The Diary

13 May 2005: Friday 13th, And How I Survived It!

Greetings, all, on this nerve-wracked fragment of the evening, the fact it?s also Friday the 13th quite possibly ratcheting up your adrenaline levels to a level vastly in excess of what?s considered medically good for you right now. But fear of impending relegation or not, you?re genuinely not alone in your pathological dread of what might happen very soon, had you foolishly spent the greater part of today raising the theological equivalent of two fingers towards whatever deity is currently deemed to be in charge of such contentious godly issues. There?s even a posh scientific name for it, so that?s all right, then. ?Triskaidekaphobia? (try saying it after a skinful, and see how far you get!) is what the medical profession choose to call such a condition (a great one to stick on a self-certificated sick note, that ? just watch your gaffer?s face light up when you hit him/her with it the following Monday morning!), and just in case you were wondering, this strange ailment?s dictionary definition is: ?an irrational fear of Friday the 13th?, so there you go.

Not that I usually get my knickers in a twist over such things these days: personally, I reckon that as things are largely out of our hands, now, nothing I do can in any way influence the course of events come Sunday - but having said all that, a couple of teensy but strange things that befell me over the course of the preceding seven days certainly gave me food for thought in the ?omen? department. The first? Easy that one ? what Sherlock Holmes might have termed The Mystery Of The Pristine Casserole Dish And Its Sudden Manifestation In The Wright Household. Puzzled? Not half as much as I was when it happened, so allow me to explain.

Prior to very recently, I was in possession of one large casserole dish only, a Pyrex smoked-glass number that had rendered sterling service in the Wright household for the past 14 years or so ? in fact it might even have been a wedding-present. And it wasn?t just that, mind. Because of its antiquity, the years had not been kind to the blasted thing, all sorts of immovably-burnt-on bits there, minor chips and cracks on its lid, that sort of thing. All absolutely par for the cookery course, then ? until we returned from our holiday home around ten days ago, that is. There was I, wanting to casserole a chicken, so one quick grope in our kitchen cupboard later, out came the article in question ? and that?s where the mystery begins, folks. Instead of looking every much the worse for wear, the normal state of affairs for such a gallant workhorse, this one was very much in pristine condition ? gleaming spotlessly, in fact. Doo wot? Believe you me, it?s at time like that you begin to ask Just What The Hell?s Going On.

My initial conclusion? The Fart, who looks after our felines so magnificently while we?re away, had embarked upon a mad cleaning spree, as is his wont so often, and without asking, gone and restored our antique to its former glory. Not that we would ever complain, of course, and that?s how I left it ? until the REAL dish, stains and all, suddenly re-surfaced in my kitchen cupboard about five days later. Now I may be bloody forgetful, and to the point of infuriation, sometimes (or so my other half reckons!), but even I know I sure as hell haven?t invested several squid on a Pyrex casserole of late ? so where has this one come from, and/or who (what?) left it there in the first place? Eeeek!

The second mystery concerns something far more mundane than an errant casserole: a common or garden towel, would you believe? Sure, I realise most households have such items in abundance quietly stashed away in airing-cupboards, and the occupants being in blissful ignorance of that same fact until they decide to have a bit of a spring-clean one day - but this one? The problem I?m having right now surrounds the fact that this splendid specimen has the words ?Scandinavian Airlines Service? proudly emblazoned on its white knobbly surface ? and we?ve never, EVER, in our entire lives, nicked towels from anywhere, never mind one belonging to a bloody airline! So, again, I?m stuck with a complete mystery, viz: where the hell did THAT one come from as well?

Well, you lot tell me ? am I dealing with something seriously-omen-y, here, or what? There?s all the evidence you want: two common household objects suddenly materialise inside our house within the matter of a couple of days, and in each case, both of us have no idea whatsoever as to where either of the wretched things came from in the first place? Time to postulate dark theories concerning alien beings living in a different dimension to ourselves trying to outdo Nostradamus (or Old Mother Shipton, if you want the ?home-grown version?), by spooking the hell out of this column? Aw, you know, by putting a prophecy in (badly!) rhyming verse, perhaps? Erm, let me see, now, something on the lines of: ?When The Casserole draweth nigh, then Albion say: ?bye-bye!? .?? Or, maybe, even: ?If The Towel be in town, then Albion doth go down!?? Or, (truly awful, this one), howzabout: ?If The Great Casserole doth exasperate, then Albion we will relegate?? Sorry about my last, folks ? tell you what, I?ll go and get me coat!

On to all the other Albion-related stuff that?s come to trouble my peace of mind this week, then. What great pleasure I had on Sunday and Monday trolling through all the tabloids and broadsheets for match reports on our monumental piece of Old Trafford impertinence. I believe the Jews have a word for it: ?chutzpah?, its very definition being the ability to engage in some act of monumental cheek ? then get away with it! Summed up Saturday?s game (and that amazing penalty award: poor Kanu had the much more valid ?shout? of the two, yet dipped out, much to his complete bafflement) perfectly for me, and the news in several publications that Fergie was absolutely radioactive in their home dressing-room following the final whistle was an irony so delicious, I wanted to eat it right there and then.

But there was one jarring note among all the admiring reports of our little bit of derring-do there, and that was the business of the ?Yam-Yam? song that started in the away end about ten minutes into the game, the one where our supporters all do the old airplane impressions while singing the above to the tune of ?The Dambusters? March.? At least two newspapers picked up on it, one of whom should really have known better, and not being at all conversant with Albion supporting culture, once more, they took the ?knee-jerk? route, and chose to interpret the song as a monumental insult to those who died at Munich in 1958. Having covered the same old ground when the problem first cropped up, two seasons ago, I?d hoped the flames would have well and truly sputtered and died by now, but no such luck, it would seem. That?s why, for the benefit of those of you not conversant with the background to what happened, I?m re-telling the whole tale, then getting you up to speed on whatever served to fan those flames once more. So here goes.

What happened at Old Trafford on Saturday was regrettable, I agree, and it wasn't exactly our finest supporting moment, but I do feel there are some things people ought to know before any impulsive casting of either judgment, or blame on those who started it takes place. If their supporters hadn't reacted to it so arrogantly and idiotically the last time, two years ago - as I said in this very same column, written either the day after our game there, or very soon thereafter, had they really thought about it and actually listened, instead of collectively going off on their trolleys, surely even they would have realised this was simply meant as a mickey-take of our own origins and dialect, absolutely no disrespect intended - then, perhaps, they wouldn't have had it returned with redoubled intensity this time round.

Without wanting to appear eager to blow my own trumpet regarding this unfortunate matter, I do consider myself to be something of an authority on what went on the last time this topic reared its ugly head. After the original trouble at the end of our inaugural Premiership game at Old Trafford, with the prime motive of trying to pour oil on very troubled waters indeed, reassure their supporters our intentions were essentially pure at the time, and by doing so, try to head off at the pass any trouble come the corresponding home fixture, I swiftly made a point of contacting the people running one of the main United fanzines. The trouble was, their complete and utter arrogance towards both GD and Albion in general both before and after that game was truly breathtaking, and I wasn?t best pleased with what they subsequently had to say about the whole thing either, even though I?d tried to make peace offerings. Furthermore, in order to try and rectify what I'd considered a complete and utter misinterpretation of our away supporters' intentions when singing the blasted thing I also contacted their local sports press. Not only that, thanks to the assistance of a couple of journalist chums, in order to try and preserve our travelling supporters? widely-acknowledged good reputation on the road, I also got a fully comprehensive explanation published in the Midlands.

The idea, of course, was to reassure the Mancs (or anyone else taking the incident and its unpleasant aftermath to be yet another excellent reason why football supporters should be routinely hanged and flogged each Saturday, or, failing that, made to do two years non-stop square-bashing and spud-peeling courtesy one or other of Her Majesty?s Armed Forces), we weren't for a moment taking a rise out of the Munich thing, and genuinely regretted the fact our actions had been misinterpreted in any such way. The result? Oh dear. The local boys apart, did I get any sort of an acknowledgement, or the merest whisper of a response afterwards? Or publication of my comments, as requested? Let me just put it this way - are there fairies at the bottom of my garden?

For the benefit of those unfamiliar with the background history of this unfortunate episode, that particular chant first originated with Blues, the season we first went up. Some will remember them in the Smethwick doing the airplane thing when they came to our place, and singing, simultaneously: "Yam-Yam-Yam-Yam......" etc. to the tune of 'The Dambusters' March'. Back then, the idea was for them to take the rip out of us because of our Black Country origins and dialect; unfortunately, it rebounded on them something rotten when we ended up taking all three points that night. In fact, if my memory serves me correctly, once we'd gone in front, we then went and turned it back on them, for precisely the same reason they?d tried to employ it on us: Black Country, we were, with an accent, sure, and moreover, one certainly not the most ?cuddly? of examples of the English language ? but despite the BBC ?plum-in-the-mouth? merchants constantly pouring such scorn on our dialect, we?re all, still, bloody proud of our roots.

Fast-forward now to the first day of our inaugural Premiership season, at Old Trafford, of course. About half an hour before the kick-off, wanting to register the fact we were truly proud to be in the top division after such a long absence, and Black Country through-and-through with it, we took the Blues thing, and 'reversed' it, thereby making the song very much an ironic mickey-take of our own local origins. Just like the night of the Blues game, in fact. If my memory also serves me correctly, additionally, we prefaced this with sch endearments as "We don't come from Birmingham!" also "We support our local team!" Human nature being what it is, unthinkingly, most of our contingent hadn't made the Munich connection at all (indeed, it was only once we'd heard about all the trouble afterwards we realised just how upset they might have become about it at the time); in fact, most Baggies who were there were afterwards genuinely sorry to have inadvertently caused offence.

The efforts I subsequently made to sort things out I've already related, but while I agree that perhaps it wasn't the wisest of songs to sing there, either then or now, my own understanding is that Man U are no angels themselves when it comes to intruding upon past unpleasantries, football-related or otherwise. Examples? Apparently, they're not at all averse to displays of massed-hissing in the presence of Spurs followers (Spurs = Yids = Jews = Auschwitz = gas chambers = Zyklon B = hiss - geddit?). On yet another unfortunate occasion, when they played Man City, relegated that same year, they informed the City followers, to the tune of "Yellow Submarine", "You're going down like a Russian submarine!", the stricken craft at the time being the "Kursk", of course, the eventual death toll from the accident running into the hundreds, and the harrowing scenes from Russia entering everyone?s homes via the medium of TV around the same time that ?song? was being sung by the Manc Reds.

In the light of what I've just said, if you wanted to be really uncharitable about them, I suppose you might want to put their subsequent complaints about our conduct down to a case of the cooking utensil calling the exterior of the boiler-of-water-for-hot-beverages thoroughly charred and blackened. You can't constantly play the 'Duncan Edwards' card while doing exactly the same to other supporters, and still remain credible, can you?

Oh - and another thought about Munich. Just how many of those Man United supporters last weekend were old enough to actually remember the Munich Disaster, which occurred back in 1958, of course? I'm 53, have only very vague memories myself, and can't for a minute believe there were all that many of my age in their home end having a genuine reason for registering a protest. Far be it from me to seem like an apologist for these morons, both Baggie and United, but what I've tried to demonstrate here is the plain fact that this issue isn't in any way one of pure black and white. The more I delve into the murkier recesses of this unpleasant matter, the more creepy-crawly things I find lurking underneath all those upturned stones. Yuk.

Just about the end of what I want to say tonight; lots more tomorrow, no doubt, but already there are indications things are winding up rapidly for the final denouement of this relegation cliff-hanger come Sunday. As I understand it, Norwich are taking around 6,500 mangel-wurzlers to The Big Smoke on Sunday; this has been facilitated by Fulham effectively throwing open their so-called ?neutral zone? to them. As far as Saints are concerned, the Man Urinal stuff, and the resultant fall-out apart, I guess the biggest news there is the fact they?re going to be without the services of part-time lightning-conductor and full-time beanpole Peter Crouch. Suspended, of course, and confirmation provided when both he and the club recently lost their appeal against his sending-off last weekend.

Them being without him might help swing things our way, but when set against what might happen with United?s away following because of the takeover business, who knows how this one might pan out come the final whistle? Palace? This one really worries me; Charlton haven?t exactly enjoyed the best of home form of late, and Ian Dowie?s no mug when it comes to psyching ?em up for The Big Ones, either. That?s how he got them up in the first place, remember; third from bottom around Christmas, they were, then embarked upon that astonishing run of theirs, just scraping into the knock-out stages on the closing day, then thoroughly embarrassing much more experienced outfits than theirs by practically nicking that vital third promotion place from under their very noses. And it?s two London clubs doing battle at the end of the season, remember. True, they don?t get on with each other all that well these days ? something to do with their ground-share a few years back, apparently ? but should The Addicks decide to go easy on their neighbours for whatever reason, then we can all forget it. A case of ?you scratch my back, and we?ll scratch (at an unspecified later date, perhaps?) yours? Something in my water tells me this one could well turn out to be Very Bad News Indeed for us.

All things considered, I suppose the correct attitude for most Baggies to adopt is proceeding on the assumption that whatever we manage to do at The Hawthorns, one of the other three, at least, are going to grab all three points from their own venture. Assume the worst, enter that ground with naught but relegation dominating your heart and mind ? in which case, should things subsequently go tits-up, you won?t come away too disappointed, then, will you?

And Finally??One. This one comes straight from the busy texting-finger of one Norm Bartlam, several-times-published Birmingham local history expert, and Baggies follower extraordinaire. And it concerns his recent return journey from Old Trafford, and the jollifications that went on during the course of it. Before I kick off, though, the most important thing you should know about our bespectacled chum is that, unlike the majority of Baggies, who prefer their away travel road-shaped, Norm likes to let the train take the strain instead ? and thus it was when he embarked on the old choo-choo for the return journey after last Saturday?s epic struggle.

Normally, such journeys are largely characterised by their mind-numbingly boring length (after all, there?s only so many bovine-packed fields you can idly contemplate during the course of a day?s travel, both there and back, are there?), but on this particular post-match occasion, Norm tells me things were vastly different. How come? Well, not only was there an entire carriage full to the gunnels with deliriously happy Baggies to speed Norm on his happy way, there was musical accompaniment every step of the way as well, in the most acceptable form of one of their number having in his possession a genuine ukulele ? and what?s more, not only could he play the thing, it subsequently transpired he did it rather well! As you might expect, every single Baggie shoehorned into that carriage-cum-sardine-tin needed little encouragement indeed in giving their favourite Albion songs some pretty big licks on the journey back, and because of that bonus bit of merriment en-route, I?m told the trip home rapidly became a complete and utter doddle! So there you have it, you decide; a genuinely-talented Baggie - or simply the ghost of George Formby wanting to inflict his post-mortem, nasally-charged, Lancashire-accented, toothy musical gormlessness upon yet another unsuspecting generation?

Two. On Tuesday evening, both this column and ?Im Indoors went to our local flicks to see the film version of ?The Hitch-Hiker?s Guide To The Galaxy?, adapted from the Douglas Adams radio broadcasts, book, and TV series ? you name the medium, it?s been adapted for it - of around twenty years ago. Not everyone?s cup of tea, I suppose, as you really do have to have a bit of a warped sense of humour to chuckle at such things, but having delighted greatly at Hollywood?s version of Adams?s sci-fi comic masterpiece, here?s a couple of catch-phrases from the film that just might come in handy come Sunday. The first? DON?T PANIC! And the second, should we lose, and/or one of the other three win? Easy, that one ? as per Marvin The Paranoid Android: ?LIFE? DON?T TALK TO ME ABOUT LIFE???

Three (Coo, aren?t I doing well with stuff for my little tail-piece, tonight?) Now for the environmental bit, folks! On Thursday evening, BBC?s News At Six gave much prominence to a story about bio-diesel (an ethanol-diesel mix, actually, and because using the stuff makes those good ole oil-guzzlin?, Humvee-drivin? red-necks look as though they genuinely do care about what sort of society their kids grow up in, is rapidly gaining popularity in the good ole US of A), now our current Great British Hope to cut down on carbon emissions here as well.

You might be surprised to know it?s actually made from stuff like maize, (those naughty people in Swansea running their cars on chip-shop oil were on the right environmental - if totally-illegal! ? lines all along), and although you use heat energy in converting the stuff from plant to what?s essentially booze, then mix the stuff in with more conventional diesel fuel to claw some savings back that way, the real beauty of the idea lies in the fact that while the raw material?s growing in a nice field somewhere, it absorbs lots of nasty carbon dioxide from the air in order to do so (remember your biology lessons and photosynthesis?), so that?s another Brownie point scored for the tree-huggers, then.

But I digress. In order to illustrate the sheer immensity of what they were banging on about, the Beeb chose to use Birmingham City?s pitch to do it, and not only that, implied that digging it up to grow maize instead would do very nicely for the project indeed ? which immediately prompted anguished cries, in the Wright household, of: ?Go on! You know you want to do it, really! Oh ? PLEEEEAAASSSE???!?

 - Glynis Wright

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