The Diary

07 November 2004: Saints And Sinners!

It was the waking up that did it. That, plus the shock. Well, I ask you; I was on pretty much of a downer already by the time we eventually arrived back to where the Dickmobile was parked, so much so, I even managed to amass a whole lot of zeds on the way back. Quite an achievement, that, what with The Noise?s machine-gun chatter coming from the the back seat in never-ending streams, and the Palace-Arsenal game in full flow, courtesy of the speakers in front. My unscheduled slumber was the principal reason why I?d missed the Radio 5 announcement that Albion had ruled out Glenn Hoddle from the race for what has to be the modern-day equivalent of the Siege Perilous. And the reason why my travelling companions took great delight in telling me once I?d finally re-surfaced.

So ? if it?s not Hoddle (and, by implication, John Gorman as well), then who the hell will be running the show? Sir Bobby (see below)? Brian Robson? John Gregory (pleeeease, NOOOO!!)? Shergar? Lord Lucan? Elvis reincarnated? The one-armed bloke Richard Kimble in ?The Fugitive? was after for so long, and couldn?t find? There were tantalising rumours in great abundance this afternoon that Sir Bobby Robson had been spotted in the stands at St. Mary?s; whether that?s one?s totally pukka or not, ask me one on nuclear physics.

And, while we?re on the subject of rumours, a disturbing one we heard pre-match concerned Tommy Gaardsoe; scuttlebutt had it he?d had some sort of a row, and, taken by a severe fit of pique, had immediately headed off back to Denmark. Two people quite independently made mention of it while we were flogging Dicks before the game; the trouble is, though, rumours are a bit like small lumps of snow rolling down a steep incline. Acceleration is slow at first, then, as the snowball gains momentum, more and more of the white stuff sticks to it, the thing gets even larger; by the time it finally reaches the bottom, you?ve ended up with a huge ball that bears no resemblance whatsoever to the tiny object you first started with. Is this what?s happened with Gaardsoe, I wonder; a story with a tiny grain of truth embedded blown up out of all proportion by ever-wagging tongues? I daresay the club will have a great deal more to say about both of these highly-contentious topics come Monday morning.

Strange, though. It wasn?t our possible choices of manager that was the main topic for Dickmobile discussion as we headed towards the South Coast this morning; no sirree, matters fiscal were the main items on the agenda today. It all started with a confession. The Noise?s. Apparently, his dad used to out-miser Steve The Miser. Not by doing anything to our stingy co-editor, just by surpassing by a mile his tight-fistedness. According to The Noise, when he was a kid, his dad, a lorry driver then, managed to pick up a whacking great load of table salt from a torched factory; by the time he got there, the firemen were damping-down and because the contents were fully-insured and replaceable, the firemen told him to help himself, which he did, in ruddy great heaps. The Noise?s Dad then stashed the stuff in his bedroom wardrobe, and so great was the amount of sodium chloride ?borrowed?, his family never, ever, wanted for salt ever again!

Mention of such heroic feats quickly brought the conversation tracking round to the subject of the unrivalled master of the art himself. As I said the other day, he?s now on email, but he has yet to send any out. Why? Because it costs money, that?s why! (Did I hear you say, ?get broadband, then?? According to Steve, that?s a financial frippery too far!). I?m therefore appealing to all you readers out there ? send Steve a bloody email! NOW! Try cab.steve1961@btinternet.com. Talk to him about money; he loves doing that, big amounts, small ?uns, great piles, small stashes, legal or otherwise. Bling, even. Go on ? make his day!

Following that, The Fart told us he now has his anti-virus software installed. Out PC guru, Timm, kindly did the deed the other day, and according to Tel, took about two hours doing it. The stuff also filters out spam; too well, unfortunately. Guess what gets chucked out first time, every time? Albion?s regular internet newsletter, that?s what? Or could it be the software?s a damn sight more discerning than we are?

From then on in, the conversation took a more serious turn. Tickets for Blues was the talking-point as we sailed through the outskirts of Oxford. Although we all had that newsletter informing us of prices for forthcoming games, and the club?s explanation as to why some away tickets were on sale so early, nothing had been decided about that one. The inference can only be that both Albion and Blues can?t mutually agree on how much wallet-whacking they think our supporters will stand without threatening mutiny, or, much worse for both clubs, non-attendance.

The price could go as high as ?45, and, should that happen, there?s at least four Baggies out there who will seriously consider not going to that one. Even if the price turns out to hit the ?40 mark, we?ll need quite a lot of persuasion to head for St. Andrews. You?re not reading the thoughts of ?bandwagon-jumpers? here, remember; my other half has an unbroken record of attendance at away games that stretches back to 1994. I would have, too, were it not for shift work and illness. And we really did turn out during those dark days ?when we were s**t?. And went to Italy for those Anglo-Italian Cup games. It?s when people like us begin to baulk at such swingeing price increases that the club should really wake up and smell the coffee. What other activity rewards its keenest and most loyal customers by constantly putting up prices? Even supermarkets give you some sort of a bonus for using the place on a regular basis. Yep ? the writing?s finally on the wall, and contrary to current bean counter opinion at the Hawthorns, it doesn?t wholly consist of pound signs.

A shame such heavy debate on a topic of great importance to us deflected us slightly from our main aim ? getting to the ?park and ride? area for St. Mary?s. All the publicity stuff we had said to leave the M27 motorway at Junction 8; trouble was, we couldn?t find the bloody thing! Yes, I know; how the hell came someone be so careless as to lose an entire bloody motorway? Not easy, is it? Thank goodness for The Noise, who grabbed out road atlas, made suitably-soothing noises (well, having two kids, he?s well used to it, I suppose!) finally sussed out where we?d gone wrong, then set us on the right road once more. A shiny gold star to the bloke with the outrageous Stoke accent!

And, final destination once more in sight, the conversation assumed a somewhat lighter tone: remember my jest about both Buckley and Gould being currently available? You do? Well, truth can be stranger than fiction, sometimes; no, don?t worry, they haven?t applied for the Albion vacancy, but they have for the Shrewsbury one. In fact, Gould has actually gone on record as saying he?s going to go for it. Blimey, after all those years of non-achievement ? remember his record with Wales, during the course of which they sank lower than the Cook Islands in the world rankings? ? I would have thought Barmy Bobby would have taken the hint by now!

After our slight bit of geographical embarrassment, we finally headed on into the park and ride thingy. Just as I remembered it last time round, two seasons ago: what was, in effect, a field in the middle of nowhere, but not far from the motorway exit. And, waiting nearby, loads of buses to whisk us to the ground proper. Once more, the arrangements worked perfectly; on the bus we clambered, and within minutes were on our way through the distinctly-autumnal outer suburbs. Seated behind us were a couple of Albion supporters that actually hailed from the South Coast. I didn?t get their names, sadly, but I do know they avidly read my pieces, not to mention The Dick, so, whoever you were, a big ?hi!? from me!

Considering the modernity of the stadium the surrounding area has to be one of the most depressing I?ve ever clapped eyes on. Not only is it in the middle of an industrial estate, a short walk back the way you came gets you to the river ? The Hamble, is it? ? where you are met with the distinctly-dispiriting sight of a bloody great scrap-yard, its contents towering tens of feet into the air. And that?s before I even begin to start on the two massive (and rusty ? ugh!) gasometers next to the stadium itself. The only place that comes anywhere near it in the sense of being a godawful blight on the landscape is Rotherham?s place, Millmoor.

Two years ago, the weather was just the same as now; mild, dull as dishwater, with rain a constant threat. Oh well ? time to have a constitutional around the place and get some pictures. Not with my ?normal? camera, sadly ? that?s still in dry-dock ? but with a one-shot cheapo job I picked up from Supasnaps yesterday. Not exactly David Bailey standard, no fancy tricks, electronic or otherwise ? just functional. A bit like our favourite football club, really. As I commenced perambulations, memories returned of our previous visit; the 1-0 defeat which originated from a lino?s erroneous touchline call. Remember? The ball was way, way over the line, but the official didn?t flag, and Southampton then potted, mainly because our lot, thinking there was to be a throw, stopped dead in their tracks. Oh ? and another thought. I haven?t seen any stats on this, but am I right in thinking that the last time we won at Southampton (The Dell) was back in 1968, a 3-2 Cup win? Certainly, since then, the only memories I have of the place are of getting absolutely soaked in that poky away end they had then ? and losing!

Back to the ranch, then, and the other Dick Eds. Selling was going great guns, and, of course, there were loads of Baggies who simply wanted to bat the breeze. And, amazingly enough, Southampton supporters. ?Are you the famous Terry?? said one to The Fart, who nearly dropped his dick in astonishment! And my mouth dropped about six feet also when the guy called me by my first name! It turned out his hobby was collecting fanzines, which included ours. And, even more intriguing, his name. Ally Brown, would you believe? No, we didn?t either, until he whipped out his driving-licence to prove it! And that?s what stimulated his interest in things West Brom. The name, and the connection with one of ours.

And, not long after our new-found friend departed, there was the rumour I mentioned earlier. Then, the story was TG had been dropped. The other bit came later. When we were told, we all looked at one another in complete and utter puzzlement. Dropped? Sure, Gaardsoe hadn?t exactly excelled himself versus Chelski, but as The Noise so rightly said, everyone?s allowed one lapse, some time. Prior to that game, he?d done OK. Just what the hell was going on?

The answer to that one wasn?t forthcoming right then, as we?d shifted all our stock, finally. Time to go in, and, as we did so, quite a laugh for me. It turned out that their stewards were giving supporters the whole works ? a pretty comprehensive body search ? prior to entry. As you might expect, the female of the yellow jacketed species alone were giving their sisters the once-over, and thus it was when I went to go in. Pat-pat-pat went the hands along my outstretched arms, as expected ? then came Amateur Hour. Having spent 17 years doing that sort of thing, I am a bit of an expert on the subject by now, and that?s why I couldn?t stop sniggering. She?d done the arm bit, but totally failed to see the bloody great bum-bag I was wearing around my waist! Blimey, you couldn?t exactly miss it; its interior?s as capacious as the flaming Tardis!

Once inside, and visited the (totally inadequate for the numbers) ?facilities?, time to find the jolly old seat. Also, time for a quick bit of banter with a Baggie called Vic Stirrup. As I was painfully climbing the steps towards our row, shouted Vic, ?Come on, hurry up!? This, mind you, from a bloke who?s not long had a hip replacement, walks on sticks himself, and is in his early eighties! ?Tell you what,? I said, with a little twinkle in my eye, ?I?ll race you to the top. How?s that??

Because my ablutions had taken longer than I?d thought, by the time I took my seat, it was almost time for the ?off?. And time to discover I?d landed up next to yet another group of people with seriously deficient bladder function! If there?s a world record for standing up and/or down within a fixed period of time, then I must either be close to it, or have beaten it by a country mile. But that was forgotten as I surveyed the team news. Yep, Gaardsoe was out, Gera recovered from his stomach bug, and Darren Purse in, back from that four game ban, with Kanu and Earnie providing the ?business end? of the eleven. And a (no doubt greatly-miffed) Koumas on the bench, along side The Horse, seemingly recovered from his ills. Enter The Gladiators, then; well, not so much Rome?s finest, as Albion?s whitest. The strip, that is, not the skin-colour. Yep, our much-vaunted white number, the virginal envy of washing-powder manufacturers everywhere, was finally getting a public airing; as far as I was concerned, the overall resemblance was more that of eleven blokes trying to play the game in their underwear. It was the parents I felt sorry for; pester-power would rule, and Little Johnny (or Jane) would end up with a third replica shirt to add to the collection. And Mum or Dad around thirty quid lighter in the pocket.

Back to the business in hand, then. Straight from the start, Saints were at us, and our rearguard seemed hard put to cope with the onslaught at first. It was also painfully obvious that this wasn?t exactly going to be a game for the purists; before the time elapsed had gone into double figures, even, those dodgy tackles were going in, and well-hard, with it. Premier standard it was not. And, somewhat disconcertingly, it appeared that Saints were quite prepared to mix it with us as far as the rough stuff was concerned. As for them, they should have gone on the score-sheet with around 12 minutes gone; fortunately, Houlty managed to beat away the nasty-looking attempt with some success.

And, as the game progressed, things seemed to go from bad to worse as far as we were concerned. Giving the ball away cheaply, silly mistakes ? for the most part, we weren?t even at the races. Mind you, we could take small comfort from the fact that the opposition didn?t look much better, although they did at least manage to find their own people with their passes most of the time, in stark contrast to our finest. The overall impression I had was of a side whose morale had been shot to hell; constantly skinned on the flanks, relying on almighty lumps upfield in Earnie?s direction to get anything going at all. Oh well ? I?d gone into the ground expecting nothing, so I wasn?t going to be disappointed, then, was I?

With around a quarter of the half elapsed, there came our first serious attempt on goal. Gera had a go from long range, the effort sailing over the crossbar, then Earnie, with an early promise of what was to come later on in the game, also had a pot from way out, that one going narrowly wide of the mark.

But that represented a small particle of hope completely overwhelmed by a sea of despair; around five minutes later, our entire defence seemingly fell victim to a heavy dose of narcolepsy. Why else leave Svensson completely unmarked on the far post when Saints crossed? Mind you, you might care to argue the word ?unmarked? was a gross misrepresentation of the sheer incompetence that led to the successful headed strike; I reckon you could have stuck a supertanker from the nearby port in the great gaping hole we left around the bloke, and still had room to spare. No wonder he said ?thank you very much? as he nutted the ball past Houlty with all the time in the world to do it in.

?Here we go again,? we groaned as the players took their places around the centre-circle once more. How many more would they score, we wondered. And, within a minute, we got an answer ? but it wasn?t the one the home side expected. A Saints attack broke down, Gera hoiked the thing right up the field, over went the cross, and Earnie was right on the other end, the shot low, mean and nasty, and through a crowd of players. Blimey ? we?d actually got an equaliser! No wonder that away end erupted.

With that strike came the return of self-belief. Formerly downcast and demoralised players suddenly found a new impetus and purpose to their game, and as for their followers, great choruses of ?You?re not singing any more!? from behind their goal, were closely followed by a noisy rendition of the 23rd Psalm. And, about six minutes from the interval, it got better still. This time, it was Greening?s turn to supply the ammo; all Earnie had to do was to blast like blazes from close range, which he did with some aplomb. We?d actually taken the lead. Undeservedly, so, you might say, but what the hell. And, just before the break, we really should have made it three. A free-kick to us, and on the edge of the box, as well. Time for Clem to show what he was made of? Nope ? Gera did the biz instead, and what an effort. I thought it had just clipped the top right hand corner, but the replay showed their keeper had pulled off a stunning save to stop the thing reaching its final destination. Mind you, as Saints lined up the wall, every Baggie could see quite clearly the ruddy great hole they?d left in it. Southampton certainly didn?t, and they nearly paid dearly for their mistake.

Wow, we?d gone into half time in front, for once. The question now was: ?could we hold the lead through the next 45?? Personally, I had my doubts; the only way to keep them out, I thought, was to go at them. When we?d done that in the first half, their defensive line-up positively buckled at times. The thing was, had Frank Burrows realised that? The worst thing we could do was to sit back, drop deeper, and let them come at us. That was the consensus among the Dick Eds. Mind you, the next half-time visitor we received had a theory of her own as to why we?d managed regain the initiative after conceding; the white shirts we were wearing. How come? Because our visitor was Laraine Astle, firmly convinced it was the 1968-style shirts wot dun it for us. And, she told us, she knew Earnie was going to score because daughter Clare had predicted it before the game. ?Can you get her to pick our Lottery tickets as well?? enquired a by-now-jubilant Fart!

Back for the second half, then ? and right at the start, we very nearly increased our lead further. In fact, I would go as far as saying had they conceded at that stage, I reckon they would have chucked up football?s equivalent of a white flag. What happened? Well, first off, Clem let rip with an almighty belter from just outside the box then, shortly after that, Greening had a go. Their keeper punched it into orbit, almost, and on its descent, their defenders totally misjudged its flight. The ball then dropped to Earnie who, instead of blasting in the conventional way, tried an overhead kick instead ? and damn near scored with it! Had that one gone in, it would have been one hell of a goal, plus a hat-trick for the new boy, of course.

And that?s the moment I reckon marked the turning point of the game. Southampton were all over the place at that point; ripe for the plucking they were, but we just couldn?t put away the vital third. Then the home side, realising they were in trouble, decided to ring the changes, swop the formation a little. That stopped the rot for them, and worryingly, they then started to get back into the game. And, inevitably, what I?d predicted came to pass. We were forced to play deeper and deeper, they pushed up on us more and more, and eventually, something had to give. A shame, though, there were only a few minutes on the clock when it finally happened. Even more annoying that the equaliser, when it came, was brought about because of a deflection off one of our own. 2-2, after all that hard work. No wonder so many of our travelling faithful looked so gutted come the final whistle.

Yep ? you can definitely put that one down as being two points chucked down the suff, rather than one stuck in the old biscuit-tin. Had we carried on going at them, that late equaliser would never have happened. Isn?t it about time we realise that trying to concentrate wholly on defence is a distinct no-no, mainly because of the high standards at this level? If you?re Arsenal, or Man U, then sure, you can afford to drop back, just soak it up, but when you?re sitting precariously at the wrong end of the table, that sort of thing just won?t do. Still, that?s one for the new gaffer, whoever he might be, to sort out.

Back to the bus taking us to the park and ride thingy once more and as we took our seats on the lower deck, who should get on but a certain Norm Bartlam, well-known purveyor of excruciatingly awful jokes to the masses. No merry quips this time, though, just a quick glance, in a mocking sort of way ? ?You still got one of those old-fashioned things, then, Tel?? ? at our elderly hero?s antiquated receiver. And it didn?t stop there. Finally installed two seats behind, the next thing we heard from Norm was: ?This is the six o?clock news, and this is Alvar Liddel reading it!? (Liddel was a very famous BBC newsreader around the time of the second global conflict.) Mind you, I couldn?t resist chucking in my own contribution, ?From all of these operations, one of our aircraft is missing!? to the merriment of the other Dick Eds. And, what else to follow with, but the well tried and trusted Lord Haw-Haw thing, ?Gairmany calleeng, Gairmany calleeeng!?? Poor Tel didn?t stand a chance ? in the end, he simply pocketed the offending device!

Back to the Dickmobile, finally, and the long and tiring haul home. Mind you, we didn?t half make good time, getting back to GD Towers nicely in time to hear the Lottery draw. Sorry ? we?re still poor.

Oh well, time to sort out the moggies and grab some well-earned beauty sleep. God knows I need it! Back tomorrow night, with a more considered look at current events.

 - Glynis Wright

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