First Talking Bull then the Game

With West Brom playing this evening The Wrights came to Edgar Street early on Saturday as before the game they were selling the latest edition of Talking Bull. As ever Glynis takes up the story:

It all started because those nice folkies behind the Hereford fanzine 'Talking Bull' asked us to assist them in flogging their latest number, the first to hit the streets since the early part of the current season, apparently.

As it was our considerable expertise in that area they prized, how could we possibly refuse? Given also that the weather forecast had promised genuine spring-like temperatures, accompanied by distinctly-sunnier climes than we'd enjoyed of late, Saturday promised to be pretty good fun. Sadly, though, the promised vernal idyll just didn't materialise. How come? Not being a meteorologist by trade, I really don't know - does Hereford enjoy a microclimate radically different to the rest of the British Isles, I wonder? Whatever the reason, the upshot of it all was that by the time we arrived at the ground, slate-grey skies were once more the norm, the mercury had plunged somewhat precipitously, and just to put the metaphorical decorations on top of the iced cake, it began to rain. Not a downpour, just a slight drizzle at worst, but enough to make flogging a distinctly-damp proposition for those about to embark upon such eccentric pre-match activities.

What did amaze me, though, was the rapidity with which 'Im Indoors managed to shift his stock: I'd heard beforehand that the Bulls' persuasion were extremely fanzine-literate, but this enthusiasm for what our own board might term 'The Product' was truly astonishing. Setting up adjacent to some public toilets in close proximity to the ground - some would very unkindly say our location was highly appropriate, I suppose! - we'd originally started with around 200 of the blasted things, but within, literally, minutes of commencing flogging operations, we'd managed to shift no less than fifty copies, and that without really trying! The best bit I managed to miss, though. While hubby was busy doing his thing, I took the opportunity of 'powdering my nose' in the aforementioned ablutions, and it was while I was attending to this basic biological function I missed the arrival of some Baggies supporters badly in need of their customary Saturday afternoon 'fix' - and yes, they did recognise 'Im Indoors, and yes, they did regale him with sundry Baggies 'war cries'!

At least it made a distinct change from the 'cabaret' that greeted us the last time we flogged at that very same spot. Nothing to do with the cider-slurpers, more the sheer amount of cider slurped by the main character in this tale. If you will, cast your minds back to season 1994-95, and our League Cup fate taking us to sunny Edgar Street very early on in that campaign. A first leg at their place, and some serious GD-shifting outside beforehand, of course. Our 'audience'? A tramp, quietly sleeping off his previous alcoholic excesses on a handy bench close by. What he hadn't bargained for, though, was getting a rude awakening of the decibel-laden kind - when he's in full fig, my other half is quite capable of drowning out even the eardrum-rupturing roars of a Brigade of Guards RSM on ceremonial parade. Oh, my dears - the language, the language! Quite a knowledge of anatomy, both male and female, did that old dosser have, and very voluble he was with it, too. Coo, the things they teach 'em in those night shelters these days!

Returning rapidly to the year 2006, within the space of just 45 minutes, my beloved had flogged around 50% of his entire stock. All that, and just one solitary 'Is that the programme?' to contend with as well. Oh - and just one solitary shed-load of abuse from someone who thought it both big and clever to go in for that sort of thing. Strange lot, these country types - it really must be all that scrumpy, dead rats, iron bars, and all, I suppose. Or something. Well, if it can dissolve any or all of the aforementioned foreign bodies within a matter of hours, just what is it capable of doing to the human digestive tract, I wonder? Not to mention brain cells. Talking of 'going in', that was precisely what I'd done by that time, so I'd ended up missing the fun completely.

The game? Kiddy Harriers were the opposition, the latest incarnation of an ongoing local rivalry that has provided more angst for Bulls followers over the years than even the elegant, lovely, but obnoxious Neil Warnock would know what to do with. As their own Conference position wasn't much to write home about, what Kiddy tried to do was stop the home side playing - and boy, was it effective. All helped by the dismissal of a Hereford player for alleged retaliation - the guy had only struck out in complete frustration after being seriously impeded on the blind side of both ref and lino - and from then on in, the dismissal served to totally change the course of the entire game.

Hereford weren't helped at all by the fact that try as they might, they couldn't even hit a barn door at six paces, never mind find the back of the net. Three really juicy chances went begging - then, in the 73rd minute, disaster struck. It all started when Kiddy embarked upon a totally speculative punt from the edge of the box. Nine times out of ten the ball would have simply run for a bog-standard goal kick and be done with it, but not this time, sadly. On its way in, the ball took an almighty deflection off someone - Conference clubs not being in the habit of providing instant TV replays for their punters, I really haven't got a clue as to the identity of the culprit, should you wish to call him that - so one moment there was the sight of a Bulls keeper, in complete control of the situation, diving to his right, the next, the distinctly-depressing one of the ball going over the line in a completely opposite direction to the one originally anticipated! Not in the script, that - oh, whoops!

The reaction of the Kiddy support to that unlikely breakthrough was quite astonishing. Prior to their flukey strike, we hadn't heard a solitary peep from them, not a squeak, even. Were all their followers secret members of a Trappist Order? That was what we'd idly speculated, much earlier in the game. Come the goal, and they suddenly rediscovered their latent lungpower - and, unsurprisingly, didn't shut up for the remainder of the game after that.

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