The Diary

13 August 2006: What We Did On Our Hols Part One

Well, here I am, you lucky Baggie-people. Back in one piece after our week-long sojourn in the wilds of Darkest Herefordshire, and raring to go for just a little more Baggies-watching come the weekend. Although the surrounding fields, hedgerows and meadows are ripe to bursting-point with all the good things harvest-time brings ? already, the sight of numerous circular bales amidst fields now bearing that essential ?freshly shorn? look indicates farmers have literally been ?making hay while the sun shines?, in these here parts, and good on ?em for doing it ? all good things have to come to an end, sometime..

We hadn?t timed our arrival with the very best of the weather, sadly; two what I might term ?reasonable? days, as far as temperature went, closely followed by an almighty downpour, which happened during the hours of darkness, fortunately, and not long after our return following ?Im Indoors?s obligatory worship at the cloven-hoofed feet and horns of The Bulls. The night that Albion took on Cardiff, at Ninian Park, of course, but having gone there about three seasons ago, and seen for ourselves the complete and utter nihilistic lunacy of their tribe ? and on a scale I?ve not experienced since the 70?s and early 80?s; even The Dingles play at it by comparison - I?d quickly reasoned I needed psychopaths masquerading as Welsh football followers about as much as I needed a reincarnation of Kevin Steggles up front. So that?s why we weren?t at Cardiff, ? now you know.

What else have we been up to these last seven days, then? Ooooh ? let me think. Let?s start with yesterday, when The Old Fart left the bounds of Brum for sunny ? oh yes it was, honest! ? Southampton, then managing post-final whistle (with the Supporters? Club transport) to get back from St. Mary?s in around three hours flat, which is pretty good going, considering the distances involved. All this I discovered late Saturday evening, when I went to the (considerable, as it turned out!) trouble to ring our venerable chum on my mobile. ?Trouble?? Yeah: despite the fact I was static, and The Fart similarly immobile, the signal from my phone kept breaking up on me, and after losing the blasted link repeatedly, I had to redial on at least three separate occasions. In the end, I simply gave up in disgust, and can only hope that our little chum didn?t think I was being a tad rude by leaving him in the lurch, so to speak. Alexander Graham Bell, now shamefully disassociating yourself from current problems by being conveniently dead, I hope you spin at 78 rpm in your sodding grave! So there.

Earlier that same day, we vacationers took to the green swarths of Hereford, and the nascent Football League side that bears its name. Having got there, and headed into town for a couple of routine pre-match purchases, we were both rendered totally astonished ? not to mention speechless - by the somewhat anachronistic sight that greeted the pair of us as we trotted over the dual carriageway that acts as a ?sort-of? town bypass. Coppers, loads of ?em, gurt great agglutinations of constabulary: big uns; little ?uns, both male and female; Specials; ?proper coppers?; and all propping up just about every street corner imaginable between Social Services HQ and the ugly rash of chain stores and banks that dwelt in fiscally-advantaged splendour on the nearby High Street.

All this expense for sodding Chester City? When we last played them, back in the early nineties, it was all they could do to whip up a coach-load of followers, never mind a notorious hooligan following, police CCTV cameras recording every single twitch of their limbs for ?future proceedings?. In fact, if my memory serves me well, the very last time we played them in the League, we ended up taking no less than three out of the four sides of their bijou ground for ourselves, not to mention all three points - and not a single shaven-headed, clenched-fist-and-broken-glass merchant in sight anywhere. Blimey, talk about a throwback to the Seventies: had I really wanted to relive such dubious delights yesterday, I?d have rerun those tapes of ?Life On Mars? I still have gathering dust in my DVD pile.

?Im Indoors being the nice chappie he is, and having previously offered to help those splendid chaps at Talking Bull with a wee stint of selling, we had to be back at the ground fairly early. Just as well, really, as Nick Brade, he of the fiendishly-ghastly Independent Supporters Association fund-raising quizzes, was awaiting our pleasure with a rotten great pile of fanzines stacked well-high, and all ready to flog. The next 30 minutes passed pleasantly enough, though, my other half giving the old vocal chords plenty of welly ? if you?ve ever been unfortunate enough to stand in close proximity whilst he?s in full flow, then you?ll know only too well what I?m banging on about, for sure ? and this column doing its level-best to regain its correct electrolyte levels by swigging copiously from a small bottle of cherry Coke. Oh ? and we were even recognised by a couple of Albion supporters come to the game for their own little ?footie fix?. Incidentally, if you happen to like ?surreal?, cop this: an ALBION supporter buying a HEREFORD fanzine from another ALBION supporter! Although wearing an Albion T-shirt, the lad used the secret code-phrase that instantly identifies those of similar ilk these days, viz: ?If we don?t find another striker, and quick, we?re stuffed!? (More on that in tomorrow?s instalment.)

Once inside the ground, finally ? I think I?ve mentioned this before, but all Hereford turnstile operators seemingly have only two speeds at their disposal, ?dead slow? and ?stop? (probably all that scrumpy cider!) and that?s why an early entrance is strongly recommended! ? we took our usual seats, gallantly preserved for us by Mavis, Nick Brade?s mum, keeping our places pristine in the face of others who wanted to claim that choice bit of real-estate for themselves. Gerroff ? it?s ours!

The game? Well, if I was a ?proper? Herefordian, and not a Baggie, right now, I?d be pretty strongly convinced by now that there really is someone Up There, looking out for that club, and all who sail in it. Hereford? First half, quite awful, actually. Same troubles as per the previous game (see elsewhere), very little communication between defence and keeper, defence and midfield, and midfield-front line. It wasn?t just that, mind; lacking former Baggie Tam Mkandawire, out because of a nasty-looking knock to the head sustained during the previous game, for reasons best known to themselves, The Bulls decided to employ ?kick-and-rush, hoof-and/or lump-it? tactics, none of which was their bag, really. They weren?t at all comfortable playing that way, and, to be quite frank, the fact that they didn?t go inside at the interval one or more in arrears I found quite astonishing. The opposition must have been cursing their luck- or lack of it ? richly. As I said to ?Im Indoors, just before the start of the second half: ?You?ll be lucky to come out of this with just a single point to show for it?.? The fact he didn?t once try to argue otherwise spoke volumes, as far as I was concerned.

The half-time news from St. Mary?s being quite pleasing, still, I was able to concentrate more fully upon what was happening out there in front of me. Having finally seen the error of their ways during the interval, the Bulls then decided to change tack. No more abortive attempts to put snow on the spheroid, but a change to 3-5-2 instead. At least it gave this country?s Ballistic Missile Early Warning system a sorely-needed break. Much better: suddenly, balls were being played to feet, as the Good Lord God (who is, unarguably, surely, an ex-Baggie?) had intended Man to play the game, and although Chester were still looking more than capable of striking first, it didn?t quite seem the cut and dried affair it had done during the first sitting.

Suddenly, with around 20 minutes to go, and very much against the overall run of play, Hereford struck Fleetwood, 70, and Richard Rose, just two minutes later. After that cruel blow, the steam evaporated from Chester quicker than from a hospital meal trolley about to dish up on the wards: with all the poison now well and truly neutralised, the remainder of the game was a comparative doddle. Oh ? and there was yet another Albion connection. For the benefit of those who collect former Baggies? whereabouts like gricers collect vintage steam-trains, the opposition had a certain Dean Bennett in their ranks. So there.

So, what else did we encounter upon our 7-day release from everyday cares and woes? Well, as I mentioned earlier, on the Tuesday night, it was off to Edgar Street we popped once more, to witness The Bulls? first ever home Football League game for some nine years, their previous last being an acrimonious draw with fellow-relegation candidates Brighton, on the last day of that season. It really was a case of ?sudden death?: whoever potted all three points that day got to stay up. Herefordians saw their hopes soar wildly when they netted very early on in the game, but it was a very familiar ex-Albion name indeed that ensured everything ended in tears for the Bull-lovers. Adrian Foster, would you believe, who, when playing for The Bulls up front (allegedly), somehow contrived to miss a cast-iron, copper-bottomed League-status-saving chance just 5 agonising minutes from the end: had it gone in, then Brighton, and not The Bulls, would have been tearfully committing group hari-kari come the final whistle.

Anyway, that was then, this was now, as we made our way from the car park to the ground that night, well in time for the advertised soiree with Lincoln City, one of the previous season?s better performers at that level, having been in the play-offs for the last three seasons on the bounce. The plan was to await the arrival of a former workmate of ?Im ?Indoors, a fellow-Baggie, a lad called Ian, who fancied a spot of football well removed from the norm, so to speak. It was while we were waiting outside that the lure of the dreaded ice-cream van beckoned, the obligatory purchase of a ?99?, complete with strawberry sauce on top having been established the essential ingredient for Conference play-off success last season. ?Im Indoors, not wishing to unleash mighty forces of which the human race knows and understands little upon Graham Turner?s shoestring outfit, prevaricated. What if he didn?t purchase one, and Hereford then dipped? Would responsibility have then been his, and his only? And, in any case, what about the expansionary effect all these calorie-laden, adrenalin-surged, nervous ices were having upon his waistline?

All personnel being present and correct, finally, we then shifted our bodies into the ground. As expected, a small price-hike for the privilege of watching League football there again - ?15 to you, squire, as opposed to last term?s paltry ?13 ? and, once paid, it was but a short stroll up the stairs to our normal matchday place of residence. As expected, all the usual suspects were there, including Nick Brade and mother ? Nick, by the way, was the compiler of one of the most fiendish quizzes it?s been my misfortune to participate in last season, and he hadn?t let the grass grow under his feet this time round, either. As per usual, a pound per throw, and all funds going to the United Independent Supporters Association, of course ? but they don?t half have a reputation. Multitudes of fully-grown, intelligent men have looked long and hard upon Nick?s mind-expanding creations, then wept copiously. Trust me on that one!

Finally taking our seats, small alterations to the terracing behind both goals apart, a swift casting of beady eyes around the ground saw little change from what had greeted our anticipatory gaze the previous season. High above our heads, the cloud-base signified a dry night ? which just goes to show how much I know, because not long after the final whistle, it started to bucket down ? but the most interesting sight of note was that of the wildlife perched atop the floodlights. Yes, I did write that correctly, for amid the pylons were a flock of around a hundred starlings, who rose, panic-stricken, every time a brace of predatory seagulls visited, which was often. So much for the fauna, then, what about the flora? Again, you?ve read that right, for around the halfway line, it?s quite easy to discern several fairy-rings, showing their saprophytic-fed faces to the world, the lot of them! The away support? Good numbers, actually, 246 - surprisingly so, considering it was a midweek game, and Lincoln isn?t at all well served by the country?s trunk and motorway network.

That was the scene, then, as both sides took to the field, Lincoln in red and white stripes, and the home side pristine in white shirts and black shorts ? very fetching, may I say. As for the game itself ? well, welcome back to the Football League, Hereford! After that dream start at Stockport the previous Saturday ? the visitors won 2-0 ? they were quickly brought crashing down to earth by the visitors, whose jubilant crowd gleefully informed anyone who cared to listen: ?WE ARE IMPS, WE ARE IMPS, WE ARE IMPS!???? Small mythical beings, with a penchant for perpetrating low-level acts of mischief upon the human race? Not exactly a chant calculated to strike terror into the collective hearts of the opposition, now, is it?

What really surprised us both, though, was what you might care to describe as ?role reversal?. Apparently, for the past three seasons, the Imps had arrived in Play-Off Row by virtue of employing distinctly long-ball-type tactics; naturally, we were expecting to see lots more of the same that night ? but it didn?t pan out that way. Instead, what greeted our eyes was a visiting side playing the ball to feet, pass and move, and in a most creditable manner, may I say, while the home side gallantly strove to remedy their own deficiencies by means of a game characterised by rather too much of the long-ball code in action for comfort. Did Hereford have a surreptitious moon-shot planned, or something? Not exactly the hallmark of a classical Bulls side, by any means. No wonder regular supporters ?moaned their collective bags off?, as our chum The Noise would have put it.

Those Lincoln goals? The first, after around ten minutes took a horrible deflection off Hereford centre-half Gulliver (Yes, we?ve heard all the ?travels? jokes going, thank you very much), their second a header from a left-wing cross. Personally, I?d thought the keeper should have been far more proactive in nullifying the danger for the second, but ?Im Indoors disagrees. Still, we?re not exactly going to divorce over it, now, are we?

In all, the entire 90 minutes saw the home side embark upon an almighty learning curve. Even former Baggie Tam Mkandawire, an impeccable defensive performer in last season?s Conference side, seemed to be having some trouble adjusting to the higher standards expected at this level, and got caught out badly on a couple of fraught occasions. The fact he sustained a head injury mid-second half, but elected to carry on, despite displaying clear symptoms of concussion can?t have helped, either. It certainly didn?t help the following game, when he was ruled out on medical advice.

Still, everything comes to he (or she) who waits, and about ten or so minutes before the end, The Bulls managed to grab a penalty for themselves, duly potted by club captain Purdie. Hope unexpectedly renewed, the crowd found their collective voices once more: just before the end, when it looked very much as though The Bulls had salvaged something from the wreckage, the ball crossed the line ? only for cheers to turn to frustrated groans when it was realised the lino was flagging for some infringement or other. All this, plus numerous censorious stares from the locals when I learned from their scoreboard, midway through the first half, that Albion were one up at Cardiff: my ear-splitting roar of triumph ? ?YERRRSSS!? - although predictable, was not greeted at all kindly by those around me. That?ll teach me not to fart in church, then, won?t it?

Two further observations?.. The first concerned the elegant, lovely and talented ?Talking Bill?, of whom I?ve made mention before. Those new to the game will understand when I describe him as the basement division?s answer to The Noise. What was puzzling me greatly that Tuesday night was the fact of his non-attendance: surely he would have wanted to see his side?s inaugural home game now they were back in God?s Own Football League Country at long last?

It was one of the covey of elderly females that sit in close proximity that cleared up the mystery, finally: according to them, of late, poor Bill?s back complaint has got much, much worse, to the point where sitting on a rock-hard wooden seat for 90 minutes greatly exacerbates the problem. I can certainly sympathise. Additionally, train connections post-final-whistle ? there isn?t one back to Bill?s part of the world that time of night, full-stop, and he doesn?t drive, either ? would also be a limiting factor. The second? Follows logically on from my first, really ? my confident assertion that Bill?s Championship analogue must be The Noise. You?ll find their equivalents at just about any club, Football League, Conference, whatever, you care to mention, if you care to look hard enough, mind.

And these folkies aren?t the only ones so eager to exercise their vocal chords during games, either. Seated a few rows further back was a bloke I?ll call ?The Voice Of Doom?. As I said, every club has one, our own included, although in my case, he just happens to sit in the seat directly in front of me. His matchday demeanour is such that after an hour or so in his company, even the strongest-willed member of The Samaritans would be reaching for the suicide pills. On occasions, I do wonder whether he plays back-to-back Leonard Cohen albums on arrival at home following an Albion defeat!

Such sons of fun are these perpetually-morose characters, should the city of Birmingham ever be wiped out by a thermonuclear explosion, they?d blame it on the weather, the government of the day, or failing that, The Baggies/Bulls (delete as applicable). No matter how valiantly certain players are performing out there ? and on Tuesday night, those lads really were trying their utmost: as I said, it?s a pretty steep learning curve they?re ascending, right now ? up pipes Chummy, as regular as clockwork, but far more annoying ? ?Come on, Hereford-------- you?re all &$?*ing useless - get a &*!*ing grip!?.? Dearie, dearie me, why do these people bother?

I?ve still to discover yet another familiar matchday feature strutting his/her stuff at Edgar Street, mind, and that?s the unfailingly-cheerful soul I prefer to call The Voice Of Eternal Optimism. Every football club?s got ?em, and ours is no exception. Aw, you know the sort ? the type of person who, were Brum etc. to suffer the unlikely fate I mentioned above, would be found trolling around the highly-radioactive rubble, picking up a few glowing bits here and there, whistling a cheery little tune all the while, and at the same time informing the few other survivors he?d met en route: ?Well, mustn?t grumble ? at least it?s kept the rain away for a bit, hasn?t it??.?

As for his Halfords Lane Stand counterpart, I managed to identify him long ago. Having listened to him going full blast on numerous occasions, I quickly came to the conclusion that he had to be around the same vintage as The Fart. He sits about eight or ten rows further back than me, but no matter how formidable the opposition, or how outclassed we are by then, you?ll hear his ?signature tune? without fail. ?Come on, Baggie-boys ? tek it tew ?em!? This, mind, when we?re about five or six in arrears, and total embarrassment post-whistle is looking increasingly likely. Whatever he drinks (or smokes?) during the break, I couldn?t half do with some myself sometimes!

More tomorrow of what we were up to last week, also a quick look at what our favourite football club are doing in their ongoing ? and increasingly-desperate, no doubt ? search for the person most likely to put an end to their current goal-drought. Also, I?ll be looking at The Pole In Goal, and his move to Man United while we were away. And, a big hand for the FA, for once: today?s broadsheet papers seem to indicate that at long last, the Premier League will be experimenting with new technology ? TV cameras, etc. ? in order to eliminate, as far as possible, those ?Did that ball really cross the goal-line, or not?? type dilemmas. Not only that, but there?s even talk of the fourth official looking at bad tackles etc. on TV, then advising the referee as to whether or not a retrospective caution or red-card, even, would be in order. Common sense from the game?s rulers, for once? Naw ? it?ll never catch on!

And Finally?? The day after our Sabbath arrival, I found myself trying to teach ?Im Indoors how to ride a bike ? and I don?t mean in terms of the double entendre-packed Queen song, either. Despite Mister Mercury?s fervent protestations at the time that the lyrics were very much in the tradition of the early-to-mid 20th century music hall circuit, as performed by the likes of the late, great Max Miller, Tommy Handley, and ? much later on, of course ? Frankie Howerd, musical purists still look askance. No, seriously, Missus ? ooh, it?s that Frankie Howerd chappie again! - that?s what I was trying to do, after belatedly discovering that my little legs and back were no longer able to perform the same locomotor functions that had served me so well some 30 years ago. Well, not without more than my fair share of stiffness and pain, and a genuine fear of falling off the dratted thing, and under a lorry. I still haven?t forgotten what happened to old ?Popeye? Martin, not to mention our own GP. A shame, that, as the spacious grounds in which our rural Shangri La is located would have been an ideal place for me to rediscover some wonderfully-delightful pedalling pleasures.

As it was, my other half?s antics didn?t half give all the kids there ? who had learned to ride almost as soon as they could walk, it would seem - a damn good belly laugh. Well, if truth were known, great tears of helpless laughter were drizzling down my face, too, after yet another exhortation for my beloved to: ?Kick off with your best foot, and start pedalling, quick ? faster! FASTER!?..? ended up once more in the usual ignominious heap of wheels and legs, coupled with a few more stray bits of Early Anglo Saxon you won?t find taught in many schools these days.

?Why didn?t you pedal when I told you to? I asked my ?pupil? who, by now, was nursing some pretty spectacular bruises to obscure parts of his anatomy. ?Because my legs ran out of room on the pedals when you told me to ?pedal? - I pedalled, that?s why?.? was the lad?s distinctly-unscientific but genuinely-pained response. So much for my other half?s comical attempt to win the Shobdon leg of the Tour De France, then ? no Yellow Jersey for him. Sorry. By that stage, hubby?s uncoordinated antics had drawn a small crowd of ?admirers? all, without exception, motivated by pure schadenfreude to witness what was going on, and ending up just as convulsed as I was. He ? and I, as ?teacher? ? must have been the best comedy turn the place had seen in yonks. ?Don?t worry,? I shouted cheerily to his grinning ?audience? following yet another disastrous loss of balance from hubbie, ?I?m putting ?L? plates on his back next week!?

 - Glynis Wright

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