The Diary

02 October 2005: It's, It's A Blackburn Blitz!

Heard on Radio WM tonight the following:

Caller One: It?s about Kevin Campbell. My mum?s just had two hip replacement operations, and she can still run faster than him!?

Caller Two: ?Ronnie Wallwork ? is he Bryan Robson?s partner??

If there was ever a time I?d thought our manager had gone way past the point of no return, as far as trying to win supporters? hearts and minds was concerned, then surely today?s abysmal showing had to be it. Don?t get me wrong, here - I?m not looking for controversy where there is little to be found, or, put another way, simply trying to stir things, just commenting on the ugly mood of my fellow-supporters come five o?clock this evening.

Try as I might, make what excuses I can, or rationalise until I?m blue in the face, I?m still finding it awfully difficult to defend what I witnessed today. The prime reason I?m making this point abundantly clear is because of one simple truth; over far too many seasons, I?ve seen more than one Albion manager run clear out of town by mob rule, and with the coming of Megson, my main wish was to see some permanence injected into our supporting lives again. As I and many others saw it at that time, the only sure way to success was through a solid infrastructure further underpinned by long-term managerial stability. And, for a while, that?s precisely what we had, but when the penny finally dropped that Gary was incapable of taking us any further, then the change had to come. And, having scraped home by the skin of our teeth in the last ten minutes of last season, mainly by default, it has to be said, I like many others thought next season, and the one after that would be primarily about consolidation, building a firm foundation to enable us to kick on even further in future campaigns.

That was the theory, sure, but looking at Planet Albion through the distorting lens of twelve months further down the line, and only one point from 18 possible, it now appears we?re still no further forward then we were a year ago. Today, at Ewood Park, our performance was epitomised by that well-known gruesome twosome, negativity and fear of failure, all wrapped up in a dinky little package marked ?Buy One Get One Free?. Yeah, get them from the shelves while they?re still smokin? hot, you lucky people. A bit like the classical squaddies? definition of warfare, really: 80 minutes of sheer boredom, closely followed by ten of sheer terror. Or, in this case, ten of sheer awfulness at the back.

And that, my friends, brings me to my main beef about today?s disaster: our seeming lack of enthusiasm for the fray. Here we are, a club boasting no fewer than six strikers, all of them useful ones, and one costing around three million ? well, theoretically, at any rate - and still we start with just one up front, and one playing the ?sort of? role? Blackburn are no great shakes themselves, as they so amply demonstrated for most of that first half, so rather than wave a white flag for most of the game ? and I?m not talking about the Japanese one that bore the legend ?PLAY INAMOTO both above and below the ?rising sun? bit, either. The chap sitting next to me had it on view the from the instant we first conceded, to the end of the game, and proudly produced it once more as we were walking through the exits afterwards: he'd previously been standing on his seat to give the wretched thing a damn good airing in full view of the dug-out. Why the hell didn?t we go at them when we had the chance? They were missing some key personnel also, but at least they were able to soar right above their deficiencies We?re back to what I said last season ? attack really is the best form of defence, and we just ain?t doing it. Ideas from the floor?

I really hate to say this, but there were certain features of Robson?s body-language today that put me very much in mind of that ?other? managerial Brian, the late and very much UN-lamented Mr. Little. Like a cardboard cut-out he was out there, arms folded, and about as immovable as the Taj Mahal. And displaying about as much passion for his job as those much-written about marble walls. Don?t get me wrong, I?m not necessarily screaming ?Robson Must Go? here; as we all know from real life, issues are rarely that black and white. It?s just that there currently appears to be some sort of a canker seated right at the heart of the club, and its malign influence is fast gaining hold. Unless something is done to put into motion the now, like changing things out there, and quick, it will ultimately prove quite impossible to eradicate completely.

Even before a ball was kicked in anger at Ewood Park, I?d heard disturbing news from one of the Satanic Nurses about trouble in the Brummie following last Saturday?s Charlton fiasco. Thoroughly nasty it was, too, by all accounts ? pro and anti-Robson factions, large groups of them, all slugging it out between themselves. And after today?s disgraceful performance, my snap-assessment of our supporters? collective mood wasn?t much better. As we streamed out after the final whistle, what I took to be an overwhelming sense of anger coupled with impotence, the sheer fury of it all, even, spilling over in the form of various bitterly-contested arguments between our own ? a feeling of collective antipathy towards Robson so strong, you could practically reach out and grab it for yourself. Were there punches thrown? I didn?t see any for myself, but so poisonous was the ambience out there, it surely must have been a close-run thing.

Mind you, well before Rovers fired themselves into the lead, we?d been told our fortunes in no uncertain terms. Take that second half, for starters: I can count on the fingers of my one hand the numbers of times we managed to get the ball over the halfway line, and the raising of one digit only to the heavens will suffice as true indicator of the number of goal attempts we had that second 45. Yes, you read that right. Only ONE goal attempt, and even that not on target. Chuck into that my growing sense of unease as the half advanced, and you can readily see why it was I wasn?t totally surprised when we conceded towards the end.

And those corners, my dear, those corners! So often were Rovers players to be found camped at the corner flag, and preparing to make us suffer horribly in the box, or trying to capitalise on free-kicks awarded much too close to goal for comfort, even, you felt like offering them all the use of a tent for the duration. No surprise to learn, either, that their first strike, with only ten to play, came about as a result of yet another corner, the Rovers player nutting it in the net being a chap called Kuqi. And as for their second?? Oh, dearie, dearie me! The prime Baggie culprit? Curtis Davis, whose awful back-pass fell well short of its intended target. All it needed was for the aforementioned Kuqi to swoop like a dive-bomber again, and that was it ? game well and truly over.

The highlight of my day, if it could be said there was one, was hearing about The Fart?s trip to see ?Saturday Night Fever? as we journeyed up towards Darkest Lancashire. ?Absolutely wonderful!? whooped the old sod, ?I?ve never seen so many white sticks, Zimmer frames and wheelchairs all twitching like crazy in my entire life!? Hearing about our ancient chum?s efforts to look the part, I?m now left wondering as to whether or not he was sporting the mandatory chunky medallion on a chain, coupled with one of those suits you zip up, but on the dance floor, zip down to the waist, almost, so as to get the distaff side swooning like nothing on earth! And was he chucking Dot, his pardner, around like crazy, a la John Travolta, and all to the music of the Bee Gees? Oh ? and another one of life?s unanswered questions. Did Robin Gibb reach those falsetto notes by getting the recording studio cat to ?play? with his wedding-tackle?

On parking, we headed on out for our usual watering-hole, where an illuminated sign bore the legend: ?Welcome To West Bromwich A?. Hang on a mo ? did that mean they were expecting our third team to turn up, then? (Yes I know, cue for joke, and one relying heavily upon native wit to carry it through, come to think about it!) The pub, which happily accepts away folkies these days, used to be a remnant of the days when cotton truly was king. The first time we graced its portals was back in 1991, not long after Talbot got the sack. Back then, it was a quiet and unpretentious boozer; now, any Tom, Dick or Harry can make out a good case for your forcible eviction. And there?s other fundamental changes from last time round; the glasses are now pretty ?robust?, shall we say. Since the refurbishment, the brewery have also got rid of most of the furniture inside. Following the current pub trend of making people drink standing up, I suppose, a line of attack based upon the popular premise that people who have to stand up tend to drink far more than those who sit down.

Luckily, a quick shufti around the place quickly revealed a little hidey-hole for ourselves. It was while we were sorting out the drinks we happened to see approximately 15 coaches belting hell for leather towards the ground. Leons of Stafford were once more the favoured sons, thank you, very much. Still no sign of that Sunderland money back, though!

As I?d suspected, just about every Baggie possessive of a good thirst had come to this particular watering hole: unsurprisingly, that included The Satanic Nurses, too. And the rumours were flying around. One version we heard was that Robbo was going to play 4-5-1 today. And, from one of our pill-rolling chums, a very strange tale indeed ? see below!

From the boozer, it?s only a short hop to the ground, and that?s where we headed next. Once we?d found our seats, the first thing that struck us was the TV screen, currently showing highlights of that monstrous dicking of Man U, only last week, of course. Couldn?t say I blamed them, mind ? had that been us, we?d have milked it for all it was worth. And, just before both sides emerged, a very strange sight indeed ? that of Supporters Club gaffer Alan Clevely, John Homer et. al, all in the upper tier, and because you could only see their faces and very little else, looking for the world like a Soviet Russia Politburo May Day gathering in Red Square, circa 1980. I also spotted elsewhere a huge pile of inflated balloons discreetly stashed around a corner; the sight instantly reminded me of the tale, possibly apocryphal, of an American chappie, who decided to go fly himself ? but using those self-same helium thingies as a somewhat backhanded way of achieving powered flight. Hundreds and hundreds it took; that, and a specially modified armchair as well, mind.

All our hero had to do was cut the rope keeping both him and the balloons on terra firma, and he was away. And that, my friend, is why an airline pilot, just glancing out of his cockpit window, happened to see Chummy, balloons, armchair and all, sailing by without a care in the world! Must have wondered which silly sod had spiked his pre-flight coffee with strong hallucinogens. Getting down once more proved to be quite easy in the end; yet another use for a handy air-pistol, apparently. The trick is to burst enough in one go to ensure a relatively slow descent. But not too many, for obvious reasons!

But I digress. When the team-sheet was read out, and it was discovered Kamara, Chaplow and Albrechtsen were in the side, and Gera supporting Campbell in that strange one-up front thing, there were murmurings right there and then. Especially when it finally sunk in Wallowrk would be turning out in the stripes once more. Strange also to have Greening and Gera on opposite flanks to normal. As ?Im Indoors said: ?Well, if it?s confusing us, God alone knows what it?s doing to Blackburn!?

As far as the rest goes, I?ve already summed up what a complete and utter disaster the 90 minutes was. Long before the end of the first period I was making mock snoring noises. The reason? We were pretty awful, Blackburn were pretty awful. But the fundamental difference between the two would emerge in the second 45: we couldn?t even begin to string two passes together successfully, but Blackburn most certainly could. Long before he came on, our lot were singing ?Feed The Horse and he will score!? and, when one of our finest managed to send the ball sailing high over their crossbar yet again, the cry from the back was: ?Three points to Wigan!?

The other noticeable aspect of today?s game was the silence; it was almost as if no-one dared upset the gods of footballing fortunes by making excessive noise. Then, come one really funereal moment, someone behind us could stand it no longer. ?It?s just like being at home!? was the earnestly-bawled cry, and yep: Dead right, too; this lot would have been hard put to disturb the equilibrium of a Trappist monastery?s book collection, never mind go round noisily supporting football sides. A shame those late, late strikes turned everything into a passable imitation of a wake, then, wasn?t it? There now remains the question of whether anyone emerged from today?s thrashing with any sort of credit. Certainly, Kamara came up with some delightfully-neat touches here and there, as did his chum, Robinson. The awful gaffe that led to the second apart, Little Dave also did what he had to do well. As for the others, bar Kirkland ? he kept us in it with a series of fine saves ? the kindest comment I can come up with right now is that they might have been marching to the sound of a different drummer.

I?ll try to pen some more cogent thoughts tomorrow. As things stand, I?m in genuine danger of upsetting some with thoughtless remarks, so I?ll sleep on it. Or will I? I can see the ball crossing the bloody goal-line every single time I close my eyes!

And Finally?. One. This comes from one of The Satanic Nurses, and concerns one of their sons. The poor lad had a problem in the undercracker department ? he only possessed one lot to his name, apparently. Realising that the poor little shaver needed further education in what the Army euphemistically calls ?personal administration?, our chum decided to take him into the town proper today ? after all, isn?t Blackburn supposed to be the underpants capital of Lancashire, or something? And the lad?s reasoning as to why he decided to stay put? Simple ? he reckoned it was going to be a ?pants? day anyway!

Two. Pitch MC, at half time: ?If you turn to the big screen, you?ll see something new and exciting!?

The Fart: ?Yeah, a ruddy goal!?

 - Glynis Wright

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