The Diary

21 April 2003: A Bank Holiday Battering

You know what? After today's little lot - that maddening defeat this afternoon against a side we should have sorted out, no messing, plus The Dingles' 2-0 triumph at Carrow Road this evening, I'm beginning to feel a smidgen of sympathy for Bob Geldof and former Baggies striker (alleged!) Fabian De Freitas. Why? Simple: both, for various reasons, expressed the viewpoint "I Don't like Mondays"! True, Geldof earned a packet from stating these sentiments when with The Boomtown Rats, while poor Fab's only reward was an express single fare out of the Black Country and back to the Continent; the difference in remuneration arose because while Geldof had talent in abundance, Fab had - errrrr.. Anyway, to cut to the chase once more, after today's disappointments, I have to say I'm not keen (Keane?) on them either - Mondays, that is, not Geldof and Fab! - especially those of the Easter persuasion. At least the weather was half-decent today, which was a bonus of sorts.

It was in The Throstle Club that the craziness began. Normally, an hour or so's sojourn in the company of Baggies I've known for years is an excellent pre-match aperitif; stimulates the jaded palate and all that, but today was different. It started - as you do - with the doorman. I'd just been saying to someone that of the four Albion relegations I'd seen, last Saturday's was the only one where I'd exited the ground with a smile on my face; unfortunately, the gentleman on the door overheard this, got the wrong end of the stick completely, and demanded to know why. OK - it's a bit of a hefty concept to explain, so I did, at great length - I think I won him over in the end, but you never know with these things, do you? And then, along came Sauce. For those of you who don't know, Sauce - real name John, plus some impossible Polish surname or another I can't pronounce, which is why people tend to call him - er, quite - is the guy who runs an alternative away-travel service for Baggies who prefer a liquid lunch prior to games, and takes GD as a bulk-order to offer to his customers en-route.

After the usual pleasantries, the discussion then turned to all those pre-season friendlies I mentioned the other day, and whether he would be running his usual trip to Greve. Now this is where the fun starts; eager to know more about the dates for the Greve thing, yesterday, we emailed Benny, who is to Greve what Alan Cleverly, Dave Bowler and Finbarr combined are to the Baggies - and he replied he didn't know anything at all about it! Ooer - had Chris got it right, we wondered. Anyway, our little hirsute Danish friend is going to ask the team manager about it today, and hopefully, we'll then get confirmation; I'm sure the info's kosher, as it was given out in both the Mail and the Argus on Saturday night. Confirmation of the date for the Plymouth game - the 2nd of August, kick-off 3 pm.- was given on their website recently. As for the rest, just watch this space for developments..

On, then, to our little selling-spot, to shift the remainder of our stock. Well, I would have done, but 'twixt the Ladies and the entrance, I was grabbed by various Baggie-folkies who had queries of one sort or another, and it was around ten minutes later I finally got to Ground Zero, where my other half was already shouting himself hoarse. And, within minutes, so was I. Great also to meet up with various folkies I never normally see, and only know via the medium of this column; Tony Madigan from The Emerald Isle is even going to give us gen on Irish League games being played while we're out there on our hols in about a month's time. We have been before, but of Irish footie, I know rock-all. Having competitive games in the summer's a new concept for them, apparently, but both of us being of masochistic tendencies, it's a case of 'where there's a game, there's a way'!

As kick-off time drew nearer, something rather puzzling happened, or, to be more precise, didn't; normally, we have to knock our selling activities on the head around 2.35 to join the rapidly-expanding queue for the turnstiles, which usually stretches halfway down Halfords Lane by then, but on this occasion, there was nary a sprinkling around the entrances, let alone a full-blown, read-the-Riot-Act-type mob. What the hell was going on? And, once inside, we still couldn't solve the mystery either as most of the seats seemed to have bums firmly planted on them. I can only assume the matchday habits of people differ on public holidays and they come earlier, thereby preventing that annoying last-minute surge. Still, at least we managed to shift what remaining stock we had, thereby clearing the decks for the next delivery of Dicks this Thursday, which - shameful plug-alert! - will be on sale for the Liverpool thrash. Oh, one other thing. Much to my amazement, a nameless Baggie, tall, gangly, fair-haired, of latent Dingle-tendencies, who has a bad case of totally-unrequited love for me - I've mentioned him before in this column, so regulars will know who I'm on about - went up to the copper standing behind me, shook him by the hand and said "Yow all roight, mate?" Somewhat taken aback by this, after he'd gone, I asked that upholder of the law whether he knew my 'chum' to which the constabulary reply was: "Never met him before in my life - although I might have locked him up a few times!.."

Back to the game, then. Our second in 48 hours, essentially, but changes were minimal. In came Jase up front, plus Ify, the rest was 'as you were'. Poor sods, they must be absolutely knackered. The early part of the proceedings seemed pretty even, with both sets of combatants trying, but failing - and then, along came Deech to upset the balance of power. The supplier of the bullet was Scouse Jase, the marksman was Deech. A cross from the former, a header from the latter - Wan-Nil, as the away supporters would have put it. Spurred - no pun intended, honest - by the urgings of the faithful, whose gleeful repertoire included that Stadium Of Light favourite: "I go down, you go down, we all go down together/Come back up, win the Cup, kick **** out the Villa!" plus, on this religious day of days, the 23rd Psalm, our finest began to shift the ball around with not a little confidence. Clearly, the pressure of relegation being off helped; Jase teased, tormented and plucked The Cockerels in no uncertain fashion, thereby earning himself another choice collection of fouls against, which, if my memory serves me correctly, has now reached a grand total of 113; it won't surprise you much to learn that Our Jase is the most-fouled player in the Prem. Why he hasn't clocked up a few spot-kicks amongst that lot is one of life's enigmas, like the Marie Celeste, or the Bermuda Triangle; solve those two and you're well on the way to explaining a few things about Premiership referees as well.

The moment which completely encapsulated our entire season, though, happened about ten minutes before the interval; what happened was this. Jason Roberts, for once, managed to escape the attentions of his jailer, and broke completely free with the bladder, taking it the whole length of the defender-denuded Tottingham half, then plonking it in fine style beyond the reach of a despairing Kellar. Two-nil? Don't be silly, this is Albion we're talking about! For reasons that still completely escape me, the man in black then called play back for a Spurs free-kick instead. My other half reckons the problem was a bit of crafty shirt-pulling from Our Jase the crucial moment he broke free, but I must say I didn't see anything particularly wrong, and judging from the body-language of those closer to the incident, neither did they. In any case, much of the same thing had been going on the entire game, about six of one and half a dozen of the other, but I didn't see the ref blowing for it then. Just to add insult to injury, a couple of minutes later, our striker was clobbered yet again, but the ref chose to wave 'play on'. A covey of furious Baggies surrounded the whistler, but this only resulted in Siggy being booked for his troubles; within minutes, a much put-upon Jase finally lost his cool and he went into the book as well. That marked the turning-point of the game, really. Just before half-time, we lost our composure for a moment, and Keane took advantage to equalise. Yet another reason why the words 'justice' and 'West Bromwich Albion' don't sit easily together.

Come the interval, come the appearance of SuperBob on the pitch, to much applause. He was only there to present some cheques to various charities - in my opinion, he should have been wearing a blue and white striped shirt and not a suit, but that's all by the way - but even then I was struck by his outgoing charm with the fund-raisers during the presentations, and the nagging feeling we were going to lose a terrific ambassador for the club come the end of term, not to mention a brilliant role-model for the kids. That all done with, it was then time for the second course. And, at first, it appeared we were going to carry on as we'd started - taking the game to the visitors. Jason terrorised Totttingham, and Scouse Jase was enjoying himself as well; between them, they carved out several chances, and we really should have capitalised.

Seemingly exasperated with the antics of Ify, Meggo then sent Clem on in his place around the middle of the half; a very timely entrance, if I may say so. A couple of minutes later, Deech was fouled some way away from the danger-zone, but Spurs argued, and, for once, the official took exception to their protestations, moving the whole caboodle ten yards further forward. Up stepped Clem - "Blimey, are you sure?" says I - and as if by way of reply, he belted the thing without hesitation, and its flight and trajectory completely evaded Kellar - two-one. That should have been it, and but for our capacity to completely stuff up at unexpected moments, it would have been. Personally, I feel AJ should bear some responsibility for this one. Instead of hoofing the thing all the way to the asteroid belt, he pussy-footed around instead, and conceded on the edge of the box. The cross from the free-kick went into the mixer, a North Londoner hit the post, and a lurking Sheringham packed the rebound away.

That unexpected goal knocked most of the stuffing out of out lot; from there on in, it was a case of 'when', not 'if' as far as a Spurs winner was concerned. The visitors surged forward time and time again, and although Deech was subbed for Dobes, Canute-like, our finest could do sod-all to stop the rot. And yes, we could have had a penalty at the other end, but seemingly, we've had our token one for the season, so no joy there either! Come on, what did you expect? Jam on it? The end finally came just before the- erm - end, when Keane brilliantly broke away from our defence and plonked the ball firmly into the top corner of the basket, much to the joy of their supporting cast. Roll on The Nationwide, that's what I say?.

And finally? One. You've heard of pre-emptive strikes, courtesy of the late war, haven't you? Well, I'm going to have one of my own, before 'Im Indoors gets the word around good and proper. What happened was this: first off, last night, I erroneously mentioned Liverpool and not Spurs, as constituting our opposition today. Come on, it was around two in the morning! So tickled was my other half by this gaffe, he kept reminding me of it before, during, and after the game. And, as if that wasn't enough, when selling before today's proceedings, I had so many enquirers asking me if our 'zine was the "Official Programme", for one awful moment, I completely forgot myself, and started yelling "Grorty Dick - Albion Programme!" much to the amusement of 'Im Indoors again. How many years do you get for murdering husbands?..

Two? This one's dead serious. I was saddened to read today that former temporary Baggie Uwe Rosler had been diagnosed with chest cancer at the comparatively young age of 35. From the description given in the press, it sounds to me as though it's a cancer of the chest wall, as opposed to lung cancer proper. If that's the case, he's dead unlucky, as it's pretty rare. I 'm not particularly au fait with the nitty gritty of that condition myself, but according to reports, the quacks reckon it's eminently treatable, and they've caught it early. I'm sure everyone reading this will endorse my wish that whatever treatment is deemed necessary will prove successful, and Uwe will continue to lead a happy and productive life for many years to come.

 - Glynis Wright

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