The Diary

09 January 2005: Earnie's Efficacious Preston Pick-Me-Up!

Here I am, then, back post-Preston ? and I?ll tell you what, it isn?t half nice to be reporting some good news for a change, and what?s more, happily recording the fact we downright deserved our little bit of Cup triumph earlier today. OK, today?s success is nowhere near the magnitude of those earned, say, during the late sixties and seventies, but after all the sterile, demoralising stuff we?ve had to endure in recent times, I?ll take it and run, whichever way it comes. Our win today was significant also because it was our first at Deepdale since 1959. How do I know that? Easy: The Fart told me!

To put today?s triumph into true context for you, 1959 was also the time another Earnest, Mr. Marples, Transport Minister, made headlines by opening up the first ever UK stretch of motorway (a small chunk of the M1) for business; National Service (the dreaded ?call-up?) was still going strong for fit lads over the age of 18; a strange young man called Tommy Steele was bashing out hit after hit, much to many parents? disgust ? anyone remembering the words to ?Rock With The Cavemen? should look away now -, and the Soviet Lunik Three satellite was the first man-made object to reach the moon. What The Clangers thought about this Communist assault upon their peace of mind isn?t recorded, sadly! Oh, and by returning to the present day at a rate of knots, you?ll also appreciate that today?s win was our first away from home since last April, the day we (or, strictly speaking, Jason Koumas and Lloyd Dyer, if you want to get all picky about it) inflicted that truly astonishing last-minute mugging on poor Sunderland at The Stadium Of Light, thereby pretty much ensuring promotion that day. Yep, it really has been that long; no wonder ?Radio Ga-Ga? got the Warp Factor Nine treatment from all four Dick Eds on the way home earlier this evening. Once we?d remembered where we?d last put it, that was!

Today was also highly-significant for ?Im Indoors and myself, but for a completely different reason; when we both descended to our living-room after getting up, I was moseying around the place doing various things, when I heard what sounded ominously like a strangled scream issuing forth from the mouth of my other half. Thinking serious injury (or worse) had been inflicted, I immediately rushed to his aid, and, as I did so, rapidly realised the true nature of the problem that had caused hubby to shatter the peace of Bearwood in such spine-chilling fashion. Our back garden fence ? or, more to the point, what had been a perfectly viable wooden specimen only last night. Sure, there had been a mighty wind, one that kept me very much awake, in fact, but our small wooden erection being fairly new, we never thought for one minute it would come adrift in the gale. Wrong! Still, no time to ponder further on that one; Preston beckoned, so we mentally reminded ourselves to speak to our elderly neighbour, Mrs. Dingle (true, honest!) when we got back from Preston, and left it at that.

Once The Fart had turned up, it was time to head for The Dickmobile, and the M6. Even that had sustained wind damage; as we drove past Pleck, we spotted at least one sign from the hard shoulder doing a ?Mary Poppins? over the nearby treetops. ?Im Indoors didn?t need to be told about the wind; he could feel its malign influence on our vehicle every time he touched the steering-wheel. Mind you, there were various other unpleasant sights to ponder on as we left the Black Country; how does a car-load of Millwall supporters on their way to The Custard Bowl grab you? (Er ? painfully?) And bloody early, too; our watches said 10.45 am, which was why I commented on it. ?Yeah,? replied Si, my beloved, ?They?ll be wanting to take in all of Wolverhampton?s many cultural attractions before going to the ground, that?s what it is!? Who was it said irony was dead?

Once clear of the Walsall area, my other half decided it was high time The Fart was introduced to the joys of his new Beautiful South CD, the one I?d bought him as a Christmas present recently. Trouble was, The Fart kept insisting on calling the group ?The Beautiful Sound?! We really do have to keep making allowances for the fact that when our elderly co-editor was of an age to fully appreciate popular music, the likes of Alma Cogan, Johnny Ray, and Vera Lynne were packing ?em into the halls!

It was around then, just like those first harbingers of spring, the cuckoo, we suddenly began to espy Exeter City supporters, lots of ?em, travelling either by coach or car, and all headed straight for Old Trafford, of course. ?Marching On Manchester? was the logo emblazoned on one scarf displayed in a rear window, clearly a ?special? put out by the club for their dream tie. Part of a whole range of customised souvenirs, as we were to quickly discover. Fair play to The Grecians for spotting such a good money-making opportunity, and grabbing it with both hands; such is the parlous state of their finances, that lucrative game couldn?t have come at a more welcome time for them, really. As I watched them roll northwards in convoy, I couldn?t help but mentally wish all 9,000 of them the very best of luck in what seemed to me then a completely hopeless venture. Just goes to show how wrong you can be, sometimes. Sure, I know it?s a pretty trite thing to trot out at this stage of the season, but it?s true, nevertheless. The magic of the Cup, I mean; even after around 40 years of Baggie-watching, my adrenalin-levels still rise come third-round day. And what games I?ve seen; Colchester, 1968, and the home side being robbed blind; Sheffield Wednesday, 1970, and Bomber Brown?s incredible Exocet effort, hit on the volley, and shown as an opener for Match Of The Day for yonks afterwards; the 1973 marathon versus Forest; a 1978 inauspicious home win versus Blackpool that set us on the road to the semis that season; all that, and a wee bitty football in between. Memories galore. And, as I pondered deeply upon times long past, The Fart was getting to grips with a little ?present? we?d left in his bundle of correspondence; outwardly, a calendar showing a cute little kitten on the front, open it up in a certain way, and you got a young lady possessive of the biggest pair of bazoomas you?d ever seen in your entire life. I kid you not, any of the charities currently working in the Far East could have easily used her bras for emergency accommodation and have room to spare for a little ?un, so Reubenesque were her mammary dimensions! The Fart? He took one quick look, and said, ?Oh, that?s good; I?m going to show Dot!? Whether that was because of the fluffy kitten, or because of the ?surprise packet? hidden within, I haven?t a clue. And I?m certainly not going to ask, either!

Junction 15 of the M6, then, and time to pick up the fourth member of The Dick Away Team, The Noise. And, no sooner had our garrulous friend settled down in his seat, and The Dickmobile back on the motorway once more, I had some homework thrust under my little nose. Not mine, not The Noise?s; young Bethany?s, it was, and the task was to write a paragraph about five different aspects of World War Two. Clearly, The Lewis clan must have pondered upon this for mere microseconds, then simultaneously arrived at an ideal solution: ask me. And that, dear reader, is how I found myself in the fast lane of the M6 writing short screeds about bombing (not the Peter Kay variety, I hasten to add!); gas masks; the Home Guard; the Land Army, and last, but not least, air-raid shelters, and not those needed to sort out opponents notorious for playing the long-ball game, either.

It was while I was committing my thoughts on those subjects to paper and in a form that would sound very much like the child herself being a clever-clogs, The Dickmobile hit the Manchester junction (the A456) where Grecians galore wished to leave the motorway and head on out for The Theatre Of Dreams. My goodness, what a lot they?d got, and what a long time they held us up for. All part of the ?lifetime experience? thing, and clearly, the cider-slurpers were enjoying their day enormously. A temporary delay, but once past that junction, the rest was a piece of the proverbial. A quick exit at junction 31A, and in by the ?back way?, the route we?d only discovered last season.

And, as we prepared to hit the road for Deepdale itself, we spotted in a lay-by the Baggies Travel coaches, who had arrived awfully early, and were now awaiting the ?wagons roll!? from the Lancashire police. A shame, that, because much later on, we bumped into Sauce, he of the ?drinkers? coaches?. Stopping in nearby Southport for a pint or three, they then contacted the Preston rozzers, as per instructions, for details of precisely where to await the mandatory escort in, only to be told by the plod in charge: ?Don?t worry about all that nonsense, just make your own way there!? Rumour has it Sauce then collapsed in a severe state of shock, and Brooksie had to apply mouth-to-mouth (fart-to-fart?) to resuscitate him, but I still await confirmation of that one!

As for our landfall in Preston itself, nothing could be more easy; arriving at the same licenced premises we used last season ? The Summers ? we swiftly parked up the Dickmobile, and headed for the bar. Decorated on a ?brewery? theme, it was, old black and white photographic prints of concerns long gone, the master-brewers, in their full bewhiskered and frock-coated glory; coopers, busily banging gurt great nails into the huge barrels that held the golden nectar until deemed fit for public consumption; draymen, and their huge carthorses; pub landlords of various types and genders; the complete works, in fact. John Lennon?s ?Merry Christmas, War Is Over? was the tune serenading us as we supped our ales. All very pleasant, lots of little nooks and crannies to plonk in, and equipped with the mandatory TV set, pumping out live football, of course.

It was while we were there that we learned of the current whereabouts of one of our own, ?Boo?, the former Warwick Baggie, now somewhere in Thailand. Apparently, although not affected directly by the tsunami, his line of business, hiring bikes to tourists, was. The word on the streets was that because the success of his rental business was largely dependent upon a constant stream of Brits visiting the place, he would soon hit financial problems. But then again, what?s that to having your life still intact; some out there had suffered bereavements, and more than one in a few cases.

And, as we prepared to take our leave, onto the juke-box came the next record, Jona Lewi?s ?Stop The Cavalry?. So appropriate, that one, given the prevailing high winds, still blowing for all they were worth out there, and the type of football both sides were likely to employ as a result. But that came later on; right now, what we had in our sights was selling our latest fanzine offering to the Albion public. To get to the ground proper, we then proceeded along the Sir Tom Finney Way. And it was as I was doing so, another thought struck me. Why not name local thoroughfares in honour of some of our more well-known performers? Mind you, it was when I brought forth visions of streets named in honour of people like Don Howe, Ron Saunders and Bobby Gould (see my ?And Finally? section for yet another gem about this gentleman!) that mutinous mutterings suddenly began in the ranks!

Parking our carcasses just outside what used to be the away turnstiles ? oh joy, no wind! ? one of our first visitors was Vic Stirrup, who must surely qualify as one of the oldest Baggies going. He reckons he clearly remembers going to the 1931 Cup Final, versus Blues; if that?s the case, then it puts him well into the mid-eighties, and one of what must surely be a rapidly-dwindling band of Albion supporters who went to that one. Also, gallows humour at its ?best?. Or ?worst?. The joke? We?re going to sign Thierry Henry?s brother, Lenny Henry!

The best bit, though, was totally unintentional on the part of the people involved. Religious fanatics, all ranged in a U-boat wolf-pack, they were. Espying our travelling faithful descending upon the place in windswept droves, they must have simultaneously thought the lot of us were in sore need of saving, so they promptly set upon the onerous task of doing precisely that. Most simply foisted printed religious tracts upon every Baggie they spotted, us Dick Eds included. (For some obscure reason or another, they promptly gave me special attention!) Do we really look in that much need of redemption? The best bit, though, they saved until last. It was The Noise that first spotted it. One chap walking purposefully around our bit of the ground, and bearing a placard, upon which was written the legend: ?IT IS TIME TO SEEK THE LORD!?. Which was all fine and dandy by me, and I?m sure He?s an absolute whiz at the old ?showers of frogs and plagues of boils? bit, when He really puts his mind to it, not to mention parting waters on a regular basis so as to stop the Virgin Mary getting her weekly wash wet, but how much does the white-bearded old fogey really know about effective Cup-tie tactics, I ask myself? As for the reams of religious tracts they foisted upon us,a sticky end they came to. In the middle of selected fanzines, they were, so if you were a recipient, consider yourselves well and truly ?saved?. Although Houlty does do it better.

Preston?s answer to religious fundamentalism now departed, thankfully, and while The Fart was cooing over yet another constabulary nag ? is no police horse in the country safe from our equine-loving chum, I wonder? - it was high time to have a quick natter with our Irish Baggie chum, goes by the name of Olan, I think. Turned out his arrival on terra firma after a short flight ?over the water? turned into something considerably more fraught than usual. All was well until the aircraft descended to make its final approach on the airport runway; when only around 30 or so feet in the air, an enormous cross-wind caught one of the wings, and flipped it to an angle of around 30 degrees, much to the consternation of everyone on board. Look on the bright side, though: at least our chum?s longstanding constipation problem is now well and truly cured!

More seriously, though, since our arrival at the ground, more than one Baggie had approached us full of cant and rumour concerning resident sicknote-toter, Kanu. We?d heard he hadn?t shown up for the game, and had cited illness as the reason yet again. Checking with the official site prior to writing this, all they?re saying right now is that he?s got a virus, one of unspecified origin and symptoms, apparently. I?m seriously wondering, right now, just how much of this the club can take? If it?s true, then fine; viral effects can be somewhat debilitating at times, so he needs to rest up. If it?s not, though, then the sooner something is done about it, the better it would be for team morale. Oh, and while I think about it, a special mention to the cheeky sod (Dave from Anglesey, I?ll get you back, don?t worry!) who shouted to us Dick Eds just before we upped sticks to enter the ground: ?Get ?er sellin?, she?s got a big gob!? Really? A good job he?s never met my middle sister Josie, then, isn?t it?

Taking our seats just as the last rays of the setting sun cast a warm, brassy sort of light around the ground ? and, it being Lancashire, chucking in a goodly quantity of ice-cold rain in for good measure as well ? we awaited news of our finest. And, when it finally came, confirmation of Kanu?s continued absence from the proceedings. Two changes from last time, both The Mighty Zoltan and ?Jesus? Greening ? did he fall foul of all the religious nuts gathered outside as well, I wonder? ? getting the nod this time round. As we?d suspected, though, Preston were absolutely on their beam-ends regarding the availability of reasonably fit and un-suspended personnel. As for the atmosphere, as both sides took to the field of play, let?s just say I?ve experienced better in Lenin?s tomb, in Moscow. On a bad day.

Off we went, then, lining up in a 4-4-2 formation, and as quickly as two minutes into the game, we found ourselves under a tadge of pressure from the home side, Clem having to shift himself a little to negate the danger. Trouble was, he stuffed up; we were lucky to get away with it. In fact, during those opening minutes, it was mainly Preston doing all the leg-work, forcing a corner early-doors, which eventually fell to Gera, who then shifted the ball away pretty sharpish. Then, just minutes after our little blunder, Preston almost stuffed up themselves. This time it was their keeper who, fumbling the catch in horrific fashion, let it slip from his hands; he also was lucky to get chance to belt it away for an Albion corner, and Darren Purse?s effort couldn?t have done that much for his peace of mind either.

As the first half gradually wended its way towards the halfway mark, the Preston defence was beginning to look very suspect indeed; trouble was, despite praiseworthy efforts from both Gera and Greening, that ?killer ball? constantly eluded us. And then, come the 20th minute, a complete and utter shock. Off went The Horse, suddenly, and on came Rob Hulse. As our current leader is not usually in the habit of changing things early, I can only assume that there was an injury involved somewhere.

From then on in, sudden alarums and excursions from either side apart, the game seemed to settle into the sort of glutinously-muddy stalemate once encounters at times like these. ?Hoof and hope? was proclaimed king, while skill and flair was relegated to a ringside seat; pretty much what we?d thought would happen, in fact. The tempo did seem to increase in the ten minutes or so before the break, though; first off, Preston narrowly headed wide, then, just a minute or so after that, they won another corner. That was shifted away, then Earnie had a chance to have a go via a header from Clem?s corner, but the thing ended up in the arms of their keeper instead.

Much to ponder on as both sides exited stage left; a most uninspiring performance on the whole, but we weren?t exactly expecting a scintillating display out there, were we? After a pretty bright start, we seemed to get bogged down in a glutinous morass largely of our own and the home side?s making, neither set of combatants showing any sign whatsoever of sparking this encounter into life, suddenly. And, during the break, The Fart suddenly found himself in his element; as part of the various frivolities going on out there, onto the pitch came Sir Tom Finney, he of Albion-Preston Cup Final fame, of course, closely followed by Tommy Docherty, who also played for Preston then. He was then followed by Albion?s Frank Griffin and Ray Barlow; from then on in, all we Dick Eds could hear was The Fart purring in the manner of a well-contented moggy. Quite a pleasant interval, then ? but as we awaited the re-start, a most horrible sight indeed proceeded to darken our field of vision. Brooksie, and with a full load of beer on board as well. We all knew what that meant; a shame, really, there was no football equivalent of the sirens formerly used to warn civilians of the presence of noxious gases in the immediate vicinity!

Back to the business in hand, then. The main topic of supporter conversation turned on speculation as to whether we?d see Jason Koumas enter the fray or not, and if so, at what stage in the proceedings it would happen. But not right then; all personnel present and correct as they emerged from the tunnel, it seemed. Everything resumed in more or less the same vein as before, but not long after the resumption of hostilities, Mister Hulse then found himself with a fighting chance of a sudden poke at the pot, and despite some close attention from their defenders, managed to get the shot away, their keeper belting it away for a corner to us.

Then it was the home side?s turn to try and hurt us; first off, we were lucky to survive when they skinned our defence then let one off that just skimmed the bar, and, as if that weren?t enough, Houlty had to come out of his goal like a bat out of hell to wrest the ball away from the Preston lad advancing with it, almost to the halfway line, in fact. Had that gone pear-shaped for our custodian, it would have been ?Goodnight, Vienna?, I reckon. And, while all that was happening, what of the news from Old Trafford? Still goal-less, chortled The Fart, The Man With The Tranny. Best bit was Exeter were about to bring on a substitute: the name Kwame Ampadu mean anything to you lot out there?

At that time, around 25 minutes gone, I would have said that if anything, Preston were gaining the upper hand. Time and time again, they went at us, and our rearguard were really struggling to negate the threat. There was one horrible moment when Houlty seemed to have spilled the Preston cross and lost possession completely; thankfully, although it looked very much that way, the bounce of the ball meant he regained custody of the thing almost immediately. Phew! Sensing the mood, the home side sent on a sub, a young striker called Mark Jackson, with around 20 minutes to go.

Not long after that, play then switched down to their end for a change, and a chance from Hulse. It was heading home to mum, all right, but trust one of theirs to put a bloody oar in things by kicking it off the line. Mind you, such was the standard of the fare on offer, our lot had split into two distinct groups, one extolling the virtues of the Brummie, and the other the Smethwick! And, around a couple of minutes later, came the moment every Baggie in the ground could have quite cheerfully strangled our manager, given both the means and the opportunity to do it. Off went Greening, whose performance throughout had been superlative, and on came Jason Koumas by way of replacement.

Cue for just about every Baggie in our end to make their feelings known to the remote figures on the bench, and in no uncertain terms, as well. The maddened howls of derision were still ringing forth a good three minutes after the change was finally made. And, not long after that, a moment of pure farce. It suddenly came to the attention of the referee that Koumas was still wearing about his person a metal chain of some description or another, so off it had to come. Surely the players know the rules concerning objects of that sort, and why they?re a no-no? A pause while our hero struggled to remove it, then the referee, losing patience, told yer man to shift off the pitch and let play carry on. Could have been embarrassing; while down to ten, Preston shifted down the park in alarming fashion but nothing came of the attack, fortunately.

With around 12 minutes left, the prevailing mood in our camp was distinctly hostile towards the change our manager had just effected ? and then came the move that totally changed the course of the game. Koumas managed to get the ball, for once, and sailed merrily down the left with it. Over went the cross, and there was Earnie, in the perfect position to receive it ? and do something with it, also. One almighty thump from the Welsh international later, and we were celebrating in frantic fashion. One-nil to us, and as for the home crowd, ?Silence Of The Fans? anyone? Not even a rousing chorus of ?You?re just a small town in Blackpool!? could shake then out of their gloom.

Suddenly, it was as if someone had injected all our players with a massive dose of self-confidence, and just five or so minutes later, Earnie struck again, capitalising on a complete and utter mucking fuddle between two Preston defenders to chip the ball right over their keeper?s head. TWO goals in front? Pinch me, I?m dreaming! Rousing choruses of ?You might as well go home!? for the benefit of their supporters, who were, in fact, doing precisely that, and in droves, as well.

At last: an away victory, and one really deserved, despite those early collywobbles. As for the subbing, I guess we have to take our hats off to our manager for thinking that one up. It sure as hell worked, and it sure as hell made us look like complete eejits for mocking his change of playing personnel. Well done everyone, and they thoroughly deserved the ovation they got, also. A gold star to Clem, who worked well throughout, also Greening, and the ever-busy Gera. Congrats to Robinson, whose work rarely gets the appreciation it truly deserves, also Houlty who did what he had to do pretty well. Hulse? He, too, worked well, and was unlucky not to get his name on the scoresheet himself. Plus, of course, the ultimate accolade for Jason Koumas, who made the whole thing possible in the first place. Now let?s hope that we can translate success in the Cup to the higher sphere of the Prem, and our fight for survival; daft though it might seem, what happened today might just provide the lads with sufficient impetus to go on and surprise just about everyone to do with the game by doing the impossible; climbing out of the drop-zone, and by doing so, getting our names in the record books yet again. It?s all about belief and will, really, and today convincingly demonstrated that we do have those qualities in abundance; a couple of repeat performances in the Prem, and we could well be on an upwardly-mobile path, and our relegation rivals nervously looking over their shoulders, all of a sudden. Go to it, lads!

And finally?..One. The news earlier this week Blues had offered Robbie Savage the use of a decent car 24/7 in an effort to keep him at the club brought a quite evil glint to my predatory eye. I now have a vision of David Gold knocking on the door of the nearby ?Wheels Project? (a Home Office-financed venture that tries to get young ?twockers? ? joyriders, that is, derivation the acronym ?Taking (a motor vehicle) Without the Owner?s Consent? written on the police charge-sheet ? to go straight), and saying to the bloke in charge: ?Can I borrow one of your lads for an afternoon ? there?s this little car job I want doing like NOW, see?..?

Two. We also spoke pre-match to yet another little Baggie chum of ours, a bloke who goes by the name of ?John?. Yet another nightmare trip up North, I?m afraid, this time courtesy of our super-efficient railway system. Not. Five and a half hours it took the guy to get from London to darkest Lancashire, but the best bit came towards the end of our conversation. Nothing whatsoever to do with his snail-like mode of transport, mind, just a solemn pledge to completely shave off the fungal facial growth currently masquerading as a beard should the lads triumph that afternoon. Which they did, of course. I bet you know what?s coming next. Photographic evidence, please, that your personal answer to penicillin is well and truly banished from sight, and your face is now as unsullied as the cheeks of a baby?s bottom. Failure to do so will result in our deployment of the ultimate deterrent ? The Noise landing on your front doorstep, and armed with strict instructions from me to him to tell you in great detail all about his holiday in Florida ? all four hours worth of it ? if we had to suffer, then so should you!

Three. As promised, more news of former manager and resident lunatic, Barmy Bobby Gould. This, by the way, is absolutely on the level: now Peter Reid has gone from Highfield Road, it appears our favourite Care In The Community service-user has gone and applied for the vacant Coventry job! Further comment superfluous, of course!

 - Glynis Wright

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