The Diary

11 January 2004: Darlo Dip, But The Tigers Roar

Well - we asked for the impossible and we bloody well got it. Norwich 0, Bradford 1, which still leaves them just two miserable points in front of us, looking behind them all the while, and sweating profusely while they?re at it. Ipswich dropped two precious points this afternoon, and West Ham totally blew their home game versus Preston. Shame about Sheffield United, though; as we saw Gillingham curl up and die at their place when we had the pleasure of their company, it wasn?t all that surprising to hear The Blades had also cut them to ribbons. But, I ask you ? Peschisolido getting a hat-trick? The bloke must be about ready for his Zimmer frame by now, or has Karen somehow managed to put an extra bit of lead into his pencil this season?

As far as that ?penalty-that-wasn?t? incident last night was concerned, I?ve seen it said today that the referee, having taken another look at the incident via the miracle of John Logie Baird?s invention, has held his hands up to the mistake and rescinded that yellow card, but there?s no confirmation on the club website. No wonder The Horse is loudly neighing his protests that he wasn?t ?diving? or ?dissimulating?, or whatever tosh they call it these days. Perhaps we should be charitable and all club together to buy that poor whistler a decent pair of specs?

Jason Koumas? Not a dicky-bird thus far about his condition. The club have said they?ll have a better idea of how bad the injury is later on this weekend, which probably means they?re waiting for all the swelling to go down before anyone can make a definitive diagnosis. The problem is, reading an X-ray plate when someone has considerable bruising and swelling of the suspect part can be hell, sometimes. That sort of damage can hide other, more serious, problems (many a tired and harassed junior doctor in Casualty has come unstuck because of this), which is probably why the club are currently adopting a ?wait and see? policy before they decide what to do next. As I said last night, let?s hope the damage doesn?t prove too incapacitating, because if ever a player was needed in the firing line right now, it has to be Scouse Jase.

There being no Albion involvement today, how did you spend your blank Saturday? Catching up with the old DIY? Raiding your local Tesco for a trolley-load of groceries? In the local boozer? Well, I?ll tell you how three of us Dick Eds spent our waking hours; en-route to Darlington, and back. Why? To get a new ground in, that?s why. Darlo, bless their cotton socks, now play their games at the Reynolds Stadium, which is a vast improvement on their old place; the trouble is, the way they?re going, it stands a good chance of being the best ground in the Conference next season. But, I?m getting somewhat ahead of myself, so back to the beginning (?A very good place to start? according to The Sound Of Music!)

The thing was, when we first realised we?d be left with that somewhat vacuous day on the Baggies calendar, we resolved to do something about it, so thinking-caps went on heads, and the answer, unlike the Hitch-Hiker?s Guide To The Galaxy, wasn?t ?forty two?, but Darlo?s spanking-new gaff. ?Im Indoors was duly put in charge of procuring the tickets ? to be left on a turnstile for us, we were assured ? and the trip was on. Leaving GD Towers around 10.30 am, both of us, plus The Fart in tow, we then joined the M6, larruped into the M42, and in no time flat, onto the M1 proper, and The North. There was also another purpose to this journey; The Fart had made arrangements to meet up with an old acquaintance he?d become pally while on a cruise-ship somewhere (I bet the galley-oars and the Big Dave look-alike banging the drum were a bit of a nuisance, Tel!), and the master-plan was the pair of them would meet up outside Darlo?s ground, violins and all that stuff to the fore. Who was it said there was no sentimentality in football?

There?s just one teensy weensy problem with a trip of this nature: because of the sheer length of the journey, it?s tedious in the extreme, and you know what they say about the Devil finding work for idle hands to do. There was The Fart banging on about this friend of his, and having to ring her nearer our destination so that this grand reunion could be co-ordinated successfully. And that, folkies, is when the germ of an evil idea entered our heads. Why not ring the lady, confirm the arrangements, but make out I was Tel?s secretary? So, about 30 minutes out, I duly rang the number The Fart gave me, and within a matter of milliseconds, I was speaking to the lady in question. I have to say it was a virtuoso performance on my part: no Black Country accent whatsoever, a very professional tone, and the poor sod swallowed it hook, line and sinker. I would have had her really going were it not for the fact that The Fart, listening in the back of the vehicle, suddenly erupted in an explosion of mirth that would even have had Vesuvius jealous. Sod.

Having found the correct exit from the A1(M), the first we knew of the ground?s proximity was the appearance of what I can only describe as a ?refugee column? trudging from the dual carriageway to the ground, now discernible in the distance. All it needed were a few Stuka bombers for reality: what we got, however, were a load of brassed-off Hull-lovers. We did wonder as to why they?d abandoned ship so far from the action; when we came to leave the ground some three hours later, we found out, but of that, more later. Although only boasting Third Division status, Darlo have what has to be one of the most expensive car-parks in the whole bloody country. A fiver, would you believe? Even some Premiership clubs don?t try and pull that one on us.

Once free of the Dickmobile, we then commenced a walk around the place; the car park was situated literally yards from the stadium proper. And, while I metaphorically complete the circumference of the stadium, allow me to fill you in with a few details about Darlo and how they came to be in such an opulent place at all. The benefactor responsible for the move was a local chap called George Reynolds ? the fact the stadium bears that name is a pretty big clue! What can I tell you about this bloke? Well, imagine former Baggies Chairman Trevor Summers (Fred The Shed) turned to The Dark Side, and you?ve got the general idea. A self-confessed former second storey-man, but now reformed, he started poking his inky little fingers into local business, with some success. Having amassed the moolah, he then turned his attention to the local football club, putting in enough dosh to build the stadium that is Darlo?s new home. There were, at the time, boasts being made about reaching The Prem, but George forgot one small (but important) item: to get you promotion, you?ve got to acquire decent players, and to do that, you?ve got to offer them decent money. Unfortunately, George wouldn?t flash the cash, and the result was pretty predictable: despite a brief flirtation with the higher regions of the table, they floundered, and now stand a pretty good chance of going in the reverse direction instead.

So far, so good, you might say. Sure, but with anything of this nature, there was a price to be paid, and it was this. Anyone who even thought of dissenting from the party line According To George was ? er ? ?visited?. By him. Their houses. At half-two in the morning, noisily. Several people got the ?treatment?; the editor of the local newspaper, Darlo?s fanzine editor ? he was so worried, the fanzine was put out of business ? and the Darlo website webmaster, and what I?m telling you is no secret, because the bloke as quite openly boasted in interviews about it. How the hell he got away with it without causing the local plods to descend on him like a ton of bricks I don?t know. Surely such behaviour comes within the parameters of ?Causing Alarm, Harassment or Distress? as per the existing legislation, recently revised?

Oh ? and now realising his dream-child could well end up a white elephant, he?s offered to sell the football club ? not the ground, he?s not that daft! ? to various parties with the interests of the club at heart. This, of course, means diddly-squat, as without the real-estate that goes with the territory, a football club is nothing. Having spoken to several people about this gentleman today, I can safely say the consensus is he?s not well liked: in fact, one local went so far as to say, ?Watch your back when dealing with him.? Blimey!

Turning to more pleasant topics for a moment, it is my profound pleasure and privilege to report that The Fart did get to meet his old friend, a lovely old lady who lives locally. And quite a well-travelled one, as well; she?s sure as hell out to spend the kids? inheritances. America, Canada, Australia ? blimey, you name it, she?s been there. Not only that, she shares about as much enthusiasm for Americans in large numbers as I do. With several of my ?customers? hailing from those parts, perhaps it?s better not to elaborate. As it was a little on the chilly side, we chose to carry on the conversation in the relative warmth of the club shop: nowhere near the vast range (or space) of ours, but it seemed pretty much in demand, as was the bar next door. When I poked my nose around the corner, the counter resembled the scenes at the storming of the Bastille!

Sadly, we had to say farewell to The Fart?s chum ? she?s not a footie-lover, unfortunately ? and headed on out to collect our tickets. And, guess what? Remember Bogie?s classic line in Casablanca? ?All the bars in all the world, and I had to find you??? Well, substitute the words ?football grounds? for ?bars? and you?ve got the picture. Not one, not two, but FIVE Baggies, and all hell-bent on a similar mission. To be fair, Dave Hewitt (part-time teacher, general knowledge quiz-machine king, semi-professional lensman, internet-sales wheeler and dealer, and Harry Potter extra!) was attending in a photographical capacity, but his chums were, like us, spectators.

But we were in a different part of the ground to them, so without further ado, we collected our tickets and did the biz. And, once inside, hunger pangs assailed me, so I elected to indulge in one of their Steak and Kidney pies. Well, Taylor was the name of the makers, and with a monicker as distinguished as that, you have to sample ?em, don?t you? And, as it turned out, they were excellent, as was the one my other half walloped down with such unseemly haste. One big minus point, though; no hot chocolate, only tea and Bovril, which wasn?t much use to me at all.

A short flight of steps led us to our seats, adjacent to the side of the pitch, but almost reaching the goal-line, and what struck me about the place was its similarity, albeit on a smaller scale, to its brethren in higher divisions and elsewhere. It seems these things are churned out to a common mould these days: think Southampton?s St. Mary?s Stadium shrunk in the wash and you?ve got the right idea. The other thing that struck us straight away was the sheer size of the Hull contingent. Not only did they ill their end, behind the goal nearest to us, but eventually, the club had to corral loads into an overspill area next door. Not that this affected the home support; au contraire, there was not a single soul resident in the stand opposite ours. As for what passed for the ?home and? that was sparsely populated, pitifully so, although our stand seemed pretty full. Even so, playing out there must have been a dispiriting task for the Darlo players. No footballer likes to play their trade in front of an empty stadium, and their place was denuded of paying home punters to an embarrassing degree.

Despite all that, on paper, the match was an interesting one. Darlo were thoroughly enmeshed in the relegation mire, and for their part, Hull had ambitions of bettering their League status. Surprisingly, from the kick-off it was Darlo that looked the more likely to score. From the off, they came at the visitors with all guns blazing, and for a time, it really looked as though Hull would concede. And, rather than indulge in the ?kick-and-rush?-type tactics so beloved of outfits at that level, to their credit, they played football, to feet, pass and move, and bloody good it was, too. At times, it was difficult to discern which were the side going for promotion and who were seeking to avoid the back-door exit. The problem was, though, despite playing a very brave three up front, Darlo couldn?t finish to save their lives. Their shortcomings in this direction became especially apparent when, about halfway through the first period, they managed to win around five or six corners on the bounce. Despite having the visitors well and truly on the rack, Hull?s big burly defenders thwarted everything the home side threw at them.

The danger in putting so much constant pressure on opponents is, of course, getting caught out yourself, and this is precisely what happened to Darlo with about 15 minutes to go before the interval. Wham, bam, thank you, Ma?am, one-nil to Hull, and totally against the run of play. As we know ourselves when we?ve been in a similarly parlous position, when you?re at rock-bottom, that?s the way your luck generally pans out. Or doesn?t. If I?d been a Darlo follower, I think I would have screamed through sheer frustration. Once in front, though, Hull began to resemble, more and more, a certain side not a million miles away from our own thoughts. A functional side, soaking up early pressure, then scoring themselves from a quick breakaway. And, once in front, employing a burly but skilled defence to make sure the score stayed in their favour? Ring any bells out there?

And, come half-time, another homely touch, a la last night: the referee was booed off the pitch by the Hull supporters. Why? The cause of all that opprobrium was a free-kick awarded to the home side right on the edge of the box, and for the life of me ? I was dead in line with the incident ? I couldn?t see why! The Tigers weren?t best-pleased either; they snarled for all they were worth, and not only was one of theirs booked for encroachment, after seeing the first attempt come to nothing, the ref made Darlo take it again, and ten yards further forward, hence the tumultuous cries of, ?You don?t know what you?re doing!? as both sets of combatants left the field of play.

Come the break, come the compulsory bog-visit ? well, it was a long journey back! And, for once, the builders had used their common sense when designing the place: a proper ?Ladies?, with loads and loads of cubicles, and oodles of hot water. What us female travelling-Baggies would give for facilities like this at most First Division grounds! Or The Halfords Lane Stand, even! Dream on?. Back to our seats, then, to find The Fart and ?Im Indoors engrossed in conversation with some locals, which is where I got some of the info included in this offering. Oh, and much celebration as we heard the Dingles were losing at Charlton. Oh, dear. How sad. What a pity.

Come the second half, however, if Darlo had been proactive before, it was now the turn of the visitors to show their mettle. They really pushed up on the home side, a tactic which nearly led to Darlo making errors and conceding further. Although they did indulge in sporadic forays into the Hull penalty area, they weren?t hurting The Tigers one little bit, and as the half advanced it became increasingly clear who would emerge the victor come the final whistle. A shame, because despite everything, Darlo still persisted in playing the passing game, and bloody good to watch it was. In this, they reminded me strongly of Forest, or Derby, even. And, as the match entered its dying moments, we heard the gate: 6,800 people, and of that lot, I reckon that around 2,000 of them had been of the Hull persuasion. They certainly made a lot of noise: no sooner had the game finished, the strident cries of ?We are top of the League!? rang out in their enclave: only on goal difference, mind, but top of the heap they most certainly were.

A murderous time to get out of that awful car-park ? we reached the Dickmobile at 4.55, and didn?t exit the place until gone 5.30 ? and all accompanied by the sounds of honking car horns so familiar to supporters of teams that unexpectedly reach their division?s summit. Once free of our shackles, though, it was but a simple matter to head for the A1(M), and in the general direction of home. A tedious journey, to be sure, but one enlivened by The Fart confusing the hell out of me when trying to reach his missus by mobile phone: he insisted he couldn?t hear anything, and while he was insisting, there was Dot on the other end wanting to know what was the hell going on! Still, we finally made landfall in Brum at around half-eight, which wasn?t bad at all.

And finally?Returning to the doings of last night once more, I?ve now had a reply from my good buddy Anc, he of the ?Liquidator? ban banner; it appears that our bijou Baggie did manage to unfurl the thing in the Brummie, just before both sides came out, and it was them paraded along the front of the stand, ending up in the right hand part of that section. Anc?s little bit of direct action earned him not a few claps and a smidgen of cheers as well. There was no hostility whatsoever; in fact, the cheeky little chappie tells me he was the recipient of quite a few pats on the back because of his remarkably-proactive stance on the subject. The Press also began sniffing, long lenses and all. Whether or not these pictures subsequently appeared anywhere, I?ve no idea as yet ? unless you know better, of course.

As Monday's reserve game's been called off, no Diary until next Thursday, when we Dick Eds travel to The Throstle Club, where chairman Jeremy Peace will be holding forth. Until then, arriverderci.

 - Glynis Wright

Contact the Author

Diary Index