The Diary

02 October 2006: Now Tell Me Again - The Internet's An Aid To Effective Communication?

Hopefully, by virtue of the very fact you?re all actually reading this by now, my latest attempt has reached you in one piece, pristine, whole! If it has, then it?s champagne in the Wright household. If not, then all four of my cats can watch out. Obviously, if you?re gazing impotently at a big black nothingness on your screen where a diary piece should be, the blasted thing has gone tits-up again, in which case we?re back to Square One?? Assuming, then, that this night?s labours haven?t vanished, or aren?t about to vanish into thick air within a matter of milliseconds, I?ll give a brief explanation of what?s been happening.

Over the past 10 days or so, we?ve been trying to link up our two PC?s in such a way to enable us both to run stuff like the internet simultaneously. As things stand, yep, we have two workhorse machines, but only one can access The Great Void Of Cyberspace, etc. The moment we first tried linking the two together was the time that horrible little gremlins first started getting into the main gubbins, resulting in all the awful glitches and ballsups I?ve been describing these past few days: suffice to say that last night?s breakdown was truly spectacular. It?s quite unnerving to see a piece that?s three parts done, and displayed quite clearly on your screen, just disappear somewhere, and without any warning whatsoever.

Anyway, as I?m now (touch wood!) back again, we?ve now unplugged all the stuff suspected of doing the damage in the first place, leaving our wheezy old PC to function as it was before. Admittedly, so constipated with stuff is it, right now, it?s got two speeds, ?Dead Slow? and ?Stop?. A bit like some elderly and superannuated Albion forwards, if you like! As most of you will have read the newspaper accounts of what happened in yesterday?s four-goal triumph, there?s no real point in churning out my usual blow-by-blow account of Saturday?s game. Having said all that, I would very much like to kick off today?s effort by making a number of specific observations about what happened yesterday, so here goes, then.

Some Baggie readers, perhaps somewhat reluctant to admit it these days, will certainly hark back to the time when Albion were picking up serious silverware for fun, almost, Baggies strikers could regularly be found topping the list of First Division scorers come the end of the season, and football commentators and writers everywhere oozing respect from every single sweaty pore for the distinctive brand of football we used to play around that time. In the earlier part of my own supporting lifetime, both Jimmy Hagan and Alan Ashman played the role of evangelist preachers for this strange religion taking the Black Country by storm, then, much later, the still brightly-burning torch picked up once more and held proudly aloft by latter-day prophets Ron Atkinson, and, two decades further down the line, Ossie Ardiles.

Remember the quasi-religious mantra chanted by hordes of Baggie-believers in the Brummie around that time? ?ATTACK!?.ATTACK!??ATTACK, ATTACK, ATTACK!? And The Accompanying Words From On High, a footballing equivalent of the Ten Commandments, if you like ? ?Thou shalt have no gods before you save those of Scoring Loads Of Goals, and Pure Entertainment?? I remember those exciting times, and very clearly, too, so no surprise to tell you that during yesterday?s game, there were most certainly moments where I thought I heard ghostly roars of approval emanating from the croaky throats of a multitude of Albion supporters long since departed, theirs melding with those of the present-day crew to produce a truly atmospheric volume of noise and excitement not seen at our ground for ages.

?Giving people what they really want, as opposed to what you think they ought to have? is a phrase I really wish special-interest groups like politicians, advertisers and media people would take on board, and football?s no different. That?s what we got yesterday, what the paying customer really wanted, at long last. An Albrechtsen headed goal, the Kamara brace, his ?will-he, won?t he ? oh, Lord, he?s lost it ? oh-no-he-hasn?t-ARGH!-LAY-THE-COWIN?-THING-OFF-WILL-YOU??.YERSSS - GOAL!? prelude to the Phillips far-post tap-in? Wonderful stuff, all of it.

Poll a randomised group of Baggies who attended yesterday?s game this time next week, and I?m willing to bet any sum of money you care to mention that it?s our gutsy efforts in finally clawing that win from out of the brickwork in which it was embedded, and completely against the odds, too, they?ll remember in seven days time, and not some fancy-dan-but-mind-numbingly-boring defensive tactic they?ve seen our managerial and coaching staff try earlier and found wanting.

It?s all about making our supporters leave that ground after the final whistle hungry and thirsty for more, more, more! Not only that, but aching like hell to come back again for a repeat dose of the same in a fortnight?s time, just as they used to years ago. Not rocket science, is it? And yesterday?s wonderful sights and sounds have only served to greatly strengthen my views regarding this particular topic. If our next managerial incumbent can do that ? or, more pertinently, have the sheer guts to risk going a little further down that road than most, not to mention own a hide of rhinoceros-thickness should results go badly wrong, occasionally (which can happen with sides totally-dedicated to the attacking code, of course, just ask Ardiles!) ? then not only will there be a waiting-list for Hawthorns season-tickets a mile long come the end of such a season, we?d murder that Championship in fine style as well.

So much for yesterday?s doings on the field of play, then. What about the world currently inhabited by our other Baggie-supporting chums? Let?s start first with The Noise, or, more pertinently, his Number One Daughter. Oh, dear ? I really had forgotten just how difficult life can be if you?re a teenager, especially one suffering from a serious case of Rampant Hormone Syndrome! It all started as we walked up Halfords Lane towards the ground (and the adjacent pub, more to the point!), with The Noise, plus his two nippers, in tow also. As we drew level with the players? car-park, young Carly immediately let rip with the sort of pained squeal one normally associates with serious bodily injury, so, in great fear of her personal safety, we all turned around. What we saw, though, was not a young lady in a state profound mental or physical distress, but a misty-eyed teenager going all ga-ga over Darren Carter and fringe-player Jared Hodgkiss, both of whom were heading towards her at a rate of knots!

As she wanted to hang around to grab an autograph or three, not something that takes a mere moment, especially when the autograph-hunter is someone as hormonally-besotted as young Carly, we left the Lewis family group to it, heading straight for the pub instead, but we did get a blow-by-blow account much later, as you might expect. Before that, though, who should enter the pub but our old chum the Fart, brandishing a current copy of the Sports Argus (hadn?t realised they were still running a daytime version), and inviting us all to take in its deathless prose. As well we should, for they?d gone very large indeed on returned Hawthorns prodigal Jason Koumas, and his innermost thoughts having since kissed and made up with the club.

It transpired that he?d effectively confessed to writer Chris Lepkowski that he?d been a bit of an idiot in kicking so hard against Albion?s managerial traces after his return from Ninian Park, with particular reference towards ending up with a colossal internal fine for his troubles. Couldn?t agree more, Jase, so now we?re all square, and everyone?s apologised to everyone else, the next time we play, can we have a repeat of yesterday?s wonderful performance, please? Maybe, just maybe, the prawn sandwich brigade might actually give you the ?Man Of The Match? award you so richly deserved yesterday afternoon. That?s not intended to detract from Joe Kamara getting the bubbly, mind, for both made telling contributions to that wonderfully entertaining and gutsy win. It?s just that when viewed in the light of all the previous nonsense, it?s really nice to see Jason?s genuine talents very much back in public view once more. Carry on like that, use those wonderful talents of his in the way they were surely meant to be, and he could well prove to be the main pivot upon which a successful promotion push revolves.

It was while I was speed-reading the above to glean a potted version for the purposes of this piece that Carly came rushing in, finally ? and with a certain ?dreamy? sort of look about her face that wasn?t there before. Seeing her vastly-changed demeanour, some folk of malevolent intent might well have suspected her of having previously ingested a quantity of mood-altering illegal drugs, but I knew better. How come? Because I recognised the symptoms all-too easily, that?s how. All it took was just one look at the young lady in question, and I was instantly transported back to my own teenage years, a time when my own sex hormones churned out full-blast at the mere thought of actually having seen and spoken to The King, Bomber Brown and/or Chippy Clark, all of whom were my personal Albion heroes around that time. Believe you me, Carly, some things never change!

Once I?d finally persuaded Carly?s hormonally-rampant gonads to have the endocrinal equivalent of a 15-minute tea-break, I managed to get the actual tale from her ? and it?s this: ?Oooh! First of all, when I spoke to Darren, I wanted to take a picture of us both with me mobile, but I couldn?t get the camera to work, so Darren said to me: ?Take your time, don?t rush?.? Oooooohhh! And then he signed the back of me shirt, AND Bethany?s?. AND I?m taller than Jared Hodgkiss?? No point in questioning her further, that filmy look had appeared in her eyes again. Get back to work, you idle hormones, you! Mind you, The Noise did put everything into instant perspective by narrating a small coda to her tale. Apparently, through sheer excitement caused by rushing to grab Darren in such an undignified manner, she nearly got run over? By a certain Richard Chaplow, would you believe? As the Noise so pertinently declared at the time: ?That really would have put the cap on it, that would!?

It was shortly before we were about to go on our separate ways to our seats that The Fart then lobbed a real hand-grenade of a moral poser in the general direction of our loquacious matchday companion. ?See Albion win on New Years Day,? said the old codger, ?or go to Paris?? As with all grenades, there was a built in time-delay fuse on that one. A couple of seconds went by, then: ?BANG!? The verbal equivalent of shrapnel shards flew in all directions, never mind that of the intended recipient. An interesting one, especially now that our chum?s fully committed to doing precisely that come the turning of the current year. Partly a family treat in lieu of a ?normal? whack of Christmas presents, and partly because Lewis family holidays will be very much on the back burner this summer owing to Carly taking her GCSE?s and Bethany taking her SATS.

I?ve still got this unfortunate mental picture in my head of some pretty mortified Gallic reactions once the natives realise precisely what manner of person has landed upon their shores from over le Pas De Calais. Martin doing the talking ? lots of it, of course ? and Carly doing the translations? Ooer. At least she?ll get practice ? lots and lots of it if Pater then elects to converse with the locals at some length! Chances are, though, our snail-chomping chums might just class the Lewis clan as Les Rosbifs? belated revenge for all the awful things President De Gaulle said and did to knacker our prospects of Common Market (now EEC) membership back in the sixties. And, what?s more, I never did hear The Noise give a definitive answer to the loaded question The Fart so casually chucked into the air around half-two yesterday!

Now I?m back and properly sorted (hopefully!), I?ll next be hitting the airwaves around the Friday evening coming, and prior to us humans, poorly puss in tow, setting out for our very last holiday home seven-day visit of the current season. Once autumn sets in, it gets a little too cold for my delicate features, I?ll have you know! I?ll post again on our return the following Friday, and nicely in time for our next fixture, the one versus Ipswich Town, at Portman Road. ?Im Indoors will remain very much in situ (or at Edgar Street, depending upon Hereford?s own League Two commitments, of course) for that one, but I?ve got a ticket, and I?m gonna use it! In company with The Fart, naturally, so expect a discourse on the day?s doings later that night. If, by any chance, we do settle on a new managerial appointment before then, I?ll compile a piece setting out my thoughts on the matter in full, always in my unique style, naturally. If, as I suspect, we hit upon a new incumbent while we?re away, I?ll run with something as soon as I get back. Either way, expect something from me around that time, so ta-ta until then, Baggie-folkies!

And Finally?. One. Not strictly Albion-related, this, but it does concern a former club of Baggies Old Boy Shaun Murphy, so there is a connection there, albeit one somewhat tenuous. As some of you might know already, when we journeyed to Oz a couple of years ago, we became very friendly with a chap who runs Sorrento Football Club (that?s Murphy?s original outfit prior to coming to this country to try his footballing luck, by the way), saw a number of their Western Australia League games while we were there, and now keep in touch by regular email. And that?s where tonight?s closing piece comes from, one of the regional Oz leagues from which some of those unbelievably-obscure summer pools results originate.

Sorrento being the Chelsea equivalent of their regional domestic competition at bog-standard level (that league is about the highest you can go in that part of the world without buying into the massively more glamorous nationwide A-League, in which clubs like Perth Glory compete), they do tend to win things on a repetitive scale. A bit like the equally incestuous Celtic and Rangers thingy for that, if you like. In terms of practical proximity, though, as far as the two leagues go, think ?Solar System? and ?Alpha Centauri Star System? i.e. both light-years apart, and the chances of the smaller outfit actually getting there infinitesimally remote.

That?s the scene set, then, so into the tale. As per the usual script, Sorrento won their league title just a few weeks back, their Championship title-clincher being the local derby they?d played versus Joondalup earlier that day. As this had been on the cards for quite some time, an almighty knees-up had been planned well beforehand ? but this was one with a bit of a difference. Not only did supporters of the triumphant club participate, also there getting as nissed as pewts were members of that Joondalup side they?d beaten just a few hours previously. And the match referee. And both linos. Yes ? and the fourth official!

So successful was this almighty toot of theirs, the party didn?t break up until well after 5 am., and that, I believe for breakfast! As I saw it, by the time they?d finished, and given what appeared a massive rate of alcoholic consumption by anyone?s lights (in true Sir Leslie Patterson tradition, naturally), had any scientists specialising in biochemistry been around at that time, they?d have been looking more in terms of determining blood levels in alcohol, and not the other way round! Just one parting thought, though. Was Shaun Murphy in on all the jollities, and if he was, precisely how much of it could he remember afterwards?

Two. Another little anecdote about young Carly (yep, she?s going to bloody kill me the very next time we meet!) for your mutual delectation. Apparently, on her way to Saturday?s game in dad?s car, she spent quite a large proportion of the journey taking pictures of herself as reflected in the front passenger seat vanity mirror, using her mobile?s built-in camera to complete the job. Said her richly-amused dad as she went through the tortuous process: ?You?re so vain?..? Sixties hit song title, writer and performer also known by the name ?Carly?? Oh well, suit yourself!

 - Glynis Wright

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