The Diary

14 August 2005: Season 05-06. The 'B' Of The Bang Meets The 'B' Of The Bore!

One down, thirty seven more to go, then. My immediate thoughts, come the final whistle at the City of Manchester Stadium this evening? Although City?s new abode stands in close proximity to that famous (notorious?) ?B of the Bang? monstrosity ? a dozen house-points to the anonymous Manc who likened the thing to one of those ?Ker-Plunk? games you see advertised on TV at Christmas, by the way ? our game certainly ended not with a bang, drastically abbreviated or not, but with a goodly-sized whimper instead.

Sure, we did bring back a nice fat juicy point for our troubles, but the game could hardly be described as a classic, by any means. Mind you, opening games rarely are; new players yet to fully adapt to the Albion way of doing things, other players slightly ring-rusty, still, despite all that hard graft pre-season, you know the score. As The Noise (his absence was marked by the distinct lack of noise in our jalopy, incidentally) is wont to say, we need around ten games together before it?s possible to discern even faint intimations of our probable fate come the merry month of May, and I reckon he?s got it just about spot on.

One thing most certainly not typical of a normal opening day was the bloody weather; almost from the moment we left the bounds of the Black Country, the first desultory drops of rain began to hit the windscreen with considerable venom. Quite a contrast, that, to what prevails usually; previous starts, the last three or four especially, have been absolute scorchers. Perhaps I should have taken into account the ?Manchester Factor? before departure, but then again, the sun shone fit to burst our eyeballs the day we faced United at their place some three seasons ago. Trust them to be different.

Leaden clouds accompanied us almost the whole length of the journey northwards; it was almost enough to make a Baggie claim his or her money back from Big ?G?, but the precipitation wasn?t the only thing we had to contend with today. On no less then three occasions, everything ground to a halt because of bloody roadworks; one of these days, I?ll journey the entire length of that motorway, and find the road surface to be in pristine condition, and not an orange cone in sight. Hang on a mo ? was that a flock of porkers I saw flying in close formation just then?

Irritating to a degree, certainly, especially as no real cause for the hold up was readily discernible at times. Must have been the sheer volume of traffic, working in tandem with the Highways Agency, I suppose, but the real annoyance factor was the time these hold-ups put on our outward journey. Normally, we can ?do? Manchester in around two hours from door to door; today, the trip was closer to three hours duration. Making landfall in a car-park positioned just behind an ASDA supermarket along the way from the ground, it was the work of a moment to grab our rain-wear, and go in search of a suitable watering-hole. But what was this? Quelle horreur ? ?Home supporters only, sorry!? was the cry, so admitting defeat, we decided to give the City Of Manchester Stadium the benefit of our early presence instead ? but not before El Tel had chance to indulge in his favourite pre-match diversion, making a fuss of some poor mounted bobby?s nag.

Normally, we would have let our tame old codger indulge to his heart?s content, but the rain, our constant companion thus far, chose that precise moment to redouble in intensity, and we needed to get out from under pretty fast. In any case, I couldn?t resist it. ?Tell you what, Tel,? said I to our equine-loving ancient mariner, ?We leave you here, and when the game?s finished, we take the horse back home instead, OK?? I can?t rightly remember what The Fart did say by way of response, but did I hear a faint, badly suppressed, explosion of constabulary mirth as I left the scene of the ?crime??

It was also good to meet up with those nice folkies from ?King Of The Kippax? one of the remaining City fanzines. We?ve always nurtured a friendly rivalry, us and them, one that used to manifest itself in an impromptu shouting match outside Maine Road, more likely than not. Generally, our joint vocal efforts conspired to blow them out of the water, completely and utterly, much to their annoyance. Closer questioning revealed that they, too, were feeling the financial pinch. Their current print run only stretched to some 1,500 copies, Quite a gamble on the part of Dave, the chap responsible; come the fag-end of last term, he was down to a thousand copies. Normally, they have on sale a number far in excess of that. There was another bonus, though; the chap who runs the show had clear memories of some of the players ?Im Indoors is currently researching for his book (see the main section of this website for more details), and on realising this, The Fart certainly didn?t let the grass grow under his feet. Within milliseconds, he was giving the poor guy a grilling, the thoroughness of which would not have disgraced MI5.

What was that oft-quoted Shakespearean saying? ?Once more unto the breach, dear friends??? That was us as we prepared to enter ?foreign? turnstiles for the first time this season. The rain was an awfully-big incentive to do so, especially the moment Norm first drew my attention to the colour of the precipitation rapidly adorning his coat. ?Look!? he said, tapping me on the shoulder in order to emphasise the point, ?It?s bloody green!? And, on examining the strange liquid more closely ? yep, it most certainly was green. Ooer. At that point, I began speculating about the possibility of the stuff being radioactive. ?Just how far are we from Sellafield, Norm?? I wondered, half to myself, which immediately set in motion a train of thought all of its own; the immediate birth of some pretty awful puns revolving around the explosive topic of nuclear fission: just as it?s you, I?ll spare you the sordid details. In fact, I actually achieved something pretty unique; the rare sight of ace-pun-manufacturer Norm Bartlam walking rapidly in the direction of ?away? while simultaneously holding his head in his hands! One-nil to me, n?est ce pas?

Oh, and another thing: despite The Fart having heard dire warnings aplenty about bags being confiscated in an effort to thwart potential suicide-bombers, when push actually came to shove, the City stewards seemed quite laid-back about the entire issue, really. Or was it simply the fact we didn?t look the part, not of a sufficiently depressed appearance, or of Islamic countenance, I suppose!

Once inside, and as we were very early indeed by our normal standards, we then decided a drink and a bite to eat was favourite. But first, that all-essential visit to the bogs; our need to assuage this basic bodily function had been exacerbated greatly by the mini-monsoon taking place outside. As it had been some time since our last visit to the place, I?d conveniently forgotten just how surreal were the surroundings of the ladies convenience. Just like the backdrop to some modern-day ballet, or, if you like, the backdrop to an excerpt from Fritz Lang?s ?Metropolis?, the film Queen nicked in parts to form the basis of their promo video for ?Radio Ga-Ga?. All shiny pipes, of varying diameters, there were, adorning both walls and ceilings, and backed by massive breeze-blocks. Most futuristic.

Having admired the scenery to my heart?s content whilst going about that all-essential excretory thing, it was then time to sort out the clamouring needs of the stomach. No problem there; although the concourse was pretty crowded, most Baggies seemed far more intent on getting the amber nectar down their necks in quantity; the food section was relatively untroubled by comparison. It was whilst we were filling our boots, we came across a certain Cyril Randle, one of my regular correspondents regarding the content of these pieces. Not so much a gentleman of my supporting era, more that of The Fart ? in fact, the lad?s 75 years young; needless to say, within seconds of making mutual acquaintance, they were away with the fairies, sunk deep in mutual reminiscence, the content of which put me very much in mind of the famous Monty Python ?Yorkshire Old Gits? sketch, even unto the ?They don?t know they?re born these days!? bit at the end. Sorry, both, but you didn?t half look the part!

Eventually dragging The Fart away from Memory Lane ? not an easy task, that ? we then headed on out for our seats. And, as we emerged from the nuclear bunker beneath, the blasted sun chose that precise moment to put in an appearance, albeit a fleeting one. Definitely a wind-up; on our way to the ground, we?d had a fair old soaking. At least our parking-place enjoyed a decent view of proceedings below; just behind one of the goals, and a little to the right, it was. And, as we settled down, another double-take. Just what in tarnation had the bloody groundsman been doing to the interior of the centre-circle? Mown in a completely different pattern to its grassy counterparts elsewhere on that pristine swarth. A variation on the mysterious theme of crop-circles, perhaps? Or had the lad doing the mowing simply overindulged in mind-altering substances whilst doing the work in the middle, I wonder? Mulder and Scully, where were you when I had dire need of your services?

Moving rapidly on from the world of the faintly mysterious to the far more pragmatic nature of the day?s ?main course?, was it me, or was our start to the current campaign of a distinctly lack-lustre quality? Compared to previous opening days, of course ? or had the rain simply served to put a damper on such youthful high spirits? Who knows ? but right then, any thoughts I might have harboured on the subject were swiftly put on the back-burner by the entry of our modern-day gladiators into the hurly-burly of Manchester?s answer to the Coliseum. We?d already heard the team news; between the sticks, in place of the injured Houlty, was Chris Kirkland; in midfield, we saw the debut of what appeared, on the face of it, an unlikely combo ? Ronnie Wallwork, and tame son of Nippon, Juichi Inamoto - while additional to those changes, we also saw a Campbell/Kanu combo doing duty as today?s attacking force Disappointingly, we didn?t have the pleasure of Richard Dunne?s company today; a shame, that, as the City player provided our distinctly careworn and bomb-happy followers with one of the few genuinely-amusing Premiership moments of last season to be had, viz, the dreadful clanger that led to our very-much-against-the-run-of-play equaliser, the one that saw us turn the corner, in my humble opinion.

Never mind, though: we may not have had the City defender to provide us with savage amusement ad lib, but what we did have was Calamity James between the sticks. What is it they say? ?Age cannot wither him, nor custom stale his infinite jest?? Another bit of The Immortal Bard for your delectation, but one that sums up perfectly the relationship between the gaffe-prone City custodian and that of his adoring ?public?.

The kick-off, when it came was conducted in an atmosphere distinctly lacking in edge; more excitement to be had in the region of the Kuiper Belt, the frozen waste beyond the orbit of Pluto, was my considered opinion on the subject. From the home crowd, very little save the normal Premiership lassitude, and as for our lot, a ragged, half-arsed chant that did little to stir our Manc chums from their current state of torpor. What a contrast to that of the week before, when we witnessed that eternally-buoyant Swansea crowd more or less blow their visitors? comparatively feeble choral efforts clean out of the water. A house-point to the lads who tried to get things going, at last ? but why the hell did it have to be ?Stand Up If You Hate The Wolves?? Yes, I know we don?t like them much, but they are very much Nationwide, we are Premiership and proud of it ? so why the hell give them the oxygen of ?publicity? in the first place?

Looking at my hastily-scribbled notes right now, I see that I have applied to those opening exchanges, the description ?nervous?. Both sides seemed very keen indeed on not being the first to drop a rollock, a shaky state of affairs greatly enhanced by the muted atmosphere previously described. Opening gambits worthy of a chess-board are all very well, I suppose, but faint heart never won fair footie game, did it? When the first half-decent chance did present itself ? with just over five minutes on the clock ? at least it was our lot that were first to make their mark on the proceedings, the Greening effort giving the aforementioned Mr. James rather more to think about than the juicy prospect of a post-match visit to Manchester?s trendier nightclubs. Just as well for the lad it went for a corner, wasn?t it?

That came to naught for us, but within minutes, it was City?s turn to put us all in dire need of brown corduroy trousers and bike-clips; luckily, their effort missed, but not by much. It was around this time that we began to realise precisely what an asset Robbo had found in Chris Kirkland, whose swift capture of a goalbound City header completely negated the danger. Just as well, really; that save was but a precursor to much, much more.

As far as ?our? end was concerned, we tried, and damned hard at times, but most of our good intentions came to naught, mainly because of a distinct lack of pace on the part of our two striking veterans. On the face of it, had this been a boxing match (which it almost became, very near the end, but of that, more later!), I?d have awarded the most opening-round points to City; certainly, during those times they decided to embark upon an expedition into their own penalty-box, they certainly looked the more likely to capitalise on any defensive lapses on our part. Once more, Kirkland had to perform miracles between the sticks; in fact, most of our rearguard found themselves rather busy around that time.

When sides indulge in tactics of that nature, there?s always the faint possibility of them being caught on the break, and come about 15 minutes before the end of the first period, that?s precisely what Gera nearly did. The man primarily responsible for the damage was Greening; the cross came in mean and nasty, a bit like one of those stealth bombers, if you like. Cue for Gera to rush in like a thing demented, the resultant shot hitting the post with an almighty ?whack? before landing harmlessly out of touch. Amazing, wasn?t it? One minute I?d been loudly bemoaning the sterility of this particular opening fixture, the next I was busy trying to make sense out of some pretty stimulating end-to-end play.

The dying minutes of the half saw, I reckon, our lot have the balance of the play, but so good were City at doing what they did, any further progress proved impossible. Campbell had a go, then it was Kanu?s turn to try to make a name for himself, while at the other end, Kirkland pulled off yet another electrifying bit of custodial work. Blimey ? at this rate, Houlty wouldn?t stand an earthly of getting his old spot back. And why? Well, for me, Kirkland had just about everything that?s good about a keeper. Commanded his box superbly ? no ?after-you-Claude? type indecision whatsoever ? positioning faultless, came well for crosses and other sundry nasties, and when occasion demanded, demonstrated beautifully pin sharp reactions, parrying most City shots with ease, much to their eternal frustration. In short, had he not been guarding the old onion-bag today, I very much doubt whether we?d have come home proudly clutching that precious point.

But I digress. Time for the break, now, and a chance for ?Im Indoors to pay the ablutions a much-needed visit. Chance also for us to recharge our batteries ? how we missed The Noise, and his wry but humorous comments apropos the game this far. The poor sod had to work today; right then I was speculating on the possibility of the lad suffering ?withdrawal symptoms?. My verdict on what had come to pass this far? A very poor game, sadly, and not one likely to trouble the editors of the ?Match Of The Day? tapes unduly. Stilll, what we had we held, and hopefully, we?d finish the next 45 with a precious point to show for the experience.

?Im Indoors?s bladder now well and truly sorted, it was now time for the next bit to begin. At least we?d now have the benefit of any Albion efforts on goal taking place right in front of our eyes; it really is no fun at all to have to constantly squint and/or strain the old eyeballs when watching the lads in action, is it? And, taking of ?action? within minutes of the resumption of play, it was our finest that were to give the opposition much food for thought. For one glorious moment, man-mountain Kevin Campbell found himself rushing towards the opposition?s goal with a velocity that would have astonished the average Baggie. A shame, then, that the City replies distinctly lacked momentum, not to mention panache. Also to the fore around that time was the one and only Tommy Gaardsoe, whose timely ministrations just averted disaster.

There then followed what had to be one of the cheekiest goal attempts of the entire season just gone, or that of the known Universe, come to think about it ? and Clem was the lad primarily responsible for it. One minute there was a keeper basking joyously in the relative calm created by the great distance the ball had to travel before appearing in any way dangerous, the next there was a panicky Dunne, arms and legs flailing like windmills in a desperate attempt to avoid being lobbed, and embarrassingly so, as well. As things were, it was one of those ?will-it-wont-it?? moments, as Mother Gravity reclaimed the soaring bladder once more; a shame, then, our hero?s assault upon Calamity?s peace of mind just missed the intended target.

Another set of incursions from both sides, then Robbo decided to change it. The first we knew of the proposed subbing was when we saw new-boy Kamara warming up on the touchline. Moments later, he was well and truly in it, Kanu being the man deemed most in need of a break on the bench. Well, at least we became quickly acquainted with one of his prime attributes ? a truly electrifying pace - one that nearly reaped handsome dividends within seconds of him entering the field of play. And, not being content with giving the home side one almighty scare, within a matter of minutes, he was busy once more giving City a repeat dose of his somewhat unpalatable medicine.

I can only assume that it was extremely strong suicide gland secretions that led to Tommy G nearly allowing City the opportunity to score, by sticking the ball right in the path of former Seal Andy Cole; luckily, our old chum Kirkland was well placed to extract much of the venom from the resultant attempt. Mind you, just to show how crazy this game could be at times, immediately after that little faux-pas, our old mate Zoltan nearly broke the deadlock, and with an effort that swirled nastily in the face of goal, and could have quite easily sneaked in, given a modicum of luck, and a following wind.

It was around that time that City began to look very dangerous indeed; twice within the space of minutes they came dangerously close to scoring. Time to change things again, then ? this time, off went Greening, and on came yet another new boy, Watson. This seemed to calm things down at the back considerably, and from then on in, the game looked destined to finish with honours all square, and as peaceably as you like ? but, with around three to go until the final whistle, events suddenly dictated otherwise.

What happened? Well, one minute the pitch was crowded with a bunch of players looking as though they?d settled for the draw, the next, there was an almighty punch-up going on around the middle of the park. What started it? I?m not terribly sure, although ?Im Indoors did think that the whole thing got very silly indeed the moment Clem took great exception to his City counterpart?s theatricals, and that?s when fists started to fly in earnest, with others diving in as well so as not to miss anything of the ?action?. Just as well, then, the ref decided to give the pair of them a yellow card each for their trouble, and nothing more.

One minute to go of normal time saw us bring on young Chaplow, rampant alopecia and all, in a swap for Wallwork, and that was about it, bar for the three minutes extra played. Before us, the City contingent took their camels and stole silently into the Mancunian murk; by the time we got to exit the premises, there was very little of a City presence left in the entire ground. Time for a quick jaunt back to the car-park, where our transport of delight awaited us. And, as we negotiated those narrow streets surrounding the ground, most still proudly displaying terraced houses that should have been on the sharp end of the demolition man?s ball years ago, I happened to espy a lady who looked a dead ringer for Corrie former favourite, Hilda Ogden; the dead spit of her, she was, and right down to the hair-curlers peeking coyly from the midst of a voluminous head-scarf!

Soul-less as it was, the game must have insidiously drained something from within at least the three of us, because before he even realised, myself, The Fart and Norm were all entering the land of Nod at a rapid rate of knots ? cor, some company we are! Mind you, before that, trust The Fart to ring WM and then proceed to tell Franksy precisely what we were lacking today, in heaps. Pace; Kanu and Campbell try hard, but they?re not ecactly the swiftest striking combo on the planet, are they? Still, the answer to our problems in that department might well lie just a few miles from the city we visited today; according to Robbo this evening, the capture of Nathan Ellington from Wigan is nearly complete. Assuming that?s the case, it?s going to be a tall order, expecting the lad to instantly reach the high standards demanded at this level. Let?s hope he has sufficient capacity to adapt, and quickly. He?s going to need all the help he can get.

And Finally?? Colemanballs, Baggies-style. The Fart, when describing today?s Kanu-Campbell striking combo to WM?s Paul Franks tonight. ?It?s a case of ?the turtle and the tortoise?, Paul!?

And another thought??. On the way back to the motorway, we just happened to pass through deadly GP Harold Shipman?s former patch. A hell of a way of reducing long waiting lists, that one. Let?s just hope the deadly doc?s considerable expertise in that department doesn?t give Tony Blair any ideas!

 - Glynis Wright

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