The Diary

20 January 2007: Leeds: The Road To Elland Back?

Well, if there?s one thing I?ve learned this godawful-rotten week, it?s this: somebody Up There really has it in for both me, and my football club. And the world in general, if all the latest news reports are to be believed. Blues? More on that anon, also. Then there?s the small matter of the Dingles winning their replay at Oldham, which means we now have to face the buggers in the next round, of course. On a Sunday. And kick-off around midday. Wonderful. Even at the best of times, Molineux never has been my personal ?fun way to spend a Sunday afternoon?, isn?t now, and furthermore, never will be. Which is why it rankles considerably that we have to play them there twice in one season, for our various sins and misdemeanours. Thanks, FA ? for nothing.

My gran, the one on my mum?s side, very Catholic, constantly warned the lot of us that taking part in Sabbath day activities that her idea of God wouldn?t approve of ? like having a bloody good belly-laugh over something on TV, partaking of the old falling-down water in the local, or simply taking the rip out of the Vatican?s latest pronouncements on the subject of contraception: too easy a target for words, that last one ? would lead us all into Bad Ways, eventually. Know what? She wasn?t all that far wrong, as things panned out, and my teenage years came and went.

Still, rumour has it that Hell?s quite a cosy warm place compared to the more ?respectable option?: a much better deal than getting piles from sitting on top of stratospheric clouds, and strumming a bloody great harp, I?ll bet - and trying not to tarnish one?s halo too much, all in one go. In any case, all that heavenly choir stuff would undoubtedly do my head in within a matter of seconds. Er ? hang on a mo, though: are angels actually susceptible to bad headaches, being very dead and all that?

But back to the grim realities of being an Albion aficionado. According to The Fart, when he rang me just after the final whistle at Boundary Park on Tuesday night, after doing a quick session on the old dog-and-bone with one of his media mates, we?ll be getting the whole of what used to be called ?The South Bank?, which translates into around 5.5K?s worth of ticket for we Baggies. At least we?ll be spared the worst of the salivary salvoes emanating from what?s known colloquially as ?The Gobbing Gallery?: for that small mercy, am I thankful. We?ll be joining the queue on Sunday morning, of course: yet another reason for an almighty snort of beyond-the-grave indignation from Gran, no doubt, as she sits atop whatever cloud it is they park old ladies with very strong personalities.

At first, I?d thought he was pining for an absent Cyrille (I?m having to keep him separate from the other cats, as he?s not allowed out any more), but on Tuesday morning, I discovered things to be far more serious than that, temperature, dehydration, disinterest in food and surroundings, the works. Off to the nice vet he went, then, on Tuesday evening, for the aforementioned undignified prods and pokes, finally resulting in admission to their cat ?hospital?.

Result? This time, the news wasn?t all that good: to cut a long story short, Puss Number Two had a greatly reduced white cell count, and worsening jaundice: after ruling out things like feline HIV and leukaemia by way of blood tests, the next thought revolved around some sort of obstruction to the bile duct causing the problem, and the associated crud backing up in the cat?s blood instead of going out via his whoopsies, as per normal. They weren?t too sure what was up, and still aren?t now, but he was showing quite severe symptoms of something, which was why he had to be admitted to their ?hospital? for laboratory tests and observation: luckily, his symptoms receded when they got fluids into him, and commenced antibiotics. He?s back with us now, on a trial basis, for the weekend. Just as well my bank balance can take it, really: God knows it?s had more than a few bad ?hits? this month, courtesy one very sick feline or another.

And generally? It?s not exactly been the most promising start to the week politically, either, when you discover that George Bush, fully expected to listen to the findings of the Iraq Study Group, then act accordingly in getting the troops out by the least embarrassing route, suddenly decided to give reasoned logic the old heave-ho, opting for the neocons? knee-jerk solution to Iraq: rather than pulling the greater part of their troops out of that blighted country, he?s sending in lots more, just for a change. Plus a whole heap more US Naval floating intimidation, most of it parked in and around the Gulf, and directed at Iran, no doubt.

As Bush is effectively Commander-In-Chief of all US armed forces, and featuring atop their official command structure, both Democrat-packed legislative houses, Senate or Congress, can?t do a blind thing to prevent it happening. As long as he?s got access to the nukes and he?s president, it?s his ball, and he?s playing with it. ?One Final Push? he?s called it. Funny, that, didn?t someone called General Haig come up with the very same daft concept back in the spring of 1916, as the war dead of numerous Northern towns, big, small and indifferent, can all-too readily testify? History?s not so much repeating itself, right now, as succumbing to a terminal case of indigestion.

And The Bulletin Of Atomic Scientists are also taking matters very seriously: ever since they first started operations, back in 1947, they?ve been putting a so-called Doomsday Clock on the front cover of their monthly publication. And it is, literally, a clock, one showing how near we are to some silly sod letting all the nukes go. The closest its ever been to midnight (that?s when we should all take cover, and start praying) was in 1953, when the USSR tested its first hydrogen bomb ? it reached three minutes to midnight - and the furthest (receding as far back as 17 minutes to the fateful hour) was in 1991, when the Cold War ended. It?s now, very quietly, crept back to just five to midnight, a point at which we should all be hoping someone starts seeing sense, and very soon. Failing that, anybody got a good nuclear bunker going cheap, and preferably within around five minutes driving time of our gaff? I?ll make it worth your while, honest!

Returning to the trials and tribulations of normal life, come Wednesday morning, around ten to ten, it was time for me to do the familiar bus journey to The Shrine, only a couple of miles further down the road from our house. Picking up match tickets, I was, for the Leeds jobbie this coming weekend, but before that, even, I was on the blower to the vet once more, to get the latest on my very dense ? think ?feline Dingle? and you?ve got it ? but very ill moggy. The rest you know.

One thing to brighten my morning, though: casting a cursory glance at the reception area through the glass, I was suddenly brought up short when I realised who was occupying the receptionist?s chair. Not some facially-Botoxed dolly bird in serious training for The Anorexia Trophy, as per usual, but the delectable Dee, she of the Old Cross pub, but now clearly performing duties quite out of the range of her normal Club Shop job description. After a mutual exchange of conversational pleasantries like ?What the bloody hell are you doing sitting there, then??, it turned out that she was relieving the normal incumbent for an hour or so, and quite enjoying an unexpected break from normal routine, thank you very much. At the rate she?s going, expect her to be on the subs? bench for our forthcoming Elland Road tryst with Leeds! Well, we?ve had far worse.

That was the sole bright spot of my entire Wednesday, then, conversing with Dee in such unusual circumstances: once I?d got back, and digested yet more news from our vets? later that same day, bloody Newcastle United then proceeded to make things even more dismal in their Cup replay with Blues: with just five minutes on the clock, they fell behind to an almighty McSheffrey effort, and from then on in, it just got worse and worse.

Before you could sing ?Howay the lads!?, even, The Mags were further in arrears: true, the Toon did manage to pull one back ? and what a cracker it was, too - giving we onlooking Baggies at least a faint glimmer of hope Premiership breeding would ?out? and they?d eventually get things back to parity, but then they went and spoiled it all by having one of their number sent off.

No alternative for the ref, admittedly, the guy simply had to go. What made it worse still, from the free kick taken just outside the box, the ball first struck a Bluenose positioned in the wall, then rebounded straight to the feet of another. All the guy had to do, once he?d recovered from the initial shock of that incredible slice of spherical luck materialising in close proximity to the ?business end?, was hit the ball low and hard. Result? 3-1 in front for Blues, and the second half still but young. Oh dear.

Fired up hotter than a partygoer on crack cocaine by that unexpected turn of events, the Blues attack then embarked upon such a clinically-neat dissection of the home side, tutorial staff at the nearby medical school would have been reduced to tears of both admiration and envy by just the merest glimpse of it. Final score was 5-1 to Blues, of course, their jubilant players leaving the pitch to a torrent of Tyneside boos, meant not for them, but for Glenn Roeder, and his half-witted bunch of chronic underachievers instead.

?Twas a cacophony of vituperation so loud, so magnified by the empty spaces left by those Newcastle supporters too disgusted to remain to the bitter end, they must surely have heard the racket as far away as Gateshead. Even the Angel Of The North, perched atop of the hill that leads to the city, must have weed its rusty self with mocking laughter at the sheer magnitude of the incompetence perpetrated just a few miles further downhill. What I would have given to be a fly on the wall of that home dressing room, after the game finished: what I would have given to be a fly on the wall of the Newcastle boardroom the following day, as well!

Blues now face Reading in the next round, their Cup opponents also this time last season. Let?s hope the guys in the hooped shirts can well and truly stop their tap on the day: it would infuriate me beyond belief to see them go and progress to the ?interesting amount of filthy lucre? stages. On the other hand, maybe a long and debilitating Cup run?s exactly what they (we?) need at this somewhat ticklish stage of the promotion game. A few injuries here, a couple of suspensions there, all topped by lashings of hard-fought games, both Cup and League, all played within a very short space of time indeed, and the current situation at the top of our division could well enter a state of complete and utter flux once more.

Oh ? and they?ve had to postpone yet another game tomorrow. A shame, that, as they might well have succumbed to an acute case of ?After The Lord Mayor?s Show Syndrome?. But don?t despair: what with last week?s cancellation, and that one, Blues will still be facing a juicy little fixture pile-up further down the line. And they?re still in the Cup, of course.

Chronically tired, jaded players make for those somewhat less likely to perform to the best of their natural abilities, don?t they? With any luck on that score, the face of the final run-in might well undergo cataclysmic change very soon: if nothing else, those final few games could provide entertainment in heaps for neutrals, already fed up to the back teeth with following the Prem, and its increasingly incestuous cast-list of honours winners, its astronomical ticket prices, its cheats, its amateur dramatics. Should that turn out to be the case, any last-minute room in either automatic promotion slot for Mogga?s lot, I wonder? No, I didn?t think so either: still, as my mum always used to say, ?if you don?t ask, you don?t get?!

Moving on rapidly to tomorrow?s jollifications, then, we?ll be off to Elland Road, me, ?Im Indoors and The Fart, that is, in order to see what we all hope will be our first away win in a bloody long while. Our first since the Ipswich goalfest, in fact. Make no mistake, we?ve got to start getting some ?scores on the doors? on other people?s muck heaps, and quickly, if we are to be seen taking this promotion lark seriously. Our home record is an absolutely splendid one, of course: were our results on the road as impressive, as consistent, I don?t think I?d be following the above line of thought at all. We?d be sitting pretty right at the top of the heap right now, with Blues chasing the play-off ?scrag-ends?, end of story.

Elland Road?s an old story for me, of course. I was unfortunate enough to be there back in 1971, when Don Revie was their gaffer, the day we consigned a previously-dismal away record to the dustbin of history. And very controversial it was, too, us winning 2-1 up there, thanks to strikes by The King and Bomber Brown.

?Controversial?, did I say? You might want to put it that way, although the Elland Road persuasion would no doubt want to couch it in far cruder terms than that, given the chance! Several factors were at play that fateful day, of course: one was the precise circumstances surrounding The King?s goal, which most of the Leeds mob thought offside (you have to see the Match of The Day footage of the time to really appreciate the full extent of their blind fury over referee Ray Tinkler?s ruling as per the validity of Astle?s goal), and the second being our win effectively putting the kybosh on their own hopes of the League title, which Arsenal sneakily snatched right at the end, just one point making all the difference to that final table, come the last day.

And you had to be there to truly appreciate how nasty a Leeds crowd could get, once completely mired in the sort of rightful indignation that gets you arrested as quick as Larry these days, but only raised a jocular sort of aside from the BBC bloke doing the commentary back then. Come the end of the game, they were baying for blood, and that spilled by a Black Country person, for preference. No wonder everyone kept a very low profile indeed, on their way to the comparative safety of their transport home. I certainly did, but that didn?t stop me from almost getting it with both barrels, en-route from Elland Road to the train station.

I?ve never really cared much for United, and their cynical, gamesmanship-oriented ways, back when Revie was their gaffer. And they?ve had their share of both ever since, as you?ll no doubt recall, yet another reason why they?ve never been my personal Top Of The Pops. Additionally, in a process that?s the complete antithesis of what normally happens with good food, or fine wine, their followers subsequently ?matured? into something that most certainly wasn?t ?good? or ?fine?, as seen when they visited our place, back in the fag-end of season 1981-1982, then trashed it.

But they?re not all complete and utter dingbats: one such Leeds lad, John Peckham, we?ve known for yonks. What?s more, we?ll be renewing acquaintanceship with the guy tomorrow, our first face-to-face meeting in a very long time indeed, although John does subscribe to this piece. We?ve also arranged to have a post-match meal together in the city centre, so win, lose, or draw, at least our matchday routine will be a pleasant change from the norm. It is going to make for a very long day also, so I might even have to postpone putting together my normal matchday stuff until the following day. No decision as yet: I?ll assess how tired I am when I get back, then take it from there.

As for those eleven little cherubs of ours, out there on the Elland Road pitch, how will they fare, I wonder? It?s going to be one of those ?no-holds-barred? jobbies, I suspect, considerable impetus on the Leeds side being generated by the briefest of glimpses at the current League table alone. No doubt about it, they are in serious danger of leaving this division by the wrong end, just as Forest did a couple of seasons ago. One crucial difference, though: unlike the Trent River persuasion, Leeds supporters aren?t exactly famed for their tolerance of what they perceive to be failure on a monumental scale.

Forest?s lot might have accepted their relegation in meek manner, but that?s not the Yorkshire way of doing things. Tact and diplomacy isn?t what their lot are about, believe you me. It?s my conjecture that their current chairman, Ken Bates, still conducts club affairs in blissful ignorance of their supporters? somewhat bellicose psychological make-up: something tells me he?s going to have an almighty shock coming to him, should things eventually turn out pear-shaped for the Yorkshire club. Couldn?t happen to a nicer bloke, really.

That?s all very much in the future, of course, and we Baggies still labour under the seductive promise of what Lady Luck might have in store for us, too. As I said earlier, unless we can start racking up some more points, and soon, our bid for promotion might well run out of steam and hit the buffers long before the end of the line. In my view, it?s absolutely imperative we get all three points tomorrow. Nothing less will be good enough, especially given the almighty state of chassis that club?s in, right now. We?ve got to hit, ?em, and bloody hard, too, right from the kick-off.

The downside is that Leeds might have all three of their recent signings, Tore Andre Flo, Alan Thompson, and Armando Sar, available for tomorrow?s game. Certainly, their manager, Denis Wise, was singing their praises to the highest heavens on their website, when I last looked. They also have Jonathan Douglas suspended ? for some reason their unofficial ?scribe? sounds really thankful he still is! Could it be the guy?s a complete liability when in the side, or something? ? with Richard Cresswell and Graham Stack both out with knee and ankle problems, respectively. Gary Kelly is back in contention, however, after having recovered from back problems (don?t tell me about it, mate!).

As for our fragile lot, we?re without both Jason Koumas and John Hartson, both suspended, of course. Yes, I knew Retribution, in the form of suspensions for those two, would hit home, eventually, but did it really have to be this one? If ever there was a time we needed Jase?s particular skills on the case, it had to be for this game above all others, which is why I was so annoyed at the ref waving that flaming yellow card at Jase last Friday night. Mind you, such is our dearth of personnel tomorrow, we just might see Nathan Ellington brought back into the fold as prelude to what?s fast becoming the worst-kept secret in football, his imminent departure to relegation-spooked Wigan.

Yes, he will go, eventually: it?s all in ?Cuban Missile Crisis? mode, right now, with both clubs waiting to see who?ll have to blink first, and how close to the deadline they?ll leave it before doing so. We also have Alby and Curtis Davies doubtful for this one ? in the case of the latter, would this be down to the injury that saw him taken off last Friday night, or is this just part of the preamble to seeing him depart for pastures Premiership, I wonder? ? with young striker Stuart Nicholson being recalled from his loan spell at Bristol Rovers. And just when he?s getting a taste for the paint-stripper strength scrumpy they do brew dewn therrrr, moi dears! (Vagrant thought: another sure-fire way of ?talking Bristle? is to tack the letter ?L? onto the end of any word ending in ?A?: in that way, a ?Ford Cortina? then becomes a ?Ford Cortinal?, and an ?idea? becomes an ?ideal?!)

Seriously, though, that?s got to be a very strong indicator indeed as to how badly we?re strapped, personnel-wise, for tomorrow?s jaunt to God?s Own Country (well, that?s what they profess to call it in those there parts!). For their part, the Elland Road lot seem to think they?ll get the better of us tomorrow, basing that particular judgment-call upon our godawful away record. And probably very accurately, too, given what we all know to be our major player deficiencies, right now.

Is it me, or can I detect a massive great banana skin lurking behind those Elland Road advertising hoardings, tomorrow? Kev Phillips certainly expects a bit of a rough ride there, if one site in particular is to be believed. Mind you, Leeds did get a much-needed home win versus Coventry last week, 2-1 being the final score, thereby ending a seven-match run without a League win for the Yorkshire side. Needless to say, they?ll go out there desperately wanting to build upon those foundations, no matter how flimsy they may appear to the casual observer. Knowing us, and our current Rothschild-like generosity towards the division?s lesser lights, we?ll only go and oblige them, won?t we?

And Finally?. One. Spot the ?deliberate mistake? on our ground?s ?next home game? information board, the one nearest the East Stand, sitting proudly atop the right angle that joins it to what used to be the Woodman Corner! OK, being the nice considerate Baggie I am, I won?t keep you ?in suspenders? for a moment longer: it?s some Albion employee?s spelling of the word ?Argyle? ? as in Plymouth, our next League opponents to take to the lush Hawthorns swarth ? that?s at fault. They?ve gone and written ?Argylle?, instead.

Probably one of those maddening things where you know you?ve expended considerable time and patience getting a sign written correctly, checking all the small bits and everything, only to find, once the job?s finally done and dusted, you?ve goofed off in some really obvious way instead (those hilarious newspaper pictures of badly-phrased or seemingly-inappropriate road signs are a classic example of the genre). Moreover, it?s one where irritating little clever-clogs like me take great delight in coming up to the perpetrator of the howler, then stating the bleeding obvious by saying: ?Er, did you know you?ve spelt the word ?Argyle? wrong on your notice?? Would a jury ever convict the Albion groundsman responsible, were he to finally ?lose it? and proceed to bash the head of his tormentor in with the aid of a large shovel? A case of ?serious provocation?, if ever there was one!

Two?.. Yet again, mischievous little trolls struck with a vengeance at Birmingham City today. This time, the ?offender? was none other than Steve Bruce himself, now likely to be on an FA charge following his alleged swearing spat with the ?doping control? people after their game at Plymouth, on November the 4th last year. But it?s not so much what he actually said to them that concerns me, right now, just the precise nature of the problem. It being the ?doping control? people he remonstrated with in the first place, should they themselves not answer to a simultaneous FA charge in this instance, one of ?failing to control a dope??

Three?. And seriously, this time, a great big welcome back to the fold for Ronnie Wallwork, now back at the Hawthorns once more after getting over the worst effects of his recent stabbing. Despite all that, it?s still going to be a very long road back for the guy: as any female who?s had a Caesarian will tell you, it takes an awfully long time for those severed abdominal muscles to heal up properly, even ones cut as part of a recognised surgical procedure, and using a proper scalpel, not a kitchen knife, or similar. You have to be very careful about resuming bending and stretching-type activities: too much of either, too soon, and it could result in the original injury breaking down again. Still, as the article I read made plain, Nick Worth and chums are very much on the case in that respect. ?Slow and sure? is the key to eventual recovery, of course, but I?m sure that Ronnie will be raring to go before too long.

 - Glynis Wright

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