The Diary

18 April 2006: Suppose They Gave A Relegation And Nobody Came?

Oh dear. You ask whether tonight?s affair was awful? Let me put it this way, then: were Home Secretary Charles Clarke suddenly minded to make attendance at Albion games such as the one I witnessed tonight an alternative sentencing option for Crown Court judges, then the crime figures would plummet almost instantaneously. In fact, I?d go as far as saying were that particular option to be made a ?goer?, then we would almost instantaneously become the pariahs of the civilised world. Something to do with ?cruel and unusual punishment?, perhaps?

Well, I ask you. Talk about a game whose main moves were orchestrated by the team behind Messrs. Laurel and Hardy; had I not been so busy trying to fight off the gloom attendant upon imminent relegation, I might have found at least some of it a laughing matter, even though it was quite clearly not. Botched passes; missed sitters; foul throws; custodial clangers galore, even from the normally-impeccable Pole In Goal; the works - you name it and we completely stuffed it up.

Any Pompey people watching must have truly delighted in the assumption that the Good Lord had taken pity on their plight, and let any number of curses rain down on our lot instead. It wouldn?t surprise me at all to hear of them still laughing like busted drains, several hours after the final whistle. God alone knows what the TV audience thought of it all, because whatever it was being played out there, it most certainly wasn?t Premiership-standard football, not by a long chalk. Which is why we?re going down, basically ? because we?re nowhere near good enough, and don?t deserve to stay in this league a moment longer than strictly necessary. Tonight should have seen us get the coup de grace, but thanks to a combination of Pompey ineptitude and Bolton?s continuing inability to find a way to goal, we?re still impersonating the Starship Enterprise?s deadliest foe ? The Klingons. And only by the skin of our teeth, you might say, but I?m sure Newcastle will quickly put a stop to all that nonsense for us come Saturday next.

As I said last night, today saw us participate in a (very rare for us) double-header, and taking in games from both ends of the footballing spectrum. First on the agenda was a Conference affair, an afternoon meeting of Hereford United and Tamworth, second from top versus second from bottom, and an afternoon kick-off. To keep it brief, then, Tamworth desperately needed the points to keep out of relegation trouble, while The Bulls wanted theirs in order to confirm their play-off place come the end of the season.

Just what is it about the weather in and around the vicinity of the Lickey Bank, I wonder? Amazingly, just about every time we venture in and around those parts, those rain-clouds completely disappear from sight, and just a moment later, the sun starts shining fit to bust, and the car thermometer starts to register a temperature far in excess of that deemed necessary for the maintenance of love and harmony. There were other pleasures, also. I kid you not, when heading off down the aforementioned bank, within the space of just two minutes, our sorely-tried thermometer shot up a mighty fine five degrees. You might care to call it The Lickey Bank Effect; lacking concrete scientific proof it exists, the best I can do is relate what happens every time we head off down there. And enjoy the weather!

Once there, though, another pleasure Bank Holiday football provides ? a handy ice-cream van parked in the street opposite the ground. Before you could say ?a cornet and a tub of choc mint chip, please?, we were getting well and truly stuck in. Lovely stuff, and not a single plod or unpleasant opposition follower in sight.

Once we?d finished slurping, inside the ground we went ? and once there, heard a sorry tale. It concerned a couple, Bluenoses both, who also like to watch non-league stuff whenever they possibly can ? er, like today, if you like, and sit a couple of rows in front of us during games. It seems that ?Brian The Bluenose?, the male half of that dynamic duo, was so racked off after his side?s defeat by Villa on Sunday, he spent quite some time after that under the influence of a ?red mist? of gargantuan proportions. All fine and dandy ? until Brain suddenly realised he?d mislaid his spectacles.

After a search of the house that turned just about every single item of furniture upside down, the poor lamb was reunited with his visual aids once more, but the real joke lay in where he found he?d left the wretched things ? right inside his deep freeze, would you believe? And not just tossed in there, all neatly folded up, too! Mind you, when I first clapped eyes on him today, his coiffure was highly suggestive of someone who?d chosen to end it all by sticking their fingers into the nearest light socket. Oh, dear ? the things that football team does to you, Brian!

So, over to the game, then. The thing you have to remember about Tamworth is that they do enjoy what you might term ?a certain reputation? in the Conference. When it comes to the rough stuff, there?s none like them, and given their Conference position was far from safe, today?s game promised much ? but not in the way of skill, sad to say. We did spot SuperBob, however, one of their subs today, and warming up with the rest of the lads.

Come kick-off, though, the game took a pretty strange turn. For reasons best known to themselves, the Bulls decided today?s affair ? well, the first half, at least ? to be nothing more than a lark in the park. No urgency whatsoever about them; as in their previous home fixture, it appeared that end of season ennui had well and truly set in. So low-key were the proceedings, the lad known as Talking Bill regaled us with a couple of tales where his booming voice had caused him to land in lumber of a totally non-PC nature. The first of these told of the time he and a few of his chums ventured into a pub near an away ground patronised almost exclusively by Asian people ? then having a couple of drinks (or more!) and (totally innocently; there isn?t a racist bone in his entire body) starting a chant of ?Come On You Whites?. Yes, before you ask, it did go down like a lead balloon.

The second time? This one was at Hartlepool. Bill is not really known for his tolerance of refereeing or line errors even at the best of times, so no surprise to anyone when Bill, angry at a series of (to him) erroneous flaggings, started letting rip at the lino. He had meant to intimate the poor chap was seriously biased towards the home side, who rejoice, of course, in the unofficial soubriquet ?The Monkeys?, hence his knee-jerk accusatory cry to the effect of calling the bloke a ?monkey?. Not once, but several times. It was only when someone quietly pointed out the error of his ways, he realised how close he?d unintentionally come to possible arrest. Yep ? the guy was black, and Bill was very lucky indeed to remain a free man!

As for Tamworth, their supporters had it right. ?No-one likes us, we don?t care?.? Which pretty much summed the situation up, really. Hereford?s attack proceeded at half-cock, and the visitors? defence did their utmost to bore everyone to death. And that?s just about how it stayed until midway through the second half. Realising a ?Plan B? was sorely needed, The Bulls took a brave decision, making substitutions and effectively leaving no less than three attackers up front. Suddenly, the home side got their act in gear, at long last. Wave after wave of white-shirted attacks hit the visitors? rearguard ? it could only be a matter of time before they succumbed, and succumb they did, finally, with about ten minutes of the half gone. Even the name of the perpetrator of the damage will be familiar to Baggies regulars ? Danny Carey-Bertram, whose stunning 20-yarder finally broke the deadlock.

They could have increased their tally quite easily afterwards, but didn?t. Was that play-off nerves asserting themselves, I wondered. Anyway, Tamworth tried to repair the damage, and in one last desperate act, chucked on Albion?s former Number Nine. Not much in the way of an attacking threat, really, Bob?s skills were utilised more in the ?laying the ball off for others? area than anything else. Then, one minute into injury time, the lad nearly broke Hereford hearts. Finding himself free from the attentions of his markers for once, and only the keeper in his way, he took the ball to the edge of the box, let fly ? only to see the effort whiz right over the bar. Two seasons ago, he would have buried the chance, no messing.

Come the final whistle, and confirmation of Hereford?s play-off place, time to shift ourselves down to the car park and the mad scramble to participate in Game Number Two. Not that we were looking forward to the prospect, mind ? already, Hereford?s electronic scoreboard had shown Pompey to be a goal in front at Charlton, so we assumed it was all over bar the shouting. Imagine our shock when we turned on the radio, tuned in to Five Live for the results ? and discovered The Addicks had gone and trounced them with only around ten minutes left to go. Football can?t half be a funny game, sometimes, and no funnier-peculiar than today?s little turn up for the books.

Bolstered somewhat by that startling reversal of fortunes, it was with a much lighter heart we set out on the pleasant journey homeward. Somehow, we?d been tossed a lifeline of gargantuan proportions, and could only hope we didn?t screw up on that unexpected extra lease of Premiership life. There being little else in the way of traffic about ? bar for some congestion on the M5 around Droitwich ? we made good time and arrived at the ground, and in our usual parking spot, around half-six. For an eight o?clock kick-off, easy-peasy.

Into The Hawthorns pub, then, as per usual ? and our first shock. The Fart, with a chum in tow, and a pint quite clearly in his possession! Had the lad been driven to drink by the trauma of our fight for survival? Oooer. When questioned, it turned out that the beverage in question consisted of lager shandy, which hardly constitutes a journey down the slippery slope, I suppose, but Tel certainly had me going for a minute!

Also there was The Noise and both offspring, but on a different table, owing to the comparative lateness of our arrival. It turned out that Tel?s chum was in the business of putting together a book about our supporters, and having agreed to assist, Tel was very much involved in the project. He?s even going over to the club?s Education Centre tomorrow, not only to see what the kids get up to there, but to talk turkey about the proposal as well.

It was while I was there I heard of the latest development in the Bethany-David romance saga. As her sister didn?t quite have the bottle to ask outright, Carly did the honours instead, but I?m not quite clear on the eventual outcome. Never mind though ? isn?t true love wonderful, especially when you?re only nine years old!

By that time, the hour approached when we all had to leave and get the entire sorry business over and done with. Taking our leave of everyone else, we headed straight into the ground, and nicely in time to hear Malcolm Boyden declare that The Liquidator would be on tonight?s musical menu once more. For how long, I wondered: stopping Albion supporters from signing naughty things about their Dingle counterparts was about as sensible an exercise as trying to stay the stars in their heavenly courses! And that?s precisely the way it panned out when Boyden had it played! Oh dear ? somehow, I don?t think we?ll see it on our play-list again for many a moon to come! What didn?t help was the refrain, which suggested ?Wanderers? went forth and multiplied. I bet that went down a bundle with the visitors, probably totally unaware of the real history behind this particular piece of reggae music.

Back to events on the field, then. As expected, the Bank Holiday timing of the game, plus the fact it was going out live anyway, conspired to nobble the gate something chronic. In the away end, only a minute proportion of those seats were occupied, while elsewhere, the large number of gaps told its own depressing and apathetic story. Suddenly, a familiar refrain went through my mind ? the one from the sixties about going to a war, but adapted this time to ?Suppose they gave a relegation and nobody came??

To be fair, though, Malcolm Boyden really had done a good job trying to gee up our crowd; by kick-off, there was a fair old buzz going in both Smethwick and Brummie, both of whom were belting out ?The Lord?s My Shepherd? as if their very life depended upon it. One other thought: I wondered whether Bob had made it to the game, his involvement with both sides providing him with the perfect excuse to go. Several changes to the side that crashed at The Arse, then: out were Kanu and Albrechtsen, both benched, while Wallwork was suspended. In their places came Campbell, AJ and Watson instead. As for Allardyce?s mob, they?d made no less than four changes, their amended line-up now reading Hunt, Stelios, Jay-Jay Ococha and Hidetoshi Nakata.

I certainly couldn?t fault the positive way in which the game first started; it was much, much later when everything started to go a tad sour. For the moment, then, we had an eager-beaver Baggies strikeforce looking to do damage, and a dour Bolton rearguard dead keen to stop ?em. It was Curtis Davies who set the tone for the evening, though; with just a few minutes gone, his header from a corner ending up somewhere in the Smethwick. Not the worst miss tonight by any means, but it most certainly wasn?t to be the last.

With around ten minutes gone, it was Bolton?s turn to curse their luck. Awarded a free-kick somewhat too close to the target for comfort, Ococha?s effort looked well and truly goal-bound, but the Bolton lad?s intentions were totally frustrated by the unintentional intervention of Kamara, who just happened to get in the way of the shot, causing it to sail away for a corner. And Bolton?s insistence on appealing for every decision didn?t exactly appeal to John Homer; in response to yet another shout of ?handball?. ? ?Andball, my foot!? was John?s somewhat arcane battle-cry. The Irish would have understood that one perfectly, I reckon!

Then, not long after that example of Black Country wit at its best, came another one from John, this time aimed precisely at referee Dermot Gallagher. ?Bluddy ?ell, Gallagher, yow couldn?t tell a foul from a duck?.? By now, our hero was really getting into the spirit of the thing. When the Bolton physio jumped up as if electrically shocked at the sight of one of his charges going base over apex, up piped ?yer man? again. ??Siddown ? ?Ee?s all right!? shouted our lad in tones well-capable of violating local bye-laws on noise pollution. His words also reached their intended target ? not only did the lad look up in John?s direction, a huge grin on his face and giggling helplessly, he also gave Mister Homer the ?thumbs up? sign by way of response, much to our amusement.

As the game reached midway through the first half, Bolton started to show their true mettle. Gradually, almost imperceptibly, they turned up the wick, and, sad to say, we seemed to have very little left in our locker to counter it, Right then, it really looked as though the whole sorry saga could only have one real outcome. One of the reasons I was looking at this gloomy prospect was the odd behaviour between the sticks of The Pole In Goal. Normally impeccable in the delivery of his custodial duties, tonight, for some reason, he seemed totally incapable of kicking the ball upfield. And not just once, either ? on several occasions tonight my heart was very much in my mouth every time he went near the ball; a far cry indeed from that wonderful display at Anfield earlier in the season. Just what the hell was going on out there?

And now ? a thoroughly deserved accolade, which The Smethwick truly deserve. Even in the face of worrying developments like those I?ve just described, they were still striving manfully to galvanise the rest of the ground into some sort of vocal life ? and for that, I salute you. Poor John homer. By now, so low were his spirits, even he was reduced to coarse, rather than colourful phraseology. ?Bloody c**p, ennit?? wailed he despairingly. When an eternal optimist like John starts talking like that, you really know you?re in trouble.

On 30 minutes, yet another revealing Baggies vignette. Three seats down from my own, the small lad there had taken to playing with some hand-held computer game or other, a Playstation, I think it was. He probably had the right idea, in my opinion - especially after witnessing the absolute shocker of a throw-in perpetrated by Watson, a careless error which spoke volumes as far as I was concerned.

Ten minutes from the break came the closest we?d been to breaking the deadlock. Suddenly, we were actually finding our own people with decent passes for once. Campbell managed to get a throw-in where damage could be done, and from that move, Gera tried to head home, with only a couple of yards standing between him and the goal-line, and the ball taking a nasty deflection. It genuinely looked as good as in. Somehow ? don?t ask me how ? their keeper managed to get a hand to it, preventing the goal, but landing it in the way of a predatory AJ instead. Despite trying to muscle the thing over the line, the ball was cleared instead. A little more luck and we?d have certainly been celebrating. An effort from Kamara that also missed, and suddenly it was Bolton with problems.

Enter salvation in the unlikely form of Derek Statham?s former nemesis, Sammy Lee, all miked up and nowhere to go, his lord and master sitting in the VIP area just to the left. So animated was the ground-hugging ex-Gunner, he looked for all the world like a little rubber ball bouncing up and down in righteous indignation. His fury must have transmitted itself to the man at the other end of the mike, for suddenly, down came The Bog Cheese himself, lumbering down the steps in typically-slow manner, chewing a great wodge of gum, and looking for all the world like Fossie Bear of Muppet Show fame. Clearly, the problem needed a ?bigger ?ommer? because that was where Allardyce stayed until the ref, Gallagher, blew for the break.

Two observations during the interval that suggested that all was not right with our camp. The first was the sight of Gera on the park, still, and kicking the ball around with the subs ? and there he was to stay until the resumption of play. The second? Word from a chum that Nathan Ellington was seen driving away from the ground well before the start of the game. Just what the hell is going on out there? On a slightly more positive, if not more pleasant note, word that Albion were holding a game in memory of Albion staff member Stuart Pole, killed recently.

The game was scheduled to take place on the 6th of May, at The Hawthorns, and between a Radio WM eleven, and its Albion counterpart, and names like Cyrille Regis, Bob Taylor, Craig Shakespeare etc. in the scheduled line up. Also promising was a procession of 8 year-old kids signing for the youth side on the pitch. Yet again, a wonderful way of making those kids feel really special ? so well done Albion for that. One observation from my other half, though ? by the time any of those kids do become eligible to play for the senior side, I?ll be a pensioner! Gee ? thanks a bundle, loving hubby?.

Back to the task in hand, then. The start of the second helping proceeded in much the same manner as had the first. A comedy of errors, mostly, and with the visitors having the most part of the play. To be honest, though, what was on offer out there was truly dire. I dread to think what Sky viewers thought of it all, but to me, it looked very much as though Messrs. Laurel and Hardy couldn?t have orchestrated things much better. Bolton were first to have a pop that half, and they really should have done much better with the effort, too, not to mention their second, just moments later.

With just eight minutes gone, Paul Robinson?s error typified what was going wrong. With not a Trotter in sight, even, he managed to balloon the bladder into the Smethwick for a corner. And, not content with that, just minutes later, managed to convert a pretty respectable assault on the Bolton net into pure farce. The cross, in front of goal and about six yards out, was perfect, save for one small detail ? not a single Baggie in sight able to smack it into the net. All it needed was Brian Rix, minus trousers and pursued by an angry husband, running across the park, and the farcical scene would have been really complete.

It seemed this mysterious ailment had also infected the visitors; they, too fluffed chances a ten-year-old would have potted with out too much trouble. Stelios ? shouldn?t he have been elsewhere running EasyJet, or something? ? was the main offender for the visitors. Once more, we saw old Fossie Bear, with characteristic lumbering gait, descend the nearby steps, and take a distinctly-more hands-on approach to things. And erupting like a geologically-incontinent Krakatoa when a refereeing decision failed to go his way. Oh, well ? at least the pair of them could work in stereo, now ? and you never knew, Allardyce might even give us a bit of karaoke on that mike-and-earphones thingy positioned on his ample head.

The arrival on the scene of their gaffer certainly seemed to exert a galvanising effect on the Bolton players. Once more, they turned up the wick, and once more, we were running scared. With 22 gone, though, pure frustration enabled Robinson to force and barge his way past a brace of Trotters, and for around three quarters of the length of the pitch. And, three minutes later, Gera, fouled no less than three times on the bounce and nothing given, still managed to regain and retain possession each time. Finally, on the third time of asking, Galllagher gave the free-kick he should have awarded three nasty tackles before.

30 minutes gone, and time for some changes. Off went Campbell, and on came old man Kanu, with some new tricks, hopefully. Meanwhile, poor John Homer?s optimism levels, normally sky-high, no matter what, had sunk without trace, almost. By now, the visitors were doing everything bar score, and Allardyce was going absolutely crackers on the touchline. That?s what managing a side that couldn?t score in a brothel does to you ? and we should know, not because of the brothel, but because of the sheer number of blanks we were firing as well. Were the two related?

Cue, then, for Kamara to miss an absolute sitter on the far post, and Kanu to whip a long range effort not far from the post. Enter a balloon, previously seen wandering about the pitch in a lewd and licentious manner; totally tumescent just minutes before, now it was a poor and deflated shadow of its former self. A bit like both players and supporters, really. Then, just before the end, the announcement Curtis Davies had been given the Man Of The Match Award. I saw his efforts as the actions of a one-eyed man in the kingdom of the blind, myself, but there you are. And Allardyce had switched persona once more. Now he was a dead ringer for ?Churchill?, the Allied Insurance nodding dog one sees on TV quite a lot these days. Oh, well ? it all keeps me amused.

After that, there was still time for Bolton to almost manage to break Baggies? hearts, in injury time, as well ? and viewed in retrospect, perhaps it might have been a merciful thing to do. At least we?d have known where we stood, but in the end, a lack of Bolton bodies ready to do things with the nasty cross saw the chance fizzle out into nothing.

Not long after that came the welcome release of the final whistle, and to a ragged chorus of boos, too. I still reckon we?re only staving off the inevitable; come Saturday, and our Tyneside trip, The Toon will surely hand us our marching orders, and knowing them, with the probable itinerary clearly specified. Could be that by the time we play West Ham the following Monday ? also a live game, were the Sky people collectively drunk when they sealed the deal, I wonder? ? our fight to stay up will be well and truly lost. If so, expect far more in the way of fun and games from supporters; there are a lot of angry people out there right now, and patience is wearing very thin indeed. Still, there?s always the joys of a possible trip to Colchester to look forward to!

More from me tomorrow, when I?m viewing the game in a far-less emotive light. See you around.

And Finally?? I couldn?t help but notice in yesterday?s Sunday Times that a bunch of British boffins had announced their development of a nifty little device theoretically capable of taking out rogue asteroids headed straight for Earth before they?re in a position to pose any significant threat to the planet. (In case you?re wondering, the long-held classical solution, as per countless disaster movies, aiming a hefty megatonnage of weapons-grade plutonium at the problem, would only make things worse by converting one mother of a big bang into several smaller ones, all of which would still have the potential to collectively and completely wreck the planet)

Not half the fun of ?Armageddon?, sure, but a lot less messy. About the size of the average kitchen stove, is their brainchild, the idea being to play a cosmic version of snooker using the device as a sort of ?cue ball?, and by doing so, sending the unwelcome cosmic visitor spinning into regions of deep space where it would pose no further threat, not even to Bruce Willis?s Hollywood-size earning potential. As I said, it?s an all-British concept, and the eggheads responsible plan to have a working prototype built well before 2011, so they can test its overall effectiveness by firing it at one of a couple of harmless bits of itinerant asteroidal rubble due to end up right in the middle of the vast orbital space between Earth and Mars around that time.

True, we all know of the propensity of the scientific community to gild the lilly a bit when there?s the juicy prospect of substantial amounts of government money in store, but after reading the ST?s very own blurb on this particular topic, my personal thoughts about other possible applications for this celestial answer to bar-room billiards are running pretty rampant right now. With such enormous potential to be gained from something so small packing so big a punch, would anyone notice, I wonder, if we simply hi-jacked the thing, then quietly inserted it right into the middle of our very own back four?

 - Glynis Wright

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