The Diary

16 October 2004: Back To Baggies Reality Once More

It?s certainly strange, this ?back to civilisation? lark. There I was all this week, out there in the sticks, observing Mother Nature?s vivid efforts to put her summer-weary children to bed before the advent of the long, long winter, and capturing for posterity on memory card those russets, gaudy golds, and vibrant oranges, with not a care in the world. The prevailing mood was mellow, just like the season - and then I had to spoil it all by returning to reality, aka the Black Country, this afternoon. My favourite football team awaits, of course, and just like time and tide, it doesn?t tarry.

Not that we completely deprived ourselves of our weekly eleven-a-side fix; on Saturday, we made the 15 mile trip from our holiday home to the outskirts of Hereford to observe the county?s second highest-performing football club, Westfield, in action versus (yes, before you ask, I do know, it?s a local side!) Causeway Town. Their place is a modest affair by our standards; one small stand, a social club-cum-refreshment bar immediately adjacent to one end of the pitch, Bulmers Cider brewery chimneys chucking out steam like crazy behind that, with Edgar Street, home of The Bulls, just 200 yards or so distant as the cow-pat flies. But what with the cathedral town?s cursed one-way system and everything, an awful lot further should you chose to employ the infernal combustion engine to get there instead. The final score? Zero, zilch, nul points, but more missed sitters over the course of the 90 minutes than a drunken sailor suffering an acute attack of the squits in a Force Nine gale. And a good hefty dose of what might be described as ?honest, robust action?, if you get my drift.

On Monday night, our ?prescribed maintenance dose? came in a slightly-unusual form. Sure, Hereford were away ?oop North? to Accrington, a fair distance by anyone?s lights, but they were live on the box, so we compromised by finding a suitable watering-hole from which to view it. Mike, the genial host of our nearest boozer in those parts, The Compasses, doesn?t have Sky, sadly, but some of his regulars did point us in the direction of a pub that does have it on tap; the Farmer?s Arms, in Presteigne, just up the road. Which, in case you didn?t know, is a quaint sort of place just inside the Welsh border ? oh, soddit, let?s not bandy euphemisms here, it?s the sort of village seemingly populated by one man and/or his dog. Every time we go there, it?s closed. Either that or someone?s craftily dropped a neutron bomb ? you know, the one that totally destroys life but leaves buildings standing ? and not bothered to tell anyone. Mind you, as we drove through those deserted streets that evening, I did achieve a ?first, of sorts ? spotting three young kids, all on bikes, pedalling like fury along the now-darkened thoroughfare. Presumably, so laid back is the place, even the local perverts can?t be bothered.

Once inside, The Farmer?s Arms presented a stark but pleasing contrast to the seeming lack of humanity found elsewhere. Glory be, what I call a ?proper pub?, no corporate image to be seen anywhere, just two small rooms, a stone-flagged bar, adorned with various silvery trophies on just about every bit of shelving you cared to look at, and complete with minuscule serving area, colourful locals propping up the counter, and others in a corner playing some sort of ancient pub game which involved the throwing of hoops from a distance onto a fixed metal spike approximately six inches long. Having never seen this before, ever, and what with the archaic method of scoring ? moving coloured rectangular wooden slots across a wall-mounted board ? the passage of time was suspended once I became totally spellbound by the whole thing, which didn?t take long. Anyone who can enlighten me further as to the name of this venerable pub sport, I?d be more than grateful for the info. Oh yes ? one weensy concession to the 21st century, as promised, they did have Sky in the place, so a ?pint of the best? it was, then.

Such delightful surroundings in which to plonk one?s butt, bat the breeze with the locals, and imbibe at one?s leisure. Shame, then (well, more shame ?Im Indoors, really) about the game. Things started off very badly indeed for the Bulls; within seconds of the start, they found themselves a goal down, mostly through some truly shocking defending. Oh dear, Tucka, your marking was awful, beyond doubt. Recovering their composure a trifle, they did force a stunning save out of Accrington?s keeper ? I reckon even Houlty would have had more than a little trouble with the shot - a few minutes later, but it was only come just after the restart before the visitors could level the scores once more. From then on in, the game seemed set fair to end with honours shared all round, but just three minutes from time, whatever gremlins were plaguing the cider-slurpers struck once more with a vengeance. Another example of the kamikaze school of defending, and the visitors found themselves once more in arrears, with no time left whatsoever to rectify the situation. Oh, whoops.

Returning to the present once more, on our return this afternoon, we were presented with a small windfall, and nothing to do with the current glut of apples either. On opening our post, we discovered that Ernie had come up trumps on our behalf. Nothing to make us want to book a world cruise, or leave the area, so don?t bother with the begging mails just yet, but a nice little surprise all the same. Unexpected, but very welcome. See, somebody loves us! Later on, much later, if truth be told, we were visitated by our mad Welsh printer. Yep, it?s ?new Dick time? folkies, so there?ll be a fresh copy hitting the streets before tomorrow?s game. One slight digression, though; in the past, I?ve alluded to the predilection of our Celtic inheritor of Caxton?s noble art in an unceasing ability to come up with increasingly improbable, but genuine, reasons as to why he couldn?t make the agreed time. Today?s was illness. His. Quite serious it sounded, too; the guy?s lost around two stone in a matter of weeks, and it didn?t half show on his face.

At first, the medics were totally baffled, shoving tubes and cameras into just about every bodily orifice you can think of, plus a few more you can?t ? unless you?re a devotee of the ?cottaging? cult, that is ? and drawing, for test purposes, enough venous blood to keep Dracula in business for yonks. A shame, also, that at the precise moment Paul walked into GD Towers, there happened to be a (highly gory) scientific documentary on the box ? all about bubonic plague! Probably about the only thing the quacks didn?t consider in their diagnostic deliberations ? Paul couldn?t rightly remember the fancy name they finally hung on his condition - but a little judicious questioning from myself quickly established that the source of the trouble was coeliac disease, caused by gluten intolerance, which, simply put, means a problem with foodstuffs like bread. Still, it could have been much, much worse; at one point, they were seriously thinking in terms of bowel cancer, so anything else has got to be a bonus, really.

After a week spent contemplating on nothing, pretty much, save the most effective method of photographing mushrooms and toadstools to best advantage (don?t knock it, I?ve now got some close-up images of various British fungi that would truly astonish anyone), it?s quite a feat of mental gymnastics to turn my attention to our favourite football club once more. Tomorrow?s close encounter with Canaries really is a ?must-win?. The frightening thought is, they must be thinking precisely the same thing about us right now. Don?t expect silky skills and ball-artistry of the first order to win the day for us (well, I wouldn?t from a Megson side, anyway, but perhaps, in the interests of diplomacy, it?s better not to go there!), because this one is going to be brutal, with a capital ?B?. We need those precious Prem points, and so do they, so the whole thing?s likely to descend into a war of attrition ere too long has elapsed on the clock.

Hopefully, our leader will stick with wot won it for us versus Bolton a couple of weeks ago, which would mean The Great Zoltan getting the managerial nod instead of Scouse Jase. Should that prove to be the case, then presumably, our Welsh international will be left on the bench for this one. Again. At the back, will he change things by sticking Paul Robinson back into his socket instead of Albrechtsen? Sure, he?s probably fit, pretty much, but would it be wise to go changing what is a proven winning combo, albeit for a total of one game only? Bearing that in mind, the main armament also poses a bit of a dilemma for our leader. Earnie slotted one in for the leek-munchers in midweek, so has rediscovered the scoring habit once more. Risk splitting up the Horse/Kanu partnership, or to opt for safety by leaving things as they are? Not easy, is it, but personally, I hope he sticks with the side that did it for us versus the Trotters. A little bit of continuity, a semblance of team-spirit, even, goes a long way, even in these financially hard-nosed times. My prediction? My record for these things has been abysmal of late, but I?ll stick my neck out a tad this time by predicting a microscopically-narrow 1-0 triumph for us.

Talking about financial hard times, that sobering thought does serve to seguee me neatly into yet another gripe concerning our football club. I see our snatchpenny lot have now cottoned onto another nasty little trick with which to prematurely part us from our hard-earned moolah. Shortly before going away, we discovered, much to our astonishment, Pompey and Arsenal tickets were due to go on sale to away season-ticket holders as from last Monday ? which meant they were first put up for grabs approximately SIX WEEKS before the event. A bit much, especially when you realise regular supporters have only just flashed a considerable wodge of cash for both Palace and Southampton tickets (almost 200 quid, in our case), plus travel expenses there and back on the day. Plus programmes, refreshments, blah, blah. Ouch.

There?s also another troubling consideration; you don?t need to possess the economic genius of Milton Friedman to realise that by putting them on sale right now means Albion?s bank balance will accumulate a considerable sum of interest at the expense (literally!) of their most loyal customers - that?s me, you, and the rest of the whole damned crew to you, squire - in the weeks before they have to send monies received to the home side. And, because they?re on sale to AST holders first, if you?re one of that merry band, there?s only a very narrow ?window? for purchase, unless you want to take your chances with the rest, so you?re hamstrung, basically. (Thank goodness for The Fart coming to our rescue in our absence, I say!) All this, and in a town where indices of deprivation still rocket sky-high, and even for people in gainful employment, money is still tight ? thanks for nothing, Albion. Or should my complaint be addressed instead to those shadowy but predatory men in suits lurking just behind the metaphorical arras? Surely no genuine Albion person would come up with this one ? er - would they?

One word of praise, though. An eminently sensible idea indeed, to put Danny Murphy out on loan to The Saddlers for three months, as we did the other week. The only thing that surprises me about all this is the fact we didn?t so it much sooner. Players, any players, desperately need the life-blood provided by regular first-team football; without it, they simply stagnate then wither on the vine, and Danny?s no exception. The arrival of our Polish custodian must have seemed the kiss of death to the bloke. I?m damned sure Danny will do a peachy job for our relegation-haunted near-neighbours ? and God knows they need a decent keeper, being stuck right at the wrong end of the table as they are ? so the best of luck to the lad, say I.

And finally?? One. Before I depart for the night, let?s give a big Diary hand to a certain Mr. Otunba Olusegan. Why? Because he?s a Nigerian government official, that?s why. And because, in addition to carrying out all those all-important ministerial duties for the African state, in whatever spare time he has from these taxing tasks of state, he?s also a self-declared authority on spotting latent (and not-so latent) homosexuality in footballers, to whit a certain Mr. Kanu, and Mr. Jay Jay Ocacha, of West Bromwich Albion and Bolton Wanderers respectively.

It?s those braided barnets that?s a dead giveaway, according to him. As he so sagaciously opined to the world press recently: ?Our youth are taking after their great football stars. In developing countries, the braiding of hair and ear-rings have a sense of homosexuality?? He further suggested that for these heinous ?crimes?, the aforementioned dynamic duo, both of whom just happen to be two of Nigeria?s better players, by the way, should either be suspended from football for a very long period of time indeed, or banned for life, even. All of which gets me wondering as to who?s going to be the first silly sod (or person of suicidal tendencies; delete as applicable) to casually sidle up to our master of ball wizardry in some Black Country bar, somewhere, then whisper all slanted-mouth and sideways to him, ?Yow?ve gorr cowin? ?omosexual ?air, mate, yow ?ave!??

Two. Blundering Wolves keeper - and what seems to be their answer to former Baggies custodial ?genius? Paul Crichton - Paul Jones has been put up for sale on internet trading site ebay. The opening bid for Jones, who was described as "cheap as chips" was just 99p. But for a long time the highest bid stuck on just over THREE QUID, with ?3.50 being the highest bid posted by Friday before last. And, in a derogatory quip about the keeper's Welsh background, the prankster also offered to throw in an inflatable sheep for the highest bidder. Now hang on a cotton-pickin? minute ? never mind the bloody Welsh, given the tendency of most Dingles (they lost to Forest tonight ? tee, hee!) to resemble the zoological remnants of evolutionary theory Darwin couldn?t quite figure out where to stick in the end, I would have thought there?d be more than enough demand for such bestial ?marital aids? back in Wolverhampton!

 - Glynis Wright

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