The Diary

11 November 2006: Hawthorns Canaries And Poppies - With Boilers Chucked In As Well!

Quite a fun-packed week we?ve had at Chez Wright, folkies. Well, it would have been ? and a damn sight warmer, as well - had not our central heating boiler decided to quit this mortal coil around Wednesday morning; the first we knew of the problem was when I tried to get the ?hot water? bit functional for the benefit of our dishwasher. Result? Dead as a dodo; cashed in its chips; gone for a Burton; copped it; gone to The Great Radiator In The Sky, even, and nary a bit of copper piping around to mourn its passing, either.

At first, we laboured under the somewhat na?ve hope that our ailing beast was repairable, but it took only a few minutes poking and cursing from Norm, Simon?s mum?s beloved, to convey the dreaded news: yup, our 1960s-vintage, energy-guzzling monstrosity was on its last legs, finally. No help but to get it replaced, then, which is why, in the company of the aforementioned gentleman, we spent an instructive (and horrendously credit-card draining: may God have mercy on my next monthly statement!) hour or two down Halesowen B and Q.

Result? We now have a replacement combi boiler, and very efficient, too, according to the very nice chap we consulted at the time, which is great for the planet ? but there?s still one slight snag. Norm, bless both him and his trusty monkey-wrench, is very big down Cradley Heath British Legion, and right now, this is about the busiest time of the entire year for him, what with frantic preparations for the various Remembrance Day ceremonies happening around the area come Saturday and Sunday going on, and everything. So the Great Installation has to wait until next week, at the very least. I can only hope old Jack Frost doesn?t grab a bit of sadistic mirth at our expense: in the meantime, we?ve had to revisit certain domestic horrors we?d once thought banished forever ? like washing up by hand, using water heated in the kettle!

Mind you, it hasn?t all been gloom. This week also saw two thoroughly-detested institutions finally get their much longed-for come-uppance for various reasons, and didn?t I just laugh my socks off the very minute I heard about both? You bet ? after all, it?s not exactly every day you see Sir Alex Ferguson?s Man United get whopped by a bottom-end-of-the-table Championship side, is it? Fair play to Southend, who really worked their socks off for that historic League Cup win of theirs, and now have earned the chance of taking on yet another giant in the quarter finals: deservedly so, too.

The other? Well, come Wednesday, on the other side of the Big Pond, the US citizenry collectively applied what amounted to the bums? rush on George Bush?s Republican Party: in other words, as far as his divisive policies, both home and abroad, were concerned, what amounted to a national referendum voted decisively for change in both the Senate and Congress. I can?t say I was totally surprised, mind, but I hadn?t really expected the victory to be as emphatic as it eventually was. You really know when the conservative tribe has grave problems, the moment you find what was once a slavishly-supporting (via Murdoch, and Fox News) George Bush fan club cramming the exit doorways, in an increasingly-desperate endeavour to get the hell away from the awful stink currently emanating from The White House.

Bush being Commander-In-Chief of all the US Armed Forces (a non-negotiable part of the job-description, regrettably), it won?t make a great deal of difference to what happens in Iraq or Afghanistan at first, but what will happen is the Democratic majority in both Houses effectively putting the block on any more contentious legislation, both in that area, and elsewhere ? and that, of course, will mean Bush having to look at possible ways of getting out of both theatres, and the sooner the better, too. He?ll also find enormous difficulty getting more mundane, yet controversial, domestic legislation through, as well. Expect much more hard-nosed scrutiny of what went on, both in the run-up to the war and afterwards, too, something that could lead to even more embarrassment for Good Ole George. Of one thing I?m sure: it?ll mean much more work for Dubya?s speechwriter, who just happens to be a relative of former Baggies favourite Tommy Magee! Death by donkey, and real, real, slow, too: oh, whoops!

Mind you, just like incompetent heads of state (because of, perhaps?), wars, and rumours of wars, have always been with us ? and so has the tragedy major conflict can produce in heaps. Tomorrow, we commemorate not only the silencing of the guns on the 1918 Western Front, but also those who gave their lives in just about every conflict since, and rightly so, in my opinion. What can we justifiably regard as ?self-sacrifice? or ?privation?, these days? Turning down the central heating controls a degree or so just to make us feel better about global warming? Taking the bus or train, rather than the car, to work? Hardly registers on the personal Richter scales of those who truly suffered in the trenches of the First World War, or the blitzkriegs of the second lot. Afghanistan? Baghdad? Old stories for the British Army: just pick up any half-decent modern history text, and you?ll see precisely what I?m banging on about.

Politicians aren?t usually the people who really stand to lose whenever they get all jingoistic: just one hastily-scrawled signature from them can consign several thousand teenagers to a very nasty end indeed. In fact, as far as I?m aware, the very last serving British Prime Minister to have a son killed in battle was Herbert Asquith, whose lad (Lieutenant) Cyril Asquith laid down his life in 1916, on the Somme front, if my memory serves me correctly. As for the Blair dynasty, the likelihood of their eldest ever serving Queen And Country is about as remote as this column suddenly taking up knitting and embroidery as a hobby. Anyone can be a bellicose tub-thumper when it?s not their nearest and dearest taking all the risks.

War, and its inevitable handmaiden, Death, aren?t necessarily selective, of course. All walks of life can be affected during a major conflict. Many laid down their life for King and Country in the ?war to end all wars?, and footballers weren?t immune, either. Take the case of one Harold Bache, of whom my other half has written about extensively in his ?20 Albion Cult Heroes? literary tome: had he lived, it?s certain he would have been one of the greatest players ever to grace an Albion shirt. Although the number of games he actually played for the club were few ? 14, and with but four goals to his credit, all-told - he did manage to stoke up quite a reputation among Albion?s various opponents over the 1914-15 period, after which increasing military commitments meant he could no longer play first team football for The Baggies.

Even the precise circumstances of his death are the stuff of which great films are made: in his capacity as Bombing Officer (members aka ?The Suicide Squad?: the nickname says it all, really), he led a counter-attack that saw no less than four of the other men taking part decorated for their efforts to regain control of a trench previously taken by the Germans. Even anecdotes garnered during his previous spells in the trenches go to illustrate that this was a man of uncommon valour, and not necessarily the sort that gets you gongs, either. In that conflict, cynical squaddies used to assert that MM?s and DCM?s ? gallantry awards for ?other ranks?: officers had their own - ?came up with the rations.?

In other words, it was, for other ranks, and junior officers, to some extent, largely down to pure luck: it helped enormously to actually have someone of influence witness what you?d actually done, of course. If not that, either being a member of some military ?charmed circle? or other, or, maybe, just knowing something awful about a superior officer?s behaviour under fire that the person concerned would rather be kept very quiet: recommending someone for a gong was an ideal way of shutting them up. Not every officer had ?officer-like qualities?. Nor NCO?s, for that matter: some, the regulars especially, were highly devious at profiting at their subordinates? expense.

What didn?t help either was the routine award of such medals to Staff Officers, whose contact with the sharp end was largely minimal: that was why the current MBE/OBE/CBE (Military Division) came into being after the armistice. Genuinely brave men objected to getting exactly the same gong as someone good with double-entry bookkeeping, say, or being able to efficiently run a rear-echelon ammo dump in the face of unprecedented demand for its deadly wares. That?s the main reason why the rules got changed after the guns finally fell silent.

But I digress. The point is that Harold?s death came in the most trying of circumstances: not spectacularly ?over the top? as per the Somme battle, but simply engaging in one of the relatively minor - assuming a company-sized counter-attack resulting in the death of scores of men can ever be regarded as ?minor? of course: it?s all relative, really ? fire-fights and trench raids that were the common bane of front-line existence in those days. What?s previously known about Harold?s Army career would strongly suggest he was no shrinking violet when it came to the leadership of his men at times like these.

As was very often the case in those days, the sheer ferocity of the fighting was such as to make retrieval of bodies from the battlefield nigh-on impossible afterwards, which is why you?ll find Harold?s name carved on Ypres town?s Menin Gate Memorial to those with no known grave: even now, every evening, the local fire brigade sends buglers to sound the Last Post there, a little bit of low-key, but terribly moving, Belgian ceremonial that has taken place ever since the Armistice, the only exception to this being when the town came under Nazi rule in 1940.

Oh ? and before I finally leave the First World War, here?s another pertinent thought. Tomorrow, when we play Norwich and the club announces the ?gate? figure, have a good look around the ground: if the crowd?s in the region of 20,000, what you?ll be seeing on all four sides, roughly, is the number of British soldiers killed ? not wounded, or captured, mind, just killed ? on the First Of July 1916, the disastrous opening day of the Somme battle, and most of them within the first few minutes, too. If ever there was a ?weapon of mass destruction? in the modern sense used that day, then it surely had to be the Staff people who devised the plans for this one. That many killed, and in such a short space of time, is slaughter on a nuclear war scale, almost.

How did some unnamed Tommy describe the butchery, once? ?Two years in the making (of the various local Pals Battalions that took part, and bore the main brunt of the casualties), and ten minutes in the destroying??? Now run your eyes around the ground again, and let that little lot sink in ? and if that doesn?t move you to tears, then all I can say is you must be dead, and right from the neck up, too.

And another quick thought: Albion will be marking the 11th of November in their own particular way, tomorrow. All our players will turn out for this one wearing shirts incorporating a poppy on the front, all to be raffled off individually over the course of next week, the proceeds going to The Royal British Legion.

If you want to join in, see the official Albion website for details ? that?s where the auction will be taking place next week. There will also be a bucket collection tomorrow, which the RBL themselves will be organising, so if you don?t want to play at auctions (or even if you do!) but still want to contribute, the very moment you first clap eyes on a bucket-carrier, simply chuck a pound coin their way. They?ll love you for it, and it?s all in what is now fast becoming a highly-relevant cause: as recent events elsewhere have shown, it isn?t just bemedalled old codgers that need assistance from the Legion, these days.

And so to Norwich, Delia Smith, and all who sail in her. Fair play to the lady, mind: she?s come a bloody long way from the time she baked a fancy cake for the cover of the Rolling Stones album ?Let It Bleed?, way back in 1969! I can even remember buying my copy (the album, ducky, not the cake!) from Turners? record shop, in Paradise Street, just up the road from both the Kings Cinema and the station, which really dates me, doesn?t it? Probably dates Delia, too; since those long-gone halcyon days, she?s achieved considerable celebrity-chef status herself, and is now the de facto owner of Norwich City.

But there?s one essential personal quality about her that sets her well-distant from most of her male boardroom counterparts, and that?s her genuine love for the club, and willingness to demonstrate it, no matter how embarrassing the end result. Were she not a director, she?d be slumming it in the cheap seats, and getting very emotionally involved, too, no doubt. That?s why I couldn?t find it within myself to condemn her for that well-oiled on-pitch exhortation of hers two seasons ago: were I on the Baggies? board, and feeling the urgent need to get the crowd going for some important game or other, I?d probably end up doing the same thing myself!

As far as their playing personnel go, they too have had to readjust to the various changes wrought by an incoming gaffer, not to mention the numerous demands that Championship football makes of people ; in fact, at today?s Press Conference, Mowbray actually admitted that to date, he?d seen no less than three scouting reports on The Canaries, and every single one describing a side with markedly different people playing in it! Confused? You will be?.. At the moment it?s looking very much as though midfielder Lee Croft, who has an ankle injury, won?t be starting for the Norfolk side: long-term absentees are Gary Doherty (back) and Craig Fleming (hamstring).

Earnie? Not so much ?The fastest milkman in the West? a la Benny Hill, or the young general factotum in Casualty, for that matter - just enormous potential to be a thorough nuisance tomorrow, Armistice Day or not! Hyper-light speed, both with the ball, and off it: that, plus what?s rapidly proving to be an enormously-productive season for the lad when it comes to scoring goals, of course. What a shame we never got the chance to harness both him and his enormous speed in the service of our current attacking ethos: I can only hope that we don?t end up bitterly regretting flogging him off tomorrow.

One change I do see as being imperative tomorrow is the return of Kev Phillips to the Hawthorns fray: it?s goals we need, primarily, and you don?t get ?em by leaving your main asset in that direction doing a ?wallflower? act on the subs? bench, now, do you? As for the rest, well, Houlty will keep his place, I reckon: what he did, he did well last week ? certainly that 35-yard humdinger of a first Derby goal would find even Gordon Banks having not a little trouble stopping it, and the second an unmitigated disaster the very moment we lost possession ? so on with the show for him, then.

Curtis Davies and Chris Perry will probably carry on with their defensive double-act, and tame Len Cantello-impersonator McShane having to sit this one out on the subs bench once more. Having said that, though, our leader may want to ring the changes on the flanks with Paul Robinson still suspended, using Goldilocks to fill the hole on the right. Midfield? Young Chaplow should get another pop at it, with Quashie, Koumas and The Mighty Zoltan filling vacant sockets in the middle, left and right respectively. Or will he be going for the likes of Greening, instead? Wallwork? Ooh, decisions, decisions! As I said earlier, we?ll be resuming the tried and tested Phillips-Kamara combo up front, in all likelihood, with Hartson and Ellington both acquiring a wide range of bum splinters through tenanting the subs? bench for most of the game.

If we?re to stay in serious contention for the remainder of the current year, it?s absolutely vital we collect all three points from tomorrow?s little caper. What will help is having Phillips back with us once more: what won?t is being wantonly wasteful of copper-bottomed goalscoring chances, given to us on a plate, almost, a la the previous game. As for the possibility of the sort of collapse we saw versus QPR repeating itself, I can only assume that our lot have been repeatedly shown the error of their ways ever since that fateful night.

A well-honed killer instinct is what?s needed right now; sure, I know that might very much go against the grain for some, but when you sit and think about it, that?s the only realistic way we?re going to get out of this division, assuming Mowbray is still as determined to play the ?attack? card wherever he goes, of course. Just keep racking up those goals, tomorrow, lads: although it?s Armistice Day, there is an excellent precedent, and it happened back in 1967.

Just as now, Albion were then managed by someone whose belief in the attacking, footballing, crowd-pleasing, ?pass and move? code was near-on as total as that of our current incumbent. Take a bow, then, Alan Ashman ? or as much as your halo and angel wings will allow you to! On that dull November the 11th, Albion?s Hawthorns opponents just happened to be Burnley, back then, a not-insignificant force in the old First Division. Certainly their then-chairman, Bob Lord, was one of the League?s prime movers and shakers. If the previous season was anything to go by, then we should have been in for a right old tanking, the ?home? game ending in a miserable 1-2 loss, and the corresponding away fixture seeing us tanked to the merry tune of five goals, and just a single Albion strike, courtesy The King, offered by way of reply.

Who knows what the club put in the players? tea immediately before the 1967 Hawthorns game ? had one of our board members been away taking in the heady hippy delights of San Francisco?s Haight-Ashbury district at that particular time, I wonder, and brought back ?samples?? - but it certainly had the desired effect. No sooner had we kicked off, goals simply rained and rained into the battered Burnley net: as a result, unsurprisingly, we found ourselves no less than five up by half-time! The second bit saw us take our foot off the gas pedal, a little ? only an additional three racking up the Baggies? running tally that time ? and with Burnley finally grabbing a consolation goal just before the end. The scorers? Bobby Hope, with two; Chippy Clark, ditto; Bomber Brown; Eddie Colquhoun; Johnny Kaye and, inevitably, The King himself. Oh, happy goal-den days! Any chance of a repeat score today, lads?

And Finally?. More merriment when Laraine Astle rang me the other day to confirm her attendance at Simon?s book launch at the ground this coming Thursday evening. It?s all to do with daughter Dawn?s recent canine acquisitions: two adorable Labrador puppies, one called Henry, and the other ? inevitably, really ? Astle! God knows what her dad would have said were he still alive, mind!

Anyway, to cut a long story short, it appears that the pair of them can now, quite justifiably, be known as the South Staffordshire Wrecking Crew. According to Laraine, thus far, they seem to have chomped their way through most of Dawn?s living-room furniture, and are now making heavy inroads on the stuff in the kitchen! Apparently, Dawn daren?t leave them alone in the house, even for a minute. Perhaps she should now cut her losses, and turn the situation around to pecuniary advantage by hiring both of them out? Who to? Why, to local demolition firms, who else?

 - Glynis Wright

Contact the Author

Diary Index