The Diary

12 September 2004: Mersey Misery, Part Two

You want a word that pretty much encapsulates what I witnessed this afternoon? Well, try ?outclassed? for size ? it fits the bill very nicely indeed, as The Reds passed and moved their impeccable way towards a pretty comprehensive demolition job at the expense of our finest, who collectively played like a load of geriatric carthorses, comparatively speaking. Also log in your memory, those key phrases, ?powder-puff attack?, not to mention its bosom friend, ?substandard defence?. Although I?d pretty much written off this game before it commenced, the most worrying aspect of the whole situation is the fact that as far as results go, Liverpool are by no means the best in the Prem, which means we really have to start getting some wins under our belt at the expense of those around us in the table if we seriously intend to renew our place in this league next season. Fulham, next week, would certainly do for starters; that?s a prime example of the sort of game we really do have to win, snatch points from out of the delicate little pinkies of our prospective relegation rivals, let them really stew and sweat for a change. The stark truth is, should we should happen to miss that particular boat this coming Saturday, then God help us all over the months to come. And what a waste of all last season?s hard work that would be, should it happen.

Mind you, our own short and intermediate-term Premiership prospects haven?t been the major topic of most Baggie hot gossip today, more the survival prospects of Old Ginger Nut himself who, according to the national media today, may already be in the Last Chance Saloon; the Mirror reckon there is to be a board meeting tomorrow, although the locals reckon crunch-time is scheduled for some time next week. Personally, I?m inclined to believe them, rather than the nationals; the local boys generally have the more accurate inside info at their sticky fingertips. What?s really puzzling me about this whole unsavoury business, though, is the surprise on everyone?s lips, when the story first broke. The nitty gritty of this supposed rift between our leader and Jeremy Peace (he?s back from Jamaica, by the way, I saw him outside the ground this afternoon) was discussed both in our fanzine and in this very column some 18 months ago; at the time, some very broad hints were dropped, as a result of which we were promptly accused of being ?anti-Megson?, amongst other things too indelicate to mention right now. Funny, isn?t it? Now our chairman is allegedly telling our leader his fortune in public, rather than us, suddenly it?s all right, then!

But, enough. Back to that particular topic later. As you might have expected, the main topic of conversation in the Dickmobile this pleasant late-summer?s morning was the Meggo business, the text of which had broken in the Mirror the other day. Not that our deliberations could solve anything, but at least the tone of earnest debate was fractured in hilarious fashion when we diverted to pick up The Noise at Stoke On Trent. How come? Easy. Because all our away travel this far has been to either Lancashire or Merseyside, thus far this term, we?ve always had to pick up our garrulous chum at a motel just off Junction 15 of the M6, and on the morning of the Blackburn opener, I just happened to spot a police car parked opposite the motel entrance. So far, so unremarkable, but what was particularly puzzling was the fact it was still there when we came to drop The Noise off, some seven or so hours later. Now this is where it starts to get quite mystifying, because that very same car was still in situ when we picked up The Noise prior to the Everton jaunt, same registration plates, even ? and yes, there it was, as large as life when we came back! I could only assume it had been put there as a deterrent to car thieves, but when we pulled onto that same patch of ground today ? catastrophe! There it was, er, gone, which now leaves me to speculate as to whether or not some brave Stokie nicked the thing one dark and stormy night?

As for the rest of the journey, that was quite unremarkable, apart from yet another abortive attempt to get hold of Virgin trains and book four adult cheapo day return tickets to Newcastle on the appointed day of our fixture there. What a bloody palaver it?s been, and what is to follow is no word of a lie, believe you me. The first time I tried, some 7 days ago, I was dead impressed with their voice-activated automated booking system, but as they hadn?t released the tickets we wanted, they couldn?t help, sadly. Since then, we?ve been ringing every day, have even visited Leominster station in person twice to do the dirty deed, but with no success. I even tried ringing them via our mobile, but this revealed a hitherto-unsuspected snag; if the signal?s weak, the voice-activated thingy gets totally the wrong idea of what you want to do, with, as the telly script-writers would say, ?hilarious results?. An example? Quite John Cleese-like did I get the other day, when the infuriating phantom voice tried to get me tickets from Oldham(!) to Geordieland, and on a completely different time and date to the one requested. ?No, I don?t want to go from bloody Oldham, you stupid machine,? bawled I, somewhat impotently into the electronic void, ?I want to go from BIRMINGHAM NEW STREET! Got it? BIR-MING-HAM NEEEEW STREEEEET?.?

The reply? ?Sorry, I didn?t get that. You want to go from Altringham to Newport, Gwent, on the oompteenth of?..??

Me; ?AARRGH! No, you imbecilic electronic piece of s**t, I want to go from BIRMINGHAM NEW STREET??!?

Luckily, at that point an almost speechless with mirth ?Im Indoors managed to snatch the mobile out of my hands before too much damage was done to it! Mind you, that wasn?t the end of the saga; we actually got to speak to a human being on about 5 separate occasions, and on each one, were quoted a totally different price, varying from ?22 per Baggie to some ?250 (honest!), and, better still, two completely different prices courtesy of two calls completed within the space of ten minutes. Now, tell me again, the government wants to encourage people away from their cars and onto all those luvverly shiny diesel thingies, right? If that?s the case, then what a cock-eyed way of going about it, only having a limited number of cheap seats, and only releasing them on the capricious whim of the train operator concerned. Oh for the days when you simply went to the ticket office at the station on the day of travel, asked for your tickets, paid, got them, then proceeded onto the appropriate platform to await the arrival of the blasted thing! Too simple by half, it would appear. So much, then, for privatisation and all those promises of wider choice and improved services for the traveller. John Major should have been shot for pulling that one some ten years ago. Stick with this story, though, because despite our best efforts to get sorted, it?s still bubbling away in there ? of this, more next week, I promise!

Our arrival on Merseyside was far less complicated than on the previous occasion we visited (we didn?t get lost, for starters, which helped!) but when we got to Stanley Park, our mooring-point for the Goodison caper, we ? erm ? couldn?t. How come? Liverpool permit-holders only, apparently, despite the fact there is little disparity between the two clubs as far as gates are concerned. Never mind, though; just a few yards up the road was a garage with a nice little sideline in parking-space, and we dropped anchor there instead. (Actually, I reckon it was the better deal, as we were able to get away with very little difficulty afterwards.) From there, it was but a swift toddle through Stanley Park to Arkles pub, just around the corner from Anfield itself. (Confession time - I fondly remember the moment when, aged about 18, and as tiddly as a rat on ?strong waters?, I ranged through that same park, pre-match, bawling to all and sundry, ?Albatross, come and get yer albatross ? tuppence on a stick?!? Well, Monty Python was the talk of the nation circa 1970, and that?s all the excuses you?re going to get from me! So there.)

As for the pub I just mentioned, think of the place we supped at before Everton writ very large, and you?ve just about got it. Very little seating, Liverpool memorabilia aplenty adorning the walls, giant TV screen plus its smaller brethren, and an oversize bar to cater for the incessant needs of loads of very thirsty football supporters. At least Sky confirmed what I?d discussed in the Dickmobile on our way up ? the last time we?d won at Anfield in the League was in April 1967. I knew because I was at that game; we?d just given Jimmy Hagan the boot and were fighting relegation, about second or third from bottom at the time. Interesting, though, to note that from then on in, we turned the corner, winning all our remaining games. Liverpool then were to us about what Arsenal are now, and to go there and get three points (we had The King to thank for that one) was absolutely tremendous. Funny to think I was only about 15 at the time, and just seven stone dripping-wet; ?cor, how time flies?, said she, in a somewhat adipose manner!

And, as the bar filled, so did The Noise?s conversational abilities; leaving him getting into verbal overdrive with two Irish Reds (poor sods, yet another British torture inflicted upon the sons of Erin; I wonder if they?ll complain to the Human Rights people?) I went to get our posse some refills. Some task, too; the bar, when I got there, bore a distinct resemblance to Harrods on the opening day of the January Sales, arms, legs, bodies, even, flying everywhere, shoving, pushing, fivers and tenners waving with gay abandon, and as for the noise?. It took me a good ten minutes just to get served, and by the time I?d negotiated the tricky course back to our corner, I felt like I?d just competed in the London Marathon. But that wasn?t all; Arkles kept its best trick until last. Unisex bogs, would you believe? No problem with unwelcome ?visitors?, as there was a lock on the door, but it just so happened that the previous occupant seemed to be suffering from terminal bowel obstruction. Well, that?s what it smelt like to my poor insulted and overworked olfactory orifices. Cor, what a niff! Instinctively, I looked around for Brooksie, an acknowledged master of the anally-offensive, but he was nowhere to be seen. Must be a double, then.

Exiting the ?conveniences? more in the manner of a jet-propelled cork from a bottle ? the sheer intensity of the smell lent my dodgy legs wings, believe you me ? we then took ourselves off to start selling our pristine Dicks ? yep, a ?new one?, and hot-foot from the Principality, last night, too ? in the street outside the away turnstiles. The Noise, though, was particularly charmed today by the long sticks senior Merseyside coppers carry by way of routine. ?They havin? a game of snooker after the match, or what?? was his take on their peculiar supervisory implements, unique to that force, it has to be said. And, had he heard it, I strongly suspect the copper we nattered to beforehand (no number, no pack-drill, as the saying goes) would have giggled his bloody head off as much as I at that moment.

Good to see also lots and lots of Scousers sampling our wares ? usually, the attitude taken to such publications at this level by home supporters is aloof indifference, at best ? as did their Evertonian brethren just a couple of weeks ago. Fanzines are really a ?goer? in these parts, it would seem. One particular Scouser lament about the 42 quid ticket prices for their forthcoming Monaco Champions League game struck a particular chord with me. ?Back in the eighties, we were one of the cheapest clubs in the division ? now look at this!? True, as recession-hot Merseyside was really on its uppers at the time, and all credit to the Anfield mob for keeping their prices down as they did, but how times do change. Not to mention club attitudes towards lesser financially-endowed mortals.

Of course, taking up our pitch right outside our turnstiles meant a rapid resumption of the Megson-Peace issue discussed in the Dickmobile earlier. Unsurprisingly, lots and lots of anxious Baggies wanted to bat the breeze about the very same thing, and once more, rumours multiplied like bacteria in an open sewer. There was going to be an emergency board meeting tomorrow, this was going to happen, that wasn?t going to happen ? and then came the strange bit. We were told what later proved to be the actual team put out by our allegedly beleaguered leader; curious to note that there wasn?t one of our latest signings down to start! Doo wot? Had I been of evil mind, like so many politicians these days, I would have said that was a team selection deliberately set up to fail, and dismally so, thereby forcing our chairman?s hand, finally ? but I?m not like that, really, am I? Earnshaw on the bench, and just The Horse and Kanu labouring up front? Albrechtson replacing Gaardsoe? Bernt Hass replacing Gera? At Anfield, and with all their horribly-famous internationals playing? Someone having a laugh, surely?

The only positive note was the inclusion of Scouse Jase, playing back in his home turf for the first time in yonks. One bright spot in all this gloom and despondency, though. A visit from Albion?s very own ?Royal Family?, Laraine Astle and daughter Dawn, who will both be attending the presentation of our GD cheque for some ?900 to Dovedale Day Care Centre in Derby this coming Thursday. Yep, we?ve finally arranged it. I?ll be reporting on the event via this column, so watch this space, also the major local rags; thanks to the efforts of The Fart, they too have been tipped off.

?You know what,? said Laraine, clutching my arm as she was about to take her leave, ?I saw my Jeff score the winner here in 1967, and now I?m going back again. I just hope we can win for him this time.? Oh, whoops.

I?m not going to say too much about what took place on the pitch thereafter; my opening comments suffice quite adequately, in my humble opinion, and I have no wish to change them, thank you very much. After the usual short introductory ?testing out? period on the part of both sides, Liverpool then proceeded to give us a lesson in the noble art of playing Premiership football. Their first hit the back of the net with only 18 minutes gone; the goal was the culmination of a superb series of passing moves involving the whole width of the pitch, England man Gerrard applying the coup de grace. Their second? That was courtesy of Finnan, who ended the game as a meaningful contest with a superb effort with just two minutes of normal time remaining until the interval. The guy intercepted the ball some way out of our box, then beat a succession of flailing Baggie limbs in it to slot home with the greatest of ease. A lovely strike, it has to be said. As I casually remarked to ?Im Indoors just before they doubled their tally, ?That passing?s the difference between them and us?.? As for us, my trusty notebook tells me that our first corner of the game came way into the half, in the 30th minute of the game, to be precise! ?Nuff said?

Half-time, and a chance to worship once more The Great Porcelain God way down below. Funny, though, back up there, no-one could make out a blind thing the PA system was announcing: we could have had a fire, a flood, an invasion from Mars, even, and every single one of us would have just sat there in blissful ignorance, such was the feebleness of the speakers, but in the Ladies ? yep, as clear as a bell! One bonus, though ? bog provision so good, no queues for all those possessive of two X chromosomes, for once. Whoopee!

Thanks to those new-fangled 20 minute intervals, back in good time for the second dose, then. Of that, I reckon our only significant contribution to the proceedings was one helluva Scouse Jase belter of a shot from all of 30 yards that really had their keeper shifting to tip the thing thankfully around the post for a corner. Come the 53rd minute, The Horse was stabled, and our new signing was finally given his inaugural run out for the club, but by then, of course, the damage had been well and truly done, and what more, was totally beyond retrieval.

The final blow, some 10 minutes later, came when Garcia potted the rebound after Houlty had managed to beat his initial shot away. After that, the Scousers eased up a little; just as well, really, had they gone on to finish what they?d started, I reckon we?d have been looking at a cricket score tonight. We did make a further change, Gera coming on for poor Mr. Hass, who earned a great dollop of stick from some quarters today for his performance, but we were totally lacking in all departments today ? and what?s more, we knew it as well. As for Liverpool, they were clearly a class apart, and today?s loss truly showed us up for what we are right now ? Sopwith Camels, noisy, labouring, piston-engined stringbags, compared to their eleven silky-smooth jet-propelled, supersonic Stealth Bombers, something as far removed from us as an amoeba is to the human race. Compete? With that? At our present stage of top-flight evolution, I don?t think so.

The media consensus tonight seems to be as before; that our leader has but two more games in which to redeem himself, with a P45 the parting gift should he fail. Had we got a result today, it would have made the board?s final decision that much harder (all those Baggie Megson-lovers likely to be up in arms in the event of a dismissal), but that defeat today makes the prospect of a managerial reprieve far less likely, so we could be in for an announcement to that effect come the start of the week. Certainly, as I gazed upon the suited figure bawling on the touchline today, I did idly speculate as to whether that was the last we were going to see of him as an Albion manager. And, it does have to be said that the massed chants totally supportive of Gary, which I?d expected, to be honest, simply weren?t there. Sure, I did hear some before and right at the start of the 90 minutes, but it was far from a universal affair; I now suspect outright unconditional majority support for our manager is waning somewhat, and that just might prompt JP to embark on a pre-emptive strike, and sooner rather than later. The thing is, at this stage in the season, a change in manager comes at a time when the rot can conceivably be stopped. Leave it until, say, the New Year, and you?re practically kippered. Even a resurrected Sir Alf Ramsey would be incapable of turning things around by then.

Trouble is, though, should this happen, who would we get by way of replacement? First off, I can?t believe that our board have been so na?ve as to mutter darkly about dismissals before making doubly sure there?s a replacement ready and waiting in the wings for that all-important call. Should our leader get the bullet, there are people available right now, of course, and good ones, too; all that?s left now is for us to idly wonder as to who The Chosen One might be. The suggestion from a few Baggies today of a Bobby Robson return to his old stamping-ground with a young, eager and hungry Number Two to assist certainly appeals to my heart, if not my head. The Fart would be tickled to death by a Robson return: after all, our resident old codger gave Sir Bobby his first ever break in management way back in the days when our present motorway system was just a figment of some Whitehall pen-pusher?s imagination! Then, there?s Mark Hughes, assuming he isn?t interested in the Blackburn post. Gordon Strachan?s still out of a job, of course: a little too much like what we?ve got already, or a possible asset, because he has that all-important Premiership pedigree? I suppose you could argue, that, yes, he was of similar ilk once, but unlike the present incumbent, he?s managed to evolve to a significant degree; that?s the difference. Brian Robson? Thanks, but no thanks. Mind you, as The Noise so playfully remarked in the Dickmobile on the way back, Bobby Gould?s available! Mutiny in the Brummie, anyone?

And Finally?..One. Just to prove the true spirit of The Kop still flickers dimly away somewhere?. Heard in the away end, some ten minutes into the second half, a Baggie chorus aimed at the adjacent home contingent of: ?Shall we sing a song for you?? Their instantaneous reply (and spot-on, too, as we were all-too painfully aware)? ?Shall we score a goal for you??

Two. And, with about ten minutes remaining, we heard an almighty cheer emanating from a Scouse part of the ground. Shouted one Black Country wit, as quick as lightning, ?Hey ? they?ve just opened the bar?..?

 - Glynis Wright

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