Turn the Heater On
Brandon Utd 0–0 Willington
Ryhope Colliery Welfare 1–2 Newton Aycliffe
In their 1981 Peel Session New Order covered Keith Hudson’s Turn the Heater On. The 1975 original is a real earworm. A catchy and heavy dose of melancholic roots reggae. The New Order version is a cold wave goth dub that slows the pace and shifts the melancholy up a gear. Melodica through echo and a layer of new wave synth running underneath. The Turn the heater on lyric is replaced with Gonna beat them all. It’s a sad tune. By all accounts the band are embarrassed by it. Along with the raw version of 586 from the same session I used to love it.
I had the New Order session on cassette tape, purchased at Vinyl Exchange in Manchester when I was maybe 15. I used to hammer this album and the 1987 Substance compilation. The one with the flowers on the inner. The B Sides. Dub Vulture — the Subculture remix by New York producer John Robie was a favourite. Robie’s remix is a real oddity. The bassline is off, a mad phase across track. It’s not the most obvious example of psychedelia. It’s a disorientating listen, especially for a 15 year old on LSD. Apparently the song’s about wanking.
The track seals a vivid memory. A walk home one night with headphones on. The weirdness of it, the mad delays, vocal layers and car crash crescendo did something funny to my head. I remember bumping into a girl we used to hang out with, momentarily losing touch with reality and being unable to speak or acknowledge her.
I would walk everywhere as a teen and many friends lived a couple of miles away. North towards Swinton and the East Lancs Road. I would make the long journey home with these tapes as companion. From the East Lancs I’d cut through cricket grounds; traverse the Height, cut through Buile Hill Park and make my way down to Weaste and Liverpool Street where we lived. I would fall asleep to these tapes. Heavy rotation. Drug music.
We’re in the car after the Ryhope game. Heaters are on full. It’s about 4 degrees. The wind chill is below zero. My teeth are on the edge of chatter. We’ve just passed a 90 minute cold weather endurance test. All in all the game was good. But a fast first half led way to a broken and stuttered second. Too many stops and starts. An Aycliffe centre back with a cut above the eye holds up play for ages. He’s taken off and not allowed back on until the blood is cleared. The game loses its flow. Returning to the pitch the defender swipes at the ball and awkwardly falls over. He’s on all fours in front of the dugouts shaking his head. He’s taken off again. Newton Aycliffe score twice and the game is done. We leave just before the end and miss the Ryhope goal.
There’s a waxing moon and a clear sky above Ryhope. Venus is bright and close to the sharp lunar crescent. All the constellations are out. Orion and the Big Dipper. I can’t get my bearings. We followed a GPS to get here. A speedy night drive through Shiney Row, Philadelphia, Herrington and along Doxford Park Way. We park up. We can see the floodlights and hear the match but can’t find the entrance. We make our way through new builds. Whimpy Homes, not more than a year or two old. We pass an older couple sitting in their living room. A woman sits on a sofa, eating her tea from her lap. A man sits across the room sunk into his armchair; a tablet resting on a cushion, cushion resting on his big belly. We pass them again after the match. The man hasn’t moved, his gaze still fixed on his device. The woman, knife and fork now replaced by knitting needles, sits in the same spot on the sofa. The estate around is sedate. Everything is new. The cars, the tarmac, the lawns and the white uPVC doors.
The newly built estate means our own digital devices are no help and we’re briefly lost in the suburban cul-de-sacs. I end up in a back garden looking for a way into the match. We can see the pitch and players clearly but can’t a way through the cresote fencing. I knew Sunderland pretty well at one time. I studied here and had friends who lived in Hendon, Ashbrooke and out in the suburbs. I never ventured as far south as Ryhope. We finally get pitchside after finding the way in through Ryhope Cricket Club.
A visit to Brandon the week earlier, the weather was milder. Brandon is a swift journey from Newcastle. Train to Durham and a 15 minute bus ride. Not quite Durham hinterland. Brandon United are in a sorry state. Their manager and coaching staff called it a day midweek. ‘Various reasons’ reads the club statement. They lie bottom of Division 2 and have only won one game all season. The club started life in the late sixties as a waste paper factory works team and reached the FA Cup first round in 1980. They’ve moved up and down between the Northern League first and second divisions for the last decade or so.
Their ground, Welfare Park, sits on a plateau above the former pit village. The main stand faces North East. The vista is wide. In the distance Durham Cathedral is visible. Wind turbines dot the horizon. There’s a subtle drama to the prospect as smoke rises from nearby allotments and a flock of pigeons rotate overhead.
It’s a desperate game for Brandon. Their goalkeeper limps throughout the match. Under sustained pressure he doesn’t look in the best of shape. Willington fans out number home supporters. Brandon hold out and around 70 people watch a goalless draw. In my ancient oversized extreme cold weather US military parka I stand out like a visitor from another planet. Maybe I wasn’t in the best of moods but the match, ground and journey made me feel melancholic. After the match I wait at the bus stop, a short walk from the ground. The Brandon Convenience Store is opposite. Futuristic typeface reminds me of an 80s computer game, the kind you would buy on a tape from John Menzies. The shop front is dense with green and yellow signage. A stretched bold full caps font in Royal blue reads — GREAT LAGER AND BEER CRATE DEALS. NEWSPAPERS. CASH MACHINE. PAYPOINT. FRESH FRUIT. GREETING CARDS. A young couple are in the doorway. The lad sits on the step smoking and looking down at a phone. The girl stands above him arms folded looking out. Dusk ends and time stands still before the 49 to Durham arrives.
For a few stops I’m the only passenger on the bus. There’s no strapline or rebranding for this route. No precious metal. You can however charge your phone, a custom job by the looks of it. A 13 amp socket straight off the DIY store shelf. A poster on the bus reads We are changing Durham Bus Station. Have your say. The council have been consulting for the last six years. Money has been earmarked for the last ten. The proposed design is now out in the public sphere, complete with idealised virtual humans. The existing bus station isn’t very visually appealing the press release begins.
