The Diary

18 September 2005: I Don't Want To Set The World On Fire (But We Damn Near Did On The A1(M)!)

Or, to give this piece a far more accurate title: ?A Series Of Unfortunate Events?. Not the book written by children?s author Lemony Snicket, later to be turned into a successful film, of course, but a precise account of all the multitudinous misfortunes that befell both us and The Fart today. The problem, you see, lay in the fact that like Cinderella, we didn?t get to the ball. Or nearly didn?t, our pumpkin-turned-coach only reaching the Stadium Of Light with about 60 minutes of the game already on the clock. But I am getting a tad ahead of myself, here, so perhaps I?d better push the ?rewind? button, and start right from the beginning.

The day started relatively innocuously for us three intrepid travellers to the North East: an early arrival at the ground. ?Roll up for the Magical Mystery Tour!? sang The Beatles, way back in 1968, and they weren?t far wrong. Come the end of the return journey, we even took the ?pretty way? around Brum, but that?s another story, which I?ll relate towards the end. Now where was I? Oh yes ? eleven coaches in all, and a long and tedious journey in prospect. Peter Kay on video? Something I?d probably find screamingly funny at any other time ? his comedic style is highly reminiscent of The Noise when in fine conversational fettle - but the early start had unbuttoned something miserly in my soul. Sorry, but right then, I found the guy irritating to the point of wishing gross personal violence to befall him.

A surprise stop at Ferrybridge Services, near Sheffield, and a case of ?Everybody Out!? as per shop-steward Miriam Karlin of the early 60?s clothes factory sitcom ?The Rag Trade? (Junior Baggies ? ask your granddad!) And, as we nattered with Supporters Club Dave Knott on the concourse there, I had a sighting of what had to be the smallest soldier in the British Army! Not a cadet, either: a closer look revealed the squaddie in question to be female, about 15 years younger than I, and with a head that only just about cleared my shoulders. Blimey, I know they used to recruit for ?Bantam? regiments during World War One, but this little lass was clearly taking the entire concept to a hitherto-undreamed of (non) height!

We also happened to bump into a couple of the ?Royal Family?. Laraine tells me young Matthew ? who couldn?t come today, playing in a tournament, apparently ? is now training with both Nottingham Forest and Albion. I didn?t realise, but there?s absolutely no bar on kids doing that at that age. Latest news of the junior Astle via the wonders of modern technology was that his side were progressing in the knock-out stages, and that the youthful ?chip off the old block? had already netted for his side. Apparently, Matthew has also promised his nan that when he?s a famous footballer, he?s going to buy her a flashy sports car!

Off on the road once more, making pleasing progress northwards ? and then the detritus really began to hit the proverbial. What happened? Well, the first intimations we had that all was not well at the rear of the vehicle were the youthful shouts from the back seat, something on the lines of: ?Stop the bus ? the cowin? thing?s on fire!? Not quite true; what we actually had going there was a billowy sort of smoke-screen thick enough to send the average World War Two destroyer captain leaping about with unalloyed joy, but the bit about bringing the vehicle to a rapid halt certainly applied. Pulling over to the hard shoulder, our driver nipped out to look at what was going on, then returned several minutes later with the news that the mysterious ailment affecting the engine was probably terminal, and that was about as far as we could go.

Time for our driver to ask the company if they had a ?Plan B?. I did hear something about the police sending a replacement coach, but for some reason, that one got knocked on the head pretty sharpish. By now, it was getting towards two o?clock: if we were to get to the ground before kick-off, we?d have to make a move now, and that was clearly impossible. Around that point in the proceedings, up drove The Law, in a patrol car. There we all were: a small crowd all bedecked in Albion colours, on the hard shoulder, peering intently into the vehicle?s sorely tried rear innards, two coppers in attendance, and the coach clearly going nowhere. Then, while watching the densely-packed stream of vehicles delicately manoeuvring their way around smoke-shrouded heap, a sudden thought struck me: how many of those drivers and passengers were taking in the stationary coach on the hard shoulder, the large mass of football-shirted onlookers, the attendance of the plods, both looking grim in a constabulary sort of way ? then promptly adding two and two together, and making about six million?

A quick phone call to his gaffers later, another dekko at the problem, another animated telephone discussion, and the guy decided to try and get a bit further up the road; talk was of making it as far as Washington Services, a point much nearer our destination, so off we went again. In view of all the muck I?d seen pour out of the back before, I wasn?t all that surprised when, about three miles further upstream, the same problem began to rear its ugly head once more and we had to pull over again. ?Women and children first!? cried a Black Country wag, owner of the voice unknown. Clearly, the vehicle, an old one by coaching standards, was in extremis. Oh sod. Up strode our poor steward to the back once more. At least he had a sense of humour. ?Tell you what,? he said, ?If I bring the sausages down there, can you lads at the back do the hot dogs??

Listening in on one conversation revealed that these particular coaches had been ?imposed? upon travel organiser Dave Holloway by our football club. They?d proven wanting the day our supporters travelled to Chelsea for the midweek game down there. No hot water or heating on one vehicle, and I?m also given to understand they?d not long lost a similar travel contract for Blues supporters as well. But that wasn?t getting us to the ground, was it? As the Fart so pertinently pointed out, ?We?re about as static as our defence?. The thought of flashing my vital assets on the hard shoulder and getting a lift to the game that way briefly sprang to mind ? but on reflection, what had all those poor motorists done to deserve it?

More minute passed, and the need to stretch legs increased, so off we all dived again. Cautioned our steward, nervous about a stray supporter being hit by a car on the hard shoulder: ?Can you keep away from those white lines, please??

?Yeah, Kate Moss didn?t,? said I, ?And look what?s happened to her ? name all over the papers!? Eventually the promised minibus did arrive, but because of the obvious, only a few could take advantage. Nobly, we told The Fart to get the hell out while he had the chance: if possible, we?d join him later at the ground. And that?s precisely what he did. It only remained for us to be sorted out, but where the relief transport was going to come from we couldn?t quite work out. Then, all was made clear. Yes, a vehicle bearing the same livery turned up, but it wasn?t one of those that had already made the journey to the ground. No sirree; this one had been the ?executive coach?, the vehicle that had brought up a party the previous day, and stayed there overnight. Having dropped its load already, and not having many ?hours? on the clock, our valiant steed was ideally placed to do a rescue act, and this is precisely what it did. By now, it was 10 past three, and we were about an hour away from our destination. Whatever we were going to see of this game was going to be brief, that was for sure.

But, never say die, off we went again. But not before getting a message via someone?s mobile that Albion had conceded, around the 9th minute of the game, and, by the sound of it ? the scorer, Breen, was a defender - from a set-piece. Again. Yes, I know these things are sometimes sent to try us, but someone out there was trying too damned hard for my liking! Many minutes later, we were practically on the outskirts of the city, when there was another phone call, this time from Dave Holloway himself. ?Partially sunny?, it was: Normally, the turnstiles at Sunderland close around four o?clock, but we were told they?d be kept open for our benefit ? until 4.15! Already, things were tight, and popular opinion was there was no absolute guarantee we?d make it in time. Oh ? and just to make the whole damned day complete, it started raining!

At least the local plods had the decency to supply us with a police escort from the boundary, but still they insisted upon taking the coach all around the ground to the car park instead of simply dropping us off. Still, we did get there before the end: by the time we?d gone through the turnstiles, I believe there was around 30 minutes left to play, still, so without further ado, we followed their stewards directions, and were plonked in an empty section of the away end ? as I intimated yesterday, doing so would have been no problem, thanks to the distinct lack of enthusiasm for the tip among supporters.

So what can I say about the game, then? As you might expect, very little. About a minute after we?d sat down, Albion earned the first of two corners on the bounce, both of which were dealt with fairly comfortably by the home defence. To be honest with you, trying to provide an honest assessment of what little I saw of what went on this afternoon was a bit like trying to write a piece about a newly-published novel, but one where someone had first removed around two thirds of the content. You simply can?t do it justice, so I?m not going to try. Suffice it to say that over the course of the 30 or so minutes I did see, my overall impression was of eleven complete strangers chucked together suddenly then told they were a football side, so get out there and do something. Annoying, because Sunderland were no great shakes, really. Well, neither were we, I suppose, but on paper, we did have the better bunch of lads. Three times I saw us go very close indeed towards the end ? Kamara, Ellington, and lastly Wallwork, whose headed effort was shifted off the line deep in injury time, at which point, I?d despairingly written the game off ? and then, with what seemed to be the game?s last gasp, as a result of the former Man United player?s late effort on goal, we gained a corner.

Three minutes time added on for stoppages, and the ref had given the corner in the last of these. Bloody hell, if ever there was a classic definition of a ?shit or bust? effort, this was going to be it. Every Albionite worth their salt now on their feet, awaiting Kamara?s set-piece delivery. Every Baggies player, Kirkland included, in the box. Over it came, an inswinger, and up above his ?minders? rose The Great Zoltan, skull heading straight for the centre of the now airborne bladder.

How the hell he even manages to get near to those sort of balls, let alone seriously worry opposition defenders and goalkeepers while he?s at it, I wouldn?t like to say, but he sure as hell does ? and this time we were mighty thankful he did have that wonderful talent at his disposal. Ball met Magyar nut with explosive force then ? bang! No messing, no argument ? there was the ball, right at the back of the net, suddenly, and an away end exploding with sheer delight. All I could do was repeat, over and over again: ?You jammy b******s!? Poor Sunderland ? they?d done so well to hang on to that lead, and for so long, only to get mugged in injury time by us yet again. No wonder an atmosphere so funereal it should have been kept in the local crematorium suddenly descended upon their home end come the final whistle!

Come the end, as per police instructions on arrival, we assembled right alongside the ?lead? coach for deployment to other coaches for the long journey home ? only to find the plods, a different lot from the ones we?d encountered before, now wanted us to assemble somewhere totally different! Off we all shuffled once more, muttering mightily about us being ?mushrooms? and being so designated because we were ?kept in the dark, and treated like s**t?, but quickly, the supporters club bods came to our rescue. Told to follow a young teenage girl, we found the three of us ? by now, we?d been reunited with The Fart, who still couldn?t believe what he?d just witnessed! ? assigned to the lead coach. Quite frankly, had they stuck me in a muck wagon, I don?t think I would have noticed in the slightest, such was my eagerness to get away from the place!

But not-so-sunny Wearside still had one nasty trick to play on us. As we were journeying through the suburbs, I was updating my written account of today?s doings in my note-book, when something made me look up pretty sharpish. Out of the corner of my eye, I suddenly saw it ? a brick, fairly large, and heading straight for one of the coach windows nearer the front of the vehicle. Luckily, when it landed, it bounced straight off again. I can only assume that because the disgruntled little Mackem who threw the missile in the first place had to take aim whilst hiding in a clump of low-slung trees, this prevented him (her?) from getting any sort of real ?meat? behind the throw. Just as well, really: a ?bricked-in coach?, and we would have completed the ?full card? of matchday calamities for the day, I reckon!

At least the remainder of the journey home passed without incident. Had things gone otherwise, I think I would have had hysterics on the spot. The Fart had a droll sort of thought when the hat eventually went around for the driver. ?Instead of the driver getting the money,? he suggested, ?what about giving it to us poor sods, who didn?t even get to see most of the game?? Nice thought, but I couldn?t really envisage Jeremy Peace in the role of The Great Lady Bountiful!

And we were making such good time, as well ? which was when things nearly turned pear-shaped again, dear reader. The problem this time lay not with the vehicle, but with the bloody driver. Unbeknown to both myself and ?Im Indoors, he managed to miss the correct turn off for the M6/M5 interchange, instead taking us around Brum by way of the M42, then the northbound section of the M5. ?Im Indoors didn?t cotton on at first ? too busy nattering with The Fart, I reckon, but I?d already sussed something was wrong. Familiar landmarks ? you don?t half get to know motorways if you?re a genuine football supporter! ? had completely disappeared. Another good half-hour shoved on the journey straight away, something we ?refugees? could well have done without, the whole thing meaning a half-ten arrival back at our place. And lots of awkward question from spouses, irate or otherwise, I reckon!

Back just in time to see highlights ? what we?d largely missed! - of the game on Sky. Interesting for one thing ? that Sunderland goal. Am I right in thinking Clem was at fault in not sticking closely with the lad Breen when the cross came over? Other thoughts: when he came on, I thought Kamara useful, but Earnie really will have to get with the Premiership scoring flow, and soon. The last thing we need right now is passengers. Gera is an India-rubber genius, and Paul Robinson a hard-man in true Dougie Fraser mould.

Oh, and I did manage to spare a few thoughts for today?s opposition. Yes, it was a poor game, and we were only marginally better than they, but today?s last-gasp mugging was the latest in a series. First off, it was our FA Cup victory there, around four seasons ago, then we managed to upset them come the tail-end of our first Premiership sojourn. We were down, they were down, but it didn?t stop us winning by two goals without reply. Last, but not least, was the time at the Stadium Of Light we effectively promoted ourselves with a late, late show from Jason Koumas. Lloyd Dyer was the youthful provider ? had he done what most old pros would have done, and taken the ball to the corner-flag, then played it around there, the game would have taken an entirely different course. What he did instead we all know, and The Mackems were rendered absolutely speechless by our barefaced cheek, of course! Somehow, I can?t see our football club getting too many Christmas cards from the Wearside area this time round!

Can we use today?s unmitigated act of robbery as a springboard to better things? I?d like to think so: after all, there were some flashes of brilliance to be seen amidst all the dross. Let?s hope we can use the Bradford game as a means of giving the new lads a runabout, and one without the obvious drawback of piling even more pressure on them to start cutting the mustard. There have been a lot of changes in the side of late, and such things don?t make for good continuity, do they? Get that right, and from then on in, it?s largely up to us. We also serve, who only stand and wait.

And Finally?.. A big heartfelt ?thanks? to both Dave Holloway and Alan Cleverly of the Supporters Club, who spent such a large amount of time liasing with the Sunderland police regarding the knotty problem of our broken-down coach, and how best to transport all the ?refugees? safe and sound to the ground, then spend so much time distributing everyone among the other coaches afterwards. Some of those frenetic phone calls must have arrived right in the middle of the game, thereby detracting greatly from both Baggies? enjoyment of it. Not only that, but to see Dave later handle (and subsequently defuse, with not a little diplomatic aplomb on his part) a small incident on the returning coach that might well have turned out very sticky indeed, was a revelation. I reckon the club are very lucky to have people of their calibre running such activities; a shame their hard work is not better appreciated, sometimes.

 - Glynis Wright

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