The Diary

24 January 2007: The West Midlands Constabulary's Finest Give Me A Post-Match Lift (To Put It Mildly!)

Sorry for being a little late, what with an enormous round of having to give moggies pills in abundance, feeding, changing litter trays, visits to vets (and paying off some enormous bills): at this rate, I reckon it won?t be too long before you?ll find me plying what one might term ?a certain well-known but ancient trade? at ?the back of Rackhams?, the place where females commonly labelled ?strumpets? in mediaeval times are known to gather for purposes of displaying their wares, according to local lore.

The difficult bit has been giving antibiotics to The Tabby Horror. Even when unwell, and having lost some considerable weight, he?s far too much for me to handle. The only way I can administer the stuff with any degree of success is to engage the help of both ?Im Indoors, and a huge, thick bath-towel, and not necessarily in that order. My battle-plan is to get everything ready beforehand, medicines mixed, and into the barrels of two separate syringes, then for Hubby to grab feline, while I wrap him firmly into said towel.

We then have literally seconds - he really is that strong, honest! - to get both lots into Puss?s mouth before he tears both towel and our hands to bloody shreds with his razor-sharp claws. We?ve now had some liquid medication from the nice vet-man (I was formerly dissolving the crushed tablets in water, and getting them into mog via those well-used little syringes of mine), so tomorrow morning?s session should be marginally easier to cope with. Said she, crossing both fingers as she said it!

We?ve also had Ron and Norm in the place for a couple of days. No, not Kray Twins soundalikes ? although I do wonder about Norm, sometimes ? just my mother-in-law?s fancy bloke, plus his son, boxing in our new central heating boiler, and fitting a new door to our kitchen for us. And wanting to know where various things are in the house, every five or so minutes, which ain?t conducive towards trying to compile this piece, believe you me!

Because of all the feline (and DIY!) problems I?ve been having, of late, I?ve not been able to properly update you all on the Leeds caper, as previously promised, so here goes. There?s always something you goof off about badly when writing something like this, and, as several people have been kind enough to point out, this weekend hasn?t been any exception. The first apology is for my assumption Rob Styles was the ?man in the middle?. No, he wasn?t, as I quickly realised the following evening, when I finally got around to looking at the papers.

I hate to do a ?sloping shoulders? jobbie for this particular one, but that came about courtesy of The Fart, who told me he was the match official before the game. As I?d not perused the programme beforehand, or listened to the PA properly ? to be honest, as per a lot of away grounds these days, it was damn-near impossible to properly discern what the damnfool hell they were blathering on about, most of the time ? I never once sussed that the ?man in the middle? wasn?t the odious Mister Styles, in fact, but someone completely different. Ooops!

I also omitted the best part of the day, for me, and that was being lifted over a crash-barrier by several of the West Midlands force?s finest! I would have preferred a fireman or three, actually, but beggars can?t be choosers, can they? How come? Well, it sort of went like this. When we got to the ground, we headed for one of the massive car-parks opposite, more or less, and once parked up, decided to save a little time by heading on out over a small metal barrier around two feet in height, there to prevent unauthorised vehicles gaining access, rather than exit via the entrance, if you see what I mean.

It being daylight, and my limbs comparatively warm after the long car journey, I managed to cock my leg over the thing and scramble across fairly comfortably. Come the end of the game, and following our meeting with John Peckham ? see later ? we quickly headed straight back to our vehicle, via that same barrier. The trouble this time was, as it was freezing by then, and my legs very stiff as a result of being in the cold all afternoon, I was completely unable to get over. In fact, I somehow contrived to get myself stuck in mid-clamber, one leg half-over, and totally incapable of further movement in either direction. Drats!

Enter, then, my saviours! The aforementioned coppers were in company with the local force, looking for bad hats of both factions, I guess, but when they spotted my and my distressful dilemma, they sprung straight into action! Each grabbing a limb ? ooer! ? they had me over that blasted barrier as quickly as Joe Kamara got his second, and very grateful I was, too! Not quite my ?knights in shining armour? ? a police helmet doesn?t even approximate, sadly ? but a noble deed done well, all the same. Mind you, it wasn?t half worrying when they all addressed me by my Christian name, and totally unsolicited: until that fateful moment, I hadn?t been aware that country-wide notoriety among the boys in blue was my lot!

Coo, the last time I got lifted like that at a football match was back in the winter of 1969, when Albion played Arsenal in the FA Cup, a rearranged midweek Round Five game (the weather was absolutely diabolical, the previous Saturday, when it was scheduled to be played) which we won 1-0, thanks to a nifty goal from Bomber Brown. Then, several nasty crowd surges had led to my hasty removal over the Woodman Corner advertising hoardings surrounding the pitch: I was tickled pink to be shifted by such nice young rozzers back then, and the feeling?s much the same after all this time, I?m glad to report!

(Slight diversion: after that game had finished, I took a shortcut across the pitch to get out ? you could do things like that with impunity, back then ? and discovered the surface to be absolutely rock hard to the touch, in the still-freezing weather, a leftover from heavy snowfalls that were the cause of the game?s original postponement that previous Saturday. I doubt very much whether the game would have gone ahead today, given the chances of someone?s pampered little darlings getting badly injured on that bone-hard surface were so high, most present-day bookies (or referees, perchance?) wouldn?t have touched it even with a shed-load of bargepoles at their disposal.)

As for our post-match session with John Peckham, it went something like this. Once inside our vehicle, we then shifted off the car park (before it embarrassed me any further!), and headed on into Leeds city centre, around two or three miles distant. As I?d not set foot in that city since 1971 (and not wanting to tarry particularly long at that time, owing to an awful lot of angry Yorkshire people out there, and mostly on the lookout for anyone even remotely resembling/sounding like Albion followers!), even though it was pitch dark, and making visibility difficult, I was truly astonished as to how gentrified, how trendy, even, the place had become over the course of the intervening 36 years or so.

Even without stepping out of our car, you could almost feel the buzz, the overall liveliness of moneyed youth having a good time, as we made our way around the maze-like one-way system, at John?s direction. Some trendy-looking places of evening entertainment, and an abundance of those with sufficient disposable income to spend lots of time and ackers in them, doesn?t half make a difference to the overall ambience of the place. Just one sobering thought, though: given how badly the recessions of the eighties and nineties hit the area, I did wonder just how many of those young people were locals, and earning sufficiently well enough to make such pleasures considerably more than an impossible dream.

Eventually, we found the place we were looking for, a Wetherspoons pub not far from the railway station. Once inside, we grabbed a table for the four of us, closely followed by the menu ? ?Im Indoors was so hungry, by that time, even an emaciated horse with spots on wouldn?t have stood a blind chance of survival in that place ? and proceeded to order, before he turned to cannibalism, or something.

While we waited for our nosh to materialise, John proceeded to fill us in on the latest doings of Leeds United, and their chairman, the cantankerous Ken Bates. And this wasn?t the rant of some latter-day United bandwagon-jumper, peeved because they no longer had European football on offer at Elland Road, remember: this was the real McCoy. John, bless his little twinkly toes, has been an avid Leeds supporter since well before the time the late Billy Bremner cut his infant teeth gnawing on other people?s ankles: home, away, Europe, the lot, he?d be there, cheering the Yorkshire side on, no matter what the prevailing weather or distance travelled. In short, Leeds has been his whole life.

It was in his capacity as Supporters Club official he got to know my other half, who was doing much the same thing at ours, at the time, during the mid-to-late eighties. Unsurprisingly, he?s currently less than impressed with what?s happening at the place these days: ?profoundly depressed? is how I?d have described his demeanour that Saturday evening, as we downed our post-match nosh.

Since his arrival at the club to take it over, Ken Bates has antagonised and alienated more honest-to-goodness Leeds people than even John could shake a stick at. Bates?s latest Cunning Plan to Do Things to Elland Road revolve around building ? yep, you?ve guessed it ? a hotel, the structure of which will be incorporated into the ground itself. Now where did he get that idea from, I wonder? Not difficult to guess: he?s actually described the plans as the ?Chelsea Village Model?. And it?s not just a hotel he wants there, either: Chummy also wants a heliport, and what he terms ?smart restaurants? as well! Somehow, even after having his fingers burned the previous time, he?s got it into his head that this sort of thing is the future of modern grounds. And despite the stark, plain fact that, among all Premiership clubs, Chelski is the only one currently ?enjoying? the dubious benefits of such opulence. All the others in the frame, The Mancs, The Arse, both Merseyside giants, have since opted not to go down that particular road, thank you very much.

This, in the face of pretty convincing evidence that nearby Leeds city centre is stuffed full of the blasted things already, so the local market?s nigh-on saturated, in that respect. If Bates does go ahead with his daft scheme, God only knows where the necessary demand for such services are going to come from, because it certainly won?t be forthcoming from local business people, who are very satisfied, thank you very much, with what they have in the city centre already.

There?s also an issue the size of the Grand Canyon regarding how he treats highly-respected supporters? groups: coming from a position where relations with the club were formerly excellent, communication between both parties good, with a genuinely friendly atmosphere of mutual trust existing between the two, to the present situation, where supporters? groups have been completely frozen out of the equation, and resulting in Bates making far more enemies than friends among grass-roots Leeds people.

Even some of the players haven?t been immune from harsh criticism on his part. The choice of Denis Wise as their new gaffer was not a popular one, by any stretch of the imagination. Most, if not all, of their ?family silver? has now been sold off. And, as we?re all aware, the side?s going into complete and utter free-fall as far as League competition?s concerned.

Because of all this, John is now a very disillusioned supporter: from attending just about every game going, he now picks and chooses his away games, and the sheer expense of going to Elland Road these days has also served to make him question his motives for going there on a regular basis. For where they are in the League hierarchy, their prices are something shocking. As I?ve said before, it?s a very sad club these days, and most regulars are now resigned to playing League One football ? what old codgers like The Fart and I used to call ?Division Three? ? next season. The way things are going, Elland Road will be hosting one of the biggest ?white elephants? in League One: not much call for multi-storey hotels, or heliport facilities, when the likes of Crewe, Rotherham and Port Vale come there to play, is there?

All of this, and more, did we discuss over fish and chips (me), and steaks (?Im Indoors, and John). A really pleasant way of spending the early evening, mostly picking up the threads after not seeing each other for the better part of 16 years, and, as you?ve seen, serving to put us more fully in the picture regarding what was going on at the Elland Road club these days. Dropping off John near his house, not so far away from the ground, and about as near as we are to The Shrine, as it so happened, we then headed off home, punctuating the lengthy journey with some musical in-car entertainment courtesy Steeleye Span once more. (Sorry, Mister Fart, but you did drop off: I know, because I saw you!)

The following morning, an early start beckoned once more: not so much going to a game as purchasing tickets for one. The attraction ? if you want to call it that - was our forthcoming FA Cup encounter with the Dingles, bless their knuckledusters, and cast-iron foreheads, of course. That meant joining a queue of some sort, so we took a bit of a gamble, leaving it until comparatively late to do so. Our rationale for this one was based upon the assumption that by the time we got down there, at around ten in the morning, the bulk of the ?overnighters? would have been served already, and the queue would have shrunk accordingly because of that. Well, we were partially right! Arriving outside the East Stand entrance, hard by the Astle Gates, we were greeted by the sight of a long line snaking sinuously beyond The King?s memorial bit of wrought-iron - bouquet of flowers lovingly inserted in between the vertical bars: in acknowldeglement of the fact it was the fifth anniversary of Jeff's death, I wonder? - then for a short distance along the ?West Bromwich? end of the railings beyond. Leaving His Nibs to park up, I quickly dived in to reserve our places. Not that we were the very last, mind: even in the few minutes I was there waiting for my other half?s return, several other groups fell in behind me.

It wasn?t all that long after hubby had returned, complete with camping stool for me to sit on, that we conversed with a chap we vaguely knew, just served with his own Dingles requirements minutes before. ?The way things are going in there, I reckon you?ll have a wait of around two and a half hours to get sorted?.? Blimey, that long?

?Got any GOOD news to tell us, then?.?? demanded a wag in the little group immediately behind us. Not that I heard any by way of reply, mind! Oh, well ? at least we could take comfort in the fact that the line was moving reasonably quickly, albeit snaking its way in and out of the East Stand concourse like a demented anaconda before shuffling leadenly inside the ticket Office proper. As we moved inexorably forward, we took some time to natter to that group of lads I spoke of earlier: turned out they?d tried to buy online, but decided to give it up as a bad job, and head on out to The Hawthorns instead.

Even so, at various intervals during the wait, they did make further attempts via mobile phone, but couldn?t get through for the life of them. (One chap actually did, and managed to book tickets too, according to this site?s message board, that very same evening: an achievement in itself, I reckon!) And what did we talk about while we were waiting? Just about every Albion-related topic you care to mention, including various other Cup games involving local rivals, the two most recent ones with Villa included.

And the corresponding ticket queues, too, the most memorable one of late being that for the second tie, the one played at Seal Park, where those waiting overnight had done so in near-monsoon conditions. I remember taking a batch of fanzines ? we were selling there that day, hoping to grab a captive audience in order to boost sales ? from the Throstle Club car-park in Halfords Lane, to where my other half was busy plying his trade, in the queue at the rear of what was then the Rainbow Stand, and over that short distance, getting caught in conditions that instantly turned the cardboard they were packaged in to complete mush. It was the devil of a job to hang on to the buggers, around seventy or eighty of them, slipping and sliding all over the place, as I shifted the 600 or so unpleasantly-soggy yards from A to B.

And there was the one for the Play-Off final, versus Swansea, around 14 years ago. Oh, how times have moved on since then! The thing with that one was that when the ticketing staff first opened for business early that morning ? Albion were using the Rainbow turnstiles as selling-points, if my memory serves me well ? they were immediately confronted by a bunch of Baggies who wanted to, literally, pick their seats.

Unfortunately, the logistics of the entire operation didn?t allow for that sort of thing. A nasty stand-off then ensued, only ending after some 45 minutes-worth of snarling and mutual recrimination, during which time nobody got served. The rest of us, thinking that the delay was caused by supplies running out, ended up panicking, mildly. Even after normal operations had been finally resumed, it was still mid-afternoon before we?d got our requirements properly sorted.

Thanks to our congenial companions, and their willingness to talk about all things Albion while we shuffled steadily forward, the wait wasn?t anywhere near half as bad as it could have been: best giggle of the morning was when we finally drew close to our Holy Grail, the Ticket Office doors. Said one of our new-found companions, as he observed the staff working their knackers off behind the counter screens: ?Either they?ve got tickets left, or they?ve got a bloody good sense of humour?..? Around five minutes or so later, we were sorted ? and guess what? Yep ? time taken, around 2.5 hours, given a minute or so either way! That chap we?d spoken to at the start certainly had it sussed when it came to ticket queues, and the time it took to negotiate one?s way to the head of them.

And, it seemed as though Albion had gauged the demand correctly: as I said earlier, we were most certainly ?Tail-End Charlies?. Behind us were around a couple of hundred more, but even so, there was very little, if any, indication that the supply of tickets was about to run dry. And I haven?t heard of anyone in that queue dipping out since, so I guess everything ran according to plan for the club. Now, after all the patience we showed queuing for the blasted things, we can only hope that our finest will rise to the occasion next Sunday, and trash the buggers right off the face of the earth!

Wow ? I think that?s everything covered, now. Even my numerous cuts and scratches, with liberal amounts of antiseptic and sticking plaster! Those mogs of mine are more like angry tigers than domestic pussies, they really are. Still, the vet?s now given me the OK to let them go outside, thank goodness, so it?s well and truly back to normal for me. Whatever passes for normal, that is! Back next Saturday night, complete with loads of ?Hail Marys?, in anticipation of our forthcoming Molineux ordeal. I didn?t really care for this one, when the draw first came shooting out of the hat, but now I?m resigned to it, the very last thing I want to see is our lot dipping out at their place, of course. Fifth Round, here we come? I sincerely hope so.

And Finally?. One. More about Denis Wise?s little strop last Saturday. It now looks as though he?s going to be reported to the FA for it. Having a go at Kamara ? or trying to - wasn?t exactly the wisest (er ? sorry about the pun!) thing to do, now, was it? Mind you, he does have ?previous?, and not necessarily on the field of play, either, as at least one Leicester player can confirm, after a pre-season get-together a few seasons back turned slightly nasty, and most of the fisticuffs at the time involving ? yes, you?ve guessed it?..

Two. It looks as though we won?t have any TV highlights at all of Sunday?s game, sadly. As one correspondent said to me tonight, it?s the mentality currently prevalent in this country that the Premiership clubs are the only ones worth bothering about these days, that?s the problem.

I know, you know, and even the club cat knows, that promotion only brings in its wake complete and utter predictability, and massively over-hyped, not to mention exorbitantly-expensive fare, at that. Sure, we have seen honourable exceptions to the natural order, like Wigan last term, and Reading this, but this time round, even the former are struggling ? been found out, finally, I?d guess - and as for this season?s early runners, a quick glance at the table will show that the ancient order?s now been fully restored, i.e. Man United, Arsenal, Chelski, and Liverpool. Boring, and terminally so.

Even with Christmas decorations having been returned to the loft only a matter of days ago, we already know how the current Premiership season?s going to pan out, don?t we? You?d think that the penny would have long since dropped with the vast majority of TV watchers, these days, which is why I find it so incredible that people still happily put up with the sort of predictable trash that ends up on their screens most Saturday and/or Sunday afternoons/evenings.

Compare and contrast with the Championship top six, which is still wide open, despite the current leaders, Derby, being seven points in front of us, stuck in fourth place: in fact, all it needs is for Blues to catch even more of a crab than they have done already with their fiasco of a pitch ? a nice little points deduction for the above embarrassment would really go down well, at this late stage, wouldn?t it? - and the whole thing could quite easily be chucked wide open there, as well.

Anyone currently in that top ten stands a reasonable chance of getting into the play-offs, should any of those present already ? yes, our lot included ? hit a bad run of results in the run-up to the finish. And we all remember what happened to the Dingles, around five seasons ago, of course! No, the Championship?s where it?s at, these days, if you want thrills and spills aplenty - so sod the Prem, I say!

 - Glynis Wright

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