The Diary

02 February 2007: Albion 2, Plymouth 1: The Promotion Juggernaut Gathers Speed, At Long Last.

That riproarious, spine-tingling, fingernail-shredding, adrenalin-generating end to our game last night ? are all you lot out there just like me, still feeling as limp as a soggy dish-rag, even though the eleven prime causes of all that angst are now safely back amidst The Land Of The Bluejacket, and (we hope!) never to return to the Hawthorns for many a long season?

In many, many ways, last night?s thriller was the game we should have had versus The Dingles, by rights, last Sunday, which is why I felt so cheated by Mick McCarthy?s lupine mob at the time. The last five minutes of yesterday evening?s caper was more than adequate recompense for anything we?d seen during the entire second half on Sunday. Local derbies are, traditionally, a source of much frantic hand-wringing on the part of both factions. Local pride and common-or-garden ardour plays a not-insignificant role, the way it ought to be from now on in, and right until The Man Up There finally puts brass instrument to lips and sounds The Last Trump, if necessary. No passion? No contest.

There was one slightly sour note to yesterday?s Hawthorns win, mind: that of Zoobie, on hearing his services wouldn?t be required between the sticks that night, owing to Dean Kiely having signed on the dotted line right at the death, storming straight out of the ground, then right back to wherever it is he currently lives, presumably. And I do share a certain amount of sympathy with him on that one, for once.

Sure, he wasn?t outstandingly brilliant against the Dingles last Sunday, but when measured against his many woeful first-team performances before Houlty got drafted back into the side, that Molineux display of his represented a massive improvement on what had gone before. No, he wasn?t the worst Albion keeper I?ve ever seen play there, not by a long chalk, and that?s why I feel so sorry for the lad.

You try your hardest to put on a decent display in order to make some sort of impact upon your manager regarding a fresh appraisal of your current level of competence, you succeed, in the main, to make folks see you entirely differently, then, just two or three days later, effectively it?s a case of: ?Sorry son, we?ve got some cover now. Bye, y?all, and don?t ring us, we?ll ring you?.?. As Kevin The Teenager would say, ?You?re SOOOOOO unfair!....?

So what have we been up to today, then, kiddiwinkles? Well, it being ?Im Indoors?s birthday, and everything, we quickly hightailed it on down to our local Greek restaurant to give the mezze there some serious welly: useful for His Nibs, also, because of its proximity to our ancestral pile, around five minutes leisurely stroll, in fact. How come? Easy, no bloody stairs to climb for me, and as there wasn?t a car to worry about, it was my beloved?s first opportunity in a long time to indulge in a good old-fashioned bit of Bacchanalian debauchery. Good? I?ll say it was. A ?mezze? is a culinary term used to describe loads and loads of Greek food borne atop a vast number of small plates, which the waiter then brings to your table in relays, swearing horribly under his breath as he does so! A bit like Spanish tapas, it is, and just as calorie-laden, if not more!

Two hours later (honest!) and both bulging at the seams, we then shifted our attention to Tony, the proprietor, who had a very ancient Albion connection, it seemed. When he first moved to this country from The Land Zorba Forgot, he sorted himself out as a chef in one of those old Aberdeen Steak House places, in Brum. Around 1971-ish, it was, when prawn cocktail, an 8 oz bit of rump or sirloin, with a hefty chunk of Black Forest Gateaux to follow, was most people?s idea of culinary Shangri-La ? those horribly-uneducated palates of ours back then, tut tut! ? but among their most regular customers, they had West Bromwich Albion FC: in those unscientific days, the club used to take the first team there for their pre-match meal.

All that, remember, in the days when no self-respecting player would even countenance setting foot upon the field of play, unless they?d fuelled up first on an enormous piece of bovine bum. Do that to today?s crop, and either they, or their fitness coaches, would immediately turn very pale and sweaty, then ask to be excused from present company, on account of the imminence of a severe bilious attack.

Slow-release carbohydrates, like pasta, and energy-rich foods like bananas, are quite literally ?flavours of the month? in this more enlightened day and age, and instead of loading up with the old chips and other trimmings as well, pre-kick-off, just like the King and Bomber Brown used to, one is expected instead to partake of a light meal around three or so hours before, followed by yet another after the final whistle, to replace what?s been used as ?fuel? during the course of the game itself. And after we?d explained all that to the bloke, he then played ?Happy Birthday? on his Muzak box, much to my other half?s slightly-sozzled embarrassment.

Mind you, if there ever was a compelling reason for someone to get driven to drink, there it was, on our goggle-box, around tea-time tonight. Gee, thanks for nearly ruining my appetite, Midlands Today. Tony Blair, would you believe, being shown around the spanking-new school ? oops ? sorry, ?Sports Academy?! ? situated opposite the ground itself. As the camera panned around the huge indoor sports facility, built partly with Albion?s money and input, its searching lens finally settled upon Old Teflon Man himself, and wearing what looked suspiciously like an Albion training-top to our horror-stricken minds! AAARRRGH! NOOOOOOO!

A momentary burst of sheer nausea, during the course of which we were strongly minded to violently expel our stomach contents straight into our kitchen sink ? horrid visions of Blair?s strangely-hypnotic eye focussing upon the audience of some Supporters Club meeting or other, then declaring with a straight face: ?I?ve always been a keen Albion fan. Why, I can even remember the times when Jessie Pennington played at the back for you?..? immediately rushed to the forefront of our troubled minds, hence the strong urge to puke ? we belatedly realised that the badge he sported on his chest was not that of the Baggies, but of the school itself.

Phew! Very similar, it is, mind ? well, with Albion so heavily involved in the venture, what the hell else would you expect? ? but it does differ in one important aspect, though: no Throstle. Just navy and white vertical stripes, with the initials ?SA? superimposed. Hmmm. Imagine it. Jeremy Peace, and Tony Blair, head-to-head. Swop one with the other, and no-one would notice the difference for months and months, I reckon!

And so, back to last night?s fun and games, then. For me, Chaplow was a revelation, yet again. After having a stormer at The Custard Bowl, he kicked on again last night, by putting in some fine defensive work at the time we most needed it, towards the end. He always was one for the future ? as I recall, that was the stated intention when we first signed him from Burnley ? and it?s only these last few days that we?ve been properly able to see the fruits of our patient labours. Dome-headed or not, Chappy is fast becoming one of this division?s best-kept not-so-secrets, and I?m so pleased for him he?s come good in the end.

Kiely also stood out for me: his vast experience between the sticks made all the difference last night. OK, some of what happened was fortuitous, to say the least ? I can recall at least one occasion when all the Plymouth attacker had to do was head the ball straight into the net, but ended up placing it straight into Deanno?s loving arms, instead! ? but that shouldn?t take the shine off what was an impressive debut by anyone?s lights.

Although both Koumas and Kamara seemed strangely subdued last night ? you might want to argue that the pressure of a tight wodge of games played in rapid succession is beginning to tell ? they still found enough in the tank to: a) Provide most of our inspiration and ideas in midfield, in the case of Koumas, and: b) Nick a goal at a crucial point in the game, in the case of our Senegal international.

Yeah, he did get a penalty as well, but as I pointed out after last night?s game, Lady Luck had actually got out of bed on the right side, for once, so not only did we get the spot-kick decision, but Joe also managed to put it away in commendable style ? errr, just about! For one horrible moment, I?d thought the keeper?s hand to be well on its way to parry the pen halfway to Bradford?s Bakery. I?m sure our horribly crowded schedule over the course of the next ten days or so had a massive bearing upon those two subbings: with the need for away points absolutely imperative if we are to make further progress, we need good goalscorers, and providers of goals in fine fettle on duty come Saturday, not half-knackered physical wrecks out there, end of story.

A bit of a brave gamble, those changes, on Mogga?s part, and one we so nearly didn?t get away with: taking those pair away from the action was an act analogous with pulling teeth from out of the jaws of a predatory lion: it was only after both players left the park for good that we started to get increasing problems from The Gargoyles, the result of our defence being placed under excessive strain by those among their playing chums not quite as comfortable in that particular role, as yet.

But the big question that?s on everyone?s lips right now is: ?What are we going to do with Nathan Ellington for the rest of the season?? Personally, I was genuinely surprised Wigan didn?t take the bait late doors, and right up to the midnight deadline, I was half-expecting to get a little electronic billet-doux in my inbox about The Latics coming up with the goods right on the wire. But it didn?t happen, so in what capacity can we use him in the time remaining, I wonder? And, given that interested clubs might well be put off by speculation about the state of the guy?s mental health come the summer, with around two and a half years of his contract still remaining, any possibility of Albion resurrecting some honest-to-God motivation to succeed from the ashes of his various spats with our club, thereby getting at least a small return on our investment?

Now we?ve had Mogga in charge for quite a few weeks, it?s his seeming fatherly attitude that?s impressed me most of all. Listening to him talk, post-match, on the radio, is a bit like eavesdropping on some book-lined headmaster?s office, somewhere, while he?s getting ready to administer a right old rollicking to one of your best mates. But, much to your surprise, what you DON?T get to hear is something along the lines of the browbeating methods more usually employed by the Gestapo.

What you do get, however, is something pitched at around the level of a sorrowful relative being advised and comforted by some crusty-but-trusted old family retainer. Or, if you like, imagine being a patient of an old-school hospital consultant, somewhat less interested ? and proud of it! - in the atomic and molecular ?nuts and bolts? of modern medicine, its unfeeling gospel constantly writ in the rainforest-gutting reams and reams of lab results that accrete every single time you visit for a check-up, and more with the ancient ?hands-on? arts of diagnosis, and a straightforward no-condescension-or-arrogance-whatsoever-allowed bedside manner.

?Let me be your uncle/father?.? appears to be our manager?s modus operandi in cases such as Ellington?s. I?ve got far more faith in Mogga eventually sorting out Nathan?s head than, say, Megson or Robbo. If our manager could achieve that aim, we?d finally get our money?s worth from a prime asset, and we?d also see the re-emergence of a much happier young man from this completely unnecessary episode. My own first impression of our manager is that of a totally decent man, a pretty rare sort of bird to be found constantly fluttering around the hard-boiled cynicism of the modern game. If anyone can sort this little lot out, Mogga will.

Apparently, Ellington was at the ground last night, watching from the wings. I wonder what was going through his mind as Kamara potted his prize pair of blacks? Well, let?s hope that patient calm, a kindly attitude towards Nathan?s present troubled state of mind, admixed with a hefty dollop of reasoned logic, will eventually succeed where other methods, possibly far more bellicose and confrontational than our current manager?s, have completely failed, what?

And Finally?. There?s still one mental picture I?m finding quite impossible to remove from my mind?s eye after last night?s heart-stopping victory over Argyle, so let me describe it for you. Imagine, if you will, some poor chap or other getting taken ill with a dicky heart at the ground, after all the tension of last night proved too much. He?s swiftly diagnosed as having had a coronary, so the next thing he knows, he?s waking up in Sandwell Hospital?s Coronary Care Unit, and with tubes and wires running to and from just about every kind of body orifice you can think of.

A few moments spent gathering his thoughts, then, finally realising precisely where he is, he tries to sit up in bed. Doing so reveals a unit packed full to the gunnels with ladies and gentlemen of similar age, all of whom are similarly attached to the latest in medical technology. And all of whom have Baggies stuff of one sort or another, the remains of what clothes they were wearing at the time of the attack, strewn in close proximity to their beds.

That?s the moment when our hero, although much weakened by his illness, still finds sufficient strength to croak in the direction of his companions just one interrogatory word ? ALBION? ? at which the rest, grinning hugely, almost as one person, respond in chorus: ?ARR,AER KID!..."

 - Glynis Wright

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