The Diary

25 April 2004: I've Got That 'Going Up' Feeling!

Tell you what, folkies, promotions can seriously damage your health, honest! Here I am, this balmy late April evening, typing away like a thing demented, and also suffering the twin problems of chronic indigestion, coupled with a sudden worsening of my back problem. The second of the two I probably sustained when inadvertently over-celebrating one of our goals, or something, but the first? Dunno, really, I suppose dyspeptic attacks and elevation to the Prem go hand in hand, really, so the only thing I can do is just keep taking the tablets for the back, and burp my somewhat wind-blown way through penning this column.

So, now the heat and tumult of the day?s finally died down at last, how was it for you, and how did it compare to last time? This is something I really need to know of my readership; do you like your promotions frilly, flouncy, conducted with a deal of panache, a la Ossie Ardiles in 1993, or as per the standards set by the current incumbent? Apropos of the latter, permit me to use a wartime analogy, and it goes something like this. During the second global conflict, and in response to great demands for replacement furniture and household goods from bombed-out families, the government quickly introduced a range of stuff designed to make the most of wartime shortages of raw materials, the term commonly in use for these items being ?Utility?.

Wrinklies like The Fart will immediately recognise the term, and remember much; only a very limited range of items were produced (even our fave footie team suffered; because it was against the law to make and/or sell multicoloured football strips, those sacred blue and white stripes simply had to go for the duration!), no frills, no twiddly bits, no luxuries, but everything produced under that name was both cheap and durable, but highly-functional, and, above all, reliable. The stuff wasn?t pretty by any means, but you could bet your bottom dollar it wouldn?t let you down. In fact, you can still find such items in people?s houses to this very day. Just ask ?Im Indoors?s mum! See what I?m getting at, now? What we had today wasn?t elegant by any means, but it sure as hell did the job. So, I?ll ask the question again; the fancy stuff adored by the purists, or ?Utility Football?? Quite a poser, isn?t it?

While you?re all busy mulling over that one, I?ll nip backwards in time to early this morning, and what a peculiar way to start the day. No ?other half?, he?d nipped down to Hereford to pick up his play-off tickets for The Bulls; when he finally arrived at Edgar Street around half-nine, there was not a soul in sight ? then our hero found out why. The ticket office there ? this is on a Saturday, remember, and the strong likelihood of punters wanting those bits of card in great quantity! ? didn?t open until eleven, would you believe? Luckily for my Bulls-besotted beloved, they did make a small concession; those doors opened 15 minutes early, and being at the front of the queue, more or less, he was served pretty quickly. Having sorted that little lot out, it was then one hell of a mad dash back to our place and nicely in time to pick me up from there around midday. I dread to think what his average speed was; I can only hope the numerous speed cameras out there didn?t get him on his ?good side?.

A quick tootle (plus a couple of pre-match drinks) into the Throstle Club to meet up with The Noise, and we were cooking on gas. I even found the chance to have a couple of words with an elderly Baggie I?d bumped into at Kidderminster Sainsbury?s yesterday; he?d seen my shirt there, and been sort of attracted to it. Oh, and between us, we finally managed to get Im Indoors?s errant mobile fully-functional again ? well, a combination of young Carly and myself, I reckon. A great improvement, as we?d been totally unable to pick up any sort of a signal earlier in the week. And, amidst all that, where was The Fart? Simple: watching Wigan-Sunderland courtesy of Apollo 2000?s TV display, that?s where! Still, he did come and join us around ten minutes before we left ? and boy, did we need him. Why? Simple; The Fart numbers among his many possessions, a tranny, seekers after knowledge of promotion rivals, for the use of. We?d already given the old codger strict instructions; stay with us no matter what, and, if you value your life, DON?T turn the bloody thing off, or lose the station. So, with everything finally organised to our mutual satisfaction, we began selling outside the ground.

The Wigan game being fed live to our place, quite a few of our lot had already entered the ground to watch it, but there were still a sizeable number sauntering up Halfords Lane in the early spring sunshine, and, more importantly, many wanted to grab our wares. Also there when we commenced flogging were Jean and Michelle, who promptly told me that as a result of the publicity I gave to that fancy-dress shop I plugged on here but a few weeks ago, they?d been so inundated with orders for Viking-related stuff, they couldn?t keep up with demand! And, no sooner had they quit the stage, on walked one of the Swedish Baggie contingent, a mate of human skyscraper Ollie. Aw, he?s not really Scandinavian, but as British as they come, but he was still mighty pleased having made the journey especially for this one. The only problem is, you either never gave me your name ? or I didn?t hear it. Sorry, mate!

During breaks in selling, it was simply fascinating to just sit back and watch all those groups of Baggies walk past, shiny happy people all. And, my God, you should have seen the incredible variety of replica shirts that came out for the occasion. You name the season, you can bet your life there was an Albionite wearing the appropriate gear for the time; 1954 shirts, as per The Fart (plus a few others, equally venerable), 1968 had its adherents, of course, as did 1976, appropriately enough, today being the 28th. anniversary of that promotion. Moving slightly further along the dusty road they call Memory, there were those whose first love was a garment from the era of Cunningham, Regis, Moses, et.al. with representation in quantity from both the Ardiles era and two seasons ago. Fascinating, and what lovely memories of other glory days those shirts conjured up.

Not that I was wearing a replica shirt of any description; as I?d been toting a woolly-pully to games ever since that first Saturday we?d embarked upon that present unbeaten run of ours, there was nothing alive on this planet that was going to make me discard it for the day ? we still had to find a point to make sure, remember? The same applied to The Fart; he was totally adamant his 1954 shirt was going to be the talisman of choice, but I?m still to hear a satisfactory excuse from The Noise; why he still persisted in shoving a great big lumbering coat over his frame despite the heat, I simply don?t know. He must have absolutely baked in that sun-drenched Brummie this afternoon. Mind you, it probably kept him quiet, and some (well, lots, actually!) would regard that as a bit of a bonus!

By now, the crowds were really beginning to fill Halfords Lane, and as they strolled past in rapidly-increasing number, so did the level of expectant ?buzz? ratchet up by several notches. Thus far, all had been quiet both on The Fart?s radio and inside the ground, but the drama at Wigan was finally entering its last act; in the meantime, up came a coach bearing the logo of the English County Cricket Board, which drew up right outside the players? entrance. For a minute, the thought entered my head the driver had taken a wrong turning at Edgbaston. Judging from the great howls of delight when it finally disgorged its occupants, I can only assume it was bearing our finest; until that time, I?d only encountered two Bantams, who looked on the point of suicide, both of ?em.

Enter into my tale, finally, a certain Roy Tipton, who, despite the name, hails from across the pond - well, The Big Apple, actually, and is one of that rare breed, a Yankee Baggie, and about as American as a large helping of roast turkey and apple pie at Thanksgiving. Nice bloke, shame about the president, but that?s not his fault, really. And, believe it or not, today was his first ever visit to The Shrine ? wow, for a debut game, you can?t get better than today?s, can you? And, not long afterwards, once Roy left to make The Fart?s acquaintance, there were the T-shirts.

Sure, we?d already seen those the street-sellers were flogging hot cakes-fashion, cleverly-captioned: ?ALBION, BACK UP WHERE THEY BELONG, WOLVES, BACK DOWN WHERE THEY BELONG?; the one that really tickled my fancy, though, was nothing at all to do with the beautiful game; but the caption was so appropriate. The garment in question was black, with a very angry-looking circled ?Taz? figure within (he of Bugs Bunny cartoon fame, in case you didn?t know!), and just below, one word only ? ?RELAX?! Summed it up perfectly, I thought, especially given the worrying tendency of passers-by to completely ?freeze? every time sounds of encouragement emerged from the lips of the Wigan?watchers within. And while all that was going on, thanks, Mel, for sharing all those lovely reminiscences of the late King with me; what a gent, even when the guy accidentally pranged Jeff?s car in Notts County?s car-park one day! Oh, and another little gem culled from memory; the sight of a wheelchair-bound Baggie wearing one of those surgical collars you put around your neck when injured in those parts. Nothing remarkable about that, you might think, and under normal circumstances, you?d probably be right; what was, though, was the Albion car sticker completely encircling the blasted thing! An example of faith-healing?s practical applications, or pure exhibitionism, I wonder?

Meanwhile, back in the ground?.. As it turned out, we didn?t need the assistance of The Fart?s steam radio; you only had to listen to the sudden outburst of chanting to realise we?d done it. Even so, when I asked ?Im Indoors for final confirmation it was all over, he vigorously shook his head. Sod! Then, milliseconds after that, a joyful shout and a raising of the arms heavenward from our Boer War veteran meant we really had done it, good and proper. Whoopee! Cue for massed handshakes all round ? some from total strangers ? also a plethora of hugs and sloppy kisses. All over, and without kicking a single ball, even. How?s about that for style, then? And, around the same time, the offer of a record from a Baggie called Chris, who also hailed from The Big Apple. He?s in the music business out there, and he?s bringing out a disc during the close season ? it now looks as though I?m going to get an advance copy of the thing when it finally comes off the presses, which should be interesting, as I know sod-all about contemporary music. Never mind, there?s always the knowledge of GD?s very own tame pop artist, Kev Powell, to fall back on.

By that time, it was clear most people?s minds were totally-fixated on getting into The Shrine ? understandable, of course, given the ? erm ? ?Peculiar Circumstances?, so we decided to call it a day on the flogging stakes. Good timing, that; as we made for our seats we were just in time to catch the home debut of our followers? brand-new trademark song, ?We?re going up and The S**t are going down!?, sung to the Beatles tune ?Yellow Submarine? closely followed by that old standby, ?I go down, you go down, we all?? etc. and all brought to you courtesy of The Smethwick End Choral Society. And, that wasn?t all; in response to Smethwick exhortations for ?Frankie-Frankie, give us a wave!? our hero, for the first time in living memory, actually removed that super-glued cap of his from his bonce, then raising said garment well above his head, did precisely what his audience had requested him to do!

And, when Bradford finally emerged, there was even a message for former Albion player Bryan Robson. ?You should have stayed at the Albion!? was the cheeky refrain. Plus, also, a generous round of applause for the very small but game Bantam contingent occupying one small part of the stand, but not before the entry of our players (minus Big Dave, sadly) into the arena gave all those massed lungs and vocal chords something to really sing about. Think of a combination of a Thirties Nazi rally, with old Adolf as the main attraction, a Billy Graham revivalist meeting, and one of those Stalinist Communist Party pep-talks, where no-one dare stop applauding for fear of getting shipped to Siberia, or worse, and you?ve pretty much got it, and all with copious quantities of sunshine and warmth thrown in for good measure, as it should be on such a wonderful occasion.

The game? Promotion having been secured without having to lift a finger, even, there was always going to be a carnival atmosphere about the whole affair, and we certainly didn?t disappoint on that score. Balloons, beach balls everywhere; at one point, the referee got so annoyed by all the inflatable incursions, he told the Bradford keeper to stamp on ?em all quick-smart. And, not long after that, the sight of a jubilant conga-line snaking its sinuous way around the gangways and the sterile area just in front. Stop them? Ever tried to arrest the motion of a forty-ton juggernaut in full flight? Quite.

For their part, though, Bradford, playing for nothing save pride, certainly made a go of it; essentially, during that first half, they did everything right in an attempt to stop us. That, plus a generous dollop of jam courtesy of old Lady Luck herself; well, I ask you, poor old AJ really thought he?d cracked it early-doors, only for the lino to unsportingly flag him offside, so it didn?t count. Then, only a short time later, we had another effort stopped literally on the line, followed by a Hughsie piledriver that should have gone in but went narrowly wide instead. Not only that, The Bantams could have quite easily taken the lead on a couple of occasions; the combined efforts of our defence, and the skill of Houlty finally negating the danger. Add to that a miss from The Horse and another Hughsie effort gone astray, and you begin to see why the game was still bloodless come the interval.

In view of our continued inability to break the deadlock and bury those stubborn Bantams for once and for all, I daresay certain - erm ? ?things? were said by our manager to our players come half-time, none of which would have been in the slightest way pleasant for the intended recipients, but come the restart, that, plus what?s come to be the inevitable introduction of a certain Lloyd Dyer to the arena, with around ten minutes gone ? a shame for Clem, though, as he?d had a superlative game - finally did the trick. A minute or so later, the Bantam defence was finally breached. The hero of the hour was Scouse Jase, who rounded two of theirs with some panache before aiming a thunderbolt of a shot at the Bradford goalmouth from the edge of the box. That effort might have thumped against the crossbar with one hell of a ?whack?, audible all around the ground, but a full hay-ration for The Horse, who was handily cantering in the vicinity. Just the chap to put away the loose ball without further ado! Cue for the entire ground to go absolutely potty, of course, and, about a minute after the restart, we nearly did it again. This time, it was Hughsie, with one of those scorching runs of his on the right, and nary a Bantam within fouling-distance as well. Over went the ball, with The Horse patiently hovering on the near post; sadly, our equine friend just couldn?t connect.

Not to worry; within around a minute, Hughsie finally hit the jackpot, and deservedly so, in my opinion. Gaardsoe was the creator this time; all our curry-loving friend had to do was run onto the ball, then slot it home from just beyond the six-yard box, thereby doubling our tally. A shame for The Bantams, as they?d defended so well, up until then, but once that first one ran home to mummy, there could only be one ending, really. Cracked wide open, were the visitors, and we could (and should) have racked up more. Never mind, though. Not long after that, The Horse found himself booking an appointment with the vet, and Dobes replacing him.

It was around that time that some unsung genius in the crowd ? in the East Stand, I think - suddenly hit upon the brilliant wheeze of starting a Mexican wave - or should that be a Black Country wave? The idea didn?t half catch on, though; within seconds, great undulations of jubilant Baggies went rippling around the ground, first through the entire Brummie, then, making its way around the Halfords corner, involving our stand ? blimey, didn?t those travel-rugs, flasks and false teeth go! ? then along the Smethwick aficionados, even coppers, first-aid blokes, stewards and visiting supporters grabbing a piece of the action. Around it went once more, and this time, even our directors decided to chuck their twopennorth into the hat! Never before have I seen that done on our turf and not just once, several times and with no diminution of vigour whatsoever as those ever-circling celebratory arms and bums soared skywards over and over again. As I said the other day, every promotion has been different, but this one certainly explored new dimensions this afternoon. All that undiluted passion, and taken to a degree almost frightening in its immensity and fervour. Wow.

And, as events on the pitch neared their conclusion, there emerged a bit of a competition between those occupying the Smethwick and East Stands. Both chanted the praises of their area of the ground, then finally rounded upon us lot in the Halfords. ?Pull it down pull it down, pull it down?.? was the gleeful message for the troops. Then, believe it or not, a choral exhortation for ?Megson, Megson, start the wave?..? And he did! Amazing scenes; in the meantime, there was still a game going on out there, but by that time, I suspect most people?s minds were on other things.

Just as well, really, as Bradford did have some chances to at least reduce the deficit, but suddenly, it was all over. Thanks to previous exhortations for supporters not to run on the pitch (some did, but were told in no uncertain terms to shift themselves off it again pronto!), we did get the players returning for a lap of honour, and in complete contrast to last time, equipped with champagne in quantity, plus, as ?Im Indoors pointed out to me, all of our directors gathered around the players? tunnel, and straining at the leash for a bit of the action. Blimey, they must have really hoofed it to get from the East Stand to The Halfords so quickly once the game finished! And who could blame ?em? Away our finest went, to suitably uplifting choral accompaniments from both ends, of course. Inevitably, the champers ended up getting sprayed around the crowd (how the hell do you explain that one to Mum when your five year old kid returns home absolutely stinking of booze, then?), and a marvellous finale to the whole spectacle as our lot, plus the injured Big Dave (would you care to be the one to tell him he couldn?t go out there with them?) lined up for the obligatory photo-call. ?We are going up!? was the refrain, and you certainly couldn?t sue for defamation; just about everyone in that ground was flying at 35,000 feet at that precise moment!

The celebrations having been done with, our next job was to locate the whereabouts of The Fart; prior to kick-off, we?d told him to meet us afterwards for a post-match bit of bibulous behaviour down The Vine, but find him we did, even in that almighty exiting crowd. Fiendishly difficult it was to get there, as well, what with the inevitable traffic delays, coupled with the huge throngs of Albionites already congregating outside licensed premises, glasses in hand, and seemingly intent upon drinking themselves into liver-failure and beyond. Still, get there we finally did ? and that?s when The Fart decided to display yet another facet of his psyche to us; a hitherto-unsuspected capacity for beer, in quantity. First of all it was a half of shandy, then, within seconds of the dispatch of the first, seemingly, it was another three pints of the stuff straight down the ?suff?, as my mother used to say. Tel was adamant it was shandy, with nothing whatsoever by way of a surreptitious ?kick? added to the mix, but there were times when I did wonder! And, once settled, glass in hand, time to gloat in the company of friends, one of whom being a certain Adrian Goldberg, one-time GD editor, now sadly defected to a decidedly-inferior media outfit. A chance also to exchange a word or three with an old mate of ours, Anil, who?d spent many recent years in the Bristol area, something we both have in common. And yes ? all the observations he made about the place tallied with mine, even down to the length of time it took to be really accepted by the locals!

Finally dragging The Fart from the boozer, it was time to take the old rprobate back home, and sort out his PC while we were at it. Time also for me to visit their ?facilities? ? well, all that Coke has to go somewhere, doesn?t it? Mind you, I did have a narrow escape; as I was about to place my rear on ?the throne?, I spotted a dozy bee parked right on Ground Zero; as I have an enduring horror of the things, the rapidity of my retreat from the scene of the crime was unparalleled in the history of entomology.

And, that?s about it for tonight, folks. I?ll just finish by telling you that this week, a rather large teachers? get-together was held, over 200 chalk-stained pedagogues coming to the thrash, the topic for discussion being ?reading and writing?. You can probably guess where this is going, by now, but I?ll tell you anyway. Where was this great gathering held? Why, the natural home for such debate ? Molineux! Back tomorrow night, and no doubt fully-laden with yet more stories of What We Did After The Final Whistle. Until then, have fun.

 - Glynis Wright

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