The Diary

09 April 2006: A Villa Park Defeat? Go Tell It To The Spartans!

Oh ? hi there. Sorry if I?m looking a bit preoccupied tonight, but the problem is I?m currently sitting on the horns of a whopping great dilemma, and sad to say, it isn?t doing my piles any good at all right now. My problem? Easy, so get yer brainbox ready. Do I kick off with all the gory details of our day at Edgar Street, or do I get the really shitty stuff ? that concerning our game tomorrow, of course ? on the old PC first?

Not easy, is it? On the one hand someone will moan their bag off at my having the sheer effrontery to go and watch the beautiful game elsewhere, then writing about it to Albion supporters, while on the other, it?s highly likely that people reading my terminally-depressed prose will immediately shift themselves to the nearest motorway bridge, then proceed to chuck themselves right off the damn thing and into the fast lane. Whilst being an interesting variant upon a predominant theme of ?modern expressive art?, the multicoloured mess created on the tarmac will more than likely not endear the jumper to those tasked with the job of cleaning the muck up afterwards.

So, what?s it to be, then? Decisions, decisions?? Tell you what, then - I?ll toss a coin. Heads and I pitch in straightaway with Edgar Street, tails and I zap you all with thoughts about tomorrow ? and strictly no responsibility accepted for the terrible state of your mental health after I?ve finished. A deal. OK? So I?ve tossed the coin, now, and it?s come up in favour of all things Bull. Even excreta, would you believe ? so orft we jolly well go, then.

Where to start? Ah, yes. Back in my schooldays, that?ll do. Remember how, when teachers wanted you to practice essay-writing, they would take fiendish delight in setting that ancient curse of GCE O Level students everywhere, the ?Compare And Contrast? ordeal by pen and ink? More often than not, such tortures would be the lot of those studying science subjects, when the set question would usually prove to be something on the lines of, oh, I dunno: ?Compare and contrast the lifecycle of the Lesser-Spotted Dung Beetle with that of the relapsing-remitting tsetse fly.?

?Compare and contrast?, similarities and differences ? and that?s precisely where this piece is going in but a short paragraph or so, fellow Baggies. A few weeks ago, the two of us won corporate hospitality tickets in the Halfords Lane Stand for the game versus Sunderland. In fact, quite a few of you must have read my write-up on this event that very same day. And, although it pains me mightily to say it, Albion handled the whole thing beautifully, from pampered and cosseted beginning to dreadfully-disappointing end, the fault not being that of the people organising the thing, just that of our useless football team!

So, having explored the Hawthorns high-life and tested it to (almost) destruction back then, what of today?s ?hospitality experience?, this time courtesy of those nice people at Hereford United FC? Well, the ride down this morning was absolutely superb; most flora a $p little bit late because of the residual wintry weather, sure, but it was rather pleasant to note there were now oodles of daffodils (more about this particular species of flower much later) and primroses flashing various shades of yellow about as brazenly as a tart showing off a clean pair of knickers ? and all under a baby-blue sky dotted here and there with blotchy bits of cumulus. Another 14 days and the countryside would be an absolute riot of colour, but as far as I was concerned, what I was seeing whiz past our car windows did me just fine.

Having parked up, the next step was to wait outside the players? entrance for our boon companions, members of the Hereford United supporters organisation, who?d been responsible for the whole thing in the first place. And, as we waited, an interesting sight. Players, several of ?em, and all turning up in their training gear. That?s what happens when you?re made responsible for washing your own kit, as they are. Quite a contrast to the slick, suave appearance of our moneyed lot when dropping a pre-match anchor right outside the Halfords Lane Stand, what? Another thought: while we were waiting, I noticed several players diving into the club shop, situated immediately adjacent to their own entrance. Could it be they?d either forgotten to bring items of kit from home, or, worse still, needed to razz extra stuff from there to make up deficiencies?

Finally, they were ready for us. Into Edgar Street?s answer to a hospitality lounge, in this case, a smallish room about half the size of its domestic equivalent. Astonishing what they?d fitted into that pint pot, though; in one corner stood a dishwasher, and next to that, a fridge, well stocked with beer, spirits and various other alcoholic goodies. Next to that was a table, upon which reposed in regal splendour both a portable TV and a fairish buffet selection of foods and sticky buns. The other side of the room looked directly onto the pitch outside; normally, to comply with all those daft licensing laws Maggie Thatcher brought in not long after the Hillsborough disaster, the blinds would be completely closed. Mustn?t let the children see us supping all those naughty things in there, must we? The fourth side? Chairs, of which I made use pretty quickly. Oh ? and one other thing that really set this package apart from its Premiership cousin ? NO DRESS CODE! Jeans, beautiful denim jeans, and moreover, as welcome as you like! Whoopee!

Time, then, to meet our boon companions for the next couple of hours or so. Some we already knew ? ?Little Chris? of ?Talking Bull? fame was one - but of others, we had not the slightest inkling of personal details. Oh ? and here?s another thought. Of all those present that afternoon, not a single one actually resided in Hereford! Life can be awfully strange, sometimes. Typical luck for me, no sooner had I got seriously started on the eats, it was a case of ?everybody out? for a group picture on the pitch, and in the genial company of two of Hereford?s finest, the lad Ipoua, of whom I?ve written before (his somewhat unwise initial predilection for getting absolutely tanked up in the city?s sole nightspot now completely out of his system, fortunately), and ex-Baggie Tony James, commonly known as ?Jamer? to his playing colleagues.

I didn?t know an awful lot about the lads in question and their respective backgrounds, myself, but it was pleasing to note that they were both intelligent and articulate, and answered our questions both willingly and patiently ? the Senegalese lad?s main problem was unfamiliarity with English (being a former French colony, their national tongue is la Francais ? ooh la la!) ? but even he still managed to contribute significantly to the discussion.

Thus far, a well scaled-down version of what we?d experienced at The Shrine the other week, but with a personal touch you?d never, ever find at our place. Not now, certainly. And, as we shifted the remainder of the grog prior to taking our seats, another little chat for me, this time with the photographer tasked with recording the occasion for posterity. Like a lot of things that go on in Conference football, this wasn?t the lad?s day job at all. An ?as and when? kind of deal with both the Western Daily Press and the football club aside, just an enthusiastic amateur, was Steve. A bloody good piece of kit (a digital SLR Canon, complete with very wide aperture 20 ? 70 mm telephoto lens, not to mention a bloody zippy motordrive) at his disposal, and in me, an enthusiastic listener to his many tales of photographic derring-do.

By the time we?d done nattering to all and sundry, it was time to take to the great outdoors once more, so following Mine Host, out we all trooped once more, this time upstairs. The spring day we had going outside was certainly most conducive towards the staging of a decent game, sunny periods, but blustery with it. Not much the players couldn?t handle, which was a great deal more than could be said of events at Sunderland! Mind you, no snow showers for our game, but when on the pitch earlier on, I couldn?t help but notice the terrible state it was in. Hard, dry, bobbly, with bald patches innumerable out there. Far be it from me to criticise, but so bad was the surface out there, I couldn?t help but draw the attention of ?Im Indoors to it, in a sotto voce sort of way.

Our seats, situated about three rows from the front of the stand, were pretty good, I have to say. The only real drawback was not being able to properly see the touchline nearest our stand, but as that?s a problem shared with just about everyone else sitting in that part of the ground, it appears to be something supporters eventually get to live with in the end. So, off we jolly well went ? and that?s when things began to turn very strange indeed. In what way? Simple. The Bulls? opponents today, Dagenham, had absolutely sod-all to play for, while for the home side, a decent sort of win would have made a play-off placing virtually certain. So, having given you that little bit of information completely gratis, what do you reckon happened next? Well, I?ll tell you.

Despite the fact there genuinely was something riding on it for the bovine persuasion, the overall impression I got of the first 45 was one of a completely-irrelevant and meaningless end-of-season thrash come far too early, and with even a residual life and sparkle inherent in this fixture having been long since consigned to the dusty annals of footballing history. Even the crowd had a certain ?end of term? torpor about it. Combine that with some Bulls defending of amateur hour standard, almost ? mind you, it?s a bit embarrassing when your own manage to stuff up - and you?ve got it in a nutshell, The Bulls looking far more likely to get a rude awakening than the other way round.

Hereford?s first real goalscoring chance? Oh, whoops ? we had to wait for 33 minutes into the first half before one actually materialised, a volley set up by the lad Ipoua that blasted its torrid way just over the bar. Then, just five minutes further on, it was Dagenham?s turn to get the old farts reaching for their smelling-salts, their entirely laudable assault upon the home side?s peace of mind being their main effort of note that blustery afternoon. In short, it very much seemed like football played as if through semi-soft treacle, and no sense of urgency about the game whatsoever. One curious little touch I spotted just before the half-time whistle, though ? a little old lady handing out chocolate ?clairs to the people sitting on the front row!

The ref?s whistle having finally brought proceedings to a halt, it was then a case of ?everybody out!? a la Miriam Karlin in the TV sitcom ?The Rag Trade?. Quickly, the little TV set in our room was pressed into action ? and what a strange tale emerged at Sunderland! The game had started off quite normally, mind, but before too long, the home side found themselves one behind ? and that was the precise moment the awful Wearside weather finally decided to extract its just revenge upon those watching. The end result? One game abandoned, and an awful lot of people hopping-mad, to say the very least.

Back upstairs for the second sitting, then, and to more of the same, really. Try as they might, The Daggers couldn?t shift the buggers one solitary inch, whilst at the other end, The Bulls managed to contrive missing not one half-decent chance in the space of around five minutes - but two? Better, but still no real impetus there, sadly. With ten gone there was a real scare for the cider-slurpers when their keeper somehow contrived to upset the applecart, their keeper uncharacteristically ?flapping? at the ball. By then, you really began to get the sickening feeling Daggers were going to nick one on the sly, and just when no-one could be properly arsed to wonder how they did it.

But then the fortunes of this game somehow contrived to swing in a completely different direction once more. This time it was Hereford?s turn to get rampant, with four corners following in rapid succession, and the visitors? defenders fervently praying for a dandruffy deluge of the sort that had spared The Mackems from even more embarrassment in front of their own people. The goal, when it came, though, was not of their making. About 20 minutes from the end when it came, and from a penalty awarded for a handling offence in the Daggers? box. Up stepped the lad Purdie to put it away, which he did in considerable style. 1-0 to The Bulls, and on the overall run of the play that half, just about deserved, I reckoned.

Not long after that late strike, we were all canvassed for our Man Of The Match nomination. Most folkies plumped for ex-Baggie Tam Mkandawire there and then, but something really mischievous in me took it upon itself to kick in at that very same moment. My own nomination? The tub of daffodils adorning the lower roof of the stand directly in front of me! Sorry, but you ought to know my warped sense of humour by now. Having dutifully passed this message on to our companions ? judging from the sound of heavy breathing coming from the far end of our row of seats, it was a pretty shrewd guess on my part that Chris?s sense of humour (South African origin) hadn?t quite meshed with mine on that one!

I was still awaiting a reply when the aforementioned daffs were severely savaged by a Dagenham defender?s wayward ball. That was an insult too far for my other half: ?You b%$&*d! Leave our daffs alone!? was the shouted refrain. Sensibly, I remained mute of malice! Mind you, it wasn?t half as bad as what happened about five minutes from the end. One minute there was an innocuous-looking Dagenham attack taking place on the left flank, closely followed by a bit of argy-bargy ? nothing really hectic at all ? in the box, the next, there was the bloody referee pointing towards the spot. Doo wot? Naturally, the visitors potted the black, and highly delighted they were to do so, too. Not that it meant all that much to them, mind. Far greater was the potential damage done to Hereford?s play-off hopes. OK, they?ll still be very much in with a shout come the end of the season proper, but a win would have been a far more satisfactory conclusion to today?s game.

Back downstairs to present the award winner with his richly-deserved bubbly; it was while we were doing that I discovered that those tubs of daffs had all been tended by our genial host, and lovingly so, it would seem. And yes ? he was somewhat narked to hear of the damage that had befallen them! All the backslapping done and dusted, we were heading for the exit, when who should we bump into, but John Trewick himself. Delighted to see us, was old Tucka ? and no, he didn?t have a clue what the penalty was awarded for either! In the end, we mutually agreed to put it down to one of the many vagaries of referees, and leave it at that!

That was then, so what about now? The Sabbath, tomorrow/today ? my birthday, should Albion really want to rub it in ? sees us journey to Seal Park in the fond hope of grabbing at least a semblance of respectability from out of the blubbery flippers of the phocine persuasion. Oh, brother, unless our leader opts for something drastic and genuinely proactive for this one, do I see an almighty wailing and a gnashing of teeth come that final whistle.

The time for pratting around is long since past. Thanks to Pompey drawing, we?re now second from bottom. Supporters can quite easily take on board the depressing prospect of relegation come the end of the current season, but should we fall in humiliating fashion at Seal Park tomorrow, then those natives really are going to get restless, Bryan. Don?t say I didn?t warn you. You can kick their dog, confuse their cat, threaten to send their kids to a Wolverhampton school, even, and they won?t even bat an eyelid. Present them with nul points tomorrow, though, and I guarantee you?ll hear the screams of fury as far up the M6 as Manchester.

I reckon The Spartans, members of a city-state that once formed part of ancient Greece, very much had the right idea concerning such contentious topics. Well, any community that routinely went for the concept of ?survival of the fittest? by deliberately leaving their new-born babies out in the cold overnight to take their chances - obviously, those that survived the ordeal were instantaneously regarded by their fellow citizens to be Very Hard Indeed ? had a certain roughie-toughie public image to cultivate and maintain.

Spartan mothers would say to their sons as they left for battle: ?Either come back with your shield, or on it?.? Their logic? Those coming back without their shields had obviously fled for their lives. For those few, the shame would be unbearable. No self-respecting Spartan would talk to them, or give them fire. Should they return on their shields, however, they would be given a bloody good State funeral. Not much consolation to the poor sod concerned, mind, but that?s the way the mop flopped back in those days.

And that, but in a much more dilute form, of course, is more or less what the vast majority of Baggies followers expect to see tomorrow. Our side fighting for every single ball, every decision, even. Little quarter given, or expected in return. Our players, every single one of them, playing as if their very lives depend upon it. Blood, mud, snot, flying in bloody great gobbets out there. Relegation we can take, of that I?m certain. But of rank spinelessness, humiliation, outright refusal to pull one?s own weight ? well, I guess you all know where I?m coming from by now.

Which brings me to the 64,000 dollar question. Will our leader realise for once the full import of what?s at stake ? pride, pure and simple ? and really go for it? Villa will apparently be without key stampers-and-clappers Gareth Barry and Mark Delaney (both flipper-damaged) and Olof Mellberg, and on-loan James Milner for Sunday's blubber-fest. Our lot? Will we go for the Ellington-Kanu combo, and some much improved service from behind? Will prodigal son Quashie get a chance to redeem himself? Perhaps now might be the time to chuck The Mighty Zoltan into the fray? Will the Pole In goal NOT embark upon a ?Condor moment? this time round? Oooh, questions, questions.

One thing, though. Forget all that rubbish talked about Villa being in a similar mess to ourselves. Unlike us, they have a clear route to safety mapped out. The only way they can land themselves in the smelly stuff is if they start seeing a crisis where there was none before, and their own fickle crowd talk them slap-bang into the middle of a crisis. Possible, I suppose, but the way we?re playing right now, the only crisis I can foresee is right at home with us.

And Finally?.. One. As we passed over the railway bridge just before the entrance to Hereford station earlier this evening, we happened to clap eyes on something you don?t often get to see on the normal railway system these days ? a living, breathing, honest to goodness steam train, pulling a normal load of carriages, wreathed in smoke, the whole thing a pure delight for the likes of me to admire. Wow. Being the daughter of a train driver ? the steam sort, I mean, not the manky diesel abominations one normally sees now ? I could only admire from afar, and once more sadly mourn the passing of a wonderfully-evocative era.

Two. We have a poet, and didn?t even know it! This came from one of my readers, a chap called Graham Woodall, the other day, and is, in fact, verse in sonnet form ? just like the sort the lad Shakespeare used to compose. And I?m not talking former Baggie Craig, either! As it?s so scrummy, I?ve consigned it to print tonight. Enjoy.

THE HAWTHORNS.

The hallowed turf, where mighty men have trod,

is called The Hawthorns or, by some, The Shrine.

And battles have been staged upon this sod

on many days since eighteen ninety nine.

Pennington, Bassett, Bomber and The King

were all great heroes in their time but, since

those glory years, with Willy on the wing,

the faithful few would settle for a prince.

Pretenders to the throne have been and gone

but none has matched the heady heights of yore.

Now Bryan?s back, a hero with Great Ron,

whose football talents we can see no more.

For on the field he stood above the rest

but on the line he?s yet to stand the test

 - Glynis Wright

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