The Diary

10 January 2005: Cup Draws? All A Load Of Spheroids, Really!

Well, we all saw (or heard, those Baggies among us who managed a sneaky-beaky listen via a suitably-camouflaged radio at work, of course) the FA Cup Fourth Round draw this lunchtime, so now we know what?s what. Spurs, at home. Pleasure, or pain? Well, as far as I?m concerned ? others might hold differing views ? pulling the North London club out of the tub was about the best deal we could have hoped for. No lower-league banana-skins with which to embarrass us in front of the entire nation come Saturday night, and a tie that just might get us a result, given a decent following wind and our finest badly wanting the win as a ready distraction from poor league performances. Could be interesting, that one.

There is a further angle, though, that of Martin Jol, now their gaffer. As most Baggies will know, Jol was recently appointed their manager; a former Baggie during the early eighties, he played for us in the middle. Offering a slightly euphemistic viewpoint from which to examine his performances back then, I suppose you might have described him as ?robust?. Certainly, he was no stranger to the referee?s notebook; I do sometimes wonder precisely how many tropical rainforests went out of existence as a result of our former player?s excesses, (and prejudice on the part of some match officials, who chose to listen to the referees? bush telegraph rather than make their own minds up about the guy?s alleged rough-house style of play) and the enormous amount of paperwork generated by the frequent need to bring disciplinary charges?

And there?s another knotty issue surrounding this particular tie. We did hear from a non-local journo that had things worked out slightly differently at the time, Martin Jol, not Robson, could well have ended up occupying the Hawthorns hot-seat. If that story was correct, he genuinely is the manager we so very nearly had ? so what happened, then? Easy: according to our info, around the time our board were feverishly casting around for a credible alternative to The Ginger One, Jol?s name ended up in lights. We made him an offer ? and that?s when it all went pear-shaped. I?m not fully conversant with all the ins and outs of the issue, of course ? supporters are always the last people to hear the full truth of any behind-the-scenes baggage affecting the fortunes of their chosen club ? but, as I understand it, somehow, the Spurs board got wind of what was going on, and fearful of having to let him go, promptly ?gazumped? us. And just like in house-buying negotiations, from which that term first originated, Jol stayed, and our board fumed.

So there you are. Another angle on what promises to be an interesting ninety-minute contest. Turning my attention once more to related matters, prior to watching the draw, I hoiked myself to The Shrine, picked up our Norwich tickets ? no-one whatsoever in the ticket-office when I arrived there, O bliss! ? then hopped on a 74 bus to Steino?s little hideaway in West Bromwich Market. And that?s when I dropped a bit of a clanger; so full was I with thoughts about getting back in good time to hear the draw, I handed over our Dicks, as normal, took the money owed us, but failed to pick up the returns, despite our little chum practically shoving the blasted things right into my hot little hand! That?s nerves, I guess; a stark warning to any younger followers out there who might fancy a forty-year-long supporting stretch for themselves. Forget drugs, chaps and chapesses: West Bromwich Albion truly screws you up in a manner no hallucinogen, stimulatory white powder or brown coloured highly-potent analgesic could ever hope to achieve.

Anyway, once back in Bearwood, I decided to pick up some meat from a local butcher (not the Bluenose one, he has Mondays off), and what a shock I had. Also on the premises buying stuff was an elderly geezer, who I?d never clapped eyes on in my entire life. Of that I?m certain; I may be awful at remembering names, but I?m usually shit-hot on faces, and this was one I?d never, ever encountered before. Much to my surprise, and totally unrequited, he then proceeded to engage me in a lengthy discourse about the game in general, and our favourite football club in particular. Who the hell he was, I haven?t a clue, but he certainly knew about my love for the Baggies.

Back home once more, TV going full-blast concerning the doings of some furry bear with a hairy great hand shoved right up its tradesmen?s entrance ? and yes, BBC2, thanks to your little schools programme, I?m now fully conversant with the fact that Edinburgh?s highest hill was once a fully-active volcano (but not half as eruptive as our former manager in full flow, I?ll bet) - then once that had finished, a tad late by my reckoning, it was time for the serious stuff. Into the bowl went the famous spheroids, and into my mouth went my heart. Biggest pitfalls, as I saw ?em, were us getting Forest, or, come to think about it, those bloody Dingles, more about which comes later. And, of course, any outfit residing in Divisions One or Two.

And, as the balls gradually emerged to meet their pre-ordained date with destiny, the draw did throw up some intriguing ties. West Ham v Sheffield United, for example; The Hammers, long known for their espousal of the ?tippy-tappy? code, drawn to host one of the most bruising sides (and managers, come to think about it) I?ve ever seen besmirch the division next to ours. Ouch. Arsenal-Wulves? Presumably, Wenger won?t be ?arsed? enough (sorry about the awful pun ? couldn?t resist it!) to field a full-strength side, but even without the greater part of their coruscating line-up at their disposal, they?ll still chew the Dingles into small pieces, then spit out the crunchy bits.

And what about the side I didn?t want to meet under ANY circumstances, Forest? They?ve pulled a comparatively easy one there, and, assuming an imagination stretched right to its elastic limit, a bit of a ?local derby?, as well. Barry Fry?s side is ailing somewhat at the moment, so The Trees shouldn?t find too much to worry about there. Off the field?s a different matter altogether, though. There you have a natural stage for two blokes possessing some of the biggest egos in the game, just about. Although having had enough heart bypass surgery to rate a honourable mention in The Lancet, the very real prospect of snuffing it during a game hasn?t cramped Bazza?s style one little bit; in fact, I strongly suspect that?s the way he would want it, given the option. Working in the game he quite clearly loves to bits, and I can readily understand that. He was also a big chum of The King, when he was alive, and the Astle family won?t hear a word said against him; very supportive when Jeff went, he was. As for our former leader, he too has a dedication and work ethic about him that?s truly frightening to behold, but preferring the chance to let his complete media-savvy do the talking for him, his approach to the tie will be somewhat short of Bazza?s ?battering ram? way of doing things.

Perusing the full list of ties, only four all-Premiership ones have been thrown up by those nice people we saw groping with all those big balls. That?s (presumably ? can?t see Exeter pulling off a shock in the replay, much as I would like to see them do it!) Man U v Boro; Chelsea v Blues; Southampton v Pompey (oh my, on seeing that one come out of the bag, how the Hampshire Police must have commented: ?congratulations, chaps, on getting the South Coast well and truly on the map for a change, and we now eagerly look forward to both sets of supporters enjoying the game together, and, what?s more, doing so in a spirit of true sporting fraternity?); and us v Spurs, of course. Because of that, it wouldn?t come as too much of a shock to discover that the TV people propose to get their sharpened talons into our encounter, something that would mean the game switched to another time, or day, even. No, I?m quite happy with what we pulled out of the pot, especially when you think of all the possible alternatives.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, to use the old Saturday film matinee ?cliff-hanger? expression, we were busy sorting out our first ?proper? signing since the window opened ? not counting Almeyda, of course, which I won?t until we know he?s safely in Blighty, or, more to the point, getting to know everyone at our training ground. Welcome on board, then, Kevin Campbell, our former Evertonian capture, of whom I spoke last night. Clearly, he?d rather be a Baggie than a Toffee! Let?s hope that?s not the last new face we?ll see at the club before the window slams shut again.

And, talking of transfers, I?m now seriously wondering as to whether or not Megson will be sufficiently brass-necked enough to try and grab a few ?easy? signings from us. What with them being in a similar sort of mess to us four seasons ago, and the old principle of ?better the devil you know than the one you don?t know? reigning supreme, could it be that our former manager will now try to mount a quick raid on our squad players in an attempt to beat the drop? There is a precedent of sorts, though: remember the time when Buckley left the club under a bit of a cloud, and so many of our players declaring publicly they were glad he?d gone after the event? And, what happened subsequently, when some of those that had moaned the most vociferously about his abrasive management style quickly upped and ran to Humberside the minute they heard the call? Yes, Paul Groves, Stacey Caldicott, Kevin Donovan - I mean YOU!

And finally?.. Saw this in the E and S tonight, and absolutely roared my head off. According to the piece, their editor got caught up in a bit of bother outside their offices post-Millwall, and most disgusted by the scenes he was, too. The best bit, though, wasn?t that, just the fact that according to the plods on the scene, blame for the trouble that erupted lay not at the feet of The Lions, the usual suspects when anything of this nature happens, but those of the Dingles themselves. Millwall supporters, escorted by the police, of course, headed straight for the station and their coaches, post-final-whistle, and were totally blamelessly waiting to catch trains, or whatever, at the time it all kicked off.

The cause? With their lot, who really knows; it?s a bit like asking the first atomic particle of plutonium to spark off the fission reaction that leads to an atomic explosion what made it bother in the first place, but according to the plods, because they couldn?t get at Millwall?s people, they decided to fight among themselves instead! Remarkable, isn?t it? In the space of a few short minutes, they contrived to do more damage to the centre of the town than the Luftwaffe had over the entire course of the 1939-1945 war! And with that, tara until the weekend ? unless there?s other hopeful developments on the transfer front, of course.

 - Glynis Wright

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