The Diary

10 December 2005: The Man City Circus Comes To Town.

Yes, it?s me, back again after just a leetle gap ? and what a fun-packed few days we?ve had in the Wright household recently. But don?t knock it ? we?re both feeling just a little bitsy smug right now, having made some inroads into our Chrissy prezzie list last Monday evening. Took Merry Hill (or, as I?m wont to call the wretched place, Merry Hell) by storm, we did. My sisters and their ?other halves? all well and truly sorted, now ? normally, it?s a last-minute job ? so at least I can pen this instalment with a reasonably clear conscience.

It would be duplicitous of me, at the very least, to say it?s an annual task I adore. My complete and utter aversion to any form of ?retail therapy? is legendary, as is my profound bewilderment as to what motivates those who seemingly embark upon a veritable hatful of time and trouble to boldly go on long coach outings the length and breadth of the country, seeking out strange new places like the former Round Oaks Steelworks site, where the tills now ?ker-ching!? merrily, 24/7, almost. And then I start wondering what motivates those who elect to spend a large proportion of their spare time and money on long coach journeys to Arsenal, Tott?? Oh dear ? a bit of an ?own goal? there, that one, but never mind!

Tomorrow sees the visit of Manchester City to these climes, of course, and make no mistake, this is one fixture where absolutely anything could happen within the space of 90 minutes. The problem is that City have a reputation for consistency about on a par with that of a politician?s promise. They blow both hot and cold, and it?s damned difficult to predict beforehand what they?ll actually do. The other week must have been one of their better ones, because they ended up making a right old mess of Charlton Athletic, sticking no less than five past them and, far more impressively, at The Valley, as well, the normally-solid but thoroughly-miserable?by-then Addicks being only able to muster two in reply to what must have been a totally-unexpected onslaught.

It?s a little like that age-old nursery rhyme, the one about ?the little girl with the sweet little curl, right in the middle of her forehead? which finishes with the line ?When she was good, she was very, very good ? and when she was bad, she was horrid!? In other words, it?s equally-likely they could come to our place tomorrow and collapse like a house of cards. It?s the ?not knowing which? bit that must really grate on their supporters? nerves, and it?s because of that I really do wonder what the take-up rate for Prozac or similar must be among their supporters!

According to the club website, Robbo knows already who he?s going to stick in goal tomorrow afternoon ? The Pole, or the now injury-free Kirkland ? but if I were responsible for selection tomorrow, I know which way my personal instincts would jump. The Pole has performed very well indeed, these last few games ? barring the United one where Houlty stepped into the breach, of course ? and it?s because of that I would consider it very unfair of our gaffer to give Kirkland his slot back solely because he?s now recovered from injury. Again, the maxim has to be ?never change a well-performing side?: by any criteria you want to mention, the very fact we haven?t dipped for a couple of league games makes this an eminently- sensible rule to follow.

Tomorrow also sees the availability of Kevin Campbell for selection following his recovery from injury, but with Kanu also back in the land of the living once more and looking the more likely to get the nod instead, I would guess Campbell would only get to start should something really drastic befall our strikeforce overnight. And it would have to be something on a par with a stray lightning bolt simultaneously hitting Earnie, The Duke and The Horse (who has seemingly taken to travelling about the area in a battered old white van!) to allow the former Everton lad the chance to get a start.

As for the other half of the Manc duopoly, Stuart Pearce, their manager, reckons he has a full squad to play with ? ooer, missus! ? come tomorrow. He did have two youngsters in the side before, apparently - Stephen Ireland and Lee Croft, who were dropped in favour of the extra experience of Claudio Reyna and Trevor Sinclair for the Charlton caper ? so expect the brace of more seasoned players to carry on in their berths tomorrow. As for the rest, David Sommeil will continue to deputise for Danny Mills at right-back, the former England star being ruled out for six weeks with a fractured shin. Ouch.

And that, folks, leaves me with what was once known as the $64,000 question dangling around my lips: Can we actually get something from this game? If recent past serves as a general guideline, I?d like to think we?d be AOK come five tomorrow afternoon. Sure, during our inaugural season in the top flight, we dipped at home 2-1, but come the corresponding Maine Road jaunt just after the New Year, we managed to see ?em off by the same score. Last season, of course, we witnessed that ?comedy of errors? at their place; for me, one of the funniest moments I?ve ever experienced in football (Thanks, Messrs. Dunne and Calamity!) which gave us the single point, our good form continuing with a vital win at The Shrine some months afterwards.

The opening day of the current campaign also saw us travel there and grab a single point, despite being on top for long periods of the game, but as I said earlier, things could go either way this time round. If they had us watched versus Fulham, realised our weaknesses, then we might find it difficult; all they have to do is pack the defence and stop Kanu getting the ball, but if they come at us, then we might stand a fighting chance of grabbing all three points. Whichever way the mop flops, it should be an interesting encounter indeed. Is it now a case of ?Michael Winner, eat your heart out?? for this column? The reason why I?m asking this is because of our jolly jaunt on Thursday evening to Richard Sneekes? restaurant in Wylde Green ? well us, and the vast majority of Sutton Branch, that is. Festive menus were the order of the day ? Richard and chums do a mean bit of Italian-style ?cock?, I?ll have you know ? and great fun was had by all concerned. Special guest for the evening was ex-Baggie Nicky Cross, who, amidst the all-out two-pointed minestrone and tiramisu attack on our gastric juices, found time for a few conversational reminisces of his own as well.

And that, dear Baggie people, brings me to yet another thought, one I voiced to ?Im Indoors at the time, so here goes. As those ?long-termers? among you will no doubt recollect, besides turning out for us, Nicky also spent the latter part of his career at Port Vale, for whom he appeared in the 1993 Play Off Final at Wembley. We triumphed, and Peter Swan getting his marching orders for trying to separate SuperBob?s legs from the rest of his body just as he was about to pull the trigger helped us enormously! And that?s my point. Had Nicky scored first and not us, who knows what would have happened; in fact, it?s fair to say that Swan?s dismissal, and our subsequent win completely changed the destiny of our club.

It?s when you actually sit down and analyse such events in detail you realise that on such small incidents are footballing (and political; this is a game you can play endlessly using same very famous Parliamentary names, and events, both national and international) futures decided. Small incident, enormously-changed implications for the future. Easy, isn?t it? Don?t bother using this theory as the basis for a potential best-seller, though; sci-fi writers such as Isaac Asimov (The End Of Eternity), and Philip K. Dick (The Man In The High Tower) have just about done it to death, but as far as Albion are concerned, it?s still fun to spend idle minutes speculating upon what might have been.

Had we not won that Final, would Ardiles have still left to manage Spurs? And, had he not taken those thirty pieces of silver, would he have then gone on to win promotion for us the following season? Would later success have then paved the way for a completely different kind of successor to Ardiles, and if so, would promotion to the top-flight have been achieved much sooner than it actually was? Or, would we still be languishing in the backwater of the (now) First Division ? or, heaven forfend, even lower still? As I said, you can genuinely sit and ponder on this sort of thing for hours - just make damned sure it?s not our bathroom you?re doing it in, mind, and this column desperately wanting to get in, and crossing her legs in agony outside!

When trolling through various posts on the Boing list the other day, didn?t I get a gale-force blast from the past? Hands up, then, all those who remember Billy ?Popeye? Martin? Probably most people reading these words, I?ll wager, but before you do, stay thy ?mouse-clicking? hand, if only for just a few precious minutes, dear Baggie reader. The reason his name cropped up in the first place was because the other day, someone on the list wanted to know how he was, so it was a shame I had to break the bad news that Popeye was long dead and gone, his demise in early 1993 being the result of a nasty accident sustained while cycling his way to the Hawthorns, where, for more years than I care to remember, he?d put in innumerable hours of voluntary work as general factotum to both manager and players. And that?s the real reason I?m giving Billy more than a few inches of column-space tonight, folks. For him, the song ?I?m Albion ?Till I Die?.? had literal meaning, almost.

It?s utterly-devoted supporters like Bill that really make football clubs, especially those constantly languishing in the lower reaches of the League, what they are. These days, I?m not altogether sure how ?Popeye? ? he acquired the nickname because of his wonderfully-accurate wartime impersonations of the children?s cartoon spinach-munching seafarer, by the way - would fit in with current Albion organisational doctrine, based as it is on strictly business and professional lines. My best guess is Popeye and his ilk must be a fast-diminishing breed in the top-flight right now, a bit like the reclusive, seriously endangered Giant Panda, if you like. I can almost hear the boardroom exchanges batting to and fro as the men in suits consider the various pros and cons. ?What ? allow an octogenarian pensioner unlimited access to the place, more significantly, one willing to work all the hours God sends just for the love of the club? Can?t have that: they might start spilling the Albion beans to the local and national press, or even worse still, ask for expenses!?

So, what was so special about Popeye Martin, then? His unwavering dedication to the Baggie cause, genuine, long-standing, unconditional, complete and utter, is a pretty good place to start. Something you?d expect from a chap who, as a young child, held Albion?s Jesse Pennington in awe, complete and utter, not least because when Popeye?s dad took him to visit the great man?s shop one day, Jess himself picked out a toy engine from his window display, and gave it to Bill as a present. From that day forth, he was hooked for life.

Turn up at The Hawthorns on any given weekday, and there you?d find him, trademark ?gor-blimey? cap on head, slightly over-large, and covered in little blue and white club badges of indeterminate ancestry; large soulful eyes, a bit like a bloodhound?s, and as bright as a pigeon?s; grey pencil-moustache bristling away atop his upper lip, trademark tracksuit top, leathery facial features, the result of countless training sessions completely exposed to the elements, no doubt, and somewhere not far in the background, that famous ?sit up and beg? bike of his, the one that bore him faithfully from house to Shrine, a distance of just over two miles, on a daily basis. Yes, that?s right, ?bike?. Sure, being a pensioner, moreover one in your eighth decade, does confer certain privileges on the recipient these days, such as access to free public transport, heating allowance, and TV licence et cetera, but Bill was no ordinary pensioner, and that bike of his no invalid carriage; if nothing else, Popeye was in superb physical condition, and what?s more, someone who prided himself on being in much better nick than blokes less than half his chronological age.

Being an avowed non-smoker and drinker, and having been devoted to such abstemious ways ever since Adam was a lad goes a mighty long way towards explaining why ? that, or finding convincing evidence he?d done a crafty deal with the Devil in the dim and distant past - but he did have one final piece of kit stuffed in his locker as well: our players. I?m not altogether sure how Popeye came to become general factotum for our finest in the first place, but somehow he did, and he was. Moreover, just like the battered furniture in their office, he seems to have been ?handed down? from outgoing manager to unquestioning incoming manager over many years. Many came and went in recent times, of course; some delightfully good, some excruciatingly bad, some blatantly using the club as a stepping-stone to further career progression, even, but whatever their varying managerial motives and ambitions, they all had one thing in common; Bill, as immutable a club fixture as the Throstle atop the Woodman scoreboard.

Thinking about Popeye some thirteen years after his death, it?s hard at first to see just what his values had in common with a pro footballer?s highly-paid, pampered and wonderfully-sybaritic lifestyle, and why it was most players (their sense of humour being very similar to that of the uniformed services ? sarcastic, vicious, or just plain warped!) ceased trying to take the mick once they?d got to know him better, regarding him as a ?club mascot?, almost, and in the nicest sense of the phrase. Over-inflated egos, cruel words and/or deeds, sarcasm, all born of consumerist love of material possessions - they all magically melted away into nothingness with the early morning mists, and come the end of a gruelling inaugural session, even the most boorish and ignorant of newcomers had succumbed to his constant self-effacing devotion to the club.

Mind you, he wasn?t there just to make the tea and shift those cones around a bit; should any or all of our keepers need a spot of practice with penalties, Bill was ?yer man?. Fit? Not half, and despite his advanced age, packing an absolute corker of a spot-kick as well. No quarter given or expected, and absolutely no concessions whatever to longevity, either; face Bill, and you knew you were in for a pretty hard time between the sticks. Even young kids, brash and cocky in their inaugural season as junior pros, would come away feeling slightly fraught. Come reserve nights at The Shrine, though, we?d see yet another facet of Bill?s versatility, for it was on those occasions he turned into what surely had to be ?The Oldest Ball-Boy In Town?.

Albion did have their normal quota of juveniles performing this vital duty, of curse, but Popeye, who normally ?covered? one side of the Brummie or Smethwick during these fixtures, had a turn of speed and stamina that would have undoubtedly astonished those of much more tender years given the task. No matter if the stray shot ended up at the rear of either stand, Bill would tear after the errant ball as if his own life depended on it, then bring it back at near light-speed, almost. As I said earlier, watch Bill in action at such games, and you quickly started to wonder as to whether there really was some truth in the Faustian idea of someone selling his very soul to the Devil in return for eternal life. The thing was that even with the ever-onward march of time for everyone else, Bill himself never seemed to age. Whatever it was keeping him from the ravages of the Grim Reaper, in Bill?s case, it was certainly good stuff.

When interviewing him for the fanzine about a couple of years before his death, we also discovered that Ron Atkinson, a gaffer about whom supporters have mixed feelings these days, came to his rescue in a highly-unusual way. The problem arose because of Bill?s bike, a machine of ancient vintage, which went mysteriously missing after one particular home game. It turned out that some away supporters, feeling a bit aggrieved at the final score, had discovered Bill?s bike somehow, then collectively decided, for whatever reason, to chuck the thing into the canal just down the road.

I don?t know who actually found it; what I do know is that when finally pulled from its watery grave, it bore more resemblance to one of those pieces of ?conceptual art? you see in trendy galleries these days, rather than a reliable but sturdy boneshaker of very ancient vintage indeed. Being left without his sole means of transport to the ground, Bill was left completely distraught ? and it was then Big Ron stepped in. Hearing of the theft and subsequent damage to Bill?s pride and joy, he immediately purchased a replacement for him; when presented with it, Popeye was over the moon with happiness once more.

As I said, to us ?regulars?, Bill seemed part of the furniture, almost, at the club, and seemingly-indestructible, as well. It was with great sadness, then, I read of his death in the Evening Mail but a few months before our 1993 Wembley play-off triumph. Ironically, it wasn?t old age that saw him off in the end, it was the bike; when travelling to the ground one morning, he was knocked off it by a large van ? some said under very dubious circumstances indeed, but nothing substantial enough to convince a jury was ever proven ? then taken by ambulance to Dudley Road Hospital, where he died within about ten minutes of admission. We considered it a compliment of sorts that when his relatives came to sort his flat out, they offered us some of his enormous Albion memorabilia collection.

It was indicative of his popularity among the players that when the funeral was held, at West Bromwich Crem, the whole of our then-first team, directors, manager, backroom people, and coaching staff, all turned up mob-handed to give Bill a good ?send off?. Not only that, but en-route to a reserves fixture up North somewhere, our second-string pulled up in their coach also, and dived into the Crem for the service, tracksuits and all. After our Wembley win, which resulted in our promotion, of course, I suddenly remembered Popeye, and the sad fact he wasn?t there to witness our return to the more familiar waters of The First Division. And finding myself saying to ?Im Indoors: ?I just hope he?s Up There now watching this, and enjoying every single bloody minute of it!?.?

And Finally?..One. I daresay you, like me, have been following with fascinated horror the story of the world?s first facial transplant, which took place in France recently. Having known for several months this was on the cards ? the only variable remaining being the location/nationality of both doctor and patient, a three-way race between England, France, and the US then developed - I can?t say I was all that surprised when the announcement was first made. What did, though, was the gender of the recipient. How come? Easy; after losing 3-0 in highly-embarrassing circumstances to Donny Rovers at their place last week, I would have put bloody good money on Villa?s David O?Leary being first in that particular queue for the op!

Two. How?s this for a perfect example of the age-old maxim that if someone?s really out to get you, they?ll achieve their aim in spectacular fashion, and sooner rather than later? Our recent trek to Richard Sneekes?s culinary emporium came with not a little annoyance for one Sutton Baggie in particular. Despite the lateness of the hour ? around eight that evening ? the poor sod still managed to end up with a parking ticket placed neatly on his windscreen. How come? For parking on the pavement, apparently; this, despite the fact the traffic density in the area had reduced to near-nothing by that time, and pedestrians very rare birds indeed. Sure, we?d been warned before about the ?yellow peril? being particularly proactive in that area, and took careful precautions so as not to end up in the same boat, but ?yer man?, taking the (reasonable) view that parking in such a manner after six at night was fair game, didn?t. But what made things much worse was this: of all the seven or so cars parked in exactly the same place and manner, his was the only one of the entire lot ticketed!

 - Glynis Wright

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