The Diary

06 January 2004: Eternal Damnation? It's Solihull-Shaped!

It?s been said on many occasions that you learn something new every day, and being of somewhat advanced years myself, I can readily testify as to the general veracity of that statement; in fact, I can definitively pronounce to my public out there that this evening has most definitely added to the sum-total of my knowledge. It didn?t involve attending university lectures on some obscure subject or another, or, come to think about it, watching some of digital TV?s more exotic output in the peace and quiet, not to mention privacy, of my own living-room. No, to my complete astonishment, tonight, I learned the precise location of Hell. This might come as something of a shock to the theologians, who, for a long time, had the place clocked as being on an entirely different astral plane altogether, but now I can categorically assure them that I?ve got it right and they?ve got it wrong. Hell, ladies and gentlemen, is most certainly not the place described to us by the wilder imaginings of Dante. You must be familiar with the scenario from those scripture lessons delivered by, shall we say, clerics of a more evangelistic bent? Aw, you know, fire and brimstone, demons of varying hierarchical status all energetically stoking up the fires to inflict further torments upon the damned souls of humans consigned to their ?care?, with specially-devised infernal punishments specially reserved for those guilty of, shall we say, more ?creative? sins?

No, forget the Church?s party line on that sort of thing, it?s simply a load of old tosh designed to frighten the children into religion and keep the servants and peasants downtrodden. To put it simply, Hell, my friends, can be found quite easily at Solihull Borough, and the classical definition of damnation is not the mediaeval-inspired stuff I just mentioned, but an eternity spent at Borough?s place watching any Albion outfit ? first team, stiffs or youths, it?s immaterial ? playing there over and over again. Never mind the repeated drawing of guts out on a windlass, or the constant insertion into the damned of red-hot pokers where the sun don?t shine, Satan and his demonic hordes really do have this eternal torment thing sussed by locating the place in a spot it truly deserves to be. You think I?m joking? Well, all I can say is you really had to be there tonight to appreciate what I?m banging on about: this game was a real shocker, make no mistake.

Just what is it about Solihull Borough that reduces perfectly-adequate footballers to robotic creatures who could ? and, quite frequently, do ? bore for England with consummate ease? Tonight is around the third time I?ve seen Albion in action there (usually, it?s to see us take on Blues, as that?s their reserve base as well), and every time we do, I can quite honestly say that on each and every occasion, I?ve derived more pleasure from watching the aircraft take off from nearby Birmingham Airport. The end of the runway?s only about half a mile from the place, and it?s saved my sanity on more than one occasion, believe you me.

Our arrival at the ground didn?t auger at all well for the standard of the stuff we were about to see; we got there around ten minutes before the start in this Birmingham Senior Cup Third Round game, and so quiet was the place, I did wonder as to whether we?d mistaken the kick-off time. Unfortunately, we hadn?t. Bugger. And, once inside, His Nibs asked that I purchase a match programme for him, which I did ? only to contemplate murder, almost, when I heard the guy flogging the things say, ?That?ll be one-fifty, please!? Bloody hell, mate, I only wanted to buy the programme, not the whole flaming ground, lock, stock and barrel!

Mind you, Chummy must have overheard part of our conversation prior to that because as I flashed the cash, he muttered to me in conspiratorial fashion, ?It?s not you that rules the roost about money in your house, then, is it?? Cheeky git.

The exchange did have the effect of rubbing me up the wrong way, slightly, but not for long. My mood was improved greatly when I went to the burger bar to grab a cup of hot chocolate for my cold little skin follicles to feast upon. Just in front of me in the queue was a black bloke, who tried to purchase a Mars bar from the guy doing the cooking, only to find that the confectionery in question was for the sole use of the Fat Fryer, and not for general sale at all! It transpired that this gentleman wasn?t a footie supporter, just a lorry driver delivering to the nearby Land Rover factory. Unfortunately, they wouldn?t let either him or his load inside the place ? he?d arrived too early, or something - so the driver decided to take in our game just to pass the time away, poor sod!

My purchase completed, it was then time to find a spot in the nearby main stand, which was sparsely occupied, and mostly by Borough supporters, our lot being most definitely in the minority. Reasons? Partially, of course, that the fixture got minimal publicity, the location?s awkward to get to if you lack your own transport, but mainly because there is currently a sense of considerable ennui settling around the persons of Albionites of regular habit. A sense, if you like of, ?What?s the point of going to those sort of games, when all you?re going to get for your money is 90 minutes of pure boredom?? Even we are beginning to feel that way, and not just at reserve fixtures, either. It?s the culmination of a general frustration at having to constantly endure an increasingly-turgid and sterile series of encounters at any level. Certainly, quite a few of those I would regard as regulars were conspicuous by their absence tonight, although some familiar faces were to the fore. Mike Thomas ? it would take a nuclear war to stop him going ? Roy Haden of Kiddy Branch, the bloke we all know as ?Jim Reeves?, who has a well known antipathy towards sitting in one spot for more than five minutes, Andy The Newspaper Seller, he of Sutton Branch fame, and, of course, our own treasurer, Steve The Miser, plus son. We had been given to understand that Sauce, he of the ?alternative? Albion away-game coach trips, would be in attendance as well, but of him, we saw nary a sign on the night.

The game? Well, having given you all a general idea of what it was like already, somehow, I don?t think the lawyers are going to create a stampede shovelling libel writs through our letter-box. The dismal tone of the whole thing was neatly encapsulated by a woman behind me, who let rip with one almighty yawn about midway through the second half. Truly it was bloody awful, a cup-tie totally devoid of any creativity whatsoever. Hoof and hope seemed to rule the roost. Our mood, never of the best at any time during that game, declined even further with the news that come what may, the whole boring business had to be settled that night, which, of course, meant, if necessary, extra time, and should that not force the issue, then penalties. Arrgh! Surely such indignities constituted ?cruel and unusual punishment? and were proscribed long ago by the Geneva Convention?

Luckily, our patience wasn?t to be tested in that manner; around 28 minutes into the second half, there was an almighty scramble for the ball in our goalmouth, which our keeper looked set to sort out with ease. Wrong! The guy mishandled it instead, the bladder ran loose amidst a ruck of players, and Solihull?s Junior Hewitt managed to get there first to gather up the stray crumbs. One-nil to the home side, then, but absolutely no-one of an Albion persuasion was complaining. In fact, just before that Hewitt strike, the lino mistakenly gave a Solihull player offside when he quite clearly wasn?t ? we were dead in line with the incident - which immediately prompted me to mutter, ?Just whose bloody side is he on? Doesn?t he think we?ve suffered long enough??

As there seemed little likelihood of our favourite football club rectifying the disparity in the scoreline, the conversation then turned to other matters, with some startling input from, of all people, the bloke who?d served me the hot chocolate prior to the start of the game; cooking duties now finished, more or less, he?d decided to spectate instead, and in a seat about two places distant from us. It transpired that our Number Three, Jim Holmes, had what might be termed a ?history?. No, not him, specifically, his dad, who apparently played for Coventry City some time in the Seventies. In fact, Chummy had a gut feeling ? well he was a hot-dog seller, wasn?t he! ? that the guy played for them the day we whopped the Sky Blues a massive 7-1 at The Shrine. Not the most ideal parental recommendation, but there you go.

And, not long after that ? Allelujah! The final whistle! That?s two cup competitions I?ve seen us get the bum?s rush from in as many days, now, but as far as tonight?s was concerned, extra time would have done things to my sanity that no human being should ever endure. It only remained, then, to give Andy a lift back to the city centre so that he could rendezvous with his bus to Sutton and home; as I said, getting to Solihull?s ground isn?t the easiest of tasks if you don?t have access to wheels. And for us to return to GD Towers, very unhappy Baggies indeed. Angry? Not yet ? but we?re working on it.

And finally?..That?s about it for two days, then. My next scheduled offering, the Walsall game preview, is for Thursday night. Unless we?re overtaken by what might be euphemistically termed ?Certain Events?, of course. I?ll now leave you now with a little tale gleaned from ?Im Indoors, who got it from a work colleague of his.

The story I?m about to relate concerns a gentleman who goes by the name of Simon Garner. Veteran Baggies will remember him, of course; he was the former Blackburn Rovers guy who played for us around the time of the Ardiles era. At the time in question, Simon?s - mine, that is, not Albion?s - chum had an executive box at The Hawthorns, and on one particular Saturday, about two hours before kick off, he was most surprised to see our hero enter the bar area, stride purposefully up to the counter, and order three pints of lager. Surprised wasn?t the word for it; according to the programme, Garner was included in that day?s starting eleven! Naturally, curiosity completely overwhelmed our little friend, so making his way through the huge nicotine-laden cloud surrounding the player ? he smoked like a chimney, remember ? half expecting to be told he?d sustained a last-minute injury, he asked Garner straight out what was going on. ?You?re not playing today, then?? he enquired.

Came the astonishing reply, ?Oh yes I am ? this is just a pre-match drink!? It will come as no great shock to learn that the enquirer?s eyes bulged at that revelation, but what happened shortly afterwards disconcerted him even more. Simon Garner, it seems, had a novel way of ensuring his drinks weren?t ?liberated? by others while he was in the Gents offloading all the excess alcoholic liquid; it consisted of removing his false teeth from his mouth, dropping them into his pint glass, then rapidly exiting, stage right, to ease his distended bladder!

 - Glynis Wright

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