The Diary

10 December 2004: Charlton - An Addicks Agony, Or A Robbo Roasting?

Welcome to the pleasure-dome once more, and what a mixed bag it?s been over the previous few days. We?re now at that time of year when all things both natural and man-made are at their lowest ebb, what with the very late advent of daylight each morning, coupled with the equally-early onset of darkness come the afternoon. No wonder the pagan religions put so much store by celebrating the day of the winter solstice, December the 21st the time of year when those horrible long nights begin to ebb away, finally. Lacking sufficient opportunity to chuck a human sacrifice or two at the problem these days, some are attempting to inject a modicum of fun into the bleakness via those lavishly-illuminated Christmas displays you see outside so many people?s homes instead, and fair play to them for trying, but I?d hate to think of the size of their electric bills come the New Year.

And it would take something of pretty stunning proportions to temporarily alleviate my current gloom concerning the rather awful fortunes of our favourite football club, of late. Tomorrow, of course, it?s the turn of Alan Curbishley?s Charlton Athletic to visit The Shrine; not that I?m expecting very much from the encounter, mind. As the week?s progressed, I?ve had more than ample opportunity to reflect upon our recent misfortunes, and each and every time I?ve done that, my conclusions have been the same; bar the shouting, unless a miracle of similar proportions to the Resurrection happens, we?re well and truly down and out. Sorry, but that?s the way I feel, right now.

The microscopic quantity of good news I can shove under your noses is that it looks very much as though Cosmic Contraceptive will be up and running tomorrow following injury. As for the rest, will Robbo plump for The Pole In Goal, rather than the increasingly-error-prone Mr. Hoult? A brave decision if he does, but it?s a truism of football that you?re only as good as your last game, and sadly, Houlty?s most recent have not shown him in an awfully good light. After that awful ?oggie? versus Pompey, it might also be The Purse will be dropped (Should no-one claim him within 30 days, does he then become the property of the finder, I wonder?), and Tommy Gaardsoe given the nod instead. Bernt Hass? Hmmm. I don?t know about you lot out there, but every time I see him in our side, the more I get the willies about his ability to cut it at this level.

As far as the middle?s concerned, I?m currently wondering as to whether or not our leader will now judge the time is ripe for the insertion of Koumas into the slot. Let?s put it this way ? if Our Jase is selected, then goes and plays a blinder tomorrow, he?ll get noticed, which might well be the outcome he so desperately desires at the moment. Should he still be chucking a sulk at everyone, and he doesn?t, then he?s indisputably the architect of his own misfortune, isn?t he? Love us or hate us, the one thing he cannot afford to do right now is waltz around the pitch like someone deeply in thrall to some powerful mind-altering drug, or something. Or, for that matter, emulate Violet Elizabeth Bott at her very worst off it. As far as the strike-force is concerned, I can only hope we start with Kanu and Earnie, and The Horse quietly neighing on the bench; no more Rob Hulse, PLEASE, Robbo! My prediction? A narrow win, but it?s going to take a lot more than that to keep us up, and quite frankly, at the moment, I don?t consider what we currently have good enough to put a run of that magnitude together. Although, I am prepared to be pleasantly surprised, stunned, even, should events subsequently pan out contrary to expectation.

What a nasty, vicious, contemptible little world we live in. As if mindless barracking of players deemed to be under-performing during a game wasn?t bad enough, the moronic tendency have now added a brand-new blood sport to their cruel repertoire, and sadly, it involves one of our own ? or, to be more accurate, someone who used to be one of our own. Remember Sean Gregan, that ever-reliable defensive stalwart of our 2003-04 promotion season, flogged off to Leeds as ?surplus to requirements? last summer, and wrongly so, in my opinion?

Well, as Greegs, plus wife and 14-month old child, emerged from the Elland Road players? entrance a full hour after the Yorkshire club?s 2-0 home defeat at the hands of Leicester last weekend, he was somewhat startled to find a ?reception committee? of angry Leeds ?followers? waiting for him on the car-park. Called Greegs everything under the sun, they did, according to the account I saw, and not only that, they then quite viciously turned upon his partner, calling her a ?slag?, amongst many other equally-despicable epithets, according to Tuesday?s Daily Mirror, who picked up the story from the locals the other day.

And it gets worse; once the Gregan family finally reached the relative safety of their car, it appears these morons then decided to up the ante a little, by banging repeatedly and alarmingly on its windows and bodywork. As Sean?s partner is heavily pregnant, and is due to give birth this weekend, what that must have done to her state of mind doesn?t bear thinking about right now. And what about their young toddler, yet another totally innocent party to the mayhem? The poor little sod must have been frightened out of his or her baby wits.

What the hell is the world coming to? It?s one thing to ?have meaningful words? one-on-one with someone you feel was primarily to blame for the loss of three valuable home points; after all, football is a game that generates strong emotions and feelings among its followers, and sometimes things do get a little overheated. Be it good or bad, to a severely-limited extent, players can be fair game for criticism - provided it?s always kept constructive, of course. However, it?s an entirely different matter again to ?get personal?, and leave a young mother, and an almost full-term pregnant one at that, genuinely fearful for not only her safety, but for that of her terrified young child as well.

I?m also willing to bet those cowards ? and that?s what they are, make no mistake, picking on people as vulnerable as those two in such a spiteful manner ? would never dream for one moment of doing the same to their own kith and/or kin. But because their victims were close relatives of a player, from their warped viewpoint, that magically conferred on them the right to cause ?alarm, harassment and distress?, to use the appropriate legal terminology. Yep, their actions clearly broke the law, and that?s the relevant piece of legislation quoted verbatim.

Did those morons sleep soundly in their beds that night, mightily proud of what they?d just done, I wonder? At least it?s all out in the open, now, and the little scrotes responsible well and truly shown up for what they are ? vicious bullies. If they still have any vestige of decency left in their scrofulous little bodies, now they realise precisely who their victims were, and how vulnerable, they?ll be dashing along to the nearest decent florist and card shop they can find, then humbly apologising in person to all the Gregan family for their atrocious behaviour that Saturday night. But, needless to say, I?m not going to hold my breath on that one. Are you?

Oh yummy, time for yet more away tickets ? which meant a quick tool up to The Shrine for this column come the Tuesday morning just gone. No problems sorting our ticketing needs, as the TO was totally bereft of Baggies anyway when I walked into the place, but as I?d also wanted to pick up the 1968 Cup run DVD that was supposed to go on sale this week, a quick visit to the club shop was indicated also ? and, guess what? Yep, it was supposed to go on sale last Monday, as indicated on all the blurb I?d seen in recent weeks, but when I thrust my eager little nose through the shop doorway, and headed for the counter, furiously waving my credit card like a Union Jack at a coronation as I did so, of course, the message for the troops was, ?Sorry, they haven?t arrived yet?.

Oh well ? I?ll have to have another go before tomorrow?s game, I suppose. Or, failing that, pick one up when I sort out the Preston Cup tickets next Monday. Disappointing, as I?d been so looking forward to watching the thing in the comfort of my own living-room. It goes without saying, of course, that as I was actually present at all the games concerned, the news of this DVD being brought out didn?t half get my nostalgia glands producing in copious quantities, and my lips smacking in salivary expectation of its deliciously-satisfying contents. Memories are made of this, and all that jazz. Pleasant ones, obviously, and very likely something I?ll never see Albion repeat in whatever remains of my lifetime. Still, I?m sure it?ll be worth the (hopefully) short wait before I can finally get it thrust into my hot little hand. Then into our DVD player, of course.

Not so good was what happened after I?d shifted my stringy old carcass away from the shop. As per usual, I toddled from there, turned left at the Astle Gates, along the Brummie Road, then left again into Halfords lane, then waited by the bus stop right outside the players? entrance. And, as luck would have it, no sooner had I arrived, a 450 began its ponderous turn through the traffic lights and into Halfords Lane. Great! Seeing it, as per usual, I stuck out my sticky mitt ? only to observe the wretched thing sail merrily by, with the driver frantically indicating with his hand the next stop situated about a hundred yards further down. Doo wot?

Absolutely steaming with rage by then, I did precisely that, headed off down the road to the other stop, waited for the next bus, and once it had arrived, enquired of the driver as to whether the stop by the ground genuinely wasn?t in use any more. The answer - ?Yes, it?s been out for a long while, now!? astonished and puzzled me, quite frankly. If that?s the case, then: a) Agreed, the metal post and sign?s gone, but the road markings indicating the stop are still there. That, plus: b) How come, when I went for tickets the other week, and came back on precisely the same bus, the blasted thing stopped for me outside the ground, then carted me back to bloody Bearwood without any problem whatsoever?

And, not only that, assuming that particular stop is genuinely no more, why hasn?t there been anything in the way of publicity anywhere about it being moved, or cancelled, even? Come to think about it, why the hell couldn?t the guy have just picked me up anyway then told me personally once I was on the vehicle? Even a printed notice stuck on the ground wall would have helped. There aren?t all that many in these parts that possess the psychic powers of the late Doris Stokes, and I?m most certainly no exception. I wouldn?t have minded, but I do happen to walk with a stick, and because the gates at the rear of the Smethwick are always closed in the week, even at the best of times, once I?ve done business with those nice people in the ticket office, I then have to negotiate three sides of the ground in order to get around to the Halfords Lane bit I need to get back. To have to trudge yet another hundred yards or so on top is, quite frankly, a pain in the butt. Not to mention the back. Should you ever see me sticking little pins into the wax effigy of a Travel WM employee in future, now you?ll know the reason why!

That same evening, it was off to Hereford once more, this time to see them in action versus lowly Forest Green in the Conference. Once more, there was an Albion connection on both sides; The Bulls you all know about, of course, but what you may not also realise is that none other than former Baggie Des Lyttle now turns out each week for the visiting Gloucestershire club, who, until the Bulls game, were putting together something of a roll. Not that it did ?em any good in the end, mind; the final score was 2-1 to the Bulls, thereby stopping the visitors? unbeaten run dead in its tracks, and had it not been for a complete lack of ?killer instinct? on the part of Hereford that night, it could (and should) have been a couple more, possibly a rout.

The best bit, though, was dashing back to the Dickmobile after the final whistle, turning on the old radio - and hearing Dingles 1, Millwall 2! And, new gaffer Glen Hoddle apart, what made the whole thing even more side-splitting were the names of those who actually did the Dingles damage that night ? do the names Danny Dichio, and Scott Dobie ring a bell with you? The delicious irony of those two finding the net for The Lions must have felt like the final vicious twist of the knife in their gold-and-cack guts. One other Baggie-connected thought ? the York-Halifax encounter that took place the same night. Guess the scorer in that one? Kevin Donovan, in the 89th minute!

Talking of Hoddle, even I didn?t think the Dingles would be so daft as to only give him 6 months to work the miracle. What sort of a contract is that? It?s a bit like Parliament telling Churchill back in 1940 that because of the sudden resignation of Chamberlain, he?d got the job of Prime Minister, but he only had until the next Christmas to reorganise our defences, up our war effort, then boost our industrial production to an extent sufficient to make the munitions to keep Hitler out! Mind you, remember one of the reasons Hoddle got the boot from the England job in the first place? His assertion at some press conference or another that certain people?s misfortunes in this day and age were intricately intertwined with what sort of person they?d been in a past life, or lives? When I first heard the guy coming out with that one, a few years back, my first reaction was to suggest that Mr. H. had gone and flipped his lid, finally. Now he?s taken the Dingles job, albeit for six months only, can we all now take it as read that?s the necessary smidgen of proof needed his pet theory is right after all?

I had to laugh also when I picked up Wednesday?s newspapers and saw speculation there that Mr. Hoddle would be picking up a cool million should he do the impossible and get the Dingles back in the New York groove once more come the end of the season. Is it me, or do I detect a faint echo of Chris Tarrant, and his highly successful ?Who Wants To Be A Millionaire? quiz show, here? Aw, you know, like having to survive around 15 searching questions (games?) in order to scoop the whole pot? Bearing that in mind, apropos the Dingles, would he have to ?ask the audience?, or, if really stumped on team selection and/or transfers, ?phone a friend??

Yesterday, I brought Andy Hunt back to our house, and very hale and hearty he looked, too, especially by the time ?Im Indoors managed to hang him up in the spot reserved for him on our living-room wall. As you?ve probably guessed by now ? even at the best of times, I?m rotten at maintaining dissimulations, which is probably the main reason I?m about as near skint as dammit these days ? the object of veneration was not the great man himself, but an oil painting, which was done for me about 11 years ago. The subject-matter is that of Hunty scoring for us versus Port Vale in the 1993 Wembley Play-Off Final. I purchased the aforementioned item from the artist about 4 or 5 months after the event, and only having rudimentary knowledge of mounting and framing works of art ? see, the O-Level in the subject I took in the late sixties did serve some useful purpose in the end! ? the job I did at the time gradually deteriorated over the years, which meant a deal of restoration work was indicated, hence my hasty visit to a professional the other day.

Incidentally, the primary reason the pic was on sale in the first place was because the artist ? Ashley Clapperton, if you?re reading this in the Antipodes, don?t forget to say ?hello?, or something! - was about to emigrate to New Zealand, and needed some ready moolah quickly in order to properly set him up in his new life Down Under. And, in one of those astounding coincidences that happen to everyone over the course of a lifetime, we were to literally bump into the guy once more about five years ago. In a pub, in Perth, would you believe? No, and neither could we, either; you simply couldn?t make it up! Having seen Hunty successfully restored to his former glory, plans are now afoot to get SuperBob (literally) re-framed. I tried to do the job myself again a couple of years back, but both the passage of time and the deterioration of the mountant I used in the first place means the much-enlarged photograph of the Great One celebrating ?that? 2001 goal versus Palace (it proudly sits above our fireplace at the moment) will now have to undergo restoration work on a scale similar to that of his erstwhile striking-partner!

One other thought about yesterday. While I was out ?picking up? Andy Hunt, as it were, a couple of bulky envelopes thudded onto our doormat, one for me, and one for ?Im Indoors. What were they? Nothing as risqu? as this month?s issue of Bondage Times, I hasten to add, just Albion?s annual report to its shareholders (Ooer, on the other hand?.). Now our chairman?s position is well and truly ensconced, this yearly event will be undergoing radical change in future. No longer will our current manager be obliged to attend to report to shareholders, and no longer will the event take place during the evening; instead, this year?s event is scheduled for the 31st of December (no, I?m NOT joking), in the Platinum Suite, and during working-hours, would you believe? Interesting, that; am I right in thinking that?s precisely how Blues handle their shareholders? AGM? ?Nuff said.

And it?s a fond farewell to Simon Brown, who has been flogged to Mansfield, and, with the usual add-ons, in a deal worth around 100K to the East Midlands club. All part and parcel of our chairman?s avowed intent of trimming the squad, I guess, and one of those deals where everyone wins, of course. The Stags get a decent performer at that level, and we harvest the dosh from what sounds like a terrific deal. And, while I?m on the subject of ?good deals?, just a few quick words to let you all know that we are currently having a clearance sale of GD back numbers, all profits going to the Dovedale Day Care Centre, of course.

Everything we?ve published prior to this season is 10p, and they?ll be available from Steve The Miser?s selling-point only, situated outside The Hawthorns Hotel, on that bit of pavement where the bus stop used to be. There?s also another Dick hitting the streets tomorrow, so why not ?stop Steve and buy one? when you peruse our back numbers? Additionally, if you care to switch to other parts of the Boing website after reading this, you?ll also see details about the auction of the 1931 Sports Argus I mentioned in this very column not so long ago. Albion interest apart, it?s not only a good read, but a rich vein of social history to be mined by the purchaser at leisure. Again, proceeds will go to the good cause previously mentioned, so if you do fancy the idea, go for it.

And finally?. One. On Monday evening, a phone call, totally unexpected, from our old mate Chris Hartle, the one currently suffering from cancer, now widely-disseminated, sadly. And, unbelievably, to once more ask ME how I was following the minor op I had two weeks ago! Such authentic concern for the plight of others amidst a society that?s becoming increasingly superficial, intolerant and uncaring by the day ? after all, what I had was something hardly visible on the medical radar, comparatively speaking, and Chris?s complaint is, well? - I find that somewhat touching. Moments like that make one feel so humble, it?s untrue. My dearest wish right now would be to wave a magic wand, and by doing so, instantaneously rid the guy of his tumours for good; someone as genuinely decent as Chris doesn?t deserve the viciously-cruel hand Mother Nature has dealt him over recent months.

Two. About 35 years after the event, a true confession, from my brother-in-law, tonight. In one of his many previous incarnations over the years, he was a lorry-driver, and in late 1969, was tasked at the last minute with the job of taking some steel coils from A to B. Quite a nuisance that, as our hero had yet another event pencilled in his diary for that time of day; catching the football special taking him and his mates to Carlisle for our League Cup semi-final first leg encounter with the Brunton Park mob. What made things really unfortunate, though, was what happened on the bit of the traffic island where Bromford Lane intersects with Brandon/Kelvin Way.

In a frenzied effort to deliver the goods in plenty of time, thereby theoretically enabling our hero to belt at almost light-speed to Oldbury station, and pick up the train from there, unbeknown to him, prior to departure, my relative by marriage had incorrectly-secured his load. The result? Hardly-surprising, really, considering that in his indecent haste, he?d tried to take that roundabout in similar fashion to that of Graham Hill during a Grand Prix. Off dropped the entire load, with a resounding metallic ?crash?, but the first Des really knew about it was when he suddenly spotted one of the newly-mobile coils trying to overtake him on the right hand side of his cab! The best bit? Phoning his gaffer afterwards, and having the brass neck to actually ask him to go there and pick up the debris!

 - Glynis Wright

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