The Diary

27 May 2007: Someday, I'll Remember All This Rushing Round, And - Erm - Laugh - I Think!

It?s always been the case that whenever our favourite football club has been on the cusp of significant moments in its long history, I?ve always associated various pop songs, mostly, but not invariably, riding high in the charts at the time, with that very same occasion. It?s for that reason, then, that The Beatles hit ?Lady Madonna? has me rushing backwards at a rate of knots, to the M6 motorway, circa 1968, and our third ? successful - attempt at putting the mighty Reds to the FA Cup sword. The Rolling Stones, with ?Jumping Jack Flash? finds me, mentally, at least, back in Wembley Stadium, for the Cup Final that saw The King become, in my eyes, at least, someone completely synonymous with the sentiments expressed in the song title ? ?I?m Jumping Jack Flash, it?s a gas, gas gas?.?

Similarly, I have only to hear Glen Campbell?s ?Wichita Linesman?, or Mavin Gaye?s ?I heard It Through The Grapevine?, and I?m at Hillsbrough, approximately one year later, watching us crash so cruelly out of the same competition at the semi-final stage. Similarly, Abba?s ?Fernando? evokes memories of 1976 and Johnny Giles, as does XTC and ?Senses Working Overtime? with our 1982 semi defeat versus QPR. Give Phil Lynott a 1982 namecheck also, with his ditty, ?Attack!?(it was used as the Top Of The Pops signature tune for quite some time, so you may remember it as that), the refrain of which encapsulated perfectly what I expected our side to do that day.

And so it goes on, but sometimes, I become mentally fixated on some specific song for no apparent reason, hence my puzzlement when ? yep, it?s the Stones again! ? ?Gimme Shelter? somehow became irretrievably entangled with the old grey matter around the time of our 1978 Highbury debacle versus Ipswich. There are many other examples, of course, including 1991, and M.C. Hammer?s ?We Pray?, apropos our Second Division showdown at Twerton Park ? that one?s pretty obvious - but by now, you?ll have got my drift.

And so it was that prior to dashing upstairs to commence this piece, we accidentally happened to land on a BBC3 documentary tonight, all about iconic moments in the history of rock. Given we face yet another Wembley ordeal in less than 48 hours, I really do wish I hadn?t stayed to watch. Why? Easy: Pink Floyd, both pre-and-post-Syd Barrett, David Bowie and his ?Spiders From Mars? incarnation, Roxy Music, and so forth.

No sooner were these people belting out various opening chords, and that was it. Albion memories galore, both good and bad, hitting the light of day once more, after spending so many pointless years idling within the innermost bits of my brain. Now that my mind has undergone the equivalent of a successful archaeological dig, I sure as hell know what will happen, tomorrow night: out will come all those wretched long-forgotten CD?s, and I?ll vanish in a torrent of nostalgia. That?s what the prospect of a fifth Wembley appearance does to me, sad so-and-so that I am, so how is it for you?

But on to other matters. What have I been up to today? OK, here goes?. The day kicks off with a phone call from Phil, around eight this morning. He needs ferrying to the ground, and then to his other rellies over in East Yardley, deep in Bluenose territory. Time to engage fourth gear, then; ?Im indoors partakes of a hasty brekkie, then asks me if I want to come along, too. OK, I say, delaying breaking my fast until later, thinking the whole kit and caboodle won?t take too long: that was Mistake Number One!

On our way out of the house, my other half sends a hastily-composed text to Earl Plass, the lad editing the Oz Baggies contingent?s TV moment of stardom, then transferring same to CD so our chums can take ?em home as a souvenir, or something. Five minutes later, when we?re heading on out in the direction of Hateley Heath and Phil, His Nibs?s mobile rings. As he?s stationary, he answers, to be greeted by a very puzzled Baggie who?s just received some garbled message he can?t understand! Oops! Wrong recipient, so the lad tries again ? this time, we strike oil.

Once we?ve gathered Phil under our wing, so to speak, it?s off to the Hawthorns to pick up our coach tickets. We had been assured they would come by post, but the Saturday delivery?s come and gone already, with sod all to show for it. Having paid close to ?200 for the block booking for our party, we?re rather anxious to have something in writing.

We arrive at the ground around 15 minutes later, to find scenes comparable to those experienced by my sister on the Friday. A queue winding its sinuous way from the doors of the Ticket Office, and stewards in abundance. No real problem parking, though, so we simply tag on to the end. While we?re waiting, we buttonhole Supporters Club head honcho Alan Cleverly, who informs us we?ve missed the best: when he came to assist in opening-up operations, the queue had stretched as far as the Astle Gates! It would seem we?ve been spared the full horror of the situation, which is just as well, as two of us (Phil, myself) have dodgy backs and can?t stand for any great length of time.

As we wait, Phil, in an effort to get other muscle groups taking the strain while he?s on his pins, decides to visit the Club Shop and McDonalds over the road. Moments later, the queue shuffles forward, and we get wafted within the hallowed portals of the Ticket Office: adjacent to the entrance, on the left, is a huge sofa, WBA, weary supporters for the use of. So I do, updating my diary notes once sat down.

Whilst in the throes of creation, I momentarily look up ? and there standing just in front of me, with back turned, is a very familiar figure indeed, very Fart-like, too. He?s come to see Alan also, in order to get the precise scoop on what constitutes the various duties and responsibilities of a coach steward. While waiting for Alan to materialise once more, he then proceeds to show me the Mail?s belated coverage of our intrepid Aussie band?s arrival at Birmingham Airport. What a rum-looking bunch they are: who the hell let that lot into the bloody country, then? Are we REALLY sure Ned Kelly didn?t leave any descendants behind? Careful examination of some of the DNA material on display in the Mail would lead to some pretty interesting results, methinks.

And some other thoughts begin to waft their way around my brain. Mostly about the almighty stramash of a queue, even at this late stage in the game. Without really trying, I hear tales of people who have ordered six coach tickets, but get only one delivered, conversely, there?s word of folk ordering but one or two, and getting enough to transport a whole battalion to the front line by way of return! And even one instance of someone paying for six coach tickets and getting ?erm ? none! Not isolated instances, if the general tone of the queue is anything to go by. More and more, it?s becoming apparent that the club?s outsourcing of all the ticketing and transport to an outside agency is going somewhat awry.

As can be seen by my comments of the previous paragraph, it?s created far more problems than it was designed to solve. Our own situation regarding the non-arrival of paid-for tickets is nowhere near unique. Why on earth the club didn?t keep the whole thing ?in-house?, as per 1993, I?ll never know. Back then, the logistics were similar, but apart from some annoying glitches when it came to the issuance of Wembley tickets ? in our case, we had to wait in line some four hours or more ? the rest of it went like clockwork.

Since the beginning of the week, almost, volunteers from the Supporters Club have manned the pumps, for many a long hour, and with great success, it would seem. It?s easy being wise after the event, sure, but I can?t help but feel that had the club gone down that particular road to a greater extent, a goodly few of the glitches that have appeared in recent days could have been headed off at the pass, so to speak. OK ? a lot of SC people have full-time jobs, but there are an equal number of others, all of them reliable and trustworthy, who would have more than been up to the demands of the task in hand.

After nattering to The Fart about Life, The Universe and Everything, I endeavour to find ?Im Indoors, in order to show him the Mail piece about our Antipodean chums. Clearly, I?ve been in the throes of conversation longer than I?d thought, for I find His Nibs right at the head of the line and being ?seen to?, so to speak. Once he concludes business, coach tickets in hand (the sheer size of our party is evidenced by the sheer length of the cardboard ribbon he?s just been handed, well over six feet long), he gives some to Phil, who is passing ?em on to his fellow-travellers, and I go in search of Alan for The Fart ? and find him just about to leave the reception area, for some reason.

Having successfully reunited Fart with SC chappie, Alan then proceeds to give our wrinkly chum the lowdown on his manifold duties. We also explain to Alan that it?s our endeavour to keep our party together on the same coach, if at all possible. Promises to see what he can do to accommodate us on the day. Mind you, what with Phil being an ex-rozzer himself, albeit an Aussie one ? you don?t find too many kangaroos staggering down Lower Gornal High Street at chucking-out time, do you? ? I suspect that any mutinous behaviour on the part of the coach occupants will be well and truly nipped in the bud. Mind you, anyone who can relieve Mafeking successfully should find away trips such as these a piece of the proverbial ? isn?t that right, Tel? And, hell ? if the worst comes to the worst, I can always bash ?em with me trusty little walking-stick!

Once Alan?s finished his little pep-talk, we offer to drop The Fart off at his home, but he wants to go to the city centre instead. No probs there, we?ll give him a lift and save him the bother of using public transport. As we?re heading for our car, who should I happen to bump into, but Bryn Jones, academic (Bath University) extraordinaire, lifelong Baggies nut, and scourge of Denmark?s entire railway system when travelling to Albion pre-season friendlies (best not to ask!). He, too, is here on account of the Royal Mail not doing what it?s supposed to do: the fact that Bryn lives in the West Country is but a complicating factor. At least we didn?t have to go bombing down the M5 to sort out our ticketing problems, which is what he?s had to do.

Having successfully decanted The Fart where he wants to be, we then proceed to Phil?s rellies, by way of a certain den of iniquity commonly known to all and sundry as Small Heath. Thank goodness we only have to suffer the bloody bypass: the nearest the city can get to ?picturesque? around those parts is the massive rubbish furnace situated on the right as you proceed in the direction of the Coventry Road! Ten minutes or so later, we?re sitting quite comfortably in the comparative peace and quiet of the good lady?s sitting room: as we have to return to the ground for yet another reason, we spend 30 minutes or more in some extremely delightful company.

On the way home, we also pick up those promised CD?s from Earl Plass, who has a pretty out-of the-way gaff in the Halesowen area; so out-of-the-way, in fact, you have to proceed up a dirt track for quite some distance to find it! Before that, our attempts to find Earl?s place lead us to a house with an Albion banner hanging from the front bedroom window. Thinking we?ve struck oil, ?Im Indoors alerts Earl to our presence via his mobile: it?s only after a puzzled Earl has wailed ?Where the hell are you, I can?t see hide nor hair of any car?.? realisation gradually dawns that we?ve come to the wrong bloody house! The flag we spotted is a total coincidence, and yep ? it has been that sort of day all along, so why am I not surprised?

One curious phenomenon observed previously, as we ?re about to proceed down Mucklow Hill: an almighty tailback of cars, vans, lorries, the works, and all on the other side of the carriageway. No accident, as far as we can se, or any manner of obstruction, either, so what?s causing it? Just as we?re about to descend in the direction of Halesowen, it all becomes perfectly clear. Remember my words, earlier in the week, about the supporter who?s given his house the ?Baggie Once-Over?, flags, banners, balloons, the works? Yep ? guessed it in one. That?s what slowed the traffic to a complete crawl, would you believe. Schadenfreude glands producing prodigiously, I fervently hope that all those inconvenienced in this way are rabid Dingles! Oooo ? aren?t I rotten?

Get back home, and within a matter of minutes, it?s time to proceed to the ground, once more. (I hope you lot out there are keeping careful notes, because there will be a test at some stage in the proceedings!) Again, it?s Alan we need to speak to, but he can?t assist at that precise moment, so he asks us to return when the Ticket Office shuts up shop for the day (the lad?s been pressed into service working on the counter there). OK ? so back to the ranch we go. By now, there?s a considerable tailback of cars wanting to exit via the Astle Gates, intermingled with those drivers wanting to join the queue themselves: it?s a prang waiting to happen, really ? and as we await our turn to ? erm ? turn, that?s precisely what happens. We don?t stay to see the outcome: once the traffic parts to let us out, we?re off down Halfords Lane, where we discover the club have also opened the Smethwick End Gates, the proof being loads of cars leaving by that exit also. Shame they didn?t advertise it more widely: could have saved at least two drivers considerable grief, had they known.

By this time, I?m ?Jed clammed? as my old mother would have put it: thinking we?d have an easy time of it, running Phil around and grabbing those elusive coach tickets, I don?t bother having brekkie before I go, but by now, my tum?s in a state of total rebellion. I admit defeat, and tell my other half to go to the ground on his tod, while I do something to restore those ultra-low blood-sugar levels to a semblance of ?normal?. Bacon, sausage and tomatoes, with cereal, serve to re-balance my blood chemistry, at long last. It?s also time to tune into Sky, for the Division Two Play-Off final, Bristol Rovers versus Shrewsbury Town.

Because of his strong Hereford United-generated automatic antipathy towards the Shropshire club, my other half, now returned from The Hawthorns, wants to see Rovers emerge the victors. But things don?t start all that well, as The Shrews open the scoring within minutes of the kick-off. Much snarling from the other end of our sofa, but I do try to pour oil onto troubled waters by pointing out that from what I?ve seen of their defence, the equaliser won?t be too long in coming ? and that?s how it pans out, with Rovers putting their noses in front not long after they achieve parity once more.

They then seal it at the death by capitalising upon a Shrewsbury attempt to chuck all their big guns, keeper included, into the mixer, as part of a desperate search for a late equaliser. Oops! A Rovers player, lurking with intent near the halfway line, mops up the stray ball from Shrewsbury?s repulsed corner, which leaves the Gay Meadow custodian well and truly stranded in the wrong box. One of their defenders busts a gut trying to catch up, but it?s a hopeless task. Off goes the ball at a rate of knots, straight over an unguarded goal-line, with our gallant hero still trying to achieve the impossible, only to arrive at the back of the net milliseconds after the ball has beaten the poor guy to it.

Final score, then, 3-1 to Rovers, with much singing of their famous ditty, ?Goodnight Eileen?, in prospect, no doubt. And manufacturers of that Bristolian rotgut staple, scrumpy cider ? well-capable of taking the shine right off a stainless-steel sink, so don?t try it at home, kiddies - rubbing their hands with glee at the prospect of bumper sales in the city tonight, no doubt. I wouldn?t like to have their hangover (or their ultra-vivid hallucinations, come to think about it: anyone know what to do with a rampant pink elephant occupying your bed?) tomorrow morning, that?s for sure.

Time to sign off, now, as we face a pretty demanding session in The Vine, come the firing of the noonday gun. Now we?ll find out just how well our Antipodean contingent cope with super-strength Baltis and tandooris, naan bread, dips, the works. As I understand these things, we?ve got around 18 Aussie Baggies on a promise to attend, with other sundry bodies turning up for the fun also. Given their penchant for having a good time, whatever the excuse/occasion ? when our current Queen pops her clogs, will our colonial chums embark upon an almighty toot by way of giving her a damn good send-off, I wonder? ? it promises to be quite an occasion.

We?ve also been definitely promised a tame journo in attendance, courtesy the E and S. All that remains is for us to alert the local A and E, in order to have an efficient stomach pump plus medical staff in readiness. Or should I belay that request until we all, hopefully, return from The Smoke victorious? And should that happy state of affairs come to be, I wonder what manner of tune will subsequently emerge from our radio, providing instantaneous recall of all these events some ten or twenty years further down the line? Guess I?d better start listening to some oldie stations pretty fast!

Oh, and just one more thought before I go?. As the week has progressed, my sympathies have been increasingly with those wonderful people manning the Ticket Office Counter, ditto those running the shop next door. It?s a shame, but once more, the club?s endeavour to run the entire operation on strictly business lines has been a major contributory factor in the confusion that prevailed this bright and sunny morning. Perhaps we just might get it right next time ? if there IS a next time?.

 - Glynis Wright

Contact the Author

Diary Index