The Diary

29 August 2006: A Two-Goal Mackem Mauling In The Stadium Of Blight.

ARIES (March 21st to April 20th.) ?Hope springs to life today, with the link between Mercury and Jupiter bringing you the confidence to take action. You realise that you are the one to take things forward. You?ve got the right combination of vision and daring to see the possibilities where other people may see only challenges.?

Yeah, right ? that was my horoscope for today, that was. Blame the Daily Mirror, I say. Not only did these guys not foresee the demise of Pluto in astronomical terms the other day, they also failed to come up with today?s score. Oh ? and they got the bit about ?Hope springing to life? dead wrong as well. Try as I might this afternoon, at no point during the whole of that painful 90 minutes did I ever see a rejuvenated Bobby strutting his classy midfield stuff out there once more ? and boy, we sure could have done with his particular brand of ball-wizardry out there, albeit some thirty or forty years further down the line from the time when even the late, great Bill Shankly raved about his performances.

Said Oor Bobby could ?put the ball on a sixpence?, he did, back in the days when we could look the Anfield mob steadily in the eye when it came to closely-fought FA Cup replays ? and too bloody right, he could, too. Put the ball on a sixpence, I mean. The bit about ?taking things forward?? Spent far too much of the game watching our lot going rapidly backwards, if you ask me. ?The right combination of vision and daring? etc? The only thing I could foresee this afternoon was a drubbing. Sorry, and all that, but that?s how it was for me.

Mind you, the first moment I heard that Roy Keane was about to become their gaffer, that was when I first realised that to all intents and purposes, the game was as good as lost for we Baggies. Remember last season?s League Cup jaunt to Old Trafford, coming as it did hard on the heels of Georgie Best?s demise? Raw sentimentality dripping from just about every orifice you could think of that evening, living, non-living, whatever - and all steeped in the sure certainty that pure soppiness on the part of the paying audience wouldn?t brook any alteration whatsoever to what was rapidly assuming the proportions of a pre-ordained script. And that?s how it panned out, of course. United, supporters, players, officials, even, all well-awash with tears by that stage, simply tore poor Albion to shreds.

Fast-forward, now, to The Stadium Of Light, and the Mackem Messiah?s return to the fold, his newly-appointed Prophet On Earth quietly observing events from his main-stand vantage point. Quite a sea-change, that, to perceive amidst the home crowd a definite change for the better, as far as both mood and morale went. Had Niall Quinn or his temperamental Irish oppo not been appointed to the club propping up the remainder of the division, then I reckon that ?The Stadium Of Blight? might have been a much more apposite monicker to hang on them. Certainly, prior to The Second Coming, Sunderland AFC was not a happy club at all.

And so to the preliminaries. Wanting to get all the basics (like feeding our faces!) well and truly out of the way beforehand, we nipped up the road to pick up some basics from the Somerfield convenience store just up the road from Chez Wright. Our search proving successful, it was then time for the short return journey home. It was while we were passing our local chemist?s shop front that we caught a brief glimpse of Dev, ?yer man? and an Albion shareholder, looking very harassed indeed, although not half as harassed as our defence would be just a few hours later! He?s having the entire shop gutted right now, so he can bring the place kicking and screaming into the start of the 21st. century.

Thursday?s supposed to be the new re-opening date, and judging by the sheer industriousness of the manual labour going on in there, opening on the appointed day would present few problems. And, talking of ?problems? howzabout the one our pharmaceutically-inclined chum was having every home game, finding a half-decent locum to mind the place while he watched the Baggies? Not all of them totally reliable when it came to attendance as promised, apparently. Never mind, Dev, take two of these now, then come back and see me if the trouble persists! OK?

A couple of hours later, it was ?crunch-time?. Ooer. Plonking ourselves in front of the goggle-box and armed with every conceivable aid to viewing possible, mood-altering or otherwise, we tuned in as both sides were being announced on the screen. Changes? Well, Chaplow was brought into the fold, displacing poor Ronnie Wallwork, a move I found quite surprising, to be perfectly frank, with Kevin Phillips on the bench. Up front, at the goal-face, for the duration of the first half, at least, was the Hartson-Ellington combo. And that was it. Period. But there was yet another surprise in store. Guess who was doing the ?expert guest? thing back in the Sky studios? A coconut to the lady in the leather bondage underwear, if you please. Gary Megson, would you believe, as large as life, and twice as sarcastic? A bit too much like asking King Herod to talk his audience through all the local child-care facilities, if you ask me.

For the benefit of those who normally get their Albion ?fix? at first hand, it might behove you well at this point in the proceedings to realise that watching via the medium of satellite TV is nothing like sampling your pleasures ?in the flesh? so to speak. No 20-stone lump of lard plonking on the seat in front just before kick-off, and by doing so, effectively ?eclipsing? most of the important action, either. And no half-drunk geezer sitting four or five seats further down the row constantly finding himself taken short during the game, thank goodness.

The ?matchday catering?? As you might expect, much more straightforward to fix yourself some nosh beforehand: after all, unless your name happens to be Steve The Miser, you?re not likely to charge either yourself or your partner the greater part of a fiver just for a hot dog of dangerously-diminished dimensions ? no fried onion, or American mustard left now, sorry, luv! ? and all washed down with a microscopically-small bottle of fizzy pop (with the lid infuriatingly removed, natch), are you? Er ? are you? Now, let me think. Not being of the driving fraternity, you?ll have to tell me, but at current prices, and calculated as per relative proportions, which would give one?s pocket the most fiscal grief, I wonder? A pint of petrol, or the football-ground equivalent in Coke, or similar?

Back to events unfolding on the pitch, then. Not long before the start, Sky ran an interview they?d conducted with new Baggie Kevin Phillips. At least he came over as a pretty articulate and intelligent sort of guy: ?Im Indoors has a notion he wants to move into media work once his playing days are through, which would explain his new-found facility with Big Words, I suppose. And what a relief ? that awful black strip was no more, having been usurped by a much more fetching yellow and green stripy model. As for the actual number of bums on seats in the Stadium Of Light, take it as read that there were a great many gaps in evidence. What with the game being live anyway, plus the relatively chill breezes a-blowin? from the North Sea then whipping around the stadium, no wonder the gate looked a distinctly poor one.

Come the start, within about two minutes of the show getting on the road, Albion found themselves in possession of a juicy corner, a handy Gera cross pinging around the box before disappearing over the line for the set-piece. Sadly, we couldn?t capitalise any further ? and neither could we command the game, either. From then on in, Sunderland?s was the glory ? and it wasn?t all that long before the descent of a pretty sharp reminder, in the form of Sunderland set-pieces and goalmouth incidents galore. They sure as hell were enjoying the upper hand by then: come the end of the first 15 minutes, undoubtedly, the writing was on the wall for our distinctly-beleaguered side. Only four or five minutes previously, it had seemed much easier for The Mackems to put the ball in the back of the Albion net rather than miss as horrendously as they then did. I would imagine that most Baggies present saw that as an omen, a grim portent of what was to be. It certainly gave me the willies, that?s for sure.

As the half developed, so did Sunderland?s confidence soar in proportion, making quite a sharp contrast to Albion?s, plummeting ever lower with every second that elapsed. Was it two, or even three near-misses on the part of the home side, by then? Certainly, just past the half-hour mark, it took some pretty astute work from Zoobie ? his handling still gives me the willies, by the way ? to keep us in the game.

Coming under such heavy, sustained pressure as our lot did, it was almost inevitable that something would have to give, and very soon. As things stood, we did well to prolong the agony until just after the 30th minute. The expected Mackem breakthrough finally came straight from a corner ? and from my vantage-point, it seemed very much as though Zoobie had not a little part in what took place in that six-yard box as the ball came over. Seemingly caught in a little airy-fairy land of his own, he committed himself to dealing with the cross OK but, totally missing the blasted bladder in its flight, found himself floundering like a fish dumped on dry land instead, leaving the lad Whitehead ? no relation to ?Scrumpy?, our early-to-mid-1980?s West Country defender, as far as I?m aware ? the easiest of kicks to finally propel the ball over the line.

Just a few minutes before the break ? HALLELUJAH! A genuine Albion shot on goal! Whoopee! John Hartson was the Baggie who played the ball to the handily-placed Ellington: a shame, then, that his effort went just over the crossbar. But that wasn?t the only action taking place in the ground. For reasons best known to themselves, Sky TV long had it fixated in their little heads their audience simply had to be shown frequent shots of Roy Keane watching the action from the stands. And, on the rare occasions when even that novelty palled, cut camera to Niall Quinn, sitting in regal repose in the Mackems dug-out, instead. How many times were we ?treated? to this complete and utter nonsense? Four times over the course of the half? Every five minutes? More than that? Very likely, it would seem.

Time for time added on, if you get my drift. No Roy Keane, either, and for all of five minutes, too. Help ? I?m getting ?withdrawal symptoms?! Thank goodness for the break proper ? and a timely glimpse of his rapidly-retreating bottie caught in the process of making its gluteally-blessed way back towards the rear of the stand! A move that coincided with the half-time whistle, too. And no sooner had the ref blown to bring his charges in, the phone rang. It didn?t need the deductive powers of Sherlock Holmes to work out who was on the other end of the blower; just a single nod in the direction of Stirchley was enough, The Fart having also shifted himself from his armchair to give me his considered opinion of the game thus far. Just as well he wasn?t passing judgment within hearing-distance of our finest, really, lambasting the entire lot of them for a performance that would have surely shamed a parks outfit. ?After ten minutes, I?d have definitely settled for a point!? A familiar-enough lament from our well-ripened Baggie chum, to be sure, but one with added meaning.

Mind you, the break did bring about something I?d thought I?d never, ever see ? this column actually agreeing with what Gary Megson had to say about our performance thus far. I really couldn?t argue with his assertion that Sunderland were extremely unlucky not to be further in front come the end of the half. You really couldn?t argue with the guy ? not that I?d have dared, mind. And one other announcement made by the Sky publicity machine while awaiting the entry of the gladiators back into the arena ? their ?trailer? for tomorrow night?s televised game, one that amused me no end, as it happened. Bristol City versus Northampton Town was tomorrow?s delight up for grabs, prompting from me further comment, along the lines of: ?Coo! The Twin Mammaries versus a load of old Cobblers!? Yes, I know, junior school standard, but when you follow a side as inept as ours was this afternoon, you?ve no real option but to take your pleasure as and when you find it, right?

Time for both sides to resume hostilities, now ? and as our lot rejoined the scene of the crime, it quickly became apparent that a change was in the offing. Off went Duke Ellington, largely anonymous for the first 45 minutes, and on came his designated replacement, Kevin Phillips, for his very first taste of the action wearing an Albion shirt. And, as for Sky, yet another crafty look at Niall Quinn, embedded in his bunker. Was it that Sky thought someone might want to steal him, were their cameras not to be so eternally-vigilant, or something? Our first look at the guy in - ooooh - all of ten minutes!

A shame, then, that Albion weren?t quite so vigilant in their policing of what went on in the midst of the box. With just a scant minute on the clock that second half, the game was declared to be, as a contest, well and truly over. A free-header, more or less, from the lad Collins did the actual damage, it would seem. Just what were our rearguard doing at that particular point in the game, I ask myself? Macrame? Yogic flying? Even our black tom-cat could have defended that cross better, I reckon.

To no-one?s surprise in particular, with that unexpectedly-easy strike went more or less all of Albion?s lofty ambitions of nabbing all three points ? or even just one. And as Albion deflated like a pricked balloon, so did the confidence of the home supporters gather considerable momentum. Soon, the glee-club in the home end were bursting forth with a chant of ?Keanno!, Keanno!?? Not bad at all for a manager who had yet to put an official pen to paper for the club. The thing is, though, so fickle are the Mackems under normal circumstances, it might prove interesting just to canvass once more the opinions of said fanatical followers some twelve months further forwards in time.

Just a minute later, and in stark contrast to the buoyant features of the Mackem jacquerie, the Sky cameras then cut to a certain Bryan Robson, standing with arms folded by the away dugout, and looking as mad as hell, with it. ?Thunderous? wasn?t even the half of the grim expression he was throwing up in full view of the cameras. By now, all serious interest in this game as a contest had evaporated right into thick air. The only variables left in the equation for our supporters was the timing of a second subbing, which surely had to come. And come it did, with 54 minutes gone, and Darren Carter getting ready to take to the field of play. And not just him, either; also getting ready for action was the man originally sacrificed to make room for young Chaplow, Ronnie Wallwork ? with the aforementioned young upstart finding himself cast back into the unholy morass of the Albion dugout, once more. Oh ? talking of which, just what was it that Nigel Pearson found so funny at that point? He must have been about the only Albion person in that ground with a melon-slice grin running right from ear to shining ear.

And so, the game entered into its final stages, and with Sunderland?s confidence growing by the minute, too. Not surprising, that, what with all Albion interest in getting those goals back scattered to the four winds. All that, of course, in direct contrast to the jollifications taking place in their end, now basking more or less safe in the knowledge that as a spectacle, the game was now well and truly over. Our discomfiture with the situation finally manifested itself in the form of some marked deterioration in what was normally regarded as ?run-of-the-mill? matchday form.

Take Zoltan Gera, for example. There you had the classic case of a player frantically trying to get the ball to a more advantageously-positioned colleague, the end result being that the abysmal flight of the ball made it virtually impossible for any, more accurate movement, to take place. No, best forget it ? right in front of us was an embryonic morale problem, end of story. Despite the best efforts of Hartson and Phillips, the Mackem net remained pristine. As for the rest, in short, their hearts simply weren?t in it by that stage. Time, then, for one of my other half?s more profound comments: ?When you?re in a raffle where you secretly don?t want to win the star prize, it doesn?t really matter?.?

With just five to go, yet another pertinent comment, but from the Sky chappie this time. Trying to drum up a smidgen more atmosphere in the taking of an Albion free-kick, I reckon. ?You can score two goals in five minutes!? burbled the lad cheesy-cheerfully. With this lot? Yeah, right. Something told me it was going to be a long hard journey home for our travelling support tonight. And I didn?t need the services of an astrologer to make the prediction, either!

Thoughts? That Sunderland win was only their second since May 2005, for starters. Sure, the rampant Quinn/Keane factor out there had a major bearing upon what happened on the field of play, but much of what I saw this afternoon (yesterday?) I found somewhat depressing. Discomfiting, even. I don?t know how you lot out there saw it, but what worried me, above all, was our seeming total lack of desire, of urgency, of plain ornery motivation, even. With that game, and the awful result it left in its wake, we might just have seen the very first intimations that our elevation to the top-flight come the end of the current season might not necessarily be the dead cert it?s being made out to be by all those with a vested interest in an end-of-season plot denouement.

According to the official site this evening, at the post-match Press conference, Bryan Robson subsequently declared himself ?shocked? by our (non) performance ? and so he bloody well should be. If apologies are to be made, then they should be chucked liberally in the direction of all those who made what is, even at the best of times, a bloody boring trip up North. Had we applied ourselves to the task in hand more diligently, we?d have been hogging second spot by now, more than likely. Instead, today?s reverse means that we?ve dropped a couple of rungs further down the greasy promotion pole than is really desirable. Let?s just hope our finest rediscover their appetite for the game, and quickly, too.

And Finally?. Boro 0, Pompey 4, and former Baggie Kanu responsible for an amazing TWO of ?em. Or was it the corn-row hairstyle wot done the dirty deed? Bet the Pompey lot took to the motorway (or airport?) as happy as little mud-larks, tonight. That fortuitous win of theirs did have the happy knock-on effect of shifting Villa from their Premiership second spot perch, mind. Oh dear, how sad. For the pair of us, I mean.

 - Glynis Wright

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