The Diary

18 January 2004: We Draw The Game - And Also The Dud Ref!

Well, they gave former Albion keeper Brian Jensen Man Of The Match at Turf Moor today, but for my money, the award should really have gone to the referee. His handling of the entire ninety minutes was exceptional ? in the scope of his incompetence, which was unbelievable, and his performance so bad, it truly deserved recognition. ?Cheat! Cheat! Cheat!? roared our lot as the half-time whistle sounded, which was a tad harsh, as his handling of the game proved beyond reasonable doubt he was incapable of mustering sufficient guile and/or intelligence to give decisions capable of influencing things either way. Personally, I reckon the alternative chant of, ?You don?t know what you?re doing? was a hell of a lot nearer the mark.

And, before you accuse me of being wall-eyed, it wasn?t just us on the wrong end of the bum decisions, Burnley suffered as well; just as well for AJ at one point because had Chummy seen one particularly-horrific tackle of his early doors, he surely would have tasted the tropically-heated delights of the away team showers far sooner than his ex-Crewe Alex team-mate. In fact, just a few minutes before Hulse walked, I turned to The Old Fart and said, ?I can see this lot ending in a punch-up because that ref hasn?t got a bloody clue what?s going on out there.? To be fair, though, on reflection about the sending-off, I think the man in black did get that one right; I didn?t see the incident clearly myself, but The Noise certainly did, and he?s got the eyesight of a predatory hawk. Bang to rights for ?leading with the elbow?. ?He?s off,? said our garrulous chum the instant it happened ? and although our away support howled loudly in protest, when it comes to situations where a keen eye for detail is required, I?d back The Noise every time. Mind you, I?ll still be interested in seeing the replay when it?s eventually shown on TV.

As often happens at away games, what happened before and after the 90 minutes was, in its own way, just as interesting as the reason for our journey to Lancashire. What started the giggle-fest was National Dishcloth Day, which I mentioned two days ago. Remember when I said I?d think of a way of honouring the occasion? Well, I did. How? By purchasing some dishcloths ? no, belay that, a lot of dishcloths, erm, 50 in all, and catering size! ? from the local cash and carry, putting ?em in a cardboard box, plastering them with gift-wrap, then slinging said box in our car boot before the intended recipient - The Fart - arrived at our place. He didn?t know he was going to get them, either, which made the whole thing even funnier; what also added to the occasion was the fact we?d already primed The Noise, and arranged to hold the ?ceremony? in the hotel car-park where we normally pick up our Stokie chum. And, once there, that?s precisely what ?Im Indoors did, grabbing the box from the boot sharpish while The Noise was getting in the Dickmobile, handing it over to Tel, and then inviting our senior supporter to open the thing. A pregnant pause as The Fart removed the wrapping, a moment of puzzlement, then, from me, a crafty ?click? of the old camera, and, ?Happy Dishcloth Day, Terry!?

What did the old codger say on receipt of a half-century?s-worth of washing-up materials? $p Believe it or not, ?That?s just what Dot wanted!? Once we were on the road again, we decided to let Dot in on the act, so before handing the phone over, I contacted her first, and that?s when the fun began again. The thing was, not long before picking Martin up, The Fart had tried to ring Dave Small, he of the ?Zulu?, the Birmingham City fanzine, but no joy. Bearing that in mind, now fast-forward to the Dickmobile, and The Fart with the phone in his hand, and me assuming he?d realised I?d phoned his missus. Wrong! For whatever reason, poor Tel thought he was speaking to Dave Small, and asked why he wasn?t at Stamford Bridge! His missus, thinking she?d got The Fart?s awayaday destination wrong and hearing him asking about Chelsea, then asked him why he wasn?t going to Burnley! Luckily for Tel, the penny finally dropped, but not before the underwear of the other occupants of the Dickmobile was put in mortal danger. And then the conversation took yet another downwards turn.

Me (To Dot): ?I hope you don?t mind, Dot, I?ve given Tel some dishcloths in honour of National Dishcloth Day ? er, well, actually, an awful lot of dishcloths ? er, FIFTY, in fact!? And, rather brightly, ?What?s more, there?s a free scouring pad with every packet, Dot!?

That was the point at which some very strange moaning noises were heard coming from our mobile ? or was it just a bad land-line? Any road up, I reckon The Wills household now have enough cloths to last them for the rest of their natural, and my sides are still aching from all the laughing I did earlier today!

On to Burnley proper, then, and once there, to The Sparrow Hawk Hotel, about a quarter of a mile from Turf Moor. Yes, it really is a hotel, and a ?working? one, at that. Not that we needed accommodation; its claim to fame lies in the extensive collection of real ales they have there, which pulled in the Baggie-loving cognscenti like an electromagnet to the junk in Steve Bull?s scrapyard. Surprisingly though, despite the fact the sun was well over the yardarm by the time we got there, the pace was strangely devoid of custom. Quite a turn-around from our previous visit two seasons ago; then, we made landfall in the late afternoon ? an evening kick-off, that time ? and the place was absolutely jumping. I can only assume that the fall in custom is directly proportional to Burnley?s current League position, which isn?t all that good these days.

In to the bar, then, and while ?Im Indoors was ordering the drinks, the first thing that caught our eye was a set of beermats on the table ? advertising the Burnley Arson Hotline, complete with telephone number! ?If you have any information about any fires, ring this number?.? ?Hang on a minute,? I said to The Noise, ?Is that number giving info on how to stop them, or how to bloody well start them?? A few seconds of quiet reflection on that concept, then in came a Baggie, all hot-foot, and full of tidings of great joy etc. cetera. The news? Jason Roberts had scored for Wigan after only 44 seconds. Blimey. Us Dick Eds all looked at each other, and you didn?t need to be a mind-reader to work out our thought processes right then. It was The Noise who finally put words to what we?d all been thinking. ?Suppose,? he said, in funereal tones, ?We came seventh at the end of the season, and Wigan came sixth?? Complete silence on our table; just like nuclear war, it was too horrible a scenario to contemplate.

Things did brighten up not long afterwards because within minutes, in walked Neil Reynolds and entourage; ?just the man? thought Im Indoors. Why? Because we had a Bob Taylor DVD to hand over to the lad, his prize for cracking our picture quiz recently. And, while my other half was doing the biz, time for me to nip out to the loo, where I was confronted by the following notice: THIS IS A NON-SMOKING AREA DUE TO SENSITIVE SMOKE ALARMS. An interesting one, that: did it mean that every time anyone lit a crafty fag, it burst into tears? And, talking of things ?interesting?, when I returned, there was another Baggie at our table giving us a sneak preview of what our line-up was going to be ? well, the following was the formation this bloke had seen us employ on the training-ground the day before: Hoult, Haas, Gaardsoe, Moore, J.Chambers, Robinson, Gregan, Clement, Johnson, Hulse, Horsfield. According to the guy, as predicted in the local rag, no place for new-bug Kinsella, not even on the bench. A reversion to 3-5-2, apparently, which we could uinderstand, to a certain extent, but no Sakiri anywhere, which seemed to indicate there was no room at all for creativity; if that was the line-up, we?d clearly come to get a point.

Having thoroughly digested that depressing bit of news, it was out to do some honest fanzine selling, but on our way to the ground, a quick diversion into a small newsagents to grab a programme ? there must have been around a dozen coppers in the place, and all queuing to pay for goods of one sort or another: were they on some sort of sponsorship deal, or something? ? and for me to grab some much-needed ?Victory ?V? cough lozenges. We then walked on, perusing the team sheet at the back of the publication all the while ? then realised someone had dropped a clanger of monstrous dimensions. The programme informed the purchaser that a gentleman who went by the name of Noel Gifton-Williams was a Baggie! News to us; the last time we?d looked, he was a confirmed employee of Stoke City! Mind you, it didn?t half confuse the home crowd as well: as we neared the away end, we heard at least one bemused Burnley-ite say to another, ?Do you know that West Brom have got Gifton-Williams!? Whoops!

As the others began their selling-session, I parked my butt on my little stool, rested my back against a handy wall, and let them get on with it. Not because I wanted to opt out, or anything; I had tried to shout when selling before the Walsall game but my vocal efforts brought my cough back, and making out like a consumptive in the later stages of the disease doesn?t do a lot to encourage sales, does it? In any case, it was a nice change to sit there and simply watch the Baggie world ? well those who?d arrived by coach! ? go by. Although it was quite cold, a watery sun made things quite pleasant for us as we flogged our wares, and by way of celebration, I broke out the Victory ?V? lozenges, which begs the following question: Is it me, or are those famous throat sweets far less lethal than they used to be when I was younger? The reason I ask is because I was crunching the damn things in my mouth, not sucking them; in years gone by, had I done that, I would have been banging on the doors of nearby householders and begged them for sufficient water to put out the fire. Hang on a mo, though, isn?t that what the Arson Hotline?s for?

And, as I idly contemplated the universe, a couple of cameos; Baggies away travel veteran Vic Stirrup, in his 80?s, and still coming to games. This one was around his 3,000th one since 1926, and what?s more, the bloke has only missed six home games since the end of World War Two! Puts ?Im Indoors?s achievement today of 500 Albion games, both home and away, on the bounce, into true perspective. And, not long after that, there was the sight of The Fart having ?meaningful discussions? ? his words, not mine - with the local constabulary, to which I replied, ?Here, Tel, does that mean you?re going quietly, then?? Then came what was the low-point of our selling-period; the depressing news that The Dingles were ahead versus the Mancs, and around twenty minutes later, that dismal final score. For Heaven?s sake, what the hell was wrong with them? Didn?t they want to win the Prem title, or something? Winning games versus fellow bottom-bumpers was one thing, but United? ?It?s all getting a bit worrying,? muttered this column, darkly.

Not long after that, a minibus pulled up, and disgorged its occupants; what looked like the Burnley youth side ? well, they did go in via the players? entrance, which was a bit of a giveaway ? and judging by the thunderous looks on their acne-ridden faces, they?d just lost, or they weren?t too happy about United dipping, either. Or is there something about playing for Burnley that just makes you look that way permanently? A quick smile for both the police video cameraman and his Sky counterparts, and suddenly, a whole load of coppers surrounded The Noise. Had he exceeded the EEC noise limits with his shouting, or something? Nope, closer inspection simply revealed that in what was an unexpected reversal of the normal constabulary process, the police wanted to help our Stokie mate with his enquiries for a change!

Into the bowels of Turf Moor, then, and what was, for me, a real throwback to the Sixties. Wooden seats, primitive bogs, pungent smells of beer and Bovril; why, if you closed your eyes, it was possible to see in your mind?s eye once more, the long-gone images of Bob Lord, and star performers like Andy Lochhead, and Willie Morgan. Mind you, the Burnley scene now is far different to those heady days, when the Clarets were playing some of the best football in the country, and on a shoestring as well. I suppose a fair comparison now would be one of those TV programmes that invite faded Z-list celebrities to faraway lands to do totally-humiliating things, just to drum up a bit of publicity for themselves. Or, if you like, a small provincial panto, where past-it TV sitcom actors trowel on the slap, chuck Grecian 2000 on greying hair, then assume that mandatory rictus-grin as they creak out onto the stage once more to act out the latter parts of their personal tragedy to a rapidly-diminishing audience. That?s Turf Moor these days, despite everything their DJ was doing in a futile attempt to galvanise a distinctly-underwhelmed crowd into some sort of life. Once more, that PA system crackled into life, ?This is what we?ve been waiting for!? he enthused, in tones that must have boomed all around the nearby streets. Really?

Not much time to dwell on that, though, as there was the team news to digest ? and bugger me down dead, with the exception of Kinsella and Sakiri being on the bench, our little ?mole? had got it spot-on. Subs: Murphy, Kinsella, Sakiri, Hughes, Dyer. Stuffed full of defenders, which isn?t exactly what you?d expect of an outfit in our lofty position playing a side in severe danger of going out via the tradesmen?s entrance. Oh ? and just before we started, another bit of info from The Fart. He?d once seen us lose at Turf Moor ? by six goals, either in the late Fifties, or the early Sixties. Cheers for that, Tel! And on that sunny and happy note, we were well and truly off. And that?s when the aforementioned match official ? Mr. Nigel Miller, from County Durham, and for all the good he was, his home town might as well have been on Mars - started to take a hand in the proceedings. Not by intention; as I said earlier, his intellect simply wasn?t up to devious behaviour like trying to influence the course of a game in any particular direction. It?s just that he wasn?t up to the job, plain and simple. We could have had Jar Jar Binks wielding the whistle, for all the good the genuine article was. As I mentioned in my opener, first off, he managed to upset the home supporters by missing that kamikaze tackle of AJ?s, then booking a Claret for a challenge that even my little great nephew would have scorned as being far too soft. Whatever thought-processes prompted that useless official to act as he did, those awful decisions certainly had the Burnley gaffer, Stan Ternant, hopping around his technical area like a frog high on crack cocaine. Good start for the man in the middle, but there was worse to come, and, sad to say, mainly directed at us.

Mind you, we should have given the home side something to think about not long after the ?off?, when The Horse, pretty-much clear on goal, managed to give their keeper, former Baggie Brian Jensen (?The Beast?) an instant cure for constipation ? but the shot, when it came, went wide. And, not long after that, a warning for us, courtesy of a Burnley shot that only just went wide of Houlty?s wood-bounded domain. Meanwhile, Mr. Miller was in his element, awarding a string of baffling decisions Burnley?s way, much to the annoyance of our players, not to mention our 2,000-strong travelling contingent. And then, with around 25 minutes gone, calamity, and only Rob Hulse himself truly knows what prompted him to do it. As I said earlier, The Noise said the dismissal was completely bang to rights; such is the acuity of his eyesight, I?d be prepared to back him in a court of law should that ever prove necessary.

The dismissal, unexpected as it was, and Hulse?s first ever at that level, completely upset our master-plan to conquer the Universe (with a station-stop at Burnley). ?That?s buggered it,? I said to The Fart, and he totally agreed. With us down to ten, I really couldn?t see a way out, not with that line-up. And, thanks to yet another bit of refereeing controversy, it could quite easily have been one-nil to the home side around 7 minutes before the interval. The problem? Houlty was adjudged to have been on the wrong end of a back-pass, so an indirect free-kick went Burnley?s way. Personally, I thought the decision somewhat ?iffy?, as our keeper was presented with little option but to handle it, but no good crying over spilt crosses, just get on with it. Luckily, we managed to squirm the ball away and out of harm?s way. Phew!

Half-time, then, and for me, a quick visit to the ?facilities?, which were also mired in the sixties, a time when not many of the fair sex went to games. Only three bogs for our sizeable female following? No wonder there was one hell of a queue outside. Mind you, it?s an ill wind, and all that jazz; outside, who should I see, but Dawn Astle, who?d just ?been? and was waiting for her sister to emerge from the refreshment counter bearing gifts of tea. We both agreed her dad would have been doing his crust at the antics of the referee by now, and that?s when Dawn reminded me; next week, it?ll be two years since Jeff?s death. Bloody hell, time doesn?t half fly sometimes; it doesn?t seem five minutes since that night when Laraine rang me, went on talking for well over an hour, and the pair of us ended up in a complete mess of tears. What a lot of water has flown under the bridge since then.

Back well in time for the second portion, then ? I wonder if the home crowd thought we were giving The Beast the bird when he took up position defending the goal in front of our end? - but not all that hopeful of getting any reward. Not with ten men, you don?t. Mind you, The Horse nearly did almost from the restart, when he accepted the ball almost on the halfway line, shrugged off a succession of Burnley challenges as if their owners weren?t there, got into the box, got the shot away ? only to see it just shave the post. Bloody hell, had that gone in, it would have been a cracking goal, and, to be honest, that was a facet of The Horse?s play I?d never seen before, ever. Blimey, talk about ?old horses? learning new tricks! Suddenly, what had previously appeared impossible looked a ?goer?; yes, we could hurt The Clarets, even with only ten men, and they didn?t like it one bit. In fact, The Horse nearly did the same thing again; this time, though, he passed to Clem, but the first touch was all wrong, and The Beast dived in instead. Oh ? and another thing; will someone please explain to me why The Horse was booked after the ref consulted the lino? Come to think about it, the home side are probably still wondering why one of theirs also saw yellow for little or nothing; as I said, he could be consistent in some ways!

Another Albion attempt to nick something, this time, courtesy of Gaardsoe ? then, disaster. Burnley?s Blake was the perpetrator of the damage, and with just over 20 minutes left on the clock. Houlty had no chance with the shot, and, as it seemed immediately afterwards ? having taken the lead, Burnley then tried to play possession football ? there was no way back for us. Not long after that, though, we decided to shove Lloyd Dyer into the fray once more, Mr. Hass being the one chosen to end any further participation in the proceedings. But, around five minutes later, the scores were levelled. Thank Clem and The Horse for small mercies; Clem sent the ball whanging to our equine friend, lurking with intent on the left, and once in possession of the thing, he then raced into the Burnley box ? and let fly. He might have missed on two previous occasions, but there was no mistake this time. Wallop ? and The Beast was suddenly ruing the general beastliness of life between the sticks.

And, we could have nicked all three points. Clem was unlucky to see The Beast spill his free-kick belter, the ball slithering away elsewhere, unfortunately. Oh, and we also had our first glimpse of new-boy Kinsella in action, on for the completely-knackered Big Dave (cramp, I think) around five minutes from the end. But, having said all that, the true hero of the hour had to be Houlty, who managed to keep out a rocket of a Burnley strike ? in my opinion, our keeper had no rights to save it at all, so powerful was the ball?s momentum, and so close to target ? but save it he did, and not long after that, it finished all square.

And, as we made our way to The Dickmobile, those final scores. Well, we?d stuffed up, but so had Norwich. 4-4 was their final score, and Sunderland lost versus Millwall. In fact, the only outfit in contention to win was Ipswich, in almighty 6-4 tussle with Crewe! Wigan? Theirs finished 4-2 to them. We were still second, so everything depended upon what happened between Sheffield United and West Ham, due to kick off at 5.35 that evening. And, as we made our way homeward, the news at first wasn?t too good. United took the lead ? sod! ? but not for long. In fact, prescient old me soothed the shattered nerves of ?Im Indoors by reassuring him The Hammers would get it back ? as they did, around the 19th minute. Then, not long afterwards, they took the lead themselves, and increased it in the 37th. Everything went swimmingly until around 20 minutes from the end, when United got one back, making the score 3-2. Then the home side got a penalty, but West Ham?s keeper managed to save it! Bloody hell, how much longer to go? And then the killer. Almost in injury time the lucky sods managed to draw level, leaving us all sweating on a Hammers repeat of the 4-3 scenario. But, they managed to hold out for a draw, which is better then a punch on the nose, I reckon.

What?s worrying me now is our striker problem. We?re currently down to three, but when Hulse is suspended for three games, that will reduce to two. And, because of what I shall coyly term ?current legal proceedings?, that two could be down to one within a few weeks, although I will concede that?s unlikely, in the immediate short-term, at least. Time to find yet another goalscoring genius, methinks ? and time for me to hit my pit. More tomorrow!

 - Glynis Wright

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