The Diary

05 April 2004: So Long, Ipswich - And Thanks For All The Points!

Ever exited a ground feeling as though you?ve just gone the distance in the London Marathon, saved some gorgeous hunk from the ravages of a bunch of Dingles, then watched Magda Yacoub perform a successful heart-lung transplant on a two-year old orphan with lovely curly locks, rosy cheeks, and a great liking for cuddly kittens? Nope? Well that was me this evening after the final whistle at Portman Road. All that, plus an additional ingredient; the sheer certainty of knowing, after our magnificent performance today, we are most certainly going up. What I saw today was destiny, pure and simple; as soon as The Horse latched onto that Hughsie pass, I knew instantly what was going to happen ? which it did. It?s going to be our year; of that I?m now in no doubt whatsoever. Yet another Baggies late, late show (remember Wigan?), and to be quite frank, if I?d been of the Norwich or Sunderland persuasion and watching that little lot on the box, I?d still be as sick as a pig.

Mind you, I can?t say the day started all that well for me. What with a late finish on the old keyboard last night, and getting too engrossed in a book I?m ploughing my way through right now, it was about half-three in the morning before I finally hit the sack. No surprise, then, that I overslept and nearly had a heart attack when I finally surfaced and realised the time. Even ?Im Indoors was in two minds as to whether to give me a rude awakening, or not. It?s probably a personal thing, but when I go to away games, I like to leave some slack so I can skim over the Sunday papers; that was an impossibility, more or less, today, so I had to be content with grabbing the headlines, bolting my Kelloggs, and bracing myself for the inevitable bout of indigestion. I was still only halfway through my rushed repast, when The Noise (remember him?) banged on the door.

At least he?s more or less in one piece, now; five days ago, according to his missus, he looked like death warmed up. And, as we discussed this and that, onto the scene toddled our resident septuagenarian, The Fart. Our number then quite complete, we set forth into the wilderness ? but not in The Dickmobile, sadly. It?s in the car equivalent of the hospital at the moment, being made better, so we?re currently stuck with a bloody courtesy car instead. Never mind, though; as we zoomed through the centre of Brum, The Noise began to make up for lost time ? and how! The discussion kicked off with a look at the media, and their relative ignorance of most things Nationwide, then, as we careened down the M6, the topic of conversation changed to TV quiz shows and how useless some of the contestants were. A chance to air my current beef about them; why, when ?science? is the chosen subject on the Lottery quiz show (as per last night), contestants then get a question on bloody astrology and/or star signs! It?s not a science, it?s a load of superstitious balderdash! Aaargh! (Says me, wearing my ?lucky? pair of knickers to the game!)

Sorry about that, but it really gets up my nose when that happens. Now, where was I? Oh yes. An hour?s travelling gone; time to break out the Dick rations, and, it being a long one, and on Sunday, to boot, The Fart excelled himself. Not only sweets, but biccies, as well ? and there was a choice, banana flavour, or strawberry. Tel, you spoil us, mate. Trouble was, though, there was a downside; ?Im Indoors is allergic to nuts, and unbeknown of this, Tel had brought along some toffees stuffed with the offending ingredient, one of which my other half consumed voraciously ? then he realised. Having said that, trust my other half to be different; most people with nut allergies can?t eat peanuts, but ?Im Indoors approaches the whole thing from another angle. He can eat peanuts until they come out of his lugholes, but consume any other species of nut, and that?s him talking down the big white telephone for the rest of the day. Just as well, then, he managed to spit out the offending object before it did too much damage.

Talk of allergies led to The Noise?s admission that because he?d had chest pains with his recent illness, he?d got the practice nurse to wire him up to an ECG thingy ? and Stoke?s answer to Florence Nightingale wasn?t happy about the print-out, so she promptly referred him to the quack. The next day, The Noise turned up to be checked over ? only to be told there wasn?t much to worry about. Ish. A slightly abnormal but harmless reading had shown up on the trace. ?Funny,? said the medic, ?It usually happens in people over 65!? Martin, dear readers, is 41!

Ipswich trips are certainly the sort where the spirit of the First World War song, ?There?s A Long, long Trail A-Winding? is captured to a tee. To those of my readers who live in Oz, a two hour plus car journey is a mere bagatelle, but you try the same thing in a jalopy that?s around half the size of the normal beast, and you soon long for the unhampered joys of your destination. No surprise, then, that by the time we arrived, a great bout of stretching of arms and legs were in order before we proceeded to our favoured drinking-hole, The Station pub. (No prizes for guessing its location, by the way!)

Leaving our trusty steed in the multi-storey car-park nearby, we then crossed the road, walked straight into the pub ? only to find The Drinking Family had got there first! ?And where have you lot been, then? We were here before this place even opened! ? said an extremely smug Angela, waving her pint pot with righteous satisfaction. How the hell they do it, and every away trip, without fail, God only knows. Mind you, they were more intent on trying to persuade me to front a parliamentary petition to change the Sunday licencing laws in favour of thirsty football supporters with parched throats!

As I perused the bar area, there were certainly quite a few Baggies sampling the delights of alcoholic refreshment, plus not a few outside. And, as it passed, an almighty cheer arose from the throats of the ?al fresco? lot as the team coach, replete with our finest, sailed by on its way to the ground. Drinks sorted out, we then repaired to a spot by the window; thanks to our presence in numbers, no ?proper? seats were to be had, so I brought my little stool into play; the others had to stand ? shame! Having slaked my thirst with a biggish glass of Coke, and sorted out a bag of peanuts by way of a snack, I then settled down to update my notes for this piece. Said the chap in the striped shirt sitting on the adjacent table, ?Writing out a shopping-list then, love?? Inwardly, I groaned; outwardly, I patiently explained what I was doing. Anyway, I wouldn?t know what to do with a shopping list even if it slapped me in the face.

And, as I scribbled away like crazy, The Fart was giving me a running commentary on the Sunderland-Millwall semi now in progress; Tel was listening courtesy of his trusty crystal set again. To be fair, though, as we entered the town, we?d been listening on the car radio as well. We knew about the Millwall goal, of course, and about the scorer, Ifiill, being taken off injured immediately afterwards. Also that Kevin Muscat (yes, the same nasty little turd you all remember and love!) had been clattered, then stretchered off. Can?t but help thinking there was an element of Kismet in that. The beauty, of course, is that if both are unfit come Easter Monday, they won?t be rendering unto us nuisance value in heaps. In any case, I?ve got no sympathy with Muscat; I still have in my possession of a photo, taken by me when we played the Dingles at their place (Muscat was one of theirs, at the time), which shows, without any shadow of a doubt, him blatantly elbowing Lee Hughes in the face, on the blind side of both referee and lino. They didn?t see it, but I damn well did ? and I?ve got the print to prove it. It was shortly before we left the pub for the ground that The Fart informed me Millwall had won the day, and were well and truly in the final, also that Sunderland?s Jason McAteer received his marching orders not long before the end. Does that mean he?ll be suspended when we play them, I wonder?

The good bit about the Station Hotel is that it?s but a stroll in the park from Portman Road itself, so it was the work of a moment to shift ourselves from A to B. And, as we set up our stall, metaphorically speaking, who should roll up but Alan Cleverly and Dave ?Mammoth? Holloway, the unsung genius behind Baggies Travel, the official away trip set-up. Seeing him fired my curiosity somewhat ? just how do you organise 40 coaches, as the lad would be doing come that Sunderland crunch-game? No problem at all, or so he reckoned when I asked. According to him, it?s more of a bind getting the window stickers for all 40 coaches printed off on the old PC! And, another thought from this column; just what was the reasoning behind the club picking up the tab for all those itinerant Albionites? The bill must have run into five figures. The answer?s quite simple, or so Dave reckoned ? the club want to get as many Baggie bodies as possible shoe-horned into the Stadium Of Light, come the day. Had the travel there not been free, the club suspect a good many supporters would simply stay at home and watch it on the box, but the extra bodies will mean more noise, more atmosphere, which, daft as it might sound (although we?ve already had more than adequate proof this term that a noisy set of supporters can really turn a game around), might be just enough to enable us to carry the day. Given the huge impact today?s result has had on our chances of promotion, it might well be that going there mob-handed might not turn out to be all that important, but hell, who?s arguing?

Although we hadn?t expected to shift many ?zines today, astonishingly, we managed to flog our full quota (a helluva lot to Ipswich supporters, believe it or not) so it was with a spring in our step we entered the ground, and surprisingly early for a change, as well. And, when we took our seats, we finally managed to fill in the blanks concerning precisely who Sunderland were due to play over the coming week. We knew that they were to go to doomed Wimbledon this Tuesday, then entertained (if that?s the right word!) Sheffield United the following weekend ? but who was the third team of that unholy alliance? The answer was staring us in the face, courtesy of the programme; yep, that?s right, they travel to Portman Road, and going on today?s evidence, they won?t enjoy it one little bit! And, by further perusal of that publication, we also found out Millwall, West Ham, Norwich, and Palace (teams there, or thereabouts) all came there ? and won. A good omen, or not? Give it 90 minutes, and we?d know.

There were changes to the side that sorted Palace out last week, but minimal ones only. James Chambo got the nod at the expense of Bernt Hass, The Horse made a welcome return to the strike-force, which came as no surprise to anyone, and Sakiri was once more given a start, which must have stung poor Jason Koumas no end. All in all, pretty much par for the course. Off we went, then, and at first, it looked Ipswich all the way. Certainly, they were passing the ball around in a delightful way, and at times, threatened to pass us to death. Then, around the 25th minute, we all thought the breakthrough had finally been made; for once, we managed to evade the attentions of the Ipswich defenders, got the ball to The Horse ? who then let loose one hell of a belter towards the goal from beyond the edge of the box. It looked a goal all the way, and at first, it genuinely looked as though their keeper had been beaten; wild celebrations for about half a second, before it sunk in the ball had hit the side-netting, then trickled slowly around the back, thereby making it look as though we?d scored. Bugger.

Never mind; as The Beautiful South once warbled back in the eighties, ?Carry On Regardless? ? and that?s precisely what we did. And that?s not all; not long after that, Ipswich also decided to show everyone they could play silly buggers as well. This time Houlty had to look sharpish to push the ball away for a corner as a Portmanite took a leaf from The Horse?s book by also letting fly on goal from long-range. The corner was taken ? and that?s when poor Houlty?s problems began. What happened? Well, if I tell you Goerges Santos was involved, you?ll probably get a pretty good idea of what I?m about to impart. Both he and Houlty went for a nasty sort of swirly in-swinging ball, but in my humble opinion, what happened next was most certainly no accident; as both players left the embraces of Mother Earth in a desperate attempt to be first, out shot Santos?s elbow, over went our keeper, twisting as he fell, and the next thing we knew, there was poor Russell, on the deck and not moving, with Nick Worth racing onto the pitch at a rate of knots to minister unto our stricken keeper. There then followed an agonising wait (but not nearly half as agonising as Houlty?s back problem, I bet!) while our physio did his best to administer damage-limitation-type treatment, but although Russell did stand up and eventually carry on, it was plain to see that he was in an awful lot of pain. Other team-mates were now having to take his goal-kicks etc. so it could only be a matter of time before reserve keeper Joe Murphy finally got his full ration of fame.

Another couple of efforts from both sides which could have swung it for their respective parties ? one of which was a bent sort of thing from them which actually found the back of the net, but was ruled offside ? and then came the moment just before the interval that broke every Albion heart in the ground. I suppose you could argue that Big Dave was caught on the hop by the Ipswich player as he ran into the box, and failed to stop him as he was about to pull the trigger, but the result was that the ball left the Portmanite?s boot, went under Houlty?s diving body, and straight over the line. One-nil to the home side, and what a time to concede, as well ? just before the half-time whistle.

Still no use crying over spilt milk, or spilt shots, come to think about it. And, as the two sides came out for a repeat dose of the same, a couple of Albion changes. As we?d thought, Russell had to come off, so we started the second half with Murphy in the custodian?s role. Additionally, there was an engine-room change; off came Sakiri, who disappointed to some extent during that opening 45, and on came our old mate, Scouse Jase. The Noise reckons his dropping was a deliberate psychological ploy on the part of our manager ? the idea was, he thought, to get Jason so mad, he?d play out of his skin just to get his regular spot back. I wouldn?t really know, but his arrival in the fray certainly added a new dimension to our play. And we could have hit pay-dirt right from the start, almost. Hughsie managed to find AJ in the box, who tried to have a go from a very short range indeed ? but AJ being AJ, instead of busting the net as he should have done, the shot went harmlessly wide!

And then, with about ten minutes gone, The Horse thought he?d hit the jackpot when he managed to convert a Hughsie cross ? in fact celebrations actually started in the away end ? only to be abruptly aborted on sight of the lino?s flag. Yep, offside. A couple of minutes later, The Horse had another go, only this time to be thwarted by their keeper, but that was only a temporary reprieve for The Tractor Boys. Finally, we managed to get substitute Lloyd Dyer onto the pitch and into the middle of the action ? and with about 20 minutes remaining on the clock, we managed to win a free kick on the edge of the Ipswich box. Not too surprising to see them patiently construct a defensive wall ? I?m sure they knew damn well what Scouse Jase was capable of in dead-ball situations, but for all the good it did them, those Tractor Boys might just as well have stood in the street outside. Up ran ?yer man?, wallop went the bladder, and into the net it went, with the assistance of one hell of a swerve, which gave their keeper absolutely no chance whatsoever. The Baggies had finally bitten back ? game on!

Just getting back on level terms was wonderful, but what happened next was a fairy-tale. It all started quite innocuously, with AJ grabbing the ball back from a careless Portmanite in the middle of the park. He then passed to The Horse, who slipped the ball to young Lloydie, tearing into the penalty area at Mach One, almost. Most players would have happily run with the thing a little before letting fly, but not our ?supersub?, oh no. He simply blasted the thing for all it was worth, and precisely 70 seconds after doing it for the first time, the net shook once again. Wild scenes in the away end, Baggies everywhere, total strangers, more often than not, hugging, embracing, planting great wet sloppy kisses on the cheeks of their neighbours, massed ?boinging?, and a total mickey-take out of Ipswich?s goal celebration tune, the ubiquitous ?Tom Hark?. As for the home supporters, well, they?d been a tad above themselves when they were in pole position, but the looks they were giving us right after Lloyd?s goal would have instantly soured cream, no bother!

Now the next bit is where you can play games of ?If Only? to you little heart?s content. Just a few minutes after taking the lead, the ball came over our goalmouth; normally Houlty would have gone for the cross, no bother, but Houlty wasn?t there, of course. Murphy, his deputy didn?t come for the high ball, instead, Suqi slipped in, and I?m willing to swear on a stack of Bibles our keeper was fouled as he did so. Murph collapsed in a heap on the ground, and as that happened, the ball ran free and Bent snuck in to poke it home. Level-pegging once more, but as I commented to ?Im Indoors when it happened, if that goal was legal, then my name?s Rodney Marsh! And, if you want, you might like to argue that had it not been for that injury, Houlty would have been between the sticks still, and that nasty looking cross would have been snuffed out, no messing.

Sure, we had it all to do once more, but the situation didn?t look at all hopeless; time and time again we gave them a run for their money in front of goal, but Ipswich?s sweet, neat passing game, ball to feet, first time, every time, gave us more than ample food for thought. In fact, there were times when I thought we might get passed to death, and what didn?t help was our totally infuriating tendency to give the ball away cheaply, plus our continued reliance on the ?hoof? up the middle . How many times have I said that this term? If I can spot it, then so should our leader. Still, they were minor drips in what was proving to be one hell of a thrilling game. Real end-to-end stuff, and (almost) no holds barred. Another pertinent thought; when we conceded, we went straight to 4-4-2, with Greegs going to midfield, and stayed that way even when we went 2-1 up. In fact, The Noise saw Greegs asking the bench whether he should revert back to his usual berth, but, much to Martin?s surprise, he was told to stay where he was ? and on at least three other occasions, as well. Not only that, we were also gradually beginning to smack the ball around in a delightful manner ourselves, most untypical of us. See, Gary, that wasn?t too painful after all, was it?

Come five minutes or so from the end of normal time, young Lloyd almost wreaked havoc again; this time, his header looped towards the crossbar, and when it finally sailed over, it wasn?t that far away from leaving their keeper floundering helplessly. In fact, at that, several people around us thought we?d fired our final shot of the afternoon, and made to leave. In view of what was about to come, they must have been kicking themselves afterwards. And, just a moment later, it was Lloyd again, but that time, the keeper stopped it with his little leggies. And so we came to the end of normal time, but what with a couple of injuries (including a rather spiteful foul on Chambo) and everything, the ref signalled four minutes extra was called for. And, in the last minute of added-on time, ?it? happened, and we should thank our lucky stars we?ve got Jason Koumas?s skill to thank for it. What happened? As I said, Jase had the ball, ran with it a little way towards the box, then calmly threaded through the sort of defence-dissecting precision pass that forwards like Hughsie have wet dreams over. There Lee was, in acres of space just inside the area, and he would have been perfectly justified in having a go himself, but no ? we?re seeing a different Hughsie these days.

Instead, he quite unselfishly slotted the ball past the face of goal, to where an unmarked Horse was neighing loudly, over the other side. Where was their keeper as all this happened? Drawn totally out of position by Hughsie, and as soon as the ball left our tame roofer?s foot, he must have known the game was up. There was an unguarded net, there was The Horse, about six yards out ? and there could only be one end to that sort of exercise. Home the ball went to mum - and the away end? The place went absolutely barmy when we took the lead the first time, but now? A 2,000 strong undulating, delirious, weeping, joyful, roaring, blaspheming mass of celebrating Baggie humanity, that?s what. The poet John Donne once said ?No man is an island? and it was certainly true as we partied; instantaneously, each individual soul, young, old, male, female, whatever, somehow merged by common experience into a joyous something that was far more then the sum of all its parts, and the Horse the catalyst. It was then the chant ?We are Albion, say, we are Albion!? took on a totally new meaning its inventors surely never intended. Lonely? Isolated? How can you be when you?re part of something so magical, so wonderful?

There was just time for Ipswich to kick-off once more, make a token effort on our goal ? and then it was all over. Everyone in our stand erupted in an explosion of pure joy, and as we did so, you could tell what it meant to the players, who hugged kissed, tousled hair, laughed, screamed ?Yes! YES!? and punched the air in sheer delight. Shades of Bradford, two seasons ago ? even that last minute goal was a dead-ringer. The home crowd? They simply struck their tents and stole away into the east Anglian night.

Finally, we tore ourselves away from the celebrating hordes and made our way towards our stand-in Dickmobile, and as we did so, a revelation! Apparently, as we moved into time added on, The Fart had uttered those fatal words, ?I?ll just take the draw!? As The Noise remarked, the moment that phrase left his lips, he knew we were going to win! Oh, and our talkative co-editor reckons he?s going back to his GP for another ECG after that little lot! As he said, what all the excitement?s done to his ticker doesn?t bear thinking about. And, as we got to our car-park, yet another surprise from the old codger; uncharacteristically bawling ?WE WON! WE WON!? in tones that reverberated around the entire place and must have frightened the bejesus out of those few shoppers innocently returning to their parked vehicles. Well, it certainly frightened the life out of me!

And, as we entered the stream of post-match traffic, our vehicle fell momentarily silent as we slowly let the implications of that marvellous win sink in. Only to have our meditations shattered abruptly by The Fart, who took to bawling the good news at a rate of decibels once more! Blimey, Tel, it?s enough to frighten the kids! Well, it certainly had the three of us spending time trying to extricate ourselves from the car roof! Then, The Noise began to sing, ?It?s just like watching Brazil!? Said me, ?Is that Alan Brazil, mate??

And finally?.. As we left Ipswich proper, dark clouds loomed ahead, and not long after that, a jagged bolt of lightning tore the sky asunder, closely followed by an almighty ?crack? as the storm well and truly broke. Said I, to the others, ?That?s The King, celebrating!? And, moments later, when the same thing happened again, ?OK, Jeff, yeah, we know we?ve won!?.?

 - Glynis Wright

Contact the Author

Diary Index