The Diary

27 December 2003: Rams? Bam, Thank You Ma'am!

?When you think it?s as bad as it can get ? something else happens?..?

The Bloke In Front, very overwrought and exasperated, second half, just seconds before the inevitable occurred.

Today, all the omens boded well for us playing Derby completely off the park: we had no selection problems, we had a playing staff rested after the exertions of Saturday?s last-minute disaster versus Coventry, the opposition were perceived to be somewhat lowly in the First?s pecking-order, everyone present was drowsily amenable and still totally enveloped in a capacious cloak containing more than ample quantities of post-festive bonhomie within its voluminous folds ? and we could even laugh mightily at the Dingles crashing 3-0 at Highbury. On everyone?s lips was the Albion mantra, repeated ad nauseam: ?We never have two bad games on the bounce?.? God in his heaven, all well with the world, the natural order of things as they should be. Until three this afternoon, that was.

Perhaps it?s just as well that we did manage to come from behind following Derby?s 85th minute bombshell: had we been first to take the lead, then hold it to the final whistle, the away support would have been richly entitled to claim a recount on the grounds they?d been subjected to a vicious mugging, and despite the heavy police presence, in broad daylight, as well. As it was, that late but well-overdue Ram-raid punctured the Hawthorns atmosphere, what little there was of it, like a sharp implement introduced to a well-inflated balloon. Above the stadium, alongside the ever-circling seagulls taking shelter inland from some unknown coastal squall or another, if you looked very carefully, you could also espy the feathery shapes of multitudinous Albion chickens coming home to roost.

A shame, that, because our foray into Planet Albion had commenced upon such a really promising note. After giving the ?out-laws? a lift to a pub in Blackheath ? a family ?do? but our relatives have long-since learned it?s a futile exercise even thinking of sending us invites to such functions on matchdays ? we then hied straight to The Shrine, a rendezvous with The Noise and The Bag-Carrier (who increases by a factor in height of about ten every time I see her), and a quiet jar in the snooker room within. And, once settled, much merriment was had at the indignant expense of the human race?s latest recruit to the ranks of zit and strop-strewn teenage-dom. What caused all the indignant ?hmph!?-ing was the mention of - er ? BOYS to our young Baggie, and especially those of the species who came a-sniffing into the Lewis household over the festive season. Aw, you know, those strange but elusive creatures, exuding testosterone from every pore, who come crashing awkwardly into the lives of every adolescent girl come the age of thirteen or thereabouts? I suspect The Noise isn?t too concerned as to their potential to land a good job and keep their swain in the manner to which she is accustomed, but the priority is more to do with said suitor?s ability to successfully hold a conversation ? and, more pertinently, in the face of considerable oral background competition from the rest of the Lewis family!

It would seem that our little friend?s initial forays into the frenetic world of sex-education have recently included school lessons on how to put on properly latex prophylactics we used to call, in our blissful state of early-sixties sexual innocence, ?Johnnies?. Unfortunately, come the ? erm ? ?practical? part of the syllabus (all done with the aid of suitably-shaped ?models? so that?s all right, then), Modom?s just happened to split. Oh well, at least it didn?t happen in the back of a Ford Cortina, or worse still, the back of Molineux. Just think, an Albion-Dingle hybrid. The mere thought?s enough to make me look up the word ?eugenics? on the old search engine. Ugh. And talking of related subjects, The Noise told me about a bloke he recently heard shouting loudly to all within his vicinity, ?You?ll have to speak up, luv ? I?ve got aids in both ears!? Trouble was, there I was in stitches, but totally unable to explain to Bag Carrier Junior what it was about this bloke?s plight that amused me so much! I think our little practical biologist must have sussed, because she then recounted what she told her little sister, who was feeling poorly: something about a ?good army? (her immune system) fighting a ?bad army? (the nasties) and the necessity for her to sleep to give the ?goodies? ample rest in order to slay the ?baddies?. A brilliant explanation, I thought ? trust me to take it one step further. Turning to The Noise, I said, ?-And when you get AIDS, all the ?good army? gets nuked. Brilliant.?

Time to go, then, but before departure, I managed to grab a crafty snap of a fellow Baggie, female, well known to me, and seemingly in possession of about eight pints of bitter, as evidenced by the large number of full glasses spread before her, with no male accomplice anywhere in sight. Negatives? What negatives?.? After that little bit of ?candid portraiture?, we then gathered up The Fart, who had somehow managed to find a bus actually running in Brum. A quest on a par with finding the Holy Grail at this time of year, but there you are. Up to full strength once more, we then made our collective way to The Pleasure Dome. A break with usual practice today, though. For starters, I wasn?t positioned outside the Police Post, as is my normal wont. That recent bout of bronchitis had well and truly put the mockers on that, as despite the ingestion of large quantities of antibiotics, any attempt to raise my voice left me in a horrible, spluttering paroxysm of coughing, not nice at all, so there was no help for it but to flog in conjunction with ?Im Indoors ? but silently. Shhhh!

Never mind, though ? there were the usual collection of Dick readers to brighten up my rather yuk-ridden existence, including the Irish guy who regularly flies to Brum and back from Cork for home games. Apparently, he was there at Coventry also, but that time, on the outward journey, in the dubious ?company? of a group of Dingles. Cork Wulves Supporters Branch to a thing, they were, and they?d organised the trip as their annual bash, poor brainless sods. After the game, at Brum Airport, our lad saw them waiting in the departure lounge once more, and looking dead miserable with it as well. Thinking they?d lost again ? a reasonable assumption, given their current League position ? and feeling rather sorry for them, he went over to commiserate, only to discover, in no uncertain terms, that their game had fallen victim of the blankety-blank weather instead!

And then, up rolled Anc and Little Anc, both grinning from ear to ear as usual; they both disappeared as quickly as they?d appeared, but not for long. Back they came, but with a real life American in tow this time, so a big welcome from this column to Chip Holloway, who hails from the state of Virginia, is a Yank born and bred, but hopelessly infected with the Baggie Bug, poor sod. He?s over here for quite a while, so he may well pop up at strange places like Milton Keynes and ? erm ? Forest. If you do meet him, be nice, because they do happen to have an awfully big army and air force behind them, and we all know what happens when rude foreigners inflict indignities upon American citizens abroad, don?t we? A big ?hello? also to Dot Lepowska (blimey, Dot, have you shrunk even more over Christmas, or something?), and to our mate Chris Hartle, still gamely fighting his battle against cancer, and last but not least, Dave Baxendale, Our Man In The North, and heir. What lovely chappies, and chapesses, and ?Albion ?till I die?, totally and utterly. Good on ?em.

Come half-two, I took premature leave of our selling pitch. The reason? It had started to rain in earnest, and I didn?t want to risk making my bronchitis any worse then it was, so that was my cue to scuttle inside. Not that I had to wait long for the emergence of ?Im Indoors from the bowels of the stadium; apparently, after I?d entered, the queue increased almost exponentially in size, so my other half had to terminate proceedings abruptly also. Team news? As The Noise had suspected in the Throstle Club, Hughsie was picked as first choice striker, alongside The Horse, and Rob Hulse relegated to the bench instead.

On paper, this should have been a no-brainer for our lot, but the practical application of that theory proved difficult, to say the least. From the outset, although most of the dramatis personae were well know to each other, to the casual observer, it must have seemed as though individual team-members had only struck up acquaintanceship but a few hours previous to the game. Simple-looking passes, schoolboy stuff, the ?passer? being under no pressure whatsoever? Going hopelessly astray, each and every one of ?em, and the visitors nipping in with glee and looking dangerous every time they did it. Overall, we always seemed about half a second behind what the ball, or the Derby players, for that matter, were doing, and it simply wasn?t good enough. No wonder their lot sang, with considerable gusto, ?Premier League, you?re havin? a laugh!?

Sadly, their choral assessment of our capabilities was trite, but true. It?s no exaggeration to say that by half-time, The Rams could easily have been at least three up, and it was a crying shame for them they weren?t. Certainly quite a sizeable proportion of our followers agreed, and made their feelings well-known as our lot trudged miserably off the pitch come the interval. Their most spectacular (and unlucky, it must be said) miss of the three was the blistering Tudgay effort that Houlty somehow managed to tip over the bar for a corner, and brilliantly so, in my opinion. From what amounted to point-blank range, as well: no wonder I could hear little moaning noises coming from the visitors? bench shortly afterwards. And that cracking effort doesn?t detract from the worth of the other two: another time, another game, and we?d have quite easily been mourning the loss of three, not two, precious League points. The best of a very bad bunch, that first 45? Hughsie, believe it or not, who was, in terms of work-rate and enthusiasm, everything his colleagues were not, so why the hell withdraw him from the fray come the end of the first ten minutes of the second period?

The other casualty was James O?Connor, and to be brutally honest, no great injustice was done there; even being charitable, his contribution to the game was minimal. On, then, came Rob Hulse for Hughsie, and Artim Sakiri for the former Stoke player. This did seem to have the effect of injecting fresh life into our play, but the writing was still there on the wall for all to read. By now, the rain had started to descend in torrents, and of the two sides, it was Derby who were adapting far better to what was rapidly becoming a quagmire out there. Even taking off the ineffectual Horse and replacing him with Dobes made sod-all difference to our scoring prospects. On at least two occasions, we lived more dangerously than a Bomb Disposal squaddie high on amphetamine in our own six-yard box, and come the last ten minutes, I would have happily taken the single point and ran like hell for the town centre with it in my sticky clutches, and daring anyone to come and take it off me. Trouble is, this is West Bromwich Albion we?re talking about ? Semper Te Fallant, remember? - and with around five minutes of normal time remaining, what had seemed an inevitability earlier in the game, finally came to pass ? and serve us right as well for letting it happen. Our Nemesis came in the form of a bloke called Costa, who?d replaced Tudgay around twenty minutes beforehand.

What happened? Typically, we once more lost possession in the middle of the park; I?m buggered if I can remember who was responsible, but the person concerned should be thoroughly ashamed to even try to show their face in the area, as far as I?m concerned. Another Derby incursion down the right flank - they?d been ?tatering? us in this manner for most of the game ? a wicked cross, a blur of frenzied activity as our rearguard tried to counter the threat, the ball dropped to Houlty, who parried, but only as far as the aforementioned Costa, who accepted the invite with gleeful enthusiasm. One in arrears, four minutes or so left remaining on the clock, and we were dead, dead, dead. No one to blame but our own stupid selves, either ? and it was around that time, I fancied I saw the aforementioned domestic fowl all gathering on the roof of the East Stand, and looking for a suitable place to spend the night. As for the rest of the ground, you could have cut the hostile atmosphere with a bacon-slicer, and although very few supporters articulated their thoughts at that time, you didn?t need to be an expert in telepathy to divine what most people had running through their minds right then. Make no mistake, my fellow Baggies: although it wasn?t overt, The. Natives. Were. Very. Restless. Indeed. Trust me, I?m a fanzine editor.

Full time, almost, then, and things were looking grim, in more than one sense of the word. Enter Thomas Gaardsoe, saviour of the Universe! He must have been shoved up front as a last throw of the dice, because one minute I was pointing to his lanky blonde form lurking around the near side of the Brummie and exclaiming to ?Im Indoors, ?What the bloody hell is he doing in that position??, the next I was standing holding both arms (and stick!) aloft as our own latter-day inheritor of the Viking tradition robbed, ravaged and pillaged two precious survival points from the poor Rams with that last-gasp header of his. After that, my only comment, time and time again, was the oft-repeated refrain, ?You lucky, lucky people, Albion!?

As for the visitors, that last-minute bit of smash-and-grab from our Great Dane was bitter (and undeserved) reward for what had been a thoroughly gutsy performance from them. They should have come away with far more to show for their labours than they actually got, and I sincerely hope their ultimate survival doesn?t hinge on those two potential points nicked: as I said after the Pride Park fixture, they deserve far better than that. Let?s hope that the run-in proves kinder to them.

As far as our overall performance was concerned, there?s much I could say, but won?t. Just digest my earlier remark apropos those roosting domestic fowl, and construct your own dialogue along similar lines. Here?s a few handy hints to assist you: when was the last time, Cup games aside, we actually won on our own turf? Where was our defence? Come to think of it, Hughsie apart, where was our attack? Are our midfield afraid of getting their shirts dirty, or is it just a vicious rumour? Is it fair to say there?s more organisation at an anarchists? convention than there was in our entire engine-room today? Could our finest be collectively suffering from what I?ll politely term a severe case of ?battle fatigue?? Are we to assume in future that every opposing side travelling to The Hawthorns will simply stop us by packing the midfield, preventing us from settling on the ball, and generally stopping us from playing? A simple ploy, but we don?t seem to have evolved an satisfactory answer to the problem, as yet. Just how are we going to approach the next one, versus Wimbledon, at Milton Keynes? They managed to do it over us once, and on our own turf, as well; it?s a pretty fair bet to assume they?ll want to repeat the feat in front of the TV cameras come Tuesday. That enough to be going on with for now?

Oh ? and one other thought. Norwich won tonight ? and they also got their Huck. He?s finally signed for them, not us, so it?s now down to a Plan ?B? assuming we?ve got one waiting in the wings, that is. Top of the heap now, they are, and on the face of it, deservedly so. The next few months could prove instructive.

And finally?. One. Great Auntie Glynis?s not-so-subtle hints for budding gastroenterologists, Number One. Never mix a course of antibiotics with a Christmas Day massed sprout-attack! Why? Simple: antibiotics not only knock out the nasties of the germ world, they also do for significant numbers of the natural bacteria that inhabit the lower gut as well. They normally live down there in perfect harmony with the rest of the body; they?re there to aid digestion, actually, and when decimated in this manner, everything after that passes through quicker than the Flying Scotsman on afterburners! Combine this unfortunate property of penicillin, and just about every thing else medicinal that ends in ?-illin?, with the incredible ability of the humble sprout to generate wind in the lower bowel where none existed before, and you?ve got what mission control in Houston might coyly term ?a problem?!

Two. And while we?re on the subject of space-flight?. Did I read it right that scientists now estimate there?s around a 1000-1 chance of someone actually finding life on Mars ? and about a 10,000-1 chance of The Dingles winning the Premiership title? Expect queues of very peeved-looking Martians outside your local Ladbrokes (and Molineux!) before too long!

 - Glynis Wright

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