The Diary

16 December 2006: A Book-Signing And A Groping, All In One Night!

So ? what?s new, then, on the Albion front? Well, I didn?t make it to His Nibs?s Merry Hill book signing yesterday, as W. H. Smith couldn?t guarantee we?d get parking well close to the store: as you?ll all know by now, my mobility ? or, rather, the lack of it ? means I can only exit our vehicle once it?s been parked within a sensible walking distance for myself. No worries, though ? ?Im Indoors did swimmingly well on the night, ably assisted by Bob Taylor. Or should that be the other way round? Probably.

Anyway, with just five minutes or so to go before kick-off, no Bob! Panic, as there was a queue forming outside the place! Solution? Ring the lad on his mobile. Turned out that he?d just pulled in to a car park there, and, not being familiar with the area, hadn?t the slightest clue which direction to take in the mall itself. Solution? As in ?Millionaire?, ?Phone a Friend?! One who comes from Brierley Hill, actually, and therefore quite au fait with our local Temple Of Mammon.

Just in the nick of time, the lad turned up, and from then on, all hubby had to do was watch Bob work his magic on the crowd, putty in their hands he was, apparently. Mind you, in between signing books, Bob did tell ?Im Indoors about a recent Albion All-Stars game in which he participated, on Lye Town?s ground, and against their Dingle counterparts. Not only was Bob there, so was Richard Sneekes and Cyrille Regis.

Believe it or not, in those few moments preparatory to going out into the pitch, all the old ?fire in the belly? came back to these ?veterans? in a flash, hate-glands secreting copiously, phrases like: ?Let?s get stuck into this reffin?lot?? ? and much, much worse being bandied around their dressing-room with not-so-gay abandon. Even Cyrille, who used to play for them, of course (and the one and only Dingle I?ve ever seen APPLAUDED onto the Hawthorns turf in over 40 years of watching Albion!): in fact, he was one of the worst offenders. It?s true what they say, then: you can take the player from the Albion, but you can sure as hell never quite eradicate the Albion from the player!

From what my other half told me afterwards, it was a damn good night all round: Smiths were pleased because of the increased sales, our publisher was pleased (ditto), and by inference, ?Im Indoors was pleased also. Apparently, the most fascinating aspect of the night was watching Bob charm the pants off his many admirers, of both sexes: why the hell Albion haven?t offered him some sort of PR post by now (whisper it quietly, but one of a similar kind to that performed by ex-Dingle Steve Bull on matchdays, n?est ce pas?), I really don?t know. Sure, he?s still turning out for Kiddy, still, but on a non-contractual basis only, as I understand these things.

It ain?t just Monty Python that has a monopoly on surreal conversations, you know ? just ask my other half for verification, should you need it. Well, that?s the impression he gave me when he rang me from his place of work just the other day ? and not one single letter of what follows is made up, trust me on it, so here goes, then. Sitting comfortably? Good. Work this lot out, because I?m still trying? ??.The Cane Toad?s gone down a stormer, it?s now sitting on top of my PC, and it?s wearing someone?s old pair of glasses and a hair-band. And going: ?Ribbit, Ribbit?? The baby in the chair?s farting for England, by the way. The trouble is, the team next door have got a Father Christmas, so we need to up the ante a bit. Can you get some batteries for the fish?

?Doo wot??? That was me, wondering whether or not the sun had managed to smite my other half?s brain sorely, even in the distinctly-sunless month of December.

Im Indoors (getting a tad exasperated because I wasn?t following what seemed, to him, at least, a perfectly logical train of thought at the time): ?Aw, you know, the fish ? the one on the telly?..?

Yerssss ? erm ? right. And before anyone with the authority to do so dispatches an ambulance containing a couple of nice men in white coats to our address on the strength of what they?ve just read, let then stay their smiting hand while I elucidate (no ? they can?t touch you for it?). It?s all to do with the ongoing War On Grot currently taking place ? taking over? - at hubby?s place of work, the cane toad ? a life-sized-and-sounding replica of a common pest found in Queensland we?d brought back from Oz because it seemed such a good idea at the time ? representing just one aspect of it. It was later ?decorated? with those glasses etc. because of a certain strong resemblance to a much-disliked management figure working nearby: in fact, as one equally eminent lady left the office very late the other night, turning all the lights off behind her as she went, as all good managers should, of course, the toad duly burst forth with a departing ?Ribbit? all of its very own, especially for her.

Not really expecting to hear a very loud amphibian-style ?Ribbit? upon turning off the lights ? well, not in the middle of landlocked, Brum, and several floors up in a multi-storey office block, at any rate: well, come on, would you? - her reaction was pretty spectacular: rumour has it the council are still clearing up all the small but nasty shards of broken windows her high-C-pitched scream inflicted upon all the good householders in nearby Ladywood! According to my beloved, this ?arms race with a difference? will reach a climax when the ?Secret Santa? draw is finally made next week: right now, my other half is in the throes of serious debate regarding whether to chuck in the pair of child?s handcuffs purchased at Bilston Market the other week, or to simply pitch in with the quite revolting figurines we found there as well! Dearie, dearie me.

On Wednesday night, though, we went to the flicks. A ?U? film it was, ?Flushed Away? the title, yet another wonderfully-surreal effort from Nick Parks, the mind behind all those ?Wallace And Gromit? offerings, plus the equally-hilarious ?Chicken Run?, of course. Yes, I know ? it is marketed as a kids? film, but there?s nothing childlike about some of the jokes: it?s one of those affairs you can take at either level, and all the more enjoyable because of it. The night we went, I didn?t see a single child in the audience, just all we sad wotsits of adults! I won?t spoil it for you by revealing the plot, but if you do go to see it this Christmas, watch out for the slugs! Brilliant!

Enough of all this levity, then. Time to turn to the serious stuff, once more, viz: tomorrow?s game with Coventry, who are on something of a run right now, having lost only one out of their previous five. They?ll be without Leon McKenzie, suspended, apparently: the naughty little boy only went and collected five bookings in as little time as near dammit, didn?t he? But they will have Marcus Hall, back after spending some time in suspensory ?durance vile? himself.

The good news for tomorrow is that Paul McShane, who limped off last Sunday, is expected to return to the paths of righteousness tomorrow. Just as well, as we need his sort of ?no-nonsense? action at the back very urgently indeed. After having served his suspension, Chris Perry may be in contention also, and we might even see Clem strutting his stuff out there, now he?s recovered.

In the middle, will we get the ?usual suspects? out there, I wonder, viz: the Koumas/Greening/Quashie combo, but there is something of a whisper that Zoltan may well feel the wind of the Mogga axe tomorrow, unless he?s got his act together a tad better since the last time I saw him. Could Darren Carter (see above) be the man in from the cold, if that happens, I wonder?

Up at ?the sharp end?, Joe Kamara also finishes being, not The Messiah, but ?a very, very naughty little boy!? as per Monty Python?s ?Life Of Brian?, so he might well be working miracles up front tomorrow. Or not. But who to partner him, assuming our manager?s thought processes lead him down that merry path, of course? Nathan Ellington to turn it on, for once? (And, if he does, here?s one Baggie, at least, who?ll need immediate treatment for psychosomatic shock!)

Or, will he simply go for either/and Philips, or Old Baldy Hartson, even? Because of all the various perms and coms that seem likely to transpire tomorrow, it?s not a safe undertaking, really, to bank on exactly who?ll be accreting bench splinters in their bums come the moment for the ref to get tomorrow afternoon?s football-fest off to a good start. Clearly, of the strikers, at least two will dip out at first, their eventual appearance out there very much dependent upon whether or not the game?s going our way, of course. Coo, what a wealth of footballing riches we have in store for us, come the morrow. And I?m also a bloody rotten liar!

As I recall, whenever both clubs have locked horns in the throes of League competition ? bearing in mind the very first time we really started to meet in the League was as recently as 1968-69, we?ve mostly enjoyed quite a good run of results in our favour. One quite unforgettable example? Those who were there at the time will remember it with much mirth (well, I laughed like a bloody drain, at any rate): the amazing seven-goal home pasting we gave them back in the late Seventies, for example.

Mind you, if you will insist upon turning out in a chocolate coloured playing strip, with an equally-daft ?Y-shaped? bit of white striping slapped down amidst the middle and sides of it, then you deserve absolutely everything you see slamming into the back of your net, don?t you? Not so much a ?crime of passion?, that disastrously-chocolate strip, more a ?crime of fashion?, I reckon. As for the designer of that almighty abortion ? did he/she actually do it for a laugh, I wonder? - death really was too good for the sod! And the same goes for the absolute cretin who originally penned that awful ?Sky Blues Boating Song? of theirs: the only club in this division where that bog-standard supporter-insult ?One Song! You?ve Only Got One Song!?.? really does have a certain ring of truth about it!

Apparently, that nice young man Darren Carter has several ex-Blues playing chums turning out for the Sky Blues tomorrow afternoon, Adebola and Stern John (Does he have a brother out there somewhere called ?Quite Affable John?, by the way? I think we should be told) being the lucky lads in question. Well, that?s what the club website tells us tonight. ?Tis true our lad is now reported quite recovered from the injury problems that have dogged him recently, but whether he?ll actually get the Mogga ?Seal Of Approval? for tomorrow?s bun-fight or not is anyone?s guess. Oh ? and according to the same site, he?s 60-1 to score in a game finishing 1-0. I?ll leave that sort of thing to the real gambling experts, the Steve Claridges of this world, I think: given my profound lack of knowledge of what fires up the gambling fraternity, were it left solely to me, I?d be out on the street begging for our electricity money in no time flat!

And now for ?Things That Make Me Go ?GRRRRRR!? ?Also on the same site is news of a much-vaunted link-up between sponsors T-Mobile and our supporters, the basic idea being to bring a bit of much-needed atmosphere back to the Shrine once more. T-Mobile will be doing their bit by handing out loads of inflatable balls before tomorrow?s game, apparently. In fact, if you go to the site, you?ll see a pic of Supporters Club head honchos Alan Cleverley (who is the biggest Luddite going when it comes to the everyday use of modern technology, mind, which is why I burst into fits of giggles the very first time I clapped eyes on him standing in front of a T-Mobile banner!) and Dave Holloway, (along with Curtis Davies), and all doing their bestest cheesey grins for the camera.

Er ? now, stop the world revolving for a cotton-pickin? minute folks, while I get this absolutely right in my head. It?s our SPONSORS, not our SUPPORTERS that want this to happen, all of a sudden, yeah? Coo ? well fancy that! And, if successful, they?ll ?enhance? my personal ?matchday experience?, will they? Honest, those are the exact words they use in that same bit of blurb I spotted earlier tonight. No wonder my cats all fled the room the very instant I first clapped eyes on it.

?Matchday experience?? Sphericals. It?s not a ?matchday experience?, ?enhanced?, or otherwise, that?s the issue. It?s all about genuine atmosphere, ambience, even, and that, moreover, of our very own making, by and from we, the supporters, which is a totally different kettle of fish to the pale imitation proposed by our sponsors. In fact, you might want to argue that it?s the gross intrusion of commercial activities of one kind or another on our regular support that?s led us down the regrettable path of trying to lay on something completely ersatz on matchdays in the first place. The current Hawthorns atmosphere remains as stone-cold dead as the Asteroid Belt, purely and simply because those who used to instigate that sort of thing have either ended up disillusioned by the combination of other factors I outline below, gravitated to other (cheaper?) ways of spending their Saturdays/Sundays, or not daring to risk raising the ire of those wearing the fluorescent orange coats, simply opt to sit passively at games, these days.

Has it really come down to that, Albion? Cast your minds back to that very first promotion season, just four years ago. Back then, we had both a bubbly Brummie and a seething Smethwick, and mostly left to do their ?own thing?, too, thanks to our former matchday PA-merchant?s non-invasive, low-key style. Result? Matchday atmospheres so tingly-electric, voltaic, even, especially during the run-in, and that glorious last day versus Palace, you could have quite happily flogged it back to the National Grid as a source of ?renewable energy?.

Fast-forward, now, to the present, and a picture that bears a horribly-close resemblance to matchday sterility, passivity, even, complete and utter: ?Go on - entertain me!?, seems to be the phrase of the moment these days. ?The Silence Of The Fans? I once termed it, slightly in jest ? but now, Life really seems to be aping Art.

Because of that, it seems to me also that the best we can muster these days is a Smethwick that bears only scant resemblance to its former glories, and a Brummie that?s well-nigh invisible, and rendered virtually mute as well. In fact (and this touches upon my very next point), there?s lots of former ?regulars?, vocal ?movers and shakers?, all, that simply won?t go any more, and the blame lies right at the very same feet of the idiots that changed things so drastically in the first place.

So ? what?s done the damage, then? Several things: overzealous stewarding, for one, and a marked change in the demographics of those seated in both ends. As far as the first goes, I have it upon good authority from those with seats in both the Brummie and Smethwick, that the minute anyone tries to get some sort of impassioned chanting going, the orange-coated tendency rush in like things demented to turf those brave sods still standing up out of the ground without any ceremony whatsoever.

Let me explain this in simple language to all you brown-nosed, sharp-suited lickspittle nyaffs out there, because you don?t appear to have quite got the message, do you? Watch my lips. Concentrate: ?If You Love The Club And Want To Create Something Resembling A Decent Atmosphere, You Need To Stand Up During Games And Sing Quite A Lot In Order To Give Your Supporting Efforts Absolutely Everything You?ve Got. And It?s A Lot Easier To Achieve Than By Getting Sponsors To Give Out Daft Looking Inflatables To People, Then Asking Them All To Make Quite A Lot Of Noise, By Order, To Order?.

There ? that wasn?t very difficult to assimilate, now, was it? Now go home, the lot of you, there?s good lads: your mothers tell me your tea?s out, and if you don?t appear at the kitchen table this very instant, you?ll all ?gerra roite lompin? an? a-loukin? ?round the lug-?ole ter goo wi? it!? So there!

Yes, I know, there?s the obverse side of the coin: other people can have their own views blocked as a result of such impassioned home-end antics ? and, being just over 5?2? in height, I know ? and suffer ? a fair bit more than most! But surely that can be sorted by the simple expedient of offering supporters the choice of a designated ?tolerance zone? for those who prefer to watch in this manner? Forget the health and safety ninnies: nobody will get killed, nobody will catch any sort of hideously unmentionable social disease through indulging in such spontaneous displays of wild emotion, even: all you?ll see is genuine passion restored at long last, and not some limp corporate creation purporting to be the real deal, which it could never, ever be, even if you wanted it to. OK?

The second of the two is a direct consequence of our brief (and bloody expensive, for not a few of our traditional supporters, of course: yet another reason why we?re such a vapid imitation of what we used to be just a few short years back, these days) stay in the Prem. Not to mention an increased tendency to drown out any sort of spontaneity shown at either end by the increasing use of deafening ?showbiz-style? PA announcements, and a TV coverage that maddeningly insists upon showing vacuous adverts, when all we want to see is a straight replay of some completely non-contentious goalmouth incident or other. With all that lot working against you, what chance has the average Joe, who simply wants to support his side, and as loudly and passionately as possible, actually got? Black Country folk simply don?t go for such American-inspired artificial razamatazz, full stop - and it?s about time those in charge realised it.

And Finally?. The War On Terror never ceases, so our government tells us, so here?s the latest from the Home Front, then. Well, the good news is we can all sleep safely in our beds tonight, sound in the knowledge that the TA have sent yet another letter (the third!) to my other half indicating his apparent willingness to sign on the dotted line, and, furthermore, cordially inviting him to their Oldbury base for a quick look-see at the set-up there, immediately prior to shipping out and getting shot at in a foreign country. Their operational forte is something to do with building things like bridges under battle conditions, then promptly blowing ?em up again, as necessary - any chance they?ll ever get to practice on a certain football ground several miles up the A41, I wonder? - as I understand these things. A strange sort of ?hobby? that, one that can hoik you straight to a place where you stand a pretty good chance of ending up one or more limbs short of the normal ration, I must say. But then again, all the teachers among you must feel as though you?re treading upon very familiar ground indeed!

Forget the Paras in Afghanistan, forget the SAS in Iraq, even. Once ?Rambo Wright? gets a-root-tootin? of his very own ?personal weapon? (a paper-clip of devastating power, so his fellow-workers assure me!) out there, you can pull every last one of ?em right back home to their worried parents and wives. Not necessary! Just one quick sight of those deadly paper-clips of his, and the entire Taliban, every single last one of them, will emerge from their caves, well-hollering for mercy! Mind you, it?s only to be expected, given our hero?s strong recollections of ?The Wolf Of Kabul?, and the devastating effect his justly-famous ?Klicky Ba? had upon the local low-life: Baggies of a certain generation, largely given to the furtive bed-time reading of boys? adventure comics (The Lion, Valiant, The Hotspur etc.) during the course of their (misspent?) childhoods, mine included, will know precisely what I?m talking about, of course! As for the rest, you?ll just have to ask Granddad, then, won?t you?

Two.... After they'd all finished the signing session the other night, once Supes had gone, both 'Im Indoors and publisher retired to a nearby refreshment place in order to chew the cud over the night's events. It was while he was well and truly in the throes of planning future campaigns that my other half suddenly felt a strange sensation in the trouser region, and more alarmingly still, emanating from right behind, in the buttocks, if you must know! Filled with pique, my other half quickly spun around to tell the pervert his immediate fortune, should he not heed the call to cease and desist his 'groping' antics forthwith. And that's when he got a hell of a shock. The culprit? A certain naughty Mister Taylor, now in the company of his friend, and hitting the shops also!

 - Glynis Wright

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