The Diary

16 October 2005: West Bromwich Albion - The Mouse That Roared!

I don?t know about you lot out there, but I?m currently sitting here still trying to make some sort of sense out of what I witnessed today. Albion 2 Arsenal 1, who would have thought it, eh? That makes the North London lot our biggest Premiership scalps in over two and a bit seasons of trying, and, I believe, the first time ever we?ve gone behind in the Prem, only to go on to grab all three lovely points come the final whistle. Oh ? and according to John Homer ? may a multitude of camel trains forever overnight in his bounteous front garden ? that was our first such victory over The Arse since 1973. Twenty two years of trying, in other words ? but wasn?t it well worth the wait?.

Something tells me Arsene Wenger may not have been the happiest bunny on the planet about what happened today: in fact, shortly before the end, I did see him exchange a few short, sharp words with our own gaffer concerning the lad Kamara?s ill-disguised attempts to employ delaying-tactics, by over-egging a supposed injury. I guess our lad knew he was caught bang to rights, because Robbo then tried to apologise to his opposite number for what happened ? but in best General De Gaulle tradition, I suspect Wenger?s response ?Non!? was prefixed and suffixed sotto voce by words which you won?t find all that often in a French dictionary ? well, not one used by most British schoolkids, anyway. Presumably, the word ?Merde!? (?S**t!?) must have come into it somewhere. What a lovely insult that is, positively drips from the tongue, it does. Try it on the person (or institution) you most hate when you next get the chance to do so: in fact, don?t bother waiting, go on, say it out loud, right now if you feel you have to! ?MERDE!? See? I told you you?d feel better!

Sure, thanks to an outbreak of injuries at a bit of an inconvenient time for them, The Arse were running a bit short-staffed today, but not to the same extent as, say, us, had the roles been suddenly reversed. Three regulars out, and it?s a crisis for us: three or four AWOL Gunners, and you simply chuck another lot of international-standard players at the problem, don?t you? No, although we started today?s game abysmally, once we?d gone in front, it was we, and not the visitors, who were asking most of the questions out there. As our confidence grew stronger by the minute, so did theirs diminish in proportionate fashion. In fact, with a modicum more luck in those dying minutes, we might well have increased our lead to three.

To be fair, though, I don?t think anyone present in the Hawthorns Hotel would have been so daft as to go and predict what did happen today; had they done so with any degree of conviction, I strongly suspect their comrades would have immediately put such bravado down to the potency of the brew they were drinking at the time they actually said it. (In actual fact, ?Im Indoors told me later on that he did overhear one of our lot predicting a 3-0 win. In the toilet of all places ? and yes, all his little chums laughed like a drain!

No, I reckon an atmosphere of overall despondency hung heavily over the place as we walked in, with around two hours to spare before kick-off. To be fair, though, most Baggies were engaged in following the live game on the box, featuring high-flying newcomers Wigan Athletic versus Newcastle United, at the JJB. I hadn?t been plonked on my perch but a moment when Jason Robert gained possession just over the halfway line, belted hell for leather towards the old onion-bag, shimmied past Newcastle?s last remaining defender as if he wasn?t there, rounded their keeper in fine style: with the net completely at the lad?s mercy, all he had to do was knock it in for the crucial deadlock-breaking strike ? but in sending the shot wide of the keeper?s reach, he only managed to hit the post with an almighty ?thwock!? instead. Oh dear ? that?s the Jase we all know and love, isn?t it? Mind you, he did make up for it much later in the game, when he more or less shovelled the ball over the goal-line by the judicious application of brute force where it was most needed. How sad to see the best of Jason, finally, but in a Wigan shirt, and not ours.

One other thing did impress me about the Lancashire upstarts, though, and that was their seeming determination to just enjoy the ride while it lasted, and sod what the rest of the division thought. And that wonderfully upbeat and positive mood of theirs wasn?t just confined to the pitch. When you sat and listened to their supporters giving it welly in the background, and big-time, although a distance of some 120 miles and the up-down path of the TV signal to that satellite parked high above the Earth?s atmosphere separated them from us, you couldn?t half tell the atmosphere in their ground was verging on electric, and most certainly not the static kind, either. The complete opposite of the fear-ridden stuff we?ve grown so accustomed to of late; sure, they?ll probably crash and burn come the end of term, but they aren?t half having some fun first. Paul Jewell certainly lives up to his curious surname right now: a perfect gem, and what?s more, a manager who has already kept one struggling team up ? Bradford ? and with sod-all in the way of resources to do it with as well. He?ll probably get found out in the end, mind, but for the moment, what a wonderful job he?s doing for Wigan.

If the pre-match atmosphere in the Hawthorns Hotel seemed a tad despondent, it only needed a word (or three) from the Lewis family to shift things right into perspective again. Yep ? they?d finally shown up, bless ?em ? they were supposed to be arriving long before we two showed up, but their lift didn?t materialise until comparatively late - and with young Bethany in tow yet again. Fine by me ? even at the tender age of nine, that young lass already has a much better track record than some of our players.

Despondent? The guy flogging the card certainly was, and did he have it bad. It was the cost of Premiership football that was doing the damage, and for so little by way of return as well. But let?s not go there, eh? Instead, Carly introduced me to the delights of ?Guru Joe? ?Doo wot?? I said, uncomprehending. Then, all was revealed. The gentleman in question is really the figment of someone?s (overactive?) imagination. Existing only in cyberspace, what you have to do is ask the brute any question you like, on any subject you care to name: e.g. ?Will Albion beat the drop again this season?? The replies, when they come, are of the ?yes?, ?no? and ?maybe? variety: Carly assures me the results can be absolutely hilarious, sometimes. Er ? yes, Carls, don?t ring us, we?ll ring you, OK? The best wolf-whistle of the entire day was reserved for Supporters Club chappie Alan Cleverly, who, minus trademark hat, but resplendent in a cornflower blue jacket, powder blue shirt, and matching tie, looked every bit the professional. ?Is he the coach driver, then?? whispered a young Baggie sitting adjacent to me at the time. Oh, whoops!

Two pints of Coke, and more J2O than ?Im Indoors could possibly shake a stick at later, we were joined in our potations by a certain Mr. Wills, scourge of Radio WM phone-in programmes the length and breadth of the West Midlands area. And just the right time to show up, too; in hubby?s sticky mitt was our present to the old boy for looking after our four moggies so well while we?d been away. And for clearing away yet more mouse corpses of varying sizes and descriptions, a noble deed done well, if ever there was one. One of those photo compilations, it was, in this case one seemingly culled from within the vast archives of both the Football League and the FA. Some were really obscure; of course, but then again, how often were the local educational board going to tap into the innermost thoughts of their pupils? (Don?t bother to answer that one, well, not right away).

And then it was out of the pub and round to the turnstiles, the beautiful sunlit afternoon making temperatures positively tropical out there. Great for the time of year, sure, but how normal was it? Probably the last chance this term to see Halfords Lane basking in the late summer?s dying rays; within a couple of weeks, we?d be well into winter dreariness, a seasonal condition exacerbated greatly by the turning back of the clock come the end of October, and the speedy advent of both Bonfire Night and Christmas.

But all that lay very much in the future as we girded up our loins preparatory to entering the ground proper, and just because I?d tried every possible alternative and found all of ?em wanting, I decided today to totally muck around with my pre-match routine. No ?usual? turnstile for me this time, and no colours, either. All of that sort of malarkey I?d left back at home, for once. No, for this one, I was most certainly in ?civvies? ? but would it change our luck?

One quick visit to the ?throne? later, I was ready for action. Out there on the pitch, conditions were just perfect for a bit of footie; in fact, we didn?t have to wait all that long before the sacred swarth saw the entry of both sets of combatants on the pitch ? and what a line-up we had in store. In goal, Kirkland, of course, then outfield, it was Robinson, Clem (making his 200th appearance for us today), Greening, The Horse, Albrechtsen, Kamara, Watson, Davies, Wallwork and last, but not least, Kanu, who was making an appearance against his old club, of course. On the bench, we had the usual suspects i.e. Big Dave, Carter, Ellington, Earnie, and The Pole In Goal.

As for The Arse, they weren?t exactly having the best of luck with injuries right then. Absent from the ranks of the regulars were Ashley Cole, Sol Campbell, Alexander Hleb, and Gilberto Silva. Poor darlings, but no real shortage of talented replacements to chuck at the problem. Even making allowances for their sorely-depleted state, no-one in their right minds would have given us an earthly of grabbing all three points at that stage, would they? Just shows how wrong you can be, sometimes ? but I?m getting a tad ahead of myself.

Off we went, then, with our finest kicking towards the Smethwick End ? and, it has to be said, we did get off to something of a bright start. With but a few minutes showing on the clock, we managed to win a corner, not once, but twice. After the first had hung tantalisingly over the heads of several eagerly-waiting Baggie bodies before being belted unceremoniously away by their defenders, and the second coming to naught, following on from that, it was then The Arse?s turn to set thousands of anal sphincter muscles a-twitching in the crowd. After coping with our initial surge, they started to slap the ball around in characteristically skilful style ? you had to hand it to them, it really was something to behold, all that sublime passing and movement out there ? and it took all the skills of Clem, who whipped the ball away from under the feet of the Arsenal player as he was about to pull the trigger, to prevent us conceding.

Mind you, their early forays into our territory certainly got their followers going. ?You?re supposed to be at home!? they roared, berating us for our relative silence, as we desperately strove to keep the scoreline bloodless. ?Cheeky gits!? said I, with memories of the so-called ?Highbury Library? still fresh in my mind, ?Talk about the pot calling the bloody kettle black!? And it wasn?t just me they were offending: also roused to considerable ire was John Homer, he of the seat in front of me. ?Yow cowin? dingbat!? he shouted, as yet another of their performers impinged upon the lad?s peace of mind with some rather robust play.

??Ee doe understand that word, John!? retorted a nearby Baggie as Kanu laid the ball off, after juggling delicately with it for a few seconds, only for the intended recipient to lose possession. ?GERRIMOFF!? screamed The Bloke In Front Of Me, in the first of what was to become a somewhat monotonous series of touchline remarks, all revolving around a similar theme ? aw, you?ll see what I mean as the game goes on!

Ten minutes gone, almost, and already, it was becoming painfully apparent who were the classier performers. Hurt this lot? Like trying to bring down a raging bull-elephant with the aid of nothing but pea-shooters. Already, the lad Davies had performed heroics in denying Bergkamp his moment of glory; the shot, instead of landing in the wrong side of the goal-line, sailed harmlessly over the bar instead. The writing sure as hell was on the wall, and, as things turned out, we didn?t have to wait too long to see the visitors finally draw blood. I note now I wrote down the phrase ?tactically incontinent? in reference to our dismal attempts to prevent the inevitable from happening, and I wasn?t the only one to pour scorn upon our relentless efforts to keep from falling adrift. C*@P! was the inevitable comment emanating from the seat in front, as yet another Albion pass went astray!

Come the 17th minute, though, what had been a long time coming ? erm ? finally came! Yep, the inevitable happened, and we conceded. No surprise to most Baggie people watching, the real essence of the miracle lay in the fact we?d managed to stave it off for so long. Once more, the damage was done via a set-piece, this time, a corner. Over the ball swung, and try as he might, Davies couldn?t prevent Senderos from belting the bladder home from a very short range indeed. Oh, whoops ? one down, and in the away end, they were going wild. Blimey, the most animation I?d seen from their lot in years!

Baggie heads drooped greatly at that point, of course, and once we?d kicked off again, most in the Halfords simply regarded what remained of the game as an exercise in seeing just how many the visitors could put away before the final whistle sounded. That assumption, however pessimistic, seemed to be confirmed not long afterwards when it took all the custodial genius Kirkland could muster to stop the Gunners doing the same thing twice on the bounce. Now we were really rocking, and The Arse were trying everything they knew to finally put us away.

But that wasn?t our swansong, not by a long chalk. Amidst what amounted to an almost continual bombardment of our goal, slowly, carefully, we began to pick up the pieces again. Footballers and confidence is an especially volatile mix; handle roughly, or carelessly, and you can instantly destroy both, completely and utterly. Just like flowering crocuses being the first harbingers of spring, so it was that as the half progressed towards its 45-minute cut-off point, we began to see the first vague intimations of a far more proactive Albion out there. Thanks to the likes of Jonathan Greening and Albrechtsen, deeper and deeper into their half we probed, pass and move, pass and move, and suddenly it was Arsenal who had to look lively to cut out the dangerous aerial stuff. Not that all the poison had been extracted, mind ? it could have gone very nasty for us when The Arse broke away suddenly, not once, but twice, and it needed all of Chris Kirkland?s considerable skills to prevent Wenger?s lot from doubling their lead.

Strangely enough, the second of those incidents proved to be the turning point of the game. A scant minute later, we saw Kanu with the ball, around 18 yards out, and, unbelievably, with no Arsenal marker within a country mile of the lad. Only one thing to do, then ? try and belt the bloody thing halfway to Smethwick, which is precisely what our hero did. One almighty corker of a shot later, we were on level terms once more, but, as I said ? where the hell was the Arsenal marking? I crap you not, you could have parked a 74 bus in the space left unguarded by their defenders, never mind Kanu; more a Nationwide-style blunder rather than one emanating from one of the most talented club sides this country?s seen in a long while, really.

?One shot, one goal!? was our other neighbour?s somewhat laconic comment on the afternoon?s proceedings, one that drew huge guffaws from this column, it has to be said. Meanwhile, back in the Halfords Lane stand, the Bloke In Front (hereafter abbreviated to TBIFOM) was rapidly heading towards meltdown. ?Bloody rubbish!? was the cry when Albrechtsen reverted to type by misplacing a pass right on the stroke of injury time. Something told me we were going to hear considerably more from our gloom-ridden chum before the game was through.

Half-time, then, and a chance to ask John Homer the burning question ? when was the last time we?d beaten The Arse on our own muck-heap? Certainly, I couldn?t recall us doing it in the League, although I did have dim memories of us beating them in a replayed cup-tie around February 1969, in around ten or so degrees of frost. Quick as a flash, John gave us the dope we wanted ? 1973 was the last time we?d bested them on our own territory, so now you know!

The interval also saw the club make a presentation to Vic Stirrup, eighty-odd year old veteran of many a League and Cup campaign. Still a regular, both home and away, despite those advancing years, he?s not too difficult to spot on our travels. Just keep a weather eye out for the small bloke with a walking-stick who looks a bit like the Laughing Buddha, and you can?t go wrong. 1921 was the year he first started supporting us, and such has been his attendance record, since the war, he?s only managed to miss a total of five fixtures, home and away. A truly remarkable achievement, and one quite rightly commemorated by the award of the Premiership Supporter Of The Year trophy to him on the pitch, yer man Adrian Chiles being the celeb roped in to do the honours.

But back to the business in hand. Off we went once more, and being on a booking for a particularly vicious piece of handiwork, it was Reyes that had to tread carefully over the course of the second 45. We lived in ?interesting times?. We?d already seen that the one surefire way to really rattle the cage of Wenger?s lot was to keep passing the thing, ball to feet, pass and move, pass and move ? and it was absolutely imperative we continued doing so. The trouble was, The Arse had other ideas, and started rattling our cage instead. For a while, the action swung wildly, first in the favour of our lot, then within a matter of seconds, theirs. But one trend in particular was beginning to become apparent; heap some pressure on them, and The Arse were just a fragile bunch of softies, really. Time for TBIFOM to contribute his twopennorth: ?Doe just stond ?an watch, GERRATTEM, fer God?s sake!? he screeched, blood clearly heading towards boiling-point, in clear imitation of the events that befell the famous nuclear reactor on Three Mile Island, USA, circa 1979. How soon before meltdown, I quietly wondered!

15 minutes on the clock, now, and a corner from the visitors. Suddenly, time seemed to stand still, then only move in treacle-like fashion; slo-mo bodies of both persuasions all desperately trying to be first to the wretched thing, and all converging in a manner that suggested imminent trips to the local hospital for someone; how the hell it happened I don?t know, but the ball simply eluded everyone, finally going ?tickle, tickle? just past our right-hand post.

The game continued to ebb and flow in this fashion, to the point where something had to give, sooner or later. Reyes then decided to help things along a little by indulging in a shameful piece of play-acting in the box; just as well the ref was having none of it, really ? but why no booking? Then it was the turn of gallows humour to come to the fore, with our faithful cheering lustily as we managed to string a succession of passes together; the game had certainly sprung into life once more. Kirkland was magnificent, saving our bacon yet again, as we conceded yet another free-kick just outside our box. I reckon it was the way in which he treated the latest of these with such contempt that paved the way for what was to come.

Two thirds of the half gone, now, and time for Plan B. Off went Wallwork, to the inevitable cries of ?Gerrimoff!? from You Know Who, much to the delight of my immediate neighbour on the right. ?You know what?? he said, quietly, as the change was being effected, ?Had we taken off all those who?ve upset him so far, we?d only be left with about six players on the flaming pitch!?

A heart-stopping moment as the North London club charged down the pitch, in clear imitation of The Battle Of The Little Big Horn. Down the left flank, they went, leaving us horribly exposed. Pass correctly, and we were as well stuffed as a Christmas turkey, but curiously enough, they didn?t. Instead, the ball whistled harmlessly over the crossbar for a corner, thanks to Kirkland.

And then, it happened. Most certainly not in the original script, but then again, our lot were never noted for sticking to formalities. Once more, we were pushing them back, and hovering around their box. Suddenly, the ball fell to Carter ? and you know how, in the very midst of a raging storm, a patch of clear blue sky can suddenly arise from nowhere? Well, in this instance, precisely the same thing happened, but with a distinct lack of defending Arsenal bodies standing in lieu of a decent patch of azure sky. From where I was sitting, a clear line to the back of the net had suddenly opened before my very eyes, and Carter was heading in that precise direction, at a rate of knots, it seemed. ?HIT THE FERKIN? THING!? (severely bowdlerised version!) I bawled, all traces of feminine modesty completely gone by that stage. And that?s precisely what Carter did. Whomp! Accept no imitations. Home it went, like a dog to its dinner ? and the entire place literally erupted.

Over the course of recent games at The Hawthorns, we?d all seen the place degenerate into disparate outbreaks of internecine warfare between the pro and anti-Robson factions, but no mistaking this time, everyone there was suddenly joined in holy matrimony, courtesy of the unlikely umbilical cord provided by Carter?s late strike. Suddenly, all four sides of the ground were signing ?The Lord?s My Shepherd?, but with a conviction and unity of purpose I hadn?t seen for many a home game. And what of the planner of Wenger?s destruction, meanwhile? Just sticking Duke Ellington on for those final nerve-wracked minutes, that?s all.

?What a team!? screamed ?Im Indoors, his passion newly aroused once more. ?Blimey, that?s a bit rich, coming from you,? I commented, ?Just two days ago, you were moaning like hell about this bloody lot!? But you certainly couldn?t have remained cross for long, as the din reached new eardrum-perforating heights. Blimey, this game was rapidly assuming all the trappings of a cup-tie. Not surprisingly, those final minutes saw things boil over to some degree; both Clem and Lundeberg had words ? sensibly, the ref told them both to simply ?cool it?. ?Easy, Easy?? roared The Smethwick. God, I really do wish they wouldn?t do that. And trust John Homer to have the last word about Reyes. 400 appearances, and a foul in every one!? was his sarcastic comment on the former?s murderous inclinations as he conceded yet another foul. And TBIFOM? He?d gone, couldn?t stand the strain any more, I reckon. A rapidly melting combination of hot body fat and charred bones, somewhere in Halfords Lane, for sure!

But get this, folkies. Just a couple of minutes remaining, and hordes of Baggies suddenly streaming for the exits. Why? Here we had a game poised delicately, Arsenal still capable of nicking the draw, and yet some still elected to leave the ground early! You really can?t weigh up people, sometimes. Truly it was Alamo time out there in those dying minutes, Davey Crockett, Ben Travis, Santa Anna, the whole shooting match, and all seemingly heading in the direction of our goal.

An Arsenal attempt seemingly kicked off the line, right at the very death. A short pause for an injured Baggie ? would Wenger?s lot sportingly relinquish possession to us, or would they scrap for the ball? Much to my surprise, they elected to do the decent thing. Whistles, emanating from both Brummie and Smethwick, reminding the ref of his bounden duty, and increasing in both pitch and volume, to the point where it was fast becoming somewhat painful on the old eardrums. And then it was all over ? we?d actually done it, and no fluke, either. A thoroughly-deserved win, our biggest scalp in the Prem to date, and sure as hell one game I won?t forget in a hurry. But the real value of this win has to be a psychological one. We?ve taken on the very best this division has to offer today ? and we?ve whopped ?em. Our players should be standing six feet tall tonight, and that can only auger well for what lies ahead of us in the near future. Play like that again, and no-one?s safe. Make no mistake, it sure as hell feels good to be a Baggie tonight. Let the party begin!

And Finally?. So Bluenose-In-Chief David Gold reckons someone?s put a hex on his club, does he? Well, that?s what the Mirror was saying in their back pages earlier today. There you go - I always knew joining that witches coven would turn out for the best in the end!

 - Glynis Wright

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