The Diary

03 March 2004: Canary Capers!

It?s me, once more, commencing post-match operations at around half one in the morning GMT, a time when most sensible people are having lovely dreams involving unlimited Tantric sex with the person of their subconscious desire, or failing that, as one particularly sad individual from Wolverhampton did once, with a bin-liner. In public. Luckily for me, I am predominantly nocturnal by habit, so it?s just a case of slogging through this on my PC until the damn thing gets finished, or my four cats finally decide they want some heavy-duty fussing. Whichever supervenes first, I suppose. But it hasn?t been a bad old day, really; a cold but sunny sojourn in those shopping areas of Norwich not already fallen prey to that pernicious disease associated with conspicuous consumption, corporate blandness, a short pit-stop in a pub near the ground, supplemented by an hour or so spent shifting fanzines. And then there was the game, a bloodless encounter as things turned out, which surprised me a bit; I genuinely thought we?d be turned over. But I?m getting a bit ahead of myself, now, so back to the beginning.

We start this tale at the precise moment The Noise walked through our door at around half-nine this merry morning, closely followed by the dulcet tones of The Fart doing precisely the same thing. I?ll tell you what, if ever someone ever gets the bright idea of starting up a branch of Worriers Anonymous, then I reckon the pair of them should be enrolled as their first members. Many were the lamentations I heard from those two gentlemen about last Saturday?s game versus Rotherham; there was much puzzlement and scratching of heads about that triple subbing, why Clem wasn?t a-playing where he oughtner, and why no Lloyd Dyer. Well, to be fair, I reckon just about everyone ended up scratching their pretty little heads to the point of terminal rawness that day. Still, off we went in the Dickmobile, and as we negotiated a rather busy Broad Street on our way round to the road from the centre to Spaghetti Junction, we then heard of a curious reversal of roles, post-Rotherham. What happened was this: The Noise is the father, and Carly is the daughter, but after the final whistle last Saturday, Carly ended up telling the Noise, as he sat in his Brummie Road seat, distraught face twisted up all pretzel-like, ?Keep calm, don?t say anything, and we?ll discuss this on our way back in the car!? This, mind, from a teenager, to her angst-ridden dad, and not the other way round!

In stark contrast to the events of two years ago ? there was an accident on the A11 late that afternoon, the resultant snarl-up meaning we didn?t arrive at the ground until about 20 minutes before kick-off - we had an absolutely clear run all the way to Norfolk, and in most glorious sunshine as well, despite the car?s thermometer telling us it was a wintry 5C out there. And, if you looked carefully enough, despite the residual chill, the first signs of the coming spring among both flora and fauna. A good example is what I call ?rook hotels?, these being several nests constructed in one tree, or, in one particular instance, several trees spaced very close together; very busy were these birds grabbing twigs and the like to brighten up the old marital home in preparation for the arrival of the kids, and in one instance, I actually spotted a nest where some enterprising avian had enlisted the assistance of a plastic carrier bag to help make the place waterproof! Blimey, I hadn?t realised evolution had worked that particular miracle among the bird population before.

Thanks to such observations, and The Noise keeping us suitably entertained, the time seemed to pass as quick as a Lee Hughes run at a keeper perceived to be in trouble, and by half-one we were very much in Norfolk?s county town, and parked up in the centre. A quick walk around the shops then beckoned, so we rapidly hoofed it, first to the market, to drift in a pleasant sort of way around the many specialist stalls, then for a crafty bag of chips, and very nice too they were, especially when consumed seated in the adjacent square, now bathed in golden sunlight. From there, it was into a small arcade (a bit like the one opposite Snow Hill Station), where numerous small emporia awaited our attention, including the famous Coleman?s Mustard Shop. This is the one that?s graced the front covers of posh Sunday newspaper supplements galore ever since Adam was a lad. You really do get what it says on the tin, because everything in this shop is made by the famous mustard company, based on the outskirts of the town; accompanying each display is both a short history of the firm, and a full explanation of how the hot stuff is turned out in quantity. Interestingly enough, as far as their workers were concerned, Colemans were of a similarly-philanthropic nature to Cadburys, and at about the same time, too. One of their innovations was the appointment of Britain?s first ever factory nurse ? in 1887!

From there, it was into other equally-delightful bijou businesses, as far removed from the designer-label worshipping corporate world of nationally-known chain stores as West Bromwich Albion is from Carlisle United ? and long may it continue. From one, The Fart managed to ferret out several fridge magnets he liked, while in another The Noise chanced upon a couple of sheep-shaped keyrings to give to his little shavers. Me? I held my fire until I reached yet another bookshop, but that was after we?d walked around the castle grounds atop a nearby hill, where I grabbed a picture of the very distant Carrow Road (great fun to stand in the lift, and sing, ?Going up, going up, going up!? as the elevator did precisely that), and we would have explored further, but the place closed around half-four, and time was getting on.

Into another nearby book shop, and a chance for a coffee break, a couple of volumes snaffled off the shelves for me, then it was into yet another little shopping-thingy, where we found Norwich?s Club Shop ? and would you believe they also do holidays, like a travel agent? I?ve seen football clubs diversify into some things, but holidays? Never. By then, it was getting rather late, so it was back to the car park for The Dickmobile, then down to the Clarence Harbour pub hard by Norwich?s ground, for those essential pre-match potations. And, when we finally got there ? we?d left our own trusty steed in a big ?pay and display? jobbie not far away ? we found the elegant, lovely and talented Anc had made it there before us. How did we know? Because the crafty sod had managed to get his jeepy jalopy on their car-park well before the crowds started to turn up. That?s how! Anyway, once inside, we quickly spotted our tame plasterer poring over a newspaper at the rear of the premises, and when we?d all parked our butts on stools, the lad had an extraordinary tale to tell. Apparently, not long before we arrived, a Norwich supporter had approached Anc ? he was wearing an Albion shirt, unsurprisingly ? and asked him whether or not Jeff Astle was playing! At first, Anc took the line I would have done in similar circumstances, and assumed the bloke was being facetious, but subsequent conversation proved he was very much on the level! Was this deplorable lack of mental capacity the result of the locals getting too attached to the farm stock - or the farmer, even? You really had to wonder!

And, not long after that, The Belly hove into sight. This was the rotund gentleman whose photo I took pre-West Ham away; besides football, his hobby is of an ecdysiast nature, i.e. he strips off to the waist a lot, and upon seeing me, he wasn?t to disappoint his audience, either. After pleading with him to ?put it away, for Gawd?s sake?, he returned to a state of full dress once more, but not before declaring his intention to bare all for his admiring public when inside the ground later. This, mind, when the mercury would be hitting freezing-point! Did the cold not bother him any, I asked, concerned hypothermia might strike in some anatomically-unusual places, once he did so. ?Nope!? was the answer: it?s at times like these you really begin to realise the truth of the old saying, ?All human life is here?, because there?s none so bizarre as that particular gentleman when he?s in the mood to shed a layer or three.

Selling beckoned shortly afterwards, so we bade our fond farewells to all Baggies in that establishment, both clothed and otherwise, then got down to business about 100 yards up the road, outside that spanking-new away end I referred top the other day. Pretty-much par for the course, with all the usual characters in attendance, plus an unusually-large sprinkling of home fans eager to purchase our prime product. So they did retain some vestige of taste and discretion, then! Above our heads, the moon rode high, and the planet Venus stood brilliant against the inky backcloth behind. A ?Premiership Venus?, as per The Fart?s ?Premiership Moon? of two seasons ago? Naw, said our sage and resident Crimean war veteran, too bright for us by far.

Time to go, then, and face whatever we had coming to us ? and I genuinely thought the whole expedition would end in tears. We?d already been told neither Hughsie nor Hulse figured in the gaffer?s plans, nor Lloyd Dyer, either, but we didn?t quite believe it until we got into the ground, and heard it with our very own lugholes. Effectively, we had Facey and The Horse supplying the firepower up front, and we had young Jay Chambo doing a man-marking job on the elegant, lovely and talented Mr. Huckerby. Much else was as we?d left it last Saturday. That was the team stuff, then, but the atmosphere inside the ground? Think ?Sheffield United?, but without all the attendant nasty undercurrents, and you?ve got it just about right. Normally Albion-Norwich encounters are quite laid-back affairs, but because of our relative League standings this time around, this one was never destined to go the same way. Indeed, as kick-off neared, the noise from the home end ratcheted up time and time again, until it reached a crescendo of Nuremburg Rally proportions: they were well up for it, make no mistake about that.

Referee Brian Curson got us away, finally ? and I suppose you could say that the first half was a time when we could have quite easily taken the lead. Certainly, the unexpected incorporation of Facey into the Albion attacking equation seemed to throw Norwich a tad; whatever crock of horrors they?d been expecting, it clearly wasn?t him. And, just like the Albion-Sheffield game, it was a thoroughly-engrossing top two scrap, full of good old-fashioned blood, snot and thunder. Young Chambo showed his man-marking mettle early doors by pretty much snuffing out the threat of Darren Huckerby, Facey pleasantly surprised both with his pace and tremendous strength, the Greegs bonce was seemingly everywhere when it mattered, and Scouse Jase also delighted; one run of his beat one, two, three bewildered Canaries in succession, Jase then struck the ball on the edge of the box ? and the Norwich keeper was relieved to see the shot narrowly shave the outside of the near post, then out for a goal kick. Unlucky.

And, talking of luck, or the lack of it, how unlucky was poor Facey about 20 minutes before the end of the first 45? What happened? As I saw it, our man beat the Canary custodian, teed up the shot, let fly with an almighty belter ? only to see one of theirs handle the ball near the line. Make no mistake about it; hand most definitely went towards ball, but the referee, doing a not-unfamiliar Three Wise Monkeys act, simply waved ?play on?. Even though the incident occurred at the other end of the pitch to where we were; because there were no other players in the vicinity, my view was totally-unobstructed, and a clear-cut penalty it was, in my book. From there, we nearly saw a disaster at the other end when Houlty made a bit of a mullock of a catch, but retrieved the situation by grabbing the rebound before Iwan Roberts?s vacuous skull could seize upon the descending sphere and do damage with it Yes, it really was end-to-end stuff. Mind you, the penalty situation could have quite easily happened in reverse not long before the interval; Chambo was very lucky not to see an early bath thanks to a very late tackle on Huckerby, also on the edge of the box. Had he walked, we would have had little room for argument, save moaning about the one we didn?t get at the other end!

Not long after that, The Horse should have done better when he evaded the close attentions of two defenders, then loosed off the thunderbolt, only to see it shave the post in similar fashion to that of Scouse Jase. And, as if not to be outdone, when the home side turned up the wick just before half-time, Houlty was in just the right place to save a Norwich header fired at what amounted to point-blank range. Then ? shades of Rotherham! One of ours ? Robinson, I think it was ? down in our box with what looked like a head injury and the referee waving ?play on? with Norwich in possession. Aargh! Luckily, the danger was ? somehow ? dissipated. Just as well the half-time whistle blew not long after that. No consolation, either, to learn from a fellow-Baggie with a mobile phone that according to the TV replay, the Facey incident was a ?bang to rights? penalty, and we should also have had another one when the same player?s shirt was pulled in the box during the course of a second incident I didn?t see.

On to the second half, then, and as we commenced operations once more, it really was looking more and more as though one goal would settle this one for once and for all. Once more, things proceeded at a similar biff-bang unrelenting pace, and both sides had commendable efforts mopped up either by their respective keepers, or by defences which were about as impermeable to sustained pressure as a the hull of a nuclear submarine. As I mentioned earlier, Facey had been a thorough nuisance to the Canaries all night, which was why I was so surprised to see him replaced in the 65th minute by Scott Dobie, back in competitive football for the first time since his injury some 7 weeks ago. Personally, I thought it was a mistake; had we stuck with what we?d got, I?m convinced the Norwich rearguard would have eventually imploded, and we would have got something to really shout about.

Midway through the half also came what would, under any other circumstances, have truly been AJ?s night; there he was, in the box, on he right end of a rebound from a Norwich defender, straight in he went with a bullet header, which, under normal circumstances, would have beaten the keeper hands-down ? but somehow, their lad managed to stop it. Time for massed Victor Meldrew-ish cries of, ?I DON?T BELIEEEVE IT!? from the away end!

Sadly, the exchange of Facey for Dobes had taken much of the impetus out of our attack, and bar for one weak Dobie effort about ten minutes from the end, we didn?t look like nicking it late doors. Never mind, though; in the interests of winding up the home and, we collectively decided to take revenge for the Canaries? incessant cries of ?HAND BALL!? whenever a Baggie got within sniffing distance of one of theirs. To do so was simple: Just fit those two words around the tune of any popular football chant you care to mention and you?ve got it! Oh, and while you?re doing that, it also helps to make the necessary arm actions, as a genuine ref would when confronted by the real thing! I think they got the message, eventually; towards the end of hostilities, perceiving they were being brutally mocked, both the volume and frequency of their protestations diminished considerably! Oh, and earlier in the game, there was time for a bit of mockery at the expense of our Black Country neighbours: what we didn?t expect was when we exhorted our own faithful to ?Stand up if you hate the Wolves!?, their entire home end would do similar! If I was a Dingle, and I knew my club had an awful reputation like that throughout football, I?d reach for the cyanide capsules like lightning, I really would!

And that was about it. Once more, a pulsating game played in typically-British fashion: no quarter given, and none expected. Probably not one for the purists watching from the warmth of their own front rooms, but in its own way, it was entertainment fit for kings. Our support? Passionate, very much involved, eager to give their Norfolk counterparts as much as they got. Bloody superb. The players? Just what is it about a bunch of blokes that prompts them to play like a bag of chips for an hour and ten minutes one day, then give it the full works just three days later? On balance, this is one we most certainly should have got something from (see my remarks re the subbing of Facey), but in lieu of that, I?ll settle for the draw; after all, prior to the game, if anyone had offered me that, I?d have snapped their bloody arms off for it.

And, when you look at what?s gone on elsewhere tonight, things haven?t worked out too badly for us. Sure, sharing the points means the same gap?s still there, but there have been bonuses. Wigan?s tryst with The Gills was postponed, so that?s one for them to rearrange; as they?re getting sucked into the relegation mire, they won?t exactly curl up and die when the rearranged game?s finally played. Oh, and is it right what I heard outside the ground tonight ? that Jason Roberts would be suspended when we play them at The Shrine in a few week?s time? The appeal against the dismissal?s failed, apparently, but I?ll only believe it when I see it in writing, disbelieving sod that I am! Reading, Ipswich lost, Sheff United won, but their threat can only be minimal now, after that disastrous recent run of theirs. West Ham drew, if I remember correctly, but watch out for Coventry, who have got quite a little run going right now, and are only a few points off the play-offs themselves. After all, they won at Cardiff tonight, and if anyone can grab all the loot there, they must be doing well; not an easy side to beat, are The Taffs. Another vital game for us, come Saturday, methinks ? but at this stage in the game, aren?t they all?

And finally?..One. I always knew there was something not quite right about our little tiler chum Anc! When having a pre-match natter in the pub tonight, it transpired that the area where Stan Collymore was allegedly indulging in his ?dogging? sexual activities is really quite close to our hero?s house. Very close, in fact. What with that, and the revelation last season he knew slightly more about a notorious West Bromwich swingers? club than was strictly good for him, I now feel that some fervent prayers for Anc?s errant soul are definitely called for. Any volunteers?

Two?? The Noise tells me he hasn?t yet had a word or several with his referee chum about Saturday?s shenanigans, but he?s working on it!

Three?. Hope the Baggie who parked his Range Rover in a nearby street ? it was a permit only zone, and poorly signposted to indicate this ? didn?t get a ticket. We made the same mistake about six or so seasons ago, and as a result, found one of these ?nastygrams? waiting for us when we left the ground after the final whistle!

 - Glynis Wright

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