The Diary

26 September 2004: Tyneside Trauma!

I?ve just got back from our Newcastle marathon, and our sad St. James Park defeat ? around 400 miles there and back, I reckon ? and having made that almighty trip, I?ve come to two conclusions. The first? I?m getting a bit long in the tooth for that sort of thing. The second? The devil does, indeed, find work for idle hands to do. Puzzled? Let me explain.

As far as my first observation goes, twenty or so years ago, I would have regarded such a trek as a mere bagatelle, just a stroll in the park; after all, I?ve travelled to some pretty exotic destinations in my time, and once you?ve sat on a plane for twelve hours or more, and, what?s more, squashed next to a podgy someone who is seemingly corpulent enough, and possessive of sufficient appetite to do to an airline meal what locusts do to vegetation, the various discomforts of coach travel ? no Dickmobile for this one, driver knackered post-Colchester! - pale into insignificance by comparison. Now, I tend to find my bum goes numb after the first hundred miles or so, also my back begins to play up; my ability to grab a crafty forty winks whilst on the road isn?t what it was, sadly. It?s all part and parcel of reaching one?s fifties; another notch down the slippery slope that leads to senescence and decrepitude, not necessarily in that order. The end result is, tonight, I?m just plain exhausted, and what with going to Darkest Colchester earlier in the week, then a supporters club meeting that ran very late indeed the other evening, right now, I feel I?m owed sack time clear back to 1968 and our Wembley triumph.

You really have to blame the Daily Mirror for the second of my observations on today?s trip. How come? Easy. When ?Im Indoors was idly perusing my copy on the coach to Tyneside this morning, he came across an article about text messages. Sending them, not to a mobile, as per usual, but to a land-line instead. It all works by automatic voice recognition technology, apparently; what you do is compile the message on your mobile?s screen, as per usual, enter the intended recipient?s landline number, then send ? and wait for the bang. The beauty is that because it comes out at the other end as an automatic electronic voice, a bit like the one you hear on the speaking clock, or Directory Enquiries, you can send what the hell you want, and make the message as rude, or nonsensical, as you like, etc. No human involvement, see? As you may have guessed by now, this provided my distinctly-bored other half with some pretty savage amusement on the way up, not to mention the way back. Just about everyone we know with access to a phone has been hit. Go on, try it; it does work, honest! At a conservative estimate, I reckon that this morning, on reading this particular Mirror piece, half the country was texting these daft messages to various people, and the other half were busy picking up the phone when it rang, and becoming distinctly puzzled on getting electronically ?generated insults, etc.!

All that sort of nonsense might seem the height of frivolity to you good folkies out there, and just a tad in bad taste, perhaps, but the truth is, if we didn?t indulge in a little bitty fun on these away trips of little or no reward, we?d go stark staring bonkers ? or are we all heading that way anyway? Certainly, it?s no fun at all to go that distance and come back with ?nul points? for our efforts, and Darren Purse red-carded. Strange, though; only in the Prem can you lose, and jump a place higher as a result!

Our day began at around nine in the morning, when we picked up The Heartbreak Special, otherwise known as Baggies Travel Coach Number 7 at The Shrine. Well, I tell a fib; we got there a little early to link up with The Fart and The Noise, who had made their own arrangements for this one rather than meet up with us beforehand. Travel bod-in-chief Dave Holloway had got himself quite a little convoy going for this one; our Number Seven wasn?t the last by half, although the number of coaches taken was nowhere near the swarm we took to that Sunderland promotion ?crunch? game towards the tail end of last season. And, talking of ?convoys?, once we?d got well and truly underway, we were on the M42 and headed on out for the M1, when we came across (and overtook) a similar operation, run courtesy of the Army. Low-loaders, each and every one, and on them, a tank apiece. Said this column to the other Dick Eds, ?Blimey, I knew this was going to be a hard game, but this is ridiculous!?

Then, further still up the motorway, we came across several coaches belonging to our promotion ?fellow-travellers?, Norwich City, on their way to Anfield. Quite a journey for those poor Canaries, when you sit down and think about it; about an hour and a half travelling across East Anglia, and that?s before you get even a sniff of a ?proper? motorway. Their away regulars regard the London clubs as a bit of a local derby, comparatively speaking, and with trips like today?s to look forward to, you rapidly begin to see their point of view.

Returning to our own ?transport of delight?, because the sound system on the coach video player was U/S, we were deprived of the aural joys of John Homer And Co waxing lyrical about previous Albion games thus far; a shame, as far as John?s concerned, as his comments always come liberally-laced with pithy Black Country expressions. His wits (and choicer insults for the opposition) have been honed by years of season-ticket holding in the Halfords Lane Stand ? I know because he sits right in front of me, and bawled imprecations such as ?Goo an? bile yer yed, referee!? and the waving of spectacles at the lino in a very pointed manner following a questionable flag are part of Baggies folklore. John Homer, muted? No, it just isn?t the same!

It really wasn?t that coach operator?s day; because the sound system was kaput, so was the film, unless one was into lip-reading as a hobby, which I?m not. Never mind, though; I was perfectly content to read the papers I?d brought, and in no time flat, it seemed, we were pulling into our usual Durham services around 1.15 to await the ?Wagons Roll!? order from the Newcastle rozzers. While we waited, instead of trying to purchase coffee, hot chocolate etc. from the packed refreshment areas on our side of the road, we canny Dick Eds crossed the road via the overhead bridge, and supped at leisure in the relatively-deserted caf? there instead! The downside was being served by a distinctly acne-ridden youth wearing a Toon home shirt. Trust The Noise to tell him they?d made a big mistake getting shut of Bobby Robson. Tact and diplomacy? You?ve failed that one, Martin. Sorry.

We also awaited the ?drinkers? coaches; they?d decamped at a nearby working-men?s club to get the amber nectar down their clacks in quantity before joining up with Mr. Plod for the final leg. Nice of our constabulary friends to lay on the Red Arrows by way of entertainment, as well. ?Now that?s what I call a police escort!? commented a distinctly-impressed Noise when I pointed them out to him! As I?ve probably mentioned before, these bobbies must be the only ones in the country to have a policy of holding away coaches at a particular rendezvous before shepherding them to the ground, in convoy, their arrival timed for just 30 minutes before kick-off. Why that is, God only knows; if we had a reputation for trouble, I could understand it, but we haven?t.

All in all, it makes for a pretty fraught exit from the coach, and one hell of a mad dash for the entrances (then those ghastly 17 flights of stairs I mentioned last night!) in order not to miss the kick-off. Mind you, I?ve got my ?get out of jail? card, my stick; just flash that at one of the nice stewards, and I get to use the lift ? today, they didn?t even bother to check I had a match ticket! Straight in, straight up to ?our? bit, Level Seven, then straight to our seats. ?Im Indoors, being my ?helper? was also allowed ?lift privileges?; not so, The Noise And The Fart, unfortunately. They rolled up about ten minutes before the ?off?, looking distinctly red in the face, which wasn?t all that surprising considering the number of steps they had to negotiate before reaching the summit of St. James?s Park?s answer to Everest. One other vagrant thought about the journey in; en route, I happened to spot notices pointing the way to a ?Grossology Conference?, which quickly got the old imagination working overtime. Was it, I wondered, a gathering of people all trying to outdo each other with the outrageous, hence the ?gross? bit? Aw, you know, things like sticking toothbrushes where the sun don?t shine, then cleaning one?s teeth with them? Yes, I thought that would put you off your breakfasts, etc.

Before the start, time to bask in the weak autumn sunshine bathing our stand in its rich warm glow, and as I?d managed to remember my binoculars this time round, a good chance to take in that marvellous vista I mentioned yesterday. The Fart, too had brought his; just think of any World War Two naval film you care to mention ? ?In Which We Serve?; ?The Cruel Sea?, that sort of thing, and when the camera pans to the lookouts on the bridge ? ?Jerry planes, dive-bombers, Red 100, sir!? ? yep, that?s The Fart?s chosen optics, snugly nestled twixt the sailor?s duffel coat and his tin hat. Big, chunky, and very, very military! I bet they did him admirably in the first lot as well, come to think about it!

We now turn to what proved to be the traumatic aspect of our day out; the game proper. That?s the trouble with away travel, it all goes splendidly until three pm. The moment when the merriment comes to a juddering halt, first time, every time. Well, four minutes past, actually; for some reason, the whole shebang was late getting itself underway. And, when it finally did, The Toon wasted no time in getting to grips with us; with literally seconds on the clock, Kluivert, I think fired just wide. Then, some four minutes later, had things panned out better, we might have given the home side something to remember us by. Earnie was the lad put through ? and no offside, either! A shame, then, that somehow, he managed to get the ball trapped between his feet, and couldn?t capitalise on the mistake. Had he been able to do so, I suspect we might have given Newcastle something of a scare.

Following that incident, it seemed that Newcastle were gaining the upper hand; they managed to force several corners in a very short time, and our rearguard were kept rather busy trying to keep them out. On 12 minutes, Purse got the first of the two yellow cards that were to prove his downfall, this one for a foul on Bellamy, who, I thought, really made a meal of it. Not for the first time, and certainly not the last. A free-kick just to the right of our box, it was, and as both sets of participants readied themselves for the expected aerial bombardment, all in a little knot, Scimeca then dropped like a sack of spuds, and right in front of goal, as well. On rushed Nick Worth, and, not long afterwards, off went Scimeca. It was The Fart ? he?d got his trusty steam radio tuned to the local station, as per usual ? who told us he?d been taken off to have a stitch put in, according to the commentator. Must have been steri-strips, then ? he was only gone a matter of moments.

With 20 minutes gone, just about, The Toon were looking dangerous every time they got the ball, but it must have been Frustration-Ville for them, as every time they did so, the effort went well wide. We also saw their first booking, Bowyer, for a foul on Our Earnie. Just 2 minutes later, it was Greening?s turn to earn the whistler?s displeasure; not for a bad hairstyle and beard, as you might expect, but for a naughtier-than-usual foul. Then, with 25 minutes on the clock, up rose, from the black and white shirted persuasion, an almighty cry of ?HANDBALL!? A nice try, lads; accidental, quite plainly, and the ref agreed as well. I had to admit, their lot were really in form in the old ?penalty-shouting? stakes; just a couple of minutes after the first unsuccessful claim, they were at it again! And, once more, they got sod-all to show for their labours.

Then, with two thirds of the half run its course, we actually managed to get a shot on their goal! Whoopee! Scouse Jase was the Baggie responsible; a shame, therefore, the effort was easily saved by their keeper. Five minutes later, excitement reached fever-pitch in the away end. An Albion corner, bigod, our first of the game! Although it came to naught, at least it showed our heart was in the right place. In fact, you could put up a very strong argument that despite the opening Newcastle flurry, as the half progressed, we?d grown stronger, looking more able to deal with their incursions into our peace of mind. And, as we laboured to make the breakthrough, above our heads, the helicopters buzzed like angry hornets; something to do with The Great North Run the following day, I?d guess.

I?ll never understand the mentality of some people, mind; in the seats in front of us sat some chaps we knew fairly well. They?d come on the train, on a less-cheap version of the cheapo tickets we?d sought in vain over the past two weeks, then repaired to a local strip-club, apparently. Now in the ground, off they popped towards the bar, and still 15 minutes to go to the interval, only to return at the start of the second half! And, later on, they disappeared as soon as the first Newcastle goal went in. Now, will someone explain to me the logic behind travelling all that distance, and not seeing a big chunk of the game at all, or, more accurately, watching it on the TV monitors below decks?

Then, come the interval, an hilarious sight; that of a female copper, ?taken short? trying to facilitate doing the biz in the bog. As you?ll know, modern policing needs oodles of equipment to get the job done; stuff like a personal radio, a baton, handcuffs, CS spray, that sort of thing, and all carried on an item of uniform looking suspiciously like the utility belt of ?Batman? fame. I really did feel for the girl; it took her a good five minutes to finally divest herself of the wretched thing, by which time the lass was really bursting. A quick tool into the cubicle, at about the same time as me, and, the ?relieving of Mafeking? done to her satisfaction, out once more ? and the horrendous task of getting back into ?harness? once more. Fascinated by this Titanic struggle twixt copper and kit, I just had to look, in the horrified sort of way one witnesses a road accident, or similar. All in all, I reckon our young constabulary woman won on points ? but it was still about nine or ten minutes before the entire caboodle was arrayed about her waist once more!

Back for the second half, then, with The Horse replacing Earnie, and could it be we were finally getting ourselves into this game? Certainly, The Toon didn?t like it one little bit and responded by dropping as if shot every time an Albionite got anywhere near their danger area. Oh, and trying on the old ?penalty? dodge every chance they got. Funny, though ? with just a few minutes gone, Kanu?s got the ball on the edge of the box, a black and white shirted horror brings him down as he?s about to ease past his man and towards the goal ? and the ref lets him stay on the pitch? The last man, surely? Souness was clearly rattled, chucking on Robert for Bellamy, then reshuffling his pack; this could have paid off straightaway, a Bowyer effort, hit the angle before shifting away. Despite that close shave, on the face of it, we were looking good for a point, at least, The Great Zoltan replaced Scouse Jase ? and then disaster occurred. With about 15 minutes on the clock, the ref decided Purse had fouled Kluivert (I think) just outside the box; another yellow card for the former Bluenose, so off he had to go. Our leader later said he thought the decision a harsh one, and I totally agree.

Now reduced to ten, there could only be one end to the exercise, and it came with around 20 minutes left. Over came the ball once more, and Houlty fumbled the shot. Kluivert, hovering nearby, pounced on the rebound, and we were 1-0 in arrears. Had it not been for that dismissal, I don?t think our opponents would have managed to get that close. It came as no surprise to anyone that having punctured our defence once, they then went on to do it once more, about 6 minutes later, just after Shearer uncharacteristically spectacularly stuffed up a golden opportunity for the home side. This time, Milner was the perpetrator of the damage. Was he offside, as The Noise asserted so ? erm ? noisily?

Having not seen a rerun of the incident myself, I wouldn?t like to say, but our Stokie in-car entertainment system was totally adamant the goal wasn?t legal. Even if the goal had been ruled out, it wouldn?t have mattered in the ultimate analysis; with about five minutes left, Shearer made amends for his earlier mistake by making it three and out for The Toon. Well done, The Horse, though, for making the final scoreline a little more respectable by banging in a lovely header from an AJ cross.

Come the final whistle, and into the lift once more, to rejoin the others at the bottom. Back to the coach, and after a short wait for all the Baggie ?shepherds? to gather up their stray flock, it was out of the area courtesy of the Newcastle Police. Funny, though; just a mile from the ground, we caught sight of a load of cattle grazing peacefully on a swarth of grass not far from what looked like the university Halls Of Residence. Ancient grazing rights? If so, then lowly Cambridge United do have something in common with a Premiership club after all!

As we left the environs of the city, The Fart?s ancient steam radio came into use once more. ?Im Indoors was anxious to get to know Hereford?s result; typical Beeb, they hadn?t bothered to give out the Conference scores. Normally, my other half would have rung The Noise?s missus for an update, but he seemed somewhat reluctant to do so this time round. How come? Easy; it turned out that on the last two or three occasions he?d done so, Hereford had lost, and badly, too! At least he did get the good news later; they?d won, 4-3, the winner coming in injury time, which puts them nicely in line for an assault on top spot next week.

Past The Angel Of The North we shot, once more; commented this column, ?Why don?t we nick the thing, stick an Albion shirt on it, then plonk it in front of our goal. Nothing would get past that!?

Said The Noise, by way of reply, ?Stick a Villa shirt on it, and you?d have the ?Angell Of The North!? And The Fart wondered why I hit him! Talking of The Noise, he wasn?t half miffed on the journey back, the reason being that the coaches decided to divert via the M62, and not take the direct route, the M1 and the M42. This meant that much to Martin?s frustration, our coach would pass within about five miles of his house! Mind you, it was about that time we discovered that our foray into the world of texting land-lines had been entirely successful. Many were the puzzled messages we got from those we?d ?hit?. As we later discovered, poor ?Mrs. Fart? thought someone was mucking around (nearly right!) and as a result, developed a distinct reluctance to answer the thing every time it rang. Can?t say I blame her, really. That Simon Wright always was a dodgy character.

And that was about it. A frustrating and wearying day made worse by the manner in which we had lost. We really did deserve better, but were beaten by the capriciousness of the match officials, really. I?m given to understand that Darren Purse may be appealing against the dismissal; I hope so, as I didn?t think the offence really warranted the second yellow card. Funny, though ? on such arbitrary decisions do managers? jobs ultimately rest. It could well turn out that the decision, and the defeat that came about as a consequence of that arguably-flawed pronouncement, might determine our leader?s ultimate fate. A lot will hang upon what happens versus Bolton at The Shrine next week. Let?s hope for better; heaven knows, it can?t get much worse. More tomorrow night, when I?m less knackered.

And finally?.. One small ray of sunshine entered my life once we got home ? my lottery ticket. While I was upstairs typing this, ?Im Indoors checked mine, and it transpired I?ve got four balls. Not enough to make a difference to my way of life, agreed, but a small windfall, all the same. Apparently, I came very close to getting five and the bonus as well, but just like our underachieving football team, when push came to shove, I blew it!

 - Glynis Wright

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