The Diary

05 February 2006: OAP players Campbell And The Horse Shine As Albion Grab The Spoils From Rovers!

What a day, what an unexpected win ? and what a contrast to the distinctly sumptuous manner of our attendance the home game before this one. Our departure today was to the tinkly accompaniment of glass coaches transmuting themselves into common-or-garden pumpkins, and those gorgeous white stallions suddenly acquiring a mouse-like look. No Prince Charming, either, unless you want to count The Noise, who does have a track record in that department, but with Council Tax officials, and not the regal real McCoy, sadly.

I refer, of course, to the Sunderland game, prior to which we were wined, dined, and generally spoilt rotten by the club; all part of a raffle prize, of course, but none the less welcome for that. As the motley collection of suits and bean-counters currently occupying the boardroom might put it, our Albion ?experience? ? God, how I loathe and detest that bloody phrase ? was a positive one, overall. Were I to coin it in big courtesy the Lottery, or similar, I might give the idea serious consideration; the state of my back is not good, even at the best of times, and as the years slip by, I can?t imagine it improving significantly, either ? but that?s a fantasy world, isn?t it, populated largely by ?what ifs? and ?maybes?. More chance of being anally-probed by ET. Reality is the Halfords Lane Stand, with the delectable John Homer plus good lady wife Jean seated forwards but slightly to my right, and The Bloke In Front Of Me going through several varieties of mental meltdown as the game progresses ? and you can?t get much more down to earth than that little lot giving it licks during a home game, believe you me.

It was good while it lasted, but today saw us doing our usual thing; parking up in our normal spot, then making our slow and gentle way towards the Hawthorns Hotel ? but today, the fickle finger of fate had something quite different in store for us; Italian, in fact, and going by the name of Massimo; believe it or not, both he and his little tiny shaver (plus Maximus Pater) had flown many miles from the land of grappa and spaghetti to take in today?s game. Blimey ? and I thought I was slightly mad when it comes to watching our lot perform in odd places! There he was, by the police post, swarthy complexion, black curly hair ? and was that designer stubble on his cakehole, I wonder? Dad, not the baby, I mean. Then those immortal words: ?Hi! I?m Massimo, from Italy ? Remember me??

We certainly did, and he wasted no time telling us that the last time he?d brought his sprog to The Shrine, we?d actually WON! Wow, an achievement in itself last time round. Mind you, we then intimated that that particular aspect of his child?s upbringing might well cause him to come to the attention of the Italian Social Services. Poor sod; not been on this planet five minutes, and they?re traumatising the poor little mite already!

Bidding the three of them farewell ? they were heading on out to The Vine, sensible people ? we then headed for Ground Zero, in the opposite direction, sparsely populated for that time of day, a pretty clear indication of what the gate would be ? low, low, and thrice low. Once inside, we quickly located the whereabouts of The Noise, et deux femmes, both yomping away with McFlurries as fast as their little tastebuds would let ?em, it would seem.

During the course of the (very long!) conversation that ensued, we discovered that young Bethany was doing a school project on the Sikh religion, therefore my assistance with a camera was required ? or, more to the point, a picture of the huge temple on the main Smethwick drag was wanted. Bethany, seeing the place for the first time ever when Dad diverted that way after the Sunderland disaster, was totally-smitten, apparently. Couldn?t believe how big it was, she wants a piccie for her project to prove it, so I guess I?ll oblige the very next time we head on out that way. Oh ? and young Carly has now learned a spectacular little trick via the multitudinous wonders of the chemistry laboratory: how to blow bubbles with the aid of methane gas and a lot of strong detergent ? then set fire to said bubbles with a little wooden spill. Quite a sight, watching these whopping great bubbles combust in just about any place you might care to put ?em, so Carly tells me. Is it me, or do kids have far more fun in O-Level science classes these days?

Additionally, we learned that during the Sunderland game, our garrulous chum had managed to upset yet more Baggies sitting in close proximity to his Brummie Road End perch, the principal bone of contention this time being the way our Potteries chum was going on about Darren Carter ? but as The Noise himself pointed out, he wasn?t being personal. Honest!

Enter, at that point, not the dragon, but The Fart ? but toting not his old (and extremely vicious!) bag, this time. Instead, a much more racy number hung over his shoulder, one purchased from the club shop, no less. And, unlike its predecessor, it was capacious, awesomely so; the interior could have taken a complete 79 bus at a pinch, I would say. All he has to do now is house-train the bloody thing, and get it to give up its contents nicely when asked to do so; after he?s been in our car for an hour or three, it?s literally a case of ?spot the mislaid item? on that poor back seat of ours.

Just to add a certain spice to the proceedings, on entry to the ground, we quickly discovered there was to be a match-ball delivery service with a difference. Nothing to do with the referee this time ? the elegant, lovely and distinctly un-talented Chris Foy, an official whose name has appeared in lights courtesy this column on several previous occasions - a member of the Royal Marine Commando stood poised and ready, on the roof of the East Stand, eagerly awaiting the signal to ?go?. But first there was the team news to be disclosed to an eagerly-expectant Hawthorns crowd ? and when we heard it, popular consensus was stunned silence.

How come? Easy ? with two already up to their necks in African Nations Cup duties, even with the best will in the world, we knew we?d struggle to find a fit pair of strikers plus one on the bench for this one. But Campbell, partnered by The Horse? And the only semblance of pace we had, in Ellington, confined to butt-warming bench duties? Ooer. But, as ?Im Indoors quickly reminded me, Ellington?s confidence was completely shot to hell, and giving him a start might well have seriously compounded matters. Other changes were Quashie taking part in a midfield reshuffle, which figured, I suppose; no discernible stirrings of mutiny over that one, I have to say, with the other two new boys on the bench and awaiting their own moment of destiny, and Wallwork picking up the tabs once more after the completion of his recent suspension.

As for the ?other lot? they were pretty much as expected, although I was somewhat surprised to see amateur thespian Robbie Savage returned to full duty. The other surprise? Since when have Blackburn played with what looked suspiciously like suspenders over their blasted stockings? And, as the show got under way, I mentally returned to what form and shape I?d thought the game would take yesterday; a grim, dour struggle, with the visitors narrowly carrying the day, and us well and truly chucked into the more once more. WRONG! Clearly, our mob were under managerial orders to go for the jugular at every available opportunity ? and judging from the puzzled expressions seen on so many Blackburn faces, that was the complete opposite of what they?d been told we?d do!

Caught them completely on the hop, it did; for the whole of that first five minutes, their defence really rocked. With only 5 minutes gone, thanks to a lovely Greening ball from the right, Campbell was most certainly guilty as charged of what I?d feared would be a golden opportunity missed to put Rovers to the sword. Given almost carte blanche to fire home from less than six yards out, our wayward lad somehow contrived to send it going past the near post instead. Not recommended as a means of winning friends and influencing people, it has to be said, but it only took less than 30 seconds for the lad to completely redeem himself; Inamoto was the provider, the ex-Everton lad simply rounding the defender and leaving Friedel with less than a dog?s chance. Mind you, had Campbell made a complete and utter mullock of that second gilt-edged chance, if I were him, I?d have headed straight for the players tunnel, a la the Arsenal Campbell variety ? and not stopped running until I?d reached Smethwick, at the very least!

One-nil, and still an eternally-long 80 minutes to get through before we could claim all three points as our own; just how many Baggies would have their fingernails reduced to bloody stumps before the game had run its natural course, I wondered. Just what in the name of God had happened to the visitors? back four? By that point, they were performing like a bag of greasy chips, all of them, and could have quite easily gone a further two or three down by the time the game hit the ten-minute mark. Clearly, Robbo?s frankly startling tactic of going straight for goal, harassing them beyond belief, had been repaid handsomely, and with compound interest, too.

By that point, watching our lot in action was a bit like recycling one of those ?before and after? TV clips, with the emphasis distinctly on the ?after?. ?Albion, the pit-bull terriers of Premiership football?? Now that?s a concept I really struggle to come to terms with! Come the 13th or thereabouts, come the moment when the visitors almost caught us on the break, the cross coming in from the left, and dangerously, too, but Clem was on hand to nullify the danger completely, nice lad that he is.

By that time, Blackburn seemed to have largely recovered from that initial onslaught of ours, were much steadier at the back than they had been, but with 22 gone, Inamoto nearly proved to be the agent of their undoing, and the delectable Robbie Savage in dire danger of providing the ammo, which, had it come off, would have left great gouts of egg dribbling down those lank locks of his. Confucius he say, he who carelessly lose ball in the middle to a well-up-for-it Inamoto deserve to get punished, and that?s how things almost panned out. Swiping the ball from right off the very feet of the ?Drama Queen? himself, the Japanese lad then headed straight for the Smethwick, cut in from the right, left at least two Blackburn defenders looking extremely silly indeed, then pulled the trigger from around 15 yards out, the ball missing the intended target by the narrowest of squeaks. They were extremely fortunate to have emerged in one piece from that one, and I reckon they damned well knew it, too.

Over the course of the latter half of the opening half, if you get my drift, Blackburn somewhat unexpectedly seemed to wake up and smell the coffee; all of a sudden, they were stringing passes together, looking the part in general. What we needed most of all was another goal in order to put a bit of a brake on their newly-rediscovered extracurricular activities, and quickly, too, otherwise there lurked in some nasty little corner the unpleasant prospect of letting them back into the game once more. Not the wisest of courses to take should our overall aim be that of survival, grabbing those elusive three points, pure and simple.

Come the 30-minute mark or thereabouts, that?s precisely what we got ? but what a tremendous way to go about it! It all started with Greening lurking with intent on the fringes of the attack-zone; seeing the ball about to land in his vicinity, he then made sufficient room for himself to take it down with his foot, not only bringing it under control superbly, but simultaneously shifting the thing onto his ?proper? shooting appendage as well. After that, he simply let the ball bounce just once ? then let fly, on the half-volley, and going like a rocket. Result? Poor old Friedel well beaten once more, 2-0 the scoreline, and that exquisite strike a Tony Brown-vintage job, if ever there was one.

Shades of Sheffield Wednesday, FA Cup Round 3, Hillsborough, 1970, as the ball rocketed into that receptive rigging. Ever known a shot?s going straight into the back of the net no sooner the ball?s left the striking Baggie boot? That was Jonathan Greening?s extraordinary effort today; some you instinctively know will end up in Row Z, but for every tonne of ore mined then painstakingly stripped of its precious metal content, there eventually turns up a shiny golden nugget, to do with as you wish. Today was undoubtedly one of those moments, and I?m willing to bet today?s young Baggies will still be getting as excited over that one 35 or so years hence as I did over Bomber?s effort all those years ago.

Coo, what a game this was turning out to be, and completely the opposite of what I?d predicted. And not just in terms of goals scored, either; even our dynamic Old Fart duo up front were performing above and beyond the call of duty, bless their little Zimmer frames and bus passes. Remember yesterday, when I?d suggested that Campbell and The Horse?s various little wiles and guiles might well prove to be the undoing of the visitors? That?s just how it panned out, once the damage had been done; on the one hand you had Campbell, winning balls with a combination of casual flicks with his head, and sheer determination, and as a result, setting someone else up for a pop at the prize.

The Horse? His was a different sort of skill; holding the ball up when challenged by a pretty determined opposition player is never an easy ?ask?, never has been, never will be, so full marks to the lad for managing that, too. As for our lot in the Smethwick, they had already assessed the overall standard of the opposition?s game, the result being a perfectly frank, not to mention lusty chorus of :?Man United must be s**t!? a veiled reference, of course, to Blackburn?s surprising but emphatic midweek win over their opulent near-neighbours.

But despite all that, we still hadn?t properly lanced the boil, let the stinking pus flow freely, relieved the pressure. Savage was increasingly making a nuisance of himself, and not in the usual ?dolly-out-of-pram? sense either, And they were getting slightly niggly with it; come the 40th minute, Nick Worth found himself suddenly in demand when Inamoto ended up on the rough end of a particularly nasty bit of Blackburn skulduggery, carefully timed for the moment he was about to pull the trigger, too. Incredibly, referee Foy then waved ?play on?, the Albion attack coming to a juddering halt about three passes later. Some advantage, that. Gee, thanks a million.

Unsurprisingly, Blackburn made some changes during the interval, jiggling the midfield around a tad, and, around ten minutes into the second half, chucking in Old Mister Treble-Barrelled Scouse Reject himself, Pongolle. With a name like that in football, you can only go one way, can?t you? And, as the swap was being made, we just happened to notice three or four squaddies enjoying the game from what must have been the most elevated viewpoint in the entire ground, the East Stand roof! Oh well ? gets them acclimatised to the Himalayan peaks of Afghanistan well in advance, I suppose.

By now, Blackburn were well onto Plan ?B?, which consisted of going three, sometimes four, it seemed at times, up front, and their midfield trying valiantly to batter their way through; sometimes, worryingly, they almost succeeded. That, plus Savage starting to get really ?savage?, a state of affairs that won?t surprise anyone unduly. A Battle Of The Alamo reconstruction it was for our poor defence, then, and not a single coonskin cap or Jim Bowie in sight, sadly.

With 21 minutes gone, off went Kevin Campbell, the first of our Old Farts to go, clearly knackered, and to a standing ovation as well. Thoroughly-deserved, of course; not blessed with the greatest of pace these days, but my, how wonderfully effective were those sumptuously-executed flick-ons of his. That performance of his today was one of life?s more pleasant surprises, shall we say. On came The Duke by way of replacement, then, and hopefully, time for him to make much more impact upon the Premiership than he had of late. Er ? wrong!

Not long after that, The Pole In Goal got clobbered. Fortunately, he was OK after treatment from Nick Worth, and all with the aid of the Smethwick warbling ?Poland?s, Poland?s Number One?..? to the tune of the old sixties Tremeloes hit: ?He-Lule-Lule-La-La-La?.? They sure don?t write them like that any more, do they? More to the point, with this Number One Pole business, does our lad rank behind the likes of Lech Walensa, whose union activities in Gdansk caused the first tiny cracks in the mighty edifice that called itself the Polish Communist Party to appear, or the lad Paderewski? Not only was the latter Poland?s first Prime Minister just after the end of the 1914-18 caper, he was also an international-class concert pianist as well. If there?s one thing I can?t stand it?s a clever-clogs, moreover a musically-talented one, too, so right to the very back of the ticket queue he goes as well!

Back to Ellington, now, whose activities up front were beginning to seriously worry me. First of all, come around 75 minutes gone, he found himself one-on-one with their keeper just about, and the chance just begging to be put away; not only that, but The Horse was to his left, and relatively untroubled by attendant markers ? so what happened? His chance of glory faded, he got himself horribly entangled with their defence, and ended up looking very silly indeed. And that was just one incident of several. He really will have to learn what the Premiership?s all about, and quick, otherwise he?s going to come in for an awful lot of abuse if he isn?t careful.

With just six remaining, Quashie, who?d had a splendid debut game throughout, and really looked the biz, came off, making room for Carter. Then, it was just three to go, and things getting very fraught indeed, three Blackburn attempts ending in the Pole In Goal making a tremendously good stop. I could only hope that the Polish national side goalkeeping coach had turned up for this game as promised; certainly, our keeper?s acrobatic shot-stopping efforts really do deserve a much wider audience, and where better to start than the forthcoming World Cup, I say to myself?

The end of the normal ration, then, but an incredible FOUR additional minutes whacked on. Mind you, as my other half observed around just minutes previously, by and large their venom had been neutered. Sure, there were the obligatory ?handbags at ten paces? during stoppage time, but the game was won, and we knew it; it only needed the ref?s whistle to make it official, which he finally did after playing an extra couple of minutes ?overtime?, just to wind everyone up. But that?s referees for you, and that was three lovely points for us, thank you very much. Even better, all of our other relegation rivals had fared relatively badly that afternoon, we being the only lot to have walked away with the ?full Monty?.

Sunderland have gone, of course; as for the rest, Pompey look in deep trouble, while Blues could have done without that defeat at the hands of The Arse. Heavy defeat for Boro at the blubbery hands of our fish-chomping chums in Aston means they?re dropped right in the doo-doo. A handy six-point gap has now opened between us and the bottom three, so things are very much in our hands once more. Fulham, next week? Yes, both myself and The Fart are going, but I?m letting caution rule OK. Fulham are practically bomb-proof at The Cottage, so we?ll do well just to get a point there. Mind you, I never expected to see us grab all three today, so one never really knows, does one?

And Finally?.. One. Heard on the WM phone-in, shortly before kick-off at the Charlton game in midweek, and The Fart on the other end of the line. Presenter (clearly expecting to hear of something far more interesting on the booze front than the answer he finally got): ?What are you drinking, then, Terry??

The Fart, (somewhat sheepishly!): ?Er ? hot Ribena, actually?..?

Two. It?s ?Steve The Miser Award For Being The Stingiest Sod On The Block? time, folks, and the winner is??(rustle of envelopes being opened, etc. ??) The Noise?s dad! Nominated by his dutiful son, who tells me Pater dropped into his local ?offie? the other night, then had the brass neck to ask the owner for ?anything going on special offer? so he could stock up on supplies as cheaply as possible. Explains away the numerous crates of Malibu and Baileys he?s got stashed in his house, then.

 - Glynis Wright

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