The Diary

02 February 2005: The Hawthorns, Our Albion House Of Pain!

Jeez, Albion. Just how much pain and torment do you want to inflict upon us? After tonight?s little episode, I?m now firmly convinced that should the theological concept of Hell turn out to be a genuine deal, us supporters will undoubtedly number among the many condemned, cooking nicely in the flames, and our players will be the horny, hoofy sods doing the pokey bits with all the pitchforks.

Tonight, we had a cast-iron, copper-bottomed chance of really narrowing the gap between us and 17th place, and as the first half progressed, more and more did that prediction look to be a certainty, given enough time. Attack after attack was repulsed by the visitors who, at times, seemed to have the entire output of a certain famous jam-maker at their disposal ? but, once more, we managed to live up to the motto first coined 15 years ago by us fanzine people. ?Semper Te Fallant?: ?They Always Let You Down?. Two chances, two goals, Palace had, one of which was right at the very death and only a couple of minutes after we?d dramatically taken the lead after a late, late show of our own. Maybe the game?s so-called pundits were right after all: after showing defensive naivety like that, we thoroughly deserve to go down.

Yours truly still suffering from some lurgi or other tonight, our stay at the Hawthorns Hotel was severely truncated tonight, ?Im Indoors and me bumping into The Noise just minutes after we?d parked up near the ground, and on his tod this time, both his kids being at school and not being able to make the trip. A quick shufti inside the pub to get the programme beckoned, but once in there, the twin combination of stifling heat and rapidly-increasing crowd proved too much, and we had to rapidly disappear again.

To be truthful, cold or none, I?d been getting the pre-match willies concerning this one ever since I?d penned my last posting to the list, early this morning. Having acquired cynicism in great dolloping heaps since the start of the current campaign, I?d genuinely thought that I was well past the stage of getting worked up about our current plight by this time, but I was wrong, it would seem. Despite my best efforts, sleep eluded me, and I could only churn thought in my brain to the effect that this one really was ?shit or bust?, and no second chances, either.

Having said all that, I was quietly confident about tonight; thanks to Robbo, our overall standard was light-years ahead of what it was when we played them at Selhurst Park earlier in the current season. We?d actually started to register wins again, and but for some really rotten luck, should have reaped far more from recent fixtures than we had. The other factor was our crowd; of late, there seemed to be far more unity of purpose, far more passion to the stuff churned out from behind both goals, more one-ness with the players. What with the arrival of the experienced Campbell, plus the lighting-speed of Earnie, and because of the other bottom-three clubs being seemingly unable to refrain from making mistakes either, supporter-morale gradually embarked on the long upwards trek once more; we genuinely began to believe that given some decent breaks, we could get out of this. Confidence was high, moreale good, far better than it had been for a long, long while.

Because I was to all intents and purposes hors de combat, it was ?Im Indoors making all the noise as we sold outside the police post, now completely denuded of riot vans, plus their fully booted and spurred occupants. Presumably, Palace weren?t deemed worthy of great quantities of Exchequer cash expended on constabulary overtime. Not that I was expecting trouble, mind, this fixture?s generally one of those where both sets of supporters seemingly enter into a mutual non-aggression pact the minute they catch their first sight of the floodlights. What we did get, though, was former Bristol chum of mine, Nigel Johnson, with two kids in tow. My God, if someone had told me 25 years ago Our Nige would be a proud father, I?d have told them to go see a good psychiatrist. Now look at him ? pillar of the establishment, he is, and it?s all undiscovered crime!

Because of family commitments, it?s usually quite difficult for Nige to get a chance to see the lads, so seeing him roll up came as quite a shock to the system; turned out he felt he had to be there to give our lot some backing in their hour of need. And he wasn?t the only one, either; in quick succession, we espied Baggies from far and wide and all seemingly here with the same specific purpose in mind. Examples? Lots: here are a couple of the most praiseworthy. One London-based Baggie, John, beard carrier bag and all, told us that even with him leaving the game five minutes from the end to catch a train, the earliest he could be home was around one in the morning ? and that was assuming connections etc. dropped right for him. Bet he must have kicked himself when he heard what happened come the end. And what about the Ipswich Baggies? Dick subbers Ian Tubby and Alan Jones were two more; they gave an ETA of half-twelve, assuming a favourable wind and no hold-ups. Additionally, we spotted Big Mike, a former Dickmobile companion during our Third Division days; despite the fact he lived in London, and had become a dad just a month back, he?d made the trip ?just because I felt I had to be there?. Mad? Masochistic? Quite possibly, barking, even, and you?d have to include my germ-ridden self in that second category (and some might argue, the first, as well!), I suppose. Wouldn?t it be nice for our football club to show all that sacrifice, all that loyalty, was truly appreciated ? but hang on a mo, was that a pig I just saw flying past our office window?

The reason I got to natter with most of these folkies in the first place was because I wasn?t flogging tonight; a combination of us not having much stock left, and the obvious fact I couldn?t have shouted to save my life tonight put that decision completely beyond doubt. Mind you, it was instructive to quietly chill out, and watch the world go by ? and the crowds build up. When we first set up shop, there was hardly a soul in sight despite the lateness of the hour, just dribs and drabs, but within around ten minutes of arrival, the flow suddenly became a milling throng. And, as with Albion, so with Palace; a few of theirs around, and looking predictably nervous, but greatly outnumbered by the blue and white hordes, they too looking as though a really stiff drink would be favourite right then. At least the temperature was mild for that time of year ? or was it my bloody cold?

Another snippet of news we?d picked up in the pub, now confirmed by every Baggie in creation, just about, was the awful news we were going to be clobbered by the TV people once more ? this time, it would be our Tottenham replay getting the 5.30 pm. treatment. Sure, there were advantages, yet more revenue for the club, not having to set out so early, also a half-decent chance of grabbing a decent car-parking spot once down there, but conversely, was it really necessary to have our game mucked up in this fashion again? Was the fixture grabbed by the TV people because they thought that with Robbo at the helm, there might be a better chance of an upset? Great TV for them, if it comes off, and we wouldn?t be complaining either (well, not until realisation dawned we?d have to put up with Meggo on the bench again!), but yet another messing-around for everyone else.

Realising I was genuinely suffering for the cause, a hell of a lot of Albionites said to me, in no uncertain terms, that I was ?cowin? barmy to be ?ere,?. Or words to that effect. Barmy? Just enough to make me a Baggie, I suppose! Still, as we defied all expectations, and shifted what little stock we had to sell, we managed to get inside the ground considerably earlier than we would normally. These days, gaining ingress is quite a performance for us Dick Eds. First off, it has to be one turnstile only, our ?lucky? one, C3 in this case. Ditto yet another newly-acquired matchday ritual for me, the purchase pre-kick-off of a hot chocolate drink; not only does it warm the old cockles to complete satisfaction, it?s also a ritual I adopted the moment I realised that we hadn?t lost a home fixture since first buying the stuff, some two or three games ago.

Hot drink purchased, ?Im Indoors then took it with him, to make things easier for me ? but when I arrived at our seats, he?d vanished! Turned out he?d been distracted by Amanda, of Sutton Branch fame; more news on Tommy Gaardsoe, and his planned appearance at their branch meeting, it seemed. Oh, and news hubby had spotted Big Dave lurking below, and wearing a natty suit of shiny silver colour, would you believe? Bet he didn?t get that at Burtons!

Out came Palace, then, to predictable applause from their followers, only half-filling the Smethwick bit allocated to them ? pretty good, I suppose, when you take into account factors like distance, and the fact it was a night game. And, as they lined up preparatory to the start, I was quite surprised to note they seemed to be shoving at least two, possibly three, forwards up the sharp end, a very brave thing to do indeed. As for our lot, we went for a Campbell-Horsfield strikeforce, and with both Kanu and Earnie on the bench, with new loan signing Richardson thrown into the melee also. Bet tonight?s relegation battle was a bit of a culture-shock for him, after the sort of top-of-the table Old Trafford serenity he was more accustomed to!

From the moment referee Gallagher first blew his whistle, you could see this was going to be the sort of game where newly-taken prisoners wouldn?t be welcome. We went straight for the jugular from the off, a reflection of the importance of a result, I suppose. Within two minutes of the start, we?d demonstrated that fact by forcing two corners in quick succession, and in front of the Brummie, for a change; usually, we elect to start kicking into the Smethwick. Talking of which, it was good also to hear The Smethwick in full flow once more; we?d really missed them following temporary dispersal for the Tottenham Cup game last weekend.

On the five-minute mark, Gera jinked, once, twice, on the edge of the box, then let fly, the effort just grazing the bar. As far as the opening exchanges were concerned, we?d had the upper hand, and quite honestly, at that point, Palace were pretty much on the back-pedal. Our overall sharpness was second to none, and we seemed really up for it, what with winning well a series of outright tackles, aerial tussles, throws and the like. Much promised, once the game finally settled down to a more natural pace, of course. Our players really wanted this, that much was clear, at least, and their overall ?gung-ho? attitude was encapsulated beautifully by Scimeca?s terrier-like determination to win an early tussle for our favourite football club.

Then, in the 11th minute, seeming disaster struck Palace. The Horse was the man with the stripes on the ball, and heading fast for the danger-area, and their defence seemingly looking dead and buried. Enter Palace?s Sorondo into the equation; in a desperate attempt to prevent our lad doing damage, in went the boot, and down went The Horse. Unlawfully, said Gallagher. Unkind, really, a bit iffy, that one, but a ?goalscoring opportunity?? He clearly knows nothing whatsoever about our ex-Blues striker! What a bloody marvellous stroke of luck ? not that The Red-Carded One would have seen things that way, of course! ? and with that, the game seemed to be ours for the taking.

And that?s when things started to go wrong, I reckon. I genuinely doubt our lot had factored that event into their pre-match plans, because following the dismissal, possession we had in heaps, but of actual clear-cut opportunities to wreak serious damage on the visitors, there was comparatively little in evidence.

And, in the away end, evidence in abundance the away following weren?t exactly enamoured with the dismissal of one of their favourites; not long afterwards, we saw a phalanx of orange-coated stewards diving into the crowd to take someone out, either literally or metaphorically. Take yer pick. And, dwelling slightly more upon Palace?s contribution thus far, I timed their first serious effort at around 20 minutes gone. Other than that, it was the home side asking the questions, and Palace constantly giving us rude answers.

Trouble was, we were promising much, with approach work that would surely have had followers of much better-placed sides murmuring with pleasure, but not hurting them one little bit; down by the dug-out, both Robson and Pearson were effervescing like bottles of pop left too long in bright sunlight ? and I couldn?t really blame them. Gera, and those lovely flicks and touches of his, and all coming to naught purely and simply because colleagues failed properly to cotton on to his intentions. Greening, and his solid presence where needed; Campbell, with Premiership experience carefully honed on the grindstone of many years service with Everton. Theoretically, more than enough to send Palace packing right down the M40 from which they?d come, but in practice, the footballing equivalent of coitus interruptus. In a puzzling reversal of cause and effect, come 15 minutes before the interval, it was Palace now looking the side more likely to break the deadlock.

Into the last fifteen before the break, then, and Gera went very close indeed to the target, his effort being followed two minutes later by a spell when the visitors could have split us wide apart; all thanks to Clem for saving the day with a perfectly-timed tackle, leg stretched to the limit in a successful endeavour to keep the rapidly-advancing Palace player out. Thrills and spills enough, but just seven minutes from the interval, The Horse could have easily neighed us in front, thanks to a beautifully-timed Scimeca pass; just as he was about to pull the trigger, out came a flying Palace boot, seemingly from nowhere, and the chance was gone.

A Campbell effort apart, that was about it until the interval, but just two minutes beforehand, a slight scare when The Mighty Zoltan dropped like a stone, after going for a fifty-fifty ball with an opposing player. On rushed Nick Worth, and, moments after that, what seemed to be the club doctor. And, as Gera ran to leave the field of play, we could then see why ? a nasty-looking cut, just above the right eye. Off he disappeared down the tunnel, medic in tow, to surprisingly reappear in injury-time, appropriately enough.

That was the first portion, then, and as the whistle sounded for the interval, it was down the stairs to the loo for me, where a surprise awaited. Four ladies already in the queue, and not one of them wanting to use the toilet that was currently vacant. So what was the problem, I wondered. Someone of less-than-social habits using one or all beforehand? Problems with the plumbing? Nope, none of these, just the fact that of those vacant cubicles, each person waiting regarded one only as their own ?lucky? bog! No wonder the queue was taking quite some time to clear! Ablutions finally sorted, it was back ?upstairs?, and just in time to take in the appearance on the pitch of what would have been regarded as our third team in days of yore; apparently, they?d managed to win their league, with a handsome ten-point margin separating them from the next contender. Mind you, as ?Im Indoors pointed out, when you?re pitched against opposition consisting of Swindon and Oxford?s kids, plus those of Hereford United, being the only Premiership-level outfit competing at that standard you?d expect them to walk it. Then, after that, it was the turn of Albion's (much, much more) juniors, including, poor sod, a lad by the name of Molineux. Talk about nominative determinism in reverse!

Out for the second half, then ? and within a minute of the restart, what an almighty disaster. Palace, remember, despite promising much during the latter stages, had only had half-chances, if that, the whole of the first half, but they very quickly rectified that small defect in their overall play. And they didn?t need to take full credit, either. Christ alone knows what bloody Purse was thinking of when he ducked to allow the ball to run behind him, but as a monumental cock-up, it has to rank among the best ? and in my time, I have seen the ?best?, Gary Sprake 1968 FA Cup semi-final kamikaze gesture, and all. When he did the flicky trick with his nut, what he didn?t realise was that Palace?s ace goal-poacher, Andy Johnson, in true panto fashion, was lurking right behind ? and that was all he needed, wasn?t it? Quicker than you could have IQ-tested a Dingle, even, he was in, and the result a foregone conclusion. That strike was his fifteenth thus far this season, and I don?t think that of that lot there?s been an easier one than tonight?s. ?No wonder the Palace mob were loudly crowing, ?We are staying up?.? Once they?d got over the shock, that was.

Maddening, infuriating, exasperating? Yep, and a lot more I daren?t commit to print, even. Seems it?s getting to be a but of a regular occurrence, now, this business of shaking my head sorrowfully, and saying: ?Only Darren Purse?..? You don?t suppose he was a deliberate Blues ?plant?, do you? Unsurprisingly, the strike, as unexpected as a thunderclap on a clear day, deflated our lot quicker than a bust balloon. Clearly, something had to change, so not long afterwards, Robbo stuck Earnie on for The Horse, his astonishing pace being the thing our leader hoped would rescue the game for us. Mind you, when Robbo finally made that decision, with nine minutes gone, Earnie was lolloping away in the direction of the Smethwick, and didn?t hear his gaffer?s call; it was left to us Halfords Lane lot to make him realise his presence was required elsewhere! With almost a third of the half gone, it was Campbell?s turn to curse fate; his toe-poke seemed to beat the keeper, hit the post, then, by the almightiest of flukes, rebounded straight into the grateful arms of their keeper once more. Moments later, and a Palace effort that had Houlty shifting to turn the thing around the post for a corner, both The Bloke In Front Of Me, and his mate, John Homer, went critical within a couple of seconds of one another, the former with loud Black Country lamentations of: ?What the cowin? ell?s the marrer wi? em?? and the latter, rather annoyed by repeated decisions given by Mr. Gallagher against our lot, shouting: ?Oy, ref ? do yow wanner borrow me glasses, then?? Had either of them been an atomic pile, I?d have been running full-tilt for the fallout shelter by now.

Now we?d finally recovered from the shock of conceding, time and time again we launched attacks on the Palace goalmouth, and each was just as quickly repulsed. No matter what you did to them the more deeply they became entrenched; now they?d got the advantage, unlike us, they weren?t going to surrender it cheaply. Even Gera, tantalising, mesmerising, even, as he was at times, seemed incapable of getting it back for us. Only one thing to do, then, with the clock inexorably winding down ? turn up the wick a notch or two. Suddenly, we were launching wave after wave of blue and white striped assaults on Palace?s peace of mind; Richardson came on for Albrechtson, then, swiftly, it was Gera having a pot, then Greening; heartened by that, we were now chucking just about everything at them, candelabra, three-piece suites, wardrobes, the works, but by dint of having in their custody more of the fruity sticky stuff than any jam-maker has a right to possess, they held firm, but finally, with around seven minutes left, the pressure-cooker?s safety-valve finally gave way.

Campbell it was, making the breakthrough; for once, they cocked up a goalmouth clearance from one of Gera?s nastier efforts, somehow, the ball landed at the feet of the former Everton lad, just yards from target, and in the blasted thing went, finally. You could have heard the sigh of relief in Smethwick; suddenly, we had a game going for us again. Cue for every Albion throat in the place to emit an almighty roar of frightening proportions, as Palace kicked off again. Now wanting to save the draw, they began indulging in time-wasting tactics of the more cynical variety ? and still the hordes advanced. The only thing protecting Palace from further loss right then was the sort of luck that attends upon both drunks and small children. Then, with but a minute left of normal time remaining, we thought we?d done it. Earnie, it was, on the receiving end of a lovely through ball; rounding their keeper with consummate ease, all he had to do was tap it in from very close range indeed. 2-1, and victory seemingly dragged from out of the very shadow of death. No wonder the whole place erupted. Surely that was it?

Sadly, Palace had other ideas. I suppose we only have ourselves to blame, really. Fair play to Dowie?s lot for not collapsing like a concertina after conceding in such a cruel manner ? we certainly did after Purse?s early second half cock-up ? but a scant two minutes later, with every Albion voice clamouring loudly for an end to the night?s proceedings, the evil eye winked for the second time. A Palace free kick, about halfway in our half, on the left, an almighty punt into our goalmouth, a bit of head tennis, as our defenders tried to shift the blasted thing away, then the sick feeing they?d done it, and right at the death, as well. Never has our unofficial motto, the one with which I started this piece, sounded more appropriate. And, as the final whistle sounded and we all went to shuffle away, I could only hope that Albrechtson?s injury ? he was still on the deck, and Nick Worth with him, even though the game had finished a couple of minutes before ? wasn?t too serious. Anyone out there know more?

Thoughts? Ask me when I?m in a better frame of mind to articulate ?em! Right now, I might just end up saying something I might dearly regret. What with the cheap way in which we conceded in the first place, plus the fact we couldn?t defend to save our lives after being chucked that last-minute ?get-out-of-jail? card by Earnie, I can quite happily think of a couple of our players I?d dearly like to have placed in front of a firing-squad, and shot. Mind you, if it were our forwards doing the shooting, and our defenders doing the ?marking? of the likely target area, they would both have it dark by the time they managed to register a hit, even assuming a traditional dawn start!

The sharing of the points, while leaving the question of slipping behind in abeyance until tomorrow night, does mean that we really have to get three points from the Norwich trip. Nothing less will do. Any chance of Big Dave being available for the weekend? Come to think about it, any chance of a miracle, even? Oh, sod it ? I?m off to bed.

 - Glynis Wright

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