The Diary

12 December 2004: Has ANYONE Any Good News Tonight?

Oh dear. ?WHAT A LOAD OF RUBBISH!? shouted both the Brummie and Smethwick come the final whistle of today?s debacle ? sorry, ?game? ? and right at that moment, I genuinely lacked sufficient enthusiasm to even attempt to challenge the massed critics behind both goals. That?s how low I felt come five o?clock this evening.

I should have known today was going to be a complete and utter bummer the moment I opened our fridge first thing this morning. So, what happened, then? A terrifying vision of our imminent doom writ large in the salad-stuffs, in similar fashion to images of Muslim prophets appearing on water-melons, or pieces of toast? Or an eldritch screech from its icy depths, perhaps, warning us of the horrible fate that would befall us should we land up at The Hawthorns that afternoon? Er ? not quite, actually. I came pretty close with the toast bit, though; in fact, it was attempting to grab a loaf and the marge to make some that caused the problem in the first place. No sooner had I opened the door, one of the shelves then chose to collapse in ruins, tipping its entire contents ? a huge bowl of trifle, some tagliatelle, a yoghurt pot (cracked by the fall, and the contents also spilled), and just to make things even more interesting, ?Im Indoors?s work sarnie ham - right at my bloody feet. And I couldn?t properly embark on cleaning-up activities because on the stove, the rest of my brekkie was cooking, and needed careful watching. After a rotten start like that, you might have thought things would then improve on the Wright front ? but, as we all now know, they didn?t did they?

What with cleaning up the awful mess (a little trifle goes a long way, honest) and everything afterwards, things got a little behind, and before I knew it, Sauce was a-hammering on our front door in search of his supply of Dicks. Instead of simply picking up the goods, then going on his merry way again, as is his normal wont, our little chubby-cheeked chum instead engaged us in a lengthy but highly-interesting debate on the various issues currently affecting the club. I?ll say one thing for our man, though ? what you see is what you get with ?Sauce? (the only sensible way of dealing with a surname that?s as equally unpronounceable as that of our second-string keeper!). Never one to mince his words, a spade is a bloody shovel and most certainly not a digging-implement in his world, and long may he keep on expressing his views. Should things ever come to a straight choice between listening to the likes of him or the bilge-merchants, I know what I?d choose every time. As for Sauce?s very Black Country parting take on our current plight ? ?I?m veering towards the optimistic side of pessimistic!? ? I absolutely loved it.

Once our hero had departed for the Hawthorns, five minutes later, we were following him up the road. And, when we arrived at the ground some two and three-quarters hours before kick-off, signs abounded today?s fixture wasn?t going to be one of our better-attended ones. First off, we were the sole arrivals in the street where we normally park on matchdays, and the second? Much to our surprise, when we entered Supporters Club territory, there was hardly a soul in the room. The main sign of life, curiously enough, came from the middle of the floor, where a little man was gallantly attempting to get the ?big screen? projector aligned correctly. And a very Heath-Robinson affair it was, too; the ?magic box? balanced precariously on an upturned bucket, which, in its turn, was mounted on a cast-iron ornamental pub table, and that stood on one of the more conventional round variety that were dotted about the place. And that was well before the bloke then began securing the whole lot with what appeared to be oodles and oodles of Sellotape! Coo, it?s all high-tech stuff at the Hawthorns Hotel, folkies.

And as I watched all these antics with increasing disbelief, my other half was going through a credulity-crisis all of his own, and at the bar, would you believe? First of all, the guy being served in front of him wanted a drink requiring lime in it. Which they didn?t have, so one of the bar staff was sent to another part of the pub to get some. Then, they realised they were short of glasses ? how they could be, with no-one in the room barring us, hardly, is another mystery, but there you are ? so that had to be sorted out as well. Then, as the guy behind the bar realised the chap in front also needed a bottle of something as part of his order, another delay. No, not for the bottle, the ?er ? bottle-opener, would you Adam and Eve it? Yes, I know the old joke about drunken parties, breweries, bottle-openers?..and, what was the bloody punch-line, now? Sod, my damn amnesia?s set in again. Unbelievable, even for a normal run-of-the mill type of boozer, but for one serving loads of thirsty football supporters? Oh, whoops. Then it was my beloved?s turn to order ? and he required a J2O, a soft drink we knew they stocked in quantity. And guess what? Yep, they had to send out for it again! One of these days, the proprietor will employ temporary staff on matchdays who actually have a knowledge, albeit rudimentary, of how to keep bar successfully.

And, skimming through the programme sent a hollow laugh from my lips resounding through that part of the boozer devoted to us silly sods. What attracted my attention was the advert amongst its pages for some swanky apartments in Spain, prices from some 237,000 Euros upwards. Yeah, and I can just see the owners being positively overwhelmed with enquiries and bookings from people who live in one of the most deprived areas of the country. Just as well, then, that both The Fart and his good lady wife, Dot (there to hand over some toys for the Radio WM Christmas Appeal, taking place outside the ground today) arrived on the scene, thereby dispelling my ire. Once the pair of them were well and truly sat down, we then revealed our ?secret weapon? ? that GD cover picture of The Fart and WM sports presenter Paul Franks, in drag, outside wherever it was they broadcast the Children In Need Appeal from. Looking at Franksy in all his ?feminine? glory, the thought did briefly cross my mind of lots of genuinely-inclined-that-way blokes seeing that picture, and taking a bit of a fancy to him on the spot. And, also, on the quiet?

Incidentally, on their arrival, our elderly editor plus wife didn?t exactly do his bit for amicable relations; prior to his coming, there had been a complete family sitting on our table ? (I think) Dad, his mate, plus two daughters ? but when El Tel made to sit down, he managed to upset their drinks, with the result that they all moved at a rate of knots to somewhere else in the room! I dunno, these bloody old fogies; can?t take ?em anywhere, can you? Finally, and very belatedly, we were joined by The Noise, plus bag-carrier daughter. And, on seeing her mush pictured in the Dick yet again, so appalled was she by the out of date picture we were still using ? fair comment, though; she was six when I took it, and she?s now a strapping 14 years of age, and considerably taller than me! ? I was then instructed by that young lady to take a more recent version for our fanzine. That I quickly did, and with the aid of what I?d describe as a ?proper? camera this time; a workmate of my other half gave us the loan of his digital number for this weekend, and just like a child suddenly thrust, alone, into the interior of a sweet-shop, didn?t I go large on sampling its many delights!

An interesting observation by The Fart, by the way. He spent some time, either yesterday or today, I couldn?t hear which, actually mowing his lawn! Not so strange for those who live in more sensible climes, of course, but in Britain, in December? Remember, grass only grows when the mercury reads above 54 Fahrenheit, which says a lot about recent temperatures around these parts. It sort of ties in with reports in one of the broadsheet papers recently, about daffodils coming into bloom somewhere else, and lots of ducks hatching out yet another brood. And yet people still insist global warming doesn?t exist? Oooh, I can just hear the bells on my other leg tinkling even as I write!

A quick tootle into the loo later ? incidentally, there?s a gurt great ?Out Of Order!? sign on the hand-dryer, now ? and we were off down Halfords Lane to begin the great flogging-slog once again. But not before I?d taken yet another shot of Carly, outdoors and full-length, this time, just to make sure. And, once we were positioned at our usual post, a quick wander from me around the ground, to grab some ?stock pictures? ? always useful now both the club and the Premier League have such a tight stranglehold on what can be published and what can?t. Photographic duties finally finished, I then settled down to do some selling ? only to fetch up with a very old bloke who reckoned he was a schoolmate of The Fart?s! Resisting the understandably-great temptation to comment, ?Blimey, I didn?t know they even had schools in mediaeval times!? I simply gave the bloke The Fart?s home number (he said he was too frail to walk the entire perimeter of the ground to where our elderly co-editor dwelt pre-match), and left it to him to make contact.

And, not long after that, yet another astonishing act of generosity from Baggies; the first came in the form of a ?10 donation to the Dovedale Day Care Centre, and the second, a gift of ?5. What with that and all the other donations we received today ? this is just us, mind, and not the other sellers - a very handy ?35 will be swelling the fund total very soon, I reckon. And, while we?re on the subject of charitable donations (no, not our defence, that comes later!), a word about one-time Dick co-editor Adrian Goldberg, struggling manfully with the Radio WM Toys For Children In Need Appeal about ten yards from my other half?s selling-point. It?s not all that easy to carry out a live broadcast with some nutter shouting ?GET YER BRAND NEW GRORTY DICK!? down your lughole every time you speak, is it? As my ?other half? told him, when Ade began to make ?grimacing? expressions in his direction, ?What you complaining about, Ade? It?s all added atmosphere, isn?t it??

By then, the afternoon was wearing on, and more and more Charlton supporters began to appear in my vicinity (why does the ?sword? badge on their shirt bear an uncanny resemblance to that on the label of an old-style Dettol bottle?), including a remarkable individual wearing a Russian?style fur hat, with what looked very much like a Red Army badge on the front. Black, he was, but with a South London accent you could have flogged to Yank tourists for a fiver, and most surprised our publication was still a mere 80p! ?How do you do it?? he asked me, in incredulous tones. ?Easy!? replied this column, ?We don?t have to charge London prices up here, do we!?

On reaching the inner sanctum some five or ten minutes before kick-off, I wasn?t all that surprised to see the away end only half-full. And there appeared to be something of a relative paucity of home supporters around, also. Presumably, when it comes to a straight choice between watching our football team get beaten, and going Christmas shopping, a good many Baggies must have decided the second option was the lesser of the two evils, and bitten the bullet in town instead. Just before we were due to go in, a chap who normally sits a couple of rows in front of us was waiting outside ? for his daughter, as it happened; he had her stile-card and needed to hand it to her ? told us he was off to Oz in a couple of weeks time. The Gold Coast, near Brisbane, the lucky old sod! After today?s result, I was half-minded to ring him up and ask if I could come as well! But I digress. On came DJ Matthew, as per usual, positively imploring us to make some noise! Nice words, mate, but you have to have something to cheer about in the first place, and there wasn?t all that much up for grabs today, was there? Sorry.

Today?s line-up? Houlty, Scimeca, Purse, Greening, AJ, Zoltan, Contraceptive, Clem, Hass, Kanu, plus Earnie. Subs? The Polish Guy With The Unpronounceable Name, Gaardsoe, Koumas, The Horse, and Rob Hulse. What did disturb me, somewhat, was the absence of Big Dave, with a knee injury, and Contra filling-in instead.. Bad news indeed; his expertise at the back I felt would be sorely missed ? and that?s exactly how it panned out. As far as the game was concerned, Charlton played it in exactly the same fashion they?ve done against us for the past three or four seasons we?ve been in the same division as they, or met in the League Cup. ?In yer face football? is their ?signature-dish? i.e. giving us very little time on the ball, being very crafty with all those little, sly, off-the-ball digs, those nasty surreptitious ankle-taps, going down as if shot the instant we had the ball and were steaming off towards their goal, thereby successfully breaking up the play; aw, you?ll know what I mean if you?ve ever seen one of those fixtures for yourselves. The problem, of course, centred around the fact that despite knowing very well what they would do each and every time they did it, we couldn?t find a way of countering it ? and today was no different. Time and time again, we naively lumbered into the bear-trap set for us, and there was sod-all we could do to stop it.

Still, the opening exchanges looked a little promising, what with us getting a first-minute free-kick close to the impact-zone, and just firing wide with the shot. Trouble was, that early optimism quickly subsided, giving way to an increasing sense of foreboding as the minutes and seconds gradually trickled through the hour-glass. From then on in, our goalmouth was in an almost constant state of siege, with only a tame AJ effort ? as soon as I realised who was on the other end of the ball, I immediately remarked: ?Forget it!? ? providing a measure of light relief.

My earlier comments apart, the fundamental problem was this; in this division, to stay there you have to have the ability to move with lightning speed, make the most of what fleeting opportunities you do get, otherwise you?re stuffed right from the start. And not just swiftness of deed, either ? thoughts and reflexes also have to be lightning-fast, as ably demonstrated by the swiftness of Charlton?s breaks out of defence. Within seconds of being in their goalmouth, they were then in ours, while for our part, the clumsiness of any similar break all-too visibly demonstrated the huge disparity in outlook between the two sides.

And yet, before The Addicks did it, we should have earned ourselves a lead. With around 23 minutes gone, Kanu took an incredible free-kick for us on the right-hand side of the field that corkscrewed its way towards the far post. Their keeper looked well and truly beaten ? only for the blasted thing to slam in the opposite direction once more. What happened? From what I saw on the replay shortly afterwards, it looked very much as though the effort hit the post, then bounced right out of harm?s way again. And it could have quite easily been ?game over? there and then; as luck would have it, the visitors got the ball on the break, then embarked on a touchline run all of their own; the cross looked a cert goal; fortunately an Albion leg (Bernt Hass?s?) was around to deny Charlton the pleasure of rubbing our noses in it there and then.

The reprieve didn?t last long; with but 15 minutes left of the half, Charlton struck, and from a set-piece as per usual. The offence took place on the edge of our box, and from that free-kick, the ball then fell to Purse, who tried to nut it away, but instead, it went straight to one of theirs, who quickly teed up Holland for a drive that was low, mean and nasty, and banjaxed Houlty completely. Bugger.

And yet, we could have quite easily equalised within a minute of them taking the lead, Hass?s superb cross headed just wide by a predatory Gera. Trouble was, the near-miss apart, that was the sum-total of our attacking efforts; in fact, of the two combatants, it was Charlton looking by far the more likely to beat the keeper once more. There was also a lengthy stoppage caused by Kanu getting injured in a desperate attempt to prevent Charlton increasing their score. And, just before the interval, the visitors were given a copper-bottomed chance to increase their lead; the cross had beaten us hands down, there was Murphy one-on-one with Houlty and not an Albion defender in sight ? and his shot ought to have bust the net, it really should. Blame it on bad karma, blame it on the pigeons and sea-gulls circling, vulture-like, above the ground, if you like, but instead of burying it, inexplicably, his effort ran wide of its intended target instead.

Half-time, then, and the lads going off to a sprinkling of boos, it has to be said ? and a mystery solved, as well. Not long after Charlton?s successful strike, John Homer, he of Supporters Club fame, who sits in front of me, made to get up from his seat. ?Had enough already, John?? teased my other half from the row behind ? but now we knew the real reason for our mate?s alacrity in shifting his carcass elsewhere ? there was to be a presentation, to Siggy, from the Supporters Club, in recognition of his five years with the club before being told to give up the game because of injury.

John, in his capacity of head honcho, presented Siggy with a cut-glass decanter and glasses, all on a dinky little tray, on the pitch, and to everyone?s credit, loud indeed was the applause Siggy and his two children ? blonde, what else? - received for what was to be his last ever Hawthorns appearance. Say what you will about our followers, no genuine Baggie will ever heap scorn upon the head of a trier, and Siggy certainly was of that persuasion for much of his time at the club. Mind you, what really tickled me afterwards was the sight of John taking Siggy?s glassware to the touchline, for safe-keeping, and very precarious the whole thing looked, as well, delicately balanced on the tray as it was. I wonder if I was the only one praying like hell John wouldn?t drop it, or one of the subs warming up out there lamp a stray ball in his direction?

Back to the grind, then, and with only two minutes of the second half elapsed, we looked dead and buried. The problem was our failure to clear the ball properly after a free-kick; this led to one of theirs thinking his birthday had come early. Luckily for us, the effort hit the side-netting, instead of its intended target. And, in yet another amazing defensive gaffe a minute later, another undeserved reprieve. The cross, a nasty one, found Bartlett totally unmarked in the box ? all he had to do was pick his spot, really. Incredibly, that effort failed to find its target as well!

From that almighty let-off, the ball then broke for us, and we hared up the opposite end, as quick as Christ would let us; the cross, when it was delivered, pinged mightily around the box in a manner highly-suggestive of head tennis, but nothing tangible came of the chance. And, while all this had been going on, increasing clamouring from the crowd for the introduction of Jason Koumas into the fray were to be heard emanating from various vantage-points situated around the ground. Finally, with roughly 9 minutes of the half gone, our request was granted, the fall-guy being Mr. Contraceptive on this occasion.

To be fair, the change in personnel did seem to fan the Hawthorns spark into a semblance of flame a little, and give our followers a smidgen of that precious commodity, hope, once more. Suddenly, we were getting far more of the play than we had previously; trouble was, once in the vicinity of the box, everything seemed to come to a juddering halt again. Partly, it must be said, due to Charlton?s annoying spoiling tactics, but mainly to our inability to think sufficiently quickly when in or near the danger-area. The closest we got was with about 20 minutes gone of the half, when Kanu?s effort, from a free-kick, sailed just over the crossbar and onto the netting immediately behind.

But that was a rare gem indeed hidden as it was amongst the multiplicity of crude material locked within that Hawthorns mine. As the half progressed, so did the dominance of the visitors, which was so total by then, I simply couldn?t see from where an equalising goal could come. It pretty much summed up things in the 31st, when Greening got the ball, managed to get it into the box ? then managed to fall over in spectacular fashion, and just as he was about to pull the trigger, as well. Oh, whoops! Amazingly, though, the ball fell for a corner to us ? but, as ever, once the danger was cleared, the visitors then hit us on the break again. Fortunately ? and because they?d by this time presumed us lost without trace and not worthy of an all-out attacking effort any more ? the shot failed to reach its intended target. Amazing, isn?t it ? for a side with such an allegedly poor away record, they?d managed to hit us so comprehensibly, time and time again?

Sure, we earned ourselves a corner in the 38th minute, but so total was the visitors? dominance by that time, it was merely going through the motions. Already, many of our followers were voting with their feet; off in droves, they were, and, on the face of it, who could blame them? And, with just two minutes left to play, The Horse was brought on, for the busy Gera ? a shame no-one thought of doing that much earlier, when our former Bluenose striker, with his undoubted ability in the air, might have salvaged a point from the wreckage. A shame also, that come the final whistle, the remaining home crowd chose to give vent to their feelings in no uncertain terms (see my opening line), and right now, I just can?t find it in my heart to condemn out of hand what they did. Despicable, I know, and not like me at all, but I?m so disillusioned with Baggie life right now, suitably-condemnatory comment totally eludes me.

I see also tonight that Robbo has warned his troops not to pin hopes on a January signing getting us out of this. Not that I don?t, mind; by then, it will be too late by far. As things stand, we?re bottom of the heap, four points adrift from safety, with near-on half the season gone. Only someone impossibly-high on strong opiates could salve any crumbs of comfort from that knowledge. As things stand, next May is going to be something of an embarrassment for us; discussing the matter in the Dickmobile on the way home tonight, we?re both now getting to the stage where our loyal support is being sorely tested. All we can see right now is month upon month of stonkings, both home and away, and amongst those, some involving the expenditure of a great deal of dosh as well; the rate things are going, you probably won?t be seeing us at Chelsea, nor at Boro either.

As far as the first one goes, why pay an astonishing ?40 to put up with abysmal seating arrangements, intimidation from dickhead stewards who can?t recognise a disability aid when they see one, only to witness yet another toe-curling defeat on top of the ones we?ve already suffered, then a sardine-packed Tube journey back to our car, followed by an exhausting trip back up the M1? As for the second, the sheer distance involved, and the high probability of nothing save even more embarrassment at the end of it, speaks for itself.

And, is it right, those reports I?ve heard tonight, of Albion supporters fighting among themselves in the Smethwick around the time of the final whistle? Have we really come to that? If that?s the truth, there?s more than a hint of the late Buckley era about it. God help us all.

And finally?. Thanks to Supporters Club twosome Michelle and Jean for this little gem. After the Pompey game, so stunned were the occupants of the coaches by that last-minute loss of all three points, pretty much no-one felt like talking about ANYTHING anymore. Understandable, I suppose, as the feeling in the Dickmobile was mutual, but Michelle, volunteer beverage-server on her own charabanc, certainly didn?t help lift the mood during the long journey home. Instead of moving among the rows of seats air hostess-style, as per usual, and quietly asking whether supporters? wants included tea or coffee, instead, as she made her way down the coach, it was a constant murmur from Michelle of: ?Arsenic? Cyanide? Hemlock??.?

 - Glynis Wright

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