Away days

[Tom 13915]

LTB

[Gemmill 35592]

Aye class stuff. A lovely bit of forum soloing.

[Gene_Clark 12]

For Newcastle supporters of a certain vintage, going to an away game was a decision made at last orders on Friday night (tickets, who needed tickets?), rather than by submitting an on-line application with payments made by credit card a month in advance. As far as travel arrangements were concerned, there wasn’t any debate about which car would be used as nobody had one back then; transit vans would be commandeered from works yards at the crack of dawn, whilst trainer-clad, hung-over young men skulked around on Tyneside street corners arguing whether this was the right paper-shop, the one you’d agreed to meet the driver the previous night, with ten pints of Ex sloshing around inside you. Amazingly, just as the argument about arrangements was about to conflagrate into a lively exchange of expletives, with a comrade up a back-lane chucking up S&N’s produce, said transit would come into view. For some, the arrival of the charabanc would be greeted with glee and a relish at cracking opening McEwan’s Export at 8:30 in the morning as an excitable mob crossed The Tyne for some vaguely known point South. There were others, and let’s be honest, we’ve all been there, for whom the arrival of the van was a cause of encircling gloom.

 

Last night, you’d been pissed. Horribly pissed. In the cold light or rather grey drizzle of dawn, the idea of sitting on the rutted metal floor of one of Ford’s finest, nursing a hot, sweating hangover with guts full of stale ale and last night’s greasy cod and chips (hey, this is the early 80s, the great British kebab and late night ruby were some way off) ready to make an involuntary come back was not appealing. And yet, amazingly, there you were! A no-show was simply not on the agenda.

 

Inside the confines of the van, and the horrible realisation quickly hits you! You are on your way to South Yorkshire, with your skinny arse sat on the tin floor of a van with absolutely no suspension and those canny lads you were cracking onto last night are all, without exception, psychopathic lunatics of the most extreme variety. Even your mate, who normally seems immune to the insanity of Newcastle United’s early 80s away following, is looking nervously at the driver, drinking neat Gordon’s Gin and banging the bottle off the roof in time to the “Magpie Ranger” song. We’ve just gone through Birtley. This is going to be a long day.

 

And they are a handful. Monsters. We’ve gone through Leeds with the van belting out “who the fucking hell’s Leeds?” and a group of rastas at the traffic lights by the Fforde Grene in Harehills seem bewildered by the question. Wisely, they give this van a wide berth. My mate and I are laughing along, weakly, just to stay on the good side of them. The good thing about sitting doubled up on the floor of the transit is the pain in my arse and back has distracted me from the relentless pounding headache and spewiness. I’ve even had the brassneck to crack open a can of Tennents. If you can’t beat ‘em …

 

The time spent watching an insane giant, who is also the official navigator, writing NUFC in his own piss on the hard shoulder near Wetherby now seems a pleasant interlude to this descent into madness. We now have, for all intents and purposes, cashed in our personal liberty to this crew. The dull, unrelenting boredom of Armstrong Galley’s organised jaunts seems utopian. Within the crypto-freedom of a motor-services station stop-off, after which I am frighteningly rebuked by the Gin-Man for taking too long having a dump, my mate concedes: “these lot are mental by the way”. There is no rakish grin as this news is delivered, deadpan, followed by a solemn suggestion that “we should do one as soon as we get to Rotherham”. And that is the plan. No forward strategy for the return leg. Just lose these maniacs and work on the basis something always turns up.

 

And that is exactly what we do. In the Rotherham United Supporters Club, completely commandeered by wildly excitable and thirsty Mags, we snake off, spotting some lads we know and taking refuge with crisps and beer. Someone is singing Come on Eileen and before long, the entire massed ranks of Tyneside have adopted it as tune of the day. Never mind that A Certain Ratio and Clock DVA are at the peak of their powers, we’ve gone for Dexy’s. Typical us.

 

There is a tangible sense of optimism. Its only two months since The Chronicle screamed across its banner headline that “Keegan Signs Tonight,” as a picture of our permed saviour alighted shivering from his plane at Newcastle Airport. In August! We’re still in shock. We’re still euphoric. Imagine Ronaldinho signing for someone like Stoke. I mean, we were still stuck in the Second Division. Instead of visits to the Camp Nou, the San Siro, Anfield, Old Trafford, Stadio Della Alpi and De Kuip, we spent the early 80s on the road to Barnsley, Grimsby, Burnley and Oldham, but now we had Keegan. And the Mackems, for all their fragile First Division status under Durban and Cowie, gulped with green-eyed envy. We were back on top. “I wished to God, we had supporters like those at Newcastle” said a green-gilled motor-man, Tom Cowie.

 

And Keegan was Captain of England and we wanted to see a Newcastle United player lead England out as Captain, but we never got to see “Wor Kev” leading England out as a Newcastle United player. Because Bobby Robson, newly appointed as England manager, dropped him and couldn’t afford him the courtesy of a 10p phone-call to tell him before the press in a shocking display of man management. Keegan, who, along with Brooking carried England in the 70s as a never-ending series of “legends” (Hudson, George, Bowles, Marsh et al) did nothing in England colours. He was the man. The only world-class player England possessed. And yet he was reviled. Why? Because he worked hard! Because he was a consummate professional! Because he wasn’t a lush or a shagger like some of the above. Supposedly a manufactured player! Well, if he was so easy to manufacture, make me another like him. “Not naturally gifted”. Bollocks. The man was a box of tricks. A bundle of energy! Passion and purpose! We loved him.

 

The away end was mobbed. Behind a fence and under a low roof we came to let Keegan know he was England’s No.1. It was a packed pit of passion. Crush barriers mounted by Geordie cheer-leaders, giving us an “N”, N”, “N” - one song ran into another but “Come On Eileen (Keegan)” was the chant of the day. A newspaper column from the incomparable Brian Clough (RIP) posed the question “if there are eleven players in England better than Kevin Keegan, I want to know who they are. I want answers, I cannot rest!” His absence from the England squad was nonsense.

 

There were stories all over the park. Terry McDermott, who Joe Harvey had signed from Bury and who was later flogged to Liverpool (where he won a bit) had returned to the club and was making his second debut in the modest surroundings of Rotherham, while a certain Emlyn Hughes, completing the Liverpool connection, was The Millers, player-manager.

 

We battered them. Keegan was like a man possessed. Something changed in Kevin Keegan this game. Before then, playing for Newcastle United was an exciting challenge, how he could stir this regional football powerhouse from its sleepy state back into the national spotlight blah blah blah. After this game it was different. Keegan knew then he’d met his soul-mates. He completely got the fact he was engaged in a just and righteous cause. If Keegan was a player who liked to be loved, he’d come to the right place. His emotional debut at home to QPR was a memorable and remarkable occasion but away to lowly Rotherham, where the season before, we’d rejoiced in grabbing a point as Kevin Carr saved a penalty in the last minute, Keegan saw the level of appreciation we had for him and what he was doing for our club. It was genuine, heartfelt love.

 

5-1. KK got four and Kevin Todd, who was later to have a long and fine non-league career in the NE, got the other with a cross-cum-shot, which sneaked under the upright. It was our day. McDermott’s passing and running had been a different class. Varadi’s pace was a constant thorn.

 

Now topped up with a further few pints of South Yorkshire bitter and ecstatic at a rare away win (some things never change) we’d blagged a lift back in a box-style furniture van with a couple of spaces with a slightly less dangerous clientele than those we’d travelled South. Someone suggested a stop-off in York. So we did.

 

These lads are canny. We’ve split up across three different bars in the town centre, all dives. There is a marked suspicion of football supporters and the new phenomenon of bouncers on the doors of the emerging wine bar scene are wary of non-locals. To be fair, we’re a bit loud, though friendly. So we go down-market. We’ve taken up residence around 7-ish and we’re on the pool table. Beer is going down smoothly and a great time is had by all. The juke box is being well-fed.

As ever, only the ropiest of the local women-folk are remotely interested in our charming Geordie repartee. I cop myself in the mirror in the netty and I look like a pile of dirty washing. I think I stink. How can they resist?

 

Then it happens. Come On Eileen comes on the juke-box and half a dozen Mags join in enthusiastically. We’re all pissed as rats but there are no bad lads amongst us. You can just tell. But the singing hasn’t been a wise-move. York is a Leeds town. And now we’ve got a mob of them outside. We’re not a hoolie gang. In fact, we’re soft as clarts and I am Walter Prince of the Softies with a Gateshead accent. We’re no challenge for them. I’m sobering up and looking for a route to hit. These Sambas can move. My mate can shift as well and we both know if we get the chance we’ll run. But there’s nowhere to go and the Landlord wants us out before the windows come in. There’s only the six of us – they look a seriously heavy set of lads. We’re going to get done in.

 

Then we’re outside. For whatever reason, they’ve allowed us out of the pub doorway and into the street. We look especially vulnerable now and I can see some of them want to get round the back of us. This is no good. The oldest amongst us is about 22 and these lads look ten years older and thoroughly battle hardened. They’ve been told “we don’t want any trouble” but I suspect they won’t either, once they’ve kicked us all over the historic and very beautiful city of York.

 

Not surprisingly, I have declined the offer of a trip up a back-lane with some leather-jacketed caveman but no sooner are the words out of my dry-throat than a scene of utter carnage is upon our would-be Yorkshire pugilists as our former travelling companions from the journey south, led by Gin-Man and his mates are out the bar only yards up the street and straight through them. I’m thrilled to see them and half expect to hear a trumpet and the monsters from the way down dressed in US Cavalry blue.

 

It’s all over in less than a couple of minutes. Those Leeds that had the chance retreated sharpish, whilst those who were foolhardy enough to stick around are making plans for A&E. We stand around gormlessly but Gin-Man and his colleagues are remarkably un-phased by the experience. I decide Gin-Man is a genius and I want to be his mate.

 

We go back to the bar from which our saviours emerged and are quizzed where we got to after the match. Apparently they waited ages for us. I feel guilty now. I watch Gin-Man neck a further five or six pints in rapid succession and offer to get him one for saving our skin: “No thanks mate, I’m driving.”

 

Deciding we wanted to stay alive, me and my mate bunked the half eight 125 back to the town and were reading a discarded copy of The Pink in The Greyhound in Felling Square before ten.

[Kid Dynamite 6093]

You get to Wetherby before you get to Leeds

[Gene_Clark 12]

You get to Wetherby before you get to Leeds

 

i know

 

the above is a linear narrative with dischronous interpolations

[Gemmill 35592]

Good read. Thanks for that.

[Kid Dynamite 6093]

 

 

i know

 

the above is a linear narrative with dischronous interpolations

 

There's no such word as dischronous Gene. Stop making things up to try and sound clever

 

 

[Monkeys Fist 39184]

Cracking stuff Gene. You should write a book

[JawD 31]

There is Cronos which is to do with time (from Greek god). Dis-Cronos I guess could be not in correct time line.

 

Ok, I don't know

[Monkeys Fist 39184]

It is a word. The opposite of synchronous.

Out of time.

Not in order.

 

e.g. Christmas Fucking Merry.

 

Used often in geology.

 

 

[Happy Face 29]

Is the opposite of synchronous not asynchronous?

[Kid Dynamite 6093]

Yes. Google dischronous, it doesn't exist

[Sonatine 10144]

He probably meant diachronous, so a typo basically

[Monkeys Fist 39184]

https://www.google.co.uk/search?q=dischronous&hl=en&safe=off&client=safari&tbo=d&ei=vzLYUJHqLajQ0QWimYG4Ag&start=20&sa=N&biw=320&bih=417

[Tom 13915]

Great read Gene!

[Kid Dynamite 6093]

He probably meant diachronous, so a typo basically

 

A sedimentary rock formation?

[JawD 31]

It is a word. The opposite of synchronous.

Out of time.

Not in order.

 

e.g. Christmas Fucking Merry.

 

Used often in geology.

 

I was on the right track then

[Monroe Transfer 0]

Love this thread.

[Sonatine 10144]

Varying in age from place to place was the definition i got, make of that what you will

Edited December 24, 2012 by Sonatine

[Kid Dynamite 6093]

https://www.google.co.uk/search?q=dischronous&hl=en&safe=off&client=safari&tbo=d&ei=vzLYUJHqLajQ0QWimYG4Ag&start=20&sa=N&biw=320&bih=417

 

It's not in the dictionary man. Just because other people have made it up doesn't make it a word

[Kid Dynamite 6093]

http://dictionary.cambridge.org/spellcheck/british/?q=Dischronous

[Monkeys Fist 39184]

 

 

It's not in the dictionary man. Just because other people have made it up doesn't make it a word

Fannybatter ...

 

Not in the dictionary, still a word.

 

Dischronous is used by people who wear suits to work, so I'll take their usage of it as validation of its authenticity

 

 

[Kid Dynamite 6093]

Well I'm one of them and I've never heard of it.

[Renton 18051]

I enjoy Gene's stories. He's a talented story teller.

[JawD 31]

I enjoy Gene's stories. He's a talented story teller.

 

Aye he is tbf. Writes in a style that makes reading effortless and enjoyable. Not everyone can do that.