The Diary

28 August 2005: Albion Versus Blues - The Defence Rests, M'Lud!

Prior to today?s game, a little bird thinly disguised as The Fart took great delight in telling me that the Blues fanzine editor placed far more faith in our lot walking away winners today than he did their lot. Among other things, he has The Horse strutting his stuff up front in his ?fantasy football? side. Well, today?s little episode must have left him absolutely ecstatic ? assuming he could spell the word in the first place, of course, or, even more unlikely, actually know what it meant. A grand total of five scored this afternoon, two of which were courtesy our former Bluenose equine chum; a shame, then, that the lad?s best efforts were still in vain as, thanks to a Baggies defence so diaphanous its ladies underwear equivalent would have had them besieging Anne Summers in hordes, our local rivals simply said ?thank you very much? and potted three with relative impunity that disastrous first half.

Perhaps the normally-immaculate Clem might care to examine his performance today, and come to an appropriate conclusion. His were only part of a series of clangers dropped today, the other main gaffe being the omission of Big Dave from the starting line-up. Had he been strutting his perfections around our penalty box that first half, and not warming his ample botty on the bench, that awful final scoreline simply wouldn?t have happened. You can also point the finger at Kevin Campbell, who managed to miss at least two nailed-on scoring chances. Agreed, once he?d gone, we badly missed his magical ability to hold the ball up where it mattered, then lay it off to a colleague, but the bottom line is simple; Blues simply flattered to deceive, and we really should have hauled them back over the course of the entire 90 minutes.

Mind you, the signs and portents on this particular day weren?t exactly auspicious; this morning, I overslept, and had to rush to sort myself out in time for departure, much to the amusement of my other half. Did my unconscious quietly suss what was about to happen, I wonder? Anyway, after a fraught time dressing and shovelling breakfast down my throat like some demented railway fireman trying to break the steam train world record, it was off to The Shrine we went ? and with notepads and pens in tow also, as our itinerary included a session at the local library after the final whistle.

Despite the relatively late start for us, we still had little difficulty parking in our usual spot, something which led us to wonder whether or not the daft start-time and the attentive ministrations of Sky TV were going to affect the gate. But that was around an hour and a half down the line; what was more important, right now, was a sighting of both The Fart and The Noise (and young Carly) right outside the entrance to the building-site that laughingly called itself a car-park. Much to our astonishment, we learned that our players were using it to keep their expensive jalopies nice and safe, while they strutted their stuff inside the ground. Blimey, there wasn?t even a Tarmac surface there, yet; what would happen if a player turned an ankle on a pot-hole didn?t bear thinking about. But young Carly had other thoughts on her mind i.e. grabbing autographs; just about every player you care to mention had scribbled their monicker for the gel, even Bomber Brown.

As it was gone eleven by then, clearly The Hawthorns pub would be open, so we headed for that. And, outside, bumped into the Astle clan once more, but minus Mum, who was busy nobbing it with Jeremy and Co. We also bumped into the Haden family, of Kiddy Branch fame. More about them at the end of this piece. Although the pub was open, a quick glance at the serving area ? surrounded by a thirsty mob three-deep, and bearing an even more distinct resemblance to the Alamo siege by the minute - quickly revealed that getting a drink from there would be an impossibility. Instead, we simply grabbed a table and watched the cricket. Was it three Aussie wickets I saw fall in the time we were there? When the second one went, I tried singing Queen?s ?Another One Bites The Dust? to get a laugh, but got some funny looks instead, so I hastily abandoned that one as a hobby.

Taking a straw poll of Albion supporters in the pub and elsewhere, it was astonishing to note the number of normally-up-for-it Baggies that desisted from making the trek down to West London last Wednesday. They too had had enough of football?s wallet-emptying excesses; why am I not surprised? As I listened to the general flow of conversation in there, the thought suddenly struck me that yes, as the months went on, I would maybe pine a little for the camaraderie of flogging fanzines out there, not to mention the craic emanating from those supporters that used to pass the time of day at my former selling-point; what I most certainly wouldn?t miss was the brain-dead element who thought it was big and clever to verbally let rip or worse, purely and simply because we?d chosen to exercise our democratic right to free speech.

While in there, I managed to grab a few words with Jean Zoeller, John Homer?s new missus; she?s still having problems flogging her house, apparently, and so is John. Don?t tell me about it; fifteen years ago, moving from Bristol back to God Own Country put years on me; had me tearing my lovely locks out in clumps with regularity. Mind you, when I agreed to tie the knot, I did stipulate that the ceremony had to be during the close season! And, to be scrupulously-fair to the lad, I didn?t notice ?Im Indoors violently disagreeing, either!

Using our ?lucky turnstile? once more ? ha! ? we were in the ground with loads of time to spare; in stark contrast to the scenes versus Pompey, when the queues had resembled those at a South African election, today there was sod all by way of let or hindrance to our progress. Within a matter of moments we were both in our seats and waiting for the ?off?. A word about Malcolm Boyden, who has taken over MC duties at The Shrine this season. Sure, it?s a transatlantic-style ?whip-em-up-to-a-frenzy? delivery, and, to a point, it does do what it says on the tin, but, try as I might, I still can?t warm to his action. As far as I?m concerned, it just grates on the nerves, a minor irritation I can well do without. Don?t get me wrong, I quite like Malcolm as a person, but the Luddite in me simply rebels at the awful aural barrage he creates out there. Sure, you?ll find Mc?s doing similar at most Prem grounds these days, but at ours? Sorry, for me, that?s a step too far.

Another sight to note as the two sides lined up to start was the huge numbers of gaps, in both the away end and ours. Clearly, the combination of sky-high prices and Sky coverage had struck with deadly result. Later, we hear the announcement that just 23,994 souls had attended today?s game, a figure well down from the Pompey game, even. Of that, I?ll say apropos of nothing; clearly, chickens are coming home to roost in a quite alarming fashion. But it wasn?t all gloom; strutting his stuff for us for the very first time was Darren Carter, formerly of Small Heath. That was only one of several changes Robbo made for this one, with most of the usual suspects back after the Chelsea defeat.

And so we were off, the referee Graham Poll, and the weather quite pleasant, I suppose. A very muted start for a local derby, with the camps of both sets of combatants resembling the reading room of a public library, such was the lack of voice-power on offer. Blimey, whatever happened to the ear-splitting starts of years back, from which your ears would feel the effects for hours on end afterwards? Gone the same way as the diehards, I suppose. But I digress. With the first shift of the ball out of the centre-circle, almost, we?d found ourselves the proud owners of a free-kick, and in a very useful position indeed. That was repulsed, but the direction of play still favoured us, and the move was only stopped by nifty Bluenose work almost on the goal-line. Then it was the visitors turn to have a go, something that prompted their followers to embark on a massed musical wiping of snot off the end of their noses.

It was clear from the start that if anyone was going to get their name on the score-sheet over the coming hour and a half, The Horse would be having a damn good crack at it. Fired up? That wasn?t the half of it; with only 5 minutes on the clock, he was reminding their custodian of his presence, and in his own inimitable style. Quickly, the game began to set out its stall; long balls the length and breadth of the pitch, coupled with an ?up and at ?em? approach from boith parties to the marriage. Clearly today?s offering wasn?t to be a classic, but of what had graced the field of play thus far, the bulk of the dangerous stuff had come from ours. And what was Robbo telling Greening from the touchline? Push up? Close on him? Don?t forget it?s your turn to buy the chips tonight? We weren?t to find out; ten minutes in, approximately, and very much against the run of play, Blues struck. Now I?d thought that Tommy Gaardsoe was the villain of the piece, but having since seen the replay, it appears that Clem should be the man to hold his hands up to what happened. He should have picked up Heskey the minute he made his move, but didn?t. Oh, whoops.

Mind you, we didn?t have to wait too long for the return salvo; just a scant two minutes later, The Horse proceeded to demonstrate to his former employers the true extent of their defensive frailties; a corner, taken by Greening, badly cleared by the Bluenoses, the ball ended up zonking across the face of goal. The predatory Clem might have missed the opportunity, but our man certainly didn?t. Straight into the pocket it went and at a speed that left their keeper with little chance. 1-1, and coo ? wasn?t this getting interesting? Talk about a ?battle of the perforated defences?; right in front of us was the real McCoy.

That equaliser saw us get the bit between out teeth again. Suddenly, we were finding gaps down Blues left flank ? and boy, were they looking vulnerable along there. It only seemed a matter of time before Blues buckled ? but then, Fate decided to impose its formidable presence on the game, and in the form of Kevin Campbell. Not because of striking accuracy, just the distinct lack of same. The rot started the moment the lad rose skywards to meet a Greening cross; practically unmarked when he did so, he should have bust the net with the header, but somehow only managed to give the bar an excuse for a new lick of paint instead. Bugger.

Just that one would have been enough to threaten a fate unmentionable for our attacking spearhead, but there was much more ineptitude to come. There the lad was, the goal at his mercy, their keeper floundering ? it really would have been easier to score ? but instead of doing precisely that, our hero somehow managed to drag the shot wide to the right instead, the effort heading harmlessly for the advertising hoardings to the right of the upright instead. And that mistake neatly encapsulated why we had so much trouble staying up last time round; in the Prem, genuine goalscoring opportunities, never mind those so easy potting them should be a mere formality, are at a premium. You have to take your chances when they come, however remote, however slender, because if you don?t, you?re sunk. And that?s precisely what happened to us following Campbell?s brace of Condor Moments; with about 26 minutes gone, our defence went bye-bye again. Their loan signing, Jarosik, rose for the header, and should have been accompanied by Winker Watson when he did. But he wasn?t, with predictable results. 2-1, and we were behind again, and on the balance of play, undeservedly so. Blues weren?t that good, for heaven?s sake. Two clear-cut chances, two goals. Us? We?d had far more, just ask Mister Campbell ? but because they?d found the target both times, and we?d blown our chances in spectacular style, we?d been given our just desserts.

After that, we?d thought things couldn?t possibly get worse ? but they did. Ten minutes from the interval, Blues did it again. The defensive circumstances surrounding Heskey?s second were truly appalling; as I saw it, he was never picked up at all. Doubly annoying this, because just moments before, our old chum Campbell had screwed up in spectacular fashion again; with The Horse running into the box totally unmarked, instead of laying the thing off to him for a right-side formality finish, Campbell decided to have a go himself, with by-now-predictable results.

With us now two in arrears, the remainder of the half consisted of a holding exercise; even so, Blues really had their dander up by now, and could easily have increased their tally further. Which brings me back to that original team selection ? why no Big Dave, either right from the start, or the moment we first realised Blues were going to be a problem for our rearguard? Had our very own BFG-lookalike been given the chance to strut his stuff at the back, I don?t think Blues would have had such an easy ride of it.

Thank goodness for the interval. A chance for everyone to recover their wits ? especially our lot down there in the dressing-room ? and a chance for me to dash to the bog. Down in the bowels of the Halfords Lane Stand, as I waited for a ?throne? to become free, all I could hear in the concourse next door was the sound of many Black Country voices raised in complete and utter fury. ?Earnshaw or Ellington on ? get ?im off now, Campbell, he?s cowin? useless!? I doubt very much as to whether the former Everton striker was around to hear that candid appraisal of his future career prospects at The Hawthorns ? probably getting an earful from his gaffer ? but on my return to our seats, what I did see popping up on the old scoreboard was the identity of our forthcoming League Cup opponents, Bradford City, and at home. Yeah, great, guys, we love the home draw ? but bloody Bradford? Blimey, Robbo must have been heartily sick of the sight of them after his lengthy spell there!

Out once more for the second sitting, then, with Albrechtsen up the sharp end in place of Watson. Funny ? every time I see our oddly-named defender in action, his bubbly blonde hairstyle and face immediately reminds me of the villain in the spoof spy movie ?Top Secret?, the one put together by the makers of ?Airplane? in the mid-eighties. If you don?t believe me, hire the film from your local video shop! But back to the task in hand. By now, in front of me, John Homer and his chums were becoming distinctly radioactive. The overall pall of gloom hanging over our bit of the stand was worsened by The Bloke In Front Of Me completely losing it, through sheer frustration more than ever ? and who could blame the guy? This led to constant shouts of ?CHANGE IT!? closely followed by that perennial matchday favourite of his: ?GERRIMOFF! NOW!?

Campbell, he meant, of course. And to be fair, he wasn?t the only one; everywhere you looked, you could see clear signs of dark muttering commencing about that particular proposed substitution. Still, at least we did look capable of retrieving the situation; as I said earlier, Blues really weren?t all that good at the back. With only 5 minutes on the card, it looked as though we?d actually made the breakthrough ? there was Campbell, as free as a bird in the box, only the keeper to beat. And he missed. Mind you, the attempt was ruled offside, something that no doubt saved the lad a bit more stick.

Five minutes more in to the half, and clear signs from the bench that finally, our leader was going to ring the changes. Ellington was the lad chosen to enter the fray; the first intimation of the change was the sight of the lad stripping off for action. And, after an Albion free-kick came to naught, Robbo finally made the change, You Know Who being taken off to accommodate the newcomer. Come the restart, once more, The Horse?s determination and strength began to show through, and with 25 remaining, he struck again. This time, it was Blues ineptitude in defence that gifted The Horse the shot; a cocked-up clearance, again, and what with our equine chum lurking with predatory intent already, he simply latched onto the loose ball, then just let fly for all it was worth. No hesitation, just a well-beaten keeper ? and we had a game going again.

From then on in, it was mostly Albion. The Small Heath goalmouth began to look extremely vulnerable, all of a sudden, as wave after blue and white wave pushed on the visitors. First of all there was a Clem effort that inconveniently deflected off a Baggie for a goal-kick, then it was Greening?s turn to try to make a name for himself. With everyone in the ground, including the club cat, well-beaten, all he could do with the shot was to give their keeper some ball-gathering practice, for once. Poor Horse. With around 15 remaining, he found himself in a superb position to get his hat-trick ? The Mighty Zoltan had set up the scoring chance with a superb headed flick-on to the far post - but instead of calmly nutting it past their keeper, who by this time, was doing a passable imitation of Lance-Corporal Jones at his panicky worst out there, our hero somehow headed high over the bar from about two yards out!

Time was running out, so desperate measures were called for. Off came Carter, and on came young Earnie, to the crowd?s delight. Seeing the lift it gave our followers the minute he took to the field of play, the thought suddenly struck me. Just how many players do we have at the club these days that can happily be called ?crowd pleasers?? And have their efforts on the park genuinely justified that tag? Don?t bother dropping me a line, I?m far to knackered to reply! But he had brought a little more pazzazz to the entire proceedings, as did his former Wigan sidekick.. And, could have scored himself, too, the final effort joining its elders and betters in an unrequited trip crowd-wards, via the crossbar.

Following both unsuccessful efforts, the crowd finally realised the game was up, and began to leave the ground. Four minutes injury time added by Graham Poll who, for what has to be the first time ever in my experience, actually refereed a game with a hefty dollop of good old-fashioned common sense. Example? When a Blues player clobbered one of ours, and quite nastily, too. Because advantage still remained with us, he didn?t stop play there and then, but simply waited for a convenient break to caution the dirty sod responsible. But still that all-essential equaliser eluded us, and so the game finished, and with our Small Heath neighbours taking home all the spoils. Not what we?d had planned in the script, by any means. Let?s hope we can get back on our winning ways by the time we get to grips with bloody Wigan; the last time we played them when we were a Premiership club, they won the encounter 3-1, the damage done by both Ellington and The Horse, a Wigan player back then. Since that unhappy night, both The Horse and The Duke have jumped ship and come to us instead. And the lad who was up front for us back then, Jason Roberts? Now at Wigan, of course! As I said to ?Im Indoors tonight, apropos our forthcoming opponents, and the various threads still binding the two clubs together: ?Coo, it?s a funny old game, all right?..? Jimmy Greaves, eat yer heart out!

And Finally?.One. Sure, losing to our local rivals was a real downer, and one that?ll last the entire weekend, no doubt, but, as I?ve said via this column, many, many times before, sometimes football becomes a real side-show when upstaged by some life-threatening event. Take the Haden family, for example. Regular Baggies will know their gang, who all have a hand in running Kiddy Branch SC, of course. The problem lies with their eldest son, Steven Haden, who recently went down with a series of niggling colds he couldn?t shake off for the life of him. Fed up of all the sniffles and snuffles, he decided to visit his local GP, but in the interval between the day he booked the appointment, and the actual day he was to see the quack, his symptoms started to clear up a little. ?Shall I even bother going?? he wondered, then in the end, opted to stick with the appointment, as cancellation would have probably caused more trouble than it was worth.

When he did show up in the surgery, his quack hummed and hawed a bit, took blood samples, then told yer man to rest up pending the results. And what results. 24 hours later, Steven had the call from his GP telling him to get back to the surgery PDQ: within two or so hours, he was in Worcester Royal Infirmary having a blood transfusion. Only a Dingle would fail to realise by now that what Steven was suffering from was a ?biggie? indeed. It?s going to be a long slog, I?m told, so I?m sure every single Baggie out there will be rooting for him over the weeks and months to come. As I said only the other day, supporters of this club are a genuine family, with all the advantages that mutual bonding imparts. Hope you get well soon, Steven ? right now, we need all the hard-core supporters we can muster.

Two. On a lighter theme, the general rotten-ness of my day was completed tonight, when penning this piece. How come? My bloody cat, Cyrille, that?s how. With around three parts of the piece written, the little so-and-so took up residence in close proximity to the keyboard, and via some judicious stretching, contrived to crash the bloody thing, not once, but twice. My langiage most certainly wasn?t the sort Mrs. Mary Whitehouse would have approved of. And, as if that wasn?t enough, when I finally got back from the game, late this afternoon, yet another of my mogs had struck. This time, the ?evidence? lay in the grey form of a (very) recently-deceased mouse, with head well and truly separated from its body, now ?lying in state? on our living-room carpet. Oh, and it was still warm. Yuk.

 - Glynis Wright

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