Jim Flack, four-time winner of the Rutland and Melton Sports Pundit of the Year award and International Sherrymakers Association Man of the Century (20th), writes exclusively for Row Z.
 This week, Jim looks at a club close to his heart, West Bromwich Albion... 'Fight the power
'Yes, aaaah
'Fight the power;
'Fight the power
'Yes, aaaah
'You've got to fight the powers that be.' Thus, in the immortal words of my good pal Flavour Flav (a diehard Saddlers fan, incidentally), West Bromwich Albion's 2001/02 season can be summed up. It seemed the plucky boys from the Black (Country) stuff were forced to battle against more powerful squads, one-eyed referees and cruel fate in their bid for top flight survival. I, Jim Flack, desperately wanted the Baggies to stay in the Premiership. I've so many good mates at The Hawthorns - and a lifetime of fond memories. When I look at today's modern football grounds, with their soaring stands, their pristine playing surfaces and their flush-friendly toilets it's hard to imagine a different time. A time epitomised by the seething humanity of the terraces, the rutted, muddy pitches and alfresco piddling. A time when, on a cold day, you could make your way to the bottom of the terraces and warm your feet on the steaming goodwill of your fellow fans. A time when you could engage in eclectic conversation with the fan next to you, and round that conversation off by smashing your fist in his face if he was talking rubbish. A simple time. A golden time. It was a time when West Bromwich Albion were rightly regarded as one of the game's big hitters. Money problems, internal wranglings and crap players forced them to endure a period in the doldrums but last season the club showed what a boon they could be to the game's top flight. Their reneissance is down to one man, and one man alone. Me. A few years ago, the West Brom board approached me and asked my advice on who should fill their managerial vacancy. My response was instant. "Brian Little," I said. Brian turned out to be a total and utter failure as Albion boss but, if he'd been a bit better, Gary Megson would never have arrived in the Black Country. Gary is, of course, a good, good pal of mine. I remember our first meeting, which came about by chance on a street in his native Sheffield. "Oi! Megson! You're a miserable sod!" joked I by way of a greeting. He responded in typically candid fashion by playfully kicking me in the groin. Since then our relationship has gone from strength to strength. Gary counts me among his closest friends in the game. Which is why rumours of internal strife at The Hawthorns are so upsetting. Jeremy Peace, needless to say another mate of yours truly, is a man used to the finer things in life. I remember we shared dinner once at The Ivy and Jaz (my nickname for him) insisted on HP Sauce to pour on his fillet mignon rather than the inferior Daddy's Sauce the were trying to fob him off with. Which is why I know that all he wants is what's best for Albion. So, via the medium of this column, I would appeal to these two great football statesmen to cast aside any differences they may have and learn to love each other, like Big Ron loves Scholesy. There. That should sort it.
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Row Z 
