The Diary

30 September 2005: 4,000 Holes In Blackburn? None In Our Defence, I Hope.

It might be raining fit to bust out there tonight, and the temperature hardly enough to warm the cockles of your heart, but isn?t it lovely to return to a warm house, switch on the old goggle-box, tune into Sky ? then just sit back and watch the Dingles get theirs courtesy of Burnley? By the time we joined the action, the game was entering its 60th minute, but our Lancashire chums were already in front thanks to the actions of a certain Gareth O?Connor. Although I didn?t get a proper chance to see a replay of his winning strike, from what the commentator said during the game, his goal came about from a set-piece.

Having said all that, because of their ongoing failure to string together more than two or three passes on the bounce, it seemed to us very much a case of Burnley riding their luck. On one particularly memorable occasion - around 15 minutes from the end, if my memory serves me correctly - when The Beast badly fluffed one cross, thereby presenting a lurking Dingle with a free header from around six yards out, I thought that was it ? but incredibly, instead of sailing underneath the crossbar and in, the bladder somehow hit the woodwork, then out. And not once, but just to give everyone?s nerves a really good twang, twice! Appropriately enough for such a filthy night, that loss represented three precious promotion points straight down the drain for the Dingles, who were hugging fourth place prior to tonight?s fixture. You know something? Before watching that game, my innermost thoughts had largely revolved around the probability or otherwise of us getting a result at Ewood Park tomorrow. In fact, I was on the verge of giving up the ghost because of what I perceived to be our somewhat limited prospects of doing so, but now Stevie Cottrell?s lot have put just a little bit of sunshine back into my life, the world looks a much more rosy place to be, once more!

Talking of tomorrow?s fixture, I don?t know how it is for you, and I may even be in a minority of one on this, but do you ever have days when you think of a certain historical period, or newsworthy event, and associated images immediately spring to mind? Aw, you know, like Dunkirk: small boats, knackered Tommies in miles-long queues, sand dunes, burning buildings in the town, Stuka dive-bombers, that sort of thing. Or what about The Swinging Sixties? All Carnaby Street, psychedelia, moon landings, The Beatles, The Stones, Bob Dylan ? the ill-judged and ill-fated Vietnam conflict, maybe? All this and more might flit through your brain at the time, but I can justifiably claim to go one better. Mention a good many famous footballing names/games/stadia to me, and immediately, the appropriate mental picture will take shape and form inside the Glynis Wright brain.

Examples? Well, for starters, what about our moneyed chums from the metropolis, Chelsea? Just the merest hint of their existence immediately conjures up for me images of Eighties yuppies, bless their red braces, brick-thick mobiles and brick-thick brains, plus Margaret Thatcher, and her highly-damaging assertion there was ?no such thing as society?. Oh, and vodka and caviar, too. Not that I?ve ever tasted what sounds to me awfully like an upmarket version of cod roe, mind. I guess I?ve never been fortunate enough ? or, more pertinently perhaps, unfortunate ? to get the chance to do so, while just the merest hint of Russia?s most famous liquid export heading down my ?clack? these days would immediately propel me into La-La Land, thanks to the strong painkillers I?m currently taking for my back.

Now for some others. Liverpool? A clich?, sure, but curly-headed and moustached Yosser look-alikes spring to mind, all complete with outrageously-nasal accents and a predilection for accumulating ?borrowed? hubcaps, or failing that, the vehicles they belong to, while neighbours Everton are always Ken Dodd, tickling-stick and all. Oh, and ?Z-Cars?, for obvious reasons. Man Urinal? They used to be a brash travelling salesman in a Mondeo: knew the price of everything, and the value of nothing, them, but thanks to Malcolm Glazer, they now form in my mind one vast July The Fourth street parade in a Midwest hick town. Their footballing opposite-numbers, City? Easy, that one ? Circus clowns, prat-falling, flower-squirting and custard-pie-ing their way into the Big Top, and all accompanied by the brassy opening notes of ?Entry Of The Gladiators.? Must be the Malcolm Allison influence, I suppose.

And that lot, my friends, brings me in somewhat convoluted fashion to tomorrow?s opponents, Blackburn Rovers. Try as I might, when considering their set-up, I can never quite eradicate the mental image of one of those Hovis adverts, all cobbled streets, brass bands and cloth caps, or that much admired Monty Python sketch about a Northern quartet all trying to outdo one another when debating who among the four had suffered the most deprived childhood. 4,000 holes, too, anyone? And it?s not necessarily a picture the club would consider negative, mind. To be perfectly frank, whenever I sit down and weigh up the relative merits (or otherwise) of the late Sir Jack Walker?s former fiefdom, a trip to Ewood Park comes out as one of my firm favourites ? first time, every time.

Why? Primarily because of the wonderful way in which visiting supporters are always treated like adults up there. In direct contrast to our own matchday rozzers, intimidating in manner, and seemingly harbouring a sense of humour failure five miles wide as well, on arrival, police there are only too delighted to point you in the direction of a supporter-friendly pre-match watering hole. Add to that little or no hassle from stewards; reasonable ticket prices, not to mention sublime fish and chips from the small shop hard by the ground, and you?re in footie Heaven. And I do have some gorgeous memories of the place, not least of which was our farewell to the Prem of three seasons ago, the game where just about every Baggie in Christendom ? including then-Albion cult hero Bob Taylor, who chose to travel by coach with supporters that day - dressed up as referees. Lovely to reflect upon the fact that not only did the locals hugely appreciate the joke, so did the pukka match officials as well. I have it on good authority that when all four whistlers emerged onto the pitch for their warm-up, and saw all our festivities going full-blast in the away end ? I suspect it was the massed-waving of red and yellow cards that finally did it for them ? they all nearly weed themselves laughing at the sight.

So what about tomorrow?s game, then? I?m sure I don?t need to emphasise the fact that it?s absolutely imperative we get at least something from there. ?Grannies sucking eggs? comes into it somewhere, I suspect. Screw up, and we?re heading for precisely the same sort of situation we found ourselves in last time round. A lot will depend upon the initial team selection, of course ? and you don?t need to be the best tactical analyst in the world to cotton onto the simple fact that we got it dead wrong for that opening 45 versus Charlton last week.

The good news is that Robbie Savage will be suspended for this one, five accumulated yellow cards being the killer blow to his hopes of featuring for Mark Hughes?s mob tomorrow. Not bad going, considering there?s only a quarter of the season gone, n?est ce pas? As far as we?re concerned, can I just say one thing? Whoever gets the midfield nod tomorrow, can we NOT have a repeat of the disastrous AJ-Wallwork combo we saw last week, please? It doesn?t work, Robbo, and probably never will, so just forget it! OK? If that?s the best we can do, I?d much rather see my daft tabby cat turn out for us tomorrow. On the other hand, what I would like to see more of is Kamara, and right from the ?off? this time. Those wonderful runs of his during last week?s second half certainly gave The Addicks more than a few problems to sort out on the left flank, and it?s only by having a go in similar fashion we?re going to prosper tomorrow, I suspect.

The one doubt for tomorrow remains Kanu, who needs a fitness test on a hamstring strain, apparently. Scuttlebutt says he won?t make it, which, if right, would be a shame. Daft as it might seem, if it were left to me, I?d be thinking of sticking both Earnie and The Duke up front from the start, and, if fit, Kanu right behind. It?s their speed, you see; in combination, both would probably prove to be a thoroughly-unpalatable mouthful for their defence. Kanu? Well, we all saw what he did to Bradford the night he turned provider. And I?d go for The Horse on the bench as well, thereby keeping his vast experience in reserve should we not get results via the two ?kids?. Robbo reckons things haven?t been helped either by niggling injuries to key personnel; that, and others returning from international duty in an unfit state. Go on, Robbo, speak as you find ? it?s Zoltan and Hungary you?re complaining so bitterly about, isn?t it? Oh - and one other bit of late news. I?ve just discovered who the ref will be tomorrow. Bloody Uriah Rennie. AAARRGH!

To return to Man United once more, I?m willing to bet that not a few of you laughed like drains on hearing news of their home defeat versus the side we?re visiting tomorrow. No surprise to hear that I did, of course, but what really, really put the silly grin on my face for most of last week were various newspaper accounts of supporter unrest at Old Trafford come the final whistle there. I guess The Grauniad?s reportage is as good as any: according to their Tuesday sports supplement, at their post-match press conference, Fergie was said to be ?in seeming denial? when asked some pretty innocuous questions about being booed by his own followers after Saturday?s Old Trafford fiasco.

Even better, though, were the pointed remarks made by one Johnny Flacks, founding member of the Independent Manchester United Supporters? Association. I warn you, though, before trying to read what follows below, make sure you have a pretty absorbent hanky available. Not to mop up tears of sadness, mind, just to smother those of uncontrollable mirth! And clean underpants on hand for the inevitable moment when the sphincter muscles in your bladder finally give up the ghost. According to the aforementioned gentleman, ?What happened on Saturday was a build up of ill-feeling that has gone on for a long time. The (United) supporters have been accustomed to mediocrity for too long, and this was the moment when they decided enough was enough??.the level of discontent at Old Trafford has reached proportions that I never thought it would.? Thus far, thus hilarious, but there?s more. ?It?s just a shame he (Ferguson) didn?t leave after we won the treble in 1999, or when he initially said he?d retire, in 2002, because ever since then, there have been serious levels of discontent?..?

Now, excuse me if I?m missing something fundamental here, but my heart really is spilling gallons of O Positive all over the floor as I read these words. Here we have a bloke who actively supports one of the most successful clubs this country has seen in recent years, now giving it big verbal licks because he perceives The Red Devils to be suffering from terminal decline, and on the basis of just one wretched home performance? ?Mediocrity?? My arse. Thanks to the moneyed efforts of a certain Russian energy tycoon, no silverware in the old cabinet last season, sure, but they did finish as Champions League qualifiers, and got to the FA Cup Final as well! If that?s their followers? definition of the word ?mediocre?, then I really would hate them to define the true meaning of the word as experienced by lesser mortals such as we. Talk about florid symptoms of a severe sense of proportion deficiency? In short, what the hell do they have to bloody well moan about?

It?s risible comments like those that demonstrate beautifully the fundamental problem that lies with those of the Old Trafford persuasion ? their insufferable arrogance. Back in 2001, you only had to read the opening-day match report on just one Red Devils supporters? website to appreciate that very same fact. So accustomed are they to winning things these days, anything less instantly becomes a major crisis. So they lost at home to lowly Blackburn, did they? Diddums, den. As we?re all only-too aware, an event considered unthinkable just two or three seasons ago, but even now, nowhere near enough to make the jacquerie rise up, and their spokespeople foam at the mouth, surely? Whatever next? A guillotine erected in the goalmouth, and some Northern version of Madame DeFarge knitting furiously as the blade descends towards poor Fergie?s neck? Judging from the way the aptly-named Mr. Flacks was baying for managerial blood, it can surely only be a matter of time.

And Finally?.. One. The highest peak in the Canadian Rockies is called Mount Robson. I just thought you should all know that. Sorry.

Two. So there?s now irrefutable scientific evidence that the great apes are capable of using tools in the wild, is there? Gives the people of Wolverhampton a glimmer of hope, I suppose.

 - Glynis Wright

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