The Diary

08 May 2004: Celebration Time In Oldbury Town Centre!

Friday evening, and time for the event we?d all been waiting for, the chance for the borough and its people to honour our favourite football club after winning promotion to the Prem. From all over the Black Country, they came, descending upon Oldbury town centre in droves; even though we?d set out with a good hour to spare, we still had to park The Dickmobile some way down the hill from the town centre. And, as we made our way towards the main square, so did other Baggies in their thousands, although not a few elected to help matters along a little by popping into nearby pubs for a little lubrication of the old festive-spirit glands beforehand. There were also the street vendors, flogging flags and other Baggie memorabilia to many of the enthusiastic revellers heading their way. And, inevitably, judging from the great numbers stacked hopefully around their feet, there were those who seemed to be left with rather more of those blasted Viking helmets than they?d originally planned for, which now leaves me wondering ? just where do you find a market for loads of surplus Nordic-looking headgear, clearly well past its sell-by date? Any budding Del Boy Trotters out there, I look forward to hearing from you!

On then, into Oldbury?s main square, and although there was still quite some time to go before the arrival of our finest, already there was quite a Baggie gathering present, right down to the brave blue and white shirted soul who, in clear defiance of all common sense and logic, managed to climb onto the roof of a solicitors office abutting the square, and from there, onto the gable end protruding into the street, and, from his lofty perch, wave an Albion flag in similar fashion to the one being toted in the famous photograph of US Marines taking Iwo Jima in 1944. And, just below, was that unbelievable crowd; big ?uns, little ?uns, babbies in pushchairs, giggling teenagers, entire family groups, plus patriarch, the lissom and lithe, the downright adipose, the elderly, wearing long woollen scarves of fifties or sixties vintage, with memories even longer, no doubt, all proudly wearing the sacred stripes, and all waving flags and banners as if their very lives depended upon it.

Not that the flag-wavers needed much assistance, mind; quite a stiffish breeze swirled around that square, ample enough to set all those colours a-flutter, all right, but not enough to make it unpleasantly cold for the participants. Even the rain, which had threatened to make its presence felt earlier in the evening, decided to postpone its visit to the borough for the duration; instead, we were left with a sky of steel-grey, with a small patch of muddy yellow where the setting sun was vainly struggling to find a way through the murk.

And, my goodness, the noise! Those street vendors flogging horns and whistles in quantity must have certainly raked it in; to me, it seemed to me that just about every child present tonight came equipped with one or the other, and not a few adults, as well. And, as you might expect, the result was a delightful cacophony of hooting, chirruping, whistling, chanting, reverberating around the square in a manner quite astonishing to behold, and enough to send every roosting pigeon within earshot wheeling and circling above in alarmed fright. Having its roots very much in the Victorian age, the venerable building adjacent to the War Memorial, formerly the old Town Hall, and now a Citizens Advice Bureau, amongst other things, must have seen many historic moments come and go over the period of its long existence, watching the troops march off to France in a similarly-fervent flurry of flags and banners in 1914, Armistice Day, its VE and VJ counterparts in 1945, that sort of thing, but never in their wildest dreams could those starched-shirted and walrus-moustached old civic fathers have envisaged anything like this disturbing the tranquillity of that age-old redbrick pile, and the war memorial fronting it. Were they, even now, spinning in their graves, I wondered, quietly to myself.

Then, as we both contemplated the throngs massing in rapidly-increasing numbers directly in front of the new Town Hall balcony at the end of adjacent Freeth Street, so did the feeling strengthen that this was it; the culmination of a long hard season that had its modest beginnings in Denmark, last July, reaching its climax, if you like, at The Stadium Of Light, that deliciously-delightful moment when Jason Koumas sent us all wild with that last-minute winner of his. What a finish to the season, and, as I contemplated those striped-shirted kids once more, completely enmeshed in the gaiety of it all, I wondered just how many lifelong Albion supporters we?d made on the strength of our success? Well, the Jesuits ? ?Show me the child and I?ll give you the man.? ? had it just about right, and judging from the numbers of what were clearly three or four generation Baggie combos clustered immediately below that balcony, it seemed to me inconceivable that Albion were going to want for new supporting blood in the immediate and medium-term future. This is the sort of thing that burns itself indelibly on the brains of juvenile watchers, something to tell their own children, twenty or thirty years hence. And, as they rejoiced, high above, a succession of planes passed overhead preparing to make their final approach to Birmingham Airport; what those passengers idly staring through their cabin windows at the scenes below must have thought of it all, heaven only knows.

Finally, as the object of all this unconditional worship neared the site, out came Albion?s regular DJ, Matthew, on the balcony, to set the scene. One vagrant thought, though ? on arrival, I had been somewhat miffed to see huge banners proclaiming the legend ?Sandwell Council? draped both above and below where Matthew was standing; a small niggle, maybe, but surely this was our football team?s party, and not the local authority?s? We?d already had highlight?s of this season?s games played to us via the big plasma screen to our left; all we needed now was some music to set the mood, and it wasn?t slow in coming. The programme commenced with Thin Lizzy?s ?The Boys Are Back In Town?, closely followed by ?Go West?, by the Pet Shop Boys, further comment unnecessary, ?Celebration Time?, by Kool And The Gang, ?Ain?t No Stopping Us Now? (sorry, can?t remember the name of the artist for the life of me!), and ?Beautiful Day?, by U2, the theme for ITV?s Saturday night Premiership highlights spot. And, as the object of the night?s festivities drew nearer still, we then heard ?The Only Way Is Up? (sorry, can?t remember who recorded that one either), ?Daddy?s Got A Brand New Pig-Bag?, by Pig Bag, better known to Albion-lovers as The Jason Koumas Song, progressing to ?I Feel Good?, courtesy of soul singer James Brown, then to something from Queen, in this case, ?Don?t Stop Me Now.?

Time then, for broadcaster and self-confessed Baggies nut Adrian Chiles to take over; first of all, he welcomed onto the balcony Albion chairman Jeremy Peace, then, following a suitably-laudatory introduction, Gary Megson himself, who appeared waving and gesturing to the crowd below in not dissimilar fashion to a successful politician on General Election Night, which, when you think about it a little, isn?t all that far short of the mark, really. And all to a spirited rendering of that old favourite, ?West Brom?s Going Up!?, to the tune of the Frank Skinner hit of several years previously. Interesting, though, the seemingly-throwaway remark he made to his audience about last time?s thrash being ?stage-managed? and this occasion not suffering from that deficiency. But then again, everything our leader says in public is calculated to the nth decimal place, so what did he really mean by that, I wonder?

Once both chairman and manager had taken their plaudits in fine style, it was then the players? turn to get the old political rally treatment. In contrast to previous occasions, Adrian elected to bring them to the fore in relays of four; the first batch were headed by Greegs, and had among them Gilly, which was a bit of surprise, to say the least, as he?d played very little part in the Albion promotion story over the latter chunk of the season. The biggest roar from the crowd, though, came when Hughsie appeared, in the third batch of players, a bald headed figure, arms outstretched above him, and grinning fit to bust, the throngs below paying due homage to one truly of their own. Which one was the balder of the two, I wondered; the town mayor, in full regalia, stood at the far end of the balcony, or our striker?

And, in the next batch, there was the enormous presence of Big Dave; his enormous form totally dwarfing everyone else present. And he even led the audience in a lusty rendering of ?The Lord?s My Shepherd?! There was also The Horse, taking the plaudits like a good ?un, and Houlty; even at that distance, he still bore an uncanny resemblance to the giant in Tim Burton?s ?The Big Fish?! While all this was going on, it was interesting to see that the picture-taking process wasn?t just a one-way thing, supporters, of players, or press, of supporters. As each lot of players took centre stage, we could see several video cameras going in the background also, the wielders of those cameras being those of our finest who?d either done their thing for their public, or were awaiting their turn to accept the acclaim of their admirers massed below. I?d really love to know just what they were filming, and why!

And suddenly it was all over; time, then, to make our way back to the Dickmobile, along with the rapidly dispersing throng, some of whom were already sloping into handily-placed pubs to continue the celebrations there. And, even when leaving Oldbury proper, the celebratory mood continued; some car drivers tooted their horns in delight, and waved flags from front and rear windows, Continental-style, much to the surprise of various passers-by. And, even the wording on some of those flags ? ?We?re Back Again!? ? gave us uncomfortable food for thought as we sped once more towards Bearwood, and home. Would the message change to ?We?re Bottom Again!? come mid-September, we wondered. A lot, I suspect, will depend upon our close-season, and what efforts we make to attract class players to The Shrine, so I guess we?ll just have to wait and see which way the mop flops.

Tomorrow, myself, ?Im Indoors, and the Old Fart are off to Hull City, already promoted, of course, and their final League game versus Bristol Rovers. It?s primarily to get the ground in ? since the last time we met them in combat, way back in our Third Division days, they?ve moved to a brand new HQ ? but also to take in a bit of lower-league football, for a change. Back tomorrow night with all the nitty-gritty about life in the bottom division, and also a wee bitty discourse about our own season just gone, what was hot, what was not, that sort of thing, so until then, tara..

 - Glynis Wright

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