Jesus, I've been living in the Potteries for nearly five years.
During that time, a lot has changed both for me personally and in these, my adopted towns (though I think I've managed to avoid ever stopping in Fenton except to visit the bike shop). This is the place where I arrived an outsider, where I settled and ultimately started a family.
To some extent I'm still a distinct outsider. I know of people who grew up five miles from Stoke and claim to feel like outsiders in a way that I'd never imagine feeling in, say, Coventry. And despite the fact that I too grew up watching those Potteries derbies on Central Match Live, Burslem is the one place that I've ever been called 'immigrant' to my face (and that's just plain odd).
It's too easy to overstate the parochialism cliche, and just as easy to underestimate it. There's a distinct a multifaceted identity here, and it's dripping with saccharine sentimentality. "In the old days, way back when... we were poor but we were happy, and you could leave your front door open," and the like.
This scent of roses may be equally pronounced elsewhere, but in the Potteries I challenge anybody to escape it. People so often sound fantastically proud in one breath, dejected and disinterested in the next. On the buses, in the street, and pretty much wherever you care to turn - "it's a shithole, mate..."
By the same token, we know and trust our neighbours and they know and trust each other. And much as they bemoan 'the way the country's going' - whatever way that is - there's a real sense of community that I've never experienced anywhere else, beaten down and diminished though people may feel. Things worth cherishing - "...it's *our* shithole, in't it."
And still, disillusion abounds and rebounds, whether it's about regeneration, immigration, low pay, the ills of Federation, whatever. Community pride ever vying with the sense of betrayal by complacent city fathers and fly-by-night council managers. Is it justified? I don't know - cheap shots at the council are ten-a-penny in these parts.
Know what? I'd hazard a guess that many outsiders settling here have very similar feeling - certainly more akin to the 'local identity' than you might expect. I don't think I ever expected to stay, and others I know tried living elsewhere. But here, eventually, we stayed. And we grew to like the place in a way that perhaps we never expected to.
This is a city that doesn't seem like it was ever really finished, such are the rubbled, empty expanses, even in the city centre. Some days it's depressing, a relentlessly downbeat place. But there's a really compelling undercurrent here - true Stokies and newcomers who sense possibility and potential, who coax out and sometimes broadcast the sense of "unconventional beauty" that prevades these parts.
History has not been kind to the Potteries; this isn't some Richmond or Knightsbridge - and yet people are creative; they acclimatise, develop ways of seeing and learn to create nothing less than A Beautiful City by looking closer.
None of this is overtly political. But our political climate is crying out for optimism, creativity, warmth and a renewed sense of perspective. This can come from artists, council managers, bloggers, whoever - just people, at the end of the day. In pubs, on websites, at the civic.
So it goes.
After all, this Being Stoke, it's our shithole too. And that's the great thing about living in this of all places, the city that's not quite finished yet.
Monday, 10 November 2008
On the blog...
So, then.
I feel another blogalapse coming on; perhaps this one won't be so short lived as the last.
Maybe this is the only blog in the whole world named after a horse trough.
Doubtless someone will be along shortly to prove me wrong.
I feel another blogalapse coming on; perhaps this one won't be so short lived as the last.
Maybe this is the only blog in the whole world named after a horse trough.
Doubtless someone will be along shortly to prove me wrong.
Wednesday, 29 August 2007
Parklife
Winsford United vs St Helens Town
The boy had hit the sack early and instantly; a last-minute dash up two junctions of the M6 to Winsford saw me arrive at the stadium five minutes late. As usual I'd noted that the stadium was somewhere near the main road and breezily assumed it would be easy to find. It was, kind of, but only once I'd sped five off miles in the wrong direction. Such was Winsford's hold on my imagination that Sam's Animal Jungle compilation was still jingle-jangling cheerily in the CD player. Doubling back, the floodlights were helpfully aglow, sitting high above a roundabout - Bethlehem, boys! - so I swung into the car park, guzzled the last of my jelly beans (don't let me buy petrol, ever), and relinquished my four quid. The guy on the turnstile seemed startled that I looked so eager.
Thank heaven for proper floodlights, anyhow. It's not the first time that they've saved me from my own incompetence. For this reason I firmly believe that the traditional stadium skyline is nothing less than a Public Good, whose characteristics should be enshrined in law as a mandatory requirement.
I stroke the chin and reflect a little, but not for long, on the links between Winsford's salt industry and my adopted city. Then I stop faffing and head for the terrace. I don't know much about the Cheshire salt industry, but I'm told that the John Rylands Library used to store rare books in the town's salt mines - I wonder if there's a copy of Give My Regards to Queen Street down there, crammed in amongst the first editions of the German Ideology? It's a scheister to find. It does seem like much of the local interest is underground; and as usual I can never quite understand the alleged wonders of the County Palatine, pleasant though it is.
The Barton Stadium, renamed after the war, used to be called The Great Western Playing Field. I like that. The best way I can describe it is as endearingly crap, but I don't mean that pejoratively. The floodlight electrics are protected by mangled chicken wire. The main stand is missing a huge chunk of roof and the pitch is surrounded by various blackened relics - a mud soaked fire hose, still anchored to its hydrant, several old tyres, and a couple of rusty mowing devices long since reclaimed by nature. There's even one of those adjustable hospital beds on wheels that line the corridors in A&E. The refreshments counter is a full-on transport caff, and the tea is a baked-bean shade of lukewarm permatan - superb; I had another.
Surrounding the entire pitch is a dog track, with concrete lighting in front of the stands lining each straight. To allow for the curvature of the track, there's a semi-circular grassy void behind each goal, manned by yellow-vested youngsters who brighten their gloomy station by spending most of the game throwing themselves into knobbly-kneed pile-ons. The 'keepers keep having to ask for their ball back, please.
For whatever reason I can't remember the Winsford goal at all - I was probably hassling the nice lady for a brew in the caff - but St. Helens' two strikes were excellent, the first a cushion-and-volley from twenty yards low into the bottom corner, the second the product of an excellent build-up, finished assertively from close range.
The visitors looked better and better as the match wore on, and while their "poncey" (or sensible, if you are) stretching routine provoked mirth amongst the home supporters ("are you actually going to play second half, lads?") they were clearly the fitter side. It showed.
At half time, the Winsford manager threatened rather dryly to have me arrested after I encroached on the players' gangway between the dugouts and the dressing room. I thought they'd all run out by then but there you go; people don't make it in football for being prone to politeness and timidity, even or perhaps especially at this level. That's one reason among many why I was spending an evening skulking around an old dog track.
Anyway, there are no pictures (yet) - I managed to offload £400 worth of camera / wedding present on some concrete while retrieving a ball, immediately prior to getting threatened with the Cheshire Constabulary. Hard surfaces aren't good for cameras, y'know, and I have had some explaining to do in the morning.
At the final toots of the whistle, the club officials forgot to open the gates, thus preventing an early or even timely home time for everyone. It was fun to see the fairweathers denied their exit - they seemed kind of embarrassed to ask someone, while mutting about health and safety - but if you've ever had that ffs, what am I doing here? moment at a match, then this was the reaffirmation.
"Crapball would be ok if it just lasted for 10 minutes," reflected Mrs. TUTD sympathetically as she spooned some more porridge into a little mouth at breakfast. She was ok about the camera.
"BALL!" cried the fourteen-month old enthusiastically, ignoring his tasty slop for a second, thrusting his arms skywards and grinning toothily.
I'm not sure whether to be heartened or mortified by that.
The boy had hit the sack early and instantly; a last-minute dash up two junctions of the M6 to Winsford saw me arrive at the stadium five minutes late. As usual I'd noted that the stadium was somewhere near the main road and breezily assumed it would be easy to find. It was, kind of, but only once I'd sped five off miles in the wrong direction. Such was Winsford's hold on my imagination that Sam's Animal Jungle compilation was still jingle-jangling cheerily in the CD player. Doubling back, the floodlights were helpfully aglow, sitting high above a roundabout - Bethlehem, boys! - so I swung into the car park, guzzled the last of my jelly beans (don't let me buy petrol, ever), and relinquished my four quid. The guy on the turnstile seemed startled that I looked so eager.
Thank heaven for proper floodlights, anyhow. It's not the first time that they've saved me from my own incompetence. For this reason I firmly believe that the traditional stadium skyline is nothing less than a Public Good, whose characteristics should be enshrined in law as a mandatory requirement.
I stroke the chin and reflect a little, but not for long, on the links between Winsford's salt industry and my adopted city. Then I stop faffing and head for the terrace. I don't know much about the Cheshire salt industry, but I'm told that the John Rylands Library used to store rare books in the town's salt mines - I wonder if there's a copy of Give My Regards to Queen Street down there, crammed in amongst the first editions of the German Ideology? It's a scheister to find. It does seem like much of the local interest is underground; and as usual I can never quite understand the alleged wonders of the County Palatine, pleasant though it is.
The Barton Stadium, renamed after the war, used to be called The Great Western Playing Field. I like that. The best way I can describe it is as endearingly crap, but I don't mean that pejoratively. The floodlight electrics are protected by mangled chicken wire. The main stand is missing a huge chunk of roof and the pitch is surrounded by various blackened relics - a mud soaked fire hose, still anchored to its hydrant, several old tyres, and a couple of rusty mowing devices long since reclaimed by nature. There's even one of those adjustable hospital beds on wheels that line the corridors in A&E. The refreshments counter is a full-on transport caff, and the tea is a baked-bean shade of lukewarm permatan - superb; I had another.
Surrounding the entire pitch is a dog track, with concrete lighting in front of the stands lining each straight. To allow for the curvature of the track, there's a semi-circular grassy void behind each goal, manned by yellow-vested youngsters who brighten their gloomy station by spending most of the game throwing themselves into knobbly-kneed pile-ons. The 'keepers keep having to ask for their ball back, please.
For whatever reason I can't remember the Winsford goal at all - I was probably hassling the nice lady for a brew in the caff - but St. Helens' two strikes were excellent, the first a cushion-and-volley from twenty yards low into the bottom corner, the second the product of an excellent build-up, finished assertively from close range.
The visitors looked better and better as the match wore on, and while their "poncey" (or sensible, if you are) stretching routine provoked mirth amongst the home supporters ("are you actually going to play second half, lads?") they were clearly the fitter side. It showed.
At half time, the Winsford manager threatened rather dryly to have me arrested after I encroached on the players' gangway between the dugouts and the dressing room. I thought they'd all run out by then but there you go; people don't make it in football for being prone to politeness and timidity, even or perhaps especially at this level. That's one reason among many why I was spending an evening skulking around an old dog track.
Anyway, there are no pictures (yet) - I managed to offload £400 worth of camera / wedding present on some concrete while retrieving a ball, immediately prior to getting threatened with the Cheshire Constabulary. Hard surfaces aren't good for cameras, y'know, and I have had some explaining to do in the morning.
At the final toots of the whistle, the club officials forgot to open the gates, thus preventing an early or even timely home time for everyone. It was fun to see the fairweathers denied their exit - they seemed kind of embarrassed to ask someone, while mutting about health and safety - but if you've ever had that ffs, what am I doing here? moment at a match, then this was the reaffirmation.
"Crapball would be ok if it just lasted for 10 minutes," reflected Mrs. TUTD sympathetically as she spooned some more porridge into a little mouth at breakfast. She was ok about the camera.
"BALL!" cried the fourteen-month old enthusiastically, ignoring his tasty slop for a second, thrusting his arms skywards and grinning toothily.
I'm not sure whether to be heartened or mortified by that.
Sunday, 19 August 2007
"Football is where a guy gets stabbed in the back, and instead of dying, he sings."
Queen of the South vs St. Johnstone
With apologies to Robbie Burns.
This, readers, was how football should be. Goals, enthusiasm from the players, occasional flashes of skill, plenty of local character in the groundscape, and a big old echo-chamber of a terrace upon which to perch one's ample self.
Portland Park, home of Queen of the South, hosts Scottish football's largest remaining standing area, the Portland Drive Terrace. It's a throwback in steel and blue Dulux, being rather louder and loftier than the rest of the ground, and with just the one tiny hatch at the top dispensing more Ribena than you've ever seen in one place.
One thing I love with traditional grounds is the way the stands are flanked by huge floodlight pylons, and in this case four halogen beacons stand proudly above the town and its attractive position on the River Nith.
We had taken the train north to Dumfries, home of Robert Burns, following a rather sodden night's camping in the Lakes (Tesco Value Tent -£7.99 - its purchaser did claim it was the next model up from value, and insisted that 'value' or not, there shouldn't be any difference in the quality of waterproofing; anyway, I digress...)
It was a welcome, warm day with blue skies, the first day of the Scottish season. These things make a difference to the great unwashed (I'd had a shower, but then I'm not a real groundhopper in the overnight-train-across-three-European-countries-with-all-your-clothes-hung-out-to-dry sense). We mooched around the very pleasant town centre and decided to plump for a themey-looking pub called the Hole i' th' Wa', which turned out to be the fans' local, full of Doonhamers watching Inverness Caledonian Thistle take on Rangers (more on the QoS nickname and the pub-quiz Bible thing here - I also heard a couple of people cheering on the 'Rievers,' but I've no idea how widespread that one is). Anyhow, for once, Mr. Murdoch and Co. did me a favour. Calie's ground, whilst modern, does appear to have plenty of uniqueness, with a view across the water and over to the mountains. It joins Ross County on my all-new Highland hitlist.
After we'd sunk a couple of 70'- , we made for the ground, just across the river from the town centre and round the back of an ice rink. The stadium filled nicely, though the open terrace was closed. At this time of year, it's nice when you can saunter round the side of the pitch and into a sunny spot. In so doing we got a better view of the impressive terracing where we stood during the first half. Apart from the (I guess) obligatory guy with a drum in a kilt, there was also a woman with an old-fashioned football rattle, something I got for Christmas when I was six, but that I've never seen at a ground.
The match was excellent, ending 3-3 - though very much a case of two-nil up (including a missed penalty, and you all know the rest) when St. Johnstone got their equaliser on 89. The Doonhamers' Steve Dobbie looked especially worthy of the 'great touch for a big man' cliches. His opener, a smart lob from twenty yards after three minutes, was the first of many great touches - skilful, strong, but not too quick, a bit like our own Pawel Abbott.
An appreciative and upbeat crowd in a superb football setting helped make this a great experience. As Scottish fans will know, it's just great to have football back a week earlier than everyone else. As one columnist wrote in last month's WSC, "we need football like we need air."
That just about sums it up, regardless of the absurdities.
With apologies to Robbie Burns.
This, readers, was how football should be. Goals, enthusiasm from the players, occasional flashes of skill, plenty of local character in the groundscape, and a big old echo-chamber of a terrace upon which to perch one's ample self.
Portland Park, home of Queen of the South, hosts Scottish football's largest remaining standing area, the Portland Drive Terrace. It's a throwback in steel and blue Dulux, being rather louder and loftier than the rest of the ground, and with just the one tiny hatch at the top dispensing more Ribena than you've ever seen in one place.
One thing I love with traditional grounds is the way the stands are flanked by huge floodlight pylons, and in this case four halogen beacons stand proudly above the town and its attractive position on the River Nith.
We had taken the train north to Dumfries, home of Robert Burns, following a rather sodden night's camping in the Lakes (Tesco Value Tent -£7.99 - its purchaser did claim it was the next model up from value, and insisted that 'value' or not, there shouldn't be any difference in the quality of waterproofing; anyway, I digress...)
It was a welcome, warm day with blue skies, the first day of the Scottish season. These things make a difference to the great unwashed (I'd had a shower, but then I'm not a real groundhopper in the overnight-train-across-three-European-countries-with-all-your-clothes-hung-out-to-dry sense). We mooched around the very pleasant town centre and decided to plump for a themey-looking pub called the Hole i' th' Wa', which turned out to be the fans' local, full of Doonhamers watching Inverness Caledonian Thistle take on Rangers (more on the QoS nickname and the pub-quiz Bible thing here - I also heard a couple of people cheering on the 'Rievers,' but I've no idea how widespread that one is). Anyhow, for once, Mr. Murdoch and Co. did me a favour. Calie's ground, whilst modern, does appear to have plenty of uniqueness, with a view across the water and over to the mountains. It joins Ross County on my all-new Highland hitlist.
After we'd sunk a couple of 70'- , we made for the ground, just across the river from the town centre and round the back of an ice rink. The stadium filled nicely, though the open terrace was closed. At this time of year, it's nice when you can saunter round the side of the pitch and into a sunny spot. In so doing we got a better view of the impressive terracing where we stood during the first half. Apart from the (I guess) obligatory guy with a drum in a kilt, there was also a woman with an old-fashioned football rattle, something I got for Christmas when I was six, but that I've never seen at a ground.
The match was excellent, ending 3-3 - though very much a case of two-nil up (including a missed penalty, and you all know the rest) when St. Johnstone got their equaliser on 89. The Doonhamers' Steve Dobbie looked especially worthy of the 'great touch for a big man' cliches. His opener, a smart lob from twenty yards after three minutes, was the first of many great touches - skilful, strong, but not too quick, a bit like our own Pawel Abbott.
An appreciative and upbeat crowd in a superb football setting helped make this a great experience. As Scottish fans will know, it's just great to have football back a week earlier than everyone else. As one columnist wrote in last month's WSC, "we need football like we need air."
That just about sums it up, regardless of the absurdities.
Ten notes lighter
Stafford Rangers 1 vs 3 Walsall
24 July 2007
A scintillating pre-season encounter that featured what is perhaps a non-league first - an amazing footballing cloud formation ghosting in unnoticed at the back stick... say no more (somehow I can't bring myself to write anything anyway, except that one really does feel ten notes lighter at the end of it).
24 July 2007
A scintillating pre-season encounter that featured what is perhaps a non-league first - an amazing footballing cloud formation ghosting in unnoticed at the back stick... say no more (somehow I can't bring myself to write anything anyway, except that one really does feel ten notes lighter at the end of it).
Sunday, 3 June 2007
Urban Countryside
A few weeks ago, Mike Wolfe - who I often find myself agreeing with - wrote a strange opinion piece (sadly not on the website) in the local rag, criticising plans to create green corridors between Central Forest Park and Hanley Park.
Stoke-on-Trent's urban countryside is one of its best features. It also helps the place retain a humane sense of scale and space. In fact I'm off there in a min.
Anyway, there was a good show about urban biodiversity on the radio the other night, which makes these points far more elegantly than I can.
Stoke-on-Trent's urban countryside is one of its best features. It also helps the place retain a humane sense of scale and space. In fact I'm off there in a min.
Anyway, there was a good show about urban biodiversity on the radio the other night, which makes these points far more elegantly than I can.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
