The Diary

28 May 2007: Just Twelve Hours To Go - And Counting!

?I must take a trip to London Town, I must make a trip to London??.. One goes up and the other one down - and that?s the way to London Town!?

Steeleye Span, Tricks Of London, ?Harkstowe Grange? Album, 1970

Who was it stated words to the effect that someone who knows for sure they are to be hung in the morning has his mind concentrated wonderfully for him? I believe it was the good Doctor Samuel Johnston, Lichfield lad and diarist extraordinaire, who first came up with that one ? but he sure as hell wasn?t a football supporter, because here I am, bum parked in what passes for our office, watching night draw an inky veil over our daytime activities, and resting in the certainty that tomorrow is Der Tag, The Big Cheese, The Moment of Truth, even.

And it ain?t a comfortable feeling either, believe you me. Once more, the noisome prospect of squeaky bums all round rears its ? erm ? ?ugly head?, so time to pack the time-honoured kaolin and morphine ?bung-up? remedy for excretory laxity taken to the point of social embarrassment, along with bog-standard brown corduroy trousers, and bike-clips. Something tells me we?re gonna need ?em badly.

By this time tomorrow, all that angst, mental misery, mortal fear, hope upon hope, call it what you will, we?ve all expended over the unsteady course of the last nine months, will have all been worth it. Or not. If our fate is to be the latter course, let us hope we can rest in our beds safe in the knowledge we gave it our best shot, the better side won, and better luck next time round. What I really cannot bear is the lingering thought that our play-off fate might ultimately rest on something not within our control, thereby facilitating a Derby win enormously. If that should be the case, then it can be truly said that the play-offs are naught but a vast lottery, and all our hard work a complete and utter waste of time.

Take one example: Graham Poll, tomorrow?s referee. If there is one person on that Wembley pitch with the overwhelming potential to be a loose cannon, then the soon-to-retire Thing From Tring has to be it. No stranger to controversy over the course of a chequered career, of course, and the consensus among the Baggies I was speaking to earlier today, in the Vine, seemed to be that he?d done us no favours whatsoever over the course of recent years. Does he want to go out with a bang or a whimper in front of the TV cameras, I wonder? If the second of the two, then we?re in awful trouble.

And then there?s the weather, and its vast potential for reducing even the most meticulously prepared of Wembley battle-plans to complete mush. Most of the week just gone has been really sunny, mild and pleasant, just the sort of spiffing weather we would have likjed to experience tomorrow. Today? Oh dear. The mercury has plummeted drastically, from around the 22 ? 24C mark, just a couple of days ago, to an abysmal 8 or 9. In addition, it?s blowing, not quite gale force, ?tis true, but with lofty ambitions of eventually doing so, I would say. And just to put the kybosh on everything, the heavens have opened, big-time. A real shame I can?t export all that lot Down Under, where they?re suffering from drought conditions, right now. Their need is far greater than ours, that?s for sure.

Because the greatly-increased precipitation has really churned up that Wembley pitch over the course of the weekend just gone, we need that sort of thing about as much as I need a bad bout of coronary heart disease. Quite frankly, I?m appalled that such a prestigious venue never bothered to lavish any proportionate kind of tender care upon the most important part of the furniture in that stadium, the bloody pitch. It should be well able to cope with three games on the bounce at this time of year, with temperatures more conducive towards growth and repair, should it not? Were all the horticultural experts fast asleep when the drainage was installed, perhaps? Old Wembley groundsmen, long since quit this mortal coil, but well used to seeing billiard-table conditions on that famous swarth, must be turning in their graves right now.

If the rain should continue in the manner it has overnight, then our finest will probably find themselves running out onto the closest approximation we can find to Western Front mud, circa 1916. Not exactly conditions conducive towards the passing game we all hope we?ll see tomorrow: much more of the wet stuff, and the whole thing will very likely descend into a horrible stramash of kick-and-rush, with the dreaded ?long ball? playing a significant part in proceedings. Should that happen, then the outcome of the game will be very much in the balance, as far as we?re concerned. I do draw comfort from the fact that as Derby are partial to playing a passing game themselves, it won?t be a barrel of laughs for them either, but I wouldn?t like to have to put it to the test.

Here endeth the lesson. On to the real meat and drink of my piece, then, what we Baggies have been doing over the course of the last 12 hours or so. At least writing this serves the dual purpose of keeping me gainfully occupied until the passage of time ordains that I have to leave our house, and go in search of our coach, so here goes.

As arranged, we two head on out for the Vine pub, lurking suspiciously amid the factories and houses situated halfway down leafy Roebuck Lane. By this time, the weather, never brilliant to start with, deteriorates further, the rain rainier, the wind much more windy, if you get my drift. At least we?re able to park close to the place; all that remains is a quick ten-yard dash into the boozer proper.

Once inside, we find the place a total contrast to the enormous welter of bodies descending upon the place after our final game of the season, versus totally-outgunned Barnsley. That means a free choice of seating, so we opt to plonk our bums in one of the small alcoves that branch off from the serving-corridor immediately adjacent. Makes sense: seating around twenty good Baggie souls and true, it?ll be a real piece of poo to comfortably fit our little party right inside.

While my other half gets our drinks, I happen to let my wandering gaze rest upon a picture situated about halfway up the right hand side of the bar ? and have to do a quick double-take. Probably the result of a distinctly xenophobic Friar Park upbringing, of course, but I can?t help but think the horribly non-liberal thought that the sight of an Asian bloke dressed in full Highland fig, Glengarry, jacket with silver buttons, tartan kilt, spats, knee-length woolly socks, and all, doesn?t look quite right to me, somehow!

Leaving such non-PC ideas firmly behind me, I venture into our designated boozing place, where Phil, and another Aussie guy, Joe Walsh, plus a couple of attendant Pom well-wishers, await our presence. We introduce ourselves to everyone, and it?;s as I do so, I detect something odd about the lad Joe. It?s his flaming accent: for the life of me, I just can?t place it. Normally, even the longest-serving of Pom expats reveal their original area of origin the moment they first open their mouths, but this bloke has me well and truly jiggered. And not just me, either.

Gradually, it all gets revealed in the cold light of day. Turns out ?yer man? is a former resident of Dudley, the Priory estate, if you really want to know, but originated in Ireland. Add that to a welter of Black Country dialectic influences, chuck in a goodly amount of time spent in South Africa (Irish-cum-Afrikaans is a deuced peculiar combo to listen to, I?ll have you know), chuck in a goodly dose of Aussie Strine for good measure, and what you finish up with is the most godawful linguistic mix-up you?ve ever heard in your entire life.

And Joe had for me what I now regard ?an exercise for the reader?. He distinctly remembers attending a pre-season friendly, with Chelsea providing the opposition, around the time of the mid-sixties ? the classic Stamford Bridge line-up back then, of Osgood, Chopper Harris et. al. providing confirmation ? with Albion winning 6-3, and The King grabbing a hat-trick, but it?s got me stumped. I certainly don?t recall seeing such a game around that time. The nearest I can come to it is our 6-3 trashing of Man United, just before our 1968 Wembley Cup Final appearance, in which The King also banged in three, but the lad assures me he?s not getting mixed up with that one. Pretty please, Stee-eeevvv-ee! HELP!

Having mentally come to grips with that almighty poser, enter the Seventh Cavalry in the guise of Emma, tame E and S journo, plus attendant lensman, presumably winkled away from a steaming-hot Sunday roast by a really sadistic picture editor. Curious, though. The more I look at the little lass with the journalistic talents, the more the thought nags at my brain that she reminds me of someone.

Then the penny drops, finally. Remember ?The Addams Family?, that cult ?60?s comedy-horror show, all about close-knit kinfolk sharing one common attribute, distinctly Gothic inclinations, more than worthy of a typical Hammer Horror filmset? Well, poor Emma ? and I really hope she doesn?t see this, but I have to say it anyway, so striking was the resemblance ? is a dead ringer for ?Cousin It?, pasty face, straight blonde mane, and everything. And if you HAVE seen this, Emma ? profound apologies! Mind you, I?m still struggling coming to terms with the dismal concept of a fully-fledged journo travelling to grab a story, but neglecting to bring with her that most basic of tools, a ball-point pen! Just as well Great Auntie Glynis, also acutely aware of the need to instantly consign amusing incidents etc. to paper, never travels without one, these days!

While her attendant happy-snapper clicks away for the delectation of his rapidly-growing subject-matter, ?Im Indoors fills the good lady journo in on the background to her story. And that means idyllic recollections of Perth, and our four previous visits to that lovely city, where the Baggie crew based there entertained us most royally every time. Albion?s play-off victory over the Dingles had with it the pleasant afterthought that we could now be in a good position to repay them for their past kindness.

It?s around that time, I recoil as though I?ve just seen Banquo?s ghost materialise in search of a bloody good Balti, for who should walk in, but The Fart! What with the wet weather and everything, Tel?s usual Sunday speedway fixture is called off, which means a hasty change of plan. (When you?re a pensioner, and able to travel free on Travel WM?s buses, it?s dead easy to do that sort of thing, I?ll have you know!) Naturally, he?s well-acquainted with the young lady sent there at the behest of the E and S. ? but this time, he comes bearing gifts, in the form of today?s copy of the Sunday Mercury.

The headline, in that publication?s inimitable style, centres around difficulties some Baggies have encountered getting tickets for tomorrow?s game, but ? and here?s the real stunner ? uses, by way of illustration, the picture taken of the Oz Baggie Four, plus Simon and The Fart, taken on arrival at Birmingham Airport, just the other day! Yet another opportunity for the descendants of Ned Kelly to admire their principal photogenic attributes once more.

And coming, as it were, right on the heels of our venerable media liaison chappie ? well what worked for Baden-Powell, out in the South African veldt, circa 1900, must surely work for him ? was yet another familiar face encountered in our distinctly Baggie-oriented world, and that was a gentleman who goes by the name of Norman Bartlam. Regular readers of this column will know the name, of course, but for the benefit of those new to this type of thing, here?s the full scoop.

Norm, bless his local history archives, is a teacher by trade, but now specialises in the 19th and 20th century doings of that part of Brum known to all and sundry as Ladywood. And, as befits a former GD contributor, he?s had several books published, mostly about his specialty, but also about the sundry away-game adventures, around the mid-nineties, of five Baggie people, one of whom, an amputee, was confined to a wheelchair at that time. Norm is also a close friend of hirsute former Baggies favourite and Gary Megson-hater extraordinaire, Richard Sneekes.

His real claim to fame, though, is not one you would readily appreciate: once suffered, never forgotten, in fact. It?s his liking for really excruciating puns, coupled with an ability to remember some of the sickest jokes in all Christendom, that really gets your toes curling. Fortunately for civilians wishing to avoid becoming humour?s equivalent of collateral damage, the sort of things that get both my chuckle-muscles working overtime, and his, are readily convergent. Mind you, he?s in really confident mood, as he makes to join up with our rapidly-growing merry band. ?It?s a question of not so much ?if we go up?, but ?WHEN?!....? Coo, whatever he?s taken, I?ll have some of it, too!

By now, the drinks are flowing in quantity, and as alcohol exerts its age-old effect upon inhibitions, tongues loosen, and the ?craic? gushes forth in quantity. Eclectic is the subject-matter, proceeding via the state of this country?s prisons, to George Galloway and his Respect Party, a quick station stop at ?Irish Dancing?, through West End musicals ? The Fart?s prime stamping-ground, that ? plus, of course, in unguarded moments, sundry deep thoughts apropos tomorrow?s Wembley ordeal.

That brings forth an interesting tale, one of our party relates, of ringing Chiltern Trains (all of whose chuffers invariably stop at Wembley Station proper), but being told by one of their enquiry officials that their trains DON?T stop at Wembley, a revelation drawing forth the mother of all snorts from a distinctly-amused Fart, who travelled by precisely the same route for an England Under 21 International just a matter of weeks ago!

We then progress to summary appraisals of many Albion managers, good, bad, indifferent, even. Joe has much to say, not all of it complimentary, about Mister Bojangles Atkinson, and the way he left us in the lurch following one of the best campaigns this club has had in its entire existence ? and really rubbing our noses in it by whisking away Bryan Robson and Remi Moses, for good measure. I can see where he?s coming from, but it?s all in the distant past, now, so why not just let bygones be bygones? Johnny Giles and Ossie Ardiles, whose promotion season this one so closely resembles, also come under the hammer, with fond recollections of how the little Irishman transformed our club after the sterile negativity of the Don Howe era.

Enter into present company yet another contingent of Baggie exiles, with a lad called Richard Allen poking his nose around the entrance to our little hideaway ? and he?s got a bone to pick. ?Blimey,? he says, ?I?ve travelled 12,000 miles for this, and there ay no cowin? Bonkses!? One curious addition to the company, mind, a family trailing enough small kids to give family-planners nightmares- but I never get introduced. Hell, the logistics ? not to mention the sheer cost ? of shifting that little lot all those miles must have really been something to behold.

Time for two significant events, then. Our little group?s ceremonial unveiling of their newly-minted ?battle flag?, a professionally-made Aussie flag, adorned with the legend ?OZ BAGGIES?, complete with full photo opportunities for all those involved. By now, the alcohol?s really kicking in, so time for Joe to don his bush hat ? ?It?s to keep the West Midlands sun off my face!? he says in all seriousness, as the heavens still pour, outside ? and rejoin the carefully-posed-but somewhat-merry group waiting to have their images committed to posterity.

Time for a musical interlude, then, courtesy of someone?s mobile phone, which carries ?The Liquidator? by way of ringtone. But not just the straight tune, as recorded by Desmond Dekker and The Aces, oh dearie me, no. Unusually, this one comes with an ?added feature? ? that of The Brummie telling their Dingle counterparts to ?go forth and multiply?, in their own inimitable way! That?s has to be a ?first? for me, and quite a giggle, but I?ll bet our chums will think twice before leaving their mobile on to receive calls when in the Wolverhampton area!

Time for ?eats? then, but not before our whole group poses for the supporting equivalent of a ?team picture?, all standing (somewhat unsteadily, it has to be said!) on hastily-provided chairs, and brandishing their spanking-new flag aloft as the shutters click en-masse. I view the end-result, as taken by ?Im Indoors?s mobile phone ? and can only conclude ?Would you want to buy a second-hand kangaroo from this little lot??

We then get stuck into quantities of chicken tikka, naan brad and that delectable mint dip I sampled after the Barnsley game I previously mentioned. Normally, my tum won?t entertain the prospect of processing something as spicy as that, but much to my amazement, it?s on its best behaviour today, so I manage to shift around three-quarters of it, with my beloved taking on the ?scavenger? role, shifting the stuff I can?t.

Time to take our leave of these good people, then. As we?re heading in the direction of Brum with Norm, we offer a lift to Joe also ? he has to head down to London once more, departure point Snow Hill Station. Amazing to think that he came up for the sole purpose of socialising with his chums, isn?t it? And once we?ve sorted Norm Bartlam out ? he tells me that he?s really glad he?s come, as our gathering has greatly served to soothe his pre-match nerves ? it?s time to head back home, and catch what remains of Blackpool?s celebrations after winning their own play-off final versus Yeovil Town. Two down ,just one to go. Will we be in celebratory mode, come the same time tomorrow, I wonder? Very soon, now, we?ll find out.

Afterthoughts?.. Our players called in on Wembley by way of preparatory visit, last Friday, but sans those natty ?600 suits tailored for the occasion. They?ve visited that splendid dressing-room, plus all the other facilities on offer, walked on the hallowed turf ? which will probably resemble a bog come tomorrow: see above! ? and generally had time to become accustomed to the idea of strutting their classy stuff out there. No proper team news, as yet, so much has to be conjecture.

The position of keeper will take care of itself, of course, with the first real decision having to be taken with the full-back position. Clem is now back on-line, but I?d be surprised if Mowbray were to change what is now a winning combo, so Sam Sodje and Chris Perry will get the green light. No Curtis Davies, of course, he?s still hors de combat.

I?m also expecting our manager to continue with Robbo and Macca causing their own brand of havoc on the flanks. As far as the middle?s concerned, we now have an embarrassment of riches, but why change a successful formula? That means starts for the Koren, Koumas, Greening and Gera quartet. Up front, we?ll stick with Kamara (it?s to be hoped he endeavours to keep his rampant ego firmly where it belongs, tomorrow), and Phillips partnering him, with Duke Ellington taking the role of ?spare?. Subs? They?ll probably be drawn from the ?main men? dropped to make way for those newly in form, or recovered from injury/back from suspension, and not considered supernumerary to tomorrow?s endeavours.

Prediction? No, I refuse to be drawn on that one, but it is to be noted that when the same question was bandied around our most recent company, most of those asked seemed to be most confident we?d end up toting the pot around the pitch come the end of the regulation 90 or 120 minutes. Sure, Derby do like to play football our way, but, as I intimated earlier, sometimes, factors you don?t expect have a nasty habit of chucking a spanner in the works ? and spanners don?t come much bigger than Graham Poll, do they? Hang on a minute, belay my last ? shouldn?t The Thing From Tring be likened, instead, to a thundering great monkey-wrench?

That?s about it from me, tonight, so wherever you are, all you lovely Albion people out there, sweating out the time at Wembley, watching Sky or Foxtel, listening in via steam radio, whatever, shout it loud, shout it proud?. COME ON YOU BAGGIE BOYS! You know it makes sense.

And Finally?.. Oz Baggie, whose identity I don?t know, is loudly berated by Phil for having a strong Black Country accent, still, something which our hero categorically denies. ?No, I ay gorra Black Country accent!? is the verbatim substance of his indignant denial, at which point the whole room erupts in gales of laughter. But the worrying bit is that he was serious, too!

 - Glynis Wright

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