The Diary

16 May 2007: Cooee, Coee! It's Me Again - And With Added Balls!

No, I didn?t make Dingles Part One, sadly. I spent far too much time impersonating a physical wreck to do that: a temperature of over 100, a monstrous headache, and a sore throat doesn?t lend itself to such boisterous antics, believe you me. Nor to marathon nocturnal typing sessions on our PC, either. I did watch same on the box, though: not quite the same as being there, but given my somewhat enfeebled state of health at the time, about the best it was going to get for me, sadly.

Turned out to be a wise move, apparently. After the game, whether Baggies wanted it or not, everyone wearing blue and white was marched to the coach park up the road, POW-fashion - ??.Anyvone attemptink to escape vill be SHOT?..? ? or as near to dammit as the local plods would allow. Such a diabolical diversion meant an effective doubling of the distance ?twixt ground and our jam-jar, instantly turning a not-unduly-taxing stroll of around half a mile or so into a flaming marathon. Chuck in the horrendous downpour as well ? are we SURE that first leg wasn?t sponsored by a gentleman big in boats called Noah? ? and, 3-2 win or not, it?s a pretty fair bet my legs would have seized up long before reaching Base Camp Baggie.

So, here I am again. I?m still left with the dregs of whatever it was that hit me in the first place, unfortunately (can pathogens be passed on to others via the internet, I wonder?) but there?s NO WAY I?m missing tomorrow night?s masochism-fest, trust me on that one. Mind you, having just seen Derby get through to the final via penalties ? poor Big Dave had mixed fortunes tonight, and very early in the game, too: scored at one end, then, just a short gasp of a minute later, made the mistake that led to the Saints? equaliser! - I?m very much mindful of just how painful it can be to finish up on the losing side of penalties, despite matching your opponents goal for goal all the way.

As ever, come the end of both normal time and the ?extra ration?, you?d have needed a crowbar to separate the two combatants consequently, it was an awful shame someone had to end the night dipping out. The problem is, though, I really can?t think of a more equitable way of deciding these games, so I guess the play-offs will forever remain a bigger lottery than the one they draw on the Beeb every Saturday night. Doesn?t go even a small bit of the way towards reducing the amount of sheer human misery rampant among those poor sodden Saints, tonight, though. All bets on them arriving home, just as the morning sun peeps bashfully from behind conveniently-placed South Coast rooftops, are strictly off. What a distance to travel, and to see your side unceremoniously dumped out of the promotion race in such awful fashion, too.

So, that?s our possible opponents, then, should we get past Those Whose Name Never Gets Mentioned In Polite Baggie Company, tomorrow night. Derby County, Billy Davies, Uncle Tom Cobley and all. Quite a formidable outfit, as we?ve all seen tonight, not to mention over the course of the season just gone. How the hell they managed to beat us at Pride Park still leaves me in a state of complete wonderment. Heaven alone knows how many chances we made, and completely stuffed up, at their place. Getting the better of them in the capital would be problematic, to say the least, not just on tonight?s showing, but that of all those months ago.

With less than 24 hours to go, my mind is rapidly turning towards the only other time we?ve succeeded in reaching Wembley via the play-offs, and that was under Ossie Ardiles, back in 1993. Although lightning is reputed never to strike twice (a load of sweaty armpits, actually, as the Guinness Book Of Records is quite happy to document instances of unfortunate people getting struck as many as TEN times during the course of what must have been an electrically-charged lifetime), there are common factors prevailing in both cases.

Our finishing League position, for starters; the bad spell we had around February, only picking up around spring. New(ish) gaffer, one who believed implicitly in the maxim that nets were for scoring in, not keeping fish (well, something like that!). Strikers, given full licence to wreak havoc aplenty among opposition defences innumerable ? back then, it was Supes and Andy Hunt, now it?s Phillips, and Kamara, with a smidgen of ducal assistance from the lad who bears the same nickname as a former jazz great ? but offset by a rearguard whose porous performances sometimes put them on about an equal footing with just about any registered charity you care to mention. Great for neutrals, of course, and for us ? when it all went as smoothly as clockwork, and we racked up the obligatory bucketful of strikes, only Man United grabbing more (which made the West Ham thing even more nonsensical, but don?t get me started on THAT!), but when it didn?t? Oh, whoops.

Mind you, 14 years ago, our then-opponents, Swansea, were a completely different kettle of fish. Managed by a chap called Frank Burrows (now where have I heard that name before, prithee, pray?), they were as functional a lot as we were pretty. Heading on out to Swansea in a downpour of monsoon proportions (drinking the nearby pub dry was quite an achievement, in its own way: all I could do as our travelling support did precisely that, was watch intently, mouth forming a bigger and bigger ?O?, as kick-off time drew ever nigh), then getting completely saturated standing upon what was to all intents and purposes, an open terrace.

Mind you, if Dutch courage were ever necessary, pre-match, it had to be prior to that one. Going two down very quickly, and looking deader than the dodo, we were handed a fortuitous lifeline late doors; Daryl Burgess got the credit for the strike, but we know it was an ?oggie?, really, don?t we, children? What with away goals counting double at that time, that left us in a very nice position indeed for the home leg. And what a neat demolition job we did on ?em, back at The Shrine, on that warm, sunlit midweek evening. 2-0 the final score, former Baggie Colin West getting his obligatory shower much earlier than anticipated, and some very distraught Swansea people seen leaving on their coaches afterwards. I know, because I stood in the Woodman?s back yard watching ?em go!

That was also the night I saw what had to be one of the most amazing spectacles I?ve ever witnessed inside a football ground ? and not just ours, either. This was before seats were installed, don?t forget ? and what I?ll never forget, ever, is around two minutes to go, job done, all that massed humanity contained within the Brummie literally undulating while ?boinging? their way into complete physical and mental exhaustion. Ever looked down a microscope, and watched groups of simple organisms do similar, in an effort to shift from A to B? Very much the same effect, really, and one that would later lead to repercussions, in the form of a team of Birmingham University egg-heads checking out the structure in order to ascertain that all that constant pounding from thousands of jubilant Baggie feet hadn?t compromised safety in any way. (Think ?sympathetic vibrations?, the basic reason why soldiers are told to break step when marching over bridges ? loads of army boots bearing down on such things in unison can quite easily weaken structures in this way ? and you?ve got it!)

Our terraces have long since gone, of course, and subsequent Premiership promotions have led to something of a sea-change in the demographics of our supporters ? the raw edges have been very much rounded off over the intervening years, making watching the Baggies a much more ?respectable? affair, these days ? and that has led to home games becoming much more stilted occasions. All the noise, wit and spontaneity these days comes from the Smethwick, as per their avowed vocal intent to visit The Brummie ?to get some peace and quiet?.?, but, should we put it past the Dingles tomorrow, wouldn?t it be wonderful if even a fraction of the raw excitement and passion of that warm mid-May evening, back in 1993, could be recreated courtesy the unstinted efforts of our current crop of admirers, both physical and vocal? Do that, and the Dingles wouldn?t even know what hit them! (Not that they ever really do, being as dim as they usually are, but you have to make allowances?.)

Having seen my other half reduced to a state of complete mental exhaustion just watching events at Pride Park tonight, it?s a pretty sound assumption that come tomorrow night, he?ll be about as close to a basket case as you can reasonably get. Even this evening, during that nerve-twangin? penalty shoot-out, he was burbling something to the effect of ?Oh, God, suppose that?s US tomorrow, we?ll never survive it?.? Me? Tomorrow afternoon, while ?Im Indoors panics quietly, I?ll be playing with my balls! No, not THOSE balls, silly, my ?molecules?.

That?s my spiffing wheeze to take my mind off subsequent events, as part of the practical work for the course I?m doing covers the assembly of molecular models for such things as butane (the stuff you get in camping gas), nasty things called benzene rings, and something called salicylic acid, which is aspirin to you and me, squire. The idea is to gradually learn the chemistry of aspirin, and how it does its headache-zapping thing, by manipulating those bloody balls just about every which way you can think of. Does it work with Dingles, a massive bloody headache whichever way you consider it? That?s something my textbook doesn?t tell me, sadly.

I?m not going to say much more, mostly because I?m still feeling pretty ghastly, and want to maximize my chances of ?passing a late fitness test? by getting some zeds in, for once. Mind you, if you had to get me there in a coffin, I?d still go. Please, God, I know I don?t exactly put in as many hours of ?knee-drill? at my local church as I really should ? in fact, it has been known for me to get quite barbary when any mention is made of organised religion, and the necessity of my attendance at such ceremonies ? but do us a big favour, mate. Let it be us, tomorrow night, just this once? And in any case, should we lose, there might well be quite a bit of subsequent bother coming from a bloke called Astle, up in your neck of the woods! And if he?s got that Ossie with him, look out: might as well bang two bits of uranium together for the Iranians, and leave them to play nicely with their new-found toy. Too risky, even for a fully-qualified deity to contemplate?.

So ? there you have tomorrow evening?s battle-plan. Come on, The Dingles go to Wembley ? or we do? No contest. Say it LOUD, say it PROUD?.. COME ON YOU BAGGIE-BOYS!!!

And Finally?.. One. Well done to the Baggie chap who owns a house at the top of Mucklow Hill, on the right hand side, as you head in the direction of Halesowen. How do I know he?s a Baggie? Simple: the fact there?s a thundering great banner hanging from one upper window, with loads of T-Mobile balloons etc, festooning the remainder, etc. provides a pretty damning piece of evidence for the prosecution, n?est ce pas? Come to think about it, any more examples out there that I should be aware of? Should we do the biz tomorrow, put finger to keyboard, there?s a love, and I?ll ?out? ?em, no bother.

Two. Should we get past our chums from the local slum, I have it on good authority that this fair isle of ours will soon see an almighty influx of returnees by way of retaliation for all those poor sods of convicts we sent to Oz over the years. Apparently, should we do it, everyone who?s anyone in the Oz Baggie world will be descending on Perth mob-handed, heading off out to Phil and Gloria?s boozer-cum-hotel thingy as quick as their god will let ?em, then booking, en masse, via Phil?s PC, however many plane seats it takes to shift the whole flaming caboodle over to where all the action will be taking place. ?Twill leave a carbon footprint the size of Dartmouth Square upon the battered face of poor old Mother Earth, undoubtedly, but I?m sure even the most avid of planet-huggers will grant our Antipodean tendency this small indulgence, just the once!

 - Glynis Wright

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