The Diary

18 February 2006: What We Did On Our Albion Week Off

Back again, after a relatively football-free week ? Sky stuff excepted, of course ? and a somewhat belated revelation from this column concerning my other half?s extracurricular activities. At last it can be told ? for the past two weeks, ?Im Indoors has been on jury service and in, of all places, Wolverhampton Crown Court.. Blimey, for any self-respecting Baggie, setting foot within the bounds of that city must surely be an act of betrayal and folly akin to that of Ian Paisley one day turning up at the local Catholic church for Mass; to have to spend a reluctant fortnight there, albeit during working hours only, is similar, but square and cubed.

Not wishing to incur the wrath of the judiciary at all (believe you me, nobody in their right minds would even contemplate upsetting these people once made fully-aware of the true extent of the powers they do possess!) I can?t go into specific details, but suffice it to say that when the panel was assembled in readiness for action that inaugural morning, ?Im Indoors fully expected to be sworn AT by the Clerk of the Court, not ?in?! It really is that sort of place, Dingle-town, and what?s more, they?re welcome to it.

On a somewhat more sobering note, I was saddened to see that Lee Hughes had been moved back to a more secure establishment after failing tests for both drugs and alcohol at Sudbury Prison, where he?d been for the past few months. According to the newspaper article I saw, he?s now at nearby Ranby Prison, a much more secure place, and with a regime not nearly as easy-going as his former place of incarceration.

When I first saw news hoardings telling of his latest stunt, then doing some digging of my own to ascertain the truth today, I really couldn?t believe what he?d done. The main value of putting someone in an open prison in the first place is giving that person an opportunity to demonstrate to the authorities that they?ve genuinely learned from their mistakes, and despite the considerable temptations mentioned in previous diary postings on the subject, then gone on to show they could be trusted sufficiently to be sent out into the community on licence in the months prior to eventual release. I used to tell those allocated to such places to think of it as a backhanded compliment; they?ve been badly-behaved, but aren?t totally irretrievable.

Open prisons are quite literally that ? open. That?s the point. Most do have a surrounding fence, but one that wouldn?t present even me and my walking-stick with too much difficulty getting inside. And you don?t even have to break in to leave ?goodies? for your chums, either; it really is too easy for words to leave alcohol or drugs in some prearranged ?pick-up point? for, say, some one working in the garden party to collect and pass on later, then coin it in quite nicely afterwards by flogging the stuff to terminally-stupid people like Lee.

I do get the impression, also, that the staff very much acted upon ?information received?. Another excellent reason why Lee should have kept well clear of trouble; these days, mandatory drug and alcohol testing is the norm; had he been smoking cannabis, then the substance involved would have remained in his bloodstream for a period of around a month. Surely someone must have made him aware of that fact somewhere along the line? If he was aware, but chose to indulge in the old ganja anyway, then he?s a bigger fool than even I would have taken him for. As it is, he?s now banged up in a place where the keys and the locks are very much to the fore, and it wouldn?t surprise me in the slightest if he?s lost remission also. Oh, and when they finally come to consider his case, three years into his sentence, as the trial judge specified, I somehow don?t think the Parole Board are going to be all that impressed with what he?s done. It?s all about showing you?ve changed, or are capable of change, if given the chance; as things stand, this comes over as a bloody funny way of going about it. What a complete and utter plank.

Onto other matters, now. Much grunting, heaving, not to mention unparliamentary language in the Wright household last Monday, mind ? time for ?Im Indoors to commence ?the dirty job that had to be done?, putting in place once more the shiny brass curtain-pole I?d caused to come under the influence of Mother Gravity?s attractive powers that previous Saturday morning. Mega-guilt time for me, and for one very good reason: should there ever be a strong possibility of someone dropping a nuclear device on Brum, anyone with any sense at all will simply dive into one of the houses along our road upon first receipt of the warning. Why? Elementary, my dear Watson: we now have more than ample proof the brickwork in our place is more than capable of withstanding a direct hit from such a device, be it down to Bin Laden, Bin Shopping, or just plain old-fashioned Bin Liner. Proof positive came all-too quickly, in the form of our power-drill?s extreme reluctance to penetrate more than just a few centimetres into what seemed very much like solid rock to our untutored eyes and ears, after which the bit began to heat up alarmingly, and small shards of brickwork suddenly starting to rattle loose, then ping about, one such piece just narrowly missing poor Bob Taylor. His picture, that is, in celebratory pose, versus Crystal Palace 2002, now hanging proudly above our fireplace, and all four mogs, now thoroughly terrified, bolting for the cat-flap at a whiskery rate of knots. An extraordinary sight, that; four felines simultaneously fleeing through a narrow hole constructed for just one puss at a time! I wonder what famous cat-lover, didgeridoo player, and Queen?s portrait artist Rolf Harris would have made of it all?

Mind you, I should have realised well beforehand just how bunker-strong that brickwork was; just 200 yards further down the road is a group of shops, considerably more modern-looking than most on the street, and set much further back, too. Being the nosey sod I am, not long after we moved in, I made some enquiries, and it quickly transpired that back in the mid-fifties, these premises were built over what had previously been a bomb-site. Yep, circa 1941, those nasty Nazis had scored a direct hit, so something had to replace the ?ole, didn?t it? But even when looking very closely indeed at the brickwork of adjoining premises and properties, you wouldn?t have guessed in a million years that Herr Hitler had gone in for a little bit of unorthodox urban reconstruction on the sly; bar the odd pockmark or nick that looked suspiciously like shrapnel damage, there was sod-all else to see by way of incriminating evidence.

But back to my hubbie?s valiant efforts to restore our curtains to their former glory. In the end, it took him the best part of two hours to get a hole sufficiently deep to do the job, and even then, ?Im Indoors harboured deep suspicions that the?ole wot he?d done still wasn?t quite deep enough for the purpose. And it didn?t help one little bit when, having restored one end of the pole to its former - erm - ?pole? position, End Number Two chose that very same moment to come out in sympathy with End Number One. That?s when, after almost 15 years married bliss, I belatedly uncovered the true extent of my other half?s ? er - ?vocabulary?.

Annoyed? Too bloody right. But at least we?d now got something theoretically capable of taking the blasted bracket installed at Number One End, so after threading all the brass rings back on all those curtain hooks once more ? a fiddly job if ever there was one ? more time spent drilling holes for End Number Two, and oodles more grunts and groans from both of us as we lifted the article in question back into place, finally, ?the Eagle landed?. And, what?s more, it now looks a damn sight more secure than it ever did before, so maybe my little ?accident? saved one of us from the travails of a ?proper A and E job? a little further down the line?

I didn?t see the West Ham-Blues encounter on the box that same evening ? busy proof reading for my other half - but once the excellent ?Life On Mars? was over (anyone else see that show?s pretty accurate depiction of football violence early 1970?s style the previous Monday, by the way?) we dialled up Ceefax as smart as you like ? then both ended up laughing like drains. Well done, Mister Pardew and friends for giving Steve Bruce?s merry men such a torrid time ? and yes, I have sent my compliments to the tame Hammer I know, Tony Fowles, of the Ironworks Gazette.

So, The Horse is no more. Gone and galloped right off into the sunset, he has ? or, to be far more geographically accurate, up the M1 to sunny Sheffield United, and the lovely Neil Warnock, sometime setter of football-booted Rottweillers onto the trailing legs of several of our players circa 2002. Fair play to the Sheffield Shudder, though; say what you want about Geoff, he?s a player always guaranteed to give you 100 per cent plus, no matter how seemingly lost the cause. Being Barnsley-born, and having previously played for Halifax, the shift can be viewed purely as one of pre-retirement pragmatism: terms being a loan until end of season, with a view towards being made permanent after the shouting finally subsides for the summer recess.

Should suit the lad very nicely, I reckon. Sheffield United really have got themselves am absolute gem, and from right off the floor of the bargain basement, too; should they go up, a scenario looking increasingly likely as the season?s end rushes comparatively near, then I daresay the lad can be usefully employed teaching his team-mates all the wiles and guiles of the higher sphere, before finally heading off in the general direction of a well-deserved retirement paddock.

But another consideration really bothers me, folkies. With us not getting a replacement via the transfer window, you do wonder whether or not letting him go was all that wise, given the circumstances. Mind you, whatever else you might think about the wisdom (or otherwise) of what we?ve agreed with United, I really had to giggle about what Old Man Warnock had to say about him the other day: "Geoff is a good experienced player. He has got certain attributes to his game, like his pace, but we look at what else he brings to the squad. When you are in the trenches, like we are, it's nice to have Geoff around.? Pace? PACE? Blimey ? now I really do know The Bramall Lane Baron Of The Studs-Raised Boot has gone and flipped his lid! Just what do they put in the water up there these days?

Come Wednesday, it was well and truly back to the research grindstone for this column; whatever Sandwell Council were doing to the archives section at Smethwick Library was now well and truly over, so time for me to put in yet another painstaking slog, this time over microfilmed copies of the Midland Chronicle, circa 1934-35, and more specifically, stuff concerning former Albion favourite W.G. Richardson. (Oh, and a quick ?plug? for Chris, member of staff there ? sorry, don?t know his surname - and also a Baggie himself; thus far, his advice and assistance has proven invaluable, so give yourself a bloody big pat on the back, mate!). And it?s not just the football stuff that?s proven interesting; as you?ll have gathered already, from time to time I do like to take in other newsworthy items and reproduce them here.

So what?s caught my roving eye this time round, then? Well, for starters, within the long-forgotten pages of those archives, there?s to be found one of the prime reasons why doctors are so keen on painfully puncturing the arms, legs and bums of small babies/toddlers with lots of immunisation jabs these days; in the winter of 1934-35, the town had lain siege to a pretty nasty diptheria epidemic. Not a really deadly strain, fortunately, but enough to infect around 90 pre-school and school-age children, most of whom ended up hospitalised, with two actually succumbing to the condition. Not a nice way to go at all, as anyone over the age of 70 or 80 would readily confirm, no doubt; in its vilest form, you get a membrane growing right across the child?s windpipe, blocking the passage of air thereby effectively slowly suffocating the poor little sod.

Either that, or the poison created by the bugs causing the disease fatally affecting the child?s heart, not to mention that old favourite, brain damage: believe you me, such was the sheer dread associated with the condition in those days, had there been an effective form of the vaccine available at the time, most parents would have snatched your arm off just to get it for their kids. Vaccines can have side effects, sure, but nothing quite as nasty as the actual disease. Trust me on that one. Oh ? and while I?m pondering upon all things medical, news in January 1935 that Tommy Glidden had undergone a cartilage operation, quite successfully, apparently ? but was only allowed to leave his nursing home some FIVE WEEKS after the original op. These days, thanks to so-called ?keyhole surgery?, players who spend just five days in hospital post-operatively clamour to know precisely what?s gone wrong!

Another gem, but of a slightly less morbid hue this time, was the news that no less than 27 kids from my old stamping-ground, Friar Park, ended up appearing before the juvenile court accused of theft. Not all that uncommon in those depressed times, you might want to argue, certainly in the area under discussion ? but why on earth 56 lbs of carrots from a Crankhall Lane greengrocers, I ask. In broad daylight, and right from under the owner?s very nose, as well? I never did see an explanation forthcoming, from either the lads? legal representatives at the time, or the Chronicle, for that matter. On the other hand, perhaps they just wanted to see better in the dark!

Oh ? and I don?t suppose a certain Mrs. Isherwood, of 108, Carisbrooke Road ? coincidentally, just a few doors down from my old childhood address, 124 Carisbrooke Road ? was none-too pleased either; her daily pinta, plus that of several others, not to mention actual money left to pay for it, went walkabouts very quickly indeed from various doorsteps one day, well and truly down the gurgle in more than one sense of the word. That?s why 8 more lads emanating from the very same estate found themselves occupying the dock as well. As the magistrate in charge pointed out to the various victims, and quite reasonably too, may I say: ?If you will leave money lying around with instructions left in full view as to precisely where to look for it, then you?ve got to expect to have it stolen.? Not quite put in those forceful terms, of course, but the overall thrust of the judiciary?s comments were pretty much the same.

And, talking of schoolchildren, back in early 1935, the local council voted on whether or not to adopt the recommendation of a recent government report on raising the school-leaving age from 14 to 15. After much debate, it was decided that the extra costs incurred in terms of both extra teaching staff and new classrooms/stationery etc. would far outweigh the benefits, so the idea was quietly shelved, much to the disgust of some local teachers eager to see the change implemented in the borough. And while all that was bubbling under, down at Brasshouse Lane Junior School ? that?s the one just down the road from the ground, as you head downhill towards Rolfe Street Station, and only demolished to make way for its PFI successor around six months ago ? at a union meeting, male teaching staff there unanimously decided to register an official objection to having to work for a newly-installed female headmistress!

Finally, for the benefit of 1935?s equivalent of the modern-day gadget-freak, the Chronicle was advertising Hotpoint electric washing, wringing and ironing machines ? the latest in hi-tech wizardry that firm currently had to offer. Trumpeted the blurb above: ?Carries out the whole washing of a normal household in 1 to1 and a half hours!? and: ?With the ironing attachment, it is literally possible to sit down to iron!? Quite a unique selling-point, those two, given the soul-less, backbreaking, non-biological detergent-assisted chore Monday wash-day could be back in those days, especially as households then were much bigger than they are now, and no modern aids, such as the extensive use of non-drip and non-iron fabrics, and biological detergents, to be had anywhere.

All yours for just 17 shilling monthly payments, apparently, but were I interested in purchase, I wouldn?t have got my hopes up too high; there was also an illustration of the product in question, which seemed to consist of what would now be regarded as a twin-tub, sans spin-dryer, but with one mother of a mangle mounted behind instead. Did all the same things as before, but you still sure as hell needed the forearms and biceps of a female Russian shot-putter to actually use one! Electrically-operated by the cylindrical thingy resting on the stand beneath, presumably. Note: you still had to be there in person to chuck the various items through the various stages, which must still have been a pretty daunting, not to mention physically-exhausting, task, even with the aforementioned rudimentary labour-saving ?assistance? close to hand!

Thursday? Oh, whoops. What we should have done was attended a Supporters Club function starring Cyrille Regis, venue The Shrine, but we found ourselves watching the box instead. How come? About an hour before we were due to hit the trail, ?Im Indoors was taken most peculiar, so we had to give it a miss. A shame, that, as I always enjoy listening to Cyrille; besides being the name of my black tom cat, he?s also a very articulate public speaker as well. Oh ? and I do happen to know he?s a regular reader of this column as well, so greetings, Cyrille ? wherever you are!

The other newsworthy item from yesterday turned out to be the departure of former Albion manager Gary Megson from Forest. After getting thumped 3-0 away from home the night before, thereby nigh-on ending Forest?s promotion dream for the current season, I guess a parting of the ways had to come, and sooner rather than later. Where Gary goes from there, I really wouldn?t like to speculate, as failure to take Forest back to the big-time would make another side of commensurate status or higher somewhat reluctant to take a chance on him. It would therefore appear that his four-year spell with us might well represent the high-water mark of his entire managerial career, which would be a crying shame, in my opinion, as despite his faults, he?s still capable of being a very good gaffer indeed.

Back next Saturday, with any luck, when I preview what you might want to bill ?The Clash Of The Relegation-Threatened Titans?. Yep, Boro and Blues, both in screaming Technicolor, and within a week of each other, with lovely Chelsea providing the ?filling? for what might well turn out to be a particularly-unsatisfying ?sandwich?. And, were such fare to actually turn up on your lunchtime plate, just one taste would have you running for the toilets at a rate of knots, I guess!

And Finally?.. One. Poor Mister Fart. He didn?t half get it from the mailing-list on Monday ? and it was Prince William that was to blame, as well. Well, what with all the tabloids having ?WILLS IN DRUGS SCANDAL!? or similar splashed across every front page, there was only one way the thread could go, really! Naturally, the wounded party was quickly on-line with a great big electronic disclaimer, but on further reflection, the very concept did start to tickle my chuckle-buds in a big, big way!

Sorry, Tel, but your furious denials cut absolutely no ice (or sundry other powdery white substances, for that matter!) with me. I know what you get up to once Scouse, your missus, is safe in the arms of Morpheus. She thinks you?re busy on-line in that little spare bedroom of yours, but I reckon I know better, hence this wonderful mental image of you cool in a kaftan, 1960's Beatles and Stones playing softly in the background, joss-sticks smoking gently, while you tenderly nurture the latest crop of Red Leb you've got growing under strong lighting and hydroponics in your loft; mind you, using little Heidi as a 'watch cat' to let you know if and when the filth are sniffing around looking for evidence is a little bit naughty, isn?t it?

Beware, though. One good drag on that sort of stuff - heap strong, and not to be messed with, especially by still-wet-behind-the-ears, acne-ridden kids who can 'think' themselves into a good buzz simply by smoking drain-cleaner - and when seen via the pharmacological equivalent of rose-tinted spectacles, even Fulham v Albion would start to look good!

Two?. During the course of my numerous temporal travels ?twixt the 1930?s and the present day, most of the local newspapers keep hammering me with one expression in particular, and that?s ?Orphan Goals?. When taken in context, it immediately becomes apparent precisely what the journalist concerned is banging on about; a solitary goal scored by one side or the other, usually in the context of the opposition hammering several more in turn past them. Trouble is, though, it does set up naughty trains of thought in my own head. When faced with an ?orphan goal? what does one actually do, I wonder? Start a collection among team-mates for the grieving widow, perchance? Or threaten to deck the unprincipled bounder that caused the ?tragedy? in the first place? Especially if he happens to be a Dingle.

Three?It?s evolution, Jim, but not as we know it?.. Having seen, within the space of but a couple of weeks, the ?discovery? of a complete long-lost ecosystem in the jungles of Indonesia, followed by that of a hitherto-unsuspected species of antelope in Angola, splendid examples of Darwin?s pet evolutionary theory in action, both of them, I guess there?s got to be hope for those awful Dingles after all?.

 - Glynis Wright

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