The Diary

07 October 2006: Still Managerless - But The Show Goes On.

Anyone remember that wonderful children?s light-entertainment-cum-quiz show, ?Crackerjack?, as hosted by a very youthful Leslie Crowther, back in the early sixties? If you?re an old fart like the Genuine Article we know and love, most certainly so: even a trainee one like myself has warm memories of the show, especially that manic introduction ? ?It?s Friday, it?s five to five ? and it?s CRACKERJACK!? (Cue for all those snotty-nosed little trainee-Tristrams and Jemimas in the studio audience to instantaneously become Little Sir Echo, and bawl back, in true Pavlovian-response-style ?CRACKERJACK!? I wonder what they?re all doing now? Screwing the City for just about everything it?s got, probably.) Well, I?m about to pay a distinctly-warped backhanded compliment to that show?s opening format, by saying, right here and now, that: ?It?s Friday, it?s ten to midnight ? and it?s CRACKERS, JACK! Or, if you want to get all pedantic on me, ?COMPLETE AND UTTER CRACKERS, JEREMY!?

No prizes for guessing what I?m on about, of course. Here we are, a Championship side universally acknowledged to have a damn good fighting chance of bouncing back in one, thanks to the sheer quality of our current first team squad, which despite being down to ten men last Saturday, trampled all over Leeds with such wonderfully-nostalgic panache. Despite our lot not being quite up to the promotion-form mark, as yet ? Jason Koumas, for example, isn?t totally match-fit, but when he finally is, look out world ? goalkeeping apart, that gutsy display showed more than amply why the remainder of our division should look over their shoulders with true ?brown-corduroy trousers and bike-clips? fear. There?s also the sheer quantity and quality of our support, not to mention stadium and training facilities, the like of which most lower league gaffers would gladly donate their right arms to call their personal plaything.

A tasty dish indeed to set before any promising young manager with upwardly-mobile short-term ambitions ? so why so few tangible and serious orders from the menu, to date, then? Is it that awful weight of expectation, emanating from players and supporters alike, and playing so heavily upon the minds of both? Could it be a certain perception ? mistaken or otherwise ? among likely candidates that Jeremy Peace isn?t really the sort of chairman most promising potential gaffers would find ideal to work with? Is it just because the laundry lady?s a Libra, and most short-listed candidates Scorpio or Aries? I honestly don?t know; in fact, as my gut instinct?s constantly yammering the thought that our Chairman should have been literally swamped with impressive looking CV?s the very instant the job first became vacant, it?s all pretty baffling to me, but then again, I?m just a supporter, one operating well and truly outside the ?charmed circle?, and a girlie-thingy as well, so what the chuffin? hell would I know about it?

So, where do we stand tonight regarding those whom the bookies have mentioned in lights at one stage or another? (I am assuming that the appointment will be finalised while I?m busily cavorting around the autumnal windswept wilds of Herefordshire next week, of course.) Well, the very latest betting info I do have (I don?t frequent bookies, personally, but both my sisters certainly do ? and what?s more, unlike my previous rare but feeble efforts in that direction, they can actually turn a profit from the old gee-gees, which is a damn sight more than I can!) is that a hell of a lot of money has been wagered on Dave Jones all of a sudden, and he?s now considered evens favourite to land the job. Do they know something I don?t? Hmmmmm.

Also mentioned in lights today ? well, in the Mirror, at any rate ? were Southend?s current gaffer (I wouldn?t think that one?s a genuine ?goer? but much stranger things have happened at sea, of course), also Alex McLeish (formerly Hibernian and Rangers, now out of a job, and looking for one, of course), and Tony Mowbray (Hibernian). There?s still no sign whatsoever of a final decision, no conclave of Baggie Cardinals hunkering broodily in our East Stand Vatican, and most certainly no white smoke pouring from the roof signifying complete agreement on Robson?s successor. (I wonder, by the way, whether Albion should adhere to the really old method of verifying Papal credentials: i.e. by each member of such a conclave walking past the Anointed One, now solemnly sitting sans trousers and underpants, in a specially-designed chair, and each scarlet-robed passer-by solemnly declaring, in Latin, that ?yer man? genuinely possesses the requisite number of testicles qualifying him to take office, namely two of ?em, and that they ?hang well?? And before you ask, no, I?m not making it up. So there.) But be done with such levity, I say. Once more, let?s go over the likely candidates, and assess their chances of actually landing the job.

Steve Cotterill? An interesting one, this. Formerly bang-on favourite to be Albion?s All-Highest, but since then, both club and bookies seem to have cooled any previous interest to the point where the ambient temperature is a little bit on the ?chilly? side, shall we say. After bringing Cheltenham from Conference backwaters to Division One status in a very short space of time, he?s now regarded as one of the brightest young kids on the current block. He currently has Burnley challenging for a promotion place, of course. But he?s still relatively inexperienced, and bar the FA Trophy, has little silverware to show for his labours elsewhere.

Joe Kinnear. Yersss. An old-stager, of course, but he has been out of the game for the past two years, which is an awful long time in football terms. His name has been linked with the job, but I can?t believe for one moment we?d seriously look to hire the guy. Remember, we?ve got to get this one absolutely spot-on, otherwise we could be completely ? not to mention expensively - stuffed come the end of current hostilities. Despite being an old hand at the game, the name ?Kinnear? doesn?t exactly fill me with confidence. How is it for you?

Tony Mowbray? This is the one that could prove very exciting indeed, should only half of what I?ve heard be genuinely true. I?m not all that au fait with the doings of Scottish football, really, but I am given to understand that the guy has won rave plaudits galore up there for his barnstorming style of football, the sort where attack is the best form of defence. Like Kevin Keegan with Man City (and we with Ossie Ardiles, of course), we?d score oodles, but ship ?em in equal measure, I daresay. Those Hibs supporters really do think he walks on water, though: ?entertainment, entertainment, entertainment!? is his watch-cry, apparently, and he?s also rumoured to have an unusually-perceptive eye for raw talent. And I don?t mean sexual partners, either.

As we saw versus Leeds last Saturday, give our current mob sufficient encouragement to go out, score goals, and enjoy both themselves and their football while doing it, our faithful will not only emerge smiling come the end of most games, they?ll be positively slavering for more in the weeks and months to come. Could he be the man of our dreams, I wonder, the one to swoop from atop his white charger, then promise to whisk us all from drudgery to a Much More Romantic Place Somewhere Else? There is one teensy drawback, though and that?s the fact he recently turned down the chance to manage Middlesbrough and Ipswich respectively. Would he want to come to The Black Country?

Keeping to my predominantly Scottish theme, we now look more closely at the credentials of one Alex McLeish, yet another name linked with possible inheritance of the poisoned Albion chalice. Well, he?s certainly got an impressive CV, which positively clanks with the sound of lots and lots of silverware from the very first moment you pick it up. As a player with Aberdeen he was the proverbial canine?s testicles (but not the Papal sort, which is just as well, really, considering the religious inclinations of the side he went on to gaffer afterwards!), picking up European Cup Winners Cup, Super Cup medals, and as Rangers boss, scooping just about every domestic trophy you can think of. Probably came up on his Premium Bonds, as well. One small blight on his record, though: he was relegated when with Hibernian, but subsequently redeemed himself by bringing them back up again. Bright, honest, and articulate, he?s now looking to get back into management. Could be a great appointment, that one, and he does have tenuous links with John Hartson, whom he once tried to sign for Rangers.

Glenn Hoddle? Are you kidding? I?d much rather see Myra Hindley reincarnated and put in charge of a kindergarten, with Ian Huntley installed as classroom assistant! Turned down by us previously, on account of his stonking asking-price, he then spun our unwholesome local rivals the same tale, and they were daft enough to completely succumb to his blandishments. Previous (successful) experience with Swindon before taking over at Chelsea, then landing the England job, of course. As far as ill-advised remarks in public are concerned, though, he?s the beautiful game?s answer to The Duke Of Edinburgh. Perhaps he, Phil The Greek, and Big Ron Atkinson should form a partnership. Not to be touched, even with a whole host of barge-poles.

Graeme Souness is the sort of abrasive character I?d steer well clear of, to be perfectly honest. His motivational and man-management skills went down like a lead balloon at Blackburn and Newcastle: were to get the keys to the manager?s office at our place, he?d probably turn out to be just another variant on the ?Megson? theme, I reckon. A real hard man as a player, of course, and really effective at what he did, but does that sort of thing really square with the tactical philosophy currently enjoyed by most of our more discerning followers? Wouldn?t exactly elevate Jeremy Peace into the ranks of all-time boardroom greats, that one.

Alan Curbishley? An honourable decade and a half spent at The Valley, of course, and landing them in the Prem, twice, along the way, before quitting The Valley recently. He was hotly-tipped to land the Baggies job when it first became vacant, of course, but quickly went on record to say he wasn?t all that interested, thank you very much. As for opportunities elsewhere, he seemingly turned down the Leeds job not so long back, not to mention spurn all manner of delicious culinary inducements offered by Norwich director Delia Smith, it would seem. (Clearly not the sort of guy who?d willingly prostitute himself for a plate of tender Welsh lamb, cooked very rare indeed, with accompanying red onion marmalade, plus all the usual trimmings!) I still reckon he?s holding out for the chance of a plum London job, and judging from the way West Ham seem to be imploding at both boardroom and managerial level, right now ? Alan Pardew doesn?t seem all that keen on foreign players being foisted upon him without any say whatsoever in the matter, and for that, I don?t blame him one little bit - that opportunity may arise much sooner than he thinks. But be Albion?s gaffer? No chance.

And so we now come to David Jones, former Dingle, now tripping the light fantastic at Ninian Park, of course. With him at the managerial helm, it?s fair to say that he?s managed to completely blow a hole through their achievement ceiling, thereby giving their obnoxious followers a tantalising, if totally-undeserved, glimpse of the sybaritic joys to be had once in the Premiership. As I said above, he now appears to be the bookies favourite to land the post by a country mile. He certainly seemed to get the best out of Jason Koumas when he was there, no mean achievement, that, either. I?m damn sure he?d be pleased to strike up another beautiful friendship with Dave, if no-one else. ?Im Indoors also thinks that should he land the job, he?d bring in former Hereford favourite and Welsh International Paul Parry as quick as Christ would let him. A very nippy wide player, so I?m told, and just what we need to dissect stubborn defences, right now. But how would being an ex-Dingle square with our faithful, I wonder? The first sign of trouble, and you wouldn?t need to be a fortune teller to predict what might happen.

Mickey Adams is yet another name mentioned in lights. Currently with Coventry, and does enjoy quite a favourable reputation in the game. Is described as ?firm but fair? in his disciplinary dealings, but is highly-respected by all. Has had promotions with Fulham, Brighton and Leicester, and prevented the Sky Blues from tipping over the edge last season. A strong hand on the tiller, undoubtedly, but would Megson-like qualities turn him into a Championship version of the fictional USS Caine?s Captain Queeg, I wonder?

Mike Newell? Has performed miracles at Kenilworth Road to get them where they currently are, and seems to be as straight as a die, having publicly stated his complete and utter distaste for some pretty dubious transfer practices allegedly perpetrated by both agents and chairmen fairly recently. Oh, soddit, it?s bungs I?m on about. What else? His no-nonsense style of management would certainly appeal to most Baggies, and he?s as cute as a whole cartload of monkeys, tactically, but do our board truly see latent Premiership potential there, I wonder?

So there you have it. I?m very aware I?ve not covered all the bases, not by a long chalk, but to my simple little mind, those are the ones ?most likely to?. Or not. Whatever the possible outcome, I?m assuming an announcement will be made while we?re away. Should that be the case, then my next offering will really hum. As I?ve said before, Robson?s sacking was so quickly executed, I genuinely thought at the time that Jeremy Peace really did have a ?Plan B? all ready and waiting to be dusted off. Ooooo! Got it wrong again, Betty! Mind you, it might just be that Peace will really break the bookies? collective hearts by just going for the obvious, and plumping for Nigel Pearson instead, publicly declared candidacy for the job, or not! A possibility that does have its own particular merits, of course, but it?s a pretty bold move to make, that one. Would our chairman really want to risk all the flak that might cause, should his personal choice for the job not satisfactorily fulfil his anticipated promise? An interesting thought, that.

Leaving the crazy world of searching for a potential gaffer aside for a bit, what else have we been up to of late? Well, yesterday evening, we both lolloped off to The Hawthorns for a taste of the book-signing action regarding David Instone?s weighty Baggie tome, titled ?Forever Albion?. A brand-new publication, this, and very strong on the photographical side indeed; lots of pictures I have seen before in the Press, but an equally-large proportion I?ve never clapped eyes on before in my entire supporting career, which now runs to well over 40 seasons. (Nowhere near that of the Old Fart, of course: did he really offer Florence Nightingale an Albion season ticket in return for erm ? ?services rendered? ? during the Crimean War, I wonder?) Another excellent reason why we turned up that night was to get some idea of what was actually involved in staging a signing-session, ours coming up on the 16th of November, of course, in the East Stand.(Gratuitous plug, that, by order of ?Im Indoors himself, so blame him!)

And David wasn?t alone in his sales endeavours, because thanks to some nifty work on the part of the Ex-Players? Association, he?d managed to assemble a pretty formidable bunch of ex-proud wearers of the famous blue and white stripes on the night. How does a cast-list comprising SuperBob, Richard Sneekes (the only Dutch bloke I?ve ever encountered toting a wonderfully-fruity Black Country accent, by the way!), Ray Fairfax, Stan Jones, Ray Wilson, not forgetting Alex Jackson, of course, grab you? Also there, but not in any official capacity whatsoever, was former Albion club doctor Roger Rimmer, now happily retired from the stethoscope and prescription trade, but quite content to participate in such jollities quite simply because he?s a genuine Baggie, as well as an MD. Even as we walked in the room, slightly ahead of schedule, they were signing copies of David?s book like the clappers, as lots of happy purchasers went in search of their personal boyhood/girlhood heroes, plus getting that coveted trademark signature plonked right inside the cover.

Talking of matters medical, I was most relieved to see Dave Holloway sitting in one corner by the bar, just like Little Jack Horner. I had heard he?d been admitted to hospital in a bit of a rush the evening before the Luton game, then heard he was out again after a few days, but not knowing quite what was wrong, I was somewhat reluctant to push the matter further. Additionally, I had meant to send a ?get well soon? message via this piece, but along with a good many other things, that disappeared into thin air the precise moment our PC upped and died on us, the night of the Leeds game.

Seeing him sat there, I naturally took the trouble to ascertain what the precise cause of the problem was. It turned out that the condition he?d been finally diagnosed with was quite nasty: on discharge, Dave was given firm instructions beforehand that basic activities like breathing(!), eating, sleeping etc. were quite permissible from a medical point of view, but anything involving climbing lots of stairs, or walking any significant distance, even, was ?streng verboten?. Not that the pretty comprehensive edict forced upon him by the stethoscope-swingers prevented him from going to football, oh dearie me, no. ?Definitely NO excitement or exertion!? said all those docs, in a chorus ? so what did Dave go and do? Turned up for the Leeds game, that?s what! In what used to be the old directors? box, admittedly, and trying to take things very easily indeed, but ? well, you all know what that game was like, by now, don?t you. Not the most laid-back of games to choose as one?s first, post-discharge, was it?

Bob Taylor ? how his sense of humour positively crackled electric that night, in much the same way as synthetics put through a tumble dryer do when you try to pull them out of the drum afterwards. Infectious, or what? Pretty soon, he had just about everyone on that ?panel? confessing to the fact that prior to going into the football trade, they?d all been employed in occupations that for the most part involved the handling of what some snotty-nosed medics might euphemistically term ?faecal matter?. In fact, so far ?out of the box? did Bob?s thoughts go to prove his pet theory, you?d have very likely encountered his words happily trotting along Smethwick High Street that very same night. Why the hell Albion haven?t long-since snapped him up for some kind of PR oriented position with the club, I really don?t know. High time he was.

As you might expect, just about every ex-player present there had extensive experience in a ?proper job? prior to coming into the game. Especially the older ones, whose service in Albion?s ground-staff consisted mainly of cleaning toilets (see ? told you so!). Even Richard Sneekes had a similar tale to tell: at the tender age of 16 or 17, he earned a few bob from working in a hospital, where one of his principal duties involved shifting pigeon dung from a roof, would you believe. Bob? He worked on the bins before signing professionally. I can just picture it, actually, Bob bent double under the weight of ?hot ashes? bins (the price you pay for living in a coal-mining district, if so employed, of course), and wisecracking all the time while doing it, no doubt. Alec Jackson? Pig-cleaning was his early, albeit somewhat smelly, role in life. Chucking countless buckets of cold water onto grunting porkers, if you want to know the real truth. I bet his social whirl after such noisome daytime porcine graft was really hectic. Just as well supporters didn?t go much for singing, during Alec?s later playing days, wasn?t it? Quick chorus of: ?You?re s**t ? and you stink of pig!? anyone?

Even MC John Homer boasts a certain propinquity, albeit historical in his case, to the ghastly stuff; working in the Black Country Museum as he does, he frequently has to explain to parties of bemused schoolkids etc. why none of the houses reconstructed there have no internal sanitation whatsoever. The reason? One communal bog only, normally situated in the back yard, close to the ?brew-?us? (laundry and utility room, we?d call it these days). Basically a ?hole in the ground? jobbie, it was, and emptied every night by what was called ?the night soil man?. Yuk. That had to do for the entire terrace, and was absolute murder if you wanted to go during the night, especially during the winter months, very much colder than now, of course. Most times, householders would use what was colloquially known as a ?po?, a capacious pottery sanitary utensil normally kept under beds ? unless you wanted to let fly with a real, ?corker?, of course, in which case all of the above applied. So now you know, and what?s more, it?s exclusive to this column. John is paid bloody good money to talk complete and utter s**t!

But I digress. It was while Bob was machine-gunning his audience with all the above lavatorial wisecracks, he did, albeit inadvertently, I suspect, touch on a very important point. Every single one of those ex-players there that night knew only too well what it was like to have to put in hard manual graft for five or six days a week. After a grounding like that, any fame and adulation enjoyed really meant something to these guys, properly (and gratefully) appreciated. These days, potential talent is snapped up at a very early age indeed ? remember what I recently said about The King?s grandson, getting serious enquiries from Premiership clubs, even though he?s only eight? Steered right through all the various Academy sides they are now, and thoroughly-cosseted, too. Told what to eat, what to drink, when to go to bed, who to mix with, what NOT to do to their young bodies, until the lucky ones eventually fetch up with some League club or another, having been offered what?s now called a ?scholarship?. But there?s more.

No demeaning manual labour for these modern-day lads ? no, sirree. It?s all about media-awareness training, personal grooming, handling finances, properly learning the laws of the game, when and how to eat what course with what knife, even. God knows what modern-day course tutors would make of Shuv Lovett and his famous social gaffe involving a hotel room?s bidet. There?s the chance of a proper ?paper? qualification at the end of it all, genuinely transferable skills in the sport and leisure industry, should everything not work out as planned. Plus, for those that do make it, a regular slot in their club?s first string, if they?re lucky. See what I?m getting at? Not one of these kids now knows what it?s like to graft out there in the ?real world? ? yet another good reason why the gulf between players and supporters is widening horrifically with every single season that passes. Yet another excellent reason as to why supporter disillusionment with the game spreads like algae across a stagnant body of water in midsummer.

And I think it?s going to get much, much worse. Assuming the game survives that long, doesn?t implode, I can genuinely see a time, say, 20 or 30 years hence, when club scouts will be more preoccupied with obtaining DNA samples from promising-looking kids than spending a cold and miserable 90 dripping-wet minutes on some obscure touchline or other. How come? Easy. Despite all the research work that?s been done with human DNA to date, then figuring out what bits actually correspond to what genetic trait or illness, we?re still very much in the business of someone being given a book, written not only in a foreign language but unfamiliar script, then asked to tell people what the plot?s all about.

We know there are whole chunks divided into chapters, and by the use of some intelligent guesswork, we can figure out roughly what each chapter?s about, and what particular words and phrases signify might happen in a subsequent chapter ? but what we can?t do at the moment, is read it word for word, get a clear idea of the plot, what the author?s intentions were when he or she first put finger to keyboard. And that?s about the state we?re in with DNA, and what each segment?s coded for. We can tell roughly what genes can code for some forms of breast cancer, say, and one?s likelihood of having inherited them, but are unable to be much more specific than that at present. But scientists are getting there slowly, and eventually, even the likelihood of us contracting virtually all known diseases and conditions will yield to the boffins? probing electron microscopes and computer-modelled DNA printouts. And it?s not just the life-insurance business that would benefit from that sort of thing, be it for good or ill, either.

At our present rate of progress, eventually, scientists will be able to figure out precisely what genes predispose towards being bloody good at football, world-class, even ? a pretty far-fetched concept, I know, but trust me on this: it?ll come, eventually ? and once that happens, clubs like ours will be looking at toddlers, or newborns, even, or, more to the point, their detailed genetic profiles. Scary thought? A group of kids groomed from early babyhood, predestined by the random combination of genetic material (and society, if that?s when we really want from science) to become one thing only, at some predetermined place in time, just like worker bees in a hive?

Well, drugs or no drugs, some Communist countries certainly got close, before the Berlin Wall fell, and present-day China single out their potential athletes very young indeed ? so, no, it?s not a massive leap of imagination from what happens right now, to what could conceivably happen before too many years have passed. God knows what sort of abomination the game will have become by then, mind. I genuinely dread to think. By that time, I strongly suspect that all the various corporate and commercial aspects of football will have become so pervasive, so unpleasant, even, I?ll be turning very much in the direction of ?away? by then.

And that's about it. Back next Friday, and nicely in time for ther Ipswich game, too. Can't wait.

And Finally??. Something else that came out of Thursday night?s meeting, folks. I discovered I have an admirer, no less, albeit one hailing from a place far, far away removed from the stresses, strains and petty niggles of Planet Albion. ?George? is the guy?s name, and he happens to live in Gibraltar, and a member of their supporters? club branch there ? well, THE only one, actually!

I was told on Thursday night that this guy, who hadn?t been able to make it back to his footballing Alma Mater for yonks (apparently, the last time he?d set foot upon the hallowed turf of The Shrine, our former gaffer, Bryan Robson, was a player, and an extremely youthful one at that). So what happened? Well, to cut a long story short, he did ? or, rather, bumped into a mutual acquaintance while waiting to embark upon the pre-match ground tour someone had fixed him prior to the Leicester home game. And, upon nattering to my chum to pass the time away, asked if he knew my whereabouts.

It so happens that this chap?s a regular reader of my column, knows me by sight, but couldn?t quite put the finger on where I was likely to be, so couldn?t be of further assistance. The truth?s quite simple, really, George. Ever since we collectively cast the cares and woes of fanzine editorship aside, we?ve been lurking most evilly in that latter-day Den Of Iniquity, the Hawthorns Hotel, prior to games, about as low a profile as you could possibly desire, really, mate.

Sorry we both missed one another, but if you do plan to come over again ? don?t leave it another 30 or so years! By that time, I?ll be in my mid-eighties, brain probably irreversibly ravaged by the symptoms of advanced dementia ? that?s what long-term Baggies-watching can do to vulnerable idiots like myself, so be warned, the rest of you lot out there! ? and finding it bloody hard put to recognise even me own kith and kin, never mind a stray Gibraltarian Baggie!

 - Glynis Wright

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