Can’t write about football, me. Nee chance.
This means nothing to me, but I was on BBC’s Match of the Day last month, I feel obliged to report. Not naturally as a player. Naturally. When Stewart Downing hit the post for Middlesbrough at home against Liverpool, there I was, on the television, on the box, behind the goal, behind the box, very ostentatious cursing my luck because I had a bet on for the Boro to win 2-0. More so ostentatious in slow-motion replay on my DVD recorder. They were one nil up by then and the game had only about 15 minutes left. If his shot had gone in, drinks would have been on me all night. As it happened, it finished one all, and drinks were still on me because I was the only one with a bank balance in debit. As my two trustworthy companions respectively consisted of a 21 year old broke student, a very good friend I hasten to add (ok, fair enough, James did buy the £30 tickets, he did) and a 20 year old visiting Australian student who had never been to a live football game before. With dreadlocks for a haircut, hence even more broke, even more ostentatious in slow-motion replay. But of course, I don’t judge people by their appearance. This means nothing to me.
I don’t go and watch Middlesbrough, Sunderland or Newcastle often, primarily because the football they have been producing the last couple of years has been awful resulting in an even more awful, very negative atmosphere, especially at St James’. I did go though for Keegan’s first game in charge, for the memories, for the atmosphere. Which was as expected, hoped for, until they started strutting their sub-standard stuff on the pitch. But enough about Keegan.
As I can’t write about football, me. Nee chance.
I am not in the habit to wear specifically chosen coloured boxer shorts to show my allegiance to a preferred North East team. Where I live in England, in me fishing town, Newcastle, Sunderland, Middlesbrough, Hartlepool, Darlington … this means nothing to me. They all despise each other and my true colours lie with the local team of the country of my birth anyway, so I can conveniently support them all without any associated, atavistic/historic, local/regional/derby hate feelings. I want them to do well. Their fans deserve it, and if they didn’t, well, it would just somehow make my life easier. But enough about football.
Because I can’t write about football, me. Nee chance.
Most Brits believe that where I live is not a nice place to be. To dwell. Most parts are considered to be rough. Ugly. Not cultured even. Although this means nothing to me, no southern fucker is going to tell me that Northumberland is rough. Not even its nature. Or ugly. Certainly not its nature. That the North East is not cultured. Durham, Alnwick, Tees Valley, Dunstanburgh, Yarm, Kirknewton, Barnard Castle, Allendale, Tynemouth … no point. The region doesn’t need defending. It is not and I am not Welsh. I lived in Cardiff for two years and the Welsh are so hell-bent on feeling being pushed in a corner by the outside world (read: the English) and so hell-bent on being on the defensive that I nearly forsook that typical tenderness every true football fan has in her: supporting the underdog. Nearly. But of course, I don’t judge people by their nationality. This means nothing to her.
I was advised to write about football recently, but she couldn’t write about football, me. She can try but it’s not a good idea really. Witness to which dangerous territories it takes me (no, I will not use mine-field, such a cliche). My dad. The North East. One man on a family platform, his only son diving off from the moment he could. A region stepped out from a back shop holiday poster, its children not so long ago wishing life wouldn’t be so long.
Every Tom, Dick and Harry can write about football. And Steve. Strange. How we all devenir à gris.
How strange that when I was 17 and bought Prefab Sprout’s Steve McQueen on Mr T’s (just T then) recommendation, certain songs on that album were to become one of my all time favourites. “Bonny” my best loved, most favourite song ever. How strange that Prefab Sprout were one of the first bands I really got into together with The Triffids, The Feelies, early REM, Jimi and Hüsker Dü, all courtesy of one Mr T (but still T then). Little did I understand that Prefab Sprout came from Consett, around the corner from where I live now. Corner courtesy of County Durham, intimately close nonetheless. The Futureheads, Ferry, Mark Knopfler, Maxïmo Park, Sting, an endless list of sorts. From an even closer corner. How strange that the first live concert T and I sampled (such a cliche) together at the tender (such a cliche) age of 14 was Sting’s Dream of the Blue Turtles tour, an album which is still right up there in my list of sorts. How fucking strange that I resisted to buy into Dire Straits at first. How fucking strange that I still do. How fucking strange T deservedly ended up with the best of A’s of them all. And vice versa. Having their second baby so(o)n (?).
How strange that when I slept over at Jaakie’s for the first time in his parental home in Opgl. (us being about 17, 18 maybe?) he was ostensibly nervous trying to make me feel at home because he was already showing those Stephen Fry, typically English erudite features which he has now frustratingly, envyingly in abundance, i.e. how can I make everyone at ease, please everyone, including, at the time (and still sometimes now), hyper-active, hyper-nervous, hyper-insecure, hyper-critical Husten. When he off the cuff mentioned something about a band he had seen interviewed on MTV whose music he adored, but wasn’t overtly sympathetic to because of how they thought themselves better than the other bands around at the time, how they compared themselves to the Beatles. I can still see him standing there in his parents’ 80’s living room, delivering the verdict, puny shoulders in military formation on a tall body, pseudo Jewish nose held up high, in frustratingly wise wisdom and envyingly self-confidence. But of course, I don’t judge people by their intelligence. This means nothing to me.
How fantastic and important The Stone Roses turned out to be. For me. And the friends I made up ‘ere, in the North East. How the Roses very nearly came close to become my first then my second favourite band ever. Nearly.
I’ve got a good memory, me. Hence the academic successes.
I’ve got good friends, me. Hence, the good taste.
A fool’s gold.
If only you could read this, A. Can for sure write about me dad, me friends, me music, the place I live. You. But football? But A, for sure I can try. Write about football. Yet Christ, look where it takes her, A. She gets distracted. She gets nostalgic, melancholic. Starts to wallow, swallow, swellow, mellow in it. Starts to experiment. Now, that’s not like her, is it now, A? Is this what you meant with sticking to write about the things I know in my potential blog? If I was ever to start one? Stick to football? You? Should I call I it Vienna? Should she?
If only A would read this. Nee chance.
This means nothing to me. To her.
Because V M Husten, readers, a bloke, living abroad, in northern England, among mainly younger people, well, V M Husten, she will fade to grey.
