The Diary

16 January 2006: "He Ain't Heavy - He's My Buddha!"

Hands up, all those puzzled as hell about the title. Yep ? just as I?d thought, loads of you. But let me not keep you in ignorance a moment longer; let me fast-forward to the lad who showed me his lucky charm (ooer, missus) as we noisily poured out of the JJB, post-final whistle, and by doing so, gave me the inspiration for the title. He clearly knew me, if only by sight; attracting my attention by tapping me on the left arm, he simultaneously - proudly - declared the jolly three-inches-high brass figurine clutched tightly in his hot little mitt to be the cotton-pickin? bee?s cowin? knees. Raising a questioning eyebrow in his general direction quickly elicited the following response: ?It?s me lucky Buddha, see ? ?an it bloody well worked?..?

It?s astonishing what a totally-unexpected away win can do for one?s mental reflexes; a mere fraction of a second?s silent contemplation of the bijou brass object in question, chubby cheeks, wonderful grin and all, and I was in there, as quick as buggery, and as mischievous as you like: ?Ah, I see. A clear case of ?He ain?t heavy, he?s my Buddha?, then?? Fair play to the lad; no sooner had the words left my bucchal orifice, he was totally convulsed with helpless laughter. And that?s what hard-earned three-pointers do to you, dear reader; convulses you with laughter when confronted with daft remarks, and, in the case of my little Baggie friend, completely changes your religion.

To merely assert that today?s result was somewhat surprising is a bit like saying outer space is a bit cold; in both cases, yes, the above holds true, but there was far more to what was out there than met the eye; hopefully, as my tale gradually unfolds, you?ll see for yourselves ? and where to start but right at the very beginning, in the Hawthorns car park, with around forty coaches for company? Well done to ?Im Indoors for depositing me there in such good time; ?tis true he much preferred working on his book to journeying to the place George Orwell knew and loved, but he did promise to watch the proceedings on Sky, which is about as good as it gets. And so, to the next step ? locating The Fart.

By the time I?d tracked him down our own transport of delight was nigh-on full; it only remained to exit the area, mob-handed. So many coaches, the police laid on a motorcycle escort to expedite our journey to Junction One, just up the road. Hell, that many coaches travelling down the Brummie Road in convoy certainly turned heads; I could only hope that the by-now-boggling-furiously brains inside them didn?t cause any shunts. Shades of Oldham, 1976, and, much closer to home, Sunderland 2003-04; another superb result like any of the above was a pretty big ask, but you?ve got to hope, haven?t you?

I don?t know what The Fart had consumed for his breakfast prior to leaving his place, but by the time we were going like the clappers up the motorway, he was certainly laden down with a colossal dose of pessimism. Think the following, O ye people: a combination of Dad?s Army?s Private Fraser ? ?We?re doomed, I tell ye ? DOOMED?.? ? the bloke who, back in the Falklands conflict, used to break the bad news regarding the casualty figures in that deadpan monotone of his, and the soothsayer in ?Julius Caesar? ? ?Beware the Ides Of March?.? ? and you?ve just about got it. Any minute I expected him to announce he?d started collecting Leonard Cohen albums as a hobby, and taken out a life-subscription to Depressives Anonymous Magazine. Dearie, dearie me ? it?s being so cheerful that keeps him going, I reckon.

Mind you, a little further into our northwards trek, courtesy of The Fart?s ancient steam radio (under strict instructions not to leave it anywhere this time), at least I got to hear the opposite side of the coin. From John Homer, taking a short break from hurling Black Country insults in all directions, to talk to The Beeb about the virtues of away journeys in the company of Baggies Travel. And quite right, too ? if ever there was a good time to journey mob-handed to an away ground, then today had to be it. Would we consider it worth the effort come the expiry of the 90 minutes, I wondered.

That was much further ahead, of course; right now, what we had was a beautiful day going for us. Blue skies, not too cold, the wintry light lending a brassy-golden sort of hue to the surrounding fields and trees. Great weather if you were into photography, but right then, I wasn?t. Just realising that in the skies close to the former cotton and shipping capital, the area was preparing its normal meteorological greeting for out-of-town football supporters; lowering leaden clouds, signalling, no doubt, rain ? lots of the stuff.

It was around that time I got stuck into the sports pull-out of one scandal-sheet in particular ? and found myself howling with mirth about Fergie?s half-time verbal altercation with referee Steve Bennett, who got the full hair-dryer treatment as he exited the pitch, viz: ?You?re a reffing cheating basket, and you?ll need a police escort out of here?..? (Cleaned-up version). Even Rooney was heard echoing his mouthy master?s discordant tune outside United?s dressing room, and all over some contentious decisions, apparently. Funny, though: time was not so long ago it was the Manchester moneybags continually getting the rub of the green regarding such issues. Perhaps this is indicative of the fact they?re no longer the all-powerful force they once were in our division. Or something.

The remainder of the journey was remarkably smooth, and as I?d thought, no sooner had we crossed the Wigan boundary, the sky clouded over, and it began to look very much like rain in the offing. Mind you, approaching the ground and rounding a bend, it took just a brief glimpse of the sheer number of coaches in our convoy was a sight guaranteed to get the old emotions going again. No, not quite in the same class as Oldham, but a remarkable sight, nevertheless. It certainly got casual strollers gawping furiously; what more do you want?

Onto the coach park, situated, unusually for a relatively-new stadium, a short walk away from the ground proper. Only about 200 yards or so in it and, as we prepared to exit the vehicle, strains of The Three Degrees, singing: ?When Will I See You Again?? When indeed? Once outside the ground, our original Plan A had been to have a slow stroll around the place, then quietly meander in through the away turnstiles, but Wigan Athletic FC had other ideas ? and not in a repressive sense, either. As we passed what looked very much like a door to one of those private matchday clubs for home supporters, the chap standing outside attracted our attention. ?Why not drop in here for a bit, and have a drink? Away supporters welcome, and if you want, you can even come down at half-time?? Then, seeing my stick, ?We?ve even got a lift installed, so you don?t have to walk, even?.?

An offer too good to miss? Too bloody right ? before you could say ?where?s the beer, then?? tickets were thrust into highly-receptive hands, thereby making the decision for us, so to speak. In we went, then, clutching those little bits of paper ? and that?s when I really had a shock. The place is called The Marquee Club and, at the time we went in, they were pretty busy. What really brought on my profound sense of deja-vu, though, were the furnishings and fixtures; think ?Hawthorns Hotel Supporters? Club matchday premises?, but with the predominantly black d?cor completely reversed out, and you?ve got it in one. Same sort of wall and ceiling hangings, same circular tables, each one holding around ten Baggies comfortably, same subdued lighting ? although quite a bit brighter than the sort back home ? but white, or as near as dammit what you?re ever likely to find in there. Full marks to Wigan for having the enterprise to make the facility available to our travelling band ? I?m given to understand that similar concessions aren?t extended to supporters of local rivals on those occasions their show hits town ? and I?m sure Wigan made a heap of money from the venture, too.

A quick glance around revealed the fact that the place was far better provided for bars than was our own supporters? HQ. Two near the entrance that currently resembled the final stages of Davy Crockett?s Alamo siege, so great was Baggie demand ? but further down and across what appeared to be a disco dance floor was yet another. And, joy of joys, not many had realised it was there, so it was merely a matter of seconds to properly see to my oral rehydration needs, and return once more to the big circular table where we?d plonked ourselves. A totally-unexpected, and quite civilised way to spend time before the serious stuff began, and thanks to the excellent company there already, a wonderful opportunity to discuss all matters Baggie with them.

Leaving around ten minutes before kick-off, it was a matter of a minute or so to whip through the away turnstiles and find our seats. Easy-peasy, once we?d negotiated the short flight of steps involved. Mind you, as we reached the concourse, we were greeted with howls of pure Black Country derision. Nothing to do with us, I hasten to add; just our followers? gut reaction on first hearing what side our leader was putting out that afternoon ? and it sure as hell wasn?t pleasant listening. Darren Carter? Campbell up front, and with Ellington for company? Earnie on the bench, and not providing attacking ?oomph? alongside The Duke instead? How come Rob Davies, eighteen and still wet behind the ears, was one of the subs? In our ignorance, we assumed someone was surely having a laugh out there; no wonder so much unabridged anger and fury burst forth at the time.

And talking of ?hoots of derision?, did we really have to when Jason Roberts?s name was read out on the PA system, also once we?d kicked off? Not big, not clever ? and as potentially-counterproductive as hell. If our lot loved the club half as much as they professed to do in the song, they ?d think twice about doing it, wouldn?t they? I could only offer up a fervent prayer to whatever gods were involved that our strange team selection wouldn?t rebound disastrously upon us. As the two sides did their thing preparatory to kick off, I casually glanced around the ground ? and my goodness, what a lot of empty seats there were, especially in the home end. In our section, too, but that was something else I wasn?t to know about until much later still.

Off we went, then, and following a preparatory assessment of each other?s strengths and weaknesses, it was our finest who were first to have a serious pop, with just seven minutes on the clock. The corner, our first, landed on Big Dave?s head, then straight at the feet of Watson, his attempt, bringing forth a timely stop from their keeper, wasn?t bad at all. Just five minutes later, Jason Roberts reminded us why his presence in the Wigan side was considered so dangerous; luckily, the attempt went high. Two more minutes, and he nearly did it again; this was getting serious, as every time he got the ball in our box, he was looking menacing.

20 minutes gone, and an amusing little interlude ? well, for me it was. ?HANDBALL!? roared their little glee-club situated to our left, as we defended our goal, the ball striking the Baggie concerned nowhere near the limb in question. ?Blimey,? I said to The Fart, ?If they genuinely thought THAT was hand-ball, I?d really love to have meaningful words with their flaming biology teachers!? At last, the game was starting to gain momentum, and, as if in recognition of the fact, Wallwork earned both the displeasure of the ref, and a yellow card. More due to incompetence than malice aforethought, I reckoned.

With 25 minutes or so gone, the target for the abuse switched completely; now it was Darren Carter getting it in the neck, especially from the mouths of the charming specimens situated in our immediate vicinity. Seemed as though whatever he did was wrong, end of story, strictly no debate or agonising over it tolerated, either. Sure, I knew he hadn?t exactly covered himself with glory these last few games, but he wasn?t the worst performer out there, not by a long chalk. Just another indication of the fickleness of football crowds, especially seriously brassed-off ones, I suppose, but still pretty nasty, all the same.

15 minutes from the break came the first of the nasty series of free-kicks on the edge of the box The Pole In Goal wound neutralise so well with his hands and fists. Shortly after that, though, we saw Big Dave end up with a yellow card, and having seen the replay on Adrian Chiles?s programme tonight, I have to say it wasn?t a case of rank injustice being perpetrated on our massive central defender. He trailed his elbow, he got caught. End of story, but of Mister Moore, more anon.

Chances for both sides at either end, but just three minutes before the break, we nearly stuffed up big-time. Sorry to say it folkies, but Big Dave, the Baggie bloke who committed his second bookable offence, was caught bang to rights, and thoroughly deserved to go off, in my book. I got the impression that he did what he did primarily because his legs couldn?t take the strain of chasing relative striplings any more. Anyway, off he went, which meant we had to re-jig things pretty quickly. Who would he sacrifice, I wondered.

The answer was surprising, to say the least; on came Albrechtsen, landing in defence, and off went Ellington, to the instant fury of the away support, who made their true feelings known in no short measure. From half-pace to no pace whatsoever, and in the space of but a minute or so. Within a second or so of Robbo first making his intentions clear, the away end reverberated to an ear-splitting torrent of boos, and equally aurally-destructive cries of ?You don?t know what you?re doing!?? Let me put it this way; had there been a handy rope available, not to mention a lamp-post strong enough to do the job, our manager would most certainly have been dangling from it come the end of that first 45.

Come the interval, I?d genuinely thought we?d just signed our death-warrant. Now Wigan had the extra man available, that would give Jason Roberts complete freedom to roam both unbridled and unchecked. A complete and utter dicking on a similar scale to the one perpetrated on poor Boro at Highbury yesterday beckoned most seductively and most surely, I thought ? and so did the majority of our followers. But, in a second half that surely demonstrated precisely how fickle football supporters could be, sometimes, events took a completely different turn.

It wasn?t exactly an auspicious start; with just three minutes gone, Greening, in acres of space, crossed wide, really wide; as for Campbell, he was completely isolated out there. And yet there were still faint signs they weren?t going to get things all their own way. Finally, I located the precise whereabouts of my errant pen (complete with top), and as I did so, was it me, or were our attacking spells finally starting to hurt them, at long last? Which brings me quite nicely to the vexing question as to how Wigan managed to concede in the first place.

Whatever the reason, we sure as hell needed it right then. The move was initially sparked off when Albion managed to get the ball back from one of their players, about as near to the centre circle as dammit; from that, Ronnie Wallwork got the ball, then seeing Albrechtsen keeping up and going like a steam train gone demented at the same time, he then laid it off to him. Off the lad went, at a conspicuous rate of knots, towards Albion?s equivalent of The Holy Grail, their goalmouth - and before you could say ?Bug-lugs?, even, there was Albrechtsen, steaming through on the right. Any minute I expected him to let the thing roll too far ahead, or simply run out of pitch, but he didn?t; by now, our lad had entered the box, on a diagonal sort of run, too. As if on command, the entire away end stood, Then, cool as a cucumber, he really let fly, aiming for the bottom left-hand corner, across the face of the goalmouth ? and within the twinkling of an eye, proper parity was restored once more.

Guess what? 56 minutes gone, and pandemonium in that away end, complete and utter - and bloody lovely it was, too. As Neil Diamond once sang, ?A beautiful noise? indeed. People with huge smiles on their faces, ?boinging? like things demented, an unpleasantly florid-faced Mister Rent-An-Insult in a nearby seat quietened at long last, and me not quite believing it had happened. Blimey, what a turn-up for the books; down to ten men, and still we managed to steam ahead. Then, as if to emphasise the point: ?We only need ten men??!? And before you ask ? no, they weren?t at all amused by our vocal efforts.

Talk about the fickleness of football supporters; those people now singing the side?s praises to the rooftops were precisely the same mob baying for our manager?s blood just 20 minutes ago; suddenly, even he and players more commonly derided were the heroes of the hour. Amazing. They even had the cheek to sing ?Proud To Be A Baggie? while they were at it.

As for Wigan, that unexpected strike had completely knocked them for six, so much so, their normal pattern of play appeared considerably disrupted for quite a few minutes to come. Oh, dear ? this hadn?t been in the script. Interestingly, though, the player most affected by it all was Jason Roberts. You have to remember that Jason is primarily a ?confidence player?; give him the ball, let him run at people, and there?s self-assurance aplenty to be gained from doing so, but allow the course of the game to swing the other way, ensure his scoring opportunities are strictly limited, and all the poise, all the calm assurance - it goes, just like that. It?s a quality as ephemeral as the life-span of a mayfly as far as our former player is concerned, and just as fragile; as the game neared its end, you could see him shrinking visibly, imperceptibly, almost, just like a balloon that?s gradually losing air from its interior, and looks saggier by the minute.

Ten minutes to go, and another change. This time it was Earnie taking centre stage, at long last, with Campbell the one making room for him. Desperate times, desperate measures. Frantic cries of ?OUT!? whenever the Wigan attacks broke down, a chap sitting next to me muttering, ?It?s gorra cum, ay it?? People trying to spin out time, belting the ball anywhere, delaying over injuries, to the point when I guessed, correctly, as it transpired, the referee would well and truly get his own back when the time came for him to put an end to the torment.

But the best was yet to come, and it sure as hell wasn?t Wigan providing it. Throughout the entire game, The Pole In Goal had been exemplary; everything he touched with those gloves of his stuck irretrievably. He?d even ended up with an almighty whack on the head for his devotions at one stage of the second half. Yet another excellent reason why Mr. Roberts?s myriad frustrations were getting the better of him, but come injury-time, we thought we?d had it. Jason Roberts had the ball, was only a matter of feet from the goal-line, and preparing to pull the trigger.

Then it happened ? how the hell our tame East European got to the damn thing then fisted it away over the crossbar I?ll never know, but he bloody well did ? and traversed from one post to the other in a flash while doing it. Very much in the manner of one of our moggies, in fact, so much so, I was instantaneously convinced that someone had done a crafty cloning job on him when he was in Poland. That was a save he had absolutely no right to make ? but he damn well did, and didn?t that away end applaud him for doing it? Into the fourth minute of four for stoppages ? and still the blasted referee wouldn?t apply whistle to lips; had he been a sensitive soul, he surely would have felt his earholes burn like crazy, such was the sheer volume of choice Black Country insults raining down on him by then.

And then it was all over. Wigan 0, Albion 1, our first away win of the season, and all down to The Pole In Goal, and his heroics. And Martin Albrechtsen, of course, who nearly repeated his scoring feat some minutes later when electing to let fly from a similar position; the trouble was, had he squared it to the unmarked Carter, running like an out-of-control express train towards their goalmouth, it would have been ?game over? right there and then. But that was a small quibble; it only remained for the lads to take their well-deserved applause from the away end ? I have a memory of Paul Robinson, as fired up as an Apollo moon rocket, shaking his fist - ?Yeah, COME ON!? - at our followers in full appreciation of the magnitude of what was achieved. Me? After all that lot, I felt more like a limp rag than anything else.

And that?s me right back to the very start once more. Our triumphant but noisy exit from the ground, my chance meeting with a bloke carrying a Laughing Buddha ? how appropriate, given the circumstances ? and a tiresome search for the correct coach. But what the hell, we?d done it, and in a manner gutsy, ballsy ? call it what you will ? I?ve not seen at this club for many a long year. And, as we exited the town, on came the Sunderland-Chelski game, and them taking that shock lead over the champions. That started The Fart clucking a little: ?Forget it,? I said, ?First of all they?re about 16 points away from us, and second, Chelsea?ll simply turn up the wick.? Which they did, of course. I wonder what sort of frame of mind they?ll be in by the time they play us?

And Finally. Just in case you can?t go for my Laughing Buddha theory, I?ve now established yet another possible reason for our good fortune this afternoon ? the fact that The Fart didn?t get one single chance to stroke any police horses this time round. Easy, isn?t it? As I said at the time, ?Perhaps that?s the secret, Tel? Leave the plod gee-gees alone for the rest of the season, and we?ll be pushing for a place in Europe come next May!?

 - Glynis Wright

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