The Diary

05 October 2003: Toe-Nail, To The Albion!

The Bloke In Front Of Me just as Clem was about to take ?that? free-kick: ?That one?s in, that is?.?

Me, to The Noise, when all the goal celebrations finally died down: ?Do you think he?d pick my Lottery numbers for me??

As I said to The Noise as our finest left the field of play for half-time (when I could get a word in edgeways, that is!), ?Two-nil, job done!? And that?s, literally a fair summation of what happened today. In three short minutes, we took poor Gillingham apart, coldly and clinically, not once, but twice, and that was all it took to consign them to ?loser? status. To be sure, they did try to push up in an ineffectual way during the second half, but, a header on goal that narrowly missed its target apart, Russell Hoult?s territory was in little danger of having its virginity violated. So, here we go again, ?Top of the League, Ma!? and not a manically-grinning James Cagney, burning pressurised chemical storage-tank, or a Hollywood film director for that matter, anywhere in sight!

Normally, our journeys to away games are brightened by the various quirky observations on life that The Noise is wont to slip into the conversation from time to time, but today, it was The Fart?s turn to shine. Quite unintentionally, may I add; the problem was Stan Rickaby?s book. Puzzled? Let me reveal all. As some of you may remember, before the Stoke game, Stan did a marathon book-signing session in the Club Shop, and The Fart, being of Stan?s era, of course, decided to invest some of his ackers in a copy, which he then brought with him for today?s trip. The problems arose when, say, The Noise, ?Im Indoors and I might be engaged in an earnest discussion about something. It might be nuclear physics, or, on one memorable occasion, the Arab-Israeli conflict, Tel?s voice would suddenly bring the whole proceedings to an undignified but hysterically-funny halt with yet another striking but totally-unrelated passage from the book. I?ll tell you what; by the time we?d reached the M25, my brain was already showing signs of exhaustion from constantly having to do a 180-degree flip every time Tel held forth! It isn?t easy, and neither was a much-later statement from The Noise, when we were discussing the individual performances of some of our favourites in the stripes, which had me absolutely in stitches. The subject was free-kicks on the edge of the box, and, I swear to God, this is the gospel truth!

?Clement seems to have gone off the boil,? said our garrulous friend, then, after thinking about it a little while longer, ??Er, except at Hartlepool!?.? And, as we reminded him at great length on the way back, tonight ? erm ? today!

It has to be said, though, that The Noise?s usual take on life?s problems is a somewhat off-beat one. For some reason, around the time we hit the roadworks on the M25, the conversation suddenly turned to the controversial question of whether there were enough bobbies on the beat, or not. Martin?s solution? Simple. Everyone in West Bromwich brings their crime problems to The Hawthorns on matchdays, where, of course, there are hundreds of plods all tripping over themselves for the want of something to do, and not a single one left to patrol the streets! Imagine that; in between Albion getting a corner, and the opposition lot hurling a few well-timed insults in your general direction, simply buttonhole the nearest copper, and tell him/her all about your Auntie Flo?s latest mugging, or the local kids nicking sweets from the corner shop. Oh ? and when that Baggies goal finally goes in, while he/she?s in an amenable frame of mind, remind them about the bullet-headed juvenile Mafia that?s scrumping all the apples and deliberately kicking footballs into Ma Scroggins?s back garden just to wind her up. What a sensible distribution of police resources and manpower, and no plod simply left idly watching the crowd. Value for money? Even David Blunkett would have orgasms over that one!

What with all those animated conversations (all totally at cross-purposes: try it some time!) we were having with The Fart, and The Noise?s randomly-dropped oral pearls of wisdom to speed us on our way, it wasn?t that long before we left the tender embraces of the M2 for the rustic but sunny charms of the main drag into Gillingham proper. Trouble was, old habits died hard; in this case, the same mistake we?d made the last time we came along this road, some 20 months ago, during our promotion season. ?Look for the gasholder!? exclaimed navigator Martin, but nary a whisper could we find of one. Then, the penny dropped; the structure in question was much further up the road than previously thought; additionally, it wasn?t a gasholder in a glorious state of tumescence, more a skeletal framework, at the bottom of which was a small cylindrical object desperately in need of a lorry-load of Viagara, or something. ?Follow that gas-holder!? we whooped in triumphal unison, which we did, with the greatest of pleasure. 20 minutes later, we were in The Livingstone pub (I presume?), and welcoming glasses of liquid refreshment finally installed in our sweaty little hands.

Although early in the day (although The Drinking Family might argue otherwise!) we weren?t the first through the door. Already seated by the bar window were the creme de la cr?me of Albion?s media department, indulging in some smallish pre-match potations, and El Tel certainly didn?t let the grass grow under his feet. Once he?d spotted ?em, he was in there like a dive-bomber! While The Fart hob-nobbed with the glitterati, ?Im Indoors, The Noise and I set to work expanding on the germ of an idea we?d had for the next Dick, the inspiration for which came on the journey down. What was it? Sorry, my lips are totally sealed; you?ll just have to wait for the next one! Also in the background was the Liverpool-Arsenal match on Sky; for once, we managed to watch the whole of the first half. Luxury! Time to go, and into the ?Ladies? first, and because of the traffic outside, coupled with a distinctly-wobbly loo seat, an experience not unlike sitting on a mobile earthquake! Ooer!

Out once more, and into the nearby chippy-cum-kebab-house-cum-just-about-anything-you-care to-name, where we indulged shamelessly; The Fart (?Being brought up during the war, I don?t like to see food go to waste!?) managed to polish off not only his portion, but the sandwiches he?d brought with him as well. Where the hell did he put it all? Still munching merrily, a short walk brought us to the away end, where we made a token effort of selling what few Dicks we still had left; although we?d suspected we?d exhausted that source of custom, we still managed to flog all bar five. Oh, and the opportunity for a bit of genial fun with some of the local constabulary, who were unbelievably friendly to us travelling Baggies, even to the extent of posing for pictures with us. A black mark to The Fart, though, who only succeeded in dropping one constabulary helmet on the deck with a resounding ?thud?. Blimey, the oldest perpetrator of criminal damage to police property in town! Just one thought, though: why can?t our police force be like that? Courtesy and good manners cost absolutely nothing.

While there, an amusing tale from Dave Baxendale and his son Peter, who arose from their pits at 4.50 this morning ? they?d journeyed from Ashton-Under-Lyme ? to watch today?s game, and would only return to base-camp at the unbelievably-late one of midnight! Their story concerns not their epic journey, but an autograph young Peter sought before the game. They were outside the players? entrance, when Dave spotted Bomber Brown talking to Alan Cleverly, he of Supporters? Club fame. Instructing his child to get the necessary signature, just before dispatching him to his destination, he added the caution, ??Not the one on the black hat and purple coat!? Unfortunately, young Peter misheard, which is why a bemused Alan suddenly found himself signing his monicker in the young shaver?s little book! The best bit, though, came from Bomber himself, who pointed to poor Alan and solemnly declared. ?You know what? I knew him when he was nothing!?

And so, to work, or rather, to our end, which gaped proudly atop the turnstiles. One of those temporary affairs more normally seen at big golf tournaments, it was, and, as we negotiated its many steps to our seats near the summit, as wobbly as hell. What would happen if we all embarked on a mass-?boing? I wondered? Fleeting thoughts of the Tacoma Bridge Disaster (the one caused by what?s known as ?sympathetic vibrations?) and awful ones about what happens when marching soldiers don?t break step on bridges passed through my head. Hell, had the thing been tested taking into account the vagaries of jubilant Baggies? Cross my fingers, etc. Once in situ, we were afforded a pleasant overview of the ground proper, with the darkening mackerel sky providing a brooding backdrop to the spectacle. Many empty spaces in the home seats, though. Hell, if Gillingham had been a little more astute, by shifting the home support around a little, they could have sold those to Baggies ten times over. Dropping my walking-stick and bending over to retrieve it from beneath the seat where it fell gave me a sickening (and swaying; our lot had reached second gear by then!) view of the ground far below; as The Noise said, somewhat tremulously, it has to be said, ?Blimey, this is worse than Alton Towers!?

Our manager later described the game as, ?Our most comfortable win of the season,? and, to be fair, I find little to take issue with about that remark. My opening comment summed up what happened quite nicely. What did surprise me, though, was the team news. No Sakiri, not even on the bench, no Deech, ditto, and Ronnie Wallwork named among the subs. Was our foreign midfield wonder injured? We had, however, stuck with Big Bertha at the back, which pleased me; he?d impressed me enormously on Tuesday night, and richly deserved his extended run.

Once we?d weathered The Gills? opening flurry, we then began to impose our presence on the game. Clem and Dobes both narrowly missed chances, and the writing was well and truly on the wall for the home side. In the 26th minute, we finally broke the deadlock, a newly-rejuvenated Dobes ? Super-sub no more? ? applying the killer blow, thanks to an excellently-placed and thoroughly defence-splitting through-ball from Gilly. Our tame Cumbrian made no mistake, the net shook, and that temporary away stand began to shake in similar manner to the set of Crossroads! I remember little of what my school physics teacher said about the subject of metallic stress, but the way that structure was rippling, I reckoned that stand was having more than its money?s worth. And, as if that wasn?t enough, we then repeated the whole thing about three or four minutes later! This time, the Gills? downfall was a Clem free-kick on the edge of the box, which gave their keeper no chance, and, as I said earlier, much embarrassment for The Noise on the way home! Once more, the structure shook as around a thousand Baggies gyrated wildly and ecstatically around their prime perch, while, at the opposite end of the pitch, an awful silence descended upon the home supporters stationed there. And on the sizable contingent seated adjacent to us; many had been their raucous comments prior to those twin strikes, but once we?d bagged that brace, they were sitting-ducks. Time for some savage amusement, then!

The fun started with a parody of the temporary nature of the accommodation in that part of the ground. ?Shall we bring a stand for you?? we enquired, earnestly. During the second half, when it became apparent that Gillingham?s finest were totally banjaxed as how to counter the stripy Black Country menace, we indulged in a little show-boating. ?Toe-Nail, Toe-Nail, Toe-Nail, Toe-Nail?.? went the merry refrain. Had we all taken up chiropody in our spare time, or something? Nope. Just think how those born and bred in the vicinity of London would pronounce ?two-nil? and you?ll get the general gist. This then gave rise to its raucously-rendered variant, ?Toe-Nail, to the Albion, toe-nail, to the Albion, ? etc. The funniest, though, had to be, ?Bernt Hass/He shouldn?t light his farts!?.? And, not long after that masterpiece of song emerged from the production-line, we were then treated (if that?s the right word!) to the sight of ?Sumo? baring his all-too ample torso for the delectation of his admirers. The reply? One feeble rendition of, ?Two-nil, and you still don?t sing!? from the home fans adjacent.

Meanwhile, a game was still going on out there, although the celebratory mood was such as to make that a lesser consideration. Gillingham had well and truly shot their bolt, and we knew it; if I were Houlty, I would have reserved a few blushes for the receipt of my wage-slip, such was the lack of need for his superglue-impregnated-fingertips today. Apart from that header towards the end, he had sod-all to do. We did see former Baggie Trevor Benjamin come on as substitute around the 15th minute of the half, though. Oh, and the loss of Gilly due to injury about ten minutes later, Volmer coming on by way of replacement. About a quarter of an hour from the finish, Hulse was taken off, to a rousing ovation from our lot, and Hughsie promptly stepped into his old berth. He could have snatched another one as well, but their keeper was the hero of the hour in both saving the shot and sparing the Gills from further punishment.

Come the final whistle, come our climb to the Nationwide?s summit. Warnock?s lot had lost, and Wigan could only draw, which left us proudly reaching for those oxygen cylinders, and Dave ?Mammoth? Holloway dusting off road-maps to Premiership grounds once more. ?We are top of the League, we are top of the League!? we bellowed as we exited the ground, and as the yellow and green-clad throng coalesced into the main line of pedestrian traffic around the nearby main street, those locals not that interested in the game were left in absolutely no doubt of our new status as well! Oh, and amidst all that jollity, the news Wolves had finally won one! Bloody Man City; can?t they get anything right?

A ten-day break for us, now. Time enough to get the halt and lame fit and ready for action against Sheffield United, a week on Tuesday. Without any shred of doubt, that one?s going to be the ?biggie?. I?m not saying it?s going to be a hard game, but if I were Albion, I?d be thinking of asking the local authority to prevent kids under 16 from entering! You don?t need to be an expert on the game to realise Neil Warnock and Gary Megson absolutely hate each other?s guts, and the contretemps of two seasons ago didn?t exactly help matters either. Give Warnock?s mob what for, and half the psychological battle will be won. Draw (my prediction of what will happen on the night), and we only nullify one another; there?s one helluva lot of time still to make up for time lost because of others stealing our crown. If we lose? Depends upon the manner of the loss, I suppose. Again, there are oodles of points on the board, still, and a reverse against The Blades ain?t necessarily a disaster. Unless we wave a white flag, I?m not going to weep salt tears if that should happen. We?re 11 games gone, and 25 points amassed thus far; keep that up, and our return ticket to The Greed League is virtually booked.

 - Glynis Wright

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