The Diary

14 March 2004: Railwaymen Derailed!

I have to start this one by saying I really don?t know what made me do it. Funny wotsits do come over me from time to time, but this one came right out of the blue. There I was late last night/early morning, job done, ready to pack up, finally ? but instead of shutting up shop, some cyber equivalent of the Sirens of ?Jason And The Argonaut? fame drew me inexorably to Finn?s website, and his Albion game prediction competition on there. The thing was, you see, about a fortnight earlier, I?d predicted a sharing of the points for today?s fixture versus Crewe ? and now something was telling me to sod all that and change it to a 2-1 win instead, so I did. Ooer. Perhaps there really is something in all this psychic stuff after all? Blimey, a bit more practice, and you never know, I might even be able to find those elusive six numbers on the Lottery. I live in hope.

Joking apart, though, although getting those three lovely points wasn?t half hard work at the time; the satisfaction lay in our managing to come back after conceding so stupidly in the second half, after we?d done just about everything but score for the most part of the game. Well done to the lads for not letting heads drop when it happened, and, I have to say it, well done Megson for getting those substitutions absolutely spot-on when he did. The introduction of Lloyd Dyer into the fray proved to be the catalyst that sparked our revival ? Crewe, having done their homework well, no doubt about it, put two players on him as soon as he walked onto the pitch, but it made diddly-squat difference as they were banjaxed anyway by his sheer pace ? then not long after that, Hughsie, whose one telling move was the one that led to the goal. I don?t recall him doing much apart from that. Still, he was there in exactly the right place to nick one when it mattered, and that was the important thing. Come the end of the game, it was plain for everyone to see what that win really meant to our finest; AJ, who had one of his finest-ever performances in an Albion shirt today, had pure delight written all over his face, and Houlty showed his approval by chucking his gloves into the crowd. Being the parsimonious wotsits they normally are, I don?t suppose the club will be very amused by our profligate keeper?s action when they do eventually find out about it!

I will say one thing, though ? and that?s this. No matter how many times I attend football matches before the Great Referee In The Sky finally waves the celestial red card in my face, I?ll never, ever adjust to kicking off at 5.35 on a Saturday evening. Come on, it?s just not natural, is it? What with that, and having to make a slight detour to Stoke to pick up The Noise en-route, it threw my internal gubbins out no end; a bit like making the long plane trip from Blighty to New York, then having to adjust to the time difference, I suppose. There was an additional complication; on the northbound carriageway of the M6 on the way up, we were held up by a traffic queue of gigantic proportions, and according to the overhead gantry, all due to an accident between junctions 11-13. Strange, because by the time we eventually crawled there, there was nary a wrecked car, lorry or bus to be seen. Nor a pushbike with busted wheels, even, so what that was all about, I haven?t a clue. The problem was, the delay meant we had to put off our planned cuppa at The Noise?s place until next week, and simply pull up long enough to grab our voluble friend, then away into the sunset once more.

Still, the big advantage of making for our potty potter?s neck of the woods is that Crewe is but a mere 15 miles from there, so we were able to maka-da-good progress from then on in. Parking? A doddle, at our usual spot in the nearby industrial estate, then once sorted out, to the handily placed Woolstanton pub for a quick bite to eat. Being one of those what I tend to call ?plastic pubs?, the cuisine wasn?t exactly to die for, but fish chips and peas in warm and civilised surroundings seemed a nice sort of idea at the time. I had, in fact, been wrestling with the idea of grabbing a bite to eat at the chippy by the ground, but, as you?ll see later, my choice of the pub turned out to be a pretty sound one. Again, I?m left wondering about this ?psychic? business!

Into the pub, then, and although we were comparatively early, there was a pretty good Albion presence in the place, and just about everyone in the sacred stripes happily mopping up their choice of cuisine as if food were about to go out of fashion. OH, and just to make the whole thing a little more surreal, chuntering away in the foreground was a fruit machine that seemed to be completely locked into a severe anxiety state. How else do you explain the fact that it kept wailing, ?Oh God!, Oh God!, Oh God!?.? ad nauseam? And yes, you did read that correctly, it was the fruit machine doing it, and no, I wasn?t on anything illegal either ? unless you feel constrained to class the great quantity of ?Victory V? throat lozenges I had in my bag as a controlled drug!

It took us one hell of a struggle to find ourselves a table, but we did eventually, thanks to some Warwick Baggies who wanted to explore the town further before going to the game. The trouble was, when we ordered the food, the bar staff told us there was absolutely no possibility we could be served at that table ? it was Number Five, or nothing, so once more, we struck out tents in the night and departed. And, to be fair, the food wasn?t long in coming; fish and chips for me, and a garlicky thing for ?Im Indoors. The Noise and The Fart and already partaken of manna so it was just us against the world. And Crewe, of course.

Bellies full, it was then time to venture out into the Great Wide Open ? and, arriving at the ground proper, I got one hell of a shock. The chippy on Gresty Road was closed, and on a matchday, as well! I simply couldn?t believe it ? until I finally heard the story, that was, so before I explain any further, perhaps I ought to enlarge upon my previous relationship with that particular purveyor of fine fried food.

Thirty years ago, I was an impoverished student in the area (well, with most of my spare cash going on watching The Baggies, what do you expect?) and that chippy became a regular part of my eating-patterns every time I ventured into the town. Bloody lovely, they were, and done properly as well, too, in dripping, not the oily rubbish they tend to use these days. And, once Crewe entered our division from The Second, the first time we played them away, I eagerly reacquainted myself with the place, despite great expectations of being disappointed that time round. After all, they say you should never go back, don?t they? But nope. Those chips were still veritable ambrosia to my dripping-starved palate, just as I remembered them, all those years ago, and, as I said earlier, today, I had wrestled with my conscience somewhat prior to entering the pub, but to my eternal shame, succumbed to the blandishments of modernity instead. And now, here I was, in Gresty Road ? and no chippy! What had happened? Well, according to Anc and his little band of camp-followers, a few days previously, there had been a bad fire there, and the place had been well and truly put out of commission as a result of the conflagration there. So no chips, much to the chagrin of many Baggies who also knew good ?uns when they saw ?em.

There might not have been much in the way of fried food up for grabs in that street, but what there was instead were loads of Baggies, all swarming around us like flies to a jam-pot, and all because The Fart was making free with a tranny radio he?d brought with him. Being the ?elder statesman? of our group, if you like, when Tel rummaged in that infamous bag of his, then emerged triumphant, I was expecting to see a device of much more ancient origin, on the lines of a crystal set, completes with earphones, and ?cat?s whisker?. Oh, and not forgetting the tinny voice of Lord Haw-Haw ? ?Gairmany calling, Gairmany calling!? ? emanating from the speaker in true Word War Two style. Instead, what we got was the much less belligerent tones of Radio Five and the latest scores from all the matches that affected our position in the heap ? and I still can?t come to terms with listening to scores from games already in progress whilst waiting for ours to start. Most odd.

Still, as final whistle time approached, most results did seem to be going the Baggie way, more or less, with the notable exception of bloody Sheffield United ? but then again, since when was Neil Warnock ever a bloke to meekly gust in the prevailing wind? Nope, as they stood ? Norwich losing at Cardiff, The Hammers getting hammered at Sunderland, Wigan dropping those two points at Bradford, and all greeted with great whoops of joy from our ?audience? - those very glad tidings indeed presented us with an excellent opportunity to close the gap on the Canaries once more, and put just a little more clear blue water between ourselves and the next in line: the problem was, would we grab that glorious chance with both hands tonight, or completely stuff up? And, Dicks almost sold, just before we went in, along came Laraine Astle complete with loads of other Astles, both big and small. Plus, of course, young Matthew, star turn as mascot just before the Coventry game. As I said to him, ?Remember that, because in another twelve years time, you?ll be coming down that players tunnel for real!?

To which The Noise added, ?And, being as it?s Albion, you make sure you tie ?em to a ten-year contract, so you can get a testimonial!? Poor lad, he just didn?t know what to make of our co-editor?s ad hoc ?financial advice?! Good, though, to see the Royal Family recognised by a goodly proportion of our away support; many Baggies stopped simply to wish them all well for the future. And good, also that Albion are now treating former players (and their families) with a degree of respect commensurate with the great service they gave to the club; it hasn?t always been the case, believe you me.

Into the away end (which, confusingly enough, runs the whole length of the pitch) just as daylight was finally taking its leave of the Cheshire town, and seats about two rows back from the front and nearer the home-end goal, ideal, really. The side? At first, we had considerable difficulty discerning precisely who was playing, as Crewe had seemingly kidnapped the announcer from the railway station just up the road, and forced him to work in their commentary box instead. Sure, we could just about make out who was starting above the noise of the crowd, but substitutes? For all both The Noise and I knew, he might as well have been telling us of the arrival of the London train on Platform Five. Still, by process of elimination, when both sets of players emerged from the tunnel, intelligent guesswork, and by simply watching the half-time kick-about, we got there in the end. In was Bernt Hass, and out was poor Jay Chambo once more.

And, much to my surprise, we weren?t going to stick with boring 3-5-2, our normal modus operandi when away from home, but with that new-fangled 4-4-2 thingy instead ? and fair play to Megson for having the guts to do that. The temptation to play safe and sod it must have been strong, to say the least. And, during those opening minutes, didn?t we just go at ?em? The Horse, especially, was gifted several chances to open our account, but despite being more or less camped in their half, try as we might ? and try we did; we forced a veritable succession of corners on the home side at one stage - we simply couldn?t get the blasted thing in the back of the net. The problem? Although those crosses/set-pieces were going over well, the ball was landing behind their intended targets, not in front, which meant our main armament more often than not had to turn on the ball first to make something of it. As The Noise said to me, midway through the first period, ?I just hope we don?t end up regretting all those bloody chances we?ve had this half!? Well give or take enough verbal diarrhoea to fill Hansard to repletion, that was the gist of what he said, I reckon.

And, there began to emerge some star performers in our ranks. I did have my doubts about Bernt, but all credit to the lad, he was having one of his better games for us. He even went close with one notable effort. Greegs? Two mistakes early-doors apart, he was also having the game of his life. Tommy Gaardsoe? What a steal from Ipswich: we really mugged them when we snapped that lad up ? so calm, so collected, even during those fraught times in the box when every single Baggie in the place was screaming at him to ?GET BLUDDY RID, YOW!? he simply juggled with the ball a bit, then, as calmly as you like, passed it to the next man in the stripes as if the whole thing were a mere training exercise. The Horse? Superb: he held the ball up, shielded it well, ran with it, bulldozer-like, into the box, defying any Crewe-ite to get it from him, and came very close indeed on a couple of occasions. Not only that, there were a couple of delightfully-skilful touches as well, something I?d never realised was part of his playing repertoire, naughty Baggie that I am. AJ? An inspiration: so hard-working, so gritty ? truly we were seeing the full capabilities of those players today?

And yet ? come the interval, and by some miracle, the game was still bloodless. How the hell could this be so? The consensus was, all we lacked, really, was that final ?killer? ball to derail the home side for once and for all. As for the rest, there wasn?t that much wrong, really. Get on the score-sheet, and the game would open up of its own accord ? or so we thought. And, to be fair, Crewe really did defend well; every dead-ball situation was thoroughly policed by them, and whenever danger loomed, there was, as if by magic, a red shirt in close attendance. Also, they too had their chances, mainly by trying to catch us out on the break; Houlty had to perform miracles not long before the interval to beat Crewe?s Jones to the ball, then belt to the edge of the box in an attempt to play the rebound; this he did, but managed to foul one of theirs in the process. Oh ? and I reckon Crewe might have had a penalty early-doors; I?ll certainly be looking at the replay with considerable interest when I get round to seeing it.

Still so far, so good, but the final drama still had to be played out: come the second half, we stayed with the eleven that started the game, but we all knew that should ten minutes go by, and no further progress appear in sight, then changes would surely be made. And, to be fair, the start of the second, proceeded in similar fashion to the main part of the first. Hulse, AJ (and the Horse, from the rebound), plus The Horse, again, all went tantalisingly close ? and then, what we?d all feared would happen finally came to pass when we were caught well and truly napping with a Crewe pass that completely split our rearguard, and left Dean Ashton with sufficient time to blast a right old ?cogwinder? into the back of the net. Fair play to the home side, they took their chance, and we didn?t, but to see us go behind in such a cheap fashion was truly dispiriting, to say the least. Chorus of, ?Oh, shit!? anyone?

Silly me, though, to underestimate somewhat the power Of The Noisy Ginger Nut On The Bench. After a couple of close calls when Crewe threatened to railroad us into complete submission, stirrings on the bench were seen by those with extremely sharp eyes, like our garrulous co-editor. Off went Kinsella, and on came Albion?s saviour in recent times, young Lloyd Dyer. Blimey, what an awful responsibility rested upon those juvenile shoulders of his ? and, not long after he joined the fray, that crucial difference told with a vengeance, when a disappointing Rob Hulse came off and Hughsie was given a go instead. The run down the wing was trademark Dyer, and clearly, Crewe knew all about what he was capable of, but try as they might, they just couldn?t stop him: on and on he ran in true Duracell battery style. Over went the cross, and nicely, too, for AJ to slot it home. Yes, that?s right, I?m not telling you fibs ? AJ ACTUALLY SCORED! You could say it was one of those astronomical events, like an eclipse of the sun ? they only happen every five years or so!

Urged on by a packed away end, our lot then surged forward in search of the winner, and about six minutes later, the second of those changes hit real pay-dirt. It was The Horse who found Hughsie nicely in the box this time, and true to the old saying, it only took a second for our bald striker to emulate in a small way what he achieved on that same ground all those years ago. Into the back of the net it went, - and the away end went absolutely mental, ?boinging?, spirited renditions of the 23rd Psalm, the lot. Blimey, what a turn up for the books, and all on the telly, as well. Hope the viewers enjoyed that comeback as much as we did; not that many in Norwich or Sheffield would, but that?s the way the mop flops, sometimes.

Still, it could have ended in tears when Clem, who came on late doors for Jason Koumas managed to give the ball away in somewhat stupid fashion, the interceptor then shoved a ball clean through for the chasing Crewe-ite to latch on to, and I have to say, it really looked as though we were well and truly stuffed ? but fortunately, our would-be breaker of hearts shot just wide instead. A few moments of panic when we thought the referee had played more than the allotted span, but the lad with the whistle did blow, eventually, and with that come the sound of much rejoicing ? and, as I reported earlier, quite a bit of it coming from our finest!

A bloody good all-round performance, I have to say, but who to choose as my own personal ?man of the match?? A difficult one, that, as so many of our lads did themselves proud tonight. The Horse? Gaardsoe? AJ, for sheer effort? Greegs, who our supporters seemed to take to their hearts more and more as the game progressed? Even Paul Robinson seemed to be much happier in his new Albion role. At the moment, I?m still trying to decide, because to single any one of that bunch out too hastily would be unfair, really.

So, come Tuesday, it?s The Big ?Un versus Wigan, at our place. Today, we showed more than sufficient grit to convince me we can triumph over that upstart Lancashire lot of theirs ? and, as we already know, they won?t have Jason Roberts at their disposal, either. And, because of today?s victory, we could, I suppose, afford to drop a point ? but we won?t be looking to do that, I hope. It?s got to be all three, or bust; already, we?ve put nine points-worth of clear blue water between us and the current third in line, Colin W?s Charm School. Get a result from that one, and we?ll be a massive 12 ahead of the pack. Oh- and whatever happened to Pardew?s declaration West Ham were going to go up as of right, and we would have to content ourselves with the play-offs? Trouble is, whenever I start to think in those terms, that bloody phrase keeps coming back to haunt me: Remember The Dingles! Anyone out there know a cure?

And finally?? One. Last night, I received a mail with a very fishy content indeed. Well, when the writer?s name happens to be Phil Turbutt, what else can you say? Anyway, that wasn?t the subject of this little note; the remarkable fact he was reading my jottings in darkest Paraguay, was, though! Would you Adam and Eve it? I?ve had people read my stuff in some pretty remote places, but never before have I had the pleasure of someone from that part of the world letting me know what they get up to in their off-duty hours. Surely there can?t be more readers out there holed up in equally inaccessible places? Unless you know different, of course?

Two?.. You all know Mark Ashton, former Baggies goalkeeper, now turned Albion Study Centre head-honcho? Well, the other night, I found out there was a tenuous sort of connection between him, myself, and my sister, bless her cavernous gob ? and it?s this. Way back in the seventies, my sister had a mate called Maureen, who lived in the same street as my noisy sibling, and when I was on vacation from college, very often I?d meet up with the pair of them, and go for a nifty couple of jars in their local ? which, would you believe, just happened to be called The Albion! Anyway, my sister?s mate had a family, one of whom was a small lad about my nephew?s age, and was, in fact, in the same class as my relative. As the years went by, their paths and mine diverged, and once they moved out of the area, I completely forgot about them ? until the other night. It now turns out that the little shaver I knew so well then was none other than Mark himself! Coo ? the next time I see him, it?ll take some bloody willpower just for me to refrain from saying, ?I knew you when you were just a little snotty kid living in Lawley Street!,?.?

 - Glynis Wright

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