The Diary

31 July 2003: Bass Charity Vase Final

BURTON ALBION 1 THE 'PROPER' ALBION 2

(Oh ? and by the way, our first-string won 4-0 as well!)

It's a strange feeling, driving past The Shrine when there's a match on, knowing I'll be very much absent for the occasion. The heartstrings pull in so many directions, it's untrue. It?s happened to me many times in the past, of course; what with work commitments (one pesky weekend in two when I was in the prison service), and, sometimes, illness kept me away, but these days, my absence from our spiritual home on such occasions is something of a rarity. When was the last time I missed? Our promotion season, I think, courtesy of a bloody painful kidney infection. I was an ever-present for our 'season in the sun', thank goodness, so driving past The Shrine at approximately half-six tonight, and observing blue and white-clad folkies descending on the place in dribs and drabs didn't sit easily with me. The reason for our absence, of course, was the disgustingly steep admission charge for the Cheltenham game. Instead of reviling Barmy Bobby from the fastness of our Halfords Lane seats, us 'refuseniks' chose to spend the evening in the delightful company of Burton Albion instead, gaffered, of course by Cloughie Not-So-Junior-Any-More, and competing with the relatively new Conference side for the Bass Charity Vase. Incidentally, tonight's game was significant inasmuch as it was probably the last time we'd see our finest there; according to a couple of locals - see later - they're set fair for a move to a site just over the road, with room for expansion should they really hit the big time by getting into the League. Don't laugh, because the word on the streets is that Cloughie Minor is one cute cookie; if anyone can provide the impetus to make the quantum leap, he can.

Personally, I would have preferred a route giving our ground a wide berth, but as the motorway alternative had us hopelessly snarled up the last time we travelled that way, there was no help but to go via the A38, which meant going via Great Barr and Sutton, which, in its turn, meant taking a left on the Brummie Road (gulp!), just past the ground, and down the leafy expanse of Forge Lane. Once we'd negotiated the Newton Road, it was then a piece of the proverbial to make our way via the dual carriageway to Burton, no longer a brewing town of international repute, sadly. Just two such establishments remain, Coors, and what used to be Bass, but has, predictably, been subsumed into a much larger venture. There's also two brewing museums there; note carefully this duplication of monuments to Burton's illustrious (and distinctly tipsy!) past, because that's when we totally screwed up. Sure, we knew that Burton's gaff wasn?t far from a 'brewing museum'; trouble was, we'd totally failed to take into consideration the fact there were two of the buggers - and we chose to follow the signs leading to the wrong one! Shades of previous visits as we cursed and blasphemed our way through the pedestrianised town centre - this is around the tenth time we've visited this particular ground, and much to our eternal shame, every time we've been, we've become geographically embarrassed! 'Im Indoors doesn't agree, but I reckon it's the extensive building work that in recent years has seen Burton transformed from a sleepy little backwater into a mini-Milton Keynes clone that's to blame. Well, I ask you? dead-flat land containing loads of anonymous-looking housing-estates situated near look-alike mini-roundabouts, the focal point of such areas being the obligatory yet utterly banal and eminently-forgettable 'themed' pub, or the local MacDonalds ? AARGH! No wonder amnesia sets in every visit!

Eventually, we did sort ourselves out, and found Ground Zero by travelling via the Marmite factory, or rather, the exterior. Curious stuff, that; some love it, some hate it. I was most definitely a 'Marmite Baby', and absolutely adore the gloopy savoury spread, but my other half reckons eating the stuff's an exercise akin to taking a wodge of softened tarmac off the road, and sticking it on your morning toasted slice - shame! The pong of cooking brewing by-products permeates the whole town, and entered the Dickmobile as we passed; a living testament to the (fairly) recently deceased Sir James Goldsmith, who made his fortune from the stuff. Who? The bloke who tried to form the political party that was so against us having more involvement with Europe, and crashed and burned so spectacularly in a recent General Election, that's who. Oh ? and talking of 'crashing and burning' he also kicked off the distinctly right-wing 'Now!' magazine in the early 80's, but that didn't last long either. Back to the present, we finally located the ground around 15 minutes before the 'off', and, toting my trusty camera, pelted hell for leather towards the turnstiles. A quite reasonable three quid in, if my memory serves me well, and, as it transpired, we got plenty of bangs for our buck because we fielded a side containing Lee Hughes, Jason Roberts, Joe Murphy, the Chambos, Lloyd Dyer and Lee Marshall. Not a bad line-up for a second-string; how many had incurred the gaffer's wrath, I wondered?

Because I was in full picture-taking mode - looking for stock shots, once more - I missed the Burton strike, early doors, but 'Im Indoors told me it was one hell of a pile-driver which gave Murphy no chance whatsoever. A bit embarrassing, considering our coruscating line-up, but Jason made amends not long after that, thank goodness, putting us on level pegging once more courtesy of a timely header. From then on, the affair became something of a war of attrition, and quite acrimonious at times; referee Dermot Gallagher had to have 'words' with some of our finest on several occasions, and at one point, Hughsie, already booked, was lucky to stay on the field. Having said that, The Demon Barber was the man who converted our late second-half penalty. A lucky break, it has to be said - the locals weren't best pleased with the official for pointing to the spot - but our ex-roofer stuck it away with aplomb. We could (and should) have won by a much wider margin, but both barrels of our main armament seemed somewhat out of alignment and devoid of the necessary propellant; on more than one occasion, both dipped when it seemed easier to plonk the blasted thing in the back of the net and be done with it. All this, with added comment from a couple of venerable Burton Albion-supporting look-alikes who were dead ringers for Waldorf and Statler, of 'Muppet Show' fame, even if they did call some of our lot 'darkies'. Not malicious; it?s a generation thing, really. Try reading some books published around fifty, sixty, seventy or more years back, and you'll see what I mean. Nice of 'em to keep this column fed with lots of chocolates with caramel centres, though!

As the game, progressed, I gained the distinct impression from these two gentlemen that our somewhat robust tactics were not particularly welcome on their turf; our finest being ex-Premiership, I think they'd expected more in the way of a demonstration from us of how the beautiful game should be played. Just as well, really, we were there to explain that many of those on the field would much rather have been elsewhere that night, and sometimes, their frustration had boiled over and manifested itself in the form of some questionable on-field activities. Still, come the final whistle, the realisation we'd become the proud owners of the trophy for the third time in four years. Incredible when you think in times gone by, there was a curse on our club associated with this tournament commensurate with the current hoodoo surrounding our League meetings with Ipswich, or, come to think of it, Stoke City. Although the game was less-than-memorable in parts, it's always nice to see the lads lift a piece of silverware - and in this case, 'lift' really is the operative word; the Bass Charity Vase is about the most un-vase-like piece of silverware I?ve ever clapped eyes on in my life, and weighs about a ton. Or feels as though it does. I know, because I had the chance to put my mucky paws on it about a year ago - and my back still hasn't recovered. As for those medals, I?m wondering how many of the Baggie recipients will bother to keep them. The younger element will, I suppose, but Jason, Lee, etc.?

And we weren't alone, either. During the first half, we were joined by a Baggie regular, whose name escapes me at the moment. Sorry, but my memory's absolutely rotten when it comes to names, so the bloke concerned will have to accept my apologies. No apologies necessary for a certain Neil Reynolds, though; at the end of the game, we spotted him in the main stand. Another 'refusenik'? Incidentally, while I'm grovelling for our sins of omission, we would have accompanied this report with a few action pics, but when 'Im Indoors tried to download a few shots onto CD to send to this website, our PC decided to withdraw its labour - or, to be more accurate, the damn thing decided to download my stuff so slowly, had we continued, we'd have been there literally all night waiting for our recalcitrant bit of electronics to produce. Never mind; I'm sure we'll have 'em up and running tomorrow, so hang on in there.

After all the ceremonials had been done with, it was into the Dickmobile for us, and back home at quite a lick, the purpled evening sky being made even more purpled by the naughty language that was issuing forth from our vehicle. Two reasons; firstly, I was having difficulty sending a text message to the venerable Anc. The second? We'd lost our bloody way again! At least we did discover courtesy The Old Fart that the first-string had emerged victorious, to the tune of four goals without reply. Quite a crowd tonight also; did I hear 3,900 attended? And what's the scoop on this mystery Dutch triallist that played tonight? Are his skills as silky as our Boer War veteran reports, or will he emulate his many predecessors by using the return portion of his airline ticket far sooner than anticipated? Unfortunately, not everything went to plan with the new stilecards, so The Fart informs us; his worked OK, but for every Baggie who gained admittance without let or hindrance, there were an awful lot more who had problems with the new technology. At least the club will have the Brentford match to get things straight before our first home League encounter versus Burnley. Despite the game being live on the box, because it's the first on our patch, there's bound to be a full-house, or an attendance not that far short. Because of the Sky schedules, putting back the kick-off in the event of a glitch probably won't be an option; let's hope everything's hunky-dory by then.

 - Glynis Wright

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