The Diary

22 August 2005: Albion - Was Yesterday As Good As It Gets?

Looking at yesterday?s events with hindsight, I suppose it could be argued I was unduly critical of what took place during yesterday?s game; after all, the ends did justify the means, and we did pick up a win that would probably have eluded us just a scant 12 months ago. On our way to the farm today ? see below ? ?Im Indoors expressed his own disquiet about our chosen playing style versus Pompey, and totally-consumed by a hefty dose of pessimism, lobbed into my mental processes this thought: ?Is this as good as it gets in the Premiership??

The problem is, basically, that the airlessness of the Megson years have made my other half somewhat cynical concerning the beautiful game, as practised at our level. Just like me, he?s been brought up on a constant Albion diet of flowing, passing flair, movement, athleticism, grace ? and glory goals, heaps of passion, pride aplenty. And so have I; the Alan Ashman side that won us the Cup was without equal, we?ll never see its like ever again, the prime reason being that the game has changed to an almost-unrecognisable degree since those heady, goal-filled days. And yet, just like sunspots, there is much about Albion, past, present, future, that is cyclical. Let me explain.

Right now, after what was a long and sometimes bruising battle to return to football?s Olympus, and followed by that miraculous last-gasp reprieve, we now sit upon the bottom layer of the Premiership pond, but lack a means of permanent anchorage as yet. In my view, this division currently consists of three discrete segments; the strugglers and stragglers; the mid-table coasters, who, through a combination of luck and the serendipitous discovery of talent, both home-grown and imported, occasionally get to play in the minor stages of European competitions; and the real moneybags-merchants, the surface-dwellers, the Prem?s phytoplankton, if you like, multinational business concerns, almost, whose mighty infrastructures and cash-flows bear about as much resemblance to ours as the Space Shuttle does to a Lancaster bomber. Theirs is the title and Champions League glory alone.

Is what we have now as good as it gets? I would dispute that statement, albeit with some reservations. Let?s be honest, in Megson, we had a competent leader at the lower level stuck in an evolutionary cul-de-sac; in Robson, provided nothing goes badly wrong, I now see the means of advancement to the next stage. Yesterday?s proceedings effectively demonstrated we now have the luxury of viable options for most positions; we can now play with some degree of success the ?horses for courses? game. The players deemed to possess the necessary aptitude to conquer Pompey aren?t necessarily the same ones you?d pick to sort out Everton, say. What we put out for yesterday?s encounter was a little sterile in make-up, sure, but what we select for other occasions will, no doubt, be completely different. As I said, that option now exists, and it?s up to us ? or Robbo, rather ? to ensure we capitalise fully.

Put in simple terms, at our present stage of Premiership development, we?re at about the same stage as Wilbur and Orville Wright the moment they took to the skies for the first time; soon, they and their contemporaries would conquer the troposphere, the planet?s bottom layer. Much later still, Chuck Yeager ensured further progression when he broke the sound barrier for the first time, in the late 1940?s; as a result, the stratosphere became our stamping-ground also, and later still, the ionosphere, which is about as near to outer space as dammit. It took the extragravitational exploits of Yuri Gagarin and John Glenn to finally gave us the astronautical equivalent of qualifying for the Champions League, but several common factors bind all these milestones together, ours and theirs ? hard graft, sacrifice, much planning, and years and years of trying.

Should we manage to remain in our current position, our next objective has to be securing our medium-to-long-term Premiership place; becoming another Charlton, or a Bolton, perhaps. Achieve that aim, and you gain the financial security to venture in higher spheres; the ultimate goal, of course, has to be European qualification, and the welter of media and corporate money that such activities attract. Given our current lack of finance and street-cred, this has to be a long-term aim, but past experience shows it can be done.

Unless there?s the financial equivalent of a miracle-worker on the distant horizon, I doubt very much if we could ever aspire to the heights currently occupied by forthcoming opponents Chelski ? interesting to note yesterday ?regular? matchday announcer Matthew reminding supporters post-match there were still tickets on sale for that one; suggests to me, a lot have adopted a similar stance to that of ours, and become refuseniks ? but there?s still a lot that?s eminently reachable. Just look at Everton. Dead-beats one season, European qualifiers the next.

Looking at the problem from a supporter?s point of view, yes, it?s good to evolve in such a satisfactory manner, or make a credible attempt, but those who have both the best interests of the club and its supporters at heart must ensure that by doing so, the club doesn?t lose for all time its Black Country heart and soul. Its steady beat is the lifeblood of our club; price us out of the market, gentrify us, and you instantly attract a new kind of supporter, one with greatly-enhanced spending power, sure, but in doing so, you also stand to lose something very precious indeed. A solid core of loyal faithful, lacking sufficient knowledge of etiquette to pass the port in the right direction, but with passion and belief in abundance; a difficult balancing act, sure, but one just as vital to the well-being of the Baggies as the need to sign a promising new striker. That?s the way I?d like to see the club progress, as per most of the above; how much we actually achieve, though, is now in the lap of the gods.

Before I allow the sordid details to descend upon the scientific community at large, just to let you lot out there in on the act before I do, news I?ve recently discovered an ailment previously unknown to medical science. Its name? ?Proof-readeritis?, would you believe?

The symptoms are striking; cross-eyes, through closely examining reams of typeface, a whanging headache, a very sore left wrist (q.v. ?writer?s cramp?), and an unhealthy dislike of the grammatical eccentricities of writers, especially the one who, in this instance, just happens to be my other half!

Mind you, this afternoon, I did set my stall out in no uncertain terms prior to embarking upon what promises to be something of a Sisyphean task: ?Do you want the FULL service, grammatical nit-picking, punctuation and spelling, niggles and all, or the slightly scaled-down version?? was my first query, the instant ?Im Indoors asked me to take on the literary equivalent of mucking out the Augean stables. And, much to my astonishment ? the lad can?t be feeling well! - hubby expects the full Monty, the works, no expense (or pronoun!) spared, all spelling mistakes, however inconsequential, duly castigated, and so shall it be. Funny, that ? I never for one minute suspected my beloved had masochistic tendencies; something tells me we?re going to end up chucking things at each other long before this massive writing project is anywhere near completion.

Still, apart from slaving away in the pursuit of literary excellence, much earlier today, we did take time to soak up what remained of the summer sunshine by journeying to Sandwell Park Farm. Situated quite close to the town centre, it is ? in fact, most with legs in good nick could walk it from there in around 40 minutes, and I?m willing to pass on details to anyone interested ? but despite such close proximity to the world of exhaust fumes and crowded streets (also situated right next to the busy M5, it still remains one of West Bromwich?s best-kept secrets), a delightfully green and unspoilt haven for the benefit of the town?s inhabitants. Run by the council (they only charge admission at weekends; it?s free the rest of the week), it?s also a working farm, with ?proper? animals.

Hens, ducks, pigs, horses (no, not THAT one!) sheep, peacocks, plus cuddly little lambs in spring, tiny turkeys and cute little piglets in autumn ? just make sure your offspring fail to make the obvious seasonal connection! - and, at the rear of the premises, a faithful reproduction of a Victorian/Edwardian kitchen garden, containing just about every kind of fruit and veggie you care to name, all grown organically, and on sale in the nearby shop. There?s even a resident cat. What a splendid place to have a leisured Sunday salad, with ice-cream to follow, then relax and bat the Baggie breeze amid the leafy surroundings of the aforementioned gardens. Highly recommended, especially if you?ve got kids ? a disconcerting proportion seem increasingly unable to make the connection in their own minds between the food that ends up on their plate, and the soil in which it?s grown, or, for that matter, the pens and fields in which the animals are reared.

Another occurrence that grabbed our attention, but comparatively later this afternoon, our usual protracted conversation with Laraine Astle. All the Royal Family are currently on a ?high? following the Pompey win, as you might expect given their impeccable Baggie credentials. Among all the revelations, one confession in particular; so hyped up were they by our last-gasp deliverance from relegation last May, directly after the game, the entire family, on a whim, decided to spend some time shopping in their local supermarket. (Yes, I know, some people do have a peculiar way of celebrating, but this is The Royal Family we?re discussing, so it?s got to be OK ? right?) Just one problem, though; being Baggies through and through, our deliverance exerted something of a euphoric effect on the entire Astle clan, and in a way no stimulant, legal or otherwise, could ever do. Result? When they got back home, and sorted through their purchases, the sudden realisation hit them that the greater part of what they?d chosen bore little resemblance indeed to the normal contents of their shopping trolley; in effect, they?d chosen, then gone through the checkout and paid for the stuff totally on ?automatic pilot?! Oh, and very kindly, Laraine has agreed to write the foreword to my other half?s literary tome, so there?s a bonus for you; we?ll be calling the day The Bulls play Tamworth, at their place, on Bank Holiday Monday.

Tomorrow, among other things, I?ll be casting a weather eye over Tuesday?s London trip ? we?ll be watching proceedings via satellite TV that evening ? and catching up with other supporter gossip, no doubt. Until then, have fun.

And Finally. One. Leeds versus Wulves, Saturday August the 20th. Result? Leeds 2, Wulves 0. The scorer? A gentleman by the name of Rob Hulse ? now where have I heard the name before? Proof positive you can take the player from the Baggies for as long as you like, but can?t entirely eradicate the Baggies from the player!

Two. A bit of a departure, this one, from the normal sort of stuff I use to adorn this part of my periodical journal, but it does have its amusing aspects. Many thanks to fellow-Baggie Tim Joyner for coming up with the goods.

The scene? The train on the way to yesterday?s match (via Birmingham City Centre, then out again). The location? In the carriage, next to an Albion acquaintance of Tim?s (also from Kiddy). The time of day? About 10:45am; having prepared the ground sufficiently well, here?s what Tim had to say about the journey.

Ranged behind our hero were 4 ladies, two in their 60?s, and two who looked in their 30?s or 40?s. They were all a bit ?posh?, for want of a better word, and were on about looking forward to having coffee at Marks And Spencers when, somehow, they got onto the subject of football. As we pulled into The Hawthorns station, one of them happened to mention that this was where West Bromwich Albion played, and that ?they? were at home that afternoon.

This astonishing statement was greeted with unbelievable horror by the other three, and for the remainder of the journey, they jabbered non-stop trying to work out what time the ?mob? of supporters would be getting on the train after the game (hardly rocket science). In fact it got to the point where Tim was about to turn round and tell them, but it got even more amusing when they started rattling on about imagined hooligans, and, potentially at least, mobs of ?yobs? rioting through the carriages. Their ignorance was almost comical: according to our chum, you had to be there to appreciate the anxiety the mere thought of train travel with approximately 400 Category A hardcore hooligans for company was causing them; before too long, all tremulously agreed that they must get the train home well before 5pm.

Tim and chum both listened enthralled by this display of stupendous ignorance, and it was at this point he felt compelled to butt in and advise them that the vast majority of football supporters were in fact ?ordinary? human beings, and that the ?danger? they faced from a cross section of replica shirt-clad individuals from the likes of Cradley, Stourbridge and Kidderminster etc. was far less than the prospective dangers of wandering around a crowded city centre all afternoon, especially given the current jittery security climate. He further stressed to them, but to little avail, that in a few years time, he was planning to bring his own children to matches, something Tim wouldn?t even consider it if he?d thought he was likely to place them in any sort of danger.

The lad was going to mention, also, that many of the high-profile media-covered hooligan ?meets? were pre-arranged affairs conducted in quiet backwaters, well away from public / CCTV view, but finally reckoned this would have been a waste of time, as they obviously didn?t believe a word our lad said. He?s in no doubt they ended up traveling home unnecessarily early. As Tim said by way of conclusion, it does show, though, that however hard the media / clubs try to sanitise and gentrify the supporter-image currently prevailing among the general populace (see above), long-held (mis)conceptions still abound, as far as older females are concerned, at any rate.

My own take on what Tim had to say? Just this; both the Daily Mail, and the Daily Express seem to have an awful lot to answer for!

 - Glynis Wright

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