The Diary

06 February 2005: Delia's Relegation Recipe - A Carrow Road Caning!

So, that?s that, then. Although still masters of our own fate, in theory, only a Baggie who?s spent most of tonight getting high on some sort of illicit drug or other could maintain with true sincerity it?s still possible for us to extricate ourselves from the mire we?re in right now. To put not too delicate a point on it right now, we?re ? er ? plucked; the whole plucking side, and every single plucker that?s spends plucking hard-earned dosh on watching us get plucked. There you go; a noun, a verb and an adjective in one single sentence, and all derived from the same plucking word, plucking good, eh?

It?s hard to deny that at times this afternoon, the overall standard of our play was some of the best, most entertaining stuff I?ve seen for many a long year. To people of my generation, the ones raised on a Saturday diet of Astle, Kaye, Hope, Bomber Brown, and Co, it?s manna from heaven. Pass and move, pass and move; Clem, actually enjoying his football once more, Gera, shirt hanging out of shorts, jinking and twisting in a manner highly-reminiscent of Chipper Clark at his mesmerising best, Earnie, frail-looking figure deceptively concealing a resilience and strength of character that even the late Alan Ashman would have admired. Campbell, head down, and doing a very passable impression of a Sherman tank inside the Canaries? goalmouth. The very stuff of which Premiership sides, even half-decent ones, are made, and an attack that looked venomous, exciting even, every time it tore down the field in the direction of the Norwich goal. Heady stuff indeed.

Trouble is, though, attack alone does not a proper Premiership side make; you also have to defend a bit, and that?s what proved to be our undoing, same as Tuesday night, if truth were known. Even the Class Of Sixty Eight understood that much; for every master craftsman of goals, every highly-skilled ball-winner up front, you have to have a bit of an animal at the back to suitably stiffen the defence. A Dougie Fraser, a Graham Williams, even, no messing ? whack and away, and that?s precisely what?s lacking right now. And why we?re conceding so heavily. Stringing together a series of moves that would have had many a deceased Albion purist applauding wildly, had they been around to appreciate it, is one thing, as is turning such excellence into goals; no real problems there, either, I would venture. It?s what happens once the footballing see-saw teeters in the direction of our own box that?s the problem; whang over a nasty-looking looping, curling ball, the sort Big Dave would have had for breakfast not so long ago, and suddenly it?s headless chicken time out there.

And, in a nutshell, that?s exactly the problem; you can play all the scintillating, silky stuff you like, score a couple of decent goals, take the lead twice, make the punters in the away end ?ooh,? and ?aah,? a bit, even. Dance a jig in the centre-circle, if you feel your personal karma would benefit as a result, but if you happen to be lumbered with a defence that?s currently about as leak-proof as a domestic colander with the cold tap running, and you can?t sort it satisfactorily either on the training pitch, or over the full duration of the 90 minutes, then I?m afraid you really do deserve to go down. Come back Big Dave ? all is forgiven!

Mind you, I blame bloody Delia Smith, myself. Trust The Fart to spot her as we were flogging fanzines outside Carrow Road before the kick-off. To be perfectly honest with you, I wouldn?t have recognised her if you?d stuck a framed portrait under my nose, but when you have, amidst your ranks, a bloke who has around a thousand posed pics of himself plus celebrities, all carefully indexed and tabulated, in several ring-binders at home, then you?ve got no chance whatsoever of taking avoiding action, have you? Certainly, once spotted, The Fart was upon Delia like a dive-bomber ? and that?s where I came in. Well, my camera, actually, as I sorted out the obligatory pic for our well-preserved pensioner chum, with The Noise making it a threesome. Had I known what was going to happen inside the ground just then, I certainly wouldn?t have been all smiles as my finger descended upon the shutter, would I, now?

But that was lunchtime. Rewinding to much earlier that day, and our loading up of the Dickmobile preparatory to departure, the first question that punctuated the silence as we got the show on the road, was: ?Anybody know what?s happened to Barry Cowdrill?? Stunned silence in our car, and similar when ?Im Indoors asked precisely the same thing about former Baggie Martin Dickinson. The reason we?re trying to ascertain these lads? whereabouts is because my other half is currently putting together a piece about the 1985-86 relegation side. (Incidentally, as far as Cowdrill?s concerned, many thanks to Aubrey Hodder for solving at least part of the mystery surrounding Bazza?s current haunts!), but contact from anyone who knows something (anything!) about Dickinson would be very gratefully received as well.)

Also heard as we headed out for the wilds of Cambridgeshire, via Northamptonshire, a tale from Tel of how he watched films with titles vaguely relevant to our forthcoming game. ?White Heat? was one (OK, so let me get this straight - according to the plot, one of our players will take it upon himself to climb up to the top of a tall structure in the city, set it on fire, then shout: ?Top of the world, Ma!?..?), and the other was ?The Greatest Show On Earth?. Or, as in our case today ? erm - NOT. Another gem from our centenarian co-editor surrounded Radio Norwich ? no, not Alan Parsons, silly ? ringing him up the other day for a pre-match preview from the West Brom side of things, which ended with the interviewer asking Tel if he was nervous about the forthcoming game. ?What? Me ? nervous?? screeched our hero in tones that became increasingly castrati, the more he denied there was a problem.

Mind you, the big problem for some in that car was nerves, plain and simple. En-route, a car passed us in the fast lane with ?Fast Reaction Security? emblazoned loud and proud on the back of the vehicle. Said this column, as it whizzed past: ?We?re ALL insecure in this car, can we have some ?fast reaction? please?? And, as we all chuckled over that one, a little tale from The Noise, who reckoned he?d discovered a completely off-the-wall (but different) selling technique for Dicks. What do you do? Simple: just stand in your usual pitch, then instead of hollering ?Grorty Dick!? to the point of all the local maidens suddenly wondering precisely when you?re going to cut the crap and have your evil way with them, instead, you shout things like: ?Packet of biscuits!? and ?Bags of crisps!? at people. Apparently, the more nonsensical the sentence, the more Dicks you sell. No, don?t blame The Noise for that one; it?s all fellow Dick-flogger and part-time pop star Kev Powell?s fault!

Into the city proper, then, and one snag. Well, we knew there was going to be one, the pub. Normally, we would have watered the old horse at a place literally yards from the ground, but in the time between our last visit and today, that one had been knocked down ? nothing to do with us, Guv! No problem, though; off to the nearby Coach and Horses, then. Slightly more distant for the car-park, perhaps - ?5 to go there was a bit of a rip-off, chaps!) but still eminently walkable, which is why we headed on out there in the first place. That wasn?t our first ever visit, mind; according to my other half, we?d gone there back in the 80?s.

And, as so many of these 'football themed? places are these days, the building had very much of a minimalist aura about it. Aw, you know the score; wooden floors, benches, tables, and all shoehorned into about as much spare space as that permitted the late Captain Bligh in order to commence massed flogging-sessions on board ship. And, as ?Im Indoors returned with the old liquid goodies, a curious sight; my Coke, plus that of my other half and The Fart?s, sitting forlornly in the middle of the table. In each, the lemon had sunk to the bottom, a combination promptly dubbed the ?Relegation Coke? by Stoke?s answer to Patrick Moore. Why? Because it quickly sunk to the bottom, that?s why! And, as we began to take stock of our surroundings, a board listing an impressive selection of real ales caught my eye. The brand ?Im Indoors noticed was 6.5 proof alcohol by volume, a strength not to be messed with. Wish someone had told Si?s mum?s feller, then; a couple of lunchtime pints of the stuff on Christmas Day, and he was to all intents and circumstances blotto. Him cooking and carving the turkey afterwards was a very interesting experience indeed; by then, he was so cross-eyed and comatose, his eyes were darting around with the rapidity of kids playing silly sods with the buttons on a pelican crossing.

Once settled down, as you do, conversation then drifted to the very first time The Fart made the trip to Carrow Road. ?My God!? said I, ?It must have been hell travelling by stagecoach, and Dick Turpin robbing you blind every time you made the trip!? Agreement from The Fart ? well, he was outnumbered, poor lad ? then, a comment from The Noise to the effect that Dick Turpin must have been on the point of packing it in at the time. ?He never did retire,? said I, ?He was hung, in which case I suppose you could have argued he?d been suspended from his normal job!?

By now, the bar was really filling up, and with followers of both persuasions. I?d previously ordered the pair of us a bowl of chilli and chips to share, and as ?Im Indoors and I scoffed to our heart?s content, we sat back content to watch the Sky preview of all four relegation candidates, and what prospects of getting out of the mess they realistically had. Time, then, to further debate what Albion-Palace post-match combos would affect us, and not exactly a topic of conversation calculated to soothe the nerves, either. For one thing, damnable memories of a similar fixture a couple of years ago, that saw us all nervously gathering in a Coventry pub the day we really started chasing The Dingles. The outcome, as they say, was history.

El Haj Diouf? Think of a one-man salivary blitzkrieg, and you?ve got him every time. Shrieks of both anticipation and alarm rose and fell with every Bolton attack; not that I could see it, mind. I was sitting directly underneath the screen, so couldn?t clock any of the action for myself. All I had to do, though, was watch the faces of my fellow-supporters watching the game ? and those of a good many Norwich supporters, also. Interesting to note that Palace#s keeper was still clad in in what looked suspiciously like pyjamas, as per Tuesday night. Then, a thought grabbed The Noise, and by the throat, seemingly. ?We play much better with yellow balls,? mused he.

Me? ?Yeah, we take a far more jaundiced view of things in the Black Country?? But I didn?t stay to hear the reply; off to the bog I trotted, and two interesting features there: First off, a ?cut-and-paste? graffiti board on the door displaying various ?bon mots? culled from various daily and weekly newspapers. If the stay proved to be lengthy, at least [passing the time (among other things!) wouldn?t have proved too problematic! The second? A widgery-gadget that deposited a new polythene cover on the seat every time a button at the side was pushed. And, as I commenced reading the ?contents?, an almighty roar outside. You certainly didn?t need to be Sherlock Holmes to realise Palace had scored! A bit dubious, never crossed the line, according to my informant, but the ref eventually gave it Bolton. As far as an example of a typical joke there is concerned, just turn straight to the bottom ? where else? ? of this piece! And, as I made my way back to the others, still watching the game, I just happened to bump into the star of Sutton Branch, Fraser Allen. ?If I see my name and diet Coke mentioned in GD, you?re going to be in trouble!? he said. Well, at least it?s not in GD, Fraser; as for the rest, I lied.

Bidding our various chums goodbye, we then headed on out for the ground proper. A shutter clicking trip beckoned, so off for a quick perambulation of its four corners I went. A few piccies grabbed, but when I returned to ?Im Indoors, a shick. There, large as life, and twice as bad, was former snapping-regular, Dave Hewitt. Having heard he?d finally managed to get his Premiership licence, we thought it was all sorted, but apparently, it wasn?t. When he turned up at Anfield for the Liverpool thrash, he was deemed to be lacking in some documentation or other, and was refused admission. As was the case at our place. There being not much more point in being there, he toddled off at a rate of knots, and cursing richly under his breath, no doubt. As my other half commented at the time, apropos of the present regime: ?Some people really do have short memories.?

While on my little stroll around the ground, another item caught my eye, and it concerned Norwich?s fund-raising idea of getting various folkies to help a little, their ?Reserve-A-Brick? service, proudly advertised as such where the names were. Not big or clever to push that one when The Dingles were in town! And just looking at the cars some of these people drove was an eye-opener; within rapid succession, we?d spotted an Aston Martin, a top-of-the range BMW, a couple of Rollers also. All headed for the posh bit of the car-parks. Funny, that; I would have thought they?d be going for a better class of tractor, myself!

And, just as we made acquaintance with the sainted Delia, team news drifted aimlessly out of the ground, faint, sure, but enough to inform us Darren Purse was still the man for the job. Albrechtson out, and Richardson in, so we heard. And while all that was going on, The Noise was relaying various updates on what was going on with Palace; then, as we bade Delia farewell, an almighty shriek informed us that The Eagles had been grounded, albeit temporarily, no doubt. Oh, and as I returned to the arms of ?Im Indoors, yet another almighty yell, this time emanating from the capacious clack of Sauce. It turned out, he was going to be out of the country for the Spurs Cup game; Sherm ? El ? Sheikh, Egypt, if you want to know, and, come the appointed day, there will be a small corner of a foreign field that will be Albion. Come what may, our lad intends to watch the game live, albeit via the many mysteries of the TV screen!

Into the ground with plenty of time to spare, a quick wash and brush up, then to our seats. And, a matter of minutes later, off we went. As we?d heard outside, with Albrechtsen out, Scimeca dropped to the back, and Earnie given his start at the expense of the Horse, who could only sit and neigh mightily from the bench. Another curious thought; what with Richardson, Greeening and Wallwork all in the starting side, that was three ex-Red Devils shoved in midfield.

We didn?t waste any time, mind. As soon as the second minute, Earnie had the ball, and tested Green with an almighty belter from around 20 yards or so, one that had him at full stretch. And, as a foretaste of what this crazy game would do, just a minute later, it was Houlty?s turn to shift lively to turn a Norwich effort over for a corner. And, in those opening moments, we seemed to be having the best of things in the air. A bit of light relief come the sixth minute, though; as per usual, we embarked upon our usual ?Stand up if you hate the Wolves?.? routine, as performed on Premiership grounds the length and breadth of the country thus far, and much to our surprise, we then saw the supporters located in their home end doing similar; pretty fair to assume, then, that The Dingles are universally hated wherever we go! Certainly, the gesture resulted in an almighty tumult of clapping from both sides of the ground. Ah, what it is to be universally loved, Dingles! Not.

Then, on eight minutes, the chance that positively pleaded to be potted. It was Gera?s ball, sent tantalisingly-close to the goal-line that did it; all it needed was a tap-in, and we?d be away. Trouble was, though, the lurking Campbell couldn?t shift himself quickly enough to be the agent of destruction as the ball flashed past the big forward and out of play. Two minutes later, another corner to us, that was sorted by the home side, then they broke at speed. Huckerby nearly broke our hearts there and then, but Hoult was able to negate the danger comfortably. I?ve also a vague idea that Clem managed to put him off his aim as well.

By now, it was all Albion; just about every time we broke, we were looking dangerous, and the home side were well and truly on the back-pedal. Our crowd, sensing this, redoubled their efforts; trouble was, being still in danger of losing my voice following the cold I?d contracted earlier in the week, I had to keep my trap well and truly shut! Oooh, the frustration of it! Again and again, the approach work was excellent; the problem was, every time the ball shot into the box to await the arrival of the ?killer shot?, the attack broke down completely. So frustrating, as it was as clear as day the home side wasn?t at the races, even. And even more frustrating were the almost constant cries of ?HAND-BALL!? from the general vicinity of our crowd. Well, they asked for it, so we took the rip out of them, and serve ?em right; they very quickly became a laughing stock.

And still we couldn?t learn; with around 23 minutes gone, a Purse error around the edge of the box meant us nearly conceding, and, a minute later, Clem?s handy boot found another outlet, as Norwich advanced on our goal, the ball eventually going for a corner. Oh, and another thing; the ref?s strange interpretation of what constituted a serious offence. Greening was certainly a victim, being hacked down on the edge of our box and no foul given whatsoever. Just what did you have to do to impress this guy? Collapse in a bloody heap, with half a leg hanging off?

We then entered a period of the game when all the luck was truly with The Canaries. Time after time, we rushed at their goal mob-handed and with their defence totally and utterly trashed. Four ? no, make that five ? Albion attacks, and still they refused to buckle under the strain. First of all, Earnie had a go, from fairly long range; the ball completely eluded Green, but instead of entering the back of the net, as we?d expected, the shot rattled off the crossbar with a palpable ?Thud!? sort of noise. Then, no sooner had the home side resumed their shape, another let-off. This time, it was Greening that was unlucky, the shot laid on courtesy of tiger-tackler Gera, who never knew when he was beaten. Even so, the almighty ?thud? that accompanied the shot served to remind others that we might be taking the drop, but that didn?t preclude us from really going all-out from there on in.

Then, just five minutes from the interval, a break at last. It all stemmed from Green, and from a failed clearance, too. Instead of safety, the outward ball was a wil, and this was picked up by the predatory Greening. He fed Earnie, who advanced at lightning-speed on their goal; the result had to be a formality. One-nil to us, then. Not that it lasted long, mind,; just four minutes later, we were all cussing once more. We?d just had our first booking, because of a late tackle, which was a bit rich, having watched the Norfolk side kick just about everyone wearing blue and white into the air, and get away with it. No matter, though, it?s gone. What really did get me going, though, was Houlty. Just what the hell was he thinking of, going for the ball in an effort to catch it as it sailed over his head, then suddenly discovering he?d run out of sufficient arm-length to stop the blasted thing going in. Predictably, the net shook, and the home supporters found their voices, all of a sudden. Just what the hell was going on, there? That was a routine catch, bread and butter stuff to our former Pompey keeper ? and he blew it.

Half-time saw yet another dash for the loo; once out, spectators were engaging in a game called ?Hit The Crossbar?, closely followed by its near relative, ?Hit The Post?. All that bloody work, and just for ?500 squid, max. Having said that, the way Earnie was going up front, he could quite easily have won it! And, near the end of the interval, yet more evidence the face of football was changing in ways of which I don?t approve; the announcement, to all people in the bars and restaurants dotted around the ground, that they?d better finish their meal, or whatever, as the game was about to start! Dearie, dearie me, and an announcement that just about typified for me what the Prem was all about.

And, once we?d got underway, the whole thing proceeded in much the same manner as the first but all very much Albion bossing the show. And just three minutes after the restart, we found ourselves taking the lead once more. What started it was a smashing ball from Campbell to Earnie ? it completely tore the defenders wide apart ? but the ball then ran to Richardson right in front of the goal. The new lad managed to get away the shot, which bounced off the underside of the bar, but instead of ending up out of play, it rebounded down once more, and this time, all the lad had to do was stick out a handy knee to make it count. 2-1 to us, and thoroughly deserved. Trouble was, how long would it take us to lose it again? The strike, albeit somewhat fortuitous, gave our lot renewed heart, and suddenly, we were turning out football, neat, skilful, lovely to watch, especially to the jaded palates of purists like myself and The Fart. The noise, already of sufficient intensity to make ears ring like bells, redoubled in volume. Surely we couldn?t throw this one away? Trouble was, we did. With 62 minutes on the clock, that?s precisely what happened, and from a set-piece once more. This time, it was a header that did the damage, and Huckerby providing the assist. And, just a minute after that, came the moment I?d thought we could stuff them again. Campbell, all the time in the world to shoot, Green wishing he were alsewhere, as you might with our lad one-on-one with him. But instead of trying to lob the ball over, or try to get it to someone in a better-placed position to get the shot away, the silly sod fired at Green?s body, the ball rebounding with an almighty whack, then disappearing out to safety.

More thrilling end-to end stuff followed, and on the whole, we were still better value for the win. Clem, taking a free-kick from about twenty yards, went close, but toally against the run of play, and with around five minutes remaining, came the moment when we knew we?d had it. Just like Tuesday night, it was our inability to clear high balls that landed us in a mess; as I said earlier, Big Dave would have ate such crosses for breakfast. Somehow, the ball was knocked back to Francis, and he made no mistake with the shot, mean and nasty. And, as it crossed the line, something, so elusive you could hardly put a finger on it, even, departed from our supporters, never to return. You can yell, scream, shout, chant until you?re hoarse, if you want, but if the eleven people on the pitch choose a moment five minutes from the end to have a Condor moment in the box, then you might as well give up on the spot.

Reading those notes now, the stuff I jotted down in the heat of the moment, I can hardly believe we managed to lose that one. Hell, we were attacking so often at one stage, it was literally a case of a blue-and-white-striped queue forming just inside and outside the box. Trouble was, though, as I said, you can have the best strikeforce in the land, but if you also have a defence that has feet of clay, then you?re stuffed before you start. I?m formly convinced that had Big Dave been at the back, both for this game and the one preceding it, we would not now be taking about impending relegation.

Oh, well ? fol-di-rol, and all that. I don?t know what started it, on the journey back, but suddenly, we all found ourselves in the throes of earnest (no pun intended!) political debate, with all the world?s troubles instantly conquered by four extremely jacked-off Albion supporters. And very impassioned it got, too, at times. Bush, Blair, Bin Laden, Iraq, Iran, the works. With a little input from ?Im Indoors on the efficient collation and compilation of government statistics! (Yes, thought that would get you yawning!) Better kept within the confines of the Dickmobile, though; these days, I get the overwhelming impression there?s far less tolerance for those of markedly divergent views in this country than there was, say, twenty or thirty years ago. Still, we?re all good mates, and know each other sufficiently well not to offend the others in any way ? which is precisely how it should be. At least we don?t try to solve vexing problems with a swung fist like our charming neighbours up the road ? or worse, with the barrel of a gun. You never know, I might even cut Darren Purse a little slack one day!

And finally?? As promised, one of the jokes on the bog door. Q. Why is it dangerous to take Viagra and iron tablets together? A. Because whenever he gets an erection, he ends up pointing North! All right, I don?t make ?em up, I just print ?em! Oh, and another thought; there was similar in the gents? loo, but this one had ?Greets Green Albion? scrawled all over it. Graffiti on the graffiti board? What is the world coming to?

 - Glynis Wright

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