Andy Rivers's Blog

The  Scottish Book Trust  is a national charity that believes books, reading and writing have the power to change lives. I can only second that.  As a child on a council estate in the 70's with not much cash to go anywhere else I travelled the world through books. The  SBT  also believe that :-

"A love of reading inspires creativity, improves employment opportunities, mental health and wellbeing, and is one of the most effective ways to help children escape the poverty cycle."  
And again, I can definitely agree with that. So it is with great pleasure that I unveil the Scottish Book Trust as the very first sponsor of our digital magazine  BookD . As you know Byker Books has always been about helping the person in the street to realise their dreams, broaden their horizons or just give them opportunity of expression when they felt it wasn't their place to ask for it and an organisation like the SBT simply fits alongside us hand-in-glove.
We'll be promoting their posts in  BookD  over the next month and encourage you to check them out and see what you can do to get involved or help.
Cheers
Ed

BookD I recently posted on my Facebook page about a section in BookD for blogs about Harrogate 2016. Well, I liked the idea so much that I've decided to make it a regular thing and am aiming to have a 'Top Blogs' section in the paper every week. I've stuck a press release out inviting bloggers to let me know of their interest but would like to offer you lot ('cos you're my people man!) the chance to be top of the list.

I'm anticipating featuring selected posts from around five per week so if you fancy it then either email me at ed@bykerbooks.co.uk, comment in this post or just follow my blog and I'll check you out (mainly so I can put you in a handy file and not forget..hey ho!)

This is entirely FREE, no advertising charges at all for you to be in the nations premier digital books mag - I only ask that when featured you blog about it as well, that's fair isn't it?

Right, have a look at BookD ask yourself if you'd like to be featured alongside the celebrity authors and literati (see what I did there) and then contact me as above - let's get you in front of a whole new audience.

Cheers

Rivs

I started Byker Books back in 2008 with a vague notion of publishing the working class lads and lasses who weren't taken seriously by the big publishers or agents. The people who didn't have degrees in 'creative writing' but had crap jobs that sapped their souls instead, the people who didn't have a 'journey' to bore people to death with but did have an idea for a bloody good story that other people from the estates would enjoy, the people who didn't get glowing reports at their great schools but instead had to battle their siblings for the one pen in the house to write anything down before doing their paper round in the rain.

That's who Byker Books was for. People like me.
It was never about the sales or the money, it was never about slavishly trying to perfect SEO on a glorified search engine named after a river in Brazil (work it out) and it was never, ever about shafting the writers for profit - Byker Books was different to the others. During it's lifespan my tiny independent press published over one hundred previously unknown authors through the 'Radgepacket' collections (some of whom went on to get book deals elsewhere) put out twelve paperbacks and published a number of others via electronic means. At the time it was a much needed initiative for the kind of writer that I've detailed above but the advent of mass-market self-publishing of e-books has pretty much negated any need for that any more and it became impossible for me to continue in the same vein as before.

So, writers publishing themselves and everyone getting a look in - so far so good right?

Well no, not really.

The problem now is getting your book seen by the book buying public and raising the profile of the author. How do you get people to read the interviews you've done on blogs and the reviews your book's getting? As an author myself I've spent a lot of cash on different promotional methods with varying degrees of success. The truth is that there is no one method that'll propel your sales through the roof and a lot of the better ones are getting very picky indeed about who they let pay through the nose to 'use' their services. I don't know about you but I stopped reading emails from marketers some years ago as well, so when the promo companies tell you they've got lists of thousands of readers in different genres then you shouldn't get too excited. I wanted to do something different from the tired old email blast that screamed 'please buy me'.

I wanted to do something that readers would buy into of their own accord, something in the style of the 'Radgepacket' books that would mix stories of the 'celeb' authors and the indies.

That's where I came up with the idea of 'BookD'.

It's a regular digital newspaper that collates great content and stories from the world of books. I conceived it a while ago and brought it to life just after Christmas and it's going from strength to strength. Word of mouth recommendations combined with a strong social media campaign have seen an ever-growing number of repeat visits as we become ever more popular. It's well laid out, great on the eye, has excellent social sharing options and is actively sought out by people who read, buy and love books. In short, any author's target audience.

The format is such that we can offer numerous options for straightforward ads, branded content style interviews and author features, links to your latest countdown deal or freebie, links to your latest reviews etc or a combination of any or all of the above. In fact if there's an option we've missed then let us know and we'll have a go! Price-wise I'm looking to keep it low (I'm still on the side of the council-estate scribbler after all!) there's none of this pay-per-click nonsense. Prices start at £40 per month and go from there. That's a flat fee and you can change the advert as many times as you like in that month, coupled with that we'll also link to any interviews or reviews you have on blogs so your name and book are rubbing shoulders on the page with the established 'stars' of the book world.  We can even do a basic advert for you at no extra charge or you can send us your own.

If you're an indie publisher (or even a group of authors who want to pool resources - there's a thought!) with a stable of titles then we could also do an annual flat fee with all of the same benefits - think of the advantages of that if you ran a promotion every few weeks! Your newest title would be reviewed on a page next to say, JK Rowling, with maybe an interview with the author as well and an ad that linked to the sales page.

The audience for BookD will only continue to grow as we have various initiatives planned and the ad space is limited (I want to give the reader a quality mag after all) so it's a case of first come first served and obviously once an ad is booked it locks in at that price regardless of whether we suddenly get another ten million readers. I've also got other magazines in different stages of development so eventually there'll be opportunities to cross-promote as well.

If you'd like to see the full advertising rate card or would like to discuss any other options, discounts or ideas you may have then just give me a shout at ed@bykerbooks.co.uk and lets get your book in front of a whole new audience.
Cheers

Rivs

Whilst on holiday recently (I might post about it and I might not - I liked the place as it was quiet and no-one I know had heard of it so I don't know if I want to publicise it...selfish eh!) I got a bit sick of the constant sun and scantily-clad top models on the beach so got in the habit of going for a pint most afternoons and doing a bit of writing on my phone...yes...on my phone! Anyway, I've got a couple of ideas of where I'd like to take it but thought I'd ask you lot whether you had any ideas for it...



Tony surveyed the scene from the beach bar. A nice little cove full of quiet sensible holidaymakers. The sea glistened in differing shades of turquoise, his dip earlier had confirmed the crystal clear freshness of it, and the sand was nothing less than golden. The trees dotted round the outskirts beckoned you in with brilliant green greetings as the warm breeze tickled their branches and the small cafes and bars behind had soundtracks as diverse as reggae and classical music at low volume. No thumping bass beat here or legions of youths performing jeering sex acts for a free, watered-down cocktail. This place was as far removed from the likes of Ibiza and Ayia Napa as it was possible to be, it was gorgeous. 
Debbie hated it.
‘It's too quiet Tone.’ She had whined on the very first night.
‘Just give it a chance.’ He had said and now three days later she was still moaning. But he loved it. The quiet tavernas, the fantastic Greek food, the friendly welcome and, of course, the cheap prices. Glancing away from Debs oiled form spreadeagled on the sunbed he looked round the bar. Two muscle-bound gym bunny types were talking loudly in Russian - doubtless arguing who could take the most steroids or who’s t-shirt was the tightest around their biceps. There was a skinny looking beach bum counting his change and looking at a menu off to his right. Cut down jeans looking a bit big for his pipe cleaner legs and the Hawain style shirt probably wasn't his as it may well have wrapped around him twice. Tony recognised an underdog when he saw one, Jesus it had become his usual position in life after all.  He watched as the bloke pulled a face at the menu then clocked the expression on the face of the approaching waiter, it screamed waste of time .‘Can I help you sir?’‘Have you got any cheaper local beers like mate?’The bloke was English, sounded Geordie,  Tony had assumed him local - the weather beaten skin and scavenged clothes suggested so.‘No sir. Perhaps you can try another bar...’This was one of the more expensive bars at three euros a pint but it was still cheap by British standards and as the whole area had been much kinder on Tony’s pocket than he'd anticipated at the start of the holiday he felt disposed to help this man out. God knew he'd been on the bones of his arse enough times. But still he held back, the wedge in his pocket technically wasn't his and any money brought back could be exchanged and paid back to Bobby the Bung. Always good to buy some time while the next big winner ambled towards you. The bloke though looked very much in need of both a pint and food, Tony was torn.
Then the muscle brothers started obviously taking the piss out of the bloke. Their braying laughs, pointing fingers and harsh accents flicked a switch in him. He'd never claimed to be a good man - you'd never list brave, attractive or even sensible amongst his attributes for instance - but he wasn't a prick either. One of his fellow countrymen needed a bit of help and for a poxy ten euros he could do it.‘Order what you want mate, get some food as well. Nikos, I've got it buddy.’
The bloke looked sincerely grateful, Nikos look non-plussed and the two body-builders annoyed. Good, pair of knobs.  
‘Cannit thank you enough kidda - got some money coming. Repay you and that.’

‘No worries Geordie. We've all been there. Enjoy it mate. ‘
Draining his pint he turned back to the beach and Debbie. No matter their problems, or the money worries he didn't tell her about, this was already a great holiday. He left the cash on the table as he turned to leave the bar. His new Northern mate was tucking into a chicken souvlaki with a pint of Mythos - great stuff at any time but he guessed even more so when you were hungry - and gave him a heartfelt wave. Tony smiled and nodded. He felt brilliant.
***
Coming back with the sandwiches, water and fruit for lunch Tony was pleased. Deb was starting to relax, she'd had a good time last night talking to that couple from Birmingham - think she'd even exchanged numbers - they'd both been very interested in her physio business, asked a lot about the massage side of it. Yeah she's seeing how I can look after her now. She'd always liked the good things in life had Deb and had made no secret of it. His mates had told him he'd no chance when he asked her out but he'd turned up at hers in his brand new Golf GTi and she'd loved it. Their courtship had coincided with a purple patch in his sales career and, bonus after bonus piling up, resulted in their marriage four years ago. It had been the happiest day of his life, standing proudly with this stunner on his arm in front of family and friends. Deb had worn a ten grand dress from a local designer who had gone onto big things, she said it was one of the happiest days of her life as well.
The credit crunch and subsequent recession had bit into their lifestyle though as Deb had to go back to work and their planned house move was put on hold ‘until things picked up’.
Still, they had each other. That was what mattered wasn't it.
Stepping jauntily off the last step onto the sand Tony scanned the beach to look for the love of his life and his heart lurched. She was still prone on the sunbed she'd basically claimed at the start of the week but now had company. The two Russian meatheads stood over her, one was pouring oil onto her back while the other just leered. Tony picked up the pace with a sinking feeling. This wasn't going to end well.
‘I’ll take over from here chaps.’They turned to see him with all the grace and mobility of a oil tanker in the ocean. Tony took careful note of both sets of huge biceps, you certainly couldn't buy them in B & Q, they looked like they could do some damage.
‘Maybe we should look after her for rest of your stay English. You not caring for her.’
Tony knew how this was going to go. They'd refuse to move, he wouldn't be able to do anything about it other than appeal to their sense of fair play. Being bullies they wouldn't have any but would eventually go because there were too many witnesses around for them to actually hurt him. They'd make sure he was completely emasculated though in the eyes of Deb and the rest of the beach. That's how it had always worked at school as well. He'd played this part before and had gotten past the whole pride thing, it certainly didn't keep him awake any more, but one thing about this was a bit different and it was going to pain him in the wee small hours. Deb was giggling like a schoolgirl at all the attention. The old fella on the next bed who'd he'd shared a few conversations with that week was looking at him as if to say go on son, I'll back you up while his wife just looked at Deb and shook her head.
Tony gulped, his mouth felt suddenly very dry as all eyes on the beach seemed to be on him awaiting his next move. He cleared his throat and made to speak...
‘Maybe you should just fuck off before I bite your nose off you steroid-gobbling, cock-sucking, rat-faced freak eh?’
Tony looked aghast at the little Geordie from earlier who'd arrived behind the interlopers unannounced. Then he looked at the Russian hard men and held his hands out palm up in a gesture of conciliation. He was about to say something about being too long in the sun and them all being grown-ups when the Geordie stepped closer to the men and spoke again.
‘Now listen Ivan and Vlad, I  think you're alright but the boys here...’
The shirt had disappeared and Tony could now view the Geordie properly. He wasn't skinny and malnourished he was wiry and muscular. The thing that caught his eye though wasn't the graceful, easy movement of the man's body as he casually assumed a fighting stance it was the tattoo on his right arm. The bloke had been a para and the thing about paras - as Tony knew from his devouring of mlitary books - was that a number of them ended up as special forces. His new mate and erstwhile protector was probably ex - or even bloody current - SAS! The weather beaten skin might well have been more to do with his work than his holiday. Tony felt a smile begin to form, this might just have been the best ten euros he'd ever spent.
‘...the boys think you're a pair of pricks.’
He then motioned to his own biceps with a quick shuffle of the head.
The muscle brothers gave each other a look before advancing as a unit.
The Geordie looked at Tony and smiled. ‘Self defence now mate aye?”‘Definitely. In fact I think that blonde one said he had a knife.’ Sod it, in for a penny...
The Geordie flicked his left shoulder as they moved towards him and both men flinched, bringing their hands up to.protect their faces. As they did so he simply moved to their right and kicked the biggest straight in the nuts. Without pausing he threw a right hook to the body of the other and a simultaneous left to his chin. Then he ground both of their faces into the sand while the pensioners from their hotel burst into a round of applause.
He gave Tony a wink as he walked off...

That's it - let us know what you think then.

Cheers

Rivs

What if a vigilante went too far? 
That was the abiding thought in my head when I was writing 'Special' and I thought that you, my loyal fanbase (what do you mean you were looking for a 'dodgy' site and tumbled into this?) might like to see some of the thinking behind it so I've put together an exclusive set of "Authors notes" just for you. 
Here's part 1...

Byker is a council estate in the East end of Newcastle. I grew up there in the 70’s and 80’s - it was hard, violent, funny, dodgy and brilliant! The whole estate was conceived in the late 60’s by some smart-arse architect or other who decreed that it should be a mix of low and high-rise housing. There are numerous alleyways, cut-throughs and gaps between houses that visitors to the estate frequently get lost in. Initially it was full of bushes and trees as well but these came down pretty quickly once it was realised that a mugger’s paradise had been created! The estate is partially encircled by ‘The Byker Wall’ (see front cover) a long, unbroken, block of around six-hundred maisonettes which can stretch up to twelve storeys high in places. Sadly people have come off the balconies in the past - one of them fairly recently ( a murder inquiry is ongoing as I write this) and the wall has spawned many a crook in it’s time - remember ‘Ratboy’ in the 90’s? He hid in the heating shafts from the police when robbing houses.

All of this is, of course, a crime-writers dream, but Byker was, and still is, full of great people so I obviously want to get that to show in the book as well. I hope I managed it...

The Plot
It seems to me, as someone who came up the hard way in the 70’s, that the law in this country is at something of a cross-roads. On one hand crime seems to be becoming more violent (people being stabbed, killed with one-punch, domestic abuse etc) and on the other anyone who steps in is at risk of being nicked and jailed themselves. Throw in the various police enquiries about misconduct etc. and, should anything happen to you, you’ve got to make some quick decisions. Do you ring the law and hope they turn up? Do you give your assailant/burglar a good hiding and hope you don’t get put away or do you take the assault/burglary hope you don’t die and lose all your cash or belongings?
That’s where the idea of a vigilante striking fear into the heart of all the scrotes out there appealed to me. Someone who fights fire with fire and goes further than them. Someone who can’t be frightened or ‘got at’, can’t be threatened by them and, in reality, is far worse than them when it comes to violence.
But then, where do you draw the line? When do his actions become unacceptable? I tried to explore that in the book and (hopefully) put a clear(ish) marker in for you, the reader, to think about.
Also, as is my wont these days, I put in a sub-plot about a 'lad about town' meeting the girl f his dreams. Obviously as it's me I couldn't make it easy for them. I tred to make them modern characters with faults and quirks like everyone else - did I succeed? You tell me...
Rivs


Special is available in both paperback and Kindle form, to see more blurb, visit my author page or see the reviews just click HERE.
Coming soon in Part 2 - The Characters

What if a vigilante went too far? 
That was the abiding thought in my head when I was writing 'Special' and I thought that you, my loyal fanbase (what do you mean you were looking for a 'dodgy' site and tumbled into this?) might like to see some of the thinking behind it so I've put together an exclusive set of "Authors notes" just for you. Here's part 1...



The Setting
Byker is a council estate in the East end of Newcastle. I grew up there in the 70’s and 80’s - it was hard, violent, funny, dodgy and brilliant! The whole estate was conceived in the late 60’s by some smart-arse architect or other who decreed that it should be a mix of low and high-rise housing. There are numerous alleyways, cut-throughs and gaps between houses that visitors to the estate frequently get lost in. Initially it was full of bushes and trees as well but these came down pretty quickly once it was realised that a mugger’s paradise had been created! The estate is partially encircled by ‘The Byker Wall’ (see front cover) a long, unbroken, block of around six-hundred maisonettes which can stretch up to twelve storeys high in places. Sadly people have come off the balconies in the past - one of them fairly recently ( a murder inquiry is ongoing as I write this) and the wall has spawned many a crook in it’s time - remember ‘Ratboy’ in the 90’s? He hid in the heating shafts from the police when robbing houses.

All of this is, of course, a crime-writers dream, but Byker was, and still is, full of great people so I obviously want to get that to show in the book as well. I hope I managed it...

The Plot
It seems to me, as someone who came up the hard way in the 70’s, that the law in this country is at something of a cross-roads. On one hand crime seems to be becoming more violent (people being stabbed, killed with one-punch, domestic abuse etc) and on the other anyone who steps in is at risk of being nicked and jailed themselves. Throw in the various police enquiries about misconduct etc. and, should anything happen to you, you’ve got to make some quick decisions. Do you ring the law and hope they turn up? Do you give your assailant/burglar a good hiding and hope you don’t get put away or do you take the assault/burglary hope you don’t die and lose all your cash or belongings?
That’s where the idea of a vigilante striking fear into the heart of all the scrotes out there appealed to me. Someone who fights fire with fire and goes further than them. Someone who can’t be frightened or ‘got at’, can’t be threatened by them and, in reality, is far worse than them when it comes to violence.
But then, where do you draw the line? When do his actions become unacceptable? I tried to explore that in the book and (hopefully) put a clear(ish) marker in for you, the reader, to think about.
Also, as is my wont these days, I put in a sub-plot about a 'lad about town' meeting the girl f his dreams. Obviously as it's me I couldn't make it easy for them. I tred to make them modern characters with faults and quirks like everyone else - did I succeed? You tell me...
Rivs


Special is available in both paperback and Kindle form, to see more blurb, visit my author page or see the reviews just click HERE.
Coming soon in Part 2 - The Characters

Been waiting for confirmation but can now reveal I've signed a two book deal with Random House! More to follow when I get home...

Anytime, anyplace, anywhere...It's great being British.  There's loads of reasons really. We've brought a lot of culture, ingenuity and general coolness to the world. But. Sitting in a Twenty-Four hour Wetherspoons at the airport (Birmingham in this case) drinking lager at five am is one of the things we're absolutely unbeatable at. Watching 'Nobby' and his 'Wolfpack'  wander past in their matching vests with trays of the liquid guilt inhibitor whilst they try to get entangled with the pink ladies of 'Dirty Debs Hen Do' is one of life's great viewing experiences. Granted the brummie accent is hard work at that time in the morning but listening to the banter and general atmosphere at an hour when you'd normally be spark out dreaming of being in the Red Dwarf crew that discovers a planet populated by naked top models (just me aye?) is a more than adequate compensation for that.

My fellow Britons I salute you - and mine's a Kronenbourg 'Captain Fanny Hound'...
.....
Know what I like? When you order a drink and it comes with a free bit of scran. Olives, nuts, anything you like. Love it me. Know what else I like? That's right -Tapas. The Spanish custom of picking at different bits of food while you're drinking. One of the best inventions ever I reckon. Luckily, I'm writing this in Malaga.
You don't get this in the Stags Head mind!All of the stag and hen parties had fucked off to marbella and Puerto Banus leaving only the sophisticated crowd here (yes I do mean me!)  Now Malaga isn't the first name that springs to mind when you're planning a city break (that's 'cos you think of Newcastle straight away right?) but it's a cracking place for a visit.
I'll set my stall out immediately - I'm a fat, greedy Northern bugger! So the vast amount of tapas bars, cervecerias, restaurants, cafes and general eating and drinking emporiums pretty much suited me right down to the ground.  I'm bang into tapas with a glass of the local beer me. It's a habit I picked up whilst working on a building site in Barcelona in the early nineties (I know what you're thinking - cosmopolitan as fuck that lad - and you'd be right an' all - sometimes I even have my wine in a proper glass...) I also picked up a bit of the lingo. It was my first time abroad and I quickly realised that no-one spoke English (although as a Byker lad neither did I..ho hum...) so I learned enough to get by and used it every day for the months we were there.
Now obviously that's stuck with me and whenever I go anywhere that has Spanish as a main language I'm straight back into it (negotiated a taxi tour of Panama City a few years back for instance and didn't get robbed - get me eh!) but this is starting to cause me problems. I'm so confident in my pronunciation and diction of the smattering of Espanol I know that I have to preface whatever I ask for with a plea for them to speak English otherwise they think I'm genuinely Spanish and reply in kind which, frankly, leaves me knackered and usually with a plate of chips rather than the olives I wanted!
Anyway, I digress, Malaga is mint. We even discovered a bar that brewed and bottled their own cider on the premises (Bar Cidre - strangely enough) the barstaff came and poured it for you by holding the bottle well above his head and your glass below his waist and then tipping the bottle. Apparently this puts air into the cider so it's more drinkable. It's a proper cool place; little groups of locals chatting away and sophisticated, intelligent conversation abounding - mind you there's always one drunken knob who lurches about insisting on getting the barman to do it again and again until he can get his camera shot in focus...

Me head was bloody killing the next day!.....
It was only a long weekend rather than a big holiday so our time in Malaga was soon up. We'd seen the sights, luxuriated by the rooftop pool, enjoyed the quality Gin and Tonics in the many cocktail bars (hint: try 'Mombasa Club if you like a dry one. Don't say I never tell you nowt!), sampled each and every tapas variety available (Bulls-tail croquettes - weird yet lush) and, of course, tried the famous Malagan sweet dessert wines and now it was time for home.
Getting the bus back to the airport could have been problematic  - luckily I'm an old hand at being abroad and doing shit for myself and had got us to the stop about fifteen minutes before the bus was due, it turned up two minutes later and once we were on the driver took off again. Like I say...I'm an old hand at this game. The airport itself was big, modern and efficient - particularly once I'd gone into my 'I can speak Spanish but don't speak any back to me' routine - and we were checked in and through security in about ten minutes. result.
On the plane I was in my usual position of having my knees in my chest (cattle-class, it's the only way to travel you know) but consoled myself that there was a spare seat next to me and everyone was on board so I'd soon be able to spread out when...oh bollocks!
And then hen party from Birmingham that so boisterously flew out with us (and pole-danced whilst waiting for their baggage) turned up. They filed on straggled and bedraggled. Broken from smoking and shrinking from drinking. The roses of England that were so vocal on the flight out, knocking back the alcopops and telling all and sundry about their plans for the 'do' -  illustrated with a pelvic thrust and a rasping laugh so dirty you couldn't clean it with bleach. The law of inverse proportions never fails on these occasions, as they sought to outdo each other vocally on the way out now the loudest and most desperate for attention sought to become invisible. Melting into their seats, the identical T-shirts proclaiming their individualism long since discarded, they clutched lemonade in shaking hands, avoided eye contact with their fellow 'pussy  posse' and mentally practiced the report of the weekend they'd all agreed to give their other halves
Like a working class Michael Palin...Well...that and try to remember where they left their knickers!
Adios muchachos

There's a point in Byker (that's the very real estate in Newcastle where I'm from and there isn't so much of a hint of a fucking grove there...) where, just between the sixties council flats and the Legoland maisonettes, you catch a glimpse of the Newcastle and Gateshead quayside. Perched high on the very banks of the mighty Tyne you can see the sun reflecting off the shimmering, silvery Sage, the solid, northern majesty of the former Baltic flour mill turned contemporary art must-see and the bridges...God those bridges! They bring a shiver to the spine and a lump to the throat. If Byker was a nice place, a suburban middle-class area perhaps, then property developers would be fighting each other bare-knuckled and bare-chested to spend billions here based on that view alone.  Sadly though its not, and before hundreds of millions of pounds were spent on re-developing what was once described as "a rat-infested swamp" into “one of the most stunning river fronts in the UK” you probably wouldn't have noticed the view. The thing is though, the quayside was always brilliant...just in a different way.
As a teenager back in the eighties the Quayside was a dark, almost gothic, place, that to me, was a world away from the mentalness of the Bigg Market just up the road. The pubs were populated by students and ‘alternatives’ as well as the muso types and the odd ‘trendy’. The Baltic was just another dilapidated warehouse and there was simply cold, brownish, water where the gorgeous Millenium Bridge now leads to you to it. If you wanted live music you would head to ‘The Riverside’ (set up as a left-wing co-operative but ironically funded with a start-up grant from Thatchers government of the day!) and catch unknowns like The Stone Roses, Happy Mondays, Pearl Jam, Sonic Youth, Billy Bragg and some bloke named Bowie to name a few - there was also a memorable night when renowned Geordie hater Noel Gallagher was headbutted on stage by a local radgy whilst his famously ‘hard’ younger brother kept well out of the way. Or along the road,  you could queue up for ‘The Tube’ at the Tyne-Tees studios to leer at a young Paula Yates and try not to piss security off too much. The Riverside also had a thriving dance scene in the early nineties and beyond - hosting the famous Scott Bradford ‘Shindig’ nights - my own personal favourite being ‘The Bing-Bong’, who worried about getting up for work back then man!Set back from the Quayside a bit was ‘The Ouseburn’ area - again a run-down patch of crumbling buildings - headed by ‘The Cluny’ whisky warehouse, a redundant, decrepit remnant of when Newcastle was thriving. This was where the parties happened when acid house - and everything that came with it - hit the Toon. Strangely, the police were the only people in the area who didn’t know about it, which was handy. The Cluny is now an ultra-cool music venue, surrounded (ish) by some excellent music heavy bars and a few minutes walk from the famous (in Newcastle anyway) ‘Free Trade Inn. Always a starting point back in the day, mainly for it’s free jukebox, before moseying on down to Flynns on the Quayside itself to get the knockback from every girl in the place - happy days!The Ouseburn was also where hundreds of pigeon crees got re-sited from the sexy new Quayside when the Tyne-Wear Development Corporation decided that they didn’t fit the new image.Over the water, on the Gateshead side, there was the famous ‘Tuxedo Princess’ (and briefly ‘Tuxedo Royale’) much patronised by footballers, actors and general famous people. Newcastle legend Mick Quinn got turned down by Miss World on ‘The Boat’ - he is a scouser though! - and some unknown singer named ‘Tweedy’ used to work there. It was mostly known locally though for the revolving dance floor that resulted in many a drunken Geordie being off work sick with twisted ankles and broken legs - not me though...I didn’t have a job!It’s easy to look back at how things were down there with a critical eye, and I’d be the first to accept that the development of the Newcastle and Gateshead Quayside has been excellent from both an aesthetic and commercial view, but there’s a little part of me that wants to feel ripped off at paying £1 a bottle for Holsten Pils on the third floor of Flynns whilst looking out of the window and across the Tyne at the multi-storey carpark in gateshead that the fat bloke off Coronation Street got thrown off in ‘Get Carter’ before getting told to fuck off by some studenty girl dressed in black. The Quayside now is an almost European experience - albeit a cold one - and is as vibrant, entertaining and happening as anywhere else you could think of or will ever go, but to my mind it always was anyway.Mind you, what’s on show in the Baltic is better than the ‘art’ we used to create down there...maybe some things have changed for the better! Rivs

No-one had realised Bez
was a Geordie...
The observant amongst you my have noticed that I'm a Newcastle supporter. Feel free to take the piss if you're one of life's glory hunters and 'support' a team that wins stuff even though your only link to the area they are based in  is that you once bought an Oasis record/Ryan Giggs shagged your lass/you've got a relative named Chelsey or you once sang 'Ferry Across The Mersey at a works Christmas do on the karaoke just before throwing up over the boss and punching the office junior. 
Like I say, feel free to take the piss as I already know I'm better than you...






Relegation now seems certain (McLaren hadn't been sacked at the time of writing - but he's not really the problem, just a symptom) so I was poking about the net looking for something to cheer me up - no, not a hitman who works for free when fat, tat-peddling, historic Northern institution wrecking, Tory wankers are the main target (although I'm sure there's a market eh...) but something amusing or inspiring and I found this on the Newcastle United Supporters Trust website - I think it may come in handy next year...
IF you can keep your name when other clubs Are losing theirs and blaming it on the latest coup, If you can trust yourself when Ashley betrays you, But make allowance for his betrayal too; If you can wait for him to go and not be tired by waiting, Or being lied to, don't believe his lies, Or being hated, don't give way to hating him, And yet don't like, nor talk of Dennis Wise:
If you can dream of promotion - and not make it your master; If you can drink brown ale - and not make fighting your aim; If you can meet with Ashley and Charnley - what a disaster And treat those two impostors with great shame; If you can hear the Gallowgate sing - then they have spoken Their bitter memories of McKeag, Gullit and Cort, If you can watch the team we give our lives to, broken, And stoop and build 'em up again with undying support:
If we can make one heap of all our winnings And risk it on last seasons’ utter dross, Relegation a chance to start again at our beginnings And never breathe a word about our loss; If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew To serve your turn long after Ashley has gone, And so hold on lads ‘n’ lasses when there is nothing in you Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'
If you can play Scunthorpe or Swansea and keep your virtue, Or play with Man U or Chelsea and not lose the common touch, If neither mackems nor loving friends can hurt you, If all men count with you, but none too much; If you can fill the pitch with determination and grit With ninety minutes' worth of distance run, Yours is (and always will be) St James’ Park and everything that's in it, And - which is more - you'll be a Geordie, my son!
By Geordie Kipling - exceedingly good kebabs