The Diary

01 February 2004: Back To Winning Ways, Once More.

How was it for you, then? Earth-moving win, maybe? Or should we have pushed on a tad more and really stung those pesky little Hornets to death? Whatever your opinions on today?s caper, I reckon it would be churlish indeed to say we weren?t good value for those much-needed three points today. As things stand tonight, we are very nicely placed indeed: although Norwich soured our celebratory champagne a little by putting The Blades to the sword ? two defeats in a row for Warnock, now, and because of this uncharacteristic slip on their parts, something tells me our forthcoming Bramall Lane tryst (Feb 21st.) is going to be a bruising one. Let?s hope we get the full 90 minutes worth this time, eh? As things stand, Norwich are top with 56, we?re next on 54, then bringing up the, erm, rear are United, with 49. A nice little 5-point cushion?s suddenly opened up between those coveted two ?automatic? places, and those whose involvement will be solely confined to the play-offs come the end of term. And, what?s more important, our win was what both The Fart and I ? quite independently, mind! ? called ?workmanlike?, which, in my opinion, sums up the afternoon?s doings perfectly.

Chucking the figures into my trusty calculator ? games played to date divided by current points total ? the answer I?ve come up with is an average of 1.86 points per game, which, I suspect, is a little below what it takes to see us on course for one of those two top slots. Hopefully, now we?ve got ourselves back into winning ways, those figures will gradually start to roll in our favour once more. Another thought: tonight, both ?Im Indoors and myself were discussing the question of how many wins we?d need to guarantee a return to orbital velocity come the end of the season, and after a little humming and hawing, we finally agreed on eleven, which would give us a final tally in the high 80?s, more than enough. The countdown begins here.

It?s quite startling how one event, small in itself, can completely change the morale of a glum bunch of supporters for the better, and so quickly as well. The catalyst, of course, was the successful capture yesterday of striker Delroy Facey from Bolton, then the equally-startling news pre-match we?d also landed Morten Skoubo from Borussia Munchengladbach, on loan, but quite frankly, I wouldn?t have given a damn if the club announced we?d grabbed him off the first returning Mars orbital satellite. At least we now enjoy the comparative luxury of oodles of cover in the striking department, which is a big relief, to say the least. Certainly, pre-match, our mood in the Throstle Club was pretty upbeat, and The Noise was even more garrulous than usual. Having said that, though, we weren?t half sweating this morning. The reason? The 9 am phone call we received, from a panic-stricken Fart, to say that there was to be a pitch inspection. Fast-forward, now, to 11.15, and our living-room. This was the conversation:

Simon (returning from our PC, upstairs, where he?d been to ascertain the verdict, if any). ?Bad news about the game, I?m afraid!?

Me: ?The game?s off, then??

Simon: ?No such bloody luck ? it?s on!?

Back to the club. As I said, The Noise was in rare good form today: assisted by his willing apprentice, Carly The Bag-Carrier, we ran the whole gamut of topics currently occupying most of the column-space in the national papers. First off, we had The Lewis take on The Hutton Report, then the topic, erm, ?shifted?, to Wedgwood?s charming habit of rostering their workforce for several 12-hour pottery-making marathons in succession, occupational pensions, a lengthy discourse on top-up fees, with brief interludes, during the course of which we discussed the prospects of a certain football club not a million miles away from where we were sitting! Exhausting, or what?

Just as The Garrulous One finally ran out of verbal steam, enter The Fart ? but with a heavily-bandaged wrist? Had that vicious bag of his finally turned on its master in a fit of pique? No, the truth was far more mundane, and my sympathies are completely with our septuagenarian co-editor: a nasty fall in icy conditions a couple of days ago, no more, no less, poor old sod! Mind you, I?m one to talk: once the white stuff froze solid, I refused point-blank to set foot outside GD Towers until God had made it all go away! The thing was, our little mate didn?t look at all well, but I rang him tonight, he?s OK, and our win this afternoon proved most efficacious in the old muscle and ligament-knitting department. Still, anyone who can relieve Mafeking, and be one of the last 26 people to have served in World War One, he sure has the stamina to withstand a simple injury like that.

Lugholes still ringing from The Noise?s ear-splitting airing of his varied views on current topics, we left the club, then set sail for our various selling-pitches. Thus far, the weather had remained dry, but looking at the grim grey overcast above, we suspected that things would become extremely soggy before too long, and that?s precisely what happened: come around a quarter past two, the heavens absolutely opened, and I got thoroughly soaked. Remarkably enough, that was the first time this season I?d suffered in that way when selling, so I suppose I shouldn?t grumble. I did, though, because the heavy precipitation meant I had to shift to cover under the Halfords roof, which was a pain, as prospective customers couldn?t see me at all. Mind you, some would argue that would be a good thing, but there you are! Oh, one other thing ? just why did two fire engines, lights flashing, pull up outside the Halfords Lane entrance around an hour before the start? A detention for the Baggie wag who declared we?d signed Peter Crouch ? and he?d blown over in the wind, hence the fire-engines! A panic over nothing, possibly caused by the strong breezes blowing around my little parts ? and no, before you ask, it most certainly wasn?t the baked beans!

One incident that did put some sunshine into my otherwise drippy life was the sudden appearance of two Aussie Baggies from the murk. Dave Payne and other half, hailing from Woolangong, which is about 90 minutes kangaroo hop from Sydney, no less, and very well they looked, too; they?re here for around three weeks, and are going to take in what games they can during that time. As far as I?m concerned, they can stay for good, because they certainly proved to be a ?lucky mascot? today! Additionally, many thanks to all those lovely people who took the trouble to stop by and say such nice things about my little column: much appreciated, honest, as it made quite a nice change from the insults I?d been getting from a certain quarter in recent months.

As kick-off time drew nearer, a strange noise from within the stadium began to assail my lugholes, and at first, I struggled to identify the source. An air-raid siren? In days of piping peace? Come off it. Then, the penny finally dropped; this was the much-vaunted ?pre-match entertainment? we?d been promised ? or threatened with. At the time, I?d thought the guy was singing the 23rd Psalm, as revealed last night, but unfortunately, Chummy reserved that particular horror for when we finally entered The Shrine and took our seats. As we threaded our way through the busy concourse underneath the stand, I finally realised the guy was giving ?Nessun Dorma? the treatment ? aw, you know, the one Pavarotti made famous in the 1990 World Cup. Translated, the title reads, ?None Shall Sleep?, and the way this guy was belting it out, you certainly couldn?t have sued! The ?best? bit, though, he saved until last: A decibel-laden rendition of ?The Lord?s My Shepherd?: the sympathetic vibrations alone must have cracked every bit of cut glass in the boardroom! And, as if that nonsense wasn?t enough, on the TV screen, large as life, the bloody words! Come on, chaps, do let us know when we?ll see Stepford Wives with their 2.4 kids, not to mention those famous prawn sarnies, make their pricey appearance in and around the refreshment bars!

Fasten your seatbelts, folks, and if you approved of what was done today in the name of ?pre-match entertainment?, then I urge you to look away now, because I most certainly didn?t. Anthems originating from supporters belong to supporters, full stop. Sung with genuine passion and emotion, by proper supporters, and at appropriate triumphal moments in our history ? and relegations! - they raise hairs from the back of the neck and bring tears to the eye with a rapidity truly astonishing to behold. After all, the 23rd Psalm is a celebration of hope triumphant over adversity, which makes it an ideal ditty for our much put-upon lot when you come to think about it. Remember ?that? Crystal Palace game, two long seasons ago? Our defiant Premiership last-stand come last April? Quite. Taken away from their natural environment, tarted up and gentrified by the 'suits', who appear to know the price of much, but the value of nothing, they become but a pale imitation of the real thing, a transatlantic-style abomination, even. I'm absolutely horrified our club are doing this to what?s commonly regarded by other clubs? supporters as ?our song?.

It?s more alarming evidence that the club are now trying to foster a theatre-audience-type mentality among its followers, I'm afraid. Middlesbrough went the same way around five or six seasons ago; one chap we know there, a season ticket holder and fanatical away follower for many, many years, suddenly went ?cold turkey?, and stopped going, full stop: we were shocked. The reason? Andy (that?s his name) sorrowfully told us he simply couldn?t recognise his own football club any longer, couldn?t identify with it, even, so that was it. Finis. Don't say I didn't warn you.

Sorry about that, but it?s an issue I do feel strongly about, and if no-one cares enough to kick up about this, then one day, we?ll suddenly find ourselves presented with the fait accomplit ? ?tough titty, but this is what we feel you ought to have in the way of pre-match entertainment, so just shut up and bloody get on with it?. Back to the game, then, and once Chummy had finished scaring the local pigeon population with his operatic ululations, normal service resumed, i.e. ?O Fortuna?, performed in the conventional manner courtesy DJ Matthew?s trusty deck. Our side, when it finally emerged from the tunnel? A surprising start for Hughsie, a home debut for ex-Seal Kinsella, Delroy Facey among our subs, and Paul Robinson facing his old outfit for the first time since his move. And, frabjous joy, a continuation of the 4-4-2 thingy; clearly, someone somewhere has undergone a Damascene conversion regarding the employment of those tactics of late. At least we?ve had the flexibility and courage to adapt and evolve, and fair play, I?m not going to knock it, purely and simply because it seems to be reaping dividends in heaps right now.

Off we went, then, and at first, things looked distinctly promising; not long after the start, The Horse was deliberately made to rear courtesy some Hornet skulduggery, and we earned ourselves a free-kick on the edge of the box by way of reward. Cue for Clem, then: unfortunately, the effort went badly wide of the intended target. Still, the idea was right, I suppose. And, not long after that incident, a strange musical phenomenon made itself heard from the rear of the Smethwick. What was it? Why, the ?missing? Liquidator anthem, of course, ?music? and ?lyrics? courtesy our ?glee-club? gathered there! Difficult as hell to sing a capella, of course ? why didn?t Harry J. think of that one, that?s what I want to know! ? so I can only assume that some enterprising chap (or chapess, of course) smuggled a portable CD player through the turnstiles, then employed it accordingly. A splendid example of how, despite the ravages of time and modern amenities, those famed ?cussedness genes? are still very much prevalent in the DNA of Black Country people to this very day. I really would have given a king?s ransom to see the looks on the faces of that so-called ?safety committee? when those naughty lyrics resounded around that part of the ground, which just goes to show not even anally-retentive official fuss-pots can keep a good ?terrace anthem? down! What made it even funnier was the fact that The Smethwick, bless their little cotton socks, went on to repeat the dose at regular intervals throughout the entire game!

Now, where was I? Oh, yes. While all this was going on, our lot were going about their lawful business of trying to penetrate the visitors? defence. Hughsie, especially, was playing like a Baggie possessed, constantly teasing and tormenting the Watford rearguard and trying to force then into committing errors around the danger area. The trouble was, though, as a spectacle, the game had descended into the modern-day equivalent of trench warfare, complete with sufficient mud and pouring rain to make the average Western Front veteran quite nostalgic, but no bullets, fortunately. Play became somewhat scrappy, and in an attempt to enliven things once more, it was The East Stand we now heard giving us the benefit of their vocal chords, and quite loud they were, too. What the hell did the caterers put in the coffee over there? It was around this time the lino decided to have a little fun of his own: seemingly possessive of a nervous system boasting a reaction-time measured in tens of seconds, his tardy raising of his flag (or not!), certainly got the ?rugs and vacuum flasks? in our stand calling for blood. Finally, a thoroughly-exasperated John Homer could stand it no longer, ?Yow wanna goo to the doctor an? have yer co-ordination looked at!?, he bawled in tones that must have been heard in both dug-outs, then, sotto voce this time, ?-Probably wouldn?t hear that ?til half time!?.?

What the game was absolutely crying out for was someone with the ball skills of Jason Koumas; sure, I know one man doesn?t necessarily make a team, but we were sure as hell missing him today. Without his subtle midfield promptings, the link between the rearguard and the strikeforce was absent, with predictable results. The other ?missing link?? Lloyd Dyer, of course; so sterile and negative was the stuff on the pitch, without his lightning speed and panache on the left flank, the game completely stifled itself. And then, with only five minutes left before the interval, we finally got ourselves a break. Watford were employing a totally irritating offside trap, and more often than not, they were making us look very silly with their judicious employment of it. And that dozy lino didn?t help much, either, which was why I laughed the place down when it went so spectacularly wrong for the visitors. What happened? Both Hughsie and AJ were off the mark so quick, it caught Watford completely napping ? and the flag stayed down for once! Our hirsute midfielder then found The Horse, lurking with intent on the right, he then rounded the floundering keeper, which left him with both an easy-peasy tap-in, and a mass-mobbing from his ecstatic colleagues. And, just before the interval, should we have had a penalty? Bernt Hass certainly seemed to be obstructed, at the very least, but nothing was given.

Half-time, then, and the ?scores on the doors? were indicating that our promotion rivals were all finding it difficult to emulate our feat; if ever there was a time when three points would do us the greatest good, this was it. One other occurrence of note, by the way; the announcement Jeff Astle?s young grandson had scored a double hat-trick in his most recent junior-level game: time for the ?old timers, myself included, to wistfully speculate on how lovely it would be if yet another member of the illustrious ?royal family? actually got to wear the sacred blue and white stripes in earnest for the club.

Back to the present, though, and the second serving; by now, the rain was coming down in sheets, and as far as Big Dave was concerned, it was becoming mighty difficult to discern where the muddy kit ended and the player began! After a promising opening spell, during which time we could have added to the haul quite easily ? Big Dave was particularly unlucky ? it was time for Hughsie to impose his shiny-domed presence on the proceedings, and what a goal it was. Gregan was the bloke who set up our follicularly-challenged striker on 15 minutes with a lovely ball, precision-placed. Onwards ran our lad, towards the edge of the box, then he let fly from an acute angle with an almighty belter that gave the keeper no chance whatsoever. 2-0, and I was really glad for the player he?d finally exorcised his demons by banging in that superb strike: I suspect the rest of the crowd felt pretty much the same way as well, because the applause raised the roof, almost.

That goal really sparked something within his Black Country soul because within a minute, he nearly did it again, but almost from the goal-line this time: sadly, their keeper had learned his lesson, and the danger was nullified. Mind you, we didn?t have long to wait for the full set: this time, the quietly-efficient Gaardsoe was the perpetrator of the damage. His inch-perfect pass found The Horse, whose narrow drive belted acroos the face of goal, hit the near post, then bobbled in, to the great satisfaction of all present. Not long after that, we decided to ring the changes; off came Kinsella, and on came Lloyd Dyer, to a storming reception from our faithful. With 15 minutes to go, Watford managed to pull one back ? the scorer, Scott Fitgerald, presumably taking time off from writing ?The Great Gatsby? to reduce the deficit for the visitors. A case of ?too little, too late? unfortunately for the visitors. Not long before the end, Facey got his ?blooding? when he came on for Hughsie, who deservedly received a standing ovation when he left the pitch.

And that was about it, but not before one of the strangest endings to a game I?ve seen in many a year. The incident that started it happened completely off the ball, and by the Millennium Corner. I didn?t see what happened myself, I was watching the play, but apparently, Watford?s Helgusson took a swing at our Hass, and after some deliberation on his part, the ref gave the errant visitor the chance of a slightly earlier bath than the rest of his colleagues. Strange, because the ref wasn?t near when it happened, and the lino was way, way up the pitch. According to The Fart, when it happened, the lino wasn?t even looking in that direction! Presumably, both men in black, although not seeing what happened, realised from the howls of sheer indignation coming from the East Stand, that a wrong had to be righted ? and quick.

And there you have it. An awful opening 45, but much, much better during the second half, and a convincing win as well, which is something we?ve failed to achieve of late. My ?stars in stripes?? Gaardsoe ? his calm and collected demeanour in defence really is a joy to watch. You honestly don?t know he?s there until danger beckons, then wraithlike, almost, he appears from nowhere, and, seemingly without effort, there?s suddenly not a problem any more. An honourable mention, also, for The Horse. I, too, severely doubted the wisdom of bringing him to our place, but I?m pleased to relate he?s totally proven me wrong. He?s certainly hitting pay-dirt for us at the moment; an inspired signing. Hughsie? An outstanding performance today, and what a lovely strike, as well. Brought back memories for me of the lad at his lethal best, all those seasons ago. What a morale-booster, and at what must be a painfully difficult time for him right now.

More tomorrow about the difficulties we had leaving the area by car after the game. I really can feel a complaint to the plods coming on; the stuffed up traffic queues in Halfords Lane are a complete joke. What will it take to change things? The emergency services not being able to gain access to the hosing estate, and lives lost as a result? Or will change be prompted by a complaint from some big-wig or another about the situation preventing them getting away in the manner in which they are more normally accustomed? All answers on a post card to the usual address.

And finally?. A message from Down Under, courtesy Mark Brown. He?s just got back from the Perth Glory game, 2-0 win, with ex Albion boy Shaun Murphy playing an absolute blinder. He commanded the back line with aplomb, apparently, Browny doesn't think he missed a header all night. Quite a useful victory, as our Antipodean Correspondent reports the Glory are 8 points clear at the top of the heap, and cruising on autopilot!

 - Glynis Wright

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