The Diary

04 January 2004: A Dyer Encounter As Forest Fell Us!

Is it my age, the change, plummeting oestrogen levels sending me even more ga-ga, or what? Trust silly old me to get it wrong again, because I genuinely believed last night that despite everything, we would narrowly nick a win at The City Ground. Wrong, wrong, and dead wrong. We?ve now been well and truly dumped out of the Cup before it even started to get interesting, and if the remaining portion of the season goes arse-up in similar fashion, then there are going to be a pretty disgruntled bunch of Baggies out there before too long. Hang on a minute, make that present tense: there ARE some tempers on an awfully short fuse right now, and if Albion took the trouble to actually listen to what?s being said out there instead of making fatuous statements about our boredom-threshold at Milton Keynes and elsewhere, they?d certainly get a crash-course in what I?m talking about.

Just what should we infer from what has taken place today? Depends upon whether your viewpoint is of the glass half-full or the glass half-empty variety, really. There is, I suppose, an argument to be put forward that now we?re rid of such distractions, we can fully-concentrate on what should be our most important task this term ? getting us back into the Prem the first time of asking. Conversely, if you want to take the gloomier viewpoint, we failed miserably against a side we absolutely slaughtered ? or rather, Jason Koumas did ? about five weeks ago, and, more to the point, one who have just registered their first win in eleven, the 25th of October, to be precise, thanks to that little white-flag-waving exercise of ours today. I don?t rightly know what The Horse was thinking of when he conceded that stupid penalty just after the start of the second half, but it was all they needed, wasn?t it?

The problem I?m having with all this is that once more, our faults and shortcomings have been exposed to the point of embarrassment, and unless we come up with a Plan B pretty quickly, we?re going to crash and burn quicker than a blazing Zeppelin trying to land in front of the movie cameras. Mind you, I did see a glimmer of hope today inasmuch as we did attempt to employ new tactics for once, and fair play to Albion for trying it. OK, it wasn?t that successful in the end, but save that to our pride, there?s no real damage been done, and should we wish to persevere with 4-4-2 against Walsall, by the time Friday comes, perhaps all concerned will be more conversant with what?s expected of them. At least we gave it a go instead of dismissing the idea completely out of hand, which is probably what would have happened but a few short weeks ago.

Another positive was Lloyd Dyer, who ran himself into the ground for the cause and was pretty effective out on that flank, just as I thought he would be. The kid cares, he wants to make a good fist of his first real chance in the side, he?s got all the pace of a Exocet missile in full flight, he did look dangerous when he had the ball, Forest weren?t really sure how to handle him, and he should be given a further run, and not just two separate Cup appearances spaced over a very long 16 months. The lad deserves better. Albion please note.

A shame, then, that as usual, the pre-match social side of things far outstripped what we saw on the field of play. The tone for the day was set in the Dickmobile by ?Im Indoors when he happened see a notice on the A 453 (about where the big power station was) stating that so far this year ? remember that bit, it?s important ? no less than 667 people had been killed or injured on that stretch of road! Interesting, that, especially as it?s only the third day of 2004! By my reckoning, that meant the casualty rate was a tad higher than that incurred on the nastier bits of the Western Front over a similar period in World War One! A shame The Noise wasn?t there to discuss it at length ? he was making his own way from Stoke today, poor lad ? but never fear, he does figure in my little tale, eventually. ?Patience, mon braves!? as that rotten sod of a sergeant might have said in Beau Geste. Don?t fret, our frayed-tongued friend will be with you shortly.

No real problems getting to Robin Hood?s little hang-out, which surprised me, as when we?d left GD Towers, it was snowing fit to bust, and I?d thought going further east would have meant a significant increase in ?God?s dandruff?. There wasn?t, thank goodness, but what we did have were temperatures that only reluctantly moved off the ?freezing point? portion of the mercury. Thermometer, that is, not the late Freddie, although he might have suing in a higher falsetto than usual, so penetrating was it. The cold and damp, that is, not Mr. Mercury. Never mind, it wasn?t long before we dropped anchor at our favourite pre-match lubrication-point in these here parts, The Larwood and Voce pub, only about the length of a ?six-hit? from the famous Trent Bridge Cricket Ground.

And, once inside, guess who we clapped eyes on? Yep, Stoke?s non-stop answer to Trappist theological doctrine, that?s who, and boy, was he on form. We weren?t the victims today - thank God for small mercies ? but those Baggies incautious enough to stop by for a quick natter with us Dick Eds most certainly were. His first greeting to us?

?Well, it?s Third Round day, there?s always a shock, and it could be us!?

Me: ?What do you mean, ?a shock???

The Noise: ?Well, we might win ? that?d be a shock!?

Luckily for our battered eardrums, not long after that, Anc (plus trusty digital camera) showed up, and he had a very interesting Baggie in tow, as well. Let me introduce to you all, a gentleman who goes by the name of Chip Holloway. Yes, he?s Albion to the core, and proud of it, but what makes this gentleman so unusual, he hails from the US of A, and he?s not an expat, either, but a genuine Yank who took a shine to our favourite football club one day, and the love affair has remained constant ever since. We did ask, ?How did you start supporting the Albion?? and Chip?s answer was, believe it or not, considering what happened at The City Ground afterwards, ?Pure luck!? There he was, in all his finery, Albion shirt proudly adorning his upper bodyworks, grinning from ear to ear, and, appropriately enough, with an Albion baseball cap proudly parked on his polished pate. In a place where pretty much the only voices you could hear were the fruity tones of broad Black Country blokes (and lasses!) lamming down the old liquid lubrication like nothing on earth, I have to say that soft American accent of his was a tad incongruous, to say the least. And, when talking to him, I never mentioned ?The War? once; quite an achievement, that, for me!

The guy hails from near Richmond, Virginia, apparently, which, if you look it up in an atlas, you?ll find parked neatly just south-east of Washington DC, and a bit before you get to North Carolina. Quite an historic part of the world, as Richmond was the old Confederate capital, pre-Civil War. After nattering to him for a while about my penchant for bits of useless information, and this column, I then committed the grave error of introducing him to all the other participants, namely The Fart and, unfortunately, The Noise. From then on, that was it; against Martin and his jet-assisted vocal chords, he had no chance. Before too long, the conversation had progressed (degenerated?) to the contentious, not to mention lengthy, saga of The Noise?s American Holiday. Oh no! The linguistic equivalent of unleashing WMD?s on the unsuspecting populace; within a matter of moments, The Noise was already in fourth gear and rapidly approaching hyper-drive. Only one thing to do, then: out came my trusty note-book, a note was hastily scribbled, and passed to that unfortunate visitor to these shores, and it read:

CONGRATULATIONS! YOU HAVE JUST BEEN TALKED TO BY MARTIN LEWIS, ALIAS ?THE NOISE?!

Well, I mean, had the Court of Human Rights found out, they?d have thrown away the key, so I just wanted to cover my own bases, just in case! All the while, the place had been filling up with great rapidity; to be honest, I didn?t think it was possible to squeeze even more bodies into that small space, but squeeze they did. When a seat next to mine became unexpectedly vacant, from nowhere, there appeared loads of weary Baggies all wanting to claim it for the use of their own weary fundaments. Not surprisingly, before too long, we began to get a fair idea of what the inhabitants of the infamous Black Hole Of Calcutta had gone through, and in any case, it was half-time in the featured game, the Watford Chelsea encounter (how the hell the lino gave that first Watford goal will be an eternal mystery to me), so we then decided to split for selling duties.

Into the freezing temperatures, then, and to our usual pitch, just short of the main car-park entrance. What a contrast to the last time we came to town in these parts; then, there were more Baggies around than you could shake a stick at, and the atmosphere was superb. This time, because of ennui, disillusionment and other related issues, we were down to what I?d call the ?die-hards?, most of whom we knew personally, and all of whom had facial expressions more associated with attendances at funerals than a supposedly-enjoyable leisure pursuit. It was while we were flogging our wares, and having a good natter to anyone who wanted to bat the breeze, we came across an old friend. Step forth, then, former director Mike O?Leary, plus mate, now what you might term a ?civvie?, and looking far happier than I?d ever seen him when a director. That break from the everyday cares and woes of The Hawthorns must have suited him all right! And, what?s more, not only had he paid for his ticket like everyone else, he was sitting in with us, as well. No posh executive facilities for this lad. Good on him, I say.

Inside the ground then, which hadn?t changed, really, since we were last there some five or so weeks ago. The Noise, ominously enough, found himself installed in seat 101. Clearly, he?d studied Orwell?s famous work at school, because he immediately turned to me and asked if that was the place where you were confronted by your worst fears! As things turned out, he wasn?t that far wrong, either. Not long before the start, their PA played U2?s hit ?Beautiful Day?, the one that frequently prefaces ITV?s Saturday night football programme. Now hang on a minute ? the mercury was as near to freezing as it could be, the sky was a uniform grey and threatening snow, in spite of everything, dampness pervaded just about every layer of clothing I had on, and the evening gloom was gathering rapidly. Oh, and just before the teams entered the fray, I quickly stood up to roughly ascertain how many had bothered to attend this FA Cup clash of the Titans, and judging from the great number of gaps out there, the gate was minimal ? around 11,000, as it subsequently turned out. Beautiful Day? Who?s bloody kidding who?

If we?d been surprised by the paucity of the turn-out, then an even bigger shock was about to be foisted upon us. 4-4-2, no less, and some surprising changes. Bernt Hass came back from suspension as expected, which ejected Chambo from his newly-acquired berth, Robinson returned to the fold also, and Clem was moved to midfield, alongside O?Connor, with both Jason Koumas and Sakiri playing wide. And ? shock, horror ? young Lloyd Dyer was on the bench once more! Also on standby were N?Dour, Dobes, and Gilly, with ?eternal bridesmaid? Murph as custodial cover.

And, at first, it seemed as though that sudden tactical U-turn had completely wrong-footed the home side. Well, it certainly fooled us, so God knows what it was doing to Forest! For the first ten minutes or so, we made all the running, and even managed to earn a couple of corners for our pains. The silence from the home end was deafening. ?Shall we bring some fans for you?? we sang, pointedly. A puzzling aspect of the game was beginning to develop, though, and that was the seeming-indifference of the referee to the many offences Forest?s Taylor was committing both on and off the ball. Just what did he have to do to get booked? Was he Mr. Kaye?s secret love-child, or something? Around 15 minutes before the interval, The Horse suffered a clash of heads with an opponent, and had to leave temporarily for treatment off the pitch, but no serious damage done.

A quick break for me to visit what one might term ?the facilities? (to all intents and purposes, the extreme cold had told my anti-diuretic hormone to get lost, and I was also secretly hoping I?d pick up once more on a spell I?d had around a dozen years ago, when pretty much every time I?d gone to ?powder my nose? we?d scored!) but on my return, things were just as they were before, but with one slight difference. Almost imperceptibly, Forest were gaining the ascendancy, which was a worrying trend, to say the least.

Also worrying, but in a different sense, was the loud abuse, all conducted in sulphurous terms, by a certain gentleman known to all and sundry as Fab Traccana, who can do things to the English language that would make even a battle-hardened sergeant-major quickly turn to religion. Example? During one peculiarly-quiet interval, and to our finest, ?You?re not going to start flopping passing now, you haven?t done that for a blankety-blank month!? Abridged version, of course, and about the purest example of the genre I can safely use with kids around! Oh ? and whatever you do, never ask him to sing ?Wonderful, Wonderful Copenhagen!? What you?ll get instead is, ?Wonderful, Wonderful Thomas Gaardsoe? which isn?t quite what Danny Kaye or Hans Christian Andersen had in mind at all!

No need to ring alarm bells thus far, though; over the duration of the entire half, you could count the number of shots on target on your one hand, but no real reason to believe things would be any different after the interval. And that shows just how wrong you can be. Not long after the restart, and only a few minutes after Big Dave needed the attentions of Nick Worth, we had our first real warning of what was to be, when a very astute Sakiri cut out a nasty-looking Forest cross before it could do real damage. Not long after that, though, came the moment we?d all dreaded. Up until then, occasional alarums and excursions in the vicinity of Houlty?s territory, all of which had been nullified by our custodian or his mates with panache, apart, we?d had little to worry our pretty little heads about, really, but The Horse?s gaffe (and, yes, he was booked for moaning about it), sure put paid to that. As the incident took place at the other end of the ground, I wouldn?t like to say definitively whether, as some claimed, the decision had been a harsh one, but to me, it was about as welcome as a dose of an unpleasant social disease, and about as unnecessary. The Horse has been in the business far too long to fall for a stunt like that. Up, then, stepped Marlon King, who made no mistake whatsoever for his debut Forest goal.

No surprise, then, for what happened next. In complete contrast to the first period, when the referee seemingly had a ten-mile exclusion zone around the vicinity of his back pocket, notebook and pencil, suddenly, Albionites were earning ?yellow? in droves, O?Connor being one of the first to incur his wrath, and Big Dave the last. And, from then on in, the whole thing assumed the proportions of an ?extension? to the creeping bad habits of Tuesday night. Aw, you know what I mean, passes going astray, balls given away cheaply in midfield, in almost suicidal fashion, it seemed at times, that sort of thing. And a singular lack of success where it counted.

Midway though the half, it was deemed time for a change. Off came The Horse and Sakiri, on came Dobes and ? blimey, were my eyes deceiving me? ? Lloyd Dyer! And, with that hefty dose of youthful enthusiasm on board, we quickly began to notice the difference on the left. By turns, he tricked, teased, and chased just about everything down that flank, and Forest didn?t like it one little bit. Fair play to their rearguard, though, despite everything, they stood firm, and as the game neared its conclusion it became increasingly clear that whoever it was going into the pot come Monday, we weren?t going to be one of the participants.

There was a curious coda to the whole affair, though, which briefly raised Albion hopes. Just before the end, it seemed that Dobie was upended in the box by a Forest-ite ? it?s one I saw quite clearly, and it looked to me as though Scott did have a pretty strong case ? but the referee didn?t want to know. Mind you, it would have been rough justice on the home side, who?d shut up shop quite effectively to keep us out after getting the breakthrough ? including one of theirs sustaining a mysterious malady just as we were on the attack, and about to whang the ball into the ?mixer? once more ? so perhaps it was no more than we deserved, really.

The final whistle, then, and a rapid exit from the scene of the crime. A quick parting from The Noise, who?d left his transportation in the pub car-park, and a quick nip around the corner for ours, and once free of the trammels of the city, it was away and into the rapidly-freezing night air once more. And, to drop The Fart off in Broad Street; he took in a Glenn Miller tribute concert tonight. Aw, you know the sort of thing, musical guys dressing up in World War 2 vintage US Army uniforms, the modern-day equivalent of The Andrews Sisters, the usual tunes ? Moonlight Serenade, Don?t Sit Under The Apple Tree, Chatanooga Choo-Choo (our version, ?Pardon me, boy, is that Forest we just lost to??), American Patrol, and all the rest of it. Given The Fart?s ancient pedigree, I?d have thought Boer War stuff like ?Goodbye Dolly Gray? would have been more his bag, but there you are!

And that?s about it for tonight. No, I?m not too angry ? yet ? just rather annoyed. More thoughts about the full implications of today?s game tomorrow. Until then, tara.

 - Glynis Wright

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