Clockwork Orange
Bedlington Terriers 0–2 Heaton Stannington
Consett 1–1 Newcastle Benfield
Stockton Town 1–0 Thornaby
Whitley Bay 3–2 Ashington
Easington Colliery 5–1 Bedlington Terriers
North Shields 3–2 Consett
West Auckland Town 2–1 Bishop Auckland
25 years ago this week I was lying on a sofa in a terraced house in Fallowfield watching Match of the Day, Newcastle vs Blackburn, Third Round FA Cup live from St James’s Park. For the previous year I’d been hanging around with this gang of lads who were in or hanging onto a band who used to play around Manchester. A forgettable outfit, so forgettable in fact that I cannot remember their name. An identikit composite of 90s Brit-Slop; haircuts, second-hand shop flares and leather jackets. A pretty boy lead singer, Brett Anderson, Bobby Gillespie wanna-be and a magnet for every other young woman with a bob and Fred Perry polo. I was an anomaly within this gang, a gobby unfashionable Salford teenager who could score speed for them; Pink Champagne from former school mates around Langworthy Road.
I can’t remember how I got involved with this cohort but I’m in no doubt the reason I was endured was drugs and probably curiosity. They were mostly all from London and drop outs from university. There was a good 4 or 5 years age difference between us. I was 19 and barely attending an art and design foundation course at University College Salford. I was clubbing pretty regular and going out nearly every night of the week. I was still living at home and taking speed every night I went out. I would supplement going out by working at the A1 Discount Store on Salford Precinct. Most of the time I was out of my head; paranoid shifts being asked “What are you on?” — “What?!” — “What aisle are you on McHugh?” I would work alongside fellow misfit shelf stackers to come up with sophisticated strategies in order to steal gin and dupe the nightly security bag check. We wore long bright green ill fitting overcoats, shiny red polyester clip-on ties and acid yellow shirts with white pin stripes. We were definitely not happy to help but at least thankful it wasn’t Shopping Gaint. In the staff toilets hygiene instructions were customised with Dymo Tape and box cutters to read Now Wash Your Nads Margret. We did as little work as possible and would often ‘Shop for Others’ making puerile and clandestine additions to shopper’s trolleys a whole 3 years before John Waters made it cool. Stacking after hours people would shout at each other from their respective aisles. “Totsy! Are you there mate? You gonna stick your dick in your floppy disk drive tonight?” It was juvenile and a lot of fun.
The first weekend in January always marks the FA Cup Third Round and often a melancholy as I recall being in that house in South Manchester. I’d been awake over 36 hours. I have no memory of whose house it was. We arrived probably around 4am. Across the morning I was left in a living room with a VHS of Clockwork Orange playing. I recall the TV lighting up the darkened room as I sat alone watching for the first time as a restrained Alex has his eyes forced open to undergo his aversion therapy. I remember the undead household waking up later in the day and the TV switched to Match of the Day. The unseen daylight turned to night and after the match I made my way across Manchester, back home to Salford. A grim come down and sleep deprived journey of multiple bus routes. Four weeks later I was kicked out, bin bags thrown out the front door. Horrible words said. A week after that I was on a train to Newcastle with £100 and a quarter an ounce of speed.
A quarter of a century later I’m in Bedlington watching the Terriers play Heaton Stannington. A pink strip of cloud cuts the sky as the sun sets. The orange-red glow of the electronic scoreboard that dominates Doctor Pitt Welfare Park reads 95 minutes. Heaton have just scored a penalty and the final whistle blows. It’s the worst game of football we’ve seen so far in the Northern League.
