The Diary

30 September 2006: The 'Ghost In The Machine' Strikes Again!

The problem, dear reader, is with all this bloody new technology. Old Farts like the - erm ? ?original?: accept no substitutes! ? Terry Wills variety will have seen where I?m coming from forwards and back by now, but it?s a job-lot of good old-fashioned spleen venting I?m currently needing to dissipate the old anger hormones, so here goes. After all the nonsense with PC?s I experienced following the Luton game (please note, I refer to PC?s in the sense of the thingy I?m typing these words on, NOT the constabulary at Kenilworth Road, although The Fart could have had his collar felt with consummate ease had it been our chums the West Midlands Police in charge, and not coppers unusually well in possession of a full set of common-sense glands). I had hoped that subsequent close encounters of the third kind with IT would be relatively painless from there on in. Guess what, Baggie people? Wrong, wrong ? and dead wrong.

At least whatever vindictive gremlins ruling my waking hours had the decency to collectively decide that as far as sheer embuggerment went, they?d ring the changes. To have grappled with yet another load of unfeeling silicon chips straight after the almighty tussle I had getting Saturday and Sunday?s missive onto this site would have been the cotton-pickin? end, quite frankly ? but, nope, my little meddlesome chums had something a little bit more subtle lined up for me instead.

It all started when ?Im Indoors ordered a replacement mobile phone for me over the internet about four or five days ago, my other one having been given an unexpected, albeit brief, introduction to the joys of swimming via a glass of Coke (don?t ask!) and, unsurprisingly, promptly popping its electronic clogs as a direct result of its unrequited introduction to such a soggy medium. RIP old phone, now for the new one. A natty little pink number, it is, my replacement thingy, jam-packed with just about every state-of-the-art bell, whistle and mini-camera you could possibly wish for. Rumour has it you can also make and receive telephone calls on the blasted thing, but that?s a technological advance too far for me, I reckon. Expected within 48 hours, at the latest, by Special Delivery, I was told ? well hubby, relaying the message, told me ? so on both the stipulated days, I waited, and waited, and?..

Well, you get the (all-too bloody familiar these days) message, right enough. With two whole days gone by then, and still no bloody phone, I rang the firm. After finally getting through to a real human being ? no mean feat that ? they told me it had been delivered already, an astonishing piece of news that elicited the obvious question from me, i.e.: if it had been delivered already, then it most certainly wasn?t to my house! After giving me the code number of the barcode one sticks onto these things prior to posting, they then suggested I speak to the Royal Mail, which I did ? but only after I?d spent (wasted?) an interminable amount of time getting to speak to a human being there, as well. Turned out also that the phone company had given me the number OK ? but one lousy digit short of the correct one, so?..yerssss, you?ve guessed it, back to the bloody firm I had to go for the correct number, back into the Royal Mail ?holding stack? once more, by which time, I was rapidly losing the will to live.

After all that load of nonsense, the Royal Mail finally said they?d look into it, then ring me today to bring me up to date on progress ? so it was with complete and utter astonishment I answered a knock on our front door this very morning, to discover a nice little postie standing on our front step, holding the wretched package in his hot little hand and wanting me to sign for it! Confused? You can say that, and squared. Cubed, if you really want to go the whole hog. At least I?ve got the dratted thing now, and am incommunicado no longer. My next task is putting all my essential numbers into its silicon innards ? yet another chore that quickly evokes painful thoughts of suicide after completion. Mind you, having done such a superb wind-up job on me already, the whole palaver could quite easily take an additional curtain-call next week. I?ve ordered a brand-new camera online, you see, which will mean more of the same, no doubt. I am told it?ll arrive either tomorrow morning, or on Monday. Hmmmm ? we?ll see. Or not, as the case may be.

Yesterday evening, it was a quick tootle for this column, ?Im Indoors and The Fart, to the other (dark?) side of Sutton Coldfield, where our Sutton Branch Baggie chums hang out these days, having had to leave their former Royal Hotel base for pastures new this season. The Plough And Harrow in Slade Road is where it?s all at now (whether temporary or permanent, I don?t rightly know at this juncture), and their guest speaker, last season?s Cup Final referee, Alan Wiley, there to spill the beans on his whistling trade as well.

As you might expect from this particular branch, some pretty searching stuff ended up being lobbed in the general direction of ?yer man?: whether or not it?s anything to do with the fact he?s a copper in his ?day job? I don?t rightly know, but the guy certainly batted a good innings. Among the stuff up for grabs last night was some much-needed clarification of several vexing issues to do with the day-to-day interpretation of the laws of the game, an insight into problems encountered by refs at all levels, and not just in the Premiership, by what criteria Premiership refs were assessed and by whom ? I never before realised that ex-players and/or managers were also involved in the bog-standard assessment procedure, for example ? and what accountability there was at that level. We also got amplification of what was deemed a bookable foul and what was not, and yes ? it is quite possible for someone to take the ball, not the man, from behind, and still see yellow for it, despite no actual ?body contact? being made!

Interesting to hear also about legendary alopecia-suffering Italian whistler Colina, and his astonishingly-exhaustive fact-finding research on players/managers/club officials involved in, say, the next game he was due to officiate in. From what Alan told us, not a few rain forests were sacrificed in pursuit of his diligence in such matters, the end result invariably assuming the proportions of the Birmingham telephone directory by the time he?d finished.

Sadly, though, the one really startling snippet I did hear from our whistling chum I can?t possibly repeat, for the simple reason I really do value the roof I currently have over my head, and wouldn?t want to risk its loss in the event of something on here being deemed libelous by some judge or other a few months further down the road! All I can say is it concerned that game at Bramall Lane a few seasons back, the one that was abandoned with Albion leading 3-0. Interesting, vairy eenteresteeng! A bloody good night all round, might I say, one even providing some semblance of proof some match officials really did know the true provenance of their paternity!

For their very next meeting, though, on the 16th of November, Sutton Branch will be shifting themselves en-bloc from the posh environs of that very same town to The Hawthorns itself, in the Richardson Suite (formerly The Platinum Suite), East Stand, no less. The reason? That?s when my other half launches his book, ?Albion?s Cult Heroes?. This is a joint collaboration between the Former Players? Association, my hubby?s publisher, and our ever-obliging chums at Sutton Branch, so there should be an absolute plethora of familiar faces, past and present, there also, hopefully ready and willing to do signing-session duty within hubby?s weighty tome for the betterment of all-comers. If you?re really unlucky, you might even end up with a copy personally signed by ?Im Indoors himself! Incidentally, subscribers, most of whom are readers of this column, will receive their copies in around three weeks time. Further details to anyone else on request, of course.

One curious by-product of last night?s meeting came about not because of what Alan Wiley had to say, more something another Sutton Baggie told me while waiting for the meeting proper to start. This chap has a seat located about five rows in front of the Directors Box, and when the final whistle blew on our distinctly-underwhelming recent encounter with Southend United, it just so happened that he was glancing in that direction at that particular time when the first real ?Robson OUT!? chants were heard coming from the Brummie. According to what I?ve been told by this guy, Jeremy Peace?s face was like thunder, blind fury oozing from every single pore, apparently. Just two scant days later, of course, our erstwhile leader was no more.

And that got me thinking a little. About our chairman, I mean. Normally, Jeremy?s public persona is very similar to that of Tony Blair, an outwardly-relaxed, ?Hi, you guys!? approach, the reality, of course, being the precise opposite: that the likelihood of any possible consequences arising from such events are carefully calculated well beforehand, and to at least two decimal points, as well. And that?s why I found this uncharacteristic baring of raw emotion on the part of our leader quite untypical, really, which now gives rise to some speculation on my part that Jeremy responded with his heart and not his head in sacking Robson just 48 hours later. If that?s the case, then it really has to be a ?first? for our chairman, and goes a long way towards explaining why the deed was done with the distinct lack of a managerial successor poised and ready to take his place. Just a thought.

Still, one event this morning did serve to brighten up my boring existence considerably, and that was bumping into Norm Bartlam while I was collecting my papers. Well off his normal ?beat?, he was, so I just had to ask what he was doing in our neck of the woods, of course. Turned out that he was on the way to the ground, to pick up a replica shirt for a chap by the name of Kevin Candon, whose 50th birthday it is tomorrow. Some Baggies reading this might already know the name: Ken was but one of that intrepid band of away-supporting Baggies chronicled in their book, so aptly titled ?Four And A Half Legs Go Nationwide?, around ten or so seasons ago. Time for yet another away-ground Baggies anecdote, folkies, so ready your brains for this little lot!

Kev, bless him to bits, is also the only bloke I?ve ever known attend a club?s First Aid Post ? for treatment to an ARTIFICIAL leg, would you believe? (He?s also the only man, disabled or otherwise, in my experience to be threatened with arrest by the West Midlands Police purely and simply because he used his wheelchair as a standing aid whilst reaching for a calming fag during a particularly-vexing Dingles-Albion game, but that?s another tale entirely!) What caused the tale I?m about to relate, though, was an away game at Swindon Town, the first ever season Hughsie played up front for us, back in 1997 ? but this tale?s not about him. That accolade truly belongs to the weather that strange autumnal Saturday afternoon: gale-force winds, driving rain, the works ? and, mainly on account of all the above and more, a truly limb-numbing wind-chill factor in play that only served to turn the whole thing even more Arctic, thereby transforming the entire 90 minutes into something best endured, not enjoyed.

The final score? 2-2, and honours shared all round, of course, but I suspect most Baggie people present in that misery-ridden away end had long given up caring by then. Both The Fart and myself agreed post-match that as far as freezing conditions were concerned, that game had to be by far and away the worst either of us had ever experienced in our respective supporting lifetimes. Indeed, after the game, The SAS have missed a trick, here. They should make surivival there an integral part of their basic training. I seriously looked at the possibility of having T-shirts printed for all four of us (then) Dick Eds, something on the lines of ?I Survived Swindon?s Away End!? Read a little further, and you?ll see precisely why.

OK ? so the wind and all the rest of it were about par for the course when attending Albion games at that time of year, but there was yet another conspiracy of events in operation that completely transcended just about everything else previously encountered by we seasoned travelling Baggies. The metaphorical ?icing on top of the cake?? Swindon, bless their acne-ridden buttocks, have an away end that?s completely open to the elements ? with the emphasis firmly (and quite deliberately) placed upon the ?COMPLETELY? bit of that sentence! A combination of one almighty first-half drenching, and the Force Ten gale previously mentioned, saw the first few hypothermia victims (no, I?m not jesting, that?s precisely what the vast majority of those poor sods had, the very same condition that consigns so many old biddies Heavenwards come the very first cold snap of winter) hauled off to the St. John?s Ambulance people well before half-time, with the main ?rush? of icy Baggie-bodies coming during the course of the second half.

And poor Kev was one of their number. Not because the meatlocker-like conditions did awful things to his circulatory system and/or core body temperature, as per the others, but because unduly-prolonged exposure to the elements saw the poor sod?s LEG mechanism seize up completely! Pretty robust things are prosthetic limbs, these days, which is why you occasionally hear of soldiers with legs/arms etc. blown off returning to normal duties ? but I?d defy anyone, the late Douglas Bader, even, to stand for the full whack in conditions like that, and still leave under their own steam once the final whistle had gone!

And so, very belatedly, to tomorrow?s opponents, Leeds United. This particular fixture has an ill-tempered history, unfortunately, its apotheosis being a particularly unpleasant evening back in mid-May 1982 when both sides, relegation-haunted, the pair of them, met in what was, to all intents and purposes, a Hawthorns ?sudden death drop-decider?. (There?s also the time we indirectly deprived Leeds of a League title, back in the early seventies, at their place, but I?ll keep that one for the away fixture.) Truly, whoever lost this one ended up playing on Second Division grounds that following season. Yep, it was as stark as that, folkies. The final result? Albion 2, Leeds 0, our life-saving brace coming from both Cyrille Regis and the lad Mackenzie ? and all kinds of hell let loose as a result of their labours, not only in the Rainbow Stand, where I sat back then, but on the pitch also, when their supporters invaded in an abortive attempt to get the game abandoned, and so force a (possibly top-flight-saving, of course) rerun. It took the police?s best efforts to finally stem the tide, but what really surprised me about those running onto the pitch that night were the Leeds supporters themselves. Their ages, I mean ? and not because of rampantly brain-dead, malevolently-inclined youth, either.

Nope, not one bit of it. Quite a high proportion of those trying to get the game called off that night were grown men, looking much, much older than myself, in some instances. Balding pates, barnets of graying hue, that sort of thing. Did they have family responsibilities, wives/girlfriends/dependent children at home also, I wondered, and not for the first time that evening, either. An equally-fraught Milwall visit apart, a couple of seasons later, that was to be one of the rare occasions I ever saw ?tooled-up? rozzers fully deployed right across our halfway line, and a full baton charge taking place in an effort to shift the offenders!

Not exactly comforting words for a chum of mine, Leeds United follower John Peckham (who is also a diary ?subscriber?, by the way), but I can only tell it as I saw events that night. To be strictly fair, I should also add that John has never been, and is never likely to be, come to think about it, one of the lunatic fringe that so disgraced the proud name of that club on the evening in question. John, bless him, is very much a part of their Supporters Club, who have far more to contend with from their chairman these days, rather than the unwelcome publicity generated by the very small number of ?eejits? of whatever persuasion still disgracing their ranks.

It really isn?t a happy ship at Elland Road these days. From being one of the most feared club sides in European football just a generation ago ? that very first season we made it to the Prem, Leeds were still competing continentally, a fact that only serves to greatly exacerbate the sense of what they?ve truly lost ? they?re now inhabiting the very bowels of what?s now called ?The Championship? which truly demonstrates precisely how much they?ve gone down the pan in the intervening period, of course. And thanks to recent events, they?re also without a manager, just like us.

The Elland Road mob have also another vexing problem, but one not brought about by their various doings on or off the pitch, for once. Talk to any serious Leeds supporters about what currently ails their club, and there?s a pretty high probability that they?ll reply, without any shred of hesitation, or doubt: ?Ken Bates?. I?ve touched on this before, of course, but it?s well worth revisiting, all the same. It takes a certain sort of cockeyed genius to transform an outfit previously well known for harmonious relations with its Saturday afternoon foot-soldiers into one where the sudden discovery of Bates?s body in some darkened alley somewhere would immediately prompt the police to commence questioning some 20,000 suspects! It really is that bad.

Oh ? and another thought. You?d think that given their previously well-publicised financial problems, they?d be trying like stink to woo yet more paying customers into Elland Road on a regular basis, wouldn?t you? Not likely ? in fact their prices are now some of the most horrendous in the entire division, which is why they recently only half-filled their ground for a game that would have attracted pretty much a full-house just a couple of seasons ago. Even with a grasp of basic economics as tenuous as mine, the root cause of the problem ? not to mention its solution ? is glaringly obvious!

So, what?s going to happen tomorrow, then? Team news is a little like the curate?s egg ? good in parts. Joe Kamara could be back for the first time this term following recovery from his broken foot thingy, as will Nigel Quashie, by all accounts. John Hartson is also back from injury. No, I?m not committing myself as to whether that augers good or ill for our chances of grabbing all three points from this one! The bad news is that apropos of Duke Ellington, who may be out of it due to a thigh problem of some sort or another. As we have very little in the way of genuine pace stashed in our ammo locker right now, it really doesn?t help. Oh, another thing, and one I?m finding highly amusing, right now. It?s really astonishing the plethora of other gaffers currently rushing to disassociate themselves from any links, however tenuous, with the Albion job. Let me see ? at the time of writing, there?s Coventry?s, that chappie from Hibernians, Boro?s coach, Burnley?s Steve Cotterill, former Dingle Dave Jones, currently doing so well at Cardiff,: the list goes on, and on, and on, and?? People are avoiding our club in much the same way as the old aristocracy did a particularly unpleasant smell! Talk about ?the mark of Cain?, or the ?poisoned chalice? even!

And, while we?re on the vexing subject of ?things that don?t help?, two more contentious items to gurgle around your brains for what little remains of the night. The first is the name of tomorrow?s referee, a lad who?s very well known to us, of old. Chap called Rob Styles, anyone? I?m also somewhat amused by the name of tomorrow?s fourth official, who apparently revels in the (hopefully not self-fulfilling, given the absolute wodge of nominative determinism present!) title of - erm ? ?Deadman?? Although, given his aforementioned colleague?s propensity to serial (and downright barmy, sometimes) whistling shortcomings, nothing at all would surprise me in that department right now.

As far as other considerations go, I?m now seriously wondering whether it?s high time to give Zoobie a rest, and install Russell Hoult in his custodial socket instead for this one. With us currently losing ground on the leaders like there?s no tomorrow, we really do need a result of some sort from this one, then using same as a firm base from which to kick on further, of course. My grounds for desiring such a favourable outcome to our labours are well-established ones. When it comes to the very plucking out of thin air of high balls and crosses ? see diaries passim ? the bloke is a bloody menace, to say the least. Had he been: a) alive in the strictest sense of the word, and: b) a football supporter, the infamous Count Dracula would have been the lad?s bosom drinking partner at the mere drop of a bloodied fang, of that I?ve no doubt whatsoever. If you were at Luton last week, you?ll know what I?m talking about. And readying handy supplies of both garlic and wooden stakes (really gets to the heart of the problem, that second item!) even as I write.

Houlty might be getting on a bit these days, and a tad suspect in the old injury department, too, but it?s really getting to the stage, now, where our very own chunk of Swiss cheese might yet be entering into serious and unwitting contention for my personal ?Paul Crichton Award? ? think of this as a negative version of the film world?s ?Oscars? if you like - For The Most Useless Goalkeeping Performance Seen At This Club In Recent Years. And we all remember what sort of Hell our custodially-incontinent predecessor went through as a result of his indifferent form, don?t we? ?Don?t Let Poor Zoobie Suffer Unnecessarily!?, say I. Drop him ? and the sooner the better for all concerned.

As for our opponents, currently occupying that part of the league table where dark thoughts of the drop come season?s end loom really large, their prime preoccupation is with the fitness or otherwise of Robbie Blake, who has a groin problem, but should return, and that of Eddie Lewis, malfunctioning Achilles tendon permitting, of course. Two more expecting to show in the overall Leeds ?cunning plan? come the morrow are Seb Carole and Jermain Beckford, who both figured in a midweek friendly with Yorkshire chums Donny Rovers, apparently, and have high hopes for more of the same come the first crow of the cock.

And Finally?.. Spotted a curious little piece in the Guardian yesterday, and it?s all down to the British Journal Of Sports Medicine, would you believe? According to some group of boffins or other writing for that learned tome, if you?re female, and have ring fingers longer than your index pinkies, you?re far more likely to be good at sporty things than the common herd, apparently. Tennis and/or football especially, so they reckon. This finding supports previous research ? on blokes, that time ? demonstrating a similar link, but in such fields as fertility, vulnerability to serious disease, intellectual traits, and sundry other desirable things, including musical talent, for some reason.

Interesting stuff indeed ? so, (purely in the interests of science, you understand!), I took sufficient time out from my normal daily routine to peruse at greater length my own cute little digits. Guess what? EUREKA! I, too, am a proud owner of that carpal configuration combo, much to my own personal astonishment. Why so surprised? Easy. When I was at school, and enduring all those much-loathed obligatory games periods (being smacked squarely on one?s unprotected shins by a rocket-propelled hockey ball is pretty bloody agonizing, no matter in which decade it first occurs!), I quickly discovered my own talents for team games pretty limiting. In fact, it?s pretty much fair to say that when choosing people to make up their sides during these compulsory and completely horrendous ?torture sessions?, most team captains would much rather pick their noses in public than pick me. Does that mean I?m but a mere glitch in those sagacious eggheads? stats, then, or yet more living proof of ?the exception that proves the rule??

 - Glynis Wright

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