The Diary

15 May 2005: That Pompey Game - Albion's Gallant Last Stand, Or Not?

Only a few hours to go, now, before our Premiership fate is finally decided, but being of relatively sanguine temperament ourselves ? well, if we weren?t, we?d both be basket cases, come tomorrow - we decided to temporarily cast care to the four winds earlier today, and head on out for the relative tranquillity of Cannon Hill Park, in Brum. A good time to go there, actually, as the nearby Edgbaston Cricket Ground wasn?t hosting a Warwickshire home fixture today, which meant, in turn, car parking was simplicity itself. As with most public parks in the world, entrance cost zilch, our only real ?spend? being on ice-cream cornets when inside, and a happy fifteen minutes or so we spent sitting on a wall, just slurping on our respective ice-cold refreshments, and watching the world go by in an oasis of calm. Sometimes, the best pleasures in life to be had are the simpler ones.

As you might expect, a very popular place is Cannon Hill at this time of year, the proof of the pudding being the astonishing number of families we saw there with their kids, dogs, grannies, granddads ? all nationalities, all ages, you name it, they were there, and they and their kids either riding on an astonishing variety of two and four-wheeled modes of transport ? bikes, trikes, scooters, flushing toilets, the lot ? or just simply basking in the sun. (We chose to ignore the considerable Bluenose presence there, of course.) There was even one eccentric directing one of those remote-controlled racing-car thingies via a little black box in his hand, instantly bringing to the fore vague childhood memories of ?General Jumbo? in The Beano comic (Remember him? Course you do!), the little chap in the military peaked hat who seemingly owned an entire army of remote-controlled little men, plus miniaturised weapons and logistics, and wasn?t at all averse towards using them in quantity to further the interests of criminal justice anywhere in the world you cared to mention. Not that my other half in any way resembles the late fifties and early sixties comic character, mind, but you know how it is with blokes and that sort of thing; it was all I could do to keep his covetous eyes off the blasted thing in the end!

Mind you, our trip there today was certainly a tad less eventful than the last time we ventured down there, about 18 years ago. We were still at the ?unmarried? stage back then, and as you do when wandering around such places for a while, decided on the spur of the moment to retire into a much quieter part of the park so as to indulge in a little bit of ?ooh-la-la?, sight unseen. That was the hope ? and for a while, everything went swimmingly. Not for long, though; stood locked in loving embrace with my other half, I just happened to look over his shoulder, then peer into the heavily-grassed wasteland beyond the perimeter fence ? and got the shock of my life. Several grubby mac brigade merchants, and the dirty little so-and so?s all trying to get off on what we were doing, the dead giveaway being the clear sight of their revolting heads periodically bobbing up and down among the foliage, and looking for all the world like those ?snap-targets? the Army uses on their rifle ranges to test trainee squaddies? trigger reflexes under battle conditions. The awful loss of privacy I could cope with, just about, but what really did make me flip, finally, was the fact that every single one of the buggers seemed to bear a distinct resemblance to former Baggies gaffer Ron Saunders, balding pate and everything! Ugh.

Moving rapidly onwards, I have to say it did surprise me slightly to see ?Im Indoors eagerly settling down in front of the box this evening to watch the Conference play-off final between Carlisle and Stevenage Borough. Stevenage got to that stage by turning Hereford United over in the semis last week; just as well my wounded little soldier seemed to react to that reverse in similar fashion to the way genuine combat veterans do when trying to erase from their minds all recollection of a harrowing experience ? by developing selective amnesia. Even now, His Nibs is still very much prone to declaring, loudly ? ?As far as I?m concerned, that bloody semi-final never happened!? No surprise, then, to discover where my other half?s true sympathies lay, and much was the delight from his end of our sofa when Carlisle took the lead early on. And even more when the Cumbrian club grimly hung on to their slender advantage, and emerged eventual victors. But there is another angle; as my other half later pointed out, with Carlisle and their enormous following out of the way, at least the resultant ?power vacuum? at the top might just let the Bulls in for the third time of asking next time round!

Turning to tomorrow?s ulcer-inducing, nail-biting events once more, it?s apparent already that certain other external proceedings may yet play a starring role in determining the final outcome for us. Well, two things, actually, one as public as hell, the other courtesy a ?little Throstle? who wittered at length into my astonishingly receptive lug-hole just the other day. See below for full details. The first thing? Easy, that one. The shock news on Thursday afternoon that Man Urinal?s American Nemesis, Malcolm Glazer will very soon effectively own majority shares in the club, and therefore become the Big Cheese in that organisation (well, I can?t really call it a ?football club? with a clear conscience any longer ? can you?).

Apparently, his modus operandi was to work on those two Irish racing enthusiasts with all the shares, McManus and Magnier (both might still be harbouring a residual grudge against Fergie over the racehorse-ownership business, of course; what a neat way of getting a great dollopy basin-full of revenge organised!), persuade the pair of ?em to flog their holdings - and it now seems the American?s constant low-grade witterings at ?em finally paid off. Looks as though he?ll very soon own the entire lot, lock, stock and Fergie, and could well end up becoming the equivalent of pure poison there; if what supporters of his current US sports venture have to say on the subject is right, The Age Of Hyper-Inflated Ticket Prices For The Punter, And Maximised Profits For The Owner shall rule long in the Land Of The Manc ere not too many moons have waxed and waned in the night sky. That?s what happens when you have a football club trying to be a business first and foremost ? eventually, by natural evolution, it becomes a pukka one, with all the attendant financial hazards on hand to ensnare all those poor misguided sods simply wanting to watch eleven blokes kick a ball around for 90 minutes.

There?s lots more I could say about what is, to me, a development that could quite possibly bode ill indeed for the very future of the game in this country - for starters, where were the FA when all the schmoozing and back-door politics were going on? I?d genuinely thought there were safeguards built into the system to prevent this sort of thing from happening. - but for now, I?ll confine matters to the knock-on effect the news might have on our slim prospects of staying up come The Sabbath. All sorts of rumours are flying around about, of course, mostly concerning what followers of The Mancs may do to try and get at least some publicity for their cause at St. Mary?s.

And don?t think they haven?t got the clout, financial or otherwise, to pull off some ?Sunday Special? stunt or other in front of the Sky cameras there ? maximum publicity for their cause is everything, and just like their paternity-rights counterparts, Fathers 4 Justice, they?re not the sort of people to be unduly bothered or intimidated by the prospect of acquiring a criminal record, or having to fork out for magistrates court fines, either. And it would seem they?re not about to discount some of the crazier ideas they?ve had recently, either; among the more fanciful long-term stuff I?ve heard of late is something about them travelling via the AFC Wimbledon route, and ?going it alone? under a new ?banner?, with the City Of Manchester Stadium becoming their new home ? and Eric Cantona persuaded to come out of retirement and become their manager! Hang on a mo - just how much super-strength cannabis is there loose in the City Of Manchester these days? If that?s the mainstay of their future plans, perhaps someone senior in the Manchester Police should start organising some major drug raids, and bloody quick!

Returning to full seriousness once more, as we?re allegedly a democracy, non-violent protests about Glazer are fine and dandy, but if some of what I?ve heard on the grapevine is correct, then moves may even be afoot to persuade some of their players not to give of ? erm, how can I put this delicately? ? ?their best? at St. Mary?s tomorrow. That?s a prospect that worries me immensely; I can cope with Southampton hitting a streak of luck in similar fashion to the cheeky way we did last Saturday, just about, but the thought we might be consigned to The Outer Darkness purely and simply because of the Machiavellian doings of a chap who lives in Florida, and has about as much idea of what goes on in a British football ground as I do about its US equivalent? It?s enough to get the words ?mouth? and ?nasty taste? boinging around inside my head like The Brummie after a last-minute Earnshaw goal. Let?s just hope that whatever United?s ?militant tendency? does to disrupt tomorrow?s game, it doesn?t exert an adverse effect on ours.

The other item that might have a considerable bearing upon our fortunes come Sunday? Well, the trouble is, I?m not altogether sure whether this one?s entirely serious, or not. It came to my attention as a result of a ?little Throstle? mate of mine?s phone call to me last Wednesday evening; he, apparently, is no stranger to those indirectly connected with the Portsmouth camp and wanted a little word in my shell-like about it. His own prediction? That the Pompey side all have such a huge regard and affection for Harry Redknapp, still, they would walk through brick walls for him were he to just say the word. Although it might seem to go very much against the grain at first sight ? multiply our own Albion-Dingles antipathy by about ten, and you?ll only then get the true picture of just how badly strained diplomatic relations really are between supporters of the two rival faction ? the truth is that according to my chum, the last thing those Pompey players want to see, apparently, is Southampton (and, by inference Harry, obviously) ending up in the Championship.

The main conclusion I have to draw from our conversation is that if I?ve not been sold a bum steer, far from stepping down a gear, with thoughts of the imminence of sun-kissed beaches on exotic tropical isles playing uppermost in most people?s minds at this time of year ? it?s only human nature - they?re going to give it everything they?ve got on the day instead. Please note, I have no possible way of authenticating what I?ve been told, so it could all just be a load of old doggie-doos anyway ? but let?s just say it wasn?t the sort of news I?d wanted to hear right then! Sure, our demise won?t be down to just that one result going badly; there are two others to consider in tandem as well, but on the other hand, had we put all those chances away versus Boro the other week, or hung onto that 2-1 lead over Palace, even, we wouldn?t be in this bloody m?? Oh, sod it, why agonise about it by going over all that lot again?

I notice that according to yet another of my little feathered friends, current odds on us actually scraping it tomorrow are as follows: Baggies 4-1, Palace 3-1, Southampton 2-1, Norwich evens. Talk about going into Cuban Missile Crisis mode for this one; so much will rest upon what?s going on elsewhere, and despite Robbo pleading with everyone NOT to let the players know what?s happening at Fulham, etc. human nature being what it is, just about everyone in the ground will have a weather-ear cocked in the direction of a radio. It therefore stands to reason that should external events take a rapid turn for the better ? or otherwise ? then not even a bus-load of Trappist monks performing stewarding duties are going to keep that under wraps for long.

Team news? It?s looking very much as though our Pole In The Goal, Mr. Kuszczac, will be getting the managerial nod tomorrow, as poor Russell Hoult?s knock from last Saturday hasn?t cleared up as well as hoped. Not too much of a blow, really; anyone who witnessed his incredible stand-in performance at Old Trafford will know the lad?s more than capable of coping with anything the visitors might chuck at us. The club site reports that young Chaplow might be in with a shout of making the side, also. Pompey? Lua Lua?s hamstring is not of the best, neither is Patrick Berger?s foot, or Andy Griffin?s body ? so they?ll all be out. Sounds OK on paper, then ? but then I remember we haven?t won for the last five. And as for trolling around some Norwich, Southampton and Palace websites to discover what sort of problems they have with walking wounded, my nerves are frazzled enough, without making things even worse. EEK!

Which brings me nicely to my next point; scratch my head until there?s a large heap of sawdust gathering at my feet, I still can?t rightly remember a relegation cliff-hanger involving us where such a large proportion of our survival chances rested upon us winning, and several other sides completely blowing it. The nearest I can come to such a satisfactory state of affairs happening recently was our last-day tryst with Pompey (yes, my irony glands are working at full blast on that one right now ? better believe it!) approximately ten years ago. At their place, it was, and we had to win to stay up ? no fall-back position whatsoever ? but even then, as long as we matched what Blues did, or better (they were at Tranmere that day), we?d be safe.

Goal difference was our saving grace in the end, I think; that, plus the 10,000-strong ?army? we took down to the South Coast. Which further reminds me: when in the Bluenose Butcher?s meaty domain last Thursday, I took great pleasure in reminding him of precisely what happened, our eventual 1-0 victory ? see, Lee Ashcroft?s head, and what was in it, did have some uses, after all! ? and the glad tidings filtering through afterwards that despite Blues winning their game 3-1, our win meant they were relegated instead. Laugh? Like a drain, boy, like a drain. Until I remembered, with a horrible chill in my heart, that we could quite easily end up in a similar pickle tomorrow afternoon.

So sweaty is the prospect of tomorrow?s game for a good many, something tells me there?s not going to be a lot of sleeping done among the Baggie faithful tonight. In fact, I know this for a fact; more than one supporter has mailed me over the past few hours asking if I know of a sure-fire cure for insomnia! As a matter of fact ? and I say this for the benefit of any other poor sods out there whose nerves are frazzling right now ? I just happen to know of something that should do the trick in seconds each and every time it?s employed. Tried playing back any video footage of us back in the days of Ron Saunders, Keith Burkinshaw, or Brian Little, even? Or Bobby Gould? You could be cheekier still, and chuck into the ring some of Meggo's less than memorable footballing moments. Highly efficacious, may I say, for both kids and adults; works first time, every time, and costs not a scruple of the chemist?s time!

So Jason Koumas will be going on the transfer list come the end of hostilities, will he? Can?t say I?m altogether shocked to hear the news; certainly, the sort of alarming stuff we?ve been hearing about the poor chap?s private life of late didn?t exactly indicate a happy outcome for him. My first thought? A genuine hope that Jason can use this as an ideal opportunity to find a club where he?ll be happy once more, settles down there properly, then tries to resurrect from the ashes what remains of his playing career. Right now, I genuinely find it hard to believe that the same player who ran Forest absolutely ragged when we played them at the City Ground last year now has difficulty getting into our first-team squad, even. And my second thought? What a monumentally-tragic waste of a God-given talent; more, I dare not say.

And finally?? The lady who sent this to me last night very much wishes to remain anonymous, and I?ll respect that, of course ? but what an excellent tongue-in-cheek adaptation of the all-too familiar prayer we learned when at primary school. So good, in fact, I thought it deserving of a much wider audience ? so here you are. And I couldn?t have put our collective thoughts, hopes, fears, desire to succeed, even, better myself. Let?s just hope that when it comes to the crunch, God really does have a sense of humour, and having finally wiped the tears of laughter from His face and beard, He then commands: ?Thine mockery of Mine Prayer be as blasphemous as Hell itself, but thy Premiership survival I shall verily ordain because so miserable and po-faced art the Angelic Hosts up Here, thine naughty supplication unto Me art the funniest thing I?ve seen in this part of Heaven for well over 60,000 millennia?.? Enjoy.

?Our Gaffer, Who art at The Hawthorns, Robson be his name. Thy crowd will come, 3 points will be won, In defence, As it is in attack. Give us on Sunday a win over Portsmouth, Let us make no bad passes As we put a curse on Norwich, Southampton and Crystal Palace. Lead us not into the Championship, And deliver us from relegation, For thine is the meat pie, The pint and the sausage roll, Forever and ever, Boing Boing!!?

Whatever happens tomorrow afternoon, at least we know we?ve given survival our best and biggest shot to date. That?s all we can ask, really; anything positive from tomorrow will be a distinct bonus. Whether our preparations, our will to live, our desire, even, will prove enough to carry the day, I don?t know, but anything?s got to be better than just writing ourselves off with weeks to spare, still. Time to start offering up that prayer, and taking the Valium in fistfuls, folks.

 - Glynis Wright

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