The Diary

07 February 2007: Virally Yours, Glynis Wright!

A very virus-ridden ? and somewhat belated - ?Hello? to all you lovely Baggie-people out there, which, I hope, will go some way towards explaining why no Sunday evening post-Hull effort, and why I?m now penning this somewhat belated apology. The pathogen responsible for the problem was already with me when we three intrepid Baggies travelled up to Hull, last Saturday, but consisting of a mild sore throat and sod-all else, it was strictly low-level nuisance-value stuff, end of story.

The real problems first started on our way home that night: as Dave Holloway?s transport of delight headed approximately southwards, a gradual inability to keep my eyes open crept upon me from the blind side. By the time we?d dropped The Fart off at Chez Wills, it gradually began to dawn upon me that whatever it was I had was going to hit me bloody hard, which it later did, sure enough, and with compound interest chucked in for good measure.

Somehow, I managed to compile Saturday?s effort ? and that was that. By that stage, I was having trouble just remaining sufficiently compos mentis enough to read either emails or the varied electronic flotsam and jetsam that washes up on the rocky shores of our PC following a game, never mind write a bloody column. I even managed to fall asleep over the bloody keyboard while I was typing, much to His Nibs?s amusement.

Come Sunday morning, realisation came very quickly that I most certainly wouldn?t be accompanying ?Im Indoors, plus his mum and the redoubtable Norm, to the birthday meal the newly-aged Simon Fraser Wright (Hee! Hee! Sorry, just had to do it again: must be the first sign I?m finally turning the corner. Or something?..) had planned. And that?s how it panned out, unfortunately. Tonight?s been the first occasion I?ve felt sufficiently well enough to apply belated finger to keyboard, so here goes for a ?quickie?, then.

Going by the way the entire thing knocked me right off my feet within a matter of hours, high temperature, whanging headaches, various muscular aches and pains, slight sickness, etc. it?s either a pretty bad cold I?ve had, or a dose of the flu. Even walking the hundred yards or so to our local newsagent and back the other day knocked me sideways. But don?t send the DEFRA slaughter-merchants around to our bijou dwelling just yet: mine is most certainly not of the avian H5N1 variety. I?m saving that one until we travel to Brain-dead Country for the Great Dingle Demolition Derby Part Three, scheduled to take place in but a few short weeks? time. Bog-standard upper respiratory tract infections are wasted upon that lot. Mind you, so unsanitary are their normal habits, they were probably rendered plague-proof yonks ago!

It?s also a well-known scientific fact that even viruses can be discerning little sods, sometimes: they?ll quite happily trash the lining of one?s upper respiratory tract in order to grab DNA aplenty so they can do their courting, get married, have babies, then busting a microscopic gut (all joking apart, that?s precisely what they do when they successfully strike the human body, the simple act of viral reproduction ripping apart cell nuclei innumerable, in the process?) trying to get their numerous nippers into what?s deemed a ?good? educational establishment for that particular area.

(?Ooooo, ?ave you tried getting ?em into The Larynx, yet? Bloody good OFSTED report the last time I looked on their website. But whatever you do, don?t bother with Upper Nasal Tract, dearie: only 25% got five good GCSE?s last year, so they tell me, and the trouble they keep having with all those horrible snotty kids coming up from The Pharynx, well?..?)

Result? The feverish, ache-ridden, sweaty immunological chaos we all know and love (and to which hard-hearted bosses stubbornly refuse to attach sufficient credence, even when you?ve phoned in sick sounding like the last survivor of the epidemic, and quite probably are by that late stage in the proceedings!) Chuck in a bad back on top of that little lot, and it?s a high old time I?m having, right now. Not.

Still, at least our favourite football team goes from strength to wonderful strength, even if my immune system isn?t, right now. I?m much cheered by the fact we?re now above Blues, and giving the Deepdale mob more than a few subtle intimations we?ll be after their top-two place mob-handed, ere the first buds of spring start to coyly peek through the previous autumn?s decayed shrubbery.

Which won?t be very long, now, by my reckoning: on our way to The Fart?s house last Saturday evening, and passing the bounds of a nearby public park en route, I was more than well-pleased to note that not only are crocuses now cloaked in full yellow and purple floral symmetry around those there parts, even the daffs are about to take a somewhat precocious star billing on those verdant verges. Makes a bit of a change, that, council property actually being fit for purpose, for once. Spring at last! ? not only is it early, it?s ?official?, as The Fart would say. Whoopee!

Another reason I?m now putting belated finger to keyboard is to fulfil a promise I made to a fellow-Baggie, back at Hull, last Saturday afternoon. Like the nice little Baggie I am, I?d taken full details of what he?d asked me to publicise in my trusty little notebook, OK, but not knowing then that I?d be stricken with the dreaded lurgi within a matter of hours after the game - so I?d better just get on with it, then, hadn?t I?

OK, fellow-Baggies. Are you sitting comfortably? Then I?ll begin. It all started while I was spending some time in the bowels of the KC, batting the pre-match breeze with some Baggie chums of mine, prior to kick-off last Saturday afternoon. In the process of bleeding some other poor Baggie sod?s tympanic membranes dry, a la Martin Lewis, I just happened to notice a chap called Alan Jones-Bratt, of Sutton Branch, nattering to a chum while bearing gifts, in this case, a plastic bag containing what looked, to my untutored peepers, rather like an extremely smart golf-type sweater-thingie. What really caught my eye, though, was the logo ? ?West Bromwich Albion Supporters? Golf Society?. Coo, tell me more, do ? I?m all ears, I said, albeit deaf ?uns, at times.

And that?s precisely what he did, mes enfants, which was basically why I was ?on a promise? to give this venture some publicity, and why I?m now feeling rather guilty about not having done so much, much sooner. Never mind, better late than never, I say. So, what?s the scoop, then? It?s this: what the lad?s trying to set up is a Golf Society aimed at those Albion supporters who want a bit of camaraderie and out-of-work pleasure (Ooer, missus! But all in the best possible taste, let me assure you!), and vastly different from the usual Baggies matchday norm.

And the lad?s been more than proactive, he really has. Already, his little venture?s affiliated to the English Golf Union, so it?s very much a kosher set-up, right from the word ?go?. As I understand it, the long-term aim is to either donate any surplus finds to local charities, or strive to help Albion?s youth set-up in a financial sense, expenses incurred sending teams to play elsewhere (pre-season games, friendlies, that sort of thing), either here, or in foreign climes. And it?s not just local people they want: it?s anticipated this will eventually become a much bigger concept, so they?ll be looking to organise tournaments involving Baggies domiciled in much further-flung parts of this sceptred isle, as well as those living on the doorstep, so to speak. Members will be very much competing for trophies of one sort or another, of course.

Alan tells me that their first ever formal competition will be held at Beaudesert Golf Club on Tuesday August the 9th, with contestants playing for the Steven Hayden Memorial Golf Trophy, in association with the Hayden family themselves, of course, and Care Leukaemia charity. For those of you not already in the know, Steven, son of Kiddy SC Branch organiser Roy Hayden, succumbed to that horrible disease not so very long ago, after an extremely brave battle to conquer it, one which included attending as many Albion home games as his fading health would allow.

Knowing Steve, I?ll wager anything that he?s already linked up with both The King and Ossie, humour-merchants par excellence in their own right, both of ?em, and between them, giving the Heavenly Hosts no end of subsequent trouble via practical jokes, such as hiding Saint Peter?s Big Black Book whenever there?s guard duties to be done at the Pearly Gates, haloes innumerable super-glued to passing bits of cumulonimbus, stuffing the folded wings of sleeping angels full of large hailstones, with predictable results as soon as their owners next deploy them, ordaining plagues of frogs innumerable to fall upon Wolverhampton, swapping normal Heavenly varieties of harp music for something written by Jimi Hendrix ? as performed ?live? by the artist, too, in a manner of speaking, more like than not ? and very, VERY LOUD as well, I?ll bet. Seriously, the world became a much sadder place after Steve left it. I?m really tickled pink to hear his memory will now be honoured in this wonderful way.

Membership? Here?s the nitty-gritty, then: it?s anticipated fees will be ?20 for first-year new members (including affiliation to the English Golf Union, and free polo shirt bearing the club logo chucked in as well,): it?s also anticipated that other golfing merchandise will be available by the time everything gets properly up and running. Not sure whether that will be gratis or not, but I?m sure ?yer man? will be more than happy to let the finer details loose upon you, should you give him a bell. After that, renewals will be ?10 pa., with non-playing membership a cool fiver per annum per throw. Old Farts like me and The Genuine Article will be tapped for ?17 quid in their first year, and ?7.50 thereafter. Half-yearly membership?s cool also ? March-September ?7.50. ? with playing non-membership of ?2.50 per tournament entered for, plus course fees as payable locally.

Events planned for this year already? The Gloucester thrash has very much come and gone, so let me interest you all in Patshull Golf Club, located in ? wait for it, very sharp intake of breath here, folks! ? not-so-lovely Wolverhampton, on Saturday March the 10th. There are others planned, and popping up in some pretty obscure parts of the country, too, as I understand it, so for the low-down on those, please feel free to ring Alan on 07786 708362 or mail him on alb@interweaveltd.uk. (Confirmed technophobe Great Auntie Glynis: Sorry, but I don?t have the slightest clue about how to set up the internet link! Just stick that in your address box, then ?suck it and see? as it were!)

He?ll be absolutely delighted to hear from you, so don?t hesitate giving him a bell either, should you want even more scrummy details from him regarding this particular spiffing wheeze of his. (ANOTHER GLYNISNOTE: Was that OK, mate? Just leave the plain envelope full of used twenties in the usual place, right where I can find it, OK?)

Hopefully, I?ll be back to normal (well, whatever passes for normal!) come next Friday evening, so expect pre-Southampton musings of one sort or another from me by then, OK yah?

And Finally?. Could it be that poor old Zoobie will shortly be upping sticks and returning to the Land Of The Castrati Yodel Following The Very Sharp Knife Blade Applied To The Region Of the Family Jewels? Not to mention William Tell, and his somewhat funny ideas about alpenhorns, cattle, crossbows, apples, bolts, and small children. Not necessarily in that order, of course!

Might turn out to be the face-saving solution to everyone?s woes, if it comes off. It must be catching, that: seems that John Hartson might also be exchanging the sybaritic delights of the Black Country for pastures new, very soon. Ditto, my above remark? Too bloody right, say I.

 - Glynis Wright

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