The Diary

24 February 2004: A Leyland Tryst With The Trotters!

Greetings to Baggie-lovers everywhere, and this missive comes to you not long hot-foot straight off the M6, after watching our second-string play their Bolton Wanderers counterparts at Leyland. Yes, I can hear cries everywhere of ?Doo wot??, but let me assure you, I?m not even the slightest bit geographically embarrassed. Think of it this way; with a name like ?Wanderers? they have to be nomadic, don?t they? According to GD subscriber and Bolton programme seller Ruth Crenshaw (honest!) their current reserve-fixtures home is the sixth in about 7 seasons; in previous second-string campaigns, they?ve been based at Burnden Park, The Reebok, of course, Gigg Lane (we went there for last year?s corresponding fixture), Spotland (Rochdale?s place, believe it or not), and Leigh RMI. Next term, they?re striking their tents quietly in the night yet again (is this really a ?moonlight flit? to avoid paying rent arrears, or something?), and moving to yet another ?better ?ole?, in this case, Warrington Rugby ground.

Perhaps I should explain precisely where tonight?s game took place. The venue was none other than the Lancashire County FA?s ground, which sits contentedly right next to the Commercial Vehicles Museum, which, it being Leyland, shouldn?t surprise the old farts among you that much. Actually, when we parked up and realised just how closely the two bodies were situated, we almost wished we?d known beforehand, as ?Im Indoors is a real sucker for looking at vintage trucks, etc. Never mind, in lieu of an opportunity of examining our rich commercial transport heritage at close quarters, we had to make do with the parsimonious company of Steve Carr, The Meanest Man In West Bromwich, who, on the outward journey, had an interesting tale to tell.

As some of you might know, our stingy treasurer is very partial to visiting obscure non-League grounds in his spare time, and come the weekend of the 19th and 20th of March, he?s participating in a football-fest which should be a ground-hopper?s wet dream. That weekend, he?s going to be attending no less than five games in one day! How come? Easy: it?s all being done under the auspices of the Central Midlands League, and the whole shebang goes off at one of those places where there are a fair number of pitches in close proximity (a few hundred yards, so Steve told me) to each other. Just to be extra nice to all the anoraks attending, all the relevant kick-off times have been suitably-staggered by the league. As I see it, five games means 7.5 hours of football. Chuck in all the half-time intervals, plus injury time, and you?re looking at around 8 hours 15 minutes watching the beautiful game! Such dedication to the cause must deserve something, but I can?t as yet come up with an appropriate reward for our treasurer?s efforts ? unless it involves a trip to the nearest psychiatric unit, and some really powerful sedating medication!

Still, it all served to make the time go by as we tootled swiftly up the M6, and into Lancashire. Making pretty good time, we took the Leyland turn-off around a quarter to six in the evening, and found ourselves right outside FA HQ in a trice, just as dusk descended upon the area. And that?s when our little tale began to leave reality right behind in the slow lane, thereby making room for the scriptwriters of Monty Python?s Flying Circus to do their talented ?worst?. It all started when we asked a nearby steward where to get tickets for the game. (Yup, tickets, for a reserve fixture ? I told you this whole tale was a bit barmy!) Inside the main FA building, we were told, so, like good little Baggies, we headed in that direction. The main entrance was situated a little way up a short flight of steps, so ascending those, we then came to a set of double doors. Locked. But there was a little old lady sitting at a desk and doing things just inside, so we assumed she was the lady with the goods in question, and finally managed to attract her attention. Out she came, finally, and we explained our wants to her.

Unfortunately for us, whatever her role was didn?t include the sale of tickets in the job description. ?The. Counter. There.? she told us in tones that brooked no nonsense from anyone, so turning towards the place where her thorny index finger was pointing, we did see a little counter complete with a diddy little Perspex hole to hand over the money ? but there was no-one there. There was a little notice inviting prospective purchasers to ?ring the bell?, however, so we did, and after a couple of minutes, someone finally showed up. ?Im Indoors then handed over the necessary dosh (?4 to sit down, and trust Steve to go for the ?1 cheaper terrace option!), and, by way of return, we were handed tickets that must have been designed for the benefit of chronic myopia sufferers with additional neurological problems involving loss of sensation in the fingers, because they were bloody huge. Both the tickets and the size of the print-font on the front!

Clutching our precious but oversized bits of paper, we went in search of the way into the ground; almost as if by appointment, we then encountered a fluorescent-jacketed steward guarding what seemed to be a quite promising gap in a metal fence surrounding the place. Flashing our huge billets doux straight in front of his ample but rubicund nose, we tried to interest him in giving us access to the delights within, but nope ? apparently, we had to use the turnstile instead, about 20 yards further down. Off we toddled once more, arrived at the designated portal, only to discover there was no-one there. There was, however, sufficient space to slip between the stile and the wall, so we did! Once inside the place, and now in search of the bar, we retraced our steps until we were level with the original gap in the fence ? only to discover that the guy who sent us to the turnstile in the first place had buggered off as well: I told you it was that sort of night. And, just to add yet another surreal touch to the whole thing, as we ascended the staircase to the bar proper, I noticed someone had left a pair of green wellies put out on one of the landings, as if for cleaning!

On entering the bar, we quickly discovered that even the lay-out of the furniture inside had more than a touch of the ?quirky? about it. As if in a classroom, long tables were set out in neat rows, but with office-type seats provided on either side for punters to sit on. The serving area was at one end; at the other was yet another door, which I discovered later led to a refreshment area for club scouts and other dignitaries, and also the ?conveniences?. The right hand side of the room faced directly onto the pitch (annoyingly, the main stand was on the far side), and was amply supplied with large windows, which could be opened if necessary, and which provided an excellent view of the whole playing area. Had we wanted to, we could have used it as a cheapo version of an executive box. Lucky I didn?t tell Steve, though; he?ll jump at even the slightest hint of anything going buckshee, or close to that happy state of affairs.

While I pondered on the view outside and caught up with my notes for this column, my other half sorted out the drinks, a pint for him and Steve, and a Coke for me. Once back, we started nattering, and not long after that heard our manager had also decided to take in this fixture; apparently, his car was parked right next to that of John Homer, of Supporters? Club fame. And, not two minutes after we?d been earnestly debating this somewhat startling turn up for the books, who should appear, but?..? Yep, you?ve guessed it, black coat, gingery balding bonce, with a rather fetching bright red scarf around his neck, framed in the doorway in best ?Western Baddie? style, and giving us both his trademark Withering Stare. As I said to Steve afterwards, now I know what it feels like to be a particularly troublesome microbe stuck on a microscope slide, and being scrutinised intently by some scientist or another! At least all I got were filthy looks; it could have been far worse, I suppose.

Drinks consumed, bogs visited, we then headed on out for the ground proper. Incidentally, those green wellies I mentioned earlier had now mysteriously vanished into thin air; surely the locals couldn?t be all that desperate, could they? As we made our way behind the goal, the strains of The Beatles ?Hard Day?s Night? single drifted across the icy pitch from our ultimate resting-spot, the main stand. And, after that, yet another Beatles track. And another. Were they just not able to afford a more varied selection, or was it because the person in charge of the play-list was an unashamed Beatles nut? I never did get an answer to that one, but the fact we also heard stuff from the same album at half-time spoke volumes, even if the overall sound-level didn?t.

When we finally reached our destination, it was rather uplifting to see we weren?t the only Baggie people there. Mike Thomas and his good lady Linda were there, of course; when was the last time those two missed an Albion game, I wonder? Also there was Dave Baxendale and his young son, who has the most outrageous ginger bonce I?ve ever clapped eyes on in my whole life. Er ? surely not? There were a couple of other Albion supporters present; in total, I reckon our contingent numbered about nine, which, out of a total attendance of around 78, wasn?t bad at all.

If you wanted to be malicious, I suppose you could say the Bolton portion of the crowd reflected the distinct lack of interest more normally shown towards Bolton Wanderers games in that area. Certainly the club were recently caught rather short by what happened when their League Cup Final tickets were distributed to their faithful. It ought to have been quite a straightforward exercise, really; Bolton were given 30,000 Cardiff tickets by the League, they currently have around 19,000 season-ticket holders. Unfortunately, all the first-comers were allowed to have two each, and you don?t exactly need an O level in maths to work out what happened next, do you? As you might expect, around 3,000 season-ticket holders were disappointed, and the reverberations of that almighty cock-up are still echoing around the town right now! To be fair, as their home gates rarely exceed 20,000, and the attendance for the semi-final versus Villa was only around 15,000, perhaps The Trotters simply assumed the demand wouldn?t be there. Whoops!

Back to the game, then, and I must say my first sight of the team-sheet had me in fits. Aw, come on, when the opposition have blokes with names like Ricky Shakes, Charlie Comyn-Platt, Reda Kribib, Ricardo Vaz-Te, Dwight Pezzarossi, and Duong Thach on their books, you really have to try hard not to allow some pretty hefty sniggers get the better of you. My spell-checker is waving a white flag at me right now! Even the Bolton bench got in on the act; they had presumably Vitamin D deficient Donovan Ricketts waiting in the wings, and no, he wasn?t bandy legged at all ? at least he wasn?t when I looked!

Unfortunately for our cause, we didn?t get off to what might be described as a red-hot start; with only two minutes on the clock, we managed to concede. How did it happen? As I saw it, both Pressman and a Bolton player went for the same ball, and Our Kev lost possession of the thing. I thought he?d been fouled, but Steve, who was stood right behind the goal at that time, says our keeper simply cocked up big-time under pressure. Anyway, the ball ran loose straight to the attacker, and all he had to do was tap it into the back of the net with the greatest of ease. Somehow, I don?t think that was in the script, given Bolton?s poor record in the Premier Reserve League, and the relative strength of our side, which included such luminaries as Sakiri, Chambo, Rob Hulse, Skoubo, and Lloyd Dyer. Plus Pressman, of course. Any road up, Bolton tried to get a second, but we managed to keep them out quite successfully, and had a couple of half-chances ourselves, successfully dealt with by their keeper, who looked around seven feet tall. Not exactly a classic in the strict definition of the word, so we were pretty glad to hear the half-time whistle, but just before that, quite a telling-off for my other half, from one of the stewards there. All ?Im Indoors was doing was resting his foot on the seat in front, but along came ?Jobsworth?, who quickly made him move his errant plates of meat forthwith.

During the interval, my ?significant other? decided to visit the facilities once more; on his way back, he bumped into yet another steward, who apologised for his colleague?s over-zealous behaviour, and added by way of a parting shot, ?Don?t worry, he?s f****d off to the other side, now!? And he had. On with the second 45, then, with around 12 minutes gone, new-boy Skoubo restored parity once more. The goal came from a lovely header, but as far as I could see, Bolton must have left their markers back in the city, because there was nary a Trotter to be seen within kicking-distance when our tame Dane rose to meet the flying bladder.

After that, we did have our chances to take the lead ourselves, but a combination of a resolute Bolton defence and that bloody bean pole of a keeper managed to keep the scores level, which is how the whole thing finished come the expiry of the allotted span. A straightforward getaway from the car-park nearby, a quiet sort of run back down the M6, and we were home by 10.30 (the game kicked off around seven). That draw now makes our stiffs four games unbeaten, which isn?t bad at all; I wonder what The Soup Dragon made of it all?

And finally?. On the way back, I called The Noise to let him know the score ? but first, I decided to have a little fun by telling him we?d won, played absolutely brilliantly ? and that Rob Hulse had scored a hat-trick! ?I don?t believe it,? said Stoke?s walking impersonation of Patrick Moore high on amphetamines.

?And you jolly well shouldn?t!? said I, unable to keep up the dissimulation any longer, ?Because I?m telling you a pack of bloody lies!? Funny, I didn?t know Martin had words like that in his vocabulary! Will I be getting a Christmas card from the Lewis household this year? Watch this space.

 - Glynis Wright

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