The Diary

19 December 2004: They Shoot Purses, Don't They?

Words taken from ?Losing My Religion?, by REM, ?Out Of Time? album, 1991.

"Life membership of the Voluntary Euthanasia Society,anyone?" The Noise, at St. Andrews, during the middle of the second half today.

Ever get the feeling they tried to tell us a crock of gold lay at the end of the Premiership rainbow, but all we got instead was a crock of s**t? How can I describe what happened in lucid terms to people who weren?t at St. Andrews? Just how many variations on the word ?s**t? do you want? OK, I might as well get it over with; just note this lot down, then use each one to fill in the blanks as you see fit. Ready? Right, then, here goes: detritus; ordure; waste-matter; excreta; dung; stool; droppings. And, by way of a finale, elimination. Feel free to insert these anywhere you like in this article; I guess no-one will mind that much, especially those who actually witnessed what happened this afternoon.

One thing was certain ? and I take no pleasure in saying this ? my prediction yesterday of an embarrassment was absolutely spot-on. The scoreline I had in mind was something in the order of 3-1 to Blues, but, as it transpired, Albion totally surpassed even my worst expectations. It takes a certain kind of horrible genius to let this division?s most inept goalscorers nab a tasty four on their own patch, without reply, and us more or less waving a white flag at them right from the kick-off. Horrible, truly horrible ? something tells me I?m going to get flashbacks of this for many years to come.

Just what the hell did Robbo think he was trying to achieve, deciding to leave out of the starting eleven a bloke who is our highest scorer, and by a country mile, as well? Surely The Horse would have been a better option than bloody Kanu? Not only is he an expert at winning high balls, and/or holding the ball up, he would have been playing on his old patch, and seeking to impress his former admirers. Conversely, will someone please explain to me why the hell Kanu still gets the managerial nod week in, week out, when it?s becoming increasingly clear to everyone this man is a luxury we simply can?t afford? Is there a clause written somewhere in his contract that states we have no choice but to give him a game, irrespective of previous form and current performance? I?m increasingly beginning to suspect that?s indeed the case ? why else persist with the guy, and his many shortcomings? Sure, I know the ?official? ? how I hate that word ? explanation was that we needed to defend in depth and try to get them on the break, hence that particular choice of player, and only he up front, but we could se it simply wasn?t working long before the third went in. Absolutely indefensible as far as I?m concerned.

As for Bernt Hass and Darren Purse ? to be brutally honest, I wouldn?t pay either of ?em in washers after today. Purse was responsible, either directly or indirectly, for at least three of those Blues goals, and as for Hass, he couldn?t even pass water, never mind a bloody ball. Eventually, the penny did finally drop concerning Hass and his woeful performance, but as for bringing on Wallwork, then shifting Scimeca and Gaardsoe to primarily defensive duties, just what the hell was going on? There we were, chasing a game ? sure, it was looking an increasingly hopeless cause, being three down at the time, but remember West Ham at their place, last season? ? and we still opted for defence, rather than going all out to reduce the deficit. You know something? Once Blues got their third, what was happening to us out there very much put me in mind of one of our cats having caught a mouse. Aw, you know the sort of thing they do; once they?ve got the poor little blighter where they want him, they then torment the hapless beast for minutes on end, toss in it the air a couple of times, then finally tiring of their cruel little games, they then apply the coup de grace to the stricken rodent. Pretty much what happened today, in fact.

And it?s not just that: there?s also the eternal mystery of why Robson subbed the man most likely to provide some ammunition, be creative, make something happen ? Gera - to make way for the bloke most in need of his specialised services, Earnie? Tell you what, if it made sense to you, please let me know, then explain to me in words of one syllable precisely why it was done. Either that, or get Sherlock Holmes on the case. No wonder the change was greeted with loud cries of, ?YOU DON?T KNOW WHAT YOU?RE DOING!? from our travelling faithful. And why leave it until we were three down before even attempting to stop the rot?

The way it?s looking to me now is that any half-decent players wanting to make Albion their club during the forthcoming transfer window would be off their tiny little rockers to even contemplate doing so. By then we?ll be football?s equivalent of the Titanic ? sunk without trace, without even a smidgen of hope to help soften the blow. It?s because of that, I can?t see Jeremy Peace wanting to chuck huge quantities of good money after a lost cause, either. Whatever morsels we can snatch from the tables of more opulent clubs over the next month or so will be cast-offs, no more, no less ? it would be madness itself to effectively commit a class act to what was the First Division, and in any case, as I stated earlier, I doubt very severely whether they?d come at all with things as they are at the moment. Come to think about it, right now, most would just laugh like a drain at the mere mention of our name, and the hilarious but unlikely prospect of permanently shifting to the area.

I will say one thing about this whole stinking mess, though. Big Dave was sorely missed at the back; had he been at the heart of our defence today, instead of nursing some injury or another, I suspect it might not have been so porous as it eventually turned out to be. And, while we?re on the subject of defenders, just what use is Scimeca to the cause, precisely? I ask because as far as I could tell, he might as well have moved to the burger bar at the rear of the away end and flogged hot-dogs to the punters for the remainder of the full 90 minutes. I doubt every much that had he done so, he would have been greatly missed.

What a horrible day, and what a horrible performance; words completely eluded me, as they did The Noise, as we made the wearisome journey back from Small Heath to the leafy environs of Bearwood. Mind you, as I mentioned earlier, I had half expected something like that to happen, which is why I even greeted The Noise?s lengthy explanations of Wedgwood?s working practices like an old friend as we made our way towards Planet Bluenose, much earlier in the day. Not to mention his impending car upgrade ? his old one?s being written off after a recent prang, it would seem. Then, the sun was shining, the wind was cold, stiff even ? and a rendezvous with The Fart was in the offing. But first, a few pertinent words with one of the Zulu fanzine sellers, Keith, a son-in-law of one of their editors, Dave Small. What amazes me about this bloke is his constant cheerful disposition; nothing EVER seems to get the guy down, not even a sprinkling of choice insults from Baggies who ought to know better. No matter what the amount of verbal abuse or provocation hurled in his direction, that incredible grin?s still there, and as wide as Spaghetti Junction, as well. Just how does he get into that elevated condition, I wonder? Does he ingest huge quantities of some powerful mind-altering drug or another early in the morning, then down a bottle of strong spirits with it as a chaser? Whatever the reason, I sure as hell wish we had I him on our selling team, and not theirs!

Into the compound abutting the away end, then ? some braindead in an orange jacket refused point-blank to let us in at first; no other Albion punters at that early stage, you see ? but then he grudgingly relented and we were admitted to what was a pretty deserted coach parking area inside. A case, then, of simply waiting, like a virginal bride on her wedding-night, for the eventual return of her swain, in this case, The Fart, who was making his own way there, of course. And those away coaches of ours; quite a little convoy when it finally materialised, and quite expensive, too, at seven quid a pop for a journey of around six or so miles. I can only assume, the loading was because of the considerable ?embuggeration factor? for the operators, whose vehicles would be more or less out of action on what would normally be a busy day for them.

Finally The Fart did roll up, so it was all systems go on the flogging front. And time for me to grab a couple of piccies, the best of which were those illustrating the wildly eclectic tactical ploys used by the West Midlands? favourite constables; no less than 22 in that compound I counted, all on around ?20 quid an hour, and all on duty for at least four. And that?s not counting the stewards of which there seemed to be a multiplicity today, all of whom would also have to be paid. In the Premiership, not only do the home club have to pay for police ?services? both inside and out, they can charge clubs what the hell they want to for the dubious pleasure of having them there at all. As they say in the USA, ?go figure?. Not as if clubs have a choice, either; bleat about the cost, and refuse to use ?em, and there?s a very high risk of that club?s safety licence being rescinded, in which case, the whole shebang is then closed to the public. And guess who (in conjunction with the council) issues the safety licences in the first place? Yep ? a banana to the bloke in the red suit at the back.

But that?s all bye the bye. What really got my interest were the tactical formations our constabulary friends adopted out there. First off, we had a rozzer line-up that looked suspiciously like 4-4-2. Then, a swift change to 4-4-3 caught our eyes. With or without a flat back four, I wondered? As for the offside trap they employed, well?.. That was a tad too subtle for even our puny minds to appreciate. And then there was the defensive wall they constructed just outside the away turnstiles. Who was going to take the free-kick, I wondered. The Chief Constable? It struck me much later on that given such strong visual evidence our police force were so capable of marshalling their men in a far more competent manner than that of our manager, perhaps we ought to grab the services of our local Chief Superintendent to tighten up our defence the next time we?re at home?

There were a couple of giggle-making moments by way of compensation for what was to come, of course. Take the time one of our faithful spoke to The Fart apropos our chances of beating the drop: ?It?s not so much a case of the fat lady singing, she?s arranging a 28-day tour!? And then there was Deanno, organiser of many end-of-season away game theme parties in times of yore. And that?s precisely what the three of us were reminiscing about for quite some time, it has to be said. And yes ? during those dark Third Division days, we moaned, sure, but at least we had a barrowload of fun on the way, in complete and utter contrast to our present plight, it would seem.

And not long after the departure of Deanno, there was Dawn Astle, plus her little entourage of family and close relatives. (Incidentally, I did get to watch that 1968 DVD tonight, and, well? More of that later.) They were just making sure we were going to be there for the inauguration of the new East Midlands SC Branch next Tuesday night, actually; Laraine couldn?t be there today ? their dog?s not very well ? but she will be for our next fixture. Blimey, if there is an afterlife, then all I can assume is that The King was tearing his hair out Up There, what with having to watch that complete load of tripe afterwards, and everything. Oh, and another vagrant thought ? many thanks to the Baggie that shoved all those cough sweets in my sweet little mitt. Highly welcome, they were, as well.

But those were the few bright moments spent on a concrete compound that was rapidly beginning to assume all the hallmarks of a Depressives Anonymous meeting. Just about everyone I spoke to pre-match seemed to think we?d had it. Nice of some Baggies to say they relied upon us to dispel their gloom! What I want to know, though, is who?s going to lift our spirits when we?re down? It was around that time that we first began to hear vague rumours of today?s starting line-up: i.e. Gaardsoe back, also Koumas, but no Earnie. No wonder I went ?EEK!? the very moment The Noise spread the sad tidings in our direction; so loudly, in fact, several of the hovering bobbies actually turned around to see what was up!

And packing up and going inside to take our punishment, finally, wasn?t exactly conducive towards improving morale; just like us, Blues have installed illuminated movie adverts, and today?s proclaimed the imminent coming to Brum of ?Predator Versus Terminator?. Not so remarkable in itself, you might think, but what really tickled my warped sense of humour was the accompanying strap-line, in slightly smaller font: ?WHOEVER WINS, WE LOSE!? Yeah, right ? soooo direct, guys, and, wow, what subtlety, as well! Before that, though, came the comedic interlude ? and at this ground in particular, there always has to be one. This time, Blues? stewards were firmly seated in the casting role, or, to be more accurate the female that was deployed to search little old me, to the degree of embarrassment, almost. ?Yeah, OK,? said I, ?I?m 52 years of age, and I?m going to chuck something at the players, or start a fight, at my age?? Oh well, at least my feeble attempt at humour did get a giggle from a male colleague standing in fairly close proximity to myself ? quite right, too.

As we?d expected, The Municipal Dump hadn?t changed a bit since we last set foot within its confines, some two years ago. Same old pre-match music, Harry Lauder, bless his kilted and whiskified Highland soul, and Mister Blue Sky, as performed by ELO during the late seventies. A shame, that, as I really used to enjoy listening to their stuff ? trouble is, ever since Blues adopted the song as a pre-match crowd-warmer, I?ve developed a distinct aversion to their music, more?s the pity. After today?s nonsense, I can only assume that my negative thoughts about the Birmingham rock group have been greatly reinforced as a result of what happened out there on the pitch. And, just before the whole debacle began, another thought. Considering the large number of Blues shares The Fart has in his possession, still, shouldn?t he have been sitting in the home end? Ooh, there?s nothing quite like a crafty bit of ?stirring?, is there?

As for the ambience, the atmosphere, the noise, the colour, at what was, on paper, at least, promising to be quite a local derby ? er, what atmosphere, what ambience? Even our chanting bore more resemblance to that of a funeral dirge. You?d have found far more pazzaz in the crypt of a local church, by my reckoning. Either that, or in the intensive care unit of nearby East Birmingham Hospital. And, as both sets of combatants emerged from the innards of the tunnel, the gut feeling we were going to get thrashed increased tenfold, hundredfold, even. As it was, irrespective of what was happening on the pitch, off it, both sets of supporters struck up with a chorus of ?Shit On The Villa!? the sentiments of which were roundly applauded by followers of both sides! Blimey, just knowing you were so universally hated would give ?em a complex ? with a bit of luck, of course.

And that?s when everything started to go pear-shaped, of course. Mind you, some might say the mere fact we all turned up for this one resulted in approximately the same outcome, but there you are. With just a couple of minutes played, Blues had quite a reasonable penalty shout turned down ? the incident, involving our old mucker Bernt Hass, occurred at ?our? end of the pitch, incidentally, so no distortions of view involved ? but much to the fury of the home lot, the ref turned it down. Shame, then, having had such a remarkable let-off, we then went and did the same thing again, in the space of just 60 seconds after the first incident.

This time, the culprit was Mr. Purse, who, for reasons best known to himself, decided Morrison needed a much closer look at the green swarth of lush grass growing in Albion?s box. The Noise seemed to think the second was slightly more dubious than the first ? his theory was the ref awarded it to make up for his goofing off on the first ? but there could only be one outcome from that sort of daft transgression. One-nil to Blues, and our away end positively seethed with anger. Not at the decision, which was bang to rights, but at the stupid idiot that had allowed such a thing to happen, and only seconds after that first incident, and an undeservedly-lucky let-off. Yes, YOU, Mister Purse.

About ten minutes into the whole farce came pretty much the only chance we got to equalise. The handiwork was that of Gera, and the shot hit their crossbar; that, so help me God, was just about the only decent chance we had the whole game.

Move the whole thing along several minutes more, and after Gera?s abortive attempt to restore parity, our incursions on their patch were becoming more and more sparse. And, during a break in play, the Noise suddenly tapped me on the shoulder, and announced, in tones that truly belonged to the tomb: ?You do realise we could drop TWO divisions, like Man City!? AAAAARGH! Mind you, for the most part, my emotions failed to boil over; what was happening out there was what I?d expected to take place ? so why get worked up about it?

There was even time to reflect, and marvel upon, the noise being made by a group of lads sitting quite near us; English teachers, please note ? and I?m not kidding, either ? their dextrous usage of the word f*** was totally amazing. Not only was it greatly employed as a noun by these people, it also came in handy as an adjective, not to mention a verb, with (probably) even more parts of speech chucked into the mix as well. Example? ?For f***?s sake, close the f***ing f***er down, will you? F*** me!? All that, plus a goodly sprinkling of ?w****rs?, and ?c**ts, just to make things even more interesting! Blimey, I never thought the English language ? the coarse, bits, anyway! - could be such a treasure-trove of undiscovered literal gems!

Not that my sense of discovery was to last; not long afterwards, the second one went in. This time, the damage done was courtesy Clinton Morrison who, left occupying enough space to stick a municipal dustcart in it, simply had only Houlty to beat to claim his prize. Unsurprisingly, the black was duly potted, no worries. And, just minutes after the second, in went the third. This time, Heskey was the perpetrator of the damage, and was put through with a lovely ball from one of his colleagues. The result, as you might expect, was a shoo-in. Three down, and most certainly out. Choruses of ?We?ll Meet Again? from the Bluenose songsters. Now where did I put all those brown paper bags with holes in for the eyes?

Off our lot went for the interval, then, and, not surprisingly, to a ragged chorus of boos from our end of the park. As far as our opponents were concerned, it was Christmas, New Year and Easter rolled into one for them; for us, it was a bit like going to sleep in 2004, then waking up back in the Saunders or Burkinshaw eras. Yes, it really was as bad as that. Something else that caught my eye during the interval was the insert in the Blues programme. ?High blood pressure affects one in three adults!? it proclaimed. ?Yes, and I bet most of them are in our away end right now!? was my unspoken thought on the very same subject. Mind you, what their announcer said when it was time for both sides to emerge from the tunnel ? ?You?ve got 45 more minutes of entertainment!?- really cracked me up. I wonder why the bloke?s thoughts were greeted with such awful howls of derision from our lot?

As for the rest, those awful subbings, our complete lack of initiative in the box and all in the face of a Blues side that seemed to switch off for most of the second portion, well, you?ve seen those opening comments of mine already. Suffice it to say that right then, I could have once more done with a hefty dose indeed of the stuff the hospital shot into my veins immediately prior to my recent op, had me wearing a very silly grin, it did ? or, better still, the stuff they completely knocked me out with not long afterwards! Failing that, all I had at hand was The Noise?s voice to render me comatose, which was a pretty decent option in the Dickmobile, but what with our verbose chum?s greatly-increased ire at what he was watching out there, would have been totally impractical in that setting.

Mind you, the reaction of my other half to events was rather interesting, as was that of the others; a good psychologist could have had a field day studying all four of us Dick Eds right then. Me, I was biting heavily on my tongue, trying not to make the language around us even bluer than it was already. ?Im Indoors? For whatever reason, he?d lapsed into a fit of giggles, verging on the hysterical at times. The Noise simply muttered darkly from time to time ? and as for The Fart, I could only assume that some part of his house or another was going to get one hell of a cleaning tonight. Even their poor bloody cat.

There were the die-hards who managed to get a desultory chant of ?Albion ?till we die? going, but what with morale having reached rock-bottom long before then, they were on a bit of a loser, really. Rather than watch what was taking place on the pitch, I turned instead to the skies above, and the steady stream of planes taking off from the nearby airport. At that precise moment, I would have given a king?s ransom to be there with those passengers, soaring high above the clouds and completely out of it.

And, in the seat just in front of me, a most-untypical outburst of passion from our old mucker, Howard. Chance had chucked us together in seats in close proximity to one another, but right then, the lad was showing us an decidedly atavistic streak to his normally-placid nature. Waving both arms furiously, he was, and telling the Bloke On The Bench his fortune and his possible fate, should he ever come within thumping-range! All this, and from a normally-respectable local councillor! Tut, Tut!

Ten minutes later, and Blues were lining up to take a free-kick just outside our box. We constructed a wall, of course, but everybody of an Albion bent knew precisely what was going to happen ? and it did. The ball smashed against the human barrier, and diverted from its intended path, completely our-guessed Houlty. Four goals against, and the signal for a mass Baggie exit from the scene of the crime.

By that time, of course, it just didn?t matter; ?gallows humour? had broken out long before then. Why else would we embark upon a prolonged spell of ?boinging?? There was even a chorus of ?There?s Only One Gary Megson?! We even joined in with a Blues-instigated refrain of ?Feed The Horse and He Will Score?. Anything to numb the hurt and the pain. And, just to keep the spirit of the thing alive, we even embarked upon a line or two of: ?We?re Not Very Good?! And, as the game entered its dying moments, simply embarking on a chorus of mocking cheers every time one of ours touched the ball. And once the ref finally stopped the contest, unsurprisingly, not a few shouts of ?Robson Out!? Plus the usual catcalls and similar stuff, of course. Oh dear.

Well, that?s my take on what happened today, and I?m still hurting; as I intimated in those opening lines, courtesy REM, ?losing my religion?. It?s not even coherent at times; such was my anger today, I simply slapped the stuff on our PC as the various thoughts and emotions emerged in turn from my head. For that, I apologise, but I?m still left facing one clear truth. Just what kind of pleasure can I continue to derive from watching that sort of unmitigated tripe week in, week out? I?d dearly like someone to convince me otherwise, because I can see the day when going to games might not be such an automatic thing for me any more. Precisely what incentive is there in my travelling hundreds of miles just to see our club well and truly humiliated? Oh, sod it ? time to calm down and gather my thoughts elsewhere.

And finally?. One. As I mentioned last night, all other activities were put on hold in the Wright household as we sat ourselves in the comfiest chairs we could find, and watched that 1968 DVD from beginning to end. And what a superb job the makers did, I have to report. Not only was there the more usual footage culled from the era ? the Beeb?s colour coverage of the FA Cup final, for example, their first ever break from monochrome for this event, might I add ? there was also quite a plethora of material I?d never seen before. TV coverage of the Southampton replay, for example, the 5th round tie versus Pompey, also that of the first 6th round replay versus Liverpool. The second replay stuff I had seen before, but not to the extent they showed in the DVD. Incidentally, among that second replay coverage was a shining example, as provided by Dougie Fraser, of how to shift the ball out of danger when under pretty savage (no pun intended) pressure; that?s how to defend, Darren Purse!

There was also some from the Villa Park semi; sure, I?d known the Beeb had covered the game at the time, but this was the first occasion I?d seen pretty much the whole thing. Although I?d heard the bloke in commentary ?action? before, the plummy-toned efforts of Walter Winterbottom, the FA coach, to provide what would be regarded as an ?expert commentary? these days, were absolutely hilarious. All this, plus a goodly chunk of the Final coverage as well, with running commentary at significant moments by the likes of Tony Brown, Graham Williams and, poignantly so, the posthumous thoughts of departed heroes John Osborne, The King, and last, but most certainly not least, the manager that made it all happen, Alan Ashman.

And, pervading the whole thing at intervals, were the cries, the chants, of Brummie Road Enders long departed, evocative, mournful, almost, of ?Albion, Albion, Albion?..? A sensitive soul might conclude they were voices from the past lamenting the fact that the glories we achieved back then could never, ever be repeated. I?m glad I was honoured to witness West Bromwich Albion at its very best back then; that?s why, after the events of today, such a profound sense of sorrow washes over me right now. Were the disorganised rabble we saw today really the true inheritors of Albion?s footballing traditions? If we have to answer in the affirmative, then perhaps it really is high time the likes of The Fart and myself simply got the hell out.

Two. Amidst today?s welter of dross and underachievement, a little bit of praise for our much-maligned ticket office. According to the Boing list, one of our followers managed to mislay his ticket for today?s game, and while en-route to the Midlands, rang our ticket office to see if there was anything they could do about it. After checking all his details, etc, what they did was to offer to fax Birmingham City to ask them to issue a replacement ? and, lo and behold, on arrival at their ticket office, guess what was waiting for the guy? Yep ? that?s right. Well done, Albion ? things might have gone tits-up on the pitch big-time today, but some things you can do well when you try. Mind you, after watching that crap today, I bet the poor sod wished he?d never bothered making that call!

 - Glynis Wright

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