The Diary

23 December 2006: And A Smoggy Christmas To You, Too!

I?ve only one word to say to you lot tonight, as we all prepare for the debauched excesses of Crimble ? FOG! Despite the real differences made by the Clean Air Act of the mid-1950?s (brought in as a direct result of enormous public disquiet expressed after the fatal smog that enveloped London just a few years earlier, the accolade ?fatal? being bestowed upon it as a direct consequence of the mucky murk carrying enough pollutants, both industrial and domestic coal-fire origin, to see off several thousand people in one go, mainly the elderly, and those with chronic respiratory disease.), Madam Muck and Pater Pollution have had the last laugh, it would seem.

The last few days have given rise to scenes I never thought I?d witness in this country ever again: those of traffic slowed to a complete crawl, even on motorways, flights cancelled until further notice, and airports completely closed as a result, for example. And even our national game?s ended up the loser, as per the unexpected postponement of the Liverpool-Arsenal League Cup encounter just a few murk-ridden nights ago. As Liverpool Airport was completely socked in by the stuff, the Emirates-based outfit had to go home by coach instead: ironic, when you consider who their current sponsors are!

To be absolutely fair to the referee, though, predicting what?s going to happen when a great gob of almost-solid-looking grey gunge descends upon you with the rapidity of an ambulance-chasing legal firm straight after a road traffic accident, is not an exact science. Games which look a shoo-in for subsequent postponement in the morning can take on a completely different aspect later on that day, and vice-versa, of course. Two examples, then, one from the dim and distant past, the other of much-more recent provenance.

The first? Albion?s European Cup Winner?s Cup quarter-final encounter with Dunfermline, back in early 1969. As I remember it, come the day of the game, freezing fog had socked in the whole of the Black Country: conditions so bad, I?d have defied anyone to correctly read a traffic sign situated more than, say, 25 yards from the observer. And yet, come tea-time, the murk had rolled away, back to the Polar regions that spawned it in the first place, presumably. Which still left the club with equally-vexing problems posed by unduly prolonged below-freezing temperatures, a rock-hard playing surface, for one ? but the game still went on.

How come? Easy: Albion simply brought in several tons of sand, and spread it liberally on the playing surface. Must have been salt in there, too, because it didn?t do the grass one bit of good. As a game-plan, it backfired horrendously: sure, visibility was restored, but with it came the wind, first a gentle zephyr, followed by gradual deterioration into a full-blown nor?easter. Result? A Hawthorns pitch resembling the Sahara at the height of the sandstorm season, but sorely lacking the torrid temperatures associated with that place: Dunfermline, coming from a country where weather hazards of the frigid kind were par for the course, adapted with ease, but we Sassenach softies couldn?t. Result? Out of the Cup, and in maddening circumstances, too, the visitors grabbing an early lead, then clinging on to it like grim death.

My second comes straight from the reign of Ossie Ardiles, when we played Chester in a (then) Second Division home fixture, the winter of our promotion season. With just an hour to go before kick-off, as if from nowhere, a dense cloud of fog suddenly descended upon the ground, getting worse by the minute. I?m not kidding: one minute there was brilliant sunshine, the next there was naught, save an all-pervading gloomy greyness, as impervious to background noise as these things can be. It genuinely looked as though there would be no option but to call it off ? but, to everyone?s astonishment, the ref allowed it to go ahead. Much annoyance, at first: try as we might, sat in our Halfords Lane perches, and just over the Smethwick End side of the halfway line, we couldn?t properly discern what was happening in either goalmouth.

Then, a loud bellow from the Brummie indicated something had happened there. But what? Buggered if I could tell. Shadowy figures, friend and foe alike, came trotting back to the centre-circle: ah! We?d scored! But which Baggie had struck the deadly blow? Only one way to find out ? ask, which is precisely what those at the front did, which is why Paul Raven was then seen to point frantically at his chest and mouth the word ?ME! ME! at the groundlings in the gallery! And, yes, we did win that one ? and the ref was vindicated, in the end.

Come the interval, a fair bit of the murk dissipated completely, leaving very few traces behind come the final whistle, and leaving most Baggies wondering whether they?d dreamed it or not! Had the referee (literally) blown the whistle on Albion?s valiant attempts to get the game played, he would have looked something of a silly billy, just a couple of hours further down the line, wouldn?t he? Fair play to the guy for heeding the advice of the boffins in the local Met Office, and under not a bit of pressure from both factions to get the fixture called off, no doubt.

?Tom-my, Tom-my Gaard-soe/Tomm-y, Tomm-y Gaard-soe/With his lead-er-ship/We?ll reach the Prem-ier-ship/Tom-my, Tomm-y Gaard-soe?.?

Baggie supporters, even those of fairly recent vintage, will recognise the above ditty (sung as per ?The Entertainer?, the background music for ?The Sting?, a very successful Hollywood movie back in the Seventies) almost instantaneously, as it more or less encapsulates fond memories of our 2003-04 push for promotion back to the Premiership at the very first time of asking. Almost four seasons ago, now, ?tis true, but still those wonderful memories linger on, just like the aroma and bouquet of a particularly fine vintage wine, long after the emptied bottle?s been consigned to the rubbish bin.

Yet another reason why I was so saddened to hear, just the other day, that Tommy Gaardsoe, undoubted hero of that promotion run, has now had to give up one heck of a brave fight to continue playing the game at our level: despite several comeback attempts on his part, his body has now had the final say on the subject, the result being premature retirement, on medical advice, at the ridiculously early age of just 27.

What more can I say about our defensive Dane by way of tribute? For starters, Tommy didn?t really attract undue attention when on the pitch, whether that of a positive or negative kind, but don?t regard that as any sort of adverse reflection upon his ability to do the job properly. Far from it: Tommy had an enviable knack, almost wraith-like, at times, of sticking his blonde nut right where the defensive action was hottest, usually in the six-yard area, then quietly, without any fuss whatsoever, dealing with the problem and the danger it represented to our goal net in such a unobtrusively efficient way as to make the watcher profoundly uncertain, post-match, as to whether he?d genuinely figured in the action in the first place. And if that was the case for us, then it was a copper-bottomed certainty that Tommy?s understated defensive methods had left the opposition in mental disarray also.

It was only after you?d sat down, then carefully studied and digested video footage of the game in question, some hours later, you?d finally come to appreciate the true extent of his calm and confident defensive strengths: above all, an unerring ability to prevent defensive lapses, major and minor, from turning into a complete and utter catastrophe. As a confidence-booster for harassed team-mates, put under the cosh for great lengths of a game by an opposition equally desperate to grab all three points for their own, usually excellent, reasons, it was without parallel.

Needless to say, hard upon the climax of that season, those who came to appreciate his talents the most, our supporters, gratefully awarded Tommy the ultimate Baggie accolade, an end-of-season away-fixture-cum-fancy-dress ?party? solely dedicated to the lad?s Danish origins. The instructions to those making the trip to Reading?s Madjeski Stadium that wonderful spring day were dead simple: ?Turn up dressed as a Viking, helmet, shield, flaxen-hair woven into a plait, a la Wagner?s Brunhilde, the works?! And such was the great esteem in which our supporters held the lad, at a rough guess, I?d say around 80-90% of our people joined in with the fun that giggle-making day. Sure, in the end, we lost the game by the solitary goal, but that didn?t matter much, as we were well and truly blasted into promotion orbit by then.

Those who were there that day won?t forget the wonderful time they had both before and during the game. After, too, very likely: you just had to be there also to truly appreciate the way the jaws of the locals went crashing to the floor, some in unison, some individually. In fact, I reckon that even the first Viking visitors to these shores never received quite the same amount of bog-eyed disbelief from the locals. The thing is, though, that now Tommy?s had to call it a day, I reckon it incumbent on all we ?regulars? to make our appreciation for the guy, and everything he did for the club during that season, crystal clear. It goes without saying we could use someone of his undoubted ability at the back right now; were that the case, I suspect we would have got something from more than a fair few of the away games we?ve ended up losing thus far this campaign.

What a shame Everton decided not to enlist the aid of Messrs Sue, Grabbitte and Runne in their altogether worthy endeavour to put the record straight regarding a certain Andy Johnson, and the unfortunate tendency gravitational attraction has of obeying completely different rules to those of modern physics on those occasions the precise moment their striker enters the 18-yard box.

?Once again, the Devil farts in my face?.? Well, that?s my own unsportsman-like interpretation apropos disparaging remarks made by a certain Mister Mourinho, of Chelski, after their game at Goodison, just the other week. Not said in so many words, perhaps, but comments apropos of their gravitationally-attractive striker the Merseyside outfit took great exception to, apparently: threats of lawsuits were in the wind for quite a time, until the matter was finally resolved with the utterance of snarls all round.

And what a pity it all came to nothing in the end. I would have been left licking my lips in anticipation had Everton actually gone for broke, and sued. And taken great pleasure in seeing just how much incriminating footage the London outfit could dig up proving The Toffeemen?s robust denials dead wrong, too. (?On the balance of probabilities? is the standard of proof required for civil matters, a much less stringent requirement than that demanded of criminal trials, ?Beyond all reasonable doubt?, remember.)

Mind you, lawsuits, even those based upon the most solid of legal foundations, can go horribly pear-shaped, sometimes. Justice can not only be blind, it can end up with a bloody great carrier bag covering its delicate leetle head as well. When that sort of travesty happens, the genuinely-wronged spit hot rivets. Examples? Two readily spring to mind: the first is the case between Liberace, a somewhat flamboyant American pianist, popular in the late 50?s, and Daily Mirror columnist Donald Zec. The second? The one where Jeffrey Archer tangled with The Daily Star over the question of whether he was consorting with what one might euphemistically call ?a lady of the night?.

The first? Back in 1959, the Mirror columnist, known to all and sundry by his the ?nom de plume?, ?Cassandra?, effectively stated, in one of his daily pieces, that Liberace, on a UK tour at the time, was gay. And in no uncertain terms, too. (Remember, this was a criminal offence at that time, and one so serious, people had been known to end their life deliberately as the result of coming under police suspicion: one very famous person to feel hounded in that manner was the computer genius Alan Turing, who committed suicide after being caught ?cottaging?, back in the early fifties.)

Liberace? Zec?s words incensed the pianist immensely, and he sued, a bold move, some opined, as ? err ? he was given to acting in a somewhat less-than-heterosexual manner, not only during his stage act, but when not on stage, also! And, much to the astonishment of just about the whole of the English legal profession specialising in civil matters at that time, he won the case. Liberace was awarded $22,400 in libel damages by the London court that heard it: as for Donald Zec, rumour has it the air at the Daily Mirror offices turned a horrible shade of blue, the very instant he was told the verdict of the jury!

Archer? Back in 1987, he sued the Daily Star over allegations his intentions were less than honourable when in the bedtime company of ?ladies of easy virtue?, and one in particular, in fact. Result? The Star lost their case, and Archer found himself ?500K better off as a result of his little legal excursion. The trouble was, it was subsequently proven that a friend had provided him with a false alibi for the night in question, hence the wonderful sight of the Tory peer going down for four years. Yep, going down that particular route isn?t without its hazards, and it wouldn?t surprise me to discover that?s the real reason why Everton have opted to call off the bewigged and gowned bloodhounds.

As far as I?m concerned, he IS a ?diver? and a bigger one than Jacques Cousteau, come to think about it Mind you, talk about the pot calling the kettle black: perhaps, while he?s at it, Mister Mourinho might also care to engage in meaningful discussion with other sides about the doings of Didier Drogba, whose mere presence also exerts a similar warping effect upon local gravitational fields, especially on those many occasions he?s found lurking in the vicinity of the opposition?s penalty area, yeah?

But enough of malevolent thoughts, deserved though they may be. For this is the season of peace, and goodwill to all men? Allegedly. Try spinning that yarn to the sorely-put-upon citizens of Baghdad, and see how far you get, yeah? Oooo, stoppit, yer cynical bitch. No, there?s but two frantic shopping days left to the day itself, and smug in the knowledge I?ve sorted all mine, I?ll simply sit back and watch other people work themselves up into terminal adrenaline overload. OK? Mind you, ?Im Indoors didn?t half pull a mean trick on his work colleagues, earlier today. As you will know already, in his office, there?s been an ?arms race? but one with a distinct difference: in this version, the object is, not to get maximum ?bang for your buck?, but to acquire the biggest load of old grot you can possibly find. Which is what ?Im Indoors has done, and won in a walk, by all accounts.

Anyway, the end result has been cheap tat of all sorts gravitating towards his office: not just the stuff he?s dug out, but that of the other ?contestants?, also. By the time my beloved was to leave the building for a gash afternoon of, today, the novelty of all these things was beginning to wear off: how helpful, then, was my other half, in setting in motion just about every tatty toy, junky figurine, singing fish, or stuffed animal, on the premises that morning ? then running like the clappers in an effort to get away from the premises, well before an impromptu ?lynch mob? could finally get its vengeful act together! Mind you, just like elephants, civil servants never forget ? so it could well be a case of ?retribution reserved until after the New Year??.. Should that prove to be the case, I can only hope my beloved likes hospital food.

And so we move on to the vexing question of whether we?re going to get anything at all out of our forthcoming Plymouth excursion. Of one thing I?m sure: if we are genuinely serious about promotion, we?ve got to start racking up some away wins, and the sooner, the better. Our home record?s pretty formidable, but without a commensurate one from our time on the road, we?ll be left well and truly high and dry come the season?s end, of that I?m certain.

Our only problem on the injury front appears to be Nigel Quashie going down with some sort of variant on the ?lurgi? theme, one that goes straight for the chest, it would seem. One more instance where prolonged exposure to foggy conditions wouldn?t do a lot of good, methinks. Still, the word from the club is that he?s been dosed up with lots and lots of Alexander Fleming?s most famous discovery ? just one tip, Nige: the stuff might come from a mould, but that doesn?t give you the right to turn green in sympathy, OK?

Never mind, they do say that sea air works equally as well for that sort of thing! Incidentally, neither the Fart nor myself are making the long trip down the M5 tomorrow; both of us are content to sit on our iving-room sofas, and behave like dyed-in-the-wool ?armchair supporters? for once! We do reserve the right to throw heavy objects at our sets, though, should the final score be not what we would have really liked! On paper, at least, that?s the likely outcome, as it appears we?ve only won at Home Park on two previous occasions, both of them in the thirties. Oh ? and some sources are saying Steve Watson might be back for this one, but I doubt it, quite frankly.

As far as the ?other lot? are concerned, it?s looking like bad news for them, but good news for us. They could well have no less than four of their lot crying off injured, if reports tonight are to be believed. Right-back Paul Connolly has been ruled out by a hamstring injury picked up against Luton recently. Lee Hodges suffered a knee injury in the same match, and is unlikely to be available, while striker Nick Chadwick has been sidelined by a groin problem. Not only that, club captain and central midfielder Paul Wotton is ruled out long term after suffering knee ligament damage in their recent home win over Hull.

Clearly, they?re going to be operating several bodies light tomorrow, so that just might hand us a golden chance of getting some points racked up nicely in time for our important Boxing Day home encounter with high-flyers Preston. If we are to remain a credible promotion force, then we really have to get at least seven points from the next three, the last of these being against Southend, at Roots Hall, of course. Manage that, and yes ? I could well be consulting my social calendar afterwards, and seeing what dates are free for forays into top-flight territory, come August. Get less than that, and, barring some miracle via the play-offs (which I doubt, quite frankly, as we simply don?t have the players blessed with that kind of gutsy tenacity, any longer), we?ll still be playing Championship football for the following 18 months, at the very least.

And Finally?.. Some festive thoughts for you, not necessarily Baggie ones, mind, but worthy of mention all the same?. Not many people know this, but the much-loved Yuletide song ?Jingle Bells? was originally a ditty celebrating the nefarious doings of teenage gangs, usually apprentices, with a predilection for ?Twocking? cars (acronym for ?Taking Without The Owner?s Consent?, the offence with which modern-day offenders are usually charged when caught), as per our current pimply, spotty lot of petty criminals. One small difference, though: we?re not talking about cars, here, but sleighs, the horse-drawn variety, a common enough mode of wintry transport, in and around wintry New York and Boston, back in the 19th century. And a very, very nickable commodity, an irresistible one to lads of malevolent intent, irrespective of the era in which the nicking takes place. Just like now, these kids would take great delight in ?borrowing? the article in question (precisely how you go about ?hot-wiring? a stationary horse, I really don?t know. Put vindaloo-strength curry powder in its feed-bag, perhaps?) then proceed to drive around the snow-covered countryside like crazy, and inflicting a fair amount of low-level damage to both land and property while they were at it. So, when you next proceed to sing it to your enchanted kids/grandchildren, do bear in mind that by doing so, you could well be deemed guilty as sin of glorifying such unashamedly antisocial activities! Shame on you: before you leave the room, here?s an ASBO, and serve you jolly well right, too!

And here?s another thought to bung in with your Christmas pudding mix, along with all those ten pence pieces Granny insists you put there, in the name of so-called ?tradition?, the end result being the forcible expulsion of fillings from some unfortunate?s mouth, the moment the pud?s dished up for consumption by all, of course. Neither do they know that the carol ?Good King Wenceslas? was written around the same time as ?Gaudete?, the carol that Steeleye Span revived so successfully, back in the early 1970?s! So there.

Two. David Pleat, to become our Technical Director? If so, I do hope someone puts him at his ease by showing him where all the local red light districts are! (Oooh, you naughty little minx, you?? STOPPIT AT ONCE!) And on that unhelpful note, I leave you in peace. Until tomorrow night, that is!

 - Glynis Wright

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