The Diary

01 August 2003: Off to Plymouth

Coo, what a day, and what a lovely sunset. Pretty much every part of the little bits that make up me are aching something rotten tonight, and our favourite football club are the guilty party, I?m afraid. Not intentionally; it takes a pretty twisted sense of humour to sit up into the wee small hours fiendishly devising ways of making supporters suffer, and I don?t think our lot?s minds really work that way, but there were times today when I began to wonder if that indeed was the case. The problem, as ever, lay with the Ticket Office; the Walsall tickets went on sale to away season-ticket holders today, and that, plus getting the Brentford game added to our home stilecards, provided the impetus for a trip to Planet Albion. No problem, thought I; a quick tool in and out, sort out the necessary transactions, then catch the 74 and have a crafty perusal of Smiths in town to see what was hot, and what not, in the book world, and off I went without a care in the world.

That happy state of affairs didn?t last long; on arrival at the T/O I discovered a queue snaking its sinuous way outside of the entrance and a fair way along the pavement outside; clearly I was going to be in for a bigger wait than anticipated. No chance of leaving it until tomorrow, either. Come the crowing of the cockerel (or should that be the cocking of the crow?), we shall be haring down the M5 towards Devon at a (Legal! Plods, please take note?.) rate of knots, and will therefore be unable to make merry with the club?s amenities during official opening hours, thereby putting the mockers on making ticket purchases during the narrow window for away season ticket-holders. Whatever had to be done had to be done today. Hunkering down for the long haul, at least it was gratifying to see several all-too familiar faces doing their John Milton ? ?we also serve, who only stand and wait? - impersonations out there. The redoubtable Sauce, for one, handing out flyers for his Bacchanalian-slanted away travel service to anyone (make that everyone!) in the queue; when I finally got the chance to talk to him, he said he?d been there since around ten that morning, and ventured the opinion that in the hours preceding my arrival, things had been much worse. Not only were there Walsall ticket-seekers, there was the additional complicating factor of folks whose home/away ST?s hadn?t even arrived yet; unsurprisingly, these people were also turning up in person to find out more. No wonder the line moved at a snail-like pace.

Much later, and inside the ticket office by this time, I also clapped eyes on Carol Carter, she of South Birmingham Branch, and an away-match regular also. Quite put out and all of a fluster, she was; closer questioning revealed she was there in her lunch-hour from work, and should she tarry unduly, Questions Would Be Asked?.. No wonder the poor lady was looking somewhat stressed ? and, talking of which (shameless plug-time!), Carol who, bless her Florence Nightingale outfit, is a trained nurse, now has a post at Selly Oak Hospital persuading the good folkies of Brum to pack in the dreaded weed. From what I could see of that queue, the vast amount of embuggeration generated by the lengthy wait provided an excellent excuse to get people started in the first place, but there you are! Also there with a mate was Britain?s prime contributor to the pollution problem, one Steve Brookes; his more noisome anal emissions should be the subject of a Summit Conference on global warming. I kid you not; just sit immediately behind him during a game, and you?ll see what I mean??

Still, all good things (including queues), come to an end, and finally, I got to a counter to sort out all my wants. The good news was I managed to purchase tickets for both Walsall and Watford (I hadn?t realised these were on sale already). The bad? When I tried to update our stile-cards, the computers completely gave up the ghost (well, poor things, they?d been slaving their electronic guts out since the T/O had opened for business), so the good lady concerned had to write down all my credit card details on a bit of paper, to consign to the labyrinthine innards of Albion?s ticketing system later on. Assuming she remembers, of course ? and there?s the rub. Has she, or hasn?t she? I?ve no way of knowing! Luckily, I have to return to the scene of the crime next week, as my nephew wants a couple of one-off tickets for the Burnley game, so it might well be prudent to enquire then?

Heigh ho, and off to The Hoe tomorrow?? No account from me of tomorrow?s Home Park doings, as we?re staying there the night, but I?ll dish the dirt in liberal quantities on Sunday night. Not a bad place to go, Plymouth; I remember travelling there midweek for a League Cup game in ?93, and a jolly old time we had as well. Of course, the place positively oozes history from every pore (naval history from its navel?), and has come in for a battering from a fair few belligerent countries over the years. In the 15th century, it was attacked by French troops several times, and parts of it destroyed. Then, of course, in 1588, the Spaniards had a pop, courtesy of the Armada. Baggies of my generation will no doubt remember having to memorise the Sir Henry Newbolt poem, ?Drake?s Drum? at school for English classes. Thankfully, they don?t inflict such tortures on kids these days ? or do they? In the 17th century, it was the turn of the plague to do its worst, closely followed by Cromwell?s lot in the Civil War. It was around that time the Government decided to turn the place into a naval port; that decision indirectly led to Hitler doing the council?s work by completing a pretty comprehensive demolition job on the town centre during 1940-41. The downside was there were 1,174 civilians killed. As I said, lots of people have had a go at the place, and on the last occasion, it got something of a bloody nose?.

Famous Plymouth people? Michael Foot, for one. And Captain Scott. Nancy Astor? I?m cheating slightly there; she was American by birth, but made history in 1919 by becoming the first woman to take her Plymouth seat in the House of Commons. Historical note: another woman ? Irish, I believe ? was actually elected before her, but never took her seat, so Ms Astor is commonly acknowledged to be the first. Do I count Mickey Evans amongst that illustrious gathering? Talking of ?illustrious gatherings?, quite honestly, I can?t remember a time when Albion flashed the cash so prodigiously pre-season; what is it now, six players, before a ball has even been kicked in earnest? I don?t know about you, but I?m getting the distinct impression that the club are really going for it in a big way this term, and splashing the cash accordingly, although in a prudent manner. Blimey, some of our former directors must be turning in their graves??

And finally?? Tonight, I was telling ?Im Indoors about the fact Mars would be making its closest approach to earth for about 20,000 years very soon, and from that, I then began to explain why when travelling from Earth to the Red Planet, you couldn?t simply go from one planetary orbit to another in a straight line. ?Think of the journey as being like a pass from the middle of the park to the bloke on the wing; you don?t aim the ball at where Clem is, you aim it at where he will be by the time the ball?s got there ? and it?s the same for a rocket travelling between Earth and Mars?.? Mind you, I then had to qualify that statement a little, by noting: ?If it was Clem on the other end, the spacecraft would miss Mars altogether, and the occupants would die of suffocation somewhere around the asteroid belt?.."

 - Glynis Wright

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