The Diary

14 October 2003: GD, CCCP versus GB?

Remember those old newsreel films dating from the Cold War? Aw, you know, the ones where the British spy (who is just a businessman, really, and aren?t those Russkies naughty to have locked him up without a fair trial?) is exchanged on some frost-bitten Iron Curtain border for his equally-bang-to-rights-and-banged-up Russian counterpart (oops, sorry, my mistake ? ?Cultural Attache?!), and the whole thing is conducted courtesy of a couple of handily-placed cars on either side of the dividing-line, with neither party saying one civil word to the other? Yep? Er ? not quite. What we did have instead was a load of ?Dicks? arriving from Wales courtesy Paul The Mad Printer, but because of our absence from the Black Country this weekend, our rendezvous had to be somewhere different from that of GD Towers, so we chose for our own little ?prisoner-exchange? the inky-black car-park of a ?Little Chef? just outside Leominster, about 12 miles from our bijou retreat. In keeping with the ambience of the scenario just described, yep; there were two cars involved, and yep, it was dark, and we were (ish!) on the border between two countries, and there was a clandestine transfer of - erm ? ?things? from Car A to Car B, but for once, politics took a back seat, and fanzines, lots of ?em, took their place in the (Harry?) limelight.

Much sweaty humping and heaving later, and having finally seen our barmy words-and-ink merchant on his merry way, we were then faced with the unenviable task of stuffing a considerable number of subbers? envelopes with Dicks, and all in Leominster High Street as well! The problem then was finding a post-box to shove ?em into, and our slow motoring meander down the town?s main drag really could have been totally misinterpreted had I not been in the vehicle also! Finally latching not something red and round, it then fell to the lot of my other half to prod and poke the damn things into its rectangular orifice. Ordinarily, this would have been a simple task, but on this occasion, a couple of ?embuggeration factors? loomed large. The first? The post-box itself. It could, quite honestly, justly lay claim to having the narrowest opening in the entire Royal Mail inventory of such objects. The second? As ?Im Indoors attempted to send our collective literary brainchilds on their merry way through the postal system, a couple lurked closely nearby ? and they were both clearly very upset about something. Realising this, and wishing to make a discreet and hasty exit, hubby tried to speed things up, but the damn slit was so tiny, only a couple at a time would go through, which turned what should have been the work of a couple of minutes into a task taking five or more ? and as he ?stuffed? the sobs in the background were becoming even more heartrending! Eventually, both fled in tears, beating hubby to it by a short head! As not far short of a hundred ?zines had been shifted in this fashion, thereby almost-completely filling up the box, I could only hope that the male half of that traumatised couple wasn?t a postie detailed to open the box the following morning! Not all the subbers? copies went by this somewhat unorthodox route, but if you?ve had your Dick today, have a close look at the postmark on the envelope, and if it says ?Leominster?, now you know!

I really do hope what I witnessed at Edgar Street tonight wasn?t a foretaste of what we can expect at Fortress Hawthorns in less than one complete revolution of this planet around its axis. The game, in case you haven?t guessed by now, was Hereford versus Dagenham, and yes, the home side were top of their Conference heap, and working like stink to stay there, and just to give the whole occasion an added frisson, the game was live, on Sky. The final score? A rather disappointing 1-1 draw. After much huffing and puffing, the Bulls took the lead in the second half, only to have it snatched away again as a result of some abysmal defending, the standard of which would have made its parks-league team equivalent collectively take up knitting as a hobby instead. I say ?disappointing? from the viewpoint of my admittedly-biased other half, whose expectation level tonight was so high, you?d have needed a three-stage Saturn rocket to bring it back to earth in one piece; as far as I?m concerned, I?m strictly neutral, your honour! I?ll just say that Hereford seemed to be only firing on three cylinders tonight, and were most certainly not the same side that absolutely slaughtered Farnborough at their place just a few weeks back. The upside, though, was young Tam Mkandawire, who, after a slightly iffy start, turned in a very creditable performance at the back for the Bulls. If they do regain their league status, I can see a permanent move to ?zoider country? in the offing for the lad.

Back to tomorrow?s game, then, and it doesn?t need me to tell anyone this is the Big One, The Great Showdown, the Clash Of The Titans, even. Megson versus Warnock ? ooer. This game will probably go down in history as the only one where a police presence was required in close proximity to the respective managers? dug-outs rather than the stands; a laugh a minute is absolutely guaranteed for those Baggies sitting nearby. Think ?two bits of uranium 235 about to be banged together? and you?ve got the general idea; just watch out for that bloody great mushroom cloud, folks! When contemplating what?s likely to be on the cards tomorrow, the thought suddenly struck me about just how much our respective clubs (and their managers!) have in common. League position, first versus second, managers of similar temperament (about as stable as sweaty nitro-glycerine!), the indirect Blades (Warnock is a self-confessed aficionado of the club he leads), versus Owls (Megson and his dad, Don, both played for Wednesday) thing, both clubs with similar histories of success in the distant past, and abject failure in more recent times. There is, of course, the additional problem of ?that? game some eighteen months ago. Luckily, apart from AJ, most of the leading players in that particular bit of nastiness have moved on elsewhere, but I can?t help feeling there?s a small residue of ill-feeling lurking somewhere in the shadows.

At least it looks as though we?ll have Jason Koumas back and raring to go after that injury, which was a relief, because I was still puzzling over the total absence of Sakiri from the side versus Gillingham. Sure, I heard our leader?s statement afterwards that ?it wasn?t his sort of game?, but I would have thought that having a classy midfielder like him on the bench, at least, would have been of enormous help had we ended up chasing the game. Sure, in retrospect, I realise that the Gills were so awful, there wasn?t much chance of them constituting a danger to our table-topping ambitions, but we weren?t to know that beforehand, were we? As I?ve not long returned from our leisure-time outpost of civilisation, I?ve heard absolutely nothing about whether any of our internationals have sustained knocks over the weekend, so I?m assuming we?ll be up to full strength tomorrow night. My prediction? Honours, and points, absolutely even, which is probably more than you?ll be able to say about the respective gaffers? blood-pressures!

Mention, now, of a totally different sort of football experience. How does Wellington versus Kington grab you? No, not the one in Shropshire, the one near Hereford, and they were hosting the aforementioned lot in a cup competition last Saturday afternoon. Some may remember our visit to Kington?s muck-heap at the fag-end of last season, and a bloody good encounter we saw, as well. Anyway, we enjoyed that one so much, as they were playing local opposition again this weekend, we decided to take that one in as well ? and didn?t regret it one little bit, even though we did slightly cock up the kick-off time, it being two o?clock when we?d thought it was two forty-five! Anyway, it didn?t make that much difference, as we?d factored-in an early arrival anyway. What was remarkable was the weather; clear blue skies, and the autumnal reds, golds and yellows of the trees presenting a rather pleasing contrast to that beautiful backdrop. Not only that, the temperature was in the sweaty-hot high seventies, the whole scene being somewhat reminiscent of northern Italy at the same time of year; those who went to Florence for our 1993 Anglo-Italian jaunt will know precisely what I mean. When we joined the action, some twenty minutes into the first half, Wellington were in front by a single goal, and as the game progressed, it seemed increasingly likely the visitors wouldn?t be able to achieve parity, but towards the end of normal time ? about two minutes, I reckon - they did precisely that, which, of course, tipped the whole thing into extra-time. No joke, for part-timers on a bone-hard pitch that raised great clouds of dust every time someone whacked the ball a fraction too hard. Unsurprisingly, the whole thing then came down to which of the two protagonists were better able to stay the course in fitness terms; one of the Wellington defenders, at least, appeared to be totally knackered by that stage, so it didn?t exactly shock when Kington took the lead for the first time just after the start of the second period. That completely knocked the stuffing out of the home side; in fact, the visitors could have doubled their goal-tally quite easily just before the end, so I suppose you could argue the result was a fair one. The winners? They meet Dunkirk in the next round. No, not a team belatedly-evacuated from a blitzed beach in Northern France; our resident non-League guru, Steve The Miser, tells us they hail from Nottinghamshire, so there!

As for the Wellington ground, for the size of the village and the distinctly-unglamorous level of football in which they reside, they certainly punch well above their weight. They run no less that 12 teams, and boast facilities a good many better-endowed outfits would absolutely drool at, all funded courtesy of the National Lottery. We didn?t get to go in it, but the Social Club there looked well-appointed from the outside, and the whole complex must be a focal point for the whole village. A quick mention, also, for the half-time refreshments. Curry and rice for those who wanted it ? easier than chips to prepare and keep hot in readiness, I would have thought, so why can?t some enterprising bod do the same at our football club? Not only that, tea plus coffee served in proper mugs. None of that awful Maxpak plastic-container yuk-stuff there, folks!

And finally?.. One. Before journeying to Wellington that lovely Saturday afternoon, we decided to take a stroll around the huge lake that is the focal point of our caravan-park. An opportunity for me also to get on camera those beautiful autumnal scenes I described earlier, and I wasn?t disappointed, either. Much to my surprise, both adult swans, plus six of their (nearly fully-grown) cygnets were still there also, so they too were committed to memory-card. And, further on, what did we find, but a real-live Dingle, calmly plopping bait-loaded rod and line onto the water?s placid surface. The conversation, naturally, turned to You Know What, and after batting the breeze for a short time, the follower of the brain-dead cult launched his parting-shot, which was, ?Hope you lose next week!?

My reply? Simple. ?With your lot, and the way they?re doing in the Premiership, I don?t have to hope ? I JUST KNOW!?

Two. Went to a Queen tribute group concert ? Magic ? at The Alex last Wednesday night. Being an absolute sucker for Queen?s music, it was simply something that had to be done. Not that I?m a complete stranger to the work of this particular band; we reckon that we?ve seen ?em some six or seven times in recent years, but in view of the unavoidable absence of the real thing, they make quite a handy substitute. But that wasn?t the full reason for telling you this; more the fact that during the second half of the performance, as ersatz ?Freddie Mercury? Roger Brown came on stage for one number in particular, the receding (ginger, because of the reddish stage lighting) hair, the open-necked white shirt, and the manner of his gait suddenly brought to mind a certain ginger fireball not a million miles away from our favourite football club. And it wasn?t just me, either. As I was about to articulate my thoughts to my other half, he came out with precisely the same thing! What made it even worse was the sudden manifestation of that well-known ?I know something you don?t!? smile, just before the start of ?Radio Ga Ga?. I?ve seen it dozens of times at pre-match Press conferences, not to mention supporters? functions, and to see it playing on the lips of the lead-singer in a tribute band was a pretty hefty shock to the system, to say the least. Or could it be I?m suffering from ?Neil Clement Syndrome?? What?s that, then? Easy. As our Number One dead-ball expert Number Three told us several seasons ago, he?d become so used to The Soup Dragon constantly bawling in his ear during games (playing on the left, he was in for the first bite of anything from the dug-out!), it finally got to the stage where he was constantly having awfully-vivid dreams about our leader and his uniquely-penetrating voice! If our manager?s incessant bawling ever gets to me like that, be sure to do the decent thing ? and pass those bloody euthanasia pills, quick-smart!

 - Glynis Wright

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