The Diary

18 December 2005: Pompey Prodigal Redknapp Returns Triumphant!

So there we have it. The anticipated Harry Redknapp factor did emerge triumphant from the wreckage at Fratton Park after all, and we ended up losing a game we couldn?t really afford to, considering what sundry horrors the fixture list has in store for us over the forthcoming festive season. A pretty shitty day for those who did make the long trek southwards, of course ? and right here at Chez Wright, also, but not in quite the same way. A metaphorical dollop of dreadfulness only for the likes of The Fart and his peripatetic Baggie chums? but all-too literal for this column, sadly. Let me explain.

To put not too fine a point on it, very late last night/ the ? erm - wee small hours of the morning, our loo well and truly blocked up, and nothing ? repeat nothing ? would unblock it again. A bit of a bummer, that, as I was suffering from a mild dose of the trots at the time, so I knew with a sinking certainty heroic measures would be needed eventually ? but not before tomorrow morning, I reckoned. Just one snag, dear reader. Unbeknown to me, ?Im Indoors had later felt constrained to pay our personal ?seat of learning? an early-morning visit ? and, yes, you can probably guess the rest. With work to be done at the library, I managed to put off the evil deed until we returned later that afternoon, but by the time we did get back, and I gave the disaster area another inspection, I quickly discovered our smallest room as sure as hell didn?t smell of Crabtree And Evelyn; alter just one significant letter in the ?Crabtree? bit, and you?ve pretty much got the pongy picture. Who ya gonna call? Not ?Ghostbusters?, that?s for sure. Too darned expensive for starters, which was why it very much came down to me to commence removal operations.

Not one of life?s most sought-after tasks, I can assure you, and as for ?Im Indoors, one astonishingly-brief look around the door to admire my ?activities?, and within milliseconds he was turning an interesting shade of green that matched our wall-tiles perfectly; had I in my possession one of those smarty-pants Dulux colour-wheel thingies, I could have ordered a couple of tins on-line there and then, and solved yet another of our redecoration problems in one foul swoop ? and believe you me, they don?t get much fouler than this one - but my initiative-glands weren?t secreting in great quantity, sadly. Instead, I sighed heavily, reached out for an industrial-size rubber glove, and did the unspeakable deed myself. Not quite Dyna-Rod, sure, but I did shift most of the ordure, and very nicely timed before I started to heave also. And it was a damn sight cheaper.

That little episode just about set the tone for the remainder of the day ? once I?d restored The Great Porcelain God back to his former excretory glory, I knew in my heart of hearts exactly what was going to happen at Fratton Park. Up to my elbows in the smelly stuff here; Albion up to theirs in similar fashion down there. Easy, wasn?t it? As certain as your old maths teacher telling you pi is always three and a bit, no matter where you go in the known Universe to check the validity of that statement. Even Molineux. Anyway, after I?d finished, and made myself much less antisocial, I decided to give the Saturday papers some heavy-duty licks downstairs, while ?Im Indoors went walkies to remove the last traces of nausea from his poor abused system. Must have dozed off at that point, because the next thing I knew, my other half was back and wondering why I?d not put Sky on. Yep, I?d missed the opening minutes again; I really am getting good at this, now, anyone know if there?s a prize?

It?s at this point I?ll switch over from our bijou Bearwood residence, and hand you over to my Special Correspondent, The Fart, who today boldly went where no Southampton supporter had gone before ? well, not unless they?d wanted to sample hospital food in quantity, that is ? and all through a straw. Apparently, on the outward journey, Dave Holloway?s mammoth undertaking must have engaged warp-drive or something, because the whole journey only took around three hours, Hawthorns to Fratton Park. And no messing with the local rozzers, either, none of this ?straight into the ground ? or else? malarkey you sometimes find elsewhere. No, just like here, although bitterly cold, the sun still beat down upon the Hampshire coastal town, a happy state of affairs that led to some heading for a nearby beach ? The Fart, Alan Cleverly and Dave Holloway being among the ?sun-worshippers?.

As is usually the case when landlocked Midlanders come within hailing-distance of the foam-flecked briny, cameras were instantly flourished with a dexterity that would have surprised Paul Daniels, and much photography was undertaken. Beaches are also a splendid sort of place to bat the breeze in a nice relaxed sort of way, and that?s precisely what The Fart and chums did today. And listened to the radio, which busied itself with the Villa-Man United game, the one that saw the Seals nicely-buried by a brace. Had any native of the city cared to look more closely at that precise moment, they would have seen no less than four fully-grown men, one of whom is rumoured to have known Lord Nelson personally, all dancing around the shoreline like little ?boys of summer? upon hearing the news from Villa Park. After all that jollification, it was then time to return to the matter in hand, so with some reluctance, they all headed on out to Fratton Park once more.

As the game was all-ticket, more or less, no problem whatsoever getting into the ground. What did cause bother, though, was the stewards? policy of telling away supporters they could sit anywhere they liked in that area. Great for the first-comers, who quickly snapped up adjacent seats for both them and their chums, but come near kick-off time, the latecomers were encountering much greater difficulty, of course, some groups ending up completely split up; in fact, Tel tells me that some were still wandering around like the Marie Celeste as late as half-time!

It would appear Pompey had gone overboard on the old traditional pre-match stuff today. A brass band, no less, played fit to bust pre-match, and their sterling efforts were further augmented by an aerial display by dashing chaps with paraglider-thingies, one of whom not only managed to land in one of the penalty areas, due to some freak gust of wind or other, he then ended up in Row D! I can?t quite work out who was the more surprised; the poor squaddie concerned, or the supporters whose obliging bodies had provided such a marvellously-yielding landing-surface! And, in homage to the time of year, there was a Santa, dressed not in the regulation pillar-box red with white fur trim we all know and love, but in an awful blue abomination instead.

The game? According to The Fart, that was the most forgettable aspect of the entire day. As expected Watson was out injured, but in his place was Albrechtsen. Gera also travelled, but he?s still a fair distance away from making a first team return, sadly. For Joe Kamara, of course, the game was a return to his old stamping-ground, having fetched up from there to God?s Own Country in the summer. Unusually, Albion played in white shirts with navy shorts today; whether or not that was a move calculated to change their away luck completely, I know not, but one thing?s as sure as the ice forming on the walls of our freezer ? whatever sort of game our finest were expecting, it certainly wasn?t the one they now found themselves well and truly involved in. Apparently, most of the first half was a non-event; wipe it from the record, erase the tape, do what the hell you want with it. Pompey certainly didn?t look like scoring; the trouble was, though, neither did we. As per usual, the same old problem that?s dogged us almost constantly on the road this term manifested itself once more ? our penchant for getting the ball near the opposition box quite smartly, but totally losing the scoring plot thereafter. ?O killer ball, where art thou in my time of need?

For Pompey, the goalscorer, a lad called Todorov, saw a further chance to make a name for himself, and duly went for it. Be careful what you wish for out there, son, especially places where Harry Redknapp is involved ? it might just come true! In comparison to some shamefully-poor areas in our vicinity, clubs like Pompey seem to track down sheer self-belief like a bloodhound does truffles.

Come the second half, things proceeded much as before ? until Pompey managed to score that was. As I wasn?t there, I can?t say for sure, but when I spoke to The Fart about it earlier tonight, he was very much of the opinion that Clem was the person most responsible for letting them in. Apparently, a 56th minute back-pass from him went totally pear-shaped, and that led to an almighty goalmouth melee, and the ball somehow ending up over the Albion line. Oh, and he also got booked. Ooops. After that, we battered away once more, but couldn?t do an awful lot to dent Pompey?s expectation of getting all three points come the end.

The problem was mainly down to our continuing (and infuriating!) tendency away from home to shy away from going for the jugular; in other words, once the ball goes over the halfway line, attacking options are sought, certainly but the person in possession decides instead to opt for safety, the net result being that before too many seconds have elapsed, The Pole In Goal finds himself lumbered with a little bitty more kicking practice he wasn?t quite expecting. That, plus the ever-present menace provided by Pompey?s Lua Lua, whose entire role in life seemed to consist of trying to catch us on the break ? yet another reason why the more cautious opted for safety over showmanship.

I noticed myself that over the course of the last ten minutes or so, we did try huffing and puffing a bit in order to well and truly blow their blasted defence down, but just like those Three Little Pigs of nursery-school fame, still they held fast. As I remarked yesterday, The Return Of The Prodigal was always going to be the main event at Pompey, and we completely lacked the necessary tactical know-how to poop copiously upon their party. Sad, that, but true. Mind you, if there were any ?pooping? to be done today, the well-matured evidence was there for all to see ? in the Wright toilet bowl, and not in the Pompey net!

Oh, well ? at least there?s not too much damage been done, what with Villa, Blues and Everton all dipping as well today. The problem is, though, once the Christmas programme hits, we then embark upon a sequence of fixtures that?s truly horrendous. Man Urinal, at their place, come Boxing Day ? but no modern-day footballing equivalent of Good King Wenceslas come to sort out the poor old bugger wanting a festive handout, sadly. The way gas prices are going up these days, even that barmy old coot would get mugged for those few bits of ?winter fuel? he?d come in search of. After that, it?s Spurs, currently in the top six, then Liverpool, at Anfield. After that, we have to wait until the nascent 2006 before we are once more matched against a side occupying a slot in the vicinity of the relegation area. And that?s Villa. More stuffing, anyone?

And finally?? It?s been announced today that all areas of the Hawthorns are to become smoke-free zones, as of next season. The move will be a bit of a blessing for those, like me, who simply can?t cope with the smell of burning baccy, but as far as those who do indulge on a regular basis are concerned, bearing the awful way in which we keep losing games in mind, just what will they do in future to keep their gut feelings completely under control? Expect to see loads of frazzled fingers completely chewed to the bone next season, kids. Either that or spot some very respectable-looking people chasing up the drug-dealers in nearby Handsworth pre-match!

Oh, and another thing. You thought our display today was bad? Apparently, Blues at Manchester City were much worse, so bellyachingly-awful, some commentators were moved to describe their game as one of the grimmest ever seen in that division. Against Man City, mind, who constantly blow both hot and cold. Hell, they?re so unpredictable, even their own players haven?t a clue what?s going to happen on any given Saturday. Cold against us, but smokin? hot against Steve Bruce?s lot! With all that lot going on, surely there?s got to be hope for us yet?

 - Glynis Wright

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