The Diary

16 April 2006: So Long, Premiership, It's Been Good To Know You.

Let me declare, right here and right now, that the person who has my profound sympathies today is The Fart, who went gallivanting off to The Smoke to watch our finest in action at Highbury today. For positively the last time, relegated or not, as they?ll be moving to their brand new plaything, The Emirates Stadium, no sooner the sun?s risen on yet another season. Poor sod ? both he and our lot ? watching yet another ninety minutes worth of misfires and defensive errors. No doubt I?ll be getting the scoop either later tonight or early tomorrow (probably the latter, given the comparatively disgusting hour at which I?m penning this piece right now), but from what I?ve heard on the box, it sounds like a tale of the ?old, old story? ? going there to defend, falling behind, only waking up comparatively late on, getting a rotten penalty call from the ref, and ending up with sod all to show for all their labours come the final whistle.

The other person getting my sympathy in bucket-loads tonight is me old mucker Cyril Randle. He managed to watch the whole shebang live, and without having to brave the British motorway system at all, clever clogs that he is. All done, dear readers, not by the use of smoke and mirrors in quantity, but by the simple expedient of patronising a boozer with a dish conveniently tuned in to Arab TV.

Sorry, Cyril, call it overactive imagination glands or what, but thanks to you, I?ve now got this wonderful, yet totally ineradicable mental vision of you going the whole Gulf state hog in that pub, making like a genuine Senussi, all dressed up in a proper burnous and everything, sitting cross-legged on cushions, smoking one of those hookah-pipe thingies, eating sheeps? eyes by the bucketful, and loads of dusky serving-wenches to attend to your every need. Well, most of ?em, the ones I can safely mention in public, that is! Then striking your tent, mounting a handy camel (ooer missus, that Lawrence Of Arabia bloke really does have lots to answer for!) and silently stealing away into the star-bejewelled, sand-strewn night. Beats the Number 11 to Black Lake any day, I suppose. Should there also be eunuchs aplenty in there somewhere, I ask myself? No, perhaps not ? you never know, imaginary or not, the bloke wielding the knife might get some funny ideas of his own when in your vicinity!

And before you ask - no, I don?t know which particular Gulf nation state decided to grab our game while it was smokin? but, as I pointed out to my chum tonight, it really was the supreme irony ? a Moslem country?s TV broadcasts ending up in a British boozer. No, make that loads of British boozers. Ooer. I?m also willing to bet anything you care to name ? whoops, yet another Islamic ?no-no?, er - sorry! ? there?s a fair number of devotees Up There not too amused by it all by now. No wonder we?re going down!

But back to the subject of tonight?s missive, folks. The way things are panning out, by close of play on Monday, we could be either seven points astern and failing dismally to make up ground on the remainder of the convoy ? that?s assuming worst-case scenario ? or we could be but one point behind, and with their superstructure in clear sight. Having said that, I haven?t properly factored Blues into the equation; they perform tomorrow, of course, so should they lose tomorrow and we trash The Trotters on Easter Monday, that?s when the gap could shrink dramatically. Personally, I?m finding the whole thing quite emotionally wearing; we?re going down, end of story, so can we just get it out of the way, please? As I?ve said before, it?s all the hope I can?t stand.

While The Fart was at Highbury suffering agonies, no doubt, I was sitting on our best bit of sofa waiting for the bad news to come in, and this is a blow-by-blow account of what happened. As ?Im Indoors had taken the sensible option of going to get his footy fix in Lower Gornal, of all places (more about that later on), I opted instead for the simple expedient of maintaining a watching brief courtesy our TV screen and Sky. The other game to keep an eye on, of course, was Pompey?s; cut camera to Fratton Park just after the kick-off, and the lovely Chris Kamara keeping a weather eye on events and overseeing fair play, no doubt. That, from a man who, when a player, was about the nearest thing to a homicidal maniac I?ve ever clapped eyes on at a football ground. Just ask Gary Robson and see what he?s got to say about it. Talk to him nicely, and he might even show you the scar!

The other significant feature about the Fratton Park scene was the familiar, yet faintly-discernible noise emanating from one of Pompey?s more well-known (and somewhat tone-deaf ? his unerring ability to mangle perfectly good music beyond all recognition has made him a legend in his own lunchtime!) supporters, ? or rather that bloody bugle he takes to all their games, home, away or indifferent. Truly a case of ?If music be the food of love, prepare for indigestion?! A sort of South Coast ?Boogie-Woogie Bugle Boy From Pompey FC?, if you like, and not even a single member of The Andrews Sisters in sight, folks (Junior Baggies, just ask your great granddad!)

Somehow, we managed to hold out (in true Beau Geste fashion, it would seem ? that?s another one for you, Cyril! - but minus that sadistic sergeant in the film?) until about the 43rd minute, before finally letting one in. Mind you, for very long periods prior to that, our defence had been getting a somewhat bigger battering than the fish in the local chip shop courtesy those nasty Highbury hordes (they desperately needed the points too, don?t forget), and the only real surprise lay in the sheer length of time it took for them to finally huff, puff, then blow our house down. The lad Hleb was the perpetrator of the damage (sounds to me more like a nasty medical problem for which you have no option but to consult a good dermatological surgeon, with a view towards eventual removal, really, as per: ?Doctor, doctor, I?ve got this terrible big Hleb on my back and it?s making me itch there something rotten ? any chance you can take it off ASAP for me before it goes and drives me completely round the bend??

(Doctor: ?Nay, lad, nay ? just thee take three of these here pink pills, and you?ll feel right as rain by the next day!?) Seriously, though, I couldn?t say I was unduly surprised by this sudden turn of events. After all, are we, or are we not, discussing a side with one of the most pathetic ?away goals scored? records in all four top divisions? Just seven measly goals from all our trips on the road this term, and that coupled with enough defensive perforations to keep Tetley in their famous product for yonks; as I said, it?s not exactly a record that gets the pulses racing, stirs the native passions into trying to reverse the situation for their put-upon favourites, now, is it?

4.12, and yet another communiqu? from the front. Still very much under the cosh, we were, but many were the plaudits heaped upon the youthful shoulders of a certain Curtis Davis, performing heroics out there, apparently. Oh dear ? expect to see him pack his bags for far more remunerative climes within milliseconds of our relegation being finally confirmed. Come on ? with Championship football looming on the horizon, you seriously expect the guy to stay?

Not long after that, up popped the elegant, lovely (and once-thuggish!) form of Chris Kamara to really rub it in by telling us that Pompey had taken the lead versus Boro. Presumably, what with young Davis choosing that precise moment to strut his many perfections in front of that Sky commentator, and everything, must surely mean there?s a shining career for him outside The Hawthorns ? in clairvoyance, perhaps?

With our immediate and medium-term future seemingly stitched up better than a brace of truly smelly kippers, time to see what was happening elsewhere, then. Leeds had taken the lead versus Reading ? which wouldn?t have pleased Sheffield United ?s Neil Warnock much, as he was hoping to cut out the promotion middleman by having everything more or less sorted by the time he was due to meet (but most certainly not ?greet?! - the Elland Road mob himself next week. A score-draw would mean his lot would go up more or less by default, in much the same way we did just a few seasons back, and The Mackems our unwilling patsies for that one. Leeds getting one without reply was a real party-pooper for him, no doubt. Mind you, the name of the scorer rang more than a few bells, and not just in our place, no doubt ? Rob Hulse, ex-Baggie, and the sole cause of some pretty alarming cardiac palpitations whenever or wherever The Noise?s eldest daughter managed to clap her teenage eyes upon his nubile body!

Getting quite close to the final whistle, now, with just 15 to go, and another quick wooftie in the general direction of the Prem suddenly revealed our leader deciding to try a very belated change of tack. Off came Kanu, and on came Kev Campbell. Incidentally, Sky reported our Nigerian-born striker to be woefully off form today - something to do with having to play on his own stamping-ground, perhaps? - which meant our entire main armament was performing at half-cock, basically. Yet another interesting development was in the Conference, with Accrington Stanley finally making it into the League. And, should any of you lot come across anyone trotting out that tired old gubbins about ??.it?s their first time back since 1962, when they were so unceremoniously booted out?, just offer to give the guilty party a lesson in what happens in law when a firm ? any firm - ceases trading, eh?

The other bit of good news ? well, for my other half, at any rate ? was finding Hereford United had taken the lead in their Conference game. Too late to catch Accie, but still nicely positioned to get into the play-offs. Oh, well ? that should shut the so-and-so up for a while. Straight from there to Accie, where an anxious look revealed them to be in far better nick than previously thought ? and yet Woking could still have conceded a penalty.- then back to our game, where there had been quite a turn-up for the books. Whisper it quietly, but we?d actually scored! Equalised, and on their own muck-heap, too! Quashie was the lad responsible, apparently ? but this astonishing development literally had me rocking and reeling with astonishment. Just what the hell had Arsenal done to let one of ours in so easily? Certainly not the sort of Wenger mob we?d all come to know and love, was it?

Time for Sky?s garrulous announcer to call for a quick ?time-out? ? well, trying to keep up with the minutiae of several clubs all in one go was proving a bit unfortunate for the poor sod. It was while I was sorting notes out for this very column, I first clapped eyes upon a very amusing Carlsberg ad. Supposedly set on a Sunday League pitch, this particular ?pub side? certainly had a bit more about them than was the average at this level. Packed with just about any footballing ?great? you can remember from the 60?s, 70?s and 80?s, and with Bobby Robson as their alleged manager, their presence was proving most interesting. Watching their dressing-room antics, I even managed to spot our very own leader chucking in with his very own tenpennorth. Back to Highbury, then - Oh, whoops, and what a slip. Albion were caught cold, well and truly, and that parity they?d so precariously achieved was lost within minutes, as The Arse took the lead once more. Pires this time, apparently. Oh well ? it was nice while it lasted! Er ? all of four minutes?

4.45, and for a lot of clubs, chickens were well and truly coming home to roost. The Saddlers undid all the good work they?d done in the course of a moment when Port Vale managed to wipe out their single strike, making it even more certain Walsall were about to descend through the floor for the second time in as many years. And ? typical Baggies, this ? we had what the commentator reckoned was a nailed-on shout for a spot-kick turned down by the man in black. And straight from that, while Sky?s man was still gabbling on about the sheer injustice of it all, even, The Arse went and broke out from a rare defensive-type configuration to score at the other end.

Final score? Arse 3, Albion 1. Gee, thanks a bunch, Denis Bergkamp But the real heartbreak was to be found among our most loyal followers; that Pompey 1-0 scoreline proved, if nothing else, that the game was well and truly up for The Baggies. Suddenly, it became awfully easy to discern the sound of adipose females singing fit to bust. Oh, well ? c?est la vie. We?d given it a good go, and had survived very much against the odds courtesy that last-gasp miracle last season, but now it was time to face reality. Whoever plays in the Prem next term, it most certainly won?t be us, dammit.

Another thought about Accie Stanley getting their League status back. For the benefit of those not previously aware, Accie were but a bad hair day away from becoming the Conference?s boo boys. They?ve played a pretty hard and uncompromising sort of game out there, and I?m equally sure they won?t be toning down their act one little bit by opting in future to ditch the rough stuff just because the purists don?t like it. Should their venture take off properly next season, then expect to see a fair few of football?s ?names?, both major and minor, nursing a trail of bruised shins and clattered calves stretching the entire length and breadth of the entire country. Wonderful prospect, isn?t it? About as bad as Neil Warnock getting Sheffield United back into the Prem again! Either way, perhaps discretion will be the better part of valour when it comes to dealing with both sides!

And Finally?.. One. As I said earlier, while I was stuck in the house watching the goggle-box, my other half had taken himself to Gornal, whose side was due to do battle with Kington today. Second from top playing second from bottom, basically. The game finished all square, apparently; no sooner had the home side found the back of the net, and about 12 minutes from the end, then blow me down dead, the other half of the bargain did ditto!

The best bit, though, came at half-time. When ?Im Indoors found it necessary to ?powder his nose? come the interval, an act of necessity combined with that of checking out all the latest scores on the TV set in their clubhouse, and grabbing a bite to eat, on netering the bog, he then discovered one remarkable fact about the Black Country non-League outfit. Their wall ? or, to be even more precise, the party effort abutting onto their very own dressing-room.

So thin was the stuff separating toilet-lovers from the half-time drama unfolding literally within yards of where they were stood in blissful repose, ?Im Indoors could discern just about every single cuss word the irate home manager was blasting his charges with! Giving ?em several kinds of hell, he was. Something to do with ?where?s your fornicating shape out there, you onanists!? amongst other things, and all delivered in a Black Country accent so broad, you could have used those words as nails, so I?m told! Not a sensible sort of place to bring Aunt Mildred, then ? always assuming Aunt Mildred didn?t want to brave the nameless perils of the gents bog just to grab a good earful of the abuse the home side were getting, of course!

Two. They haven?t even been promoted a full week yet, have Reading, but already their wonderful home-grown version of The Summer Of Love is repeating on their followers like a gratis double-helping of baked beans washed down with a pint of rough cider. Their new season-ticket prices have just hit the streets, and it ain?t good news. Talk about a ?before and after?; their ?360 bargain basement deal of this term will shortly become a stonking ?545 the next. Ouch ? that hurt! Wrinklies will also feel the pinch, theirs going up from ?220 to an apoplectic fit-inducing ?385.

Oh, well ? at least their mass-expiry will save the NHS zillions, not to mention their close relatives the bother of ensuring on a weekly basis their parents/grandparents haven?t declared war on that nice Mr. Jones from Number 6, or sorting out the embarrassing consequences of either/both starting an all-out war on foolish kids who inadvertently allow stray balls to cross an invisible demarcation line of their own devising. Yes, little Johnny will get his ball back, eventually ? but pristine? Not a snowball in hell?s chance, sonny.

 - Glynis Wright

Contact the Author

Diary Index