The Diary

28 December 2005: Spurs -Coq Au Vin Tomorrow, Or Just Another Chicken Joke?

One down, just three to go, then. Christmas games, that is, the first, at United, having well and truly crashed and burned there yesterday, of course. Tomorrow sees us tackle the second instalment of this festive four-parter, when Spurs, who triumphed over Blues at White Hart Lane yesterday, well and truly come to town. The third bit is provided by a ?cooking-on-gas? Liverpool, of course; it?s to Anfield we go a-travelling this weekend, but unlike the Magi, who followed a bright star in the East to reach their final destination, we?ll do the next best thing and make the trip up the M6, but lacking celestial aids to navigation, even one ? a supernova for those Biblical Eastern gentlemen, no less, according to the latest theories - especially created for our benefit, I guess it?ll just have to be the old AA Route-planner again. Our turbaned chums brought gifts to the baby Jesus, and much appreciated by the holy couple they were, too, but being Albion, we?ll be equally generous once we get to Anfield, although what a Messiah, even a trainee one living alongside farm animals in substandard housing, could possibly do with three Premiership points I?d hate to think. And then, next Monday, it?s You Know Who. How awfully nice.

After our separate excursions to clubs about as far apart in League status and size as you could ever possibly get, today was spent in the pursuance of much more tranquil activities. ?Im Indoors (deputising in the absence of Santa, who had much more urgent business with Britain?s child population on Christmas Eve, of course) gave me a teleconverter lens plus adaptor ring for my camera, and what with the brief flurry of snow we had this morning, today seemed the ideal time to put my latest acquisition through its paces. I?ll say one thing for West Bromwich, though; it might be right in the heart of the Black Country, but just ten or so minute?s drive away is a nature reserve and lake, where there?s a huge resident population of wildfowl. Situated right by the motorway system, it?s one of the borough?s best-kept secrets; whatever time of year you choose to go there, there?s always something happening on the wildlife front, and today was no exception.

By the time we got there, the sun was trying valiantly to penetrate the icy cloud cover, and the temperature had plunged to a distinctly-parky 1 Centigrade That didn?t stop one lady, though; armed with enough bread to keep a couple of infantry battalions happy, there she was, on the bank of the lake, doling out her goodies to what amounted to nigh-on a hundred ? but ravenously-hungry, the lot of ?em - swans, geese and ducks flocking those ice-rimmed shores. Out came my new toy, of course, and, yep ? I?m really lovin? the extra firepower that lens has given my itchy shutter-finger, effectively doubled its magnification, it has. And there was a bonus; a little robin, red breast resplendent, keeping pace amidships as we strolled along the path. Once more my trigger-finger twitched; I?ve only looked at the end results via my camera screen, as yet, but I?m certainly banking upon there being at least one photographic cracker in there.

A rather pleasant interlude, that; all thoughts of struggling Premiership outfits put aside for but a few relaxing hours, but now, it?s well and truly time to focus firmly upon what might have gone wrong yesterday, and what tomorrow night?s 90-minute ordeal might bring, if anything. But first, yesterday?s emphatic Old Trafford tanking. I reckon the main lesson to take away from Manchester was this: we set out trying to play for a draw, at best, also resting several key performers while we were at it, and crashed and burned horribly as a result. This ?stop the opposition scoring? malarkey is great when you have the players capable of pulling it off, but the unpleasant truth is we don?t. And chucking in people still learning the game at this level doesn?t help either. To be scrupulously fair, up until that injury to Paul Robinson, we had been making quite a good fist of it, certainly much better than I?d envisaged before the kick-off. Sure, they?d come close, very close at times, but there always seemed to be someone handily-placed to frustrate their predatory intentions at the very last minute. Losing someone fast becoming a highly-important cog in our defensive wheel completely knocked us for six, and United took advantage of the confusion it caused to net their opener. It didn?t help either that United scored again just before the break, and from a corner, too.

Another contributory factor to our downfall was the mucking about of the midfield, and the lack of firepower we had up front. Even if we had been able to match their abilities, our basic problem was that with a makeshift middle, and just Ellington singing solo, there was no real line of communication from back to front. The evidence was provided by the fact we only managed to get our first corner in the first few minutes of the second half, plus our distinct inability to get the ball over the halfway line at any time. Was replacing The Duke with Campbell someone?s idea of a festive joke, in lieu of the sort you generally see tumbling out of crackers right after you?ve pulled them, I wonder? Even with the best will in the world, he?s hardly fleet of foot up front, is he? When you?re left with a situation like that, all you can do is defend doggedly and hope for the best. Sometimes it works.

Mind you, I suppose I ought to refrain from too much criticism; after all, expecting us to bring anything at all back from Old Trafford was a humoungously-big ask, wasn?t it? Better teams than ours have gone there this term and finished up with their tails between their legs, so why should we expect the outcome to be so radically different? But one troublesome thought still refuses to quit the premises, and it?s this. Other sides, Wigan, for example, have adopted the opposite tack ? casting aside completely any negative thoughts concerning the Premiership ranking of the opposition, going straight for the jugular instead, and sod the consequences ? and it seems to have paid off to some degree. Admittedly, when they played the Mancs at Old Trafford earlier in the season, they finished up letting in one more than us, but looking over their entire season, it sure as hell seems relegation isn?t going to be one of their more pressing worries next April.

And, dare I say it, I guess we?ve finally had answered for us the burning question of whether or not Jason Roberts could properly hack it at that level. Two yesterday in that humdinger of a game versus Man City ? and many plaudits from journos watching yesterday?s thrill-a-minute affair, also ? and yes, I am painfully aware he?s only five ahead of the game thus far, but it does strike me he seems to be enjoying his football a whole lot more than when he was with us. Not having someone bawling at him all the while seems to have helped enormously, I guess. I don?t wish to belittle in any way the goalscoring efforts of our current strikeforce, but there are times in the dead of night when I lie awake and wonder what the presence of Robbo at the managerial helm when Jason was with us might have done to improve his game.

And so to tomorrow, and lovely Spurs. This will be our first meeting thus far this term, which is a distinct improvement on last season, when we ended up playing them no less than four times, drawing three, and losing one, the last at White Hart Lane. They, too, are currently riding high, fourth in the heap, so those precious points aren?t exactly going to leap from the branches of the trees and into our ever-receptive laps, then, are they? Admittedly, they did do us a bit of a favour yesterday, by giving our Bluenose chums something to really remember them by, but I honestly can?t see them expanding their generosity to the extent of gifting us the points tomorrow night.

After what happened at Old Trafford yesterday with Paul Robinson, I guess that?s him out tomorrow ? but not in the precise way he was yesterday, of course. According to the club website, he did come round in the dressing-room, eventually, ending up with a whomping great headache as a result of his skull making violent acquaintance with Tommy Gaardsoe?s hip, but the club are going to assess him tomorrow to see if he can start against the London mob. Two things about that statement strike me as not quite right, here; the first is simply that Robbo wasn?t packed off to hospital straightaway.

Admittedly, United?s medical facilities might run as far as actually having X-ray facilities on tap at Old Trafford; whether they do or not, I really don?t know, but years ago, I was given to understand that whenever someone loses consciousness as a result of trauma to the skull, to Casualty they should go for an X-ray, in order to rule out any possibility of skull fracture. The thing is, should a problem be present and not picked up, it?s quite possible for bleeding caused by the fracture to take place within the brain, and enormous pressure build up under the skull as a result; unlike other body compartments, that one is absolutely rigid, and won?t yield to accommodate such things.

This can quite easily result in coma and death, or brain damage of varying severity; look through the archives of any local newspaper, and over the years you?ll find plenty of instances where, say, the police have arrested someone seemingly drunk and incapable, and been absolutely horrified to subsequently discover the person concerned dead in a cell just a few hours later. Yep, the symptoms of brain haemorrhage caused by a blow to the head can be horribly similar to those exhibited by someone seemingly drunk and incapable, as numerous station sergeants suddenly finding themselves having to give evidence at a coroner?s inquest will tell you.

The second? Simple: I was once told that whenever any player at our level sustains a head injury, they have to refrain from participation in competitive games for a period of at least ten days. Admittedly, the guidelines might now be different, or substantially changed, and if anyone out there knows better, I?d be absolutely delighted if they can put me right, but that?s the situation as I understand it. If my supposition is correct, then it?s going to bugger up team selection for tomorrow?s game no end. It?s only when you lose someone of Robbo?s calibre, you really get to appreciate what a vital member of the first team squad he is. I guess we?ll end up having to shift things around in similar fashion to when he was serving that suspension recently.

One thing?s for sure; I?m not generally a betting person ? in fact, the number of times I?ve ever entered a bookie?s you can count upon the fingers of my one hand ? but I am willing to make one exception tomorrow, and that?s concerning the odds on whether or not Clem (twisted ankle ligaments) and Ina (thigh strain) will be in first team contention. Daft question, really ? of course they will. Also with a bit of a niggling injury is Tommy Gaardsoe, who has a bit of a hamstring problem, bless his Danish bacon. And then there?s the possible return of Zoltan to the fray, which, some might argue, is the best news of all. Will Robbo chuck him on right from the start, I wonder? At least our possible options for tomorrow evening have substantially improved; in what fashion our gaffer will actually use them still remains to be seen.

As for the ?other mob?, Ledley King is a bit of a doubt; he hobbled off on Monday with about 25 minute of their game remaining, and groin trouble?s the problem, apparently. Either Noe Paramot or Anthony Gardner will deputise tomorrow night. As for Wayne Routledge and Andy Reid, they?re completely out of contention for tomorrow night?s contest, but apart from what I?ve already stated here, everyone else ?dahn the Smoke? is disgustingly healthy and cooking on gas. So no help there, then.

Again, having seemingly sacrificed the Old Trafford fixture in order to fully maximise our chances of getting something from tomorrow night?s fixture, I can only hope it works for us. Coming right in the middle of what is a truly awful run of fixtures right now, we really do need to come away with something to show for our efforts. As luck would have it, results elsewhere ran kindly for us yesterday, but there?s a limit to the number of times we can rely on other sides doing our work for us. We?re not going to get anything at Anfield, come the weekend, that?s for sure, and the Villa caper next Monday will be a fraught, nerve-ridden sort of encounter at best, so all our money has to go on tomorrow night coming up trumps. Oh dear ? time to hit myself over the head with that bloody tin tray again!

And Finally?. While The Fart and I were ?enjoying? Man Urinal?s hospitality yesterday, ?Im Indoors was experiencing supporter facilities of a completely different kind down in Darkest Gloucestershire, where Forest Green Rovers (they?re actually based in Nailsea, a village about halfway between Gloucester and Bristol) hang out. Their catering operations, geared to their normal home gates of around a thousand, buckled under the considerable strain of having to cope with the matchday influx of numerous Bulls lovers.

Feeling somewhat peckish after the trip down the M5, ?Im Indoors decided to grab a bite to eat at said catering stall, first joining the queue at about 2.20 pm. It was only at around the time both sets of players took to the pitch for the game itself, my other half finally got served! What didn?t help was the fact that although both home and away supporters were catered for at the same outlet, because same was segregated, you had the ridiculous situation where one lot of caterers ? the ones looking after the home supporters ? were twiddling their thumbs doing nothing, while their ?away? counterparts, literally next door, were working their fingers to the bone!

Oh ? and something else to ponder upon in one of those solitary moments when you?ve got nothing better to do. Apparently, Forest Green Rovers have a nickname, one the aforementioned caterers might have coined with a view towards applying it to their very own fraught situation ? they?re called ?The Grumps?, I?m told. Which, you would, and constantly, considering both the almighty annual fight they have to avoid the drop from the Conference, and the precise location of their ground ? a mile or so up a very, very steep hill!

 - Glynis Wright

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