The Diary

04 December 2005: Albon Bore-Draw As Fulham Batten Down The Hatches.

Funny, isn't it? I?d thought I?d got over the disease of caring too deeply pretty well, of late, but today?s infuriating performance against our West London visitors brought forth once more an emotion I?d thought had been given a little bit of a winter?s break away from the Hawthorns of late, so you won?t be particularly surprised this evening to read it?s frustration, pure and simple.

Not just the petty pinpricks of everyday life, mind, such as joining a long bank queue when racing against the clock to do shopping at lunchtime, only to discover that every single one of the people in front is a trader, and all wanting to stash away their entire previous day?s takings, most of which is in silver and coppers, in the vault, and that?s even before they begin to start talking about grabbing hold of a float for the following day. In silver/copper, all of which as to be weighed out meticulously.

Or what about ringing our old friend The Telephone Helpline, a really cunning brute when it wants to be? If you consider nothing but a member of homo sapiens to be able to assist on those occasions, then forget it. All you?ll get is a disembodied recorded message saying: ?Your call is really important to us and is being held in a queue. Please hold the line, and someone will be with you shortly??? Yeah, like hell they will. And that?s even before the cheesy music cuts in; twenty minutes of that, and you very quickly lose the will to live, or do criminal damage with the aid of the phone itself, whichever serves to assuage your rapidly-escalating adrenalin levels the greater.

All of the above scenarios, horrible though they may seem at the time, pale into relative insignificance, though, when set against what happened today. Frustration? Not half. And not just the half-baked sort described above. I mean the kind of red-misted fury, the inexpressible slow burn, the full medical Monty that eventually leads to the Coronary Care Unit via Hypertension and Angina (passengers for Apoplexy, change at Hypertension). And going by the worsening prevailing mood in the Halfords Lane Stand as the afternoon wore on ? deteriorating with every tick of the clock nearer the end of the full span, I reckon ? I wasn?t the only one to start getting angry either.

Consider what we had out there today, dear reader. Fulham, in the first half especially, elected to stamp their authority on the game courtesy a few rough-house tackles, which the match officials should have come down on like a ton of bricks right from the very start. As it was, they didn?t send one of the main offenders - Boa Morte - packing until it was nearly half-time, and then only after he?d been booked once, then received at least three further verbal warnings after that.

Combine that with the horribly-effective offside trap they sprang on us throughout the second, their overall spoiling tactics, plus what appeared to be some Albion heads drooping badly as a result, and you?ve got precisely what Robbo was allegedly trying to avoid on Wednesday night by giving several of his better performers a break; players, all visibly knackered from their excursions up the park, and dying on their pretty little Jap feet, almost. Annoying? You bet; the blood-pressure apparatus in my doc?s surgery ? it?s the old-fashioned sort, uses mercury rather than electronics - would have burst instantaneously, and the stuff inside hitting the roof in a highly-toxic manner, had I been hooked up to the thing today.

As ever, though, the pre-match social whirl was good fun. After ?Im Indoors returned from the library, bearing notebooks absolutely crammed with juicy snippets for his book, we headed on out To Do The Dirty Deed That Has To Be Done. No traffic problems this time round ? well, given our house is only a mile or so away from Ground Zero, you wouldn?t have expected many ? and into the Hawthorns Hotel just in time to see Peter Crouch score his first ever for Liverpool, versus Wigan. In fact, he then went on to grab another (a bit like our cat with mice, he must have suddenly acquired the taste!), but looking at the replay of the first, it appeared the Wigan keeper had just as much of a hand (sorry!) in the proceedings as anything the great long beanpole did to help it along its way, so technically, it?s a bit of an ?oggie?. Which it is now, apparently, so ?Im Indoors informs me.

Some good news, though, courtesy The Noise and a gentleman standing near to us; it appears all of us season ticket holders will be getting Albion?s answer to the pensioners? Christmas bonus from Gordon Brown, a club shop voucher to the value of ten quid, to arrive between now and February.. The aforementioned standee then proved the move was no bull***t by proudly producing the one he?d had in the post already. Great for the Lewis family, whose domestic affairs were rapidly coming under close scrutiny courtesy young Carly.

Apparently, young sis Bethany will be performing at Victoria Hall, Stoke, next week. Something on the lines of ?Lord Of The Dance?, apparently. You have been warned. Mind you, I really loved The Noise?s long-suffering comment about it all: ?They?ve got Roy Chubby Brown there the one night, and Bethany the next!? Oh dear. As for Carly herself, it?s becoming even more abundantly clear that young lady is going to knock ?em completely dead when it comes to taking her GCSEs next year. Her teachers have predicted Grade A* in physics and biology, with an A in chemistry. Oooo, if there?s one thing I can?t stand, it?s a smart-ass! No, seriously, they were three of my best subjects, too; just listening to her going on about the syllabus made me feel sixteen all over again.

Letting ?Im Indoors?s brain take the Lewis family strain, I then turned to today?s programme, well, the manager?s notes, actually, and if great clouds of steam didn?t come forth from out of my lugholes right there and then, it jolly well should have. The problem I had was Robbo?s positive assertion in those notes apropos Wednesday night?s minute?s shopsilence about the splendid manner in which our supporters conducted themselves before, during and after. Of course we bloody well behaved, and respected the occasion for what it was; I would have expected nothing less from our lot. That?s why that phrase, or the ones similar, really get on my wick. Albion supporters have a reputation on the away-game circuit that?s absolutely impeccable; what?s blindingly obvious shouldn?t need to be said twice, should it?

It was at this point that one of my chums, Tim Joyner, came over to express his own opinion on the Roy Keane question I posed recently, viz how many would like to see him wearing an Albion shirt? Dead against, he was, but what he failed to appreciate was the complete and utter folly of standing within talking-distance of The Noise for any length of time. The next thing I knew, the poor lad was practically pinned against the wall by the verbal barrage emanating from inside our former away-trip navigator?s cavernous ?north-and-south? Fair play, though; it was only when our Stokie chum engaged fifth gear, then overdrive, he properly appreciated what mortal peril he was in!

As we left the place, the Liverpool game, the Scousers winning 3-0, was still going full-blast. We?d have liked to see it out, but another task called. We needed The Noise?s stilecard to get Liverpool tickets with tomorrow, so we arranged for him to pass it through the barred gate on the Brummie/Halfords corner once he?d gone in. No problems with that; only a small queue to hold things up, and that not for long, of course. And, as our chum was sorting that out, who should roll up but Norm Bartlam. ?Blimey, can?t you afford to pay yourselves in any more?? was the taunt. Naughty Norm ? and with an awful hacking cough, too. It appears that the virus we both caught recently has now paid our awful jokemeister an early-December visit, poor lad. Rub him down with a rough brick, I say!

And, once inside and sat down, we clapped eyes upon Jean Homer, newly hitched with John ?Goo ?an bile yer yed, referee!?, of course. Or should I say her hat? One of those ultra-floppy things, it was, and already, it was driving her absolutely around the bend. Being the nice sort of bloke he is, my other half complimented her upon her appearance, but still she wasn?t a happy bunny. Why? ?Everybody?s been doing ?Bill And Ben? impersonations once they?ve seen me in it!? she wailed, full of righteous indignation. Never mind, love, I would never do such a rotten thing to you, would I, Mrs. Fllobablob? ? erm ? Jean!

So much for the social discourse, then ? a polite way of describing what the Irish usually call the ?craic? ? let battle commence! But first, courtesy Boyden, I assume, something I?d thought I?d never hear again on our ground ? The Liquidator, or, as one confused female Albion supporter once called it, ?The Liquidiser?! Good to hear it again, even if offering only half the full ration. Would Boyden get into any sort of lumber with the club by playing it again, I wonder? After all, some of our previous axtion in those years. JUction wasn?t exactly high-grade stuff, was it?

As for the line-up, there was one fundamental change, Watson grabbing his place back, and the rest reverting to what was on offer versus Boro last Sunday. As for Fulham, they too had their full complement out there, so what would be, very likely, a dour struggle for supremacy, began to develop. At the start, things looked very promising indeed; in fact, with just under ten gone, Fulham conceded just before the demarcation line between ?normal? territory, and that where transgression could cost them very dear indeed. We know it as the penalty box, Nathan Ellington let fly, the shot giving their keeper more than a little worrying to do.

And that?s about the time that the residual niggle, a principal feature of last season?s jaunt, began to transform the game into what amounted to a ?reunion bash?. Needless to say, the referee was the busiest bloke on the pitch; by the time the game had been going just 20 minutes or so, two players had managed to incur the referee?s wrath. I can only assume the poor whistler is still burning the midnight oil, like me. Because of the no-nonsense way in which Fulham set out their stall not long after the kick-off, I reckon ?battle? to be the correct description of what took place out there. In fact, one might have readily assumed both sets of protagonists had been suspended in deep freeze immediately after the corresponding fixtures last term, only to be brought out of it just before this one.

Once more, petty fouls began to rule the roost, that plus an iron-hard offside trap, which Fulham found far easier to spring as the game wore on, all conspired to reduce the entertainment factor to an almost-undetectable level. Not good at all to watch, but at least we were having a go. As for poor Kanu, he was another being kicked halfway around the block by these morons. Mind you, relief was almost at hand, or so we thought; with just 16 of the half to go, Kanu managed to score from close-range. Shame, then, that the effort was then ruled offside!

Mind you, the drama hadn?t finished yet, not by a long chalk. The thing was, Fulham?s Boa Morte had been riding his luck, but thus far had managed to escape with a booking, and a couple of tellings-off only. Most folk would have taken the very broad hint by then, and given the party a miss? but not our man. In he piled, like a steamroller with the handbrake off, and poor Watson suddenly found himself on the receiving end. Boot met body, over and over the lad spun, hitting the ground with an almighty shudder that surely must have been felt back in more normal parts of Britain. That?s what made our tame whistler mad, and not anything we?d done, thank goodness. By the time Boa Morte had left the field of play, and our glee-club had commemorated the occasion in song, it was time to go in for the break.

Enter the second lot, then, and with another naughty blast from Harry J And His All-Stars ? and that?s the moment it all started to deteriorate. Never the most inviting of fixtures, even at the best of times, but now Fulham started to play a lot more defensively, only one up front, and maintaining in good working order one of the meanest offside traps it?s been my dubious privilege to see. We started to run out of ideas, very rapidly as well, so Robson decided to change things a little; off went Kamara, who?d found things a bit more difficult than anticipated, Carter taking his place instead. After that, next on was The Horse, for Kanu, now feeling the effects of several knocks received during both halves.

Not that the changes improved things much, mind; it was now quite clear that Fulham were employing spoiling tactics to keep us out, and what with that and the fact we lacked anyone with sufficient tactical nous, or enough brainpower to figure a way out of it, even, the game was becoming more infuriating for the spectator by the minute. A classic it certainly wasn?t, believe you me. Sure, Robbo did try injecting some fresh ideas into the mix by letting Earnie have a go, at Greening?s expense ? why we had to take off one of our most creative players, which was saying something, considering the insomnia-curing properties of the game as a whole, I just don?t know. And, of course, the knowledge Fulham were stifling us, and increasingly successfully, too, meant a complete deterioration in morale that was truly exasperating to behold. Five minutes worth of complete and utter sterility masquerading as time added on for stoppage, and the game, still bloodless, quietly slunk into the slimy shadows from which it had emerged. And, what?s more, no-one was sorry to see it go. Nor did they care, either.

Thoughts? More on the game tomorrow ? I really am knackered, and my thoughts aren?t all that cogent right now ? but my initial thoughts on leaving the ground ran something along the lines of: ?Fulham have taken us for right mugs today, we should either have seen it coming, or had the intelligence to do something about it once the penny finally dropped, but we didn?t, and that?s the reason why we not only dropped the two points, we also nearly shipped the lot.? We really can?t afford to let this happen again: what are you going to do about it, Robbo?

And Finally?. Just to cheer you up after today, here?s a couple of little tales for you, courtesy of The Noise. I always knew they were an odd bunch of chaps in Stoke, but this lot really takes the biscuit. Apparently, there?s a stationer?s shop not all that far away from Maison Noise, and did they have fun and games there recently? Not half; a few days ago, a bloke entered the place, dropped his trousers as quick as you like, picked up one of those bright yellow highlighters ? aw, you know, the sort you use to make notes with, either at work or at school ? then proceeded to colour in his meat-and-two-veg with it! No, I don?t know why, either, and neither does his psychiatrist, I suspect!

And that?s not all; this strange affliction, a naughtier variant on the theme, then spread to the nearby kitchenware shop. Not that anyone was daft enough to walk inside and drop ?em in public, mind, this was a tad more subtle. It being very close to Yuletide, they were doing an offer on one of those all-singing, all-talking kitchen aids they try to tell you it?s impossible to live without, in this case, a gadget that allows budding Gordon Ramsays to chop onions very finely indeed, but minus all those nasty floods of tears.

The manager then had a bright wheeze; instead of tying up staff in ?live? demonstrations, why not stick the entire process on video? Which he did, making sure the tape was on a constant two-minute loop, and the monitor in the shop window to attract casual passers-by. All went well, so come the close of play, the manager decided to let the thing play on, even though the shop was shut. So far, so good ? but the real scandal was about to break.

The next day, the lad made an executive decision; bring the entire shebang inside the shop once more, set up the demo loop as before, then eagerly await the constant ?ker-CHING!? of those lovely (and busy!) tills. A reasonable assumption by anyone?s lights, ?tis true ? but the poor bloke?s idyll was about to be rudely interrupted, with very strong emphasis on the ?rude?! It was the sound of two elderly and quite respectable women customers screaming that gave the bloke the first inkling something was wrong.

Dashing over to the scene of the disturbance, once the wrinkly pair had stopped gibbering (whether because of newly-reawakened sexual urges, or just plain ordinary moral indignation, I?ve not been able to properly ascertain!), all was quite literally revealed. The tape had been on a loop, all right, but that short journey from the shop window to the store interior had done something to it. Instead of going round and round, the tape had somehow proceeded on its merry way again ? and there was something recorded underneath. A hard-core porn video, would you believe, featuring just about every perversion known to man, woman or beast, hence all the kerfuffle!

 - Glynis Wright

Contact the Author

Diary Index