The Diary

01 May 2006: Down Among The Dead Men, With A Touch Of Deja Vu!

In the magical, mysterious world of football we all know and love, it?s frequently asserted that ?what comes around, goes around? ? and never was this more true than in the case of our very own football club. Just three years ago, we were first effectively promoted by winning in the north east, (Sunderland 0 Albion 1, and with that injury-time Koumas strike laid on by young Lloyd Dyer, the most bang-to-rights case of daylight robbery I?ve ever encountered in my entire life); just a week later, by dint of The Mackems dipping in their own televised game that kicked off some two hours earlier than ours, we were promoted without even bothering to draw sufficient breath to kick a gurt great bag of wind anywhere. What followed was a celebration of Nuremberg Rally proportions; the football was but a mere sideshow.

Contrast those joyous scenes with what happened just a couple of weeks ago; once more, the venue was the north-east, with St. James?s Park the scene of the ?crime? this time, the result effectively the same, but in the wrong direction ? that defeat more or less consigning us to Championship football next season. Barring a mathematical miracle, of course, but having a club consisting largely of players whose forte most certainly did not lie in the abstruse world of mathematics ? unless you count checking wage-slips and/or bookies? accounts come the end of each month - the desired religious phenomenon simply failed to materialise. But the ?coup de grace? most certainly did; yesterday, and once more in familiar fashion ? without kicking a ball, thanks Pompey! - we were given the old heave-ho from the top division, and in the dubious company of Blues, too. Run it past me again - what was it Shakespeare said once about the wheel turning full-circle? More on the same theme later.

Right, you ?orrible lot. Hands up, then, all those smarty-pants people who know the precise location of Conference club Forest Green Rovers? Thought as much; it?s not exactly the sort of name that immediately springs to mind when discussing England?s famous football grounds, is it, so I?ll let you all in on the secret without further ado. If you?ve ever journeyed to Bristol by train, you?ll have probably rocketed right through the place, just like an overdose of Ex-Lax does once it hits the large intestine, if you like, but unwittingly so.

Just ten or so miles before your transport of delight slows to take a huge bend in the track immediately prior to reaching Bristol Parkway station, you go through an enormous tunnel, one of about a mile or so in length, I would say: once you?ve hit daylight, via the Bristol-bound exit, that?s roughly where Forest Green Rovers are based ? well, not literally, as referees having to stop matches at regular intervals to allow for the passage of stonkingly-big passenger trains isn?t exactly a phenomenon covered by the various rules and laws governing the game, now, is it? But I?m sure you get my drift.

No, the place is situated smack in the middle of a large village/small Gloucestershire town that goes by the name of Nailsworth; such was my ignorance in times of yore, despite having passed through the place on many, many occasions when I?d worked in the area, I?d never once realised they also played host to a half-decent football club. Come to think about it, given the club?s location, in the fag-end of the Cotswold hills, you?d be really hard put to suss out a piece of level ground big enough for just the pitch, never mind a stadium capable of staging Conference games. Indeed, when my other half first mooted the idea of going to watch a game there, within milliseconds of him asking if I wanted to go, my immediate reaction was to say: ?Who? Where??

Mind you, even ?Im Indoors wasn?t entirely sure of the geography that very first time we made the trip down the M5; the day before, after poring over his road map for what seemed like an eternity, he then declared he couldn?t find the place for love nor money. It was only when I realised he was looking at Nailsea, a once half-respectable Bristol Channel seaside resort situated just a few miles south of Avonmouth, and not Nailsworth in Gloucestershire, we finally got the logistics right.

Even once you?ve figured out its precise location, you can still have considerable trouble finding the place. It?s stuck right on top of a bloody great hill, for starters, which means that those without wheels risk a coronary every single time they make the gruelling mile-long uphill climb. Yesterday, our main reason for going there was because their final home game versus Stevenage Borough was to be the very last time the ground would host Conference football; over the summer, they?ll be moving to a new ground situated about half a mile further up the hill. That, plus the stark fact yesterday?s encounter would be very much a ?shit or bust? type of affair. Relegation-haunted Forest Green needed all three points to stand a chance of survival, while Stevenage needed a full-sized portion just to stand a chance of getting in the play-offs. Either way, the game promised to be an eventful one.

After a delightfully warm and sunlit journey through those thar hills I mentioned previously, we hit Nailsworth around half one, nipping into a small caf? there for a bite to eat not long afterwards. Then, after feeding our faces, we set forth upon the hilly climb mentioned previously. In our car, I hasten to add! Leaving ?Im Indoors to park up once outside the ground, I perched myself on a handy wall to await his presence. Surprising to see so many other teams? replica shirts waltzing by as I awaited my other half?s triumphant return; without really trying, I could spot those of Man City, Liverpool, Bolton and Coventry ? and, once inside, even one representing the ?claret-and-spew? persuasion. Yuk.

I have to say, though, that had there been in existence a league table listing football clubs by the beauty of the view one could expect to enjoy from their main stand, then Forest Green?s would come out pretty near the top every single time. Look across the pitch from that lofty viewpoint, and you see spread before you a hilly vista of Gloucestershire greenery, dotted here and there with either cattle or sheep; yesterday?s visit also saw a solitary glider soaring soundlessly high above the stadium, the pilot presumably taking full advantage of the thermals generated by a copious supply of scudding creamy dabs of cloud just a few hundred feet above our heads. In a garden belonging to one of the houses situated adjacent to the ground, a couple of kids had found a novel, if exhausting, way of watching the proceedings ? by ?boinging? up and down on a trampoline. This unusual line in freebies was further augmented by yet another child in the same garden, but in a slightly more orthodox manner - sitting right on top of the garden shed.

The game? Much to my surprise, Stevenage didn?t try to kick into orbit every single thing that looked as though it was wearing a Forest Green shirt. They kept their powder dry until much later in the game; the thing that did surprise me, though, was Forest Green going on the offensive right from the kick-off. As ?Im Indoors remarked further into the half, it was very much a case of the home side demonstrating very quickly that they wanted it much more than the visitors. So gung-ho were Forest Green, had a total stranger come into the ground and watched proceedings for a moment, they?d have been very hard put indeed to discern which side were the promotion hopefuls, and which the relegation flops.

The first few minutes apart, Stevenage truly seemed in the powerful grip of some footballing death-wish or other, serially committing some truly awful schoolboy defensive errors, interspersed occasionally by some woeful finishing - and that was the source of their undoing, really. Just a couple of minutes before the break, Forest Green?s Simpson went hell for leather down the right, then crossed. The effort, going across the face of goal at a rate of knots, was not only mean and nasty, it caught the Stevenage defence with their shorts well and truly down, a grateful (and disgracefully marked!) Teixeira easily sending the ball home to its mummy. Oh ? and just to put yet another slant on it, the scorer was booked just seconds after scoring!

Given the massive gulf that divided their relative Conference positions, you would have thought that unexpected Forest Green strike might sting the visitors into some sort of positive action, if only out of sheer embarrassment ? but it just didn?t happen. Try as they might over the course of that second half, Stevenage couldn?t even get close. In fact, I?d say they really weren?t hurting the home side at all, and it came as no personal surprise to see them double their precious tally midway through the second half. Once more, suicidal defending was to blame, in this case allowing another Forest Green lad, Searle this time, enough room to drive a 74 bus down the left. I can only assume that the main reason why no defender stood within zillions of yards of old man Julian Alsop, as he nutted home, completely unopposed, was because he?d neglected to use a deodorant powerful enough to do the job properly.

By now, Stevenage were beginning to cotton on to the fact that whoever was going to make it into the League via the play-offs this season, it sure as hell wasn?t going to be them. Even their noisy cast of thousands ? well, around five hundred, actually ? had fallen relatively silent. That?s why, I suspect, some Stevenage players began to behave in similar manner to that of a defeated army having to abandon territory they?d only recently occupied. In the case of the former, this usually involved somewhat spitefully setting fire to houses and crops, after ?liberating? the contents of same; in the case of Stevenage, pillage and arson wasn?t a viable option ? there were a couple of plods on duty behind the goals, after all - so they retaliated instead by leaving Forest Green with a small memento of their visit. One hell of a dust-up that eventually sucked in both sides (although I reckoned Forest Green were more sinned against than sinning), resulting in a double dismissal for both Forest Green?s Darren Jones and Stevenage?s Jefferson Louis. Quite a landmark for the Jones lad, that, as he was the 12th Forest Green player to walk this season.

And that?s how it finished ? at 2-0 to the home side. A pause of a moment or so to check out results elsewhere, then much frenzied leaping about on the part of sensibly-blazered and white-haired club officials signified that Forest Green had defied gravity yet again ? is it the third season on the bounce they?ve done this, now, or the fourth? Either way, it?s a remarkable achievement; by just about every single law and precedent that governs Conference football, the Gloucestershire side should have plummeted like a stone ages ago, but just like Arnie Schwartzenegger?s ?Terminator?, you damage a part, even very badly indeed, and up it pops, ready to have another go at you. And next season, they?ll be playing their very own version of brinkmanship in a brand-new home, so I reckon we?ll be paying them yet another visit. With the sort of luck they?ve been having lately, they?ll probably go and win the league!

Oh ? and that last-gasp reprieve for Forest Green also signified a bit of a landmark of our very own. For several years, now, we?ve been in the habit of taking in lower division end-of season games, but had the clubs concerned known of our track record regarding these things, they would have immediately refused us entry. How come? Simple: every single time we?ve gone, the club threatened with the drop ? let me see, now, Chester, Hereford (when they drew with Brighton), Shrewsbury ? have, without exception, dropped like a brick down a mineshaft. At least yesterday?s game saw us finally divested of that awful hoodoo!

No hoodoo behind our coming Premiership demise, unfortunately. What makes things even worse is the fact we?ve still got a final home fixture to fulfil versus West Ham, and judging from the prevailing mood out there, still, it may well be that some might opt to go out with a bang rather than a whimper tomorrow night, blanket bans on blank white banners notwithstanding. A lot are quietly hurting out there, still, but protest, whichever form it might take tomorrow, won?t alter my fundamental belief that Robson will still be in his hot-seat come the start of the new school year. I daresay he?ll get the same deal as Megson did the last time we dropped ? ten games. Stuff those up, and he?ll be well and truly out on his ear.

Maybe West Ham will ease off the gas a little tomorrow night ? after all, with the Cup Final well and truly in their sights, their players won?t want to risk serious injury chucking themselves around the pitch after a side whose departing flight is now well and truly booked, will they? They might even dispense with the services of some regulars for this one; after all, it?s not as if the result?s going to make any real difference to the finish, is it? One Hammer who won?t be striking the anvil tomorrow night is Hayden Mullins. He saw red when The Hammers lost 2-1 to Liverpool, appealed against the dismissal, but was knocked back by the FA. Tomorrow night will see him starting his suspension. Sky Sports seem to think Christian Dailly will take his place instead.

As for our lot, it would appear Clem will be giving tomorrow night a miss ? he?s due to go under the surgeon?s knife for a knee operation, apparently. We?ll also be seeing Ronnie Wallwork back in the sack after serving his own suspension. And, with the immediate future very much in mind for us, will our leader give some of our young hopefuls a bit of a run out for a change? After all, it?s a pretty fair assumption to suspect around a third of our current squad will have left the club by the time the rest report for pre-season training, and not all of our (hopefully!) intended transfer market purchases over the course of the close season will actually come off. Young Nicholson?s already had a taste, albeit brief, of life at the sharp end, so why not involve a few more kids in the wake?

The future? Robson reckons he?s got lots of plans in mind, all ready to discuss with Jeremy Peace, as he well might; it?s his ass in a sling should everything go pear-shaped, after all said and done. To be fair, the bloke does have some experience of getting clubs fallen from grace out of the smelly stuff; appropriately enough, Wor Bryan was placed in that same position by The Smog Monsters, and not only in season 1994/95, when he won the First Division title, but some three seasons later still, when he took Boro up as second-placed club. Not exactly the same circumstances, of course; I strongly suspect Boro were much better financed back then than we currently are, but one thing will be hugely different this time.

If he fails to deliver the goods, then out he will go, and well before he?s had sufficient time to adversely affect our chances of retrieving the situation. The fact the guts will be ripped right out of the side over the course of the close season won?t help one little bit, either. People like Kanu excepted ? and even he will be on the move, now we?re down - just how do you attract decent players to a club that appeared to fail partly because of its chairman?s alleged refusal to splash the cash during the January transfer window, and partly because of completely misguided tactics from its manager? Short of shanghai-ing them from off the streets, and taking a massive hit from the police as a result, I can?t think of any legal way of doing it. Any suggestions?

And that?s about it. More tomorrow night, of course, once I?ve got back from the ground. Oh ? and if you?re thinking of joining in with this ?white flag? protest, whatever you do, please don?t drag the good name of the club into the ground with you. For all their faults, Albion are still a justly-famous footballing institution. It would be disaster itself were any hotheads out there to jump on the bandwagon and get involved in serious fisticuffs with the police. It?s long been my assertion that the sole factor that separates ourselves from our gormless cousins ?up the road? is that of rudimentary intelligence ? and Dingles just don?t have any, rudimentary or otherwise!

And Finally?? Well, given the considerable merits inherent to an argument conducted along the general lines of: ?Even the late, unlamented Adolf Hitler must have had a few off-days in his time, quite uncharacteristically performing a good deed or two SOMEWHERE?, then the Guardian interview I read the other day must have had more than a ring of truth in it. Apparently, Sheffield United?s very own answer to the neutron bomb, Neil Warnock, feels he?s been sorely misrepresented by the sporting press, illustrating his argument by copious references to the farm he has in Cornwall, his wife, his kids. Plus the small matter of his poetry, of course.

Yes, poetry. I thought that would get you sitting up bolt upright. It would appear that beneath all that matchday snarling and posturing, the Premiership?s newest gaffer now wishes to let the more sensitive side of his nature blossom forth: in short, he only wants to be loved, and once you?ve wiped all those tears of mirth from your eyes, and ceased rolling around the floor in such an unseemly manner, I?ll elaborate.

Feeling better, now? Right, I?ll carry on. Strangely enough, the real puzzle about Warnock?s remarks is the fact they aren?t new. There is a precedent, believe it or not, and one involving a quick dabble in the wondrous world of science fiction, fellow Baggies. Within the pages of one work in particular, the name of which I?ll reveal very shortly, there exists yet another similarly-loathed and much-misunderstood creature, who may just be our tame shinpad-mangler?s alter ego. What?s that, I hear you say? There couldn?t possibly be another Neil Warnock in the entire known Universe? Oh yes there is, and it took the genius of the late, great Douglas Adams to make the connection.

Remember ?The Hitchiker?s Guide To The Galaxy?, in which the main protagonist, Arthur Dent, in company with his dubiously-named sidekick, Ford Prefect, manage to hitch a ride on a space vessel just milliseconds before Earth is trashed in order to make way for a hyperspace highway? Then, after being flushed out from their hidey-hole then threatened with being chucked out of the airlock, the commander of the vessel forces both of them to listen to what has to be the worst poetry in the history of the entire Universe? Yep, you?ve got it in one, Warnock neatly ?outed?, as Prostetnic Vogon Jeltz, of the Vogon Constructor Fleet, whose outward appearance closely resembles that of a well-fed slug, and just like his illustrious Bramall Lane incarnation ? form vaguely humanoid, but equally repulsive - when taking a break from watching his own underlings kick opponents into near-Earth orbit, just happens to write bloody awful poetry as well!

 - Glynis Wright

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