The Diary

22 April 2003: Twelve Months On?

How has your day been, then? Good? Bad? So bloody awful, you feel like joining the Foreign Legion, or, worse still, becoming a member of the Conservative party, or The Moonies? Amounts to the same thing, I suppose. The reason I ask this is because mine's been spent in quiet contemplation, not of my navel, but of the fact it's now twelve months since Big Dave and SuperBob elevated us to a position I quite honestly thought I'd never see again in my lifetime. Quite an emotional Sunday, wasn't it? All those goggle-eyed, awe-struck kids asking their dads in voices that leaked rising inflections all over the place, "That right, Dad? We're in the Premiership? Man United, Liverpool, Arsenal - at our ground? Cor!" Old farts like the Old Fart skipping around like spring lambs in the sunshine with the excitement of it all, and gadabout younger ones rapidly repairing to licenced hostelries like The Vine to sup a post-match pint or three by way of celebration, and to relive over and over again those ninety minutes with their mates, their tales of sweaty apprehension and ultimate glory sounding more and more unlikely with every additional pint purchased. Twelve months? Not a vast amount of time when compared with events like the periodicity of Halley's Comet, the lifespan of a giant redwood tree, or a life sentence that really means life, but an eventful one for us all the same; a time when West Bromwich Albion finally cast off the stuff of the nursery, began playing with the big boys, then rapidly realised that if you insist on seeking the company of those who get more pocket-money than you, and are therefore able to spend more in the sweet-shop, you rapidly find yourself pressing your grubby little nose and bulging eyeballs against the shop-window, covetously eyeing up the contents within, watching your more opulent playmates make free with the swirly lollipops, all the while realising because you lack sufficient ackers to keep up, it's back to the swings and roundabouts of the public park you go.

That was then; the 'now', of course, is the stark reality of relegation, the nagging doubt we'll have trouble emulating the feat next season, supporter-morale registering the equivalent of absolute zero on the scale, player-morale also at rock-bottom, a gaffer whose acerbic manner has upset several squad-members. All that, plus the alienation of a much-respected senior professional who, after getting us promoted with his goals in 1993, keeping us up with an impressive strike-rate two years on the bounce following that, returning from a two-year sojourn at Bolton in our hour of need and sticking a vital few in the net just at the right time, getting us into the play-offs in similar fashion the following season, then, 12 months later, the contribution of several run-in strikes, culminating in that fitting finale versus Palace, more or less gets the bum's rush for his troubles come the season's end. You really couldn't make it up, could you? As The Noise said tonight on the way to the Blackburn reserve game, the more you think about it, the more the sheer injustice of the situation rankles. Where will we be twelve months hence, I wonder? Watching Sky's knicker-elastic payments twang us back to the higher sphere once more? Making desiccated coconut of our fingernails as we contemplate the horrors of the play-offs? Angrily coming to terms with our return to mid-table torpidity? Perhaps it's just as well we lack the gift of foresight; were it otherwise, would we - could we? - last the course?

I must say that a jolly old time was had by all four Dick Eds who made the long trip to Blackburn tonight to watch our second-string's last away game of the season. We set off from GD Towers at around 3.30 in the afternoon, heading north shortly afterwards via the M6, the Old Fart in tow. Normally, until we arrive in Stoke On Trent to pick up our in-car entertainment, we spend that 45 minutes or so in contemplative silence, but today, El Tel had brought a tape with him, recorded around 1994, of Tim Beech's Radio WM interview with Tony Hale. This was The Fart being crafty - well, if you've managed to outwit most of Kaiser Bill's finest on the Western Front, you can put your mind to anything! The real reason he'd brought the tape with him was to shut The Noise up, but there was a secondary purpose in mind; comparing Hale's responses to issues raised by supporters on that phone-in to the situation that prevails now. Having agreed to wait until Motor Mouth had joined us, I simply readied the tape in the cassette, and watched awestruck the almighty tail-back that was building up on the southbound carriageway, pretty much as far back as Stafford. As it was mostly returning holiday traffic, families with kids, I was bloody glad I wasn't stuck in that little lot - especially in those cars containing families with kids!

Once we'd gained The Noise, it was time to play El Tel's tape - and immediately I was struck by the fact that for our favourite football club, some issues never seem to go away. Alan Buckley was the gaffer then, and, as I said, Tony Hale the Chairman, and the phone-in preoccupied itself with questions around the topics of the youth team, and what was being done to ensure that there was a supply of home-grown players on tap; whether The Rainbow was being redeveloped; when were we going to spend money on new players; what was being done to stem a bad run of results; was it right Lee Ashcroft was being sold; why it was we got less away tickets at Wolves, when we gave them double; one caller even rang to say what a marvellous job Bucko was doing for the club, and he was sure Alan would come up with the goods eventually! Hindsight's a wonderful thing, isn't it!....

Terry's judicious use of the tape kept The Noise suitably quiet until we were entering the gently-sunlit outskirts of the Lancashire town made famous in The Beatles' 1967 "Sergeant Pepper" album, at which point silencing measures became redundant as we weren't that far from the ground by then Because we'd made such good time on the journey up - without tearing the arse out of our speed, might I add - we'd made our destination with a good hour to spare before the 'off'. What to do, then? Simple - we made for Blackburn's Blues Caf?, adjacent to their posh bits, after doing some photography for fanzine and website purposes. To go there prior to first-team games would have been a no-no as they normally only admit members, but for reserve games, the door is ever-open. How to describe the place? Well, if you've ever been to Amsterdam and done the Ajax stadium tour, you'll have come across their caf? bar, which is a similar concept. The same deal goes for Rovers; agreed, their place is considerably larger, but they still have the same delightful mix of coffee, tea, good bar food, alcoholic beverages for those who want that sort of thing, plus wide TV screens everywhere. Tonight, VH1 was the main attraction; on matchdays, I suppose Blackburn-related stuff is piped in instead. The Noise having treated us to coffee, my fancies turned to the more substantial stuff on offer, so I ordered a cheese sandwich. Not to be outdone, The Noise then followed with a bowl of chips, and when both of these arrived, 'Im Indoors and The Fart said 'sod the calories!' or words to that effect, and made free with the old 'Freedom Fries' themselves, gurt great fat ones, they were, and very tasty with it as well; I know because I nicked some! I must say when my nosh arrived, I was pleasantly surprised; not so much a sandwich as a light meal. Side salad, crisps and chutney all thrown in as well, and all for a reasonable price. Not bad at all.

On, then, into Ewood Park proper, and a reunion with our 'away support' which disappointingly numbered around eleven, including all the usual suspects, plus a Baggie from Ramsbottom! Come on, be fair, someone has to come from Ramsbottom! As for the game, it was a nil-nil draw, made remarkable by two things. The first? The amount of talent Rovers had on display tonight; Andy Todd, Craig Hignett and Egil Otenstad, plus, allegedly, Steve Bruce's son, Alex Bruce. The last bit apart, not a bad line-up for that type of game. The second? The outstanding form of Joe Murphy, who must have pulled off at least five outstanding saves to keep us in the game, not the least of which was one courtesy of his outstretched feet; had he mistimed that one, the Rover concerned would have rampaged clear and onto the score-sheet in but the twinkling of an eye. So confident was his game, I'm now at the stage where I wouldn't weep salt tears if Houlty were to depart for pastures new and more lucrative come the end of term; being young, confident and with bags of talent, but still learning, I'm convinced Murph has more than what it takes to follow our first-choice keeper's class act. Oh - and we also discovered that the local press have got wind of our Men In Black day a week on Saturday; it would be even more of a giggle if some of the home crowd were to enter into the spirit of things also. Will anyone take up the challenge, I wonder?

Come the final whistle, and back to The Dickmobile, where the radio told us that Bristol City were beating Cardiff one-nil, further adding to their tally just as we were reaching the motorway junction. Important to us, that one, because the outcome would have a great bearing upon who eventually went up from The Second to what will be our division next season. Being of a peaceable nature, I'd much rather Cardiff scrap it out via the play-offs than do it automatically; some might want to see their more volatile/borderline-psychopathic supporters 'welcoming' us to their place next time round, but I certainly don't. Having lived in the Bristol area for many years, I know what Cardiff's lot can be like, so thanks - but no, thanks!

And finally? One. Megson-watch? I didn't say I was silly! Come the interval, The Noise reckoned he'd spotted our manager in the empty stand opposite, but closer examination revealed it to be Lord Lucan, with Elvis Presley vending chips in the refreshment bar below. As our garrulous travelling companion said: "At least we'll be seeing Premiership grounds next season, but Megson won't!"

Two? Just what is Ally Brown, mine host at Supporters Club licenced premises playing at? Sorry I failed to mention it yesterday - these home defeats do tend to aggravate the old amnesia - but when we took our pre-match seats in The Throstle Club yesterday, I was idly perusing the beer-mat on the table, when what did I see on the thing? A bloody Wulves shirt in full colour on it, that's what! Some sort of offer it was, courtesy of a manufacturer of alcoholic beverages, but enough to leave me in grave danger of choking on my drink. Come on, Ally, do buck up! Surely you can find promotional stuff of a more congenial nature than that! Should you fail to cease and desist from displaying those items, I shall have no alternative but to revert to Middle Eastern Despot mode once more and rain down weapons of mass destruction on your premises - that's providing I can get them out of our neighbour's shed where I've stashed them just in case Hans Blix comes calling?

 - Glynis Wright

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