The Diary

13 September 2003: A Bull's-Eye View, and Tractor-Boy Thoughts

Us, to a Hereford supporter, outside the away turnstiles, pre-Farnborough game:

?What?s made the difference this year, then??

Hereford supporter: ?Richard O?Kelly.?

Us: ?In what way??

Hereford supporter: ?Simple. He?s brought in Albion players instead of Wolves players???

Coo-ee, I?m back?.. From the cider-strewn delights of sunny Herefordshire, and absolutely raring to go for tomorrow?s Hawthorns festival of frivolity and fun. Hang on a mo, though ? it?s Ipswich we?re playing tomorrow, isn?t it? Better belay that last sentence then; our recent record against the East Anglian club is hardly a distinguished one. Am I right in thinking the last time we recorded any sort of a result against them was way back in the mid-Eighties, at their place? Another Albion bogey I?d dearly love to well and truly consign to my snot-ridden hanky tomorrow. On paper, at least, we stand an excellent chance of doing precisely that. Their current Division One position is hardly suggestive of a side aiming to set the league alight this time round, and their financial position is ? er ? brassic. Ironic, really, as not so many seasons ago, they were renowned for their fiscally-prudent approach to sourcing, buying, and selling class players.

More of that later, but what of the previous six or seven days for this column and all who sailed in it? Well, as I mentioned last time I ?produced? on this site, as planned, we took a pleasant little Saturday jaunt down to darkest Hampshire, and Conference outfit Farnborough Town, who were hosting table-topping Hereford United that day. A definite ?first? for me, as I?d never in my entire life set foot inside their place, unlike my ?other half?, who did the trip around six or seven years ago. The ground holds around 4,100, which is considerably below the 6,000 needed to satisfy the Football League regulations, and only just scrapes past the 4,000 minimum capacity demanded by The Conference. In short, they punch considerably above their weight, which is immediately evident the minute you emerge from the turnstiles and into the ground proper. There?s a small seated stand (?facilities? simply slapped down, mind you; no backrests, just bare seats bolted onto what was formerly terracing) for away supporters on the opposite side of the pitch, with its home counterpart on the other. The rest is pukka terracing, and not much of that either, situated behind both goals, and extending towards the bits used for seating in both directions. For ?car park? read ?dusty and boulder-strewn waste ground nearby?. In midwinter, the whole shebang must resemble The Somme battlefield on a $p bad day. In retrospect, I suppose the phrase ?bad day? neatly summed up what happened to the home side that afternoon. Hereford, lords of all they surveyed in the Conference, brought around 300 of their noisy faithful with them. Not impressive by our own high standards, I have to admit, but truly magnificent for what is, to all intents and purposes, the ?fourth division?. And they didn?t half make some noise. Most gathered themselves behind the away-end goal, but a sizable proportion elected to roost in the seated accommodation instead; of them, more later. A quick natter to some Bull-lovers we knew (see the snatch of conversation that prefaces this piece), and then it was to our seats for what we hoped would be 90 minutes-worth of footballing Nirvana.

On arrival in the stand, we quickly discovered that some of Hereford?s travelling faithful had imbibed more fully of that county?s famous intoxicant than was strictly good for them, because no sooner had both sets of combatants entered the arena, their behaviour quickly degenerated into something more familiar to those who customarily attend the home of our recently-promoted local rivals. At least they drew the line at smashing the place up; the abuse was mostly verbal, which was a bonus of sorts, I suppose. This boorish behaviour was exacerbated by the fact that one of the linos happened to be female; I?ll leave their comments to your collective imaginations, because it?s not repeatable here. Back to the action, then ? and what a bloody game. Within minutes of the kick-off, the visitors notched up their first, and just like Outer Circle buses, the next two weren?t long arriving as well. Having no particular agenda to follow, I found the entire demolition job something of an embarrassment to watch; the home supporters must have experienced similar emotions, because they too were totally shell-shocked, stunned into silence. Farnborough were totally ripped apart by their ambitious opposition, whose first-half clinical dissection of the home side stirred unpleasant memories of Highbury a scant 12 months ago, and that opening 25-minute spell where we were absolutely blitzed by The Gunners.

And the second period was equally disastrous; not long after the restart, Farnborough conceded a penalty, and even worse, one of theirs walked for the offence. Duly slotted away by The Bulls; four goals to the good, then, and with no prospect whatsoever of a ten-man home team revival in sight, the visitors took their foot off the gas pedal for the first time. Mind you, it didn?t prevent them from sticking yet another in the old rigging just before the end! Five goals, on hostile territory, and with no reply. By that stage, my heart really bled for the home supporters, all totally, mute and heading forlornly for the exits long before the end. It must be really hard for them; not long after last season?s Cup successes, their chairman quit, went to another club, then, adding insult to injury, took most of the then-current team with him. Makes our own history of managerial defections look tame by comparison!

The best bit of all, though, came when we emerged from the ground and onto the brightly-sunlit car-park outside. So chuffed were the away support by the emphatic nature of that victory, those who?d made the journey by car gave vent to their feelings in similar fashion to the way we did following the penultimate game of our promotion season, the one at Bradford. Aw, you remember ? as the saying goes: ?If it hoots, honk it!?, and the noise was absolutely deafening! I know, because so swept up by the occasion was ?Im Indoors, he simply had to pitch in with his own four-wheeled contribution to the war effort. On that merciless showing, Richard O?Kelly and his Bulls are looking pretty good for a return to the Football League come the spring. Following two teams likely to top their respective divisions come crunch-time? At this rate, I?ll need to affix large lead weights to His Lordship?s ankles to keep his feet firmly attached to the ground!

The fun finally over, it was westward at a rate of knots, in the general direction of our bijou bolthole ?somewhere in cider-country?. Quite a long pull, it has to be said, via the M3, M40, M42, and A456, but we finally made it shortly before nine, listening en-route to the England-Macedonia game, followed by the first-half of the Italy-Wales effort. As we headed towards our destination, in the rapidly-darkening sky, for me, a bonus; not far from the newly-risen moon, my first light-pollution-free look at the not-so-distant planet Mars, a bright red beacon not far above the horizon. Lovely.

The rest of the week we?ve spent simply relaxing; a quick trip into Hereford on Monday to do some shopping, some sightseeing elsewhere, and on Wednesday, for me, a ?first?. A belated birthday present from ?Im Indoors; an hour?s lesson in a two-seater plane, courtesy of the nearby flying school. Nothing particularly unusual about that part of it, as I?ve flown that way before, but what was incorporated this time round was certainly different. Not only did I get to do a bit of aerial photography over Hereford and our second home, I quickly found out the pilot was into aerobatics; never before in my life have I done a barrel-roll in an aircraft, but I have now! More than one in fact; absolutely shit-scarifying the first time of asking, but totally exhilarating when repeated. Not something most people of my age do, I admit, but so enjoyable was the whole experience, I reckon The Red Baron (German ace Von Richtoven, of World War One fame) may well have competition before too long!

The other ?highlight? of the week was seeing ?my? cygnets finally outgrowing their parents? apron-strings. A sad occasion in many ways, as I?ve been faithfully recording their progress on camera ever since early spring, when proud Mum first showed them to her admiring public, namely me. Now I know how a doting parent feels when her pride and joy finally head off for university, or whatever. Just two swans on the lake, eight youngsters, and all reared to maturity, I?m pleased to report. Watching them go their separate ways, I fervently hoped the cold hard world out there treated them well this coming winter. Not so good, though, was the torrent of spuds randomly strewn on the surrounding roads by carelessly (over?) loaded farm trucks, or, more likely, their drivers. Just try following one of these vehicles and see how little time elapses before you fear for the integrity of your windscreen. Seems to me they?ve been taking that hymn, the one that goes, ?We plough the fields and scatter the good seed on the land?.? a tad too literally for my liking!

Back to reality today, and a return to GD Towers around early afternoon, in good time to receive yet another Dick delivery courtesy of Paul The Mad Welsh Printer. I?m pleased to say no rogue asteroids or tropical storms hindered his progress along the M50 this time; the only snag lay in getting the subbers? copies in the post in time for the final collection! A new Dick for your delectation tomorrow, then; for those who can?t wait, there?ll be copies available from Steino?s in West Brom Market as from mid-morning, and also The Old Cross, Langley. As far as tomorrow?s encounter is concerned, I suppose the main talking points centre around both Sakiri and AJ. As far as Artim goes, as I?ve been out of the loop for several days, I know little of what?s gone on bar what I?ve seen in the national press and on the internet tonight. Personally, I reckon the whole thing?s a bit of a storm in a tea-cup. Sure, Sakiri might have said something threatening to Beckham, but in my experience, that sort of thing has been going on in the game since time immemorial. In fact, I remember the late King telling me once about Steve Perryman?s intimidatory tactics way back in the late sixties, and Leeds United were, of course, past-masters of the art around that time. In cricket, it?s called ?sledging?, but the principle?s similar. Give an opponent enough verbal grief and, if of a sensitive nature, they?ll be thoroughly-cowed for the entire game. At least, that?s the theory. Anyway, how many times have you heard people say, ?I?m going to kill you!? or words to that effect? And how many people have actually gone on to try their luck? Not many, I?ll bet. Thinking about the morrow once more, Meggo might simply leave Sakiri on the bench purely because the guy?s just played two hard games in seven days.

Of more concern, though, is the prospect of another confrontation between AJ and a certain Mr. Santos, late of Sheffield United and Neil Warnock, but now most definitely a Tractor Boy. Following their spectacular Bramall Lane ?matter-antimatter collision? late in our promotion season, it wasn?t rocket science to deduce that there might be a considerable residue of bad blood still lingering between these heavenly twins (we heard their quarrel continued in the tunnel shortly after both parties left the Sheffield action for wildly-differing reasons!), so putting them in opposing sides on the field of play once more might not be the greatest of contributions towards world peace, methinks.

The final score? Oh, soddit; I?ll stick my little neck out for once and predict we bring home the bacon against this lot for the first time in yonks. Another boring one-nil, no doubt, but a win would set us up quite nicely for the trip to Wigan next Tuesday. Here?s hoping.

 - Glynis Wright

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