The Diary

28 August 2006: Monkey Business Galore As Bulls Hang Out In Hartlepool Territory

Greetings, all, on the eve of the Sunderland thrash, and hotfoot with news about what we?ve been up to over the weekend. Tomorrow?s game? Just 48 hours ago, I would have deemed the Mackems truly ripe for the turning over. The Stadium Of Light is not a happy place, right now, what with humiliation piled on embarrassment in such an unfortunate manner recently. The coming of Niall Quinn, in a well-publicised buy-out might well have placed a completely different complexion on tomorrow?s game, however. And the news that Roy Keane is to become their manager might just put the mockers on our efforts to grab those three precious Championship points.

In the long term, I?m not entirely sure whether or not the appointment of Keane to run the place will be a good one. Sure, the passion shines like a beacon in whatever he turns his mind to, and for the manager of a football club, that?s no bad thing ? but the proverbial fly in the ointment is going to be Keane?s somewhat abrasive personality. He certainly doesn?t suffer fools gladly, that?s for sure. Over the years, he?s managed to upset a whole load of football people, high, low, indifferent. Keane is so driven in what he does, he couldn?t give a flying fornication who?s on the wrong end of his furiously-lashing tongue. Fergie included, probably.

As far as ?proper? playing standards are concerned, Keane seems to expect ? take it as read, in fact - team-mates to maintain those to an impossibly-high degree. He has little tolerance for those who fail to meet his exacting criteria for regular first-team inclusion ? and that?s where he might well come unstuck. Not all professionals share his vision and drive, which borders on the manic at times. Before he can make a decent fist of management, he seriously needs to mug up on some basic psychology. Not to mention a dollop of rudimentary ?tact and diplomacy?.

As many have discovered to their cost over the years ? Albion have appointed more than their fair share over the years, let?s face it - it?s not necessarily the ?sergeant-major? types that get the results, get to lift those hard-earned trophies, get the ?Manager Of The Month? champagne magnum waved in their face at regular intervals. Some players respond best to shouting, sure, but there are plenty of others who really need a tactful arm around the shoulders when feeling low. To openly criticise or ridicule such sensitive souls has be the psychological equivalent of laughing at the size of their willy ? or the lack thereof - in the shower, really, so why do some gaffers still insist upon operating in that horrible, crazy way?

Whatever happens over the subsequent course of the season, once Keane?s finally incumbent in the post, I really couldn?t say ? but one fact does stick out by a country mile. Tomorrow, what had been players whose collective morale was shot to hell, to all intents and purposes, will instead be busting a gut to impress the new regime. As I said, Mister Keane sets impossibly-high standards, both for himself and his minions ? and woe betide those who can?t (or won?t) abide by them.

As we?ve all seen over the course of the years, reputations mean diddly-squat to the guy. When you?ve managed to include the manager of your national side, not to mention your own playing colleague in your vituperative criticism, then there?s not all that much left that will remain a psychological ?no-go area?, is there? I had hoped we?d grab the away win from this one, but now I?m not so sure. Personally, I?ll be happy to just grab the draw and run tomorrow ? then leave the rest of the division to come to terms with Roy Keane and his capricious moods!

Sandwiched as it was between our Saturday visit to Hereford United (see below) and tomorrow?s Sunderland caper ? as it?s live on the box, we decided to save a considerable amount of time and money by just staying at home and watching the thing on TV ? today, as the weather was still holding up pretty well, we elected to take a Sunday trip to The Black Country Museum, situated around three miles from where we live.

If you?re reading this abroad, and not normally in the habit of visiting the Old Country all that regularly, one the rare occasions you do manage to make the trip, make sure you include the place in your itinerary. You won?t regret it, honest. Essentially, the place is a living, breathing paean of praise to those tough, hard-working souls, both male and female, who made the Black Country the great place it is today. Both male and female? Yep, no typo, that. Still within living memory, just about, is the time when women - and young girls, even - were routinely employed as nail-makers and chain-makers. A hard existence it was, too, so hard, at one point, in the short period of time ?twixt the 20th century dawning, and the outbreak of the First World War, these people went on strike for a better wage. Quite an undertaking, that, in those days, of course, women not even having the vote. And they won, too.

Reproduced faithfully in the grounds is what a Black Country town looked like around the time of the Depression. Old corporation trolley-buses and trams are plentiful ? and, whisper it quietly, I can actually remember riding on Walsall trolley-buses when I was but a small kid. Bijou corner shops, their ancient contents only coming to light on the death of the owner, carefully taken apart, then lovingly put back together, brick by brick, within the confines of the museum. And, should it prove necessary, many months and years spent sourcing what would have been a particular shop?s wares, back in those days. Just about every kind of shop, too ? along with a genuine pub, situated not too far from a chippy that does its wares what I call ?the proper way?, in beef dripping, and not a single barrel of oil in sight!

A barge trip into the fossil-rich Wren?s Nest limestone caves is also worth a look ? the prehistoric fossil-making frenzy apart, around 250 years-worth of industrial heritage lies inside there, with accompanying ?sound and light? presentation explaining it all, plus commentary as appropriate from the bloke on the steering-wheel. Spend the afternoon there, and I guarantee you?ll emerge with a much clearer idea of what the Black Country and its people was all about. Rumour also has it that a certain John Homer, of Supporters? Club fame, is known to add an occasional smidgen of ?local? colour to the place ? what with his affinity for the dialect, and the many awful jokes indigenous to the area, he really is a ?natural? ? but we didn?t see him today, sadly. A rotten shame, that.

As for the day before, the one we spent clutched safely within the all-enveloping bosom of Edgar Street, it couldn?t have been more different. Judging from the size of the bandage the Hartlepool Number Five, Nelson, had on his amply-furnished noddle come the end of this bruising encounter ? thanks to further ?leakage? of the red stuff after initial first-aid measures had been tried and subsequently found wanting, the lad had to return to the touchline for a sort of ?encore? in order to have yet another bolt inserted in true Frankenstein fashion, or something ? he must be the proud owner of one hell of a headache today. But not half as big as the one their poor manager ? Danny Wilson, one time saviour of the Universe for Barnsley, in their all-too brief one-off Premiership incarnation, around ten or so seasons ago ? will be nursing also.

Pools? Er ? they?re in a bit of a mess, really, having only managed to amass two measly points since they landed in this division with all the grace and dignity of a Skid Row bum landing in the gutter for the umpteenth time, come the end of last season. Quite a turn-around from two seasons ago, when they were pushing for promotion to the Championship. Boy, do they have problems ? and, to be scrupulously fair, yesterday simply had to be one of those horrible, cruel occasions in football where, no matter what you do, and how often, the blasted ball simply refuses point-blank to do as bidden, and end up in the back of the opposition net on demand. Yup, life can be a bit of a bitch, sometimes ? but that?s football for you.

As for ourselves, we had set out that morning with noble intentions of doing a little retail therapy in the town centre prior to the game, but owing to the sheer volume of tractors on the road, or something ? yes, I do know: it?s an occupational hazard endemic in these parts, especially when the siren-call of ripening cereals and grain shifts agricultural workers off their collective backsides quicker than a lightning-bolt straight up the jacksi ? we were a tad late for such conspicuously-consumptive pleasures. Still, on the way down, and needing to know our League Cup fate ? both West Brom?s and Hereford?s! - I?d managed to reach The Fart (who had survived the fleshpots of London, midweek, by the way ? and even found time to take in the famous Albion pub, located in the East End, while he was at it!) on my mobile. A short pause, during the course of which my blood-pressure soared to apoplectic-fit-inducing proportions (I was absolutely quaking at the thought of a Throstles-Bulls meeting, for obvious reasons!), then the revelation both clubs had missed one another, Edgar Street hosting Leicester City, and The Hawthorns Cheltenham Town. Phew!

Never mind, though. No sooner had we docked our car some way back from where we normally drop anchor, what should we find, but our old mucker the ice-cream van. The problem was ? should we, or shouldn?t we? Grab a little bit of the frozen action for ourselves, I mean? A real moral dilemma, that one, as the last time we?d succumbed to similar blandishments at Edgar Street, The Bulls had been thoroughly-bested by a well-organised Lincoln City side. Then our respective resolves simultaneously crumbled in the face of overwhelming temptation. ?Oh, soddit?..? we both chimed, in unison, as Satan, in the form of a Walls Cornetto, in my case, raised a beckoning finger ? and that was me, hooked, yet again. Total lack of willpower, see?

Still, it was a pleasant enough sort of day to indulge in such sinful pursuits, albeit tidgy ones, when compared with such genuine horrors as starting wars, or spreading awful diseases, I mean. And very pleasant to just stand there, and watch the world go by ? not to mention a sprinkling of opposition supporters, all bedecked in those royal blue away shirts of theirs. Not enough to make it worth their while hiring a coach, even, it would seem, and certainly not one plonked in its normal spot, at the rear of the car-park ? mind you, the sheer distance involved would have acted as a major disincentive ? not to mention the inconvenient habit ?Pools have these days of not picking up points! Strange, then, to learn later that there had been well over 100 visiting supporters actually in the ground.

And then there were the Hereford aficionados, or, more to the point, the rubicund, weather-beaten faces owned by some of the ? erm ? more ?mature? ones ? oh, soddit, old farts, then! Watching them troop by in ever-increasing numbers, I did speculate briefly as to whether or not it was the fresh country air that did it ? or just the near-tidal-wave of enamel-removing-strength scrumpy one tends to find in those parts? Let me put it this way. Try as I might, I?ve yet to ascertain the whereabouts in the city of a psychiatric ward totally dedicated towards treating those who have imbibed all-too freely of the golden nectar over the years. That?s sure as hell one advantage Bristol has over their equally-dipsomaniac brethren ? yep, they?ve got one, and yep ? it?s always full!

Just as it had been on the night of the Coventry game, our little two-seater spot, next door to Nick Brade, his Mum, and Marion, their mate, was still empty, so off we trotted to park our bots. And, just before the kick-off, another very familiar face heaved into view, then plonked next door to Nick?s Mum, with a very effusive indeed greeting for Marion, a little pre-match ritual ?for luck? they?ve been indulging in for years, apparently! There you are ? I told you Talking Bill would show up today! Shame about him missing Wednesday night?s jollifications, though ? on the other hand, so elevated were the ambient adrenalin-levels in that stand that night, I reckon the lad would have gone into ?meltdown? through the sheer raw emotion of it all. But that?s Bill for you.

The best news for the Bulls? aficionados, though, was word that Stuart Fleetwood, hat-trick hero of the hour versus Coventry, and pulled off towards the end with what looked suspiciously like a hamstring problem, would be playing after all! Coo ? talk about a miracle recovery! Mind you, at the time, I did say to ?Im Indoors that although it looked like a hamstring, the very fact the lad had been able to hobble after a fashion for a while afterwards ? reluctant to leave the action, I suppose, his own considerably-elevated adrenalin levels acting as a natural ?painkiller? - indicated the problem to be at the ?mild? end of the scale, rather than anything really worrying. Had the hamstring really ?gone? that night, it might well have been a stretcher job. But then, another thought occurred to me. Suppose Hereford, for whatever reason, were rushing him back? Could it be that by opting for the short-term continuance of effective firepower, they might simply land both themselves and the player in a whole heap of lumber instead? Hmmmmmm.

Back to the game, then. By now, the Bulls had started the ball rolling, both literally and metaphorically, and in brilliant sunshine, too, with a stiffish breeze keeping the temperature down to reasonable levels out there. Time also for Nick to cease and desist his selling duties, vault the partition sundering the left side from the right, then quite unceremoniously plonk his gluteus maximus right next to his mum. And all in one smooth movement, too ? how much do you want to bet the little tinker had practiced? Meanwhile, on the pitch, after the initial exchanges had been dispensed with, it was being made abundantly clear that there would not be a continuance of the superiority Hereford had enjoyed over Coventry City just a few nights previously; not just due to the expected ?After The Lord Mayor?s Show? Syndrome manifesting itself, Pools needed the points, badly ? and it showed.

The result? Unlike the midweek Cup-tie, any sort of game-plan involving flowing football was almost impossible to discern, and had the number of attempts on goal counted towards the final result, then undoubtedly, Hartlepool would have won it in a walk. It was they, not The Bulls, who were showing the greater initiative at that point in the game. With less than ten minutes gone, Pools left The Bulls almost for dead with a devastating run down one of the flanks. Over went the cross, and with the Hereford custodian seemingly floundering badly in an effort to cut out the danger, it sure looked as though the ball was as good as crossed the line ? and had Bullock, lurking in close proximity to the near post, been able to stretch sufficiently to connect, then it would have been all over for The Bulls, but, try as he might, he couldn?t, much to the relief of the distinctly-battered home rearguard, no doubt.

Mind you, after that one-handed demolition of the Sky Blues defence the other night, Fleetwood?s reputation had spread as far as the north-east, it would seem. You only had to watch what happened every time Pools grabbed a corner to see that. Look in the vicinity of the centre-circle, and there he?d be, shiny scarlet boots and all ? and accompanied at all times by one, and sometimes two, jailers. Such close personal attention from the visitors meant, of course, that they weren?t about to stand on ceremony. Some of the tackles were quite ugly in their execution, with the inevitable result that by the time the first half had reached its mid-point, Pools had not only racked up a fair number of fouls on the poor mite, but had two names in the ref?s book also. Not only that, Fleetwood?s ?shadow? seemed most reluctant to part with him, thereby begging the question from me that come half-time and the Hereford striker answering the inevitable call of Nature, would his newly acquired ?bosom pal? dutifully follow him to the ablutions as well?

With around 25 gone, the home side had yet another humungous let-off right in front of goal: Hartlepool?s Matty Roberts crossed across the face of goal, and very close to the goal-line itself. Again, all the blasted thing needed was a toe-poke in, but with poor Eifion Williams seemingly involved in an impromptu game of ?Twister? out there, he couldn?t quite apply the coup de grace.

With all that pressure and not even getting a sniff of a goal, you just knew what was coming next. Football has this nasty habit of extracting the maximum embarrassment from opposing sides, doesn?t it? With just under 15 of the half to go, The Bulls finally clicked into gear. A lovely example of ?pass and move? at its very best, I?d say, brought to fruition by Bulls player Tim Sills. Well, the header was his, but the custodial cock-up pure Paul Crichton! Confucius he say, ?keeper that have butter-fingers, not have good playing career?! So rumour has it. Anyway, whatever the root cause, it came pretty much against the run of play, the Bulls, once more, imbibing liberally at The Well Of Pure Luck. One-nil to them, and complete and utter blind fury for Pools head honcho Danny Wilson, no doubt! (Thought: was the ?thudding? noise I heard shortly after the goal that of the visitors? leader?s ample nut taking it out on the nearest wall, perchance?)

Just moments after that, the home side?s luck held again, the nasty-looking strike finding the ?wrong? side of the near post instead of the side that counted. That was followed by a ticklish sort of stop for the Hereford keeper, unsighted somewhat because of a crowd of players in front of him, pushed away for a corner, and glad for it to do so, no doubt.

The interval I spent contemplating the lad Fleetwood, and idly speculating whether or not our favourite football club might be tempted to come in for him towards the end of the transfer window. He certainly ticked all the right boxes: youngish, fast ? bloody fast, in fact ? a good scoring record for The Bulls, but had to leave Cardiff City under a bit of a cloud after a nasty car accident. It would seem that Edgar Street is the place players head for when they want a bit of a second chance, and Fleetwood?s success seems to be a case in point. Will Robbo bite, I wonder? Oh ? one other thought, while we all indulged in the obligatory mint-chomping fest. What had been the Len Weston Stand, now rejoicing in the monicker ?Floors-2-Go?. A strange name, that. Does that mean they turn up at your house without warning, and take away your existing floor, leaving you with just the bottomless pit where the foundations once were, I wonder?

But back to business ? and, in no time at all, a Bulls penalty. Perhaps Hartlepool should take heed in future of the old adage: ?Beware of Greeks bearing gifts?.?? One minute there was the ball, seemingly heading for the comparative safety of Pools keeper Konstantopoulos and his great big mitts, with Fleetwood in pursuit, but well out of reach. And that?s the precise moment the ?suicide pills? chose to work on an attendant defender, folkies! For reasons best known to himself, instead of leaving it be, the lad stopped the red-booted menace illegally, hence the ref pointing towards the spot almost instantaneously. Oh whoops! As for the conversion, that was left to Hereford?s Purdie, a task he accomplished with consummate ease.

But the game wasn?t over yet for the visitors. Just minutes later, they finally achieved what they should have done in the first half i.e. score. Justice done to some extent, I suppose, post-penalty sub Brown potting the pink after a splendid ball delivered from the right. At that particular point, The Bloke Behind Me - never one to mince his words, ever! ? decided the time was ripe for the remainder of the stand to hear his dulcet tones, all of which mainly centred around the loudly-bawled observation: ?It?s all YOUR fault, Ferrall?..? a statement that sure got my imagination working overtime.

War in the Middle East threatening to involve the major powers in the region? ?It?s all YOUR fault, Ferrall?.? Global warming in imminent danger of triggering an unstoppable runaway greenhouse effect? ?It?s all YOUR fault, etc.!? A seemingly- inexorable rise in the numbers of young Asians turning to Islamic fundamentalism? Yep ? I reckon you?ve got the picture, by now! Well, it had me giggling fit to bust, at any rate, although I daresay Chummy behind me wouldn?t have seen the funny side!

It was about this time also that Talking Bill?s foghorn of a voice really began to impose its decibel-laden presence on the proceedings. Yet another Hartlepool foul, miles from the box, and there he was, on his feet: ?THAT?S A CLEAR GOALSCORING OPPORTUNITY, REFEREE!? and bawled in tones that must surely have deafened bystanders located as far away as the Cathedral grounds! Knowing Bill for the time I have, I?ve now come to the conclusion that his criteria for the commission of what is in essence a ?sending-off? offence encompasses just about every opposition infringement known to Man. Mind you, while I?m banging on about infringements, former Baggie Tam Mkandawire was dead lucky not to get an early bath following what was, in essence, a last-ditch tackle to prevent Pools from equalising. Fortunately for the Bulls, the offence was deemed to have occurred on the ?right? side of the 18-yard line, from where the danger was quickly nullified.

25 minutes gone, now, and Fleetwood was visibly flagging. Was that just down to running his fundament off the whole game, or was it the knock? Whatever the cause, he was quickly taken off in tandem with Sills, Connell and Williams the replacements, with about 20 to go. A timely move, for just moments later, the Bulls bagged Number Three, the perpetrator of the damage being none other than substitute Williams. A lovely build-up, too, with Travis on the flank making the accurate cross possible; all the lad had to do was prod it home.

And - a cheeky 40-yard Purdie effort apart - that, my leetle lieblings, was that. Another three-pointer for the Bulls ? albeit a tad jammy - and, as I intimated earlier, a monster headache for poor Danny Wilson, still stuck too close to the bottom of the table for comfort. Next up for us will be the Rochdale caper; as we haven?t got a game next weekend, and because neither of us have visited Spotland for quite some time, we?ve now decided that next weekend is high time we did so. Provided the Bulls can turn it on in the entertaining manner they have of late, then the encounter should be a pretty lively one, I reckon.

And now for Steve The Miser?s Trivia Corner Bit! After Thursday night?s 3-0 victory at Orient, the Man With The Moth-Eaten Wallet wishes it be made known that the Brisbane Road victory represented Albion's biggest winning margin in a major cup tie away from home since we beat Bristol Rovers 4-1, at Trumpton, in 1993-94.Aw ? you know, the one where SuperBob should have notched up a perfectly-legit hat-trick, and would have, were it not for the best efforts of a ?jobsworth? whistler ? went by the name of Wilkes, if my memory serves me correctly ? who inexplicably kept pulling play back for a free-kick in ALBION?S favour every single time our goalscoring hero managed to land the ball in the back of the net!

And Finally?.. One. Oh, no! How could they do this to me? After solemnly agreeing not to ?relegate? Pluto from the ?Interplanetary League?, the International Astronomical Union ? the space-scientists? equivalent of the FA, in case you didn?t know ? decided in a meeting held two days ago to do a complete 180 degree-turn on the vote taken and carried last week NOT to kick it out. That decision means we?re now down to eight Solar System planets, and just to pile insult on cosmological injury, Pluto well and truly lost its right to enter the FA Cup at the First Round stage as well. Having to come in at the 4th.qualifying round stage after having been exempted for so long must have represented an almighty blow for Clyde Tombaugh, Pluto?s original ?manager?, who must now be doing 78 rpm.in his grave as a result. As for what was the ninth planet, no prospect of immediate return via the play-offs, sadly. Just like upwardly-mobile Hereford, Wigan and Wimbledon, way back in the seventies, its sole route back to proper League status now lies in being ?voted? back in by a much more accommodating astronomical body!

Two?. Yet Another ?Out Of The Mouths Of Babes And Sucklings? moment??? This one comes courtesy of my great-nephew, Ethan, all six years of him, when I saw him last Friday night. When asked who his favourite Albion player might be, guess what he replied? ?The referee???

Three. A teensy-weensy correction to my Thursday evening tailpiece about Prince Charles, Wolverhampton, and ?vegetables?, folkies ? and many thanks to reader Ken Cox for pointing the following out to me. The crux of his message? He believe apologies may be in order, as the mayor of Wolverhampton is a chap called Phil Bateman, a fully paid up Albion season ticket holder, apparently, bless his jangly golden chain of office. Normally resident in the East Stand on matchdays, too, so that?s me told, then! Putting aside the fact I should have guessed far sooner for a moment ? the considerable intellectual demands placed upon the holder of such an important civic office make it a ?given?, almost, that it couldn?t possibly have been a born-and-(in)bred native of the city incumbent in the post! ? the main thrust of my argument very much stands, of course. Baggie-person or not, he still has to talk to vegetables, poor mite!

 - Glynis Wright

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