The Diary

20 March 2007: Singing The Blues, Black Country Style!

?Monday, Monday, so good to me?.? Or ?It?s another manic Monday?.?? I guess only The Mamas and Papas, and The Bangles can answer that one with any real degree of certainty, but when I ventured out to the shops today, my mood was definitely veering towards the viewpoint expressed by the late Eighties all-girl group ? unless Mama Cass wants to argue the toss from the fastness of some awfully robust bit of cumulo-nimbus, stratospherically speaking ? she was a rather large lady, after all said and done - of course.

There I go again: after being left heartbroken time and time again over the serial failure of my chosen football team to come up with the goods right when it mattered, once more, I?m being sucked into the same daft trap, as inexorably as a stray coin into the probing tube of a vacuum cleaner. A bit like a physically-abused person sticking with their partner after all the cuts and bruises have healed ?because he/she loves me, really?. A more warped and toxic character-assessment than you?re ever likely to meet this side of Dartmouth Park, of course, but we Albionites shouldn?t feel in any way smug or condescending about the partnership preferences of people frequently finding themselves used as human punch-bags.

Long Hawthorns experience has shown me that it truly takes one to know one, and never more so than in the case of those who espouse the same cause as I: although reeling from a multitude of emotional punches, still we stick by ?em, loyal to the end. The Baggies, I mean, not the abusive partner. I much prefer to leave that sort of sordid behaviour to those most adept in the practice of such ghastly arts, i.e. the gold-and-cack persuasion, and similar like-minded scumbags.

Yes, as Baggies, we take body-blow after body-blow, week in, week out, largely uncomplaining, yet still we find ourselves professing unconditional love for them, when in the presence of friends and acquaintances. Just like today, really, when I did the rounds of the local shops for various food items. A quick tool into the supermarket was neither here nor there, really: just grab some cat-litter, fleabag food, then vamoose. What really troubled me, though, were the two additional visits I had to make, both of which were intended to get the painful discussions over and done with - and my retaliation in first!

The first of these involved dropping in on the ?other? butcher I patronise, mostly to snap up their lovely bacon and sausage (can?t stand the supermarket stuff: no matter what I do to it beforehand, no end of horrible white gunge oozes out every time I come to chuck it under the grill). The trouble, though, is this: behind their counter usually lurks three blokes, one fairly elderly, the other two around their early twenties, I suspect. Sad to say, the eldest of the three is a Villa wotsit, while the other two are incurable Steve Bruce fans. That?s why I knew I?d have to pay ?em a visit today: had I not done so, my moral fibre ? or more to the point, an alleged lack of it - would have been called into question the very next time I clapped eyes on either of them.

How does one come to terms with such an awful prospect? Easy: you simply enter that shop with all vocal guns blazing, which I did. Not my usual modus operandi, being a very firm believer in the saying about the pen being mightier than the sword, even a verbal one, myself, but there are times when a gel?s just gotta do what a gel?s gotta do, aren?t there? Anyway, there being no other punters in the place at the time ? I always try to time my visits for when there?s a lack of credible witnesses disguised as regular customers, in the place ? the discussion soon got pretty intense, stuff about the various shortcomings of Mike Riley, both physical and moral, the lad Damien?s dismissal (I wonder if his red-carding means we?ve inadvertently brought Armageddon that much closer as a result?), all those Kamara misses, being bandied about as energetically as they might, say, wrestle with half a cow, final destination, their meat-locker.

No, not even around ten or fifteen minutes of heated debate managed to solve either side?s problems, both real and imaginary, but it sure as hell cleared the mental custard. One down, one to go, so time to split. Taking my leave, it was then down to the other charcuterie on my ?Things To Do? list today ? with a definite emphasis upon the word ?Things?. Yep ? it was that time of the week again, the moment the whole world was waiting for, in fact. Let that sparkly pointing finger descend from On High, everyone (with the late, but adipose Mama Cass tasked with operating it, perhaps?). Mister Bluenose ? it?s for YOU!

To be scrupulously fair to the guy ? well, one does have to defend the moral high ground one?s recently taken, doesn?t one? ? Monday?s is a twilight sort of existence for my little balding chum. No window display of his wares to be seen, but don?t let that fool you. He?s open ? well, his front door is - but not open, if you get my drift. No? OK, then, Monday is his normal delivery day: open for the dual purpose of spotting white vans seeking to make a meat-laden drop, and predatory traffic wardens trying to grab, in true vulpine style, an easy victim. Both after fresh meat, each in their own different ways, and the sooner the better, OK?

Mind you, I did come to the place sporting one enormous psychological advantage. Despite slurping coffee out of one of their mugs like it?s going out of fashion, despite having a season-ticket, despite having a club poster hung behind his counter, in a prominent place ? a shame there?s not a noose, and one or both of the Gold brothers inside the business end of it ? he didn?t bother attending Sunday?s clash in person. Immediate cue for not-so whispered asides apropos of ?armchair supporters?, and their alacrity in criticising management when things are going against them, but being first in the queue ? or, worse still, circumventing it completely, and usually via some pretty dubious methods, once you take the trouble to enquire - the very first moment tickets for big games go on sale.

A cheap sort of dig, that, him being a trader, having to work on Saturdays, and everything ? but yesterday was the Sabbath, wasn?t it? No need whatsoever for my porky little chum to open up, so he could have gone, had he been sufficiently arsed to have done so at the time. Still, he did contribute to the discussion, albeit from the viewpoint that came courtesy Sky TV. Surprise, surprise ? he?s not altogether happy with his side?s performance, either.

Yet again, the thorny subject of Damien?s dismissal arose; at least my little chum did have sufficient good grace to admit he had to go, but then countered with the valid point that what with Joe?s serial failure to score that day ? and talking of ?scoring?, I?m now left wondering whether his current lack of form in front of goal is mirrored by similarly disastrous performances in bed! ? and our incompetence in keeping the lid on that slender lead, despite their opponents being a man down, the final score just had to be a self-fulfilling prophecy.

Well, let?s put it this way: if we will insist upon treating the ball as if it?s a nuclear hazard, the very first moment Blues seriously threaten our domain, and go on doing it, then we thoroughly deserve to get caned for it, don?t we? But I wasn?t going to tell Paul that, was I? Families, even the most dysfunctional ones, still retain some vestige of pride, of mutual solidarity, even, whenever confronted with similarly accurate home truths. Anyway, although neither side will be in action for a while, I?ve threatened to pay him an additional visit later on this week. That?ll be nice for him, won?t it?

I suppose we should pour a libation to the gods, or something, in thanks for the fact that the bell signifying the end of the current round, in the form of the various internationals taking place over the course of the next ten days or so, has well and truly sounded. For some, at least, time to shamble wearily back to their corner, where an attentive ?second?, in the guise of Tony Mowbray, awaits. Mind you, it?s going to need a lot more than a magic sponge and a smidgen of Vaseline to the affected cheekbone, in order to smack further life back into our flagging promotion push. If I were Mogga, I?d simply say to those not representing their countries: ?Take yourselves and your families off for a short break somewhere, forget about football for three or four days, then come back for training after that.?

You never know ? it might just save our season. Even Mogga admitted today that we?d lost the cutting edge we?d had earlier this year. Get rid of the mental cobwebs, the ?battle fatigue?, and we might just regain, once more, the sort of ruthlessness our leader so badly seeks. As he pointed out, although we remain the division?s top goalscorers, five miserable strikes only from the last five no-shows ? 15 possible points up for grabs, there, and we completely blew it ? have seen us slide disastrously down the Championship table?s greasy pole.

It won?t take much more laxity to see us blowing it altogether, and time is getting short. With only seven games left, a possible 21 points at stake, and seventh placed Cardiff breathing right down our neck, we?re in severe danger of running out of road completely. Put in familiar terms, we?re a Rolls Royce-standard vehicle, all right, but seemingly incapable of adapting to the tedium of the daily school run.

But despite everything, there were certain aspects of yesterday?s game that we might take comfort from. Sodje seemed to adapt well to the various requirements of the side, Macca suddenly found his ?inner Rottweiller?, and Keily performed well also, one stop in particular looking totally top-drawer: you certainly couldn?t pin that late Blues strike on him, blame our defence for dozing off, more like. Clem was sound enough for me, as were Robbo and Koren. Jase provided the ?assist? for the goal. But please, guys up front ? whenever our midfield gets the ball within reasonable range of the target, why can?t we just cut out the clever stuff, and simply LET FLY?

You?d have thought they had a live grenade at their feet, not a flaming football, the rapidity with which it was moving from one to the other, in and around the box, and no-one quite having the bottle to just go for it, and sod the rest. And, as per my observations of yesterday, will someone tell Joe, please, that football is a TEAM GAME, and not one played by eleven individuals, all trying to impress in vastly differing ways?

And that?s about all I intend to say tonight. And for quite some time, too. Next week sees us both (plus Cyrille, our ailing mog) heading off down to the wilds of Herefordshire, for seven days worth of peace and tranquillity, with nothing whatsoever to disturb us save the many squirrels and rabbits populating the area. And the many ducks and geese, of course: springtime means they?ll be more than ready to welcome the arrival of little webbed feet by the time we show our faces.

No matter how ?down? my favourite football team can make me, I?m always willing to have a chortle or three at the sight of a distinctly-harassed mum trying to shepherd nine or ten fluffy little chicks into some semblance of order, as they waddle en-masse towards the lake. Nature really can be wonderful, sometimes. Back again for the QPR game, come the end of the current month.

And Finally?. Perhaps it?s just as well we are diving off for some much-needed R and R, out there in the wilds. Over the last couple of days, ?Im Indoors has not been a well Baggie. Sniffling fit to bust, and with a raging temperature, to boot. It might only be a ?common cold? to some, but this one has distinctly-aristocratic connections, I reckon. Having tried to talk some sense into him about going to work tomorrow ? or, more to the point, NOT ? I?m hoping he?ll now take the hint. If nothing else, he?s as infectious as hell. Now, I wonder if our cat?s pills can somehow effect a cure? You know what? I?m awfully tempted to try it!

 - Glynis Wright

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