The Diary

25 December 2005: Christmas, And How To Survive It, Albion-Style!

Isn?t it strange how quickly time flies when you?re enjoying yourself? A festive variant upon a theme very familiar to the late Albert Einstein, I suppose; he had quite a lot to say about time, speed, and the passage of both through the known universe, around a hundred years ago. Gravity, and nuclear physics, too, but it?s the ?time? thing I?m specifically referring to right now. In short, if you still have presents to buy for senile old Aunt Aggie in Lower Gornal, or dipsomaniac Uncle Sid in Cradley, then you?ve had yer lot, just about, because it?s but a few short hours before the whole shooting-match starts for real. In short, like The Rolling Stones, circa 1965, you?re ?Out Of Time?.

So what will Christmas Day bring for you tomorrow? A nightmare afternoon trying to keep mother-in-law away from the kitchen before the missus actually carries out her dire threats to do gross personal violence to your dear mater (or ?interfering old bag?, depending upon viewpoint, of course!) with the aid of just a packet of Paxo, a strong arm, a large onion, and a fierce determination to pay ?that bloody witch, your mother? back where the sun don?t shine for endless Yuletides of culinary back-seat driving? Or, instead of having a crafty forty winks on the sofa post-big blow-out and ?The Queen?, putting in place a personal exclusion zone around poor old granddad, after your snitching ten year-old informs you there are teenage plans afoot to quietly nick his false teeth while he?s snoring his bloody head off in that armchair over there?

Mind you, would their proposed ?Plan B? ? the one the female fruit of your loins carefully neglected to tell you, as she doesn?t enjoy hospital meals any more than you do - be any better, I wonder? Getting hold of maiden aunt Hilda?s glass, then surreptitiously emptying half the contents of a vodka bottle into her Vimto is their idea of festive fun, the essence of the joke being that the aforementioned lady is most certainly teetotal and smugly ensures everyone knows it, to the ridiculous extent she regards even the presence of wine gums on the juvenile tongue the precursor of a slow descent into drunken debauchery. Even a total stranger to the family gathering couldn?t mistake her; she?s the one with the angular features and those flinty grey eyes, eternally vigilant for the first opportunity to machine-gun any family member deemed to be enjoying themselves.

Only one thing worse, of course; trying desperately to enlist the mediation services of Terry Waite once the dear lady finally realises what your little cherubs are quietly plotting in that dimly-lit corner over by the mixed nuts and the satsumas. Sorting out the Middle East peace problem would be marginally easier, I reckon; just as well, then, you?re still in blissful ignorance of precisely what young Ermintrude upstairs is concocting with that chemistry set someone was daft enough to buy her for Christmas; let it suffice that the formula is one of those where the chemical name sounds suspiciously like ?LSD?. Needless to say there?s already a Drug Squad stakeout on the premises, and whatever does come down the chimney in but a couple of hours time, it sure as hell won?t be Santa.

?Happy Families? is what they call it, I believe; no wonder, when I was a prison officer, Boxing Day and immediately thereafter would see far more than our fair share of admissions with charges of murder, say, or GBH, hanging over their desperately-hungover heads. I?m not too sure which is the best approach to this annual Rocky Horror Show; play the genial host, and hope like hell your patience stays the course until Boxing Day, when you can say ?Sod Off? to the lot of them, get out of the country completely, or just bow to the inevitable, and go quietly bonkers?

I suppose that the third course of action does have one real advantage; do that, and no-one will notice the difference anyway. Being the Albion supporter you are, and one of very long-standing (I am making a bit of an assumption here, in that only those with very strong leanings that way will be reading this), the whole family will have assumed dementia, in one or other of its many forms, overwhelmed you a long time ago, hence your strange predilection for a side that should have been re-named ?Masochists Anonymous? back in the days of Pennington And Co. And, being a Baggie, you do have a ?Sanity Clause?, but one totally unrelated to the one that goes around ?ho-ho-ho-ing? at this time of year - a nice little day trip to Old Trafford come the Feast Of Saint Stephen. A right royal stuffing, and with a generous donation to the Mancs goal-difference from our defensive registered charity on top, yet not a single crumb of sage-and-onion in sight. But of what we might expect come the 26th, more later. First, a summary of what?s gone on in and around the Wright household this week nearly ended.

?Birds do it, bees do it. Even educated fleas do it??? No, not the sort of ooh-la-la hanky-panky that used to get the late Mrs. Mary Whitehouse into such a comical state of near-apoplexy within seconds of even the briefest glimpse of such moral decadence appearing on our TV screens, honest. Would I do that to you? Heaven forfend I?d ever contemplate letting my little offering plumb such depths of debauchery and depravity. No, what I?m on about here is the almost instantaneous 20,000 volt shock you get to the old system the moment you first clap eyes on someone you?d thought had been consigned to the dustbin of history a long, long time since.

Example? Aw, a bit like walking down the street and suddenly clapping eyes upon a former schoolmaster or mistress who used to take great pleasure in making your whole life (not to mention double maths) absolute hell, I suppose, or a former gaffer with similar intimidatory tendencies; never mind the fact you are now the mother of six kids, a couple of honours degrees notched firmly under your belt, while holding down some terribly responsible job or other in the intensive-care unit of the local hospital, one thing I will guarantee ? bitter past experience will ensure you just can?t pretend to ignore what you?ve just seen with your own eyes, and simply walk away.

Reactions will vary, of course; some, fearing the imminent onset of ?flashbacks?, will immediately run gibbering to the nearest pub for a medicinal double brandy or three, while others will try to play it ultra-cool, but blow their cover completely through over-ostentatious demonstration of their complete and utter contempt for their former tormentor. A risky course of action, that one, which often causes the poor sod concerned to trip ignominiously on the kerb, thereby ending up in an even more disharmonious array of seriously-weakened knicker-elastic and terminally-ripped tights. A sorry state of affairs, if ever there was one, that merely serves to greatly reinforce whatever negative opinions such despicable people held of you in the first place, which isn?t really the object of the exercise, is it? In other words, you can run, but you sure as hell can?t hide. Unless you happen to clap eyes on your personal Nemesis while watching footie on the box, of course, which is where I come in ? or rather a certain Georges Santos, formerly of our own club, courtesy a loan spell, Sheffield United, and now of QPR, did last Monday night.

Strange, that. After four or so seasons of simply pretending the guy didn?t exist, Georges Santos has loomed very large indeed in our lives over the course of these last few days; after seeing him ?perform? for QPR, just 24 hours later, I saw him again, but not in the flesh, I hasten to add. Thank God. No, this time, it was courtesy our copy of the latest Albion history DVD, ?Full Throstle? his unpleasant, not to mention ultra-violent, persona ended up on our TV screen once more. Should you want to risk exposing to the full light of day unpleasant personal memories you?d long since thought scabbed over, you?ll find him both snarling and kicking in the last section, the bit that looks at Megson?s time at the club; naturally, the 2002 Sheffield United abandoned match farce, and Santos?s part in it, features heavily.

Oh ? and another thing, was it just coincidence that at the precise second footage of that very same game leaped upon our TV screen with studs showing, Sheffield United?s players, to a man, became somewhat pixellated? As did their troglodyte manager, Neil Warnock, which was a considerable improvement, I have to say; at least that way, he couldn?t frighten the kids any more. That?s right, ?pixellated?, as per the little bitsy squares that go to make up digital pictures, and only appear visible to the naked eye when something?s gone drastically wrong image-wise ? think ?grain on conventional 35mm photographic film? and you?ve cracked it ? as opposed to ?pixillated?, which simply means ?loopin?, stoopin? drunk. But, on the other hand??!

No, seriously, that?s precisely what happened last Tuesday night, so it now looks very much as though I?ll have to nip up the Club Shop when I get a minute and sort it out with them on the spot. A real shame the picture went so sour on us, as up to that point, I?d been really impressed with the wonderfully high standard of the entire production, both narrated and fronted by Adrian Chiles. Whoever was responsible, they?d certainly gone to a lot of time and trouble to research their subject in-depth. Both ?Im Indoors and myself thought we?d seen, one way or another, most, if not all, existing vintage footage relating to our favourite football club, but we didn?t half get it wrong with this one. Time and time again our DVD revealed wondrous workaday snippets of club life long since vanished for good, both on and off the pitch, and all beautifully preserved for posterity. The makers edited their stuff well, with judicious care, even, taking great pains in producing what was a wonderfully-polished and professional piece of work.

I have seen similar ? not necessarily with any Albion content, mind ? videos/DVD?s where footage appears to have been more or less chucked together in an effort to grab an easy bob or two for the old club funds, but you could never accuse the makers of this one of such grossly-cynical fundraising methods. Most certainly a prime example of club merchandise lovingly and accurately put together for the benefit of true Baggie people, and well worth the money we paid for it, which was all the more reason why both of us lamented so loudly when the aforementioned fault in the DVD became all-too apparent. Never mind, though ? I?m sure someone or other in the club shop will sort it out for us very soon.

Come Wednesday night, there was a seminal moment in the Wright household. ?Im Indoors?s publisher came round to talk turkey about his book, and progress made to date, then once he?d gone, we both watched what remained of the Donny Rovers-Arsenal League Cup quarter final, Donny having taken the lead after just four minutes, Wenger?s lot equalising courtesy a massively-cruel deflection from the body of a Donny player, then Donny regaining the lead once more just after the start of extra time. After the statutory 30 minutes, injury time looming large and The Arse making a right ? erm ? arse of their fervently hoped-for comeback, it looked very much as though the minnows would be celebrating a famous victory, but it wasn?t to be, sadly. Right at the very last gasp, the visitors pulled one right from out of their expensively-fashioned hats, and when it came to the inevitable penalties, there could only be one winner, of course. ?We?re Proud Of You?? sang their faithful afterwards, and after watching that gutsy display of theirs for myself, I could only concur heartily.

A shame the victors seemed so steeped in their arrogance; afterwards, they chose to behave as if they were celebrating the actual winning of the competition. Typical was the reaction of the last-gasp goalscorer, who celebrated, seemingly deliberately, with arms thrust skywards, right in front of the home end. The Gunners were plain lucky, no two ways about it, and should have acknowledged the fact to a much larger extent than they actually did. As for Donny, that courageous showing of theirs strongly suggests to me that they already have the wherewithal to make a much better fist of their final league placing than I?d previously believed possible. I shall look upon their results over the remaining part of the current season with great interest. Well, any lower-division outfit that can embarrass Premiership visitors to the extent they did with Villa is positively begging to be supported, isn?t it?

Noses to the grindstone once more on Thursday night as we headed on out to Chez Bartlam, to take advantage of his meticulously-catalogued mini-Albion reference library he has stashed in his spare bedroom, which really does resemble the interior of the Tardis. (A modern-day variant upon the age-old ?Do you want to go upstairs and see my etchings, dear?? routine, I wonder?) Once there, though, I couldn?t help but go ?Coo, golly gosh!? at his new PC, not once, but several times over; state of the art stuff, it is, with wireless keyboard and mouse, plus scrummy flat screen, bigger than most conventional ones. ?Wow?? thought I, as I prepared to use the thing to type up some notes, but my fit of jealousy wasn?t to last.

For whatever reason ? don?t ask me why, as not only do I know sod-all about IT, I very much prefer it to remain that way, thank you very much ? actually accessing the important bits of Norm?s new toy proved a lot more difficult than you?d imagine possible. Norm?s completely baffled ? it took well over 30 minutes to sort the problem out in the end ? and so was I. Suffice to say I?ll be much nicer to our own sorely-tested workhorse the next time I come to write up anything really significant on it!

And so to tonight, the 24th of December, The Night Before Christmas. I?ve left the obligatory sherry for Santa and carrot for Rudolph in our front room, of course; let?s just hope he gets the address right this year. Looking ahead to the 26th, it would be absolutely spiffing if at least one of my presents involved just one precious point brought back from Manchester. (Hint! Hint!) Not that I think it?s likely, though. Our Red Devil chums will be looking toward as high a Premiership finish as humanly possible, now they?re out of the Champions League, so any largesse with the old Christmas spirit will be strictly confined to the sort that flows like water in their boardroom, I suspect. They?re nine points behind Chelsea right now, and will want to grab back as much of that distance as possible before the end. Still, I do remember harbouring similarly-depressing thoughts the last time we played them at their place, and look what happened then: a penalty awarded to us (an Old Trafford astronomical phenomenon all of its very own, when you come to think about it), successfully converted, and an eventual sharing of the spoils, crucial to our survival, as it turned out in the end.

Turning to Robbo?s pronouncement on the official site, he seems to be taking the optimistic view of Boxing Day?s post-festive doings, stoutly maintaining that although they?re on a bit of a run at the moment ? winning six of their last seven - the very concept of us managing to take something back from Old Trafford isn?t merely the first sign of him being ?away with the fairies?. At least we do have one thing going for us: at long last, we?ll be operating with a squad firing on all cylinders. The Mighty Zoltan, our principal long-term absentee, has now been pronounced totally-sound in both wind and limb.

Don?t expect to see miracles on his return, though ? assuming Robbo does wield the axe to make way for the lad, of course. Personally, I see a perch on the bench for him come Boxing Day, only being shoved on if it?s felt we can significantly gain by taking that course of action. And, with the imminent departure of Kanu for African climes, his recovery will represent something of a bonus, as will that of Steve Watson, whose hamstring twinges put him out of the ruling for the Pompey defeat last Saturday. Right now, we need all the bodies we can muster ? both on and off the pitch. We?re performing tolerably well at home, but we really do have to find that first away win from somewhere. Not that we?ll be getting owt at Old Trafford, mind, but a point sure would be nice.

As for the ?other lot?, there will be at least one absentee from their monied ranks come the 26th. Christiano Ronaldo is still suspended, so won?t be taking part. That was the good news. The bad? Ruud Van Nistelroy, Wayne Rooney (plus dummy and pram, presumably), Paul Scholes, Rio Ferdinand, Ryan Giggs and Edwin Van Der Saar will all be taking back their first-team places vacated in favour of their reserves for the purposes of the Carling Cup, of course. No let-off for us, then; they?re going to come at us with all guns blazing. Oh, and just before I finish, I do happen to know the identity of the ref ? Mark Clattenburg. Make of that what you will.

With our next four coming within the space of just eight days, I reckon that by the time we stagger to a halt come the conclusion of that little lot we should have more of an idea as to the feasibility - or otherwise ? of the task that lies before us. I?d like to think we?ll have around four extra in the bag ere the time we take the plunge into the unfathomable depths of FA Cup action ? one, possibly, from the Spurs game, and the other three courtesy our blubbery chums located two miles up the road. Let?s hope I?m right.

And Finally?.. One. According to yesterday?s Guardian, in a recent survey, only some 26% of Americans said they believed life on earth arose through natural selection a la Darwin and his famous theory, currently a hotly-disputed topic over there. Around 66% believed that creationism ? the supposition it was all the work of Big G, really, and Darwin didn?t have a clue ? should be taught alongside evolution, while a disturbingly-high 38% held the frankly-amazing view that evolution should not be taught in schools at all.

The reason I?m chucking these figures at you in the first place is because a recent court case over there saw off the Dover, Pennsylvania, education authority?s recent pronouncement that all schools in the area had to teach creationism (sometimes given the name ?intelligent design? to tart it up a bit, but actually means the same thing, more or less) alongside the more conventional biological stuff.

A landmark victory for parent-power, that one, but when reading the inevitable blow-by-blow account the other day, yet another thought sprang to mind. Looking at the world around me right now, I can only see a planet determined to either sink without trace into its own chemical wastes, heat up uncontrollably as a result of global warming, or end up disappearing straight up the stalk of a mushroom-shaped cloud. All of it self-inflicted, of course. ?Intelligent design?? If the human race really is the end-product of such heavenly shenanigans, as the more barmy of our transatlantic cousins constantly assert, then all I can say is the ?designer? must have been the theological equivalent of a Dingle!

Two?. Now, after all the semi-serious stuff, an absolute gem concerning the aforementioned US President. Thanks to naughty Baggie Cyril Randle for sending me this; loved it to bits (and you really are determined to have a prolonged ?holiday? in tropical climes at US government expense, aren?t you, Cyril??.), I thought you lot out there should also be in on the joke ? so here goes.

After numerous rounds of "We don't know if Osama is still alive", Osama himself decided to send George "W" Bush a letter in his own handwriting to let him know he was still in the game. Bush opened the letter, and it appeared to contain a single line of coded message: 370HSSV-0773H

Bush was baffled, so he e-mailed it to Condi Rice. Condi and her aides had no clue either, so they sent it to the FBI. No one could solve it at the FBI, so it went to the CIA, then to the NSA. With no clue as to its meaning either, they eventually asked Britain's MI-6 for help. Within a minute, MI-6 cabled the White House with this terse reply:

"Tell the President he's holding the message upside-down??."

Three.... A very Merry Chistmas and prosperous New Year to all Baggie-lovers everywhere, tonight - and that means you!

 - Glynis Wright

Contact the Author

Diary Index