The Diary

25 May 2007: Dew Yow Cum From A Land Down Under, Aer Kid?

THURSDAY 24TH MAY

THE PROLOGUE?.. Quite a belated number, this one, but quite unavoidable with it, as one of the Oz Baggie contingent arriving yesterday ? that?s Phil Summers, in case you wondered ? is now kipping in what we?d normally call our ?office?. There?s a whole load of things I?ll do to advance the Baggie cause, under normal circumstances, but fiddling around with a capriciously-stubborn PC while there?s a big hairy bloke snoring his bloody head off, just feet away, ain?t one of ?em.

And what of our Antipodean guest? Well, for those who don?t know him, he?s West Bromwich born ? Hateley Heath, went to Churchfields comprehensive school (well, somebody had to!) - is around the same size as ?Im Indoors, the ponytail swept back on his bonce giving him more than superficial resemblance to Phil Collins, and still retains a Black Country twang you could eat faggots and peas by. After leaving Blighty around the time Johnny Giles got us promotion, back in 1976, this is his first return home since that very same date. Phil used to be a rozzer out there, but chronic back trouble led to eventual medical retirement from the force. Back home in sunny Perth, he and his good lady wife, Gloria, are currently in the process of building, then opening, a pub-cum-hotel-cum microbrewery, a brave thing to do by anyone?s lights. In fact, just a matter of weeks after this trip, he?ll be off again, but this time to China, following up his sourcing of building materials for his venture.

As for Gloria, she?s just about due to graduate from their local university, no mean feat, that, for someone of similar age to myself, who had to start along that particular road right from the very basics of her specialist subject, psychology. Being a science, the study of the human mind, it?s not what some might term a ?soft option?.

They?ve also got a further claim to fame ? a diabetic cat, which although pretty crabby by nature, as a direct result of having to put up with the indignity of three insulin injections per day, no doubt, seems to get along with their dog collection fairly amicably. In fact, they?ve just acquired a Staffordshire bull terrier cross puppy, so their house will be taking on a pretty close resemblance to Bedlam, right now. Bull terrier pups can be hell on furniture ? I know, because I used to own Staffords myself ? and I?m willing to bet that Gloria?s got her work cut out simply by having to provide mini-mutt with various kinds of distractions. Boisterous games will be one option, no doubt, in an effort to get the little sod so exhausted, criminal damage to domestic furniture ? and false teeth (don?t ask!) - won?t come into it.

To be absolutely fair to poor Phil, by the tine my other half had ferried him and his other Baggie chums across half of the city, in an endeavour to assist in pursuance of various aims and objectives, the lad was just plain done in. Hardly surprising, having travelled all that way from Perth: as we all know, Economy Class, or whatever the Aussie equivalent is, isn?t exactly known as the most restful way of completing a long-haul journey by air, is it?

So much for the background, then. Our main story began ? well, for ?Im Indoors and The Fart, it did ? in the arrivals hall at Birmingham Airport around half-ten that bright and sunny morn, with Phil and his three fellow-Baggie travelling companions, Richard, John and Joseph (commonly known as ?Joe?) expected in on the next KLM flight from Amsterdam. And they weren?t alone, either, and for that we have to thank The Fart, and his sterling motivational efforts amidst the local media. Our intrepid chums were only expecting one solitary E and S journo, plus attendant happy-snapper, in attendance, but ? WRONG!

What they got instead (and in addition to the scheduled ?cast?) was a BBC news team, plus someone from the Evening Mail and an enthusiastic airport press officer. Such is the ?progress? made by various cheeseparing bean-counters at the Beeb ? well, the local lot, at any rate - expect hacks to combine what used to be quite separate roles of photographer and scribe. How all this pans out in practice, I?m none too sure, as the skills required to produce a half-decent picture are quite different from those necessary to come up with the necessary number of words, but I can?t believe for one moment that either role is the better for such radical diversification of tasks.

But I digress. For once, the plane arrived on time: on the ground, finally, and our finest clearing all the formalities in no time flat (Phew ? THAT was a darned good place to hide the cannabis, Phil!). Cue media people, mob-handed, then ? Lights! Action! Roll ?em! And not just the once, either: by the time they?d finished, just about everyone concerned, Brit, Aussie, whatever, must have felt a wonderful affinity with the lot of a performing seal. Shots posed of our intrepid band coming through into the arrivals area, yet more of them toting an Albion scarf ? somehow, they managed to rope in a passing Derby County aficionado as well ? with everyone, my other half included, giving separate interviews for the benefit of the different media.

Enter into the equation the Birmingham Airport Press Officer, poor lady, and quite peeved she was, too. Apparently, neither of the local snappers had bothered to ask permission, as a matter of courtesy, hence her profound displeasure at what was going on. And, all the while, with The Fart becoming a very busy Baggie indeed, dealing with various other media requests for interviews, but via his mobile this time.

After all that, you would have thought everyone would have had ample time to grab their pound of flesh, then hare off to their respective newsrooms, mission accomplished ? but, nope. Outside, onto the pavement this time, for yet more cheesy shots, one in particular taking seven or eight attempts before they were completely satisfied with the end results. That?s the one you?ll find in last night?s E and S: as yet, The Birmingham Mail have still to show their hand. I?m assuming they?ll save the various Baggie-related fruits of their labours for the weekend, then go with some sort of pull-out, either via sister publication the Sunday Mercury, or similar come Saturday night.

Then, one particularly bright spark from the Beeb had a notion to shift operations to a Toby Carvery in nearby Stonebridge: unusually for the licensed trade in these here parts, they hadn?t opened up as yet, despite the fact the sun had long since passed the boundary of the yardarm. The staff put it down to the manager being only in his second day at the place: personally, I?d put it down to him being completely and utterly gormless. Well, I ask you ? a pub licensee not completely conversant with lawful opening hours? I really do despair, sometimes.

But that?s all by the way, of course. While ?Im Indoors And Co. were waiting to become ?legal? ? well, in the eyes of the manager, if for no-one else ? they posed for yet more piccies, this time with pretend ?drinks? in hand. All of which was conducted in that most congenial of places, their outside dining area. It was while they were there that one of the four were whisked away by their ?rellies?, leaving the others and still upholding the honour of the Oz Baggies. Time, then, to zoom elsewhere, this time to drop Joe and his Dad off at his accommodation, situated not far from Good Hope Hospital, Sutton Coldfield.

So that left us with one, Phil. He was, theoretically, at least, set up as far as accommodation went. Well, that?s what the lad had, not unreasonably, assumed, given the whole thing had been pre-arranged back in Oz, but when our lot went a-visiting, there was nobody in at that particular address! Oh, whoops! Never mind, said ?Im Indoors, come and spend the night at Chez Wright! And that, dear readers, is precisely what our hero did, but via one mother of a convoluted route, taking in, on the way, The Hawthorns, our house (to pick me up, finally), thence to Cadburys factory shop (The Fart, being an ex-employee and pensioner, gets staff discount there), and a local hostelry with serious gastropub pretensions.

When they got to the ground, and the club shop, to be more precise, the whole joint was literally jumping, Baggie bodies just about everywhere you cared to look. ?Im Indoors tells me that the club now have loads of Wembley-related merchandise up for grabs ? and boy, was business booming! Every single checkout in the place manned, and queues six or seven-deep accumulating at each and every one of them. Zillions of Baggies, and all totally engrossed in the exacting task of scouring the place for that perfect Wembley outfit ? can?t go dressed like scruffs, now, can we!

Next stop our place, where I hopped aboard to participate in all this frivolity, then on to the Cadbury shop where, bugger me down dead, we just happened to bump into the founder of the modern Oz Baggies. Last time we saw him was in an Indian restaurant in Sydney. The meeting was pure coincidence genetically crossed with a hefty dollop of fate, so much so, some would have regarded it as spooky as hell.

Quite spontaneous, this, I assure you. Nothing contrived or pre-planned whatsoever, so if any Oz Baggies reading this want to know the true identity of our mystery acquaintance, the name?s Julian Floyd. Remember him, cobbers? He?s now living in Lichfield, married and with a young child. While ?Im Indoors, The Fart, Dot, his long-suffering missus, Phil, and a pretty stunned Julian conversed themselves silly, I made the big mistake of wandering around under my own steam. Not a wise idea, that, not with all that chocolate staring me right in my face, and shrieking ?EAT ME?..? And not necessarily chocolate, either, the Cadbury brand these days embracing a whole load of scrumptious stuff. And yes, dear reader, I did succumb to temptation, in the end. Personally, I blame The Fart, for leading me astray in the first place!

Once we?d all finished giving our respective finances a severe battering, and bidding The Fart and other half ?farewell?, it was straight back to our place, and time for the three of us to visit a nearby cash machine. The Cadbury family might have been the very epitome of philanthropic deeds, back in the days when Queen Victoria wasn?t amused, but they sure as hell knew how to rake in the cash as well.

After that, we all bombed off to have a bite to eat at the Garden House, a splendid hostelry situated on the Hagley Road, about two miles from our place. Having not eaten since God knows when, poor Phil was now at the sort of stage when even a horse in the terminal stages of malnutrition would have represented a pretty good bargain to his rumbling tum. Luckily, the pub has a pretty varied menu, so even walking dustbins like him can be adequately catered for. Should you ever experience a strong urge to ascertain the precise whereabouts of Phil, try Jodrell Bank radio telescope array, just off the M6 and A34, as you head towards Mancunian Bandit Country. Why? Because they?ve been looking for all-devouring black holes for years, that?s why!

All of it eaten al fresco, and at first, in bright warm sunshine ? but then came the Great British Rain God to put a timely spanner into the works for us. Up bubbled the clouds, down plunged the mercury, and before you could say ?Tony Mowbray?, the first sodden spots, sent forth as pathfinders for the main bulk of the deluge, no doubt, were beginning to fall upon the canopy provided by the giant sunshade above us.

As we?d all eaten to repletion by then, back to our place once more ? and time for poor, exhausted, jet-lagged Phil to crash out completely. At the time of writing, several of my mogs are sitting at the top of the stairs, looking most alarmed at what is to them, quite an unexpected turn of events. Normally, our office is given over to them as a sleeping-place, at night - but not this one. Oh, dear ? more feline bribery and corruption called for, because if I don?t placate them sufficiently well by tonight, Heaven alone knows what they?ll do to get my back up!

Today, after we?ve taken Phil over to the ground, we?re planning a trip to the Black Country Museum, just outside Dudley. Yes, I know, we were only there recently, but when you?re dealing with expats who?ve not set foot in the mother country since the days of Johnny Giles, it?s one hell of a nostalgia trip to hit them with. While we?re there, I?m also hoping to catch Supporters Club Committee member and Master Of Ceremonies extraordinaire John Homer strutting his stuff as one of their guides.

Well, given his wonderful command of the English language as displayed during the course of home games innumerable ? when John shouts and means it, opposing players and referees all blench, believe you me! - it came as absolutely no surprise to hear that he?d finally quit the safe-but-dead-boring haven provided by Civil Service life, in order to take up a paid post at the museum. The lad really is as Black Country as they come: once heard, never forgotten, and in his current job, he?s finally found his true niche. As for what happens there, plus various other odds and sods, look out for my next missive.

AND FINALLY?.. The time? Around nine in the morning. The place? A certain butchers shop, not a million miles away from our place, and its owner mentioned on many occasions via this column. The dirty deed? Well and truly perpetrated by our tame Aussie chum, and it came in the form of Phil diving into said shop at the aforementioned time, and shouting, in tones that would have woken the dead, had there been any around to hear it: ?MORNIN?, YER BLUNENOSE B*****D!.......?

 - Glynis Wright

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