The Diary

02 April 2006: "And I Think It's Gonna Be A Long, Long Time....."

?Poisson d?Avril?, madames et messieurs? That?s what our garlic-loving neighbours on the other side of the Channel call the First of April, the above phrase being a reference to the jolly habit our Gallic chums have of pinning cardboard fishes to the back of their victims? jackets on this particular day of the year. Laugh? I nearly died. Takes all sorts, I suppose.

So ? that?s it, then. The April Fool joke's definitely on us, this time. As Rocket Man Elton John once sang: "Well, I think it's gonna be a long, long time....." Getting back, I mean. As near as makes no difference, we've had it. Blues drew, Pompey won ? again ? and we lost. The sole consolations one can draw from today?s doings is that we didn?t get absolute stonked this time around ? a two goal losing margin against the Scousers is about as near to Champions League form as we?ll ever get, I suppose ? and that today saw the welcome return, for one half only, of the Mighty Zoltan, the only Albion player today to even get close to ruffling some Merseyside feathers. Oh, and lest I forget also on this fraught night, The Dingles lost as well, which probably means we?ll be keeping each other company in the lower division next year. How awfully nice.

Mind you, as far as The Noise is concerned, he simply couldn?t wait to get March out of the way. It all came out this afternoon, in the Throstles Club; apparently, our garrulous chum?s manager called him into her office for what you might call ?a meaningful chat?. All about what they perceived to be a somewhat negative attitude towards his job, apparently, a point of view that was considerably at odds with that of the Noise himself. As the lad told me, ?In open meetings they tell you to speak up if you find you have a problem with something, but when you do, it?s a case of ?I don?t want to listen to your problems ? just do what you?re told to do and shut up.?

Apparently, so bad has the climate become of late, they?re losing skilled staff, many years of service between them, in droves. The bottom line is, they don?t want the hassle. What really made his week, though, was emerging from that meeting, getting into his car, only for his clutch to promptly withdraw its labour. Yet another horrible repair bill for the lad with the indestructible lips, and what with today?s game and everything, it wouldn?t surprise me at all to learn he?s gone and joined the Foreign Legion.

The news Blues had drawn their morning encounter with Chelski bloodlessly, coupled, much later, with that of a Pompey win, just about set the tone for the entire evening. We hadn?t been in the room five minutes, when The Fart ? who?d arrived very early indeed to film something for Match Of The Day (blimey, don?t these media superstars make you sick?) ? saw the writing on the wall for us, muttered something under his breath about getting a baguette, and going all the way into West Bromwich town centre to buy one, struck his tent without ceremony, and was last seen striding purposefully into the Black Country afternoon. A proper Captain Oates job, that, and all that without even saying, ?I?m going out ? I may be gone some time?.?

By that time, it was half-three, and amidst all the gathering gloom, there was but one little ray of sunshine to treasure. Young Bethany, age nine, has really got it bad for young David, Steve The Miser?s lad, also of similar age. The trouble is, she totally lacks the sheer brass neck the rest of her family have, and can?t bring herself to tell him! Aw, bless?.. So ? if you?re reading this Mister Miser, any chance of playing match maker some time? On the strict understanding Bethany goes Dutch, of course. And talking of Bethany, she?d long since lost her little Baggie Bird mascot toy; there was my big hunk of a hubbie, with the thing clasped really closely to his chest. I kid you not, you?d have needed a crowbar to separate them. Any port in a storm, and all that?

As kick-off time drew nearer, both myself and The Noise were earnestly engaged in putting the world to rights, when in walked The Croissant Kid himself, precisely one baguette heavier, but looking about as fed up as it?s possible to be ? and most certainly not in a culinary sense, either. The problem was that we?d all realised Blues game in hand would be the following Tuesday, at home, to Bolton, who are not good travellers at all. Mind you, now it?s all over bar the shouting, near enough, it?s not going to really matter, is it?

Time to switch to Carly, who was busy giving my other half heavy-duty grief regarding the stitch-up I perpetrated on her the other week, the one about her penchant for our Youth Team players, and her wonderful ?cherry? by way of response. Overhearing this, I immediately felt duty-bound to point out that she was merely demonstrating a scientific principle. Heat travels three ways, right? Convection, conduction, and radiation ? now Carly?s gone and found a fourth, profound embarrassment!

?Thanks a lot!? said the Embarrassed One, when I explained it all to her.

?No problem, any time,? said rotten old me!

By the time we?d entered that peculiar twilight zone that is the hour immediately before kick-off, not wishing to know any more about the fortunes of Pompey, I was sitting to my back to the TV screen. Very much an ?ostrich? reaction, I realise, but what else could I do? Either that, or have to watch even more misery unfolding before my very eyes; had I wanted to see a horror show, I?d have gone to the London Dungeon instead. Not that I was noticed, mind ? by that time, The Noise was doing a pretty convincing parody of our manager?s more likely post-match pronouncements. Then, his irony-glands really went into overdrive: ?Pompey to stay up, Blues and Villa going down!?

?Blimey,? said I, ?You?ll have to come back to our place after the game?.?

?How come?? inquired the Talkative One.

??.To look for all those bloody fairies we?ve got prancing around at the bottom of our garden, that?s why!?

Oh, well ? time to do The Nasty Deed That Had To Be Done, I suppose. A quick few words with Steve The Miser outside the ground, and it was time to go in. More a case of ?endure? rather than ?enjoy?, this one. Once inside, we encountered a strangely-mute sort of atmosphere, Black Country people resigned to whatever Fate dished out over the course of the next hour and a half. Quite a contrast to the mostly good-humoured phalanx of bubbly Scousers shoehorned into the Smethwick.

?Your football club needs YOU!? burbled the PA in desperation, as the giant banner was unfurled and taken towards the Brummie by a posse of lackeys.

?Yes, provided we keep on paying through the nose for the privilege!? interjected a thoroughly brassed-off ?Im Indoors.

The team news? Ours showed Joe Kamara back in the side after that hamstring injury of his, with wallflower Kozac sitting out this particular ?excuse me waltz? on the bench. Other than that, it was very much case of ?as you were at Spurs?. The Merseyside persuasion? Dripping with full internationals, of course ? did they make those first-teamers as yet unblooded in the service of their country clean the boots of their more illustrious colleagues, I wondered ? with Fowler and Cisse, curly white hair and all, set to start for The Reds in exchange for both the suspended Gerrard and the ?relegated? Garcia, now on the bench himself.

And, as both sides exchanged preliminaries on the pitch, I happened to easy a plane high overhead, around five or six miles up, I?d say, just one of several I was to see that evening, and all heading in roughly the same direction ? southwards. Off to warmer climes, just like my sister, who?s currently swanning around Tenerife, and loaded with enough alcohol to kick a Saturn launcher straight into orbit, lucky sod. Down below, Malcolm Boyden was doing his level-best to gee up the crowd, poor lad, but as I said earlier, everyone was now resigned to their fate, and taking not the slightest bit of notice of the former Radio WM regular, which must have miffed the lad no end. In fact, for all the good he was doing, he might as well have crossed over the Brummie Road and had a good old-fashioned ?therapeutic scream? at all the workers toiling in the bakery there. After hearing the outcome of all the other important games that day, no-one?s heart was really in it any more.

That said, we did seem to get off to a bit of a good start. Greening, stationed on the left, did do his job well, but completely cocked up the cross. Oh whoops. Oh, dear. Cobalt blue was the sky, and midnight blue the overall mood, as far as I could see. The only noise was coming from the Kop ? or their transplanted counterparts, more like. The only Baggie to give it any serious sort of welly tonight was John Homer, but even he must have realised the game was up; for the greater part of the game, they were so dominant, it hurt.

Predictably, we didn?t have to wait all that long for the all-important first goal ? and, yes, the hero of the hour was Fowler, on just eight minutes. What happened? I suppose responsibility has to pass to Robinson, really, who let the former sail past him with gay abandon whilst our lad was trying to cut out that defence-splitting ?killer ball? to Cisse. Our defence, by now looking even holier than my dad?s old string vest, had but one more humiliation heaped upon them. Cisse, passing up the chance to score and handing it over on a plate to them courtesy a simple Liverpool tap-in. As our lot is trotted somewhat forlornly back to the centre-circle once more, we could hear faint shouted cries of ?Rubbish!? from some unsung Halfords Lane Stand critic or other. Was this just the start of a Blues-type capitulation, I wondered. The one thing mitigating against that sort of sadism being employed in our day-to-day affairs were those Liverpool bods, all trying to grab themselves a bit of the action by converting our amateurish floundering into possible away goals. The other thought running through my mind? If Liverpool did, how soon would it be before our crowd turned ugly? As far as John Homer was concerned, the transmogrification had already started. ?Quality!?..? roared The Frustrated One, every single sarcasm and irony gland on full alert by then.

20 sorrowful, miserable minutes into the half ? and, oh joy! Our first shot on target, albeit straight into their keeper?s arms. ?GERRIMOFF!? roared The Bloke In Front Of Me. What? The whole bloody lot of them? Five minutes further down the line, we were caught out something awful in the middle. To no-one?s particular surprise, Liverpool were in like dive-bombers, attacking in unstoppable waves. At one point, one of their players ? I forget who, now ? slipped, then sank onto the damp grass as he made the pass. Normally, that would have meant the offender losing possession ? but not this lad. Although very much horizontal by then, he still managed to find his team-mate with the rotten ball!

Then, yet another voice punctured the gloomy silence. ?Come on, Albion, let?s have a bit of bite!? Er ? why? Were we employing vampires these days, then? Talking of the relative lack of either noise or enthusiasm, it was during one of these funereal periods I discovered something about Jean Homer, the lady sitting just in front of me, I?d never realised before. Jean, bless her little woolly mitts, has one of the dirtiest laughs in creation! Not all that dissimilar to the one owned by the woman that got the sack in this week?s ?The Apprentice?, in fact. See ? I?ve known Jean for around 15 years all told, and that was the very first time I?d ever seen this very peculiar tonsilly talent of hers in action!

28 minutes, now, and a promising move down the flank ? our first really productive one of the entire half ? broke down for the want of anyone sufficiently arsed to bother, even. The fact we could all clearly discern the players voices ? even me, and my hearing is truly awful at times ? said it all, really. Then, around eight minutes before the break, we conceded Number Two. Truly awful defending was largely to blame for this one, Cisse going through our rearguard as a hot knife through butter, contemptuously ignoring The Pole In Goal (who tried to bring him down in the box with a wildly-outstretched hand, but luckily, didn?t quite connect), then once more demonstrating what happens when you let your guard slip for even a brief moment in this league.

Oh brother, although not so catastrophic as last season, or the time before, the awful manner of our capitulation was still painful to watch. Poor John Homer, who was quite clearly reaching the outer limits of his tolerance by now, stoked up the sarcasm levels once more: ?Merry Christmas!? he bawled to the disorganised rabble masquerading as Premiership players out there, in tones that surely must have carried as far as our dug-out, given the relative paucity of noise coming from the crowd at that time.

It was around that time I noticed Jean rootling into a paper bag as if her very life depended upon it ? then made to pass said bag onto those to her immediate left and right. Aha! I knew what she was up to.

?Is that the emergency stash of cyanide pills, then?? I enquired brightly. ?If so, can us lot behind have some as well??

A brief pause as the words churned through her brain ? then that braying laugh again, but redoubled in intensity! ?No ? but they flaming well ought to be!? commented John?s good lady wife.

Those last few moments before the half-time whistle I spent contemplating how sudden, how calamitous, had our collapse been this season. That inaugural Premiership campaign, back in 2002-03, had seen us effectively relegated by the time the crocuses and daffs were showing their delicate little petals above ground, and last season, after a truly awful run ? including that 5-0 stonking from the very same side we were watching today ? we were finally getting our act together by now. Strange, though ? of all the Albon sides I?ve watched play at this level, this was the one I?d genuinely thought would see us OK this time. In terns of talent and skill, much better than any of its precursors ? and yet, there we were facing an undignified exit once more. Just as well the whistle blew for the break before I could ruminate further. But not before the fourth official signalled one minute?s added-on time. ?You swine!? roared John, clearly enjoying some sparkling form on the old gallows humour front.

During the break, trust our football club to wind us veterans up once more with that ironic advert for their history video. Some sort of belated April Fool joke on the part of the club, perhaps? Then, around five or so minutes before the resumption of play, a sight to gladden the heart of nay Baggie ? that of The Mighty Zoltan, stripped ready for action, and warming up on his tod in the middle of the park. Gera, against the entire Scouse army? Not quite as dramatic as that, but come the restart, he was brought on in place of the unhappy Kamara.

Oh ? and another little half-time cameo: the sight of a certain group of people (better not be more specific than that, for reasons which will shortly become very obvious!) surreptitiously adding huge (highly-illegal) slugs from a hip-flask to the coffees previously purchased downstairs. What?s the matter with you lot ? never mind the amnesiac fog created by all that grog, take your punishment like men (or women!), just like we were! The way we were playing, not even massive skunk cannabis spliffs would have made the slightest bit of difference to our somewhat gloomy perception of the game.

Although the second half had kicked on in a less-than-electric atmosphere, The Mighty Zoltan was soon to captivate his audience once more. With just 2 minutes gone, and his very first touch of the ball in anger, he managed to place a shot only just wide of the target. Then, four minutes later, came his closest attempt yet, the ball blasting straight into the Liverpool custodian?s gloves following an unholy piledriver from our lad at almost point-blank range. His enthusiasm, his proactivity, galvanised our troops greatly, giving them all a second wind, almost. Amazing ? in just six minutes he?d achieved far more than his remaining ten team-mates had over the whole of the preceding 45. Once more, I was ruminating on the bitter luck that had forced Gera to be sidelined for much of the current season. Had he been fully fit, would the outcome have been much different, I wondered? Interesting little poser, that one, isn?t it?

With about a third of the half gone, suddenly, without warning of any kind, great groans were heard coming forth from the ample vocal chords of The Bloke In Front Of Me. What on earth was the matter? Heart attack? Apoplexy (I?ve considered the guy a stroke waiting to happen for ages)? None of these ? just a fleeting glimpse of something calculated to strike fear into the very heart of any self-respecting Albion supporter ? the sight of a certain Kevin Campbell warming up, clearly under orders from his gaffer. ?Make it so!? said our hero ? I?m sure he?d been overdoing the Star Trek tapes! ? and so it was Campbell came on for Kanu, and Watson made way for Clem. And, just a minute later, the ball was well and truly in the back of the Liverpool net ? but offside, sadly.

At least we were showing some bottle, at long last, and mostly thanks to that man Gera. He really was a complete nuisance to the Scouse persuasion, in and out like a thing demented. And the crowd responded in kind, the atmosphere in the ground becoming noticeably lighter than it had for ages. Liverpool actually changed it; Fowler for Garcia. Worried, were they?

Then, on 21 minutes, Gera so nearly hit pay-dirt, with only the width of the right-hand post standing between him and a the debut of a lifetime. Not long after that, Crouch was replaced by Morientes. A shame, because after that, our chance of a lifeline just didn?t materialise. Once more, resignation ran rampant throughout the ground. As for those seated in our vicinity, things began to get very silly indeed. It all started when John Homer spotted a couple of plastic bags floating around the pitch, and looking for all the world as though they were trying to beat some kind of polymer offside trap. Cue for his warped sense of humour to kick in big-time, folkies! The next thing we all knew, John was giving us a running commentary, Alan Green style, about the progress (or otherwise) of those waste receptacles ploughing a lonely furrow miles from what passed for genuine action.

With ten minutes to go, Campbell was felled, a clear enough free-kick by anyone?s lights. ?Ignore it, Rennie!? bawled ?yer man?, ?He?s always like that!? Just a scant five later, the match was clearly won by the Scousers, hence their Smethwick End glee-club?s spirited rendition of ?You?ll Never Walk Alone?. As if in homage, at that moment, lots of Albion supporters were doing precisely that ? straight for the exits. Liverpool, the job clearly done by then, almost made it three and out. All the ball needed was someone to screw it back to at least two onrushing figures heading for the target like so many steam trains with the throttle wide open ? amazingly, they both contrived to completely cock it up! Somewhere Above, the spirits of the late Laurel and Hardy must have looked down, and wholeheartedly approved of the almighty imbroglio they?d just witnessed.

And that was about that. Three minutes added on by a Uriah Rennie clearly hell-bent on prolonging the agony, but then, it was well and truly over. A mad rush for the exit, and as we headed in that direction, once more, the mocking tones of that blasted history video taunted our middle ears. One of these dark nights, I?m going to grab a balaclava and gloves, break in, and smash that bloody tape to smithereens! On a cold but sunny day when we all felt the chill winds of Championship football beckoning, who wants to be reminded of the time when we really did have a wonderful side?

And finally?.. One. Normally, I?m about as inclined towards the fey as an tatty old saucepan, so why was it, when reading about the latest set of problems to hit the new Wembley Stadium yesterday ? apparently, the new structure won?t be open for business until at least January next year, possibly even longer than that, and a hell of a contractual row also brewing about who?s responsible for the mess, and who should pay ? a cold clammy feeling of impending disaster hit my stomach with all the impact of a solid punch aimed right in the middle of my solar plexus? I hope to God I?m mistaken, but try as I might, I can?t shake off the gut feeling that something?s going to go terribly wrong once the place is finally open for business.

Two. Those who did get this properly will have to bear with me here, but last night, apparently, some of you ended up with my final paragraph somewhat truncated ? so here it is, once more:

And Finally?. One. Bobby Gould. Eeek! We all knew both he and his issue were absolutely barking mad way back in 1991-92, of course, but John Wile?s newspaper column of October the 14th 1972 seems to provide incontrovertible proof this was the case long before then ? so take it away, John!

??.Bobby Gould?s son, Jonathan, provided us with the smile of the week after the United game. He and his mother were waiting for Bobby when George Best walked in. Jonathan looked, smiled - and said: ?Hello, Jimmy Hill??.?

Two. So Jonathan Greening?s two small sprogs are called Sydney and Troy, are they? No wonder he thinks them both in need of ?toughening up? ? with monickers like that hanging around your neck in much the same way the Ancient Mariner?s Albatross did, you can only go one way, can?t you? Any other Baggies players out there with an equally-bizarre penchant for giving their children silly names, I wonder?

 - Glynis Wright

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