The Diary

11 April 2004: Last-Gasp Hughsie Makes Gills Glum!

Albion for automatic promotion come the end of the season? I guess the jury?s still out on that one, and will be until after the Sunderland game, in all probability, but of one thing I know for sure; any budding medical researcher wanting to get their name front-page billing in The Lancet or the British Medical Journal should shift themselves to The Shrine sharpish, because arrayed on those seats right now is some of the best research material you could ever hope to find if you?re writing up a paper on stress-related conditions. Bloody hell, was it my imagination, or did a huge sigh of relief, not a cheer, erupt from all four sides of the ground ere Hughsie plonked that pass/shot of Lloydy?s in the back of the net for us ten minutes from the end? Oh, and while we?re on the subject of investigating strange ailments and their origins, perhaps some eminent medical personage should also check out Andy Hessenthaler?s lot. Judging from their players? alarming tendency to fall to the ground as if pole-axed the moment a blue and white shirted body transgressed their personal space, I?d be suspecting some sort of neurological ailment, or an allergy to stripes unique in the annals of immunology.

Of one thing I?m sure; when that final whistle sounded, I shrivelled like a pricked balloon, tension totally drained, and that huge sighing gust of exhaled air must have ruffled coiffures three rows nearer the front. Bloody hell, Albion, the way you?re creating havoc with my nerves, it?ll be a miracle if I reach my 53rd birthday in a year?s time, never mind my 52nd yesterday! And, talking of ?final whistles?, I?m now wondering why the man with the whistle only played less than 2 minutes time added on at the end; could it be because of the cynical way the visitors manipulated stoppages of play every time we had the ball and looked dangerous? Let?s face it, nine minutes in the first period was tearing the backside out of it, to say the least; at the time, I was screaming for names to be put in notebooks and the guilty shown a yellow card, but I guess, what with that late goal of ours and everything, natural justice finally prevailed. Clearly, the ref concluded there was more than one way to skin a cat, so to speak, so I guess that little ploy rebounded on them good and proper.

Our game today also saw the return to The Hawthorns of The Noise, who was ?indisposed? the last time we played on our own turf. Mind you, he didn?t waste much time; within seconds of entering the Throstle Club, he was yakking away like a good ?un, and bleeding our earholes good and proper. Never mind; shortly after we sat down in what was the snooker room, a man called Sauce came to discuss the mysteries of Life, the Universe and everything ? with a little bit of natter reserved for his supply of Dicks, and how to give us the money. And, as he did so, other thoughts must have sailed, galleon-like, through that enormous cranium of his; before too long, both ?Im Indoors and he were earnestly debating the merits of Albion possibly subsidising away tickets the next time they were offering freebie coach travel, i.e. supporters paying ?half X? for the ticket, and the club making up the differential between that and the face value themselves. Sauce stated his case quite elegantly and lucidly; remarked The Noise, who just happened to be listening, ?You?re talking a lot of sense, mate.?

Chortled Sauce, as he toddled slowly towards the bar counter, ?Right, I?ll go and have a few beers now, and then I?ll be talking absolute b******s!?

And, not long after our travel-organising chum departed, who should show but Tony, he of the Ryanair awayadays to games, both home and away ? and he had a mission, which was, should he accept it, to present me with a yellow and green cloth Viking hat, a birthday pressie from the Dublin Baggies! Many thanks Patrick and Cathy Sutton; much appreciated and treasured. I did wear it when selling in the street and during the first half, but come the interval, I did a Megson and decided a tactical substitution of headgear was called for, so I donned my usual apparel for the second 45. Don?t worry, though, I?m sure it?ll get another airing before the season?s through. Again, many thanks for that, and what a lovely thought.

All the above proved a quite successful distraction from negative thoughts about the ordeal to come. There had been moments when we were, all of us Dick Eds (and resident bag-carrier Carly!) left with the gut feeling, rapidly growing in intensity, that brown corduroy trousers and bike-clips would have been a more sensible form of apparel for this one. Aw, you remember all those cartoons from your youth, where little angels and devils popped up on either side of the principal character in turn when he mentally debated a vexing problem? That was the sort of thing going through our minds at a rate of knots; one minute that angel on my right shoulder was advising me all we had to do was keep on winning and Sunderland couldn?t touch us; the next, there was Old Nick on my left shoulder giving it rabbit big-time about us only having a five point cushion against the Wearsiders, and should we lose today, it would be everything on Monday, not to mention our game with them! Dearie, dearie me; as the overall tone of the conversation turned ever gloomier, I briefly wondered whether or not to adopt the form of defence chosen by Rowan Atkinson in that final episode of ?Blackadder Goes Forth? ? sticking my knickers on my head and shouting ?Wibble!? very loudly. Mind you, it didn?t get him out of the trenches and The Big Push, so I doubt whether it would have worked for me; in any case, many Baggies would have probably taken one look and decided that sort of behaviour was pretty much par for the course for me.

Only one thing to do, then; go out there and sell. Excellent distraction therapy, I have to say, and one that?s stood me in good stead on various other fraught occasions. One bonus as I set up shop outside the Police Post; the large numbers of Dick readers/supporters wanting to generally bat the breeze about this and that as I worked. Takes the mind off footie very well, may I say. In very short order, I was visited by both Michelle and Jean Wilkes, may many camels come to their watering-hole. Viking hats was the main topic of conversation ? they were the ones who put me onto that fancy-dress shop I mentioned the other day. Incidentally, the word must have got around pretty quick, because Jean told me that when she went there today to order their requirements, they?d already had around 70 requests for Viking stuff from other Baggie-people! All part of the service, chaps; have to do my bit for the local economy, and all that jazz. Incidentally, while I?m on the subject, we Dick Eds also picked up our horny helmets today; metallic, they are, with a fur trim around the bottom, plus, of course, the obligatory horns. (Norse experts tell me, it?s not ?proper? Viking apparel, but what the hell!) Oh, and as a sort of ?finishing touch? they came complete with a Sneekes-esque blond wig at the back. The first time I saw ?Im Indoors wearing one, I collapsed in hysterics. Why? Simple; ever seen ?Wayne?s World?, and the one who wears glasses and has straight hair right down to his shoulders? That?s my beloved, to a tee, when wearing one. If you don?t believe me, just wait until Reading and then you?ll realise why I collapsed with hysterical laughter the minute I clapped eyes on him!

Very soon, it was time to join the rapidly-lengthening queue in Halfords Lane and face what was coming to us like a Baggie. To say we were both as jittery as someone who?d binged on strong coffee all day would be a gross understatement of the truth; it was far, far worse than that, honest. And then, the team news. Houlty was back, bad back and all, Chambo was still in the managerial good books, AJ seemingly over his groiny problems, Scouse Jase got the nod, with Sakiri not even on the subs bench for this one, and, as expected, The Horse and The Roofer up front. On the bench? Murph, Clem, Hulse, Lloyd Dyer and Del Boy. As I?d hoped, we were going for it, with knobs on; 4-4-2, and with Greegs in midfield. And, as everyone lined up for the ?off? mighty roars echoed around the ground ? all except for the small Medway contingent in the Smethwick, of course, around 500 in number, I?d say. We were up for it, the players all seemed up for it; even the pigeons, soaring high overhead, seemed to shriek approval from their lofty viewpoint. A shame, then, that the visitors chose to employ such negative and annoying disruptive tactics to put us off our stroke.

Fair play, though; someone at The Priestfield had clearly done their homework ? and it showed. Within seconds of the start, Robinson was in the book for a bit of over-enthusiasm on his part, but as the minutes advanced inexorably, we turned to the huffing and puffing method of blowing their defence down. Many balls lobbed straight down the middle ? again, they?d clearly legislated for that; everything we lobbed their way, they coped with quite comfortably. I suppose the best chance of that opening period was Gaardsoe?s when he headed just over the bar. You could have made a case for him doing better with that one, but these were just the opening parries, a bit like boxers testing each others? reach and punching ability early in the bout. The next Baggie to have a go was Greegs, who tried one from the edge of the box, but that was comfortably dealt with by their keeper also. As expected, The Gills, who were in dire straits themselves and hovering dangerously close to the abyss, chose to pack their defence and midfield. Every time the opposition do that, it really does give me the willies, as I know our lot aren?t the best at countering this style of play. Remember Wimbledon, and Rotherham? Precisely ? pack the back, defend like looneys, one shot, one goal, from a chance breakaway.

All this wasn?t helped one little bit by The Gill?s standard operating procedure of collapsing in a stricken heap the moment a member of the home side went anywhere near them. God knows how many times their trainer came on during that half, but of one thing I?m sure; this mysterious affliction only seemed to manifest itself every time Albion had the ball and were advancing on goal. Not to mention the miracle recovery of those same players the instant play was stopped, and the ?injured party? told to return to the touchline and await the ref?s signal to rejoin the proceedings. Annoying and frustrating, of course, and it wasn?t long before that annoyance began to transmit itself to the crowd, who began to respond by way of loud boos directed straight at the Gills bench and those visiting players whose displays of ?gamesmanship? rapidly surpassed anything Don Revie?s Leeds United pulled way back in the late 60?s and 70?s. What with that, plus the growing feeling we weren?t going to get anything out of that side save through the intervention of good fortune, the prevailing Hawthorns atmosphere began to change from one of expectancy to one of annoyance, fury even. Being favourites for anything isn?t at all easy; no wonder our followers gave vent to their feelings every time a pass went astray, or was intercepted by an opposition player. For long periods, the only thing we could hear was the voice of our manager, bellowing instructions in his own inimitable style. I see he?s shortly to star in a BBC2 documentary about his work; when it finally hits our screens, it should be interesting, to say the very least!

Half-time, then, after that monstrously-long period of stoppage time, and as the ground resounded to all those boos for the visitors, to the bog I rushed. Interesting to find, once down there, an animated and furious conversation going on between four or five female Baggies of my acquaintance, the subject being Gillingham?s cynical way of stopping us; unsurprisingly, I was roped in, too. So involved did I become, by the time I remembered the reason for my visit, I was in urgent need of the ?facilities? myself. Oh, and once more, the ?winning bog cubicle? issue reared its porcelain head; a cluster of ladies all stood outside one in particular, and all doing this great ?After you? No, after you!? type prevarication, so they only got to sit on the ?lucky? seat! Daft, I know, but you simply daren?t risk angering the Great God Of Footie, do you?

Back to my usual perch once again, and time for a change ? not among our favourite football team, but of headgear. Mine. While I?d been ?below?, In Indoors got the notion that my Irish Viking hat was the principal cause of all our woes, so off it came, and by way of replacement, I got my usual woollen number unceremoniously slammed on my nut instead. Fiddle-di-dee, whatever it takes, I thought. And, as both sets of players emerged for the next 45, there was Lloydy, wearing his strip, jigging around to limber up; clearly, our leader was bringing him on, and compared with previous introductions, very early indeed. The poor sod chosen to leave the action? Come on, there?s only one real candidate ? Kinsella. One of these days, he?ll actually get to play the full 90 minutes, and the day that happens, I?ll expire from shock! On several occasions, now, Lloydy had been brought on and completely changed the outcome of games for us; trouble was, could he do it now? A big ask for someone with relatively little first-team experience, and both sides desperate to make that breakthrough. Unfortunately, overall, Lloyd, if anything, looked second-best; sure he did try to start one of those superb runs of his on those occasions he got the ball, but Gillingham had clearly done their homework. No sooner had ball reached boots, there were always two opposing players sticking to him, and about as immovable as limpet-mines, to boot. No wonder those crosses he did try from the byeline usually went astray, or were sorted by a defender, and comfortably so.

As the clock ticked on, once more, the crowd?s frustration ratcheted up by several notches. Again, Gillingham?s spoiling tactics didn?t help. And neither did our shocking passing, either. Having said that, though, we did have our moments, the most frustrating of which was a Koumas run that beat just about every player in the ground, but instead of belting the ball for all it was worth, our hero lolloped it straight into the arms of the keeper instead. I don?t know if it was me, or what, but I did get the overwhelming impression our tame Scouser was trying too hard; attempting to walk the ball into the net when a lay-off, or a simple pot at the target would have done. Symptomatic of the nervousness you get when two desperate sides are pitted against one another, I suppose. There was also an effort from The Horse that must have put the post in need of a new lick of white paint, but little else was working, and what?s more, I was getting the rapidly growing suspicion in the back of my head that they?d succeed with one of those occasional raids of theirs, every time they tried, they were getting increasingly nearer to the target; losing the ball with increasing regularity is not the approved method of preventing such occurrences, believe you me. And neither is Houlty nearly gifting the opposition a goal courtesy of one particularly wayward kick from him. We expect far better from him, injury or none. Thank goodness for Greegs, who did such sterling service in the middle today, and pulled off some pretty timely interventions for us right when needed.

Come ten minutes before time, things were looking increasingly desperate for us. The Gills held on stoutly, and I was convinced we?d completely run out of ideas. Suddenly, things changed, and how. Lloydie managed to get us a corner on the left, Scouse Jase managed to get the damn thing into the box from the kick, for once, the ball was then partially cleared by one of their defenders, but it wasn?t enough. Enter, stage left, a certain Lloyd Dyer; the ball plopped at his feet in a satisfactory manner, so he simply belted the thing for all it was worth. Through a ruck of players, it went, and shot straight to a lurking Hughsie, who was left with a simple tap-in from point-blank range. Ever seen 24,000 or so football supporters look to the heavens and say ?PHEW!? simultaneously? I did there and then, as did most of my chums. Praise where it was due; we asked for a miracle, and we got one. Simple, really.

Suddenly, all those mysterious afflictions that previously plagued The Gills were noticeable only by their absence. Their master plan had gone badly wrong, and within clear sight of achieving their spoiling aim, as well. Things began to open up on the pitch, suddenly and their defence did well to prevent us striking again. This time, The Horse was the likely nag, and really should have done better with that strike. And, just to rub it in a tad more, we brought on Clem with seconds to go - but very, very slowly indeed! And, as we braced ourselves for a agonisingly-protracted period of stoppage time, up went the fourth official?s board ? which only showed two minutes! Doo wot? Only for a moment, though; the penny dropped pretty quickly, as did the match ball, straight into the hands of the ref as he blew for time, prematurely so, as far as I could see. Serve the buggers right, as well.

Thoughts? We scraped it by the skin of our teeth, really, and it could have gone pear-shaped in spectacular fashion. Lucky young Lloydie was handily-placed to shift that stray ball into the path of Hughsie, really. That really was one mother of a tough scrap; let?s hope The Lions are so knackered come Monday we can extract something tangible from there. Privately, I?m pretty confident we can hit pay-dirt down there, what with Muscat being out and Wise doubtful. (Cue for joke, anyone?) Sunderland? Sorry, you don?t get me that way. I?m keeping my real feelings schtum on that one. Let?s put it this way; in many ways, both Sunderland and their Norfolk-based chums are highly reminiscent of those blood-caked zombies in ?Dawn Of The Living Dead?. Try to stop them and they just keep coming at you; it takes really drastic measures (a sawn-off shotgun is highly efficacious, incidentally) to stop them in their tracks for once and for all. Bloody hell, will I be glad by the time those next seven days are over and done with.

And finally, a couple of true stories. The first concerns my mate Michelle, who has a work colleague who is a passionate believer in the Christian faith. The day following the Ipswich game, Michelle returned to work, and, much to her amazement, found herself being quizzed about that day?s events by her religious chum, whose interest in the beautiful game is usually zero.

"Did you win?? he asked Michelle.

?Yep, we sure did? replied our heroine.

?When was the winning goal scored?? was the next query.

?Er ? About the 93rd minute, I think.? was the reply. Closely followed by, ?93 minutes and 26 seconds, if you really want to know.?

?What time was it on the clock, then??

?Let me see ? we started about five past four in the afternoon, so I reckon it must have happened around six ? er, why all the questions, then??

"Ah,? said Michelle?s little friend, ?I was in church praying for you, about that time!?

Blimey, what with him and Big Dave both batting for the same side, we can?t go wrong, can we?

Two. This one comes courtesy of ?Im Indoors, so blame him and not me. Statement made by purchaser of our fanzine shortly before the game. ?I always buy it, every game. I get my Dick out at half-time, and just about everybody notices!???

 - Glynis Wright

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