The Diary

06 August 2007: Season 2007-08: An Immaculate Albion Conception, Or Just Another Blighted Ovum?

It?s Sunday evening, twilight?s descending at a rate of knots outside, and here I am once more, in our half-painted office ? yep, that bloody magnolia stuff again! - completing my third offering of what will be, no doubt, a crazy yo-yo ride of a nine-month-long season ? for you, me, for anyone and everyone aiming to wear those famous navy and white stripes with pride.

It?s all a bit like the first trimester of a slightly-fraught pregnancy, if you like, with both Maternity Unit and Labour Ward sited plumb-spang on the West Bromwich/Birmingham border, and everyone in the waiting-room outside consumed with great anxiety as to what the final outcome will be: hopefully, any accompanying birth-pangs will be brief and (relatively)painless this time, and all of them forgotten anyway in the explosion of sheer joy and emotion that invariably accompanies the arrival of something new, strange and wonderful into the ever-shifting world of the average Baggies supporter. First of all, it was Beattie: what for the prospects of successful delivery with the lad Morrison, anyone?

With a modicum of luck, great dollops of pride and passion injected intravenously, coupled with some diligent ?ante-natal care? provided courtesy the Mogga-Venus midwifery partnership, some nine months hence, the new-born babe will emerge from the womb bawling lustily, ready-tagged with a nice-sounding name. How does ?Premiership side? grab you, Vicar? See you at the ?christening? then!

How I wish it were that straightforward. As we saw last season, when attempting to mount a credible assault upon the Championship?s craggy summit, the Fates don?t half have a nasty habit of getting their kicks by kicking you in the gonads when you?d least expect it, how what appear to be relatively minor events when taken individually, gradually acquire a synergy all of their own once the overall picture starts to assume greater complexity. Such as? Cumulative mistakes made during either transfer window ? errors of both commission and omission, like our retrospectively-shocking failure to bring in new blood, both this January gone, and the one before that, and injuries, serious or otherwise ? begin to hang, dead-weight fashion, around the necks of manager, players and supporters, just like the long-dead Albatross of ?Rime Of The Ancient Mariner? fame. And stinking just as much, too. We called it wrong both times, and paid the price. ?Nuff said.

Yep, life as a serious Baggie-lover can be so confusing at times, not to mention bloody irritating (see paragraph above!). Delicate negotiations conducted between both interested parties, their representatives, Uncle Tom Cobbley and all kicked off the moment both Mogga and our chairman mutually decide that Fred Bloggs is just the right bloke to get us into the higher sphere: the overall amenability of our transfer target to a possible Hawthorns move alternately waxing and waning with every passing minute. ?He loves, us, he loves us not: he loves us, he loves us not?.? Et cetera, et cetera?..

Just as maddening as the avalanche of so-called ?expert health advice? that descends upon us each and every morning, courtesy all the major media, if you like. One minute pregnant women are told liver is good for them, as it contains lots of scrummy vitamins, the next they?re told to stay the hell away, as excessive amounts of vitamins A and D can harm an unborn child! Take loads of vitamin C if you?ve got a cold, the medics used to shriek, no sooner had the leaves fallen from the trees ? er, no, belay that one: we?ve now found it does sod-all to keep your nasal passages snot-and-sneeze-free, so don?t waste your money on the stuff when next in Boots, OK? Talk about sending out mixed messages?..

Confused and bedazzled by all that conflicting info, and with your sole remaining desire just to indulge in a wee bitsy nightcap prior to walking up the wooden hill to Bedfordshire? I wouldn?t if I were you, squire: even just two drinks a day can bring on bowel, breast, mouth and oesophagus cancer, if recent prognostications of eggheads are to be believed. Oh sod it, then, you say, reaching for your mobile to make a call, any call, through sheer desperation.

Not so fast, feller-me-lad?? The jury?s still out on the potential for harm that exists, and your naughty bits could be frying merrily even as I pen this very piece - and the same applies to the masts that relay calls to the mobile currently lurking in your back pocket. Everyone scoffs about their alleged ability to frazzle your brain beyond repair courtesy microwave radiation, but show me a healthcare professional willing to have one in their own garden, and I?ll show you a Dingle with the letters Ph.D after their name. And I haven?t even bothered to get started on the (conflicting and contentious) potential hazards of eating badly cooked meat, drinking coffee in quantity, or, for that matter, having the great misfortune to encounter former Sheffield United Chief Looney Neil Warnock B.F. (Hons.) (Rampton) out on the street!

Actually, I lied about the last one: he?s probably a very nice man who visits his dear old Mum every Sunday, without fail, and while he?s at it, sees loads of creaky old duffers over the pelican crossings at the end of the street, just for fun. Note well that doom-laden word ?probably?, mind: even those ghastly Krays had a bit of a reputation for being nice to old ladies!

The point I?m trying to make here is that nothing in life is ?nailed-on certain?, and the fortunes, actual or anticipated, of professional football teams doubly so. Last February, we were sitting pretty, right on top of the heap, and our places assuredly booked on the Automatic Promotion Special: come the merry (and very soggy) month of May, the best we could hope to achieve by then was a play-off place, and even that in doubt until the last day, almost. Entry to a lottery by any other name, in other words: as we were all to discover in North London, Derby County proved to be masters of the situation come the day of the Grand Prize Draw. As for us, I guess we just plain mislaid our winning ticket on the journey to the nation?s capital city.

Still, another opening day, another dollar, everyone issued with a blank canvas in pristine condition, recently-purchased top-notch artists? materials awaiting their final destiny, and everyone no doubt raring to go. In our situation, it?s not so much about what you?re told to paint upon that canvas, it?s all about the quality and quantity of the materials you purchase to maximise your chances of achieving a happy outcome for all.

Mind you, before nary a ball?s been kicked in anger, even, the knockers have been well and truly at it already. Example? The story reached my ear just the other day ? well, it came from The Fart, actually - that someone ringing one of the local radio football phone-in programmes just before Wembley entered into a bet with the host of said programme (by mutual agreement, all proceeds strictly to charity, to be absolutely fair to the pair of them) that Albion wouldn?t make it into the top flight. Spot on, he was, so the host had to stump up, and some voluntary sector organisation somewhere benefited handsomely as a result.

But that wasn?t the end of the matter: just a couple of weeks ago, this same guy called the station concerned again, entered into yet another wager with the same presenter, and on similar terms to before, but on this occasion, the bet was one to the effect that Albion wouldn?t win ANY of their opening ten games! Think about that one for a moment, then think about the talent that still remains at The Hawthorns, despite the recent plethora of rats sighted jumping Baggie ship.

I?ve since been given to understand (Thanks again, Mister Fart!) that the studio?s acoustics and electronics proved totally incapable of coping with the sheer volume of raucous laughter emanating from the collective lips of all the non-Premiership supporter representatives gathered there to give the programme a little extra ?pazzaz?. Albion fail to win ANY of their first ten? Even the Dingles chappie sniggered on hearing that one. Do me a favour. The guy?s got to be totally puddled ? and I?m not just referring to the watery aftermath of the recent floods, either!

Silly season or not, there?s now less than seven days to go before we all start tearing our hair out in adrenalin-fuelled quantities again. Pre-season preparations now happily concluded, it?s all down to Mogga and those eleven blokes paid bloody good money to kick a bag of wind around the field of play, and no-one else. So much at stake, this time round. Stuff up, and those vital ?parachute payments? dry up. When there?s that sort of finance fuelling your efforts to achieve escape velocity, life?s so much easier, isn?t it? But once it?s finished?.. Quite.

Still, nearly all this column?s preparations are complete: the only thing that remains for me to do this week is to purchase notebooks and pens sufficient to ensure my note-taking matchday activities won?t be hindered by an unexpected stationery crisis. That, and continually scouring Black Country estate agents? websites, as part of our unceasing search for a perfect (and much larger) Shangri-La. Today, our reconnaissance efforts centred upon the Wordsley area, and sundry properties located within a reasonable radius thereof. Again, we were wonderfully lucky with the weather: a glorious afternoon beckoned, making both driving and viewing a highly pleasurable experience, for once.

Today, we ran the rule over a list of four or five ?possibles? we?d recently culled from the internet: not merely a quick look at the advertised property, mind, more an appraisal of the entire area in greater depth. No hills to climb, shops nearby, off a main road but within easy walking distance of public transport, doctors? surgery and chemist also within reasonable walking distance: those were the boxes we had to tick before proceeding to examine the area properly. That, and one?s gut feelings about what actually made the place pleasant to visit, or otherwise. Needless to say, the slightest evidence the neighbourhood harboured a nest of Dingles, and my vengeful pen immediately struck said property from the list for good!

Having done all that, and wetted our whistles in a very pleasant boozer up close and personal with one of the properties on our list, it was back to sunny Bearwood, and yet more of that godawful magnolia paint! At the time of writing, we?ve actually managed to finish three of the four walls, so it only remains now for us to slap the remainder onto the fourth, which will happen tomorrow evening, presumably. As for our poor mistreated PC, it?s little short of a miracle that in our haste to finish the job before complete insanity finally set in, we never ended up with rather more of the stuff than we?d bargained for nestling within its uncomplaining innards! As it was, in order for me to get this piece launched into cyberspace, my long suffering other half had to first disentangle all the strands of wiring ?spaghetti? piled up under the table upon which our faithful steed rested, then reconnect everything again. Rather him than me, poor sod.

And that?s about it for tonight, I reckon. Expect to see me ?producing? again the evening prior to our Turf Moor opener: after such great promise shown by several of the new lads yesterday, Mogga?s first team selection of season 2007-08 should prove quite illuminating!

And Finally?.. One. Hands up all those who have personal recollections of current Spurs manager Martin Jol in his former incarnation as an Albion player, then. Where did you meet him, then, was it prior to a game, or after? How did he come across to you? Keen to trip the light fantastic in a local nightclub? Articulate, or just plain rude? Found guilty of intellectual activity by a ?court? consisting of fellow players? Willing and eager to press the flesh with supporters, or constantly on the visual alert for the sign marked EXIT?

All hail-fellow-well-met with team-mates when in the pub, never, ever stingy when it came to his round, or possessing a wallet not a million miles away from the miniature fortification (complete with combination locks, with a timer for back-up, naturally) constantly toted by Steve The Miser? I once came across the guy in the West Bromwich branch of WH Smith, around 1983, it was. One of the few occasions I?ve ever seen a professional footballer scouring their shelves in search of some half-decent reading matter, in fact. That?s my main recollection of the guy when wearing ?civvies?, then - so how was it for you?

That?s the basic outline of the sort of thing I?m looking for: now for the deal. ?Im Indoors urgently requires lots of background information about our no-nonsense defender so he can come up with some original stuff about the lad for a forthcoming piece he?s penning. If you can assist us in any way, your contribution, no matter how big, small, relevant, or otherwise, it might appear right now, would be very gratefully received by my other half. Either email us via the contact details given on this site, or if a ?bespoke? client of mine, simply mail me in the normal way. That is the end of this Public Service Broadcast. BEEEEEPPPP!

Two?.. Better whisper this one quietly, folks: no names, no pack-drill, lest the salient details leak out and frighten the horses and servants??That sneaky beaky Amanda Miles, she of Sutton Branch Albion SC, has struck oil again! Yet another wizzo guest speaker lined up for their September meeting, this one being a prospect so juicy, my salivary glands are already producing in copious amounts by way of anticipation. How the hell does she do it? Let me put it this way: should any of you ever have to persuade loads of Islamic people to adopt a pork-based diet, just give Mandy a bell, OK? Problem? What problem?..

 - Glynis Wright

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