The Diary

09 May 2004: Hull, Hell, And Happiness?

So, here we are then. The last weekend of 2003-04, folkies, give or take all those sudden-death aftershocks to come, of course. A good day for Hull, where we journeyed today in search of a game, natch, but a bad one indeed for their local rivals ?over the water?, Grimsby Town. What?s that phrase, again? ?In the midst of life, there is death?, rather apt, given the circumstances. Sure, there have been times in the past when it?s been more appropriate to compare the prospect of an Albion fixture at Blundell Park with the insertion of a urinary catheter into the old John Thomas without the benefit of local anaesthetic, but despite all that, hearing of their relegation to The Third today was a bit like discovering next-door?s overaggressive toy poodle had been humanely destroyed by order of the magistrates for savaging the ankles of a postie or two. In other words, you know it simply had to be, and the outcome about as predictable as a Bernard Manning after-dinner joke, but you can?t help feeling sorry for the poor thing, all the same.

Shortly after our return from Humberside this evening, ?Im Indoors dialled up the Mariners? unofficial website, printed off the lead article, then handed it to me, and I?ll tell you something: had I been a GP, and the ?Electronic Fishcake? my patient, I?d have immediately prescribed them all the antidepressants listed in the current British Pharmacopoeia, plus a solid dose of counselling for good measure. I don?t know if it is possible for a complete website to harbour suicidal tendencies, but believe you me, that one sure as hell did tonight. 2,000 fish-loving souls they took to Tranmere today, and despite the opposition being reduced to ten men, they still managed to stuff it up big-time, and their failure is reflected in the text, which currently reads about as devoid of emotion as Margaret Thatcher announcing the closure of a hospital or two. It?s shock, pure and simple, and having undergone a similarly-depressing experience at Bath in 1991, I could see all too easily where they were coming from.

Contrast their current state of misery, then, with the unadulterated joy of their equally-fishy rivals over the Humber Bridge; their last day was set fair to be perfect, what with being promoted already, and Bristol Rovers having recently escaped the clutches of that bottomless gravity well commonly known as The Conference themselves. Nothing to play for, really, on both sides, but as this was Hull?s first promotion since the mid-eighties, when they made the ascent from the (old) Third to the Second, a handy excuse (if ever one were needed, of course!) for the Hull mob to party like there was no tomorrow. 18 years is quite a long spell in durance vile by anyone?s lights, and somewhat in excess of the time we spent in the lower reaches before 2002, so no wonder they were letting their hair down big-time this afternoon.

As you probably know already, they no longer hang out at Boothferry Park; since we last had the pleasure of their company at League level, they?ve moved to a brand-new home, the KC Stadium, not far from the docks. What does ?KC? stand for? Simple - the Kingston Communications Company, the concern that partially financed the whole thing; they?re the people who run telecommunications in that area, which, as some of you may know, developed a telephone system of its own quite separate from the GPO, way back at the start of the last century. Quite how this came to be, I have no idea, but happen it did, and as a result of the sell-off, a few years back, the local council found itself with one hell of a windfall on its hands. But that?s by the bye; what was important was the fact we?d managed to get tickets for their Third Division swansong today. Quite a change from our normal ?last weekend of the season? routine, then; with hand on heart, I can honestly say I?ve seen more last-day relegations these last ten years or so ? Hereford, Shrewsbury, Chester are but a few - than I care to think about.

It was quite a contrast this morning to step into the Dickmobile in temperatures hovering around the eight or nine centigrade mark, then exit our jalopy at the other end in hazy sunshine, and with the mercury hovering at double that value, almost. And, thanks to a little research in advance, we even found ourselves the perfect parking-spot; the nearby hospital car-park, and just in case you were thinking we were doing some patient, visitor or doctor out of a prime berth, stay thy smiting hand, dear reader! The whole thing was a tie-in with the hospital, who benefited from the charges, and what with that car-park being absolutely huge in the first place, I doubt whether it could have been completely filled with footie-lovers anyway. Having sorted out the parking side of things, time to go in search of liquid refreshment. This we found in a pub called The Eagle, about half a mile from the stadium proper; outwardly, a bit of a ?spit-and-sawdust? type of place, but once inside, plastic glasses excepted, a pretty amicable boozer indeed.

There still being about a couple of hours to go before kick-off, the place was only around half-full, so it was a matter of seconds before we found ourselves a handy table situated right next to a window. And, once The Old Fart and myself had plonked ourselves down, off ?Im Indoors went, in search of liquid refreshment. Minutes later, he returned, carrying our liquid needs, and with a huge grin plastered all over his little mush. Why? Simple ? the place sold good old Bonkses Bitter, that?s why! There you go, I always said Humberside people had good taste! In fact, you could say they were a pretty amiable lot all round; while my other half had been getting them in, The Fart had wasted no time at all in striking up a conversation with some lads sitting at an adjacent table. Hull City regulars, they were, both home and away, and as you might expect, as pleased as Punch their side was finally making a return to the big-time, comparatively speaking.

Quite an informative discussion we had, as well, much of it revolving around the changing fortunes of Lee Marshall, their opinion of former Albion man Richard Sneekes, when he played for them, briefly, plus some banter concerning former Albion manager Brian Little, who took over The Tigers after his sacking from our place, of course. Mind you, The Fart reserved the best bit for last; during the course of the conversation, he unthinkingly let it slip he was present at Wembley for the 1966 World Cup Final, and with that, the expression on the faces of all four of those lads instantaneously changed from one of amiability to one of dumbstruck awe and admiration. Never before had they met anyone actually present at that game, and judging from the respectful and deferential way they addressed the Fart after that, the casual observer would have thought they were in the presence of Royalty and not a rather wrinkly Crimean War veteran! Mind you, this was tempered somewhat by the conversation I overheard passing between two local girls in the ladies bog just before we left for the game. Blimey, I?d thought I could swear a bit when the mood took me, but these two seemed to have studied the subject to degree-level. It?s not all that often you hear the word F*** used as a noun, an adjective and a verb, all in the same sentence, and liberally interspersed with other choice cuss-words of greater or lesser import, is it? I crap you not, they would have made a Guards sergeant-major blush, even, such was their proficiency at the old basic Anglo-Saxon.

Having finally bade our erstwhile pub companions goodbye, we then set out for the ground proper. What does it look like? Well, if you imagine a cross between Huddersfield Town?s stadium and a bijou version of the Stadium Of Light, you won?t go far wrong; oodles of walkways giving easy access to the place, a coach-park nearby (with five or six Rovers coaches parked within), and, once we?d found it, a club shop about twice the size of ours. Mind you, they do have to share with the funny-balled persuasion, even to the point of having a separate section devoted to their ovoid needs. And, once in there, The Fart?s day was made complete, the reason being Hull City flogged fridge magnets, of which our resident wrinkly is a keen collector. Once out of the shop, we then went in search of our turnstile; a shame we ended up doing what amounted to a complete circumnavigation of the exterior. Yep, that?s right; we?d gone round in completely the wrong direction! Still, we did get there eventually, and without too much bother, found our seats, behind the goal, and to the left of the near post. As for the interior, think once more of Huddersfield?s McAlpine Stadium and you won?t go far wrong, but in contrast, only one side has two tiers of stand, although I?m given to understand there are already plans afoot to increase capacity to around 30,000, considerably more than the current 25K.

As you might expect, given the fact this was Hull?s first promotion in yonks, the club were giving it big licks; three sides of the ground completely awash with dark yellow and black ? no, NOT old-gold, thank heavens! ? and those travel-weary Rovers supporters shoe-horned into a small away section in the far corner, kept there by a phalanx of rozzers stationed in the segregation area dividing the two factions, and, predictably enough, breaking into a spirited rendering of their ?signature tune?, ?Goodnight Irene? at the slightest provocation. As you might have guessed already, the entire thing became a Nuremberg Rally in miniature; the scene was set when Hull?s finest stepped onto the pitch to the accompaniment of suitably-martial music on the PA, plus the release of enough yellow and black balloons to shift a fair-sized North Sea trawler out of the clutches of Mother Gravity. What goes up must come down, though; midway through the first half, the ref had to stop the game so the players could bust the great number that had returned to the pitch instead of floating off in the direction of the River Humber, as per the script.

As we?d already seen Hull in action several times this season, we had a pretty fair idea of what to expect. They?re a bit like us in style, really, with a liking for letting sides run at them, soaking up all the pressure, like man-sized bits of blotting-paper, then catching opponents on the break ? and, guess what? That?s precisely what they did do; the first half ended bloodlessly (unless you count the poor ref, who sustained some sort of an injury, not sure what, and had to be replaced by one of his lino colleagues, plus the hovering attentions of what appeared to be a very inquisitive Air-Sea Rescue helicopter indeed!), but not long into the second, they really struck with a vengeance. Wham, blam, thank you, Ma?am, a headed strike very similar to Scott Dobie?s, the other night, one-nil, and much merriment in the adjacent home end, predictably. And, about a couple of minutes later, they completely took Rovers apart with a delightful series of passing moves on the left flank, culminating in a pin-point cross turned in with deadly accuracy by one of theirs.

Their third? Much later in the half, but I didn?t really see it. Why? Because I was watching all those jubilant home supporters in the throes of a full-blown Mexican Wave, that?s why! ?Im Indoors tells me the strike was a thirty-yard Exocet of a thing, and their poor keeper had no chance. And neither did those stewards in the home end either, once they?d started what was an enormous conga-line by anyone?s standards! Even before the third went in, it was plain for all to see that this was going to be Hull?s day, no question about it, but there were some small crumbs of consolation for those poor Rovers supporters all stuck in the corner, like Little Jack Horner. Word from Loftus Road reached us, via The Fart?s steam radio, that QPR were winning their game, which meant that if the result stood, Rangers would be promoted, and City having to enter The Great Play-Off Lottery instead, but Beeb or no Beeb, we didn?t really require Tel to tell us that; the away end?s loud paeans of praise for all things Rangers told us all we needed to know!

By the time the sound of the final whistle echoed around the ground, the place was one vast party, and the game was rapidly becoming a secondary consideration. We could have stayed for Hull?s lap of honour, of course, but it wasn?t our party; better to leave the jollifications to those who?d truly earned the right to participate. Because most supporters stayed right where they were, shifting ourselves back to The Dickmobile was an absolute doddle, and because of the relative lack of traffic, so was getting away. Without much more ado, we were on the main drag out of the city, and passing the Humber Bridge, that giant landmark to the west of the place. The ?Road To Nowhere?, some used to call it when first opened in the eighties, but what with City?s promotion and everything, you certainly can?t apply that tag to it now. And, as we journeyed back to the Midlands, a chance to listen in on Birmingham-Liverpool, hoping against hope they?d come unstuck; the thought of ?them? in Europe was more than Baggie flesh and blood could stand. As it so happened, with that 3-0 home defeat of theirs, not only did they come unstuck, but because of results elsewhere, so had Villa?s attempts to enjoy the pleasures of continental football next season. What you might call a ?result? all round, then!

Tomorrow sees our final Nationwide game, of course, and the general scenario is very similar to that of Hull today. An already promoted side versus one that?s seriously flirted with relegation, but emerged from that poisoned relationship unscathed, more or less. Hopefully, we?ll put in a much better performance than that of our last two away games, and leave the Shrine with a bloody great grin plastered all over our faces, for once. According to the E and S, our leader is currently using these final games to tinker with the existing formation with a view towards sussing out what might work in the higher sphere next season. Funny, and here was me thinking we?d simply taken our foot off the gas pedal! Still, it would be dead nice to finish with a win on our home turf to our credit, a perfect scene-setter for the presentation of those runners-up medals to the players come the end of the game, don?t you think? Mind you, scuttlebutt is we?ll be without The Horse tomorrow, plus Mark Kinsella, and AJ, of course, which is a bit of a blow, to say the least. I can only hope the lads themselves want to turn on the style in front of their own ? unless our leader has other ideas, of course.

And finally?. I had planned to mull over the delights and despairs of the season just gone in some depth tonight, but sheer fatigue has beaten me on that one. Suffice to say, I know already what my personal ?Goal Of the Season? will be ? that almighty Sakiri rocket into the back of the net versus Burnley, at home. My Albion ?Magic Moment?? Two, really ? no, make that three. The first was the magnificent 2-1 win at Newcastle in the League Cup (trust Hughsie to forget which end our supporters were at, and celebrate his strike in front of the home lot instead!) and the second, that last-minute winner at Ipswich. The third? Only one contender, really; Jason Koumas?s late, late show at The Stadium Of Light just a few weeks ago. A strike the significance of which rivalled that of Igor Balis, at Bradford, some two years (and a lifetime?) previously. Not surprising, then, that the entire away end completely erupted; although we knew we had obstacles to overcome, still, in our heart of hearts, we knew that was going to be the goal to take us into the Premiership. Most certainly, one of my all-time Top Ten Albion Moments.

Low-point of 2003-04? No contest, really. It simply had to be both games versus The Franchise, that shadowy outfit currently residing in the Milton Keynes Hockey Stadium, and now well and truly cast into The Outer Darkness, or the Second Division, whichever you prefer. I kid you not, what with the temporary (and uncovered) stand in that away end, the freezing cold conditions, plus the constant background drone of the generator for some hot-dog stall at the rear, after 20 minutes or so of that little lot, plus the total lack of any excitement on the pitch, I completely lost the will to live! More in a similar vein tomorrow night, though, when I?ll be sticking my ample snout into even more categories. Please feel free to agree/disagree as you so wish ? this is a democratic column, and provided you don?t spoil your ballot, call me rude names, or threaten to do a U-turn on the old manifesto after being elected, I?ll take on board what you have to say with pleasure.

 - Glynis Wright

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