The Diary

21 November 2004: Earnie Earns His Highbury Crust

Funny, isn?t it, how a game lasting a bare ninety minutes can completely change one?s mood over that all-too brief period of time, and in this instance for the better? Come on, think about it; had Honest John The Bookie approached you in the street this morning and offered decent odds on us getting a point at Highbury today, you?d have either surmised the bloke was on the brink of going out of business because of excessive generosity to punters, or he was ready for the psychiatric ward ? delete as applicable. And we Dick Eds weren?t totally immune from the heightened sense of profound malaise that gripped us when selling outside the ground about an hour before kick-off.

And the weather didn?t help, either. ?Sunny periods? said a nice little weather man on the box apropos the London area last night. Oh yeah? Seemed to me today that God?s much-vaunted ?sunny periods? underwent a rapid and totally-unexpected menopause in the Highbury district today. That, plus the fact it was bloody cold out there, and there was a distinct lack of bodies of either persuasion on that street until the final three quarters of an hour, just about rendered us ready for life membership of ?Exit? by the time we decided to pack up. No wonder Russian novels are so depressing; what with them having to put up with that sort of clime for six months, I?d be seeking strong mood-elevating drugs as well.

What made today?s result so astonishing, really, was the fact that all of us had gone to that game expecting to see us get a thorough tanking; in fact, that very same subject had formed a large proportion of the in-car conversation on the way to Cockfosters tube station this morning. (Confused? You will be, but I will explain, I promise!) The fun began when both The Noise and The Fart arrived on our doorstep at exactly the same time, as if they?d planned it that way, almost. Our resident septuagenarian muttered something about The Noise being psychic, but I knew what really happened: ?Don?t tell me,? said I to The Fart, a well-known animal-lover ?You found him in the street and he just happened to follow you home!?

Into the Dickmobile, then ? and to be quite honest with you, I?ve heard some subjects mulled over on the way to away grounds in my time, but never before have I been confronted with the ones I got today. First off, was a discussion on the Albion shares business; the club wanting to come out of the AIM, and Jeremy Peace looking to tighten his financial grip on the club by increasing his percentage of the total share issue. Then we were treated to a ?blow-by-blow? account of The Noise?s recent prang in Smethwick ? just after he?d left our house following the trip back from Southampton, and conveniently close to the cop-shop in Piddock Road, which we just happened to be passing at that moment. That included the ?war of words? he had with the other, rather aggressive, driver (no surprise, really, the guy turned out to come from Wolverhampton!) and the subsequent insurance claim. Quite good, huh, and we hadn?t even gone five bloody miles! Now have a guess as to what the next topic of conversation was? No? Right, I?ll tell you. Matters funereal, would you Adam and Eve it?

It all cropped up because The Fart intended to go to a service being held at West Brom Crem next week, and not being a native of the area, wanted to know precisely where it was situated. It just so happened we were going that way, so we were able to point the place out to him, and also tell the old sod what bus to catch etc. And from there, it just got slightly surreal; in rapid succession, our travelling companions wanted to know exactly what was burned when someone departed this life in that fashion, what happened to all the prosthetic junk salved from bodies prior to entering the furnace, the legal requirement to do the deed on the same day as the corpse came into the Crem, how the job was actually done, and much, much more. Blimey, I bet that?s a topic of conversation not often covered by football supporters ? or could it have been the pall of gloom associated with a trip to Highbury finally kicking in, I wonder?

Then, way, way down the M1, it got silly again. We were discussing Sky broadcasts at the time, and debating whether the rumour we?d heard about the team coach being equipped with a dish in order to receive programmes ?on the hoof? was kosher or not. I said it was highly unlikely, as the dish would have to stay in perfect alignment to the satellite constantly, something that would be hellishly difficult, what with the coach twisting and turning, heading either north or south, and so forth. A pause ? the up piped The Noise once more. ?I bet the Wolves have tried to get Sky in theirs ? trouble was, someone told them to get cable, and that?s why they?ve got a twenty foot long piece dangling from the back of their exhaust!? Honestly, the things you talk about ? and learn! - when going to away games!

?There?s A Guy Works In The Chip Shop Swears He?s Greening?! No, not the ditty made famous by the late Kirsty McColl around 20 years ago, just an unfortunate revelation by Jonathan Greening splashed all over today?s ?Currant Bun?. Yep, in an earlier incarnation, possibly when with York City, our Jesus lookalike worked part-time in such an establishment, in Scarborough, would you believe? Assuming he is the real Messiah, and not a very naughty player, then you can bet your bottom dollar they had no problem obtaining fresh fish supplies ? ?Do you want five loaves to go with that, luv?? ? nor adequate stocks of wine. And doesn?t try to go incognito, either ? he?s yet another of the Hawthorns God Squad. Perhaps now?s the time we should invite Cliff Richard onto the board? You can just picture it, the lad on his knees, in church: ?Aw, Dad, you promised me I could do a miracle today ? I wanna part the waters on that big canal in Halfords Lane, Dad! DAAAAAD!?..? Mind you, after the lovely way he set up Earnie for that equaliser, right now, I?m prepared to believe absolutely anything about the bloke.

And then there was Steve The Miser, and the fact we still had yet to receive a mail from him, although he?d been online for several weeks. The Noise came up with the idea of sending him a mail back with one of those ?please indicate you?ve received this? messages attached; he?d have no option but to splash the cash then. But The Fart went one better. ?Why not send him one of those, but with a warning that if he didn?t respond, he?d get charged ten quid automatically?? Hmmmm. Have to try that, I reckon.

To Cockfosters, then, or, to be precise, the car-park hard by the tube station. Which we found to be absolutely swarming with people and cars. Christmas shoppers, some, but as far as the rest went, we?d been quite literally ?hoist by our own petard?. How come? Having mentioned the Tube method (and that station) of getting to London games in The Dick, a hell of a lot of Baggies had done precisely that, so many, in fact, it took us quite some time to drop anchor for the afternoon. That?ll larn us!

A 20 or so minute tube journey later, we all emerged from the gaping maw of the Thirties-vintage station building to set up our selling-spot. Not a nice day, either, as I mentioned previously. However we did have one Baggie visitor, all full of jollification, despite the fact he was on crutches. Paul (sorry, can?t remember your second name, mate) had ?done? his medial knee ligament, by all accounts. Not through participating in the beautiful game, mind; the damage was done on his kitchen floor. How come? Easy: the lad?s diabetic, and he had a sudden hypoglycaemic attack, which led to sudden consciousness ? and to the damage already described! Just keep telling everyone you did it playing footie, mate, it sounds better! Oh, and there was a sequel. Just after he left us, the lad tried to get through the away turnstiles ? but they wouldn?t let him in there because he was on crutches. Why the hell they couldn?t have opened the nearby gate to let him through, instead of sending him to the disabled entrance situated on the other side of the ground, God alone knows.

Although the prevailing mood was one of severe collective depression, one chap lightened our gloom a little. My ?training ground spy? who will, of necessity, have to remain anonymous, I?m afraid, who, having watched Robbo and Co do their thing over the course of the previous week, had nothing but good news to report about the various methods employed by those pair. Apparently, genuine coaching is now ?in?, and bawling and shouting in true sergeant-major fashion most definitely ?out?. There?s much more emphasis on ball work, now, and apparently, both first and second strings muck in together once more. Very often, one or the other will halt games in progress, and gently enquire of one player or another whether they were truly happy or not with, say, the position they?d adopted for a set-piece, or as a result of some attacking or defensive move or another. Then, another, and more likely, better, way of approaching the problem would be offered for trial instead. Sounds to me very much as though training is now something to be enjoyed, not endured, and quite possibly, as in former times, feared?

I?ll tell you what, though. Getting in through those away turnstiles isn?t half an alarming experience. How come? Easy. Every time a punter was let through, the mechanism buzzed in a loud and worrying manner highly suggestive of USA Bible-belt prisons, and electric chairs! Seriously, though, once through that lot, it was pretty much a doddle to find our seats, which were situated on the side of the pitch, and immediately behind a retaining wall separating us from the next block below. Trouble is, though, I reckon those seats were literally chucked down where the old terracing was; the rake is bloody awful, and you end up not seeing half of what?s going on out there ? unless you elect to stand, of course, which we ended up doing most of the time because those in front had to do so also.

That was a minor quibble; some ten minutes later, out came both sides, to an almighty roar from both sets of supporters. Suddenly, my comparison with the Coliseum was looking awfully apt; after all, sides hugging the wrong end of the Prem table are expected to stick to the script, curl up and die like the lower-league fodder we were perceived to be by them. And, to be fair, we were also expecting to be on the end of a ?roite thrapin? ? come five o?clock. In fact, before the ?off? the four of us went as far as organising a strictly unofficial ?sweep? among ourselves as to the precise time of the first goal against hitting the back of the net! Nothing like unrealistically-heightened expectations, is there?

But, incredibly, marvellously, even ? it didn?t turn out that way. Much to our surprise, Robbo had left Earnie on the subs bench, and promoted Sakiri to the full side instead. And although The Arse were very much on the offensive in those opening minutes, and kept Houlty extremely busy at times, our back line seemed well-able to soak up the extra workload thrust upon them. Plus the fact the home side didn?t seem to be firing on all cylinders for this one. Big Dave was superb at the back, and Darren Purse had to look lively also. And, amidst all that frantic defending, The Mighty Zoltan, ably assisted by Clem, suddenly decided to take the game to them, for a change. The cross came in from the left, and ran right across the face of goal ? one handy Baggie toe-poke and it would have been well and truly ?right up The Arse?, but first AJ, then Gera, lurking near the far post, and from a very acute angle indeed, couldn?t get it in, so to speak.

Despite the almighty mullock that led to their goal in the second half, before criticising our custodian unduly for that lapse, it should be remembered that on at least two occasions towards the end of the first, he kept us in contention courtesy two fantastic stops that would have drawn plaudits from the great Gordon Banks himself, the first with his knees from an Arse corner and the second from an absolute screamer of a free-kick, which he deftly palmed away for a corner. Phew!

Half-time, then, and following our magnificent first-period showing, we Dick Eds were rendered almost speechless with astonishment by the unexpectedly-delightful way things had panned out for us thus far. As I pointed out to the rest, at the corresponding stage of our inaugural Premiership game with them some two seasons ago, we?d gone in three goals down and dead, dead, dead. To head in the direction of a nice cuppa and some (hopefully) motivational words from our new gaffer still enjoying parity with the League champions was unbelievable, a fairy-tale, almost. The thing was, though, could we keep that up, the cup-tie atmosphere, almost, the smoothly working machine that was our defence today? Relegation favourites, like nice guys, simply come away empty-handed when faced with similar situations, don?t they?

Wrong, wrong, and wrong again ? although we had to fall behind to a sucker-punch straight out of kindergarten before demonstrating the applicability of that particular footballing maxim to our situation. Maddening, also, because we?d managed to survive ? just! ? an Arsenal early-doors move that seemed to have us caught like rabbits in headlights. There was Pires, totally unmarked, and the first one to have a go. That was blocked, and the ball then fell to Bergkamp, unmarked ? who then did the totally-unbelievable by missing the target from point-blank range, almost. A case of ?Anything you can do, I can do better!? as far as Kanu, and his missed effort six days previously, was concerned.

And then, having worked like stink to keep all the difficult stuff out, the moment that broke Baggies hearts all around the ground. Should you want me to, I?m quite prepared to swear on a stack of Bibles that Houlty genuinely looked as though he?d got the long distance shot completely covered, but instead of adhering to the ?business end? of Houlty?s snazzy keeping-mitts, somehow, I know not why, the blasted thing managed to creep underneath the lad?s outstretched hands and ? in slow-motion, almost - into the back of the sodding net. Once more, the ?Semper Te Fallant? factor had paid us a totally-unrequited visit; thrust into deep gloom once more, we Dick Eds simply sunk into our seats and grimly prepared to witness the onset of the cricket score proper. Even the belated introduction ? as loudly requested of the bench from our travelling contingent ? of Earnie and The Horse, replacing Old Boy Kanu and Gera, did little to dissipate the pall of gloom that hung ominously over our part of the pitch.

But, once more, the astonishing capacity of our favourite football team to completely surprise us, came to the fore ? and, thanks to Jonathan Greening, with sundry twiddly bits added for good measure! What happened? As we were seated just a few yards away from where ?it? occurred, we all had a grandstand view. First of all, there was Greening chasing what looked like a totally-lost cause on the right; the next, there was a long limb flailing in the air, to a height its owner had no right whatsoever to achieve successfully. A quick-smart flick of the ball to bring it down to terra firma once more, and ?Jesus? was away. Taking the ball to the bye-line, almost, in went the cross, low, mean and nasty ? and there was Earnie on the far post, nearly, body suddenly made flesh, in between two of his ?jailers?. One well and truly outstretched foot later, the damn thing was well and truly in ? and it?s no exaggeration to say that the entire Albion section went absolutely bonkers at that moment! I did find my hat, eventually, but, just like West Ham last season, it went ?walkabouts? when we scored!

Cue, of course, for massed ?boinging? in that away end ? absolutely everybody, and I truly mean EVERYBODY, joined in. And once that had died down, a genuinely-moving rendition of the 23rd Psalm, ?The Lord?s My Shepherd?. I?ll tell you something, though. That last 15 minutes put years on my life, and as for the last five ? it seemed to last an eternity. But only two minutes injury time? The first generosity I?d seen Prem refs afford us in one-and-a-bit seasons at the game, but when that final whistle went, you?d have thought we?d earned three points, not just one. Cue, once more, for another demonstration of our famous celebratory antics. Pleasing, also, to see visible proof of precisely what that draw meant to our players. Lots of hugs all round, plus the return of most of our side to the area where our bums were collectively parked, to render a salute; a quick glimpse, also, of one of our finest chucking his shirt into our end. I bet there?s someone really treasuring that, tonight. Oh, and as we prepared to take our leave, a cheeky choral cry from the ?glee-club? at the back of: ?Can we play you every week?? Loved it.

On leaving the ground, besides Robbo, yet another link with our illustrious past. Cyrille Regis, acknowledging with a grin the constant chants of "Cy-rille!"from his many admirers. Out into the near-darkened North London streets, then, with hordes of Tube-bound Baggies still whooping it up as they, like us, made their way back to the station. A fragmented memory of The Fart, ?boinging? like crazy, an activity that evoked many censorious stares from our more sedate London brethren, closely followed by my explanation ? ?That?s what happens when he gets on the old barley-sugars!? ? which also drew its fair share of puzzled looks from the natives!

So well-organised are all things Tube in the vicinity of the station, it wasn?t all that long before we finally hit the platform in earnest. And, as we slowly meandered our way through the crowd, realisation suddenly struck us we weren?t alone. A menacing sight indeed stood next to us; no, not a peeved Arse-lover, hell bent on retribution, but Brooksie, he of the ozone-shattering, methane-producing bowel physiology ? and we were all trapped in an enclosed space with him! AARRGH! Only one thing to do, then ? head for the far end as quick as Christ would let us, and pray he didn?t follow, which he didn?t. Phew! In more than one sense of the word!

Just minutes later, we were on our train, heading out ? and much to my surprise, and contrary to my usual expectation of Londoners, someone, seeing my stick, actually gave up their seat for me. Luxury! From then on in, it was a piece of cake to reclaim our Dickmobile, regain the motorway, and head off towards the Midlands once more. What a bloody day, and what a bloody result ? and, you know what? I wouldn?t have missed it for the world.

First post-match thoughts? Presumably, Man United had someone watching us today; if that were the case, we must have given them considerable food for thought concerning next week?s game. Make no mistake, that draw, versus the best the country, in theory, had to offer, was no fluke, no patronising ?it?s West Brom, so we?ll let them have a point because they?re struggling so much? platitudes, we thoroughly deserved that point. A tad maddening, to concede in such an amateur way, though, and after Houlty had dealt with most of the difficult stuff in brilliant fashion ? I genuinely thought Russell was of a much higher standard that that ? but those twin subbings towards the end were tactical genius. As for that magical bit of ball wizardry as performed by Greening, what more can I say? A feat far more suited to the modus operandi of the home side, not a bunch of clapped-out, so-called drop-zone strugglers. Sublime to watch, and even more so when seen with benefit of TV hindsight before sitting down to pen this piece.

After today?s magnificent performance ? and all achieved with the assistance of players our previous manager believed couldn?t cut the Premiership mustard, remember ? I?m now genuinely of the opinion we can really do this, the survival thing, and, presumably, so will our players, now. It?s all down to self-belief, pure and simple. That was The Arse, on their own patch, one goal up, a 40,000-strong home crowd behind ?em, and we still managed to snatch a point ? and after that bit of bogey-slaying, nothing, no other away fixture this term, can ever seem as hard again. Sure, we rode our luck at times, and they missed at least one absolute sitter, but it just goes to show that what happened to Kanu can happen to just about anyone ? even highly-skilled international strikers. United? Bring ?em on, I say!

And finally?.. Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings?.. The Noise?s daughter, Carly, was recently set some RE homework, where the entire class had to write a letter to God, then swap their work with another kid, read their effort, then pretend to be God themselves and send a reply. The Noise, being the caring sort of Dad he is, and discussing what Carly would say in her piece, gently reminded his daughter that it wasn?t so much the fact God stuffed things up on earth, it was Man that was responsible pretty much all of the time. While all that lofty discussion was progressing, The Noise?s youngest, Bethany, age eight, had been listening intently; following our verbose co-editor?s cautionary reminder to Number One Daughter up she piped, somewhat excitedly: ?I know the ?man? that keeps causing all those nasty things to happen ? it?s Tony Blair!?

 - Glynis Wright

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