The Diary

17 April 2003: Yo'm an Albion supporter, do yo' know Vic Stirrup?

That, believe it or not, was the question asked of me today, when I happened to stroll into The Bluenose Butcher's carcass-strewn hideaway. The daft thing was, I hadn't really intended to, but, you see, in matters concerning that gentleman and our football team, I feel morally obliged to poke my nose round the door at regular intervals, even though I'm perfectly aware of the fact that every time I do so, it will invariably heap more coals of mocking fire around my hot little head.

My daily dilemma is simple: should I take the bull by the horns and pay him a visit, or not? I know perfectly well that the minute I walk through that door, I'll get by return post all I gave out to him last season with added interest. If I don't - you're probably ahead of me by now - I'm putting myself at risk of being branded as someone who is adept at dishing it out, but not taking it! Not exactly a poser on the scale of 'who gets the last seat in the lifeboat' but a head-scratcher, all the same. Anyway, this hot and sticky lunchtime, I decided to put off the inevitable by paying him one of my thrice-weekly visits, consoling myself at the same time with the thought that Mr. Bluenose's emporium was about the coolest place in town, not sartorially speaking, of course, but you get my drift, I'm sure. That's when I got hit by the question that prefaced this instalment; not from Mister Bluenose, but one of his elderly customers, sitting on a small chair provided for the purpose by our genial chopper-wielding chum.

It turned out that this guy knew Vic rather well; for those of you reading this in far-flung places (the naughty boy at the back who said 'Wolverhampton' take a detention!) Vic is one of the staunchest and most loyal Baggies supporters I know. No matter what the geographical location of the away fixture, you can bet your bottom-dollar Vic will be there. About my height, balding, a retired newsagent, I think, walks with two sticks; what makes him even more remarkable is the fact he is well into his eighties, and has not long undergone hip-replacement surgery. As he sits not far away from me in the Halfords, I frequently bump into him before home games, and, just as often, away ones as well. What I didn't know about Vic was the further information imparted by our mutual friend; the very day he was discharged from hospital following all that surgery, he was on the road with Baggies Travel to yet another away destination!

His mobility must be far worse than mine; to even contemplate travelling to an away fixture right after such a major operation indicates a devotion to our favourite football club that surpasses by far anything I've previously come across. The chap in the butcher's shop also reckoned so great is Vic's love for the club, it wouldn't surprise him at all if he finally pegged out during a Hawthorns game. "Albion 'till I die"? In Vic's case, Life - or, appropriately enough, Death - could so easily imitate Art..

Most of this lovely fine day has been spent sorting out all the emails I've had from folkies wanting to get my missives flung onto their PC's. Thus far, I've had loads; so many, it's been quite a battle keeping up with it all, and mistakes have been made, unfortunately. The classic was late this afternoon, when I thought I was sending an acknowledgement to someone, plus an attachment containing last night's offering, but instead, I erroneously sent it to the whole 'Boing' mailing list. Oops! Confused, you will be..

As I needed to get the whole of today's shebang incorporated into my 'round robin' before tonight, the tedious job of making lists of all those who wanted to play occupied the rest of the time. All I had to do then was await the arrival of my IT guru - 'Im Indoors - from his place of work, to explain the next step. Coming as I do from an era when computers were great big brutes spewing magnetic tape and housed in enormous buildings tended by oodles of lab-coated boffins, sometimes it's difficult to adjust my thinking to the current state of affairs. Eventually, I'll get there; after all, as recently as fifteen years ago, the closest I'd ever been to modern-style IT was the equipment used in our admin department. I never thought then that one day, I'd be involved in the production of a football fanzine, and would use a PC routinely to bring my words to life. Progress? Of a sorts, I suppose?

It's interesting to see that The Beast has now backtracked somewhat on his assertion yesterday that he was unhappy with the way he'd been treated by the club recently. As you're probably aware, Mr. Jensen was quoted in the Danish BT newspaper as saying Megson treated him like a puppet and that he wanted to leave the club once his contract came to an end this summer. According to him, most of the quotes attributed to him by that reporter were made up; he said the interview in question was a two-minute jobbie, and in any case, the hack that allegedly misquoted him did the same thing around two years ago!

Now, pardon me if I'm missing something fundamental here, but no-one in their right mind goes around grabbing naked electrical wiring with wet hands if they've done it before, and discovered then that water's an excellent conductor, do they? In the same way, if you've got any common sense, you don't go talking to naughty journalist-chappies who have done the dirty on you in times gone bye! Having been stung in that particular way myself, even I know that; in fact, anyone with even a modicum of common-sense would quickly come to that conclusion, so what's going on?

The Beast's not a stupid man; both The Fart and I interviewed him for the fanzine not long after he came to the club, and at the time, we were both impressed by his articulate manner, and his command of the English language. Of one thing I'm sure; he's sufficiently intelligent to avoid any journalistic snares put in his path, be they of Danish origin or otherwise. Either The Beast's being incredibly na?ve or those remarks were of an off-the-cuff nature, and somehow, the whole thing got back to the British media and hence to the club. It wouldn't be difficult; right now, there are several ex-Albionites out there either playing or involved with Danish club football at a higher level. Matty Turner? Uncle Clive? I've no proof this did happen, but when I saw that hasty retreat in tonight's rags, it did make me stop and think.

Sometimes, people ask why the responses of some media people are at total odds with what's commonly known to be the state of affairs prevailing at a club. As we all know, the result can appear to be a slavish desire not to upset the apple-cart under any circumstances. The basic problem about reporting the doings of a football club - any football club - is that hacks, especially the local ones, are in hock to them to a greater or lesser degree. Things go on sometimes that simply can't be reported, not necessarily because of the libel laws, although that may play a significant part in a decision not to go to press with something, but because if the hack concerned sails too close to the wind, or is in any way controversial or derogatory, then suddenly, things start to happen. Access to players, or the manager, becomes difficult to get, not to mention Press Conferences. By some magical process, the diaries of club officials become so full, it's impossible for them to see anyone for the next zillion years or so. Not only that, in the case of broadcasters, suddenly, facilities for live reporting of games are withdrawn. One wrong word, and a reporter can quickly find him or herself declared more of a pariah than Bin Laden. I'm not banging anyone's drum on their behalf here, but it might be worth bearing that in mind the next time you perceive some media person or another to be nestling uncomfortably close to the soiled anal sphincter of the game's glitterati.

And finally? Heard the joke about the bloke from Wolverhampton who appeared on 'The Weakest Link' and experienced great confusion about the meaning of the word 'Duplex'? No; it's not a joke, it really did happen, and what's more, The Old Fart, who took great delight in ringing me with the news tonight, witnessed the whole sorry caper. Although he didn't know what they were, he was convinced there wreren't any in Wolverhampton, much to Ann Robinson's great delight. Talk about feeding a line.

And, that's not all; apparently, a performance of 'Cats' in Wolverhampton's Grand Theatre was disrupted after only five minutes by what the E and S reckoned was a power cut. So devastating was the problem to the performance, the audience had to be sent home. The local rag are blaming a sub-station fault elsewhere for what happened, but we know better, don't we, children? Here's my message to Wolverhampton, then; maybe they ought to start paying their electricity bills on time like normal people do, instead of bypassing the bloody meter by illegal means...?

 - Glynis Wright

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