The Diary

31 October 2004: It's A Defeat, Glenn, but Not As We Know It!

Ever heard of ?twitchers?? No? Well, for the benefit of the uninitiated, they?re people who get their kicks from spotting bird species rarely seen in these parts; a bit like train-spotting, really, but with feathers on, and they?re known to travel hundreds of miles just to tick off on their list, oooh, say, a Lesser Spotted Jenkins? Stuffbonce, or a Grey-Shanked Sea Goose. As you might have guessed, being facetious as usual, I made those two up, but the principle guiding what I am about to describe?s similar, because at The Shrine today, the ?twitchers? were out in droves, squadrons, even. Only it was potential manager-material they were trying to spot, not avians. And, according to the local media this evening, they managed to strike oil in the East Stand. There it was, trying to hide in the foliage, The Grey Suited Hoddle, and around three Baggies (or twitchers, if you prefer) reported sightings.

What he made of today?s performance I wouldn?t even dare to speculate, but of one thing I?m certain. My assessment differs very sharply indeed from the brainless twit (see, the Dingles don?t have a monopoly after all!) who phoned a local radio station shortly after the final whistle, and called our performance ?gutless?. I didn?t hear it, my sister did; so indignant was my elder sibling, she took the trouble of ringing to tell me not long after we?d come back from the Chinese take-away up the road. I can think of many adjectives to attach to my words in just a minute, but that one won?t be on the wish-list, that?s for sure.

Arriving at The Shrine around midday, we pulled up at our usual parking spot around the same time as The Noise, plus young Carly, shopping duties now done, apparently. Plus the guy who now car-shares with our garrulous colleague, poor sod. Should I advise him to claim industrial deafness, I wonder? Incidentally, Stoke?s answer to Patrick Moore was holidaying in Plymouth earlier this week, just in time to see the gales and the tidal (almost) waves pound the Devon shore, and very spectacular it was, too, I?m assured. And then there were Captain Jasper?s gargantuan hot-dogs, as sold on the Barbican. Ever seen one? They?re Plymouth?s answer to that great American delicacy, the ?sub sandwich?; a bloody long baguette thingy, 47 cm long (ooer), two complete big brown sausagey wotsits shoved inside, accompanied by enough fried onions (properly slithery, of course) to get a battalion burping. Plus optional ketchup or mustard. The shop started on a temporary basis for some festival or another, then the fishermen, who didn?t have eating facilities of their own when coming off their boats at that time, voted for its retention after the event had finished. A daughter runs it now, I believe. If you?re ever down those parts, try one.

With our Bag-Carrier reassuming her duties once more, we then shifted ourselves to the Hawthorns, once there, steering ourselves rapidly towards a table that was only around a quarter full. With recent events firmly in mind as he said it, commented The Noise, as we headed for our berth, ?Is this the non-controversial table?? ?Twas round, to be true, but what The Noise didn?t know was that in the late 60?s, the Paris Peace Talks on Vietnam were halted because of that precise reason ? none of the delegates could agree on what shape of table to have during negotiations! Or who was going to sit where, for that matter.

Whatever might happen at diplomatic level, at least we didn?t suffer from such idiocy in Supporters Club HQ. Not long after Carly brought over no less than five drinks, all in one go ? we aren?t half training that girl well ? in strolled Terry, fresh in from that new sex shop in Brum ? Hustlers, is it? I couldn?t believe it either ? when he first started getting strange stirrings in his loins, Queen Victoria was on the throne ? but that what he did. How come? To get ?some inspiration for this afternoon? was the proffered excuse. Yeah, yeah ? and I bet you went out on the streets at dead of night with vicars to ?look for fallen women?, Tel!

Of course, discussions on who was to be the next managerial incumbent dominated the conversation; aw, you must know the form by now, Hoddle versus Gregory, Hoddle versus Strachan, would John Gorman link up with Hoddle if he got the job, all the usual stuff. And someone, I forget who, came up with the perfect ?dream ticket? - Buckley and Gould! As The Noise commented once the ribald laughter had died down, ?You could give the pair of them a five-year contract, and that would be our season sorted out, and all our Saturday afternoons taken care of! Easy!? Oh, and I managed to perform a trick I hadn?t done for several years, now ? when I got up to ?powder my nose?, Blues and Palace were level. By the time I?d returned, the visitors were one up, courtesy of You Know Who. So blame me if it makes you feel any better.

Talking of managerial changes, when we left to set up shop outside the police post, early doors, we had two visitors. (After some sort of fire-drill, that was; one steward muttered, somewhat disconcertingly, ?There?s an alarm gone off, but we can?t find it!?) The first was a former Swindon supporter, now watching Abramovich?s lot. Amazingly enough, he remembered the pair of us ? first names, even! - from when we?d played Swindon at their place some six or seven years previously, the day we were on that freezing, wind-blown open away end - and it rained, and rained and rained. As he said, lots of Baggies got carted off to hospital that day, hypothermia. He didn?t have one good word to say about Hoddle, who, of course, was connected with both clubs at one time or another. The second guy? He was a ?proper? Chelsea-ite, who loved fanzines, always buying one wherever he went on his footballing travels. And he advised us not to touch Hoddle with a barge-pole either. It?s a bit disconcerting hearing this sort of stuff. If Glenn is our man, let?s hope he?s learned from past mistakes, and reached years of discretion by now.

And then, for light relief, there was Steve Brookes, noisome purveyor of methane to the masses, and threatening me with all sorts, as per usual. In view of what his particular ?speciality? does to the ozone layer, how appropriate we should meet him prior to an encounter involving CFC! Apparently, the picture I?d taken of him at Colchester ? it?s in the current Dick, by the way ? ?stitched me up (his words) like a kipper!? What happened? Well, when I took the photo, the flash went off just as our smelly-assed hero turned to face the camera, which meant the final result was a Brooksie looking very bleary-eyed indeed. So much so, when she saw the picture, his mother-in-law promptly accused him of overdoing the old falling-down water! And then Norm Bartlam, our very own bad-taste merchant put the seal on things by looking at the big police wagon outside the ground, and commenting, ?I see they?ve brought Hughsie to watch the game, then?.? Can?t take him anywhere, can you? Blame him for that one, not me.

Additionally, a very nice chap indeed asked me to give him a plug. I did ask in the police post, and carefully enquired of the stewards outside the turnstiles, but they didn?t have one to hand, and the first-aid bloke only had an 11-amp one at his disposal, so I?ll just pass this message instead. St. Mary?s Catholic Club, Wednesbury, 11.11.2004, Wednesbury WBASC Branch, Don Goodman?s the guest, kick-off?s at eight PM, so if you?re interested, shift yer carcasses along. Seriously, though, Don?s a very articulate and intelligent speaker on all aspects of the game, both local and national, and well worth listening to.

It won?t surprise you to learn that in view of recent events, and the subsequently volatile supporter-reaction to them, we were selling with a more than beady eye cocked for the presence of the ?idiot tendency?. I?m pleased to say that for the most part, most people we spoke to understood the situation, and the underlying reasoning behind my words perfectly. We had to wait until half-two or thereabouts for our first hurler of insults to make his presence known, then, not long after that, someone tore up a Dick right under my other half?s nose. But not before shelling out eighty pence for a copy to rip up! Silly sod. Don?t think they?ve quite got the hang of this ?protest? lark, somehow.

Inside the ground not long after that, and to be quite honest with you, as both sides emerged from the tunnel to our immediate left, the atmosphere within strongly resembled that of a Cup-tie. Aw, you know the sort of thing, ?it?s us against the world?. Which, the opposition being Chelsea, of course, it probably was. As I?d suspected, Frank had stuck to what he knew, in the main. Clem back after suspension, also the inexplicably-dropped versus Palace, Greening, at the expense of both Hass and Albrechtsen. That meant the side was: Houlty, Scimeca, Robinson, Gaardsoe, Big Dave, Greening, AJ, Gera, Clem, Kanu and Earnshaw. Subs were Kuszczac, Koumas, Dobes, Dyer and last, but not least, Hass.

The visitors, surprisingly, had no les than five native English players in their line-up. The ref? We?ve had him before this term, the Villa or Spurs game, if I recall; a Mr. B. Knight, of Orpington. Incidentally, if I haven?t mentioned it before, and if I have, apologies, but this cheeky chappie was the one (yet another Swindon connection, here!) who played no less than eight minutes injury time the night we went to Swindon?s place and beat them 3-1. That was the time Paul Holmes managed to score one straight from a corner. God knows how; invariably, most efforts from him ended up in permanent geosynchronous Earth orbit, and are all probably contributing to the so-called space-junk problem even now.

And, just before everything started in earnest, a sly glance towards both benches was somewhat revelatory. In the technical area to the right, about 20 yards away and in front of us, was Mr. Suave And Sophisticated himself, Joseph Mourinho, the undisputed Master Of Cool, carefully-upturned coat-collar and all. In complete contrast, in the technical area to the left of the tunnel, was Mr. Flat Cap and ?Tache himself, one Frank Burrows, who probably wouldn?t know designer-clothing even if you clobbered him with the coat-hanger it was on, but, having been in the game for more years than I?d care to remember ? he was one of the (oh, God, here I go again!) Swindon side that won the League Cup at Wembley in 1969, and also gaffered Swansea the year we won promotion from The Second ? was no-one?s mug, by anyone?s lights.

And we were off. And, following an early chant of: ?There?s only one Gary Megson!? from the Smethwick, much to my surprise, taking the game to the visitors right from the word ?go?. To skill-starved Baggies like us, it was manna from Heaven; balls to feet, pass and move, exciting football, in short. Everyone, players included, must have known in their own hearts this one was going to be a ?loser? ? I?d written it off, more or less, and you don?t get disappointed that way, do you? ? but at least we were going to go down swinging, which, when you think about it, is precisely what any Baggie would wish for, really. And, another thought; I genuinely feel that Chelsea weren?t really expecting us to run at them to the extent we did. The only snag was, by taking the game to them in that surprising way, we were in danger of getting caught on the break, and that was to prove to be our downfall, but of that, more anon.

Before the game was long gone, our lot began to really hit their stride; on 12 minutes, Kanu had one stopped by their keeper, then, not long after that, it was Earnie?s turn to give the Londoners some grief. As for Kanu, shades of former glories, there, he was playing like a thing possessed; positively scintillating, he was. Delicate little flicks here, shimmies there, in fact, he was doing everything but make the ball whistle ?Dixie?. Lovely to watch, it was, and for purists (Go on, say it, ?old farts?!) like me, sheer delight to watch. Our dominance didn?t last much longer, though. Chelsea, almost imperceptibly at first, began to get themselves back into the game, and suddenly it was our turn to repel the advancing hordes in the box as they quickly won a series of corners. Fortunately, our rearguard was completely up to the task of repelling boarders each time. Just one thing puzzles me, though. That Chelsea chant of ?One Man Went to Mow?, sung ad nauseam. It has to be the most inane ditty in the entire history of football songs. Just one question, chaps. Why?

About six minutes before the break, we had a warning of what might happen when Chelsea went wide following (ooh, I?ve been dying to use this one, I have!) a ?Duff? effort. From Duff, of course. Sorry. The visitors also managed to get another shot in not long after that, but come injury time came the cruellest blow of all. In all seriousness, I can honestly put my hand on heart and say we didn?t deserve it. What happened? Chelsea did, that?s what. And the marking was truly shocking, it really was. It all started with yet another corner to them; over came the ball, to the left-hand post, their lad got a flick-on, and Gallas sunk it from a very short range indeed. And before we could regain our shattered composure once more, the half-time whistle went.

The interval, then, and a chance to catch up with who was doing what in the Albion world. It seems congratulations are in order for Lloyd Dyer, who is now a very proud dad indeed, apparently. More perturbing was the final score at St. Andrews, which was flashed on the scoreboard as well as all the other Prem half-times. Blues 0, Palace 1, it had finished, a result which was about as useful to us as an ashtray on a motorbike. Two on the bounce won, now, which is pretty good going for an outfit that were written off, to all intents and purposes, before a single Premiership ball was kicked in anger, even. One good bit of news ? the Dingles were stuffing up in characteristic fashion, but what made it more risible still was the opposition, lowly Gillingham, of all people.

Time for the second sitting, then, and before hostilities were resumed once more, a double subbing by Chelsea. Carvalho and Robbins on, and Bridges and Cole off. This meant things shifted to 3-5-2. With 50 minutes on the clock, we had a narrow let-off when Chelsea whanged in a nasty-looking little cross, its destination the middle of our box, and right in front of goal, as well, invitingly so. Inch-perfect it was, too ? trouble was, there were no Chelsea players within light years of it when it began its final descent, so the ball flew tantalisingly across the face of goal instead. The reprieve was only temporary; with 52 minutes gone, the visitors doubled their lead. Gudjohnsen was the scorer, with a header that must have come free with the morning?s milk, I reckon. Once more, you have to ask the question ? where was the bloody marking? Again.

And then came the astonishing thing; up against a scoreline like that, a week ago, we would have simply curled up and died, but our lot ? and, more to the point Gera ? weren?t having any of it. Kanu had first poke at a shot; their keeper parried that, and well out, but only to the Mighty Zoltan, lurking on the edge of the box. The mean and nasty, way-down-low, effort clipped the grass all the way, but it sure as hell beat their keeper as well. 2-1, and suddenly, the joint was jumping.

And then the ?Semper Te Fallant? factor began to reassert itself once more. What happened? Well, Albion were on the attack, and looking to give the visitors further grief, but the whole thing broke down. Both AJ and Gera then became involved in an almighty mix-up ? one thought the other was going to go for it, I reckon ? Chelsea nipped in pretty smartish, they won the ball back, and we were all pretty-much committed up front, of course. Up the field they charged, men everywhere, and there could be only one outcome to that sort of exercise at this level. It was Duff who finally applied the coup de grace, and we had only ourselves to blame, really.

From then on, Chelsea were in the ascendancy, pretty much . They could have easily made it four long before they finally did, the final effort only scraping narrowly wide in the finish. Not long after that, an Albion subbing, Clem off, and Koumas on. And, for our part, not long afterwards, a Kanu effort that certainly gave their keeper something to think about for a change. On 72 minutes, Gera once more pitched in with a sneaky shot that had their keeper shifting quickly to push it away for a corner. Cue for the Smethwick, rather wittily, to chorus: ?You?ve sold your hearts to Russians!? to their London counterparts seated in the adjacent away area.

With about ten minutes remaining, Frankie chucked on Lloyd Dyer, in exchange for the busy Greening, who was applauded as he left the pitch, and quite rightly, too. And the visitors ? their followers were singing ?We are top of the League? like crazy, from which we assumed the Arse had lost or drawn at Southampton; either way, it was bad news. And the Londoners were in no mood to call a truce; on 81 minutes by my watch, Frank Lampard stuck the ball away once more, with a low drive, and, no, I?m not going to say anything at all about the marking, simply because I?m in danger of getting chronic RSI in my hand should I do so once more.

Thoughts? OK, we were slaughtered in the end, which was pretty much what I?d guessed was going to happen, really, so no surprises on that score, then. The only variable in the equation was going to be in the precise number of goals against come the end. Our deficiencies, the ones that led to the four strikes, I?ve already touched upon, but were there any positives to take away with us? Lots; in complete contrast to last week, we were gutsy, gritty, and Chelsea found us a real handful in the first half, especially. Gera?s scintillating form was a positive, as was that of Kanu, team captain for the day, revelling in the joys of being allowed to do his thing, for once. And running himself silly for the cause.

We might have got something from the game when Gera got one back for us in such spectacular fashion, but getting caught so cheaply on the break led to our downfall a couple of minutes after that. You simply can?t afford to do that at this level. Having said that, Chelsea are a side jam-packed with players that cost pretty much the gross national product of some Third World countries between them. To have matched them as we did for so long was some achievement; if we can put on a repeat performance against Southampton next week, then I think we might actually go back up the A34 and M40 with something to show for all our efforts.

And finally?.. If it?s not Steve The Miser, it?s The Fart. Yep, the other night, his PC started playing silly sods again. The problem? His inbox suddenly started to reproduce incoming messages like bacteria in a badly-run greasy-spoon caf?. In other words, one incoming message only would suddenly become four or five; after a few hours of that, you can just imagine what Tel?s inbox looked like, can?t you? Anguished groans of: ?What?s he done to it now!? from the remainder of the GD team, so in desperation, we called in our PC guru, Timm, once more. Two and a quarter hours the bloke spent on El Tel?s machine last night, and it now transpires we were prematurely taking The Fart?s name in vain. The problem lay not with our co-editor, but with a couple of viruses that had infiltrated his PC recently, all sneaky-beaky, like. I?m no expert on these things, but one was called ?Blaster?, apparently; I?ve no idea what the other one was called because Tel can?t remember! One quick shufti down to PC world later, our war veteran now has virus protection installed, and complete harmony now remains in the Wills household. Until the next time, that is!

 - Glynis Wright

Contact the Author

Diary Index