The Diary

24 December 2007: Those Awful Stokies Revisited - Plus A Whole Lot More Besides!

Seasonal greetings, Baggie-lovers everywhere. Got all the necessary stuff for The Big Day, yet? And if not, why not? Oh, I see ? something to do with having to attend a certain football match yesterday, then, equally fervently, wishing like hell you hadn?t. Counts as ?mitigating circumstances? I suppose: certainly, based upon the evidence as presented at Stoke, no court in the land would ever be constrained to convict the Baggie malefactor snivelling in the dock. Let?s just do as the French do, and call it a ?crime of passion? eh?

As for my little tailpiece excursion into the world of Victorian gynaecology, yesterday, I hope you liked that as well. The beauty of the whole thing was so simple: it was all PERFECTLY TRUE. Let me put it this way: if anyone can bring forth convincing evidence to the contrary, then they should send said proof to the British Medical Journal, because that?s where I spotted my little piece in the first place. But don?t go looking too hard among current issues: the one that came up with the goods in the first place was dated November 1947!

As for the subsequent career of young Anaesthesia, it would have rounded things off perfectly had she gone into the medical profession herself, but it being the middle of the 19th century, when ?nice? women weren?t encouraged to do such things anyway, no law existed at that time to allow wussy little girlies into the doctoring business. The very notion was a distinct non-starter.

The constitutions of universities would have to undergo radical change before that could happen, which some did around 20 years later, as per the admittance, grudging, it has to be said, of one Elizabeth Garrett Anderson, the first ever ?proper? female stethoscope-wielder, into the profession. (But see my little note in the ?And Finally? section of this piece about one British female who actually managed to buck the trend, and long before Ms. Garrett Anderson ever appeared on the medical scene!)

All I do know about the lady?s future career is that a portrait of the teenage Anaesthesia was a constant feature of Simpson?s desk, right up until the time he retired from medicine. Whether or not nominative determinism (having one?s future course in life mapped out at birth by the name bestowed by doting parents, good or bad) kicked in anyway, by turning the young lady into the most boring dinner-party host in polite Edinburgh society, isn?t recorded, sadly. A quirky little part of me fervently hopes that was indeed the case: after all, the ending just wouldn?t have been right, otherwise, would it?

And, amazingly, thanks to a mail from one of my readers, Julian Forrest, I?ve now discovered an Albion connection, albeit a tenuous one. Julian?s father in law, Matthew Forrest, was for many years the caretaker at Simpson House at 52 Queen Street in Edinburgh, now a drug counselling centre.

Simpson House was the house where Sir James Simpson lived, and on the ground floor is the Discovery Room, where the Great Man first ?researched? the anaesthetic effects of chloroform, by putting his guests to sleep at a dinner party. How? By the simple expedient of passing round a decanter full of the stuff, then asking his ?victims? to deeply inhale the contents, that?s how. Very scientific. Not. But not indulging when they were puffing on their post-prandial gaspers, it has to be hoped: the stuff is somewhat combustible, to say the least!

The Forrests spent many a holiday staying on the top floor of Simpson House, where Matthew and Desi, their -in-laws, lived, and one year, the Forrest and Rowe clan actually had their Xmas Day meal sat round the original table in the Discovery Room, where Sir James had his somewhat unusual dinner party, with a bust of the same innovative gentleman keeping a close eye on proceedings! (And before you ask ? no, the strongest stuff ingested that day was good old-fashioned ethyl alcohol, aka Scotch whisky. Sorry.)

By now, you may have detected a distinct reluctance on my part to delve into the murky depths of What Went Wrong at the Britannia Stadium. No, I won?t bother suing for libel, because you?d be dead right! But - ho, hum ? it?s The Terrible Deed That?s Got To Be Done, sadly, so here goes.

I?ve noticed that the popular reaction of supporters to what happened yesterday was to lay at least some of the blame at the feet of the match officials, more specifically, their alleged incompetence in not spotting either a blatant hand-ball (Goal Number One), or an equally-dubious lack of an offside flag, in the face of convincing evidence to the contrary (Goal Number Two). As I didn?t spot either incident myself, it?s not for me to comment either way (although loads of Baggies certainly made their own feelings known at the time), but going by the screams and howls of pure rage currently reverberating around Baggie-oriented cyberspace, it?s crystal-clear that something most certainly DID.

There?s just one difficulty I have with all this collective Baggie angst creeping like spilt warm treacle all over my nicely-pristine screen and keyboard: at the end of the day, we stuffed up, and big-time, too. End Of. Brunt was the one at fault for their opener, in giving the ball away in the first place: subsequently handled by Stoke?s Sidibe or not, that was the pass that let in Fuller to make whoopee at our expense. Blame the ref and lino if you must ? but please don?t forget to reserve a little portion of your righteous bile for the player, one of our own, that made it all possible in the first place.

Their second? I said it last night, so I?ll say it again: we can?t defend set-pieces to save own miserable lives, and it?s high time we started learning how. Sure, Robbo should have been more proactive and not allowed himself to get tatered by Fuller in the first place. It was when Cesar tried to rescue the situation by clattering the Stokie striker, that our fate was well and truly sealed. One booking, one Stoke free-kick, equals Goal Number Two in the back of our net. A clear fact of Albion life, that, and on the face of it, one about as immutable as the orbits of the planets around their parent sun.

The mathematically-inclined might indeed like to turn it into one of those awful and arcane formulae teachers insisted we had to know for exam purposes: aw, you know, a bit like E = MC2, and with equally-explosive results. If you?re a Baggie, that is. The names of the guilty might change over the course of a season, but how many times have we seen it happen? And, more to the point, when are we ever going to properly address the problem? Oh ? and another thing. Judging by the enormous amount of free space given the Stoke pest by us when he nutted in that second one, I can only assume that he was suffering from some sort of personal hygiene problem at the time. But I?m sure his best friends told him, right after the final whistle.

Stoke?s third? The blame for that one could well be lain at the feet of Cesar again, although one has to remember that when Fuller outran him, he may have been fearful of picking up a second yellow, with a certain early bath and suspension to follow. You might also temper any malicious thoughts by noting that during that incident, he picked up a pretty nasty knock, one that eventually led to his subbing by Alby. But by that time, Stoke?s victory was a slam-dunk certainty anyway, the subsequent Bednar goal being our sole consolation for a pretty awful day?s work all-round.

As both the home fixture and this one have demonstrated all-too well, we do seem to retain a somewhat masochistic tendency to crash and burn spectacularly when playing sides as negative as theirs. Yes, I know their blatant time-wasting, cynical use of dubious ?injuries? as delaying tactics, coupled with match officials seemingly demonstrating about as much strong-minded control over events as George Bush currently has over his own Congress, was irritating in the extreme ? I was tearing my hair out with the pure frustration of the situation myself - but isn?t it the business of supposedly-cultured outfits like ours to make it abundantly clear to sides trying it on, that negativity and thuggish behaviour doesn?t pay, under any circumstances?

It may be a purely subjective feeling on my part, but there were times, yesterday, when I could certainly detect a distinct whiff of some of our finest not caring to mix it too much with those nasty ruffians from the Potteries. Footballers are a bit like Pavlov?s celebrated dogs: not too much up top, but they sure as hell learn quickly from negative experiences. Electric shocks? X-Certificate tackles? More or less the same thing, in terms of rapid behaviour modification in response to an unpleasant stimulus. I?m not one normally given to condoning the use of such reprehensible tactics ourselves, but what I?d have given, yesterday, for the re-appearance in their playing prime, of, say, John Wile at the back, or of Dougie Fraser, even.

As far as the former was concerned, his answer to most vexing defensive situations was to simply welly the ball into Row Z, and about as hard as it would go. Crude, ?tis true, but dead effective. Just like Stoke, in fact. Duggie Fraser? I wouldn?t like to meet him on a dark night, that?s for sure! He?s the only Albion player I?ve ever heard given what was, for me, the ultimate accolade from any Baggies supporter, viz: ?He fouls fair?? Hard as nails, but dead cunning when dishing it out, in other words. In football, then as now, the word spread quickly, and over-aggressive opponents quickly learned of the pure folly of upsetting Mister Fraser?s sensibilities during a game. Any Stokie daft enough to try it on in those days would have quickly ended up in Earth orbit themselves. ?Nuff said, yes?

Good points? Even though we were three-one in arrears, we kept plugging away right until the end. The home supporters were certainly fearful of a late Albion revival, hence their pointed imitations of blown referee?s whistles from around the 85th. minute onwards. Either that, or they were all practicing to become accomplished Ronald Ronaldo-esque bird-imitators, in their own spare time.

Bednar, to his eternal credit, kept on truckin?, and on a better occasion, would have been rewarded with rather more than just the single strike to show for his pains. Our approach work was also good, with Gera and Robbo lobbing in some pretty useful balls from the flanks. It wasn?t their fault that we couldn?t capitalise upon their hard work to save our lives, was it? Ish Miller also had rotten luck with the header that looked for sure like it was going in, but was headed off the line by some scrotal Stokie or other. But ? and there always is a ?but? ? I do wish he would cease and desist from constantly trying to ?walk? the blasted ball into the back of the net!

Yes, it WAS a bad one, but the true test of a side aiming to win promotional silverware is that of licking one?s wounds, dusting oneself down, then winding right up for the next fixture on the calendar, in this case, third-placed Bristol City at home, on Boxing Day. That seems to be Mogga?s own take upon what happened, as well. In his Albion website interview, the actual words he used were: ?We?ll take this on the chin, move on to the next game, and try and make sure we win it??

And you?ll quickly see that Mogga was pretty careful in choosing his words, when talking to the Press about Stoke. Referring to Fuller by name, our gaffer did concede ??(In Ricardo Fuller), Stoke have got a hot striker, who is in form, and gave us a few problems today?.. We played against a decent strike force?..the quality they?ve got up front was evident. We probably didn?t create enough in the first half, and we let in some soft goals?..?

Subsequent comments, though, contained a wealth of implication within, eg.: ??.I love football with a passion, and I saw a football team trying to do the right thing??Sometimes, you?ve got to give the opposition credit for what they?re good at?.We tried to play some nice football and probe?.? In terms of trying to present what was an unashamedly horrid outfit in the best light possible, our gaffer could sure make even Iran?s feared Republican Guard sound good!

A sensible approach, that, from Mogga. However unpleasant it may have been to watch, their way worked, ours didn?t. Get over it, it?s gone, move on. Unless we get a really nasty play-off surprise, come the end of the season, yesterday?s Britannia Stadium ordeal was our very last this term. Over the course of the coming few months, there will be much bigger fish to fry than just one crudely-combative Potteries side.

Our current thoughts have to concern overcoming ?Bristle?, now securely nestling in third spot. I?m not normally one given to betting, but I reckon you?ll see a completely different Albion performance versus the Ashton Gate mob, on The Feast Of Stephen, Good King Wenceslas and attendant page present in the stands, or not. And we?ll go into that one happy in the certainty that we?ll be pretty much up to normal strength by then. Be afraid, you cider-slurpers? VERY afraid?.

Oh, and another thing. Let?s just console ourselves with the happy thought that should Stoke by some miracle get promotion, come the end of the season, their stay in the Prem will be both short-lived and embarrassing. You think Derby are currently breaking new ground, in terms of unremitting toe-curling defeat, week in, week out? As Twenties singer and actor Al Johnstone so famously intoned, on one of the first ?talkies? ever made: ?You ain?t seen nothin? yet!?

And Finally? One?. A Message to ?Batman??. No, not THAT one, just the Smethwick variety. Diary reader Jim Curry wants to arrange a meet between we former Dick ?Eds, himself, and the gentleman previously mentioned, after the Burnley home game on 2.2.2008. I?m game for it, and I?m sure ?Im Indoors would be also. The Fart would also participate with great pleasure, I?m sure. I suggest The Vine pub, after the final whistle. It also happens to be ?Im Indoors?s birthday! Discuss.

Two. GLYNIS-NOTE FOR THE VAGUELY-INTERESTED?. There was a female medic practicing in this country long before the celebrated Ms. Anderson ever started soothing fevered Victorian brows, mind. A very unofficial one: so ?unofficial? in fact, she actually masqueraded as a bloke in order to gain admittance to medical school, and graduate as a doctor.

The best bit came afterwards, when she went on to become an Army surgeon, tending the wounded on the field of battle, just like her genuinely masculine counterparts, and through sheer ability in that art (not an easy one to master, owing to the fact that neither effective pain relief during surgery, proper understanding of the damage shock could do, or drugs to overcome sepsis picked up on the battlefield, existed back then) eventually achieving general rank. It was only when ?he? eventually died of old age, and ?his? servants came to lay ?him? out, that the subterfuge was finally detected! Anyone wanting to know a bit more about the ?gentleman? in question, please get in touch.

 - Glynis Wright

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