The Diary

23 February 2005: Oh, Well - It Was Nice While It Lasted!

So that?s it, then. Albion 0, Southampton 0. Although that final score hands us a precious point towards what will undoubtedly be a meagre final tally come the end of hostilities, the big problem still remains that although we didn?t concede and therefore theoretically shared the honours with the visitors, the draw means, in effect, that by doing so, we?ve well and truly lost the war. A wonderful chance to shift ourselves right off the bottom and make Palace sweat by way of a bonus ? and we completely blew it. And, no ? before you start to ask, free transport or not, we won?t be going to Charlton. By that stage, the whole shooting match will be largely academic.

Going by recent form, although we?d had more than our fair share of plain bad luck and diabolical refereeing decisions, if asked, most supporters would have made a pretty convincing argument that although the points didn?t come running home to Daddy as we would have liked, since the arrival of Robson, we were playing some bloody good football out there. Indeed, before tonight?s game, that principle was very much in my mind when conversing with fellow supporters prior to kick-off. Surely we couldn?t go on putting in performances of such a entertainingly-high standard and still lose out? Logic dictated the breaks must surely come our way, eventually, albeit via the judicious application of the law of averages ? and I?m sure that I wasn?t the only one tonight quietly confident that natural justice would triumph, and those richly-deserved spoils would finally be ours.

The trouble was, though, that wasn?t to be. Indeed, when you consider the ninety minutes as a whole, you have to concede it was the visitors, not we, that fell victim to one of Lady Luck?s more capricious moments. They, not us, bossed the midfield, and we were always vulnerable to tip-and-run raids down our right flank. Had it not been for the crossbar getting in the way of the visitors on one heart-stopping occasion, their sheer inability to get properly on target when they did get a clear sight of goal, and the happy coincidence Houlty chose tonight to have one of the best games he?s had the entire season, I reckon it?s fair comment to say that by rights, we should have been mourning far more than the loss of the points by now.

So what was the fundamental problem? What was it that ailed us so grievously tonight? Well, I do have my suspicions there also. There was much that disappointed this evening, and much more that was criticised by our followers, and very vocally (and rudely) on some occasions ? but individual underachievement only constituted a small part of the overall picture. Ever heard of the old Black Country turn of phrase: ?Geein? it neck?? No? OK, let me enlighten you, then; it?s really a catch-all expression applied to any job, or project, where the person trying to complete the task suddenly realises the thing?s completely beyond their capabilities, and as a result, just gives up in total disgust. I?ve also heard it applied apropos of someone suffering from a life-threatening illness, cancer, say, who, lacking sufficient strength of will to overcome their badly diseased and enfeebled state, simply curls up and dies. And that, my cherubs, is what?s contributed to a significant proportion of what happened ? we?d simply ?gid it neck?.

Why? What was so different about tonight that set the game apart from the most recent three or four, when we were firing on all four cylinders, but not getting the breaks? Blimey, if I could answer that one, I?d be set up for life in the motivational psychology business rather than be engaged in typing this piece at some ridiculous time of night. You might want to opine that since the first moment those George Salter lads first legged it to Wednesbury to get themselves kit and a ball to play with, our favourite football club have always been a mystery wrapped within an enigma ? or should that be the other way round? Whatever: the point is that doing either the completely unexpected, or downright impossible, come to think about it, is very much Baggies territory, always has been, and always will.

Mind you, at one stage, I wasn?t all that confident we?d have a game tonight, and for that, I blame the elegant, lovely and talented Sauce. Well, what do you expect when you?re sat peacefully on the ?throne? and idly contemplating the mysteries of the Universe, only to have your tranquil existence completely shattered by the telephone in the next room ringing fit to bust? As usual, Sod?s Law applied; by the time I got there, the noise had stopped, so I then dialled 1471 to elicit the identity of the interloper and return the call ? and yep, it was the great man himself, but panicking like hell. ?What?s the weather like back there, then? Has there been a lot of snow? Do you think the game?ll be off tonight? I need to know to tip off some mates coming up there from the Southampton end.?

Dearie, dearie me ? weren?t we the ruffled one, then? Putting on my ?calm and collected? head for once, I simultaneously tried to allay the lad?s fears, while promising to ring back should there be a pitch inspection ordered for later in the day. It couldn?t have been easy for the poor lamb, working inside a place that didn?t enjoy the benison of natural light at all, and because of the peripatetic nature of the lad?s employment, toiling away some thirty or forty miles distant from God?s Own Country. At least I was able to give sufficient assurances all would be well that night; of the snow that fell last night, there was only a light dusting around come this morning. What with the under-soil heating, and everything, I couldn?t really see a postponement ever being likely, but panic?s infectious, isn?t it, Sauce? It took me several frantic perusals of Ceefax and a weather eye kept on the club website to provide reassurance our game was indeed safe.

Moving on in time brings me to that of our actual arrival at The Place Of Nightmares, earlier this evening. Despite the bitter cold, a lovely sunset was in prospect, but what really caught my other half?s eye was the bloody great forty ton articulated lorry parked, with a small commercial van for company, on the bit of wide pavement adjacent to the Smethwick side of the railway bridge in Halfords Lane. It didn?t half rankle with my other half, purely and simply because of the fact that when the local plods had a crackdown on matchday pavement parking there some seven or eight years ago, our vehicle was one of those caught up in the blitz. Not being a happy bunny, ?Im Indoors made an official complaint, a nice chief inspector chappie called round our house to give their version of the story ? and that?s the moment we were first acquainted with the fact that cars using the pavement as an unusual parking spot damaged the surface, a state of affairs which didn?t half get the council annoyed. Funny, that ? if cars are so capable of wrecking asphalt surfaces, what the hell does a forty-tonner do? And, come to think about it, why wasn?t the bugger ticketed like we were? When we passed the same vehicle, at the end of the game, there wasn?t even a hint of a constabulary nastygram on the windscreen, despite the juggernaut being stuck there for at least three hours.

From our own experience, and what I?ve heard from others, the police didn?t exactly cover themselves in glory out there tonight. Dave Baxendale told us that although reaching Junction One of the M5 by six o?clock this evening, it took him nearly thirty minutes to make further progress ? and all with the people who should have been sorting out the mess just standing idly by and gawping. (Sorry, Mister Chief Plod, if telling you your officers are a total waste of space on matchdays offends your sensibilities, as it quite clearly did when I wrote all those letters of complaint to you last season, but I can only tell it like it is! As for the complete and utter mess that ensued in Halfords Lane after the final whistle, don?t even think of getting me started on that one!)

Back to the action, then, and our usual foray into the Hawthorns pub to catch up with the rest of the Dick gang. Incredibly, both The Noise and The Fart had beaten us to it; as we strolled in, there they both were, seated in regal repose around one of those circular tables they?ve got in there, and watching the pre-match programme on Sky. At least we had varying subject-matter to discuss; first off was The Noise telling us that because his stomach muscle problem had failed to improve, he?d had to visit the quack again to get an extension to his sick-note. Our chatty chum was a bit aggrieved, mainly because the practitioner concerned had taken it upon himself to give our lad the third degree before grudgingly writing out the note. As I wasn?t there, I can?t say definitely there was a suggestion The Noise was malingering, but knowing Mart like I do, and his past tendency to go into work even when suffering badly from various ailments, it?s easy to come to the conclusion that there was one doctor at least practicing in The Potteries who just didn?t have the faintest idea of how the real world worked out there. Had that guy ever taken it upon himself to find out how the pottery industry operated, at all, and the sheer amount of muscle-power it took to shift huge trolley-loads of ceramic-ware from A to B, I wonder?

It?s not all that hard to divert our lad into discussing more congenial topics, though ? and one concerning our erstwhile gaffer really had me giggling. Apparently, Forest?s new managerial incumbent recently said: ?Any of my players who thinks we?re going down is stupid?.? As they used to say in the days when examinations formed a significant part of my life, ?Discuss?. And there was also another story in a local newspaper, but concerning The Dingles this time. According to the piece in question, one of the brain-dead fraternity once took it upon himself to declare that he wouldn?t shave ever until his favourites managed to win three on the bounce. Two years later, and he?s still waiting: mind you, the ?no razor? vow had to bite the dust, sadly ? due to ?reasons of health and safety?, according to the article in question!

Out of the boozer, and in selling mode once more, surprisingly enough, my first two customers were a brace of Saints supporters. Unusual, that, but more unusual was their reason for seeking us out in the first place; it turned out they?d heard Motty?s ringing endorsement of our product on the box on Saturday night, and wanted to sample our wares for themselves! And, transaction over, fulsome praise indeed: ?We travel all over the country for Southampton games, and try to get the home side?s fanzine when we can, but yours is streets ahead of everyone else?s!? Cheers for that, lads ? and the cheque?s already in the post, I promise!

As you would expect when shifting an issue for the first time on home territory, sales were pretty brisk, and what with keeping up with that side of things, and jotting down notes for this, occasionally, the two differing tasks did intertwine occasionally. One customer, noticing me frantically scribbling something on my pad and selling Dicks, took it upon himself to say, ??Ere, you?re not writing your column now!? Said I, by way of retort, ?Ah, too true ? but it?s SUPPORTERS, what they do, what they say, what they think, even, that really makes my column what it is!? And that?s what I genuinely believe to be the case, folks. I don?t provide the material for this ? you and the lads do!

Time to shift, then ? and you really would have thought we?d both got this superstitious nonsense completely out of our hair by now, but the sad truth is ? we haven?t! Only C3 entrance to the stand was good enough, even though we did have to wait a tad longer than we ought to have. Stick to the ritual, give the bogs a miss, go for the hot chocolate at the refreshment point, and only then shift towards your seat. Recognise those obsessive-compulsive tendencies, Satanic Nurses? Something tells me that were psychiatrists to apply the same sanity-determining criteria encountered in normal practice to most Albion supporters, all the psychiatric hospitals in the borough would be chock-full by now.

Sat down finally, and chance to properly gauge the strength of the away support; fair play to them, they?d managed to fill the greater part of their allocation, and were making most of the running in the old ?noise stakes? also. But just before that, a conversation on the stairs with a fellow-Baggie, laying into a bottle of beer like there was no tomorrow ? Dutch courage, perchance? Anyway, in an effort to make the guy laugh, I said to him: ?Well, if we lose this one, it?ll be cyanide I?m drinking tonight, not beer!? To which the lad quickly replied: ?Yeah ? and if we do, I?ll be coming round your place and joining you!? Blimey, a loss and this could catch on, and big-time. Shades of 1978, and the Jonestown Massacre, perhaps? Aw, you remember, the wacky religious sect that decided God had told them all to commit mass suicide, so they all gathered together, laced the Yank equivalent of fruit cordial ? Kool-Aid ? with cyanide, poured it into glasses, then simply sat back and drank the stuff, men, women, kids, the whole bloody lot?

A ?Premiership Moon? peeked somewhat demurely from the icy clouds that gathered above the East Stand as the referee?s whistle put the whole thing into motion. Whose fortunes would Lady Luna favour tonight? As expected, we were starting with Richardson back from being cup-tied and Greening un-suspended; surprisingly, one might argue, Earnie was pulled off the bench to have a start up front, and Kanu was completely left out of the equation. As for Scimeca and Koumas, they both sat out the start on the bench. It never was going to be a virtuoso display of scintillating skills and subtle interplay; what we got instead was an opening period thoroughly riddles with daft errors, and all the time with the noisy South Coast vocal backdrop emanating from half the Smethwick. So nervous were our own songsters about the whole thing, there was scant in the way of reply from them for a long, long time.

Admittedly, Campbell was dead unlucky not to get off the mark at the beginning, but it was Southampton that seemed to be making all the running out there. For whatever reason, our midfield was constantly second to everything, and passes simply weren?t getting through to our main armament, so any prospect of doing serious damage was, the above incident excepted, very much a non-starter. For their own part, with around 13 minutes on the clock, Saints must have cursed mightily when they hit the post courtesy of mobile lamp-post Peter Crouch. And then came the moment Houlty nearly got hoisted by his own petard; there was Camara belting down like an express train ? as I said earlier, we were punished down that side of the pitch more times than I care to remember - and our keeper out there doing a passable imitation of a stranded whale, only to see the intended killer lob completely miss its target.

Following that almighty let off, it was then Southampton?s turn to squirm, thanks to an almighty belter from (I think) Richardson, that landed on the crossbar with a resounding ?thwack? they probably heard back in Smethwick. Certainly it had their keeper beaten all roads up. Mind you, the moment our keeper?s tremendous talent really came to the fore was not long before the interval, when the lad pulled off a truly reflex save from ex-Dingle Camara, finger-tipping his effort, from point-blank range, almost, well and truly over the bar, somehow. Once more, a perfect reminder of what Houlty can be when he?s at his best; certainly, for me, at least, one of the best stops I?ve ever seen him make at any level.

That was about it for the first half, and as both sides trudged off for their break, and we went for ours, there was much to ponder upon. Why we were performing so badly by comparison with recent occasions, those when we?d played out of our skins, yet ended up on the losing side, for instance? We just couldn?t work it out; was it simply a case we?d collectively decided it wasn?t worth the struggle, a lost cause, so forget it - or had Harry Redknapp somehow latched on to some unspecified weakness or other on our part? We really couldn?t call it either way. One thing cheering us up, though, as the first few snowflakes began to drift among all those seated in the first few rows ? the Dingles were losing at QPR. Something to warm the cockles of one?s heart indeed, despite those freezing temperatures. Did someone out there mention play-offs?

Although neither side managed to cleave an advantage in terms of goals scored, as far as both sets of followers were concerned, those travelling Saints supporters had us completely cold by comparison; they never let up the entire half. One amusing moment, though; because of Houlty?s Portsmouth background, their followers let our custodian know they knew by chanting loudly: ?YOU SKATE B*****D!? every time he took a goal kick. ?Skate?? A derogatory term that alludes to the time when sailors, deprived of regular nookie aboard ship, caught several examples of the species purely and simply to have their evil way with! Or if you want, depending upon point of view, a Naval derogatory tem once applied to a rating given to frequent bouts of idleness and petty crime, and deemed by officers unlikely ever to make an efficient sailor. But that?s not the real point; on one memorable occasion that half, there was Houlty all poised to make with the goal-kick, and his ?admirers? behind all winding up to let rip ? then just before he did, changing his mind instead, leaving the South Coast glee-club in the Smethwick looking very silly indeed, and their blue-and white affiliated counterparts roaring their bloody heads off!

Out for the second bit, then, but still no real change to our line-up; looked as though Robbo wanted to go with the flow for at least the opening ten or so minutes. And, at first, it did seem as though we?d finally got our act in gear; certainly, their keeper was kept busy during the very early part of the half, and had Earnie got his proper shooting boots on, instead of narrowly firing wide, we might have even snatched one. It was a frustrating time for everyone; our finest, seeing their moves constantly breaking down, and our supporters, nervous of falling behind, and understandably so, restlessness personified. There had been audible groans when moves fell flat in the first period; come the second, and the urgency of the situation becoming far more apparent, those dissenting noise were redoubled in volume.

Contrast that with the sheer amount of enthusiasm and passion still put in by the visitors? following, whose vocal efforts were easily reducing those of ours to complete irrelevancy. They were clearly sensing a winner in the offing ? and halfway through the half, they nearly got it. What a let-off, and I can see it my nightmares, even now. Bloody Camara, and our tame Dane left scything at thin air, the ex-Dingle clear on goal, and only our keeper to beat ? and then came the divine intervention we?d all hoped for. All the bloody goalmouth to aim at, the Brummie?s hearts in their mouths ? but instead of busting the net, as he rightly should have done, the silly sod let fly with an effort that would have felt more at home at a rugby union fixture. Whew! But that wasn?t the end of it; not long after that, another Saints effort was equally wasteful; this time, the ball ended up directly in the path of our keeper.

With around 15 minutes left on the clock, we finally elected to change something, the completely-knackered Richardson yielding the field to Jason Koumas, and five minutes later, taking off the strangely-ineffective Gera, and bunging Scimeca on instead, but by then, it was plain for all to see we weren?t going to score, no matter how long we tried. Indeed, as the game reached its dying stages, the visitors were far and away the more likely to totally ruin our night. Well, the final score apart, they certainly managed to ruin mine. Road atlas for Division One grounds, anyone?

And, talking of roads, as if letting us down big-time wasn?t enough, once more, the bloody police decided to lend something of a hand towards making complete the air of general malaise that permeated the icy gloom. Try as we might, we just couldn?t make any sort of progress down Halfords Lane. No surprise, then, that it was gone half-ten by the time we got home, ironically situated only just a couple of miles distant from the ground.

The cause? Much the same as what prompted me to complain last season, really. OK, the plods couldn?t do a lot about three cars that perversely tried to swim against the (supposedly) one-way tide, and ended up holding up the entire shebang instead, but they certainly could have prevented that from happening in the first place, and could have at least made a token effort to control the Halfords Lane-Dartmouth Road junction. Now come on chaps; all it takes is for someone to override the lights and the traffic will then magically un-free itself; with lights that only stay on green for around ten seconds, and only dribs and drabs making progress through the junction as a result, and all the other motorised pillocks managing to gum up the works as well, just like ?Arry and Jim, earlier in the proceedings, you?re ?having a laugh?!

And finally?..One. While flogging prior to kick-off, as per usual, I was visited by Bryn Jones and his good lady wife, and didn?t he have a tale to tell. Apparently, there?s a relative, cousin he thinks, of former Albion gaffer Bobby Gould, currently attending Bath Uni. In what capacity, student, lecturer, professor, anatomical specimen, pickled in formalin, even, I?ve no idea. I can only hope for Bryn?s sake ? after all, they do say the dividing line that sunders genius from madness is a precipitously slender one, which might explain his presence there in the first place - the bloke enjoys far more possession of his faculties than his vastly more eccentric relative!

Two. Remember me telling you about the bloke who had to leave games early because doing so meant an hour?s difference at least to his eventual arrival time back home, in London? Well, I?ve since heard what happened to him at the Palace game the other week. Apparently, when we took the lead right on the expiry of the normal ration, our lad quickly upped sticks, left the ground, and managing to hop on some form of public transport straight away, he was far distant from the area in no time flat. Thinking, in complete blissful ignorance, we?d actually nicked it by the odd goal, he triumphantly returned home nicely early ? and yes, you?ve guessed it??!

 - Glynis Wright

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