The Diary

25 March 2005: Cash Cows, Sacred Cows

Another entry for your delectation - and what a lot I?ve got for you this time! - on what will be yet another Saturday (or Sunday, come to think about it), when we aren?t exercising our lungs in the pursuance of Premiership survival. But that doesn?t necessarily mean to say our favourite football club have been enjoying a state of relative quiescence, in similar fashion to a dormant volcano ? oh, dearie me, no. The search for what they charmingly refer to as ?alternative revenue streams? goes on apace, and this time, not being content with allowing advertising space on their land to carry Tory party election adverts, they?ve now dropped on an absolute lulu of a spiffing wheeze to cream in more from already sorely-tested punters.

It?s all to do with telephone numbers, dear reader; next May, the familiar ones you and I normally use to get in contact with the ticket office etc. will change, and new ones substituted in their place. And that?s the problem I?m having with the whole concept right now; sure, I daresay telephone access to the areas concerned will improve no end, but what the club don?t necessarily mention is the highly-pertinent point that these numbers will be of the ?0870? species. Still not sussed the plot? Easy ? you, the supporter, will pay for such calls at BT NATIONAL rates rather than the current ones, usually dependent upon the geographical location of the caller. And, of course, with every call made, our lovely football club gets a nice leetle cut of the loot. I could be cynical and speculate upon what wilt happen when supporters are left on ?hold? for some length of time, but I won?t.

What with all these nasty little moneymaking tricks quietly sneaking in on the blind side, I?m now left wondering just what will be next on their cash-raking hit-list. Could we soon be seeing the day when the club sticks coin-in-the-slot machines on the cubicle doors in the Ladies? Given the inborn tendency of most of the female species to need to use such facilities at least once during the course of a game, what a dead-cert money-spinner that would prove to be. And why stop there? If you wanted to get really cheeky about it, why not install the male equivalent on the urinals ? a little circular hole that only opens once you?ve proffered your bit of coinage? Want some bog-paper afterwards? Oooh dear ? not until you?ve flashed the cash for your two crumpled sheets, my lovely. And, what about ?Premier League Urinals?, as opposed to the - erm ? bog-standard variety all the plebs have to use? The user price reflecting the relatively cash-rich status of those choosing to empty their bowels there, of course. But enough, enough ? no doubt, most of you lot can take the concept to its ultimate limit in better (and far cruder!) ways than I.

?What do you think of it so far?? People of about my age will recognise that famous catch-phrase instantly, of course, and in true Pavlovian style, furnish the appropriate response ? ?RUBBISH!? ? within nanoseconds of reading this. As for the rest of you, if your birthdate happens to fall after the year 1984, you?re probably all wondering just what the hell she?s banging on about this time, so I?d better enlighten you all, then, hadn?t I?

Ever heard of Eric Morecambe, comedy partner of Ernie Wise, who got together one lovely day many moons ago to create a much-loved comedic double-act otherwise known as ?Morecambe and Wise?? Somewhat old fashioned their routine, gags, and patter might seem to youthful eyes and brains more attuned to the likes of ?The League Of Gentlemen?, ?Little Britain? and all the rest of the modern-day stuff on TV screens, but during their BBC TV 70?s heyday, without really trying, they could constantly command ratings present-day Beeb-types would die for ? so don?t knock it.

Take, for example, their annual Christmas night specials, for which any number of celebs ? newsreader Angela Rippon, orchestra conductor Andrew Previn, to name just a couple - eagerly grabbed at the chance to be made to look very silly indeed by the dynamic duo. Around an hour long, they were, and for the entire duration of the show, absolutely nothing ? I repeat NOTHING ? in these sceptred isles ever went (or got dome) ANYWHERE.

The entire Soviet army could have walked into Dover via a hi-jacked fleet of Channel ferries, kidnapped The Queen, blown up both Houses Of Parliament, completely trashed Millwall?s ground ? hmm, not such a bad idea, that last one, come to think about it ? and sod-all would have been done to stop them: everyone in a position to do something about it glued immovably to the box, of course. (Not so unlikely as it might sound, actually ? I distinctly remember an Albion supporter, a squaddie, telling me just a few years back, that while serving in Northern Ireland, on lots of occasions, he was totally amazed to witness a bunch of SAS lads, no less, all squabbling over who was to get the best seats to watch ?Corrie? ? I guess one?s long-standing awe and respect for the nation?s finest could only plummet alarmingly after seeing that!)

It?s a tenuous link I?m forging here between those two deceased chuckle-merchants and the beautiful game, but there genuinely is one, I promise. The obvious, of course, is the fact that Eric Morecambe was also a Luton Town director (you go supply your own jokes for that one - sorry!), but the other is that last Tuesday, both ?Im Indoors and myself ventured up the M6, to the Lancashire coastal town birthplace whose name Eric subsequently adopted for stage and TV use. How come? To chalk up their Conference football club as yet another non-league ground well and truly ?done?, actually. Oh, and to have a butchers at the world-famous statue grateful townsfolk erected on the sea-front in fond memory of a genuinely lovely man. I dunno if The Fart has either Eric or Little Ern?s mugshot stashed away in his celebrity photo collection or not, but I?d be shook absolutely rigid to discover he hasn?t.

My verdict on the statue? The people who designed the much-maligned Princess Di memorial in London were made to look like rank amateurs by comparison. Very well done, tasteful, caught in classic TV show pose, the great man?s career history, plus all those familiar Eric?n?Ern catch-phrases, done in lettered concentric circles around the base, and all with a delightful twist ? come dusk, the whole shebang lights up, and lots of little purple twinkly lights built into the steps leading up to Eric?s monstrous erection begin their fascinating nocturnal scintillations. Wonderful stuff. As for the game, in order to prevent the Wrath Of Hubby descending upon my bonce like a dive-bomber once more, let?s just gloss over the entire thing by saying that Hereford took the lead, lost it within minutes, then totally blew it when the home side were awarded a penalty not long before the end! But see below for the twist!

Ooops! Before we move on, though, one truly sobering thought to share with you all: having made landfall on the sea-front and parked up, in the far distance, we could just about discern around a dozen people working on the mud-flats. Picking cockles, of course. Twenty or so minutes further down the line, we returned to that very same spot once more, only to find everyone out there gone ? and the tide well and truly in. The speed with which that onrushing watery cascade covered those pathetic little islands of sand and mud was truly astonishing ? not to mention terrifying. The poor sods that got stuck there last year simply wouldn?t have stood an earthly.

Morecambe?s a pretty strange place to be suddenly confronted with some startling Albion news, as this column quickly discovered while awaiting the return of ?Im Indoors from the loo following our pre-match pub meal. Leaning on the bar, I was, and watching the teletype-style ?latest news? bits flicker across the bottom of the TV screen ? an adjunct to the Sky Sport One footie programme showing at the time ? and didn?t I get a hell of a shock? It turned out we?d let young Lloyd Dyer go out on loan to Coventry City, and yes ? when I informed my other half on his return from the kharzi, his lower mandible plunged rapidly downwards as well. In sympathy with mine, no doubt. Or could it have been the lasagne?

Having said that, the more I think about it, the more sensible the move appears. Through no fault of his own whatsoever, the past few months must have been frustration personified for the lad, and with the coming of other players into the club, Lloydie found himself slipping further and further down the Hawthorns pecking order. Presumably, Robbo must have come to the conclusion that perhaps the more rigorous standards and demands of The Prem were a little beyond Lloydie?s capabilities at the present time, hence the loan move.

That doesn?t necessarily mean to say that he?s a failure in any way; on the contrary, we?ve already been supplied with proof positive that without troubling himself unduly, the lad is perfectly capable of scaring the pants off more than a few First Division defenders. In fact, it?s quite easy to argue that had it not been for Lloydie and some of those defence-splitting left-flank runs of his, gaining automatic promotion last season would have been a much more problematic proposition. Certainly, my abiding memory of young Lloyd was the single-handed demolition job he did on Ipswich Town at their place last season. And that?s not all. What Baggie worth their pork scratchings could ever forget that incredible moment, during the dying seconds of our promotion ?crunch? game versus Sunderland at the Stadium Of Light, when Lloydie seized what looked like an all-out bloodless stalemate by the scruff of the neck, and within seconds turning the whole thing into public acknowledgment that it would be us, and not the Black Cats, gracing the Premiership the following season?

Strange, though ? had the lad been more experienced, or had it been one of our more seasoned pros getting the ball in similar circumstances, they would simply have settled for the point, run the ball into the corner, and done their utmost to play possession there until the ref blew for full-time. But that was the thing ? Lloydie, being young and inexperienced ?na?ve, arguably? - didn?t. Instead, he chose to ignore the paint-stripping touchline imprecations coming from our manager?s mouth in great dollops (eek ? rather him than me!), beat his man in fine style, got to the by-line, crossed magnificently to the unmarked Jason Koumas, by then running into the box like an express steam train with the safety-valve blown ? and the rest you all know, of course.

And that?s the thing ? although his few Premiership outings never scaled such glitzy heights, the lad?s already proven himself quite capable of scaring the living daylights out of just about any defender at Championship level, at any time, any place, consequently our loss will sure as hell be Coventry?s gain. I?m sure I won?t be the only Baggie to be showing a more than casual interest in Coventry?s survival doings over the weeks to come. Interesting, though ? I did hear both Walsall and Forest expressed an interest in procuring the lad?s services until the end of the season, but Mister Dyer quickly came to the conclusion that ?being sent to Coventry? would be a far better career move for him. Oh, and another thought. Should our Great Escape venture finally end in tears ? which, being realistic, is by far the most likely outcome of the lot ? what odds on Lloydie being recalled by Robbo for yet another poke at the pot, I wonder?

And it?s a fond goodbye, also, to both James O?Connor, and Adam Chambo, good and honest pros both, who have departed for Burnley and Kiddy Harriers respectively. As Mister O?Connor had already spent some time with the Lancashire club on loan, and both parties to the move having found the temporary transaction mutually beneficial, it came as no surprise to hear that there was a done deal agreed on deadline day. As for Chambo A., what really shook me about that one was that not one single club higher in the pecking order chose to take advantage of what I?d reckoned was more than a bit of a bargain out there.

With no disrespect whatsoever intended towards Harriers, I would have personally rated the lad?s talents (Premiership experience, on what amounts to a ?free?)worthy of far higher than a struggling Second Division outfit ? but that?s football for you. At least the move gives the lad a far better chance to get himself noticed out there, and who knows who might be at Aggborough watching and taking copious notes next season? At least that?s what I hope will happen; both Chambers lads were a credit to their profession, so let?s hope both their moves prove more advantageous for them than was their frankly dead-end situation at The Shrine.

Now here?s an interesting question for all you Baggie people out there ? which Premiership clubs, thus far this season, have notched up the least number of Saturday three pm League kick-offs? Top marks if you thought ?Manchester United? ? you?re right, even if doing so was a dead-cert non-brainer. That?s one, then ? but guess which outfit are the other worthy winners of my hypothetical trophy? Yep, that?s right ? WE are! And it doesn?t get any better, either; not just TV influencing things, mind, the local plods panicking do have some input also, but thanks to the predations of Murdoch?s mob, among other things, from now until the end of seasonal hostilities, we don?t have a single game that kicks off at the traditional time, i.e. Saturday, three pm.

Needless to say, this has caused much disquiet among our season-ticket holders, who purchased theirs in good faith well before the start of the current season; not so much of a problem if your firm allows flexible working, of course, but for the vast majority, the long hours culture, aka ?presenteeism?, rules OK ? and getting time off for a mere football match simply isn?t a goer these days. Not if you value your career prospects at all. And the club?s ?no refunds? policy doesn?t help one little bit either. You have only to listen to the collective wailing and gnashing of Baggie teeth on local radio to realise just how many of our supporters are really brassed off by the extent to which TV has now come to dictate the odds to the game?s rulers. Just what sort of mentality is it that designates a Saturday kick-off time for a game, then, just a few weeks before it?s due to take place, swaps it to midweek ? but doesn?t tell the punters what date ? and yet, despite all that, tells supporters that tickets (cost ?40!) go on sale weeks before the (as-yet-undated) event, but sorry ? if the date?s not congenial, no refunds allowed whatsoever?

As I?ve been hinting on this diary piece for several weeks, now, irrespective of what league we find ourselves in next season, there will be a hell of a lot of Baggie people simply upping and voting with their feet. And I?m not just referring to away season tickets (currently subject to a stonking ?45 surcharge) either, although God alone knows precisely how our football club (and the Premier League) already manage to square, in their consciences, the vicious and pernicious circle of publishing, in June, fixtures and dates that become totally meaningless once Sky TV (and the plods, of course) have had their wicked way with them all. If you happen to work shifts, or unsocial hours, how the hell can you plan for that?

Some I?ve spoken to intend watching those matches designated for TV consumption on the box next season, and only purchasing match tickets for the ones that aren?t, on an ?as and when? basis. Result? Only one party can ever be the winner in that scenario, and it sure as hell ain?t our favourite football club, welcome though the extra TV blood-money might be in the short-term. Take such a concept to its ultimate conclusion, and you?re left with naught save a half-empty stadium and an atmosphere about as tenuous as that prevailing on the surface of Mars. The only thing about all this that surprises me in any way is the amount of time it took for Baggie people to finally wake up and smell the tainted coffee. How long will it be, I wonder, before supporters of other top-flight sides finally cry ?enough is enough? and vote with their feet (and wallets)?

Back again, probably, around Tuesday night, to have a quick butchers at what?s hot and what?s not concerning other Albion-related topics I?ve missed while away, so see you all then.

And finally?.. It looks very much as though what I now term ?The Charlton Effect? has struck with a bloody vengeance once more in our household. Having told you all the sad tale of how we missed last Saturday?s away goal-fest, and cursed a blue streak when we heard the final score, I now have a similar tale of woe to chuck onto the pile ? but this time, the team in question was ?Im Indoor?s ?other lot?, Hereford United.

How come? Easy. As you will have seen above, following their Morecambe reverse, and assuming they?d totally blown their Conference promotion quest, my other half vowed there and then not to attend another Bulls away fixture for a very long time indeed. And that?s precisely what we did; today, Hereford took on Farnborough Town, at their place, but we weren?t among the audience. Catching up on various ducrots and dingbats (and giving the rose bush whose thorns gave my other half so much grief recently a damn good kicking!) seemed to be the order of the day. And, when we finally got around to checking progress on Ceefax this afternoon, it seemed we?d made the right decision ? Hereford were winning by the odd goal, but they?d also had a man sent off; going by their form at Morecambe, the prospects of them potting all three points looked distinctly remote.

But that, dear reader, must have been the precise moment when that ?Charlton factor?, of which I made mention above, chose to kick in. Visibly sulking, His Nibs then decided to listen to proceedings via a live internet link, and before you could say ?Carey-Bertram?, he was dashing downstairs to say the Bulls were now three up. In fact, in the minute or so it took to tell me about the three, upstairs, Bulls were busily sticking in the fourth! But that wasn?t the end of things, oh dearie me, no. By that stage, Farnborough must have wished with all their heart there was a footballing equivalent of boxing?s ?throwing in the towel?, because there was much, much worse to come than that. By the end of the allotted span, the visitors had notched up no less than SIX in the back of the Farnborough net!

I have to say I?ve never, ever heard of a similar occurrence at such an elevated level as the Conference, an away side scoring that many without reply, and one of their players having already taken an early bath, leaving them with ten for most of the fixture. Unless total footballing obsessives and Stattos like Steve The Miser can tell me any different, of course! But the main thrust of my tale centres around one somewhat uncomfortable fact ? are both away wins, ours and The Bulls, down to the simple fact we just weren?t there? After all, the Charlton caper was the first Albion away three-pointer my other half had missed for around 24 years (eek!), and had we been sufficiently arsed to do so, travelling to Farnborough today would have been dead easy. As I remarked to His Nibs tonight, to further the interests of both sides, perhaps we should both do a Jonah, and get swallowed up by a whale, or something? Ooer.

 - Glynis Wright

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