The Diary

22 February 2005: TV, The New Ruler Of The Sabbath?

Oooh, another weekend gone with sod-all in the way of Albion-related activities to report, but you?d all better get used to it pretty quick; over the fag-end of the current season, Albion games scheduled for the day and time the good Lord originally ordained ?Saturday, three o?clock start - will be few and far between indeed. All the fault of the TV people, of course, and something I predicted would happen several years ago, very much pre-Megson, and via the pages of our tumescent organ, if you care to look.

Now let me get this straight; I buy a season ticket in order to watch home games in a relatively hassle-free way; having stumped up the dosh well before hostilities even commence, I expect by way of return to watch Game A at the date and time previously scheduled when the fixtures first entered our cluttered lives, Game B ditto, and on it goes, right up to the end of the season.

The trouble is, of course, it doesn?t. Sure, the fixture list may well hit the streets come the third week in June, and we can pencil dates into our diaries until the ink runs dry, but I can pretty much guarantee that by the time we get to see the first ball kicked in anger, what you perused and inwardly digested back in flaming June ain?t necessarily what you?ll get three or four months further down the line. No bother to those not in work for whatever reason, of course, or on flexible arrangements, but as far as the vast majority of Albion supporters are concerned, any such changes in date and/or kick-off time, however trivial they may seem on the surface, represents complete and utter disaster to some. I shouldn?t need to spell out the multitudinous reasons for this, but just in case you?ve never thought that deeply about the knock-on effects of sudden fixture changes, here?s just a few to be going on with.

For starters, an awful lot of folks these days have to work to some sort of a shift pattern; the old concept of a straight ?nine-to-five? job was slung right out of the metaphorical window years ago. For good or otherwise, we?re very much a 24/7 society, now, and don?t we just know it. Open-all-hours supermarkets, garages, banking, and so forth, a long hours culture all round; great for the consumer, who is also probably working all the hours God sends themselves, but not so great for the poor employees that have to put up with such unsocial (and potentially unhealthy?) working practices.

The concept?s not something I?ll ever easily come to terms with, and I certainly didn?t in my previous employment; too many ramifications of a socially-adverse nature for me, squire, but my main point is this. Having once mapped out your shift patterns in a diary, home-made chart-planner, or whatever, then sorted out with gaffers time off to fit in with the football season, it?s a bit of a bummer, to say the least, to suddenly discover just weeks (or, on occasion, days) before a game is due to take place, the whole shebang has been quietly shifted, lock stock and Bovril, to another date and/or time very likely to prove totally incompatible with your employer?s attendance requirements. Not funny at all, let me assure you ? and I?ve suffered greatly myself, having worked for the best part of two decades in a job that required me to work unsocial hours. Exasperating, to say the least, trying to find colleagues willing to swap shifts at such short notice: much hair-tearing, wailing and gnashing of teeth guaranteed, first time, every time.

The thing is, though, I wouldn?t care two overweight midfielders and a striker with a gammy leg if there were genuinely valid reasons for messing about with games in that annoying fashion, but most of the time there isn?t ? well, not as far as the likes of you or I are concerned. It?s less to do with Royal visits to the area, and the need to increase policing levels to that deemed necessary to protect Her Maj from the evil-doing ways of Osama Bin Laden and those of their unpleasant ilk, and more to do with the increasingly-voracious appetites of Sky, and to a lesser extent, The Beeb, and ITV for a hefty chunk of the highly-lucrative goggle-box action.

No direct subscriptions for the terrestrial boys, sure, but much in the way of advertising revenue for the commercial channels. Ever since 1993, when what was then the First Division dramatically broke away from the Football League to go their own greedy way, and bugger the rest, just about everyone connected with the beautiful game, both at that level and below, have since well and truly sold their soul for a mess of Murdoch.

I can?t really blame clubs at the time for going down that Faustian route; for some, especially the ones with red ink plastered all over their books and ledgers, the juicy prospect of those Sky millions suddenly swelling the coffers must have seemed like manna from heaven. Although in a pretty healthy financial state ourselves these days, we?re no exception, of course; just think back to around five years ago, when the vast majority of Albion supporters, myself included, were solemnly declaring the Prem truly was the only place to be, roll on the time we got a piece of the action for ourselves, and sod the small print. When seen in retrospect, though, such naivety on our part you could call really touching, had the grim reality of the situation not transpired to be so tragically detrimental to ourselves once there. Cue for hollow laugh - now the fairy-dust?s all but worn off, many Baggies, myself included, are now seeing this country?s top league exposed for the blatant money-making scam it truly is.

Certainly, even at this relatively early stage, we fanzine editors are getting strong intimations indeed of lots and lots of Albion supporters, all working what are coyly termed ?unsocial hours?, or even some who aren?t, and therefore with no axe whatsoever to grind, not wanting to renew their season tickets come the end of this one. The reason? The considerable ?embuggeration factor? largely caused by the last-minute matchday ?alterations? I mentioned above. And that?s even before you get me started on the delicate question of kids of school age whose parents forbid attendance at midweek games lest it adversely affect classroom performance the following day. Or those distantly-located supporters who can?t make a game purely and simply because there?s no adequate public transport link provided between their homes and The Shrine.

Today has also brought to the forefront yet another compelling argument for leaving well alone; the trouble that arose during and after the Everton-Man United encounter. Fierce rivalries in both Lancashire and Merseyside run deep, of course; anyone with even a rudimentary knowledge of the beautiful game, and the manifold passions that can lead to such behaviour, would have seen conflict as practically inevitable, especially when fuelled by a large quantity of alcohol and almost unlimited time in which to get the stuff down their necks before kick-off. No surprise whatsoever to hear commentators (and coppers) now calling for an end to the practice of having late Sunday kick-offs purely and simply because of the voracious demands of the goggle-box for live games. Funny, that; I once heard of a girl called Pandora passionately pleading for some exceedingly unwelcome nasties or other to be shovelled right back into the receptacle some funny old geezer gave her once ? whatever happened to her, I wonder?

I daresay the politicians will hum and haw a bit about what happened last Sunday, then decide to do absolutely sod-all about it, a course of (in)action that might well be strongly connected to the fact that as the owner of Sky also happens to have in his voracious clutches a not-inconsiderable chunk of the British media, both visual and printed, he would not be best pleased with anything done with the potential to significantly decrease the revenue streams from satellite TV ? and as there?s an election in the offing, and as the Times, The Sun, The News Of The World, Sunday Times are all?. Well, you work out the rest for yourselves.

No, I don?t like it, you don?t like it, and, I daresay, if the clubs themselves were to be honest about it, they wouldn?t want all that constant mucking around with fixture dates and times either. Trouble is, though, now the principle?s well and truly embedded in the daily lives of just about every football-supporting man, woman and child in this country, I reckon that the only way you could ever put a stop to it is by getting every single follower of every single League club adversely affected by the demands of live football on the box to refuse to subscribe to Sky. That?s right ? no Sky Sports 1, 2, or 3, and to really ram the message home, become a refusenik when it comes to all the movie and specialist channels as well. With someone like Murdoch, the only way to make hard-nosed mercenary so-and so?s like him think a bit is to hit them right where it hurts. In the pocket. Nothing like reduced profits to concentrate business minds wonderfully, is there?

A nice little pipe-dream, that one, but speaking as a citizen of a country whose population finds it enormously difficult, even at the best of times, to tear itself away from the latest celebrity scandal and/or soap opera plot and deal with reality once more, then quite clearly, that particular course of action would be a complete non-starter. It?s bad enough finding people willing to explore more deeply the full ramifications of what?s being done in their name by politicians of one persuasion or another, never mind engage in massed protest on behalf of football supporters simply anxious for a better deal.

And as most people seem to have an extremely limited attention-span for serious issues these days, not to mention a hefty done of the ?Me, me, me? mentality that wrecked this country in the eighties, just how do you engage them in rational debate on the various principles involved, or get them to put vested interests aside and co-operate in complete unison with those peacefully protesting? As I?ve discovered over the past few years, more and more people now take the view that the perfect answer to those having differing points of view lies in the judicious use of the swung fist and/or loudly-bawled obscenities right in the face of the poor sod daring to espouse them. With might being right in their book, those of us who simply want to engage in rational and peaceful debate have absolutely no chance whatsoever.

Enough, enough. No Albion game last weekend? Then, chirruped my other half, clearly about to become seriously engulfed in the welter of footie-deprivation symptoms such an unsatisfactory situation would quickly produce, it simply had to be Hereford versus Canvey Island, then, didn?t it? Still clinging to the last defiant remnants of that cold and cough I?d had, I wasn?t totally sold on the idea, but sod it ? there was a lovely (if somewhat wintry) day going for us out there, and browsing the book shops in the city centre was always a civilised way of spending a couple of hours pre-match, so off I went also. A pleasant journey along crocus and daffodil-bedecked country roads then ensued ? until we hove to within a few miles of that boundary, and our respectable cruising speed abruptly slowed to a crawl.

The reason? The bloody Countryside Alliance (or rather the provisional blood-sport wing of that organisation) and the North Herefordshire Hunt somewhat ostentatiously parading the fact that although Unspeakable, they most certainly weren?t breaking the law by pursuing the Uneatable. No sirree. (Ooh, well done, chaps ? now go find yourselves a nice little picket-line chock full of low-paid, intimidated, and thoroughly-exploited workers to show solidarity with!) And doing it in a very lethargic manner indeed, all those slowly-trotting horses causing a nice little backlog of traffic to accumulate sternwards in no time flat. All in full hunting fig, they were, hounds, hosses, whippers-in, those annoyingly-shrill horns of theirs, the lot ? but harm a poor ickle Reynard? Not us, Guv! ? well, not while the cameras were rolling, and everyone watching, of course.

As far as the footie went, Canvey were a small-scale replica of a Megson side, dourly battling for possession of the midfield, trying to stop the home side playing, and the end result being a first 45 with soporific properties the makers of Mogadon would truly envy. The matter was finally decided by just one goal, you won?t be surprised to hear; the breakthrough came about eight minutes before the interval, when the Hereford lad fired through a crowd of players after receiving a peach of a cross low and mean from the left flank. Although things became just a bit fraught for the Bulls during the last 15, a wicked shot that hit the post apart, Canvey were never really at the races for the second helping. Still, that win now leaves the Bulls nicely placed in the Conference table, which more and more resembles a bear-pit as current proceedings come to a rolling boil; just about everyone above 12th place in the table could conceivably get in the play-offs, so if you do plan to take in some football at that level in the near future, don?t forget to take a decent stock of tranquillisers with you. Oh ? and yes, the pasties we bought were bloody scrumptious!

By way of complete contrast, we spent the earlier part of Sunday afternoon in the relaxing company of small furry animals, and their feathered friends, at an urban farm situated not far from where we live. Although occupying land between two separate motorways, this place is truly one of the local council?s better ideas; according to my eldest sister, who takes my great-nephew there to see the animals on a regular basis, a fair number of local schools bring along their kids purely and simply because a not insignificant proportion of them genuinely have no idea whatsoever of the true origins of common food items. Apparently, it comes a quite a culture-shock to some to discover that the packaged stuff that routinely ends up on dinner-plates actually grew in the ground, or came from once-living animals, or those brown chucky-eggs on the supermarket shelf, all from real live hens.

We now turn our full attention to tomorrow?s game, the importance of which to our immediate and short-term Premiership prospects is clearly difficult to overstate. The weather forecast isn?t all that good for the next 24 hours or so, but at least we have a heated pitch, which is a lot more than can be said for the poor sods at the Crawley-Morecambe game I watched on Sky earlier. How the hell that game got played in the first place, never mind finished, will remain forever one of life?s mysteries. Not to mention the daunting prospect of being hit with tackles which, although not malicious in intent, were made much worse by players misjudging their timing because of the awful conditions out there.

At least there shouldn?t be any such constraints on our own relegation-haunted bash; we?ve got undersoil heating, and we?re gonna use it! I?m sure the club will further assist supporters by chucking down some grit around the perimeter of the ground to ensure everyone keeps an even keel and doesn?t cause even more work for those jolly nice people at Sandwell Hospital. No, it?s the people that are going to travel long distances in an endeavour to help the club in their hour of need I?m rooting for right now. There?s Ian Tubby from Suffolk who?s anxiously enquiring of the mailing-list the current state of the weather in God?s Own Country, as is Nick Schemanoff, who will be travelling all the way from Cornwall, would you believe? Those are the ones I know about for sure, and I daresay those names will be further augmented by lots more planning to make the long, cold trip to the Midlands tomorrow afternoon. The club?s in trouble ? right, off we go to give them a bit of moral support, and sod the distance and the weather. If ever the football authorities get around to instituting some kind of medal for supporting services above and beyond the call of duty, the award really should go to people like that, and with nary a word of dissent uttered from anyone.

Even as I type, the snow is swirling mightily outside our ?office? window, and I?m harbouring strong suspicions right now that come the morrow, the whole bloody lot will have frozen solid on the pavement. The local forecast also says the mercury won?t be climbing any higher than about three centigrade tomorrow ? the temperature of the average domestic fridge, in case you didn?t know ? so no thaw in prospect either. As I?m not the most sturdy of people on their feet these days, suffice to say I won?t be venturing all that far outside Chez Wright tomorrow. Not until the game, of course.

So, what?s the line-up going to be, then? Well, Albrechtsen?s back, for starters, which will be a considerable help. Assuming he?s recovered properly from that hamstring he had, of course; undersoil heating or not, the conditions out there aren?t going to be particularly forgiving tomorrow night. Houlty is now recovered from the concussion and blurred vision he sustained at Tottingham last week, and unless Robbo suddenly decides a late change might be as good as a rest for our regular man between the sticks, despite steadily growing in stature as the second half progressed ? Kusczczac did pull off a couple of top-notch saves in that last quarter of an hour or so ? I guess it will be a case of ?carry on regardless? for our custodial chum. Presumably, Darren Purse will stay right where he is ? on the bloody bench, and that?s where he ought to remain, in my opinion. The man?s a danger to world peace.

As far as our midfield goes, there isn?t half a lot of competition out there these days, and we?re also blessed with a plethora of strikers, thank goodness, so the eventual starting eleven might well prove interesting. We will, of course, have the services once more of Jonathan Greening, who was suspended for the Spurs thrash, also Chaplow and Richardson; both of those were cup-tied last week and had to remain on the sidelines. The question now remains of who will be selected to make the pierhead jump up front. Will we go for broke by sticking Earnie on right from the start, or will we keep our powder dry and keep him on the bench until we need his considerable pace to make things happen out there? And what about Kanu? From the start again, but twinned with Campbell? Or what about The Horse, whose experience might well stand us in good stead? Whoever gets the nod, I?m glad it?s not me having to make the decisions that matter.

The news from the opposing camp is that they?re thinking of recalling midfielders Jamie Redknapp and Nigel Quashie, with striker Kevin Phillips and midfielder Matt Oakley likely to be the ones to shift to one side for them. Quashie was cup-tied for their FA Cup fifth round draw at home to Brentford. Apparently, Harry Redknapp may also make a change in defence with Rory Delap's right back slot under threat from Paul Telfer and Martin Cranie. Of one thing I?m certain, though: I can?t honestly envisage them being so generous as to charitably-donate a 2-0 lead to the opposition in the astonishing way they did versus Brentford last Saturday.

We really are playing for high stakes tomorrow night; win, and the safety-gap then narrows to two points. That would leave Crystal Palace casting many fevered glances over their shoulders, and might just provide our players with the spark that ignites a hitherto-unprecedented re-emergence from that awful relegation quicksand we?re currently bogged down in. Draw? The point would be nice, of course, but we?re now at that time of year when it will need much more than that to get ourselves out of it. Lose? Well, you?re all perfectly capable of mentally sorting that one out for yourselves.

The daft thing about all this is the fact that despite our parlous position, we?re currently playing football of a much higher (and a far more entertaining) standard than we were just a few short months ago. There are players out there who are now embracing the tender caresses of the way the game should be played in a manner that?s truly heartening and encouraging to behold. On paper, at least, we shouldn?t even be in this position; the problem is that time and time again, both our inability to put games well beyond the reach of opposing sides, plus several well-documented (not to mention infuriating!) defensive shortcomings, are the root cause of what currently ails us. Relegation-fodder dead-beats, we ain?t. It will need bag-loads of confidence, not to mention shed-loads of self-belief to do it, I daresay, but what?s in no doubt to me, at least, is the knowledge we genuinely do have the ability to get ourselves out of this. If there were a way of mentally transposing those thoughts directly into the brains of our finest, I would be urging the club to do it right now, and sod the expense.

Of one thing I?m certain, though. Screw up big-time this chance ? and by Christ, we?ve had some over the last few weeks, then spectacularly blown ?em ? and we?re heading straight for the rock-pile, and with no further chance of a belated reprieve whatsoever. At least all the speculation, all the false dawns, all the hope that?s kept us going over these last few dark and dismal months ? come half-nine or thereabouts tomorrow night, at least we?ll all know where we stand, won?t we? Let?s all hope the evening ends in smiles, not tears, for us all.

And finally?..One. Having been made thoroughly miserable these last few hours by the daunting prospect of the mercury plummeting even further down the scale than it is now, at least the E and S Wolves-Gillingham match report managed to put a passable imitation of a smile back onto my seriously gnarled and grizzled phizzog tonight. How come? Well, for starters, their match reporter gleefully tells of the fourth official holding up the board to indicate the ref had added on a minute of injury time at the end of the first half ? and the home supporters booing him for it! And that?s not all ? also heard were loud chants of ?Early Bird, you?re having a laugh!?

That, in response to Jez Moxey?s spiffing wheeze of offering those affluent (or should that read ?flatulent?, I wonder?) Dingles willing to flash the cash for next year?s season ticket well up-front a sizeable discount. Oh dear. Now tell me again, Glenn ? precisely when are your lot going to make a serious bid for a play-off place? I know Palace were somewhat slow to get off the mark last season, then got lucky, but considering you?re currently much nearer the bottom than the top, I reckon it?ll need the Black Country equivalent of a three-stage Saturn rocket to get you out of that league!

Two. You had to laugh, didn?t you? Chelski, I mean, and their Sunday Cup reverse at the hands of The Toon. Serves the silly sods right for having the sheer arrogance to start the game minus so many regulars, then, having committed all three substitutes to the fray by half-time, ending up with three injured and one, their keeper, red-carded. There?s got to be a moral in it somewhere, but I?m too busy sniggering right now to give it serious thought!

Three. Coo. Good old Sunday Times supplement, and their back page piece about someone inventing musical condoms! A shame you were so late, fellers; I first thought of the idea about fifteen years ago, and if you don?t believe me, just rummage around those early Dicks a bit, and you?ll see a piece by yours truly advocating our favourite football club flogging one that played The Liquidator when in ?full? ? ahem! ? use.

 - Glynis Wright

Contact the Author

Diary Index