The Diary

20 August 2005: Nostalgic Times, Pompey Chimes

So now we?ve got a ?Duke?, then. Not a ?Thin White? version of the David Bowie species, or a downright cantankerous one, as per the Greek ex-naval officer that currently co-resides in Buck House, but a Nathan, bless his moneymaking little tootsies, and hailing from Wigan. The last such claim to fame they had was George Orwell, thirties chronicler of poverty in the region, who never quite made the House Of Lords, but sure as hell was famous ? or should that read ?infamous?? ?And why not have a Duke up front?? I say to myself; after all, we?ve had a King, and a Lord Of The Manor at various times in our noble history, so all power to the shooting boots of yet another of the ermined clan. And, the other day, between the three-bean salad and the lemon meringue cheesecake, another vagrant thought occurred to me: why stop there ? after all, there?s much in the noble pantheon we haven?t touched upon as yet. A quick butcher?s at Debrett?s Peerage will give you sufficient inspiration should you need any; after all, our football club could do much, much worse than have a Marquis, a Baron, or an Earl or two on its books.

Or, just for the sheer devilment of it, there?s always other topical avenues to be explored. Example? With Iran and the vexed question of its (real or imagined) nuclear capabilities being very much in the forefront of the news right now, that provides yet another rich nominative seam to mine. Even back in the pre-nuclear twenties, before Rutherford managed to split it, even, we had a ?Mighty Atom? (Tommy Magee), and much, much later, a ?Tank? (Derek Kevan). And then, a couple of decades after the dawning of the nuclear age, we acquired a ?Bomber?. Given the current highly-charged ?is that bloke sitting with a rucksack opposite me ?one? or not?? sweaty-with-fear zeitgeist, remind me to give that one a wide berth indeed in future. In order to properly follow the thread of this somewhat bellicose theme, though, what we supporters really need right now is an incoming player with the nickname ?5-Megatons?, or similar. Or, howzabout making the whole thing properly all-encompassing just by sticking the nickname ?Weapon Of Mass Destruction? on the next young and upcoming feller-me-lad of a striker who fancies his chances at The Shrine? Mind you, with our luck, the Yanks would get wind of it, and promptly bomb us right back to the Stone Age, as they threatened in Vietnam. General Curtis Le May, what a lad ? always good for a laugh.

Talking of names both past and present, it?s becoming quite fascinating seeing just where and when our researches for this book thingy are taking us. Only the other day, ?Im Indoors laid hands upon Dave Instone?s ?How We Won The Cup?, a straightforward account of how eleven or so quite unremarkable blokes achieved for our favourite football club something quite remarkable indeed. Even speed-reading its contents ? my other half?s currently ploughing through it like a rat down a drainpipe, so I have to grab my Baggie pleasures when he ain?t around ? brings back memories that bring a pleasurable grin traversing the whole breadth of my face again and again. And that?s even before you get me started on those old Albion programmes, the ones from around the time I was sweating over ?O? Levels and a tad beyond.

Examples? Last night, I was assisting ?Im Indoors with hoiking out of our vast programme collection lots of references making mention of John Osborne. (Cheers to Norm Bartlam for taking out much of the slog with his superb cross-referencing system, by the way). Loads turned up, of course, but what fascinated me even more were the tantalising little snippets concerning other players, who also went on to make a name for themselves at our favourite football club, and elsewhere. The mention of a very youthful Asa Hartford in one particular 1968 programme ? did you know they called him by his ?proper? name ? Richard ? back then? Take John Trewick, for example; lurking in one early seventies publication, I discovered a picture of the lad not long after he signed for us as an apprentice. More hair than you?d find on the average orang-utang, and as curly as hell with it. Cyrille Regis, looking very young and shy indeed, in company with Laurie Cunningham, and an article (in a Football League Review ? remember them?) about a very young-looking Brian Clough, complete with toddler son Nigel, not long after he took the Derby job ? ah, little did we know back then!

When compared with today?s climate of downright mercenary cynicism, it?s quite remarkable in retrospect just how innocent an age the early and mid-sixties were. Despite the country being either enraptured or absolutely repelled by the hippie movement, or the antics (on and off-campus) of the anti-Vietnam war demonstrators, there was much about the era that commended itself. Not the legalised sexism that prevented women aspiring to occupations today?s lot take completely for granted (The Pill and other contraceptives were only prescribed to married women back then, and females couldn?t even take out mortgages in their own names, believe it or not), or the rampant double-standards that made it OK for a lad to play the field ? ?sowing his wild oats, nudge-nudge, wink-wink?, etc - before marriage.

A woman doing similar would be instantly branded a ?slut? or, should she ?fall pregnant?, as the phrase went then, even worse ? for many, the only way to avoid becoming a complete and utter social pariah was either to allow the child to go for adoption, or resort to the back-street abortionist, a hazardous undertaking, even at the best of times.

No, the sort of thing I?m on about is a complete and utter lack of commercialism about the beautiful game, and society as a whole. Albion only seemed to cotton on to the commercial possibilities of flogging Baggies stuff to supporters very late in the game, by comparison with the likes of Man Urinal and Liverpool; our first Club Shop consisted of a cupboard-like affair up some stairs at the back of The Smethwick, if my memory serves me correctly. Even at the top level, then, clubs still had much to learn; recollections of that happy state of affairs made our voyages of discovery absolutely delightful. And, is it me, or did people genuinely seem far more contented with their lives back then, with far fewer pressures from society, employers and family to have to worry about?

Back then, as far as I was concerned, an ?agent? was something I encountered in double chemistry; depending upon composition, it either ?oxidised? or ?reduced?, various compounds, or, for the non-scientific among you, was what James Bond was supposed to be, only ?secret? with it. And, just like most football ground caterers back then, licensed to kill, not make millions for their clients. The King, have an ?agent?, just like seasoned sixties thespians Michael Caine, or Bob Monkhouse? He?d have collapsed in a giggly heap at the very thought. And as for a ?bung?, well, that was what I fitted into the neck of laboratory glassware, generally made of rubber, they were, and had holes in them. Just like a lot of condoms back then (q.v. ?The Pill?, ?pregnancy? and ?back street abortionists?). ?Tapping up? was what happened when you wanted to attract someone?s attention in a discreet sort of way, or, as per the licensed trade, changing a beer barrel in the cellar because the old one had run out. Knocking out the bung (there we go again!) in the new barrel by judicious usage of both a metal spile with a tap on the end, and a bloody great mallet ? not making clandestine overtures towards acquiring the services of a star performer at another club.

?Personal terms?? Most pros back then would have taken that to mean hire-purchase repayments on their brand-new Mini-Cooper. The clubs had the whip-hand with that one (terms of one?s contract, I mean, not HP). Amounts A, B, C for a win, draw or loss, respectively, take it or leave, it, a lesser sum during the summer, a little bit more if the league position was high enough, or you had a good run in the Cup, and a club house chucked in if you were lucky. And don?t forget to touch your forelock to the Chairman on your way out, lad.

?Roasting?? What you did with a joint (no, not THAT sort, unless you were after an ?experience? of the Jimmy Hendrix purple-hazed variety ? for that, you visited the Kasabambu Caf? in West Bromwich itself!) when you wanted a decent Sunday dinner. Oooh, such unashamed nostalgia ? and it?s not helping ?Im Indoors churn out his literary tome one little bit! All Our Yesterdays ? and what?s made it much worse is our recent acquisition on loan of bound copies of the club programme dating from the 1930?s! Idly glancing through one of the volumes tonight, I even came across a piece accusing the club of ?pandering to those with money and cars? by wanting to ?erect a Spion Kop in place of the allotments situated at one end of the ground?. Sounds pretty topical, doesn?t it? It just goes to show you that some things never change. Incidentally, as I?ve said before ? anyone out there with memories, or mementoes, even, of Albion heroes from that time ? well, ANY time ? if you think it could help, please feel free to get in touch, via gd@football4sale.com

But enough, enough. Back to tomorrow?s agenda, which will hopefully include the destruction of Pompey. Quite a contrast to the scary situation that prevailed the last time our respective clubs met in anger ? thanks for all those vocals, lads, much appreciated ? but this time, I?m afraid the gloves will have to come off. Something tells me that Pompey will be among those tenanting the bottom regions of the Prem come the second half of the season, so tomorrow will have to be a case of ?them or us?. Sorry and all that, but our priority has to be getting points on the board where we can, and as early as possible. A pity, in some respects, because those amazing scenes the last time we met had to be unique in the annals of football at this level.

Curiouser still was the strange headline ?Im Indoors spotted on the news-stands when journeying home from work today ? ?ALBION TO SELL STRIKER?. Just what was going on? The answer, once we?d delved into the matter properly, was somewhat different from what the hoardings had led us to believe; in effect, Robbo was warning his main armament, individually and collectively, that unless they started to hit pay-dirt in the form of goals, and soon, one or more might be out of the door come the next transfer window. That?s how we interpreted things, at any rate.

So ? to use a very old Naval phrase, rather appropriate, given the opposition, who?s for the old ?pierhead jump? tomorrow, then? Russell Hoult has recovered from his groin problems, apparently, but unless Chris Kirkland is struck down by a meteorite, or something, on his way to the game, after the fantastic way he kept a clean sheet in last weekend?s draw at Manchester City, that Number One slot?s always going to be his. Nathan ?Duke? Ellington could well be the name in the frame up front tomorrow, but on the other hand, Robbo might not particularly want to throw him in at the deep end straightaway. I?ve been seeing reports that he still has a lingering shoulder injury dating from pre-season training at Wigan. Will he have to settle for a berth on the bench instead, I wonder? Another recent recruit whose fitness might not be all it should is Diomansy Kamara; according to the blurb, Robbo will be doing a last-minute check on his medical status tomorrow. Oh ? and according to Hyder Jawad in the Birmingham Post, there?s no injury considerations among our numerous midweek international performers, either, which is something of a relief.

As far as the ?other lot? are concerned, Aliou Cisse and Linvoy Primus have calf and knee troubles, apparently. Scuttlebutt also has it Gary O?Neil is likely to start in midfield in place of the injured Ivica Mornar, and long term absentee Svetoslav Todorov is still out of it. As they?re currently the ?strongest? side in the Prem ? the old ones are always the best! ? they?ll be looking to get some scores on the old boards also. As we all well know from bitter past experience, in this division, it?s all too easy to suddenly find yourself falling further and further adrift. The answer, of course, is to stop yourself getting into that situation in the first place, which is why I reckon tomorrow?s encounter will be something of a hard slog. Prediction? I reckon we?ll shave it, but by the odd goal, and the last ten minutes or so will be a bit of a struggle to hang on.

The more I see next week?s opponents, Chelsea, mentioned on the box, or in the printed media, and the more I hear rumours of some hapless player or official being lured back to their Stamford Bridge base by the flash of a goodly-sized wodge or three, the more I?m reminded of Star Trek?s deadly adversaries The Borg. Aw, you know, the massive alien presence roaming the entire length and breadth of the galaxy, and, on first encountering members of a race deemed suitable for such treatment, quickly incorporating them into the half-human-half-machine whole ? irrespective of whether or not they wanted it that way in the first place. ?YOU WILL BE ASSIMILATED!? That was the electronically-generated cry, as the interstellar smash-and-grab merchants did precisely that. Very much what the London club do and say when trolling for talent among the Prem and Nationwide?s lesser-lights, really!

And Finally?. One. Warming to the sci-fi theme a little more, I?m also very much reminded of ?War Of The Worlds?, a picture we saw during the close season ? without spoiling things for those still to see it, the ?baddies? were interstellar Dingles, basically. Although the original book was set in the Home Counties, circa 1905, and not New York circa 2005, I couldn?t help but wonder if H.G. Wells, the author, had derived inspiration for his classic from doing a little bit of sneaky-beaky watching home games at the Molineux; some of those mass-destruction scenes didn?t half look familiar to veterans of previous Albion-Wulves encounters.

Presumably, though, given that the scope of the universe is supposed to be as infinite as near damn it, logic must therefore dictate that there is, somewhere, an alien species that also employs massive rectangular vehicles of cast-iron construction for transportation, with great mechanical legs for propulsion ? characterised, as they advance, by a ground-shaking ?BOM-BOM-BOM? - and with blazing searchlights that match perfectly the go-faster stripes on the sides, but about as aggressive as Mother Teresa, really, and likely to have a major psychological crisis should even a small mammal end up squashed underneath those mighty legs of theirs. Defamation of character? Too true; if I were them, and I found out, I?d sue Spielberg until the pips squeaked. And our lovely Dingle chums, come to think about it.

Two?. Welcome to ?Idiot?s Corner?. Ever watched medical programmes like ?Casualty?, and marvelled at programme-makers and script-writers contriving to bring about some improbable accident or other, then instantly declared to your nearest and dearest, ?Huh! Imagine THAT happening in real life? You cannot be serious??.? Loads of times, I?ll bet, especially with comparatively-recent episodes. It?s always quite a shock to the system, therefore ? well, to me, actually! - when Art suddenly decides to imitate Life in the unlikeliest of ways, and right in our house, as well.

Take last Monday morning. There I was, cooking some breakfast, not a care in the world, when I happened to notice that one of my cats had been sick nearby. Grabbing some kitchen towel to shift the offending detritus from sight, and bending creakily over to do it, I then realised that the saucepan in which I was preparing eggs was about to boil over ? one of the shelly sods had developed a clandestine crack, and the escaping egg-white had rendered the liquid in the pan very similar to boiling milk: i.e. creeping up the sides at a rate of knots.

Realising drastic action was called for, and quickly, I grabbed the handle to shift pan from flame ? and this is where the ?dickhead? aspect of this tale comes in, folks ? I was still hanging on to the trailing bit of kitchen towel as I did it. Result? Without my noticing at first, it caught on the burner, burst into flames while still in my hand, and, by doing so, badly scorched the jumper I was wearing. It was only when I smelt burning in the general vicinity of the underside of my right boob I realised all was not as it should be ? and quickly let go of the offending object, which was by now sending flames of around a foot in height soaring towards my nostrils. Eek!

Nothing for it, then, but to trample the minor conflagration underfoot and into the floor, and in similar style to that of a French peasant treading grapes back in the days when humans, and not machines, were employed to do the job. Just as well, really; had I not ditched the damn thing so quickly, I strongly suspect I?d have been writing this in some NHS burns unit or other by now. And, yes ? before you ask, I STILL feel a bit of a plonker about what happened!

 - Glynis Wright

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