The Diary

05 December 2004: Late Pompey Broadside Sinks Bryan's Floundering Flagship

Well, I ask you. There we had it: three Pompey points, wrapped in a dinky little bow and all presented on a large silver platter, set in aspic and beautifully garnished with hefty scoops of beluga caviar, had we wished to collectively indulge ourselves to that somewhat extravagant extent. We saw, we sniffed, albeit cautiously, at first, at this delectable feast, fit for Black Country kings. And then, cutlery poised, just as we were about to gorge upon the tasty morsels laid there for our delectation, without never so much as a bye-your-leave, they were quickly snatched away by the waiter well before the end of the course, and served to the party seated at the next table instead. Perhaps it?s just as well that Premiership games aren?t reviewed by the same people that do restaurant critiques for the Sunday supplements; had The Sunday Times? Michael Winner been tasked to cover today?s game, for example, I strongly suspect our manager, players and even supporters would have been completely torn to shreds in his cantankerous little column by this time tomorrow. ?Don?t worry, dear ? it?s only a relegation!?? Yeah ? and by the look of things, coming to a place near you next May, and probably much sooner than that.

As I said last night, this game really was the one to get something from; everything was made for us, Pompey with no manager, morale shot to hell, their supporters worried about the immediate future, and whether they too might get sucked into the sordid morass right at the very bottom ? and we completely blew it. Never mind they gifted us two goals, more or less, and on both occasions, we were the ones to take the lead first. All this largesse courtesy of a disgraceful amount of defensive laxity on the part of both sides. Two ?oggies?, one from our very own Darren Purse, isn?t exactly the best advert for Premiership football is it?

Never mind the fact that in the second half, and with us, after a bit of a rocky patch, looking much more settled at the back, we then deliberately chose to remove from the fray the single Albion player most likely to do Pompey even more heavy-duty damage, and shortly after that, the player most likely to create chances aplenty to perpetrate said damage. It?s quite an achievement, that, with around 12 minutes remaining on the clock, to go from a position of being in with a pretty good shout of winning the blasted thing, to ending up having to chase the game some six minutes and two bouts of severe backache for Houlty later. As my erstwhile employers used to demand via the medium of written memos when something went badly wrong, and I was the one in charge at the time ? PLEASE EXPLAIN.

As it was to turn out, The Fart, who?d had a bad dose of premonitions that kept him awake most of last night, was not helped by the series of records he heard on the radio once he?d finally gave up the unequal struggle to get some zeds ? ?Don?t Stop Me Now?; ?The Winner Takes It All? and ?The Name Of The Game? ? by the time that little lot had run the course of their respective turntables, our editorial war veteran was absolutely convinced we?d get something today, as he told us in the Dickmobile heading South, this ditchwater-dull winter?s morning. A not unreasonable assumption at that time, I might add ? but one that was sadly short of the mark. Not that I was listening all that closely to the conversation, mind; somewhere in the vicinity of Oxford, my eyes rapidly grew leaden, and I only resurfaced again when we hit the outskirts of Pompey, some 2 hours later. Quite an achievement that, what with The Noise chuntering on in the back of the vehicle, and everything.

At least parking up was no problem; same place as usual, and same pub, also. Every year we get told by Pompey followers the place is one where away supporters aren?t welcome, and every time, we head there, and have no problems with the locals whatsoever! Loved the multi-lingual ?welcome? signs ? ?Bienvenute?; ?Wilkommen!?; ?Bonjour!? writ large on the entrance. What? No ??Ow bin yer, aer kid??? Mind you, having made such decent time on the road, the minute we walked in the joint ? a hit song there, possibly? ? there was nary a whisper of humanity to be seen, be it man, woman, child ? or, pushing the definition of ?humanity? to its furthest boundaries - Dingle. The only thing to break the silence were the TV screens dotted about the bar which, being a place that catered for football supporters en-masse, was by now completely denuded of tables and chairs in some areas. The place had also had a pretty comprehensive tarting-up job done on it over the three years since we?d last travelled to the city. There was even a faux chimney-breast bearing the Pompey crest, something that wasn?t there the last time we visited, also some patio doors leading to what was presumably a children?s play area in sunnier climes. It was there I espied several cartoon figures, painted mural-style on the wall bounding the yard. And was that Donald Duck?s image making a total pig?s ear of goalkeeping duties out there? ?Naw,? said The Fart, cracking up with laughter at the thought. ?It?s Paul Crichton in disguise!?

Refreshments having been purchased ? and me finally getting the chance to take a picture of Donald and his extramural custodial antics ? it was a quiet few minutes of contemplative thought for us Dick Eds ? until, diem mirabilis, none other than The Drinking Family walked in ? and we?d actually beaten them to a pint, for once! Much whooping and back-slapping among the GD Away team, coupled with an invitation for them to draw up what few chairs there were, and join us in a jar or three. And, as these things go, the whole thing quickly became a somewhat animated ? aw, sod it, ?heated?, then, but all in the best possible spirit! - discussion about our favourite football club, some of its former personnel, and what could be done to prevent things getting worse than they were at present, one that lasted a good 45 minutes. It was one of those sort of things where you all remain good friends, then ?agree to disagree? once it?s time to move elsewhere ? like the ground, to flog fanzines. As one of our chums wryly commented as he left the ?debating chamber? to get the drinks in, ?It?ll give you lot chance to reload!?

And, as we made our way towards the nearby away end, The Fart had some interesting news for me. It?s a well-known fact to all parties concerned that Pompey followers hate those of the Southampton persuasion, and the feeling is most definitely mutual; whenever both clubs clash, the word ?Scummer? is thrown around with gay abandon on these occasions ? but what I positively ached to know was what had precipitated such mutual antipathy in the first place ? and that?s where The Fart came in, folkies. Unbeknown to me, he?d been nattering to the local rozzers, and during the course of the conversation, it transpired that one of the wearers of the funny helmet was a bit of a local history buff.

The running feud ? for that?s what it is, make no mistake ? all started in the late 19th century, when there was a bitter strike in the Portsmouth naval dockyards. In those days, they weren?t very strong on ACAS, mediation, compromise, and all that pinko, liberal Commie guff; the exasperated authorities, knowing labour was cheap and willing in times of high unemployment ? no ?safety net? of benefits, then - simply brought in loads of willing hands to break the strike. And guess where they came from, dear reader? Yep, and the grudge still smoulders to this very day. A bit like the Bristol-Cardiff mutual dislike, really; that one came about during the 1930?s depression. To this very day, you?ll still hear old Bristolian codgers declare, with genuine hatred in their hearts, ?The bloody Welsh came to take our jobs!? And as for the Newcastle-Sunderland thing, just don?t ask, OK?

And while Simon was busy flogging what few ?zines we?d brought with us, I was pondering on how much things had changed over the past ten years or so. Suddenly, the years flaked away, like dead skin from a bad case of sunburn, and it was the last day of season 1993-1994 once more, and we simply had to beat Pompey to stay in the First. The warm late-spring sunshine I remember most; that, plus the fact that while they awaited the opening of the away turnstiles, the queue of patient Baggies stretched to the length of a full two streets, almost. And then there was Daryl Burgess, not playing that day, just nervously prowling Albion territory like a cat in close proximity to a pit-bull, and trying as best as he was able to soothe the already-frayed nerves of our battle-weary followers. And then there was us Dick Eds, conducting the then (highly-nervous!) Pompey ?zine editors ? it?s long since folded, sadly ? on a flogging mission among our own. Ah, happy days.

And the Portsmouth publication isn?t the only one to bite the dust, of course. Since those halcyon days of the early nineties, a goodly number of more prestigious publications have also gone to The Great Printer In The Sky. The world has moved on a great deal since those days when it was routine for us to clock up three-figure sales at grounds like Fratton Park. GD has been going for over 15 years, now, and we are currently one of a rapidly-dwindling band still in existence. And yet ? look at the football gossip page of any newspaper these days, either tabloid or broadsheet, and there is much there that a fanzine editor would instantly recognise. The big boys probably wouldn?t admit it, mind, but it?s my contention that when it hit those streets, back in the late eighties, the fanzine movement caused a great big gust of fresh air to waft through all those anally-retentive and over-hyped back pages and glossy supplements. What with the bean-counters increasingly taking over the asylum these days, and everything, will we ever see again the dawn of such a spontaneously-generated supporter-driven concept that was the fanzine at its peak? Somehow, I doubt it ? and the game will be all the poorer as a result.

But, on with the show. As we sold our wares, who should lope by, but Sauce, he of the ?alternative? Albion away travel service. I can?t guarantee ?service with a smile? mind; with a choice Black Country epithet, more like, but the lad does try, bless his cheeky, chubby chops! And, even better ? with his arrival came news that Gitte, the lady who befriended we Baggies in Denmark a couple of pre-seasons ago, was making plans to come to the UK for a short break. Coming with some of her chums, she is, and while in Blighty, she?s going to take time out to watch us square up to Kevin Keegan?s lot, on our own patch. No doubt a post-match trip to The Vine will be called for. Hic! Or, given their speciality, curry, shouldn?t that be ?burp?? Gitte?s a smashing lady, with a wonderfully-dry sense of humour; can?t wait to see her again.

We also heard grim(ish) tidings about team news; both Lloyd Dyer and Lee Marshall were in the party that travelled down yesterday, also Bernt Hass in place of Contra, presumably. And, additionally, The Man With The Unfeasibly-Large Sulk! And another vagrant thought; when ?Im Indoors mentioned to me that Fratton Park was going to be totally transformed next season ? well, I ask you; look at the present set up there, it positively screams ?DUMP! to the casual observer ? my reply was along the lines of: ?Why? Is someone going to finally drop a bomb on the place, or something??

Quite an Albion Regular?s Reunion, our patch, by then. Not only Sauce paid his (colourfully-worded!) respects, but we also spotted Dawn Astle ? no Mark today, sadly, he was with his gran, Laraine - Fab Traccana, he of many reserve games (and a multitude of pithy insults aimed at underachieving players!), plus Long-Haired Mick, the Baggie who ?things just happen to? wherever he roams to watch our lot in action. Mick?s all-time best comment? In St. Mark?s Square, Venice, about two days before we played Brescia in the Anglo-Italian, where I happened to bump into him. I asked him what he thought of one of the most famous cities in the world, the architecture, the canals, the gondoliers, the Doge?s Palace, the culture, and all the rest ? and you know what he said? Shaking the lank locks from his forehead, and a broad grin bisecting his features to an alarming degree, The Black Country Oracle, spoke, finally. ?Venice? Tew much cowin? wearter, wench?..?

And then up popped Carol Carter, who is also a devotee of the Florence Nightingale cult, just like The Satanic Nurses (where were they, today?). I reckon The Fart will have to watch out for his current status as Supplier Of Sweets To The GD Away Team in future; plied with an abundance of coconut mushrooms by Carol, I was, and so was my other half. When it comes to coconut mushrooms, sorry, Tel, but there?s no contest. And, much to my surprise, we also met up with the couple we spoke to on the Southampton shuttle-bus a few weeks (a Premiership lifetime?) ago. Very cheerful they were, too, and purchased yet another Dick from us. What nice people!

Into Fratton Park proper, then ? and I really have to wonder what the likes of Arsenal, or Man United, think about the ?facilities? for away supporters at the South Coast club. A squeeze through those daft little turnstiles, but before that, a grilling from their stewards, looking for weapons of mass destruction hidden about the person, presumably. And, once inside, a rare occurrence indeed for the male of the species ? having to queue up for the Gents, just like the fair sex do as a matter of course on away trips. Serve the buggers right for moaning about the length of time it takes us to ?do the biz?, doesn?t it? And, once in our seats, a sight to behold indeed. That of a blue frog perambulating the four corners of the ground. As the Noise so pertinently commented on spotting the strangely-hued amphibian for the first time: ??.A blue frog? And they?re talking about taking drugs out of football??.? And, not only that, there was the strange case of the Flourishing Weed In The Away Seats. Nothing illegal, before you ask, just a particularly-healthy specimen growing in peaceful solitude among a row of seats just in front of where we were sitting. And this was a Premiership ground? As the song goes, ?You?re havin? a larf?..?

And, talking of those bloody seats, they were simply slapped down when Pompey?s three-year grace-period on acquiring an all-seater stadium expired. To say the view was not of the best from that end would be the understatement of the year, I reckon. Not only that, the whole place, of course, was completely devoid of any decent cover. Supporters wanting to watch their side play at Pompey did so at considerable risk to life and limb on account of the great risk of contracting a severe dose of exposure and/or hypothermia. Not to mention drowning; well do I remember the time, about five or six seasons ago, when we were four down by the interval. Not only that, it was also chucking down by the bucketful, and cold, with it. Yuk. Luckily for us, the heavens, possibly thinking we?d had more than enough punishment for one season, decided to lay off for this one. All we had to contend with this time was the bloody cold; that, and a lowering sky of menacing slate-grey hue, so it could have been considerably worse.

Trouble was, as well all know by now, it DID get worse. Nothing to do with Mother Nature this time ? or Old Mother Riley, either, come to think about it ? the disaster that befell us over the full 90 minutes was very much one of the self-induced variety. As we?d been told outside, the side consisted of Houlty, Scimeca, Purse, Big Dave, Clem, Hass, AJ, Greening, Gera, Kanu, and Earnie. Subs? In the nearby naval dockyard, mostly, but our (most certainly land-locked!) variety were Kuszczac, Gaardsoe, Sakiri, Hulse and Koumas, The Prodigal Returned himself.

It all started off rather well, actually. Within a minute of the kick-off, we won a throw in their territory, and Greening, lurking on the edge of the box, latched on, then lamped the ball for all it was worth in the direction of the Pompey goal, the effort only narrowly missing its mark. Such early proactive behaviour on the part of our finest boded well for our immediate prospects ? or so we?d thought at the time. With about ten minutes gone, poor Mr. Purse received an almighty whack, and for a while it looked possible he might have to leave the scene of the action. Finally, the wounded little soldier was helped to his feet once more by Nick Worth, and things carried on regardless. And, just a minute or so later, an almighty roar from the Pompey end ? clearly, they thought that one of their was upended in the box, and refereeing retribution was being called for in no uncertain terms, might I add. OK, it was at the other end of the ground, but none of us Dick Eds saw anything amiss. The Fart, who had his steam radio tuned to a local station, told us the local boys were all saying it definitely was a penalty ? but of this highly-coloured version of ?broadcast news?, more anon.

With but 15 minutes on the clock, enter Clem into our little tale. Grabbing the ball in their half, the lad then embarked on a run of his own, twisting and turning, writhing, even, in an attempt to shake off the minders that now surrounded him with malice aforethought. And still he had the thing. Over it went, a lovely cross, inch-perfect. As the unfortunate Berkovic quickly discovered; somehow, Pompey?s maestro managed to turn the thing right into the back of his own net, to the great hilarity of our followers. 1-0, then, and our crowd, crediting Clem with the proper glory (and rightly so) celebrated accordingly, boings, 23rd Psalm, the works.

Our strike, as it happened, came at a particularly crucial time for us; prior to that Pompey whoopsy, we?d gradually gone onto the back-pedal. And, while all this was going on, what of the local radio boys? Well, they were calling us a ?very physical side?. Strange, that, as put-upon Pompey had only been given one free-kick the entire game! And, around five minutes later, when we?d been given yet another set-piece, on the edge of their box, off they went again: ?Given the rub of the green!? declared the radio-active pair of twits once more!

It was about then an awful pong began to pervade the area in our immediate vicinity. Was it my old chum Brooksie at his most obnoxious ?best? I wondered. I never did arrive at a satisfactory answer as to the source of the mystery niff, but what I did realise that Pompey were fast, frighteningly-so at times, and as the half advanced, it became abundantly clear that every time they had the ball on our left flank, they were skinning us every time, pretty much. On several occasions, they got right behind our defence, and it was only sheer luck that saved the day for us. To try and make things happen, Pompey brought Primus on for the injured Unsworth, and this did create more pressure for us.

Sadly, though, with about 33 minutes gone, we well and truly committed football?s equivalent of hari-kari. What happened? As I saw it, an almighty mix-up between Darren Purse and Houlty was the prime cause of the problem; over went the Pompey cross, difficult, sure, but nothing beyond the capabilities of our keeper. The one thought the other was going to tidy up. The result was a total abortion in the box; as the ball came over, for reasons best known to himself, The Purse?s leg stretched out ? and the ball, which would have been safe from attack had our keeper been left to tidy up as God intended, flew straight into our net instead. One-one, and to a sucker punch, as well.

Not that the game could be called in any way exciting, even. The overall standard of play, from both sides, was truly dire. As the interval neared, I began to wonder just how much decent material the Match Of The Day people were going to extract from all the dross we?d witnessed over the preceding 45. And, as if to hammer the point home even further, yet another defensive cock-up, but by the home side this time. It all started when one of their defenders failed to clear one of our crosses properly. There was then another mix-up, between their keeper and another defender this time, at which point the ball fell to Scimeca, who quickly whipped the ball across the goalmouth. With their keeper flapping like a distressed flounder, and right off his line, all Earnie had to do was perform a simple toe-poke, and make it 2-1 to us. As for Pompey, they were dead sick; of the two sides, up until that awful gaffe of theirs, they?d looked the side more likely to take the lead once more.

Half-time, and yet another reason to chuckle at the pair of idiots providing the local radio commentary. Their excuse, this time round? We were offside when Earnie applied the coup de grace, apparently! Could I detect a certain pattern emerging here, I wondered? Half-time also brought an answer to the mystery that had bugged me the whole first half. The Noise had been relaying scores from other Prem and Championship games to us on a more or less constant basis that first half. Then, the bloke who sat next to ?Im Indoors said something to The Loquacious One, and he promptly fell silent. So what happened, then? Easy ? the chap in question was a fan of ?Match Of The Day? and preferred to embark on the journey home in blissful ignorance of what had transpired elsewhere, so that he could watch that programme in blissful ignorance of the final score. Takes all sorts to make the world, I suppose.

Time also, for The Fart to chuck the sweeties out among our flagging troops ? in this case, us Dick Eds. Great for restoring shattered nerves, that, also for rapid elevation of blood-sugar levels depleted by the angst of the preceding half. ?Quick!? muttered The Noise to The Fart, ?I just want something to suck!?

?You DID say ?suck? didn?t you?? enquired this naughty column of The Noise, somewhat mischievously! Sadly, I didn?t hear the reply, as both sides were out to resume the fray by that time, the strains of ?We Are Albion? competing to make themselves heard above the harmonica melodies of John Lennon, and The Beatles ?Love Me Do?, recorded circa 1963.

And, as both sides recommenced hostilities, looking back, I?d wished I could say with any degree of confidence we could hold on for the entire half, but I just couldn?t, for the life of me. The problem was, instead of looking to push on, score yet more, and make our position unassailable, we were back to defending in depth once more, which was about the worst thing we could do, really. We didn?t have a cat in hell?s chance of staying the Pompey hordes, should we elect to do that. Sure, Earnie had a go in the opening minutes, and only going just wide with the shot, but even so, the pressure on us was gradually increasing in its intensity.

First of all Houlty had to look smart to negate the danger from a Pompey drive; had the perpetrator elected to have a go himself, and not laid it off, then Pompey might have achieved parity somewhat quicker than they finally did. Our manager, realising changes were needed, made the first subbing with around 20 minutes of the half gone, when Bernt Hass was taken off, and Gaardsoe plonked right in the thick of it instead. Poor Bernt ? he?d tried manfully, he really had, but it was painfully clear by the time he came off that Premiership football was a step too far for him. As for our bosom chums, the local radio people, they, too, had their own take on the change. ?Off comes Bernt Hass,? wittered one. ?Thank God for that!? Yes, I can see where you?re coming from, sort of, but that one was about as subtle as a half-end brick!

And, three minutes later, yet another change, one slightly more contentious than the previous one. Off came Gera, and on came Sakiri. A comical interlude, then; the crowd, who were loudly claiming ?hand-ball? just about every time the ball struck an Albion man whilst in the box, suddenly had the whole thing turned on them. Our naughty crowd then began to shout for similar every time they were in possession! The subbings seemed to have steadied the ship, though - but then came the decision which I will never understand even if someone tries to explain it from now until this side of Armageddon. With about 12 minutes separating us from our first away win, Earnie was pulled off, and Rob Hulse given a go instead. He was our most effective player, at that time, and was looking as fresh as a daisy, so why haul him off right then?

Whichever way you look at it, that was the decision that cost us the game. With just 5 minutes remaining, Bercovic whanged one into our box, and De Zeeuw gratefully nutted it home. And, as if that wasn?t enough punishment for us, with sod-all left on the clock, the ex-Man city player set up Lua Lua, who had enough space around him to take a 74 bus, should one have ventured that far out of its area at that time. No sooner had it gone in, our lot howled blue murder for offside ? and, looking at the replay afterwards, you might care to argue they did have a decent shout, but that?s all gone in the backwash, of course. We should have won that one, and had we pushed on after going 2-1 in front, we might well have made it impossible for Pompey to return, but we chose to sit back and play very deep in defence indeed; as a result, we were stitched up like kippers, and we?ve only got ourselves to blame for it.

Come the final whistle, we wearily took our leave of the now-darkened Fratton Park. That was a game we really should have sorted out ? but we didn?t. The golden rule at this level is ?win those games involving fellow-strugglers, and that puts the pressure on them, not you?. Luckily for us, most of the bottom pack also dipped today, which means that with any luck, the gap separating us from the rest won?t widen. Trouble is, I really couldn?t extract any crumbs of comfort at all from that one today; the feeling?s getting increasingly-stronger with every day that passes, now. Our doom is upon us, and unless we can find a way of stemming the tide, and quick, the manner of our exit is likely to be something of an embarrassment. Even the morale of such hard-bitten campaign regulars as us four Dick Eds took an awful knock tonight. Not for a long time have I known the Dickmobile so quiet and glum on the return journey from an away game. Trouble is, it could get much, much worse in the weeks and months to come. Oh - and we also got stuck in an almighty jam afterwards, then slightly pranged our wing-mirror while stuck in it. Suicide pills, anyone?

And finally?.One. As some of you may know already, The Fart happens to own some shares in Blues, and today?s post brought some interesting stuff from that club. First off, a Christmas card from the club, allegedly signed by all their players. (The Fart, also a Baggies shareholder, never, ever gets one from our lot, mind!) The second dubious bit? Under great pressure from the other Dick Eds to reveal all (ooer!), it now transpires our old codger also has in his possession a certain photograph ? of him with none other than Karen Brady! Oh ? and another vagrant thought, seeing the full light of day after perusing the glossy sales etc. brochure that accompanied said card, along with all the usual stuff about nutritionists, sports psychologists and specialist coaches, Blues currently have in their employ somebody who rejoices in the title ?skincare partner?! No, and I don?t know either!

Two. Calloo, callay, O frabjous day! Yep, it?s that time of year again, tomorrow, when all those little balls get shaken and not stirred, and Nemesis, in the shape of a Number 41 in our case, determines our early January activities once more. If you?re worried about having to rearrange your diary due to our protracted involvement in the competition ? then don?t. Whoever it is, we?ll be out of the darn thing in a trice! The only variable left remaining in the equation will be the amount of embarrassment sustained by us when the inevitable finally happens!

 - Glynis Wright

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