The Diary

27 April 2003: Especially for Pompey

I suppose I should be happy for them, really. There they were, basking on the pitch in the warm glow of mass-adulation from their supporters, those blue and white chequered flags rippling in rectangular unison, the pop and gush of carbon dioxide under pressure leaving its exorbitantly-priced alcohol-laden glassy domain for the last time, the TV cameras recording the presentation of the First Division Championship trophy to Harry Redknapp and Jim Smith's star pupils, every single one of those players milking the occasion for all it was worth, and more besides? Sounds familiar, doesn't it? Bar for the silverware, which you don't get if you finish in runners-up spot, of course, that could have been us, approximately twelve months, an age, ago. A time when we were all embarking on a wide-eyed great adventure; the transition from First Division nonentities, relatively speaking, to Premiership new-boys, basking for the first time in the full glare of the media. Congratulations, Pompey, on your promotion, from a supporter of a side heading rapidly in the other direction. Sorry to be such a party-pooper, chaps and chapesses, on your night of glory, but as far as the Premier League is concerned, you're more than welcome to it?

As the commentator pointed out, having served fifteen years of durance vile in The First, your elevation to the top flight's been a long time coming, and good luck to you all for having finally crossed the Great Divide, but I wonder if you really know what you're letting themselves in for? Once the euphoria of the moment's died down, it might be instructive for any Pompey-ites reading this to have a quiet word in the shell-like of some of our home and away regulars; I guarantee that you'll be given something of an eye-opener as to what to expect next season. Here's a potted version; for the whole thing in its unexpurgated glory, either contact this email address, or simply take the time and trouble to talk to any Baggie who cares.

Goodbye Walsall, Rotherham - my goodness, they certainly didn't come just to make up the numbers tonight! - and Stoke; hello, Man United, Liverpool, Arsenal, and all stations west. Goodbye, also, any lingering sentimental notions that your club regards its regular followers as being at all worthy of note; from now on in, such is the honeypot that The Prem is these days, the primary aim will be to schmoozle up with corporate entertainment merchants, businesses, small and large, the media, and sod the rest. Backroom boys and PR merchants wearing sharp suits and sharper smiles will reproduce by binary fission, just like bacteria, admission prices will be jacked up - sure, Premiership status means a massively-inflated wage bill, so the money has to come from somewhere - the media profile of the club will be so heightened, you will need oxygen and a pressurised suit just to get near the ground, and players will suddenly become remote figures, glimpsed only on the field of play, and certainly not in the less-rarefied strata of Supporters Club meetings, bar the odd occasion or two. And that's even before the season proper starts?

And once hostilities finally commence? Got a second-mortgage, all you Frattonites out there? You sure as hell are going to need one, especially if you're seriously contemplating going to every game, both home and away. Expect to see a sudden decrease in the weight of your wallet, not to mention your bank balance; now might be the time to approach your line manager at work and negotiate that pay rise you've always wanted. Bearing in mind the horrendous prices charged by Chelsea, Birmingham (yes - them!) and the likes of Man U and The Arse, it's either that or turn to crime, or, if you're one of the 50% of the population that lacks a Y chromosome, prostitution. Then again, there are, I believe, career opportunities for males in that field also, so providing you don't get caught or catch something nasty, the opportunity is there to finance your inaugural Premiership season right up to the hilt.

And while we're loosely banging on about dodgy practices and related subjects, there's the thorny issue of referees. Let me get one thing straight before I start, the words "Premiership", "Referees" and "Competence" are all mutually exclusive. Fact. Insert them into a sentence in any order you choose; believe you me, there just ain't no such thing as a competent Premiership official. This might smack of sour grapes to some, especially those who support sides that seem to reap the harvest of adverse/downright perverse decisions on a regular basis, but that's the way it is in the Prem, baby, so you'd best get wise now. First things first, then - Pompey were awarded a penalty early-doors tonight, and neatly converted it was, too. Cherish that magical moment, it's precious; if I were you, I'd be looking for a picture of that incident, and purchasing a frame for it right now, because the next one will be a long time coming, that's for sure. To put not too fine a point on it, next term, your strikers will be tripped, whacked, pulled from pillar to post, rugby-tackled in the box, even, by some of domestic football's biggest names, but nothing whatsoever will be given, unless the perpetrator of the damage chooses to take the foolish step of whipping out a revolver from under his shirt and shooting his opponent in full view of the rozzers and the cameras. Indeed, as far as more conventional infractions are concerned, the more likely outcome of such a scenario will be a yellow card (or worse!) for the wronged party for dissent. At that level, referees are sensitive souls. Just remember this golden rule; the opposition can practically kick you into geostationary orbit for all the men in black care, but question their competence or their lineage, and you're in dead lumber, my son?

You'll also be patronised by the media to a degree most rational adults find sickening. Indeed, already, you're being tipped by the bookies to drop like a piece of lead shot chucked from a tower - and we haven't even held the funeral rites of the current campaign, yet! It might help that you have a chairman who is, quite frankly, loaded; the promise of financial largesse might spare you the tabloid and TV humiliation of Messrs. Marsh and Baker tipping you to go down with nary a point to show for your labours. Such opulence might even help grease your way out of the relegation bear pit, but don't bank on it. Enjoy your year in the sun, Pompey; after all that hard graft this season, you thoroughly deserve it, but remember also that not all that glisters is gold, and not all that seems sexy and seductive to football's lower strata is really thus once the dream becomes a reality. Believe you me, we thoroughly disillusioned Baggies know?

And finally? Some news hot off the press from The Fart, who attended this evening's SC Player Of The Year Night? Player Of The Year, Jason Koumas, with Greegs and Houlty worthy runners-up. Goal Of The Year, Scott Dobie's at White Hart Lane. Young Player Of The Year - yes, we do have one! - Lloyd Dyer, who made but one first team appearance this term, versus Wigan. One notable absence from the proceedings was a certain Gary Megson; the word on the streets is he's currently scouting in Switzerland; either that, or he's perfecting his yodelling on some Alpine slope or another, and scaring the cows in the process. There was more from The Fart but, sadly, for various reasons, I can't repeat any of it!

What I can tell you is that Supes was presented with a cheque for ten thousand quid from the supporters' club. His speech ran along similar lines to that given in The Throstle Club a few nights ago, so I won't elaborate further, except to say that once more, Bob has pledged to carry on following us once his playing days are over; as far as he's concerned, Albion are now his adopted side. Oh - and one more thing.. The Fart also presented him with a complimentary copy of the current GD - the one with all those pictures of Supes on the front cover - and he's dead tickled by it. Spent a considerable amount of time trying to work out where and when all the photos were taken, apparently! Well, I won't tell if you won't tell.. And, talking of Bob, don't forget that Hawthorns reserve game tomorrow night, those readers who can attend. It's not the most ideal of circumstances in which to say 'goodbye' to a much-loved player, but let's have a cracking good crowd there versus Villa and let Bob know that at least some people appreciate what he's done for us?

 - Glynis Wright

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