Wednesday 28 February 2018

Playing Catch Up



Two months in and 2018 has got every sign of upping the cultural ante as March arrives. During the next 31 days, Irvine Welsh’s novel Dead Man’s Trousers as well as albums by The Mekons 77, Trembling Bells and Yo La Tengo will be dropping. Those three bands are all touring, though none of them are playing Newcastle; Leeds is the closest they’re coming, though I doubt I’ll make it down to see all of them, with Yo La Tengo in early May the favourite, on account of the bairn’s expressed interest in seeing them. Despite the disappointment of their non-appearance on Tyneside, some promising future shows have been announced. I’ve invested in tickets for Pete Astor, who has also got a new album due any day, at The Cumberland on March 23rd and, further ahead, The Wedding Present at The Academy to do their Tommy album in June.

As an aside, I was deeply dismayed to see the Mouth of the Tyne Festival is welcoming back the FLA Dadsuals’ dreary dauphin, Paul Heaton. I’ve loathed that man and his music for more than 30 years, from The Housemartins onwards. Along with the evil Paul Weller, any proponents of Ska music, faux soul pap a la Smoove & Turrell, New Order with or without the vile Peter Hook, the aptly named Charlatans, the irredeemably awful Oasis, the emperor’s new clothes that were the Stone Roses and that shithouse Morrissey, it’s music for scowling, social inadequate baldies in chunky Italian knitwear and garish socks. Thankfully I’ll be watching Tynemouth at Whitburn that day, listening to the music I like and hopefully reading a book.

BOOKS:

So far in 2018, I’ve read 3 books; all published in 2017, but you know it’s the thought that counts. First up I finally tackled Harry Pearson’s masterful and affectionate biography of Learie Constantine, Connie. This meticulously researched and articulately written love letter to the first great superstar of Trinidadian cricket is by turns illuminating and infuriating in the way it shines a torch on the past. Cheek by jowl with misty-eyed recollections of Constantine flaying the ball to all corners of Lancashire league grounds in the inter war years, are genuinely sickening accounts of racist attitudes of the day. The prejudice of the West Indies hierarchy is something of a shock to someone whose first recollection of the Caribbean tourists was the 1973 test series that beguiled and fascinated the 8-year-old me, to the extent I decided to become a slow bowler, inspired by Lance Gibbs. Suffice to say it was not a successful impersonation.



Harry’s book has as its main strength, the sheer size of Connie’s personality, especially in such wonderful vignettes as his disapproval of the loose morals of priapic Trotskyist CLR James and his endless attempts to inveigle the womenfolk of Nelson, Colne and all parts thereabouts into making the beast with two backs. As is the case with so many cricketers, the post retirement story is a compelling one, of legal studies late in life, corruption and patronage in his home country and a slow, graceful decline in the country he chose to settle in. A truly compelling read.

Someone who I think would enjoy Connie is Durham CCC’s foremost female supporter Jane Gulliford Lowes, or Lydia as she’s known on Twitter. Mainly on account of her regular and perceptive analyses of Durham’s woes, not to mention the endless proselytising of her beloved Black Caps, Lydia and I became Twitter pals. Last December, her book The Horsekeeper’s Daughter was published, and I’d hoped to make it a Seaham double, by seeing Benfield at Red Star and then dropping into her local for the launch. Sadly, a frozen pitch put the football off the agenda and prevented my attendance. However, as she’d previously provided me with info about how to get from Dalton Park shopping centre (boss trabs etc) to Red Star’s ground, I had promised to buy her book.

Frankly, I’m very glad I did as it tells a complex tale of family separation, Victorian poverty, emigration and astonishing coincidences that provide resolution at the denouement, though it tells them in a lucid, unambiguous fashion that perhaps belies the author’s place in the legal profession. Despite the appearance of many possible sources of melodrama, this is far from Catherine Cookson territory, though neither does it stray towards ultratragedy in the style of Toni Morrison. It reminded me of a factual Kate Atkinson, telling the story of Sarah Marshall’s upbringing in Seaham and her attempt to make a better life by emigrating to Queensland in 1886, weaving in the complex threads of the lives of other family members. All of this inspired by a battered attaché case of yellowing photographs and crumbling letters of starched formality. It is an absorbing page turner where the key character emerges as being Jane / Lydia herself, as the ending grows close.  I recommend this unreservedly.

In September 2006, heading back from a brilliant weekend in Glasgow (Teenage Fanclub at the Barras and Benburb 5 Royal Abert 1 at the late lamented Tinto Park the day after), I read Scotland on Sunday through shaking fingers on the rattler back. In the arts section, I read about David Keenan, proprietor of avant garde record shop Volcanic Tongue, and his partner Heather Leigh’s project Dream Aktion Unit with Thurston Moore. Immediately I got home, I bought the album, Blood Shadow Rampage; it’s a tough listen. Free improvisation, rock style, rather than jazz is a demanding taskmaster and I think I’ve only made it through 3 times in total. That’s more times than I ever got to Volcanic Tongue, one-time workplace of the mercurial Alex Neilson, which shut for good in 2014 without me ever darkening its doors. However, I bought several crazy releases by mail order which intrigued, amused and baffled me by turns.



Therefore, when I learned Keenan had turned novelist, to produce This Is Memorial Device, an imagined oral history of post punk in Airdrie 1983-1986, I sat up to take notice. However, it was only in February I got around to buying it. Within 48 hours I’d read the words off the page; Kim Gordon said it’s a book she wishes she’d lived through and I understand where she’s coming from. This Is Memorial Device is brilliant; rather like that lost classic The Shoe by Gordon Legge, it forensically reconstructs the imagined, realistic world of the novel and a huge array of credible characters who inhabit it. Keenan has made a bid for creating the new genre of kitchen sink magic realism. The fact we don’t explicitly learn what happened to Memorial Device or hear from the members, despite Keenan constructing a multifarious set of narrators, all of whom tell their part of the story from slightly varying perspectives, is irrelevant. It is a book you find yourself reliving, using the locations, sounds, attire and personalities from your own experiences. A remarkable achievement.

MUSIC:

One band I’d expect would have been all over This Is Memorial Device are Mogwai. It’s their territory, geographically and musically. For some reason I’ve never seen them live before; their 2013 show at the Tyne Theatre was on a Thursday, when I was teaching an evening class and their 2015 appearance at the Radio 6 festival in Newcastle sold out in minutes and I was one of the unlucky ones. Therefore, news that their 2018 tour was kicking off at Northumbria University was heartily welcoming. Many others must have thought the same, as the gig sold out weeks in advance. I’m very glad I got a ticket; not only is this a great venue, but this was a stunning show.

I think the last time I’d been at Northumbria was to see British Sea Power, another band that toured in 2018 but didn’t get anywhere near Newcastle, who are always brilliant live. However, I’d venture that the antecedent of this gig was My Bloody Valentine’s legendary performance in December 1991 when, about 15 minutes into Feed Me With Your Kiss, the very best efforts of Kevin Shields fused the entire building’s electrics. Despite shrinking PAs, fewer punter per square foot, bouncers recruited from Russian hooligan firms and punters behaving like gigs were tea parties these days, Mogwai, alongside the incomparable Godspeed You! Black Emperor (obviously), are one of the few bands able to truly test, cajole and punish the audience with a fearsome aural assault. The formula is simple; a line of hard looking blokes playing hypnotic guitar and basslines louder and louder, faster and faster, then exploding the piece into shards of feedback drenched, squalling white noise.  Goodness, it works though; an exhilarating, cleansing experience that replays in your inner ear for a couple of days after.

Out of a sense of duty, I completed my Fall collection with New Facts Emerge; 2017’s album and the only one I’d not bought when it first came out since Dragnet in 1979. As I’d expected, it isn’t much cop. The opening piece of studio whimsy, Segue, and first track proper, Fol De Rol, hint at something better than what unfortunately transpires. A swollen, psyched, hypnotic stagger that verges on being half melodic, if far too fast, gives way to the usual 40 minutes of samey, dull, blundering sub Killing Joke style dirge. How many times have we said this since The Marshall Suite? The closing Nine Out of Ten is a curiosity; guitarist Peter Greenaway plays an unaccompanied guitar riff for nigh on 9 minutes. Again, it’s too fast, but it’s a poignant portent of the imminent gap in The Fall’s sound that Mark E Smith’s death has caused.



Until I caught up with Michael Head and the Red Electric Band’s classic Adios Senor Pussycat last year, I will admit my knowledge of Liverpudlian indie music, such as the work of Shack or Pale Fountains, was limited to the very obvious; Bunnymen, Teardrops, OMD and the many incarnations Wah! At the time of writing, I’m still ignorant, but showing a willingness to learn. On Easter Saturday 1995, I saw a fella by the name of Dave Wiggins score for Tranmere Rovers Supporters in their 4-3 loss (having been 3-0 up) against a bunch of Irish lads who were over as guests of Tranmere and ex-Newcastle legend Liam O’Brien. I must admit the chat with the man who scored that free kick at Roker Park was more memorable than the Wiggins lad’s performance, but it was a point of conversation on Twitter some 23 years later.

Dave is the author of the sleeve notes for Candy Opera’s CD 45 Revolutions Per Minute, which is the definitive collection of the great lost Liverpool band’s career. Recorded between 1982 and 1989, it shows that the 23 years since Dave and I met was only a short time in reality. Loyalty made me buy the CD and I heartily recommend it; the style of luxurious, elegant, articulate pop it contains takes us down the Aztec Camera, latter Orange Juice, Prefab Sprout and Friends Again route. C86 this is definitely not; it’s better dressed, better played and less consciously experimental than the defiantly iconoclastic purveyors of wilful obscurantism. Candy Opera’s songs are gorgeous, gregarious, lush and luscious; 18 slices of wholesome, holistic pure pop that deserves a far wider audience than hitherto. Get this while you can.








Monday 19 February 2018

Downsizing

"So, how's the diet going?"


The question as to whether extrinsic or intrinsic motivation is the more effective, is one of those circular debates, like the nature versus nurture conundrum, that can never adequately be proven either way. Despite repeated scholarly musings over the fullness of time, in most instances, we are forced to fall back on mere anecdote to explain our conclusions or viewpoint.

For instance, take our cats: Paw Paw and Tromszo. The former was found as a stray, living in the back alley behind a ropey chip shop on Prudhoe Street in North Shields. When we took him in, he was scrawny, wild eyed and nervous. Four years on he’s placid, affectionate and content to spend most of his days indoors, snuggling up to either of us or contentedly sleeping on the chaise longue. Obviously, it’s our nurturing that has transformed his personality. Meanwhile Tromszo was born across the road as part of Misty’s 2015 litter. She’s moved literally 100 yards from place of birth to permanent residence, where she is loved and indulged, on the rare occasions she is indoors. You see most of Tromszo’s days are spent hunting, killing and devouring mice, bank voles, the occasional bird and even rats, though she draws the line at eating the slaughtered long tails. When she’s not on manoeuvres, she picks fights with other local cats, especially her timid beau Junior and fecund sister Rogue who also lives a few doors away. Surely, we haven’t taught her behave in such a way? Of course not; however, she could well have inherited such base and murderous instincts from the genes of her itinerant sex machine father Feral Errol, who is the alpha male feline Fritzl of NE30. Nature undoubtedly wins out in Tromszo’s case.

And so; motivation. Let us not confuse it with ambition, targets or goals. For instance, I want to be the best writer I can, which is why I spend a great deal of time over my blogs, polishing and refining them before inflicting them on the public. Too many bloggers publish their grammatically aberrant thoughts without so much as a cursory proofread; that is an insult to readers and a failure in their craft. Such attention to detail on my part is what I see as a major part of my ambition to constantly improve, which I’m hoping to demonstrate with this piece, especially in the time between the completion of my first draft and the eventual published version.

Moving on, my target for summer 2018 is to play social, rather than competitive cricket, in the midweek league. It is a modest target, but potentially attainable, if I can squeeze into slightly too snug-fitting whites. Hence my goal is to lose as much weight as possible before the season starts in mid-May. The NHS BMI calculator suggests a person of my height ought to be looking at an upper weight limit of 12st 9lb, which I’ve probably not been since I was about 16 and seems a ludicrously unrealistic target. Instead, I’ve set myself the goal of losing 70lb, over the whole of 2018. That’s 5 stones and, at the point of writing, I’ve shifted a stone and a half thus far. Not a bad start, but there’s still a hell of a long way to go, as I’m still very obese and simply can’t bear to look at photographic evidence of how awful I continue to look. This stinging self-loathing will continue to drive me on, as much as the positive comments, support and help I get from my wonderful friends.

My method of choice, intended to help me achieve my goal is the elite transform project, which combines 3 gym sessions a week, 3 other days of cardio “homework” (cycling mainly in my case) and a stringent no carb diet, from which I am enjoying a scheduled week off, though I’m still intending to eat properly and get as much exercise as possible. I must admit I’m looking forward to sneaking a few beers and some naughty foods in here and there, before getting back in the saddle on Tuesday 26th February for another 6 weeks and, potentially, another 15 weeks after that. If I reach my goal sooner than anticipated, great. If it takes longer to achieve, so be it; at least I’m more active and learning just what benefits even a modest amount of fitness can do.

Hence, I have demonstrated the distinctions between my current ambitions, targets and goals. But what are the reasons behind these three tangible and intangible monoliths? What is my fundamental motivation? Putting it bluntly; I wish to achieve personal, emotional and intellectual revenge on those who have judged, derided and dismissed me. Without even mentioning it to those self-appointed arbiters of my worth as a human being, much less attempting to engage these terminally hard of thinking, rude mechanicals with scabrous social media accounts in debate, I want to be able to look myself in the mirror and know I have proved the doubters, naysayers and boorish, baldy, imbarrathin reprobates, along with their lickspittle enablers, who circle me like tricoteueses bearing nests of vipers, wrong.  So, this is for you: the Winston Wolves, the Bona Drag Popinjays, the Kriss-Kris-Chris South Tyneside Superfans, the Special School Soup Kitchen and the Marden Estate Falangists, not to mention the Big Florist and her Grasses.

A fortnight before Christmas, wasting time on social media when I should have been grafting, Facebook spat out one of those supposedly tailored adverts, masquerading as a suggested group I might want to join. It was for elite transform fitness, showing a bloke crossing the finishing line of a cross country race, covered head to toe in clarts, but throwing his arms up in triumph and grinning with immense pleasure. The accompanying blurb told me this fella, we’ll call him Steve, was 44 years old and had lost 93lb in a year with elite transform; that’s six and a half stones. The before and after photos showed him to have morphed from the kind of grotesque human space hopper you see in betting shops, takeaways and Wetherspoons in all the wrong places into a confident, trim, almost radiant middle-aged bloke who was clearly adoring life. Oh, how I envied him. And for once, I actually did something about it.

I did a quick Google search to find out if elite existed in these parts, as though I’d heard of people doing such a plan and achieving incredible successes, I had no knowledge of location or anything else. Finding out that there was a local outlet in NE6 spurred me on and I sent an email asking for more details. The day after, I got a call from the bloke who manages the place, telling me in no uncertain terms what the programme consisted of and the sacrifices I’d have to make. This was the unvarnished truth and I decided, through gritted teeth, this was the ideal time for me to grasp the nettle. Luckily, as I’ll return to in next week’s blog, a certain change in my employment status had opened up a window of opportunity that provided me with both the time to do this, not to mention the readies to pay for it. Basically, it’s £260 for 6 weeks of classes, three times a week, plus a diet plan and as much support as you need, with the incentive that if you shed 20lb, you got your money back. Being honest that was only a tiny part of the reason I signed up. The fact was I really wanted to be as happy as Steve in the advert, though I’d obviously swap a game of cricket for the cross country running.

I paid my cash and on Saturday 6th January, I headed to Hoult’s Yard in Byker for the induction. Being honest, it was highly intimidating walking in there for the first time. It didn’t get any easier when my fears were confirmed, and it became clear I was probably the oldest and fattest bloke there, though there were a couple of older and a couple of larger women. Much of the induction went over my head, partly because I couldn’t hear half of what was said, because of how fast the staff spoke and their words drifting upwards to the roof of the metal and concrete box we stood in. Anxiety coursed through my veins and I doubted I’d last the distance. Still slightly disorientated, I was weighed and then left with a timetable of classes. My first class was the following Tuesday at 5.30pm. In preparation, I went to see Benfield v Coleshill in the FA Vase, then for a few pints with Harry and on to my pal Lid’s 50th birthday do on the Saturday. It was my last hurrah and I got battered.

Predictably Sunday was a write-off and Monday was a hell of a shock as it marked the start of the diet. The first thing they ram home to you is hydration; you’ve got to guzzle between 2 and 5 litres of water a day and green tea is the only hot beverage you’re allowed. Basically, as far as food goes, it’s porridge for breakfast on the days you train and egg whites when you don’t. Lunch is almost always tuna and salad, which is no hardship and dinner is 3 days chicken and veg, 3 days fish and veg and, special treat, an omelette on Thursday. Strangely enough, I’ve always hated eggs, but in this short period of time I’ve grown accustomed to their taste and probably look forward to Thursday night the most of any in the week.

The last time I went on a sustained weight loss programme, back in 2005 when I shed 4 stones with Weight Watchers, I learned the need to be both fastidious and consistent in my food consumption. For 6 weeks I’ve lived without: pork, cheese, chips, bread, pizza, curries, pasta, crisps, biscuits, cake, alcohol and coffee. Most of those on the banned list are self-explanatory and I was prepared for their disappearance. Indeed, the hardest thing to do without was coffee, as I’m a lifelong beanhead; the caffeine withdrawal headaches, and the fact green tea is unhelpfully flavourless, though undeniably refreshing, made the first week a bit of a slog. Additionally, the change of diet made a marked impression on my toilet habits. Dirty green piss that verged on displaying a tinge of brown showed straightaway that I was losing fat, though the condition of my stools that initially resembled a kind of meconium paste were less reassuring. Of course, within a fortnight, things had settled down to the extent Gillian McKeith would have stood up to applaud every time I downloaded a fresh lot of software. I digress…

The dietary element is only one part of the elite transform programme. Of equal importance are the exercise classes; even if you lose 20lb in a week, you must attend all 18 sessions if you want to claim your money back. Gulping hard, sweating nervously and fearing ridicule, I opened the door to my first session. At the time it was agony and, when I start it all over again next week, I’m sure it will be agony again. However, during the course of the 6 weeks I learned to love these punishing sessions, putting my increasing deafness to one side as I learned to follow what the rest of the class did rather than repeatedly asking for explanations. After a fortnight of falling asleep as soon as I got in from the classes, I began to deal with the aches and exhaustion, to the extent of even yearning for them on days I did not train. It was not so much that I got better, as there are certain exercises such as burpees and sit-ups whose mastery eludes me still, while my pacific nature ensures I’ll never be a natural at boxercise, but the incredible serotonin buzz that kicked in during week 2 drove me onwards. At first, I was focussed on the end of the programme and the chance to have a few beers and a curry; it was if I was doing time and couldn’t wait to be free again. Then, once I felt the euphoria of serotonin flooding my brain, I began to love the classes, however hard they were. I happily rose at 6.00 on a Monday for 7.30 classes, feeling justified and reassured when I saw Tynemouth captain Ben Debnam attending a 6.30 workout. At first, I worried about the walk back up the hill to Byker Metro being too far for me, but by week 5 I was itching to cycle to and from my classes, only to be thrown off course by the mother of all punctures at Willington Quay on Tuesday 13th February, that necessitated not only a new tyre, but a new back wheel as well. Ah well, there’s another 105 pounds I’ve lost….

I’ve not only made steps towards fitness, lost weight and inches, as well as improving my mental wellbeing. Before Christmas I was a tearful, angst-ridden emotional wreck; now I’m feeling confident, happy and almost content. I’m sleeping properly between 11 and 7 every night. My skin is almost clear of psoriasis placques and I feel wonderful. All of this has been achieved through the elite transform programme; even if I’d not made the 20lb loss, I’d have happily paid again such are the benefits I’ve gained from it.

Here’s something very telling about the elite transform programme; the trainers are simply wonderful people. The care, support and help they provide goes far beyond anything I had expected. They genuinely want you to succeed and, providing you put the graft in, they will support you every inch of the way. Never having done this sort of thing before, I was apprehensive about the attitude of others in my classes, fretting about sneering attitudes from perma-tanned, lycra-clad fitness fanatics. I needn’t have worried. At the outset, people are too concerned with their own fitness to waste energy on sneering at the old fat bloke with the ridiculous dreads.  Then, once you’ve been doing it for a couple of weeks, a genuine camaraderie and esprit de corps develops and we all supported each other through the rest of the course. For ideological reasons, I really wasn’t keen on boxercise at first, but it was absolutely key in building up trust, warmth and co-operation between us all. It is one of the reasons why I’d recommend elite transform to anyone.

When I came out after my final weigh-in on Friday 16th February, having hit the target and arranged to roll over my refund to pay for another 6-week programme, I literally could have burst into tears of joy. I felt so happy at what I’d achieved, though I was able to remain grounded as I know all I’ve completed is merely a single step on a journey of a thousand miles to my ideal weight. I’d initially expected I would have headed to Greggs on Shields Road and demolished what they had on offer, but instead I came home for a coffee and a slice of gorgeous chocolate birthday cake that Laura, who has been inspirational and the reason why I stayed on track, had made for Ann. At night, I treated myself to 4 pints of Bass in The Lodge; thankfully I hadn’t lost the taste for it. Yes, it seems wildly indulgent compared to the previous 6 weeks of eating to train, rather than training to eat, but that was nowt compared to how it used to be.

Over the week to come, I intend to go out for a beer on a couple of occasions, though I won’t be rounding the evening off with a deep fried, battered kebab meat pizza with cheesy chips. I’ll also look to do at least 50 miles on the bike, as well as fitting in a couple of games of five a side. It’ll all be very pleasant, but what I’m looking forward to most of all, is 5.30pm on Tuesday 27th February when the classes start again.

Let’s all raises our glasses (of green tea) and drink to that!







Monday 12 February 2018

Passive Voices

The new issue of the ever brilliant The Football Pink is available from   https://footballpink.net/2018/02/02/pre-order-issue-19-of-the-football-pink/  and you really ought to buy it, not just for my piece below about the failure of Newcastle United fans to step up to the mark when it comes to the vexed question of fan ownership. No doubt the supposed anguish at the failed bid by Amanda Staveley has been replaced by passive quiescence to the established order on the back of 3 points against Manchester United.


Ever since Mike Ashley made the announcement at the tail end of summer 2016 that he was keen to sell Newcastle United, both the media and the club’s support in general have been focused almost exclusively on trumpeting uncritical encomia about the consortium led by Amanda Staveley, which was repeatedly described as “the only show in town.” Being honest I don’t know huge amounts about Staveley, other than she’s a fabulously wealthy, unapologetic, far right Tory (is there any other kind?), who dropped out of her degree after ending up in a secure hospital with severe stress. Consequently, I don’t like her politics, but I do sympathise with her earlier mental health travails. I’m also very uncomfortable with any efforts on social media, however ham-fistedly humorous their intent, to objectify her as a kind of foxy Croesus, sex symbol, as that demeans her gender.


However, as a Newcastle United fan, the most relevant thing for me about her is the role she occupies as the public face of the obscure, possibly secretive, Middle Eastern syndicate that apparently sought and failed to buy the club from Mike Ashley. I may be naïve in this, but I would hope to know the finer points of each integral element of the collective cash rich oligarchs intending to purchase my club, before any deal was complete, so I could decide whether I am happy to give them my moral support and blessing. Strangely, this appeared to be an opinion far out of step with other Magpie supporters, many of whom grew giddy at either the thought of another freebie pint and selfie with Chris Mort, or the chance to give Manchester City a run for their money next season.

Let’s be honest about this; the decade and a bit of Ashley’s ownership of NUFC, when taken as a whole, has been nothing short of a disaster. We are no nearer challenging for honours than we were the day Glenn Roeder offered his resignation in May 2007. While there have been momentary, almost illusory vignettes of joy along the way: the genuine collective effort of Chris Hughton’s bunch of lads, the unexpected swagger from Pards’ 4-3-3 set up in the season we finished 5th and the surreal joy found on those occasions when the team really clicks, and we remember it’s Rafa Benitez managing them, all too often it’s been a litany of embarrassment and incompetence on and off the pitch: Sports Direct Arena, the Keegan court case, Shefki Kuqi replacing Andy Carroll, Pards headbutting Mayler, Carver’s press conferences, drip fed bullshit via Sky Sports, Llambias streaking, Kinnear bladdered on Talk Sport, transfer inaction and the constant sense that the club is being run as a cash cow for Ashley, like a down at heel market stall knocking out snide gear for the gullible and brainless.

Bearing in mind everything I’ve just said, I can understand exactly why so many Newcastle supporters will accept any takeover, regardless of who is behind it, as a preferable state of affairs to Ashley’s continued presence on Tyneside. I accept it is not just the servile sheep in the Sports Direct anoraks or the social media superfans who incessantly shout down, deride and abuse anyone who dares voice anything other than unblinking, unthinking loyalty to Benitez first of all, and now Staveley, who feel like this, but enormous numbers of ordinary, normal, proper fans, grown sick to the back teeth of seeing their club made a laughing stock and used as a punchbag by shady, shiftless shithouses. I am fully aware that in a capitalist world, dirty money is universal and clean is scarce, though I do not expect that a person as well-regarded as Staveley, would seek to surround herself with fellow travellers that are the likes of Somalian pirates, Russian Mafiosi, South American drug lords or construction company executives making literal and metaphorical killings on the back of the World Cup in Qatar. Obviously, the nature of international trade links means that if one were to unravel the minutiae of every major world business deal, there would be many unpleasant skeletons in the cupboard; realistically and pragmatically, that is the kind of ethical compromise one is forced to make. Is that essentially any different to calling out Ashley over his shameful employment practices at his Shirebrook warehouse? I’m not so ideologically pure as to demand 100% ethical investments from those trying to buy the club, but there are certain standards of decency and probity that must be adhered to. Agreed?

At this juncture though, we must pause to sadly note that during the labyrinthine, glacially-paced takeover discussions, any recognition of the concept of fan ownership was now seen as about as relevant an item on the current agenda as proportional representation is to the Brexit Omnishambles. There isn’t a journalist, fan or interested party who has shown any awareness of, much less any inclination towards vouching for an expression of fan ownership in Newcastle United going forward. That’s not just a shame or a pity; it’s a disgrace and a betrayal of the founding principles of Newcastle United’s Supporters Trust, who first coalesced in the wake of Kevin Keegan’s forced departure in September 2008, which was little over a year into Ashley’s disastrous ownership.

Both NUST, whose relevance and profile flatlined sometime around mid-2010, and the loose amalgam that is NUFC Fans United who stepped into the void created by NUST’s abeyance, have said from the very outset they wanted, nay demanded, an element of fan ownership in the club and fan representation on the board. Or at least they used to say that. Sadly, you’d have to look pretty closely at the small print on their websites for any mention of fan ownership or representation in documents and postings made since takeover talk began around October time. Sure, Fans United, and to a lesser extent NUST, do wonderful work with the NUFC Foodbank, as well as supporting the other praiseworthy initiatives by mirror-image supporter groups regarding flag displays in both the Gallowgate and Leazes at home games, but for the good of the club, wouldn’t it be preferable for them to advance an agenda that urges and possibly enables the average fan to be more of an active participant than a passive volunteer? However, the unfortunate and unavoidable truth that history tells us about Newcastle United and fan ownership, is that the support’s attitude to the owners, when real power is within reach, has never been characterised by decisive action, but by the adoption of a mien that can be at best described as obsequious and at worst servile.


Three times in their history, Newcastle United have been the subject of actual or potential share issues. Following the establishment of the club, after Newcastle East End took over the lease on St. James’ Park on 9th December 1892, Newcastle United was set up as a private limited company on 6th September 1895. The original share capital raised was the nominal amount of £1,000, with individual share certificates sold at the princely sum of £1 each. The club traded on this basis for much of the 20th century, dominated by the ownership of the McKeag, Westwood and Seymour dynasties, whereby one or other scion of those storied families would, in due course, accede to the titular stewardship of what Gordon McKeag referred to as “the family silver,” with little or any credible opposition to the status quo. Hearing the Leazes sing “Westwood is a pirate” or noting the Seymour’s got AIDS graffito on Boot Boy Alley betwixt the Gallowgate and East Stand was about as far as it got in terms of organised protest back in the day, until unreconstructed venture capitalist John Hall, freshly minted with barrowloads of unearned new money from building the Metro Centre, formed The Magpie Group with the ultimate intention of taking control from L’Ancien Regime on Barrack Road, with a vague promise to “give the club back to the fans.”  To do this, in fact to do anything, he needed to get his hands on enough of the old-style shares to earn a place at the directors’ table.

Now, if the British government could manage to lose hundreds of classified documents about the Northern Irish peace process, the Exchange Rate Mechanism and a paedophile ring involving many Tory MPs during the past 30 years, it’s fairly likely that a football club that had been kicking their ball around on a public park off Walker Road ten years previously, wouldn’t have compiled and maintained detailed or even vaguely accurate records pertaining to club ownership. Hall and his pals, including unfunny comedians Bobby Pattinson and Spike Rawlins, went around buying up shares from aged spinsters in Jesmond and Gosforth whose well-off mercantile fathers had been small investors in those late Victorian days. The fundamental problem for the would-be takeover bid members was not all the share certificates could be located. For every original certificate found gathering dust in a Lever arch file in the bottom drawer of a period dresser on Holly Avenue or Rothwell Road, another half a dozen were probably in locked deposit boxes under the watchful care of solicitors unaware as to the precious nature of the contents with which they had been entrusted.

To solve a seeming impasse, in an almost revolutionary gesture of ambition, McKeag and the rest of the NUFC board launched plans for a potential share issue in November 1990, to raise funds for the club. A semi-glossy brochure was prepared and mailed to all season ticket holders (approximately 5,000 in those days), fans who’d even bought a pencil sharpener in the club shop, and all potential business investors in the north. Included in the pack was a postcard to be returned by all those who expressed an interest in investing. I sent mine back, of course, but not many others did. Sadly, but unsurprisingly, the project failed to get off the ground in a hideously embarrassing fashion; so low was the level of potential interest that the board pulled the plug on the whole scheme, reflecting not only the low stock of the club in those days, but the reluctance of fans to do anything tangible to move the club forwards. It has cost something like £100k for the whole failed project; the kind of money Newcastle United were spending on players in 1990/1991.

While Newcastle United had suffered the indignity of failing to meet the reserve price and being withdrawn from auction, the fans had simply failed to step up to the mark. Sitting on the concrete steps of the Gallowgate chanting “Sack the Board” or muttering into their pints while boycotting the game was a far easier option than activism or organisation for the overwhelming majority. Being honest though, the late 1980s and early 90s were pretty lousy times on Tyneside; Waddle, Beardsley and Gascoigne were all sold to fund the building of the Milburn Stand, while the team nosedived to relegation in 1989, lost a play-off to Sunderland in 1990, had an average crowd of 16k in 1991 and were 2 games from demotion to Division 3 in 1992 until the Kevin Keegan cavalry rode into town to save the day. In a kind of Faustian football pact, Keegan’s arrival was only made possible when John Hall, who bought 72.9% of the club for £3 million in 1991 from the utterly discredited McKeag family. What happened in the next half a decade is the stuff of dreams and nightmares; half a decade of near perfection on the pitch, underscored by a bitter remembrance of heroic, if not tragic, failure and an unbreakable bond of unity off the pitch that fissured fatally when Keegan left in January 1997.

Capitalists, by nature and by definition, are not philanthropists. Their loyalty is always to the profit motive and their personal pocket, so after the sporting adventure of the Premier League saw the stakes getting even higher than one family could sustain, John Hall decided to float Newcastle United on the stock exchange as a public limited company. The machinations behind the scenes in preparation for this move sickened Keegan and he quit in early 1997, tired of less than subtle interference in the day to day running of the team and a whispering campaign allegedly orchestrated by Mark Corbidge, a man hired by Hall to facilitate the floatation. Stunned fans still sought to get behind the new manager Kenny Dalglish and pledged money for shares in a flotation that was vastly oversubscribed in the early spring of 1997. In my case, these were the only shares I had ever sought to own; I bought them not out of avaricious desire, but to reinforce that indefinable sense of belonging one has to one’s club.

This was not an equal sale; indeed, some investors were considerably more equal than others. Although less than half the shares were sold to the Hall family, the majority holding went to his business partner Freddy Shepherd. Any notion of a democratically constituted, fan owned club was blown out the water by the final figures, which revealed that the Hall and Shepherd axis owned more than 76% of all shares, effectively blocking any moves by shareholders to significantly influence the club’s direction. Certain motions came up for debate at each AGM, but in spite of such appallingly indiscreet scandals as the Toongate sting in early 1998, Shepherd and Hall’s dauphin, his eldest son Douglas, were effectively fireproof.  It was akin to the Trade Union block vote that controlled the Labour Party conference in the 1970s and early 80s; there was debate and dissent in the room, but when the votes were weighed in, nothing ever changed.



Having made his pile, John Hall stepped down as NUFC chairman and was replaced by Shepherd, with the Hall family still represented on the board by John's son “my boy” Douglas. In December 1998, after buying a 6.3% stake in the club for £10 million, the media group NTL considered a full takeover of the club, though this was later dropped after issues raised in April 1999 by the Competition Commission, which had been brought in due to government concerns about football clubs being owned by media companies. Rather ironic considering how Mike Ashley’s only mode of communication is through infrequent, soft-touch interviews on Sky Sports

For the next few seasons the club struggled on, with Douglas Hall the sometimes absent and always silent eminence grise of Newcastle’s board and Freddy Shepherd the anguished public face of the club, giving a public performance that often resembled a synthesis of Peter Finch’s role as Howard Beale in Network combined with Al Pacino’s portrayal of Tony Montana in Scarface. Regardless of managerial appointments, from the good in Sir Bobby Robson, the bad in Graeme Souness and the banal in Glen Roeder, the backstage story was always one of a race for profits and a struggle to balance the books. Misjudgements that bordered on incompetence left the club on the brink of a Leeds United style financial meltdown. Thus, it was no surprise to football financial analysts when, in the summer of 2007, Mike Ashley purchased the combined stakes of both Douglas and John Hall, through the paper company St James Holdings, with a view to buy the rest, by making a written offer to all shareholders. Resistance was futile, and Ashley owned 95% of the club by 11th July 2007, forcing the remaining shareholders to sell their shares. I got back the exact amount of money I’d invested 10 years previous; and since that point there has been no kind of fan ownership or representation on the board of Newcastle United.

Whether Amanda Staveley and her consortium or Mike Ashley and his shower end up with the reins of power at St. James’ Park, is immaterial as it seems the support have no desire to be anything more than willing serfs, paying handsomely to be entertained by those they continue to make even richer with each passing week. That’s a very, very depressing thought, but what is worse, it’s demonstrably the truth.




Monday 5 February 2018

Kill Yr Idols

Amidst the usual cacophonous clamour from Sy James' Park, news came last week of the continuing investigation into deeply troubling reports of racism and bullying by Peter Beardsley towards the Under 23 players under his tutelage. I've penned a piece about this that will be in issue #25 of Stand that comes out this wyou really ought to buy -:


In February 2006, the Newcastle United fanzine I was writing for at that time asked me to pen a profile for the Tyneside Legends feature they ran in each issue back then.  Previously the likes of Colin Veitch, Jackie Milburn, Hughie Gallagher, Malcolm MacDonald, Kevin Keegan and Chris Waddle had been the subject under the spotlight, so the onus was on choosing a pretty special individual. Being given free rein, there was only ever one choice for me; Peter Beardsley. Looking back now from a dozen years distant, I have to say my piece was more than just uncritical; it was fawningly hagiographic, but I would defend my approach and my words to the hilt, as Beardsley is the single greatest footballer I have ever seen in a black and white shirt. Sadly, there doesn’t seem to be much of a chance that I’ll see his equal turning out for NUFC at SJP in my lifetime.

At around 3.30pm on Friday 17th March 2006, as we lolled around the office counting down the minutes until the weekend granted us freedom, I took a call on my mobile from my mate Gary who, at the time, was Newcastle United’s press officer. I presumed it was to firm up which non-league game we’d be watching on the Saturday as Newcastle’s home game with Liverpool was a Super Sunday pick. Au contraire; Gary said there was someone with him who wanted a word with me. Blow me down, within seconds Peter Beardsley was on the other end of the line, thanking me for what I’d written about him, in very humble terms I might add. We talked for about 5 minutes, not that I really took in what was said, which is possibly the only time I’ve had a positive response to one of my articles!


I cannot claim to know Peter Beardsley, but I have subsequently met him on numerous occasions; some positive, such as at Newcastle United community foundation events, some sombre, like Pavel Srnicek’s memorial service and some utterly coincidental, as he’s often to be found using our local Sainsbury’s and the Post Office at Four Lane Ends. On every occasion our paths have crossed, I’ve taken the chance to have a few words and he has been polite, friendly and eager to talk; a normal middle-aged bloke in an NUFC trackie, who just happens to be the most gifted footballer to come out of the North East since World War II. And yet, sadly, this does not tell the whole sorry story of why Peter Beardsley is back in the news and in grave danger of having his reputation denigrated by a litany of accusations against him that hint at disgraceful conduct, involving bullying and racism in his role as Under 23s coach with Newcastle United; a position from which he has currently agreed to take an extended period of leave.

Before this storm blew up, I was all set to write a piece suggesting NUFC’s pitiful record in bringing through young talent from our academy, and the frankly appalling results in almost all competitive fixtures by what are effectively the reserve sides at the club, could only be improved by dispensing with the services of Beardsley and his fellow coaches, who must take the blame for a dismal record of stagnant underachievement that outstrips even Rafa Benitez’s questionable performance with the first team. Obviously, as Peter would say, this raises the issue of whether absolutely top-notch players simply can’t cut it as coaches, as so much of their game was based on instinct rather than teaching. For instance, we could all take cello lessons and, if we practised properly, could managed to saw a tune out of the beast, though it’s a racing certainty none of us would find out we’re the next Jacqueline Du Pre.  When it comes to the upper echelons of sporting or artistic excellence, instinct rather than coaching is the essential factor that makes for genuine genius.

If one looks at the England team from the 1990 World Cup, the collective CV of those who went into management is somewhat less than impressive: Shilton, Pearce, Butcher, Robson, Waddle, Barnes, Wright and Gascoigne have all failed in every job they’ve had, while the rest didn’t even bother going into management. I suppose you could argue Bryan Robson and Stuart Pearce had some positive experiences at Middlesbrough and Man City respectively, while Terry Butcher, after his hilariously calamitous failure with Sunderland, kept popping up everywhere from Brentford to Inverness, achieving variable rates of success. However, the point is, of the 22 players who were involved with England’s best international performance since 1966, not one of them won a single honour in their post playing career.


And yet, that isn’t the story that I have to tell. Peter Beardsley has not only failed to guide and develop the young players under his command, with Paul Dummett being the sole NUFC academy product to make it into the first team squad, he has also apparently demotivated and denigrated certain others by means of a targeted campaign of vicious, verbal abuse that can only be viewed as bullying. Additionally, his use of casual racism, under the specious guise of “banter,” has resulted in complaints to the club’s senior management which precipitated Beardsley’s enforced period of gardening leave. To be frank, the club had no choice when 5 U23 players attested to Beardsley, who had taken the squad to an outward-bound centre to use a military style obstacle course, asking 2 African youth team players who were struggling with the task, “Why are you taking so long? Your lot should be good at this.”

Recently, stories have emerged about the toxic, fetid atmosphere and culture in Chelsea’s youth team set-up under the stewardship of Graham Rix and Gwyn Williams. Clearly Rix, with a criminal record that saw him serve time for sexual relations with a girl under the age of consent, has a considerably lower standing in the game than Beardsley. However, regardless of his reputation, the sheer hatred revealed by the unending torrent of racist abuse doled out to teenage lads who simply wanted to be footballers, made me feel almost physically sick when reading it. Rix and Williams came across like a pair of 1970s National Front boneheads screaming abuse from The Shed. I have no doubt that such behaviour cannot be tolerated in any civilised society; not only were the words and phrases meant to wound and humiliate, they betrayed the kind of Neanderthal attitudes I thought had died out 40 years back. This wasn’t “banter;” this was hatred. In contrast, Beardsley’s comments, though they show stupid, indefensible ignorance, like a kind of low-carb Jeremy Clarkson with flat batteries, reflecting terribly on someone who played some of his best stuff with the likes of John Barnes, Andy Cole and Les Ferdinand, don’t reek of the same vile hatred as Rix and Williams display. Indeed, without trying to understate the seriousness of these utterances, Beardsley’s crass and moronic words pale into insignificance when compared to his alleged conduct in the case of Yasin Ben El-Mhanni, on the basis that the former were a result of ignorance and the latter targeted abuse.

Born in London to Moroccan parents, El-Mhanni was signed from Lewes in summer 2016. His on-line presence is such that he was famous among those connoisseurs of ball-juggling wizardry who still pine for FIFA Streets, mainly as a result of his show reels on You Tube. It should be pointed out that El-Mhanni is no raw kid; he’s 22 and spent time as a trainee with both Barnet and then Aldershot Town, without making the grade at either.  Despite his CV extending to a meagre 4 appearances for Farnborough and 11 for Lewes, in his entire career, he had trials with Watford, Bournemouth, West Brom, Crystal Palace and Chelsea, where he scored on his debut as a trialist for the reserves, before agreeing a deal to come to Tyneside. He has appeared twice for the first team, both in the FA Cup, making his debut in 2017’s third round replay success at home to Birmingham and the fourth round loss to Oxford United. In both games, he displayed sublime flicks and control, but zero end product and was withdrawn around the 70-minute mark. When subsequently questioned about El-Mhanni, Beardsley had this to say about him -; He’s got unbelievable ability, but without being negative, he needs to learn the game. If I’m being honest I can’t take any credit for bringing him in. Steve Nickson [Head of Recruitment] and his staff are the reason he’s here, because he’s obviously got a talent which they saw, and we’re just trying to enhance that and make it better.

Now, without being cynical, reading between the lines, this would suggest Beardsley didn’t sign him, didn’t fancy him and didn’t know how to develop him. This is of no surprise to me, as a friend whose son endured a frustrating 3 years at Newcastle’s academy, where he felt Beardsley’s version of coaching actually impeded his progress as a player, because of the constant barrage of negativity directed towards anyone he didn’t rate, presumably in the hope of driving them out of the club, had this to say -: He (Beardsley)has always picked on the most vulnerable players and never the big names in the academy.  This (El-Mhanni) is just the tip of the iceberg. It could be Newcastle’s version of the Harvey Weinstein scandal as loads of former players will be coming out of the woodwork, especially because the club knew exactly what he was doing, including Rafa, but they all just buried their head in the sand. With the racism thing, I suppose he’ll claim it is his humour, because he thinks it’s ok. Basically, he thought he was untouchable, but he’s an evil little, back-stabbing bastard; the absolute definition of a bully.

While such sentiments may be coloured by personal involvement in this instance, as it must be hard to remain neutral when considering the case of one’s son trying to make a career as a professional footballer, the fact that El-Mhanni has made a formal complaint about Beardsley, which is quite separate to the allegations of racism, and additionally taken out a grievance against the club, shows that he is extremely upset with the situation. The basis of his complaint is that he has been forced to endure incessant, personal verbal bullying from Beardsley, almost from the moment he signed for the club. Anecdotally, I do know that many of the U23 players think that El-Mhanni is more of a circus act than a footballer, but this does not hide the fact Beardley’s conduct is completely unacceptable. In my personal playing experience, I’ve seen the effects of bullying on a couple of players who simply gave the game up as they fell out of love with it at one club, and I’ve also endured it myself at another club where I was involved on the committee, where the closing of ranks and spiteful innuendo caused me great upset.

Bullying, at every level and for every conceivable reason, is wrong. It isn’t character building, it isn’t part and parcel of the game and it certainly isn’t “banter;” bullying is abuse, plain and simple. Whether the perpetrators accept it or not, they are the abusers if a victim feels they are being bullied. There is no hierarchy of abuse in football; those who suffered sexual abuse from the likes of Barry Bennell are victims whose story must be told. The tragic revelation that NUFC legend Gary Speed is one of 4 players coached by Bennell who have subsequently committed suicide is a simply heartbreaking revelation that hints at the heart of an immense darkness in our game.


While Peter Beardsley will always remain a footballing hero of mine, like the revelations post mortem of Philip Larkin’s reactionary attitudes, I will have to separate the professional achievements from the man himself. If he is found guilty of either or both the accusations against him, he has to go. Sack him for gross misconduct, even if he’s just about to turn 57 and is a club legend; he has to face retribution for his acts, whether he accepts responsibility or not. Ironically of course, if his current job was examined on purely footballing terms, he’d not have a leg to stand on if his was sacked for his performance in the role, which will soon see my beloved Newcastle Benfield pitted against Newcastle United Under 23s in the semi-final of the Northumberland FA Senior Cup. I sincerely hope he isn’t afforded the equivalent of a loaded revolver in a locked room, though this is Newcastle United we’re talking about and if any club can respond in a dysfunctional manner, it’s Ashley’s circus up Barrack Road.