The Diary

19 October 2003: Now It's All Over, Anyone Here Got Some Good Nerve Pills?

The next time any of you are sitting in the Halfords Lane Stand, try to spare a few of your precious seconds pre-match to have a quick but discreet shufti around Row K, Seat 94 ? the one immediately to the right of the respective managers? dugouts. When you do, your patience and forbearance will be amply rewarded, because on the seat-back of the one in front, you will find several sets of well-defined teeth-marks creating something of a pretty pattern in all that nice, shiny cornflower-blue plastic. The antique trade would probably describe that seat as ?distressed? which pretty-much summed up our state of mind during those last few minutes, today. How did those ginormous gnasher-prints get there in the first place, then? Simple: so anguished and frustrated were Supporters? Club Committee member and compere John Homer and myself at some of those awful Baggie-clangers committed towards the nub-end of today?s game, the pair of us practically gnawed holes in the bloody thing! Additionally, John might well be having serious words with some of our first-teamers, as what little hair he possessed before three pm today was swiftly pulled from its roots in blind fury, and now profusely carpets the floor of said stand. Any passing small child wishing to acquire suitable bedding for their pet hamster should get in quick to avoid disappointment!

It?s also a mystery to me how neither of us succumbed to coronary heart disease, apoplexy or galloping hypertension, come to think of it, during those last few minutes today ? and the annoying thing was, it was all totally self-inflicted. Not because of something we?d done to our own well-matured and wrinkly bodies; the true culprits were right out there on the pitch doing their level best to snatch failure from the jaws of success, and by Christ, they damn near succeeded. But ? I?m getting a little ahead of myself here. Let?s turn back the clock, instead, to around half-twelve, and our pre-match wetting of the old whistle in the Throstle Club. As usual, most of the Dick Eds were there; this column, ?Im Indoors, The Old Fart, The Noise, bag-carrier and resident Harry Potter expert Carly Lewis (reaches the grand old age of 13 in around two and a bit weeks, so I?m told!), and, making her first appearance at The Shrine for quite some time, young Bethany, plus hordes of imaginary friends, including Hibben and Carshar ? and that?s what started off the first topic for discussion.

Innocently, I asked Bethany if her two ?mates? were coming to the game.

A pregnant pause as young Beth tried to get to grips with the concept, then, from her big sister, ?They don?t have to pay, silly ? they?re invisible!?

How daft of me to forget! Makes perfect sense when you think about it, really. Unsurprisingly, The Noise then interjected to tell me of a new FIFA rule that head-honcho Sepp Blatter is trying to push through. Apparently, his latest Bright Idea revolves around the concept of allowing substitutes for players sent-off! So the theory goes, at present, when players are dismissed, both the offending club and its supporters are penalised because of the resultant disparity in numbers, but if there?s sanction in the form of suspensions only instead, then just the player, and no-one else, gets their rightful desserts! Personally, I reckon it would be a ?thug?s licence? to commit all kind of on-pitch mayhem and cynically take players out as and when tactical necessity dictated. FIFA can?t really be serious about this? Er ? can they?

Drinks finished, it was then time to begin selling fanzines to our eager public. At least the others did. Me? A quick ?wash and brush up? session, then it was time to head for the Smethwick End Police Post, where ?Im Indoors awaited my pleasure. But first, I had to negotiate the length of the main room, where just about every Baggie in sight was watching the England World Cup rugger match on the big screen; not easy, when everyone?s jammed in like cheapo sardines, and more intent upon watching the box than where they?re putting their great plates of meat. Ow! Eventually, I did escape what was, to all intents and purposes, a giant ?scrum? of its own making, and found my other half bawling fit to bust, and waving Dicks around like there was no tomorrow, in our usual spot.

I hadn?t been there that long, when a Norwich supporter approached me desirous of purchasing my wares. Anyway, once he?d flashed the cash, and I my Dick, we got talking, and eventually, (I don?t know why!) the subject then turned to that of other clubs? supporters, and how cordial relationships were with them.

?We don?t bother with the Premiership a lot, now, ? was the reply, ?But the first result we do check is Wolves, to see whether they?ve lost or not!? Clearly no love lost there, I decided, and how right my thoughts were to prove to be. Just you wait and see!

A sudden lull in selling-activities, and a rare chance to take stock of my surroundings; around me, the sun blazed down from a cloudless sky, and although there was a stiffish breeze blowing the gold, orange and red fallen leaves around, there was no real need for to put my coat on, as the temperatures were holding up well ? as was something else. As I casually gazed heavenwards, I happened to catch sight of a hot-air balloon, gliding serenely about 5,000 feet above all the torment and angst that called itself West Bromwich Albion Football Club ? and a sudden thought struck me.

?Hey, look,? I shouted to some supporters across the road who knew me, ?Our manager?s arrived ? and he?s supplied the fuel himself; every time he opens his mouth, the balloon re-inflates!?

Yes, I know, the old ones are the best, but you?ve got to have a laugh sometimes, haven?t you? Later still, another mirth-making incident, this time from Bill Inkson of Bridgnorth, and it concerned a photograph he gave me, and having seen it, I was still chuckling about twenty minutes later. What was on it? Ah, that would be telling, but I promise you faithfully it?ll be in the next issue of the fanzine! Think ?signs on car parks? and you?re getting warm. Oh, and a nice big ?hello? to the lad that came over from The Big Apple to see us play. Sorry, I didn?t get your name, but you were the one who told me you read this column on a daily basis. Good on yer, blue!

So much for the hilarity; time, now, to enter what we regard as ?church? ? no usher on the door, but an electronic turnstile to contend with instead. Incidentally, I?m told by Steve The Miser, no less, that he has yet to see those situated on the Brummie work properly. To date, although our sellers have been leaving their pitches some 20 minutes before the kick-off, because of the attendant chaos encountered outside the entrances when trying to get in, they?ve invariably missed the start. Not only that, The Fart tells me there are still problems with the East Stand as well. Personally, we haven?t had much bother, but in case there are frustrated supporters out there reading this, here?s a couple of tips that might help. First off, make sure you use the card with the little white figure facing you, and right way up, then place it on the little reader in the wall; both arrow-lights should be at ?red? at that stage. Then, simply watch for them to change to ?green?, and you?re in. Don?t bother listening for the ?click? of the mechanism, just go by the lights. It works for me every time.

Inside, then, and some very strange team news. Big Bertha dropped ? I guess those mistakes leading to the goals in midweek really queered his pitch with our gaffer ? and Wallwork, of all people, plus debutant Robinson, most definitely in. Was this wise? As for Norwich, no Huckerby (whoopee!), and no Crouch ? on the bench ? either. Oh ? and another piece of ullage I?d clean forgotten about, bloody Iwan Roberts, was in their opening line-up as well. Aargh! And, intriguingly enough, the visitors had the word ?Proton? plastered right across the front of their shirts. With that there, let?s just hope they never draw Arsenal in the Cup. Why? It?s been a long time since I did chemistry, but what precisely happens when a ?proton? meets an O2 molecule? That?s what the Gunners have on their shirts! Subatomic particles or not, they went for a very-visible 4-5-1 sort of formation, which suggested the next hour and a half was going to be a dour struggle. And that?s precisely what happened, children. Not long into the first half, the war of attrition was lightened somewhat when the Smethwick End, as one, began singing, ?Stand up if you hate the Wolves!? Bog-standard stuff, but no sooner had the tune left their lips, just about every Canary in the away end ? and there were an awful lot of ?em, believe you me - rose to their feet in solidarity with those admirably-put sentiments, to much warm applause from the rest of the ground. See ? I told you they absolutely loathed and detested our neighbours! This then prompted a chant of, ?We only hate Wolves and Ipswich!? from the visitors, and our lot, not to be out-done, quickly retaliated with, ?We only hate Wolverhampton!? Childish to an outsider, probably, but to a football supporter, real guffaw-making stuff. Better than obscenities any time.

Meanwhile, back on the pitch, we were really trying hard to get the taint of the Sheffield United game out of our system. Too hard, perhaps? Certainly, stupid errors were being made time and time again; nothing flash, just basic stuff, like losing the ball to the opposition when under little or no pressure, easy passes sliced, either out of the field of play, or to an opposing player. I suspect our finest, acutely aware that they?d stuffed up the previous game, were desperately trying not to incur the wrath of their leader once more, hence the nervousness about it all. For all that, though, we did have our fair share of chances; both Wallwork (honest!) and Rob Hulse went narrowly close, but we had to wait until ten minutes before the break for a ? erm ? breakthrough, and boy, was it worth waiting for! Mr. Wallwork, he of the famously non-smiling visage (bet even Leonardo da Vinci would look askance if asked to allow Ronnie to be the model for that famous Mona Lisa painting!) was the instigator of the deed, by finding our Jase on the left. He then made it look oh so easy by beating one predatory Canary, then unleashing what amounted to a sphere-shaped thunderbolt from the edge of the box. Right in the top right-hand corner it landed, too. Class, pure class, and thanks to Jason?s enterprise, we?d managed to get off the mark, and at just the right time, as well.

It?s at this point, I?ll bring the referee into the equation. Thus far, the man in black, a certain Mr. Salisbury, had proved to be an irritation to both sides by adopting a policy that embraced the concept of ?letting the game flow?. Fine, I suppose, but by so doing, he was also letting go a good deal of stuff that really belonged on the pages of what used to be known as a ?penny-dreadful? as well. Unsurprisingly, both sets of supporters were less than enamoured of this, but his finest moment came not long before the interval, when our old friend (and ex-Dingle) Roberts appeared to bring down Bernt Hass well inside the box. Even the lino was indicating the spot-kick ? a no-brainer, we thought. Wrong! Instead, the official, who must have been in great need of a white stick plus guide-dog, over-ruled his mate with the flag, then indicated the free-kick be taken outside the area instead, also booking the crazed Canary by way of (poor) consolation! Now hang on a minute; I know I?ve had reason to visit the optician this week, but although I appear to be in great need of new specs myself, even I could see it was a flaming penalty, so why the hell didn?t Chummy? This might have cost us; just before the interval, that man Roberts managed to put the ball in the hole himself, but fortunately, the lino?s flag came to the rescue ? and thankfully, idiot features in the middle didn?t feel inclined to rule otherwise on that one!

After the break, Norwich decided to change things, bringing on McVeigh for Mark Rivers. By doing this it appeared they wanted to go with one up-front, with a packed midfield and everyone but Delia Smith plus saucepans and her bloody Maldon salt pushing up as well. And, not long afterwards, the moment we?d all waited for! Up popped mobile-lamp-post Crouch from the dug-out; clearly he was being readied for action. Someone several rows behind me had also clocked this: ?Sit down, Crouch ? I can?t bloody see the game!? was the cry, to much hilarity from the travel-rugs and vacuum flasks gathered within! Moments later, the change was made; on came six foot seven of sod-all, and off came the Norfolk Child-Scarer aka Mr. Roberts, to many sighs of relief from anxious parents not wishing to lose too much sleep soothing their terrified offspring tonight. Not long after that, we really should have sealed it; when Dobie, for once, eluded his jailers and ran clear with the ball, but instead of finishing the job himself, he unselfishly laid it off to new-bug Robinson. Unfortunately, whatever skills Watford had managed to inculcate into him, they didn?t include finishing; the shot went over the bar, rugby-fashion.

Come the last 20, a change of striker. Off went Hulse, and on came Hughsie, and come the swop, come the start of a really torrid spell for us. Could we get the sodding ball out of our own half of the pitch? Could we hell. The trouble was, with the scent of victory in our nostrils, we were trying desperately not to screw up, and in our efforts to do so, we were simply making matters worse! Time and time again, simple passes were intercepted by the opposition, or balls meant for colleagues going to a Canary instead. So bad had we become, we were even losing possession on the edge of our own box; even Houlty seemed to be caught up by this strange malady, and had one of his clearances charged down by McVeigh. Fortunately, the ball eluded everyone and bounced out of harm?s way. $p ?Do something, Megson!? bawled The Bloke At The Back once more.

?You can?t say that!? said one of our chums, recoiling in mock-horror at this unexpectedly-frank criticism of The Dear Leader?s game-plan.

?-?Cos if you do,? interjected this column, ?A certain local broadcaster will have your guts for garters on-air for sure!?

Ten minutes or so from time, our manager decided to bring Sakiri into the fray, at the expense of Dobie. I guess Meggo was trying to instil into the game something other than the desperate hoof-and-hope stuff we?d lately been enduring. Sadly it didn?t work, but the suicide-pills were certainly still giving it a good go. It was a good job Gilly was on the case when, not long before the finish, the Mobile String-Bean nearly nutted one in; thanks to our lad?s timely intervention, the ball took a long lazy walk around the running-track instead. And while we were getting our breath back from that one, Hughsie nearly settled the matter for all time, but our bald-headed striker, being on something of a downer at the moment, instead of getting his name on the score-sheet, only succeeded in scraping some flecks of paint off the upright. So now you know why both John and myself were real basket-cases come that last ten; all I could see was my bald and bespectacled chum burying his face in the depths of the seat, and making soft moaning noises! As for me, my bulging eyes, ditto neck veins, must have made one hell of a sight!

One last heave for a Norwich corner, then. Up came their keeper, to our box, in keeping with the current fashion for First Division custodians to partake in a little attacking (and scoring) themselves. Fortunately, Houlty had cast off whatever malady had plagued his judgment earlier, and went on to made the catch look easy. Not so easy was his opposite-number?s mad dash back to his own kennel; well, if you knew there was a mad Irish, red-headed Baggie about to unleash one from a distance on your unguarded spot of real-estate, what would you do? Fortunately for him, it was James O?Connor we were talking about, and the hopeful effort came to naught. A time-wasting swop of Gilly for Volmer, a nerve-racking few seconds more, then the whistle blew ? and we could all breathe easily once again. Just as well, really ? I don?t think my nerves could have stood much more!

At least the win means we?re now second in the heap, and just behind Wigan, who won, as did fellow-travellers Sunderland. Surprisingly, the Blades lost at The Den ? see, they must have bad days at the office as well! ? and The Hammers drew. As I see it, if we can sort our Wimbledon on Tuesday, there?s a possibility of us going top again. When coming out of the ground, and chewing the fat generally about the game, although it really had been a nerve-jangling mess at the end, it was three more vital points in the bag for us, and upon that foundation, we can now build. We were as nervy as hell today, but now we?ve got back into winning ways once more, confidence will have sprung anew, and with any luck, we?ll really give The Franchise something to think about next week. Interestingly enough, after the game, Trevor Brooking was commenting on national radio about his side?s under-performance today, and cited our habit of winning games by the odd goal as something his own side should aspire towards! Hey, and when even the pundits are holding you up as a shining example to the rest of the aspirants, things can?t be all that bad, can they? I just hope my GP agrees when I visit his surgery to collect the nerve-pills!

And finally?.. The other day, I was speculating upon the imminent departure from the Cotswold area of a certain Mr. Gould. Guess what, kiddywinkles? It?s happened! Apparently, Cheltenham have now put first-team coach Bob Bloomer in temporary charge while they sort out a new gaffer. According to the blurb, the Cheltenham chairman softened the blow by saying Gouldy had been ?treated appallingly by the local media?. Now when did I last hear that sort of thing? I wonder if Bob now fancies making a first step into management? A shame that we?ve seen the last of our Looney Tunes former gaffer; why did he have to get the bullet just as I was digging my old undertaker?s get-up from Shrewsbury from the depths of our attic? Some people have absolutely no sense of humour, sometimes!

 - Glynis Wright

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