The Diary

17 October 2004: The Battle Of The Birds

According to my copy of Chambers Dictionary, the word ?frustrated? is defined as: ?thwarted: having a sense of discouragement and dissatisfaction?, and after witnessing today?s offering I wouldn?t dream of taking issue with the compilers of that learned tome for one minute. That definition encapsulates precisely how I feel tonight. The proof of the pudding, they say, is in the eating, and if the many conversations I overheard at the end of this afternoon?s allotted span were truly representative of the popular mood at the Shrine, then I reckon our manager has got a serious dose of supporter-indigestion on his hands. OK, we got ourselves a point for our troubles, and thanks to most of our wrong-end rivals crashing and burning either totally or partially this afternoon, we?re still holding our own above the waterline, but today?s showing does beg the question as to how long we can credibly maintain the plasterboard fa?ade that is our Premiership game-plan?

Consider what?s to come. Next Saturday, we journey to Croydon (almost) and Selhurst Park, which will probably be our last realistic chance of snatching the whole pot for quite a few games. Let?s hope our finest take the hint, because after that, it gets tough. From then on in, it?s Chelsea at home (gulp), Southampton at their place (they badly need the points as well), closely followed by Middlesbrough, who totally destroyed Blackburn at Ewood Park today, and being quite respectably-placed in the scrum themselves, they?re not going to harbour charitable feelings towards us, are they? After that, in succession, it?s The Arse, away, then Man Urinal, at our place. Get three points from either of those two? Yeah, yeah, and George Bush has just conceded the presidential election to Kerry without a single vote being cast.

But back to today. As we were a tad early arriving at Supporters Club HQ, it was a case of ?set your own table up?, which a fellow-customer did for us quite gladly. Circular, it was, very circular, prompting comments about King Arthur and his merry mob from this column. ?Can I be Lady Guinivere, then?? I asked, somewhat unhelpfully, as our groaning fellow-Baggie shifted the thing from A to B. I even volunteered ?Im Indoors as Mordred, the arch-villain of the tale. The Holy Grail? According to the legend, only the pure in heart could ever hope to see it, which, in its own way, was perfectly true ? you?ll never, ever clap eyes on a freshly-pulled pint of Bonkses or Bathams in The Hawthorns pub!

After a short (but quiet!) interval, we were joined by The Noise. No ?bag-carrier? this time, though ? just her little sister, Bethany, complete with Baggie Bird. How come? Big Sis went on a shopping expedition with Mum, apparently ? they wanted to ?get everything done by October?, according to harassed (and distinctly dubious-looking!) pater. Never mind, mate ? just remind them both of those fatal words come mid-December, when they mutually seek adequate justification to ?get some last-minute things for Aunt Gert?, or whatever feeble excuse is proffered at the time. Just enough time to have a quiet chuckle over this particular weakness the females of the Lewis family suffer from, and then it was time for The Fart to join our merry band. And what a merry tale he had to tell; apparently, Radio WM passed on his contact details to Norwich local radio, who got in touch, and asked our hero to say a few words from an Albion viewpoint by phone, and live on the air. Everything went swimmingly, the chap on the other end thanked Terry for offering such a different viewpoint, then bursting with curiosity, presumably, asked Terry what the fanzine title ?Grorty Dick? actually meant. Our geriatric warrior gladly proffered the bog-standard explanation (an ancient Black Country recipe for those new to this column), to which the guy promptly replied, and on air, too, which made it worse, ?Well, you certainly won?t find that in Delia?s cookbook!?.? Ooooh, I dunno ? depends on what sort of Dick you?re ?grortying?, I suppose!

Off for some flogging duties, pre-match, then, with a brand new issue for the delectation of the masses this time ? and didn?t we do well. Mind you, all that was interspersed with my usual visits from various readers, as per usual, including one who suggested we bring out a calendar with a different Dick personality featured for each month. Ooer! Would that be with or without clothes, I wonder? Still, if a much respected and loved organisation like The Women?s Institute can coin it in from doing similar, then why not us? Mind you, I somehow can?t quite get my head around the thought of my other half pictured with a bag full of change discreetly covering up his naughty bits, or The Fart wearing naught save his old Army ammunition boots and the battered and bullet-scarred tin hat he last wore on the Somme. Can you? No, don?t worry, the very thought puts me off my cornflakes as well.

And then there was Ollie Kang. Who? He?s our tame Scandinavian Baggie person, a Dick subber, over here to grab a bit of the action at first hand for once, and so lofty, no person in their right mind would stand near him with a thunderstorm brewing. Did I really see clouds of vapour forming around the ?north pole? of that sky-high noddle of his, or was it just my imagination, I wonder? Any road up, what Stian intended to do before the start was to spend money in the club shop, and in great quantity, too. Do let us know what you bought, mate, and we look forward to seeing you again in the New Year. Provided the crick in my neck I suddenly acquired from nattering to you gets better, of course!

It?s a funny sort of occupation, selling. After a while working on one pitch, you get to know all the ?regulars?, their faces, mannerisms, and what clothes they habitually wear, even. Even though you?re unaware of the process, your subconscious mentally notes these small details, then flags up ?Ooh, look, that?s so-and-so? when someone attired similarly to a known customer hails within flogging-distance ? and today was no exception. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted the approach of a tall person wearing a light coloured sheepskin coat, and in one of those tricks memory plays with you sometimes, I thought for a frantic minute it was The King ? and my heart suddenly did one of those chilling palpitation-flippity-flop things. It wasn?t Jeff, of course, but when he was alive and well, our former striker used to wear exactly the same style of coat, and regularly purchased fanzines from me before games, which is why I had to do a very rapid double-take, then shake my head rapidly but sadly to erase the thought from my brain for good.

On a similar theme but a much brighter note, what a lot of donations we got for the Dovedale Day Care Centre today! We two Dick Eds managed to raise ?20 on our tods, so goodness only knows what the other sellers put into the pot between them. A couple of kind folkies proffered pound coins purely for the fund, and I do believe one very kind Baggie soul gave ?Im Indoors a fiver as well. Quite frankly, I was completely overwhelmed by the generosity shown by our supporters today. Well done, those of you reading this that contributed. Incidentally, a full description of the day The Fart and I handed over the first cheque to this worthy cause is in the current Dick, should you not have eyeballed the account I gave in this very same piece the other week.

So well did the selling go, we had no choice but to grab Dick treasurer Steve The Miser for some reinforcements on the stock front. Poor lad, he?s having a teensy bit of trouble with his PC at the moment; can?t get some software to run, or something. Being a bit of a technological illiterate myself, I had nothing but sympathy for his cause ? until I learned earlier tonight his machine was ELEVEN YEARS OLD! No wonder he couldn?t get the software to play ball. Steve being the parsimonious cost-conscious sod he is, he adamantly refuses to buy a spanking new one by way of replacement. Mind you, from what I?ve heard, I reckon he?ll have no option but to do precisely that, as very little will run on a machine that age, now. Go on, Steve, spoil the habit of a lifetime and splash the cash. You know you want to, really, and there?ll be some absolute bargains coming into the stores right now for the Christmas rush. On the other hand, I suppose I?d better not tell him that to his face ? might have a sudden death from heart failure on my hands, and we can?t have that, now, can we?

Enough levity, on with the game, the principal reason that brings us to The Shrine week upon week. A bit like lemmings, really, without the ?jumping off a cliff? bit at the end. Mind you, the lemmings probably find mass suicide far more interesting, but there you are. The bad news was that despite my constant and desperate entreaties to The Almighty, bloody Huckerby hadn?t been struck by an inbound meteorite, or succumbed to pneumonic plague. There he was, on the pitch, large as life, and twice as dangerous. As for our lot, Big Dave still propped up the back, and the rest was pretty much as per Bolton. We did see the return of both Robinson and Koumas (who, being born and brought up in Wrexham, isn?t worthy of the term ?Scouse Jase? so that?s told me, then), but to the bench only. And off we went.

Norwich had certainly brought a goodly number of canary-clad followers with them, all proclaiming loudly the fact they?d won last year?s First Division title. As far as I could tell, they?d completely filled up their allocated half-Smethwick End space, which was quite impressive considering the distances involved, and the cost. Being complete newbies to this division (well, they?d not pitched their Premiership tents for a very long time), it?s all still part of the fairy-tale, of course; just wait until disillusionment sets in several months down the line, then see how many they get. It will happen, because we?re going through the same process ourselves; we failed to flog our complete away quota for several away games this time round. And, as the Wurzel-bashers crowed deafeningly, what of the play?

As the minutes ticked by, with Albion (literally, on occasions) shooting into the Smethwick End, realisation quickly set in this wasn?t going to be easy. The visitors might have been at the wrong end of the heap, but along the way, they?d only been beaten by Liverpool, Man United and The Arse, the rest being draws, and well fought ones at that. Sure, with only 2 minutes on the clock, The Great Zoltan went very close indeed with a lovely shot from the right that narrowly missed the left hand post, but this only served to cause an almighty eruption from the human volcano occupying the left hand technical area. This prompted a sudden thought: in accordance with such an explosive personality, did our leader?s intestinal regions constantly suffer from periodic flows of magma, not gastric juices or digestive enzymes, and did his bodily waste consist of naught save Biblical quantities of fire and brimstone? If that?s the case, then I reckon our players must constantly feel much the same as the inhabitants of Pompeii circa AD79, and I really do feel profound sympathy for the poor bog cleaners.

Leaving the realms of Premiership geology alone once more, what of matters on the pitch? With only nine or so minutes gone, Norwich could have caused us some real grief courtesy of Huckerby, who did the real damage by setting one of their lads up nicely for a poke at the prize. Lucky, then, the effort narrowly sailed over the bar, wasn?t it? Much rejoicing from the lads with the ?jaundiced look?, and a chorus, in reply to some insult or another from our lot, ?We only hate Wolves and Ipswich!? from their lot. What, worry about a side currently stuck in the bottom three of the Championship? Not bloody likely ? although the sentiment?s right, I suppose.

Come the 13th minute, come some the start of some pretty naughty tactics from our good buddy Darren Huckerby, to whit, trying to con the referee into giving a free-kick from where it could do some damage. Luckily, ?yer man with the whistle? a Mr. Crossley (no, I?ve never heard of him either) was having none of it, so all our hero got were many jeers from the Brummie, and serve him right, too. One other observation ? it was rapidly becoming clear what a tremendous impact Big Dave was having on the game. For this one, in addition to his normal defensive duties, he was playing the role of ?auxiliary striker?, shifting up for free-kicks and the like. You could do what you wanted ? double mark the bloke, try and shove and push him all the way to the Blue Gates pub for savage amusement if you wanted to, but just like the famed Colossus, he remained firm no matter what. Much to Norwich?s frustration, of course.

Four minutes later, Huckerby?s acting skills finally paid off, when he won a free kick just on the edge of our box. That one was seen off, but he was gradually becoming something of a nuisance, and midway through the half, we were most fortunate he?d seemingly left his ?scoring head? at home, the effort being finally sorted in fine style by Houlty. Just as well, really; he was one on one, more or less. The warning was clearly there, as prior to having that poke, he?d gone through two of our own like a knife through melted butter. Not only that, up to that point, Norwich had had three clear scoring opportunities to our one. Clearly rattled, our lot upped the tempo. With 25 on the clock, Big Dave flicked on superbly to Gera, who fired the bullet, and Green had to be on his toes between the sticks to put the thing away for a corner. That came to naught, but just minutes later, the Canary custodian had to look quick-smart to tip a Gera effort showing signs of sneaking in under the crossbar. The next ten minutes saw our finest come pretty close on two further occasions, and Big Dave was once more the architect, firstly with a header, and secondly via a truly lethal knockdown which nearly had their keeper dead and buried.

Around 13 minutes to go to the interval, then, and it was Norwich?s turn to have us reaching for the bike-clips and brown trousers. Sadly, and uncharacteristically, the Baggie caught napping was Big Dave, who was totally left for dead by the sheer pace of the Norwich incursion. Luckily for us, the visitors couldn?t capitalise; just as well, really, because of the two sides, Norwich were certainly the more jet-heeled on the break. With 41 minutes gone, we had our first Albion yellow card of the afternoon, Big Dave going in the referee?s little black book for dissent; he very stupidly kicked the ball away in frustration after the whistle blew. Not a very clever move, doubly so, as the match official then moved the kick ten yards forward for that brief moment of madness from our man-mountain.

Then, just before the interval, we had what had to be our best chance of the game ? and it wasn?t a Baggie who nearly did the damage, either. What happened? Well, Bernt Hass crossed the ball, a decent effort that well and truly whanged right into their six-yard box, and around waist-level. A horrible sort of ball to defend at the best of times, and this wasn?t, believe you me. The bladder struck a trailing Canary leg then flew like the clappers, at 90 degrees to the original strike. Given this was at point-blank range, near enough, any other time, the keeper would have ended up picking the ball from out of the back of the net, and the ref pointing to the centre circle ? but it didn?t happen. Thank Green for that, you lucky Norwich people. Somehow, he managed to get a hand to the thing ? pure reflex, must have been ? and batted it away for a corner instead.

Right from the start of the second half, The Canaries made their mission statement very clear ? to run us ragged, then make us concede. From the off, Big Dave had to look very lively indeed to anticipate and negate the danger from yet another Norwich incursion on the break after one of our attacks predictably broke down, putting the thing out for a throw. Just as well he did, really; had they managed to grab the ball, things could have been hairy for us. Realising that this point in the game could prove pivotal for either side, both sets of supporters began to really give it some vocal welly; about time, too, as for the most part, a casual onlooker would have thought Trappist monks had taken over the place. A cheeky little touch by Albrechtson, also; with just under sixty minutes on the clock, he intercepted, ran off the pitch, ran on again, then promptly collapsed in a heap. Naughty, sure, and their lot gave vent to their feelings in high style, but Norwich had been doing similar the entire game! And getting away with it, sometimes.

Come 60 minutes or thereabouts, come the anticipated change from the Albion bench. Off went Kanu, to predictable applause, and on came Our Earnie. This puzzled me at first, then I discovered that he?d taken a knock while on international duty with Nigeria, so maybe there was sense in the swap after all. Then just 60 seconds further into the encounter, an incident that had me in stitches. Somehow, AJ contrived to earn the referee?s displeasure; as his name went into the ref?s notebook, there was an almighty bellow of: ?Taxi for Johnson!? from the Canary-fanciers behind the goal. Priceless, absolutely priceless.

Five minutes after that, some truly whiz-bang stuff. Earnie nearly opened our account, the move broke down, the visitors claimed the bladder, but naughty Huckerby was pulled up for precisely that ? pulling Tommy Gaardsoe from pillar to post along the way in an effort to do us damage. And the silly boy wouldn?t cease and desist ? with about 25 minutes to go, he was warned yet again for persistent fouling.

More worrying, though, was the frequency with which Norwich were finding their men from clearances. Suddenly, they were in the ascendancy ? and it didn?t help matters when, just two or so minutes later, Koumas was brought on in place of Greening, who had been absolutely superb the whole game. Just one question, Gary. WHY? The strange substitution prompted a bod at the back of the Halfords to roar, in Stentorian tones that must have reached the Baggies bench, dug-out, and the pitch, even: ?MEGSON, WHAT YOW PLAYIN? AT? EFFIN? IDIOT? That ear-splitting ?voice in the wilderness? bellow brought forth in the Halfords one of those embarrassed sorts of silences, a bit like the moment when your kid brother lets on at the dinner table, with both parents and posh guests present, he heard you bonking your latest flame in your bedroom ? then goes into graphic detail. Luckily for everyone present, though, The Great Brain showed no sign whatsoever of having heard the ?advice? directed at him so volubly from the rear of our stand.

With around 15 minutes remaining, the good news was that Earnie?s speed was causing the visitors not a little difficulty in the box. The bad? With much of our creativity gone courtesy of those subbings, our midfield, not great at the best of times, was seemingly now non-existent, and once Gera was taken off with just ten minutes remaining ? again, why? - it was back to the old routine of ?five at the back?. The old defensive-minded mentality once more; when will Megson finally realise that to play such a game is suicidal, at this level? The net effect was The Horse and Ernie suddenly became isolated up front, our equine friend being reduced to dropping back into midfield to try and pick up the ball. It might have worked in the Nationwide, but things are different, now. This could have been the point at which it went horribly pear-shaped. From that moment on, Norwich really put us under the cosh, Shades of the corresponding fixture last season, as they came at us in waves down the flanks, and we lacked the means to cope with it. Even when we managed to win the ball back, we just as quickly lost it again, a process which led to much anguished hair-tearing in the Halfords, believe you me. Somehow, don?t ask me how we did it, mind, we managed to keep the final tally bloodless, but it wasn?t pretty.

The verdict? Must do better, certainly. Sure, we knew it was going to be tough, but I gained the overall impression during the game that had we run at the Norwich defence, they would have buckled sooner or later. Safety, always bloody safety, mediocre safety at that. There are some extremely talented performers out there, and they?re being woefully underused, criminally so in my opinion. Two more points chucked away. How many more can we afford to ship so cheaply, I wonder? Oh ? and one other thought before I take my leave of the game proper. Why is it when people decide to depart the ground, some ten minutes before the finish, the majority of those going seem to be on our row? I wouldn?t care if they did it en bloc, got it over in one huge wodge, but they don?t. For the whole of that last period I was up and down like a prostitute?s underwear, which is bloody annoying when you?re trying to concentrate on the play. Mind you, when the ref did blow up, there were instantaneous signs the natives were not at all well-disposed towards what had come to pass. An outbreak of sporadic booing struck up, and it wasn?t coming from the visitors, either. As for popular opinion afterwards, well?. Suffice to say the language was ?colourful? and just leave it at that.

More tomorrow night, after I?ve pondered a little more, but as per usual, I?ll leave you with a couple of observations from today. Including one straight from The Antipodes, would you believe?

And finally?.One. If I hadn?t seen it with my own eyes, I?d have maintained my informant was having me on. The next time there?s a home game, make your way to the greasy spoon burger van that regularly parks in Halfords Lane, right opposite the glass doors where all the posh folk go in to watch the game. Why? Because if you take a closer look, you?ll see irrefutable proof we?re well and truly in the Premiership ? they have meat for sale. Yes, I do know it?s perfectly permissible to sell animal protein from burger vans, and in vast quantities, too, but this wasn?t your usual ?cremated camel in a stale bun with a side order of fried onions? type of fare, oh dearie me, no. These chappies had SIRLOIN STEAK on offer, would you believe? No, and I didn?t either, until I had a bit of a crafty gander myself and saw it was truly on the level, and there were whacking great posters there advertising the fact as well! Visual proof in your next Dick, provided my little digital camera?s repaired in time, of course.

Two?. Heaped shovelfuls of thanks to Oz Baggie Stuart Ainge for solving the mystery of the pub game I saw in Presteigne the other evening. According to him, the pastime mentioned is called ?quoits? (or ?rope quoits?). He tells me his cricket club also plays host to a quoits club, who use their clubrooms as their home ground; according to Stuart, they?re the bees knees when it comes to this particular game, judging by the amount of championship pennants they hang on the bit of wall devoted to them. Good on yer blue for clearing that one up for me. So now you know.

 - Glynis Wright

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