The Diary

13 March 2007: Any Good News To Be Had, Anyone?

Oh, what a wonderful 48 hours I?ve had. Not. The Dingles we all know about ? I?d much rather have left things otherwise, but that?s the way the mop flops ? but yesterday, well, late afternoon, actually, I went to see our quack. Not about obtaining quick and easy euthanasia, courtesy acute post-Molineux depressive illness, mind, but regarding a nasty-niggling problem I?ve been having with my left leg of late: in short (well, being only five foot three dripping wet, I flaming well have to be, don?t I?), part of my thigh has been, at various times, numb, painful, and tender, or all three in one go. All I can say by way of comment, afterwards, are three small words, viz: don?t go there, find a much nicer ailment to inflict upon yourself instead.

Given the great amount of traipsing around (and standing, although the Gobbing Gallery is seated, allegedly) I had to do for that Dingles thrash, by the time we got back to our jam-jar, post final-whistle, I could hardly walk. Not so much because of the familiar vagaries of my back and sciatic nerve, this was something completely different, which was why I had to get it sorted, one way or another, and fast. So, off I trundled to the good doc, late Monday afternoon ? and that was when I learned I had a ?trapped subcutaneous nerve? in my thigh. Great. No wonder my gait closely resembled that of the late Douglas Bader, and I had to up my daily dose of painkillers by a considerable amount to cope with it all.

The good news? Our quack reckons it?ll all sort itself out, and within a couple of weeks, with any luck: if not, then I?ll need to employ a somewhat bigger hammer to fix it for good. As long as I?m not examined by either Bluenoses or Dingles (I am assured there do exist, out there, those Wolverhampton-born rarities possessive of sufficient intellect to cope successfully with a medical school curriculum), I really couldn?t give a flying fornication for anything else they choose to do to me.

Just for a change, yesterday evening saw us journeying over to sunny Tipton. What a wonderful place to live: such is its awful reputation, even now, it?s still considered somewhat outr?, even by those who currently comprise a fair proportion of its populace. Let me put it this way: when I was a kid, the area was known to all and sundry as the ?Lost City?, and believe you me, very little has changed over the course of the intervening years to make me feel any different about the name.

Mind you, we weren?t there to visit anyone in particular, be they dog-head or Baggie, just patronising Mad O?Rourkes pub. Yes, dear overseas-based Baggie, that really is the name of the place, honest. Had it any pretensions at all towards that culinary equivalent of social climbing, ?gastropubs? with their attendant Michelin starred chefs, they?d have bussed in not a few heavyweight food critics to give their considered opinion on the fare on offer, packed the place up to the rafters with the sort of discerning chattering-class clientele one normally finds infesting ?lifestyle? glossy pull-out Sunday sections, racked up the prices to appropriately stratospheric heights, then raked in the profits afterwards.

But, as we natives all know, The Black Country doesn?t work like that: most of those born and bred within its boundaries can?t be doing with all that lah-de-dah stuff, so what the guy who started the chain did, instead, was keep it simple, and, above all, keep it local. Which is why I ended up scoffing faggots, mash and mushy peas, and ?Im Indoors ended up with steak and chips, the latter with liberal lashings of that thixotrophic fry-up staple, HP Sauce ? ply me with pork scratchings on Wednesday night, and I?ll let you in on the secret of what it actually means! - piled upon it as well. Bostin?? Too bloody right.

Funny to think that even as recently as twenty years ago, professional footballers, even England internationals, all considered cow?s bum and chips to be their ideal pre-match ?fuel?: hell, as I was saying to ?Im Indoors as we were scoffing yesterday, back then, it wasn?t entirely unknown for players to turn up at grounds with a pre-match skinful inside them, too. How attitudes have changed over the years: once, such intemperate behaviour on the part of a player would have had certain entire dressing-rooms in stitches, manager, coaching staff, the lot. Nowadays, even the faintest suspicion of booze on breath would have most managers instigating disciplinary action of some sort or other, and with a hasty bum?s rush out of the club organised for the ?offender? at the end of it. And as for the mere thought of The King necking a huge bag of fish and chips just three hours beforehand ? as I was so hilariously told by Laraine, just a couple of seasons ago - that would undoubtedly get sports dietitians these days turning pale on the spot, then making hasty excuses to leave the room.

Now for a few more thoughts about yesterday. One thing I?m finding real difficulty in coming to terms with, is the stark fact that in the space of but a few short weeks, we?ve gone from a side that was scoring seemingly for fun, to one that now can?t score to save its life. Is this all bound up with the fact that Mister Kamara seems to have hit a bit of a barren patch, of late? And let?s not forget his equally-barren striker-chum, Mister Phillips, either. And another thing. How much is down to the plain fact that most opposing sides now seem to have grasped the connection between stopping us from playing - by the use of either fair means or foul, none of them are proud - and them subsequently grabbing either a share of the spoils, or all three of them? As the old-fashioned examiners used to say, ?Discuss?.

Looking at various newspapers, local or otherwise, I see that Joe Kamara was really moaning his bag off afterwards about not being given a penalty at Molineux. And so, surprisingly enough, was Mowbray: normally, he maintains a diplomatic and dignified silence when confronted with potential controversy courtesy the perceived laxity, or otherwise, of whistlers and flag-wavers. Joe reckons he was impeded by Rob Edwards the very same moment he was about to pull the trigger, and felt at the very least, that he should have got something more for his pains. Mind you, as I saw it, he should also have buried at least three other chances, gilt-edged scoring opportunities for which he would have snapped your arm off, just a few short weeks ago.

Interestingly enough, it now looks as though what happened on both Sunday, and the previous Saturday, has since made Mogga somewhat belatedly acknowledge the potential seriousness of the situation. Various sources allege he?s very interested indeed in taking Villa?s Juan Pablo Angel on loan until the end of hostilities. According to the guff I?ve seen so far, Angel is far from being Villa?s first choice striker, these days, new signings John Carew and Ashley Young having leapfrogged right over him in the six or so weeks since January. Both those two now constitute Villa?s preferred strikeforce, with Luke Moore and Gabriel Agbonlahore seemingly ?flavour of the month? also, so what better time for the lad to get a potentially career-reviving move elsewhere, and, by way of a bonus, without all the attendant hassle of shifting one?s carcass from one far-distant neck of the woods to another?

With the season rapidly reaching its climax, and us now needing all the help we can get, if we want to succeed, then the concept of bringing in some fresh blood does make sense to me. (Are there any Romanian players out there called ?Dracula? wanting a move right now, I wonder?) The whole thing hangs, of course, upon Villa?s willingness to play ball ? or not - although, given their well-known blubbery ancestry and modern-day circus show tendencies, I would have thought that the concept of playing ball, whether in front of an audience or otherwise, would have been deeply ingrained throughout the very heart of their souls a long, long time ago.

But despite Sunday?s setback, all is not lost ? well, not as far as Chris Lepkowski?s concerned, anyway. As all good Baggies should, he was reminding us all, courtesy of a recent ?Evening Mail? article, that at the corresponding stage of season 2001-02, we were languishing a massive eleven points shy of a then-rampant Dingles outfit. Thanks to a trip to Sheffield United that really got nasty ? the game having being abandoned with around five or so minutes still remaining, thanks to Neil Warnock?s liberal interpretation of FA rules regarding sendings-off, and subsequent withdrawal of players through injury ? the sheer blatancy of it all must have reawakened something pretty fundamental within the souls of our lot.

Result? A wonderful run of form that saw us go up on the very last day, much to our amusement, and Dingle collective disgust! ?Dum spiro spero?, you might say ? while there?s life, there?s hope. And not the one that used to play a similar role to that of Jason Koumas, back in the halcyon days of the sixties, either. But hang on a mo: we really could have done with a much younger version of our former Scottish international hero at Molineux, on Sunday. Any chance of getting your boots back on nicely in time for the Blues game, Bobby?

And Finally?? One. Nothing whatsoever to do with the subject-matter on offer courtesy this piece, mind, but worth an airing, all the same. Seen on the rear doors of a very grubby ?white van? ? and the emphasis is definitely upon the ?grubby?, believe you me! ? parked in our local High Street this morning. ?CLEANER THAN THE NHS!? some unsung genius had scrawled on the left hand side. And on the other? ?GORDON BROWN?S MONEY BOX? Now try and tell me the art of spontaneous wit is dead in this day and age!

Two. How come this piece is so late getting to your screens? PC trouble, yet again, and I?m not banging on about the local flatfoots, either. Partially self-inflicted, inasmuch as the problem started very late last night, when I briefly paused from keyboard-tapping duties to give a good stroke to Cyrille, aka ?The Special One?. Which wouldn?t have mattered one little bit, had I not been leaning on the keyboard at that time. Result? Enough figure sixes splattered all over the screen to give even the makers of ?The Omen? a pretty severe case of Satanically-inspired heebie-jeebies.

It must have been about that point that Old Nick himself, bless his horns, tail, cloven hooves, not to mention a pretty neat line in toasting-forks, must have decided to impose his unique personality upon the proceedings, because no sooner had I managed to get rid of the offending digits, the entire shebang completely gave up on me. Crashed? I?ll say: a cyber-reenactment of a fogbound M1 multiple pile-up, more like, and the solution totally out of my hands, on account of His Nibs being in London for the day.

Anyway, to cut a long story short, as you can see, by dint of poking into areas of IT I?d much rather not like to venture into, on account of not having a blind clue what I?m doing, I?ve now ? somehow! - managed to cobble together enough of the original piece for transfer to our other machine for posting on this website, and subsequent sending of copies to my private subscribers. I can only hope I won?t have difficulties with the other PC tonight. In view of what happened in the wee small hours of thins morning, perhaps I should get ?previous?, and enlist posthumous aid from the soul of the late Charles Babbage, Victorian designer of what was then called an ?Analytical Engine?, now universally recognised as a blueprint for the very first genuine computer?

 - Glynis Wright

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