The Diary

03 October 2005: I'm An Away Regular - Get Me Out Of Here!

Am I genuinely on something of a downer at the moment, the sort that only prolonged daily dosage of Prozac will shift? Or is it just the way I walk? Certainly, by the time I emerged from our car after yesterday?s abortive and dispiriting Blackburn trip, so ink-black was the cloud hovering above my head right then, I truly felt that I really couldn?t be doing with any more Albion away trips for a long, long time. And it isn?t just me, either: on our way back yesterday, even The Fart, normally a minimally-critical and invariably-polite dissenter from the party line, was giving voice to newly-emergent feelings that the continuing expenditure of considerable time, effort and pension money on these trips simply wasn?t worth the candle.

You have only to examine the mathematics in but cursory detail to truly appreciate why my sense of chucking good money after bad is growing stronger by the day. What with the price of my seat (?25), and a round of pre-match drinks in the pub (approximately ?7), that immediately took my personal expenditure for just this one game to ?32. True, I didn?t bother availing myself of the programme, nor catering facilities inside Ewood Park (another disgraceful away-trip rip-off in which I?ve been refusing to participate for several years, now), or those of the pub, and it was ?Im Indoors that flashed the cash for the gas, but as we?re joined in holy matrimony, as you might expect, such incidental expenses are, in effect, incurred jointly.

Multiply out those figures for 19 away games (OK, I do accept we?d made a joint decision, pre-season, not to attend either far-distant midweek fixtures, or those with a fiscally-ruinous price tag attached, factors which in practice exert a significantly-downwards effect on my maths, of course), but even so, when I chuck the above conservatively-estimated figures into my well-battered but trusty solar calculator, I still arrive at a season-long ball-park figure of some ?608. And that?s just for one travelling Baggie: I?ll leave it as ?an exercise for the reader? to calculate the costs incurred by the average nuclear family with the all-too familiar 2.4 kids, all spending like water money for ?services? I won?t require. On the other hand, if you are an away regular, take the whole family with you, Stamford Bridge included, guzzle their grub, but value your continuing mental (and financial!) health, perhaps it would be far better all round that you remain in blissful ignorance.

So much for the hard figures, then ? but what about all the stuff that doesn?t come with fiscal health warnings printed on the label? By that, I mean abstract considerations, arguably old-fashioned ones, such as value for money, leaving grounds with a sense of true enjoyment and appreciation for the skills displayed by our favourites, twin concepts not necessarily synonymous with the game going in our favour, of course. And then there?s my growing frustration at seeing a succession of starting line-ups that bear little or no relationship to the strong and/or weak points of the players concerned.

Example? We can?t score goals to save our lives right now, we have on tap, bar Kanu, currently unfit, five strikers, two of whom have Premiership goals to their credit already this term, and still we continue to select to lead our attack a chap who hasn?t found the net in 18 outings for the club? Plus my growing feeling that it is the TV and financial tail that increasingly wags the Premiership (and to a lesser degree, the Championship) dog. An 11.15 start for today?s Man City-Everton fixture, just so viewers in China can watch prime-time? As the old Pompey chant used to assert, ?you?re ?avin? a larf?.

And I would like to feel the club genuinely cares about whether I turn up or not. As someone remarked to me only the other week, until comparatively recently, football clubs genuinely wanted to see bums plonked on seats, and encouraged kids to follow suit when old enough to become supporters in their own right. Because their need was then somewhat greater than ours, there was generally a degree, albeit small sometimes, of customer care involved. Our support was valued. Now, because of the astonishing proliferation, bacterial almost, since 1993 of alternative revenue streams such as corporate finance, TV money (see above), and big-time advertising revenues from multinationals, they need us like a fish needs Size Nine Doc Martins ? and it isn?t half showing.

I started this piece by itemising the astonishing expense incurred just following our lot away, without a season-ticket. Factor in the price of a home one plus matchday incidentals as well, and you?re looking at little, if any, personal change from a grand: the cost for family involvement you can generally multiply by a factor of three or four. So that means, even with concessions, an annual total not far short of two grand for most actively-supporting mums and dads. And for what? And that?s before you even get me started on the subject of replica shirts and the like. Once only changed on a two-yearly basis, home, then away, Mammon has since reared its ugly head, and the wretched things, both versions, go on sale around the same time as the pre-season friendlies. Chuck into the bubbling pot the ever-widening chasm between players and supporters, and it?s a pretty unhealthy brew you?ve got going out there.

If my predictions are correct, it?s one that will eventually poison all those who currently sup from it. Personally, I don?t think that day will be all that long coming; already, there are faint signs abroad that broadcasting moguls, even Sky, who badly need football to maintain even a vestige of market credibility, might in future times baulk at current obscenely-inflated rights deals. Take away the TV income, and you immediately take away your prime means of paying massively-inflated wages to performers of relatively mediocre talent. It?s a bit like one of those daft parlour tricks that half-cut uncles attempt to entertain small children with at Christmas, sometimes; pull away the tablecloth badly, and your entire bone-china dinner service will immediately come crashing onto the floor in one gigantic and embarrassing heap.

Should my worst-case scenario come to pass, top clubs who still retain a vestige of financial sanity by steadfastly refusing to lock themselves into a vicious monetary circle dependent upon them either qualifying for European football year in, year out, or remaining in the Prem, even, could well emerge from the resultant mayhem relatively unscathed. Clubs such as Manchester United, whose ?brand? is internationally-recognisable, might also be spared the worst the market can throw at them. On the other hand, the advent of the Glazers, and their instant transformation of a concern previously well in profit, into one with a colossal debt hanging around its neck, might well have changed the dynamics, and not for the better, either. For the ?spend, spend, spend? merchants, however, the ones who treat the game?s finances in similar fashion to that of someone desperately trying to pay off increasingly-unmanageable credit card bills by using each in turn to shore up the others ? and it?s the Evertons, Man Cities and West Hams of this world I?m thinking of right now - the loss of such vital revenue could well mean the end. Leeds United were lucky to survive, and I?m sure they know it all-too well.

In short, chuck in all the above, plus the considerable time and money involved, and you eventually come out with a figure you might well consider more trouble than it?s worth. And then again, you might not. But there?s yet another factor at play, here, and it?s this. Irrespective of eventual result, at the bottom of your heart, do you find the whole thing fun any more? That, for me, is now a prime consideration, one I would have regarded a complete ?no brainer? as recently as two or three seasons ago. ?Albion game at ?X? tomorrow? Of course I?m bloody well going, what do you think I am? Come on, is the Pope a Catholic??

The trip, the general ?craic? in the car beforehand, the pub, animated conversations, some humorous, some not-so, with those of like mind, flogging fanzines outside the ground, even: sometimes, a day out so enjoyable, both match and result became of secondary importance, all heighten pleasure sensations in similar fashion to a wonderful meal, or a vintage wine, even. Now? It?s serial negativity, overwhelming fear of failure, which stalks the big green rectangle these days. Not wishing to lose close on ?20 million quid?s worth of revenue for their employers, managers become increasingly afraid to throw caution to the winds, to entertain. Say what you like about Wigan, not only are they scoring goals and getting the points, they?re going about things in an entirely different way to most of the Prem?s newcomers. Sure, they?ll probably get found out eventually, but at least their supporters are enjoying the ride for what it is.

Talking of which, not only that, supporters themselves are changing as well. Increasing intolerance of other viewpoints, however reasonably held and expressed (both President Bush?s blanket generalisation about terrorism and its root causes: ?If you?re not with me, then you must be against me? and intemperate audience behaviour during daytime chat shows provide beautiful examples of what I?m on about), an ever-growing cult of celebrity worship (not just a footballing phenomenon, that one), spin, half-truths and untruths peddled on a daily basis by big business, politicians and media, all crippled by vested interest, coupled with a maddening reluctance to even want to see beneath the surface of various issues? All that and more has gradually insinuated itself into supporting life in recent times, and dragged it down. No wonder the whole thing feels more like a lurk than a lark these days. And small wonder why I?m now saying ?enough is enough?.

As we?ve no game next weekend, I?ll do a ?catching-up? piece before we head on out for them thar hills come Saturday morning. All being well, I should be back the following Friday night with a look at The Arse. And in more ways than the obvious; that same day, I?m booked into Dudley Road Hospital to have a barium enema. It?s not so much the procedure that?s daunting ? barium?s a substance that exerts an effect on X-radiation particles similar to that of Duggie Fraser on opposing forwards, and ?enema? is a word that speaks for itself ? it?s the preparation for it. All done at home, sure, but by the very nature of the thing, tedious and limiting to a degree highly detrimental to the performance of one?s everyday activities. Should all colonic commotion be dormant by the time I come to pen my piece, I?ll explain more fully, but if actively-volcanic, still, you?ll just have to take it as read!

And finally?.. Time for a public service announcement, and from a Satanic Nurse, one Hugh McCreavy, no less. Deep within the arcane and mysterious world of pop music, there lurks a band consisting entirely of Albion supporters. No, I didn?t know either, but that?s what Hugh assures me: not only is he bigger than me, provided another mental health professional agrees, he does have the power to detain me under the Mental Health Act, so I?m not going to argue, am I? ?The Allies? is the name, an Indie musical cross between Oasis and The Smiths is the game, and they appear at Scruffy Duffy?s, Broad Street, Birmingham, on the 21st. of this month. As my knowledge of current pop trends is minimal, to say the least, I know not of the standard of these guys, but anyone who loves the blue and white stripes has to be OK by me, so why not give ?em a whirl?

 - Glynis Wright

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