The words, poems, stories and thoughts of award winning writer and journalist, Nic Outterside
I came in from the wilderness
Drenched to the bone
Darkness hung above me
Broken and alone
Your words fell like rain
And mingled with my tears
In pools at my feet
They washed away all fears
You sketched the view so clearly
Like a graphic artist in a play
A friendship etched quite dearly
There is much more I need to say
Hunted like a crocodile
Ravaged in the corn
Come in, you said, I’ll give you
Shelter from the storm
The traffic roars
The children scream
The mother shouts
My brain awakes
From its neon dream
What happened to the real you?
You’ve been captured
But by whom?
Walking the dale in the morning
To where water babies play
The peewits are meandering
It’s just another day
The heat haze
The dry earth
A rebirth
A summer of one thousand years
The darkness of noon is high
Across the old soot stain
Everybody looks to the sky
They’re all expecting rain
The heat haze
The dry earth
A rebirth
A summer of one thousand years
But the sun beats down upon all hope
The cowslips are in bloom
Tumbling scree along the slope
Turning to evening’s gloom
The heat haze
The dry earth
A rebirth
A summer of one thousand years
You sit by his bedside
And read him to sleep
You kiss him goodnight
And let him count sheep
You tidy his room
And fold up his clothes
You tip-toe to bed
And count your own woes
The evening darkens deeply
The shooting star
That shines
Above
You do these things so freely
As they reflect your own true love
You wake him at dawn
And brush his blonde hair
You wash his small face
And see him downstairs
You watch as he eats
And check his school bag
You put on his coat
And write on his name tag
The morning lightens meekly
The pale sun
That shines
Above
You do these things so freely
As they reflect your own true love
You stand by the school gate
And hear the bell ring
He rushes to meet you
And you hear the birds sing
He walks by your side
And talks of his day
He looks up and smiles
And wants so to play
The afternoon brightens sweetly
The golden sun
Descends
Above
You do these things so freely
As they reflect your own true love
You are my mirror
You reflect me
Tell me my child
What do you see?
An old man
Growing older
Whose love for you
Does not grow colder
Our twin natures
They might collide
But my feelings
Will never subside
Your mirror reflects
The waning moon
And in a blink
You were gone too soon
HOW narrow is the dividing line between being a professional footballer, seeking the best salary for your ability, and being a self-seeking prima donna?
That line has been firmly tested over the past couple of months.
First we had the one man strike at West Ham by their star play maker Dimitri Payet, demanding he be sold for a mega million fee.
Then we had striker Chris Martin do much the same at Fulham, although on this occasion he simply wanted to return to his parent club Derby County.
And then we saw striker Ross McCormack conduct a one man training strike at Aston Villa. His actions forced Villa manager Steve Bruce to publically reveal that the Scot had been dropped from the first team squad for “continually missing training”.
But these examples are not a new capitalist madness in the beautiful game we all love.
Back in 1998, Dutch striker Pierre van Hooijdonk staged a very public one player strike, claiming Nottingham Forest had made “broken promises” to sell him if he helped them earn promotion from Division One.
And more recently in September 2011, during a Champions League clash with Bayern Munich, Argentine star Carlos Tevez ignored Roberto Mancini’s orders and refused to come on as a substitute for Manchester City.
Crazy eh!
So how refreshing is it that one of our own stars has the dignity and professionalism to show others how to behave.
The transfer speculation surrounding Dale Stephens dominated the Albion’s close-season.
The Seagulls turned down several bids of up to £8million from Premier League side Burnley for the midfield star.
Then as the transfer window closed, Stephens took to Twitter to explain that although he had been “reluctant” to submit a transfer request, he wanted an opportunity to play in the top flight.
“I’m 27 and recognised this could by my final opportunity to do so, which is why I feel disappointed my chance was taken away,” he posted.
Many Albion fans feared that Stephens might sulk, rebel or simply refuse to train as a result of his rejected transfer.
But how wrong they were.
Since last August, Stephens has proved to be one of our key players. His work ethic is exemplary and his importance to the team is pivotal.
Small wonder that the Albion have not lost a game this season, when Stephens has been in the team.
On 22 October, after scoring the winner for the Albion against Wigan, he underlined his professionalism saying: “I enjoy playing for this club and enjoy playing for this manager and I remain fully committed until the end of the season.”
But Dale Stephens’ situation opens up a reality for many professional footballers, and maybe casts some light on the actions of Payet, Martin and McCormack.
It has always been the case that the career of a professional footballer is short.
For while many may sign for a club as a schoolboy, their proper career doesn’t usually take off until they turn 20. And for most it is all over by the time they reach 35 – Inigo Calderon, Bobby Zamora and Gordon Greer are good recent cases in point.
So what do they do for the next 30 years of a normal working life?
Some stay with the club in an executive or coaching capacity (Guy Butters and Paul Watson) and some take up TV or radio punditry (Adam Virgo), but for others the future is less clearly defined.
For all players the onus is to earn as much as they can, while playing at their top level, to pay for a lengthy retirement.
Last season, average Championship earnings were £6,235 a week (£324,250 a year) while in the Premier League first-team average salaries were around £1.7 million.
Meanwhile, the average basic pay in League One was £69,500 and £40,350 in League Two – not much more than the national average.
That means top-flight players earned over five times as much as Championship players, almost 25 times as much as League One players, and around 42 times as much as League Two players.
Small wonder that players like Dale Stephens want to play in the Premier League before age and declining fitness determines that their career is over.
Thirty years ago, a top-flight footballer earned on average £25,000 per year, or just two-and-a-half times as much as the average household income of £9,788.
By 1995-96, a top-flight player earned six-and-a-half times as much as an ordinary family, and by 10 years ago it was more than 20 times as much, or £686,000 versus £33,000 per year.
Now it’s more than 40 times as much.
So spare a thought for my boyhood Albion heroes of the late 1960s.
Charlie Livesey was already a star with Chelsea when he joined the Albion in 1965. He was the Dale Stephens type dynamo of that era.
At the time the average weekly wage for a footballer in the third tier was just £20.
In his four years with the Albion, Livesey made 146 appearances, scoring 37 goals, before being released aged just 31, in April 1969.
He finished his career at Crawley Town then returned to the East End of London where he became a humble painter and decorator. Charlie died in 2005, aged 67.
Nobby Lawton was a similar midfielder – ironically born in Newton Heath, Manchester, just a few miles from where Dale Stephens later grew up.
He began his football career as an amateur with Manchester United. Following the Munich air disaster in 1958, he gave up his job with a local coal merchant to sign professional forms.
By the time he signed for the Albion from Preston North End in 1967, aged 27, wages had climbed to £30 a week.
Lawton was Livesey’s natural replacement at the heart of midfield and scored 14 goals in 112 appearances before dropping down to the Fourth Division to play for Lincoln City in 1970, and retiring two years later, aged 32. He returned to Newton Heath in 1977 to work for an export packaging firm.
Nobby Lawton died in April 2006, aged just 66.
Today, while Dale Stephens will hope for a much longer and healthier life, his career expectation is the same as it was for Charlie Livesey and Nobby Lawton, all those years ago.
It’s a long retirement.
MY paternal grandfather’s abiding passions were his vegetable garden, barley wine, horse racing and Newcastle United Football Club – not necessarily in that order.
But one thing was certain, enter his living room any time after 4.40 on a Saturday afternoon – once the BBC tele-printer was running – and there was complete silence, as he waited for the Newcastle result to come in.
Grandfather, or Pop as he was known, was born and raised in Throckley, seven miles west of Newcastle upon Tyne, the son and grandson of coal miners at the village’s Maria Pit. He was Geordie to the bones.
He had moved south in 1933, during the Depression, with my gran, my dad and his three siblings, to find work and a better life.
With his health failing, aged 86, he returned north early in 1979, following the death of my gran. He wanted to live out his final years on his beloved Tyneside.
All my life he had regaled me with deep passion about the pre-war Newcastle teams (particularly the 1926-27 First Division champions) and the three times post war FA Cup winners, with the legendary centre forward Jackie Milburn – the uncle of Bobby and Jack Charlton.
So we come to the evening of Friday 4 May, 1979, and I am sipping a large whisky with Pop at his comfortable new home on Tyneside and talking excitedly about the reason I am staying with him for the weekend.
I am enthusing about my beloved Brighton and Hove Albion and their end of season fixture at St James Park against his beloved Magpies.
He smiles, asks me to pour him another whisky – this time with a splash of ginger wine – and whispers: “Don’t get carried away lad, your team haven’t done it yet, they still have to encounter the Mags on God’s own soil.”
I went to bed that night with a huge grin on my face.
Saturday 5th May was our big day.
But strangely, it wasn’t the last day of the 1978/79 season.
A snow laden winter had left many clubs playing catch-up with their remaining fixtures, and we were going into our last game at Newcastle, at the top of a remarkably tight Second Division table, with just one point separating the top four clubs.
A win would secure us promotion to the First Division for the first time in our history against a Newcastle side in ninth place, with little to play for, bar pride.
So that morning, in bright sunshine, but with a chill wind in the air, I hopped the local train into the city.
At the station I met an old friend Pete – a Geordie with whom I had gone to many Newcastle games, while we were at university together in West Yorkshire. He had a black and white scarf wrapped around his neck and was grinning widely.
“Why aye, Nic, let’s do some beer,” he enthused, “There are quite a few pubs that open at 10.30.” And so we began a two man pub crawl for the short distance between the city station and the Newcastle ground.
We eventually reached The Strawberry, an infamous drinking hole outside the Gallowgate End of St James Park. It was (and still is) a pub for home supporters only.
“Keep yer trap shut inside,” Pete winked, “Or I am not responsible for taking you to hospital!”
The Gallowgate End or “Gallows Hole” was an historic place of public execution in Newcastle. In 1650, 22 people – including 15 witches – were hanged in one day.
The last hanging took place in 1844, only three decades before the first ball was kicked inside St James Park!
So I drank my pint quietly, to avoid becoming a 20th century execution!
Then, merry with beer, Pete and I shook hands and wended out respective ways to either end of this legendary football stadium. What followed, was the stuff of real legends.
The weather was sunny and dry as the game kicked off, in front of 28,434 fans.
The first 10 minutes was all Brighton as we attacked the Leazes End, where our 2,000 plus fans were gathered. We were dominating, and suddenly from a left wing Williams’ corner, skipper Brian Horton snuck between the Newcastle defence to bullet a header into the net. (1-0 Albion).
With Rollings and Cattlin immense in defence, Horton running the midfield, and Peter Ward inspiring, Albion began bossing the game. A few minutes later Ward let Maybank in with a clear shot on goal, but Teddy shanked it wide.
That was the key for Newcastle to up their game, and they twice came close to an equaliser.
But they hadn’t counted on Peter Ward, whose sublime mazy run through their defence and a directed shot, which somehow managed to cross the goal line, doubled the lead. (2-0 Albion).
Our football was expansive as the rain started to team down.
It was end to end stuff, before Ward fired at goal and Gerry Ryan poked in the rebound from a Newcastle defender. (3-0 Albion).
But the Magpies were not about to give up and they began to put steady pressure on our goal before the half-time whistle blew.
We were almost there… just 45 minutes to make history.
The second half was rocky in comparison as Brighton nerves made their way around St James Park. But the clock was ticking and when Alan Shoulder pulled one back for Newcastle, it was too late for a comeback.
As the final whistle blew, the moment (and the game) was savoured. We went wild as our heroes in yellow ran towards us, manager Alan Mullery ran onto the pitch, hugged Horton and joined in the celebrations.
Tears flowed, voices shouted, cheers echoed, hugs were exchanged and smiles enveloped every face.
We were promoted to the top flight for the first time in our history!
But it had gone to the wire: with a game in hand, Palace won the title with 57 points, we were second on 56, just ahead of Stoke on goal difference and Sunderland fourth on 55 points.
After the game I tried to find Pete for a celebratory pint, but in the days before mobile phones, and amid thousands of cheering supporters, the task was impossible.
A few days later, he telephoned me at home to say; “Where were you afterwards? We were all waiting for you in The Strawberry!”
But later that sublime Saturday evening I arrived back at Pop’s home, to be greeted with a smile, a handshake, a “well done, lad” and a very large whisky.
Pop sadly passed away, two years later.
I will never forget him, or that day.
Ken Richardson’s fire
Stoked the Doncaster ire
It only took a spark
To ignite his moment in the dark
They can’t understand
In their money-grabbing hands
When they try to steal our game
They are all the fuckin same
We will not be tamed and seated
Fans united together
Will never be defeated
Bill Archer made a killing
From his crooked Goldstone shilling
But the battling Seagulls now fly
Under a blue and white sky
They can’t understand
In their money-grabbing hands
When they try to steal our game
They are all the fuckin same
We will not be tamed and seated
Fans united together
Will never be defeated
Alex Hamilton’s wrecking ball
Swung the Racecourse call
As the evil ball came down
Wrexham’s fans saved their ground
They can’t understand
In their money-grabbing hands
When they try to steal our game
They are all the fuckin same
We will not be tamed and seated
Fans united together
Will never be defeated
Roland Duchatelet’s sleight of hand
Unites the Valley stand
The fans now deal their own CARD
As they clear him from their yard
They can’t understand
In their money-grabbing hands
When they try to steal our game
They are all the fuckin same
We will not be tamed and seated
Fans united together
Will never be defeated
Karl Oyston sues football fans for fun
But his regime is now undone
Under the famous Blackpool lights
Here come the Tangerine Knights
They can’t understand
In their money-grabbing hands
When they try to steal our game
They are all the fuckin same
We will not be tamed and seated
Fans united together
Will never be defeated
No Time to Think 