The Diary

26 October 2003: It's, It's - A Yorkshire Blitz!

I?ll start tonight?s instalment, not by celebrating that lovely win at Rotherham, which was just what the doctor ordered, of course, but with the observation that you lot out there nearly ended up reading this column via the services of a medium, or an Ouija board, even. How come? Simple, and here?s the recipe. Take three Dick Eds (The Noise joined the Dickmobile just outside Derby, and much later) in the inside lane of a dual-carriageway running through Great Barr, and en-route for Sutton and the A38 proper. Add two other vehicles in the outside lane, one of which has its bonnet practically rammed up the fundament of the other, but both just in front of ours, then tell the driver of the rear one to overtake on the inside, but without ascertaining as to whether or not another vehicle (us!) is there or not. Chuck into the mixture a heart-stopping moment as we frantically tried to avoid being forced off the road, and up a lamp-post, or something, add in some extremely blue language (mine; I was on our mobile talking to a Dick reader at the time. Profound apologies to the gentleman concerned, it?s not that often I punctuate calls to complete strangers with a blood-curling falsetto ?F***IN? HELL!? type of scream!) then stew the lot of us in a cold adrenalin-laced sweat for about 15 minutes after the event. A close call by any other name ? trouble is, I can?t even play the harp, and a halo would look pretty damned stupid on my head. I?d much rather go where it?s warm and very wicked, thank you very much!

Once we?d managed to shake off the after-effects of that one ? strange, but true; we?d been discussing car accidents, with particular reference to my sister, who had a close call with Gabriel?s harping-party in 1970, at my stepmother?s place only last night! ? we then resumed our journey to Derby, where we were due to pick up the in-car entertainment system commonly known as The Noise. Of course, once he was firmly installed in our vehicle, the conversation then turned to the vexing question of Tuesday night, and what actually went wrong. Still with faint wisps of rage visible around his person, he reckoned that given his own way with team matters, he?d have made around eight changes to the side that started in midweek. O?Connor and Greegs would be on the bench for starters. Was Megson a lucky manager, asked The Noise? When you looked at results, and last night?s Sheffield United whoopsy, was it any surprise he asked the question? As for the game itself, Martin reckoned the midfielders played badly, as did the defenders, and in any case, the wrong side was selected to play in the first place. Why include Wallwork amongst the chosen ones? Although our manager raved about his performances in the stiffs, supporters were somewhat less enthusiastic about his abilities; our tame Stokie would have plumped for Sakiri right from the start.

By now, we were on the M1 proper, and Martin was just getting into second gear, with yet another poser for us. Was the side we had now any better then the one we had two seasons ago? Gatling-Gob?s theory was we had a much more coherent outfit then than we have now, with a much better understanding of who was responsible for what. He also postulated the theory that our leader had not developed as a manager in those intervening two years. Could he change? This then brought the revelation that his thoughts on that subject (many!) on Tuesday night had brought forth what could be termed a ?frank exchange of views? in the Brummie that night. It seems the other guy, by way of answer, kept telling The Noise to look at our lofty position in the table before moaning. This eventually riled our hero, so he then turned around to his sparring-partner and commented, ?OK ? we?re second in the table. Here, have a look at the table,? ? Martin then gave him the programme ? ?and keep doing it for the rest of the game!? Because of all this, the other Dick sellers present reckoned they were treated to far better entertainment than what was offered on the field of play ? and towards the end, when it became plain we weren?t going to rectify the damage, the other party, much chastened, yielded to the power of superior vocal forces.

There was much, much more from our vociferous little friend, so, perhaps, it was just as well Rotherham hove into sight at the precise moment Martin was waxing lyrical about the fact we hadn?t managed to sell all our tickets today! Mind you, such a lengthy discourse from The Noise is about par for the course when we travel to away fixtures; as he says, ?I just help to fill the gaps!? Although he can drive you absolutely crazy with his verbal barrages sometimes, Martin?s knowledge of football is absolutely encyclopaedic in its scope, and there?s not a lot goes on at League level that passes him by. In the past, I?ve even known Radio Five journos go to our resident motormouth for an in-depth briefing on that day?s opposition, their personnel, their strengths and their weaknesses, before even thinking of putting microphone to mouth for real. Not bad for a bloke who works on the firing-kilns at Wedgwoods Pottery in Stoke; if only he?d remember the old maxim, ?Silence is a virtue,? more often, we?d be very happy Baggies indeed!

Finally docked, we then set out for the Butcher?s Arms pub, about 8 minutes walk from Millmoor. It came recommended, so we were most disconcerted the place appeared closed, even though it was well past the opening hour of eleven in the morning. A brief surge of panic, then a bespectacled and grey-haired Mine Host suddenly materialised on the doorstep ? how the hell did he do that? ? and invited us in. To do so was a delight to those of us who remembered licenced premises as they?d been before the twin cancers of fruit-machines and juke boxes began to pervade the tranquillity of seasoned regulars. As we bought the drinks, a giggle making aside, suddenly, from The Noise, to The Old Fart, ?I was reading something about the battle of Rorke?s Drift the other day, and I thought of you!? Even funnier was the sight of ?Im Indoors trying to raise Anc on his mobile, not realising that the gentleman in question had just walked into the same pub!

The d?cor was predominantly brown suffused with shades of ?drab?, with wallpaper and paint separated by a dado-rail running the perimeter of the bar; the floor was of the spit-and sawdust variety. Hardly any custom at first, then, as the sun rose over the yardarm a little more, dribs and drabs of somewhat down-at heel locals began to arrive. Plus, of course, drinkers of the Albion variety, but not, sadly, The Drinking Family. We found out later they?d patronised Yates?s Wine Bar instead. Do they (Yates?s, not The Drinking Family) still serve Thunderbird Wine, I wonder? Pure rocket fuel, and paralysis (and total amnesic satisfaction!) guaranteed with every bottle!

As the place filled up further, the locals, initially mildly-interested watchers of the beery scene before them, then began to perk up a little. A muttered sort of conversation later, and one shift-looking individual briefly left the premises, only to return shortly afterwards with a small bag containing a quantity of distinctly-dodgy looking fags. We weren?t offered any, but some other Albion supporters were. Trouble was, one of their number just happened to be an off-duty copper! Luckily for the ?street-entrepreneur? in question, our constabulary chum wasn?t that inclined to spoil his rest-day by indulging in heavy-duty nicking, so the lad lived to sell his dubious wares another day! Oh, one other thing. Whilst there, my other half, wearing an Aussie sweatshirt, was mistaken for a ?rugger bugger?; the guy in question wanted to natter about the World Cup. No wonder we left the place at light-speed.

As for the obligatory pre-match fanzine-selling interlude (and a quick titter at a place called ?Chatterbox? over the road ? and yes, The Noise did pose there for me!) we were quite astonished by the number of people that wanted to buy our wares. We?d brought less than normal that day, thinking most people would have a Dick in their hot little hands, as it were, but it would seem the good Baggie folk of Yorkshire are suffering GD-deprivation to an astonishing degree! In between that most satisfactory selling frenzy, we also had the obligatory visit from Laraine Astle and immediate family. Good to see them all at Millmoor, and even better to hear they?ll be travelling to Newcastle also next Wednesday night. I bet our Albion Royal Family really enjoyed the fare served up for their delectation later that afternoon.

Right then, where?s the game? Right through those turnstiles down the alley, so off we jolly well went. A brief pause to flog what stock still remained, then to answer the call of more pleasurable pursuits. As it happened, our seats were a little to the left of the goalmouth, and about five rows from the front; just ideal for taking pics (unlike our mate Anc, I wasn?t hassled, even though there was a steward stationed directly in front of my perch), and dead handy to see all those luvverly goalmouth incidents. The first surprise, though, was the news Hughsie was in for Dobes, now relegated to the bench, and AJ was in for Wallwork. In the case of the former, what I had hoped would happen, and in the case of the latter, what I?d expected to happen.

The first notable incident of the game occurred just after the ?off? but it didn?t involve what happened on the field of play, as such. The problem was Jason Koumas; at first, I thought he?d split his shorts, but it later transpired he?d been ordered by the ref to change out of the white cycling shorts he was wearing underneath the navy ones. And there was I hoping to get a glimpse of his temporarily-draughty nether regions. Damn! Returning to more serious matters once more, at first, I thought Rotherham looked the more dangerous side of the two; before too long, they?d clocked up a run of half-decent chances on goal, and the shades of Tuesday night were beginning to pervade my brain once more. I needn?t have worried, though; in the 20th minute, or thereabouts, we nearly scored courtesy of the busy Rob Hulse, who went close with a header, just shaving the post with it. Not long after that, Gaardsoe also had a go from a corner; with the keeper beaten, and everyone watching thinking we?d finally cracked it, one of their rushed in, seemingly from nowhere, to belt it off the line, and out to safety.

Poor Rotherham. When they finally caved in, what an awful way to concede, and just before the interval as well. Koumas?s cross was what First World War machine-gunners might term a ?daisy-cutter?, about knee-height, mean, and nasty, in other words. It eluded every single one of our lot in front of the target, but it did find a Rotherham foot, that of Mullen, flailing his member in a desperate effort to prevent Scouse Jase?s guided missile reaching the couple of Baggies lurking on the far post. The good news? It did. The bad? The ball was deflected over the line, for an own-goal, and much rejoicing in our end. Oops! Who needs target-men when you can get the opposition to do your dirty work for you? The next minute or so could have proven nasty for us; within about a minute, Rotherham?s ?scorer?, Mullen, tried to redeem himself at the other end of the park by laying on a header for the predatory Talbot from a corner; fortunately for us, the shot had ?slice? written all over it, and the ball went harmlessly out of play instead.

After the interval, the home side started off in spirited fashion, which once more jangled the nerves of those who still had Tuesday on their minds, but about four minutes later, we wondered what all the fuss was about. AJ, who?d had quite a lively game thus far, was the architect of this one; he set up Rob Hulse with a nicely judged pass from the left, and our former Railwayman then took the ball a little further before belting the thing for all it was worth and past the desperately-diving Pollitt, thereby making it 2-0.

Their manager then tried to ring the changes with a couple of subs, but our lot had well and truly tasted blood by then. The killer-blow came around the 65th minute, when Rob Hulse laid on a repeat-performance, but this time, Scouse Jase was the evil-doer responsible for the beautifully struck pass that gave our striker the chance to bury the home side for once and all. A belter, it was, and from 20 yards or thereabouts. Game over, the same as it was at Gillingham, the main difference being Rotherham had shown much more spirit than The Gills in their attempts to keep us out, but the end result was the same. That third strike just about finished them off, and from then on, we largely coasted to victory. Pass after pass after pass, into double-figure, sometimes. Showboating? Yep, and rather a pleasant change from the comedy of errors witnessed on Tuesday night. Chant of the day? It really had to be our triumphal rendering of ?We?ve got the best (H)ass in the land?? When the home side finally won the ball back, there came an ironic sort of cheer from their end! One worrying interlude, though; about 15 minutes from the end, Jason Koumas, our tame ball-magician, was injured and had to be replaced by the ever-willing Sakiri. Worrying, I do hope he?s OK for the Newcastle League Cup marathon. Ten minutes from time, Hughsie, who had sweated blood for the cause throughout, and unlucky not to get on the score-sheet himself, was replaced by Dobes, and in injury-time, Clem was brought on for O?Connor.

Come the final whistle, much excited rejoicing as we heard Wigan had dipped at Walsall, and we were therefore top of the heap once more. Nice folkies, those Saddlers! Disbelief, also, at news from The Custard Bowl that the inbreds, having been three down versus Leicester at half-time, had managed to claw their way back to an incredible 4-3 victory. That?s the last time I ever say anything nice to a Leicester supporter, just you wait and see! Oh, and today?s game was also witnessed by a bloke ? sorry, I didn?t manage to get his name ? who?d flown all the way over from Las Vegas to watch us. Sadly, this would be his only Baggies game of the season, but one that saw us notch up our biggest away win for two years, nevertheless. Bet he won?t forget this one in a hurry. And, as we made our way towards the Dickmobile, a police officer stationed outside the ground happened to remark to The Noise, ?Your lot don?t smile a lot, do they??

Responded our frayed-tongued but happy Stokie, ?Ah, we?re all smiling inside, really?.?

A quick getaway, one of the advantages of a venue with small crowds only, and the chance to play ?Radio Ga Ga? as we rejoined the motorway just south of Sheffield. And as the strains of Freddy Mercury?s paean of praise to broadcast music bounced around the Dickmobile, I watched large skeins of geese, silhouetted against the rapidly-darkening sky, finally leave the shackles of mother earth behind them as they embarked upon their migratory journey towards warmer climes. A vagrant thought, suddenly, briefly pondered upon by this column. Come next spring, where will we be? Heading for the Premiership, but armed with a steely determination not to stuff up this time? To use a similar proverb, one swallow does not a summer make, and one away win does not a promotion make, either. The geese will undoubtedly return; that?s in the natural order of things, but will our favourite football club? My personal jury?s still out on that one.

And finally?. Spare a thought for the Dingle on Alan Green?s football phone-in tonight who texted the programme with the confession that he?d left the ground at half-time, so disgusted was he with his side?s first-half performance!

 - Glynis Wright

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