COMICS

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THE INCOMPARABLE WILSON

In whose halcyon days of the nineteen sixties, The Frozen Northerner spent his winter days playing football, dreaming of being Roy Race, the greatest centre forward of all time (eat your heart out Erling Haarland) it didn’t matter whether we were playing on the lush surfaces of Shiremoor’s Park Grove or playing for the school team, you always imagined that you were Roy Race leading Melchester Rovers and England to an endless stream of victories, as we conquered domestic, European and world football. But, once the season was over and my adidas boots were carefully tucked away till the start of the next season, out came the cricket boots and running spikes allowing me to be transformed from Roy Race to Wilson the Wonder Athlete.

Although Wilson first appeared in The Wizard way in 1945, it was his adventures in The Hornet, that gripped my imagination. The first story I can remember about Wilson was when he went to Africa to quash an uprising led by an athlete-king called Chaka. Gilbert Lawford Dalton’s hero enthralled me with his exploits, was it the fact that he was the first man to climb Mount Everest (bare footed, no oxygen assistance and no climbing equipment) that impressed me, or was it the fact that he ran the mile in a sensational three minutes, smashing the world record to smithereens, that took your breathe away, still unimpressed. Then what about the time that the mercurial Wilson took time off from his athletic adventures to lead the England cricket team to an ashes victory in Australia. But, what made these achievements all the more astounding is that you had to take into consideration that Wilson achieved all of these feat whilst aged over 100. Unbelievable.

If Wilson couldn’t inspire you, then nobody could, to fully understand his greatness, you have to go back to his childhood, William Wilson was born in the Yorkshire village of Stayling, in 1795, and his early life describes him, rather unjustly as being a seven stone weakling, Wilson, realising his shortcomings left home to live on the Yorkshire moors to toughen himself up. Whilst battling the elements on that rugged terrain, Wilson, encounters an old hermit named Matthew, who, reveals that he has discovered the elixir of life, revealing to Wilson the secret of eternity.

In his quest to collect the ingredients for the recipe, Wilson travels the world studying medicine and biology to delay the aging process which will allow him to live beyond 200 years of age. (If you’re not fascinated by now, then get back to your X Box) Now, armed with the secret of eternal life our leotarded hero would now embrace the sporting world, shattering records galore, relentlessly pursuing impossible tasks.

Wilson’s endeavours would often take its toll forcing our hero to return to his beloved Yorkshire moors to recuperate in shadow of the Grieve Stone. Here our hero would live on a spartan diet of nuts and berries, why just added to his mystic. You didn’t fall in love with Wilson just because he was greatest athlete the world has ever seen (although it helped) it was because he was first and foremost a humble person, avoiding adulation at all costs. Willian Wilson, simply the greatest athlete of all time.

POLITICS

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GARY LINEKER: THE QUEEN MOTHER OF FOOTBALL

Last Saturday night, as usual I tuned into Match Of The Day, no pundits, no commentators, the show was pure bliss. This much reduced format came about due the fact that the Queen Mother of football (Gary Lineker) had took the decision not to present highly popular sports programme, due to comments he had made earlier that week on social media. The Queen Mother was quickly joined in this boycott by his co presenters “Al” (Alan Shearer) and “Wrighty” (Ian Wright) who also stated the they would not be appearing on the show as an act of solidarity (have to say that I was impressed that the three of them could spell solidarity).

Given the furore surrounding Lineker’s comments, I can’t help feeling that the BBC have missed a golden opportunity to get rid of Lineker, who is long past his sell by date. The very fact that viewing figures without the Queen Mother of football and his two glove puppets mates “Al” and “Wrighty” were up by half a million should be a clear indication of what the public think of the three presenters.

Lineker’s self congratulatory smugness has, as the years roll by become more gut wrenching than even I thought imaginable. Naturally the two parties will come to some sort of amicable arrangement that will see The Three Stooges return to our screens on Saturday night to dish out their sickly sweet drivel of all things football related. Punditry, who needs it, certainly not me.

THE QUEEN MOTHER WITH “AL “& ” WRIGHTY”

TALES FROM THE PIT POND (20)

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I was at a pretty low ebb following that tough season with Smith Dock, so much so, that I seriously contemplated not playing on a Saturday afternoon for the first time in my life. However, I was dragged out of my malaise by Mr Fixit himself, Alex Smailes, who, lured me back to one of my former clubs, West Allotment Celtic. Eight years had elapsed since I had last trod on the hallowed turf of the San Siro of the north, Backworth Park. Those eight years I had been gone had been good for West Allotment, seeing them win numerous trophies and re-establishing themselves as one of the leading grassroots clubs in Northumberland.

Former manger John Jackson, was still there, now operating as club secretary, a role that he was much better suited to. Amazingly all of the old men on the committee were also still there, the only absentee being former secretary and genuine nice guy Joe Rose. The role of the committee was now watered down, the real power lay in the hands of “Jacka” and “Smailsy” who formed quite a formidable pair, “Jacka” ran the club a little bit like Florentino Perez and was all powerful (maybe a little bit too powerful) whereas Mr Smailes had his finger in lots of pies and would do anything to keep the players happy.

When I first played for West Allotment as an innocent seventeen year old, it was the best time of my life, now the club had changed, it had lost that warmth, it was now deadly serious and I quickly realised I had made a mistake going back. A new manager called Les Jackson had been installed, boy, I didn’t envy him that job, he was under pressure from day one, especially from the ever demanding committee.

If I was going to have any chance of playing, then I was going to have cut back on my nightlife, I worked my tail off during those summer months and by the time of our first friendly against Whickham Sports (a club that was now plying it’s trade in the Northern Combination) I was in pretty good nick.

On the afternoon of the game, Mr Smailes produces a glorious set of Admiral strips, light blue shorts and socks with a white short sleeved aertex top. Beautiful.

The game itself would be the only time that me and my good friend Gary “Fuzza ” Little ever played in same West Allotment team. Me and Mr Little were sporting our hard earned Spanish suntans with “Fuzza” insisting we highlight our bronzed thighs by over indulging in liniment. We leave the dungeons (the name given to our changing rooms) and jog over to pitch, according to Mr Little something is missing, he slips his hand inside my shirt and pulls out my gold chain, “now we’re ready” he insists. Was he f****** insane, why not just put a pork chop around my neck and throw me in a Rottweiler pit. The game kicks off on a greasy surface, pleasing the Whickham Sports back four, who, are now singing the Gladys Knight hit “License to Kill” so, time to get my Ed Moses head on. Time fly’s by and we get to half time 0-0, we score early in the second half to take the lead, but my concentration is starting to waver, big mistake, I put my head down to move the ball on, only to greeted by Whickham’s centre half Micky Hughes right boot wrapping itself around my face. Hughsie has nearly took my head clean off my shoulders, so, thanks for the reality check. We press on and get a second, courtesy of Mr Little, the game ends 2-0, I shake hands with Hughsie after the game and he kindly returns my nose.

We return to the warmth of the dungeons, shower and start to get changed, Mr Little is busy dowsing himself in Aramis and is vividly describing his goal, its going to be long night. A good start, however, little did I know that game would the highlight of my season.

WHICKHAM SPORTS,OR SHOULD I SAY MURDER INCORPORATED

BOOKS

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Much as I was disgusted by the greed and deceit that took Barcelona to the brink of bankruptcy in Simon Kuper’s brilliant book, Barca: The Rise and Fall of the Club that built Modern Football, David Conn’s superb book The Beautiful Game ? Searching for the Soul of Football, which, bearing in mind that it first published way back in 2005, has taken my revulsion of our national game to another level.

It’s hard to know where to start, men like Arsenal’s cockney wide boy David Dein, Sheffield Wednesday’s unscrupulous chairman Dave Richards, Manchester United’s slimy Martin Edwards and Leeds United’s egotistical, Peter Ridsdale, are just a few of the names that figure frequently throughout Conn’s amazing book. You could argue that some of these men initially became involved with their clubs because they were basically fans of the clubs, but, once the riches of the premier league kicked in, any feeling they had for their clubs was gone in a heart beat, as they gorged themselves on Murdoch’s millions.

Once the premier league was created it quickly becomes apparent that the F.A. would become the chew toy of the powerbrokers at the big clubs, Dein and co gained so much power in a short space of time that they were effectively able to control any decision the F.A. wanted to make. Some of the smaller clubs such as Bradford City and Barnsley did reach the dizzy heights of the premier league, but, instead of sticking the basic principles that took them to the top level, they allowed themselves to get caught up in the vortex of spiralling wages paying players unsustainable money.

They were not alone, as teams tried to keep pace, they found themselves heading for administration with some teams never recovering. I’m speechless, how these men, who were supposed to be looking after the best interests of their clubs, were allowed to get away with anything they wanted to do. It simply beggars believe, as Conn’s points out, there was no regulators at any level, which, allowed opportunists such Daniel Craig to take clubs to the brink of extinction. Now, The Frozen Northerner, may have never heard of Mr Craig before reading this book, but, the way he went about destroying York City is nothing short of scandalous.

York were not the only club ruthlessly used, Sam Hamman may have looked from the outside a genial good guy, however, when things started to turn sour, he quickly jettisoned Wimbledon in favour of Cardiff City, another sleeping giant floundering in the lower leagues. No one escapes the wrath of Conn, over the years the game has become riddled with deceit, just ask old Etonian and former Arsenal chairman Peter Hill-Wood, a man who has discreetly airbrushed his family roots up in Lancashire with Glossop North End, out of his life. I could go on and on, but, if you are a genuine football fan then its essential that you read this book for yourself. Conn’s book has destroyed any lingering hopes I had for the national game, along with the sense of pride our clubs used to give to their community. It’s gone and never going to return.

SHOPS

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In 2015, Ethan Newton and Kenji Cheung successfully opened their first clothing emporium, Bryceland and Co in Tokyo, Japan, the shop proved to be a hit, so much so that it led to them to opening a second shop, this time in Hong Kong, which, also proved to highly popular. Building on the success of their two stores in the far east has now led Messrs Newton and Cheung to Europe to open their third shop to date, this time in London.

Their third store is situated on Chiltern Street, Marylebone, a street that is fast becoming synonymous with classy clothes shops. Newton and Cheung describe their establishments as a expression of a classical men’s wardrobe, therefore, let’s see what it has to offer and is it capable of making The Frozen Northerner part with some his hard earned cash. The store itself is fronted by a couple pleasant knowledgeable young lads who aren’t pressurizing you, allowing me to leisurely check out their merchandise. On the positive side the goods on offer all come under the banner of their own labels such as The Baseball label, (mainly shirts) The Black Bean (chinos and shorts) and The Black HK label (jackets overcoats and shirts). Accessories include slippers by Bowhill and Elliot and a nice, but limited range of their own footwear line.

I’m’ not sure if I’m going to purchase anything, mainly because nothing is really jumping out at me, as usual the The Contessa is rolling her eyes, so, time to get a move on. If the hype on their website is to be believed, then I probably should try on what they describe their perfect OCBD shirt.

Now, as The Frozen Northerner has a large number of button down shirts in his wardrobe, The Bryceland’s shirt, is going to have to be pretty special to get past some of those beauties I have collected over the years. Overall the Bryceland’s OCBD looks good on, but, unfortunately for me the collar is all wrong and as the late great George Frazier pointed out years ago “The roll of the collar, that’s the most important thing”. The collar on the Bryceland’s shirt is to high and has got me thinking of Harry Hill, (a definite no, no) also the pointed bit at the back of the collar is a unnecessary detail that the shirt could do without, therefore no purchase here, nothing else really catches my eye and I leave the shop empty handed.

Can I see myself shopping at Bryceland’s & Co on a regular basis, no, it’s a nice enough shop maybe a little bit pricey, which, is not something that particularly bothers me. However, in my humble opinion there are better options around that particular area of London. Disappointing.

SHOES

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ALDEN CORDOVAN PLAIN TOE TOE BLUCHER

Whenever I’m in London I usually call in at Trunk Clothiers, as they are one of the few places in England that stock the American footwear brand, Alden Shoes. As you should know The Frozen Northerner is a big fan of Alden shoes and is the proud owner of a rather beautiful pair of Norwegian split toe bluchers, which were bought way back in 2012 whilst on holiday in New York (surviving super storm Sandy by the way to purchase them). Over the years they have aged beautifully and are arguably the best pair of shoes I have ever bought. Therefore, when I’m in Trunk clothiers, drooling over their footwear offerings, I spot they are stocking an Alden classic, a plain toe blucher in dark burgundy, wow, these great shoes are further enhanced by the fact they are made from cordovan leather and feature a Goodyear welted sole.

There is only one way to describe these timeless derby style treasures, spectacular, I’m in total agreement with the gentleman that writes The Loire Magazine blog, because like him I cannot understand for the life of me why men over 40 would rather wear a pair of Nike trainers than invest in a pair shoes like these Alden’s, (maybe it’s because they don’t look good with tracka bottoms) which will last you a lifetime and like all good shoes will look better as they age. Despite the fact that I purchased a superb of Rancourt loafers at Christmas, it had started to look like my love affair with shoes had to come an end, not any more. Alden plain toe blucher. Buy immediately.