The Diary

09 August 2003: Saddled with trouble?

How bloody appropriate that on the 58th anniversary of America dropping the first ever plutonium-based atomic bomb on the Japanese city of Nagasaki, we travel to the home of The Saddlers, and get well and truly ?nuked? for our pains as well. I?m not certain as to the precise megatonnage of The Soup Dragon?s wrath ? or ours, come to think of it - but after the final whistle, it was a pretty safe bet a mushroom-shaped cloud was visible for miles over the Black Country town. As for the heat and blast, Mother Nature kindly supplied the former courtesy of a sizzling 37 degree Centigrade heat, and our leader the latter; the changing-room paintwork has probably gone west already, and left not a few scorch-marks on the elaborately-styled pates of our finest as well. Just address the bill to Gary Megson, c/o The Hawthorns, Saddlers chaps. Radioactivity? Just ask the average Baggies follower about that one; after the final whistle, car radios were the first thing to actively go flying out of the window...

I suppose a good deal of our frustration and bad temper at the end of this game can be blamed on the current tropical clime, which was enough to make the average Kalahari Bushman reach for the cold lager, never mind Baggies who?d never left the Black Country in their entire life, but it ain?t the whole story, not by a long chalk. The nub of the problem, you see, is expectation levels of the blindly optimistic kind. Compared to most Division One outfits this term, we?re as rich as Croesus, and, what?s more, we?ve flashed that cash on more than one occasion over the summer break to bring in a string of players, who, on paper at least, have the physical and mental wherewithal to completely discomknockerate any Division One opposition you care to mention. Nothing wrong with that, as such; as I said yesterday, this is the first time I can recall us actually going out and doing this, and I?m sure others feel the same. Not only that, we?ve flogged no less than 19,000 season-tickets to the masses thus far, clearly, the feeling on the streets is that we have great expectations indeed this time round. Even the bookies have been sucked in; if you want to get above 6-1 on us doing the biz, forget it. Like miles on the clock in a new car, all this level of expectation steadily mounts up, and eventually it gets to the stage where ?P? is but a formality in the minds of our followers. Not only that, I?m of the belief the players themselves swallowed the hype to some extent; did they take to the pitch today convinced all they had to do was turn up to grab the three points? If so, they got a rather rude awakening...

Opening days are always something special; so was today?s, but for a different reason. Almost 12 months to the day, we kicked off our all-too brief Premiership career with a 1-0 defeat in front of a near-capacity Old Trafford crowd. Even the weather was similar. Today, the wheel well and truly turned full-circle, and here we were, The Noise (who astonished me by turning up in a short-sleeved lemon-yellow sports-shirt affair this time!), The Fart, ?Im Indoors and myself, heading for The Bescot Stadium via one the many back-street routes known only unto those who are born and bred in the area. It would seem that we really hit the jackpot with this particular variation on the theme, as we managed to plonk ourselves in a dinky leetle parking-spot not far from Joseph Leckie School, and around ten minutes walk from the ground. Essential, that, as the heat and sunlight were really going full-blast by then. Not long after that, we made landfall, on the bit of the club?s road that joins the main drag not far from the away turnstiles, and not a bloody bit of shade in sight. Not many people either, save one Saddlers eccentric who we spotted wearing, of all things, a duffel coat! Talking of which, they?ve now got a new fanzine; we know because we swopped with ?em. Business was slow, at first, but within around 20 minutes, things hotted up. Not as far as fanzine sales went, just me! Would you believe it only took the sun that brief interval of time to turn my bare legs a delicate salmon-pink? Quite unexpected, and the proof is a brace of knee-caps glowing fit to bust as I write. Or am I, in sympathy with Nagasaki, radioactive as well?

The hour of two o?clock whizzed by, and as those imaginary chimes receded, we began, at last, to entertain some visitors at our selling spot. First on the scene was a gently-perspiring Dot Lepkowska, who told us the sad news about Ray Harford, and the Watford player on loan from Man U who also died today. A quick word about Ray; I commented on the mailing-list the other day that I rated Ray very highly as a ?track-suit? manager. His players wouldn?t hear a word said against him, or his motivational methods, training was a positive pleasure, they informed me, and by the time he left for QPR, we were top of the heap, or very close. As I said on the list, it was a pity he never stayed to properly see through to the end what he?d started. Who knows what might have happened? Another source today told me Ray had promised somebody quite high up in the Albion hierarchy he?d come back one day, when he felt the time was right to do so. If that?s true, it?s a shame he was unable to fulfil that promise. 58 is awfully young to shuffle off this mortal coil, and to such a horrible disease, as well. The supreme irony was Ray never smoked in his life, something which really makes you stop short and think of your own all-too precious (and tenuous) hold on this world...

Back to a more pleasant topic, then. Of course, Dot wasn?t the only visitor to our sweaty selling-point. Not long after our bijou journalistic mate headed on out in search of some chilled and bottled hydrogen oxide, who should roll up, but Laraine and Dawn Astle? So intent was I on flogging ?zines, I didn?t recognise them at first. I do have an excuse; thanks to a recent holiday abroad, both ladies now boast a tan of a hue fit to warm your fingers by, which was the main reason why I almost committed the awful sin of ignoring ?royalty? in the first place! Actually, I was pretty pleased to see Laraine; as you may know, GD generally supports some charitable cause or other each season, and this time, what we intend to do is fling some dosh in the direction of the day centre where Jeff was cared for in the later stages of his illness. It?s not a privately-run place, it?s good old NHS to the core, an outreach facility of a Derby hospital, in fact, and from what Laraine?s told me over the months and years since The King passed away, the work they do with people suffering from degenerative brain disease is more than worth its weight in gold. My late dad also spent some time in a similar place when he was ill with a similar affliction, so I?ve a fair idea of what they?re about. The upshot of the conversation I had with Laraine is that from now on, any donations will go to this centre, so if you don?t mind spending 20p over the odds for this particular cause when you buy a Dick, let us know.

Not long after that, who should fetch up, but Matthew, he of the Hawthorns PA system. A serious message from him to us, and it concerns that Albion pre-match ?golden-oldie? The Liquidator, naughty lyrics and all. The message from On High is this: the swearing has to stop, end of story. If Wolves are still being told to ?Foxtrot Oscar? by around 10,000 people in unison after three home games have elapsed, The Harry J tune gets it. No ?ifs?, no ?buts?. Improve it ? or lose it. Just don?t say you weren?t warned...

By that time, the heat was really getting to us both; it was gone half-two, I was feeling slightly faint and sick (premonitions of what would happen later, I wonder?), and the murderous conditions were taking their toll on ?Im Indoors as well. Time to call a day on flogging operations, then. A few moments to round up The Fart and The Noise, and into the Bescot we went. Once inside, mercy of mercies, the away end was well and truly in the shade. Still hotter than a nicked Rolls Royce, mind, but not in direct sunlight. Time to stuff my nut under the cold tap in the ladies; when I did so, you could almost hear the sizzling noise. Aaaah, pure bliss! Time also to take some pics with a cheapo disposable camera; trouble was, with the mercury almost at blood-heat, I could literally feel the softening film sticking in the camera sprockets, which gave me no end of trouble. Oh ? one other thing. Those nice stewards on the entrance were insisting people take the tops off their drink bottles before entry, but in the case of ?Im Indoors, the quickness of the hand sure as hell deceived the human eye. The top came off, all right, but only as far as the palm of my other half?s hand; Chummy didn?t notice a thing! Another small victory for the much put-upon away supporter.

The game? Oh dear?? We had, of course, an impeccably-observed minute?s silence for Ray Harford, but from then on in, everything went downhill with the rapidity of an off-piste skier being pursued by a sizeable avalanche. For reasons best known to himself, our leader elected to play Daniel Dichio this time, coupled with new-boy Hulse, a move which arguably lost us the game, because if the conditions ever cried out for young legs on the pitch, today they must have yelled themselves hoarse. Why Scott Dobie was left on the bench, and why Hughsie wasn?t given the opportunity to let loose at The Saddlers, I?ll never know. From the kick-off, it seemed to us that it was only a matter of time before our players breached the dam walls; with wave after wave of Albion attacks to deal with, the home defence looked distinctly rocky at times, and had nimbler feet been there up front to take advantage, who knows what might have happened? As it was, both the unfortunate Hulse and James O?Connor dipped early doors, and as we won a succession of corners, the Saddler squirmed.

Unlikely as it might sound, though, the turning-point in our fortunes came when Walsall?s Roper was stretchered off after tangling with Hulse; not long after that incident, Paul Merson took the opportunity of stamping his class on the proceedings. Now correct me if I?m wrong, those who went as well, but up to that point, I?d had the impression we?d been pretty well able to counter his threat. Walsall went on the break, very much against the run of play, over went the cross, and in came the former Seal, seemingly from nowhere. Boot connected with ball, and there it was; one-nil to our local rivals. One decent attack, one goal ? sound familiar? What made the whole thing even more galling was the fact that in the minutes that followed, we really should have rectified the damage; on a couple of occasions, the brilliant Koumas found players totally unmarked in the danger-zone, but none of our finest could capitalise.

To be fair, there wasn?t a lot we could have done about the second; even Gordon Banks himself would have done well to put it out for a corner. From around 25 yards it was, from a pin-point cross, and boy, was it motoring. In off the bar, it went, and Houlty could only stand and fume. And the Saddlers weren?t finished, not by a long chalk. Just before the interval, our defence went walkabouts, and ex-Dingle Osborne went through them like a knife through melting butter. 3-0, and things were becoming most embarrassing, so much so, the groundlings behind the goal became rather restive; for the first time in yonks, our finest left the field of play to a mixture of boos and plain ordinary Black Country abuse.

Come the resumption, and a surprise. 4-4-2. Blimey! But still the Saddlers, living up to their leather?trade heritage, seemed well and truly hell-bent on giving us a tanning, and they completed this task in the 57th minute courtesy of yet another top-notch strike, this time by Corica, and right into the top corner. At least we did manage to get a consolation not long afterwards, courtesy of Mr. Koumas; the shot which followed the run took a slight deflection off a Walsall player, but that shouldn?t detract from the guy?s many talents. One much-needed astringent to kick-start our heat-weary flock into some sort of action came once more courtesy of that man Koumas, who weaved his mesmerising way through a plethora of Saddlers, then let fly ? only to see the effort saved by the home keeper. Had it gone in, they would have still been raving over it come Christmas.

And that was that, bar the shouting, and there was quite a lot of that, believe you me. Sure, young Scott Dobie came on for a distinctly-knackered Dichio ten minutes from the end, but by then, of course, the damage had been done...

Back to The Dickmobile, then, the tirade of abuse from the away end still ringing in our ears. Such a weight of expectation, and we totally blew it. So where do we go from here? At least we get the Brentford game to tinker with the side; using our flanks more, less farting about with the ball on the edge of the box, and having people up front who don?t emerge from strenuous activity looking like the last survivor of the massacre might not be such a bad idea next time. And defenders doing their proper job, for once, might come in handy as well. Oh, and still we have that running sore of Megson?s double feud with Marshall and Roberts to contend with. Sure, Jason may have said more to our manager and the media than he should, and is on the transfer list at his own request, and Marshall we know about, but where?s the sense in leaving such talents out of contention? Lee Marshall impressed me in pre-season, and I?d genuinely thought the hatchet had been buried. Some hope.

As for Jason, if he?s left festering in the reserves, who in the name of pig?s pudding is going to witness his talents? Without proper access to a shop-window, who?s going to buy him? This nonsense has gone on for far too long; we were told recently by an ex-Albion player that although Alan Buckley was possessive of about as short a fuse as the present incumbent, once the explosion had happened and the smoke had cleared, the matter was over. No grudges, no animosity ? finished there and then. This whole childish business is hog-tying our chances of getting out of this division. Sort it, Mr. Chairman. Now.

 - Glynis Wright

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