The Diary

03 April 2005: Sunday - The Great Escape, Or The Great Disaster?

Welcome to my first offering ?fired in anger?, metaphorically speaking, for a fair old period of time, the odd couple of comparatively neutral comment-pieces excepted. Three weeks is it, now? Certainly, taking the decision we did not to go to Charlton must rank as one of the biggest bloomers we?ve ever made in our entire supporting lives ? and I still exude jealousy from every pore in great quantity every single time I hear The Fart make mention of our amazing four-goal triumph there. How many years would you get for kicking the old sod where it really hurts, I wonder? Should I eventually decide to resort to such unsporting tactics, and the matter get to court, I most certainly wouldn?t include the Chelsea caper in my mitigating statement to the beak, though ? hell, expecting people to stump up forty quid for a game we didn?t even know the date of at the time of asking was a trick too far from our favourite football club, if you ask me. There?s a hell of a lot I will tolerate, but paying outrageous prices to attend a midweek away game where the result was a foregone conclusion anyway stretches things way beyond my elastic limit. Or, as Ali ?G? might put it: ?Is it jus? becos I is old ?an cranky wiv it??

Because of the enforced break caused by our national sides all pitching in with their respective Word Cup qualification bids ? some with much more credibility than others, as the Welsh side?s keeper proved when he stuffed up in that marvellously-Crichton-esque (see more about the ?genuine article? in my ?and finally? bit!) fashion versus Austria last Wednesday night! ? tomorrow?s trip to The Shrine could well see the appearance of a large bunch of blue and white clad acolytes along both the Birmingham Road and Halfords Lane, all blinking like mad in the bright sunlight, in similar manner to that of a mole following forceful eviction from his usual subterranean haunts, and all muttering, sotto voce: ?Where am I? What is this place?? And, for those whose brains haven?t quite adapted and readjusted to their formerly-familiar surroundings, as yet, an equally-puzzled additional lamentation: ?Why am I here?? Or would that just be a side-effect of all the hangovers from the night before, I wonder? Be warned, O ye sinners, Holden?s Golden, aka Black Country nectar, is heap powerful stuff; an alcoholic beverage not to be messed with under any circumstances!

Come to think about it, our enforced absence might well throw up problems of a far more vexing nature than those mucking around with the fixture lists never, ever envisaged. Should you suddenly hear the deafening cry: ? ?OO ARE YA?? emanating loudly from all corners of the ground shortly before kick-off, it might not be the bog-standard Hawthorns insult to visiting supporters you might have thought, just everyone simultaneously turning to look at their seated neighbours, and because of the lengthy time-span elapsed since their respective paths last crossed, all genuinely asking of each other that same vital question!

One sobering thought though ? and I?m being dead serious, for once. The billing?s absolutely spot-on ? this really is a ?must-win?. Again. Our eleventh ?must-win? of the season ? but we?ve only won one! Results have gone wonderfully for us this afternoon and early evening, what with Palace dipping by the odd goal on their own muck-heap, and Saints getting theirs courtesy the moneyed but unlovely hands of Chelsea a tad later on, but when I sit and think about the enormity of the task that faces us tomorrow, I can?t help but cast my mind back to 1978. How come? The link might be somewhat tenuous, to say the least, Robbo being our main man both then and now, but in its own small way, history now repeats itself ? and the connection?s quite simple. On both occasions, we?ve had to take an enforced break, and at a most inopportune time, what with respective pots roiling and boiling fit to bust following winning spells. Back in The Winter Of Discontent, the root cause was precisely that ? some very inclement weather indeed ? causing us (and most of the country) to stop right in our tracks. Most unfortunate, that, because we we?d just gone top of the old First Division over the Christmas period.

Had that almighty freeze-up not descended on the West Midlands at the time it did, I?m firmly convinced we would have gone on to lift the title; had that happened, Albion history books might well have looked and read very differently indeed by now. Fast-forward to 2005 once more, and we see yet another Albion side in the top flight ? but stuck very much at the wrong end of the heap this time round. After a nifty change of manager, several heavy tankings, quite embarrassing, some of ?em, come the first faint intimations of spring, our lads gradually re-acquired some badly-needed confidence and pride ? whoopee! Cautiously, skilfully, the Hawthorns ship was steered well away from the worst the approaching rock shoal could throw at it ? and just when the boat really started jumping, and there was newly-found self-belief and confidence abounding around the messdecks, we damn well had to drop anchor for a fortnight because of the blasted World Cup qualifiers. I?m darned sure that had the players been given the chance to chomp on The Toffees just seven short days on from their tremendous Valley triumph, the old pot would still have been bubbling fit to bust, and sheer momentum got us where we?d ideally like to be. Let?s just hope that not too much has been lost by the enforced break, and the raw desire to get out of this that was so evident a fortnight ago can be brought to bear in heaps once more.

Of one thing I?m certain ? there?s going to be an atmosphere so electric out there tomorrow, it might behove our favourite football club well to offer any surplus for sale to the National Grid, thereby turning in a bit of a profit for them while they?re at it. The Great Escape?s the theme, of course ? and daft as it might seem, it?s a concept that seems to be gathering considerable momentum out there. My other half ventured to the ground earlier today to check out some leisurewear items currently in their sale, and was most surprised to see that someone had already put up a large poster on the billboard adjacent to The Astle Gates alluding to that very same theme. (I?ve also acquired a brand-new Albion top at a ridiculously low price, but that?s another story entirely!) Now people seem to have been well and truly captivated by this novel idea, perhaps we ought to look, now, at taking things one stage further? There?s the Supporters? Club, for example ? maybe head-honcho Alan Cleverley might feel constrained to organise the clandestine construction of a vaulting-horse from the nearest thing we supporters have to Red Cross parcels, the boxes T-Mobile phones come in? Or failing that, swiping from the club shop the numerous cardboard containers holding Albion?s ginormous stock of reduced-price trainers and constructing a reasonable facsimile out of that instead? Just one thing, chaps ? don?t ask me to do any gymnastics; even when I could aspire to such feats, let?s just say I was about as elegant as an elephant with a large gob of lard stuck under its feet!

And why stop there? To escape, you need a decently-sized tunnel, of course, which, if started in Halfords Lane, should prove a comparatively easy task ? I?ve genuinely lost count of the precise number of times that stretch of road?s been completely ripped up by one utility company or other in recent seasons! And getting a digging-rota going shouldn?t prove too irksome a task either; just offer to lay on beer in quantity, and I guarantee queues a-winding the entire length of the ground. Steve McQueen impersonations? Well, there?s always the chap I regularly see making his way from the ground after the final whistle astride a yellow Lambretta: he?d be delighted to assist, I?m sure, although the overall image would lack a certain cachet, perhaps. Just remember, though ? accuracy is the keyword. Although most people seem to think that in the film version, our well-known cinematic motorbiking fugitive from the Wermacht managed to get away with it in the end ? sorry, but he didn?t. He got as far as the border on his bike, but couldn?t get over the huge barbed-wire fence separating him from Switzerland, sadly. I can only hope our brave attempt to get out of the smelly stuff doesn?t founder in similar fashion over the coming weeks.

Although the whole concept is genuinely funny, and I?m sure that many of those taking part in 1944 would have readily enjoyed the joke, as far as the real ?Great Escape? was concerned, not too many ended up rolling in fits of laughter, sadly. Here?s a brief account of what really happened. On the night of 24th/25th March, 1944, over 200 aircrew attempted to break out of Stalag Luft III, a (mainly, although following the 1941 entry of the US into the conflict, a substantial number of their officer aircrew were incarcerated there also) RAF officers? prisoner of war camp situated in eastern Germany. The attempt was the culmination of many months of careful preparation, including the digging of a narrow tunnel over 330 feet in length. Original plans had called for the construction of no less than three tunnels (dubbed ?Tom?, ?Dick?, and ?Harry?, the triple-redundancy to allow for mishap of various sorts occurring during construction, of course) but owing to serious flooding in one, and the Germans discovering the other, only one was in action come the night of the break.

Although preparations were meticulous, the one thing the planners hadn?t allowed for was the unfamiliarity of most of those making the attempt with the tunnel?s various twists, turns and foibles ? only a select bunch of ?diggers? were ever entrusted with the arduous construction work, and it really was a narrow passage down there, dark, dank, and despite ingenious ventilation, frequently lacking sufficient oxygen: claustrophobics wouldn?t have stood an earthly. For most, that night was their first time ever spent down the hole. It was that, plus the sheer bulk of the ?escape clothing? and equipment most brought with them, that really slowed the whole enterprise down. The various resultant delays meant that following the exit of only 76 men from the tunnel ? each one?s departure carefully timed to miss patrolling sentries and sweeping searchlights, a complication that ate into the available time considerably - the break was discovered, most of the remaining would-be escapers caught waiting patiently underground, still. Of those who did make it out, only 3 managed to get home to Blighty, with a further 23 recaptured and returned to other POW camps. As for the remaining 50 that got out, it really was bad news for them - they were all murdered in cold blood by the Gestapo, acting under orders issued by an infuriated and half-crazed Fuhrer, who completely ?lost it? the moment he first learned of the attempt.

Never mind the Hollywood version, the actual story of the break, how those lads constructed those tunnels, how they managed to dispose of all that excess soil when digging, the preparations they actually made for the arduous journey through Germany and (hopefully) as far as the Swiss border - it?s all well worth reading. If there ever was a genuine example of truth being stranger than fiction, then this truly has to be it. Let?s just hope we can pull off a feat of similar proportions come the end of the season, and starting with three vital points gained at the expense of David Moyes?s lot come the morrow. Not easy ? our Evertonian chums need those precious points to strengthen their case for Champions League qualification, and their recent derby defeat at the hands of the Red persuasion wouldn?t have helped their health and temper one little bit. ?Pretty? it won?t be, because that?s something The Toffees simply don?t do these days. Expect a 90-minute long war of attrition, and the odd goal settling it; should it be us that wins the day, we?ll be a-rocking and a-rolling, and our relegation rivals landed deeper in it. Sure, there?s still an awful load of mucky water to pass under the bridge between now and the end of the season ? we still have to meet the likes of The Arse, who will want to bypass the Champions League preliminaries by finishing as runners-up, and Man Urinal, ditto ? but every little helps. If you have fingernails, prepare to chew ?em to the quick!

And finally? One. To say I was absolutely astonished to hear on Sky this afternoon the sordid details surrounding the almighty punch-up that led to Newcastle?s Lee Bowyer and Kieron Dyer getting their respective marching orders ? never in my whole footballing existence have I heard of two players from the SAME SIDE getting red-carded for fisticuffs among themselves ? versus Villa at St. James?s Park, isn?t the half of it. Funny, though, as the sorry tale gradually began to unfold on our TV screen, the more I realised there were distinct echoes of that infamous afternoon, come the fag-end of season 2001-02, we played Sheffield United at their Bramall Lane hidey-hole. Even the final score ? our noisome neighbours giving The Toon an almighty 3-0 stonking at their place ? was similar to the one that prevailed that day. The only difference, of course, was the fact that unlike ours, this game managed to run its entire 90-minute course, the home side finishing up with just eight left, rather than the seven it would have taken to trigger an abandonment. You know something? I?ve now got visions of Sheffield?s answer to Gollum, of ?Lord Of The Rings? fame, the inelegant, ugly, and talent-less Neil Warnock, hearing the news, quietly digesting the circumstances surrounding all the sendings-off ? then leaping up, foul curses in plenty upon his scab-encrusted lips, and all the while loudly lamenting the fact that even he hadn?t thought of telling two of his players to fight amongst themselves to get our game truncated well before its allotted span!

Two. Boo hoo! Heartbreaking news, and my future life will be all the poorer because of his tragic, nay, untimely, departure. No, nothing whatsoever to do with the (just-gone) Pontiff (I wonder whether the late, great Dave Allen will be up there already, eagerly awaiting the Catholic chief?s arrival in harping-country, and stropping his verbal claws in readiness to take the mick just a little bit more?), just yesterday?s sad (well, ?sad? for me, at any rate; seeing him performing at his ?best? was always a guaranteed paragraph or three?s worth of giggle-making material for this column!) announcement that dropper-of-custodial-clangers par excellence Paul Crichton has finally decided to hang up those disaster-prone goalkeeping gloves and boots of his for good! Mind you, despite all that, his present club, Accrington Stanley, have somewhat rashly declared they?re going to retain his registration ?for emergencies?. Shome mistake, surely? What bloody emergency could be so dire as to make them genuinely want to seek out the services of what has to be the biggest walking disaster to hit professional football since the time the Welsh FA, in a sudden fit of madness, presumably, appointed Bobby Gould to manage their international side?

 - Glynis Wright

Contact the Author

Diary Index