The Diary

05 May 2008: And Promotion Number Two! As Champions This Time! YERRRSSSS!

Writing this while still recovering from the after-effects of yesterday?s title-winning jollifications ? nothing involving the ingestion of the old falling-down water, mind, merely a sharp escalation of my pre-existing sciatic and lower-back problems courtesy standing outside the ?Springbok? pub for nearly an hour, then having to stand for most of the game afterwards. And all those celebrations after the final whistle, of course. Conclusions? Title-winning, after an historic 88-year period of sod-all to show for serial Baggie stresses and strains, can seriously damage your health!

Oh ? and knocking out one?s higher faculties with pain-killers afterwards is most certainly NOT conducive to the compilation of blogs in the wee small hours either, so please accept this column?s profuse apologies, all you Albion-lovers in the Antipodes, etc. who normally get to see my stuff by early evening, but haven?t this time. No sooner had we arrived home after our long, long day ? oh, and the coach had a flat battery as well, which meant a delay of some 90 minutes before we could get the Baggie-supporting show back on the road again. Another reason for really feeling it, by the time we?d got back home again.

But, hey ? despite feeling as though former Nationwide League Aussie psychopath Kevin Muscat had delivered a telling series of boot-propelled blows to both my lower lumbar region and left thigh rear, I?m still walking around our immediate neighbourhood feeling like a trillion dollars. Despite anything Mark Lawrenson might have to say about us ? he was at his most scathing during a recent Sky football programme, so I?m told ? not even he can detract from the fact that: a) Such was the silky-smooth standard of our passing game over most of the season just gone, we thoroughly deserved to go up, period, and: b) Doesn?t the fact that just under half our normal side managed to get into double-figures with goals scored count for a teensy ickle bit as well, Mark?

All that, plus a whole lot more, can only amount to one thing: the huge swell of warmth, not to mention genuine PRIDE I?m feeling right now about being part of the huge Baggie family we all embrace. Yesterday, I saw Albion history made, a League title I?d honestly thought I?d never see us win in my lifetime. Or EVER, come to think about it. Those endorphins ? ?feelgood? hormones, which promote feelings of intense pleasure when stimulated one way or another ? are really zinging around my bloodstream, still, and will continue to do so for a very long time indeed, I suspect.

Just like most of the 2,000 in our end that day, ours started very early indeed for a Sabbath. What with the early kick-off, mainly for the benefit of Rupert Murdoch?s TV lackeys, that meant an early wake-up call, and a proportionately early departure from the ground courtesy Baggies Travel. In times of yore, we would have simply dived into our car for the trip, turned the ignition key, and away, but with the march of time has come much less tolerance for long car trips to away grounds, so we elected to go with Dave Holloway?s Barmy Coach Trip Army instead. Given the strong tendency of London drivers to aim their vehicles rather than steer ?em in heavy traffic, we felt this to be by far the safest option. (Wimps? Yeah, yeah ? we know?.. )

You could tell this journey was going to be a good laugh right from the start. Just before pulling away, the driver announced, on the PA system: ?The toilet door?s open, but you might have to pull on it???

A remark which, as quick as lightning, drew the following heckled comment (anonymous) from some Baggie or other seated near the front: ?You?ll have to kick the **** out of it, then?..?

And, once the laughter finally subsided, something a little more measured and thoughtful: ?Did you know that Hull managed to win 11-1 about 84 years ago?? Hmmmm: food for thought indeed. And so were the slate-covered clouds looming overhead: despite forecasts to the contrary that previous night, the heavens were about to open, and with a vengeance. Not for the first time in my Baggies-supporting career, I enquired of my other half whether or not he considered that an omen, be it good or ill.

But what the hell?. Promotion already safely tucked away in the metaphorical back pocket of our jeans, we were most assuredly going for the ?biggie? that had eluded us for so many years, the title itself. Formerly the First Division title trophy, much older Baggies than I (for that, read The Fart!) still speak bitterly of how cruelly we were robbed of the prize back in 1954, when the England selectors (at least one of their number a Dingle) selected two of our players for an international when we were riding high on top of the (then) First Division, and with but a short period of that season still to play out.

Result? With two key players absent on England duty, we didn?t win again, so Wolves gleefully nipped in with the most blatant bit of titular ?smash-and-grab? you?ve ever witnessed in your entire life! Yes, I know, we did win the Cup afterwards, but when compared with what had looked, back then, a nailed-on Double-winning campaign, that huge silver trophy quickly begins to acquire the disagreeable taint of ?second best?. Or were we like that simply because by then, we?d become almost-Villa-like in our sheer arrogance and overall disdain for lesser-breeds?

But back to the present. With no Mister Fart there to reserve a couple of seats for us through having made earlier arrangements independently ? he was booked with another coach in Dave?s mighty convoy instead ? we?d first mounted our beast to find no seats together at all. But bless good old-fashioned British common sense and manners; within seconds, we found a berth on two of the back-row seats. Not a bad call, actually: as it so happened, someone was a ?no-show?, which meant we had far more leg-room than that normally possible on this type of transport.

The fact that this was the part of the coach where the naughtier kids in a class gravitated to, during school trips, hadn?t escaped my notice, either. Saying, to my beloved: ?Hell, it?s been such a long time since I last sat here?..:? I then heard, sotto voce, from one of the seats in front: ?How long ago was THAT, I wonder?....? My reply, in rasping tones loud enough to penetrate the entire back bit of the coach? ?- And I?m most certainly NOT going to let on how long it was, either!?.?

Once we were on the motorway proper ? M5, M42, M40, just in case your ?inner geek? tendency felt in any way animated by those vituperative remarks ? it was time for the film. Normally, we?d have both been as pleased as Punch with the superb film choice on offer, one showing 250 Albion goals, right back to Ray Barlow and Ronnie Allen?s time at the club, but not this time. We?d seen it already, on the way to Norwich! We?d also heard a later offering before, a compilation CD of Albion songs through the ages, one of which was a most splendid rendition of a ditty dating back to the thirties (well, that?s what the musical style seemed to indicate: a tune most redolent of music hall community singing, a type of mass entertainment really popular, in those pre-TV days), and entitled ?Shout Hooray In The Albion Way?.

No sooner had the opening bars belted out, you could readily imagine one?s forbears marching off to war with the regimental band blasting it out like there was no tomorrow. Really obscure stuff, in short ? then yet another vagrant thought immediately sprang to mind. Was that stirring old song one of the first attempts to commercialise football via use of other media to reach out to the desired target audience? After such musical splendour, the nefarious joys of ?The Liquidator? paled significantly by comparison! Just one small snag detracting from any real appreciation of this CD?s further musical riches: the vehicle?s sound system was about as good as a Dingles striker i.e. not much cop. That?s largely why the poor sod tasked with trying to increase sound clarity got a shouted ?YOU DON?T KNOW WHAT YOU?RE DOING!? for his efforts!

By now, we were well within the bounds of West London and not too far away from Loftus Road itself. As we left the Westway flyover, on our right I spotted a huge edifice, grey, modern enough ? in fact, at a rough guess, I would say around five years vintage for the place ? but with a startling air of what Prince Charles would have undoubtedly termed ?a monstrous carbuncle?.

In short, the place was plug-ugly, and completely soulless, both by design and presumed ambience, immediately earning from me the soubriquet ?The Lubiyanka?, as per the grim Moscow detention/interrogation centre and penal establishment formerly run by the KGB, now metamorphosed, post-Communism, into the FSB. Which completely explained my startled look when I spotted the BBC sign proudly sitting right outside the front of the building! Just as well they had that sign there: had they not been thus enlightened, more than a few chat-show guests etc. might have feared for the continued integrity of all ten fingernails! ?Whoever designed that thing wants shooting!? said I, quite unaware of the irony of that remark at the time.

Once parked up and alighted, and with a couple of hours to kill before the ?off? we then made our way round to the Springbok pub, where there was, already, an enormous gathering of Baggies having pre-match (pre-nerves?) drinks outside. But, first things first: I was going to the Ladies, and no bugger in creation was going to stop me! But once there, ?stop? I most certainly did. Why? Not because of the toilets per se, more the facilities being quite inadequate for any normal London boozer of this size, never mind one sitting right outside QPR?s Loftus Road premises!

The snags? Hell, where do I start? OK, there was just ONE loo provided to cater for a huge Albion crowd that was (at a rough estimate) around a third female by gender. Unfortunately, ingesting alcohol in quantity also tends to dry up the flow of what?s called anti-diuretic hormone. That?s why people taken short always ?decorate? things like lamp-posts, back alleys and shop doorways, and especially when ?offenders? have had in excess of a skinful! The fact that there was a queue snaking into the main bar by the time I arrived there speaks for itself. And another thing. No lighting in that cubicle whatsoever either, which meant the people behind in the queue holding the loo door slightly ajar so that those ?on the job? could see it through without causing unpleasant stains/smells to appear on their clothing afterwards. It would have helped also to have had ready access to some form of toilet tissue, female bums, for the use of, so after the one roll provided had gone, that was yer lot! Talk about a dinosaur attitude towards women going to games. Come on, brewers, sort it out!

Meanwhile, a procession of ?superheroes? had been steadily gathering. Ever since early lunchtime, in fact. Readers of DC Comics, their spiritual home, would have been rapidly rendered somewhat nonplussed by such sartorial elegance ? or rather, the profound lack of it! ? displayed by this little lot. The dazzling variety of costumes, never intended to flatter bodies blessed with more than ample shares of adipose tissue, would have caused an immediate outbreak of pure astonishment in politer society.

?SuperMen? galore, Captain America, Fred and Wilma Flintstone, a pixie, plus genuinely dwarfish Irish leprechaun, rather overgrown ?baby? ? bet there was something much more efficacious than bog-standard cows milk in that teat bottle he was constantly guzzling from! ? ?Wonder Woman?, not forgetting a bunch of characters displaying a distinctly ?retro? touch by wearing sombreros a la Johnny Tromans circa 1957 (he was the schoolboy Albion used as mascot back then, a huge sombrero, probably bigger than its wearer, even, denoting his star status, as he made his gradual way around the Hawthorns pitch, pre-kick-off).

And still they came, in the form of a ?Pope?, and two gorillas, plus bananas. An honourable mention for Sauce?s lot, too; I?m not going to say precisely how they did it, but I do know that pre-Shepherds Bush, they actually managed to spend some valuable ?drinking time? in Wormwood Scrubs. The Prison Officers? Club, that is, should you harbour grave suspicions of mass lawbreaking and subsequent arrest. Grizzled screws, mostly there to enjoy a quiet lunchtime pint before returning to the post-prandial rigours of unlocking and locking cell doors, must have choked on their beers when around 180 dehydrated Baggies turned up! Mind you, I still maintain that the Scrubs should have completely emptied one of their wings of ?customers? and locked up Sauce?s lot instead!

Propping themselves against the pub wall were a bevy of ?schoolgirls?, complete with tunics whose length approached ?micro?, with blouses buttoned quite provocatively, had the wearers been genuine teenage kids, and stripy ties. There was even a guy clad from head to foot in plastic Tesco carrier bags. For obvious reasons, of course, but it must have been hellish inside, given the prevailing high temperature outside. On the other hand, what better way of getting a cheapo sauna? Don?t tell Steve The Miser, though, it might give him ideas. Hell, even The Fart (yes, he?d wound up outside the pub too) had entered into the spirit of the occasion, a gilt ?crown?, souvenir of a past cruise, adorning his grey-haired bonce, and pictures of the main object of the exercise also displayed about his venerable person! Still toting a camera, though, but since he went digital, the limitless world of the memory card has opened up new horizons to him! The rate he?s going, the very next time the government make noises about everyone?s mugshot going on file, it?ll be our man they?ll turn to, rather than an IT outfit like Capita!

By now, the number of bodies cavorting bibulously outside the pub, and most of ?em in fancy dress, too, must have run to well beyond three figures worth of Baggie people. All the ingredients to guarantee the preamble to our last game being a complete success were there: a weak sun always threatening to penetrate the thin blanket of high cloud preventing proper solar access, temperatures well in excess of 70 Fahrenheit, lots of booze (not all of which came from the pub, mind. Given the overkill number of plods hanging around, I was most surprised to learn that an off-licence round the corner was also flogging the stuff to thirsty Baggies like there was no tomorrow. I now fully expect to be told that the guy who runs it subsequently decamped to Spain or similar for the summer, purely on the strength of enormous profits made from our bibulous lot!), and, more importantly, lots of laughter. The fact we were up already also helped!

Then, as if previously arranged for maximum effect, the real stars of the show, our players and management, chose that particular time to roll past in the team coach! The noise-levels, considerable beforehand, now rose to the point of threatened hearing-damage. I could only hope that there were no shift-workers trying to get some shut-eye in the flats nearby.

Time also to bump into an extremely-fragile Dee, of Club Shop fame. ?Extremely fragile?? That?s because she?d been celebrating our promotion rather a lot since last Monday night, apparently! ?Must go in,? said she, after we?d nattered a little, ?Me alcohol levels are dropping!? Then, just before she finally drifted from sight, her shouted parting shot: ?I really could do with a new liver for Christmas!? Er, give me a chance to order one from the QE, plus full surgical transplant team in attendance, Dee, and your wish is my command, dear lady!

The star turn for me? The Satanic Nurses, around four or five of the blighters. They?d chosen to mark this auspicious occasion, not by celebrating Kev Phillips, but honouring our somewhat hirsute current captain instead. The end result? Several blokes, all dead ringers for Jesus, complete with lank-haired wigs, sackcloth apparel, and spiky crowns of thorns adorning ?holy? heads. And not forgetting one really important (religious?) item to make for an authentic final touch ? a captain?s armband!

Then Steve The Miser, complete with son, turned up. With them, a real problem existed. They?d managed to acquire one ticket OK, but were sans a second. They?d tried a little bit of furtive asking around, as per 1940?s spivs, but thus far, no joy in that direction, so after a while, they scooted off again. Then, around twenty or so minutes after first speaking to them, they returned, and with the light of triumph glinting in their eyes, too. Yep ? they?d scored, but it was the source of their salvation that really surprised.

As some of you may be aware already, a hell of a lot of Baggies had naughtily applied to Rangers by post for tickets in the home end. And, as their prizes were duly dispatched to them some days later, they?d assumed they?d blagged successfully. But Rangers had been a little cuter than the average Championship outfit. What they?d done afterwards was cross-check the names of all those sold tickets by post with Albion?s own ticketing database: no surprise, then, that the Black Country ?cuckoos in the nest? were uncovered in the time it takes for Super Kev to score a goal. A letter was then sent to the ?offenders? suggesting they hand their ill-gotten gains straight back. That was why so many Baggie people, formerly catered for but subsequently unmasked in the above manner, were roaming around trying to get sorted once more. If the things were like gold-dust before, the situation was doubly-desperate now.

And that brings me back to the mutual plights of Steve and his little shaver. He?d done a little bit of thinking outside the box, then taken what seemed the kind of tack that desperately clutched at straws, metaphorically speaking: i.e. going round to their office, and cheekily asking whether there were any tickets still spare! And, believe it or not, there were, and from the unlikeliest of sources, too ? Albion themselves! For whatever reason (which I still can?t fathom, as we?d reportedly sold ours days before), a few had come back from us that very same morning. Whether along with the team, or via our admin people, I haven?t a clue, but Steve And Son were certainly in the right place at the right time to cash in.

The transaction completed, our parsimonious (but very, very jammy!) chum then winged it back to the Springbok pub nearby. Not so lucky was another mate of ours, Nigel Johnson: also ticketless, Upon hearing of Steve?s success, he also shifted his carcass to the QPR admin block at light-speed, but was just too late. Mysteriously, when pressed, Rangers denied they?d been given any returns from Albion to sell in the first place! As for whether or not Nigel managed to get sorted in the end, I don?t know. Given the fact that he?s someone blessed from birth with the sort of brass neck that gets you into the unlikeliest of places, it wouldn?t surprise me one little bit to discover that just like Cinderella, he?d gone to the ball after all.

Time pressing on by then, we decided to shift ourselves to the away turnstiles. As for the enterprising off-licence previously mentioned, it was still doing a roaring trade! Did we manage to drink the place dry, thereby upholding a wonderful Albion pre-match tradition, I wonder? We also bumped into an old mate of ours, now in deep mourning for a lost love. Poor ?Jim Reeves?. He used to own a Ford Capri of some 22 years vintage, but not any more. Just about every part completely knackered due to sheer old age, it?s not roadworthy now, and due to be replaced by something much less venerable. Said I to Jim, on hearing of his touching plight: ?You can?t do THAT, it?s like shooting a faithful old family dog!?

Inside the ground, finally, the carnival atmosphere in our end was helped on its way by our finest: while warming up for the last time this term, they decided to chuck some training kit in the general direction of their ?admirers?. At first, I had visions of Jeremy Peace blowing an almighty gasket at the loss of large amounts of perfectly good stuff ? but then came a reminder from my other half. We were to get a new club sponsor, so the current gear was effectively surplus to requirements. In the meantime, our lot made a pretty touching gesture to one of their own, Tex, by turning out in kit adorned with both his name and squad number.

Much nearer kick-off time, Rangers had their own jollifications to celebrate. A new logo, plus intimations their new head honcho, a moneybags beyond compare, was going to flash the cash in a big way. You could sense, beneath all the son et lumiere stuff, a burning desire to emulate our achievements next season. And quite a show they put on, too. Starting with some flamethrower thingies that roared great gouts of fire into the trackless void above. Hellishly-powerful, those things: although the things were plonked right on the halfway line, we could feel the heat from the Albion end, a good 70 yards away from the action. But they weren?t finished yet ? we were also treated to a daylight fireworks display. I could only hope for Rangers? sakes that the guy in charge wasn?t the same one that caused a nasty accident at Molineux, a few seasons back!

All the preliminaries finally sorted, it was nearly time to ?bring on the Champions?. Much anticipation as the players tunnel finally disgorged its precious cargo of hoops and black shirts. Even more pandemonium as the respective sides were read out. Up front, we had a Phillips/Bednar combo on strike-duty. Clearly, Roman must have wanted to play, despite having something of a hernia problem to contend with at the time. In midfield, Chris Brunt returned, with Morrison returning to the bench. Apart from that, everything was as per normal.

In the days preceding this game, we?d both speculated upon whether Rangers would stick to the script we?d provided for them, then concluded that as they?d got nothing to play for, they?d do precisely that. We couldn?t have been more mistaken. Far from rolling over to have their tummies tickled by our gaffer, they started off in quite a fighting mood. Buggered if I know why, the only thing I can think of is a sense of local pride, and not wanting to let down their paying customers with a poor showing on the last day. The biggest pain in the fundament for us was Stuart Ainsworth, whose mercurial antics down the flank completely belied his mid-thirties persona. He certainly gave Brunty a run for his money, that?s for sure.

But it was the 37th minute red-carding of Martin Rowlands that proved the real turning point of the game. After he?d gone in low and hard on Greening, the ref had no alternative, really. The dismissal certainly incensed the home crowd, who believed the punishment unjust. From then on, poor Greening was their prime target for the express-delivery of unremitting oral hate. But once more, the way Rangers had gone about this completely banjaxed me. Why the hell get sent off for an offence that was completely self-inflicted? As it stood, Rowlands would have to serve a fixed ban, come the start of next season. And given the heightened expectation-level I?d sensed among Rangers supporters come the arrival of The Moneyed One, his absence might well have an adverse effect upon their hopes of getting off to a good start.

Half-time, then, and both goals still awaiting their presumed blooding. But on the pitch, Rangers were quite unwittingly providing superb entertainment for our people. It wasn?t the Sellotape that did it, mind, blame it on the Pritt sticks! Just in case you think I?ve finally flipped, let me explain. The people responsible for the manufacture of stationery items like Sellotape and Pritt sticks also sponsor Rangers. And just to show the extent of their commitment to the London club, some genius or other decided to have four plastic Pritt Stick replicas inflated in the middle of the pitch.

Once the compressed air got going, three of the four duly assumed normal erect proportions. It left me in helpless giggles because the manner of their inflation, plus the little smiley faces they had at the top of the things, put me very much in mind of ?Airplane? and the novel method used to ? erm ? ?fill? the ?auto-pilot? in that film. (If you?ve seen it, you?ll know precisely what I?m on about!). Meanwhile, what of the fourth glue stuck that stubbornly refused to acquire normal shape? Oh dear. Despite everything the staff tried, the thing still resembled a bad case of ?brewers droop?! Oh, well ? at least it gave me a bloody good laugh.

Time for the second helping, then, not to mention the Mogga masterstroke. Kim, the Korean lad, replaced Roman Bednar, still suffering from the effects of a head injury sustained close to the break. To compensate, our midfield was changed a little, something that seemed to help. Even so, I must admit I was surprised when we finally broke the deadlock, about 8 minutes after the restart. It was a lethal combination that made our opening goal possible, both Kev Phillips and the wonderfully skilled Gera supplying the ammunition that enabled Kim to head us into a lead. Unsurprisingly, there was complete and utter pandemonium in that away end, but emotion with an underlying nervous edge to it, all the same. Could we possibly hang on until the end?

Following our inaugural strike, Clem, already booked, was recalled, with Alby replacing him. Now the game was a much more free-flowing affair, but Rangers were still putting up a doughty fight. The reason why completely eludes me, even now. But having tasted blood, our finest clearly wanted another to ensure the thing was nicely parcelled up. What amazed me most was Kim, now considerably fortified by his inaugural strike, and clearly looking for more. Mind you, the impression he gives isn?t that of the usual sort of Far East player. Although seemingly of slight build, he?s a lot tougher to shift off the ball than you?d give him credit for. And, as Rangers were to discover, quite capable of dishing it out, as well! His subsequent Premiership career might well prove interesting.

But despite our Korean import going very close indeed on occasion, it was Brunty?s involvement that proved the most decisive in the end. Just after passing the 75th minute mark, we were awarded a free-kick right on the edge of the box. Clem was yer man for that sort of thing normally, but he?d been taken off. So who was going to step up to the plate by way of replacement? Brunty? Blimey.

As QPR set up their defensive wall, and the greater part of our followers fearfully awaited the outcome of the set-piece, the thing I heard clearest was the repeated intonations emanating from my other half, of ?top corner?. Yeah, right, I thought?. But His Nibs had got it dead right, saw the gap in the wall that I couldn?t. The ref?s whistle blew, a moment of molten-sugar stickiness as our lad prepared to complete the task, a millisecond of complete silence, as foot made contact with ball ? then a deafening ?YERRRRSSSSS!? from our people! QPR 2, Albion 0. Now the celebrations could really get under way!

From then on in, Rangers hardly threatened. Sure, they did try, but it was our day, not theirs, and they knew it. All the usual chants from our lot, plus one that felt very strange indeed to our ears, viz: ?CHAMPIONES, CHAMPIONES, O-HEY, O-HEY, O-HEY!? The best bit of all was learning of The Dingles failure to make the play-offs, even! But the party had really begun, and fair play to the Rangers lot, when we insulted one of their number in the adjacent stand, he had the good grace to stand up and take a bow! Probably the best approach, actually, as we all clapped the guy for being a good sport, and left him unmolested for the remainder of the game. Equally sporting was the lino on our side of the field: he was also the gratuitous recipient of choral diatribe: he too surreptitiously indicated his amusement, and was warmly applauded also!

But the real fun came once the final whistle blew. No pitch invasion, thank goodness, as what subsequently came to pass wouldn?t have been deemed safe enough to carry on with. Much to our surprise, a group of young lads emerged from the sidelines, and began to put together a podium, significantly, one emblazoned with the Coca Cola logo. So they were going to award us the trophy on the spot? Bloody hell. Actually, after thinking about it for a while, I came to the conclusion that they must have had a replica standing by for the game: the real deal either at Stoke, or, more probably, stuck in the fastness of Football League HQ.

And what a sight, seeing our lot get that trophy in their hot little hands, finally. For people like me and The Fart, the culmination of many years? loyal and unstinting support of this football club. Sure, we?d had our full ration of heartbreak and sadness over the years, but all of that counterbalanced richly by the likes of the fairytale 2001-02 campaign, when we?d pipped the Dingles right on the finishing-line. And although Derby dumped on us at Wembley last May, I?d have loved to see their miserable faces when our players finally received their just rewards for keeping us on a rich diet of entertaining football for the whole of the season just gone.

Voices strained to the point of complete loss, in some cases, we happily tumbled out of Loftus Road to head for our coaches back to the Black Country. On the way out, we happened to bump into The Fart, still completely ?crowned?, amazingly enough. I just couldn?t resist having the final word on what?s fast becoming a running joke among all four of us former Dick Eds: ?Still want to take the draw, Tel?? I teased. Luckily, the sheer noise made by our jubilant followers completely drowned out whatever reply came from Florence Nightingale?s old flame!

Thanks to that long stand outside the pub, and having to remain standing during the game, by the time we reached our coaches, the old sciatica had finally kicked in. And so had my back. Felt as though someone had kicked it in, I mean. Never mind, I thought, I can have a good rest on the way back. Wrong! About ten minutes later, our driver made an announcement: the battery was flat, so we?d need assistance starting our vehicle once more. How long before it came? Er ? from 20 minutes, up to an hour and a half, actually. Bugger!

Once more, we debussed, parking our carcasses on window-ledges jutting over the by now deserted pavement. The most part of our ?army? had long deserted, leaving just us by way of ?rearguard?. More normal sounds came to the fore, like that of kids playing ball on the lawn of nearby flats. Somewhere, some inconsiderate tenant?s stereo boomed out for all it was worth. What a bloody awful neighbourhood this was.

But we still made the best of things. A deputation of Baggies, directed there by our driver, headed in the direction of a nearby shop. But it was their return that met with gasps of complete amazement. Somehow, they?d managed to acquire a bottle of bubbly, plus plastic cups to drink with. Given the type of area this was ? not two beans to rub together ? how the hell had they managed to do THAT?

The answer came when we headed in that direction ourselves. Although our own requirements were comparatively modest, we did discover that the location of the store in question was the Lubiyanka-like edifice previously mentioned, the one owned by the Beeb! No wonder they?d got champers on open sale!

It was gone nine by the time we got home; because of the godawful state of my back, plus the lateness of the hour, any thoughts of celebration in the pub over the road were put aside, but never mind. Maybe we?ll have another go after the Civic Reception at the Town Hall ? if there is to be one, that is!

More thoughts tomorrow night, by which time I should have yet more stuff from various chums to impart. Just keep it tuned here!

 - Glynis Wright

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