The Diary

21 July 2003: What this column did on it's hols! (Day 7)

We rose early on Monday morning to find the weather outside a total contrast to the absolute scorcher we?d enjoyed over the weekend. No joyously-golden sun illuminated our lives, just overcast all the way, with an ominous slate-grey/black gloom in the distance heralding the likely prospect of thunderstorms before long. Also disappointing was our breakfast; I suppose those delightfully-informal al fresco repasts at the Skibhus had spoilt us a tad, but the hostel?s Danish offering, although plentiful, was distinctly lacking in the ?personal touch? we?d enjoyed courtesy of our previous hosts. Never mind, though; we were hungry, and the stuff was there to consume ad lib, so we got stuck in with gusto, both cornflakes and bread disappearing with the minimum of fuss. One peculiar note, though, and that was the preserves on offer. These were advertised as ?home-made? which they undoubtedly were, but someone, somewhere, had grossly underestimated the amount of boiling time necessary to enable pectin to work its magic and set the fruit to the required jelly-like consistency; the end result, although delicious when spread onto toasted bread, was distinctly runny, and care had to be taken not to let it stray onto clothes. Trouble was, ?care? and this column don?t sit easily together, therefore it came as no surprise at all to subsequently discover several tell-tale blackcurrant-ish stains on my stripy Holy Garment...

Once we?d eaten, it was off once more to discover what we could of Odense in the time that remained to us before that night?s game, at Horne. High time we resumed our efforts to journey to the Zoo, we thought. Incidentally, opponents of such places can go easy here as prior to our visit, the knowledgable Gitte had assured us that the establishment had been constructed primarily with the welfare of the animals in mind. Shifting ourselves to the bus station, then, we quickly located the correct route, which had the additional bonus of dropping is off right outside the entrance. It was while we waited in the queue to get in that the first drops of rain appeared on the bone-dry pavement, but no worries; that?s all they were, just drops, so we thought little of it ? until we got inside. We?d just rounded the open-air part of the ring-tailed lemurs? abode, when the heavens opened with a vengeance. Plan B was swiftly called for, so we dived into the lemurs? place again until that lot of precipitation decided to go somewhere else to play, which it did within a matter of minutes. Out once more, and down to where the ostriches and emus hung out; as this seemed a good time as any to stock up on piccies which could be framed once home, or used in the fanzine (you?d be surprised what does eventually end up there!) my camera was quickly clicking like crazy; it was while I was doing my photographic thing that the ostriches suddenly ran from the area like bats out of hell. Was it feeding-time already? The truth was stranger still; not one streak of lightning or clap of thunder had seared their way across the murky sky up to then, but within less than a minute of their flight, the sky flashed and the thunder roared with a vengeance. How the hell had they known?

Once more, the rain belted down, so we sought refuge in the ape-house. Some might say that was a highly appropriate location for us both, so by putting it in writing, I?ve saved you all the bother, so there?.. I have to say that it was time well spent, because those chimps were certainly good entertainment value. As I explained to ?Im Indoors, chimpanzees share about 98% of our DNA, and it really showed sometimes. Also charming were the young ones; indeed, one chimp was suckling one little mite, clearly a new arrival. Fascinating stuff, as they disported themselves around all their toys and gymnastic equipment, and yet more photo-opportunities for me. On, then, to look at the small pride of lions who lived nearby, also the tigers, handsome beasts that they are. Another pause to shelter from the rain, which had recommenced with something of a vengeance, then into the excellent but smallish aquarium, part of which was fashioned in the likeness of a South American rainforest riverbank. No doubt my pictures of their resident seals will also be making their appearance in GD before the new season?s reached maturity. Out again, and, much to our pleasure, the sun had reappeared. Marvellous; this meant there was a good chance that night ?s game would be drip-free. Although the animals were mostly the usual kind normally seen in zoos, Odense?s still held one surprise for us, and that was their resident colony of prairie-dogs. Very similar to South African meerkats, they are, and with similarly-fascinating inclinations towards burrowing, and working as a team, with one acting as look-out, but I?d never clapped eyes on them in captivity before. A long pause to watch these small rodents do their thing, a purchase of ice-cream at the souvenir shop, than it was back to base for a short rest before joining the rest of our supporters on Dave The Mammoth?s transport of delight.

I have to say at this juncture, it was most considerate of Dave Holloway to ordain that the coach taking us all to Horne for the game versus Mdjyttland picked up outside MacDonalds, just a scant minute?s walk from our base. We rolled up in leisurely fashion at around ten to five, but already there were Baggies inside, indulging in a crafty pre-match burger-scoff. With customary Danish punctuality, our transport rolled up not long afterwards, and we all dived on; true to form, Gitte and Ivor had brought with them enough beer to float the Titanic, all conveyed in a gigantic cool-box, and certainly ample refreshment for the thirty or so souls on board, who would be joined on the return journey by those who?d made their own way to the ground. Although only around twenty miles or so from the city, Horne really is out in the sticks; the proof of the pudding was in the ride through the outskirts of the city, then a meandering journey through delightfully sunny country roads, with those madly-flailing wind turbines ? Denmark obtains around 20% of its energy from this source ? everywhere you looked, and the coastline shimmering in tantalising fashion way into the distance. On arrival in the village, we found the butcher?s shop where the only bus to the place terminated, all right, but of the ground, there was no sign! Help! We drove out of the other end of the place ? so small, one blink and you missed it - but still no joy, so directions were sought; our destination was finally located some distance down what amounted to a dirt-track. One hell of a walk from the main drag for those coming on foot, and the rapid realisation for us that had we arrived by public transport as originally intended, making that last bus back at nine would have been something of a sprint!

Having alighted from the coach, we then entered the ground (us executive-types got in without paying!) and rapidly discovered there an atmosphere not dissimilar to that of a village fete back home. A football field simply roped off, bright and warm evening sunshine, no terraces or stands, mums, dads and kids everywhere, a couple of beer tents (to which a tractor was delivering barrel-loads of fresh supplies as we arrived; had they been told, we wondered?), and more selling the ubiquitous Danish hot-dog, complete with all the condiments, swings, slides, roundabouts ? and a clump of our finest sunning themselves on a grassy bank behind one of the goals! It was at that point we were clobbered by journos from a local paper, Fyens Stiftstidiende, wanting the scoop on us Baggies supporters. The poor hack, who had been tipped off by Dick subscriber Michael Morsch, of Roskilde fame, tried to collar Gary and Richard, our father-son combo, first of all, who then passed them on to Long-Haired Mick, who, dying for a beer and not wishing to be our media-person this time round, then passed them on to us! Bugger, nowhere to run, and thanks a bundle, Mick! Still, it was a good opportunity for some positive publicity for our favourite football club, so we gave them plenty of quotable material, which they lapped up like gravy. Also, for reasons best known to themselves, they wanted a picture of me taking a pic of the players, which I did, to the obvious puzzlement of my subjects, who were relaxing on a grassy bank prior to taking up boots and shinpads for the cause. For some reason, Russell Hoult looked the most baffled of the lot. Having done our bit for PR, it was then on to the serious business of filling our faces with hot-dogs and getting to grips with stronger waters, washing-down, for the use of. As there was such a pleasant evening going for us, I decided to shift to the touchline behind one of the goals, and take my pictures from there. Trouble was, because of difficulties in recharging my camera batteries earlier ? idiot that I was, I?d neglected to bring a European adapter with me! - it was going to be a close-run thing as to whether my power would run out before the final whistle.

As things turned out, my electronic bag of photographic tricks did give up the ghost before the end, but not before I?d augmented our collection of stock Baggies pictures to a considerable degree. In any case, it made a rather nice change to simply crap out on the damp, warm grass and watch what was happening on the field of play. Such was the laid-back nature of the place, I was intrigued to see a fellow-photographer take up position adjacent to my spot, expensive camera equipment in one hand, and a crafty pint of Tuborg in the other!

At least this time we ended up the winners by two goals to nil, a major cause for celebration being the fact that Hughsie was one of those on the score-sheet! In fact, putting away that strike had an extraordinary effect on the lad, a bit like sticking the business-end of a live electric cable up that part of his anatomy where the sun don?t shine too often; from the on in, whenever our local hero got the ball, you had the distinct feeling that now Lee had finally tasted blood, he was lusting for even more! Also looking good was young Lloyd Dyer, whose useful runs up the flank were surpassing anything Clem could produce. Trouble is, I know what will happen; our leader will give the lad games until the start of hostilities proper, then will drop him like a red-hot rivet. Or am I getting even more cynical in my old age? Still, we ended the tour with a win for our trouble, which, after all said and done, was a nice way to round off things. Incidentally, as we exchanged views and guzzled our brews prior to joining the return coach, along came Gitte, wearing an Albion training-top! How come? Simple. Prior to the game versus her beloved OB, our little Danish mate had approached one of our back-room staff and cheekily asked him for one of those garments. Quite a brass neck, you might think, but come the Monday game, Gitte buttonholed him once more, pre-match, and this time, her request was granted. Result? One more Baggie added to the pile!

Talking of ?piles?, that?s exactly what we did at half-nine, onto our waiting bus, snuggled nicely alongside the team coach; this time, we had a full house, the numbers being augmented by those independent outward travellers I mentioned earlier. A pleasant drive through the rapidly-darkening countryside, and we were back in Odense once more. Time to celebrate ? but where? Suddenly, a flash of inspiration; there was a pub nearby that sold really cheap beer, only around 12 kroner (?1.20) a go. Anyone fancy it? OK, then ? is the Pope a Catholic? Within minutes we were piling into the place ? sorry, forgotten the name ? and making the proprietor a very happy man. Why on earth is it we leave it to the last night to find a cheap place to drink? As the beer began to flow, the songs began; first of all, discordant accompaniments to Abba and Boney M, then some warblings of the Albion kind, ?Willie, Willie Johnston, Willie Johnston on the wing??? being one. It was at this point that an elderly Japanese tourist made his mark on the proceedings; drunk as a skunk, possessive of a grin that would have had a Cheshire Cat yowling with envy, he then proceeded to waltz amongst us, waving a beer-bottle in all directions, hilariously ?conducting? our boozy little choir. Quite content with life, he was, as he should have been; Oriental people have a strange metabolism that renders them incapable of processing alcohol efficiently, the upshot of all this is they get blotto far more quickly than we do and on lesser quantities of the offending liquid! A rather useful skill in a city where the cost of alcohol is almost prohibitive...

Back to our accommodation, then, promises from Ivor and Gitte to meet us in the station bar at ten-thirty the following morn ringing in our ears. What a night, and what a tour...

 - Glynis Wright

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