The Diary

04 August 2007: One 'Funeral', Two Soakings, And The 'M' Word.

We?ve all long become familiar with the concept of pre-season training for our finest, of course, but I?m now left wondering whether or not SUPPORTERS should also avail themselves of late July opportunities to get their emotions into full working order. After all, it?s quite a quantum leap from complete close-season torpidity to the start of the ?real thing?, which confronts us in just eight short days? time. Scary, or wot?

To cut a long story short, I?m finding it quite difficult to get myself into proper ?Albion-mode?, this time round, not least because of the horrible weather we?ve been having, our efforts to do up our present place prior to putting it on the market, and the fact I?ve only seen but one pre-season fixture, thus far, and that the one at Edgar Street just seven days previously.

What we put out there was, effectively, a reserve side (the ?first team? having wiped the floor with Northampton Town earlier in the week), so there wasn?t much point in reading anything into the final score ? not that there?s much point in agonising to any great length over pre-season games anyway, the idea usually being to tweak about with formations and tactics a little, until you finally settle upon a game-plan calculated to baffle and bamboozle all the other likely contenders for upwards mobility in our sector. Sometimes it actually works.

Returning to the Hereford caper again, the most remarkable thing I can offer about this game, which we won 2-0, was the strange looks we got from fellow Baggies outside the ground. Not surprising, really: I was wearing a Baggies shirt that evening, and ?Im Indoors a fetching Hereford number, which must have confused the hell out of just about anyone who crossed our path. Not that our cider-slurpin? main stand chums were in any way fazed by our somewhat schizophrenic attire, they?re well used to our dual allegiance, even if those around us weren?t.

Confused? In one way, I suppose: because of transfers, etc. we knew sod-all about most of the home side, and because the men in the navy and white stripes ? well, all black and red numbers actually, but you know what I mean ? were mostly reserves and triallists, we weren?t much more the wiser there, either, a lamentable state of affairs which was exacerbated enormously by the Hereford PA bloke not being too sure of either side?s respective line-up anyway. And neither were our Bull-lovin? companions, either, judging by the sheer amount of head-scratching taking place around us, as the game progressed.

You want a concise summary of what came to pass in the ensuing 90 minutes? To put it bluntly, we were pants, our defending shocking awful, and the final score in no way reflecting the general way in which the game ebbed and flowed. With only a couple of minutes on the clock, The Bulls were dead unlucky not to bang one into the old onion-bag, catching us out on the flank, and exposing our main defensive weaknesses for all the world to see, something we were to see repeated several times as the match ran its sinuous course towards the 45-minute mark.

Also peculiar was our overall game-plan, interchangeable, it was, sometimes three, sometimes two up front, and undoubtedly the main source of the problems at the back, as I saw it. Nobody had a clue what they were supposed to do. That, and being what amounted to a scratch side: virtually none of the eleven blokes out there ?gelling?, due to sheer lack of familiarity with each other. Typical pre-season stuff, really. What eventually saved the day was our greater match-fitness, which most certainly told in the later stages, thank goodness, Shergar grabbing one and Darren Carter the other, very late in the proceedings. In no way was that a fair representation of either side?s performances: no wonder Mogga expressed great displeasure, in typically mild-mannered fashion, of course, right after the final whistle.

There was one indisputably good thing to come out of the encounter, mind, and that was young Wossa, the lad signed from Bury during the latter part of last season. In a side that was a bit of a disaster area, quite frankly, he was the only player that stood out for me, putting in an Edgar Street performance that was significantly mature beyond his tender years. Mogga grabbed him from Bury primarily because of his great potential: when you?re only 16, and already deemed good enough to make the subs? bench, there?s a rich vein of untapped talent there to be mined, and I?m banking upon Mogga?s gentle motivational methods to get the best out of the lad over the months and years to come. In very many ways, our current gaffer puts me much in mind of the late Alan Ashman ? and I?m not on my own in reaching that conclusion, either. When I was on the blower to Larraine Astle, just a few weeks back, she agreed with me unreservedly ? and she should know.

That Edgar Street fixture (well done to the 700-ish itinerant Baggies who supplied around half the eventual 1400-plus gate that evening) being the only pre-season friendly I?ve seen, to date, and that involving very few ?recognised? first-teamers, of course, I?m anticipating that tomorrow?s home game versus Heerenveen will at least shed some further light upon our ability to mix it with the rest of the Championship promotion contenders come the Great Kick-Off, and provide pointers for our Turf Moor introduction to Season 2007-08. Or not ? nothing?s ever nailed-on certain in football, is it? Look at Leeds, Play-Off finalists one season, relegated to what?s now deemed the First Division the next, and still not sure whether or not they?ll be able to compete in that league. All to do with the circumstances under which they went down, of course, the ever-persistent Inland Revenue, and the club going into administration playing a starring role. Ken Bates ? dontcha just love him? Don?t let that fluffy white beard fool you, mind. Captain Birdseye, he most certainly ain?t.

Hopefully, tomorrow will provide a half-decent chance for me to run the rule over the veritable stampede of new arrivals at the club, in some cases replacements for those who have now quit the sheltered shores of West Bromwich for the tempestuous seas of the Premiership. That means Joe Kamara, Jason Koumas, and Paul McShane, with Steve Watson released. We?re also likely to lose Paul Robinson and Curtis Davies, which is hardly surprising also, given the unpleasant sight of vultures gathering in droves around the Hawthorns the very moment the final whistle sounded at Wembley ? and, very likely, ages before that, even, but all strictly on an unofficial basis, of course. As for those who jumped ship for the dizzy heights of top-flight status, I guess you?ve already figured out my current stance concerning these matters. Fulham are more than welcome to Joe Kamara and his selfish goalmouth posturings: having blown Premiership status before with his previous club before ours, it?ll be instructive to see how he adapts this time round. Jason Koumas? He?s from Merseyside, Everton haven?t bitten, so Wigan is about as good as it gets for him, I suppose.

When he first came to our place, as I understood it at the time, he couldn?t drive, so has he passed his test since, I wonder? If he has, there?s no problem, but if he?s still to acquire a full licence, he might well have to call in a few favours. Either that, or take out a running contract with a taxi firm. Just as well he?ll (presumably) be on a salary well into five figures, really. Just one other thought, though. Something tells me Wigan won?t be in the Prem come the end of this coming season, which will make his efforts to get there look a bit silly ? unless he can find that all-important ?extra 10 per cent? with the Lancashire mob, of course, meaning he?d attract interest from others in the top-flight, should the worst finally come to pass. Quite frankly, I can?t see it happening: he had every chance in the world to do it with us, but couldn?t quite cut it, could he?

Macca? In very many ways, I?m sad he?s decided to seek his fortune elsewhere: one thing I do admire in defenders is a no-nonsense attitude, and 110% commitment. Admittedly, it does go somewhat beyond the pale when you?re deprived of his services because of repeated suspensions, so perhaps it was for the best he moved on in the end. Like Willie Johnston before him, he?s yet to learn that a lunging tackle (or a swiftly swung fist, combined with a nicely-judged instinct for taking the mickey out of the opposition ? thanks for the memories, Willie!) is no satisfactory way of releasing pent-up frustrations: the FA might have tolerated Willie?s antics to a certain degree, but I very much doubt whether they?d allow similar anarchy to rule in this day and age. Needless to say, I shall follow Macca?s subsequent career with interest.

Paul Robinson and Curtis Davies? All the signs point to those two being well out of the area before the start of the Prem season proper: again, the vultures are circling in droves. Mind you, I was somewhat amused to see Blues had also put in a bid for our no-nonsense former skipper: coo, and after all the horrid things you said about him after his sending-off at St. Andrews, Brucie. I?d be careful, if I were you, mate: that already-hypertrophied nose of yours is sure to block your access to narrow doors eventually, given the enormous speed with which it?s enlarging lengthways! Could Brucie-babes be the first football manager ever to have an olfactory organ capable of reaching orbital velocity, I wonder? Jodrell Bank and the US Missile Early Warning System, you have been warned.

As for the lad Davies, I can readily understand and sympathise with his desire to further the possibility of a full international career by becoming upwardly mobile: the days when England managers were regular visitors in an official capacity to lower division games have long since gone, so a lingering desire to be on a Premiership team-sheet is pure pragmatism on his part. At least he?s honest about it. A pleasant change, that, given the awful stench of possible corrupt practices (moral or legal, you takes your pick, OK?) still emanating from what?s still alleged to be the world?s finest football competition.

Just ask sorely-used Sheffield United, Colin Onanist having now departed in the wake of their controversial demotion, to tend his Cornish farm (Gothic castle, complete with fangs, coffins aplenty, a distinct aversion to daylight, an unhealthy interest in the whereabouts of the Blood Transfusion Service, not to mention numerous local maidens ?getting it in the neck?, surely?) and former Baggies leader Bryan Robson currently trying to pick up the pieces for the Bramall Lane lot, God help us all. Tell you what, Robbo, just prise John Hartson away from our electromagnet-strength grip with some silky blandishments, and all your current striking troubles will be over, OK?

Deviating away from all things football, finally, the summer recess also proved to be a sad one, in some ways. Not just because of our Wembley failure, although given our previous win-lose-win-lose etc. see-saw record at football?s alleged home ? we were into a ?lose? phase, this time round: aw, you work it all out for yourself - I wasn?t too surprised to see us blow our chances upon that lush and verdant Wembley swarth, on the day.

No, there was sadness for me just a matter of weeks later, when Cyrille, my black tomcat, named after Guess Who, of course, finally headed on out to the Great Food Bowl In The Sky. Sad, but not unexpected: our vet gave him no more than 12 months after his first stroke, and that?s pretty much how it finally panned out. Importantly, he didn?t suffer: up until literally hours before his death, he still enjoyed a reasonably good quality of life. At least I was there when he breathed his last, and he?s now resting in Herefordshire, beneath the leafy shade of a nearby wood. Many thanks also to all the staff at our local veterinary surgery, for sending me such a lovely condolence card upon our return home; little things like that mean such an awful lot when your emotion glands are in full flow, they really do.

In some ways, it?s better that it?s so, as we?re aiming to move from our current place very soon, assuming everything goes to plan. A nice estate agent chappie came to value our place just the other day; now we?ve arrived at a ballpark figure, we can finish off all the little jobs we need to do to get the place ready for putting on the market, which won?t be too long in prospect, thankfully. We?ve already been moseying around the areas we?re interested in, have a realistic budget in mind, and now have a pretty good idea of where we want to be: if you?re VERY unlucky, it could be YOU. Having us for a neighbour, that is. Don?t worry: one of our criteria for selecting a prime nesting-spot is, as ever, easy access to our spiritual Baggie home.

Turning to other matters, now, it would be particularly remiss of me not to make serious mention of the other event that?s plagued our summertime existence, the torrential rain that?s come sheeting down from the heavens, these last few weeks. We?re not in a flood area ourselves, thank goodness, but we certainly know people who haven?t been as lucky. When you hear of people being flooded out in normally high and dry places like Great Barr, you know things are getting serious.

What really did it for me, though, was witnessing the truly apocalyptic sight of a twister actually in the process of formation, hanging directly below clouds of inky-black hue, and heading at a rate of knots across the mouth of the Severn, and straight for the Welsh Borders, with lighting flashes and thunder aplenty for accompaniment. Truly ?Doctor Who? type scenes, the sort of thing you can only watch behind partially-opened fingers, in much the same way as on-screen monsters battling the good Doctor evoked similar reactions from terrified sofa-hidden six and seven-year-olds, even in the days of black and white ?valve? TV, and accompanying 405-line-generated visual fuzziness. A Dalek is a Dalek, after all?s said and done, and croaky threats to ?EX-TER-MIN-ATE?.? a pretty realistic prospect for juvenile minds of the more imaginative variety, even in those relatively unsophisticated CGI-free days of yore, wobbly cardboard sets, and all.

Having seen this mini-tornado in its embryonic stage, I could only watch in horrified fascination as both it and the accompanying thunderstorm sped through the Welsh Borders like a dose of salts, our vehicle keeping perfect pace with it all the way. Fortunately for those below, I never saw the point of the twister make actual contact with the ground: had it done so, there would have been more than a fair number of farmers ringing their insurance companies for claim forms that ?dark and stormy night?, I reckon.

And then there was the rain? No, not on Doctor Who, on both Gloucestershire and the surrounding counties. By the time we?d reached our holiday home once more, there was one almighty purler of a storm in progress (yes, still the very same one we?d seen created in the Bristle Channel, oo arr!), and enough rain sheeting down to take care of the water needs of the average Third World country for many years to come. To say that progress through those now-saturated country lanes was difficult is a bit like saying ?the Solar System is a pretty big place?. Most of the time, all we could do was plunge through what amounted to a torrential stream, with the deeper dips in the road rapidly assuming pond-like proportions, and all the time, hoping like hell our car engine didn?t get flooded.

Never in my life before have I seen rain like that in this country: the last time I did anywhere else was around ten years ago, in Western Australia, strangely enough, in a hick town on the coast called Denham: same storm intensity, same deluge. Mind you, all the time I was there, I never once witnessed what I did this time round: let?s face it, it?s a bit much when you actually see DUCKS moving rapidly away from their natural element, and onto terra (comparatively) firma ? and that?s precisely what happened that very same night, when we found loads of our feathered friends merrily quacking away (in sheer relief?) in various shallow puddles earlier created by that almighty downpour.

God must really love ducks, because among the survivors was a little family group, complete with attendant ducklings, all cheeping merrily away, and Mum and Dad both quacking avian reassurances like crazy. Oh, and another thought. We escaped OK, but ?The Olds?, as we term ?Im Indoors?s mum and partner, came very close to being both cut off and flooded out during their own sodden spell in our little bit of Shangri-La, come Flood Number Two . I?m all for a bit of the old Blitz spirit, and all that, but something told me later that they?d come somewhat closer to the actualite than they?d originally bargained for!

Oh ? and I?m still progressing with my OU stuff: mind you, I?ll really have to get a wiggle on, now, as the football season draweth nigh, and I?m acutely aware of the fact I have an assignment to produce in but a few week?s time. I was doing the work primarily during the day until recently, but for several excellent reasons, mostly to do with producing this blog, I?ll have to extend my academic efforts to the eventide also. Oh, well ? I suppose it?s keeping me off the streets, so to speak!

And Finally?.. When compiling my list of All-Time Pet Hates, the other day, it speaks volumes that top of my personal ?no-nos? was not our Dingle chums, Tony Blair, or even Prince Harry, and all who sail in him. Not even the mention of George Bush rates the barest beetling of my eyebrows, these days, you?ll be surprised to hear. Am I just getting soft in my old age? Nope, right now, the one sure-fire thing guaranteed to get my hate-glands moving into full-time ?production-mode? is something much more mundane. Whisper it quietly, but it?s actually called ?Magnolia paint?.

My problem? Easy, that one. God, I really do loathe and detest that stuff. Having been advised by friends and family to slap it on just about every painted surface we can think of ? and a few we haven?t, including at least one of our three cats, inadvertently, I hasten to add! ? that?s precisely what we?ve done, in what amounts to an all-out attempt to woo potential buyers, most of whom won?t share our somewhat eclectic tastes in home decor. Those magnificently bold contrasting red and green hues of yesteryear have now sadly disappeared from our kitchen, stairs and landing for good, to be replaced throughout by that dreaded ?M word?.

Yuk. After all, who in their right mind wants a home plastered throughout with something bearing an uncomfortably close resemblance to the vile pukey stuff that all new babies produce in copious amounts, right after they?ve been ?burped? by Mum? We?re normal: it?s all those straight-laced decorative killjoys that aren?t ? so there. All those in favour of signing a petition to banish this vapid grave offence against good creative taste ? well, that?s what we call it - far from these shores forthwith, please make themselves known as soon as practicable, please!

More Tales From The Crypt around the Witching Hour, tomorrow ? and to one and all, I bid you all a very good night. Even Dingles. God, I must be getting old.

 - Glynis Wright

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