The Diary

29 August 2004: Rumours - And Rumours Of Rumours!

Just what the hell was going on at Everton today? No, I?m not referring to events on the pitch, although I will get there in due course, I promise; what I?m banging on about are the welter of rumours that hit us Dick sellers standing, minding our own business and flogging fit to bust, prior to the game. First of all we were told by in the pub by one excited Baggie Earnshaw had been pulled out of Cardiff?s League game today, then, outside the ground, that Cardiff had accepted a 3.5 million quid bid for our target, with a player thrown in for good measure ? Greegs, we assumed ? then, not long after that, someone else approached our little spot, very anxious indeed to impart what was obviously vital information. This time, it was that one of the club?s secretaries had been seen with a thick bundle of papers in her hot little hands; when asked what they were, our informant told us the lady had told him it was all transfer stuff to go to the Prem, a public announcement to be made later, and negotiations were also still going on with yet another (unknown) player. First time we?d heard about that one, but never mind ? it still sounded good.

Later still, we were informed by yet another breathless messenger Earnshaw had passed a medical, then just before we pitched our metaphorical tents and were about to steal away silently into the ground, would you believe yet another Baggie told us Earnshaw was definitely an Albion player? ?It?s been on Sky, so it must be right!? said our informant, nodding sagely, as such people do when they feel they have important news to impart. A success, at last! Yesssss! And, although the game?s final result was a let-down, at least we could rest secure in the knowledge we would have a half-decent striker on board by next week. Fast forward to tonight, then, and our return home. We hadn?t been back all that long, when The Fart rang. Not to tell us he?d left something vital behind in The Dickmobile, as per usual, but something much worse; the Earnshaw talks, far from being cut and dried, hit a big snag last night ? Meggo?s agent, believe it or not - and there was now a huge wodge of doubt hanging over the whole thing!

Rumour really is an awful trick to perpetrate on people, a bit like watching the Baggies, if you like. Hear one favourable to the club, and the resultant adrenalin rush builds you up until you feel about ten feet tall: conversely, its rapid fading or rebuttal lets you down in a somewhat precipitous manner, so you?re then left cursing horribly about what might have been! I really wish people wouldn?t do this to me; being co-editor of a fanzine means we get more than our fair share of what the Royal Navy used to call ?buzzes?, either via the internet, or by word of mouth, but it really is a cruelty too far to be strung along in this manner just before an important game. Any chance of a law being passed ordaining that any Albionite caught doing this maliciously, or without due care and attention (to stressed-out fanzine editors, perchance?), should be strung up by their toenails and made to listen to endless recordings of Dingle Dave Jones?s after-match excuses?

Back to other matters, now. No traffic on the M6 this morning, which must rank as a ?first? in the away-travelling history of this column. Even better, after picking The Noise up from his usual Stoke jumping-off point, we arrived in Merseyside at around eleven AM, which has to be something of a record for a trip like this also. Oh, and here?s a vagrant thought for you: you can tell how much influence the Communist Party exerted upon Merseyside local politics in times of yore, though - not far from the ground were streets given the delightful names ?Kremlin Drive? and ?Moscow Drive?! Knowing the Liverpudlian sense of humour as well as I do, I can just imagine the snide cracks that little political wheeze generated. Taking a wrong turning shortly afterwards, somehow, we then managed to end up driving around Anfield; no problem, as both clubs are very close (at opposite ends of Stanley Park, basically) but we weren?t half surprised to see two of The Drinking Family walking on the pavement close to where the Hillsborough Memorial?s located. Were they geographically-embarrassed, as per my (much-bowdlerised!) shouted suggestion from the car? Not a bit of it; hitting the town, and heading for the pub (what else?), they weren?t best pleased to find it wasn?t open yet, so they decided to kill time by indulging in a little thirst-generating stroll instead. That?s their story, and they?re most certainly sticking to it!

Bidding our mates farewell, it wasn?t long before we found the correct ground (The Everton flags everywhere were a bit of a giveaway), and from there, finding Stanley Park Car-Park was a piece of cake. And, as we paid the nice gent at the gate, a surprise, delivered courtesy of a Scouse accent you could have docked liners with. According to him, not to mention the elderly couple who supervised the actual parking, that place opens at eight AM on matchdays ? all those huge TV equipment lorries have to go somewhere, apparently ? so there?s never any problem finding a parking spot whenever either club play.

Onwards, ever onwards, in the hazy sunshine, to Goodison, about a mile away. Or, to be more precise, to the Stanley Park pub right next to the ground; just before we made to enter, a curious printed notice stuck to the bar window grabbed my attention. What was it about? According to the blurb, some supporters organisation, unhappy with the way Everton Chairman Bill Kenwright was handling things, not least of which was the imminent sale of Wayne Rooney, had called for a half-time mass walk-out at today?s game. Interesting if they could get it to work, I thought ? and even more interesting if the plods would let the ?demonstrators? back in afterwards, which was the general idea. ?Ripping the heart out of the club!? was how they described the current situation.

Into the pub, then. Because the sun hadn?t quite reached the yardarm yet, the place was almost bereft of customers, what little noise could be heard was emanating from a TV screen showing VH1. You could tell straight away this wasn?t a hostelry to come to if a quiet romantic evening was your bag; this place had one function only, that of housing thirsty football supporters in great numbers on matchdays. As you might expect, there was very little in the way of bar furniture inside, just a very basic padded bench ranged around the perimeter of the large room, with two or three round pub-type tables dotted here and there, plus a few pillars, complete with wooden sills to rest pints on, breaking up a little the huge empty void that confronted us in the middle. By way of wall decoration, not much: a huge Everton flag draped from the bar ceiling, plus many photos of past stars adorning the walls. And, in the front section of the room, a mural depicting Everton fans in various celebratory poses. The best bit? Easy. An away trip where we?d gone to the pub, and no hordes of thirsty Baggies to negotiate to get to the bar ? unbelievable.

Liquid refreshment finally organised, we began to relax. The Fart, bless his many Boer war medals, engaged in conversation with a couple sitting on their tod in the corner, and eventually, we all joined in. It transpired that our twosome were from Oz, well, from Sydney, actually; the lad was an emigree from the Emerald Isle, while the girl was an Aussie born and bred. Did she like the beautiful game? Yep, loved it, she countered. And that?s when The Noise pitched in; within about ten minutes he had left second gear well behind, and was seeking to engage overdrive! A new victim ? whoopee! You could almost see the little lights in The Noise?s eyes glow with anticipation.

As the hour of midday gradually approached, and a Queen video was belting out on the TV ? ?We Will Rock You? ? we began to get better acquainted, our Aussie chums and ourselves. They?d been travelling around Oz for about 10 months (that?s how they met). It appeared Rosa had lived in the vicinity of Bondi Beach (we?d found it a bit of a let-down when we went there, some four years ago), then moved to the centre of the city later. Now in England for a break, they were taking in some British football, specifically of an Everton bent ? the lad was a Toffee through and through. The Noise then explained the subtle nuances of Wedgwoods? working practices, poor sods, while The Fart?s camera clicked like crazy. Aw, you know what he?s like for taking pictures of acquaintances and celebs - he?s currently got more files packed to the brim with these things than you can shake a stick at. You name the celeb, and Tel has managed to ?get? them at some time or another. Oh - and I?m still waiting to see the one of him with Osama Bin Laden!

Exchanging parting pleasantries once more, it was out of the now-packed boozer, and off to the away end where, hopefully, our public awaited. And it did; we managed to flog all of the stock we?d brought by about half past two. The rumour-mongers I?ve told you about already, but there were also a couple of visitors to our perch who had other tales to tell. Take Dave Baxendale, for instance. If you?ve been following my piece recently, you?ll know that earlier in the week, Dave left these sunny climes for the geological delights of Iceland. (The freezer-place joke I?ve done already. Sorry.) As promised, he attended an Icelandic league game last Thursday night (an account will be in either the next Dick, or the one after that), and quite an experience it turned out to be, as well. I can?t remember the names of the participating sides, but there were around 800 spectators present, and the ground being situated hard by a beach, come half-time, Dave was treated to the edifying sight of the visiting supporters all heading off to the briny for a quiet swim before the second half resumption. Fine, except the sea temperature at those latitudes is a balls-freezing 6 to 8 degrees Centigrade at this time of year. Imagine our lot doing that in the canal at the bottom of Halfords Lane? No, I can?t either.

Our other early visitor? None other than a certain Steve Brookes, he of the aberrant rectal methane production line. It turned out that Steve had finally clapped eyes on the small piece about him that appeared in the current Dick. Up he came, spitting fire and brimstone ? but not inflammable gaseous waste-products at the same time, mercifully! ? then threatened to sue me for saying his age was forty. ?Fine,? says I, ?But I didn?t write it ? blame HIM!? and with that, shoved an indicatory thumb in the direction of my beloved, who thanked me profusely afterwards. Not. Just as well, then, Steve hasn?t seen my diary piece of last night, isn?t it?

Two more visitors not long after Steve departed to pollute the interior of the ground. First up was Marion Brennan of the E and S to tell me that fellow journo Dan Slee was now a proud dad. A boy, nine pound-odd, I?m reliably informed. Just wait until I can find him a suitably-rude card. The second? Laraine Astle, with a lovely tale to tell. Apparently, Brian Labone, the sixties Everton player who knew Jeff very well, rang her up last night with an offer to show her right around the ground; naturally, Laraine accepted with good grace. Also present when she did the tour was former keeper Gordon West. What a lovely gesture, and once more, words from those old pros to the effect that Jeff was a gentleman, with a sense of humour that could light up a whole room. What a way to be remembered; perhaps listening to someone like that might behove some of today?s swearing, inebriated, tantrum-throwing ball-playing star-children to grow up just a little, then posterity might, just might, remember them in a similarly-favourable light. Dream on? Sadly, yes. One amusing note: The Noise, arguing with The King?s nearest and dearest about what constituted a Stoke accent, and whether our co-editor possessed one. (The Noise constantly maintains he lives in Newcastle Under Lyme, and not Stoke!)

?Oh yes it IS!? said The Royal Family in unison.

?OH no it?s NOT!? ejaculated an indignant Noise, face getting redder and redder each and every time the winding-up ratchet was skilfully applied by Laraine et. al. Lovely stuff!

The ?fun? bit over, time to enter the ground. For the benefit of those who?ve never been to Goodison, the away end is still one that retains a definite air of the fifties and sixties; it really is a Premiership relic, but one with more than a little charm. But before I embark on a description, a word about The Fart. As we were about to go through the turnstiles, The Fart leading the way, the turnstile operator stopped him, then queried his ticket. Full of curiosity, I took a quick peek at what the old sod had done this time ? and I almost died with shock. Instead of pulling out today?s bit of paper, he?d instead extracted from his wallet the one for the Premiership fixture a fortnight hence. Which wouldn?t have mattered a damn, really ? except it was for the LIVERPOOL game! Now imagine it ? you?re doing a similar job at The Shrine, and someone thrusts a Dingles ticket into your sticky mitt? Precisely.

That little bit of confusion sorted out, we then headed for our seats. As I said earlier, Goodison is real throwback. Ancient toilets, primitive facilities (the TV screens below being a somewhat belated concession towards modernity, I suppose), wooden seats in the stand, wooden floors, ancient ditties, pop songs long forgotten, on the PA system, just to boost the ambience a little. Is there another Premiership ground with facilities as ancient, I wonder? (Pompey, ?Im Indoors just reminded me!) At least, our perches, situated in the corner of the ground, weren?t too bad, really, although we did subsequently discover a small snag, about which Everton couldn?t do much ? but of that, later. Team news? The Horse out, seeing the vet, presumably, with Dobes in the hot-seat instead. As for the rest, same as Wednesday evening.

Oh dear, and what an almighty mullock we made of the start. One-nil to the home side, and lots of Baggies hadn?t taken their seats, even. What happened? This. Ironically enough, former Baggie Kevin Kilbane was the architect of our destruction. With just a couple of minutes gone, from a throw, he flicked the ball to Leon Osman, lurking with intent on the post, and completing the headed job in seconds flat, much to the delight of the Rooney-wearied home crowd. I wouldn?t have minded except Osman?s only about five feet five soaking wet! Whatever happened to our massive rearguard, then?

This rapid opener must have stung something in our favourites? psyche, because from then on in, we proceeded to lay siege to their goal, winning a couple of corners in close succession. Shame they both came to naught, though. Clem then had a go from long-range, but to no avail, and AJ was unlucky also when his shot was turned just wide by a defensively-minded Toffee. Enter, with seven minutes gone, just about, our stand-in striker Scott Dobie. It was Greening?s corner, but Dobes?s goal, noddled in most skilfully from our relative newcomer?s set-piece. On equal terms once more, and deservedly so, in my opinion, prompting the observation from me once more that two seasons ago, we?d have just curled up and died.

With parity restored so quickly, and their home end reduced to silent and simmering fury, we Dick Eds then sat back, anticipating a further turning of the screw by Meggo?s men, but for some reason, it simply didn?t work out that way. Why it happened, I don?t know, but just after that equaliser, Yobo was left with what amounted to a free shot in our box, and we were lucky to escape intact. Another couple of attempts by both Dobes and Clem were quickly repulsed by their defenders, but the problems of Wednesday night were beginning to reassert themselves once more ? giving the ball away too cheaply, being second for everything both in midfield and up front, not to mention a defensive gap as wide as the Mersey Tunnel on the right flank.

Then about five minutes later, a real blow. In the 23rd minute, Tommy Gaardsoe went down heavily on the near touchline, after being involved in a robust tangle with a Toffee. Nick Worth quickly ran onto the pitch to administer treatment, but it rapidly became clear that our defensive Dane?s participation in this encounter was well and truly over. Much worse was the sight of the first-aid people bringing an inflatable splint onto the pitch; shortly after that, TG was stretchered off (an ankle injury, apparently, and I don?t know any more than that at present) to much applause from our faithful, with Albrechtson taking his place (and making his Albion first-team debut). Just as TG plus carriers disappeared down the tunnel, ?Im Indoors reminded me of my words of yesterday, saying, ?Now you know what those crutches were for!?

It was around that time a rampant Everton stepped on the gas, and given a bit of luck, could quite easily have gone in front. Things weren?t helped by some Albion defending which can only be described as ?kamikaze?, but even former Japanese Emperor Hirohito would have shunned this lot. What idiot managed to lose the ball right in the middle of our box, for example? I?m not sure which particular Baggie got us out of that one, but let?s just say the interception was fortuitous, to say the least. Thank goodness for the half-time whistle.

During the interval we watched the home end intently to see whether any of the locals had decided to obey the ?refusenik? edict previously mentioned, but as far as I could see, very few, if any, had bothered. Had the home side been a goal or two down, then I daresay things would have been very different. Just as well, really; had they left, they?d have missed what happened next. Oh ? and, while I awaited the resumption of play, another vagrant thought. Why was it I was surrounded by Albion supporters possessing bladders that must have been the weakest known to human physiology? Both The Fart and I lost count of the times during the first half we had to rise from our seats to accommodate the urgent excretory needs of these people. Hadn?t anyone told them the human bladder is composed of transitional epithelium, and is therefore capable of much stretching?

Bladder-emptying Baggies or not, if anything, the second half was worse than the first as far as our half-baked defence and half-cock attack was concerned. The home side began to pass the ball around very neatly indeed, and we simply couldn?t get a look in. And we were still very vulnerable at that far post, so our leader decided to change it by going more defensive. Gera came off with about 10 minutes gone, and on came Bernt Hass instead. With about 20 minutes gone, and Paul Robinson having treatment for an over-enthusiastic Toffee challenge, once that was done, he was whipped off also, and Big Dave brought on in an attempt to stiffen up the rearguard a little more.

Trouble was, just after that, Everton brought on their own ?secret weapon?, Duncan Ferguson, and immediately, we experienced even more problems, in this case, a free-kick, right on the edge of our box. Cue for ?Im Indoors to scream frantically to Clem, ?GET OFF THE LINE! GET OFF THE BLOODY LINE, WILL YOU!? My other half couldn?t be heard by the intended recipient, of course, but common sense should have dictated the correct course of action; the ball was blocked, but that man Osman, now onside, of course, latched onto the soaring ball, and duly whanged it past Houlty to put them in front again. No complaints from this column; it had been coming since the middle of the first half. After that, as I recall, as well as working our socks off not to let the score against increase, we only managed a couple of further attempts on goal, both of these easily repelled by the home side. One, being of AJ origin, went well over the bar. No surprise there, then.

Not long after that, the final whistle, and yes, we were well-beaten by an Everton side who, although knocked back morale-wise by all the off-field nonsense surrounding that troubled club, still managed to pass us off the park to achieve those precious three points. Although the season started promisingly, we still have a very long way to go, seemingly. This was supposed to be one of the more ?beatable? sides; as things transpired, we were lucky it wasn?t more than two. I had hoped the arrival of Earnshaw would provide something of a good gust of fresh air in the ranks, but even that?s looking more than a little in doubt tonight, according to Ceefax. We?re still in for Dindane, according to the same blurb, but I won?t hold my breath. And neither will you.

Back tomorrow, with more thoughts. Tara.

And Finally?.. Today?s winner of the Norman Bartlam Award For The Cheesiest Albion-Related Joke. The Noise on the way to today?s game: ?Considering August?s been the wettest in living memory, don?t you think it was clever of Megson to buy a Kanu??

 - Glynis Wright

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