The Diary

27 December 2006: PMT for PNE, courtesy NE!

Before I get down to business, may I start by wishing every Baggie out there the compliments of the season, and a Happy New Year in prospect for everyone? There you go ? done. Well, we?ve had a pleasant break, and very bibulous, it was, too. After tracking Santa?s movements across Europe on NORAID come Christmas Eve ? in case you didn?t know already, that?s the multinational organization tasked with the job of protecting us from nasty nuclear missiles these days, although since the collapse of the USSR, it?s becoming awfully difficult to work out just who or what they?re supposed to be protecting us from ? and following the fighter escort sent to expedite his task further, we had a nice quiet evening in. Sorry, but tripping the light fantastic in crowded pubs isn?t our thing these days.

Come the Big Day, we set about opening our pressies, of course. I knew what one was, a bigger camera bag. But there were others, including a brand new First World War tome, and lots and lots of smellies. As for ?Im Indoors, he knew he was getting a couple of new belts, but he also got lots of tempting choccie, and some socks that looked as though they?d been in Sellafield?s main reactor for about a week, so bright was their appearance ? and a classic ?own goal?, both of us buying the same pressie, a Bill Bryson autobiography, for each other! Oh well ? at least it demonstrates how close we are in thought, still, after all those years together. Our day was also punctuated by various text messages, all of ?em emanating from the Lewis clan, to no great surprise on our part. See, they can?t even shut up when given the opportunity of communicating via the electronic void! And what?s more, young Bethany had a brand new mobile phone for Christmas ? a bit like running whisky to the Apaches, I call it, but who am I to argue? ? so that meant even more electronic tinkly noises emanating from the region of my other half?s left trouser leg! Oh, yes, and before I forget, once more, the multitalented ?Norm? rustled up an amazing Christmas dinner (goose, this year, very traditional, that) for us. And remained fairly sober this year, which was a relief considering the potential for serious injury carried by the average carving knife!

So, on to other things, then. I can?t rightly remember who it was that called some country or other ?a mystery wrapped up within an enigma?, or who the country in question was. Might have been China, come to think about it ? sorry to sound so vague about who said what about whom, but I honestly don?t know! ? but whoever it was fitted the bill at the time, you could sure as hell plaster those same sentiments slap-bang across the face of the football club we all happen to support. And they wouldn?t dare sue, I reckon: in short, I?ll never understand West Bromwich Albion, even unto the day I finally pop my clogs. Today?s events simply served to add rather a large amount of fuel to the fire that is my pet theory.

Perhaps a more apposite simile is provided by the example set by my four cats: cute little furry, purry creatures one minute, snarling, claws-bared puffed-up bundles of furious felines the next. In short, as unpredictable as the wind itself, but on form, and in full fig, just as deadly as any hurricane you might happen to meet when doing the weekly shop at Tesco. Yep ? welcome to the wacky world that is West Bromwich Albion, folks: I trust you?ve brought all your marbles with you, and kept them safe, because if you haven?t, it?s as sure as Baggies in the Brummie you?ll lose ?em ere the season?s progressed much further.

Well, I ask you. Just what are we supposed to make of a side that passes the ball around the park as sweet as you like some of the time, then, for its own perverse reasons, elects to play like Laurel and Hardy for the remainder of it? I?m thinking ?middle and back?, here. Especially at the back. Were some of them on some daft bet or other this afternoon, the sort of bizarre wager that ordains defenders to pass to the opposition right in front of the target area, midfielders to simply pass to an invisible man lurking on the touchline, and forwards to a ghostly colleague moving into the box on the offender?s flanks? Or to have three Albion players facing just one solitary Preston defender, in their own box, just before the end of the game, and the obvious move being to pass the bugger to death, then pot into an empty net, thereby putting the matter beyond all reasonable doubt? Sure, we got away with it, just ? again! ? but these are problems that sorely need to be addressed, and quickly, if ours is to change to ?Premiership Club? come the start of the next campaign.

Actually, when leaving the ground after the final whistle today, after hearing all other results, a rough calculation between the pair of us put us just one miserable point outside the play-offs. Wrong! When we got back, and dialed up Sky?s very comprehensive footie show, we quickly discovered that in actual fact, we were sitting in sixth position, and only three behind the automatic promotion places proper. The way I see it right now, Blues are going to go up for sure. Whether as champions, or not, remains to be seen, but I can?t for the life of me envisage anyone else strong enough to come between them and a top two finish. Preston? They looked a bit lacking at the back today, especially as far as our first two strikes were concerned, although their own firepower might have had better results on another occasion: effectively, this one was massive for the continuance of our promotion hopes, today, a six-pointer, if ever there was one ? and we somehow (don?t ask me how!) passed the test.

As you get lower down the ?ladder?, though, that?s when it starts to look really interesting, especially from our point of view. Southampton could only draw with Palace, so that was a slight dent in their prospects, and what is now fifth placed Cardiff - I said they wouldn?t sustain their battering-ram-style assault upon the top two spots for very long, and I guess recent events have now proven me right ? drew two apiece with Plymouth, at their place. Good old Darren purse got himself booked,, too. Bless the Dingles, though, for their result at Derby, emerging the winners by two clear goals, and by doing so, giving us a massive bunk up the greasy pole. Now come on, all you lot up the A41, don?t be shy. Whatever passes for minds in those uncluttered craniums of yours might be telling you that the gold-and-cack persuasion is the only love in your sad and stunted little lives, but sometimes, I get a funny sort of feeling that within all that outwardly-naked aggression and considerable lack of intellect, there?s a closet Baggie struggling like hell to get out, isn?t there? Whatever the truth of the matter, maybe it was just as well we did overcome Preston today, because had we not done so, our Dingle chums would have overtaken us, for sure.

Once more, our matchday journey took us into the Hawthorns pub, and via the Press entrance, where His Nibs picked up a box file full of pictures from the GD archive, which Lawrie Rampling has been scanning into his own PC over the holiday period. I believe the general idea is to make these pics available to the club, but I may have that wrong, so apologies, Lawrie, if I have got the wrong end of the stick. Anyway, into the pub I dived ? my other half having to nip to Lawrie?s vehicle to grab the objects in question ? and, finding the place practically deserted, grabbed our drinks prior to grabbing us a table. Funny, though, when I asked the nice man for a Coke, he said there weren?t any, despite the fact I cold see loads of 2-litre bottles gracing the bottom shelf of the bar!

Quickly pointing this out, I got the matter sorted, although the guy did say afterwards he thought I was on about cans of Coke, and not bottles of the stuff! Doo wot? One other thing that?s bothering me concerns what type of receptacle they use to serve soft drinks in there these days, a nasty plastic concoction that looks a much smaller measure than the bog-standard half-pint jobbie you get in most pubs, normally. More suited to spirits with a mixer, I would have thought, but in no way capable of containing half a pint of liquid within. I can?t help but wonder whether that?s legal, or not, so if there are any Weights and Measures chappies (or chapesses) reading this, please let me know.

El Tel, having had a lift to the ground from someone else, would be an absentee, pre-match, but not so the Lewis clan, all three of ?em. Not so much bursting through the door, as taking the bloody hinges off, as well, Carly noisily scrapping with Bethany for ownership of one of the spare seats on our table, much to the disgust of the bloke sitting in the one next to it. And it wasn?t long before Bethany began to do things with her new acquisition, either: that?s the effect zillions of free text messages have on you if you?re twelve years of age, apparently! I can only assume that in buying her the phone, The Noise feels like some scientist overseeing an experiment that promises, if successful, to increase the sum-total of human happiness immeasurably, but if unsuccessful, capable of having some distinctly unpleasant repercussions upon Mankind. The most dangerous combo known to Man: a Lewis family member, and a phone, of whatever description!

Mind you, we didn?t hear a lot from The Noise today: more interested in perusing the contents of the photo file we?d lent to Lawrie, and now back in Im Indoors?s sticky mitts once more. Quite taken with the contents, he was: not so much a walk down Memory Lane, as a whirlwind tour, given the fact a good many of these pics were taken during our Third Division days, back in the early 90?s. (Carly?s comment, made from the relatively Olympian heights of her 16 year-old brain, was: ?These pictures look dead old?..? From circa 1991-92? Old?

Such is the sheer clarity of the Noise?s memory concerning the games where these were taken, he was able to identify people and places ? and players, not just ours, but those of other sides, too ? we?d all long since consigned to the pongy dustbins of Baggie memory. Dead good, though, to hear his comments, getting shriller by the minute, about the plus points and shortcomings of pretty well all the players he was able to identify, which was around 99% of the total, I would say.

On, then, to what is now known, by popular consensus, as ?Anorak?s Corner? ? and a little surprise. Gone was the printed notice proclaiming that part of Halfords Lane to be the nerds? paradise it professed to be, and in its place, a proper wooden sign, the sort you see adorning the front gate of houses. The message it conveyed to the bystander was precisely the same as its temporary forbear, but in a much nicer sort of way. All together, now: say ?Ahhhhhh?..? Mind you, the minute we encroached onto their patch, we just as quickly wished we hadn?t: the topic up for discussion was ?Which Albion keeper was, statistically, the worst of the entire lot?? Now remember, this is just about every season from the late 1870?s, we?re looking at, here, and that?s an awful lot of keepers, by anyone?s lights! Quite an effective defence mechanism our tame geeks have evolved, that: within a matter of seconds, we were both off and well out of it!

Because of our relatively rapid retreat from Steve The Miser?s statistically-infectious domain, we were relatively early through the turnstiles, for once. Just as well, really: when I say the area underneath the Halfords Lane Stand was packed, I really do mean what I say. Even a sardine would have sued for infringement of its piscatorial rights, I reckon, so bad was the crush. So bad, it took me around six or seven minutes to cover the short distance from one end of the concourse to the other, the problem being the Ladbrokes betting outlet stuck just in front of the two catering points, and with both bogs in close proximity, too. The effect was such as to result in a distinct ?cork popping out of a bottle? feeling on my part. The sooner we can get those facilities modernized, the better, as I see it. Mind you, the matter may well be taken out of the club?s hands completely before too long: my understanding is that the electrics in that stand are badly in need of updating (I heard the phrase ?potential fire hazard? bandied about at one point), and so expensive would that prove, one option might ? note that word, please! ? be to demolish the whole shebang, and have another go. Certainly, when you look at the Halfords from the top of the East Stand, it doesn?t half look tatty, by comparison, these days.

But on to the nub of the game, then. No sooner had we plonked ourselves down in our sockets, the ey announced the teams. For Preston, one very familiar name, that of Danny Dichio, who featured in both our first promotion ever, and the Premiership season that followed, eventually tootling off to London, then fetching up at Deepdale. Quite a likeable character, he was, and that was reflected in the genuinely warm welcome he got from the majority of our followers, when his name was read out on the PA system. Once a Baggie, always a?.. Well, you knew that anyway. Oh, yes, and they had a chap called St. Ledger turning out for them, also. Wonder if he was any good when it came to betting on the old gee-gees?

As for our lot, we lacked Clem, suspended after the previous Saturday?s Devonian alarums and excursions, but, surprisingly, as I?d thought they?d both reached their fifth booking during that same game, Jason Koumas and Robbo graced us with their classy presence, today. Mind you, this ref was taking more bookings than Thomas Cook this afternoon, so it?s very likely we?ll be made to pay for our past sins in similar fashion come our next scheduled skirmish on the Championship front.

Oh ? and another thought, this time, about today?s match official, a Mr. Mathieson, of Cheshire: in the pub, before the game, The Noise had described, in his own inimitable manner, of course, what a complete and utter waste of space he was (sanitised version!), as far as controlling a match at this level was concerned. True, The Noise did qualify that statement slightly by adding he was basing his opinion on the last time he?d seen him perform, some 9 seasons ago, but, as he reminded me so forcefully at the time, ?you know what these people are like?. As it turned out, our garrulous chum had it just about right: had it been left to me, I wouldn?t have put the guy in charge of a public toilet, so awful was his decision-making. Mind you, even then, he would probably have given the Harpic cleaning powder a penalty for seriously impeding the bog-brush on its errand of mercy. More of him later. The ref, not the bog-brush, I mean.

A fairish crowd had turned up for this one, and on a bitterly cold day, too. And Preston had brought a fair few of their followers down the M6 also: not surprising, really, when you consider the wonderful season they?ve been having, and how easy the trip is from their place to ours. And, as you might expect, the sort of Boxing Day bonhomie that?s always around football grounds at this time of year. Not so much the alcoholic sort, such activities being deemed streng verboten by our law-makers, these days, of course: even so, strain you nostrils only slightly more than for a ?normal? game, and it wasn?t all that difficult to discern strong whiffs of the proscribed substance, carefully hidden behind a goodly dose of vacuum flask coffee, or tea, of course.

Dull might have been the day, but as far as the game was concerned, ?dull? was the last sort of description most of those present would have cared to slap on it. The fun, if you want to see it as that, started more or less right from the start, when Kev Phillips had a go, then, in an act of Boxing Day over-generosity (yes, I know, Boxing Day is the time when those better off, financially, give to those less fortunate, and our football club repeatedly kept up that tradition for most of the game, it would seem!), our rearguard decided to stick with that by gifting Danny Dichio the bladder. Into the danger area the ball sailed, and up rose the Preston lad for the header ? fortunately for everyone, it ended up safe in the arms of Houlty and not in the back of the net, where it should have gone, by rights.

That?s typical Albion, isn?t it? You curse ?em to high heaven one minute, the next, you?re on your feet and ?boinging? with the rest ? and that?s more or less what happened in this case, although not quite with the same rapidity as the Coventry caper. Jason Koumas was the architect of this one, may his shooting boots never lose their shine, but it was Preston that surprised me the most, in the build-up to that successful strike. Instead of trying to dispossess the former Tranmere lad without further ado, once he?d been given the ball byCarter, as most defences worth their salt would have done, they simply backed off, and backed off ? and carried on backing off, fatally so, as it turned out. Well, I mean ? all he needed was sufficient room in which to complete his deadly destructive work. Before you could say ?Tom Finney?, he?d pulled the trigger, and from quite a way out, too. Their keeper tried to stop Niagara falling, but it was way, way too late.

One-nil the scoreline, then, and furious the entire Preston bench! And revenge, short and sweet, for Jason himself: for some reason unfathomable to either Man or Baggie, their crowd had been booing him, and right from the moment his name was first read out on the PA system, too. As John Homer so gleefully commented, the very same moment the ball struck home: ?Now boo him, yer b******s!?

Not long after that, Joe Kamara nearly laid on a repeat of the Koumas effort: same build up, but from the halfway line, and nearly the same outcome, had their keeper not brilliantly palmed the bladder away for an Albion corner. A shame that didn?t go in: had it done so, they would still be shouting its brilliance from the rooftops, even unto the dead of night, which it is, here, of course. Whatever their leader?s pre-match instructions in the visitors? dressing room, it was becoming abundantly clear to everyone he?d dropped a rollock of massive proportions. And it was about then that Jean Homer had a bizarre call on her mobile: her daughter wanting confirmation we were one-nil in front. Nothing particularly special about that, you might opine, and under normal circumstances, you?d be dead right, of course ? but when you consider that call was coming all the way from sunny Australia??!

It was around that time also that our midfield and rearguard began to indulge in the charitable acts I alluded to earlier in my piece. You?d think that bog-standard passes and lay-offs would be no-brainers for players turning out at that level, especially those with international experience, but once again, that so-called ?Albion Effect? began to assert itself. Was this some sort of built-in death wish on our part, I wondered, the result of some gypsy?s curse or other, made in the dim and distant past? Aw, you know, the same sort as that allegedly visited upon the St. Andrews persuasion at the turn of the 20th century, the one Barry Fry tried to ?exorcise? by the simple expedient of pointing Percy (and its resultant barrow-load of well-ripened wee) straight at all four corners of the ground?

Whatever its provenance, it still carried a fair proportion of its intended virulence. Clearly, not a single Baggie had ever tried to remedy the situation in the same bizarre manner as The King?s former mate, because we suddenly found ourselves living somewhat dangerously. Preston, stung, were clearly winding up for the equalizer. We needed a second, urgently ? and, come the 24th minute, Joe Kamara duly obliged. Not quite as spectacularly as his previous effort in that direction, but still praiseworthy. And, once he?d buried it, I couldn?t see for laughing, either.

Hysteria? Not a bit of it: during the build-up, Carter charged down the field like a Challenger tank filled with rocket-fuel by mistake, but when in close proximity to their box, instead of taking it on himself, he laid it off to Curtis Davies, running like the clappers to the left. That was too much for The Bloke In Front Of Me: ?RUBBISH!?, was the cry, and not just the once, but twice, to fully ensure our bench had got the message properly. Sadly for my morose little chum, his second snarl-cum-expletive came just as the lad squared it for Joe, also running into the box like an express train with the safety valve blown to smithereens, and with no discernable marking trailling in his wake, either. Potting the black was therefore an act as simple as writing his own name. ?Rubbish?? Oh dear. The worst aspect of the whole episode was trying to get my complete and utter mirth at Chummy?s virtuoso performance back within the bounds of common decency again!

Cue for the Smethwick ? or rather, some unknown wit within it ? to chorus: ?You should have gone to the sales?..? at their counterparts to their immediate right. I can only assume that they were distinctly underwhelmed by our wit and repartee; certainly, for not a few minutes, there was very little in the way of noise, positive or negative, emanating from that particular part of the ground.

By now, we?d constructed a very handy ?cushion? against the very worst Preston could do. So, why the hell did we so nearly blow it by conceding a bloody penalty ten minutes before the break, then? To be strictly fair to the ?offender?, Robbo, it did look very much a case of ?ball struck hand? and not the other way about, but then again, I?m not exactly the most impartial of people when it comes to these things, am I? Anyway, harsh or not, they?d got a lifeline, one they should never have had, strictly speaking, and we?d got our work well and truly cut out just to keep that by-now slender lead intact. No wonder that in the Halfords, old codgers everywhere were making hasty readjustments to the sensitivity of their heart pacemakers, and Valium was being popped by the lorry-load.

In the minutes that followed, Dichio made a creditable attempt to nut in the equalizer, but just a couple of minutes after he?d gone so close, the thorny hand of Mr. Mathieson, red card within its firm grasp, descended upon the balding ex-Baggie, poor lad. And again, I reckon the decision ? for an alleged ?elbowing? incident involving Len Cantello impersonator Paul McShane, was a pretty harsh one. There might well have been ?contact? there, but not the malicious sort. That?s just not Dichio?s style. No wonder their lot were going ballistic in the Smethwick ? and I couldn?t really blame them, either. Even John Homer, perplexed, turned to his missus for explanation, at which point, she promptly said: ?Well ? it IS Boxing Day?..?

That wasn?t the end of the half?s activities, though. Before the ref blew up for the break, Koumas and Kev Phillips both tried to restore things to what they were before the penalty, making their keeper earn his coin in the stopping of them, too. And, thanks to the official?s less-than-competent handling of matters, when it came to his turn to leave the scene of the crime, he got booed by BOTH sets of supporters for his pains. Quite an achievement, that, but our lad certainly managed it!

Come the restart, cometh the crucial Albion goal? Errr ? not quite, although Kev Phillips did get close at one point. With around 15 minutes of the half gone, our bench deemed it was time for change, so off went the busy John Hartson, and on came Nigel Quashie by way of replacement. One of the by-products of the change was Greening shifting to the right, where he seemed to cause Preston some real grief, for once. But just when you think you?ve got everything sorted, in come the opposition to go and spoil things again! Mind you, I couldn?t say I was totally surprised when Preston equalized, with around five more minutes more on the clock: such had been the charitable extent of our midfield and rearguard up until then, my only surprise was that it hadn?t happened much sooner than it did.

Once again, the real agent of our downfall was one of those awful defensive ?After you, Claude. No, after YOU, Cecil!? howlers footie-lovers the whole world over know, and dread, this particular one involving McShane and Robbo, it would seem. The capacity of our football club ? or more to the point, the players employed by it ? to stuff up with such regularity, and spectacularly so, never ceases to amaze me, it really does. As for the BIFOM, he?d gone well past the ?snarling? stage by then, and was now hovering at the very bounds of the point where some act of great violence was in real danger of being perpetrated, the likely recipient being our manager, of course. No, there wasn?t great gouts of hissing steam emanating from both lugholes, as yet ? but there jolly well should have been, judging from the sheer amount of pent-up anger contained within that vengeance-ridden phizzog!

Perhaps there is something in the concept of mental telepathy, after all. Why do I say this? Easy: just six or so minutes, and another Albion subbing further down the line, we?d restored the lead. This time, the fatal wound came courtesy a free-kick just outside the Preston box, and Nathan Ellington, Carter?s replacement, lining up to take it. The former Wigan man?s form has been somewhat patchy, of late, so my hopes of seeing him convert successfully weren?t all that high when he went to take the set-piece. Imagine my surprise when the ball plopped right into the corner of the far post. Even more surprising, considering their keeper looked to have the situation well under control, but for reasons best known unto himself, let the ball slip through his fingers and into the back of the net. Such grossly negligent inattention on their keeper?s part immediately prompted our Smethwick End ?glee club? to burst into song, with a chorus or two of: ?Are you Zoobie in disguise?? Cruel? Yes, but most certainly not inaccurate. Blimey: ?By George, I think he?s got it??? No ?rain in Spain? for our lad, whether ?on the plain? or otherwise: just an awful lot of noise coming from both ends of the ground, and all singing his praises, for once! Why, even the most inveterate rug-carriers and vacuum-flask-toters sitting in our stand managed to rouse themselves sufficiently to acknowledge that one!

The goal seemed to spark something long-buried within the deepest recesses of our lad?s soul, all of a sudden: now, Nathan was very much ?cooking on gas?: in fact, at one point, he seemed to gain some assistance from cunningly-hidden ?afterburners?, ones that seemingly kicked in as he progressed along the left, and in the direction of the corner flag, leaving his Preston ?minder? completely for dead. Only one place in that part of the human body where such jet propulsion could come from, of course: perhaps it?s better we don?t dwell on the fact for too long, eh?

Then, just before the end, Ellington struck again, making the whole shebang as safe as the Bank of England for the Baggies. This time, our lad nutting the ball Jeff Astle-style, into the net, just beating their keeper to the punch while he was at it. A fitting end to a closely-fought game, one that neutrals must have enjoyed enormously, it has to be said.

As for we frazzled season-ticket holders in the part of the Halfords that represents our normal beat, I guess the feet-high pile of shredded fingernails tells its own story! A massive win, and one that sends the flame representing our hopes of getting out of this division very much in the ascendancy once more. That win means we?ve only lost one at home since the start of the season: truly, we have a Festung Hawthorns going for us there.

With our away form though, it?s a completely different kettle of fish: we really do have to improve our results on the road, and quickly, otherwise, we?ll be completely jiggered, if there?s to be any possibility of ?baby-snatching? an automatic place from whoever tenants second spot nearer the season?s end. Just the brace of wins on the road, to date, isn?t good enough, period. Improve on that, and we may yet have a fighting chance: it?s been said by those far more knowledgeable than me, and stacks of times before, but in the squad we do have, right now, there?s the nucleus of a promotion side. Buy astutely, and we?ll make giant strides towards eliminating the ?eejit factor? that seems to be such a large factor playing against us, right now. We?ll also get on board those players that genuinely want to be part of something special, and leave those who want to jump ship the means to do so. The remainder of our festive season games will prove vital to our ultimate fate, I?m sure. The big problem still remains, though ? how badly do they want it?

And Finally?.. One. Spotted in the Halfords: Vic Stirrup and his equally-antiquated chum, Les, both sporting T-shirts emblazoned with the legend ?Vic And Les ? The Original Baggie Boys.? Just as well they didn?t wear one in Queen Victoria?s day, mind. She certainly wouldn?t have been amused!

Two. I think I mentioned it the other week, but just a quick reminder that Carly is going away to France with her parents and little sis very soon, to Gay Paree and Disneyworld, as I understand it. It?s all in aid of helping her perfect the spoken side of the language nicely in time for her GCSE?s proper, apparently. As we said our fond farewells before today?s game, though, we did persuade her to take part in a particularly fiendish plot while out there, and hatched by us more or less ?on the hoof?, wicked sods that we are.

It just so happens that neither The Noise nor Jayne speak a single word of the language, so the evil thought we?ve put into Carly?s head is to get them into some restaurant somewhere in the city, one without translations on the menu, preferably, then proceed to order for them. But not the sort of stuff your average Brit is either comfortable or familiar with, mind: I let the word ?escargot? struggle (slither?) past my lips once, and it all deteriorated from there, sadly! Yes, I confess, and frogs? legs, also, whatever that is, in French! As we put the thought into her head, I could see the faint glimmer of a wicked grin cross her lips, so I reckon we?ve found a kindred spirit. Now you know what?s likely to be in store for our garrulous chum and partner out there, don?t you? But will Carly have the bottle to make it happen, I wonder, or will her newly-acquired sang-froid desert her in the face of what?s likely to be complete and utter Gallic overload for the lot of them? You?ll just have to keep reading this column to find out, then, won?t you?

 - Glynis Wright

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