The Diary

22 February 2004: All We Hear Is Radio Gaardsoe!

My God, isn?t victory sweet, sometimes? In a season that?s seen more than its share of games where points have gone begging, scoring chances spurned, totally ?wrong formations deployed, and players not performing to the full extent of their capabilities, today?s game, and the manner in which we finally triumphed over the Forces Of Evil (OK, Warnock?s hardly the Devil Incarnate, is he, but he?ll do for me until a more convincing candidate for the job comes along!) has really stimulated my rather jaded supporting palate once more. I don?t think I?ve seen an Albion game thus far this term that had so much passion, old-fashioned piss and vinegar, guts, determination ? and, yes, honest-to-goodness PRIDE ? packed into such an incident-laden 90 minutes. Sure, the Cup win over Newcastle had it in abundance, but that night, we didn?t have nigh-on 4,500 Baggie people pushing their sorely-tested lungs and vocal chords to the max. And, because of the lateness of the hour, afterwards, there wasn?t quite the same backwash of sheer jubilation at having just registered a stonkingly-good win over supposedly-superior Premiership opposition. West Ham? Lovely to come back from 3-0 down, then stuff it up ?em courtesy of Hughsie, of course, but to a degree, that was down to The Hammers? sheer incompetence. That, and Defoe getting himself sent off unnecessarily; stupid boy!

This column hasn?t always seen eye to eye with our manager on quite a lot of issues recently, but this time, I take my hat off to Gary for getting the whole shebang, tactics, substitutions, motivation, the lot absolutely spot-on today. And how reminiscent that win was of similarly-vital games two seasons ago, a time when it truly was ?us against the world?. Yep, I don?t like a lot of what you do, Gary, but there aren?t that many managers out there who could have pulled off a trick like the one you did today, and for that, I salute you. The words ?respect? and ?like? don?t usually sit easily together on this page when I?m discussing you, Gary, but somehow, without any desire whatsoever to invoke the latter, I now get the sneaking feeling that today, at Bramall Lane, we witnessed the emergence of a promotion-winning side; more to the point, one truly deserving of the accolade. Respect? Total.

It?s amazing how one?s mood can change so drastically in the space of a few hours; on leaving the Black Country, we Dick Eds were more prepared, psychologically speaking, for an almighty tanking at the hands of He Whose Name Shall Not Be Mentioned (Unless You want To Frighten The Kids, Of Course!), so levity was strictly off the menu when we departed. And yet, even then, The Fart managed to get the old giggle-muscles in gear, quite unintentionally, might I add. As we leapt into The Dickmobile, there was a simultaneous exclamation of delight from the back seat. ?Ah! I wondered where it was!?

?What are you on about, Tel?? asked I, wearily.

?My bottle! It?s been with me all the way to America and back, and I?d thought I?d lost it!?

Blimey, it had been sitting on our back seat for nigh-on a fortnight! Time we cleaned inside that car, methinks!

Off to The Shrine first, and to pick up tickets for both Stoke and Crewe ? ?Three and an Old Fart, please, luv!? - then out into the wilds of Forge Lane to pick up the Newton Road, through the outskirts of Sutton, and to the nearby A38. And, as the Dickmobile thundered through Shenstone, what did we espy? Yep, both proud and loud, not one, but TWO Albion flags all a-flutter in the stiffish breeze. Well done, Tim, of Sutton SC branch. Does this mean we can now call you ?Two Flags Tim? at meetings?

Today was also a red-letter day for a totally-different reason; the nosh available in The Dickmobile has improved somewhat. Normally, our Catering Department (that?s The Fart to you or I!) lays on a copious supply of sweets for these trips, but today was different. As well as our normal toothsome selection, we were also treated to biccies, with strawberry flavour filling, no less! Blimey, if we do manage to go ?the whole way? come the end of term, will we be getting prawn sarnies by way of celebration as well? Dot? DOT?

Onward, ever onward, and to our Derby rendezvous spot with The Noise; well, I tell a white lie, there, today, what we got was a distinctly ?Noiseless? Noise, if you get my drift. Apparently, the entire Lewis household has been hit by some virulent pathogen or another over the past week or so, which was the main reason I was threatening our tame Stokie with dire retribution should his viral particles get up close and personal with my nasal passages. As the Peak District began to unfold before us, our resident ?in-car entertainment system? also took the opportunity of explaining to me why I had so much difficulty in talking to him last night on the phone.

The problem, you see, is Mart?s youngest daughter, Bethany. Despite being a lady of tender years (seven!), she has already evolved an interesting method of taking phone messages. Any one who calls, irrespective of who they are, Bethany enquires, ?Who are you??, then, in her anxiety to pass the message on, slams the phone down on the receiver, thereby completely cutting off the caller! This means Dad then has to either cross his fingers and hope that person will ring again (that?s what I did in the end, last night!), or he has to make use of the 1471 facility and hope they haven?t withheld the number! Mind you, I haven?t quite mustered enough courage to do what my beloved did one night; when Bethany asked ?Im Indoors who it was, he told her, ?Rasputin?! According to The Noise, it was several minutes before the frightened child was in any fit state to conduct normal family business once more!

As The Noise was explaining all this, a wicked thought began to form in the innermost cavities of my other half?s mind. As she has such a God-given talent for ensuring potential callers never get to speak to the person they actually want, in a few year?s time, wouldn?t it be spiffing to find her some work experience manning the phones during local radio football phone-in shows? Ooh, scratch yer eyes out, yer bitch!

The M1 motorway behaving itself for once, it wasn?t too long before we finally entered the City Of Sheffield with a screech of brakes, and a hearty ?Hi-Ho Silver!? Indeed, as we passed the main railway station, all we could see was a phalanx of riot-helmeted and shielded coppers standing around The Howard pub protecting the good burghers of the borough from the supposedly brutal and licentious Baggie-Boys. But, of watering holes where alcoholic refreshment was for sale, there was nary a whisper within a mile of the ground. Surprising, as for the past 8 seasons, we?d patronised The Golden Lion, and been made very welcome indeed, but on this occasion, there was a burly-looking goon stationed outside, and a large notice proclaiming ?HOME SUPPORTERS ONLY? in one of the windows. And, as it turned out, that was the story with all the pubs in the district. Clearly, the law had strong reservations about letting Black Country folk even get as much as a sniff of the old falling-down water this time round. Thanks, Warnock, that?s another one down to you and your lunatic ideas two years ago. And we were the victims here, remember?

Still, the plods hadn?t closed down any of the cafes in the vicinity, so cappuccinos and loads of toast all round it was. And, as we sat munching contentedly away, another thought suddenly stuck me; right now, on the motorway, there were about 24 coach-loads of Baggies heading this way, and pretty soon, they?d arrive at the ground, and discover there were no hostelries willing to take them. Which meant, in its turn, that pretty soon, there would be approximately 1,200 thirsty Baggie-people roaming around that city centre, a prospect that wasn?t exactly conducive towards good order and discipline, was it? Yet another thing we could blame bloody Warnock for. And, as we exited the caf?, another thought. I wondered what ?better ?ole? our friends the ?Drinking Family? had fled to. Ideas, anyone?

Down to the ground once more, and as we went to take up positions adjacent to the away end, we spotted the team coach sailing by, and about to disgorge its occupants into the maw of the stadium proper. Eddie, the lad who accompanied us down the hill (he used to go out with my niece!), reckoned he?d seen the bus going round the nearby traffic island once before. Muttered another aggrieved Baggie soul, ?Perhaps they?re looking for somewhere to cowin? drink as well??

Once settled in our customary berth adjacent to the hot-dog stall on the corner, both Im Indoors and I began selling operations. The Noise and The Fart had a piece of the action right outside the away turnstiles, the idea being they?d mop up what custom we couldn?t readily grab for ourselves. And, around ten or so minutes later, the first batch of coaches pulled up nearby. Batch? Yep, you read it right; so large were our numbers, the cops decided to escort our transport in groups of around five coaches at a time, which, I do concede, did lessen the strain on the bobbies and stewards, not to mention us poor Dick-floggers! Mind you, any exercise at all was welcome; although a hazy sort of sunlight filtered through the clouds, the wind was stiffish, and the temperature remained a frigid four degrees Centigrade, which is about the optimum temperature of the average domestic fridge.

Not long after that, our little mate Anc rolled up, hotfoot with much rumour and gossip. Had things ?kicked off? while we?d been selling? Nope, we said, we?d been there since about 1.15, and there was more life in a bottle of pop than in this lot. Rumour was a powerful thing, n?est ce pas? ?Oh?, said our bijoux friend, then launched into the deliciously-funny tale of how ?Finbarr?.Saunders, he of this site and ?Boing? Football Team regular, ended up wearing the stripey Warnock leper?s cloak! They?d played a game against their Sheffield opposite numbers that morning (sorry, folks, they lost 4-2) but only 7 of the home side actually turned up (not unusual for any Sheffield United side, really!), which meant ?borrowing? from the Baggie-lads, Finn being one of the ?loanees?. This left the pair of us speculating feverishly as to whether or not the missing four had tried to better their professional counterparts of 2 years ago by being red-carded before they?d even kicked off!

Oh, and it?s confession time, folks. As many, many of you so helpfully pointed out before kick-off, yes, we dropped an almighty mullock with our travel directions for today?s game. No, we didn?t really intend readers to get to Sheffield via the M6, the M1 was quite adequate, thank you very much. Being the proof-reader, ?Im Indoors blamed me, but I quite reasonably pointed out I never bothered checking those pages as being a driver, he?d know the routes off by heart! Personally, I blame our rather dim tabby cat, Tigger, who was entrusted with the task of checking those routes, but got distracted by a passing mouse. Waving a white flag.

Flogging finished, we went to enter the round, and a slight bit of confusion. A couple of stewards clapped eyes on my little portable stool and descended upon me in droves. There was I about to embark on a tedious series of explanations as to why I needed to take the thing through the turnstiles with me ? but all they wanted to do was make sure I was OK to climb the stairs. What lovely folkies, and what a contrast to the awful treatment I got at Stamford Bridge last season. Once inside, up into the ?gods?, and quite near the front, as well. Below was a distinctly Subbuteo-like vista spread before me; minute players moving around very much like that well-known game, or a manager?s magnetic board for working out tactics, even.

And there was the atmosphere, of course. More highly-charged than an overhead power-line, and one where you?d most certainly need a bloody good machete to carve your way through it. Never mind the League, this was definitely Cup-tie or play-off stuff, powerful, pulsating, the raw emotion crackling like electricity around both sets of supporters. Given the recent history of this fixture, it was hardly surprising that both the United and Albion factions wanted a result today; our lot because of what happened last time round, plus the fact everyone harboured a distinct hatred for Neil Warnock and all who sailed in him, theirs because according to their twisted logic, AJ was one of those to blame for the sendings-off last time, but more importantly, they needed the points badly. Losing three on the bounce hadn?t been much fun for them, hence their eagerness to put one over on us today.

If ever there was a game that needed a firm, strong referee, who brooked no nonsense from either side, this was it; instead, we were lumbered with a certain Mr. M. Jones, of Cheshire. Of one thing we quickly became sure, the guy was almost certainly a ?homer?; time and time again, United laid on acting displays that would have won the perpetrators plaudits from the critics, and on every occasion, the gullible Mr. Jones was well and truly suckered into giving decisions to the home side. Infuriating? Not the half of it. Stick around, there?s more of that to come.

Our team selection, surprisingly enough, was set up for a 4-4-2 type formation. In from the cold were N?Dour, Koumas and AJ; in fact the third of these was roundly booed because of the existing bad blood between the two sides. Oh, and just for being a Wednesday-ite, poor Pressman copped for a dose as well! God alone knows what sort of a reception you?d get from that lot for having done something really serious, like torch someone?s house, or run off with their missus! A public lynching, courtesy of a handy crossbar?

Because of the aforementioned bizarre refereeing decisions, the pressure was well and truly on us at first, but then we began to worm our way back into it, both The Horse and Clem coming close with their early efforts. The main problem was, Sheffield were passing the ball far better than us, which meant that nasty little piece of detritus, Peschisolido, buzzing around our box far more than was strictly good for our health and temper. Interesting, though, were the chants emanating from some of our bolder spirits, and concerning the alleged extra-curricular activities of Mr. P?s beloved; totally libellous, of course, so perhaps it?s better I concern myself with other matters, and quickly!

At the other end, Hughsie was absolutely running his little legs off for the cause. On one occasion, he set Scouse Jase free; the guy then ran straight at United, evading several of their more unorthodox ?stopping? methods by a country mile, only to see the effort foiled by the timely attentions of a United player just as he was about to pull the trigger. On another, for reasons best known to themselves, their defence took a ringside seat as our former roofer swiped the ball of one of theirs, which left the lad in a superb scoring position right on the edge of the box. Across the face of goal went the shot, but the angle was a little too narrow, so United breathed again. And just to make sure the home side had digested the lesson, the cheeky chappie almost repeated the feat, but once more, the angle of the shot defeated him. As the interval approached, the somewhat ?robust? happenings on the field suddenly triggered a memory of an altogether different kind. Remember when you were a small kid, and you watched Doctor Who on the box? The terror of hiding behind the sofa as the nasty monsters attempted to do their worst to the good time-travellers; that, coupled with the sickening realisation that despite everything, you simply had to watch it to see how it all ended, no matter what? That?s today in a nutshell. No wonder that first 45 went so quickly.

Half-time, then, and it was a case of ?so far, so good?. And, as we turned our attention to the doings of other Nationwide outfits in with a chance, a whiff of scandal from The Fart, of all people! As is his wont on these occasions, El Tel had his tranny tuned to the local radio station, and according to their commentators, when both teams headed for the tunnel come the break, both Meggo and Warnock were seen to be having what might be coyly termed ?a heated difference of opinion? within its gloomy depths! On hearing the news, I immediately prayed the ref hadn?t seen it. Why? Simple, if he witnessed what went on, he?d have no alternative but to submit a report to the FA, which would probably mean the pair of ?em banished to the stands for a while. I?ve no problem with that happening per se, it?s just the thought of our manager being in such close proximity to my seat for several games! It happened around three seasons ago, and my eardrums have never been the same since. Once heard close to, never forgotten, believe you me! Another disappointment? Unlike last time, the National Blood Transfusion Service hadn?t sponsored the game, sadly. Well, I ask you; in view of what happened two seasons ago, a more suitable sponsor you couldn?t hope to meet!

Another snatch of conversation: ?Im Indoors, mischievously, to me: ?Would you fancy a play-off game here??

Me: ?No! No! BLOODY NO!?

Back to the game once more, and a rapid return to our previous nerve-jangled state. If anything, the intensity of that emotionally-charged atmosphere had managed to ratchet up a notch or two extra; the referee had impressed me very little that first period, and neither had one of his linesmen, who seemed to have an incredibly-hazy idea of what constituted offside, and what did not. I could see the whole pot boiling over and the lid coming off big-time; all it needed was a suitable catalyst, and given the man in black?s total inability to squash any first-half shenanigans dead flat, I severely doubted as to whether he?d be able to maintain sufficient control should that happen again. To be fair, things did start off quite well for us; Hughsie managed to rattle off yet another close one, and while Pesch was still making a thorough nuisance of himself at the other end, we seemed to have contained his nonsense for the moment.

And, talking of ?moments?, this is the one where our rearguard indulged in a ?Condor-type? all of their own. No, perhaps I?m being a trifle harsh, here; I don?t mind it one bit when we concede ?fair and square? but what happened in the 55th minute was neither ?fair? nor ?square?. First of all Murphy was impeded as he tried to wrest the ball from the charging Blades, then, as the ball ballooned towards the edge of the box, it was quite clearly ?handled? by a lurking United player. The referee, seemingly quite oblivious to all this, let play carry on, the ball ended up back in our box once more, Big Dave desperately tried to clear, but only succeeded in putting it into the back of his own net instead. ?If that was legal, then I?m a banana!? said I, with considerable disgust.

That strike was the signal for rejoicing among the home crowd more in line with that of Herr Hitler and mates after France had finally gone west. Not surprising, really, but what made it hurt all the more was the fact they?d put one across the referee to do so. Following our setback, we tried a double subbing; off went Kinsella and N?Dour, and on came Volmer and Greegs. Not long after that, Facey came on for Hughes, and there was much fury in our ranks. Hughsie had run himself into the ground for the cause, and with his withdrawal went our only hope of pulling one back. Or so we thought, but our finest had other ideas. Shifting to a 3-5-2, we began to run at them for once, and they didn?t like it one little bit. Suddenly, it was them on the back-pedal and looking all at sea, defensively speaking, and in the 72nd, revenge was ours. Appropriately enough, our saviour was Big Dave; who nutted the ball in following a Scouse Jase corner ? and once the ref pointed to the centre circle, the entire away end went absolutely bananas.

That equaliser gave us all the impetus and motivation we needed; suddenly, United were looking a very worried side indeed, and Facey took the opportunity to prove his worth in the best possible way, by knocking the ball from the line and to AJ. Unfortunately, Mr. Facey didn?t know his man, but we did; no surprise to us to see the thing sail harmlessly over the bar! And Facey had a hand in the winner, also. Fouled when at full-tilt, the ref awarded the free-kick. Over went the ball into the box, and from then in, it was difficult to discern quite what did happen; all I know is that first one Baggie had a go, only to see it come back into the melee again. Cue for Thomas Gaardsoe, lurking with intent around the six-yard area. The ball came to him, and from almost point-blank range, he sent the bouncy thing running home to its mummy ? and once more, the away end exploded in a mind-blowing welter of unbounded joy. I?ve no idea who the bloke was sitting in front of me, but somehow, we both ended up tangled in a lovers? embrace. Not that ?Im Indoors could complain much; suddenly, he and The Noise were doing things to one another that might have aroused the unwelcome attentions of the Vice Squad in less-enlightened times! All that, and swiftly followed by every single person in that end embarking on a mass ?Boing!? Plus a few chorused and well-intentioned ?words of advice? for Mr. Warnock, of course. United 1 Albion 2, and only about 5 minutes left on the clock!

From then on in, one nasty-looking United attack apart, that ball never left the vicinity of the United corner-flag. Our final triumph was the sight of some very disgruntled Blades indeed leaving the party slightly early. Also, The Noise yelling, in tones that would have shattered glass in nearby Leeds, ?Kick it ANYWHERE, but whatever you do, DON?T LOSE IT!? I think I knew what he meant! Ish. And, not long afterwards, that welcome referee?s whistle, closely followed by the sight of our clearly-knackered finest tramping the whole length of the pitch to salute our vocal efforts. Also, a delighted Hughsie, grinning manically from ear to ear, rushing onto the pitch like forked lightning on castors to share in the frivolities. And rightly so; although not on the scoresheet himself, his hard work, his running paved the way for others to finish what he?d started. And, as the other results filtered through, it swiftly became clear we?d done ourselves a power of good with that win; only three points behind Norwich, now, and a rather large gap developing just below us.

A triumphal return to the streets, then; once out of the exit, into what had to be the biggest collection of riot-helmeted plods in creation. As we turned into the side-street to head for The Dickmobile, we could see one or two of the locals hanging around on the off-chance. Just as well, then, there suddenly appeared, from out of the twilight gloom, the biggest copper, I?ve ever seen in my entire life. ?I?m sticking with him, I am!? said The Noise. Not a bad idea, really; the guy made Big Dave look anorexic!

And yes, before you all ask, we did play ?Radio Ga Ga? on the way back, and with considerably more feeling than we had for a long time. What a game, and what a bloody day. Great to be a Baggie? Too bloody right, mate. Rotherham? Norwich? Bring ?em on!

And finally?. Only A Dingle, Number 16,046 (and counting!) In tonight?s E and S, the story of a Wolverhampton lad who, when invited to the cop shop to identify some stuff that had been nicked from him, unbelievably decided to half-inch a couple of gold rings for himself when the constabulary back was turned for an instant!

Number 16,047 (and still counting!) What about the bozo who, when consigned to the cells at Wolverhampton Police Station on another matter, decided to relieve the tedium by lighting up a big fat joint? Doh!

 - Glynis Wright

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