The Diary

31 January 2006: How Mean Is My Valley?

Strange how football supporters can take someone completely to their hearts despite incontrovertible evidence that as far as sound man-management skills go, their hero?s track record in that respect is on a par with that of the much-maligned Captain Bligh, of Bounty mutiny fame. Doubly so that after a particularly embarrassing home defeat, as per Saturday before last, those self-same supporters (who didn?t want the club?s next choice of gaffer in the first place, making that simple fact abundantly clear to all who would listen at every available opportunity) then diligently create - or try to - the popular groundswell for a campaign to get the unwelcome successor out.

Or, maybe I shouldn?t stand all aghast and steaming with righteous indignation; football having always been a prime stamping-ground for human beings with abnormally-heightened emotional responses, it should come as no real surprise to discover that the beautiful game can, on occasion, whip up popular opinion with all the passion and fervour of anxious local mothers wanting the neighbourhood paedophile shifted from the little council house backing onto their infants school playground.

These are not serene times we live in, of course; we currently stand around six Premiership wins from safety, with the worrying thought that we?re rapidly running out of road reverberating with increasingly-clamorous tones. But the worst thing we can do right now is embark upon panic-measures. As I?ve said before, there are times when trying to change management mid-season is about as sound a proposal as whipping the scalpel away from the hands of the brain surgeon just as he?s about to dissect out a particularly troublesome tumour, and right now is that time. Sacking Robson at this stage in the game would achieve very little, bar weeks of turmoil for the players, and the undoubted hastening of our descent into the Championship. Fight the good fight, by all means, then ? and only then ? examine the alternatives in greater detail, otherwise, we?re completely stuffed.

I see today that we?re supposed to be in the running for yet more newcomers before the transfer deadline finally brings everyone crashing to a dead halt ? Uruguayan centre-half Williams Martinez, for one, and Southampton captain Nigel Quashie the other, with the possibility of Richard Chaplow going to St. Mary?s on loan in exchange ? but to be perfectly honest with you, that?s not what I was hoping to see by this stage. Conduct any number of straw polls in the Brummie or Smethwick you want, and what you?ll find out there is not the burning desire for yet more defenders or midfield Johnnies, just the capture of a measly half-decent STRIKER. Permanent, loan, whatever, just as long as The Chosen One looks capable of sticking the ball into the back of the net on a regular basis! With less than 24 hours to go before the landlord calls ?Time!? and the shutters firmly pulled down until next August, I can?t say I?m all that hopeful. Are you?

I do hope our finest enjoyed their mini-break last weekend, because come tomorrow evening, it?s going to be a case of ?all hands to the pumps? at The Valley. We do have that truly astonishing 4-1 away win last spring to bolster up faltering courage, certainly, but to be perfectly honest, I can?t really envisage Curbishley allowing his lot to perform so badly tomorrow night. According to the Albion website, we won?t be playing our latest loan recruit, Jan Kozac, in this one, and they also cast doubt upon Steve Watson?s match fitness. Communication problems stemming from poor command of the Queen?s English in Kozac?s case, apparently, but then again, much the same can be said about any Baggie emanating from the Lower Gornal region of the Black Country! Missing also will be Ronnie Wallwork, who hit the magical ?five bookings and you magically disappear from the team-sheet!? mark versus The Mackems. And we?ll miss him like crazy tomorrow night, I?ll bet.

As far as The Addicks are concerned, they won?t be inviting Dennis Rommedahl to tomorrow night?s ball ? doesn?t say why, but he?s definitely out ? with midfielder Danny Murphy?s presence looking unlikely. Will Curbishley stick with the lads who finished versus Orient recently, or will he revert to type by going for established first-teamers Bryan Hughes, Radostin Kishishev and Shaun Bartlett instead? Throw in the relatively-unknown factor in the equation, new boy Marcus Bent, who found the net for the first time as an Addick versus Chelski, and the game could end up very lively indeed.

A win for the home side would return them to the top half of the Premiership table, and give new life to faint hopes of European qualification, of course, while landing us in the proverbial right up to our scraggy little necks. Should we take the cream, though, that would do no end of good to current aspirations of staying in this division for a third term, just like Tony Blair. Mind you, with the great long list of Baggie people ?excused boots? tomorrow night, I?m not expecting a miracle.

And I shan?t be going, either; as I explained, to have travelled would have meant disturbing my other half in the wee small hours to grab a lift from The Hawthorns on my return, and that?s something I couldn?t have done in all decency. What we?ll be doing instead is watching The Bulls at Edgar Street, and keeping a weather eye cocked for news via their very own electronic ? must be unique to the Conference, that one! ? scoreboard. With any luck, we?ll see the same drama unfold at the Valley we witnessed the last time we played them ? yep, Edgar Street was our location that spring day also!

Remember the Great Orkneys Cottage Wind-Up we?d got organised for my big sister, plus Victor Meldrew moan-alike brother-in-law? A pity, but we?ve now had to ditch those plans rather hastily, the prime reason being that when we got in touch with Sis to find out how she?d fared in Snowdonia, she told us it had been one of the best short breaks they?d ever had. A lovely four-bedroomed cottage, fitted kitchen, ?proper? open coal fire in the lounge, but with centrally-heated backup, snug as a bug in a rug, and cosier than sin itself, apparently. And a massive garden that backed onto the confluence of two small mountain streams, those brooding, seemingly-flour-dusted lumps they call Snowdonia quietly lurking in the background.

?You?d have loved the wildlife!? chirped my sis, enlarging enthusiastically upon that statement by describing in detail the various flora and fauna seen there, leaving more precise identification to me. Game birds aplenty, it would seem, plus all the usual avian ?suspects? Just like these here parts, the clime had been icy-cold, but brilliantly sunlit with it; why, they?d even ventured forth as far as Barmouth one beautifully fine but frost-sparkled day. So now they want to do it again. In summer. Bugger. Oh, well ? back to the old drawing-board, then.

The next time you fly to Southern Europe or the Middle East from Brum, after you?ve been in the air for around 20-30 minutes, have a quick butchers out of your plane window. Provided overworked air traffic controllers haven?t mucked about with your flight-path too much, you?ll in all likelihood see unfolding below you the meandering muddy scrawl that is the mouth of the Thames, plus rapidly-expanding housing developments innumerable along its grimy banks. And our FA Cup 4th Round blank Saturday destination, Grays, just a loud toot on a ships?s siren away from nearby Tilbury Docks. Should you happen to visit the place on a crisp clear and sunny winter?s day, as we did, you?ll get rapid confirmation via the enormous number of planes passing high overhead, their vapour trails constantly cutting a pearly linear swathe across a previously-unsullied cobalt sky.

As you might have guessed, though, plane spotting was the last thing on our collective minds last Saturday. No, the reason we?d decided to make the long journey at all was because for ?Im Indoors, their ground was one of the few at Conference level he?d not sampled thus far; in fact, upon hearing of our footballing intentions, The Meanest Man In West Bromwich, an incurable ground-hopper himself, asked if he could tag along as well, with young David, his equally-parsimonious little shaver (chronological age eleven, but psychological age going on fifty, judging by the somewhat incisive nature of the questions he constantly bombarded Dad with!) keeping him company. ?No problem!? we both chorused in almost perfect synchrony, so that was that, then. Look, if you?re an Albion supporter these days, any diversion, however stingy, is more than welcome!

As for the outward journey itself, I remember little, purely and simply because I?d fallen asleep in close proximity to Coventry, only to regain consciousness on the fag-end of the boring trip. Still, it was a lovely day for watching football; as I said earlier, the weather, although crisply cold, was superb, and thanks to an unusually clear orbital motorway system, it wasn?t all that long before we were venturing into Grays itself, the ground being just a hop, skip and a jump away from the town centre proper.

Parking was no bother whatsoever, a handy socket just behind a Catholic church around five minutes walk away from the ground itself proving favourite. Now tell me again ? who was it said ?The Lord Will Provide?? Too bloody right, my son. We left Stingy Father and Apprentice Statto to walk into the town proper ? they ended up on the railway station watching the trains pull in and out, apparently. Rather than watch choo-choos innumerable, we made a beeline instead for the Conference side?s social club, interjected by a brief (very brief because he was working after all), exchange of pleasantries with the ever-affable Tucka Trewick.

It?s a prominent feature of non-league life that grass-roots supporters provide a substantial source of club income, and that?s generally achieved via the provision of social club facilities that wouldn?t disgrace much larger organisations e.g. The Royal British Legion. Certainly, a hell of a lot of dough had gone into Grays Athletics? facilities; on entering their jam-packed ?Blues bar?, the first thing that grabbed my attention was the plethora of ?big screens? currently pumping out Cheltenham-Newcastle for the delectation of both sets of supporters.

Note the word ?plethora?; not just one, like they have in the Supporters Club building stuck in the Hawthorns Hotel, but an astonishing EIGHT, including three slightly smaller brethren situated high above the bar counter, so you could grab your ? medicinal, pur-leasseee! - pints(s) and not miss a single bit of the action. More unusually for a football club, they also had on offer an astonishing selection of real ales, the only real let-down being the disgusting plastic glasses the stuff was served in. Come on, you don?t serve Moet et Chandon in chipped mugs with half the handle missing. Or do you?

Once we?d sorted out various hydration and gastronomic needs, the next challenge was to find somewhere to sit. I?d thought we?d had it, but just like an unexpected parting of the Red Sea at the approach of Moses and his weary flock, minutes later, the party sitting at a table adjacent to our temporary resting-place decided to up sticks and walk, leaving us both with a clear run. I?ll say one thing, though; you sure as hell could tell you were on the fringes of London, just a bit of casual lughole-waggling gave us the strong feeling we?d walked onto the set of East Enders by mistake. Gor blimey and stone the crows, know what I mean, Guvnor, bless yer apples and pears and ?ows yer farver? Vastly more Cockney than most present-day East End incumbents, they?d fetched up in sunny Essex as a result of the huge post-war demolition and resettlement programme undertaken from the conclusion of the war, right up to the late sixties and early seventies. Mostly rabid West Ham followers, more likely than not, so Grays had to be a suitable haven for its resident population of Cockney eccentric, I reckon.

The first thing that hits you about the Conference newcomers? ground is its size. Lack of, I mean. Think of a cross between Gillingham and Southend, but much, much smaller, and you?ve come close. Occupying half the end behind one goal was a steep-sloped uncovered bit of home terracing; the other half, believe it or not, housed Grays? boardroom. In a Portakabin, immediately behind a thin strip of away end. God knows what kind of image that presented to media people and opposing directors, but there you are. A seated ?away? stand ran the length of one side of the pitch ? that was where we finally fetched up ? with a huge gymnasium taking most of the space behind the opposite goal, leaving but a thin strip of terrace for the use of home supporters.

It was when you looked across the pitch towards the opposite touchline it started to get really surreal; occupying its entire length were three storeys worth of modern ?yuppie? flats, complete with individual balcony. An unofficial ?executive box area? so it would seem; privately owned, yet once kick-off had come and gone, most of those balconies suddenly sprouted not Romeo seeking his Juliet, but sundry groups of blokes (and ladies) wanting to take advantage of a delightfully-novel USP, and most certainly not one even the best TV house purchase ?reality shows? could envisage, even during the wettest of dreams.

Oh ? and part of the ground floor below housed both lots of dressing-rooms! Add to that side-streets complete with terraced housing that encroached within the ground, almost, and what you ended up with was one mighty unusual Conference club! Capacity somewhere in the region of 4,000, so ?Im Indoors told me, but where the hell Grays would put the extra bodies attending such a game was completely beyond me. Even with a 1,500 gate ? well, that?s what we heard(ish) on their awful PA system - actually, that?s all we could hear on their PA all afternoon! ? the place seemed well-full, an illusion heightened considerably by the presence of some 3-400 itinerant but noisy Bulls supporters.

As for the game itself, I can quite honestly say, hand on heart, that it?s been a very long time indeed since I?d last witnessed such a nail-biting 45 minutes. I say ?45 minutes? because it was only in the second half that Hereford really started to pull their collective fingers out. As for the preceding 45, The Bulls quickly found themselves an unexpected two goals in arrears. Not entirely their fault, mind; that Grays opener of theirs looked at least a yard offside (we were sitting more or less in line with the play), a shocking injustice that prompted several furious away supporters to hurl various foodstuff items onto the pitch, a gastronomic indignity that immediately brought forth a chorus of ?What?s it like to throw a burger!? tune ?Cwm Rhondda?, from the ?home? lot standing atop their nearby lofty perch. As for Grays second, I?m not at all sure what went wrong that time. From where I was sitting, Hereford keeper Brown looked for all the world as though he?d got the blasted shot covered ? but he hadn?t. Into the net it plopped, sadly, closely followed by a murmured melancholic chorus of ?game over?.? from all those seated around me.

The fundamental problem for any visitors to Grays was this: because of its eccentric ground layout, Grays is one of those places where players constantly find themselves ?up close and personal? with both sets of followers, oppressive certainly, intimidating, quite possibly. Not only that, the home side were in the unfortunate habit of employing tactics that wouldn?t have gone amiss in a Tilbury dockers? bar around chucking-out time. ?In yer face? they most certainly were; chuck in some pretty lax refereeing decisions as well, plus a Grays defence marshalled with all the disciplined precision of a Grenadier Guards RSM put in charge, and the visitors just couldn?t hack it. Add to that also a little bit of an injury crisis, and it quickly became as clear as day why the Bulls couldn?t perform during that disappointing first period.

Not being privy to that innermost half-time sanctum of footballers everywhere, the dressing-room, I?ve absolutely no idea what was said by Graham Turner and Tucka Trewick to his despondent charges come the interval, but it sure as hell transformed the game. Attacking the end where most of their away support was congregated this time, and presumably benefiting psychologically from the ?wall of sound? they provided without let-up, Hereford managed to get one back midway through the half, courtesy a lovely Tam Mkandawire bullet-header that gave their keeper no chance ? and with that strike, getting at least a share of the spoils no longer seemed an impossible dream for their away support. Suddenly, it was Grays turn to panic as wave after white wave crashed upon the rocky shore of their beleaguered penalty area; no surprise, then, when Hereford finally restored parity deep into the half. Again, a header from a corner proved to be the home side?s undoing, and with that strike there came what I can only describe as a ?silence of the fans?. Well, as far as the Grays contingent was concerned, that was.

From the restart, the visitors constantly threatened to go one better, but that proved to be an? ask? too far, sad to say. Come the final whistle, the score stood at a quite remarkable 2-2, and one the visitors thoroughly deserved, may I say. The last time I?d ever seen a comeback like that was when Albion visited Exeter City back in the days when Ossie Ardiles was our gaffer, and the Baggies still stuck in that awful Bermuda triangle commonly known as the Third Division.

With just 20 minutes to go to the end, Albion were trailing by two goals to nil, and dead, dead, dead. Then, we somehow pulled one back, then another, and Exeter suddenly found themselves reeling and rocking in a somewhat unpleasant manner. The way our lot were attacking mob-handed, something had to give ? and it finally did with around 6 minutes left on the clock. 3-2 to us was the final score, and so elated were our following afterwards, a goodly proportion of the grateful headed straight from the ground and into the welcoming bosom of a nearby pub! A shame about the wooden bench accidentally broken by an over-exuberant Baggie, though!

Oh, while we?re on the subject of enthusiastic followings, there was certainly a wealth of humour to be mined and subsequently savoured, and it wasn?t just Hereford?s itinerant footsoldiers so appreciative of such sparkling (and totally spontaneous) wit and repartee. We had it on good authority, via a mutual friend, that former Hereford loanee Danny Blewitt had promised faithfully to turn up in the Grays away end yesterday ?because he loved the craic so much when he did his time with The Bulls?. No chance either way of confirming or denying his presence, unfortunately, but as our mutual chum is not one normally given to unsolicited flights of fancy, we?re both inclined to believe it actually happened.

And it wasn?t all that long after kick-off we first began to realise why the West Ham lad had set so much store on renewing old acquaintances with the Edgar Street glee-club. All the usual insults hurled ? but with a quite unexpected twist in some cases. Example? Their raucous chorus of ?Shit ground, no stand? encapsulated Grays ?Liebensraum? problems beautifully, and their enthusiastic chorusing of ?The Addams Family? theme song in the direction of the home support ? becoming quite a tradition at Bulls away games these days, that one ? was wonderfully-hilarious. The away mob even found time to school their Essex counterparts in the fundamentals of British geography, as per some genius?s heartfelt response to the inevitable outbreak of ?Inger-land, Inger-land, Inger-land?.? emanating fortissimo from the home end at one stage in the proceedings.

Geographical embarrassment writ large, of course; contrary to popular Conference perception, Hereford?s ground is actually situated a good twelve miles from the Welsh border, but the home lot weren?t about to let the truth get in the way of a rattling good chant, were they? No surprise, therefore, when the aforementioned Bulls pedant, clearly hacked off by this serial vile calumny, completely lost it. ?Can?t you lot read a bloody map?? was his deafening but tetchy comment upon the home end?s seemingly-nebulous grasp of domestic political geography.

Sitting next to ?Im Indoors was a bloke whose permanent state of undiluted abject misery would make even the celebrated Victor Meldrew turn in his grave quicker than the proverbial cordless power-drill doing mortal battle with resistant brickwork. Clearly Herefordian by birth, his starring role in Saturday?s triumph was to mutter darkly in the background each and every time the visitors lost possession, which, in the first half was quite a lot! ?Don?t this team know how to properly pass the ball?? was Granddad?s plaintive lament, time and time again. That sort of attitude was all very well, but after a while ? an hour, say ? it all started getting too boring for words, and most within earshot quietly wanting their side to score, if only to shut the silly old sod up for good!

What with that white tidal wave surging forth on the pitch, and the vocal tidal wave off it during the course of that second 45, no-one present was at all surprised to see the visitors gain parity in the manner previously described. And even the circumstances surrounding our eventual exit from the ground raised a few eyebrows; when, pray, was the last time you saw football supporters kept in a ground post-final whistle in order to allow their home counterparts ample time to get away? Well, it certainly happened at Grays yesterday, much to my astonishment, not least because I strongly suspect this particular crowd-control tactic to be completely illegal.

So there you go; 2-0 down, a bigger comeback than those of Frank Sinatra, some thirty or forty years ago, two second half goals, and a juicy ripe point to take back to Zoider Country, too. Wonderful stuff, and me not even a Bulls follower!

And Finally... One. Having tentatively classified this as ?humour? I?m dumping the following tale in my endpiece, but it could have quite easily ended up as something much more serious. Let me explain... As detailed earlier in this piece, I?d spoken to my sister at great length last Sunday evening. The holiday cottage stuff apart, she had yet another matter to report; what happened to my niece at Molineux that very same day. (Before you all rush in with accusations of ?trading with the enemy? let me assure you that my relative?s presence in the ground was strictly in connection with her line of work, credit card promotion and sales.)

Ironically enough, Sunday saw Donna?s first attempt at flogging credit cards there; normally, her job takes her to Albion, or, when really desperate for ackers, Blues and Villa. Ironically enough, after what happened, her Custard Bowl visitation will be her last; stationed outside the ground at first, my niece plus colleague ended up witnessing a vicious running battle ?twixt Dingles and Red Devils, then the pair of them got badly jostled, and absolutely drenched in beer by some of Molineux?s more-braindead-than-usual patrons.

Going inside (more for safety than anything else) both were then subjected to any number of gratuitous insults you care to mention at the hands of United?s travelling band. It says a lot about the prevailing ambience there that once finished for the day, she told her employers not to bother sending her there again, ever, as she didn?t consider it safe. And who could blame her; she?s four or five months pregnant right now, and needs that sort of worry about potential harm to both self and unborn child like a hole in the head.

It?s sometimes said that I use The Dingles as a handy source of cheap humour, but after hearing that little lot, there?s nothing quite like stereotyping the buggers until the pips squeak, is there? Libellous? About as much chance as Princes William or Harry leading their respective platoons into battle in either Afghanistan or Iraq.

Two. Spotted in the ?letters? page of the Guardian today, this one, and concerns one reader recently discovering that a particular French nuclear weapon went under the name of ?Plateau d?Albion?. This person then said that the name roughly translated out as ?Flatten England? ? but we know better. Seems to me more like the French Navy have a closet Dingle in their Gallic midst!

 - Glynis Wright

Contact the Author

Diary Index