The Diary

05 August 2003: Oh, for a camera...

Just a leetle one, this time, mes enfants?.. I?m currently in the middle of a bit of a pre-season panic as my decent camera has suddenly decided to withdraw its labour for the duration. Not a problem for the Nationwide stuff, as I never take the risk of bringing it into grounds anyway; it?s the second-string piccies and supporters? club functions I?m worried about right now. Basically, the problem is that some pretty groovy Plymouth pictures exist, in my camera?s electronic innards; I know they?re there, because I ran through ?em on my camera?s little screen the other day ? trouble is, whenever we try to transfer ?em to our PC, the bloody main screen flashes up, ?CF Card Not Inserted? when I know damn well the bloody thing?s sitting smugly (yet impotently) right in the middle of my favourite snapping-device, and what?s more, contains those images. We?ve tried everything we know to sort the problem, including some helpful suggestions in both the manual and a dinky CD ROM they give you gratis, but still no-go. I wouldn?t be so concerned if this was the first time we?d attempted to put piccies on our PC via this camera, but it isn?t; this column has been using it since March. I?ve now had to resort to emailing the manufacturers; once I?d detailed the problem yesterday afternoon, they reckoned I?d receive a reply within a working day, but, like Diana Ross, ?I?m Still Waiting???

Had to visit The Shrine today to grab a couple of Burnley tickets for my nephew, Lee, and his good lady wife, also to lay hands on a new home shirt. I have to say I travelled in expectation of the almighty wait I experienced last Friday, but this time round, bless their cotton socks, the Ticket Office was completely devoid of souls, bar four who were actually being served. Trouble was, so complex were their wants, it still took me an inordinately long time to make my purchase. Just as well, then, some genius had the foresight to install in the T/O several portable air-conditioning systems, which, blasting out fit to bust, made the delay a tad more tolerable than the last occasion I had cause to visit. Although the sky was on the dull side, and laden with spots of rain, the heat and humidity were worse, if anything. One bonus, though: as I exited the Club Shop, who should pull up but a certain Mr. Hoult. Not just any old Houlty, mark you, but this version was clad only in shorts, his upper bits completely devoid of covering, thereby exposing a good deal of his well-tanned flesh to his admiring public (me!). I?m not normally one to go banging on about the physical attributes of our finest, so I?m sure you?ll permit this column a short pause while it shakes its head in sweaty disbelief and admiration, and goes, ?PHWOARRR!?

Quite a relief afterwards, to leave the heat of the streets for the comparative coolness of The Bluenose Butcher?s bijou hideaway. Right now, his shop really has to be Bearwood?s Temperate Zone; lovely, therefore, to drop in for some grilling-steak (and a ?grilling? for the proprietor, it has to be said). Unfortunate, then, that as I walked in, so did an elderly gentleman, bearing an Express And Star in his thorny little hand. Noticing he was about to pass it over the counter to our hero, I really couldn?t resist the temptation to say something, which was, ?I don?t know why you?re bothering giving him that; he?s a Bluenose, and can?t read anyway?? Said the donor of largesse, ?I know that ? it takes him two hours just to get past the Blues page at the back, so if I come back before he closes, I reckon he?ll have just about finished by then!??..

So our quest to get players on board before everything kicks off in earnest goes on. It now appears we have both Mr. Berthe and Mr. Volmer joining us on short-term contracts. 12 months is the deal, with the option of another. Quite a change that, actually offering something to triallists, other than the return portion of their flight ticket; I?d always been under the impression that such players? Albion careers were blighted even before they?d kicked a ball, such was our leader?s apparent antipathy to these transient gentlemen. Remember Ricardo Fuller? Although I wasn?t at the Cheltenham game, The Old Fart informed me that Volmer ? some are calling him ?The Terminator? already ? was just the ticket at the back. He came to us from AZ Alkmaar, who also had in their ranks The Beast, and, should you wish to cast your minds further back, Romeo Zondervan. Just one thing ? don?t mention the porn!?? I can?t say he particularly stood out for me at Plymouth, but to be fair, the scorching heat to all intents and purposes put the mockers on anyone seeking to catch the eye last Saturday. Berthe? It?s not a bad start, almost instantly acquiring as a nickname that of a notorious (and big) German First World War artillery piece, is it? The thing could shell Paris and cause chaos from 22 miles away, as I understand it; if our newcomer can exert similarly devastating effects on our opponents, we?ll all be smiling come May. Mind you, if we do manage to twang the old knicker-elastic back in the direction of the Prem, it?ll cost us money; the deal is, should we do so, Big Bertha?s former club, Troyes, get a fee. How much? No idea, but what with these latest additions, it really seems to me that Meggo is going for Eurosize Nine players in a big way. Is he trying to start a master-race, or something? The rate we?re going, any poor sod in our side boasting less than a five-foot-eight frame will look vertically-challenged by comparison???

And finally?.. Many thanks to Carl Lillywhite ? aka ?Shagger? - for this one. In view of all the reported recent problems with the new ?stilecard? system of gaining ingress to our spiritual home, here?s the ideal solution?. From what I?ve been told, a lot of glitches at the Cheltenham game were the result of problems ?swiping? said cards at the turnstiles ? and this is where Carl?s brilliant wheeze comes in, folks. Instead of using temperamental electronic card readers to do the job, simply trawl the streets of a nearby Black Country town, round up twenty or so gold-and-cack-clad deadbeats, ply ?em with unlimited supplies of Bostik glue to sniff, affix?em, bent over, bums exposed, outside every Hawthorns turnstile entrance, then let us swipe those bloody cards to our heart?s content ? in that Dingle crack where the sun don?t shine...

 - Glynis Wright

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