The Diary

21 August 2005: The Horse Nets A Timely Brace

I reckon it was The Bloke Sitting Two Seats To the Left Of Us who summed up in a nutshell what today?s proceedings amounted to in terms of style and graft. ?It?s been a Megson sort of game, hasn?t it?? was his laconic comment on proceedings, timed a fair way into the second half, to which ?Im Indoors then replied, ?Yes, but with a few extra twiddly bits chucked in as well!? I?m not even sure if my other half?s battle-weary response generated further neighbourly comment, because no sooner had those words left hubby?s lips, The Horse delivered with the second of the afternoon?s brace.

I could certainly see what our old mucker was banging on about, though. I likened today?s performance to that of the old wartime standby ?Utility Furniture?. Old fogies will understand, but for the benefit of those who don?t, Utility furniture did what it said on the tin; it was living-room/ bedroom furniture and fittings, sold at a reasonable price, perfectly serviceable, but because of the widespread shortages of the time, any concessions to style or good taste subsumed into the desperate need to churn out squillions of these items for the benefit of bombed-out young couples, for example, so they could start all over again. Of pre-war fashionable fripperies, so-called ?twirly bits?, even, there was not a single bit to be seen. But at least the stuff lasted; even well into the sixties, I can recall houses still possessing appreciable quantities of the stuff. That sort of philosophy, for me, summed up perfectly what today?s 90 minutes were all about. Sure, we ended up the proud owners of three points, but I?m willing to bet anything you care to name the Match Of The Day programme editors weren?t unduly troubled by agonised decision-making as to what highlights should be edited out of tonight?s programme.

How strange, though, to attend a home game, and not have fanzines to flog. That?s the routine we?ve had for the past 16 years or so, come wind, hail or outbreak of galloping trots, and abandoning such ingrained habits is by no means painless. Some would call it ?withdrawal symptoms?, and they?d probably be right; it?s a bit like people of my age finally seeing their youngest off to university, or a ?proper job?, then reluctantly turning to contemplate their now-silent house, and wondering sadly how they?re going to occupy all the barren, silent hours, days and months that lie before them. A ghostly GD-shaped rectangle?s now occupying the empty space where our normal pre-match routine used to reside; making the necessary mental adjustments isn?t going to come at all easy to any of the former selling team.

But back to the beginning. Even as we rose from our slumbers, our routine for 05-06 had subtly altered; ?Im Indoors had booked a morning session at the local library reference section ? probably giving the poor assistants there several kinds of nervous breakdown - and only returned well after the sun had cleared the yardarm, to pick me up, of course. This meant our departure for Planet Hawthorns was at a slightly later time than was our normal wont in days of yore, but not by much. Still plenty of parking-space, though; no sooner had we berthed, The Noise And The (former) Bag Carrier were spilling out of their jalopy, and both nattering ten to the dozen, even though a distance of some twenty or so yards still sundered us from them. Dearie, dearie me ? do they ever stop talking in that bloody household?

Even over the three or so months since we?d last clapped eyes on her, to my untutored eyes, Carly appeared to have grown an additional six feet or so. Slightly having the edge on ?Im Indoors height-wise before the end of last season, now she towered over him. And she?s growing in other ways; not only does she have a regular boyfriend now, when down Plymouth, she and her mates went into a local nightclub one evening, and discovered that the highlight of the evening?s entertainment was a ?foam party?. Needless to say, she ended up totally covered in the bubbly stuff, but the best bit was yet to come; out of idle curiosity, she dialled up the club?s website the next day, only to find ? shock, horror! ? that the establishment had not only gone large on the proceedings, there, taking pride of place on the home page, was a huge picture of Carly in all her bedraggled but foamy glory! Is that what they mean when they go on about a ?soap opera?? Oh, whoops ? a shed-load of street-cred, and all lost in the space of but a few hours. No prizes for guessing whose nickname is now ?Mister Whippy?; no wonder the lass had such an indignant look on her face when the sorry (soggy?) saga finally came out. In the wash? Would I ever suggest such a thing!

When in doubt, head for the Hawthorns Hotel, which is precisely what we did. As we trundled up Halfords Lane, and soaking up the brilliant sunshine, I nattered to The Noise, who reported his motivation for this season being as about as low as it could ever be. A combination of some rank-bad working practices at his place, and the realisation that because of his gaffers now making things awkward for him, Albion-wise, he was somewhat disinclined to get as involved as he had in days gone by. All that, and on the back of a Guardian article today stating that the country?s worsening long-hours culture was exerting a detrimental effect on both the adult population?s health and productivity. Why am I not surprised?

It was quite a contrast, the relative gloom of the Hawthorns pub, compared to the wonderful brightness of the scene outside, but once our eyes had adjusted to the changed light-levels, there was much that had altered since the last time we?d entered those hallowed portals. Sure, the interior still bore an uncanny resemblance to an Arab tent, but this time, someone had thought to install lots of spotlights, these now trained on the tables within. ?And The Lord said, ?Let there be light!? ? and lo, it was good?. Mainly because I could actually read the programme?s small print font, for once! Shame about the beer, though ? it?s still not of the best. The big screen, now showing Man U-Villa, had also moved home, a little more to our right, while, to the left, a DJ?s mixing-deck stand ? just who/what is/are ?The Live Lounge?, by the way? ? sat in splendid isolation.

Some things never change, though, and that?s the regular clientele; lots and lots of familiar faces, and new ones chucked in for good measure. Welcome to the fold the ?Drinking Family? who now seem to have made the Hawthorns pub their pre-match ?base? as well. And the bar staff actually seemed a tad more efficient than they?d been on previous occasions; presumably, when casting around for casual help, the pub had gone for people with genuine experience of such high-pressure work, for once. Every little helps, that?s what I say.

And the principal topic of conversation? Not the doings of our favourite football club, but the scandalous price of petrol, an essential commodity that seemed to be getting more expensive by the minute. Dark mutterings from ?Im Indoors about clandestine conversions of our vehicle to run on that old-time Swansea favourite, chip-oil. I?ll have a double portion, with cod and mushy peas, and hold the salt and vinegar; our exhaust doesn?t like it. Leaving our table to bend poor Tim Joyner?s lugholes back, finally, the relative silence produced gave me ample opportunity to contemplate Carly?s handbag ? or, should I say, her microscopic version of one? For the life of me, I cannot understand why these trendy female accessories ? aw, you know, they?re little bigger than purses, but with little handles on top so you can carry ?em around with you ? are such a ?must have?. Just what can you cram into them? A mobile, a (very) bijoux purse, and not much else, I reckon. It?s not very fashionable, I know, but I reckon my bum-bag can cope with quadruple the amount of stuff Carly has in hers. Wanna do a swop, Carls?

As we had a date with Steve The Miser outside the pub at half two ? to pass on correspondence meant for the fanzine, and still coming in ? we took our leave. As we emerged, blinking like newly dug-up moles, into the bright sunlight, we happened to bump into Dawn Astle and John Mainwaring. A shame we met before Steve rolled up and not after because we subsequently discovered that we?d received a very nice letter indeed from the Dovedale Day Care Centre, the place where Jeff spent so much of his time during those last few months of his life.

As you may recall, after presenting them with the initial cheque early last season, we then went on to raise a second sum of money, and that?s what this letter was all about. In case you?d forgotten ? I had myself, I must confess - the amount raised this time was a cool ?910.73. That will go towards the provision of a water-feature in the Sensory Garden set up previously, both now installed thanks to funds raised by you lovely generous Dick readers. There will also be a commemorative plaque recording both our part in the fund-raising, and the reason why. Profuse thanks to everyone who chipped in when it mattered; I know the Day Centre are very grateful. Psychogeriatric illnesses never are a ?sexy? specialty when it comes to NHS funding. Oh, and if you?re reading this, Dawn ? I know you do like to have a gander at my stuff from time to time ? can you let Laraine know for me?

The minutiae of Albion-supporting life thoroughly dealt with, it was time to go. And boy, what a queue at our ?normal? turnstile, already snaking a considerable distance down Halfords Lane, the start-point situated almost opposite where the Tom Silk Building?s located, and with a good 25 minutes to go. Either the security was shit-hot as previously promised, or the blasted turnstiles were having a whoopsy once more. At least the line was moving with relative rapidity, which suggested to me it was the turnstiles that were the trouble ? and so it proved. New stile-card readers, it seemed, and they were giving Albion not a little grief, not to mention more still to those using their cards. Never mind, it didn?t seem to hinder our ingress unduly, and we were still able to take our seats well in time for the kick-off.

And, as we?d heard via the local press, some changes to our pre-match entertainment also. Malcolm Boyden had been roped in to do the job of matchday announcer, and wasn?t he giving it big licks in an attempt to warm up his audience. Not really my cup of tea, but he is a genuine Baggie, and doing this because that was his perception of what the stadium needed pre-match; elsewhere, you can find those similarly tasked for the job aren?t football people at all. At least he was trying to create something of an atmosphere out there. Not that the Pompey lot needed such drastic measures, though; drums, bugles, the works ? they clearly haven?t shed the last remaining vestiges of their humbler roots, then ? and at times, far out-singing anything we could ever muster in the ?songs? department. Are we gradually contracting ?Middlesbrough Syndrome? ? mass gentrification ? I wonder?

Time for the team news, then. Basically, it was The Horse, AJ (surprised me, that one), and new lad Watson ? anyone remember the late 50?s comic strip character of that name, nickname ?Winker?? ? in for Kanu, Inamoto and Albrechtson respectively, and Nathan Ellington on the bench as suspected, along with Earnie, no doubt champing at the bit to get a piece of the action. Oh, and former Fratton Park chappie Kamara, as well.

And so to work ? and within a minute of the start, we?d earned ourselves a corner. Good, start as you mean to go on; sure, the resultant cross was repelled, but within a matter of seconds, the lad Greening found himself on the left, with ball, and oodles of space to play with. Took the ball almost to the by-line, he did, then crossed, mean and nasty, to the far post, where the effort met our equine friend running on in what amounted to the football equivalent of a total vacuum. Nature might abhor such things, but The Horse certainly doesn?t; leaving his attendant markers for dead, he homed in on the blazing bladder perfectly. One-nil, the entire place erupted ? just what is it about Pompey that brings out the feral instinct in our equine chum? ? and Pompey were looking distinctly shell shocked as they returned to the centre circle once more.

Somehow, I got the sneaking feeling this wasn?t in the script; more a gradual wearing down of the opposition was what Robbo had in mind, I reckon. Hanging grimly onto slender leads wasn?t exactly our forte last year; would this season show some sort of improvement in that area? But Pompey, although down, were most certainly not out; a few minutes later, Lua-Lua, both of them, nearly restored parity for Pompey, the actual effort ending up in Kirkland?s ever-ready arms.

Then, it was The Horse?s turn to dip out; this time, Zoltan was the architect of the damage, embarking on a lovely run down the right before finally zinging over the ball. A shame, then, that our chum sent the ball merrily on its way, but on the wrong side of the upright, this time. And, while all this was going on ? the silence, my dears, the silence! From our lot, a state of affairs that moved the visiting masses to warble, en-masse ?One-nil and you still don?t sing?.? Trite, but true ? but, having said that, it really wasn?t the sort of game to excite the old pulse, quicken the heart, even.

As I saw it, a couple of dodgy moments apart, Pompey had failed to trouble us, but about ten or so minutes from the interval, we had our first let-off. They?d started to drag themselves back into the swing of things and earned their first corner with about 35 minutes gone. That was repulsed, but not long after that, Pompey, taking advantage of some lax defensive work, had another go ? and Kirkland must have been mighty glad to see the effort belt across the open goal then almost take a layer of paint off the upright. Had one of the opposition stuck out a timely boot right then, they would have had us cold.

Half-time, then, and a chance to catch up with all that correspondence The Miser had given us, including the letter from Dovedale I mentioned. On the pitch, Malcolm Boyden was still giving it his all, and it was interesting to compare his methods to those of our regular DJ, Matthew. Whereas the normal chap was very laconic, slightly laid back in style, but formal with it ? aw, you know what I mean! - Boyden really wore his Baggie heart on his sleeve. He couldn?t be dispassionate, even if you threatened him with a good kicking for getting so involved. Anyway, what with the goal and everything ? that, plus the welcome news The Dingles were losing ? suddenly, our faithful were producing something that was genuinely audible. You pays yer money and yer takes yer choice, I suppose; personally, I can do without all that American-style razzmatazz insinuating itself into our pre-match and half-time routine, but then again, I have been called a Luddite before now. Born and grew up in the wrong era, that?s me!

The second half? Clearly, what we had we were meant to hold; not long after the restart, Pompey won what was to be the first of a long series of dubious free-kick decisions in a very vulnerable part of the pitch indeed ? right on the edge of our box. Luckily, the effort sailed over harmlessly; full marks to Pompey, though, if only for their superlative acting ability. It was also noticeable that now the game was entering its latter stages, both sides were resorting to rough-and-ready stuff to stop the opposition playing; suddenly, the referee, Mike Riley, an old adversary, was handing out more cards than a timeshare rep at a Mediterranean holiday resort, our lad Campbell being one of the first to feel the full force of his wrath; this card-frenzy continued, mind, right up till the final whistle. Riley must have been a very busy bloke indeed this evening.

And then came the moment our chum in the next seat made the remarks about what the game lacked in terms of Premiership subtlety and class ? but, more importantly, the one when our resident old nag decided to stamp his own unique mark upon the proceedings once more. Looking at the replay afterwards, I gained the impression that the ball had contrived to slip through the keeper?s hands, and over the line, if only for a fraction of a second. A lucky break, sure, but they all count, and I?m certainly not arguing ? in fact, I?ll wager that our horsey striker wasn?t either, and mentally poured out a libation to the gods the precise moment the ball transgressed the bounds of the goal-line. Immediately prior to the moment The Horse doubled our lead, Pompey had been getting far more of the play than I would really have liked, a state of affairs that spells ?danger? in anyone?s language.

OK ? so we were now two in front, and had Pompey dead and buried. Wrong! If anything, that little bit of serendipity on our part had the opposite effect on the visitors; suddenly, we found ourselves back-pedalling, frantically defending. Not nice, even at the best of times, but at least one aspect of the game had improved ? suddenly, our followers, both Brummie and Smethwick, were belting out The 23rd Psalm as if they really meant it. It?s amazing what a definite increase in the safety margin will do, psychologically, but true to type, we couldn?t hang on for a virginal finish. It all came to a head just four minutes after the second strike, and the root cause was the concession of yet another free-kick on the edge of our box. Dutifully, our finest organised a wall, but you didn?t need a full FA coaching licence to realise there were glaring gaps there. Up stepped Robert, and his long-distance Exocet gave poor Kirkland very little chance. Into the roof of the net it went, and suddenly it wasn?t funny any more.

Changes? Of course; Albrechtson for Gera. A little strange, but then ?Im Indoors quite rightly reminded me that The Great Zoltan had performed for a good 90 minutes in the midweek service of his country. ?Knackered? couldn?t have been the half of it. Later still, the busy Watson was withdrawn, and replaced with Earnie, who was absolutely champing at the bit to get on. And, with almost his first touch of the ball, the change nearly hit pay-dirt for Robbo; it took a lovely stop by their keeper to prevent the Welsh lad making a belated mark upon the proceedings.

And, just to show how finely-balanced the game was, just afterwards, at the other end, Skopelitis ? I wonder if you can get treatment for that under the NHS for that condition? ? could and should have equalised. I guess the fundamental difference between Albion early last term, and Albion now is the fact we now have the ability to defend such fragile leads with some success. Oh, and talking of ?ailments?, when Pompey?s Pericard took to the field of play, I remarked to ?Im Indoors, ?Stick an ?-IUM? on the back of his shirt, next to his name, and you?ve got the name of the protective sac surrounding the heart?? Interjected ?Im Indoors,as quick as you like, ?Perhaps he?ll give a ?heartfelt performance?, then?..?

Injury time. THREE MINUTES? Yo?m ?avin a loff, aer kid!?. But, as I previously remarked, we?re made of sterner stuff these days. Hang on we did, grimly, and the points were ours. Phew! Not quite as dramatic a finish as the end-of-season cliff-hanger we witnessed just three months previously, but still something to give the old ticker a bit of decent exercise.

Yes, our game wasn?t exactly a classic, just functional, the sort of uninspiring stuff we churned out with regularity when there was a differing management style at the helm. Well done Mister Horse, though, for coming up trumps, not once, but twice. Maybe Robbo?s decision to let the strikers scrap for first-team places will pay dividends right where it matters, on the pitch. Come up with the goods, or you?re toast come Christmas. Highly motivational, n?est ce pas?

However, the win was needed, if only to set us apart from the side most likely be our basement-tier companions much later in the season. It?s a bit of a ?mini-league?, that one, and the ultimate aim has to be taking points off our rivals whenever we can. Today was a damn good way to start, and both Wigan and Sunderland dipping helped enormously as well. Do well in those kind of games ? something we completely failed to achieve during the first half of last year?s campaign ? and we?ve well-nigh cracked this relegation stuff. And, if only briefly, thanks to our unbeaten record, we were fifth. Enjoy it while ye may ? we come down with a bump at Stamford Bridge next week! ?45 quid just to see us get a pasting? That?s just one good reason why we?re all giving that one a miss. Even The Fart said ?Nyet? to such wanton financial outlay - and all for a knackering London trip that?s sure to end in tears come the final whistle? Precisely.

And Finally?? One. Me, in The Hawthorns pub, pre-match, watching the Man U-Villa game on the box. ?Blimey,? I remarked to my other half, as yet another United surge flowed up the pitch at a rate of knots, ?Man United have done just about everything to Villa bar sc?? ?YERSSSSSS!?

Two.There?s A Moose A-Loose Aboot This Hoose! Not the errant rodent Lord Rockingham?s Eleven so famously elevated to fame courtesy their late 50?s novelty instrumental ? anyone else senile enough to remember that particular musical masterpiece, by the way? ? but a genuine, benuine small furry squeaky creature. Brought in by one of my more sadistic felines, naturally, and very late last night. Which wouldn?t have mattered in the slightest, of course, except for the disconcerting fact that said feline then took it upon himself to deposit the poor creature slap-bang in the middle of our bedroom. The mouse didn?t waken ?Im Indoors, but the cat?s efforts to toy with its victim sure as hell did.

There?s method in all this moggy-madness, though. Some say such things are Clever Kitty?s way of showering great quantities of affection and loyalty on his/her bemused owners. A bit like your best mate going to great lengths to acquire a very expensive gift without checking to see if it really is ?what you?ve always wanted? - then presenting you with it anyway. Others opine that regular feline deposition of such things within sight and sound of their owners represent the cat world?s sincerely-held belief that the human(s) in their lives are badly in need of education when it comes to such matters, but whatever the explanation, the bottom line was this: suddenly, there were no less than three cats hovering expectantly in the vicinity of one of our bedside tables, and a terrified mouse wedged solid in the narrow gap between it and the wall.

I wasn?t there at the time ? still putting the finishing touches to last night?s effort, actually ? but judging from the amount of noise emanating from ?Im Indoors, I quickly took it as read he wasn?t all that enthusiastic about having to share living-space with the creature all of a sudden, be it dead, alive or indifferent. I did try to remove the wretched thing myself, but it narrowly eluded me, and squeaked furiously as it did, so somewhere in our place, well out of the reach of predatory felines, there still lurks a blasted mouse! I await further developments on this one; this particular squeaky saga could so easily run and run, just like The Mousetrap (sorry!), so watch this space!

 - Glynis Wright

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