The Diary

10 April 2005: (With apologies to Tony Christie) - Is This The Way To Beat The Villa?

Isn?t it funny how one day you can begin penning this column safely on the right side of 52, then, within the space of a scant 48 hours, find yourself on the verge of attaining the venerable age of 53; no doubt younger Baggies think just reaching the (to them) venerable age of 40 automatically and immediately confers upon the ?sufferer? the first signs of incipient senile decay. Ooooh, we don?t half travel a long way down the slippery slope of Old Fart-dom within the space of just 24 hours; personally, I blame it on all those bloody rockets punching holes in the sky. Well, that?s what my granddad used to say years ago every time it started piddling it down, so who am I to argue? Strange, though; although my chronological age has increased by leaps and bounds within days, psychologically, I reckon I?m OK. Again, mildly surprising; today, we heard from our chum with cancer once more, and things aren?t looking very good at all for him, what with the emergence of secondary deposits in various other bits of his body.

It?s little things like that which make you uncomfortably aware of your own mortality, I suppose, and now I?m approaching my mid-fifties, and recently learned of the demise of yet another former work colleague of similar age, you do start to wonder when the time will come for the lyrics of that monster Queen hit ?Hammer To Fall? to become all-too relevant. Sudden and swift? An inexorably-slow ?dying of the light?, as per Dylan Thomas? Alzheimer?s? I bloody well hope not. After all, what with my big sister now retired, and my middle sister packing up work in about eight months time (and actually counting the days, not to mention the hours and minutes remaining, until the day comes when she can finally flick a few well-aimed ?V?s in the general direction of the management), I?m just the junior sprog by comparison.

Mind you, from the mental picture I?ve built up of my middle sister?s current place of work, it seems very much as though those in charge have evolved very little, in terms of more enlightened employment practices, since the halcyon Victorian days of Messrs Gradgrind and Scrooge. Me? I?m caught right in the middle of that horrible five-year hiatus where the female retirement age will be raised by yearly increments to 65, consequently, I?ll be around three years later finishing than they. That?s the trouble with being ?little sister? ? you always dip out, even when it comes to retirement!

Mind you, what really brought the inexorable march of time home to me this week was Thursday?s Sutton Branch meeting, and a dad sitting just behind me, with his (not too) small kid for company. Gave me quite a jolt to hear Pater having to explain to Junior who was who in the side that went to Pompey on the last day in season 1993-94 ? and describing to the goggle-eyed kid those well-remembered scenes beforehand, the amazing number of Baggies that travelled, the unbelievable manner in which we completely took over Fratton Park, avoided the drop with that incredible Lee Ashcroft strike, then managed to cling on for grim death for the remainder of the game ? and in the process, sent our Bluenose chums for an unrequited taste of life in football?s bargain basement once more. Poor kid wasn?t even born, then, so there was Dad trying to explain to Son what Lee Ashcroft was like ? a difficult undertaking, even at the best of times, never mind when you?ve got the delicate sensitivities of a sprog to worry about. Strange, also, to hear Dad telling Junior: ?And that was when Bob Taylor played for us the first time, as well!? Cor ? and if that doesn?t date you, what will?

It really is incredible the extent to which our fight for survival has captured the mainstream West Bromwich imagination. While I was walking around West Bromwich the other day, it truly was a case of ?spot the Albion shirt?. A bit like a nasty rash, really ? in your face and absolutely everywhere. Even my 83 year-old stepmother?s finally got in on the act - she actually sat up to watch the highlights of the Everton game on the box last weekend. This, mark you, from someone who professes to know about as much about football as I do about fine needlepoint embroidery; dearie, dearie me, whatever next? Her and those other silver-haired chums of hers all going out and hiring an executive box at the Shrine for the next game? I dread to think what would happen if they did - should a bottle or three of strong waters start to circulate among the geriatrics, everyone else would quickly find themselves playing a brand-new game ? ?Dodge The Zimmer Frame? (especially those with the concealed knives attached to the wheels, Boadicea-style). Come to think about it, start them all sucking the old wine gums as well, and not even riot shields would be enough to contain ?em.

Today, though, it was down to Edgar Street once more ? my other half doesn?t half take me to some stylish places for my birthday ? and spending the afternoon watching The Bulls put York City to the sword. No Crichton in goal this time, sadly, as he?s since announced his intentions of hanging up his boots for good ? spoilsport! ? but despite that small handicap, we still received our full ration of entertainment, not least of which was the bloody scoreboard there telling the entire ground I was one year nearer my pension, both before the game, and during it. Just as well not many people knew me there, then, wasn?t it?

As far as the game went, I reckon Hereford were a tad lucky insofar as they managed to get a penalty, a bit of a dodgy specimen, at that, within two minutes of the start. That was put away in short order, much to the delight of the groundlings in the Meadow End, and that should have been the cue for a stomping home win, but York, who had in their ranks a certain Kevin Donovan and Paul Groves, seemed to have other ideas. It was their sheer determination, plus the fact that The Bulls were making a complete and utter pig?s ear out of simple things like shifting out of defence, then keeping the bloody ball, that left the event so delicately poised. Another Albion connection when ex-Baggie Tam Mkandawire got their second; not long after that, Tucka Trewick, their ex-Albion first-team coach, realising things were still looking wobbly for The Bulls, brought on their ?secret weapon?, pint-sized (only an inch taller than me) loan signing Leroy Williams, from Walsall.

How best to describe the lad? Not easy; when you watch him in action, that marvellous old Black Country phrase my late mother was partial to using on such auspicious occasions ? ? ?Ee?s fatter than a cowin? tunky-pig, ?ee is!? ? does tend to spring to mind, I?m afraid. But I?m probably doing the lad a grave injustice by saying that, because closer scrutiny then revealed much of the lad?s considerable bulk to be of muscular origin only. And there was his playing style, which was most certainly not the end-product of any junior pro coaching session I?ve witnessed recently. No, Leroy?s ?secret weapon? was his astonishing ability to just nestle peacefully on defenders? shoulders, quietly bide his time, wait for the ball to drop near, then by a simple shrugging of his own shoulders, allied to a complicated-looking bit of pivotal work and a low centre of gravity, completely and utterly ?turning? the poor sod completely inside-out, more often than not, then leaving the players concerned, cynical and twisted has-been ex-pros, usually, open-mouthed and totally bereft of speech.

Lovely to watch, of course, and all done in a manner that owed stacks to the gait of a maddened bullock suddenly cornered in the rear of a bone-china emporium, then suddenly glimpsing a way out ? an explosively-built, sinew-stretching mahogany ball of adrenalin-assisted muscularity, and when sufficiently riled, about as easy to stop as a fully-loaded Sherman Tank. A Bull behaving like a bull, if you like, and as exciting as hell to watch. He certainly kick-started Hereford?s game in the second half, all right, and poor Grovesey, totally unable to counter what the upstart was doing to him, looked way out of his depth by comparison. An exciting prospect indeed, is Leroy ? if he gets proper coaching, that is. The trouble with his style lies in the direction of his glaring limitations elsewhere. A good one-shot party-piece can certainly be an asset at that level, but if you do harbour serious ambitions of progressing in the game, there?s a lot more you need about you to get the big clubs in there pitching. But he?s young, isn?t he? Watch this space, I say.

Back to the Dickmobile afterwards, and chance to catch up with events elsewhere in the Prem. Southampton gave our own survival hopes a massive boost by dipping 3-0, but party-poopers Pompey surprisingly managed to turn over Charlton, to the tune of a hefty two-goal margin. Probably puts them safe, but provided Saints crumble further over the next few weeks, that could conceivably work in our favour, come the last day. Who might an Albion victory send down? No, don?t bother sending me the answer on a post-card.

So far, so good in the results stakes, then ? but that was before we emerged from our local Chinese restaurant. By the time we were in the vicinity of home, things at the Norwich Man United game were level-pegging and bloodless. One huge Oriental-style blow-out later, we headed for our vehicle, turned on the radio ? to hear they?d gone and won 2-0, and to a United side severely depleted for tactical reasons, the imminence of their FA Cup semi, their sole remaining ?get out of jail card? should things go completely tits-up in the Prem.

Now hang on a cotton-pickin? minute? Have I got this right? Norwich get to face a United side deliberately weakened for reasons I?ve just outlined ? most of their big names knackered, or on the bench for this one ? but by the time we get to face them at Old Trafford, the chances are they?ll be deploying all their ?big guns? in anger once more? Where?s the justice and/or fairness in that? It might be street-legal, chaps, but morally, it bloody well stinks. It?s simply not on. How would United have liked it were the situations reversed i.e. them going hammer-and-tongs for the title, and someone else fielding a weakened side when facing their nearest rivals? Yeah ? and you know the answer to that one as well; we?d still be hearing the squeals of indignant rage from Old Trafford come the start of NEXT season, never mind the end of this one.

Just as well, really, that before a ball was kicked, even, irrespective of today?s outcome, the Premiership table was showing Norwich to be heading for Skid Row at a rate of knots. Should they subsequently go on to use that unlikely win as a springboard through which to launch a miraculous recovery, though ? if that did happen, the inference being we?d stuffed up badly ourselves in the meantime, we?d probably deserve to go down, but stranger things have happened at sea - as surely as lumps of s**t cling to a shovel, I?d be spitting copious quantities of bilious anger, and most of it aimed in the direction of a certain Mr. Alex Ferguson. And, I hope, so would Jeremy Peace, but in the direction of the game?s rulers instead.

But that was today. Tomorrow, we?ve got to sort out our noisome neighbours, and big-time. There?s local pride at stake, of course, and bags of it, but our current drop-zone problems do tend to give the encounter something of an additional frisson, shall we say? Three points safely deposited in the old breadbasket come tomorrow afternoon, and we?d be cookin? on gas. I?d even take the solitary point and run, should push come to shove, but losing would simply undo in the space of an hour and a half all the marvellous work we?ve put in to get us out of the smelly stuff these past few weeks. Eek! As Queen Victoria once remarked apropos the Boer War: ?We are not interested in the possibilities of defeat. They do not exist.?

What most of our current Dingle-hating generation don?t realise, though, is that for us ?elder statespersons?, the ?true enemy? is not the ?gold and cack? persuasion, but their ?claret and spew? counterparts. Forty-odd years worth of local derbies have had the effect of making it very easy indeed for me to fixate on ?them? as an object to be constantly reviled. In fact, I?m more jealous than words can say of The Fart, who, in the late fifties, actually witnessed us sending the arrogant sods down, at The Hawthorns, on the last day, and by the slenderest of margins, 1-0! Was our strike a last-minute effort as well, Tel? A little before my supporting time, unfortunately, but I?d give anything you care to mention for a repeat performance; the nearest I?ve ever come to seeing similar is watching The Dingles blow their Premiership promotion hopes in such spectacular style, just three seasons ago. Again, it?s a generation thing; amusing, terrifically so, in a schadenfreude sort of way, sure, but not half as satisfying as putting one over an egotistical Doug Ellis, and his equally-conceited acolytes at Seal Park.

And, the thing is, provided we can keep that momentum going, we?re perfectly capable of whopping the sods. At the corresponding home fixture, way back last summer, we managed the draw ? and should have won. Villa are no great shakes; in any case, if we can send high-flying Everton packing with such style and panache, it?s equally possible for us to grab all the spoils come tomorrow. Whither Earnshaw at Seal Park? We?re all aware he can make a massive impact from the bench, as he?s our leading scorer with 13 goals thus far this season, but will Robbo stick with what he knows i.e. Geoff Horsfield partnering skipper Kevin Campbell starting in attack, I wonder? Sure, there is the old adage: ?Don?t muck about with a winning side?, but when he?s on form, Earnie can be devastating. Just look at the one-man demolition job he did on the Addicks the other week. Class, pure class.

As Robbo said, it?s a happy sort of dilemma to find oneself in right now; a surplus of competent strikers, and all competing like cat and dog for precious first-team places. Can?t be bad. The possible rotation of our strike-force apart, it?s looking pretty good on the injury front, so I don?t anticipate any other changes, bar the one I mooted regarding Earnie. As for Villa, I reckon that their unexpected St. James?s Park win last week must have startled them much more than it startled anyone else. And it helped, of course, when The Toon started a little bitty fisticuffs among themselves, both Dyer and Bowyer ending up tenanting the bathing facilities somewhat earlier than originally anticipated. That 3-0 scoreline grossly flattered them, I reckon. Beatable? Too bloody right they are. The rest, of course, is up to us. The motivation, sending The Seals well and truly packing, is most certainly there; had there been nothing whatsoever riding on this result, we?d all still be there, abominating the opposition, totally and utterly. You can sanitise Premiership football all you like, but once you come up against what?s been quietly brewing within Black Country DNA since around the late 19th century, there?s sod-all you can do to control it. It?s like a scientific formula: born Black Country, hate Villa! Simple, really. We?ll be up for it, our players should be up for it ? go on, Gera, give ?em hell; after all, it?s their future they?re fighting for ? so let?s hope we can go out there come midday, and give it our best shot. The Great Escape? Win tomorrow, then grab another couple of three-pointers, and we might just be within sight of that elusive Swiss border!

And Finally?.One. Anyone out there remember Kevin Kent? That?s right, the youthful chap who, in the early 1980?s, made the fringes of the first team (and played a couple of games for us at that level, if my memory serves me right), only to move on to Mansfield Town just a couple of years later? I do, mainly because he was one of a crop of quite useful kids - Gary Robson, Mickey Lewis, Noel Luke et. al. - who emerged from our production-line around that time, and when not turning out for us, used to hang around The Hawthorns Hotel on matchdays. A lovely bunch of lads, and an absolute pleasure to know. Even if the sight of both Kev and Mickey Lewis toting pints in that bar was completely and utterly illegal

That was then, but this is now ? recently, ?Im Indoors dug up a Stoke Sentinel article about Kevin, who now has a 14 year old lad called Gareth. A sad and cruel way to catch up on the fortunes of a former player, really, because it seems Kevin?s lad suffers from a congenital neurological complaint called Leigh?s Syndrome, and it?s terminal, apparently. I?ve never heard of it, and, so, it would appear, had none of the medical profession in Mansfield, where Kevin and his family lived at that time. It?s one of those obscure conditions medical students read about in textbooks, mug up on for their finals, then assume they?ll be lucky to see even a single case over the course of their entire careers. Usually, they?re right ? but not so in this particular case.

But help came from a very surprising source, a doctor who is currently fighting to save his medical career because of adverse judicial comments regarding his input into several recent but prominent ?cot death? cases, all originally deemed to have been caused by foul play, according to the practitioner currently looking after Kev?s son, a certain Doctor David Southall, his ?expert evidence? subsequently proven to be badly flawed when the cases came up for appeal.

Whatever your opinions about Dr. Southall?s conduct, and ?expert opinion? for the prosecution before and during all those trials, as far as Kev?s concerned, he won?t hear a bad word said against him. Apparently, before they consulted the paediatrician, the family had felt really isolated ? after all, Gareth?s condition was very rare, and as I commented, most practitioners had never even heard of it ? but Doctor Southall made himself available to the family more or less whenever they wanted to discuss their son?s condition. 24/7, almost, in fact.

Such is his respect for the disgraced child ailment expert, he?s now petitioned the GMC to allow Doctor Southall to continue practising. Kev reckoned the lack of ordinary people wanting to come forward to praise what the guy was doing for their children was down to them being afraid to do so openly before ? the whole thing stirred up quite a hornet?s nest in medico-legal circles, remember ? so I assume he?s now gone ?public? in order to whip up some support from other parents Dr. Southall has helped. It?s like a good many things in this country of ours; vilify what appears to be a doctor?s momentary lapse if we must, but bear in mind also that for the vast majority of patients, they are, at all times, caring and compassionate to a fault.

Two?. So, they?ve finally managed to tie the knot, then? Chuck and Cassa, I mean ? and boy, do those lovely pair deserve each other. Truly a marriage made in something, although my version wouldn?t quite be what the Archbishop Of Canterbury had in mind when he officiated at this afternoon?s blessing ceremony. Just one teensy quibble, though, Your Royal Nothingnesses. What about the police bill? That?s right, the stonking great overtime bill you ran up as a result of The Old Bill having to call peed-off coppers in on their rest days (rock-bottom minimum in the region of ?20+ per hour per plod, I reckon) just to stop the riff-raff getting far too close to their social betters for comfort?

Come on, chaps, what?s sauce for the goose is surely sauce for the gander? If football clubs and supporters are obliged to (indirectly) dig deep in their pockets to pay these moonlighting constables their rightful due, the penalty for non-compliance being refusal of a ground?s safety certificate, and immediate closure as a result, then why shouldn?t you have to foot the bill for your own little bit of afternoon pleasure? It?s not as if you?re on the breadline, now, is it, and what with all the ?creative accounting? you seem to employ as a matter of course, it?s highly questionable to simply describe you as ?taxpayers?.

Precisely how much is the Duchy Of Cornwall and other allied bits of royal land worth these days, I wonder? And then there?s the small matter of The Queen Mum?s bijou bequest to you when she popped her clogs the year we first went up; that alone must have run to a tidy old sum, I?ll bet. How much do you reckon on total police costs today, Charlie-boy? A million? Two? When set against your considerable riches, a mere bagatelle, by comparison, but the bottom line is there?s far more chance of my bumping into ET in Bearwood High Street than seeing you doing the decent thing. You, as future king, God help us all, have a choice. We, as football supporters, don?t. So play fair and stump up.

 - Glynis Wright

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