to the fiasco of a 69^th minute walkout versus Cardiff organised by NUST at the end of 2013/2014 that saw less than 3,000 leave the ground, the presence of new blood among activists was a great success. AshleyOut.com accepted that some people simply want to support the club and hold no real interest in affairs beyond the 90 minutes on the pitch and don’t judge those who still go. Equally importantly, they do not condemn those who have already voted with their feet and binned season tickets, seeking instead to draw them back into the fold by campaigning against Ashley. It is a moot point whether this will work; local Northern League clubs such as FA Vase winners North Shields, Whitley Bay and Newcastle Benfield have seen their crowds multiply as disgruntled Mags opt for the grassroots game.

Undoubtedly, AshleyOut.com’s subsequent tactics following the Spurs boycott, including a 34^th minute stand up protest against Ashley in the Swansea game (on account of the unspent £34 million NUFC earned last year that’s earning interest in the club Post Office savings book) rattled the owner. Having realised the smug indolence that was the keynote of club philosophy post Pardew, as exemplified by non-decisions such as failing to strengthen the squad and giving John Carver (a man whose previous Tyneside managerial history included getting The Denton relegated in the Newcastle Sunday League) the hot seat, had blown up in his face, Mike Ashley took the unprecedented step of speaking in public. Before the crucial last game of the season at home to West Ham, he offered insincere promises of a brighter future by muttering vague platitudes and blandishments into a microphone held by an obsequious Sky Sports minion. We stayed up by winning 2-0, including a goal by the heroic Jonas Guttierez, whose celebrations included bellowing volleys of abuse in the direction of the owner. Carver got the bullet the next day, resulting in the decidedly underwhelming figure of Steve McClaren getting the SJP gig and a seat on the board, along with former captain and Ashley loyalist Bobby Moncur (aka Bob Concur). Since then McClaren’s appointed his backroom staff, started pre-season training, sent out a ghostwritten email pleading for patience among the fans and signed absolutely nobody. At the time of writing, season ticket sales, described by the club as “comparable” to last year, are running at about 32,000, which is about a 25% shortfall. Possibly this is because match by match discounts make it cheaper than a season ticket, if you don’t mind a seat up in Level 7.

More likely this is part of the “Ashley Embargo” announced by AshleyOut.com whose website entreats fans to boycott all companies owned wholly or partly by Ashley and offers suggestions how to avoid indirectly funding the Sports Direct brand. The question as to how effective this will be cannot be judged in the short term, unlike the football team. It may take years to get Ashley out, but the whole region seems now to have judged; there is no going back. As far as the football goes, McClaren may be uninspiring, but he must be able to motivate and organise whatever players he has at his disposal more effectively than Carver did. Mid table mediocrity, the preferred level of achievement for the club since 2007 will be more likely to kill supporter spirits than failure. If we’re bottom of the table, it’s time to get angry. If we’re tucked in between West Ham and Stoke, it won’t matter much either way and the older supporters and their righteous anger will melt away and die. What a depressing thought.

Milton; Paradise Regained?

Other than The Popular Side, my favourite football magazines are The Football Pink and STAND, both of which have new issues out with articles in by me. Despite that, I strongly urge you to buy them. What I particularly like about The Football Pink is how the editor Mark Godfrey is prepared to allow contributors to discuss "controversial" subjects at some length; for instance, MK Dons. While the accepted narrative from When Saturday Comes and many of those who prefer a simple lie to the complicated truth, is still a tiresome refusal to acknowledge the club's existence, an attitude that is part childish pique and part fundamentalist intolerance, The Football Pink encouraged me to debate the issue. Here are my thoughts -:

In late Spring, when John Carver, the self-styled Best Coach in the Premier League, was seemingly piloting Newcastle United over the cliffs of footballing destruction towards a relegation that was both inevitable and utterly preventable, I made the crack that if the Magpies did go down, I’d only attend 1 match at SJP in 2015/2016; against MK Dons, as the two sides could battle it out for the specially commissioned Moral Bankruptcy Trophy. It got a bitter series of laughs in the pub after a banal 1-1 draw at home to West Brom, but thankfully I won’t have to address this particular issue just yet as NUFC fans were spared the indignity of demotion to a lower tier that would have been entirely merited following the performance of the club hierarchy and the vast majority of the playing squad in the season just ended. However, on a wider football level, the promotion of MK Dons to within one step of the Premier League, with the chance of subsequent SKY-endowed riches provided by any future elevation to such exalted company, leaves fans of all clubs needing to address the elephant in the Championship. Are MK Dons really the pantomime villains of the contemporary game that many observers who comment on the sociological rather than tactical aspects of the sport insist they are?

Ever since then Wimbledon chairman Charles Koppel announced his desire to relocate the club to Milton Keynes in 2001, barely half a decade after Sam Hamman’s half serious attempts to move from Selhurst Park, not back to their original home in the borough of Merton, but to Dublin, the accepted and seemingly unchallenged narrative among many fans and those writing in fanzines and blogs, is that MK Dons are the embodiment of all that is wrong and evil about modern football club owners and the influence they have over the game. Supporters of MK Dons have been demonised, pilloried and scorned since the club moved to the (now demolished) National Hockey Stadium back in 2003, with levels of derision racked up further by subsequent events including the adoption of the club’s current name the year after and the move to purpose built Stadium MK in 2007. Presumably now the club will have an increased media profile, on the back of both promotion and SKY’s contract to show 112 football league games from next season onwards (the vast majority of which will undoubtedly be from the Championship), then levels on enmity on social media and in the pages of independent publications will presumably increase from snide sniping to all out condemnation of the club and fans. It’s time for some perspective here; this is not the Miners’ Strike and MK Dons are not the Nottinghamshire branch of the NUM undermining King Arthur from within. This is football and we need to remember that.

It has to be stated in unequivocal terms that the relocation of Wimbledon to Milton Keynes was wrong on every level; it caused the death of a club that you simply had to admire for their spirit and pluck. I first recall them as a Southern League club, holding then league champions Leeds United to a 0-0 draw in the FA Cup fourth round in 1975, when impressively bearded keeper Dicky Guy saved a Peter Lorimer penalty. I visited the astonishingly ramshackle Plough Lane ground in 1987, to see Newcastle lose 3-1 to a muscular Crazy Gang, enjoying their debut top flight season. The year after I cheered their FA Cup win over Liverpool. In all of those incidents and in the years following, it was the collective ethos of club and their small band of supporters that deserved the respect of the whole football world for achievements against all the odds. Everything seemed to unravel after relegation from the top flight in 2000. Changes of owners, changes of personnel, dwindling crowds; the usual problems suffered by clubs in decline, though rarely are they terminal as in this case. Wimbledon’s metamorphosis into MK Dons wasn’t a case of assisted suicide; it was involuntary euthanasia; identity theft rather than a fresh start. However, we’ve seen it before and nobody seems to have complained too loudly about other clubs who had the rug pulled out of them by unscrupulous and ambitious administrators, who transgressed not the rules of club ownership but any moral justification they could claim for their actions.

On Good Friday 2005, Spennymoor United of the Unibond Northern Premier League, beset by financial difficulties and marooned at the bottom of the table, went out of business after losing 5-1 away to Gateshead, calling time on 128 years of history after 33 games of the very epitome of a season to forget. It was very sad, but it wasn’t the end of the story. Two steps lower in the national pyramid were Evenwood Town of Northern League Division 2; playing in the smallest centre of population in the Northern League, with a miniscule support and an ageing committee, they were taken over that summer by a consortium that renamed them Spennymoor Town and moved their home from Evenwood’s Welfare Ground to the Brewery Field in Spennymoor, effectively ending 115 years of history in the process. Nobody complained that much; Spennymoor Town attracted crowds of over 500 immediately, won the Northern League 4 times in 5 seasons, as well as the FA Vase in 2013, before taking promotion to the Northern Premier League. Bankrolled by local businessman Brad Groves, they are club clearly on the up. On the surface, it seems like an unqualified success, but try telling that to the family of Gordon Nicholson, Evenwood stalwart for 50 years, who died of a broken heart less than six months after his team merged with Spenny, in the same way that Austria merged with Germany in 1938.

Think that’s bad? Consider the case of Clydebank and Airdrie United. In summer 2002, Airdrieonians finished runners-up in the Scottish First Division, but their financial situation was bleak. With debts totalling £3m, the club folded and Gretna (there’s a whole other tale to be told about that club!) were elected to fill the vacancy, starting in the bottom division. However, second division Clydebank, who had assumed East Stirlingshire’s identity in 1964 to gain admittance to the Scottish League, a move that saw the clubs forcibly demerged the year after by the Scottish FA, were on their last legs following decades of mismanagement. The club had lost its ground and were itinerant tenants at a succession of west of Scotland lower league sides, while proposed moves to Carlisle and Dublin (we’ve been there before, haven’t we?) fell through. Clydebank were massively in debt and run on a shoestring budget by unsympathetic administrators. When a consortium of Airdrieonians fans sought to buy the club, the few remaining Bankies fans were powerless to object and the club were forcibly moved to Airdrie and had its name changed to Airdrie United, with the blessing of the Scottish FA. Not many voices were raised in support of Clydebank, though my mate Neil remains a lifelong devotee of the Bankies and one of those who keeps the reformed club going in the Scottish West Juniors League, the equivalent on non-league north of the border.

Looking at the cases of Evenwood and Clydebank, it seems that the only difference between them and Wimbledon is the level of publicity engendered, with the supporters being wholly innocent victims and the ones made to suffer in the long term. The fabulous achievement of AFC Wimbledon in reaching the Football League cannot be understated; nor can the superb successes of FC United of Manchester, who recently opened their splendid new ground. However, what can we say to the fans of Spennymoor United or Airdrie United? Are they in any way responsible for the venal sleights of hand that obliterated Evenwood and Clydebank? Of course they’re not; as fans, they want to have a club to support and, faced with closure and oblivion themselves, they reacted to the good fortune that maintained a link with their club with great glee. It may be schadenfreude by proxy, but I can’t blame them for revelling in their good fortune. Of course, this is not the case for followers of MK Dons, as they didn’t have a club to support in the first place. However, if the main argument about moving Wimbledon to Buckinghamshire was that football should be related to the community where clubs spring from, could we not counter this by saying it is far better that those who live in the environs of Stadium MK support their local side rather than Chelsea or Manchester United from sofa or bar stool?

I’ve seen MK Dons in the flesh; a dire 0-0 draw away to Doncaster Rovers where about 150 of them kept up an irritating nasal whine for the whole game, repeatedly enquiring “shall we sing a song for you?” However, these are predominantly young lads doing what young lads do; having a few beers and travelling up and down the country, supporting their team. To classify them as scabs or collaborators is plain wrong and opposed to the ethos of supporter commonality. MK Dons fans are entitled to support their team and should be afforded the respect we give to fans of all other sides. Mind I think their manager Karl Robinson, successful though he undoubtedly has been, can almost match Alan Pardew for smarmy, vacuous arrogance, but let’s not go there.

Campbell's Meek Balls

Steve McClaren seems to be a bit of a tactician, which is not something we've had in the SJP hot seat since Sir Bobby. The latest incumbent selected a sensible team against Southampton and had us playing a bit of football, which was really encouraging. He's also having a thorough look at every player in the squad, loaning out those who need some game time elsewhere. Adam Armstrong is down at Coventry, where he bagged a brace on the opening day against Wigan, which was great to see. Meanwhile Adam Campbell has seen his short and inglorious NUFC career peter out and has signed a one-year deal with Notts County, for whom he was an unused sub in a 0-0 draw on the opening day. I was asked by the Pies' fanzine Black & White to pen something about Campbell, which is also in The Popular Side issue #8, which is available via PayPal to iancusack@blueyonder.co.uk for £2 inc P&P or £1 for the PDF. So here goes -:

You know you’re getting old when your club’s latest striking prospect was the same school year as your son. This happened to me when Adam Campbell, who was born on New Year’s Day 1995 and joined Newcastle United as a trainee in 2011 after leaving St Thomas More School in North Shields, signed a 3 year professional contract a year later after making his debut as a substitute in a Europa League qualifier against Atromitis of Athens. As ever, the hype about the latest potential local lad made good placed an immediate and intolerable burden on the young lad’s shoulders that he’s struggled to deal with ever since.

Following the Greek adventure, Adam went back to the reserves for six months, with the local media repeatedly announcing he was “knocking on the first team door” and peddling the club line that Campbell was a Paul Scholes type player; short, compact, inventive and ginger. Grant he did show flashes of this in his Premier League debut, coming off the bench versus Stoke to set up Papiss Cisse for a last minute winner, though he made less impact in his other 3 sub appearances, meaning he was very far from justifying the hype surrounding him. Indeed, like Steve Harper, Campbell was to play his last NUFC game against Arsenal in May 2013.

The narrative surrounding Campbell’s career prospects then abruptly changed; suddenly it was claimed he was too slight and needed toughening up, by going out on loan to “hone his craft” or some other ludicrous cliché. Thus began 2 years of peripatetic wandering in search of a regular starting berth; initially this involved a solitary sub appearance on loan at Carlisle, resulting in a 4-0 hammering against Coventry and an immediate trip back along the A69.  He had far more success in a half season stint with St Mirren from January-March 2014, scoring his only 2 senior career goals and playing a dozen games. Campbell expressed a desire to spend another year in Paisley, but a change of manager, with former Newcastle United reserve team boss Tommy Craig being handed the job, before promptly overseeing a disastrous campaign that ended in relegation, saw Campbell’s chance of SPL redemption denied. Instead he started the final year of his NUFC contract on loan to Fleetwood; after 4 underwhelming substitute appearances, including a 1-0 win at Meadow Lane, he was back again. In reserve games, it appeared he’d lost all his confidence and was going through the motions; a state of affairs not helped by anonymous showings in a pair of home losses in a brief emergency loan with Hartlepool that was curtailed by mutual agreement.

In January 2015, Campbell was informed his contract would not be renewed at season’s end and he made the sad, well-trodden passage across the Tyne Bridge to Gateshead, where so many promising young Newcastle starlets who’ve failed to kick on, have ended up trying (and often failing) to resurrect their career. At first it looked good for Adam; 2 goals on his debut away to Nuneaton and another one at home against the same opponents. Sadly, performances dipped, opportunities dried up and he assumed his usual role as potential impact substitute, while Gateshead’s campaign dribbled out to mid-table mediocrity.

Frankly, having seen Campbell’s role being reduced to that of non-participatory benchwarmer, I’d expected him to sign for a club significantly below Conference standard, such as Blyth Spartans or Darlington, even though Tony Pulis had him at The Hawthorns on trial. However, much to my amazement, he’s got himself a league club, having left one set of Magpies for another. Bearing in mind his most successful spell as a player was in black and white stripes for St Mirren, I really hope he does well for you. However, in the context of a campaign to gain immediate promotion, I fear he’s too small to be a striker and too timid to be a natural creator. In the hurly burly of League 2, I can see him sinking without trace, though I’d love to be proved wrong.

Jockey Ar La

Here's my account of the annual trip back "home" to Ireland.....

If there is one thing that has kept me going through the long, dark night of the soul that 2015 has largely been, it was the thought of my annual trip back “home” to Ireland, for the friends (thanks to Declan in Dalkey, John in Maynooth and Barry from Shelbourne for all they did to make this trip so memorable), the sport and the gargle in that order. So it was, having been thwarted by circumstance in my attempt to get over in mid-June, I found myself arriving at Dublin Airport on Wednesday 22^nd July. After idling over, coffee, soup and a sandwich in the Irish Film Institute with Declan, I nicked his key and headed southside on the DART to be among The Quality in Dalkey.

Dump the bag, quick shower and a leisurely stroll later, I was embarking upon my first pint of Dungarvan Brewing Company’s superb Helvick Blonde in the entirely appropriate Magpie pub. Ireland has seen an absolute explosion of micro-breweries producing craft ales of varying qualities over the past few years. I’m not a beer specialist; for all that I adore the stuff, so I lack the vocabulary to describe the drink in accurate terms. Suffice to say, Helvick Gold and Galway Hooker are the two best micro-brewery cask conditioned ales available in Ireland. Not that there isn’t space for a good pint of black porter when it’s needed. It wasn’t needed that night though, as I fell asleep on the sofa until around 6.00, which was grand so, as was a breakfast of Waterford’s second finest product; Flahavan’s porridge oats.

Last year my trip to Ireland had seen glorious weather, to the extent that the coastal walk from Dalkey to Dun Laoghaire was one characterized by unfettered joy and glorious views. This year the weather was terrible all trip (other than the Saturday), with hailstones at one point, so I simply put my head down and tramped along The Metals to the former King’s Town, for the purpose of getting a bus up to UCD. No I wasn’t studying; I was actually attempting to square a circle by seeing a Europa Cup tie between the hosts and Slovan Bratislava. I’d previously visited the Belfield Bowl for a game against St Patrick’s Athletic in July 2007 that the Inchicorians won 3-1. These days UCD are newly relegated to the First Division, but because of UEFA’s Fair Play competition looking fondly on the L of I, they were selected for a Europa Cup qualifying place. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t have bothered taking the game in; for instance I had no interest in revisiting Dundalk the night before to see them play BATE in the Champions’ League. However, I lived in Bratislava for two years, across the road from Slovan for one of those years and I hated them, being a Petrzalka fan. Slovan used to be followed by the very worst, cliched ex Eastern Bloc Nazi skinhead support imaginable. They’d often sing songs in praise of Hitler and so I despised them from the moral high ground and not simply for sporting reasons. Ironically, UCD had beaten FC Dudelange of Luxembourg in the previous round, as when Petrzalka qualified for the UEFA Cup (as was) in 2004, Dudelange were their opponents in their first game; a tie I went back for. Therefore, I felt I simply had to be at this one, which was delicately poised after Slovan won the first leg 1-0.

The bus up to Belfield took forever; I could have walked it quicker and then I got lost in the huge campus, before finally noticing the floodlights. Tickets were 15 Euros; a bit steep compared to normal admission prices for a league game, but I wasn’t going to argue as there were only a few left. Indeed, the game was a 1,463 sell out by 5pm, so Declan and I could only get seats together about three rows from the front. The UCD support were like a giant version of “Big Bang Theory;“ geeky, nerdy, well dressed and spoken southsiders, who were about as far removed from Bohs or Shels fans as you could imagine. Thankfully Slovan’s supporters were not their bonehead element, who presumably couldn’t afford the trip, but lots of expats working in Ireland; financial whizzkids in black suits and open necked shirts who are clearly doing alright for themselves and mustachioed shell suit wearers who have more of a manual employment history. Regardless of social class, the Slovaks were the ones to go home happiest.

UCD played a dismally negative 4-5-1 in the first half, going in a goal down to a header by veteran and returning Slovak prodigal son, Robert Vittek. After the break, the introduction of a ginger Paul McShane lookalike up front saw the hosts give it a go as a 4-4-2 outfit. A second goal to the visitors didn’t dim the home side’s ardour; they got a goal themselves and gave it everything they had, almost equalizing twice, before tired legs and a red card for two fouls undid them. Slovan went 3-1 up and the game died, before two, cruel, unnecessary and highly flattering goals in injury time allowed Vittek (known to Petrzalka fans as “Anglicky kokot,” meaning “English prick” when he was linked with a move to Birmingham City back in the day) to claim his hat trick and the game to finish 5-1. As we made our way towards Booterstown DART, the loquacious announcer said all those with tickets from the Slovan game could have free entry to their next home game on Sunday against Finn Harps; a fine gesture, rewarded with a 1-0 home win. Sadly, I wasn’t there, having chosen to watch Cork being humiliated by Galway in the hurling quarter finals at Thurles.

Friday was the big one; a trip to Waterford with Shelbourne. Accordingly Declan and I headed down to Bertie Aherne’s favourite watering hole, Fagan’s in Drumcondra. It was a packed, complacent pub where the O’Hara Blonde was tepid and lifeless. Apparently the legendary Bass wasn’t much better. The place was filling up with Ed Sheeran fans, ready to listen to his particular brand of tepid and lifeless muzak at Croke Park. We avoided this and headed, via the off license, to Tolka Park and a pint in the bar, before taking the bus with the Shels support to Waterford, as my quest to visit all the League of Ireland grounds continued. Now I’ve only Cork, Cobh, Drogheda, Limerick and Cabinteely to go. I did tweet Cabinteely, asking for a lift down to Cobh on the Saturday, but they didn’t reply.

My link with Shels had come about via Twitter, where I’d become mates with Barry Crossan and submitted a few articles for the Red Inc fanzine. This fixture was what decided me on visiting this particular weekend. I got to meet loads of Shels lads on this happy, drunken adventure, but I’ve no memory for names, so I’ll apologise and say a collective hello to them all. After a couple of comfort breaks at the side of the motorway and heavy traffic leaving Dublin, we didn’t get to Waterford until gone 7. Sadly this meant the exhaustive list of good pubs selling Helvick Gold provided for my by the Dungarvan Brewing Company’s twitter account, remained unconsulted.

Waterford looks a fair sized and intriguing town, but sadly I had no opportunity to investigate it further as United’s ground (the Regional Sports Centre) is on the way out of town. Instead we did what all football fans do; we headed for the nearest pub, regardless of merit, to drink big bottles off the cooler, as is the Port Lairge way. To call The Yellow House a dump wouldn’t be true, as the municipal tip was actually next door. Suffice to say, it was like a squat with a license. It looked like an abandoned saloon in a Wild West ghost town. It was Munster’s worst pub. It was The Jockey from “Shameless” transported to the Deise. I liked it enormously, though there was no sign of Helvick Gold in the place.

Suitably refreshed, we headed for the ground in good spirits, arriving at the same time as 300 Spanish and Italian exchange students. Thankfully, we broached the subject of needing a quick entrance and affected egress after shelling out a tenner. I’d heard only bad things about this ground; middle of nowhere, miles from the pitch, no atmosphere. Not true; it may have a running track, but it is a vastly superior ground to either Athlone or Longford and the two sets of fans, with the European youngsters in the middle, kept up a whole night of singing and chanting, aided by drums in Waterford’s case. The home side are bottom of the First Division, but the eccentric, peripatetic Roddy Collins (not attired in Louis Copeland threads for once) has them playing good football, which was no mean task on a saturated pitch that had puddles and knee high splashes for the players to contend with. Shels were muscular and more direct, which should have worked, but didn’t as the home side took a deserved 1-0 lead before the break, with a finely worked goal.

The Shels supporters were aggrieved, agitated and unhappy. Only knowing Philly Hughes of the 22 players on display, I couldn’t comment knowledgeably, though the score was a major surprise. I’ve a feeling Waterford may have won the game if it had stayed 11 v 11, but they went down to 9 and Shels to 10 on the hour after a wild, reckless lunge by a Waterford player sparked a mass bout of shouting and roaring, with the odd haymaker thrown in for good measure. Net result, an uphill task for the youthful and scrawny home side; they lost to two scruffy goals, scored when loose balls in the 6 yard box were forced home. It didn’t matter a jot to the lads from Dublin; celebrations after each goal and at full time were fulsome, joyous and unrestrained. Val Doonican certainly wasn’t singing any more. The final whistle was a scene of unbridled happiness and a coach full of fans in great humour headed back north, to a soundtrack of early 90s baggy and indie anthems, with a few Pogues classics thrown in. No Godspeed You! Black Emperor though, which I was disappointed about.

We touched down at the Ha’penny Bridge just before midnight. Handshakes and words of thanks were exchanged after a great day out, that I’d love to repeat next year (to Limerick, Cork or Cobh hopefully; I think I can probably make it to Cabinteely under my own steam), before Declan and I left DNS for a brace of pints in Mick the Bull’s pub and the 1.00 Nightlink to the end of the street, courtesy of a helpful and cheery driver. It had been a great day and I look forward to the next one. Mind I’m still a Bohs fan….

Saturday was the day of the GAA 4A qualifiers; Fermanagh v Westmeath up in Cavan and Cork v Kildare down in Thurles. The former was impractical and the latter unnecessary, as I was going to Thurles for the hurling quarter finals on the Sunday. Longford were at home, but I’d been there before and Cabinteely still hadn’t replied to my tweet asking for a lift to Cobh. My initial plan had been to head for Bray to see the Munster against Ulster Irish rugby league challenge semi-final between Treaty City Titans and Ballynahinch Rabbitohs, but the County Down side conceded, allowing the Limerick team a bye to the final against Dublin Exiles. This did not thwart my plans to see some sport though. 

Having checked Leinster Cricket’s website, I realized I had the chance of a double header; Merrion 2nds v Clontarf 2nds in Division 3 and the adjacent Pembroke 6ths v City University 3rds in Division 13. However, I discovered Ireland were hosting Holland in the World Cup 20/20 qualifier semi-finals. Proper cricket! List A cricket! Amazingly, it was dry, so minutes later Declan and I were on a DART north, heading for Malahide, presumably to spend an afternoon with the entire Church of Ireland population of north County Dublin. For the avoidance of doubt, Malahide is not DNS; from Howth onwards, it’s all very select. Almost as select as the southside, but not quite. In all seriousness, Malahide is a lovely spot and the cricket ground gloriously scenic and jazzed up by huge amounts of temporary facilities and Sky TV paraphernalia. The crowd was impressive; almost 3,000 or so, including some highly enthusiastic and almost knowledgeable, partisan home fans (though I wish they’d make their kids behave; the ICC looks down on unsupervised bairns, as test venues are not free crèches), a smattering of Scottish fans, even some Dutch blokes who are presumably working in Ireland and a load of Pakistani lads, who knew more about cricket than the rest put together. They certainly knew Ireland had blown it, when they subsided from 106/4 to 128 all out. Holland eased home by 5 wickets after 18.4 overs, but had never really been in trouble; a couple of late Kevin O’Brien wickets put a veneer of competitiveness that probably wasn’t there in all honesty. A great afternoon and certainly a first for me; well worth a tenner in, though it was a shame there were no scorecards available.

We got home just in time to see Fermanagh’s celebrations after beating Westmeath and for me to endure Cork being sodomised by Kildare. It was a disgrace, but the small ball game is the true sport on the banks of my own lovely Lee. Sunday morning I took the train early out to Maynooth, seeing the heroic Richard Boyd Barrett TD putting up some posters in Glenageary, to meet John. Minutes later, we were heading south in filthy weather, on our own trip to Tipp. Arriving around 12.30, we parked on the edge of town and took a leisurely stroll up to Semple Stadium. The night before there had been 3,819 rattling around in a 52,000 capacity ground, but there were many, many more here for the hurling; almost 34,000 in fact. And not a bit of bother, as fans of the four counties on duty, as well as many neutrals who liked to see the spectacle, mixed freely and jovially without a cross word in pubs and shops and streets. This is the real Ireland. This is what I love about this country. The tolerance and the easy going, friendly warmth of the people. Ireland is the polar opposite of aggressive, intolerant England; it’s simply the best place on earth, if you ignore the weather. Contrast the Irish acceptance of different cultures and different languages, no doubt coloured by their own 800 years of oppression by the Saxon invader, with the EDL march in North Shields on account of the closure of a customs post. Thankfully 500 people took to the streets in protest at the fascists, who only amounted to 60. Presumably all those posturing tough guys who make up the EDL’s core support were scared shitless at the thought of facing up to all those beardy-weirdy, sandal wearing, veggie lefties. Sorry, I’m digressing…

Early Sunday afternoon in Thurles was inclement. Intermittent showers and blustery winds had given way to a Biblical monsoon and attendant hurricane, so we passed on the chance of a glass in Cusack’s Bar of the Hayes Commercial Hotel and took our seats, just in time to see the concluding minor game, where Galway beat Limerick. I must admit, the only Limerick jerseys I saw were on the field itself. There weren’t many more Dubs there and I still find it odd to hear GAA and especially hurling discussed in a Jackeen accent. Perhaps there won’t be many more discussions about hurling after Waterford, trailing 0-13 to 0-12 at half time, came on strong to win 2-21 to 1-18. Their soccer team may be down in the dumps, but their hurlers are doing the Deise proud; shame they’ve got Kilkenny in the semi-finals mind. Dublin may be favorites for the football this year, but they’ll have to be better than their unimaginative hurlers, who seemed only interested in scoring points, rather than looking to actually play attractively and expansively. They were only marginally the worst team on display, as Cork (beaten finalists in 2013, Munster champions last year) were as shameful as the footballers the night before. Galway, who now play Tipp in the semis, managed to have 23 wides, mainly by the normally brilliant Joe Canning, but still won 2-28 to 0-22; losing by a margin of 12 points is a hammering however you dress it up. Donal og Cusack was scathing about the whole county board, including legendary manager Jimmy Barry Murphy, on the Sunday Game, but I didn’t listen. Too depressed. We headed back up country, stopping off in Abbeyleix for a bite to eat, after being denied food in Johnstown, Co Kilkenny (where the local hurling club are the Johnstown Fenians!) and spooked by the scarecrow festival in Durrow, Co Laois, then had a few good pints in The Newtown in Maynooth.

We had a load more on the Monday, after I’d returned from a trip to Kilcock where I hired a bike I called Nuremberg (It was a Raleigh you see…) from a Polish fella who runs a cycle repair business called “Two Wheels,” in McMahon’s, Brady’s and O’Neill’s. As the Galway Races had just started, a few lads seemed to have taken time off work to spend the whole festival popping between the bookies and the bar. In Brady’s, on the Connacht side, a shambling choir of drunkards staggered through Sean Nos versions of “The Rose of Mooncoin” and “You’ll Never Miss Your Mother’s Love Till She’s Buried Beneath The Clay,” while a fella from the Circus, who’d obviously been on the gargle all day, told me I was beautiful. My mate Dermot, who is just leaving his position as Professor of Psychology at Maynooth University, for a similar job in Ghent, would have enough material for a three-year research project from that lot. Sadly he wasn’t there, but I did meet him in The Roost for lunch on Tuesday, before cycling back to Kilcock (even if Facebook claimed I was in Oakville, Ontario), then taking a slow, relaxing walk back along the Royal Canal, sheltering under a bridge when a hail storm started. Despite the terrible weather, I was at peace; at one with the land that courses through my blood. As the Duke of Wellington pointed out, “one may be born in a stable and not be a horse.” My attitude to my ethnicity is probably akin to the discomfort felt by those suffering from gender dysphoria; I’m claiming ethnodisphoria as my own condition.

Another glorious, life-affirming trip back home was over; as ever I leave Ireland a better person than when I arrived, though all the way home I wondered why I hadn’t stayed two more days so I could have seen Cabinteely host UCD (all Garda leave in South Dublin cancelled for that one). Never worry; roll on next year. Thanks again to Declan, John and Barry. Heroes every one of you.