The Diary

06 November 2005: Baggies Well And Truly 'Hammered'!

It?s a strange sort of night I?m having tonight; my creative juices flowing copiously to the accompaniment of sundry flashes and bangs, not to mention colourful showers of pyrotechnics coming at me from all directions. This year sees the four hundredth anniversary of what was, to all intents and purposes, an attempted terrorist attack on the Commons using weapons of mass destruction. Well, it?s all a question of degree, isn?t it? Semtex is Semtex, and gunpowder is gunpowder: in the ultimate analysis, what you end up with in both cases is a bloody big bang that shifts a considerable proportion of Parliamentary masonry.

And where does the lad Guy Fawkes figure in all this ?glorification of terrorism? stuff that Tony Blair?s busting a gut to get through both chambers of the Houses of Parliament? Tonight, I reckon about half the country?s spent the greater part of this evening cheering to the rafters the only bloke to at least try what a good many these days feel was about the best idea anyone had in yonks, and letting off fireworks by way of celebration while they?re at it. Does this mean that when the legislation finally comes into force Granddad?s going to have his collar felt for organising a back-garden fireworks ?do? for his nippers, or, for that matter, the kids for collecting the firewood in the first place?

Daft, isn?t it? But not as daft as our Upton Park defeat today: once more, it was a case of us holding out, and bloody well, too, for all of the first and about ten minutes of the second, then losing concentration for just a moment ? I?d noticed our vulnerability from the left very early on in the game, and pointed it out to The Fart - so not surprising when our deficiencies in that direction was the essential difference between us getting a share of the spoils, and bemoaning our luck afterwards. And the marking, once more, was absolutely diabolical: a shame, that, as we?d seemed to contain them fairly well up to that point.

Tell you what, though: it wasn?t half strange getting on that coach without ?Im Indoors in tow: The Fart, bless his little steam radio, is always good company on these jaunts, but it?s not the same, isn?t it? After the game, I did ring him to find out how he?d spent his day, and the truth was quite startling. No, he hadn?t spent the entire afternoon engaging in frenetic Tantric sex , as I?d previously thought, with banana ice-cream chucked in for good measure; he?d simply upped and went to a local rugby game, the one between Stourbridge and Moseley. One of his work chums had put the idea into his head, apparently, and ?Im Indoors, wanting a bit of a change from the round-ball code, decided to ?go ovoid? instead. And yes ? when he told me, you could have knocked me down with a feather!

As expected, The Fart arrived much earlier than me, and had bagged us a seat each straightaway: with the club?s service, later arrivals generally had to split themselves up, a variant we didn?t have in mind for this one. What did surprise me, though was the weather: wonderfully sunny, but only a cool 7 degrees according to our trusty in-car thermometer. And not a snowflake in sight, thank goodness. Not one.

Once on the motorway, the social temperature began to pick up on our coach, and as it did so, the video began to roll with John Homer and Dave Holloway?s emulation of that other footballing double act, Saint and Greavsie. Unsurprisingly, after footage of the Fulham encounter, The Arse in the league and The Toon, the featured game was our 4-3 away win of around three seasons ago, the one where we pulled it back from three goals down. I?ve seen that video so many times, if pushed, I could probably do a running commentary with the sound left off. It was absolutely priceless watching Calamity contrive to drop his side deeper in the doo-doo than they?d been all season. Happy days.

That, plus some video spin-off or other, culled from Ricky Tomlinson?s fertile imagination, brought us up neatly to Toddington Services, where we found our first surprise of the day. Sheffield United followers, zillions of ?em, and all headed roughly in the same direction. Well, Selhurst Park: an awkward one, that, as the place is nearly in Croydon. Just as well, really, that hatchets seemed to be very much buried, and passions cooled since that awful horror-show ? but at least not in someone?s skull, which was a bonus of sorts for them. Tel even managed to have a few words with some of them ? one Blade simply couldn?t get over the numbers we?d brought with us. Oh, well ? I?m sure the harsh realities of the Prem will permeate their case-hardened senses very quickly if Warnock pulls it off this time, and they go up at around the sixth time of asking.

Leaving The Fart to help cement better Baggie-Blades relationships in his own inimitable style, I decided to make a foray into the Ladies. It was while I was on my way there I happened to bump into The Royal Family. Yes, they too had decided to throw their lot in with our travelling band, but what really horrified me was Laraine telling me about her hour of rising that morning: five am, would you believe? Seriously, is there really such a godawful hour in the day?

Listening to The Fart run through his matchday memories involving the Sheffield club, mention of Cardiff instantly brought back to life thoughts of The Dingles going there, yes, to play Sheffield United, and the Yorkshire side crashing and burning something ?orrible. To be perfectly frank, I?ve never really forgiven Warnock for screwing up as badly as he did that day. But all that was now firmly in the past; Thanks to their win today, United are still in the driving seat, and looking good to finally achieve their dream. At around the sixth time of asking.

As we batted the breeze in the coach park, I suddenly realised what a nice day we had going for us. As I said, the temperature was distinctly chilly back in God?s own country: down there, it was at least four or five degrees warmer, and with the sun out, too. Real Italian weather and not at all typical of November: what a lovely day for watching a bit of footie. Experiencing conditions as pleasant as that, it made a sharp contrast to return to our coach once more. How come? Well, in true British entrepreneurial style, the coach company had decorated the thing nice and ready for Christmas, reindeer, Santa going ?Ho, ho, ho!?, and tinsel, tinsel everywhere, nor any drop to shrink. In the first week of November, and Bonfire Night not over and done with, yet? What with that, and reading yesterday of a rash of daffodils erupting in some Welsh town or another ? and a duck producing a dozen offspring ? you really do begin to wonder what?s happening to our climate. And our seasons.

In sharp contrast to the godawful shenanigans that beset our previous experience of travel via one of Dave Holloway?s ?transports of delight?, this time round, we managed to hit town around half-twelve, and our vehicle decanting us right on the High Street. Again, the temperature was a complete revelation: sunshine everywhere, and if we?d thought the clime a tad mild in the services, you should have seen the scenes at West Ham. Delightfully sunny, and yes ? the temperature had gone up by a series of notches, which meant the atmosphere was distinctly balmy once more.

Time, then, to grab some nosh, and that meant a quick foray into a nearby working men?s club, the East Ham one we?d used on a previous visit. Since the last time we?d been there, they?d changed the entrance round, which did confuse us a tad at first, but once that was sorted out, everything else was much as we?d found it two years ago. A good place to park both our bots, as that club was the last bastion of sanity in a world where money ? or rather the mindless lust for the stuff ? increasingly called the shots. Signing ourselves in, we then shifted ourselves to the area upstairs, where I knew I?d find a plethora of Albion aficionados ready and waiting for the call.

Lurking suspiciously near the serving counter was the genial chappie we all know and love as Sauce, he of the imbibers? travel arrangements. Some of our number had prepared for a protracted session indeed: on their table were at least four pitchers replete with either beer or lager, each holding around half a gallon of the stuff, an American diea that crossed the Atlantic in reverse gear. And they shifted the stuff, to the very last drop! Me? I just grabbed a drink at the bar, plus a packet of Quavers, and only ?1. 20 the lot. As I said, that club wasn?t typical of those normally found in the capital. All that, and Villa-Liverpool on the box, too.

Time, then, to bat the breeze with my germ-ridden chum. It transpired that Tel had been given antibiotics in the end for his chest ailment ? and it sounded very much as though all his germs had seen what was coming and elected to hitch a ride on me instead. Yuk. And then came a little tale that had me giggling, one from an Albion supporter sitting close by. It turned out that the chap went on holiday abroad in the close season, and for a fortnight. Now, in the hotel room next to his was a Dingle, also seeking out the sun?s rays at maximum dosage, and, as luck would have it, he too was departing at the same time as my informant. As is usually the case, all the guests departing that day were told to leave their luggage in the foyer, ready for collection ? and that?s when things started to get funny. Our lad brought down his stuff, and once there, espied the Dingle?s, sitting amidst the rest. Time for some fun, then: without further ado, our lad plonked his right on top of the unfortunate one?s bag, bawling as he did: ?Look ? Albion on top of the Wolves again?.?

But back to Villa-Liverpool again. Still goalless, but as we nattered, something happened to change that. A penalty, to the Merseysiders. That was put away, no messing, then a few minute later, the visitors repeated the dose with a nifty strike from around 15 yards out. Two-nil, and I bet there weren?t half some home supporters muttering out there. Cue for massed choruses of ?S**t on The Villa?, the somewhat-bemused locals looking on with not a little amusement ? I guess they hated our Aston-based counterparts just as much as we did. And, where we were, a madness of a different kind; a Baggie, clearly in his cups, who kept repeating the ?fork-handles/four candles? bit from the famous Two Ronnies sketch. The first time, it was funny, but after the tenth such rendition, the novelty began to pall a little. I could only hope that Chummy found a little more coherence in the speech department before he tried to gain entrance to the ground, otherwise he was going to be in for a long, lonely hour and a half.

The game on the box now over, it was time to take our medicine like a man ? well, for some, at least! One thing about Upton Park, though ? the away end is very close to the club, so it was but the work of a few moments to shift ourselves round there instead. The usual search later, we were in ? but not before The Fart had personally inspected The Met?s police horses: one bit, one didn?t, so I left him to it. By now, I reckon he must know pretty much all of their equines, not to mention their bloody riders.

Once inside, I bumped into John homer, who immediately informed me the kick-off had been put back ten minutes. How come? There?d been an accident outside the ground, apparently, and it was holding everything up. Then, once in our seats, a pleasant surpise. Whoever chose the records today, they?d done a really good job. First of all we were ?serenaded? by ?If The Kids Are United?, by Sham 69, of course, closely followed by Motorhead, and that well-known headache-inducer, ?The Ace Of Bass?. All stuff I?d loved to bits when it first came out, some 30 years or so ago.

As for the team news, well?.. It was changes all round, with Ronnie Wallowrk getting a start again, his first for three games. Nice to note the distinct lack of booing when his name was announced today. And, to be perfectly fair, I didn?t think he?d had that bad a game, really. Let?s put it this way, there were others far more culpable than he out there. The others? Albrechtsen back in his socket, and Kamara also after that spell of paternity leave he?d just had. Never mind, son, the first six months of sleepless nights are always the worst!

West Ham were pretty much ?as you were? but they did boast among their ranks a certain Mr. Gabbidon, formerly resident at a certain football club not a million miles away from The Hawthorns. Oh, yes ? and while we?re in the business of mentioning ?blasts from the past?, guess who was on their sub?s bench? Shaun Newton ? remember him? Well, you should ? he was the Dingle that tried to mix it with Big Dave the last time we played them at Molineux. Like hitting a brick wall, really, as the lad quickly found out; bounced off him lovely, he did. A case of finding the gravitational attraction of our enormous central defender too much to cope with, really!

The preliminaries over and done with, the ref blew for the start ? and shortly afterwards, it was The Fart that gave me a start. Well, if someone suddenly bawls down your lughole, in dulcet tones: ?SIDDOWN, LADS!?, what else can you expect? Let me put it this way: trying to unstick yourself from the stand roof, where your momentum?s taken you, is an activity not conducive towards restoring your dignity, is it? The incredible thing was, though, that as soon as the old codger had given everyone that wake-up call, everyone did! Oooooh, Tel ? I really love you when you?re forceful!

Of course there was yet another change in the Hammers? ranks from the last time we?d crossed swords. No David James to brighten up the proceedings with yet another gaffe-ridden display ? and no Jermaine Defoe, either. Spoilsports! The trouble was, though, thanks to their good start, they were very much in the driving seat, forcing a corner after just three minutes into the game. A nasty trend was developing, one that would prove to be our undoing, eventually ? our relative inability to stem the Hammers tide on the flanks. First a corner, then a free-kick conceded, followed by a Hammers header just wide of the post. Not good news at all.

It took us around 15 minutes to get properly warmed up, and Kamara was the start of the show. Grabbing possession in the middle, he then neatly evaded several tackles down the left, shimmied a bit, headed onwards and inwards ? then let fly. A shame his effort only troubled the side-netting, and not their keeper ? but la guerre is la guerre, sadly. Then, the play switched ends once more for a while, but with 15 minutes gone, we actually got the ball into the back of the net! Offside, sadly, but it was progress of sorts, I suppose.

Heartened by this, our impromptu ?glee club? then began to serenade the home seats. ?Three-nil, and you plucked it up!? (Very much cleaned-up version!) That closely followed by ?Four-three, we said we?d win four-three!?, this one being an allusion to the seven-goal thriller witnessed by so many of our travelling band some two seasons ago. Within a minute, Kamara had come close again ? and you could see things settling into a pattern. As far as the last one were concerned, had the lad noticed his companions onrushing the goal also, they might have, between them, put the blasted thing away. But, as things are increasingly these days, Kamara failed to notice what was going on, and the moment was lost.

The annoying thing about all these missed chances was that by rights, we should have sorted it, no probs. But we didn?t, an omission that kept The Pole In Goal very busy indeed. And me tearing what remained of my hair out in sympathy. Then they had one kicked off the line; things were hotting up in heaps. And, talking of which ? who was hot, and who was not? Well, our tame Japanese was doing well in the middle, and I commented thus to The Fart. ?Ah!?, he said, ?Inscrutable, these Orientals!? Also doing the biz was The Pole In Goal, whose timelier interventions had kept us in it, Kamara, of course, and Ronnie Wallwork. Even his sternest critics must have realised; there was very little in the way of criticism emanating from our end of the park this time. Kanu? It seemed to me his footballing brain was way, way ahead of everyone else?s. He?d have the ball, then you?d see a shimmy, or a cute little flick, or a neatly-executed bit of the old one-two routine. If the recipient was astute, then the fancy stuff would come off. If not, then we simply lost possession. Clem? Patchy. Sorry. And we were still vulnerable on the flanks.

Half time, then, and with it another record on the PA I really liked. I very much share the late John Peel?s enthusiasm for The Undertones, and their signature song, ?Teenage Kicks?, Feargal Sharkey?s castrati vibrato and all. I often used to speculate when hearing that lot perform as to whether there was an unseen hand in the recording studio grabbing the Irish lead singer firmly by the nuts, hence the strange style you hear on disc! Whatever ? but the real beauty of this song is the simplicity of it; no fancy electronic tricks, just sound, loud, proud and as raw as hell. It really does sound as though the group put it together in their back bedroom, or something, but that?s not a minus point, as far as I?m concerned. Loved it when it first came out, some 28 years ago, and still love it to bits now. So there!

The second highlight of the interval came courtesy of The Fart ? when he finally managed to take his bulging eyes off the scantily-clad West Ham ra-ra girls strutting their stuff in the middle of the park, that is. Don?t look, Tel, it?ll send you blind! But back to business ? now, where was I? Oh, yes. Apparently, last night, during that Merthyr-Walsall game, there was a streaker on the pitch, no less. Sky somewhat unsportingly refuse to let viewers join in the fun, but steam radio has no compunction whatsoever. The best bit, though, was the fact the ?offender? was stark rollock naked ? except for a pair of wellies! Sometimes, things are better left unsaid, aren?t they?

Oh, well ? can?t be any worse than the one I saw during a pre-season friendly at Colchester a few years back; not only did I get a good view of him darting across the centre-circle, I?d almost got a noseful of his meat-and-two-veg when he first embarked upon his quest for fame. I?d been on the touchline taking pics for the fanzine, and this guy had jumped directly over my head. One quick swipe with my camera, and it could have been high-pitched voices and increased prospects of getting a job in an Arabian harem for him!

But back to business. Out everyone came for the next thrilling instalment, and within three minutes of the restart, Greening belted a useful sort of ball over to young Earnie; a shame our hirsute lad couldn?t have tailored the cross to his (lack of) height ? as things stood, Earnie strained manfully to make up for his lack of inches, but anatomy and physiology being what it is, he was on a non-starter before he?d started ? if you get my gist.

Then, just a minute later, a light-hearted interlude; suddenly, play halted. I couldn?t see any infringement, offside, or whatever ? so why was the lino waving so furiously? Easy ? in his enthusiasm to uphold the tenets of law and order on the field of play, he?d broken the pole that supported his little flag. Oh, whoops! The first time I?ve ever seen that happen in around forty years of watching this lot, so there you are. Mind you, what happened around the eleventh minute didn?t please me one little bit, for we fell behind. How come? Same old story, really; our inability to successfully defend set-pieces. Or maintain concentration properly. Up until then, we?d been countering everything The Hammers had thrown at us; from that, they managed to put over a deadly cross, one that found Sheringham, very poorly marked indeed, about six yards out. The home crowd were delighted. Of course. Me? I just sat and fumed. Again.

A scant minute after that, you might have wanted to argue the case for a penalty, Kanu being held in a lover?s embrace, almost, by a predatory Hammer. Being only a matter of yards away from the incident, I saw it, as clear as daylight, so why didn?t the ref? Well, it was certainly end-to-end stuff, now; first of all, The Pole In Goal bailed us out yet again, then play switched to the other end, and it was the Hammers having to look lively, in this case, because of a firmly-struck Wallwork effort that made their keeper work to gather the thing in.

By that stage of the game, heads started to drop a little; not surprising, really. Once you get into that sort of ?losing? rut, it?s incredibly difficult to haul yourself out again. Mistakes started to creep in, and daft ones, too. The bench then tried to ring the changes; off went Earnie, with 15 minutes to go, and on came The Horse. Then, with just six remaining, Kanu left the scene of the crime, and Campbell took his place. So there you had it ? losing 1-0, just six minutes to save something from the wreckage, so by way of response, you remove what bit of pace you do have, and replace it with a duo who, even on a good day, would both find it incredibly difficult just trying to keep up with a pensioner driving one of those motorised buggy things. Or maybe it?s high time the both of them considered the advantages of such a mode of transport at their time of life?

But at least it wasn?t they who completely and utterly blew our last chance of getting something from the wreckage; that dubious honour was left to Kamara, who, with around six remaining before the final whistle, suddenly found himself with the ball at his feet, unmarked, and around six yards out. It really was easier to stick it in the back of the net and be done with it ? but being as disaster-prone as we are, the lad chose to poke it wide instead, and with it went our last chance of regaining parity. Four minutes or so of stoppage-time, and it was all over.

Once more, the slow, slow trudge out of the ground and back to our coach, but let?s at least give thanks for small mercies. This time, The Met had an outbreak of common sense, and took us out via a much better route; by the time I was ringing ?Im Indoors, we were almost on the M25, and eventually hit land around ten to nine. Oh, and yet another consolation: the various fireworks displays and bonfires we saw as we travelled north were rather splendid. But not half as spectacular than the ones raging in our dressing-room afterwards, I?ll wager!

And Finally?.. I suppose this comes into the category of ?You?ll never believe this, but?..? Anticipating a lousy video on the way down, I packed in my duffel-bag a book I?d been meaning to sink my (metaphorical) teeth into for quite some time, now. Its title? ?Doomsday ? 50 Visions Of The End Of The World?. And a double detention to the person at the back who just said our lot had just discovered a 51st way of achieving the same end!

 - Glynis Wright

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