The Diary

13 September 2006: Double Defeat At Deepdale And Hereford.

Oh, dear ? what a dismal double-header, tonight. Albion losing by a single goal at Preston, with Hereford going down 2-1 to impressive Wycombe at Edgar Street as well. Not exactly the sort of thing to send you away with both a merry quip and a cheery smile on your face, now, is it? What depresses me most of all though, is my sneaking suspicion that of the two fixtures, the one we attended tonight provided a much higher standard of entertainment. Certainly, the picture painted by Radio Five immediately after the final whistle (at Edgar Street) suggested a dour sort of Deepdale contest, and Preston grabbing the winner just 60 seconds after Albrechtsen had almost netted for The Baggies.

No doubt the media will have much more to say come the morrow, but what really worries me at the moment is our absolutely appalling away record. ?Tis true that our problems in that direction were the result of two seasons in the Prem, most of which were spent sailing pretty close to the relegation wind, but even allowing for that, the stats don?t make very pretty reading, I?m afraid. Am I right in thinking that to date, we have naught but two away wins to show for our trouble over the course of 42 fixtures played away from The Hawthorns? And only 1 away win in 30 such games? Dearie, dearie me. Something?s got to change, and soon, otherwise we?re going to be left well and truly standing at the altar before too long.

Please note also that Blues managed to come up to scratch tonight at Loftus Road, winning their own game 2-0, and the second strike coming from the chap they signed from Cardiff City for a pretty stiffish fee over the summer, Cameron Jerome. And when The Small Heath lot were down to ten men as well, after having someone sent for an early bath for their sins. That win now puts them top of the Championship heap, with us trailing miles behind. That?s what having a rotten away record does for you, sadly. As ?Im Indoors sourly commented on the homeward journey, while negotiating the intricacies of the twisty, bendy Hereford-Worcester road: ?What a novelty! An expensive striker signed from Cardiff ? and he scores goals!? My beloved oozing sarcasm from every pore, of course ? he?s quite good at it as well, as I can readily attest, should anybody ever want me to! ? but, as per usual, pretty much spot-on. The only good to be extracted from tonight?s footballing bean-feast was at Molineux, where the Dingles went down to Derby by the odd goal. For whatever reason, they?re having problems also. Just as well, really.

As for life at the other end of the Football League, it would appear that newcomers Hereford are having to make some pretty painful adjustments to the differing demands of the higher sphere they now find themselves in. It?s one thing to completely bedazzle the Conference with wonderfully scintillating attacking stuff, of course, but quite another to make it work at League level, which is why they?re producing some pretty mixed results of late. And although they dipped, tonight?s game certainly had its moments. But that was all a couple of hours away as we joined the M5, and with the rapidly-sinking sun lending a considerable amount of colour to the sky, headed hell for leather towards the Worcester South intersection, where the Ring Road and the wibbly-wobbly, twisty-bendy trunk road awaited us.

But as we left the motorway and joined the ring-road proper, a bit of a mystery confronted us both. In the shape of three or four guys, all dressed in tracksuits, and clearly awaiting the arrival of either a minibus or a coach. By the general cut of their jib, they looked for all the world like footballers ? but with a full fixture-list going full-blast tonight, just who the hell did they play for? Couldn?t have been another League side, surely. The only show in town ? literally ? were The Bulls, and neither club boasted red badges for tracksuits. Could they be Conference wallahs, perchance? Not very likely: once more, Hereford and Worcester suffers from a positive dearth of Conference sides. There?s Kiddy, of course, but they?d have been picking up at two intersections further North, surely? And, come to think about it ? so cash-strapped are they these days, I doubt very much whether they?d be bussing their players to and from a hotel pre-match. Oh, well ? I guess we?ll just have to carry on in blissful ignorance, or something!

As we negotiated the bypass and headed towards the turn-off serving cider country?s Cathedral City, once more, we set Steeleye Span ringing in our ears. Blame all this folk-rock malarkey on me, by the way, as I only returned to that particular fold about a year ago, and by pure accident, too. To be more specific, ?Im Indoors managed to win some competition or other on local radio back then, and the prize was ?100 worth of rare records of one?s choice, one of his selections being a ?best of? Fairport Convention CD. So taken by that was I ? and my other half, too, which surprised me greatly! ? we decided to further add to our collection, and it?s because of that I?m now rapidly rediscovering what it was about the genre that made me go out and buy so many Steeleye Span albums some thirty years ago, when I was a student. What?s amazed me, though is the speed with which ?Im Indoors has taken to the stuff; folk music is very much about story-telling, social comment, wondrous deeds, the arcane workings of the supernatural, evil witches, that sort of thing, and I?d never once realised before that oh-so-practical hubby could ever be moved by emotive words and music emanating from long ago.

But once more, I digress. The season being just on the cusp of transformation from summer into autumn, it came as no surprise to see such a plethora of seasonal goodies on sale either by the roadside, or from nearby farms and/or small businesses. Damsons seem to be popular (oh, by the way, anyone know any good recipes that use ?em, as I?ve now got a bloody great bagful at home to show for my trouble!), as do the region?s staple export, apples, cooking, cider and eating, respectively, of course. Also up for grabs were cobs of sweetcorn ? maize, to you, squire ? runner beans, blackberries, and ? wait for it ? Koi carp! Koi carp? Yep, you got it, or could, had you visited the small building that housed ?em in one particular village we passed.

No traffic problems tonight, so we were very early arriving, for once, getting on the car park adjacent to the ground with a good 30 minutes to spare. Time to shift an ice-cream or two had the van been there, which it wasn?t, sadly, something that sent vague alarm-bells a-jangling in my other half?s superstitious brain. No pre-match ice cream? Calamity! Oh, well, nothing more to do than go in, then ? and as we did, a pleasant surprise awaited us. Hereford had actually made the connection, albeit belated, between the efficiency of their staff on the particular gate we used, and the size of the queue as kick-off approached. They?d put a relatively young person on that turnstile, for once, which meant that the inward flow of bodies was a delightfully rapid one. At long last ? but it didn?t half take a long time before the penny finally dropped, chaps! Mind you, we did have one amusing moment as we waited to go in ? immediately before us in the short queue was a bloke with a coat bearing the legend ?Zak Dingle Golf Society? on the back. The sort of golf that doesn?t require mathematical skills to keep track of one?s score, perchance?

Landing in our usual sockets just as the setting sun turned the sky beyond to an absolute riot of yellows, oranges and reds, we quickly realised we weren?t the first. Beating us to it were Nick?s little bunch, Mum Mavis and her mate Marion, telling tales of woe concerning what had gone wrong for the Bulls on Saturday, when they?d ended up going down by four goals to one. Didn?t stop them signing up for the next two away trips, though, one of which was Bristol Rovers. Correct me if I?m wrong, but aren?t they occupying yet another temporary home these days, pending the completion of some ground improvement or other at their usual home?

As befitted their impressive start to the season, not to mention the fact they?d only lost six away games since the start of LAST season, the visitors, Wycombe, had brought with them am impressive away support, three or four coaches-worth, we?d noted, as we passed ?em on the way in. A very noisy lot, too, with someone banging away for dear life on that inevitable adjunct to Second Division life these days, a bloody deafening bass drum. As for the team news, after the stonking they?d had, Graham Turner seemed to have embarked upon a reprise for that mid-thirties Nazi German phenomenon, The Night Of The Long Knives. A fair number of changes to the regular line-up: Giles out and replaced by Jeanin at the back; Beckwith relegated to the bench, and Gulliver taking his place in central defence, and Sheldon, Connell and Williams plonked in midfield, only two of whom were recognised midfielders. Such is one?s fate when you?re tasting football at that end of the market, sadly.

Out came both sides, then, with ex-Baggie Tam Mkandawire leading the little Bulls mascot for the night, a very small girl indeed, by the hand, and very bemused he looked, too. I can only imagine that while with us, he?d never once envisaged looking after small children comprising one of his duties once he?d joined the ranks of the adult pros! And, as both sides tossed up, over the barrier vaulted Nick Brade (one of these days, I bet he?s going to badly misjudge it ? ever thought of wearing a cricketer?s box to future home games, Nick?), fresh from his latest money-grabbing ? er, no, better make that ?fund-raising? ? exploits. After all, he?s a damn sight bigger than me, and it?s always better to be a live coward then a dead hero. Well, that?s what my First World War veteran granddad used to say when I was small, and who am I to argue?

Wycombe are old-hat to we Baggies, of course. I remember us playing them in the Cup back in our Third Division days, on a bitterly cold Sunday. It just so happened that Sky were showing the game ?live?, with Barmy Bobby Gould their ?resident expert?, something that prompted a plethora of Albionites, still absolutely furious with Gould after the appalling way he?d cocked up the club when manager, to gather at the foot of the ladder that led to the distinctly Heath Robinson-looking commentary position, and tell him his immediate, medium and long-term fortune, all the while using an extremely colourful vocabulary to map it out for him! Because of the early kick-off, it wasn?t possible to visit pubs for a pre-match drink ? but that didn?t stop our intrepid and resourceful travelling band from obtaining what they reckoned was their rightful due. The answer? Simple ? find the nearest off-licence, and within a matter of an hour or so, completely denude it of its entire stock of falling-down-water! That game ended in a 2-2 stalemate, after we?d gone two up over the course of the first half, but Bob Taylor soon rectified matters come the replay, knocking in the winner about ten minutes or so from the end. And, by doing so, prevented me from landing into all sorts of trouble with my then-employers, but that?s another tale altogether!

Returning to tonight?s game, then, the way Wycombe had set out their stall was certainly novel. They seemed to be employing a 3-1-4-2 type-formation, something seen far more at Premiership level than this particular footballing backwater. ?Im Indoors reckoned it was something originally devised by former manager (and yet another ex-Baggie!) John Gorman. In contrast, all that Hereford could come up with by way of reply were moves with ?hump-it-and-hope? very much in mind. Not a satisfactory state of affairs for supporters by now educated to expect a far higher standard of football from their favourites; as you would imagine, comments emanating from the main stand, our location, were both pithy and cutting in content! From my ? neutral, remember! - point of view, I reckoned that Hereford would do really well to get a draw from the game, so good were the opposition going forward.

As the game developed beyond opening gambits, though, it was so nearly Hereford that got off the mark first. Finding himself in possession about 6 yards in front of goal, and not quite believing his luck, no doubt, the lad made an absolute pig?s ear of what should have been a textbook strike. Oh dear. From the resultant goal-kick, the visitors broke out at speed ? their party-trick, it would appear: that midfield and forward line was bloody quick, believe you me ? and damn near surgically sliced the home defence to shreds. It was only the intervention of Lady Luck that finally saved the Bulls, but all was nearly forgiven just minutes later when the aptly-named Fleetwood broke on the right, then cut in and drew a respectable save from the Wycombe custodian.

To be absolutely fair, though, it was Wycombe who were looking far more likely to open their account, so it came as absolutely no surprise to me whatsoever to see them do precisely that with about 30 minutes on the clock. What was different, however, was the weird manner in which they took the lead. Talk about an overdose of suicide pills: up to that point, the home side had managed to soak up pretty much everything Wycombe had thrown at them, but that was quickly brought to an end when both Tam Mkandawire and Bulls keeper Tynan tried to combine to sort out what looked like a bog-standard headed backpass to me.

Sure, there was a Wycombe forward in close attendance, but as the pass was going to be headed, it should have been a piece of the proverbial for the keeper to scoop the bladder into his hot little mitts. Now this is where my thoughts and those of Nick Brade differ: I opined that Tam had headed the ball with way too much force, thereby preventing his colleague from taking it cleanly, but Nick reckoned Tynan ?bottled it?. Hmmmmm. Well, he knows these players far better than I do, I suppose. Any road up, the result was still acutely embarrassing, the ball trickling forlornly into the back of an unguarded net, right in front of a distinctly-traumatised Meadow End, much to the delight of the noise-merchants in the away end A repeat performance of one conceded the previous Saturday, apparently. Were I Cornish, I would have blamed the Tommyknockers, while 1940?s RAF people would have no doubt accused resident gremlins of skulduggery. Whatever the cause, be it trolls, hobgoblins, Nibelungen or plain old pixies, it was still a complete and utter balls-up. Oh, whoops.

That strike seemed to put additional life into the visitors, and the Bulls were exceedingly lucky to go in come the interval still one in arrears. As for the doings of another football club slugging it out ?oop North?, thus far, the night had proved somewhat frustrating. With about 20 minutes gone, the scoreboard flashed up some ?latest scores?: for reasons best known to the scoreboard-wallah, the Dingles were deemed worthy of mention, but of our doings, not a bloody whisper. Not only that, for some reason, we couldn?t get The Fart on his mobile come the break, only discovering our game was bloodless after every half-time was finally read out.

The second half cometh, then ? and with it, what seemed very much like a change of tack from The Bulls. Right from the start, they came out with all guns blazing, and much to my surprise, Wycombe didn?t like it one little bit. And, with around five minutes on the clock, their enterprising start paid off, for which the Bulls have Andy Williams to thank. No, not the American singer, just a chap who managed to grab the ball pretty close to the box, proceed to flay the hides off three Wycombe defenders in succession, then draw the ball into a very narrow angle indeed to goal, on the right hand side of the box ? at that point, I genuinely thought he?d blown the chance ? then as coolly as you?d like, whacked the ball right underneath their keeper for an equaliser that completely raised the roof, and rightly so. Even Wayne Rooney himself couldn?t have done it better.

That must have really stung the visitors, because after that, their hate-glands really started secreting copiously. Not only did play become rather ?robust?, the Bulls were lucky to avoid conceding when an opposition player waltzed through their rearguard as if it wasn?t there, leaving the lad to deliver the killer blow via a ?one-on-one? with Hereford?s Tynan ? who promptly redeemed himself for his earlier lapse by bravely diving at the feet of his attacker just as he was about to pull the trigger. Just a momentary respite for the home side, though: not long after that, the lad Easter made it two for Wycombe, who were extremely unlucky not to further add to their total by the end of the game. Having said that, though, during the first minute of a three-minute period added on for stoppages, Hereford?s Sills was extremely unlucky not to restore parity, only some fine work from the Wycombe keeper preventing them from dropping two of the anticipated three points at the very last gasp.

And that was that. As I said earlier, much fury from the pair of us when we finally learned the full-time score from Deepdale. I said it before, so I?ll say it again ? that sort of performance away from home just isn?t good enough. Should you want to regard it that way, it?s ?relegation form? by any other name, and it?s a problem that clearly needs sorting, and the sooner the better, otherwise our leader will be in great danger of seeing life from the wrong end of a P45 before too many moons have waxed and waned above the planet. As I?ve said before, he?s not so much in the Last Chance Saloon as being a dead-cert regular. Should this state of affairs continue for much longer, then the axe will undoubtedly fall ? and, for good or ill, someone else brought in to try and propel us to the big time once more. Remember, though, what you badly desire might not turn out to be a very good idea at all once these take tangible form. Better the devil you know than the one you don?t? The way things are going for both club and manager, it might well be we?ll be debating that topic in great earnest over the days and months to come.

And Finally?.. We finally discovered the real reason behind Hereford?s awful defensive lapse this evening. Blame the mints ? OK? Poor Marion: as I?ve mentioned before, one of her duties pre-match is to purchase a goodly supply of soft (and therefore deemed ?lucky? by all participants) mints for all to munch come the break, but tonight, she just happened to use a different shop from which to purchase her regular supplies ? and, calamity! They didn?t stock the particular brand she?d wanted, so she had to resort to the purchase of Polos in the end! So now you know, Marion?s the one to castigate and ostracise regarding tonight, OK? One point for further debate, mind ? does this lack of ?lucky? mints also affect the fortunes of football teams playing well over 100 miles up the M6, I wonder? If that?s the case, then I reckon poor Marion?s got an awful lot of explaining to do next time we meet!

 - Glynis Wright

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