The Diary

01 December 2005: Whupped In The Land Of The Great Prawn Sandwich.

Tonight?s game? Take a Nuremberg Rally, but one completely divested of all the nastier Nazi and anti-Semitic overtones, chuck in a soupcon of Princess Diana?s admirers? post-mortem emotional incontinence, carefully add a hint of The Queen Mum?s gin-strewn and racing supplemented farewell to earthly things circa 2002, and that?s what it was like, in a nutshell. I?ll just say one thing, though; be it Buck House or Old Trafford, both dynasties sure like giving their dear departed a damn good send-off. Mawkish, sickly, schmaltzy, all of that ? and horribly fatal as far as our League Cup aspirations were concerned as well. No sooner had we emerged from the bowels of the away end, and shifted onto the floodlit gangway, it only needed one very rapid eyeball-sweep around the remaining three sides of the rectangle to realise that whoever was going to walk off with a ticket to the quarter-finals in their hot little hands that night, it sure as hell wasn?t going to be us.

Even though some 20 minutes or so still remained between formalities and kick-off, the United PA carefully set the tone beforehand by featuring track after track of tear-jerking stuff culled from the world of pop, saccharine-sweet, all of it, and all coming laced with a goodly dollop of plain old-fashioned sentimentality. You try and battle against that lot with little or no help in sight, and see how far you get; it?s a bit like urinating against the wind, believe you me. No, tonight, Old Trafford, not to mention most of those wearing red and white, belonged to one man only, and because of that, we didn?t exactly need a great leap of collective faith to realise the entire show would end up being painstakingly scripted and stage-managed from beginning to end.

Watching it awakened peculiar thoughts, ones where you feel so disassociated mentally from events on the pitch, suddenly, you quickly start to wonder whether or not you?re having one of those ?out of body experiences?. Had we summoned up the sheer temerity (not to mention breathtaking skill!) to well-poop on all their Mancunian pomp by opening the scoring before they did, to have done so ? well, to sensitive souls like me, at any rate - would have felt a bit like mugging some blind pensioner in the street, then by way of a parting shot, going back and giving their poor guide dog a good kicking as well. It really was that sort of a night.

And yet the day had started so well; before setting out, we?d spent an exceedingly profitable hour or two in Smethwick Library, dredging up yet more ancient Albion match reports courtesy of the local press, dating from 1907 and 1931 respectively. A rapid journey home later, we then awaited the arrival of The Fart, who turned up promptly. And that, dear reader, was about the last time today ANYTHING to do with the club, players included, worked as they should. Then, once we?d brought the old reprobate up to speed on all things Albion that might now affect his general health and temper, it was time to set off. Which ?Im Indoors would have very dearly liked to have done properly, but couldn?t, the problem being a king-sized snarl-up, not only badly affecting stationary traffic on that section of the motorway, but completely putting the kybosh on any chance of making up for lost timeelsewhere. No, it was total gridlock out there, whichever way you went, so some lateral thinking was called for, and fast. Even then, it still took a good 45 minutes before we finally managed to get out of West Bromwich.

As the delay had put us badly behind schedule, the next item on the agenda was to contact Jane, The Noise?s long-suffering missus in Stoke, and let her know her beloved would be kept waiting at the other end a while. Luckily she was there, answered the phone quickly, and the message duly passed on by her to The Noise, who was shivering something awful in a motel car-park even as we spoke. The things we do for our football team ? bless! Once well clear of Walsall, things started to get a tad easier, but not completely so, as that other bane of the travelling supporter?s existence, road-works, lay drooling invitingly in some dark, dank corner or other. What with that and the sundry other traps that awaited most itinerant supporters heading towards that neck of the woods, by the time we hove into outer Manchester, I was beginning to feel the first effects of the three-hour - yes, a similar length of time to that on Sunday - trek on my system myself. And constant guesswork about whether or not we?d chosen the right place to leave the motorway didn?t help either. And it was getting uncomfortably close to the kick-off, as well, so Plan B, as promulgated by The Noise himself, was rapidly put into action. Heading for both the cricket ground, and the car-parking space we?d grabbed as well, like the proverbial bat out of hell. EEK!

Thanks to that perspicacious bit of parking, we?d managed to finish up not all that far from the ground, less than a mile away, so the next thing to do was to head on out for it. Know something? If you perceive Old Trafford to convey a certain image by day, then at night it?s squared and cubed, and with nice little knobbly bits chucked in as well. Just before Matt Busby way, the eclectic collection of stalls flogging matchday merchandise loomed large, the inky night and the improvised lighting, by oil lamps, some of it, imparting to the scene something of a Far Eastern air. Then, once we?d crossed the bridge, and drawn about level with that world- famous fa?ade, we spotted it.

A shrine by any other name, and split into several distinct sections; clearly, as quickly as one was filled, the additional memorabilia subsequently brought by others then started to tenant the next, the many softly-glowing tea-lights interspersed amidst the randomly-scattered shirts and scarves imparting to the whole scene faint resonance of a Buddhist temple. Even the police post, hastily erected in true ?prison-camp watchtower? fashion to ensure both fair play and no clandestine desecration by occasional idiots not normally given to cut United?s followers some slack at this difficult time, had ended up with an Albion away shirt draped along one side. As for the rest, you name the team shirt, and it was there; not just those of domestic clubs, but European and Far Eastern outfits also.

Messages, too, sincere ones, sad ones, some simply relieved it was all over, finally, those mentioning specific matches where the long-haired Irish kid with the red shirt hanging out the back of his shorts had mesmerised and dazzled, by turns, and all written by supporters united in grief, each poignant to the point of tears. You?d have to be a pretty hard-nosed sort of sod not to be profoundly moved by it all. Of one thing I was sure; if the planned ceremonies inside Old Trafford were officialdom?s way of saying farewell to George, then the massive memorial display outside must have surely belonged to the true football supporter; surely their own special way of saying ?thanks for all the memories, George.? Given the rapidity with which the pavement was now being filled with stuff from our people, even as we watched, by Friday, the day of the funeral, I reckon the entire length of Matt Busby Way will be carpeted thus.

As time was pressing, we reluctantly headed off towards the away turnstiles, for some reason, very slow indeed admitting people tonight. Oh, goody ? yet another queue! Mind you, the many sundry searchers didn?t exactly help, either. Then we found out why ? the lack of speed, I mean, not the searches - everyone going in was handed a glossy pic of the deceased; what for, we couldn?t imagine. But that wasn?t a priority for me right then; what was, involved the negotiation of no less than ten flights of stairs; suffice to say, by the time we got to the top, the old sciatic nerve was twanging badly, not to mention the Wright lumbar regions. So bad was the pain, by the time we got to the top, I had visions of belatedly joining George in the celestial ?turnstile queue?!

A much-needed ?rest-room? stop later, we were walking down the gangway leading to our seats ? and that?s where I came in, folks. Just a momentary glance around was sufficient for me to realise immediately that the occasion demanded that there could only be one winner from tonight?s encounter - and it sure as hell wouldn?t be us. Standing there, and watching events unfold on the pitch ? the reason for everyone getting those blasted posters now became obvious; the idea was for everyone, friend and foe, to hold ?em up, en-masse, at the appropriate time - it was made abundantly clear that whoever had choreographed tonight?s tribute had put not a little thought into the song selection played on the PA, and as a result, a curious atmosphere prevailed, a cross between the minutes of quiet contemplation that immediately precedes a solemn commemorative service in some great cathedral or other, and the pulsating vibrancy of a cheerfully-expectant football crowd, all of whom now ready and eager to get on with it. When set against that magnificent three-sided Old Trafford backdrop, that tidal wave of raw emotion out there, our chances of further League Cup progress shrank so drastically as to be infinitesimal, almost, by the time the solemn stuff finally commenced.

It goes without saying that everyone in that away end observed the ?necessaries? with the utmost respect ? which is why I nearly lost it completely when someone came on Radio Five afterwards thanking our supporters for having done so. Of course we valued their moment of grief for what it was, what the hell did they think we were, for Heaven?s sake? Dribbling idiots? That was the ?official? stuff done, then, both managers having laid a wreath before a giant banner laid across the pitch, and various luminaries, both United and Albion, saying a few well-chosen words. Time for the football to commence.

Er ? well, that was what was meant to happen, in theory, at any rate. If I hadn?t already realised the full extent to which the tie would be subsumed into the quasi-religious sideshow immediately prior to the game, then it didn?t take long into the 90 minutes to get confirmation of what was about to happen. And, despite intimations beforehand that Fergie would put out a side mostly consisting of kids, there on the pitch was living proof they were going to take this one pretty seriously ? how do names like Ferdinand, Ronaldo, Neville, grab you? Oh ? and Rooney on the bench, although not used tonight. Some makeweights, those. And, going by the number of changes we?d made to our own normal line-up ? Houlty in goal, The Horse, Darren Carter, Albrechtsen, Big Dave, with The Pole In goal, Greening, Kanu, all on the bench, rested ? you might have wanted to opine, very vocally indeed, that we?d already decided there were bigger fish in prospect to fry come the weekend, and elected to keep our quality-grade powder dry until then.

First of all, United got one into the back of the net very early on ? that one was ruled offside ? but not long after that, the strange gravitational forces I mentioned last weekend came into play, Ronaldo fell, seemingly after being breathed on too hard, and the ref instantly pointed to the spot. Seconds later, they?d notched up a perfectly street-legal Number One. Twelve minutes in, according to my watch; how many more, I wondered?

The partial answer came about seven or eight minutes later, when Saha let rip with a medium-range effort that finished up in much the same place as its immediate predecessor. Was it me, or did I detect a certain tardiness about Houlty?s efforts in getting down and trying to stop the thing in the first place? Clearly, that back problem of his was still giving him grief, and to the point of embarrassment, almost. Oh dear. Did we see the last of him in an Albion jersey tonight, I wonder?

With our own feeble efforts in front of goal providing a stark contrast to the blood-and-snot fare normally on offer out there ? some of our finest seemed to be carrying on some sort of a personal vendetta against supporters currently occupying seats in Row Z ? it was clear that we?d had it. Our incursions petty pinpricks, on the whole, theirs always dangerous. And it could have been more right on the break when they hit one of the posts. Our first really dangerous attempt on goal? That came literally minutes before our lot went in search of Paradise, and found the away dressing-room again instead!

Half-time, then, and Gaardsoe on for the flagging Big Dave. And, of course, more time to look at young David, Steve The Miser?s son, nine going on forty, whose alleged juvenile romance with The Noise?s youngest, Bethany, was already the stuff of which legends are made. All hotly denied before the Bolton game by the small lady concerned, of course, but it did provide us with a little bit of savage amusement until the whole miserable business kicked off once more.

As for the second lot, well ? if we?d thought our contribution to the game of a standard falling far short of what we?d wished before, the second bit at least saw us score. But only after United had added yet another to their tally. The goal, when it came, resulted from a corner, and Ellington took it well. At least we?d had some pride and respectability injected back into the side, now, but still The Mancs came on and wanted us to concede even more.

By that stage, the crowd, realising victory was imminent, began singing their own tributes to Best, one of which was the ?Yellow Submarine? type ditty you sometimes hear them come out with when they?re at a bit of a loose end between clocking up goals. But this one came with completely new ?lyrics? attached, a musical paean of praise to all things Cantona, Keane, and Best, of course, that went on almost continually the entire half. Such was the power of the tune to quietly ?earworm? itself into some poor sod?s brain or other, it wouldn?t have surprised me at all to hear that at least some of United?s finest had quietly fallen victim to its repetitive blandishments. Cream cheese cerebellum, here I come! Oh ? and another observation. Interesting, wasn?t it, that of all the United players chosen to ?appear? in this particular ditty, every single one of them was blessed with the sort of stubborn personality that caused them to constantly march to the sound of a different drummer, much to the fury of the United management team, no doubt.

By the time the ref?s whistle finally drew an end to proceedings, most of the home following had exited ? and, to be fair, so had lots of ours. A quick walk back to our jalopy, parked within the precincts of the cricket ground, and we were away ? or as near ?away? as we could be in the backwash of the mother of all traffic snarl-ups around Stretford. In The Dickmobile, it was just like old times once more, as we all happily nattered away among ourselves about topics innumerable, some controversial and complicated, others downright trivial. The late kick-off had meant a late finish also, and what with that, and the awful roadworks that seemed to stretch the entire length of the M6, by the time we?d dropped The Noise off, and, at the other end, The Fart ? who had us all scrabbling frantically about The Dickmobile for a set of house keys he?d allegedly lost, and which we subsequently his missus had in the house all the time: the daft old sod had completely forgotten them! - it was getting on for two in the morning by the time we?d dropped anchor at Chez Wright. Which is when I started to write this, of course!

And Finally?.. One. The Noise, at Old Trafford, and watching yet another United attack build up on the flanks. ?This is one of those games that looks better watching it on Ceefax!? And, again, similar circumstances, apropos our less-than-brilliant showing thus far: ?I?ve seen better movement from those advertising hoardings they?ve got all round the pitch???

Two. The Fart, during the game, having been ?plugged in? to the Beeb quite a lot, and currently listening to the commentary on Middlesbrough- Palace, a game not very strong on the niceties, even at the best of times, came up with this one from the commentators: ?There?s not many Palace there, and the rest must surely have come in a taxi!?

 - Glynis Wright

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