The Diary

22 January 2006: Black Cats Clean Up - And So Does The Fart.

Want to know something? I?m winning to bet anything you care to name that right now, there are some very puzzled commercial airline pilots circling high above the centre of Birmingham, very high, in fact, around 20,000 feet up, and wondering what the hell a mushroom-shaped cloud is doing rising above the Stirchley area of the city. Well, stay your hands (and your handlebar-moustaches, ?wizard prangs?, and ?tally ho?s?), my little aeronautical buddies, because the cause of all the bother is none other than a certain Mister Terry Wills, aka The Fart, who went ?critical? at around eight tonight, and as a result, the entire neighbourhood is now suffering thanks to the fall-out. Both radioactive and with what was formerly our favourite football club. Well, that?s what it sounded like to me when he rang us not all that long after we?d got in ourselves, all full of steaming indignation, plain honest-to-God fury, and a burning desire to clean just about every domestic item in sight. Spitting bricks isn?t the word for it, believe you me, Hell hath no fury like a Baggie upset, and all that jazz. If you do happen to see this man, and he?s armed with both a Hoover and an industrial-size pack of Mister Sheen, ON NO ACCOUNT should he be approached by members of the public!

It really is a complete mystery to me how any football team with anything at all about it can be turned over, so completely and utterly, by a side so awful, bereft of constructive ideas, initiative, and skill as Sunderland were tonight. Thus far this season, their points tally has been paltry; they are, in effect, a Championship side that got teleported to the Prem by mistake, fish out of water, a serious anomaly, even. Despite this handicap, they did have going for them one important attribute we sadly lacked; guts, raw determination, and in ever-increasing quantities, too, once they?d finally twigged our alleged superiority was about as insubstantial as those huge clouds of condensing breath you could see hovering in the layer of colder air just above the Brummie.

As the evening drew on, and the mercury plummeted even further, bolder and bolder were their moves, greater and greater was their self-belief, and ever-backwards was our spineless retreat. There could only be one ending to that sort of thing, and when it finally happened, I don?t think there was one Albion supporter in that ground who expressed any surprise whatsoever at what had happened. The resounding chorus of boos that echoed around the place on the final whistle were totally-deserved, told their own story; just about everyone and anyone that had the power to let us down did so today, big-time, and those players more culpable than others ? they must surely know who they are ? should hang their heads in shame tonight.

It really is a pity I have to file such a negative matchday report tonight, especially considering the excellence of the matchday VIP package we both enjoyed in the hours immediately prior to The Public Tortures. I do have vague memories of doing something similar back in the eighties, and loathing and detesting it ? the fact I couldn?t let off steam in my own inimitable style in the then-Directors Box had a great deal to do with it, as I recall ? so it must be a reliable indicator of my rapidly-advancing years I found today?s package so agreeable. (Minus the ground tour, as we?d both done similar many times previously; on one particularly memorable occasion, I do have vague recollections of bumping into a stark rollock naked ? ?Well-endowed?, as per popular belief?? That would be telling, wouldn?t it? - Cyrille Regis when in the vicinity of the home dressing-room!)

Turning up at the glass doors in Halfords Lane at a time when about the only pedestrians to be seen were a strolling cat and a couple of itinerant pigeons ? and me feeling very out of place sans normal matchday attire of denim jeans and trainers - we were quickly ushered upstairs and cordially invited to plonk our butts in the room where we were to have the pre-match meal, pending the arrival on the scene of our currently-touring boon companions. Literally within seconds, someone else materialised from nowhere to take orders for (buckshee) drinks, and very promptly supplied they were, too. On each seat, each place-setting, there was a goodie pack; on investigation, this turned out to be a match programme, a large 2006 diary (very useful, that) and a bijou card on which to record one?s choice for ?man of the match?. (Did we bother come the end? What do you think?).

Not too long afterwards, other diners began to drift in; first on the scene was a very familiar figure indeed, Clive Stapleton, former director with special responsibility for youth-related club activities, now ?in Denmark trying to turn a little club into a much bigger one, and enjoying it a lot, thank you very much!? Only the second time he?d visited The Hawthorns this season, apparently, and that at the invitation of the Supporters? Club, so his presence was quite a turn up for the books, really. Not long afterwards, in came Mike Thomas and his beau, Linda, quickly followed by other Supporters Club notables and others who had also won the day?s jollities as a prize of one sort or another. Once everyone was assembled, the serious noshing ? melon fans, creme fraiche and what appeared to be a blackberry coulis ? began, and very pleasant it was, too. Lots of wine, of both persuasions, to be had by way of accompaniment; ?Im Indoors thought the white, an Oz brand, to be a bit of a cheeky number, and had no hesitation whatsoever in slapping it down. Which probably explained the inane grin on his face afterwards ? or was that just the bloody football?

Our main course consisted of some chicken creation or other, with Chablis gravy, a rosti-potato-type creation, and what looked like spring cabbage by way of accompaniment, and all with Sky?s latest score service chuntering from the TV set in the corner, above our heads. Our afters, though, were a bit of a mystery to me. Just what, pray, is the significance, occult or otherwise, of orange and black pyramids? Vague thoughts dredged up from the sixties of sharpening razor-blades by leaving them inside pyramids of certain dimensions for an appreciable length of time, ley-lines, Druidic ceremonies, ancient Egyptian burial rites ? all of those flitted briefly through my brain before I finally settled for the probable explanation, viz: the chef was a Dingle with a perverse sense of humour and wanting a bit of a giggle at our expense, hence the strange culinary colour scheme. Mind you, Dingle origin or none, once bitten upon, this strange creation?s innards proved to consist mainly of sticky chocolate sponge with added orange (liqueur?) flavour, and very pleasant it was too, may I say.

That lot finally consigned to the bottomless pit commonly known as the human stomach, it was pleasant enough afterwards just to sit batting the post-prandial breeze with chums of like mind, both familiar or otherwise. Or watch the now-increasing throngs sauntering along the pavement immediately below, long shadows cast by the rapidly setting sun marking their progress up or downstream. Horror of horrors, I actually found myself enjoying the experience, something I?d not anticipated at all! In the ultimate analysis, it?s the feeling of being hermetically sealed from the crowd, almost, just a dozen or so people in one small room, wined and dined, with dedicated and highly-attentive waiter and waitress service at one?s disposal, being spoilt rotten, in fact; that?s what made the whole thing so special, really. Or increasing age and back problems forcing me to finally bite the bullet; freezing football grounds and this column are rapidly becoming an excruciatingly-painful mix.

Around 30 minutes before kick-off, team sheets were duly handed out, and closely perused. ?Why?s Kevin Campbell got a copyright sign against his name?? exclaimed ?Im Indoors, clearly suspecting some sort of hitherto-undetected malign commercial influence was about to descend upon our first team. Then: ?Ah, I see! That means he?s the CAPTAIN, doesn?t it??..? Oh whoops. Just how much wine did you have, hubby dear?

About ten or so minutes before kick-off ? we could have left it until the very last minute had we really wanted to ? we picked up our various goodies and walked into what had been the directors box until comparatively recent times. Turning the corner to proceed up the gangway, to my right and about ten yards or so away, I could spot my sister plus other half, sitting? well, standing, actually - where we normally do. At least we knew they?d managed to suss out the turnstiles properly; when my brother-in-law was a regular Hawthorns attender, back in the sixties and seventies, all you did then was chuck your correct coinage over the counter for the turnstile bloke, who duly let you in once you?d flashed the cash. None of this ?automatic? stuff to be seen anywhere, as Clive?s still all-too fond of reminding us both!

The next really nice bit was the seats in the box outside; not cold plastic, as were our normal matchday perches, but padded, not with leather, maybe, but certainly with something that was kindness itself to your bum, should those really biting winds from the East kick in at any time. And, luxury of luxuries, proper leg-room also. It?s only when you remember the sheer number of times you?ve sat scrunched up and miserable in places like Luton?s Kenilworth Road you truly begin to appreciate the attendant joys of the Black Hole Of Calcutta, and sundry similar places. And, as we were contghtemplating the truly amazing size of the Sunderland away support, out came both sides, to truly tumultuous cheers from supporters of both persuasions. Team changes, lots of ?em, as read by the now completely hyped-up Malcolm Boyden. And, just a minute or so after that, off we went.

As far as drastic changes to personnel were concerned, there was only one of note to worry about, that being Albrechtsen displacing Big Dave, and Watson moving to centre-half. Not surprising, really, after the almighty clanger the enormous lad dropped versus Wigan in the dying minute of the first half. Certainly, after the finish of that last game, he looked a very crestfallen Baggie indeed. There was, also, something of a major social event for our finest; in what had to be the first time in years, we actually had a home-grown kid occupying the subs bench for once, Stuart Nicholson, a budding striker for his sins. I have to go back a very long way indeed to remember the last time we did that, bring a raw young kid on. And still no Earnie. Clearly, whatever he?d done (or not done) versus Reading was now hanging around his neck in similar fashion to the unfortunate Albatross of ?Rime Of The Ancient Mariner? fame. And, in all likelihood, would continue to haunt him for the remainder of the game. As for the bottom-bound visitors, they were putting out pretty much the same personnel they had done all season; they knew they were going down, which made for a certain solidarity of sorts, I suppose.

It was the much-put-upon Darren Carter who was first to come close for our lot tonight, the inaugural effort beating just about everybody there, but not going over the line, unfortunately. Then, in quick succession, both Kev Campbell and Ellington had a go, but something was clearly lacking, there; the ability to provide the ?killer ball? that would enable our lot to instantly convert chances into goals. What with our poor finishing and Sunderland?s pretty dogged defending, no wonder goals - or any sign of someone willing to have a go at getting one - were in distinctly short supply tonight.

Halfway through the half ? aw, you know what I mean ? we nearly did it, ironically enough, in view of what was to later prove our undoing, thanks to a deflected shot, the architect of what he hoped would be Sunderland?s undoing being Ronnie Wallwork, whose overall performance was superlative tonight. Amidst a side consisting largely of people seemingly afraid of showing even the slightest scintilla of reasoned thought and rational action, his long-range jobbie looking for all the world as though it was going to be the one to finally separate the two warring sides. Wrong and dead wrong.

The remainder of the 45 was truly a comedy of errors, Albion trying to win the ball in the middle of the park, and the ?in yer face? tactics of the visitors contriving somehow between them to damn the blasted game for all eternity. Sad to see even the normally-cultured Inamoto making mistakes galore, something else that contributed greatly to his eventual demise. As I said earlier, once Sunderland realised their good fortune, it was simplicity itself for them to rally to the cause and pull off moves which would surely have come to naught had Albion protestations been heeded by the ref. Dearie, dearie me.

Thank goodness for half-time, and a chance to get into the comparative warmth of our little den once more, if only for 15 minutes which isn?t a lot, once you?ve said hello to the Great Porcelain God, then nipped back for one of the excellent little teacakes the club provided for our mid-point delectation. Why, there was even rugby of one code or the other on the TV, bless their little jockstraps and ear-mauling scrummage antics.

This game of two terrible sides competing to see which of the two was the more incompetent, finally exploded into life during an equally mistake-ridden and utterly dreadful second half when Albion finally conceded, and with about twenty minutes remaining on the clock. Ironic, really, as just a few minutes previously, Albion had brought on The Horse for the increasingly error-prone Inamoto, and for once, there were faint suggestions that this re-jigging of personnel would yield results. Mind you, even the precise circumstances surrounding the goal were somewhat weird. The seeds of our downfall were sown when the ref let a Sunderland foul on Carter go, they then gained possession, contriving, somehow, to send Le Tallec tearing towards the Smethwick like a bat out of hell, and the ball nestling safely at his feet as he took on, then beat, all comers. I suspect that had not Robinson then tried to get the ball away from the Mackem lad The Pole In goal would have taken care of it, but when he did, instead of the ball racing off to some part of the pitch deemed a little less dangerous, it whacked instead against the hapless Watson, then skipped and bounded joyfully into our net. An ?oggie? and an embarrassing one, at that. Something we?d seen coming for a long, long time, and the only wonderment we pair expressed at the time was how long it had taken Sunderland to grab the initiative.

As you might expect, after that, the crowd?s patience, wearing somewhat on the thin side, even at the best of times, finally snapped. It?s one thing to see a pretty determined opposition try everything they know to prevent you scoring, but it?s a completely different kettle of fish when it?s incompetence and terminal stupidity that lands you in the doo-doo. To try a different approach, one based upon the supposition that being young and very keen indeed, he would bust a gut to get onto the scoresheet, Robson chucked the teenage Nicholson into the striking fray. The theory, I think, was that as we didn?t even know what the lad?s capabilities were in front of goal, it was a racing cert they wouldn?t either. A nice idea, but once more, one found truly wanting.

With just four minutes remaining, Robson chucked on Chaplow in a last-ditch effort to try and win himself at least part of the farm, but it was a highly-dispirited bunch of feather-merchants that got their wish, repulsing our alopecia-ridden youthful upstart with comparative ease. And, as I mentioned earlier, come the end, we were soundly booed off the pitch.

As you might expect, there are one hell of an awful lot of angry people tonight. The Fart, after that cathartic telephone call to me, sought to assuage his fury watching Casualty on the box, but how in hell he could do so in that manner was truly beyond me. Both sides desperately needed the medical expertise of consultant Harry to sort them out, and a little bit of psychiatric care from Abs wouldn?t have been a bad idea for both managers either. Sunderland are down, make no mistake, but unless we start to pull our socks up, and very quickly, we could find ourselves going the very same way very quickly indeed.

Thoughts? Well, here are some of the ones I consider printable! Today represented a truly wonderful chance to get some clear blue water flowing between us and those bumping around the mud-encrusted bottom of the division ? you only had to watch the drama unfolding elsewhere to realise that - and we completely blew it, playing not some expensively put together top-six hot shot outfit or other, but a side that hadn?t won for 14 games, and should never have got promotion in the first place. I wouldn?t have minded so much had we looked in any way likely to give The Mackems some heavy-duty grief of our own, but we didn?t ? end of story.

The goal itself was a farcical event truly worthy of the Whitehall stage. Had comedian Brian Rix been asked to adapt what happened to his own peculiar comedic genre, then Watson would have been seen scuttling across the goalmouth with his shorts around his ankles, and The Pole In goal would have ended up being chased by an irate husband getting the wrong end of the stick completely about what his missus was up to whenever she and our keeper were in close proximity. It?s either that, or get Messrs. Laurel and Hardy to do the job; either way, you?ll laugh, if only to stop the alternative from happening.

The only Albion player I saw anywhere near trying to spark off some form of menace in front of goal was the previously much-maligned Ronnie Wallwork. Such has been the extent of his rehabilitation since that miserable time last season when the crowd started to get onto his back in such a cruel fashion, it was quite gratifying in its own way to hear distinct ?booing? the instant the crowd realised precisely what it was the bench were trying to do, take him off.

In his present developmental state, if Ellington is a striker, then I?m The Queen Of Sheba; the best ones, like The King, Cyrille Regis, Bob Taylor and the rest, have a burning desire, a hunger for the ball so intense, it instantly sets them apart from the rest of their footballing peers. The classy ones, the true goal-poachers, they live, sleep and eat successful strikes. No matter what they do, either on the pitch or off it, the urge to get the ball in the back of the net becomes an extension of their personality, almost, insatiable, unstoppable. It?s an instinct as primitive and primaeval as the one that keeps us breathing without having to think about how to go about it. Take the genuine article, a top-notch exponent of the art, away from his peculiar craft, even for a matter of just a few weeks, and he?s as miserable as buggery. Ellington, although he might try to walk the walk, talk the talk until he?s blue in the face, but of the successful striker?s art and craft, he has an awful lot to learn, still. Time he sat himself down with someone more skilled in these matter and tried to do something about it.

With a modicum of luck and a following wind, the entire embarrassing episode may yet serve us in an unexpectedly positive way, by forcing Jeremy?s hand. regarding transfers, because if nothing ele is done to stop the rot, then all the good work of last week?s unexpected win, Arsenal, Man City, etc. will be undone more rapidly than you can say ?side netting?.

And finally?.. For the life of me, I simply can?t think of anything even remotely funny enough to merit inclusion!

 - Glynis Wright

Contact the Author

Diary Index