The Diary

23 January 2005: City Poll-Axed As Brave Baggies Bag Brace

Welcome to only our second win since Robbo first took charge of the rapidly-sinking HMS Albion ? and wasn?t the sound of Graham Poll?s whistle sweet music after what had been a more than usually-fraught second half? Still, it was a well-deserved win, and something we threatened to do last Sunday, but couldn?t put our chances away to save our lives, and that?s what cost us the game in the end. Well done also to the scorers, Campbell notching up the first, and Ronnie Wallwork the second. Not only that, a clean sheet finish also, despite referee Graham Poll?s best efforts to get City off the mark about ten minutes or so from the finish ? and not once, but twice. More of that anon, but first, my usual preamble.

A change is as good as a rest, or so they say, which is why ?Im Indoors took The Dickmobile to the Hawthorns pub car-park rather than to our usual landing-stage in Oxford Road. The reason? Today was Steve The Miser?s birthday, and he wanted the boxes handy so he could load up his boot with more GDs from ours; saves messing, see, as he wanted to get a ?flyer? so as to celebrate at the local boozer tonight. Mind you, precisely how far down the slippery slope you can get on a couple of halves of shandy is a matter known only to God, Steve and ourselves, so draw your own conclusions from that one.

To be perfectly frank with you lot out there, as we journeyed to the ground at around half-two this afternoon, the thick pall of gloom that hung over the Dickmobile was palpable, almost. What didn?t help one little but was news over the radio that Southampton were winning their game versus Liverpool by two clear goals. From the tone of the commentary, it seemed that Liverpool had played pretty badly that first half, hence the goals, but during the course of the second, had rallied enough to make things a little more interesting during the dying minutes.

Even so, try as they might, they were still totally incapable of hitting a barn door at ten paces, so no change there, then. You really would have thought Liverpool would put up a bit more of a fight out there than they actually did; trouble was, according to the commentary on the night, one gained the overall impression the Merseyside club were expected to put up more than a token fight to thwart the South Coast lot in their dastardly plan to take over the Universe. Right then, it looked very much as though we were now reduced to playing to keep up, rather than stay up, a cue for even more gloom to pile on top of the previous lot dumped outside the ground by a very angry Fart indeed. What with Tuesday?s debacle versus Burnley, plus today?s St. Mary?s Stadium failure, then the possibility of the Merseysiders being chucked out by Watford in the League Cup semis come the next midweeker, there isn?t half going to be a surge of discontent at Anfield this summer, or sooner, very likely, should worry finally turn into embarrassment.

Once inside the pub, the sparse attendance struck me immediately. Normally, the place would be jumping by that time, At least we had the benefit of the giant screen in the far end of the room, and several punters engrossed with what was going on out there. Sky was on, and, as you would have expected, that was pumping out latest scores like they were widgets ion a factory production line. That?s how I was first acquainted with Liverpool?s South Coast problems. Not long after that, The Noise arrived, complete with youthful bag-carrier, Carly. Broken-hearted she was, too, as it was now looking pretty much 100 per cent certain we?d be ditching her heart-throb, Rob Hulse, very shortly. And that wasn?t the only female in the Lewis family totally displeased with our new gaffer; apparently, the abrupt departure of Bernt Hass to foreign climes hadn?t exactly gone down a bundle with young Bethany either; trouble is, how do you explain to a seven year-old her idol has a predilection for porn websites, not the mention the thirst of an elephant when it comes to the quaffing in quantity of strong waters? As the pair of them both share Martin?s garrulous ways, God help our gaffer should he ever find himself stuck in a lift with either one of ?em!

Time to go, then ? but first, a parting visit to the Ladies toilets. Had they finally got the necessary repairs done on that errant hot-air dryer, then? Not a sign of the thing being made better again, sadly. Maybe I should put up a sign not all that dissimilar to the one the Daily Mirror ran over the 12 months following the Gulf War: ?DAY (insert as appropriate!) SINCE IT STARTED SHOCKING PEOPLE AND STILL NO DRYER REPAIRS DONE!? Or, given a further six months of managerial inertia, perhaps I should bring in some candles instead, bake a cake, ice it etc. then light said candles, and sing ?Happy Birthday? to it?

Outside into the cold, hard world, then; now, even the very sky had a distinctly unhealthy tinge about it, the funny sort of yellow that presages snow, and by the look of things, in barrowloads, just to make matters even more awkward for police officers everywhere. The first flakes were falling as I bade The Fart farewell. And it was bloody cold. Not for the first time today, I quickly gathered my coat collar around me, and muttered: ?What the bloody hell am I doing here??

After a bit of a photographic jaunt around the ground, it was off to do some flogging once more. Mind you, while toting my trusty digital jobbie around, I came across The Fart, doing brisk business with his Dicks outside the East Stand turnstiles; what with all the snow, the enormous hat, plus all those extra layers of clothing as well, he really did look a dead ringer for ?Nanook Of The North?, Eskimo star of a Thirties documentary of that name. Back once more, and a bit of a surprise; next to my normal pitch were a couple of lads flogging ?City Till I Cry? ? the same lot that so generously donated us some Love Hearts at the City Of Manchester Stadium a couple of weeks back, remember? Back in full voice they were, too, and during a short lull in sales, I managed to exchange copies and grab a friendly word or three with them while I was at it.

Strangely enough, it turned out they were just as disillusioned with The Prem as we were; in fact you could have transposed what they had to say on the subject right onto the page I?m typing now, and no-one would have noticed the slightest difference. The reason? Just like with us, it seems those running City are all ?take, take, take? and very little in the way of ?give? on offer to grass-roots supporters by way of return. Just like us, when they unexpectedly plummeted to what was once The Third Division, ?Six or seven seasons ago, there was nothing the Board wouldn?t do for us,? said one of them, ?We were treated with respect again. Players for Supporters Club meetings? No problem. Concessions? The same. But once we got back to the Prem, they didn?t want to know any more. Alll they want is the TV money. We don?t count?? In some ways, we?d much rather be back in what was once The Nationwide, than stuck here.?

As ?Im Indoors also said when he interjected (ooer!), ?We didn?t appreciate it more fully at the time ? in fact, we moaned like hell more often than not over those two seasons ? but we did have a hell of a laugh on those Third Division away trips, filling three sides of away grounds, taking the place over, winning by three or more clear goals, and everything.?

Don?t get me wrong, by the way. I was just as pleased as anyone when we made it back to the big time once more, but with any sort of gain, there?s always pain. Depends upon how you like your football served, I suppose. Close and corporate, or slumming it behind the goals with the rest of the plebs? Yer pays yer money. Sure, we?re competing (allegedly) with the best this country has to offer in the way of skilful, classy play and players, but in the process of doing so, somewhere, an intangible-almost ?something? has gone for good. The feeling we grass-roots supporters are genuinely wanted and needed amidst all the glitz and razzmatazz that goes with being a top-flight outfit these days, for starters.

Back to the old flogging thing, then, and as I settled down amidst the sleet, which was going a fair old game by then, I espied a sight for sore eyes indeed. Fairies, several of ?em, and in pink dresses, complete with little wings and everything. No, not at the bottom of the garden, but in Halfords Lane. Why? The reason, like the course of Alph, the Sacred River, as per Kubla Khan, was totally fathomless to Man! And, just to keep the cultural theme bubbling along quite nicely, just as I was pondering upon what those City lads had to say, up popped a little voice at my side, ?Now is the winter of our discontent made glorious summer by this sun of York?..? No, not Will Shakespeare himself, sadly, just tame academic Bryn Jones, doing his scholarly bit for us poor frozen Dick Eds. And, as we batted the breeze in the general way you do before games, up popped another mate of mine, a journo, now doing her bit for Queen and country as part of a Crown Court jury somewhere. Reckons it?s a bit of an eye-opener, she does. Well, that?s one way of putting it, I suppose.

Not only that, about 15 or so minutes after that, yet another visitor, and one completely unexpected. Remember the last time we went to Denmark, Simon and I, around a couple of seasons ago? Remember the wonderful hospitality shown to our little Baggie group by the charming Gitte, she of OB Odense? Well, as threatened a few months back, over she came, and with another Danish chum in tow. Lovely to see her once more, and even better, Sauce (I think) took a picture of the little group, ?Im Indoors included, and all holding a giant Danish flag before them. As I was selling across the way, so couldn?t be included, I look forward to seeing a copy when Sauce gets the prints sorted out.

Only ten or so minutes to kick-off, and time, nearly, to call it a day outside. But, as we were in the final stages of shifting copies, a totally unrequited (not to mention totally-obnoxious) intrusion. The first we knew about it was when there was an almighty bashing and thudding of the door leading to the Police Post, shortly after which a lad hurtled out from said door in similar fashion to that of toothpaste emerging from a tube, but unlike dental aids of that nature, emitting a constant stream of obscenities as he did so, and all in a Mancunian accent you could have cut with a knife. Once he?d finally got his bearings, realised he was outside, he then asked me the score. Doo wot?

I couldn?t believe what I was hearing, and said so, he took that to mean I didn?t know, so he then called me something extremely unpleasant indeed. ?Im Indoors then spoke to him, and finally the penny dropped it was a night game, and we hadn?t kicked off at all! Not long after that, a copper emerged from within; it turned out the law had arrested his brother for being drunk, and they were going to keep him in the cells until he?d sobered up. Chummy was warned to stay out of the ground, or they?d arrest him as well for being drunk. With a combination of ?meaningful looks? and mutterings, I told ?Im Indoors to get the hell out; I could see this bloke losing his temper and lashing out at the first person he saw ? and I didn?t want either of us having to attend casualty that night.

Once inside, though, despite the bitter chill, the social temperature was positively tropical compared with the testosterone-fuelled drunken nonsense outside. A cup of hot chocolate purchased, daylight robbery at ?1.30 a pop, but what the hell, and I was off to take my seat, and just as both sides emerged from the players? tunnel. Such exquisite timing. Team news? One thing struck me immediately; no Jason Koumas anywhere in the squad. Did that mean he was injured, or was on the verge of being shipped out to another club, even? I?ve no concrete evidence either way, before you ask; this is what?s known as ?idle speculation?. Scimeca, as expected, replaced the injured AJ in the middle. Making his home debut, of course, was Darren Campbell, partnering Earnie, as per the Fulham trip last Sunday. Oh, and Graham Poll ? formerly known as ?The Thing From Tring? ? was the man in the middle. After today, I wouldn?t trust him to take charge of a whelk stall, never mind a top-flight fixture, but of him, more later.

To be truthful, things could have gone really pear-shaped for us as early as the first minute. Just as folks were still making their way to their seats, City got the ball, charged upfield in typical 7th Cavalry fashion, whanged the ball across ? and, just as Baggie hearts hit roofs of mouths with a series of sickeningly syncopated ?thuds?, the shot just scraped the far post instead. As a nerve tonic, that sort of thing is not to be recommended. But that was an early scare indeed; a scant five or so minutes later came the moment all the stand roofs came off. The architect of City?s misery was Albrechtsen; he crossed mean and nasty from the right ? we in The Halfords had a superb view ? and the ball went square across the goalmouth to the lurking Campbell, who put it away, no worries. To say the place completely erupted the moment the ball crossed the line is a gross underestimation of the facts; the entire ground shook with relief, literally so. God knows what registered on the seismographs at nearby Birmingham University. Bloody hell, a break, and in our favour, for once. The problem was, though, we?d been at that stage on several occasions thus far this term, but had always failed at the final hurdle. Could this time be different?

With 13 minutes gone, Gera threaded a lovely through bal to Campbell, who was then unceremoniously brought down. An Albion free-kick, around 25 yards out, and Clem to take it, unsurprisingly enough. The shot hit the City wall with an almighty ?thud?, then seemed to take a bit of a deflection off one of its constituent ?bricks?, Not a favourable one for us, though; the unexpected change in direction only made it all the more easy for David James to gather. Watching the game gradually unfold, yet another vagrant thought struck me. How the hell does Gera win the vast majority of the ball he jumps for? The bloke isn?t that much taller than me, even dripping-wet, so, in theory, at least, he shouldn?t get a sniff, even. Could it be clandestinely-fitted spring coils cunningly hidden within those boots of his, perhaps?

Whatever their dark secret, you certainly couldn?t ?clock? it. Mind you, talking of ?clocking?, I could have quite cheerfully done that to Clem, when, on 22 minutes, he totally screwed up a backpass, which had Houlty shifting at a rate of knots to regain possession for The Baggies once more. And, just a scant minute later, I could have quite cheerfully strangled several of our lot; there they all were, queueing up to bang the dratted thing away, after the unfortunate James and a City defender chum made a right old mullock of that particular chance ? but they blew it; he who hesitates is lost. And that?s precisely what happened. By the time the shot was on, City had pulled everyone back, and the chance was gone.

Three minutes later, howling indignation in the Halfords; this time, the lino was the villain of the piece. There he was, standing literally a couple of feet from the City lad who touched the ball last ? and he gave the throw to them. It?s at times like that you really do wonder whether or not you?re watching a reincarnation of Messrs. Laurel And Hardy at their music-hall and Hollywood best. It was around that time I first began to notice that Earnie really wasn?t the same player who wowed us at Fulham, among other places. That I discussed with ?Im Indoors, and at some length, too, but the upshot was our realisation that when compared to Campbell, for example, Earnie?s shortcomings tended to be magnified, and hugely so, sometimes.

Not long before the break, the entire game took on board a kind of ?ping-pong? quality about it. One minute the ball was heading straight for their box, and them frantically back-pedalling to get with the game once more, the next, City had booted the ball skywards ? well, all that inclement weather certainly gave an alternative meaning to the immortal phrase screamed by footballers the whole world over: ?GET SOME BLOODY SNOW ON IT FOR CHRISSAKES!? And then it was poor old Wally Wallwork?s turn to curse; there he was, with the ball, and not a care in the world, when suddenly, his feet were whipped from under him by person or persons unknown, a mid-calf amputation, almost. (See, they do take some footy mags at medical schools!) But that wasn?t the real reason for our concern; the problem was that although the tackle that did the damage was a particularly nasty one, but the guy who did it never got so much as a yellow card for his troubles.

Half-time, then, and yet another interminable queue for the ?facilities?. And, once I was back, confirmation of what snippets we?d seen both outside and inside the ground, concerning final scores. Palace, Southampton, both won. Norwich, amazingly, had drawn ? coming back from 4-1 down, apparently. Just what the hell were the Boro defence playing at?

Off for the second sitting, then, and Gera was first to have a pop, his effort just missing its target. Then, it was a bit of a let-off for us, when, in response to a ball pumped high into the box, Houlty fumbled, then dropped, the thing somehow ending back up safely in his arms once more. Not the best of tonics for the nerves, may I say. With around 56 minutes gone, Robbo decided to make a change. On came The Horse, and off went Earnie. I can?t say I was all that surprised; the lad hadn?t been at the races, really, so making the swap was a sensible move. Mind you, that change did mean our striking pair looking a little bit like leftovers from a Saga convention!

About five minutes after that came the moment Graham Poll managed to upset both sets of supporters; no mean feat, that. ?Graham Poll, you?re an effing a**ehole!? chorused both sets of glee-clubs in total unison for once. Mind you, you really know you?ve made it in refereeing circles when you manage to achieve that, and all in the space of around 90 minutes! And, with around 65 minutes elapsed, came the moment I really wanted an Albion player to get another. This time, it was that man Greening again; banging in from several yards out, and David James showing once more precisely why he gets the nod for the England custodian?s job every time.

Come the 81st minute, though, and there was no dispute whatsoever. Once more, Greening was involved; taking the ball to the goal-line, almost, he then knocked it back to The Horse, who then headed it down, from very close in, to the lurking Wally Wallwork, who nutted it in from a very short range indeed. A brave header, that, as Wallwork was accompanied by two City defenders at the time, and what with all the blood and snot floating around the box right then, he could have quite easily got injured. But, he wasn?t, and 2-0 it was to us. Scored, mark you, by a player who was considered only fit for the dustcart but a few short months ago. I wonder if Meggo was watching?

That just about finished City off, but there was still one nerve-jangling moment to come. Or, should I say two? Enter into the equation once more, bloody Graham Poll. First off, for reasons I?m still trying to ascertain, he awarded City a free-kick, just outside our box. Our players also thought the decision unfair, and protested. Poll then took umbrage at this flagrant flouting of his authority, and decided the kick had to go ten more yards forwards for dissent.

In the end, the ball was actually on the eighteen yard line. A slight pause, while everyone sorted themselves out, then City took the free kick. BANG! In it went, just like a rocket, Houlty had no chance, and we all thought: ?two-one ? what the hell do we do now?? Shades of Fratton Park, you see. And then we realised that Poll had disallowed it ? he wanted the kick taken again. This time, it was City?s turn to round upon refereeing?s answer to Michael Howard, but eventually things calmed down enough to try again. OH, and there was a bit of a pitch invasion by a disgruntled City supporter. That was sorted out pretty quickly, but had more of them joined in, things could have got very ugly indeed. Well done, Mr. Poll for nearly causing a riot with your stupidity.

This time, the shot hit the wall full on, then was cleared by an Albionite. A nerve-shredding last four minutes followed, and just to rub salt into the wound, the Smethwick turned the tables on their Manc counterparts, chanting: ?KEEGAN OUT! KEEGAN OUT!?ad nauseam, pretty much. And, not long after that, proof positive Graham Poll was taking the rip out of us. Yet another City free kick on the edge of the box ? again, I haven?t the slightest clue as to why ? and once more, our players made their feelings on that particular subject well known. Ten more yards forwards went the ball, predictably enough. Cancel the whelk stall; I wouldn?t even trust him to control a Sunday parks game. Thoughts of Fulham entered our heads as they teed up the shot ? but this time, we cleared the thing without too much malarkey about it. From then on in, it was just a case of keeping the ball, and waiting for the show to finish, which it did not long afterwards, the players being applauded off the pitch and deservedly so, in my opinion. No wonder DJ Matthew played the theme from The Great Escape as we exited the ground!

Bloody hell, what a game; not a classic, by any means, mind, just mentally demanding, really. As far as that Premiership position of ours goes, because two out of the three won also, we?re still treading water, really. The importance of this game lies in the enormous psychological boost such a win must have given our finest. That Palace game, the one after the FA Cup thingy, is assuming more and more importance every day we draw closer to it.

Graham Poll, and his crazy take on set-pieces? At first, I really wondered as to whether he?d favoured City by awarding two free-kicks right outside our box for what was nothing, really ? but then ?Im Indoors quite rightly pointed out, had he wanted to ensure the Mancs got back into it, he would have let the goal stand. So what was he on, then? After listening to his version of the reasoning behind him disallowing that City strike, I?m now more and more convinced the guy was simply on an ego trip. ?Look at me, I?ve disallowed a vital goal on a technicality, aren?t I wonderful?? The thing is, he reckoned he asked City if they wanted to take the kick quickly or slowly. ?Slowly,? they replied, so Poll then went to take up position some way away from the action ? and just as he was putting whistle to lips, City let fly, and the ball went in. And that was the reason he didn?t give it ? technically, he hadn?t signalled for play to restart! God almighty, if he?s the only English referee deemed good enough to officiate in World Cup games, then I think we should all cut our throats on the lids of rusty sardine tins right now.

The complete opposite of what happened a few weeks back, mind, when The Arse (I think) had a free-kick in precisely the same circumstances, and they were allowed to take the thing quickly, and without any malarkey whatsoever about whistles to lips, whether blown or not, or anything. Very annoying for the opposition, who reckoned they?d been robbed blind. Anyone at Referee?s HQ ever heard of the word ?consistency??

And Finally?.. Now we?ve seen that space probe finally land on Titan, we?ve since discovered a lot more info about the surface of the wretched place than we?d ever known previously. Not bad for a spacecraft that?s travelled some 750 million miles to get there, then had to detach from a ?mother ship? come the end; one hell of an ?away trip?, whichever way you look at it. Now the data?s started to flood back, one thing does stand out, though, and that?s the sheer amount of methane on its surface; out there, methane takes on much the same role as water does on this planet: i.e. at temperatures of ?180C (a warm summer?s day by Titan standards, apparently), it simultaneously exists as a solid, a liquid and a gas, just like the stuff that routinely emerges from your domestic taps, in fact.

Given the sheer amount of that hydrocarbon out there - in ?rivers?, ?seas?, ?clouds?, not to mention solid ?ice? chunks dotted here and there around the surface, plus the fact the stuff?s also a smelly by-product of our own digestive processes, I now invite you all to think of Saturn?s biggest moon as nothing but a great big cosmic fart. Which is where I come in. Now we really know what?s really out there, and what the place shares in common with the whole human race (and, more to the point, with one seriously-pongy Albion supporter in mind as I write these words) I propose that now the matter?s finally been resolved, the boffins should ensure that this moon?s allocated a totally different astronomical name ? and sod mythological tradition. What to? Why, ?Brooksie?, of course!

 - Glynis Wright

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