The Diary

15 July 2003: What this column did on it's hols! (Day 1)

The time - around 9am. The place - Birmingham Airport check-in area. The sighting? Red haired, distinctly balding, grey shirt, black trousers, rear view. Suspiciously Megson-like, and, when the apparition revealed itself unto us, our worst fears were confirmed. Yep - the Dear Leader had chosen to accompany the Dick Eds on the same flight. Not cattle-class - oh dearie me, no. Club Class, first cabin, the works. As he turned, memories of last season's acrimony resurfaced. "Blimey, it is him!" said I. "I'm out of here!" And I did, rapidly, with rather good cause, you will agree??

And, we were not alone. Also on the same flight were Neil Reynolds and missus Joan (whose match report appears elsewhere on this site), a couple who we'd previously seen at the recent S4A meeting (Ken and Jean) and a lad from Leighton Buzzard, Paddy. The flight itself was a dream. Baby-blue skies, with nary a cloud to sully my view of Blighty beneath, though this was marred slightly by a view of the Tat Yard as we gained height over DingleTown (shame the plane chose not to dump the contents of its toilets at that moment), then over a distinctly-sunny Hull, leaving our sceptered isle where the Humber meets the North Sea. A leisurely sandwich courtesy BMI, a pootle over part of Holland, an overview of our destination, Odense, and we were in Copenhagen. And that's where the trouble hit??

Would you believe, it took the best part of an hour to retrieve our baggage from the carousel? One small consolation, although The Ayatollah had elected to hob-nob with the elite, his luggage had been held up like the rest of the plebs - serve the bugger right. Oh, one other thing - he was accompanied by one Bernt Haas, although, much to our disappointment, there was nary a scorch-mark to be seen on his muscular posterior. As we were by now running somewhat behind schedule - Neil and Co had pre-booked seats on the 2.20 train to Odense - things became slightly hairy, so tempers rose in direct proportion to the amount of time spent watching the carousel revolve fruitlessly about its course. Eventually, around 50 minutes later - Eureka! The delay was something to do with the distinclty high-powered entourage I saw wafting their way through the arrivals area just before the appearance of our impedimenta, no arrival formalities for them, just bodies and baggage all taken straight through, without let or hindrance??

As we'd arrived together, we all decided to stick together, so we charged down to the Danish Railways bit en-masse. At least purchasing the tickets proved to be relatively straightforwards; within a relatively short space of time, we were on the platform below, and then onto the first of two trains to Odense. Shame the bloody thing pulled into the first half of the platform and we were at the other end. I'm not into running as a hobby these days, and neither am I at trying to enter carriages which are locked?..

Because of the airport delay, we didn't hit Odense until just gone five, and kick-off was at seven. As it happened, Neil and Joan were in the same hotel as us, so we shared a taxi there. Just enough time to dump our things, change, then head out in search of B1909, our opponents that evening. We had been assured by Mine Danish Hosts that the ground was a twenty-minute walk away. Er - it would have been, unfortunately, the directions given ran into a barbed-wire fence and Al The Phantom Piddler, not necessarily in that order. Al, by the way, is a well-known face at all Albion games, both home and away. If you really want to know how he got that awful sobriquet, just ask me when I'm flogging 'zines pre-match, sometime. Time for a detour; that wouldn't have mattered to this column except: a) The temperature was in the high 80's, and: b) My back was giving me considerable gyp by then. Remember the old adage: officers perspire, sergeants sweat, and we won't bother to go into what the privates do except to note that it's uinprintable?. Still, we did make the ground eventually, albeit by something of a pastoral route, only to discover on arrival that both Neil and Joan had reached Base Camp already, despite having departed some 30 minutes after the Dick Duo. Dontcha just hate some people sometimes?

I've said before that supporters need pre-season friendlies just as much as our finest; the summer break leaves us similarly ring-rusty, and it generally takes a game or three to really get back into the vocal flow. Similarly, the consumption of a glass (or three) is an excellent accompaniment to renewing old supporting acquaintances, debating our Nationwide prospects, that sort of thing. No surprise to see some familiar Albion faces, then: some that spring to mind are Long-Haired Mick, Sauce, Richie Ryan (who travelled courtesy of Ryanair, who else?), Mike Thomas and partner Linda, Dave The Mammoth, Kev Grice, clutching a camera in earnest for the first time in a barren twelve months, Stian Boe and Marianne, Bryn Jones, resident academic and scourge of Danish Railways, plus other half; Steve Flavell, who hasn't missed a game, home or away, in twenty years (does he qualify for a gold watch from Megson, I wonder?), and many, many more?.. More notable on that hot and sunny evening, though, were the absentees: where were Fab Traccana, The Warwick Baggies, Sutton Baggies Fraser and Andy, Deano and Dubbsey?..... Some are arriving come the weekend, the rest won't. Norm Bartlam, poor sod, is hors de combat through injury. A shame, that, as they're all superb company, and really make a pre-season tour a success on the boozing side of things.

A chance, also, to indulge in those Danish sausages (this time, of the frankfurter variety, shame!), and, personally, to wield my camera legitimately for the first time in ages. This through sheer necessity; our time in the Prem left us almost bereft of stock player shots, and last night was a marvellous opportunity to sort that out. The game has been covered by Neil, whose account is elsewhere on this site, suffice to say we emerged the two-one victors, the B1909 reply being a penalty. To clear up the confusion in Neil's report, Neil Clements was the offender. He clumsily conceded by bringing down one of their defenders. After the game, we all made a collective decision to storm Ryan's Bar, an Irish-themed hostelry in town, it says a lot for the patience of Danish taxi drivers that by employing a combination of (Anglo-Saxon) English, French and German, with a smidgen of broad Back Country courtesy Long Haired Mick we finally conveyed to them our request for three vehicles, which arived very promptly. Brilliant?..

A pleasant end to the day outside the bar for nine of us, the residual heat of the day still radiating from the surrounding buildings, as the lager and Guinness - four quid a pint, help! - flowed, like Proust, remembrance of 'times past'?.. A pre-season game in Ulster, machine gun-toting squaddies outside the stadium, Catholics one way, Prods the other, no standing behind the goals, by order?. Long-Haired, Mick, being strictly of the Albion persuasion, and no other, was most confused. Then there were transvestites in Milan during the trip to Brescia (one Baggie was actually spurned by one of these 'ladies'!), dodgy Italian chants from Albion supporters and snowball-fights between players and supporters at the Brescia ground, the marvellous boozer in town where the proprietor kindly laid on some post-match food for around twenty of us, totally gratis, the memories, more memories, more Guiness, (much!) more lager. A splendid epilogue to the day's activities and a foretaste of the many good times to come in this trip. We can't wait........

 - Glynis Wright

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