The Diary

16 May 2005: The Impossible Robbo does Immediately - Miracles Take a Little Longer!

Lady, with collecting-tin, approaching our table in The Hawthorns Hotel, pre-match: ?I?m collecting for the mentally-ill!?, she said.

Me, suffering from a severe case of pre-match nerves: ?Stick around until five, luv, and you can have just about everybody in this chuffin? room!?

The Noise, during the second half, somewhat anxiously: ?Three up front isn?t bloody worki??. YEEEEERRRRRRSSSSS!!!!?

Have you all recovered from the afternoon?s adrenalin-charged excesses OK? The realisation we?re actually booked for a second season in the top flight not quite sunk in yet? Well, if you?re anything like me, probably not; too busy gibbering, and spitting out bits of fractured fingernail, still, more like. Wow ? what an emotionally-charged end to the season, and what an unexpected one, too. Come on, think about it; had someone told you that bitterly-cold night we lost to Liverpool at The Shrine (bottom, and eight points adrift, don?t forget), we?d not only get a penalty at Old Trafford and grab a point there a week before the finish, we?d also take it to the wire, need a win, plus manifold failings of the other three relegation rivals to take full advantage ? and that would be the way things would pan out for us in the end? Yeah, right, and my Dad?s a Dingle.

Talking of things panning out, isn?t it great to see the media concentrating on the hard-luck end of the Premiership table for once? No, seriously ? most seasons, all the plaudits and the media exposure goes to those in contention for the title, and that?s usually a two, or, if lucky, three horse race, with the name of the eventual winner being but a formality come those last few games. This year, the situation?s been much worse than that; from very early on, much to the irritation of Messrs. Ferguson and Wenger, there was only going to be one outfit scooping the pot come May, and they sure as hell didn?t live within sight and sound of Manchester Docks, or Woolwich Arsenal, come to think about it.

What the Lord giveth, he then taketh away, so the saying goes - and that?s precisely what happened. With things at the top rapidly degenerating into a mind-numbingly-boring de facto carve-up for the financially-adipose, come the advent of spring, people turned their attention instead to the division?s basement, and, to their surprise, quickly became irretrievably-hooked on the amazing four-way dogfight fast developing within those fear-infested lower reaches. Palace, Saints, Norwich ? and us. Take your pick. Any one from four, come the season?s climax ? and the beauty of it all was, you genuinely couldn?t separate any of ?em, even with the kind assistance of a man with a powerful blow-torch and a crow-bar. It all hung on today, and, as we?ve already seen, the eventual outcome remained in serious doubt right up until that merciful final whistle. Agonising for us, but great telly for the neutrals; now it?s all over, you tell me which lot gave the most entertainment, thrills, spills, for the price of their matchday tickets, their Sky subscriptions? The bottom four, or ?Them??

No contest as far as I?m concerned, of course, but I?ll still bet you anything the media boys don?t see it that way tomorrow, which would be a real shame ? no question about it, the bottom four, and the frantic scramble for safety is where it?s been at. No wonder the neutrals were lavishing such fulsome praise around our haloed heads come the end of hostilities. The lads done well, have made more than one well-known Premiership snob eat their words along the way, and by doing so, gave the unglamorous end of the Prem one helluva an intravenous infusion of goodwill, pure and simple. Not to mention those future aspirants watching and waiting patiently for their day in the sun, a precious commodity. Hope. It CAN be done, an unfashionable side can go up, totally against the odds, spend peanuts, be bottom come Christmas, eight points adrift ? and still survive. And quite right, too.

So how did this amazing 24 hours go for us four soon-to-be-ex-Dick Eds, then? For me, the day proper started around ten in the morning, when I awoke to the promise of a lovely late spring morn; not all that warm as yet, but highly-reminiscent of other last-day epics long gone. Pompey, 1994, Palace, 2002, anyone? A quick wash and brush up later, there I was, ready for whatever the coming 12 hours or so would fling at me. But where was ?Im Indoors? Easy that one ? doing Percy Thrower impersonations (Junior Baggies, ask your mum!) in the garden, and reading the Sundays, not necessarily in that order. A chortled ?Feeling nervous yet?? to my other half later, and it was time to grab some brekkie. Why was it, at that precise time, the old phrase: ?The condemned man ate a hearty breakfast?.? kept flitting in and out of my poor addled brain? And was the huge ginger and white moggy I saw in our garden this morning (the first time ever I?d clapped eyes on the blasted thing) an omen or not? Stoppit, at once, you hear?

It was while I was chomping away I first heard the distinctly mournful tones of my other half doing what?s now become his stock-in-trade; Marvin The Paranoid Android impersonations, as per The Hitch-Hiker?s Guide To The Galaxy the other evening. ?Life, don?t talk to me about life!? moaned my other half in tones so funereal, I half-expected to see a beckoning newly-dug grave suddenly appear in close proximity. Poor sod, contrary to his own expectations, it was really getting to him.

Never mind, though ? off to do our bit come noon, but as we neared the ground, you would never have known there was to be a major game played within approximately the next three hours. ?On The Beach? syndrome once more, of course ?Where?s everyone gone?? we wondered. Never fear, though; within feet of our usual parking place was The Noise?s car share, with a replica-shirted Martin and daughter awaiting our presence. Very few ?zines to flog, relatively speaking, this last selling-day ever, but pride provided the prime motivational force in ensuring we shifted every single copy printed. But first, a quick visit to the club shop to grab freebie programmes ? that Albion credit card of mine does have some uses, see! ? then off to the Hawthorns Hotel to do serious damage to a cold drink or three. Trust my luck; while I was waiting to be served, both the lights and power behind the bar gave up the ghost, causing absolute chaos among the (student?) staff, who didn?t have a clue what to do. Blimey, just as well we didn?t have a real disaster going in there, wasn?t it?

My quip to the poor charity collector later, it was time to get seriously stuck into my own refreshment, and just as I did so, in waked The Fart ? and with a curious complaint indeed on his lips. Let me put it this way ? ever heard of anyone moaning when a bus has turned up on time? Daft as it might seem, that comprised the nub of The Fart?s gripe; apparently, every single one of his connections did the decent thing for once, and meshed smoothly with each other ? and on a Sunday, too?

Time to properly take in what was going on in that room, then ? and the main thought that struck me concerned the sheer amount of nervous tension that quietly stalked the shadows. You really could have run a couple of light-bulbs off all those anxious vibes permeating the hazy atmosphere ? murky or what? - and what?s more, as the numbers increased, so did the ratcheting-up of their expectations. I could only hope the entire enterprise wouldn?t end in tears. And, talking of ?tears? that?s precisely what happened to young Carly, when she visited the Ladies. How come? Easy ? that wretched hand-dryer delivered a powerful electric punch, and all along her arm, poor girl. The same dryer that was supposedly repaired some months ago? Dearie dearie me; it seemed to me those in charge of that pub were eagerness itself to study the work of the legal profession at close quarters. It?s not rocket science, chaps ? fix the bloody thing, before you get correspondence from Messrs. Sue, Grabbit, and Runne!

The smell of fear in that room was palpable, almost, so it was a mighty relief to find it was time to head elsewhere ? but not before someone imparted to me a little snippet concerning Gary Megson. Fair play to the guy ? according to what I was told, our former gaffer had sent a load of Forest reserve kits to Featherstone Prison, all for their football team, and at Hughsie?s request, apparently. There?s much said in the media and elsewhere about the allegedly cushy lives convicts lead in Her Majesty?s Penal Establishments, and I?m sure many rushed to condemn what Gary did ? but how many realise the simple truth that it?s upon small kindlinesses such as that the microscopically-small seed of character reformation can settle and flourish in someone previously dismissed as one of life?s casualties and consigned to the social scrap heap as a result? A lot of people would be truly amazed at what such small gestures can mean to someone locked up for a long time.

Out into the wonderfully-warm sunshine once more, and off for what would be our last-ever selling stint. And, on our arrival at our usual spot, there was a small crowd of well-wishers waiting for us, including someone keen to get our autographs on the last copy. Too many to mention by name, but thanks to each and every one of you for all the nice things you said about the ?zine and us editors. And what generous Baggies you were when it came to donating to the Dovedale Day Centre Appeal; first of all, a crisp tenner from someone who wishes to remain anonymous, then a ?20 note, of all things from a bloke who wishes only to be known as ?Barry?, from Cornwall. Aw, shucks, you nearly had us both in tears at one point!

Also there were Jean and Michelle, plus, thank goodness this time, the nice folkies from the Express And Star. Quite a saga revolved around our two cat-loving chums; as you may remember, because of their heroics in watching the lads under very trying circumstances (see columns passim), I tried to get the pair of them talking to one of the E and S?s newshounds back then, but for reasons best known to itself, the email I sent didn?t get to the intended recipient, so I was quite relieved when our tame hack got her journalistic gnashers stuck in for the second time of asking. Look out for the article either in the paper itself, should you live locally, or on their website, should your idea of home be in close proximity to Wonga-Wonga, the Nullaboor Desert, or whatever, and not The Black Country ? they cover most stories on there as well.

We also heard the latest update on what the academic world proposed to do with our gash stock and admin records: all going to Leicester Uni, apparently. Not only that, the Sunday Mercury, who had agreed to give away all our remaining back numbers, took 700 Dicks away with ?em, according to Steve The Miser ? and were enthusiastically shifting the things even as we watched. There you go, I told you that lot were good for at least something! Seriously, though, the academic interest means, in effect, that our efforts will be immortalised for the benefit of serious future researchers ? Leicester have a genuine ?football studies? department there. I?d be absolutely tickled pink in years to come to hear our efforts assisted someone in getting their Ph.D, and the right to call themselves ?doctor?.

One thing I did notice, while not selling, or talking to reporters; how markedly different the atmosphere was outside to that in the pub. How can I adequately do it justice? Well, if I tell you it was a bit like a cross between a carnival, and a ward full of maximally-medicated psychiatric patients, I reckon you?ll get my drift. Emotions, good bad, hostile, malevolent, benign, resigned, even, all on a knife-edge, finely-balanced; one wrong word to any of those supporters, and I reckon 90 per cent of them would have burst into tears on the spot. Daft, I agree, but that the football business for you; to batter Churchill?s famous words beyond recognition: ?Never in the field of Albion conflict were so many enthused by so few?.?

Now here?s a paradox for you. One of the reasons we decided to call it a day was declining sales; strange, then, on our last selling day ever, we managed to shift our entire stock, with room to spare! In fact, come 2.15, we?d nothing whatsoever left, and neither had the other sellers. Apologies to those who got there too late, but a special mention to the chap who purchased our last two copies ever ? take a bow, Trevor Crewe of Dudley. The honour of being the last ever purchaser is all yours!

A few moments of quiet reflection on the finish of what had been the raison d?etre of our entire lives for the past 16 years, a few words to those who?d got there a little too late ? and, there being nothing there to detain us there any longer, it was time to go in. As per usual, ?Im Indoors made a bee-line for Turnstile C3 ? ?Our lucky one!? ? he declared.

?What?? I shrieked, as we neared the gaping maw, ?But when we did that before, we lost to Arsenal! Better change that to: "the-turnstile-that-used-to-be-lucky-but-isn?t-any-more-but-we-haven?t got-the-bottle to-use-a-different-one!? then, hadn?t we??

Whatever my other half said to me by way of reply as we went in was drowned immediately by the tidal wave of pure noise emanating from both the pitch and the horrendously-loud PA. My ears are still ringing, honest! Seemed to me that Matthew, our resident DJ, was stoking ?em up to a state of pure frenzy even the original inhabitants of the Coliseum would have admired prior to their main billing, Lions Versus Christians ? it takes one to know one, see. I wonder if they had promotion and relegation in that league, as well? But that noise-level was nothing compared to the sight that hit us when we reached the top of the stairs and a proper view of the pitch for the first time. Shirts, blue and white striped, zillions of ?em, on every side of the ground ? and I do mean EVERY side. Even the away end was well-populated with ?impostors?; looked as though the rumours we?d heard about their intentions were true after all.

And then there were the inflatables; you name the part of the ground, there they were. Beach balls, brightly-coloured blow-up rings, a couple of ?space aliens? ? nice of you to drop in, chaps! ? loads of flags of all kinds, both Albion and international, mostly in honour of our large foreign contingent. If you want, I?m also willing to swear to any kind of God you care to name, I also saw an Iraqi flag being waved amidst all the others; a ?trophy? presumably, won by a Baggie serving in the recent war. It all made for a pretty frenetic atmosphere, of course, but what really grabbed my attention were the antics in the away end; was that really an Albion chant coming from them? Something told me the next hour and a half was going to be interesting, in the same way a fatal car crash can be called ?interesting?!

On to the team news, then ? and, once more, whenever our lot were mentioned, off those Pompey supporters went once more, with paeans of praise, lashings of them, concerning all things Black Country. I could only hope the game would live up to their expectations, and relegate their South Coast chums. I have to say that this temporary switch of allegiance was totally unique; it wasn?t the same, but the nearest I could come to a similar situation was the 3-0 drubbing at Stoke that sent Leeds down in 1982, everyone united with one principal goal in mind ? relegating the bloody so-and-so?s, and serve them damn well right for trashing our place the way they did the night we played them!

Time for both sets of players to emerge, then, to a cauldron of noise, constantly roiling and boiling, redoubling in intensity, then reverberating magnificently around those high stand roofs; I?m willing to bet the noise could easily be heard in Smethwick, a good mile away. More Pompey cheers from the gallery as the teams were read out once more, and not just for their lot, either. They had three out, as I?d surmised last night, with a couple of second-stringers drafted in to beef up their attacking options. One was familiar, though: Ricardo Fuller, who?d spent a few weeks with us the season we first went up, then moved on elsewhere. As far as we were concerned, in addition to what I would regard as an ?attacking bench?, up front, we were starting with Earnie, for once; what with him and Campbell, and Richardson just behind, in theory that maximised our attacking options. As far as the ?custodial department? was concerned, we went with Kuszczac again; as we?d thought, poor Houlty was still feeling the effects of the almighty smack in the groin he?d received at Old Trafford the previous week. Ouch.

All the pre-match formalities finally done with, it was time to call both sets of players together in readiness for the start, and as they responded, so did the overall decibel level ? upwards, at a rate of knots. And, as we awaited the whistle to start things moving, up went the cry, from the visitors? enclosure: ?Stand up if you hate the Scum!?. Depends upon what kind of ?scum? you?re referring to, I suppose. And, as the ref raised the whistle to his lips, the unspoken thought flitted nervously through my somewhat addled brain: ?Expect sod-all from this one, and you?ll not leave the ground disappointed come the end, then, will you??

No more posturing, no more prevarication; this was truly IT. And on the stroke of five minutes, Pompey had one hell of a let-off. The start of it was a lovely ?one-two? between Richardson and Campbell, the ball being sent on its mercy mission by our long-serving giant-sized goal-merchant. It just didn?t run kindly for them sadly, the eventual effort, from Rob Earnshaw, being lionised at every single turn. And not just by Albion supporters, either; many heads in the crowd were turned by the splendid antics of the Pompey bunch that afternoon ? and brilliant was their rendition of common Albion terrace songs, not to mention mortal insults aimed principally at You Know Who!.

That got me wondering; in the event of us scoring, would their own supporters start booing their players? Dafter things have happened at sea, haven?t they? The way they were giving it big licks would suggest they?d deal ruthlessly with those not pulling their weight. Three minutes after that, we should have scored ourselves, this time from a Richardson bye-line pull-back, but Earnie couldn?t convert, so we didn?t. Then, just two minutes after that, I could scent the symptoms of more news from elsewhere ? the wildly-cheering crowds in the Smethwick were a dead giveaway something was up. And, sure enough, within minutes, we finally learned what had happened. As did poor Norwich; they had just conceded the first of what would be a hatful of Fulham goals.

Then, with just 15 minutes on the clock, came the first real hint of just how dangerous Pompey might be if left to their own devices. And, as you might have expected, it fell to former Baggie Ricardo Fuller to try and get things moving for the South Coast club ? and this is the bit I don?t understand. There he was, with nowt but their keeper to beat, bearing down on our goal like a tank ? but instead of burying the blasted thing, he fired wide instead! All together, now! ?FULL? ER IS AN ALBION FAN, FULL-ER IS AN ALBION FAN, FULL-ER IS AN??..?

So on the match progressed, then, and as we approached the halfway mark, it was our keeper that had to be lively to keep the visitors out. So much for the theory they?d feel obliged to go easy on us in the interests of facilitating Southampton?s downwards plunge, then. If this was their idea of playing at half-cock, I?d really hate to see them going at us full-tilt! One other thing worried me also, and that was Richardson. I don?t know whether he felt any great need to impress on this occasion, or look good for his public, but it didn?t half seem to me as though the lad was constantly trying to pull off the spectacular stuff when a plain, ordinary bog-standard pass from A to B would have sufficed perfectly adequately. A leftover trait born of time spent at Man United, where so much is expected of players that age? Not so much of a problem when the play was taking place well clear of our box, but on the occasions when a mistake could have cost us dear?.. Precisely.

Still, having weathered that initial storm, the play then began to swing our way once more, and all conducted to the constant background of infectiously-hypnotic drum-beats coming, it seemed, from that away end, and stirring something tribal within the hearts of those many Black Country souls gathered together in the Smethwick. First of all Greening had a pop, then, just minutes afterwards, Campbell. Another vagrant thought as the plot gradually unfolded out there; were we simply trying too hard? Certainly, at least some of those missed efforts would very likely have been buried without any ceremony whatsoever on our part had the circumstances been slightly different

The tension, slowly building to intolerable proportions, almost, as the half progressed, seemed to be getting to a couple of our matchday companions. Take The Bloke In Front Of Me, for example. On normal occasions, every single deficiency in our strike-force, every total failure to clear the ball after a set-piece, every pass going astray so horrendously, would have been marked by a continuous tirade of insults primarily meant for the culprit, whoever that may have been. His vocabulary is somewhat limited ? well, I ask you, just how many times can you bawl ?RUBBISH!?, or ?THAY DOE WANNIT, JOHN ? LOOKATIT! LOOKATIT!? and not end up driving everyone else to distraction? This time, though, he was really thirsting for blood. By my reckoning, it was a full half hour before his tongue began to play its full part in the proceedings. And he wasn?t the only one silently fuming, it would seem. So annoyed were the away supporters at our inability to notch up our first strike, they began to sing, and very pointedly, to their lot: ?Let ?em score, let ?em score, let ?em score??? was the refrain, just as we learned Fulham had scored yet another, making it 2-0.

By the time the first half?s end drew nigh, what with the news from elsewhere and everything, the atmosphere in the ground was fast approaching what I would describe as a furiously-roiling boil. Even poor John Homer was starting to feel the strain, ripe insults in dulcet Black Country tones shattering the peace of the neighbourhood. Meltdown, and possible criticality was fast approaching, so time for my SOP pouring of oil on troubled waters, then. Leaning over a little, I managed to catch a little chunk of John?s undivided attention. ?Calm down, dear,? I said, ?It?s only a commercial!?

Injury time, seemingly minutes later; trust Greening to - erm ? ?get lucky?, a nasty head malady causing the problem, it would seem. But after some delay, ?Jesus? walked again, although seemingly rattled by the force of the knock. One part over, another to come ? we hoped. Whatever would this remarkable game chuck up next?

Come the interval, and all the usual stuff that goes on, one thing we certainly did establish; despite issuing instructions for supporters NOT to tell the players what was going on elsewhere, they?d just gone and done it anyway, which probably explained why the scoreboard was now displaying the current state of play in West London, its southern counterpart and Southampton; as all these games progressed, the advantage had zig-zagged wildly between the three; of the lot, we were the only ones not registering a score. Not good enough, as things stood, though; if things stayed as they were, Southampton would be the ones grabbing that last lifeboat out of the sinking ship. How much was there left in the tank for us?

Off we went again, to that wretched ?Great Escape? theme music once more, a lad called Skopelitis joining the fray for Pompey. (What a lovely surname, that ? conjures up images of someone going to the doctors, and being told: ?Oh dear, Mrs. Scroggins, you?ve got a bad case of Skopelitis there ? better take three of these, twice a day, go and lie down, take things easy, and see me in five days time?..? Additionally, the half had only been five minutes old, when there was more news from Fulham ? and not what you?d want to hear if you were of the Canary persuasion. The West Londoners were now three up. My goodness ? Norwich were folding like an MFI flat-pack; just what the hell was going on down there?

Ten minutes into the half, or thereabouts ? and still we couldn?t make an impression on their defence. More worrying, they were showing signs of penetrating ours before too long. Time for Plan B, then ? but what was it? We soon found out, though; tall, well-muscled, with distinct elements of the proverbial brick outhouse about his build; yep, time for The Horse to have a go. But who to take off, then? The answer was Greening, sacrificed to give our attack a little more muscle, courtesy of The Horse. Interesting, vairy interesting. And we didn?t have to wait long for the change of personnel to hit pay-dirt, either. Just as the news Palace had equalised came through, The Horse bore down on the Brummie, and with the ball at his feet, belted the blasted thing for all it was worth. Sad to say, it went underneath their keeper?s body, but the important thing was, though, it reached the back of the net while doing so. 1-0, at long last, the ground completely erupted ? a quick glance towards the Pompey lot in the away end showed they were celebrating wildly as well! ? and suddenly the future began to look distinctly rosy for us.

The wild swing of emotions to and fro was beginning to affect poor John once more; heavily radioactive, he was, and fast approaching melt-down. Our poor seated neighbour, who was in possession of that vital commodity, a radio, was constantly badgered for information, poor soul. It?s bad enough sharing a name with our defender, but having to fend off the desperate cries of incommunicado fellow Baggies? Oh dear. Then we heard United had got another; were that to be correct, that put us in the driving seat for the first time. Bloody hell this was getting hairy. Then, another thought, a sad one, this time, struck me again ? the thought of Lee Hughes sitting in a prison cell, listening to the whole thing via a radio. I briefly wondered what was going through his mind right then, poor sod.

You had to hand it to the Pompey crowd, they were really giving it some on our behalf. During a brief lull in the play, I suggested we hold a bucket collection, and at the end of the game, buy the entire lot enough beer to flood The Solent ? hell, they?d certainly deserved it. We sure as hell owed them one, now.

But it wasn?t over yet. With about 15 or so minutes to go, word crept in that Palace had got a penalty. How many was that, now? The thought briefly crossed my mind I?d be damned furious to get relegated on the strength of someone?s play-acting; whatever Dowie might say, I simply refused to believe all those had been bang to rights for the offender. And, as the news percolated around the place - the conversion was successful ? a sullen, stunned silence replaced the previous buoyancy. What a crying shame, to work so hard, and get stuffed like that ? but, within seconds, the mood changed once more.

This time it was our Man United loan that made his mark on the game; a neat bit of one-two trickery later, he was bearing down on the Brummie, then let fly with everything he could ? and that, dear reader, settled it. 2-0, and once more, those Pompey bodies ?boinged? with gay abandon. Blimey, they weren?t half getting good at it.

It was at that point things started to get silly. Suddenly, what was happening on the pitch took second place to what was going on elsewhere. It was the rumours that caused it; the first one concerned Charlton. A mighty roar went up from around the ground ? had they equalised or not? Heads spun wildly, desperately, and for the umpteenth time in this game, our chum was besieged for news. Had they done it? ?Nope? was Paul?s final word on the subject. Sod it; shades of 1991 here, and all the rumours Leicester had blown it. By now, just about everyone in that ground was using every form of communication at their disposal to ascertain what was going on in South London ? mobile phone, radio, pagers, and it wouldn?t have surprised me one little bit to see a heliograph, or semaphore, even, deployed in an attempt to discover the truth. Hot air balloon? Naw, we?ll leave that sort of thing to Doug Ellis! About the only thing I didn?t see were smoke signals ? but then again, The Hawthorns ain?t the Vatican, is it?

Then, yet another roar. Another false dawn, or had something genuinely heartening happened this time? Paul didn?t keep us in suspenders too long ? thumbs up it was, and The Addicks had equalised! Slowly, agonisingly so, the clock wound down; Fulham were winning by five clear goals by now, we heard. Poor Norwich, I really felt for them. Just three to go, and Kanu came on for Earnie, a cameo appearance only. Please God, don?t let it end in tears. Coppers, in The Halfords? You?ve got to be joking! Said The Bloke In Front Of Me: ?Don?t let Pompey get one now?..?

Said me: ?If they do, they?ll get lynched by their own supporters!?

And then, it was all over ? our game, that was. But what about London? An agonising wait, time took flight in a manner that surely proved the existence of Relativity theory ? and then, the almighty roar we?d all been waiting to hear. Palace had fallen at the final hurdle, we were safe ? but, much to the amusement of those amazing Pompey supporters, Southampton had dropped like a stone.

Cue for half the ground to run onto the pitch, the South Coast ?gallery? still wildly applauding as they joined in with yet another rendition of ?The Great Escape?, closely followed by a returning of the favour by our lot, as the strains of ?Play Up Pompey? embarked upon the return journey. And, for the umpteenth time that day, the 23rd Psalm. A massive salute to the efforts of their followers, who really gave their all for the entire ninety minutes, and richly deserved it, of course. And those scenes out there ? truly amazing, even better than Palace, two seasons ago. A tidal wave of shiny happy Baggie people, all celebrating like mad, and to no-one?s surprise, the pair of us were both reduced to snivelling wrecks within seconds.

A ten-minute pause to allow the players to let off steam in their own way, and clear the pitch ? some job, that was ? and out they came again, to accept their richly-deserved plaudits. As I said to my other half: ?There you go again ? think of the bloody impossible, and the Baggies will go and do it!? A sea of happy faces, now, with nary a bit of grass to be seen, such were the numbers on that pitch by then ? slightly worrying, as the players had brought some of their young children out with them, and the turmoil was clearly frightening them. And, in that almighty crowd, yet another familiar face ? that of SuperBob, celebrating with everyone else ? and, so I heard later, being chaired around the pitch on the willing shoulders of a phalanx of attentive Baggie ?minders?!

Then, as that amazing procession neared the tunnel once more, out there, on the pitch, we spotted The Fart. The little criminal, him! No help for it, on the pitch we went also ? apply the bracelets, Officer, it?s a fair cop! ? hugs all round, additional to the many given and received in the Halfords, even from one of the stewards. And, another remarkable sight ? two grateful Albionites kissing the pitch in true ?Muslim at prayer? style.

Outside, somewhat reluctantly, to find the party going on out there as well. About twenty people, both Pompey and Albion, hamming it up for the cameras. Trust The Fart to get in on the act ? must have brought back memories of the Armistice for him ? the Boer War Armistice, of course, whatever else did you think I was going to say? Odd to see a strong police presence in Halfords lane, though ? as both sets of supporters were busily forming a mutual admiration society (you really had to see it to believe it!) ? what use where they? Only one place to go after a game like that, though - and that was The Vine; before we went, we left instructions with The Noise via his chum to follow us there.

An almighty fight to get through the post-match traffic to our destination ? and the jubilant crowds already spilling out of pubs on the Brummie Road, blinking in the warm sunshine ? but get there we did. And yes, even at The Vine, the crowds were imbibing merrily on the pavement outside! Our drinks quickly sorted out, a seat in the ?food? part of the place beckoned for myself and The Fart ? and just when we?d given up hope of seeing The Noise and offspring again, there he was, looking distinctly scarlet around the facial regions, and with hair that positively shrieked ?finger-in-light-socket?! His first remark apropos the game? ?You?re doing and expecting a 100 mph crash into a wall, your life flashes in front of you, you think you?re a goner ? and then the wall suddenly disappears!?

All analogy centred around what we?d had to face this afternoon, of course, but none the less sincere for it, and bloody vivid when you sat and thought about it. And, as we relived the whole thing again, both through the medium of the TV, showing excerpts every so often, also via The Noise?s profusion of phrase, much munching of Tandoori chicken took place ? and, guess what? Yep, those Pompey supporters had fetched up there, as well, and were now getting on famously (and alcoholically!) with their Black Country counterparts. And, hey ? they were even joining in enthusiastically with a chorus of that perennial favourite: ?We?re staying up, and the S**t are staying down!?.? Yep ? they?ll certainly do for me!

To no-one?s particular surprise, by the time we?d dropped The Fart off, and returned to our bijou residence, it was half-eight. Just in time to see the highlights once more, on Sky! And then, when we?d seen that, turned the remote button to Beeb One, and Match Of The Day, Gary Lineker, Alan Hansen, Uncle Tom Cobbley, and all. And that, dear reader, is why I?ve steadily blitzed this account through the long hours of darkness ? that, and the fact we?re expecting a delivery today, will mean I won?t be able to grab a proper kip in my bed until this wretched printer arrives. And in any case, I?m still so hyped up by what happened, I couldn?t have slept, even if I?d wanted to!

Time to go and purchase every newspaper in the shop, methinks ? then sit down and ENJOY, calm in the knowledge we?ve made history ? and, apart from that, we?ve got a quite useful football team ? and manager, O blessed be his Holy Nostrils! - going for us out there! Shove over Pope Benedict, here?s your P45, we?ve got someone who can fill that bill very nicely, thank you very much ? and don?t forget to leave your spare vestments on the way out! Back tonight, when I?m more coherent. See you then.

 - Glynis Wright

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