The Diary

29 December 2004: A Manchester Pantomime!

"Don?t know what I?m doing here,
I?ll carry on regardless.
Got enough money for one more beer,
I?ll carry on regardless."

"Good as gold, but stupid as mud,
He?ll carry on regardless,
They?ll bleed his heart ?till there?s no more blood,
But carry on regardless."

"Carry on with laugh,
Carry on with cry,
Carry on with brown under moonlit sky."

Lyrics taken from ?Good As Gold (But Stupid As Mud)", Beautiful South Greatest Hits CD

After today?s City Of Manchester Stadium malarkey, to be perfectly honest, as per the lyrics, I didn?t know whether to laugh hysterically, or cry, ditto. All depends upon whether you view your Albion glass partially full or partially empty, of course; another excellent reason as to why I was in two minds whether to use the above in tonight?s offering, or not. The thing is, though, had not David James not made such an awful mullock of trying to negate what appeared to be an almost non-existent danger from us in those closing minutes, I would put it to you most of us would have been tearing our hair out in quantity come the final whistle, not to mention calling stridently for various Biblical punishments ? plagues of locusts, showers of frogs, outbreaks of boils; would that be sufficient to be going on with, do you think? ? to be showered onto the collective heads of our management team. But James did, and because of his awful cock-up, we managed to get one of the jammiest equalisers I?ve ever seen grace a field of play this side of forty years.

You really had to be there to fully appreciate just how excruciatingly painful City keeper James?s mistake turned out to be for them. When the ball trickled over the line, eventually, with Earnie in close pursuit ? there was very little momentum on the thing by the time it reached its final destination - our away end was not so much relieved as roaring with laughter, every single one of them. Hugely funny, especially when you realise that almighty bloomer represented just about the only time we ever looked slightly dangerous the whole half, and, dare I say it, the entire game! There can only be one explanation of that custodial aberration, of course, and it?s this: the pantomime season has well and truly arrived in the ?blue? half of Manchester, with Kevin Keegan cast in the role of Wishy-Washy, David James as Aladdin (trouble!), Jason Koumas as Cinderella ? ?Yes, I shall go to the ball, but not with this bloody lot!? ? and Bryan Robson as Prince Charming, of course. How else did you think he got the Albion job?

Mind you, I didn?t get off to the best of starts today. My body must have been telling my subconscious not to bother this morning, because I managed to oversleep ? I?d been vaguely aware of my other half getting out of his side of our pit, but I must have returned to the Land Of Nod once more - and ?Im Indoors then had to wake me with only around 40 minutes left to departure. Not surprisingly, that meant I had to shift at light speed, almost, which was a bit of a pain, as my mood just after wakening is not of the best; running adrift only made things worse, unfortunately. Still, not only did I manage to get some breakfast down, I also managed to make The Dickmobile with time to spare. The Fart was a little bit late arriving also, which helped.

It?s fair to say that as we set off, a definite air of gloom and despondency hung over our away match transport. Remember what I said about City blowing hot and cold, and my suspicion that should we catch them with all guns blazing, they?d well and truly blow us out of the water, metaphorically speaking? Well, that was how The Fart saw it as well, so no wonder very little was said en-route to The Noise?s pick up point, near Stoke. And, as for our noisy co-editor, in a shiny new car, too; following that recent prang of his, the old number had been written off (I reckoned they were so sick of the sound of his voice by that time, the insurers did that just to shut him up!), and he?d splashed his cash on a replacement.

Poor Mart, he?d really caught us at our lowest ebb. Having heaved himself into the rear of the vehicle, he then proceeded to come out with his bog-standard ?good morning!? greeting, all chirpy and cheerful as you like. A shame, then, the moment he came out with that one, he was met with an almighty chorus of ?WHAT?S GOOD ABOUT IT?? from the vehicle?s other three brassed-off and well-disgruntled occupants! And, to be fair, following that dire Liverpool massacre, no-one in that vehicle really wanted to be there; the only thing binding us to the fixture was the fact we?d already purchased tickets up front, and why chuck good money after bad? Still, the remainder of the trip went quite smoothly, and it wasn?t long before we?d found the main drag running outside City?s new home, The City of Manchester Stadium. And, thanks to one of our friendly locally-based Baggie chums, we?d been sorted out for a place to park, a not-to-be-sneezed-at bonus considering decent (and secure!) parking was at a premium in that run-down area.

Once parked up, it was then a short hop to our ?refreshment stop? for this trip, the Derby Arms. Yet another connection with Lord Derby, he of King?s Liverpool Regiment fame, of whom I made mention earlier in my seasonal jottings? I never did find out, sadly; what I did was the fact that the place was a rock-solid, no-frills ?traditional? boozer; cast-iron tables with polished wooden circular tops, what looked like the original bar fittings behind the counter, dating (at a rough guess) from either late Victorian times, or the Edwardian era. And, propping up the antique bar in true time-honoured fashion, a collection of customers seemingly dating from that era also.

Honest-to-goodness ?spit and sawdust?, in short, and having been brought up in a place like that myself, the sort of pub I like the best. No carpet on the floor, just the bare boards, and a fruit machine chuntering away to itself in a corner; above, the ubiquitous pub TV, in this case showing horse-racing from somewhere or another. It was pretty plain to see this was yet another football-oriented pub ? you only had to cast a cursory glance around the bar to clock that one, the distinct lack of seats anywhere was a dead giveaway. But the best bit was to be found in the ladies? loo; at some stage, one of its ?patrons? must have put their fist through the frosted glass panelling in one of the cubicles, the damage covered by a large square of plywood. Bloody hell ? if that?s what the local women are capable of after a pint or three, remind me never to visit the place when the blokes start getting nasty!

Out of the pub, then, and off for a brisk walk to the ground ? only to be brought to a juddering halt by an almighty shower of rain, which meant us all having to dive into a handy bus shelter. Just as well no bus, really; the driver would have thought he?d died and gone to heaven judging by the sheer number of sheltering bodies shoehorned in there, and it would have been an awful shame to have disillusioned him. But that?s not why I mention the fact; the real reason was because while we waited for the wind-assisted icy stream to abate, The Noise started nattering to a City supporter of around his age. When they became deeply submerged in mutual reminiscences about the famous Bert Trautmann Cup Final, around 1957, the rest of us gave up. Interesting, though, to hear Tel?s new-found friend refer to their local rivals as ?Trafford Rangers?, and call Man Urinal friends and family ?acquaintances? ? so no love lost there, then!

Something else that caught my eye was the strange-looking bit of artwork that took up pole position just outside the entrance to the stadium itself. From my distinctly non-artistic viewpoint the rusty-looking affair bore great resemblance to an old print of shrapnel shells bursting above a First World War battlefield ? but, as I later found out, that was dead wrong. The title of this ?objet d?art?? ?The First ?B? Of The Bang?, which got its peculiar name courtesy a chance remark made by Linford Christie a few years ago, to the effect that most races were won or lost ?on the first ?B? of the bang? (of the starter?s gun). I think that?s what all the spiky bits are supposed to represent, but I?m still willing to argue the toss that some war artist or another?s work had got mixed in with it by accident!

Once the rain decided to call it a day, we did try flogging just outside the entrance, but we quickly discovered that to be a daft thing to do. How come? Nothing to do with our old chums the rozzers, this time; no sooner had we parked our bums there, the heavens opened once more ? with a goodly dose of hail this time, and boy, did it sting. And it wasn?t just me that said that, so did The Noise, and in far more sulphurous terms than I could ever conjure up! So, off to another pitch, then, this time, one underneath the overhang of the stand roof, which also rejoiced in the double blessing of being totally out of the biting wind as well. It was as we were shifting ourselves lock, stock and fanzine, we happened to come across Chris Hartle once more. Yes, he?d made this one also, and despite currently being on a stronger course of chemotherapy, as well. I just don?t know how he does it. Personally, I reckon every member of the staff at our favourite football club, from boardroom to boot-room, should be made aware of this bloke?s blind loyalty to the club, the faith that keeps him going, and what every game must cost him; not in material terms, of course, but those surrounding his poor health ? and then examine their own consciences very carefully indeed. ?Albion ?till I die?? ?Nuff said.

Later on, still, it so happened that The Fart ? he?s a sucker for giving police horses lumps of sugar, or whatever ? ended up chatting to the local constabulary, and during the course of the conversation, asked his new-found flatfoot friend what category our game had been placed in. The reply? ? ?C?, I think, but we have been told to keep a sharp look-out; your supporters have a reputation for bringing flares into grounds!? Doo wot? Unless it?s dodgy 1970?s fashion-wear Plod was referring to, of course! And, if so, why stop there? There?s always stripy tank-tops to be given the ?no-no? treatment, and rightly so, in my opinion. As for platform soles and those Afro-style perms, well. Lock ?em up and throw away the key, that?s what I always say! Seriously, though, if that?s the quality of intelligence our brave boys in blue are getting these days, then something tells me there?s an awful lot of taxpayers? money being peed up against a wall these days. Let me put it this way: with over 40 years of watching our lot under my belt, never, EVER have I seen any of our supporters so much as tote a maritime distress flare in anger, never mind actually let off one of the bloody things during a game! Dearie, dearie me.

Also appearing on our patch were the Drinking Family, who, surprise, surprise, did find a decent hostelry locally, followed shortly afterwards by Sauce, he of the ?alternative? Albion travel service. ?Alternative?, because they go large on finding a suitable pre-match drinking place beforehand. In this case, Sauce?s little travelling band, all 200 of them, descended mob-handed upon The Wheatsheaf, in Altrincham, and at half-ten in the morning, as well. At Sauce?s request, a special mention goes to ?Mine Host?, a bloke by the name of ?Jake?, for whom nothing was too much trouble, apparently; his hospitality was genuinely superb. Less welcome was the news from Sauce that we?d dropped Earnshaw and Koumas from today?s side, and stuck Robinson and Wallwork in there instead! The moment I heard the news, my jaw dropped about five feet, bounced, rolled in the gutter a bit, and had to be chased to get it back below my gaping mouth once more. What was it the bloke in Dad?s Army used to say? ?We?re doomed! Aye, we?re doomed!?

Selling now a bit of a dead loss, we decided to get into the ground instead. Interesting to note that City have turnstile technology broadly similar to ours ? but supporters aren?t considered worthy of performing the placing-of-the-ticket-over-the-electronic-reader ceremony themselves. Instead, a steward takes the ticket off you and does it himself! We can only assume this sad state of affairs came about as a result of the Dingles showing up last season, and proving totally incapable of getting to grips with the formidable (for them, at any rate) mental processes involved!

Once inside, though, the planners seemed to have got everything pretty much spot-on. There were even decent-sized Ladies toilets for once, an amenity as rare as hens? teeth in most grounds, even Premiership ones. And, inside that Holy Of Holies, was a curious touch; opposite the many cubicles was a narrow trough that ran the entire length of the female toilet area. Had I not known better, I would have sworn blind it was a urinal; in fact, the very sight of it made me do a quick double-take to check I?d patronised the right place ? but, nope. A Ladies it was and, on closer inspection, I realised the builders had actually done a hasty conversion job, taps running the whole length of the trough making it a huge wash-basin. I hope.

Off to our perches, then, a short settling-down period to take in our surroundings, and, somewhat later than expected, the emergence of both sides from the tunnel. And very low-key it was, too; about as much atmosphere as that currently encountered by that Saturn orbiter, I?d say. We then had a minute-long pause to commemorate the passing of various people connected with the home side, plus, of course, the many killed in South-East Asia. It would have been a complete silence, as well, save for the boorish prattling coming from the rear of the away accommodation ? must have been our own doing it, surely?

And, after that, came confirmation of what we?d been told outside; the info was completely on the button, damn and blast it. Presumably, the idea was to have just one up front, and string five out in midfield, which did make sense of sorts, I suppose, The Horse being the bloke clutching the short straw for this one. Our starting bunch? Houlty, Scimeca, Purse, Gaardsoe, Robinson, Gera, AJ, Wallwork, Clem, Greening, The Horse. Subs? Albrechtsen, Hulse, Earnie, Kuszczac and Koumas.

Black was our collective mood as we kicked off, and following the opening exchanges, we then showed signs of wobbling, predictably enough. City, sensing a complete collapse to be imminent, stepped up a gear, which prompted from our away faithful a rallying-cry of, ?You go down, we go down, we all go down together?.? The rest you should all know by now. That followed, in quick succession, by a passionate rendition of The 23rd Psalm, the sentiment of which ? hope, even in adversity ? could have been especially written for us. With only ten minutes gone, Tommy ?G? quickly found himself in the thick of the penalty-area action ? stragglers were still entering the ground even at that late stage ? but it was just six minutes later our Danish defender suddenly found himself wallowing in the steamy bliss of an early bath.

The offence, committed amidst a scrapping tussle of players from both persuasions, seemed not to be as bad as the match official made it out to be; it was just outside the box, for starters, in the ?D? just outside, and you might want to put up a convincing argument as to whether or not Tommy G genuinely denied City a copper-bottomed, cast-iron, clear goalscoring chance. But that?s football for you; when you?re as deeply in the smelly stuff as we are, that sort of decision doesn?t exactly help, does it? Mind you, the fact we found great difficulty getting our ball over the halfway line didn?t help either; to find yourselves on the wrong end of an Alamo-type situation every single time City attacked wasn?t brilliant, even with a full complement of troops on tap, but when you?re a bloke light?. Quite.

From then on in, it was always going to be a case of ?when?, not ?if?. Thus far, the only thing preventing them striking the killer blow was their surprising lack of incisive balls into the danger-area, an aspect of Liverpool?s game they?d exploited brilliantly the other night. To no-one?s surprise, though, ?when? finally happened with about ten minutes to go before the interval. Our problems stemmed from a City free-kick, and once more, just within the ?D? on the edge of the box. As for the offence that led to it ? handball, the referee reckoned - what a bloody joke. How, precisely, do you evade an opposition ball struck within a couple of yards of where you?re standing? That?s what happened, and we paid dearly for it. If the offence had been a joke, then the wall we tried construct was of similarly-risible origin. Even we supporters could spot the gaping holes, so I?m damn sure our finest should have as well. Result? What do you think? And ?Moan Yer Bag Off? Anelka the scorer, just to add insult to injury.

Cue for what I could only assume to be a massed exit for the bogs by our followers ? I couldn?t believe they were leaving at that early stage. And, just after City scored, we could have quite easily conceded a penalty just a minute or so afterwards. In fact, both The Noise and myself felt the shout for that one was far more convincing than that for the sending-off. What was worrying me more, though, was our manager?s stubborn insistence on sticking with what we had out there already. Surely it made more sense to stick another forward on, chase the game, in other words? And, just minutes before the interval, The Noise commented, loudly and ironically, apropos what was going on out there, ?Never mind ? the second half will be better!? A shame, then, a total stranger happened to be passing, and right at the precise second he said it! ?This your first game, then, mate?? was the query!

And still we lived dangerously; with but seconds to go before the break, City managed to tear us apart again, but the killer blow evaded them once more, the superb cross failing to connect, and gratefully swept away by one of our lot. A corner, then, a half-hearted clearance, and City were on the attack once more. This time, their attempt flew narrowly wide of the post, an event that really started The Noise?s sarcasm glands going in full production. As he later commented, ?They?ve missed more in 45 minutes than we?ve had the entire month!? And he was right: so appalling were City, they really should have racked up a cricket score by now.

It was about that time Houlty came in for a bit of abuse, and most unfairly, as he was primarily responsible for them not capitalising further on their good fortune after the goal; he was simply unable to pick up the ball from a colleague, and not wishing to be responsible for a back-pass, all he could do was give it to a colleague, who could only belt the thing away for a corner. Mind you, just after that, there was an outbreak of much cheering and boinging, all ironic, of course, the moment we first managed to construct something bearing a slight resemblance to a genuine Albion attack! Our first the entire game, perhaps? And, as both sides called it a day, more gallows humour; an outbreak of ?Premier League, You?re Having A Laugh!? from our followers, aided and abetted by some City followers, I strongly suspect.

It was during the break I noticed a sign abutting onto the retaining wall separating supporters from pitch. ?IN CASE OF EMERGENCY, PUSH DOWN!? it said. Well, Tommy ?G? had done precisely that, and been sent off for his pains, hadn?t he? And, as we mulled over the previous 45, news of a chant we?d all missed, one of: ?We?ll score again, in another life!? Im ?Indoors had also been rather busy during the break; nattering to Dave Watkin, veteran of well over 700 Albion games, both home and away, on the bounce. My other half simply couldn?t resist asking Dave the 100,000-dollar question, viz: whether or not he would still be attending each and every one of our remaining games this season. His answer? ?Probably!? Just daft, or simply displaying blind and completely-unassailable loyalty to the cause, and commendably-so? I leave you lot to work that one out.

Ready for the second dose, then ? and a welcome back to those of our flock I?d thought had jumped the sinking ship well before the end. Is it me, or are Albion games now an experience on a par with that of having one?s entire complement of teeth drawn, and without sufficient anaesthetic to do the job properly? City had made one substitution, a youngster for a youngster (when will we ever be in a position to do that, I wonder?) but as far as our bench was concerned, not even a mouse stirred. As for what was happening on the pitch, within about a minute of the restart, City were in our faces yet again. And, as the sheer daftness of the situation overtook everyone in that way end, the stark truth of City?s superiority before us, our away following once more rediscovered irony. Every time the ball crept into the City half, great cheers erupted from our end, closely followed by strident choruses of: ?Albion, Albion, Albion?.?, and so forth. And, when we actually managed to string an entire series of passes together without interruption or City interception, an ironic shout of approval erupted with each and every one, only to stop when an opposition player won the thing back once more, an event that prompted loud booing.

The daft thing was, though, with around a third of the second half gone, despite all that City superiority, and despite us practically handing the game to them on a plate by losing possession to a City player whilst in the box, they still couldn?t double their blasted lead! As far as we were concerned, with only The Horse carrying the torch up front, anything we did was limited to hoof and hope type tactics, which simply weren?t working, not least because of the disparity in numbers. And so fed up were our lot, when AJ was injured shortly afterwards, great cries of: ?OFF! OFF! OFF!? erupted from our end. A shame, that, as he was one of the initial four to come to our end after the final whistle. But I get ahead of myself. Just to make things even more interesting for both sets of participants, during the middle of the half, what seemed to be a monsoon erupted over the stadium. Yuk.

With around 15 minutes remaining, Scimeca had to be carried off, an occurrence that temporarily left us with only nine good men and true to carry the Baggie torch. What didn?t help also was the fact that at the time Scimeca had to be carried off, City were bearing down upon our goal like an express train. With everyone and their cat screaming for a substitution to be made, and fast, our leader finally got off the pot. But Albrechtsen, not Earnie, the bloke everyone was screaming for? Still Houlty?s brilliance kept us in the game, this time with a one-handed save that was truly top-drawer material. And, to be honest, by this stage of the game, I couldn?t quite work out whether City?s continual failure to capitalise was because they?d had one of their legendary ?off-days?, or whether they genuinely felt sorry for us, and had decided to sign a non-aggression pact with us instead. What with all the mistakes they were making in front of goal, basic ones, too, you really had to wonder which of the two was the more plausible explanation.

By now, the cries for Earnie to take to the field of play were absolutely deafening. And, yet another change was made ? but instead of granting our wishes, Rob Hulse was sent on instead! That was a subbing too far for most; instantaneously, almost, great cries of: ?YOU DON?T KNOW WHAT YOU?RE DOING!? rang out, closely followed by some of: ?WE WANT ROBSON OUT, SAY WE WANT ROBSON OUT!?. No surprise, then, to hear shortly afterwards, a cry of ?THERE?S ONLY ONE GARY MEGSON.? I?m not one hundred per cent sure that one was started by our lot, mind, but some sure as hell joined in. It was around that time I happened to spot a bloke two rows in front of us ? a dead ringer for AJ, as it happened ? getting very agitated indeed with another Baggie about something. And Kev Buckley, our Lancaster Uni chum, trying his best to do his UN Peacekeeping Force bit for our club! Well done, Kev ? now solve the Iraq question for us, there?s a good chap!

And then, the moment that gave us renewed hope. With about eight minutes left, finally, our leader did what appeared to us the obvious thing ? only to take Greening off instead. Most unfair, in my opinion; Greening had been about the best of a bad bunch, but that was the way it had to go, according to our bench. The subbing made, the stage was fully set for one of the daftest goals I?ve ever encountered in over 40 years of Baggies-watching. What happened? Well, what strikes me now is how innocuous it all was; in theory, we shouldn?t have had a hope in hell of pooping on City?s party right then. As I saw it, there was some sort of colossal mix-up ? was there a shout of ?Behind You?, from somewhere, or was it just my imagination? - between Dunne, one of their defenders, and David James, the ball somehow eluding the disaster-prone keeper ? remember West Ham, last year, anyone? ? and trickling into the unguarded net, finally, with Earnie in hot pursuit, and hoping to claim the goal, presumably. As I remarked earlier, the only sound you could hear in our end right then was that of Baggies soiling their underwear through laughing excessively! See ? I told you it was the panto season!

Cue, then, for an almighty Albion chorus of: ?IF JAMES CAN PLAY FOR ENGLAND SO CAN I!? And that, of course, followed by a rousing chorus of the 23rd Psalm, the ?finishing touch? as it were, provided by the rousing rendition of: ?WE?VE ONLY GOT TEN MEN!? by our newly-resurgent glee-club, as the City followers slunk into the bitterly-cold night. And, not long after that, the final whistle. I really would have loved to be a fly on the wall of that City dressing-room; the post-match talk must have been of paint-stripping ferocity!

And, fair play to those who bothered the first time of asking, four of our players came over to acknowledge us. I was surprised, quite frankly, as we?d spent most of the entire game showering the entire lot of them with verbal abuse of one sort or another! AJ was one, despite all those cruel chants of ?Off! Off!? when he received a bad knock in the second half. Also prominent was The Horse, waving a tightly-clenched fist, and roaring his bloody head off; you didn?t need to be a lip-reader to work out what he was actually saying, something on the lines of, ?Come on, we can reffin? do this!? I would imagine. And, either voluntarily, or as instructed by the bench, our intrepid four were then joined by most of the remainder, which was fair enough, I suppose. I can only hope the true circumstances leading to the taking of that precious point won?t prove too blush-making for them when the topic crops up in conversation, as it inevitably will! And, as for our manager, The Noise reckons that come the final whistle, he was spotted with a somewhat enigmatic smile plastered all over his face. Make of that what you will.

And Finally?. Wasn?t it nice of the ?City Till I Cry? fanzine people to donate some of their precious Love Heart emergency supply to us before today?s game? Of course, the moment the things were safely in our hot little hands, we simply had to see what the message was on each of our chosen sweets. Mine said, ?Gee Whiz?, and as for The Noise, he then swore blind his bore the message, ?Robson Out?! Trouble was, the dramatic effect was spoiled a tad by him then breaking into a manic but sickly grin, followed by a barely-audible mutter of, ?Oh, dear, I think I?ve made a mistake reading the message on the back...?

 - Glynis Wright

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