The Diary

26 July 2003: Kidderminster 1 Albion 2

"Hello, Dot, this is Glynis; just to let you know that Terry?ll be late back from the Kiddy game?"

Puzzled Wife Of Old Fart: ?Er, why??

"Er - well, it?s like this? Terry had quite a lot to drink in the pub before the game, and he started mouthing off in the ground and got ejected by the police?"

Dot: ?No! You?re joking! He never usually drinks"

"Well, he did this time, and I think it got to him a little but, but the police tell me they?re not going to bring charges?"

At that point I had to confess all, because Dot was having what sounded like a fit of the vapours at the other end.

?What time will he be back?? asked a rather overwrought Dot.

"As soon as we get back from the ground; he?s sitting with us in the back of the car right now, listening to the radio; sorry, Dot, it was all a wind-up!"

The reply I got to that one was ? erm ? lurid. Goodness me - I never knew Terry?s good lady knew such words?

Childish fun, I know, because Terry virtually never drinks (except when our football club win something glittery, or get promoted, which, being about as rare as Halley?s Comet appearing in the heavens, is ?virtually? by any other name!) but that?s what an Albion win does for you, even one in a friendly against supposedly-inferior opposition. Please note I qualified that statement by prefixing it with ?supposedly? because for the best part of the game, Kiddy really looked the better side, but of the encounter, more later?

The day started in fine style, with a visit to the Ticket Office. Not because of today?s game, just to clear up something of a ticketing anomaly. The problem was, all season tickets, home and away, for the Dick Eds were ordered in bulk, on one credit card. In the main, there was no problem; all the ?home? variety arrived, followed in due course by their ?away? counterparts ? except mine. I decided to leave it until we?d returned from Denmark, but when we got back, still no joy. Several naughty phrases later, I realised there was no help for it but to traipse to the ticket office in person, hence my visit today. Once there, we discovered there to be quite a queue; seemingly, everyone and their uncle had pre-season glitches to sort out, so we had quite a wait. Mind you, the boredom was broken by the sight of several of our finest ? Gilly, AJ, Houlty - appearing behind the counter, and quite some time they spent there, too. Surely they didn?t have ticketing problems as well? By this time, it was out turn to give the staff our tale of woe, which is what we did. It transpired that although there had been a block booking, for some reason I can?t fathom, my name had been left off it ? it?s not Steve The Miser trying to tell me something, is it? ? therefore my book hadn?t been sent out. No problem, though ? they could issue me one on the spot, so giving my Access card yet another hammering, I asked then to do precisely that. Trouble is, I now have to contact our parsimonious editorial friend to ascertain as to whether the transaction did go through on his credit card or not, and if so, sort it out with Albion, one way or another. Having finally solved that one out to our satisfaction, it was back to our jam-jar, but not without first having a merry quip with Dave The Mammoth, who was humping (ooer, missus!) the team?s sarnies and liquid refreshment from his van and onto the coach. Oh, and parked right next to us, and sitting in the car, was James O?Connor. Not surprising, then, that we took more care than usual in reversing out. Prang one of our players? We?d never have heard the last of it?

As this was our first footballing foray this season upon England?s green and pleasant land, we were well up for it by the time The Old Fart made his entrance around 20 minutes before departure. Full of tales about his recent Baltic cruise, he was, and also eager to know all about our Danish jaunt, so as we sped along the A456 to our destination, we were regaled with stories about culture in St. Petersburg, bus tours of Helsinki and Gdansk, Dingles in a cabin three doors down from the Old Fart?s, absolutely outrageous ?suggestions? by the cruise company as to what to tip the waiters, etc. and the REAL story about the ?Little Mermaid? of Copenhagen fame, as told by one of the tour guides. For our part, I reckon we did a pretty good sales pitch on the Old Fart, variously extolling the virtues of Anglo-Danish footballing relationships, the delights of Odense, (see my diary entries on this site!) the laid back atmosphere in which these pre-season friendlies are always conducted, the warmth and camaraderie of groups of Baggies abroad: the works, in fact, and I suspect we may have sold him a real-estate deal, especially when The Fart revealed the horrendous ? mostly in ?hidden extras? - cost of his cruise package!

By the time we?d finished exchanging holiday stories, we were in Kiddy itself, so it was a quick motorised meander through the back streets to finally make landfall in a secluded parking spot not that far away from where the Severn Valley Railway commences puffing its way to nearby Bridgnorth. Totally intentional, I might add; a largely undiscovered delight of that station is its splendid bar, which sells several varieties of real ale, (Royal Piddle, would you believe, although this was in plastic glasses. Nice of the Queen to ?supply? us at all, I suppose!) and because it?s true purpose isn?t that apparent from outside the precincts of choo-choo land, it?s also somewhere you can have a pleasant pre-match drink or three and not get crushed in the stampede of thirsty Baggies! Unsurprisingly, as we walked in, some very familiar faces from the Danish tour were there to greet us, plus lots of other acquaintances we hadn?t clapped eyes on since the end of last season. And not cast in gloom this time; instead, all were bright-eyed, bushy tailed, clad in new shirts, and positively raring to grab the new season by the scruff of the neck and shove it into an escalator marked ?UP?. That ?first day in school? feeling, once more, hope looming large in everyone?s thoughts. And, as I went to use the Ladies ?facilities? actually on the station platform, something of a giggle-making moment. There?s a World War 2 Anderson shelter parked on the platform, a leftover from Severn Valley Railway?s recent World War Two themed weekends; as I turned towards the ?facilities? I happened to notice two stripy-shirted Baggies sat within, drinking pints, and engaged in earnest conversation. Truly a moment when I really needed a camera to hand, but it does beg the question as to why they were there in the first place ? sheltering from Siggy?s more wayward crosses, I wonder?

In retrospect, we should have left that hostelry somewhat earlier, because when we got to Aggborough proper, the place was crawling with blue and white, green and yellow, and even though half an hour remained before kick-off, the main stand was full ? not a sit-down in the place to be had, so Plan B was called for; head for the terraces. You really wouldn?t have thought there was nothing in this game save a smidgen of local pride; when we reached the queue for the away end, it was already almost up to the entrance, about a hundred yards away. Kiddy, in their infinite wisdom, had only bothered to open one turnstile! Still, there was no alternative but to bite the bullet; after we?d been in that line around ten minutes, someone in authority suddenly realised they had a teensy problem on their hands and they opened another entrance, but that didn?t help us much. Still, at least it helped the queue move further forward quicker, so we reached the head of the line with around five minutes to spare, and gained ingress as the two sides took to the pitch. Loads weren?t so lucky, and during the first half, I noticed that the stewards had resorted to directing the overflow into one of the home stands adjacent to our end.

As for the game, when I said Kiddy were the better side for most of the game, I wasn?t exaggerating. Our lot seemed, mentally, at least, still in Denmark, and their sloppy play was leaving us in danger of conceding. No surprise, really, when we finally did, from a Chambo own goal, just after the restart. Still, there were some newly-minted chants to admire; the very first, I heard as I was coming into the ground, and is connected to our Continental signing, viz: ?BERNDT HASS, I?VE GONE AND BURNT MY ASS!...? accompanied by the sound of much giggling. Then there was one about Jason Koumas, which is a rip-off from a song that?s played at a good many grounds when the home side scores. Can?t remember what it?s called, right now [ "Papa's got a brand new Pigbag", by Pigbag - Ed ], but if I had the means to play it via these jottings, you?d recognise it instantly. The last one? It?s in praise of Mr. Dichio, and those who are sensitive to sexual innuendo should look away now? Ready? OK, here goes? ?FEED THE DICK, HE?LL SLIP IT IN? That, of course, to the tune of ?Bread Of Heaven,? or, if you?re of a musical bent (and no other), ?Cwm Rhondda?. As for the rest of our choral efforts, we must have left the home crowd in no doubts whatsoever as to why we?d been so lauded by other Premier League clubs? supporters last season. Apart from a short period of time after we?d conceded, did we ever really stop?

Come around twenty minutes from the end, we looked as though we?d had it. Nothin we did was making any impression on our Third Division counterparts ? then Meggo launched his ?secret weapon', an unlikely one, it has to be said, in the form of Lee Hughes, one-time darling of the Aggborough crowd. Although Lee didn?t get his name on the score-sheet this time round, from the moment he set foot on the pitch, his sheer balding presence seemed to galvanise our wilting lot into action. Time and time again, he teased and tantalised on both flanks, put Kiddy on the rack, and before too long, we got the breakthrough, courtesy Scott Dobie, via a Jason Koumas assist. Level pegging, and precisely one minute after the restart, Jase did his thing once more, and young Scott, again, was the man on the spot. Two-one, much boinging (we were still all gyrating madly after the first strike!), and a reprise for the Jason Koumas ditty mentioned earlier, plus the more well-known: ?WHEN THE BALL?S IN THE GOAL, IT?S NOT SHEARER OR COLE? - sing the rest of it, if you want, I won?t stop you; I?m not that spoil-sport sort of column, although you might wake the neighbours up if you do it at this time of night...

Come the final whistle ? incidentally, how true this is, I don?t know, but I was told that the bloke in charge was an Albion supporter, worked as a dustman in his day-job, and was the lino in 1991 who disallowed that Oxford goal which, if it had stood, would have sent Leicester down and kept us up! - out of the ground we came, right into the middle of a rain-shower. Oh, what the hell, we?d won, and it?s been a long time coming, so we endured those pesky drips down the back of the neck as we made for the narrow alleyway twixt the houses under construction to our left, and the spanking new Magistrates Court to he right. A short stroll to the Dickmobile, and we were on our way. Time to wind The Fart?s missus up, which is where I came in, methinks?

 - Glynis Wright

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