The Diary

03 January 2006: Albion Blow It - 2-1 To The Referee, I Wonder?

Oh, dear ? what a dreadful day. Not only have our hopes of becoming further disentangled from the drop-zone taken an almighty bashing, out of all our fellow-wallowers-in-misery, only Pompey lost. Bugger. Had our reverse been at the hands of any other Premiership outfit ? barring bloody Blues, of course ? I reckon I wouldn?t have presented as such an obvious case for The Samaritans tonight, but to lose to bloody Villa, and via a penalty of whose authenticity I?m still extremely doubtful, has to be the cotton-pickin? limit.

But count your blessings, fellow-sufferers. Right this very minute, in the wilds of Darkest Stirchley, there sits a modest semi that?s probably approaching clinical standards of cleanliness by now; anyone needing transplant surgery should head on out there while it?s hot and smokin?. Supply your own surgeon, bring your own bits of plastic sheeting to keep the mess off the carpets, watch out for the (very clean also) cat ? oh, and if you talk nicely to The Old Fart, he?ll very likely patch you up afterwards himself courtesy a combination of his World War One Field Dressing Pack circa 1914 and a handy bottle of sherry from the stock he laid down around the time of the Cuban Missile Crisis to see him OK in the event of a nuclear war. (Mind you, to some eyes, what happened today isn?t all that far short of such a calamity; as Einstein used to say, ?It?s all relative!?)

So what went wrong, then? I can ascribe much of what happened to our seeming lack of enthusiasm today. Villa were well up for it that nerve-jangling first half, and we weren?t, as simple as that. In fact, we were extremely fortunate not to concede there and then; it was only the brilliance of the Pole In Goal that kept them out. Additionally, I reckon several of our so-called top-notch performers have to examine their consciences also. Darren Carter, for example. If he did anything at all right on that pitch today, I must have blinked and missed it.

Even Clem seemed to have a bit of a ?mare? today, comparatively speaking; he was certainly at fault for that first goal, and hardly covered himself with glory thereafter. But what?s really worrying me right now is what we?ll be relying upon once Kanu and Joe Kamara both take flight, like migratory birds, in the direction of sunny Africa. The thing is, unless we do splash the cash before they go, we?ll be left with Duke Ellington, somewhat anonymous today, to carry the attacking torch, partnered, presumably, by either Campbell or The Horse. Unless we decide to give Earnie a belated chance to prove he?s got what it takes, of course. Such is his inconsistency, though, and coupled with a stinging but somewhat immature sense of injustice at not being included in Robbo?s plans of late, don?t expect miracles on that front.

Tell you what ? let?s wind the tape back to what prevailed before the game; a much happier scene as we wended our way towards the Hawthorns pub. Despite the New Year being two days old, there were still residual examples of the festive spirit on show; take, for example, the people manning the Metro station car-park, open, as usual, to motoring matchgoers. Offering their customers sweeties, they were, Cadburys Roses, no less, and gratefully received by their clientele, too, at least one of whom I heard saying ?Cowin? bostin, mate?, as the brightly-wrapped confectionery landed in his outstretched hand.

Eventually, our travels brought us to where the Players Entrance was situated, and right by that, a familiar figure; no, not one of our finest doing the ?autograph? thing, but Roy Haden, this time complete with not only wife, but son Steve, now out of hospital, as I reported the other day. And I couldn?t resist saying it to him, but grinning like a Cheshire cat, all the way: ?Huh! Bloody part-time supporters!? All in jest, of course, and taken as such by the lad himself.

Once inside The Hawthorns Hotel, aka Alan Cleverly?s bijou pre-match hideaway ? ?Knock three times, and ask for Charlie?.? ? I was privileged to witness something of an astronomical event: The Noise, being reduced to complete silence, and whilst in full-flow, too. What happened? Well, it was like this. Once we?d sat down, ?Im Indoors gave Carly and Bethany dosh to do the drinks run at the bar, and off they dutifully trotted, with their Dad going six to the dozen with us, as is his wont on these occasions. They must have been served very quickly indeed, for just a few minutes later, both reappeared, and carrying said items in their hot little hands. As they dumped their wares on the table, Carly happened to comment that one of the Coke cans had a dent in it, and being the polite ?host? The Noise duly volunteered to take possession. ?Don?t worry ? I?ll have that one,? said gallant Dad, picked it up, pulled off the ring-tab ? I bet you know what?s coming by now - then suddenly found himself getting the soaking of his life. Up gushed the entire contents, just like Vesuvius in full flow, it really was, and everywhere, including all over his clothes. What a mess ? but one not half as bad as the one we were to see in the ground around an hour further down the line.

By now, The Fart had joined our merry band, and with his arrival, an astonishing revelation apropos testimonial games back in those impecunious days before the ending of the maximum wage in football. Apparently, back then, players offered one, usually for loyal service, of course, sometimes turned it down when offered. Amazing, when you think that in the fifties, the maximum wage was something in the region of ?20 per week, and little opportunity to put some by for when the day came for said player to hang up his boots ? but there was method in those canny players? madness, believe you me. If a player took a testimonial game and made, say, ?800 on the night, in would dive the ever-rapacious Inland Revenue, and bite a huge chunk out of those takings for their own slimy purposes. It didn?t happen to cricketers, and that was very much a bone of contention with footballers at that time; as far as adherents of the willow-and-wickets code were concerned, theirs was untaxed, completely and utterly. How different it all seems, now.

Also amusing was seeing The Fart grimace visibly when told the referee?s name. Shouldn?t have laughed quite so much at his pained expression, though, especially when considered in context with what happened inside the ground not long afterwards. I?m now wondering as to whether or not The Fart possesses some sort of unrequited clairvoyant gift; I?m about as psychically-sensitive as our central-heating boiler myself, but The Fart? Ooer ? Stirchley?s answer to the late Doris Stokes, I ask myself?

Time to go in search of Paradise, then ? or failing that, three home points. On our way towards the turnstiles, we happened to run into two figures, both of whom were very familiar to us, and at more or less the same time, too. In the red corner, I give you Bryn Jones, of Bath University, and in the blue corner, I give you Sauce, of The University Of Life (with special commendation in machine-gun-delivery Anglo-Saxon football crowd vituperation). Both parties knew each other very well, as per the Denmark trip of but a couple of seasons ago, so much handshaking and expressions of mutual friendship were dispensed. Unlike our finest were to prove later, though, Sauce was well fired-up indeed for today?s game; his parting shot was to snarl, in the direction of no-one in particular: ?Cum on ? we gorra beat these, ay we?? while simultaneously waving a meaty but firmly-clenched right fist in the air. A gesture of defiance, certainly ? personally, it gave me the willies.

Inside the ground, such was the din emanating from both ends, even a publicly-licenced human foghorn like Boyden had to strain nearly every bit of his sore put-upon vocal chords to make himself heard above the din. In the away end, our blubbery friends were giving big licks to a very familiar song indeed ? ?Ghost Riders In The Sky?. Did they hit themselves over their heads with tin trays, too, when singing it, I wondered? Given their comparative lack of intelligence when it came to such matters, it wouldn?t have surprised me in the slightest. Amidst the almighty racket being dispensed, we then realised our Radio Hereford and Worcester chum was trying to read out the team news; just as well the big screen was showing them also, as it really was difficult to discern properly what was being said.

I never thought I?d ever say it other than in jest, of course, but the news Ronnie Wallwork would be absent for this one came as a considerable shock to me. I?d heard he?d been injured at Anfield, and would be doubtful, and reported same in this missive last night, but to be perfectly honest, I?d privately considered the announcement a tactical ploy to keep our local rivals guessing. But it wasn?t, sadly. Additionally, we were still without the services of Ina, The Mighty Zoltan and Gaardsoe. On the plus side, we did see the return of Jonathan Greening and The Duke to first-choice duty, with The Horse, Chaplow and Kevin Campbell all keeping their little botties warm on the bench.

From the moment we first kicked off, it became all-too apparent which of the two factions were the hungrier (clue: they don?t wear blue and white). Villa were first to everything, and playing to a style very much ?in yer face?. To stop us playing, presumably, and by heck, it didn?t half work. Mind you, within the space of just five minutes after the start, a skilfully-executed interchange of passes between Joe Kamara and Kanu saw the former whang over a lethal-looking cross that Greening picked up on at the far post, but only managed to fire just wide of the intended target, sadly.

While that was going on, the Smethwick were having a little bit of fun at the expense of the visiting throngs; every time their lot started chanting ?VIL-LA! VIL-LA!? ours simply aped them, but in a very shrill tone of voice indeed, verging on the castrati end of the spectrum, almost. And the noise wasn?t just confined to the seats, either; just in front of us was the Villa dugout, and one of theirs giving it very big licks indeed ? no, not the shrill cries I mentioned above, just instructions to their players, the volume of which must have completely ruptured existing legislation dealing with aircraft noise and the like. In the finish, it took the dulcet tones of John Homer to stop the racket. ?Keep the noise down!? he bawled, ?We?m all trying to get some cowin? sleep up here!?

15 minutes gone, and the game was now entering something of a scrappy phase, but even amidst all the dross, there was Kanu, weaving his magic, getting the ball not far from the edge of the box, then jinking past first one, then two of the sods, all the while fending off some highly-illegal attention from the defenders concerned ? so much Villa were getting away with on the blind side of the ref, and right in front of the lino, who remained mute of malice throughout - before finally letting fly with the inevitable shot on goal.

With but 20 minutes gone, Clem, in a somewhat chilling premonition of the mistake that was to lead to Villa finding the back of the net, managed to lose the ball to his opponent, who then fed Baros, lurking in a spot far too close for comfort; fortunately, just as he was about to let fly, Curtis Davies managed to whip the ball from his feet. Our first real warning, then, and just six minutes further down the line, we received yet another. In all fairness, Villa should have bust the net with this one, but despite being gifted the ball when totally ummarked in the box, the lad Moore simply hit the bar instead.

Then it was Carter?s turn to have a go, the ball ending up with him after some lightning work by Kanu and Joe Kamara ? but Carter being Carter, the thing ended up going out of play instead. Villa came back once more, in wave after wave, and with every passing minute, it was becoming increasingly apparent that we?d be fortunate in the extreme to see our goal unsullied come the interval. Cue for the Pole In Goal to demonstrate his perfections to the crowd; time after time the ball looped into his balliwick ? once, twice, thrice ? only for Villa?s predatory intentions to be foiled by some pretty outstanding custodial work between the sticks. At one point, after yet another Villa corner, two of their attack party dropped like bricks in the box, both victims needing treatment. Blimey, someone in our defence must have been really proactive!

As the clock neared the halfway mark, Baggie nerves were all a-jangle, unsurprisingly, and it really began to show. The Bloke In Front Of me, after yet another Carter mistake: ?Gerrimoff!?, then, after one from Albrechtsen, ? ?An ?im, an all ? NOW!? Clearly, criticality was fast approaching in the row in front ? and poor John, who loathes Villa with a burning passion even greater than mine, was rapidly losing what little hair still remained upon that pristine shiny pate of his. It was just as well that the half time whistle blew not long afterwards.

Settling down for the interval, it was a complete mystery to me how we hadn?t conceded already, especially over that particularly-fraught spell not long before the whistle. We?d rode our luck, no doubt about it, and I couldn?t help but feel that feisty lady was going to demand her overdue payback at some time or other during the second 45. Whatever we did, passing, heading, getting in tackles, we always seemed second best to the claret-and-spew, and it worried me. Our goal had led a charmed life, just like at Anfield. Would we be found out in similar fashion, I wondered. One bright note amidst my gloomy ponderings: a female steward, standing in front of the Brummie side of our stand, a little further down from the home ?bunker?, thin pasty face, long black hair, straight with it ? then the penny dropped. Morticia, from The Addams family!

Off we went once more, and almost immediately, found ourselves in deep lumber. The original mistake stemmed from Clem, who lost the ball in the middle, not far from where we were sitting. It was all Villa needed; within seconds, they had it in their box, where, after Albrechtsen had been left for dead, it then dropped to a very surprised (and seemingly-unmarked) Davis, who headed home with the greatest of ease. The poor Pole In Goal could do sod-all about it.

Well, never let it be said we weren?t warned; Villa were one in front, and mainly because of our seeming inability to get our act together when it really mattered. Quite a hammer-blow, that, and it took our lot a considerable time to get going again. A weedy sort of effort from The Duke apart, gathered with consummate ease by their keeper, try as we might, nothing we did was hurting them even remotely. And, as the seconds and minutes slid inexorably by, it was becoming increasingly difficult to see where the Albion goal was going to come from, if at all. ?Creatively bankrupt? is the expression I have written here in my notebook, and although I say it myself, I think the phrase sums up the state of our play at that time quite superbly.

But with almost two thirds of the half now completed, gradual signs we were finally emerging into the land of the living once more. A few more alarums and excursions at either end came and went, then suddenly the game sparked into life once more. A narrow miss from Greening, then, just a few minutes later, almighty howls for a penalty from The Brummie ? and I do have to say that if theirs at the other end was considered perfectly valid later in the game, then why not ours? Certainly, when the ball descended from above, it seemed awfully like handball to me, but Rob Styles was having none of it, much to the fury of the crowd watching from that end.

From there, Albion lobbed in yet another, and it was now their turn to consider life on the business end of the torturer?s rack; somehow, they managed to keep us out, but their luck finally ran out about 15 minutes from time. A cocked-up Villa clearance was to blame, the ball then falling, finally, to Watson, of all people ? and he buried it. Another note in my little book, I see ? ?A poacher?s goal?. Just about sums it up, I reckon, and, as if in acknowledgment, out came the wintry sun for the first time that day.

Following that let-off, our lot suddenly rediscovered their adrenal glands, and what manner of natural stimulant they were supposed to be delivering. Now it was the turn of the visitors to look distinctly uncomfortable, and hope was resurgent once more ? but trust bloody Rob Styles to well and truly put a spoke in our wheel. It all started when Villa were awarded a free-kick, and as close to the edge of the box as dammit. But that?s where it all starts getting confusing; Robbo, in his press conference after the game, reckoned that Styles had told our players to wait for the whistle when taking ours, but allowed Villa to do the precise opposite for this one. The result was that the ref deemed Watson to have handled the ball in the box when Villa took the kick quickly. To me, none of our lot seemed to be the requisite ten yards away, either, so how the hell someone can be deemed to have handled from what is, after all, point-blank range??? Er, ask me one on nuclear physics, or something, because what led to that spot-kick was a complete and utter joke, as far as I?m concerned. I can?t wait to see the replay of that incident, not to mention the spot-kick we should have had at the other end, but Mr. Styles sought to ignore completely instead.

Unsurprisingly, after that complete and utter body-blow, we?d got no chance of getting back into it again. Sure, there were other contributory factors instrumental in our defeat today, but I couldn?t blame the Smethwick for one minute for singing afterwards: ?Two-one, to the referee?..!? Well done Styles, covered yourself with glory ? or controversy ? got your name in the papers again. Technically, you may well have been right, but morally, you were shot to hell. For that, I hope your spherical bits drop off in full public view. Sure, after that, Robson chucked on first The Horse, for Clem, then Campbell for The Duke, some five or so minutes later, but we?d well and truly shot our bolt. Oh, dear ? it?s going to be an ill-fated FA Cup venture next Saturday, I feel.

And finally?.. Je regrette tout, mes amis! The next time you?re sitting near me at a game, please ensure I don?t come out with any more rash/flippant comments! During today?s first half, and knowing Styles for the black-coated cretin he truly is, I?d said to ?Im Indoors, but partially in jest: ?I?d really hate to see us lose this because of a dodgy penalty, you know??.?

 - Glynis Wright

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