The Diary

03 October 2007: Don't Worry - I'm Just Having One Of Those Awful 'Merde!' Days!

Ever had one of those ?Oh, s**t!? moments, those where it?s not just simply a case of forgetting to do up your trousers before leaving the house, but forgetting to put them on in the first place? Or, much more damaging, career-wise, intently gazing upon the assorted online wonders of ?Nympho Babes Unlimited? for several hormonally-charged minutes, only to discover that your gaffer has been stood equally immobile for the same length of time, just watching you do it? In other words, making a daft mistake, cock-up, error, faux pas, call it what you will ? but with the added factor of knowing, in retrospect, that it was your own rank stupidity in the first place that led to the myriad awful consequences that followed in its wake.

If that sort of ?Oh, s**t? moment sounds in any way familiar, then you?ll empathise greatly with my own particular variation on the theme ? and, what?s more, it happened only last night. What caused me to spend most of today creating a massive dent in our living-room wall with my head was this: late last night, having written my usual piece, I was just about ready to transfer the finished article to the Boing website, when something or somebody, I know not what, put the evil thought into my head of pressing the wrong key while doing it. Result? Poof! Gone!

As you would expect, suitably traumatised, I then spent the greater part of a fretful hour trying to find the damn thing once more, but could I excavate the blasted thing from the extra dimension into which it seemed to have fallen? Could I heck: as far as that night?s work was concerned, my piece was now about as inaccessible as one deliberately consigned to the outer fringes of the Solar System by supercharged rocket. ?Tis true that my work is not as irreplaceable as, say, the chemical composition of a promising new cancer treatment completely destroyed because of some Dingle of a research assistant getting a bit overgenerous with the old sulphuric acid, but seeing several thousand words disappear in the twinkling of an (evil?) eye, isn?t exactly a matter for rejoicing, on my part, either. Let?s hope that a win tomorrow against Stoke will put the smile back on my face, eh?

It?s a shame all that stuff went west, if only for the notes I?d written about the function we both attended last night, in the company of The Fart: a so-called FA Road Show, venue the East Stand of our favourite football club. This was very much a ?last-minute? thing for us, as the chance to go only cropped up during our pre-match chinwag in the Hawthorns pub, on Sunday. There he was, The Gornal Cat-Strangler, aka John Homer, piece of paper and pen in hand, asking if we were interested, so we said ?yes?. Just like the fabled ?Man From Del Monte?, if you like.

So what went on there, then? Pride of place on the podium went to FA luminaries Steve McClaren, current England manager; Brian Barwick, FA head honcho (who bears more than a passing resemblance to the ?Mr. Potato Head? of childhood, incidentally), Trevor Brooking, ex-West Ham, and Adrian Bevington, FA Head Of Communications, which was odd, because he certainly didn?t communicate, only making a small contribution to the proceedings, that night. It was all a ?hearts and minds? thing, really, the idea being that if the assorted geniuses behind most things emanating from Soho Square spread themselves around a bit, explained what they were trying to do, then every single football supporter in the land would emerge from their own meeting, smiling like Moonies after an intense ?personality programming session?. Well, that was the theory, I reckon.

As we attended the thing not really expecting much in the way of startlingly new thinking, we weren?t to be disappointed. Lots of questions from the floor, of course (Incidentally, whose idea was it to let those awful Dingles and Bluenoses in? One of the latter looked suspiciously like a copper-bottomed, Triple A ?Care In the Community? job to me.), but my overwhelming impression was of those four ? well, three and a half, really ? people hearing what football supporters had to say on various topics connected with the game, OK, but not actually listening.

Take what The Fart had to say about the Premier League, and promotion to it, none of which was kind to that league at all. What was to prove not so much an ?elephant in the room? as a charging, trumpeting mastodon to the panel was Tel?s assertion, backed up by fellow Baggie Dave Watkin, was that it was fine and dandy to get promotion to the top tier, but once a side had done just that, how far could they realistically progress afterwards?

Tel pointed out, and rightly so, that the Premier League now consisted of at least two, probably three, ?mini-leagues?. At the bottom were the newly-promoted sides, who might, or might not return from whence they came within a season or so of reaching the Promised Land. Given a gaffer with sufficient footballing nous on board to outwit more established sides at that end of the table, given a few more seasons up there, they might even progress to the next tier, that occupied by established sides lacking the money and big first team squads necessary to get a toehold in Europe. It?s the likes of Pompey, or Wigan, even, that spring to mind in that particular context. The ultimate evolutionary step, of course, is to crack that seemingly-impregnable bastion, the top six.

But there?s one monumental snag. Money ? or the lack of it, to be pedantic. Because they?ve been coining it in ever since 1993, including via countless money-spinning Champions League appearances (and wins), the likes of Man United and The Arse have raced unstoppably ahead of the other tiers, so the gulf has widened enormously since then. Newly-promoted sides come into the race knowing they labour under a financial; handicap of insurmountable proportions. That?s why it?s so difficult for anyone out of the top six to win anything, these days. Given the distinctly-unequal state of play that currently exists, where is the hope for newly-promoted sides? Is that state of affairs good for the game? Where?s the hope in that? Will the outside possibility of European qualification for the ?also-rans? be as good as it gets for most clubs lower down that league? If that?s the case, then why bother going up in the first place?

That was the basis of Tel?s argument (reinforced by Dave?s perceptive comments), but you might as well have talked to the photos of past Albion players hanging on the wall. I don?t think it even registered for one minute that there were other considerations applying to top-tier football to be taken into account at all, never mind those of more ethical provenance. To be absolutely fair, they did discuss other related topics, i.e. resumption of full England internationals in stadia other than those in London; the ?lack of atmosphere? at Wembley, especially during the play-off final; corporate seating (one of the root causes of the previous problem); the need for players to accept their position as role-models for kids, and cutting out some of the more blatant stuff, eg. diving; thoughts on how to get things right from grass-roots level, school games, and the like; bad behaviour from parents and how to stamp it out; issues around the current England set-up; how the explosive increase in the number of foreign players at League club level may have significantly slowed the emergence of native-born players into the limelight, and, if that was the case, from where would we find the England stars of the future?

All that, and more, was covered, and with countless camera-wallahs, both still and TV, in attendance, too. Such was their eagerness, no sooner had I crossed the threshold of the venue, some happy-snapper had consigned my phizzog to pixels for all eternity. Hope my image didn?t wreck their expensive bits of micro-circuitry too much, what? Still, getting the bag of goodies (hat, pen, both complete with England logo, plus sundry other things) was nice: even better for The Noise?s two because they?re going to become lucky recipients when we see them prior to tomorrow?s game.

Trust The Fart to let down the somewhat advanced technological tone of the function, mind: once the thing was over, he wanted a picture of himself with Sir Trev, so being the obliging sort I am, I agreed to do the clickety-click biz for him. ?Go on, Tel, get your steam-powered camera out!? That was my other half, giggling at our chum?s antediluvian (or so it seemed!) 35 mm number, the one that Carly had so much trouble with last Sunday, in the pub. Apparently, Tel had activated a ?battery sleeping device? that cuts in after around five minutes of the shutter not being used, hence all the problems. It?s no good: I really will have to show The Fart just how easy and simple a digital one is to operate.

That?s what we were up to yesterday, then. Another highlight of the evening, of course, was learning of the spectacular Villa collapse that saw them stuff up a 4-1 lead at White Hart Lane to end up finishing all square, at 4-4. I suppose there?s a certain irony in the Seals saving ex-Albion man Martin Jol?s job. When we found out, after putting on our car radio en-route to The Fart?s place, our vehicle literally rocked, so loud was the laughter from us when we heard the final score: just as well the plods weren?t around, really, as they would have breathalysed my non-drinking other half for sure. Even so, sobriety didn?t stop him bawling at the top of his voice a very rude ditty that goes to the tune of ?Go West?, viz: ?Four-one, and you (expletive deleted!) it up!....?

Now for the Crunch Question, mes amis?? Tomorrow, we play football?s answer to the Taliban. Stoke City FC, in other words, in the past, one of the nastiest bits of work ever to step onto a football pitch. The main reason we?ve never had much change from them in recent years is because we are nice, too nice, probably, and they are downright nasty. Most people reading this will recall the early-to-mid-nineties, when all they had to do was kick us up into the air to get a result. That was in the dark days when Lou Macari stalked the Stokie terrain, ably assisted by his partner in crime, a certain Mark Stein (with a borderline defensive psychopath called Chris Kamara ? whatever happened to him? - joining in with the jolly japes during the late eighties). Since then, a series of promotions and relegations involving both clubs has tended to make such meetings of minds less frequent, but that doesn?t in any way go to dispel the slight feeling of apprehension I?m getting about this one. Don?t forget that last season, when we played them at the Britannia Stadium, they kicked us out of it yet again, both home and away, and in the fag-end of the season we gained our second promotion under Megson, they put the skids right under any lingering hopes of going up as champions by battering us badly at their place also.

Looking at our relative League positions, and bearing in mind our recent emphatic win over QPR, the one that had just about every Sky commentator drooling with delight, on paper, Stoke should be preparing to say their prayers tonight, in preparation for the massacre to come. The trouble is, though, that as far as we two clubs are concerned, the phrase ?on paper? means diddly-squat. As far as our ambitions are concerned, City have full capacity to be one of the biggest party-poopers going. And dangerous, with it.

Without even trying, history will furnish many lurid tales of Albion players coming to grief when both sides have met in League competition. I suspect that the only way to go is forward: putting them under so much pressure, something has to give, eventually. We?re good at that. As long as what ?gives? isn?t an Albion arm or leg, I don?t really mind. Just leave your impressionable under-16 sprogs at home, and you?ll emerge from the whole thing smiling. Sort of.

Bearing in mind the ?horses for courses? thing favoured by Mogga, who is likely to be featuring, tomorrow evening? My first concern lies with Deano: sometimes, we operate without a reserve keeper, but ever since discovering that Mark Steele was injured playing for the reserves earlier in the week, with Stoke providing the opposition, would that be wise? Given that City?s rough-house tactics are pretty well known to most Albion supporters, I can only hope that someone has tipped off Mister Kiely, on the QT.

As far as the back is concerned, with both Clem and Cesar nursing injury problems, all we have to draw on, really, is Alby and Barnett. On both left and right, we should stick with dynamic duo Hoefkens and Robbo. I don?t anticipate young Hodgkiss featuring from the start; this one is strictly for experienced, worldly-wise pros.

In the middle? Lots of options there, of course. Zoltan Gera; Koren; Greening; Tex; Morrison; Brunt; Chappy; Pele: to start, pick any four from that lot. Go on, you know you want to, but bear in mind what we?re facing. Will he spurn the ball-players, and go for the heavy-duty ball-winner option, perhaps? That then leaves us with the vexing question of who goes up front. Kev Phillips, Sunday?s hero of the hour, sustained a bit of a knock at the time, so Mogga might just leave him on the bench for this one, only bringing him on if the scoreline warrants it.

That might mean yet another chance for Beattie, in partnership with the amazing Ishmael Miller. The guy needs a goal about as badly as the Conservative Party needs vote-winning policies, but what would be better for our club? Take the chance, and risk blunting our striking capacity when we need it most? Or leave the lad on the bench and go for the Phillips option anyway, knock or no knock? I never said it would be easy, did I?

As far as The Evil Empire is concerned, what better source to consult than that belonging to Smudger Smith, editor of that august Potteries alternative organ, ?The Oatcake?? They, too, acknowledge that their recent record when playing us has been a pretty good one. Thus far, it stands at only one defeat for them in the last fifteen games, with them doing the double over us last season, Ricardo Fuller (who so nearly became a Baggie: despite scoring goals for fun in the reserves, when on trial for us a few seasons ago, Megson still sent him packing!) featuring heavily in their 3-1 win at our place, a deciding Stoke penalty at theirs increasing the attendant frustration factor ten-fold.

Presumably, Stoke will be including recently-freed ?guest? of Her Majesty, Vincent Pericard, in tomorrow night?s line-up. Seriously, though, it would appear that City have to ask for Home Office approval first, which presumably means, in practice, securing his parole officer?s permission: assuming he?s been placed on some form of curfew, with or without electronic tag, that?s probably the only way he could play without attracting the attention of the boys in blue. Complete with clunky ball and chain decorating his ankle, n?est ce pas?

The people they won?t have, through injury? Mamady Sidibe, rated ?doubtful? after getting clobbered (How awful! Heaven forfend that our players should ever be guilty of such dreadful behaviour!) last Saturday. Rory Delap will definitely not be playing, apparently ? a bit of ?groin trouble? is the problem there, although what sort of groin trouble isn?t specified! If that should be the case, then it might well be that John Eustace will be given his chance to shine, right from the start, rather than off the bench, as was the case at Leicester, last weekend.

A victory over those bloody nuisances forty miles up the M6 would be just the thing for the troops, tomorrow evening. Given that Watford won handsomely tonight, we can?t catch them at all, but what we can do is use the occasion to tuck in nicely behind them. Everyone knows our antipathy towards the gold-and-cack persuasion, but just how far behind that does our complete and utter dislike of the Potties follow? Poll a fairly random selection of Albion supporters on this pressing issue, and I?m willing to bet you anything that those wretched Stokies won?t be lagging too far behind our noisome neighbours in the complete and utter abhorrence stakes. All the more reason to whup them, then!

And Finally?.. More about Monday night, and The Fart. At the conclusion of the proceedings, and with everyone drifting away into the night, as per usual, we offered our well-ripe chum a lift back to his place. But first, he had to gather up all his stuff, then put it into his bag ? and that?s when I simply had to watch, if only out of the sort of horrified fascination that has you sneaking a quick glance at the southbound carriageway of the M1 when there?s been a pile-up, but with you proceeding along the northbound one, remaining totally unaffected by the mayhem.

First of all, our chum scooped everything up, and piled it in with his hands. The quickest I?d ever seen him do it, in fact: normally, it takes him ages. But that was a Cunning Plan to fool me: having done so, he then decided that he couldn?t find the wallet that contained his bus pass, money and stilecard. Much rummaging inside later, he still couldn?t find it, so he carried along with us anyway. At the bottom of the stairs, on the ground floor, he then decided to have another go: this time, the stuff really started flying.

Was it me, or did I really see a three-piece suite, table lamp, pile of old copies of the Albion News, plus generously-sized piece of Persian carpet come flying out of the thing? The interior of Tel?s bags are very much like the Tardis, I kid you not. Well, it would certainly explain the astonished look the security guard had on his face as Tel proceeded to disgorge the contents onto the floor, not to mention the sudden manifestation of a full-grown hippopotamus badly in need of a suitable watering-hole, and last seen waddling grumpily down Halfords Lane, in search of the nearest ?cut?. Tel?s heavy-duty rootling within must have done just enough to shift the missing item of property from out of the dimension into which it seemed to have fallen, because, not long after that, I finally heard the unmistakable sound of triumph emanating from the lips of the old codger!

I wonder whether Tel was like that at the Battle Of Waterloo? Rootling in his little canvas bag for his missing bag of gunpowder, even as the ?thin red line? steadied their ranks for yet another fusillade of grapeshot coming their way, I mean? If so, it would certainly explain the Duke Of Wellington?s famous comments about being far more afraid of what his own troops might do than anything their French counterparts ever could!

 - Glynis Wright

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