The Diary

15 August 2005: Wigan's Cruel Last-Gasp Defeat - Haven't I Seen That Somewhere Before?

How did you spend today, then? Anticipating (fervently hoping for!) a bit of a turkey-shoot on the part of the visitors, I spent a fair chunk of the time watching our former Nationwide chums Wigan Athletic do battle with Chelski; to use the Monty Python phraseology, as applied to the famous sketch:: ?I?m getting this awful feeling of deja-vu?..? So much that was synonymous with the scorching hot August day our finest took to the Premiership field of play for the first time ever, at Old Trafford, as impregnable a footballing bastion as any you?d care to mention. Prior to the arrival of Abramovic on the scene, of course; a very good reason, therefore, why watching rapidly became for me something of a leisurely jaunt down Memory Lane.

Tomorrow, when you come to read even more of the numerous match reports on offer ? by then, enough paper will have been consumed by the various media involved to denude an entire Brazilian rain-forest of useful green canopy ? you should be suitably positioned to tick all the relevant boxes, and you?ll then see what I mean. In the meantime, though, here?s a few pointers to be going on with. First off, you had a side that swept all before them on the next rung down before finally achieving escape velocity last May; for a club that only entered the League in the late seventies, and damn near went broke at one stage, they?ve done awfully well for themselves. A bit like an impoverished distant relative coming into an unexpected burst of good fortune, then using that to lift themselves out of the ghetto by their bootstraps.

Unlike our favourite football club?s Premiership blooding, today?s intriguing fixture represented the Lancashire club?s first time ever at a similar level ? as I reminded ?Im Indoors today, when we played The Latics in a pre-season friendly, at their old place, around ten seasons ago, I distinctly remember our people making great mock of their new chairman?s well-publicised remarks apropos of dragging his club kicking and screaming into the Prem within the space of a mere decade ? whooops! Just like our own debut-day, along with the inevitable bags of crisps, and bottles of fizzy pop, today saw their virginal followers bring with them also an uncommonly-large dollop of passion. How proud I was then to wear an Albion shirt; so were you, and so were Wigan?s followers, I?ll wager.

Remember Old Trafford, when we saw what was basically a side wrought from above-average Nationwide performers surpass themselves, play out of their skins, for around three parts of the game? That day, it took the dismissal of Derek McInnes and our reduction to ten for Man Urinal to finally exert sufficient superiority to successfully apply the coup de grace. The pride, the pleasure, the decibel-splitting fervour of our followers, despite knowing with a dread certainty that the ninety minutes would very likely end in tears for our travelling army? That was Wigan all right; they, just like us, had found themselves at the wrong end of a bum opener courtesy the fixtures computer, and, just like us, they burst out of that tunnel just before four in the afternoon determined to go down with all guns blazing, whatever happened.

There was another relevant reason I chose to take such an interest in this particular fixture, and that was Jason Roberts. Having slightly lost touch with the domestic affairs of what is now called The Championship over the past twelve months, I was eager to see what changes, if any, Wigan manager Paul Jewell had wrought in Cyrille?s cousin?s play. Well, he certainly looked dangerous, athletically so, excitingly so, just as before; that characterising quicksilver-on-legs burst of speed was still there, and in abundance. A shame most of his attacking efforts fruitlessly fetched up against the solid breakwater of Chelsea?s defence; against another of the division?s lesser-lights, Jason could well have made the opposition rue the very day they got promotion, and sent their own supporters home ecstatic, but when pitched against Chelsea, and their squillion-pounds rearguard, his undoubted talents were made very ordinary indeed by comparison.

Despite the passage of almost three seasons, since leaving our shores for The land Of Uncle Joe?s Mint Balls, Jason?s one major character-flaw still stood out like a mangled thumb in a power-press: his supremely-annoying habit of making an absolute Everest out of a mere Lickey Bonk when buzzing around in the vicinity of the box. Just as before, on a fair number of occasions, morally, he was as pure as the driven snow, clearly the wronged party, but his repeated histrionics quickly cut absolutely no ice with match official Chris Foy, whom we all know and love from last season, of course. Just as before, unless you?re a Really Big Name, around whose orbits separate rules seem to operate, when it comes to clandestine skulduggery in the 18-yard box, at this level, your furious protests will do absolutely sod-all to sway the mind of the man in black. God Has Spoken, so naff off.

Having chewed the fat with the lad at great length on several occasions in the past, I quickly formed the opinion he was a lad possessive of much quiet intelligence; surely by now, even he must have realised from bitter experience that repeated goalmouth amateur dramatics at this level generally gain you sod-all, especially when laid on with about as much subtlety as a builder?s trowel fully laden with wet cement? If there?s only one thing Jason manages to take on board during his nine-month repeat sojourn in our division, it?s got to be that particular concept; if he doesn?t get to grips this time, and quick, he?s as good as dead in the water.

Midway through the second half, when the updated ?action area? stats flashed onto our screen, the cold figures spoke volumes; thus far, the visitors had managed to snatch about three times the amount of possession the home side had, and the same applied to the ?goal attempt? stats. Fair play to Wigan, though; once the game was underway, their gutsy stalwarts quickly hit and rapidly rode the learning-curve; that, plus my impression the visitors were still slightly ring-rusty when it came to all matters domestic, and becoming increasingly frustrated as a result, made me think that the ex-Championship party-poopers were going to snatch the point after all. Looking at things from a purely selfish viewpoint ? sorry, any Wigan supporters reading this; come May, you?ll understand ? I desperately wanted them to crash and burn; after all, the less jostling at the ?wrong? end of the table, the quicker those relegation berths enjoyed full occupancy by others, the better it would be for us. Someone must have answered my prayers, then, because with that injury-time bit of smash-and-grab, Chelsea proceeded to break an awful lot of Wigan hearts, just as The Mancs did to us in blistering heat, some four years ago.

Despite the metaphorical distancing from events brought about by the proceedings being filtered greatly by the TV cameras (it?s difficult, even at the best of times, to reproduce such heady passion in someone?s front room), you only had to watch for a matter of minutes to realise that just like us, both players and supporters were giving it all they could, to the point of laryngitis, I suspect. And, just like us, they were left heartbroken come the end, although Wigan did go several stages better than us by actually holding the West London moneybags at arms-length until well into injury-time, when Crespo quite unsportingly spoiled their post-game jolly by potting the black, and, just to rub it in as well, from what seemed to be a half-chance, and no better. It?s a trite thing to say, I know, but the game can be awfully cruel at times. Welcome to the wild and wonderful world of The Premiership, Wigan. The gradual disillusionment, the increasing sense it?s a two-tier planet of ?us? and ?them? out there, the creeping realisation this division is naught but a colossal rip-off for supporters? That comes later.

On to other pertinent matters, now, to whit, City defender Mills?s animated throwing of his pacifier out of his perambulator some two or three minutes before the cessation of yesterday?s hostilities. Reports of what had happened have events somewhat differently to my perception of them. It appears Diddums lost it because the ref stopped play for the lad Wallwork to receive treatment; yer man got uppity because he perceived the whistler?s actions to be highly disruptive of their intended attacking move, pulled back unnecessarily so, in the City lad?s opinion. In the end, City head-honcho Stuart Pearce ? whose nickname was ?Psycho? during his playing days, of course ? had to apologise to the man in black. Mind you, the resultant 10-man fisticuffs were quite spectacular, and ended in both Wally and Millsy seeing yellow. They should both consider themselves lucky, some would have given much worse.

The outstanding performance of Chris Kirkland I waxed lyrically upon last night; we have yet to see whether he can remain sufficiently injury-free to continue to be an asset for us. Taking on someone, even on a temporary basis, with a medical history like his represents one hell of a risk. Fair play to our football club for gambling on the percentages involved. As things are, should he continue to put in performances of yesterday?s standard, and remains a stranger to the consulting-room, then it?s pretty likely that Sven will be sniffing around our VIP areas before too long. Amazingly, as Liverpool now have no less than three other decent custodians on their books, our lad has since slipped further still down their pecking-order, so is even more unlikely to be recalled. For Chris and his England ambitions, Albion represents his Last Chance Saloon in that direction; let?s hope things continue to work out for him. And us.

Talking of yesterday?s game, it was somewhat illuminative to discover then that the number of refuseniks come the Chelski game will be quite considerable. What with ticket prices well in excess of ?40 (concessions only applicable on one tier, as I understand it), and that not counting the travel costs, a midweek trip, involving the question of time off work, plus various other sundries, the entire venture won?t exactly come cheap, which is precisely why lots of Baggies will be giving that one a very wide berth indeed. Even The Fart, someone who normally takes great pride in attending each and every game, has decided to give the game a miss, much to the surprise and astonishment of several away-travel stalwarts prior to yesterday?s game. As one of their number commented, ?Hearing even you lot aren?t going makes me feel a whole lot better about not going as well!?

It now seems an odds-on cert that Nathan ?Duke? Ellington will be a Baggie by the time you come to take your lunchtime break tomorrow. According to our chairman, all that remains now is the (I hope!) formality of a medical. I suppose I have to feel a certain amount of sympathy for Wigan right now, what with watching their baptism of fire versus Mourhino?s mob earlier in the day, and everything. Would events have panned out in a more satisfactory fashion for Wigan had The Duke been strutting his stuff out there, I wonder? It?s anyone?s guess, really, and many a sci-fi career has been launched through such idle speculation concerning the nebulous world of what might have been had Event A not happened and subsequently given rise to Outcome B instead. Aw, you know, what if Hitler had invaded this country, instead of Russia? Of one thing I?m sure; we certainly won?t (or shouldn?t!) want for the lack of firepower over the coming months!

And finally?.. One. Anyone take a quick look at the Premiership table while digesting their toast and cornflakes today? If you did, you?ll have come across something rather unique, the sight of our favourite football club (une point) actually topping Chelsea (nul points) ? and no, thanks to Chelsea?s late, late winner at the JJB, it most certainly didn?t last, either.

Two. Yet another ?Colemanballs?. This time, the offender was The Fart?s missus, when I rang her last Sunday. The reason? To pass on several bits of info to her other half, who was in the town watching some variety of public jollification or other. One message in particular I wanted the old reprobate to get, and that was the welcome news that we?d bumped into former Baggie, now Bulls manager, John Trewick, at Hereford?s Open Day. As soon as I mentioned the name, Dot trilled, quicker than lightning ?Coo, I know him. Isn?t he the one that?s on the telly and does the racing programme??

For a brief moment, puzzlement reigned supreme; ?Tucka? had been many things during the course of his long career in the game, but a racing tipster? That was definitely a ?first? for me. Then the penny dropped, with a resounding ?chink?. ?Er, hang on a mo, Dot, does the bloke you?re thinking of wear funny clothes and look a bit odd??

?Oooh, yes, he does; a funny deerstalker thing, as well.?

?Sorry, Dot,? chortled I, trying to wipe the tears of mirth from my face even as I spoke, ?But are you thinking of John McCRIRRICK, and not John TREWICK? Tucka wouldn?t know one end of a racehorse from another, even if you stuck its backside right under his nose!?

 - Glynis Wright

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