MY IDEA OF HADES: BIRMINGHAM AND THE MIDLANDS IN DECEMBER
By
Mickey Blue Eyes.

Richard Ingrams was the first long-term editor of the satirical magazine “Private Eye.” The publication had achieved unprecedented success by the time he was interviewed by some hapless establishment TV hack. The interview went something like this –

HACK: “How do you decide who to attack?”

INGRAMS: “What do you mean?”

HACK: “Let me put it another way. What policy decides the target of your satire?”

INGRAMS: “We don’t have a policy. We attack everybody.”

Exit bemused hack, unable to understand true satire cannot be delivered any other way.

All of this crossed my mind as somewhere in cyber space the hotmail sewage system backed up and somehow plopped an anonymous e-mail into my inbox. I promptly fitted the right non-return valve. I then tripped the virtual ball cock and flushed the mail into eternity.

Penned by a schooly with a peculiar combination of shallow political correctness, lousy English, stick-up-the-arse self righteousness and tunnel vision, it queried hysterically how I could use the nickname “The Duke” for Wayne Rooney. This, it squeaked in foam-flecked adolescence, was the nickname for that reactionary Yank, the late movie star John Wayne. There followed a list of Marion Michael Morrison’s (that’s his real name, you know) actual right-wing transgressions against decency until he fell off the perch and went to that Great Republican NRA Gun Totin’ Suburban White Boarded Evangelist High Noon Church In The Sky somewhere in a Death Valley fort staffed with US Cavalry, Hollywood regiment. John Ford, where is thy sting?

Briefly I considered asking young Wayne if he’d mind me dubbing him “Marion” but that might not have gone down too well in Croxteth or in the Street End. Then I thought maybe “Ché!” but that would probably have set off every “intelligence services” internet search engine on the planet.

You just can’t win with e-mail arseheads so it’s best to leave them to their paranoid catechism. Never explain, never apologise. Or limit yourself to, “Grow up, fuck off and die while staring up your own anus.” It really is the only kind of language they understand, a bit like Ozzies on cricket. Bad losers, even worse winners. Beats me why unctuous twerps of their ilk bother getting out of bed in the morning.

Billy Connolly would get even more mileage out of it. He did after all tell the famous story of being accosted by an ageing jockette who accused him of disloyalty to Scotland……….but it was at a gig in Sydney and she was an immigrant. Apparently the sour old cow, thick as asphalt pie, is still trying to work out why Billy had to be carried from the room spluttering helplessly with his sides in splints. Having worked world wide amongst expats for longer than was healthy I can tell you generally they are the worst and most one dimensional of the lot, as are distance fans who “hate” the pinkies. Only anonymous hotmailers are worse. Deal accordingly, friends.

The same birdbrain who sent the e-mail probably wouldn’t find any hilarity in the news that the playing success of The Duke and Joey has resulted in the club shop running out of Os to stick on the back of shirts. (That’s because The Duke is Wayne Rooney and Joey is Joseph Yobo, you know) Frankly I find endearing this kind of commercial fitfulness. Sure, it infuriates my sense of efficiency. But much more importantly, it makes me laugh. You need a profound sense of humour at this time of year. Unfortunately you are just as likely to bump into somebody waving a sales ledger and a set of phoney Enron-style accounts as anything else.

In theory it is also the time of year for feeling charitable or carrying out deeds of kindness. In fact it is nothing of the sort. All honest men and women will acknowledge this. My memory banks still hold the derelict TV image of a Yank shopping-mother sobbing uncontrollably because her local J. C. Penney store had sold out of Cabbage Patch dolls. I am unsure if she wanted one for herself or her nipper. Anybody who remembers those joyless, quite useless artefacts unfailingly recalls them as uglier than pug-faced Stephen Gerrard. All you wanted to do was punch the stuffed shit out of them and then feed them head first through a circular saw. If you couldn’t do that you wanted to garrot them in public or launch a vicious two-footed tackle on them. Reaction was and is inevitable. Alleged seasonal charity and kindness, if it ever existed, was lost long ago in a commercial stampede organised and directed by our establishment. You know, the ones who once went on about Victorian and Family Values while encouraging you to poison yourself on nicotine and alcohol, then shuffling you into a dole queue or looting your pension fund while muttering, “Merry Christmas.” Funny, that, as Billy would say.

Also, how else do you explain the viciousness of the fixture-maker who sent us to Birmingham during the holiday? What did we do to deserve that? Only 1962 Birmingham, Alabama, and Bull Connor could have been worse. Or maybe Newcastle. Or 1963 Texas. Or Caldy. Anyway.

Yes, yes, I know it is dangerous to generalise. But I’m in that kind of Birmingham- induced mood. So I’m going on an anti-Birmingham excursionary rant. If you don’t like the idea go to Caldy now, do not pass Go and do not Collect £200.

I joined The Bus at 9.00 a.m as directed by Texyla but not before I had phoned Mogsy at 8.00 a.m to inquire the actual time of departure. I knew of course but I wasn’t going to lose the opportunity to wind him up as tight as a lazzy band. And then twang it. A few minutes later my phone was filled with a Mogsy return call filled with the sort of invective which removes paint stains on hardwood.

The Bus had all the usual suspects plus some new ones. It was late leaving because someone, erm, forgot the departure time. Alan the driver was furious. He’d got up, he said, at seven a.m. just so some cunt could keep him sitting there for another couple of hours. All in all a great start to the trip. Somehow it seemed appropriate that we were soon enveloped in Birmingham-style mid-winter gloom, low grey clouds and cloying rain. The windscreen wipers went whap whap. Yes, it was one of those trips.

Soon enough we were at Spaghetti Junction, an area surrounded by the depressing remnants of a country which once had a manufacturing industry. Grey corrugated tin clad warehouses attached themselves to the motorway like piglets in a sty. Without any of the charm. We pressed on to a bleak Birmingham suburb named Solihull, our target a pub called The Family Inn. Thank christ it wasn’t named Family Values. Solihull is the kind of antiseptic tory suburban enclave Pete Seeger had in mind when he composed the satire, “Little Boxes.” Still, Mine Host had a broad smile, a good sense of humour and a warm welcome. It was, I shit you not, the only ones we encountered during our all too long time in Brum.

The usual suspects assembled in a comfortable corner, picked over the bones of Christmas and thought about the match. Draw or win most thought, me included. Nobody anticipated losing.

Back on The Bus, we made our way to the ground. Suburb or not, the grass verges were covered in litter. Graffiti got steadily worse as we neared the city. There are no longer any bolt holes from English cultural defects. Our country is determined to scream impotently in the filth of litter, grid lock, lousy right wing government and graffito rap. For those who don’t know, “rap” rhymes with “crap.” It seemed we were visiting the very heart of it all. Chips With Everything, preferably scattered on the pavement on top of the chewing gum splodges. The only equivalent experience is something moving against your wellies in a swamp.

It came as no surprise to see grim policemen everywhere. So we couldn’t pretend to be startled when our coach was directed into a fenced and gated compound surrounded by said bizzies. You went straight from the coach to the turnstiles. Once there, Mogsy asked which gate. The nearest thick looking Plod said completely without humour, “That wun. Then you turn roit and gow strite tew the deetenshan rewm.” Welcome to Birmingham City. Yeuk. The place is vile beyond description.

Team, Joey back in at right back. Everyone else as before.

Match openings now are almost a carbon copy. Yet again we should have had a goal in the first minute. SuperKev missed again. Oh well. So the game started badly and fell away to the worst match of the season thus far. But somehow it felt symmetrical. Everybody was stodgy with the aftermath of the first day of the holiday.

I have yet to see a match involving that mobile piece of untalented excreta, Robbie Savage, which was anything better than bad tempered and fractious. He’s a horrible little gett with the wrong attitude to seemingly everything. He isn’t “hard,” he’s just a nasty giggling little shitehawk. The sooner he’s playing in the Lower Midlands Glue Sniffers Anonymous League the better. His only “ability” is the unquestioned ones to kick, push, whine at, or tug everything which moves, sometimes even players in the same team as he. The sooner he’s gone for good, the better. Our game doesn’t need him or his type.

This game was worse than bad tempered and fractious. It was boring in the extreme, flat as a dead fish and twice as smelly. I couldn’t wait for it to finish so I could get off home. It was played out to a background of Brummy fans, which is currently the biggest insult I can offer to anybody.

I have mentioned in previous match reports how fans from that area have developed a streak of nastiness far worse than anywhere else. I have no idea why this should be. Perhaps Savage has indeed found his spiritual home. They howl a lot, which of course the media calls “atmosphere” – as big a misnomer as you can get. It isn’t atmospheric, it is downright tribal ugly. And it may yet resurge into a widespread trend. If it does, and the fans and/or media make no attempt to help stop it, I’m off for good. Twice in one lifetime is twice too many.

Out on the pitch, midfield play was perfectly suited for the ragarse Savage. It was much worse than the derby game. We were bad and they were worse. I struggle to recall a move involving more than two accurate passes. If this is the best Birmingham can do then they are doomed to the drop and good riddance. Fortunately for us we KNOW we can play better. I can’t wait until we prove it again.

Our big problem remains the two centre midfield positions. These are pivotal in any team. In our case it is more maddening because we can and do win a lot of the ball – and then fail to use it well. Our defence is usually better than good now and so is our attack. But there’s a fucking big hole in the middle and we’ll go nowhere until it gets filled with some passing ability. I’m not “blaming” anyone in particular. It’s just the way things go. Meanwhile, Moyesy plugs the gaps as best he can. On this issue though he is really plaiting sawdust. Short of a youngster breaking through I can’t see it getting sorted any time soon. SuperKev and The Rad will continue to plough lonely if determined and willing furrows until the balance is corrected.

Joey had a reasonable game at right back but it is obviously not his best position unless he suddenly develops a penchant for it. Understandably he kept drifting ever so slightly into the middle. Which meant he got caught out of position too often. Even so, he still looks class. The sooner he is restored to centre back the better.

We were still yawning when The Gravedigger managed to get our first shot on target just before half time. At which point lightning decided to strike twice in a minute.

The Gravedigger’s viagra must have kicked in because he suddenly stuck a deadly accurate long right wing pass through to The Rad, penalty area, wide right side and closing. He knocked it through the keeper’s legs and we were one up. As we sat down I thought, “Right, that’s good enough to see off that pile of crap.” Silly me.

Sixty seconds later, a completely useless left wing Brummy move was rendered deadly when way-out-of-position Joey half heartedly headed a harmless ball out to our wide right from the edge of our penalty area. Normally it would have bounced out for a throw in which we would have cleared. Instead, their man caught it on the touchline and got just enough room to one side to bang over a hit and hope centre. When it arrived, Davey and Stubbsy had gone to sleep a la the Cloggies match and Wrighty was left completely unprotected. You or I could have buried it. It was a stupid and needless one to let in. I’m willing to bet Moyesy broke a half time cup each on the heads of Davey and Stubbsy.

The second half was just as bad. It only lifted when The Duke came on. I’ll say that again: It only lifted when The Duke came on. In fact I liked it so much I’ll say it again: It only lifted when The Duke came on. There, softshite, try and get that past the non-return valve.

Even now there are some dopes who don’t understand what Moyesy’s trying to do with the boy. That is: EASE HIM IN SLOWLY ACCORDING TO HIS TEMPERAMENT AND ABILITIES. I have typed that in capitals so’s there can be no misunderstanding. Neither you or I have any idea what the lad is like in training and attitude. Moyesy has. I’ll back his judgement against yours and mine any day. Mine is, if he’s good enough, he’s old enough. Moyesy thinks he isn’t good enough yet. Hence bringing him on as substitute for the moment. Moyesy is right because he’s proved he has the ability to be right most of the time. But that won’t stop various inadequate arseholes screaming all kinds of dickhead ideas at him. I wish these people would go and live in the Midlands. That seems to be their most natural habitat.

Then came the latest moment on The Duke’s learning curve. He got sent off by public school house master David Elleray. Here’s how I saw it:

Us on an inside left channel attack, the ball running ahead of The Duke. Their defender came across to cover. They both went for the ball. They both launched along the ground at the same moment. The defender was slightly nearer. Hence, it was 52-48 in his favour. The defender got their fractionally first, as you would expect. The Duke’s extended foot arrived and caught him on the ankle, but he was clearly going for the ball and was determined not to lose. It was a foul, a yellow card and nothing more. I assume Elleray sent him off for showing studs during the launch. But it might just as well be because of Elleray’s cultural defect as a public school house master dealing with adolescent boys. (After all, this is the same ref who didn’t even talk to, let alone book or send off, Tarrico of Spurs for a much, much worse tackle on The Gravedigger – a tackle which even Glenda described as “unacceptable.” You can say that again Glenda la. It happened right in front of Elleray too.) All this did was demonstrate that referees also have their moments, decision-wise, when they behave like Robbie Savage……who, incidentally, pursued Elleray the moment it happened. Sensible fans will find supreme irony in this. Elleray should be ashamed but you can bet he isn’t. Stiff upper lip and all that, thick bastard.

For all that, the sending-off will do Rooney no harm whatsoever. Timing is everything. Determination is fine but scoring the winner is a good deal better. He’s proved his point. He’s no pushover and he won’t pull out of 50-50s. If the rest of the league is in no doubt, then nor should he be. Learn the lesson, Duke. You’ll be better for it.

The result was both sides had ten men because they had used all their subs. Ergo, more space. Ergo proctor sum, relatively more open play for the remainder of the match. But that’s strictly relative. It was still shite. A draw was a fair result. Mediocrity cancelled itself out. I couldn’t wait to get away to home and hearth.

After the match, Moyesy said, “I’m not going to say I didn’t see it…………I won’t ask him to curb his aggression.” There’s a lesson in there for other lesser managers who tell lies.

When I finally got in after a miserable journey I switched on the TV. An old movie flickered. It was titled, “The Alamo.” It starred John Wayne. I smiled with satisfaction and thought of Richard Ingrams. Life, it seems, really can go full circle, even though there are some people who never cotton on to it. After his sending off, I hope The Duke realises it quicker than most. Then again, whatever his merits or demerits, he doesn’t have a stick up his arse. I mean, he moves like shit off a shovel. Ask the Brum defender.

Roll on notloB. That’s a Monty Python non-palindrome, you know.

Joey Yobo is now available and I expect him to go straight back in, but at right back to replace the injured Hibbert, leaving Stubbsey & Davie Weir to continue in the centre of defence. I expect Pisto to keep his place, as well as Pembo, leaving Li Tie, & Wato on the bench. Rooney should start up front with Super.

Jogger's eleven to start: Wright, Yobo, Weir, Stubbs, Pistone, Carsley, Gravesen, Pembridge, Naysmith, Campbell, Rooney.

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