The Diary

13 February 2005: 3-1 To Spurs - One-Nil To The Referee!

Oh, dear. It?s getting to be a little like a record with a dodgy-looking scratch on the vinyl, now, isn?t it? Once more, it?s happened ? we play the other side completely off the park for the earlier part of the game, take the lead courtesy some wonderfully executed ?pass and move? football, spurn other decent opportunities to really build upon the foundations we?d previously laid earlier in the game, get clobbered by a diabolical refereeing decision that would have been treated with distain in a parks game, never mind a top-flight stadium?.. Aw, sod it ? you write the script. God knows how many times I?ve repeated those self-same words over the past few months, but at least you?ll all know where I?m coming from when you come to read this.

Well, there?s one thing I?ve learned from what I witnessed at White Hart Lane. After today, I?m now a firm believer in what?s called ?nominative determinism? i.e. people being named for the job they?re destined to take once they?ve left school. In the case of the unlovely Mister Styles today, it wasn?t so much the surname, as the forename his doting mum (presumably) foisted upon him the minute the midwife smacked his botty to get him breathing after birth. Rob?s the first name, unfortunately, and we weren?t to be unduly disappointed in that respect. Rob by name, and Rob by nature. Easy when you sit down and work it out.

A shame, that; thanks to our chum in the black contracting a severe case of myopia just before the interval, the course of the entire game was completely altered. But that was later; what was important as the usual suspects gathered at GD Towers was my handing over the two copies of the Delia piccies I?d done for both The Noise and The Fart. And very pleased they both were, too ? and so was I once I?d finally ascertained there weren?t any metallic protuberances whatsoever sticking from out of the Fart?s ancient lugholes. As far as The Noise was concerned, though, he did have a tale of woe to narrate, the upshot of which was his solemn declaration he?d never, EVER take his sister out for a driving lesson EVER again. Jane had rung to warn us of his currently enfeebled physical state, but the reality was something else.

And the reason?s not what you might think, so that?s stuffed all the chauvinistic tendency reading this straightaway, hasn?t it? No, what actually happened was that halfway through the tuition period, the car The Noise and his sister were using suddenly gave up the ghost several miles from home. Battery trouble was eventually diagnosed, so The Noise then came up with what seemed to be a brilliant idea at the time ? jump starting the blasted thing. All went well at first, but when The Noise tried to actually get the engine running again, it started before he was properly ready, and as a result, the poor sod ended up straining just about every stomach muscle there was to strain.

Result? He?s now on the sick, and taking very strong painkillers ? and I know they are, as they?re precisely the same ones I?m on ? every four hours or so. Definitely not a happy bunny, shall we say. Oh, well ? at least he didn?t end up wired up to an ECG machine like I did last Friday. All part and parcel of checking out my high blood pressure, apparently. The ironic bit? When we were discussing the subject of incapacity benefit the other Saturday, The Noise was loudly bemoaning the fact that he could never get sick enough to be ?properly? sick, if you get my drift! That?ll learn him.

Did his painful ailment stop him yakking en-route to White Hart Lane, though? Did it hell. I?m now firmly convinced that come the Last Trump, God will delay passing judgment on all those sinners American fundamentalists keep warning us about purely and simply because he?s just tried to cross verbal swords with Martin, got the worst of the argument, then found it nigh-on impossible to shut the guy up afterwards. Assuming he could get a word in edgeways, of course.

And while we were nattering about our various ailments ? today, it was incredible to think that there wasn?t a single one of us in the Dickmobile not taking medicine for some annoying medical condition or another ? there was also news from The Fart about the supporters liaison committee meeting he attended at The Hawthorns the other night. Much to his surprise, the evening?s proceedings were to be doubly-blessed by the presence of not only Jeremy Peace, but Brian Robson also. More about what transpired comes next Tuesday, but suffice for the moment to say that The Fart told us he felt the vibes he was getting from the club these days were a lot more positive than those we?d been getting just a few months previously.

Talking about The Fart, it appears he?s been at it again. Taking pics of celebs in theatre-land, I mean. This time, the ?victim? was someone from Corrie called ?Susie?; don?t ask me who, because my knowledge of soaps is about as sparse as the total amount of grassland normally to be found in the Sahara. And yes ? he?s got the obligatory picture, and what?s more, we saw it today. Just as well we did see that pic because while The Noise had been holding forth, we?d hit the tail end of what seemed to be the mother of all traffic jams. Sure, we knew the hold up was between both Luton turn-offs of the M1, but what we didn?t know was the extent of the problem. Which brings me to the usual gripe: problem? What problem? Nary a trashed vehicle, trail of broken glass or police vehicle to be seen anywhere.

There may not have been a lot happening on the motorway, but by looking at the lowering clouds in front of us, we were certainly going to hit a kings-sized problem once well and truly in the metropolis. And even the weather seemed to have similar ideas; outside the M25 orbital route, everything was sunny and light; penetrate further into the City, however, and naught save a highly-informal high-power cold shower awaited. And you certainly couldn?t have sued. Just off the M25 orbital, and in the general direction of where we wanted to go was a place that rejoiced in the name of ?Freezy Water, and the head reaschers?.

No time to go back to check; it was noses to the grindstone to churn out another ?zine (or at least grab some material for subsequent printing while we were there today). What we did do instead though, was go into a pub near the ground, one we frequented some three seasons ago, the last time they played us in the League. And it?s not a bad old place, is the Park Inn. No piped music perpetrating direct assaults upon your lugholes this time, what you saw - football, pure and simple - on those screens tonight was king. The d?cor, varying shades of plum, set off quite nicely by little touches of brass here and there, was also a revelation. But those screens were the thing that drew ?em in; several of the ?normal? variety scattered around the room, and a thundering big one for the end. The main difference between last time and this was the huge drop in the number of Albion folkies bothering to fetch up in there. When we last played them in the League, we practically took the place over. There was one single solitary guy wearing an Albion shirt stuck in one corner, so The Fart was duly dispatched to deal with him.

Walking from the pub to the ground proved to be quite an adventure. Rozzers everywhere, as were stewards, and still only dribs and drabs of our faithful to see. And we got held up at the level crossing. Not by Dick Turpin and his mob, just a local stopping train bimbling in its own slow, slow way towards the suburbs. Signs of a flourishing multicultural society were everywhere; it seemed lovers of Eastern Mediterranean cookery couldn?t go wrong ? well, at least the huge bag of chips on offer represented decent value for money. Gone, and in a flash. As The Noise remarked later on: ?Incredible, a bookies, a chippy, and a pub, and all together ? what else do you want in life?? Another interesting touch; it turned out that one of the kiosks flogging programmes for today?s game also happened to sell their ruddy fanzine as well. And yes, before you ask, we were tempted considerably to approach these gentlemen and, pointing to the programme, ask: ?Er ? is that the fanzine??

Meanwhile, I was absolutely soaked to the skin. It simply isn?t cricket when your hubby cruelly sends you out to find pictures, and while doing so, you end up absolutely saturated, trousers, the lot. One minute I was bathed in the lovely golden light you get come the set of sun, the next, I was watching the precipitation descend in quantity ? hell, the stuff was practically bouncing off the pavement. And, once I?d returned (squelched?) to base, it appeared the fanzine business was somewhat indifferent also; we?d brought loads with us, but of that, not a small proportion of our stock still remained in situ. Still loads of Baggies to natter to, though, one lot being Dave Watkin and his party and yes ? he?s still going strong on the old away match-attendance front. What would it take to divert Dave from his appointed weekly task, I wonder? A nuclear strike?

At least the weather had improved vastly by then, which is more than can be said for the dryness of my clothing. Giving it up as a bad job, finally, we made our way inside, then, to our seats. About ten minutes spare before the action started so more time to grab some additional photographic stuff ? ground shots, the crowd, that sort of thing. We?d already heard there were to be quite a few changes made, but we took the view we?d believe ?em when we saw ?em. And, when the two sides emerged from the tunnel, and team-sheets were read out, it did chuck up a number of surprises for us.

Firstly, Darren Purse was definitely out; a bit of a bombshell, that, as I?d thought he would have been told he was living in the Last Chance Saloon, then left to sort his game out on that basis. Oh, well, at least he?d get a rest on the bench. Tommy Gaardsoe was given a chance to impress in Purse?s old slot, Albrechtsen was shifted to right back, while Scimeca got a game on the basis of Richardson being Cup-tied for this one. Most unexpected of all was the return of Jason Koumas to the first-team fold, back this time because of Greening?s suspension. Kanu was brought back in from the cold, while Earnie (possibly because of his Wales commitments earlier in the week) was rested on the bench.

Off we went, and as we did so, the game seemed to assume a similar pattern to that of our more recent encounters. Right from the off, it was our lot that gained the ascendancy, and within a matter of minutes, the Spurs goal suddenly found itself the subject of a variety of assaults on its peace of mind. First of all, Kanu gave their keeper something to really worry about, and not long after that, Gera, making a thorough nuisance of himself on the flanks, nearly set us up for a first.

All that sustained pressure simply had to tell, though, and come the eleventh minute, we got the break we wanted. A strike surprisingly simple in its execution, as well. Once more, it was Gera, on the right, that did the bulk of the damage, thanks to a back-heeled ball supplied to our tame Hungarian by Campbell. One The Mighty Zoltan got the thing, there was no stopping the lad; away went the cross, low, mean and nasty, and up popped Kanu, who didn?t miss for once. In plopped the header, with their keeper well beaten; in fact, when I saw the incident on TV after my return, I swore blind the guy had a classical ?Mayor Of Hiroshima? moment on his line.

?Wan-nil to the Albion?.? sang the faithful, and in suitably lusty manner, too. And we ?Boinged? just to demonstrate to the rest of the country that although we might be dead, we certainly weren?t going to be buried. As for the Spurs bits, the only thing one could discern right then was the ?Sound Of Silence?, as performed by that defensive duo, Simon And Garfunkel. Another thought, and, in retrospect, a maddening one; what a pity we couldn?t have further added to the tally while they were reeling. First of all Campbell had a go and was unlucky not to net, and with a quarter of an hour of the game gone, it then became a del between the two Paul Robinsons. Ours letting fly with an almighty belter, and his Spurs counterpart practically busting a gut to keep the effort out.

Sure, everything was going our way right then, but suddenly, they managed to find, then exploit, our weak spot, which was on the right flank. Time and time again the home side pumped ball in that area, and we were experiencing considerable difficulty trying to nullify the danger. And that wasn?t all; in an ominous foretaste of what they had in store, suddenly we were finding that our offside trap wasn?t working all that well any more. On one particular occasion, around the 23rd minute, they had us cold; luckily, Houlty caught the ball one-handed.

Mind you, just a minute after that saw Jason Koumas back to his old self; we had the ball, it neded up at his feet, then Our Jase went on to charge upfield like a battering-ram on acid, leaving one, two, three Tottenham lads all stabbing wildly at a bloke and ball that simply weren?t there any more, then running on to get the shot away. Dealt with by their defence, and easier than I would have liked, but wonderful just to watch and marvel at what rich manner of skills was on display out there.

And, off the pitch, our faithful were all giving it big licks for the cameras. First of all, our old friends The Dingles got heaps of abuse, just for being, well, Dingles! The goal celebrations and their aftermath apart, I made it around 20 minutes of solid insult, then, when we?d finished mocking them and their efforts, we then moved on to the contentious subject of the unspeakable people residing just a couple of miles away from The Hawthorns. Never let it be said we?re habitually less than generous to our claret and blue chums!

Then just two minutes after the singing died down, a sight, glorious in itself, I?d despaired of ever seeing again from an Albion side. We had the ball, Spurs were running around like headless chickens, then off we went. Pass, pass, pass ? pause ? pass again, ten, eleven, twelve, and still no sign of Spurs winning the ball back. Nearly in their box, and still we had the bladder ? thirteen fourteen fifteen. By now, there were discernible squawks amidst the ranks of: ?Bluddy ?ell!? and that tried and trusted Black Country all-purpose oath, ?Cow me?? A shame the final Campbell shot went wide, turned out for a corner by a panicky Spurs defence, but oh so good to watch, all that delicate approach work, those shimmying scintillating skills, just like the days when our current manager was rather more than just a spectator. I?d love to know what went through the minds of all the little kids in our end right then. This sort of play, silky, scintillating, ?tippy-tappy? some might call it, must have seemed like something emanating from a totally different planet to the one they?d inhabited these last three or four years.

And, in response to such wonderful entertainment, a great chorus from our end of ?It?s just like watching Brazil!? Hyperbole absolutely slathered onto the bread, of course, but totally sincere, none the less. And even at the opposite end, when Spurs did set up their guys for a blast, they were blowing it, totally and utterly. Defoe, for example, blasting magnificently over from about six or seven yards out. Should have picked him up better mind, but that was bye the bye.

And then, with around five minutes to the interval, came the decision that could never be right in a million years. As I said in my opening preamble, whenit came to nominative determinism, today?s referee, Rob Styles, certainly stuck it on us, and with the emphasis definitely on the ?Rob? bit of the monicker. Houlty, realising he was losing the race between him and Kelly for possession, dived at the Spurs man?s feet ? and as far as I could see (being only a few rows away from the touchline and on the left-hand side of the post, the angles were perfect), managed to get a fingertip to the ball, his opponent seemingly stumbling over him as he did so. Houlty was clearly clobbered, so a foul to us, I thought ? but, nope. According to the genius in the black, Houlty was adjudged to have been at fault, and he pointed to the spot.

Now hang on a cotton-pickin? minute, here. Houlty actually got a touch, the other guy collapsed like a sack of spuds. Sure, there was a collision, mainly because human bodies lack braking systems and two bodies belting towards one another at speed are bound to smash together. Sometimes it?;s accidental, sometimes, there?s a little more to it, but of one thing I?m certain. Whoever was at fault, it certainly wasn?t our keeper, and just to add insult to (literal!) injury, after three minutes of on-pitch treatment, he had to be taken off with concussion. As The Noise was to remark later on, when aping the programme notes: ?Russell Hoult. Brought a player down with his head!? On came our reserve keeper with the impossible name (sorry Dot!). He did his best, but was sent the wrong way by the taker, Keane. Top Of The Pops in our end after that? The one directed at their home counterparts: ?You only sing when you?re cheating!?

During the interval, the people responsible for replays on the big screen decided to run that incident again, and for reasons best known to themselves. Big mistake. If anything, it only served to highlight the complete and utter stuff-up Styles had made of the entire thing, and that?s putting it in charitable form. And as the whole unsavoury episode lurched wildly to its fateful denouement once more, much jeering could be heard from our bit of the away end. If that was a bloody penalty, then I?m Cleopatra; the replay only served to highlight the complete and utter justice of our cause. And what was the lino doing? Picking the crunchy bits out of his nose? He was up with the play, he could see just as clearly as I, and yet not a whisper of help did we get from that quarter.

I don?t suppose Rob Styles is the sort of bloke to openly admit he made an almighty boo-boo that time ? again, I?m being most charitable in my assessment of all this ? but if he has any vestige of a conscience at all, he should be waking in the night thoroughly ashamed of that decision. And as for those we laughingly call ?the assessors? howzabout sparking off massed heart attacks in West Bromwich by actually doing something about it? Anyone with even a grain of common sense could see through what happened both front and back.

Rant over. The trouble was, after that, what with the keeper change and everything, the stuffing was completely knocked out of us, and no wonder. We simply weren?t the same side that so totally stole the show that first half. For the home side, the game then became an absolute doddle. Around five minutes after the restart, our bosom pal the referee had yet another sizeable chunk of hand in the proceedings. The incident was an alleged hand-ball, and just outside our box, Robinson being the bloke adjudged to have been the offender. Even when viewed in a bad light, you had to say the call was dubious, to put it mildly. Since when has it been an offence for the ball to hit someone?s bloody body? I looked at The Noise, and The Noise looked at me ? and we both simultaneously swore he was making it up on the spot just for a laugh.

Well, that was all they needed, wasn?t it? Not content with snatching the equaliser in true Bonnie and Clyde fashion, they then took the lead via yet another dubious refereeing call. The kicker sent the ball to Defoe, who then buried it from around 20 yards out. Not long after that, with around 55 minutes on the clock, we saw the one and only ?legitimate? Spurs goal of the entire game ? duly converted by Defoe again, and unmarked, as well. Poor Kusczack, he really had no chance.

After that little lot, the result was a foregone conclusion. Sure, Robbo tried changing things ? Earnie was brought on at the expense of Kanu, who looked cream-crackered, and in the 69th, O?Connor was introduced for Scimeca, which used up all our permitted subs ? but we?d had it. And, before anyone rushes to condemn Kuszczac for what happened out there, let it be known he was instrumental in preventing us conceding even more. On at least two occasions, he made fine saves indeed, and seemed to grow in stature as the second half unfolded. Being chucked on when your side?s just conceded a penalty and your first-choice counterpart has been taken off injured, isn?t an ideal way of making a debut on Spurs home ground, is it?

And we might even have nicked another right at the death; once more, the referee?s distinctly eclectic style made a distinct imprint upon the course of the game. The free-kick, for us that time, was totally farcical; even a bug-eyed, three-legged Martian would have absolved Spurs of guilt, but get the free-kick we did, so time to bring Clem up from the back. Spurs formed their wall, sure, and well, but Clem blasted through it like it wasn?t there, and for once that half, their keeper had to really shift to prevent it counting. Another Spurs effort later, repulsed by the keeper with the funny name, and we were well and truly out of the competition for another year.

Annoying? Too true, blue. I don?t mind losing fair and square; when a side?s played better than ours, then I?ll quite happily say so. One thing I admire about the game is when it?s played in its purest form. But to lose in these circumstances, and to something so ?iffy?, gets my hate glands producing in overdrive every time I think about it? Well?.. The Noise has his own theory on the subject of what happened today, and it runs as a corollary to the thoughts I had recently about certain events in the German League, when some referees were found to have been on the ?payroll? of a betting syndicate there. I?m not saying definitively that what happened today was as bent as a nine-bob note, but in view of what?s happened elsewhere, you do have to wonder sometimes.

General thoughts, again, but there?s so much moolah currently sloshing around our domestic game, loot from sponsors, corporate hospitality, money from Sky, prize-money amassed from an FA Cup run, and so forth, plus the unaccountable squillions circulating around the murky little worlds of the betting fraternity, both Oriental and Occidental, I adamantly refuse to believe for one moment that the sort of thing I?ve mentioned does not and cannot happen in this country. Yes, today?s penalty, and the circumstances surrounding the award were so bad they were good; surely people who?ve been pulling that sort of stunt in the Far East for yonks could contrive to fix things in a far more convincing manner than today?s almighty mullock. Trouble is, though, with every inept and totally-unprofessional refereeing decision that?s made, there will always be hanging around the minds of supporters like a bad smell the depressing thought that sometimes, it?s not necessarily the best side that wins in the English pro game.

Lose that basic belief in the complete integrity of the game?s administrators and officials, and every single facet of the football infrastructure is totally stuffed. Once enough supporters come to realise that what they see on the pitch isn?t necessarily what?s going to happen according to the script, is quite simply influenced elsewhere by an unseen hand, then you?re in deep trouble. Don?t think it could happen here? What about the foreign syndicate that tried to influence payouts by electronically knackering the floodlights at several London grounds?

Once that sort of mentality takes hold, even the most routine of refereeing decisions then gets viewed in a totally different light by the playing public. Is he on the take, or isn?t he? If he is, how much do we have to wave under his nose to ?buy? him for the entire 90 minutes? Get to that stage, and you might as well throw in the towel. Or even worse, ban the game entirely. Not that the wheelers and dealers would mind, of course. As Joni Mitchell once sang, ?You don?t know what you?ve got ?till it?s gone?.?

 - Glynis Wright

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