The Diary

23 September 2004: Dead Man Walking....... Dead Man Walking........!

Here I am, 24 hours or more after the event ? and still bloody livid. You might like to know this is the first time I?ve put finger to PC since the night before last; the main reason for not doing so was my rage and fury, which was still incandescent-hot the moment I emerged from my pit this morning. Sure, I?ve seen multitudinous posts on the mailing-list about last night?s fiasco throughout today, but have refrained thus far from comment for fear of committing myself publicly to something I might subsequently regret. Tonight, though, the white-heat of anger has dissipated sufficiently to enable me to consign my thoughts to cyberspace via this column, although the basic fury?s still there. This, just after watching our reserve side go down at home by a similar score-line to Middlesbrough, and, yes, watching that game was about as rewarding and fulfilling as last night?s Layer Road farce. Some day, I may actually be able to watch creative and entertaining football played by an Albion side, but when?

Tonight, before and during the game, many Baggies said to me, ?Was it really as bad as was reported?? to which I?ve had no real option but to promptly answer, ?Yes ? and worse, in fact.? You want to know the truth? Fair play to The U?s, they outplayed us in pretty much every department; first for every 50-50 ball, first in the tackle, first to place and find their men in dangerous positions, and, more importantly, they seemed to place great store on passing ball to feet, time after time after time; pass and move, pass and move. No surprise, then, that we were literally passed to death by them. It?s no exaggeration, either, to say that had their aim been more accurate ? most of their efforts sailed harmlessly over the very low stand roof ? then that defeat could very easily have been a rout. In short, they wanted it, and very badly indeed, we didn?t ? end of story. The whole sorry mess is worsened greatly by the fact that at the time of writing, it looks very much as though we?re the only Prem side that?s been hit for six by one of lesser stature. Dearie, dearie me, and other such euphemisms.

As for our lot, well?. Gera might as well have been flogging programmes outside for all the use he was, the equaliser apart, The Horse was strangely immobile up front, and yet you would have thought this the sort of game, hard-fought, physical, almost, in which he might shine. Our keeper, Kuszczak, wasn?t the firmest stopper of the ball I?ve ever seen, and worried me greatly on occasions, Dobie wasn?t in it, really, Lloyd Dyer didn?t get many chances to make any of those scintillating runs that were his signature-dish last season, Contra played as if just mugged, and as for poor Scimeca ? oh, dear. Now, tell me, once more, how much dosh he cost us? All in all, it?s a bloody long way to go to witness such a pusillanimous performance; the people I felt sorry for were those who had taken time off work to travel the 170 or so miles to Essex. Someone, somewhere, owes us an apology, big time. Fifty or so quid travelling costs apiece might not be big bucks to many at this club, but to our travelling faithful, some of whom are in low-paid employment, or no employment at all, it represents a small fortune.

Agreed, there were changes to the regular side, but not as many as there might have been, Houlty was still out, so we had our tame Pole deputising once more, Kanu cup-tied, Robinson injured, Uncle Tom Cobley and all, which gave Contra his debut, and Lloyd Dyer his first full start this season, among others. We began the proceedings in a 3-5-2, which pretty much set out the stall for the night, but also setting out their stall were Colchester, as we were to find out in the worst possible way ? but of that, more later.

Our evening of Purgatory began around two in the afternoon, when we began the long sunny trek to East Anglia courtesy of the Dickmobile, which was just about the only thing that didn?t let us down yesterday. As we proceeded along the A14 towards those unceasing flattened plains, now denuded of harvested wheat, we happened to espy an extended convoy of trucks carrying, according the ?hazard? signs on each wagon, a cargo which was not only corrosive, but radioactive, as well. As you might guess, we gave these mothers a wide berth indeed; I wouldn?t have fancied a prang one little bit. Having said that, one such vehicle did have a fire extinguisher displayed prominently on the back of the vehicle, so that was all right, then!

What with making a quick stop in a service-station not far from our destination, we found ourselves comfortably within the city boundary by about half-five, although even at that early stage, finding somewhere to park was pretty problematical, so we left our trusty steed in a housing estate around half a mile from the ground. Not the one opposite, mind, the estate that belonged to the Army; had we done so, it was a pretty safe bet we?d have returned to find the thing in several jagged pieces. Our military finest are not at all averse to using controlled explosions on vehicles they consider a terrorist threat.

Having visited Layer Road on previous occasions, we knew, pretty much, where the hostelries were to be found, and luckily for us, there was one such place about five minutes walk from the other side of the ground, so we promptly headed in that direction. Passing by the ground proper, there were few souls to be seen, bar some rough-looking urchins bearing Colchester apparel on their minuscule bodies. ?Parkinson?s Barmy Army!? they bawled at all four of us, as we passed swiftly by, noses twitching at the thought of refreshment.

?That?s all right,? said The Fart to one of them, ?We?ve got a barmy manager!?

When we entered our chosen hostelry, The Drewery, you could instantly see it was a place that wore its heart very much on its sleeve. Never before have I come across a place dedicated in so many ways to the military in general, and to one outfit in particular, The Parachute Regiment. Everywhere you looked there were group pictures of platoons, companies, battalions, even, long since gone, the piece de resistance, a huge maroon and white Paras flag complete with the famous cap-badge emblem, a winged Pegasus, given pride of place over the bar. Proceeding from that area to another towards the rear of the premises (where there were lots and lots of Baggie-believers, well-known faces all, downing their pre-match anxiety medication like it was going out of fashion), one could find a huge map of the Falklands, clearly dating from that conflict, dominating the entire room. You didn?t need to be Sherlock Holmes to surmise that the gaffer was an ex-member of that regiment, or that the place was a haunt of squaddies based in the town. Which probably explained the comparative lack of furniture in the place ? no one?s going to risk their best stuff smashed up by punchy soldiery, are they?

Also in that pub, sitting gnomelike beneath the map I just described, was Albion?s main contribution to the pollution problem, Steve Brookes, accompanied by some chums, all lacking olfactory apparatus to a man, presumably. Too good an opportunity to miss; quickly whipping out my trusty little digital camera, I consigned his ugly mug to posterity, and the fanzine. Serves the sod for trying to wind me up; the pen is truly mightier than the sword, Brooksie, as you?re about to discover in about three weeks time! Oh, and from the lips of the methane-making maestro himself, a tale ? no, make that a boast! ? of how, ten years ago, he managed to clear three full rows of Mansfield?s stand during a game. Don?t ask. Besides Brooksie and chums, there was just about every Baggies away regular I can think of. The Drinking Family were there, as you might expect, also those Satanic Nurses, who must have felt really at home in all the military stuff surrounding them. Remember their distinctly-martial get-up at Reading? Also present, and propping up the bar, was Sauce, plus entourage, including another Dick contributor Steve Sant; how the hell their coach had got there at the same time as us, I wouldn?t like to speculate. I swear we passed them on the way down. Maybe it was Brooksie?s ? erm ? ?emissions? that did the trick for them?

As far as selling Dicks was concerned, being a species relatively unknown to the East Anglia footie-watching public, time and time again, we were asked if ?that?s the programme?; after a time, it gets to feel a little like rolling bandages for the war effort; one?s relatively enthusiastic the first time, and the second, but after a while, the novelty palls appreciably! And, talking of the ?war effort? that?s precisely what The Noise did, when accosted by a little old lady who, when learning of what part of the Midlands we came from, began to regale our master of the spoken word with tales of her girlhood, in pre-war Coventry. She was also dead tickled when she learned The Noise hailed from Stoke, she was evacuated there after the terrible bombing, and proceeded with reminisces unbound about her Potteries childhood; The Noise being The Noise, he was well away, conversationally speaking.

The first time I ever visited Layer Road was in 1968, when we played them in the Cup (and got a very jammy 1-1 draw), and, to be truthful, a new stand behind the goal apart, it hasn?t changed all that much. Both myself and The Fart spent some time before kick-off identifying where the away end was that day ? along the one side of the ground, we reckoned, and the goal behind which we were now situated the one where Bomber Brown got the equaliser. One thing, though; the away end stand didn?t date from that time, being of comparatively modern construction, and seats there, instead of terracing. One thing that did puzzle me, though; to get to our end, we had to walk the entire length of the home stand, which was situated lengthways along the side of the ground; toilet facilities, such as they were, were shared by both sets of supporters. No bother, of course, our lot wouldn?t have harmed a fly ? it was the goings-on on the pitch that aroused their fury, not the opposing supporters - but whatever happened to segregation?

You could tell more or less from the kick off who wanted this game the most, and it was most certainly not our finest. Within about eight minutes of the start, we nearly conceded, courtesy of a Colchester header that came far too close for comfort, the accurate cross coming from the left. Gulp. Then with around ten minutes gone, we nearly conceded again, the effort, this time, going just over the bar. Albion, too, had set their stall out, and quite differently to the home side, too. It seemed that our game-plan was to consist of high balls to The Horse and Dobes, striving valiantly in the middle; Colchester, for their part, were nullifying this particular tactic with ease. In the first half hour, I think we had only one chance you could have described as ?maybe?, and that courtesy of The Horse, whose effort was of powder-puff quality. In the 30th minute, our Polish keeper had to look pretty smart to turn over a Colchester assault on his peace of mind, and once more, about a couple of minutes after that. As for our supporters, a few cries of ?Megson?s Barmy Army? and the like at the start of the game, there was little or nothing to be heard. I guess everyone, by then, had seen the future, and it wasn?t exactly navy blue and white striped. What happened a minute or so later was certainly no surprise; what with all the attacking the home side had done since kick-off, everyone could have predicted it ? but not our leader, it would seem. The edge of our box was a den of iniquity indeed; how appropriate the scorer?s name was Fagan. One cross, one almighty piledriver, one-nil. As for the away end, silence.

To give then their due, Colchester were playing some pretty neat stuff; pass and move, pass and move, the sort of thing we, given our elevated status, should have been doing to them. Not long after their strike, they nearly did the same thing to us; once more, Kuszczak had to look smart to nullify the danger ? but didn?t. Colchester should have buried the rebound ? but didn?t. What a let-off. We looked positively pedestrian by comparison; what an embarrassment. So insipid was our reply, our first direct shot on goal only came just before the interval, courtesy of Koumas, who nearly jeopardised air-traffic control with his soaring effort.

Half-time, then, and an almighty dash to the ?facilities? situated, strangely enough, right in the midst of the Colchester regulars. One hell of a trek, comparatively speaking, and a distinct anachronism, bringing back vague memories of games in the pre-hooligan early sixties, when such mingling was the norm, and not an aberration. Oh ? and I also bumped into Brooksie once more, who, by way of insult, asked what I was doing queuing under a sign that said ?Ladies?. Don?t worry, my lad, mock while ye may ? I?ll wipe that silly grin off your face in a very few weeks time, make no mistake!

Because of the queue ? only three conveniences at our ? erm ?convenience? ? it was just before the restart before I finally got back to the other Dick Eds. Mind you, I didn?t need to check my ticket to remember where we were sitting; I could hear The Noise?s first half thoughts from the rear of the stand! Back to business, then, and in the opening moments, we conceded on the edge of the box; luckily, the effort went well wide if the target. Then, right against the run of play, we got the temporary reprieve we didn?t deserve. Gaardsoe was the architect with his defence-splitting pass to The Horse, who managed to pot the thing, no messing. Equal terms once more, thank goodness. Could we emulate our win at Hartlepool last term, I wondered? After all, it?s been oft said (by our manger himself) that a Megson side?s about results, not performances.

That unexpected equaliser seemed to breathe a little more enthusiasm into our finest; not long after that, our striker should have done the same thing from a superb Lloyd Dyer cross; unfortunately, our hero?s new-found shooting abilities seemed to desert him on that occasion. With 65 and 75 minutes gone, our leader finally rang the changes: off went The (Not So) Mighty Zoltan, to be replaced by Greening, who immediately attracted cries of ?Gyppo? from mouths of the Layer Road faithful, then poor Contra, around ten minutes afterwards, O?Connor being the new man. And, with around 20 minutes to go to the end of normal time, a worrying moment when Kuszczak stopped a Colchester shot, then fumbled it, badly. Argh! Fortunately, the gods were smiling on him at that moment; quickly, before the home side could react, he retrieved the situation by belting the thing away for a corner.

About five minutes from the ?normal? end, we could have sewn the whole thing up in a nice shiny ribbon; Koumas got the ball, then shot; it was then the turn of their keeper to look lively by turning it away for a corner. Likewise, at the other end, the game could have been won without recourse to extra time; the only thing that prevented us leaving the stadium was a combination of our ever-busy Polish keeper, and Tommy Gaardsoe. Even so, our custodian once more finding difficulty holding on to the thing was unnerving, to say the least.

Into extra time, then, and off went Dobes, to be replaced by Rob Hulse. A shame our bag-carrier, Carly, The Noise?s daughter and heir, wasn?t there to see this ? the poor girl?s really got the hots for Our Rob! Both sides then had their chances at both ends, but more and more, it was looking as though the whole thing would come to penalties. Strangely, though, the last two Albion subbings were proving effective, relatively speaking. O?Connor buzzed like a little ginger bee in the middle of the park, and Rob Hulse gave the home defence more than one worrying moment. Certainly, the pair of them seemed to have far more about them that did our ?regulars? ? or was it just the fact they both felt they had a point to prove to our gaffer?

Then, just before the end of extra time, and penalties, disaster struck. Sadly, the person that seemed to be at fault for the ensuing killer strike was none other than our own Lloyd Dyer, who blocked, but did not clear the shot, from a corner, which the grateful Garcia then sent running into the back of the net, to rapturous cries from the mouths of the Layer Road faithful, all 4,000 or so of them. We did try a few ?Hail Mary? lobs into the stratosphere, then into their goalmouth, but it was a lost cause, and we knew it. No surprise, then, to hear more than a few boos from our end at the final whistle. At the start of the game, quite a sizeable proportion of our following had noisily chorused the praises of our leader; come the end, I doubted you could find one that had a civilised word to say for him.

As we exited the ground, I wearily turned to ?Im Indoors, and said, ?I reckon you?ve seen Megson?s P45 written tonight.? Come the cold light of day, I recognise that may have been a tad premature, but it wouldn?t surprise me in the slightest to find, after a probable defeat at the hands of The Toon come Saturday, his services will no longer be required. The plain truth of the matter is that what we?re currently witnessing is absolutely disgraceful, and far short of the standards this club has set in the past for entertaining football. I refuse to totally place the blame for our current mess on the shoulders of the players; they do what the manager tells them, play defensively, bore everyone to death, then wonder why they?ve conceded. There are some Rolls Royce performers out there, who have been starved of the chance to show us what they can really do; as I said on a previous occasion, when referring to the likes of Sakiri, currently languishing in the reserves, it?s a bit like buying a Roller, or a BMW, then only using it for the school run, or the weekly shop. What a waste of talent.

Being an Albion supporter, I?m no stranger to embarrassment, having been present in person ? and wished I hadn?t been ? at places like The Hawthorns versus Woking, Twerton Park, The Shay, Watford, and many, many more, but, as humiliation piles inexorably upon shame, it?s pretty clear that Something Has To Be Done ? and NOW. Leave it just a few weeks and the situation will have become irretrievable. Sure, I?m grateful to our leader for everything he did for us in the past; spotting the slackers and shirkers within milliseconds of arriving at our club, shifting them out in short order, and instead bringing in honest players with a strong work ethic, and by doing so, saving us from the drop.

Taking us, the following season, from Division One deadbeats to a hitherto-undreamt-of play-off place. That amazing promotion, the season afterwards, thereby ending 16 years of hurt and underachievement, and beating the Dingles to the punch in the process ? only someone who?s seen great Albion sides in the past can truly appreciate that fact ? and those emotive post-Palace scenes will remain indelibly-etched in my brain until the day I die. Our brief spell in the top-flight, for all its petty humiliations. Despite leaving the higher sphere almost as fast as we entered it, there was a fairy-tale quality about our all-too short reign, which gave us the taste for yet another bite at the cherry despite enduring a style of play turgid to the extreme over the course of last season. As I said earlier, Albion are currently about results, not performances.

The crux of the problem is that, whatever Megson?s past achievements, he has singularly failed to adapt our style of play (and our players) to something more in keeping with that usually seen in the Premiership. I, for one, am sorry that our leader seems unable, as a boss, or as a man-manager, even, to bridge the almighty chasm that lies between success in the First Division (or Championship), and staying in the top flight. To do so means evolution on a grand scale, managerially speaking, and although the early signs were that Gary might have finally achieved this, it now appears to have been a false dawn. It is with great sadness, therefore that I have to say, with great reluctance, that Gary?s time has now come, and he has to make way for a successor, the sooner, the better, if we are to survive in this league.

This time last year, I was taken to task by some for criticising what was going on behind the scenes, and I made it abundantly clear then that while I was no admirer of his methods, I would be absolutely delighted to see Gary go on to evolve and adapt to the demands of the higher sphere, and in every respect possible, managerially, but now I?m firmly convinced it?s not to be. Time to go, Gary, while all those precious memories are still fresh in our minds ? I, for one, will wish you all the luck in the world, and I?m sure you?ll do a marvellous job with the next club you lead, but the truth you have to face. The Premiership is not for you.

And finally?.. One In the midst of our League Cup darkness, a ray of light. Step forward for your fully-deserved accolade, Brian Jensen, Burnley goalkeeper, formerly known to his ex-Albion buddies and aficionados as ?The Beast?. Here?s why. During The Clarets game in that same competition versus The Dingles, our hero stopped no fewer than two spot-kicks from the boots of the gold-and cack persuasion. Then, come the end of extra time, and the issue still undecided, saving two more in the resultant shoot-out, thereby sending our neighbours packing and Burnley into the next round! All together now: ?JENSEN IS AN ALBION FAN, JENSEN IS AN ALBION FAN??!!

Two. Who was the Baggie, at our reserve game tonight, spotted drinking a nice cup of tea at half-time ? but from that Premiership-style utensil, a bone china cup? Blimey, it?ll be prawn sandwiches next, you wait and see!

 - Glynis Wright

Contact the Author

Diary Index