I RECENTLY received a handwritten note from one of my regular readers, which was a little surprising as my understanding was only a limited number of them are allowed access to sharp instruments.

Notwithstanding, I offer my defence to the chastisement contained within that missive of “never mentioning the Baggies”.

Initially, I mentally refuted the charge but following research determined I have, indeed, been remiss in giving them due recognition.

It’s nothing personal or vindictive, more a matter of fact really and their failure to raise my blood pressure or stimulate my acerbic thought processes.

West Brom are a well-run club administered by unassuming, sensible directors reluctant to venture into the spotlight with only chairman Jeremy Peace adopting a Head of State approach of perennial appearance for appearance sake.

The board allow their strings to be pulled by manager Roy Hodgson who, while articulate, renowned and respected, also provides Bafta-winning performances in touchline despair and exasperation but organises his teams well and encourages them to play attractive football.

The club don’t court controversy and sensation and should either of those dark shadows alight on The Hawthorns doorstep then former head of ITV Sport, Jeff Farmer, will spin them to oblivion.

He instigated a period of inspired and innovative sporting output in his former calling and must be bewildered and often distraught by some of ITV’s present dumbed-down and derivative limited output.

Baggies fans are passionately loyal, violently disposed towards their hated adversaries in old gold and black, but grounded and realistic enough to accept that mid-table respectability should be the height of their aspirations with maybe a good cup run as a bonus.

The likelihood of rich Arabs, Russians or Asians launching a takeover bid is as remote as West Bromwich gaining independence and rearing wildebeest, so unqualified and vociferous support of their team is the order of the day.

Even their fanzine, Boing Boing, offers reasonable, moderate, balanced and thoughtful views which others of a similar ilk would do well to emulate.

Frank Skinner and Adrian Chiles number among their celebrity fans, an unlikely yet droll partnership who attend every game with a pessimism borne from years of unfulfilled expectation, and should their heroes be three goals up in the final minute of injury time will still peer through the fingers of hands covering their eyes imploring the defender to “get rid of it.”