The Diary

07 May 2005: All Our Trials, Lord, Soon Be Over

It?s a bit tough being an Albion supporter, right now, what with the Premiership Sword Of Damocles hanging right over our heads, and some mad sod of an axe-man set on sending the whole shebang crashing earthwards at a disastrous rate of knots in but a few short hours time, but tonight, I witnessed something equally as bad for the heart and/or mind, if not worse. Sure, life at our level can?t half get to kick you in the goolies just when you least expect it, but not nearly as much as it does when you?re in the Conference, and struggling desperately to get out of it via the bloody play-offs.

As you?ve probably guessed by now, the game was Conference runners-up Hereford United versus Stevenage Borough, and the second leg of their bone-crunching clash, the first (and away) leg having ended in a 1-1 draw early last Monday evening. It being the second time in 12 months The Bulls had tried to take the ?lottery route? out of their version of The Outer Darkness, you really, desperately, had to want them to do it this time, especially as rank bad luck, coupled with some truly rotten refereeing, kept them out the first time round. A shame, that, as under former Baggie Richard O?Kelly, they?d absolutely walloped the pants off most of their Conference rivals the previous time round, including two memorable 7-goal blitzings, topping that just before the end of the season with an incredible 9-0 away win, and live on Sky as well!

This second-leg shot at it? John Trewick?s Bulls (minus an injured Lee Mills; a crucial loss, as the one sure thing their game needed an experienced ex-pro?s armoury of crafty little guiles and wrinkles tonight) huffed and puffed an awful lot, but, a short but frenetic spell at the end of the first half apart, when they genuinely looked like getting Stevenage reeling on the ropes at long last, and the ref steadily counting down the seconds to a knock-out, they weren?t at the races, even. For the greater part of the game they seemed to be firing on far fewer cylinders than they should have been. Nerves? Quite possibly ? it?s not all that often you see Edgar Street shoehorning ?em in these days; tonight?s near full house must have been their first since the last time they were in the play-offs, a scant year ago.

I suppose matters weren?t helped much from the start by Stevenage quickly and quite cynically adopting a policy of seemingly wanting to kick anything wearing a Hereford shirt into geosynchronous Earth orbit, or collapsing as if shot whenever tackled; being what a certain ginger-headed former manager would probably describe as ?tippy-tappy football? purists, the home side didn?t stand an earthly, the visitors? breakthrough coming around halfway through the second half, when the Bulls keeper tried to parry a fierce, low shot from the visitors, making a bit of a pig?s ear of it, and the loose ball falling instead straight to a Stevenage player, who nutted it home with ease, and because The Bulls keeper was already committed, into an empty net.

Surprising, that, though; for most of the current season, home, away, or indifferent, The Bulls have played a delightful brand of skilful (and more importantly, superbly-entertaining) football, and by doing so, gradually fought their way up to a second position finish in that league, runners-up to rampant champions Barnet. Had they been in the Football League proper, that would have been enough to see them elevated as of right, of course, but being the Conference, there?s only one automatic promotion place up for grabs, at present. Rumours abound that this ludicrous situation might well change in time for the start of next term, but that?s poor consolation to the likes of ?Im Indoors, who looked totally crestfallen, gutted even, when the referee finally signalled the end of the game.

A double shame, really, as the poor sod had shifted like the clappers to a much-needed doctor?s appointment at 5.45, breezed through the consultation with a speed even The Lancet would have been proud of, then, with me hanging on like grim death, and praying to any god that would have me on an emergency basis, seriously burning rubber on the Hagley Road and southward in an effort to make up for lost time. I can also report he braved (and cursed richly at!) snail-paced commuters (Worcester Ring Road), not to mention torpid tractor-drivers (main Hereford-Worcester thoroughfare) finally arriving at the car-park next to the ground with about 40 minutes to spare. Yep, ?creative driving? sure is a wunnerful thing, and let me tell you, I mean that most sincerely, folks!

But awful Hughie Green impersonations apart, it wasn?t just my other half who ended up on the wrong end of a particularly rough deal tonight; having attended a fair number of games at Edgar Street myself over the years, it didn?t take me all that long to realise Hereford?s long-suffering regular supporters really are the tops; if ever there were an award for masochism taken to a frightening degree, then The Bulls would win it in a walk. No Premiership glamour or glitz for them, just a succession of long hard slogs by coach to all four corners of this football crazy England of ours, all weathers, with no guarantee of what sort of game would prevail once one?s destination had been reached. Not to mention their inborn habit of digging into personal ?rainy day? stashes in constant efforts to save the club. I?m talking really genuine supporters here, who really care about the club, like those pensioner ladies I?ve mentioned before, that 80-year-old, the one who?s still game for a lengthy away trip, any time or venue you care to mention.

Or good honest people like Nick Brade and Talking Bill, their Martin Lewis soundalike (and strangely-subdued tonight ? might have been because of the young lady who accompanied him to the game for the first time ever, perhaps?), who would literally die for the cause, were the need ever to arise. There?s no headlines, kudos, or big media write-ups for all the hard work those officials consistently undertake to ensure United go into each season with sufficient funds to do battle with the best that division has to offer at youth-side level, just the wisp of a hope that maybe, just maybe, their percentages will finally turn, and they?ll one day return to the ?big boys? league they so unexpectedly left some six or seven years ago, and reclaim their rightful homeland once more. Look upon these works, you prima donnas, and weep.

A wickedly cruel disappointment for many of them tonight, though, especially given the knowledge The Bulls are normally capable of much, much better than that, but you can bet anything you care to name that those selfsame young supporters will be doing it all again next season, live; hail, shine, showers of frogs, plagues of boils, whatever. But it won?t be with the same set of players they have now, though. 12 month contracts are the norm for them, so they?ll just have to break up the side they?ve currently got, very likely, and pick themselves another from the leavings of the Football League; luckily for The Bulls, it?s a buyer?s market right now.

Funny, isn?t it? Two or three days ago, I announced the forthcoming demise of The Dick, and the response we?ve had from Albion supporters has been absolutely tremendous. Very appreciative of what we?ve tried to do over the years, and thanking us for all our efforts to ?tell it like it is?. For that, we?re truly grateful, and on behalf of the other editors, I thank you all, but what really knocked me askew the other night was a mail from a Sheffield University academic wanting to consign us to his archives for posterity! Brilliant, the fanzine equivalent of discovering there really is an afterlife; immortality shall be ours, and I can only hope all our sweaty efforts over the past 16 years will help some poor little nerve-frazzled sod of a Ph.D student get his doctorate in fine style in the not-too-distant future.

I can?t say the thought of us four Dick Eds ending up in some cobweb-ridden musty archive for all eternity appeals that much, though. Well, I mean ? my poor back?s dodgy enough, without having to be stuck in some dust-laden vault as well, and as for The Noise, I reckon some curator or other will have to stick a heavy cover over him, if only to retain some sanity, occasionally You know, like you do with constantly-nattering caged budgies or parrots, when you want them to shut up for the night? The Fart? Well, if you can dodge 16-inch Fritz shells aimed at our side of The Somme trenches for months on end, and still come back for more, then an eternity of static-ridden stasis will come as a mere bagatelle to the old sod. ?Im Indoors? Completely allergic to dust, I?m afraid, so expect to hear a muffled ?AAA-TISH-OO!? or six coming from below stairs at regular intervals. Oh, and lots and lots of hankies, closely followed by an equally copious outbreak of snot-blowing, a direct result of the rapid change of environment for the worse.

Moving inexorably on with all things Albion, we now have to examine what has to be the strong possibility we?ll be getting ours in heaps at Old Trafford tomorrow evening. And, just to make things interesting, United seem to have decided to pitch in with what will amount to their normal side for this one. Having heard the news, it?s a bit of an understatement to say I?m bloody furious. Why? Because when United travelled to Norwich a couple of weeks back, not wanting to risk injury to their poor overpaid darlings for one reason or another, they sent a weakened side, and to no-one?s particular surprise, got hammered 2-0 at Carrow Road. A shame we won?t be experiencing such generous largesse ourselves from Fergie, isn?t it? Our problems are also compounded by the fact Kieran Richardson won?t be turning out for us, either; part of the small-print on the original loan deal, I suppose, but a bitter blow, all the same. And one not helped by the threat of Ronnie Wallwork not being available to face his former colleagues because of unspecified illness. There?s going to be a fitness test tomorrow, apparently; let?s just hope he?s OK.

The real problem lies in the fact our entire future could be labelled ?Championship-shaped? before we?ve kicked a ball in anger, even. Sure, a total disaster situation has us losing to see us take the drop on the day, and that if only one of our relegation rivals grabs a clear win beforehand, but the basic problem is The Mancs still needing those blasted points to qualify for the Champions? League once more. Sure, we?ll battle long, hard and honourably, but if Fergie?s lot are genuinely taking this one seriously, Robbo factor or none, we?ll slide down the pan quicker than the aftershock from a more than usually powerful curry, washed down with several pints of Bonkses.

Assuming worst-case scenario tomorrow, yes, taking the drop will hurt really badly, especially given the knowledge we came so close to breaking that ?bottom by Christmas? mould, but emotionally, not quite on a par with some relegations I?ve experienced over the past few years. For sheer cruelty of the tear-jerking kind, the 1991 version at Twerton Park still wins my straw poll hands (or team!) down every time. That one was compounded in misery tenfold by our collective (and totally-disastrous) decision to ?theme? our last game on the road as per usual. ?Togas At Rovers?, it was dubbed; unsurprisingly, just about everyone who went was wearing some vestige of Roman attire or other, and all had their hearts completely rent asunder come five that same evening. Not a day I particularly care to recall, owing to being still prone to ?flashbacks? in my worst moments, just like some Vietnam veterans. Mention ?Bobby Gould?, ?Colin West?, ?Paul Williams?, or ?Adrian Foster? on one of my less good days, for example, and all you?ll get from me thereafter is the infamous ?thousand-yard stare?!

It?s for that reason alone I strongly suspect not that many will be dressing up for this one. The idea of our end-of-season fun days is to see the last away game out with a little bit of fun and frolic, as per Reading last season, or more famously, that marvellous ?Men In Black? thrash at Blackburn, two long seasons ago. One doesn?t really care to have to share such things with what might well amount to a wake tomorrow night.

And we?re not going to see the Mancs stage their little protest against the proposed ?800m takeover bid from American tycoon Malcolm Glazer either, it would seem. They now appear to have cancelled their massed public throwing of the dolly out of the pram; ?lack of sufficient time to organise one? being the professed reason for lowering the boom on it. Shame! Mind you, if you should want a prime example of what I generally term ?a Freudian slip? from them, just take a butchers at their other professed reason for not wanting to go ahead with it ? and, just like me, have a bloody great hoot when you do. ?With supporters routinely heading to Manchester from all points of the United Kingdom and Ireland, it was felt asking them to make the journey but not watch the game was a step too far?.? Oh, whoops. Now tell me again ? what was all that stuff about genuine United followers largely being true sons of the City Of Manchester?

Oh, well. That?s enough from me for now. Those that are making the journey to Manchester, see you there; we?ll be flogging our last ever issue somewhere on Matt Busby Walk, I guess. Positively your last chance ever to hear The Noise wax lyrical about his American holiday! Or The Fart about Army life back in the days when possession of a red coat, a musket and a full powder-horn made for essential soldiering kit! Those who ?also serve, but only stand and wait?, in various holes and corners of the globe, I hope at least that it?s a decent game to watch, knowing that you?ve dragged yourselves out of bed to watch satellite TV at some ridiculous time of night. I love every part of your bleary little eyes to bits!

And finally?.One. A little bird (my lips are sealed as to true identity, so don?t even bother to waste your breath asking!) has finally revealed the truth about all the nonsense currently going the rounds in the local press about Hughsie, and his alleged conversion to the Islamic faith. To be honest, as I was in the job for so long, I should have guessed it already, really, and I really am kicking myself I didn?t, but just to be nice, I?ll let you all in on the deal. Even those E and S reporters I know read this on a regular basis!

It all started, apparently, when Lee was at his former place of incarceration, around the time of Ramadan. Because this is a 28 day religious festival marked by fasting during the daylight hours, and eating certain foods when said fast ends at sunset, in the run-up to the fasting period, a good many Muslim inmates are allowed to have specially-prepared Baltis cooked and delivered to the jail by either the relatives, or the local mosque. Hughsie being a well-known connoisseur of all things Balti (and they genuinely are the biz ? I know, because I?ve had to ?check contents for unauthorised articles? myself many times in the past, some, with the connivance of a friendly Imam, of course, ending up straight in my tum!) quickly cottoned onto this interesting fact, and promptly changed his religion to Muslim! But one in name only, sadly. Sorry, Osama.

The prison service being the perverse thing it is, and Hughsie very likely not bothering to change back to something of a more Black Country-ish nature afterwards, the ?religion? dutifully followed our former striker to Featherstone, where some convict or other wanting to grab a bit of money from the E and S on release, no doubt, picked up that very fact. Not all that difficult to do, really; in jail, religions are always displayed on what?s known as a ?cell card?, which does precisely what it says on the tin ? it?s a stiffish rectangular card that?s affixed next to a cell door, with the prison number, name, age, sentence and religion of the occupant written on it, for all to see!

Two. Yes, I voted yesterday, idiot that I was, and yes, I stayed up into the wee small hours to see how the results were panning out. Polly Toynbee, in a recent Guardian, suggested voting Labour, but with a clothes-peg firmly attached to the nose when doing so. Me? A bloody great gas mask to hand when I did, and too right, blue!

 - Glynis Wright

Contact the Author

Diary Index