The Diary

08 January 2006: Reading Take The Biscuit As Baggies Beggared By Late Penalty!

One utterly cheesed-off Albion supporter to another, outside the ground, following the end of today?s game: ?That Darren Carter ? ?Ees gorra be the worst cowin? Albion player oi?ve ever sin?.?

Me (hearing what was said, then commenting to ?Im Indoors, who?d also heard the same remark): ?Blimey ? how old is he? He only looks like a kid; he should try it for forty years, like me, then start moaning, because believe you me, I?ve seen a damn sight worse than Carter in my time?.?

The guy did have at least some of my sympathy, though. It WAS an utterly dismal display, and there?s no avoiding that stark fact. An utterly forgettable encounter, too, bar the last ten minutes which, I?m afraid, will remain in my memory for a very long time indeed ? as a prime example of how to completely cock up a game, having just gained a totally-undeserved upper hand with about ten minutes to go. For that daft handball alone ? Albrechtsen must have been on suicide pills, or something, to perpetrate an inane trick like that ? he thoroughly deserves to be strung up by his testicles for about a week, then beaten soundly with birch twigs.

As the Reading lad set himself up to net the spot-kick, from a place far, far away, on some high astral plane, or something, I could almost hear their anguished cries; Jess Pennington; Billy Bassett; Harold Bache; ?W.G.?; The King; Ossie; Laurie Cunningham, and all the rest, raging furiously about the current inheritors of the proud Albion Cup-fighting tradition, and how they?d sold their honourable birthright so cheaply today. If I were certain players, I?d be expecting a midnight haunting in true ?Christmas Carol? style, I really would.

But it wasn?t all bad. As per usual, the best bits came before the game, and not during it. While ?Im Indoors put in a few more hours hard yakka at the library, I sorted out our lottery ticket at our local newsagent (We still haven?t been able to find out what happened to bring all those plods crawling out of the woodwork last night, but I?ve still got my feelers out ? watch this space). At least there was one bonus of sorts today; my tenner from last week affectively paid half the price of this week?s investment. The thing was, though, would that sort of luck jump the yawning gap between Camelot?s three balls and our favourite football club? Well, any port in a storm, eh?

By the time my other half returned, full of tales long since forgotten about Baggies of yesteryear, it had started to sleet. And, as we made our way to the ground by car, it began to increase in both density and composition; at one stage, we even had a genuine snow shower going for us. Mind you, the worst of the stuff fell around the ground; not surprising when you consider The Hawthorns is England?s most elevated football club. In terms of height above sea-level, dearie, not League status.

Not a lot, mind, but just enough for us to consider asking Big Dave if he could get down on bended knee to his spiritual ?gaffer? and make the offer of a bottle or two of ?Head And Shoulders? dandruff remedy. Walking up Halfords Lane around half-twelve this afternoon, we could certainly have done with a quick application of the stuff to the bearded old geezer?s silvery locks; as the ground drew gradually nearer, so did the intensity of the white stuff. By the time we reached the junction with the Brummie Road, the entire area had taken on the appearance of a TV picture as seen through a badly-tuned set. At least it wasn?t sticking ? well not yet, anyway, although, thinking about what transpired just a couple of hours later, perhaps it might have saved us all some nasty grief had the whole thing been called off by the referee instead.

As per usual, we charged into the Supporters Club bit of the Hawthorns Hotel, where a surprising scene greeted us. Normally, at that time of day prior to a home game, the joint is absolutely heaving with thirsty Baggie bodies, and all wanting Dutch courage in quantity prior to entering the ground for the game. This time, it was literally a case of ?sit where you want to?, so sparsely was the room occupied - so we did, ending up with that matchday luxury beyond compare, a table complete with sufficient chairs to seat all our Baggie chums and with room to spare, too. Presumably, those who?d purchased tickets up front had decided to leave travelling to the ground until the last moment possible.

We?d hardly sat down in our seats five minutes, when a very familiar sound indeed began to assail my poor tortured eardrums. Back where he lives, it?s generally known as the ?Stoke Whine?; trust The Noise, then, to take that concept one leetle stage further, by bleeding my eardrums the entire time we spent in the pub, almost. I think it?s because living in close proximity to both the Britannia and Vale Park, he has no kindred Baggie spirits whatsoever to talk to at work. Which means we get all that pent-up parental frustration and rage broadside-on the very next time we meet!

Mind you, there was one Albion supporter there who managed to jump the gun on The Noise, and that was the lad we know as ?Andy?, easily identified, mainly because he has both a beard and a hankering for the old ?coffin-nails? that?s the width of the English Channel, almost. And did he have a leetle secret for us - thanks to him, we now know that Sutton Branch Supporters Club secretary, Amanda Hulme, has a bit of a surreptitious private-life, in which she indulges shamelessly when the nights are dark and the moon is high.

All was finally revealed via the small rectangular scraps of paper Andy was so eagerly showering upon us; Mandy now has one of those little newspaper ?supporter opinion slots? for her very own, but not a tabloid one, I hasten to add ? oh, dearie me, no, too common by half! Her offering appears in The Daily Telegraph?s sports bit, no less ? and yes, I?m dead impressed. From small acorns, and all that jazz?.. Today The Torygraph, tomorrow the world? Ooer.

Meanwhile, while both Andy and The Noise were doing their utmost to engage us in simultaneous conversations, those lovely lassies from the Supporters Club were trying to flog their wares, namely their raffle card. This is a matchday ritual done under the auspices of the committee; normally the winner gets all the pot, around ?40, I believe, but for this time only, they were doing something slightly different. The first prize was a brace of tickets for the VIP area on the day of the Sunderland game. Not that we were in any way desirous of spending 90 minutes in such opulent company, mind; knowing participating benefited the Supporters Club, we simply chucked in our quids, and made our team selection ? whoever got it right once the little covered sticker was revealed won the prize ? on a totally-random basis. And then completely forgot about the wretched thing ? until one of the young ladies came back some 40 minutes later. ?Any of you lot have Crystal Palace on the card?? was the question ? and that?s when ?Im Indoors finally twigged. ?Oh, whoops! That?s the one I had?.?

So now it looks very much as though we?ll be spending the whole of the Sunderland game watching the lads perform in much more amenable surroundings! Thinking on, though, I have watched a game from one of those seats before, around 20 or so seasons ago, when it was the Directors Box, but I certainly didn?t enjoy the experience, feeling the constant need to watch what I shouted very carefully indeed, less any coarse language offend the sensibilities of the nobs in any way, but I?ll give it another go this time, just to say I?ve done it.

It?ll certainly give my Diary contribution for that day a certain frisson, won?t it? And by the way, Alan Cleverly ? I didn?t need the reminder about not wearing jeans as we left the premises, honest. I?d sussed that one out as soon as Simon realised we?d won, almost. Not that I?m hugely pleased about their blasted dress-code myself, mind ? I?d much rather be schlepping around in my usual denim jeans as opposed to a pukka trouser-suit - but as that?s the way they play it, that?s the way I?ll have to dress. What do these people take me for, for goodness sakes ? a bloody Dingle?

One good sign as we finally exited, though. The almost-snow had since reverted back to bog-standard sleet again, with the leaden sky above still looking distinctly menacing. Quite an improvement, though, considering the alarming way it had been coming down just a couple of hours previously. It was still sticking, but not to the same extent it had been, so barring any more adverse Met forecasts, we were fully ?go? for FA Cup lift-off. Conversing with various acquaintances in Halfords Lane delayed us a tidge, but by the time both teams decided to leave the warm bosom of their dressing-room accommodation, we were both comfortably installed in our usual matchday perches.

I must say the decision to bring Kirkland in for The Pole In Goal surprised me greatly. I can only assume it was done to give The Pole a bit of a rest and at the same time keep our Liverpool loanee happy. Fair enough, I suppose, provided things revert back to the way they were come our next league game. No Clem today either; according to the club website, he needed an op for the fractured cheek bone he sustained versus Villa, so he?ll be out for Wigan also, damn and blast it. Back, however, were Ronnie Wallwork and Junichi Inamoto, both of them now fully-healed, presumably, with Big Dave at the back, as I?d suspected last night, Steve Watson also dipping out for this one. And we still had the services of Kanu, still awaiting the word from the Nigerian FA as to whether or not they were prepared to play ball with us over this one. Hopefully, we can keep him for the Wigan game also, but don?t go betting on it, y?all - ya hear?

As for Reading, they?d somewhat cheekily said in the tabloid press that morning they were going to ?rest? some of their key performers for this one. And they were dead right, as it turned out ? their subs bench was stuffed full of star men, only brought on for the fag-end of the game, a factor that makes the magnitude of our failure to perform all the greater. From the moment they kicked off, they did precisely what I thought they would do ? pack their defence, keep as many as possible behind the ball, while if possible, stopping us play. More or less emulating the tactics of Villa the other day, in fact. The annoying thing is, though, we could have made that all-important breakthrough with only ten or so minutes on the clock, and with Reading unwittingly providing the ?ammo? to make that happen.

It all started when the lad Gunnarson tried to hoof the ball upfield, but only succeeded in whacking Nathan Ellington on the back with the thing instead. Unbelievably, from there, it then bounced right over the head of the custodially-floundering Stack, from where it very much looked to be heading straight across the line, in fact, but in the end, it didn?t quite happen that way. Instead, the ball hit the post, and with an almighty ?whack?, leaving The Duke, lurking just behind, to finally pot the black, yes? Er ? no, actually. With nowt bar an empty net to aim for, just as he was about to pull the trigger, he managed to slip on the greasy surface, totally ruining his prospects of of glory for all eternity. And, no doubt, all prospects of Jeremy Peace ever growing some new hair, any signs of re-growth having been abruptly terminated by said gentleman pulling out his remaining locks yet again. Oh, well ? it?s a funny old game, isn?t it?

A nasty sort of moment, when Kirkland had to look lively to stop any possibility of a breakaway goal right in its tracks, but overall, by then, the game had descended to a sort of ?armed neutrality? scrappy clearances, the lot, plus midfield encounters that more resembled those of the odd-shaped balls code, the game would end there and then Yet another war of attrition was in prospect, and the signs we were going to win out in the end weren?t all that good. Honest. Then, as the interval loomed ahead, it was Greening?s turn to waste the chance he?d been given, a header which ended up in the loving arms of their keeper. Other than those few precious moments when it looked at least possible something might happen to break the deadlock, a few lovely touches by Kanu apart, nothing at all seemed to be gelling for us.

?Oh dear,? we thought as both sides trooped off for their half-time cuppas, or whatever it is that footballers indulge in during their break these days. Mind you, at least in one department we were matching them stride for stride; early on in the half, the Reading contingent had come out with a lusty chorus of: ?We?ll never play you again?? to which our lot promptly responded with ?You?re coming straight back down!? And, in any case, the replay has now made a complete nonsense of what they were singing!

Well, you?ve got to take what little pleasure you can when it?s there, haven?t you? On the start of the second half, our fervent hope was that somehow, one of our finest could find the key to finally unlock this distinctly-unimpressive game, and preferably before we all died of terminal boredom. The trouble was, though, that as the half advanced, it was still more of the same; Albion attacks, for all the use they were, getting bogged down either in the morass of the penalty area, or in the area immediately outside the eighteen yard line. To watch some of our players, you would have thought it was a live land-mine they were booting, and not a regulation-size football, such was the chary sort of manner they were employing to shift it.

Midway through the second half, Robbo decided to change it, finally. But what he elected to do certainly had me wondering just what the hell was going on, bringing on both Horsefield and Campbell, and taking off Inamoto and The Duke. Effectively, it was supposed to give us three up front ? but of that three, only one was what I regarded as totally-effective in terms of pace. If you wanted results from the aforementioned ?gruesome twosome?, in all probability, they would have probably taken the word ?pace? to mean the Black Country expression for a sarnie, and not what you do with a ball in order to try and outrun a determined defence. Get either one to run at a keeper these days, and you?d very likely have to give them both the use of a Zimmer frame, or similar, to do so, which isn?t exactly conducive towards free-flowing football, now, is it?

And to be scrupulously fair, the elderly pair did have a go, but to no avail. The game was going nowhere fast; neither side looked likely to score in a month of Sundays, so our leader then decided to put Plan B into operation. This one involved the return of The Mighty Zoltan to the fold once more, with Greening the one making way for him. A fair enough swap, as the hirsute lad hadn?t exactly impressed thus far; by now, anything was worth tying, I suppose.

A short spell where both Reading and Albion players tried to get things going, more in hope than expectation, I reckon ? then, with around ten minutes laft, the game suddenly sprang into life. The unlikely catalyst came in the form of Reading?s Makin, who foolishly tried to shift The Horse off the ball right in the middle of the box. The ref immediately pointed in the direction of the spot, and much to everyone?s amazement, Gera then bounded up to take it. Fears of him being ring-rusty, still, flitted across my mind ? but I needn?t have worried. In it went, as sweet as a nut, and one-nil to the Albion. As the players all trotted back to the middle, I remember turning to my other half, and muttering ?You jammy b******s??, or words to that effect.

Just one snag, though. We are talking Albion, here, screw-up specialists extraordinaire through the ages, and they sure as hell didn?t disappoint in that respect this time round. Only five or so minutes to go by that time; all we had to do was keep the ball well away from our box, and we were home and dry. So what evil little incubus, pray, persuaded Albrechtsen ? I had thought Campbell was the one at fault at the time, but not so, it would seem ? to handball so unnecessarily, and right in front of the referee, too? Was it the same sort of self-destructive instinct that impels otherwise perfectly-rational people to play in the fast lane of the M6, sometimes? Or was it simply a case of wanting to completely ruin his gaffer?s day, I wonder? Alternatively, was his recklessness in taking this course of action simply a horrible gift?

Whatever the rationale behind what Albrechtsen did, it certainly buggered up our Cup chances good and proper. Up stepped Doyle, one of their subs, bang went the ball, straight past Kirkland, and suddenly, it was as if the last 80 minutes had never existed. Back to square one, again, and we only had ourselves to blame. Believe you me, come the final whistle, there wasn?t half a lot of booing coming from the Halfords; mind you, in all probability, I?m sure The Brummie, Smethwick and East Stand also had something to say about it ? and none of it complimentary, I?ll wager!

Other thoughts? Essentially, although there was much hype about Reading being from another, lower, division, when you came to properly analyse the situation, they were no more than just a handful of places below us. Hardly surprising they were so willing to mix it out there, then. As far as their happy throng were concerned, just watching them, then listening was rather like being taken on some time-machine back to the days when we were riding high in the old First Division, and kicking ass with Premiership sides, when raw innocence still gushed unbounded, and incipient disillusionment, closely followed by its travelling companion, unbridled cynicism, was nothing more than a faint rumbling of thunder on the distant horizon. Even their chants ? ?Premier league, you?re ?avin a larf!? being a good example of the genre ? were exactly the same! Oh, well, when they finally do get promoted, which they will, of course, at least it?ll be most interesting to see how long it is before they finally begin to lose that pre-promotion aura of absolute confidence they?ve gradually built upon over the course of this season.

I now see the replay has been scheduled for Tuesday January 17th, at the Madjeski Stadium, kick-off eight in the evening. Not that I?m going, mind; after today, I know only too well how that one will end. I can only assume that it was no coincidence Pearson took the post-match press conference this evening; presumably, while he provided the hacks with their full EEC ration of soundbite quotes, his ?other half? was verbally tearing several lumps out of our distinctly-lacklustre side. And yes, Pearson, you were quite right ? that performance today WAS ?unacceptable?.

When I sit and compare today?s game with what I saw on our box once we were home, Luton-Liverpool, in true Cup tradition a totally-absorbing thriller right from the word ?go?, there?s absolutely no contest. Although Liverpool eventually won that one 5-3, both sides made sparkling contributions to the game?s overall entertainment value. For most of it, everything zipped from end to end in the twinkling of an eye, and in rip-roaring fashion, too. One minute the Merseysiders were 3-1 in arrears, the next they were 4-3 ahead, only adding to their final tally courtesy a complete fluke of a strike almost on the stroke of full-time. And even after the visitors had pulled ahead, it could still have swung Luton?s way once more. A wonderful tie; all blood-and-guts, and what the Cup?s always been about, in my book. What we Baggies used to be all about, in fact. But not any more, and if today?s ghastly performance was anything to go by, it?s going to be an awfully long time, if ever, before the names ?West Bromwich Albion? and ?The FA Cup? are once more spoken of in complimentary terms.

And Finally?.One. The minute I first clapped eyes on today?s programme I knew we?d have a bit of an uphill task on our hands. How come? Easy, according to the cover, today?s was none other than Match 13!

Two. A bit of a good giggle to cheer you all up after today?s FA Cup horror-show. Oh - and the following story?s perfectly true, honest. So you?d thought imbecility on the part of club staff was the sole property of The Dingles, did you? Then think again; there now follows a genuine conversation a pal of mine had at the ground, today. Are you sitting comfortably? Then I?ll begin. When my chum arrived in the Smethwick End today, as usual she made her way over to the food counter to get a pie for herself, also hot drinks for both herself and her child. Simple enough, you would think? WRONG!

Apparently, there?s an offer on at the ground right now - a pie and a drink for ?3, so that?s what she had, plus another hot drink, which should have made the total ?4.20. The assistant got the drinks and a pie, then requested ?5 by way of payment. When my mate queried the price, she asked if the offer was still going, and was told that that it was, but it was only for one drink not two, and she should have ordered them separately! As Bart Simpson would have said in similar circumstances: ?D?OOOOH!? As a result, my chum now supposes it would have been too difficult to have the pre match deal PLUS another drink, AND the person concerned having to work it out in her head as well?

Somewhat miffed by then, my chum eventually got the girl behind the counter to call over the supervisor, and explained the problem. She obviously didn't "get it" either, but just handed her 60p back, then went on to serve my chum?s mate standing next to her at the counter. She, too, asked for a pie and a coke and the girl also wanted ?3.60. He asked about the pre match deal and she then said: ?Oh, you should have said if you wanted that!?, then proceeded to hand the guy the 60p back - even after what happened literally seconds before!

In conclusion, my mate reckons she knows she?s not of the highest intelligence, but she does feel she could have given even Einstein a decent run for his money after that little lot!

 - Glynis Wright

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