The Diary

13 April 2004: One Point Good, Three Dropped Better!

Blimey ? just when you?d thought matchday tension levels, that massive surge of adrenalin coursing through the old circulatory system, raising both a head of emotional steam and one?s blood-pressure in equal measure, couldn?t get any higher, our favourite football team almost manage to induce a massed bout of coronary heart disease in the away end. Defibrillators, anyone? Or should I lay that one on the referee, perhaps? Someone called Mathieson, he was, from Cheshire, and about as much use to the proceedings as a eunuch in a sperm donor clinic. I honestly thought The Noise was exaggerating (all that sniffing of pottery glaze does do it sometimes!) when he pointed out to us pre-match that this particular whistler wasn?t the best orange in the crate; a few years back, apparently, he officiated at a Huddersfield-Albion game which the home side won 3-0, and Mart?s snap assessment of his competency at the time can be summed up in two short words not fit to print in this column. So I won?t. There.

More about some of those decisions later, but first, the positives. Despite going down to ten men just before half-time, and to nine just before the termination of proceedings, we did get that all-important point. A bloody miracle, considering the Herculean task we?d set ourselves after conceding around 20 minutes into the game, and that first dismissal just prior to the interval. And the gritty way we extricated ourselves from the almighty hole we?d dug for ourselves once we?d conceded and gone down to ten. Sure, we did drop two precious points along the way, but Sunderland dropped all three with an almighty ?clang? at Portman Road (well done The Tractor Boys, by the way; what with the punishing schedule the Wearsiders had since the Cup semis, I knew they had to crack some time), so everything?s now on Sunday?s game at The Stadium Of Light. Get something there, and we?re almost in the Promised Land ? and, failing that, a draw will do us very nicely indeed.

Get three points, of course, and it?s 90 per cent ?Goodnight Vienna? for our friends from the North; as we Dick Eds saw the situation in the coach immediately after the show hit the road, another three wins ? 9 points ? from the remaining five games and we?re there. A shame we couldn?t have overtaken bloody Norwich today, though; what a sickener for Reading, their game bloodless for almost the allotted span, only to concede last-minute courtesy the ball bouncing off the ref?s back, then landing somewhat fortuitously at the feet of a predatory Canary. Someone up there must like that Norfolk club like crazy; how jammy can you get? Still, as I said to The Noise afterwards, let?s sort promotion out first, then worry about the wurzel-munchers afterwards.

The danger to our tickers apart, you might say today?s trip was one of our better ones. No Dickmobile today ? you don?t take a car to Millwall, not if you?ve got any sense, that is ? so it was down to the metropolis courtesy of Uncle Sauce and his intrepid band of fellow-travellers. The change of conveyance today necessitated a change of routine also; ?Im Indoors journeyed to Stirchley to pick up The Fart (his idea of ?distraction therapy?, by the way, was grabbing his vacuum cleaner and ?doing? his entire house from top to bottom!) while I awaited the arrival of old Gatling Gob, fresh off the M6 and itching to go. No problems there; in fact, ?Im Indoors returned to our house around five minutes ahead of schedule, so it was the work of a moment to shift our three carcasses from sunny Bearwood to not-so-sunny West Bromwich, and our lovers? tryst with our mate?s somewhat unique away travel service. Although around 10 minutes early, there it was, our coach, one of five laid on for the occasion, parked opposite where the bus station used to be, and awaiting the arrival of many expectant, excited but nervous Baggies. A short delay to await the arrival of some latecomers, and we were away.

And quite interesting it was, too, to see so many familiar faces on that coach. For starters, there was a bespectacled Baggie known to us as ?Ken?; when not watching our lot in action, he has something of a penchant for what used to be known, somewhat euphemistically, as ?Continental movies? in a less-enlightened age. Well do I remember the time in Italy when he had both of us in stitches with his lurid accounts of some of the flea-pits in which these works of cinematic art were shown. Also there was a lad we knew as Carl; his main claim to fame was wearing an Aussie rugby shirt to today?s game. We couldn?t really let that one pass, so we took the bull by the horns, and asked him why. His (commendably-honest!) answer? ?My wife?s on holiday at the moment, and all my Baggies shirts are in the wash!? Oh ? and Carl does have another claim to fame; what has to be the feeblest excuse I?ve ever heard for not going to a game, in this case, our ?shit or bust? encounter at Sunderland in six days time. His excuse? ?I?ve got to go to a job interview the next day!? What is the world coming to?

We were also honoured today by the presence of a political personage in our ?transport of delight?; take a bow, Darren Cooper, Sandwell councillor with special responsibility for social inclusion. When he?s not trying to sort out those disadvantaged and/or suffering from disabilities, both physical and mental, he?s a full-on Baggie. Good on yer, mate. As some of you may know, Darren was a great help to us in getting additional finance for the Astle Gates project, so I happen to think he?s an all-round good egg. Incidentally, should we ?do it?, I?m reliably informed that contingency plans are being formulated right now for a civic reception at the Town Hall with all the trimmings, for everyone involved. And, as Darren batted the breeze with us, the chosen film for the long journey down the M1; Dawn Of The Dead (don?t ask!), which we?d seen only a few days previously, screamed, blasted and squelched its gory way towards its bloody denouement. When Darren finally asked us what it was all about, it was the work of a moment to just smile sweetly, and say, ?Don?t worry, mate; there?ll be about another fifty added to the body count before this is through!? The Noise?s take on the whole thing? ?Cor, imagine a load of those zombies in our shopping centre, all moaning and groaning like mad through River Island and Marks and Sparks and all asking each other, ?Does my bum look big in this??

Being the nice little Baggie that he is, our chubby-cheeked away travel head honcho had arranged for a London pit-stop ? at that same working men?s club we visited prior to the West Ham game earlier in the season. Aw, you know, the game where we came back from three down to nick it four-three. No complaints from anyone; as we all knew, that place sold beer at an unbelievably cheap price, for London as well as The Black Country, so it was around half-eleven when our charabancs pulled up on a side-street adjacent to Upton Park. A quick dash into the place, a short wait for the liquid refreshment, and before you could say ?Alan Pardew? just about every Baggie in our party had a full glass in their hand, and grinning with sheer delight, as well.

It was while I was waiting in the queue I got confirmation of something I?d heard before the Gillingham game; yes, some of the Strollers are going to come out of retirement and turn out for the ?Boing? team. Should be quite a sight for sore eyes; most former members of our supporters? side are about ready for the Sanatogen and slippers lifestyle, not careening around on the park like nutters, and possibly breaking something vital. Well done former Stroller ?Muttley? Moore for spilling the bens to yours truly! And, once the drinkipoos were sorted out, time for some big eats. Again, the club was geared up for that; lots of things with chips, to be sure, but sold at a price unparalleled in this part of the world. One small problem, though; someone had stuck a load of chilli sauce on my chips, and spicy stuff doesn?t really agree with me. Never mind, though, most of it found its way to my digestive system, even if my tum did keep reminding me of its presence for an awfully long time thereafter.

Come around 1.15, time to get saddled up once more. Off we went again, this time headed for the other side of the river, and via the Blackwall Tunnel. And, as we neared the entrance, a familiar sight, The Millennium Dome, gleaming whitely in the weak sunlight. Why is it, whenever I see those spiky things on top, I half expect to see giant pieces of cheese and pineapple chunks impaled upon them, buffet-style? All that grog in the club had loosened tongues considerably by then, of course; as we sped under the Thames, a chorus of ?Please Release Me? broke out from all those little tinkers sitting towards the back of the vehicle. And, as if that wasn?t enough, closely followed by a snatch of ?Rhinestone Cowboy?. A drunken Seventies revival, and we couldn?t escape it. Help!

Once in the Greenwich area, yet another pit-stop, but this time, to await the police escort. My pleas to the boys in blue to arrest the singers for grievous musical harm went unheeded, sadly. However, come about two, and a brace of false-starts, we finally began to move off en masse; by now, the supporters? club convoy had arrived on the scene, and from there, it was but a few miles to our destination. Or it would have been, excepting for the fact The Met, for reasons best known to themselves, elected to hold up our portion of the procession about a mile from The New Den. And keep us there until around half-two. Some, fearing they?d miss the kick-off, ?baled out? via the emergency exit, but we Dick Eds stuck to our guns. In any case, I couldn?t shift that fast even if I?d wanted to. No problem though; just as we were really starting to panic, off we toddled again, pulling into the away supporters compound with a good 15 minutes to spare. Phew!

What with the amount of Coke I?d taken on board, plus the fact the toilet in the coach had been permanently engaged since our exit from the club, what our American cousins would term a ?comfort stop? was urgently needed by this column. And, as I emerged, much relieved, some startling news; No Hughsie, but Facey instead; O?Connor for Kinsella; and Clem for Robinson. A comprehensive change of personnel indeed; I could only hope our leader was resting those three for next Sunday. Quite a scramble once we emerged blinking in the sunlit away stand, too, the deal was a ?sit where you like? sort of thing, so we plumped for some seats towards the back. And, as I surveyed what lay before me, one thing that struck me was the relative paucity of the home crowd. And these guys had the cheek to upbraid the FA for only allocating around 24,000 Cup Final tickets to them? Blimey. That?s twice their normal gate this season; what do they want, jam on it?

Still, that was their problem, not ours; quite soon, the relative quiet of the ground was shattered by the entrance into the fray of both sets of combatants, so the stage was well and truly set for what had the potential to be a massive game for us. Although our old friend Mr. Muscat was missing, despite much pre-match speculation on our part, neither Danny Dichio or Dennis Wise were, and, as we shall see very shortly, both had quite a bearing on the eventual outcome of the game. One half-chance for us apart, everything proceeded in a quite torpid way until around the 20th minute, when young Chambo happened to concede a free kick some way from the Millwall box. The resultant set-piece whanged over the goalmouth high, mean, and nasty, then suddenly dipped towards the simultaneously-advancing Houlty and Dichio ? and sadly, the latter won the tussle. Should have guessed, really; it?s what he was really good at when with us, in a straight race with the keeper for an overhead cross, beating him to the ball. One header, one goal. Bugger.

OK, we were now one down, but, as per Crewe, Wigan and Ipswich, it wasn?t a disaster; we knew we had the mental resources and resilience to bounce back. Trouble was, buoyed up by their opener, the home side then proceeded to lay siege to our goalmouth, and a sticky time was had by all as we battled to wrest possession from them. Our only real chance come just before the break, when Facey came close with an effort that made their keeper ponder a bit, but about three minutes after that, there came the moment when I thought we?d signed our suicide note. What happened? As I saw it, Millwall had just shifted the ball away following an abortive Baggies attack; Denis Wise was now in possession and looking to clear further upfield ? then in roared Jason Koumas, like a Challenger tank equipped with afterburners.

Personally, I thought Wise milked it for all it was worth; once Scouse Jase went in hard, he collapsed as if shot, and the resultant theatricals would have won plaudits at the Royal Shakespeare Company, not to mention the London Palladium. As I said earlier, the referee was not one of this division?s best, and well and truly conned by all the histrionics, reached for his little book. I suppose that as he?d been booked already, when confronted by what was, on the face of it, a nasty tackle, the official decided Scouse Jase simply had to go ? and go he did, much to our annoyance. Sure, that tackle was a hard one, but it should be borne in mind that tackling is something attacking midfielders don?t wet their hands with that often. Crude, sure, and late, probably ? but with malice aforethought? I don?t think so.

Half time, then ? and not a moment too soon for our beleaguered little lot. Doubly annoying about the dismissal was the knowledge Ipswich were beating Sunderland at Portman Road; doubly-galling was the knowledge that for the first time in ages, The Mackems had blinked, but because of what had happened, we couldn?t do diddly-squat to capitalise on the situation. So ? how could we salvage something from the wreckage, then? It wasn?t long before we got our answer; by way of response, our leader was taking a bit of a gamble. Off came O?Connor and Facey, and on came Scott Dobie and Lloyd Dyer. When the former replacement entered the field of play, there were many furrowed brows in that away end; why bring on a chap whose first team outings had been very few, of late? And, of Dyer, too soon? Still, when you?ve got nothing to lose by changing things, you?ve got to do something, haven?t you?

Ever held a kaleidoscope up to your eyes, and, twirling the tube around a little, changed the multicoloured sparkly pattern arrayed before you completely? That?s about what the half-time introduction of those two did, but in a different way, of course. Prior to the goal and the dismissal, we?d opted for caution, for safety, but now, when circumstances dictated we simply had to go out on a limb to retrieve the situation, we went all-out for the equaliser instead, and sod the fact we had to plug an almighty gap on the flanks along the way. There was one rocky moment just after the restart where The Lions could have quite easily made it two but, as our lot warmed to the task, began to invade their territory and not theirs ours, the kaleidoscope pattern swirled and shifted once more, and our ?twelfth man? our massive following, began to make a difference. Imperceptibly at first, sure, but then, much encouraged by the players? efforts on the pitch, they pumped up the volume by several notches.

The equaliser, when it happened, had something of an ironic ring about it; immediately before we found the net, ?Im Indoors turned to me and said, ?Lloyd?s just not getting into the game, he hasn?t had the ball, as yet!? Then, as the words were leaving his lips, Lloydie, who was advancing on the left, got the ball from Clem and then ran with it some way into the Millwall box before finally letting fly the goalmouth cross. Not one Lion succeeded in arresting its motion, and in dived Dobes sharpish to send it on its way to glory, AJ merely facilitating the inevitable. Needless to say, the away end completely erupted; talk about a ?get out of jail? card! Unbelievable ? well, I couldn?t believe it! ? but our next task, holding on to our hard-won gains, was both our most important, and most difficult priority. And yet, a couple of minutes or so later, we could have scooped the whole pot. Once more Lloyd Dyer proved the catalyst; his shot, launched Cruise missile-like from the edge of the box, thwacked against the home side?s crossbar with a shudder that must have been felt by the seismographs in nearby Greenwich Observatory, and all to awestruck squawks of ?Jeeesus Chroist!? from the many blue and white shirted followers gathered at the opposite end of the pitch.

As the game entered its final third, Millwall had a couple of attempts that went quite close, and, in the case of the second, which Houlty managed to snuff out before the guy could pull the trigger, too close for comfort, really. But the real drama was yet to come, which it did about a minute from the end. The whole thing started when we appeared to have repelled yet another Millwall incursion into our box. Then, suddenly, all hell let loose. Play came to a halt, an angry knot of Albion players surrounded the referee, and from the look of their body-language, they weren?t exactly discussing the time of day with the man in the middle. Then, he appeared to point to the spot, Houlty began to walk towards his goal-line, arms waving furiously, and at that moment, every Albion heart entered their mouth; it really looked as though the official was awarding the home side a penalty, but what the hell was the offence? I certainly didn?t see anything wrong as we tried to repel boarders, and neither did The Noise, who has visual acuity Superman would envy. There was absolute uproar as our followers, stung by what was perceived to be an injustice, let their disapproval be known. Then, amidst all the noise and tumult, things became clearer; first off, the good news. No, it wasn?t a spot-kick, just a Millwall set-piece on the edge of the box. The bad news? Tommy Gaardsoe was sent off, a straight red, but for what offence, we didn?t have a clue.

By now, it was deep into injury-time; eventually, order was restored, and Millwall managed to take the kick, nine-man Albion trying their best to get some semblance of a ?wall? in gear. Enter into my tale, Kinsella. In a reversal of normal practice, an 80th minute replacement for the over-galloped Horse; and just as their lad was about to let fly from the left, and unmarked as well, in stepped our hero to shift the bladder to safety. Thank goodness the whistle blew about half a minute afterwards; judging from the pained looks on the faces of some of our immediate neighbours, I don?t think many could have stood the strain for much longer!

A point to the good, then, and an unexpected one, at that. Several of the players did come over to our end once the game finished, to acknowledge our second half Herculean vocal efforts ? and by Christ they were, too. One overwhelming memory I have of that half is around five or ten minutes from the end, when someone to the left stood up, and, reddened face contorted with emotion, gesticulated, urged, pleaded, even, for every Baggie in the place to redouble their vocal efforts. And didn?t we do just that? Pretty soon, the whole end was reverberating with noise; what the decibel rating of that little lot was, I shudder to even think. Yep, we got our reward, so it was most gratifying to hear Sunderland didn?t get theirs; one-nil it had been, and one-nil it finished. Nearly there, now; soon be time to let the partying begin!

Back to our coach, and on with The Fart?s radio to catch up on everyone else?s doings. And The Dingles had lost as well; a perfect end to the day? And, as we proceeded at a snail?s pace through that deprived borough, a little more input from the chap sitting opposite us about what led to Gaardsoe?s dismissal; apparently, as Dichio advanced on goal, our Great Dane grabbed him by the back of his shorts, thereby completely impeding his progress. A strange business all round, I guess, as by all accounts, the alleged offence seemed to have taken place inside, and not outside, the danger-zone. So, if that was the case, why did Mathieson blow up for a free-kick outside the area, and not a spot-kick? Will we now be setting in motion an appeal against the dismissal; a little bird has told me we are going to do so? Tell you what; ask me one on sport!

And finally?.One. Once on the coach and seated comfortably, The Old Fart?s mind began to turn towards thoughts of food. Sure, he?d brought loads of sarnies with him, and had left them on the seat to consume later, but now returned from the fray, so to speak, he couldn?t, for the life of him, clap eyes on the things. In his bag? Nope. On top of the luggage-rack overhead? Not a whisper. Stuck in one of his coat pockets, then? Not at all. Personally, I?d thought the culprit was that bloody bag of his, the one with the homicidal tendencies; after all, bags like that do have a heightened sense of hunger, and it was bulging ominously. I was just about to say that, when our hero suddenly gave a cry of joy; the prodigals had returned! And where were they, pray? Very squashed, under Tel?s celebratory bum, would you believe?

Two?. The Noise?s Atkinsonesque thoughts on the news Norwich had managed to sneak a late one at Reading: ?When the BBC said, ?It?s a goal at Reading? I knew it was one way or the other!?.? (Think about it!)

 - Glynis Wright

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