The Diary

26 April 2003: Baggies Reel From Scouse Six

Oh, brother - today's inept performance really was the pits, the nadir, the all-time low, even, of our Premiership season thus far. Six bloody nil, men against boys, pea-shooters against heavy-artillery, the Iraqi army against its American counterpart, The Monster Raving Loony Party against the forces of more conventional political thought - call it what you will, but whichever way you look at it, this afternoon, our noses were well and truly rubbed into the muck. Fellow-veterans out there feel free to correct me if you wish, but the last time I remember us conceding six on our home turf was in 1968, versus Everton. Even then, we managed to bag a couple by way of reply, which is a damn sight more than we managed today. Funny to think that a couple of weeks ago, I went to a great deal of trouble to secure a ticket for today's game for my niece, Dawn, who recently flew home from Tenerife - she works there most of the year - so that she could see us play in the Prem just the once. Ironic, isn't it? The are some Saturday evenings when I'm of the opinion that a goodly dose of block-buster antidepressants wouldn't go amiss, and this just happens to be one of them; where are those Satanic Nurses when you most need them?

Talking of that august body of fine - erm - upstanding medical Baggies, thanks to a long chat I had with one of them in the Throstle Club pre-match, tonight's misery was well and truly put into perspective for me. The guy will have to remain nameless for reasons which will become immediately apparent once you've read on for a few more lines, but the essence of the tale is this. Basically, one of The Satanic Nurses is to psychiatric nursing what a consultant doctor is to medicine or surgery: i.e. A Very Big Nursing Panjandrum Indeed. He works in the inner city, and part of his clinical responsibility is towards asylum-seekers, but before you dismiss what I have to say with dark mutterings about people who 'come over here and take all our jobs/services/benefits', hear me out. Apparently, amongst them are many - Kurds, they are - who were tortured in Saddam's Iraq following the abortive uprising not long after the first Gulf War. One bloke he has dealings with was not only castrated, he also was repeatedly given severe electric shocks to his gonads beforehand, his feet were plunged into acid, and he was burned on his body also. Oh - and another helpful hint in recognising such people when you're walking around Brum; all those given this 'special attention' had a fairly large V-shaped wedge cut out of each earlobe so that the authorities out there could recognise them immediately and inflict further indignities and suffering on the poor sods whenever the mood took them. No wonder so many need psychiatric help when they arrive here. We worry about a heavy defeat; not so long back, those guys were fearing for their lives. Makes you really appreciate what you've got., doesn't it? What the hell these people must think of those mean-minded folk who write letters to local newspapers begrudging what little they do get from the state, Heaven only knows..

Going from The Throstle Club to our normal pitch afterwards, something just didn't seem right. Was it the weather? Nope, the sun was making a brave attempt to carve its way through the grey-cream clouds above. The Liverpool supporters, then? Nope - they seemed as happy as Larry, patiently waiting outside the Players Entrance for their favourites to arrive on the team coach. Give in? OK - I'll explain; for the first time in yonks we were without the services of The Noise and his small but equally-garrulous partner in crime. It wasn't a boycott of The Shrine or similar, mind; just that our brace of tame Stokies hadn't shown thus far, which was most unusual for Mart. Just as well, then, that he did finally materialise about 15 minutes after we'd commenced operations by the Police Post; the reason for the delay was, according to our co-editor, because the M6 motorway had undergone a sudden transformation into the biggest car-park in the country. Presumably, a lot of this was down to the sheer numbers of Scousers making their way to The Black Country - but what the hell. At least they got there, which is all you ask, really.

Once The Noise had quit the scene, up popped Bryn Jones, he of Bath University and scourge of Danish train guards everywhere. Wearing a face-mask of deep lilac hue, would you believe? Nothing to do with SARS, much to our collective relief. It transpired Bryn and his family had just recovered from common or garden influenza, and the masks were a courtesy to fellow-Baggies, really; they didn't want anyone else in the crowd catching their bugs. Mind you, it didn't prevent the torrent of virus-related jokes that poured on 'em both while stood there! It was not long after that our mate Anc arrived, complete with small Ancs, and shortly afterwards, something happened which had the pair of us in absolute stitches. It all started when a chap with two small kids in tow approached me, money in hand. As per usual, I took the dosh and went to give the guy his change; suddenly, he looked at our wares in a horror-stricken manner suggestive of us having delivered a libel writ into his hot little hand, or something. Rapidly thrusting the Dick in question back into my own appendage, he said "That's not the programme, is it?"

Time for my Standard Reply, then? "Er, no - it's the fanzine, programmes inside the ground.," and with that, off the little group shuffled, in the direction of the away turnstiles. A rapid exit, but not rapid enough. As they walked away, up pipes Junior in a contemptuous tone that would have had even the Duke Of Edinburgh scrabbling around for feeble excuses, "Aw, Dad! Fancy you not knowing that!" Small wonder, then, that fanzine flogging was suspended for several minutes while the pair of us wiped copious tears of laughter from our eyes, and picked ourselves off the ground where we'd both been rolling helplessly..

And then there was the game? Oh, boy, what can you say that hasn't been said already? Because of the defensive crisis I'd mentioned in yesterday's offering, we took to the field of play with a back three consisting of Greegs, Wally Wallwork and Clem; as none of these were in their recognised berths, we knew the next 90 minutes would prove enlightening, to say the least. Mind you, because of our lack of players accustomed to being at the back, we knew those who deputised were going to be in for a torrid time; what we didn't realise was that for the entire game, the visitors would give us a footballing master-class. Right from the start, it was tap-tap-tap-tappity-tap silky-smooth possession football from the visitors, almost without challenge, or even fear of challenge, but up to the point we first conceded, a quarter of an hour in, the close attentions of our makeshift defenders seemed to partially stem the tide. A botched clearance started the rout - or should I simply call it The Michael Owen Show? Away with the fairies went the aforementioned Scouser, shimmying past Baggie after Baggie, then past Houlty - bang. It was not long after that Meggo decided to change things around a little, to 4-4-2, to be precise. Blimey, whatever next - playing Bob Taylor and Lee Marshall? To be fair to our gaffer, this seemed to staunch the Scouse incursions to some extent, and we even managed a couple of forays outside our territory and into their danger area, plus several fouls on Our Jase, so when the interval came, the hope was we could limit the damage in the second period.

What is it they say about the best laid plans of mice and men? Some in our row hadn't even properly settled in their seats when Number Two made its mark on The Shrine's goal netting, closely followed, of course, by Number Three. What a defensive mess we were for those two; an adequate description of what happened absolutely eludes me right now. I suppose I could have watched the whole thing again on 'The Premiership' - my other half and The Fart did - but watching that lot would have been too painful for words, so I didn't bother. Back to the farce - er, sorry, the game - once more, and not long after we conceded, Megson decided to change things yet again; off came Wally, on came Chambo J. and we reverted back to 'the usual'. Oh, whoops?

By that time, Liverpool were running the show to an extent that was frankly embarrassing. Our morale had hit rock-bottom; to use a common Black Country phrase from my youth, we'd totally "Gid it neck." In other words, we'd plain given up in the face of overwhelming odds. Look at the old newsreel footage of World War Two surrendering armies, and you'll see similar facial expressions to those of our players today; abject defeat writ large, echoing down the ages thanks to the timely invention of celluloid 35mm film. To be quite honest, every time Liverpool had the ball, they looked likely to increase their lead, and our lot looked even more unlikely to prevent them doing so. Two more from Owen, on 61 and 67, and we were five in arrears; time, then, for some gallows humour from both The Brummie and Smethwick, ably assisted by those in the East Stand, plus lusty choruses of "We Go Down..", The 23rd Psalm, and a sustained bout of 'Boinging'. Oh, and also some ironic cheers whenever the visitors had the ball, which was all-too often. Time also for some substitutions; Dessie Lyttle for Udeze on 73, and Jordao for Greegs on 86, and swops all round on the park for those remaining; while all this was going on, Liverpool's Baros made it a sextet for the visitors, but, alas, many people had left the ground well before our humiliation was complete.

Outside, once more, after the final whistle, and more unpleasantries, this time from the hooligan element, who had gathered in Halfords Lane, and, as we discovered later, on the road leading to Smethwick Station, and in the town itself. God only knows who those people were, as none of them were wearing colours of any description; The Fart reckons someone contacted a local radio station to say the whole thing was precipitated by some ticket-less Liverpool supporters' attempts to enter The Brummie at the same time the inhabitants of that end were seeking egress from that part of the ground. I don't know the truth of the matter; all I know was I witnessed behaviour tonight I hadn't seen in years, and involving not only our own idiot element, but Liverpool supporters, of all people. Surely even the dimmest of them realised the background to the Hillsborough disaster all those years ago? Those bloody fences, put there to thwart brain-deads of similar ilk to those seen after today's game? Don't they ever learn?

So. As my mother would have said, we got a "roight thraping" today, so what happened, then? First off, we were blessed with an extemporised rearguard that simply wasn't up to the job. Secondly, the visitors were a class apart; had it not been for Houlty, the final result could have been even more embarrassing. Sure, referee Dermott Gallagher displayed all the common sense of a microcephalic gnat at times, but you can't really blame the match officials for your own failings, can you? Thirdly, Megson seemed to be completely out of his depth when trying to stem the avalanche with changed tactics towards the end. Going by what happened today, I really do fear the worst at Blackburn; because they still have a vested interest in gaining the points - they're in contention for Europe - it's not going to be the gentle end-of-season bash we'd thought. Come to think about it, the visit of Newcastle for our Premiership home finale might well prove to be equally humiliating for us; they too have designs on the Continent, and our morale being as fragile as it currently is, they'd blow us away, no bother. Is this what we meant when we said we'd go out, not with a whimper, but with a bang? Yeah, the opposition bangs in the goals, six of 'em without reply today. And us? We're the ones whimpering, all right?.

And finally? One. Despite all the gloom and doom currently heaped on the Shrine, some levity from The Satanic Nurses. Apparently, some Baggies are going to take the 'Men In Black' theme a tad further at Blackburn next Saturday; amongst other things, we're promised a refereeing Peters and Lee combo, also a Stevie Wonder impersonator, plus an ersatz David Blunkett, complete with 'guide dog'! Politically-correct it sure ain't, but what the hell. I'm sure genuinely-blind away regulars like Phil from Friar Park will join in the fun once it's all explained to them..

Two.. Apologies for my ugly mush not appearing on this newsletter last night; I only discovered today that my visage had been replaced by a gurt great red cross in a frame. I think 'Im Indoors has now cracked the glitch, so I'm going for broke for a second time tonight. What with that and my account of today's game, now you can really scare the kids before bed-time..

Three.. Go on, you know you want to! Unless Meggo has a change of heart of Damascene proportions, it's looking mighty like Monday's reserve game versus Villa - The Shrine, 7 pm. kick-off - will be SuperBob's final competitive appearance for the club. Even if you don't normally go to second-string games, what about turning up for this one for a change, and giving our soon-to-be-departed striker at least a semblance of the farewell he truly deserves? It's free for season ticket holders, remember, providing you bring your book, and even if you don't have one, you can still get into The Shrine for a few quid payable at the door?

 - Glynis Wright

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