The Diary

08 December 2007: "Kissed By An Angel", Touched To The Quick.

As a person, I?ve never much been one to go in for the slushy sentimental type of story you tend to find in tabloids, not to mention the more ghastly books and periodicals aimed at the ?female? end of the market. Mills and Boon I positively refuse to even scrutinise, women?s magazine slanted in that direction I only purchase because I then pass them on to my stepmother, who laps up that type of thing like gravy ? and as for that annual legalised ?mugging? called ?Children in Need?, you can forget it.

Don?t get me wrong, though: a miserable skinflint I am not. It?s just that being the cynical person that I am (and having met so many con merchants and charity bandwagon-jumpers over the course of several former occupations, it?s no wonder why!), I do tend to wonder precisely how much money ends up benefiting the people the charity is supposed to help.

Having scrutinised many such ventures carefully (including one very well-known charity that routinely makes over ?30 million profit per annum ? er, excuse me, aren?t charities supposed to use their profits to benefit clients? Or am I just being thick to the point of incurable naivety?), I?ve come up with some very uncomfortable findings. Not in every case, mind: some are very noble and worthy causes indeed. Let?s just say that whenever I do part with my money, I do so at a time of my own choosing, and only to the organisation I feel can do most good to the people it serves.

Given that my other half is more than well aware of my opinions on this touchy subject, he didn?t half make a great big effort to get me to read a book he came by during the summer. I guess he knew what he was battling against before he even started, even though he?d taken every opportunity he could to endorse the words written within. And, having got a rough idea of the subject-matter, I said I?d catch up with it, eventually - then put all thoughts of actually doing so right on the back-burner.

And that?s where the whole thing would have fallen by the wayside, but because I?ve now finished the OU course I was doing, and had no further excuses left, ?Im Indoors pestered me some more. Yesterday evening, I finally picked it up, if only to shut him up ? then found my cynical self reading it from cover to cover, without pause. The title? ?Kissed By An Angel?. The written words were supplied by a hack called Paul Drury, certainly, but the thoughts expressed within actually ?ghost-written? by our very own gaffer, Tony Mowbray.

Just one small digression: there?s yet another form of literature I almost always refuse to have any truck with whatsoever, and that?s the footballing biography or autobiography. In my experience, notable and really honest exceptions apart, I?ve found such works to be pure pap, shallow, insipid fare, in every accepted sense of those words. Any sort of honest criticism, whether about team-mates or managers etc., is notably absent from the genre, and revelations about the subject as a person kept strictly to the blandest sort.

Working under those sorts of constraint (retribution gained via British libel law can be pretty savage, should you happen to lose in court) makes it very hard to put together anything really revelatory about the subject (or others known to him) as a person, which is yet another reason for giving this kind of publication a very wide berth indeed. As a means of getting to understand better what makes the subject of such writings ?tick?, I?d probably be much better off reading their gas meter, never mind a whole book, ghost-written or otherwise.

But this one was different. How different? Well, it certainly had me bubbling like a good ?un, by the time I?d finished it: I?m the one that refuses to get all slushy, remember? To give you a flavour of what it?s about, the book operates on two levels: firstly, as a straight football story, marking the progress of a certain Tony Mowbray, from Middlesbrough favourite to Celtic star, and, secondarily, as the chronicler of a very sad tale indeed. Copies of the book are as rare as hen?s teeth to find, these days, but if you can track down one, I strongly recommend you buy it.

Basically, what happened was this. When our gaffer moved from Boro to Glasgow, and feeling very lonely indeed, having more or less finished with his steady girlfriend ? Mogga was that rare bird of Scottish football back then, a virtual teetotaller, so his opportunities for social discourse up there were pretty limited, to say the least - he just happened to meet a lady called Bernadette Doyle, and, to cut a long story short, after some ?play hard-to-get?-type tactics on her part, which included a trial separation in Ireland, they quickly became an ?item?.

Even by then, the story would have quite easily merited an ample amount of newsprint in most popular romantic publications. Some would call it an ?old-fashioned? sort of amorous coupling. They quickly fell for one another hook, line and sinker, and to the point where, should Tony be parted from her for just one night on club business, he constantly fretted about her, and her him. The classical true-love romance, in other words ? and everyone living happily ever after, once those wedding bells sounded.

Er ? not quite, actually. It was while they were deep in the throes of making firm wedding plans that Bernadette was hit with a complete and utter bombshell. Two or three years previously, at the tender age of 21, she?d been diagnosed with, and treated for, breast cancer. At that age, it?s so rare, it?s almost off the radar, which is why the hospital concerned, believing the lump in her breast to be ?just a cyst?, never investigated properly, until they were finally convinced by the family that the thing was getting visibly larger. Sadly, when they did operate, they discovered a large mass inside, but it was only when the biopsy results came back did they realise the true enormity of the monumental clanger they?d dropped.

The lump was excised straight away, of course, and normally, that would have been the end of the matter, but correct diagnosis had dragged on so long (nine months from first spotting the thing, to final removal, approximately), unbeknown to anyone, the growth had already planted its evil seed elsewhere.

The problem is that although breast cancer at that age is astronomically rare, when someone does get it, it?s a real ?tiger? and not a ?pussycat?. And it was while preparations were being sorted for the actual wedding that Bernadette first began complaining of backache. At first the diagnosis was ?sciatica?, but as the condition worsened, a bone scan was done ? and that was the first time the stark truth hit home. The couple would get married, certainly ? but they wouldn?t remain husband and wife for very long.

In view of the awful prognosis, arrangements were rushed, and once providers of services, etc. were made aware of the reason why, they pulled out all the stops. Bernadette?s chosen wedding-dress, a real ?bespoke? affair that would normally take months to make and fit, was completed in a matter of just two weeks. And Tony?s club, Celtic, were really supportive too, once they knew what was happening, telling Tony not to come in if he didn?t feel up to it, or had care issues to resolve. Those acts of kindness, small though they were, really did make a difference.

They did get married, and with Bernadette going up the aisle under her own steam, too, but things were deteriorating rapidly. Bernadette was now on strong painkillers for the back condition, but shortly before the big day, she?d also learned that the cancer was now showing up in her liver and lungs. And the actual wedding ceremony took so much out of her that all she could do that evening was have a (genuinely) early night with her new husband, and leave other family members to do the celebrating.

The hospital did try to stave of the inevitable with stronger chemotherapy, but she reacted really badly to the drugs they used. The problem is that when treating established and spreading cancer, you have to hit the tumour cells with something really powerful ? and because the stuff?s quite toxic, it provokes horrendous side-effects. In Bernadette?s case, vomiting, almost continual, dogged her for the entire duration of the treatment. Add to that the botching of a medical procedure (horribly painful, and had to be repeated three times to get it to work), and she was a very debilitated lady indeed. In an effort to alleviate the more distressing symptoms, they then tried pumping drugs in via something called a Hickman Line, and that seemed to help, finally.

But the end was now very much in sight. To prevent the body wasting that occurs in advanced cancer, she was prescribed steroids, and these restored appetite ? so effectively, she was ravenous at night, and put on weight astonishingly quickly. But cancer now riddled her body, to the extent she quickly became so weak, she couldn?t leave her bed. Unconscious far more than awake, and in considerable pain, despite heavy medication indeed, she finally succumbed, in Tony?s arms, early on New Year?s Day, 1995.

There?s much more, including the heartbreaking sequel of the funeral, but I?ll not dwell on that. There?s enough sadness in the world today, without piling more on top. But some good did come out of the entire affair. As a direct result of that initial misdiagnosis, mainly caused by medical unwillingness to acknowledge that someone that young could contract breast cancer in the first place, the hospital concerned quickly changed their procedures. Nowadays, whenever someone complains of a lump in the breast, no matter what the age of the patient, it?s always treated as cancer, unless proven otherwise. And many organisations providing practical advice and support for breast cancer sufferers have benefited from the profits also.

And don?t think that because the condition was a breast tumour, it?s merely ?women?s trouble?. Blokes can get breast cancer too, so, if nothing else, do have a little ?grope? occasionally. Or, even better, let your ?significant other? have a go! The male equivalent, I suppose, has to be testicle cancer: again, it?s supposed to happen within a certain (usually young) age bracket, but like the sad tale outlined above, there are always exceptions to the rule: once more, the advice re: ?significant others having a little grope? applies! The sooner these things are discovered, the sooner they can be treated. Cancer isn?t necessarily a death sentence, these days. Leave suspicious lumps and/or bumps for too long a length of time, or think the lump will ?just go away?, and it most certainly will be.

Now, onto much more cheerful issues. Er ? like tomorrow?s game? What with all the additional injury news coming from Planet Albion: i.e. Deano having a bruised toe, and Hoefkens with a hamstring problem, both myself and hubby are right on the point of screaming with the pure frustration of it all. Both players are stated to be ?doubtful? for tomorrow?s Walkers Stadium bash.

That, remember, is additional to Robbo out through suspension, Alby and Clem out with knee problems, Ish Miller and Kev Phillips sidelined fairly short-term with similar problems (Kev?s now back in training, but it will be at least a fortnight, I would say, before we see him back leading the line. As for Ish?s prognosis, I can only assume that what the good text book tells me regarding similar conditions is right: i.e. we?ll see him back in a matter of weeks as well, but I do suspect that his recovery won?t be quite as rapid as that of his striking-partner.

Looking down the list at what little will be definitely available to us, tomorrow, we?ve now come to the conclusion that we daren?t leave our house for Leicester too early, lest the three of us be suddenly told by Mogga we?re playing! Working on the principle of ?It?s an ill wind?.? and all that, our awful injury crisis should at least see young Jared Hodgkiss given his first real chance to shine for the Baggies. If so, that will be his first full League game, all the other appearances being from off the bench.

If the worse does happen, and it?s a makeshift side we do have to pick, I?m already putting together tentative ?contingency plans?. Back in the dim and distant days when I was at school, in a vain effort to make us into ?young ladies?, we had to attend weekly dancing classes, held in the gym. All the usual ballroom stuff was covered, of course ? talk to me nicely, and I?ll even demonstrate waltz steps for you ? but the good lady that taught us occasionally slipped into quite arcane forms of the art. And it was in that kind of wacky spirit, one fine day, she showed us how to do an ?Israeli Water Dance?! Well, it was ?fine? until we started.

I won?t bother to explain what?s involved, suffice to say that performing it makes you feel an even bigger idiot than you felt doing that sort of dancing in the first place, but we did notice one thing very quickly ? it actually WORKED! No kid, every single time we performed the thing, the heavens opened, and an absolute cloudburst descended upon the Black Country. Streets were flooded, buses stopped running, the Fire Brigade quickly gave up logging calls of distress: more or less the sort of thing we got last summer, albeit of far shorter duration, and with much less physical damage involved.

My cunning plan, then, is to round up all the Albion supporters I can find in the town, teach them the steps ? then perform the thing, right outside Leicester?s ground! As there?s a river fairly close by, with any luck, I can get local DIY enthusiasts knocking up a fair replica of old Noah?s wooden number within a matter of minutes. Result? Game postponed, and preferably to a time when all our walking wounded are back on song, once more. Well, that?s the theory!

Should even my best efforts prove to no avail, I guess we?ll simply have to bite the bullet instead. In the event of Deano not being able to make it, Luke Steele, with very little experience guarding goal with us, will have to step up to the plate instead. But this isn?t the making of a complete disaster, by any means, for Luke gained considerable first team experience while on loan to Coventry from Man U, racking up some thirty-odd first team appearances between the sticks while he was there.

A rookie he most certainly ain?t. Who knows, this could be the lad?s big chance to show everyone what he can do. When you?re constantly playing second-fiddle to someone like Deano, you have to take your ?golden moments? whenever they come. And fellow reserve keeper Luke Daniels will have to occupy reserve position on the bench, too: hopefully, that will be of academic interest only.

What the hell Mogga decides to do about central defence, I really dread to think. One suspended, and another two long-term injured. Assuming he?s fit (a big ?if? that, the problem being a hamstring, apparently), then Hoefkens can do the job at a push, with either Pele or Martis going in the other vacant slot.

At full-back, Jared I?ve already mentioned. Assuming Hoefkens is fit and moves to central defence, of course. Robbo?s moment of pure madness on Tuesday night means he won?t be participating in this particular ?Albion Two-Step? . That, in its turn, means we may have to enlist the services of one Miguel Tinhino for the duration. If that should happen, then God knows what the final score will be!

Midfield? At least we do have realistic options in those positions, still. With Morrison still out, perm any of the following: Gera, Koren, Greening, Brunt, and, last but not least, Tex, with Chappy and Shergar also up for consideration. Something tells me it?s going to be a long, grim afternoon.

And now for the vexed question of whom we consider to be emergency strikers. Bednar will have to start, if we want to go just with the one out there, with Beattie joining him if Mogga really wants to push the boat out and risk playing the two in tandem. A move I?d happily endorse, were it not for the fact that Beattie?s performances up front have been ?somewhat underachieving?, thus far.

He really does have to get his finger out and justify his existence here by giving us a goal or two, and the sooner the better. Like tomorrow, perhaps? All in all, I?m not at all optimistic of getting anything at Leicester. A horrible little voice in my head keeps telling me we?re going to get completely and utterly stonked there. One occasion when I genuinely do hope my little whispering voice will be silenced through sheer embarrassment. Still, we live in hope.

And Finally??. Some genuinely GOOD NEWS, after my somewhat sober, thought-provoking opener! It?s not always welcome, when you?re thoroughly wrapped up in the fascinating, but slightly sordid details of some leading character or other in a TV fiction piece, to have to heed the clarion call of the phone, just as yet another fascinating on-screen emotional crisis is brewing. Dead annoying for ?Im Indoors, in fact, as he?s rapidly becoming an addict for the various threads running through this particular series. But in this instance, there simply wasn?t an alternative: no choice whatsoever but to turn off the old goggle-box, and have a good listen. When you see who it was, you?ll quickly realise why!

To be fair, though, when it?s Laraine Astle doing the ringing, I?d defy even Gordon Brown to assume a state of complete indifference, and carry on working upon his little red dispatch boxes as if nothing had happened. Laraine really is the sort of person that makes you want to take heed, even if the news doesn?t entirely suit. But it sure did last night: apparently, she is now a great grandmother!

The small sprog?s name is Bradley, and he was born the morning after that godawful Coventry home defeat. And while we?re on the subject of our favourite football club, albeit not entirely in the context most would have wished, even though the little mite has been resident on this earth for just a matter of days, he?s since been showered with enough Albion-related baby clothes etc. to have given the likes of Jessie Pennington apoplexy, had he and his playing peers been around to see it all for themselves.

This monstrous abundance of Baggie baby garments also includes a FULL ALBION KIT, albeit in a pint-size version. Amazing, isn?t it? With a start like that, the poor little mite can only go one way, can?t he? And he?s a pretty clever lad to boot: when I journeyed to The Hawthorns, just a couple of days ago, there were no less than three Christmas wreathes adoring the Astle Gates, and the cards for one of those purportedly written by the wrinkle-faced little lad who?d ?popped out? literally hours before!

Hell, being all-too well acquainted with the way some pushy families ?hothouse? kids, teaching young Bradley to write before he?s even left the protective bounds of the maternity unit is sure going some, even by their ultra-competitive standards, Laraine! Incidentally, there?s also a pretty unusual aspect to this, and one I?ve had no previous experience of, ever.

What with Laraine?s dad still being very much on this earth, despite having attained a very advanced age indeed, that means the newborn child is also blessed with a GREAT-GREAT GRANDDAD to delightfully dote upon every single paediatric milestone, up to and including seriously poo-infested nappy-changing. Five living direct descendants in a single family: amazing stuff indeed. I wonder just what the current odds are of someone of such venerable age surviving to head that many generations?

 - Glynis Wright

Contact the Author

Diary Index