The Diary

26 May 2007: From The Pricking Of My Thumbs, Something Baggie This Way Comes...

It?s me again, but penning from a Phil Summers-less house, tonight, our pony-tailed chum having since been deposited at the place where he should have stayed yesterday, deep in Darkest Hateley Heath. That means I?ve regained ownership of my personal PC, and can now use the sodding thing with impunity. Tell you what, though, the last few hours have been absolute Bedlam for my other half, what with ferrying Phil most of the distance around the borough, and everything. Still, it?s all in a good cause, that of cementing Anglo-Ozzie relations.

Not that Phil needs to work too hard on the old ?tact and diplomacy? front, mind: wherever he?s gone since his arrival on these shores, be it to the supermarket, pub, corner shop ? and public convenience, for all I know ? he?s left naught but wonderful smiles on the faces of all those who have had any sort of contact with him. Quite an achievement, that, given the customary hard-bitten and cynical attitude shown by far too many living in this country, these days. Instantaneous evaporation of suspicion and hostility guaranteed, first time, every time. Phil ? take a bow, mate, you?re a star!

If all the tales I?ve been hearing today are anything to go by, then there?s going to be one seriously-deserted town come Monday lunchtime. Just about every family in West Bromwich will have representatives travelling to Wembley on the appointed day. I can just picture it now: Dartmouth Square deserted, tumbleweed scooting down the High Street at a rate of knots, and normally busy shop assistants trying to keep awake by spending the time filing their nails to perfection, or similar. Even the pigeons will either park their feathers outside a handy pub and watch the game from the outside, or take the relative absence of humans as a rare opportunity to grab far more than their normal quota of daily ?zeds?.

As for the local coppers, they might as well shut up shop also: come three o?clock, most of our more prominent ne?er do wells will be watching the game, either on TV, or by shifting their carcasses to the metropolis, just like every other bugger in the place. I?m now seriously beginning to doubt whether or not there?ll be anyone at all left holding the fort, once all those coaches have taken their human cargo on board, and hightailed it in the direction of the southbound M6. Just one thought, though, and it?s a very old joke, but I can?t help but press it into service one more time ? will the last person out of West Bromwich lock up, and turn the gas off at the mains, please?

Already, I?ve heard about one family, who will be journeying to Weymouth for their hols as booked, this weekend, but will be making an interesting sort of side trip come Monday morning ? and it won?t be to the seaside, unless you want to count the relative profusion of canals to be found in a certain part of North London. Even my garrulous sister, not normally one given to gawp and stare when confronted with the unusual ? swears a lot, ?tis true, but doesn?t usually gawp and stare while doing it! ? was completely overwhelmed by the manic scenes in the Club Shop on each of the two occasions she visited, this morning.

The first inkling she had that something was up was when she made to turn right at the junction of Halfords Lane with the Brummie Road: as the lights turned green, and she entered the right-hand lane preparatory to going through the Astle Gates just a few yards distant, she suddenly found herself at the rear of an enormous queue of cars, all trying to do precisely the same thing. The big giveaway was all those winking indicators, she told me tonight.

Then, once on the already-bulging car-park, Albion?s hastily-extemporised crowd-management system began to kick in, Madam Josephine being directed to a newly-vacant parking slot by a steward solely tasked with that duty. But all that razamatazz palled instantaneously once through those hallowed portals: inside, she discovered premises at least as busy as they would normally be prior to a pukka matchday. And, once she?d sorted out her various wants for the occasion, the next vexing problem came in the form of actually getting through the checkout ? ANY checkout, as Albion had every single one going full-blast, today. At a conservative estimate, my noisy sis reckons it took her a good 20 minutes just to reach a till. And that was on both occasions she called in!

An honourable mention, then, for the Club Shop staff, who have been working their collective fingers to the bone, these last few days, even remaining open until nine or ten at night. (Family? What family?) Another one goes to various Supporters Club committee members, who have also been assisting the club, but on a voluntary basis, in both Ticket Office and shop. I can only hope that they all have understanding partners, as it?s been quite impossible to get hold of some via their home telephone numbers ? all at the ground, where else?

As for our Aussie guest, prior to getting him over to where he should have been in the first place, he spent some considerable time on our PC this morning, fixing up his trip to China, of which I made brief mention yesterday. All the major considerations have now been taken care of, all he has to do now is get on the right plane at Singapore Airport, come next Wednesday(ish).

The original master-plan for today was for all three of us to head on out for the Black Country Museum, based in Dudley, but Phil?s Magical Mystery Tour of the internet more or less put paid to that one. A swift change of plan was called for, so in the end, we plumped for a trip into Brum, and the various delights of Gas Street Basin, situated just off Broad Street, instead.

A little background to the place for your delectation: as recently as 30 years ago, had the Russians dropped the Bomb on the area, the city council would have deemed it as a favour to them, instantaneously endowing upon the area much in the way of urban improvements, however radioactive they might turn out to be with the passage of time. Believe you me, Broad Street and its surrounding area was a real dump back then, a place only to be visited if undertaking academic research of various kinds.

And as for those canals, well?. Whatever kinds of grant British Waterways had secured from the government to keep the area in a reasonably tidy state, just five minutes spent on the towpath would lead you to the inevitable conclusion that someone was being taken for a mug, there ? and it most certainly wasn?t British Waterways! And, that?s the way it stayed, more or less ? until the mid-Eighties.

Suddenly, the city council, mindful of the need to prime-pump the local economy through tourism, decided to tart the entire area up. Where once was total grot, there came in its place, a total profusion of bars, restaurants, nightclubs ? the works. Suddenly Broad Street became something of a ?happening? place to be, and as its reputation spread, so did the word regarding improvements to Gas Street Basin and its surrounding area.

The result? Walking around the place today, just like we did, you?d be pretty hard pushed to find any trace whatsoever of Gas Street?s previous seedy incarnation. The whole area is now yuppified, gentrified, upmarket shops, wine bars and high-class restaurants galore, expensive-looking bachelor pads in abundance where there was previously naught, save a profusion of stinking pondweed and overall neglect. So successful has been the clean-up, there?s now a flourishing colony of resident ducks and geese to pester you for food as you stroll along the towpath.

And Gas Street Basin is where we headed for, this afternoon. Mainly to demonstrate to Phil just how much the area?s changed, and very relaxing it was, too, as various everyday cares washed away in imitation of the water gently lapping against the towpath?s edge.

Not that we ventured too far along the ?cut?, mind: around 800 yards further along, we came upon what looked like a rather pleasant watering-hole offering al fresco dining facilities. Phil reckoned he could do some serious damage to a pint, so we halted our perambulations right there. Another ?plus? as far as our guest was concerned, was their boast of super-cooled lager on sale: like a good many Oz people, Phil likes his alcohol bitingly-cold. And he?s welcome to it!

?Im Indoors and Phil reckoned they needed a real good feed, so they both went and ordered a chilli con carne of considerable megatonnage ? incontrovertible proof of that statement came in the form of great gouts of steam erupting from my beloved?s lugholes the minute he shovelled the first fork-load into his ?wazzin?. Clearly, the proprietors of that establishment hadn?t stinted on the old chilli powder! Me? Being of a much more cautious bent than they, I stuck fast to a clotted-cream tea ? at least you don?t emerge afterwards feeling like someone?s exploded a pound or two of Semtex inside your head.

After that interlude, we were a bit pushed for time. Phil had yet another pressing engagement, for which ?Im Indoors was providing chauffeuring services, so all we could do was make a quick foray through the doors of a well-known pub chain ? Phil wants to run his boozer in Oz on vaguely similar lines ? in order to have a quick shufti at what manner of amenities they provided for their customers, and what was their so-called ?unique selling point?.

Once the lad had done that, it was back to our place once more, for a few more minutes, then off Phil went, once more, with my other half trailing in his wake. Still, they were both back around seven, by which time we needed to ferry the lad to Hateley Heath, and from there, over to my stepmother?s place. And, just in case you?d wondered ? yes, all my family had seen my other half on ?Midlands Today? last night. In fact, we must be about the only Baggies conducting our business in total ignorance, right now. All that will be rectified, however, when Earl Plass, a regular reader of this missive, presents us with a DVD, which he?s kindly recorded for us. That?s ?Im Indoors?s principal task, tomorrow ? collecting the thing from its creator!

I also believe he?ll be ferrying Phil around, once more, to some more rellies he hasn?t seen in a good while. But in the meantime, our master-plan for Monday morning has been gradually emerging from the nebulous mists of the human mind. As The Fart will be acting as steward on one coach, what we need to do is secure our seats on that very same vehicle, so everyone can be together, be they Lewis, Fart, or Uncle Tom Cobbley and all. With that aim very much in mind, we?re going to be picking The Fart up at around seven in the morning, depositing him at the ground in plenty of time for the first departures, scheduled, I believe, for around half-eight (please, God, let the Daily Mail go on strike for the day, or something!) ? although even that unearthly time may be subject to change, still.

Basically, it?s going to be a case of hanging on to Tel like grim death: the suggestion I made to the effect that we should purchase one of those toddler harnesses that harassed mums use to prevent Junior from going astray in large department stores, probably wouldn?t go down at all well with the proposed wearer, but might be an excellent idea. Well, at least we wouldn?t lose the old codger to the requirements of a totally different coach! A classic case of ?Follow That Fart?? Yep ? got it in one!

And Finally?.. Also on the agenda for this weekend is a gathering of the Oz Baggie contingent, now well over ten strong, so I?m told, with still more on their way via Heathrow come the weekend proper! All being well, it?s to be held at The Vine, at 12 noon, this coming Sunday. Given the specialist nature of that establishment?s cuisine, it hardly goes without saying that the main item on the menu will be some seriously-throat-blistering Balti and tandoori stuff. Not that I?ll be partaking, mind. Chuck anything remotely spicy at my delicate intestines, and they instantaneously go on sit-down strike. No, hang on a mo ? thinking about it a little bit further, perhaps ?mass expulsion? might be a better term to use in this particular context? In short, whatever the end result, it?s always a pretty antisocial one, which is why I never touch the stuff these days.

Any other lads from Oz in Blighty for Monday?s game, and reading this, feel free to attend also. Come to think about it, if you know us, and want a good laugh along with your Balti, then turn up also. We?re not proud. For details of how to get to the place, simply send us an email, via the contact details provided by the Boing site. The more on board the merrier ? and I also have it on good authority that one of the Express and Star?s finest hacks ? Marion Brennan, for it is she - will be there to record the occasion for posterity, too. Be there or be square? Too right, Blue?.

 - Glynis Wright

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