The Diary

10 December 2006: That 60 Year-Old Oakwell Hoodoo: Do You Feel Lucky, Punk?

Back earlier tonight from watching Hereford United, folks, and their error and catastrophe-strewn 1-1 home draw with (then) third-from-bottom Torquay United, who are now a second-from-bottom League club thanks to their fellow strugglers mainly winning elsewhere. Back, also, to the glum realisation that thanks to a good many of our rivals picking up League points elsewhere today, we have now slipped and slid down to an insultingly-awful 13th in the Championship pecking order. On level points with The Dingles, who lost at home to Leicester City earlier today. A very tight top half of the table, ?tis true, but from a psychological point of view, not a very good spot for a club with an honourable lineage such as ours to linger in, even for a matter of 24 hours or so. (Said she, hopefully, trying to forget that Albion have an absolutely diabolical track record concerning games played at Oakwell: was 1949 REALLY the last time we registered a win there?)

To put the above into true historical context, in that very same year, we still had a king on the throne, and rationing was going full-blast, still, despite it being a good four years further down the line from the moment when all the participant nations finally called ?Time, Gentlemen PLEASE!? on World War Two. Bar clothes and sweets, that is; restrictions on their sale ended in March and April respectively. Hooray! But sweets went back on again in the following July: something to do with a sudden sterling crisis causing savage cuts to sugar imports, apparently. I say, they?re absolute rotters, the Treasury, aren?t they? Boo!

So what else have we both been up to lately, then? Well, the earlier part of the week was spent in ?quiet mode?, comparatively speaking: I had been due to join ?Im Indoors at Edgar Street on Tuesday night, but fell into such a deep sleep on our sofa, my other half decided to leave me there: just as well, really, because on his return from there, he told of a game where Hereford didn?t make full use of their scoring opportunities. Sound familiar?

On both Wednesday and yesterday morning, we also spent some time shifting loads of fanzine stuff into the capable hands of the Albion?s very own archives. Yep ? they want to keep us for posterity, isn?t that sweet? The best bit on Wednesday, though, was Sutton Branch?s Christmas meal, held at Richard Sneekes?s Wylde Green Italian restaurant, just like last year?s effort. We?d known Bob Taylor was going to be there, but Richard had also promised the branch?s massed gourmets an additional ?surprise guest? this time round. Intrigued? Not ?alf. Mind you, we really should have borne in mind that the Dutch lad does have a distinctly-warped sense of humour, and one that didn?t exactly endear him to management at that time, either.

The ?surprise?? A VILLA player, would you believe? Admittedly, not one of their first-team ?regulars? but a member of the claret and blue phocine tendency, all the same. Just as well Richard had put an extensive choice of fishy items on the menu, then, wasn?t it? The thought of having to put up with continual frustrated clapping and stamping noises, not to mention having to constantly chuck bucket-loads of raw cod in the general direction of the bugger?s ever-open gob, would have been too much to bear, almost, I reckon.

So what else did we get up to there, then? As I said, a spiffing time was had by all that night, everyone doing ample justice to the food Richard and his chums had on offer. Being something of a fish-lover myself ? the FISH, dearie, not Martin O?Neill?s shower of s***e! ? I went for the prawn cocktail to start with (a tad retro, I know, but soddit, I LIKE prawn cocktail - so there!), following that up with some pan-fried salmon creation or other, with a full array of ?Wolves Supporters? to accompany said dish (you work it out for yourselves: shouldn?t be too difficult!). For afters, the fruity delights of good old-fashioned Christmas pud were favourite. ?Im Indoors? He stuck with the minestrone to start with, then a goodly piece of chicken, seemingly stuffed with enough garlic to repel a whole busload of vampires, for ?mains?, with tiramisu (the Italian answer to trifle, essentially) to finish.

A great night, and for some, an even greater one, thanks to the sudden manifestation of a bottle of ?Limoncello? in the midst of one table in particular, plus a serious amount of ?grappa?. For the benefit of those who don?t know, both liquids are ?rocket fuel?, and quite capable of stripping the lining from a stainless-steel sink: what they must do to the lining of the human stomach on first contact, either individually or in combination, I really dread to think! Certainly, come the end of the evening, at least one Baggies supporter was seen to leave the scene of the crime encountering considerable balance difficulties along the way! Yet another reason why the night had been such an enormous success for everyone! Mind you, I?m willing to bet that more than one ?imbiber? of the goods in question had ample reason for regret come the morrow: both liquids are extremely strong medicine, not to be trifled with under any circumstances, and almost certain to leave their ?calling card?, in the form of a whanging great hangover, the day after. Ouch!

Come Thursday morning (and, because we hadn?t imbibed ourselves, totally unaffected by the excesses of the previous night!), we both ventured out in search of genuine, copper-bottomed, 100 per cent ?grot?. It all started at my other half?s place of work, actually, with an informal ?competition? to see who could come up with the ornament (or whatever) showing the least possible taste, and the tackier the better, it would seem! Only one place to go for it, then ? Bilston, home to 50p ?thrift shops?, pregnancy test kits knocked down on ?special offer? to a round quid. And, as you might expect in those there parts, more Dingles than you could shake a urine-filled condom at. Which possibly explains the reason for the cheapness of all those test kits I previously mentioned, when you come to think about it!

No problem parking up once we?d got there, albeit at the start of a heavy shower of rain. The market proved to be some 5 minutes walk from where we?d set down, so after sampling the various delights to behold in the outdoor bit, we swiftly moved inside, to where various butchers? stalls did their meaty thing. And, to be absolutely fair, I did purchase some pork belly while I was there, and found it really scrummy when I had it for my tea, later that afternoon: I also snapped up some frozen ?grey pays un? bacon? while I was there, needing naught but heat by way of preparation, some might want to argue that was the region?s first ever ?convenience food?!

But that was secondary to the main aim of our mission there, the gathering of some serious ?grot?, ?Im Indoors?s workplace ?challenge? being to come up with suitable items for a ?Secret Santa? draw with a difference ? and it didn?t take us too long to find some prime examples, either! The little baby doll that actually wet its nappy, a pair of plastic handcuffs, a pig in a bath, two Grecian figurines so ghastly we got two for a quid, a couple of Egyptian pyramids with a Pharaoh?s head on two of the three sides, and a snow-shaker, but without any actual snow to be seen inside! Without any fear of contradiction whatsoever, I can genuinely say that I fully expect my ?other half? to win this one in a walk!

But this doesn?t finish with the sort of tacky grot you?ll find in Bilston. Just the other day, on his return from work, thoughtful caring hubby plonked behind me a stuffed toy dog. But not a mute one, unfortunately: the example I was given came straight out of a similar ?stable? to the singing fish craze that swept the country just a few Yuletides ago. And, as if the awful cacophony purportedly emanating from the mutt?s mouth wasn?t enough, once activated, it also moved its flaming paws in time to what passed for rhythm! Valid grounds for divorce, surely, you reckon? Or homicide, come to think about it: I kid you not, watch (and listen to) the thing in full action over even a fairly short period of time, and there wouldn?t be a single juror left in this country willing to convict, let alone see someone given? life?, should push ever come to (quite literally: a handy canal-bonk?s pretty useful in this sort of situation, so rumour has it!) shove!

It was around that time we also got to hear how well The Book was doing. Great guns on Amazon, apparently: His Nibs has now ascended to the top bracket (1 per cent) for internet sales, and is absolutely wiping the floor with its Southampton and Newcastle stable-mates, also published fairly recently. Should all go well, we are hoping to get a Merry Hill signing session at their W.H. Smith branch on the road, for January the 4th, between 6.30 and 7.30 that same evening. I?ll confirm nearer the date, of course. SuperBob has kindly agreed to show his face there as well for us, so if you should want a copy with his monicker on it, why not turn up then?

?Im Indoors also tells me that he?s going to be holding a VERY informal signing session immediately prior to our next home thrash, versus Coventry, on the 16th of this month, at around half-two. You?ll find him propping up the wall close to what we now term ?Anoraks? Corner?, the bit adjacent to the Players Lounge doors, situated in the Halfords Lane Stand, about halfway down. And looking very suspicious indeed: were I a copper, I?d arrest him, on principle alone, immediately! You can?t miss it (or him!): as the name I?ve conferred upon that spot would suggest, just look for the loose knot of figures ? usually four or five ? engaged in heated argument over the precise minutiae of what the weather had been like the very moment Jessie Pennington refused to give away a penalty when we played Barnsley ? yes, them again! ? in the 1912 FA Cup Final, and you?ve got him, just about!

And so we return to today, and Hereford?s game with Torquay. When we?d left our Black Country ?des res? for pastures new, the thermometer was registering a very chilly 4 Centigrade, and a rainy one, too. Thank goodness for what I?ve come to call ?The Lickey Bonk Effect?, then! No sooner had we passed within sight of the BBC?s Droitwich radio transmitter, the sun emerged from behind its murky hiding-place, and the mercury rose by a staggering FIVE degrees: should someone ever wish to make the study of this particular meteorological phenomenon their life?s work, they have only to speak to me!

From then on in, the journey was an absolute doddle, the spring-like clime imparting the merest suggestion of prematurely-flowering primroses to those hedgerows and fields ? not so unlikely, that one, given letters to the Guardian only last week on the subject of stray daffodils suddenly popping up from the ground, not to mention fully-functional tadpoles, wiggly tails and all. And, by way of bonus, a splendid view to be had from the top of the escarpment that looks over the Lugg valley and the distant city, reaching out to the dimly-discernable Black Mountains, even. Wow.

We were quickly brought down to earth, though, by the absolute plethora of plods to be found in that delightful cathedral city. For the visit of Torquay? Blimey, the away end would be lucky to get into three figures, let alone a crazed mob hell bent upon destruction. But all thoughts of unpleasantness were quickly put to one side ere we spotted a knot of market stalls set up in the middle of the main drag. And not yer bog standard market, either: this one was predominantly French in origin, with a soupcon of Polish chucked in for good measure, plus the produce of local farms providing full backing support. And you couldn?t sue on grounds of false trade description, either: when I purchased a ?tarte au citrone?, the guy running the stall seemed to have more than a little difficulty with expressing himself in English. I shall, in due course, sample my wares in order to properly ascertain whether or not they?ve been poisoned! You never can be too sure, can you? Well, that?s my excuse. And I?m sticking to it. So there.

A slow but pleasant meander back to the ground then followed (I?ll gloss over the braindead group of so-called Blues supporters that gave us the bird from the safety of their three-storey high licenced house fastness!), and via both the Cornish pasty shop, then our car, in order to drop all our ill-gotten gains safely off. Having done that ? our vehicle being situated about a couple of hundred yards away from the turnstile we wanted ? it was straight into the ground we went, and, on finding our usual seats, all the ?usual suspects? , too. Marion, Mavis, Nick Brade, currently flogging fanzines like there was no tomorrow, with Talking Bill to turn up much later, probably. Oh ? and in case I didn?t tell you the first time round, the mint problem has now been resolved, normal ?service? being resumed the previous Tuesday night, versus Peterborough.

What did impress me, though, was the quantity of the Torquay support. This, mind, from a bunch of people who normally struggle to raise a coach-load for an away trip, even. As I reckon these things, there must have been around 300 tenanting the away terrace, with a few lost souls situated in the adjacent seating area: no wonder those plods had been out in force in the city proper. Not that I?d ever thought them even half-capable of starting a decent ?ruck?, mind: the plods must have pressed all the panic buttons possible once they?d got wind of the true size of the travelling Devonian contingent.

And, in complete synchrony with both sets of players emerging from their tunnel, who should emerge from the Main Stand?s, but the gentleman known as ?Talking Bill?, scourge of referees and linos the full length and breadth of the Football League, and heading in a ?bee-line? for his usual matchday resting place. Ah ? now Bill had arrived, we could start the game! Anybody told the ref, then? Come to think about it, did anyone tell Torquay that they had full licence to deviate from the set script? That?s what happened, near enough, with but two or so minutes on the clock. It all stemmed from a diabolical defensive cock up on the part of Jeanin, who only partially cleared the danger headed his way. The bladder then dropped invitingly for the Torquay lad Angus to poke in: it took a bit of a deflection on the way in, mind, and but for that bit of unmitigated jam, would have probably ended up in Row Z - but they all count, whatever their provenance, sadly. And ?sad? was their bovine countenances once the referee pointed to the centre circle, effectively giving their opponents? early strike due legitimacy.

For a considerable period of time thereafter, the home side played as if shell-shocked by what had happened, and I really couldn?t blame them. Had anyone asked me before the start what the likeliest scenario would be come the ten-minute mark, I?ll bet any amount you care to name that one wouldn?t have figured in my calculations. And, surprise, surprise ? the shock of that Torquay strike had served to jolt Talking Bill right out of ?silent mode?. Abusing just about everything and everybody in sight, he was, up to and including the resident colony of starlings keeping silent watch from the heights of their usual floodlight pylon abodes, critical faculties now considerably enhanced by the sheer trauma of what had just happened to the main love of his life.

And he had ample cause for doing so, too: the Bulls weren?t exactly covering themselves in glory at that moment, what with the sheer number of misplaced passes and mis-hit balls they were racking up out there. And living very dangerously as a result of various peccadilloes committed in and around their box, not the least of which was a marked reluctance to clear the ball out of danger, and decisively so. I?m afraid that our very own Tam Mkandawire was one of the worst offenders, in somehow allowing Torquay to regain possession right inside his own box, their ?get out of jail card? coming courtesy of the visitors? collective resumption of a long-standing inability to hit a barn door at ten paces. But the Bulls were playing a side that hadn?t tasted three points in three months: in fact, their failure to respond to the threat correctly gave Torquay a pretty hefty jag of renewed hope, with the results documented above.

It was with profound relief that the Bulls finally managed to get their act together, coming pretty close with almost 20 minutes gone, their corner swiftly travelling to the ready-poised head of Gulliver, who nutted it well enough, only to see an opponent kick the damn thing from off the line, near enough! That was too much for Billl?s nerves to cope with: within seconds of that incident, he was heard giving the referee the benefit of his thoughts in heaps: once more, he was questioning the whistler?s competence to run the game, particularly in the light of the Torquar manager?s recent assertion that he?d sack any player found to be ?diving?. ?Do you want to ?phone a friend??? enquired our own friend, dripping sarcasm from every single pore, following one particularly contentious decision on the poor man?s part.

Interject immediately into my narrative, then, the notorious female ?ref-basher? mentioned previously in this column: ?Naw, he ain?t got any!?, she loudly replied to TB?s verbal assertions, cackling all the while with an intensity that would have got the three witches of ?Macbeth? fame really excited had they been in the area. Or the legendary Madame De Farge, of Dickensian fame, knitting all the more furiously, as the tumbrels brought another fresh cargo of doomed aristos to be ?introduced? to ?Madame Guillotine?. A bit of a ?Blackadder? figure, she: imagine any historical moment you care to name, and you could readily visualise her sanguine ancestors featuring in the crowd, somewhere! I can only hope she never gets the chance to string up any of the whistling fraternity! Mind you, if the club had anything about it, they?d sponsor her wretched knitting-needles, or something!

Around two thirds of the half gone, now ? well, I know what I?m on about, even if your mathematics has just been irreparably confused by that! ? and thanks to all the frustration inherent in chasing a game, Bill was about to ?go nuclear?, mostly on account of the lino nearest to us, and his somewhat eccentric interpretation of the offside rule, which has long been a ?bee in the bonnet? for the poor lad?s sensibilities. Luckily for Bill?s sanity, his own side would very shortly come up with an equaliser, a fortuitous strike indeed, and very much against the run of play, might I add. What happened? The lad Purdie was the architect of the damage, his cross from the right completely banjaxing the Torquay defence ? for the fist time of asking, that particular game? - which left Bulls lad Jeanin with but a simple ?whack? to net properly.

And, not a minute after the restart, the Bulls could so easily have made it two, even, their world-dominating ambitions being eventually thwarted by Torquay?s keeper dealing with the 30-yarder competently enough. The real boost, though, was seeing the home side?s attack going on all four cylinders once more. Now they were starting to string passes together, and in competent fashion, too, rather than resembling a job-lot of disorientated Muppets.

With the coming of the break, and the inevitable mint ?transfusion?, discussions tended to centre on the need for Andy Williams to be brought into the fray, and pretty sharpish, too. A little more pressure, and the awful series of badly aimed balls, mistimed tackles, etc. should become but a memory. Oh ? and a joke, from the lips of the redoubtable Nick Brade, too. Heard about the gay agoraphobic? The one that ?came out?, then promptly ?went back in? again? No, don?t blame me for that one, some things are just too horrible to contemplate, even!

And so, on to the second half, then. With 63 minutes gone, Hereford must have thought they?d been given an absolute lifeline, with the award of a penalty in their favour, somewhat fortuitously, I thought. Torquay immediately commenced various delaying tactics ? aw, you all know the score ? and the ref let them do it. Result? Predictable: the Bulls only succeeded in making the far post need another lick of paint. This incident was to re-occur come 75 minutes or so, but involving the visitors, that time. At first, the man in black seemed to award Torquay the spot kick, amidst furious Herefordian protests innumerable, but then ?yer man? inexplicably relented, and consulted his lino as well. Result? What had been a spot kick then became a free kick to the other side! I can?t recall, even, the last time I saw that happen at a game played at a similar level. An occurrence truly astronomical, if only by virtue of its infrequency! Well done to the ref, also, for having the sheer guts to admit he?d got it wrong, and change his mind accordingly.

All things considered, a draw was about the right result, Hereford being largely to blame, on account of sheer carelessness on their part. ?Must Do Better? has to be the note appended to their ?written work? by the class teacher, Tucka Trewick. Time, afterwards, to head on out, and in the general direction of the post-match Chinese buffet restaurant we normally use: their hot and sour soup is simply to die for on cold days such as these ? and the rest of their menu isn?t bad either!

So, what about tomorrow, then? Both The Fart and this column will be heading for Oakwell, courtesy of the Mammoth?s truly ?mammoth? coach transport undertaking. A strange place, Barnsley, not least because it has Roy Hattersley as a ?favourite son?. It?s also a place where the bitterness of the Miners? Strike, just over twenty years gone, still lingers on. Take a short diversion to the wall bounding the coach park just up the hill from the ground, and you?ll readily come across the acrimonious literate legacy painted there by belligerents of both factions. Barnsley also used to be the ground that boasted the presence of a club cat, completely white, too. I actually clapped eyes on the brute on one visit: sitting right outside the away turnstiles, it was, and totally indifferent to the presence of roughy-toughy footie supporters, as only the haughtiest of felines can be. One of the stewards told me it reserved its best snarling efforts for some Blues fans that tried to wind it up one Saturday afternoon: apparently, the first-aid guys in the ground were presented with some top-notch treatment and bandaging practice as a result of their foolhardy feline indiscretions!

The burning question just has to be whether or not John Hartson will get a start against The Tykes, on the strength of the goal he scored the other Saturday. Personally, I?d reserve him for the subs? bench only, what with his dodgy fitness level, and all, but I?m not the one calling the shots tomorrow, am I? Just as well, sometimes, but I don?t think myself mistaken on this one, at least. As for the rest, well, I reckon it?s Houlty in his normal slot, and at the back, minus Perry, suspended. Now Carter?s fit, the scramble for a midfield slot might prove lively, too. Strikers? As I said earlier, it might be Hartson emerging from that tunnel tomorrow. Oh, dear?. Result? Can we please, pretty please, finally bury that Barnsley hoodoo, and in front of the cameras, too? It?s not asking much, is it?

And Finally?. One. Not anything to do with the beautiful game, this one, but intriguing all the same. According to last week?s ?Observer?, Italy is currently in the grip of a serious organised crime wave, with our old friends the Mafia featuring prominently. But this is one with a real difference. It all takes off when lorries coming from the south of that country, laden to the gunnels with their precious cargo, take the trouble to rest up in truck-stops serving the Milan-Bologna motorway. Before their poor drivers even realise what?s happened, they?re hit over the head, then end up trussed up like turkeys, to be found, a lot later, dumped nearby. According to the Italian equivalent of our motorway police, the Sicilian-based masters of Omerta ? for it is their bullet-creased fingers orchestrating the entire thing ? can find a ready market for all those stolen ?wheels? either elsewhere in Europe, or, more likely still, flogged off again to small corner shops in that crazy country.

And the ?wheely? commodity that?s being targeted by the Mafia?s modern-day answer to Marlon Brando?s ?Godfather? pantheon? Er, not the things that make travel by road possible, or taken in the context of a slang word for one?s personal vehicular transport, even. Give in? OK, wheels of ? erm - Parmesan cheese, would you believe? Given most Italians treat the stuff in much the same way we do HP Sauce during mealtimes, it?s pretty easy to figure out how markedly the laws of supply and demand dictate the wildly fluctuating instances of this particular crime.

But another horrid thought grabbed me just the other day: just what would happen to the fabric of that country should the commodity of criminal choice suddenly switch to its awfully-pongy Gorgonzola sibling instead? Think ?cheesy socks and feet?, but squared and cubed, and you?ve just about got it. If you ever want to really ?blitz? a bunged up nose, this is the stuff for you! Assuming you?re not too upset about the lifelong friends you?ll undoubtedly lose in the stinky process, of course. Of one thing I?m sure, though: were the concept ever to become fact, all the investigating plods would have to do is merely follow their noses!

Two. What about a small seasonal (and topical) gift for the Dingle currently blighting your life, then? A tea-cup sized dose of Polonium 210, perhaps?

 - Glynis Wright

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