The Diary

06 November 2006: Albion's Old Grey Farter Whistle Test?

OK ? so yesterday?s game was a complete and utter crock of you-know-what; the match officials, all three of ?em, should have done the human race a real kindness by not bothering to get born in the first place; and certain of our forward line and defence ? please note, I use both those terms advisedly ? were clearly in urgent need of what passed for grey matter at the very least, and strongly suspected of being on the wrong end of the neurological equivalent of a ?fragging? at best. Oh, and thanks to several of our number ?Messrs Koumas, Kamara, Ellington, Uncle Tom Cobley And All, dancing around the box like an elephant on a gob of lard with the ball, and to similar embarrassing effect, we ended up shipping all three points, just like that. Tommy Cooper couldn?t have done it better. Brilliant. Now tell me, before I attend the next scheduled cabaret performance ? what do we do for an encore, then?

In short, for we Baggie-people unfortunate to have made the short trip to Derby yesterday, misery, pure, and total, writ very large indeed ? and of the ?lowering-thunder-cloud-permanently-situated-directly-above-the brain? species, too. Churchill used to call his version of the same malady ?the black dog?, but being Churchill, and practically untouchable because of it, no-one ever dared bung very strong mood-altering drugs into his unwilling body, or send in Community Psychiatric Nurses to pick up the pieces, but only after the time-bomb of culpable neglect had detonated within the community, either. In its own small way, and bearing in mind the predisposition some football supporters have to this particular sort of depression, it can easily make even ?The Dead March In Saul? sound like the funerary answer to rap music.

How to get rid? Here?s one dead-cert way of doing it, post-match, but you will need access to a copious supply of grey pigeon peas to make it work: that, plus the aid of a big fat onion, a couple of Oxo cubes, a tin of oxtail soup, and a bag of bacon bits, recently rescued from the sundry privations of the meat stall in West Bromwich Market. Oh ? and lots of water (?too much cowin? werter?, as veteran away-traveller Long-Haired Mick memorably described the various smelly channels comprising Venice?s historically-famous ?cuts?, the time we played Brescia in the Anglo-Italian Cup!), plus a few hours-worth of preparation time, but if you seriously value your intestines, most certainly NOT the stuff with which our local canals are filled.

Chuck that little lot together in a large saucepan, after having soaked your peas overnight, light your gas, cross your fingers for luck ? or rub your nuts, even! ? and what you?ll eventually end up with, dear readers, is that ultimate exercise in Black Country comfort eating, ?Grey Farters And Bacon?. And believe you me, once it commences gurgling through your lower guts, it?s downright impossible to mount a successful court action under the auspices of the Trades Descriptions Act, assuming you can find a judge brave enough to hear the case in confined chambers, of course. They genuinely do what it says on the tin.

Indulge, and the ozone layer will find itself in grave danger of being overrun, in true flatulent Steve Brookes-style ? NEVER grab a seat next to him at a game, by the way: you?ll be sorry, if not half-gassed, come the final whistle - by huge amounts of anally-expelled methane generated every single time the stuff is cooked and eaten, or simply goes on sale to the general public. You have been warned. Should global warming ever run amok in this area over the course of the next few years, the likely cause is likely to be quite literally right under your nose.

And that?s precisely what I had to eat once we got back from Derby, yesterday: a freezer foil container-full of those glorious pulses, plus a handy-sized bit of jam sponge for afters, mes amis. My sister?s recipe for the nourishing nosh, passed to her by my late mother, is simply to die for, and very grateful I was when she presented me with her latest batch last Friday night, at my stepmother?s place.

As I said earlier, the stuff?s post-match comfort eating in its purest form: as my old mum would have said, ?A chep bally-filler?, a real rib-sticker, but one all the more welcome because of it. Sadly, being not of this area, and therefore not inculcated into its savoury mysteries from a very early age, my other half can?t really appreciate what the fuss is all about. A shame that: as far as the food police are concerned, the stuff ticks just about every box going.

Protein? Check. Fibre? Check. Iron? Vitamins? Double-check. Calories? Fairish, but absolutely necessary on a cold autumn day like yesterday: remember, this dish was originally meant to provide some very hard-up (but extremely hard-grafting) working people with instant energy, and in a highly palatable manner, too. And in this far more opulent day and age, it also retains a wonderfully simple capacity to cheer up very miserable Baggie people no end within minutes. What?s not to like?

But back to yesterday. Joking apart, there was an absolute shed-load I DIDN?T like about our Pride Park performance. Mogga might be fairly laid-back about what happened, might tell curious hacks post-match that the side still needs ?fine-tuning?, even, but in this division, time isn?t a luxury granted to most gaffers wanting to get out of it. And winding up with Zoltan Gera out with a possible thigh strain won?t help much, either.

It strikes me, above all, that in our laudable endeavours to play attractive, watchable football, we could actually be chucking the baby out with the bathwater. What most successful promotion-seeking clubs need at times like this is someone who imparts a little bit of steel into the side, is a natural leader, constantly urging sluggards on to greater efforts, whilst busting a gut on the pitch themselves ? and, above all, setting an inspired, gritty example to the rest for the whole of the time they?re at the club. In training, too. And off-duty. And when representing the club at public functions, etc.

Having said all that, I would never want to include Kevin Muscat-clones in the job-specification. ?Hard?, but ?fair?, not downright psychopathic in nature, just about fills the bill, along with a pretty hefty dollop of the basic common sense God tried to implant in us all. Unsurprisingly, the very best ones get lapped up like gravy, and very quickly, too. As former Albion gaffer Denis Smith once famously commented at a Supporters Club function: ?Real captains are harder to find than rocking-horse shit.? We?ve certainly had such people in the past: Graham Williams, ?Yorky? Kaye, and John Wile, to name just three of many such encountered within my own supporting lifetime. And they?re there still, provided you take sufficient time and trouble to look, preferably in the lower divisions.

A very recent example of the species was Derek McInnes, now with bloody Millwall, so I understand. I can only assume it?s in a ?missionary role?, i.e.: attempting to spread the joys of common decency and proper football to the benighted East London ?heathens?. Why else would he go there? To me, he was an ideal role-model, in every sense of the word. Find someone of that ilk out there ? and they are around, still, even though you might have to go scour what looks awfully like stony ground to track down prime examples of this elusive but endangered species ? and you?ve got someone worth far more than their actual weight in gold. And once you have landed your prize, hang on to ?em like grim death: like buses, there might not be another one along for absolutely ages.

It?s even possible there?s yet another factor in play currently affecting our League form - and this is one instance where I genuinely hope I?m wrong. Could it be that we?ve been ?found out?, at long last? That when they hear their pre-match talk, opposing players are told by their gaffers to expect to go behind early doors, but run at us like crazy if that happens, and keep doing so, in the almost-certain expectation of our porous defence eventually crumbling like the walls of Jericho in the face of repeated trumpet-blasts? It?s an opposition tactic that?s certainly reaped dividends, these last two or three games, and given its proven success, it?s highly likely we?ll be seeing much more of the same, long before the current season finally draws to a close.

The bottom line is that we really can?t afford to give matches away in such profligate fashion any more. Thanks to stuffing up our last three, we?re now six points behind Preston, who lie second, and four behind newly-resurgent Blues. Although we?re in fifth position, still, there?s lots of ground to be made upon the leaders, and time is running short. Neglect to do so for much longer, and I can?t see us making the play-offs, even.

Surely our name?s ?West Bromwich Albion?, not ?Bill Gates?, or ?Bob Geldof?? Leave conspicuous acts of charity to those uniquely qualified to operate in that field, I say. And, just in case you?re thinking of saying: ?What?s so wrong with finishing in the top six?? may I remind you of my earlier observations concerning our apparent lack of leadership skills in our ranks? To embark upon what is essentially the later stages of a knock-out Cup tournament without players demonstrating any of the necessary gritty defensive qualities, or just plain ?liking for a good scrap?, that ensures success, we?d really be away with the fairies, wouldn?t we?

And that?s me done, then. Back again this Friday, unless something important crops up in the meantime, of course. Until then, don?t go too mad with the old ?grey farters?, will you?

And Finally?.. One. Hearty congrats go to Joe Kamara, who won the ?Championship Player Of The Month Award? for October, so recently, thanks to that six-goals-in-five-games scoring spree of his. Watching him tear Ipswich to complete shreds at Portman Road was worth the admission fee alone, it has to be said. It?s also interesting to note also that of the four others shortlisted for the same prize, two of them, Burnley?s Brian Jensen, and Preston?s Danny Dichio, are actually former wearers of the famous stripes! Even now, our club?s alumni help set the tone for everyone else!

Two. I see that Blues manager Steve Bruce is still banging on about the unfortunate injury to Damien Johnson during our local derby, a week or so ago. All that, mind, after the FA have quite categorically said that there isn?t a case to answer regarding Paul Robinson having to face possible further charges relating to the incident that saw him get a red card for his pains.

Brucie! Brucie, darleeng!?.. It?s all over now, done with, diddums, and you can?t turn back time ? so why bother trying, now it?s all water under the bridge? Here?s a bit more Shakespeare, for you, but from Macbeth, this time: ?It is a tale told by an idiot, full of the sound and the fury, and signifying nothing?..? The very next time you?re in the bathroom, Brucie, have a lingering look at yourself in the mirror: I?m sure the simile will fit you like a glove.

Three. Not Many People Know This! Despite it being well over 300 years after a certain famous attempt to blow up the Houses Of Parliament, a few hours prior to its annual State Opening ceremony, a posse of blokes, armed with lanterns and staves, are still sent down the cellars to check for clandestine gunpowder-laden additions to the varied grot stored down there! Just one thing, though: going by the current state of both this country and the world, maybe it?s not so much the ?getting caught? bit we should be celebrating with bonfires and fireworks, but the very fact Mr. Fawkes had the good sense to try in the first place?

 - Glynis Wright

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