The Diary

11 December 2005: City Lose Their Rag As Albion Gain Three Points.

There you are, then: a splendid brace of goals, three points in the bag ? and, for this column, a little bitsy back-slapping for getting it right. Hadn?t I said, yesterday, that City were the sort of side to blow hot one minute, cold the next? Play like world-beaters, as per the Charlton ?do?, then go somewhere else and play like a bag of spanners? Yep ? I certainly got that bit of it right, and you?d better believe this, no-one?s more astonished than me right now! I said the situation might well play right into our hands if they came at us, and that?s precisely what happened. After I?ve finished writing this, I think I?ll bugger off downstairs, and award myself a gold star ? it?s the very least I deserve, n?est ce pas?

This morning, though, started off in very low-key, in Smethwick Library, where copies of the local rag, circa August 1931, lay at my eagerly-quivering fingertips courtesy the miracle of microfiche. Quite an illuminating session, actually; not only did we register an opening-day 1-0 away win versus The Arse, League Champions by a mile, then managed by the legendary Herbert Chapman, much later on, I discovered one of our players actually involved in an almighty punch-up, off the ball, about 15 minutes from the end of a particularly ?niggly? game, both offenders getting an early bath for their troubles. Yes, even in those so-called ?golden days? of football, players could still get up to shenanigans that would earn them banner headlines in the tabloids today. The ref didn?t see it, but the lino certainly did, unfortunately for both parties concerned. Quite a punishment, that; in those days, if you were suspended, the club didn?t pay your wages, so serious financial penury could easily loom ahead for the ?offender?, were he not too careful how his money was spent.

Shifting ourselves back home briefly to drop off our research stuff, it was then off to The Shrine to embark upon the serious business of supporting a football club. Oh ? and conducting a ?prisoner exchange? of PC equipment for the benefit of The Noise; well, his sprogs, actually, who need such things to do their school work with. Then, once we?d sorted that little lot out, it was off to the club shop to get ourselves a brand new bag ? er ? hang on just a cotton-pickin? minute, wasn?t that a hit record once? No, seriously, our old one, now in its 15th season and looking distinctly decrepit ? one strap completely bust, the other on its last legs ? badly needed early retirement, and thanks to one of those ?10 vouchers the club were putting out, today was the day ? whoopee! We?ve now settled for a black number that sits haversack-style on your back, which is good news for me, as it works in quite nicely with the old lumbar condition ? equal weight distribution, see?

As for The Noise?s two, they were in consumer-heaven in there. A very-indecisive Bethany wavered between the Albion sweatshirt, and the pink fluffy slippers; to be honest, I didn?t know what finally won out in the end, but ?Im Indoors now tells me the jacket did. As for her elder sister, she was in the business of buying up mugshots of her favourite players like they were going out of fashion. Talk about ?All Our Yesterdays?; when I was her age, it was pictures of The King, Bomber Brown, Ossie and Bobby Hope for me. Plastering them all over my textbook and exercise book covers, much to the annoyance of my teachers, none of whom shared my interest in the beautiful game. Watching Carly make her purchases, drooling all the while at her favourites, the years simply rolled backwards in no time flat. Was it the same for you, once upon a distant Baggie time?

Mind you, there?s always something to bring you right down to earth; in this instance it was the elegant, lovely and talented Dee, she of the Old Cross pub, Langley, and part-time Club Shop person, now working Saturdays to help out with the Christmas rush. ?I?m working on Mail Order at the moment.? she declared, as we exchanged pleasantries towards the rear of the store.

?Oh, goody,? said I, ?If you?re ordering males, can you get me one, too??

?Crikey,? (or words to that effect) said a wistful Dee, ?Any male with a pulse would do me right now!?

Out of the shop once more, and along the main drag, by the Astle Gates, where Older Sis pleaded with Dad for a MacFlurry from the well-known chain fast-food emporium situated over the road. Somehow, I don?t think even Carly has cottoned onto the fact that all these purchases, small though they may be individually, cost Dad hard mazoomas when added up in their entirety! Mind you, when Dad said ?No!? the look on her face would have killed at 500 paces distance, almost.

Once more unto the breach, dear friends ? or something like that. How will The Hawthorns Hotel do instead? Just this once, Carly went to the bar to do the ?ordering? thing ? she isn?t half getting good at it, now - and while she was away, Annette of ?The Drinking Family? came along to show us piccies of her latest grandchild, looking snazzy in some form of Albion-inspired get-up or other. Poor sod ? I was half tempted to ring Social Services on the spot. Yet another reason for feeling old; what with that and the unrequited trip down Memory Lane provided previously by The Noise?s eldest, at this rate, I?d be going home feeling about eighty.

And, talking about kids, The Noise also gave me a breakdown of what it cost him to bring Bethany on a game-to-game basis (Carly already has a season-ticket). For Category C games, it?s ?10: for Cat B, ?13: for Cat A, a cool ?16. Quite a sum for our talkative but cash-strapped dad to find. Oh ? and another thing about The Noise. Forget Doctor Spock and all those trendy tomes about child-rearing methods, our tame Stokie has it down to a fine art! If we win, then it?s hot dogs all round after the game; should it end even-stevens, then it?s a ?maybe, maybe not? thing; should we lose, though, it?ll come as no surprise at all to learn his kids have no chance whatsoever! But even that has now been refined further; as far as the draw goes, if The Noise feels it was a ?deserving draw? (a bit like the ?deserving poor? if you ask me, but who am I to argue?), then the hot dog money gets flourished, but if he decides the team performance was below par, we should have earned better, then it?s strictly ?No way, Jose!? Super-nannies ? who needs ?em!

So far so good, then ? out of the pub we poured, with around 20 minutes to go ? and didn?t we get a bloody big shock in Halfords Lane. Walking in the opposite direction, with none other than Albion regular Fab Traccana in tow, was Gitte, our genial host around two or three seasons ago, when we followed Albion on their pre-season tour of Denmark. Well, Odense, actually, and Gitte was with another lad, Benny, back then. I principally remember that week because of the enormous impression Long-Haired Mick made on her two kids. Laugh you might, but Mick didn?t half show his ?innermost Dad? out there, and when the time came for us lot to return to Blighty, Gitte?s youngest had the station practically awash with tears!

But the best bit came next; this wasn?t her first visit to The Shrine by any means; she?d already been here twice ? and this is the important bit, folks ? each time, we?d won! Looks as though we should kick off a ?fighting fund? or something, get her attending many more games over the coming weeks and months. With her sort of luck and influence on events, we could well find ourselves chasing a Champions? League spot ere the season?s out!

Still shaking our heads in complete disbelief at meeting our Danish chum under those peculiar circumstances, we shot into the ground. I have to say I was dead impressed with the City following; just about every seat in that away end seemed spoken for, and their occupants all belting out 100-decibel plus noise like it was some weird form of CIA torture, or something. Did ?rendition? apply to the suburbs of Manchester as well, I wondered. In fact, everywhere we looked there seemed to be a bum, be it Manc or Baggie, occupying the designated slot. As for our finest, as I?d hoped, Robbo had left Kirkland on the bench for this one, stuck with The Pole In Goal. Good ? and likewise Kanu, who?d been listed as ?doubtful? the other day. Not only that, injecting a measure of effervescence into the pre-match mix was our very own Malcolm Boyden. What the hell is he on when he?s out there ? ?uppers??

As we?ve seen in the recent past, City prove peculiarly vulnerable when we provide the opposition ? only one home Premiership loss, but two wins, including this one ? and so it was to prove today. Astonishing, when you consider the clinical dissection they performed on poor Charlton last time out, but as I?ve said before, they do tend to blow hot and cold. Or, to put it another way, this time, they were well and truly caught in the showers with not even a fluffy towel to save their modesty; the first intimation of what was to be came with only two minutes on the clock, when Calamity James had to pull out a special one right from the top-drawer to prevent Joe Kamara opening our account with a blistering 20-yarder.

But that only delayed the execution squad ever so slightly; just two more minutes, and it was well and truly a case of ?that man Kamara? bringing the house down. The goal, when it came, was an absolute beauty, one highly-reminiscent of other, arguably better, Hawthorns sides of yore. Inamoto started it with an exquisite pass right to the lad?s busy feet. Just Thatcher to beat, then ? and how! Over his head the ball went, closely followed by its pursuer ? no political connections, of course, but on principle, anyone who ?taters? a Thatcher?s all right by me! ? taking the thing right into the box, nothing whatever to impede his progress, before wellying it emphatically past poor Calamity. Albion 1, Man City 0, and I don?t think I?ll see a better strike than that for a long, long time.

Normally, it?s a case of both sides using those opening minutes to find their tactical feet, test each other out, before one or the other starts to show, but this game was vastly different, inasmuch as right from the kick-off, Albion took the game deep into City?s half, passing the ball around in a manner so exquisitely-arrogant, it totally belied their current bottom half of the table status. Now, of course, the gloves were really off, except for Ellington, who was still wearing them! Kanu was simply amazing, was there nothing he could make a ball do? And City didn?t much fancy the thought of The Duke running at them at near-light speed, either. It could have turned pear-shaped not long afterwards, though, when City nearly managed to flummox the Pole In Goal courtesy a Barton effort that nearly hit the jackpot, but that scare apart, we were turning them completely inside out in a highly-delightful fashion. In fact, considering the number of chances we made, City were very fortunate not to be around four or five adrift by then.

The sheer quality of our play certainly made an impression on my usually-cynical other half, who was moved on more than one occasion to shout ?Lovely football, Albion!? and sundry other paeans of praise as the ball moved, as sweet as a nut from the centre of the field to the ?business end?, where a predatory Kanu and Ellington awaited expectantly. As for the rest of their audience, the satisfying sound of delighted gasps and murmurs, the periodic bouts of clapping, told their own story; consider this, fellow Baggies. This time last season, we were close to bottom and looking deader than the dodo; today, the standard of our play was literally light-years removed from those fraught and anxious times. We?re turning into a ?proper? Premiership side, at long last, and it don?t ?alf feel good from where I?m sitting.

Later still that half, ?Joe? was dead unlucky not to get a second, only Calamity, showing his England-class mettle for once, taking the ball from right under his feet just as he was about to light the blue touch-paper and retire. In fact, so great was our dominance at that stage of the game, I can only remember one occasion when we really looked seriously troubled, and even then, the attempt ended up in Row Z, or thereabouts.

And then, disaster struck. Or so it seemed at that time. The Duke, who had needed treatment for some sort of eye problem ? whether it was grit in that delicate orb of his, or something else, I don?t rightly know - but off he came, and on went Campbell. Confession time, folkies ? when I saw who was taking The Duke?s place, I seriously wondered as to whether or not Robbo had taken leave of his senses. To put it bluntly, the logic just didn?t seem to add up; replace a player with a shit-hot burst of speed with one possessing the turning-circle of a supertanker, and certainly well past his sell-by date when it came to acceleration in the general direction of the sharp end? Oh dear, we?d certainly called it wrong. The question was, would it cost us the points?

And that just goes to show how wide of the mark you can be, sometimes. And if Kev happens to be reading this, my profound apologies for even thinking such heretical thoughts in the first place. But I?m sure you?ll forgive me for thinking that, especially given the way the game appeared to turn immediately following the restart. Losing The Duke seemed to have ripped a considerable amount of urgency and just plain pazzaz from out of the side; losing possession in a distinctly sloppy manner, and backing off, backing off?.. No surprise we nearly paid the price early on, when City?s Cole was given a gilt-edged chance to even the score, but the good Lord was sure on our side today, his shot, unmarked, missing the target by a country mile. Phew! No wonder I immediately turned to ?Im Indoors and said, in worried tones, through gritted teeth ?We?re not going to hold this?.?

Knowing Albion as we do, this seemed like the prelude to an all-too familiar Alamo-type defence of the slender lead, swiftly followed by the inevitable ? and that?s a very good reason why the next bit of the saga, completely against the run of play, simultaneously astonished and delighted us. Sure, we?d earned a couple of set-pieces thus far, but hadn?t really made them suffer ? losing The Duke was more of a body-blow than I?d previously thought - but then came the moment when Manchester City and all who sailed in them must have collectively felt like weeping into a handy bucket, or something.

A nifty, not to mention skilful, one-two with the lad Kanu on the left saw Robbo take the ball right to the bye-line ? how the hell he got the ball over at all in the first place, given the close attention he was receiving from one of theirs at the time, I?ll never know - then sending it on its way, mean, waist-high, nasty, a horrible ball to defend, by anyone?s lights. Had there been anyone there defending, of course. Class, pure class. Enter, stage right, Kevin Campbell, and City?s marking somewhere in the Bull Ring area, still, for all the good it did; a slight bowing of that massive mahogany head goalwards, and in the ball went, like a bloody rocket. A mugging? Indisputably, given the menace City had shown at the other end in the anxious minutes leading up to that strike, but when you sat and thought of how the visitors had somehow wriggled right off the hook during that fraught first sitting, perhaps one should only consider it justice finally done?

As for City ? oh,dear. Whether the much-needed injection of steel the first moment Psycho Pearce took over as gaffer suddenly rushed to their heads or not, I can?t rightfully say, but from then on in, City seriously lost it. Suddenly there were tackles a-flying, studs a-showing, blue and white striped bodies toppled like ninepins. Most un-City like, given their normal impeccably-cultured pedigree. They?d clearly thrown their dolly right out of their perambulators, and big-time; normally, that wouldn?t have mattered in the slightest, but this was getting way, way too personal for comfort, and the referee turning something of a Nelsonian eye when it came to the more blood-curdling varieties of the species. As the game wore on, it became abundantly clear it could only end in two ways. Either someone, probably one of ours, would end up on a stretcher, or one of theirs would end up taking an early bath. You choose.

In the end, after a somewhat dramatic escalation of such crippling tactics, the time came when even the referee couldn?t ignore what was taking place right under his very nose. As to the identity of a likely candidate for the dreaded ?red?, things had degenerated to such an alarming degree out there by then, it was simply a case of perming any one from five or six. As luck would have it, City?s Andrew Cole was the lad who finally ended up walking. Having been booked for similarly-unorthodox behaviour already ? just a matter of a couple of minutes previously, would you believe? - he then, somewhat unwisely, tried to flatten Joe Kamara, and for that, the ref finally showed red. For terminal stupidity, if nothing else.

Not only that, City?s Joey Barton was getting the wrong end of the crowd?s tongue. The reason was all-too obvious, unless you?ve just spent the previous seven days holed up in a nuclear bunker somewhere, that is. Loud roars of ?Where?s your brother gone?? from both Smethwick and Brummie, plus a lusty chorus of ?You?ll never see him again!? for good measure. Not the most tasteful of responses, sure, and perhaps, in hindsight, City should have left him out of their side for ?diplomatic reasons?, but it didn?t half get him wild. Understandable, I suppose. Come the end, I reckon he could count himself lucky just to stay on the pitch.

So there you are. A wonderfully-executed brace, three precious points, and some of the most enjoyable football I?ve seen at The Hawthorns in a good many years. And, just as important, our unbeaten run has now elongated to a highly-respectable four on the bounce. Very little to show for it in terms of Premiership places advanced tonight, mind, but hey ? we?ve won, and in bloody fine style, too.

More importantly, the sheer emphatic nature of that victory must have boosted player-confidence enormously. We now know we can turn it on with the best of them, and that will be an enormous help when we meet Pompey on the road next week. Had they not re-appointed Harry Redknapp, I would have fancied us extracting all three points from Fratton Park; now, I?m not so sure. They?re likely to give us a game, if only to register a few ?Brownie Points? in Harry?s little black book while he?s still keeping an open mind about his new charges. Bearing that in mind, a point will do me just fine.

And after that? Man United, at their place Boxing Day, swiftly followed by an absolute killer of a programme. Two days after the Old Trafford jaunt, we then take on Spurs, at our place, then, just three curried-turkey-and-surplus-pudding-stuffed days later, it?s to Merseyside we trot, for a Yuletide meeting with our Scouser chums. Then, on the second day of 2006, we ?entertain? ? if that?s the right word ? Villa. As it?s not exactly our end of the table we?re talking about, here, Villa apart, I?m not going to make any rash predictions, but if we can, say, get something from Pompey and Spurs, anything else would come as something of a bonus. Something tells me we?re going to be in for a pretty nervy festive season.

And Finally?. Who was it said true Black Country-style humour was dead, then? What really makes this little lot truly wonderful is the fact these are all genuine conversations, and what?s more, ones taking place not in the land of endless coal seams and steel-mills, but in a very talkative environ of Stoke ? so take it away, Carly?s feller! (Oh, and when you see him next, Carly, be sure to ask him if he has Black Country genes of any kind ? dominant, recessive, whatever - in his blood! This lot?s well up with the best Aynuk and Ayli can offer, believe you me!)

Example Number One. Carly?s latest love, via mobile phone, and very late indeed! ?I?m stuck in traffic, I?ll be there soon?!?

Carly: ?Are you in a car, then??

Carly?s feller: ?No, I?m walking!?

Example Number Two? Carly?s feller: ?I?m lost in Woolstanton (a district of Stoke).?

Carly: ?But how can you be lost? You LIVE there!?

 - Glynis Wright

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