The Diary

25 August 2007: I Have A Dream - And It's Not About Us Getting Promotion!

It?s long been said that dreams are really Nature?s way of letting us confront ? and, by indirect means, helping solve ? those vexing problems that variously rear their ugly heads during waking hours. And not a few sexual ones, if what pioneering psychoanalyst Sigmund Freud had to say was right. Well, speaking from personal experience (and, despite the best efforts of Uncle Sigmund, nary a phallic symbol, ego or id in sight, just in case you were wondering!), I?ll most certainly be buying into that theory in the very near future ? and it?s all because of this wretched OU course I?m taking, right now. It?s all to do with the content: one helluva lot of chemistry I hadn?t even looked at in, plus a hefty whack of pharmacology, albeit stuff the average pill-pusher could recite in his or her (tranquilliser-induced?) sleep.

Chuck into that lot a gurt great gobbet of medical history, and you then start to enter the brain-straining kingdom of Stuff I Didn?t Know ? and that, dear reader, is the precise moment when I started getting these weird dreams. But mixed in with brain-archive ?footage? of our finest in action? Yep ? you might well say ?Oh dear!?, then phone straight for the nice men in white coats. Were it ever down to a race between the two, I wonder which would ultimately prove worse for my mental health?

Take just the other night. Ever seen Albion setting up a defensive ?wall? involving amino acids linking lengthways and sideways to make a near-impregnable barrier? Paul Robinson bawling his lungs out: ?Get that carbolyxic acid bit in front of their keeper, you!? and ?Amines, you should be THERE!....? ?Jonathan Greening bawling: ?Watch out for their spare oxygen molecule on the right!? and Dean Kiely screaming furiously: ?AARGH! I?m unsighted ? get that chuffin? sulfide bond marked up, quick!? no wonder I need a good lie down AFTER having a good lie down, if you get my drift.

Talking of chemistry, and all things academic, a very excited Carly rang me last Thursday morning with some wonderful news to impart: it being time for her GCSE results, she?d gone back to her old school for the tidings, be they good or ill, and they surpassed even her wildest expectations. 5 Grade A?s: four Grade B?s, and 2 Grade C?s.

Only one subject ?dipped? completely ? that was geography ? but she wasn?t too worried about that, and neither would I, come to think about it. What they class as ?geography? these days is far removed from the dry-as-dust clutter of facts and figures about countries studied, the theory behind various geological processes ? the formation of oxbow lakes was one such unwelcome imposition upon our collective sanity in my day - not to mention the mind-bogglingly numbing details of agricultural esoterica, such as Nigerian crop rotation, I had to assimilate in my distant youth.

Even now, things painfully learned back then still return to haunt me, like Oz?s Snowy Mountain Hydro-Electric Scheme did, on one unfortunate occasion we visited. And their blasted rabbit-proof fence, courtesy the emotive but excellent feature film of that name, I saw while out there. ?Environmental science? is more how I?d class the modern syllabus, all about demographics, shops, neighbourhoods, etc. and how the twin ravages of time and commerce have served them all over the years. It?s geography, Jim, but not as we know it ? and in its current form, to my mind, about as useful as an ashtray on a motor bike!

Poor girl: she?d been up since five that very same morning, unable to sleep with worry, and her school didn?t help either by not releasing the results until ten am. She sounded absolutely flabbergasted at having done so well ? but I?d never once doubted her ability to surmount this particular hurdle, especially in science. These days, it?s a double award from the examination board, for both physics and chemistry. Result? She effectively gained two B grades at one single throw. The book tokens are in the post, Carly. She?s a very bright lass, and ought to go far. (But never, EVER to the University Of Wolverhampton, Carly ? PLEEEEAAAASSSEEEE!)

The next step is AS Levels. After spending some time speaking meaningfully to the sixth form college she?ll be attending ? blimey, knowing the Lewis mob?s ?verbosity gene? as I do, THAT conversation alone must have given the poor lecturer concerned one hell of a shock to the system - it?s been agreed she?ll be doing Chemistry, Biology, Sports Science, and Psychology, all over the course of the coming 12 months, also French, the last via evening sessions. If ever there was a potential physiotherapist or sports psychologist simply aching to burst forth from its shell, butterfly-like, then it?s got to be His Garrulousness?s eldest daughter.

Remember Carly?s name, as she finally emerges from the confines of her ?pupa?, fluttering her newly-acquired academic wings in the warm sun, some six or seven years further down the line, Albion! If you don?t, I fully reserve the right to send The Noise some fifty miles down the M6, to The Hawthorns, and with strict instructions to yak at the lot of you unmercifully, up to and including the precise point where your tongues start becoming distinctly frayed around the edges! Resistance is futile, believe you me.

Returning briefly to the awful dreams thingy once more, that?s one problem, but largely one that I can live with. I can readily think of much worse ?scripts? with which to fire my nocturnal imagination, believe you me. Higher still on the real ?pain in the tootsie? list, though, is the alarming number of electrical appliances that have croaked their last in the Wright household, over the course of the last few days or so, and has even affected our Baggies-watching activities.

As I posted the other day, it all began last Sunday, upon our return from what is fast becoming a Grand House-Hunting Tour of the Black Country. As is per usual, no sooner had we stepped into our living-room, on went the TV, for some live Prem game or other. True, the juice started gurgling through our telly?s electronic guts OK, but instead of the green swarth of a top-notch pitch, and 22 players running around like lunatics upon it, what we got instead was a little sign from Virgin Media telling us we weren?t subscribed, or something.

Ridiculous, as we were well up to date with payments, so we rang ?em to ascertain just what the blankety-blank hell was going on? Turned out that there was a fault, unsurprisingly ? but one that would take TEN DAYS for an engineer to come out and sort it? Anyway, as I said recently, that was our Sheffield game knackered ? unless we either travelled to the game, and by doing so, bled our biscuit tin savings fund for household odds and sods dry, or found a suitable pub to watch it in.

I have to say that you are a lovely lot: no sooner had I bewailed our misfortunes to the electronic void, El Tel invited us over to watch the game courtesy of his living-room (and smashing tabby feline, Heidi ? like most female cats, she?s gorgeous, and knows it), and a reader of this column also offered us the use of another TV. The first offer we jumped at, and the second we declined, on account of the fact that at that time, we did have some back-up, in the shape of my old portable TV.

Whoops! Ah, yes, my old portable, bless its ancient diodes, an ideal solution ? that?s what I?d thought, all right. So why was it, then, that after some 25 years of serving me faithfully, my Logie Baird-era steam-telly chose er ? now ? to finally up, and shuffle off this mortal coil, just as I was watching Midlands Today on the Beeb? One minute the sound was coming through loud and clear, and the next ? phut! NOTHING. Not one dicky- bird, even. ?Tis true I?m a trifle deaf, these days, (cue for jokes about custard and jelly etc. I know!) ? but not THAT bloody deaf, honest!

A quick flip through all the terrestrial channels on offer soon confirmed my worst fears: that the problem was indisputably down to the set. (Those who know me won?t be too surprised to hear that come that moment, my language even surpassed that of the proverbial three-badge stoker, on being told his rum ration had been stopped!). The upshot is that we are now without TV of any description: not so bad in the normal run of things ? incurable optimists apart, how many genuinely want to switch on the evening news these days? - but for two Baggie people now deprived of their footy ration, totally and utterly calamitous.

And that wasn?t all. Shortly after that, as if in sympathy, out went our vacuum cleaner ? which I only picked up from the repairer two days ago ? and also the depressing news from emergency-repair man Norm about our front gate. Some little specimen of low-life in the area had tried to nick the blasted thing, under cover of darkness presumably, but all they?d managed to do was pull out all the screws fastening it to the wall. Yet another ticklish job for our fave handyman to sort out, and one that took somewhat longer than anticipated, mainly because our resourceful relative had to source the special screws from elsewhere.

Still, as he?s now finished all the gash jobs outstanding, we can finally place our personal Shangri-La on the market, probably next week. Well, it will be next week, next Tuesday, in fact, as that?s when we?ve asked the estate agent to come round. Funny, as I wasn?t particularly aware we?d rendered him unconscious in the first place, but that?s the property business for you.

And so, to the nitty-gritty of tomorrow?s Albion-watching efforts: Sheffield United, and all stations west. Fortunately for all concerned, Clem apart, the last vestiges of those involved in the so-called ?Battle Of Bramall Lane? have long since departed for pastures new, which means, effectively, that both clubs will be painting upon what is now a reasonably-untainted canvas. Additionally, there is a considerable ?feel-sorry? factor abounding whenever the South Yorkshire Club?s name is mentioned, these days. All on account of the nasty smell created by the questionable manner of their relegation from the Prem, and the undeserved reprieve given to a caught-bang-to-rights West Ham by a disciplinary committee incredibly pusillanimous in both word and deed ? and that?s my ?charitable version?.

There is one small item of baggage still lurking in their Left Luggage Office, though, and that is their - well, to me, at any rate ? startling appointment of Bryan Robson as their brand-new gaffer, once Rentagob Warnock decided to take a break from the game, presumably in order to sit atop a bubbling cauldron somewhere, mumbling scary spells and crazy curses upon all who have crossed him over the years.

I daresay that the ?Robbo Factor? will impart a certain amount of notoriety to Saturday evening?s televised shenanigans, but not nearly as much as the presence of Sheffield?s answer to Gollum in the technical area would have done, for which I am more than grateful. At least the social temperature among both sets of board-members will at long last move up several notches from a default-figure of ?absolute zero?, which can?t be a bad thing, now, can it?

Some reckon that Robbo will play it by taking advantage of our alleged reluctance to indulge in ?rough-stuff? of any description, but I?m not so sure, myself. The Albion you saw last season isn?t the Albion now shaping itself upon the field of play. The retention of Paul Robinson was a bonus, albeit a mixed one, considering his disciplinary record last term ? but his presence does stiffen us up at the back.

Factor in that, plus the much greater strength in depth we do have, this time round, and playing us instantly becomes a much more formidable prospect than previously thought possible. Should everything start to really ?gel?, then the coming few months could get ?interesting?, shall we say.

It being an evening kick-off, then at least our finest won?t be subjected to the torrid, tissue-dehydrating horrors of a full-blown sunny afternoon ? for those who don?t know, we?re finally experiencing something resembling summer! ? but what we will get instead, and in unlimited quantities, is the sheer amount of heated passion generated by both sets of followers.

Team news? Mister Koren is still making a ?spectacle? of himself, courtesy that daft eye injury of his, Chris Brunt is suspended, and Curtis Davies out of contention because ? err, well, he?s Curtis Davies, and still awaiting developments around which way the Premiership mop will finally flop. If at all, given the enormous asking price Jeremy Peace has stuck upon his delicate little noddle, plus the increasingly-looming proximity of the final cut-off date for all early-season player transactions.

In contention is Richard Chaplow, currently nursing a dodgy foot, one that?s much-improved, it would seem, also Ishmael Miller (groin) and James Morrison (hamstring), although it?s reported that the last two might make the bench. When confronted with problems like that, it?s comforting to know that we now have an embarrassment of riches in our ranks, so the final selection will undoubtedly be very much a case of ?horses for courses?. Will we go for the classy stuff, or the ?new improved, roughie-toughie Baggies?, I wonder?

United? They will have Chris Morgan back in the ranks, while Billy Sharp, who suffered an injured hand during their Irish tour, will be in there pitchin? for selection, once more. Currently out for sure are Gary Naysmith (knee-ligament thingy), ex-Seal resident psychopath Colin Hendry (cartilage problems, not a lobotomy ? although it should be!), and our (formerly) very own Rob Hulse. There?s also a latecomer from Oz, winger Dave Carney, but he?s not yet match fit, apparently.

There?s also the small matter of them seemingly making pretty heavy weather of the transition from Premiership football to the more robust style of the Championship. To date, they?ve drawn 2-2 away to Colchester, and lost 1-0 at home to fellow-fallers-from-grace Watford, although tomorrow might just be the occasion they start hitting the gas pedal. If we really do harbour serious intentions of going up, this is the sort of game where away points, not to mention goals, must get registered on the ?credit? side of the ledger ? and while conditions are relatively good. The weather might not be anywhere near as conducive, come the time things finally enter into the realms of ?must-win?.

Note also today?s capture of our TWELFTH signing to date, this term, a Polish striker by the name of Slusarki. He cost almost ?700 grand, apparently, and came from Polish Premiership-equivalents Groclin Dyskobolia (try saying that one when you?ve had a few too many, although, to me, it reads just like an horrendously virulent medical malady, as in: ?My specialist diagnosed groclin dyskobolia today, which was a bit of bad news, but he says the antibiotics should soon sort it all out, smelly green discharge and all??)

Seriously, though, when with his previous club, Portuguese side Leiria, he notched up 7 strikes in 17 appearances for them - as near as dammit, a goal every two games - a feat which deservedly won him their supporters? Player Of The Year title, apparently. But, of tomorrow evening?s doings, I?d like to think we?ll get a point, at the very least. Mind you, I can only hope that when we do go round to The Fart?s place, his missus, a regular churchgoer, will be placing huge wodges of cotton-wool in her lugholes. I do try to keep my cursing tendencies under control when attending games, what with young kids being around, and all that jazz, but sometimes, baser instincts, honed to perfection by years and years of frustrated Baggies-watching, kick-in anyway, and the air suddenly turns a nasty shade of blue!

So you want some (very late, but) good news? Yeah! Our ?rogue? PC has been returned to us cured. Allegedly. It?s been so long absent from within these walls, I was seriously considering tying loads of yellow ribbons around the place, in similar style to those families with kidnapped relatives held somewhere, all eagerly awaiting diplomatic developments, and in the meantime, wanting the whole world to share their sorrow and agony. A quick burst of: ?Tie A Yellow Ribbon Round The Old PC?, anyone? No, I didn?t think so, somehow?

Regulars to my musings will no doubt recall the horrendous trouble I experienced when working with that temperamental blankety-blank bunch of mutant microchips, last season. The bad news? The blasted thing still can?t be run in conjunction with our other PC, as yet, which is a bit of a drag, to say the least. Again, that?s something to be left in abeyance for a while, until we get the right cable, so as to enable the two to ?talk? to each other nicely. The missing cable is designated ?male-ended? and ?female-ended?, too, so my beloved tells me. Ooer.

Mind you, we thought we had troubles? Spare a largish chunk of brain cells for poor Amanda Hume, secretary of Sutton Branch, when you?ve got a gash minute or three handy. How come? Well, she?s currently off work with torn ankle ligaments, the result of a nasty fall, apparently. Typical, isn?t it? Support a football team, and you end up with a football-type injury! Perhaps, our lame-limbed chum ought to go to The Hawthorns, bang upon their side-door fit to bust, then scream, in tones that would make Violet Elizabeth Bott suspect chronic laryngitis, ?OY! I pay you enough money, every single flaming season, I do ? so what about treating ME, now I?m injured??

And Finally. One?. According to a recent edition of the Daily Mirror, maternity wards of Ipswich hospitals got very busy indeed, some 9 months after the Portman Road crew stuffed Luton 5-0 at their place, last October, in fact. If that?s the case, I dread to think what?s going to happen at Sandwell Hospital?s maternity unit, come 9 months after the glorious evening we met The Dingles courtesy the second leg of the play-offs - and whupped ?em 1-0. Time to sign up some of the numerous allegedly-jobless midwifery graduates flooding the market this summer, perchance?

Goodness me, I reckon the whole town must have been a-rockin? and a-rolling, that glorious night. Loads of squeaky beds, sweaty bodies, a massive surge of rampant hormones ? not to mention ?other things? - all round, and a hell of a lot of condoms put on rather too hastily for comfort, I suspect. Or not bothered with at all, with all-too predictable results. By my reckoning, watch out for the baby ?blip? around late January/early February time! Or, if you are a female Baggie, already confirmed regarding fully-paid up membership of the ?Pudding Club?, just start knitting, and for Heaven?s sake, girl - stop blaming The Holy Ghost!

Two?. Short message to Adrian Chiles. When are you going to send the review copy of your book you promised me? Tarry much longer, and it will be a case of ?sink-stoppers at ten paces?, I guarantee.

 - Glynis Wright

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