The Diary

10 September 2005: Latics Fanatics And Tividale-Inflicted Traumas.

Greetings once more, after a lengthy (but productive) absence spent out there in the Herefordshire boondocks. Got back from there this afternoon, called in at the club shop ? didn?t have what we wanted, but we did park right next to the gaffer?s car, and a very nice one it is, too, black and Mercedes, so my envious other half tells me - then caught up with my two sisters and stepmother tonight. It turned out that my middle sis, Josie, had been to someone?s funeral earlier in the day; a most unusual one, too. Not in the choice of service, or for the numbers of mourners attending, but because of the distinctly unorthodox nature of the floral tributes on display. Apparently, such was the extent of the deceased?s love for the turf, and ?The Sport Of Kings?, one of the wreaths was fashioned in the exact shape and design of a Ladbrokes betting slip, and yet another in the form of a racehorse. Come to think about it, it wouldn?t have surprised me in the least to hear of odds being furtively laid on the chances of the dear departed reaching Heaven, or, for that matter, the ?Other Place?.

Tomorrow sees the return to The Shrine of a side that has, in the recent past, proven to be something of a banana skin for us at their place, bloody Wigan Athletic, Jason Roberts and all who sail in him. It?s nice to know some things haven?t changed, though; at the time of writing, The Latics had only sold 2,300 of their Smethwick End allocation; yep, it?s going to be a ?pay on the day? job for those still undecided as to whether to commit in advance or not. (There?s also a ?kids for a fiver? deal for this game, which may just tempt a few more into shifting from their armchairs on the day.) I suppose the fact we?ve locked horns with them at Nationwide level comparatively recently mitigates against serious ground-hoppers in their ranks wanting to get our muck-heap ticked off in their little dog-eared notebooks, but that apart, I do see many parallels between ?us? and ?them?, especially when compared with our first spell in the Prem some three seasons ago.

At the moment, I?m reckoning that their wide-eyed wonder at actually being at this level is still weaving its magic spell among their starry-eyed faithful, its replacement by outright cynicism and disillusionment being some months into the future, of course. Right now, their morale will be pretty good, thanks to their recent win over Sunderland, a victory that tucked them neatly into a place just one point behind ours. I saw their televised tryst with Chelsea a few weeks back, and privately applauded their magnificent efforts to keep Mourhino?s moneyed mob at bay. I even sympathised hugely when they fell to that cruellest blow of all, an injury-time strike ? but No More Mister Nice Baggie for me, I?m afraid. They are precisely the sort of side we should be beating in order to stay up, and should we eventually seal their fate in similar fashion, I won?t exactly weep salt tears.

No doubt, those who do make the journey down the M6 will be making a huge racket in the Smethwick End, enjoying the ride for what it is, a fairytale come true, savouring the moment, and choosing to gloss over their more obvious weaknesses. Hell, think back to the start of 2002-03 ? weren?t we the same? ?The Boing-Boing Boys?, naive to the point of terminal stupidity, patronised like hell in the national dailies, and because of three early wins on the bounce, almost, temporarily blinded to what ultimately proved to be glaring ? and, eventually, fatal - defects in our side?

I?m just waiting for their reverses to come in rapid succession, one after the other ? bang, bang, bang - with no way out of it in sight (and they will, sooner or later, make no bones about it), resulting in the rapid creation of a negative feedback cycle of low morale coupled with despair, made worse by even more defeats, both home and away, and touching both supporters and players alike. And there will be those contentious refereeing decisions, of course: just think ?Liverpool, Newcastle, Charlton, Spurs,? in our inaugural season ? and many, many more besides. How long do you give it before they embark upon a massed musical accusation of institutional corruption? It wasn?t until the following March before we began to give vent to our many frustrations in that manner. Wigan? Hmmmmm ? they?re not the liveliest of followers, and likely to lose heart that much quicker, so I reckon just after the festive season to be the tipping-point for them.

We?ve got the lad Ellington, now, and the Prem?s highest scorer, of course, but there?s still Baggies Old Boy Jason Roberts to contend with. At least he can?t blame a certain ginger-headed person now not with our club for any lack of progress, but, Megson or not, I reckon he?ll still want to prove a point tomorrow afternoon. It?s funny how things turn out, isn?t it? When we played them in the League Cup, some three seasons ago, it was Ellington and The Horse that did most of the damage, and Jason Roberts who turned out for us that night; now, the situation will be reversed, of course. Tomorrow, they might well have their new boys, Josip Skoko and David Connolly on parade; as far as their Dingles reject, Henri Camara, is concerned, it could go either way. According to the press, he?s recovered from a hamstring injury and is in training; as for their other two wounded little soldiers, John Filan, and Emerson Thome, reports suggest they?ll both be sitting this one out.

As far as we?re concerned, we?ve now had a good fortnight to sort out our many defensive ailments as demonstrated versus both Chelsea and Blues, so with a modicum of luck, we?ll be a lot tighter at the back than we?ve been of late. At least I hope that?s what I?m going to see come three o?clock tomorrow afternoon; our marking versus Small Heath the other week was utterly abysmal. I must say, though, that Robbo?s policy of ?glasnost? within the ranks, as demonstrated by holding regular meetings with the troops, and actively soliciting their views as to what?s gone wrong, and how to best redress the situation, is a refreshing change from what prevailed previously. I?m also further encouraged by the news that Chris Kirkland is trying to engineer his loan move being made permanent; we?ve always been well blessed with quality custodians, but not within my supporting lifetime one considered good enough to play for his country at senior level.

Defence? Well, that was where it all went spherical the other week, wasn?t it? I?m now wondering whether Gaardsoe will be given a Viking funeral (he did drop a few clangers versus Blues) and Big Dave (?ours?, that is, and see below for a further update on the nickname front!) given the nod instead. Certainly, an old head at the back could have made all the difference the last time we played. Or, will Robbo pass the defensive torch to our ex-Hatter import instead? Certainly, in the midweek reserve game versus The Dingles (we won 2-1 at their place, tee-hee!) the only two regulars that turned out were Big Dave and Houlty. It?s a straight ?perm any one from two? for right back.

Midfield? Blimey, we?re really spoilt for choice in those positions. As both our Son Of Nippon and The Mighty Zoltan have been turning out for their respective countries this week, it might well be one or both will be on the bench and playing ?wallflower? for this one. After that, I reckon yer pays yer money and takes yer pick. Strikers? The spiteful industrial dispute at Gate Gourmet apart, most of ours will be up for it, bar, possibly, Earnie, who turned out for the leek-flingers during the week, of course. Don?t bother investing your hard-earned fivers and tenners on either Kanu or Kamara hitting the back of the net, both are still nursing knocks, and doubtful starters tomorrow. Will Duke Ellington get to pitch against his former outfit, I wonder? Sometimes works, sometimes doesn?t ? and there?s always the dangers inherent in trying too hard, of course. And there?s The Horse, who also played against us that awful night three seasons ago. Personally, I?d go with him, for his experience and native cunning, teamed up with The Duke, and the eagerness born of youth. Surely both must have worked up a pretty good mutual understanding when with the Lancashire club?

Last Saturday, as promised, we headed on out to Edgar Street, to watch Simon?s ?second love?, Hereford United, strut their stuff versus Altrincham, newcomers to the Conference this season, although around fifteen years ago they used to enjoy something of an illustrious reputation/tradition at that level. A deceptively cool afternoon, as the morning mist hadn?t quite burned off ? and, in its own way, something of a frustrating 90 minutes for both of us, but more so for ?Im Indoors, whose overview of the proceedings was a far from balanced one, of course.

Hereford, for their part, looked good on the flanks that first half, but time and time again, found their attacking efforts constantly repulsed by a horrible combination of some - erm ? ?robust? defending from the visitors, and a lino who must surely in a past life have been a signalman on the flag-deck of the Victory circa 1805. Had he put up the wrong sequence of signal flags at some stage of the conflict, thereby giving other English ships not involved in the battle a totally false impression of what was really going on out there, and was he then bumped off by one (or several?) of his own annoyed because of his awful blunders? Was he then condemned by God to suffer a similar fate to that of the Wandering Jew, doomed to haunt football?s touchlines for all eternity, forever condemned to feverishly flag offsides on some desolate non-league ground or other, come wind, rain or snow? Yes, ?The Wandering Lino? ? has a certain ring to it, doesn?t it?

Whatever the reason, his right arm was certainly working overtime, much to the annoyance of the locals. Hardly surprising: every time the home side looked in any way dangerous, up went that ruddy flag for an alleged ?offside?. The final insult for the crowd was having what looked like a perfectly good goal ruled out for the same reason; ?undead? or not, I wouldn?t have given an XXXX for the poor bloke?s chances had several of the Meadow End?s rougher elements got to him first.

But we were to see much worse. Later still, Altrincham striker, Colin Little - formerly of Crewe, and with a footballing pedigree and education attained courtesy the cultured Dario Gradi, he really should have known better - craftily planted his fist right upon the delicate chin of Hereford?s Dean Beckwith. Sure, the whole thing took place about five miles from the action, but right in front of the fourth official?s nose? Yep, the reserve official was placed about ten yards away from the incident when it happened. A copper-bottomed, cast iron, Triple-A dead cert automatic red card, you?d have thought ? but nope. The ref conversed for around two minutes with his colleague, seemingly debating the finer points of Ancient Greek philosophy while they were both at it ? but no red card in sight. No, and at the time, I didn?t understand it either. Let?s just be charitable and ascribe that frankly offbeat decision to the theory currently prevailing among Conference footy-followers that all refs at that level tend to interpret the laws of the game in a somewhat ?sideways? fashion, and just leave it at that.

The second half was merely an exercise in frustration for the home crowd: the visitors, scenting a nice little away point in prospect for their troubles, the certainty of which was increasing exponentially with every minute of the second half that ticked by, clammed up tighter than Belmarsh Prison upon receipt of an Al Qaeda terrorist alert. Result? Er ? not a good one for The Bulls, really, a goal-less draw. Oh, and we did see the belated introduction of former Baggie Stacey Caldicott to the fray, but after seeing the ex-Albionite perpetrate a rapid succession of frankly-awful midfield clangers that almost let the visitors in for a three-point mugging, were I a Bulls player right now, I?d be very much assuming our less-than-hirsute ex-Grimsby chum to be a complete and utter liability. Doubly frustrating for the Edgar Street lot, because their promotion rivals, Exeter City, could only nick a point themselves. A win for The Bulls could have kicked a huge hole in the Devon side?s promotion credentials, hence all the wailing and gnashing of Herefordian teeth we saw and heard come the final whistle.

There is a surprising coda to this tale of woe to relate, though: after having a bit of a walk around the town post-match, and a bite to eat, we were slowly ambling back to our vehicle, parked just behind the ground ? and who should we see, getting out of his sponsored Chelsea tractor? Yep, Tucka Trewick himself, former Baggie, now head honcho for the cider-slurpers, of course. A sign of the times, even at non-league level ? a manager having to schmoozle with the nobs (yes, there is an executive club of sorts there, but about as far removed from ours as our home planet is from the asteroid belt) some ninety minutes after the final whistle. Absolutely furious at his motley collection of little cherubs dropping two precious points so cheaply, as well. His take on the aforementioned off the ball punching incident? Er, perhaps it?s best glossed over; the last thing I?d want to do is drop the lad right in it with both the FA and the Conference Powers That Be!

As for the following two days, we both basically elected to crap out in our holiday home doing as little as possible. Fair play to ?Im Indoors, though, for manfully applying right digit to PC keyboard over great swathes of the Sabbath, thereby producing deathless prose in quantity. Reams and reams of the stuff, in fact. Great fun also, on Monday afternoon, when we both took off to a nearby small breeds animal sanctuary to give the inmates there a good eyeballing. I must say the resident chipmunks put on a wonderful display for us humans; six inches long, max, with bushy tails of equal length, and stripey with it, but what energy! Made me feel greatly fatigued just watching the delightful little critters all tearing madly around their play area like creatures demented.

Tuesday evening saw us in footy mode once more, nearby Kington being our destination, the game in question being a West Midlands League encounter with good old Tividale: a more Black Country set of opponents you couldn?t imagine, aer kid, and pass me that pint er bluddy Bonkses while yer?m at it, yow. The game, which started amidst the dying embers of the day, and ended with pitch darkness reigning where the floodlights feared to tread, was hardly a classic, but boring? Not a bit of it: in fact, for much of the game, you couldn?t really separate either side, both going very close indeed during the first half. The fixture was also notable for the sheer amount of energy expended on the part of both sets of combatants, and very little quarter given, or expected. Not that this was a ?dirty? game in the strictest sense of the word, merely my observation that at this level, hard knocks came very much with the territory, and baggy no returns.

According to the tables, neither side were doing brilliantly in the league (the home side are currently bottom), so on paper, the encounter promised to be a close one. Kington, high-fliers a couple of seasons ago, recently suffered a setback when their player-manager, Mick Panniers, buggered off to a much bigger outfit in the county, Westfield, who have been quietly snaffling Kington?s better players ever since they got promotion a couple of seasons ago.

Tividale, also off to a bit of an indifferent start this year, more than ably led by a central defender who constantly and impressively imposed his more than ample presence on the field of play ? had he ever played ?pro?, I mused to ?Im Indoors: his leadership skills certainly ticked all the relevant boxes - had a ?secret weapon? up their royal blue shirt-sleeves: a Number 10 who must have been only an inch or so taller than me, but was seemingly possessive of an overlarge Duracell battery where the sun didn?t shine, because he never stopped running the entire game. Come the final whistle, was some Black Country bloke possessive of great intestinal fortitude tasked to do the decent thing via the surreptitious insertion of a gloved hand into the poor chap?s relevant orifice then, like a magician with a rabbit secreted inside a top hat, quietly extracting this electrically-powered elevator of metabolic rate from within its owner?s murkier reaches?

Oh ? one other thing. What with the Sandwell/Dudley conurbation being so ethnically diverse, you might well have thought that Tividale would have reflected this via the lads strutting their stuff in their ranks. And you would have been dead wrong: every single face in their line-up a white one. Not so for the home side, though. Despite being a small country town, and situated light years away from any significant minority presence, they did boast one black lad wearing their trademark yellow kit.

Much to my surprise, both sides managed to slug it out without breach of either goal net for around 60 minutes ? and then the visitors surprisingly took the lead. As is usually the case in that sort of game, the whole thing was a complete fluke. One minute there was a blue-shirted Tividale lad with the ball on the left, around 20 yards out and nearer the goal-line than the touchline, at a very acute angle indeed, the next there was an almighty ?thud? as he caught the thing with his boot, closely followed by the rippling of the net as the shot somehow slid underneath the desperately-diving Kington keeper, hit the post, then snuck in.

A jammier strike you couldn?t imagine in a million years, and the Tividale lot had gone and done it. Closely followed by a further brace registered against a Kington defence that had quite frankly gone 'beddie-byes', then another single effort. And that was it, job done. Poor Kington: it?s bad enough being whopped on your own muck-heap by four clear goals without reply, but what really made it worse was a series of glaring misses even a schoolboy could have potted. But isn?t that always the way with football? Stuff up big-time, regret it later.

Wednesday night I?d best gloss over, that being the abysmal England World Cup qualifier versus Northern Ireland, of course. Such was the game?s ability to rivet me to the spot, I nodded off, and only woke when the home side potted! Thursday? We decided to shift ourselves to a working Victorian farm situated around four miles from Craven Arms in Shropshire. A wonderful place, and I was really captivated by the butter-making demonstration, not to mention the hand-milking of the cows, but the real stars of the first show weren?t the farm workers, but a gaggle of young children, none of them much older than five.

Seven kids and three mums, but what really astonished me about this lot was the ability of the elderly lady actually churning the stuff to completely captivate the little sods, who must surely have been brought up on a constant diet of cartoon videos and Disney films. Quite bright they were, too: a couple actually managed to ask some seriously good questions for kids that age. Normally, five year-olds have a pretty short attention-span, but not this lot. They stayed until the end, and even got roped into giving the resident geese and hens some gash buttermilk. Which then brings me neatly to Friday, and the point where I first came in!

And Finally. One?? Nothing whatsoever to do with football, of course, but I simply had to get this off my chest?... After reading this, when you get a minute, put your ear to the ground, and listen very carefully: if you?ve done it right, what you?ll notice is a distinct whirring noise, or, more accurately, two of them. What is it? Easy: former US Presidents FDR and JFK both spinning in their graves. The reason? New Orleans, 2005, that?s why: poor people, black people, desperate people, spooked people, all people whose own American Dream, whose blind trust in their leaders, suddenly evaporated amid a hurricane-forged cataclysm born of shameful neglect, cheeseparing federal civil defence provision, and what seemed to me the abandonment, complete and utter, of the most vulnerable living in that part of what is universally acknowledged to be the richest country on the planet.

I now see our own Red Cross busily fund-raising to send aid to those most stricken by the hurricane, those most let down by their politicians, a situation that completely beggars belief. What is it makes a country possessing so much material wealth casually allow so many of its own citizens to simply (sometimes literally, a point made all-too clearly via recent TV footage) sink or swim by their own efforts? And what is it that makes our very own Tony Blair slavishly follow its president?s every whim, however dubious the end-point might be?

A national disgrace, complete and utter: George Bush should hang his head in shame. What was the motto one of Bush?s presidential predecessors, Truman, had displayed prominently on his Oval Office desk? ?THE BUCK STOPS HERE?, that?s what. Over there, their President is the Top Cheese, the Commander-In-Chief and ultimately responsible: that?s why the job pays big bucks, with fringe benefits of a company house, free transportation, and all the uniformed flunkeys he wants to attend to his every need, 24/7. Time Dubya either starts living up to the words of his eminent counterpart, or does the decent thing? Too bloody true, it is.

Two?.. This little pre-match observational gem comes courtesy of Hereford United supporter, tropical fish-lover, and fanzine-person extraordinaire Nick Brade, so blame him! ?I see David Beckham?s having a fitness test today ? good job it?s not a written one, then!?

Three?. New arrival Curtis Davies has suddenly decided to relinquish his own ?Big Dave? nickname, as bestowed upon him by the Hatters faithful, and hand over to what he now recognises to be the sole pukka claimant to the title, our very own Darren Moore. What changed his mind so quickly, then? The very first moment he shook hands with the ?genuine article?, that?s what: rumour has it even now, he?s still trying to get some feeling back into all those numerous but cute little bones, nerves and muscles we have around those parts!

 - Glynis Wright

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