A Man Without A Team: The Definition of a Poisoned Chalice

Bangor City's manager, Craig Harrison, can't win.
Literally. It's four games on the trot now; three in the league and one in the cup. At least this time they salvaged a draw from a losing position so that's something.

But he can't win either because it's well-known that City have - by some distance - the biggest budget in the league. It's something he's had before; he was at the helm of the franchise for six seasons during which they won the league every time plus quite a few cups and the odd win in Europe.

The close-season signings seemed OK - a bunch of experienced, take-no-shit bruisers supplemented by some exciting young talent. Just what the doctor ordered, really. And there were a trio of wins to kick it all off. Easy.

But football isn't like that. Harrison left the franchise to take over at Hartlepool, close to his Gateshead hometown and not far from one of his clubs, Middlesborough. It was a tug-at-heartstrings type of job, and the newly-relegated Conference Premier League side were a different proposition. They had no money, were on a downward spiral and right up against it. Sure, it was a test of anyone's management, and he even won a Manager of the Month award in October, 2017. But with finances crumbling and supporter bail-outs needed, the job proved a step too far. Whether any other manager could have done better is debatable, and 10 wins from 36 isn't all that bad under the circumstances. He left in Feb 2017 and Pools were relegated to the National League at the end of that season.

Fans watching from afar, not least at Nantporth, had an 'I Told You So' moment: without the huge advantages several years on the spin of Europe gets you, without the full-time vs. part-time stuff, in a proper challenge - well. The facts are there for all to see.

So when it all went tits-up last season and Bangor failed the license, that team broke up. Managerless, too, City were staggering about with all the grace of a punch-drunk, drunkenly-punched retired bare knuckle fighter now reduced to arguing in the kebab shop at 2AM about salad.

Harrison was drafted in. On paper, the most successful manager in Welsh domestic football (yes, I know, I know) and with a 27-game unbeaten run from the start of one particular season, a world-record holder.

On paper, on paper, on paper.

So here they are, my former club, with a hugely expensive side paid for by... well, whatever... and nowhere near the world-beating winners they were set up to be. Harrison can't win unless he wins every game. As unlikely as that is, even if he had done so people would say what people always used to say about his achievements: it's all about the money, money, baby.

Can't help feeling sorry for the poor sod, really. His captain missed a penalty in the last 10 minutes which would have made some of this go away, at least for a week or so.

A Man Without A Team: What We Are Really About

This is what we're about

* people not profit and a donation to charity of the proceeds from the sale of our wonderful Comrades shirts.

* stories about world-famous goalkeepers nearly signing for us - something I and many long-term fans never knew about til this week. Yep, Bert Trautmann himself nearly put pen to paper.

* comrades on TV spreading the word: The manager of the old team speaks too, and they lose. But the Comrades talk truth.

The old club of mine lost 1-0 yesterday to Llandudno in the league cup. Tudno are a league above us now, having got promoted about three years back.

I like Llandudno. I like a good day out there rifling through boxes of vinyl and shelves of books and CDs. I've done that for nearly 30 years, on and off. Not consecutively. Just from time to time. My folks love it too. It's got a lot of happy memories in it, has Llandudno. And some slightly off ones, I admit.

Once I swapped a Spritualised 12" into a Carri On Sex Pistols album, and vice versa. I bought the Spiritualised record, which of course had the Pistols in it. That was not something I'm entirely proud of and the record shop is now defunct in Llandudno. But it happened.

I have wandered around Tudno drunk as a skunk with a load of close mates, in our annual Trip to Llandudno (which we did about three times). Some of us drank Thunderbird. Others lager. One of us - not drinking alcohol anymore - necked a litre of chocolate milk, was sick, and went home on the train early. Dave, you are missed. But always remembered. I think of you sometimes when I'm there. It's still something I giggle at 20 years later.

I've seen Ash, the Manics, Space and Mike Peters there. I played the bass in a production of The Wiz there one summer when I was about 23. I've climbed the Orme countless times, sat on the beach eating icecream, sat on the promenade watching Punch and Judy, gone on the 2p machines and played bingo and gone on the slide on the pier and sat at the end of the pier listening to overloud, horrendous Hammond Organ twisted versions of 1950s pop hits; I've thrown stones into the sea, played footy, had psychedelic moments and played gigs there both with my punk band, and with the Bangor Cathedral Choir. (Not together. Separately. Although that would have been good.)

I've shouted at seagulls like a mad old tramp there, because the bastard things have nicked my missus' sandwich out of her hand. I think I offered the gull a fight actually. Being a seagull it just cawked, laughed and fucked off again. Horrible little twats. Mind you, I looked well hard. Or maybe just ridiculous.

I've eaten at loads of the chippies, the restaurants, cafes and the all-you-can-eat Indian buffet. There's always somewhere to go for a panad and a scran. All-year round as it goes. The summer's just busier.

I like Llandudno a lot. It's a bit fucking Tory, in terms of the inmates, but as a place it's a nice old Victorian town that hasn't changed a huge amount in 200 years. And in the rain, wind and sleet of another inevitable North Walian autumn/winter, it has a rough, dominating grandeur that is intimidating and comforting in its stolid grimy grace.

What I don't like is the idea that a club that once nearly signed the world-famous Bert Trautmann is now reduced to seeing a 1-0 home loss to a club our reserves used to play, and beat, regularly. And is counting it as a good performance against a better team. Llandudno is great. But this situation is not.

I mean, fucking hell.

Talk that one of the owners hasn't been very visible round Nantporth of late; I suspect there's an element of wishful thinking involved.

Ay, but one day this will all, too, just be the ramblings of a fading-out ghost won't it.

The men at the end of the pier will still be there, not catching fish.
The pleasure boats will still circle around, laden with raincoated, red-raw-stripped-faced tourists determined to have fun, because that's what British people do.
The boarding houses and B&Bs will still serve up Full English Breakfasts in a price war.
There will still be scrotes trying to blag cheap deals on records, and scrotes trying to rip off their customers.
The Punch and Judy man's descendants will find his marionettes in a dusty attic one day and wonder what the hell the puppets were for.
The winners at the shoot-a-duck game will still collect their prize of 10 tickets, and find out that a tacky cheap plastic not-watch costs 5,000 of them.
The pier stalls will still sell mostly knock-off replica shirts of English Premier League footy teams. And people will buy them.
The Hammond Organ will now be playing Nirvana and Radiohead with a musical theatrical flourish.
Beer will be drunk. The people will be drunk. Maybe one will puke from their milkshake obsession.

And life, whatever that may mean, will still go on.

Football, I suspect, may too.

If a club fails in a forest, will it make a sound?

(Tl; dr:
A man without a team has too much time to think.)

A Man Without A Team: The Poetry In It All

Well, the latest game was a 3-2 loss against one of the ostensibly worst teams in the league my former club shouldn't be, but are, in.

The first game's five-goal haul seems a long way away.

I didn't go; it was never really a possibility to be honest.

I mean, I'd have liked to have seen the comrades - of course. But Friday Night Footy's always weird and wrecks the weekend rhythm, specially when it's a bank holiday. Funnily enough, it was nearly the case that I moved to the home of my former club's latest conquerors, Denbigh Town to be exact. It was a work thing, and I was kind of excited at the possibility of watching regular footy. Not as a supporter of Denbigh; but to fill the hole where my club used to be. Sort of a rebound relationship based on shagging, but strictly no love.

I was never good at those either.

And as it turned out, we didn't move there. What I did get from the experience is that it's a bit of a pain in the arse to get to from this direction. Surprisingly long drive, considering it's not that many miles away.

Anyway, I didn't go, but I did sneak some looks at Denbigh's Twitter feed. The former club's feed is shit these days; last season, it was basically minute-by-minute and worth keeping tabs on. We also had Radio Bangor, too.

All gone now; volunteers discouraged, disillusioned and departed from their roles. There's only a few characters running things now; we're not sure what some of them actually do, either. Aside from build up hours in various tax/business/court hearings.

So we lost 3-2. (Hey. I said 'we'. I'm not gonna correct it. It shows I'm still trying to disconnect.)

And something strange but inevitable happened: a kind of backlash, a knee-jerk roar of discontent revealed itself on message boards.

Now, following in the footsteps of various found media-poets including - possibly most visibly - Dave Gorman on telly, I've written Below the Line Poetry at various times. Here's a session I did with Neil Crud for his radio show on Tudno FM, where I culled various comments from articles about Jeremy Corbyn's win of the Labour Leadership in 2016:Click here for the whole show and the session too. (Props to Neil for the ace music he created underneath the words.)

Below the Line Poetry is all about bringing together actual responses to online articles, (Russian spambots aside) by real people, commenting on stories in the press. And it is a scary place. The inside of some people's heads is an intense wasteland of half-formed thoughts, filthy aggression and crazed rambling paranoia. And, obviously, this is a great source of material for poems isn't it.

I was reminded of Below the Line Poetry by the lively message boards last night and this morning, and so here's a quick poem based on the loss of my former club to a team bravado and delusion and hubris dictated that nobody expected us to do anything aside from swat away by four or five goals. These are all genuine comments from Bangor City fans online, and thus it is their work.


Puppets and Muppets

What happened to the 5-0 backlash win?

Spineless.
Clueless.
Heartless.
Rudderless.
It's enough to make you weep.

Financial doping?
Finance dopes more like.
Bookies are getting caned with all these shock defeats.
Sad face/Angry face
Lowest of the low.
Horrible cunts that are destroying our club.

Puppets and muppets, someone once said.
I give it a month, these clowns will be off;
they said it was going to be easy...
Arrogant tourists from another planet.

Be patient grasshopper,
A fox will hunt during the stillness of the night.

A Man Without A Team: week two

Yesterday my former club lost 2-1 at home.

I have family back at home, and I'm due a visit.

I had to stop myself travelling back in time to get to the game. It was a wrench, but I think it was for the best.

This is harder than I thought it might be.

Not least cause a number of comrades did go, and do go, and are doing important missionary work whilst there. I salute them, and I hope to find my place in all this as time goes on.

Ay. Well. Onward eh.

A Man Without A Team, supplemental

...as the captain always says in Star Trek when there's stuff to add. Also I can see a big spider.

Apart from that, my old team beat a team we should beat all day and all night, by three goals to one.

There's a scene in Pulp Fiction where Butch, played by Bruce Willis in one of his glowery-pouty hard-man roles - a boxer this time, jumps out of the window into a waiting taxi. He's running for his life cause he's double-crossed a gangster by winning a bout he was supposed to throw, and therefore losing the gangster a load of money on the fix.

Butch catches the eye of the driver, Esmerelda, who had been listening to the fight on the radio.

"What does it feel like?" she asks Butch, "Beating a man to death with your bare hands?"

Butch considers this. He smokes a cigarette, processing the news that his opponent, Floyd, has died.

After a while he gives his reply:

"I couldn’t tell ya. I didn’t know he was dead ’til you told me he was dead. Now I know he’s dead, do you wanna know how I feel about it?"

"I don’t feel the least bit bad about it."

The question is whether as a man who has had his club ripped from him I want to be Butch, or whether I am Floyd, or whether the double-cross is on.

And who the gangsters are, and what their motivation might be.

It's a great movie, anyway. And the spider is now reaching the ceiling, out of the way of the cats. They eat spiders, in general. Which is a bit annoying, because the spiders eat the flies. The flies are fucking annoying, and make me feel unhygienic when they appear from time to time.

Probably there's a lesson there too. Who knows.

Stardate 0.0.0.0.0.0.0.0.0.0.0.0.01

Spiteful Spike

There’s a boy ten feet tall from his head to his toes

And he sleeps in the bath because each night he grows

But he shrinks in the day and gets lost in his clothes

Til all you can see is his bulbous red nose

His best mate is Paul but his mum calls him Mark

And he’s brilliant in lessons, a really bright spark

He’s a hit in the evening on walks in the park

Because Paul is a person who glows in the dark

Then there’s Jen, who likes playing and watching all sport

She’s a wizard of basketball when she’s on court

But  her feet look like fish – just imagine the thought -

When she swims she wears shoes just in case she gets caught

And her sister, Jemima, knows every song sung

And every word written, and every rap done

She’s a genius also when she does her sums -

She’s got seventeen fingers and twenty-four thumbs

But the other kids laughed at the friends in their school:

They thought Jen was a misfit, and Paul was uncool,

Said Jemima was freaky, the tall boy a fool

In the playground they teased them with shouting so cruel

That it made the friends sad; I mean, what had they done?

They’d never think of hurting anyone;

But bullies are stupid, they think it is fun

To make people feel bad, feel horrid or dumb.

And one little boy, let’s call him Spike,

Was naughty, vindictive, a real nasty tyke.

One day he told teacher that Paul took a hike

And instead of his lessons was riding a bike

Well the teacher liked Spike and believed what he said

And told Paul he had to report to the head

The headmaster, a bumbling man called Fat Fred

Told Paul that he was to be suspended

But Spike was not happy; his work was not done,

So he turned his attention to the sporty one

He told all the teachers that Jen, just for fun

Had covered the blackboards in used chewing gum

Again, though it was lies, Jen was hauled to the head

(Who you might remember is named Fatty Fred)

Though Jen pleaded innocence, the head shook his head

And said, with some dread: Jen, go home instead

Next, Spike told the teachers of very tall lad

Who’d shrunk in the sun to just taller than dad

Spikes words were a secret, but be sure they were bad,

Because as we mentioned – Spike was rather a cad

And so, the tall boy found that his cheeks were red

As he stood at the desk of the headmaster, Fat Fred,

Who looked up at the ceiling and doomily said

‘You’re a naughty boy – go home and go straight to bed’

And Jemima, who’d always been friendly and happy

Soon crossed paths with Spike, who’d become rather snappy

So he made up a story about his grandpappy

And said that Jemima was hitting the chappy

So Jemima too was called to the head

At lunchtime, so rather than her jam and bread

She received quite a lecture from Fatty Fat Fred

Who told her to go home and sit in her shed

And so when lunchtime came

Spiteful Spike's little game

Meant he ate on his own

And he felt quite alone.

Spiteful Spike walked home bored

He did not say a word

All alone and astray

In the classes today.

But the doors were all locked when he got to his house

No lights were left on: everybody’d gone out

And he sighed. It was hardly the first ever time.

So he threw down his school bag, unlocked his bike

And sped off down the lane, red-faced, burning inside

They’d said they’d be home today. Well, they had lied

As they always did. It seemed that last on the list

Was the thought of their Spikey, their one little kid.

But this time was different: he’d had enough.

Alone, he rode on, through the back streets, the rough

Scraping of loneliness scratching his eyes

The wind in his face harsh, its horrible cries

And whistles a mockery: “You are alone

Little Boy. And nobody cares that you were born.”

And he rode on the road down toward the canal

Wondering what he would do if he fell

Into the green-tinged, puke-stinking water.

Maybe he’d float. Maybe swim. Maybe neither.

And Spike, well he was only a little young lad -

Understanding these dark thoughts was tricky and sad.

He rode down to the path which was tangled with weeds

He sped up alongside the water, to see

If he could just wobble and, out of control,

It would not be his fault if he went away. So

Spike’s legs pumped, his heart jumped, he raced on his bike

It was quicker than he’d ever been yet in his life

Yet he spied a bench, maybe a hundred yards up ahead

With a bundle of rags on it. Wait – there’s a head –

It’s a person. Spike could tell the closer he came

So he slowed down and stopped as the man turned his way

And stared, really stared, right into Spike’s mind

So it seemed. The boy shuddered and got off his bike

And the man sitting there bowed his head to the ground

And started to cough - such a terrible sound

That it seemed like the whole world might crack right in two.

What could Spike help with? What could a boy do?

And then just as the coughing seemed to be too much

Spike saw the man miming a method, through rough

Rags on his back, the method of attack,

And Spike understood, so he slapped the man’s back

So the coughing stopped, and so Spike he rode on

And looked back to the bench – but the old man had gone.

The boy shuddered and shook and felt strange and upset

Though he didn’t know why. Then he saw, to his left,

A crying lad, a little younger than he,

Whose frisbee was stuck in the top of a tree.

He had no friends either. Only a game

Of throw and then catch – until that went away.

Spike watched as the infant wept. It was not right!

A boy should have friends to play with. But the height

Of the tree meant that even his one toy was lost.

His loneliness struck Spike. He felt for the tot.

But what could he do? He could not climb that high,

There weren’t any handholds; no footholds to try.

A silence fell. Spike rode away down the path

But something he heard made him turn and look back.

The kid was not crying: he was laughing now

And throwing his frisbee to someone else. How

Had he endeavoured to get that thing back?

Then he saw: the boy’s playmate was ten foot tall. Spike

Rode on and rode on and rode on and rode

Away from the evening, the dark that approached,

Til he just couldn’t see as the night fell, and fast,

It started to become hard to see the path

And so. Oh! It happened! Spike’s bike hit some stones

And the boy fell horribly, bashing his bones,

And Splash! In he went to that awful canal

The smelly, horrendous, dark place. As he fell

He thought of the kid with the frisbee and friend

He thought of the old man, whose cough he helped end.

Spike sank through the spit and the grisly scum

Of the water. Then all went dark. He felt it was done.

Did a thousand days pass? Why was it now so light?

And who was this person now holding him tight?

Then he saw: Paul was glowing and Jen had jumped in

Between them they had gone and rescued him!

And Jemima was there, too: “Oh Spikey,” she said.

“We all saw you riding your bike up ahead

And I calculated that you would soon hit the dirt -

We rushed up to help you. My friend, are you hurt?”

Spike didn’t know, for once, anything to say.

He shook his head sadly. They’d soon go away

As everyone did. He just wasn’t the sort

Of person that anyone ever had thought

Was important, or special. Not even his folks.

But the others stayed. What did they want? Paul now spoke:

“We’re meeting our friends for a game now. We need

Another to make up the teams. Are you free?”

So Spike nodded. He suddenly felt something moving

Deep inside him. Maybe life was now improving?

And the gang walked and rode to the pitch by the fens

By the light of Paul’s glowing. And they laughed. They were friends.

Well then. What is the moral of this little tale?

Spike was a naughty boy, spiteful, and railed

Against the world. Against the school. Against himself.

But the others did not give up, because they felt

That Spike, he was like them. He wanted to play

But he didn’t know how. He had not learned the way.

So he lashed out with anger, vindictive and foul.

He thought he’d be better alone in the world

But he was not right. Because kindness is pure

And everyone needs love to help them, before

They are lost. So next time you see one alone,

Give a smile, which is free. You just might save their soul.

In the Land of a Thousand Bastards (Lyrics)

Intro: In the land of a thousand bastards

We supply the staff for the Hotel California

We’re dead from the neck up

And we keep our kids in cages

We make the world turn

We turn it worse

We’re computer-assisted, badly-twisted, double-fisted, dark web-listed, instant-access, pay no taxes, doxing dastards, utter bastards

We’re bent and blistered, grubby grifters, little Hitlers, wallet lifters, narcissistic, turn a cheap trick, punch-your-fathers, utter bastards

We’re biting midges, wizened witches, don’t like snitches - give you stitches, half-demented, pay-no-rented, molten lava, utter bastards

We’re lager-swilling, puppy-killing, dirty-pilling, over-billing, crooks and chancers, private dancers, arson-artists, utter bastards

We’re penny-pinching, scabies-itching, flat-evicting, punch yer tits in, racist wankers, pay the bankers, kings of falsehoods, utter bastards

We’re cracked and crazy, lying, lazy, fans of Jay-Z, skunk-smoke hazy, project fear, drool and leer, start the carjack, utter bastards

We’ll do you over, for a tenner, hobnail boots, you think you’re clever? Rip your new suit, rip your new shoes, we’re just classless utter bastards

We’ll burn your school down, burn the whole town, it’s all fucked now we’re the guvnors, a thousand sweaty ballsacks dangle, winnits tangle, utter bastards

We’re red from sleeping in the heatwave, rich from thieving cash that you saved, we’re collectors, you elect us, politicians, utter bastards

We’re on the gravy train to nowhere, what do we care if it ain’t fair? Subsidise our second homes, Cause we’re your masters, utter bastards

We’ll tell you what you want to hear, tell you you’re in charge of here, it’s all bollocks, but you swallow all our bullshit, utter bastards

We’re in the game, we’re not the same, we’re innocent, and you’re to blame, we’re multi-taskers, backwards-maskers, nasty-party utter bastards

We raise the flag, we chainsmoke fags, we call you slags, we run in packs, we’re sharp-suit, ill-repute, drunk on darkness, utter bastards

We walk amongst you, look just like you, what we won’t do is provoke you, stay asleep, now not a peep, we’re busy being utter bastards

We’ve got no morals, got some brass balls, make the tough calls, tweak your nipples, push you under, fart like thunder, dirty arses, utter bastards

We’ll snort your coke, we like a smoke, we’ll make you broke, devoid of hope, squash your brain, pull your chain, everlasting utter bastards

Outro: There ain’t half been some utter bastards

Fucking wankers, fucking wankers

There ain’t half been some utter bastards

Try and kill one and just hope that there’s no more to come

A Man Without A Team: Week 2

Too excited to wait to post - my Bangor Comrades 1919 shirt just came in the post.

This is a replica shirt of a forerunner to Bangor City; the comrades are the fans, the people, the ones who will mostly only go now to away games. It is outselling the official replica by miles (though to be fair, the official shirts aren't in stock yet). The small profit on each shirt is going to a local mental health charity, too. I mean, this really is what we are about. I am proud to be part of it.

This is my club. No team yet, but a club, or maybe the very first green shoots toward one.

The tagline on the badge reads Hanes a balchder (History and pride).

Now tell me that's not fucking cool and I'll eat my own dinner.

Some home-printed stickers arrived with it with ace slogans:

We Built Our Past, We'll Build Our Future

Match, Mates, Moider

It is a package of hope through the post. If and when it all goes tits up, we will indeed be here, and we can do fucking awesome stuff like this.

Meanwhile my former club beat Ruthin 2-1 away, in an earlyish evening kick off cause the hosts didn't have floodlights, or ones that weren't good enough at least. The club said 'it is a hard place to go.'

I mean, fuck off. Just fuck off.

 It's bad enough that our reserves used to play most of the teams in the LoW - this is just taking the piss. We should be in Europe, remember, and going for the league title with an exciting young team and great young manager/s.

Tough place to go. Haha. Fucking hell.

Bollocks.

Their next game is away at Guilsfeld on Saturday. I'm working so can't go. I might have considered it otherwise. But I'm not that arsed either.

There are a few lads - comrades at that - who are still going to the home games. They go to support the players and the shirt. I fully support their decision. They're walking their own path, which is up to them. They're comrades too - some of the best, in fact. There won't be a schism there. It's a personal decision. When things get tough, as they will, we'll be here standing together to secure a future.

There are some supporters that are still taken in by the bluster and lies of the board, though. They've reconciled themselves to it, somehow. I spose it's like those people who vote Tory and don't tell anyone about it isn't it. It's cognitive dissonance at its worst, that is. And this is going to be a problem at some stage.

Maybe already it is: legitimising the regime. Well, when it all goes to shit who will be there to pick up the pieces?

Comrades forever.

We're Bangor Comrades and we rock and roll.

(I Am The) Rock n Roll Librarian

Woe to you, O Earth and Sea

For the Devil sends the Beast with wrath.

Let him who hath understanding

Reckon the number of the Beast

For it is a Dewey Number

Its number is 666

(Ceramic and Allied Technologies)

(I am the) rock n roll librarian

I get my metal where I can

I put requests out on the van

You’ll know me by the trail of books

You’ll see me giving furtive looks

At people lurking in the nooks

Rapaciously I cover-bind

Undress the pages of your mind

A million stories to unwind

I am the power, am the law

I’ll search until my eyes are raw

I’ll find the words you’re yearning for

Bring your query, bring your query

To the counter

Let me know, let me know, let me know

(ahaha)

You’ll find me weeding DVDs

You’ll find me right down on my knees

I’m tidying the loose CDs

I’m fingering the catalogue

A laser-beam cut through the fog

Updating my attendance log

A word to you who enter here:

There's knowledge to admire and fear

A dark, deep magic may appear

Our deviant, delicious den

Will help you find your inner zen

Will strip you of your innocence

Bring your query, bring your query

To the counter

Let me know, let me know, let me know

(ahaha)

(I am the) rock n roll librarian

A shelving ninja, seventh dan

Eat chips in here, you’ll get a ban

I walk in silent catacombs

Where old ones go to face their dooms

Where unloved pages find their tombs

A haven here for tales of crime

Disgusting deeds and depraved minds:

Return them late and face a fine

Beware the final chain-locked door

Unwary souls have fouled before:

We close on Saturdays at four

(don’t get locked in, seriously, we'll have to reset all the alarms and it's a fucking pain in the arse, plus the caretaker will go mental)

Bring your query, bring your query

To the counter

Let me know, let me know, let me know

(ahaha)

Bring your query, bring your query

To the counter

Let me know, let me know, let me know

(ahaha)

Bring your query, bring your query

To the counter

Let me know, let me know, let me know

(ahaha)

Bring your query, bring your query

To the counter

Let me know, let me know, let me know

(ahaha)

A Man Without A Team: Week One

I feel like it’s the start of a song, or a short story theme: I am a Man Without a Team. And, ya know, maybe it is something creative. Maybe it is a chance to spend all those Saturdays (and Tuesdays and Wednesdays and Thursdays and Fridays and Sundays and not-that-often Mondays) doing something else; to claim back those two hours from updating Flashscores, or watching games in person, or watching them on telly, or just thinking about the permutations of a draw.

And think of all the words I could write if my head wasn’t full of late tackles, ropey offsides, shit refs, Welsh Cup runs, possible European opponents, arguing on message boards about Damien Allen, arguing in my head about whether I am going next week, wondering which games fall on working Saturdays for me, seeing if the new kit is gonna be a stonker or a piece of shit, or both. Think of that. And of all the millions of words I’ve already written about all those things and more, about Frank Mottram and Jiws and Carl Dale and well, I mean, Lee Harley even. It’s not easy being a Bangor City fan, is it. It never has been really.

There was the bloke who wanted to sell the floodlights, and then fucked off to Spain to hide from creditors; there was the going-bust-and-reforming that meant a new company was now in charge, with all the same players, same ground, but nobody owing; the madcap antics of Major Maund, whoever the fuck that was, whose most prominent act was to sack a manager before a Welsh Cup Semi-Final (we won, and Ish was on the bench organising the team); there was Steve Bleasdale, who resigned because Haverfordwest was too far away. I mean, we’ve had some fucking whoppers there over the years.

Like the board that sacked Nigel Adkins, the October after he’d just won two LoW titles on the trot. That one still makes me laugh nervously. Like the time Graeme Sharp got us into Europe, and promptly got his budget cut and left. I got sacked from my columnist job after that, cos I hid a rude message about cofis in that week’s effort for a laugh. Yep. Lots of nobheads, lots of idiots, lots of shenanigans.

But I had my team. And they played at Farrar Road, which was a proper ground and one manager said once it ‘smelled of football’, which was a great way to put it.

Farrar Road’s gone; not before hosting a triumphant league win, the last time anyone other than a franchise that doesn’t deserve being named has done so. There’s Asda there now. I boycotted for a bit but fucking hell. A cheap bottle of wine is a cheap bottle of wine. It wasn’t Asda’s fault, not really. Mismanagement, lies, covenant-breakers and general council bullshit did for the Arena of Aspiration. You can’t get valuable town centre real estate like that anymore for any reason.

A shiny new ground at Nantporth, not the same of course, but better parking and way better facilities. All of that, of course, helped only our opponents. I remember Lee Noble chuckling to himself mid-game when his right full-back gave up on a ball ostensibly headed for the touchline, down near the Farrar End and by the garage windows. Noble knew, like a good golfer would know, that there was a bump there that’d hold the ball up and keep it in play. So he chased it, it slowed, he crossed it in and we scored. This is the sort of thing you miss when you have a billiard-table pitch.

Ay, and the mud, and the pissy stink of the brick barely-urinal, and the sweat and the wintergreen and the steam from the players mingling with the crispness of the night, under floodlights that you could spy from a mile away. A mile to walk, a mile of excitement and anticipation. And when it chucked it down (this is North Wales) the huddling-together under the rapidly-diminishing areas of cover. And that only upped the atmosphere. The Farrar Road roar, the chants, the magic.

It takes a special kind of stupid to let all that go, but the pressures were always there. So be it. When we had to sell the ground to the council to pay a tax bill in the late 1980s the future fate was sealed.

But goddamnit I still had my club.

Now? For the first time in 35 seasons?

No more.

Here is a list:

·         Club avoids relegation twice in two seasons by skin of their teeth. The European money had all gone, spent on chasing Europe again. One penalty kick miss later, a Welsh Cup Final loss, and it’s the beginning of the end. But still my club; still my Bangor.

·         A 30k tax bill; paid for with money earmarked for a behind-the-goals shelter, to try and recreate some kind of Farrar Road-y roar. Not the first time this kind of stuff happened. I still had my team. It hurt, that we had to do this again, from money raised by fans, but it wasn’t the first time. This is the reality of an expensive new ground.

·         Suddenly: Incredible news. “A consortium” has taken over! Promises to invest hundreds of thousands of quid ‘til the coffers run dry.’ Exciting news, weird news, as we ponder what is in it for them.

·         And then a picture is released featuring the only person banned from running a football club in the UK.

·         But goddamnit Andy Legg came in, bringing in some properly excellent players and sheer hope. This might even work.

·         Legg lasted til October. Word was he wasn’t able to commit full-time. The bubble popped.

·         Head of Shrewsbury youth sides comes in as manager to steady the ship. A young manager, he grows into his post; maybe he could be the one.

·         He’s gone by April. He didn’t have the Pro Licence. Gary Taylor-Fletcher, still a player, eases the club to the end of the season and qualifies for Europe.

·         We get battered by a good Danish side; G T-F misses a great chance to add an European goal to his collection. Working alongside him is Kevin Nicholson, another excellent young coach and this time one with that Pro Licence.

·         We batter the franchise in the first game of the season. On the pitch, things look great: young players, excellent players, an experienced back four and a goalkeeper better than even Conor Roberts, who’d saved us from relegation. (that new keeper, Matt Hall, is now at Cardiff, and Brayden Shaw has trialled there too.)

·         And then.

·         Our licensing officer departs. Rumours abound about confusion as to where the money to pay for all of this comes from.

·         On the eve of a Welsh Cup Semi-Final, very strong rumours that we’re going to fail the license. We lose the game 6-1. The players look shellshocked. They don’t want to play; maybe unconsciously, the reason to give it all has gone.

·         We finish second. We fail the license. We fail the appeal.

·         The board say they’ll take it to the High Court. They do not. We knew they wouldn’t.

·         We are relegated to the lowest level in the club’s history. Instead of looking to Europe, and the Scottish Irn Bru cup, we’re facing villages without bus stops.

·         The regime, which has converted loans into shares possibly without following due procedure, takes over the clubhouse, the souvenirs, the 4G bookings. A Fun Day is promised. A fun day! Fuck me, the brass balls of it.

·         A new manager, a new team. Money spunked on wages; what is in it for them? It is not clear.

·         A fundraiser for the club – a racist comedian in the clubhouse. The final straw. Not my club. This is not what we’re about.

·         Bills not paid; local suppliers of booze out of pocket; a Tote that goes directly into the coffers of a PayPal address; two HMRC petitions to wind up (thrown out, after being paid, but even so…)

And so, the season started last Saturday with Bangor winning 5-1. Hooray! Or not. I can’t bring myself to cheer for a game that shouldn’t even be happening. What the hell am I going to do now?

This club, this part of my life, has been wrenched away from me by what is at best incompetence and at worst… well. We’ll see when it all is exposed in a rash of admonitions, finger-pointing, shadow directors, strangely-absent members of the board, shell companies and whatever else is lurking beneath the ever-thinner surface.

I can’t do it. I can’t attend and cheer and feel what I have felt. It’s gone for me. No. It’s still there; but I won’t let it out until…

…well.

What does A Man Without A Team do?

Ruthin tonight, I think. Away; I’m working anyway. It’s not the players’ fault, is it?

Maybe I’ll be able to get to an away game. I think I can square that one with myself. I hope I can.

But I see nothing ahead but blank Saturdays (and Tuesdays and Wednesdays and Thursdays and Fridays and Sundays and not-that-often Mondays), until the whole sorry mess implodes.

Imagine this for a second: I am a man who wants the club to go bust. To enter administration, and then wind up, and be put out of its misery.

I am not the only one who wants this.

It has a reason. And that is this:

Maybe, just maybe, when the dust clears and the coast is clear cause they are gone for good: maybe, maybe then we can regroup and reform and comrades can be transparent and run things for the fans by the fans until we run out of money and then…

…

…

…

?

well I'd buy it (click to pop out)

WHOA I have discovered a proper time traveller hiding in plain sight on telly (click pic to pop out aye)

A Lle Dan Ni Yn 2018?

Dwim yn glwadwr o rhywle

Dwi’n straglwr yn unman

Ac mae’r byd yn troi

Achos does ganddi hi ddim dwy ffycs amdan unrhuw un ohonyn ni

Ie. Dyna ni yn 2018. Same as it has ever been.

Yr un man am oes oesoedd.

Don’t worry lad, we’re good at peldroed.

Am unwaith, roedd gennyn ni obaith

Am mis bach rhedon ni nol i Baris

Ond dyna ni. Mae popeth yn pasio

Heblaw Cristiano Ronaldo, yn sicr

Does neb yn deimlo’n difyr

Felly pasiwch i’r Black Mambo sblif yma

Pwy a wr. Roedd Datsyn yn gywir

Am blydi sioc neu ffycyn wel beth

Wel fe chwalais i Vaffan Coulo

Fe enwais i Rabo de Toro

Cofiais i roedd na gyfle unwaith

Meddyliais i roedd na cerdd a gobaith

Ond dan ni’n mynd yn hen mor gyflym

Ti wedi weld yr gyflwr o poor old Plwmsan?

Ai, dyna le dan ni yn 2018. Worst stinking mess I’ve ever fucking seen.

Mae na dal lot o bobl yn siarad Gymraeg;

Hwre, hwre, yn bleidleisio am Plaid

Ond beth yn y byd wedi digwydd i Llafur

Yr barti neoliberal, y barti bradwyr

Yn Gymru. Ac mae’r media yn mynd ar ol Corbyn

Achos roedd o wedi sgwrsio efo pobl anghywir

Wel ffyc mi nes i byth yn gwbod

Fod yr press di’r gatekeepers o popeth rwan

Ond dyna ni yn 2018. Piglets voting for the killing machine.

Wedi cael digon o ffycin Brexit

Am gair ofnadwy: am syniad shit

Celwydd ar ben celwydd, twyllo a twyllo

Ond bai yr immigrants di popeth, ynte?

Yeh, dyna’r pwynt: does neb yn darllen chwaith

Dim storis yn yr ffycin Western Mail am y diffyg waith

Dim storis am yr ffycars llywodraeth

Yn chwarae fast and loose efo’r ffycin gyfraith.

Na. Yn 2018 allwch chi ddim meddwl. You lost, get over it.

Wedi cael llond bol o social media warriors

A fi fy hun di un ohonyn nhw

Hunan-casau di’r unig ganlyniad

O arwyddo betition arall, fy nghariad

Allech chi ddim newid yr byd

Diwcs, mae’n ormod o drafferth i newyd dy hun

Felly pasiwch yr seidr gwyn

Ac awn a ni am antur grim

Mae hen wlad fy nhadau

Yn diflas i mi

Ond mae rhaid i chi fod yn rhywle

Cyn mynd nol i unman, ynte

Ac roedd yr Buzzcocks yn iawn 40 mlynedd yn ol:

I come from nowhere and I’m going straight back there.

Boredom, boredom, boredom.

Ba dum

Ba dum