The Diary

24 August 2003: Lee's Watford Winner As Dingles Dangle

He was a bully and a control-freak, despised and feared by those who worked under him, but he knew his job inside-out, as he proved on one memorable occasion, thereby winning the respect of others, although not their love, as a result. Am I talking our manager, here? Nope, Captain Bligh, of ?Bounty? fame, who, when cast adrift with 18 others in a 23 foot long open boat by Fletcher Christian on the 28th of April, 1789, navigated the lot of them the 3618 nautical miles to Timor in 47 days, without any loss of life whatsoever. And all that was achieved with the aid of naught save a magnetic compass and a sextant. And, daft as it might sound, there are clear similarities between the two of them, although well over two long centuries separate the pair from each other.

Meggo? Well, to the best of my knowledge and belief, he hasn?t precipitated any mutinies ? yet ? but, although his players may not be particularly inclined to send him presents right now, they must certainly respect him. On today?s showing, like the famous captain, you have to hand it to the guy, he knows his onions, all right. And, if you prefer your football teams to remorselessly grind out results, week in week out, then I?m quite sure our manager will float your boat in that respect. For that, I hold him in high regard, and deservedly so, because, on a superficial level, that?s fine ? he?s a winner. But winning?s not the whole story. If you consider professional footballers to be something much more than distant robots clad in blue and white stripes ? human beings, with human emotions, aspirations and feelings ? if it?s words such as ?like? and ?love? you?re looking for, then you won?t even bother to try hanging those on our manager, because such terms of endearment don?t sit easily on those ample shoulders of his. Love him or hate him, that?s the way he is, pure and simple, and it?ll take more than the likes of you or I to change his attitude.

That?s my summation of our manager?s mindset, then; some may agree, others not, but that?s the way I?m seeing it right now. As for the other Dick Eds in the Away Team (augmented for the day by Norm Bartlam), I chucked that same concept at them ? well, I couldn?t miss, really, they were a captive audience, shoehorned as they were in the back of The Dickmobile ? and, it has to be said, The Noise, minus ?that? coat again, was by far the most tickled by my comparison of GM to the much-maligned naval Captain. At the time, we were bowling along the southbound carriageway of the M1, and at a fair lick, as well. I don?t quite know how the subject cropped up, really; prior to that, The Old Fart had been regaling us with tales of the last time he recalled us sticking oodles in the back of the net in successive away games. Season 1952-53, it was, and we?d kicked off in fine style by turning Burnley over at their place 4-1, then winning 7-3 at St. James? Park, Newcastle! Eleven goals in two games on the road, just like that. Exciting times? You bet; trouble was, El Tel was doing his National Service at the time, and too busy bulling boots and burning down cookhouses to worry about a certain football team! Oh ? and, talking of strange occurrences, like a mirage in a desert, we then espied a West Midlands Transport double-decker in the slow lane, much strayed off the garden path. A Number 11, it was, as well, the Circular Route, which probably meant there was a long queue of rather angry people back home waiting in vain for the blasted thing, but that still doesn?t answer the question of what it was doing there in the first place!

Onward, ever onward in the muggy late summer heat, and after parking the Dickmobile around a mile from the ground, we finally made landfall at our chosen watering-hole the last time we?d visited, Mac?s Bar. Time for some serious fluid replacement. Once more, the weather was conducive to al fresco consumption of intoxicating liquor in quantity, but in direct contrast to times of yore, all that lovely swarth of green behind the pub buildings was gone, and naught remained but a scorched and fissured patch of desolate soil, a Gobi Desert look-alike. What had happened? Had the sun ? or, God forbid, the Dingles - wreaked havoc on the place? We never did ascertain the cause, but the depressing surroundings didn?t prevent us (plus a whole horde of other Baggies!) supping there. Returning quickly with liquid refreshments, ?Im Indoors then took the opportunity of peering over the wall to the rear, into the cemetery and the gravestones beyond.

?You won?t sell many fanzines in there!? I quipped. ?Not a ghost of a chance ? it?s the dead centre of Watford, mate!? Luckily, before my other half could send something really rude whanging my way, a couple of squaddies, one complete with small sprog, intervened. Not directly, I hasten to add; they were Baggies through and through, amiable people, and in civvies, but one was on leave from Iraq, and the other due to return to the Falklands the next day. Many were the tales of bombs and bullets dodged by the former, and grim times all round. ?Blimey!? says I, ?Never mind going to Iraq - you could have had all that in Wolverhampton!?

Welcome to the Great Watford Garden Party, I thought. Lots of people standing around in the sun, drinking and talking; no Queen Bee, mind, but down the road, plenty of Hornets! And that wasn?t all; to cap what was proving to be something of a surreal interlude, someone from Walsall Branch then collared The Fart (who was ?plugged-in? and semi-comatose, having decided the supine position was a rather nice place from which to observe the comings and goings of our fellow-supporters), with a view towards him being a guest speaker at their next meeting! ?It?ll only be a very simple question and answer session,? the guy reassured sleepy El Tel, ?You?re taking the place of a player??.?

A rapid wash-and-brush-up, and it was down to selling-duties once more ? but not before The Fart had committed the mortal sin, for us fanzine editors, of approaching our Watford equivalent, and asking him for the programme! Shame on you, Tel! For his sins, we banished our venerable fellow-Baggie to the Outer Darkness of the away end turnstiles, along with The Noise. I have to say, though, that selling our wares in both pitches was like shooting fish in a barrel; Vicarage Road happens to be one of our best selling grounds, mainly because the home fans are partial to a bit of ?Dick? as well, so it came as no surprise to discover we?d shifted the whole lot by half-two. Even The Noise managed to shift his quota while drawing breath between his multitudinous conversations with supporters.

Into the ground, then, and once inside, ?Im Indoors suddenly took him upon himself to strew the entire day?s takings around the other side of the turnstile, much to the amusement of the stewards ? although it was hard work in that heat chasing all those small coins, which had managed to secrete themselves in some places you simply wouldn?t believe. Where?s Steve The Miser when you want him? He has an unerring sixth sense for lost coinage! To our seats, though, finally, and some shocks apropos of the team news. No Koumas. No Sakiri, either. Both on the bench. Hughsie instead of Dobes, along with Greegs and AJ. What the hell was going on? You don?t muck a winning side about; it simply isn?t done.

Much sweaty head-scratching in that tropical away-end, and as the fire-risk from stray sparks increased exponentially, the referee got the game under way. And, for a while, it looked pretty hairy for us out there; Watford, seemingly, intended to continue in the same vein as last season?s Cup tie, and before long, poor Houlty became involved in the biggest siege since the Alamo. Quite nasty, it was, one-way traffic at times, corner after corner, aided and abetted by an incompetent lino, who, unbelievably, went by the name of ? erm ? Conn! We could have conceded quite easily, right then, especially at the beginning and middle of the half. Just as well then, our defence was in a particularly astute mood, and England?s Number One was on hand to shift the remaining threats out of harm?s way; even so, we lived dangerously, one was seemingly kicked off the line, which isn?t at all good for the nerves. One huge chunk of light relief, though; if we were having it bad, consider the alternative, back in the Black Country ? or, to be more precise, The Custard Bowl. Talk about a ?bush telegraph?; within rapid succession, thanks to the miracle of radio, little Baggie voices were telling us, ?Wolves nil, Charlton one?, then, ?Wolves nil, Charlton TWO?, and not long after that?.. Er ? quite! Schadenfreude, pure and simple, but what joy to our ears!

The interval, then, to some booing from a few of ours; OK, we hadn?t exactly covered ourselves in glory that half, but was that really necessary? No more from Molineux either, apart from the fact they were now four in arrears. One Baggie wag in front reckoned the lack of further news was due to the fact Charlton had declared! Half-time for us, also - and a change. Off went Chambo J. and on came Scouse Jase. Interesting ? what was our leader up to now? We soon found out; once the second portion got under way, at first, it appeared to be a re-run of the first, but then Koumas went close, the keeper taking the ball off his feet as he was about to pull the trigger. At that point, it could have gone either way, but then enter Hughsie, saviour of the Universe! Around ten minutes into the half, it was, when our tame ginger-nut well and truly stung The Hornets, courtesy of a timely header. Cue, once more, for a ?boinging? demonstration, coupled, predictably, with adoring choruses of ?HUGHSIE IS BACK!? from the away-end. Unfair to The Hornets? Yep ? overall, up to then, they?d deserved more than that, so, on the balance of things, we?d nicked that lead off ?em. Still, the Lord helps those who help themselves, which was the crux of our manager?s philosophy, I suppose.

Then, about ten minutes after that strike, another twist. Meggo removed our newly-resurrected goal ace, and replaced him with Dobes. Doo wot? Following the goal, Hughsie had been on fire, so why take him off? Then, realisation slowly began to dawn, in short, our Monday encounter with Preston. Two games in 48 hours was bad news, and our crafty gaffer had sussed it. That?s why Scouse Jase and Sakiri were on the bench, also why Hughsie had been pulled off early. At least, that way, we?d start Monday?s game with a (fairly) fresh engine-room, and not having to pull the entire 90 minutes, Hughsie would, presumably, be smokin? hot and raring to go. Cunning, or what?

Twenty minutes from the end, Hulse was withdrawn also, and on came Danny Dichio. There might have been a tactical element to that one, also, as Deech?s strength is in the air; at the time the switch was made, the home side had been busting a gut to get the equaliser. The more competent headers of the ball in our box, the merrier; that seemed to be our leader?s mantra. And, given a modicum of luck, Danny D could have put the issue completely beyond The Hornets? reach; twice he blasted narrowly wide, much to the annoyance of our followers. A nerve-racking, sweat-ridden four minutes of stoppage time ? and I still can?t fathom how that referee arrived at the conclusion so much had to be played ? then the whistle blew for the last time, and with it came the realisation we?d potted all three points. Fifth in the heap, not bad, considering that four-goal lamping we had on the opening day. A perfect end to the day?s proceedings, especially combined with our rivals? spectacular failure on their own dung-heap, so back to The Dickmobile it was, a short hiatus as three people crammed into space really meant for 2.4 kids only, and away we went. Thank God for in-car air-conditioning, though; the heat in The Dickmobile was absolutely killing.

Quite a restful journey back, too, only interrupted by a ?comfort stop? at the services for the benefit of this column. And, lest I forget, also a reprise for that long-forgotten away-win favourite, ?Radio Ga-Ga?. So infrequently have we played it of late, I had difficulty in laying my sweaty mitts on the thing! Back home around eight, though, time enough to check the Lottery, start writing this piece, then a swift return downstairs to watch the collapse of Wolves for myself. Childish, I know, and of similar mentality to the woman ? Madame Defarge, was it? - in ?A Tale Of Two Cities? who perfected her knit-and-purl as the aristos went to the guillotine, but after the misery of the last 12 months, unadulterated bliss?..

And finally ? and a serious bit, for once. Good to see outside Vicarage Road today a friend of ours called Chris. I won?t embarrass him by giving his full name, but the bottom line is, he?s a long-standing Baggie and friend of ours, and although he?s never smoked in his life and is ten years younger than me, he?s got lung cancer, and is currently undergoing chemotherapy. Despite all that, he still manages to get to games. Something else about the guy; he?s also that rare breed, a Christian who actually practices what he preaches, so it goes without saying all of us Dick Eds are rooting for him right now, and hoping he gets to see many, many more Albion performances in the future.

 - Glynis Wright

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