The Diary

15 November 2004: Who Let The Smogs Out?

Oh, dear. Our new manager?s debut didn?t go all that well, then. That 2-1 defeat was something we couldn?t really afford. But, hey, this isn?t the time to get all picky with him, there was much out there that was good, refreshing, even, to our passing-and-movement-deprived eyes. We pushed, we pressed, attacked the ball, Middlesbrough didn?t like those tactics one little bit during that first half, and we deservedly left the park at the interval on level terms, pulling things back after the North-East club had taken the lead courtesy an unfortunate ?oggie?. Having surprised and delighted to such a degree in the first, it was a shame, then, we couldn?t lay on a repeat performance in the second; the Boro sucker-punch was scant reward for some entertaining football. And Boro, make no mistake, are quite a formidable side, that elevated Prem position of theirs being no fluke whatsoever. But I?m getting ahead of myself, here; our real story started at midday, when we left the leaf-strewn environs of GD Towers for the chip paper strewn environs of The Shrine.

Because of the daft kick-off time, and the fact it was Sunday, we didn?t bother to make for our usual Supporters Club watering-hole, but chose to - erm ? flog right from the word go. At least I did; His Nibs had to park The Dickmobile in some yellow-line-free street first. And while I awaited his leathery presence (the coat, my dears, the coat!), another fine example of sartorial genius hove into sight. Black suit, bright red shirt, coupled with a tie of similar, but equally-stunning hue. And a grin that must have stretched the whole of Halfords Lane. Well done Big Dave; had my other half seen your attire, he would have been dead jealous, make no mistake. Poor Clem. Although dressed in equally-smart attire, there was no comparison, colour-wise. Let?s face it, beside Dave?s gaudy get-up, even a funeral director?s black attire would have looked like Mardi Gras procession clobber.

And then there was The Fart. Or at least there was ? until he spotted all the guide dogs, that was. So taken was he by all those gathered mutts, we practically had to drag him away! Loads of ?em and all there to ?assist? in a bucket collection held around the ground in aid of that charity. Plus a little dog named ?Astle?. How come? That?s the guide dog purchased with the aid of monies raised from players? fines; ?36K paid for the first eighteen months of his training, so I was told. A first glance at that figure would seem to suggest that our former leader had gone all Hitler-like in the last few months of his reign, but when you think Lee Hughes got fined two weeks wages last season, the sum begins to make some sense. And you realise that at least some good came out of what was a sad and sordid affair indeed.

I also took the opportunity of grabbing a picture of ?Astle? for the Dick. Mind you, so unruly was the dog when the handler tried to get him to ?sit? so I could snap the beast, I couldn?t help but enquire as to when his L-plates would finally come off! By that time, ?Im Indoors had returned; just as I?d thought, when I described Big Dave?s migraine-inducing shirt, etc. his reaction was all-too-predictable ? ?Wow!? Will I ever knock some dress-sense into that man? All answers on a postcard to the usual address.

If I?d been totally charmed by the mutts, then five minutes later, it would be fair to say I was completely swept off my feet with shock.Why? The Belfast Baggie, that?s why. The reason I don?t have a name for him is because when he suddenly gave me a twenty quid note for the Dovedale Hospital Fund, unsurprisingly, my jaw dropped six feet, and my brain instantaneously turned to cream cheese. And the reason? Again, I was totally bowled over with shock when the guy told me: ?Because I enjoy your diary so much!? Wow ? and sorry I didn?t get your name. Mention of my piece also gives me a good opportunity to tell of yet another home season-ticket holder that lives in France, and in Gay Paree, no less. (Some of you might recall my recent mention of another chap who ?commutes? across the Channel to watch home games). Most indignant was he when reading my write up of the other bloke, so now I?ve put the record straight.

And, when the crowd density began to increase significantly, a moment I swear you simply couldn?t make up. An animated ?conversation? between a burly Black Country bloke, his words liberally sprinkled with oodles of ?yows? and ?theers? and other sundry local linguistic aberrations, and a Japanese who spoke hardly a word of English but, from what I could glean from the discussion, was asking the way to the East Stand. To say that ?much was lost in the translation? would be a gross understatement of the true facts. Absolutely hilarious. The thing is, though, did our Black Country Samaritan?s unusual ?directions? fall upon fertile ground?

There used to be a popular Sunday tabloid that had as its slogan ?All Human Life Is There?, and those words were never so true as at The Hawthorns before any home game. First off, there was the chap wielding a mobile phone ? and what an unusual request he made of me. No, not to have Tantric sex in the street, or wear a Dingles scarf (ugh!) ? just to bawl: ?GET YOUR BRAND NEW GRORTY DICK!? down the blasted thing. Loudly. Still, as they say, ?the customer is always right? ? so I did! Next up was a bloke dressed very strangely indeed. Not in a Big Dave ?Oh God, here comes my migraine!? sense, but in a ?Yow must be cowin? yampy, mate!? sort of way. There we all were, clad in our thickest woollies, the mercury hardly rising above a truly gonad-freezing 8 degrees Centigrade, and there was he, clad in naught but a skimpy T-shirt and a flimsy pair of shorts! Blimey, where?s the psychiatric nurses when you need ?em, eh?

There might have been a dearth of people qualified to diagnose and treat mental illness at the ground today, but that was more than made up by a positive abundance of photographers standing outside the players? tunnel just prior to kick off. Rows and rows of them there were, and just waiting for the emergence of The Anointed One from its murky depths. Which he did eventually, to a stage-managed fanfare that would have put Cecil B. De Mille to shame. The gallery cheered to the rafters, of course, and much to my surprise, so did the Boro lot in the away end, around a thousand of ?em. Robson?s baptismal team selection? As I?d thought, there was only a slight degree of ?tinkering?; Houlty, Scimeca, Big Dave, Purse, Greening, AJ, Gera, Contra (a surprise, that), Clem, Kanu, and last, but not least, Earnie. Subs? Kuszczac, Gaardsoe, Koumas, The Horse and Hulse (another surprising choice).

We kicked off about five minutes late, all told ? was that Sky and their bloody annoying adverts over-running again? ? and it quickly became apparent that our new manager, plus assistant, were both of the same ?bawl like crazy from the edge of the technical area? school that had produced The Almighty Gary plus sidekick. Industrial-strength earplugs, anyone? The sight of our new leader in action also brought forth a chant of ?Bryan we love you!? from the visitors? followers in the Smethwick; I suppose that seven years at one club does tend to leave its mark on supporters.

As far as events on the field were concerned, the opening exchanges saw us trying to take the game to Boro, a ploy that seemed to leave us looking rather vulnerable at the back. But, come six minutes on the clock it was Gera that nearly opened the scoring for us, the flick across the box coming from AJ ? yep, you read that right ? but our little Hungarian?s aim wasn?t all that good, unfortunately, the ball ending up giving some dozy Brummie Road ender a bit of a fright instead. Never mind; just a minute later, our bijou friend had another go; this time, the effort landed much closer indeed to its intended target.

About three minutes later, it was Boro?s turn to give us a scare. A swift series of passing moves found us looking very vulnerable indeed in front of goal; things looked very black indeed for us as one of the visitors took aim ? then ruined it completely by firing well wide. That was a let-off, make no mistake ? and you could be sure the word ?mistake? wouldn?t be in their vocabulary next time a suitable scoring opportunity went begging like that. And, a minute later, we were nearly suckered again. A missed tackle down the left flank saw Boro get a clear run on goal. Over went the killer cross ? and up popped Big Dave, seemingly from nowhere, to rectify the situation for us.

Up to that point, it seemed as though Gera was the only Albion player capable of scoring; apart from those two early chances, naught else had come our way, but with a scant 15 minutes on the clock, we genuinely had a penalty shout. The wronged Baggie was Earnie, seemingly up-ended on the far side of the Brummie box from us. Much fury from the Baggies seated behind the goal ? well, they were in a much better position to see what happened than I ? but the referee wasn?t having any of it, much to our former Cardiff striker?s fury. We had to settle for a succession of corners instead, none of which produced that much-desired breakthrough, sadly.

And while we supporters ? and Earnie! ? were still steaming with frustration over what appeared to be a gross miscarriage of justice indeed, play then switched to the other end, where Houlty had to look lively to see off a Boro effort coming indirectly from a free-kick, taken very swiftly indeed by the visitors. Houlty took the goal kick for that one, and from that, the play then switched to The Brummie once more. Kanu was the ?nearly man? this time round, their keeper having to look lively indeed to steer the ball out of danger. With 22 minutes gone, it was Boro?s turn to have a well-founded penalty shout knocked back by the referee; you could argue that Scimeca was very lucky indeed to get away with it, but you could also argue that was the one we were owed from our abortive spot-kick claim at the other end. Whether that was what the ref had in mind or not, we?ll never know, of course.

Boro were really piling on the pressure, now, and with that came our turn to sweat buckets. Another corner to the visitors, a slack bit of defending, a rocket header from Hassleblank ? which thundered against the bar, fortunately. Kanu, helping out at the back, was the hero of the hour as he steamed in to get rid of the thing before Boro could. 23 minutes gone, and still the game see-sawed in truly nerve-jangling fashion. Gera came closest to opening our account; he got the ball on the left hand side of the box, evaded his marker, and all he had to do, really, was pick his spot. Wrong! Just to really annoy us, he only managed to fire wide with that one.

It has to be said that at that stage, we were playing some lovely football, the passing game at its best, and Boro were pretty hard pressed to keep up with it. OK, it didn?t result in scores on the board, but the sheer novelty of the situation after four years of dreary defensively-orientated play came as a complete novelty to us ?real? football-starved supporters. No longer did it seem, almost, there were signs saying ?Here Be Dragons? in the opposition?s box; we were going where Albion players formerly feared to tread, it wasn?t half good to watch, and really gladdened our hearts to see it.

And then, it was Boro?s turn to have the lion?s share of the play. Under pressure, suddenly, we wobbled. Purse performed real heroics in putting the ball under the diving body of Houlty to prevent a ?backpass? situation from developing. A brief reprieve where AJ, of all people, beat one, then two Smog Monsters, then forced a fine save from their keeper - who would have thought it from our hirsute midfielder? ? but with three-quarters of the half elapsed, we fell behind. An own-goal, courtesy of Darren Purse?s unwisely-placed leg, although the Boro faithful loudly insisted upon giving the strike to Jimmy Floyd Hassleblank instead.

You would have thought that would be the cue for heads to drop all round, but they didn?t, and creditably so. Within a minute of the restart, Earnie gave their keeper something to really think about when he fired from long range; the bloke did well just to turn the shot for a corner. That Boro strike had been scant reward for so much flowing football from us, but at least we got our just desserts in the 36th minute. Earnie was the provider of the equaliser, this following a superb run and cross, low, mean and nasty, from Contra. All Earnie had to do was give the ball the slightest of taps to send it on its merry way over the line. This, remember, from a player deemed not good enough to grace the first team under Megson. ?Nuff said.

And, following that strike, the sun, somewhat symbolically, decided to put in a belated appearance at The Shrine ? but Boro weren?t finished by any means. About five minutes before the interval, they won a free kick about 10 yards from the edge of the box, gilding the lily somewhat to get it, as far as I could tell. This was worrying; Boro had a fearsome reputation for scoring from set-pieces, which was presumably why our finest took such great care constructing the wall. Their supporters had great expectations riding on that dead-ball situation; a shame, then, the effort not only hit our wall, it then whacked against a nearby Boro player for a throw-in to us! And, a minute later, they won yet another one, about the same distance from the target, and in equally-dubious circumstances. Again we sorted out the wall ? and again, their efforts to penetrate it came completely to naught.

Just before the interval, the TV screens decided to get in on the act by throwing a complete wobbly consisting of fragmented patches of colour across the entire screen. Had it been a pop video, say, we were watching, some would have complimented the director on the ingenuity of his camera-work. Sadly, the only recipients of this startling direction in TV special-effects were we supporters. Clearly, something had to be done, so off went the screens, for a brief period of time ? then on once more, the picture restored to normality once more. Do Albion?s TV engineers possess such low-tech devices as a ?bigger hammer? for such eventualities, I wonder?

That was the first half, then, and during the interval, as promised, there was ?Astle? the trainee guide dog, proudly led onto the pitch by his ?tutor?, plus Laraine Astle, of course. And given the mutt?s marked reluctance to pose for me outside the ground, I wasn?t all that surprised to see the pooch exhibiting similar behaviour when told to ?sit? for the benefit of the obligatory lensman in the middle of the pitch. All great fun, and, of course, the knowledge that our hard-earned money (and that of the players, of course!) was going to a damn good cause. Mind you, I had to laugh at The Bloke Behind Me, who spent a goodly proportion of the interval dreaming up situations that would have warranted a hefty fine during The Ginger One?s incumbency. Perhaps it might well be diplomatic not to elaborate on these any further!

Back for the second helping, then, and right from the start, it rapidly became evident that whatever generated head of steam had propelled us during the first 45 was sadly absent for the second. Whatever the reason, the net result was that Boro seemed intent on passing us to death ? and, when a promising move of theirs culminated in them shooting narrowly over the bar, damn near succeeded much sooner than they finally did. If you get my drift, of course. The winner, when it came, was the result of a looping Zender header that soared well above Houlty?s desperately outstretched arm, then into the back of the net. Annoying, as we?d put in so much effort in the opening 45, only to see it squandered with the second 45 only six or so minutes old.

But, in the midst of sorrow, there?s always something to lighten the prevailing mood. Today, it was the turn of AJ to do precisely that. Not because of his usual forte, comic-book efforts on goal, but because of a beautifully crafted series of moves that saw him beat his opponent not once, in normal fashion, but twice, this time with a casual flick of the ball over his shoulders that would have drawn forth applause from the legendary Pele, never mind those of us seated in the Halfords Lane Stand, near whose touchline this neat little bit of trickery took place. And prompted The Bloke Behind Me to declare, in loud tones that must have surely reached the nearby VIP area, ?Megson would have sacked him for that!?

Time for a couple of Albion substitutions, then. With about 60 minutes gone, off came Gera for The Horse, also Hulse for Earnie. Both these changes came as a complete surprise to me. Gera had been the mainspring behind most of our more promising moves, and had been within a whisker of getting on the scoresheet himself, of course. Earnie?s capability to do damage was already proven, of course. Still, at least Our Rob couldn?t say he?d been overlooked by the gaffer, and The Horse was an old hand at the striking game, so I suppose there was a smidgen of logic in the changes. Having said that, there were times during the remainder of the half when Hulse really appeared out of his depth; in fact, by ?Im Indoors?s watch, it was a good twenty minutes before he even got a sniff of the ball, never mind look dangerous with it.

The real problem was Boro?s defence, which clanged its steely gates shut the moment Zender beat Houlty. The situation was a little like that of the Three Little Pigs. In best childrens-story fashion, we huffed, and we puffed ? and still we couldn?t blow their bloody house down. In fact, as the half progressed, they began to look very much like increasing their lead ? on one particular occasion we were very lucky to get away with it, as Viduka blew a nailed on cert chance to score. Just before that, though, we did get a chance to restore parity once more, courtesy of our distant relative, Mr. Riggott, who clobbered Kanu right on the edge of the box. It was Contra who stepped up to deal with the set-piece, which got us wondering precisely what he had in his locker for those situations. The answer, sadly, was zilch ? the free kick might have worried air traffic control at the nearby airport, but it certainly didn?t worry The Smog Monsters.

By now, we were rapidly approaching the Last Chance Saloon, and there only seemed to be one side in it right then. On those occasions we did manage to win the ball back, our passing let us down and we surrendered possession cheaply once more. What didn?t help was the fact that with both Gera and Earnie now out of the equation, to all intents and purposes, our strikeforce had gone to pot. Sure, Hulse ran around enthusiastically enough, and so did our equine friend, but it simply wasn?t good enough for the Premiership.

Having said that, though, shortly before the end, we should have nicked an equaliser. Contra was the provider, with a lovely run and cross from the bye-line, almost. Once more, the ball ran low, mean and nasty, to a lurking Kanu nearby. A repeat of the first half?s equaliser looked on the cards ? only to end in howls of pure frustration from all over the ground when ?yer man? narrowly missed the target. And, that, apart from a very late scoring chance that fell to Hulse, was it.

My verdict? Sure, Boro are a bloody good side, well organised at the back and rapacious, clinical, even, in their efforts to catch sides on the break. For that their lofty Prem position is thoroughly deserved. Bit there were times when we did more than match them; during periods of that frenetic first half, we genuinely looked the better side. Certainly, the football played was an improvement; although it didn?t work out in the end, the very sight of our manager electing to go with three up front during the latter stages of the second half was good to see. And there was the small matter of our abysmal performance when taking set-pieces from positions where scoring was a distinct possibility; that needs to be looked at, and quickly. Oh, and maybe the wisdom of effectively neutralising our attack with those second-half subbings should be questioned also.

But, as I said at the start, these are small gripes about what was, on the whole, a creditable performance. The only problem is, what with getting sod-all from that one, plus the distinct possibility of getting a right tanking at Highbury next week, and another at the well-manicured hands of a newly-resurgent Man Urinal ? they beat The Toon 3-1 at their place this afternoon, but the scoreline flattered them a tad, in my opinion ? we could finish the month of November looking a very sad sack indeed. But, as events today have demonstrated, at least both sides should find it difficult to replicate a turkey-shoot on the field of play, which most certainly wasn?t the case in more defensively-orientated times. Said she, hopefully!

And finally?? Despite all the bad news he received the other week, and despite still having to receive chemotherapy on a regular basis, our mate Chris still managed to make today?s game, much to my surprise. He?s lost most of his hair, now, sadly, and looks a little more gaunt in the face, but he?s still relying on us to maintain his stock of programmes for him. Tonight, he came to our place to collect about a season?s worth of Albion-related stuff, and good on him for doing it. It?s when you encounter people like that, your own troubles simply pale into complete insignificance. It?s my genuine wish he manages to see us remain in this division come the end of the season. Chris was one of those who supported us when we really were ?shit?. Let?s hope we?ll see his face at The Shrine for many moons to come.

 - Glynis Wright

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