The Diary

21 April 2005: White Hart Pain?

Back again, and tonight, just for a change, I?ve decided to title this piece ?Aspects Of Pruning?. Why? Well, if the good burghers of Kington, Herefordshire, are anything to go by, pruning must be a terrifically multi-faceted and lively subject on which to base a talk of around two hours duration, so that surely must mean it?s got to be OK for a football-related piece, hasn?t it? Coo, I can see it all now ? how to deploy secateurs in a 4-4-2 formation, how to achieve an early lopping of those stubborn twigs; the thing is, though, when pruning, do you stick one up front or go with two? Depends upon whether you?re in your own garden or not, I suppose ? if it?s your neighbour?s, then as it?s an away game, one up front would be de rigeur, unless your rose-bush rate fell behind to an early snip, of course. Should that be the case, then you?d have to switch to two, or possibly three, sets of clippers, wouldn?t you?

Sorry about that, but it?s the sheer amount of miles we?ve covered today that addled my brain to the extent I?m trying to sell you dry-as-dust municipal gardening orations. Well, I ask you ? this morning we were in the wilds of cider-slurping country, then, a quick tool via Kiddy later, we were back home once more. A short interval to unpack, then it was off again, along with The Noise this time, to The Smoke, with a quick pit-stop at The Fart?s domicile in order to pick up the old fossil beforehand. ?Tottingham here we come?, and yet another instalment in the ongoing cliff-hanger that is West Bromwich Albion these days.

Quite a nerve-racking business even at the best of times, but our state of nervous tension was compounded greatly by the fact our grossly-increased adrenaline levels had been stoked up enormously courtesy of the outcome of games played a mere 24 hours previously. And, in the case of ?Im Indoors, it wasn?t just stuff affecting Albion; there was also a sideshow involving Hereford United sitting on the metaphorical stove, and coming to a nice rolling boil also. Everything had gone relatively smoothly yesterday evening ? until we were returning to our holiday home from the local pub, that was. ?Im Indoors has already tuned into Radio Five via the car radio, but then swore blind he wasn?t going to lift a finger in an endeavour to ascertain what was going on once we were back.

Well, that was his intention ? and the road to hell is paved with loads of ?em, so they do say in those there parts. It was truly pitiful, it really was; within around 30 minutes of us walking into the place, you could see what was on his mind. Think ?junkie looking anxiously at his next fix, but hating himself for doing it, because he knows damn well the addiction will cruelly unpick his resolve before too long? and you?ve got it, providing you substitute the words ?TV remote control? for ?syringe?, ?tourniquet? and ?dead good gear?. Yep ? all the same symptoms were there; manic rolling of the eyes, tiny beads of sweat forming about the face, twitching fingers, edging ever closer to the object of desire, sly, sideways looks, just to make sure I hadn?t noticed, and the ?shall-I-or-shan?t-I?? expression all-too familiar to those of similarly degenerate habits.

And, then, finally succumbing to temptation, with a look in my direction about as sheepish as the countless numbers of woollybacks occupying the next-door field. And, having once made the decision, firstly, the ?ecstasy of fumbling? so vividly described by Wilfred Owen in his famous World War One poem, closely followed by some anxious moments as the screen finally scrolled around to the desired pages - then the unmitigated twin joys of discovering Bolton were one up, and Hereford well on their way to making the play-offs. Not that the Bolton/Southampton situation lasted, of course, but even so, it was still a decent result from our point of view, and His Nibs reckoned the Hereford one was the canine?s testicles, also. Net result? Contentment. Only temporarily, I know, but at least it was a start.

And all that brings me neatly to tonight?s little moonlight tryst in North London, where, as Keith Burkinshaw once famously opined apropos of the bean-counter invasion, ?they used to have a football club there once?. I suppose they still do, and stuck in some dusty back room, somewhere, quite likely, but it certainly isn?t the Spurs I knew and loved in the days of Greaves, Blanchflower, Gilzean and Co. But I digress. Shifting our carcases away from the Midlands around three in the afternoon, we finally made landfall ? the traffic around the M25 proved to be a complete pain in the butt ? around 6.15. Not that I noticed, much; despite The Noise?s ear-splitting machine-gun delivery from the back, I was in the land of Nod.

?The turning?s by that bloody big Tesco you come to once you?ve gone about 80 miles down the road!? said navigator-for-the-day Mister Noise, as the Dickmobile finally left the motorway. And he was dead right about the Tesco, what an absolute monstrosity. It?s funny about newly-opened Tesco branches, really, because they don?t half remind me of the nasturtiums in our garden. How come? Easy; just like that garden pest, once you let them get a hold, they spread like crazy, then completely stifle the life out of the competition while they?re at it, and to the point where it becomes virtually impossible for anything else nearby to flourish. And yes ? just like those bloody nasturtiums of ours, they?re a right bugger to get rid of.

Because we were relatively late arriving on the scene, we had a bit of a mild panic ? our normal parking spot had gone ? but a short foray into the adjacent industrial estate quickly sorted things out, thank goodness. Had we not been able to stick our chariot there, we might well have been completely stuck for somewhere to park. Still, no damage done; a quick tool into the nearby pub for a sharpish wetting of the old whistle, and we were in business. Same place as before to flog our wares, and it wasn?t all that long before a nice chappie who reads this column came trundling along. Donated a fiver to the Dovedale Day Care Centre Fund, he did, which was pretty damned decent of him. We?re already over the ?700 mark we?d originally aimed for ? so how much more can we collect before we all go our separate ways come the end of term?

And it was not long after that we had yet another ?classic? moment ? for reasons best known to himself, a Spurs supporter took umbrage at the (admittedly decibel-laden) way The Noise was bellowing: ?GRORTY DICK ? ALBION FANZINE!? at the entire district, and then had the temerity to tell the lad to shut up! Blimey, guv?nor ? it?s not as if we hadn?t been trying to do that for bloody years! Just minutes after that episode, our voluble hero?s eagle eyes then caught sight of what appeared to be a walking advert for City-type pinstripe suits walking along the pavement, in our direction and going at a rate of knots, as well. Momentarily, there flitted across the mind of Stoke?s very own contribution to the noise pollution problem the thought that this gleaming epitome of sartorial elegance could be headed for the posh seats further down, but no ? splendid creature that he was, he was headed straight for us. And then we twigged ? no alpha male this. Well, an omega, really, should you really want to pigeonhole people that way ? none other than Nigel Johnson, a long-standing chum of mine (and, latterly, my other half also); I knew Nige from my Bristol Baggies days, way back in the early eighties.

Mind you, little did the lad know I was shortly about to blow that outwardly-suave fa?ade of bespoke tailoring to smithereens, and by the simplest of methods; Nige, you see, was holding in his hot little hand a common-or-garden beefburger, surreptitiously purchased from the adjacent ?greasy spoon?. Like shelling peas, really, poor sod; all I had to do was wait until the bugger took the first bite, then raise my trusty camera eyewards. And, yes ? the picture I got was an absolute gem; Nige, in classical pose, cross-eyes, cheeks bulging in true chipmunk fashion, the works. Would you let this deranged man loose on your company accounts? Not if you had any sense, but never mind, Nige ? it?s coming very shortly to a plain brown envelope near you, and with a suitably-worded monetary demand attached!

And then there was Dick Saunders. Hello, Dick, remember me? And do you know precisely how many bones are to be found in the human hand? No? Well, you ought to, because when you shook my hand out there tonight, you damn near broke every single one. Bloody hell what a bone-crusher that was; if that was your idea of a friendly gesture, I?d really hate to be around when I?ve just upset you! As things stand, I reckon it?ll be when we?re on the road to Middlesbrough by the time I finally recover all sensation there. Mind you, by that time, there weren?t half some rumours flying around about the make-up of our starting eleven; first off, we heard Jason Koumas had been handed a start, then it was Chaplow that had got the managerial nod, with Richardson out wide; just as we?d expected, and a bit more likely than the alternative.

Once inside White Hart Lane, though, the truth, when it finally emerged, was equally strange. Yes, there were some changes to the normal crew, enforced ones due to Greening?s suspension, of course; the rumour-mongers had got the Chaplow thing right, and there he was out there on the pitch, bald head agleam in the floodlights, his belated Premiership unveiling now close at hand. Richardson had been placed wide, and partly because of The Horse failing to get over the final jump at Aintree the other day (or something), Kanu and Scimeca both got the managerial nod. Another interesting development on the bench, though ? the Return Of The Japanese Prodigal, Inamoto, now back from his recent sojourn in The Place Time Forgot, more popularly known as Ninian Park, Cardiff. So, if he was being picked over Koumas, just what the hell was going on? Curiouser and curiouser, say I.

But back to the game ? and it goes without saying we really needed something from tonight?s proceedings, if only to build upon the sterling foundation work undertaken both versus Everton, and ?That Lot In Aston?. Ad we did get off to a pretty promising start; I made it only two minutes elapsed when Kanu looked set fair to open our account after being put through by Chaplow. A shame he couldn?t get the final shot in with enough accuracy, but that?s the survival business for you, I guess. And, even at that early stage of the proceedings, there were way, way too many in the away end ready to verbally abuse Keane every time he had the ball. Now come on, we?d already had proof positive earlier in the season that to do that would only wind him up even further, and renew his determination to make us pay ? which he did, much later in the game, but I?m getting ahead of myself a tad, so back to the present.

And, not all that long afterwards, around ten minutes, I reckon, it was Clem?s turn to shine. The free-kick, when it came, was the result of what could be termed a ?professional foul? fairly close to the edge of the box. Tottenham?s Dawson was the recipient of the ref?s ire, the victim was Richardson, and the clog-dancing cockerel ended up being yellow-carded as a result. But back to Clem; the whistle blew, he raced towards the ball like a Sherman tank with the brakes shot to hell, and on making contact, didn?t that sphere go? At a rate of knots it did, and hit the far post before bouncing thankfully behind for a goal-kick, finally. I could only hope we weren?t to rue the chance later on.

Just what is it about Tommy Gaardsoe that can have us singing his praises to the rooftops one minute, but screaming with impotent rage and frustration, the next? Blimey, if ever two players were in sore need of a practical demonstration of the homily ?It?s Good To Talk?, it just had to be him and Houlty, didn?t it? As things stood, non-communication between the two nearly saw the home side, giggling helplessly along the way, craftily nip in and score. And, then, with only 22 minutes gone, a totally-unexpected change to our batting order, and one which instantly took the game along an unexpected course. Off came Richardson ? why, I?ve no idea, although scuttlebutt says an injury was the problem ? and on came Inamoto, of all people. He?d performed at this level when with Fulham, so at least the Prem wasn?t a complete mystery to him; still, it would be interesting indeed to see how well he adapted after returning from the troglodyte kind of existence normally found in the Championship, or, if you want to get all spiteful, in South Wales. We could only hope his skills in the middle weren?t too rusty as a result.

And that change marked the moment when we managed to steal the lead. No sooner had our mobile sushi bar stepped onto the field of play, we managed to win a corner. Over went the ball, delivered by Chaplow, plumb-spang into their box, a nifty sort of flick across the goalmouth to Gera, laxly-marked, for once ? and one unholy piledriver from our tame East European later, total bedlam erupted in the away end. Amidst all the celebrations, I even found time to flick Steve Brookes, Albion?s very own ?weapon of mass methane destruction?, a few V?s. Why? Because of his ghastly anal emissions, that?s why! Oh ? that, and the fact I only realised who it was when I told him to sit down just seconds before, as he was totally obscuring my view of the blasted game.

The entire ground was rapidly reduced to absolute silence by our ?boinging?; that, and our lusty rendition of The 23rd Psalm, now mandatory, almost, every time we?re the first to break the deadlock. But amidst all the celebrations, there was still the niggling thought that yes, I had expected us to take the lead sooner or later ? hell, we were more than matching the North London side in most of what they did ? but had we done so too soon? It was a mighty long time to go, still, until that final whistle, and there was also the bitter memory of what happened during that recent Cup replay to draw upon; having shoved our noses in front, thanks to not a few dubious refereeing decisions from the odious Rob Styles (more about him at the end), we?d finished the losers, by a three-goal margin.

But, all worries on that score were quickly pushed aside, as we began to embark upon playing some of the best football I?ve seen from an Albion side this season. Or should I enlarge that statement further by substituting: ?- from any Albion side for a long, long time?? One such move, which involved the India-rubbered Gera among others, would surely have drawn plaudits from the very best the game had to offer, and our travelling faithful knew it: pretty soon, the ground resounded to the sound of ?Ar-sen-al, it?s just like watching Arsenal!? Must have miffed the home lot greatly, got them snarling nicely, that one, as there?s no love lost, of course. And there was a subtle little twist neutrals might have missed; both Kanu and Inamoto had worn the famous Highbury shirt in the past, of course. And we could have gone one better; with fifteen minutes to go before the interval, Chaplow figured yet again when he forced their keeper into a save following a superb pass from Kanu, now playing with a liveliness that completely belied his chronological age.

But Spurs weren?t finished, not by a long chalk. As the half neared its end, it needed all Gaardsoe?s defensive skills to prevent Keane getting his revenge, the ball sailing harmlessly over the bar instead, and following that, Spurs having ratcheted the tempo of their entire game up a notch or two, there were near misses aplenty ? and one moment of potential Baggie embarrassment, the now usually-reliable Wallwork blotting his copybook for once, and nearly letting in Spurs for the equaliser ? just as well our Japanese import was on the ball, then, wasn?t it? Mind you, my nerves were quickly reduced to a frazzle by The Noise bellowing ?KEEPER?S!? with all his might as both Houlty and an opposing player went for the same ball. Industrial deafness? Yep ? and the rate The Noise is going, there?s not all that long to wait, I reckon.

Come the interval, come the mad dash to search for ?the facilities?, and all before the remainder of our female following got there first. As we had seats immediately next to the aisle, there was little in the way of handicap to prevent it ? but it was when I was seated in that bijoux cubby hole of theirs, I suddenly realised there was, literally just behind my back, a photograph that simply had to be taken. What was it? Well to gain a better appreciation of the context, it should be realised that some of our supporters, lots in fact, were in the habit of standing up during the first half, and on the slightest of pretexts, of course. No surprise what the result was; within minutes, more orange-jacketed goons appeared on the scene, and it only seemed a matter of time before the first ejections would come. But, as these things do, sometimes, it all petered out to the stage where vague threats were being made on both sides, and as a result, the standing-non-standing dilemma was finally resolved, albeit temporarily. The toilet? Well, in there, and stuck all over the cistern, was a printed notice warning supporters to sit down or else! What? Even when 'on the job' so to speak? As The Noise said earlier, no wonder supporters hadn?t paid the slightest bit of attention to the stewards upstairs; all the warning notices were displayed in the bog!

On my return, the sign flashing above the stadium was, on the screen, and in huge lettering, the legend: Tottenham 0, West Brom 1. Casually, The Fart then asked me if I was going to be taking a picture, and I replied in the negative; any such stuff I?d confine to the moment when the final whistle blew, and we knew the points were definitely ours. But until that happy moment arrived, there would be absolute zilch in that respect finally making it to my camera?s electronic innards. Chants in praise of both Earnie and Big Dave as they warmed up; seemed as though Robbo had opted to include the pair of them in the party for a while, but that wasn?t to be.

Come the first minute, Spurs set out their stall nicely insofar as Mido just went wide after we?d failed to clear the threat; fortunately, the shot, when it finally came, was well wide. And there was an additional factor coming into play for the first time; the news Palace were losing. And, another four minutes after that, a Spurs corner, followed by the biggest game of ?six-yard-box-ping-pong? I?ve ever seen in my entire life. So crowded was the box, for all the world, the resultant shenanigans truly resembled chucking-out time on an average Saturday night in Brum. And yes ? once more, our luck held firm.

The trouble was, though, that the new tactics only served as a jammy sort of let-off for the visitors, but within the space of around a minute, we got our just desserts. Again Mido was heavily-involved; this time, and in more than one interpretation of the word, but the truth was, we?d been expecting this very event right from the start of the second half; and didn?t it just have to be bloody Keane administering the coup de garace? Serve us right for winding the horrible little sod up in the first place, I suppose.

Clearly, our defence was sorely in need of patching operations, but it was with the greater part of the game completed ? on 69 minutes ? when big Dave was finally unleashed. And that?s where I differ from my other half, folkies. Before Spurs equalised, I put voice to the thought that now was the right time to bring our ginormous substitute into things, but ?Im Indoors thought different ? reckoned that to do so would have been tantamount to my handing them a placard saying something along the lines of: ?Now we?re concentrating mostly upon defence, now?s the time to really hit us? ? but I disagreed. Mind you, I still reckon that had we Big Dave at our disposal, the equaliser might never have happened, but it?s all subjective, of course.

A shame we had to concede, I suppose, but we most certainly should have done better when unleashing some of those long-range thunderbolts, of course. And, it was almost smiles all round, when Inamoto latched onto a beautiful Gera through-ball on the right hand side of the box, then nearly potted the black; it was only the Spurs keeper?s agility and bravery that kept our trainee kamikaze pilot from restoring an Albion lead once more.

But by then, moments like that were becoming progressively more infrequent; as the game neared its end, the pendulum inexorably swung in the direction of the home side, and it wouldn?t be gilding the lily too much to say Spurs could have quite easily nicked all three points from us at the finish. First off, someone tried to lob Houlty from way out, the effort just skimming over the crossbar, and then Keane?s effort (again!) almost caused Albion hearts and minds to give up the ghost on the spot. But there was one little ray of sunshine to be found amidst all the gloom; The Great Zoltan almost netting, and totally against the run of play, with around twenty to go. And, equally uplifting, our amazing rendition of The 23rd Psalm about four minutes from the end, a spectacle that totally reduced the rest of the ground ? not all that easy, they?re not an easy lot to shut up by a long chalk ? to silence, complete and utter.

Worrying? You bet, that last portion, but at least we survived with a point to show for all our troubles. Just as well, really; on our return to The Dickmobile after the game, we heard news via The Fart?s steam radio that Norwich scored a last minute |(injury time, would you believe it?) winning goal versus Newcastle. Oh dear, but at least we could examine some of the positives emerging from tonight?s game. The first? Easy; although the Norwich result meant they?d been given one hell of a psychological boost, it was still tough at the bottom.

To date, consensus in the Dickmobile was of the opinion that it wasn?t Norwich we had to worry about, Palace looked a real mess in comparison to our feeble efforts, so our thoughts should therefore be directed towards ensuring we notch up enough wins to stave off our own fate, and by doing that, cheerfully consign others to theirs. And, despite Norwich losing, our fate was still largely in our own hands, we were still in front, and with a game in hand over the other strugglers. We still have to grab our chances while we may, as they come so few and far between in this rotten division, but at least we aren?t constantly bawling and shouting at the TV screen any more. We can do this, but I strongly suspect it'll go right to the wire.

And, talking of The Dickmobile, getting to it proved to be a bit of a problem for me come the final whistle. It?s all because of the sheer amount of standing I had to do tonight; that, plus the fact I?d managed to trip over my camera bag the night before, and landed on the floor with an amighty ?whack? as a result. No bones broken, of course, but I wasn?t half sore come the next day. Now I truly know what people like Kanu, Gera, even, have to suffer on a match-by-match basis. And there was the small matter of that ten-minute walk back as well. Knackered? Too bloody true; that?s why I slept for a considerable proportion of that journey also.

Back in the Dickmobile again, and as we pulled away, the Noise gave his final verdict on the day?s proceedings: ? A ?bloody shame? , as we?d only looked properly able to surmount this kind of problem over the past few months. Prior to that, The Noise reckoned we?d spent ?God knows? amount of time trying to get it right, which, when viewed in hindsight, wasn?t exactly what the club had in mind. But, we?re slowly progressing, and should we find ourselves still in the Prem come the end of this season, I fully anticipate us not being stuck in the bottom three next time round.

And finally?. Rob Styles? The Cup Final? With his awful record? A bit like putting Michael Howard in charge of the local blood bank, if you ask me!

 - Glynis Wright

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