The Diary

04 May 2008: That's Promotion Number One Done And Dusted then!

?And so, the end is near, and as I face the final curtain?.? That?s quite enough of Mister Sinatra for one night, thank you very much, but he?s dead right. (Literally.) 45 gone, 1 more to go, and then it?s off to the Costa Packet for wine, women (or men, yer takes yer pick), and song in abundance for our finest, not to mention the players. Not that I?ve ever seen a bun dance, mind, but what with applied biology coming up with some pretty weird stuff at the ?genetics? end of the spectrum these days, you never quite know WHAT you?re going to have lolloping across your breakfast table a decade or more hence, do you?

But never mind the future, peeps, the present?s quite enough to be going on with. Take the past four days, ever since the ref blew ?time? on the Saints caper: it really has been quite incredible (well, for me, at any rate) just how many total strangers have spotted my Albion shirt and wanted to engage me in animated - AND lengthy: where?s the Lewis clan when you need ?em, eh? ? conversation apropos our forthcoming elevation, and the various spin-off issues concerning said successful Premier League bid.

Buses, shops of various kinds, on the street, and right in front of innocent kiddiwinkles, even, it hasn?t mattered a lino?s sweaty jockstrap. Just about everyone in Creation with even a passing interest in the beautiful game (and not even that, as demonstrated by my stepmother, now in her late eighties, and still taking the trouble to listen to Monday night?s game courtesy Radio WM) wants to talk Baggies with little old moi. And providing they?re not a complete and utter raving lunatic, or possessing psychopathic tendencies of around nine on the Richter Scale ? the hand-held chainsaw screaming fit to bust, not to mention said psycho wearing a Dingles shirt are pretty good ?performance indicators?! ? I?m perfectly willing to talk Baggies with them.

Frequently Asked Questions? In the short-term, one so blindingly obvious, even someone who?s just emerged from a nuclear bunker would probably have it ready on their tongue, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, and eagerly awaiting the grammatical equivalent of the cavalryman?s trumpet sounding the ?charge?: Can we return from Loftus Road with the Championship title tucked up safely on the seat next to Mogga?s? (Generally coupled with one of somewhat lesser importance, i.e.: something along the lines of: ?are you going to The Smoke to watch the QPR game yourself? Stock answer: ?Is the Pope a Catholic??!)

As far as the first goes, my instinctive ? not to mention invariable ? reply is: ?Why not?? As I said earlier in the week, the fundamental difference between Monday night and tomorrow is dead simple. Saints were scrapping for dear life, while QPR will have precisely naff-all riding on the outcome. Their continuing interest in the final table will be minimal, to put it diplomatically. Stoke, meanwhile, will be mixing it to the max with yet another outfit with more than a vested interest in the conclusion to the 90-minute drama. Rodents, trapped in a leaky bilge, and the water-level rapidly rising all the while, will kill their own, even, if that?s what it takes to survive. Leicester City, stick it to the bitter end, I say!

And it?s not just casual street enquirers, either: just about everywhere in the Black Country you care to mention now has tangible proof of Baggie loyalties going back years. Today, on the car park of the pub opposite, the King Edward The Eighth, an enterprising group of a dozen Baggies (including a really soggy combo, much more easily ?clocked? on matchdays as ?Baggie Birds?, both Senior and Junior), on a fund-raiser for an Albion Supporters? side trip to a tournament abroad come the end of current ?hostilities?, had a hand car wash going full-blast. Great ? but still more dosh was needed to make the undertaking even more profitable, so what to do? Simple but devastatingly effective: quickly alter the chalked ?CAR WASH? sign displayed on the pavement to: ?WBA CAR WASH?! Et voila! Just sit and watch the ackers roll in like there?s no tomorrow!

As our new-found chums beavered away mightily in the surprisingly-warm sunshine, we were preparing to head on out in the direction of Edgar Street, home of newly-promoted Hereford United, Graham Turner, Tucka Trewick, oodles of instantaneously-smug players, plus full supporting Meadow End cast. With a small diversion to Webbs Of Wychbold, the garden centre people. Purely a recce mission, this: just ascertaining which of their many garden swing sofas were especially-inviting for serious worshippers of the Greek deity Morpheus: as the narcotic connotation would readily suggest, this guy is the God Of Sleep! (Or was? Can gods REALLY take early retirement plus pension, just like yer average civil servant, had it up to his lugholes with a daily routine comprising the endless filing and stacking of correspondence fast reaching Sisyphean proportions, and looking towards his very own rose-covered Shangri-La set deep in the countryside, I wonder?)

Our research findings? Well, we certainly had a whole load of fun trying each of the buggers in turn! It sure as hell amused the countless kids unwillingly dragged there by stressed-out parents seeking to maximize what little precious time they got at weekends! Seriously, though, now we?ve completed our ?test-drives?, we?re loads clearer on what we actually want: in short, RESULT! Next station stop, the internet!

After a very agreeable journey to ?zoider country?, amidst acres of trees now proudly sporting their newly-sprouted summer foliage, spindly-legged lambs cavorting around meadows as if they?d just witnessed Super Kev score a crucial late winner, and oodles of apple blossom broadly hinting at the bibulously-endless summery joys to come (plus obligatory pheasants ? damn, old boy, forgot the old twelve-bore! No, Sir Jasper, don?t get all excited, I said ?pheasants?, NOT ?peasants?!) we finally fetched up in the adjacent car-park, a huge affair, normally well able to cope with the combined pressures of both serial shoppers and serious Bulls- lovers, but now showing distinct signs of strain. So much so, the council had no alternative but to open the ?overflow? bit at the back, located hard by the still-swollen River Lugg. (?Overflow?? Believe you me, after the river?s had a fairish spell of torrential rain come down from those thar Welsh hills, and without even the slightest hint of any let-up, it?s just about impossible to sue for a possible breach of the Trades Descriptions Act!)

Bumping into fellow Baggie Roy Hayden as we made our way towards B Block (sounds a bit like ?Porridge?, doesn?t it?), we dallied a while to have a bit of a chinwag with our chum. It turned out that he would have gone to Brentford, had it not been for the fact the family were ?booked? to appear at a surprise party for someone that very same night. Today? Yet another similar family function tonight, but our lad was given ?time off for good behaviour? by his family, it would appear. Even so, he couldn?t hang around after the final whistle: a real shame, that, as Tucka had rung him earlier in the week ? they?re still good mates, it would appear ? and asked specifically if he was coming.

Only a matter of ten minutes spent engaged in absorbing social discourse, that, but it didn?t half make a difference to the queue for seats in that neck of the woods: once only stretching to the service road for the car-park, it now wound its sinuous way via the players? car compound and newly-completed dressing-room facilities. We?d obviously called it slightly wrong, so grabbing seats near Talking Bill, Nick, Mavis, The Bilious Bluenoses, Madame Defarge et. al. was likely to prove problematic. But despair ye not! Help, in the form of Nick?s mum ? still walking with a stick after her recent knee op, poor sod - was at close hand. Although that part of the ground was looking pretty replete by then (they closed the turnstile just minutes after we passed through ? or was that simply down to the awful effect we have on some people?) our normal parking-spot had gone, but Nick?s mum had saved a couple of ?singles? for us. But all was not completely lost! The blokes who?d nicked our customary perches then decided, like the famous ?Ole Bill? World War One character, cartoonist Captain Bruce Bairnsfather, ?If yer sees a better ?ole, go to it!?. They did, and we took their places.

Everywhere we looked, bodies were pouring in like the whole thing was some Billy Graham Revivalist meeting or other. But with the object of worship being The Bulls, not heavy-duty Bible-bashing, complete with passionate sermons of hell-fire-and-eternal-damnation intensity. The place was filling up fast: clearly, Hereford?s promotion had captured the imagination of the locals in similar fashion to that of our own.

It was while I was writing up my notes for this piece that Mavis nudged me in the ribs ? and hard, too. Looking up, slightly peeved by the interruption, all I could see before me was a tall male figure, of heartbreakingly-spindly proportions, almost, and with straight hair, cut fairly short, and of the sort of hue that positively shrieked ?tombstone in a graveyard, by light of full moon, occasionally partly-occluded by passing clouds?. My matchday companion then hissed, meaningfully: ?Don?t you know him? That?s David Icke, that is?.?

Another quick double-take later, and somewhat belated recognition finally dawned. Ah, yes ? Former Bulls and Coventry custodian, mystic, serial dabbler in Other Distinctly Odd Stuff, and chat-show guest seemingly tasked by Something Out There to try and convince the citizenry of these fair isles that we?re all in the process of being taken over by green lizards, really, and Why Doesn?t Someone Do Anything About It Before It?s Too Late? Yes, everyone held in a vice-like reptilian grip, even Gordon Brown, plus famous Great Clunking Fist. Yeah, right.

Now come on, David, show us where you?ve hidden all the wacky baccy and funny-tasting sugar lumps, there?s a good fellow! Mind you, when I sit and ponder at length upon former Prime Minister Tony Blair?s woeful managerial style (but so horribly bellicose and intransigent, too, especially whenever one hears the words ?Iraq?, ?September the 11th?, ?George Bush? and/or ?extraordinary rendition? mentioned! Plus ?annual Italian holiday freebie?, of course), maybe those pesky Green Lizard critters are the sanity-saving option of choice for the likes of us after all?

As for the overall pre-kick-off ambience of Edgar Street, what more could I say? A fairly well-attended game, some 5,000 paying punters through the gates, a plethora of black and white chequered flags, all proudly bearing the legend ?PROMOTED?, balloons, trumpets by the ear-splitting score, and, even more encouraging for the small outfit, loads of kids of junior-school age bearing said items, too. Everything conducted in an atmosphere of carnival intensity that was a joy to behold, and totally bereft of malice in any shape, way, or form. Clearly, the gods approved; as the first team squad stepped up to receive their medals (yup, nowadays, they even get a trophy chucked in for good measure, too!) the sun finally emerged from its draughty lair.

And, while all this was going on, what of the advertised League opposition, Grimsby Town, plus cast of assorted trawlers? They?d all scuttled, crab-like, in the direction of their small band of followers, all of whom were hanging onto their normal plots like crazy. And, while the Hereford lot took proud possession of their just desserts for season 2007-08, out of the corner of my eye, I caught a fleeting glimpse of Old Misery Guts himself, better known to Baggies fans the whole world over as Alan Buckley.

As he waited for all the stuff and nonsense to pack itself in, and things return to normal once more, it soon became pretty evident that advancing age had NOT been very kind to the aforementioned curmudgeonly gentleman, face now seemingly permanently set in customary ?hate mode?! Perhaps the managerial sucking of a sour lemon might constitute a ?permanent improvement? of sorts, Alan?

Mind you, we both loved the story we got from Jeff Astle, once (born and raised in Eastwood, Nottingham, the same place as Bucko. And DH Lawrence, author of ?Lady Chatterley?s Lover?, too ? but my last is completely beside the point). Apparently, back when The King was but a mere Prince, time and time again, when out in local streets perfecting his own game, Jeff would happen to catch the briefest of glimpses of this pasty-faced version of Johnny No-Mates. Feeling distinctly sorry for the shivering form tucked away in some dank corner or other, very much out of sight and mind, Jeff used to invite him in to join his group in their daily practice sessions, purely out of pity. The name of the Nottinghamshire outcast? The lovely Alan Buckley, no less!

And what of our other chums, while all this lot was going on? Let me see?.. Bucko having effectively collapsed under the sheer weight of self-generated human misery by then, time to turn our attentions elsewhere. All the ?normal cast? were there, of course, Talking Bill, Nick himself (currently flogging draw tickets like there was no tomorrow), his mum, and The Bluenose Couple, now balefully eyeing the scoreboard as if it were the very Crack Of Doom itself, seemingly resigned to eventualities. Just before the kick-off, one of that pair leaned forwards conspiratorially, and in hushed tones, said: ?If you do happen to catch a funny smell coming from the trouser-regions during the game, you?ll know why, won?t you??

?Damn,? said I, ?Forgot the bike-clips I was going to lend you?.?

As we conversed ad lib, pre-match, the guy on the PA system was really getting into ?frustrated DJ? mode, but something totally in keeping with what the Tristrams would term ?The Zeitgeist?. Lobo?s ?Me and You And A Dog Named Boo?, circa 1971, got them going, as did Frank Skinner and chums, with ?Football?s Coming Home.? Which, of course, is a ditty with dual import for Hereford peeps, hence a hasty reprise for said song. There was my other half, enthusiastically joining in with what was, for the pair of us, a very familiar tune indeed, one heard at The Hawthorns just five evenings before. Hence my comment of ?Yes, dear ? but which ?we? are we on about?....?

Talking Bill? As I mentioned before, he had gained admittance already, and was busily engaged in conversation with others of the same linguistically-fatal ilk. And, while all that was going on, there was Mister Charming himself, seemingly on a personal mission to see how many camera lenses he could crack by the time the ref finally managed to get everything under way. And I speculated a little further: would United go all prophylactic on me by arranging for the deposition of PLASTIC cups in the away dressing-room, come the halfway mark?

As for the atmosphere during the game itself, I reckon the term ?relaxed? is a fair descriptor of the proceedings. It being the last game, no one (bar a couple of Grimsby-ites seemingly training to become homicidal maniacs when they finally grew up) wanted to ruin opposition plans of sun, sea and anatomically-dubious sex in some European sun-trap or other by cracking a limb or three, did they?

On the whole, everyone stuck to the prescribed script: The Bulls scored their first, courtesy Ben Smith latching on to an exquisitely-timed through ball from Taylor, around ten minutes before the break, adding a second just five minutes after that, courtesy Theo Robinson, and another finely-judged through-ball that tore The Grims already far-from-imperforate defence completely to shreds.

And even ?Madame De Farge, bless her cackly tones, managed to get a couple in edgeways, hence a couple of ear-splitting roars of approval from Bill, every single time she opened her mouth to really lay into her black-clad ?target? below! Those not conversant with the joke must think Bill?s temporarily taken leave of his senses when it happens (quite possible, of course: sometimes, NOTHING Bill ever says makes any sense!).

Grimsby? They didn?t trouble the home side in any way whatsoever after that ? but if I were a Grimsby supporter, I wouldn?t half have alarm bells clanging in my mind, right now. They may well have got away with it this time round, but I doubt if they?d be so fortunate on subsequent occasions. Had Hereford really meant business, Buckley?s lot would have been on the wrong side of a cricket score, no question about it!

Throughout the game, the United PA people had broadcast, and re-re-broadcast, an appeal for their own supporters NOT to run onto the pitch. But with only three stewards on duty at the Meadow End? Stop that lot dead in their tracks? Yerss, we can all assess the implications of trying to, can?t we? But, come the final whistle, the strange thing was that apart from four or five kids brainless enough to be Dingles, just about, nobody actually did! And, stranger still, the players all managed to get around all four bounds of the rectangle, doing the obligatory lap of honour, without half the population of the city wanting to share their joy with those who?d made it possible, as well. OK, around 20 kids couldn?t contain their excitement any longer and ended up there anyway, but by that time, the show was three parts over. Amazing: our people would have been lucky to get ten yards before the dykes finally bursting under the colossal strain!

Oh, dear ? far too civilised and well-bred for savages like us, accustomed only to post-match manners of deplorable lineage! I wonder if they do ?finishing courses? at swanky Swiss schools for football supporters?

And talking of ?busting under colossal strain? will next weekend see Blues finally get theirs? I really must stop drooling saliva all over our conservatory floor??

AND FINALLY?.. ONE. Back to THAT car wash again. When an inquisitive His Nibs asked the Baggie lads precisely what they would do in the (unlikely!) event of someone wearing a Dingles shirt wanting ?the works? for his own grubby jalopy, the answer was predictably pithy (not to mention PRINTABLE, which really came as something of a shock to this column, it has to be said!). ?Easy ? take ?is shirt off ?im, and wash the cowin? car with it?.?

TWO?.. Remember my cautionary tale about the water-bombing of Graham Turner, at Brentford? Or at least that?s what I?d thought the stuff inside the container to be?. Er ? WROOONNNGGG! Sure, there was some in liquid form, but what I hadn?t realised at the time was the plain fact that the container was INSULATED. Which, in effect, meant that about six or seven pounds of the stuff that sunk the Titanic also ended up going right down the inside of Graham?s shirt!

THREE?.. Bloke behind me at Hereford (as he observed the catering staff cart away a box-load of unsold food, just before the final whistle??) ?Where you going with those pies, then? Putting ?em to one side for the start of next season?....?

 - Glynis Wright

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