The Diary

01 May 2004: Valhalla, Here We Come, Reading Or Not!

At Reading tomorrow, be afraid ? very afraid! ? because inside tonight?s E and S, I caught a fleeting glimpse of the scariest thing in the known Universe, and what?s more, it?s heading straight down the M40 around the same time as the rest of us tomorrow. So, what?s prompted me to rush for the bike-clips and brown cord trousers with such rapidity, then? If I say Anc and his merry band, now do you understand?. Our local rag tonight had full frontals of ?em, all in pukka Viking gear, and all tooled-up as if they?d just stepped off a longboat and were about to give the local populace a damn good seeing-to. No - I lied. Between the four of them, they looked about as menacing as a buttered crumpet (blimey, my history teacher never told me the Vikings had a YTS scheme for school-leavers on the go!) but going by the way they were posing for the camera, all snarls and latent menace, they certainly tried to talk a good pillage and loot. Would you buy a second-hand sword and shield off this man? Ask me at Valhalla, tomorrow.

Now the pressure?s finally off, the whole thing should be a bloody good laugh from beginning to end, but despite all our off-pitch activities, there will still very much be a game going on out there. There?s the small matter of the First Division Championship, and whether the silverware is destined to end up in our trophy cabinet, or as a posh version of a gravy-boat in Delia Smith?s kitchen. No AJ, and no Scouse Jase, either, and I fully understand why the pair of them have been rested; with the job now done, more or less, they deserve the break. I still fail to comprehend, though, why Houlty hasn?t made way for Murph. It?s not as if we?ve got a rookie waiting on the bench, and, of course, there?s no loss of face involved. Russell has performed heroics these last few games, injured or not, and supporters wouldn?t think any less of him for stepping down. The good news? Big Dave might well be back for us tomorrow, and quite right, too; last Saturday?s frolics didn?t seem right without him being in the middle of the action. Sure, he was there in his suit afterwards, all right, but it?s not the same, is it? Reading need all three points to keep their play-off chances alive, of course, but so do we to keep the cat among the Canaries, and nicely within pouncing-range. Oh, sod it, I?m going to stick my neck out, which might crick it a bit, sure, but it can?t be any worse than my back, can it? I?ll therefore predict an Albion win. Hell, don?t I live dangerously, sometimes?

If the Madjeski could ever be described as Valhalla, then let?s hope their caterers don?t get wind of it. Valhalla was the hall of slain heroes, ruled by Odin, in the realm of the gods, Asgard. The place had 540 doors, through each of which 800 heroes could walk abreast, and the roof was made of shields. The souls of heroic soldiers killed in battle were brought to Valhalla by the Valkyries, in a manner described in a previous instalment. Once there, how did our fallen little warriors spend time, then? The heroes all fought during the day like good ?uns, but their wounds healed before night, when they banqueted with Odin. When the battle was over for the day, those who were slain during the fight were brought back to life again. They were then brought back to Valhalla to engage in feasts of eating and drinking. The Valkyries served mead, which forever flowed from the udder of Odin's goat, Heidrun. They also served the warriors meat that came from the boar Saehrimnir, which the cook would prepare for eating by boiling in a huge cauldron. Gordon Ramsay, eat your heart out! The boar magically came back to life before the next meal, which is a pretty good trick if you can cut it. After eating, the warriors would then go outside the hall and fight each other to the death. They were, of course, brought back to life before the next feast. This somewhat Bacchanalian lifestyle is scheduled to continue until the approaching judgement day, called Ragnar?k, or until the local plods finally put a stop to it, whichever?s the sooner.

As tomorrow is principally a tale about Vikings, you?ll be surprised to learn that the history of Reading is relatively free of Scandinavian influences. Ish. The name of the town is traditionally accepted as being Saxon for "(Place of) Readda's People". No, not Pan?s People, you silly 1970?s Baggie! Tradition says St. Birinus founded a small chapel there in the 7th century. In 979, Queen ?lfredda transformed it into a royal nunnery, in repentance for murdering her step-son, St. Edward, King & Martyr. Cor, and we pillory our present Royals just for not having a proper day-job to go to? Reading Abbey was founded by King Henry I in 1121 as a private mausoleum for his family. It was built on the site of the Danish stronghold set up during the Viking Wars of King Alfred's reign, which was about the only time the forebears of Abba and the bloke who owns Ikea ever got a bit of the action. King Henry I of England, d.1135, is interred there, but just like crooner Frank Sinatra, as per San Francisco, he left his heart, plus bowels, brains, eyes & tongue, in Rouen, France! Must have taken lots of guts to do that.

Reading was also where the oldest recorded British song, ?Sumer is icumen in?, was written (the mediaeval equivalent of Simon Cowell totally rubbished it when it came out, mind), but its major claim to fame was as one of the great pilgrimage centres of medieval England. For reasons best known to itself, it was, quite literally, given a hand by the royals. The Hand of St. James by King Henry I, actually, (found blocked up in the ruins two hundred years ago), plus the Head of St. Philip, by King John. It also held some 232 other relics. Whether Sir Jack Hayward numbered among them or not isn?t revealed. Reading was on the side of the Parliamentarians during the Civil War, and was originally garrisoned, in 1642, by Henry Marten MP, Lord of Hinton Waldrist, and several other North Berkshire Manors. However, with reports of approaching Cavaliers, he quickly did a runner from the undefended town. Boo!

Joseph Huntley moved to Reading in 1811 and he and his son, Thomas, took on 72 London Street as a bakery, eleven years later. They cashed in on the coaching trade of the Crown Inn, opposite, by sending over freshly baked biscuits for travellers to buy. Another son, Joseph, set up an ironmongery and whitesmith's shop (later Huntley, Boorne & Stevens), and began churning out fancy biscuit tins for his brother. George Palmer, the famous Reading benefactor, joined the bakery in 1841, and it became Huntley & Palmers, now world famous for their biscuits. Though the name is still used, the firm is now owned by United Biscuits who, only recently, finally left the town. Another big factor in Reading?s history was brewing. A chap called William Blackall Simonds founded the Simonds Brewery, way back in 1785. His business was famous for its hop leaf symbol until taken over by Courage, in 1960. The new Courage Brewery, down by the M4, is now the largest in Europe, but that still doesn?t prevent their wares from tasting like liquid nitrogenous waste product!

Sutton Seeds arrived in 1807. Their former HQ in the Market Place is now home to the NatWest Bank. Another great commodity for which Reading was famous in the Victorian Age was Reading Sauce. Nothing whatsoever to do with that fine purveyor of matchday coach transport we all know and love, sadly, but very like Worcester Sauce, it was, and even more popular than its more famous counterpart, in its heyday. Sadly the demand gradually declined this century, and the company eventually went bust.

The Sun Inn in Castle Street has quite a fascinating history about it. The place was probably a boozer as far back as the 13th century, and some five hundred years later, it was a popular coaching inn indeed. The undercroft (a sort of below-decks stables) could house up to fifty horses on a good day, and, on a bad one, a coachload of Dingles. It had already been home to prisoners awaiting execution from the jail next door, and Napoleonic prisoners of war followed at the turn of the 19th century. Sadly, this underground room collapsed in 1947, after being damaged by circus elephants(!) tethered down there some two years previously. What they were doing there in the first place, I shudder to think. Imagine getting plastered one night, staggering down the stairs, and finding a whole lot of dozy pachyderms staring at you? Must have caused more people to sign the pledge on the spot than all the forces of the Sally Army put together!

Famous Reading folkies? Anthony Addington was an 18th century doctor who lived in London Street. His mental patients lived next door, which is quite a variant on the ?care in the community theme?, I suppose. Through his friendship with the then-Prime Minister, he was later appointed physician to the mad King George III, who recovered for a while under his watchful eye. Not that he was really mad, mind; His Kingness actually suffered from a rare condition called porphyria, a disorder of biochemistry, characterised by the sufferer?s wee turning dark after being left standing for a couple of hours. It?s quite controllable now, of course, but then was a different matter entirely. In the early 1840s, the so-called ?Father of Photography?, William Fox-Talbot, set up the first mass production photographic laboratory in Russell Terrace. He produced the first pics there, all right, but the locals, not knowing any better, of course, and watching the Goings On from afar, thought his assistants were common forgers. Rumour has it the Old Fart?s still awaiting delivery of the prints he ordered!

It?s impossible to leave the subject of local luminaries without mention of another well-known resident, Oscar Wilde, author of such literary classics as ?The Picture Of Dorian Grey?, and ?Lady Windermere?s Fan?, and imprisoned in Reading Prison for two years back in 1895. The problem was, of course, that in this more-enlightened day and age, poor Oscar would have been described as ?gay?. Had he been around now, what with his sparkling wit and knife-sharp way with words, he would have been an absolute wow on the TV chat-show circuit (Graham Norton would have murdered to get him into the studio!), but in Queen Victoria?s day, homosexuality was very much taboo, not to mention highly-illegal. Accused of a same-sex liaison with a youngish member of the nobility (known to all and sundry by the nom de coitus ?Bosie?), he very rashly sued, but lost the case, and just to add insult to injury, he was sent down for the offence, as well. The prison experience left deep scars; he never wrote again, save for his famous ?Ballad of Reading Gaol?, and he died in Paris about five or six years later.

Turning away from the trials and tribulations of First Division footie for a moment, what about the play-off semis last night ? Aldershot versus Hereford? No surprise to see ?Im Indoors settling himself by the TV with a thundering great glass of white wine in his sticky mitt ? Dutch courage by any other name ? well before kick-off. The cats? They lasted but a few minutes. The moment The Bulls took the lead, all four of them were out via the door in a panic-stricken feline flash, not to return for another two or three hours, at least. As for ?Im Indoors, the instant that ball passed over the line, there he was, howling like a banshee and swinging from the light-fitting, practically. Think ?King Kong?, and ?Empire State Building? and you?ve pretty much got the picture. He didn?t half come down with a bang, though, just before the half-time interval, when the ref awarded The Shots that penalty. Looking at it from a neutral?s point of view, I still can?t work out what the referee saw to justify pointing to the spot and breaking my other half?s heart for him. Even the replay, repeated slo-mo several times, failed to enlighten me, and, if the truth were known, the so-called ?experts?, I?ll bet.

Another thought, and this is dead true, by the way. Had their star performer, Guynan, been playing and not nursing a neck injury caused, would you believe, by sleeping in an odd sort of way whilst in beddy-byes, then Hereford might have fared considerably better! When it comes to sticking ?em into the back of the net, there?s none can whack him at that level, and he?s not a slouch by any means when it comes to lending a hand with defensive work at the other end. For the sake of my other half?s mental health, I had hoped the lad would be well and truly recovered come next Monday?s repeat dose, but having since heard he?s very doubtful for the return, I don?t think it?ll happen, somehow. Oh, and just in case you?d wondered ? yes, we?ll be at Edgar Street for that one, large as life. No doubt the second leg will descend into one of those boring wars of attrition we?ve all become used to, of late. Aldershot will put just about everyone, club cat included, behind the ball, try to stop The Bulls entering their china-shop by any means possible, then attempt nicking a winner on the sly, on the break, and the later the better. Sound familiar? It should.

And finally?.. One. The next item comes to you courtesy of my eldest sister, so blame her, not me! Remember the almighty toot that took place in the town centre last Saturday night? It?s a bit like the sixties, really; if you could remember, you weren?t there! Sorry, I digress. Apparently, one such celebrant, having already had far more than his fair share of liquid refreshment prior to the game, then proceeded into the town to finish off the job in style come the final whistle. Much falling down water was consumed, of course, and the lad finally returned home in the wee small hours, very much the worse for wear, and pouring himself into his pit on autopilot, more or less. So much so, unconsciousness mercifully drew a veil over what happened immediately beforehand. All through the night and the following morning did our hero sleep, finally emerging into full consciousness well past the forenoon, much to the amusement of his family. But it wasn?t his late rise that evoked great shrieks of laughter from his beloved and kids ? more the fact that when he finally did emerge, he was discovered to be wearing a frilly nightie belonging to his missus!

Two.?. Following my recent diary piece on the demise of the Throstle Club, I had a very interesting mail indeed recently from one of our Antipodean Baggie chums, Stewart Bessant ? although, were it me sending the thing, I?d be very reluctant indeed to admit ownership of the ghastly garment I describe below! Apparently, he remembers going to The Golden Throstle during the late 60?s and seeing Asa Hartford in there wearing a dark grey jacket covered in thousands of little white daisies. ?Wow!? thought our hero, temporarily overwhelmed by the sight of such sartorial elegance, and coming all over with covetousness all of a sudden, decided, there and then, he too had to own one of these garments. And, it came to pass that as he strolled around Rackhams but a few days later, he saw a similar jacket on sale ? and, yes, there was no help for it but to flash the cash! Much worn was that jacket ? until he emigrated to Oz, that is, around two or three years later. Sad to say, the Diggers weren?t as well versed in the eclectic fashion tastes of their Pom cousins, so there was no alternative but to ?pension off? the offending article. How did it finally end its days? As a dog-blanket, apparently!

Three?. From my sister, again. Did you know The Dingles are to shortly announce a new shirt sponsor? Who? Why, ?Cheerios?, of course!

 - Glynis Wright

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