The Diary

12 February 2006: Chris Coleman's Cottage Industry Gets Six-Appeal!

I should have guessed today was going to be one of those days best consigned to the dustbin of history the moment I first got up. The thing was, it was the pole wot did it. No, not the one currently tenanting the space between the sticks, the shiny brass one keeping our living-room curtains in position. Er ? better make that past tense, actually; one minute they were in-situ, closed, then the very moment I made a grab for them in order to admit some daylight into the place, they were on the floor, and the window looking somewhat naked all of a sudden. And me rapidly engaging in a totally spontaneous burst of what might be termed ?industrial language?.

Oh, and just to lend the occasion a little more in the way of common or garden drama, the pole happened to miss my head by inches as it fell. The worst part, though, was actually telling ?Im Indoors what had just happened. How come? Oh, whoops. Just two weeks previously, my other half had spent around an hour drilling holes in our nigh-on nuclear bomb-proof brickwork in order to accommodate the wretched thing, then a few more precious moments actually putting it in place. To say he wasn?t very amused when I finally mustered up enough courage to spill the beans isn?t the half of it. Just as well I was about to bugger off down to London, really.

Not a splendidly auspicious start to the day by anyone?s standards, I have to say. Unsurprisingly, it was about then that I began to get that awful feeling I wouldn?t enjoy today?s game one little bit. As I didn?t, but that was hours into the future, as yet. I still had to make my way to the ground, my other half (no doubt glad to get rid of me before I managed to spark off a world war on the High Street, or something) giving me a lift there. Not so many coaches for this caper as was the norm; around a dozen or so from Dave Holloway?s mighty organisation, as far as I could tell. And that excluding what independent operators like Sauce were running.

Coach Five was to be our temporary home for the duration of the trip, and once aboard, I began to realise I was in good Albion company indeed. Dave Knott, Supporters Club ?justabouteveryythingyoucaretomention? doing the stewarding, with sundry members of his family to assist by flogging hot drinks and crisps etc. en-route. Plus, sitting immediately behind The Fart ? he?d arrived early to grab us a double seat ? was Fred Carter, who used to help run South Birmingham Branch SC. No Carol, though, which was odd, her being a ?regular? also ? so where was she, then?

Working, apparently; Fred?s other half, a nurse, runs a ?quit smoking? group at some doctors? surgery or other. Ironic, really, given his missus?s medical specialty, that the lad?s own attempts to give up the dreaded weed have met with but little success thus far. Never mind, Fred, I?m sure ultimate victory will be yours in the end, although going away to watch the Baggies on a regular basis, then having to endure the sort of thing we saw today can?t exactly help assuage the old nicotine cravings very much, can it?

It turned out that ?Im Indoors already knew, but it was while I was nattering to Dave, sitting immediately in front of me, that he casually mentioned something that really shook me to the core, the fact that this would be his very last season of watching the side play away. Dave, remember, is so totally-saturated in the ethos of our favourite football club, up until this season, he?d turn out to watch an Albion game even though all his arms and legs were dropping off through galloping gangrene, so news like that came as a considerable shock to me.

The reason? Just like the rest, really; a growing inability to square the considerable costs involved in serious away travel with the strong probability that what one sees on the field of play will be complete garbage, more or less. If what I?m now seeing among some of the most fervent supporters the club has then goes and spreads throughout the ranks of the much-less committed, then I would hazard a guess that the club is really going to suffer from a big-time collapse in away-travel numbers next season.

Even now, they really are haemorrhaging serious support in a most alarming way, and what I term The Big Crunch can?t be too far off, either, the point where, having started to miss away games, supporters are suddenly finding it much easier to miss home ones as well. Not that such a collapse in away support would mean Albion having to dip out financially in any way, of course; all the gate money goes to the home side, and their away counterparts don?t even get so much as a look-in. But when it comes to having season-ticket sales affected, that might well prove a different kettle of fish altogether.

Once disembarked from the coach ? a straight journey there and back, and no stops at motorway services whatsoever ? we then took a short walk along the street outside the ground to where some police horses were stationed, just inside the entrance to a public park I?d visited on our last trip there, the game where we lost in heartbreaking fashion, to a last-minute strike, after having put together a pretty natty defensive performance for practically the whole game. And yes ? I was one of those who?d reported feeling as though they?d been kicked in the teeth as they left the ground.

But back to the police horses, again ? and, as it happened, a certain Albion supporter called Ray Duffin! It was only through being nosey I managed to hear his tale of woe in the first place. Turned out he?d gone to Antigua for a well-earned winter break and rest, but no sooner had he got off the plane, and partaken of those gorgeously-tropical climes, he still managed to end up contracting that peculiarly British winter disease, pneumonia! Suffice to say that one minute he was feeling something rotten in his hotel, the next he was being seen by a local GP, and not long after that, being unceremoniously packed off to the local hospital for treatment.

Quite a grim thing to happen, I suppose, but it is refreshing to note that in an age where tour companies seem to make a habit of engaging in very poor customer care indeed, the holiday firm, totally unsolicited by any of the members of that party, actually stumped up for the poor lad to upgrade to the best suite in the hotel. Small consolation for feeling rotten, it?s true, but at least the holiday company treated him like a human being, made sure that although very ill, he was getting the best in terms of comfort and room service, and made to feel he wasn?t just another customer with a problem they might, or might not be sufficiently arsed to help deal with at that time.

A quick pause to have a dekko at the team as they disgorged themselves from their snazzy new coach (see below for genuine remark from a little girl upon spotting Jonathan Greening emerging from the door of the vehicle), and then it was to those ruddy police horses for some serious fuss. The horses, that is, not me. Quite a moment of discovery for our ancient Baggie-lover, this one; he?d never realised before that horses? teeth never stop growing, and have to be filed at regular intervals so they can carry on eating properly. A bit like rodents and rabbits for that, I suppose. Our soon-to-be-a Blade-equine striker? Quite possibly; after all, they do say ?never look a gift Horse in the mouth?. On the premise you really don?t know what you might find inside?

The best bit, though, came when he was busily stroking the poor nag?s head. Unbeknown to him, a collection of Japanese tourists had stealthily gathered behind, then taken the opportunity of going ?click? with their assorted Nikons, which now means, of course, that El Tel will be a major feature of some Japanese families? photo albums before too long; mind you, there will probably be much Oriental head-scratching about what he was doing there in the first place!

Onward, then, this time along the river-bank, very popular with those locals either walking dogs or jogging. And, as we strolled, a constant procession of Heathrow-bound planes overhead. Amazing what eclectic manner of subjects people find to talk about, sometimes; that one brought forth an explanation from me as to how 747-type planes manage to stay in the air with their engines knackered (they effectively turn into a glider) and why ships floated in the sea, but a solid lump of metal couldn?t, and not forgetting the various duties of air-traffic controllers. All that, and much more besides; see what you?re missing?

Our walk eventually took us back to the ground, at which point we reckoned right now would be a good time to join the ?fun? inside. We?d hardly left the entrance area before we bumped into Tim, a chap we know from Sutton Branch, a lad who watches the side train on a regular basis. And talk about ?the bringer of doom-laden tidings??.. Firstly, he was adamant that Gaardsoe wouldn?t be playing that day, as he?d seen him just two days previously, noting at the time that his injury was playing him up once more after having been tried in the left-back socket. As for Williams Martinez, he was tried also, but didn?t look the part, apparently. So who was playing at the back, then? Why, Carter, Tim reckoned. Doo wot?

Armed with those wonderful tidings, we then made our way to our seats, in a ground that The Fart reckons hasn?t changed all that much since the dim and distant days Tommy Trinder was a director. Oh ? and talking about TT, when I reminded my wrinkly chum about the comedian/director, he instantly came out with the guy?s principal catch-phrase, i.e.: ?You Lucky People!? Maddening, that; when trying to compile yesterday?s instalment, I?d spent some time racking my brains about precisely what he used to say to a theatre audience ? then The Fart comes out with it without even pausing for breath! Grrr.

One surprise when the teams were read out, though. For all his frequent visits to our training ground, and kosher team news over the past few years, Tim had got it dead wrong this time ? Carter was well and truly left on the bench for this one. A sigh of relief on my part then followed; about the last you?d hear from me for a very long time indeed, as it so happened. What had happened was that Clem had gone to full-back, in place of the suspended Robinson, and Tommy G, injured or whatever, took over in the middle. Odd? Too bloody right it was. As was the silence, profound, eerie, even, when everyone present took two minutes out to commemorate the death of former West Ham and England manager Ron Greenwood. Save that of a jumbo jet heading for the airport and the caw of a distant but very noisy crow, not a single sound was to be heard from anyone, anywhere.

The big irony was that as soon as we kicked off, we spent a fair amount of time in their half of the field ? until disaster struck, and as early as the fourth minute. I reckon Tommy G has to hold his hands up to this one; first of all there was the Dane looking comfortable to clear the thing, the next he?d paused, and Helgusson in from absolutely nowhere and calmly putting the ball in the back of the net. Oh, dear?. Still, pick yourself up, dust yourself down, start all over?.

Not long afterwards, the home side gave us a little more to think about, nearly repeating the feat, but this time, The Pole In Goal was handily placed to stop the threat. And we could easily have pulled it back when Quashie managed to force their lad into a superb save with around 20 minutes of the game gone. He was to repeat the effort with around ten to go to half-time, and,.to be fair, by that time we seemed to have recovered a little of our composure, and were actually starting to look threatening in and around their box.

Then, seemingly out of the blue, came the Fulham goal that ended the game as a serious contest as far as we were concerned, and once more, the principal agent of our downfall was a free-kick close to the box. Abrechtsen, who gave away the blasted foul in the first place, was the guilty party. Back everyone came for defensive duties, the location of the offence being a spot left of the box, and around halfway from the 18-yard line to the goal-line. A nasty place to concede at any time, but to my eyes at least, I thought we would deal with it without undue trouble on our part. Big mistake. Over went the ball to the far post, and up soared that man Helgusson once more, with poor Clem left looking like an egg - well beaten. One well-struck header later and it was Goal Number Two well and truly in the bag for the home side. Game over.

During the interval, Robbo tried a little bit of damage-limitation by taking off the quite frankly useless Tommy Gaardsoe, and chucking into the fray Williams Martinez instead. Additionally, The Horse ? I guess that?s the last time we?ll ever see him in an Albion shirt ? made way for Nathan Ellington. That change was booed by our followers, not-so strangely enough. Well, after that less-than-auspicious performance as sub versus Blackburn last week, it was literally a case of ?Last Chance Saloon Time? for the lad. The thing was, though, huff and puff as they might, and bombard our box incessantly while they were at it, Fulham really weren?t worth such a commanding lead; in fact, what we?d seen thus far was a nasty, niggly sort of affair, with the whistle blowing at frequent intervals for petty infringements of one sort or another. Fulham had just got lucky at a time when they needed it most, and very much at our expense ? but even worse was to come during the second half.

Fair play to Ellington, though. Come the restart, he almost hit the jackpot within seconds, the ball going out for a corner instead. With a modicum of luck that just might have sparked some sort of Baggie renaissance ? but it wasn?t to be, sadly. Just two minutes later, we went three behind. This time, it was the direct approach that proved to be our undoing, Route One-type tactics, in other words, former Everton player Radzinski ? I remember him scoring against us the first time we were in the Prem - applying the coup de grace with some aplomb.

Three-nil down by that stage, and yet Albion could still have salvaged some sort of pride from the situation they were in. Greening (who really had tried to get things going out there, to be perfectly fair, not always with any great degree of accuracy, mind, but at least his heart was in the right place) sent over a teasing high cross that just eluded Ellington, loitering with intent on the far post. As for Fulham?s fourth, with just a third of the 45 gone, that took a pretty nasty deflection on its way in, I believe. And, for The Pole In Goal, that was the moment the lad called ?time? on any further participation in the rout, having failed to recover from a first half knock that needed lengthy treatment at the time.

On came Houlty, then, suddenly finding himself embarking upon an unexpected coda to his fast-fading Hawthorns career. Not that it did either his career or himself any good, mind; with just seven to go, Collins John grabbed the chance to belt home from a cross, and make it five. Ironically enough, just seconds before, Albion supporters, in typical ?gallows humour? fashion, urged their manager to ?give us a wave?, to which he duly obliged ? just as the fifth was crossing the line! But then came the one and only moment we actually tried running at them; Inamoto was the lad with the idea, connecting with Campbell, who slotted home our consolation goal. Poor consolation, though ? right on the stroke of time, Collins John managed to do it again. Six and very much out, Albion.

We may not have achieved very much on the field of play today, but there was at least one aspect of normal Albion life that put the feeble efforts of their Fulham counterparts very much to shame, and that was our hard-core support. After watching a succession of shots rain in on our goal this afternoon, I guess that was the only way our lot could salve their wounds ? with ordinary wit, pure and undiluted. That meant the game took on a slightly-surreal feeling, as supporter gems, such as the moment we engaged in a solid bout of ?boinging? had heads being scratched the length and breadth of the Cottage, abounded. Not so, the lusty choral complaint that: ?Five-one, and you still don?t sing!?

Mind you, not long before that, for what has to be an all-time ?first? for me, I actually saw and heard The Fart start a chant off himself, the ditty in question being: ?Six-five, we?re gonna win six-five?.? Pretty soon, just about everyone in that stand had taken up the mocking refrain. Add to that the outbreak of cheering every time we managed to string together a series of passes, and the wonderful throwaway line: ?You only sing when you?re rowing!? presumably emanating from the mouth of some Baggie Oxford And Cambridge Boat Race fan or other. More concerning the home supports? distinct lack of emotion that day ? the theme music from the opening credits of The Muppet Show! And, after that, the heartfelt bellow from some Albion aficionado or other who couldn?t handle the Fulham indifference any more: ?You?re effin? winnin?, for eff?s sake!? was the lung-busting lament from our end.

Even more surprising was the sheer amount of backing Robbo got today. Not so many games ago, our lot would have been baying for his blood. It even got to the stage whereby someone a few rows behind actually tried to shout: ?ROBSON OUT!? but was quickly advised to shut his trap if he didn?t want to end up taking his food via a straw. Another memory was that of the bloke in front of me ? no, not the same one I refer to in my Hawthorns efforts ? suddenly letting fly with every curse known to Man and a lot more besides, and all in the direction of Graham Poll, the man in the middle. Not exactly my ideal companion should I ever end up in a busted lift with the guy, I have to admit, but I really had to admire this chap?s use of powerful imagery in describing the horrible fate our whistling chum had in store should all those Black Country curses raining about his head actually work!

It was around that time, Graham Poll decided to call a halt to the proceedings; perhaps he, too, hand visions of being turned into a toad, or something, by our vituperative chum. Nicely in time to learn that Boro, immediately below us in the table, had gone and done the impossible ? beaten Chelski by three goals without reply. Did they just wave a white flag, or something? A strange result, that one, and something totally against the grain. I could only hope that the malign hand of big-time betting hadn?t descended upon that particular game: I prayed I was wrong right there and then.

Getting back to our ?transports of delight? after the final whistle was a piece of cake, being parked adjacent to the ground. Even given the rapidly-fading light, it would have taken the thickest of Dingles to miss ?em. Once on board, time to take off the layers, and discuss with my fellow-travellers precisely what there was that was positive I could tell The Observer bloke, due to ring in approximately 50 minutes time. Not at all easy, I can tell you; in the end, I reported that the supporters were about the only ones to merge from that little lot with any sort of credit. And, in any case, were Fulham really worth a six-goal scoreline? Even writing this, some hours after the event, I still think not. They got lucky early on, we had a back four that was having a collective ?Condor moment? between them, an attack that couldn?t, and everything they did went exactly to plan. End of story.

At least we now have two weeks to get this lot right out of our system. By that time, we?ll have had the benefit of both our African Cup absentees being back in Blighty once more. Oh ? and another bit of ?not-so-good-news? ? The Pole In Goal might have sustained a fractured rib as a result of today?s exertions, apparently. Plus what Robbo describes as a ?split eye? the perpetrator of the damage being our hat-trick chum Helgusson. Not a lot you can do to sort that out, but take pain killers; doctors don?t even bother strapping up the affected part of the chest these days.

Having said that, the only time such an injury can be described as dangerous is when a lung has been inadvertently punctured by a piece of rib; for obvious reasons, that can become a medical emergency very easily indeed. Not sure how long it?ll take to heal to a degree sufficient to allow ?proper? play once more; time for a bit of a whoopsie on the internet for that sort of thing, I think. Oh ? and I?ve also discovered why Kirkland wasn?t on the bench today, some sort of lurgi, it would seem. Mind you, we could have had Gordon Banks in his heyday between the sticks, and still it wouldn?t have made the slightest bit of difference to the outcome.

And another thing. Nice of Robbo to apologise to us for what he described as a ?shocking defensive display? this afternoon. He then went on to call Fulham?s first a ?schoolboy goal?, which it most certainly was, especially the circumstances leading up to it. Reading between the lines of his press statement, he sounded absolutely furious over what had happened. Apparently, our lot are to go back to basics on the training ground as a result of what took place today. One of those times I?d hate to be a fly on the dressing-room wall. Or possibly Tim watching training next week, come to think about it!

And Finally?.. Yet another ?out of the mouths of babes and sucklings? moment to report, folks! As we both walked down the main drag outside the ground before the game, it so happened that our arrival close to the players? entrance coincided with that of the team coach pulling up and rapidly disgorging its opulent occupants. Quite a crowd of Baggies stood there to witness the occasion, of course, and among them happened to be a small girl aged, I would guess, around four or five. As Greening made to propel himself down the coach steps and onto the pavement, without further ado, up piped our little ?voyeur?: ?Ooh, look!? exclaimed the dear little urchin, clapping eyes upon the lad for the first time, ?There?s a woman there!?

 - Glynis Wright

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