The Diary

21 November 2007: Leeds United 0, Hereford United 1..... Dontcha Just Love Those Bulls, Folks?

What is it they say when it comes to unlikely alliances? ?The enemy of my enemy is my friend?..?, as demonstrated so wonderfully, in the case of Winston Churchill and Joe Stalin, (neither war leader could stand the sight of one another, normally) after Hitler did the dirty on their wartime ally by invading them back in 1941.

And a similar principle applied tonight, dear reader, because at Elland Road, I saw League Two Hereford United put League One (with various other ambitions, mostly of an upwardly-mobile kind) Leeds to the sword, and on their own muck-heap, too. Sorry, and all that, any Leeds-lovers reading this, but if you were travelling on the southbound carriageway of the M1 after tonight?s game, then the funny hooting sound you might have heard wasn?t your vehicle?s big end playing up ? it was just me braying my bloody head off!

Of one thing I?m sure, though. When you hear of one of the League?s lesser lights putting it over a more well-known side, more often than not, the result?s largely been down to a generous dollop of jam on the part of the visiting side ? but not in this case, of that I can categorically assure you. Hereford were more than worthy winners, and for much of the game, were playing the classier brand of football.

Imagine our current Albion side in microcosm, and that?s what you?ve got with the Bulls, pretty much. Tonight, it was typical Graham Turner, balls to feet, pass and move, pass and move ? and Leeds, not being of that sort of ilk by any stretch of the imagination, didn?t know what the hell to do about it. By playing in that attractive manner, I would say Hereford just about shaved it as the better side during the first half, but as far as the second was concerned, there was only one side in it ? and it wasn?t the one whose pitch the visitors played on, either.

To put it all in a nutshell, if the shades of Billy Bremner and Don Revie were watching tonight?s proceedings from whatever type of Valhalla they had gravitated to, post mortem, they would have been tearing their ectoplasmic hair out, come the end, at the sheer ineptitude of the current inheritors of the proud Elland Road tradition.

Leeds weren?t just second; at times, you might have justifiably accused them of not turning up at the races at all. And even their supporters, normally a pretty vocal lot, couldn?t be arsed to vocally urge their favourites to better things. Not the Leeds I remember of old, that?s for sure. Mind you, given the actual quality of that support was so pisspoor, with huge gaps in their bits of the ground, they deserved everything they got. Once upon a lullaby, both ground and supporters were a byword for intimidation, pure and simple, of both players and spectators. Elland Road was a venue to be genuinely feared, back then. Just ask any Albion supporter of ?a certain age? for confirmation. Not any more, though: tonight, they were just too pathetic for words.

The goal, when it came, was around the second minute of the game, right after Hereford goalkeeper Brown had been given a bit of a toasting by the opposition. Being a bit of an erratic performer at times, I feared the worst ? but nope. Gathering the ball to his bosom, then belting the thing, right into the half Leeds were defending, with the bounce picked up by a Hereford player. Off his little legs went, as fast as the good Lord would let him, into the box went the ball ? well, into a right old melee of players that made keeping up with play a tad difficult, actually ? then, we were suddenly able to discern the ball being hit through a ruck of bodies and, even better still, into the back of the net!

?YOU?RE NOT FAMOUS ANY MORE?..? that was the battle-cry that resounded in Yorkshire ears, as everyone trotted back to the centre circle. As for their part of the ground, the sense of hurt was truly palpable. Watching them was a little like watching a mighty beast, after the twelve-bore shotguns had felled it, and someone with a revolver applied the coup de grace.

For a while, the visitors had a torrid time of it, especially after the lad the Bull contingent call ?Rosie? was clobbered, not long afterwards, and had to go off for stitches. Reduced, albeit temporarily, to ten men, The Bulls packed their box in an attempt to keep out the marauding hordes trying like hell to repair the damage. That?s about the only time in the entire game that the Hereford rearguard looked really flaky, and, I have to admit, the fact they didn?t concede at that juncture was down to plain ornery three-cornered luck.

But once Rosie came back, head swathed in bandages numerous enough to land him a bit part in Hammer Films? ?Curse Of The Mummy?s Tomb?, parity was restored, the pressure on the Bulls eased, and for the remainder of the game, Leeds were never the same kind of threat. Oh, yeah ? and it was only after two thirds of the first half had elapsed that we managed to discover the identity of the mystery scorer.

How come? Well, some of the Hereford coaches were caught up in traffic with their occupants missing much of the first half as a result, that early goal included. There was a bit of a consolation prize for them though ? the game was featured on radio, so there were plenty of tranny-lovers available to learn that not only had their favourites scored, the scorer was, in fact, a lad called Ainsworth. And that?s how we found out, folkies ? when a party of latecomers sat in the seat behind us, and imparted what they knew about the magic moment in question!

After that, it was a case of hanging onto that lead like grim death and, as the game entered the second half, Hereford grew and grew in confidence, while the home side simply seemed to curl up and die. You could tell they were busting a gut to achieve parity, but the big giveaway was what happened once they were in the Bulls? box, and lining up their sights to have a go: more often than not, they?d either snatch at the fleeting chance, or lose possession at some critical moment or other. That wasn?t the body language of a side confident it would repair the damage done in due course, by any means.

This splendid victory of theirs means the Bulls now have to entertain ? if that?s the right word for it! ? Hartlepool United for the chance to compete in the Third Round, which is when the big boys come in, and the prize money really gets serious. You know something? After seeing what an almighty mess they made of Leeds, it wouldn?t surprise me one little bit to see them do it. Which brings me to my final point. Knowing our luck with these things - vide the Dingles - they?d get us in the third round draw. Whether at home or at Edgar Street, either way, this sure is one side I?d hate to do Cup battle with in early January. Let?s just hope that whatever further glory the Bulls do achieve in the 2007-08 FA Cup tournament, it isn?t at our flaming expense!

On to other things, then. BAH! HUMBUG! Oh, dear ? ?that time of year? is fast approaching. Yep, Christmas is a-coming, folks: a time, according to the well-known carol, for one to be jolly, then deck one?s halls profusely with bells and holly ? and, as per usual, despite the fact local stores have been completely awash with yuletide displays since virtually the start of the current school year ? well, that?s the way it feels to my well-cynical and anti-commercialism-primed mind. Big problem, looming, though. I?m still completely stumped as to what to buy ?Im Indoors. Well, I mean, just what do you get for the bloke with everything, I ask myself? Herpes? Syphilis? Culture, of the ?bacterial? kind?

Even poring through mail-order catalogues innumerable coming with various tabloid and broadsheet publications has left me completely devoid of inspiration. Our favourite football club can?t help, mainly because His Nibs?s workplace chums presented the lad with a gorgeous-looking designer Albion watch when he left for pastures new, recently ? so that one?s out, for starters. And even trolling through the club shop catalogue generally failed to provide me with further inspiration, mainly on account of the fact that he possesses a fair bit of Albion-branded stuff anyway.

So what?s a girl to do, then? Turning away from the Hawthorns, to mentally do battle with what?s available on the High Street instead, for a moment, football books of any description are pretty much out, I reckon, given that my other half has loads already, all for book-research purposes, some of which are Albion-related, some not. Toiletries? He?s still using the various smellies I got for him on his birthday. Gadgets? I?ve looked on most well-known sites, and I can?t for the life of me figure out anything that would make his face light up with pleasure.

And being a civil servant: i.e. belonging to a group not usually known for spontaneity and wildly-impulsive behaviour, I don?t suppose it would do any good whatsoever, trolling around the various flight and short-break websites, then surprising him with flight tickets etc. for some highly-photogenic East European country or other, either. So, after investigating lots of the options mentioned above, I?m still completely jiggered.

Perhaps the old-style Communists had the right idea after all, placing a complete ban on all yuletide festivities, with a hefty prison sentence ? or much, much worse, involving either a massive lead injection, courtesy their secret police, or an unrequited diagnosis of psychiatric illness, and rapid removal to secure accommodation for ?treatment? - the penalty for those stubborn capitalist sods trying to quietly circumvent the law? Messy, sure, especially upon population as a whole, but it wouldn?t half simplify this present-purchasing dilemma of mine! Any ideas, you lot out there? (N.B. ? It?s illegal to send explosives through the post!)

Still, Christmas just wouldn?t be the same without some form of weary trolling around Merry Hill and suchlike retail abominations, which is why both of us were to be found, last Saturday afternoon, quietly schlepping around Brum, and the wonderful German market they have there at this time of year. So many bright swirly colours, unfamiliar smells, toys, ornaments, confectionery! And, for that final touch of Teutonic authenticity, a well-good ?oompah band? giving it big licks from somewhere in the background. Blimey, I bet they were cold, all decked out in those short leiderhosen thingies. If I had to wear those damned leather things all the time, I?d invade the rest of Europe too, if only on principle.

So entranced by the vibrant surroundings was I, I even succumbed to temptation myself, buying a jovial-looking ornamental cat, mantelpieces, living-rooms, for the use of. And had a belated introduction to the manifold culinary wonders of stolen bread, rum flavoured. Gorgeous stuff, and what?s more, the very next time I venture into the city, and with the market open until just before Christmas itself, I?m going to grab a whole lot more from the stall from which it comes.

But that?s a couple of weeks into the future, and we being football-lovers, we didn?t tarry too long, lest we miss what was going on regarding the qualification ? or otherwise ? of both Scottish and England national sides for Euro 2008. Those results you already know; England?s fate still hangs by a thread (as does the job security of Steve McClaren, of course!) thanks to Israel doing us an almighty favour by beating Russia later that Saturday afternoon. Our Euro 2008 chances now rest upon what we can do to Croatia (who have already qualified, so, hopefully, they won?t be too arsed about what we want to do), tomorrow night.

The Scots lot? Oh dear. How typical of them to be drawing 1-1 for most of the game (bravely clawing back an early Eyetie lead, then trying like stink to turn what they had into a winning goal), only to fall at the last fence courtesy a very dubious Italian goal indeed. Shades of that awful Sheffield Wednesday home game where we were also put to the sword courtesy an attacker whose speciality was clandestine fouling, and the ref, displaying all the Stevie Wonder-like qualities for which they?re famed, not spotting it, and allowing the resultant winner. So they?re out, then. At least they haven?t bucked what is, by now, fast becoming a not-so-proud tradition of theirs.

But that Scots reverse really got me thinking. As I mentioned in the last paragraph, such occurrences are not exactly unknown when it comes to the participation of Scotland in knockout tournaments of various kinds. Just think back to several World Cups, principally the 1978 thrash, and you?ll get the picture fairly easily - one of ultimate failure snatched from the very jaws of rampant success. And that leads me to the specific point I want to make, which is this: if the equivalent of the Scottish national football team was to appear in different guises, down the ages, what would it be?

Here?s a few suggestions, just to get you thinking a bit. Suppose, in 1928, that Alexander Fleming, discoverer of penicillin, had walked straight into his laboratory following his couple of days off, spotted the bacterial plate he?d left lying on the windowsill and forgotten about until then, picked it up? Then, not noticing the damage the funny bit of mould in the middle had wreaked upon the bacterial culture already on the plate, and muttering rude things about the untidiness of his lab technicians all the while, simply chucked it straight into a handy bucket of disinfectant? Yep ? so near, yet so far away, a perfect illustration of what I?m on about.

Or, to cull yet another example from the wonderful world of science, suppose Isaac Newton, sitting under a certain apple tree, had moaned like hell after being hit on the head by a descending apple, then, distracted by the dull throbbing in his head caused by said fruit hitting his skull, simply told his servants to pick every single flaming one, and give ?em to the cook, or whatever? Would he have realised the true gravity of the situation in those circumstances? Again, the spirits of Scottish footballers long-gone would recognise much.

And, of course, there?s always Alexander Graham Bell, inventor of the telephone, but after designing the thing, then arranging to test said contraption by using it to converse with his assistant in the next room, picked up the receiver, as agreed ? but only got the ?engaged? signal (think about it!).

Or what about Sir Winston Churchill, in 1940, wanting to give his famous ?We will fight them on the beaches?..? parliamentary speech, making the horrified discovery, on rising to make said speech, that he?d inadvertently left his notes on his kitchen table, that very same morning? ?Errr, now wash did I want to shay?...... We?ll ? errr ? fight them on the nishe bit of shand at the bottom of Beachy Head, and I think we really ought to be there when they put their landing-craft ashore?. Ooo, and we?d better not shurrender, had we? Now where the hell did I put that bit of envelope I wrote my notes yesterday?.....? I rest my case.

More on Saturday night, when I?ll be taking a butchers as to whether we can put ?them? to the sword one more time, and their mange-ridden tails right between their legs, as well. And, as they?re always good for a laugh, to finish this piece, here?s a little (true) tale about the good folk of Wolverhampton I excavated from my book collection just recently.

And Finally?.. Only A Dingle (Number 604561 in a rapidly-lengthening series?)

Casually trolling through some old medical journals I acquired a few years back, recently, I was quite fascinated to read in one of them about a strange epidemic that swept through most parts of Wolverhampton like the proverbial dose of salts. It being 1940, and the malady in question not being fatal, what with the country having much more urgent things on its collective mind at the time, and everything, there the matter would have lain in puzzling abeyance, had it not been for the diligence of a couple of researchers from the local hospital.

Although non-lethal, the symptoms of this strangest of medical woes ? swelling of the upper eyelids, leaving most sufferers completely unable to open their eyes at all on wakening, followed by general facial puffiness, with much vomiting, diarrhoea and chest pain hitting a day or so later - meant sufferers having to take considerable time off work until properly recovered, which wasn?t at all conducive towards the war effort, as you might expect. Most Dingles worked in heavy industry at that time, presumably because other lines of work tended to look askance at both them and their intellectually-challenged ways when looking for hired hands.

Well, pinning down the root cause of the trouble certainly wasn?t easy. In the end, our medical Sherlock Holmeses managed to figure out that the causative organism was a parasite ? but where had it come from? No matter how exhaustively they investigated the diets and living conditions of their patients, nothing of value was forthcoming. Until, that is, the mother of one particular sufferer, a young girl, accidentally let the cat out of the bag by commenting, after daughter told her questioners she had eaten sausage a few days before becoming sick: ??Ow menny toimes ?ave Oi tole yow not ter et it raw?....? Or words to that effect.

Eureka! Further investigation, and subsequent closer questioning of all those affected ? and there were an awful lot in the town, by then ? finally proved they all had one thing in common: a predilection, very common to Dingles at that time, apparently, for eating sausage-meat raw! No, that wasn?t a typo, so here it is again ? Dingles, in those days, had a yen for sausage-meat consumed RAW! Ugh.

During their intensive questioning, our heroes hadn?t thought for one minute to enquire of their patients whether the ?sausages? they had ingested were cooked or otherwise. Well, being among the 99.9% of the population of this country that happily consumes its bangers in more conventional style, would you? Remember, in Dingle Country, what might appear logical to most people, most certainly ain?t once similar trains of clinical thought are applied to the locals! Do it, and eventual derailment of said ?train? is most certainly assured.

And it wasn?t a one-off, either: in the end, it was shown that a fair proportion of those living in the town also admitted to a penchant for raw sausage. Which wouldn?t have been a problem had not one batch in particular, badly infected, reached the town, as part of a job-lot to be handed out with the meat ration, which is where the medical profession came in. And the best bit is that nowhere else in the country could a similar liking for this peculiar dietary addition be found by the researchers! I wonder if they still do it? Eat sausage meat ?au naturelle?, I mean?

See, I?ve always said they were puddled ? looks like yet again, I?ve grossly underestimated the true extent of their handicap, haven?t I?

 - Glynis Wright

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