The Diary

08 April 2006: The World According To SuperBob.

?This is the way the world ends/Not with a bang, but with a whimper?.? Not my words, of course; blame poet T. S. Eliott, and his famous piece ?The Hollow Men? for this one. Makes a nice change from that old primary school favourite of his: ?McCavity The Mystery Cat?, I suppose. Or that blasted Tim Rice West End musical abomination,come to think about it. Ugh. Blues 1 Bolton 0, their game in hand on us, which finished thus the other night, which neatly brings me to the main reason why I quoted those lines in the first place. The way things are looking, we?ll be whimpering off to the Championship very soon indeed. Dearie me.

Talking of things apocalyptic, if you?re a member of the swan fraternity and reading this ? and I?m not talking about Swansea City and their not-so-tame loony element here ? then things just might be looking a little bleak for you right now. This very week saw our very first honest-to-goodness case of bird flu land on our doorstep, and in Scotland, too ? not so far from Kircaldy, where Willie Johnston has his pub, in fact. The strange bit was that although the bird in question ? a swan ? had been dead for a good few days, and was rapidly becoming a public nuisance, if only because of the smell, and despite the fact the government ministry responsible for such matters had been told on innumerable occasions by the local residents about this bird, no-one official seemingly wanted to know.

No reason to panic immediately, of course (so stay your madly-disinfecting hands, dear readers!) provided that the virus doesn?t meet up with its human flu equivalent, fancy what it sees like mad, go on to buy a nice semi in the middle of some poor sod?s respiratory tract, then get married and have lots of babies, all of ?em as contagious (and, quite possibly, dangerous) as hell. That?s the time we?re really in trouble ? not now. So there. Oh ? and should things ever get to that horrific stage, then there will be one most unwelcome by-product for we footie supporters. In order to minimise the risk of cross-infection, it?s highly likely that games will either have to be played behind closed doors, or not at all.

Around Wednesday morning, I was shifting my little carcass over the road and into our local paper shop, when I happened to notice the proprietor, who goes by the name of Mohammed, earnestly engaged in Cleaning And Shifting Things. Not, as I?d thought, because his missus had finally nagged him into doing some spring cleaning for once, because he?s about to sell up and move on, apparently.

Quite surprising, that, as he?d first inherited the place from a couple whose idea of running a business seemed to belong to the ?laid back? school of entrepreneurial skills, then gone on to make the place a pretty zingy spot to shop for forgotten storage-cupboard essentials; if he didn?t stock what you wanted, he?d move heaven and earth to get it for you, which was why his fan club had increased exponentially these past couple of years. Anyway, it now turns out there?s no less than three possible buyers: the first wants to turn the place into a convenience store; the second reckons the location?s absolutely tickety-boo for another fast food place. The third? For some unaccountable reason, his dearest wish is to turn it into an estate agents. Why, when we?ve already got six or so within a 200-yard radius of our place, I honestly don?t know. Ask me one on sport if you want ? but don?t ask me for a newspaper. OK?

That same night, we had yet another pressing engagement to fulfil as part of our never-ending social whirl: this time, it was Kiddy Branch that beckoned, and very loudly indeed, may I say. All to do with their guests that night, Daryl Burgess, now sorting out Kiddy?s defence in the Conference, of course; his current manager, Mark Yates; not to mention a certain ex-Albion striker, who went by the name of Bob Taylor when with our club. Who? Never heard of him.

Seriously, though, Wednesday night only served to reacquaint me with a prominent characteristic Bob shared with his illustrious striking predecessor, Jeff Astle, and that was their ability to become larger than life with the snap of a finger, to walk into any room, any sort of gathering, and instantaneously transmogrify what had been a pretty sterile and dull occasion into one where even the fixtures and fittings were buzzing. In short, about the nearest human equivalent I?ve ever seen to a chemical catalyst, a substance that can make a chemical reaction happen instantaneously without actually taking part in it.

Not an easy sort of personal characteristic to deliberately cultivate, that; either you?ve got it, or you haven?t. After a very dodgy start during the opening twelve months of the First World War, when commissioned officer selectors were told to go solely with lads whose public schools featured in the Headmasters? Conference and sod the bright working-class lad (eventually, they ended up very short of suitable ?meat for the grinder?, so the War Office had to backtrack pretty quickly), army officer selection boards are now very good indeed at detecting such hidden gems in their ranks. Forgetting football for a moment, I?d say Churchill had it in heaps, as did his sidekick Monty: one half-decent speech from either of them, and within seconds of finishing, otherwise sane and rational blokes would immediately consider it their bounden duty to rush off to the nearest battlefield in a mad endeavour to get themselves either killed or maimed for their country, and as quickly as possible, too.

Ghandi, and Martin Luther King certainly had it, as did Adolf Hitler ? his ability to sway opinions, to carry previously-sceptical people with him, was hypnotic, almost. Conversely, an awful lot of present-day politicians like to think they have, but don?t; what it boils down to, here, is an elusive ?something? called ?force of personality?. Sorry to say it, but these days, about 99 per cent of today?s Parliamentary performers possess about as much in the way of charismatic and inspirational leadership qualities as the plastic waste-paper bin currently sitting on the left hand side of my desk.

Obviously, I?m not trying to compare like with like, here ? you can?t easily cast footballers in the mould of Nobel Prize winners, or instruments of great social good, can you? ? but you do sometimes find that both players and managers, the genuinely great ones, do possess certain attributes in common, although employing them in a completely different sort of way. They are, though, rapidly becoming a bit of an endangered species. At managerial level, where, pray, are the modern-day Bill Shanklys, and Matt Busbys to be found these days? And what about the late, great, Brian Clough and his equally-forthright heirs and successors? Probably sitting stewing in some office somewhere trying to chuck together a rational ?business plan? for their side, that?s where. Or, disillusioned, left the game completely. Because of the prevailing climate, there?s about as many genuinely-charismatic and socially-adept gaffers and players out there these days as there are tigers remaining in the Indian state of Bengal ? and the wonderful game of football ends up very much the loser as a result.

Which brings me back to Bob. Such is the sheer power and charm of his personality, getting the average audience eating out of his hands within seconds is but child?s play to him ? and that Kiddy Branch meeting wasn?t any different. As per usual, the proceedings were compered by Roy Hayden (he tells me that weatherwise, all the smart money from the local farmers/gardeners is going on a continuation of the current cold spell for a while, turning into a glorious May, June and July thereafter ? remember, you heard it here first!). Our company excepted, of course, they also had visitors from other branches ? Wednesbury, especially ? and the input provided by them made for quite a successful night all round.

Daryl, fresh from his Conference travails with Kiddy Harriers ? and ?Im Indoors is still spitting bricks about that unexpected 1-0 Hereford home defeat at the hands of their local rivals recently! ? seems to have taken to the lower sphere like a duck to water. The best bit, though, came as Roy was making preliminary announcements of branch events prior to handing over the meeting to his three guests. Just as he was about to do so, cue entrance of a bloke clad in a Villa shirt, heading off in the direction of the snooker room to the rear of the premises: to do so, he had no alternative but to pass right in front of all three guest speakers. ?You?ve done that for a bet, haven?t you?? growled Supes, in tones so dry, anyone from the local water company would have had them declared a drought area within seconds. Unsurprisingly, the whole room just dissolved into laughter, much to the discomfiture of the fish-loving one so wonderfully playing unwitting stooge to The Great Man.

When they finally got going, what did emerge from that night?s proceedings was Bob?s conversion, complete and utter, to the various joys to be had from part-time non-league football with Tamworth (who have since announced their intention to go full-time next season, by the way). He described the Conference in terms of modern-day vibrancy, something that?s been largely brought about by automatic promotion and relegation between both the League and its Conference cousin. Players at that level are a mix between ex-League veterans and kids. (Increasingly, the Conference is already regarded as a de facto ?fifth division?. No doubt, before too long, they too will be brought under the League umbrella. As all the top six or so Conference clubs already take part in the so-called ?Mickey Mouse Cup?, not much mental readjustment should be required of anyone.)

Bob also expressed absolute delight with the fact that on Saturdays when Albion weren?t playing, one could almost guarantee a minibus load of Baggies turning up at Tamworth?s ground to watch him in action instead. He did seem genuinely bemused by all this attention, even though he?d been gone from The Hawthorns for several seasons, now. ?You meet proper people ? I?m just one of you!? was his modest take on the situation, adding, by way of general remark, apropos the fundamental difference between life at football?s very pinnacle, and that much lower down: ?There?s no stress any more ? after a defeat, I don?t have to go back every Monday and take a rollicking!?

Time for input from Daryl: ?There?s not a big difference playing at that level?..,? he began ? and time for yet another unscheduled interruption from the brain-dead wearing the Villa shirt! Bob, again: ?Just make sure you lock the damn door??.? Again, the room rocked. Surely even the thickest of seal minds would have clocked by now that just his mere presence wearing that shirt was reason enough to send the entire room?s hate glands working like crazy?

Apparently, our old chum Carl Heggs (now with Tamworth also) has gone and got himself tattooed, and all over, too. ?He loves himself,? declared Bob. He?s also had a teeth-whitening job done ? currently all the rage, I understand. ?Now, he grins like crazy every time he goers for a high ball!? And Bob?s take on the fundamental difference between life lower down and that where the money is? ?In the Premiership, you?ve got to take your chances, whereas in the lower divisions, you can afford to miss them. I?ve missed chances like Kevin Campbell did last Saturday?.? And apropos his time there with Bolton? ?Me, a thirty-something year-old? I was overawed ? but I could score goals?.?

Bob?s take on the Drogba incident the other week? ?I was always taught to go down when clobbered, but never to dive outright. And I would never deliberately try to get someone sent off, either.? Referees? Counterproductive trying to argue with them, apparently. And another telling comment on modern attitudes within the game, and the cynicism the actions of others often generate among supporters, ?You people judge us all the time, and sometimes, you judge us all wrong.?

Kiddy manager Mark Drew also expressed astonishment when our young reserve striker, Stuart Nicholson, the one Trainee Noise Carly had the ?hots? for in The Hawthorns pub so recently, had a minibus-load of people from his home village turn up mob-handed to give him a little support when playing for the side at Aggborough the other week. Yet another thing highlighting the gulf that now existed between supporters and players in the Premiership, commented both Daryl and Bob; should the lad finally make it, all that sort of delightful camaraderie would probably have to go. Both seemed to deplore the increasingly-commercialised culture to be found at our level these days. As Bob so succinctly put it: ?Supporters don?t change when clubs get relegated ? sponsors do??

By this time poor Roy was desperately trying to keep a hold of the meeting in the face of some out-and-out comedic ribaldry on the part of both Daryl and Bob ? and completely failing to do so! More chance of seeing a drunken Dingle taking part in University Challenge, I reckon. Every time he tried, he?d be upstaged by one or the other, and the entire room would dissolve into gales of helpless laughter. And it didn?t help that Daryl?s Kiddy Harriers gaffer, Mark, had to leave the meeting early, either. The bit I liked, though, was Bob?s admission he?d once planted a right smacker on top of Albion Chairman Jeremy Peace shiny-but-bald pate! Control that meeting? More chance of controlling the Severn Bore in full flood, I reckon. ?Can I stop it there?? asked Roy, getting a word in edgeways, finally. ?NO!? was Supe?s emphatic reply. No wonder Roy raised his hands in complete despair at that point!

As some of you may remember, last week, I published an obituary for a fanatical Baggies supporter, Tony Smith, who sadly passed away not so long ago. The reason I do this is primarily because we?re a family, therefore it?s only right that those of its members who do leave us should be remembered in this fashion. I was particularly gratified to hear that both his sons appreciated the obituary I wrote for him. I was also pleased to hear mention made of his passing prior to last Saturday?s game v Liverpool. My old mucker Steve Sant went to the funeral earlier this week: he reported that some 300 people, all of whom were wearing Baggies shirts ? nice touch, that ? turned up to give the lad a decent send-off. As one of the mourners so wonderfully put it, afterwards: ?A bloody good reserve team gate, that?!

Back tomorrow night with a thoroughly-pessimistic preview of our Sunday local derby, no doubt. Oh, the joys of supporting a struggling Premiership outfit!

And Finally?.. One. Remember the little message I ran in one of my more recent offerings, the one to The Pole In Goal suggesting ?he owed us one big-time?, and Polish translation helpfully provided, too? I?ve since had a mail from a Baggie mate of Polish extraction, intimating that my message was, in fact, worded quite rudely. As she didn?t specify what actual part of the human anatomy was featured, or what alleged abnormality, sexual or otherwise, was inferred, I can?t be more specific than that. Even without the benefit of one, and cutting a long and tedious story short, all of it concerning alternative translations of various Polish words, it now seems that rather than the other way around, I myself owe: ?The Pole In Goal one, big-time.? Oh, whoops.

As it was never my intention to deliberately insult our keeper in that way ? with over forty years of supporting the Baggies under my belt, I hold Thomascz to genuinely be one of the finest Albion custodians I?ve ever seen between the sticks - if he?s seen my column already, or had the phrase specifically pointed out to him, I can only proffer him my profound and sincere apologies. Sorry, mate.

Two. This one concerns Roy Hayden?s lad, who has been quite seriously ill these past few months. After finally being given the medical all-clear following his prolonged hospital spell, he was released from ?durance vile?, but told to stay in the warm when attending games. As I understood it, owing to the drastic nature of the treatment, his immune system was not of the best for quite some time, so Roy?s lad got to sit in one of the executive boxes, watching the game through glass. Eventually, that, too, approached normal levels, so having been given the final OK by the hospital, the lad proudly took his place out of doors for the next home game ? which just happened to be the Liverpool game! Two down (and most certainly out) by half-time, he was then heard pleading with officials to be let back into the box again!

Three. This one?s for all those Baggies living in Tasmania (and it?s no good hiding - I know you?re out there because I?ve had umpteen mails from that part of Oz in the past!) No, don?t blame me for what I?m about to relate, blame a Sunday Times supplement restaurant critic by the name of AA Gill. (Mitigating circumstance? Anyone who can cheerfully confess to keeping regular company with Jeremy Clarkson can?t be all that right in the head, can they? That?s my excuse and I?m sticking to it!)

No, what really sent my eyebrows shooting up like a Saturn Five rocket at lift-off was his opening paragraph, which more or less alleged that Tasmanians were, as a bunch, as partial to the sexual delights of small marsupials (we?re talking wallaby, here) as their Welsh cousins were to sheep - the sort of place where men were men, and ovines very nervous indeed, in fact. According to ?yer man?, back in the 1840?s, what was then the Colonial Office had its dry and dusty existence considerably enlivened by periodical reports sent back from the then-Governor General of the region, describing what Gill somewhat delicately calls ?unnatural sexual practices?. This gentleman was particularly wont to say that back there, ?namelessness? ? one way of putting it, I suppose ? happened ?on a scale not not dreamt of by the readers of Catullus?.

Who?s he? Blowed if I know, must have been one of those peculiar Roman emperors, I suppose (as a form of imperial one-upmanship, such aberrant and decadent behaviour certainly beats making your horse a consul, or playing stringed instruments as the entire city burns to a carbonised heap, come to think about it) but not one I?d ever come across when studying Latin at school, I have to say. Mind you, it was never that kind of school. Chanting by rote the multiplicity of different ways to say the Latin word for ?table? - ?mensa? - was racy enough for our teachers, never mind putting the pouches of marsupials to an alternative mode of use not mentioned in most biology textbooks these days.

So what?s the scoop, all you Baggies out there? Is the place really such a den of iniquity ? and if that is indeed the case, then why the hell haven?t you invited me?

 - Glynis Wright

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