The Diary

25 April 2007: We Get Knocked Down, Can We Go Up Again? (Apologies To Chumbawamba For The 'Revised' Title!)

Blimey ? after last night?s Turf Moor disappointment, and yet another bile-ridden instalment courtesy this site, I eagerly greeted the dawning of the following day greatly comforted by the realisation that whatever problems the world would bring to my attention during my waking hours, nothing could ever be quite as upsetting as last night?s events.

Seven or so horrendous hours later, I finally learned my lesson, which goes something like this: Your football club may indeed have demonstrated an unrivalled ability to stuff things up for you, of late, but believe you me, the great wide world outside of The Hawthorns and all who sail in it can have them beaten hollow, and all without undue expenditure of energy, thank you very much!

So what has gone wrong to disrupt the peace and tranquillity of the Wright household, then? Hell, where do I start? Let?s try when Norm?s son ? Norm, he of the ex-squaddie multi-talented gas fitter/brickie/ carpentry roles etc. with a wee bitty cordon bleu cuisine chucked in for good measure, of whom I have commented elsewhere ? came over as previously agreed to take a quick shufti at our utility room, which had a rapidly worsening damp problem, turning the whole area into a miniature tropical rainforest just about every time we used the tumble-dryer.

On a ?recce? mission a couple of days before, in conjunction with Catton Senior, he?d poked and prodded around the brickwork in an impressive manner, before coming to the conclusion that the bulk of our problems stemmed from not having a vent for the steam to escape by ? and there should have been one incorporated at the time the house was built, which then begged the obvious question of what had happened to it.

Many ?thumps?, ?bangs? and much blue-streak cursing later, we finally got some answers. Back in the days when Barry Bucknell was the TV DIY king, the previous occupant (whose numerous other disastrous DIY projects I?ve mentioned before) had only gone and plastered over the flaming thing, hadn?t he? Dickhead.

Looking at similar past events from our more experienced viewpoint, that was about par for the course for him, but his ineptitude certainly left Ron with a far more tricky task on his hands than originally anticipated. To cut a long story short, not only do we need the new vent, but one entire wall needs re-plastering again, and right from scratch, too. Sadly, Ron?s forte is not in that direction, so we?re going to have to rope in someone else to sort it out ? which means yet another mugging perpetrated upon our respective bank accounts, doesn?t it?

Using baseball as an analogy for a moment, it?s fair to say that my little episode came about as near to ?Strike One? as you?re likely to witness this side of the Big Pond ? but unbeknown to us, there was still more grief to manifest itself unto the Wright household, before the day was through. Having successfully diagnosed the problem, and formulated a ?treatment plan? for our ailing internal wall, Ron quickly scuttled off for his tea, leaving me feeling slightly chilled, not to mention annoyed beyond belief at what had happened.

?I know,? I thought, ?I?ll put the fire on for a bit to take the cold out of our living-room, and relax my back? How come we could get the glow of a nice coal fire going so quickly, then? All smoke and mirrors, my friends, our model deriving pretty much all of its energy from the domestic gas supply, rather than the shiny black stuff extracted in painful quantity, in these here parts, not so many years before.

Pushing down the lever that activated the ignition system several times in succession, I was still without the reassuring ?pop? that would tell me the pilot light was alight, and ready to ignite the gas supply proper. Clearly, something was up, but what? It was then that I noticed that the pilot light had been on all the while ? and most certainly shouldn?t have been, not with the particular way that ignition system was designed, at any rate. That meant the problem boiled down to my not being able to turn off the dratted thing, under any circumstances whatsoever, which meant, in its turn, all my four cats suddenly finding themselves having their grasp of ?human-speak? expanded for them considerably!

That one we?ll have to leave in abeyance for the moment, so on to the third. This one came to light as a result of the sheer amount of washing we?d brought back with us from Herefordshire. As per usual, yesterday, we loaded up our automatic, then sat back waiting for the program to finish ? and that?s when we found Problem Number Three, dear reader. It?s the spin cycle that?s decided to take a running-jump this time, hence all our stuff emerging from the drum dripping-wet.

Thank goodness for radiators and central heating, that?s what I say: within a matter of minutes, all our newly-washed stuff was shoved onto just about every hot pipe in the place. As for what needs to be done, it just so happens that this particular model was only purchased a matter of months ago, so is very much under guarantee, still. Tomorrow morning, you?ll find me talking turkey to the people responsible for the arrangement of inspections and/or repairs: hopefully, we?ll be able to get someone in to effect the repair without too much hassle involved on our side. Said she. Nervously.

But our many inconveniences weren?t quite over, yet. Far from it, in fact. The next one, albeit very small beer when considered in the light of what had gone before, very much concerned me. Or should I belay my last, and substitute the phrase ?my four cats? instead? Yep, when it comes to my moggies not being able to sample the heady delights of Whiskas every single time they demand to be fed, there can only be one winner ? and it sure as hell wasn?t going to be me, this time round!

Mention of a very popular supplier of tinned cat food to the gentry will probably provide the very clue you?re looking for. Basically, my own tin-opener had given up the ghost just a few days previously, so we then had to resort to buying a flashy new number from the hardware shop, about three or four hundred yards down the road from our monstrosity. And guess what? First of all, I quickly discovered my new purchase to be not quite as ?up to the mark? as I?d been led to believe: sure, it certainly opened tins when going full-blast, but my spanking-new model then proceeded to show a distinct disinclination to perform when in company with someone left-handed ? in other words, me! Grrr.

What with all those pinpricks, petty or otherwise, occurring right after Monday evening?s Turf Moor fiasco, today hasn?t exactly been a barrel of laughs for me, one way or another. One thing I did manage to do, though, was finally get my peepers focussed upon footage of events leading up to Macca?s dismissal. After seeing it, I?m now even more convinced that the lad went into that challenge with no malicious thoughts whatsoever buzzing around that blonde thatch of his.

As our leader commented last night, his body-language as he runs towards James O?Connor tells you just about everything you need to know concerning the incident. You can see very clearly indeed from the footage that the very last thing on our Jimmy Saville-lookalike?s mind is the precise whereabouts of the former Baggie, hence the startled look on his face as the two make contact ? closely followed by one of complete horror as the full extent of the injury to his opponent finally sinks in.

Playing Devil?s Advocate for a moment, and going by the visual evidence provided by TV, the very most I can reasonably indict him for is steaming straight into the action without due care and attention ? but, having said that, how many players do you know mature enough to act out a Mister Sensible role by taking careful note of opposition players in their immediate vicinity, before committing themselves in the full-on way Macca did last night? Not all that many, I?ll bet, which is why I?m going to stick my neck out a tad by predicting the FA will stick that red card right where it belongs, this coming Thursday. A clear injustice was perpetrated last night. Let?s hope, then, that the game?s rulers see likewise, and Macca is back in our ranks this coming Saturday.

Hands up all those that are intimately acquainted with the phrase ?collateral damage?. Yep, give the bloke in the frogman?s outfit the banana ? the term is US military euphemism for unnecessary civilian casualties caused by the very act of waging war on the country where they live. But there?s also another meaning to the phrase, and not one George Bush is ever likely to encounter, either. In my version, it can also mean indirect damage inflicted upon our football club courtesy the sheer ineptitude of match officials displayed throughout various stages of the current season. Never mind Macca for the moment, this one could really hurt. Puzzled? Let me explain.

As you?ll all readily appreciate by now, we currently ?enjoy? one of the worst disciplinary records in the entire division: as of last night?s colour-coded jollifications, around ten given an opportunity for a premature bath thus far (one subsequently rescinded), plus numerous others seeing yellow emerge from the referee?s top pocket. Most of it clearly a nonsense, of course, but one that could quite conceivably see us having to explain ourselves to the FA over the course of the next few weeks. And, quite possibly, with the prospect of a stiffish fine hanging over our pretty little heads nicely in time for the beginning of the next nine month-long campaign.

What I find so farcical about all this, right now, is the clear-as-daylight assertion that we?re not exactly the sort of side that emerges from the players? tunnel looking for legs to kick great big lumps out of, the very moment the ref blows for the start. Far from it, in fact: as I?ve said before on many occasions, our fundamental problem is being too nice out there by half. Anyone neutral watching us play would spot our main weakness within a matter of minutes, so why do both referees and FA constantly insist upon lumping us in the same category as the real GBH merchants?

I don?t rightly know what criteria referees currently employ to quantify ?repeated foul play?, but it sure as hell isn?t consistent with reality. Compared with the awesome destructive possibilities of the likes of Ron Yeats, Norman Hunter, Johnny Giles, Dave Mackay, Maurice Setters, and our very own Dougie Fraser, of course, the current lot don?t begin to register a clear ?blip? on the radar of naughtiness, even. Really hurt them and the tendency is for them to scream like stuck pigs, then go and have meaningful words with both agent and lawyer.

Most of the current crop behave in similar fashion to spoilt kids caught out perpetrating some minor peccadillo or other: i.e. by acting in true Violet Elizabeth Bott fashion, and ?sthqueaming until I?m thick!? Whether my observation closely correlates with the increasingly obscene amounts players take home these days, I don?t rightly know, but what I do know is that many at the top behave in such a way as to leave the average spoilt brat gaping in complete disbelief at their antics.

In the case of the Dingles, the above phrase can mean, quite literally, the same outcome as the way I?ve spelt it. Unless you assume our thuggish chums do possess a reasonable IQ, right up until the very moment they step out onto the pitch, in fact, at which point those digits denoting intellectual prowess come tumbling right down again, and their players all finish up with laryngitis caused by overuse of the vocal chords. Aw, you know what I mean.

In short, you can accuse our club of just about anything you care to think about, but those charging our lot with pursuing a policy based on cynically-applied serious foul play aren?t exactly presenting what I would term a ?bang-to-rights, Guv? case, now, are they? Most of our defenders and midfielders possess about as much in the way of aggressive instinct as Postman Pat (with or without black-and-white cat). What could really curdle the custard for us, though, is if we don?t go up ? an increasingly-likely scenario, it has to be said ? and we?re then hit with an enormous fine.

Yeah, I know ? when has life ever been fair? I can still hear the standard (totally resigned to the outcome of events, and usually accompanied by an appropriately-heavy sigh) Black Country adult response to shrill laments apropos perceived teenage injustice: ?No, it bay fair, wench, it?s the cowin? circus!? Now I wonder if some kind soul can translate that one out for Mogga?

And Finally?.. Back again for our penultimate game of the season, versus Coventry City ? and in a brand-new location, too. We?re both Ricoh Stadium ?virgins?, so the experience should be a novel one for us both (well, anything?s got to be better than bloody Highfield Road, hasn?t it?). Very little in the way of car-parking to be had around the ground, sad to say ? but His Nibs now reckons he?s latched onto the perfect solution!

Heard the one about the footie car park that?s got its own website? We have, but it?s reassuringly distant from complete risibility. The fee?s a stonking ?7, sure, but for that you get the following:

1. A location in fairly close proximity to the ground, around 0.75 of a mile away, which is about the best it gets around those there ?new stadia? parts, these days.

2. A cast-iron guarantee of not finding yourself boxed in on return to your vehicle after the final whistle.

3. Its own private road, so you can get away very quickly: in fact, the site?s only around a couple of minutes drive from the motorway proper.

4. (For a hell of a lot of people, this one?s the clincher!) There?s a pub, welcoming of away supporters, just 100 yards from the car park itself ? and it?s the only one within miles of the blasted place!

Such an innovatory idea has led to the formation of wicked thoughts of my very own inside my little skull, so allow me sufficient time to share one in particular with you! Should you subsequently neglect to pay the fee online, for whatever reason, can the owners of the website arrange to have your PC clamped, then towed away, I wonder?

 - Glynis Wright

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