The Diary

15 December 2003: Dingles For The Drop?

Funny, really. I?d always been brought up to honour the Sabbath as a time for quiet contemplation and worship of all things religious, but sadly, the wishes of my elders and betters must have been perverted something rotten somewhere along the line, as I simply don?t do ?religious? any more. To be fair, I do contemplate and worship, and to a degree some would find frightening, but it?s not organised God-bothering that invariably gets my time, more something of a completely secular nature, which would have the local rector tutting like crazy were he to know. Baggies, Baggies, all the way, and when they?re not playing on this holiest of days, I tend to keep a weather ear cocked for the sometimes Satanic doings of other sides instead. Sorry, Vicar, and all that jazz.

Today was no exception; what I choose to bill as the ?Battle Of The Perforated Defences? drew my attention early this afternoon (well, that and cooking vast quantities of Sunday lunch for my very own tame culinary black hole, aka ?Im Indoors!), and as you?ll all know by now, it finished 3-2 to the flipper-flappers and fish-crunchers. As I understand it, our intellectually-challenged neighbours went 3-1 down rather quickly, then staged something of a mini-revival come the second sitting. 3-2 was the tally with only ten minutes or so remaining on the clock, consequently the claret-and-spew faction were mighty glad to hear that referee?s Acme Thunderer blast out loud and proud come the time for cessation of hostilities.

Being of a somewhat sadistic bent, personally, I would have plumped for both sides sharing the spoils, which could well have left them both dangling in it, but it didn?t happen, unfortunately. While temporarily assuaging Villa?s plight, that result now leaves our moronic chums all of a dangle over the trapdoor, and just in time for Christmas as well. As they?re now four points adrift of the next struggler, even if they do perform a seasonal miracle by winning next Saturday, they?ll still remain the strongest team in that league. Leeds? 2-2 draw early tea-time must also have rubbed considerable quantities of salt into the wound. Remember ? and, as we were faced with a similar predicament this time last term, we ought to ? no Premiership side occupying that bottom spot over the festive season has ever managed to avoid the plunge into the Nationwide. Sympathy for the Dingle, anyone? Not on your Nellie!

I now turn to a vexing problem, which has blighted the Wright household?s lives on and off in recent weeks, the logic of which defies all reasoning, and it?s the post-match policing of the roads around the Shrine. As most of you will recall, our gate yesterday was one of the season?s lowest, around 22,000, so how come it took us around 45 minutes to travel the two-and-a-bit miles from the ground to GD Towers, when under normal circumstances, we can do the same post-match trip in around 15 minutes at most? In all probability, Crewe?s supporters were within hailing-distance of their home town ? a leisurely hour?s drive away on the M6 - by the time we finally pulled up outside our house, at around ten to six.

I do have a pet theory on this subject, and it?s this. As I see it, as far as the potential for delay is concerned, a great deal hinges on whether or not the plods have made provision for turning off the traffic lights at the junction at the bottom of Halfords lane. Aw, you know, the one just before the road goes down the dip leading to Rolfe Street Station, and Smethwick proper? If they have, and the junction is controlled by uniformed rozzers, The Yellow Peril, or whatever they?re currently known as in this current ?privatise everything? climate, then negotiating that obstacle is greatly facilitated, hold-ups are minimised, the traffic flows as smoothly down the hill as water, and everyone?s reasonably happy. Should it not ? and yesterday was a perfect example of this ? then the traffic has no alternative but to obey the whims of the automatic timers on the lights, and before you know it, the whole bloody thing has snarled up into one almighty cursing, blaspheming motorised mess.

It seems to me (and no doubt there are plods out there reading this who can confirm/rubbish what I?m about to say; their input would be gratefully received, by the way), that the overall command of matchday policing falls to different superintendents (or whatever rank is deemed senior enough to take on the task these days), and it?s complete pot luck which of the bunch you get on the day of any given home game. If it?s Commander A, then the lights are switched off, plods on point duty are in abundance, and everything goes with a swing. If it happens to be Commander B, however, then a quite different set of priorities takes over, the grunts are deployed on other duties, the lights are left to their own devices, consequently, all those trundling down Halfords Lane after the game are left to go hang as well.

OK, I realise that different top plods might have differing agendas to ensure they get noticed by their superiors, and that politics features heavily when it comes down to decision-making at that level, but wouldn?t it be splendid if, for once, all these head honchos sang from the same bloody hymn-sheet once in a while? Everyone appreciates consistency in their lives; in their work place, their homes, their schools, in their favourite football teams, even, so why not in something as basic and high-profile as this? I find it quite ridiculous, frustrating, even, that we can attend a game attracting a full-house on one day and get away reasonably quickly, but within the space of a week or so, and having just left a Hawthorns filled considerably below capacity, then sit stewing in an almost-stationary-queue for the best part of an hour. Or am I simply turning into an embryonic Victor Meldrew in my rapidly approaching old age?

I now turn to the sad tale of ?Shagger? aka Carl Lillywhite, former car mechanic to us Dick Eds, but now a GD reader, and follower of this (almost) daily tome. Sorry, Ticket Office, but it seems you?ve upset yet another customer, and via the Internet this time! Just like us, Carl elected to use the on-line booking system for the Man United game, and applied for PIN numbers for 6 people. When they came through, Carl discovered that the PIN numbers issued had been replicated amongst the six names. And, just to rub it in, he then received another six numbers, and guess what? Yep, give the man at the back a coconut, you've got it! Different numbers, but again, Shagger and his mate shared the same one, and so forth.

Unsurprisingly, Shagger had no alternative but to ring the ticket office in an effort to sort out the almighty mess. He waited 45 minutes in the phone queue, only to be eventually told in rather patronising tones to just use the last numbers he was issued with, the inference being Carl was somewhat intellectually-challenged for even querying what had gone on! That would have been that, but, as we all now know, the lads rather unsportingly made further progress in the competition, which meant Shagger had to go through the whole process with the Ticket Office once more.

Using the PIN numbers, Shagger once more applied online for 5 tickets without problem, but received only 4 confirmations back. Not unnaturally, he then emailed the club asking what was going on with the other one. Sadly, there was no reply. He then tried phoning, but couldn?t even get into the queue for that one, and couldn?t establish communication via the switchboard, either. It?s no wonder he told me he was becoming, ?Very, very racked off with my favourite football club?. As things stand ? I?ve not heard from him for a couple of days, so I don?t know whether he?s resolved the problem, as yet ? he doesn?t know whether he?s got a ticket or not, suspected the ticket office would be crammed before the match, so that avenue of enquiry wouldn?t do, either. His final word on the subject? ?It really is a pox auction down there; frankly, top of the table, cup quarter finals etc - and I am totally disillusioned with the whole thing!?

As of yesterday morning, my understanding was there were still around 10,000 Arsenal tickets left up for grabs. For what amounts to a quarter-final appearance against one of the best sides in the country, even if it might be only their reserves and kids turning out? Sure, the close proximity of Christmas might have some bearing on the low take-up of these seats, but it does strike me that the club themselves might have been the architects of their own undoing, here. Shagger?s tale of woe isn?t the only one I?ve heard in recent days. We Dick Eds also suffered in a similar way, just look back on recent diaries for confirmation of that, but what with all these cock-ups, and the telephone system mysteriously rendering itself incommunicado to disgruntled on-line customers wishing to complain and/or sort out their problems, plus the idiocy I reported yesterday, it might just be that our favourite football club have completely lost the battle for hearts and minds, here.

Over the last few seasons, we?ve seen an absolute explosion in the numbers of backroom staff, all with bean-counting firmly embedded in their DNA, or so it seems, but on occasions, possessive of about as much customer-awareness and interpersonal skills as the black cat currently wrapped around my keyboard and snoring furiously even as I type. Please note, I?m not talking about the lads and lasses toiling at the goal-face - all my dealings with those Ticket Office counter staff have invariably been conducted with complete courtesy on their part - but those who are responsible for making the day-to-day decisions. Hi-tech booking systems might well be the way forward in future, and, to be fair, they did work for us eventually, but so is some basic customer care ? and that seems to be a commodity in very short supply around the place at the moment.

And finally?.. Many thanks to Jim Billett for this one. This Baggie-supporting gentleman happens to reside in distant Bournemouth, and while having a crafty pre-Sunday lunch pint in his local today, a bloke he?d never seen before suddenly dashed into the bar and shouted out that Saddam Hussein had been captured. Jim?s mate, curiosity made all aflame by this startling news, then shouted back across the room, "Where did they find him?" to which said bloke then replied, ?He`s been living in a hole!?

Imagine Jim?s surprise, then, when another complete stranger then shouted back from another corner of the bar, " What, Wolverhampton? "

 - Glynis Wright

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