The Diary

17 March 2004: Five Bookings, Two 'Pens', A Sending Off - And A Wigan Funeral!

I?ve heard it said many times before now that life is nothing but an unending series of discoveries, and I can sure believe it tonight, because I?ve just discovered it?s mighty difficult typing an article when you?re pretty much stuck fast to the ceiling! Whoo-ee! What a game, what a win, and what a significant three points for us. Seventy amassed, now, a beautiful eleven in front of the next-comer, Sheffield United, and twelve in front of The Latics, whose rough-house tactics tonight (five bookings, their keeper sent-off, and the referee was unduly charitable towards them, in my opinion) got ?em their just desserts, and serve ?em bloody well right for farting in church, too. Daft, really, because they certainly did enough to share the points, and could have quite easily snatched all three.

As we see it, another five wins from the remaining nine games, and we?re back in The Promised Land ? and we may even achieve it on less than that. Well done to the lads, too, for having sufficient mental resilience to get over the psychological damage caused by that unbelievably stupid hand-ball from Bernt Hass which led to their penalty ? I wouldn?t have minded, but as far as I could see from my Halfords Lane Stand viewpoint, the danger to Houlty?s goal was comparatively slight ? then get it back again, albeit from a penalty ourselves.

And I wasn?t the only one running on severely-elevated levels of adrenalin tonight; even in the Throstle Club before the game, you could almost feel the rapidly-ratcheting tension making the air crackle, almost. Figures in navy blue and white stripes hunched nervously over tables, clutching their alcohol bottles like talismen, and conversation very muted, words nervously whispered. No-one I spoke to in there felt confident we?d win that one outright; if the truth were known, if offered, I reckon most Baggies would have taken the draw and ran right then. Even The Noise, uncharacteristically nervous for once, kept those conversation-glands secreting by telling me about ?Mike The Headless Chicken?.

Nothing to do with our defence when put under pressure, I hasten to add; this particular farmyard avian, domiciled in a hick town called Fruiter, Colorado, USA, around 1945, was well and truly meant for the pot, and come the appointed time, the farmer duly swung his axe to do the deed ? but instead of collapsing in a very dead heap when he did so, the stupid bird carried on doing whatever it is stupid fowl do, even though it was very much minus a head. Don?t blame me for any of this, by the way, it?s The Noise?s story, and he can jolly well take the abuse for it! Anyway, eighteen months down the line, ?Mike? was still very much alive, and our garrulous chum reckons there?s pics in existence to confirm the veracity of the tale. There?s even a website dedicated to the memory of this extraordinary bird, and should you want to assuage your own curiosity, it?s on www.miketheheadlesschicken.org .

That?s one extraordinary tale out of the way, then, so let?s return to tonight?s, then, shall we? And, talking of things remarkable, when I?d finally set up shop outside the Police Post, who should I see, but a certain Kev Buckley, he of that unrequited Sky appearance at Crewe on Saturday! Not only that, but sartorially-speaking, he was absolutely spot-on, wearing that circa 1968 Albion home strip of his. How come he?d torn himself away from the wilds of Darkest Lancaster to be at The Shrine tonight? Easy: the lad felt ?morally obliged to be there?, but I reckoned he was secretly hankering to be on the telly once more! Perhaps it was just as well I spoke to him, really, as he hadn?t realised the late change to the day of the Sunderland game, from Saturday to the following Sunday, and a 4 pm kick-off, just to make it a bit more interesting. And, not long after Kev departed into the rapidly gathering gloom, yet another familiar face emerged from it: Conrad Chircop, our little Malteser, but quite lacking any chocolate salty balls, less fattening centres, or otherwise, thank you very much. He?s over here studying for the remainder of the season, but he does have one problem: he desperately needs a Forest ticket, which would go to a good home, as although normally domiciled in the George Cross Island, Conrad has been an avid Baggie since childhood. Anyone out there feel they can help him in his hour of need? Contact me either via this website, or personally, and I?ll put the pair of you in touch.

By then, it was getting quite close to the appointed hour; as the queues were building up outside the Halfords Lane turnstiles, I shifted to where ?Im Indoors had his pitch ? and that?s when I got my third surprise of the evening. Up came this grey-haired lady, about five or ten years older than me, I reckoned, who then said, without any preamble whatsoever, ?Remember me?? Quite frankly, her face rang no bells whatsoever with me, not even the faintest tinkle, so I said so, but it was the reply that totally and utterly knocked me for six, ?I?m Mark Ashton?s mother, Maureen Ashton!?

Ever had one of those moments when something someone?s said completely renders you mute of speech, and your jaw drops about six feet in complete sympathy with the awful shock you?ve just had to your system? Well, that was me, dear reader, tonight. It turned out that the good lady had seen my Friday night tailpiece about Mark, and wanted to make herself known, as she hadn?t clapped eyes on me or my sister for about twenty years, I reckon. As she was in a bit of a hurry, the best I could do was tell her that my sister still lived at the same address, and still retained the same telephone number, so I?m now hoping Maureen will take it on from there. Mind you, ?Im Indoors?s welcoming speech ? ?So you actually survived going out with Josie Garbett, then?? ? must have taken her aback a bit!

Selling just about completed, we then shifted ourselves into the Hawthorns cauldron ? and boy, was the atmosphere tense: brought flooding back all those fond memories of crucial floodlit games played in the sixties, it did. The Wigan crowd? 2,000-plus, as I understand it, and given they could only muster around 8,000 all-told for their last home game, I can only assumed that they called in at the local JobCentre, or something, for reinforcements en-route! Joking apart, they were certainly psyched up to fever-pitch in that Smethwick End corner of theirs; a white-hot ambience, almost, that suggested tonight?s encounter would be a bruising one. I, for one, was glad my vested interest in the proceedings began and ended in my Halfords Lane Stand seat. And thus it was: that, plus the inescapable fact there was a somewhat nervous edge to our game that opening 45 minutes. The midfield seemed to go AWOL for long periods of the game, and balls were given away cheaply as well: the tension was getting to them, badly - and it showed.

For their part, Wigan, needing something to show for their night?s efforts after crashing so badly versus Bradford at the weekend, seemingly decided to adopt a policy of ?If it?s in blue and white stripes and moving, kick it?. Unsurprisingly, the referee took a dim view of this after around ten minutes, and from then on in, the Latics names began to flutter like confetti into the official?s notebook. Our first real chance came with about 23 minutes on the clock, when The Horse, wide on the right, saw Hughsie running through the middle, like some demented steam train with a Black Country accented whistle, and totally unmarked as well. Across went the ball, fast and low, across the face of goal, but Hughsie just couldn?t apply the killer blow, and shot wide instead. Later on that half, Lee was put through in a one-on-one with the keeper, but instead of rounding the guy then simply tapping the ball into an empty net, for reasons best known only to himself, Hughsie elected to try the lob instead, but this effort only ended up in the back of the Smethwick seats.

Of the two sides during that half, the visitors looked far more likely to open the scoring, and emboldened by a rash of corners to their favourites, plus what turned out to be a very nifty piece of work by Houlty, smartly tipping over the bar an Wigan effort following one of those set-pieces, their supporters, in an act of barefaced cheek unmatched since the time Port Vale decided to declare themselves a ?bigger club than Albion?, chorally advised our lot, ?You?re only here ?cause it?s Wigan!? Bawled an indignant John Homer, sitting just in front of me, ?The onny thing yow?ve cowin? produced is cowin? George Formby!? Quite a student of 20th century showbiz history is our John! And, not long before the break, Wigan could quite easily have had the opener, had Tommy Gaardsoe not been positioned perfectly to shift the shot, indirectly from a set-piece, off the line and away. Oh ? and one other puzzle: with about three minutes of normal time left on the clock, PA announcer Matthew suddenly told us the referee had indicated three minutes extra time to be played ? and this without any sign of a board to be seen! Don?t tell me he?s been studying the occult as well?

Come the interval, no doubt about it, I was bloody drained ? and there was a further 45 minutes to go of the same? Ooh, me poor ticker! One thing was clear, though ? we were getting nowhere fast against the Latics? dolers-out-of-rough-stuff defenders, and a Plan ?B? was clearly needed. And, as both sides re-emerged for the second course, there was one Albion change ? but not the one expected. Off came The Horse, who had tried to bulldoze the Wigan rearguard, but to no effect (although I am now given to understand the change was made because of The Horse?s calf!) and on came Delroy Facey. Brute force replaced by speed ? we hoped. Not all that long after that, we then had yet another change, Greegs coming off, and Lloyd Dyer taking his place instead. I can only assume the idea was to use Lloyd?s devastating speed and trickery on the flank to get crosses behind their defenders, but Greegs didn?t appear too happy with the change as he left the field of play.

And, as the half moved into middle age, the tactics seemed to be working overall; certainly, of the two sets of combatants, we seemed to just about have the edge. And then, with 26 minutes gone, calamity. No cancel that last remark, simply call it an act of suicidal folly that even the most depressed lemming on earth would be ashamed to call his own. What happened? With the ball descending from its arc above the far side of the box and not that far from the touchline, up shot a hand, which then connected with the ground-bound bladder. Even Mr. Magoo couldn?t have called that one wrong: the ref instantaneously pointed to the spot, and (I hope!) Mr. Hass had his own thoroughly Bernt afterwards by our leader for that momentary act of stupidity on his part. Up stepped Liddell to finish the job, and although Houlty made a brave effort to stop it, in the back of the net it went. One-nil to ?them?, and you could have heard a pin drop.

Still, it?s not only us that do kamikaze impersonations: four minutes later, Hughsie was put through clear on goal, and he clearly didn?t want to stuff this one up. Enter into the drama Wigan?s keeper, Filan, stage left. In a desperate effort to halt Lee?s momentum, he lunged with his foot, caught our hero on the leg as he did so, unbalancing him ? and the ref again pointed to the spot. But there was more to come. Being the ?last man?, he had to walk, and walk he did, to be replaced by their sub keeper, Walsh. As all this was going on, one big worry began to pervade our consciousness: would Hughsie be put off by the lengthy wait for Wigan to put on their replacement? Judging by the amount of time it took for the subbing to take place, that?s what Wigan were banking on ? but not a bit of it. Their stand-in did heroics in getting a fingertip to Hughsie?s blaster, but that?s all it was, and certainly didn?t do much to check the momentum of the shot as it headed for the back of the net. One-one, then ? and weren?t we bloody lucky?

The visitors being reduced to ten men meant that for the first time, we could see our way clear to sorting their antics for once and for all, and young Dyer, revelling in the extra space, began to really shine. Even so, a Gaardsoe effort apart, it was beginning to look very much as though we?d run out of time. And then, as near the end of the full 90 minutes as makes no difference, it happened. Lloyd Dyer can justifiably claim to be the architect of what happened next; a belting run down the left saw him flight the ball right over to the far post where Lee Hughes was waiting, predator-like, and as hungry as hell. Bald pate made contact with ball, and the knock then fell nicely into the path of our Great Dane, who potted it, no bother, from about ten yards out.

The result? Absolute bloody boinging pandemonium on all four sides of the ground ? bar the bit where the Wigan supporters were based, of course! As for the Halfords Lane stand, for the first time in ages, rugs, vacuum flasks and scarves aplenty simultaneously ascended heavenwards ? and so did John Homer, nearly! So overwhelmed was he by the sheer emotion of the moment, in complete defiance of his forty nine years on this planet, and its gravitational field ? it was his birthday, poor old sod! ? he leaped onto his seat, all Nijinsky-like, then proceeded to dance a wild jig upon it, and yelling fit to bust as he did it. It was as much as I could do to ensure that our bespectacled and balding Lower Gornal reprobate didn?t get reclaimed by Mother Gravity after all, and injure something vital! No doubt we?ll hear something more on the subject at the Throstle Club Supporters? Club meeting on Thursday night ? John will be hosting that ?do? in his own inimitable style.

Unsurprisingly, The Tommy Gaardsoe Late, Late Show completely knocked the stuffing right out of the visitors. All in all, I reckoned they?d been good for a point ? and had anyone offered me that right after that penalty of theirs, I?d have bitten your arm off for it. Instead, all they could do was fume and reflect upon what might have been as they ritualistically played out the final seconds of the drama. Not that anyone cared, of course: the whole ground was rocking on a scale not seen since ?that? game versus Palace two eventful seasons ago. There was even an airing for a variation on the ?Premier League, having a laugh!? theme, although natural caution makes me wish they wouldn?t sing that one ? not until it?s pretty-nigh certain, anyway!

And, as we look upon the monumental struggle now taking place for membership of the ?play-off club? below us, who can seriously doubt we?re actually going to do it? With luck of the sort we had tonight, it almost seems Destiny itself is shaping our eventual fate. Certainly, now we?ve dispatched what were our chief rivals for that precious runners-up spot, it?s now becoming increasingly likely we?ll be ascending the ladder once more, come May. Next stop on the Magical Mystery Tour is Stoke, of course. We?ll certainly be guaranteed a huge following ? of some 4,000 tickets for that one up for grabs, only 400 now remain. Trouble is, historically, we never do well there ? I do hope it won?t turn out to be a case of ?After The Lord Mayor?s Show?.

As promised last night, before I sign off, a quick peek at the guest-list for the SC meeting I mentioned earlier: as things stand at the moment, it?s Tommy Gaardsoe, Big Dave, Clem and The Horse in front of the audience ? but that could still change, of course, so don?t take it as gospel. After tonight?s brilliant result, something tells me Thursday night?s meeting is going to resemble a Nuremberg Rally in miniature! If possible, I?ll try and give you a flavour of what happened in my piece then.

And Finally?.. This one stars The Horse, folks! About 90 minutes before kick-off, one of our programme-sellers was happily plying his trade outside the Smethwick End gates (by the Police Post) when suddenly, up roared a very flash-looking BMW indeed. After screeching to a halt, it disgorged a passenger, who turned out to be none other than The Horse himself! Trouble was, he was very, very late, and in a Megson side, that?s a cardinal sin. Players have been encased in concrete and buried in the foundations of the M5 for less ? so rumour has it. Anyway, realising how close he was to ending up in our leader?s bad books, he then broke into an almighty sprint up the road, to the complete bemusement of the programme seller concerned. And, yet, even as he made his headlong dash towards the Players? Entrance, some words could be discerned, just about, ?Bet you never thought I could run that fast!? was the parting shot from his rapidly-receding mouth!

 - Glynis Wright

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