The Diary

17 May 2005: Baggies Stay Up - Read All Abaht It!

It?s now been well over 24 hours since that final whistle relieved all our angst, but the remarkable thing is, I?m still not feeling in any way tired. Surprising, that; as you?ll have gathered yesterday, I spent the whole night ?blitzing? my commemorative piece, finally shutting down the trusty old PC around eight this morning. I would have dearly loved to have gone to beddy-byes at that point, but the problem was, I had a delivery to sign for, so couldn?t. A crafty two-hour kip on our sofa does have certain restorative properties, but is generally not regarded as being an effective substitute for the real thing ? which it wasn?t. Still, the nice man arrived around two in the afternoon, and once he?d gone, the master-plan was to have a kip then ? but bugger me down dead, no matter how hard I tried, sleep still eluded me.

Highly frustrating, and I strongly suspect I?ll pay the penalty while putting this together, but for the moment, the sheer momentum of what we achieved yesterday is still carrying me in its wake. My adrenaline levels must still be absolutely through the roof, which is strange, considering I?ve not had the benefit of strong caffeine to keep me awake as well. In fact, so alert do I feel right now ? yes, folks, Britain needs them in quantity, in fact, so sign up and be a ?lert? right now! ? I keep searching for evidence of someone craftily giving me an intravenous caffeine infusion, or something.

The best bit, though, came this morning, just after I?d finished yesterday?s epic. Nipping over the road and calling in on our paper-shop, I mean. Poor Mohammed, the bloke who runs it; it must have come as a considerable shock just to see me strolling into his place at such an unearthly hour, but the best bit was when I selected just about every title he had on sale, Birmingham Post, national tabloids and broadsheets, the full cheese, in fact ? and told him I wanted to pay for the lot! Must have come as Christmas, New Year and his birthday, all rolled into one. His response to such a bizarre order? As my very Black Country late mother would have put it: ? ?Is eyes cum out loike orgin-stops!? (Translation: He was so surprised to see me purchasing so many publications in one go, through sheer disbelief at what he was witnessing, the gentleman?s eyes bulged, then popped out massively, just like the volume controls on a church organ, in fact!)

At least he plonked the entire lot into a plastic bag for me; just as well, really, as getting back over the road afterwards is always a bit of a hazardous undertaking that time of day. Reading them all was the best bit, though; remember, I?m discussing newspapers I normally wouldn?t be seen dead with, either in public or in private. Aw, you know, stuff like the Dailies Express and Mail, both of which aren?t so much periodicals, as a nasty disease. How to read the sports pages, and yet keep one?s street cred totally intact? Easy ? with the help of industrial-srength rubber gloves, and lengthy pairs of tongs normally employed in the nuclear power industry!

Thinking back to yesterday, and those incredible scenes at the end, when The Fart called us down to join him there on the pitch, and we did, for some unaccountable reason, I found myself staring at The Brummie, then pondering long and hard on which last-day triumph had given me the most pleasure over the years. There?s been quite a few of them lately, haven?t there? Oldham 1976 (yes, I was on the pitch for that one, also), Wembley 1968, that 1993 play-off final with Port Vale and the semi that gave rise to it, then our away relegation-showdown with, yes, them again, Pompey the following year. That incredible 2001 2-0 win over Palace, when we chased the Dingles back down from a ten-point lead, then caught and overtook them on that fraught last day ? all of these hold special memories for me, but the fundamental difference between this one and the rest has to be the welcome news that this time, the nice guys won for once.

Let?s face it, what with Glazer?s predatory antics at Man United last Thursday, and all the stories about ?tapping up? players, and poaching young talent, I don?t think top-three level Premiership football has had very much of a good press overall, recently. Ours was the human-interest story a jaded nation wanted to hear, not some over-hyped nonsense about billionaire Russian owners chucking money in quantity at their efforts to gain silverware until the League title was effectively bought; this one was much more plentiful in what might be called ?the feelgood factor?. An unfashionable side, sunk without trace, almost, by Christmas, and an almost-irretrievable eight points from safety, suddenly finds the inspiration to lift themselves bodily away from the Premiership?s bottom rung, and on the last day, confound both critics and sceptical pundits alike by actually succeeding, and completely against all the odds as well. Just like 2001, there was a fairytale quality about the whole episode that made it so special for everyone. Now, everyone has heard about West Bromwich Albion, and the magic they and their followers weaved in May; as the Daily Mirror so rightly said in today?s edition, the real winner yesterday was football itself.

I suppose now the dust?s starting to settle on Sunday?s incredible events, tonight?s a propitious time to commit my thoughts regarding what happened to the electronic void. I?m thinking here about the other three sides that were also in direct contention for the title of Britain?s Prize Escapologists, and the amazing fact that despite holding a fair number of the necessary ?get out of jail? cards, they crashed and burned so spectacularly on Sunday, and we didn?t.

First off, then, what about Norwich City, Delia Smith, Huckerby, and all? That result at Fulham wasn?t half a strange one ? not what I would have expected at all. Normally, clubs without an interest in the proceedings, come the last day, sign a virtual non-aggression pact with the opposition, who may, but in City?s case, Fulham weren?t having any of it. Six goals without reply on the last day comprises a pretty traumatic stonking, by anyone?s lights. Was there some sort of hidden agenda operating down there I wasn?t aware of, I wonder?

The one Canary I did feel sorry for yesterday, though, was Delia Smith herself; I think even the most wall-eyed of Albion supporters would readily acknowledge that ever since she first arrived on the East Anglia football scene, she?s transformed the fortunes of the Carrow Road club beyond recognition. The business with the mike at half-time versus Man City was impassioned, very much so, in fact, and may have been an unfortunate side-effect of the sheer amount of alcohol imbibed by their garrulous chef on the night, but at least you knew that what she said on these occasions really did come straight from the heart.

I just wish I had even a half of the necessary skills to do what she does, plus have the necessary financial and business acumen to successfully run a media cookery career also. Had that been the case, you could well have seen me doing the precise same thing myself, but at The Hawthorns; I very much see myself standing there, whenever she addresses the Norwich faithful in the way she does. I also care, and very deeply, but lack the mega-finances necessary to help us realise our Premiership dream in the way she has. No, anyone that can sink about six million of their own money into their football club like that has to be as sound as a pound. I genuinely hope that Norwich can regain their momentum, and make a return appearance to the Prem come the end of 2005-06. Come back soon, Delia, we?ll miss you.

Saints? Sorry to be such a sourpuss when discussing them and their plight, but as far as I was concerned, it was high time they got theirs; just like former Premiership ?Klingons? Coventry City, the number of times I?ve seen them stuck in or around the drop-zone, and still wriggle out of it is unbelievable. As far as I?m concerned, their current chairman, Rupert Lowe is very much the fly in the ointment there; anyone that can get through no less than three managers within the space of eighteen months clearly has a big, big problem. And it?s not just that; just about every aspect of his chairmanship seems to tend towards the bizarre; what the hell went on to get Paul Sturrock the bum?s rush after only a couple of Premiership games in charge absolutely beggars belief. Judging from the hostile noises their supporters were making yesterday, I suspect he won?t be too long for this world. If he does finally take the hint, I wonder whether their board will turn to another of their number, a chap that already has considerable experience of running a pretty successful Nationwide club ? Paul Thompson?

And so we move on to Crystal Palace, Iain Dowie, and all who sail in her. My sympathy glands would very likely have been producing at full blast yesterday were it not for just one simple fact. Just how is it one side ? a struggling one, at that - can grab no less than 13 penalties in one season, and pot no less than eleven of the blasted things? Not bad, when considered in the light of our own measly three, two converted, one not. Even yesterday they went and grabbed another, which they then slotted home, thanks to resident goal-machine Andy Johnson. I?m not accusing anyone of what?s called ?simulation? outright, but it doesn?t half strike me you can see a pattern developing, and right under your nose. As with anything, there comes a time when all bounds of credibility are passed ? and sorry, Iain, but this just happens to be one of them.

At least, by the time the players report back for pre-season training once more, there will be three new Premiership patsies to get thrown all the duff decisions, the heart-breaking last-minute goals against, and all the rest of it. Two ? Sunderland and Wigan ? we already know, but who will be the third, I wonder? Ipswich? Derby? West Ham? Preston? As far as the two ?definites? are concerned, there may be storm-clouds ahead for both. Sunderland have the fanatical support, and the stadium to sustain life in the top-drawer, but as far as finances go, they haven?t got a bean, so little or no money for team-strengthening during that vital August ?window?. It wouldn?t surprise me at all if they simply plummet straight back down to where they came from.

Wigan? Hmmm, this one could be interesting. They have a decent stadium, which is quite capable of staging games at that level, but the fundamental problem may well lie in attracting the right sort of player to the club. Sure, they do have a ?money-bags? chairman who bankrolls them, and I have a strong suspicion that?s what they?ll try to do, but there?s a bit more than that needed at our level. You can go for one of the most prolific goalscorers in the world, but if he has strong misgivings about what?s going on there, you?ve had it before you?ve kicked a ball, even. Contrary to popular opinion, players aren?t totally motivated by financial concerns; most with competent skills at our level are most reluctant to move to a club they think will have problems avoiding the drop come the end of the season ? and that?s the nub of Wigan?s problem on that score, really, credibility. Even at the best of times, it would take one hell of a persuasive character to get players to take the risk ? and that?s probably where we have the edge on some. Robbo?s record as a player is second to none; championships, Cup Finals, European glory, not only has he been there, done that, he?s got the tee-shirt at home, safely in the weekly wash.

And that brings me to yet another matter, far removed from all the joyful scenes, the tears, the champagne corks, we witnessed at the ground, yesterday. It?s a form of warning bell, sounding its sonorous tones echoing through my mind, and one that concerns the medium-term future for our club.

The problem, as I see it, is this: now our leader has effectively silenced his critics, and now looks set fair for a rapid resettling of his career right on track, what will the future hold for Robbo? There?s no problem at present, of course, but in a couple of years time, when, perhaps, the FA might be looking for a replacement for Sven Goran Erikkson ? and reports in the press recently do seem to suggest they?ll be looking for an English national team gaffer this time round ? then you don?t need to be bloody Doris Stokes to see where all this is leading, do you? In fact, I believe I recently saw an interview with our gaffer in which he did say that the one thing that might tempt him away from club management would be the call to run the national side.

If that were to be the case, and Robbo had in the intervening period managed to lead us to some sort of success, either by improving our Premiership placing drastically, or getting us some new silverware in that rarely-disturbed-these-days trophy cabinet of ours, then you?d have to be a churlish Baggie indeed to start protesting about it. It?s as plain as the zit at the end of my nose that if it were offered to him, Robbo would not so much take the job, as snatch the arm of the FA Big Cheese offering him the post bodily from its socket.

And it?s at this point I want to be totally honest. I didn?t want Robbo when his name was first mentioned in lights in connection with the Albion manager?s job. For every sound reason for wanting him at The Hawthorns, I could think of many, many more, equally valid, as to why we shouldn?t. The fundamental problem, of course, was the fact he?d left Boro under a cloud, and what with that, and the lurid rumours about a ?drinking culture? at the Teeside club, it very much sounded as though we were going to get a bit of a pig in a poke. When he first arrived, and we were regularly getting on the wrong end of four or five-goal stonkings, I never once booed, or chanted ?You don?t know what you?re doing!?, but privately, I wasn?t best pleased about the way things were panning out.

At the time, I did commit myself by saying in print it would take something pretty massive for me to open even a little bit of my heart to the guy, but over the last few months, Robbo has done this ? and more besides. It all started with that daft draw at Manchester City, of course, the one where the almighty mix-up between City keeper Calamity James and Richard Dunne happened six minutes from time, and we ended up getting a point that was a bit of a joke, really ? but that was the real turning-point in our season. From them on in, the rot was stopped, morale improved immensely ? and well, you know the rest.

But praise be where it is truly due, mind. Don?t forget, despite all the negativity, the true foundations of yesterday?s success were laid by Gary Megson, who had under his wing some of the most honest, hard-working professional footballers I?ve ever come across in my entire life. It was Robbo, though, who took what were a pretty dispirited bunch on Megson?s departure, and gave them a real reason to believe, to enjoy their game, even, again. ?Putting on the twiddly bits? I call it, in the form of Campbell, and shit-hot loan success Kieron Richardson ? and what a massive success they both have been. I?d like to think we can persuade Ferguson to either let us have his services for yet another season, or allow him to leave Old Trafford and seek fame and fortune with the blue and white striped persuasion. Well, I ask you ? what?s the alternative? The way Man U are structured, the chances of Richardson getting a regular first team spot within the short term are very small indeed. Join us permanently, though, and that nice little midfield slot is his for the asking, And the way the lad was constantly referring to ?we? in his interviews, yesterday, and not ?this club? or ?West Brom?, does seem to suggest the lad might be open to persuasion after all.

The shenanigans of 24 hours ago also have left me with a curious sort of complaint, and not one I?ve ever seen discussed in reputable medical journals, either. The problem? It?s something popularly referred to as an ?earworm?. Puzzled, still? OK ? let me do the explaining. An ?ear-worm?, folkies, is a popular song, or tune, so infectious lyrically, or musically, it quickly burrows itself into the innermost recesses of the brain, and once there, is a complete and utter bugger to remove. Which is why the belated plea via this column; now it?s there, can somebody please, PLEASE get the theme tune from The Great Escape out of my bloody head before it drives me stark raving bonkers? That?s it for now, folks. Hopefully, before signing off for the summer break, I?ll be putting together a very personal ?awards list? of my very own ? and no, the end result will be totally-unrecognisable from the more conventional luvvie mutual-admiration-fests commonly found operating at these venues. Should be a good laugh ? so, until then, tara.

And finally?? For sheer tommyrot, today?s Daily Express account of our deliverance will be hard to beat, I suspect. The reason? Easy; since when have our lusty renditions of the 23rd Psalm been anything to do with the fact we have four born-again Christians in the current side?

Just to put the record straight, then, here?s the REAL story, as we understand it. According to our sources, the entire thing started way back in the seventies, when The Brummie had a ?proper? bar selling M and B products behind the terraced stand. I don?t know all the precise details, but I?m given to understand that when this started, it just so happened we were playing one of the first-ever Sunday games at The Shrine. No, I don?t know anything about the opposition that day, or the score; I?m just relaying what I was told.

Apparently, it all began by accident; a drunken joke, in the form of one of those Brummie Road regulars getting hold of a hymn book, then, as the booze began to flow in earnest, subsequently acquired a momentum of its own ? so far gone were our heroes, they decided to sing the psalm in question during the game. It didn?t catch on instantaneously, these things never do, but as season succeeded season, the number of Baggies singing it gradually increased, and by the time the early nineties rolled around, the tune could be clearly discerned by those sitting in other parts of the ground.

I guess the first time it really came into its own was when we were in the throes of our 1993 promotion season ? I heard it clearly sung on several occasions then, not only at various League grounds, but at Wembley itself, when we played Port Vale in the final. I hope that?s cleared up any misunderstanding ? and as for the dork who wrote the Express story in the first place, I suggest they either check their facts before putting finger to keyboard, or find themselves another career.

 - Glynis Wright

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