The Diary

19 February 2005: Cyber-Tantrums, And Delicate Decisions.

Well ? here we go again with what would be my pre-match offering under normal circumstances, but thanks to the best efforts of both Spurs and Rob Styles to rob us of our rightful FA Cup birthright last weekend, that?s why we won?t be seeing our finest in action this Saturday. But first, an apology to anyone who sent me queries, etc, but didn?t get a reply. I think I?ve sorted everyone out, now, but if I haven?t, give me a bit of a nudge, won?t you? The problem? Over the previous day or so, our PC decided to perform for our delectation a passable imitation of a fractious three year-old kid standing in front of a supermarket checkout, seeing all the sweets on display, and wanting Mum to buy the whole bloody lot. Put in a nutshell, we wanted it to download something, and it jolly well wasn?t having any of it, and threw a right old screaming paddy.

When I went to peruse our mails on Wednesday night, after switching back on and booting up ? we?d earlier tried turning it off ?properly? to shift the problem ? all I could get was a blank blue screen. Eek! Desperate measures were called for, up to and including threatening to send the entire electronic bag of tricks to bed without any supper or bedtime stories, and thus far, it seems to have worked. Or, to put it more accurately, whatever my other half did to it - threaten to pull down its shorts in front of everyone and give it a proper spanking, I wonder? ? finally seems to have worked. For the moment, at any rate. I wonder if there?s a cyber-equivalent of chucking hot tapioca around the room and pulling the cat?s tail unmercifully? I strongly suspect I?m about to find out.

As far as the loss of an Albion game?s concerned, that doesn?t stop us travelling somewhere else for our football fix. As The Bulls will be in action on the day we should have rightfully been grappling with Gary Megson?s little cherubs, we?ll be watching them instead. Where?s it all at, then? Why, at Edgar Street, where the Bulls will be hosting Canvey Island, which is a bloody long one for the visitors; as the name would suggest, they?re situated literally on an island at the mouth of the Thames, and haven?t been all that long in the Conference anyway.

I?m reliably informed it?s one of that league?s longest away trips, which is surprising when you begin to weigh up the logistical problems inherent in sending clubs to fixtures located in such obscure places as Carlisle (when it?s not six feet underwater and having goldfish swimming happily in and around their penalty area, of course), and Morecambe. A good place for cockles, perhaps, but not if you?re prone to travel-sickness. And that?s before I even begin to discuss the likes of Scarborough (East Riding of Yorkshire), Exeter (South Devon), Gravesend (Kent), and Crawley (Sussex). Oh, and we?ll also be taking the opportunity of picking up some excellent handmade Cornish pasties from a shop in the city centre that does ?em to perfection. And having a quick look in the bookshops there. Yum, yum. The pasties, I mean, not the books. Unless you happen to be a bookworm, that is.

The recent announcement by Albion that travel to The Valley would be on the house has left us Dick Eds all riding on the horns of a rather big dilemma - and I?m not talking (bragging?) wedding-tackle sizes, here. Aw, you know ? our new policy of not chucking good money after bad by travelling hellish distances/ paying ridiculous amounts for games knowing full well we stand no realistic prospect of averting our fate whatever we do at these places. That?s one excellent reason why we?ve already said ?Nyet!? to Chelski. The problem is roughly this: at the moment, match tickets for Charlton are on sale to away season-ticket holders, and that?s where the essence of the problem lies. Do we grab ?em now, and take a chance on us still being in with a shout of avoiding the drop by that time, or do we simply await the outcome of next Tuesday?s vital relegation clash with Southampton? We can still sort out tickets; they go on general sale around the26th of this month, so should everything end up hunky-dory by then, we should have little problem sorting out both that and coach tickets as well - but where do we draw the line, pray?

If we lose the Southampton game? If we hold them to a draw, perhaps? Neither of our other two rivals are playing this weekend; they were both kicked out of the competition at the third round stage, so at least they can?t steal a march upon us while we?re kicking our own heels. Trouble is, that also means we can?t use them as a yardstick to decide whether our own chances of pulling it off look remotely like a goer. The key really is that Southampton game, and a win, which would then make that Charlton jaunt vitally important. That also makes me more than acutely aware of the relatively dismal showings we?ve recorded versus the London mob at their place over recent seasons. Nearly always only one goal in it, remember? And usually after we?ve played them off the park for most of the bloody game, and with Stevie Wonder officiating, more likely than not, which only makes the whole exercise even more likely to produce naught but great crowds of itinerant Baggies needing handfuls of strong tranquillisers (and hankies!) come the final whistle!

Since I last posted here (the night of the East Midlands SC meeting), there?s one personal discovery I?ve since indelibly committed to my brain, and it?s this: never, EVER stay up till five in the morning or later typing up this bloody diary piece! What happened, then? Simple: as the meeting finished very late indeed, and we didn?t get back from The Snooty Fox until gone midnight or thereabouts, wanting to sort everything out while it was still fresh in my mind, this column foolishly decided to ?blitz? the entire thing rather than leave it until the following night. And, to be fair, a bit of the old head-dropping in the wee small hours apart, as far as I could tell, the whole shebang went fine and dandy.

Trouble was, once finished, although I did subsequently wind down a little by reading one of the Guardian supplements before wearily retiring to my pit for a few snatched hours of kip, on resurfacing, I rapidly discovered my mind hadn?t quite caught up with what my body wanted to do. How else do you explain picking up what I?d genuinely thought in my befuddled and tired state was a packet of dried fleabag-food, only to find myself absent-mindedly chucking a liberal quantity of washing powder into all four cats? food bowls instead? Mind you, the evil look they all gave me once my feline faux pas was discovered was a sight spine-chilling enough to send even horror actor Christopher Lee running home to his mummy - so, in the interests of feline peace and harmony, you can sure as hell take it as read I won?t be doing one like that again in a hurry!

Reminds me very much of the time in the early eighties when I was working in the Bristol area, and coming off a particularly fraught night shift. Just about everything that could happen had happened, and not only had I been dealing with a series of nasty incidents, I?d spent the remainder of the night filling out endless forms and writing up statements; no wonder by the time my daytime relief arrived, I was more than ready to hit the sack with an almighty ?thud?. I handed over with a heartfelt cry of ?All yours ? and you?re sodding well welcome to it!?, a quick trip to the gate, a casual quick glance at the early morning sky, now beautifully blue, thank goodness ? then about five minutes spent staring incredulously at the azure heavens, and feebly muttering: ?Oh dear, oh dear?..? The cause of my discomfiture? Simple ? it being around the time of the famous Balloon Festival they have in those parts, there, right in front of my disbelieving eyes, hung a giant sparking plug. And just behind it, an equally-gargantuan pair of Levis. It?s at times like that you really begin to wonder whether seven eleven-hour night shifts on the bounce are such a good idea after all.

As promised, yet another tale culled from Tuesday?s excellent East Midlands Branch meeting. Oh ? and before I start, many belated thanks to John Mainwaring, composer and singer of the ?Astle Is King? CD we Dick Eds flogged mercilessly around the time we were raising money for The Astle Gates. The reason for my reticence? Because I had such a long row to hoe via this column after the meeting, I plumb forgot to mention it, but I can now relate all. After the meeting, John kindly gave me the original written lyrics of the second song he performed that night, ?Little Boy King?, the poignant one about young Matthew, the King?s grandson, as penned by him.

As I can?t play it to you via the website ? technically possible, I daresay, but completely beyond my rudimentary knowledge of that sort of thing ? with John?s permission already a given, I will be using the lyrics some time before the end of the current season. This bit of paper is something I?ll be keeping under lock and key, no doubt about it, as it now seems John isn?t all that far from becoming a household name himself, what with his recent DVD chart hit for Corrie?s Beverly Callard ? yep, all the songs on that were written by John. There?s also Tony Christie about to re-release ?Amarillo?, the song so beloved of Big-Nose Brian Talbot, and one the singer performed live for our then-gaffer at a Player Of The Year Night. Look out for it also; I?m assured the ?B? side is John?s own work.

The reason for my determination not to let this particular memento slip out of my hands? Well, you have to go back to 1963 for the answer; at the time, the beautiful game apart, my main love was for the Rolling Stones, Mick Keith, Brian, and all the shaggy-locked rest of the bunch, to my mother?s eternal disgust. And being just eleven years of age and totally besotted, as you do, I suddenly decided to drop them a line via their fan club ? and bugger me down dead, a few weeks later, when I?d more or less forgotten about the thing, I got a reply back, from Mick Jagger, in his own handwriting, and signed by all the lads! Trouble was, as you do with these things, as I got older, I clean forgot about it, and it disappeared, and along with it, all possibility of eventually flogging it off for thousands at auction! So now you know.

Now, where was I? Oh, yes. This one?s about George Best, actually. Back in the early seventies, and courtesy of The Doog, the other night. And, very, very Irish ? in fact, in retrospect, I can?t help but feel there?s more than a little touch of the auld blarney about it. That?s for you lot to decide, of course, but to fully appreciate the tale, you have to mentally travel back in time to circa1971, and Belfast at the height of The Troubles, which is where this story begins. Northern Ireland were playing at Lansdowne Road in an international at the time ? must have been one of the Home International games ? and, at George Best?s behest, and with the promise of a bloody good booze-up in prospect, The Doog was taken by George on a taxi trip right into the heart of the bombed and blitzed districts. Those of around my age or older will know the score ? armed troops, barricades, petrol bombs, and within those impoverished housing estates made fraught by ongoing sectarian divides, vehicle checkpoints ?manned? not by our brave lads in khaki, but by snotty and spotty teenage kids; without bringing religion into it too much, this was one hell of a good example of ?bandit country? ? ?nuff said.

Into this anarchic mess went our dynamic duo (the teenage kids controlling access to the estate peering somewhat malevolently into the vehicle when it pulled up, then, upon sussing who was actually in it, all breaking into wild shouts of ?Hey ? it?s Georgie!?) and eventually, the taxi fetched up at someone?s house, which turned out to belong to George?s uncle ? or should I say ?late uncle?? Yep, this was going to be an Irish wake, no holds barred. At first, all seemed to be going OK, the booze all flowing in a way that would have put even Niagara Falls to shame ? until the relatives tried to bring in the coffin of the deceased. Where to put it was the problem. Not because of aesthetic considerations, mind; merely that wherever the relatives tried to lay poor Uncle Paddy (or whatever) that space was urgently needed for something else.

The kitchen table? Nope ? the good daughters of Erin preparing the food there put the kybosh on that one straight away; you might well be the biggest, best and hardest petrol-bomber and barricade-builder in the entire province for most of the time, but one thing you don?t do is mess with Irish women fully occupied in the furtherance of their funereal duties. Not if you value your eardrums and/or relationship, you don?t. OK, so the kitchen was completely out of bounds, so what about the master bedroom, then? Nope; everyone was leaving their coats and bags there, and, for all I know, spare Semtex, for safe-keeping there, so that was out also. Abject gloom then pervaded the coffin-carriers ? what to do now? Then some bright spark hit upon the idea of placing Uncle?s corpse in the front room, but that was also declared verboten. The reason? The proposed ?drop-zone? was already cluttered with enough booze bottles to stock the district?s pubs for an entire calendar month, never mind lubricate a bibulous send-off for a bloody stiff.

When the third option was also ruled out, there then ensued much head-scratching on the part of the mourners. There it was, Uncle Joe?s wake, all ready to rock and roll, but because of the aforementioned logistical problems, they couldn?t even find a place of honour for the principal (but very deceased) guest. What to do now? Then, some alcoholically-inspired relative hit upon the perfect solution; why not balance Uncle?s body on three chairs, all set in horizontal line? Genius, pure genius, declared all those involved, so within a matter of seconds, a plaintive cry rang out in the house. ?Can we have three chairs for the body, please?? To which, all the rest of the (extremely well-oiled, by now) relatives responded, ?Hip, hip ? HOORAY!?

And finally?.. As I said, there?s much of the auld Oirish blarney about that one, but still hysterically funny when related in the dry manner the former Dingle had about him. Just to finish, then, more about Duggie Fraser?s profound geographical ignorance in all matters concerning The Black Country when he first arrived in these here parts. As I intimated to you lot the other night, so completely and utterly bamboozled was our lad by his new location, during the first day or so he was here, he quickly had the locals all looking at him in the sort of manner that immediately suggests ?We?ve got a right one here!? The reason? Come on, what would YOU make of a total stranger approaching you in Dartmouth Square, say, then asking, in all seriousness, and with a Scots accent you could have danced reels on, ?I want a swim ? where?s the beach??

Back next Monday night, with an update, and a preview of what could well be our Premiership Waterloo ? or the footballing equivalent of Custer?s Last Stand. Whatever. See you around.

 - Glynis Wright

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