The Diary

03 September 2006: That Curtis Davies - He'll Do Anything For A Break!

Welcome to my innermost thoughts ? or, at least, the ones I deem printable! ? and, as ever, I really do value your company, but you will forgive me one small indulgence this time, before rolling up my cyber-sleeves and launching into the missive proper. Nothing that would frighten either the servants or the natives unduly, mind: this isn?t that sort of literary tome, and, in any case, my four felines would strongly disapprove, so I?ll just be getting on with what I have to do, if it?s all the same to you ? and that?s SCREAM, and in true ?Victor Meldrew style, as well! Yep, you read that right: in fact, whatever it takes in the howling and yowling stakes (well, it seems to work OK for my cats, so who am I to cast aspersions?) to make me feel better within a matter of minutes ? so here goes, then! ?AAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRGH!! I DON?T BELIEEEEEEVVVVE IT!?

Phew, that?s better, flat cap nicked off my brother-in-law, who stands in serious danger of becoming a Meldrew-clone, such is his bargain-basement view of Life, The Universe, and Everything these days ? and by now you?re probably wondering why I had to indulge in this totally-shameless public display of emotion, and as a matter of such great urgency, too, in the first place. The answer?s quite simple, really: in response to two items of Albion-related news I only caught up with properly much earlier on, when ?Im Indoors was a-bashing of these keys, and I was a-catching up with the Sunday Times supplements.

The first item to cause the red mist to descend in heaps was Curtis Davies, the rotten news about his metatarsal injury, I mean, and a probable ten-week lay-off from first team duties for him. Apparently, it was thought the problem was nothing more than bad bruising, but Albion wisely organised a precautionary X-ray, which is when the trouble actually showed up properly for the first time. Yet again, The Albion Curse has struck. Wonderful.

Maybe it?s the Old Fart in me coming out, or something ? and, being of a totally-different supporting generation, perhaps the ?genuine Old Fart? might want to contribute further on this ? but am I right in thinking that this sort of injury is much, much more prevalent now than it was, say, thirty years ago? I?m not just thinking about our players, either: as the whole world and its sister now knows, a certain Mister Rooney had his World Cup hopes dealt a serious blow when he suffered in like-manner towards the end of last term.

Returning to the Baggies once more, try as hard as I might, I genuinely cannot remember a single Baggies centre-half (central defender) from that era sidelined for any great length of time with the same injury. If I?m wrong (and if I am, you can bet anything you like resident ?Statto? Steve The Miser will let me know literally within seconds of this page appearing in his inbox!) then I?ll stand corrected, and totally castigated, too ? serve me right for being careless - but I?m blowed if I can.

And, if that be the case, what?s causing it? So-called ?boots? with fancy names and even fancier designs taking on all the attributes of fluffy bedtime slippers in recent years, totally at the expense of basic protection for a highly vulnerable part of the anatomy, and losing their basic fitness for purpose as a result? Or, could it be that some naughty footballers, somewhat less-inclined towards the sportsmanlike interpretation of the Marquis Of Queensbury Rules than their playing forebears, deliberately target known weak-spots relatively secure in the knowledge that it?s fairly easy to make such injuries look like a complete accident? (?Oooo ? I really am sorry, mate. I was going for the chuffin? ball, honest, but your flickin? foot got in the road, somehow. You know ?ow it is, two pros together, and both wantin? the same bloody ball. Tell you what ? let?s shake on it, mate, and be done. No hard feelings, eh??)

My second grievance? Guiseppi Rossi, formerly of Man United, and now seemingly on loan to Newcastle United, all of a sudden. Yes, that?s right, the lad we wanted thrown in as part of the deal that took the Pole In Goal to Old Trafford, the one who stayed put when Fergie stated that he wanted Rossi to stay where he was, in order to make the young striker a definite part of his plans for the (then) forthcoming season. ?Hmmm. Annoying ? but that?s football, isn?t it?? we Baggies thought, thinking that would be the end of the matter. But it wasn?t, was it, Fergie? The other night, I was absolutely stunned to learn from my other half that despite all those reassurances to the contrary, all those platitudes, Rossi struck his tent and vacated the premises after all anyway. But not to us. Sure, it?s a loan deal, which is exactly what we would have ended up with had the deal lived to tell the tale, but it still doesn?t make this right. Legally, he?s as pure as the driven snow, but morally, the whole thing stinks to high heaven, doesn?t it? If that?s how Fergie treats a fellow-manager who?d served so loyally as one of his players for so long, I really would hate to see what he does to his enemies!

One other very late move before close of business did catch my attention, though ? and it must have gone through literally minutes before the transfer window deadline pulled down the shutters on everything. Our tame son of Nippon ? no, not the proprietary ant-killer you get from the ?household products? aisle in Tesco , silly! ? managed to fix up a move to Galatasary of Turkey, so we won?t be seeing him any more, nor the plethora of Japanese journos hanging on his every move whilst with us, come to think about it.

So you think we Baggies supporters have it bad, do you? Then try being a Rochdale supporter some time. Let me put it this way: remember your Fourth Form chemistry lessons, and that puzzling indecipherable multicoloured array of a wall chart that called itself the Periodic Table Of The Elements? Well, if you do ? and even if you don?t ? then were football clubs to get themselves associated with chemistry, then Rochdale would certainly appear in the extreme right-hand bit, the column that reads: Helium; Neon: Argon: Krypton: Xenon ? and last, but certainly not least, Radon. Remember? Some familiar names, some not ? but all characterised by one property in particular, and one that stands out about as much as a fully-attired Dingle sitting slap-bang in the middle of the Brummie. They don?t do a lot: in fact, they?re as inert as hell. Do what you want with them, chuck any known acid in the same vessel, and they?ll just sit there giggling at your puny attempts to turn them into something they?re not.

It?s the same with poor Rochdale. Over the span of their relatively short incarnation as a League club, they?ve only been upwardly mobile on just two occasions, and only one of them was a ?pukka? promotion. In 1959, when the old Third Divisions North and South became the Third and Fourth Divisions, Rochdale managed to get into the higher sphere, on account of the fact that the previous season, they?d enjoyed one of their highest-ever finishes, 10th in the table, which meant that they tasted life in that relatively exalted company the season after, when the two divisions split. The trouble was ? yes, you?re probably ahead of the game by now ? they couldn?t cope with the ?high life? that Division Three offered, so they were relegated again.

But that wasn?t their only promotion, dearie me, no. In 1968, and with Bob Stokoe (yes, THAT Bob Stokoe!), they managed to achieve ?proper? promotion for what was to prove the only time in their history ? and, again, they only lasted one season before returning to the bargain-basement fold again. And that?s where they?ve been to this day, numerous changes of name for the company they currently keep notwithstanding, of course. That one represents their only promotion in 36 years. Don?t bother looking in their trophy cabinet: local legend tells that it?s the football equivalent of the Bermuda Triangle. That?s why I said Rochdale were the Football League?s answer to the so-called ?inert gases? ? like them, they sit in splendid isolation, completely shunning company, chemical or otherwise ? and barring a miracle ? or, in the case of Helium And Co, a handy ?atom-smasher? - that?s the way they?ll stay.

That, then, formed the background to today?s footie fix, exchanging the delights of The Hawthorns for the backwoods of Lancashire, some two hours drive distant. Or would have been, had we not encountered the mother and father of all irritating ?stop-go? traffic on the northbound carriageway of the M6, thereby turning what should have been a straightforward trip into one where we eventually harboured some doubts about actually making the kick-off.

The culprit? Those wretched overhead gantries, I reckon, flashing hazard warnings when it was quite clear to anyone driving that no hazard existed at all, the confusion making other traffic, not so used to motorways, perhaps, slow down for no reason. ?Spray? was supposed to be the problem, but both of us were left pretty puzzled by it all. Spray? What bloody spray? Oh ? and we did encounter traffic heading for Old Trafford as well. Whatever the cause, it meant we were considerably later than anticipated by the time we got to Spotland, their ground.

Mind you, the stresses of the journey were made considerably better by Steeleye Span, once more. As we neared the ground, one track in particular made me smile. 600 years old was the story behind it, a lament about the fate of some Scottish gentry after they got a bit uppity with the English monarch of the day, one of the early Edwards. Apparently, the king had done the dirty on them after they?d called the fighting off, and several ended up in the Tower afterwards, hence the song. The thrust of the argument is contained within what modern-day pop people would call ?the hook? ? the refrain, in more traditional terms, in this case: ?Such a hatful of rogues in a nation?..? Oh, do get over it, dearies. Politicians ? weren?t they always thus?

Even so, Steeleye Span or not, we?d still made it by two o?clock (I swear ?Im Indoors has a set of afterburners secretly hidden away, somewhere, James Bond-style!) with the away supporters? coach still disgorging its human cargo right outside the turnstile. As the opposition was Hereford United, we knew at least some of these intrepid travellers, Nick Brade and chums, for example, plus sundry other people. The main talking-point was provided by Stuart Fleetwood?s absence from the fray. He?d been called up for international duty, and Andy Williams stepping into the breach for a rare start. Oh ? and there was an additional Baggie presence ? Roy Hayden, whom I?d previously spotted indulging in the carbohydrate-laden goodies provided by the chippie just over the road from the ground. I?d been told already that the standard of their product was on a par with that provided by its alter ego outside Crewe Alex?s ground ? beef dripping only used to fry their wares, the way all chippies would be if I had my way ? and I would have indulged myself had the turnstiles not opened right then. Saved from myself!

I have to say that after about 14 years or so, when I?d first come to get the ground in, the place has now improved beyond all reasonable belief. Where once were ramshackle stands, all the way around the place, and all bearing more than slight resemblance to Beirut, after the Israeli Air Force had ?visited?, they could now boast new constructions on all four sides of the ground, three seated, and one with executive boxes, also a conference centre to the rear; another, terraced, behind one of the goals. And the toilet arrangements were several light-years better than the ones that confronted me all those years before. Brightly-lit, with clean cubicles and washbasins, all complete with soap, hot water, and proper drying facilities. A shame about the pies, though. I?d heard they were regarded as pretty good by other away supporters, and, in any case, the tariff outside the refreshment area offered bacon butties for sale, so I asked for one of them, originally ? only to be told they hadn?t got any bacon, which made things a bit limiting for them! Bugger.

Oh, well ? a pie it was, then, which I grabbed and took with me to a suitable seat ? at the back of the stand because of the awful weather, now whipping wind and rain absolutely everywhere ? even as far back as our vantage-point. At that point in time, the place was practically empty, but not for long. As the ground filled up, the chap in charge of the PA proved to be one with rare good musical tastes. Much to my surprise, one of the tracks played came from The Beatles? much-praised1965 Revolver album. Can?t remember the exact title right now, but it?s the one that starts: ?Turn on your mind, relax and float downstream?.? Their first tentative dabblings in the crazy world of psychedelia, and around the time producer George Martin first hit on the idea of multi-tracking, and playing stuff backwards, eventually incorporating the entire mix into a groundbreaking, much-acclaimed whole. Lovely stuff. Why is it that you can only listen to such gems at grounds like Rochdale?s, I wonder?

Still, nearly time for kick-off ? but you wouldn?t have thought so. On the pitch, a little man laboured busily, putting back all the ?football? markings ? they share the ground with a rugby club, apparently, so someone had to go round, making sure the right markings were to the fore once more. As he did so, out came both sides. To copious amounts of cheers from the home section of the crowd, sparse though it was. (Only one promotion in roughly 40 years ? just what is it that motivates a Rochdale supporter sufficiently enough to carry on? Willpower?)

And so to matters on the pitch. Oh dear. To be perfectly fair, I had harboured some doubts beforehand as to whether the game would actually go ahead, but looking at the pristine state of their pitch, their groundstaff must have moved heaven and earth to get everything ready in time. The problem that remained, though, was the strong wind and driving rain that bedevilled the first half, and must have made playing conditions bordering upon treacherous at times. And the extreme conditions must also have blown away the visitors? normal attacking, pass-and-move, credo.

Of the two sides, it was Rochdale that seemed to enjoy the slight advantage once all the opening salvoes had finally quietened down. Their efforts seemed to have the Bulls? midfield largely neutered, and their ginormous striker, Sako, causing no end of grief for the Bulls. With just a couple of minutes gone, one effort only just managed to clear the bar, minimal contact with an opposing player giving the home side a crack at a corner. Luckily, that was an aspect of their game Hereford had well in hand, so little damage done, fortunately.

And, as the game progressed, so did Rochdale enjoy the lion?s share of the game. For all their mastery of the midfield and fine approach work, the one thing they couldn?t achieve was actually getting the ball into the back of the net. Oh ? and had there been a ?foul count? that half, and the outcome of the game depending on it, then Rochdale would most certainly have won in a walk!

As both sets of players mixed it on the pitch, in the stand, there were much more atavistic urges stirring. It all started the moment a posse of stewards came up the gangway, to tell the Bulls contingent off for standing up, I suppose. No sooner had they done so, then out came a blistering rebuke ? ?Go get a proper job?.? To the usual ?Go West? thing, of course, then, once more for emphasis, the same melody prevailing: ?S**t job, and you?ve got no friends?.? And that wasn?t all. Just behind me was seated a bloke whose voice was very much in the ?Talking Bill? end of the supporting spectrum. In tones that must have resounded over all four areas of the ground, never mind just the away end, he was constantly urging his favourites: ?Come on, Hereford ? step it up a gear?..? Imagine Concorde doing a sonic boom right above your front windows, and you?ll get the general idea.

Other curiosities? How does a Rochdale player using a steward?s coat ? he was still wearing it, which made the whole thing even more unreal! - to shift water from the ball grab you? Another was Nick?s sudden remark about the numbering on the back of those Hereford shirts: according to him, the design, black numbers surrounded by gold edging, is a dead ringer for that of Real Madrid! OK, Nick ? I?ll take your word for it!

Elsewhere in that stand, there appeared, for the first time ever, to my knowledge, a newly-minted bunch of Bulls. This lot are new kids on the block, apparently, their coach picking up as far south as Ross On Wye. They must have had an absolute skinful before the game, though. How else do you explain trying to fit the words: ?You?re bottom of the League?.? to a melody totally unsuited to carrying it? Later, Nick was to advance the view that perhaps, their verbosity was something to do with their radically-altered group consciousness, possibly brought about by copious ingestion of one of Hereford?s lesser-known ? but certainly less-legal - cash crops! Later in the half, that some bunch were to come up with the stunning musical assertion, sung to the Neil Diamond tune ?Sweet Caroline?, ?Sweet Martin Giles, left-back?s never been so good?.? A reference to the Bulls? stopper, of course ? and much groan-making from this column, who, luckily, thrives on that sort of awful play on words!

By now, the overall standard of the game had declined considerably, so much so, I was making ?snoring? noises to ?Im Indoors. Not that I was the only one finding things somewhat tedious, either. Shortly before the end of the half, a half-astonished Nick turned to my other half, and said: ?You?re ENJOYING this??..?

To which my beloved immediately retorted: ?Yeah ? but don?t forget, this will be the last time I?ll be watching Hereford for a long, long time?..? Very true, as we?ll be preoccupied with all things Albion over the course of the next few weeks. And that?s the first moment my beloved spotted an advertising hoarding in front of the home end extolling the virtues of ?Minky?. This resulted in much speculation on his part, not surpising, considering the dire state of the game, by then. ?Hmmm ? Minky. Aren?t there some whales called that? No, hang on ? they?re called MINKE whales, aren?t they? Does that mean they?re trying to flog whalemeat?? Mind you, considering the taste of the pies ? which I didn?t rate at all ? that?s probably what the interior consisted of!

Half-time, then, and a visitation by a lad called Nigel, heavily involved in their fanzine, and now with a small child. Yep, he?d brought the little shaver, age 18 months, apparently, to the game with him. Her first away ground, this ? but what was more important was her mode of transport to the ground, a bog-standard child?s buggy. Instead of waffling on with variations on a theme of ?No, you can?t take that in here, mate!? Rochdale?s stewards had not only opened an access gate, then pushed Junior through whilst Mum and Dad paid at the turnstiles, they even found somewhere to park that buggy during the game ? where Rochdale?s cameras are, would you believe? God knows what the poor cameraman had to say about it when he finally found what he was sharing his domain with. Or was that just a more common-sense approach in operation, for once?

By now it was time for the second half to start, and without further ado, both sides trooped onto the pitch ready to do battle. Once more, it was the home side that had the lion?s share of what chances went begging ? at least two of their players managed to stuff up chances, the second of which would have sewn up the game for Rochdale had they managed to cash in. What happened? Well, thanks to some uncharacteristic midfield and defensive inattention on the part of The Bulls, Rochdale managed to get the ball to their lad Barker, free of any marker. By rights, he should have bust the net, but instead of doing so, completely mis-hit the shot, which went wide. Clearly Rochdale?s best chance of the game, and arguably, one of the best for either side. Oh ? and another lesson Hereford needed to learn in a hurry: when your player is crudely cut down on receiving the ball, blame the silly sod that passed the thing under less-than-favourable circumstances, shall we say, and not the opposition player that gave away the free-kick in the first place!

By that time, both sides had changed things, but thanks to the inefficiency of the PA system as a whole ? the Beatles it can manage OK, but team news (and, presumably, any evacuation orders in case of fire, or worse) - could just go hang as far as the club were concerned. All we could hear was a muffled series of words and syllables coming through the Tannoy.

Ten to go before the main bulk of the drama that was to galvanise Spotland, but there was still time for a penalty shout that had not a little merit about it. In fact, I?d go as far as saying it was one of the most nailed-on claims for a spot-kick I?ve seen in yonks. The Rochdale player responsible handled the ball, and right inside the box, too: we all saw it, but the ref didn?t sadly. Still ? look on the bright side: at least the referee didn?t want to know, a state of affairs I found quite surprising, as the incident had occurred just a few short yards away from his little twinkle-toes.

Then, a little later on, shouts of ?Go, Willo!? as the lad took possession ? and almost immediately lost it again. Raged one clearly-aggrieved Bulls supporter: ?I told you when to bloody go, didn?t I?? But the biggest surprise Fate had in store for this particular encounter was to emerge just a couple of minutes before the full 90 was up. Williams managed to get the ball right on the edge of their box, then endeavoured mightily to carry his meaty goods further ? but lost it, illegally, so the ref ruled. Coo, a Bulls penalty, and just before time, too! The home side tried spoiling tactics, but as with everything, there?s a limit upon what you can do without needlessly incurring the wrath of the referee. Groans en-masse when Bernie-lad was deemed The Chosen One. ?He?s going to miss this,? said my pessimistic other half, his depressed mood changing instantaneously for the better as the Bulls potted the ?pen?, with all three points now looking ripe for the taking.

With the game now in time added on ? FOUR minutes, and two of that already played by the time the ref managed to signal to the fourth official on the touchline ? it just had to happen, didn?t it? The most infuriating part, according to ?Im Indoors, was the knowledge that what happened next occurred in the FIFTH minute of a game that should have only run to four. Yes, you?ve guessed right ? another bloody penalty, but this time, to Rochdale. And no ? just like every other spectator in that away end, I?ve no idea at all why the ref gave it, or for what offence.

All may be revealed in tomorrow?s papers, of course, but until someone does shed further light on this baffling incident, I?ll just have to put it down to a refereeing aberration on the part of the match official responsible. Rochdale had no trouble whatsoever putting that one away; as for the visitors, they only had time to return to the centre-circle; no sooner had they kicked off, the ref blew for full time. Angry, those away supporters? Too bloody right they were: and that wasn?t all. Getting up to ?high dough? also were the Hereford players, who, seemingly furious regarding the denial of what should have been their natural birthright, decided to ?crowd? the ref instead. Didn?t get them anywhere, of course, and the next thing I saw, Tucka himself was trying to restrain his players from doing something they might subsequently regret to the ref.

See you next Friday, when I have a butchers at Lecester City. Until then, ta-ta!

And Finally?? Oooooh, what a convoluted one for you, tonight! But it will make sense, come the end, I promise! It?s mighty strange what you?ll find in your morning scandal-sheet even if you don?t intend doing so, if you get my drift. Take last Thursday evening, and my ?Guardian? (but make sure you pay for it first, OK?). Apparently, there are an awful lot of ?drones? (pilotless planes), commonly used by the military in Iraq, and by the Israelis, ditto, just about anywhere in the Middle East they think they can get away with it, it would seem. And having now fully explored their capacity to inflict arms-length death and destruction upon sundry Middle and Far Eastern Islamic communities, our government is now thinking of allowing these muthas to fly over Blighty ? for ?peaceful purposes?, natch, and under civvy control.

According to the Guardian blurb I saw, they?re not only good for selecting suitable places ? and people! ? for the army to take out at leisure later, they?re also jolly useful when it comes to more pacific uses like monitoring crop growth, industrial emissions, that kind of thing. But the devil lies in the detail, of course, in this instance, putting them under civilian control, back in Blighty. Their main usefulness lies in the lack of a human being at the controls, of course ? which does leave the teensy-weensy problem of how air traffic control chappies (and chappesses, of course) talk to them in the first place.

One solution proposed by some unsung genius or other is to fit such craft with voice recognition systems; in theory, at least, that would enable the person on the ground to tell an electronic gubbins-box inside when to ascend/descend in order to shift pretty sharpish out of the way of the 20.30 from Malaga, currently creeping up behind the tailfin of the blasted thing, and, assuming nothing?s done soon, guaranteed to get much, much closer within a matter of seconds.

And that?s where the Albion angle comes in, folks. I may not be the world?s greatest expert on voice recognition systems, pilotless aircraft, or communication matters in general, come to think of it, but previous personal experience in a slightly-related field seems to indicate strongly that should it come to the crunch, someone, somewhere will eventually end up with a bloody big hole in the ground, smoke billowing from the wreckage ? and an unholy number of carbonised corpses. Not convinced? Let me take you back in time to just two seasons ago, and shortly before Albion played Newcastle, at St. James?s Park, then.

Having heard previously of another group of fellow-Baggies? complete contentment with travelling to away fixtures by train, we four GD bods ? Hubby, myself, The Fart, The Noise ? decided to give Virgin Trains a whirl ourselves, and book four cheap day returns for the day of the game. And that?s when it started going pear-shaped: Virgin, you see, just happen to use voice-recognition technology in their call centres. Normally, this wouldn?t have been a problem, but on the day in question, when attempting to book, I just happened to be using a mobile phone to do the deed ? but, unfortunately, in an area where the signal was so weak, I ended up seriously toying with the idea of taking it to the gym for some much-needed bodybuilding exercises.

Result? Whilst completely enmeshed in the tortuous process of telling the disembodied robot at the other end I wanted FOUR cheap day returns to Newcastle, somehow or other, this then got translated into SIX period returns to bloody OLDHAM! No wonder my John Cleese ?Fawlty Towers?-type antics ? swearing into said mobile at top of voice, bashing the thing on the dashboard, etc. - had my other half convulsed with laughter within seconds. Employ similar voice recognition systems to shunt unmanned aircraft around British skies, high above towns, cities, factories, schools, oil refineries, nuclear power stations, and Uncle Tom Cobbley and all? In, around, higher, then lower, amidst a country that boasts one of the busiest airspaces in Europe, in terms of aircraft movements per 24 hours?

Yeah, right. Now you?ll have to excuse me for a while, while I go and dig myself and my four cats a bloody deep bunker ? and, no, I?m not letting you in at any price, either.

 - Glynis Wright

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