The Diary

18 January 2005: Baggies: A Suitable Case For Treatment?

?Coping strategies.? Now there?s a nice little buzz-word for you, and one hastily culled from the knotty field of stress-counselling, as you might well have guessed anyway.

Usually, that phrase is employed in connection with some life-changing event, what eventually becomes of the victim as a result of what?s happened, and what can be done in the way of long-term self-help to assist that person in making future life better for him/herself. And very successful that concept is, too, as survivors of such major events as life-threatening illness will readily attest. Completely strip it of its current psychobabble connotations, however, chuck into the mix a hefty gobbet of plain old-fashioned common sense, and it then becomes something you or I do automatically, without any medical assistance whatsoever, to ameliorate the effects of any of a great number of life?s disasters, petty or otherwise.

Just ask any well-committed Baggie; after the last few seasons, I suspect most of us could get doctorates in the subject, no problem at all. Take yesterday?s Craven Cottage events, and we GD Away Team members? reaction to the complete travesty that unfolded before our very eyes that Sunday afternoon. Those of you who read these jottings on a regular basis will know mine already; to work on this very diary late into the night, then onward into the wee small hours, thereby achieving complete catharsis, a posh medical term for the monumental relief you get when finally getting negative feelings, long bottled up inside you, completely off your chest. That?s precisely what I did last night, but even after I?d finished, sleep still eluded me, so after digesting bits of the Sunday papers I didn?t get to read yesterday, I went on my PC again ? it was nearer five in the morning by this time ? and let rip via the mailing-list also. As a means of winning friends and influencing people, I would have probably been better off standing in the middle of West Bromwich Shopping Precinct and bending back the lugholes of the one or two OAPs sitting on the benches there instead, but, as I opined previously, everyone deals with heaps of totally-unrequited ordure descending rapidly upon their heads in their own unique manner ? and that was mine.

As for my other half, he, too, achieved a fair measure of ventilation courtesy John, Paul George and Ringo, but, once back, looked completely drained of emotion. Driving all that distance, and in London traffic for the last leg, followed by a complete reversal of the itinerary after the final whistle didn?t help much, either. It didn?t help either that during the game, he?d been giving it great big licks on various fronts, the emotional and musical varieties being foremost. No wonder, then, that on arrival back to GD Towers, he then retired to bed and slept like a babe thereafter. Mind you, when returning to our ?office? to make a start on tonight?s offering, I did catch him in the process of compiling the editorial for the next due GD dose. Not that I?ve seen it properly as yet; no doubt, I?ll get that pleasure later in the week. Hot and smokin?? You can bank on it.

The other Dick Eds? Well, our initial reaction, as you saw in yesterday?s offering, was to bypass the stage of sorrow at hurricane speed, and by employing a few simple short-cuts, arrive at the State Of Complete Hysteria?s passport counter within the space of a couple of side-splitting hours. Afterwards, when we all went our separate ways? The Fart?s MO is dead easy to work out; his standard operating procedure is to clean to clinical standards of asepsis just about everything in his house, up to and including their poor bloody cat. Not knowing any better at the moment, I can?t lay hands on the precise details, but I can?t be all that far out in surmising that right now, you could transport an entire medical and surgical team from the nearby Queen Elizabeth Hospital to The Fart?s front lounge, spread a few sheets over his carpet, then tell the whole bloody lot of them to get on with the combined heart-lung transplant they?d wanted to do for the past couple of days, but couldn?t simply because they lacked an operating theatre sterile enough to complete the job in a satisfactory manner.

The Noise? Dearie, dearie me. Right now, his poor bloody workmates must be suffering aural agonies unmentionable. My guess has to be spot-on because I knew for a fact last night he was due into work very early today. Believe you me, I didn?t christen him The Noise for nothing; what you see (or, more to the point, hear) is precisely what you get, and baggy no returns. I?m not sure whether or not it?s completely beyond the remit of Wedgwoods to fix an outstation posting to, say, an order of Trappist monks that also uses the manufacture of pottery as a handy revenue stream, but that would seem the only way of shutting the lad up right now. And it?s not as if he can put such garrulous habits to good use by ringing a local radio station, then chucking in with a good wallop of high-pressure steam, as per The Fart. Sure, our little Potteries mate picks up Midlands ITV and The Beeb OK, but his only local means of ventilating his rage is via Radio Stoke, which, for obvious reasons, doesn?t exactly go large on the rapidly dwindling fortunes of Black Country football sides. When you?re in the business of soaking up like a sponge complete and utter misery of the sort habitually generated by both Stoke City and Port Vale followers, the last thing you really need on the wrong end of a lengthy telephone conversation is the mournful tones of someone even more completely overdosed on melancholy than they.

No doubt I will glean, and at a much greater length than usual, I?ll bet, the gory details from The Noise come the weekend, and our ?second leg? encounter with Man City. As for The Fart, we?ll be picking him up on Thursday evening, en-route to our date with South Birmingham Branch, who have as their guest for the night a certain Richard Sneekes, now retired from the game, of course, and making a bomb via the wild and wacky world of the City, no doubt. When playing for us, instead of emulating colleagues by bringing a PlayStation (or similar) with him to while away the many tedious hours spent on the road to Blundell Park, say, or join the back-seat card-school, even, instead you?d more likely find him avidly reading the Financial Times!

Not the sort of behaviour normally expected of the average First Division player, sure, but Richard wasn?t exactly typical of his peers. The phrase ?Marches to the tune of a different drummer? could have been written especially for him. Highly intelligent, but moody with it, he was the complete despair of most Hawthorns managers. As instantly changeable as the North Wind, but possessive of an extremely forthright nature himself, Forest?s current gaffer must have been left tearing his hair out with rage at times. No wonder he got rid of Richard within a matter of months of his arrival on the Hawthorns scene. Just like in ?Highlander?, ?There Can Only Be One?. Funny though; my one enduring memory of Richard is the night at Leicester City when he scored in spectacular fashion one of the eleven goals he banged in over the closing weeks of that particular season to keep us up.

It?s not just the excellence of the strike that brings a pleasurable sort of grin straight to my face, it?s the warm recollection that as both sets of players trotted back to the centre circle, all you could see in that away end were myriads of hands, and all clutching bloody betting-slips! It turned out that despite our Black Country answer to Rapunzel having netted on pretty much every occasion since we?d signed him from Bolton, for reasons unknown and completely astonishing, in hindsight, the bookies never woke and smelt the coffee, which was why the on-ground members of the species were still giving ridiculously-generous odds (12-1) on the lad to break the deadlock ? which he did that night, and with such panache, as well. The bookies? Bet you anything you care to mention the Leicester Samaritans? telephone hot-line was sizzling a bit later on.

But I digress. As far as what happened yesterday is concerned, I can take a certain degree of comfort from the fact that yesterday?s performance was one of the best I?ve seen from our lot all season. We are turning the corner, our rapid twisting of the metaphorical steering-wheel is gradually outflanking the almighty skid we currently find ourselves in, but whether or not we?ll completely run out of road before we can start transforming all that hard work into balls in the back of the net and three-pointers is another matter entirely. Despite the tight bunching of that bottom four lot, personally, I think we?ve passed the point of no return. It?s not totally insurmountable, sure, but just getting back those five points that keep us well and truly in the smelly stuff is one hell of a big ask, whichever way you want to look at it.

But let?s not dwell excessively on our shortcomings. There was much we could take pleasure in yesterday, one aspect of that game in particular being the series of outstanding performances we witnessed from players considered only fit for the municipal dump but a few short months ago. Take Ronnie Wallwork for example; he was tremendous for us at the back, today getting at least one quality broadsheet?s ?man of the match? billing, even. Not to mention a completely new chant, which, when you study the ?lyrics? in detail ? ?We thought he was s***e, but now he?s all right?.? ? completely encapsulates his entire Albion career to date.

Trite, true, the sentiments probably being not quite what the ?composer? rightly intended, maybe, but a razor-sharp critique, nevertheless, and such startling improvement probably not unconnected with the recent disappearance of a certain ginger-headed mobile volcano from the Hawthorns scene. Clem? I really do hope that nothing comes of the much-publicised rumours of Crystal Palace bids for his services. Was he supposed to have been marking Diop when that fateful injury-time corner curled towards the far post? If so, it?s a bloody shame things turned out that way; that awful clanger apart, yesterday saw one of his best ever Premiership performances for us. He?s out of contract in the summer, Robbo, and I, for one, want to keep him here. Sort it.

Also pleasurable was the resurgence of Paul Robinson, who seems to have acquired a completely new lease of life under Robson. He also seems much more willing (not to mention much happier) to point both himself and the ball in a forward direction, his inability to do so counting as a shortcoming last season, plus the earlier part of this. Gera? Gets better every game he plays for us, and certainly gave Fulham no end of trouble yesterday. A shame all that hard work didn?t get its just reward. As for AJ, I can only hope for the lad that his injury doesn?t involve ligamental damage, as some reports today would suggest. If so, he?ll be out for weeks ? and that?s only ?best-case scenario? guesswork on my part.

Campbell and Earnshaw? Not a music-hall act, or a firm of solicitors, come to think of it, but had a casual observer not known better, yesterday, they really would have thought the newly-forged partnership of much longer standing than it actually was. A terrible shame Earnie couldn?t have buried at least some of those gilt-edged chances he was handed on a plate. He?s young, sure, and has much to learn, still, but if he really wants his name to echo down those Albion-supporting years to come, as The King?s did, of course, he has to realise genuine goalscoring opportunities come few and far between at this level. It?s all about burying chances, even spurious ones, at this level, and having light-speed mental processes with it. At least the presence and massive Premiership experience of Kevin Campbell should aid his ascent of that particular learning curve enormously. The million-dollar question, though, is this: when we drop, will we be able to hang on to most of our current classier performers? Personally, I doubt it.

Tomorrow, we?ll be lumbering off to Edgar Street for some unfinished business, that thus far bloodless Cup encounter with Accrington Stanley, the one I spoke of last Saturday evening. Given the robustness of the Stanley defence, pretty much ex-League pro to a thug, plus the inescapable fact the whole miserable business has to be sorted that night, one way or another, and we should be in for something of a lively replay. Back with more jottings next Thursday night, following South Birmingham and Sneekes. What we?ll actually get from that one will depend very much on what sort of mood our former player happens to be in come the time. When the wind?s blowing in a favourable direction, it?s full steam ahead for a side-splitting sort of night; should it not be, however, then the lad may not be as forthcoming. Still, all will be revealed on the night. Live long and prosper.

And finally?? Steve The Miser would be proud of this one. Today, once more, it was the turn of GD media tart The Fart to appear on BBC?s Midlands Today, their regular tea-time news roundup of what?s currently hot and not in the area. The subject? Comment on the disappointing events of yesterday, of course. Being the nice people we are, both ?Im Indoors and myself elected to watch it, but as we watched El Tel speaking into the camera lens for posterity, yet another thought struck us ? well, it did my other half, actually.

His idea was this: Most of the time, when interviewing our bus pass-toting chum, the TV people use his spare bedroom as a handy sort of backdrop for their various pieces. The eminently-sensible reason? Not only is Tel?s errant PC located there, from top to bottom, pretty well all of that particular bit of wall is crammed with Albion memorabilia of one sort or another, plus photographs innumerable, of course, with very little space remaining for future additions. And that?s what gave ?Im Indoors the inspiration, strictly tongue-in-cheek, of course, for a particularly cunning little wheeze, the outline of which we?ll suggest to our geriatric TV star come Thursday. And what was it? Simple, but what a potential revenue-stream for the fanzine: remove several of those posters, then stick up a large sheet of card instead. Bearing the legend: ?THIS SPACE FOR RENT?!

 - Glynis Wright

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