The Diary

17 January 2005: Entombed - And Doomed!

So there it is. Fulham 1 Albion 0, and with that injury-time shocker go pretty much all our hopes, our dreams, albeit fragile, of actually pulling off a shock and getting out of this. Sure, there?s still a lot more games to go, but let?s not beat about the bush, here, ladies and gentlemen ? we?re deader than the dodo. Although I half expected what happened, what I didn?t take into account when plotting the likely course of this particular game was the cruel way in which the home side nicked the victory after spending a large proportion of their time keeping out chance after chance from the busy feet of our strikeforce. Think ?Stadium Of Light? late last season, another Sunday game, as it so happened, and you?ve just about got it. Bar the set-piece, and header, of course. And the fact we were the ones mugged this time round. No coming back after that; as soon as that ball entered the net you could see our players visibly deflate. Legally, those three points belonged to the West London side, but morally, they were as bankrupt as hell.

A steal, most certainly, but we should also rue all those nailed-on chances that should have been put away, especially those in the first half. Had Earnie come good, he would have been casting admiring glances at the match ball right now, rather than looking at the near-certainty of the drop. All that hard graft, all that lung-bursting effort ? only to count for absolutely nothing in the end, purely and simply because when injury time beckoned, we momentarily took our finger off our number, they had a corner ? and the rest you all know.

A real shame also because that game represented the first time in ages I?d felt suitably heartened by the fact just about everyone connected with the Baggies that late afternoon, manager, assistant, players, supporters ? they?d all given just about everything they could for the cause, were all pulling together for the whole ninety minutes, for once, and what more could you ask? For the first time in ages, there was a common feeling of unity of purpose, from top to bottom; a sense of nascent pride, a positive emotional state that must have percolated right from the very top of the away end, and by a process of osmosis, almost, from there, right onto the pitch and from there, to those eleven gods in red shirts labouring mightily for the three-point prize.

Call it a positive feedback cycle, if you like; as our players launched raid after raid on their box, up shot the Black Country volume control, and keeping our side of the bargain, we genuinely sang our bloody lungs to shreds, to the point of bursting, almost. Each side, players, supporters, fed off the other, to the mutual advantage of both parties. Symbiosis, they call it in scientific circles. Cowin? bostin? it?s called in its Black Country equivalent. With little serious competition emanating from the so-called ?home end? for most of the match, our loudly-sung paeans of praise, religious in sheer fervour, almost, must surely have left an indelible imprint upon the minds of the casual armchair-watcher. Sure, we might be heading for the tradesmen?s exit, but at least we?ll go down loud, proud, and with heads unbowed.

At least it was a good day to hold a wake; the conditions bright, sunny and quite mild by mid-January standards. This unexpected outbreak of spring-like weather, must have touched something in the very core of The Fart?s soul. When he first leaped into The Dickmobile ? being a trip to the Smoke, and his place being situated vaguely in the direction we were heading, we?d agreed to do a ?door-to-door? jobbie - normally, our hero would break out a huge bag of sweets from that monstrously-aggressive bag of his, but today was different. This time, I found myself having several black and white photographic prints shoved in my hot little hand ? and that?s when we Dick Eds gleaned a little bit more about our resident OAP bus pass holder?s murky past, to whit, his time as an animal rights activist back in the Seventies.

Cor, you wouldn?t believe it; The Fart, a pillar of respectability in the community these days, and actually participating in a full-on demo, banners, slogans, police everywhere ? the works! Blimey. Mind you, my comment on seeing the banner slogan The Fart was toting, (SAVE THE SEALS!) ? ?And when you?ve saved loads, do you get a nice china mug back in exchange, or something?? wasn?t very helpful. And not only that, just looking at the clobber folks wore back then brought tears of laughter to our eyes, so much, at one point, even ?Im Indoors found great difficulty in keeping The Dickmobile correctly steered. Oh ? and Tel had also brought with him a Beatles CD for our listening pleasure, mainly to shut The Noise up post-match, I suspect, but more of that later.

Discussion today centred around Burnley?s cheeky asking-price for Chaplow, who we?ve been targeting for ages, so rumour has it, and as mentioned in this very piece rcently. Apparently, taking him back to The Black Country would cost us James O?Connor, Rob Hulse, plus around a million squid. Well, that?s what the Turf Moor side want in exchange for the lad. Allegedly. And, yet another rumour in one of the Sunday tabloids I picked up prior to departure, the one about Crystal Palace wanting Clem. Sure, he?s very much a London boy, but what would be the advantages of moving down the M1 and a precarious future with the South London side? Mind you, he is out of contract come the summer, so anything might happen, especially now he seems to have finally found his feet in this league. And what about Big Dave? Current gossip has him linking back up with Meggo at Forest, but they?re in a worse position than us; his current medium-term injury apart, why move to a club that could well be in League One next campaign?

As the houses and flats of Birmingham suburbia gave way to open countryside, then the M40, news of the possibility of seeing The Fart in a starring role very shortly. I?m the one to blame, really; it so happened I was idly flicking through the E and S one night, and while doing so, happened to spot a plea from someone running a local history group for people with experience of World War Two to contact her by phone. Like the nice Baggie I am, I immediately let The Fart have the contact details; the upshot of all that was that so impressed were this group with The Fart?s numerous memories of the conflict, they want to rope him into some exhibition or other they?re staging at (I think) the Smethwick Heritage Centre down in Brasshouse Lane, the bit that?s opposite Halfords Lane at the traffic lights. I do hope they realise that The Fart was referring to the CRIMEAN War, and not the 1939-45 punch-up!

All this banter, conversational repartee, even, meant the miles simply flew by, and it seemed a matter of minutes, almost, when we made landfall around the Chiswick Flyover, the bit where the M4 downgrades to the A4. Mind you, as we were engaging in mortal combat with the predatory London traffic, we embarked on discussions surrounding the vexing problem, seen more and more these days, of folk not wanting to engage in casual conversation when taking a breather at work. By way of example, The Noise bemoaned the numerous times he?s decided to have a sit-down and a natter with someone in his works canteen, and the chap already sitting there rapidly moving elsewhere. Chorused loudly the three of us, in unison, almost: ?It?s YOU, Martin!?

One advantage of Sunday games, though ? no permit parking whatsoever, so it was pretty easy to berth The Dickmobile in an adjacent street to the ground proper. From there, it was about a ten-minute walk (via a coffee shop where customers sat outdoors in the unaccustomed January warmth slurping skinny lattes like they were going right out of fashion: a right Continental trick, that) to a nearby pub bearing the unfortunate name of The Zulu. Nothing whatsoever to do with Dave Small?s fanzine Bluenose butchery of the English language (grammar, punctuation, spelling ? so bad, it?s good), just a local boozer that was ? erm ? minimalist, shall we say?

The theme was predominantly African, but of actual furniture, there was little. Bare boards, a couple of sofas with low-slung tables in the middle; must have seated, oooh, about ten people in all, and an enormous big screen that took up the whole of one wall. Showing the Boro-Everton encounter, it was, and as the place gradually filled with supporters of both persuasions ? the Sutton Baggies, no strangers to strong waters themselves, had grabbed some of the few stools there were to be had, then made themselves at home in the middle of the floor-space, then rapidly embarked upon a serious beer-tasting session ? the more animated the conversation became.

And, come the time when the ambient noise-level made it really difficult for me to discern what people were actually saying, my gaze turned to those wood-carvings I mentioned earlier. In fact, one in particular gave me something of a start; the last time I?d seen anything like that was in the middle of Mombasa about 20 years ago, when I was buying ornaments to take home with me as presents. Yep, there it was, a complete replica of the one hanging upon the wall of a London pub; trouble was, the blasted thing was a FERTILITY DOLL! Honest, that?s what it was. Oooer ? I could only hope that none of the young ladies present that day had neglected to use their favourite contraceptives! Even the gents loo reeks of history ? well, I?d say it was something else the place was reeking of, but modesty forbids me to go into precise physiological details. No history there, but what there was by way of compensation was a cracking view of loads of allotments in a nearby plot of land. So ?Im Indoors tells me. Oh, and one other thing about that hostelry; they just happen to have a chap called Scooterman at their disposal come chucking-out time.

What?s he? Nothing whatsoever to do with the DC Comics superhero pantheon, sadly, his job is far more mundane. What happens is this: should you be in that particular pub, and end up drinking a little more than you originally bargained for, to avoid having to risk a driving ban, or worse, you simply give this bloke a bell. On arrival, he invariably turns up on one of those motorised scooter thingies. You give him your keys, then jump into the passenger seat of your jam-jar, while Chummy packs his scooter away in the boot. You then give him the destination, he drives, you don?t, and once there, he then removes his scooter from its little hidey-hole in the boot, makes sure you?re safely through the door, then bids you farewell. From there, it?s off to a new job for him. Simple, isn?t it? A ready-made gap in the market, and what a wacky way of exploiting it to the full!

On to serious selling duties, then. By the time we arrived, the late sunshine was beginning to merge, imperceptibly, almost, into dusk. And although there was still quite a time to go until kick-off, bodies swarmed the ground in their hundreds. While my other colleagues did the serious shouting, I sorted out the photographic bit. Naturally, because of the sheer age of the place, and its architectural splendour, there was lots to commit to memory card. Quite pleasant, too, to simply click away with not a care in the world. Returning to my other half, sales were going great guns, mainly to interested neutrals and the London Baggies, but with a smidgen of Fulham supporters eager to grab a copy, also. Putting it one way, our sales this afternoon were bloody good, and come time to up sticks and go inside, only a couple still stubbornly remained in our bag.

And, once inside, a curious notice, referring to ?away supporters? and ?neutral?. First time ever I?d clapped eyes on the wretched thing, actually, but its very purpose troubled me. Was it like one of those tests done in schoolday chemistry, but with litmus paper chucked in to make it interesting ? dip it in, and the colour indicates acid, alkali, or You Know What? But that minor distraction didn?t prevent us from hearing the team news; an Earnie-Campbell combo to be tried up front, and Kanu staying put. A very bold, not to mention brave choice on the part of our gaffer. I could only sit there in hope that our new striker would finally live up to his much-vaunted star billing. As for our end itself, our three-year absence had wrought many changes to the place. A genuine roof at last, but a wooden floor giving the structure all the feel of a temporary erection. Mind you, that floor didn?t half come in handy during the game; for more, read on.

As both sides came into the pitch, suddenly, those massive waves of support, even louder now, finally hit our players. Were they as astonished as I was at its fervour and intensity? I?ll probably never know the answer to that one, but what I did know was we were embarking upon a game that most certainly had the power to dictate our short and medium-term future. That must have conveyed to the players also; within a minute of the start, Earnie, courtesy an inch-perfect pass from new chum Campbell, had the ball, and was letting fly from a distance of almost 18 yards. Sadly, that effort was typical of most that afternoon, sailing harmlessly over the crossbar instead of reaching the target.

It was around that time our impromptu ?glee club? suddenly hit upon the various delights to be obtained from stamping heavily on a wooden floor. Sure, those of the claret-and-blue persuasion, especially the lot based in the old Trinity Stand, have known this for years - how else did they get from us the sobriquet ?Seals?? - but ?that lot? up the road apart, it certainly was a sure-fire way of making some noise. And then, a Houlty boo-boo that stopped any thought of stamping and clapping right in its tracks; a horrible clearance from him, which went straight to a Fulham player, who naturally embarked upon a cavalry-like charge back the way he?d just come. Just as well the final shot was a tame affair that our errant keeper was easily able to deal with.

As the half progressed, we were the ones asking most of the questions, taking the ball right into their territory time and time again. Again, it was Earnie in with a shout, their keeper having to shift smartly to negate the problem, and all from a Wallwork cross, if my memory serves me well. Mind you, their occasional incursions into our box were of considerable nuisance-value, at times, one in particular giving Houlty even more problems for his ailing back, no doubt, as he dived to save. And, just to show they weren?t going to take the initiative from us, once more, it was Earnie?s turn to have another go, their keeper performing miracles to keep him out that time.

And, while all that lot was going on, had the incessant noise from our end diminished in any way? You must be joking; even with a Fulham player down and receiving treatment, and play halted, still that ?beautiful noise? cascaded forth from our end, pervading the whole ground with its unique brand of atmospheric electricity, crackling and sparking in a manner no common-or-garden bolt of lightning could ever do. The home support? They had no chance, we simply blew them away. Easily the best-supported game we?d attended all season; as ?Im Indoors remarked to me at the time, ?It?s at times like this I remember what it really means to be an Albion supporter.?

The wounded soldier finally seen to, off we went again. By now, we?d reached the halfway stage of the opening half, and despite their several attempts to force us into errors, it was we that did it to them, more often than not. Rattled, they clearly were. I suppose it comes as a bit of a shock to expect a tame pussy-cat, but be confronted by an extremely fired-up tiger, instead. Then it was Ronnie Wallwork?s chance to shine; with around 15 minutes left on the clock, he let fly with one that certainly made van de Saar shift to palm the ball out for a corner. One thing struck me right then; this one certainly had all the ingredients ? but not of a League encounter, a Cup-tie was nearer the mark, I reckon. Prophetically, I turned to The Fart, and remarked: ?I just hope we won?t regret all those bloody misses come the end!? Coo, I should have been a fortune-teller.

Mind you, right on the stroke of half-time, we nearly conceded ? and it was nothing whatsoever to do with Fulham, either. Enter into the equation referee Peter Walton: had it been an opposition player doing the impeding, his whistle would have blown within microseconds of the offence being committed, but it being the ref doing the impeding, what could you do? Any road up, he prevented Wallwork from dealing with a Fulham player at a delicate point in the proceedings, which left things nicely set up for a fortuitous pass to Boa Morte. Just as well Houlty was up to speed with the danger, then, stopping the shot with ease. Wasn?t it, Mister Walton?

Some vagrant thoughts: why the persistence with Albion corners where the ball was aimed at the near post? Time after time greening tried this ploy, and time after time each effort failed dismally to reach its intended target. Was someone supposed to be running into that particular part of the box, I wonder? If that was the case, then some one wasn?t doing their job properly. Either that, or Greening wasn?t skilled enough to direct the ball to a more profitable part of the box, a possibility I rejected almost as quickly as the thought first entered my mind. Another concerns a lovely bit of defensive interplay I witnessed taking place between Robinson and Houlty. Anyone else would have banged it away for a corner and been happy, but instead, our dynamic duo got out of it, not by ?hoof and hope? but by playing football, pure and simple, instead. And finally, an observation concerning Mister Campbell, and his performance for us that first 45. He certainly seemed to have struck up quite a good rapport with young Earnie; a neutral, knowing nothing of the ways of the club, would have thought they?d been striking partners for yonks, so self-assured were the pair of them together.

Half-time, and an almighty scramble for the ladies bogs; because of the congestion on the stairway (caused by two stewards and a policewoman partially blocking the gangway, by the way), by the time I reached its hallowed portals, I found myself stuck at the rear of the already considerable queue. At least it was moving quickly. And, as I awaited my turn, a most curious sight. I?ve seen loads of people enter toilet cubicles bearing a mobile phone (what do you actually tell the other party to the call? ?You?ll have to speak up, I?m on the bog and my diarrhoea is playing up something awful!??), but the young lady I clapped eyes on went one better. No mere mobile did she tote as she entered The Holy Of Holies; instead, clutched in her hot little hand was a bulging Filofax and a pen. The mind boggles, it really does!

Because of the queue, I was barely able to resume my seat before the whole miserable process started yet again. And, as far as the volume and sheer quality of our support was concerned, once resumed, it had not diminished one iota. With only 4 minutes gone, Greening?s legs were suddenly and violently shifted from their normal positions, about halfway into our half. For reasons as yet unknown to Man, the referee didn?t even think the offence warranted a caution; sour grapes, maybe, but that was only one of a long list of decisions we were short-changed on today. Then, two scant minute later, it was Gera?s turn to mesmerise us, making no less than two Fulham defenders look like the biggest clowns ever to emerge from Billy Smart?s Circus before walloping over a half cross, half-shot thingy that had Van de Saar shifting, make no mistake. A shame he had to blast away from a narrow angle; had that not been the case, things might have panned out better.

Two more reasonable chances then fell to Earnie, and, for Fulham?s Boa Morte, after their attempt to get us on the break. And then, with about 20 minutes remaining, AJ was well and truly taken out by Boa Morte; a stretcher was called for, and after lengthy treatment, he was removed from the pitch to loud cries of: ?There?s Only One Andy Johnson!? from his away-end admirers. Sure, his sole trick is to run around like someone on strong amphetamines the entire game, but all that nervous energy doesn?t half rile opposing players. A shame, then, he was lost to us today as a result of some well-dodgy tackling from the London outfit.

Then came the funny bit. It was today, probably, that most Baggies finally realised the true worth of what they had in the shape of a certain Ronnie Wallwork. It was no coincidence his revival coincided with the coming on the scene of Bryan Robson; Robbo knew the guy well from his Bradford City loan spell, and actually believed he had something to offer us, despite what others thought about him. To be fair about what happened next, though, I suspect we were trying to make amends for the rotten time he had at the club when part of our inaugural Premiership jaunt; certainly, the chant ?Ronnie Wallwork raised eyebrows in some quarters. A first for him? Er ? nope, actually. We heard similar in Denmark the other year, when our lot were trying valiantly to get him to smile for once!

And it didn?t stop there; after a series of Wallwork-inspired defensive classics, our naughtier away following, the Satanic Nurses, probably, devised a song especially for our lad, and it goes like this:

?There?s only one Ronnie Wallwork, one Ronnie Wallwork. We thought he was s***e, but now he?s all right, Walking in a Wallwork wonderland.?

Superb. Who said the noble art of supporter glee-clubs was dead, then?

As I said before, what finally did for us was that bloody corner, and smack on injury time, as well. Shouldn?t have been a problem, we?d faced many more earlier in the game?s course, and had successfully sent the taker packing on every occasion. All we had to do was concentrate for four more minutes, and we would have gained a well-deserved point. Not as good as a win, mind, but still pretty acceptable, nonetheless. But we didn?t. Strange, though, I must have seen this coming about a minute or so before, when I remarked to ?Im Indoors: ?I?ll be absolutely gutted if they nick one now.? And that, dear reader, is precisely what they went and did. Just as the extra four got underway, over sailed the ball from the set-piece, and up popped a head. Not just any old noddle, one belonging to Diop, and even worse, completely unmarked. One header, one goal ? totally against the run of play, and no time remaining to make good the damage, either. After a sickener like that, and after so much hard work and effort poured into things both on and off the pitch, what could you possibly say?

Come the final whistle, come The Heartbreak Express, ready to whisk our lot away to a place called ?relegation? very soon indeed. So near, and yet so far away; frustration at its very nadir. Unsurprisingly, emotions ran free as our lads exited the field, all saluting our own unique contribution to the proceedings. In a row in front of me, I spotted a bloke, late twenties, early thirties, not sure of which, really, sobbing his heart out, the tears making rivulets down both his cheeks. Another, totally unintentionally, nearly landed me in the local hospital; so furious was he at our defeat, he then let fly at the rear of the stand with some small hard object or another ? so close was the damn thing to my face, I could feel the wind of its passing. No doubt he would have been absolutely mortified had that missile hit me and not the intended target, but so far gone was he in his misery, I don?t think he even realised what he?d just done.

It was an uncharacteristically-silent four Dick Eds that made their weary way back to the Dickmobile afterwards. Even The Noise had called for a moratorium on the overuse of his vocal chords, for once. And, unusually for us, the air of gloom hanging over the four of us was proving all-too slow to dissipate on the long journey home, which only really got underway after we?d cleared the traffic around the ground. That?s when The Fart hit on a brilliant wheeze ? playing the Beatles compilation CD he?d brought with him. And, strange to say, it genuinely saved the trip home from an even more prolonged wallow in abject misery. How come? Well, it all started when our CD player got to ?Help!? their 1965 hit taken from the film of that name. The words were so apt to what happened today, it had us all in fits of giggles almost instantaneously. Listen to that track some time; you?ll get the general idea pretty quickly.

And, from then on in, the general tone just nosedived. A casual observer would have thought we?d all been ingesting some strong stimulant drug or another, so hysterical were the giggles. The ?star turn? though, was that Paul McCartney classic ?Yesterday?. With the speed of a panther looking for its next meal, The Noise quickly altered the lyrics to some more suited to our manager?s current plight ? all from the top of his head, and dead funny with it. Within seconds, the whole car was rocking. As for Paul McCartney, his ears must have been burning. So impromptu was the performance, did The Noise have a script stashed away, or something? Had the sheer emotion of the game simply brought about mass hysteria, the CD providing the catalyst? No idea, old bean, but the simple act of behaving like little kids on a long and boring trip didn?t half make the long journey home a lot more palatable than it could have been.

Back tomorrow night with more on today?s disappointment. And hopefully, I?ll have thought up something suitably witty to insert into the tail-end of my piece by then. Until then, sayonara!

 - Glynis Wright

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