The Diary

18 August 2007: Where Have All The Brummie Gone?

Qualification for last night?s Second Round draw apart ? Peterborough, away, which I?ll probably go to, hubbie or no hubbie, as it?s been quite some time since I last experienced the heady delights of London Road, with or without the late King?s mate, Barry Fry - I suppose that the really good thing about Tuesday night?s win was being able to embark upon my normal morning-after-game perambulations around town with a pleasant smile on my face, which isn?t always the case following an Albion game, of course.

One of my first Wednesday ports of call was the Bluenose Butcher, natch: as I walked through his shop door (premises theoretically closed, but owner patiently awaiting deliveries of peculiarly-shaped bits of cow carcass) I saw him busily engaged in the muscle-rippling process of reducing whacking great sides of beef to Sunday roast-size, which meant his little chopper going at near-light speed in order to keep local housewives beaming bounteously regarding their ? erm ? ?weekend requirements?.

To give the Bluenose his due, he did cease and desist from such alarmingly aggressive activity no sooner he heard my sweet and dulcet tones, and immediately wanted news as to how our game had gone. This I supplied, more or less in the form you saw it the other night, but he, of course, had his mind on Other Things, i.e. their inaugural home game of this, their new Premier League season, versus Sunderland.

To me, he expressed certain severe misgivings about the outcome of their game that night, which just about hit the spot: having now seen Sunderland?s last-gasp equaliser on TV for myself? and having taken in the evidence for the ?prosecution?, I could readily appreciate why squidgems-widgems cuddly BrucieBabes had been so scathing of Roy Keane?s lot, post-match.

As is ever the case with these things, St. Andrews defector Stern John was the perpetrator of Sunderland?s last-gasp damage, the one that lingers forever on the score-sheets, but his point-winning strike was given an almighty assist by a Sunderland player half-flattening Blues keeper Colin Doyle a fraction of a second before the former Bluenose man-mountain buried the shot. Unsurprisingly, the Small Heath persuasion (literally) cried ?foul? ? well, it takes one to know one, doesn?t it? ? but the ref was having none of it. Never mind, chaps - but that?s the Premier League for you. Remember?

Then, it was off to our Baggie-lovin? pharmacist ? only he wasn?t there! Taken a crafty day off, and his daughter, also a pharmacist, left in charge of all lotions and potions instead. Believe it or not, every single member of that family ? Mum, dad, at least two grown kids I?m aware of - are all qualified chemists, and Dev?s nine year old twin grandchildren also wanting to wield the old pill rollers and medicine bottles, in due course, apparently. Bet they never run short of headache remedies in their family.

Anyway, it turned out that Dev was playing golf that murky morning. ?Whaaaat?? I screeched, ?In THAT?? ?That?, dear reader, was the vertical sheet of near-monsoon-proportions rainwater running down the outside of his shop window, signifying his performance of an act of completely-certifiable madness, in my book. Surely a bang-to-rights case of ?pill-pedlar, heal thyself?, if ever there was one?

Shaking my head in further awe and wonderment, I then added, ?Go on, now you?ll tell me he was wearing a frogman?s suit and flippers when he went out?? Not quite, apparently, according to the apple of his paternal eye, but ? yep ? his daughter thinks him equally daft for doing it, which is comforting to know, I suppose.

The third stop on my list was The Villa Butcher, some hundred yards or so further down the main drag. The old man behind the counter is a complete and utter dyed-in-the-blubber Seal, but the younger ones seem to have acquired a little more taste and discretion along the way, what with both of them regularly asking me for Baggies updates whenever I call in for yet another ?fix? of their excellent streaky bacon, rind on. Yet another conversation started, this time about the sheer number of players brought to The Hawthorns thus far ? eleven, is it, now, counting Messrs. Miller and Brunt (see below)? Anyway, as you?ll have readily appreciated from the above, you?ll not be too surprised to hear that what normally takes me around 20 minutes, there and back, to accomplish on normal weekdays, now takes me twice or three times as long when the Baggies have been in action the previous night.

And so, back to the present. In the 48 hours or so that have elapsed since I last hit the airwaves, we?ve seen yet more feverish Baggie-based activity in the transfer and loan market, which is why my conversation with the Villa Butcher et. al was rendered obsolete even as I spoke. The latest ?emigrant? is, of course, young Stuart Nicholson, by virtue of being loaned out to Shrewsbury for the remainder of the season, so as to get some regular first-team football under his belt, I suppose. Now they have spankin? new - and BONE-DRY! - premises, at least it?s not a prerequisite for aspirant Shrews players to be strong swimmers any more, which will undoubtedly be an almighty relief to the lad.

But not to young Carly Lewis, it would seem: yet another teen heart-throb bitten the dust, poor lamb. Oh, dear, youthful angst: listening to Carly?s poignant (but frequent!) paeans of unrequited love for her own personal favourites never fails to get the years peeling away like onion layers on the old chopping-board, as far as I?m concerned. Was I really like that, back in the halcyon days of Astle, Hope, Clark, Brown and all stations west? Dearie, dearie me.

One out, two in, then, the former being Man City?s 20 year-old striker Ishmael (what a lovely forename, very Biblical, that ? is it also something to do with Moby Dick, perchance?) Miller. One for the future, apparently, which is why we?ve gone for a season-long loan, with a view to buy at the end of the ?trial period?. The latter of our recent transfer market captures? That headline writer?s wet dream ? as per ?Bearing The Brunt Of The Action?, or similar, anyone? - Northern Ireland international Chris Brunt, who relinquished Owl status to become a Throstle instead. With his instantaneous change from bird-of-prey to song bird, he left Hillsbrough for an ? erm ? ?song?, in this case, some three million squid, give or take the odd shekel, or three.

The good news on the medical front is that Robert Koren might well be back in contention much sooner than was previously thought, after his somewhat bizarre training-ground accident recently. Come on, Robert, do get a grip. I?ve heard of exhortations to ?keep your eye on the ball?, but isn?t an attempt to ?keep the ball in your eye? going a tad too far for comfort, mate?

It being our first home League game of the new season, I shall regard the size of the crowd with great interest, tomorrow. Sure, there?ll be a whole lot of Baggie people carbonising their flesh on the shores of Sunny Spain, right now, but what?s really important is the numbers that elect to make this game on a casual basis. And there?s yet another aspect of Saturday?s gate I shall be watching very closely, too: the number of ?singing? Baggies defecting from the Brummie, and taking up residence in the Smethwick instead.

It would seem to me, sadly, that over the course of the last few seasons, a steady but furtive flight from one to the other has been taking place, with the inevitable result being a rapid deterioration in the overall quality of noise and atmosphere produced in the Brummie during home games, recent Dingles play-off game apart, of course.

Increasingly, it?s to the Smethwick you turn when there?s serious amounts of noise to be made, or names chanted, something which runs totally contrary to my own Brummie-oriented instincts. Ever since the mid-sixties, the Birmingham Road End, to give the stand its proper title, has constituted a large part of my supporting life. Not because I was a habitual standee there, mind (being of smaller build than most, my preference has always been for either (standing) The Woodman Corner, or (seated, and much older, by then), The Rainbow Stand), but because of its sheer fascination, from the crowd psychology point of view.

Increasingly, the Smethwick is becoming the place where it?s at for active supporters, it would seem. Very soon, what I once took to be normal will be naught but a whole bunch of fun memories culled from my distant youth. Examples? Well, there?s the mid-to-late sixties, with ?Sammy? and his cowboy-hatted ?apprentice? precariously poised upon a crush barrier in the middle of the Brummie, the pair of them ?conducting? in the best traditions of then-Proms maestro Sir Malcolm Sargent, from what was, at best, a risky perch. How the hell they didn?t end up in hospital as a result of sheer over-enthusiasm, I?ll never know. But the concept worked as a whole, and we had a bostin? side at that time, so the two of them were never short of ?bookings?. Wonderful days.

We all know of the Brummie?s passionate support for the lads, of course, come wind, rain, tornado, earthquake, or Brooksie letting off a particularly foul specimen of gaseous ordure at the back, even, but how many of you remember the Saturday the entire end erupted with ?Sausage Aggro?, I wonder?

What I am about to relate ? I have mentioned it previously, in the fanzine, I think, but so chuckle-making was the incident at the time, I reckon it well deserves dredging up once more - came about as the result of a local butcher?s Spiffing Wheeze to drum up some much-needed publicity for his piggy products. And, boy ? did it backfire, with unintentionally hilarious results.

The game, versus Swansea, took place in the early eighties, and prior to kick-off, our meaty pal had arranged for a phalanx of scantily-clad dolly-birds to head for the Brummie, then, with the PA giving them the necessary name-check, chucking lots of packets of prime porkers into the crowds gathered there.

At first, everything went according to plan, the lobbed bangers being caught by gourmet supporters possessing a fielding ability which would have had Warwickshire selectors going green with envy, had they been there at the time. And, once their baskets had emptied, off went the glamorous (half-frozen nipples and all: yes, it was bloody cold, that day!) part of the action. But as they took their bosomy leave, within the Brummie itself, something else was happening to their recently-deposited meaty largesse - and it wasn?t a barbecue, either.

Remember how, during school dinners, even humble spoonfuls of lumpy mashed potatoes could acquire undreamed-of ballistic properties when wielded by kids with more than just a hint of the homicidal psychopath about them? Well, just extend your train of thought a little further, and apply it to The Shrine that day. Before too long, sizeable lumps of sausage-meat were flying around like shrapnel in Helmand Province, and the entire area rapidly assuming the character of a more-than-unusually-messy slapstick comedy.

But it didn?t stop there: within a matter of minutes, yet another easy target presented itself to the lads (yes, and lasses!) doing the furtive chucking, and one much more satisfying to hit, it has to be said. (Oh ? and the Swansea keeper got a basinful, as well, but even custodial Jack-hood has to take second place, sometimes.) Yep, you?ve guessed it, all those big butch West Midlands Police happily going about their constabulary duties on the running track in front, rapidly re-designated ?Target For Tonight? by those now in possession of the aforementioned porcine cylindrical items.

Result? It didn?t take too long for once-pristine uniforms to become badly bespattered with accoutrements that had never once enjoyed the approval of the Chief Constable: let?s face it, saluting shoulder-borne sausage-meat isn?t a contingency normally covered in the Police Drill Manual, is it? All that, plus an hilarious chant of, ?Hello, Hello ? Sausage Aggro, Sausage Aggro?.? chucked in for good measure. The plods might not have found it very funny, but we certainly did.

So, with such a wonderful past history, and long traditions of generation after generation of lusty Black Country youths taking the place of those moving to other parts of the ground, for whatever reason, to uphold ? why is the Brummie rapidly acquiring ?endangered species? status, I wonder? The completely overzealous, at times, stewarding? Gradual gentrification after we reached the Prem for the first time, around five seasons ago? Formerly fanatical supporters getting married, having kids of their own etc. and realising that their newly-acquired family mattered far more than the varying fortunes of their local football club? The quantum leap in admission costs seen post-Premier League? The universal advent of all-seater stadia, as per the conclusions of the Taylor Report, post-Hillsbrough, finally sounding the death-knell for supporter-led chanting?

And there?s yet another possible cause to consider, Brummie ?regulars? not wanting to expose their children to lung-busting concentrations of tobacco smoke found drifting towards the back, on matchdays? That?s what at least one former ?chorister? told us once ? and, yes, I know, it?s a no-smoking place throughout, these days, is The Hawthorns, but Health Police interference or not, the damage has now been well and truly done. None, some, or all of these? Search me, guv. Anyone else out there with a mind replete with better ideas? If so, I?d like to hear ?em.

Certainly, one of the most enduring and poignant memories of the Brummie I have, still, is of the late spring evening when, back in 1993, we saw off play-off semi opponents Swansea City ? yep, ?them? again! - to notch up our sixth Wembley appearance. The seats were still a figment of some architect?s vivid imagination, of course, and the Brummie indisputably ?Standing Room Only?, still, but during the closing moments of that game, when Swansea had ?gone? (well, former Albionite Colin West certainly had!) and ours the sole remaining power and glory, my abiding memory is of the whole lot, some 10,000 strong, literally undulating like some primitive organ when seen under the microscope, as they ?boinged? themselves towards that final whistle, and complete ecstasy. ?Top that, if you can!?? thought I, but moments later, they did.

With a depth of feeling truly frightening to behold, out came a lusty rendition of the 23rd Psalm, the passion and poignancy of which I?ve not seen or heard since. The subtext of their message was this: the dark days had finally gone, and our favourite football club would soon, very, very soon, regain the road to its proper birthright, the highest possible sphere in English football. Brought real shivers to the spine it did, not to mention copious amounts of tears to the eyes, and you know what? I?d defy any committed Baggie in that ground, that night, to say any different.

There endeth my Requiem For The Brummie. Moving rapidly forwards to 2007 what?s to happen when the Deepdale mob hit town, tomorrow afternoon? Of those who turned out in the stripes last Tuesday evening, alongside permanent-custodial fixture Kiely, I would imagine that the likes of Paul Robinson (normally, those who want to leave because of their prolonged worship of Mammon get pretty short shrift from me, but he did give it everything on Tuesday night), Greening, Cesar, Alby, Hoefkens, Craig Beattie (Pickwickian-style sideburns are so ?all the rage? this season, so Hawthorns fashion buffs tell me!), Teixeira, Gera, Barnett, Pele, Uncle Tom Baggie and all, will be booked for a ?repeat performance?.

Tinhino could easily wind up second choice to Robbo, thanks to the latter?s gritty form versus Bournemouth the other night. Chappy? He?s got a nasty foot injury, his availability currently doubtful. Want-away Curtis Davies? More chance of a full-blown Second Coming taking place high above the stadium, I reckon. His selection fate was sealed the moment he ceased knuckling down to whatever delights the new season had in store, and started pushing for a departure to glitzier climes instead.

Ever get the impression that the one thing our gaffer can?t abide is unsettled players not wanting to give of their best for the side? If potential ?investors? do suddenly blow cold, it might even be that the lad ends the month ?shooting himself in the foot? regarding getting away. It has been known to occur, and not necessarily to those whose names aren?t household ones, either. If so, it?s going to be one lonely, almighty long haul to January for ?dispossessed? Curtis, and the next possible place on that outgoing lifeboat.

Kev Phillips will renew a newly-minted striking partnership with his Scots counterpart, presumably, which could then leave wallflower Ellington stuck on the bench once more, eagerly awaiting an invitation from the dance-floor, come the start of the next Striker?s Excuse Me Foxtrot. Or not. Poor, clearly-troubled, Clem? Will he also await the nation?s call from that same vantage point, I wonder?

New-bug Miller, ditto, and at hot-and-cold Ellington?s expense? Goalkeeper Kiely apart, with such a wealth of talent for Mogga to choose from these days, unless there?s a completely radical sea-change in terms of form on the part of every contender, either upwards or downwards, not one first-team player can consider their place in the side truly ?bomb-proof?, which is as it should be, in my reckoning.

As I pointed out on Tuesday night, the remaining big question will revolve around the visitors, and how they?ll react after that embarrassing League Cup exit at the hands of new-kids-on-the-block Morecambe. Something tells me they?re going to come out of the blocks tomorrow feeling that they owe their supporters a ?biggie?, which could mean a pretty nasty ninety minutes for our troops, in store, not to mention all their camp followers ? and that means us. I genuinely hope I?m wrong, of course, but the signs are all there.

Tomorrow?s game should also see the return of Darren Carter to his old stamping-ground. Not always flavour of the month with our supporters, unfortunately, some of which could be down to his previous Small Heath incarnation, of course ? but he did have his moments, not least of which was his superb winning goal versus The Arse at our place, in what now seems a lifetime ago.

Whenever Baggie ball hits back of opposition net, ever have an overwhelming feeling of wanting to make mad passionate love to the person perpetrating the damage, there and then? Happens an awful lot to this column when the ?victims? are decked out in old-gold-and-cack or claret-and-spew, of course. but when the joke?s at the expense of a side managed by a bloke universally acknowledged to be the most-wall-eyed, tunnel-visioned bloke in Premier League football ? going by all the controversial incidents that Mister Magoo-soundalike Wenger FAILS to see during the course of a typical Arsenal season, surely a consultation with a good ophthalmologist is well-overdue? - then it?s got to be worth the ruination of a perfectly good pair of knickers, hasn?t it? Which neatly brings me back to that Carter-propelled scorcher of two seasons ago, of course, and why I?ll always reserve a small piece of my heart for the lad. Up yours, Wenger, and as for little Darren?.. Aw, bless!

Whatever else might happen tomorrow, we?ve got to start getting some scores on the doors, and soon: time, tide, and promotion places wait for no man, and all that jazz. Drop points big-time, and before you know it, you?ve got a mountain to climb. Plus, of course, the horrendous thought of our local rivals up the road gathering together all the bouquets, leaving we Baggies stuck firmly in the Outer Darkness, holding a torch containing a flat battery. Doesn?t even bear thinking about, does it?

And Finally?.. One. This evening, while my young great-nephew was eagerly trying to apply toy handcuffs to the reluctant wrists of the pair of us ? apparently, Ethan managed to irreversibly ?cuff his mum in similar circumstances a few years back, necessitating a swift but highly embarrassing knock on her neighbour?s door, and the loan of sharp cutters, which was why we were both playing it so cagey! ? we were busily engaged in conversation with my big sis about the likelihood of her seeing the Sheffield United game live on their cruise ship?s satellite TV network, next week.

Apparently, the last time she booked a cruise with the same company, and with yet another important Baggies game due to be shown live on the box, Premiership ?might? won out, and like it or lump it, those big screens in the bar ended up adorned with the likes of Abramovic?s Chelski, Mourhino, and all the rest of the West London glamour crew. Yuk.

But this time, there might well be mutinous moves afoot, me hearties! Not quite in the same league as Fletcher Christian and his little spat with Cap?n Bligh, breadfruit and all, ?tis true, but come all those pain-in-the-butt, rent-a-gob Londoners trying to acquire sole squatters? rights to the Big Screen next week ? there?s an international game on at the same time, as I understand it - they well might find themselves having to change tack very quickly indeed. What my sis and her hubby are hoping for is a sizeable Black Country presence on the boat, this time round. If the crew have anything about them at all, in the interests of world peace, they?ll be arranging viewing spots for TWO games next week as quick as you like, and not just catering to the Flash Harry persuasion!

Two? Some late news just in ? our PC ?general practitioner? has sent us a mail tonight declaring our poorly second machine, formerly receiving the electronic equivalent of ?intensive care? at that gentleman?s abode, and for more fraught months than I care to remember, now totally cured, and ready for collection next week! Whoopee!

 - Glynis Wright

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