The Diary

30 January 2005: Today's Tie? A Tottenham Travesty, Pretty Much

Passion. Self-belief. Guts. Spirit. PRIDE. That?s what we got today, and in heaps. A shame natural justice doesn?t work on similarly-honourable principles, though; in my opinion, over the whole 90 minutes, we?d done more than enough to win the tie outright. Defoe?s melodramatics in the box? Am I right in thinking the referee was about the only person in the ground who genuinely thought his thespian antics warranted a spot-kick? Perhaps the White Hart Lane lot should get him nominated for an Academy Award the next time they?re up for grabs?

There was yet another ?positive? to take from today?s pulsating yet enthralling encounter, and really does give me a smidgen of hope we?ll prove triumphal come Tuesday night. Simple, really, when you come to think about it. Unlike most of our top-flight games thus far this season, today we genuinely looked like a Premiership side, played like a Premiership side, had the visitors? rearguard rocking and reeling more often than not, and even when we made that double subbing towards the end, on the bench we had Premiership-quality strikers on tap to take up the cudgels where Messrs. Kanu and Earnshaw (both totally knackered, and understandably so, hence the change) left off. Maintain similar standards of courageous self-belief come the time we get to play each of our other relegation rivals, and I can see us good for yet more League wins. Who knows, we might yet rewrite Premiership history, a feat the late King would wildly applaud were he still with us. Not only that, what was on offer today was sure as hell entertaining; could ANYONE present genuinely say they hadn?t enjoyed what was, to me, a totally fascinating contest between the two sides?

As ever, our tale begins at The Hawthorns pub, which we?d shifted to after ditching the Dickmobile nearby. Not in the pub car-park, sadly ? that costs money, moolah, call it what you will, the wanton expenditure of which would greatly grieve Stingy Steve something rotten ? so we?d had to walk a fair distance up Halfords Lane to get there in the first place. And, as we passed the Tom Silk building, we both mentally noted that although its closure was not around five or six months in the past, there was still no sign of our former club premises being demolished. Correct me if I?m wrong, but am I right in thinking that the timetable for the completion of the spanking-new ?super-school? is a tad behind at the moment? Certainly, if we?re to have that academy, and the school given a half-decent chance of opening for business on schedule, someone?s going to have to get a bit of a wiggle on, and soon, aren?t they?

And, once the drinks had been ordered and poured, another bit of intelligence that impinges slightly upon this diary came my way; Tim Joyner of Kiddy Branch informing me that their meeting, scheduled for next Wednesday, was now well and truly off. According to Tim, the main reason for the postponement was because Bernie McNally, their guest, would be needed for our reserve encounter versus The Dingles, Telford?s ground being the venue for that one. Needed? For an Albion-Dingles game? Why? As part of a UN peacekeeping force?

After being joined by The Noise and both daughters ? see below for Bethany?s amusing take on current refereeing standards - plus The Fart, off we jolly well went once more. While ?Im Indoors set up shop outside the police post as per usual, off I toddled, camera in hand, to grab some pics for the fanzine. Quite a restful pre-match occupation, that, composing shots then clicking away with gay abandon; the best ones are the ?candids? those where the subject doesn?t even realise they?ve been ?grabbed?. That?s right, isn?t it, Terry?

From there, it was but a simple stroll to where The Noise plus daughters hung out, so I popped off a shot there also. Coming to a fanzine near you very shortly. I hadn?t been nattering to our verbose colleague five minutes, when up popped a Spurs supporter, and with an offer he thought I couldn?t refuse! What was it? No invitation to a champagne-fuelled night of mad passionate lovemaking, sadly, just a glimpse of his Jeff Astle picture! No, what he wanted to do was flog the thing ? it appeared on the front cover of some football mag circa 1968 ? to a Baggie who was a genuine collector.

It was when he mentioned the magic word ?money?, that the words ?Steve Carr? immediately popped into mental view. If I remember my psychology lectures correctly, it?s all to do with word-association; think ?stingy? and Steve?s name will do it for me every time. As The Noise was busy flogging ?zines, I immediately offered to take Mohammed, albeit a North London variant on the theme, to the metaphorical mountain; trouble was, when I reached the Stingy One?s spot, he wasn?t there. Turned out he?d gone walkabouts to circulate stock; while I waited a moment for his return, I took the trouble of pointing out to our collector chum that by taking him away from the garrulous Lewis clan, I?d saved him from a fate worse than death. Well, not precisely in terms of imminent loss of life, more those regarding complete and utter loss of sanity! And I was a bit disingenuous with the introductions, mind; craftily, I left it to the guy himself to broach the subject of payment with Steve!

Back to our ?normal? pitch, then, and out with the old notebook to catch up on events. And, as I did so, some visitors. Andy, of Sutton Branch, beard, fags and all, to let us know that Southampton had won their minor war with the Pompey persuasion, a dismissal for what?s known as ?simulation? in refereeing circles, and an injury-time penalty comprising a good deal of the mix for that one. A red card for diving? Struck me that was fine and dandy provided that policy was adhered to by all referees, no exceptions permitted. On that basis Bolton?s Diouf should have walked the other night, no messing. Forgive me for being cynical about all this, but it really does strike me that about the only time that policy is ever rigorously applied is when the player at fault turns out for what you might term an ?unfashionable? club. The day one of Fergie?s lot, or Arsene?s. for that matter, gets to inspect the showers more closely, I?ll actually believe the FA are paying more than lip-service to the introduction of effective ways of controlling the problem.

Anyone out there know the collective noun for a group of journalists? Are, they, like lions, a ?pride?, or, as per geese, a ?gaggle?? ?Im Indoors suggested a ?question? of journos! The reason I need to know is because I had three turn up in rapid succession. (Yes, I know all the hoary old jokes, apropos West Midlands buses!) First off was the elegant, the lovely and talented Mr. Boyden, who is still trying to come to terms with humour, Hereford-style, apparently. The nuns of Leominster are regular contributors to his show, apparently. No, I don?t know why either. Next up was Marion Brennan, she of the E and S, and their answer to the late Percy Thrower, wearing her ?Baggies supporter? hat for this one, and last, but most certainly not least, was microscopically-small mate Dot Lepkowska. I?d call it a ?triumvirate?, but for the fact two of those three are most certainly female; any suggestions most welcome, of course.

And there was Rumour, running amok in those mean streets, it would seem. We?d signed an unspecified player, by all accounts, but who? On loan, permanently, or what? No-one was in a position to supply answers at that time, it would seem; how bloody frustrating. Also running amok were great numbers of Spurs supporters, it would seem; judging from the direction from which they?d come, their general noisiness, plus the dead-giveaway fact they were followed by a phalanx of plods, it was pretty safe to assume that they?d been making a bit of a nuisance of themselves in the town centre, then been rapidly moved on by PC Plod in the interests of restoring peace and harmony to the pedestrian area once more.

More puzzling, though, was their loudly-chanted battle-cry: ?This is a ground on a budget!?.? Strange, that one; the thought it might well behove them all to have a much closer look at their own club?s ledgers before pitching into our lot with that one did briefly cross my mind, but as they were all drunker than skunks to a man, I reckon any sort of intellectual argument would have quickly foundered on the vacuous rocks of alcoholically-induced stupidity. Oh well ? at least they were happy with it.

Taking our seats not that long afterwards, we were greeted by the astonishing news Kanu was going to start for us. Why no Campbell, then ? was he cup-tied, or something? According to our Halfords Lane Stand chums, most certainly not; gossip had it he?d been rested and plonked on the subs? bench instead. Was that wise? You could look at it one of two ways; rest him, either partly or completely, and he?d be fresh for Tuesday, play him, even partly, and he might well get us into the next round, but by doing that, there?s always the risk of injury, tiredness, whatever. A difficult judgment call to make, sure, but one that proved absolutely spot-on, as things subsequently panned out.

Another surprising sighting was that of James O?Connor, abandoning the wintry wilds of Turf Moor ? temporarily, we hope! ? for the chance of amassing yet another fine collection of bum-splinters with The Baggies. Could that be our club doing a bit of a Jim Bowen-style wind up on Burnley? Aw, you know, ?Bullseye? and Bowen?s bloody irritating habit of saying: ?This is what you COULD have won had you landed that double top (or whatever)?.? then dangling in truly tantalising fashion the narrowly-missed goodies, right in front of the poor contestant?s eyes? As for Spurs, it seemed Martin Jol had taken the footballing equivalent of the pruning-shears to his lot. No less than SIX changes to their line up, it seemed.

Just prior to the referee blowing his whistle to set the game well and truly in motion, I took a quick butchers at the Smethwick End, now filled to the gunnels with temporarily-peripatetic cockerels. Quite an impressive sight, too, and dead right when they loudly crowed: ?YOUR SUPPORT IS F***ING S**T!? Couldn?t argue, me - it was. The problem? Nervousness aside, we really did miss the lead habitually given us by the Smethwick?s normal occupants these days, now dispersed to the four winds in order to accommodate the noisy visitors, of course. To be absolutely fair to them, I don?t think the Brummie had quite twigged what was going to happen as a result of their opposite-ended counterparts? enforced absence; certainly, they did take the trouble to make themselves well and truly heard later on in the proceedings.

Off we went, then, me with a much-needed cup of hot chocolate (well, what passes for the stuff in a football ground these days) well and truly in my frozen little mitts, and our finest labouring mightily to make serious inroads into the visitors? defences. All the preamble, tentative testing out of both rearguards, finally done with, ten minutes into the contest, Albion almost drew first blood. Earnie, it was, and with a volleyed shot that went straight into the welcoming arms of their keeper. Good try, and it was to get even better. Three minutes later, courtesy an assist from the elfin-featured Gera, he had another go, but this time, failed to get sufficient momentum on the effort to inflict any serious damage on the opposition.

Then, with only a quarter of the half gone and our finest asking most of the questions, things really could have turned pear-shaped. A midfield mullock ? I forget who the player responsible was ? let in the visitors; luckily, Defoe?s effort was as weak as sin. Real end-to-end stuff, this was, and hugely entertaining, with it. Literally seconds later, it was Earnie?s turn to give defenders palpitations; with pretty much all of the Spurs defence, keeper included, doing ?Mayor of Hiroshima impersonations? ? ?What the bloody hell was THAT?? Earnie then let loose a ?biggie?.

Considering he?d done so with the open net at his mercy, more or less, it was the extreme angle that beat him; instead of belting past the goal-line at a rate of knots, the bloody thing rattled right off the crossbar instead. A let-off for the visitors, sure, but there was a reward in heaven for our diminutive Welshman; a scant minute later, he made no mistake, an event made all the more surprising by the realisation you don?t usually get second chances like that at this level. Former club pariah Ronnie Wallwork was the provider, whipping in a lovely cross that set up young Earnie nicely to wriggle past a couple of their defenders, then whack the ball mightily from a range of around six yards. ?Wan-nil?, as our London-based counterparts might have put it. Me? ?Bloody stitch that, Spurs!?

Trademark celebratory somersaults done with ? I reckon about 9.5 for technical merit, and a 9 for artistic impression, myself ? it was then very much down to us defending that lead. And, having got it, deservedly so, in my opinion; just prior to that Earnie strike, anyone with half a brain could see Spurs were visibly rocking. A Dingle? Hmm ? maybe not. With 22 minutes gone, we then had our fortune well and truly told for us, in the form of a Spurs penalty-box dive that didn?t quite come off; time to brush up on the old acting lessons for that lad, I reckon.

Big mistake, that, loudly giving voice to my fears. Just on the 30 minute mark, the visitors got their innermost wish, and a more ridiculous refereeing decision I?ve yet to see. Well, not until the next Premiership game, maybe! Seated around fifty yards from The Brummie, I could easily see for myself Jermain Defoe?s shameful penalty shout was the biggest load of cobblers since that Diouf disgraceful swallow-dive for Bolton last Monday, but our referee, a Mr. Halsey, was one just as easily-conned, it would seem. Any relation to the Admiral Halsey of World War Two fame, I wonder? His nickname was ?Bull?, a highly-appropriate one for our lad, given the somewhat dubious circumstances surrounding that erroneous award.

Not surprisingly, we protested, and greatly, but once given, the decision was impossible to reverse. Unless you happen to be Arsenal, of course! Up stepped the villain of the piece, Defoe, and he potted from the spot. The Brummie, much closer to the incident than I, of course, were absolutely furious, and I really couldn?t blame them. Such travesties really do devalue the game. All credibility is totally lost when what are supposed to be the best whistlers in the country make crassly-wrong decisions like that one, not to mention Monday?s. I haven?t had sufficient chance as yet to see a rerun of the incident for myself, but in my mind at least, there?s no doubt. Sure, the guy might well be picked up on what happened, but by then, it?s way, way too late. The damage has been done, and with little or no sanction available for getting it so spectacularly wrong. All that, and an annual retainer of about 50K; nice work if you can get it.

It?s a darned good measure of the vast changes that have been wrought amongst our current squad to observe morale still remaining high in our ranks; just a matter of months ago, such a setback would have completely floored us. As the song goes, ?Pick yourself up, dust yourself down, start all over again?. And that?s precisely what we did; resentment at the sheer injustice of the thing still smouldering a slow burn, of course, but still imbued with sufficient fighting spirit to try and make amends. The passion, gutsy, gritty, returned very quickly, desirable qualities epitomised by Greening?s challenges, swiftly followed by a cross that so nearly set up Earnie yet again, and from more or less the same distance as before.

And, just before that, an episode that had just about every Spurs follower in the Smethwick screaming: ?HAND-BALL!?, but nothing given that time. Cheeky sods; just how much refereeing assistance did they want over the course of ninety minutes? And, as I watched our finest power their way from end to end, the thought suddenly struck me, and from out of the blue, as well; the realisation, startling in itself, that we were finally looking like a Premiership side! Not just in the obvious departments, just about everything we did was oozing class in copious quantities. The Bloke Behind Me certainly noticed; at one point I even heard him loudly declare to a chum: ?It would give Megson palpitations!? Mind you, the lead-up to the interval did spew out one incident of humorous bent, a free-kick to us, for once, awarded because of a push on Kanu. Risible, purely and simply because it was the dodgiest shout of the entire half! And, bar for a brief but nasty moment when I genuinely thought Houlty was going to lose a race to the ball, that was it.

A strange interval then followed; so used were we to the constant drip-feed of TV emanating from the big screens situated adjacent to both ends of the ground ? both knackered, according to resident DJ Matthew - it really made a noticeable difference just sitting passively during the interval. And, as we tried to make some sense out of the preceding 45, yet another bit of Supporters? Club news, the cancellation of the Main Branch thrash, which four of our finest were pencilled in to attend. Mind you, I haven?t yet had that confirmed by anyone from the committee, so don?t take that as absolute gospel just yet. Should things turn out to be different, I?ll let you all know.

Back to the ?second course?, then, and within a mere four minutes of the restart, an almighty let-off for us. Mind you, perhaps natural justice did reassert itself on that one occasion; the player designated to strike the killer blow being none other than Defoe, following a combination of defensive laxity and some genuinely skilful work by Tottingham?s Brown and Davies. There he was, totally unmarked on the edge of the six-yard area, Houlty floundering ? perfect conditions for busting the net with the shot, you would have thought. Not Our Jermaine; instead, the ball ended up whistling narrowly past the post, and serve the cheating little sod right, as well.

It?s around this time, I began to find keeping up with things very difficult indeed; not through any inattention on my part, honest, purely and simply because of the sheer end-to-end nature of the game. No sooner had I recorded a Spurs incursion in my little book, it was then our turn to put the frighteners on the visitors; within rapid succession, we?d won a free-kick on the edge of their box, then two corners on the bounce, not to mention a disgraceful attempt by Defoe to win yet another penalty for his side. I?d like to think the referee had well and truly got his measure by that time; being conned twice in one game?s a bit too much to swallow, really, but with the whistling code, you never know, do you?

Once more, we were really giving them what for; the crowd sensed it, too; within milliseconds of a Greening attempt going wide, cries the King himself would have easily recognised ? ?Albion, Albion, Albion?.? washed and crashed around all four sides of the stadium, deafeningly so. Proof positive that if you play with sufficient pride and passion, you?ll get your own supporters onside quicker than any press-release, favourable or otherwise. As I mentioned, I was having quite a struggle just to keep up.

Following a brief halt to the proceedings, I idly mused upon what those French ladies tasked to make the Bayeux Tapestry would have done in similar circumstances. Call me warped if you like, but I could really visualise the exchanges: Tapestry-maker One: ? ?Ere ? can?t you tell your William to slow things down a bit? Doris hasn?t come back with them silk supplies yet, I?ve lorst two needles already, the bloody cat?s weed on the bit at the end, and did your Bert really have to bleed to death all over the top bit as I was finishing it orf? And, in any case, now it?s orf, what do I do with his flamin? leg, that?s wot I want ter know??

Tapestry-maker Two: ?Aw, shurrup moanin? and get yerself a nice cuppa tea. They?ve stopped now anyway, summat to do with a bloke called Harold getting? an arrer in the eye, or sumfink ? I dunno, the wimpled lady of today. Mind you, I blame that bloody comet myself ? it comes over here, takes our jobs an? our houses, sponges orf the council, then buggers orf agen. Wot?s yor William goin? ter do about it, sod-all, I suppose??

Back to the action once more, and Defoe nearly leaving us dead and buried. He should have potted, but didn?t, then it was back to the other end at a rate of knots, and a free-kick to us on the edge of the box, almost. The visitors began to argue the toss, and the ref became niggled. Briskly, he then began to pace out the ten-yard minimum distance; the Brummie, picking this up almost immediately, let forth with a delightful roar, entirely synchronous with the official?s movements, of: ?ONE! TWO! THREE! FOUR!???, all the way to ?TEN!?, in fact. Bloody hilarious.

With almost two-thirds of the half gone, the visitors decided it was time for a change; suddenly we spotted both Robbie Keane and Marney readying themselves to go on. A natural pause in the proceedings, and it was arch con-merchant Defoe off, also Davies, clearly unhappy and putting a hand to his head. Not that there was much brain to damage there, mind. And, while all that was going on, Robbo decided it was time for a change for us, too. Preparing to take centre stage for us were both Darren Campbell and The Horse; a matter of seconds later, they swapped with Kanu and Earnie. As they trudged slowly off the pitch, you could see total and utter weariness etched on both their faces. They?d run them selves into the ground for the cause, the pair of them; the crowd, readily acknowledging their enormous contribution to the afternoon?s entertainment, richly applauded both as they approached the dug-out, and rightly so.

With but ten minute remaining, a brief moment for a giggle. I forget the precise circumstances, but for some reason that eludes me right now, the ball was passed back to Houlty, who somehow sent the ball over the line for a corner. We knew that to be the correct decision, and so did the Spurs followers massed in the Smethwick, but for some reason unfathomable to mankind, the ref decided it was a goal-kick instead, to the Londoners? eternal fury. Why? Dunno ? you might equally ask me why the sea is blue and the grass green, and I?d be pretty much pushed to give you an honest answer to that one also.

As the fag-end of the game neared, it was becoming pretty obvious that there were some really tired legs out there, and this was leading to some pretty hairy moments for us at times. Even Houlty seemed to suffer from this complaint; when he dropped the ball just before the end, for one awful moment I thought we?d blown it, then I realised he?d been fouled. Phew. Ditto when Keane, coming seemingly from out of nowhere, nearly nicked it for Spurs with a run that left Houlty floundering ? but then he totally blew it by hitting the side netting with the drive instead.

Oh yes ? another observation. With but a minute or so left on the clock, there were so many people leaving the ground; in fact, they?d been doing just that some ten minutes earlier. Why? There we were, with a game that could easily have finished with either side grabbing a late, late winner, and yet every single one of those early-exiters opted to leave instead! As The Bloke Behind Me so sagaciously (and sourly) commented: ?I don?t know why they come?.? A vast change in demographics now we?re in the big-time, and to one of a theatre-audience-type mentality? I?ve no idea; suffice to say, such daft behaviour is totally beyond my ken.

Anyway, that draw means a replay in a fortnight?s time, so that?s the Southampton game buggered for a bit. Let?s hope that all the hard work displayed by everyone involved this afternoon provides us with sufficient impetus to sort out Palace come Tuesday night. From what I?ve seen today, play like that, and the three points should be ours. The trouble is, though, as I pointed out yesterday, Cup football can be a completely different animal to the bread-and-butter stuff of the League. There?s much more at stake come Tuesday night; not only our current elevated status, but a hell of a lot of potential revenue next season. That?s one of the reasons refereeing errors fill me with so much bile; they can make mistakes, awful ones, even, and relatively little happens to disturb their comfort-zone status. Stuff up even once during any one of those forthcoming games, disallowed goals, dodgy offsides, pernickerty bookings and red-cardings, the award of free-kicks for petty reasons, whatever, with the opposing side deriving benefit from such a cock-up, and it?s almost certainly ?Goodnight Vienna? for the Baggies. What a way to run a national sport.

And Finally?.. Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings?.. The Noise?s younger daughter, Bethany, and some of her thoughts today about referees!

One. It really does say something when an eight year old looks intently at the back of today?s programme, checks out the name of the man in the middle, then, scrunching her face into the most pained expression of disgust you?ll ever find this side of a pot-bank, loudly declares to everyone present: ?What? HIM? Oh my God?.?

Two. Another spoken masterpiece from Carly?s little sister, and one made so innocently, as well. ?Why is it that Chelsea, who are on top of the Premiership, have got the same shirt sponsors (Emirates) as all the referees??

 - Glynis Wright

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