The Diary

04 February 2008: Want Baggies Gossip, Scandal? I Heard It Through The (Grape) Vine!

It?s now well over 24 hours since that 90-minute-long Burnley nail-biter, but of one thing I?m sure: the effects of stress-related hormones, such as adrenaline and cortisol, have now just about subsided. Well, that?s the situation as far as I?m concerned: what?s going on with ?Im Indoors?s physiology and endocrinology is another matter entirely. No doubt I?ll learn much more as and when the end-of-season tension begins to ratchet up to unbearable levels, around the time we play our rearranged away fixture with Cardiff, now scheduled to take place on April 1st, appropriately enough.

But in the short-term, and in the backwash of yesterday?s triumph over adversity, my nervous system is a pretty happy bunny, right now. No more hitting the ceiling with a horrid ?splat!? every time there?s a loud noise, or bursting into tears every single time someone happens to mention we?ve got to play Cardiff away, then Watford at home, the last one scheduled just three weeks before the entire shebang finishes for the summer.

And don?t even begin to think about what appalling kinds of murky thoughts might pass through the numerous synapses and neurons linking the rest of my body with Skull Control, the nearer we get to the aforementioned Crunch Time. No, right now, I sure am one happy Baggie, but ask me on the coach traveling to Barnsley next Saturday morning, and it just might be Wacko Time all over again! Oh, soddit ? where are the Satanic Nurses right when we all need them the most, eh? Set up a privately-run psychiatric nursing service for stressed-out Baggies, and they?d clean up, I reckon.

The thing that struck me the most about yesterday?s frolics was the similarities our situation shared with our midweek defeat at Preston, inasmuch as we fell behind to a sucker punch right from the word ?go?, then, after a painful struggle, equalising. OK, unlike Deepdale, we didn?t concede again, but the sheer potency of their attacks always left me with the uncomfortable feeling that a shock second from The Clarets was on the cards, and it was only sheer three-cornered luck that kept them out on a couple of occasions.

Despite chucking just about everything bar nuclear weaponry at their goalmouth AND missing a penalty, we couldn?t create a stronger safety-net, consequently that slender winning margin always felt so horribly vulnerable to me. Was it just my stressed-out state making me react like that? Quite likely: the real surprise came when I looked at yesterday?s match stats: we had 57% of the game as opposed to their 47%, but an even bigger shocker came when I checked out the ?shots on target? etc. bits. Albion ? shots on target 10; shots off target 10; corners 8. Burnley? Shots on target 1 (must have been that early O?Connor goal: he does have his uses after all); shots off target 2; corners 2.

Maybe I was working myself up into a tizz over nothing every single time they came surging forward mob-handed? As ?Im Indoors had reminded me, on our way round to The Vine after the final whistle, that Deano and his goalmouth had hardly been threatened during the second 45, maybe I ought to be going to my Villa-lovin? GP and grabbing a prescription for strong tranquilisers, after all? Perhaps not: it always rankles to see an otherwise rational, responsible medical professional laughing like a bloody drain!

Yesterday?s star performers? Gera, who seldom disappoints these days, of course. Bednar, if only for the fact that every time he scores with one of those superb headers of his, I see the ghost of The King rising high above his ?minders? to meet the ball in front of The Brummie: tall, strong, good in the air, style old-fashioned (unfashionable, in the eyes of some), but 12 goals in 14 starts must constitute a near-incontrovertible case for the defence, in my book, Yer Honner. Greening, rapidly becoming our Mister Reliable. Cesar? His opening strike was well worth waiting for, and he was well up to speed in his normal duties, too.

A special mention should also go to our crowd, who, just like during the recent Cardiff game, so swiftly transformed themselves into the ?twelfth man? of Anfield legend, right when we needed it most. The Smethwick started it, the Brummie quickly picked up the refrain ? and after that, so infectious did the ambience become, even doddery Halfords Lane wrinklies started to wave sundry vacuum flasks and travel-rugs around. (?We?re going for WHAT Championship? Oh, dear ? and here was me thinking it was the 1919-20 one. My poor memory, really shocking, these days. Now remind me: why isn?t Jessie Pennington playing today??)

And, as I touched upon briefly in yesterday?s account, never, EVER, in the entire 25 years I?ve been sitting in that stand, have I seen The Bloke In Front Of Me take to his feet and start chanting along with all the rest of we degenerates! To provide sufficient motivation to make even so bitter and twisted an Albion cynic as he go to those astonishing lengths just bears out my gut suspicion: so good is the quality of the stuff served up on Planet Hawthorns these days, non-participation is now deemed NOT an option, even in the Halfords Lane Retirement Home For Old Farts Like Me!

And another happy thought: as we?ll be going to Barnsley mob-handed next week ? free coach travel, and all that jazz ? could it be that thanks to our glee-club temporarily upping sticks to South Yorkshire next Saturday, that perennial running sore, an Oakwell jinx that?s almost as old as The Fart ? give or take a couple of centuries! - will finally bite the dust? Put that one to rest, finally, and our chances of actually lifting our first bit of major silverware in yonks will be immeasurably improved, I reckon. So much of football depends upon applied psychology ? and I can?t think of very many morale-boosters quite as humungous as that one would be.

Let?s leave what?s rapidly becoming Our Fun Palace for the moment, and turn to other matters, viz: as promised yesterday, our various extracurricular activities at The Vine pub, shortly after the final whistle, involving Czechoslovakia-exile Jim Curry, on his first visit to The Shrine for a game in around 25 years, plus strong supporting cast of Northern Baggies. Those who know the place well will forgive me a little scene-setting digression intended for the benefit of other exiles, I?m sure.

As I?ve mentioned before, The Vine, its cuisine and clientele, its ambience, is legendary among discerning Albionites, all most desirous of what our current Chairman would undoubtedly term ?a positive post-final-whistle matchday experience?. You?ll find it skulking quietly enough in Roebuck Lane, towards the motorway end of that street: in fact, to save a hassle, those in the know take the short-cut from the ground along the nearby railway line after the final whistle, which gets you from Shrine to beer-pump in approximately 15 minutes, with a following wind (but not necessarily one involving Brooksie, of course: raises far too many pollution issues).

It might not look much ? most strangers would classify it as a typical old-fashioned Black Country working-man?s boozer, from the outside ? but appearances can be deceptive, dontcha know? Go through the front door, and a whole new world unfolds within: the place might not be very wide, especially around the first bit of the bar area, but it sure does stretch a long way back. At the rear of the second bar bit, there?s a much more recent extension that doubles as a bar-cum-Asian restaurant, where numerous hungry and thirsty Albionites can obtain Balti and Tandoori comestibles from the open kitchen to the rear, on a self-service basis. There is a sit-down set menu also, but most Baggies go for the easy-but-excellent post-match option.

Needless to say, their various Tandoors, woks and barbies have a very busy time of it, after a home game. And the place does come with a very respectable culinary pedigree attached: on several occasions over the last few years, when perusing the classier Sunday broadsheets? occasional ethnic recommendations, I?ve found The Vine to be quite highly regarded by food critics.

And, there?s an unexpected bonus to be found in the front bit of the pub: several small alcoves, mini-rooms, really, where small parties drinking together can enjoy a smidgeon of post-match craic (and a bite to eat from the serve-yourself) without annoying sundry other, non-Baggie, customers. And it was one of those small alcoves ? well, the one at the very front of the place, actually - that our little group eventually pressed into service.

One puzzling feature last night - it struck me from the very first moment we walked through the door, actually ? was the presence of all those rugger-buggers on the TV screen, in preference to the much more relevant Watford-Dingles clash showing on Sky, right at that very moment. Hell, the entire place was plastered with celebrating Baggies, so why on earth didn?t it become a classic case of ?Might Is Right??

One quick poking of faces around the entrance leading into the aforementioned bit of the pub later, we?d quickly confirmed the mob-handed presence of those whose company we were actively seeking. All those present? A bloody cast of thousands, if you really want to know, some Northern Baggies, some there to greet Jim, and some, I suspect, wanting a bit of a giggle!

Should you ever wish to ascertain guilt at some later stage, here is the full ?cast list?, as supplied by ?yer man? himself: Attendees: Jim Curry himself; this column, plus ?Im Indoors; Jay Poole and son (sorry, don?t know his name), D. "Baggie Boy" Morgan, and son, Kev Buckley, Earl "Yankee" Plass, B. Frank Cooper (nothing whatsoever to do with the famous thick-cut marmalade of that name!); J. "It's Bednarsh" and, last but not least, "Batman" Clegg. Oh, and someone called ?T Willis?, whoever that might be.

Apologies in advance for the reasons given in Jim?s ?Apologies? list, as supplied to us by him: reasons stated were not of my devising, honest! Here we go, then: Adam Cotton (carousing in opium den, up-country); Clossie J. R. (fixing combine harvester); Phil Summers (sunning it up at barbecue on beach, lucky git); Dean Walton (in grubby South American prison cell); C. Holloway (busy working for CIA in Langley, Virginia). C. Knowles (stuck on A1 at Sandy Island since 1995, trying to get here). The absence of F. Barr was also duly noted: probably huddled over computer waiting for us all to get home.

And so, as the Black Country twilight gloom faded into ink-black night, what of our impromptu ?meeting?, which only opened formally once everyone had got their drinks in, of course? Well, with Methuselah, aka The Fart, still AWOL ? he?d arranged to arrive on foot, then meet up with us all in the pub ? we decided to get the show on the road, finally. (As it turned out, The Fart?s arrival had probably preceded ours by quite some time, as it was only my concerned other half?s trawl around the place some minutes later, that revealed our hero to be seated, on his tod, in the bit of the bar found towards the back!)

As the jollities unfolded, one though particularly struck me;: Jim was certainly a brave cove to suddenly opt to up sticks and forsake the various pleasures of the Black Country, in order to head on out for the wilds of Czechoslovakia. Wow. And, it also turned out that the village where Jim was based was learning about our favourite football club very quickly indeed.

The Bednar thing has helped enormously, of course, which means that Jim is very prone to having even closer experiences of the Baggie kind with the locals these days; the stuff about our new Czech keeper has heightened interest even more. Oh ? and according to those very same locals, who ought to know, with the new guy, we?ve hit upon a good ?un.

Jim?s also about the only Baggie on Earth to survive celebrating a truly magnificent Tony Godden stop whilst incumbent in the Holte End during a 1970?s Villa-Baggies derby! How come? Apparently, the only reason our man was there in the first place, and not with what he knew best, was because a) It was his first ever Albion away game, and b) He was fiscally helping a mate who, although of distinctly seal-like tendencies himself, badly needed the petrol money to get there.

The Holte End it had to be, then, and it was in the midst of this game, and our chum prudently keeping a very low profile indeed, that Godden, desperate to survive a Villa-inspired cavalry charge on his territory, somehow pulled off the aforementioned save, when it looked a nailed-on cert the ball would finish up giving him acute lower back pain, following subsequent retrieval from the back of the net.

Result? By sheer instinct, cover completely blown ? to be the only person in the home end leaping with frenzied joy, when a particularly reviled opposition keeper pulls off the save of the century, is somewhat indicative, to say the least ? and our chum?s subsequent attempts to completely melt into the background were therefore to be greatly admired!

One topic up for debate did produce complete unanimity: the fact that this season, the sheer quality of the football seen at The Hawthorns was the best since the days of Ardiles, Atkinson (first incarnation, circa 1978); Giles (also first incarnation), and, of course, Alan Ashman. Having said all that, such is the fragility of our rearguard, especially during that horrid first ten minutes, of late, someone?s suggestion that portable cardiac resuscitation units be installed in all four stands at the Hawthorns, and long before the current season got to the anal sphincter-twitching terminal stage, might just be a ?goer?. St. Johns Ambulance people, please take note!

Earl Plass, he of the quite remarkable domicile, entirely surrounded by bosky woodland, yet situated within easy Dingles-throwing-distance from lovely Halesowen town centre, explained that he had left America at a young age to move to Smethwick and now lived in Blackheath, near the aforementioned Mister Clegg. As it was the Sunshine State (California, in case you didn?t know) he?d forsaken, in order to experience at first hand the blighted post-industrial landscapes of these here parts, it was unanimously agreed by all those present that he should seek medical treatment on both counts, pending subsequent committal to a psychiatric institution of our choice.

The chap they?re wont to call ?Batman?. Now here?s a thing. I?d long wondered precisely why everyone on the list knew him by that particular monicker, but had never really liked to give the matter further thought ? but now I know! Mister Clegg explained that he was called ?Batman? because he had a penchant for dressing up as The Caped Crusader in the distant Meggo past, and driving down the M40 with the roof off in his black Mustang, to Watford, in company with his mate, dressed as Robin, you won?t be too surprised to read! (And, if you just happen to be his gaffer reading this, VERY surprised, I would imagine!)

This startling sartorial adventure culminated with all his son's mates dressing up as ?The Justice League Of America? (a sort of comic-book ?Trade Union? for superheroes, just in case your youth wasn?t constantly misspent reading such degenerate US-produced literature, as mine undoubtedly was!), for games, both home and away, culminating in a visit to Old Trafford, where they featured on national TV, then subsequently thought they'd better start behaving themselves in public. All agreed this sounded like great fun, but Mister Clegg should split the brain scan costs with Mister Plass, and judgment on his sanity would be reserved until the next scheduled meeting.

Having sorted out the preliminaries, the gathering then degenerated into somewhat bibulous disarray, and we all had a great time, which was the original idea in the first place. Specifics? I was quite intrigued to hear Kev Buckley being compared to Albert Einstein. His facial features, with particular reference to that astonishingly-unruly barnet of his, was what they were all banging on about, once I?d taken the trouble to waggle my lugholes in that direction. I could only agree, mind. One look at THAT, and you?d instantaneously jump to the conclusion that the aforementioned outrageously-rampant follicular outgrowth owed considerably more to the decay products of nuclear fission, than anything you might encounter in your average hairdresser?s emporium.

Being quite unaware of any impending Lancashire Baggie plot to obtain weapons of mass destruction, at that time ? with Ground Zero of the first detonation most certainly aimed at Molineux, and Old Trafford designated to host the second, no doubt ? I was considerably relieved to hear later that it was Kev?s facial features everyone was banging on about, and not some dastardly plot to cream The Custard Bowl and all who sailed in it, Mick McCarthy included.

Kev?s off to New Zealand very soon: his cover story encompasses going there to watch the cricket, but we know better, don?t we, children? Given the massive possible threat to security involved in sending a coiffeur undergoing rapid nuclear fission by air, I reckon both MI6 and the CIA should be given advance warning, the latter in nice bold large-print throughout, and consisting of words of less than four syllables throughout, if only to curtail their annoying habit of bombing the wrong people (and in the event of having to resort to the use of ?nukes?, the wrong continent!). Doesn?t half ruin people?s day, that.

As for The Fart (once we?d finally excavated him from the back of the bar, that is!), he was in his second heaven, nattering ten to the dozen with Jim about old Baggies sides, long since gone to The great Stadium In The Sky, of course. Out came a voluminous set of intriguing pictures, all culled from his amazing personal collection, including several dating from the fifties, sixties and seventies.

And, even while he was strolling along Memory Lane, in company with our Czech mate, The Fart was valiantly keeping close tabs indeed upon what was happening at Vicarage Road, modern technology, in the form of a radio and mobile phone, enabling him to do so. The most dangerous combo in the entire world, that. The Fart, in league with the Almighty Microchip; one false move with that little lot from our wrinkly chum, and the entire fabric of the known Universe could be irreparably torn, causing seas to boil, flesh to melt, Time to seep into complete disarray, thereby causing worldwide weeping, wailing and great gnashing of teeth to commence - with the prospect of brighter weather and rising temperatures within the next two or three days, so I?m assured!

Mind you, being the inquisitive little sod I am, I just couldn?t resist poking my head over their shoulders to take a closer look ? and didn?t several of El Tel?s former incarnations give me one hell of a giggle? Too bloody right. The first examples I saw had him waiting on (I think) New Street Station, in company with loads of his Baggie contemporaries, most of whom must have quit this mortal coil yonks ago. But it was Tel?s face and hair that made me do a quick double-take. Hands up all those who remember the late Buddy Holly? Or, much worse in my book, Harry Worth, serial comedic bungler, of BBC TV fame? The man's a bloody chameleon.

Born much later, but still admire the heady gust of fresh air he and the Crickets (but not Harry Worth) brought to a previously-staid and stuffy US pop music business? Well, our Baggie Hero IS Buddy Holly, right down to the hairstyle and thick-rimmed glasses ? or at least he was, back in the mid-to-late Fifties! Whether he?s ever grabbed hold of a guitar, and belted out the hook to ?Peggy Sue? during away trips by train, is another matter entirely, mind!

But there?s more. Fast forward to the Swinging Sixties, and journeys from the same station in the company of Messrs. Kevan And Co, then, much later on, Astle, Hope, Clark, Kaye, and all the rest who sailed in them. This time, my memory-banks focus upon a certain Freddy Garrity, Mancunian born and bred, but better known to the paying public back then as ?Freddy?, as in ?Freddie And The Dreamers?, one of the many Northern groups that flourished in the wake of the Merseybeat phenomenon. Yep ? that?s Terry, to a tee.

Moving twenty years further down the line, although our hero was rapidly advancing, in terms of the length of supporting service he?d given our favourite football club, his India-rubber phizzog was to spring yet another surprise upon the discerning Tel-watcher! This time, it was Talking Heads, and lead singer David Byrne, who adopted the Wills Look for themselves: quite some doing, that, especially when you consider Talking Heads were a cult sort of thing back in Blighty, and not really subsumed into the ranks of mainstream music until they?d managed to grab a couple of chart hits during the earlier part of that decade.

But for me, my all-time favourite has to be those pictures covering the Seventies when, amongst other things, Tel was heavily involved in animal welfare issues, with a particular interest in putting a stop to commercial whaling (just as well we don?t have a Japanese presence around The Hawthorns any more, otherwise John Hartson?s name would have long been taken off our books, like it or not! A hoarse shout of ?THAR HE BLOWS, CAP?N!?, closely followed by the ?whoosh!? of the harpoon, gamely snaking down Halfords Lane, in close pursuit of Albion?s in-house lard-bucket), and was in right from the start on the foundation of ?Greenpeace?.

Now regarded as a highly respectable organisation, of course, with a world-wide reputation for responsibly-organised and planned, but well-publicised, disruptive events aimed at highlighting areas of current concern, but back then, considered by all and sundry to be nowt but a bunch of eco-cranks with a enormous bee in their bonnet concerning some crackpot ?Gaia Theory? or other.

This theory, the details of which were worked out by a chap called Lovelace, postulated (and still does) that the entire planet conducts its internal affairs just like a living entity, and should the massive amount of industrial detritus produced by the human race ever put too much strain on the numerous delicate ecological balances involved in doing so, the entire planet will go to hell in a handcart, and sooner rather than later. Or considering the sheer amount of pollution it would take to irredeemably wreck the planet, a dustcart, more like. Gaia is the Earth Goddess, in Greek mythology, and she wouldn?t half get narked if her pride and joy were ruined beyond belief by the activities of Man, so the theory goes. Complete stuff and nonsense, of course ? now what the hell did I do with that bloody patio heater?

But back to Tel: in those pictures, which reveal him in all his glory, holding up a really naff home-produced placard ? as I said before, Greenpeace was but a fledgling environmental concern back then ? his locks are much straighter, and his dress very Seventies. Talk about reinventing yourself! Whether all those whales ever turned up at Tel?s place, expressing profound gratitude for having been ?saved? by him, is not recorded, sadly. If they did, I bet British Waterways had one hell of a shock: one can encounter many wild creatures inhabiting our local canal system while walking along its banks, but whales, whether of the ?sperm?, ?killer?, ?blue?, or ?baleen? persuasion, would most certainly constitute a ?first? in these here parts!

More about our Dingle chums: thanks to Tel?s updates, we knew they were a goal down ? and that suddenly switched on the light bulb in my head. If I were a Dingle ? God forbid, but let?s think the unthinkable for a moment ? and watching that game, what would I want most of all? An equaliser, closely followed by the winner, from which Watford would be unable to recover?

Sure, but just think of the knock-on effects involved. A Dingles win would be just peachy for their rapidly-diminishing play-off hopes, sure, but it would also assist our cause immeasurably. It was for good reason I was monitoring what was happening at Vicarage Road very closely indeed: visions of gold-and-cack-clad knuckle-scrapers innumerable trying to square that particular circle in typical blank-expression, head-scratching manner ? and failing dismally! ? put more than the glimmer of a grin on my face, but it was not to be, sadly. Watford stuck to the script, and the Dingles didn?t have the native cunning to thwart them. Oh, well ? it was nice while it lasted.

And so was our little soiree: eventually, Father Time called a halt to the proceedings and all the participants quickly stole into the West Midlands murk. But not before Jim?s wonderful bit of conversation with me, as I changed seats in order to accommodate The Fart.

Jim (as I squeezed past, very closely indeed): ?The bulge in my pocket is my mobile phone?.?

Me: ?So you weren?t pleased to see me after all, then?....?

Oh, the old ones are always the best! See you lot next Friday night.

 - Glynis Wright

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