The Diary

31 October 2005: I'll Name That Toon In Three - Goals, That Is!

I?ve been a tad tardy penning tonight?s piece, folks, and not because our defeat meant I couldn?t be arsed either: no, what kept me from my duties was a brilliant hour of pop history on Beeb Two, the Seventies being the era in question tonight. And, just a scant half hour after that was over, Match Of The Day Two, complete with tame Baggie presenter, Adrian Chiles, may vultures never fornicate in his front passage. The first time I was aware this series was being shown, in actual fact. Yes, I know, I really should get out more, but that?s what devoting a fair bit of your past life to a certain football club does to you; consider it a marriage of sorts, and one involving a very demanding partner indeed.

But back to today, and related issues. To be perfectly honest, by the time the ref blew up for the cessation of hostilities, I felt that three-nil final score flattered them somewhat. They weren?t really that good, and we weren?t really that bad, the prime difference between both parties being the fact that they took their chances, and we didn?t. That, and our lot taking their finger off the pulse for just that vital fraction of a minute after the restart, really did the damage. A fatal mistake, especially when someone like Michael Owen?s busting a gut to get on the scoresheet. And, much later, Shearer. But by the time he struck, our cause was well past redemption, of course.

Our story begins in what is now the Supporters Club HQ, The Hawthorns Hotel. Not long before, we?d gone to park in our usual place, but had found a distinct dearth of four-wheeled companions lining the route. No cars? Did they know something we didn?t? Paranoia, sure, but when you?ve heard tales of Smethwick Library staff being ticketed while dropping off new book stocks in said building, that?s the way you start to be. Result? We parked on the main side-street instead, and played safe.

A curious sight on the way to the ground, though. We found we were following in the wake of a couple of individuals wearing black coats with the word ?ASSESSOR? marked on the back in white. Between them strode a chappie who looked for the world like an Albion functionary. If they were the real deal, referees? assessors, then why two? That was my other half?s thoughts on the subject. ?Ah,? said I, ?but what if one?s watching the ref and the other the two linos?? A pretty reasonable idea to me, as such a split would enable all three whistlers to get their just rewards. However, my question was partially answered when they strode purposefully towards the executive suite entrance, the one near the Smethwick End Police post. Whatever species of assessor they were ? council, tax or property ? we were never to know, sadly.

Into the pub, then, and on entry into its gloomy interior, the first person we clapped eyes on was none other than the senior Lewis daughter, Carly, with younger sister Bethany circling her like a small moon orbits a parent planet. And very fetching that young lady looked, too, what with the Albion shirt, and a belt that bore distinct resemblance to a similar item of clothing worn by the Vikings around 1500 years ago. Sorry, Carls, but you?re about two seasons late on that one; we did all our dressing up at Reading!

Finally sitting down where The Noise was stationed, he didn?t leave it long before embarking on yet another tongue-blistering dialogue. Apparently, he and Carly went to Newcastle Town yesterday and discovered their 18 year-old keeper to be an absolute revelation. Two brilliant saves from open play, and two penalty saves for good measure, both in the space of three minutes. And all that in the first half; no wonder our garrulous chum was enquiring of the local support about the lad come the interval. ?Blimey,? said The Noise, ?Your keeper isn?t half good??

?Ah,? said his new-found chum, ?but the trouble is, he always drops an almighty clanger every game he plays!? And that?s precisely what happened come the second half; his nemesis that particular day proved to be a simple stop he should have executed in his sleep, by rights, but didn?t!

Back to the present once more, and our fellow table-occupiers, consisting of Tim Joyner, and Andy, Sutton Baggies stalwart, and former vendor of newspapers to the Birmingham citizenry. It was from Andy we learned of a latest ?Where Are They Now? type development, concerning Shaun Cunnington and goalkeeping?s answer to The Rocky Horror Picture Show, Paul Crichton. Shaun is now doing nicely as manager of Willenhall Town, and as for the elegant, lovely and talented Mister Crichton, he is now reserve keeper and goalkeeping coach at Gillingham, God help us all. Blimey, the Priestfield Stadium lot couldn?t have seen some of his more eccentric moments, down with the Conference; the almighty clanger he dropped when York played Hereford at Bootham Crescent is still remembered with a certain degree of fondness by the Bulls? aficionados. And, just in case you didn?t see what I wrote about it at the time ? yes, it really was that bad! Crichton teaching others their job between the sticks? A but like getting King Herod to do a bit of babysitting, if you ask me!

By now the joint was beginning to buzz ? well, it would, had the bar not run out of most forms of draught beer by that time ? but with the decrease in tippling options, also came The Fart. The cough was showing signs of improvement, thank goodness; deluded fool that I am, I?ve agreed to go to West Ham with him next Saturday, with hubby sitting this one out, but as I said the other day, it?s an awfully hard habit to eradicate in just the space of a few games. One other thing, though ? our former away-game motorised four-piece combo has decided to get together for football?s equivalent of a farewell gig, versus Man United, in the League Cup.

As for Tim, who has family responsibilities, he reckons his flesh and blood aren?t sufficiently grown to take in the ambience provided by the back of the Brummie (where Tim plonks his bot these days). I have another theory, though: it?s because Tim doesn?t want the Social Services to find out what he?s indoctrinating his kids into. Never mind involving kids in satanic rituals, and all that witchy nonsense, making your sprogs support Albion is a far more pernicious evil, and should be stamped out forthwith!

It took me some time to natter to The Fart ? the fact he was sitting on the opposite side of the table didn?t exactly help, and I didn?t want to get him straining his voice by shouting over the din ? but eventually, I took the mountain to Mohammed, so to speak. And he had a lovely heart-warming tale to tell. Earlier this week, he went to see ?West Side Story? in the Old Rep. Much to his surprise, though, the cast wasn?t an adult one, but comprising kids only. And not very talented ones, it seemed; the actual standard on display was not quite what you would expect from a theatre as ancient as that one. But then came the interval, and during that time, our very own World War One veteran somehow got chatting to one of the officials in charge of said kids ? and the story was quite remarkable; every single one of those kids had been plucked off the streets, sometimes literally.

No real acting background or musical talent, just given some rehearsals, then sent out onto the road with the rest ? but, instead of bombing, it genuinely worked. For some, this was their first-ever experience of being told they were actually doing something well ? remember, a lot of these kids came from an environment where being told you were stupid was the norm ? and it didn?t half make a difference to their lives, according to Tel?s informant. I used to see the same principle work in the nick, during education classes: kids who would never have dreamed of writing creatively under normal circumstances being persuaded to open up by the teachers there ? and some of the stuff that came out of these sessions was quite superb. As I?ve said before, there?s more than one way of skinning a cat.

By now, the hour was approaching kick-off time, so we quickly schlepped over to the bottom Halfords Lane turnstiles where, for the first time in ages, there was a queue waiting for us, a considerable one at that. Still, it was moving quickly, so no real problems, the only fly in the ointment being a momentary lapse of communication with the orange-coated gentleman on the other side. I thought he was telling me to use another turnstile, when he?d addressed his remarks to someone else. Confused? You will be!

After fighting my way through what amounted to a rugby scrum around where the betting shop did business, it was time to ?do the business?! And, from there, to my little seat, just a few short steps away from the stairs. As for the line-up, a couple of surprises hit me; first off, was the inclusion of Kanu in the side, along with Earnie ? I genuinely hadn?t expected that one ? and Small Dave, with Scimeca also. The Pole In Goal filled in for Kirkland, and as expected, Inamoto made his full home debut. This left The Horse sitting this one out on the bench, along with The Duke, Houlty, Chaplow, and Gaardsoe.

As for the ?other lot?, they had Owen back from injury, with Shearer on the bench, still sporting a pretty fat lip from the other night: well, with him, it just had to be his lip that was implicated, didn?t it? Also in the side was Babayaro, who?d managed to displace Stephen Carr ? no, not the one living in Hill Top and former co-editor of our now-defunct organ, but the lad who sued to turn out for Tottenham. Mind you, when both lots of players emerged from the tunnel, it transpired the visitors did have a Shearer in their line-up after all ? well, that?s what the name on the back of the shirt said! - albeit one about half the size of the original, and bearing a strong resemblance to a young kid. And no fat lip, either. Clearly, either that gentleman had been overexposed to the balmy sea air at Blundell Park in midweek, and shrunk accordingly, or he?d proven allergic to fishy environments, and his body was now showing the strain!

Listening to Malcolm Boyden?s reading of the names, in a manner not dissimilar to that of a revivalist preacher in some hick country church or other, once more, I began to speculate what he was on to get into that disgustingly-elevated mood in the first place. The cannabis theory, I?d long since discarded - amyl nitrate, perhaps? Or common or garden Evostik, maybe? Whatever it was, he had no right being so buoyant at that time of day: why, a little more noise and even those travel rugs permanently anchored in the Halfords Lane stand might indulge in a little more movement than was normal for the time of year.

So, off we went, then, and within two minutes of the start, our rearguard found itself in all kinds of trouble out there, Little Dave almost letting the visitors in as a result, it taking the bulk of Big Dave to finally sort things out to our satisfaction. But, that scare over, the game then began to settle into the usual tentative opening forays into each other?s territory. And, surprise, surprise, we appeared to have drawn a ref who was giving us our fair share of free-kicks for once. Was this a trap, I wondered.

That, plus another scare with around 12 minutes gone, constituted our more fraught moments, but after that, we really began to play some classy stuff, looking the part, for once. Tackles done with perfect timing, lovely passing and movement-type interplay, and actually being first to midfield balls, for once; during one particularly-sublime moment, Hawthorns debutant Inamoto sent a superb diagonal pass on its way, from one side of the field to the other. Applauded, that was, and rightly so. As was a nicely-judged interception from The Pole In Goal, on 12 minutes, on the boundary of his balliwick, and being breathed on by a particular pest of a visiting player as he did it.

From that, play then switched towards the other end, from which we won a corner. One thing about Kanu, though; I really wish he wouldn?t make such a meal of going down in the vicinity of the box; amateur dramatics of the worst sort were the last thing we needed, really. And, to be honest, as the half progressed, we gradually appeared to be winning the tactical battle, forcing them into playing balls at the back they might not have wished to play, given the choice. Oh ? and another thing. Ameobi. It?s bad enough having a name that sounds as though its owner is in dire need of treatment for an exotic tropical disease ? ?Oooh, our Mabel, our Bert?s got really bad Ameobi in his bowels, and the doctor says he?ll have to go to hospital if his attack of the runs doesn?t get any better?? ? without trying to upend half our players by illegal means as well. Seven fouls of varying seriousness awarded against the guy before the ref finally took out his yellow card, and that only in the second half, and long after it ceased to matter.

As for our lot, it was still very much a case of plugging away and hoping the Good Lord would provide ? you really would have hoped so, with so many born-again Christians in that side, wouldn?t you? And soaking up the pressure on those few occasions we lost the ball, and handed the initiative over to them once more. Around the same time, it really struck me what a good atmosphere there was in that ground; both sets of supporters were giving it big licks by then, and neither was found wanting, either.

Our basic problem was this; we were getting the corners and set-pieces OK, but we still lacked the ability to deliver a really damaging blow to our novocastrian chums; the passing and movement was fine, but when it came to the telling blow ? oh, dear. And then came the moment I?d thought The Pole in Goal was going to get his marching orders. Owen had been put through on our goal; with but our keeper to beat, we looked dead, dead, dead. But not Kusczczak; when Owen let fly, he somehow managed to stop the thing right on his chest, the lad having ?run out of road? in his desperate attempt to stop the strike going in. The visiting supporters, predictably enough, screamed blue murder for handball, but the ref was having none of it. A bloody good decision, that; replays later showed the lad to have chested the ball out of danger. Had we been at their place, and not ours, I fear the decision would have gone against us in a most unpleasant manner.

Close to the end of the half, we were handed on a plate yet another copper-bottomed chance to take the lead; this followed yet another Albion corner, and one I thought slightly dubious, if you really want to know the truth. But try as we might, we still couldn?t stick the ball into the back of the net. From that, the play then swung in favour of the visitors, it taking a superbly-executed punch out from our Resident Pole In Goal to nullify the danger. Then, in injury time, appropriately enough, we saw one of theirs end up experiencing the wrong end of an advertising hoarding; as one unsung genius was to comment from his seat adjacent to ours, ?I wouldn?t do that, if I were you ? the last time it happened to us, we ended up with a player sent off!?

And with that, came the end of the half, with The Pole In Goal getting applause aplenty for his first-half heroics. Deservedly so, no doubt about it. Some ten or so minutes later, we resumed operations once more, but if that first half had been a measure of how well we could play, given half a chance to do it, then the second was a prime example of how a momentary lapse in concentration could end up costing us so dear in the end.

It was the astonishing speed with which it happened that took us by surprise. One minute we had an engine-room and defence more than holding their own, the next we?d gone a goal behind. As I said, a prime example of us taking our eyes off the ball, if only for one second, thus enabling Owen to lurk with menace. Having already seen the goals on Match Of The Day Two tonight, I genuinely believe adverse comment belongs to Big Dave for that one. The marking was absolutely shocking when their player put the ball over for Owen to latch onto; not a single Albion shirt to be seen for miles ? well, that?s how it looked to me, although I do freely admit, we must have been a tad tired by then! Backing off, and backing off is not the ideal answer to anything, but anything to prevent the inevitable happening once more.

After the goal, and all the attendant alarums and excursions, there came a moment when we really should have equalised. Earnie was put through, one-on-one with their keeper, the resultant almighty whack of a shot cannoning off their keeper?s diving body for a corner. That?s the difference between Earnie and his more prolific peers; the former seemed well capable, but his first touch was absolute rubbish, and because of that, despite screwing the thing back as it whanged atop the grass in the goalmouth, it ended up safe in the vigilant arms of their custodian; not so that of Owen, though, who subsequently proved to be the architect of our own undoing yet again. And, later still Earnie was to see another attempt loop high over the crossbar.

It wasn?t long after that, we had yet another golden opportunity to square things away. Again, it was Earnie?s failure to capitalise on the Greening cross that ended up costing us so dear, as did yet another copper-bottomed chance for him just moments later, around ten or so minutes into the half. This time, the ball came from Inamoto, deflected partially, ?tis true, but I?ll take ?em whichever way they come. There was Earnie, suddenly, with the ball unexpectedly at his feet, and only about six yards out. What to do? Easy, belt the thing in the direction of the back of the net with everything he had. Normally, a shot like that would have gone over the line, no problem, but today, Toon keeper Given just happened to be in the right place at the right time, the shot, from point-blank range, almost, cannoning off his chest with a ?whack? that must have shook the entire goalmouth, and out for a corner. As for everyone else watching, they were all busy doing perfect impressions of Victor Meldrew at his most irascible ? ?I just don?t BELIEEEEVE it!? Blimey, just what the hell did we have to do to score?

Not long after that, it was Clem?s turn to moan in frustration when his header sailed right over the bar, and, with around 20 minutes to go, once more, Earnie found himself in a position to level things. The shot he gave everything; the trouble was, the effort just skimmed the wrong side of the near post, which wasn?t quite what we?d hoped would happen, but that?s football for you.

In between all this pressure, the Toon had demonstrated they, too, were capable of ruining our day, and with all that abortive goalmouth action from us, you didn?t exactly need the services of Mystic Mog to work out the probable ending to this particular saga. It wasn?t all that long after the Welsh midget had yet another effort saved when Newcastle finally broke our hearts. Again, it was slack marking that did the damage; that, and some nifty approach work by Dyer, over the Halfords Lane side of the pitch. Having taken the ball to the goal-line, he then crossed, and thanks to the fact we had no player whatsoever within a good country mile of Owen, he rattled in the second, just inside the near post, and from about three or four yards. The Pole In Goal never stood an earthly.

That strike just about killed the game as a spectacle, from then on in, it was a case of damage-limitation. But we weren?t to get that, even. On came Shearer, fat lip and al, off the bench, and around ten minutes from the end, it was simplicity itself for him to bang one home from short range. Marking? You jest, sire; perhaps you might care to put the same question to Big Dave, who should have been covering him? Again.

By now, the exodus was well under way, and when the third went in, even John Homer and his missus got up to leave. This was totally unprecedented; I?ve sat in that stand since 1983, and never before, even during our really bad years, had I known John to leave early. Heads shook in complete bewilderment ? then, but two minutes later, John appeared once more. I?m still none the wiser as to why he had to do a quick ?excuse me?; I could only assume it was something to do with the distaff side, who hadn?t returned.

Mind you, the snort of disbelief I gave when John exited the scene wasn;t half as loud as the one I gave their away supporters, when they all chorally requested Souness to ?give us a wave?, which he promptly did. Hypocrites, the lot of ?em; just a few weeks before, BO ? Before Owen, that is ? they?d all been calling for the guy?s head on a plate!

OK, so we lost, and did so heavily, but nothing on earth will persuade me we were as bad as the scoreline suggested. Next time, it might behove us well to properly concentrate on what we?re supposed to be doing in the first minute of the second half, and tighten up on our bloody marking as well, a failing that?s seen us drop points on more than one occasion this term. Big Dave didn?t exactly come out of today?s game with any credit in that direction ? sort it, and quick.

And there?s also the small matter of all those missed chances. Earnie means well, but at his present stage of evolution, his first touch simply isn?t good enough for this level. He really has to work on this if he is to make any impact at all in this division, and the sooner, the better. We?ve let matters slide today, but as far as Everton, our next home opponents, are concerned, we simply can?t afford to stuff up again. Hopefully, by the time we play West Ham at their place, we?ll have some of our walking wounded back, although it looks very much as though Kirkland?s might be a longer recovery. Even then, the way The Hammers are playing right now, I severely doubt our ability to bring anything at all back from that one. Oh dear ? I really do hope today?s reverse isn?t going to prove the harbinger of a long and demoralising winter.

And Finally?. Just when you thought it was safe to get into your car and drive off come the final whistle, it would appear that once more, the post-match arrangements for the regulation of supporter traffic really hit the skids. By the time we turned into Halfords Lane from our usual parking spot, cars were piled up along the length of the road to the traffic lights at the Brasshouse Lane four-way junction, and nothing was moving. The problem was exacerbated by the fact we lost heavily, therefore people were leaving the ground earlier than normal, but on a Sunday, with reduced traffic flow, that shouldn?t have made that much difference.

Then as we crawled slowly towards the junction, we finally sussed what was really causing the problem; the back-up of cars wanting to turn right into Dartmouth Road, something which prevented those wanting either to turn left, or go straight on, when the lights turned green ? not easy when a bloody great four-by-four is taking up most of the available road, and not moving because it can?t turn right as Nature intended.

And that wasn?t all. When we finally got closer, we took the trouble of timing those traffic lights when on green; at no point did that part of the sequence exceed seven seconds, something which was worse than useless, as only a couple of cars could squeeze through in the time ? all those pesky people wanting to turn right, again. Mind you, by the time we did reach the head of the queue ? much, much later, it has to be said ? magically, the duration of the ?green? section of the sequence improved dramatically; over we went, into Brasshouse Lane, and by our watches, a good fifteen seconds had elapsed, with ?Im Indoors reporting that the lights were still on green when he commenced his descent down the hill. Presumably, someone finally saw sense, and got the lights working differently. See, chaps, it isn?t all that difficult to do when you have the will to do it! Mind you, it still took us a good three quarters of an hour to do a two-mile journey. Ridiculous. Oh dear ? I can feel yet another compliant to the police coming on!

 - Glynis Wright

Contact the Author

Diary Index