The Diary

24 April 2003: Super Bob, Super Bowler!

Having just got back from the Bob Taylor Testimonial do at The Throstle Club, I really have to say one thing. For a bloke who reckons he's never played bowls in his life, Bob can't half smack those woods around that green! Quite astonishing how he and his chums marmalised the opposition, really. I must say I know practically sod-all about crown-green bowling, except it was the reason why Sir Francis Drake didn't immediately do battle with the Spanish Navy when The Armada was sighted off Plymouth Hoe all those many moons ago; the silly old sod refused to move even one particle of his considerable bulk until his game had run its natural course; once he'd done the biz, then and only then did he turn his mind towards totally annihilating those upstart Latins. OK, tonight, the Throstle Club's bowling-green was a poor substitute for The Hoe, and there were definitely no billowing Spanish sails on the horizon - well, certainly not on the nearby cut the last time I checked it out - but despite suffering the disadvantage of not being dressed in doublet and hose, our veteran striker still managed to acquit himself quite well. Incidentally, Malcolm Boyden, he of Radio WM and, lately, The Times, was also a participant, and in between doing his bit for Bob's lot, partook of some sneaky-beaky nattering with us Dick Eds sat on a nearby bench. The only disappointment, really, was the weather, which was bloody cold for the time of year, and not at all conducive towards sitting in the rapidly-gathering gloom, and watching both sides pit their wits against each other with the aid of their little wooden balls (I said it was cold!)?.

The pair of us not wishing to experience muscle-seizures and/or hypothermia on a grand scale, The Fart and I then decided to move to warmer regions, i.e. inside the bar area, which was where most people had drifted to by that time; even Bob's two children, real live-wires, the pair of 'em. It was not long after that, The Main Atttraction, accompanied by Mr. Boyden, re-entered the bar preparatory to the next part of the bill of fare, a Sports Forum. During the interval between the first and second events, The Fart managed to collar our broadcaster friend, who wanted to know more about the background to our forthcoming Men In Black fancy-dress party at Blackburn, not to mention any more gen we could supply about previous similar thrashes for future use.

Actually, there's quite a few reading this who may not realise just how far back this little last-away-game tradition of ours goes, so I'll digress a little. There had been sporadic outbreaks of dressing up by a very few of our supporters at away grounds during the late seventies and early eighties - mostly at Ipswich, as I recall - but the whole thing really took off the day we played Hull City on the last day of the season round about 1989. If I remember correctly, the theme then was 'beachwear', and our away-end was absolutely filled to the gunnels with Baggies dressed in Hawaiian shirts, knee-length shorts and all the rest of the paraphernalia, beach-balls and inflatables included. At one point in the second half, I distinctly remember spotting my niece leading a bloody great conga-line around the away terrace, much to the astonishment of the local rozzers! The year after that, there was Barnsley, similar theme - I think I've mentioned that one in an earlier piece - and then there was Bath, 1991, and that Roman idea of Deano's. I often wonder if by adopting that particular mode of dress - togas, sandals, legionaries' helmets - we upset the spirits of centurions long turned to dust, who then extracted their revenge in no uncertain fashion by plunging us and the entire club into the old Third Division for the first time ever in our entire history! The year after that? Shrewsbury, Bobby Gould's swan-song, and as we all knew his time at the club was well and truly up, some genius thought of wrapping the whole day around coffins, undertakers, and so forth. Unfortunately, some took it too far; at the end of the game, which we won 3-0, there was a pitch invasion into the goalmouth, where some brain-deads then took it into their heads to pull down and shatter the crossbar. Not the cleverest of ideas, really.

In '92/93, our promotion season, we reverted to beachwear once more, this time at Rotherham, and after that, there was a bit of a lull, as we were then involved in several relegation battles that went almost to the wire - Portsmouth, for instance. In between times, we took the old 'beachwear' theme to Sunderland (twice) but the classic really had to be that 'formal dress' day at QPR, not long after our present manager arrived at the club, inspired, of course, by that survey by a 'lads' mag' that reckoned we were the worst-dressed supporters in all Christendom; that one even reached the nation Press and TV. I don't think we did much the following season or the one after that as we were sweating on the play-offs and promotion respectively, but as there are no such constraints on our behaviour this time, I guess we'll just have to let rip with gay abandon!

Now - where was I? Oh yes, Supe's Sports Forum. This is where Bob really excels, in discourse with supporters, and he was really on form tonight, ably assisted, for the first half at least, by Malcolm Boyden. Inevitably, one of the topics brought up tonight centred around the recent problems Bob had experienced with our manager, and Bob, as per usual, was quite open about the current state of play. In a nutshell, Bob still doesn't know why Meggo's cast him into the Outer Darkness, as they haven't spoken for about five months now. The first he knew of his demotion was when his kit was moved from the first-team squad changing area, to that used by the youngsters and reserves. Bob said that although he'd accepted he wouldn't be getting full games this term, he had hoped he would be included in all the peripherals prior to games; the away trips, the dressing-room banter, the camaraderie, but it wasn't to be. There were also thoughts surrounding that game versus Crystal Palace; Bob doesn't remember that much, apart from the goals, but does recall all those Black Country blokes dancing around like little kids afterwards; blubbering like crazy, some of them. Bob still has a picture of himself with one of them. He also mentioned our away support, which was generally regarded as excellent by our players, especially at places like Newcastle; Bob was at that game (we know, because we bumped into him and Lee Hughes in the middle of Durham the night before!) and the one thing that really impressed the Tynesiders was the noise made by our contingent, way, way up there in the away end.

We were also given an insight into the crazy world of Bobby Gould - unbeknown to me, one of his pre-match stunts was to make all the players walk around half a mile from the town centre to an away ground; another, as Malcolm reminded us, was to invite the Press into the dressing-room in an attempt to shame his charges into doing better, plus, later still, at Bournemouth, that supporter. And, of course, there were Gould's infamous code words for the deployment of certain tactics at corners - 'Mongo' or 'Double Mongo' depending on the situation in hand. As far as the best Albion manager he'd ever played under was concerned, that had to be Ossie Ardiles, whose philosophy was wrapped around the assumption that if the other lot scored four, it was still possible for us to score five and win the game. He was also a bloke who liked to join in with all the dressing-room banter and hi-jinks, and very often it needed the restraining influence of Keith Burkinshaw to maintain things on an even keel. Bob also reckoned that the striking partnership he struck up with Andy Hunt was one of the best he'd had; Andy being somewhat laid-back by nature, and Bob holding the ball up and laying it off for him, pretty soon, the goals racked up like scores on a pinball machine. The best player he'd seen? Chelsea's Zola, without a doubt.

Bob reckons when he finally leaves the club he might have a hankering to go into coaching, but he wants to start off in a modest sort of way. The primary aim is to get those coaching badges under his belt first of all, then begin by instructing youngsters - I reckon he'd be brilliant at it, personally -and gradually work his way up towards more challenging situations and clubs. As for being a gaffer himself, Bob reckons his inclination to enjoy the atmosphere in the dressing-room would be a handicap; most of the coaches he'd admired had been of that ilk. There was much more, of course, but Bob finished the night off in a somewhat emotional manner by profusely thanking all those Albion supporters who had taken him to their hearts over the years, and had turned the relationship between the two into something that transcended the sort of thing normally enjoyed by both parties.

It was because of our club, our supporters, that Bob felt he'd been able to achieve what he had in football; nothing spectacular, like wining trophies, just lots of happy moments over the ten years or so he'd been with us. Put simply, Bob loved the supporters and the supporters, for their part, loved Bob. Our striker did say that whenever he could, he would still come to games and support the side, also, that he would take the trouble to attend any future SC meetings if invited, which is all we ask of a legend, really. Unsurprisingly, with that, the meeting finished to thunderous applause and chants of "Super, Super Bob!" from the floor. Despite the manner of his going, let's hope it's not too long before we see Bob and his wicked sense of humour gracing the Throstle Club stage once more.

And finally.. After the meeting ended, we gave The Fart a lift back to his place, as is our wont - but with a difference. Unbeknown to our vintage co-editor, we had what amounted to a ticking time-bomb in our boot. Not the three or four two-litre packs of 'Tango' pop we'd rescued from the cash and carry for The Fart's benefit, they were no problem; the really thorny issue revolved around the big display carton of Chupa Chup lollipops we'd also lifted from there. Some of you may recall that Terry's other half had recently slapped a ban on her husband getting any more, so a bit of subterfuge was called for! Without him knowing it, 'Im Indoors craftily hid the lollies behind his back as he hoiked the Tango bottles inside El Tel's gaff, then, while he distracted The Fart with small-talk, quietly dropped the container onto El Tel's telephone table without him knowing. There's only one thing to do after that, and that's run like the clappers! Trouble was, my other half was a bit slow to do so, therefore my abiding memory is that of El Tel rushing outside like a bat out of Hell, lolly container in hand, and yelling fit to bust because his missus had then clapped eyes on them and duly hit the roof!

 - Glynis Wright

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