The Diary

18 August 2003: Wasp's Up, Doc?

Now here?s a confession for you?.. No, nothing as juicy as murder, or marital infidelity, even (unless ogling Russell Hoult?s bare torso outside the Club Shop the other week counts as bang-to-rights grounds for divorce!), but something on a much, much smaller scale, common as muck, and annoying as hell. A secret affection for Dingles, then? Heaven forfend: no, my principal problem is with wasps. In short, I really can?t stand the little stripy sods, and whenever one strays within the twenty or thirty foot mental exclusion zone I have permanently in place around my head, I simply go to pieces, flapping arms, screams, the works. And that, dear reader, is precisely what happened to me today. Richly amusing for the casual spectator, no doubt, but hell for me, as I really do have a phobia about these ill-tempered invertebrates. Snakes? No herpetological hang-ups bug this gel; providing I know it?s not poisonous, I?ll pick up and fondly stroke one anywhere, as a horrified other half will readily testify. Oh ? and contrary to popular belief, they?re not slimy, either. Frogs? I?ve kissed many in the vain hope of finding a prince secretly lurking with that clammy, croaky hide. Mice? Furry, squeaky, cuddly; love ?em to bits. Wasps? Lemme outa here!

This afternoon, there I was, by the river-bank at Bewdley, berthed alongside ?Im Indoors, munching contentedly on a gorgeous cheese ploughmans?, and washing same down with copious glugs of Coke, when two of the little blighters, ?pathfinders?, presumably, both embarked on a routine of doing lazy circuits and bumps around my head, with a small diversion around my half-full glass for the sheer hell of it. It?s that fizzy American stuff that does it; loaded to the gunwhales with sugar, it is, and the buzzy little blighters can sniff it out within milliseconds. Never mind the fact my meal was only half-eaten, that was me, off, and at light-speed as well. There is another very valid argument as to why I?m rather more wary of our stripy friends than most, and that?s because of the time of year. Come August, they start to get really bad tempered, and are inclined to sting just for the sheer hell of it, which is reason enough for staying well clear, but once relocated well away from these nasties, I then embarked on a train of thought all of its own, which principally revolved around the similarity of these creatures to one of our own players, namely James O?Connor.

Since his arrival at The Shrine, he sure has shown he has a lot in common with the object of my pet phobia: small, stripy, buzzes around a lot, and makes a thorough nuisance of himself when launched into a ruck of bodies. And that?s only for starters. I?m not that sure how many members of the hymenoptera species are blessed with flaming red hair, but after watching our import from The Potteries in action these last few games, I reckon they ought to evolve a few tufts, at least, if only to lend more credence to their somewhat negative image. The other attribute that connects our embryonic Derek McInnes to my buzzy friends is his undoubted ability to inflict damage on the opposition totally disproportionate to his size. Getting stung by a wasp is no laughing matter, and neither is being on the receiving end of our Number Four?s attentions, as several Burnley-ites discovered yesterday. People can quite easily suffer anaphylactic shock immediately following wasp-attack; I?ve no idea whatsoever whether our midfielder has a similarly devastating offensive capability, but I?m reliably informed that following our game, Burnley gaffer Stan Ternent was showing symptoms remarkably consistent with a waspily-close encounter of the O'Connor kind??

While we were journeying to Bewdley, I decided to make a couple of calls to various folk, with completely divergent motives in mind, but, as it transpired, a link did develop, as you?ll see in a minute. The first call was to Kev Nolan, the guy who lent us those referees? outfits for the Blackburn game last season. The reason? Simple, the ex-whistler is an Ewood Park regular, and the call was very much with malice aforethought, as I wanted to hear first-hand just our bad our local rivals had been. I told you I was easily amused! I wasn?t disappointed, either. According to Kev, the Dingles were dead lucky to have left Blackburn with a deficit of only five goals showing on the score-sheet; the Sunday papers, for once, were dead accurate. Had it not been for their ?keeper, the score could have quite easily racked up to double-figures.

What Kev found really strange, though, was the fact that our local rivals went for an attacking formation, rather than go down the cautious route of other newly-promoted clubs. Kev tells me they?ve hosted opening-day new-bugs for three seasons, and because they employed more prudent tactics, invariably, the whole affair would finish in a goal-less bore. The other observation our tame postie made centred around similar observations made by both sets of supporters. First off, in a caf? before the game, Kev spoke to a brace of Dingles, and whilst engaged in conversation, they happened to remark they were so glad they were there because they?d miss, as they so charmingly put it, having to watch ?The Scum? live on Sky. Then, around an hour later, our hero happened to be nattering with some lads of the Blackburn persuasion ? and guess what? ?I?m bloody glad I won?t have to watch The Scum on Sky tonight!? muttered one companion sourly, the reference, this time, being to bloody Burnley, who are, of course, complete anathema to any self-respecting Ewood-ite. The same blind hatred, of course, but approached from totally different angles! Psychologists, make of that what you will.

The next call was to The Fart. I must admit I had been concerned about our resident Old Codger flogging Dicks before yesterday's game; shouting fit to bust does put strain on the old eye-muscles, and I?d wondered whether he was really up to it, but in the same flash of defiance he?d shown Old Boney at Waterloo, our antiquated co-editor politely declined my offer of my little stool for the duration. As Tel now sells outside the East Stand, I didn?t know how he?d got on, hence my call. I needn?t have worried; not only did Mr, Wills sell oodles of Dicks, because he was ?plugged in? to the Blackburn game via the miracle of steam radio, he was offering to any passing Baggie who wanted it an update on the Ewood goings-on as well. Not only were East Stand occupants treated to a constant barrage of ?GRORTY DICK ? ALBION FANZINE!? as things rapidly went from bad to worse for the Dingles, tacked onto the end of El Tel?s war-cry was (depending upon events at the Lancashire club): ?BLACKBURN FOUR, WOLVES ONE?, and, not long after that, a jubilant ? who said schadenfreude was dead? - ?FINAL SCORE ? BLACKBURN FIVE, WOLVES ONE!? What with that, and our four-goal fest, no wonder naughty Tel hit the sherry bottle with a vengeance last night!

And finally?.. Start as you mean to go on? If we carry on notching up the goals as we are, I won?t be complaining, but even racking my brains like hell, I really can?t remember the last time we put four in the old onion-bag twice on the bounce. I?ve a gut feeling it must have been during the Ardiles era, some ten years ago. Any ideas, anyone? Dave Watkin, this sort of thing?s your forte ? can you help? Tomorrow, it?s off to The Shrine once more, to pick up yet more tickets, this time for a spot of (hopefully!) Ram-raiding, at Pride Park. And, not long after that, a return visit, this time for the evening reserve fixture versus Leeds, and I?ll dish out the dirt on that tomorrow night. And, before you ask, yes ? it really does feel as though I live in the place, sometimes??

 - Glynis Wright

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