The Diary

27 April 2008: Make Mine A (Promotion) Double, My Good Man!

Amidst all the media hype of our very own promotion (league title?) push, take note: as far as the Wright household are concerned, all being well versus Saints tomorrow evening, there might just be a juicy double-header on the way. You?ll find all the evidence needed within the oft-forgotten depths of what?s now the Second Division (known better to old codgers like myself as the Fourth Division, but hey ? who?s quibbling?), where Hereford United recently achieved The Big One in their own right, albeit a richly-deserved feat little recognised by Sunday?s pundits, sadly.

So you thought The Championship was a dogfight, then? As the current season draws to its weary close, the competition up there at the top of Division Two has been astonishingly fierce, making United?s elevation far from certain, until yesterday ? MK Dons and Peterborough definitely up, with effectively two still scrapping it out for the remaining promotion place, as of Friday night: The Bulls and Stockport (would have included normally-inert Rochdale, but they?d effectively dropped out of the race, by then). With but one game remaining for the cider-slurpers, courtesy last Tuesday night?s Edgar Street fixture versus Wrexham, of which, more to come below, and their barnstormer at Griffin Park yesterday, they?re up. They?ll round off their 2007-08 programme by playing host to Alan Buckley?s mid-table Grimsby next Saturday, which promises to be a bit of a Nuremberg Rally, given that the overall atmosphere in that justly-famous cathedral city must now be very much one of rejoicing. Thirty years is a hell of a long time to wait, after all?s said and done.

Their personal claim for the wearing of the Tyrian purple was given the first instalment of a pretty massive boost, thank you very much, by them nabbing all three points at poor doomed Wrexham?s expense. By triumphing over Brian Little?s scratch bunch of Welsh kids in such fine style (2-0, goals courtesy bovines Theo Robinson, and Gary Hooper, against a side effectively created the very moment an exasperated Brian Little gave his experienced pros the Big Heave-Ho the previous weekend, petulantly throwing the kids in at the deep end instead: not as daft as it sounds, actually.

They were genuinely up for it at the start of the Edgar Street encounter, the main factor mitigating against them being their relative lack of experience at that level, which ultimately proved their undoing). As per usual at United?s spiritual home, that evening, amidst all the genuine human drama being played out on the pitch below, the spectators also contributed richly to the proceedings. Many of those I?ve mentioned before after similar trips to that cathedral city, so now isn?t a bad time to remind you of their various eccentricities.

First to greet us were the Blues-supporting couple that also fit in trips to Edgar Street as part of their distinctly-schizophrenic football-watching lifestyle. Post-Villa, we had planned to ensure complete anonymity by supplying them both with large paper bags with eyeholes cut to suitable apertures, but when Virgin Man suddenly paid us an unrequited visit about ten minutes before we were due to set out, that one got forgotten in the unexpectedness of their arrival. Bugger. Not that it mattered, though: we certainly reminded them of that hugely-embarrassing final score, last Sunday. Sickly grins of shame all round, natch. And, with Blues still massively embroiled in their battle to avert the dreaded drop, it could well be that we?ll be greeting them both with much more than a cheeky grin, come Hereford?s Division Two grand finale, in around seven days time.

As for the rest of the bunch, even if you couldn?t directly see ?em, industrial-deafness-level vocals more than made up for that small deficiency. Take, for example, The Poisonous One At The Back. A ghastly, chronically-stunted Gollum-like creature first ?outed? in this column after Hereford?s FA Cup game versus Cardiff, his principal ?claim to fame? consists solely of jacking up the decibel levels to unbearable proportions. Which wouldn?t matter diddly-squat, but for one small detail I?ve purposefully omitted: 99.9% of his vocal efforts consist entirely of a constant drip-drip feed of pure negativity.

He is not someone easily satisfied, no matter how heroic or entertaining the attacking moves made by the Hereford crew. Even during spells when the home side were consistently playing pure football, the sublime standard of which would surely have brought a smile of knowing approbation to the face of our own manager (not usually a striking feature of games played at that level, believe you me!), Chummy at the back was still berating Bulls players for not getting the ball into the box quickly enough for his liking! Dearie, dearie me: where on Earth do they find such appalling specimens?

Contrast his splenic comments from the back with those of ?Madame Defarge?, so ?christened? by me because of an unfortunate tendency to pass adverse comment upon refereeing and fourth official standards courtesy the simple expedient of disparaging expletives, and always coming forth in the form of cackling, ?cracked-record? tones, irritating beyond belief. Why the name? Simply read Charles Dickens? ?A Tale Of Two Cities? to make the necessary French Revolutionary connection. No immediate access to said literary classic? ?Daft cackling old bat knitting furiously in the front row as French aristos innumerable, the wonderfully-out-of-touch Marie Antoinette included, lose their heads courtesy Madame Guillotine?, will just about get you there.

Our chum?s a bit like our very own John Homer in some respects, but definitely lacking in but two vital areas: first off, John?s own unique way with words when it comes to refereeing criticism, most of them of distinctly Black Country lineage, and therefore something to be carefully treasured, and secondly, the actual merits of the insult(s) concerned.

That?s where the dear lady really falls down, I?m afraid. Men in the middle ? and linos, too ? being fair game in very many respects, it takes an affront of really high quality to make me sit up and take mirthful notice, these days. All a by-product of the impossibly-high but linguistically-creative abuse standards previously set by the aforementioned Mister Homer, I?m afraid. After a while, the dreary drip-feed of mostly-undeserved anti-whistler persiflage grows somewhat monotonous, so during Tuesday?s game, I actually suggested to Talking Bill ? yet another Hereford-supporting eccentric, in his own inimitable way ? that I bring a ball of three-ply knitting wool and a set of needles to their final home game of the season, so we could both stage an impromptu presentation of same to our mutually treasured friend seated just a few rows below!

Mind you, Talking Bill?s not all that averse to chucking fuel onto the serially-abusive fire himself, as and when necessity dictates. The night we visited, on those occasions when Madame Defarge really warmed to the task, Talking Bill?s retaliation was simple, childishly-so, some might say -but hilariously-effective: throwing his arms high above his head and loudly shouting ?YERRRRSSSS!? every single time the lady opened her ample bucchal orifice, which was pretty often. All those in our immediate vicinity were in on the joke, and positively heaving with suppressed laughter by the end, but not the dear lady concerned, sadly.

To be scrupulously fair, when judged against the backdrop of overall refereeing standards across all three non-Premier league divisions, I didn?t think the Edgar Street officiating trio had a bad game, overall. Sure, there were some clangers dropped, mostly coming from the linos, but isn?t that always the case in games, no matter how well refereed they are? Something called ?human nature?, so rumour has it. Believe you me, I?ve seen much, much worse over the course of the present season. Perhaps it might behove our little friend well to observe black-clad creatures like the untalented Mister Miller at work, then see what she has to say about it. Assuming he?s still on the League list next season, of course; personally, I doubt it, but it wouldn?t half be a wonderfully mind-concentrating exercise for the clueless Madame ?D?, wouldn?t it?

Earlier, I made mention of ?Talking Bill?, and mentioned in passing his eccentric streak. His claim to fame? Well, if nothing else, he certainly has something of a creative bent lurking deep within the murkier recesses of his brain. Some folks go about their daily business in a permanent state of mentally supping from a glass either half-empty or half-full, depending upon disposition. But Bill goes one stage further: his cup?s permanently full to the brim as far as United games are concerned. So richly talented is he at looking for the most advantageous takes on Bulls-related situations, he clearly missed his vocation. Tony Blair would have loved him as a spin-doctor: if anyone?s capable of presenting George Bush?s former bosom pal in a favourable light, it has to be Bill every time.

Look at his many talents in that direction this way. He?s the only football supporter I?ve ever encountered with sufficient amounts of never-say-die optimism ? or sheer brass neck, take your pick - to conjure up a bawled ?(THAT WAS A) CLEAR GOALSCORING OPPORTUNITY, REFEREE!? from a situation where a Hereford defender?s ? note the last of those three preceding words, folks! - desperately trying to kick off his own line what looks to be a slam-dunk opposition effort, and getting fouled by said attacker in the process! And then gets all radioactive when the ref doesn?t bring said wish-fulfillment verbals to a satisfactory conclusion by immediately red-carding the supposedly-errant player involved! He?s also one of the most navigationally-challenged blokes I?ve ever encountered in my entire life. Stick him alone in the middle of Trafalgar Square, tell him to find Nelson?s Column, and he wouldn?t have a sodding clue - but that?s another story entirely!

I can?t leave this particular clutch of Bulls-lover pen-pictures without making mention of Nick Brade, well-known gatherer of what Jeremy Peace would undoubtedly term ?revenue streams?, for the cash-strapped outfit he supports both home and away, along with his mum (poor lady?s suffering from a bad knee, right now, so had to miss yesterday?s Griffin Park promotion caper, much to her fury, no doubt), supplier of break-time mints to those Edgar Street gentry seated within easy lobbing-range. Some of Nick?s various matchday duties consist of flogging half-time draw tickets before ? and, as I noted last Tuesday night ? during the game. Midway into the first half, and I could still clearly see his yellow-brown matchday apparel, as he manically worked the Meadow End, purveying even more draw tickets to the faithful encamped there. Well, you certainly couldn?t miss him: remember the newsreels of CND activists legging it to Aldermaston during the demos of the late fifties/early sixties? Or those who followed the ?Beatnik? youth-culture phase, around the same time? That?s Nick, who also ? somehow! - manages to resemble the late Michael Bentine, around the time he was part of The Goons, viz: Harry Secombe, Spike Milligan, Peter Sellers, the surrealist lads who single-handedly invented ?alternative comedy?.

So immersed was Nick in worthy entrepreneurial efforts for his favourite club, he didn?t get back to his normal matchday perch alongside our bunch until about 15 minutes before the break. Now I?d do just about anything for my own favourite football club, were they ever daft enough to ask, possibly up to and including, according to popular Black Country legend, a draughty (but hopefully-profitable!) spell displaying one?s principal sexual wares ?at the back of Rackhams?, for the cause. But miss a sizable chunk of a vital end-of-season game, with promotion at stake, because of heavy ?flogging? commitments in the Brummie, say? Thanks ? but no thanks.

Because of our own promotion-clinching (hopefully!) game taking place tomorrow, it seemed pretty logical to spend Saturday at Griffin Park watching The Bulls trying to make their dream come true. Which was precisely what we did: no real problems about getting a ticket, either. ?Pay on the day? was the name of the game, even in the seats, although Hereford did warn prospective travellers that there were comparatively few of those up for grabs, so ?first come, first served? ruled the day, too.

Not that it was any great hardship hanging around the gates of the away end, awaiting the Grand Opening, mind. The journey to The Smoke had been pleasantly sunny and warm, with little in the way of traffic to bother us. Even on the much-maligned M25, amazingly enough. Hell, we?d even found time to slip into one of those justly-famous four pubs situated on every corner of the ground, in order to wet our thirsty little throats a little more ? and looking at the distinctly-inebriated state of not a few of the visitors milling around outside, not a few of those had managed to ?do? all four more-than-ample justice already!

A pleasant 30 minutes or so sitting there, drinks in hand, then off to the away end to grab twin tickets for ourselves. A few doubtful moments when one of the Met?s finest, a sergeant, seemingly laboured under the strong belief that the game was all-ticket ? that?s what his senior officers had said at their pre-match briefing, apparently ? but those of us who?d had access to the club website knew better! And we duly told him, too. Amazing. If superintendents and the like can not only contrive to get something so basic completely wrong, and, worse still, communicate said duff info to their subordinates afterwards, no wonder appalling mistakes during, say, anti-terrorist duties (remember that poor sod of a Brazilian electrician, gunned down through similar communication failings?), reduce them to complete and utter farce.

But all that?s by the bye: a tad late (punctuality has never been a great feature of clubs at that level!), those doors did open, by which time there were around 20-30 of the bovine persuasion wanting seats present. No worries whatsoever: within a matter of a couple of minutes, we were in. And, a couple of minutes more saw us clutching various nosh items, and heading for what we both regarded as ?pole position?, the Upper Tier stand?s front row, where, very much in QPR-style, a balcony affair beckoned, affording great views, both behind the goal and of the away terracing beneath, which was also filling at a rate of knots.

And, talking of ?knots?, a young lad approached me, asking if I could kindly attach one end of his large flag to the front of the ?balcony? for him. ?No problem,? said I. ?In fact, I?ll even tie it in a reef knot, so you can remove it easily afterwards!? And that?s where said youth first learned that there WAS such a thing as a reef knot! (For the uninitiated, it?s ?right over left, then left over right?: do it any other way, and you end up with a ?granny knot?, a right sod to undo!)

Normally, an early entry to any ground?s something to be endured, rather than enjoyed, but not this time. As I said, the weather was absolutely delightful, and the pre-match musical entertainment equally good too. Stuff from Manfred Mann, David Bowie, Blondie, Wizzard, Norman Greenbaum, Duran Duran, Eddystone Lighthouse, and many, many more. And, as the number of away supporters increased, I could just picture the Brentford groundsman having a bit of a dicky fit. Balloons, loads of ?em, all yellow, and breeding like bacteria around the 18-yard box, and right-hand corner-flag. Must have been well in excess of three figures, that lot, because the kick-off was delayed for someone with a big spiky things to go round busting the lot! ?Ah, I can picture the headlines now,? said I,??BRENTFORD KICK-OFF DELAYED AS HUNDREDS OF RAMPAGING BALLOONS INVADE PITCH!? ?

The game? The cider-slurpers? playing style, a microcosm of our own, almost, saw them 2-0 in front by the break, and deservedly so, the goals coming courtesy Gary Hooper after 18 minutes, and the second, Kev Phillips imitator Theo Robinson, some nine minutes from the interval. But the Robinson effort was preceded by pure farce. The ref, spotting Brentford skullduggery inside their box, awarded the Bulls a penalty. Which Theo Robinson duly potted ? but the ref spotted an infringement of some kind going on, so it had to be retaken ? with the inevitable happening, i.e. Robinson making a complete dog?s ear of the effort second time round! Great cheers from the home support, of course. Not that it mattered a dingo?s kidney?s, mind: within the space of a mere minute, the Bulls netted again, this time from open play.

?AND NOW ARE YOU GONNA BELIEVE US? THE WHITES ARE GOING UP!......?

?Oh bugger,? said I, ?Does that mean I?ll have to pay more for me knickers in future?....?

Said this column again, spotting a BA winged behemoth about to reunite landing-gear with the nearby Heathrow runway, ?Look! They?re coming down?..?

Then, as the Hereford support gleefully sang, in anticipation of post-match jollifications to come, ?ON THE PITCH, ON THE PITCH, ON THE PITCH??, me again, from our somewhat lofty perch:

?Yup ? if you lot give me a parachute, I?ll gladly go on the pitch!?.?

Meanwhile, back at Barnet?s ground, where promotion rivals Stockport were playing, the news was pretty splendiferous; the visitors were losing by the odd goal, which, from the Herefordian point of view, was ?double-plus good?, as George Orwell?s ?1984? would have undoubtedly put it. Not that I heard it: other things were pressing, like the need to ?powder my nose?. Mind you, even that had its amusing side: while ?performing? in a cubicle, I could hear several female Bulls (yes, I know the biology, but it?s my ball, and I?m playing with it, OK?) trying to work out the repercussions of various results involving both their own lot and their Cheshire-based cousins playing just 15 miles across the capital, and having to employ ?fingers-on-hands? maths to do it!

But back to the story?. Only minutes into the second sitting, it was becoming abundantly clear that The Bees, playing for nowt save pride, weren?t about to bust a gut to retrieve the situation: probably preoccupied with pleasant thoughts of distant European beaches, calorie-laden cuisine, anatomically-impossible sex, and crazy-coloured cocktails already. And it didn?t half show. Apart from one nerve-tingling rattle of the woodwork fairly late on, they largely stuck to the script helpfully provided by Messrs Turner and Trewick. And, just to help things along, Simon Johnson added Hereford?s third, right at the end. Not that it would have mattered: word had already seeped though, via some form of osmosis, that Stockport had well and truly blown it. And no sooner had the man in the middle brought the proceedings to a satisfactory conclusion, that was when the promotion party really began!

One obligatory broadcast for the visitors to cease and desist invading the pitch later ? err ? a sizable pitch invasion occurred, shifting all the players back inside like a dose of salts! As I said to a manically grinning ?Im Indoors, ?You might as well try to stop Niagara falling?.? Then, remembering his clearly evident pride at seeing his ?other? lot do the biz, finally, ?It?s your day, you go and enjoy yourself?.?

Mind you, as pitch invasions go, it was a pretty civilised affair, compared to some I?ve witnessed over the years. So why did the Met consider it necessary to produce their Mounted Branch, and in cavalry-charge quantities, too, all strung across the pitch? Honestly. Then, after a few minutes getting everyone back, out came the players once more, led by the (very soggy, by then!) Turner-Trewick managerial combo. And, much to my complete surprise, when Tucker looked upwards, not only did he spot us in the front row, he waved to us as well! Blimey, talk about ?notorious?!

But the best bit was still to come. The players, having divested themselves of most of their kit by then, chucking the stuff right into the midst of their massed faithful, as per usual, then took things a stage further. At least one nearly ended up getting completely ?debagged? on the spot, underpants, the lot. Whether the Met would have turned a blind eye, or invoked decency laws to stop it, I know not. Mister Plod can be a capricious beast, at times.

Then, for me, the ?climax? of the entire performance. As Turner and Trewick, plus supporting cast, took richly-deserved plaudits from their massed admirers, unbeknown to both, a sneaky plot was being hatched elsewhere, hence the sight of two of their charges running from the Players? Tunnel, carrying between them what appeared to be a large ice-container, ominously sloshing to the brim with water, instead. Suddenly, everything became clear as to who would be on their receiving end! ?Oh, blimey ? I know EXACTLY where that lot?s gonna end up?..? And it did ? and if Mr. Turner had considered himself saturated before, after several gallons more of the wet stuff landing on him full-face, the strong urge to ring Jacques Cousteau for advice must have rapidly crossed his mind?.?

As I said earlier, this was Simon?s big day, not mine, but it didn?t stop me enjoying the entire caper immensely. And, on the way back up the M40, we both derived further mirth from watching a gentleman in a rabbit suit, plus chums, pulling up on the hard shoulder near some services to drain the stomachs of all involved of their alcoholic contents. I say that, because we?d seen this chap both before and after the game, and along with his little mates ? bar, presumably, the one that was driving ? they?d conspired to boost the profits of several pub landlords in the area! I wonder how his head is tonight? Come to think about it, will ANY work at all be done in that delightful cathedral city tomorrow? Watch this space!

And so we now turn to our own efforts to achieve escape velocity, starting tomorrow evening, and at relegation-haunted Southampton?s expense, hopefully. During the drama of the Bulls? game, word reached us that Hull were winning, then Palace had equalised ? and that was the position until the Griffin Park final whistle, but a double-headed promotion wasn?t to be our lot, sadly. Five minutes before the end, Hull contrived to grab the winner, so it?s all down to tomorrow, of course. Surely, it?s only postponed the inevitable: even a Dingle at his most obtuse wouldn?t be fool enough to let that one go. Er ? would they?

No real worries; we?re still in pole position, courtesy that precious game in hand on both Hull and Stoke, not to mention one hell of a goal difference, which is worth a point on its own. In fact that?s precisely what will do it; just one measly point, and we?re up. Preferably as Champions, of course, but that one remains very much in the lap of the gods until the next Sabbath, when Hull, The Potties and ourselves all sign off in style. And there?s much more at stake, too: a victory over Saints would have two other drop-threatened Championship clubs ? Blackpool and Coventry,? all sighing with genuine relief, as their eventual League fate would then be very much in their own hands.

Hopefully, we?ll have completely sorted the ?promotion? bit by tomorrow night, leaving naught to bother our pretty little heads with at Loftus Road in but seven days time. Bar the size of the inevitable hangover, of course! And the small matter of where the Championship title?s heading. In the name of common decency, not to mention the reputation of football as a whole, the very last place on Earth we want the silverware heading for is the sodding Britannia Stadium! Potties in the Prem I can just about live with, but that bunch of talentless thugs winning the title? Pur-leasseee?. And, as I commented recently, after a gap of some 88 years since we last picked up silverware of similar status, isn?t it high time WE got a look-in, for once?

Team news? The latest from bottom-three Saints is that defenders Gregory Vignal, and Alexander Ostlund could well return to the first-team fold tomorrow night. They?ve both had hamstring trouble, but Ostlund turned out for their reserves the other night, and the other lad is reported to be back in training. That might mean them shifting their emergency defensive duo, Jermaine Wright and Andrew Surman, back to their normal midfield sockets once more.

Nathan Dyer, a winger by trade, currently recovering from an ankle op, appeared for their ?stiffs? last week, so he might well be in contention as well. Their one definite absentee is player of the year and centre-half Andrew Davies. He?s got a fractured cheekbone, and needs much more healing to come into contention again. Mind you, the distinctly-uninjured Stern John seems to think he can get something at our place, and get his lot out of trouble that way. Must be on the same strength of pain-killers I am, poor lad. Analgesic-caused hallucinations can do terrible things to your mind, sometimes, as The Noise (see below) will quite cheerfully testify!

Our lot? At least we might have Robbo back (now christened ?Mister Bump? by our manager!), after his injury at Carrow Road the other week. I reckon our no-nonsense defender?s being quietly doing a medical version of a ?supermarket sweep?, of late: not only did he have blurred vision at Norwich, he?s also been carrying a bruised ankle for yonks, and needing stitches during two of our last three games! Blimey, Robbo, what do you get when you collect the whole set? Five year?s worth of free X-rays?

Apparently, apart from strapping the offending ankle to the point of mummification, almost, the lad?s been taking painkillers before games as well. If they?re anything like the ones I take for my back, may his God go with him: two of those rattling around the old digestive system, then well and truly into the old bloodstream, and I?m anybody?s! Heap strong medicine, as The Noise will readily tell you, having experienced the analgesic effects of my little pain-stoppers full-on, a few years back.

But the best bit of news of the lot is that Robbo apart, there aren?t any other injury considerations to take into account tomorrow night, thank goodness. If we fail to do it, at least we can?t blame it on people being not quite up to the physical mark. And the longer lay-off between games will mean we can stick vital little bods like Kev Phillips out there for a significant amount of time, as well. A strike or two from him, then off for a well-deserved benching, that?s how I?m hoping it will pan out for him. And I?m hoping that our long-awaited promotion will pan out for us, too. A case of ?look out, The Vine ? we?re coming to get yer!? if we do it? Too bloody right.

And Finally?.. At least we?ve finally managed to sort out the chaotic circumstances surrounding our recent house-moving efforts. Virgin Man finally sorted out our telephones last Thursday, a full 14 days after we finally got the keys, so that?s all sorted, finally. Internet, emails, cable and satellite TV and phone. The works.

As I write, I?m looking at our lovely new garden, complete with fish pond, which one of our cats, definitely not a swimmer, made acquaintance with, last week! Result? Carp 1, Cat 0. Mind you, we?ve got a robin?s nest artfully hidden away in some pretty-impenetrable bits of hedge, as well. Thank goodness birds can make their way through that tightly-interwoven thorny foliage OK, but felines can?t. Ours just sit below where they know the nest to be, and meow piteously! The magpies, right at the back? Same deal, although I strongly suspect even our barmy cats wouldn?t be daft enough to take on a pair of Newcastle supporters in full flight!

 - Glynis Wright

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