The Diary

25 November 2006: Baggies To Rule Britannia?

Tomorrow brings with it one of my ?most detested? of the entire season?s games, and that?s our fixture versus Stoke. One of these days, I?ll wake up during the football season, the sun will be shining, the birds singing, and there I?ll be, ready as hell to depart for the Britannia Stadium, still snug in its solitary fastness, and just off what the locals tend to call ?the D-Road?. Should that day ever come, mind, then SHOOT ME ? and the quicker the better, as far as I?m concerned. But of tomorrow?s doings, more later.

Although I?m acutely aware that even with the best veterinary treatment available, Cyrille will eventually lose his fight for life anyway, I have to say he?s certainly putting up a bit of a scrap; whether it?s cat heaven or otherwise that eventually claims him, I reckon they?ll just have to wait until Cyrille himself feels it?s time to go. On Tuesday evening, before we departed for the Hereford Shrewsbury replay, we called in at the vets to see him.

There he was, poor thing, with a drip inserted into his front paw, but the good news was that he?d now regained full use of one leg, with the other one not too far behind. The nurse had told me when I rang that he wasn?t eating the stuff they were giving him all that well, and could we bring some that we normally gave him, please? That duly done, it was astonishing to see how quickly he lamped into it; whatever?s still wrong with him, it doesn?t involve his huge appetite, that?s for sure! Great hilarity, also, watching the discomfiture of the owner of an Irish wolfhound, who chose the precise moment the vet opened the door to go and wee all over his nice clean floor.

Judging from the resigned sort of sigh that immediately came from the lips of his human, this was quite a common party piece on the dog?s part. By the time we?d finished and gone back into the waiting-room, one of those signs warning about a ?wet floor?, the one with a graphic silhouette of someone falling over, had suddenly materialised, but not where the dog had originally struck. Clearly, there was a lot more nitrogenous ?ammo? remaining in his bladdery locker than even his poor embarrassed owner had realised! The good news is that, at the time of writing, we?ve got Cyrille home once more. He?s not yet fully recovered from the paralysis, there being a certain residual stiffness remaining in one of his back legs, still, but that?s a damn sight better than the alternative, by anyone?s lights.

Not long after we?d seen puss, it was off to Edgar Street we went, then. Imagine, if you will, Albion and Wolves locking twice-seasonal horns, but with about 40 miles distance separating the two. That?s what you?ve got with Shrewsbury and The Bulls: believe you me, there?s no love lost between those pair, and because there?s past ?form? in the ABH and criminal damage stakes aplenty, the plods much preferred to play the first game on a Saturday, and with a midday kick-off, so as to spike the guns of the alcoholically enthusiastic. (Not that it would have, mind: where there?s a will there?s a way, as loads of our followers demonstrated the time we played then non-league Wycombe Wanderers at their place in the FA Cup, around late 1992. In lieu of a pukka pub being open, our lot simply went to the off-licence around a mile or so distant, then completely denuded it of stock! So much so, latecomers were told it was a straight choice between some obscure sort of Polish spirit or other, the stuff possessing the additional ?bonus? of being able to strip linings from unsuspecting Black Country stomachs within a matter of seconds: either that, or bottles of shampoo!)

Well, they certainly packed ?em in for this one: arriving at the ground with around 30 minutes to spare, quickly heading for the Main Stand entrance we wanted, we were completely taken aback to see a queue for The Meadow End (their answer to the Brummie) stretching right around the corner from the turnstile, something we hadn?t seen there in years. Clearly, their gate was going to be truly humungous, as you would rightly expect for a replay as potentially mouth-watering as that one.

Talking of ?gates? and all stations west, I heard a rather interesting tale once I was in the ground, and concerning upwardly-mobile near-neighbours Walsall, when they came down for their fixture with The Bulls the other Saturday. The problem? Easy: Hereford being a laid-back bunch of coves, even at the best of times, they only had two turnstiles in operation to cope with all the away supporters, of which there were loads, as you?d imagine. So much so, that with just 15 minutes to go before the start, there remained about 500 queuing outside the ground, still. (Don?t forget, by the way, that unlike us, it?s very much the case, in that particular neck of the League woods, for the numbers of those paying on the day to greatly exceed those with tickets already purchased.) No worries, the police told the massed ranks of anxious Saddlers, the kick-off?s been delayed 15 minutes, so you?ll all get in on time.

Whoever had authorised those coppers to tell that little porky should have been shot on the spot, because the kick-off hadn?t been delayed at all. Off the game went, dead on time, and with some very sore Saddlers still stuck outside, too, the last of them only getting in some 20 minutes after the ref had blown to start the game. So angry were some of these people, after the final whistle, they marched en-masse round to Hereford?s admin bit, started banging on the glass doors there, and demanded their money back. I don?t know how it ended, rightly, but I can certainly see why they were so aggrieved. Had those plods taken leave of their senses? It?s fortunate that the Saddlers are a pretty amiable bunch as a whole: had they shared, even fractionally, the bellicosity of their near-neighbours, the Dingles, then the outcome might not have been so favourable for the forces of law and order.

But that was the weekend: the present lay in the form of Shrewsbury, now taking to the field of play, along with their not-so-amiable bovine ?hosts? for the evening. Incidentally, the characteristic sweet aroma of fast-brewing Bulmers? sure hung heavy over the town that night: clearly, the recent apple glut had been very good for business indeed. But the music on the Edgar Street PA as both sides emerged from the tunnel? Frankie Goes To Hollywood, and ?When Two Tribes Go To War!? Not quite the spirit of mutual peace and reconciliation we were aiming for that particular evening, chaps, was it, now? Do promise you?ll buck up!

The home side? Crippled something rotten by injures of one sort or another, they?d had to resort to putting out a bit of a patched-up side for the night?s frolics and festivities. The dearth of useful performers meant an unexpected full debut to one Bulls youngster in particular, Luke Webb, now wearing the number 21 shirt for the cider-slurpers, and son of Neill Webb, he of former Manchester United and England fame. More about the lad later.

As both sides prepared to get the show on the road, I happened to notice, above what had been the Len Weston Stand, the ?Floors To Go? stand sponsorship advertising still there, despite the fact they?d actually gone into administration ? a kind of ?Floors Have Gone Bust?, if you like. I could only hope that The Bulls had received payment up front for the sponsorship deal: when you?re at that end of the League, the cash-flow situation can end up perilously-close to strangulation-point. In that kind of world, our own football club?s rock-solid financial affairs and spending-power must seem to resemble closely those of Arsenal, say, or Chelsea, but in proper proportion, of course.

You could tell it was going to be that sort of game from the very first moment a ball was kicked in anger: within about five minutes of the start, two players, one from each side, had already ended up in the ref?s little black book, the more bovine of the two for saying naughty things, as I saw it. Those opening minutes also revealed another fact: Shrewsbury were going through that Bulls defence like cascara through the human colon: it didn?t help either that in keeping with the imminence of the festive season, Hereford were constantly gifting them the ball in some mighty dangerous situations. Were they on suicide pills, or what?

Time and time again, the visitors got the ball into that box: on each occasion it happened, somehow or another, The Bulls muddled through at the back; that, plus the sad fact the Gay Meadow mob couldn?t hit a barn door at ten paces, helped the score stay bloodless, that half. Mind you, it might just have been the case we were judging what was going on out there by the standards we normally apply to our own mob; as His Nibs commented at the time, adjusting to Division Two after the various rigours of the Championship meant a mental U-turn of truly ginormous proportions.

It was during that fraught first half we first heard a little tale concerning Hereford, and their forthcoming fixture versus Boston United. Not so much about the game, mind, more about the bloke scheduled to wield the whistle this coming Saturday afternoon. Andy Woolmer is the name, apparently, but as far as The Bulls are concerned, even the merest mention of The Name That Shall Not Be Spoken Of Within Hearing Distance Of Small Children is enough to get everyone, directors, manager, players, supporters, club cat, even, collectively foaming at the mouth. It all stems from previous Conference encounters, plus the play-off game versus Aldershot a few years back, so I?m told: after the last one I mentioned, where the guy really excelled himself in the ?winding up? stakes, the club made representations to the FA politely asking that he not be given one of their games ever again. With due emphasis upon the ?never? bit. Guess what? Yep ? he?s reffing Boston-Hereford this Saturday. Oh dear.

But back to the football. Or, should that be the current match official? Seemed like it: sure, they?re not the most tolerant of crowds, sometimes, the Edgar Street lot, but they sure seemed to have a lot to moan about, as endless refereeing decisions went against them. That really got to one Herefordian lady sitting about four rows in front of me: let me put it this way, her temper was rising incrementally, and in direct proportion to the number of free-kicks conceded by the home side. After one where a Hereford player had sinned, the ref indicated the opposition to ?play on?, they?d done so, the other Shrewsbury lad accepted the pass, and was about to proceed goalwards with the ball ? but the ref then pulled play back for the original offence! In the end, the lady couldn?t contain her anger any longer, her red-mist fury coinciding with one of those strangely-hushed periods during any game when both sets of supporters mutually decide to shut up for a bit.

?Swallow yer pea, ref, and give us all a bloody break?.? was the raucous cry, complete with wonderfully-fruity country accent, that finally rent the uncharacteristic silence, total agreement being signalled by the various ill-suppressed sniggers and snorts of mirth that erupted around me. Actually, as the game progressed, the quality of her invective improved to such a degree I began to wonder as to whether she was in the business of setting up as a seated rival to our very own John Homer. Or Madame De Farge, a la Charles Dickens, and ?A Tale Of Two Cities?. It certainly seemed that way to me: I could only hope her artery walls would hold up against the severe hypertensive strain long enough to see the final whistle while still on this earth!

The half drawing to its close by then, looking at proceedings from both Baggies and Shrewsbury points of view, it seemed to me that the visitors, having missed an endless number of chances that half, including a couple far easier to put into the back of the net than stuff up, were trying to emulate our abortive Pride Park performance just the other week. There were lots of similarities, not least an astonishing inability to produce the ?killer ball? that would lead to a dead-cert goal.

Oh ? and on a similar note, young Luke Webb was not having the happiest of debuts out there, misplacing passes, losing the ball cheaply, that sort of thing; just about everything he tried to do out there went horribly wrong, landing his defensive colleagues in pretty awful lumber on more than one occasion. By then, the crowd had long since picked up on his various deficiencies, and were expressing some displeasure with his performance, to put it mildly. A case of trying too hard, perhaps? That seemed to be what his team-mates thought: on more than one occasion, I spotted various senior pros trying to calm him down.

I must say I felt sorry for the lad, having seen more than one youthful Albion player totally destroyed by a vindictive crowd almost before their first-team careers had properly started, even. Remember Scott Darton? John Trewick, Albion?s youth team coach back in 1993-94 and now with Hereford, certainly does. Not that I blame him for what happened, mind: former Baggies gaffer Keith Burkinshaw is the one that should really hang his head in shame over that one. Chucking kids into situations seemingly way beyond their capabilities is not a clever thing to do at any time, let alone a fraught game like this one ? but this particular example still had a massive twist in the tale to come.

With Shrewsbury calling most of the shots that first half, and much-weakened Hereford not in much of a position to do anything about it, the outcome of the second seemed but a formality. Mind you, we?d already arrived at a valid explanation as to why the Bulls weren?t performing ? it was all down to Marion, our normally ?minty? chum, who?d, erm, forgotten to bring the talismanic half-time goods that night! Shame on you! A pox on all your Polos, not to mention tribulations on your Trebors, Marion! Mind you, ?Im Indoors came up with the perfect newspaper headline for her mint-less dilemma: ?United Lack Pep Thanks To No-Mint Marion!? Yersss ? now go and have a good lie down, there?s a nice lad.

The strange thing was, though, the expected second-course tatering never happened: in fact, the opposite seemed to apply, Hereford taking the game to them, pushing up, and using the flanks to good effect in getting behind the defence. And they didn?t like it one little bit: clearly, their rearguard was no great shakes, and given a goodly dollop of luck, The Bulls might even manage to hurt them a tad along the way. And, as the game progressed, the stronger Hereford seemed to get. What really made the difference, though, was Andy Williams being brought on as sub with around 20 minutes to go.

With the full benefit of his considerable experience now coming to the fore, nicking a result no longer seemed the sick joke it had during the first period. With just five minutes left on the clock, and extra-time looming, Williams?s proactivity finally paid off, when Shrewsbury conceded a free kick a matter of inches from the edge of the box, and just inside the ?D?. Up stepped Connell for the Bulls ? then, without any fuss whatsoever, he lamped it straight into the back of the net. Pandemonium in the Meadow End, naturally enough. As for their Salopian counterparts, situated behind the other goal, it was very much a case of ?The Silence Of The Fans?. Coming so hard upon the heels of Derby, I really felt for them: talk about a mugging.

But that wasn?t the end of it: just two or so minutes later, United doubled their lead. A strange one that goal: shades of Darren Carter versus Arsenal last season, insofar as the precise moment ball left boot, I could sense exactly where it was headed for, the top left-hand corner of the net, and from a range of around 25 yards, too, possibly more. And even the name of the scorer was an eye-opener: well done, Luke Webb, for a first goal he?ll not forget in a bloody long while, I?ll wager. As for the visitors, they were headed for the exits in droves, with the strains of ?Cheerio, cheerio, cheerio!?..? ringing in their ears all the way. With the local constabulary, fearful of a retaliatory Salopian strike making a mess of the town centre, no doubt, tagging right behind them.

I don?t envy their next round opponents, Port Vale, at Edgar Street, one little bit: by that time, Hereford, deserved conquerors of Coventry in the League Cup earlier in the season, should be back to something like full strength. I don?t need the late Doris Stokes to tell me it?s likely to end in a third-round shoo-in for the Bulls, either. As long as we don?t get them come the Third Round draw, come the time when all those numbered balls finally come a-tumblin? out of the FA?s little black bag, they can take on the whole of the League, Premiership or otherwise, as far as I?m concerned. But not us. OK, chaps?

If it?s Thursday, then it?s just got to be Big Dave: at Kidderminster Branch this time, and giving us all the benefit of his considerable footballing wisdom in heaps. Normally, when players attend meetings, so as not to incur the wrath of their club by letting slip in public indiscretions of one sort or another, most establish a ?tried and tested? routine very early on in their careers, which usually means that one can never quite get a decent enough insight into what these people are like as people. For the most part, you tend to come away thinking ?yep, lots of anecdotes, and all of ?em totally bland, and uncontroversial?: nothing we?d not heard before. But certainly not tonight.

It wasn?t so much debatable happenings, heated or otherwise, I?m banging on about, more like actually managing to get right underneath the skin of a professional footballer, and genuinely getting to see how his mind worked, for once. With Big Dave, you get precisely what it says on the tin, and refreshingly devoid of all that PR bullcrap, too: the very epitome of honesty, not to mention plain old-fashioned decency. Derby are very lucky to have him. Oh ? and yes, he still gives lifts to Paul Peschisolido as and when: as for the rumour he?s had a booster seat installed in his vehicle to cater for his team-mate?s distinct lack of inches, nope ? well, not yet, at any rate!

Perhaps it?s just as well for both that ?Spitting Image? no longer does a show on Sunday nights. I can just picture it now, a puppet of Bruno-esque proportions and beyond for Dave, and a very bijou version for his vertically-challenged Canadian colleague, a bit like the old Lib-Dem David Steele-Doctor David Owen ?Little And Large? gag they ran with so successfully during the Eighties.

So what else did our former central defender come up with the other night? His opening remarks concerned the current Derby gaffer, Billy Davies. Apparently, when he first arrived at the club, he didn?t just come charging in and rushing to change everything. Instead, he slowly and methodically took stock of every single aspect of the club that was under his jurisdiction, carefully discovered his players? strengths and weaknesses, then began to impose his own methods on the club.

It was pretty eye-opening for me to learn precisely what was involved in the getting of the dreaded ?A? Licence, coaching?s gold-standard qualification. Before Thursday, I?d assumed that getting an ?A? Licence merely involved a two-week residential course, during which time candidates spent periods actually coaching, plus some theoretical knowledge chucked in for good measure. Not demanding at all. Wrong! According to Big Dave, yes, there are practical sessions involved, but you have to clock up a certain number of hours practical experience first before you can land a licence ? and not just any sort of coaching, either. So many hours coaching schoolkids, young and old; so many with the equivalent of a club?s youth side, and so forth. It?s all based upon continuous assessment of both written and practical work.

And there is quite a theoretical slant to the course, too, surprisingly: just to give an example, a candidate might be told to attend a certain Conference game ? Kiddy versus Burton, say ? then afterwards have to write a report on that game, assessing strengths and weaknesses in both sides? defences, midfields, strikers etc., then go on to say what they would do to motivate either set of lads to do better next time. A piece of the proverbial for some, but for those ex-players not so hot when dealing with written work, quite likely to provoke strong feelings of panic and dread. And the getting of an ?A? Licence isn?t the absolute pinnacle of a newly-minted coaching career: according to Big Dave, it?s only the start, a convenient framework upon which to hang several more qualifications. There are five or six additional modules to get through, one of these qualifying the aspirant coach to work in other European countries.

Just one thing we haven?t been able to ascertain, as yet ? yes, I suppose we should have asked at the time, but you know how it is: no sooner has the question popped into one?s mind, the talk?s gone off at a different tangent, and the moment?s lost ? and that concerns how many ex-players actually FAIL the course. Come to think about it, can the course actually be failed? Anyone out there able to provide an answer to that one, and I?m all ears, as it were!

Another hefty chunk of the syllabus concerns good old-fashioned ?man management?, and the honing of such skills by spending a certain number of hours actually coaching players. As Big Dave rightfully commented, it?s all about knowing the person behind the team shirt so well, you?ll be pretty sure just how he?ll react to each and every single circumstance, adverse or otherwise: one errant player might best respond to a few well-chosen Anglo-Saxon words post-match, for example, while another might really blossom when subjected to a ?fatherly arm around the shoulder? routine.

The kind of gaffer who adopts the ?sergeant major? one-size-fits-all approach to the job is fast becoming an endangered species. In fact, Darren reckons an awful lot of the older ones are having a lot of trouble coming to terms with such a vast change in approach. It?s all down to personalities, psychology, really, and no two players will ever react in the same way to what you tell them to do. Already, Big Dave?s preparing, mentally, at least, for the time when he reluctantly has to hang up his boots. Now, when he?s playing, he sees the game not so much from the viewpoint of a player, but from that of a coach or manager, and reacts accordingly when performing his team captain?s duties.

In practice, what that means is that if, say, Derby have to defend a corner, and Darren then looks at how his players are deployed in response, he might spot something that doesn?t look quite right for the situation, despite his manager having told the defenders to do something a particular way. That?s when Darren tries to use his initiative, and change things right there on the spot. Presumably, he?s got managerial carte blanche to do that as and when the tactical situation demands.

Possibly going hand-in-glove with such a sea-change in coaching methods used in this country is the vastly-increased predominance of the scientific approach to professional football training. These days, just about everything revolves around fitness and diet, and players have to be acutely aware of this. One of the things that?s fast disappearing from the English game is the ?booze culture? that made so many clubs notorious twenty years or so ago. Since then, the game has undergone an astonishing transformation: it?s light-years faster, for one thing, which basically means that your stereotypical journeyman player, notorious for hitting the nightclubs in a big way the night before a game, would find it very difficult to last the full 90 minutes in this day and age.

The days when players would spend the greater part of the close-season indulging in things they really shouldn?t, then having to get all the added weight off again come the start of pre-season training, are also very much on their way out. Top clubs now tend to give their players written instructions regarding keeping in shape over the summer, and expect them to return to the grindstone only having gained but a few pounds, if any.

It?s also very much the case these days that if kids are deemed good enough, they?ll find themselves in the first-team by the time they?re 17 or 18. A generation or so ago, you?d still find players in their twenties being Central League regulars, but that sort of wastefulness has gone by the board also. At the age of 15 or so, the more promising Derby Academy players are selected to spend time in the company of the pukka first team, watching their pre-match routine, travelling to away games etc. This has the advantage of enabling them to slot in relatively painlessly when it?s deemed a proper time for them to do so.

Darren said he?d enjoyed his time at Bradford, and Doncaster, too. As far as the latter was concerned, he said it was a shame a good side, on the verge of gaining promotion, had its ?family silver? sold off so abruptly. As a result, they missed promotion, and, because of all the damage done, the following season found them fighting an almighty battle to stave off the drop instead.

Our 2001-02 promotion side? ?Each and every one of them wanted to be a winner!? The unity of purpose they showed was phenomenal. (It also showed on the pitch: upset just one, and you?d upset the entire lot!) Said Darren: ?In 70 years time, I?ll still be able to name each individual in that promotion side. That?s how much impression they made upon me at the time!? As for the present lot, Darren said lots of positive things about Curtis Davies, not least the fact he?d been given the captain?s armband at such a tender age. Our former defender is very much of the belief that if someone?s good enough to perform such duties, age shouldn?t come into it; in fact, he reckons that whenever he?s subbed, he does try to pass the armband on to someone who he thinks would benefit from the additional responsibility.

Other matters? His Christian faith is an important part of his life: once he gets onto the field of play, the urge to be a ?winner? takes over completely, but once off it after the final whistle, he privately gives thanks to God for giving him the talent to do what he does so successfully every week. Coming from anyone else, that sort of statement would probably reek of hypocrisy, complete and utter, but with Darren, you certainly know you?ve got the real deal talking out there. His faith is one hundred per cent genuine, full-on, and sincere with it.

While we?re on the subject of so-called Christian virtues, someone in the audience reminded Darren about what happened when we played Everton, at Goodison, that very first season we played in the Prem, and lost 1-0, undeservedly so, some might argue. Quite a few of you will remember the incident that could have soured the game: the moment a very youthful ? not to mention terminally-stupid ? Wayne Rooney took it into his cabbage-mind to take the ball almost to the feet of Big Dave, then proceeded to plonk one of his dirty great Size Nines on it, mockingly inviting our defender to try and get it off him all the while.

It says a lot about the basic decency of Merseyside football supporters that after the game, quite a few of them expressed great displeasure at their wunderkind for indulging in such disgraceful and unnecessary antics towards a much-respected opposing player. And they weren?t the only ones, either: Darren was to find out much later on that the Toffees manager, David Moyes, had afterwards torn quite a strip off Rooney for doing what he did. Mind you, Big Dave now has a much more positive opinion of Man United and England?s mobile crock of gold: ?A good lad? was his current snap-assessment of the player?s personality and playing style. Diplomatically put, n?est ce pas?

But back to those ghastly Stokies once more. Yet another football club that should have been subjected to the ?dynamite treatment? years ago. I remember the time when we beat them 6-0 at our place, Stoke?s Tony Ford (remember him?) getting sent off for his sins as well. Strange to see him wearing an Albion shirt just a couple of years later, wasn?t it? The problem was (is?) simple: try as we may, we couldn?t beat the buggers to save our miserable lives, and believe you me, we tried! Let me introduce you also to another one of Stoke?s finest, a gentleman who normally goes by the name of Chris Kamara, but also answers to other, vastly pithier, sobriquets. Very good at keeping the local casualty departments going, he was, and now look where all that belligerence has landed him ? holding down a pretty good commentating spot with Sky!

One FA Cup and League win apart, it really has to be high time they got theirs: the last time we played them, we did the biz at our place, but when it came to the return fixture, played at the end of the season, thanks to a howling gale blowing all around the Britannia Stadium the day we should have locked horns, we didn?t bother to leave the traps, really, finally falling to a four-goal blitz. This then had the additional effect of me developing a distinct antipathy towards the likes of ?Delilah?! And I don?t exactly go a bundle on pottery poems, either.

According to the club website, Nigel Quashie regards Stoke gaffer Tony Pulis as a father figure, sort of, following the tragic death of his infant son, Tyler, in 1999. At the time, Pulis was at Pompey, and it was he that rescued Our Nige from the clutches of Forest, delivering him to the South Coast in very short order indeed.

Of one thing I?m sure, mind. What with Stoke currently occupying seventh place, and getting increasingly-worrying delusions of grandeur as a result, we really do need to win this one. It?s particularly alarming that they?ve recently chucked good money around getting players in on loan for them. Three in all, in fact, Villa midfielder Patrik Berger being one, Lee Hendrie (also of Seal-like extraction!) another, Salif Diao, formerly with The Reds, and Andy Griffin (ex-Pompey) constituting the third. They?ve also got Pericard and Dewberry, recent transfers in. One player they will certainly be doing without for this one is Dave Brammer, who also completed a one-match ban very recently.

As far as our own performers are concerned, we?ll have Zoltan Gera back from that nasty calf injury before you know it, even. And John Hartson. As it?s an Achilles that poses the problem in this particular neck of the woods, bringing it very much to heel on his return from suspension has been a priority for all of us, so welcome back Jonathan Greening, lank locks and all. Jason Koumas also has good reasons for not letting Stoke gain the upper hand in this one: come the end of our previous promotion season, we?d played the Potters ? and lost heavily for our pains, Mister Koumas taking an early bath as a result of some on-the-pitch indiscretion or other. Going there while with Cardiff was a much more rewarding experience for the lad, the Welsh club eventually cleaning up with a three-nil win.

Thoughts? If we are to build further upon the good work achieved as a result of last week?s Hawthorns win over Burnley, this is the sort of game from which we should be grabbing all three points, no messing. Stoke are no mugs, though: by dint of quietly creeping up on the blind side, they?re now seventh in the heap, and thirsting for even more altitude to be piled on top of the already-groaning clock. If Jason Koumas is on fire, then we should win, but come tomorrow, I strongly suspect that Tony Pulis will have already thought up a sure-fire way of negating that particular midfield threat. Assuming the game?s actually played, of course: apparently, the wind will be a-blowin? something awful for this one, so it?s not altogether impossible we might see yet another postponement of this fixture! Now that would really be something to get that voluble lot talking nineteen to the dozen, as is their normal matchday wont, of course.

And Finally?.. One. So footballers are ?prima donnas?, are they? That?s what the Queen told Premier League chairman Sir David Richards yesterday, and to be scrupulously fair to the old bat, she might just have a bit of a point there. But it?s still a bit rich, that, coming from the head of one of the most dysfunctional bunch of drama queens I?ve ever come across in my entire life. Not to mention having a grandson who?s a Villa supporter. (And there was silly old me thinking you had to be intelligent to collect a university degree!) ?Pots?? ?Kettles?? Er ? ?Heavily tarnished?? Discuss.

Two. Anyone out there ever heard of sprouts and black bean sauce? Nope, neither had I until last Thursday evening, when His Nibs came home from work. Apparently, he and all his chums decided to dine out at a nearby Chinese buffet restaurant that lunchtime ? and guess what was on the menu? And guess who simply had to try them, given you never, ever see them on any Chinese menu anywhere? Yep ? and the distinctly-Oriental tweaking those Brussels got ? black bean sauce is well-fermented prior to being deemed fit to reach the lips of its ravenous Occidental public - didn?t do an awful lot to minimise what is, when all?s said and done, a very well-known (not to mention downright antisocial!) after-effect of copious ingestion of these windy winter veggies. Air-fresheners all round, you noisome boys and girls?

 - Glynis Wright

Contact the Author

Diary Index