The Diary

17 February 2007: Mogga's Old Club Beckons As Huge Baggie Army Prepares ForThe Big Trek North.

It?s a well-trodden path we?re taking tomorrow, that of beating a path to a top-flight club as FA Cup underdogs, and hoping to get something of a result ? well, to people like myself and The Fart, it is, although the younger element do seem to be getting their heads around the concept with commendable haste, these days ? and it really does seem that tomorrow?s encounter has caught the imagination of not a few of our followers. As I understood it, as of yesterday, we?d flogged around 2,000 tickets, almost a half of our allocation, with the total going to 2,400 as per the club?s website flash I received even as I sat typing this: even in the unlikely event of us not shifting any since, that sort of following, over that enormous distance, is most certainly not to be sniffed at.

It has helped that Boro have been sensible, for once, pricing the whole shebang to grab ?casuals? and concessions: from what I know of them already, the one thing they really do need in that concrete monstrosity of a stadium of theirs, right now, is a soul, some genuine atmosphere. Who ya gonna call?..... It?s that same old Premiership problem, again: get promotion, stay there for some considerable time, and the old following gets completely priced out of existence, leaving nowt but the golly-gosh ?Tarquin and Jemima? end of the market attending regularly.

Say what you like about their old-style following: sure, a bit rough and ready it was, at times, but undoubtedly as passionate as you like, and more than capable of inflicting serious damage to your eardrums whenever their side was on a roll. By way of sharp contrast, the present lot are what you might term ?ersatz? supporters: constantly told when to cheer, boo, and chant, clad in spanking-new replica kit, and sitting in complete silence, for the most part, whenever their normal cue from Boro?s PA system is absent.

In short, Boro?s followers are a group truly emasculated by upwards mobility: playing for them at The Riverside must feel like performing inside a giant soundproof bubble, and about as satisfying for the soul, too. And don?t think it couldn?t happen at our place: it?s very noticeable, now, that the Brummie is but a pale travesty of what it used to be, and even in the Smethwick, the old passion just isn?t there any more. All-seater stadia, coupled with silly admission charges, have a whole lot to answer for, believe you me.

What I?ve found quite hilarious this season is the Prem?s belated realisation that the deadly combination of crippling admission prices and sky-high season ticket charges have adversely affected both attendances and overall ambience during games. Wow, you don?t say! Gosh, give that man a pound out of the poor-box. I take no great pleasure in the fact I predicted precisely what would happen years ago ? and hit the nail right on the head, it would seem. Any grass-roots football supporter could see it coming: a shame the suits didn?t, really, which is why they?re so fretful about the real possibility of their moneyed milch cow running dry, these days.

But back to our game, then. As I said, it?s a bloody long haul up to the Riverside, so we?re letting Dave Holloway?s mob do the travel worrying for us tomorrow. Quite a logistical headache for everyone concerned, this one: imagine having to tell the coach company: ?Yep, we?re playing away in the Cup in a few day?s time, so we?ll need to book transport. Where? What day? How many are we taking? Er ? sorry, mate, we just don?t know, at the moment?.? Crystal balls, anyone?

All four of we former Dick Eds will be going tomorrow, including The Noise ? remind me to shove some industrial-grade earplugs in my bag prior to departure: it?s been a long, long time, and our garrulous chum?s machine-gun delivery is most certainly an acquired taste! ? so let?s hope our journey northwards won?t be a wasted one, what? And Steve The Miser, plus son, too, also hitting the Riverside trail: going by the cheapest available transport, of course. What the hell did you expect? Oh ? and another thought: should we progress, that?s going to mean the postponement of the Great Dingles Demolition Derby Take Three. Pleasure deferred, perchance?

Whisper it quietly, you lot, but I?ve got a genuine feeling in my water we?re going to make it to the sixth round, tomorrow. Could be a bit of a mixed blessing, of course, what with the very small squad we?ve got and everything, but you?ve got to go for it, haven?t you? Certainly, you can look anywhere you like, in either the League or the Prem, but there?s not too many sides as prolific in front of goal as we are: an over-ripe banana-skin waiting to happen, if you like. It goes without saying I can only hope we won?t be made to suffer in the league, should we subsequently progress to a stage where it really gets exciting.

And, if you?re into coincidences of the spooky kind, the very last time we claimed an FA Cup Premiership scalp away from home, five years ago, versus Sunderland, guess who was playing up front for The Mackems? Yep, a certain Kev Phillips, whose name was first on the Stadium Of Light?s scoresheet that bitterly cold January day, back in 2002. Fat lot of good it did him, mind: Clem, from a penalty, and AJ, soon sent our followers into ecstatic spasms of unadulterated, unalloyed ?boinging? joy, thereby instantaneously rectifying more years of bitter Cup disappointment (Everton, 1988-89 springs to mind, in particular) and gross underachievement (Woking, 1991; Halifax 1993?) than even I would care to remember.

And, fat lot of good it did Sunderland, too: with that defeat came the first intimations, distant at first, then ever more clamorous, as the days gradually lengthened, that the Wearside club had a genuine crisis on their hands. Or thought they had. In truth, they?d talked themselves into a hole largely of their own making, got relegated with us the following season, and ever since that day, have never really recovered that essential feeling of stability you need for survival at the very top.

One thing I have noticed recently ? well, ever since we sorted out the Dingles, if truth were known ? is the vastly-increased number of people I now see toting Albion shirts around town. Or if not an item of replica kit, coats with the club badge proudly emblazoned on the chest: men, women, kids, young ?uns, old ?uns ? and, even more remarkable, still ? every single one of ?em with a whacking great smile on their face. The town?s really buzzing with the sheer excitement and potential of it all, and for old-timers like me, it?s good to see, a real rave from the grave, if you like. Blimey, even my eighty-odd years of age stepmother?s hanging on every single Baggies match report and commentary, these days!

No doubt about it, Mogga has given back the club?s very soul, its fine traditions of playing balls to feet, of passing and movement, in conjunction with a rapier-like strikeforce that, on its day, would give more than a few Premiership sides a deal of trouble. The classes of both 1931 and 1954 would understand, of that I?m sure. It?s entertaining, it?s good to watch ? and, more importantly, it?s pure Albion. And Mogga also puts me very much in mind of Cup-winning gaffer Alan Ashman: just like his 1960?s predecessor, it would appear that when it comes to matters concerning man-management he very much prefers licking to biting, and it seems to be reaping handsome rewards, too, both on and off the park. And just like in Ashman?s day, the side only belatedly clicked into gear following a depressing series of defeats and draws, both home and away.

Our main selection differences tomorrow will hinge upon the availability of Jonathan Greening following that recent two-match ban of his. That will mean a little bit of shuffling around in the middle. Or not, assuming our gaffer wants to keep things just the way they are, and keep Greening on the bench instead. He might also want to carry on with McShane at the back also. Up front, I would also imagine we?ll be reverting back to our ?normal? strikeforce again, Messrs Kamara and Phillips ? unless he decides that the Cup game?s of considerably lesser importance than keeping everyone bright eyed and bushy tailed for our Championship game against Cardiff, come next week. Priorities, and all that?

Tomorrow will also be significant to our gaffer, and for yet another emotive reason: Boro was where he first made his name, still enjoying almost-saint-like status among those long-term supporters not already fallen victim to stratospheric ticket prices, or sterile Premiership encounters. Look on Albion?s own website, and you?ll see Jonathan Woodgate giving all proper laud and honour to our leader, who was Boro captain when the former was around 15 years of age.

(Love the picture of Woodgate that Albion used, by the way: those wild, staring eyes, gleaming manically in their hollow sockets. Put me very much in mind of the multitudinous zombies that featured in the 2004 horror-flick ?Dawn Of The Dead?, they did!) Come to think about it, in a game where just breathing the wrong way can make you some very nasty enemies indeed, is there ANYBODY at all out there with a bad word to say about our gaffer?

I would imagine that getting a rollicking from our leader must be an experience closely akin to being pulled into the headmaster?s study at school, then being given a ?more in sorrow than in anger? type of lecture. Either that, or the ?offender? being subjected to a decibel-laden burst of ?Fly Me To The Moon?, the reasons for which are intricately bound up with the club?s horribly close up and personal brush with closure, back when Mogga was captain. Done properly, both rollicking AND singing, even the most hard-bitten thug of a defender would quickly end up reduced to a heap of snivelling, repentant mush.

And yet, there?s something more about the current crop that just isn?t comparable to 1968. They?ve both scored goals aplenty, and entertained wonderfully, of course, but try as I might, I still find myself totally incapable of taking Joe Kamara to my heart in the same way I took the King to mine back in those long-forgotten days of yore. And it?s not just Jeff, either: compared to the exploits, say, of Supes, or Cyrille, or Bomber Brown, Joe?s scoring exploits leave me completely cold. Total heresy to most present-day Baggies, I know. Sorry.

I?d dearly wish things to be otherwise, honest, but to be perfectly frank, where?s the common ground? What hopes and fears do we both have in common, what is he like as a person? Buggered if I know, because both his world and mine are completely incompatible: ?never the twain shall meet? as they say in the movies. That?s the price the current crop pay for living in a ?bubble? of their very own making, of gated communities, of VIP areas in night-clubs, of chartered planes and helicopters taking them from distant home to training ground, from home to ground on matchdays, and all of them employing ?gofers? tasked with removing most of the prevalent ?embuggeration factor? ? i.e. us - from their everyday lives.

Annoying minor irritants like supporters kept completely at bay, in other words. For some players with that kind of hermetically-sealed lifestyle, it?s a matter of complete indifference whether they do well for a side or not. As long as they?re paid as per the terms and conditions of their contracts, that?s all they want to know. They?ll never once feel those icy blasts of mass-disapproval, while safe and secure in the exclusive fastness of their own making. And neither will they ever share with their followers the sheer joy there is to be had from emerging muddy yet triumphant from a particularly sticky local derby, say. And where there?s no room for emotion, there?s no guilt, no sense of ?letting people down?, either.

And therein lies the downside: never once experiencing the same intense feelings of pure joy as one?s own supporters, the very moment the side hums like a well-oiled machine, and the ball plops soundly into the back of the net as a result. How sad. Just talk to the likes of Bob, for example, and you?d need to have all the insensitivity of a drugged-up Dingle not to appreciate the genuine warmth and passionate love for the club that drives all those wonderful Hawthorns memories.

Sure, you can earn all the loot you want, have a telephone-number salary the envy of not a few captains of industry, and senior politicians, too, trophy wife, lovely house, cars with engine capacities that wouldn?t look at all out of place on a Grand Prix circuit, the whole lot, in fact ? but where?s the job satisfaction?

And finally?. One. Just 24 hours ago, we attended a Supporters Club meeting at the Shrine, where the principal guest was none other than Ron Atkinson. But it?s not Mister Bojangles ? as entertaining an effusive as ever, by the way - I?m majoring on tonight, easy though that may have been. Instead, I?m celebrating the return of Wednesbury Branch stalwart Edie (sorry, I?m not too sure of your surname, mate!) to the fold once more, after her gullet cancer diagnosis around this time last year.

What made it so remarkable about her presence that night was the fact she?d just come through two lots of chemotherapy, plus a nasty op sandwiched in between the two, and still looked so astonishingly well. A damn sight more hale and hearty than me, that?s for sure. OK, she?s lost a fair bit of weight over the intervening period, and a deal of hair too, but she?s now very much back to the mark and is greatly looking forward to attending a few Baggies games in the future. Glad to have you back on board, mate.

Mind you, while she was housebound, and listening to games on local radio, she didn?t half have an unusual way of celebrating our goals, and all in tandem with the bloke next door, also unable to go to games for medical reasons. No sooner had the ball hit the back of the net, they?d both dive for the party wall, then thump it like hell to signify their complete and utter delight!

Two?. I?m about to attempt a very dangerous experiment, here, and one more or less on a par with the amateurish methods the Yanks employed to work out the finer details of nuclear fission, back in the days of the wartime Manhattan Project. Whisper it quietly, I?m going to chuck resident anorak Steve Carr into this bit of space without any warning, then watch my instruments to see if there?s been a significant increase in stinginess-levels around the room, be it of Statto-derived provenance or otherwise.

Not that it did the Bomb pioneers any good either, mind: one particularly unfortunate sod let the screwdriver slip one day, bang together went those two tiny pieces of uranium they were slowly and patiently trying to bring closer together ? very, VERY slowly! - and before you knew what, three of those scientists were dead men walking. Critical mass, massive overdose of radiation. Kaput, or as good as, although they didn?t feel a blind thing at the time it actually happened. The horrific after-effects came on just hours later. Anyway, that?s all by the way, so without further ado, please allow me to present on this page, the elegant, the lovely and talented Mister Carr. And if you glow in the dark afterwards, don?t blame me!

According to our parsimonious chum, Saturday's game at The Riverside will be our first away game in the 5th Round of the FA Cup since we lost a 5th Round replay at The Dell, way back in 1979. The last time we were actually drawn away in the 5th Round was 1978, when we won 3-2 at The Baseball Ground! Guess you really needed to know that, says Steve! Oh ? and make sure you?re well provisioned when travelling there: don?t want any nasty mutations to deal with. See you in Smog-land, and very soon!

 - Glynis Wright

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