The Diary

06 October 2003: The M25 - The Devil Made Me Do It!

After the motoring excesses of yesterday, it was a rare treat for us today to simply crap out by the fire and read the Sunday papers to our mutual satisfaction. Gillingham and back on four wheels via the M25 is never likely to be rated as one of the most inspiring and breathtaking road journeys in the world, so it?s highly improbable Michael Palin will be having orgasms over that one in the near future. If ever a motorway deserved the trashing-treatment Chris Rhea gave it on his ?Road To Hell? album, it?s got to be the M25 every time. I remember once reading a sci-fi fantasy called ?Good Omens? in which it was postulated that Satanists covertly constructed the thing in order to send low-grade paeans of praise to their gaffer via the constant curses and distinctly-unchristian oaths sent up by the squillions of beleaguered motorists routinely becalmed on its concrete ribbon! Mind you, if that?s the case,jalopy? just where do Wolverhampton Wanderers fit into the Devil?s plans for domination of this planet?

Although relatively trouble-free yesterday ? apart from some extensive roadworks just before the Dartford Bridge which kept our speed down a little ? London games of late have seen all four of us Dick Eds cursing and sweating in The Dickmobile's stationary fume-filled interior. Take the recent Palace game; the M25 really was at its talented ?best? for us that day, and after around a quarter of an hour of ?stop-crawl-stop-crawl? laughingly described as ?slow progress? by some radio station or another, we really did give up the will to live.

Hang on a minute, what with all that motoring stuff, I?m beginning to sound a bit like that more than adequately publicised bloke who never quite grew up, Jeremy Clarkson! Blimey, we can?t have that, so back to the football. It was while we were singing and swaying on that temporary stand of Gillingham?s ? nothing to do with crowd density, either; see my previous missive for full details! ? that we spotted a familiar burly, dark-suited, black-skinned figure making his way towards our subs? bench. Big Dave, of course, large as life, and clearly fully-involved in the pre-match rituals of our finest. I?m really pleased that the medical people have now given the bloke the all-clear to commence training in earnest; there have been times this season when I?d felt his considerable presence at the back could have given our rearguard an additional dimension. Not that I?m belittling the efforts of our current bunch; the results (and by inference, the league tables) speak for themselves. In fact, I?m beginning to wonder as to whether our manager will be faced with that happiest of selection problems on Darren?s return to full match fitness, whether to go with what he?s got now at the back, or make changes to suit the return of the wounded hero.

While we?re on the subject of our defence, what about Sekou Berthe, aka ?Big Bertha?, who seems to have really grown into his role at the back? To watch him in action is a bit like observing the paintings of M.C. Escher, the incredibly-talented bloke who managed to commit optical illusions to canvas. In the case of the latter, as you scrutinise the scene before you, your brain tells you what you ought to be seeing, but the evidence of your own eyes presents you with something completely different. In the case of the artist, it might be stairs that seemingly lead both up and down, but from different angles, simultaneously, something absolutely guaranteed to get your mental knickers in a twist in a trice. With Big Bertha, it?s a similar process; you see him go for the ball in or around our box, those long limbs of his possessive of motion seemingly disembodied from the rest of his frame, at which point your brain sternly tells you that the quest is a hopeless one, the cause is lost. Then, a dusky leg flails in a seemingly-lazy arc, thousands of years of evolution and the normal laws of motion are momentarily suspended, and what seemed a hopeless cause seconds ago suddenly becomes a small victory. At Gillingham yesterday, I watched intently, and was absolutely fascinated. Those lanky free-floating legs of his do things I?d never before believed possible outside of a textbook of anatomy. Time and time again, on Tuesday night and yesterday, I wanted to ask the bloke, ?Just how did you do that??

Watching Bertha in action was a real gateway to the past, and the memories quickly came flooding back; the last time I?d seen an Albion player use his members in such a balletic way was when Carlton Palmer was at the club, all those years ago. He, too, was a defender, and seemingly in possession of spindly but gravity-defying arms and legs. Again, there was that deceptively-laid-back attitude of his, which served as quite an efficient cloak for an ability to win the ball that was quite astonishing. It certainly had me fooled, time and time again, so it must have deceived some pretty cute opposition cookies as well. No wonder we couldn?t hang on to his services, and subsequently let him go to Sheffield Wednesday not long after Brian Talbot became our gaffer, way back in 1988. I just hope our present inheritor of the mantle has a little more common-sense when it comes to not driving cars when banned from doing so!

Our League programme may be on a ten-day hold tight now, but for our second-string, life continues apace. Tomorrow night sees us take on The Mackems at The Shrine, and with the onset of some distinctly-autumnal weather, fellow Dick Eds will see the sudden emergence of my winter woollies from the old clothes cupboard. Think ?Russian Baboushka Dolls? and you?ve got the general picture. Being so laid-back, second-string fixtures are a time for us to swap stories with our fellow away-travellers, and generally catch up on all the Albion gossip we might have missed. There?s been many times when inspiration for this piece has been gleaned as a direct result of the utterances of those who sit in our vicinity at these games! Consider these games as something of a bonus for Albion regulars living in the vicinity of the Shrine and no need to bother with a turnstile, either. Just flash your stile card in the general direction of the nice man positioned on what is normally the Halfords exit gate, and you?re in. Great for kids, also; a chance for them to see their heroes play in surroundings totally bereft of all the normal match-day hype, and because of that, an unrivalled opportunity to grab some autographs.

And finally?.. One. An apology to Steve Mole, who today sent me a missive taking issue with me for not making Rainham a separate entity in my pre-match piece featuring the delights and history of The Medway Towns. ?It?s a bit like including Wolverhampton in a discussion of things West Bromwich, ? he said. I?ll consider myself suitably castigated, then. Hopefully, if all goes well, I won?t have to write anything at all about the place next season!

Two?. Before we set out on long away trips, we always prepare a giant-sized vacuum flask containing oodles of coffee for the benefit of both ?Im Indoors (the driver) and The Noise (the driver to distraction!). The need for caffeine in high-concentration is overwhelming during a journey of such length, and invariably, most of the contents end up in the capacious stomachs of both gentlemen well before the trip is done. As you might have read in this column recently, we had to replace our clapped-out ?old faithful? flask with a brash newcomer. Yesterday was only the second time we?d used it, and as the contents were gradually guzzled, Something Very Peculiar came to the attention of my other half, i.e. the strange taste of the coffee within, nothing nasty, just a more ?nutty? flavour than was usual for that kind of beverage. Instantly forgotten in the effort of concentrating on the road, of course, but just as instantly-remembered when ?Im Indoors came to wash out our insulated container on our return last night; as he did so, a coffee-coloured and distinctly soggy ?something? began to protrude from the neck, then quickly squelched into an ignominious heap in the sink. What was it? A leaflet about thermos flasks, and how to ensure their contents weren?t tainted by insufficient attention to cleaning them afterwards, that?s what!

Three?. It's all the hope I can't stand! With our newly-regained ?Top of the League? status has come yet another outbreak of the dreaded ?Touching Wood? syndrome, and a related complaint, ?The ?Lucky? Knickers/Trousers/Coat/Habit Disease?. Sad to say, I find myself performing the first ritual constantly (you should have seen me in the Livingstone? pub yesterday; everything of ligneous origin in the place was fair game), and now The Noise has threatened to grow a ?full set? again. Arrgh! Our garrulous co-editor is also insisting on taking his newly-acquired outergarment to games ? without it, we lost at Wigan, and drew at Palace ? and as for our Queen victory-song, Radio Ga-Ga, we must have worn a hole in the CD by now. Any more strange pre-and-post-match rituals I should know about? All offerings to the usual email address.

 - Glynis Wright

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