The Diary

23 April 2006: The Fat Novocastrian Lady Finally Sings As Albion Take The Drop!

?AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAArrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrgggggggggggghhh!? Nothing to do with me, guv, that one, just a message one of my readers, a gentleman called Jonathan Walton, left for me while we were away sunning it elsewhere. Plus another, just minutes afterwards: ?Please bring back terraces!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!? Had the second come before speaking to The Fart (who had made the long trip to Tyneside today, brave soul, and more from him later), I would have been left in a state of complete and utter confusion, and quite unjustly doubting the poor sod?s sanity, but having since listened at great length to our resident septuagenarian?s agonised comments on today?s sorry affair, I now understand the sentiments behind the above completely. More about that later.

Well, at least we know where we stand, now. In the smelly stuff right up to our eyeballs. There?s just two games remaining of Season 05/06, and a monstrous six-point differential to make up; even had we tried to make a better fist of today?s fixture, with Pompey winning and Blues drawing, we effectively relegated ourselves today. No more agonised musings about ?what if?, no more increasingly desperate permutations of differing outcomes by possible results for each club sitting in close proximity to Premiership football?s answer to the Siege Perilous of Arthurian legend.

It?s all over, end of. The adipose female of operatic fame has finally warbled her latest aria at an ear-splitting decibel level, those piercing tones of hers carrying all the way from Newcastle, down the A1, then hitting The Hawthorns with all the force of a ground-burst 5-megaton thermonuclear detonation. In short ? we?re stuffed. Monday night?s Hawthorns swansong, versus West Ham, is going to be a mighty strange sort of affair, isn?t it? More like a wake, I reckon, with, possibly, a little bit of old-fashioned acrimony and vituperation chucked in just to make things a tad more interesting. I can only hope the visitors sign some sort of non-aggression pact beforehand, because if they don?t, and we concede, I?ve a feeling in my water that those of more volatile and intemperate habit might just try to give extremely public vent to their feelings, with the prime targets for such unpleasantness very likely to be Robson and/or the board.

Juvenile? The actions of brainless morons, lacking sufficient intelligence to argue their case rationally, and with a certain degree of sophistication attached to their discussions? There?s always that sort of fringe element around, of course, irrespective of whatever football club you happen to chuck your lot in with ? but with Albion supporters, it?s slightly different. It genuinely takes some pretty stupid and ill-thought-out stunt or other to rile them to the point where there?s the distinct possibility of a nasty public order offence being committed, but after today?s final whistle, there?s an ever-increasing gut feeling on my part that this might indeed be the case versus West Ham ? I can only hope that I?m wrong on his one.

Time, now, to take note of the feverish musings of my old mucker El Tel on this very same subject. As promised, no sooner had he shifted from the coach, he was into his dog and bone like a terrier on trespass in badger country, and leaving his innermost thoughts for me. In his report, Tel likened the whole business to that of visiting a terminal patient in the local hospital, then watching the nursing staff switch off the life support. The crazy team selection didn?t help either; in fact, when the man from The Observer rang The Fart, he happened to comment that he?d just finished talking to Tel?s Newcastle counterpart, who had been left extremely puzzled as to why Albion didn?t just come at them right from the kick-off. Tel?s considered opinion of the standard of fayre on offer during the course of that opening 45? ?Grim ? worse than Bolton!? After the interval, we did try and make a better fist of it, but even then, just about our only assault on goal consisted of Nathan Ellington trying to make the best of a brief crack in the home defence, and seeing the effort end up somewhere in Row Z.

But that wasn?t the half of it; it?s one thing to have to sit and watch an hour and a half?s worth of unmitigated dross, but it?s even worse to get there, and discover the local constabulary have done their level best to ensure you miss the kick-off. Yep, they?d managed to pull the same stunt I described in last season?s account of the same fixture, and with much the same end result. In fact, they?ve been perpetrating the same bit of derring-do ever since 1989, when we travelled to a League Cup tie held there in midweek.

Same deal; pull up on Washington Services, just outside town, wait until all the stragglers have caught up, go on a Magical Mystery Tour of the city, finally arriving at St. James?s Park with about 30 minutes left to go before kick-off ? only to find the club couldn?t be arsed to open more than a couple of turnstiles to process the influx, amounting to hundreds, and not best pleased with having to rush. (Useless Information Bit: According to The Fart, who should know, as he?s climbed every sodding one of the things, there are precisely 151 steps from bottom to top in that away end; despite enjoying reasonable fitness-levels, most visiting Baggies spurning the few lifts available ? usually because kick-off is near, and waiting for a lift swallows precious time - end up looking like the last survivors of the massacre once at the summit!)

No surprise also to discover that loads of our contingent missed the kick off yet again. Yet another horrendous example of both club and police force conspiring to make life pretty miserable for people whose sole aim in life is just to get off that damn coach for the first time in yonks, then reach their seat and settle down, refreshments to hand, with a fair amount of time to spare before the start. Yet another reason why I consider the entire Newcastle caper more a civilian version of one of those Army assault courses designed to test aspiring soldiers to the limit, and not a pleasant way of spending one?s precious Saturday at all. Oh, well ? at least we won?t have to go through the same thing next term, that?s for sure.

And while my Roving Reporter was preoccupied at St. James?s Park, what did we do to pass away the time, then? Well, we went to Hereford United?s place, actually, and their last home Conference game versus struggling Southport. I have to say that the clime on that hour and a half?s drive was seriously good; distinctly chilly when we first set out, but once the ?Lickey Bank Effect? (see columns passim) had kicked in, the sun began to peep coyly from behind the clouds from time to time, its newly-liberated warmth exerting a most uplifting effect upon the ambient temperature, and, indirectly, gently persuading all those buds not open as yet to come and join the vernal fun.

So uneventful had our journey been, we even managed to arrive at the ground with a good 30 minutes to spare. Not before kick-off, mind ? Simon, in one of those peculiar rushes of blood to the head everyone gets from time to time, had volunteered to give the Hereford fanzine ?Talking Bull? a bit of expert assistance on the selling front. Once more, we pitched our metaphorical tent and camels right outside the public toilets adjacent to the ground ? but not before visiting a nearby ice-cream van doing a roaring trade on account of the unexpected appearance of that strange golden orb in the sky above the famous cathedral city.

Having polished off some strawberry flavour in double-quick time, it was time to commence flogging duties for our chums. So enthusiastic was my other half in the performance of his duties, he even managed to shout ?Grorty Dick? on more than one occasion! Yeah, I know ? can?t even get the fanzine sellers these days!

Flogging not being a two-person job, I contented myself with watching, in a schadenfreude sort of way, the antics of a goodly number of parents trying to get small offspring to ?the throne? before small bladders gave up the unequal struggle. Mind you, it would have been much better for everyone concerned had those blasted toilets been open for business in the first place! Dearie, dearie me.

The Bulls had their play-off place booked, of course, their Easter Monday victory over Tamworth finally sealing the deal, so nothing of note for them to play for ? but you certainly couldn?t say the same of today?s opposition. Southport. Hovering just above the relegation zone, they were, and their supporters not at all confident of escaping gravity?s vice-like grip, so with that amount of added frisson to take into account, at least both sides weren?t in the game to simply fulfil the fixture, and not much else.

The only other occurrence of note took place not long before we were due to strike camp and hand over the loot to those nice ?Talking Bull? people, and it primarily concerned one of the Hereford programme sellers. The lady in question, seemingly not one of nature?s brightest, suddenly took violent exception to our presence, so we had no alternative but to shift to ?a better ?ole? before she took it upon herself to grab one of the local bobbies, or something. It was while we were stood there, I suddenly realised that some of the Southport lot had decided to commemorate the last one of the current campaign by ?glamming up? in fancy-dress outfits of one description or other. God knows how many ?schoolgirls? I spotted swanning through my field of vision in that short space of time; clearly, the fact they were, for the most part, resplendent with beards, clearly indicated a pressing need to keep taking those hormone tablets!

As befitted the final home game of the season, the sun shone in a cloudless sky as the home side kicked off their last home fixture of the current season. The gate, however, proved to be quite disappointing. Only around half of those who turned up for the recent Kiddy thrash had bothered to attend this one, play-offs or no play-offs. Hereford didn?t stand on ceremony, either; just 5 minutes played and they?d already forced the Southport keeper to parry a shot for a corner, something that raised expectation levels to well above normal in that home end.

It was during a lull in play I happened to notice, for the very first time, how noisy the visitors actually were. Only about 300 or so in their little section - plus the by now seemingly-obligatory drum in tow, a musical phenomenon that seems to have captured the imaginations of Conference followers the entire length and breadth of the country, if not their headaches ? but the racket they were producing in there was totally out of proportion to their numbers, and far more impressive than that produced by their Meadow End counterparts.

The above observations apart, for much of the time, the game bore more resemblance to a midsummer stroll in the park rather than an important Conference game, and it was to be a good 15 minutes before the home side seriously threatened again, their efforts once more producing a corner. But those few brief spurts of interest apart, the whole affair was more or less taking on the distinct air of ?end of term syndrome?. If there ever was a game that had ?end of the season? written all over it, then this was surely the one.

But, there was still a modicum of drama left in the old dog, yet. With 30 minutes gone, The Bulls managed to get the ball into the back of the net, finally ? only to have the effort ruled out so that the home side could take a free-kick they should have had the moment their lad was fouled in the first place! Needless to say, this daft ?jobsworth? decision brought out the very worst in the audience; no sooner had he twigged what was going on, ?Talking Bill? was onto his ample feet and roaring fit to bust about the awful cack-handed way in which the rule had been interpreted in the first place!, the whole spectacular eruption climaxing with an explosion of nuclear proportions, ending in an almighty bellowed: ??.and you shouldn?t have given the free kick in the first place,, you bloody stupid *&%$$!??.? Sounded like Bill had belatedly recovered from testing his powers, then!

Just five minutes before the break, Hereford?s scoreboard told a sorry tale of ineptitude elsewhere. Newcastle 1, Albion 0. Oh, whoops. Having said that, mind, I?d expected to see that scoreline, or one very similar, much earlier in the proceedings. But on with the game; while my attention had been diverted towards events developing elsewhere, The Bulls nearly ended up finding out the true cost of momentary inattention. Playing, seemingly, with one eye on the impending play-offs and another on late travel bargains up for grabs in town, they nearly gifted the visitors a goal.of Laurel and Hardy proportions. And, that, save a creditable attempt by Purdey to grab some glory with but a minute of the half remaining, was the sum-total of the Hereford contribution that half. But not the opposition?s ? as the referee was raising his whistle to his lips, the visitors nearly broke the deadlock, their effort only just scraping over the crossbar.

Half-time, then, and an amazing tale. You think fixture congestion at our end of the league to be a pretty pressing problem? Well, spare a thought or three for poor Grays, then ? no less than four games in eight days, and they?re still pitching to get into the play-offs! Considering the vast majority of those games took place in parts of the country you?d shudder at, over distances that would see the average Premiership side collectively howling for Mummy, it?s dead easy to see why I regard them to be the Conference?s answer to that justly-famous Duracell battery advert! Oh ? and the news from the sharp end was that we?d now gone two down. Oh dear.

The second half? Much the same as the first, really. With only five minutes gone, however, there was a bit of a mix-up between the Bulls keeper and one of their defenders that almost let Southport in for a crafty goal; fortunately, they had to settle for a corner in the end. A further burst of ennui then prompted ?Im Indoors to mutter darkly: ?What?s worse, I wonder? 2-0 down at Newcastle, or 0-0 here??

With the half well under way by then, it was becoming clear that unless the home side started to concentrate properly, they?d fall victims to a sneaky strike totally against the run of play. At one point, the visitors managed to win a free kick almost on the curve of the ?D? adjacent to the edge of the box, closely followed by a series of Southport corners, one of which followed a deflection caused by persons unknown; had they not got in the way, accidentally or otherwise, the home side would have been holding a wake tonight, make no mistake.

For most of the half, ?Talking Bill? had kept his counsel mostly to himself, but that wasn?t to last. This time, it was the referee that got it in the neck ? or should I say his somewhat outlandish interpretation of the so-called ?advantage? rule? Whatever the wrongs or rights of the situation, the real loser was the game of football. And Bill?s ire was aroused just minutes later when the referee failed to book a Southport player looking perilously-close to earning a red card for himself; five times he?d incurred the referee?s displeasure, but without benefit of further sanction of whistling displeasure. It?s at times like that Bill?s demeanour approaches that of sweaty gelignite. One good giggle, though ? the suggestion that the whole grim affair be marketed to the general public as: ?A Nightmare At Edgar Street?!

Just 15 minutes from the end, news came in of Pompey finally grabbing an equaliser versus Sunderland; prior to that, they?d been trailing ? then, taking the lead, which caused the entire Albion house to come down in a cloud of mutual recriminations, no doubt. A minute later, the Edgar Street deadlock was finally broken with Hereford taking the lead, at long last, the strike the result of a cross to the near post, and Stansfield poking it in from a range of approximately ten yards out. With hand on heart, I truly have to say that they just didn?t deserve it; Southport had looked far more likely to score for much of the half.

Five minutes later, trouble erupted. A Southport player, a chap by the name of Baker, was seen to at least attempt to kick the Bulls keeper while he was on the ground and with the ball safely in his clutching arms, the intended path of the blow aimed directly at the poor sod?s head. No wonder several of his colleagues then steamed in, intent on extracting revenge. As the guy had been a persistent offender throughout most of the game, popular opinion expected him to walk ? but for some reason, unfathomable to man, he got yellow instead, something that caused most of the home support to erupt in an almighty roar of incandescent fury.

From then on in, Hereford should have won the game in a walk, but as I explained earlier, their minds just weren't on the job in hand. Just a minute from the end, Southport managed to equalise. As we all know to our cost, that?s what happens when you back off, back off ? and end up giving the other side what amounts to a virtual free shot on goal. In a nutshell, that?s precisely what happened in this instance. Unsurprisingly, the minute the ref pointed to the centre circle, there was one hell of an eruption from their bit of the dug-out, players, backroom staff, the whole shebang celebrating their deliverance in frenetic fashion.

With that late, late equaliser, they?d been handed a buoyancy aid of totally unexpected proportions, and, when you sat down and thought about it, without too much in the way of effort, either. Hereford will have to look far more lively than today?s showing if they truly want to achieve what they should have done in a walk just a couple of seasons ago. With the play-offs in clear sight, now, all the genuine angst and trauma is yet to begin in earnest for them.

And Finally?.. Remember what I said about the problems I was having with my mog? Well, I now have a diagnosis ? it?s hyperthyroidism, which explains the sudden weight loss, if nothing else. The thyroid gland acts a bit like the thermostat on an oven; turn it up too much, and your metabolic rate increases accordingly, so you tend to lose weight and perform everyday tasks with a nervous energy never seen in so-called normal people. Medics have been known to confuse the symptoms with those of psychiatric illness, leading to horrendous mistakes, people getting committed to institutions that shouldn?t have, etc. Turn it down, go into the realms of hypothyroidism, and you become lethargic, put on weight, talk in a croaky voice, suffer some hair loss, that sort of thing. It?s very common in middle-aged women, and for every person that knows they?ve got it, there is at least one other walking around undiagnosed, still. With my mog, it?s the overproduction of thyroid hormones that?s the problem.

Solution? Just like humans, cats with this problem have to go on thyroid pills, ones designed specifically to dampen down hormone production. And there?s the rub, folkies. Mog will now have to take the things twice a day for life, which will cramp our style just a little, to say the least. Effectively, the cat will require 24 hour care, which isn?t something The Fart can do very easily when looking after the other pusses for us, so that means looking at alternative solutions to the problem when we want to go away.. Any suggestions, any of you lot out there? (Anyone who tells me to have the cat put down will get very short shrift from me, so be warned!)

 - Glynis Wright

Contact the Author

Diary Index