The Diary

28 February 2005: Bulls, Baggies, and Balderdash.

Oh, dear. As if things weren?t bad enough, there was the awful reality of the Palace-Blues game to accept last Saturday. And the Southampton draw with The Arse as well. Well, I mean, you would have thought that Steve Bruce might have wanted to help an old Man United mucker of his out a bit, wouldn?t you? Apparently not, it would seem; the final score, of course, was Palace 2, That Awful Lot In Small Heath 0. What made that result even more galling was the fact that both Palace strikes came from penalties; ten, is it, thus far this season, and eight converted? Having just calculated Palace?s spot-kick success on the non-smoker?s equivalent of the back of a fag-packet, I?ve probably got that figure totally wrong, so if anyone can enlighten me further, be my guest. How come bloody Palace catch the ref?s eye time and time again when there?s skulduggery afoot in the box? And not once per game, twice? That?s what I?d ransom my very soul to know right now. Not entirely sour grapes either; I can think of moments aplenty this season when we should have earned a spot-kick or three for our pains, but got sod-all, and so can you, I?ll wager.

The sole consolation for what has been a shitty day all round for me? That Norwich-Man City game tonight; the home side having taken a two-goal lead, I was expecting to hear the overweight opera diva limbering up her ample vocal chords in anticipation of a May Hawthorns booking come the end of the game, but just before I retired to finish off this piece, ?Im Indoors told me that Keegan?s lot had managed to pull it back. Thinking that despite all that, the Mancs would then concede again ? aw, you know what they can be like, sometimes, you?ve only to think briefly about the four points we smash-and-grabbed from them earlier this season to work that one out ? I carried on in depressive ignorance, only for my other half to inform me later that the visitors had snatched it after all, and just to rub it in, during the last minute of normal time! That teaches me to keep my big gob shut then doesn?t it?

Of one thing I?m sure, though; what happened down Selhurst Park this weekend more or less killed off any lingering hopes we might have had of pulling ourselves out of this almighty mess, so at least there?s not the awful weight of hope, of desperation, even, hanging around our necks like the doomed albatross of Ancient Mariner fame. Some are now saying that Sunday?s encounter with Blues is a must-win game - such head-in-the-sand-type talk is driving me completely nuts. This far, we?ve played nine or so ?must-wins? this season, and when push came to shove, we didn?t win a single one. How clearly, or boldly do I have to spell it out? What bit of ?IT?S OVER!? do people not understand? It?s next season we have to look to now; the Prem?s finished: kaput, finito, reached the terminal point of its existence for us, even. Oh, sod it; where?s John Cleese when you really need him?

The weekend?s depressing results aside, Monday has always been a bad day for me, and lacking Bob Geldof?s enterprise in making a hit record about an American schoolgirl?s own antipathy towards that day of the week, and the deadly results it then produced, this one wasn?t any exception. The practice nurse having extracted a Tony Hancock quantity of the red stuff - ?How much? That?s nearly an armful!? - from my very reluctant vein about ten days ago, I proceeded to our GP surgery this morning to get the results.

The good news? Hmmm. I didn?t have kidney disease, thyroid gland underproduction, or any of the other pathological nasties they looked for in their retort and test-tube riddled chemical den. The bad? Apparently my cholesterol levels are so elevated right now, they?re in grave danger of leaving the Earth?s gravitational field for good. Combine that with their previous finding of raised blood pressure, and the overall inference was that Something Had To Be Done. (It?s just as well they didn?t test me immediately after the Saints game, then; they would have been eagerly writing the whole thing up for The Lancet right now, wouldn?t they?) The answer? As I suspected, more bloody pills. Plus (and the bit I don?t fancy at all) cutting down on all the stuff I really love, like fresh cream cakes, warm bread absolutely slathered with ?proper? butter, that sort of thing. The rate I?m going, you?ll know when I?m around purely by listening for the rattling sound I?ll make when walking.

One of these days, some white-haired old fart of a psychologist or other will sit me down in a nice darkened room, then quietly proceed to explain (in words consisting of several syllables, no doubt) just what it is about professional footballers that makes them tick. Why? Because on Friday, having turned straight to the back pages of the dailies as was my usual wont, amidst all the usual stuff, I spotted something that truly made my jaw drop about six feet on reading it. The fact I?m only five-three tall is neither here or there, but the mandible-descending fraternity at large may be very interested indeed in the subject-matter of the article in question, viz: a certain Mister Scott Dobie, formerly of Millwall and The Baggies, now a member of the Nottingham Forest first-team squad, managed, of course by that famous champion of enlightened and totally non-judgemental leadership styles, Gary Megson.

On first scrutiny of the wretched piece, which runs only to a matter of a paragraph or two in most of Friday?s papers, a reader knowing nothing whatsoever about the various upheavals formerly taking place at our favourite football club would probably shrug their shoulders, casually dismiss the whole shooting-match as a low-key bit of business conducted between the two respective clubs, then move on to more newsworthy items, such as what ghastly name the Beckhams have already decided to inflict upon their (coming soon to a press release near you, no doubt) fourth sprog. Or why it is Tony Blair still wears that cheesy grin of his when on the box? But being Baggies, and therefore having something of a vested interest in the first news item (Dobes, not Becks, of course, and certainly not Tony Blair!), we?re all privy to considerably more, aren?t we?

Like how pleased the aforementioned former Albonite was when previous gaffer Gary Megson left his life for good a few months back? Well that?s what the Sun exclusive said at the time, so my oldest sister gleefully informed me one damp and dismal Friday night awhile ago. Poured his poor ickle heart out to the journo penning the piece, he did, and by doing so, made his erstwhile manager out to look awfully like a combination of celluloid martinet Captain Queeg (as per the ?Caine Mutiny?, fictional 50?s Hollywood effort starring Humphrey Bogart as the deranged leader), General Patton ( Queeg, but factual, US Army, four gold stars on his ample shoulders, plus trademark pearl-handled pistols), with a strong element of Bobby Gould - no further explanation considered necessary - chucked in for good measure. The late Ayatollah Khomeni? Pass.

By then, Dobes was at Millwall; a surprise move, I?d thought at the time. When we interviewed him for the fanzine a couple of seasons before, he certainly didn?t come over as a lad hankering badly for the bright lights of the metropolis: quite the opposite, in fact. But we reasoned that as Danny Dichio was already there, at least he?d start at The New Den knowing someone well already, which is a big ?plus? if you?re moving from pleasant rural surroundings to the crazy and crowded capital because of your job, believe you me. And I was doubly pleased for the lad insofar as he?d finally got shut of his alleged tormentor. And, once he?d gone, that Sun interview apart and his name sometimes appearing in various Sunday rags as a Millwall goalscorer, that was the end of the matter ? until last Friday, and the piece that gave my jawbone that painful gravitationally-assisted plunge in the first place.

Which is where you lot out there come in. Am I missing something here, or is it just me that needs a good hour somewhere quiet to get all this straight in my head? Dobes leaves us ostensibly to get the hell away from The Ginger One, he finally fetches up about as far away as he possibly can from the bloke, scores a few goals as well ? only for both Millwall and Forest to subsequently agree a fee, leaving just a bitsy haggling over personal terms to be sorted? (Late news flash: Adie Stovell, our fitness coach, has also headed on out to The City Ground! Getting pretty cosy, isn?t it ? who?s next, I wonder?) All that, just to rejoin someone who he wouldn?t have even urinated on if he were burning just a few months previously? And not only that, to go straight from an established First Division club ? or Championship one, whatever, with slight ambitions of doing better ? to an outfit that?s about 95 per cent guaranteed to be playing in The League That Time Forgot come next August? And, what?s more, to do so in the face of much interest from decently-placed-in-the-table Preston North End (again: some might recall Albion beat the Deepdale mob to Dobes?s signature when he finally decided to leave Carlisle United), which is much more handily placed for travel to his home turf, Cumbria, and doesn?t have the nearest thing to a modern-day incarnation of a Roman slave-driver in charge?

The entire episode doesn?t half remind me of the time the late and most certainly unlamented Alan Buckley left our place for the variously sybaritic (and piscine) delights to be found at Grimsby Town. Just like Megson, he left in his snarling wake a fair few Albion players who?d all solemnly avowed not only to damn him to hell, but to point out the likely itinerary as well; people like Kevin Donovan and Smudger Smith. All of whom, in best murder-mystery style, had means, motive and opportunity, and would have featured prominently on any list of suspects had some disgruntled Albion player or other opted to risk his lifelong liberty by actually doing the deadly deed.

At supporters club meetings and elsewhere, Smudger had lamented at great length on how he could actually see the Coventry motorway junction from his house, yet despite Smudge?s earnest pleas to do so, the gaffer adamantly-refused to divert the team coach momentarily to pick him up for overnight stays, insisting that the midfielder must drive every time to West Bromwich to meet the coach. They also described in meticulous detail Buckley?s 45-minute long post-match rants if the team had lost. The conclusion was quite clear ? they jointly loathed and detested Alan Buckley, and the day he departed would be one of great celebration. Not long afterwards, Jeff Astle?s former neighbour was finally put out of his managerial misery. Tail between his legs, Bucko headed straight back to Fishtown - then quickly returned to WBA. To buy who? Yep - David Smith, and Kevin Donovan.

Which brings me back to the present day. As far as Dobes is concerned, should you badly need a good vomit to rid yourself of some recent excess or other, simply turn to the Forest official website, eyeball their interview with the now-sycophantic lad ? and prepare to worship The Big White Porcelain God for an awfully long time. ?I owe the gaffer so much; he gave me my big chance at West Brom and it?s thanks to him I played in the Premiership?.? is one of the less-sickly quotes. Yuk. Oh dear, Sigmund Freud, we certainly have need of you, even though it?s been around 66 years since your death. Footballers, huh? Shouldn?t be allowed out on their own, I say.

In the total absence of any Albion action, how did we spend last Saturday? Why, at Eastwood Town, down in the depths of darkest Nottinghamshire. The chap I mention below apart, Eastwood also has a very significant place in the annals of Albion history, and one that equates it, with, say, Mecca, and the Islamic faith; it?s the birthplace of Jeff Astle, our true King. (There really should be a blue commemorative plate on the front of the house where he drew his first breath - anyone fancy lobbying Eastwood Council, then?) Although (by his own admission) his family didn?t have much in the way of money to chuck around when he was small, because it was very cheap activity indeed, the one thing Jeff liked to do in his youth was indulge in constant kickabouts, five-a-sides, whatever, on what various bits of greenery there was to be found in that grimy and gritty pit town. And, as the tall gangly lad hammered in the goals along with his mates, sometimes, there would be a much younger kid looking wistfully upon proceedings from afar. So sorry did Jeff eventually feel for this snotty-nosed Billy-No-Mates, he?d let him join in, more often than not. I often wondered afterwards whether Jeff?s altruistic act was more of an annoyance for us Baggies than a blessing. The name of this woebegotten little interloper? Alan Buckley.

Those of a literary bent will also know the place is rather well known for another very good, though lesser, reason ? well, to a Baggie it is; hey, let?s get a sense of proportion, here! Yep, it?s also the birthplace of D. H. Lawrence, author. Who?s he? The chap who ruffled Establishment feathers very badly indeed the day he first put pen to paper to produce ?Lady Chatterley?s Lover?, a tale of unbridled love between a very refined lady indeed, and her own personal ?bit of rough?, her game keeper, Mellors, and also noted for Lawrence?s liberal usage of fruity four-letter language throughout.

That raunchy work also has a claim to fame all of its very own; for being the spark that first ignited the conflagration that would radically change British censorship laws when applied to works of avowed ?literary and artistic merit?. Some of you trainee Old Farts out there may recall, like me, the prosecuting counsel?s famous remarks when summing up the early sixties indecency case against the paperback publishers for the benefit of the jury: ?Is this a book you would want your wife, or your servants, to read?? Not quite word for word, but the general gist of the meaning is there, all right. Thanks to the subsequent ?not guilty? verdict, the way was cleared for much less State interference in such matters thereafter ? unsurprisingly, because of all the free publicity, subsequent sales of Lawrence?s naughty book went right through the roof - and although obviously quite unaware of the implications for British society when they brought in that verdict, the jury actually laid the foundations for what would later be known as ?The Swinging Sixties?. These days, you can find Lawrence?s works being used as set books for older kids in schools; any takers on a bet that bewigged, but totally out of touch barrister is probably doing 45 rpm in his grave right now?

What was the game like? Well, let me put it this way: when was the last time you saw a fixture fulfilled on a pitch that bore more resemblance to a World War One battlefield than that of a ground belonging to a Unibond League side? Appropriately enough, situated within two hundred or so yards of the ground was the town?s war memorial to all those Sherwood Foresters - words taken from The Pilgrim?s Progress: ?So, he passed over, and the trumpets sounded for him on the other side? adorn the base, rather than something from the Bible, surprisingly enough - who fell in that conflict. From there, it was just a short walk to the nearest pub to the place, one called ?The Man in Space?, strangely enough.

Is that name an oblique reference to the first manned space flight conducted by Yuri Gagarin in 1961, or simply due homage paid to Town?s coaching philosophy, I wonder? After all, the ground is situated just around the corner. There?s another alternative, though; an apt description of the awful state some of the local teenagers get into once they?ve splurged all their dosh (or the proceeds of petty crime) on their addictive drug of choice. No joke, this, although I sincerely wish it were otherwise. When Thatcher closed most pits not long after the disastrous miners strike of the mid-eighties, Nottinghamshire communities like Eastwood were hit bloody hard; with most main breadwinners thrown on the dole, or reduced to taking ?MacJobs? just to keep the wolf from the door, whole communities, once so strong, so purposeful, so proud, simply withered on the vine. Kids who once would have automatically followed their dads down the pit simply couldn?t get work any more, and lacking sufficient skills to qualify them for much else, mentally threw in the towel. The result? Well, you?ve all heard of the phrase: ?The Devil finds work for idle hands to do? haven?t you? That was certainly true of Eastwood, and other towns like it. Sensing easy pickings, it didn?t take long for the pushers to move in, and all the usual dependency-linked crime ? burglary, robbery, handling stolen goods, etc. - to mushroom. Despite the best efforts of various substance-abuse charities working with those kids since then, a fair proportion still have a heroin problem a mile high.

But back to the football. Once out of the pub, we then shifted ourselves the very short distance to the ground itself ? and were somewhat taken aback to discover a queue of South African election proportions already snaking sinuously from the single turnstile there was for the home punters. Blimey, how long would it take us to get to the front, I wondered. But we needn?t have worried; within minutes, up popped an elderly-looking chap in an orange coat to inform us all of the presence of another entrance, bashfully hiding from its public behind the corner of the social club building ? so off we popped there instead.

Once in, I didn?t half experience a sharp sense of culture-shock: not for a very long time indeed have I seen a pitch so awful in appearance. Derby, Leicester, even, in the seventies and eighties; I recall all those and shudder horribly, but this one? Yep, strong elements of those two, all right ? but with enough added sand to create a convincing imitation of Blackpool Pleasure Beach, plus a wide grassless strip that extended in either direction to both goalmouths? The only parts of that pitch not resembling a primaeval swamp on a bad day were both flanks; even so, those few blades of grass trying to eke out a precarious existence there seemed to be giving up the will to live as well. Clearly, someone had put in a great deal of time and effort just to get the damn game played at all.

Bad news for the Bulls persuasion, really, the greater part of their playing philosophy being centred around constant worship of those two well-known footballing deities, Pass and Move. To have even attempted to put that mantra into practice on that dreadful playing surface would be courting disaster. To be honest, all I could predict was a 90-minute slog-fest amidst all that claggy ooze, players of both sides being kicked into orbit, almost, on a regular basis, and may the best man ? or the luckiest ? win. You?ve all, no doubt, heard ad nauseam the phrase "old fashioned cup tie"? Well, that?s the very description needed to do justice to this particular game, the meaning becoming crystal clear when you think about it. Before the days when Premier League sides put their reserves out, before the days of immense Sky TV overkill, billiard-baize pitches, and the massively-overhyped rest of it, this game was a true throwback to the days when gutsy part-timers gleefully Cup-battled with their full-time professional counterparts, with very little of the media razzamatazz now associated with such uneven encounters. And indomitable the opposition were indeed, with a combination of the ?hurling-bodies-in-the-way-of-attackers-and-sod-the-damage-it-causes-to-me? school of defending, a cute pair of forwards, who on Saturday?s showing, truly deserved a crack at higher level football, and several well rehearsed set piece moves. I must also add to that little lot the surprising description ?legal?. How come? Because, unlike a fair few lower non-league sides facing loftier opponents, their game-plan was mainly based on legitimate play, with very little of the expected kicking of their "massive" opponents skywards to be seen at all.

For the first half, The Bulls were kicking towards the home end; not that much of a hindrance, you might think - but when factored into an equation that included not only the dreadful condition of the playing surface, but a highly-visible upward slope towards that end, and also incorporating, from left to right, a similarly-daunting ascent towards the right flank corner-flag, you could rightly say they had a bit of a problem out there. Anything Hereford tried to do on the attacking front foundered and floundered spectacularly in the gloopy mud-and-sand mixture out there ? and that bloody awful slope. Not that the home side were doing any better, mind; despite their best efforts to break the deadlock, The Bulls defence held strong in a manner that was highly creditable. Incidentally, there was even more of an ex-Albion presence to their line-up than was the case the last time I saw them play; not only were young Tam Mkandawire and Danny Carey-Bertram starting, the ex-Throstle persuasion was further augmented by the appearance of young Brian Smikle, on loan from us for the remainder of the season, in their midfield ranks. (Coincidentally, there were two more with that name playing for the other side. Couldn?t have been related, though; theirs was spelt ?Smeikle?!) At first, so well was he playing, and not realising the deal had been quietly done, because of an outward similarity in appearance, we wrongly assumed another good young loan player, from Bristol Rovers, had returned for yet another spell with the Bulls.

Half-time, then, off trooped both sides, looking visibly drained by the experience, and on trooped one of the groundstaff ? no doubt hoiked back from a protracted spell in the bar of their social club, where he?d been found crying quietly into his beer because of what the game and adverse weather had done to his beloved piece of green swarth, I wonder? ? and bearing a thundering great roller, to great cries of derision from a fair proportion of the Bulls followers massed behind that goal. Poor sod; it?s at times like that you must think seriously about running away from it all and joining the bloody Foreign Legion instead. Not that a mere roller could have done anything to perk up that awful surface, mind; by that stage, only a small nuclear strike with the centre-circle designated ?ground zero? could have improved matters. Still, a gold star for trying, I suppose.

As for the second period, because The Bulls had been kicking towards the ?shallow end? in the first half, it was anticipated that come the second, the considerable downward and leftward slope would greatly assist both midfield and strikers. And, at first, that?s the way it panned out; wave after constant wave of Bulls attacks, and the Unibond League side were really rocking, only a matter of time, surely, before the visitors took the lead ? and then ?it? happened. ?It? being an Eastwood smash-and-grab raid in Bulls territory, totally against the run of play. Bulls reinforcements steamed back at a rate of knots to negate the danger: once, twice, three times, their defenders tried to effect a booted clearance, but instead of bouncing harmlessly away as intended, every time they did so, the bloody ball landed with an audible ?plop? into the sticky morass that laughingly called itself a football field. Three times the visitors got away with it, but the fourth time, they didn?t ? Town eagerly grabbed that gargantuan slice of luck, over the ball went from the left, up popped the Eastwood lad Knox, and one-nil to them it was.

Not in the script at all, that bit; stung considerably by the awful manner in which they?d conceded, they then tried like stink to get the game back, but having taken that unexpected lead, the Eastwood lads clung onto it like limpets on a rock weathering out a particularly stormy battering from the briny. Try as they might, The Bulls simply couldn?t make progress, and it began to look as though a famous victory was on the cards ? until the referee?s intervention, with around 10 minutes remaining. And do you know what? I?ve racked my brains ever since, and I still can?t work out why the guy awarded Hereford a penalty in the first place ? but he did. Talk about a ?get out of jail card?? Gratefully, The Bulls potted that gurt great dollop of Hartley?s jam plonked on a plate for them, then made huge efforts to pull off the late away victory afterwards ? when you?ve an overcrowded calendar like theirs, the last thing you really need is rematches adding to the problem ? but in the end, a draw it was, with the replay taking place at Edgar Street tomorrow night.

Despite the bitter cold, it all made for riveting entertainment, and had the cameras been there, great telly; the sort of death or glory action that Sky really love. What a pity their coverage doesn't extend down this far. And, the final score being one-one, what a pity for Hereford's weary limbs that they've now got to do it all over again. I'll guess I'll be there: 'Im Indoors anticipates my company at the next six consecutive Hereford games now that Albion have practically given up playing on a Saturday. Oh well ? at least the bookshops there are good, and it being, literally, ?a level playing field? ? not to mention a much less muddy one! ? I daresay Simon?s other love will ultimately triumph.

And, barring some stupendous news item or other from The Shrine in the meantime, back on Saturday night to pick the bones from out of Sunday?s Blues game, and to chew the fat with you lot about various other Baggies-related issues. Not that it?ll really matter, of course. The only thing left to play for now is a better finishing place in the table; it?s worth a cool half a million prize-money for every rung you?ve managed to ascend come the time the last day rolls around.

And finally?. Thought For The Day (Many thanks to ?Phil? for this, by the way). His helpful suggestion? Instead of forking out ?400 for a season-ticket next season, why not spend the money on a much-needed holiday break instead? Like Florida, for example? As Phil said, Christ knows where they would have ended up had they actually won the bloody Southampton game!

 - Glynis Wright

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