The Diary

02 January 2005: Within Spitting-Distance Of A Win - Then Up Popped Diouf!

But, all that comes later. Certainly, when ourselves and The Fart set out from our place, there was naught in the sky to suggest inclement weather later on; as far as I could tell, there was a pretty dull day going for us out there, but little else to worry about, really ? unless you count incontrovertible evidence some reveller last night had tried to nick an orange globe from one of the beacons adorning a zebra crossing a hundred or so yards from our place. The poor thing ? the beacon, I mean, not the globe - flashing away in solitary naked splendour, it was, and the ?evidence? lain somewhat forlornly at its foot. Mind you, when I think back on my student days, who am I to sit in judgment?

It being New Year?s Day, no traffic problems of any description out there; in fact, the ambience was more that of a slow Sunday morning, which, at that time of day, it would be. Too many folkies in bed with banging heads, mouths like dehydrated dung, and to a person wishing they hadn?t bothered, no doubt. Smethwick town centre, normally busy, bore more resemblance to the last reel of ?On The Beach? the famous 50?s post-nuclear war film, than anything else. And the same applied to the M6; the only motorists we could espy on the fairish pull to Stoke were silly sods like ourselves, i.e. football supporters of whatever persuasion. Just to break the monotony, ?Im Indoors decided to stick a Beautiful South CD on ? and guess what track it played? ?Your town is dragging me down, is dragging me down, down, down?.? Thanks, pal; being Albion watchers of long-standing, we sure needed reminding of that fact, didn?t we?

On, then, to the Clayton Post House, where our walking, most certainly talking, in-car entertainment system awaited, and as he leaped in, as usual, someone spotted the coach waiting on the other side of the car parking-area. How come? Easy; it sure takes one to know one, and we footie watchers immediately realised that was someone?s team coach. Bradford City?s, so The Noise reckoned. And, as we varoomed away, just as we were about to make the right turn into the nearby traffic island, there we saw ?em. A phalanx of black tracksuits walking along the opposite verge, about twenty of ?em, I reckon. Presumably, their gaffer had taken them off to stretch their legs, or something; well, could you see them heading off into those woods to go picking flowers? And, just to complete the set, we even had a glimpse of Adi Akanbiyi, former Dingle, now enjoying a less-fraught existence with Stoke, where you either win 1-0, lose by the same score, or, by way of variation, not bother with any goals at all.

Now we had The Noise on board, things began to pick up on the conversational front. The Topic Of The Day turned around tsunamis, and how they happened, what damage they could do, that sort of thing. Also, the sobering thought that what happened in the far East could quite easily happen here; all it needed for a huge bit of volcanic rock in Las Palmas, Canary Islands, to sheer off after an eruption, and we, too, could expect something similar, as could the whole eastern seaboard of the US. As these things travel at about the same speed as a holiday jet, we?d get around four or five hours warning, and the US seven. Lovely thought, isn?t it?

Thanks to the lack of traffic I mentioned, we made The Reebok with oodles of time to spare, parking up right outside the ground ? well, outside the hotel that?s integral, that is. One of the first arrivals, we were, so the next thing was finding our chosen hostelry for the day, Bolton?s own, Club 58. Which we couldn?t find, even after two circuits of the ground. And then we found out why ? it wasn?t there any longer, and hadn?t been for quite some time. Annoying; if that was the case, then why have the bloody thing advertised on Bolton?s website in the first place?

Mind you, even before we embarked on our fruitless trek, some humorous moments, one of the schadenfreude variety. As we were unloading coats etc. from The Dickmobile, we happened to notice a coach backing into one of the spaces reserved for such vehicles, one nearest an enclosing metal fence. Idly watching operations, but knowing very little indeed about parking such vehicles, I commented: ?Hmm, looks a bit tight ? but the driver knows what he?s doing, surely??? No sooner had the words left my lips, there came incontrovertible proof he didn?t; an expensive-sounding ?crunch?, closely followed by the teeth-gritting reverberation of metal being mangled horribly. And, just after that, the poor driver emerging from the far side with what looked suspiciously like a piece of coach in his hot little hand! The second? The Noise wishing someone luck; clearly our garrulous friend know precisely who it was; I absolutely collapsed when the bloke turned around and said to our chatty little Stokie friend, ?I?ll need it; I?m the referee!?

Lacking any form of alcoholic refreshment, we decided to shift ourselves into the nearby mall instead, and see if there was a caf? or whatever open in there ? but first, a quick tool into a nearby sports shop. How come? To buy some heavy-duty outdoor gloves, to replace the ones we lost some time before the Liverpool game, when they?d dropped, unnoticed, into the darkened street outside the ground. No chance now, though ? I simply went for the most luridly-coloured ones I could find, and flashed my trusty card at ?em! The shop assistants, I mean, not the gloves.

Further into the mall, we came across a Starbucks coffee place; not our normal sort of pre-match watering hole, it has to be said, but any port in a storm. And, to be fair, what was on offer wasn?t bad at all. I plumped for a hot chocolate/mint combo with oodles of cream and flakes of dark chocolate on top, plus a raspberry muffin, while the other two went for bog-standard coffees, or whatever fancy names such places use these days. The Fart? Coffee really isn?t his bag, nor is hot chocolate, so he passed on that one. The Drinking Family? Well, I did spot them heading off in the direction of a bowling alley, and you can bet your sweet bippee they weren?t going there to have a nice quiet game of ten-pin among themselves. No doubt they?ll enlighten me the next time I see ?em ? at Preston, probably.

Sitting down with our comforting prizes in our hands, finally, that was when The Noise really got into his verbose stride. For some reason, the conversation drifted around to those general knowledge quiz machines you find in some pubs, and how easy or otherwise it was to clean up on one. That was when our garrulous friend told me he?d been in a Chester pub once, and had tried his luck on one ? only to find the questions asked almost incomprehensible. So odd did he find it, he commented to the barman the next time he refilled. The reply? ?Ah ? it?s set at a pretty high level because there?s a teacher-training college just up the road. If we didn?t do that, the sods would clean up!? Nodding sagely, I then added my own twopennorth to the conversation: ?Well, if that?s the way they work these things out, what do they do with the ones in Wolverhampton, then?? And, just before we left, an embarrassing experience for this column; the loo was unisex, sure, but the lock was knackered ? as I quickly discovered when a bloke walked straight in as I was ? erm ? ?doing the biz?. Then shot out once more, but at light-speed that time.

Down to the selling biz, then, and as we shifted our wares outside the Reebok, a glimpse of l Bolton lady we?d known from way back; Ruth Wakenshaw, programme seller and all-round good egg as far as Bolton Wanderers are concerned. A little older than me, I?d say, white of hair, now, but still possessing that very strong but likeable personality of hers. Both we and she go back a hell of a long time ? Ruth used to subscribe to The Dick - and it was good to catch up with her once more. Later still, a call from The Fart brought me to a spot about ten yards away, where a young policewoman stood. As I understood it, the old sod had been absolutely riveted by what duties the constable had to perform that afternoon; apparently, come three o?clock and the kick-off, she had to move inside the stadium and stay with one of the linos as he went about his business, the object of the exercise being not to let any supporter, home or away, attack him in the course of his duties. Different, I suppose ? and difficult, which was why I asked the young lady whether or not she was any good at sprinting!

Back to my little stool, and as I made to sit down once more, it started. The rain, I mean, gently at first, then in bloody great saturating sheets. Thank goodness for the considerable overhang in the area around the away entrance, we all thought. The precipitation killed off our sales somewhat, so, while waiting for the shower to abate, we set to talking among ourselves once more; this time, the topic was The Noise?s long-service award (26 years? undiscovered crime, apparently). And then a sudden thought hit our Patrick Moore soundalike: ?Suppose Albion did a Long Service Award for supporters?? he commented. To which I replied: ?Yeah, a Long SUFFERING Award, more like!?

And, as we prepared to strike camp and head off into the ground (and, as we thought, then, out of the precipitation), who should show up but Kev Buckley, he of the Henry Kissinger tendencies at The City Of Manchester Stadium last Tuesday? For more about him, see below. I also discovered at that stage that Norm Bartlam had placed a bet on Albion to win today?s game, and because of the conditions of the wager, at around 250-1. Bet you anything he was cursing like fury at the final whistle, folks! Oh ? and another thought. While outside, I spotted a chap with an unusual line in printed replica shirt backs. ?Proud 2B A Tipton Baggie, it said, and cheers, ?Eddie? ? he?d recently made his 78th blood donation, so he proudly told me ? for letting me take the picture.

Inside, then, and, much to our surprise, we found ourselves occupying the front row. Odd, that, considering our tickets were marked ?Row D?. Must be the Swindon thing in action, again ? the last time we were there, we also found their rows didn?t start at ?A? either. And, as we waited for the show to start, along came Baggie Bird, who actually shook The Noise by the hand. And, following our co-editor?s cheeky comment ? ?See you got through Christmas, then!? ? probably wished he hadn?t.

Well, you could certainly see Bolton had spared no expense on this one. We even had a fireworks display as both sides emerged from the tunnel. In stark contrast to the one at Molineux last season, at least theirs went in the right direction, and not into the crowd. A slight delay kicking off, as there was yet another two-minutes silence for the South Asian tsunami victims (a bucket collection was held outside the ground also, and, I?m pleased to say, the silence was impeccably observed by our people this time round), but following that we were all ready to go.

Our side showed some changes: Kanu was back up front, with Clem taking on the suspended Tommy G?s role, also. Given that both sides? form was not of the best, we knew it was a given that this one wouldn?t exactly be a classic; in fact, with only two minutes on the clock, Kanu suddenly found himself helping out at the back following a Bolton free kick that threatened to make things difficult. And, just seconds later, one of those really nasty moments when the ball bobbled here, there and everywhere right in front of our net; somehow, the danger was cleared.

But Bolton didn?t have it all their own way in those opening moments; a minute later, the Horse embarked on a promising run, but was adjudged to have fouled a Trotter in the furtherance of his duties. Then, another stoppage, this time following yet another Bolton free-kick; this time, because poor Kanu was on the receiving end of the almighty belter from them. And, as our lanky front-man tried to remember precisely why it was the stars were coming out prematurely, great cries of ?Earnie, Earnie!? erupted from our end ? and all because the poor sod just happened to be warming up, in case. There was another annoying factor about the home side?s domination of those opening minutes ? the bloody drum. Loud and proud, it was, each bassy beat reverberating around the ground, each thumping beat reminding me painfully of March 1967, and our Wembley League Cup Final versus QPR. They, too, had a bloody drum, you see, and that?s the principal reason for the great antipathy I have towards the dratted things. Flashbacks, or what?

And then, with around 10 minutes gone, what had before been a minor watery nuisance, suddenly deteriorated into what amounted to an absolute streaming, icy torrent. That, plus the accompanying swirling gusts, immediately brought to mind recollections of Salerno, and the almighty thunderstorm the twenty or so die-hards witnessed there ? and just like its Italian cousin, this storm managed to whip over some of the advertising boards in front of the away end, as well. Within seconds, we were all absolutely saturated, not to mention bloody cold. Shades of bloody Swindon, about five seasons ago, also, and, as luck would have it, just before the next Dick hits the streets, with my article about awful games past, that one included, there for your delectation. Guess which game I went large on? Blimey, had I known, I?d have chucked this one on as well.

No good ? we simply had to head out further to the rear of the stand, and sod the protests of the stewards. I?ll do an awful lot for this football team of mine, but catching pneumonia isn?t part of the job-description. Not yet. And, as we scrambled for seats in a relatively dry part of the structure, an almighty Black Country bellow told me something was happening on the pitch, as well. Turning once more, I was just in time to see the ball end up in the bottom right hand corner of the Bolton net! Bloody hell, one up, and I hadn?t even seen what happened! The mystery was soon solved; it quickly turned out Gera was the perpetrator of the damage, the killer cross supplied by Greening.

The result? Pretty predictable; absolute Bedlam in that away end, albeit of a pretty watery variety, with lots of ?boinging? thrown in for good measure, if only to stave off incipient hypothermia. Such was the ferocity of that wind, everyone was absolutely soaked through, not to mention frozen. But, just minutes later, we really should have been celebrating a doubling of that lead; The Horse, suddenly finding himself with the ball, in their box, and not a marker in sight, walloped it. Had he placed the shot to the left of the keeper, it would most certainly have gone in, but what he did instead was fire the blasted thing to his right ? only to see it shave the outside of the right-hand post. Such was the home side?s dejection at conceding at that time, I reckon that would have totally killed the game. But that?s our favourite football club, ?They Always Let You Down?!

Mind you, Bolton weren?t exactly doing clever things with their chances, either. An almighty mix up at our rear gave the home side a copper-bottomed chance to equalise, but somehow, the ball was belted away by our defence. Come to think of it, was the shot kicked off the line? In fact, as we approached half time, we came under a lot more pressure from The Trotters, my comment to The Noise, standing next to me, being: ?We?re riding our luck a bit, here?.? Certainly, Houlty found plenty to do, those last five minutes or so.

Come the second half, then, but not before just about every Albion supporter in creation decided to dive below for a half-time warming-up and thawing-out session. And, as the rain started again, so did I, finding the rest of the GD crew lurking there in the sort of steamy-damp fug created when one squashes together lots of soggy bodies in a confined space. It helped, a little, but there was still another 45 to get through, soggy or not. Two big questions, then: First off, could we keep Bolton out? The second? Looking at things from a more selfish angle, would we survive today?s soaking without getting a hefty dose of The Noise?s stinking cold for our pains?

As we all know now, the answer to the first was: ?No?, and disappointingly-so. The second? Lord knows; I?ll keep you posted on that one. But, back to the game. I have to say I was quite pleased with the manner in which we started the second half; suddenly, we seemed far more confident on the ball, smacking it around like Premiership veterans. As far as the opposition were concerned, there was a nasty moment early on when they surely would have netted, had it not been for the genius of Houlty, who pulled out a truly top-notch save to keep them out. Save for that nasty moment, Bolton, still sticking with their long-ball game-plan, and failing dismally, were easily contained by our lot; in fact, midway through the half, they seemed to have run out of ideas. But that was when things changed. Gradually, and helped, possibly, by the subbing of Davies for Vaz Te, The Trotters began to get into it once more. No longer were they relying on stratospheric hoofs up the field; now they were playing balls to feet, with a deadly accuracy we could only admire from afar, and as the minutes ticked away towards the end, we all knew, within our hearts, that it was going to be a pretty close-run thing.

With just a quarter of an hour remaining, it was Alamo time for us. So many narrow squeaks I gave up counting, not to mention a penalty shout for Bolton I thought might have had some merit. Try as we must, and even with fresh legs on the pitch in the form of Albrechtsen, Earnie and Hulse, replacing Greening, Kanu, and the knackered Horse, we simply couldn?t cope with the incessant pressure, and just five minutes from the end, the inevitable happened. The man lurking within spitting distance of the cross was, appropriately enough, El Haj Diouf, who buried it with a belter that gave poor Houlty no chance at all.

Shades of Pompey a few weeks back as Bolton, right from the restart, nearly bust a gut trying to get a late winner. Our goal was pretty much besieged right from the moment the ref started things off once more and the time he finally called a halt to hostilities. As far as we were concerned, Earnie did have a late half-chance, sort of, but it was easily dealt with by their own keeper. More important was trying to save the point; fortunately, they were only thwarted in their efforts to do so by the referee blowing for the end.

Out once more, and into the soggy, chilly night. And the most unwelcome discovery that in their eagerness to rake in all those fivers, Bolton had packed vehicles into the car-park in such a haphazard manner, pretty well all of the early-comers were completely blocked in. Including us ? bloody brilliant strategy, that. No wonder we cursed richly as we tried to warm horribly-frozen fingers. What with that, and the police blocking the traffic island to get our supporters? coaches away, it meant we didn?t start the return journey until around half-five. Still, it could have been much, much worse. At least that?s what I?m trying to tell myself, as I sit here feverishly compiling this late-night missive. And still trying to get some warmth into those creaking bones of mine.

Positives? The return to form of Houlty, probably man of the match for me, and, for some of the second half, at least, ample evidence of the first dim adumbrations of a dawning confidence, the ball being smacked around on the ground, for once, skilfully, too, a desirable quality not seen on Planet Albion for many a long moon. Greening had a good one, and so did Gera, of course. Clem didn?t do too badly, either. There?s also the fact we?ve now managed to avoid defeat twice in a row. A little thing, sure, and not nearly enough to ensure our salvation come the end of the season ? but it?s a start. Cut Robbo a little slack right now; the guy?s trying his very best to get us out of this mess right now, and it won?t be easy. What is it they say about mighty oaks, and little acorns? Ask me again at the end of the Newcastle game on Monday, and given just a few decent breaks for once, I just might find myself trotting that one out in earnest.

And finally?. One. As promised, more about Northern Baggie, Kev Buckley, he of the ?finger-in-light-socket? coiffure, and the ?tache that closely resembles a growth sorely in need of fungicidal agents to fully control it. Turned out a mate in the pub he visited pre-match had a text from someone else saying ?Feliz Amo Nuevo? and that person getting totally the wrong end of the stick; within seconds, the rumour swept the entire place we?d signed someone of that name from abroad! A minute or so of becoming very excited indeed ? then master linguist Kev suddenly recalled that very phrase was Spanish for ?Happy New Year?!

Two. As former watchers of the '80's show 'Spitting Image may fondly recall, isn't it about time former Labour minister Roy Hattersley and Bolton's El Haj Diouf got to know one another?

 - Glynis Wright

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