The Diary

23 October 2005: Hereford United And A Bad Case Of Derbyshire Neck.

Derbyshire Neck? The name in the title of this piece might immediately suggest someone hailing from that area being blessed with an overabundance of good old-fashioned cheek and/or ?lip? ? what the Jews term ?Chutzpah? - but it?s not. Instead, it?s something ? or used to be something ? quite prevalent in the hills and dales of Ye Olde Derbyshire, up to around a hundred years ago, when medical science was in its relative infancy, and doctors had very little in their pharmaceutical armoury that actually worked. Certainly, at Edgar Street this afternoon, with lowly Alfreton their FA Cup Fourth Qualifying Round opponents, the home side must surely have come very close indeed to calling their visitors ?a pain in the neck? if only for refusing to obey the script when ordered to do so, which is why I used the above medical term in tonight?s title.

No, it?s not that, but it certainly is a name formerly used to describe the symptoms of chronic thyroid deficiency; which is what you get when the old thyroid gland gets short on the stuff that helps make it tick ? iodine. Get in that unfortunate position, in this case by living in a part of the country where the element?s in very short supply in foodstuffs and elsewhere ? seafood contains the most iodine - and your poor old neck swells up something awful in the voice-box region, thereby making the victim assume all the signs of having swallowed something extremely bulky, and, in the process, getting it immovably stuck in the gullet halfway down. There are other curiosities associated with the complaint, but the principal reason why you don?t see people from the Peak District afflicted in this way these days is primarily because we now know the cause, and can do something to prevent it happening in the first place. And that, dear reader, is why you?ll find most table salt iodised these days. To stop the populace of Derbyshire getting it in the neck, as it were. Honest ? and if you still don?t believe me, just look closely at the small-print on the next container of Saxa or Cerebos you purchase.

Pathological process or not, The Bulls certainly had their work cut out today, trying to get to grips with an opposition that in a flash shoved nine blokes behind the ball the moment the ref first blew his whistle. They?d come for the replay ? end of story. Quite a fair Albion representation today, though, what with Tam Mkandawire, who played today, also Danny Carey-Bertram, now back from injury. Add to that the presence of Tucka Trewick on the bench, and we had quite an Albion Old Boys meeting going on out there.

Mind you, just to show how far the Conference has progressed of late, The Bulls even had their very own Cameroonian lad plonked in the home dugout. Yep, a foreign signing, no less. His surname is Ipoua, and being a national of a former French colony, he speaks fluent Gallic, but not much else, a linguistic impediment which probably goes down like a lorry-load of lead shot in their dressing-room. My assessment of his abilities? Having seen him play in one and a bit Hereford games thus far, I reckon it?s fair to say that he occasionally comes good with flashes of sheer brilliance, but nine times out of a hundred, all you?ll get from him is the mobility of a carthorse and the footballing brain of a three-toed sloth. And today was no exception. According to my little Herefordian mates, he?s also making quite a splash in the local nightclubs ? well, one in particular! ? in, erm, more ways than one. And, at that point, I think it prudent to draw the line.

Alfreton couldn?t have been an unknown quantity to Hereford chairman, owner, general manager, and doer of just about every other job you can think of at the cash-strapped little club, Graham Turner, either. How come? His son, Mark Turner, turns out for the Derbyshire lot on a regular basis. Oh, and one other bit of news we gleaned from our chums before kick-off was their Mickey Mouse Cup fate. The draw for the next round was today, so out of the hat came ? erm ? Port Vale! A home jobbie, too ? and if I were Vale, I?d be having grave misgivings about this one already. The Bulls have shown on many occasions their aptitude for bundling football?s great and good out of a knock-out competition, embarrassingly so, at times ? just ask Malcolm MacDonald ? and, as we saw earlier in the week, that wonderfully-anarchic tradition still lingers on in the present lot.

The game, though, turned out to be something of a damp squib. One reason, the visitors? defensively-oriented tactics, I?ve already mentioned. And, yes, I can understand Alfreton?s attitude to a large extent. Victory at this stage of the competition means a shot at the (relatively-speaking) big boys in the next round, but more importantly for them, perhaps, there?s also the small matter of the ?10,000 prize-money up for grabs. That sort of moolah buys you an awful lot at their level (Conference North, I think), and to go out there thinking the task was an impossible one might class as blatant dereliction of duty with some of their people.

Under normal circumstances, I reckon The Bulls would have steamrollered their opponents into submission anyway, but today, for whatever reason, they seemed plagued by chronic communication problems, and their play ended up a bit ragged and disjointed as a result. That meant the rearguard wasn?t meshing with the middle, and the middle wasn?t meshing properly with the ?goals department? up front. It didn?t help either that in their keeper, Alfreton had their ?secret weapon?. Good positioning, command of his area, a tremendous cutter-out-of-crosses, not afraid to dive at rapidly-onrushing Herefordian feet as the occasion demanded, with a soupcon of genuinely nifty little stops chucked in for good measure as well. In fact, I only saw him make two real mistakes the whole ninety minutes, the first being a breakdown in communication between one of his defenders and himself that led to the visitors conceding an unnecessary corner. The second was an uncharacteristically-hasty ?flap? at a cross towards the end of the second sitting. Far too good for that level of football, I reckon ? so what held him back, I wonder?

Theoretically, all those diverse ingredients should have made for an absolutely cracking game, but what really spoiled things was the lino nearest to us. His interpretation of the offside rule didn?t half leave a lot to desire, and was certainly at variance with mine on several occasions. Both clubs suffered as a result ? oh, and his ideas about what constituted a corner kick and a throw-in also bordered on the eccentric. As for the ref, well, let?s be kind about this, and merely comment that his views on what could safely be let go, and what demanded the game be stopped and a free-kick awarded, were ? erm ? radical. How else can you interpret the stoppage of play for a free-kick to the home side when a Hereford player was clean through on goal? Or, for that matter, simply waving ?play on? when yet another was ruthlessly scythed out of it? No wonder some of the Hereford lot lost it after the second of these blunders; in fact, as a result of his animated protestations, one ended up seeing yellow for his pains.

Mind you, around five minutes from the end, trust the Bulls? ?foreign import? to louse things up big-time. There he was, about five yards from the goal-line, no defenders within spitting-distance, the keeper out of position for once: all he had to do was tap the bloody thing in and the whole of Hereford would have loved him, eccentric leisure-time habits and all ? so what happened? Let me put it this way: does the name ?Kanu? ring any bells with you? ?Nuff said?

So, a goalless draw it was, then, and a midweek trip to Darkest Derbyshire beckoned for them once more. They should have stayed in nearby Mansfield last week, really! But, getting back to our car was the best bit; switch on the radio for the full-time scores, and what did we get? Aston Villa 0, Wigan 2. Oh whoops, our blubbery friends had become yet another scalp on the upwardly-mobile Lancashire club?s capacious belt. Almost compensates for us crashing and burning when we played them. Almost, I said ? but not quite. Wolves dropping yet another two points I also found highly amusing. Mind you, I am easily amused these days. Must be old age creeping in, or something.

Quite a shocker on the journey home to hear George Burley had left Hearts, and after only 113 days in the hot-seat as well. It?s not the normal thing for a gaffer to ditch a club currently six points clear at the top of the Scottish Prem, is it? Nattering to ?Im Indoors about it, we could only assume that he?d had some sort of bust up with the chairman ? ?Either that, or he?s been knocking off his daughter!? said I, facetiously ? and now I?ve read what was said at the press conference, I do understand a little better. Burley indeed cited ?irreconcilable differences? with their head honcho, a Lithuanian former Red Navy submariner, who went into banking at the end of his naval career. I?m not too sure what particular aspects of Russian Naval submarine routine and regulations cover the running of football clubs, though ? unless it?s the shouting of ?Dive, Dive, Dive!? when your striker?s in the box! Or should that be ?Diveski, Diveski?.? etc.? Just don?t mention the ?Kursk? disaster in his hearing, that?s all. He?s also the biggest shareholder at the club, and launched a bid for complete control last Friday, which probably didn?t help cement relations with Burley one little bit.

Burley does have a track record for doing this sort of thing, unfortunately. Just ask Derby County, where he also threw a bit of a strop because of what he deemed ?unwarranted boardroom interference?, then left in a huff. According to ?Im Indoors, at one time, he actually agreed to take the Stoke City job, then failed to turn up for the press conference convened by the club in his honour. Why? Because he?d had second thoughts, that?s why. Still, despite the fact he seems very much his own man, I?m pretty certain he won?t be out of work for too long. Having a manager-boardroom set-up that seems in practice more like what happens when opposite poles of two bar magnet are brought together can work, sometimes. Just like the marriage of opposites, really. The big thing is not to provoke either party into unduly-hasty action, either by word or deed, which is certainly easier said than done, ?tis true, but not completely impossible.

Tomorrow, of course, it?s off to sunny Bolton for our favourite football club. Er ? did I say ?sunny? just now? At Bolton? Must have OD?d on the old sarcasm pills before coming out today. The Fart, bug-ridden thing that he still is, will be carrying the torch for us at the Reebok; having spoken to him at length earlier tonight, I did get the impression that the cough had abated somewhat ? but, as he said to me, a good performance, and all the good work done by both a massive dose of paracetamol, and a good slug of hot toddy as the occasion warranted, will be to little avail. He?ll be letting the coach take the strain, along with all those others who will be giving up their day of rest to travel there. I guess we?ll be listening in, of course, care of local radio.

I can only assume that Bolton will be playing their usual ?rough-house? sort of game tomorrow. They?ve never been ones to take prisoners when we?ve played them before, so why spoil the habits of a lifetime? Which brings us to the obvious question ? will the gaffer change things round from last Saturday, and our marvellous, if somewhat fortuitous, win over the Arse? Of one thing you can be sure ? we?ll still be running with Chris Kirkland between the posts. Clem and Curtis Davies at the back, anyone, with Alby and ?the other Robbo? on opposite flanks? No Zoltan, still, so our engine-room will continue running with a gasket blown, and, talking of which, will Ronnie Wallwork get the nod once more? Certainly, I thought the booing on Saturday totally out of order, primarily because he didn?t have all that bad a game versus The Arse. Come on, I have seen him perform a lot worse before now, and Saturday simply wasn?t one of those occasions.

Will Darren Carter get another look in after that smashing winning goal of his last week, or will he simply warm his fundament on the subs? bench yet again? And will we be seeing Jonathan Greening, Messianic impersonation and all, flying up the flanks like a lump of you-know-what with afterburners fitted as standard? Elementary, my dear Watson. And who will grab that remaining berth? Kamara? Chaplow? Or someone else? Ooh, decisions, decisions. Strikers? Well, we do have a wealth of riches in that department, right now, although Robbo might well have come to the conclusion already it?s going to be a ?horses for courses? type job out there. That means leaving out the more subtle types, like Kanu, Earnie and Ellington, and giving Horsfield a start instead. And, God help us all, Kevin Campbell, bless his battered little pension-book and concessionary bus pass. Go for broke, and do what we did last week, have both the wile born of many years in the game, and a soupcon of speed up at the sharp end, with Kanu applying his undoubted skills just behind, and giving Bolton a torrid time of it as a result? Naw, too risky. Allegedly.

The big thing about the Trotters is the plain fact they?ve always managed to banjax us in some highly-infuriating ways over the course of the last few seasons. Totally our fault, most of the time; it?s what you get when you?ve gone into the lead and are trying like hell to protect same, and it?s neither manager that?s totally to blame, either. Both Megson and Robbo should hold their hands up to that one; instead of going all-out to at least partially secure that lead by getting another, we?ve hung back, backed off, not once but on several occasions ? and paid the price as a result. Just for once, I would like to see us put one over Sam Allardyce and his merry men, but looking at tomorrow?s game from a somewhat more pragmatic viewpoint, I doubt whether we?ll see a sharing of the points, let alone a clean sweep of them. But I would be highly delighted to see me proven wrong, of course, so please don?t stint on the old shooting tomorrow, chaps!

And Finally?. One. I discovered an amazing fact about Hereford?s James Purdie today. He won?t travel by coach, end of story. An ?economy? version of Denis Bergkamp, who famously won?t let the plane take the strain, if you like. That means that every time The Bulls play away, whatever the ground, whatever the distance involved, the lad simply leaps into his trusty jalopy and follows the team coach the length and breadth of the country. Which can be for quite a distance; all you need is just a quick look at the Conference table and a bit of geographical knowledge dredged up from your schooldays to see just how inconvenient that sort of thing can be. And the devil of a game to keep up with the coach-driver, who might just have an agenda of his own as well. Mind you, as I said at half-time today, given the lad?s such an important cog in their wheel, shouldn?t someone from the club be driving HIM all those miles there and back every fortnight?

Two. Yet another awful joke hoiked straight off the ready-rack, and thanks (I think!) to Baggie Stuart Russell for sending this particular one my way. Oh, and President Bush-lovers ? please look away NOW! Sp General: "Mr President, I've got some bad news, I'm afraid - we've just killed a Brazilian.?

George W. ?A Brazilian? God, I never thought it'd get this bad. A Brazilian, you say??

General: ?That's right, sir. But tell me, Mr President, why are you getting so upset about killing one Brazilian??

George W. ?Because I just never thought it'd get this bad. A thousand I can take. Even ten thousand, a hundred thousand, a million, maybe, even a trillion. But a Brazilian ? well, that's just too darned many!?

 - Glynis Wright

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