The Diary

24 May 2007: Seven Days In May - Baggies-Style!

BUT FIRST ? THE PROLOGUE?.. Yes ? a huge amount of water has passed under the (Astle?) bridge ere I last penned some notes for this piece, and since then, we?ve been well out of everything, of course. Our original plan had been to stay in Herefordshire until the end of the week, but events, in the form of one of my last remaining aunts dying at the ripe old age of 90, supervened, so we had to return for yesterday?s funeral anyway. Not only that, but just a few days ago, we heard from The Fart, placed in temporary charge of Anglo-Aussie affairs by ourselves whilst we were away: Phil Summers, and around four other Perth Baggies were due to arrive tomorrow morning, fresh off a KLM flight from ?somewhere in Europe? and a ?reception committee? was urgently required.

As we?re so familiar with the antics of Phil and his Perth-based Baggie crew from around four previous visits to Oz, it was a given we had to meet them, then assist in any way possible with transport and sightseeing needs before the actual day of the game: Phil hasn?t been back to the Old Country in decades, so I hear, and as for the other lads, I?ve no idea whether they?re old-timers or Aussie newcomers, so we might well end up taking some total strangers around the Midlands seeing the sights.

Incidentally, what Phil and his fellow Diggers might not have known before departure is that we?ve now managed to secure ? well, The Fart did all the legwork involved, actually, so all threats of libel suits etc. to him, if you don?t mind! ? the services of a tame local journo, plus accompanying lensman, both of whom will be awaiting the arrival of our chums, in company with our own good selves, of course.

And those, dear readers, are the fundamental reasons why I?m ?producing? once more! Once back, and firmly in the loop again, it genuinely feels like we?ve never been away, and the events of last Wednesday night, just a particularly spectacular Baggie-themed dream! Now you?re well and truly clued up on all the background to tonight?s offering, on with the show ? and despite our state of relative seclusion, just how much developments regarding all things Wemb-er-lee still managed to impinge upon our everyday life!

THURSDAY 17TH MAY

Talk about the ?morning after the night before?. Just one fundamental difference, though: not the merest smidgen of alcoholic beverage involved! Just ?mentally hung over? at the daunting prospect of our lot revisiting the scene of what used to be regarded as our normal Cup stamping-ground, in times of yore. If the Fart and myself are anything to go by, then half the population of West Bromwich will also be walking around similarly bog-eyed, this morning.

Rampant adrenaline levels made absolutely certain I didn?t get whisked straight into the welcoming arms of Morpheus, come the early hours, nor did ?Im Indoors, either. He made it as far as his pit, but largely found jumping in and dropping off a complete and utter waste of time afterwards. As for The Fart, he couldn?t either. How do I know? Easy ? just gone seven this morning, he rang me, then again, come nine!

To be scrupulously fair to our tame Old Codger, though, he?s not enquiring about the very real possibility of night starvation overwhelming me. I wish it were that simple - more a frantic message to the effect that he?s tried umpteen times ringing the ticket hotline number supplied by the club, but with two different outcomes on each occasion.

Sometimes he?s told via recorded message the number?s unavailable, but on those rare occasions he can get a dialling tone, after around five minutes, the line cuts off, goes dead ? blooey! Great gouts of wailing, beating of breast, and gnashing of teeth from Tel, largely interspersed with dark mutterings about contacting the media regarding what appears to be one almighty technical cock up. Better look out, Albion ? The Fart?s comin? to get ya!.

I then discover, much later still, that El Tel isn?t the only one thwarted in similar circumstances. Between 7 and 9am, Radio WM are absolutely inundated with sundry tales of woe from similarly-spurned supporters: I can only guess that Someone In Authority at the club then got wind of what was happening because come lunchtime, people on the Boing mailing-list commence reporting successful transactions, at long last. Cor, champagne in Dartmouth Square, folks ? they?ve finally gone and got it right! But that?s all in the capable hands of Steve The Miser, right now ? with ticket-purchasing responsibility devolved down to him, prior to shifting our carcasses out to Herefordshire for the duration, we?re well out of it!

Before setting off, we make one last essential visit, though, and that?s to The Hawthorns ? or should I say the Club Shop? Both of us grab half-price replica shirts, so at least we?ll be togged up in style when we come to visit North London, in around ten days time! Also in the shop is poor Dee, up to her delectable neck in printing backs of shirts. And doing unspeakable things to our new away shirt, which is all-white, apparently. Or, should I say: ?the new away shirt that will continue to play second fiddle to the current all-black number??

The players feel this almost-Gothic touch in matchday apparel to be the one that gets us back in the Prem: just like the Rolling Stones did, all those years ago, they, too, want to ?paint it black?. Personally, it?s not the sort of strip I would ever have wanted gracing my upper body, given the choice, but being the superstitious lot that they are, our players still want to run with it, apparently. So who am I to argue?

Gosh ? in the short space of time that?s elapsed since I last spoke to Dee, she?s finished in the Old Cross, and has now widened her sphere of business influence considerably. Not just one pub within the mighty bounds of her boozy domain, mind, more like THREE of the buggers! All in the Shrewsbury area, so I?m told ? which may come as an unpleasant shock to the Shrewsbury Branch of the Wolves SC, who just happen to meet in one of Dee?s newly-acquired hostelries! Oh dear?..

The latest on the Perth lot? Well, we know for certain that Phil Summers will be gracing Wembley in but a short space of time: no sooner had we triumphed, he was on the blower to the nice travel agent up the road, and fixing up a flight from Perth as fast as his credit card would let him, connecting somewhere in Europe with a KLM jobbie to Brum, presumably, as that?s the airline he?ll be using to complete the last leg. Whether any of the others will be sharing that flight I honestly don?t know at this stage. Because we?ve agreed to pick him up from Birmingham Airport, that means we?ll have to savagely truncate our little chilling-out session in the sticks. No big deal, as we have to return on Tuesday for a family funeral, anyway.

Today?s Baggie-related highlights? Firstly, walking into one of our local paper shops, picking up just about every newspaper they had, broadsheet, tabloid, local, national ? the works - then plonking same on the counter with an almighty ?THUD?. Fair play to the elderly Asian couple that own the place, neither so much as bat an eyelid at the sight of so much newsprint being flogged in one simple transaction!

Quite a different response to the ones I got (from different newsagents) on the three previous occasions (2002, 2004, 2005) I had good reason to perform this particular exercise, which leads me to two possible conclusions: 1) The chap in charge and his good lady wife share the same inscrutable characteristics as Orientals, or: 2) They?ve had so many Albion supporters enter the place already, each one hell-bent upon us busting a gut to read all about it, they?d long since passed the point of appearing quite unfazed by this sudden outbreak of avid Black Country interest in the printed news media!

Which brings me to my second observation. On the way to our little holiday abode, we decide to call in at a farm shop we know on the Kiddy road, in order to get stocked up with some decent quality basics, organic bacon and dairy produce, free-range eggs, all the usual stuff. I stay in the car to keep our poor travel-sick cat company, but minutes pass, and still no sign of my other half. Couldn?t be a queue at the till, surely? Devoured by the enormous pair of pigs roaming around the rear of the premises? Pecked to death by the free-range hens clucking away merrily in the adjacent apple orchard, perhaps?

Huge gaps on the car-park indicate a distinct paucity of fellow car owners in the place, so what?s the problem? I don?t have to wait much longer to find the answer, mind. When he does finally return, ?Im Indoors is splitting his sides laughing. How come? Because just about everyone in that blasted shop wanted to talk about the Dingles game, and snigger at the gold and cack persuasion?s much-longed-for comeuppance, that?s why!

And just to demonstrate there?s no awkward sex-discrimination issues we should be aware of, on arrival at our destination, I call into the village stores, wearing my shirt, as per usual. Blow me down if the same thing doesn?t happen there also! One guy in there requests a kick-by-kick account of what transpired last night, almost, so purely in the interests of keeping the good name of the club in the public eye at all times, I duly oblige him.

Quite an amazing amount of interest shown, this, for a part of the world where jolly old rugger, and not the normal-ball code, prevails. Indeed, just two miles further up the road is a local rugger club ? Old Luctonians ? not a major Rugby Union side, of course, but always attracting an attendance on a par with that of prominent non-league clubs in the round-ball code. As for all the Albion interest, the power of satellite TV liveth much larger than we?d previously thought, in this wonderfully wired-up nation of ours.

FRIDAY 18TH MAY.

Wake this morning just in time to see a JCB digger put the finishing touches to what looks suspiciously like a mass-grave, with its strip of uncovered soil positioned adjacent and parallel to the three outer sides of the rectangle that calls itself the bowling green. Now I know there are an awful lot of Dingles who took Wednesday?s defeat badly, and I?m particularly aware of the fact a good many exiled braindeads watched the game in the comfort of the bar, just a matter of twenty yards away, so could this be concrete evidence of a mass-topping once the final whistle went?

After a budget-busting, book-buying frenzy in nearby Hay On Wye this afternoon, we both make a couple of important calls home in the comparative peace and quiet of early evening. ?Im Indoors rings The Noise?s missus, Jayne, to see how our garrulous chum is progressing, also to update her on what we?re doing by way of ticket-purchasing operations. Steve The Miser has been trying ? well he is, isn?t he, especially when he?s feeling spectacularly stingy! - but, as of yesterday, the straight word is he?s still unable to get through. Once she?s finished, it?s my turn, whereupon I use the old dog and bone to bend The Fart?s shell-like lugholes in my direction.

Apparently, there?s now growing fury with Albion surrounding the ticketing arrangements. Mounting criticism from frustrated supporters has given the problem headline status on both Midlands Today and in the local press. People have been reporting making calls innumerable before they finally get through. One chap claims that although successful, retribution will eventually come, clad in the unwelcome form of a stonking ?25-plus phone bill, in but a few week?s time.

Albion?s Mark Jenkins tries to reassure supporters fearful of their bank balance by saying charges will only apply once someone actually starts speaking for real i.e: is not a disembodied voice. The Fart firmly believes Mister Jenkins has got it wrong: additionally, his own personal experience of trying to purchase his ticket in this way seems to suggest that at least some of the operation has been outsourced to India.

From what The Fart?s also whispered in my shell-like ear, it would seem that the proposed coaching arrangements are somewhat nebulous in character at the moment. Back in 1993 coaches left the ground in relays of around ten or twelve, at set frequent intervals. This time round, my understanding is that it?s going to be a case of queuing in orderly lines, supporters filling each coach as it arrives, until everyone?s shifted. No booking of people on specifically-numbered coaches, which makes it sound even more chaotic. A bit like the entire passenger list of the Titanic all trying to jump into each and every lifeboat in sight upon the stricken vessel.

Additionally, when booking tickets, some supporters report being asked if they want coach travel as well, while others say they most certainly haven?t. I can only assume that Albion will provide a chance to do so when supporters pick up tickets from the ground next week. Sure, I know I?m typing this miles away from the action, and I may have got the wrong end of the stick completely anyway, but to me, this has all the hallmarks of a spectacular cock-up in the making.

OK ? so Albion are doing things this way to eliminate marathon all-nighter ticket queues. That I can readily understand, as it?s not a pleasant experience having to huddle all night under improvised shelters etc. but it would now seem that the solution is causing far more grief than the actual problem. Basically, this is all about stopping the club from being swamped ? so here?s another way of making things more manageable. Not my idea, as Man City have been doing this for yonks, but to me, it?s about as good as it can possibly get.

What they do is dead simple, really - divide season ticket holders into groups based purely upon length of time served. Each group is then allocated a day when they can go to the ground and pick up their entitlement, those with the most proven time in getting first dibs on what?s up for grabs, an equitable enough system at times when demand exceeds supply. (A computerised system as advanced as Albion?s should be well capable of providing all the necessary info via an appropriate database). In that way, those having had a season ticket for, say, twenty years plus get first pick, then those with fifteen years, and so forth, working right down the list. It?s fair, it?s easy to administer, and, more importantly, it?s completely transparent and rewards customer loyalty.

The rules can be understood by a five year old. Even the most obtuse of Dingles wou?. DAMN! Never got there, did they? Silly me, plumb forgot, must be old age creeping up on the blind side of my sniggering visage. Or something.

SATURDAY 19TH MAY.

We start off with a quick mosey up to a remarkable pub-cum-hotel-cum-restaurant-cum-second-hand-bookshop located in a small village called Eardisley. A bit like the Vine in layout, looks like a normal pub from the outside, but once you walk through that door?. Bookshelves, dear readers, zillions of the buggers ? and all crammed chock-full, too. Hardbacks, paperbacks, fiction, non-fiction, reference ? the second-hand works, and to find ?em all, you need to go upstairs, downstairs, and in my lady?s chamber. The sheer eccentricity of this part of the world never ceases to amaze me.

And so to later this afternoon. Oh, boy ? what a crashing bore, and to think we elected to spurn the joys of sightseeing in order to take in such complete and utter dross, instead. The Cup Final I mean. The footballing equivalent of trench warfare, Western Front style, but without the constant feeling of unease that physical danger generates, unless you happen to count the strong possibility of both combatant managers completely losing it. Both sides then become totally-immersed in the throes of pretty heroic struggle, but with naught to show for all their efforts come the end of the normal ration, bar both keepers placing themselves in serious danger of succumbing to terminal boredom, of course.

So enthralling is this almighty Clash Of The Titans, I fall asleep, only awakening (just about) when bloody Drogba ? how I loathe and detest the complete and utter arrogance of that guy - pots the winner, just before the rules dictate that the lottery of penalties supervenes. A merciful release, if ever there was one: there are a lot of things I?ll put up with in the name of football, but having to endure a refined version of psychological torture after agonising greatly for 90 or more minutes, ain?t one of ?em!

I bet this is one Circle Of Hell where Dante ? or Old Nick himself, come to think about it ?missed a trick! Imagine ? an eternity of having to watch televised repeats of such dross, without any form of respite in the guise of ?time off for bad behaviour? provided by way of incentive, either. Probably a punishment far too fiendish for the tastes of the average demon: well, come on, there are limits, all of them way too horrible for even Satan?s horned and cloven-hoofed minions to contemplate! Even so, I?m more than prepared to concede that Satan just might keep vacant one small segment of his blisteringly-hot domain, in readiness for heaps of glory-hunting Man Urinal supporters, and those of similar ilk, come Judgment Day.

Later still, I hear more details from The Fart about the club?s proposed coach travel arrangements for Wembley. Their asking price for the trip? A stonking TWENTY quid, and NO concessions. Blimey. The usual charge when travelling to London grounds for League games is more in the region of twelve or fourteen, with concessions as per normal.

As it?s bloody difficult, if not impossible, to park up anywhere near the new Wembley, and as the railways will: a) Be charging as near to top whack as dammit (their microscopically-small allocation of cheap seats will have been long-since snapped up by Baggies cute enough to be well ahead of the game, by now), and: b) Given their ridiculous notions regarding the allocation of trains of sufficient length for specific commuter routes, travel by those means would very likely involve standing for the entire length of the journey: in short, they seem to have got us all well and truly by the short and curlies.

Whatever happened to the concept of a ?sharing caring football club? I wonder? We both resolve to ring Sauce (Independent provider of coach travel to Albion away games) the following day.

SUNDAY 20TH MAY

Now we?ve spoken at great length with The Man With The Golden Tongue (use of basic Anglo-Saxon when taking travel bookings a speciality!), we?ve had to upwardly revise our (admittedly low) previous opinion of Albion?s business methods. We?d originally contacted the lad with a view to booking his service, but there would be little gained by doing so, it would now appear.

The twenty quid charge also applies to Sauce?s operation, with the slight difference that he does operate on a concession basis. The reason? Several, and a lot of this applies to Albion, too. First off, Wembley charge coaches fifty quid each just to park there ? well, it cost the best part of a billion to have the place built in the first place, so they?ve got to recoup the costs somehow, haven?t they? (The same applies to the stonking refreshment prices inside, but now is not the time and place for that one).

The second? This one?s beyond the control of the club, to a large extent. Once the final League placings became apparent, Leon?s Coaches must have broken open the champagne, and gone on an ultra-large toot, collectively speaking. What we didn?t know at that time, the pair of us, was that Leon?s not only convey Baggies to the four corners of the known Universe, but they ?do? Dingles, too. (And if that wee smidgen of information doesn?t have you carrying a bottle of strong disinfectant with you for prophylactic purposes, the very next time you travel to an away game by coach, nothing will!).

You don?t need to be Einstein to work out what was going through their brains at the time ? whoever won our semi, Albion, Dingles, whatever, Leon?s would be carrying ?em to London! Whoopeee! Trebles all round! Time enough for them to scour the country for sufficient ?transports of delight? to do the job, a task made slightly more difficult by the fact it all takes place on a Bank Holiday. It just goes to show the difficulty of this operation that just about every spare charabanc within a fifty mile radius of West Bromwich has been commandeered for the purpose ? and those doing the lending have adjusted their asking price accordingly, it would seem. Yet another reason why the club imposed such a swingeing price increase, of course, to absorb the stonkingly-bigger hire charges set by the coach firm.

Anyway, we?ve all had a good natter about it, we ex-Dick ?Eds, and the outcome is that we?ve all plumped for Baggies Travel to do the job. All that now remains is to sort out the bookings. As I mentioned earlier, there seems to be much confusion out there: some say it?s down to the people taking ticket orders to sort out (which will mean another marathon session via Bombay or whatever ? EEK!), while others steadfastly maintain Albion should be carrying out this part of the deal. Perhaps clarification will come once the working week has properly started.

In the meantime, we journey to the Forest Of Dean, where there?s a delightful restored steam railway track awaiting our careful perusal. The day?s wonderfully sunny, and everything, just the sort of day for leaning out of carriage windows, sniffing those wonderfully evocative fumes, and getting your face all smutty with smoke from the engine as a result (Ah, the kids of today don?t know they?re born?.!).

When we get there, though, one small snag ? it?s a Sunday service, and they don?t run all that frequently. Decide to leave that one for another visit. What we do head for, though, is nearby Symonds Yat East, where a lovely riverside pub called The Saracen?s Head awaits. Decide to spend an hour or three just sitting, drinks in hand, watching the world go by, with a wee bitty boat trip chucked in for good measure.

On an historical note, they do have a ferry service there, to get locals across the river, with just one bloke and his small boat actually doing the job. The ferryman uses for propulsion a loop of rope hanging from an overhead cable stretched between the two riverbanks, casting the loop along the cable before him, then simply hauling upon it with brute strength, a system that?s been in operation at that precise spot for 600 years or more, apparently, so who am I to argue?

MONDAY 20TH MAY.

Speak to The Fart once more before setting out on further explorations of the area. He?s currently acting as liaison officer concerning arrangements to pick up Phil Summers from the airport this coming Thursday. To nobody?s surprise in particular, Phil?s bringing with him another three mates, also Baggies, presumably. That means I won?t get to see Phil straight off the plane (boo! hoo!), as all available car space will be utilised in accommodating Phil?s entire party, and ferrying them to wherever it is they?re staying. Oh, sod it ? back to playing with me balls!

Additionally, when not bleeding the amply-large lugholes of Mark Jenkins for him ? we?re still awaiting clarification on the coach-booking issue I spoke about previously, not to mention the alarming news that Albion have seemingly arranged for everyone travelling by coach to depart at exactly the same time, 9 am: if true, a sure-fire recipe for disaster, if ever there was one - The Fart has been working overtime on the media side of things.

Realising this to be a wonderful ?human interest? thingy (aw, you know the score, ?Brit exiled far from his native land for years decides to visit the Old Country just to watch the football club he still loves play at Wembley? ? newspapers lap such things up like cats consuming gravy with meaty chunks), our super-wrinkly chum bled the ear of the E and S (and probably the Evening Mail as well, knowing the lad!), with the result that they?re going to chuck one of their bestest journos into the ranks of our hastily extemporised ?reception committee?!

Oh ? and another thing. Anyone thinking of causing trouble on the coach journey to London, come the appointed day, should you happen to wind up on one charabanc in particular, you?d better start quaking mightily in your (bovver?) boots. How come? Easy ? Albion have asked The Fart to assume the role of steward on one of the many coaches going there that day! My God, potential teenage malefactors beware, for hell hath no fury greater than a law-abiding Daily Mail reader scorned! Trust me on that one. Talk about a ?short sharp shock? - one judicious clip around the ear with a rolled-up policeman from The Fart, and you?ll wish you?d never started, young feller-me-lad!

As for ourselves, once we?d finished speaking to our tame Old Codger, we went shooting off in the direction of South Wales, to a place a few miles south of Brecon, where some pretty spectacular limestone caves awaited our perusal. Stalactites and stalagmites aplenty (how to tell the difference? Stalactites hang down ? think ?c for ceiling? ? while stalagmites point upwards!), all largely unspoilt, and discovered around 1912 by a couple of more-than-usually nosy locals. Incidentally, such is the brevity of Man?s tenure in these parts, when some of the larger chemically-assisted structures began to form, the only humans to be seen in this country were those wearing skins, and dancing furiously around recently erected stone monuments in Wiltshire. Sad, then, to see that vandals couldn?t resist succeeding where Mother Nature had failed.

Since that first discovery, loads of potholers have explored further, and the entire structure ? it stretches back for miles and miles under those massive hills, apparently, and there?s much that awaits the attentions of serious ?spelunkers?, still ? mapped in greater detail. Oh, and another thought. Should you ever want a wedding location with a difference, this place could be ?yer man?. They?re fully licenced to do such things, ceremonies being held deep inside the fairyland-twinkly cave known as The Cathedral ? where else?

TUESDAY 21ST MAY

Most people are probably aware of the old proverb, ?In the midst of life there is death? and nowhere is it more apparent than on this day, of all days. Sad to say, this funeral has seen the most significant gathering of my side of the family for around the last 15 years. Still, both the church service and the one in the Crem seem to go off OK. Quite a shaker to see how once-familiar family members have aged: of those present, very few are under the game of fifty, grey-haired, bifocals, walking sticks, wheelchairs, the works.

And as for how things have changed since then, one of my second cousins (I think that?s how it goes, being the cousin of a cousin!) has gone and joined the Navy, as a trainee chef, at the tender age of eighteen. She certainly looked very smart indeed in her traditional sailor?s rig, Blue Jean collar and all. But do the lady sailors get called ?seamen? I wonder ? and precisely what happens at a ?passing-out parade?? Do all of the participants end up swooning to order, or something?

My God, women in the seafaring Navy. Nelson must be turning in his grave ? or would he? Perhaps not: back in the early 19th century, it was not entirely unknown for matelots to have their female partners on board ship ? and very handy for the task of nursing wounded after any sort of prolonged action, so it would seem!

Well, my instinct is still to remember my cousins as they were back in the days of my youth, in short trousers, and impossibly-mobile school caps, getting up to all sorts of daft scrapes in and around the Walsall area. In fact there are numerous attending, some of whom I have but scant recollection of, but once introduced, the natter flowed just like gin at a distillery.

My late uncle Ted?s daughter?s recollections of her pipe-smoking, lifelong Labour-voting, trade union Midlands area convenor pater certainly gets the old memory-juices flowing, including those of the time he proudly introduced me to Labour MP John Stonehouse, around ten years before he tried to ?disappear?. I think he entertained ambitions of getting me actively interested in politics at that time ? certainly, we both richly enjoyed putting the world to rights over a pint or three ? but didn?t succeed in his mission, thank goodness!

Conversely, when told about her Dad?s amazing Cup Final bet, back in 1968, and duly placed, stake ?10, when Albion were attracting pre-Colchester odds of around 50-1, and his delighted reaction when The King scored, she spends the next five minutes laughing like a bloody drain. My uncle constantly navigated an equilateral triangle ?twixt British Legion club, bookies, and home in his leisure moments, it would seem.

Return via my sister?s house, where she treats us both to a steak and kidney casserole, a real Black Country ?rib-sticker?. Bostin?! Once properly home, we also learn about the almighty tussle Steve The Miser had regarding his own ticket ? he?s bringing ours over tomorrow, but being a Premier Shareholder, he belatedly found out he could apply by post ? which didn?t arrive. When he turned up at the ground, both to pick ours up, and to sort out the whereabouts of his own, he discovered a queue several hundred deep, with the need to provide ID slowing things considerably.

Steve then decides to leave things until ten that night ? yes, the ticket office is open until that unearthly hour. Called it right, he did: who should be attending to the queue, but Dave Holloway and Mike Thomas, who both know our lad personally, so no lengthy ID issues necessary! We?re left with the task of booking transport for everyone: that we?ll do tomorrow.

WEDNESDAY 23RD OF MAY. Up with the lark, then, so ?Im Indoors can gradually lose the will to live, as per the Blondie hit ?Hanging On The Telephone?. At 10p a minute, it all seems a bit of an imposition, but when you consider the costs incurred in having to make a personal visit to the ground, I suppose it?s even-stevens. Go by bus, and the return fare?s nearly three quid: as it so happened, 54 minutes of hanging in the queue (it helps enormously to go ?hands free?, then just carry on with whatever you?re doing) comes to just over five squid.

Tickets sorted, ditto transport ? wow, we?re cooking on gas, at long last! ?Im Indoors goes to Birmingham Library to research his new book project, while I simply peruse the Sunday supplements ? and fall asleep, to no particular surprise, as I?d been unable to get many zeds the previous night.

That evening, prior to the Liverpool game, while my other half emulates Prince Charles, talking with almost Lewis-speed delivery to the wretched tomato and cucumber plants held captive in our greenhouse, I watch Midlands Today. Two things then come to light: one, we?ll be given the so-called ?lucky? Wembley dressing-room, next Monday: every trophy winner, thus far, has emerged from that door prior to kick-off. So far, so good, then ? so what?s the bad news? Easy, that one ? Graham Poll will be the ref! AAAARGH!

Could work one of two ways, that. On the one hand, Poll might well elect not to rock anyone?s boat with strange decisions, this game constituting his last major wielding of the whistle before he?s sent forth for the last time by that Big Red Card In The Sky. If so, we might have a reasonable chance of justice being meted out in equal measure. On the other hand, if he decides that as it?s his last ever time in the middle, career issues don?t apply, then we might be in a wee bitty load of bother. He does like to court controversy, does our Graham. Once that sort of capriciousness enters his system, anything could happen ? and quite probably will!

Around seven, Steve The Miser shows up, tickets in hand. Quite a big order from us, as not only did we assist the Lewis clan, we also helped a good mate of ours, Jon Brittle, in his hour of need. London-based, it?s not been all that easy for him to get squared away, so we?ve done the legwork for him. Anyway, just about every aspect of Monday?s journey has been sorted, now ? all that remains now is for our lot to come up trumps on the day!

So there you have it. An elongated version of my normal words, but given the occasion, I feel a need to capture every single nuance of our demeanour in the run-up to the game. What really strikes me, right now, is heading to just about anywhere in town, and seeing such a marvellous profusion of Albion shirts on the backs of local kids.

Forget Man United, Liverpool, Chelski, The Arse ? what those kids have right now is what I regard as The Real Deal, supporting their local side, for once, and not some idealised, massively over-hyped vision of one. One sobering thought, though ? just how many will end up committed Baggies as a result of what they see, come Monday? If only a tenth of those present resolve to travel down precisely the same road we all have, then we?ll certainly consider it a job well done.

More about the arrival of Phil and the others tomorrow: far too late to warn them, you Oz Baggies still out there, so be prepared for revelations and scandal in equal proportion!

 - Glynis Wright

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