The Diary

03 August 2003: Plymouth Argyle 0 Albion 0

"No matter where you go, I will find you?"

(Even if the journey there does take five and a half hours!)

The words reproduced above are from Clannad?s ?Last Of The Mohicans? film-score, and blasting out at Warp Factor Nine on our CD player at the time, but the sentiments contained within seemed somewhat ironic to this column, considering the density of traffic we encountered on our way to Devon?s famous naval port yesterday morning. Having set out and picked up The Old Fart (The Noise couldn?t come out to play due to family commitments) at the unearthly hour of nine in the morning, the next item on the agenda was to hit the southbound carriageway of the M5 at a rate of knots, which we did in good order about 15 minutes after leaving Sunny Brum. So far, so good, then; The Fart in the back of the vehicle was safe in the capacious arms of Morpheus, and snoring fit to bust, we were listening to the soporific tones of the Irish folk-rock combo, and all was well with the world ? and then we hit the other side of Gloucester, and the mother of all snarl-ups plus, of course, its attendant effect upon blood pressure; truly the chasm, the pits, the unfathomable deep, a dank motorway-spawned dungeon with no lily-livered-pinko-pamper-the-criminal time off for good behaviour, either. Stretching all the way from Michael Wood Services, it was, and stop-bloody-go, all the way, and in baking temperatures, just to dollop some more icing on the already-overloaded cake. Sometimes, enticingly, we?d get as far as second gear, and our spirits would lift commensurately, only to be let down in true Albion style by another automobile aggregation a little further down the line.

An hour and a half went by, and we still hadn?t reached the other side of Bristol, consequently our arrival before kick-off was being placed in some doubt. We had thought of seeking another route, but after some debate, elected to stick with what we knew; perhaps this was a wise option, as around the vicinity of Gordano Services, the traffic began to slowly melt away. Phew! Another small panic not long afterwards as we reached the Weston Super-Mare junction; annoyingly, this wasn?t due to the sheer volume of traffic on the road this time, but an accident that had nothing whatsoever to do with our side of the road. The source of the trouble was a very poorly looking caravan ? totally smashed up, it was ? on the hard shoulder, and, of course, every motorist in creation on both sides was slowing down to have a good gawp; the proof of the pudding was our sudden increase in speed and the rapid diminution in the number of fellow road-users once the stricken vehicle had been left far behind. Luckily, from then on, everything was tickety-boo; just as well, really, as by the time we reached our destination, it was almost half-two, and any thoughts about going to our overnight accommodation first, showering, changing, and all that jazz, had to be kicked firmly into touch. Straight for the main car park, we headed, and having dropped anchor and purchased a programme, it was inside Home Park with ? erm ? not quite the speed of an Exocet missile in flight, but not far off, present company excepted, of course.

And, to be truthful, that was our sole adrenalin-producing experience, that day! As far as the game was concerned, we might have just as well journeyed to B and Q, and watched paint-drying demonstrations, so dire was the fare on offer. Free kicks conceded unnecessarily, misplaced passes, sloppy defensive play, an AWOL strikeforce ? and that?s just for starters. You might get away with this sort of thing in a pre-season friendly, but against Walsall, I really can?t envisage the opposition being so generous as to cut us so much slack.

I won?t inflict a blow-by-blow account on you; that?s already been covered in sufficient depth by those who made the long haul back last night, but I do have a few observations to make about our performance. First off: that second-half double-save of Houlty?s. In my opinion, the guy performed a superhuman feat in itself by stopping that rocketing free kick; to defiantly block the rebound header when all seemed well and truly lost was football above and beyond the call of duty. The highlight of the game as far as I?m concerned, and England?s Number One thoroughly deserved the standing ovation he received from his many Baggie admirers immediately afterwards. Secondly, the heat, which was enough to make the average sauna-going regular pack up in disgust. To some degree, our performance was lack-lustre purely and simply because undue expenditure of effort over that 90-minute period would have severely drained already-overtaxed physiological resources. Just sitting in the sun-drenched stand was no joke; our lot moved rapidly rearwards as the scorching sun crept towards the back of our bit; what the temperature actually on the park was, I couldn?t begin to imagine. My third observation concerns Argyle themselves. No lack-lustre Third Division slouches are they these days; new(ish) chairman, three sides of their gaff revamped, promoted a season ago. They clearly have ambitions of progressing further, and on yesterday?s showing, you could do worse than consult your local turf accountant with a view towards investing a few shiny ones on them achieving that laudable aim this time around. In short, Argyle really wanted it yesterday, and it showed.

On-pitch events may not have moved the spirit to the extent of shedding real tears, but off the field of play, you?ll be pleased to hear things were more invigorating off it. Take Devon Baggie ? nice of us to bring a game to them for a change! - Julian Rowe, for example. He?d brought nipper Jamie to our football-fest, and both were being absolutely mesmerised by the silky skills displayed by our favourite football club for our delectation, when a marauding wasp, bored out of its tiny brain, presumably, decided to take it out on the young shaver instead. The excruciating result I?ll leave to the imagination. That?ll teach Dad not to inflict such footballing miseries on impressionable kids...

Honourable mention also goes to Jay Poole, he of the distinctly unreliable means of away-match transportation ? the last time we saw him in Devon, he was plonked forlornly next to a distinctly-unwell jalopy. In direct contrast to previous jaunts, his chariot performed admirably, for once. Much disgruntlement in the overtime-deprived ranks of the AA/RAC, presumably. Jay has an unenviable (and unbelievable!) history of matchday car trouble; one day we?ll thoroughly embarrass him by doing a Dick article about it.

The interval also dredged up several other familiar faces; a big ?hello?, then, to a distinctly overstressed-looking Sauce. Well, if you?d had to fume in the same jam as ourselves with a coach-load of anxious (and thirsty ? no pub stop this time!) away-travellers, you?d be reaching for the ulcer pills ?an all! Pride of place, though, has to go to the numbskull Dingle, we spotted plonking himself in the Mayflower Stand during the middle of the first course. Unsurprisingly, within milliseconds, our glee-club locked on to to this most unwelcome manifestation like a predatory Tornado jet to an Iraqi tank. How nice of us to remind that chap in song of that splendid Morecambe win the other week, and giving him the precise score as well by way of bonus! Lovely stuff, but I did have to severely question his sanity in the first place for turning up solo in a gold-and-cack replica shirt to watch a game featuring their bitterest rivals, and around a thousand of their followers laughing fit to bust. What was it I said to ?Im Indoors and The Old Fart? ?Only a Dingle...?

The game over and done with, it was back to the old Dickmobile to play ?Find The B and B?. At least we had no trouble locating our transport this time round; well do I remember one occasion about a dozen years ago when we?d made the journey in a courtesy car, our trusty steed being repaired at the time. Ever tried finding an unfamiliar vehicle on a parking-lot that size, in the dark, with nose-to-tail parking? It wasn?t easy, and delayed our exit considerably, to much accompanying bad language from ?Im Indoors. Back to the present, though; exiting the area proved rather bothersome, but once on the open road, the supplied instructions ensured an easy passage to our overnight resting place, St. Rita?s Hotel. Once inside, a quick wash-and-brush-up session, then we hit the town in earnest. Down to The Pennycomequick pub ? no, I don?t know how the name arose ? where some Baggies, including Clive Thomas plus retinue, still lingered, quaffing those essential hydrating post-match pints like shipwrecked mariners cast ashore on some distant land.

Another fascinating snippet, folkies; the guy lighting the Barbie was, as a 16 year-old, a team-mate of our present gaffer, who was then a Bristol Rovers junior. Apparently, Meggo Senior aka Don Megson ? remember him, anyone? ? was manager there, and didn?t want our embryonic leader in his side, so he was then shipped out to Argyle; the rest, we all know. Another juicy snippet; while at Rovers, yer man was clattered most unnecessarily by (our informant thinks) a youthful Bobby Stokes, he of the famous 1973 Cup-winning side, who was in deserved receipt of an early bath for his sins. Gary, although rather sore, gallantly continued; when questioned as to the reason for such unseemly on-pitch activities, the perpetrator of the damage was allegedly heard to reply, ?Because I?d heard he?s a good midfielder?.?

A friendly final natter with them all, back to our hotel again for my camera, and it was down to Sir Francis Drake?s favourite recreational area, The Hoe. Beautiful, it was, basking in the golden eventide glow, with the nearby sea an inviting sparkly steel blue. Not far from land, a Royal Fleet Auxiliary ship rested peacefully at anchor, a sharp reminder of that city?s strong nautical and naval connections. Baggies? Lots of ?em ? where do you want me to start?

A slow but purposeful walk brought us to The Barbican, with its working harbour and many restaurants, mostly of the seafood variety. You can?t get much fresher than buy the stuff straight off the quay as it?s landed, can you? Looking for something to suit all tastes ? Im Indoors is allergic to fish, while The Fart?s a vegetarian ? we reached a compromise by calling in on a good old-fashioned chippy, also on the quay. Being something of a seafood buff, I stuck with their plaice, but my other half invested in a tiddy oggy ? that?s Cornish pasty in naval parlance ? and The Fart went for a cheese-and-chips combo. Quite pleasant just to sit on a bench overlooking the harbour, batting the breeze, watching the shadows lengthen, and the many boats scurrying about their business, with something of a comic diversion provided by the many sea-gulls hanging around, simply waiting for the main chance. One of their number must have been the head-honcho. Bigger, fatter, and with a temper to rival our gaffer?s, it was, and unfailingly up for first dibs at anything we chucked in his general direction. Having eaten fit to bust, I then decided to embark on a bit of fun; there were still a few chips left over, and loads of gulls, so I simply put the container on Terra Firma (as opposed to Terry Wills), nudged ?Im Indoors, muttered ?Now watch this?.?, then awaited results?. Within the blink of an eye, scores of avian scavengers descended on my leavings, to scenes which can only be truly comprehended by those who?ve watched the Hitchcock horror classic ?The Birds?. Ten seconds later, not a trace of the evidence remained?

Another tootle around the area to take pictures of the dusk-lit quayside scene ? the best time for photography, in my opinion ? and by that time, my legs and back had well and truly given up the ghost. Back to the ranch, then, a bloody hot bath for this column, and what I had intended to be a serious foray into my new book. Some hope; I?d only got as far as the first chapter, and my eyes drooped alarmingly, so Plan B, some serious kip, was substituted instead...

Up well in time for brekkie, though, and with a gargantuan amount of nosh in our bellies, we set forth to grab more pics of Home Park. Yesterday, I had briefly toyed with the notion of carting my decent camera in with me; just as well I didn?t, because the stewards were so gung-ho, they insisted on minutely inspecting the contents of my bum-bag. What in the way of weapons of mass destruction I could have concealed within its bijou depths, I really don?t know, but the upshot was I had to rely on one of those disposable gadgets you can buy in Boots. Still, the morrow brought the chance to make photographic amends, and once we?d done with that with a vengeance, it was back on the road for the long haul home. Or we would have, but for the fact we took the wrong turning, and almost ended up in Tavistock?

Once we?d sorted that little matter out to our satisfaction, the journey home was a piece of cake compared with that of the preceding 24 hours. A mere 195 hours of uninterrupted motoring, this time? the bloke yesterday who reckoned he once did it in two and a bit hours must have either been telling porkies, or been doing something highly-illegal ? The Old Fart slumbering in the back, and more soothing strains of Clannad via the speakers. The scorching-hot temperatures outside mattered not one iota because the climate control in our vehicle came up trumps for once. Our last pre-season, and one of the most pleasant domestic trips I can remember for a long time. Make the most if the idyll before the real fun starts next Saturday, folkies; from here on in, it?s going to be real nail-biting stuff?

 - Glynis Wright

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