The Diary

31 July 2006: Hawthorns Alchemist Required? Don't All Rush At Once!

Greetings once more, pop-pickers ? and haven?t you chosen a groovy time to read my little post-match discourse. What I propose doing, this somewhat cooler Sabbath evening, is kick off the proceedings by taking a short diversion into a little bit of scientific history. Bear with me for those few short minutes longer, though, for what I am about to discuss IS relevant to the subject matter, cross my heart and hope to die. Honest. It?s just that I?ll arrive at the end-point of my argument in a slightly different way, a little bit like forsaking the multitudinous pleasures of a modern train journey, say, in favour of floating high above those carriages in a powered hang-glider instead. Aw, you know what I mean, so here goes.

Hands up all of you clever-clogs out there who know what The Philosopher?s Stone was (is?). Oooh, that many ? well I never! For the benefit of those who don?t, though, I?ll cut straight to the chase by revealing that this highly desirable object was, in mediaeval times, considered a valid method of turning bog-standard base metals (iron, copper, tin, etc) into 24-carat gold. Verily, a licence to print money if ever there was one, should someone actually succeed at it, which was why the study of alchemy ? dimly-remembered schoolday chemistry lessons tarted up with the aid of mystical mumbo-jumbo closely approximates what I?m trying to define here ? became very popular around the time the known world?s collective brain-power finally got its act back in gear after the turmoil of The Dark Ages.

Had he been around at the time, Rodney Marsh would have probably defined such off-the wall research activities as ?putting lipstick on a pig?, but he wasn?t. Instead, what we got ? well, in this country, at any rate ? was perfectly respectable scientific people like Isaac Newton (discovered gravity, for one thing) getting suckered into pursuing this impossible dream. Why ?impossible?? Simple. In order to successfully convert, say, lead roofing nicked from a church into wealth-giving yellow shiny stuff, you need a much bigger ?ommer. Conventional chemical reactions just won?t touch it, but the alchemists didn?t know that at the time, poor sods ? and a fair few completely wrecked their health trying.

No, to complete the task anywhere near properly, you need a pukka nuclear reaction: in other words, either a hole half a mile wide, and a gurt great mushroom-shaped cloud heading skywards at a rate of knots, plus all the collateral damage that goes with such blatantly anti-social behaviour, or an ?atom-smasher? the size of Southport Pier. No Blue Peter badge in it for you, either, young feller-me-lad. And that, dear readers, leads me very nicely indeed into the thrust of my post-match discourse: yes, I did witness an Albion side in action out there today, but going by the evidence of my own eyes this afternoon, it?s my reluctant contention that we?re about as far off eventual promotion as those poor deluded alchemists were from riches untold some five or six hundred years ago.

A damning statement, that last one, sure, but one that certainly needs enlarging upon ? but I?ll save that for later. Instead, as Julie Andrews sang in ?The Sound Of Music?, ?Let?s start at the very beginning, a very good place to start?..? Uncharacteristically for us, we delayed our arrival at the ground until about 45 minutes before lift-off. No problem, as we?d sorted our tickets the day before. A pretty precise indicator of the paucity of the gate was the fact we were able to slip into our usual matchday mooring-berth despite the tardiness of our arrival. One further bonus ? much, much cooler climes, something greatly appreciated by yours truly, having been pushed far too close to ?hyperthermic? for comfort when watching another set of pre-season jollifications about a fortnight ago. Rain was also threatened: at least staying dry wouldn?t be a problem, that was for sure.

Proceeding behind a group of youngish Baggies, all wearing the new away shirt, rapidly brought forth uncomfortable thoughts in quantity concerning said garments: look at it whichever way you want, but as far as I?m concerned, these things represent complete anathema. For Heaven?s sake, since when have our finest even vaguely promised to look good in a BLACK strip? It?s the colour of funerals, parlours, coffins, crematoria, graveyards ? the whole bloody lot, not what you?d expect to see gracing the collective torsos of a well-known Black Country football team. Just the mere sight of it makes me want to burst into tears on the spot; couple that with a prolonged sponsorship deal involving the manufacturers of Prozac, Albion, and you?d sweep the whole bloody pot. And I don?t like the new badge design, either; whatever it?s meant to be, it just isn?t ?Albion?. Sorry. Although I?m reliably informed the younger generation absolutely adore it. Am I really becoming such an incorrigible, impossible old fart overnight? Ooer.

Past the almost-completed new Academy, now, and a clearer look at the new indoor pitch facility. ?Im Indoors just can?t get to grip with the fact it really is a school, and not some giant factory turning out widgets in quantity (although, if New Labour get their way, that?s precisely what our secondary schools will become, to all intents and purposes). Just as well, then, my train of thought was quickly ?derailed? by the arrival of another Baggie ? I?ll call him ?Frank? because that?s his name ? on the scene. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, he was, too, but with a little tale of woe to relate to us.

Just like us, the lad had always wanted to see Albion do a Scottish pre-season tour, but today, he was bemoaning his ill-fortune mightily. The problem? Yes, he would have literally torn your arm off to head in the direction of Scotland last week, but for one small snag ? a few months previously, he?d been made redundant from the place he?d worked at for 25 years. The whole thing had been a ?put-up? job, apparently, the firm bought out, then asset-stripped, effectively, leaving the lad very much high and dry as a result. The good news? Our chum quickly found a comparable post (save a significant drop in wages, very much par for the course these days), but couldn?t get the time off for love nor money. Curses! Foiled again!

Inside The Brummie not long after that ? strange, to be handling ?old-fashioned? paper tickets once more, even though you still had to slot ?em into a bar-code reader first ? and onto the main concourse beneath the stand. A short pause to reverently admire the flat TV screens slung just above our heads, then a swift diversionary trip from me to grab a bottle of Coke: mind you, the minute I was asked to fork out ?1.70 for the blasted thing, I nearly passed out on the spot. THAT much, for a measly quantity of soft drink? As I told the girl behind the counter when she handed said goods over, at that price, I?d want a written guarantee each and every molecule, every single last atom, had been personally blessed by the Pope!

Papal blessings not being in such great abundance that day, we sought out our seats instead, but no sooner had we comfortably installed ourselves, the PA announcer ? not Malcolm Boyden this time ? started to penetrate our conscious minds. Now hang on a sec, chaps, since when has The Hawthorns been an ?environment?, safe or otherwise? Likewise, a ?visit?, a ?pleasurable experience? to be ?enjoyed?, forsooth? Now let me get this straight, I?m handing my hard-earned cash over to a football club, not a flaming airline, complete with trolley-dolly miming a pre-flight safety briefing from the touchline! Er ? am I?

And that observation, dear reader, brings me naturally to yet another: the size (or lack of it) of the gate. No entire blocks of seats filled for this one, sadly, just sparse sprinklings of supporters seated in all four sides of the ground. I estimated a gate of around 2,500, so imagine my astonishment, much later, when our new-found PA chummy gave the gate as being just over 4,000 Black Country souls in attendance. Personally, I?d thought Albion were having a laugh: well, at least it provided me with a pretty big giggle. Just in time for the promised rain, too, something that must have racked off those seated in the first few rows considerably. Not that there was a lack of ?better ?oles? to go to, mind, the relatively poor attendance had seen to that.

Nurturing my bottle of Coke like it contained pure platinum, still ? well, at Albion prices, there might well have been a considerable amount of that precious metal in solution there, for all I knew ? I then offered ?Im Indoors a refreshing swig of its contents. ?No thanks - my body is like a temple!? was the reply I got. Blimey, if that?s the case, then it was undoubtedly deconsecrated and used to store furniture instead a heck of a long time ago!

As the strains of Robbie Williams in ?Let Me Entertain You? - shome mistake, shurely? - wafted across an almost surreal-green pitch (you only have to look at the parched yellow mess currently adorning most people?s lawns these days to appreciate the true significance of that comment), a chance to run the rule over our new keeper, a gentleman of almost Peter Crouch-like stature labouring under the unlikely monicker of Pascal Zuberbuhla, colloquially known as ?Zoobie? to Albionites already. Now what did that nickname remind me of? Oh, yes ? remember the Sixties childrens? marionette show ?Fireball XL5?, and the (Venusian, I think) space-alien pet the crew had? If my memory serves me correctly, his name was ?Zoonie? ? close, very close! A Swiss lad too, by all accounts, but by all accounts not about to delve into the murky realms of cyberspace formerly inhabited by the likes of one Berndt Hass, thank goodness!

And Zoobie wasn?t the only new lad strutting his stuff today: also present were John Hartson and Chris Perry. Is it me, or does our former Celtic signing bear a pretty strong resemblance to Lee Hughes ? stocky, balding, with just a hint of faint ginger tracery still remaining? As for the opposition, well?. Let me put it this way ? it?s awfully difficult to take seriously a side that insists upon turning out in a turquoise-and-black hooped replica of those Rugby Union leisure shirts that enjoyed such a vogue over here just a few short years ago, isn?t it? Still, bizarre attire or otherwise, it was they that almost snatched a sneaky-beaky opener within the first few minutes of the game, and not us. The incident in question arose from a Sociedad set-piece dangerously near the 18-yard line, awarded for a display of thespian skills not seen over here since the recent World Cup tournament, for which Zoobie seemed somewhat tardy in his reactions. Or was he merely unsighted? After all, the ball had taken a deflection off the wall, which was just as well, really ? as it was, the thing only just flashed narrowly wide of the left-hand post.

A few minutes later, a Watson-Gera double-act produced a quality cross for Hartson, eagerly awaiting developments in the middle. A shame, then, that his shot was a pretty tame affair, not troubling their keeper ? who rejoiced in the magnificent name of ?Bravo?, by the way ? one iota. Those early alarums and excursions over and done with, finally, the game then settled into a state of typical pre-season friendly torpidity. And that?s when some very familiar ?symptoms? began to manifest themselves, readers. Despite that welcome injection of ?new blood?, the scenario unravelling before us gradually began to assume all the proportions of what had ailed us last season. A strikeforce once more unable to find the net, alongside a worrying tendency to rely upon the ?put some snow on it? philosophy once more; despite some pretty useful work along the flanks from others; an unimaginative, lack-lustre midfield, and what looks like a distinct lack of decent cover for it also; a defence distinctly worrying at times, an overall lack of pace?. Sounds all-too familiar, doesn?t it?

If in doubt, create your own entertainment ? and that?s precisely what we did. Nattering to the folkies immediately behind us about the Scottish trip ? and explaining why we hadn?t bothered ? the conversation then turned to the presence of former Hawthorns crowd favourite Willie Johnston at one game in particular, closely followed by a sheepish confession that had we known he was going to turn up in person, we might well have been persuaded to make the short flight north! Just like Moslems being required to visit Mecca at least once during their lifetime, you can?t consider yourself a true Albion supporter until you?ve made the long journey to The Port Brae Tavern in Kircaldy, the licensed establishment owned and run by The Master!

Much to my surprise, it was after the interval, when Albion indulged in several changes of personnel, that we began to look anywhere near dangerous. The name of the catalyst bringing about this remarkable change to our game? A certain Darren Carter, replacement for Greening, would you believe? One of three changes made to the line-up on the break, the others being Zoobie (for The Pole In Goal), and Albrechtsen for Watson. 15 minutes or so into the second 45, it was Wallwork?s turn to depart, with Chaplow replacing him, thereby turning the game into something of a slap-heads? convention, the thought giving rise to speculation from ?Im Indoors as to whether players could end up fined this season for having too much hair!

The remainder of the game did have its occasional moments, but as a cure for galloping insomnia there was pretty much no equal, which is why, when tempers flared a smidgen at The Smethwick end of the ground come the beginning of injury time, just about everyone in the Brummie rejoiced in the welcome release from terminal tedium! And here was me naively thinking the game had been billed as a ?friendly?!

Thoughts? As I said earlier, the relative paucity of effective goalscoring opportunities seemingly created out there was of considerable concern to me. Today was our very last chance to get a ?dress-rehearsal?, so I?m going with the assumption that what we saw out there this afternoon was pretty close to the opening line-up Robson will be using versus The Tigers next Saturday. If that?s the case, then it seems to me we?re very likely going to have real problems finding the back of the net ? and, at this level, if you can?t do that on a regular basis, then you?re three parts stuffed before you start. A wing and a prayer from me rests in the slight hope Hartson and Duke Ellington finally manage to get their collective acts together in the meantime. Other than that, there?s always the chance, a la Mr. Micawber, of David Copperfield fame, that ?something will turn up? before the transfer window shuts, I suppose ? but don?t bank on it. Not if you?ve got any sense, that is. Or, failing that, a modern-day version of that elusive Philosophers Stone, but one that instantaneously transmutes underachieving footballers into crowd-pleasing promotion candidates instead!

And Finally?. Thoughts about John Hartson immediately put me in mind of the early 1960?s hit ?Big John?, with its distinctive butch-sounding refrain: ?Big John?.Big Bad John?.?. Can?t exactly remember the actual name of the artist, right now ? well, it was forty-odd years ago, so give us a break! ? but I do recall at least some of the lyrics?.. ?He was six foot six, weighed 245 (pounds)/kinda broad at the shoulders and narrow at the hip/And everyone knew you didn?t give no lip to Big John?.? Something to do with a mine, and an accident there, if my memory serves me correctly, the man in question playing the hero by holding up some pit-props with his bare hands just long enough to ensure everyone?s escape, and the whole lot collapsing upon him once the last man had struggled clear!

 - Glynis Wright

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