The Diary

17 September 2006: Revolt In The Air As We Fail To Pot Shrimpers.

What an unmitigated disaster of a day, fellow-Baggie people. Dull the day, dull the play ? and as a result, we got precisely what we deserved: in other words, sod all save one measly, scrofulous point. And I?m not just referring to today?s game, either. The whole of the preceding 24 hours have been an absolute nightmare for me, mostly involving this very same PC: our lamentable and deplorable failure to collect all three points yesterday was but a small part of the whole.

Angry? You can say that again, and more besides. Blind red-mist fury was more like it as I swiftly decanted myself from car to house: as for my cats, they might appear to be as daft as brushes on casual acquaintance, but after eleven years of watching me return from matches absolutely seething, every single one of ?em knew the signs, and had buzzed off long before. Or had their cunning little feline brains somehow clocked how to turn our TV on, watched the Championship results, then vamoosed en-masse while the going was good? Whatever, it was a pretty long time before they pestered to be fed.

Mind you, if my anger hormones were coursing through my bloodstream like crazy at that time, then heaven only knows what was happening with The Fart. While we were having our tea, a Chinese takeaway, the phone rang ? but I?d already guessed the identity of the caller. Not because of any specific psychic ability on my part ? I?m about as receptive as our dustbin lid when it comes to such things - purely and simply because I knew the old codger and his habits so well by then, I?d have quite happily put serious money there and then on whether it was El Tel on the other end or not. And yep, dear reader, I was dead right.

But this was a Fart totally transmogrified into something that was completely unrecognisable, totally alien to the picture of complete placidity he normally presents to the world at large. To cut a long story short, he was absolutely steaming, hopping mad: in all honesty, it wouldn?t have surprised me one little bit to see the phone I was holding to my ear instantaneously melt into a shapeless lump of plastic slag, such was the ferocity of his verbal onslaught regarding today?s game. In fact, it wouldn?t have surprised me at all to see an actual head of bona-fide steam emerge from the earpiece as a side-effect of such a monumental explosion of pure, unadulterated temper on the lad?s part.

In the end, speechlessness completely supervened, a merciful release indeed: when that happened, all The Fart could say, over and over again, was the telling phrase: ?I?m really, REALLY ANGRY!? Strong stuff indeed. After seriously pinning my ears back for around five minutes, then silently fuming for a while longer, he then inadvertently let slip his avowed intention of letting one or other of the local radio stations have both barrels at point-blank range during one of their phone-ins later that evening. Either that, or his kitchen floor was going to get a serious scrubbing before the night was out. Which won out in the end, finally, I wonder?

Whether he did or not ? talk, moan, rant, whine, even, to the local boys and/or scrub his kitchen to operating-room standards of sterility - I?ve absolutely no idea, but judging from his livid demeanour when talking to me, God help the presenter on the other end, that?s all I can say. Oh ? and yet another pertinent thought. I do believe he?s got one of those so-called ?consultation committee meetings? (Think ?Tony Blair and the Cabinet? for that one, and you?re on the right track: know what I mean, ?Arry?) coming up very soon at the club. With any luck, he might have reduced his personal temperature to a slow simmer by then, but if he hasn?t, it might prove somewhat advantageous (not to mention kind to the old eardrums) for everyone else attending to buy some of the excellent industrial earplugs that Boots supply to punters, well in advance. Don?t say you haven?t been warned. Believe you me, hell truly have no fury like that of a Baggie scorned.

To be perfectly honest, though, the stuff-up versus Southend was only one of a whole litany of irritations, both major and minor, that had me bashing the walls with pure, unadulterated fury hours after the event. The previous night ? was this a premonitory indication of the Hawthorns horror to come, I wonder? ? my PC arbitrarily decided to withdraw its labour, in the microchipped equivalent of a wildcat strike. First of all it crashed halfway through penning my Friday piece (Luckily, I?d saved everything in sight by then), then, as if that wasn?t enough, it decided to shrink one of my paragraphs several font sizes smaller, then bugger about with both indent tabs also. Sadly, my banshee screams and serial thumpings of the table woke ?Im Indoors, who then felt morally obliged to fix the fault, if only to get himself some much-needed beauty sleep.

Many frantic tappings of the keyboard, profuse apologies to my night starvation-ridden other half, and sundry muttered oaths later, the job was finally done, and I was able to chuck the finished piece out to all my personal subscribers ? but even as it did that, the bloody thing very nearly had the last laugh. There was I, about to send my work to one particular group, when I just happened to notice that the blasted PC had somehow contrived to push one of my concluding paragraphs to the right hand margin, resulting in a great big vertical column of print running down that side of the piece, ribbon-fashion.

I?m all for pushing at all four sides of the artistic envelope wherever and whenever I can, sure, but NOT at two in the morning, I can assure you! Bugger. Eventually, I did sort it out ? never let it be said I lack patience, by the way ? but by the time I?d got everything ship-shape once more, I?d been at that bloody keyboard for about an hour and a half longer than I?d originally intended, and quite ready to commit murder as a result. Now I know how John Cleese (aka Basil Fawlty) felt in that celebrated Fawlty Towers episode where he takes a huge tree-branch to his poor long-suffering Mini, then proceeds to soundly thrash the car with it.

After all that, surely the daytime hours would prove far more rewarding? Don?t make me laugh: within about six hours of rising from my pit, my blood pressure (measured and declared satisfactory by my Villa-supporting GP just 48 hours previously, so it?s just as well he wasn?t lurking with his beastly sphygmomanometer while I was watching today?s game, then, wasn?t it?) would once again hit the bloody roof, and it was all down to ?That Lot On The Pitch.

While walking up Halfords Lane on our way to the pub yesterday lunchtime, we invented a new game, provisionally called ?You Know There?s Going To Be A Piss-Poor Gate Today When????(Fill in blanks as appropriate.) Just over the course of that 800 yard walk to the pub, we variously cited: 1) Distinct lack of cars in nearby car-parks: 2) Paucity of Stage Door Johnnies standing in close proximity to the entrance to the players? car park, situated inside the new school, also similar for Halfords Lane Players? Entrance: 3) Sparse number of bums on seats in Hawthorns pub when we got there. Try it yourselves, sometime: unlimited fresh air and fun guaranteed for all.

Shortly after we sat down, drinks in hand, our peace was well and truly shattered. In traipsed The Noise, plus offspring, closely followed by a distinctly-miserable looking Fart. Getting horribly bad vibes about the game, he was, and nothing we could say or do could make him feel any better. What he did have about his person, though, was a copy of today?s Sun, and after thoroughly castigating our hero for his poor taste in newspapers, I happened to notice what was on the page opened before me ? and I?m not talking Page Three, either. A piece by Adrian Chiles, it was, no less - and written about some of our own supporters in the light of a recent story that drew attention to claims that football supporters could quite easily end up paying a six-figure sum for their hobby over the course of a supporting lifetime. Sauce was one, and, inevitably, almost, the seemingly-ageless Vic Stirrup another. Has he signed a Faustian-type pact with the devil on the QT, or something, with the enticing prospect of eternal youth his short-term reward, I wonder?

As Ade so rightly said in that piece, a considerable number of Baggies do make hefty sacrifices, personal, financial and career, in order to follow their favourite football club around the country, week in, week out. (Back in the 80?s, I used to make the 86-mile round trip from Bristol to The Hawthorns and back on a very regular basis myself, so I can empathise greatly with the current lot?s numerous trials and tribulations on that score). All the names mentioned were those of genuine Albion nuts, with one in particular being a name known very well indeed to us ? and with each successive outpouring of heartbreak and sacrifice, identify with what they had to say much more easily, mainly because I did exactly the same thing myself, way back in the days when Adam was a lad.

It was slap-bang in the middle of my O-Levels when my careers mistress suggested I follow a nursing career. Wouldn?t have been too odd had I gone for it, mind, as two of my aunties were nurses themselves, one ending up a senior ward sister at Walsall Manor Hospital, and the other, somewhat bravely for the time, going for State Enrolled Nurse status (a practical-based nursing qualification considerably shorter in course length than the SRN, with much less theory involved) while trying to combine shift work with bringing up three kids. Sure, I loved biology and chemistry, had an interest in medicine, oozed sympathy and TLC from every pore, didn?t mind nasty niffs and/or blood one little bit, and enjoyed working with people very much ? so, theoretically, that should have been the job for me. But I became a ?refusenik? instead.

Why? Weekend and evening working, that?s why, and very little chance to watch my favourite football team perform. Plus the almost military regimes operated by ward sisters in those unenlightened days: these ghastly tyrants in dark blue uniform dresses and frilly little caps enjoyed absolute power over literally everything that went on in their meticulously disinfected, polished and preened domains, and didn?t everyone know it. I wanted no part of that sort of set-up, thank you very much. Even some senior consultants thought twice before rubbing some of these superannuated old battleaxes up the wrong way. And as for the approach of the dreaded Matron, by the time I got to work in a hospital myself, although that doughty lady had no jurisdiction whatsoever regarding my own job, and the way I chose to go about it, whenever she was on the prowl, I made myself scarce ? and fast.

A few years after, when I did start work in a path lab (my sole extra commitment was the occasional Saturday morning and evening, and all on a strict rota basis, see?), it wasn?t all that uncommon to see these awful creatures routinely reduce newly-qualified doctors to tears, never mind the bloody nursing staff, student, qualified, or whatever. All vastly changed now, I gather, and rightly so. Youngsters simply refuse to put up with the sort of nonsense we did back then. And here?s another thought. Such is the awful fare served up at the Shrine as a matter of routine these days, it really hurts. It?s that coupled with a considerable lessening of appreciation on the part of the club as to just how far supporters are prepared to go to watch players whose lifestyles and salaries are of light-years difference in magnitude to those of their cash-strapped followers, how many will actually bother going the extra mile to ensure their attendance at games in future, I wonder?

But back to the present, and about 30 minutes before the start of what was to prove an absolute horror show of a game, to be precise. Out of the pub we poured, The Noise and brood heading in the direction of the Brummie, The Fart accompanying us to where Steve The Miser stood, so we could pick up our Cheltenham tickets ? or rather, the bits of paper that proved we?d all paid up front, just in case the automatic turnstile took it upon itself to deny us access for some reason or other. A productive couple of minutes to catch up with some more (Even juicier than before the Leicester game, honest ? shame I can?t reveal all!) gossip from our parsimonious former GD treasurer, and from there, it was a mere bagatelle to traipse back to our own turnstile.

A quick tinkle apiece, and we were both in business. Two curious sights to behold, today. Firstly, what appeared to be a dancing display conducted in and around the centre circle, and all performed by local kids, so I was told. The second? The sight of a bloke seated in close proximity, wearing a replica shirt bearing on its back the legend: ?MANAGER?. In view of what happened over the course of the next 90 minutes, he might as well have worn one saying ?MEA CULPA? ? in other words: ?I?m the one to blame for all this bloody shambles out there!?

In the away end, much to my surprise, The Shrimpers appeared to have brought with them a very respectable following indeed, filling around two thirds of their ?bit? with eager bodies, a state of affairs that was in direct contrast to the fair number of gaps that could be seen in and around the ?home? sections of the ground. Probably because The Hawthorns was effectively a new ground for most of the away contingent, of course. And, as their last trip here was well before the East Stand opened, those who?d been before must have had a hell of a culture shock once inside. But that wasn?t the last of the surprises in store for us pre-kick-off. Dearie me, no.

On the East Stand roof stood several bodies. Brassed off and completely ground-down supporters desperately wanting to quit this mortal coil, and in the messiest way possible? Nope, just a bunch of Royal Marines providing pre-match entertainment by presenting the match-ball to the ref courtesy express (vertical) delivery. Mind you, I did voice my own theory that they were really on the lookout for the egregious Osama Bin Laden, now suspected to be hiding not in the Tora Bora Mountains of Afghanistan, as previously thought, but in our own midfield instead, complete anonymity and invisibility totally guaranteed, of course.

As for team matters, Duke Ellington was most certainly in, partnering Kevin Phillips up front, he was, at the expense of John Hartson, who was hors de combat after Tuesday night?s Deepdale exertions. That was our only change; as for Southend, they?d stuck with the same gutsy outfit that got an incredible 3-3 midweek draw at Norwich, after being three in arrears at one point. One other thought ? we had a female lino on our side of the pitch, and very young she looked, too. Did her mum know she was out? Mind you, when you get to my age, just about EVERYONE and their dad looks younger, never mind match officials!

Given the relatively low-key way in which our 90-minute catalogue of disaster began, you would have readily thought we were in for yet another ?war of attrition?-type game. It was around seven minutes into the game when Zoobie had to shift pretty smart to cancel out a Southend incursion that threatened to totally ruin our day. From that, play then switched to the other end with all the rapidity of a really ripe Brooksie anal emission ? I saw him as I was coming out of the ground after the final whistle, which makes a bit of a pleasant change from smelling him, I suppose! - with Kevin Phillips providing a bit of a test for their keeper, who did really well to collect the long-range effort that ensued.

Two minutes or so later, it was Duke Ellington?s turn to give their keeper some grief, the shot this time ending up somewhere in Row Z, or thereabouts. So overwhelmed by shock was the ref, seemingly, he managed to fall over in complete amazement. Or something. Then, it was the turn of the elfin-like Zoltan Gera to bring just a little more uncertainty into the lives of the Thames Estuarine visitors, his long-range effort bringing out the best in their keeper yet again. Meanwhile, in the Smethwick, they were making the devil of a noise to lift the side, and maintaining well the overall strength of that cacophony, too. Well, given the Brummie?s apparent loss of enthusiasm for such things, of late, someone had to pick up the torch, didn?t they?

Another fruitless run deep into Shrimpers territory later, and it was becoming noticeable that Albrechtsen had sustained a rather nasty knock. Judging from the increased activity on our bench, it was becoming apparent that preparations were under way to make an early subbing, Jonathan Greening being the man selected to replace him. More Albion pressure ensued, but we sorely lacked the means to deliver the killer blow. Not only that, but in making one wildly-inaccurate pass after another, we were rapidly shaping up to be our own worst enemy. As for the visitors, they clearly couldn?t believe their luck.

Even their own followers were now sensing they might just get something out of the game for their troubles, and redoubled their vocal efforts, our lot coming back with the predictable ?Who are ya, who are ya?? riposte. Crazy, as we?d enjoyed so much superiority, and so much of the play by then, the visitors should have been several in arrears by that stage in the proceedings, never mind by just the odd goal. And, to be absolutely fair, their keeper, a lad called Flavahan, was playing completely out of his skin. Had it not been for his acrobatic efforts between the sticks, then the picture might have looked far less rosy for them, I suspect.

But it wasn?t all down to the good form of their keeper, not by any means. Already, we were seeing the gradual emergence of an Albion side that was everything its followers fervently wished it wasn?t. Passes going badly astray, several gilt-edged chances spurned, a complete A-Z catalogue of other errors, both big and small, players everywhere but in the part of the pitch where they should have been, all of this and more was becoming painfully evident.

At that point in the game, the groans of fury and despair from both home ends were relatively muted, but that wasn?t to last very long. With around 25 minutes gone, yet another Southend incursion and set-piece had our rearguard well and truly rocking ? just as well, really, as they were missing by a country mile also. In fact, on this particular occasion, just about everyone contrived to miss a juicy-looking cross that would have surely found its target had a Shrimper been able to get on the right end of it. This was rapidly developing into a rerun of the Leicester caper, but by this stage, the possibility of a fortuitous Baggies strike providing the eventual means of our salvation was looking very remote indeed. ?Powder-puff? is the operative phrase, I believe.

30 gone by now, and a crafty bit of blind-side impeding on the part of The Shrimpers totally evaded the ref?s watchful eye, as it was clearly meant to, but not that of Missus Lino diligently doing her thing along the Halfords touchline. She flagged like crazy, and the match official was duty-bound to take notice. A free-kick to us, and in a handy position, too, about a couple of yards from the edge of the box. But it was the same old story again, not being able to capitalise from the set-piece, the goal attempt ballooning into the crowd yet again.

Surprise, surprise, all those murmurs of discontent around the ground were growing greatly in intensity by then ? and it wasn?t only the crowd that were feeling the heat. With around eleven minutes to go to the break, for reasons as yet unfathomable to Man, Wallwork decided to go through, not around, an attacking Southend player. Luckily, the tackle didn?t connect: had it done so, then the former Man United lad would most certainly have earned a deserved early bath, closely followed by a right old earhole-bashing from his colleagues for being a complete and utter dickhead.

Then, not too long after that, the referee himself decided to impart a certain eccentricity on the proceedings. After letting a couple of horror-show Southend tackles go unpunished, come the third, the ref belatedly decided to blow for a foul - but with Albion enjoying clear possession at the time, and going hell for leather in search of a first strike as well! Where do they find these people, that?s what I want to know. Oh, well ? just about everyone else was screwing up big-time out there by then, so why not the bloke with the bloody whistle, say I?

Just on the break, Ellington nearly got the breakthrough we so badly needed, courtesy a superb cross delivered from the left right to his feet (aw, you know what I mean!) but yet again, that man Flavahan ? is he bloody prehensile, or something? ? did a convincing imitation of a cat twisting and turning after being dropped from a fairish height, and by doing so, completely hacked off the former Wigan man yet again.

A bad case of ?These things are sent to try us?? A small proportion of what was going on, perhaps, but for the main part, the blame stemmed very much from our own incompetence. Southend were ripe for the taking, of that I was sure, but sort them out by actually banging one into the back of their net? More chance of Clare Short?s post-Parliamentary career being as a catwalk fashion model. No doubt about it, with 45 minutes gone, the entire game was fast degenerating into an exercise in total frustration. If you want to get the ball in the back of the net, the last thing you want to do is pass the blasted thing right back to your own keeper, and not once, but several times in succession, too.

Half-time, at long last, and with that, more acts of derring-do from the nation?s finest, now abseiling like crazy from the top of the East Stand. Carly had seen them prior to going into the pub, and on doing so, promptly declared them ?fit? ? and she wasn?t banging on about their overall competence at gymnastics, either. Naughty, naughty for harbouring such lewd and licentious thoughts at such a tender age, young lady!

That was followed by yet another display, this time from the massed schoolkids I mentioned earlier ? and ?Im Indoors ogling like crazy all the while. Not at their bodies, although I?m sure there was a bit of that there as well, more the bright green trainers and leg-warmers one of their number was wearing! (My other half?s taste when it comes to the choice of suitable colour schemes for the various rooms in our house is somewhat eclectic. Let me put it this way, when Syd Barrett of former Pink Floyd fame popped his clogs recently, his house was put up for sale. Sensing a story, one Sunday newspaper dispatched a reporter to have a look ? and ended up completely transfixed by all the bright colours the late musician had employed to brighten up the place. Very similar to ours, in fact. Worried? I bloody well ought to be, I suppose!)

The second half cometh, finally, and with that, we were dead lucky not to concede within the first couple of minutes. More defenders than attackers present ? but the trouble was, our rearguard never even bothered to challenge them. The ball having reached the vicinity of the left-hand post by then, all looked lost. The visitors only had to pull the trigger, and that would have been that, which is precisely what they did, and from point-blank range, too, but fortunately for us, they couldn?t hit a barn door. What a let-off.

I don?t rightly know what was wrong with Greening out there, but even with the half still very young, he was truly having a ?mare?. On this occasion, he made a complete pig?s ear out of a routine clearance, another of his comrades having to intervene to sort matters out, finally. Talk about a shambles ? and there was much worse to come. Not long after that, Ellington found himself in a handy shooting position, but instead of burying the chance, managed to fall over instead, to loud groans from the Brummie.

And still Southend were proving to be a flaming nuisance out there, breaking out of defence very swiftly, with our defence hard pressed just to keep up. Once more, we were very lucky to survive: had their shooting been even a fraction better, we would have been well behind by that stage of the game. But, as so often happens in football, despite enjoying considerably more of the play that half, come the 60th minute, it was Albion that took a totally undeserved lead, and not the visitors.

How come? Ellington was the perpetrator of the damage, from way out, actually, around 30 or so yards, I reckon, after soundly beating his attendant marker. A looping sort of effort, it made a last-minute dip into the target area, and by doing so, completely eluded their keeper?s wildly-flailing arms. Strange as it might seem, just three or so weeks ago, at a Sutton Branch Supporters Club meeting, we were to hear Big Dave sing Ellington?s praises, and while doing so, made much mention of his potential to register exactly the same sort of strike we?d seen him do right there and then. Well, at least it proved one thing; Big Dave certainly knew his player-onions. And another thought. Against the run of play? Not half ? had I been a Southend follower, I?d have been spitting both blood and fury by then!

Not long after that, Ellington got a knock, and on came Jason Koumas by way of replacement. Having got that vital first, Albion tried to land the killer blow, with Phillips going close, but it was not to be. Southend hadn?t given up the ghost, mind ? given their urgent need for any points at all on the board, they were still proving to be a thorough nuisance, and just seconds after a Phillips effort that should have bust the net, but only managed to hit the post instead, they struck.

It all stemmed from a 80th minute Southend corner, and from that, the ball whanged over the heads of both attackers and defenders. Up leaped the lad Harrold ? where was the bloody marking, I ask myself? ? and before you could say ?I?m a jolly Shrimper!?, even, it was ?wham, bam, thank you, Ma?am?. Just what Southend wanted, and we handed it to them on a bloody plate. Pandemonium, complete and utter, in that away end, of course. As for the rest of the crowd, by far the best way to describe their demeanour is to invoke the memory of that Simon and Garfunkel favourite, ?The Sound Of Silence?. You genuinely could have heard a pin drop, and we only had ourselves to blame for cocking it up so late in the game. Above our heads, a helicopter hovered. An escape route for our manager should the crowd bay for blood come the final whistle, perhaps?

That goal completely knocked the stuffing out of our lot, and despite the busy Phillips creating another reasonable sort of chance once more, our contribution to the remainder of the game was completely minimal. With just a minute of normal time left, things got distinctly comical ? well they would have done, had we been in the mood to laugh, which we most certainly weren?t, of course. The cause of this distinctly Laurel and Hardy state of affairs was an almighty mix-up in the box caused by no less than three of our players simultaneously going for the same ball and ended up in an almighty heap. Luckily for us, the visitors had neglected to keep up with the play on that particular occasion. Then came the man of the match award, to McShane, this time, which I thought fair enough considering, that coinciding with the ref indicating four minutes more spent in durance vile for us.

And Southend could have grabbed a late, late winner, too, what with Wallwork electing to give the ball away right in front of goal, and only their own incompetence when it came to scoring ? or not, in this case ? saving him from a fate worse than death. Not only that, a subsequent injury-time attempt from The Shrimpers was only foiled when the lino raised her offside flag. Just as well the game was coming to an end, really ? another few moments, and the result would have proven most unpleasant for everyone.

As for the crowd, things were turning ugly with frightening rapidity. None of this was in the script, even, so why had the entire thing gone tits-up in such a spectacular fashion? The proper time for reflection and recrimination was not then, but lots watching did it anyway, pointing the finger straight at the guy standing right in front of the home dug-out. Come the final whistle, an absolute torrent of boos began, closely followed by a distinctly-audible chorus from the Brummie, of ?WE WANT ROBSON OUT, SAY WE WANT ROBSON OUT?..? A bit like hearing the first cuckoo in spring, really ?and unless we start to get our act together, and quick, it?s going to get a lot, lot worse, believe you me.

Thoughts? Ineptitude writ large, as I said. An attack that gets the jitters once within sight of the target; instead of having a go straight off, getting a chronic ?failure of nerve?, trying to ?walk? the ball in, and failing dismally as a result? Passes innumerable going astray ? perhaps Albion should send someone to the Lost Property Office at New Street Station in an effort to reclaim them, perchance? As with the Leicester game, an alarming tendency to pass the ball backwards, rather in the direction of the sharp end? As briefly mentioned above, professionals who were doing battle as a matter of routine with defenders of world class just a year ago suddenly mustering up performances that would have gone down far better at a kids? film comedy matinee, never mind a major football ground? A defence that seemed to have completely lost the will to live, collectively speaking? All that and more ? and it didn?t make comfortable watching, either.

As for young Ethan, my great-nephew, whose very first Albion game it was today, what was he to think? I can just picture it now, the lad standing there at the end, turning to his dad, his eyes the very picture of doe-like innocence, then swiftly enquiring of him: ?Dad, why are all those people shouting nasty things at the players??

?Because we?re bloody crap, son ? that?s why???

More on this tonight ? always assuming I?ve cooled down sufficiently by then!

And Finally?? Here?s one to cheer everyone up tonight. How To Get Rid Of Irritating Doorstep Salesmen, By The Noise ? Lesson Number One. A really ingenious ploy, this. What you have to do when they call is be working in the garden, then simply claim you?re the household gardener, adding this important rider: ?If you?re thinking of flogging something to this lot here, then forget it. They don?t even pay ME half the time?..? The grumpier the better, so our garrulous Stokie friend tells me ? and yep, it really DOES work!

 - Glynis Wright

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