The Diary

28 November 2004: Red Devils Dish Out A Hellish Roasting

They do say what?s colloquially known as S**t just ? erm ? ?happens?, but after today, I reckon I can affix yet another rider to that simple but well-known homily. S**t, doesn?t just descend on the intended recipient, a bit like the Angel Gabriel did on Mary, but in a form that makes them very antisocial indeed, it raineth from the heavens in great dollops of threes, and on this particular occasion, with an extra one for good measure. Trust me on this one; after today?s varying experiences, I reckon I?m now the nation?s best on all things s****y, bar the facially-contorting sort that comes about as a result of chronic constipation conjoined with long-standing haemorrhoids, or the green and extremely noisome variety that comes out of babies? back ends and onto their nappies, of course.

How come? The first, and most important reason, the one that draws me to The Shrine as inexorably as a moth to a guttering candle flame every fortnight, and to an away ground near you at similar intervals, should be pretty self-explanatory, really, what with my unrelenting preaching to the converted via this diary over the years. The second and third, followed, in quick measure, by the fourth? Before plunging too deeply into the shark-infested lagoon of my various other woes today, perhaps I should set the scene by turning back this column?s personal clock some 24 hours, when the consultant told me after the op that because I?d bounced back after the anaesthetic so well, he was letting me out a day early. Which was absolutely great, and all that jazz, as doing that would save me an awful rush the following day. Mind you, heaven knows how many not-so-subtle hints I?d dropped to the hospital staff pre-surgery, so to prematurely get the boot was a ?result? ? or so I?d thought at that time!

There?s always a pay-back, though, when such a large dollop of good fortune hits you like that ? and mine was most certainly today. What happened? First of all, so bunged up with pain-killers was I before leaving GD Towers, when I stood up to stick my coat on, I had a bit of a dizzy spell and fell over. Not nice. Still, I did land on our fitted carpet and not the pavement, so minimal damage done. That was Strike One, now for the second, which hit me while I was in the Hawthorns pub before the game.

As per usual, before taking my leave of the place to commence selling operations, I hurriedly popped into the Ladies to do the ?biz?, did it, went to dry my hands underneath the hot-air dryer ? and received one almighty belt of an electric shock from the blasted thing, the wattage-laden jolt much exacerbated by the fact my hands were soaking-wet, of course. Not just a tickle, mind ? the genuine article, and my language was ripe, to say the least. No point telling the bar staff, as their counter more resembled the opening day of the January sales, rather than a point where alcoholic beverages were on sale, but I did leave a message with those nice Supporters? Club bods at the entrance to let the management know what had happened ASAP. Not so much for me; the thought a small child might get caught in similar fashion filled me with great alarm, not unreasonably, I would venture.

And, following the final whistle, Fate ? who must have absolutely peed herself with laughter over all those aforementioned twists and turns in my otherwise mundane existence - came up with an absolute stunner by way of encore, but, having unintentionally raced ahead of myself a little, I?ll explain more fully much further down my little screed. There is method in my madness, I promise. But, in best ?commentator style? back to The Hawthorns Hotel, now, for a pre-match rundown on the place ? and, much to my surprise, Things Had Been Done to the middle-eastern-style d?cor previously in existence. In true festive-seasonal style, the place didn?t resemble a sheikh?s tent any more. Call it instead Santa?s bloody Grotto, all twinkly light-ropes against an ink-black background. As Janice Nicholls of ?Thank Your Lucky Stars? fame (younger Baggies: ask yer mums!) used to say: ?Oi?ll gi? it foive!? Unfortunately, putting them up must have done something awful to the newly-installed ?big screen?, because it was as dead as a doornail right then, with some little blokes on a gantry twiddling things left, right and centre to get the picture and sound back once more. This they achieved, finally ? just in time for everyone to see Blackburn take the lead versus Fulham. Sod it. And, what with that network of aluminium tubing partially obstructing our view of the game, time for me to tell The Noise (and daughter Carly) to enjoy their ?complete matchday experience?. A view partially blocked by some structure or another, lousy football, a rapid separation of cash from wallet/purse ? all it needed was a giant fan blowing icy gusts, and a crafty turning-on of the sprinkler system to make everyone really feel at home!

Well done, also, to ?part-time supporter? ? only kidding, mate, honest! ? Julian Rowe, who made it from wild and woolly South Devon to the equally wild, but not quite so ovine-fleeced West Bromwich, today. Mel Gwyneth was our ?hot topic? this lunchtime; a chap who is an ex-Baggies player, so Julian tells me, although he never made any further than the third string, but what does make him one of a select few is the fact that despite such a close association with our football club, then toddling off to the West Country to ply his trade with one of the Bristol clubs, Exeter and Cardiff, just like all-round ?good eggs? like SuperBob, he never quite lost his love for our lot. Julian tells me he?s a home and away ?regular?, ?distance no object?, apparently - Newcastle, from Exeter and back, by car, and in one day, would you believe? - and his house is absolutely stuffed to the full crop and gizzard with all things Baggie, no matter how insignificant the item concerned; no surprise to learn, then, he?s also got a motor proudly bearing a WBA registration, both front and back. I can?t say I know him, mind, although being such a ?regular? we probably do by sight. Perhaps the gentleman concerned can make himself known to us when we next play?

Incidentally, I also heard from ace newspaper-seller Andy today, a long-standing chum of ours, that our mutual friend Paul Crichton had managed to stuff things up for yet another non-League club recently. This time, the poor sods made to suffer as a result of the guy?s sheer ineptitude were Accrington Stanley; Andy tells me goalkeeping?s answer to The Titanic was most certainly to blame for at least one of the three goals they conceded the other day. It truly amazes me; the guy?s a complete walking disaster between the sticks ? and still he manages to get games at that level. Unbelievable. Sure, I am acutely aware Stanley currently have a bit of a keeper crisis on their hands, what with injuries and the like, but did they really have to turn to such an accident-prone custodian? That league can?t be all THAT hard up for decent Number Ones, can it?

Off to the Smethwick End, then, to commence flogging operations ? until SC bod Alan Cleverly caught up with me, that was. Apparently, John Motson?s son, no less, wanted a very large chunk indeed of our very own Fart, so away rushed ?Im Indoors to relieve the old codger ? makes a change from Mafeking for him, I suppose ? leaving me pushing my wares on my tod for the moment. A big ?thank you?, by the way, to the bloke who so generously handed over a fiver for the Dovedale Day Care Centre. What with that, and the large amount of donations we normally receive pre-match, at this rate, we?ll own the flaming place, never mind sponsor it!

It seems quite a few folkies wanted a word or three with me today. First off were academia?s very own Bryn Jones, fresh from the lecture hall, all full of sociology and such weighty things, closely followed by Boing?s very own webmaster, ?Finbarr?, aka Chris Saunders. Work out the nickname for yourselves; if you?ve ever clapped eyes on ?Viz? comic, you?ll get it straight away. Just like a load of old women we all were, too, minus all those whalebone corsets and stays, of course, rattling on ad nauseam about ?operations?, both distant and recent, with a blow-by-blow account of the surgeon?s every scalpel move chucked in for good measure. My stepmother, well into her eighties, and not averse to such chit-chat herself, would have loved it. And, while we were all nattering about one dodgy body-bit or another, up popped GD?s ?Northern Correspondent?, Dave Baxendale, to talk car-parking for the Man City jaunt with me. He knows just the place ? which I can?t share with you, sadly ? and what?s more, he going to send us the type of directional map one normally associates with Caribbean islands, dead pirates, bottles of over-proof Navy rum, and much ?yo-ho-ing? by all concerned. The latter having absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with the rum, of course.

And, while all this was going on, we suddenly found ourselves slap-bang in the middle of a bloody long queue for The Halfords ? and it wasn?t even half-two. How come? Can?t say for sure, of course, but I reckon it was the old stile-card system throwing another hissy fit, and quite some time before the stewards finally executed their ?over-ride? thingy to rectify the situation. Let?s just put it this way; one minute there was a line sinuously stretching down Halfords Lane for quite some distance, the next, it had melted away as swiftly as our Dingle-chums? promotion-prospects at the conclusion of season 2001-02. But not before I?d upped sticks and shifted to rejoin the ?other half? plonked right in front of the Smethwick Gates. And that?s when my education in the many economic variables associated with the Man United ticketing ?black market? began. I kid you not, what was going on, literally behind my back, would have made the trading floor of the London Stock Exchange seem more like a lofty debate in the House Of Lords. Money, serious money, was changing hands quicker than I could blink, almost ? and presumably, those on the ?buying? end of the chain were earning sums fully-commensurate with the profligate expenditure of so much moolah. Oh, well ? makes a bit of a change from cocaine, I suppose.

In complete contrast to what had seemed a very long wait indeed just 20 or so minutes previously, we finally sauntered through those turnstiles with nary a smidgen of let or hindrance to our appointed task, dropping our weary carcasses into our customary berths with just a few minutes to go. Queue, what queue? And, as we waited for both sides to enter the arena, there before us were an absolute plethora of young kids, all bearing a violently-magenta flag, liberally laced with the sponsors? logo, T-Mobile, and our own club crest. I?d already seen enough of that particularly garish variation on the ?pink? theme to last me a lifetime; dotted all around the ground outside were yet more of their bods ? I think they were there handing out tons of those ?big hand? novelties, coloured, yes, you?ve guessed it - but wearing quilted jackets of equally stomach-churning hue also. Let?s just put it this way, never mind the damn things looking like they?d just come out of Sellafield?s main reactor after an overnight spell in there, colourfully-challenged ?Im Indoors immediately wanted to know where he could lay hands on one!

Back to the game, though ? well, it?s a dirty sort of job, but somebody has to do it, mention it sooner or later, I mean ? where, despite the magnificent showing we made at The Arse?s place last week, we simply couldn?t turn it on sufficiently to repeat the feat at ours. We put out more or less the same side, the only change to our line-up being that of Kanu, out injured for this one. I do have to agree with what our gaffer subsequently said, though; he reckoned the turning point of the game was losing both Big Dave and Contra through injury in the first half. Up to that point, although United, whose excellent away support had drawn much Baggie applause when they, too chanted our gaffer?s name, had enjoyed most of the possession, if I remember rightly, they?d only managed to really trouble Houlty on but one occasion.

And, thanks to Earnie?s best efforts, we did manage to create a ?sort of? scoring opportunity with around ten minutes on the clock; escaping United?s defensive shackles for once, he did have a fleeting moment when a shot from around 20 yards seemed on, but couldn?t get hold of the thing properly, and it fizzled harmlessly out of range instead. Sure, United were as quick and exciting on the break as you would expect from such an expensively-assembled string of thoroughbreds, but they lacked both the means and ability to finish us off; once both of our stripey pair were ?taken out?, as it were, and because of the introduction of both Tommy Gaardsoe and Paul Robinson, the necessary re-jigging of the side undertaken, we ended the first half looking very vulnerable indeed at the back. Wayne Rooney could have quite easily begun the rout just before the interval courtesy of a header that just went over the crossbar. We were quite clearly living on borrowed time ? and didn?t we know it.

And yet, come the restart, you might care to argue that given any other opposition bar Fergie?s lot, we might have had a reasonable shout for a spot-kick; with about six minutes gone, an almighty bellowing erupted from The Brummie; the cause, it seemed, was United?s Silvestre handling in their box, and the referee choosing to studiously ignore all Baggies-based protests, and wave ?play on? instead. At the time, I didn?t have a clear view of the incident, so I wouldn?t have liked to call it either way, personally; having now seen a replay of the incident courtesy The Beeb ? well?.

It wasn?t long after that ? around 3 or 4 minutes, I reckon - we conceded the first. Fair play, Paul Scoles let fly with an absolute H-bomb of a shot that gave Houlty no chance at all, but you do have to question the wakefulness of our defence, who more or less gave the predatory Red Devil all the time in the world to complete his nefarious edge-of-box deeds. Still, I can?t say it was unexpected; the whole thing first started to unpick late in the previous half, as I?d said. United?s next came with about 18 minutes left; this time, it was a header from Van Nistelroy that did the close-range damage. Not that it mattered, mind; by then, the visitors were running the entire show, pretty much. As for their supporters, they were, very nosily indeed, I might add, really lapping it up.

Following that, in a swap involving Sakiri, Robbo belatedly introduced The Horse to the fray, a move which was, literally, a bit like flogging a ? erm ? ?dead horse?. Sure, our equine striker did manage to put a bit of the old ginger into it for a bit, but then, up popped our old friend Scholes once more, to grab the brace. A bit of an odd one, that; just prior to his third, one of ours ? Purse was it? - after treatment, had to ?go off to come on?, so to speak, but was still awaiting the all-important gesture from the ref some seconds after play restarted. That was all United needed; with us temporarily down to ten, they made hay while the sun was most definitely not shining, and up popped ?yer man? for three and most definitely out. Not that many noticed, mind; by that stage, around half of our lot had hastily legged it for the exits anyway.

And this, folks, is where the additional ?embuggeration factor? to which I vaguely alluded earlier in this piece, reared its head in a most unwelcome manner indeed. Remember, last season, the various problems I had with the West Midlands Police, the cause of our respective differences of opinion being the efficient policing (or not) of post-match traffic trying to use Halfords/Brasshouse Lanes, also Dartmouth Road? Or, more to the point, the distinct lack of constabulary presence in those areas after the final whistle? Well, it?s starting to happen again, folks ? and there we were thinking that our previous ?all-time record? of 50 minutes to travel the two miles that separate the ground from our place couldn?t be beaten?

Wrong, multiply wrong! This time, it took us a good hour and fifteen minutes to complete the two miles; all this mind, with foot patrols, police vans, cars, dogs, a helicopter circling overhead, even ? plus the benefit of alleged input from outside consultants during the close season, which must have cost a tidy packet in its own right ? and still we, along with many others, were stuck in Brasshouse Lane, and fuming our bloody heads off an hour after the final whistle.

What I?d really like to know is how the policing authorities can possibly justify this flagrant waste of taxpayers? money? Why bother with a bloody expensive police helicopter at all when it?s clearly not being put to the use for which it?s particularly suited: monitoring traffic flow, and liasing efficiently with the coppers actually on the ground to shift it? And resourceful management of such things could reap benefits in your constabulary areas, too, chaps. Suppose one of your own was down, in Smethwick, say, and needed urgent assistance ? but couldn?t receive it because of the very situation I?ve just outlined? It?s one thing to inconvenience football supporters ? after all, matchdays are one of the few occasions remaining where bobbies get to rule the roost with relative impunity over such an easily-targeted and media-vilified group of people ? but just remember two things. Firstly, you further alienate normally-decent and law-abiding people by behaving like knuckleheads. And secondly, it might be you getting their head kicked in outside the ground and no-one wanting to get involved, or help being unable to arrive because of the traffic! Sermon over.

And finally?.One. Just before today?s game, we were handed a little ?Albion something? - really special, too, a 1931 ?Blue Argus?, the famous edition commemorating Albion?s ?promotion-double? Cup Final win of that year versus Blues. The generous donor has to remain anonymous ? at his own request, may I add ? but what he intends is that we will, very soon, be open to offers for said publication, and all proceeds to the Dovedale Day Care Centre, of course. So, keep your eyes peeled for all things Dick, and in the meantime, get your best auctioneering fingers on full alert, OK?

Two. Hereford?s Tony James, versus Tamworth today, misjudged a Mark Robinson pass and allowed Bob Taylor (you naughty Bulls people ? Supes NEVER, EVER played for Port Vale!) to find the back of the net with an absolute screamer from forty yards or so. Remember Bob?s similar effort versus Fulham, the one that only narrowly failed to punt high over their custodian?s desperately-groping hands and into the back of the net, the last time we were in the Prem and played ?em at home? Well, this one was a re-run, but successfully, this time; Bulls keeper Craig Mawson was well off his line, according to their website tonight, and Taylor showed ?incredible vision?, as they put it, to spot this, and execute the shot perfectly. And, talking of things Tamworth, their fanzine is currently in the process of compiling a Boxing Day ?special?, and because of the ?SuperBob connection? we?ve been asked to contribute a little bitsy part of our collective brains to their publication. Should be fun ? heaven alone knows the sheer number of SuperBob tales we can tell ?em!

 - Glynis Wright

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