The Diary

27 February 2007: Goodbye Leicester, Hello Boro!

Hello, once more, my leetle bits of plum pudding. Oh, what a joyous evening I?ve just had, watching Barnsley put Stoke City to the sword on live TV, and on Stokie turf, too. One-nil was the winning margin, a scoreline that gave The Tykes not a little impetus in their endeavours to rocket themselves out of the drop-zone as quick as Christ would let them. A richly-deserved win, too.

The more the Potties tried to break them down at the back, the more resolute they became in defence. Must have reduced the ?chattering classes? to a state of impotent rage, that one. Sure, their win was piggybacked with more than a hefty helping of three-cornered luck for The Tykes, at times, but as far as hard work, team spirit, and plain old-fashioned guts were concerned, that wonderful three-pointer, away from home, pretty much represented a master-class in those admirable arts.

And there?s another pretty valid reason why I was backing the cash-strapped Yorkshire side one hundred per cent for that one: Lee Hendrie, who truly has to be one of the nastiest pieces of work ever to disgrace a football pitch. It?s often said that you get what you deserve in life ? and, believe you me, Stoke and Lee Hendrie truly deserve one another. It really is a marriage made in hell, just like that of Hitler and Eva Braun. Or Richard and Judie.

The chorus of boos from their faithful at the conclusion of that game was spectacular by anyone?s lights: of one thing I?m sure, there?s certainly going to be a lot of serious chattering done in The Potteries, tonight. Not to mention over the course of the next 24 hours, so if you do happen to work in the area, and desperately want to blot out the inevitable ?whinge factor?, don?t forget those industrial-grade earplugs tomorrow morning, y?all!

Mind you, forgetting petty bias for the moment, that home defeat just might have done our own promotion chances an inadvertent bit of good. As Stoke?s League position had them on the fringes of the play-off zone prior to tonight?s game, the loss of those keenly-anticipated three points can?t have done too much to help their cause, can it? The ideal scenario would be Stoke City coming to our place with very little to play for by the time April the 7th hits our calendars, and our final run-in begins to gather momentum. If we can induce them to just curl up and die on command, come the day, that would be a really peachy outcome for we nerve-wracked Baggies, now, wouldn?t it?

Oh, and another thing. Please accept a slightly belated ?Boing Boing? from this column, today: by rights, you would have had the essence of my post-Leicester thoughts zapping straight into your inboxes yesterday evening ? but they didn?t. Had it not been for my overdoing the old zeds in fine style, yesterday, then that would have undoubtedly been the case, but I did. Badly overdid the pursuit of zeds, I mean. Just call me Rip Van Winkle, eh?

Never mind, tonight?s offering will now assume a two-legged format instead. A long hard look over my ample shoulder, with particular regard towards Saturday?s Leicester caper, and those considered either hot, or not, then a zippy fast-forward into ?tomorrow night territory?, and Albion?s continued pursuit of all things FA Cup. So, without further ado, on with the show, what?

Having had the opportunity of examining our gaffer?s plus and minus points for some considerable time, now, the one thing that?s struck me above all about Mogga?s managerial capabilities, is his constant refusal to use post-match press conferences as a medium for vituperative remarks about opposing players, managers, or, for that matter, match officials. Unlike numerous other higher-profile club gaffers ? aw, you know the ones I?m on about, just as well as I do ? ?Diplomacy rules OK? is Mogga?s normal stance on such things.

That?s why my eyebrows shot up the height of a ten-story block of flats the very first moment I clapped eyes on our Sunday papers, both tabloid and broadsheet: no matter whose football section you perused, just about every single one reported the astonishing fact that post-Leicester, our leader had ?gone nuclear? over the elegant, lovely and talentless Uriah Rennie?s ham-fisted handling of our latest game. No wonder I almost choked on a mouthful of cereal: after all, in a sport where 99.9% of those intimately involved would rubbish their own grandmothers if they thought it would give them a higher media profile ? and, by inference, more money - for doing it, Mogga has a proven reputation for always standing atop his high moral ground, halo shining fit to blind, and beaming beatifically, all the while. And, what?s more important still, it?s genuine.

That completely uncharacteristic outburst of his may yet have another unfortunate consequence, of course: being summoned to Soho Square, and once there, being asked what the hell he?s playing at, by some very eminent FA people, all of whom underwent a commonsense-ectomy surgical procedure years ago. Undesirable and unpleasant though the consequences might be, I can certainly see Mogga?s point: first of all, Rennie somewhat pointedly chose to ignore any Leicester foul play short of embarrassingly-obvious attempts to completely divorce an opponent?s legs from his torso, then failed to dish out any sort of card when Geoff Horsfield appeared to stick his elbow straight into Paul McShane?s face.

His ?finest hour? though, came deep in injury time, when, after indicating in the usual way to the fourth official that there would be three minutes of added time, he then went on to play nearly seven. As I said on Saturday evening, I really do wonder whether that was yet another attempt on the part of the Sheffield whistler to jack up a much higher media profile for himself, but intentional or otherwise, the knock-on effect was predictable enough.

As Mogga so rightly pointed out, post-match, come that unduly late stage in the proceedings, most refs would have ended the game the very first moment one or other of the keepers belted the ball up the park ? but not our lad. He simply waited for a Baggie to win the ball, embark on a run upfield that had all the hallmarks of developing into a one-on-one with their opposite custodial number ? then whistled for the end, just as the poor lad was nearing the eighteen yard line.

Well, given our leader?s normal reluctance to give whistlers or flaggers a right royal roasting, no matter what, he certainly regarded Rennie?s antics as wholly unprofessional this time round. And he let the whole world know about his many shortcomings, while he was at it. Talk about ?going nuclear?. With any luck, the appropriate referees? body responsible for discipline will have been made aware of events already. And, knowing the sheer decency of our gaffer at all times, and his normal marked reluctance to get embroiled in controversy of any sort, if they?ve got any sense at all about them, they?ll certainly sit up and take notice on this particular occasion. As for the lovely Mister Rennie, any chance of your hypertrophied ego completely consuming you from within, over the course of the next few months, mate? No, I didn?t think so, either.

But there was much more to that game than Rennie?s incompetence. For me, just watching young Chappie run around like a blue-assed fly on strong amphetamines was a joy to behold. Whatever malady had consumed him during the week, he seemed to have more than made up for it by the time the weekend came. And a couple of daft mis-kicks apart, Dean Kiely did very little wrong, either. In fact, you might want to argue that a couple of his saves kept us well and truly in the race at a time when Leicester were very much ?in our face? and threatening to overwhelm us.

Kev Phillips and Joe Kamara were lively enough in front of goal; a shame, then, that we couldn?t have gained much more in the way of reward for all that effort. The one real reservation I had at the time was about our defence: their equaliser looked far too easy for words, what with the scorer managing to leap well free of any custodial efforts on our part, then nut into the net from what amounted to point-blank range. Still, we ended up with the point, and got elevated to pole position, thanks to Derby conceding in the last minute of their own game.

Incidentally, I was greatly heartened tonight to read Mogga?s comments, as per tomorrow?s Daily Mail ? please note, I only (very occasionally, and with great reluctance!) peruse the sports pages of their awful rag, and nowhere else! - regarding supporters being ripped off by hyper-inflated ticket prices. Caught the Brummie Road zeitgeist really well, he did, correctly postulating that our return to the Prem would mean a reality-check of enormous proportions for our supporters, the nub of the matter being that once there, and firmly established (a big assumption, that), how much further could Albion realistically go in this already triply-split competition?

Couple that with the continued prospect of rip-off ticket prices should we go up, and it?s little wonder why disillusionment will quickly set in, after having got to the Promised Land in such fine style. I?ve already been furnished with ample proof, in the form of normally die-hard regulars, both home and away, people that would bleed pure blue and white, were you to cut them, becoming ?refuseniks?, complete and utter, and for the reasons outlined above. Our relegation to the Championship, coupled with the wonderfully-attractive and entertaining playing style we normally pursue these days, brought them flocking back to the colours once more ? but would that Return Of The Prodigals necessarily be the case were we to go up this time round?

Unless we?re taken over at a later date by someone not only flashing serious wallet-wonga, but being prepared to use it in anger ? regime change we might subsequently regret bitterly, given the current popularity of traditional British football clubs as playthings for cash-rich but ignorant American corporate vultures - then we?ll forever be spending our time bumping around the bottom-to-middle sections of the Premiership table, with our only chance of glory being a possible pot at one or other of our two domestic pots, with the promise of a UEFA Cup place dangling in similar fashion to that of a carrot in front of a particularly obstinate donkey.

Very unlikely, even that, given the much greater interest currently shown in both competitions by the big boys, who now seem to have the entire shebang pretty much sewn up between them. The days of some cheeky upstart of a Championship side emulating Sunderland?s defiant 1973 Wembley win versus Leeds United, or Swindon?s 1969 League Cup Final defeat of Arsenal, are well and truly gone for good. Go on, then, ask the question: when was the last time a side not in the Prem?s top four went and won the Cup, then? As far back as 1994, by my reckoning. Another nail in the coffin of football, as we know it.

But in the midst of all that speculation and debate, life has to go on as normal, in this case, the vexed question of our forthcoming 5th Round replay with Boro, tomorrow night. Funny, isn?t it, how all this sudden speculation about Joe Kamara going to the Riverside come the end of the current season has resurfaced, and nicely in time for our replay, too. I?m now left wondering whether their dirty-tricks department hasn?t been putting in some overtime, of late.

It?s looking very much as though their gaffer, the lovely Mister Southgate, will go with the side he put out last weekend, while Mogga could well keep faith with our own equivalent. Certainly, during his most recent press conference, he seemed to intimate that he?d be looking at team selection with one eye cocked towards the bread-and-butter business of the Championship, and our current escape bid from its bounds. Does that mean he?ll bench one or more of our first-choice strikers, and only bring them on in dire emergency? Or could Our Jase be in pole position for a nice little rest, come crunch-time?

Our only injury worries coming from Leicester were Duke Ellington, who apparently suffered a ?dead leg?, leaving him to limp considerably during the game?s dying minutes, and Alby, who still has a bit of a hamstring problem, poor lad. He is expected to be OK come the time for action, though.

Our referee tomorrow night? Not Uriah Rennie, thank whatever god you happen to worship, just Mike Riley. This will be his 33rd game wielding the whistle in anger thus far, during which time he?s red-carded 11, and yellow-carded 111. Sounds an awful lot of cards to me: let?s hope he flashed them for all the right reasons, and not just to bolster a seriously-deficient ego, a la Rennie, what?

And Finally?.. What a biggie I have for you this time! Funny, isn?t it? Just as we embark upon what is effectively our biggest FA Cup game in five years, I?m now looking at a picture that appeared in the Observer?s sport supplement last Sunday morning. One showing supporters queuing outside Crystal Palace?s Selhurst Park HQ circa 1965, in fact ? modern travelling Baggies would certainly recognise the scene to be their current away turnstiles - and snapped shortly before the time when Albion?s awesome Cup-fighting reputation would take the country completely by storm.

The first thing to catch my eye? What a contrast with today?s multi-coloured matchday apparel of harlequinned jester?s hats, scarves, and replica shirts. Overcoats of a hue more suited to a reluctant visit to the Crem, in order to send yet another of one?s nearest and dearest winging their way towards eternal salvation, ghastly, chunky spectacle frames, and enough Brylcreem to successfully ?grease? a Channel swimmer. Cheer up, chaps, the war finished some 20 years ago!

All that, plus a complete lack of black faces in that queue, ditto female ones, save one small individual towards the back of the line willing to buck the trend: in those days, football was most certainly not considered a female-friendly way of spending one?s leisure time. Admit you enjoyed attending Albion games, or, shock-horror, travelling away on a regular basis, and smutty-minded adults would immediately indulge in Dark Musings about your probable sexuality: clearly, according to their dinosaur beliefs, long seasons spent in the Brummie, or the Woodman would inevitably lead to an unrequited package tour of Lesbos, with the attendant shame heaped upon one?s entire family the direct consequence of such sinful behaviour.

And just the one copper guarding the turnstile, too, and seemingly far more interested in the numerous cars parked over the road, than what was going on behind him. Club parking facilities apart, when was the last time you were able to park up right opposite a ground? Looking at the picture more closely still, I could also discern the fact that one of the young kids prominent at the front had a spaniel on a lead! Well, it?s certainly one way of giving the old family mutt a bit of exercise, isn?t it?

Goodness me, what other vivid memories that picture conjured up of that era: of my sister, a good six years older than me, but about four inches shorter and seven stone dripping-wet, taking off her wedding rings, and going through the Woodman Corner ?boys? turnstile with complete impunity, and of little old me being completely unable to get away with such naughty stunts: try as I might, the coppers always made me use the ?adult? entrance. (I was to witness something similar in Weymouth just ten or so years later, when my sis was refused alcohol in a pub on the grounds she looked far too young, despite having a couple of her own kids in tow at the time! I laughed like a drain at her predicament back then, and I?m still inclined to have a bit of a giggle the first moment anyone else in our family tries to bring it up!)

Given our fine tradition regarding midweek Cup replays featuring so-called ?superior? opposition, my thoughts tonight inevitably turned to 1978, when we drew Man United in the opening round of the competition, and after sharing the honours at Old Trafford, the tie heading straight down the M6 instead. Wow ? what a bloody night. There had been a cloudburst of massive proportions shortly before kick-off, something that rapidly caused the pitch to assume all the hydrodynamic properties of a World War One battlefield just after some bright spark on the Staff let rip with the heavy artillery, straight in the direction of no-man?s land.

The result? Not terribly hard to predict: mucky mire, and lots of it, to the extent where it rapidly became a difficult task to discern quite where the player ended and the mud began, especially as far as both Cyrille and Laurie Cunningham were concerned! This also had the effect of turning the contest into a tight one indeed. Not that it prevented anyone from scoring, mind: au contraire, after a nail-biting period of extra time (no penalties, then) the final tally read Albion 3, Man United 2, with a Regis brace and a Bomber Special ensuring our passage into the next round. Oh, happy days. Now top that, you present-day lot ? if you can!

 - Glynis Wright

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