The Diary

10 December 2003: Foggin' Lucky, Or Wot?

I really do feel sorry for poor Bradford, right now. In fact, when we were leaving the ground after tonight?s game, I had this mental vision of their players coming off the pitch, going down the tunnel, heading for their dressing-room, and once inside, finding the nearest wall, locker, or door and banging their bloody heads against it for minutes on end in sheer frustration. Believe you me, this was most certainly not one they deserved to lose and our goal two minutes before the end of the allotted span must have really hurt. What with that and Stoke getting that unbelievable win at Upton Park tonight, which put The Bantams ever further in the mire, most of their followers must be asking themselves what they?ve done to deserve it. But, you have to say it also ? just what is it about Albion, Bradford City and late winners? First of all, there was that injury-time Igor Balis penalty two seasons ago that virtually catapulted us into the big-time on the spot, and now this. Not that I?ve gained any personal satisfaction from tonight?s late, late show, even though that win has kept Sheffield United off our backs (they won also, versus Walsall). The stark truth of the matter was taking those three points off the Yorkshire side felt a little bit like mugging a kid sister for a bag of sweets I didn?t want anyway. I like my wins silky-smooth and richly-deserved, not courtesy smash-and-grab antics.

Until Scott Dobie?s bolt-from-the-blue points-winner, it seemed that the only things both players and supporters were going to get from tonight?s trip and game were those kept in the filing-cabinet marked ?Frustration?. For starters, there was the journey to deepest Yorkshire; normally, a 3.30 pm start from West Bromwich would be ample time for a journey of that length, with plenty of temporal slack available for sinking a few pints, having a curry, debating the current situation in Iraq ? in short, whatever floats your boat, once at one?s destination. Trouble was, the twin combination of the motorway system and the weather proved to be something of a gruesome-twosome, a pair of not-so-heavenly-twins. Castor and Pollux? Change the first letter of the last name a little and you?ll get the general idea of what we said all-too frequently in the Dickmobile tonight.

The trouble started as soon as we hit the M5/M6 interchange around Bescot; despite the fact it was nowhere near the rush-hour, the traffic was already piled up to an alarming degree. Then, once past all that, after picking up The Noise, we hit the traffic again, this time in Cheshire, the flow as slow as chilled molasses, and for no discernable reason. Then, once past that, we encountered the road-works ? several lots of the pesky things. Because we were into the rush-hour out of Manchester by then, by the time we fetched up on the M62, the traffic density was alarming, so progress was pretty slow. And then, as we drove over the summit of the Pennines, the fog closed in, patchy stuff, the sort that leaves you in moonlit radiance and crystal clear visibility one minute, and the next dumps you in a disorientating grey shroud that dulls the senses, and instantly slows traffic to a snail?s pace. What with this stop-go state of affairs, what should have been a trip of just over two hours duration turned into a nightmare crawl of around three and a half hours; it was gone seven when we finally hove to within sighting distance of Valley Parade.

Too late for serious fanzine-flogging, so what we had to do was leave The Dickmobile in one of those ?pay at the door? matchday car parks, and walk the rest of the way to the ground ? about ten minutes as the Bantam flies, as it happened. Although there was less than half an hour remaining before the off, the scene around Bradford?s ground bore more resemblance to the final shots of one of those ?end-of-the-world? movies rather than a place about to stage a Nationwide First Division game. People? What people? And, of course, there was the bloody fog; when we?d first entered the town, so impenetrable was it, I began to seriously doubt whether the game was a ?goer? or not. Luckily, less lingered around the hill on which the ground stands, but there was still an appreciable amount to be seen (or not, if you get my drift). In fact, as we walked through the murk, the whole thing conjured up images for me of London?s Victorian ?pea-soupers?, the clip-clop of horses, and hansom cabs appearing out of the gloom, a shadow in a dank alley holding in its hand a sharp knife with which to slit the throat of an unwary ?lady of the night? ? well, the area around Valley Parade is a ?red light area?! ? and huge newspaper hoardings and hoarsely-shouting paper-boys declaring ?Ripper Strikes Again!?. Well, you get my drift.

Once inside the away end, its interior was equally-depressing. As we discovered later, we?d been the lucky ones; the sheer volume of motorway traffic, coupled with an accident, had left a considerable number of Baggies still stuck in the motorised muck. The worst affected were those making their way to the game by coach, and this meant our end was somewhat sparsely-populated, to say the least, at first. Not that we?d sold a great number of tickets anyway; only 1,500 had gone, as I understood it. I guess that what with those two ?must-see? Cup games versus Man Urinal and The Arse, and the close proximity of Christmas plus the attendant expense, something had to give, financially, and this game just happened to be it. One thing brightened our evening, though ? a first glimpse of our new loan striker, Morten Skoubo, all the way from Borussia Munchengladbach, in ?civvies? ? well, a ginormous suede coat with a huge collar ? and the chance for me to grab a couple of piccies. Mind you, the light was absolutely awful, and I was doing a ?sneaky-beaky? so I guess the quality won?t be of the best.

And, on the pitch warming up, our finest ? and another surprise. Big Dave, clearly in the starting line-up (all the subs were standing on the side of the pitch, and it wasn?t difficult to work out who was in favour, by process of elimination), Dobes coming in for hernia-ed Deech, and Robinson replacing Clem, which, I thought was a tad hard on the bloke, as he?d performed superlatively against both The Mancs and The Hammers. Additionally, our substitute ranks were graced by Murph, Clem, Sakiri, Joost Volmer, and Lee Hughes. There you go, you should listen to your Great Auntie Glynis; last night, I said I suspected such a thing would happen ? and I was dead right!

Around ten minutes later, both contestants entered the arena once more, and this time, in earnest. And, as stray tendrils of fog teased and tantalised the upper reaches of the floodlight pylons then hung invitingly around the opposite end of the pitch, we realised were still somewhat light on the supporter-front; at that stage of the proceedings, I reckoned there to be less than a thousand of our lot present. Oh, and there was another oddity; why on earth did Bradford play ?The Self-Preservation Society?? Aw, you know, the one from ?The Italian Job? where, upon hearing the heist has been successful, all the convicts stand on the landings, bang their metal trays, start chanting ?England!? and sing that bloody song! Mind you, the fact that their part of the ground was very sparsely-populated indeed may have had something to do with it; with gates like that (only 9,000 tonight, their worst thus far this term) they needed all the ?self-preservation? they could get!

Still, the show must go on, which it did within a short space of time ? and this is where it all gets very tedious, folks. Bradford, to their eternal credit, were trying to play balls to feet, while our lot were doing anything but. There was also more than a hint of tiredness about our performance; several of our finest looked sorely in need of a good rest, if anything. Koumas, Hulse and O?Connor, especially, seemed to be feeling it more than most. Imagination was sorely lacking; most of our game-plan seemed to consist of high balls belted upfield as if the belter were trying to launch Albion?s first space-shot into orbit. Not conducive to attractive football at all; in fact, some of our following found it more amusing to create some pretty awful ?alternative? football songs, but of that, more later. During that first half, actual chances were very few and far between for both sides, but Bradford came the closest very early doors ? within the first minute, I think ? when a header from a free-kick hit the woodwork. Had we underestimated the determination of the opposition to try and get something from this encounter, I wondered?

The second half proved to be somewhat hairy for us; Bradford, having realised they weren?t playing supermen at all, then began to take the game to us, and, given a little more luck, they might well have snatched something. Several times, their raids on the flanks began to get behind our rearguard, and as the half advanced, I began to have visions of us leaving the place point-less. Dean Windass headed just over the bar with around 15 minutes played, and not long after that, Rob Hulse was replaced by Lee Hughes; the reaction of the home crowd was entirely predictable, but Lee will have to get used to this sort of thing pretty soon, because there?s going to be a whole lot more coming his way before the court proceedings in February. The change really seemed to inject new life into our jaded line-up for a while, and although booed every time he touched the ball, Lee genuinely began to give the home side something to think - and worry - about for a change. Around ten minutes after that, Big Dave had a header go over the bar from a free-kick, and not long after that, Gilly, who hadn?t looked really comfortable all the game, was replaced by Mr. Sakiri.

About 15 minutes from the end, we had the third of our three changes, imposed upon us when Big Dave collapsed with what looked to be severe cramp. To be expected, I suppose; Darren?s been out of the full first team loop for so long, readjusting to the pace and fitness-levels required must be difficult, to say the least. Still, it?s a start; Big Dave?s debut went well, overall, and our followers acknowledged this by giving the big guy a suitably-big hand when he finally left the park. On came replacement Volmer, who was in action pretty sharpish to clear the danger from Bradford?s Farrelly not long afterwards, a move which was equalled by young Dobes, whose close-in header was well-stopped by the Bantam custodian.

Into the last few minutes, now, and you began to sense Bradford were looking for blood. Not only that, like Saturday, I honestly couldn't see where our goal was going to come from. Said I to my other half, ?I?ll take the bloody point right now ? and run!? And then, heartbreak, totally against the run of play, for the home side. A cross from that man Sakiri, the noddle of Scott Dobie placed handily in the box ? and suddenly, totally unfairly, you might say, we?d gone into an unexpected lead. We in the away end were a tad slow to realise what had happened at first, and who had scored, as the bloody fog prevented us getting a clear view of events taking place around their six-yard box. Once realisation struck, though, many cries, slightly embarrassed ones, I suspect, of ?Top of the League, having a laugh!? from our away support. Had I been a Bradford supporter I really would have topped myself. What a way to lose a game.

Back to the Dickmobile, thankful for our deliverance, and a slight panic because The Noise realised he?d lost his mobile phone; a search of our vehicle and his person proved fruitless. We even considered checking The Fart?s vicious bag, but none of the other Dick Eds possessed sufficient bottle to take it by the horns and rootle within its famously-hungry depths! At least the return journey proved far less fraught then the outgoing one; we left the car-park at ten, and returned to GD Towers by around half-twelve ? and that was after dropping The Fart off at his Birmingham domicile! Oh, and The Noise did discover his mobile, still in his car, where he?d left it when he parked up. Who?s a silly boy, then?

And finally?. One. As I intimated earlier, much of tonight?s proceedings were interminably boring, and for a neutral, awful to watch. Not so much fun for our followers, either; to relieve the ennui, some of them began to compose some rather unusual variations on well-known football songs, and all of them connected with food of some sort or another. We were therefore ?treated? to the following: ?You?re only here ?cos its haddock!?; ?Top of the League, having a cod!?; ?Boing, Boing, pie, pie!?; ?Steak and kidney?s barmy army!? ?There?s only one pickled onion!? ?This kebab?s greasy!? (that one to the Artim Sakiri song!); and last, but most certainly not least, and sung to the Jason Koumas tune: ?Do-do-do-do, battered sausage!? Nothing to do with me, guv, I?m just the messenger, so stay your hand with that pistol, sire, and shoot Anc and his bloody mob instead!

Two. One from The Noise, this time. Apparently, one of his Man United-supporting workmates has come up with a marvellous excuse for his favourites dipping against our lot in the league Cup. According to this sage, Fergie allows his side to lose from time to time so that the increased gate revenue accrued via a successful cup run will indirectly aid the local economy of the victorious but smaller club!

Three. Yet another revelation from The Fart about the seedier aspects of his private life. Much to our disgust, our elderly co-editor indulged in a bout of drunken disorderliness in the streets, which left him clinging to lamp-posts and singing, loudly, the song ?Rosie, I love you!? to all passers-by in sight. Appalling! What is the world coming to, when even pensioners engage in such antisocial behaviour! Yep, but I did leave out some small details. Er ? this happened in 1952, in Hong Kong, during his time in the Army ? and since that date, Tel?s never once allowed himself to get into such an extreme state of inebriation ever again!

 - Glynis Wright

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