The Diary

15 September 2007: "Watch My Lips (And Gannex Raincoat!) - This Will Not Affect The Stand In Your Pocket!..."

As the (very) late Harold Wilson once said, back in the days when four lovable mop-tops ruled the airwaves, and a Labour government actually meant what it said on the tin: ?A week is a long time in politics?. Well, something like that ? and just as it was a generation ago, in football, much the same thing can apply. Two midweek wins, and another sandwiched in the intervening period, and you?re top of the world, Ma. Conversely, three defeats, and you?re like James Cagney, atop that chemical storage tank in ?White Heat? ? atomised, blown to all four corners of the globe, within milliseconds.

But it?s not just the playing side of the game that succumbs to capriciousness, is it? Just seven days before, we were very much of the understanding that the Halfords was going to undergo the bulldozer and wrecking-ball treatment ere many more moons waxed and waned across the velvet-black night sky, but now it?s all about-face, and ? er ? nope, actually, but what we?re going to do is refurbish the whole thing instead. Doo wot? And here was me thinking, on pretty good authority too, that the entire wiring system within was completely knackered, irreparably so, in fact, consequently it was much more cost-effective to simply pulverise the whole thing into dust, then start all over again.

Yes ? a week?s a long time in football right enough. Long enough for Albion to finally cotton onto one basic fact we?d been mentioning for years, now: that our ground, even assuming present capacity, was ample accommodation enough for our current and future needs. Even when we were in the Prem, how many times did we actually fill the place to capacity, I wonder? I?m willing to bet that you can count the times on the gnarled and wizened fingers of one hand only: all the jazz about not getting enough bums on seats this season to make the enterprise worthwhile is so much dingbat?s doo-doo, quite frankly. With the season-ticket money already there up front, plus parachute payments, both last term?s and this one, and the profit realised from flogging players, plus what?s coming in via corporate sponsorship, TV money etc., money taken on the gate from customers turning up on ?spec? only represents but a small fraction of the whole.

But that?s but a minor issue, right now: before we can embark upon genuine improvements to the real estate we currently have, a secure toe-hold upon the Premier League is called for, something that?s becoming a bigger and bigger ?ask? with the passage of time. Just like the ever-increasing disparity between those on the breadline, and those raking it in, in fact, and for similar reasons. Those with the moolah are rocketing the asking price for everything Premiership ? players, their wages, peripheral expenses, such as accommodation when travelling away, medical bills, ancillary staff, etc. ? ever skywards, which means that those with upwardly-mobile ambitions are forever doomed to commence their ascent from an increasingly lowlier starting position, and therefore needing much more investment just to reach ?parking orbit?, comparatively speaking. As for those Premiership clubs already well established, the sheer amount of cash needed to progress to their next evolutionary stage, that of European competition, can quite easily bring clubs into nodding acquaintanceship with penury.

That?s what happened to Leeds: they automatically budgeted for income generated by qualification for the group stages of the Champions League ? then, with all their outgoings completely based upon that somewhat bold assumption, financial bridges completely burned, one season, they didn?t qualify. A bit like you or I spending on a credit card up to an anticipated amount garnered from one?s normal occupation ? then suddenly, getting the push from that particular job, and no possibility whatsoever of finding similar work. There are several clubs currently in the Prem whom I consider to be serious peril of that kind of fate overwhelming them: as any old-fashioned Black Country housewife would tell you, that?s what happens when ?yow start a-spendin? cowin? money yow bay got?. So who?s going to tell the likes of Spurs and Newcastle that gobbet of solid home truth, I wonder?

As I mentioned in my last effort, we?ve been ensconced in Deepest Herefordshire for the past six days or so, so what did we get up to, out there? Er ? not a lot, actually. When we got there, we decided that simply crapping out and doing mind-stretching stuff like reading, was favourite: direct evidence came in the form of several books read and enjoyed by the pair of us, but before that, on the afternoon of the England game, there was a side-trip to Edgar Street to be made.

One of the few Saturday games to be kicking off at a ?normal? time, was this one, and Macclesfield, who had such a sweaty time of it under Paul Ince last season, the opposition. Some sad news for both of us when we turned up at our normal viewing-spot: Marion, one of the original three elderly ladies sitting there (one having developed dementia and passed away last season), was in Hereford General Hospital, having suffered a stroke the previous day. Yet another of that doughty triumvirate (can three females constitute a ?triumvirate?, I wonder? Aw, what the hell, as far as I?m concerned, they can, it?s my ball, and I?m playing with it! So there!) gone: although still sufficiently oriented in space and time to ask how the Bulls got on, the degree of paralysis, hemiplegia, etc. means she won?t be sitting in her usual matchday spot for a very long time, if at all.

The game? Oh dear. Apart from nattering to another Albion supporter there to take in the game, so verbose, for one ghastly minute I thought The Noise had taken root there, the only pleasure to be gained was talking to the last of the three elderly ladies, plus her all-singing, all-talking, all-supporting son, Nick Brade, and the redoubtable ?Talking Bill?, the only spectator I know capable of constructing ?A clear goalscoring opportunity, referee!? out of the footballing equivalent of a couple of cardboard toilet roll tubes, some sticky-backed plastic and a Blue Peter Badge. A bit like John Homer for that, I suppose, the basic difference being that the latter generally cordially invites errant match officials to stick their heads into a receptacle full of water heated to boiling point.

As for the opposition ? that strip, my dears, that strip! As if someone of a somewhat malicious bent had gone mad with white packaging tape, arranging it in a pattern atop the blue shirt vaguely reminiscent of the ?Mark Of Zorro? (that?s a Z-shape, for the benefit of all you kiddiwinkles out there: the oldies will know precisely what I?m banging on about!) Oh ? there was one obscure Albion connection, albeit a convoluted one. Richard Edgehill, their short Number Two, saw an early bath when playing for Man City in a festive season game versus us, back in 2001, the game ending bloodlessly for both sides.

As for the play, the trite phrase ?a catalogue of errors? sums it all up perfectly. Mostly in front of the net, too: no bad thing, either given the fact that both sides possessed rearguards inclined somewhat towards indulgence in the odd ?Condor Moment? in the 18-yard box. By far and away, the worst ?near miss? offenders were Hereford, their misses so glaringly spectacular, you?d have even laid good money on John Hartson burying ?em, so you didn?t exactly need to be Gypsy Rose Lee to see what was likely to be on the cards next. And that?s precisely what happened some 9 minutes from the end, when Francis Green netted for the visitors, rejoicing greatly in full advantage of the Centurion tank-sized hole left for him to drill through by those awfully courteous and considerate Bulls chappies. Oh, whoops. Not really the right way to go about bettering that 2,700 gate, chaps, now, was it?

The following day saw us heading on out in the general direction of Ludlow, and the rightly famous Food And Drink Fair held there annually. Apart from a small smattering of market stalls in the town proper, the main bulk of the action took place in the castle grounds, a pleasant enough place, I suppose. What wasn?t was the massive Dingles flag we saw adorning a house, while searching for the town?s much-vaunted park and ride facility for the Festival. Not normally being in the habit of advocating the use of firearms in public places, I am, however, minded to go very easy indeed upon anyone proposing to take a well-aimed 12-bore fowling piece to the aforesaid gold-and-cack bit of bunting.

Buying loads of gourmet delicacies was always written in the script, of course: what wasn?t was bumping into no less than three separate lots of Baggie-lovers, one at a cashpoint in the town, the other two inside the castle itself. And, talking about the castle, it was inside that His Nibs got to find out the true strength of the alcoholic liquor he?d just purchased. After having consigned to a gastric grave the contents of a free sample, he purchased two bottles of an Italian wine I?d never heard of, then not long after, partook of a small amount of draught mild. Talk about a ?mushroom-shaped cloud? erupting: within seconds, his eyes were spinning like good ?uns, and some ?blotting paper? in the form of comestibles purchased from yet another stall, called for.

But the lad hadn?t had a lot, really, just what amounted to a small swig of the booze, and less than a quarter pint of the mild, so it?s fair to say I was pretty sceptical, when he first announced his rapidly rising blood-alcohol level. But then I happened to look at the label on one of the bottles my beloved had purchased ? ?14% proof? it said, the real ?proof? being the somewhat sandbagged look of my other half. Pretty close to ?liqueur strength?, in fact: no wonder the stuff had all the impact of a six-inch artillery shell on his constitution!

And that, apart from a couple of brief excursions elsewhere, was the sum-total of our visitations over the course of the following six days. Once unpacked and sorted out, we decided to spend most of the time chilling out, leaving the cumulative woes of house-hunting and Baggies-watching well and truly in the background. Just a-settin? in the early autumn sunshine, reading books galore, and turning thoroughly decadent in our old age. Lovely stuff.

A real shame, then, that we had to return to reluctant reality today, sadly. One almighty big shop at Kiddy Sainsbury?s, en-route, and all our victualling needs, for the next week or so, were taken care of. (No, don?t worry, hubbie dear, I won?t tell them about what happened when you forgot your PIN number at the checkout! Hur, hur?.) And once back, it was straight into the old routine once more, the main item on the agenda And that, folks, brings me neatly to tomorrow ? well, today, actually - and what the fates have in store for our fave footie team, this time round. You?d hope that the ?bedding-in? process, begun around ten days ago, will now proceed apace, players finally getting to know the relative strengths and weaknesses of their colleagues. And, hopefully, turning what was formerly a catalogue of errors, into something as potentially deadly as a whole laundry-bag full of funnel-webbed spiders.

As far as the visitors go, they?ll be looking to bounce back from the 2-0 defeat incurred versus Watford last week. As far as playing personnel go, they?ll be without Fabian Wilnis and Danny Hayes, both of whom are suspended. Ranking in the ?doubtful? category is the lad Alan Lee, nursing a hamstring problem ? with Neil Alexandra placed in the same category, but for an entirely different reason. His missus is expecting to produce their sprog any time now, so should the stork come a-visiting those Suffolk flatlands over the course of the next few hours, our East Anglian chums might well find themselves indulging in a hastily-rejigged side.

Whatever happened to the days of Trevor Francis, and his super-macho managerial edict that impending maternity (or, more appositely, paternity!) did not constitute a valid reason for having time off at short notice. I wonder? Gone to the same happy hunting ground as all those sheepskin coats, cigars and flash cars so accurately depicted on ?Life On Mars?, probably. Given the fact that the slightest upset to a player?s psyche these days will, more likely than not, result in that same player getting on the blower to his agent within a matter of minutes, it?s dead easy to see why football, not usually the most enlightened of workplaces, has got a grip of the ?touchy-feely? side of industrial relations pretty rapidly, all things considered.

Our game might also have an additional point of interest: the fact that Jim Magliton, Ipswich gaffer, and Mogga, were actually playing colleagues together at one point. Said our man, ?I think?..being of the ilk he was, who only ever wanted to play, pass, and move, he knew the football team would be bred in that image. I know him very well, because we played a lot together, and he will put those demands on his players?..a great football man, who loves the game with passion?.it seeps out of him?.?Apparently, our leader has spent many a profitable hour studying tapes of Ipswich in action, of late, and is duly impressed with what their side has to offer. Regarding them as ?attractive football? merchants as he does, it should be quite intriguing to see what Mogga does to nullify their potential menace.

As is usual for us these days, we find ourselves left with an embarrassment of riches, so to speak. Nice, isn?t it, being in what is virtually the same position as the Prem?s top six, or thereabouts, and able to field what amounts to TWO first teams! A squad rotation system in place, just about, but in the Championship and not the top flight. Given the way we struggled with injuries and suspensions, during the latter part of last season, who would have thought it, eh?

I suppose much will depend upon how well key performers fared during last week?s international programme: i.e. Craig Beattie, Zoltan Gera, Robert Koren, Carl Hoefkens and Chris Brunt. While the word from the Hawthorns is that no injury worries are apparent, our leader might be a tad apprehensive lest other factors attendant upon international football ? jetting here and there is an obvious one - might affect form adversely. And that?s where that ?strength in depth? I mentioned before scores, folks. I truly cannot remember a time when we were last so well off for players. At least we?re in a position to slot in someone else at the last minute, if need be, and in reasonable expectation of them actually looking the part, too.

Apparently, if the E and S are to be believed, Robert Koren, who signed a new contract with the club recently, will be raring to go after that freak eye injury of his. According to them, the lad played in both his international games, which is proof positive he?s now ?seeing eye to eye? with his team-mates as well! Mind you, so have Gera and Chris Brunt ? played two games in a week, I mean, not sustained twin eye injuries ? so they might sit this one out. Or not. Yep, Kylie apart, the situation?s as fluid as that, so I reckon it?s pointless trying to outguess the workings of The Great Brain! Let?s hope that the mere mention of the aforementioned ?P-less? word is about the closest we?re going to come to it tomorrow, what?

And Finally?. One. Leeds 2, Hartlepool United 0, last Saturday. Love them or hate them, you really have to hand it to United, and the incredible way they?ve reduced a mountainous 15-point starting deficit to precisely zero, thanks to them winning five games on the bounce. Having conquered both second and third-placed outfits in their division already, it?s their best start since 1973, so who?s brave enough to invest but a few shiny oncers on them achieving escape velocity, either straight off, or via the back door, come the end of the current season?

All very much part of the solidarity created throughout via the ?No-one likes us, we don?t care?.? mindset currently ?enjoyed? by the likes of Millwall, of course, and despite the presence of Ken Bates, not because of him, but none the less valid for that. If nothing else, Yorkshire people can be pretty bloody-minded when the mood takes them, and this is one of those occasions, I suspect. Strange how one sly and cunning bit of business can lead down such unexpectedly-rich alleyways, and a path that?s seen everyone, from top to bottom, all pulling well above their weight for the cause, isn?t it?

Two?. Gary Megson, newly-appointed Leicester City manager, and with Mandaric in charge at the top, too. Who would have thought it, eh? There go two people with personalities about as forceful as a battering-ram lovingly applied to some groaning front door by the Drug Squad. Or, if you like, as volatile as a couple of lumps of Uranium 235 reunited with explosive force. Any takers on precisely how long the honeymoon will last, anyone?

 - Glynis Wright

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