The Diary

01 May 2008: A Few More Thoughts, Now The Dust's Finally Settled

So how?s all your hangovers, then, all you delirious Baggie people? Mild, moderate, or at the ?Oh my God, there?s bloody jack-hammers still going off in there ? where?s the soddin? Anadin?? Not that there was too much time to indulge to excess of either grape or grain after all the on-pitch doings following the final whistle; by the time we got back to our place, it was gone half-eleven, and the pair of us both feeling like some sadistic sod had just put us through a wringer, then into the tumble-drier straight after that. Celebratory we weren?t ? just plain knackered through sheer nervous exhaustion!

I would have done my usual thing of typing through the wee small hours to bring you my triumphal instalment come the morrow, but for one small detail: the PC with internet access (both machines were connected up at the old place, but we haven?t got around to sorting the other one yet: given the circumstances, there?s only so much you can put right in a fixed amount of time!) is situated in a place ideal for daytime typing, but very poorly heated and illuminated when the birdies go bye-bye, and the nocturnal creatures of the parish come out, so I?m somewhat limited right now! Until the indispensable Norm returns from his Herefordshire sojourn at our favourite holiday haunt, that is. We?ve also had problems with this laptop ? our ?internet? PC doesn?t take floppies, which I didn?t know when I began typing this up, and had to transfer this onto a CD before sending - so apologies again for the double delay in getting this on the website.

But back to the matter in hand, which I was typing on said laptop, while keeping a weather eye on the Chelsea-Liverpool Champions League semi between Chelsea and Liverpool, then going to extra time after the normal ration finished in 1-1 stalemate. (Chelsea later won it 3-2, of course.) Just one piddling observation: how is it that such a genuinely talented player as Didier Drogba can score so brilliantly for the West End moneybags, yet descend right into the pits when it comes to pursuit of the more Thespian aspects of his game?

When he?s smokin? hot, the guy genuinely excites and, more importantly, entertains, so why continually demean himself with 18-yard box histrionics that on occasion, annoyingly swiz match officials into actually giving him something for his virtuoso performance, to the eternal fury of opposition supporters the length and breadth of this fair land of ours? I still haven?t forgotten his unsavoury antics at our place the last time Chelsea visited, his piece de resistance that day being a clear attempt to get Robbo sent off: luckily the ref was one of the less idiotic of the species on that particular occasion, and was having none of it.

But back to the Baggies. Now we?ve actually done the job (only mathematically borderline, sure, but can you see both Hull AND Stoke putting 12-plus goals away next Sunday? Yeah, right?.), let?s hope we don?t stage a repeat performance of the last time we went up, under Megson. Once safely promoted, we more or less switched off there and then, losing the final three games, to my eternal fury. Unforgivable, that, as I?d considered leaders Norwich more than overripe for the taking, at the time.

But something tells me that our gaffer won?t be content resting on his laurels ? and neither will the present crew. The other day, Mogga was quoted as saying he likes a challenge: now he?s got a real biggie to ponder upon, peeps. Winning us our first League title since 1920. But it?s well within the bounds of Baggie possibility, of course. The circumstances prevailing at Loftus Road, come Sunday, will be massively different to those at the rain-soaked Hawthorns just four soggy days ago.

Back then, Southampton needed something from our final home fixture to avoid sinking beneath the water-line, hence their fierce defensive resistance and subsequent part-pooping on our party, but come Sunday, QPR won?t be operating under such undesirable (and pressing) constraints. Despite the recent acquisition of a sugar-daddy Chairman, unlike desperate Saints, they have diddly-squat to play for. Wouldn?t it be nice if we could bang a couple past their keeper without too much bother, then get the post-final-whistle message both rival clubs have failed in their missions to try and steal our fire? If only in the interests of natural justice, the relevant bit of silverware, plus accompanying gongs, should end up winging its merry way to the Shrine tout suite, and not the sodding Potteries. Come on, players, Mogga - do YOU want to see licensed thuggery and one-dimensional football effectively rewarded courtesy the latter-day equivalent of giving the late Myra Hindley a tenner from the poor-box? No, I didn?t think so either!

I can?t wait to see what our travelling faithful make of the recent entreaty to dress like Superman in final-game praise of our prolific goalscoring genius. John Homer, say, faster than a speeding bullet, and by definition more than able to deflect same from its intended target by the mere raising of a hand in front of said hunk of flying lead? Well, he?s certainly good at match official-baiting, and can get a string of accurately-targeted bon mots away within milliseconds (and earshot!) of the official concerned unwittingly inventing yet another sure-fire way of looking a right plonker in front of 25,000 people. But out-run a .45 slug in full flight, then bring it to a juddering half as it?s about to penetrate the innocent ickle body of the nearby babe slumbering in his pram? Naw, John has enough trouble catching Jean?s cat Zoltan after he?s wrecked their double-glazing sealant, never mind save small or frail members of the general public from gang warfare?s full metal-jacketed excesses!

On the other hand, one never knows ? failing full mastery of skills commonly associated with the rapid halting of discharged ordnance in its tracks, the aforementioned Mister Homer might well have a hitherto-unrecognised talent for effecting timely rescues from plummeting planes instead, or crashing through solid brick/concrete walls, even, as customer demand dictates. As the transsexual might have said to Mary Whitehouse, following yet another anatomically-explicit TV programme on the subject, ?don?t knock it until you?ve tried it.? After all, with so much past Supporters Club experience of trying to communicate with the denser species of player under John?s ample belt, the forcible penetration of solidity normally measured in feet and inches would be a mere bagatelle by comparison! Could Mogga have talents in that direction also? Of course. But is he a man willing to expose himself to full ridicule by publicly wearing underpants outside his trousers? That?s what I really want to know.

And I?d dearly like to know what the club?s purchasing plans are for the forthcoming summer break. Nothing in writing before July the first, of course: that?s when players? contracts traditionally begin for the new season to come. But there will be loads of talented performers dumped by clubs, and seemingly for very little reason, save cost-cutting, and/or managing to snap up a bargain-basement improved model instead, thereby rendering someone who might be a perfectly adequate player distinctly surplus to requirements. Their loss is nearly always someone else?s gain. They are out there, these undiscovered or forgotten gems; the main difficulty, as ever, will be persuading such people that their career interests lie primarily at the Hawthorns, and not on anyone else?s muck-heap. It?s at those times you?d hope that Mogga?s player-friendly reputation ? not to mention Albion?s as a whole - have gone before him.

The reason I mention this is because of what happened the last time we found ourselves in such exalted company, the season after our incredible last-day Great Escape. Those who were regulars back then may remember that come the opening of the midwinter transfer window, we were lower half of the Prem, but more or less holding our own there. All we needed to secure our place for the following season?s campaign was splash the cash a little. No need for either reckless or opulent spending, mind, just the routine strengthening of but a few positions needing slightly better cover. But, for whatever reason, neither cash nor players ever materialised. No surprise, then, that we were once more thrust into the Outer Darkness, come that season?s dismal end.

So, of the current crop, who looks likeliest to make a go of the Prem? And where might we be looking to strengthen? Deano? Love him to bits, brilliant with instinctive stops ? but that kicking of his! And he has been known to ?flap? in the box. And Old Father Time is becoming more and more insistent in those subtle hints of his that very soon, our keeper may well have to think about his future options. In short, Deano has, in the main, done us proud this term, but the Prem is an unforgiving medium in which to work. We need back-up of one, probably two, custodians.

Clem? For me, his return from Hull made all the difference between yet another go at the play-offs, and ?automatic?. The moment he stepped back into the limelight, our previously-dodgy defence sharpened up immeasurably. He should be OK at the higher level, because he?s got ?previous?; two goes at it, in fact. Barnett? My personal jury?s still out on that one. When he first came, I regarded him as the sort of defender who had tendencies to run hot or cold. Sometimes brilliant at the back, sometimes a turkey. You just didn?t know what you?d get every time he pulled on that striped shirt, a failing that sometimes proved pretty costly over the early part of the season. He now seems to have sorted his reliability problems out, and might well go on to do us credit in the higher sphere. Robbo? Go to Pompey? I reckon the Mirror journo who thought that one up was smoking something illegal at the time. He does have Premier League experience, so can do us a job, but I would be looking for better in the long-term.

What we do need as a matter of some urgency, I reckon, is a Derek McInnes-type leader-figure out there in the middle. Jonathan Greening, bless his lank-locked Frank Gallagher-features, is skilful enough, and with plenty of Prem experience already under his belt, too, but what we really do need for the ordeal to come, is someone who can motivate people by sheer force of personality, not to mention example. There is room for both this anonymous creature and Mister Greening: it?s just a question of Mogga finding his man. It wasn?t for nothing that one previous Baggies manager, Denis Smith, described his ongoing (but fruitless) search for a natural leader in terms of trying to source that most rare of commodities, ?rocking-horse s**t!

We now look at several others who might just make the grade: whether they actually do or not is a moot point, as we?re rapidly heading into ?Terra Incognito? here. Koren, and Tex? Both should thrive, I reckon. Tex we?ve missed enormously since his injury problems. My personal jury?s still out on Morrison, ditto Brunt, despite the latter?s amazing crossing skills. Zoltan Gera? Now we?ve nailed promotion to the door, I can?t see him going: it would take an awfully-generous remuneration package to make him jump ship, as I see it. It?s vital that we do keep him, though, as he does have the necessary attributes to thrive in the Prem. Unlike the last time we were there, we should be playing the sort of passing game he likes. Unless Mogga does have to compromise on his beliefs to survive, of course.

And now for the main armament. Let?s start with SuperKev. Despite his advanced years, he?s still managed to bang in goals like they?re going out of fashion, and on Sunday, received the ultimate in PFA accolades courtesy his fellow-professionals naming him in their Championship eleven of the season, along with Robbo and Johnno. He?s not getting any younger, of course, but he?s been around the Prem a bit, and knows what it?s all about. And we?ll be playing fewer games next term, of course, which might allow us to squeeze a little more from him in term of first-team appearances. As mentor to the horribly-raw, still, Ish Miller, that input could prove vital.

As for the lad Miller, his form is as capricious as the changing wind. Brilliant for one game, a lumbering clodhopper the next. Admittedly, Monday night showed him near his best, desperately unlucky not to get something that night. Sometimes I could really scream: versus Saints, I think I actually did! A job for Mister Phillips, I suspect ? or failing that, SuperBob, or Cyrille, even. Not so daft as it may sound, that last one; when he is on form, there?s so much about Ish that reminds me of Cyrille at his most lethal.

Roman Bednar? It would appear that the poor sod?s been playing with a hernia problem, of late, which completely explains why he appeared to go off the pace, those last few games. Can he thrive in the Prem, though? When he came to us, he was a bit of a surprise packet, as nobody outside Scotland appeared to have heard of him. It took a striker-injury crisis to finally get him into the first-string, exceeding expectations totally by scoring on his debut, and more or less picking up from where the injured Kev Phillips had left off. It should be pretty interesting to see what he makes of the top flight. Luke Moore? If he can visualise our elevation as a second chance, and respond to it appropriately, then his problems with the crowd should shrivel away to nothing. But don?t hold your breath.

There?s also the intriguing question of who Mogga has in mind by way of reinforcement measures. As I see it, the sort of players that excite him are the ?young and hungry? variety, the ones who?ll look a great deal further than the size of their next pay cheque. Obviously, not being party to such things, I don?t know who he?ll have in mind, but you can bet anything you care to mention that he?s already formulating a purchasing-plan for the coming campaign.

But one attribute in particular may well serve him usefully. Could it be that already, his name has percolated right through the massive ?grapevine? that keeps players constantly informed of who?s good, who?s got an explosive temper but is OK, really, who?s genuinely considerate of players? extracurricular family needs ? and which gaffer?s profound lack of man-management skills makes them a complete and utter managerial dinosaur? Just as some gaffers can be forever blighted by adverse repute, it also goes that others can be very highly-regarded in the dressing-room: it goes without saying where I reckon Mogga will shine.

It?s on such seemingly-small issues that otherwise-competent gaffers new to the Prem can founder. Some can play the old sergeant-major until they?re blue in the face: others, somewhat wiser, use much milder methods to motivate their charges ? and they?re the ones more likely to attract half-decent players, who rather than regard the move as a highly-productive ?cash cow?, genuinely want to help their new club prosper at the higher level. They may be hard to find, but they are around. That?s precisely the sort of recruit Mogga wants: players with the name Kamara need not apply.

And that?s about it for tonight. Sorry about all the teething troubles, but I?m sure everything will be ironed out OK come the start of the next. I?ll be producing on Saturday night, prior to our Loftus Road Championship swansong. Then churning out another after the event. Hopefully, that night?s caption will read something like: ?BAGGIES TITLE-WINNERS FOR THE FIRST TIME SINCE 1920?.? Probably something much pithier if it all comes off, actually. Or even: ?#(&^%lllPPPPgxtyAARGH*%$?. Why? Because despite being present in the flesh at Loftus Road, I probably won?t quite believe it, and I?ll be held fast in the vice-like grip of chronic word failure afterwards!

AND FINALLY?.. One. (And blame that awful Baggie man Norm Bartlam for this one, NOT me!) Apparently, Frank Lampard banned Didier Drogba from attending his mum?s funeral. The reason? Frank?s family were worried Drogba might dive in the box!

Two. When a side gain promotion from one division to another, it?s always a time of great excitement for supporters, irrespective of current League status. Human nature being what it is, they?ll always want some kind of souvenir of the occasion, something a lot of people of entrepreneurial bent are not averse to capitalising upon.

And that?s why, at Brentford, no sooner had I left the confines of Griffin Park for the open streets after the final whistle, I saw ?THEM? there. Who? Those purveyors of printed flags with the name and crest of the club concerned clearly displayed, and below, those magic eight letters - ?PROMOTED? - telling the world at large what had just taken place.

Given that my previous experience of such matters concerned outfits where the whole shebang was more or less a done deal beforehand (I don?t think I saw such things back in 1976) I?d assumed that they?d gambled beforehand ? and, in Hereford?s case, got it right. But with Monday?s Premiership-clincher, the issue was much less clear-cut. Had we stuffed up against a desperate Southampton side, things would have become more than a little sweaty. And remember, they scored first, and it took that Brunt goal six minutes from the end to finally book our seats on the gravy-train. And yet, when we finally emerged from the ground, some 45 or so minutes after the final whistle, there were the flag-sellers flogging the things for all they were worth.

The conclusion is obvious. Did these guys have a mobile silk-screen printing thingy tucked away in some quiet corner of the council estate, all set, ready to roll, should the occasion warrant it? Can?t see any other way, personally. I will say one thing, though: had these guys had a better start in life, they?d be captains of industry right now, no messing!

Three?. As I type this, there?s an ickle baby spider shooting up and down my screen, and using a bit of gossamer as a ?rope?. Does that mean he?s trying to get on the Web? Sorry.

 - Glynis Wright

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