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Showing posts with label autobiographical. Show all posts
Showing posts with label autobiographical. Show all posts
Brandon Sullivan 🎵 One weekday afternoon, I was skiving school and went with some friends to smoke hash. 

My memory tells me that it was a bright, sunny day, but memory is a fallible thing. One thing for sure, though, is that I was dedicated to rave music and considered myself, in my teenage delusion, a connoisseur with rarified tastes, full of disdain for “commercial” rave music, and preferring Derrick May and Dave Angel. Anyway, on this particular day, my life changed, because Champagne Supernova was playing on a Hi-Fi (remember them?) and I was transfixed. “What’s that?” Oasis. “It’s incredible.” That was 30 years ago. I listened to What’s The Story (Morning Glory) relentlessly, and then Definitely Maybe. Be Here Now was still some time away.

Getting into Oasis opened up a world of other music. I’d read Q magazine every month, and back issues in the school library (many of which were “liberated” and ended up in a huge collection I donated to Oxfam some time ago) and would be entranced at who Noel had ripped his songs off of. I remember during a house party a Best of 70s CD was playing and Oasis’ Cigarettes & Alcohol started and we all looked at each other stunned. Except it wasn’t: it was Get it On by T-Rex. Interestingly, a rave version of a T-Rex song “Children of the Revolution” was already well known to my friend group. A throwback to this article.

I saw Oasis at Loch Lomond in 1996. Four of us went, three of whom worked at McDonald’s. We asked for the day off, and the next day, and were refused. We basically laughed and said we were going anyway, and did. It was an amazing day. I had a sense that we were experiencing something significant, and it was. Weirdly, I clearly remember Dreadzone playing. The Manic Street Preachers got boo’d, something I’d have been happy with then, ashamed at now. Oasis came on, the helicopter noise from What’s the Story booming over the PA, and Liam in a duffle coat came out, kissed Noel, swaggered over to the mic and shouted “Columbia” – my favourite Oasis song – possibly, from a crowded field, the highlight of my teenage years. I saw then again in 2000, at Murrayfield, but don’t remember much. It was in the middle of a binge lasting a few days. I do remember the walk there, it seemed like everybody I’d ever known was on their way there, and the craic was mighty. I don’t think any photos exist of any of us at either of the shows. It’s just the way it was then. Maybe it’s a shame, maybe it’s for the best.

So, when Oasis reformed, I was interested. I tried to get tickets on the day they were released, and failed, like a lot of people. At one stage I considered buying a ticket for the New Jersey show, but with young kids to look after, that would be tricky. Then, as the day approached, I knew I couldn’t miss it. I bought a ticket for almost £300, and made my way there. Unlike 2000, I didn’t see anyone I knew, though I knew a lot of friends were there, in the standing area, partying away. I had a good seat, with a clear view. I missed Cast, caught and enjoyed Richard Ashcroft, and then Oasis came on . . . 

They sounded great, and Liam was full of mischief, berating the City of Edinburgh council for comments about Oasis fans (not, it must be said, all that inaccurate). The atmosphere was more like a family friendly rave than a concert. People were smiling, talking, chatting. The Poznan was requested from Liam, and everyone complied. They didn’t play Columbia, and Hello, with its Gary Glitter origin felt a little bit suspect, but the set was filled with the hits and gave people exactly what they wanted, and a little bit more. Noel went a bit boomer dad with an intro to Don’t Look Back in Anger asking if there were any “atheist lesbians” in the audience.

I don’t think this tour will be a one-off. It has been such an incredible success, that I don’t think either warring Gallagher brother will want it to be over after this. But who knows – I didn’t think they’d be split for 16 years. As Noel once said “it’s always hard working with family. But when your family is Liam Gallagher, it’s even harder.”

⏩Brandon Sullivan is a middle-aged West Belfast émigré. He juggles fatherhood & marriage with working in a policy environment and writing for TPQ about the conflict, films, books, and politics.

Oasis 🎸 Live ‘25

Barry Gilheany ⚽ April 1970.

It is Saturday 11th April 1970. The whole family sat in front of the telly watching Leeds v Chelsea FA Cup Final on the mud bath that the Horse of the Year Show had turned Wembley’s hallowed turf into. 

Those of you acclimatized to the set piece occasions in the English soccer calendar will notice the unusually early date of the Cup Final. It traditionally took place on the first Saturday of May, now latterly the third weekend of that month after the completion of the league programme. But that year the season was brought to an end four weeks early in order to facilitate England’s defence of the World Cup in the tournament scheduled to commence in Mexico on 31 May/1 June 1970 (cannot remember the exact date).

This early curtailment of the season and the resultant fixture congestion was undoubtedly a factor in the collapse of our brave and unprecedented attempt at winning the Treble of League Championship, FA Cup and, most sought after, the European Champions Cup. It was not the first and would not be the last time that officialdom would blight Leeds United.[1] I do recall the 1978 and 2002 World Cups at least beginning at the start of June and there was no early end of the season on these occasions. Anyway, it is the Peps and the Sir Alexs that call the shots these days, not the Alan Hardakers.

Anyway, rant over. Leeds play a quality of football probably never witnessed previously at English football’s set piece occasion. Eddie Gray (who arch Leeds antagonist turned temporary gamekeeper, Brian Clough, during his 44-day tenure as manager at The Damned United would have had put down had he been a racehorse) was absolutely sublime. Our George Best. Our Jimmy Johnstone. But with none of the dysfunctional “wildness” associated with these contemporary masters of the flanks. But twice from winning positions we contrive to lose the initiative through a horrendous boo-boob from our hapless goalkeeper Gary Sprake (who would be cast out of the LUFC family for collaborating in a tabloid investigation into alleged match fixing by the Donald – Revie that is) and lack of concentration at the near post in the 86th minute two minutes after Mick Jones has seemingly won it for us. 2-2 after normal time. No further score in extra time though an Alan “Sniffer” Clarke effort which twangs the crossbar which causes my mum to emit a shriek. I blame the parents!

It therefore goes to a replay for the first time in 59 years at Old Trafford. One of the most violent encounters on a football field ever televised. A top referee from the millennial era would have dismissed six players from each side. Leeds again take the lead in the first half from a superlative run and finish by Jones again. However, we do not add to it and Peter Osgood equalizes for Chelsea with twelve minutes remaining with a flying header. We almost snatch a winner in the last minute but again it goes into extra-time when we suffer the denouement of a winning goal for Chelsea by David Webb from a long throw by Ian Hutchinson with an unwitting assist from Jack Charlton. Buckets of tears shed. The seeds of generations long hatred between fans of both clubs are sown and would be acted out at grounds and service stations in the decades ahead. But I have been initiated into the psychodrama that is Leeds United.

Fanatical but a pathologically anxious attachment to LUFC follows. At least up until the Chemistry Lab event. As the club goes into its post-Revie / post-Bremner era of decline leading to our first period of banishment from the top flight, so my devotion becomes less intense. Other allegiances vie for my attention. Northern Ireland’s football team which twice qualifies for the World Cup in 1982 (Leeds are relegated the same year) and 1986. Alex Higgins’ whirlwind second triumph at the World Snooker Championship in 1982. Fellow Northern Irishman and Tyrone native’s black ball triumph at the same tournament three years later. 1985 also sees an Irish Rugby Triple Crown and a world title crown for pugilist Barry McGuigan. 1986 will see former Leeds hero and World Cup winner Jack Charlton become manager of the Republic of Ireland national squad.

However, my cathexis is channeled into the study of politics and the adoption of political positions. On autopilot since coming out of depression, I enter Queen’s University Belfast as a second year undergraduate and storm to an Upper Second Honours degree (when Upper Seconds meant something) in Political Science and Economic and Social History to be followed by a Master’s degree in Irish Political Studies including a path-breaking thesis on the emergence of women into the legislature of the Republic of Ireland; at least I think it is as no-one, including myself, encouraged me to publish it or network with other scholars of feminism/women’s movements; it didn’t help that I was told that certain feminist academics were refusing to cooperate with my because I was a man. Eat your heart out Andrea Dworkin, Catherine McKinnon! Virgin territory scholarship indeed!

I also made a reputation for myself as a strident speaker at Student Union general and representative council meetings. My support for the SDLP is particularly vocal and I enthusiastically canvass for the party at every election time. I of course ran the risk of making a target for my back in what in the 1980s was a very polarised student community. I also threw myself in the de rigeur left-liberal causes of the time: CND, Anti-Apartheid Movement, the demo against the visit of US President Reagan to Ireland, Community Action projects and solidarity activity with the striking miners in Britain. But the most consequential encounter I had at Queen’s was with probably Ireland’s leading feminist academic, Ailbhe Smyth, who addressed my Masters group on the emergence of Irish women’s activism. That sowed the seeds of the afore-mentioned MSSc thesis and later my PhD and provoked awareness of the repressive sexual politics of Ireland both sides of the border. I become friends with a leading gay right activist and dipped my toes in what was then (in Ireland anyway) the mother of all taboo subjects, the abortion debate. My pro-choice opinions and speeches attracted the chagrin the otherwise right-on, particularly at one SDLP conference where my attempts to plead the women’s case is met by sustained volleys of “pro-life” diatribes; that occasion ranks with my witnessing of the banana throwing at black players at Elland Road as the most shaming and sickening experiences of my life.

Battling as I was to establish an identity; I  ran into the anomie and existential angst familiar to most thesis writers and which I would reenter a decade later when I commenced my PhD research at Essex University. I belonged to what was most qualified dole queue in Western Europe, but the claimant regime was not as policed harshly as it is now with its mandatory 35 hour a week job search on Universal Job Match. It is also fair to say that many of my contemporaries used the time afforded by the “broo” to similarly study for advanced degrees or for “startup” alternative cultural or publishing ventures like fanzines. Not having a bona fide “professional” qualification like law or accountancy to get a “proper job,” I did sit the Civil Service exams for both parts of Ireland, applied for the Tax Inspectorate and a SCONUL (Standing Conference of National University Libraries) entry scheme. But to no avail.

By virtue of my two-year signing on period (no grant for my Master’s degree course), I qualified for participation in what was a rite of passage for many young Northern Irish adults – the Action for Community Employment Scheme (ACE). I was recruited by an organisation headed up by a Board of Directors of the great and good of Northern nationalist society whose mission was “to build a social archive of the Irish nation” through the collection of folklore, genealogical (my “department”) historical site and traditional music material. Such grandiose plans did not match the reality on the ground where I and ten other graduates were initially tasked with putting together a development plan for this vision but were constantly thwarted by the interference of a grossly incompetent and bullying manager who had scraped a third in Irish Studies at University of Ulster Coleraine and who found my yet to be diagnosed neurodivergent traits in somebody on the verge of a Master’s degree, to be a source of much mirth and sarcasm. Retreating into the shrinking horizons of my bedsit off the Lisburn Road, Belfast, Irish Parliamentary records at Queen’s University and the sheer loneliness of the Master’s experience, I did welcome my first taste of the world of work (or make work as so many ACE schemes were).

However, I soon began to struggle with the lack of routine, competent organisation and enforced supervisory role on this project. I was soon going nowhere fast, nosediving to the infinity of nowhere. Socially, my loneliness impelled me back to the only other worlds I knew – the family home and my weekend drinking buddies in my home town. I was going nowhere fast and had spiraled into a black hole of temporal and spatial nothingness. Clinical depression was diagnosed, and I was prescribed Gaminil, a ghastly medication which completely numbed my physical senses and nullified any thinking and planning capacity. It also dramatically upped my smoking habit.

April 1987

The second weekend in April. On the Sunday, I listen to commentary on BBC Radio 2 of our FA Cup Semi Final against then top flight Coventry City at Hillsborough, home of Sheffield Wednesday and traditionally a standing venue for Cup semi-finals. Excitement had been building all weekend, as I sniffed the prospect of our first piece of silverware since the late 1970s. After fourteen minutes, we take the lead with a header from David Rennie resulting from a corner. We could have been three up by half time as we put on a scintillating display of football. The lead lasts until 66 minutes when a misjudgment by captain Brendan Ormsby enables Micky Gynn to equalize for the Sky Blues who shortly afterwards get their noses in front. But in the 82nd minute Keith Edwards (a prolific forward at Sheffield United but who had largely misfired lor us) equalized to the rapture of the Leeds following and takes the game into extra time. However, Dave Bennett scores a winner. Coventry go onto win the Cup for the only time in their history, winning also by a score of 3-2 and also in extra time against Tottenham at Wembley

Disappointment yes, as was coming within twenty minutes of promotion to the First Division only to lose in the play-off replay against Charlton at St Andrews, Birmingham, after a trade mark free kick goal by terrace hero John “Shez” Sheridan had put his side ahead.  But all the passion and commitment and expectancy comes flooding back although to what extent was this euphoria generated by my (premature) coming off Gaminil antidepressants is a fair question. All I do know that a dormant volcano has been activated.

At this point, it is necessary to give a sombre postscript. At Hillsborough, Leeds fans were accommodated at the away, Leppings Lane part of the ground. Leeds fans including some of my acquaintance complained of overcrowding to the point of being squeezed jam tight. To relieve the congestion, the match was delayed by half an hour. Two years later, at the1989 semi-final between Liverpool and Nottingham Forest, it was Liverpool fans who were funneled into the Leppings Lane End, with catastrophic consequences that we are all aware of – 97 dead supporters. Why in the name of the Almighty was the kickoff on this occasion not delayed? Incredibly Leeds fans were complaining of overcrowding and discomfort at the very same Leppings Lane end at last week’s fixture with Sheffield Wednesday. Have all the lessons of April 15th, 1989, really not been learned?

1987 was the year I was thrown a life belt in terms of career by an unconditional offer of a postgraduate degree place at the College of Librarianship Wales, now part of the University of Wales Aberystwyth. I needed to take control of my life, or so I thought, by doing something “useful,” “practical” or “professional” in order to “get a job” or “get qualified.” Without fully realizing it, I had internalized a particularly insidious mantra of the Thatcherite/neo-liberal era and successive eras; a degree in social sciences, arts or humanities are not passports for the “real world.” But I had also decided to leave my hometown and my drinking buddies who were being cast to the four winds anyway and Northern Ireland, politics and SDLP and all. I had embarked on achieving my dual ambitions; professional work and seeing Leeds United promoted to the top flight. Both were realised in May 1990. But then …

April 1991

The second Saturday in April 1991. I am on the Leeds Corporation bus ferrying fans back from Elland Road to Leeds City Centre. I have watched an almost Lazarus type recovery from 4-0 down to reigning Champions Liverpool (it will be another three decades before that appellation can be used again) to an eventual 4-5 defeat. He struggles to hold it together on the bus. Not because Leeds have lost. Far from it. This spirited comeback confirms Leeds United’s ability to compete with the best in Division One after eight years exile (three decades later Leeds would announce their return to the top flight now titled the Premiership after serving double that tariff after their early millennium financial implosion). No, the enthrallment of the wonderful event that I had witnessed collides with the devastation of the words imparted to me earlier in the week. An eminent occupational psychologist to whom he was referred to after the termination of his employment with Essex Libraries Service due to an unsatisfactory extended probationary period pronounced to him after I had undertaken the Myers-Briggs personality test that “you will always have problems in organisations”; this after being given virtually a life sentence by the library service (what library authority would employ a failed, first-time probationer with a damning reference; that he was failed on lack of proficiency at library housekeeping routines rather than professional librarianship skills on the absurd logic that competence on the former was an essential passport to progress in the latter would cut ice with few). Oh, protection against unfair dismissal did not apply to persons serving less than two years’ employment in that fin de Thatcher era.

The elephant in the room during my consultation is of course my undiagnosed dyspraxic/development coordination and autistic spectrum conditions. Such information would have given context to the various pearls of wisdom that the psychologist dispensed such as “You are 21”. “You didn’t really help yourself in your final probationary hearing.” “You put people off, you put me off” (jokingly or half-jokingly). But he is able to read off that I was a lapsed Catholic, had struggled with the statistics component of the first year of my Social Science degree (now that is a story for another day) and that “growing up in Northern Ireland hasn’t helped.” Now he was talking sense. He does detect from my responses to the Myers-Briggs diagnostic investigation and, presumably from my demeanour, that I am experiencing high anxiety, gives me a leaflet from the Westminster Pastoral Foundation but his lack of practical solutions for finding employment (apart from vague suggestions about “sorting out personnel records when the recession is over”. I walk out into Brick Lane from the Employment Service building and walk down it stunned by this seemingly terminal diagnosis.

NB The following paragraph is fictional.

But back to Leeds. I allow myself to go with my emotions. I break down in tears after I dismount from the bus to make my way towards Leeds City Rail Station where I am to catch a supporters’ train back to King’s Cross. My distress is noted by the yellow, blue, and white clad tribe around me and some motion to assuage it. A blue beret clad female supporter (a frequent blogger an author on all things LUFC) embraces me, hugs me, and says, ‘I am so sorry for what you are going through but you are part of the Leeds United family, and we are here for you always.” She will also give me crucial emotional support during that nerve-shredding season when promotion looked so horribly likely to elude us again before Covid-19 intervened. For much of my life, being an LUFC supporter has been an almost pathological solitary pursuit. LUFC is my real community, identity, and tribe. It is wonderful to be able to consummate it.

April 1992

The second weekend in April. 22 years to the exact day of Chelsea Cup Final Act One, in an another encounter with Chelsea I watch from the Kop end at Elland Road, a moment of sublime wizardry from Eric Cantona as he turns, controls the ball with his knee and volleys it into the Chelsea net to seal a 3-0 win. Howard Wilkinson had gambled upon signing this mercurial but unpredictable and combustible French enfant terrible earlier in the season after an injury to top striker Lee Chapman. His fights with French football authorities are legendary. But he brings a continental pizzazz not traditionally associated with Leeds United or Yorkshire generally. This sublime moment finally lifts he gloom, and despair engendered by the unexpected Tory win in the General Election held earlier that week. I return to Essex satisfied with the second position in the League that I expected. It had been an exhilarating season the highlights of which were 6-1 victories at Hillsborough and 4-1 at Villa Park. If nothing less, we had sent out the message that we were well and truly back in the big time.

So, it was time to get on with the rest of my life starting with putting together a research proposal for a PhD stimulated by the notorious X-case saga of that year in Dublin concerning the unmentionable – abortion. This would be the opportunity to revisit other unexamined aspects of my life. But then, for me, the totally unexpected and magical happened. As a result of a triple run of defeats for Manchester United who were leaders, the opportunity opened for Leeds to win the title and this was achieved on 26th April 1992 with a 3-2 victory for us at Brammall Lane, courtesy of a bizarre own goal by Sheffield United defender Brian Gayle and by a 2-0 defeat for Manchester United at, of all places, Anfield where our previous two titles had been secured; a 0-0 draw in April 1969 and a winning goal for Arsenal ‘s Ray Kennedy (later to join the Liver Birds) in April 1974. But for me it was the final whistle at Brammall Lane that signified it, and I went into rarely experienced Leeds United generated ecstasy.

A week later, I would celebrate the open top bus parade in Leeds City Centre of the Last Champions in a crowd of 150,000 – the largest crowd to have assembled in the city since VE Day in 1945. We all basked in the spring Yorkshire sunshine and the reverie of reflected glory. We cheered our heroes, and a special cheer went up for Monsieur Cantona who proclaimed to the yellow, blue, and white masses “I don’t know why but I love you.”

Bliss was it to be in that summer of joy, triumph, and redemption. We had finally struck silver for the first time since the Revie era. The first of many? But as surely as night follows day, Leeds United anticlimax was to follow Leeds United climax. We started the inaugural Premier League season of 1992-93 indifferently, seemed to struggle with the new rule prohibiting goalkeepers from picking up the ball from a back pass and could not buy an away win. Going out of the European Cup to Glasgow Rangers 4-2 on aggregate was a major disappointment. This precipitated an even more appalling development for Leeds fans three weeks later when Eric Cantona with whom Leeds fans had fashioned an almost sexualized relationship was signed by bitter cross-Pennine rivals Manchester United for a fee of £1.2m having paid £1m for him. It is fair to say that Leeds fans felt jilted by what to them is the ultimate act of treachery. Leeds ended the season in 17th place, the worst title defence since the relegation of reigning champions Manchester City in 1933. We failed to win a single game away from Elland Road and it was only home form (one home loss to Nottingham Forest 1-4) that kept us up. But the most sickening outcome of that season for many of us was Manchester United’s first title win of the Alex Ferguson era in which Cantona played the talismanic role that he had played for us the previous season. He would be central to the Red Devils successes until he retired the iconic No 7 shirt in 1997 that had been worn by George Best and would later be donned by David Beckham and Cristiano Ronaldo.

Nevertheless, I had occupied a front row seat in Leeds United’s return to glory and would do again as a season ticket holder in the rest of the 1990s through to the boom and bust era of Peter Ridsdale and the austerity years of Ken Bates courtesy, I must admit, of the Bank of Mum and Dad. The other major beneficiaries of it being the University of Essex as I could not get any research funding for my CV. After a twelve month rewrite, I obtain my PhD in July 2000 when I am also diagnosed with dyspraxia; a diagnosis of Asperger Syndrome (or High Functioning Autism or Autistic Spectrum Condition which are now the preferred ND definitions due to the role of Hans Asperger in the Nazi eugnenicist T4 programme. I also train as a psychodynamic therapeutic counsellor and do the requisite BACP training hours for professional accreditation. But again my career goals get thwarted by neurotypical prejudices in a supposedly woke society. My millennial Leeds United journey takes me from a Champions League semi-final to a tour of League One grounds and promotion back to the Championship in the duration of its first decade. A return to the Premiership would take another decade by which time I had ceased travelling to Elland Road. MOT.

[1] For a full account of the real and imagined injustices inflicted on Leeds United, read superfan Gary Edwards’ take on them in No Glossing Over It. How Football Cheated Leeds United. Mainstream Publishing 1 August 2013. PS The full title of the book is an allusion to Gary’s trade as a self-employed painter and decorator and his famous aversion to the colour red; he refuses to paint anywhere in the colour of Manchester United, the sworn enemy of most Leeds fans; removes red paint for free for customers and is known to paint over red safety signs and bus stops.

⏩Barry Gilheany is a freelance writer, qualified counsellor and aspirant artist resident in Colchester where he took his PhD at the University of Essex. He is also a lifelong Leeds United supporter. 

The Loneliness Of The Long Distance Leeds United Supporter ⚽ The Second Saturday In April

Brandon Sullivan ✍ I wrote this in March 2021, but felt it was a bit too personal to publish.

Someone who was once the closest person in the world to me passed away recently, and I never got to tell her about this, or many other, stories. So much left unsaid, for the want of reaching out. I don’t know Quillers, I think we’ve all got people we feel we should get round to getting in touch with. Don’t delay, because one day you might get an incredible shock, and it’ll be too late.

Dedicated to CG, my first love. And with a verse from a song that came to me via Christopher Owens’ Twitter:

Nothing I can say
Can make your picture talk
I feel so tired and
Nothing I can do
Will make your picture move
I feel so helpless but
I can feel
A child with the ghost here
You let your heart slip away

If I had one wish
I'd wish to talk with you
I have some questions
Things only you could know
If I had one wish
I'd wish to talk with you
Nothing you can feel
Can feel as cold as this
I'll sing this song and
I'll say goodbye forever

(Gary Numan, A Child With The Ghost)

Anyway, this all happened 2019 – 2021. It’s the longest piece I’ve published in one go, but it’s quite a story. I hope you enjoy it.

Preparation

It’s harder than you might imagine, donating an organ (in this case, a kidney) to someone who needs it. Lots of health tests, which is to be expected: ensuring you’re the same blood and tissue type, for example. The fact that the recipient is my brother makes this more straightforward, but nevertheless, it’s a relief when it’s confirmed.
But a psychiatric assessment? Hmm . . . I go to meet the psychiatric, and we have a long, interesting conversation about my past which, truth be told, contains a decade of alcoholism and rampant drug use. I quit alcohol when I was 27, and drugs on my 30th birthday, and I’m now in my early 40s. He’s interested in this, and we talk about it, but he’s more interested in how I am doing now-a-days and why I’m donating a kidney. Some people do it for the wrong reasons, apparently – and I’m surprised to learn that 10% of potential altruistic donors are rejected for psychological reasons. But, as with many things to do with the transplant, it makes some sense after a while.

The test results surprise me by telling me that I’m “fit and in excellent health” – is health in the eye of the beholder? I’ve definitely felt fitter before, but I have been working out a lot. It was a strange experience, looking at an X-ray of my body, with the surgeon who describes how he is going to cut open my stomach and remove my kidney.

The final hurdle is a meeting with an independent assessor, who meets my brother and I together, looks at our ID and family photos to ensure that, yes, we are brothers. I wonder why, and if, anyone has faked this. Prior to that I have another conversation with a well-meaning professional who wants to make sure that I’m not being coerced. I say that he needs a kidney, and I have one spare. It’s a win/win scenario as far as I’m concerned. My family and I are all worried about him, and want him to get better.

Almost a year has passed since the start of this process, a year in which my brother attends dialysis four times a week, and that I’ve had to keep my employers waiting on the news that at some point, I will need time off. It’s frustrating, at times tedious, irritating, and the pandemic doesn’t help. But then the news comes through . . . waiting on the results of a final test, and then it’ll be a case of simply booking the next available slot.

2020 has been a challenging year for everyone, and my family are no exception. My older brother has been ill with a rare kidney condition for almost four years, but nobody expected my younger brother, who had been feeling a bit weak and poorly for some time, to get the shocking news that he had cancer, that it had spread, and that some of the cancer is incurable, but it is treatable. In a grimly ironic twist of fate, the cancer has spread to one of his kidneys and he must have it removed. He had volunteered to donate his to my older brother before I had, but the transplant unit noted that he had suffered some periods of depression in his life, and were therefore hesitant. Had they progressed with him, in the preliminary tests, they would have discovered his cancer, and perhaps they could have treated it before it spread. This idea will haunt me forever.

My younger brother’s kidney removal goes reasonably smoothly, and he’s released from hospital after a few days. The transplant unit, understandably, have concerns about a genetic disposition to kidney disease, and tests must be done. Which means further delays. Amidst this family turmoil, my wife gives me the joyous news that she’s pregnant with who will be our first child. Throwing caution to the wind, I don’t wait to share the news – I tell my parents and my brothers, who are delighted. We tell my wife’s family, and they are likewise so pleased. It’s some welcome news in the midst of so much that has been worrying.

A new strain of Covid emerges just as the Transplant Unit get in touch, to say that they have received test results confirming that my younger brother’s cancer is not genetic – we have the OK to progress with the transplant. The new strain of Covid means that I will have to self-isolate for two weeks prior to the operation. My brother and I agree that we should take the first available appointment, and that appointment is the 6th of January. This means isolating over Christmas and new year. This is a big ask, not just of us two, but our partner’s families, also. But that year, as per Prime Minister Boris Johnson, “Christmas is cancelled” anyway, so my wife and I have Christmas, just the two of us, and the little one who is due to join us on the 12th July, of all dates. We find this out because we had arranged to go for a private scan. And we have the private scan, because the NHS scan is due for the same day as the transplant, 6th January. I joke that I have the best reason for any expectant dad not to be at the scan: I’ll be a few metres away, donating a kidney. I’m sad to be missing the NHS one, but found the private scan I attended a breath-taking experience. I saw the feet move and everything felt real – an indescribable experience. I take a photo of the ultrasound image and send it to family. I also announce to a WhatsApp group of friends from school that I, the last of the gang to do so, will become a father.

I have to check into hospital the day before the operation. I’m staying in the “relative’s room.” It’s spacious, en suite, with a single bed. If I to review it on TripAdvisor, I would say it was no frills, basic, economy. But it will do. I settle in – put something on my tablet to watch, and have some snacks. The door goes. The first of many visitors. This is something I hadn’t expected – hospital is very human intensive. Several nurses come and ask me a broad range of questions. It seems like they are double, maybe even triple checking things. I work for a bureaucracy, and recognise risk mitigation protocols and processes when I see them. The anaesthetist comes to see me, a jolly, dark-haired man with a broad Northern (Ireland, not English) accent, and we talk. He tells me about the anaesthetic. I tell him I once had to stop a filling because the dental anaesthetic didn’t work. He tells me that I don’t have to worry. He asks some of the same questions as the nurses – do I have any loose teeth? I ask where he’s from, and he smiles and says that he’s clocked my very slight (and unrecognisable to the untrained ear) Belfast twang. He’s from Ballymena. He leaves, and I am glad he’s going to be there tomorrow. I liked him, him had a natural warmth. The surgeon arrives later, him and I have already spoken on the phone. He’s a tall man, confident, distinguished looking. He inspires confidence and a sense that I will be in solid, professional hands. He asks me to take my top off and stand up straight. I do so, and he considers my torso. Then, he takes a market pen and draws an arrow, pointing upwards, on my left hand side. This, he tells me, is where they will remove the kidney. I ask some more about the operation. Naively, I assumed there would be one surgeon, simply removing my kidney, and placing it in my brother. He explains that there will actually be four surgeons, that I will be operated on first – an incision made to remove the organ, and two much smaller incisions, one for a camera, and one for the “keyhole” surgical tools to be inserted. The kidney, I am surprised to learn, is removed by hand. As well as the two surgeons allocated to my part of the operation, there will be the anaesthetist, and several nurses present. 

I am due for surgery at 8:30am, my brother an hour or so afterwards. The operations are staggered, so that he is ready to receive the kidney precisely at the moment that I am ready to have mine removed. He explains possible side effects, and reminds me that I can, at any point, call it all off. I tell him I understand, but that I won’t. Another nurse arrives, to discuss a request I made earlier for a sleeping pill. I have not taken a sleeping pill since my 20s, but I want to at least get some sleep, and my mind is racing. She says she will ask the doctor if I’m able to get a sleeping pill, and we have some general chat. I tell her about the pregnancy scan, and she asks if I have any children. I say this is my first. She smiles, and tells me about her four children, and her fairly recently arrived grandchild. It’s getting quite late, when she returns with the pill, and I take it, and feel its effects. They’re more subtle than I remember, but then again, the ones I took before were stronger and obtained on the black market, what seems like a lifetime ago, mixed with all manner of other substances, in a shared flat that was a party zone. Around midnight, I fall asleep.

Operation

I wake up having slept reasonably well, full of nervous energy. I do some sit-ups and press-ups, shower, and try to reply to the many messages of good luck that I have received. Being rather a vain character, I had trimmed my chest and body hair, shaved, and had a haircut in advance of the operation. I’d also been working out and running, I told others (and myself) to be as fit as possible for the operation. But it was at least partly to look as acceptable as possible whilst being examined, operated on, and seen by many people. The folly of this would later become clear. I arrive at the ward when I’m due and given a gender neutral, unflattering gown that just about goes midway down my thighs. I was told that I could wear underwear, and chose a nice pair of Ralph Lauren boxers: again, because of vanity. I’m also relieved that I will have a degree of modesty intact. Again, the folly of this chain of events will be revealed later.

I make preparations – my mother is going to phone the ward to find out I’m OK, and then contact my wife. My wife is going to let others know that I’m OK. When I’m able, I’ll call my wife to find out how the pregnancy scan has gone. My wife and I decide that, not matter if there is any bad news from any quarter, we just tell it as it is.

And then, it’s time. I lie on a trolley, and assigned a nurse and a porter. I go through corridors, talking to the two of them. One lives near me, and the other used to play golf on a course near me. I’m grateful for the distraction. Like many other NHS staff, they’re friendly, pleasant, and good company. The trolley goes down a corridor that seems to be where all of the surgery takes place. Surgical staff stand at the doors of various rooms, saying hello to us as we pass. A scene from the film Jacob’s Ladder flits through my mind. There seems to be many procedures taking place today. And then it’s into the room where I’ll be operated on. The Ballymena guy is there, and a few others. Adrenaline is pumping through me. I’m asked if I’ve had surgery before, and I say yes: my tonsils and adenoids were removed in 1984 (at the Royal Victoria Hospital, Belfast). I say I remember the anaesthetic, counting to ten and not making it past four or five. I’m told it do it again, and watch various drips being attached to me. I remember a friend of mine talking about doing this exact same procedure, and asking if he can go under listening to Pink Floyd. His request was granted, and he brought he own headphones. I’m asked to start counting to ten, by two I feel incredibly good, and by four or five I slip . . . 

… and then I come to. I feel euphoric. A kindly nurse (I later learn she’s a “recovery nurse”) is looking down at me, and I’m in a corridor. She tells me my operation went smoothly, and to take things easy. I ask how my brother is, and she says he’s still being operated on, but that it’s going well. I say I need to get to my room on the ward, and she explains that they’re making some preparations. I tell her that my wife was over at the maternity ward, getting a pregnancy scan, and that I need my phone to call her. She smiles and says she’ll get a phone for me to use, and that she can look at my records to get her number as she’s listed as next-of-kin. I call my wife, a woman I’ve known for five years. She’s never heard me intoxicated, and later tells me that she was so glad I said “hello, it’s Brandon” as she wasn’t immediately sure it was me – I sounded different, slow, laboured words, slightly slurring. There, but not really there. And I knew immediately by her voice that something wasn’t right. All I can really remember of the conversation is me asking “what do you mean?” and my wife replying “the midwife said that our baby has died” – I replied to her “I’m so sorry.” I can remember the horrified look on the nurse’s face, who has just witnessed a man emerging from surgery and being told that his wife has miscarried.

Six weeks after the operation, I have a follow-up consultation and check-up with one of the surgeons. I ask if I was sedated after finding out about the miscarriage, as my mind went blank – I have no memories for what feels like a few hours. The surgeon tells me that the kindly nurse ran to the room where I’d been operated on and told my surgical team what had just happened. The surgeon candidly told me that they simply didn’t know what to do, and that he’d come to see me and that I was conscious but generally incoherent. He said he felt I had gone into extreme shock, which, along with the anaesthetic, explained the memory loss.

Recovery

When memory returns, I’m in a large room, on a hospital bed, with lots of things attached to me. Including self-administered fentanyl. Every five minutes, a green light comes on, allowed a dose to be self-administered. I self-administer an awful lot: at one stage positioning myself so, if I doze off, the green light wakes me up and I click the button for another dose. Another thing that you’re not told before coming into hospital is how many times people will disturb you to make sure you are OK. Given the shock that I had just had, staff were understandably worried. Staff from the transplant team, all of the surgeons, the psychiatrist, and lots of nurses came to sympathise with me. These kindnesses were appreciated later on, though at the time, I was simply too removed from my reality to absorb anything. I do remember, though, that one of the members of staff shared that he had lost a pregnancy, and said that if I ever wanted to talk about it with him, I could.

I had waves of nausea, which were promptly treated, but I was still sick on a few occasions. There were some moments when pain, discomfort, and weakness made for a very unpleasant experience, but they were quite rare. It was a good 12 hours after the operation, and following a strange itchy sensation, that I realised I’d been shaved from the mid-chest down and that not only had one of my thighs also been shaved, the boxer-shorts I had worn were nowhere to be seen. It was quite an odd feeling to know that I’d been undressed, shaved, a human hand placed into my abdomen, an internal organ taken out, and a catheter put in. But these thoughts, like every other thought I was having then, merely bounced off me. I could understand facts, but the medications I was on prevented the vast bulk of feelings.

I messaged some friends to say I was doing fine and the operation had gone well. I simply couldn’t face mentioning the miscarriage. I later found out that my mother had called my wife, who was too upset to take the call. My mother-in-law answered, and between them both, they told our extended families, saving my wife and I from doing so. For this, I am so grateful.

The next day, I manage some food, and to go to the room opposite where my brother was. His body had accepted the kidney, and things were looking good. We chatted for a while, but I was tired and went back to my room. I had gotten to know the nurses a little bit, as they were coming in every hour. I wish I could remember more about them, their names and so on. One of them went to school with Walter Smith’s son. They were pleasant and reassuring. They all wore masks, because of Covid, and it makes me a little sad that I might not recognise them were I to pass them because of this.

Later on the day after the operation, a few interesting things happen. A tall, slender woman walks in and says “hello – I thought it was you, Brandon. I was in your year at school” – and she pulls her mask down. I instantly recognise her. We hadn’t spoken in 25 years. It feels really good to see someone I knew, even though we weren’t particularly close back then. She and I talk for a while, and her and another nurse help me onto a chair in the room. They detach the fentanyl drip, and the surgeon arrives. He tells me that I was “surprisingly muscly” and therefore the operation had taken longer than it might otherwise have – he had to cut through stomach muscles I’d been honing in the months coming up to the operation. He also tells me that I was a “considerable unit” of a man, and so therefore he was recommending a higher dose of the painkiller Oxycodene to take, as I was no longer on the drip. I’m not sure what the dose is, but I do know that it hits me, hard. I feel absolutely out of it, and it was quite a delightful feeling. But I felt myself starting to slide down the chair I was sitting on, and had to be helped onto the bed. A feeling of warm contentedness washed over me. I put headphones on and listened to music. Despite the circumstances, I enjoyed those few hours. I explained to one of the doctors just how intensely the pills had hit me, and he said they had made a bit of a mistake: they hadn’t allowed the fentanyl to wear off before giving me the new pain relief. He was very apologetic. I told him not to worry.

The pain relief tablets not only eased physical discomfort, they allowed me to walk, shower, visit my brother. Opiates remove pain; physical, psychological, emotional. And they slow down the mind, so when I spoke to my wife, and she told me that she was coming into hospital as well, I asked why, and regretted it instantly. I realised that who have been our first child was still inside her womb, lifeless, and that my wife would have to go through a birthing process. I knew that she had a horrendous ordeal in front of her, but anaesthesia meant that the information remained almost theoretical. I was not dealing in emotions, and the only feelings I could understand were physical pain and discomfort, and the drugs that relieved them. But I knew I was living through something, and that my wife and I, and our families were living through something. I tried to remember as much as I could, but I was in a haze of lack of sleep, medication, and shock.

I spoke to the transplant unit staff, and asked if I could have access to the relatives room, where I had stayed the night before the operation. They said of course and my wife and I met up in it, the day after she birthed who would have been our first child. I’m very grateful for that time. We later found out the child who didn’t make it was a girl.

Aftermath

Physically, I recover fast. So fast, in fact, that I am allowed to go home on the Friday. I checked into hospital on the Tuesday, the operation was on Wednesday morning, and all of the events I described above, and others I don’t recall, happened in about two and a half days. I arrive home, and I’m writing this seven weeks later. Quite a lot of interesting things have happened in those seven weeks, and maybe I’ll write about them some other time, but for now, I’m back at work, and starting life, without a kidney, and learning to deal with the gap where an expectation of fatherhood was. I joined two “clubs” that day, both bigger than one might imagine: live organ donors, and more significantly, those who have experienced pregnancy loss. I have been open about it with friends, relatives, colleagues. People who ask how we are doing, I reply that it’s hard, but it’s life, and we are hopeful for the future. I think people should talk about it. In return, many have told me of their experiences with it. It is not unusual, but it seems hidden in plain sight.

Post Script - 2024

I finished this piece in March 2021. My brother died a weeks later, and seven months after that, I became a father. A year ago, I became a father again, and have two healthy children.

I re-read this for the first time since I finished it, and had forgotten most of the details.

Life moves pretty fast. Writing some things down is worth it.

If you’re dithering about contacting someone, maybe to right a wrong, or just to check in, go for it. Time isn’t always on your side.

⏩Brandon Sullivan is a middle-aged West Belfast émigré. He juggles fatherhood & marriage with working in a policy environment and writing for TPQ about the conflict, films, books, and politics.

Transplant Diaries 🏥 Donating A Kidney In The Middle Of A Pandemic

Cam Ogie ⚽ Having read AM’s Euro piece on the Scots and the state of their football, and particularly the mention of the World Cup ’78, I remember that tournament well for two reasons.

Kempes and his chain smoking, where it was reported he would smoke half a packet of ciggies at half-time in the changing rooms and of which I’m sure he wasn’t alone in doing so. 

The reason I remember this is that I enquired from my mother who was a smoker at the time if she could match that and she, a veteran smoker even then, shuddered at the thought of actually doing so. We all wanted to be Kempes, fags and all, and when we scored in our World Cup replays on the well worn park pitch, more gravel than grass and which left a painful reminder that it needed resurfacing when you fell on it. Sliding tackles were a no no, we celebrated by imitating smoking a ciggie and shouting gringos - the innocence of it all. The other reason being Archie Gemmill and the Dutch game. I remember the '78 world cup and Scotland's opening game against Peru very well. The Iran game not so much. It was before their win against the Dutch and Gemmill's great goal.

We were only kids and sitting on the play park fence trying to catch our breathes and verbally abusing the girls who dared to cross our path. We were just after replaying the Dutch game in the park in which we all vied with each other to be Archie Gemmill when one of the boys noticed a British army foot patrol that were heading towards us....actually they were just walking past the park! One of the boys with us said that they were a Scottish regiment and as they approached we could see their head gear marked them out as such - no helmet but a bonnet of sorts. Actually, it may have been the Black Watch, not sure, but they were definitely Scottish. Well, when they got within ear shot one of the gang shouted Archie Gemmill. The lead soldier responded with a smile and a thumbs up and the same kid then shouted is a homo. Don't ask me why for I have no idea but in those days ‘homo’ was an insult. Another term widely used to inflict insult on a person’s character was ‘tube’ - one politically incorrect and the other an old and out-of-date term now.

We then began chanting Up Peru. Within a few moments every kid in the park from our estate and all the adjoining estates joined us and the foot patrol lost the head and pulled out their batons and attacked us. Luckily we were all on the other side of the fence. Next thing, a brick flew over and clocked one of them in the chest.

Well, all hell broke loose after that and a riot ensued. There were only five of the Brits and they were quickly surrounded and swinging like mad. Within a few moments of the chaos out came the 'mums' and they berated the soldiers for attacking kids. Then when it was all settled down the Brits left, funnily they never called for reinforcements the whole time, perhaps it was because they didn't want to seek help to deal with kids!!! Anyway, once they were off out of the way the mums all turned on us and gave us a right scalping for bringing trouble. Now, looking back they were probably more scared that one of their 'wee darlings' could have been seriously injured. So, I always remember that game for this reason. We just went back to replaying the Dutch game again, oblivious to what had just happened, hardened by the conflict and of course we vied to be Archie Gemmill - the homo!

Little did I realise that in less than 10 years AM and my paths would cross . . .  it was all down hill from there on in😁

⏩ Cam Ogie is a Gaelic games enthusiast. 

That Archie Gemmill Goal

Dr John Coulter ✍ From my earliest primary school days in the Sixties, I have always felt God calling me to be a preacher like my late dad, but like the Biblical Old Testament character Jonah, I’ve been running from that calling - until now!

Today, 1st July, I begin my formal training to become an accredited preacher in the Presbyterian Church in Ireland, but it has been some 46 years in taking this step. So why now?

When my dad, Rev Dr Robert Coulter MBE, was ordained in Clough Presbyterian Church, near Ballymena in 1963, I sat in my Sunday pew beside retired Presbyterian missionary Nancy Alexander, affectionately known to me as Miss Nancy.

It was her chats about her work in Africa which inspired many a primary school composition When I grow up, I want to be … For me, it was a Presbyterian minister like dad. He was not just my dad; he was my hero.

That passion increased in January 1972 when I became a born again Christian, aged 12. I was totally convinced God was calling me to become a preacher.

However, as I advanced through my teens in the 1970s, life as a preacher’s kid growing up in the north east Ulster Bible Belt became increasingly challenging. I soon learned about the consequences of being made an example off simply for being the minister’s son.

In my early teens, an elder punched me in the face during a Sunday school class reducing me to tears in front of my peers. I was selected for punishment because I was the preacher’s kid.

In my late teens, I was kicked in the back by a thug in a church hall. He just targeted me for being a preacher’s kid, leaving me on life-long medication.

But it was a chilling cardboard poster containing foul language about dad which was pinned on the Presbyterian Manse front door while my parents were at a family wedding in Holland at Christmas 1977 which made me turn my back on preaching.

Months away from sitting my A levels the following year, when asked what I wanted to be, I always replied with a negative -“well, I certainly don’t want to be a preacher after the way my dad is being treated!”

I had turned my back on preaching, not on God. But what was I to do after A levels? There was one person in that Bible Belt who was really critical of me at every opportunity.

One evening, going to a function in a church hall, out came this person. They were so friendly, but it was all a front. But why? I was told that someone called ‘a journalist’ had wanted to do an interview with dad about life as a rural Presbyterian minister.

My persecutor had heard about the interview and was afraid my dad would tell the media about the way I was treated as a preacher’s kid. Dad would never do this, but it was clear my persecutor was afraid of the media.

I made a simple deduction - if a journalist is what my persecutors are afraid off, then a journalist I will become. Put bluntly, I stumbled into journalism by accident. This was not a career I had imagined since my primary school days.

For me, journalism was a welcome port in the storm of life. In that 1970s and 1980s Bible Belt, image was important to many folk - fancy car, expensive farm machinery, lovely fashion.

There was a false perception the preacher’s kid knew people’s dirty wee secrets; that I knew which cupboards the skeletons were in. So the thought of the preacher’s kid going into the media was akin to me being given the keys to those cupboards!

Just as the New Testament book of Ephesians talked about spiritually wearing the armour of God, so journalism was a practical suit of protection against my persecutors in that north east Ulster Bible Belt.

As the decades passed, my dad and I would have regular conversations about me returning to become a preacher. Oh yes, I would give my testimony about how I’d become a born again Christian, or give talks about working as a Christian in the media, but become a preacher of the Gospel like dad - that was a bridge too far.

While my late dad was known as an UUP MLA, Mayor of Ballymena, college lecturer and Loyal Order Chaplain, preaching the Gospel was always his first love.

When dad would talk about me taking up the challenge of preaching, I would remind him about the physical and verbal abuse I had endured in that Seventies Bible Belt.

2018 was to become a crucial year. More to keep dad happy, in March I completed the Presbyterian Church’s Handling The Word course; dad paid my fees! But I felt the Holy Spirit speaking to me about preaching the Gospel.

Dad died that September. In the weeks before his passing, he told me he had been praying for me to seriously consider preaching. For almost six years since then, I have struggled spiritually about taking that step back from journalism and becoming a preacher.

I kept reliving that kicking in the church hall in 1976. When its the wee small hours and those spasms of pain are shooting across your lower back and you are struggling to get the bedside lamp on to take your pain relief, thoughts of being a preacher are the last things in your mind.

But for the last 46 years, I’ve hidden too long under the cloak of journalism. I had to take that step. It’s not just a promise to my late dad. It is a new calling from God.

My bedside reading of Jennifer O’Leary’s excellent work, The Padre: The True Story of the Irish Priest who armed the IRA with Gaddafi’s Money has been replaced with Saving Eutychus: How to preach God’s word and keep people awake.

To misquote Dusty Springfield’s 1969 hit, the Son of a Preacher Man will, God Willing, become a Preacher Man himself!
 
Follow Dr John Coulter on Twitter @JohnAHCoulter
Listen to commentator Dr John Coulter’s programme, Call In Coulter, every Saturday morning around 10.15 am on Belfast’s Christian radio station, Sunshine 1049 FM. Listen online.

From Preacher’s Kid To Preacher Man - It Has Only Taken 46 Years!

Dr John Coulter ✍ Given the dignity and solemnity of the recent 80th anniversary commemorations of the D-Day landings in Normandy in 1944 in the latter years if World War Two, it might seem inappropriate to use such wording in the headline.

However, I am thinking of the great times during the family summer holidays in the Sixties and Seventies that we spent in the north coast in Portballintrae with the evangelical Christian beach organisation, Children’s Special Service Mission (CSSM), affectionately known as ‘Cissm’!

In the past, I have published columns urging the Christian Church to seek a return of the successful strategy of the tent missions and open air outreach: Link here: 

However, I fear that some of the antics of a section of the so-called street preacher movement with their very loud speakers and controversial statements will impact upon all sensible and respectfully conducted open air evangelism.  

Now that we are well and truly living in a post pandemic society, the Christian Churches have no excuse for not engaging in a highly pro-active campaign of open air evangelism and crusades.

As well as wanting to see a return of traditional missions in places of worship or tents, the Churches need to take advantage of the looming school summer holidays and throw their full weight behind a campaign of beach missions, especially those organised by ‘Cissm’ - now known as the Scripture Union.

When my late dad, Rev Dr Robert Coulter MBE, was in full-time ministry in Clough Presbyterian Church, near Ballymena, we always timed our traditional two-week summer break to coincide with the CSSM activities in that coastal village of Portballintrae.

In the morning, we would meet on the beach for worship, Bible study and talks. In the afternoon, it would be games, and in the evening - the traditional sausage sizzle! A number of other clergy were also staying at the village’s caravan site so I always had fellow preacher’s kid chums to go with to CSSM.

The beach mission was also known for its big red banner with the initials CSSM emblazoned on it. We each had red badges with CSSM on it. It usually provoked a guessing game among my peers back in the predominantly farming congregation in Clough as to what the initials CSSM stood for, with many chums thinking the C was for Coulter!

Ironically, in my teenage years when I became politically active with the Young Unionists, the junior wing of the Ulster Unionist Party, because of the red badge and initials, there were those who thought the C stood for Communist!

Mind you, given the rough experience I had in my late teens in the 1970s north east Ulster Bible Belt, I was tempted at one time in my life to abandon church life and join the Young Communist League (YCL), the youth movement of the then Communist Party of Great Britain.

This was because all the people lining up to persecute me because I was a minister son ironically all called themselves ‘Christians’! I came to fully understand what Karl Marx was talking about when he branded religion as the opium of the masses.

It was easy to then understand how the simplest of issues could spark a full-scale row in a church for me as a minister’s son - like my decision in 1977 to complete the President’s Badge, the second highest badge in the Christian uniformed organisation, the Boys’ Brigade.

It’s a wee blue badge about three centimetres in length yet some ‘Christians’ in that north east Ulster Bible Belt reacted as if I had tried to burn the church down!

While the YCL provided a supposedly welcome alternative to this ‘Christian’ persecution over the President’s Badge, it was the solid evangelical teaching which I had been given at CSSM events in my primary school days which helped me keep my Christian faith in my late teens.

During that President’s Badge saga crisis in my life, I did not walk away from God; I just wanted to abandon organised religion. There was also the close bond I had with my dad.

He was not just an evangelical Presbyterian minister who faithfully preached the Gospel of Salvation; he was also a senior chaplain in the Loyal Orders an an official in the Ulster Unionist Party branch.

While dad did what he could to protect me from my ‘Christian’ persecutors, it would have made life very difficult for him if it was revealed his son was a card-carrying member of the YCL!

Besides, I had a chum in that north east Ulster Bible Belt who did join the YCL. He ended up with mental health issues when the Puritans from that Bible Belt region found out about his YCL membership.

University training for journalism was a God-send for me. I was away from my ‘Christian’ persecutors, but I found my confidence in organised religion again through the university’s Christian Union. That process of remaining anchored to my Christian faith was all thanks to those CSSM beach mission experiences.

I wonder how my life would have changed if I had resigned from the Young Unionists in the late 1970s and joined the YCL instead? Dad ran for Westminster, council, the Northern Ireland Forum and Northern Ireland Assembly in his political career. He only lost one election in that political career - the 1983 Westminster General Election against Paisley senior in North Antrim.

Imagine the ballot papers if I had joined the YCL - J Coulter, Communist Party; R Coulter, Ulster Unionist Party! That would have sparked some debate on the hustings! I strongly suspect that given dad’s debating skills, he would have won.

But I will always be grateful to those Seventies CSSM beach missions for keeping me spiritually on the so-called ‘straight and narrow’.

Let’s hope the beach missions become as popular again as the current Bible weeks and summer schemes which many Christian places of worship now organise in this post pandemic society.
 
Follow Dr John Coulter on Twitter @JohnAHCoulter
Listen to commentator Dr John Coulter’s programme, Call In Coulter, every Saturday morning around 10.15 am on Belfast’s Christian radio station, Sunshine 1049 FM. Listen online.

Churches Should Follow D-Day And Hit The Beaches!

Dr John Coulter ✍ There used to be a joke among my pals in the north east Ulster Bible Belt that I had secretly auditioned for a part in The Exorcist horror movie!

During my time as a horror film critic, and much to the annoyance of my late parents, I would list the iconic The Exorcist as being among my Top Ten Best Movies.

It was particularly disturbing for dad as when it was released in 1973, the north east Ulster Bible Belt was not ready for the cinematic horrors of demon possession.

In some cases, ambulances would be parked outside a cinema as people were greatly upset with the graphic scenes as Hollywood legend Max von Sydow as Father Merrin battled to save the soul of the 12-year-old girl, Regan, played by child actress Linda Blair.

The bible belt political rulers of that time became so concerned about the impact the movie would have on the community that they formed a delegation of clergy to view the film and give a verdict as to whether it should continue to be shown.

Dad was included in that delegation and viewed the film in a Ballymena cinema. Whilst there have been many films before and since which have included the subject of demonic possession, The Exorcist is in a league of its own.

However, dad did not see it that way and gave it a damning critique with the recommendation that no one should view it. For me, as a film critic, The Exorcist was a film ahead of its time. The notorious Regan projectile vomiting scene is legendary in horror cinematography.

Ironically, it was that scene which later sparked the mischievous rumour in church circles that I had secretly auditioned for that part of the demonic child!

A few years before, as a primary school child, I had become part of the traditional Sunday school choir which sang hymns, duets and solos on what became known as Children’s Sunday in Clough Presbyterian Church, near Ballymena.

All the girls would be dressed in white dresses, while us young lads would wear white shirts, red ties and dark trousers.

As the minister’s son - whether I wanted to or not! - I had been selected to sing a piece at the Sunday evening Children’s Day service as part of a small group of lads.

Whilst in my life I have been a member of a number of church and school choirs, such as the Clough Children’s Day choir, Boys’ Brigade Choir, Ballymena Academy Preparatory Form Two Choir, and Maghaberry Elim Men’s Fellowship Choir, I was never a singer and was only selected for those choirs simply either to make up numbers, or because I was the minister’s son! My later short-lived career with The Clergy heavy metal band would confirm that ‘vocalist’ was not a talent.

In terms of singing, I tended to view my role as similar to that of so-called ‘dummy fluters’ in loyalist marching bands!

But on that particular Sunday evening in the late Sixties, I was exceptionally nervous at being part of a small singing trio in the Children’s Day choir. When the entire choir of more than 30 boys and girls were singing, all I had to do was move my lips and the bluff was complete.

But this was no bluffing matter. I would have to sing a hymn along with a couple of other lads - and I was in the trio simply because I was the preacher’s kid!

As the day wore on, I became increasingly more anxious. My pleas to be excused from this singing nightmare fell on deaf ears. What made matters worse was that being smaller than my other singing partners, I was in the front row so physically, there could be no backing away.

Then the moment came at church. We trooped into our seats normally occupied by the adult choir members.

My tummy was churning as if I’d just completed a few laps of the once famous roller coaster at Portrush’s former Barry’s Amusements.

Dad went through the opening devotions and prayer. Then the fateful moment arrived. He announced the hymn we lads would be singing. Up we stood; I was at the front. Organist Mrs Sadie McWilliams played the opening bars on the organ.

And then it happened. I opened my mouth, but the words of the hymn did not emerge. Instead, I sprayed that section of the choir area, including the chairs and the beautiful carpet, with projectile vomit that actress Linda Blair would have been proud of!

By sheer good fortune, unlike the original Exorcist, my projectile vomiting didn’t spray anyone!

But with my ‘audition’ for The Exorcist complete, I was hurriedly ushered out of my seat and into the church kitchen for a clean-up before my embarrassed mother brought me back to the Presbyterian Manse and straight to bed to recover.

As usual, my ‘Exorcist’ impression (even though it would be another four years until the film was released) was the talk of the congregation.

Indeed, it was to emerge as a convenient ‘party trick’ at church events when I became very bored with either the service or the Sunday school event - when in doubt, boke!

Until I entered journalism in 1978, I was a generally nervous person because of the pressures of being the minister’s son.

When I found myself coerced into a situation simply for being the minister’s son, projectile vomiting - even the threat of it - was enough to get me off the hook.

I did it once in the Sunday school, which got me out of taking a catechism exam which I didn’t fully revise for.

I did it again at church when I had to do a role which I hadn’t fully prepared for, and again in primary school when I was given a part in a play that I didn’t fully rehearse!

While my ‘party trick’ is now fainting when I get a needle injected into me, when I became a born again Christian in 1972, the vomiting ‘demon’ left me.

Oh yes, there would be many’s a church event which I would find stomach-churning, but the ‘boking bouts’ ceased for decades to come - until one fateful evening in my fifties.

Until then, the only time I’d been physically ill on a journalistic assignment was a trip to the Auschwitz-Birkenau memorial and museum in Poland.

As I walked into the camp under that notorious German sign ‘Arbeit Macht Frei’ (work makes you free), I felt the same stomach-churning sensation prior to my Clough church Children’s Day escapade.

Luckily, on that summer’s day in Poland, I rushed into the nearby visitors’ centre toilets in time to avoid my ‘Exorcist’ impression being relived in front of the tourists.

A few years ago, when the abortion debate was reaching a crescendo in Northern Ireland, a pro-life group put on a demonstration in a Pentecostal church. I was with the Irish Daily Star at the time and decided it would make a good subject for a column.

The church hosted a delicious free supper prior to the event in the church hall. Then it was into the church for the start of the demonstration. We were only a couple of minutes into the presentation when the pro-life spokesman decided to show a large-screen video of a termination taking place.

For my tummy, with a full supper inside, it was as if I had been transported back in time to that fateful Sunday evening Children’s Day service in Clough.

By then, I was in my fifties, I had read the signs of a looming ‘Exorcist’ impression. As with the Auschwitz trip, I dashed from the church to the toilet - in time again for another Linda Blair demonstration.

Whilst I’ve been a life-long pro-life supporter, the impact of that demonstration and presentation tactic that evening nearly propelled me ideologically into the pro-choice camp! Like it or not, the ‘boking demon’ had returned with a vengeance!

Follow Dr John Coulter on Twitter @JohnAHCoulter
Listen to commentator Dr John Coulter’s programme, Call In Coulter, every Saturday morning around 10.15 am on Belfast’s Christian radio station, Sunshine 1049 FM. Listen online.

A Hit-Trick Of Auditioning For The Exorcist!

Caoimhin O’Muraile ☭ I can remember as plain as yesterday back in the sixties when I was too young to attend games at Old Trafford if Man Utd were on television midweek in the League Cup or any FA Cup replay my mam would wake me from bed to watch the game.

I would go to bed early and be woken for the match, often against City. Bell, Lee and Summerbee played back then for City while we had the ‘Holy Trinity’ of Best, Charlton and Law. Great days. As I reached my teens, about thirteen, we would travel by train to Manchester. Running up the hill on a wet Saturday morning, nicking fags and jibbing the bus was all part of the day out. The girls who worked in the newsagents would often chuck us five Park Drive just to rob the shop owner who paid shit wages. But these days were for the seventies as can be seen below.

The nineteen sixties, on a positive note, also saw many overdue changes on the pitch regards the player terms and conditions. The PFA (Professional Footballers Association) was headed in those days by a certain Jimmy Hill. Many may remember Jimmy as the presenter of the BBC Match of the Day. He campaigned and succeeded in getting rid of the £20 maximum wage and, in 1961, made Johnny Haynes of Fulham the first £100 per week player, Haynes is still considered by Fulham fans their best all-time player. This was achieved without the parasite so-called Agents who live off todays very well-paid players, certainly at the top level, and todays stars have the PFA, not the agents, to thank for paving the way for their high salaries.

Are players paid too much? No, not in my view, they are workers selling their labour power for a short working life and will sell that labour, like any other worker, for the best monetary wage. Agents, on the other hand, taking huge percentages of any transfer fee ‘their player’ receives are a different matter. To me they are an unnecessary burden, similar to the pimp taking a high percentage of a woman’s earnings, except the agents are legal! Alex Ferguson did his best to bypass agents but, alas, these creeps have become too powerful. I it is another symptom of money, greed and corruption in modern football.

Another progressive introduction of the sixties was the substitute. In 1965 Keith Peacock of Charlton Athletic became the first substitute to come on to replace an injured player. Charlton’s Goalkeeper, Mick Rose, got injured after eleven minutes at an away game at Bolton Wanderers and even though Keith was an outfield player he could cover in goal. This rule later changed, partly to stop Leeds manager, Don Revie, cheating by making one of his players fane injury so he could change the game if it was not going Leeds way, and bring on his substitute. The change in the rules allowed a substitution whether a player was injured or not.

In 1987 the rule changed again and two substitutes were allowed, which then went to three and now in the so-called Premier League, it is up to five subs. Once again, they have gone overboard with the substitutions, almost allowing two different teams on each side. Two subs were sufficient, to be named before the game, not two from three or five, two and one could be a keeper if the manager wished. That was sensible and keeping with the spirit of the game. In the 1968 European Cup Final Manchester United Manager, Matt Busby, named Jimmy Rimmer as United’s substitute was a goalkeeper in case Alex Stepney got injured. United crushed Benfica that night 4-1 becoming the “first English team to win the European Cup” and a song was made up accordingly.

A typical day at Old Trafford, in the mid-seventies, eighties and into the nineties or anywhere else for that matter, would begin about 7am, sometimes much earlier or even the night before if we were playing away at say Southampton, as my mam bawled me out of my cot; “are you going to see Man Utd today”? Silly question, “its seven o’clock get your arse out of your pit.” Time to shine the DMs (Doc Martens) up using Oxblood boot polish, often listening to Tina Charles singing ‘Dance Little Lady Dance’ or Abba treating us to ‘Mama Mia’ on the Tranny (transiter Radio). Polish the boots then off to the game, after a quick remark to the lasses working in the newsagent where we would buy ten number six cigarettes. The girls working in the shop would often toss us a packet behind the shop owner's back. Raid the buffet on the train, the good old British Rail Buffet for Youngers, Tartan Bitter, for the short journey to Victoria Station. Then to the pub and off to the match, buying a Hotdog from “our kid's” (all hotdog sellers were called “our kid in those days) stall.

Midweek games we would often jump on a supporters club coach which dropped us off in the old then still in partial use Trafford Park industrial Estate and the Trafford Park Hotel pub. The shunters were still running back in the seventies moving goods from the sheds, those still in use, so there was a constant hazard of these trains. Back in its time the Trafford Park Industrial Estate was the largest in Europe but by the seventies it was a shadow of its former self.

It is hard to imagine in today’s boring environment at what passes for the modern game, but on the Stretford End when packed, which was usual, urinating was often done on the terraces and it was not unknown to strike lucky with a quick shag with an equally enthusiastic girl. The authorities did not like this control of the terraces by the fans, as well as the pitch invasions at the last game of the season. Everything was outside their control which they needed a reason to stop.

About eight minutes before the end of our last home game in 1974 against Man City the United fans invaded the pitch. This was an effort to get the game abandoned. It had, after all, worked for Newcastle United fans when they invaded the field of play a few weeks earlier in their FA Cup tie against Nottingham Forrest. It did not work for us and the Blues finished 1-0 winners. There were no celebrations as no City fans worthy of note turned up.

Everybody in Manchester knew something would go down if United lost, it was another nail in the coffin of relegation. We did get relegated that year. The chant; “we’ll support you evermore” rang out of Old Trafford on and off the pitch. United were in the Second Division and this launched a rebirth. Tommy Docherty brought in some exiting new players, perhaps most notably was our signing from Hull City, Stuart Pearson (we’d walk a million miles, for one of your goals, oh Stuart). As Man Utd shot to the top of the league our attendances were the highest average of all four divisions beating Liverpool who actually won the First Division that year, 1974/75 season.

Crowds of 55-60,000 were regular at Old Trafford that season and continued the following seasons. United were on the march again playing fast attacking and entertaining football. We gained promotion back to the First Division at our first attempt. The Doc then bought Jimmy Greenhoff from Stoke City, a snip at £120,000, to add to our attack. playing just behind Pearson. With Steve Coppell and Gordon Hill on the wings, we were playing some of the finest football in the league.

After the pitch invasion against Man City the authorities, Football League, FA, and Government’s answer was to erect nine-foot fences to keep fans off the field of play and created a disaster waiting to happen. It took fifteen years for this to happen and in 1989 in an FA Cup Semi-Final involving Liverpool and Nottingham Forest at Sheffield Wednesdays Hillsborough stadium 97 Liverpool fans were, arguably, murdered by the authorities and their police force. The history of the Hillsborough Disaster is well documented. The net result of this terrible incident is the soulless all seater stadia we have today. Even though the Taylor Report into Hillsborough virtually exonerated standing of any blame - the police were culpable not the terraces for the crush - the authorities still went ahead with the cultureless all-seaters. This was a way of increasing profits, charging four times as much for a seat as the old terracing, getting rid of many working-class supporters who could no longer afford the entry price, and jibbing in was no longer an option. Oor many fans would not attend out of political principle. The entire culture of the game is now fucked, a culture which had lasted over 100 years just so these greedy bastards can amass even greater profits.

Late in the nineteen-seventies came the idea of crowd segregation for big games. Manchester United, the hooligan supporters of the decade according to the media. Away games from home were made all ticket affairs. This was an attempt by the authorities to keep the rival fans apart as United supporters had the habit of going on the home team's fans end; for example the Kop at Anfield a couple of times.

To counter this many Man Utd fans began traveling to the home team’s ground, weeks in advance, to purchase tickets for the home fans section of the ground. In London. For the “Cockney Reds” this was not hard. They all had London accents so those selling tickets at, say Arsenal, had no idea those who were purchasing the tickets were not Arsenal fans, but Manchester United supporters. This ploy worked for a few seasons till the authorities caught themselves on and the home clubs, in many instances, wanted proof of the supporter’s identity.

All that said it was a culture which has now gone, murdered by high finance and the money trick. It is unlikely those days will ever return as many of today’s younger supporters will not remember terracing. I feel sorry for them, they, through no fault of their own have missed out on great days irrespective of who your team was. I am speaking from a Man Utd view but I am sure the supporters of Liverpool, Newcastle, Sunderland, Spurs and many other clubs have their tales to tell. It made the world revolve on its axis.

Today I look at games and see greedy owners like the Glazers followed by daft rule changes like VAR. FA Cup ties decided on the day by penalties whereas previously a replay on a neutral ground was played. The game is a shadow of its former self, all seater stadia, fake scenes before the game and phoney atmospheres in many instances. The genuine article, football, has gone for ever and I consider myself lucky to have experienced those electric days.
 
Caoimhin O’Muraile is Independent Socialist Republican and Marxist.

Death of a Culture 👥 Murder by High Finance 🎬 Act Ⅱ

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