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Newcastle is no stranger to a re-brand. It started life under Roman rule as Pons Aelius in 122 AD, given the same name as the bridge (which took its moniker from the family name of Emperor Hadrian, whose eponymous wall ran through land occupied by the current city) that spanned the Tyne around the site of the modern-day Swing Bridge. There is little evidence of continued settlement following the end of Roman occupation, with the area eventually gaining the name of Monkchester

So, you did it again. You didn’t learn from that old cliché about who’s to blame the second time you get fooled. By the time that particular adage floats into your mind, it’s already too late. You’re there and, not only are you there, but you also remember you paid extra for a ‘premium’ ticket this time round in the vain hope that it might yield an improved experience. Standing in what looks like a drab, lifeless conference room while you queue for beer, you realise money can

To some extent, attending live sport, whether you’re following a particular team or just an enthusiast attending whatever is available, can feel like chasing the highs of seeing extremely unlikely victories and triumphs over adversity. That pursuit is usually both fruitless and expensive. Sometimes, though, your persistence is rewarded with something truly spectacular. This happened to me on December 13th at Glasgow’s Champions Cup group stage contest against Toulouse at Scot

In the 120 years since Scotland first squared off against New Zealand on a rugby field, Scottish hopes of a victory have rarely been so high. In the build-up to the match, pundits and columnists have spoken of the strength of the current side and the relatively lacklustre recent form of the All Blacks as signs that today, at long last, might just be the day that long-awaited victory is seized. And yet, amongst fans, that optimism is tempered with a resignation bordering on fa

Perhaps it’s the onset of autumn; the sun hanging low over the top of the temporary stands and shadows lengthening earlier than they did just a few short weeks ago at the height of summer, the first hint of brown on the leaves of the stately trees that surround the ground. Or, perhaps, it’s the fatigue of the England players marching onto the field one last time after a madcap summer of international fixtures; or the frustration of the Irish team playing the last of a much mo

Finals Day in the era of The Hundred has been a curious proposition. Thanks to that usurper’s seizure of the month of August, the knockout stages of England’s domestic T20 competition have been marooned at the end of the season; the group games and the context and tension they provide a distant, all-but-forgotten smudge on the horizon. Sandwiched between England T20I fixtures against South Africa, even the cricket cognoscenti could be forgiven for failing to notice the quarte

Scarborough is one of the last few out grounds to hold a place in County Championship fans’ imaginations. Many will tell you of the smiles that cross their faces when they discover, upon release of the fixture list for a new season, that their club will be hosted by Yorkshire on this storied ground once graced by Don Bradman. As an avid listener to the BBC’s Championship radio coverage, I have heard many an away commentator describing the charm of the place with a chorus of s

Sometimes it’s good to engage with things you don’t agree with. For example, it can be healthy to get some of your news from sources with an editorial policy that doesn’t necessarily reflect your opinions to avoid finding yourself in an echo chamber. Personally, I don’t wholeheartedly believe that free market capitalism is the answer to all the world’s problems, but I’m subscribed to The Economist. It’s good to have your point of view challenged; to see what the other side is

The thing about remembering your Halcyon days is that you need to have a few that aren’t filled with glory and excitement to compare them with. How can you know you’re at the peak if you’ve never experienced a trough, or at least a very flat plateau? Fortunately for those who need contrast to rank their experiences, sport regularly offers the spectator days so unremarkable that, unless you’ve put yourself in a position where you have to write about them, fade from memory the

The County Championship is frequently mythologised, cast as a totem of an idealised English summer where days are long and sun-drenched. Where folk gather on village greens to watch local heroes in pristine whites do a very civilised kind of battle. The ECB’s 2015 history of the tournament is entitled Summer’s Crown, a term which suggests that multi-day cricket is an intrinsic part of the season. Certain writers, influenced by this discourse, engage in a process of near-const

It’s amazing how things change when the sun comes out. A mere 48 hours ago, I sat here under thick cloud and felt like I was an unwilling participant in some kind of surrealist pagan ritual. Today, despite being midsummer’s eve and perhaps a more appropriate date for druidic activity, feels much more like a classic afternoon out at the cricket. With clear blue skies, when Bob Marley reappears on the matchday playlist one could almost be tricked into thinking this is Kingston

Look, I could do this the easy way. I could churn out another milquetoast ramble about a routine afternoon at the cricket, about the appeal of the game in its hinterlands or whether second tier competition has the quality or the following to exist much further into the 21st century. I could tell you that, founded in 1848, Clydesdale Cricket Club is the oldest surviving sporting institution in Scotland. But what would be the point of that, besides furnishing you with a piece o

The World Test Championship is much maligned. Its many detractors argue that it is an irrelevance followed by very few, and understood by even fewer, requiring an advanced degree in computational alchemy to understand its arcane ranking system. Those people are wrong. Mostly. As a tournament, it is undeniably flawed and there is much that needs to be adjusted before it can truly serve the purpose of making Test cricket’s travelling roadshow of bilateral series into something

I expected it to be quiet. For the gulls and the occasional oystercatcher floating on the breeze overhead to outnumber the spectators. I only made the journey here because this is the ground where my maternal grandfather got his all-time best bowling figures (8-2 or 8-3, depending on which day you ask my uncle). I expected to write some elegiac piece about how my grief for his loss would somehow be reflected in a small, silver-haired crowd watching a dying game under ash-grey

Watching a major final as a neutral is an interesting experience. It provides an opportunity to soak in the full spectacle, the pre-game...

Reunions are to be a theme over two days spent at Trent Bridge. The night before the Test, I sit outside at The Castle as the sun sets...

You wake feeling hopeful. Your team is playing its biggest-ever home game. Rugby is returning to Scotland’s national football stadium for the first time in 20 years and Glasgow Warriors finally have a venue for their leg of the 1872 Cup that could be a match for Murrayfield. A great day for rugby in this soccer-dominated city awaits. It’s even a nice day. Crisp, clear, bright. ‘I’ll take the bus’, you think. Your first mistake. Hampden Park is 5.34 miles from your house. You

Dr Hamron Zafar dons his replica kit, drapes himself with a flag, gathers his impressive collection of banners and makes his way to see his favourite international team at Galle International Stadium. When I first see him, he is holding up a banner, adorned with the beaming face of his favourite player, declaring that he has travelled over 2,500km to see the side live for the first time. When I speak to him in the mid-afternoon heat, he has got two player autographs and seen

Quite a number of years ago, I was sat on a train stuck at Peterborough station. We were held up on our journey because of the hordes of...