The Diary

30 July 2006: Some Vagrant Pre-Season Thoughts

And it?s orft we jolly well go again, for yet another season of fresh air and fun, and all for the love of our favourite football club ? well, that?s how the theory goes, so they tell me. A swift trip to The Shrine this morning took care of our ticketing requirements for tomorrow?s friendly ? if you?re going, be sure to wear some flowers in your hair ? oops, sorry, got a tad carried away there ? no, what I really meant to say before the Scott Mackenzie muse took over my brain was ?look out for us in The Brummie, and feel free to bat the breeze ad nauseam?. Misery loves company!

While we were there, I also incorporated a little bit of retail therapy into my visit. For The Fart, this was, as just recompense for looking after my three felines so superbly while we were away at various times during the close season. Three mogs, and not four? The explanation?s certainly off-beat: just a week or so after the cessation of last term?s hostilities, Cyrille (named thus for reasons which would become immediately apparent were you to see him meowing around your legs all of a sudden) was diagnosed with an overactive thyroid gland necessitating ?dampening down? tablets ? the thyroid?s a bit like the thermostat on an oven, if it?s running too high, then everything the ?sufferer? does is at high-speed, and nervous-like with it ? two times a day. And that was the problem, solved by taking said cat with us to our Herefordshire bolt-hole for medication and supervision, and leaving El Tel to sort out the rest for us. A service performed well above and beyond the call of duty, might I say: while we were away; during the recent heatwave, our wrinkly chum engaged enthusiastically in rodent corpse-removal duties (a genuine necessity, that: what with the heat and everything, dropping in at two-day intervals meant the ?remains? were generally pretty ripe by the time Tel got to do his thing), and that?s why I purchased a brand new home shirt for the lad, an acceptable gift, I?m sure, for his troubles. Well, it was either that, or a large bottle of super-strong perfume, to be used in similar fashion to the gilded pomanders members of the 18th century aristocracy wafted under their delicate little noses when encountering The Great Unwashed! Incidentally, I can safely mention this as he?s currently cruising the Med, lucky sod, but he will be back nicely in time for next week?s opener proper, which is when I?ll place the garment in his hot little hand. Oh ? and the spending urge got to me also; seeing some ?classic? green and yellow striped away shirts proudly displayed in the shop, as per the Atkinson era, I simply had to get one, didn?t I?

I have to say that the new layout of the shop impressed me greatly; over the close season, the sales area has been expanded to double its previous size (by knocking the old stockroom wall down, so I understand), which means there?s now a pretty impressive selection of stuff on offer out there, on a par with pretty much anything available to supporters of other Championship clubs, really, and probably better than a goodly few, too. A tad belatedly, maybe, but when you think back to the appalling mess the club sold its wares in around 10 or 15 years ago, they?ve genuinely taken a quantum leap in that direction, and that in addition to raising their act in other spheres. And yet??? Sure, we certainly have an impressively-slick commercial and marketing operation, now, but at the same time, something vital?s gone from the club, seemingly for ever. Its soul.

The more I try to define what?s gone from the club, the more it eludes me. The only way I can only make real sense of what?s happened is by way of analogy, so bear with me on this one for a minute. Imagine, if you will, a small primary school serving a well-defined catchment area. Being small and local, everyone ? teachers, dinner-ladies, kids ? know everyone else, and having served successive generations of families, older members of staff having had kids? parents in their classrooms, it?s the sort of place where genuine concerns are seriously listened to. Admittedly, it doesn?t do too well in any of the government?s ?league tables?, but parents are still happy to support the school, primarily because they know there?s some things you can?t quantify in the New Labour way, and their local school is turning out some pretty-rounded, happy kids, which is what everyone wants, isn?t it?

Everything is hunky-dory, then ? and that?s when the old boy retires (or whatever) and a new headmaster and deputy take over. Not so much new brooms, more like mobile hurricanes. Suddenly, teachers with years of service are either ?let go?, or not-so-gently ?eased out?, whiz-kids full of educational-theory claptrap are appointed in their place, getting kids through their SATS becomes the be-all and end-all of the school?s philosophy, and the ?plodders? formerly nurtured, coaxed, gently encouraged to do their best by the personal service provided by the old regime, start falling by the wayside, ignored. There?s no league points given for making the shy, the psychologically disturbed, those from broken homes, or those with low expectations feel good about themselves, remember. Parents? views count for diddly-squat, kids become unhappy and unsettled, classroom incidents and exclusions rise alarmingly, and the number of kids eligible for free school meals declines precipitously. Suddenly, the school starts selecting pupils by criteria far removed from the ethos of the ?old guard?, both parents and kids are covertly interviewed to see if the school likes the cut of their jib; if the head doesn?t, suddenly all the available places in the school have gone, mysteriously filled, overnight. Several years later, one looks at those ?league tables? once more; sure, a more streamlined, efficient St. Trinians (or whatever) is taking the upmarket papers? listings by storm, and the new head is on a promise of a gong from Tony when he moves on, but as for what made the place what it was before ? liveliness, laughter, an element of unscripted chaos, genuine camaraderie between staff, parents and pupils, mutual respect ? gone, all gone, and in their place, a collection of middle class Midwich Cuckoo conformists obediently performing their party tricks for the delectation of the OFSTED inspectors. And that?s before I even get to mention the kids. Get my drift?

Returning to all things Albion once more, there?s already tangible proof out there that the demographic is in the process of cataclysmic change, and what one could call ?the old guard? made to feel less welcome. Today, outside the ground, two formerly prominent Albion supporters ? no names, no pack drill, but I?m pretty certain regulars would know them by sight, if not by name ? admitted to me that they were going to severely ration their Albion-watching this term. In the case of one ?refusenik? in particular, you could have knocked me down with a feather when he told me: it?s a bit like the moon suddenly leaving its current orbit without a by-your-leaf and parking up next to Mars, or the Queen giving up Buck House and moving into a three-bedroom semi on the Charlemont Farm Estate - such things don?t happen in real life, do they? And they?re not the only ones out there; I?m reliably informed that there will be even more familiar faces missing from roll-call come next Saturday, and quite frankly, it worries me.

So why the mass exodus, then? On the surface, you?d think the club had an awful lot going for it, even despite taking the drop, but it?s not that causing the problem, apparently. As some US Presidency candidates might have said in a more than candid moment, ?It?s a certain two people, stupid?..? Rightly or wrongly, the unpleasant vibes I?m getting from former ?regulars? concern both management and the man at the top; consensus seems to be that the passion?s gone, dead, kaput ? and won?t return until drastic change is effected in both those areas. As far as the first is concerned, a protracted losing run, and the situation will take care of itself, I suspect, but as for the second? He?s there, and while those majority shares are in his possession, there?s diddly-squat you or I can do about it. A bit like a ?Doug Ellis? situation, really.

Mention of that gentleman and his stubborn immovability brings me to yet another thought, which I?d like to share with you lot out there. No doubt you?ve all been following what?s been happening at Seal Park over the course of the last week or so, and the various attempts made to unseat the silly old sod from his throne. According to today?s ?Guardian?, the number of consortiums now wanting to buy ?Deadly Doug? out now runs to four. The latest entrant to the race? A High Court judge, no less, who?ll be showing the colour of his money to Villa early next week, apparently. It?ll be amusing to see him try: the other three out there (one headed by an American millionaire, another Sven Goran Eriksson?s agent, with a Solihull-based businessman and (allegedly) life-long Villa supporter, making up the third arm of the ?triangle?) have tried their damndest to talk turkey with Doug over the course of the last few days, only to find the silly old codger suddenly putting up fresh barriers to issues formerly thought to be completely acceptable to both parties. The grass-roots claret and blue persuasion must be really miffed by this turn of events, as it now seems that had everything gone smoothly with one consortium in particular, Martin O?Neill would have been warming the chair in the manager?s office by now. As things currently stand, I get the overall impression that the former Celtic man would rather stroll naked into a pit of maddened vipers than have any truck with ?Deadly? ? and who can blame him?

Right now, Ellis bears a distinct resemblance to a limpet clinging fast to a bit of storm-battered rock, determined to hang on no matter how rough and inclement the weather should become, and with very good reason, I reckon. How old is he, now, eighty two? Eighty three? And, when pictured in one of the nationals recently, he didn?t half look old and ill, all of a sudden. For the best part of forty years, one short break apart ? during which period, significantly and ironically, the club managed to pick up some silverware really worth having for the first time ever in its history ? Aston Villa has been his whole life, the be-all and end-all of his entire existence. Take that away, and he?ll become an empty shell. with nothing whatsoever to live for ? and he knows it. It may be unkind of me to say this, but I do have a gut feeling that the minute one of the aforementioned consortiums successfully completes negotiations and takes up the reins from him, finally ? and one of them surely will this time, the groundswell of popular unrest?s rising by the day - then poor Doug won?t be very long for this world. I?ve seen the same sort of thing happen too often in other professions, where someone lives for their job, so completely, utterly, once they?ve finally picked up their engraved carriage-clock (or whatever) from their employers, with no focus in life there any more, their health deteriorates alarmingly. Right now, even though ?Deadly? has behaved like a congenital idiot at times ? and an arrogantly bombastic, maddeningly-obstinate one at that - I can only feel pity, complete and utter, for the bloke, and what will surely become of him. I must be going soft in my old age!

Back tomorrow for a thrilling account (not!) of our friendly shenanigans versus Real Sociedad, plus whatever additional gossip I can whip up. Not that I?m taking things too seriously at this stage ? friendlies have always been a notoriously poor performance indicators, pre-season, haven?t they? ? but at least we?ll get the chance to run the rule over the new kids on the block, and hopefully indulge in a bitsy gallows humour while we?re at it.

And Finally??One World Cup thought in particular to share with all you good buddies out there. Remember the spat between Zidane and Italy?s Matterazzi, with the latter getting on the wrong end of a Glasgow Kiss courtesy the former, and his swift dismissal thereafter? Once the dust had all settled, it turned out that Zidane?s surprising actions that evening were prompted by the Italian player saying nasty things about both his mother and sister, comments that truly hurt ? as to what was actually said to whom, it depends upon which lip-reader you want to believe, I suppose ? and the train of events this set in motion got me thinking around our domestic game, and what would make the red mist descend, and in what circumstances this would prove to be the case. But I?m not necessarily thinking in terms of players, here. Suppose you or I, say, bumped into a Dingle, and wanted to land them well and truly into an offence under Section 5 of the Public Order Act? What pithy insult would push their buttons in similar manner to that of the errant Frenchman, I wondered.

Then, it came to me, in one of those blinding flashes of insight one gets from time to time. Simply yell in the direction of your ?target? ?There?s a rumour going round the estate your mother reads books. Is that right?? Closely follow that up with: ??And they tell me your sister?s never had Social Services involved with her kids, as well. What sort of a family do you call that, then??..? and I guarantee a pretty brisk reaction on the part of said Dingle, first time, every time. Just don?t expect me to give you a lift home from hospital when you do it, though ? OK?

 - Glynis Wright

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