The Diary

30 October 2003: Toon Toppled By Boinging Baggies!

?Because we have no Champions league, The Carling Cup is more important to us this year than it was last year.?

(Bobby Robson, in tonight?s programme.)

?If that?s the case, then why didn?t you play bloody Shearer right from the start??

(The Noise, after he?d finally finished sniggering!)

Yes, I know I said I wasn?t going to do a diary entry tonight, but the adrenalin?s still flowing like a tap with a busted washer, and sometimes, a gel?s got to do what a gel?s got to do! Come on, admit it; who the hell saw that coming tonight? I certainly didn?t, in fact, as I wrote yesterday (the day before?), I was quite prepared to simply write the whole thing off, and I?m willing to lay whatever odds you like, so had most Baggies, if the truth were known. Even Mystic Mog, bless her black fur and bristling whiskers, would have had trouble predicting that bloody lot in her leetle crystal ball, so it?s hardly surprising quite a few so-called ?experts? got it wrong as well. Newcastle one, Albion two, and Man Urinal in the next round. A fluke? Nope, we thoroughly deserved that win; in fact, as extra-time ran its inexorable course towards the end of the second period, it was we who, at times, began to look the stronger, more confident side. Not so much a smash-and-grab raid, more like justice finally (and belatedly) done for the travesty ? that ?backpass? that wasn?t, and the penalty that was rightfully ours, denied - we witnessed during last season?s Premiership encounter. As The Noise remarked, somewhat emotionally, as we exited the ground, ?What goes around comes around,? and as far as I?m concerned, after last season, those Geordies had it coming in heaps.

Just one thing gets, me, though, and it?s a thought I voiced to ?Im Indoors moments after we?d dropped The Fart back at his gaff. Just how in the name of God can a side who played so abysmally against Wimbledon just eight days previously suddenly turn it on in a stadium packed to the gunnels with millions of Geordies baying for blood? Sure, I know; Wimbledon came with but one aim in mind, to defend grimly, no matter what, and they succeeded beyond their wildest dreams. The Toon, on the other hand, chucked everything they had at us, the whole MFI fitted kitchen, never mind the sink, and that was their downfall; we like sides who do that. Don?t forget, this was a Newcastle side that was on something of a roll; they?d won their last five encounters, and, as The Noise informed me afterwards, that first goal from us was the only puncturing of their defence (all competitions) since August 30th. The more I think about it, the more Albion seem to resemble a flighty lover; one minute they tease, they tantalise, they spurn your advances, leaving you totally deflated, the next, they seduce, they beguile, they excite, they thrill you with the climax, and you?re left with the pleasurable warmth of the afterglow, and still lusting for more. They?ve been doing that to me for the past 40 years or more, now, and I still haven?t quite figured it out!

But ? back to the beginning of this saga. Newcastle, new note-book, new (ish!) mode of travel to a game, by coach, this time. Well, almost; you might remember that during our promotion season, we travelled to Millwall, and, last time around, West Ham this way, mainly because of the horrendous distances involved. Tonight was no exception; St James?s Park in midweek is no joke at all, which explains why we enlisted the aid of the lovely, elegant and talented Sauce to take us there. Quite useful, actually, because I drafted most of the notes for tonight?s effort en-route both there and back. Once on board in West Bromwich, I was quite amused to find we had grabbed seats immediately behind the toilet entrance ? had we Dick Eds finally found our rightful station in life? It was a pretty accurate indication of the amount of beer imbibed by some of our fellow-travellers; we?d hardly settled down in our sockets when the first of many ?visitors? trundled along to pay their respects to ?the throne?. Mind you, our real moment of dread came when we were on the motorway; also on that coach was a former colleague of mine, one Steve Brookes, known to all and sundry as ?Brooksie?, and he chose that precise moment to explore the possibilities of excretion at 60 or 70 miles per hour. This wouldn?t have mattered too much, but Steve?s anal sphincter, plus well-matured and booze-fuelled contents, is the nearest thing Albion have to a weapon of mass-destruction. Fortunately, we were spared the smellier aspects of Steve?s room-clearing ?act? today; believe you me, once sniffed, never forgotten!

As we progressed towards the northern aspect of Derbyshire, we were treated, on video, to a rerun of Albion?s final-day triumph versus Crystal Palace, some two seasons ago. You know what, seeing that build-up once more, the drama of Wolves taking the lead at Sheffield Wednesday, that top-notch save early doors by Houlty, big Dave?s opener, and SuperBob?s killer, brought it all back in an emotional rush once more. Happy days! And, once that was over, we found yet another source of amusement, The Fart?s mobile phone. The problem is, he couldn?t programme in his frequently-used numbers as presets, so he asked us if we could help. No problem, we said, leave it to us ? er, not! No matter what we tried, we simply couldn?t get the blasted phone to save the numbers we told it to; baffled, we asked The Noise to have a go, and he couldn?t either. Only one thing to do, then ? ask a child, and luckily, there was one on board, Steve The Miser?s young shaver, David, aged ten (going on twenty one!), so a quick child-grabbing expedition later, we let him loose on the thing ? and guess what? Yep, young David pretty-much cracked it in minutes. While he was busily engaged in totally-embarrassing all four of us, a coach occupied by about five people sailed slowly past in the fast lane. Hearing us remark on this, David raised a cursory eyebrow, then exclaimed, in complete disgust, ?That?s the Wimbledon away support!? Out of the mouth of babes and sucklings?

Having acted as de facto ?toilet attendants? for the whole trip, we then asked the latest user, ex-Stroller ?Muttley? Moore, as he emerged, ?What about a tip, then??

He thought for a moment, then, somewhat laconically, came his answer, ?Never sit too close to the toilet on a coach!? he said. Death?s too good for him, it really is.

It was around that time we encountered the mother of all hold-ups, which centred around a tanker that had overturned in the vicinity of Dishforth, on the A1, the main trunk road to the north. It took us around an hour to slowly negotiate the queue, then the driver decided to take us on a ?Magical Mystery Tour? that incorporated the village of Yarm, just outside Middlesbrough, quite a trendy upmarket place, that, around the outskirts of Darlington, kissing the environs of Durham, to fetch up back on the A1 once more, and our final resting-place, a services on the outskirts of Newcastle, to await our police escort ? precisely the same spot we had waited some fourteen years ago. And guess what? We were kept kicking our heels again, only setting forth into the city proper at around seven. The scheduled kick-off, remember, was 7.45, and suddenly, I was getting that terrible feeling of deja-vu, and not a Monty Python sketch in sight. And, guess what, they took us the long way around once more. On the way in, a night-time glimpse of the Angel Of The North, the famous statue that overlooks the A1. Said resident art-critic The Fart, ?Ooh, it looks like Russell Hoult with his arms outstretched!?

To be fair, at least we had tickets this time; it wasn?t a case of ?every man/woman for his or herself? at the turnstiles, but with only 15 minutes left by the time the police deigned to let us go, it was still a close call, especially considering quite a few of us had to reach our seats via the lift (key, and the operator to go with it ?somewhere else?!). The Fart and The Noise opted for the stairs ? all 173 of ?em! Still, we managed to reach our lofty perches before both sides came out. And, once we?d reached the spot, what a view! The pitch reduced to Subbuteo-size, and the same went for the figures on and around it. Sure, we?d taken in the photogenic delights of the city by daylight last time around, but seeing the same view at night gave it a somewhat magical charm, what with the plethora of amber street-lights twinkling steadily in the distance beyond the light cast by the floodlights? pearly glow.

And, just as I was taking a picture of the scene around me, both sides entered the arena. It says something about the lateness of our arrival that numerous Baggies were still flocking in, and were to do so until well after the kick-off. And the team news? The main one, of course, was that Jason Koumas was out, and Sakiri in. As for The Toon, they?d left Alan Shearer kicking his heels on the bench, and Lua Lua his replacement, hence my opening quote. As both sides got the show on the road, the most I could hope for was a result that didn?t embarrass us too much, but an early save from Houlty apart, as the game progressed, it began to emerge that the home side weren?t going to have it all their own way, and as the realisation hit our away contingent, we stepped up the noise-level accordingly. The home supporters, for their part, acted just like typical Premiership followers, the sort we?d seen so many times last term. Simon and Garfunkel?s ?Sounds Of Silence? would have gone down a stormer, tonight! Then Newcastle, realising we hadn?t bothered to read the script left conveniently lying around by them for us, decided to step things up a gear or two. First of all, they managed to hit our crossbar then, not long afterwards, they managed to totally cock up a scoring chance that they should have potted, no bother. The Toon lad was about a dozen yards away from the target, Houlty had had it, and the goal was at his black and white striped mercy ? and he missed. Oops!

Sounds like one-way traffic, doesn?t it? But despite these fraught moments, we still managed to get the ball into their half, sometimes ? and, occasionally, gave them something to worry about. Both Sakiri and Dobes tried to make their mark on the Toon goalmouth, but their efforts went wide. It was around 15 minutes from half time, though, that we landed the home side with a truly awful shock to their system ? and judging from the silence that pervaded the ground afterwards, their supporters really hadn?t bargained for it either! Sakiri was the instigator; his corner was nutted further on its way towards the target-area by another handy Baggie, and that?s when disaster struck for Newcastle. To be honest, I?d thought Greegs was the man who had totally ruined Bobby Robson?s evening, but The Fart, listening to the local radio commentary, subsequently told me our strike was, in fact, an own-goal; the ball, in fact, struck Ameobi?s leg, and whanged into the net, amidst a crowd of players. A pause at our end, as the full realisation finally sunk in, then absolute pandemonium erupted! Two and a half thousand exultant Baggies at the other end, and way, way above all the action, all boinging as if their lives depended on it, then singing ?The Lord?s My Shepherd? at a volume that surely must have had them harking in nearby Gateshead.

As I said, that wasn?t in the script, and the home side responded by laying siege to our end. Sure, we?d taken the lead, but could we hold on to it? Corner after corner we conceded, plus a free kick viciously-struck from about thirty or forty yards, and that was when Houlty really came into his own; his custodianship was faultless, and once more, I was reminded very much of the late John Osborne, who guarded the sticks for us so splendidly way back in the sixties and seventies. If there really is ?something else? out there after we?ve kicked the bucket, then I?m certain Ossie was watching Houlty?s inspired performance out there tonight, and approving of much.

Half-time, then, and ?Im Indoors belted downstairs to ?water the horse?. He also managed to take in some of the first-half highlights, shown on Newcastle?s CCTV, but that bit didn?t come out until later. Oh, and The Fart reported an almighty scramble for programmes downstairs; our late arrival meant not all of our lot managed to lay hands on one, hence the unseemly rush for the things. At least The Noise managed to grab one, finally; at last, something to shut him up!

Out once more for the second sitting ? our lot way, way before the home side, for some unknown reason ? and off we jolly well went. Newcastle then brought a sub on, off came Viana, and on came Gary Speed, and the name proved prophetic, because they absolutely went hell for leather in search of an equaliser. Again, we asked the question, ?could we hold it?? Again, we shook our heads collectively, and said, quite emphatically, ?no?. Newcastle were out for blood, of that we were certain. Once more, our penalty-area resembled the Alamo in its latter stages; fortunately, the home side?s accuracy let them down on several occasions. In the 60th minute, Meggo decided to take off the sublime Sakiri and replace him with Ronnie Wallwork, a defender, and someone who hadn?t exactly covered himself with glory during his Albion career thus far. Groans all around, as we realised what our leader was about to do, and at the time, I honestly thought we?d written our suicide note with that substitution. From then on in, The Toon began to look more and more threatening; a goal was coming, it was simply a case of ?when?. We received the answer in the 65th minute; Newcastle absolutely tore our defence apart with a ruthless one-two, and not even Houlty could prevent the inevitable rocket-blast from about ten or so yards.

From then on in, it became distinctly unpleasant for our rearguard. The Toon forced a series of corners, and we rode our luck to an absolutely unbelievable degree. Speed had a go, and then, so did Lua Lua; it really was one-way traffic out there, and how we survived the bombardment, I?ll never know. And yet, their efforts to kill us off were gradually taking their toll, and towards the end of normal time, we began to creep back into the game once more. Just to give things a tad more zing, we introduced Hughsie to the black and white striped persuasion, who, clearly, were tiring; would extra time be our chance to put them to the sword? Once more, the referee?s whistle blew to bring normal time to a halt, and we were in unknown territory.

At first, it seemed as though The Toon had found their second-wind; not long after the restart, Houlty had to swing into action once more, as they forced Gilly into an error; that sliced ball of his must have extracted more than a few naughty words from our keeper! Meggo must have wondered also, as he was replaced by Volmer not long afterwards. Another short pause to allow Alan Shearer to take to the field of play, to great applause from their lot, of course, but not that long afterwards, ?it? happened. The strange thing was, just a few moments before, I?d been idly thinking, ?The fittest side will win this,? and bugger me down dead, hardly had my neurones sent the message whanging around my brain, when Hughsie struck. Clem was the architect of Hughsie?s finest hour; he ran at The Toon like a steam-train fuelled by dynamite, then laid it off for our tame Balti-lover to bury, which he did, no messing. His first goal for ages, and what a strike! Just one thing, though; why the hell did he run to the left hand side of the ground to celebrate? We were right at the other end of the place, and behind that goal instead. Did our hero become temporarily disorientated in his excitement, I wonder?

From then on, it was a case of simply weathering the storm again, but the difference this time was that The Toon had given their all to finish us off, and had very little in reserve to chuck at us. As I said earlier, the fittest side took the lead in extra time ? and we do ?fit? very well indeed. Our manager has seen to that, and, call him what you will, his judgment was absolutely spot-on tonight. Even so, they gave us one or two unpleasant moments as they tried to remedy the deficit, and with just a minute or so of stoppage-time left, and the black and white hordes charging on Houlty like a rampant Custer?s cavalry must have worsened one or two heart conditions out there. Then, finally, the sweet, sweet music of the ref?s whistle, and Albion were in the hat for the next round. Us four Dick Eds even did a little celebratory jig-cum-dance on the spot, plus, of course, the obligatory ?boing?. Most of the lads joined us to milk the richly-deserved applause, with a special cheer reserved for the almost-bald hero of the hour. And, of course, Houlty, my personal man of the match.

A joyful exit from the stand, and, for me, a swift trip to ground level, courtesy United?s lift. No messing, this time ? straight down. Infuriatingly, a lady we know well, Pat, had the draw on her mobile, but just as it was about to start, the lift plunged downwards, and she lost the bloody signal! Sod. Never mind, though: once on terra firma ? though not before some wind-up merchant told me we?d drawn the gold and cack! - I found out from ?Im Indoors we?d pulled Man United out of the hat ? and at home, as well! Whoopee! Hopefully, their reserve side ? surely their Champions League commitments would take precedence? ? and a bumper gate. And, maybe, yet more Cup glory? As I said to The Fart as we exited the ground, quite a bit about that game reminded me of Maine Road, 1968. A midweek Cup game against highly-fancied opposition, us taking the lead, totally against the odds, the equaliser, and that late winner. For his part, The Fart expreseed concern about O?Connor; what I hadn?t realised was he?d sustained a nasy gash on his leg, and the blood was absolutely pouring out of it, so much so that even the local commentators had expressed concern.

Back to our coach, once more, and a highly satisfactory exit from the area, but not before we?d let all those exiting (and highly-disgruntled!) Geordies know what we all felt about our victory. Rubbing it in? Maybe, but, as I said in my opener, I considered tonight?s win justice done, a pay-back, even, after what happened last season. Let?s just hope that the Sunderland game on Saturday doesn?t give us, in return, a totally-unrequited pay-back for what happened at St. James?s Park this Wednesday night.

And that?s about it for the moment. Mainly because I?m knackered! More tonight, when I?ll be reporting the doings of our reserve game, and tying up some loose ends from this one. Until then, tara.

 - Glynis Wright

Contact the Author

Diary Index