The Diary

12 November 2005: Surprise, Surprise - No Argy-Bargy!

Our favourite football club might not have been all that proactive of late, given their currently protracted break from the cares and woes of the Prem, but quite a week, wasn?t it, for Tony Blair? Er ? probably one he?d much prefer to forget, actually, given his troops only now finally managed to muster up enough in the way of good old-fashioned testosterone to tell him his fortune via the ballot box. It?s the same in showbusiness (and football!) as it is in politics: never, ever, take your audience for granted, or treat them with contempt ? they might well bite back when you least expect it.

But such unworthy considerations were pushed right back to the very rear of the oven today: politics and politicians may come and go, but in the meantime, there was the beautiful game to consider, viz: the England ?Argentina friendly shown on the Beeb this evening. As ?Im Indoors had pressing business elsewhere (well Hereford United, if you really want to know - more about that later), I found myself watching the thing with only my cats for company. To be perfectly honest with you lot, my extensive experience of this fixture in all its various guises has tended to colour my various prejudices somewhat. I still have vivid memories of 1966, and our now-notorious close encounter with our South American chums, the one where even the normally mild-mannered Alf Ramsey was moved to describe the opposition in terms that wouldn?t have disgraced the studio floor of Crimewatch. And with good reason, too, what with one of their players, Rattin, being invited to inspect the showering arrangements considerably sooner than the rest of his equally-thuggish team-mates. And no ? despite what Ramsey said to the press post-match, I?ve still to see a member of the animal kingdom do to its own what the South Americans did to our lot.

For my next close encounter with the land of pampas, Evita, and gauchos at ten paces, I have to fast-forward to 1986, and yet another World Cup. The quarter-final stage of the tournament this time round, and the game being given a certain added frisson by our recent Falklands ? or ?Islas Malvinas?, should you wish to take the opposition viewpoint in preference to ours ? punch-up, the one where General Galtieri?s lot exited the contested real-estate with naught save a bloodied nose to show for their troubles. Ironic we even went to war with them, really, as there are many, many ties, still, between the citizens of this country and theirs. Want an example? Just try going to Patagonia, the bit right at the very Southern tip of the country; there you?ll find a flourishing community directly descended from Welsh sheep farmers, all of whom emigrated en-bloc in the early 19th century. Despite the advent of a dictatorship or three in the intervening period, they?ve still managed to retain a strong communal feel for the ?old country?, and yes, Welsh of a sort is still spoken there, and in marked preference to the ?official? native tongue, Spanish.

But I digress. Back in ?86, and the time of the World Cup Finals, I was on my way to the Far East yet again, and, as luck would have it, I?d timed the flight to coincide perfectly with our clash versus the ?old enemy?. No chance whatsoever of seeing it, then, I thought, assuming I?d be somewhere around 35,000 feet in the air during the allotted 90 minutes. Wrong! As it turned out, the timings happened to coincide perfectly with a refuelling stop at some searingly-hot place in the Gulf - possibly Dubai ? and that?s how I found myself sharing a poky little 20-inch portable telly with some of their security guards, who, although tooled-up with enough automatic weaponry to take out a company-sized enemy in a fire-fight, were still quite happy to let me watch the fun as it happened on screen, Maradona ?hand of God? incident and all, and, once the final whistle blew, they even had the good grace to commiserate with me in reasonable English. I can only guess they didn?t exactly go a bundle on the corned-dog merchants either.

Bearing the above in mind, no wonder I had a considerable amount of mental baggage attached to this one; when switching channels, I?d genuinely anticipated seeing more rough stuff ? but it never happened, or threatened, even. Instead, what we had going out there was a genuinely-entertaining friendly (rare at international level, such occasions normally being used as a vehicle for testing out either new tactics, or new players), lots of end-to-end stuff, a plethora of missed chances for both sides, and a genuinely barnstorming finish, with our lot grabbing the winner deep in stoppage-time. Smashing to watch, it really was, and most unexpected, too. Mind you, I?m not daft enough to assume that today?s game will automatically herald the dawning of a new and richer understanding between the two powerful footballing nations. Should we draw them in the same group for the World Cup Finals proper, then the gloves will most certainly come off, make no bones about it.

Around the start of the second half, I heard the door slam, and in surged my other half ? and when I say ?surged?, I really mean ?bounced around like Zebedee on highly-potent illegal stimulants?. Immediately prior to the start of the England caper, I?d been following the progress of the Bulls-Woking thing via Sky?s goals and results service, and was rather pleased to note that ?Im Indoors?s other love had triumphed over our erstwhile Nemesis by four goals without reply.

Given Albion?s unfortunate recent history regarding ?that? FA Cup Third round encounter with them, I can?t say I was exactly weeping salt tears when the final score flashed up on our screen, a gleeful: ?Send it down, Moses!? more like, but the upshot of all that was a distinctly buoyant other half thundering through our sorely-abused front door later that evening. Blimey, if that?s what he was like a good hour and a half after the final whistle, what the hell had he been like at Edgar Street? I really dreaded to think. I hadn?t accompanied him for today?s game purely and simply because of my lingering cold and chest symptoms (see below), but the goal-fest there certainly sounded like fun. Oh ? and apparently my absence was duly noticed and sorely missed by a sizeable proportion of ?Im Indoors?s Bull-loving chums. See, even if my own football team doesn?t exactly love me right now, someone else sure does!

Because I ended up taking some of The Fart?s more virulent germs on board recently, I haven?t really been well enough to nip down the library, as is my wont these days, but what I did do instead was nip down the chemists, for obvious reasons, and several times on the bounce. He?s a lovely lad, the guy that runs ours, what with being an Albion shareholder and everything; whenever I poke my (distinctly sneezy and unpleasantly-soggy!) snitch around their door, I invariably feel obliged to spend far more time in there than is good for anyone, especially a bod who?s exuding mucus from every pore ? or feels as though she is. That?s what happens when someone starts talking Albion with me, I?m afraid, it completely overwhelms my social defence mechanisms, and puts me in an uncharacteristically-jovial mindset for my next port of call, The Bluenose Butcher?s bijou hang-out situated about fifty yards downwind. That?s where I started discussing the merits of his own-product beefburgers and pork and leek sausages; he may support a Premiership side with some of the country?s most objectionable supporters within its ranks, but he can?t half turn out a bostin? bit of banger or burger when you most want it. Well, even if you went there wanting to strike a hefty blow for consumer rights, however symbolic, would you want to end up arguing with a bloke wielding one of the biggest choppers in all Christendom, and, to add insult to (probable!)injury, a Bluenose, as well?

Mind you, on the most recent of my pharmaceutically-orientated calls, a mere two days ago, I had the shock of my life. In between animated discussions regarding the various shortcomings of Albion defenders who appear to be not quite up to the assigned task of sticking like a leech to their opposing attackers when in the box, and progressing to the contentious issue of perfectly-capable strikers whose fine motor skills instantly revert to those of Coco The Clown when in the vicinity of an opposing six-yard box, our master of materia medica craftily slipped in with my purchases a small government-issue tome which cheered me up no end. The one about a flu pandemic, and what to do (not a lot you can, really, when you come to think about it!) once it arrives on these here shores.

What charming bedtime reading, I thought, as I quickly leafed through its doom-laden pages. The thing is, guys and gals, I know it?s going to happen, sooner or later, in fact, probably sooner rather than later, and so do you. The country?s well overdue for something on the scale of 1958, 1968 ? or, even, worst case scenario of all, 1918 ? and it?s demonstrably clear there is bird flu waiting in the ? erm ? wings for its golden opportunity to mutate into the sort that?s bad news for us humans, but there?s really no need to keep reminding me of it, Tony And Cronies, honest!

Mind you, what didn?t help was finally getting around to reading more pages from the book I?d started on the trip to West Ham, the one whose subject-matter revolved around the increasingly-alarming number of possible ways Mankind could get the old heave-ho from this planet. Some of ?em completely and utterly barking-mad, to be perfectly frank (various forms of Apocalypse, currently available in Christian, Jewish, Hindu or Muslim flavours) through nuclear holocaust, and finishing up with the topic I mentioned above, some biological nasty that defies even the best panacea medical science can devise to sort it out. But, between all the scientifically-dodgy dross, there is a clear message that in some areas, Mankind is indisputably on a yellow card, and should, that then become a red, then we?re all stuffed. I?m around halfway through the thing at the moment; uncomfortable and disconcerting reading in some places, sure, but something that should be taken on board by every single person on this planet, and the sooner the better, in my view.

Talking of nasty maladies and mutations, it would seem our little mailing-list had one all of its own earlier in the week; one minute we had the threads of a (very!) lively discussion about managerial strategy (or the lack of it) going like the clappers on there, the next we had sod-all. Nothing. For some unknown reason, we?d been unceremoniously bumped off the list, and without a single word of warning, too. But at least we weren?t the only ones, and it wasn?t because of anything we?d said, either; within hours, it became abundantly clear that whatever had happened had come about by virtue of one of those maddening electronic glitches that pervades ?cyber-world? from time to time. We?ve had to re-register with Boing, and so have an awful lot more, it would seem, judging from the number of test messages whanging frantically around the list right now. Er ? you don?t suppose it?s the electronic equivalent of avian flu, do you? Oh well ? if our PC starts sneezing heavily, at least I?ll know the reason why!

And finally?? Over to my stepmothers I went last Friday, as per usual, and with our usual mugs of coffee, there came an honest appraisal of my sister?s most recent cruise, from which she?s only just returned. Having heard what happened with this one, I?m rapidly coming to the conclusion that cruises and my eldest sibling just don?t mix! The very first time she holidayed that way, around 18 months ago, the ship they were on, the Van Gogh, somehow managed to collide with an itinerant Greek oil tanker outside Gibraltar, and in perfect visibility as well. I?m given to believe the legal flotsam and jetsam of that one is still winding its torturous way around various maritime courts of law, even now ? but a one-off, surely? Er ? sort of, but read on.

This time, no vessels, commercial or otherwise to collide with, thank goodness, but what they had instead was the weather, which was bloody awful. The Bay Of Biscay, you won?t be surprised to hear, fully lived up to every disparaging remark ever made about it by seasick mariners, holidaying or otherwise, but it was what happened once they?d left there for supposedly-calmer climes that really surprised. As luck would have it, their ship caught up with the tail-end of a hurricane ? don?t ask me which one, there have been so many thins year, even the people whose job it is to assign correct names and genders to the things must be really confused by now ? and once that happened, several pertinent announcements were made on the ship?s PA system.

The first? Don?t bother coming to the sick-bay for appropriate remedies: these would be made available via the reception desk, and for whoever wanted them. The second? Due to the awful motion of the ship ? this despite the vessel being fully-equipped with stabilisers ? for various health and safety reasons, all of them excellent, the chef wouldn?t be preparing another cooked meal this side of the Isle Of Wight. The third? My sis and her Victor Meldrew look-and-soundalike hubby would dip out on a stop in Casablanca; they?d wanted to see the place primarily because of the famous film of the same name, the one where Humphrey Bogart gets to say: ?All the bars in all the world, and I had to find you in this one?.? Plus, of course, ?Play it again, Sam?? Or something like that; popular belief has it Bogart spoke those actual lines in the film, but he didn?t. Sorry. In view of their terrible track record whenever it comes to things maritime, perhaps the pair of them should stick to a rowing boat on Swan Pool in future?

Oh well ? at least they did get to see the somewhat fiery innards of an active volcano in the Canary Islands, Lanzarote, if my memory serves me correctly, the one where the Americans practiced for the 1969 moon landings, much beloved of sci-fi film directors today. Mind you, I did point out to her that had she wanted to see similar without going to the considerable expense of leaving Blighty, all she?d have to do is watch a home game at Forest?s City Ground. Ooooh ? stop it, you bitch! Mind you, her next bit of news genuinely was lovely; yet another one of my nieces (the one that married in the close season) is now well and truly with a bun in the oven, and by IVF, too. And at the first time of asking (or, more accurately, implanting); astonishing, that, as the success rate for a first attempt is still relatively poor. Do I detect yet another family knees-up in the offing?

 - Glynis Wright

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