The Diary

02 March 2008: Normal Baggie Service Now Resumed!

So there you have it. Our chaps nicely back on course, and upstarts Plymouth well and truly put in their place. But lest you think it was the wizardry of our finest that brought about this satisfactory conclusion to our Saturday afternoon prayer meeting, I?m now going to spoil everyone?s fun by stating otherwise, mainly because I know better, and I don?t see why I should selfishly keep the news to myself ? so here goes?.

Nope ? the real reason we won today was strictly down to my choice of replica shirt this morning, and nothing else! The logic behind this somewhat sweeping statement is dead easy to understand: for the last three League games, all of which we?ve lost, I?ve been wearing my home 1978-79 number, so today I decided to well and truly break the mould by going for the green and yellow away version instead ? and, bugger me down dead in a blanket, it seems to have worked!

The principle governing this startling revelation is simple: stick to ?home? and ?seventies?, and all due laud and honour will be ours. Well, in the League bits of what remains of the season, at any rate. That?s why I?ll be wearing my stripy little number at Hillsbrough, come next Tuesday night, and hoping like hell my new choice of matchday apparel will continue to have such a positive bearing upon our season.

The Cup? Now that?s a completely different animal. Expect to see me in my 1968 number, blue and white striped version, when we come to play Bristol Rovers, next Sunday evening. No Wembley shirt, ?68 style? I do have one, but not wishing to push our luck too far, I?m keeping that one handy just to cover my bases should we overcome Rovers, and reach our very first semi-final since 1982.

But that?s all in the future, of course. In the meantime, we have some very important promotion business to sort out ? and a more satisfactory manner of doing it than putting the side immediately below us in the table to the sword, I can?t even begin to imagine.

As per usual, we had a pre-match date with Messrs Fart and Noise, plus brood, in the Hawthorns Hotel, but on arrival, much to our mutual surprise, there was not a single hide nor hair of Noise to be either seen or, much more likely, heard. Vague thoughts of alien kidnappings entered my head until reality reasserted itself by reminding me that no alien in their right mind would ever be so desperate as want to pump our garrulous Stokie chum for information about the miscellaneous vagaries of our own planet. Even the most repulsive of extraterrestrial creatures must have finite lifespans, and who the hell would want to eat into a sizeable fraction of theirs by engaging in discourse of any kind with our Gatling-gob hero?

We were to later discover that they?d had to make a diversion back to their vehicle, parked close to ours, in order to grab some books that Pater wanted to return to us ? but in the meantime, perusal of today?s programme was favourite. Naturally, being Albion historians of a kind, one of the very first things to draw our attention was the piece about the recent death of Jimmy Dugdale, who was a member of the successful 1954 Wembley Cup Final side.

Reading it suddenly activated a little lightbulb in my head, and it?s a thought I propose to share with you. I find it quite remarkable that with the death of Dugdale, there?s now just ONE of the Boys Of ?54 still of this earthly plane: all the rest went to The Great Dressing-Room In The Sky at some stage or another.

Remarkable, that, when you come to consider the sheer number of 80-plus World War Two veterans still happily plodding around the Black Country. Most of that 1954 side were too young to take part in the conflict, but for some reason, Father Time seems to have treated them much more harshly. Odd, given the fact that they were all as fit, if not fitter, than the 1940?s lot, most of whom were in the Forces at that time, and up to their necks in muck and bullets. Oh, well ? I?d be better off leaving that little puzzle for the number-crunchers in Whitehall to sort out ? if they can.

The Lewis clan did turn up, at long last ? and with young Carly announcing a complete change in career plan. She?d wanted to become a physiotherapist, and had chosen a path of study to make that possible ? but not any longer. She now wants to become a midwife, apparently. Good on her: there?s a hell of a shortage in this country: in fact, hospitals are fast approaching desperation stakes.

My only concern ? and I did mention this to her ? was the fact that some maternity hospitals now seem to be addressing their staffing problems by cheapskating, to put not too fine a point on the issue. What some are doing, especially those in the London area, where wages are highest, is taking people on, but given the title ?healthcare assistants? instead. Not qualified to practice as pukka midwives, all they can do is stay with a mother during labour, make and record basic clinical observations along with all the necessary soothing noises, and yell for help if anything does go wrong ? which it can, and very quickly too, in obstetrics.

Not a very good prospect, but on the other hand, possession of a British qualification would enable Lewis Junior to practice just about anywhere in the world that she chose to, so maybe it?s the right thing to do. Mind you, given her well-known horror upon seeing blood, or anything remotely resembling it, what would she do when confronted by the sight of a new mum following up the production of a healthy infant with the hefty ?plop? of the afterbirth into the appropriate receptacle? I reckon her horrified ?yeuk!?, when we suggested it, was pretty much diagnostic.

The Noise? He?s found a new ?career? for himself, that of pub quizzer. It all started when his brother in law, wheelchair-bound, still, after a recent stroke, expressed the desire to get out a little bit more than he had, of late. What better way of doing it than via a trip to his local, where a quiz night is a weekly affair. Transport difficulties were overcome when our chum volunteered the use of both his time and his vehicle to do the biz. It?s all due to kick off next week, apparently, the night we play Sheffield Wednesday.

The Noise reckons he?ll be OK on the football questions, however obscure ? he really does have an encyclopaedic memory for such things, to be fair ? while it?s down to his missus to handle all the pop music stuff coming their way. The general knowledge remainder? ?Don?t forget,? said I, somewhat mischievously, ?Any nasty science or history questions, and you could always wangle a quick ?Phone A Friend?, in the gents? bog!?

Time for The Fart to roll up, which he did ? and with a pretty startling revelation, too. Remember the digital camera he?d been threatening to get? Well, he?s finally gone and done it, the proof of the pudding lying in the form of the many piccies he took at the recent 1993 side reunion dinner. It only remains for him to work out how to get these images out of his camera and into his PC hard drive. Mind you, I did point out that for just a small outlay, he could always take the memory card into Boots, Jessops, or similar, pick out the prints he wants, and churn them out right on the spot. More on our budding David Bailey as and when I hear about it!

It was a distinctly health-conscious Jean Homer we found, once we?d got to our seats inside the ground. Instead of her usual Balti pie-based pre-match repast, she had in her hot little hand a fruit salad instead. Oh, dear, the usual dietary woe: a distinct lack of progress.

Oh ? and more on the ?progress? of a certain Baggies loanee, now rattling ?em in for Hereford United (but not today, it would seem, they lost to Stockport, at home). John Homer reckons he?s already spoken to manager Graham Turner about the small outstanding matter of a certain bet. Agreement has been reached to allow Shergar to stay until the expiry of the current season, because that?s when John reckons the ?terms and conditions? of that bet expire!

But all conversation along those lines was to cease abruptly, because that was when both sets of protagonists finally emerged from the players? tunnel. Bot not to proceed with the usual pre-match stuff: instead, there was the small matter of a fitting tribute to the late Jimmy Dugdale, which came in the form of a minute?s applause, rather than the more conventional way.I was secretly relieved to hear that; from the way the noise from the Plymouth end was going, I did have adequate grounds for fears that any other form of tribute wouldn?t be respected.

With that out of the way, time now for all the preliminaries, including the team news. Three changes for our people to digest, these being Ish Miller, Tex and Chris Brunt coming in for the (diplomatically?) injured Kev Phillips, plus Morrison, with Zoltan Gera dropping to the bench.

And, as everyone girded their metaphorical loins (ooer, missus!) for the coming ordeal, what of the strength of the visiting support? Considering the sheer number of miles they had to cover to reach the West Midlands, around 1500 - not bad at all, I suppose. On the other hand, being as high as fifth in the table that same morning, plus the relative ease of access to our place via the motorway system, and the fact it was, after all, Saturday, not midweek, you might well have thought they?d have come in greater numbers, wouldn?t you?

All we had to do, then, was wait for today?s referee, ghastly Mister Capricious himself, Uriah Rennie, to put whistle to lips, and we were away. The first thought to strike me was not so much our game plan, as the look of Ish Miller?s boots, glowing an almost-radioactive orange, in pretty stark contrast to the wonderfully healthy green of the pitch. I did briefly speculate whether or not both he and Alby, proud owner of similarly-virulent footwear, but turquoise and pink this time, were both doing it for a bet! And that was well before I first clapped eyes upon Luke Moore?s very own contribution to matchday eccentricity, boots primarily designed to catch the eye, that?s for sure - but in an eye-watering ELECTRIC BLUE?

As a spectacle, so cagey were both sides to take the initiative, thrills and spills were at a distinct premium during those opening minutes. Very much a ?sizing-up? period, that, but even so, it was still good to appreciate that the massed ranks of guys and gals in the Smethwick were already giving it big licks. Even with so little to cheer about, they were still managing to drown out pretty much everything Plymouth?s followers were coming up with. Hell, even those resident in the normally-comatose Halfords Lane Stand were threatening to start waving vacuum flasks and travel rugs innumerable in anger, which has to be a real ?first? in my experience.

As for the first real attempt to fracture the peace of mind of either side, that came when Ish Miller, positioned perfectly in the box, but possibly slightly discomfited by the thought of being given the ball at such an opportune moment, somehow managed to push the thing a tad too far in front of his onrushing body, thereby enabling the clearly relieved Argyle keeper to gather with relative ease.

Spurred on by Miller?s attempt to break the deadlock comparatively early, the Smethwick then redoubled their vocal efforts, but it could all have gone so horribly wrong, just a matter of minutes later. Poor Tex, felled by a somewhat robust Plymouth challenge, on our side of the pitch, and about 15 yards away from our seats, something that brought about great howls of protest from those located nearer the incident. ?BLOODY HELL, RENNIE ? HOW MANY MORE?? was the impassioned cry from my other half when it happened. Plus one of: ?NO ? IT AIN?T FUNNY, RENNIE!? from our Gornal-based chum in front. Having seen the sheer amount of pain the lad was in, it came as no great surprise to me to see a stretcher quickly summoned, and the poor sod borne away by the posse of stewards designated for that duty.

As my other half was so quick to point out, not the first time the visitors had gone in so forcefully, mind; had the ref been anyone else but Rennie, I?m convinced Argyle would have well and truly paid the price long before it happened. An occurrence for which the perpetrator of the damage earned sod-all by way of official rebuke, by the way. How the hell that man is still on the list must remain one of life?s principal mysteries, but that wasn?t to be the last time the crowd took up impassioned arms against the guy, by any means.

The stretcher lads having done their duty, it was time for Zoltan Gera to make an unexpected entry into the fray. Then, at the other end, it was ?submarine impersonation time? for Argyle, and right inside our box, too. Luckily for us, Rennie didn?t want to know. ?GOO ON ? TEK YERSELF TO CHIPPERFIELD?S COWIN? CIRCUS DOWN THE BLUDDY RODE?? was John?s impassioned contribution to the proceedings as yet another Argyle person, somewhat less dangerously positioned than his predecessor, managed to win a set-piece via somewhat dubious means.

But before that could happen, just a matter of minutes after the Tex incident, Miller, courtesy Bednar, found himself in an excellent position from which to break the deadlock, and, by extension, Plymouth hearts. Sadly for us, his effort was just wide of the target. Commented the BIFOM, clearly with the recent thespian offerings from the visitors in mind, ??.But yow cor blame the ref for THAT, con yow??

With 21 minutes on the clock, it was time for Bednar to show us what he could do. His contribution came in the form of some very nifty ball-work indeed, eliciting ?oohs? and gasps of sheer delight galore from all those seated in that bit of the ground, us included. Even better, his entertaining efforts had won us the prize of a corner, Number One being closely followed by Number Two.

But the trouble was, we were always going to be in danger of outstretching ourselves, and getting caught on the break. And that?s what nearly happened, not long afterwards, with Argyle ending up winning several corners on the bounce.

As the half drew to a close, it was fast becoming clear, from the sheer number of vicious tackles going in, mostly from the visitors, it has to be said, that the game was fast deteriorating into football?s answer to World War One trench warfare.

But still we plugged it at: had Justice turned up at the turnstiles, along with the more conventional matchday audience, we?d have been around two to the good, by then. And Rennie was still doing his level best to frustrate us in that ambition, or so it seemed. Howls of sheer fury in the Brummie, when our man gave Argyle a corner, in the face of convincing evidence that the decision should have gone the other way. And yet more howls of protest seconds later, when Deano, trying to gather the ball in legitimate fashion, got clobbered by the visitors, but nothing given. No wonder that there was such an outbreak of ironic cheering from that end, when he finally got one right!

And it didn?t help, either, that Barnett, having finally ousted the demons from his game, seemingly, seemed to be reverting back to type for this one. No, Leon, losing possession right in the middle of our half, and with no colleague whatsoever in sight to help sort out the problem, is NOT an ideal course of action to embark upon! It was just as well for us that all that additional defence-stiffening work on the training pitch seemed to be reaping dividends, at long last. Had that been Hull causing the trouble, just seven days before, we?d have caved in quicker than a Lada in a car-crusher.

Just four minutes to go to the interval, and Argyle won a corner, a genuine one, this time. Worrying, as they?d been putting us under a bit of pressure, and we?d been having trouble clearing our lines properly. ?It?s not looking very good, is it?? commented this column to my other half, somewhat gloomily.

But what happened next just goes to show how just a few second?s work can change the course of a game completely. One minute we?d been camped in the Brummie, and preparing to repel boarders, the next, the ball was very much in our court, and sailing at a rate of knots, in the general direction of the Argyle box. The strike, when it came, was something of a messy affair. Pouncing upon a mistake from their keeper, Bednar quickly saw off some questionable defensive attentions from Argyle, got the ball to the boundary, screwed it back, only to see a Pilgrim block it.

Unsuccessfully, it transpired: in rushed the eager Miller, rampantly-youthful adrenaline surging in his bloodstream, to get away a shot, again unsuccessfully. There was I, and about to roar, ?BLOODY HELL ? NOT AGAIN, MILLER?.? when the very words were stifled on my lips. How come? In rushed our man Gera, instantaneously capitalising upon Plymouth?s defensive misfortune by sticking the thing where it had so unquestionably belonged, those last ten minutes or so. A lead, at long last, and at about the best possible time to strike, too! In the words of that ghastly woman, Margaret Thatcher, around the time of the Falklands War: ?Rejoice! Rejoice!?

A shame for the bloke sitting to our immediate left, clearly tasked this season with the job of entertaining his granddaughter, by bringing her to home games. In an effort to answer his descendant?s urgent call of nature, he?d had to rush said child to the toilets below, sand because of that, completely missed out on what happened! Who?d be a grandparent, eh?

We spent the interval examining the many pictures Jean had taken of the 1993 side?s Slap-Up Feed. That, plus several more of Zoltan ? the feline version, not the one in the stripes, who somehow ended up in today?s programme, incidentally. But what really shook me was the sheer rapidity with which some of the Class Of ?93 had aged, rendering them well-nigh impossible to identify, in some instances.

In the case of people like Nicky Reid, Steve Lilwall, Carl Heggs, and even Freddie Mercury look-alike at the time, Tony Lange, recognition was downright impossible for me. Andy Hunt? Couldn?t make it, sadly: still in Belize, from what I could gather. Bob Taylor? He?s pretty much the same old Bob he always was, thank goodness. You couldn?t mistake him, even if you?d wanted to! Aw, bless.

Back to the matter in hand, then, that of giving Argyle a huge flea in their ear for being so presumptuous as to espouse ideas completely above their proper Championship station. Squeaky Bum Time, necessitating the swift application of bike clips to the ends of trousers for we nervous Baggies? Not a bit of it. It all got off to a jolly good start when Ish Miller, wanting to get onto the scoresheet, and, by extension of ideas, back into his gaffer?s good books once more, beat his jailer, then sent the ball soaring high above their keeper?s head, in a deceptively-swirly arc. For one wonderful moment I thought the ball would loop right underneath the crossbar and in, but it wasn?t to be. Must have been deflected, though, as the subsequent decision was a corner to the Baggies.

And, just two minutes later, we nearly conceded an equaliser, thanks to an unwelcome resurgence of our former failing. Sheer lack of communication among defenders, right when it really mattered, in other words. ?BLOODY TALK TO ONE ANOTHER!? screamed ?Im Indoors, completely demented, by then, as the ball rolled out for a corner to Argyle.

Not too long after that, our old mate Uriah decided to add his pennyworth to the mix, by ruling offside an Albion move that seemed to start in our own half of the field. Furious exclamations of ?Doo Wot!? weren?t the half of it, believe you me. But the pendulum was now clearly swinging in our favour. The Smethwick, always quick to pick up such changes in matchday mood, redoubled their vocal efforts, currently stuck in ?Oh, When The Stripes Go Marching In? mode. Then the Halfords picked up the refrain: vacuum flasks and travel-rugs aplenty flying just about everywhere, I?ll have you know.

Even ?Im Indoors?s Albion watch, newly-replaced after its recent accident, got into the groove, by doing precisely the same thing again ? flying off when my beloved got somewhat more enthusiastic in his vocal encouragement. Blimey ? did nobody ever give thought to the fact that these timepieces would be worn by people who do tend to go in for hand-clapping and similar in a big way? Someone clearly needs to make the things Baggie-proof, and quick. Anyone else out there purchased one from the Club Shop and encountered similar difficulties, I wonder?

But that was dwarfed completely by what happened not long afterwards ? and it really does rank as one of my All-Time Peculiar Goals Seen At The Shrine! Having missed what looked like an absolute shoo-in of a strike just seconds earlier, the lad Miller then demonstrated body strength of almost Regis proportions to shake off his closely-attendant marker, then somehow twist himself around and curl the ball past the hapless Plymouth custodian.

God alone knows how he did it, given the fact he was facing the wrong direction completely, at that time. Mind you, his colleagues were pretty impressed with what he?d done, given the sheer enthusiasm with which they subsequently congratulated him. Poor sod was nearly buried under the sheer weight of celebratory Baggie bodies, so he was. Was that the real reason Mogga subbed him so quickly, I wonder, to save him from a mauling, and one coming from our own lads, at that?

That strike just about settled Plymouth?s hash for them, but we still had room in our locker for a third. That came approximately seven minutes later, Bednar being the prime beneficiary, that time. Gera was the provider, that time, setting up the big lad for a relatively easy toe-poke to make it three and out for the visitors, poor sods.

With the pressure most definitely off, at long last, it was well and truly ?Showboat Time? for our rampant heroes. Suddenly, just about everyone was participating in ?pass and move? football, Baggies-style. Gera almost benefited when Brunt, crosser of the ball par excellence, teamed up with our indiarubber-limbed Hungarian to give the Plymouth keeper one almighty scare.

Shortly after that saw the exit of Bednar from the scene. There were some murmurs of dissent in the Halfords, but I could see what Mogga was trying to achieve: with yet another important game just a couple of days away, he didn?t want to take any risks. His replacement? The new Korean lad, name mercifully abbreviated by the club to Kim, who looked really useful during his brief time on the pitch.

The Pilgrim tendency?s vocal contribution, by this time? The altogether predictable: ?Three-Nil, and You Still Won?t Sing?.? with the even more predictable rejoinder, from Baggie-lovers based in the Smethwick, ?We?re Just Too Good For You?.? And, in the final analysis, so we were.

That result, excellent though it was, didn?t see us make material inroads on those above us in the table. Given a decent result come Tuesday, though, that position might well change dramatically. All we can do is go to Hillsbrough, and give it our best shot. I wonder whether Tex?s injury will put to an abrupt end his participation in the run-up to May, and further important business elsewhere, either at League level, or in the Cup? I sincerely hope not. With any luck, we?ll get a better idea come Monday.

And Finally?.. One. Coo, what a handy time for a small windfall! Guess who went and won the Supporters Club ?card?, then? No, not me ? my lack of luck is legendary ? just my other half, who walked away some forty squid better off. Mind you, when she realised that my other half had won, I honestly thought young Bethany, already positioned in the equivalent of geosynchronous Earth orbit, thanks to all the wretched E-numbers she?d ingested that day, was going to have a pretty nasty accident befall her knickers before too long!

Two? Let?s just call it a ?score-draw? and be done with it, eh? Through some temporary malfunctioning of my brain last night, I get to call The Pilgrims ?The Mariners? (must have been residual magnetic waves emanating from the mind of a certain Mister Buckley, even now ? and trust Statto Steve Carr to have noticed!), and we all get to call today?s opposition ?Plymouth Argylle?, as per the ?forthcoming game? information boards located on the West Bromwich side of the ground!

Three?. How To Manage The Labour Of A Mum Suspected Of Being A Dingle, and all for the benefit of prospective midwife Carly Lewis! My clinical protocol? Natter sweetly to the dear lady, then, once you?ve got her confidence, whip out the old Electrolux vacuum cleaner, switch to ?suck?, shove the tube right up the bit where the sun don?t shine, to the great surprise of the little shaver waiting to make its entrance into the world, then delightedly inform your nonplussed ?victim?: ?Right, you Dingle sod - I?ve been wanting to do this to one of your lot for years!.....? Naw, I don?t think it will ever make the pages of The Lancet, somehow?.

Four? Remember the old saying about being able to pick your friends, but not your relatives? Well, it?s now my bounden duty to inform all you lot out there that the very same dictum?s recently held true for our family. Chris Riggott, surgically-joined to our family by virtue of marriage to a distant relative, some time ago, has now gone and moved to bloody Stoke City!

But rest assured, fellow Baggies, that whoever gets invites for our forthcoming housewarming party (I can only hope that the Noise doesn?t take the title of the event too seriously, and invite his convicted arsonist ?relly? to our shindig, as well!), I can quite categorically assure you there most certainly WON?T be one winging its merry way forth to The Britannia Stadium!

 - Glynis Wright

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