The Diary

15 April 2005: Of Mice And Bulls?

Well, I?m here again ? and looking back in anger upon my Monday posting, it?s a bit of a miracle I managed to get the blasted thing onto the Boing website/?regulars? inboxes in the first place. For reasons best known to itself that evening, our mouse ? the PC variety, not the sort of small furry animals with inbuilt fast-breeder reproductive systems our cats tend to bring into the house from time to time ? began to acquire a life and will all of its very own. Suddenly, I was experiencing enormous difficulties just trying to click onto various bits of menu options I needed as a matter of routine, or just getting up on screen the wrong ones entirely, and, more to the point, because of all that, I was quickly reduced to a swearing, blaspheming frazzle while attempting to disseminate my current Albion thoughts around the electronic universe.

I?ve a pretty fair idea what?s caused it, though ? those blasted moggies of mine, who, a few weeks back, by leaping onto our work-table with considerable force, somehow contrived to completely expunge the piece I was working on at the time, not only from the screen, but from the memory also. (No, and I still have no inkling whatsoever as to precisely how they managed it!) Cue for much tempestuous rage from this column once I?d discovered the full extent of the damage done. And even more when I found out our mouse was very poorly also; it hasn?t really been the same since then, but Monday night?s errant performance was the complete and utter giddy limit, it really was.

Never mind ? not only are those things meant to try us, you?ve got to view such events in the light of the old adage: ?there?s always some poor sod worse off than you?. Take my other half, for instance. Now I thought I was going through all sorts of emotional agonies trying to cope with our currently-fraught efforts to stay afloat ? but ?Im Indoors?s problems in that respect are greatly compounded by the fact he also follows Hereford, who are currently going through a ?will they, won?t they make the Conference play-offs?? type of phase. Goodness knows what it?s all doing to his blood pressure ? perhaps it?s high time I stooped to the admittedly mean and nasty trick of surreptitiously bunging some of my own little hypertension-battling pills in his coffee? Or up my own personal medication intake? His nervousness isn?t half catching.

Any road up, that?s the principal reason why we made the long journey down the M5 on Tuesday night ? to watch the Edgar Street lot (hopefully) sort out relegation candidates Forest Green, who hang out in a large village about halfway between Gloucester and Bristol. In fact, if you?ve ever made the trek to Bristol or the West Country by rail, without knowing it, you?ve passed through the place ? it?s about where that enormously-long tunnel you have to shoot through en route finally ends. Not that it concerned us much, mind; it most certainly was The Dickmobile for us on this occasion, and the journey down was simplicity itself. Just get off the motorway just after Gloucester, head towards Stroud, pick up the A46 ? then just keep going in the general direction of Bath. The best bit, though, is the location of their ground ? right on top of a bloody great big hill. Must be the fittest supporters in the entire Conference, their lot. Or the ones who The Grim Reaper does house-calls on most often. Strange, that ? I?d lived not all that much further down the road for almost 13 years, passed through Nailsworth umpteen times as part of my job - and never once twigged the place had a football club enjoying life at Conference level.

Not that they will be a Conference club much longer, the way they?re going; Tuesday?s little soiree was just about their final chance of avoiding the drop, so they needed the points just as much as the visitors, if not more. Still, it was quite pleasant to sit in their little social club beforehand, glass in hand, just watching the world go by. And take in the antics of the poor bloke running a second beer-bar at the other end. The Last Stand At The Alamo, it was, with our rotund curly-haired chum playing the role of Davy Crockett, (minus coonskin cap, of course, and plus bar-towel), but looking just as much under siege as his illustrious American predecessor. Not too surprising, with numerous supporters of both factions enthusiastically recreating the part of Santa Anna?s rampaging Mexican hordes just for his benefit.

What with all the potential baggage this fixture could mean for both clubs ? just as well we left the bar early, as the seated area, never one of the Conference?s biggest, quickly filled to near capacity ? the smell of fear was tangible, almost. It all made for quite a cagey start, and once more, a bit of an Albion Old Boys? Reunion really (yep, our former players don?t half fetch up in some strange places!), the peripatetic ex-Baggie this time being none other than Des Lyttle, still with that lovely infectious grin of his flitting vaguely around his lower jaw. The sheer enormity of what was at stake for both sides led to lots of daft mistakes all round at first, but the Bulls were the first to get off the mark courtesy of a textbook header from a corner (a shame for their keeper, as he?d done such a competent job trying to deny the visitors the spoils up till then), the scorer being 21-goal striker ?Lisa? Stansfield.

And, not long after that, the visitors made it two; again, Stansfield was the perpetrator of the damage, courtesy a lovely defence-splitting ball threaded through to the lad just at the right moment ? all he then had to do was smash the thing past their unfortunate keeper and into the net. Not such a good moment for Des Lyttle, though ? that ?killer? ball left him for dead, completely and utterly. Poor sod ? get out of it while you can, Des, after a career like yours, surely you don?t need the money? Cue for great jollification among the cider-slurpers, though, who?d rolled up mob-handed, their impressive following certainly spread over two sides of that small ground, and, when you looked even more closely, a respectable sprinkling also gathered around the part supposedly designated for the use of the home supporters. So much for segregation, then. How many? Well, the gate was a record one for Forest Green ? 2,100, give or take a few, with, I reckon, well over a thousand visitors chucking in their money?s worth. No wonder the blasted ground looked so full.

Two goals up come the interval, and poor Forest Green were heading for the rock-pile, their cause not being helped one little bit by two factors ? their constant insistence on playing Route One stuff, and the many niggling fouls they perpetrated in a gallant attempt to stop Hereford?s tap right at source. Time also to grab our usual supply of half-time sweetmeats as donated by our intrepid band of female pensioner Bulls sitting immediately behind us in the stand ? and very welcome too, they were. The sweets, I mean, and, in a different sort of way, those elderly awayaday Bulls.

Come the second half, then, and for a while, it really looked as though the Hereford bid for the spoils might go off the rails a tad. How come? During the interval, Forest Green radically (and cunningly) changed their battle-plan; instead of slinging balls into orbit every time they sought to make progress, they started to play it on the ground, and, much more effectively, along the flanks, especially the left. Clearly, the boil hadn?t been lanced sufficiently well enough to completely remove the pus. Suddenly, it was the visitors that looked at sixes and sevens; this development clearly wasn?t in either the script or the job-description, so I wasn?t too surprised when they eventually managed to get one back, from a set-piece taken a little to the left of the edge of the box. Oh, whoops ? and as for my other half, by that stage, he?d already run out of fingers to chew, and was now starting on the knuckles.

Time for a few judicious subbings, then, the first of which was former Baggie Carey-Bertram, who replaced the completely-knackered Lee Mills up front. And that was the moment when the entire game swung the visitors? way, as that strike had, unsurprisingly enough, given the Gloucestershire club renewed hope, enough to make the possibility of them getting on level terms once more a not-so distant one, suddenly. And it was Danny The Former Baggie wot won it for them, from a cross emanating from the left wing ? and their keeper had absolutely no chance of stopping the shit-hot shot, delivered from about ten yards, I reckon.

Against the run of play a wee bit, especially after all the hard work those Forest Green players had put in to make their goal happen, but talk about ?timely? ? had our former junior not been in the right place at the right time, I reckon Forest Green might well have gone on to grab another ? desperation does remarkable things to people at the best of times, an open display of such strong emotions can truly be manna to struggling football clubs. As it was, that strike completely knocked the stuffing out of poor, almost-doomed Forest Green, and the rest was a formality by comparison. And, just before the end, The Bulls even re-launched their ?secret weapon?, the remarkable lad I mentioned on Saturday night, Leroy Williams ? and yes, even over the course of that short period on the field, his unusual antics caused complete and utter mayhem in the home side?s ranks.

The final whistle, when it came, was music to Bovine ears, and just as well they triumphed; when the other Conference scores that night were read out, it appeared that most of the play-off chasing pack had won also. Not that my other half cared, though ? he now reckons that The Bulls only need four points from their last three to ensure they get a welcome (and money-spinning, probably) coda to their season. Thank God; as I said, ?Im Indoors is becoming distinctly schizophrenic these days! Now where did I put those blasted tranquillisers?

Back in Albion mode once more, and the observation that to no-one?s surprise, earlier in the week, the FA turned down Albion?s appeal against Jonathan Greening?s dismissal for so-called ?head-butting?. Come on, did you honestly think that Rob Styles would admit he was either wrong, or completely over-reacting? Yeah ? and I reckon The Monster Raving Looney Party are about to form the next government, as well. Still, it needn?t be the disaster we might have thought a few short weeks back, as we do have other options, one of which being giving Rob Chaplow his chance to shine, and sticking Richardson in Greening?s role. Or, Robbo might think Scimeca the answer to the problem. At least the lengthy break before we have to start biting knuckles to a frazzle again will allow us sufficient time to get everyone used to the changes in personnel necessary to fill the whacking great hole left by Greening?s absence ? and that?s a luxury we wouldn?t have had if the problem had been caused by injury, say.

A slight re-adjustment concerning when I?ll next be pouring out my innermost thoughts once more, folkies. We?ve now decided to stay in our holiday home an additional night, so the next time I hit your PC, it will be on my return from the Spurs away game, next Wednesday night/ early Thursday morning. We?re travelling back to our place early on Wednesday, then waiting patiently for the arrival of the other Dick Eds prior to departure proper. Not that there?s that much different to say following our FA Cup meeting there not so long ago. Except that not only did they have more jam than Hartley?s could ever produce for that one, they were also lucky enough to get a ref who is a complete and utter waste of space ? and that?s on his good days. And last Sunday wasn?t to prove one of his better games, shall we say.

Following that White Hart Lane Cup travesty, over which the lovely Rob Styles presided also, can we make amends by getting what should be our rightful due this time round? Let?s hope so; to do so would leave us probably needing just one more win, or, stretching things, two, to ensure Premiership football At The Shrine next term. And, despite all the hype, they?re not all that good. Come on, Baggies; you?re now reaching the final chapter of what?s proving to be a rattling good escape story ? and, what with all the recent publicity and everything, I reckon there?s more than a fair chance most of the Premiership have a sneaking admiration for both your fighting spirit, and your determination to beat the drop by playing good, solid, entertaining stuff. And our away followers are a cracking bunch, as well; when it comes to giving the old decibels big licks, and the ground big ?boings? there?s none like us. Feel lucky, punks?

Most established Premiership sides? followers like their support, the atmosphere in their grounds, even, artificially created ? and not only does it look phoney, it feels phoney as well. We?re different, a breath of fresh air at that level ? and those rival followers with a bit of intelligence about them readily acknowledge it. We CAN beat Spurs, we CAN get out of this ? what?s at the lower reaches of this division right now are hardly supermen by comparison, are they? - avoid the drop, and next season, we?ll see all that hard work hit pay-dirt. Whatever it is we?re supposed to be this season, it most certainly isn?t the division?s patsies ? so give ?em hell, Baggies!

This Saturday, in the absence of a major game in the Herefordshire region, we?re planning to take in Kington Town?s home fixture versus Coseley Town, which also has the additional advantage that it?s pretty damn close to our holiday home. There were other tempting options available at the same level, but much more distant; attending their game means we can take in the first Cup semi on the box, then embark upon a leisurely drive in the Dickmobile to Kington, which is only about eight miles distant from where we?re based. We have been there before, but this particular game really promises to be a high-scoring affair; Coseley are considered a bit of a joke throughout the footballing circles in which they operate, and reputedly leak goals like The Titanic leaked water. Apparently, when Wellington (the side whose ground we visited so recently, for their league fixture versus Bustleholme) played them, they banged in no less than eight that day. And, another thought why we?re so readily able to harbour such strong feelings of dislike without ever having seen then in action before ? coming from Coseley, which is situated just a half-end brick?s throw from that blighted city itself, they?ve just got to be Dingles, haven?t they?

Sorry to end the main part of this offering on a bit of a sad note, but I?ve now learned via the Stoke media that ex-Albion player Kevin Kent?s lad, Gary, the one with the terminal neurological complaint that took so long to diagnose, passed away recently. As I explained in my earlier piece, The Kents were trying to put in a good word with the BMA for David Southall, the consultant paediatrician who finally recognised precisely what the lad was suffering from, in stark contrast to several other experienced medics, who didn?t.

As I said at the weekend, both Mr. Southall?s methodology and professionalism were questioned by the profession?s disciplinary body following various well-publicised medical injustices surrounding several mothers, all sentenced for allegedly killing their children, but subsequently vindicated via the introduction of fresh evidence casting considerable doubt on all those convictions. I suppose when viewed in the tragic light of what?s happened to their son, the Kents will look upon the fact Doctor Southall was allowed to remain in practice following today?s disciplinary hearing as something of a hollow victory. It goes without saying, of course, that my deepest sympathies extend to all the Kent family at such a tragic time.

And finally?. One. We all tend to take it for granted we can hop into our cars and/or leap onto the most appropriate form of public transport available when following the lads both home and away, so spare a quiet thought for our Antipodean cousins, who had to watch the entire Seal Park episode from afar. Very afar ? about 12,000 miles distant, and about ten hours in front of the UK suit you? Not that a mere bagatelle like that prevented them running the complete gamut of emotion when our late strike hit the back of the net, of course, so let Stuart Ainge of the Melbourne Mob pick up where I leave off ? so take it away, chaps!

?Your comments on John Homer and the wild emotions of the late goal force me to tell a tale of Sunday?s game from some equally ecstatic Baggies 12 or 13 thousand miles away.

?The Melbourne Baggies (well 4 of us and a neutral-but-now-converted friend) met at a city watering hole to see the game together, led by our spiritual leader Mr Jeremy Barnes. With kick-off at 9 pm, and 3 of the 4 having a few too many pints of Stella, Harp, Boddingtons, etc. the 11 pm goal was enough to send us into a frenzy. Scenes rarely seen in Australia of men jumping (loosely, ?boinging?) all over the place, rushing at the big TV as the ball hit the net, hugging each other, high fives missing, fists pumping, spilt pints, screams of "We can do this!", more hugs, broken specs (my poor dad hasn?t been able to see since they fell off and were stood on - probably by himself - in the aftermath) bought some bemused looks from the other patrons, who were only showing a passing interest in the game.

?Jeremy had also issued an invitation on the Ozvillains site to see if any brave souls (should that be ?seals??) would join us. Only one was courageous enough, fully decked in his colours as were we, and didn?t he look out of place in the 15 minutes after the final whistle? If he?d supported anyone else (with one obvious exception!) we may even have felt sorry for him.

?Just thought I'd confirm for you that the momentum and excitement of this potential escape is being felt the world around. The amount of friends I?ve had these last two days notice the league table and say "I see you guys are out of the bottom 3." is amazing. All of sudden, it all seems so real.?

 - Glynis Wright

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