The Diary

03 December 2004: Shiver Me Timbers, Jim Lad - It's Pompey, Tomorrow!

Greetings, once more ? and, with that, it is my profound pleasure and privilege to announce that the back of my skull no longer feels like a follower of a nearby lower-division club has lovingly wrapped a half-end brick around it. A great improvement, that one, as whanging great headaches do nothing whatsoever for the furtherance of the old social whirl thing, not to mention the allegedly-creative juices of this particular column. I may not have attended our reserve tryst with Everton on Monday night, but what we did witness the evening after that was the trouncing of Blackpool, very much old-style Third Division, by Hereford United, very much Conference, thank you very much, in the quarter finals of the allegedly-northern bit of the Mickey Mouse Cup.

The whole thing took place on a night when the Edgar Street temperature was just on the uncomfortable side of ?cold?, and I?m willing to bet it wasn?t just the all-too rapidly-plummeting column of mercury that had The Tangerines a-shivering in their boots, either. The visitors, despite somewhat indifferent League form this season, were the current holders of the trophy, so it never was going to be an easy billing for The Bulls; additionally, (and surprisingly so, given the freezing weather) Blackpool managed to round up well over a hundred of their keenest bods and cart them off down the M6 to The Land Of Zoider so as to provide some ear-bashing noise, on-tap, so to speak.

Not that it did them any good, mind; right from the start, the home side went at ?em like a terrier on strong amphetamines and wanting to perpetrate some serious GBH on the first itinerant bunny it saw. The visitors? rearguard, clearly not expecting the sacrificial-lamb to bleat so volubly, quickly found themselves one in arrears. And that not long after the home side had missed around two or three chances that positively sat up and begged to be put away.

Come the second sitting, Blackpool (my other half, upon loudly denouncing their strip, which bore an uncomfortably-close resemblance to that of a lower-division side just up the A41 from West Bromwich, was comforted by a fellow Bulls aficionado, whose not-so-diplomatic suggestion: ?Perhaps they?re a ?tribute-group??? had me practically wetting my undergarments with laughter), managed to get themselves back into the proceedings to a degree more in accordance with their much-vaunted ?two-divisions-above-you-lot? status. A moment?s Bull defensive inattention ? and they?d equalised, with what must have been their only nailed-on copper-bottomed chance of the entire game, up till then.

On ploughed the proceedings, and, for the third time on the bounce in this particular tournament, extra time and penalties ? both of which had ensured Hereford?s progression in the competition on two previous occasions - loomed very large indeed. Not good news for either party, really; Blackpool needed to be fresh for their FA Cup weekend, while Hereford, also involved in the FA Cup Second Round action come Saturday, and wanting a money-spinning crack at the big boys in the third, needed the thing sorting pretty urgently themselves.

With around ten minutes left to play, Graham Turner, Bulls? owner/chairman/manager/ Edgar Street general factotum and part-time unpaid brickie?s labourer (dead true, that last one; The Bulls are currently having their dressing-rooms rebuilt, and being pretty hard-up, still, that?s how they?re watching the pennies!) decided to make two lots of changes, one of which meant the entry into the fray of none other than a certain Lee Mills, of whom I have spoken before, into the fray. Relegated to the subs? bench that night because he literally ran himself into the ground versus Tamworth the previous weekend, on he came, in what was clearly a last throw of the dice for the home side. And, just as I was mentally making arrangements to quickly visit the conveniences once the ref had blown for the end of normal time ? it went and happened. Three minutes from the end, over came yet another Bulls cross onto the Tangerines? far post, but instead of landing on the head of a Blackpool defender this time, up popped Mister Mills, seemingly from nowhere, to well and truly nut it in. Or so it seemed at the time; I?ve since heard from other, better-placed, Bulls that there was more than a tadge of the old Diego Maradona ?Hand Of God? business about that strike ? but come on, had it been us in, say, the quarter finals of the FA Cup, would we have been arguing the toss overmuch about the circumstances?

Legal or otherwise, 2-1 it was, then, and although Blackpool did try to storm the barricades in a last-ditch attempt to sneak a very late equaliser indeed, they needn?t have bothered. The score stayed the same right until the final whistle, so The Bulls ? a big ?well done? also to former Baggie Tam Mkandawire, who played right out of his skin tonight, could be The Bulls might have a job hanging on to him, should they fail to make the League two seasons in a row - are now well in the Big Time, comparatively speaking. Which, in effect, means the Northern Area Semi-Finals, although, as I?ve said previously, they are situated geographically further south than Shrewsbury, who are plonked in ? yes, you?ve guessed it! Only three more games now sunder them from the final proper, and history being well and truly being made by Hereford becoming the first non-league side ever to get that far. Looking at Tuesday night from a more pragmatic viewpoint, that win also deposited around ?8K into The Bulls? well-battered biscuit-tin, a sum which doesn?t half come in handy when you?re trying to refurbish the old dressing-rooms, and you?re having to use your own chairman (and, I suspect, first team coach as well!) as builder?s labourers, on-site! And, lest I forget, the next stage of the tournament is where the Albion connection really kicks in, folkies.

As it?s the northern area semis (the draw is to be made early tomorrow morning, as I understand it), there are three other teams to go into the hat along with The Bulls: Tranmere Rovers, Wrexham, and Oldham, who are, respectively, managed by Brian Little, he of the folded arms and impassively-featured ? think the mad-looking, moustachioed, pop-eyed bloke from ?Sparks?, and you?ve got it! - touchline stare; Denis Smith, he of the ex-Stoke lineage, and the rapidly-acquired realisation he was well out of his managerial depth with us; and Brian Talbot, he of the massively-protruding olfactory apparatus that could (and should!) have been cannibalised by British Aerospace for Concorde spares well before the decision was finally made to put the whole fleet into well-earned retirement. Either that, or he should have rubbed noses with Barry Manilow, and the pair of them could then have fought over custody of all the little snouts, snotty hankies, Vick Sinex and all.

Chuck into that nasally-well-endowed mix a certain John Trewick, and however the draw pans out tomorrow, you?ve got yourselves a cup-tie that might as well label itself an Albion Old Boys? Reunion come the day of the event. And just in case you?re wondering just how far any other non-league side has ever gone in the competition to date, apparently Halifax Town ? yes, THAT Halifax! ? went to the same stage last season, before being well and truly turfed out of the competition by ? erm ? Blackpool, who then went on to lift the ruddy thing, of course.

Oh ? one other thought, before I leave this section for topics new. I?ve now been able to have a butchers at SuperBob?s goal for Tamworth on a Conference website, and it really is a wondrous sight to behold. A strike, if I may say so, fully worthy of any past efforts the great man scored for us in any division or competition you might care to mention. What happened? Well, it was pretty much as I said the other night. Bob got the ball about the place where the biggest part of the centre-circle ?D? bulged towards the Hereford goal. Their keeper was a mile off his line, and didn?t our former striker know it; all Supes then had to do was look up a little, pray to his footballing gods, give the ball an almighty wallop, simultaneously making sure he?d got plenty of ?lift? on it, of course ? and, unlike his similar effort for us versus Fulham last time in the Prem, he managed to get everything dead right this time.

The keeper flailed and clawed in desperation at thick air, but such was the impossibility of retrieving his situation, he might well have had better luck advising the Pope to take up Buddhism as a hobby instead. That ball was only ever going one way, and there was sod-all the home side could do about it. My other half?s Bulls chums told me on the night of the Blackpool game that so in awe were they all of what Bob had just done, they, and most of those Hereford followers around them in the main stand, immediately stood up and broke into spontaneous applause in well-deserved recognition of that incredible goal feat!

Talk about a Tale Of Two Cities. To what do I refer, then? Easy, peasy, that one. In the blue corner we have a multiplicity of Baggies spitting red hot rivets about overzealous stewarding in the Smethwick preventing people standing up and performing a function that?s second-nature to any football supporter worth their salt ? singing, my dear, singing ? what else? ? and in the (literally!) red corner, you have Mancs galore waxing lyrical about being allowed to do precisely that with nary a hint of let or hindrance from the ?orange peril?! This, by the way, comes from the chap who told me about his brother not being allowed to stand up despite the fact he had a medical condition that either precluded sitting, or made such an activity very painful indeed.

And how did he know about the opposition and what our stewards thought about their ambulant antics? Easy ? he communicated with some of em, via the wonders of cyberspace! Seems to me, and not for the first time, that something called CONSISTENCY is urgently needed at this level; either you allow away supporters to cavort to their heart?s content during a game, or you place a blanket-ban on everyone doing similar. That way, EVERYONE knows where the authorities ? erm ? ?stand? on the issue, and baggy no returns. Or is my proposed commonsense solution to the problem too easy, I wonder?

We now turn our attention toward tomorrow?s long-distance trip to Portsmouth, home of the Royal Navy, when not hosting Premiership football at Fratton Park, of course. And what a troubled place that is at the moment ? Fratton Park, I mean, not the Navy! - what with the recent but acrimonious departure of Harry Redknapp over what seemed to be an almighty difference of opinion with their chairman over how much say the Director Of Football should have in selecting potential transfer targets, among other things. And, of course, the awful 3-0 League Cup stonking they got at Vicarage Road earlier in the week. What with that, and the absolute turmoil the place appears to be in right now, tomorrow might well be an excellent time to perpetrate a bitsy ?smash and grab? raid on ?em.

But first, a little naval history. Not the mind-numbingly-boring sort involving kings, dates and battles, more the sort concerning the richly-woven argot created by those who served in the Fleet around the early-to-mid 20th century. It?s not at all well-known, that; the Royal Navy having (or having once had) a terminology and language all of its own. And quite a lot passed into mainstream English, incidentally ? you use naval slang every time you describe a ?square meal?, declare something to be ?choc-a-bloc?, call someone a ?son of a gun?, do something ?in a trice?, lament because you?ve ?let the cat out of the bag?, describe someone as either ?first-rate?, or, conversely, ?sailing very close to the wind?, and so forth. And there?s more. In times of yore, a sailor could scoff some pot-mess with duff for afters, hide a rabbit in his Number Ones, brought especially out of his ditty box for the occasion, see the Pig?s Orphan about a last dog and all night in on shore in Aggie Weston?s, make sure his uniform was not only pusser, but tiddly, then head off to a hostelry to strangle a baron.

What does it all mean, then? Easy ? our nautical friend had a portion of stew with suet-pudding for a sweet, then, prior to going off duty, hiding some duty-free tobacco ? ?rabbit? ? about his person, to use as ?currency? ashore, his best uniform having been taken out of its storage chest first. Having done that, and changed his clothing accordingly, he then saw the Petty Officer ? approximately equivalent to an army sergeant ? about getting an overnight pass, and whilst doing so, mentioning he intended to stay at a popular seamen?s mission. Having checked his uniform conformed to naval dress regulations, he also made sure that once out of sight of authority, he could then quickly alter said uniform in several subtle ways then highly popular with ratings of that era.

One such example, not involving really drastic alterations, was wearing the cap perched right on the back of the head, with the little bow on the ribbon bearing the ship?s name turned to the middle of the forehead, and not above the left ear, its ?official? position. Another, more permanent change (lots of sailors were pretty adept with a needle and thread in those days) was widening the gussets of his bellbottoms to a width and appearance more in keeping with the ?flares? of the seventies, and hoping like hell a ?pig? (officer) didn?t spot him incorrectly dressed on the street. Strangle a baron? Nothing to do with bumping off members of the British peerage; that expression meant going to a pub, and once there, seeking out a civilian, preferably homosexual, then befriending said civvy with a view towards inveigling the poor chap to keep him in buckshee drinks for the remainder of the evening! On a possible ?promise?, not to be actually delivered, come closing time? Naughty, but very, very likely.

Of course, on all these jaunts, he might well be accompanied by a ?townie? (a mate hailing from the same part of the world as he), an ?oppo? (someone of the same rank and/or performing similar duties aboard ship), or he might even bring (clew up with) a ?skin?, along for a bit of - erm - ?education?. In other words, a boy of about 15 or 16, not yet fully conversant with the arcane ways of the Navy, both on ship and on shore. Our hero might even have risked offering to show the lad the ship?s ?golden rivet?. Had he tried that one on, if caught, he could well have been in serious trouble; pretending to show a ?nozzer? (boy seaman) this mythical item was a time-honoured way of enticing an innocent youngster down to the rarely-inspected bowels of the ship, and then making ?certain advances?, shall we say, well out of earshot of authority!

There you are ? this is the column that not only talks about our favourite football club, it also tries to chuck in a bit of interesting trivia about away destinations as well. Not that the Navy?s like that today, of course; not only is the job now something far more suited to egg-heads rather than musclemen, formerly one of masculinity?s last remaining bastions, they now actually let - eek! - GIRLIES serve on their vessels, much to the eternal disgust of what might be termed ?the old and bold?!

Returning to the thorny subject of ?intrepid voyagers? of a totally-different sort, then ? just what sort of side are we likely to go with tomorrow? Well, it looks very much as though Kanu is back in full working order once more, so that means we?ll very likely operate with him at the ?sharp end?, in a 4-4-2 thingy, with Earnie comprising our equivalent of the Trident submarine nuclear deterrent (see, get me going on Naval parlance, and now I just can?t stop!). I did consider Robbo sticking with packing the midfield and defence, and one only up front, but as my other half so rightly pointed out tonight, we really do have to go for this one tomorrow. Presumably, The Horse ? incidentally, the likelihood of him going to Leeds, as reported recently, is, I reckon, about as remote as that of George Hamilton MP becoming political correspondent for the Daily Telegraph ? will provide additional striking reserve should we need it.

As for the rest, I?m now speculating as to whether Robbo might be minded to give our resident Polish custodian a chance at the big-time for once. Reason? Well, the boo-boo that led to our conceding at The Arse was definitely down to Houlty, also there?s the small matter of his increasingly palpitation-inducing ball-work of late. Although we didn?t attend on Monday, I?ve since found out that Kuszczak was pulled off at half-time, and Miotto given the nod instead. Does this mean??? Houlty can do much, much better than he has, of late; he knows it, we know it, and so does our new leader. There?s nothing quite like a short spell on the bench to concentrate minds wonderfully, is there? At the back, I?m hoping Big Dave will be OK, but if he isn?t, then I assume Gaardsoe will step into the breech (oh dear, there I go again!).

Elsewhere, as it?s looking very much as though Mr. Contraceptive will fail the ultimate test ? the almighty wail of ?GAFFER!? that escaped his lips when the injury struck last weekend was pretty diagnostic, I reckon! - could it be we?ll see the prodigal?s return for this one? As Robbo seemed to hint in the E and S tonight, there?s no nasty ginger-headed men shouting awful things at him any more, so here?s a clean hanky, son, dry up all those tears, and just get on with it, my lad! My ?scores on the doors? prediction for tomorrow? Oh, blow it ? the vibes are looking very good for us as far as getting something from this one is concerned. Not only that, if we are genuinely serious about staying with the big boys, we simply HAVE to start winning some games, and bloody soon, too. How does a 2-1 away triumph tomorrow grab you?

And finally?. One. Yet another of many examples culled from my ongoing series: ?Wolverhampton People Are Thick ? Official?. This time, it was the turn of the TV Licensing people to make this earth-shattering but totally-incontrovertible discovery. How come? Well, according to the E and S (being a Wolverhampton publication, just how do they find enough local people with sufficient command of written and spoken English to train as journalists, I wonder?), those nice people with the detector vans decided to blitz the place around the time of Euro 2004, and The Olympics. More than 2,000 brain-deads in the area were well and truly caught in the old goggle-box-watching act, you?ll be pleased to know, but what really had me rolling in the aisles were some of the excuses proffered to the investigative staff once caught bang-to-rights. Example? ?I didn?t think it needed a UK TV licence; it?s a foreign TV!? And, should you fancy a butchers at another bit of intellectually-challenged mental reasoning, but this time heard in Bluenose country, which was blitzed also: ?No, I haven?t got a licence, I suffer from vertigo!? The best one, though, has to be this particular gem: ?I?m afraid I can neither confirm or deny whether I have a TV. I don?t speak to ugly people!?

Two. And while we?re on the subject of local newspapers?. This time, my predatory eye was caught by the advert placed in last week?s Sandwell Chronicle looking for people with Irritable Bowel Syndrome to act as volunteers for some medical research project or another. Nothing remarkable in that, you might think, but the name of the malady, and the acronym ? ?IBS? - frequently used when discussing it, got me thinking a little. About our very own Noise, in fact. Presumably it?s a different sort of complaint ? ?IVS? - that affects him in everyday situations, one that becomes ?Irritable VOWEL Syndrome? once you?ve unravelled the true meaning of the letters in his particular case!

 - Glynis Wright

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