The Diary

22 March 2005: Charlton 1 Albion 4 - Oh, Whoops!

Yes, I know, you?ve caught us both bang to rights, and yes ? we?re also more than painfully aware that the Charlton tryst probably wasn?t the best of times to abandon an away-following habit fondly nurtured over the course of some 10 traumatic years (that was the last time my other half missed a non-Hawthorns Albion fixture, which is going some, you have to admit), and don?t we both feel pillocks knowing now what we didn?t when making that joint decision to give both our four-one away win, and the midweek Chelski caper a total miss?

Ooops. When it comes to voting on Britain?s All-Time Ghastliest Errors When Seen In Retrospect, I will concede that ours has to figure pretty highly on anyone?s wish-list. A decision about on a par with that of an Astronomer Royal, a complete and utter idiot, who back in 1957 (and just before the USSR let Sputnik One loose upon a totally-astonished world) pronounced publicly that all current speculation about rocketry and space exploration was ?utter bilge?. Or the early 1940 Commons statement made by then Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain where he somewhat rashly declared Hitler had ?missed the bus?. Not bad going, Nev; about three days later, the moustached gentleman with the funny hairstyle and the screechy voice issued the order to invade Norway and the Low Countries, which rapidly led to them totally steamrollering our forces and a rapid Continental exit via Dunkirk. And as for the silly sod who decided pre-war to position Singapore?s artillery defences facing in totally the wrong direction, well, the least said the better. Any road up, whatever the precedent, we did get it spectacularly wrong, and by doing so, missed what turned out to be our best showing in the Prem thus far. Dead envious I was when The Fart told me of his antics that day. Yep, it?s a fair cop, guv, so slap on those steel bracelets without further let or hindrance, if you would, my man.

Looking at our embarrassment from another viewpoint, our non-attendance last Saturday certainly gave those in The West Stand at Hereford United?s ground ample cause for wonderment; when their electronic scoreboard (yes, they have got one, honest!) flashed up the news we?d taken the lead early on, our laconic comment to our chums there being, ?Don?t worry, Charlton will soon equalise!?, and just before the interval, so they did. Come the second half, our prophecy that we?d finish the game with a point at best, seemed well on the way to fulfilment, but about ten minutes before the final whistle at Edgar Street, up flashed that Valley score again ? but this time showing we?d regained the lead, which was why, purely instinctively, I leaped into the air, and shouted ?YESSSSS!? at the top of my voice, which didn?t half alarm the trio of trainee Hooray Henriettas of around young Carly?s age sitting in the row immediately me. Clearly, Roedean (or whatever public school they all attended; they collectively possessed accents plummy enough to put an entire chain of fruiterers completely out of business!) didn?t include such eventualities in their curriculum, hence the filthy but oh-so-refined looks I got afterwards. Not to mention those from other Bulls-watchers, clearly labouring under the belief I?d just taken leave of my senses, and speculating like mad, no doubt, that ?care in the community? had an awful lot to answer for these days.

The really comical bit, though, came after the final whistle. As we were leaving the ground, Hereford?s PA bloke began reading out the final scores, but by the time he reached the Prem, we were heading for the car-park at a rate of knots. You could still discern the PA, though, albeit faintly; my own deafness precluded that, but ?Im Indoors, possessing considerably sharper aural skills than myself, managed to catch ours, just about. ?You know what?? he said, ?I?ve just heard ?Charlton 1, Albion 4?! Can?t be right, surely??..? Clearly, Something Was Going On, and in a feverish endeavour to find out precisely what ? my balance is not of the best these days - I nearly busted an ankle trying to negotiate the varyingly-sized stones and pebbles strewn about the place. But get to The Dickmobile we did, eventually, and turning on the radio, what did we hear? Yep, you?ve got it in one. And, within milliseconds, that car-park being treated to the melodious sound of the pair of us emitting variants on a general theme of ?F***!, F***!? And, just for good measure, yet another heartfelt ?F***!?.

Typical, isn?t it? Think of the downright impossible, or the ruddy ridiculous, and our favourite football club manage to do it every single time! Mind you, the totally surreal bit came much earlier in the week, when we made the journey to the Principality to watch Albion play Chelski on the box. Not too difficult to achieve thorough Welshness, though ? the border?s only around four miles from our holiday home! Just like last October, when we watched The Bulls get whopped by Accrington, Presteigne was our chosen setting-down spot, and The Farmer?s Arms the pub. And once more, the place resembled the aftermath of a radioactively-dirty nuclear war. People? Er ? what people?

This time, because of the freezing temperatures, a lovely coal fire in the bar beckoned, a state of affairs which suited me right down to the ground. I don?t do ?cold? at all well these days - circulation problems, has to be. Unlike the last time we visited, there was only one person to be seen a-supping in that bijou bar when we entered, a chap who drove lorries for a living, and hailed from the Shepton Mallet area down in Somerset, real zoider country. What a job ? apparently, 8% of all monies earned while a-truckin? went to the agency employing the bloke, and an astounding 8K was swallowed up yearly by the trucking equivalent of road tax!

What really added to the surreality of the whole situation, though, was the curious fact there were actually TWO screens on the go in the bar that night; one, the larger of the two, was (soundlessly) showing some programme about public transport in the first half of the last century, while the smaller one dealt exclusively with what was happening at Stamford Bridge that night. And yes ? during those moments when the delights of The Bridge palled slightly, it was perfectly possible to keep tabs on the doings of those ancient trams and choo-choos instead!

It?s certainly an unsettling experience to watch the faces of some very good mates pop up in rapid succession on a TV screen as the Sky cameras roamed and panned around that away end just prior to kick-off. And to hear loud and proud the dulcet tones of ?The Liquidator? belting forth from the Stamford Bridge PA system ? no wusses or prudes among those local plods, obviously! Bet our travelling contingent, all 1,400 of ?em, really appreciated that one! And, as if all that wasn?t sufficient to ensure complete and utter disorientation, all the while that was going on, my other half kept getting messages via his mobile about the miscellaneous doings of Hereford United, who had unfinished FA Trophy business, still, at Hucknall Town. Best not talk about that one, though ? they lost.

As far as the game was concerned, the novelty-value apart, what really struck me was the simple fact that although the home side stuck to the script and scored pretty early on, no matter what they subsequently tried, they just couldn?t improve any on that. It?s all by the bye, now, of course, so I won?t go into minute detail, but at least we acquitted ourselves honourably, and our support was very audible indeed on the box. Highlight of the night? Drogba. The goal apart, every single goalscoring opportunity simply begging to be blasted into the back of the net by this curious chappie was missed by a country mile instead. And, I suppose, you might want to argue that had Kanu potted the black instead of seeing his effort rebound off a Chelski body, we might well have got some just reward for our (considerable) pains.

Enough of What We Did On Our Hols, though, and back to all the usual Albion stuff. As you will have probably gathered by now, both of us don?t half feel pillocks as a result of what happened at The Valley last weekend; suffice to say that our intentions for the remainder of this season have now been drastically revised, once more plans to travel to both Middlesbrough and Tottingham now feature prominently on our calendars. In fact, come the morrow, I?ll be trundling off to The Shrine to sort out the tickets for both, plus taking the club up on their repeat offer concerning buckshee travel to Teesside.

You have to hand it to our lot; so well did the concept of our favourite football club bankrolling coach travel go last Saturday ? well, the end certainly seemed to justify the means come five that evening - they?ve decided to lay on a repeat performance for our trip to the Riverside Stadium, some 28 days hence. Certainly, the decision to theme the entire trip on The Great Escape ? Albion?s concept of handing away travellers ?escape kits? modelled on World War Two Red Cross parcels to POW?s was truly inspired, and bloody hilarious - I can only hope that by the time we get to play the Smog Monsters, our survival chances, albeit faint, still remain a ?goer?.

There?s still the small matter of Southampton, who, coincidentally and inconveniently notched up their first away three-pointer at sorely-depleted and knackered Boro on Sunday, to reckon with, though. ?Twould be an embarrassment of major proportions to find we?d been overtaken by events come the day of the game! On the other hand, looking at the table, there?s the juicy possibility of Pompey imploding at this late stage to consider; if ever there?s a club where morale must be completely shot to hell right now ? only 2 points from their last 8 games, and a popular manager lost through complete and utter pig-headedness on the part of their chairman, remember - it?s just has to be that despondent Fratton Park bunch.

Having got myself completely up to date, finally, it only leaves me to report briefly on what transpired at tonight?s Main Branch Supporters? Club Meeting, held in the bit above the glass doors in the ground, the invited guests being none other than Darren Campbell, Clem, Richard Scimeca, and hat-trick hero Earnie. Well, that?s what was supposed to happen, but the reality was that plans had to be hastily revised once more. No surprise, really, as there had already been a couple of abortive previous attempts to get this one off the ground, all frustrated very late doors indeed because of prior commitments on the part of the guests concerned. And that?s what happened tonight, bar two, but through no fault of the players concerned, really. First off, Earnie was called up for Wales, and not to be outdone, Mr. Scimeca found himself otherwise engaged because of a kids function taking place on the opposite side of the ground!

Never mind, though; what we did get tonight was Clem and (somewhat later) Kevin Campbell, with the entire thing hosted, as per usual, by the elegant, lovely and talented John Homer, he of the totally off-the-wall-but-highly-inventive Black Country insults aimed at opposing players on a regular basis during the course of most home games. Once heard, never forgotten; my seat being located immediately behind this gentleman, I?m more than willing to act as a living testimonial to the sheer creativity of the guy?s bald-headed and bespectacled repertoire as delivered throughout the entire 90 minutes-worth of Hawthorns action!

As you might expect, though, most pre-meeting conversation revolved around our stunning performance of two days ago, and yes, didn?t we just feel like lemons having missed it! Oh well ? no use crying over spilt milk, or missed games, come to think about it. Time to dwell, instead, on what our prospects were of avoiding the drop. Clem was the first of the two to arrive; very much in keeping with the ?Great Escape? theme now predominating in Albion circles, what with his closely cropped hair, facial stubble, and what appeared to be a blue-grey raincoat sort of garment covering the upper torso, and half turned up around the collar, it didn?t half give him the genuine air of a fugitive POW searching frantically for an easy route to the Swiss border and eventual safety! As for Kev Campbell, when he finally rolled up, about 15 or so minutes after Clem heroically set the ball rolling, my initial impression, especially when he began to speak, was of a Lenny Henry/Ian Wright hybrid; tall, heavily built, a London accent you could have cooked jellied eels and mash on, white baseball cap turned back-to-front in what?s standard fashion for players these days ? but with a club tracksuit concealing slightly what appeared to be an away shirt underneath? Surely not.

As the Supporters Club requested confidentiality beforehand, I have to respect that, of course, so what subsequently appears will have to be of a general nature only. Let?s start with Clem, who is now the club?s senior pro, of course. He?s recently signed a five year deal, the prime reason being he feels he?s still got ?unfinished business? at the club. Aw, you know, in terms of feeling there?s still room for improvement out there. He loves his current position, and reckons he finally found his true playing niche. We also heard stuff about his Chelsea days, especially the professionalism displayed by Zola when Clem was a Stamford Bridge junior, and a little about those loan spells elsewhere prior to signing for us. He also gave us an insight into the sheer amount of sacrifices that had to be made to ensure success at professional level these days, and how the standards expected of young entrants to the game these days were so much higher than the ones that prevailed when he was that age.

Unsurprisingly, there was some insight into various methods employed by the coaching staff these days, plus fulsome praise for some of our current performers, Zoltan Gera and Earnie especially. We also heard Clem?s views on the overall quality and quantity of our support, especially that seen at The Valley last Saturday. A topic that led to a bit of a ?Colemanballs? moment (so named because of the former Beeb commentator?s well-known predilection for not engaging brain prior to opening mouth, of course!) from our lad, who rashly opined, ?The supporters can be an ?eleventh man? for us!? Cue for the entire room to completely collapse in hysterics, and for Clem to hastily amend his assessment by quickly interjecting, ? ? Er, sorry ? TWELFTH man!? which only served to up the hilarity factor even more.

Kev Campbell? He?s club captain, now of course, and from what I?ve heard tonight, deservedly so. Highly articulate and clearly intelligent with it, if you just close your eyes and think ?Big Dave?, but without all the religious belief, you?ve got it in one. Positive and uplifting at all times, and with a sense of self-worth so profound, I was simply left awestruck at times: in short, a tremendous advertisement for West Bromwich Albion and all that?s good about the place, not to mention the game in general. How did he come to us? Simple ? despite getting offers from other clubs, the fact he was a great admirer of the way Bryan Robson played football well and truly clinched it for us.

Originally from Brixton, Kev signed for Arsenal at the tender age of 12, left Highbury aged 23, subsequently turning out for Forest, then Turkish side Trapzanspor (I THINK that?s the correct spelling!) and finally fetching up at sunny Everton. When he finally hangs up his boots, he very much wants to go into the management side of things ? he?s already doing all the necessary badges, and believes he?s picked up enough wrinkles from other bosses ? both good and bad! - to enable him to acquit himself well when he finally does get to gaffer a club all of his very own. The Turkish spell in particular sounded a barrel of laughs for the bloke ? not! How come? Well, let me put it this way, all of us Baggies might think passions become somewhat fraught in the days immediately prior to encounters with our old chums The Dingles, but according to Kev, the Turkish equivalent has our local bitsy chunk of guerrilla warfare beaten hollow!

Examples? Well, for starters, journalists turn up in hordes just for training sessions, so you won?t be too surprised to hear no less than FOUR pages in the nationals are devoted daily to the doings of the principal four pro clubs in Turkey ? that?s why the newshounds are there, really, to note and comment in minute detail upon every single belch, fart and gulp emitted by the poor sods trapped in that awful goldfish-bowl existence of theirs. The players are even marked on a daily basis according to their showing during training! Or not. Before local derbies, all the players enter into the monastic existence of the training-camp come the Wednesday prior to the game ? and, I crap you not, are guarded the entire length of their stay by the Army! To stop over-enthusiastic supporters getting in, or to prevent stir-crazy players breaking out? Good question, that!

Come the actual day of the match, so fevered are supporters of the rival factions, despite the small fact the game doesn?t actually kick off until nine that evening, the gates are well and truly open by 8 AM, and the ground absolutely full to the gunnels a mere sixty minutes later! And that isn?t all; come the appointed hour, and the time when both lots of players finally emerge from the tunnel, not only do they encounter an absolute cacophony of noise, suitably embellished by the introduction of such pyrotechnic delights as distress flares into the equation, there?s also a sheep to contend with. No, I?m not referring to the doings of cuddly woolly creatures normally found happily grazing on a hillside somewhere, the one selected for this one really gets the worst part of the bargain ? and if you hate animal cruelty, look away now. What these supporters do is slit the throat of the poor creature immediately prior to their favourites taking to the field of play; not only that, when running onto the pitch, each player is then expected to put their hairy great mitt into the gory and still steaming incision, then proceed to daub a goodly quantity of ovine red stuff about their person. A good luck ritual, apparently, but one I most certainly won?t be indulging in prior to our next scheduled home game versus Everton!

Oh ? and if you think we?ve got a bit of a hooligan problem over here, then think on just a tiny little bit. Apparently, swordfights between rival factions are considered par for the course out there; in fact, not long ago, four people were actually killed trying to play Zorro during one such encounter. As you might expect from the aforementioned stuff, what happens on the pitch once the game gets going is what Kev somewhat diplomatically terms ?full-on?. If your side happens to win such a fraught local encounter, then just name whatever it is you want, and your supporters will do their level best to make it happen. Want to do a weekly shop at the local supermarket? You select your goods as per usual, then proceed to the checkout ? but you won?t have to pay a penny. Or whatever?s the currency out there, actually. The stuff is simply bagged up for you, and you leave with nary a credit card or wallet ever seeing the light of day! Lose, though, and it?s a different tale altogether; if you value your life at all, the one thing you DON?T do is show your face outside your house ? well, not for several days, at the very least!

Surprisingly, Kev is a bit of a pop Svengali in his spare time; well, he does admit to owning his very own record company, would you believe? The aim is to nurture young talent in the pop business, which he feels doesn?t get the exposure it should because of the fact all the big players in the music business generally go for what they consider to be commercial near-on dead certs. A bit like football, really. Our lad also has in his possession some 20,000 CD?s ? no, and I can?t picture that many all in one place either! Unsurprisingly, when asked what he considered his favourite, he couldn?t come up with one!

All in all, a smashing night, and one hosted in inimitable style, as ever, by John Homer. As I said earlier, both players really were a credit to the club, and after the event had finished, made themselves readily available for all the usual autograph and happy-snap stuff. And yes, once more, this column was press-ganged by The Fart into providing him with yet another photographic souvenir of his brush with celebrity that evening. And, you know what really gave me hope for the future? The strong belief, cast-iron, copper-bottomed, triple-A certainty, even, from the lips of both players, that they genuinely believed we could pull off the miracle and live to fight another Premiership day. And you know what? Such was the sheer amount of honest-to-goodness self-belief and confidence radiated by both lads tonight, even cynical old me finally found herself believing even an unfashionable little Black Country club like ours could one day soon magically sprout wings, then take to the air in a suitably sumptuous fashion. Look ? pigs flying in formation, and no Rodney Marsh lipstick anywhere in sight! And, that, dear readers, has to count as a miracle all of its very own!

And finally?. Poor Dave Knott, he of Supporters Club website fame ? proof positive tonight, he doesn?t half suffer for his art! How come? Well, having tried and failed to grab pictures from one particular vantage-point, situated at a very acute angle indeed, the lad then tried curling himself into a sort of pretzel shape in the space immediately in front of the table where both guests were sitting, finally snapping away with gay abandon. Trouble was, not only did his somewhat bendy antics result in much hilarity on the part of both guests and audience, by doing so, he quickly ended up with a nasty case of cramp in the old calf-muscles, a malady that probably needed the best efforts of the local Scout troop to finally unravel! Oh dear ? David Bailey never has problems like this!

 - Glynis Wright

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