The Diary

24 December 2004: Ho! Ho! Ho! - And What Do You Want, Little Baggie?

? ?Twas the night before Christmas??..? Hang on a mo, didn?t I do that one a couple of seasons back? Oh dear: perhaps the exertions of the past few days are beginning to catch up with me, or something. Not being a child of the microchip age myself, there?s something strange, magical, even, about the fact that once finished, these thoughts of mine will be winging (a sharp slap accross the wrist for the naughty child at the back who said ?whinging?!) their way across the entire globe within a matter of seconds, but that?s modern communications for you. Funny to think that about a year before I first started supporting the Baggies, I watched with rapidly-widening ten year-old eyes the first ever transatlantic TV broadcast courtesy both the prototype communications satellite Telstar, and The Beeb, of course.

Then, all viewers could make out on their 405-line monochrome TV screens were fuzzy snowstorm-ridden images of what were people and places, presumably. And even that was destined to fade completely after fifteen minutes; because it was experimental, Telstar wasn?t even inserted into geosynchronous orbit i.e. one that kept up with the earth?s rotation, as per today?s. A planet-wide network was still a scientist?s dream, of course. (Incidentally, the bloke people really have to thank for the concept of satellite communications was none other than Arthur C. Clarke, author of 2001, A Space Odyssey; he first dreamed up the idea in 1947, but showed an incredible lack of foresight by not patenting it. ?Incredible?, because there?s so much today he did get right back then.)

Funny to think that in the space of forty years, just about, we?ve gone from those small beginnings to a multimedia empire run by an Australian-adopted-American-hybrid megalomaniac, and just like the genie when it first emerged from the bottle, no matter how objectionable, biased or political Sky TV may become in future years, there?s no way, now, or ever, of stuffing it back where it belongs again. Football is increasingly dependent upon Murdoch?s filthy lucre; pull the plug, and that?s half our current clubs disappeared for good. But enough of such badinage, on to the rest of the show. It?s mainly been a week for seeing medics of one description or another, the first at Dudley Road; after a lot of ?umm-ing? and ?ah-ing?, not to mention collective ?tutting? at their recent scarry scalpel-work, my chums with the dangly stethoscopes somewhat belatedly realised Something Was In There That Shouldn?t Have Been.

Doctor One quickly roped in Doctor Two, and after yet another confab in hushed tones, they finally let me in on the secret ? a bit of surgical catgut (I think) was still firmly lodged in-situ, despite having been served with the surgical equivalent of an eviction order not all that many moons ago. At least that?s what the rotten thing looked like to me when they eventually whipped it out. Oh, whoops; no wonder the scar had been itching like mad of late, and actually started weeping again a couple of days previously! And here was me thinking I?d knocked or scratched it, or something. Oh well, at least my totally-unrequited Christmas present?s now been removed, and I go back in a couple of months time, for a (hopefully!) final check-up. Trouble is, though, why does the acronym ?MRSA? constantly keep flitting in and out of my thoughts? Must be getting paranoid in my old age, or something.

A day later, it was the turn of my Villa-loving GP to give me the once over; after I?d grabbed the necessary prescription renewal off my little Seal-worshipping good-buddy, he then decided to give me the once-over with his little sphygmomanometer-thingy. That?s what they use to test blood-pressure with, in case you hadn?t guessed; doesn?t half make you look good if you casually chuck that mouthful into the conversation in the pub, or whatever. Try it some time, but not with Dingles present ? all you?ll get by way of return is a glassy-eyed stare, which is ?situation normal? for them, as far as multisyllabic words or abstract concepts are concerned.

Sorry; now where was I? Oh yeah. ?As it?s been so long since the last one, I?d better do it now,? said the quack, and that, dear reader, was when I discovered for the first time the upper reading was now teetering on the ?rather high? end of the scale. Mind you, if my circulatory system was reaching escape velocity in the comparatively calm and tranquil setting of a doctor?s surgery, God only knows what it?s doing during Albion games ? probably goes right off the bloody scale, I?ll bet. And yes, as both my elder sisters have it also, and my dad when he was alive, it looks as though that?s another thing I?ve got to sort out after Christmas ? more bloody pills, probably. At this rate, you?ll all know when I?m around simply by listening out for the tell-tale rattle.

Still, it wasn?t all bad. Yesterday, we finally took delivery of our rather posh leather corner unit, and very good it looks, too, now it?s been firmly placed within the welcoming bosom of our living-room. Trouble is, there?s always a price to pay one way or another, and ours was the inability/unwillingness of the delivery people to take away our old and distinctly-knackered sofas and dump ?em for us. Annoying, that; in the USA, people would raise the mother of all stinks with the delivery company if they tried to pull the same trick on householders over there, and we just shrug shoulders and accept it. But that?s bye the bye: the problem we now had was that of disposing of the unwanted stuff ? both sofas were way, way too big to place in the Dickmobile intact - so a bitty demolition work beforehand was clearly called for.

How to break up and get rid? Simple ? after a bit of quiet thought, we decided to give my mother-in-law?s handyman feller a bell, and to cut a long story short, that?s how, on an overcast Thursday afternoon, one that was rapidly melding into dusk, even, ?Im Indoors, shoulders hunched and a purposeful look on his face, headed out of our front door, then turned right onto our paved front bit, where we?d temporarily stashed the dratted things pending disposal. My other half must have given casual passers-by quite a scare as well, because, clutched in his hairy paw, was a bloody great axe, the sort firemen used to rescue damsels in fiery distress with in days of yore. Not ours, our handyman chum?s; we?d merely borrowed the thing from him for the duration. Then, gripping the wretched implement like it was immovably glued to his metacarpals, while grunting like one of the ape-suited extras in the opening shots of the previously-mentioned Stanley Kubrick sci-fi movie, hubby treated the entire street to the best re-enactment of Jack Nicholson?s role in ?The Shining? it?s possible to get this side of Wolverhampton town centre on a late Friday night.

I?ll tell you what, though, it wasn?t half impressive. Just one brief and furtive glance at those maniacal features, that determined-looking, thrusting jawbone, scarlet cheeks, those wild, crazed eyes, even, and you just knew ?Im Indoors meant business. Little old ladies were getting palpitations, big hairy blokes doing a double-take, then rapidly quickening their pace, and disappearing at light-speed round the corner and into the main drag; young women hurriedly averting their gaze then speedily taking themselves, plus obligatory retinue of snotty-nosed small kids, rapidly in the direction of ?away?. Even our cats fled. Can?t say I blamed them, either; ?Im Indoors would surely have given even the late but unlamented Doctor Crippen nightmares.

By that stage, it wouldn?t have surprised me one little bit to see a squad car full of rozzers totiing full riot gear plus numerous spray cans of CS gas descend on our street in an endeavour to get my other half psychiatrically ?sectioned? quicker than you could say the words ?liquid cosh? and ?strait-jacket?. Oh, well ? at the time of writing, we?ve finally managed to smash and rip through one of the offending items of furniture and take that to the dump; all that remains, now, is to dismantle the second, which we?ll do once the whole turkey and stuffing thing has run its full course. That should be fun. Not. The axe, in the meantime, still rests happily in our front hall, right by the door, and awaiting its final destiny; God help the next lot of Jehovah?s Witnesses minded to send a ?U-boat wolf-pack? knocking on our front door!

Mind you, at the moment, ?Im Indoors can consider himself extremely fortunate not having to tenant the legendary ?doghouse? for the entire duration of the festive season. Yesterday morning, there was I, having had a phone call from my other half to the effect that he most certainly wouldn?t be home before two that afternoon ? his gaffer had promised to let him go prematurely in order to commence the aforementioned sofa-disposal operations, and that was the very earliest he could leave, by order ? so, thought I, ?Aha! Now?s the chance for me to wrap his presents!? Which is precisely what I was doing when he walked through the door ? at half-one! Somehow, but somewhat belatedly, I think the message finally percolated through his brain that at that precise moment, he was about as welcome in our house as an uproariously-drunk Dingle in a Chapel Of Rest!

Back to pure Albion business once more ? and it does look as though we have made one signing, at least. Almeyda, a 31 year old midfielder, who left Brescia because of some kind of falling out with their supporters. Mind you, remembering our snow-stormin? December Anglo-Italian game with them at their place around eight or nine seasons ago ? something I?ll never forget, not least because of what appeared to be an Italian Police attempt to get our followers into The Guinness Book Of Records by trying to cram as many as possible onto a small single-decker bus in one go ? just try even glancing at their faithful in what they perceive to be a hostile fashion, and they?ll be up for beating several varieties of crud out of you, no bother. According to the blurb, so dissatisfied were they with our new signing, they even stormed the gates of Brescia?s training ground in an abortive attempt to make the bloke see the multitudinous errors of his ways. If you like, think of them as Northern Italy?s answer to the Dingles. And, should you ever happen to bump into them yourselves, take Great Auntie Glynis?s advice ? run like hell!

He seems to have a pretty good pedigree, though, having played a fair few games for the Argentinian Championship-winning River Plate side in 1995. He also played about half the games in the Lazio side that won Serie A in 2000, as well as 7 matches in Europe for Inter Milan last season. He was also in the 2002 Argentinian World Cup squad, making one appearance only. Prior to that, he?d made at least 34 appearances for Argentina, though. And this is the bit that gets me; his middle name is Jesus, would you believe? Not only that, he has a large-ish tattoo on his arm proclaiming that very fact. With a name like that, it?s only fair we should sign him during the festive season, isn?t it? No stable, Joseph, Mary, donkey (jackass Hass excepted), shepherds, angels, Immaculate Conception, star in the East (unless you?re prepared to include the 18.30 to Malaga taking off from nearby Birmingham Airport in the total, of course), just a sorely underachieving side that needs a miracle just to survi?? Hang on a minute, you don?t suppose???

A temporary ?sayonara? to Junichi Inamoto, who has gone to the Land Of The Lethal Leek in search of some first team football for a change. I?m not sure as to how much he already knows about Cardiff City, but it?s a fair guess that the first encounter between him and some of their psychopathically-inclined brethren will come as quite a culture-shock. Still, Japan being a country where it?s considered OK for citizens to be willing participants in game shows attuned to those of a sadistic disposition, I?m sure he?ll take even their glazed-eyed lot for granted, eventually.

And so ? moving rapidly onto our next humiliation on the home agenda, of course - we come to that Boxing Day encounter with the Scousers ? well, the red half, at any rate. Here?s some advice. I know it?s very much verboten these days, but my recommendation to anyone with a ticket for this particularly-unequal encounter would be to ingest the entire contents of a bottle of strong spirits beforehand ? that way, at least the anaesthesia will be liquid, oral, and, even better, cast-iron guaranteed to work first time, every time. Not to mention the fact that once the hangover?s worn off, you won?t remember a damned thing about what went on during the game, which can only be a bonus.

For what it?s worth, midfielder Cosmin Contra faces a late fitness check on his groin strain, and Big Dave is still out with a knee injury (too much prayer-drill, perhaps?), but the Holy One entertains hopes of returning for the New Year's Day game against Bolton. Josemi has been ruled out for Liverpool because of a knee injury, while Igor Biscan is fit again after damaging a cheekbone but goalkeeper Chris Kirkland is a week away from a return to the squad because of a back injury. My prediction? Same as last time; a bloody cricket score.

Another thought. From what I?ve read in the local papers about Mister Hass and his somewhat tired and emotional state the other day, it sounded very much to me that he went on an almighty toot during that unofficial players? fancy-dress party held at his place, and literally ended up as nissed as a pewt. Mind you, considering the abysmally awful way his short-to-medium-term career prospects appear to be shaping up right now, wouldn?t you be wanting to sample Russia?s most well-known export in quantity?

And that?s it, folks, wherever you are, be it sweltering in scorching Perth, or shivering like crazy in the Arctic tundra, it only remains for me to wish everyone reading this a very Merry Christmas, a prosperous New Year, and a ?thank you? for reading this column. Let?s hope that somehow, we can all look forward to better tidings Albion-wise in 2005; after all, things can?t get much worse than they currently are, can they? Back on Boxing Day with the post-mortem.

And finally?One? When I was nattering to my brother-in-law on the phone the other day, he was firmly convinced we?d beat Liverpool 2-1 on Boxing Day. A splendid and inspiring attempt to put a cheerful face on our current plight, or the inevitable result of having ingested around four or five pre-Christmas pints by then? You work it out?.

Two? To be perfectly honest with you lot out there, I?m genuinely amazed no-one?s suggested it before. Bringing back the old GD logo, I mean; the one that used to adorn our front cover back in the bad old days when arranging long holidays to avoid a clash with play-off dates was seen as some sort of a sick joke by most of the faithful. So, who?s the disgruntled Baggie wanting us to give the old ?Semper Te Fallant? ? ?They Always Let You Down? ? thing another airing? Why, it?s our old misanthropic mucker Steve The Miser, that?s who. My goodness, our treasurer must be having great difficulty sleeping right now, what with his old chum Jacob Marley moaning and rattling chains like there?s no tomorrow, not to mention going on various midnight excursions courtesy of spirits Past, Present and Future. Never mind, Steve; I love you really, even if you do spin out pool games for an incredible two hours simply to avoid the considerable trauma of having to put coins in the slot to retrieve the balls!

 - Glynis Wright

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