The Diary

12 March 2006: Second-Hand Support, First-Hand Thrills!

It?s been quite a strange sort of day, today; not the sort I?m used to having at all. For one thing, it?s mighty hard to listen to BBC commentary on an Albion game in the old jam-jar when you?re busy heading down the road towards another quite different fixture. All sorts of emotions pervade the mind, up to and including that of ?I really ought to have gone there today; life just isn?t the same unless it?s blue and white striped,? up to and including, ?Oh soddit ? what?s ?35 quid between friends??

That?s what happens when you get really severe Albion withdrawal symptoms, my leetle cabbage-stalks, and barring the complete impossibility of doing an absolute sizzler of a handbrake turn, and rapidly reuniting Baggie with local derby, there?s not an awful lot you can do about it, is there? Listening to The Beeb?s blow-by-blow account of this March meeting of relegation-haunted minds on our car radio ? we had commenced operations with the one in the house, but quickly graduated to the one in our jam-jar once the time for departure drew nigh ? we quickly gathered that despite all the advance-billing of the game being absolutely crucial to the respective futures of both sides ? er ? not an awful lot was going on out there to either materially quicken spectators? blood in transit through those half-frozen veins of theirs, or lift the spirits in any other way. In short, just like the surrounding wintry Worcestershire countryside, just about everything looked (and sounded) pretty bleak for the Baggies.

What really made things so bloody frustrating, though were all those cast-iron copper-bottomed scoring chances we were gifted on a silver platter, only to screw up in spectacular fashion the first chance we had of putting any of them away. Four, in total, if my memory serves me correctly, two of which came in the first half courtesy our ex-Toffee chum Mister Campbell, then, not too long after that, the lad Kamara. How the hell that Campbell chance didn?t go in I?ll never know; hitting the post instead is pretty poor consolation, really: to then get a second bite at the cherry and cock that up also seemed a jest in pretty poor taste at the time. Additionally, I?ve since had a pretty good look on the box at both first-half chances for us to open our account - and having done so only serves to compound the enormity of those twin errors. It?s no exaggeration to say that the first thing that flashed through my mind as both bounteous gifts were wantonly spurned by their needy recipients was: ?I really do hope we aren?t made to pay for that later on in the game?..?

What might easily have proved to be an even more significant blow, though, was the premature loss of Paul Robinson not long before the end of the first 45. Having seen the incident that did the damage on the box also, I?m now left wondering whether or not the sharp twist and turn on his kneecap area as he fell might prove to be a tad more serious than was apparent at the time. After all, that?s what kneecap ligaments are there for - to facilitate twisting and turning movements when on the go. Damage an anterior or medial ligament, say, and that?s the current season over. Let?s just hope I?m wrong, eh? The other incident of note also concerned the lad Robinson; one minute he was coming off, then he wasn?t, definitely OK, Boss, then he wasn?t?.. Finally, he did, and just before the break. Remind me never, ever to ask the bloke for any sort of snap-advice on life-or-death issues, OK?

By the time the second 45 hove into view, we were actually in the county of Herefordshire, and heading as quickly as Moses would take us towards that ancient county town. As if to show extreme displeasure at our having missed the game in the first place, that was the precise moment the fates conspired to allow Curtis Davis what sounded suspiciously like a very Albion-like moment of complete and utter madness in our box. Oh dear ? one foul, one penalty, just the sort of manna from Heaven the Bluenose tendency wanted, and they didn?t waste much time putting it away, either. A very familiar scoreline, this season, that: ?Whoever? 1, Albion 0! I guess that was the moment our dynamic duo up front (ish) must have really rued the first-half moment they jointly made such a pig?s ear of things.

You might have thought that now the need for hanging back had gone for good, our leader might have changed things far, far earlier than he actually did ? but nope. ?Carry On Regardless? was the battle-cry, Beautiful South-inspired or not ? so they did. For about 15 minutes ? then, finally, Robbo decided to launch his not-so secret weapons ? Duke Ellington, and Kanu, with Messrs. Campbell and Inamoto hitting the dug-out by way of replacement. By that time, we were very close indeed to Edgar Street ? which was why, as we entered the vast car park situated at the rear of the premises, ?Im Indoors nearly lost control of the vehicle! Well, it?s not every day you hear that one of our forwards, the lad most in need of a fortuitous sort of strike, in fact, finally gets one! Am I right in thinking it?s his first since around last November time? Only a few minutes after having entered centre stage, mind, but a vital goal nonetheless. Well done Duke Ellington, and well done Kanu for having set him up in the first place!

Having parked up in a nice little spot about 200 or 300 yards from the ground proper, it was an opportune moment to switch off the engine, turn the radio up, and listen to the game?s end in leisurely fashion. Well, perhaps ?leisurely? isn?t quite the right word ? we were almost having kittens sat there, actually ? but it wasn?t too long before the game entered its dying stages. Cue the moment the Baggies decided to turn up the wick to about Mark Nine or thereabouts; suddenly, it was all those pesky Bluenoses reaching for the rabbit?s foot ?lucky charms?, not us. There you go ? everything comes to those that wait. Or something.

Result? A siege of their goalmouth that would have done General Santa Anna, of Davy Crockett and Alamo fame, really proud. As the clock ticked ever closer towards the final whistle, we were both literally left hanging on to every single word that commentator uttered. Just a minute or so from the end, The Duke almost wrapped the entire caper up, game, set and match, when he let fly with an absolute scorcher ? only to see the blasted thing hit the bar, then scuttle for safety behind the goal. Cue for Beeb commentator to record for posterity numerous howls of total frustration on the part of our followers. How sad.

Still, at least we got a point to show for all our efforts, and moreover, one that left things much as they had been before the game first kicked off. Whistling merry tunes, we left the old jam-jar where it was, and embarked upon a bit of a scouting mission, in the town itself, for I was looking for some new jeans. No worries there, either. Quickly bagging two pairs straight from the rack, we then looked for a place of sustenance - and that?s the first inkling we had that Morris dancers were only a hop, skip and a jump away from us, honest! All gathered around the nearby Cornish pasty shop, and all caught for all eternity in the act of massed-deglutition. Just watching them was a bit of an eye-opener; dressed in multi-hued clothing, with bells and feathers sewn into awkward places, rat-catcher type trousers, the ones with the drawstrings at the bottom of each leg, with a soupcon of pagan ritual chucked in for good measure as well. It?s at times like that I positively long for the use of my trusty Nikon camera. Oh ? and while we?re on the subject of stereotypes, you can?t get more stereotypical than a young bloke sporting a bushy beard of fungal-growth proportions, and looking as though he?s about to launch into a serious burst of heavy-duty folk singing, can you?

Shame about all the blacked-up faces, though ? a more ?non-PC? manner of dress I?ve yet to come across. Or perhaps not; some of you might already know that Cornwall?s Padstow recently ran into a spot of similar bother with its annual ?Darkie Day?, a local tradition with distinctly-murky roots hidden in the mists of time, where every young bloke in the vicinity paraded through the town wearing black theatrical slap on their faces, while dancing also to the distinctly asthmatic, wheezy almost, sound of concertinas being squeezed to mutually-assured destruction, almost. And something called the Padstow ?Oss, black, vaguely menacing to look at, and cavorting all the while about the town on the day in question. Pagan religions really do have a lot to answer for in these isles!

And, while I was all agog waiting for ?Im Indoors to augment his personal pasty supply, I took the opportunity of listening to one of their number pontificating on his mobile to some woman or other. During the course of the conversation, I couldn?t help but notice that the word ?Baggies? didn?t half crop up a lot. Another believer? Yep ? and one who vaguely knew me, seemingly enough, judging by the enormous number of funny looks I was getting every time. Or was that just the 365-degree rotation of my head? Just as we were about to head back towards the ground, up spoke this chap, the biggest and hairiest Morris dancer I?d ever seen in my entire life, to exhort ?Come on you Baggies!? That was his battle-cry ? so without further ado, I flashed him the biggest bloody grin you?d ever seen in your entire life!

From that pasty shop, it was just a mere five minute walk to Edgar Street ? and once there, it was rapidly becoming abundantly clear that if nothing else, this game was going to be pretty well attended. Even our ?normal? entrance had a queue stretching right round the corner of the small players? car-park, so without further ado, newly-purchased jeans and all, we dived straight in. Luckily, most of the old codgers responsible for gumming up the works had already gone through, so our passage was therefore rendered painless, almost. Mystery Of The Universe Part One: Why is it that this football club employs on this particular entrance one of the slowest turnstile operators it?s ever been my misfortune to meet? Just what is it about handing over money and getting a ticket by way of return that?s so darned complicated, I ask myself? Yeah, I know ? why is the sky blue? Why do all the dickie-birds sing like things demented during the hours of dawn and dusk? Why is Tony Blair still Prime Minister? Sometimes, there are things in life that even pass the normal bounds of human understanding. So there.

Stanley had brought with them a goodly sort of following, I suppose, but what particularly struck me about them were those flags and banners, oodles of ?em, and all parked in the huge empty space that passes for an away end behind one of the goals. Not opened terribly often, which is why the Accrington lot were invited to park their numerous bits of supporting paraphernalia right there. When their lot emerged from the tunnel, onto the pitch also went the biggest quantity of paper streamers I?ve ever seen in my entire life. The stewards got tasked with clearing it all up, of course: moving the stuff was like trying to shift very long strands of white spaghetti from the area! Oh, and let?s not forget the guy with the drum, if only because of the considerable noise factor very much ensuring none of us couldn?t!

As I said the other night, on paper, this looked quite an interesting encounter, first versus second, but the truth was that Stanley were about 15 or 16 points in front of The Bulls anyway, so a result wasn?t a matter of such aching urgency to either side, strictly speaking. Still, it was genuinely billed as one of the main highlights of their season, which was fair enough, I suppose.

Also curious were the astonishing number of parallels this game had with our Chelski affair last Saturday. Like their moneybags West London counterparts, Accrington were not only runaway Conference leaders, they were also bankrolled to a certain extent: additionally, once the game got under way, just like a certain Arrogant One we?ve all grown to know and love during the course of the last few days, they, too, have an absolute pain in the posterior patrolling the technical area. No, he?s not elegantly dressed, and possessing a suntan most models would kill for, he?s very bald, a bit stumpy with it, and when in full flow, his voice sounds very much like the honking of a hugely demented seal, but just like his awful Prem counterpart, he didn?t half make life miserable for all three match officials ? not to mention the fourth one on the touchline. In fact I?ve an idea he actually got ?sent off? towards the end of today?s game, so that alone should give you a pretty good indication of this guy?s nuisance-value.

On the pitch were other strong similarities, too. They, too, sported a blue strip of similar hue. As and when they perceived the need to arise, Accrington weren?t at all averse to indulging in similar acts of ?gamesmanship? to the stuff we all witnessed the other Saturday afternoon, either. It being the Conference and not the Prem, they were very short on subtlety and all-too long on crudity, and before too many minutes had ticked by, more than one Hereford player fell victim to those cynically-scything legs and feet I mentioned earlier. Mind you, this happened to cut two ways; by 15 or so minutes into the game, the visitors had run up a truly enormous number of free-kicks against them. ?Bet you any money Stanley don?t finish the game with eleven on the pitch!? said I ? and, yep, it sure as hell turned out I?d got that one right as well!

Watching them in action, you could quite easily see how they?d got to where they were: good, disciplined defence, but with a shocking tendency to go for the X-rated stuff, more often than not, a solid midfield, which worked in synchrony, almost, with a strikeforce that was rapacious, almost. Stuff up in the six-yard box against this lot, and you were as dead as the dodo. But by playing good passing football, Hereford proved they could more than match anything the opposition came up with, but it was the visitors that finally struck the first blow. David Brown, an ex-Bull, I believe, put Stanley ahead in the first half, an ?oggie? from Tam Mkandawire making it two in the second half.

The Bulls looked dead and buried ? but it was around that time Stanley?s cynical ?stopping? and time-wasting tactics really started to badly rebound on them. The rot started when they had Danny Ventre sent off for deliberate handball ? well, if you will try to get an impromptu game of beach volleyball going in the Hereford box, thereby stopping the opposition from netting in a highly-unusual manner, Stanley, what else do you expect? ? Hereford?s Fleetwood finally potting the black. The dismissal really changed the ground-rules; suddenly, The Bulls had more space than they knew what to do with: as a result, the final fifteen minutes became somewhat ? erm ? ?lively?, shall we say?

A sustained period of Bulls pressure saw the visitors buckle badly, but not cave in completely; in the end, they resorted to type, and yet more spoiling tactics became the order of the day, among these being the time actually taken for substitutions stretched way, way beyond their elastic limit. The referee finally ?lost it? when their manager blatantly left his technical area, and started coaching from the vicinity of the corner-flag! No surprise to learn that he ended up walking, too! No surprise, either, when the man in black finally ordained that a full six minutes of extra-time be played. That was to prove Stanley?s real undoing: in a real barnstorming finish I?ve not seen on a football pitch for absolute yonks, The Bulls eventually netted a well-deserved equaliser, about halfway through the extended injury-time period previously stated. Blimey, what a game! $p And finally?.. I?d long ago realised that The Fart?s ?magic touch? was genuine sudden death to anything of an electronic nature. I crap you not, without any word of a lie, he really can do things to bog-standard domestic PC?s I?ve never before encountered in my entire life. Take yesterday evening, for example. All I wanted to do was cut-and-paste part of an email our chum had sent to me into this very same column ? aw, you know, the one about Derek Kevan, and sundry heart-warming results the day El Tel took all those lovely birthday greetings to his gaff, for the old boy to read and really enjoy. At least he now knows he?s not been forgotten by Albion followers.

Normally, doing something of that nature is simplicity itself. I may not be the brightest lamp in the street when it comes to IT, but even I know how to perform that minor operation to my own personal satisfaction. Bearing that in mind, then, just what little gremlin was it that arbitrarily decided to bring its own personal font in on the act, and once safely lodged in my PC?s innards, steadfastly refusing to conform to the different one I tried to impose upon Tel?s missive instead? Not noticeable on the website version, fortunately, but most certainly on the ?bespoke? pieces I shove out to other people ? no matter what I tried to get rid of the wretched thing, just like the Ancient Mariner?s Albatross, it still kept popping up on my screen, and in complete defiance of orders from my mouse to do otherwise. Woe, woe and thrice woe ? The Curse Of The Technological Fart is upon me! Help!

Perhaps our venerable chum has a promising future joining the Armed Forces once more, and really socking it to Osama Bin Laden by the sending of a crafty email or three to his personal website, c/o toraboracaves@hotmail.com or similar? Forget any evil thoughts of dropping ?nukes? on him; speaking from personal experience, if that doesn?t have the guy?s entire IT infrastructure spouting great gouts of blue flames and smoke within minutes, I really don?t know what will.

 - Glynis Wright

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