The Diary

01 October 2007: Some Sabbath 'Shock And Awe' For Poor QPR..

Just how good can this side get? Scoring goals seemingly for fun, making ours the highest ?goals for? total in this division, second in the League, now, and still only the end of September. That?s the question I was asking myself after the final whistle, as we emerged from the ground, with Freddie Mercury?s distinctive tones signalling our victory yet again. Comparing the present side with the one we had when Mogga first arrived at the club, there have been wholesale changes made, and not just in personnel, either. To parody the Blessed Leaderene?s words when the Conservatives gained power in 1979, then: ?Where there was once rank selfishness, let there be no prima donnas; where there was arrogance, let there be harmony; where there was naked ambition by individuals, at the expense of the team as a whole, let there be a wholesome team spirit?.? That, in a nutshell, is what makes the difference between a bunch of top six chancers, and an outfit looking highly likely to scoop the pot.

The present lot, good, honest professionals all, always place the needs of the team way and above over the needs of the individual. That was exemplified in the way we celebrated our goals today. Did anyone else notice the difference? It wasn?t just a small knot of the scorer?s mates giving it welly in front of either the Brummie or the Smethwick, it was the whole darned lot of ?em, bar the keeper, of course. Not only that, during the second half, you could see just about everyone busting a gut to get Kev Phillips set up for his hat-trick. That wasn?t to be, of course, but it was fun seeing them try. As for poor QPR, they were darned lucky to escape with only five entered up in the ?goals against? side of the season?s ledger: what be the current odds on John Gregory keeping his job now, I wonder?

Wow, what a game, and what a day. It all started, for us, as per usual, in the Hawthorns Hotel, where we awaited the arrival of Ed and his missus Alice from the ground after their little conducted tour of the place. And there was yet another twist: apparently, they would be meeting up with the relatives of yet another Albion player of yore, Ted Sandford, so that would be taking up some more of their time. I had heard that both families were distantly related by marriage, but never got around to having that confirmed, one way or another. Not to worry, though: inside the building, and patiently awaiting the return of his offspring from whatever mission currently engaged them both was that epitome of long-suffering patience, The Noise. His daughters had ostensibly gone outside to purchase some sweeties from a nearby stall flogging the stuff, but with those two, you never knew.

It wasn?t all that long before John Homer appeared on the scene, complete with guests, around midday, I would say. Much to my surprise, Ed was wearing an Albion shirt of some vintage ? and quite right, too! By now, The Noise?s brood had re-appeared, and ? shock, horror ? Carly was buying us all a round of drinks! All legitimate earnings gained from her job at Wedgwoods, and her new post at the gym, but my goodness: it doesn?t seem five minutes since I first saw her at some Bass Charity Vase pre-season or other, sitting in one of those baby buggy things, and pestering her dad every five minutes, and now she?s a wage-earner herself. Mind you, apropos the pestering, some things NEVER change, do they, Carly?

As for the Vilades, once introduced to the Lewis clan, they seemed to get on like a house on fire! Not surprising, really: as regular readers will know, Martin?s never short of a word or three, whatever the occasion, and neither are his kids! No wonder both Ed and missus looked a trifle sandbagged, come the time for John to return the pair of them to the ground ? but not before The Fart had roped Carly into taking the obligatory ?team picture?, of course. Talk about a ?technology gap?, The Fart?s ancient 35mm workhorse almost proved too much for the lass, brought up on digital technology as she was. Three attempts, it took, before she?d managed to do the biz properly; as she clicked the shutter like crazy, she probably didn?t realize that this was film and not pixels she was dealing with, so no subsequent deleting of the surplus stuff possible. Incidentally, a big ?thank you? to both Alan Cleverly and John Homer, of the Supporters Club, who entertained both Ed and his missus so wonderfully before and during today?s game; from what the Vilades told me, they did them both proud, and, by extension, did the good name of our football club right proud, too.

A short tarry on Anoraks Corner (see the ?And Finally? feature below), and a chance meeting on Halfords Lane with Baggies we hadn?t seen in yonks, Dave Baxendale and son ? good to see you still attending, the pair of you ? and it was time to enter. Over the course of the last few seasons, we?ve developed something of a superstitious attitude to our use of the turnstiles. By dint of some highly unscientific research, we?ve now discovered that Turnstile C2 is the one to use if we want our lot to win: as you can well imagine, our efforts to use that entrance and no other can get quite convoluted at times. One of the stewards on duty there knows both of us and my family personally, so is more than well-acquainted with our funny little foibles: sadly, the others are less familiar, so our chum has to exhort them all to show a bit of patience when our hesitancy to enter by any other turnstile gets a trifle daft.

Once inside, there was very little to indicate what was to happen over the course of the coming 90 minutes. Thanks to the cheap seats deal Albion had run for this televised game, we knew that the attendance would be a healthy one, all things considered. As for those QPR supporters, sitting in a cosy little phalanx on the far side of the Smethwick, they?d appeared not to come mob-handed, but when you considered their current League position, they weren?t exactly going to be drawing upon the resources of every single coach firm in London to supply their travel needs, were they? As for our line-up, as we?d thought, it was most certainly a case of ?business as usual?. Having summarily ditched the personnel that did duty last Tuesday evening, our ranks today were filled once more by some very familiar faces. Bar two, Gera and Brunt, both benched, with Kev Phillips and Morrison now come in from the cold, the side was essentially the same one that had faced Scunthorpe, some seven days previously. And, as I?d intimated previously, I reckoned that there was a strong sense of them, ?owing us one? out there; certainly, everyone seemed to strain at the leash as those seconds ticked away to the players making their entrance upon the field of play.

Mind you, just before they did, there gathered in close proximity to the tunnel one of the biggest collection of photographers I?ve ever seen for a match at this level. Vague thoughts apropos Albion inviting Royalty flitted through my brain ? then ?Im Indoors provided the answer: they were all doing their ?vultures circling over a moribund beast? thing, the victim in this instance being ex-Seal John Gregory, current QPR manager, but not for long, it would seem. All the smart money was on him getting his P45 ere the month of September was through, hence all that unwelcome press attention as the players came out.

A short pause while we waited for Sky to finish the adverts, and we were away, once more. This game was a significant one for us, as well as Gregory: currently fourth in the heap, win, and the three points would rocket us into second place in the heap. Not a bad position to be in at this stage of the game. And, it would seem that Rangers had given the gaining of a result at our place some thought also: to our surprise, they seemed to have gone with two up front, three on some occasions. They were very much going for broke, which meant we had to as well.

?WE ARE QPR, SAY WE ARE QPR?? That was the chant coming from the Smethwick as both sides spent the opening minutes adjusting to the game?s varying demands. Said ?Im Indoors: ?Never mind, you?ll get used to it?.? I guess they didn?t, because just a few minutes after that, Rangers once more found themselves steeped up to their scrawny metropolitan necks in mire, with both Miller and Phillips creating absolute havoc in their box, seemingly at will. How they survived those opening 15 minutes or so, I hate to think. Clearly, somebody Up There was looking after them, protecting them from harm, because their defence sure as hell wasn?t!

With Albion traffic into their 18 yard area almost constant by then, and Rangers very much creaking at the seams with every single corner we took, it was pretty clear that something would have to give very soon, and with but 18 minutes on the clock, that?s precisely what happened. Kev Phillips was the first Albion man to register on the scoresheet: with the almost unstoppable Miller setting him up a treat, all he had to do was tap the bloody thing home: one of the easiest goals he will ever get playing in the famous stripes, I reckon.

And that wasn?t all. Within less than a minute of that Phillips opening strike, we?d doubled our lead, and through some frankly na?ve defensive play on the part of poor Rangers, to be perfectly honest. As we surged forward yet again, Rangers wanted the lino to award an offside ? but he didn?t, much to Gregory?s fury. They dipped out on the offside, but our man Miller certainly didn?t let the grass grow under his feet. While the opposition raged over the lack of a flag, in burst the Man City Loan Ranger, going straight through their ragged defence like a knife through molten butter, briefly going one-on-one with their keeper before calmly slotting the thing away past the lad?s flailing, despairing hand.

If ever there?s a good test of the nerves of a striker, then it?s got to be those one-on-ones every time: take those with aplomb, putting away more than you stuff up, and you possess all the ruthlessness you will ever need to succeed at that level ? which is precisely what our man did, I?m happy to say. The way things are developing, should Sven want his player back in Manchester come the end of the season, then he?s going to have to negotiate an armed mob of Brummie Road and Smethwick Enders, all of them hell-bent upon keeping the lad on our books at any cost!

So, there we were: not much more than 20 minutes gone, and two to the good already. And Rangers, it would seem, were now letting their emotions get the better of them: commented John Homer, after one of their players had come very close indeed to getting the yellow card they truly deserved for one particular offence: ?If that had been an Albion player, he?d have booked him, no bother!? While bearing in mind that John views most of our games through blue and white striped spectacles, there was more than the grain of truth about what he?d just said: call me paranoid, but it usually was the Albion man that was the first to enter most referees? notebooks. The next time you watch us play, just you wait and see.

With such a good command of the game sometimes comes complacent carelessness at the back, and none more so than what happened just four or five minutes after we?d scored that second time. When will we finally get the message about defending set-pieces properly? In this instance, poor defending in the 6 yard area let them get in the cross from the free-kick that allowed Ainsworth to beat poor Deano from point-blank range, almost. Infuriating, considering that for the whole of that four minute period, we?d been light years in front of anything they could muster by way of reply. Oh, well ? we?d just have to stick it up them again.

Mind you, in the intervening period of time, the best entertainment was provided by under-threat Rangers manager John Gregory, now swearing horribly at his players from the fastness of his technical area, to the great amusement of everyone in the Halfords. The best entertainment we?d had since the night the Dingles came to town in the play-offs, even if you did have to block the ears of small children while his oral outpourings were in full flow!

As the half crept gradually towards the two-thirds mark, one serious flaw in our play was manifesting itself yet again: a tendency to back off whenever the opposition had the ball, and were advancing upon our box at speed. That meant their front runners were getting on the other end of crosses that they really shouldn?t have, not a very satisfactory situation at all. Having seen that sort of thing cost us so many times before, I was slightly apprehensive as to what would be the eventual outcome, but I needn?t have worried. Eventually, the pace and tempo of the game slackened somewhat, but that still didn?t stop us from having the odd punt at their end.

Then, with around ten to go before the break, we suddenly turned up the wick to ?maximum?. Another rash of corners, and once more, Rangers were living on their nerves. Gregory, clearly furious with the sudden turn of events, resorted to a series of piercing whistles at his sorely-beleaguered troops by way of restoring some sense of order. Cackled an amused John Homer, from the seat in front: ?Can yow whistle ?In A Monastery Garden?, mate?? (Junior Baggies, not knowing the significance of that joke, ask your dads!) Not that it did the poor lad any good: just seconds after Gregory?s ?birdsong? made the entire front area of the Halfords far more melodious than it had ever been before, we?d punctured the back of their net yet again! This time, the pleasure was all that of the talented Mister Phillips. It all came about after Miller had tried to get another; his effort smartly rebounded to the lad Greening, who then managed to set his chum up with the shot, giving their poor keeper no chance whatsoever. So much for that token bit of Rangers resistance, then; about as ephemeral as a politician?s promises, so it seemed, bar an incident near the break when Barnett seemingly had to kick an opposition effort off the line. No wonder that a very Black Country chap, seated just behind me, was ?advising? Gregory: ?Ah?d gee it up as a bad job, Gregory, if Ah was yow?.?

That was the ?icing on the cake? as far as insults were concerned. Just seconds previously, with Kev Phillips seemingly clobbered, John Homer?s ear-splitting attempts to get the ref to take notice finally met with success ? once heard, never forgotten, as far as John is concerned, believe you me! ? certainly woke up those vacuum flask merchants sitting in the front rows. Is it possible to sue Albion for industrial deafness, I wonder, and citing as grounds, the eardrum-shattering vocal efforts of the aforementioned Mister Homer? Surely there?s not a judge in the land that wouldn?t look sympathetically at the case, given such overwhelming evidence for the prosecution?

That was it for the first half, then. Albion two in front, and looking good for the win, provided we didn?t succumb to another daft lapse in concentration, of course. During most of that opening half, it had been all Albion. I briefly wondered what neutrals watching the game on the box thought about our performance: must have looked pretty impressive, surely? During the interval, I also had occasion to have a brief natter with John about our two guests, the fact that Ed had done speechwriting for the elegant and lovely George Bush at various times, made me wonder whether or not Ed could incorporate a little bit of ?Baggies-speak? into the next one he wrote for the guy. Trust John, adopting a mock-American accent, to come up with: ??And, I can tell you, the American people, those goddamn Iraqis will be boing-boinging all night long in Baghdad!?..? And with the interval, came another slightly more serious thought: would Rangers stage a repeat of last season by coming at us mob-handed in the second half?

Well, at least one aspect of the game was decided, as both sides made ready for the next 45: off went the lad Curtis, for Rangers, to be replaced by Rehman. As for our lot, it appeared we were still content to keep our powder dry, for the moment, at least. And, with the start of the second sitting, came yet more petulant behaviour on the part of John Gregory: this time, it was the ball that suffered, as the lad kicked it furiously away, prompting gleeful cries of ?W****r from the Smethwick, closely followed by a loud chorus of: ?You?ll be sacked in the morning?.? I?m damn sure that Gregory was all too well aware of that possibility, by that particular stage of the proceedings.

Come the mid-point of the half, and our not having added to the score, there did seem to be a slight worry about complacency rearing its ugly head, once more. Gradually, Rangers had managed to force themselves back into the game to a certain degree, and we?d suffered a couple of close shaves as a direct result of such carelessness being allowed to creep back in. One day, we?ll learn. But the lesson wasn?t needed: well, not at that particular time, because we?d finally managed to stick another one past poor Rangers. The strike came at around the 57th minute, Koren being the lad whose name ended up in lights for the club on this particular occasion.

What happened? Well, it all came about as a direct result of Phillips?s team-mates, and their unstinting desire to set the lad up for his deserved hat-trick: put through by the omnipresent Miller, Kev?s shot was snuffed out by their keeper, sadly, but only went as far as Koren, loitering with intent further out. One almighty wallop later, and it was in: heartwarming, also, to see every single outfield player join the lad in his moment of glory: as I hinted earlier, there?s not one single whiff of the old ?prima donna? mentality discernible at this club any more. When celebrations are in order, it?s the entire side that embarks upon them, and not just those in with one particular clique of players.

And, as Albion embarked upon yet another assault upon the horribly-stretched Rangers defence following that goal, the Smethwick took that as their cue to launch, yet again, another rendition of that popular Hawthorns classic ?He?s On The Dole, Gregory?s On The Dole?.? With most activity on the pitch reduced to a case of one-way traffic, it was time for Mogga to make some changes, rest some people for yet another midweek game. So it was that come the 61st minute or so, Tex left the pitch, a deserved standing ovation ringing in his ears, with Brunt replacing him, then, about five minutes after that, off went Greening and Miller, and in their place came Gera and Beattie.

But before leaving the action, the lad Greening had one final service to render to the club. Clearly, there was still some shot remaining in our metaphorical locker, and it was The Gorgon-Locked One that finally used it to good advantage. His chance to shine came directly after an Albion corner when, after pinging around the box a couple of times, the ball suddenly fell to Greening, lurking with intent just shy of the edge of the box, about 25 yards out. You could tell from the enormous ?whack?, as our lad struck the thing, that it was going in the right direction: just milliseconds later, I was proved right, with just about every home supporter in the place expressing high-pitched squawks of amazement at what he?d just done. Comments like ?Cow me!? and ?Bluddy ?Ell!? are just the tip of the iceberg, believe you me.

From then on in, how the hell we didn?t go on to clock up a cricket score is a complete mystery to me. I can only assume that whatever god it is that looks after lost children and completely-out- of-it-drunks, was looking after poor QPR this afternoon. By rights, had they finished the game ten behind, it wouldn?t have been a travesty. Time after time, Albion mounted assaults upon their goal, mostly with the purpose of getting Kev his hat-trick in mind, I suspect, and time after time, it was either the good work performed by their backache-ridden custodian, or that of their sore put-upon defence, that prevented us from giving the Guinness Book Of Records a little additional work to perform, that weekend.

Now we could just sit back and enjoy the fun which, for our ?choral society?, meant singing: ?Gregory, Gregory, give us a wave?. When the Halfords took up the call, moments later, fair play to the guy, he did mouth ?eff off? at us, albeit with a huge grin splitting his face at the same time. Not all that worried about the distinct possibility of being out on his ear before too long, it would seem! Mind you, football being about the only profession I know where you can be incompetent with one club, get the sack, then have others queuing for your services afterwards, nothing would surprise me by now. What he thought of the next one on the Smethwick?s ?playlist?, ?You?ll Never Work Again? isn?t recorded, sadly.

A special mention must also go to those loyal Rangers supporters in the Smethwick: having just seen their side concede five in pretty fraught circumstances, and the final result about to anchor them to the foot of the table even more firmly, so did the ?gallows humour? increase, by factors of ten and hundreds. ?We?re gonna win the League? was their first rendition, closely followed by ?We?re gonna win 6-5?.? Then, as the time for the final whistle drew nearer, they cheekily informed everyone there: ?We can see you sneaking out?.? Not to be outdone, our lot then informed Gregory, yet again: ?You?re s**t, and you?re on the dole?? Having said all that, by the time we started pitching in with all the anti-Gregory stuff, Rangers were walloped right out of sight.

A highly pleasing win, then, and one where I?d be pretty hard put to single out anyone who?d had a bad game. Everyone pulled together to make our win possible, and it showed. The team spirit in that side must be truly zingy, and it shows right where it ought to: on the pitch. I strongly suspect that it?s got, now, to the stage where if someone should flatten one of their number unnecessarily, the whole lot might feel constrained to step in and right the wrong for the injured party. That?s what I call team spirit at its best, and, as I?ve remarked before, it?s a commodity not to be found all that often in the beautiful game, these days.

But there was still the final act to be played out, in the ongoing drama that is supporting the Baggies: following the final whistle, we both hotfooted it over to The Vine, to await the arrival of both Ed and his lovely missus, and The Noise, plus attendant brood. Once more, it was very much a case of breaking out the chicken tikkas in quantity, ?Im Indoors nobly undertaking to sort out that aspect of things directly after he?d sorted out the celebratory drinks.

Being the clever chap he is, he?d timed everything to coincide with the arrival of The Noise on the scene, closely followed by the Vilade contingent. So receptive towards any sort of nosh was my tum, even that didn?t protest when I shovelled a whole heap of spicy chicken down my gullet. Mind you, as for Carly, Confucius, he say, girl who consume hot dog, on walking out of the ground, not manage to down portion of chicken tikka either! As for young Bethany, see below.

I did learn several things about Ed, though. When I asked him how he?d enjoyed a spot of British ?soccer?, he said he had, enormously, but was completely nonplussed to learn, on his tour of the ground, that the British press were completely banned from entering the hallowed ground of what Ed calls ?the locker room?, and we the ?dressing room?. Apparently, back in the States, even that is fair game for their press. Mind you, it would be a brave man that tried to disturb the pre-match sanctity of someone like Gary Megson: out the same way he came in, sure enough, but chewed up into soggy little pieces, would be about the mark, I reckon. Oh, and another thing I found out: in his younger days, he was a sports reporter himself, eventually working his way up to editorship of one publication, so he was no turkey, by any means. The reason he changed tack and went into the speechwriting game was because he was increasingly fed up of having management duties occupy his time, Ed being more of an out-and-out reporter, rather than one with administrative tendencies.

Still, at least we knew that Ed?s first visit to the club as a descendant of Tommy Magee was a fruitful and enjoyable one. As they both like travelling, we hope they?ll come back for more, some time in the future: as for we Baggies, we?ll sure as hell enjoy entertaining them. And, who knows, by then, Albion could well be in the Premier League. Providing we?ve still got Mogga at the helm, and we?re churning out the same sort of breathtaking football, I?m sure they won?t be disappointed by what they see.

And Finally?. One. Apology Corner?.. It seems I inadvertently called ?Anorak?s Corner? Stattoes Corner in a recent post. And I credited Joe Kamara with a dismissal when playing for Fulham yesterday, when, in fact, he?d stuffed up a golden last-minute chance to score, mainly through being the selfish little sod he is, quite frankly. Apologies to all the useless information merchants and footie people who let me know in no uncertain terms, today, and I won?t do it again. Ever.

Two. This one concerns what has to be the most rapid change of a juvenile mind on record. When we told young Bethany we were all going to The Vine after the game, and indulging in those explosive chicken tikkas once more, she was all for it and more than ready to give the spicy stuff some serious attention, quite a remarkable turnaround from the last time she went there. Just shows you how short eleven year old memories can be: when we got there, and had steaming platefuls of the stuff there on the table, she took one mouthful, screwed up her face in complete and utter disgust, and cried ?Too hot, too hot?.?

Three? The latest cat toy in the Homer household now appears to be a water fountain, believe it or not (there was a cat play-tunnel also, but Zoltan?s wrecked that already!). Working in similar fashion to the water features you see in most gardens these days, it circulates water around a fountain via a closed-circuit pump, the idea being to ensure that the cat gets nice fresh drinkiepoos whenever it wants, but with minimal wastage of the precious liquid. But Zoltan has other ideas: from the very first moment he clapped eyes on the thing, radiating tempting little spouts of water in all directions, he thought it was there for him to play with ? so he did. Result? One very smug cat ? contrary to popular expectation, quite a few felines love playing with water, which is something the Homers would have found out, had they asked me beforehand! ? and one very soggy kitchen area for poor Jean to mop out!

 - Glynis Wright

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