The Diary

06 January 2007: Gasheads Tonight, Leeds Tomorrow.

What an absolute bummer of a week it?s been, as far as I?m concerned. The good news? I finally got Puss back from the RSPCA. The bad? On getting him back, I discovered the lame leg problem to be much worse than the time before, and very distressing it was to watch him trying to move, also. He?d also lost an enormous amount of weight, so I just tried treating the symptoms that night, what you?d do for humans with a stroke, basically, then rang our usual vet for more definitive advice the next morning. He actually wanted to see Puss that same day, so, come the evening, off we trundled, with Puss ? a slightly improved one, it has to be said: whether it was just luck or not, it would seem I managed to do exactly the right things the previous night ? well and truly in tow.

Anyway, several minutes of looking, poking and prodding later, our vet decided to admit him to their hospital, and that?s where he is, right now. Hopefully, we?ll be getting him back tomorrow, so that?s why I?ve got everything I can lay my hands upon crossed tonight. Not that the situation?s any better, mind; if anything, it?s rapidly getting to the point where I?m going to run out of options, where the cat?s quality of life will be seriously impeded ? and that?s the moment I?m really dreading, for obvious reasons. p On to other, more pleasant things, then ? which means the Main Branch S.C. meeting held a in the East Stand just a couple of nights ago. We were there, and so was The Fart: the guests? Don Goodman, and SuperBob. Also in attendance was Simon?s publisher, looking (and lurking, too!) for potential customers wanting to invest in an ?Albion Cult Heroes?, or three. Patience does have its own reward, mind; there were, indeed, several sales that night, so the lad?s journey wasn?t for naught, really.

As I?ve got such a long row to hoe tonight (partly because of feeling so down over Cyrille, also because my spirits plunged so precipitously in the wake of the Southend result, so please accept my profound apologies for that, too. I genuinely was feeling pretty low, not feeling sufficiently arsed to do all that much, really), suffice it to say that if ever the pair of them feel constrained to give up the beautiful game, there?s a bloody good second career out there for the two of them. In stand-up comedy, needless to say.

Don was the first to show, trademark hairstyle trying to leave his scalp by the most direct route, as per usual, and teamed up with a slight growth of facial fuzz. Later still, the man himself entered the room, wisecracking with MC John Homer in his own inimitable style. By that time the audience had swelled to a much more reasonable figure: by the time we?d got there, the number of Baggie souls in attendance was barely into two figures, so between us, we were pretty relieved to see that comparatively late surge of bodies, believe you me.

It was Don that set the tone for the entire evening, when he kicked off proceedings with the words: ?Despite appearances (indicating his out-of-control coiffure as he said it), I wasn?t a very good electrician!.....? Yep, unlike most young players taking the YTS trainee route, Don had started with a ?day job? to fall back upon, and only playing for Bradford on a non-contract basis. It was only after he?d well and truly got his feet underneath their first team squad table he elected to play full-time.

As for Bob, he?d also been brought up in what they both termed ?the real world?: prior to signing for Leeds, he?d done several other lines of work. He was also dead shy as a teenager, Bob admitted: when he came to Leeds, he was put up in digs just down the road, and given a bus pass to use for travelling purposes. The trouble was, for the first month he was there, once training was over, he never once ventured out of his digs! In fact, he?d left his parents wondering just what the hell had happened to him in that time!

Both said, though, that their respective groundings in the game had meant they?d kept far more in touch with reality than those professionals who?d made it by a more conventional route: i.e. via junior football, then from school straight to their respective clubs, with no experience whatsoever of any other sort of life. Both also opined that perhaps youngsters having experience of another occupation besides the one they?d chosen to join would help narrow the huge gulf that?s opened up between supporters and players in recent years. The cause, naturally, is the astonishingly-inflated wages players, even those wet behind the years, still, can command these days. They literally don?t know how the other half lives, a sad state of affairs that can?t be good for them at all.

There was much more, of course, one of the highlights being the moment when one of them let rip with a blast of wind of more-than-usual potency: certainly, it had John Homer shifting in the direction of ?away? with a rapidity that belied his advancing years, so goodness knows which one of the two was responsible for that enormous methane-based insult to global greenhouse gas levels: neither one would own up, certainly! The mortified look on John?s face when it happened: had I my camera handy at the time, I could have dined out for years on that picture alone. Priceless.

Tonight, though, it was off to see Bristol Rovers do battle with The Bulls in the FA Cup 3rd Round. That?s Hereford United to you, squire, just in case you?d wondered. This was an encounter I regarded as something of an ?amuse bouche? to the ?main course? being served up for our delectation tomorrow, with televised ?afters? kicking off on both Sunday and Monday, presumably. At least I didn?t have to scrabble about for our well-dog-eared A to Z this time: no, sirree, we?ve got a proper Satnav to perform that onerous chore for us, now. Prior to this week, we?d have had to enlist the services (and good eyesight) of The Noise, especially when it came to sussing out all the more obscure routes to London sides taking us on at home, but now we let our little box of electronic tricks take the strain.

Mind you, we hadn?t gone more than around five miles, when I felt the distinctive urge to just chuck it out of the window, and pretend we?d never bought the blasted thing on the first place. How come? No, not the voice telling us where to take turnings, etc, just the fact that the bloody thing wouldn?t stay stuck to our windscreen, no matter what I tried to do to make it stay there. Eventually, after rather more bad language than is normal for a lady of my advanced years, I finally made the thing stay where it was meant to, but it was a close run thing: that, or my patience finally running out of road!

Anyway, once we?d joined the southbound M5, it then behaved impeccably, and troubled us no more. And, to tell the truth, I was dead impressed with its accuracy, and the clarity of the spoken instructions issuing forth every time our progress met with an alternative travel option. Real idiot-proof navigation, it was, and I truly marvelled. With an Aussie voice, no less, and just one of a range of vocal options, apparently. (I?m now seriously whether there?s any commercial mileage to be had by coming up with a ?thick as s**t Dingle? type voice, or, looking at the thing more laterally, a ?curmudgeonly old fart whinging and moaning about their rheumatics every single time they?re asked to give directions? alternative!) Had someone told me around 30 to 40 years ago we?d all be carrying little gadgets that size in our cars, and to ease considerably the palaver of getting from known ?A? to unknown ?B?, I?d have weed myself laughing at them: either that, or sent for the little men in white coats, I suppose.

But don?t knock it: get us there it did, and with loads of time to spare, too. A shame it couldn?t have indicated some good parking places at the same time, but that?s the navigational game for you, I suppose. Anyway, after a lot of searching, we eventually found a likely spot, but situated a good half mile away from Ground Zero. And up a steep incline, too, something that didn?t do my own back troubles much good, either, but it could have been much worse. Right at the bottom of the hill, in Fishponds, where the relevant M32 junction is located, for example. Mind you, the technology having come as a by-product of research and development of intercontinental ballistic missile technology, you?d have the thought that the very least it could do would be taking out pretty sharpish a few of the cars preventing us from parking in a more sensible spot!

It?s pretty amazing who you can bump into when going to neutral games, mind: in our case, it was Kiddy Branch head honcho Roy Hayden, ?going native? in his spare time, but currently heading in the opposite direction, in order to transfer some purchases made in the Rovers shop to his car, parked a good deal nearer the place than we had. But, then again, he?d arrived that much earlier than we, hadn?t he?

As for the Memorial Ground itself, because of its predominantly rugger ancestry, the place was both laid out - and looked - considerably different to most League grounds at that level. Or most other levels, come to think about it! After going though the ?away? turnstiles, one for seated punters, the other for those preferring to stand ? we?d plumped for the former beforehand, for obvious reasons ? we then found ourselves sitting inside a structure, behind one set of goals, that bore considerably more resemblance to the type of marquee you find at small village fetes, domestic garden parties, that sort of thing, rather than a covered area for football supporters. The indigenous Gasheads, being much more pragmatic about these things than we, actually call it ?The Tent?!

You certainly couldn?t sue the Bristol club, citing a duff trades description as your reason. Plastic canopy comprising the roof, and the sides of the structure, with nice wooden floors seemingly put there solely for the benefit of people like my other half, who enjoy enormously aping their Premiership near-neighbours by doing convincing seal impersonations, clapping, stamping and honking loudly, as necessary throughout the entire 90 minutes. So impressed was I with my other half?s performance, both before and during the game, I actually offered to open him one of the moggies? spare food pouches once we?d got back. The fish selection, naturally!

And the complete and utter incongruity of the ground didn?t end there, either. To our left was a peculiar-looking structure indeed, giving our untutored eyes somewhat more than a broad hint of a cricket-type pavilion. Not extending the full length of the ground, and possessing a roof with a curious ?bump? in the middle, under which was the camera gantry. Below, a balcony containing a small number of seats: ooh, around 150, at most, I?d say. That was backed by what looked suspiciously like executive-box-type accommodation. Probably more for the benefit of the ?rugger buggers? than anything. Below that was Plebs? Country, a narrow strip of terracing running the full length of the pitch.

There was terracing also behind the set of goals at the other end, covered, if I remember rightly, with a much larger double-decker cantilever thingy to our right, and taking up a fair sized bit, but not all, of that side of the pitch. To its right was a bit of open terracing, away fans, for the use of, and with a small overflow to the left also. Incidentally, so huge was the away attendance tonight, Rovers had no alternative but to open that bit of the ground for business: with some 15 minutes of the game on the clock, they were still pouring in. Probably victims of the huge and absolutely diabolical traffic problem that calls itself Bristol, if truth were known. Legend has it that the natives are worse drivers than those hailing from the metropolis: having experienced their ?skills? at first hand on several occasions between 1978 and 1990, when I lived there, nothing at all would surprise me, coming from them.

And it wasn?t only the fabric of the place that was peculiar, either. Once through the turnstiles proper, ?Im Indoors tried to purchase one of their justly-famous Cornish pasties from the refreshment stall situated just inside. The trouble was, they hadn?t finished warning up, yet! ?Come back in about 15 minutes, moi dear?..? gurned the youth running the place. Even batter was the plight of the bloke several places in front of us: taking his goodies well in hand, he prepared to quit the counter by taking the teabag inside his cuppa, and giving it a good old ?swish? around inside. One small snag, though. No teabag whatsoever to be found in the water, anywhere. Nor any tealeaves to drink from, either!

Thinking this an attempt by local religious leaders to emulate the multiplicity of miraculous feats their ?gaffer? was responsible for by performing a ?delayed-action? transmutation of the contents into the desired liquid, no doubt, the bloke took his cuppa back to complain. The cause, however, was much more mundane than that, sadly: the guy serving had simply clean forgotten to introduce brown-coloured leafy infusion to cup!

We?d already seen The Two Old Ladies Of The Night, Mavis and May, so we simply headed off in their direction, ?Im Indoors still muttering darkly about the non-availability of warm food and drink right at the time you most wanted it, then plonking ourselves down right next to the pair of ?em. Just as ?Im Indoors headed away for a second attempt to claim his steaming prizes, above our horizon came steaming a very busy Nick Brade, flogging Hereford ?zines like they were going out of fashion. Also bearing his own newly-purchased comestibles, he was, and ploking himself directly in front of us. And, much later, came ?Talking Bill? The Noise?s Herefordian ?alter ego?. Based quite near that city, is Bill, so tonight?s trip would have been a relative doddle for him.

Some moments later, back came my other half, all the goodies in hand. ?Ah, he?s back?, said I, ?We can start the game, now?.? Certainly, but a minimal amount of minutes after I?d said that, both lots of combatants emerged from the players? tunnel. One truly horrible moment: just before beforehand, the Rovers PA had promised ?A reminder for all Gasheads (named after the gasworks that used to exist hard by their old Eastville HQ, by the way) of our Twerton Park days?..? That was the reason why those sitting the closest to us were treated to the instantaneous sight of two grown adults simultaneously emitting loud, anguished moans: no, we did NOT want to be reminded of what transpired between both their club and ours, back in May 1991, thank you very much!

Add to all that a safety briefing that not one supporter in that stand, good hearing or otherwise, could accurately discern, and you had all the ingredients for a crazy sort of game in place. It being one of those places where the action is very much ?in yer face? for visiting players (Colchester?s Layer Road HQ is remarkably similar in both size and ambience), that made for a pretty atmospheric start all round. The problem was, though, Hereford were labouring gamely on, despite the majority of their strikers and midfield being out through either injury or illness.

One of their lads had managed to go down with a nasty dose of glandular fever, a debilitating viral malady that leaves those suffering from it very run down, and sometimes depressed, and that can go on for months, in severe cases. That was why I couldn?t believe my eyes upon seeing him named as one of their subs! Another was suffering from an equally virulent complaint, although I couldn?t quite find out the precise nature of the malady affecting him. He too was tenanting the bench: I could only hope that the demands of modern football of someone already debilitated wouldn?t result in a setback for the lad.

It?s fair to say that the first half was a pretty close-fought thing. Up until around the 30 minute mark, both sides were putting in the necessary spadework along the flanks, and at times, the visitors looked capable of doing even more. What held them back, proved to be their undoing in the end, was the lack of any sort of cutting-edge about their play. Approach work good, final ball into the box absolutely awful! As for genuine attempts upon goal, I reckon Hereford had only the one the entire first half.

Then, with 30 gone, tragedy struck for The Bulls. Their keeper brought down a marauding Bristolian, and in the box, too. Not surprisingly, the ref pointed straight to the spot, and Rovers didn?t waste any time putting it away, either. That put them ahead, and slightly against the run of play, I would say, but that?s what you get for not capitalising upon the few scoring chances you do see coming your way, isn?t it?

And then there was the fun and games at the other end, when the home side?s keeper went down, and to what the visiting contingent massed behind that goal deemed to be thespian behaviour writ large. Well, it certainly seemed that way to me, what with holding his head, at first, then switching to his knee once the ref had stopped the game, as he was bound to do in such cases. Clearly, he had suffered damage of some sort, but I strongly suspected the lily was being gilded, and to a near-unacceptable degree, too. From then on, every single time that custodial gentleman touched the ball in anger, he was getting it in the neck from that enormous Bulls contingent penned right behind him!

Come the interval ? no mints, Mavis and May? How dare you let the side down, ladies! Had to giggle, mind, at Nick?s comment about their PA bloke and his assertion, as both sides left the pitch: ?Great noise from The Gas, first half?.? Yeah, ?great noise from The Gas?,? mimicked he, ??Someone?s house just blew up?.? Before we knew it, even, they were kicking off for the second half of the evening?s fun and frolics. This time, The Bulls were shooting towards their opponents? home terrace, and more to the point, making a right old pigs ear of it, too! Oh dear ? not exactly in the noble tradition of Ronnie Radford, Nemesis of Geordies everywhere, following his astonishing goal for the cider-slurpers circa 1972, and that historic Third Round tie with their novocastrian opponents, from which they emerged triumphant. More in the noble tradition of the scrap yard just down the hill, really!

Sure, they huffed and they puffed, but try as they might, they just couldn?t blow the home side?s house down. Life?s a real sod when you can?t put the ball away to save your life, isn?t it, Albion? Even the introduction of Andy Williams into the Herefordian fray ? the goalscorer, not the crooner! ? couldn?t swing it for them, so the final whistle must have come as some sort of merciful release for them, I suppose. A shame, that, because had the visitors been at something resembling full strength, I reckon Rovers would have been ?passed to death?, so to speak. As it is, they?re reduced to spectator status, and a good 12 hours before anyone else gets to have a go, too.

Which includes us, of course! At least this will serve as something of a break from the bump-and-grind of normal League action for our jaded troops. According to the club, we might be playing our most recent recruit, Robert Koren, fresh in from Scandinavian outfit Lillestrom, a Slovenian international midfielder, apparently. More likely, though, he?ll be on the bench. Why the hell we need yet ANOTHER attacking midfielder on tap, I just don?t know. Perhaps it might behove us far better to grab us a gash striker from somewhere, methinks? Or a defender with more than a smidgen of assertiveness about him, n?est ce pas? (Another bit of late news, via The Guardian: Spurs have had their ?5 million bid for Curtis Davies knocked back, it would seem. Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Wigan?s, for Ellington, has seemingly hit the buffers! Doesn?t mean that?s their final word, though. Remember Jason Koumas, Houlty and Big Dave, all those years ago, with agents and whatever all playing ?hard to get?? )

Alby? Suffering from a groin problem, according to various sources, so he will certainly be out. Nigel Quashie is suspended, so he won?t be figuring in this one either. In any case, it might be that he?ll be on his bike in but a few days, so if only for that reason, he?s better off not taking part. Leeds? They just go with the ?Flo?, so they tell me. Tore Andre Flo, their new signing from Norwegian club Valerenga: the oracle tells me he might well be playing, as their other striking option, Tresor Kandol, fresh from Barnet, is cup-tied.

As for the rest of the ?lame and halt? Gary Kelly has a bad back (cue for joke, I know!), and Killgallon has a dicky ankle. With a name like that, it really ought to be his waterworks giving him gyp. Frazer Richardson went down with a hamstring strain on New Years Day, versus Coventry, so he won?t be dancing the fandango either. Add to that lot Jonathan Douglas, suspended, and that?s their sick-list for you. They will have freshly on tap midfielder Shaun Derry, with new signing Robb Elliott keeping his place at the back. Hayden Foxe, Matt Heath and Rui Marques fight it out for the two central defender places.

Let?s all hope we make a far better fist of it than the complete and utter imbroglio witnessed at Roots Hall on New Year?s Day. Those who travelled to that one deserve a medal, they really do, or their money back in lieu, at the very least. Whatever was going through the motions out there back then, it certainly wasn?t an Albion side, not in the sense that I know it, at least. They most certainly owe us one for that shambolic performance. Let?s hope we can walk away from this affair with considerably more dignity than we managed versus The Shrimpers. On paper, it looks like yet another ?no brainer?: a side tasting life at the very bottom of the heap mixing it with one situated slap-bang in the play-off positions.

And that?s the rub, the ?on paper? bit. Denis Wise will want a result to boost confidence, not to mention some much-needed ackers for the cash-strapped Yorkshire side. If we can go in front quickly, and stay there, then I think we?ll be booking our passage into the next round. Stuff up in any way, though, and they?ll have an angry home crowd, already on a short fuse as a result of Monday?s nonsense, ready to give them several varieties of hell by way of recompense for a wasted afternoon. And we all know how passionate the United faithful can be, sometimes. (OVER-passionate, I?d say, given their previous track record when playing crucial games on our patch, but I?m sure their followers will conduct themselves impeccably, come the morrow.) Be sure, if they get one first, they?ll know about it as far away as Smethwick High Street. And so, I suspect, will our manager! Still, it?s only a game, isn?t it? Well, that?s going to be my excuse, the very moment that red mist first descends! Let?s hope it doesn?t come to that, and be done with it, eh?

And Finally? One. Comment of the night, apropos the Rovers keeper,and his somewhat tardy recovery from that so-called ?knock?, sustained following a seemingly-innocuous first half Hereford challenge. Said Mavis, as the bloke made it look like he was doing his utmost to return to a standing position, but wasn?t getting all that far along with it anyway: ?It?s like waiting for Jesus Christ to resurrect?..!?

Two. Just what am I supposed to make of a room I encountered, when visiting the ?facilities? come the end of our soiree with Supes and Don Goodman, that had the legend ?ALBION CREATION? on the door? Is it a place where our backroom staff get busy zapping a solution containing organic salts of some complexity with zillions and zillions of volts of pure electricity, the eventual (very long-term!) idea being to come up with something rather more ? erm ? ?evolutionary? in the way of suitable playing material, I wonder? I think we should be told!

 - Glynis Wright

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