The Diary

02 November 2003: What Do You Want? Jam On It?

My goodness, what a let-off today; no difficulty sussing out who we have to thank for that, the miracle-worker was the bloke in between the sticks, Russell Hoult. Easily my man of the match, again; he certainly earned his coin today. Had we caught Sunderland on the break towards the end, as we threatened to do at one point, it would have been the biggest act of daylight robbery since the one Ronald Biggs, Buster Reynolds and Co pulled on the Royal Mail some 40 years ago. Sunderland?s players and supporters must be wondering right now precisely how they managed to let those three precious points slip though their fingers, or, more to the point, which black cat they managed to mangle on their way to The Hawthorns today.

More about today?s game in a mo, but first, an apology. As you might have gathered, there was no column last night, which was particularly galling for me as I?d written one, just about! What happened was that I?d penned about three pages of the thing, then needing to check something, I dialled up the official website ? then all hell let loose on my PC. Suddenly, the thing went into some sort of a ?loop?, menus kept popping up on the screen all of their own volition, and, even more infuriating, the PC kept closing down and re-opening. And, when I?d finally managed to secure a brief period of comparative order, I opened up the relevant file once more ? I?d been saving everything as I went along ? the whole thing just vanished into thin air. And, would you believe, the same thing happened tonight, despite everything ?Im Indoors did to rectify the situation for me? I?ve been saving everything religiously, just as normal, but the PC cut out on me again ? and the file I was working on simply vanished into thin air. It?s now going on eleven, and I?d been working on that piece for about 2 hours ? then that. No wonder I?ve just suddenly lost the will to live.

However I?ll try to ?carry on regardless?, as per the ?Beautiful South? song. My tale begins in the Throstle Club, at around half-twelve, along with the other three Dick Eds, plus junior-bag-carrier Carly, who is thirteen, as near as damn it. Today was her education in carrying quantities of drink from the bar. Since Ally?s departure from the place, the new (temporary ? and it shows) staff don?t seem to have their finger on the pulse of the place to the same extent as Mr. Brown And His Merry Men. Would you believe it? Only diet Coke available, in a place with a turnover such as theirs? Any road up, because of the likelihood or difficulties getting served as the crowd increased, we decided to order everything pint-sized, which meant having to tote pint glasses of Coke, bottles of juice, and smaller glasses back to our seats. Carly looked quizzical, so I showed her. Easy when you?ve worked in a pub, really! Mind you, The Noise?s lass got her own back about 30 minutes later; Si?s mobile had been playing up, so just like last Wednesday, we decided to give it the old ?Let A Child Loose On It? routine a whirl. And guess what? Not only did Carly sort out the problem ? getting the correct screen to send text messages ? she also put a new screen on for ?Im Indoors as well, a dinky little multicoloured rainbow, which he never even knew existed! Quite a poke in the eye for two seemingly-intelligent people (so rumour has it!). Tell you what, kids don?t half make you feel inadequate, sometimes!

Outside, then, into the golden autumn sunshine, where selling beckoned. At least, it did to ?Im Indoors, and loudly; all I got was the fanzine equivalent of a dirty great raspberry, and minutes upon end of tedium! Never mind, I hadn?t been there that long when up popped Michelle and Jean, of Supporters? Club fame, to relieve my ennui. It was through them I learned more about the eccentricities of coach drivers detailed to take football supporters on long trips to and from games. Remember my tale of woe a couple of days ago? Well, the bloke steering Jean?s coach went one better, it seems. Yep, they took the orthodox route homewards from Tyneside, but come the M42, there was a slight deviation. Well if the truth were known, a bloody big deviation ? instead of joining the M6 south of Brum as per normal, their chauffeur took them the whole length of that stretch of road, to where it joins the M5, then up towards God?s own Black Country from there! Not that amusing, as it meant a four in the morning arrival back at base, the Shrine. Somebody now please enlighten me as to whether a sadistic streak is a job-requirement for these people, especially when given the task of propelling Baggies from A to B, and back?

And, not long after that, a visit from our old mucker from Sweden, the sky-scraping Ollie. The bloke who most gallantly pushed me around one Danish town after a game when I was stuck in a wheelchair three seasons ago. And he was not alone, either, although his mates were still over the East Stand, purchasing about as much of the club shop as was compatible with excess-baggage restrictions on aircraft. Their names? Lollo and Elisabeth, who both hail from a town in the north of the country called Umea (the ?a? in the last name has a little ?o? over it; something to do with pronunciation, I?m told, though what, I?ve no idea, as I don?t speaka da Scandinavian myself), and besides being rabid Baggies ? this was their first ever visit to The Shrine - they?re both teachers. As our game was shown live in Sweden today, I?m given to understand that all their colleagues were all exhorted to watch on the box, upon pain of death for non-compliance.

Into the ground, finally, at around ten to three and, annus mirabilis, no queues at the Halfords turnstiles either! Presumably, we?re all getting more comfortable with the new technology, or are people simply going through them earlier? And, as I made my way towards what the Americans would describe as a ?comfort station? the strains of ?The Liquidator? were faintly discernible above the low buzz of the crowd in the concourse under the stand. Plenty of noise from the visitors, as you might expect, but, of meaningful noise from our followers, not a whisper. The casual listener would have had great difficulty knowing we had been top of the heap until the lunchtime victory of Wigan over Palace, or that we were pitted against a side not that far below us. Sure, I realise that the naughty lyrics in that song had to be toned down somewhat, but by doing so, haven?t we simply thrown out the baby with the bathwater? It?s the fervour generated by our supporters that makes The Hawthorns so special, and by clamping down on this, plus constant exhortations by stewards in both the Brummie and the Smethwick to ?sit down, or else!? are we not by doing so rendering the place about as devoid of atmosphere and as sterile as the surface of the moon? Is that what it?s come to? To reduce our passionate support to what amounts to a ?theatre audience?, just like that of Old Trafford, or Highbury? What?s next, I ask myself? The gradual supplanting of honest Black Country voices by those of the Justins and Tarquins of this world? And don?t laugh; should ticket prices eventually rise to the extent publicly envisaged by our leaders, the nightmare might well become reality should we make the big time on a more permanent basis.

?Tinkling? duties done with, back to my seat once more, and ready for the ?off?. The team news was, Hughsie, Jason Koumas and Paul Robinson were most definitely in, and as they entered the field of play, our lot indulged in a routine they?d performed for the last two away games; that of lining up, and running the width of the pitch over and over again. And, after all that, a ?group hug?. All together, now ? aaaahhhh! Sunderland, for their part, had come to get something; their line-up was an attacking one, and, right from the kick-off, didn?t we bloody know it.

Right from the off, the Black Cat bombardment of our area was relentless, and twice early on we were lucky to keep our sheet as pure as the driven snow. As the game progressed, it seemed to me that we were still suffering after-effects from Wednesday night?s extra-time marathon; Rob Hulse in particular didn?t seem to be keeping up with the flow at all, most lethargic he was, cutting?edge totally absent, not his normal self at all. Stray balls, misplaced passes, careless errors where it could have cost us ? yes, I mean you, Mr. O?Connor and Mr. Gregan! At least Hughsie was having the occasional pot; his shot on 25 minutes, which was finger-tipped over the bar by the keeper, was about the best effort from us thus far. It was also around that time that the match official, a gentleman called Penton, began to exert his influence on the game, and not just against us, either. The Mackems were also the victims of some bizarre decisions from the whistle of our friend. As far as we?re concerned, however, in the 20th minute, AJ tangled with a Mackem. The incident occurred not that far away from where we sit, and as far as I could see, it was an accidental collision, with no malice aforethought, and I couldn?t believe it when the official reached for both notebook and yellow card. Two minutes later, Hughsie was the one to get ?yellow?, for a foul, then, in the 31st minute, Robinson was also the recipient of a harsh booking ? the trouble was, he just wouldn?t shut up about it, and was gradually finding himself floundering on increasingly-dodgier ground. Luckily, he came to his senses before the referee?s patience finally snapped.

Mind you, Mr. Penton saved his most baffling decision for the 34th minute, when Sunderland defender Darren Williams, upset with something or other, deliberately kicked the ball into the front of the East Stand crowd; unsurprisingly, someone there got hurt, but where was the whistler while all this was going on? You tell me. In the meantime, while the anger was mounting over that incident, our hero managed to totally miss a blatant hand-ball from one of theirs. Finally, about five minutes from the interval, we got a decision, to ironic cheers from the gallery. Meanwhile, in the East Stand, it became abundantly clear that the injury to the spectator was more serious than first thought. Police and stewards quickly rushed to the scene, and at first I thought they were restraining someone, but it transpired that they were merely rendering first-aid. A stretcher was called for, and produced, but after some time, it was deemed unnecessary. I don?t know how badly the person struck was injured, but I did see someone being taken in the direction of the police area afterwards.

How the hell the score remained goalless until the break I honestly don?t know. Talk about a replay of Wednesday night?s aerial assault; even in injury-time we were under the cosh, and it was only thanks to Greegs that we lived to fight another half.

Come the restart, though, Meggo decided to change things. Off went Hughsie (did he have trouble with his hamstring again?) and O?Connor, and on came Dobes and Sakiri. Blimey, if Lee?s injury was that serious, where does that leave us forward-wise? And, once things had got under way once more, in the 4th minute of the second half, more controversy. As he rushed out to claim a ball that was rightly his, Houlty was clattered in a most ugly manner by Sunderland?s Michael Stewart. As Nick Worth ran to the aid of our stricken keeper, the crowd bayed for blood; surely that merited a booking, or worse, for the offender? Not according to the man in black; not even a free-kick did we get for our pains. Where do the FA find these people? As far as the early moves were concerned the change seemed to have injected a little more ginger into our game, but that wasn?t to last long. Yet another Sunderland attack, Stewart managed to beat Houlty with the shot, but Bernt Hass, fortuitously enough for us, was at hand to belt the bloody thing off the line and halfway to Smethwick. Phew! Then, in the 10th minute, Houlty did it again, this time with his fingertips, from a Kyle header. All the pressure was coming at us from our right, they were getting behind us with embarrassing ease, and we were being skinned courtesy dangerous looking crosses whipped in from that side time and time again. Surely, if we could see that, Megson could also?

Then, with about 26 minutes gone, our manager played his tactical master-stroke. Off came Rob Hulse (who should have been replaced at half-time, as far as I was concerned), and on came ? wait for it - Clem? As a de-facto forward? Was somebody having a laugh? And still we were being skinned on our right! With about 13 minutes remaining on the clock, the visitors nearly did for us again courtesy of a low and vicious shot which Houlty just about managed to deflect, but onto the post, then straight to a stunned Robinson, who gratefully belted it into the stratosphere and out of harm?s way. At that precise moment, I found myself in urgent need of two items; a blood-pressure monitor, and some Valium, preferably intravenously! Oh, and a pair of brown corduroy trousers wouldn?t have gone amiss, either!

Then, just to show how surreal the whole affair had become, just before the final whistle came the moment when we could have nicked it. Dobes was the provender of the cross, and unbelievably, Clem was the ?forward? trying to hit the target, but Poom managed to prevent the resultant smash and grab?. Had it gone in, I reckon a thoroughly brassed-off Justice would have handed in her scales and blindfold on the spot, and then retired to a nice little semi, somewhere in the vicinity of Weston-Super-Mare!

So, there we are; still second, and even now, I?m trying to work out how it was we didn?t concede a bucket full of goals today. Could it be that football is finally evening us up for the diabolical luck we encountered last season? Whatever the reason, I can only hope that we put in an improved performance versus The Hammers next week, or we?ll sink faster than a gangster thrown into a river with a great lump of concrete ornamenting his scraggy neck. Surely we can?t expect that amount of Hartley?s at their place next Saturday? Surely we need another forward, either recalled from loan, or brought in from elsewhere? Surely Clem has better contributions to make than those from up front? Are you there, Gary? Hello, Gary? Hello?

And finally?.. A tale from The Satanic Nurses. Apparently, on Wednesday night, one of them, Hugh, plus mate, took a taxi from the city centre to the ground. En-route, the driver commented, ?I hope it doesn?t go to penalties!?

Said Hugh?s mate, ?We?re playing a Premiership side, chum ? we won?t get any penalties!?

 - Glynis Wright

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