Nose's Point

 

Durham's Listed Pubs

A dry pub crawl of Durham, spotting the grade Listed public houses of the City...

A New Record

Due a record player for Xmas from the old dear, so I've started picking up the odd vinyl. Just so happens Durham market has just got a new record stall in the form of the excellent Record Shed, so searching that and the other long established stall has proved quite fruitful. Here's some recent picks ups pop pickers...

Durham Then & Now...

 Photos from Durham from the 1960s/70s against similar vantage points in September 2020...

Durham United

Some old pictures in and around Durham via United busways...

Him Off The Viz

The hottest ticket in town on Sunday was Simon Donald's book reading. The stand up comic / Viz creator is doing some autobiography excerpts in a tiny second hand bookshop in ye olde Durham. A North East legend. My home town. An air of secrecy and exclusiveness surrounding the whole event. There were only twenty tickets available. Me and my mate have numbers one and two. We're excited. But Jesus, I hope we're not in the front row.

However my memories of the Viz are slim. It's not like I'm not a fan, just when it was in its mid 90s prime I was too young to form part of their readership. That didn't stop me nabbing Dads copies for a sly read. Memories include Spoilt Bastard getting a kicking off the Teletubbies, Cockney Wanker getting his black cab license and overcharging tourists, a readers competition to find any Man United fans actually from Manchester (some numpty angrily wrote in stating that indeed he was, but giving his address as Rochdale - he was promptly told 'Dale has a professional club). And then came my Billy the Fish Football Yearbook and his tales of fish like goalkeeping genius, lethal strike force of Shakin' Stevens and  Mick Hucknall, and buxom squaw Brown Fox with her geet massive chebs.

It's with these thoughts in mind I'm in a Durham pub, trying to recall more Vizzy goodness from memory, mainly so I've got some ammo at hand in I'm case quizzed later. If questioned then at least I'll not be judged as some kind of non Viz fan fraud by the stereotypical die hard comic book nerds that'll no doubt be in the audience, literally, by the dozen.

As the drinks flow me and my pal remember our joint favourite Viz moment, although it was actually post Donald years. Flashback 2010, we're coming back from a Hartlepool away fixture, coincidentally at Rochdale (for any confused Mancs, Pools played Rochdale, not Manchester United), and he bought a copy of Viz at Piccadilly. Now we're on the Northern rattler trying to keep our heads down as it's full of Leeds coming back from wherever they've raped, pillaged and picked up nil points that Saturday afternoon. Only we're laughing like drains at some random bits and pieces, it's only a matter of time before one of West Yorks Neanderthal grunts for the time and once we reply in deep Durham tones we'll promptly have our teeth removed. We're drawing attention to ourselves but we care not a jot for our fate, because we're lost in mirth at the sheer mental daftness on print. Like I say it was post Donald era but I'm sure he'll be happy his legacy is living on in belly laughed guffaws on a delayed train heading north, with football tensions rising...

It's strange that the directions to the People's Book Shop should be turn right  at Waterstones. The "proper" bookshop in all its corporate splendor on the main road, the one we're heading to through a blink-and-you'll-miss-it coffin sized tunnel/alley giving alternate route to the cathedral. Up some creaking, sloping wooden stairs and we're in at close quarters with Mr Donald himself. A unique venue, an icebox laden with Stella Artois (donations welcome), left-wing literature strewn shelves and tough metal seats as sharp as the wit as the man we've come to see...

Donald explains about the hi-tech equipment dotted around. He's recording us for his audiobook. Straight away we're part of this, we're in competition with bigger, better venues and the people of the People's Bookshop will not let our hero down. That's not to say, of course, we're over generous with the laughter - when we giggle and guffaw it's warranted. And there's plenty of laughs to come throughout the night...

Donald recounts autobiography paragraphs with witty results. Some quality coming of age schoolboy japes to pissed up heckling when denied a rigged magazine award. And most memorably when noticing the singer Robert Plant slipping off towards the toilet, Donald quizzed him at loud volume if he was going for one of his famous tunes - Hey Robert, are you going for a Big Log?
Heart warmingly Donald feels the need to over explain things from a certain era, for the younger members of the audience. Given that this is exclusively me and my mate Paul, we feel personally addressed by our hero as he looks over at us, although he's probably sussed us as the stealing dads' Viz types...

Interval. Donald mingles with the crowd given there's no dressing room (or stage curtain (or stage in fact)) to chill out, so is telling jokes and sharing past times with those who remember. It would be nice to listen but I need a wee. Back down the creaky lopsided stairs to form a queue outside the only wash closet. And then I get the aging Comic Book Guy trying to suss me, stating the loaded "the thing with Viz was it was a game changer". Shit. I don't need this. There's a few pints of pre-match Carlsberg swilling round, two bottles of Stella nipping the back of my head, I'm trying to think of what gems I can remember from Mellie's Profanasaurus Rex to fend him off, erstwhile thinking I'd rather be facing those Leeds fans again. Thankfully we're interrupted by someone re-entering the building, triumphantly announcing he took a piz in Varsity across the street. I do the same.

Second half. This mainly consists of FAQ that turn into some hilarious and compelling anecdotes. One such about Viz plots being that the best and funniest tales are based on truth. Donald sitting in a kebab shop at closing time in Toon, Two drunkards are troughing their boxes of death, one peels a string of kebab and starts rubbing it on his neck...
- Heearr, can yee smell porfume on me nek?
Mate, sniffs - Aye I can
First chap (rubs more kebab like a cheap aftershave advert) - worra bout noo?
- Nae lad ah cannae
- Fank fuck for that. Wor lass is like Shorlock fuckin Holmes
It went in Sid the Sexist.

Other memories include Donald's dark days with the newspapers, which he elaborates extensively on his encounters with the gutter press, but also of other celebrities (shall remain nameless) plight. Although not quite what I was expecting, it makes for fascinating listening. I then realise the atmosphere has shifted - this is not longer a stand up comedian doing a gig, we're mates now, he's having a chat amongst friends. Made possible by the intimate venue and the handful of kindred spirits present...

Full time. After bringing the house down with a goal for Pele (won't explain this - buy the book) and a highly amusing North East version of The Wheels on the Bus, we notice two 45 minute sets have spiralled into almost three hours of comedy and quality yarns. Then it's down to the bread and butter of book signing for Donald, no, Simon - we're friends now - with Sid the Sexist Tits Oot for Ian, a shameless photo opportunity with a celeb and a handshake.

A truly unique experience, fun had by all concerned and, most importantly, a new favourite Viz memory.

West Auckland Town vs. Hartlepool United

West Auckland. The home of the first World Cup winners. Twice. And they love to go on about it - the road sign as you arrive at the town proudly tells you. For any of you who don't know the tale, Thomas Lipton's dream was to create a international trophy and he did so in 1909 - inviting the best from Italy (Torino), Switzerland (Winterthur) Germany (Stuttgart) and, inventors of the sport, England - a club version forerunner of what would eventually become the World Cup. When it come to the choice of the finest team in England, legend has it, he couldn't remember the name of the best club but knew their initials were 'W' 'A' - thus a band of coal mining part timers from County Durham were invited along... First Division Woolwich Arsenal would have to wait a bit longer for European competition.

If that sounds ridiculous, what happened next sounds like myth. West Auckland turned up at the competition, having borrowed, begged and pawned to raise funds, and promptly won it - 2-0 in semis to Stuttgart and by the same scoreline in the final to Winterthur. They returned home heroes.

The myth then turns fairytale when the club were invited back in 1911 to defend their crown. And did so with aplomb. Winning the semis by a now familiar 2-0 score (vs FC Zurich), they then trounced Juventus 6-1 in the final. Mr Lipton said they could keep the trophy, but a few years later the financial implications of the traveling abroad hit home and the club sold anything it could to keep afloat - including the trophy. The eventually got it back in the 70s, only for it for be stolen in a burglary on the clubhouse in 1994. It's never been found.

The Town, and indeed the the club, seems stuck in a timezone well before 1994. A glorified pit village situated on the edge of the Pennines feels like the edge of humanity - if you go beyond it you've drop off the the world. Saying that I use the term 'humanity' quite loosely - my Durham City supporting pal was recounting tales of chew on with the West locals when visiting with the Citizens. And as we took up our place on the terrace with the West hardcore we noticed a few curious stares as kick off approached.

I always enjoy Durham Cup games (despite the fact it's usually youth/reserve level for Pools) as it's cheap, ensures a visit to a ramshackle Northern League ground and it's always under the lights. This time though excitement was at fever pitch as Marlon Harewood was starting (plus a few other first teamers) with a couple of trialists.

The game was fairly even, worryingly as this was supposedly a strong Pools line up, with United probably edging it on chances created. Dutch left winger trialist Sidney Schmeltz, formerly of Oldham, showed some good pace and low crossing, but big striker Harewood fluffed a handful of decent chances that he really should have put away. West broke away late in the half after a poor back pass and former Durham striker Stephen 'Speedie' Richardson coolly slotted home.

Half time and we walked behind the other goal, proving what a lonely existence being a Pools fan can be at these ties - we were the only ones at that end. Our blind loyalty (or stupidity) was rewarded three minutes after the restart when Harewood sprung the offside trap and converted a one on one right in front of us. A congratulatory message of 'Get the fuck in lad' was returned with a 'cheers mate' from the big man, which delighted me even further.

The game descended into a end to end type affair, but by end I mean the edge of the 18 yard area, with neither side really looking like taking the initiative. The pitch certainly didn't help, with upwardly rising slopes at either end - the only time I've seen a match played in a semi circle. As extra time approached a Pools defender was penalized for handball, Alex Francis stepped up from 30 yards and scored one of those free kicks that your side never seems to score -  a pile drived curler right into the upright. Unstoppable. It may have been only for the next round of the Durham Cup, but that free kick would have been worthy of winning the World Cup. Unfortunately for West Auckland, it's unlikely they'll get invited along again...