The Diary

11 April 2005: Seals Get A Late, Late Show Clubbing!

Blimey, wasn?t today?s encounter with the claret-and-spew tendency typical Albion? Not being content with tying collective Baggie guts, all thirty-odd feet of ?em, into a dinky little double-bow of adrenalin-ridden angst, our finest then put on a late, late show that had them wailing and gnashing their teeth on three sides of Seal Park, but most certainly had ?em dancing in the aisles in the fourth. That Paul Robinson headed strike, I made crossing over the line in the third minute of stoppage-time; I couldn?t have been all that far out because Villa (spit) barely had time to kick-off before God?s gift to refereeing, Rob Styles, brought matters finally to a close. Phew!

Tell you what, lads, it?s lovely we got that much-needed point in the end and everything, but do have a care, chaps ? towards the end, my little white blood-pressure tablets were finding it somewhat difficult to cope with the wildly-excessive demands those grossly-elevated adrenalin levels of mine were placing upon them. I want to see us flick not a few metaphorical ?V?s at the remainder of this league, not to mention certain idiot pundits nightly holding forth on satellite TV to the point of verbal diarrhoea, by pulling off the miracle, but not if watching such an improbable scenario come to pass means I end up in the local hospital watching events unfold on the box.

Watching events unfold from my perch behind the goal, also the away-end pandemonium that ensued right in full time ? and it genuinely was a ?perch?; no-one in a Baggies shirt was going to sit down for this one, not if they could help it ? several pertinent thoughts sprang to mind, and all wrapped around the thorny subject of footballing clich?s; were I to contravene the Geneva Convention by employing such frightfulness for the purposes of this piece, I would undoubtedly be saying by now: ?Yus, guv, it was definitely a game of two halves,? closely followed by its boon companion, ?It only takes a second to score a goal!?. Trite, but true ? so I won?t.

Now, where do I start? I know, when The Noise turned up on our doorstep, bright eyed and bushy-tailed, which is a damn sight more than I was. Compiling late-night diary entries doesn?t half take it out of a gel. The problem was I was still noshing on the greater part of a two-egg breakfast, and trying to cope with that gentleman?s machine-gun vocal pace is bloody difficult when you?re labouring under the twin handicaps of copious quantities of egg-white, and a gurt great chunk of bread. Luckily, I knew my Noise by then, so was able to confine his garrulous drizzle to about the same speed as that employed by Sir Patrick Moore after a hefty Sanatogen hit. Good going, by my standards, but excruciating for the Stoke-based lad, who positively thrives on conversational skills.

At least The Noise?s comparatively early arrival meant we could set out for Seal Park that little bit quicker ourselves. No Fart for the trip this time ? well, there?s not really that much point in heading from one side of Brum to our place ? only to end up in another bit of the same city come journey?s end, is there? Never mind ? what we lacked in local radio skills, we more than made up for thanks to The Noise?s valiant conversational efforts in the back of the vehicle. Surprisingly, when we reached Handsworth Wood, about three miles from our destination, we hit a traffic hold-up, a ?biggie? from the look of things. Not because of the game, surely? Hell, there was still around a couple of hours remaining to kick-off, so what was going on? And then we found out the reason ? bloody road works. Oh well, time to turn off the main drag and shift into ?creative driving? mode, then, wasn?t it?

Whatever it was that ?Im Indoors so fortuitously did ? he didn?t have the faintest clue where the local roads came out, either ? it must have worked. How else could we have got to Seal Park in that pitifully-short amount of time? Once there, as per usual, we made for the many side streets surrounding the ground, and looked for a place to park. But there was a slight sting in the tale ? since the last time we?d gone there for a competitive game, last season?s FA Vase Final, if my memory serves me correctly ? the entire area had been taken in hand by the imposition of a residents? parking permit scheme, with traffic wardens at company and battalion strength to enforce the rules. When faced with the fait accompli, the only thing we could decently do was go in search of a nearby matchday parking lot; problem was, though, the very first one we hied upon wanted a crisp fiver for its robber-baron troubles! But, beggars can?t be choosers, and all that rot. Time to bite the bullet, and flash the cash, I reckoned.

Arriving outside the ground not long afterwards, we found The Fart awaiting our pleasure. Leaving the other three to flog fanzines, I went for a long lazy stroll around the entire perimeter of the ground instead, pausing only to marvel upon the complete and utter abortion the Aston club had made of what should have been a prize asset for Villa ? the sedate redbrick late Victorian frontage of their main stand. What the club had done to the blasted thing was an architectural travesty. As I paused awhile to take some pictures (it?s a listed building), several Baggie chums also did likewise ? but only to bat the breeze with me. It?s all down to plain ornery nerves, really ? once you get like that, one?s only solace lies in the form of pre-match build-ups etc. That, plus a fond hope justice would ultimately prevail, and we?d register our first Seal Park win for yonks. As for the photos, those who ended up on the wrong side of my lens may or may not have such images used as evidence against them in the next issue!

Arriving back at GD Base Camp once more, at first, I was somewhat startled to see Baggie Bird strutting his avian stuff about 20 yards away from our selling-point, but being so used to the blasted thing turning up in odd holes and corners prior to games, I didn?t really notice what was going on ? not until BB removed his ?head?, and the identity of the wearer was finally revealed ? none other than BBC2 sage Adrian Chiles, also trying to rally the troops in anticipation of the coming ordeal. And he wasn?t the only one either; just ten yards distant was Frank Skinner, looking very dapper indeed in black jacket, bright orange shirt, and luminous red tie! A combo guaranteed to swivel heads at ten paces, so it wasn?t surprising to see the surrounding crowd of Baggies multiply tremendously within the space of just a couple of minutes. One other vagrant thought about the former teacher turned actor; the considerable amount of weight he?d lost since the last time we?d clapped eyes on him. To say I?d seen more fat on a greasy chip than there was on Frank right then would constitute the understatement of the year, I reckon.

Oh ? and just to keep you going a little while longer, here?s a couple of thoughts from this column about what happened once all the ceremonials died down. What, for example, were we to make of The Fart carrying the Baggie Bird ?head? and ?wings? for Ade, who, by now, was in a state of advanced undress from the neck up. Reminded me a bit of that Stanley Holloway music hall monologue, the one where the chorus goes: ?With her head tucked underneath her arm, she walks The Bloody Tower?! What with that posse of celebs pressing the flesh like crazy outside, the bright sunshine and the crowds, you know what it all reminded me of? Pompey, 1994, and a very different kind of ?shit-or-bust? away game, where we?d spotted Daryl Burgess among others outside hours beforehand trying to rally the Black Country troops in preparation for the coming ordeal.

Not that we needed encouragement from any of the celebs in our vicinity; team news, via The Fart?s trusty steam radio, bless its leaky valves and diodes, which imparted the tidings we?d be unchanged from Everton for this one. And, as we were about to call it a day as far as fanzine-flogging operations were concerned, a Villa supporters approached our Crimean War hero ? and then shook his hand, wishing us luck in the process! Watching the incident with horrified eyes, my flab was completely ghasted: ?I bloody well hope you?re going to wash your hands in soap and water when we go into the ground, Tel,? I commented, my nose already beginning to curl with complete and utter disgust at the sight!

We also had a ?close encounter of the third kind? with a very different sort of bod, Dave Hewitt, photographer, teacher, pub quiz machine king ? and now film extra. Where the hell he finds the time to participate in all that lot has me beaten hands down ? but he does, and what?s more, having tasted brief fame via his bit part in the first Harry Potter, he?s shortly to hit the silver screen again. In the film ?Goal?, apparently, which is due to run the rounds later in the year. Not that we could natter for long, though; we were on our way inside Witton?s answer to The Bastille, where confirmation awaited us about the team news we?d heard on the radio outside. One curiosity, though ? this time, we were going to run with a substitute keeper, the Polish lad whose name I keep spelling wrong.

And even amidst the team news there was a strong element of schadenfreude; somehow, our blubbery friends got the names all mixed up on the TV screen, which was why the sudden announcement that both Valavan and Dublin were going to turn out for this one! A moment for the purported strange team change to sink in amongst the many Albionites massed in the away end, then a swift outbreak of ?You don?t know what you?re doing!?, followed closely by a musical rendition of the theme taken from ?Entry Of The Gladiators?. That?s the ?circus? one, in case you hadn?t twigged already. An almighty clanger, even at the best of times, but in front of your bitterest local rivals? Ooops.

Glancing around the ground before the start, I was struck by the number of empty seats I could see everywhere. So much for the news this game had sold out, then. Either that, or someone at Villa was conversant with an extremely elastic definition of the phrase. But no time to ponder on that one; to our right, both teams were making their way onto the pitch, then, minute later, participating in all that ?handshaking? nonsense that forms the preliminaries to just about every Premiership fixture you care to mention. As for Steve The Miser, seated with us for this one, such were the ferocity of his disgusted wails ? Steve?s philosophy regarding the claret and blue tendency is to never, EVER fraternise with the buggers, no matter what the pretext ? we genuinely began to fear for his mental stability.

And, a few minute later, in bright sunshine for once, off we went. The initial exchanges were pretty cagey, which was pretty much par for the course; no-one wanted to try to carve out a career for themselves until they felt they?d properly got the measure of what the ?other lot? were about. And, of course, there was the ?Rob Styles Factor? to think about. Yep, our Tottingham nemesis had been given this one as well. I can?t say I was all that impressed to see his clownish face in the middle once more; to be perfectly honest, I thought the landlady of the pub just up the road could have done far better out there than he, but that?s football for you.

To be fair, he didn?t really try to impose his terminal stupidity upon the game until much later in the proceedings, but in those opening minutes, it was rapidly becoming apparent our problems were going to come not from the man with the whistle, but from the home side themselves. The problem? Instead of playing some nice, entertaining stuff, keeping it mainly on the ground, Villa had chosen to go down the road marked ?In Your Face, Mush!? on their maps. They didn?t let us settle for a minute; every time we managed to wrest possession from them, they were instantly nipping our heels like a badly-behaved mutt on a lead, trying to win it back again. This led to a scrappy sort of half, of course, but for the home side, it had the additional bonus of us being rendered totally unable to scale the silky-skilled heights we?d achieved versus Everton, just seven days previously.

This had its inevitable effect, of course. Passes went astray, moves broke down in tears; very quickly, it became almost impossible for us to shift the ball out of our own half, even. And on the rare occasions we managed it, Villa countered our comparatively feeble efforts with ease. Because they were calling the shots, more or less, this had the knock-on effect of increasing the pressure on our goalmouth; as quickly as five minutes after the start, a defensive lapse almost let them in, Houlty performing miracles by managing to shift the shot around his right hand post. Could have been nasty, and most certainly an omen of what was to come.

I don?t know what ailed Martin Albrechtsen today, but he certainly wasn?t the player we all knew and loved; with almost 15 minutes gone, his error led to Houlty having to frustrate the lurking Vassell?s intentions sharpish. Just minutes later, he was outwitted on the flank again, and it was rapidly becoming abundantly clear to us we had a definite weakness ? some might prefer couching Martin?s shortcomings in far more graphical terms, but I won?t - out there. Naturally, Villa continued to exploit that chink in our armour for all they were worth, and midway through the half, Houlty found himself in action once more trying to tidy up the mess made by our foreign friend?s failings at the back. Villa took the resultant corner ? and it was from that, we conceded. Poor Houlty ? having to face a Villa header at point-blank range, saving brilliantly, but only to see the result of his hard work rebound off the crossbar, return to sea-level once more ? where a rampant Vassell was lurking ready to propel the ball into the back of the net.

One-nil down, then ? and on the overall run of play, we?d got precisely what we deserved. Certainly, I was inclined to believe the comment made by a bloke behind me ? ?Goo on, Albion, these am rubbish!? ? because when watching televised games involving the Witton lot, for the most part, they genuinely were rubbish! The trouble was, their brand of rubbish had found the key to stopping us right in our tracks, and it wasn?t a nice feeling at all.

So, apart from some of our followers impersonating honking seals at intervals,and very well too, what could we do about it? Well, we did try to launch forays of our own when we could ? but it really spoke volumes that I have on record our first genuine goal attempt taking place just two minutes before the break! Also, around the same time, much sarcastic cheering for the referee, who actually gave a decision our way for once. Those two incidents must have finally broken the mould of complete and utter torpidity cast around us, because moments later, Campbell found himself practically unmarked at the far post, and the ball whanging its merry way towards his skull off the boot of the industrious Ronnie Wallwork. The trouble was, though, that ?yer man? made a bit of a pig?s ear of the chance, his header turning out to be a bit of a powder-puff-type affair in the end. And, not to be outdone, just before the break, Campbell found himself yet again contemplating an advantageous scoring spot, but failed to maximise the opportunity presented to him on a plate.

Come the interval, and come the fond hope in that away end that Robbo would introduce Earnie into the fray for the start of the second half, thereby giving our strike-force that essential injection of additional ?pazzaz? necessary to even things up once more. That didn?t happen, surprisingly, but what did was a much more proactive approach to the blubbery tendency than had been the case over the whole of the previous 45 minutes. Within minutes of that restart, we?d seen Horsfield fail to capitalise on a Villa defensive error, his shot being kicked away before it could do damage, then, unbelievably, watch him fall over in an undignified heap near the post just when we?d thought he had the beating of their defence. Argh!

Minutes later, it was the turn of both The Horse and Gera, normal reliability in the box deserting him today, to go very close indeed ? and then came the incident that had just about everyone in that ground wondering whether the warm spring sun had got to Rob Styles?s head, or something. What happened? Well, if I say, ?Nothing, really?, I?d genuinely be telling you the complete and utter truth ? the trouble was, refereeing?s answer to Einstein didn?t see things that way at all. As I saw it, both then and on the box tonight, all that happened was that both players engaged in a little bit of ?head- bomping? following a disagreement over a tackle. Neither player made real contact with the other?s skull, as I saw it ? the pressure applied by the neck muscles was nowhere near strong enough to do serious damage. The way it looked, the contact consisted of nothing more than what a Maori dancing troupe would do when exchanging traditional greetings ? the briefest contact of heads, fleeting, nothing more, nothing less.

I wasn?t too bothered when Styles said Ridgewell had to walk; he was the one who seemed to have kicked everything off between the pair of them in the first place, so no great injustice done there. What was a shock, though, was the unedifying sight of Greening getting a red card also ? what the hell had he done to deserve it? Look at the whole incident whichever way you want, Greening wasn?t the guilty party, end of message. In fact, I?ve seen far more on a football field sorted by the ref quietly telling both parties to ?grow up?. Judging from what both managers had to say on the subject tonight, it looks very much as though we?re going to appeal that decision. The trouble with that particular course of action, though, is the fact that a successful outcome is highly dependent upon whether or not the match official undergoes a complete change of heart. That?s a facet of human behaviour very much predicated upon the assumption that the referee might be big enough to admit he?d got that one disastrously wrong this time. Let?s hope that the FA people still discussing the case are equally big enough to realise that to suspend Greening for his sins would constitute a grave travesty of justice.

So there we had it. Our lot, finally becoming involved in the game for once, getting ?stuck in? and all that, but getting sod-all for our pains by way of reward. Villa, while not presenting the same threat level as per that of the first half, still tried ways of breaking through the impasse, while we tried to jeer just about everything the two clubs represented. We even tried changing our two strikers; shortly after both narrowly failing to level the score, off went The Horse and Campbell, on came Earnie and Kanu. Paradoxically, that made things much worse for a while, presumably because players weren?t sufficiently familiar enough with the different demands new personnel made upon the supply-line.

Time was running out fast for us, and so were ideas; eventually, the game groped deep into injury time, clumps of disgruntled Albionites making to leave the premises ? and then it happened. We?d been threatening, in a desultory sort of way, for quite some time, now, our alarming tendency to come to a juddering halt whenever a blue and white striped shirt got anywhere near the danger-zone having been curbed to a large extent, but this was markedly different. A useful build-up on the right for once, a mean and nasty Scimeca cross, curling in tantalising manner, whipped across the face of goal, then flicked onto the ample head of Robinson, lurking unmarked, at the near post ? a fleeting pause as the ball hit the back of the Villa net, then within the flickering of an eye, complete and utter pandemonium reigned in that Albion end!

All that pent-up emotion, all that quiet frustration born of lingering discontent we weren?t doing ourselves justice against the ?old enemy?, suddenly burst forth, totally unchecked at long last. Whoo-ee! We?d nicked an equaliser, and truly at the last gasp. Villa could only manage to put foot to ball on the centre-spot before Rob Styles blew his whistle for the very last time. Seething anger among the home crowd, of course, cheated of the chance to gloat for a full week, but in our own bit of real-estate, celebration time it was. After all, had we not done unto Villa what they had done unto us two seasons ago, with their last-gasp Hitzlsperger effort from a free-kick?

The players, too, realised the magnitude of that humungous let-off, and celebrated in high style also. Defiant choruses of ?S**t on the Villa? and ?Chim-chim-chimeny, chim-chim cheroo/We hate the B******s in claret and blue!? resounded around the rapidly-emptying ground time and time again, coupled with impromptu renditions of the 23rd Psalm interspersed with sporadic ?boinging?. And, as we descended the stairs, preparatory to leaving the ground, someone (or rather a group of ?someones?!) even let rip with a lusty burst of ?We are staying up!? Oh, such optimism of youth ? and can I please have a pint of what they had, landlord!

No hastily-arranged cleaning sessions for The Fart this time, thank goodness; while we did battle with the traffic, Old Ancient Lights himself grappled with the vagaries of Birmingham?s bus system, but not too disastrously ? as we made our way back home, and listening to Franksy on Radio WM, whose dulcet tones did we hear emanating from the car speakers? Yep ? got it in one.

And yet more good news following that Palace-Everton encounter, kicking off not long after ours had finished. The final score? Everton 4, Palace 0, one of the Toffee goals being belted in by a 16 year old kid! Another one off the Rooney-clone production-line, presumably. That result put us out of the bottom three for the first time in five months. Brilliant! As things are, we don?t have another game for ten days, which gives us ample opportunity to recover, and gird our loins preparatory to our long journey to the next on the list, our chums from North London.

A lot will depend upon whether or not we can get Greening?s nonsensical dismissal rescinded. If we can, then there?s no real damage done, but if we can?t, then a rapid reshuffle will have to be sorted out. Greening is the sort of player whose qualities go largely unappreciated; take him away for any length of time, though, and you quickly come to appreciate all that?s good about him. Presumably, Richardson, who can play on the flanks, will deputise, and balance restored by the insertion of Rob Chaplow into the side. As far as we?re concerned, keep those sniggers for the Dingles going, chaps. The one thing that really gets them mad is the thought of an Albion side succeeding where they failed in the Prem. The way things are going, they might just become suicidal ere the time the current season ends.

And finally?.. One. The Noise sends his profound apologies to the bloke he nearly sat on when we scored. But that one?s a pretty long way behind the one he owes to the lady in the seat behind, who nearly had her lights accidentally punched out, from what I saw of it all!

Two. Couldn?t help but notice our manager?s sartorial splendour for today?s game, as revealed via Sky?s ?highlights? session tonight. No sloppy tracksuit for our man - natty suit, powder-blue shirt, striped tie. Very suave, very cool, Mourinho-like, almost. Said a bedazzled ?Im Indoors, on beholding for the first time the splendidly-clad creature gracing our TV screen: ? You know what? I reckon he?s working slowly up towards wearing a Santa Claus outfit (see Diary passim) in the dug-out at Old Trafford!?

 - Glynis Wright

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