The Diary

28 January 2006: An Albion Update With A Difference!

It?s been around five long days since I last posted, of course, but, as my mum used to say, ?We bin to cowin? bed since then, ay we?? Things have been happening out there, some good, some bad, some downright awful, but all with potential repercussions for the football club we all profess to support. Tonight, our weekly family pow-wow was minus Big Sister, who has, for some unaccountable reason, gone and rented a cottage in Snowdonia, of all places. Yes, balls-freezing temperatures and all. Caused by the mental trauma of watching that awful Sunderland game from The Halfords, perhaps? And yes ? as far as I?m concerned, she?s bloody welcome to it ? the Welsh cottage, not the Halfords, I mean. At this time of year, them thar Welsh mountains are colder than an Eskimo?s bum when using the outside loo for a poo. Must have overdone the old sherry dosage before agreeing to it, I reckon.

This eccentric behaviour on the part of my sibling plus other half has given us both the germ of a wonderful wind-up. We simply contact her via her mobile and tell her a good mate of ours recently offered us the use of a second holiday home for a week, but other commitments prevent us taking up their kind offer, sadly. Would she be interested, we ask? It?s only when she does express a need to know more we tell her it?s situated in the northernmost tip of the Orkneys! When my other sister, the one that?s just retired, heard of our dastardly plot, she cackled and gurgled like a drain in a bloody thunderstorm ? a sound once heard, never forgotten, believe you me - so I guess we?ll have to go through with it after all.

On our return to Chez Wright, we then tuned into Sky ? and talk about Albion Old Pupils Reunion Week. Forest-Barnsley was the game on offer, Gary Megson, Matt Carbon (for Barnsley) and all. The score, when we joined, was 2-0 in Barnsley?s favour, both their goals being the cotton-pickin? bees knees. As the second half progressed, you could smell, almost, the increasing restlessness of the home crowd ? until tonight?s game, Forest had enjoyed a home record vastly superior to most of their immediate rivals ? and matters didn?t improve when they had one of theirs had a sudden rush of red mist to the brain, and got red-carded just before the end. Which, when it finally came, saw quite an explosion of hitherto-latent discontent at the City Ground.

?Im Indoors swears that as their players walked dejectedly off the pitch, he could faintly discern Forest?s more ?assertive? followers calling for Gary?s head on a plate, but what with my hearing being so awful and everything, I really wouldn?t care to stand up in a court of law and testify to that actually being the case. Even so, I guess our erstwhile leader clearly has big problems on his plate right now; a couple more home defeats like that, and even the play-offs will prove an impossible target for The Trickies come season?s end. And that?s when the fun will really start.

One in?. Who loves ya, baby? Welcome to the Black Country our new Telly Savalas sound-alike called Jan Kozac (rhymes with the generic name for a popular pharmaceutical aid to male sexual performance, perchance?), a defender on loan from Artmedia Petrzalka, and aged 25, approximately. He?s 6 foot 3 inches tall, weighs 13 stone and is of Slovakian nationality. He?s not exactly what you might call a master of the Queen?s English, apparently, but I?m sure the learning curve will rocket steeply once he gets his Central European feet well and truly under the table; certainly, those awful swearwords will be the first stock phrases taken on board. I wonder whether he?ll be in the side at The Valley next week? Come to think about it, does he like lollipops? If so, just a few words in The Fart?s shell-like lughole, and I?m sure this column will gladly oblige with ample ?supplies?.

Two out?? Although such a move had been very much on the cards ever since his dismissal at Wigan, the news that Big Dave was heading on out for Derby certainly got me sitting up with a jolt the other night. I was convinced his likely destination to be Notts Forest and Gary Megson, but that?s football for you, I guess. All the same, I?ll be very sorry to see him go, primarily because he was that rare Christian bird who was genuine, actually practicing what he preached, and secondly simply because he was such a wonderfully nice guy. Sure, I?d already half-guessed that Big Dave?s days at the Hawthorns were numbered following that self-inflicted dismissal at Wigan, but even so, I was still caught totally-unawares by the recent announcement.

If any Rams followers should be reading this, let me say this: you?ve grabbed one hell of an asset, and in more than one sense of the word, too. You?ve not only gained a player with a truly wonderful personality, his influence in the dressing room will be a thoroughly-positive one, just you wait and see. Just one brief hour with Big Dave, and every single one of those Derby colleagues will find themselves with a morale-boosting inner belief tacked on they never knew they had before.

When checking out various other sources prior to churning out tonight?s offering, I was quite startled to read that Lloyd Dyer had also picked up his boots and walked, this time in the direction of Millwall?s New Den, on a free. The deal comes with a 50% sell-on clause attached, though, so should Lloydie subsequently impress others further up the evolutionary tree, we?ll reap the financial benefit. He?ll certainly have his work cut out there, I reckon; they?re currently languishing in the drop zone and desperately need to get out of it. Still, although he never quite cut the mustard in the Prem, we do have ample proof that the lad can do it at that level.

Just think back to that second promotion run of ours, two seasons ago. Remember Ipswich away, not to mention the monumental piece of brass-necked cheek that gained us re-entry to the Premiership at The Stadium Of Light? Lloydie supplying Jason Koumas with that injury-time ?killer ball?, and all in flagrant defiance of every morsel of footballing common sense, which dictated that what the lad should have done instead was take the ball into the left-hand corner, and eat up precious time that way, thereby guaranteeing just the single point? If the lad can reproduce that sort of creative genius for the benefit of his new club, then The Lions will undoubtedly be playing Championship football next season.

Come Tuesday night, ?Im Indoors journeyed to a distinctly-nippy Macclesfield to take in Hereford?s Mickey Mouse Northern Area Semi-Final Cup game versus the aforementioned mob. The final score? Macclesfield 2, Hereford 0. So far, so normal, you might assume, given that my other half does like to ?go native? with his cider-slurping chums whenever and wherever he possibly can ? but Tuesday night was a bit different.

I?d stayed at home, just like the ?little piggy? of nursery rhyme fame ? believe you me, the forecast was set fair for rapidly-plummeting temperatures once the sun?s golden orb had done a bunk for the night, and that was a hypothermic game I didn?t wish to play ? but ?Im Indoors wasn?t alone at Moss Rose, oh dearie me no. For reasons best known to himself, he?d persuaded The Noise to accompany him to the game, and once asked, our Stokie hero jumped at the chance to go. I wasn?t there to see what ensued, obviously, but all those itinerant Bulls followers, around 300 of ?em, all shoehorned into one very small away enclosure, certainly did, so my other half told me on his return. No choice, really!

The Noise, and his uniquely-honed conversational skills most of you know about by now, of course, but the Hereford lot? Well, they do have what would be termed an ?analogue? in scientific circles, a chap I?ve introduced to this column before, who goes by the name of Nick Brade, and is, to them, what our very own hyperverbose (Is there such a word in the dictionary? If not, there certainly is now!) hero is to the wild and wacky world of Premiership football. I do believe both their paths had crossed once before, somewhere in the dim and distant past, bit not of late, effectively making their nocturnal tryst a ?first?. I must confess that after waving ?bye-bye? to my other half, I did briefly speculate as to what sort of an effect The Noise would have upon our Conference chums; on ?Im Indoors?s return to the fold, much, much later, I discovered his overall impact upon that motley collection of Bulls to be truly cataclysmic.

In many ways, introducing The Noise to his Bulls-following doppleganger was like mixing two completely different kinds of chemical together in the lab. Taken separately, each possessing completely different properties, but when joined together in unholy matrimony, truly awesome results ensue, in this case, a mutual ?talk-fest? of monumental proportions that had just about everyone in that small away section with their heads turned and mouths forming a letter ?O? in true ?Mersey Tunnel? fashion by the time the ref finally blew for the end of the show. Remember, we Baggies regulars are all used to The Noise plus attendant conversational machine-gun delivery, and therefore tolerant of his various oral eccentricities; for many that night, that was their first ever experience of our Patrick Moore sound-alike, and one not to be forgotten all that easily, it would seem. Two blokes, both football nuts, both from worlds about as far apart in the round-ball hierarchy as it?s possible to get, and yet, underneath it all, so much in common.

Nick?s sense of humour broadly approximates to mine; dry, droll, with more than a hint of surrealism bolted on, and like a runaway train, once set in gossipy motion, bloody hard to stop. The Noise? For those readers new to the column and still in blissful ignorance, here goes. Imagine, if you will, a Peter Kay on powerful stimulants, strong Potteries accent ? think ?whine? and you?ve got it - same vocal inflexions gathering speed uncontrollably, a herd of consonants and nouns stampeding uncontrollably towards the cliff-edge, pitch soaring to the sort of stratospheric ?squeak? only discernable by members of the bat species as the punch-line draws nigh, same ?impossible to ignore? quotient. Totally-dissimilar in outward appearance, those two, but delve a little deeper, and there?s much more in common than you would have first thought. A bit like certain chemical reactions, if you like.

Take two individually-corrosive and potentially-explosive elements, sodium and chlorine, say, combine ? preferably at arms length, and certainly well out of the way of casual bystanders! ? and you finish up with one of the very staples of life itself, sodium chloride, aka ?Cerebos?, and ?Saxa?, the crystalline stuff you sprinkle all over your meat and two veg.. Forms the basis for all body fluids, too, so it does, not to mention the stuff the council is busily spreading all over our main road, even as I write. Just like the verbal diarrhoea those poor Hereford followers got in heaps once Nick and Mart got their respective tongues well-warmed up, in fact.

Other thoughts? You really do have to admire Wigan Athletic, who really seem to have made it their entire life?s work to metaphorically stick two fingers up at Premiership football clubs possessing much more illustrious pedigrees than theirs. Good on ?em, too. Not just being content with maintaining that truly amazing top-half-of the table position of theirs for the whole of the current season ? another win, and they?ll have reached that golden ?forty points? mark, where the ebb and flow of the relegation tide can?t reach them any longer - and in a way that completely defies rational explanation, they?ve now gone and got themselves into the League Cup Final by whopping Arsenal over two legs, the second of which was at Highbury, of course. In best nail-biting and stomach-churning tradition, too, by stuffing the home side with that last minute Jason Roberts goal way deep in extra time.

As per the semi-final involving both Blackburn and Man U the other night, The Latics now know they?ll be playing their Old Trafford chums in the final, which will certainly make for a fascinating encounter. Two or three seasons back, I?d have instantly assumed the trophy to be as good as sitting in Fergie?s silverware cabinet already, but as we all know these days, his finest aren?t the all-conquering force in domestic football they once were, and The Latics not the sort of outfit to get easily awed by Old Trafford?s showbiz-style glitz and glamour.

And that?s the pure joy of what Wigan Athletic do best, isn?t it? Reputations, no matter how overblown, count for diddly-squat as far as Paul Jewell?s economy-sized mob are concerned. The very phrase ?the bigger they come, the harder they fall? was surely written with the West Lancashire mob?s upwardly-mobile aspirations very much in mind. Just about everyone in football, this column included, had them written off once they?d gained promotion to the top-flight last term. Most, myself included, I have to say, believed their early-season run of form this time round an aberration to be all-too quickly slapped down by the big boys, but just like those weird and wonderful colonies of micro-organisms that defiantly set up shop in habitats as diverse and indisputably hostile as the bottom of the San Marianas trench in the Pacific, or the sulphur-infested rims of active volcano craters, they?re just lovin? it, aren?t they? Their delightfully-refreshing attitude has caused a gale of almighty proportions to blow through what were predictably-boring but draughty halls and corridors of this country?s top football competition, and long may it continue, say I.

Running in parallel, so to speak, has been yet another thorny issue for the FA's movers and shakers to sort out, this business of alleged corruption involving transfer ?bungs? paid to both agents and clubs at our level, and recent attempts by various people connected with the beautiful game to have it out, one way or another. And not just the questionable activities of the Eric Halls of this world, either; if you really wanted to do ?malicious?, the actions of Graham Poll in awarding that ridiculous hand-ball penalty against Blackburn Rovers the other night could easily hand ammunition unlimited to those who believe the culture of corruption in the game to be well and truly embedded, and at several levels, not just the one currently being called into question. I?m not saying there was anything at all improper or questionable about Poll?s actions that night, but you do have to admit that even without benefit of replay facilities, so manifestly unjust was that decision, anyone wanting to make mischief for the controversial whistler could have had a field day. Sometimes, the FA and all who sail in it simply make a rod for their own backs, and that was one of those occasions.

Various people ? Mike Newell, Ian Holloway, for example - have called into Soho Square this week and (supposedly) committed their innermost thoughts to paper, so it would seem, but as we all know, football?s a bit like the Whitehall establishment; slight it in whatever manner you care to employ, and whatever justification you might feel you have by doing so, and those ranks invariably snap shut with the almighty sort of hellish ?thud? that very much brings to mind the very crack of doom itself.

The Mafia have a word for it, ?Omerta?. ?Silence? it means, and ?silence? is precisely what you?ll get. After the previous weekend?s so-called ?whistle-blowing? epidemic, the FA quickly announced the setting up of an enquiry into the whole issue, but as you and I both know, the odds are the whole thing will be quietly dropped (or downgraded) the moment the game?s rulers feel it?s safe to do so. They have no desire or wish to see the game?s more unpleasant aspects laundered in full view of the paying public. In any case, the FA have no powers whatsoever to order clubs to divulge their various fiscal and tax affairs. That?s why their so-called ?compliance unit? is a complete and utter joke, and the fundamental reason why its former head, an ex-copper, and therefore well-used to sniffing out wrongdoing of whatever origin, simply resigned in disgust at the various obstacles put in his way.

The way I see it, once this body starts poking its snot-ridden proboscis around the rockery and turning up stones to see what manner of slimy creature lies beneath, one of several outcomes appear probable. Firstly (the least likely of the entire lot, in my book), they?ll conclude that yes, football is corrupt to the core, and make various recommendations as to how to sort out the stinking mess. In such a worst-case scenario, it?s easy to imagine Inspector Knacker getting involved. Such a scandal could conceivably rock the game to its putrescent, maggoty core, and bring its entire ?house that Jack built? structure, insubstantial, flimsy and unstable as it is even now, crashing around everyone?s ears an a manner highly-reminiscent of Samson?s suicidal smashing of the temple. About as likely an outcome as Elvis Presley being found in Mars, that one.

The second might be that the inquiry perceives there to be a bit of a problem out there, but one confined solely to just a few clubs, small-fry, mainly - aw, you know, the Chesterfields, the Barnsleys of the football world, or similar ? and if that turns out to be the conclusion, then you can bet your bottom dollar none of the big boys will have their night?s sleep unduly troubled. Going for the minnows will take the monkey off the Premiership back, so to speak. ?Corruption? Nothing to do with us, guv, and it?s OFFICIAL ? why, we even had an inquiry about it not so long back, and they gave us a clean bill of health. Say any more, chum, and our lawyers will be in touch quicker than s**t off a shovel. Get my drift??...?

The third? Being the pragmatic little soul that I am, I suspect the FA will simply let the ponderous wheels of investigative justice grind long and large, then come up with the biggest whitewash since the discredited Hutton Report into the circumstances surrounding the run-up to the 2003 Iraq invasion, the death of Doctor David Kelly, and the case for the existence or otherwise of WMD?s, the lynchpin of the government?s entire rationale for going to war in the first place. I?m not a betting sort of person ? you can count the number of times I?ve ever set foot in a bookies on the fingers of my one hand, to be perfectly honest ? but of the possible outcomes suggested, I?m already damn sure which of the three will turn up trumps.

And that?s about it, I guess. More the day before the Charlton game. Hopefully, by then, our chairman will have been spotted emerging from his local Tesco store bearing what should be Number One on his transfer-window shopping-list right now, a proven (and prolific!) goal scorer. And laughing mightily at the number of points he?s managed to rack up on his loyalty card for making such a pricey purchase in the first place!

And Finally?? The date? Thursday January 26th. The time? Almost seven that evening. The TV programme in question? BBC?s ?Midlands Today?. The news item that had me rolling around our living-room floor in spasms of almost-uncontrollable mirth? Reports that a firm of undertakers operating in a certain borough had just brought out their latest line in post-mortem chic ? a coffin. No ordinary one this, though, assuming such items can be described as ?ordinary? of course. Painted ? er - old gold and black. With a whomping great Dingles badge on the lid, too. No, I?m not making it up. And, before you ask, no, I?ve not been on the old magic mushrooms, either. Shall I? Should I? Typing-temptation beyond belief for this particular Baggie, the journalistic equivalent of Kanu being presented with an open goal, six yards out and the keeper floundering helplessly, in fact - but best not go there, eh?

 - Glynis Wright

Contact the Author

Diary Index