The Diary

04 April 2005: Toffees Get A Complete Hawthorns Sucking!

?Mission Control, we have a Premiership Albion side at last!? That?s the joyous message from me percolating slowly down to our far-flung faithful this lovely Sunday evening ? so just to make sure you?re in no doubt whatsoever tonight, here it is again. Albion 1, Everton 0 ? who would have thought it around Christmas time, then, eh? And don?t get me wrong ? I most certainly include myself in the ranks of the woebegotten doom-merchants crying wrack and shipwreck around that time, primarily because back then, it was as plain as the solvent-burns on the end of a Dingle?s nose we were headed fast in the wrong direction. We knew we could do better, but all we needed was a break ? which we got courtesy ?Calamity? James and chum at the City Of Manchester Stadium; following that fortuitous draw, things gradually started to look up. Come February, we were besting opponents as far as the overall play was concerned, but getting nothing tangible for our efforts ? remember Spurs, Fulham? ? but since the happy day we well and truly sorted Blues, the Chelsea result apart (let?s retain some semblance of a sense of proportion here!), we?ve done very little wrong ? and, crucially, a hell of a lot right.

My goodness, what emotive scenes come the final whistle. That ?Great Escape? thing is fast becoming the glue that binds us all together, manager, players and supporters, all united for once in the furtherance of a common cause, and the atmosphere truly memorable. Certainly, the ecstatic looks on the players? faces as they exited that field tonight said it all. It?s been quite some time since I?ve seen our ground rocking and rolling in the truly joyous fashion it was come the end; more like a Cup-tie, really. I wonder how many more lifelong supporters we?ve created as a result of what we witnessed today? Well done, also, Kieron Richardson, for somewhat rashly chucking your shirt into the Smethwick at the end, but I?ll bet you anything the money will be docked from your wages very shortly indeed!

So, what combination of events conspired to transform this odds-on three-pointer for the visitors into a famous victory for the Baggie persuasion? I?ll open my account with the arrival of Sauce, he of the ?alternative? Albion away travel, late this morning. Picking up newly-minted Dicks to hand out to his itinerant customers, he was, our latest offering, no less, as delivered by a well-flustered Paul The Print late (so what?s new there, then?) last Friday night. (His lame excuse? A robbery at the Kentucky Fried Chicken look-alike just down the road, would you believe?) Rushing back to Sauce once more, fair play to our impossibly-surnamed friend, he?s been absolutely adamant all along we?d get ourselves out of this mess, and sticking to his guns in the face of convincing matchday evidence to the contrary certainly takes some doing. Mind you, the fact he?s over six feet tall, built like a brick outhouse, and has a somewhat ?colourful? turn of phrase at his constant disposal doesn?t half help!

Oh ? and as he was about to exit GD Towers, Sauce did chuck one interesting vagrant thought our way, and it was this: Three or four wins of the last eight remaining would see us right, but imagine a hypothetical situation where we played Pompey on the last day, and we needed a result to stay up? Assuming the hornpipe-dancers don?t get sucked into the bunfight themselves (a distinct possibility, of course, after today) and nothing was riding on the game for them, what would happen if there was also the juicy prospect of an Albion victory relegating Southampton, their bitter local rivals, to the Outer Darkness? Naughty Sauce reckoned we should prepare contingency plans in the form of a very large banner, erected in either The Brummie or the Smethwick beforehand, spelling it all out in words of one syllable for them, and worded so even their players well and truly got the message! Hmmm, cheers for that thought, Sauce ? but if it seems a good idea to you, for goodness sake, don?t let on it was me that first Spoke Of What?s Best Left Unsaid!

Because of the nonsensical kick-off time (the Prem are now sounding alarm-bells because of the sharp drop in away attendances this season, TV being the main cause ? and quite right, too), Halfords Lane was almost deserted when The Dickmobile decanted me and my little seat there. Once my other half returned, it was just a hop, skip, and a jump to the Hawthorns Hotel, where some Supporters Club bod was struggling manfully trying to get the sodding TV to work. Frustrating, because the featured Sky game was the Fulham-Pompey encounter; although not directly involved in the Titanic struggle, as yet, the distinct possibility one or both might suffer a late-season dip in form was certainly there. But heigh-ho to all that; large as life, seated at one of the nearest ?round tables? to the bar were the Lewis clan, ably supported by their car-share chum.

While ?Im Indoors fetched the drinks, I discovered our garrulous chum had spent yesterday afternoon in the company of Newcastle Town, just about the next-biggest club to the usual Potteries League combo. According to The Noise, the first half was really grim, but improved sufficintely during the second to notch up a respectable 4-0 victory. And that wasn?t all; recently, the family had gone to see ?Valiant?, the animated feature film concerned with the doings of a World War Two ?Pigeon Corps?. In it, the hero (who?s called ? yep, you?ve got it in one ? erm ? Valiant!), has to get a secret message back home to Blighty from Occupied France. All the usual wartime situations, of course, including a French Resistance staffed by mice! Mind you, I couldn?t help but giggle when The Noise told me about one bit where a Resistance mouse was captured, and the nasty Nazis were using a ?truth serum? to extract information. Said ?yer man?: ?It worked so well, he didn?t stop talking for three or four days ? every single aspect of his life story came out from the day he was born?.? Said me, not wanting to pass on a cast-iron opportunity to get a nice little dig targeted correctly: ?Goodness, Mart, that doesn?t half sound awfully familiar!?.? At least our lad did have the decency to blush!

It was at this point two things happened; first off, the Drinking Family hove into view. Surprised I was, mainly because that was the first time I?d ever seen them partaking of strong waters either in the Throstle Club or there. Wild thoughts of their wayward behaviour getting them barred elsewhere briefly flipped past my mind ? but no. Getting banned would lose them valuable drinking time, and we couldn?t have that, could we? The second was handing my new sheep pics over to Carly, who is a worshipper of all things ovine (ooer, missus). Poring over them, and spotting some pink markings on their fleeces, The Noise, using that as evidence, constructed the theory that they were the result of the flock?s secret penchant for paint-balling activities! Watching Carly enthuse over my happy-snaps (madness: the girl?s recently taken leave of her senses by volunteering ? note that word carefully! ? for extra physics lessons, all of them scheduled to take place in her own spare time!) the thought did briefly occur to me that perhaps next time, I could really wind her up by snapping a picture of a plate of lamb, complete with mint sauce and all the trimmings!

Just before departure, yet another stranger to the place hove into sight ? Dawn Astle, in company with others of the Royal Family, but not Mum, who was nobbing it with the toffs in the boardroom ? the Everton connection, I suppose. And quite right, too! If it?s good enough for an Astle etc?.. What Dawn did admit to, though, was a really bad dose of the old pre-match collywobbles; what I didn?t admit to was the fact I was feeling precisely the same way.

A quick photographic trip around the perimeters of the ground later ? my goodness, wasn?t there an absolute lulu of a ?trainer mountain? in the Club Shop? ? and I was ready to start flogging some fanzines. All the usual suspects hove in my direction, of course, but the one that really reduced me to complete silence was the generous chap ? I know his identity, but I?m sure he wouldn?t want it splashed around in public, so I won?t ? who donated a stonking twenty quid to the Dovedale Day Care Centre straight off. What with that, and the many other contributions the pair of us received today, we managed to exceed our end-of-season target, ?700, with around seven games spare! Many thanks to all who contributed, and it will go to a smashing cause, I promise.

Oh ? and I?ve also been asked to chuck another idea for an end-of?season Old Trafford theme at all you folk out there, and it?s this. One constructed around ?The Three Degrees?, it is, and the overall theme? The song ?When Will I see You Again??, as per the current uncertainly regarding which division we?ll be in next term. Plus the obvious Three Degrees thing, of course, highly redolent of 1978, and our magnificent 5-3 win at Old Trafford. Dress? Feminine, Afro wigs to the fore, with blacked-out faces, natch. Remember, though, I?m only the messenger, not the originator of the blasted concept, which makes me most certainly not fair game for personal criticism!

Come the appointed time of departure, a well-worn routine kicked in. Entrance via Turnstile C3 ? accept no imitations whatsoever ? and purchase of my usual hot choccy at the bar nearest my usual stairs into the stand proper. Having done that, a quick trip to our seats, where our pleasure awaited. Said she. Hopefully. But first, a minute?s silence, for the recently-departed Pontiff. Could have gone really pear-shaped, that ? although the ref had blown the whistle seconds before, there were still residual mumblings emanating, seemingly, from the Smethwick. Frantically, I racked my brains; which of the Merseyside combo had Protestant roots, and which the Catholic? I genuinely couldn?t remember; fortunately, crowd opinion forced the ?dissenters? into shamed silence, and the remainder of the time passed without further incident.

The solemnities having finally been dispensed with, it was over to resident DJ Matthew, and yet another reprise for the theme from ?The Great Escape?; the beat being taken up by most of the crowd, now well and truly psyched up for the 90 minute-long bump-and-grind. As for the starting eleven, it was very much ?as you were?, with poor old Earnie, hat-trick hero at The Valley, reclaiming his ?wallflower? spot at the start of this Hawthorns ?excuse-me?. So, off we jolly well went, then, and after the usual opening exchanges, it quickly became abundantly clear we were going to be in this for the long haul, whistler Graham Poll finding himself very much in demand that niggly and nasty first half.

The first bit of excitement came on the quarter of an hour mark, when The Horse?s legs were unceremoniously uprooted from the turf by Pistone. Greening took the subsequent free-kick, and with deadly accuracy, the effort finding Tommy G, lurking with malice aforethought near the far post ? and didn?t he nut it well, kiddywinkles. The resultant ?thwock? against the crossbar must surely have rattled teeth in Rolfe Street, situated about a mile away. But it wasn?t over; Gera then picked up the rebound, and tried to do better with it, but only succeeded in driving the blasted thing just wide.

The other incident of note? Midway through the half, an almighty mix-up between Houlty and Tommy G that nearly cost us. Both, not noticing the imminent presence of Osman on the scene, insisted upon performing an ?After you, Claude? No, after YOU, Cecil!? music-hall turn that might have had them rolling in the aisles at the turn of the 20th century, but sure as hell scared the bejesus out of their 2005 counterparts. Embarrassment loomed ? but fortunately, Fate, in the form of an Evertonian inability to maintain a stable equilibrium whilst setting up the killer shot, intervened, the bladder sailing harmlessly into the back of the Brummie instead.

It was about that time a distinct element of animosity began to creep into things, and as a result, several players felt the sharp end of Mr. Poll?s tongue, closely followed by the even sharper sound of his pen hitting note-paper at great speed. Had to happen eventually, I suppose, given what was at stake for both sides. Such was the intensity of the ?niggle factor? by then, to me it seemed only a matter of time before the man ?in the black? lost patience, and flashed a red card. It really was that close, honest. Just as well, really, that the interval beckoned, but not before an Evertonian was nearly decapitated five minutes from half-time by an absolute screamer, courtesy of The Great Zoltan! Ouch. Oh, and another interesting observation. I?m not normally one of Graham Poll?s greatest admirers, but well done, him, for making an Everton player, who conveniently fell to earth as if shot about a foot away from their goal-line, get off the pitch to have treatment. Poor sod ? it then turned out he really was hors de combat! Mind you, it?s arguable he was reaping the whirlwind created by his colleagues crying wolf at the drop of a hat. A late Albion flurry later, and it was half-time.

Time to reflect on the first 45, then ? and coo, what a half it was. As far as actual clear-cut scoring chances were concerned, they were minimal, but thanks to that scorched crossbar incident courtesy Tommy G, we?d certainly nosed in front, if only on moral grounds. The interval also saw the entry of our Under 15 side onto the hallowed Hawthorns turf. They?d triumphed in some cup competition or other ? sorry, my dodgy lugholes couldn?t discern which one ? but watching those bumfluff-featured kids drinking it all in out there served as a salutary reminder that the life-history of Albion juniors was pretty similar to that of the common British frog. Just think about it ? there?s loads of little black dots encased in their jellified coat to be seen in still waters come this time of year, but of the many hundreds of ?kids? that set out on the wriggly road to maturity, only about two or three of the total actually make it to the hopping and croaking stage. Just like trainee professional footballers, really ? and the attrition rate?s equally as vicious.

But back to the game, delicately-poised, still, and the spoils there for the taking. As both sides took to the field of play, Matthew let rip once more with that bloody Great Escape tune, but at Warp Factor Nine this time. With that lot bashing the eardrums, even a Dingle would have got the message, and within milliseconds, the familiar refrain was taken up by the entire Albion contingent, more or less, thereby ratcheting up the tension by several notches. My goodness, suddenly, the place seemed to take on an existence all of its very own, all three-and-a-bit-sides of the ground combining to form a pretty formidable entity. Off we went once more, and after the opening flurry, quite predictable, the noise abated somewhat. Then, an impassioned shout from someone in our vicinity, ?They?m s**t, these!? that rent the silence in the Halfords completely asunder ? and the mood shifted yet again. Both sides, equally frustrated, could scent blood in their nostrils ? but which lot would be first to break the stalemate? A near miss with about 60 minutes gone when Marcus Bent actually got a sniff of the goal for once ? but instead of ramming the golden gift gratefully home, he tried to set up Smethwick?s first moon-shot instead. Well, that?s what I reckoned, so high was his effort over the crossbar!

Oh, whoops ? what a clanger. And costly, too; right from that little faux pas, the ball was sent whanging in the direction of The Brummie once more, the initial spadework coming from a Greening-Robinson combo on the left. It was the former who actually took the ball into the danger-zone and crossed it, though. Pin-point perfection, on a plate, and timed beautifully to ensure the onrushing Gera nutted the bladder straight into the back of the Everton net. A momentary pause- and the place absolutely exploded. Gymnastics aplenty from our scorer, of course, ?boinging? aplenty from our followers, and yep ? a reprise for that West Bromwich chart favourite, ?The Great Escape?! Closely followed, of course, with a heartfelt rendition of the 23rd Psalm. Well, it was Sunday, we?d just lost a Pope ? so what the hell?

How much longer to go? 25 minutes? Bloody hell. We?d made the breakthrough we wanted; suddenly, I found myself screaming at the top of my voice, ?Please don?t let us f*** up now!? Many was the time I?d seen us landing in pole position this season (no pun intended, by the way), only to see us concede via a late defensive lapse ? and today wasn?t really a good time to live up to our fanzine motto, was it? Mind you, some tension was dissipated by The Smethwick, who countered earlier Everton chants of ?Premier League, you?re havin? a larf!? with their own variant, viz: ?Champions League, you?re havin? etc?? No, before you ask, they didn?t like it one little bit.

Gradually, imperceptibly, the clock ticked and groaned its ponderous way nearer and nearer the magic ninety-minute mark. A sudden adrenalin surge when an Evertonian, with The Great Zoltan in defensive attendance, for once, collapsed as if shot in the middle of the box. Hang on a minute ? our lad had grasped thin air only, not the actual player. Not worthy of a spot-kick, surely? Fortunately, Graham Poll, our Nemesis normally, also came to the conclusion the flattened Toffee was gilding the lily a tad, a view later confirmed to this column?s satisfaction on Match Of The Day. Phew!

Into the last straight, now, and because of the sheer enormity of what was at stake for both sides, once more, both Nick Worth and his Goodison counterpart found themselves in great demand. I strongly suspect that both sets of players will be aching in some pretty funny places come the morrow. Not long after the abortive Everton penalty attempt, play then switched to the other end of the ground, with young Richardson setting up Albrechtsen a treat from the right. All he had to do was blast the bloody thing to Bradford?s Bakery and back ? but somehow, their keeper managed to parry away the shot, which truly was an almighty belter.

Time for the introduction of fresh toffee into the mix, and thus it was that Duncan Ferguson came on to try and salvage something from the ruins, Carsley being the sacrificial Toffee. This seemed to perk things up for the visitors, and we suddenly found ourselves under the cosh for lengthy periods. Not nice at all. But one thing still puzzled me, as it has done the entire season. Why was it, with 15 minutes still to go, and the game?s fortunes looking set fair to swing either way, loads of our followers still chose to head for the exits in droves. Harold Salt, a regular Dick reader, I can understand ? he has mobility problems much worse than mine, and a crowd surge could well mean bad news for the guy. As for the others, though, all I wanted to do right then was shriek with every particle of my being the words ?How can you possibly leave with the game like this?? Maybe it?s me missing something fundamental, or something, but under normal circumstances, there?s no way I could do similar ? to me, it?s a bit like leaving a cinema before the film reaches its climax, and the villain of the piece well and truly unmasked. You only get half the story. Why pay good money to do that? Honestly, I really do despair, sometimes.

Then came the moment I really wanted to grab Kieran Richardson by the scruff of the neck and offer to talk some sense into him. A nasty-looking Everton foray had come to nothing, so the loose ball ran out for the nearest taker to pick up, the lucky lad on this occasion being our Mister Richardson, late of Man Urinal, and all stations west. First he slipped one tackle, then another, and such was his momentum, within a couple of seconds, he?d found himself advancing at a rate of knots towards the Everton goal. Time to get rid, then? Nope, not our man; despite the presence of the unmarked Great Zoltan nearby, cursing for all he was worth in his native tongue, no doubt, the lad elected to go it alone instead, his selfish action turning the entire situation from a near-certain doubling of the lead to us losing the ball to their keeper, and having to back-pedal like greased lightning once more. Had he dome similar when with The Reds, Fergie would have given him the old post-match hair-dryer treatment without a minute?s hesitation. Stupid boy.

More defensive work, as Everton relentlessly piled on the pressure ? time for a change, then, and one of the Big Dave variety. Richardson was the one who went off ? did that awful bloomer of his just minutes earlier influence Robbo?s decision, I wonder? Although Marcus Bent had been a thorough nuisance for the visitors in the dying minutes, Everton also decided to change personnel, Watson coming on for Stubbs with just five to go. Yet another Albion subbing right on time, Albrechtsen making way for Scimeca, and we were well and truly into stoppage time ? all five bloody minutes of it.

In the East Stand, The Brummie, The Halfords, and part of the Smethwick, hands made tremulous through sheer nervousness eagerly gripped watches, counting down long minutes, tortuous seconds ? a halt in play with five minutes of added-on time elapsed, and we thought that was it - but nope. More a case of bloody Graham Poll having a bit of a jolly jape at our expense, I reckon, what with that Everton last gasp free-kick, and well within range of the danger-zone, just to give both linos a giggle as well. Certainly, it had 'Im Indoors sreaming, at the top of his voice, "How much bloody longer do you want, Poll?" But we needn?t have worried; just seconds after we?d seen that aerial threat off, his whistle did blow for the very last time, and we were suddenly in possession of an unexpected ? and all the more precious because of that very fact - three vital points. My God, you?d have thought we?d won a major trophy, such was the elation, both out there, and repeated throughout three and a bit parts of the ground. Supporters, all grinning manically, grabbing their neighbours ? who cared whether they were complete strangers, or not! ? and giving the celebrations some seriously big licks along the way.

Truly, the noise was easily sufficient to make the old ears ring something rotten, and to a degree some would have found extremely painful, no doubt. And the looks on the faces of those players, achievement, pleasure, complete and utter, personified; make no mistake, they truly wanted that, and it showed, and all to the now-familiar background refrain of ?that? film theme-music! And no rapid exit, either. Just about everyone in that Halfords Lane stand wanted to acknowledge the magnitude of that oh-so valuable win, and the great team spirit that made it possible, and we did ? as each and every one of those players disappeared down that tunnel, they all received their due share of the plaudits. It doesn?t happen all that often these days, but sometimes, you witness events where you badly want those celebrations to go on for ever ? and for me, today was genuinely one of those times. Today, I saw the resurgence of something special ? the true spirit of West Bromwich Albion. And did The King watch events from on high, somewhere ? approving mightily of what he saw out there? After everything else that happened today, reported sightings wouldn?t surprise me in the least.

Today?s shenanigans mean, of course, only a mere point now sunders us from the safety zone. Shades of 2001-02, anyone? Let Southampton and Palace stew in their own juice, with any luck they?ll sink themselves ? and/or Pompey, maybe. They?re very close to being dragged in also, and from what I saw of their performance versus Fulham on Match Of The Day tonight, they?ve got heap big problems at the back. Should they be sucked in, the enormity of our task would decrease significantly ? assuming we can keep that winning streak going, of course, and others down there continue to lose. After what I saw today, a thoroughly-deserved win versus a side knocking loudly on the door leading to Champions League football, I?m now completely sold on the idea that with a little more luck, we can genuinely do it. It?s one thing to put fellow-strugglers and mid-table sides to the sword; inflicting the same on a side fourth in the heap and with ambitions is another achievement entirely. Next up are Villa, at their place, who, despite their recent Newcastle success, aren?t exactly the best thing since sliced blubber, are they? In any case, it?s high time we sorted the fish-lovin? so-and-so?s out - so bring it on, I say!

And finally?.. One. Oh dear, Adrian Chiles, of Radio Five and Albion fame, do get a grip! One good home win, and the first thing you hear on reaching the car and switching on the radio is the sound of the lad demolishing the studio furniture, much to the complete and utter discomfiture of the poor sod trying to read out the sports summary above all the noise!

Two. Oh, dear, it?s that ?drag that hoary old chestnut up once more? moment again. This time, it?s Charlton manager Alan Curbishley allowing this complete and utter canard to see the light of day, and he really ought to know better at his advanced age. So, for the umpteenth time, here it is again - a complete rebuttal of what Curbs stated as fact in the Observer today. Eric Clapton is most certainly NOT an Albion supporter, and never was, even in the days when rumour was rife he wanted to become a regular part of the Hawthorns scenery. And, unless we somehow reach the giddy heights currently occupied by the likes of the Stamford Bridge, Highbury and Old Trafford mobs, nor is he ever likely to be! So there.

 - Glynis Wright

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