The Diary

06 March 2005: Escape Relegation? Sceptic? No, Just Septic!

Hi again, it?s me once more, with lots of stuff about what we?ve been doing these last seven or so days, and hot-foot from another Saturday afternoon spent (mostly shivering, it has to be said), at a footie ground other than our own.

No real surprise to where we went, I?m afraid ? once more, my other half heard loud and clear the clarion call of the Bulls persuasion, so Edgar Street was where we shifted to around lunchtime. By the way, for the first time in yonks, their accounts have shown a profit, which is a complete turnaround from the near-disastrous one-million-quid deficit they had five or six years ago, and nearly ended up dragging them under. We had planned to include a pre-match visit to a Levi jeans shop in the town centre, but getting stuck behind a bloody tractor (speeds ?dead-slow? and ?stop? only) en-route, and encountering a combination of a speed camera and a thirty mph limit in one of the villages along the way, it wasn?t until after two we finally pulled up on their enormously-capacious car park. Which wouldn?t have mattered a jot, as the shops were only about five minutes walk away anyway, but when strolling past the ground, we just happened to bump into Roy Hayden, of Kiddy Branch fame, who was also spending his Saturday seeing rather more of the Bulls than he normally would most days. That?s what happens when you support a club that seems to have developed something of an aversion to playing at the ?proper? time God ordained, of late!

By the time we?d finished batting the breeze, it was far too late to go in search of new strides, so we opted for a quick tool into a Cornish pasty shop nearby instead. All hand-made and locally baked, and a variety of ingredients within that in some instances paid but little homage to the original Cornish tin-miners? delicacy, but highly scrumptious all the same, which is why we brought a couple of the pastry-covered blighters home with us for tea.

Our ?eats? finally sorted, we returned to the ground once more, and as there was around 15 minutes to go by then, we shifted ourselves inside without further ado. All the usual crowd in the part of the stand we frequent on these occasions, including the posse of old ladies I?ve mentioned before, plus Nick Brade, quiz compiler extraordinaire ? more of him later. Eighty-odd year-old May not coming, then? No, sadly ? until she rolled up anyway just before the start, much to our astonishment. And that of our chums ? May had told all and sundry beforehand she wouldn?t be coming because of the awful weather!

Today?s opponents were Morecambe, who were around mid-table, but because of the dog-eat-dog nature of the Conference this season, they too had a legitimate claim to an end-of-season play-off spot in progress. (Go on ? have a look at the table, and you?ll see precisely what I?m banging on about.) They?d brought about a hundred hardy souls (soles?) from the fastness of their seaside town, now infamous because of the disaster that occurred to those Chinese cockle-pickers about a year ago. And, quelle horreur ? they?d brought a bloody percussion band with ?em. One helluva noisy drum ? blimey, I was really glad I wasn?t sitting next to the bloke wielding it ? also a tinny sort of noise I couldn?t place at first. And then it suddenly occurred to me, in a flash, as these things generally do; someone (or several ?someones??) back home would be missing not a few familiar items of kitchen-ware before the day was through.

I can just hear the conversations: Wifey: ?Eeeh, Our Joe, I?ve looked for me saucepans all over t?kitchen ter do me hotpot in this teatime, ?an I can?t find t?big ?uns any where. Eh, chuck, do yer know where they?ve gone??

Hubbie: ?Ah canna be sure, like, but Ah thought Ah saw Our Albert wi? ?em just afore he went to t?football. Playing down some pansy southern place somewhere, where they make t?cider, or summat?.?

Wifey: ?Our Albert? At a bluddy football match? Wi? me bluddy saucepans? Wait till ?ee gets home ? I?ll kill the little ?$%&@!! So Ah will!?

The ?musical accompaniment? apart, a listen to the Morecambe side via the PA proved somewhat instructive. Playing at number four was Michael Howard! For a moment, visions crossed my mind of the Tory leader deciding to take time out from biting great lumps out of the NHS, and turning to ?dirty tricks? on the football field, as opposed to The House Of Commons, instead ? but, alas, the chap who emerged from the players tunnel was about forty years younger ? but hang on a minute! Wasn?t eternal youth the ?prize? for selling your soul to Old Nick? Well, that?s what Faust reckoned; as far as the Tory leader was concerned, he?d already exceeded the job specifications required thanks to that lengthy Parliamentary career of his.

The game? Well, Morecambe came primarily to play the defensive game, but they also got lucky. With two minutes only on the clock, after attacking right from the start, they earned themselves a corner. Chuck in a huge wodge of awful marking from the home side, and a far-post header, unmarked, from about four or five yards, and The Bulls suddenly found themselves chasing the game. As far as the visitors were concerned, that was it; they?d shoved their noses in front, and no bugger was going to shift them. No surprise to learn, then, that the next forty minutes were to prove an exceedingly-frustrating time for them. Mind you, I suspected a lot of their seeming lethargy out there was due to the fact they?d played more games than any side had a right to over the last few weeks. There?s only so much of that sort of ?two-games-a-week? grind players can cope with, after all.

But fair play to The Bulls, they did manage to get an equaliser with about a couple of minutes to the break, from a corner again, and had they pushed Morecambe even more before half-time, they might well have taken the lead. The second half? Well, both factions fought mightily, but neither would yield sufficiently to irrevocably breach defences. That, plus the fact the Morecambe keeper played right out of his skin that second-half, so a one-one it was, and, in its latter stages, a game played to the incessant backdrop of driving sleet.

Mind you, the interval did prove interesting on the food front. What normally happens is the aforementioned ladies bring with them enough sweets to drive any self-respecting dentist crazy, and those in close proximity ? even the Bluenose couple sitting but a few rows further forward, may I say ? benefit mightily from this half-time equivalent of the ?midnight feast?. But our elderly friends truly excelled themselves today; first of all, a large box of Terry?s All-Gold was produced with a flourish from a bag that seemed to possess even more interior capacity than that of The Fart, and once they?d all gone down the hatch, out came yet another box of sweets ? this lot from Portugal, and very creamy toffees they were, too. Huh. We don?t get spoiled like that at The Hawthorns ? but we are open to bribery, of course!

But back to Nick Brade. As part of the fundraising stuff he does for the club, he recently set supporters a bit of a quiz, the prize being a signed home shirt, or a club shop voucher to the value of 20 quid. It might look a simple sort of thing to complete at first glance, but once you inspect the thing more closely, you suddenly find there lurks within an absolute stinker. All you have to do is decide whether a statement is true or false ? but there are no less than 45 of the blighters to sort out! Examples? ?Tigers have striped skin as well as striped fur,? or what about ?Northwich Victoria were founder members of Football League Division Two?? Anyone out there study Jane Austen for A Level English? If so, did she really only have one book published in her lifetime? The daft thing is, I did an Austen book when I was studying English Lit about thirty-odd years ago, but I?m completely banjaxed by that one. I?d honestly thought I was good at that sort of thing, but it only took a couple of minutes of close study to make my brain really hurt. But I?m not going to let the sodding thing defeat me ? I?ll get the answers if I have to turn cyberspace upside-down to do it.

That?s today, then. What about the rest of the week? The previous Tuesday night, Tarzan vs Godzilla Round Two beckoned. Well, I suppose I exaggerate a tadge, here ? what we actually witnessed wasn?t exactly Johnny Weismuller yodelling fit to bust and hauling his muscularly-loinclothed self around the jungle in a never-ending search for Jane (never did drop off at an awkward moment, that loincloth, despite my repeated fervent entreaties for it to do so!) on vine strands, with the aforementioned anthropoid in hot pursuit, but the eagerly awaited second instalment of that fascinating (if decidedly muddy) Badger-Bull FA Trophy encounter I told you about the other day ? and once more both clubs did everyone (and the game in general, when you think about it) proud. No kid, here, everyone concerned witnessed a cracking encounter, with, as I expected, our bovine chums eventually grabbing the spoils (and a quarter-final crack at Hucknall FC (Oh, Lord, yet another Albion connection ? the assistant manager there is a certain Roy Hunter!) next week into the bargain) by four goals to two. And, a rarity for Hereford in knock-out action thus far this season, without the entire blasted shebang going to extra time and penalties.

Prices were reduced considerably for this one, and I have to say, this footballing equivalent of a Tesco loss-leader certainly proved quite a bargain buy. On a chilly night, close to freezing-point, and in front of a crowd of 1070 hardy Herefordian souls (they do breed ?em tough in zoider country, oo arr!) it was the visitors that first took the lead, and with less than 20 minutes gone. Mind you, The Bulls were told their fortunes twice before, the visitors going perilously close to breaking the deadlock on both occasions, so I wasn?t altogether taken aback to see it happen. The lad responsible, a chappie called Knox, must have been most surprised to see his effort being assisted considerably by the inability of the Bulls? keeper to concentrate on what he was doing properly; positioning himself where he certainly ?shouldner oughter? for an experienced Conference custodian. The Eastwood striker, a prison officer by day, well and truly banged in (or should that be ?up??) the effort, and with embarrassing ease, leaving Chummy looking very silly indeed. Much anger and angst in the main stand, where we were; one chap a few rows behind me, whose ruddy cheeks were a pretty glowing testament to Bulmer?s most famous fermented apple product, really worried me. Was he, or was he not, imminently in danger of succumbing to an apoplectic fit, I wondered? And should he do so, was I prepared to risk rapid intoxication myself by giving the old coot the kiss of life?

Once the ref pointed to the centre circle, much mumbling and muttering ensued, most of it from people who hadn?t travelled to the first game, and therefore didn?t fully appreciate just how good the visitors were, and how efficacious was mud as a skin tonic. Which brings me to one enormous advantage Hereford had that they most certainly lacked last Saturday ? a playing surface you could plonk a spirit-level on, and certain knowledge the little bubble would unerringly land plumb-spang right in the middle of the apparatus. As our chum Nick Brade somewhat caustically remarked apropos the first tie, ?Eastwood?s got to be the only ground where the linos have to use Stannah stair-lifts to get them from one end to the other!? - and furthermore, one that boasted a full complement of greenery on every single part of the pitch. Luxury! Gradually, patiently, the home side constructed their killer strike ? and following several ?near-miss? episodes, their just reward came with but nine minutes remaining to the break. The lad that put the smiles back on the faces of all those serial cider-sluggers in the stand? Young Carey-Bertram, that?s who, all two of him.

That equaliser certainly bunged new life, renewed heart, into those over-exerting-but-with-precious-little-reward-to-show-for-it team-mates of his. There wasn?t time to do much more before the interval, but afterwards was a completely different kettle of Bull. No sooner had the ref?s whistle signalled the restart, the home side rammed the gear-stick straight into ?overdrive? and the visitors quickly began to rock, then roll; first the post, then the crossbar rattled mightily. It could only be a matter of time before another almighty Bull charge brought its reward, so no surprise, then, in the 62nd minute, when yet another ex-Baggie ? James - struck to give them the lead for the first time.

The opposition being part-timers, and Hereford the genuine article, once the Conference outfit had levelled, it then became quite evident the game could only go one way. With about 15 minutes remaining, yet another young ex-Albionite did Tucka Trewick proud; this time, it was the turn of their newest loan recruit, Smikle, to inflict further damage, and by doing so, thoroughly sew up the evening?s proceedings, so we thought. But there was still a curious twist to the tail of this remarkable plot to come; well a couple, actually. Within a minute or so of Smikle?s exquisite strike, it was Williams?s turn to get on the score-sheet, which made things 4-1, and game over, seemingly ? but I was dead wrong.

Just four minutes later, Bulls keeper Craig Mawson made one of the biggest mullocks I?ve ever witnessed in over forty years of watching the round-ball game. What happened? Well, one second there was a custodian routinely belting the ball away up the field of play, the next it was rebounding straight off Knox and into the net. ?Nuff said. Or maybe not, I suspect; the post-mortem in the dressing-room afterwards must have been excruciating. So bad, it was good; had he ever received lessons from Albion?s serial custodial cocker-up Paul Crichton, I wondered? (Curiously, the internet tells me he genuinely had lessons from Stuart ?Bruiser? Naylor, which is somewhat alarming, to say the least).

Mind you, by then, the visitors were totally knackered, and quite clearly rendered incapable of making further hay while the moon shone. Four-two was the score come the end of the full ration, and the near 1100 spectators (around 45 travelled from muddy Nottinghamshire, by the way) went home reasonably happy. As for the Bulls, a ticket to the quarter-final and a home tie versus Hucknall Town now beckoned. Fair play to Eastwood, though; despite being two Leagues lower in the pecking-order than the Edgar Street mob, they?d really made it difficult for the home side, especially at their place.

Some of their players ? I?m thinking both strikers and their keeper, here ? seemed easily capable of turning in consistently good performances at a higher level than the one they currently inhabited. The aforementioned Peter Knox has netted in the mid-twenties already. Having worked shifts myself, and remembering the third degree treatment I had to go through with both line managers and governor grades just to watch my favourite club in action, how the hell he manages to get sufficient time off to go bang ?em all in at weekends, I absolutely dread to think.

And not once did they try to kick lumps out of the opposition, either, even after they?d conceded two in a minute. It might behove well a few clubs nearer our level ? no names, no pack-drill, of course, Mr. Warnock! ? to fulfil all their fixtures in such a similarly-sporting and non-aggressive style. All that remained then was to whiz out of the ground, back to our jalopy ? and pick up what was happening at Bramall Lane, where the aforementioned Warnock?s mob were doing their level best to give Arsene Wenger?s lovely lot a little more than they?d bargained for. Me? Torn between badly wanting United to knock that constant cocky smile off Wenger?s face, and eagerly anticipating The Blades (and, by extension, Warnock) making the fatal error to let The Arse steam in for the kill, I was. A shame it was all decided on penalties, really.

Wednesday? Oh dear. ?Im Indoors had planned to take me out to a meal that night, but instead, the evening turned out to be yet another medical mystery tour, one taking in the dubious delights of Sandwell Hospital, for once. Not me this time, but ?Im Indoors. It all started on Tuesday evening, when my beloved showed me his poorly left index finger. Not the normally-pink pinkie we all know and love, sadly; this one was the colour of an over-ripe plum, around twice the size it should have been, and throbbing visibly. And hurting like buggery, apparently. I had been aware there was something amiss with the offending digit on Monday night, but it hadn?t seemed half as swollen back then. In fact, I had offered to take a pair of tweezers to the problem, and shift whatever was stuck there (a bit of rose-bush thorn left there when said bush collapsed on him whilst tidying up preparatory to a springtime offensive last Sunday, I suspected) once I?d bought a pair from the chemists, but, as they say in the movies, I was overtaken by events. Or fast-breeder staphylococci, whichever way you choose to interpret it.

Telling ?Im Indoors to shift his carcass quick to the quack the next day, that he duly did ? but it then transpired that our GP surgery wasn?t sufficiently tooled-up to lance septic fingers, so off to Casualty it was, then. (Funny that; I distinctly remember a GP quite happily lancing my infected finger in his surgery when I was about six or seven ? and without local anaesthetic. So that?s what they mean by ?progress? then?) Cor ? I?ll say one thing for my other half, though; he certainly takes me to the nicest places on our nights out!

Casualty, West Bromwich-style? Nothing like its famous TV counterpart, sadly; the only sign of animation came from a young lad who?d clearly done something drastic to his foot in the daft way that only eleven-year old kids can. And as for all the steamy love-interest, those TV medics? somewhat colourful private lives, plus watching their personal cat-fights evolve right in the middle of applying life-saving treatment to some poor moribund sod in ?resus?, there was not a trace to be seen! Unless you looked directly at the oscilloscope-thingies all stationed in there, of course.

Fair play to all those jolly nice people at Sandwell Hospital, and the NHS, so yah sucks boo to Michael Howard; within a matter of an hour, not only was my other half treated ? poor sod; he didn?t half go green around the gills when the lancet (the surgical instrument, not the famous medical journal, although had I whacked the dratted thing with a year?s worth of bound copies, that might have released the infectious yuk just as effectively as the medic who did it by more orthodox means) did its merciful work. It even turned out the doc treating my other half was currently reading (though not while tending to ?Im Indoors?s badly inflamed finger, obviously) exactly the same book hubbie took with him, in anticipation of what we?d thought would be a tedious wait. All the muck and gunk (and there wasn?t half a lot, believe you me) finally released at long last, all that remained then was for a nurse to dress the thing, for our medical chum to dish out both Alexander Fleming?s greatest discovery and painkillers in quantity, and to book a clinic appearance for 48 hours time. The best bit came afterwards, though; because of the dressing, which had to be kept dry, some assistance in the shower for the wounded little soldier was called for when we got back. Oooh, la la!

And, the next day, it was my turn. Not quite so ?yuk?; this one was a follow up visit keeping tabs on the surgery I?d had done recently. And, what?s more, I got to see the Big Cheese this time, the pukka consultant. God knows why; the wound had healed in such a satisfactory way, even a third-year medical student could have sorted it. Oh, well ? I suppose even eminent medics like to keep their hand in by dealing with the trivial stuff, sometimes. What was annoying, though, was my visit to the chemist in town beforehand. One of the Lloyds chain, they?ve recently reconfigured and redesigned their stores (I suspect) to reduce staffing numbers.

Finding no-one manning the till by the door, and no-one looking at all likely to accept my dosh anywhere, I then took my purchases to the prescription bit at the back, where a sign lurked inviting you to pay for stuff there also. One girl was tied up sorting out a customer who wanted complicated things done to photographic prints (the same bit dealt with all that, too), so it looked as though I was in for a lengthy wait - but then the other one emerged from a stockroom behind, and took both my stuff and my money. Hooray! But not so fast: because her colleague was still busy inserting reams of figures into the till, she couldn?t do anything with either ? so in the end, we both had to traipse over to the (still-unmanned) till by the door to sort me out anyway. Two tills, one manned insufficiently, one not at all, and a dance all over the premises just to hand over a few quid ? and just so the bloody chain can knock a bit of money off their wage bill? I?d hate to be there when there?s a crowd in. Now tell me again, chaps, this really is a better system than the one they had before?

Poor Delia Smith. Clearly the shock of engaging The Noise in serious conversation just before we played The Canaries had a residual effect upon Norfolk?s leading culinary guru and de facto owner of the club, and as a result, all her brain-cells decided to go walkabouts. Well, I mean; can you think of an alternative explanation for what she did at half-time the other evening, and in front of all the TV cameras? Seriously, though, some have opined she?d consumed far more of the falling-down water than was good for her, and that may have been the case, but I can also glimpse, through the toe-curling awfulness of it all, something else.

It?s simply this: Delia, being a genuine Norwich supporter, and one who would have been gracing the interior of Carrow Road even had she not been a person with money to chuck around, simply let her emotions get the better of her. A tightly-balanced first half, Norwich took a two-goal lead, only to see it pulled back by City just before the interval, a disastrous turn of events which resulted in audible mutterings from the home crowd. Now, come on, when faced with such a comeback at The Hawthorns, or the visitors scoring very much against the run of play, or via an unfair refereeing decision, who amongst us hasn?t truly wanted to articulate what we all feel about the side, wanted to whip up the crowd to a degree of passion sufficient for them to lift our lads, then metaphorically propel the ball into the back of the net, and all thanks to some judicious use of lung-power, and lots of it?

When I finally sat down and read what Delia actually said that night, I honestly saw some of my own words as articulated via the medium of this very diary on many, many previous occasions. Passionate, fervent, and all stemming from a genuine love for the club, and coupled with a strong desire to see it climb out of that bottom three, at least. Thanks to Chris, the webmaster, I get to vent my feelings via this website offering. Delia? She vents hers via a microphone at half-time. C?est la difference, as our Gallic chums might put it. Whatever you might think about the seemliness of what she did out there, I can genuinely empathise with her, those who have also ?risen from the ranks?, and taken love for their side to an embarrassing degree. (Say what you want about Fred The Shed, despite his many failings, and some disastrous PR, his Albion heart was always in the right place.)

Come on, think about it. This is a lady that?s put around seven million of her own moolah into the club; thanks to that, and the three million or so a year she coins via some six or seven of her restaurants in the ground, within the space of but a few seasons, she?s turned a total financial disaster into a going concern. Last summer, she even showed up at a London-based supporters club meeting (venue the back of a pub, apparently) and once there, plonked down the club?s newly-acquired First Division Championship trophy on the table for everyone to gawp at. And, on another occasion this season, left the relative comfort of Pompey?s directors box and headed for the open away end instead, where a considerable number of Canaries followers were both soaked to the skin and freezing to death, and stayed there for the remainder of the game, thanking them all profusely for supporting the club so loyally while she was at it.

Laugh you may at her possibly Bacchanalian-inspired antics during the interval, but it?s a real crying shame there aren?t more in her position not afraid to wear their hearts on their sleeves. And be so genuine with it as well; just ask The Noise and The Fart what they think of Delia after she took the time and trouble to stop for two total strangers, have a natter, and let me take a group shot of the three of them as well. It?s a warm human quality noticeably lacking in the faceless wonders we now see infesting Premiership boardrooms; come on, chaps, lighten up a bit, impersonations of the Soviet Politburo reviewing a missile-strewn Moscow May Day Parade in Red Square are soooo 1980?s!

And so we come to the question, one that gnaws at the nerve-endings in similarly-troubling fashion to that of my beloved?s infected finger. What happens tomorrow, when we take on Blues at our place? Well, on hearing the results tonight, I strongly suspected Southampton might well have written our Premiership death-warrants with that narrow win of theirs. As for the rest, Palace drew versus Man Urinal, and Norwich lost three-one against a Chelski side that probably didn?t even need to break sweat defending the lead they finally had, although Norwich, having not seen the script beforehand, did inconveniently equalise, but after the visitors rattled in two more, it was ?situation normal?, and the proper balance of all things Ruski (and expensive) restored once more.

What this all means, of course, is that we?re now well and truly up shit creek, but without even the benefit of a paddle to help extricate us from the ever-increasing strength of the torrent relentlessly dragging us towards that rapidly-approaching weir. Once more, it?s time to look at those ?cold equations?; we?re now eight points adrift of Southampton, and still firmly stuck to the sea-bed. Yeah, yeah, I know we?ve got two in hand, but there?s one small (well, not so small when you sit and think about it) snag. Not only do we need to win both, and another one on top, we?ve also got to pray Norwich, Palace and Southampton all go to pot in the meantime. I am known to believe in miracles, but this is one even the soon-to-be sainted Mother Teresa would balk at.

As far as tomorrow goes, it looks as though Blues will be without Mario Melchiot, who missed their 2-0 defeat at Selhurst, and is only rated doubtful for this particular quick-step. After missing the last seven with a thigh problem, Stan Lazaridis may be back again, and Emile Heskey returns after suspension. As for their other casualties, Muzzy Izzet and David Dunn, they?ll be sitting this one out, and lovely wallflowers they?ll all look too.

As for our lot, it looks very much as though Robson will have the pick of whoever he wants tomorrow; according to all the papers, everyone is in fine fettle. Chaplow reckons he?s absolutely straining at the leash to get a start following his recent transfer from the Clarets, so we shall have to see about that one. Well, the lad did get one for our reserves in the week, so I suppose he?s entitled to press a claim. Interestingly, Robbo actually admitted there was a residual problem, still, with Houlty?s back; according to the gaffer, his errant lumbar regions had a bit of a ?spasm? versus The Saints, but now, everything?s AOK. Whatever the score, it?s a tad too late to start affecting things now, so all I want to see from this one is at least partial restoration of the pride and dignity we supporters lost during the corresponding fixture at St. Andrews a couple of months back. Surely that?s not too much to ask, here?

At least we won?t have the ?pleasure? of Jermaine Pennant?s company tomorrow. No ? I tell a fib ? ?pleasure? is the perfect description of where the Blues lad will be while his chums are doing battle with us ? just attach the prefix ?Her Majesty?s? to the word, and you?ve got it in one. Or ?three? (months), less time knocked off for good behaviour, which impractical terms, will very likely mean around six weeks actually spent in durance vile, providing he minds his P?s and Q?s while banged up. The moral? Easy: that?s what happens when you decide to take lamp-posts for a late night spin in (or should that read ?underneath??) your vehicle, which you?re banned from driving anyway. Unless you?re looking for an unusually-eccentric way of providing your mutt with outdoor toilet facilities, of course.

And finally?. One. The other day, I found landed in my inbox a message - well, a plaintive plea, actually - from a masochistic chap called Hitesh Patel, plus his equally mad chums. Masochistic? Easy, that one; he and a few other (equally-deranged!) work colleagues are entering a team to run in this year's London Marathon, which takes place on Sunday 17 April.

They?re running in aid of St John Ambulance, who are an obviously worthy cause, largely unsung, always there to tend to all manner of lumps and bumps sustained by supporters (and players, sometimes!) at The Shrine. There?s also a bit of an ulterior motive at work here; Hitesh is of the belief that if those jolly nice people with the bandages and liniment become aware he?s running to amass a hefty wodge to hand over at some future date, when they inevitably reach a state of irretrievable and irreversible exhaustion on the day, they'll get to receive VIP first aid treatment!

If anyone would like to sponsor Hitesh and his fellow self-inflicted pain addict chums, please visit their online fundraising page at: www.justgiving.com/ccs. You'll also be able to view a picture of the team; Hitesh says he?s the one in the blue and white stripes. He further announces he?ll gladly listen to any suggestions as to what piece of Albion kit he should wear on the day, if it brings in more money but, it'd be great if those living/working in the London area could come out on the day and cheer them on, if only to see if they can ?Boing Boing? for 26.2 miles!

Two. On Friday night, while we were all nattering ten to the dozen at my stepmother?s house, one of my sisters suddenly reminded me of what has to be the biggest all-time disaster of an away trip ever undertaken by a Baggie. The season? 1968-69. The opponents? Coventry City? The result? A defeat. The problem? Several: first off, the windscreen of the car my elder sibling and her hubby were travelling in was smashed en-route by a stray bit of debris flying up from the road. Instinctively, my brother-in-law tried to punch a hole in the shattered bit so he could see out, and ended up cutting his hand open instead, with predictably-bloody results. They?d finally managed to get the thing to a nearby garage when the petrol tank capriciously decided to break into two (it was a bit of a wreck of a car) near enough, thereby depositing enough inflammable liquid to torch the Torrey Canyon right there on the forecourt, with predictable panicky results from the geezer owning the place.

Somehow, they managed to get to the ground before the kick-off; on arrival, and covered in blood because of the hand injury I mentioned earlier, Des tried asking the Coventry officials if they could put a PA message out to the travelling Albionites asking if someone could help them out with a lift home, but the club refused point blank to assist ? at the time, Coventry were getting much media attention on the strength of Jimmy Hill aggressively marketing The Sky Blues as a friendly family club, remember! ? so they were both stuffed. Luckily, my sis and a mate of hers managed to organise a lift back with one of the supporters? coaches, but hubby had to make do with public transport instead.

The ?best? bit? By the time the coach got back to West Bromwich, it was two in the morning, but despite the fact my sister only lives in Greets Green, the driver was based in nearby Dudley, and it was on his route home anyway, the curmudgeonly old sod adamantly refused to drop them off ? so they had to walk back instead. Think about it; two women, neither of them of Amazonian proportions, two in the morning, and a two or three mile slog to crack on their tod? Precisely. Hubby? By the time he finally showed his face at Chez Garbett, it was five am.

To be honest, family or not, I genuinely can?t ever recall hearing of a more awful ?matchday experience?, even from those related by Dick readers over the years. Unless there?s someone out there who can come up with anything worse, of course!

 - Glynis Wright

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