The Diary

30 August 2007: Visited By A Virgin - Then The Big Sleep Followed!

Greetings again, peeps. So, how was last night for you, then? A post-match re-entry through your own front door, silly grin on face, a quick tootle on Ceefax or the internet to catch up with all the rest of the latest League Cup scandal hitting the airwaves, then straight to bed, and almost-instantaneous immersion in a choice selection of those wonderfully unlikely/extremely silly football-inspired dreams that grab you in your sleep from time to time?

Aw, you know, the ones you get, courtesy of a post half-decent Cup win optimism rush (should be designated a Class-A drug, I reckon, ?optimism?, the same as smack), of making it all the way to that funny place in North London where we lost last May, the one with the weird and wonderful arch over the top of the ground, like the rainbow that so inspired little Dorothy, and microscopic mutt Toto, in The Wizard Of Oz? (Any chance of hearing Mogga, backed by a choir consisting of all our directors, singing: ?Somewhere, Over The Stadium?, chaps?) Or, as I did, getting back from Peterborough around one in the morning ? we?d taken time out to drop The Fart off at his place, right after getting off the coach, around half an hour it took, there and back ? then spending the next six hours or so cursing like a trooper as one of our PC?s, the one we?d so recently picked up from our IT chum after giving us no end of grief last season, carefully selected the most inconvenient moments it could to crash? If that?s the guy?s definition of ?cured?, I?d sure hate to be around to hear him declare something ?ill?.

While there was no danger of actually losing the stuff I?d already committed to silicon chip (having had our fingers burnt badly in the past, we?ve now got a widgery-gadget on both machines that automatically saves everything as we go, and boy, has it proven a sanity-saver, these last twelve months or so!), my main problem was getting the thing to boot up afterwards: the slightest of constitutional upsets, or what it imagined to be a concerted attack on its errant innards, and down it would go again. And not just the once: maddening to a degree was its tantalising tendency to only get ?half-booted?, before crashing back to Square One (now there?s a term with its roots lost in the mists of footballing antiquity ? if I remember, I?ll explain later), once more. Or, much worse because it gave me the merest scintilla of hope, completing, say, 95% of the process, before ? yes, down the hill tumbled Jack, once more, right to the very bottom.

Disheartening? Yup, especially when it?s around two or three in the morning, and all you want to do is get the sodding job finished, then grab some much-needed shut-eye. Admittedly, the problem didn?t affect me quite as badly as when ?Im Indoors tried to use the thing, earlier tonight ? crashed fourteen flaming times, he told me later, gritted teeth very much in evidence, tolerance rapidly wearing paper-thin ? but enough to try even the embryonic patience of a YTS trainee saint, I reckon.

The upshot of all that was simple: what should have taken me around three hours to sort out from start to finish, took a tad over double the time allocated instead. The really bad news was that we?d previously arranged for the nice chappy from Virgin Communications to call in between eight and midday this morning ? and I?d completely forgotten about that, what with the game and everything. Just as well hubby reminded me, as we carted The Fart home, last night. That very same morning, I was also expecting a registered package from The Noise, posted Tuesday morning, and containing his stilecard. A signature, and hence my physical presence in our house, was required for that, also.

You can see where this is going, can?t you? The notorious boulder-strewn road, clearly signposted, that leads the weary to the twin municipalities of ?Knackered? and ?No Sleep?. Having finally dispatched all three versions of this piece to their various destinations, it was well into sun-up by then, with what half-polluted birds we still have round these parts coughing their bloody beaks off in a pale imitation of the Dawn Chorus, and the flowers in our garden clearly visible below. His Nibs, getting up for work, expressed some surprise to find me typing, still, so then I had to explain what were basically trying circumstances for me, to him. Not easy, and in retrospect, the whole thing resembling a divinely-ordered task allocated to a certain Greek gentleman galled Sisyphus, who upset the gods so much, he was condemned, for all eternity, to push a massive stone to nearly the top of a hill, only to see it roll down to the bottom once more, meaning, in effect, the poor sweaty lad had to start all over again. Or, mucking out the Augean stables. A bit like taking on the job of Albion manager, really.

Luckily for me and the matchsticks carefully placed under my half-closed eyelids, my eagerly-awaited ?Virgin chappie? ? erm ? ?came? around half-ten. The problem proved to be dead simple (well, it had to be for me to understand it!), just a matter of replacing the rectangular box of tricks that sat so nicely below our TV set, the brand-new one quietly re-programming all the aberrant electronics that make these devices do such outlandish things in the first place, then the nice man saying ?arrivederci?, or something like that. So, that was problem Number One out of the way: what about Number Two?

Luckily, no sooner had I closed the door on my first caller, then updated my other half, the doorbell rang again. Ah, the postie! Right first time, and bearing gifts, in this case, the registered package I needed ? or, being slightly more pedantic about the issue than normal, what The Noise needed. Why the request for his stilecard? We need it for an attempt to grab him a Scunthorpe ticket when they go on sale to home season-ticket holders, come Saturday morning, that?s why. Apparently, in this matter, Scunny have shown all the parsimony of Steve The Miser, and a lot more besides. Only 1,600 up for grabs, total, as I understand it, so getting hold of four is going to be a bit of a sod. The only thing to do will be to arrive at the Ticket Office early, and hope for the best. Let?s hope we?re successful: Scunny is one of the few remaining League grounds ? around five or six, all told - I have to get in to complete the ?full set?, and the same applies to The Noise.

Needless to say, once the door closed on Postie, down went my weary head ? and I didn?t raise it again until around tea-time! Bar for one of those annoying calls where the person at the other end insists you have won a marvellously-sexy prize worth zillions, and all you have to do to lay hands on the money is send a ?20 ?handling fee? to the people concerned, address helpfully given. And without the delicious satisfaction, as in days of old, of first telling the caller to go to Hell, then detailing their most likely itinerary, unfortunately. All such calls are IT-generated these days, so yelling back would have been a pointless exercise in the extreme.

Later still, we both saw the second half of the Bristol City-Man City League Cup thrash on our newly-functional TV set. Interesting to note the fundamental difference in temperament between the two gaffers, when they both got goals they badly needed. Cut to Barry Fry-clone Gary Johnson hugging life, the universe and everything when City hit the jackpot: cut to Sven Goran Eriksson when the ?other? City finally came up with the goods, and ? errr ? what you got by way of contrast was the merest of enigmatic smiles, nothing more, nothing less. Had that Swedish gentleman been around at the time Leonardo painted the Mona Lisa, then the unknown but inscrutable lady who sat for the painting would have been unceremoniously ditched in favour of Sven?s somewhat understated, yet strangely photogenic, ways of showing total delight, I?ll bet.

Still, at least we?re in the pot for the next round, when the real big boys come in ? when is it, by the way? The draw, I mean? No details given on Sky, tonight, unusually for them, so I guess I?m going to have to hang loose until our fate is decided. I can?t see anything on the Albion website, so it?s now a case of trying the Football League equivalent: being the organisers, if they haven?t any details, then there?s little hope for anyone, is there? LATE NEWS?..Aha! Now I have the answer: try Sky?s Soccer Saturday programme, around 12.15 pm. The draw?s being done there and then. An awkward time for those on the move to away games to check it out, but consideration for the game?s grass-root followers doesn?t feature prominently anywhere, these days. As our cats are all incapable of performing useful services for us, like turning on the TV, dialling up Sky, then making us aware of our fate via the phone, then it?s going to be down to Jayne ringing The Noise with the info we want, I fear.

Additional thoughts about last night? I was impressed with both Greening and Alby, the latter hardly ever putting a foot wrong all night, as I saw it. The Duke? See below. Kiely was up for it when it really mattered, and even Chappy?s distribution was a smidgen less erratic than usual. It was also good to see the return of Robert Koren after that daft eye injury of his. Zoltan Gera? Sure, you could have almost driven a 74 bus through the middle of the space Posh gave him, just before he potted, but what never ceases to amaze me about the guy, is his amazing ability to leap head and shoulders above everyone else. That, plus those trademark goal celebrations of his, indicate not a little talent for gymnastics, a handy sort of India-rubbery limbed skill when you?re up close and personal with opponents in the thick of the six-yard area. Clem, who must be Albion?s longest-serving player by now, was also instrumental in bringing yesterday?s game to a successful conclusion, having a hand in both goals. A metaphorical one, I mean.

Jared Hodgkiss also stood out for me, the reason for which is simple ? after a lengthy period of time, when it was all-too perceptible that the first-team coaching staff didn?t want to bother with bringing on likely kids, it?s good to see Albion actively encouraging young players to make a concerted assault upon a first-team place again. As for young Jared, once he?s got a little more experience under his belt, he?ll be fine.

Is it my imagination, or is Craig Beatty experiencing a little difficulty adjusting to the demands of this kind of football? It?s a bit worrying, to see him repeatedly missing the sort of stuff he ought to be potting in his sleep. Or is it simply down to one of those really rotten barren spells that tend to descend upon strikers from time to time? Mind you, perhaps it?s wrong to single Beattie out in this fashion: players like Texieriea were equally guilty of lacking sufficient killer instinct to finish the job. Equally disconcerting was the way Peterborough managed to unpick our defence in the second half. What really saved us was their inability to hit a barn door at twelve paces: had their aim been marginally better, the win might well have been a task of considerable difficulty.

But those are only slight criticisms: the important thing is that those players in regular contention have now had an additional 90 minutes to get to know one another?s playing styles a little better. With any luck, our newbies might finally hit pay-dirt at the expense of Barnsley, come Saturday. ?Twould be nice to hit ?em with another non-stop barrage, as per the last time we played them on our own turf, of course, but not wishing to be on the receiving end of yet another stonking, no doubt, The Tykes will have taken suitable ? erm ? ?precautions?, this time round.

Incidentally, the attrition rate of both Premier League and Championship clubs in the current competition has been pretty high, thus far. Might be enough to keep us away from a side who are actually expected to win the thing, in the short term, but on the other hand, there?s always the danger of encountering the likes of Morecambe in the next round. Much as I admire their carefully cultivated Dingle-demolition skills ? even now, some 30 hours after the final whistle at Molineux, I can still feel the tears of mirth welling up from within, like sap in spring! - they can practice on someone else next time, if it?s all the same to you, squire! Coo, we could even end up with ? Aargh, whisper it quietly, lest the children and servants become unduly cranky ? a little Cup run, all of our very own.

His Nibs told me tonight that when he went to St. Andrews, Hereford - players, supporters, everyone - were really up for it: with twenty minutes remaining, and a goal pulled back, every single one of those 2,000 away followers was pulling for the Bulls, making the atmosphere a real knife-edge job. Every time the visitors got a corner, there was an enormous surge of emotion, a real ?Come on, we can do this!? spirit about their followers. A bit like the way we used to do it back in the days when a Baggies Cup run seemed virtually assured, irrespective of League fortunes.

Turning much closer to home again, it would appear I called it dead right concerning The Duke?s much-improved performance last night. His transfer to Watford today for a cool ?4.25 million means a little more cash burning a hole in the Baggies? coffers; whether or not Mogga might be tempted to dip a tentative toe into the icy financial waters one last time before the deadline, I don?t rightly know, but last night certainly proved something of a swansong for our former player.

Whether the move provides the necessary impetus for the lad to get his career restarted again remains to be seen: without doubt, the prospect of moving on seemed to add considerable fire to his London Road game last night, resulting in that much-needed goal, and a lot of other useful work performed also. What a shame he couldn?t reproduce that sort of form on a regular basis for us. The entire matter does beg the question of whether Ellington can perform for the Vicarage Road outfit. Or will some other perceived slight, genuine or otherwise, cast another shadow over his undoubted goalscoring talents, over the weeks and months to come? The crux of the matter revolves around the fact that Ellington is, without question, quite capable of achieving much, much more than we?ve ever seen from him here: now he has to go out and prove it.

The other Hawthorns matter still outstanding, of course, is Curtis Davis: just two days remaining for someone riding a white charger to come and take him away from the Championship, but not exactly thunderous hordes of prospective punters desperately wanting a bit of the action, any more, are there? Or are Spurs (and others also rumoured to be interested) simply keeping their powder dry until the very last minute? Not long until we finally get some answers, I guess. And not long either, until Friday, when I?ll be poking my big long stick at Saturday?s encounter with Barnsley. Should anything sensational happen on the last day of the window, I may produce then, but otherwise, expect to see me back at the end of the week.

And Finally?.. Now for the explanation of ?Square One? I promised you. Back in the Thirties, broadcast football commentary was in its infancy, and still evolving ways of letting the listener know exactly what was happening on the field of play. Then, some unsung genius came up with the following idea: why not publish a ?map? in the Radio Times, in which the playing area was divided up into a series of numbered squares, from one to six, if my memory serves me correctly. What the commentator would do then was indicate the progress of both ball and players by referring to the appropriate square on the ?map?.

All the listener had to do then was refer to the same squares in his/her Radio Times, as appropriate. Those deep in a side?s own half of the pitch, and therefore closely concerned with defending that goal, had low numbers. Result? When attacks broke down, and the bell ended up being played out by the defending side, the ball was said by the commentator to have gone ?straight back to Square One?, hence the present-day meaning of the phrase, ?back to the beginning?. Never let it be said that this piece is not educational!

 - Glynis Wright

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