The Diary

30 March 2005: All This, And Easter Bunnies, Too!

Back once more, after the Easter break, and fighting-fit to zap your screens with yet more Albion and footie-related stuff. But, before I commence operations proper, an observation. Why is it, whenever the clocks go forward in anticipation of summer, the ambient temperature always reverts to that predominating around December, or January? For two whole glorious days last week, I genuinely believed Spring had truly sprung, but since our return from Herefordshire, the weather?s done nothing but its level best to knock such heretical thoughts well and truly out of our pretty little heads. As I write these words, our ?office? stubbornly remains cold enough to necessitate the use of an oil-filled radiator; being someone who feels the cold something chronic, such drastic measures are absolutely essential to the successful completion of this column. Or, put another, more direct, way, it?s cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey right now, and if I don?t keep warm, my entire sodding body is liable to freeze up, a lamentable state of affairs that does nothing whatsoever to improve the somewhat volatile nature of my temper.

I have to say, though, that the three or so days we spent in Herefordshire over the Easter period were most rewarding. Despite the imminence of spring?s somewhat explosive effects upon the local flora and fauna, nothing appeared all that much different from the state of affairs that prevailed when we were last down there a couple of weeks ago ? in those dark, damp places humanity rarely casts a cursory eye, things are totally different, of course; all that host of new life lacks is the age-old call of milder climes, coupled with more than a meagre ration of sun - but as far as the football went, it wasn?t such a bad time to go, really.

Lacking a senior game because of the internationals, on Saturday, we decided to take in a game at a much lower level we?re normally accustomed to witnessing, in this case an Express and Star West Midlands League encounter involving Wellington FC and their Black Country based Bustleholme FC counterparts. Let me set the scene; Wellington are situated about ten miles from Hereford itself, but in surroundings one might care to describe as both rural and rustic. Certainly, a journey via the B road, then through the village is a veritable photographer?s delight (I know because I?ve got the pics to prove it!), and to the uninitiated ? we?ve been before - the ground itself reveals itself to be something of a surprise-packet. They even have a couple of bijou but modern covered seating areas, and, uniquely for football at this level, a half-time trip to their refreshment facility is rewarded with one?s beverage of choice being proffered in a ?proper? china mug, not one of the flimsy plastic abominations much-loved by clubs at our level. Money has been poured into the place ? lots of it. No ?village-green-and watch-out-for-the-piles-of-doggy-do? jobbie this; instead, the casual supporter will find both up-to-date dressing-room facilities, and a social club of equally modern provenance. It?s also illuminating to learn this village club has not just a senior side nestling under its cider-soaked wing, but no less than eight junior ones also; football from the cradle to the (almost) grave, if you want to look at it that way.

The fact the opposition also hailed from our neck of the woods was fortuitous; we genuinely hadn?t realised until shortly before the day the fixture was due to take place. A happy accident indeed, and how good it was to hear the familiar sound of Black Country voices emanating from the pitch. Not so good, though, was the stink! Appalling, it was; just as well my thirteen-year sojourn in a country village near Bristol made me comparatively immune to such horrendous rhinological insults. Not so the visitors, it seemed; being brought up in the shadow of the Birmingham conurbation, which is about as distant from the far-from-gentle art of muck-spreading as it?s possible to get, their response seemed to be of complete bewilderment, to be swiftly followed by the symptoms of profound nausea. At least that?s what the girlfriend of one of their players told me, as we watched the game unfold from the seated comfort of the stand!

And that?s the point where coincidence chose to fire her buckshot in all sorts of random directions, folks; sitting at the rear of the stand during the first half, we suddenly noticed that the Bustleholme lad parked on the front row ? clearly an injured player, judging from the awful limp, and the football boots ? was wearing a pair of green shorts bearing a very familiar badge indeed; think ?throstle? and ?stripes? and you?ve got it in one ? so, come half-time, we were absolutely busting with curiosity to discover more about this Baggies-supporting Man Of Bustleholme. And, not only that, during the first half, we also happened to notice that their manager ? Dave somebody-or-other, as our chum was later to reveal ? happened to be sporting an Albion tracksuit top and shorts, and more to the point, was issuing battle orders to his beleaguered troops in a manner highly suggestive of a certain balding ginger-headed former Hawthorns incumbent, now at the City Ground, Nottingham. We were later to discover that when not exercising his lungs from the touchline for Bustleholme, he was a member of the Albion School Of Excellence coaching staff, which certainly went a mighty long way towards explaining his very much ?in-your-face? touchline stance, and provided confirmation of what I?d very much suspected after only a few minutes spent watching the guy in managerial action ? he either presently had, or did in the past, have strong connections with the professional game.

Interesting, very interesting ? so, after eagerly grabbing the aforementioned mugs of hot drink come the interval, we proceeded to the front of the stand to learn more, only to discover, the minute we sat down, we?d been recognised already! It transpired that the lad we spoke to had another surprising Hawthorns incarnation, that of ?Baggie Bird?! Yep, the chap you see out there engaging in knockabout fun for the benefit of younger members of the audience also plays for Bustleholme in his spare time. Being long-term injured at the moment, his input is on the coaching side. Oh, and another curious quirk of football as played at this level; the tendency of both lots of substitutes to seek out a bush adjacent to the stand where we were sitting in order to relieve themselves! Just as well, really, not one of them noticed the uncomfortably-close proximity of a ?live? electric cattle fence to their al fresco ?toilet? ? the potential there for spraying urine to cause short-circuiting and administer some totally unrequited but agonising ?shock treatment? to the gonads of the players concerned didn?t even bear thinking about!

As for the game itself, quite a lively encounter it proved to be. After having the best of most of the play, the home side took the lead during the first half, but Bustleholme, doubly urged on by the lung-busting (and occasionally obscene!) imprecations of their leader, and having Marcus Brown, brother of Albion reserve-team player Simon Brown, up front, managed to put the game on level-pegging once more. A shame for ?Mister Angry?, then, that within a very short space of time, Wellington led once more and were still doing so come half-time, a state of affair that led to much recorimination from the Bustleholme bench as bothsides left the field of play for the itnerval. According to our newly found chum, that performance was very much a ?bad day at the office? for Bustleholme, who were several players light, because of injuries, apparently.

Just as well, then, for both Mister Angry?s soaring blood pressure, and the distinct possibility of his vocal efforts from the touchline eventually bringing on a stroke or a coronary, that Bustleholme finally managed to square things once more before the final whistle, so everyone went home happy ? I think! Certainly, we were delighted ? superb entertainment, not a smidgen of ?simulation? or dissent in sight, everyone out there giving it all they?d got, no tackles of a vindictive or malicious nature whatsoever, and players just listening to what the ref had to say when he stopped play, then getting on with it once more. Oh, all that, plus a lino who was absolutely brilliant when it came to informing players as to the precise reason why he?d chosen to wave his flag for an infringement at that particular time ? or not, in some cases. No puzzlement, no mystification ? players knew precisely where they stood with the match officials, and so did spectators. And how much were we charged for this ninety minute repast of Elysian footballing delight? A mere two quid to you, guv ? coo, what a bargain.

Come Easter Monday, it was time to journey to Edgar Street once more, to see The Bulls take on Northwich Victoria, who were sitting perilously close to the Conference relegation zone that morning. And talk about ?deja-vu?; once more, the visiting side decided to indulge in Megson-esque tactics, i.e. nine players behind the ball, and hell-bent on nothing whatsoever getting anywhere near that ruddy Northwich goal. But there was a little ray of sunshine pervading that awful pall of on-pitch negativity; who should turn up, midway through the first half, than none other than The Noise?s Conference equivalent, a chap whom I choose to call ?Talking Bill?. Not quite as voluble in normal conversation as his Potteries counterpart, perhaps, but during games, it?s an industrial-earplug job, and baggy no returns! The odd fact about Bill this time was his startling choice of matchday apparel, which included a shirt of astonishingly vivid blue hue; apparently, he?d just come straight from some sort of family ?do? or other, the precise circumstances of which elude me, mainly because of my lousy hearing, but didn?t half get him some ribald remarks, mostly emanating from the mouths of the crew we normally sit with at Bulls games!

Sartorially elegant or not, though, it?s just as well he did turn up; prior to the lad?s arrival, the game had chuntered along to what was appearing to be a distinctly-underwhelming impasse; everything the home side did to try to break the deadlock, the visitors countered, but in such totally mind-numbingly-negative fashion, heads could be seen drooping in complete and utter boredom all around the stand. And the situation not helped one little bit by a lino whose entire previous existence must have been spent either on the flag-deck of a World War One battleship, or on Platform Nine of New Street Station. The daft thing was, though, although they were so highly successful in frustrating the best intentions of The Bulls, beneath that seemingly iron-hard defensive veneer, one could readily detect the distinct possibility of their entire game collapsing in a complete and utter heap should they concede first. And that, dear reader, is precisely what did happen with Bill?s arrival on the scene, which does suggest to me that the lad might well be football?s equivalent of that most desirable of creatures to be found in Fifth Form Chemistry, a catalyst, i.e. a substance that brings about the commencement of a chemical reaction by its mere presence, but without undergoing similar change to its own molecular structure.

Whatever the cause of such a remarkable turn in the game?s fortune, suffice to say that within about five minutes of Bill?s arrival, the Bulls managed to score their first, the lad Stansfield being the perpetrator of the damage in this instance. Mind you, former Baggie Carey-Bertram did get the ball in the net somewhat earlier in the proceedings, but thanks to the close attentions of ?Admiral Jellicoe? on the line, that effort was ruled out for offside, much to the disgust of the Edgar Street faithful. Not long after that, the Bulls should have had a penalty when Stansfield was shoved by his marker just as he was about to pull the trigger, but Herefordian cries of disgust quickly turned to joy; a couple of minutes after that incident, thanks to a mullock of Chricton-esque proportions by their keeper, somehow managing to direct a clearance straight to the busy feet of the former Baggie double-barrelled striker, who didn?t need any encouragement. He simply said ?thank you very much?, rounded his marker, polished his fingernails a little, touched up his haircut a tad, then aimed straight for the still-unguarded net. Oh, whoops!

Total collapse of Northwich Vic, of course, just as I?d thought ? and, within minutes, yet another Bulls strike. What happened? Another trashing of Vic?s somewhat-perforated-by-now offside trap, with (yes, again!) Carey Bertram grabbing the long ball like a long-lost brother, running like the clappers, then firing away from some distance. That one hit the keeper, but rebounded straight back to his striking chum, Stansfield, who potted the black with consummate ease. Just as well for Northwich, really, that the half-time whistle not long afterwards gave them a respite, albeit a temporary one, of course, from further punishment. Mind you, had there not been a common-sense approach shown by both police and match officials, the visitors could quite easily have escaped their fate during the interval, via the merciful release of match abandonment. How come? Easy ? at first, we didn?t notice the continuing silence coming from the direction of the PA, but the club?s electronic scoreboard quickly appraised us of what had happened during the break ? the PA system had chosen that moment to partake of an Easter break all of its very own. Much speculation amongst our crowd of the distinct possibility of the game being ended on safety grounds ? after all, that?s what happened when a freak gust of wind blew down part of their home end a couple of seasons ago; because of irreparable damage to the PA system then, the game had been deemed unplayable by all concerned, despite the fact the incident had occurred only just a couple of hours before the scheduled kick-off ? so Nick The Devilish Quizmaster (we?ve finally completed his latest piece of awfulness, by the way!) was sent to find out more.

We didn?t have long to wait. After a five minute or so?s absence, he returned, telling us that yes, the PA was well and truly on the fritz, had been pronounced in a terminal condition, but everyone in charge had seemingly succumbed to a severe attack of common-sense; with the ground being only filled to around a quarter of its total capacity, and safety info still capable of being transmitted via the scoreboard, the absence of sound was therefore deemed not to be a major threat to health and safety. And thus it was, to silence, complete and utter, that first The Bulls, then Northwich Vic, entered the field of play for the second course. As you would have expected, the home side dominated the show, but, as far as the Vic were concerned, there was one fundamental difference to the side that played out the first period ? they now had a new incumbent in goal, the previous one being considered too much of a liability to continue, I suppose. The half was also noticeable for one other totally strange event, the sending off of young Carey Bertram. What happened? I?m not sure, really, as I didn?t see what happened off the ball; apparently, during the taking of a Hereford corner, the former Baggies player head-butted one of the visitors. The ref didn?t see it, but the lino most certainly did ? some frantic flag-waving later, he managed to draw the official?s attention to what he?d seen take place, and after a short conversation to establish the facts, off went the ref to send Mister Carey B for an early bath.

I?ve no doubts whatsoever that this sorry state of affairs must have resulted in one almighty rollocking for the lad after the final whistle; he was the second Hereford striker to get his marching orders within a matter of days, the first dismissal occurring at Farnborough on Good Friday, of course. But, rejoice! Yet another ex-Baggie netted Hereford?s fourth, Tam Mkandawire, whose effort was given so much assistance in crossing the line by a careless Northwich defender. Strangely enough, it was the visitors who were calling the shots for the last ten minutes or so, and were most unlucky not to grab a consolation goal for themselves as a worthy by-product of all their commendable late efforts.

A satisfactory conclusion to the whole affair for The Bulls, then, who are now well and truly in with a shout of making the play-offs once more, a state of affairs that pleases me greatly, as it reduces considerably the distinct possibility of my other half walking around like a bear with a sore head for most of the time. Back, once more, next Saturday evening, when my thoughts turn, naturally, to the likelihood of us Baggies actually confounding the doom-laden prognostications of both critics and pundits, and pulling off a feat of escapology of which even the Great Houdini himself would have been proud to call his own.

And finally?.. Oh, dear. A sorry tale did I hear only recently, about our lower-division local rivals. It seems that some distant time in the past, someone (or a group of ?someones?!) took it into their heads to leave a nasty kind of ?visitors card? embedded in the middle of their Molineux pitch. Shotgun cartridges they were, apparently, clearly designed to intimidate the opposition. The problem was, though, being Dingles, they hadn?t properly thought through their illegal enterprise. Shotgun cartridges readily go bang when struck sharply at the base; in fact, that?s how they leave the gun in the first place, their exit facilitated by the action of the firing-pin striking the base once the trigger?s pulled, then the explosive propellant doing the rest. You don?t need to have completed a small-arms familiarisation course to see what I?m getting at right now; had it not been for the intervention of a sharp-eyed groundsman, it could quite easily have been one of the gold-and-cack persuasion hitting one of these ?surprise packets? with the stud of a stray boot, and paying spectators being banned from the Custard Bowl for a very long time indeed!

 - Glynis Wright

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