The Diary

11 September 2005: A Wigan Whopping.

I just knew it was going to be one of those days the minute my beloved returned from Smethwick Library this morning. Foolishly neglecting to bring something waterproof with him, when returning to our car afterwards, he became the unfortunate recipient of several gallons of express-delivery water, especially imported from mid-Atlantic regions just for his benefit. To say he looked like something the cat dragged in as he walked through our front door is doing our born-again mouse-hunter a grave injustice: thick as two short planks our tabby feline may be, but even he would baulk in pure horror at bringing something as soggy and/or disgusting as that into our gaff. Ugh.

One quick change of clothes and a brisk towelling later, it was on the road again, for the Relegation Hoedown, with me riding shotgun in the passenger seat. No Noise today, though; he and the rest of his garrulous brood were attending his sister?s wedding today. Clearly, one of those family occasions that brooked no nonsense whatsoever; most of last Tuesday evening was spent in rehearsals, for goodness? sakes. Blimey, if that?s how seriously their family takes the old nuptials, I?d hate to have to attend one of their funerals. On the other hand, when he learned the final score, I?m willing to bet you anything his profound relief at being saved from a Hawthorns fate worse than death must have been heard all over the church.

As the precipitation was still descending like stair-rods all over the town, I wisely elected to bring my Albion cagoule with me; the one I have so much difficulty getting in and out of ? no frontwards buttons/zip fasteners, you see. Just as well, really, as the walk up Halfords Lane was a lengthy but soggy one. But at least The Hawthorns Hotel beckoned, dry, warm, with Sky TV thrown in for good measure. And, when my other half returned from the bar, bearing gifts of Coke, there was more. Apparently, the place has now gone upmarket; behind the counter was a notice declaring Dom Perignon and Moet and Chandon (as immortalised by the late Freddie Mercury in their 1975 hit ?Killer Queen?) to be on sale to punters for the bargain prices of ?90 and ?50 quid respectively. Real Premiership class, then: a shame that the brewery didn?t do their market-research terribly well, wasn?t it? One of the most deprived boroughs in the country, for just about every measure of poverty you can possibly think of, and all the bean counters and advertising Tristrams can do is come out with the marketing equivalent of ?Let them eat cake?. Brilliant.

A shame they didn?t put as much effort into choosing the bar staff, wasn?t it? The counter awash with some unidentifiable liquid or other, no Banks?s on offer, and a largely-clueless workforce. The Drinking Family were to tell me later that it took one of their number a good 45 minutes to get served ? enough time to park their vehicle a considerable distance from the ground, then for the driver to walk all the way back to the pub again, just in time to see their long-anticipated inaugural pint finally home in on base-camp. Oh ? and another highly-pertinent thought apropos of our bibulous chums: this time round, they decided not to renew their away season-tickets. This, mind, from a family that have supported the stripes ?over land and sea ? and water? without either let or hindrance, ever since the time Jesse Pennington was a lad. Well, it feels that way to them!

How come? Same story as ourselves, really. Fed up with a combination of daft ticket prices, and equally-inane kick-off times, and all for the benefit of that nice Mr. Murdoch, who wouldn?t give a twopenny stuff if his channel and all the hype surrounding it killed the national game we all know and love so well. That, and the stark fact only one of the family?s head is earning, the other suffering with a chronic back complaint, just the same as me. It comes to a sorry state when supporters as loyal as those are priced out of supporting their side away from home, isn?t it? I?m now wondering just how far the poison has spread: our chums can?t be the only ones by any means, can they?

And, talking of The Dirty Digger, as we all supped, one of his ?products? was airing on the giant screen in front of us. Norwich v Plymouth, with the home side taking the lead not long after we?d arrived. More a ?blue on blue?, actually, the last player getting a touch being one of the tiddy oggie merchants. Even a side consisting entirely of eleven year old Girl Guides could have defended better ? but, in the light of what subsequently happened on our own muck-heap, who am I to criticise? Startling, also, to catch a glimpse of former Baggie Mickey Evans still strutting his stuff up front for the visitors. Amazing how well they can disguise Zimmer frames these days, isn?t it?

Thinking on, one thing I did notice about the place was how subdued the atmosphere was in there. Or could that have been simply down to the relative ? erm ? lack of extraneous Noise? Discuss. And, as we were nattering to another sufferer about not having to stand in the wind and rain flogging fanzines any more, Norwich went and punctured the Plymouth defence once more. Oh dear.

Time to bury my head in the programme for once, a rare treat for me, as I?m usually trying to keep pace with our Stokie chum?s eardrum-blasting machine-gun delivery. One curiosity: reserve team coach Gary Shelton?s job title, as described in an article there: ?Strength And Conditioning Coach?, would you believe? A typo, presumably, but at that point, my imagination ran absolutely riot. Visions of ?yer man? carrying endless supplies of Alberto VO5 around in that little bag of tricks of his, or something rose before my eyes. Waiting for a desperate cry from the pitch of ?Help, I?m having a bloody bad hair day ? do something, quick!?, no doubt?

Half two, just gone, and time to go. A quick tool along a rain-lashed Halfords Lane, then through the turnstiles. I had a slight lapse of memory, and tried to insert my ticket horizontally: naturally, the turnstile wouldn?t take it. Realising ?Im Indoors had used his to get me in, I went to hand over my card so he could also ? but the mechanism still worked, despite hubby flashing his card twice! Curious, that. But never mind. Today was most certainly a ?hot chocolate? day ? we?d never lost on the occasions I?d purchased one last season ? and having done that (and gulped mightily at the price they were charging these days), it was then to my seat for 90 minutes fresh air and fun. Or something.

Looking at the Smethwick at that point, it seemed to me that the travelling supporters? numbers were going to be somewhat depleted. With barely ten minutes to go before lift-off, there were, I reckoned, around two thirds of the available seats in use. At this stage, I would normally have launched into an almighty diatribe of ?With support like that you don?t deserve to be in the Premiership?, but I couldn?t really, as their end proceeded to fill to capacity some 15 minutes after the start. Must have been a hold-up on the M6, or something.

But what of events on that sacred swarth of ours? Out came both sides, then on to what has to be the most pointless exercise in the entire game ? both sets of players indulging in a massed-handshaking session prior to the ?off?. Something performed through gritted teeth, presumably, especially today. How else do you respond to an opposition dressed in yellow-and-cack? Team news? Predictably, no Kanu or Kamara, both nursing knocks from their international duties ? but Gera? Nowhere to be seen either, not even on the bench. According to the club?s website, the lad sustained ?a series of knocks? over the course of the two World Cup qualifiers he participated in; as Robbo was later to admit: ?I don?t know where to begin monitoring him.?

As I?d hoped, both Nathan Ellington and The Horse teamed up for this one, with ex-Baggie Jason Roberts returning to his former stamping-ground for the first time since leaving the club a couple of seasons ago. Predictably, he was booed by our followers, and that?s when the first grains of doubt began to seep into my mind. I?ve said it here time and time again: never, EVER give our exes the two-finger treatment. Time and time again, I?ve seen such boorish behaviour rebound disastrously. Remember a certain Mister Peschisolido, and his usual devastating response to such behaviour, children? We also had Martin Albrechtsen strutting his stuff at the back. Those were the major changes, then, the other being the relegation of Kevin Campbell to the sub?s bench for this one. Keeping the others company was new lad Curtis Davies ? didn?t take the Smethwick long to give him the monicker ?Small Dave?, did it? As for Wigan, they also had a lad making his debut for them, their ?3 million deadline day capture, Connolly. Otherwise, things were largely ?as you were?.

Those, then, were the main factors at play for this one, the other variable being that of the man with the whistle, in this case a gentleman by the name of Clattenburg, of whom I?ve spoken before, on many occasions. Oh, and the greasy state of the pitch; that almighty downpour before the kick-off hadn?t helped matters one little bit. The scene was well and truly set, then, so off we all jolly well went. And, just to show how deceptive football can be, we were the ones making all the initial running, with a ?sort of? chance falling to The Duke, courtesy of some Wigan defensive carelessness within seconds of the satart. A shame the effort went well wide, then, wasn?t it? Then, moments later, just to show we could be equally as inept when the occasion warranted it, Wigan managed to win a stupidly-conceded free-kick, and too close for comfort to the danger-zone for my liking. Luckily, the effort turned out to be a bit of a damp squib. In retrospect, I now consider that to be our first warning.

Then, just two minutes later, we went and laid on a repeat performance. At that point, my mouth was opening and shutting in sheer disbelief. Out there was a side that was supposed to have discussed ad nauseam over the last fortnight the defensive failings that ailed us versus Blues, and after much deliberation, solemnly avowed not to repeat such errors the next time round ? and still we were committing basic schoolboy errors out there! Most unprofessional, to say the least. Needless to say, once the visitors realised our generosity knew no bounds, they leaped on our many failings with unbridled glee. Result? Just about every time they had the ball, which was far too often for my liking, they were looking mighty dangerous. What was needed from out troops was a lot less ?hoof and hope? and a lot more passing of balls to feet, just as the good Lord intended ? the midfield service to our strike-force amounted to practically nil.

Come the eighth minute, the lackadaisical attitude I mentioned above really hit home when Albrechtsen, tasked with that simplest of exercises, a throw-in, ended up conceding a foul throw, and the initiative passing to the visitors once more. Something so basic, a job any pro worth his salt should be able to do in his sleep, and we couldn?t even get that right. No wonder a chorus of frustrated groans quickly erupted from the crowd.

Darren Carter?s attempt on goal, one that drew a pretty classy save from the Wigan keeper, was a rare beacon of light in what was rapidly descending into a war of attrition, and not a pretty one either. Grey was the day, miserable was the weather ? and so was the football. Error continued to pile upon error, and so awful was the standard of football at one point, I once more asked my other half if this was really a Premiership game I was watching. Why, just seven days before, I?d witnessed Conference football at Edgar Street, Hereford United?s place, and had watched much more palatable fare for the outlay of just 12 quid, the cost of a stand seat down there.

And the ref didn?t help much either, letting stuff go that would have been given an ?X? certificate, had Hollywood, and not The Hawthorns, been the venue for this particular horror-show. This sort of atavistic behaviour reached its nadir in Wigan?s treatment of The Horse, who was felled time and time again via sly little digs and touches, a vicious series of spats, usually taking place on the ref?s blind side. So what were both linos supposed to be doing out there, then? Providing an ornamental function only? What we badly needed was a playmaker to stamp his authority on the game, and we didn?t have one. What with the dire standard of the fare on offer, plus the match official?s singular lack of control over the whole thing, the next few minutes were a barrel of laughs. Not.

And yet, amidst all the farcical goings-on, we still managed to take the lead. It happened around the 26th minute, and the scorer was Greening, one of the few players to come out of today?s debacle with any credit. The final shot, from around 20 yards, was very much helped on its way by a Wigan defender?s abortive attempt to stop the ball going into the danger zone, but they all count. Oh ? irrelevant, now, but why the hell did everyone run straight to the bench to celebrate the strike?

Okay, so we were in the driving-seat, finally. Time to open up the play, and show those Lancashire upstarts how football should be played? Nope; still our lot suffered from an overdose of the ?nervous Nellies?, and still, the overall standard of our play suffered. No surprise, then, to see Wigan nullify our lucky opener just before the interval. And, before you say it, yep ? our men at the back went bye-byes once more. Their pass to the scorer, Connolly, was frighteningly accurate, and completely banjaxed us. Kirkland was committed to the punch, and was way out of his beat when the effort went in. Oh, and just to rub it in, just like The Duke, the lad who put it away cost ?3 million, and it was his debut for the club. The fundamental difference, of course, being that Ellington had largely been anonymous the whole half. ?Nuff said.

Half-time, then, and a much-needed break for our distinctly-frazzled followers. The consensus of neighbouring opinion followed the school of thought that opined we were missing The Mighty Zoltan something rotten. Greening had done his level best to spark the flame, but his was a metaphorical voice in the wilderness. Hardly surprising, when you?ve stuck a plethora of defensive midfielders out there, isn?t it? Once more, ?Im Indoors was telling those around him all about the Conference game I?d touched on earlier, and the greater value for money that had provided. Sure, the conditions were difficult, but that was only part of the tale. You really do despair, sometimes.

Back for the second sitting, then, with no changes as yet to the current line-up. Of the opening exchanges, it was The Duke that looked the more likely to bring home the bacon. A lovely ball from the right, courtesy Wallwork, who up to that time, hadn?t had one of his better games, shall we say, allowed the former Wigan man to unleash a gorgeous Exocet of a shot, and it was all their keeper could do to tip it over for the corner, which was, par for the course by now, criminally wasted by our troops.

With almost an hour gone, and little cheer in sight, our bench decided a change was called for. Off went Darren Carter, and on came our recent acquisition from Turf Moor, Richard Chaplow. We then had to wait a further 10 minutes for any sort of ?Plan B? from the bench, but just before our manager did finally change things, the lad Chaplow had a glorious chance to nab a first well and truly nipped in the bud by Wigan, the effort only narrowly missing the far post.

Just a minute later, our leader finally decided Something Would Have To Be Done. On came the Earnie and Kev striking double-act, and off went Wallwork and Ellington. We also went three up front for once, Robbo presumably gambling on Messrs. ?Little And Large? pulling something out of the hat between them. In fact, late on in the game, Earnie could have saved our bacon, the only missing part of the equation being his foot failing to connect with the inviting cross that swept across the face of goal, and missed our Welsh international, who was positioned slightly further forward of the ball?s flight, completely. They must have heard the collective groans of anguish back in Smethwick. And, in the dying minutes, Earnie had another bite at the cherry, the ball this time landing safe in the arms of their keeper.

Time, then, for the lino on our side of the ground to get in on the act. With around ten still remaining, Albion had a quite clear throw on the touchline nearest us; everyone had seen (and heard) the Wigan boot meet the ball. Uproar, complete and utter, in The Halfords, then, when the assistant belatedly signalled - for Wigan to take it! Not long after that, it was Clattenburg?s turn to carry on where his minion had left off, and once more, it was we on the receiving end of the bum decision. The first was a clear Wigan foul ignored, and the second a totally unnecessary stoppage of play. Said a weary Black Country voice near me, ?Referee, yo?m wreckin? the game!?

?No,? countered this column, distinctly frazzled by then, ?We?ve managed it quite well for ourselves, thank you very much!?

OK, so the game had hardly been a classic, but at least we still had a point to show for all our efforts. And that just goes to show just how dead wrong you can be, sometimes. Never, ever forget our unofficial motto, as immortalised by that bunch of suspicious-looking characters, who used to produce an Albion fanzine many moons ago. ?They Always Let You Down?, and my goodness, didn?t we just? I think it was the first minute of injury time when Wigan struck with a vengeance. Ironically, it was Jason Roberts who supplied the scorer, Bullard, with the defence-splitting ammo that would break Baggie hearts the entire length and breadth of the ground. All the guy then had to do was apply boot to ball, and it was in. An unholy bellow of triumph from the away end ? well, to them, it was like winning the Lottery and the Irish Sweep, all in one go, wasn?t it? ? and our collective ghast was well and truly flabbered, and serve us jolly well right, as well. What else could you say? Well, the Brummie certainly tried, come the end. ?What a load of rubbish!? was the cry, and on the balance of what I saw today, I don?t think anyone on the pitch could have reasonably sued for defamation of character.

Needless to say, I was absolutely livid as I exited the ground with my other half. What have I been saying in this same diary piece, ever since the season started? To survive in this division, you simply have to take points off your fellow-strugglers, because if you don?t, may the Lord have mercy upon your souls. And that?s precisely what we?ve failed to do, first versus Blues, who were no great shakes, and now against Paul Jewell?s lot. And we?ve dropped to 17th. Suddenly, I?m getting a terrible feeling of deja-vu, and it isn?t nice at all. And we can?t blame our former leader this time, either; he?s got troubles of his own down at the City Ground, thanks to losing today as well.

Robbo reckons tonight that his players have ?kidded him? insofar as making believe they?d got that awful tendency to commit defensive hari-kari out of their systems, finally, when they quite clearly hadn?t, and on the balance of today?s showing, he?s dead right. Sure, I understand the need to practice the defensive stuff ad infinitum over the next week or so, but wasn?t this the ground we?d been assured had been covered thoroughly over the course of the previous 14 days? These are professional footballers, for goodness sake, all being paid handsomely for their involvement at senior level. They can?t all be terminally thick and totally unable to make the connection between clear instructions from their gaffer, and a proper interpretation of what those instructions actually mean? Er, can they?

Let?s hope that lessons are learned from what was this afternoon, quite frankly, an embarrassment, complete and utter. If we don?t then God help us. It?s Sunderland next up, at their place, and they?re just as desperate for the points as we are. Stuff up on Wearside, gentlemen, and I guarantee the lot of you collective howls of protest you won?t forget for a long time.

And finally?. Just before today?s game, a little bird in the Hawthorns Hotel told me that the Supporters Club Main Branch meeting scheduled to take place at the ground next Tuesday night had now been cancelled. Can?t get the players, apparently ? four were originally pencilled in to take part ? which, in the light of today?s dismal events, might well be a bit of a blessing in disguise for all concerned!

 - Glynis Wright

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