The Diary

08 May 2005: An Old Trafford Astronomical Phenomenon - A Penalty To The Visitors!

?Come on, then ? time to get relegated!? That was ?Im Indoors?s cheery rallying-cry as we two, plus The Fart, girded our respective loins in readiness for the relatively short trip up the M6, to Manc-land. Well, you had to look at our plight as it stood early this afternoon in a suitably-pragmatic fashion, otherwise you?d burst into tears, or something. About as certain as I could be that the early-evening proceedings were going to be about as much fun as having our toenails forcibly removed without benefit of anaesthetic, either local or general, I headed out for our jalopy ? The Dickmobile for not much longer ? and once having dumped all the detritus one normally takes to away games in the boot, it was then rapid departure from Bearwood with a merry quip, and a hearty ?Hi-Ho, Silver ? Away!? playing around our lips. Or a dirge. Take your pick.

Once on the M6, our collective gallows humour began to kick in, closely followed by The Fart?s droll comparison of our former manager with the chorus line in ?Springtime For Hitler?, as sung during the stage show, ?The Producers?. I suppose it was the Nazi uniform thing that got all three of us going, and trust me to do it, I just couldn?t resist coming up with an amended chorus of my own: ?It?s springtime for Megson, and the Tricky Trees! (Forest nickname)? Sorry. But enough of such naughtiness ? time to pick up The Noise from his usual haunt, large as life, and just as effusive, believe you me. The Fart told me afterwards that when he was flogging Dicks outside Old Trafford a chap actually asked him which one of us was The Noise ? and The Fart then took great delight in telling the bloke everything I?d ever written about him was perfectly true. Well, most of it.

I can only assume we made good time from Stoke to the ground, for the simple reason that despite The Noise?s constant low-level chatter at the rear of the vehicle, I still managed to doze off. It?s all these late nights, penning this diary, I reckon! That, plus all my recent colossal expenditure of nervous energy in trying to keep tabs on our relegation plight. But what the hell; we?d previously been given some excellent gen on where to park, so it was with great delight we found a street parking spot about a mile from the ground. Awful on the old feet and back for me, but relatively easy to take flight from once the game was over. But first, the local pub beckoned, in this case a hostelry called The Quadrant, a place previously unknown to me ? and joy of joys, they didn?t mind away supporters.

In we went, then, to find a fair sprinkling of both sets of participants gathered around the bar. Once more, this was a place vastly more suited to matchday potations than Great Uncle and Auntie Glad, plus cousins and siblings ad infinitum, all celebrating a golden wedding anniversary, or something. Bog-standard stuff for footie-orientated places like this one; huge screen, currently showing Chelski milking their title presentation for all it was worth, fruit machine in one corner. According to The Noise, while at the bar getting them in, a Manc approached him and expressed the wish we?d win 5-0. Presumably, the bitter fall-out from those ongoing business negotiations with the American chap that wanted to buy the place, lock, stock and trophies.

And, as we supped quietly in a corner, news of The Fart?s holiday destination once the shutters were finally drawn on season 2004-05. This time, it?s Lane Como, in northern Italy, around forty miles from Milan, as the spaghetti flies. Funny, though ? we passed the place when heading for Brescia, the day we played them in the Anglo-Italian; unfortunately, the normally-delightful view of the lake from the train was completely obscured by an almighty outpouring of snow. And, following on from that, a massed flourishing of brand-new pedometers, one belonging to The Fart, the other to my beloved ? and neither of the buggers had worked correctly! Back to the drawing-board, I reckon.

While both my other half and myself were trying valiantly to get the old sod?s new purchase working, unbeknown to us, the ?witching hour? of three pm had finally arrived. Not that we were left in blissful ignorance for long ; within a matter of seconds, out came that ancient steam radio of his, and from then on in, news of various joys and sorrows elsewhere began filtering in. Take Villa Park, for example (Cue for abysmal joke, folks: please do!). Only 20 minutes gone, and it was Man City 2, Villa 0, but of those other games we had a vested interest in, nothing of importance thus far.

Whistles thoroughly wetted, it was off to the ground we went. I wish I could report we did so with happy tunes playing around our lips, because we didn?t. ? especially when we heard of the news from Norwich. A Blues player given an early bath (un-good, to slightly mangle Orwell?s nightmare brainchild, Newspeak), and just afterwards, what was happening at Palace-Southampton. Saints had taken the lead (plus ungood), then, a minute later, Palace had gone and put everything all square once more(double-plus ungood!). Oh dear ? it was going to be a long afternoon.

Old Trafford. As Shakespeare wrote in ?Hamlet?, ?The wheel is turned full circle ? I am here!?, by which I meant that just as we?d embarked on our first-ever Premiership short-term lease at The Theatre Of Dreams two long years ago, today?s last away game of the season could well result in our equally-rapid eviction from the same division. And, just like that stupendously hot August day, flogging Dicks for all they were worth. The one sad touch, of course, was the realisation this would be the last time at any ground. Sure, we?d be getting our lives back, but after 16 years of spending pre-match time in this manner, it?s impossible not to feel a certain twinge of emotion about the old gizzard.

Matt Busby Way? How can I paint a vivid mental picture for the benefit of those reading this in foreign climes? OK ? here goes. Imagine, if you will, a cross between an Arab souk, and a party political election hustings, or, should you be sick to the craw of paid blather-merchants by now, a ?dodge all the mail-order catalogue reps haunting our local precinct? type of scenario. Yep, Matt Busby Way had all of those type of people on tap, and more besides. Huge amounts of noise, smells, tinny music emanating from flimsy-looking stalls of mainly plastic, cheap plywood and tarpaulin construction, their owners frantically flogging every kind of United-related tat you can possibly imagine, and so forth, all supplied the necessary Middle Eastern ambience: the only thing to add to all that was a colossal dollop of imagination.

And in addition to the political feel I touched on just now ? squillions of protesters, all of them grabbing Manc signatures for some petition against the proposed Yank buy-out they were organising. The best bit, though, was the coppers ? a double row of the constabulary?s finest, and all earnestly pushing wheelie bins in front of them. A bit of lateral thinking embarked upon by a local council wanting to get full value out of the force by double-tasking them with the rubbish cleaners on match days? Nope ? just getting supporters to chuck any gash booze cans in ?em!

Not long after we?d shifted operations to the bit of spare ground abutting on the away end, along came dawn Astle, bearing young Matthew with her, also John Mainwaring, he of the ?Astle Is King? CD he recorded three long years ago. They had a bit of a giggle-making tale to tell, too. Apparently, they?d been munching on snacks around the bit where Matt Busby Way meets the main drag, and, as you might expect, totally surrounded by literally hundreds of the red-and-white persuasion, all scoffing like burgers were going to be banned tomorrow. Time for young Matthew to make his mark on the proceedings ? which he did in fine style by shouting ?Come On You Baggies!? at the top of his little voice! According to Dawn the effect was instantaneous, a bit like one of those Western moments where the ?goodie? first enters a saloon populated by ?baddies? ? and the place immediately falls completely silent. Just as well, then, that kids share one very handy attribute with very old ladies ? the ability to do such embarrassing things in public, and not end up on the wrong end of abuse, or much, much worse.

And there was more from The Royal Family. They?d travelled up via the Supporters? Club coaches, but the really interesting feature of the journey, apparently, was the company they kept. Richard Sneekes, bless his long locks, had chosen to travel to the game also, and in the company of a coachload of ?regulars?, too. Impressive, sure, but it was Richard?s young lad that let the side down ? he was wearing a Manc replica shirt, much to the disgust of his father. And the remainder of the intrepid coach travellers, of course. Also ?roughing it? was a certain Malcolm Boyden, of whom I?ve written elsewhere. But no Bob Taylor? Strange, that ? the Conference season was well and truly over, and I would have thought he would have tried to get to this game in particular, if only to chuck in his own pennyworth of lung-power in our hour of need. I could only assume he?d simply gone away somewhere with his family once the season proper was finished for the duration.

And, later still, yet another little diversion. Batman, Robin, and Superman, all stood regally in front of the ground. To no-one?s surprise, within microseconds of spotting these gents, in rushed The Fart, camera waving wildly. They duly obliged, of course, all the blue and white-clad goofers simultaneously chorusing: ?Bat-Man is an Albion fan?.!? Just as well some superheroes could be arsed to attend, really ? it was going to need a damned sight more than Kryptonite to get us out of the mess we were currently in. But there was a darker side to our doings out there; take, for example the United supporters who began loudly mocking our ?zine. Arrogance, pure and simple, of course, which is why, when he?d finished taking the pee, I softly replied, in tones that carried a wealth of implication: ?No ? you?d never understand in a million years, would you?? and simply averted my face from the nuisance for good.

More news from elsewhere ? and things were becoming sweaty. It now being almost 4.45, word from The Fart that Norwich had won ? but the Saints-Palace tryst was still going on, and what was worse, the South Londoners had the whip hand. Not good at all ? but first, time to run the gauntlet of a phalanx of stewards, each and every one of them possessing what I tend to call the ?acting-unpaid lance-corporal mentality? in abundance. In other words, the biggest collection of jobsworths this side of the River Irwell. I wouldn?t have minded, but all of them were issuing instructions to go that was or this ? and totally contradicting each other as they did so. And, just to provide the icing on the cake, a body search, even for little me! Yeah, right, I?m 53, and with a back condition ? more chance of me having the damn thing seize up than run onto the pitch and/or chuck something on there. Dearie, dearie me.

But then, as I was toothpaste-tubing it through the narrow orifice (ooer!), unbelievable news. Saints had equalised, in what must have been the last kick of the game. Blimey! In the second or so it took me to get from turnstile to concourse, the atmosphere lightened instantaneously, ear-splitting renditions of favourite Albion ditties from the lungs of the hundreds of Baggie shoehorned down there quickly becoming the order of the day. Not that it mae all that much difference, as Norwich had won, and by a single goal. Trust our Small Heath neighbours to stuff up right when we needed them ? blimey, Brucie, and you reckon you and Robbo are big mates? Some favour that was!

Up a steep flight of stairs, and once there, surveying the vast tracts of greenery below, and the carnival atmosphere among our own ? despite the gravity of the situation, we could still keep on smiling. Balloons, inflatables, plastic footballs, the works ? and, when we took our seats, a bemused-looking blow-up ?space alien? parked on the seat in front, who, had he been for real, would have quickly wished he?d never parked his flying-saucer in nearby Trafford Park! As the thing seemed totally bereft of an owner, we quickly ?adopted? it ? or rather ?Im Indoors did! ?Can you believe ET can fly?? was the shouted question, as he launched the thing into upwards motion. And, yep ? it did, hitting The Noise right on the nut as it descended as rapidly as it went up.

That was the scene in that away end, then ? chaotic as hell, with everyone completely suffused with a goodly dose of the humour that?s born of season-long relegation struggles, and the rapidly-dawning realisation everything could well turn to sorrow come the final whistle. And yet, we still retained a sufficient vestige of pride to burst forth with an emotional rendering of the 23rd Psalm, loud and proud, across that peculiarly pockmarked Old Trafford turf. A hymn born of adversity, and the implied hope that no matter what the situation, or how impossible the odds, faith would eventually rise forth and carry everything with it. The perfect ditty for us beleaguered lot, when you stood and thought about it!

And, shortly after ?The quiet waters by?..? had wafted raucously past the packed theatre-audience masquerading as a home crowd, out came both sides, to a partially-sunny but windswept Old Trafford which, despite the lateness of the spring, still endured temperatures having distinct bother in trying to hit anything above fifty Fahrenheit. In May? Bloody ridiculous! And then there were the line-ups, both of them: first off was ours, with no less than three up front, Campbell, The Horse, and Earnie. Big Dave was out, and of necessity, young Richardson could only watch impotently, just like us. So we were going for it after all? Blimey. As for them, they were some ?regulars? down, Van Nistelrooy and Rooney being two, the latter being confined to the bench for this one, and the former not in contention at all. So, I?ll take it back about them not returning the favour they did The Canaries, in not putting out a full-strength side.

And thus it was we embarked upon the climax to all our recent ?Great Escape? attempts; so near to achieving the impossible, and yet so far away from it. Not that events on the pitch were instilling any great sense of confidence among the watching troops; within minutes of the start, it quickly became all-too-apparent the home side were determined to reduce us to matchwood. Things weren?t helped one little bit by our seeming tendency to treat the ball like an unexploded bomb, and their players the ones carrying the detonator, either; just five minutes gone, and Houlty finding himself having to shift pretty lively to stop the Mancs from cashing in.

While that was going on, off the pitch, we were quickly ?acquiring? new friends, and influencing people ? in this case, their home support. Er ? not! First of all, we let fly with that ?Yam-yam? thing, aeroplane gestures and all, the one they took such great exception to last time round. Sure, they went ballistic, predictably so, but on the other hand, had they not been so arrogant about it in August, 2002, I daresay we wouldn?t have even bothered taunting them with it today. Not being content with stirring the pot with that one, it was quickly on with a massed-rendition of: ?There?s Only One Arsene Wenger!? That must have stung them a bit, because, finally, they stirred from their seemingly-permanent state of torpor to inform us: ?Going Down, Going Down, Going Down??.? Cue for us to croon: ?We Support Our Local Team!? one in the eye for all the numerous motorway fans they had. Oooh, if nothing else, the ?battle of the chants? promised to be an enthralling one.

Meanwhile, back on the pitch, things were getting somewhat hairy for us. We simply couldn?t get the ball past the halfway line, and on those rare occasions we did, we were losing possession again far too cheaply, a development that didn?t auger well for our prospects of emerging from the maelstrom unscathed. Their skill on the ball, wonderful to watch if you were a neutral, of course, was absolutely frightening. It goes without saying that because of that, people like Robbo, Clem and Tommy G were very much in demand those opening minutes. And, as the half unfolded further still, sickening realisation dawned that try as we may to alter the balance of power more in our favour, we simply couldn?t get close. Every time United got the ball, it resulted in a hell-for leather dash upfield, with Baggies players trailing miserably in their wake. Either that, or bamboozled so completely by their mastery of ball-skills, being left horizontally trailing in their wake.

But hope springs eternal, so we just had to get on with it. With 20 minutes gone, time for Houlty to turn yet another United attempt on our peace of mind round the post for a corner ? fast becoming a very familiar scenario indeed. The trouble with this one, though, was the injury ? his. Around the groin area, by the look of it, and looking most uncomfortable indeed, an unhappy state of affairs that had Nick Worth running on like the clappers. Patched up as well as our physio was able to given the circumstances ? some reckoned that he should have been subbed there and then, but hindsight is a marvellous thing, isn?t it? ? normal service was resumed.

We now turn to what turned out to be a most controversial incident. Not the foul that triggered the ref stopping play for the free kick, and just outside our danger-zone, but what happened during the taking of it. Let me put it this way ? United took the kick very quickly indeed, and our defenders were totally caught unawares. Couple with that, the injured Houlty?s seeming tardiness in getting down to the low driven shot through the wall, and you have a recipe for disaster ? and boy, was it a lulu. Houlty was about five minutes late stretching to make the save, with the predictable result United suddenly found themselves one in front courtesy Ryan Giggs, much to their delight. With only 21 minutes on the clock? Now tell me again ? just how do you spell the work ?stonking??

Hold the pliers, chaps ? just let me cut out the middleman by pulling out all those blasted toenails out myself. I?m a Baggie, I can take it. Oh, brother ? just what manner of final score would we see, at this rate? And yet, while ringing my sister when on the M6 after the game, a most surprising tale emerged. According to Wendy, who?d been watching on Sky, according to Our Zoltan, when the free-kick was given, Gera asked the ref if he was going to whistle for the set-piece to be taken, and according to him, the answer was ?Yes!? Quite a surprise, then, when he didn?t, thereby giving United the advantage ? and cashing in as well, to the detriment of our ?goals-against? tally, not to mention our collective sanity, behind that goal. If what my sister says is right, then The Mancs should hang their heads in shame. Not that I expect them to do it, mind, they?re far too arrogant for that wimpish sort of touchy-feely nonsense.

That strike had yet another knock-on effect ? Houlty was completely out of it with pain, and had to be taken off, poor sod. Time for his Polish stand-in, Kuzczac, to enter the fray, then. The unspoken thought quickly flitted from Baggie to Baggie; just what sort of a pig?s ear would the guy make of things? After all, he wasn?t all that long on first team experience, was he? And that was the truly-astonishing thing about the lad; from then on in, he embarked on a series of saves that were truly top-drawer. Had our regular custodian carried on, injury or none, we?d have conceded loads by them. The situation wasn?t helped any either by a series of refereeing decisions that were, quite frankly, puzzling. Yet another good reason for our lot to break into a deafening chorus of ?You?ve Only Got Twelve Men!? closely followed by that hoary old chestnut: ?The Premier League-is Effin? Bent?.!?

And still the awful bombardment carried on with unrelenting frequency, Ryan Giggs being the main perpetrator of the damage. With just 16 minutes remaining of the first half, I saw with my own eyes one of the most amazing let-offs I?ve ever witnessed in over forty years watching the Baggies. The Giggs attempt on goal, when it came, looked to be one Kuzczak could take with comparative ease ? but for reasons best known to himself and God, he missed the ball completely instead. Cue for Giggsy to apply the coup de grace, then ? but instead of hammering the blasted thing halfway to the Manchester Ship Canal, as expected, he blazed the ball right across the face of goal instead; only about six inches stood between ourselves, and United well and truly sealing our fate ? and we?d got away with it! Time to revise my previous thoughts concerning the existence, or otherwise, of God, methinks.

As for the remainder of the half, suffice it to say that our end was constantly under aerial bombardment, while at the other, only two of ours could properly be deemed pukka ?attempts on goal?. One-way traffic? Not ?alf! The comforting thing, though, was that although they?d created some superb chances, they couldn?t quite manage to let that amount of unseemly possession count where it mattered. Just as well, really, because, to my mind, all we?d done that half was surrender the ball to them very cheaply indeed. Not to worry; half-time, soon, and a chance for Robbo to do some serious dressing-room nattering, not to mention good old-fashioned ear-?ole bashing. But we still had a lot of nervous tension to dissipate, a process not materially assisted by the constant presence of United in our neck of the woods.

Half-time, then, and a quick tool into the ?facilities? for me. Don?t half do funny things to the old antidiuretic hormones, these relegation struggles, which was why I was heading downwards at a rate of kots ? just as well I was one of the first to get there, really. And, as I emerged, another shock. In the queue was Laraine Astle, with young Matthew. And what a superb tale she had to tell me. It seems that just the other week, Dawn arranged for Matthew to have trials at the club, and not wanting the lad to have any special treatment because of his name, as far as the club were concerned, he was just another young triallist. It?s therefore with a sense of great delight I can now report Jeff?s grandson will be playing for one of our junior sides next season ? probably the Under Eights. And not only that ? he?d scored two for his school side that very morning. Roll on ten years time, when, all being well, we?ll be able to witness the sight of yet another Astle proudly wearing the sacred shirt. Can?t wait.

But back to reality, which was cradled in the sure knowledge that unless we started the second 45 taking the game to them for a change, and pretty damned quick, One story about the shroud ? and United could relegate themselves ? all time in the world, and once more.were sure to bury us. But, as we somewhat apprehensively embarked upon our next session of perceived unspeakable torture, things started to drop slightly differently. Suddenly, we were finding openings, stringing passes together, running into space, playing like a proper team, instead of a collection of lemon meringue pies. Clearly, the gaffer had gone through our finest like a dose of salts at half-time, and their collective sensibilities been badly stung because of it. First off, Earnie had a poke from just outside, the effort sailing over the bar as before, but at least we were trying, instead of just standing there thinking about what a rotten way to end our games on the road with this was. Another ?AARGH!? moment at their end, when it was nearly all over bar the shouting, quickly followed by a classic Clem stop to deny the opposition any chance of regaining the initiative, and most of that away end were quickly reduced to gibbering eejits.

?Oh, Lord ? please make it stop!? Sassoon?s heartfelt cry to those in charge of pursuing the First World War to a successful conclusion circa 1918, now heard at Old Trafford, circa 2005. Not just from scared young squaddies frightened of returning to the trenches this time, the collective lament of several thousand Baggies simultaneously for what might have been. Presumably, Someone Answering Our Prayers must have taken pity on us as well, though; a few well-chosen words over the course of the interval and it sure as hell looked as though there were going to be some vastly more motivated players coming to the fore. Another near-miss for the Mancs, a penalty shout for The Horse ? was he genuinely impeded, or was it all just amateur dramatics? ? and, much to my surprise, instead of waving away all the Albion protests, he pointed to the spot instead! Me? I just burst our laughing at the sheer farcicality of it all! Not the right sort of reaction, all things considered, but at least Earnie didn?t mess about. Wham, bam, thank you, Ma?am, a vital equaliser for us, and Earnie?s 14th thus far this term. Now hang on a mo ? when was the last time United conceded a penalty to ANYONE at their place?

Back in our end, the moment that ball crossed the line, the entire place erupted! Complete strangers, men with women, men with men, men with boys, boys with girls, even ? all hugging, kissing, slobbering in a most undignified manner, whirling like Dervishes on crack cocaine, all rejoicing in heartfelt fashion at our unexpected deliverance. And that was the moment when the pronoun ?I? completely ceased to have any practical meaning for all our crowd. Suddenly, we became an amorphous mass of humanity, celebrating wildly, and all singing fit to raise the very dead from their places of interment. Then, as if guided by an unseen hand, the strains of the 23rd Psalm rang out once more, but this time, it was loud, proud and had the bonus effect of completely reducing the home crowd to silence, complete and utter. I?ve heard that hymn at some pretty hairy moments during my footballing career, but I?m genuinely pushed to think of a time when the hearing of it moved me so much.

And, that wasn?t all; quickly, we embarked on a session of massed ?boinging?, and in front of their still-shell-shocked followers, brought into play another ?new? ditty; ?If You?re Proud To Be A Baggie, Clap Your Hands!? And we did, for about ten or so minutes, by my reckoning, blowing any thoughts of reply from their lot completely out of the water. In the end, we had to stop. Not because the police objected, merely because the very act of clapping was taking layers of skin off our hands in similar fashion to strong acids! And, as voices flagged, another, as emotionally charged as a presentation to someone terminally ill, booming from the back of the stand ? ?Fight, Albion ? FIGHT!? completely ripped the tension-laden silence to shreds.

And, as all the celebrations, all the pent-up nervous tension and passion, spilled out from our end in industrial quantities, on the pitch, people we?d previously thought well-outclassed began performing heroics. Kusczac was simply inspirational, not once, not twice, but at least three times on the bounce. And we even found the brass neck to appeal for a second spot-kick when Kanu, who came on for the ailing Horse with around 20 minutes gone, seemed to be pulled down when moving on goal, and about to pull the trigger. Roars of fury when the ref wouldn?t bite, of course ? but hell, what more do you want? A penalty, at Old Trafford, for the first time in God alone knew what number of years since the last time it happened? Yeah, right.

On to that anxious last quarter, now, and The Mancs tried chucking everything at us you could care to mention, Rooney, now on the field as sub, Scholes, flushing toilets, excess baggage for the whole cruel 5w 6yathe whole damned shooting-match ? and still what was quickly termed ?The Pole In The Goal? by our more alcoholically-inspired followers, rose to every kind of situation thrown at the guy, to emerge with flying colours come the end of the game. Once more, the home side lay siege to our goalmouth in wave after wave ? only to see their best efforts repulsed, completely and utterly, by a combination of Kusczac, and a somewhat attentive marker. The clock was winding down inexorably, and those attacks were coming furiously. Time to chill out and properly gather one?s thoughts after that one? Yeah, right.

And then, mercifully, thankfully - it was all over. Great rejoicing, of course; that performance, when we?d come from behind to grab one back, was a truly superlative one. One of the best-supported Albion games I?ve ever seen. Not in terms of quantity, mind; what caught my real interest tonight was the top-notch quality of it all from our point of view. And we still weren?t spent; over came the players, eventually, and as a result, the entire end rapidly took on the air of an instant Nuremberg Rally, with Earnie playing the part of Der Fuhrer as if born to the role.

Back to our vehicle, and that?s when all the calculations started. That Norwich win queered the pitch quite a bit. Had they not won, our eventual task next week against Pompey would have become far less daunting ? but hey, what the hell? At least we are still in with a shout, a state of affairs that?s eminently interesting, I reckon. It?s all down to that blasted Pompey game, now, so all the very best to those participating in it; with any luck, they?ll get blown away, and provided everyone else either draws or loses, we?ll get yet another crack at it next year. Cor, what a complicated season it?s turning out to be.

As we headed on out from the city, Alan Green had on his show a chap who hadn?t been to football for about 25 years, and was moaning like hell itself when confronted with the fiddly prospect of doing so. Oh, dear ? didn?t know a lot about Seal Park ? and prices currently charged at our level, and not much more about the overall standard, not to mention the names of some of the players, either. And since when has it cost fifteen quid to park in Brum ? anywhere? According to my other half, the dearest is eight quid, nothing more, nothing less. Just what sort of planet was this idiot on?

But at least we came out of the entire thing with more than a semblance of dignity about us, which has to be more to the good, hasn?t it? Distinct shades of Bradford when Earnie stepped up to the spot to take the thing, of course, the day we were given a cast-iron send-off from The First. As I recall that day, Igor Balis didn?t know what the hell the other lot were saying, insults or none, so he couldn?t give a tuppeny toss at their efforts to put him off anyway, and he potted. No such language-barrier with our man this time round, though. Only three other drawn or losing sides elsewhere, and a win to string together, Albion. Having come so close to actually pulling off The Great Escape, losing next week ? or worse, going down by default, because of results elsewhere - would be misery chucked upon yet more misery. Hang on to your hollyhocks, folks, it?s going to get awfully bumpy next week.

And Finally?. Ooh, yet another little (non-football) tale for you lot out there. This time, I?m asking you a question. What is the connection between my mother-in law?s partner Norm, a large black feral moggy of uncertain origin and species, and former WM broadcaster-cum- Baggies-supporter-extraordinaire, Malcolm Boyden? Can?t guess? Well, here it is. We were down ?Im Indoors?s mother?s the other day, and while nattering intently about the doings of various folk around our holiday home, Norm (who was around 2 pints ahead by that time, apparently, but believe you me, you simply couldn?t get the guy drunk on a quart of beer, even if you?d wanted to; lots of bibulous experience gained during the course of many years worth of Army service abroad, see!) just happened to let slip about him recently sighting in the nearby wood down there a very large black creature whose outward appearance bore great similarity to that of a panther, or a puma ? and, just to get us very alarmed indeed, he reckoned he?d spotted it around 50 or so yards from our bijou holiday residence! Not the sort of puss to offer a saucer of milk and a handy lap, believe you me, and I wasn?t about to start.

Coo, what a story for the papers, I thought ? and then an idea struck me with all the force of a full-on thunderbolt. Why not give the Hereford media a ring? Who ya gonna call? Why Malcolm Boyden, of course! He?s only recently took up a new post with their local radio station. A few judicious taps on the old mobile keyboard later, and we were in business; time to hand over to Norm, who is more than capable of blowing his own trumpet, believe you me. And, to cut a long story short, so taken was Malcolm by ?yer man? and his eccentricity, Boyden hired him to relate the story to him tomorrow morning (Sunday). Radio Hereford And Worcester, if you are able to pick the thing up.

Not only that, Malc, who really loves eccentrics, will be covering the VE celebrations going on in the village over this weekend at Norm?s behest, and interviewing yer man about that, more likely than not. And guess who was the organiser of these frolics? Yep, Our Norm, who just happens to be the Chairman of Cradley British Legion as well, but is doing this one as an ?add-on?! Knowing the old sod and his many foibles and talents like I do, I now feel very much like the scientist that first discovered the enormous explosive potential of the splitting atom ? what the hell have I let loose upon an unsuspecting world? I simply can?t wait for this Sunday, and the moment Malc finally reveals all!

 - Glynis Wright

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