The Diary

29 May 2007: Cheeky Derby's Opportunistic Ram Raid Smashes And Grabs Premiership Status At Our Expense.

So that?s it, then. Derby County get to wear the Tyrian purple next season, while we languish once more in the relative backwater of the Championship. On the face of it, fair do?s to Derby: they saw a fleeting chance, took it, and won the much-coveted prize as a result ? but that?s not the whole story by a long chalk, as many of those who attended today?s game will readily testify.

I guess the first contributory factor in our defeat concerns our inability to put away chances when presented with them. I wasn?t keeping an exact count, but surely it wasn?t my imagination telling me that we had lots more shots on target, more corners won etc. than did the Pride Park outfit. And consider their paltry contribution to the penalty-box fun: as I saw it, over the whole of the 90 minutes, Country had two decent chances. The first was brilliantly stopped by Kiley: the second, of course, went straight into the back of the net.

My second point? That concerns Graham Poll, who refereed his very last senior game today. On the basis of what I witnessed, football is losing the closest thing to a complete and utter stuff-up I?ve ever encountered in my entire supporting career. Time after time, the County lot were putting in tackles that were so late, they stood in mortal danger of missing the last bus out of the place. After they?d scored, Country were stretching what was permissible and what was not to destruction, almost.

Sure, come the last five or so minutes, out came the yellow card at long last, and on several occasions, landing several Derby players, repeatedly-prevaricating goalkeeper included, into our hero?s soon-to-be-discarded notebook. But it was too late by that time, wasn?t it, Mister Poll? The real damage was done when you allowed County to get away with some horrendous early challenges on our people, time after time, after time. Not that it would matter a flying fornication to you: you?re off out of it, and not even Keith Hackett?s mob would bother to take you to task for what happened today. At a time when the game positively screamed for some super-strong refereeing, we got naff-all. Thanks a bundle, Graham ? now sod off to your retirement cottage, and the sooner the better.

There?s also an additional factor that may or may not have contributed to our demise, one not nearly so clear-cut. What I?m banging on about, here, are sequences. If you examine our past Wembley record, from 1931 to the present day, you?ll see a pattern develop: I?d remarked on it back in 1993, when we triumphed over Port Vale, but for some unaccountable reason, it was only after today?s kick-off the penny dropped again.

Just in case you haven?t sussed it, here it is again. 1931, versus Blues, won: 1935, versus Sheffield Wednesday, lost: 1954, versus Preston, won: 1967, versus QPR, lost: 1968, versus Everton, won, 1970, versus Man City, lost, and finally, 1993, versus Vale, won. Yes, guess what came next?.. No wonder my heart sank so precipitously, once recall of that sequence hit my innermost thoughts.

Oh, well ? at least the day wasn?t an unmitigated disaster: far from it, in fact, and for that we have the Aussie Baggies to thank. Their wonderfully dry humour, plus a liberal sprinkling of exquisitely-barbed one-liners, most of which were aimed at those idiot Derby supporters who seemed to elicit great amusement from trying to wind us up, made the long journey back up the M40 far more bearable than it would have been in their absence. In fact, not a bad day: the real blight on the proceedings was the game, Graham Poll, and bloody Derby. Now for the meat of my tale. Ready?

6 am. Get up at this ridiculously-unearthly hour, as we have to pick up The Fart, plus his good lady Fartess, Dot, from their house in Stirchley. Tel, of course, will be our coach steward. The thought crosses my mind, not for the first time ? is the world ready for Tel, and his one-man campaign against those who offend against the laws of the land? We?ll soon find out.

Having grabbed the pair of ?em, Tel then proceeds to tell us a pretty funny tale. Apparently, he was mowing the lawn in his back garden the other day, when he decided to take a breather: after all, the temperature was in the high seventies, and the mowing was really hard work. In fact, so exhausted was our hero by his efforts, he decided to lie down on the grass and have a small snooze.

Enter into my tale his new neighbour. Seeing Tel lying there on his lawn, the electric mower immobile nearby, he immediately puts two and two together and makes about six million. The next thing poor Dot knows, there?s a frantic pounding on her front door, and a very alarmed chap telling her that her hubby?s collapsed doing the mowing, and to call for an ambulance straight away! Just as well Dot decided to check before raising the alarm, because once she was out there and giving the old sod a hefty nudge, he then underwent the swiftest ?resurrection? since the days of Lazarus ? and I?m not discussing the sixties QPR player, either.

A mix-up worthy of a TV sitcom, it really was: no wonder I?m crying with helpless laughter by the time Tel?s finished! Just minutes after that, we reach the Halfords Lane car-park, and from there head off towards the Smethwick End gates, where a distinctly-harassed Alan Cleverly is in charge of operations. Looking around me, what I see are scenes closely resembling the beaches at Dunkirk, 1940. Lots of bodies milling about and anxious to get on a coach, and a Supporters Club ?band of brothers? trying to impose some semblance of order upon the scene. My beloved?s mobile throws a hissy fit, so he borrows mine in order to get in contact with our Antipodean friends, who will be travelling with our party, once we can find em!

Having very little joy, Mohammed decides to go to the mountain, and winkle ?em all out himself. He must have won in the end, for they all come along, in dribs and drabs, eventually. We also acquire the Lewis family, who have come mob-handed for this one, mum, dad, both kids, both hyped up to hell. Tell Carly of my own Wembley trip when a teenager like her: watching her closely, it?s amazing how the years roll back, and I?m heading off down a rainswept M1 to see the Baggies do battle with Everton. All Our Yesterdays, indeed.

The only term that comes to mind to describe what?s going on is ?organised chaos?. First of all, stewards are under the impression that they first claim a coach, then start loading bodies ? but, nope. Change of plan. In fact, the plan changes more times than I do underwear after watching a ghost film ? one minute we?re told to get on board the next one that comes, the next it?s cancelled, for five times in succession! Then, finally, The Fart and his vehicle are introduced to one another, so gathering our little party together, we climb on board: just seconds later, our transport of delight is on the East Stand car park and ready to have the numbers made up to the max from supporters waiting at the head of a queue, ably marshalled by stewards. As the bulk of the passengers approach the coach, Tel really begins to get into the role of bus conductor: ?Tickets please!? he bawls in tones that reverberate off the stand wall, as his new charges prepare to embus. Then, ?FIVE MORE!? is The Fart?s battle cry, as we realise we can get more on the thing.

A couple of glitches trying to do that, but eventually, we?re chock full, and ready to split. Off we go through the Astle Gates ? I note that Laraine has left a bunch of flowers for Jeff, especially poignant, that, on this day of all days ? and it?s only then we realise just how big this operation is going to be. The queue winds from the gates, all the way along the Brummie, round into Halfords Lane ? and, if my memory serves me correctly, onto the other side of the road, too! Shifting that little lot in short order is going to prove quite a task. Thank goodness we?re going to be away comparatively early.

It soon transpires that in Phil, The Fart has a very able lieutenant, albeit an Aussie one. Before we?ve set off, he?s at the rear of the coach checking for empty seats, making sure groups haven?t been split up, etc. Another natural; amazing what they teach ?em at Perth Police Training School, isn?t it?

As we set off, I tease The Fart something rotten about having to do the same thing when going to the trenches on the Western Front, circa 1916. ?Yeah,? agrees the old sod, ?But the difference was the dastardly Huns were shooting at us at the time!? We then settle down; just as we do so, our much-travelled chums open today?s E and S ? and guess what? Yep ? there they are again, right on the front page! Is it charisma, or what?

Ring a mate of ours, Jon Brittle, at my beloved?s request, as his phone is still playing silly buggers. We?ve got his ticket, and need to sort out a meeting-place, which shouldn?t be too much trouble, as Jon actually lives in The Smoke. Having agreed upon a time, he gives me an impromptu weather forecast, too: for the past couple of days, the rain has been belting down, shivering temperatures, with near-gale-force winds accompanying the deluge. ?Bits of trees everywhere!? is his final thought on the subject. Just our luck: here we are, in mid-May, experiencing weather that truly belongs to mid-March, or late February, even. Whatever happened to global warming, that?s what I want to know!

As we head out for the M40, Carly begins to worry me: there she is, blowing up loads of those inflatable T-Mobile ?hands?, something that instantly brings to mind ? that? notorious inflationary scene in ?Airplane?. Start to laugh, stifle it, then turn it into a pretend sneeze. True, she?s 16, but there are things you do not discuss with a young lady of such tender years. Allegedly.

As we draw nearer to the capital, Carly decides to show our much-travelled chums some pictures of herself she?s taken on her mobile, and gets oodles of stick from them as a result. But it?s all in fun, of course: the next thing I hear, they?re all giving her the real lowdown on Oz, including information concerning the really poisonous stuff that creeps, crawls or slithers around their rabbit-shaped continent. We also discover that these lads have appeared on TV yet again!

Not everyone has come by coach, mind. On the way down, I spot a fair number of private vehicles, suitably decorated, of course, head in precisely the same direction. One has the registration plate 999 WBA: does he have uncanny foresight or is he just a copper with a penchant for all things Baggie? Tel then puts on his ?stewards hat? once more, announcing a brief pit-stop at some services. Resolve to grab newspaper while we?re there, as our early start meant we were on the road well before our newsagent had even stirred from his pit.

Leave M40, proceed along M25, then branch off for Wembley. Gasps of excitement from the rear of the coach as the brand-new structure heaves into sight. The chap in front of me brings out his Nikon camera and proceeds to click away enthusiastically. His stuff should be a wow back in Perth. What gives it away is the bloody great arch, which rises majestically above just about everything in the immediate area. By now, Carly is getting along with the Oz Baggies like a bit of bush on fire: it doesn?t need a great twist of the imagination to guess where she?d like to spend her gap year, in around two years time.

Inside the precincts of the stadium, at long last, but now comes the snag. Tell announces that the coach park doesn?t open until twelve, and it?s now eleven. Cries of: ?Ram the gates ? pretend we?re Dingles!? and ?I?ve got a disabled badge ? will that help?? After a little thought, our driver drops us all off, and advises Tel to look out for him at the end of the game. I can only hope that our coach number stays stuck on the windscreen: Albion weren?t exactly lavish with the Blu Tak before we started out!

The Aussie bunch go in search of a pub called The Green Man. We make a half-hearted attempt to search for it also, but eventually decide it?s a non-starter, so we opt for McDonalds instead. Oh, yeah ? and it?s piddling down. The place is absolutely full to the gunnels, no chance of a seat inside, but sitting outside might be an option, apart from the bloody rain. I order for us, as The Noise sorts out the Lewis family wants. I get served by a bloke who can hardly string two words of English together: what with that and my hearing problem, getting onto a mutually-agreeable wavelength proves somewhat problematic.

Eventually, the penny drops ? no coffee? No tea, either? Sacre Bleu! ? and we move outside. About a hundred yards away, the Radio WM mobile unit tries to whip the troops up into a passionate frenzy: a tall order, that, given the atrocious weather. The Liquidator gets them going, though ? now there?s a surprise, but not one half as big as the one I get nearer kick-off time, where the stadium authorities actually play it over their PA system ? and our lot react in time-honoured fashion by bawling out the naughty lyrics at the tops of their voices. Mary Whitehouse, where were you when the nation?s morals badly needed some assistance? Whaddayamean, ?dead?? How dare you pop your clogs in the face of rapidly worsening public standards and morals?

Retracing our steps back along Wembley Way (Mark Two), we then head for our turnstiles, and wait for the chap who is to collect the ticket, as arranged ? and wait and wait?.. An embarrassing interlude, as I bash the metal door with the heel of my shoe ? and out comes the steward tasked to guard that point of entry. Clearly, he thinks that?s there?s some sort of prearranged code agreed with others in our party. Eventually Jon does show up ? he was unavoidably delayed due to the crowds, as it turns out ? so in we jolly well go, at long last. One thought, though ? whatever happened to the much-anticipated search on entry?

By now, both Jayne and myself are in need of what people in the US call a ?comfort station?. None where we are, so we then ascend via escalator. Jayne, being slightly fearful of the things, elects to climb the normal stairs instead. Once at the next floor, nip into the Ladies, is all done out in black, which gives it something of a minimalist look, clinical, unease-inducing. The place having only been open for business for but a few months, it?s in pristine nick, but lacks one vital commodity. Bog paper ? HELP!

Pausing momentarily to admire the view from the upper reaches of the place, I spot an airship seemingly parked right at the bottom of someone?s garden. That?s what I really call bespoke transport service, but why it?s stuck there, and not placed in the element that it loves, I can?t even begin to fathom. Proceed to top concourse via the lift, exit via the doors ? only to gawp mightily at the scene that awaits us as we go through the tunnel and onto our bit of seated area.

It?s early, still, so actual bodies in quantity are few ? that goes for their mob, as well as ours ? which means we meet with little trouble ascending towards the back, where our ticket allocation bears absolutely no resemblance to what we should have sold under normal circumstances ? something we should have taken into account much earlier than we actually did. Try not to look down, as the view is truly frightening, in a gobsmacking sort of way. Our good lady, in addition to what has been done by her already, battens down the hatches preparatory to a bumpy ride for her sprog.

Great swathes of red are untouched, still, but the imminence of the game, helps enormously in plonking bodies onto seats, where they should be. There?s an outbreak of flag-waving at the back, the steep rake of these seats giving their supporters a spark of courage and tenacity that seems to be lacking elsewhere. At around two, both sides emerge to warm up: the noise-level as our finest reach the pitch is truly something to behold.

Then the guy out there with the mike commences on the warm-up exercises for both sets of supporters. Much to my amazement, when it comes to our turn, the entire place erupts with a rendition of ?The Liquidator? Harry J. And The All Stars never once thought of! As you?ll have probably guessed by now, our supporters, determined not to let a golden moment slip by unobserved, let rip with a massed suggestion that the Dingles better slope off now and multiply. I briefly wonder what the Sky pundits will do to cover up all the rude bits. Tell you what, though, thanks to the excellent acoustics out there, it really rocks the damn place absolutely rigid. I?d love to see what the Quality, stuck in the posh seats, think of it all ? probably waving a gilded pomander under their noses by this stage of the game, I reckon.

Time for the team news, then. For Derby, much to my astonishment, Peschisolido, he of the male half of the Karen Brady marriage made in heaven, is starting, along with Public Nuisance Numero Uno, Steve Howard! (See my remarks apropos Derby getting away with murder, thanks to the ineptitude of Graham Poll.) Are they sure about that? Big Dave, one of football?s rare-bird Really Nice Guys, holds things together at the back for them.

We, for our part, weigh in with a side unchanged from the one that sorted the Dingles. One small change in the back-up personnel, mind: Shergar out completely, much to my disappointment. Now I?ll never see John Homer reveal his vital assets in Gornal High Street. Damn. Tony Mowbray, how could you deprive me of the chance of seeing this wondrous spectacle come to pass? Chappy, bless his slick pink pate, is drafted in by way of replacement instead.

When the Albion side is read out, great screeches of joy from Carly ? the object of her gradually-emerging amorous desires, Darren Carter, is also in the squad. Normally a very sensible girl, is Carly, but if you ever want to reduce her mind to a complete state of mush, simply prime young Darren to walk into the room just as she?s about to expound upon her knowledge of nuclear physics, or similar.

Ten minutes to go, then, and time for two inflatables, bearing the badge of each club beneath, get released, at which point, the entire stadium is all a-twinkle to the many scintillations of pin-point light caused by the tripping of thousands of flash-guns scattered all around the ground. But the best bit comes when both sides emerge from the tunnel: this time, great gouts of flame leap into the air, their motive power coming from six or so thundering great boxes positioned nearby. ?Hell, that?s one mother of a Barbie, that bugger?? I mutter to my beloved.

As for my overall mood, astonished as I am to admit it, the collywobbles have gone, and I?m strangely resigned to what Fate will bring. The die is well and truly cast; whatever happens, the only way we can influence the course of events out there is vocally, which seems a fair enough bargain to me. Perhaps our emotionally-draining rendition of the 23rd Psalm, just before the start, has something to do with it? Mowbray has done his best, as have the rest of the coaching staff: it?s now very much down to the quirky personalities of those black-clad toy-like figures taking up position for the ?off?. And the ability of Graham Poll to impose his own peculiar personality upon events, but we all knew that when we first signed up for the trip, so no big surprise there, then.

Briefly, what happens is this: No sooner has Poll got things underway, we?re the first to show, making waves at their end of the pitch, and, in those opening minutes, at least, Derby seem unsure as to how to stop us. Kamara is the first to give Derby the jitters, within around a minute of the start. They don?t like us coming at them like that, but is their game-plan to absorb everything we can chuck at them for the first 20 or so minutes, then try and hit us on the break? That?s the way it looks to me, especially when Peschisolido almost makes us pay for a wretched example of inattention from our defence. Luckily, he?s unable to hit a barn door at ten paces, these days, and Kiely is perfectly positioned, so his effort goes to waste.

With around 13 on the clock, there?s loud claims for a Baggies penalty, when Koumas gets upended in the box. Was the shout a ?goer?? I wasn?t all that sure, to be perfectly honest, and I did hear from someone afterwards that Sky had subsequently run through the footage of the incident, but found there was no real infraction of the rules involved. We continue to go at The Rams, and, for their part, a nasty piece of work called Steve Howard seems to have been given carte blanche by Graham Poll to kick up into the air anything wearing an Albion shirt. I can?t believe he?s not been booked long before now.

Despite both sides giving it big licks, the only time Derby really hurt us is come the Peschisolido thing. For our part, the closest we come to scoring, that opening half, is when Kev Phillips whacks the bar, just a couple of minutes before the interval. Still, we have most of the opportunities, and at that stage of the proceedings, everything Baggie looks hunky-dory.

Come the interval, one mad dash for the loo begins for our party. ?Im Indoors reappears, around ten minutes later, to report a near-riot in the gents bog. Doo wot? The cause of the trouble is the inadequacy of the facilities to cope with loads of Albionites suffering from near-urinary retention, a direct result of many supporters ?holding it? until the break. Most wait patiently in the queue, but some mistakenly believe the exit is the entrance, so they end up jumping the queue, hence the near-fisticuffs down there! Oh, well ? it?s different. I?ve seen trouble start for many a daft reason, over the years, but that one has to be a real first, for me.

Time for the second dose, where our lot will be attacking the goal at our end, this time round. Once more, we lead the assault upon Festung Ram mob-handed, but Derby stand their ground, still. Derby then have a couple of fairly creditable attempts repulsed, but I don?t feel particularly anxious when they end up missing their intended targets completely. Come the 15th minute of the second half, though, we have a bloody narrow escape ? and the credit for preventing disaster most certainly goes to Dean Kiely, who puts in a save that?s truly astonishing, especially when you consider the original shot was from very close range indeed.

So far, so good, then ? and although neither side has broken the deadlock, as yet, it?s our net that feels relatively untroubled. We begin to wonder about extra time, and what that might bring. And that?s the precise moment we let our guard slip, and Derby say ?Ta!?, then capitalise hugely upon our momentary lapse at the back. Basically, they go through our rearguard like a knife through molten butter ? ?This could be real trouble?.? I moan as The Rams commence raiding us on the right. Of defenders, there?s scarce few to be seen. We?re stuffed.

No surprise, then, when Pearson accepts the ball from the right, then pokes it home, straight past a despairing Kiely. The other end go nuts, and we shrivel. Two decent chances from County, and one of those saved brilliantly, one goal. I should have guessed when we started stuffing up the chances we created so well in the first period. Didn?t you just know it?

As the unexpected strike has the effect of knocking the wind from out of our sails completely, we seem very much like a balloon that?s had all the air escape from it, leaving naught but a very saggy semblance of spheroidal rubber to show for our efforts. That?s the moment I first realise we aren?t going to get back from this: I tell ?Im Indoors, and he agrees with my snap-summary of our prospects.

And that?s when Graham Poll begins to exert his peculiar personality upon the proceedings. Gera and Greening both have a poke, but their keeper isn?t having any of it, although it does take two attempts from him to to sort out the Gera effort, in the end. With 20 minutes to go, Mowbray changes it: Macca and Gera off, Darren Carter ? Carly, behave yourself! ? and Duke Ellington on. Such sustained pressure on the opposition always leaves you open to getting hit on the break, and it almost happens to us around five from the end; with Barnes about to pull the trigger, Greening saves the day, putting the guy off sufficiently well to throw him off the trail completely.

By now, Derby are pulling just about every single delaying-tactic in the book to prevent us getting the ball, maintaining some much-needed continuity and momentum, and heading off for their 18-yard area at a rate of knots. First of all, they try the old ?I?m mortally wounded? routine, then several time-shedding subbings. Their keeper seems to inhabit a time-zone all of his very own when taking goal-kicks: eventually, Poll loses patience ? but they?ve been doing that sort of thing ever since they scored, Graham! Cards mean diddly-squat to them, right now. And had you been a little bit stronger when they started out with the rough stuff, our players might have enjoyed some much-needed protection. Not that it means owt to you, mind: come the end of play, you?re off into Civvy Street, and sod the bloody game.

Clem was the last Baggie to try and repair the damage: his shot went wide of the post, and with it went our last chance of saving something from the wreckage. Just seconds after that, the final whistle went: a quick glance among my companions showed that some had taken defeat really badly. Poor Carly and Bethany: both of them in floods of tears, Bethany much worse than her big sister. We try to explain that heartache and disappointment?s all part of parcel of being an Albion supporter, but it falls upon deaf ears. When you?re that age, a strong sense of black and white means you see players cast in the role of knights in shining armour, and the opposition assuming the mantle of the Devil Incarnate. When you?re that age, the possibility of various shades of grey colouring your views never once comes into it. Which is why, when you?re that age, defeat and disappointment hurts so badly.

We don?t stay to see Derby crowned: off we go, down the steep steps, mulling over what might have been. At the bottom, we have a quick loo break, by which time The Noise and his brood have headed off in the direction of our coach. Down we go, in the lift, eventually reaching ground floor, but there?s just one teensy snag. We?re where we want to be all right ? but we can?t get out! All the doors are locked, so I try another further along. Still no joy, but ? AHA! ? There?s an emergency exit there. Given what it?s meant for, we can surely get out that way: after all, they wouldn?t lock such a thing with close-on 80,000 bodies in the blasted place, would they? Yep ? I?m right, down goes the bar on the door, and Open Sesame! We?ve probably set off their alarm system, but sod that ? we want to go home.

A slow, highly convoluted trudge ? the rozzers want to keep both lots segregated, and get very stroppy with those wanting to push through their cordon, which is a bit of a joke, as just a few yards further down, both sets of supporters are mingling with complete impunity! ? brings us to the coach park we want, eventually. Our charabanc is on around the second row there, which simplifies matters enormously. I?m just glad to get out of the cold and rain, which has now redoubled its efforts to reduce the whole thing to a soggy mess.

We start moving, eventually, but not before a goodly number of Derby people have tried to milk the occasion for all it?s worth. Snarls all round our vehicle ? and that?s when the Oz Baggies, and their warped sense of humour really comes into play, dear reader. Their idea of ?cabaret? is top-notch stuff, as they hurl loads of cleverly-constructed one-liner insults in succession in the general direction of the gleeful Rams contingent: by the time they?re through, all their attempts at so-called humour have fallen completely flat. So thick and fast are they coming, so wonderful their command of the insult, and with but rare recourse to the use of real obscenity, I neglect to record ?em all for posterity, but rest assured from me, the whole coach is in stitches by that time. Not surprisingly, our former tormentors slink away, defeated. They sure have met their match.

As we slowly progress along the one-way track that takes us away from the stadium, we each mull over what that defeat might mean to Mowbray and his side. I expect to see several players leave: Kamara will be one, no doubt, as will the likes of Gera, Curtis Davies, Koumas, too, possibly, young Macca. Incidentally, when Radio WM talk to Phil regarding his reaction to the defeat, he is wont to describe our soon-to-be-itinerant Senegalese striker in somewhat pithy terms: ?couldn?t hit a cow?s a**e with a bloody banjo, him!?, is our chum?s blunt snap-assessment of Kamara?s striking skills, which must have led to a brief awkward moment in their studio, but that?s Aussies for you ? what you see is what you get, and with the minimum of pomp and ceremony, too.

No, what we have to do is at least get a fair asking price for our departing stars, then use the moolah to bring in players as good as the ones that will leave, minimum, but preferably, those with a little bit more to offer. It won?t be easy, of course, but that?s what needs to be done. With Charlton coming down, I suspect that will be at least one of the three promotion berths taken, before we even start. And, dare I suggest it, come the time for us to take up cudgels for the cause once more, we try to get in a better mix of players? Silky skills are lovely to watch ? hell, that?s precisely the sort of Albion side I was brought up on ? but you do need a leavening of cold steel in the mix, too. Something tells me that Mowbray might well be thinking that way also, tonight.

Oh, well ? I?ve nattered on for far too long. More tomorrow, after I?ve grabbed some zeds, and am in a much better position to analyse what we did right, today, and what we did wrong. See you then.

 - Glynis Wright

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