The Diary

30 August 2005: A Scouser Reserves Ram-Raid.

?Pay-day tomorrow!? exclaimed ?Im Indoors triumphantly, as we made our way to The Shrine for tonight?s reserve game with Liverpool.

?Yes, and the end of the transfer window,? I reminded him.

?Huh ? means the same thing for some clubs!? grumped cynical hubby, as the lights turned to green, and we made our way into Rolfe Street.

And what a lovely night for a bit of football; despite the rapid descent of the sun to near the horizon, the temperature outside was still an astonishing 26 degrees Centigrade; night game or none, that sort of thing puts one hell of a strain on a player?s fluid balance, as we were to observe later on. By the time we got to the ground, it was evident that the sultry evening had brought out Baggies in droves, big ?uns, little ?uns, the lot.

Mind you, on paper, the encounter promised to be an entertaining one; a grand total of SEVEN Albion players with first-team experience turned out tonight. Leading the pack emerging from the tunnel was Big Dave, followed by Scimeca, AJ, Chaplow, Ellington, Carter, and Kuszczak. One vagrant thought: was our Pole In Goal from the north or the south of that country? Why? Well, whichever way it panned out, we?d then have either a North or a South Pole! And, if he had a charismatic personality with it, could he be fairly described as the Magnetic Pole? Sorry, I?ll get me coat! Representing Albion?s ?Young Guns? were Smikle (the last time we?d seen him in action was at Tamworth, out on loan last season, when he?d looked very weary indeed, due to Hereford?s punishing schedule of two and three competitive games a week), Rob Davies, Hodgkiss and Forsyth. Liverpool? Well, the good news was that our reserve-level nemesis of previous seasons, Neil Mellor, wasn?t playing ? injured, apparently ? but their new signing and resident beanpole Peter Crouch was. But on the bench only? Blimey. One thought struck me, though ? as a way of getting back the transfer fee they?d so recently splashed out for the lad, what about Liverpool renting him out as a mobile-phone mast?

Oh, and talking about Tamworth, two other things. First off, our sighting of SuperBob, now their striker, of course, stood at the top of one of the gangways in The Halfords just before the break, and clearly looking for someone in the stand. Was he there just to meet up with an old mucker, or in his Tamworth capacity i.e. running the rule over any likely signings? Well, we hummed and hawed about it a little, then eventually came to the conclusion that as the Conference side were still part-time, our young pros would be a little beyond their reach. Oh, and the other thing about Tamworth? Apparently, Carl Heggs ? remember him, kiddiwinkles? ? signed for them recently, an event which must have brought about a severe attack of d?j? vu for old Supes!

As far as the game was concerned, I wish I could have brought you news of scintillating skills, ball artistry of a standard not seen since the days of Giles, Atkinson, and Co, but there wasn?t. In fact, for the whole of the first 45, there were only two goal attempts worthy of the name. Tedious? Yep, but a little girl and her dad in front of me did get the old chuckle-muscles going midway through the half. She was wearing a replica shirt with KOUMAS 7 emblazoned across the reverse side; very quickly, the chap in the next seat cottoned on to this, and said to the young shaver, in beautiful but teasing Black Country tones: ?Yo?m at the wrong club wearin? that, ay ya, bab?? (Translation on request!) Said weary Dad, by way of reply, ?Doh tell me about it?..?

It was heartening to see, come half-time, that the entire management team, Robbo, Pearson, Shakey, Appy, the whole shebang, had turned up for this one; clearly running the rule over their charges, both senior and junior, they were. I don?t know whether it was that our finest were trying too hard as a result, but despite their presence, as entertainment, the first half had been distinctly forgettable.

Out for the second helping, then, and within about five minute of the restart, disaster struck. The visitors scored, but instead of the bench changing things by giving poor Duke Ellington more options than simply having to plough a lonely furrow in the middle, the status quo prevailed. I can only assume that our new signing wasn?t at all amused; that sort of malarkey wasn?t why he?d signed for the club at all.

Then, with around a quarter of the half gone, Liverpool unleashed their not-so-secret weapon, Peter Crouch. And, not to be outdone, we also brought on the lad Baker, who immediately came to notice by bravely beating two Scousers in succession to the ball, one of whom was Mister Beanpole himself. And that was it, just about. I don?t know what our gaffer and his sidekicks made of the game, but it certainly didn?t quicken my pulse, even by a fraction. Or, as ?Im Indoors conjectured, as we made our way back to our vehicle, had the whole thing been just a glorified training exercise, to ascertain precisely who was hot, and who was not? I dunno: ask me one on sport!

Yesterday afternoon, it was off to Tamworth?s ground we went, to see them take on Hereford United in the Conference; that, and a chance to see SuperBob strut his stuff for the Staffordshire club once more. As we went to go outside, I decided to return for my raincoat, and ?Im Indoors chose to make mock: ?Look, it?s 23 Centigrade out there, and the sun?s out. What do you need that for??

?You never know,? replied this column, enigmatically. And, guess what. Not long after we?d parked up, and the game underway, the heavens opened up! Not that I needed it, mind, we were under cover by then, but at least my amateur weather-forecasting efforts were finally vindicated! But I get ahead of myself: despite our initial doubts, when we failed to clap eyes on him, Bob was playing all right, but with a different squad number on his shirt, 19. Last season, the Number Nine berth had been his of right. This campaign, that number had been taken by a newcomer, mobile-beanpole Julian Alsop. Did that mean our hero?s playing days were finally coming to an end?

As for The Bulls, no Mkandawire, injured, a cut head, apparently, so the Albion presence, Tucka Trewick apart, was minimal. Well, Stacey Caldicott was on the bench, if you want to chuck him into the tally. What they did have, though, was a recent arrival from West Ham, a lad who goes by the unenviable surname of Blewitt. When the move was announced, Tony Fowles, the genial chappie who runs the Hammers publication ?Ironworks Gazette?, had much to say about their young hopeful, likening his on the pitch presence to that of a canine subject to the Dangerous Dogs legislation. Was that why the Hammers had farmed him out to The Bulls, then: too much of a good thing? Well, we would see.

Because of those dire warnings, ?Im Indoors was somewhat concerned that the lad would live up to his name, and ?blow it? for the visitors, and there were times today when I wondered if he would stay the full 90 minutes. Let me put it this way: from what I saw of him, both ?yer man? and his playing style were brutish enough to make the average Rottweiller run, whimpering piteously all the way, back to Battersea Dogs? Home. Eek! And then there was the small matter of the Coke bottle: as per our own football club, Tamworth?s SOP when flogging the things was to remove the top before handing over same to the customer. Not a good idea when I?m around ? within minutes, I?d spilt a considerable quantity, the liquid rapidly heading in the direction of some poor chap?s coat, which he?d parked under the seat thinking it would be ?safe? there. Wrong! Many apologies headed in his direction; fortunately, he saw the funny side.

On the pitch, though, the game quickly developed into something of a war of attrition, tackles, some more dubious then others flying around in rapid succession. Over the course of the first half, Bob was completely snuffed out of it, and I did wonder if that was the beginning of the end for ?Supes?. Meanwhile, at the other end, in what came to be a rare flash of sublime footballing artistry amid a game that leaned towards the downright brutal at times, The Bulls managed to hit the net with the only goal of the game, and once ahead, managed to cling on like grim death. Luck was also with them; failure to close down properly on Supes, give him room to manoeuvre, led to the near post suddenly needing a lick of paint from the ground staff. The Old Master still had it in him, and The Bulls were very glad indeed for the let-off. And, as I?d thought, both sides were reduced to ten eventually, and another Tamworth lad very lucky indeed to see the game out to the finish; it was only the generosity of the ref (the second incident occurred during injury time in the second half) that saved him from a fractionally-early bath. Still, ?Im Indoors was a very happy bunny when the ref finally blew for full-time: a nice little away win, which put Hereford a very handy fourth in the pile, which was where they should be, being strong pre-season favourites to go up the third time of asking in succession.

From Tamworth, it was but a matter of a few miles to Laraine Astle?s house, where we showed up around 30 minutes later. The object of the exercise was to have a look at some pictures of The King in action that Laraine reckoned had never before seen the light of newsprint, ever. Being the lovely sunny day it was, the three of us decided to do our nattering on the patio of her small, but colourful garden. Quite a focus for the local wildlife, also; I hadn?t been there ten minutes, and already, I?d seen at least six species of butterfly some of which are very infrequent visitors to English gardens these days, gracefully alight on her flowers and shrubs, also several glimpses of dragonflies in all their iridescent glory, darting and buzzing away in characteristic stop-start-style among the greenery. One of my favourite insects, dragonflies, not least because looking at one of them is, in effect, looking at our planet long before furry animals arrived on the scene: a direct link with the dinosaurs, in effect. True survivors. And, according to our host, there was also a young fox and a family of hedgehogs in residence, elsewhere within those leafy bounds; in fact, on a hot evening not so long ago, Laraine?s incumbent Basil Brush staged a virtuoso performance for her grandchildren, right on her back lawn, much to the delight of the kids.

Cold drinks and food were quickly produced, and as the shadows lengthened, and the evening light grew ever more golden still, Albion games, old and not-so-old, were remembered, dissected, laughed over, and heads nodded in wonderment. Going reluctantly inside when the light faded, the photographs in question were brought out, and yes ? they were special. Oh, and as we?d hoped, Laraine has promised to write an introduction to the book for ?Im Indoors.

And there were more tales of The King, some hilarious, two of which I reproduce below, but one other really got me chuckling. Apparently, during the 1970 World Cup, Jeff roomed with Bobby Moore, and one of the things The King brought with him to Mexico was what was then a state-of-the-art personal music player, the then equivalent, if you like, of the modern Walkman and the Ipod. A portable record-player, it was, state-of-the-art for its time: to own one of those was considered really cool, and Jeff loved it. So much so, he played only one record on the thing, Norman Greenbaum?s ?Spirit In The Sky?. It?s quite a catchy number, actually, and I happily confess to buying the thing myself when it first came out ? but Jeff really tore the back side out of playing the song. Once, twice in succession? No problem. Three, four, five times in a row? Not quite so good ? well, that?s what his England colleagues reckoned. Suffice to say that one particular ?dark and stormy night?, a ?raiding party? was surreptitiously organised, and the thing finally silenced for good!

On a more serious note, that night, I certainly got a shock when Laraine told us about a hitherto-unsuspected but wonderfully-caring facet of someone no longer at the club, an aspect of this person?s character so unexpected, so seemingly uncharacteristic, my jaw must have dropped about six feet while she was telling us the tale. A wonderfully-kind gesture to Laraine, it was, more I can?t say. What a shame that the person concerned couldn?t have let slip, even for a fraction of a second, that particular aspect of his character to others; had he done so, I suspect he would have been regarded in a much better light by both supporters and players.

If there?s some totally unexpected development in the transfer-market stakes tomorrow then I?ll very likely be posting come Thursday: if not, then expect to see me adorn your inboxes a week on Friday, as we?re hot-footing it down to our holiday home for a week. Whatever we do, just remember ? Nil Desperandum Illegitimi Carborundum! (Translation also available if required!)

And finally?? Pre-match preparations, mid-1960?s-style, as narrated by Laraine Astle. Look at the backroom staff-list for any Premiership club (and not a few Nationwide ones also these days), run your eyes down it, and sooner or later you will encounter that modern-day adjunct (some would say ?bane?) of the everyday life of the pro footballer, the dietician. If nothing else, these guys (and gals) are thorough: for the whole of a season, anything that passes between a player?s lips doesn?t until its calorific content, protein, vitamin and energy-giving capabilities have been measured to at least two decimal places. To ensure conformity and consistency, players are also given detailed diet sheets, telling them in words of one syllable what?s OK, and what?s a complete and utter no-no.

But it wasn?t always thus, as Laraine Astle revealed to us the other day. She remembers in particular one Saturday morning, when the Baggies were at home to Sheffield Wednesday, the time around the autumn of 1965. None of this ?go to a hotel and eat a carefully planned and prepared meal tailored to meet the heavy demands the 90 minutes would make upon their physiology and metabolism? malarkey: instead, what Jeff and Laraine did that morning was to go to Bilston Market, and while there, purchase a rocking-horse for the then tiny Dorice.

On the way back, Laraine felt absolutely ravenous, so stopping off at a chippy near West Bromwich town centre (run by a genial pair of ladies, Laraine tells me), Jeff purchased a portion of fish and chips for his missus; the trouble was, so good was the smell of those chips, although The King hadn?t planned to eat, temptation reared up its ugly head ? and Jeff quickly succumbed, adding a fish to his purchases. Once home, not able to resist, he then nicked some chips from Laraine?s plate to make the pre-match feast complete. ?Proper? chips these were, cooked the old-fashioned way, in beef dripping, and the fish batter, as a result, even more crunchy and flavoursome. There was also a goodly portion of those little bits of stray batter chip-shop servers generally chucked in for good measure if asked nicely, back then. And Jeff scoffed the lot.

Ask any modern day sports dietician about that ?pre-match? meal, and in all likelihood, they?d turn pale, throw up their hands in horror, and ask to be shown the way to the nearest bit of open air to recover. But that was the pre-match meal that enabled The King to go on and score a hat-trick against the Yorkshire club, his first ever for the club, just a scant three hours later!

And another gem from Laraine?s capacious memory-banks?? Just after we won the Cup in 1968, Jeff and family were given possession of the trophy for 24 hours, the reason for this being The King had been invited to a supporters? ?do? and quite naturally wanted to show the trophy off at the function. When it was delivered by Securicor, it came in a big wooden box, lined with velvet, and Laraine?s first thought, on removing it from said container, revolved around the overwhelming first impression that both trophy, and the blue and white ribbons still adorning it, were filthy dirty, and Something Needed To Be Done About It.

So, up rolled her sleeves and she got to work; first, out came the metal polish, and our latter-day Holy Grail cleaned and polished to within an inch of its life, and next, into the wash went the ribbons, dried, ironed, then repositioned back on the handles of the thing. Time to place the now-pristine trophy on the living-room table, then sink into a cushion and admire from afar. But not for long; within minutes, there were a steady stream of local schoolchildren knocking on her door, and wanting to see and touch the prized object Jeff?s talent had brought to the borough, and Laraine being Laraine, she simply couldn?t say ?no?. The best bit came after the function; fearful of Albion going down in football history as The Second Club To Have The Cup Stolen While In Possession Of The Thing ? the first were the shower in Witton, of course, back in the days when Queen Victoria wasn?t at all amused about anything ? after a lot of humming and hawing on the part of The King and his missus, they both decided there could be only one safe repository for such an irreplaceable item ? under their bed!

 - Glynis Wright

Contact the Author

Diary Index