The Diary

04 August 2005: What We Did In The Close Season Part Two

A quick straw-poll, now, folks. During the close-season just gone, how many of you footie-deprived Baggie-nuts out there were reduced to scrabbling around all the Sunday scandal-sheets, frantically looking for snippets of news, however irrelevant, to do with the beautiful game, as played here in Blighty? And, how many of you, in order to maintain tenuous links with the reassuring worlds of results and league tables, turned to the Aussie pools results for solace instead? A hell of a lot, I?ll wager; it?s astonishing how quickly one can become so conversant, so quickly, with the faraway worlds of the Victoria, Queensland, New South Wales, and West Australian Leagues, not to mention those strange-sounding names: East Melbourne, Williamstown, Corio, Brisbane, Dandenong, Joondalup, for example ? and, last but not least, Sorrento, the subject of this piece. And their fortunes.

Vital for the average pools punter, who wants to extend his/her dreams of avarice beyond the English seasonal span, of course, and, for practical purposes, about as distant as our planetary neighbour, the Moon. But behind the strange names, and, sometimes, even stranger results, precisely what goes on Down There? Who attends these fixtures, and how strong is our national game in the Antipodes? Well, during the close-season just gone, both ?Im Indoors and myself took the trouble to find out ? and our discoveries proved to be absolutely fascinating, so read on.

We didn?t head on out to Oz in complete ignorance, though; a lot of detective work had been done before we?d even left these shores. For that, we have to thank a chap called Kerry Slater. He?s very big indeed at West Australian Premier outfit Sorrento ? in fact, he pretty much runs it ? and over the course of our internet enquiries regarding ex-Baggie Peter Butler, who was with Sorrento at one stage, we?d become very friendly indeed. We were informed we?d be very welcome if we rolled up for a game or three while out there ? and that?s precisely what we did.

The W.A. League isn?t the apex of Oz football; that honour goes to what?s now called the ?A? League, of which Perth Glory (Shaun Murphy recently played for them) are an integral part ? and if you think away matches to places like Newcastle are a bit of a bind, try supporting The Glory, as they?re known; the nearest opposition are located at Adelaide, a journey about as far as London is from Italy. It can be done by car ? in fact, I have heard lurid tales of Glory?s more proactive supporters doing precisely that on occasions, although it does involve, among other things, a day-long trek across the Nullabor desert, formerly used by us Poms for atom-bomb tests, which says it all, really ? but it?s not to be recommended, unless you?re into masochism (or hitting ?roos with suicidal tendencies late at night) as a hobby. No, for practical purposes, mostly connected with the fact Glory?s season, and the lower leagues? are totally different, most exiles get their footie fix via the next level down, which, in WA?s case, happens to be their Premier League.

The standard of the footie at that level? At a rough guess, a pretty hefty bit above West Midlands League, possibly Conference, if the wind?s blowing in the right direction, I reckon. There?s less emphasis upon the crudely physical side of things, though; at times, I saw some of those young lads display an adeptness and ease with the ball that wouldn?t have disgraced their contemporaries at a much higher level, but for the most part, sheer enthusiasm ruled the roost. Which is how it should be.

For the entire three-week period of our stay, we concentrated our supporting efforts on Sorrento itself, mainly because of our cyber-relationship with the aforementioned Mr. Slater. Shaun Murphy?s first-ever football club, in case you didn?t know, but of him, more later. As far as Sorrento goes, as you might have deduced from the name already, the club came about thanks to the sheer number of Italian people who migrated to that part of Oz come the end of the war, and the decades immediately following. To gauge the true impact of the pasta-munching diaspora on the area, you have only to look as far as nearby Fremantle, and an area just behind the marina, where the prettier (and more expensive) vessels lie; you certainly don?t need the assistance of Superman?s powers of vision to spot one of the biggest working-men?s clubs I?ve ever seen in my entire life. That?s their Italian Club. No kid, it?s a massive two-storey place, function-rooms seemingly vanishing in all directions; I can only assume they give performers and wedding-guests, etc a ?road-map? just to prevent them being lost in the labyrinth for all time. And the whole thing is as Italian as pizza and gelato. The Godfather? Oer ? no comment, save one about horses not being inclined to lose their heads over there!

But back to Sorrento. During the course of our stay, we managed to take in three of their games, two home, and one away. My impressions, the first time we set foot inside their place? Well, let me put it this way; if footballing activities could ever be described as ?holistic?, then I reckon the whole Sorrento ?matchday experience? (eek ? I?m sounding like one of Albion?s double-entry-book-keeping fraternity ? stoppit!) could be summed up in that simple word. To get to the place, you drive for about twelve miles along the coast road, where the impressive-looking rollers crash in all the way from Africa, much to the delight of the surfing fraternity, then hang a right at the lights, and up a rather steep hill for a short distance. That brings you to a modest car-park; just behind is where all the action takes place.

When I pop my clogs, and assuming there?s an afterlife, despite all the evidence to the contrary, I reckon I could do far worse than spend an eternity watching the beautiful game at the celestial equivalent of Sorrento?s gaff, or something like it. Once parked up ? our borrowed jalopy, courtesy of Perth Baggies Phil and Gloria, had number-plates proudly bearing the legend ?WEST BROM?, complete with small club crest ? the ground is but a short hop and a skip away. You pay a chap (or young kid!) sitting there with a bag of cash in his hand: none of this turnstile nonsense there ? then you simply walk around the corner, and into the ground proper.

What you actually get for your money is not one game, but two, or three, if you?re really short of a footie-fix. First of all to kick off is their Under-18?s, at approximately half-eleven; come the final whistle, it?s then the turn of the ?stiffs? to enter, stage left. Come full-time on that one, there?s an interval of around 15-20 minutes, at which point the first team proper get to strut their stuff, kick-off tine a very familiar Saturday 3 pm.

At the time of our arrival, we?d missed the kids? fixture, but joined in the fun just in time to see their reserves triumph by a very emphatic four goals to one. During the interval between that game and the next, we then shifted ourselves to their basic but well-stocked bar for a jar or two, our potations taking place with sound from two TV screens blasting away in the background; that, plus noise from the inevitable ?pokies? (gambling slot machines to you and me). There might be a sucker born a minute, sure, but in Oz, a hell of a lot of clubs like Sorrento?s rely on the takings just to help keep them going.

Out, then, in good time for the ?main dish?, and the search for a good spot from which to observe proceedings. Imagine, if you will, that the covered area in front of the bar is Albion?s East Stand, and their equivalent of The Brummie the grassy bank to the right, now occupied by a sprinkling of spectators, complete with picnic chairs, rugs, and all the rest of the outdoor-refreshment paraphernalia. The ?Halfords? opposite consisted of a small, grassed area, at the rear of which was another steep incline, above which could be seen (just about) yet more pitches. And a proper scoreboard, no less, ?manned? by a couple of kids. The ?Smethwick?? A smaller grassed area, behind which was another steep incline, downwards this time. And, just to prevent eccentrics from showing Paul Holmes-like tendencies: i.e. trying to turn the taking of a simple corner into Australia?s first moon-shot, a huge chain-link fence.

The food on offer? For a footie ground, and one boasting a fair number of attendees, too, the range was astounding. Everything from an all-day breakfast of gargantuan proportions (fried on the spot), through the gamut of the entire beefburger ?spectrum?, to pancakes, complete with maple syrup. And very nice they were, too. The pancakes, I mean, not their heart-attack-special. Reasonably priced, too ? see, it CAN be done!

So far, so delightful ? but there just had to be a downside, didn?t there? In our case, it happened to be the bloody weather: unfortunately, our arrival on Australian shores coincided with what was the wettest winter seen in Perth for 50 years, not to mention the coldest since 1991. The result? We were almost constantly rendered alternately hypothermic and/or dripping-wet, and our visit to Sorrento was proving to be no exception. When Old Sol gained the ascendancy, it was quite pleasant to sit on the ?Brummie?, and watch proceedings from there, soaking up the rare benison of the sun?s rays. The trouble was, these pleasant interludes seldom lasted long; come the lowering, bruised clouds once more, and the inevitable drops of rain, it was back to the ?East Stand? for us, sadly.

As for the game, this was a third-versus-fifth encounter versus Inglewood. The result? A 2-2 draw, which must have made some pools punter back in our sceptred isles very happy indeed. The interesting bit, though, came towards the end of the encounter. As I alluded to previously, the rain showers came thick and fast that afternoon, but towards the end, the heavens really excelled themselves by chucking down the equivalent of a burst domestic boiler. Down it came, the soggy stuff, in torrents, but at least some in the crowd were prepared. No sooner had the first ominously-large drops hit the ground, three or four blokes of Scottish extraction (the number of Pom exiles watching proceedings was truly phenomenal) standing next to us produced a huge rectangular piece of heavy-duty plastic, the sort that goes into garden rubbish sacks. Result? Four supporters as snug and dry as a baby ?roo in his mum?s pouch.

The following Saturday saw us heading back to Sorrento for a repeat dose of the prescription. This time, a top-of-the-table clash was on the cards, the opposition being Perth SC, who were in pole position at that time, and sweeping all before them, by all accounts, Sorrento having moved into runners-up spot thanks to the draw we saw. This time, there was a much more satisfactory conclusion for the home side, because they managed to triumph 2-0, their first goal scored early doors. Sorrento then hung on grimly until the dying minutes (well, injury-time, actually), when they were awarded a penalty, doubling the final score, much to the visitors? disgust.

The game was memorable for us for yet another reason; having finally managed to catch up with our new-found internet chum, Kerry, we were having a good old natter to him during the second half, when up rolled a familiar figure, tall, bronzed, dark-haired?.. We vaguely recognised him; tantalisingly, our still jet-lagged memory-banks couldn?t identify the mystery interloper, at first ? then the penny dropped with a resounding ?clang?. None other than former Baggie Shaun Murphy, it was, and there to watch his old club in action. The best bit was, he recognised ?Im Indoors without any prompting whatsoever! Funny, that ? the normal reaction of our players when faced with similar circumstances is to turn rapidly in the direction of ?away?!

No, seriously, we obviously exchanged pleasantries ? he?s into property development these days ? then up rolled our Oz Baggie chum Phil, plus huge but totally-soppy Rottweiller (I?m still unsure as to precisely who was walking who that day!), and they began nattering about some new-fangled building process or other, and getting very excited about it, too, from what I could gather. The technical nature of the conversation completely lost us both, so we just left ?em to it. Still, it was nice to catch up with the lad again (we understand from a third party that his wife?s health is much improved) and natter about old times. Good on yer, Shaun.

The third game? That was an ?awayaday?, versus lowly Joondalup, another outfit on the outskirts of the city, and based in what would approximate to a student area here in Blighty; the University was in very close proximity to their ground. This game was noteworthy because of the emphatic nature of the victory, 4-2 ? and should have been by a much greater margin ? also, the delightful nature of Sorrento?s play. They even had a Bob Taylor look-alike up front, a guy who, on one particularly-spectacular occasion, proceeded to made a series of home defenders look very silly indeed, before popping the ball into the old onion-bag with all the aplomb of his illustrious doppleganger. The other noteworthy incidents? First off, discovering the bloke taking the money on the gate was of the Witton Lane persuasion; yes, and despite being sundered from his first love by a distance of approximately 10,000 miles, the arrogance still stood out like a sore thumb. The other ?highlight?? Listening to a group of ladies sitting next to me, smoking roll-ups, and swigging beer like it was all about to be banned tomorrow; all of Scottish extraction, and all with Glaswegian accents you could have stropped razor-blades on ? once you?d deciphered what they were on about, of course!

A final word about our Aussie chums, Phil and Gloria Summers. Many thanks are due to both of those good people, for loaning us one of their cars for the duration, and dropping their own domestic activities at short notice to join with us in various other Albion-related activities, one of which was a get-together at ? honest! ? the Albion pub, situated just a boomerang?s throw from our apartment, and lovely meals they did there, too. So good, we spent quite a few evenings in there, sampling their various culinary wares. That, and because of the name! Thanks to Gloria especially; she was in the middle of her university end-of-year exams at the time, consequently her nerves were completely shot to hell with the effort of continual study.

Poor soul, I really felt for her. Mind you, the barbie we had with them our last Sunday lunchtime in Oz was absolutely hilarious. ?Down at the park?, was the venue, the ?park?, in this case being not of the Dartmouth variety, but one the size of a largish nature reserve back home. Some ?park?! No sooner had Phil started to cook the meat (barbies, gas-powered, supplied free by the local authority, by the way!), out came the kookaburras, in force. Aw, you know, the ones that sit in trees, seemingly laughing like a drain, as per the ?Tingha and Tucker Show? back in the late 60?s - laugh they might, because their sausage-nicking skills were impeccable. And that wasn?t all; as we munched on the accompanying bread rolls, down came the parrots and cockatiels, from previously-hidden arboreal locations, loads of ?em. About as common as sparrows there; like them, in huge flocks, to the extent they can be a bit of a nuisance.

Very pretty to look at, sure, but as ravenous as a supermodel after a photo-shoot, and they weren?t all that fussy as to how they acquired their ill-gotten gains. At one point, there were three or four of the sods perched on ?Im Indoors?s shoulders and head, trying eagerly to part him from his main source of protein and carbohydrate. ?Just call me the Bird Man Of Dartmouth Square!? said our hero, nonchalantly ? and then one bit him!

The sheer amount of wildlife in the place proved to be astounding. The week before, so Gloria said, a kangaroo had turned up uninvited to the party, but this time, it was to be a short walk to the largish lake nearby that was to prove revelatory. Stood on the shore, and idly glancing into the water?s depths, I saw movement beneath. Not a fish, of that I was certain ? but definitely something, but what? Then, the penny dropped ? I was looking a turtle, no less. Not one, as it turned out, but loads of the blighters, and all happily pootling around the shallows, without a reptilian care in the world. All this, and in a council-run park. What a great country.

Having long since achieved what has to be, in terms of years on this planet, the equivalent of the darts ?bulls-eye?, I?d considered there was little about the foibles of my fellow man ? or Baggie - that could easily faze me. Er ? until the other night, that was. It all started with what has now become an annual pre-season ritual for us, an evening-long chinwag with two of our ?partners-in-crime?, Ritchie Brentnall, and Norm Bartlam, both former Dick contributors, at (well, outside, actually), The Dog, on the Hagley Road. As per usual, we?d spent the best part of three hours putting our favourite football club to rights, reminiscing about away trips abroad long gone, and come closing-time, made to go our separate ways. As Norm needed a taxi back to his place, we invited him to hop in our wheeled chariot, so he could do the ?dog and bone? thing at ours, thereby saving him a bit of a bother, and a long wait outside the boozer.

Enter into my sad tale, now, our nest of three coffee tables, for reasons that will shortly become all-too apparent. A lovely mahogany-brown, they are, and shiny, too; more pertinently, when purchased, they came in that unlovely adjunct to modern society, the flat-pack ? and didn?t ?Im Indoors spend a lot of hours wrestling with the things, poor frustrated soul? A good many grunts, groans and sundry profanities later, they were assembled, but because both the ?craftsman? and the instructions supplied were both extremely dodgy ? Si doesn?t ?do? DIY very well, shall we say, and fractured Anglo-Scandinavian loses a hell of a lot in translation ? their very existence as items of furniture was extremely precarious, to say the least.

And this is where our chum Norm comes in ? well, he and our brand-new leather sofa, that is. It?s got no less than two of those dashed clever ?foot-rest? widgery-gadgets incorporated, you see, and while we awaited the arrival of Norm?s transport of delight, ?Im Indoors simply couldn?t resist demonstrating how they worked in front of our bespectacled Baggie guest.

?All you have to do is push this catch on the side of the sofa, see, and ? DYOINGG! ? there you are, a footrest!?

Famous last words. Eager to sample this hitherto-unsuspected hedonistic experience for himself, Norm reached for the catch on his side of the sofa, out came the footrest at warp-speed, scooping up Norm?s outstretched feet with it ? and by so doing, propelled both plates of meat right into poor Si?s pride and joy, with the sort of ominous splintering noise that one normally associates with rammed sailing-vessels, icebergs, and the cold, cold briny.

The result? One table, now very much resembling the drawings so beloved of boys? comics circa 1959 ? the ?exploded? diagram. ?Distressed? wasn?t the word for it. A moment?s silence ? the look on Norm?s face was absolutely superb ? then the giggle-juices really started to flow. Had the whole thing been one of those covert ?Candid Camera? stunts, it couldn?t have been better timed. Laugh? Put it this way: the dryness of my undergarments ended up in great peril. The moral of the story? Norm reckons that following the ?smashing time? he?s had at our place, he?s going to make himself available to perform similar destructive feats elsewhere. But not in Wolverhampton, where he fears the damage was done long before he emerged, kicking and screaming, into this tempestuous world of ours!

Before I finish, a word about Kieran Richardson, and his recent decision to soldier on with The Mancs rather than return to us for another dose of Black Country culture. I must say I was saddened to learn of his decision not to rejoin us; I can only assume that he felt that there was a pretty good chance of figuring in Fergie?s plans this coming season, but should Michael Owen come to the club as rumoured, where would that leave him? Had he chucked his lot in with us, there was an automatic first-team place there for the taking; as things stand, he could well end up slipping back down the United pecking-order again. Still, there?s always the January transfer window; any port in a storm, and all that.

As we?re off to our holiday home once more, leaving our felines in the capable hands of The Fart, my next instalment will hit your PCs on the Friday evening before our Man City curtain-raiser, which will give me ample time to pen a few pertinent thoughts about the Premiership marathon to come, who?ll be hot, who not, and sundry other topics connected with our favourite football club. It?s all starting for real, soon, too soon for comfort, really??EEK! Oh, and just to get you well and truly in the mood, having recently rummaged through the darker recesses of The Fart?s drawers (Oeer!), when I return, I?ll give you the pleasure of reading about what the Supporters? Club?s thoughts were on the subject of appropriate behaviour at games, circa 1959 ? you?ll love it!

And finally?? As promised, revelations about my niece?s wedding. To be fair, the weather was perfect, and the location was absolutely superb; a swanky hotel near Bridgnorth. A civil ceremony in one of their function-rooms (the least said the better about the naughty family member who repeatedly intoned to the groom en route to the scene of the ?crime?, ?Dead man walkin???. Walkin? the Mile?? Dead man walkin??..? in the manner of a southern US prison guard escorting his charge on a one-way trip to meet Old Sparky!), a lavish reception, all the works, in fact. Must have cost mum and dad a packet, but when you think my niece lost her first partner to bone cancer before they could tie the knot several years ago, then, to cap it all, five years ago, gave birth to her son at just 26 weeks gestation ? and, five years down the line, what a smashing lad he is to behold, now - I reckon she?s well overdue for whatever bit of happiness she?s entitled to.

But I digress. This was a serious family event, with no less than four generations of my nearest and dearest there. They?re also as Black Country as they come, with a strong tendency to work hard and play hard ? and, for the most part, they?re Baggies nuts, through and through. (I?ll leave discussions about the odd Bluenoses, Seals and Dingles to infiltrate the ranks by marriage for another time!) As you might expect, once the formal bits had been dispensed with, carpets were rolled up, hair was let down, and the DJ did the event proud. And that?s when someone in my family struck with a vengeance.

The first I knew about it was when those familiar opening bass notes ? DUM-DE-DUM-DI-DUM-DUM?.TEE-DIDDLY-DUM-DUM - boomed out from the disco; within milliseconds, both myself and ?Im Indoors were dragged onto the dance floor by some very determined nieces, closely followed by what resembled an almighty stampede, but turned out to be the remainder of my clan wanting to do proper justice to ?That Banned Record ? After all, it had been a long, long time. The only one that didn?t was my stepmother, who is in her mid-eighties, dodgy on her feet, and therefore ?excused boots?. And, yes ? come the appropriate point of the tune, the entire place reverberated to those familiar, but stirring words: ?CHUFF OFF THE WULVES ? WEST BROM!?

The first time it happened, I quickly glanced about ? this was quite a select place, you understand. Sure enough, there was the maitre d? in the far corner, in his finery, eyes averted heavenwards; a quick glance at the bar staff revealed a mass dropping of jaws downwards. They never taught this sort of thing in hotel and catering school; you could almost hear the ?thuds? as those descending chins simultaneously hit the ground. As for the groom?s family, they too were seemingly wondering precisely what sort of family their son and heir had married into. And, it wasn?t just the once, either; for the entire duration of that Harry J and the All Stars song, every single one of us told the world precisely what we thought of our near neighbours. If there were any Dingles elsewhere in the hotel, it must have gone down a real treat. Or something!

 - Glynis Wright

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