The Diary

20 September 2006: We're Only Making Plans For Nigel?

If ever there was a game more deserving of that threadbare clich? ?a game of two halves? tonight, then I?ve yet to come across it. For most of the first 45, the casual observer would have had great difficulty discerning which of the two was the senior side in the Football League pecking-order, and which were the basement division minnows. Aimless: rudder-less: hopeless: witless, and of course, since yesterday, manager-less, a sombre-looking Nigel Pearson deputising until the appointment of a new incumbent ? which could be Bryan Robson?s former Number Two, of course. My understanding is that he?s chucked his hat into the ring also.

Add to the little list above the word ?gormless?, an accolade well and truly earned when Cheltenham managed to take the lead right on the stroke of half-time, and after having threatened to do so for a considerable portion of the half, and it becomes very clear indeed why our players left the field of play with naught but jeers and boos ringing in their ears once more. Shades of last Saturday, really: no surprise, then, that the greater part of we Halfords Lane Stand inmates were freely complaining of a ?terrible feeling of deja-vu? by then.

Come the second 45, cometh a completely different bunch of players. Thanks to a nicely-placed Ronnie Wallwork equaliser just after the restart, and a couple of penalties providing the icing on the cake, as it were, we somehow triumphed in the end, by which time our confidence had come back in absolute gobbets, and formerly-despondent blue and white-striped participants were now seen with heads held high at long last, we?re in the draw for the next round, the one where the really big boys come in, of course.

I?m not too sure when the draw will be for that one at the moment, but I?m sure the media will have all the details come the morrow. For the moment, I?m simply revelling in the sight of smiles appearing on Baggie faces once more. And just as well, too: with not having a manager right now, a defeat tonight might well have brought about a distinct withering of confidence in the ranks come the Kenilworth Road caper this Saturday.

But all that was very much in the future as we shifted ourselves along Halfords Lane, and in the direction of the ground, the light fading almost imperceptibly as we walked along towards our Ticket Office rendezvous with The Fart. Reckless thing that I was, I?d previously agreed to travel to Ipswich with our Great War veteran companion-cum-Baggies-partner-in-crime, and just needed to flash the cash in company with our elderly chum to ensure we got adjacent seats on both coach and game. Having made our momentous decision to travel while Robbo was still very much our leader, it now looked very much as though a possible change in the management department by that time could make the day?s outing very interesting for us both.

6.15 was the agreed meeting time, and The Fart being very much a stickler for punctuality in these situations ? must be a throwback to all that mutual synchronisation of watches prior to going ?over the top? in Flanders, or something ? it came as no surorise to see him there, right on the button. Into the Lion?s Den we went, then, and just in time, it would appear ? just minutes after we?d gone in, what appeared to be a whole coachload of supporters of both persuasions come through the door and joined the queue.

A few seconds wait, then, and we were giving a young slip of a girl behind the counter details of our mutual East Anglian wants. The trouble is, though, nattering to workmates and PC?s don?t mix, so it didn?t come as too much of a surprise to see the young lady concerned get it all a tad wrong. Had we been on the losing side come the end of the allotted span, I daresay I would have ?moaned my bag off?, to use The Noise?s charming phrase applicable to such situations, so I?ll merely put it down to a stiffish dose of teenage inattention, and leave it at that.

Having sorted all that out and rejoined my other half, nattering away to Supporters Club head honcho John Homer, as it turned out, as is usual on matchdays, it was then down to the pub to link up with The Noise and his two little shavers. In accordance with the anticipated paucity of punters tonight, the Supporters Club HQ bit was pretty sparsely occupied, and the bar staff doing very little business indeed by comparison with normal matchdays. Not to worry, though: occupying a table quite close to the business end were our Stokie brood, with young Bethany the first to greet us. Isn?t it nice to know you?re really wanted, eh?

After Carly had volunteered to get the drinks in for everyone ? that young lady really is a ?natural? when it comes to bar work ? and I ought to know, having lived in a pub for a considerable part of my early life ? it was down to the nitty-gritty of all things Albion for everyone. As might be expected, a goodly proportion of the conversation tonight revolved around Bryan Robson, and the somewhat abrupt manner of his leave-taking yesterday. As I said yesterday, lots of names were being bandied about in there: all the ?suspects? I cited then, and not a few more besides. Something else I mentioned in passing last night: yep, Alan Curbishley had distanced himself from the post, but on the other hand, we had yet to see any direct quotations emanating from the horse?s mouth. Not being the sort of person that takes too much notice of what bookies have to say, I hadn?t known this until tonight, but apparently with Curbishley now seemingly out of it, they?ve now slotted Nigel Pearson in as 5-1 second favourite to land the job, with Burnley?s Steve Cotterill now 9-2 favourite.

Various acquaintances of ours reckon there?s been something in the order of 10 ? 15 wannabe Baggies gaffers thrown their hats into the ring to date, some with far more credibility attached to their CV?s than others, of course. Much speculation as to who would eventually land what could prove to be a plum opportunity for some or other upwardly-mobile young kid on the managerial block to get noticed by the media, and from that came an idea of mine for a little game everyone could participate in come the half-time break (well, those sitting pretty near the middle of the Halfords, at any rate).

?Managerial Hopeful Bingo?, I call it, and the rules go like this. Everyone wanting to join in with the fun is given a ?bingo card?, printed not with numbers on a grid, but ?head-and-shoulders-only? pictures of all the names known to be in the frame for the job. Just to make it even more interesting, each card carries a different combination of pictures, thereby ensuring none get a ?full house? simultaneously. Come half-time, ?contestants? then position themselves as near to the exit at the rear of the VIP box (what used to be the directors? box before the East Stand was completed) as is humanly possible, and once there, start crossing off as appropriate. It goes without saying that the first Baggie to cross off everyone on their card wins! Think it?ll catch on, anyone?

With my little idea to make things more interesting still, I think I might have sparked off something of a creative hormone surge among my boon matchday companions, because following on from that, things started to get very silly indeed. The Noise started it, with mention of Stoke City man Tony Pulis in connection with the post, closely followed by what could well qualify as ?the management team from Hell?, Barry Fry and Ron Atkinson. Someone else ? I forget precisely who, right now ? came up with the name ?Graham Souness?. What, no Ron Saunders, just to make things even more interesting? Then it was the turn of Alan Buckley?s name to be brought into the limelight, with Brian Talbot hot on his intemperate and crotchety heels. After all that little lot, you just knew who was coming next ? and it did. Bobby Gould. AAARGH!

Mention yet again of Luton brought forth a little tale from The fart about the time, during the mid-fifties, when Albion were playing away at Kenilworth Road, and their followers ?letting the train take the strain?, as per the usual ?football special?. Unfortunately for our intrepid band, though, this was one occasion where British Railways (as it was then) contrived to do the precise opposite. The rolling stock used for this trip had only two speeds: dead slow and stop. Result? Arrival at Luton Station, situated right in the middle of the town, at 2.50 that afternoon, with a three o?clock kick-off time looming uncomfortably large. Cue, then, for massed exodus of Baggies, in the general direction of the ground, situated quite some distance away.

Amazingly enough ? did they invoke Relativity theory, or something, I wonder, seeing that they somehow got there just before the start, I wonder? ? they didn?t miss all that much of the game. Joining the queue for the turnstiles, their understandable eagerness to get inside brought them to the attention of the home supporters, who quickly jeered: ?Don?t get too worked up ? you?re only going to lose, anyway!?

?Yeah, yeah?.? said El Tel and Co, pretending to completely ignore what was a palpable slight upon their heroes? away-game prowess. The sad thing was, though, those Hatters had called it dead right. The final score? Luton winners by a walk, to the tune of around four or five goals, so our hero recalls! All that, plus a detailed explanation of precisely who Mata Hari was, for the benefit of young Carly, amazed at how quickly what she?d fondly thought were idle pre-match remarks ended up appearing in this same Diary. (Just in case you didn?t ? know, that is ? Mata Hari is, or was, a Great War German spy, whose speciality was seducing quite senior British and French officers, getting them ever so squiffy, offering them a bit of the old rumpy-pumpy afterwards then, while completely in the throes of those huge hormonal surges closely attendant of sexual bliss and therefore dropping their guard, worming some pretty important secrets out of ?em. Finally rumbled, she was shot in 1917. So now you know. And, so does Carly!)

Our attention was then drawn to the large TV at the front, where Sky were doing their thing ? or, should I say, a vox-pop on the Robson dismissal, and right in front of the ticket office, too. Can?t say definitively as to whether or not they?d gone there earlier in the day, or were doing their thing ?live?, but at least the first face shown was pretty familiar. Remember The Satanic Nurses, that intrepid band of medically-inclined Baggies supporters I?ve mentioned before, known principally for their ? erm ? ?creative? chants, especially when following the lads away from home? And so completely involved in the proceedings, usually, one generally ended up wondering as to precisely what it was they slipped into their beer during their pre-match potations?

Well, both camera and interviewer managed to alight upon one of their number for this one ? perhaps it?s better not to let slip actual names, here, as they all sit considerably nearer the top of the local nursing hierarchy, rather than the bottom ? and it must have been before the lad concerned got within sniffing distance of a pre-match pint, because what he said to the interviewer did sound both lucid and articulate, for once! I couldn?t catch it all, not least because of the fact I?m a little hard of hearing, but I have to say Mister Murdoch?s lackey didn?t half look dead impressed by the time our chum finally wound up what he had to say on the subject. If only you knew, Mister Sky Presenter!

Time, then, to get the whole thing over, go into the ground, in other words. And, in our case, meet up with a workmate of His Lordship, one Ian Thomas, lapsed Baggie, now showing alarming signs of wanting to get involved again. You fool, you ? DON?T DO IT! Just to facilitate matters a little, he even sent ?Im Indoors a text explaining precisely where he?d be once we?d negotiated the smallish queue for the Halfords. It didn?t take us long to track him down, mind. Propping up the bar he was, and grimacing something awful at the quality ? or a severe lack of it! ? of the beer there. Mind you, feeling quite sorry for the guy by that stage, we told him to forego the seat number on his ticket, and come and sit with us instead. Let?s face it, it was never going to be one with HOUSE FULL notices displayed everywhere, was it?

It only took a couple of seconds for my suspicions to be confirmed, actually. Bursting from the bowels of the stand ? ooer! ? we then took our normal seats, Ian sitting alongside. I couldn?t believe it: with the packed and very, very noisy away end providing the honourable exception, just about everywhere else was suffering from a mutant form of what I like to call ?Albion alopecia?. In other words, seating-patterns normally hidden by thousands of sessile bums ? e.g. the scarf and ?WBAFC? logo decorating the Brummie Road End, for example - quite discernible tonight, a phenomenon only rarely experienced before normal League games. Would tonight?s gate prove to be less than 10,000, I wondered?

Looking at the Cheltenham side as printed in the programme before we started, a couple of names positively leaped out of the page at me. First of all was the name Steve Guynan. Why? Because he?d once played for ?Im Indoors?s other footballing love, Hereford United, of course. What I hadn?t realised, though, was the fact he was a bit of a journeyman, having played for ten other clubs besides. The other name that came to may attention? That of a player called Will Puddy. Yep, that was his name, but what really got me giggling was the thought that you couldn?t have had a better ?country bumpkin? name if you?d tried! (?Oo arr, Oi be Will Puddy, Oi be, ?an I droive moi father?s tractor on that big farm yonder, Oi do, when Oi don?t be playin? that is?.?) Sorry about that, folks, I?ll get my coat!

Currently-managerless Albion? Interesting, vairee interesting. It seemed that Pearson was hampered through continuing injury to some more regular performers tonight, judging by the side he did put out. Gera and Greening left on the bench, and Jared Hodgkiss in at the back, McShane and Perry continuing their partnership forged as per Saturday, Chaplow and reformed character Koumas getting a start, Joe Kamara rising unexpectedly from his sick-bed ? Huzzah! - with Ellington and young Nicholson flying the Baggies flag up front, mainly because we hadn?t got much alternative, really. A 4-4-2 (ish!) sort of line-up, then, with Koumas seemingly given licence to wander around ?like a fart on trespass? as my late mum used to put it. As for the ref, Tony Bates, he was a chap The Noise knew personally, apparently, therefore I was mighty glad I was sitting in the Halfords tonight, and The Noise (plus brood!) firmly ensconced in the Brummie!

To be perfectly honest, for the first few minutes of the game, it did seem we?d got off to a pretty good start for once, what with young Nicholson and Darren Carter both nearly getting off the mark, the first well stopped by their keeper, and the Carter effort most unluckily kicked off the line, poor lad. The trouble was, though, not long after that, it all started to fall apart, and quite badly, too. For some inexplicable reason or other, passes then started going badly astray, normally-dependable performers started losing the blasted ball, and all the while, with Cheltenham chasing us like particularly energetic terriers after having found a promising rabbit-hole.

Our collective answer to this highly vexing problem? We started to lump it forward, a tactic more in keeping with what their division?s serial occupants preferred to do than a Championship side harbouring dreams of upward-mobility come the end of term. Not the brightest of ideas given that the opposing defenders were considerably taller than Nicholson, really. Lose possession, and before we knew it, the ball would be lurking in and around our penalty area, and those nippy Cheltenham forwards chasing the damn thing as if their very lives depended upon it. With around 20 minutes gone of this horror-show, two things started to come to the fore. Firstly, our supporters, with last Saturday in mind, no doubt, were beginning to get very restless indeed. Secondly, slowly, almost imperceptibly, at first, we began to cede the midfield to the visitors. The warning signs were very much there, of course ? backing off, backing off, giving their attack and midfield more than ample time to pull the trigger ? as a result of that, you didn?t really need to be a fortune-teller to work out what was likely to happen very soon, of course. All the while, their superb supporters gave even bigger licks to those lung-busting, voice-croaking vocals of theirs ? and how! ? completely reducing what feeble efforts our Smethwick End people could muster to the point of complete embarrassment, almost. As for our leader ? ?temporary, acting, unpaid? ? as the British Army generally terms such stopgap appointments, he could be seen pacing the Albion technical area like some kind of caged lion, and looking most dejected all the while. Oh dear, Nige ? you shouldn?t have joined if you couldn?t take a joke, should you?

As for poor Darren Carter, he ended up in the wars, right enough, needed treatment ? and shed blood for the cause as a result. Well, that?s what I assumed happened when he finally returned to the fray bearing a shirt with no number. It was but a minute so later when we had one hell of a let-off. Their lad McCann ? did he have a body-odour problem, or something, as there was no Baggies marker whatsoever within shouting-distance, almost? ? managed to hit the post, the ball hitting the woodwork with a resounding ?thud?, easily audible in the half-empty ground. Appalling, it really was.

Our midfield also had a problem, a big one at that. No width whatsoever, everyone bunching up like a load of raw schoolkids half the time, and little help expected or available whenever a colleague in difficulties needed a bit of a hand in order to kick-start some sort of progress upfield. This sort of malaise was illustrated perfectly by the way one of the Cheltenham lads ? sorry, never grabbed his name ? belted almost two-thirds the length of the pitch totally unchallenged before laying it off. Pearson could see the problem, and was holding his arms forth, then making ?spreading? movements like a thing demented. A complete waste of time. Poor Chaplow then managed to lob a good one into the box, for once ? but no-one at all positioned on the other end of it. No wonder all those vague mutterings were becoming much more insistent by that stage of the proceedings.

In front of me ? not the usual character, by the way ? an elderly-looking chap was becoming apoplectic, almost, so great was his frustration with what he was seeing: ?Pass the ball ? and MOOOOVE!? he bawled for the umpteenth time in the game. On and on it went, and as we approached the end of the half, I turned to ?Im Indoors, commenting in despairing tones: ?We?ve got absolutely no direction whatsoever out there.? Poor hubby, all he could do was concur. As for Koumas, he seemed to have acquired a bad case of Bedouin Syndrome. What?s that? A tendency to wander all over the pitch, and to no great effect, that?s what. All part of the tactical game, I assume, but it was having very little effect, as far as I could see.

Then, just as the fourth official was signalling what extra time had to be played on top, IT happened. Albion 0, Cheltenham 1, I mean. The perpetrator of the damage was a stringy lad called Odejayi (I think that?s the right spelling: moan your collective bags off come Saturday next if I?m wrong!) who turned out to be their secret weapon. Grabbing the ball just before the halfway line ? there might have been a suspicion of hand-ball about it, so I?ll be interested to see any replay ? he then ran with the blasted thing almost to the edge of our box before finally letting fly. So well struck was the effort, Zoobie didn?t stand a chance. In it went, their followers rejoiced mightily ? and, as for ours, a glowering silence descended upon the place almost instantaneously.

Oh, whoops. Boos and catcalls all round as both sets of combatants retired for a well-earned break. But at least the programme gave us both a bit of a giggle. Rob Elvins, shown as being on BOTH sides? team-sheet! Currently with Cheltenham on loan, of course, but not featuring in this one. Just a few minutes later, it was ?off we jolly well go, then? for a second time. I could only hope the final score wouldn?t prove too embarrassing for us. With that in mind, possibly, as everyone readied themselves to start again, ?Im Indoors turned to me with a despairing look, and said: ?I don?t see how we can get back from this?.?

Just goes to show how much we knew, then. Within a matter of just five minutes we?d regained parity, thanks to a McShane-Wallwork combo that hit pay-dirt following an Albion corner, the ?killer blow? being a header from the latter. Much better, Baggies, and what?s more, we now seemed to have everything out there more under control. Instead of panicking, we took the game to them, at long last, and with around 12 minutes of the half gone, we managed to grab a penalty. The ball struck one of the Cheltenham lot in the box ? it looked a tad ?iffy? and at first, the ref declined to give it, but the lino?s insistent flagging indicated otherwise. One rapid change of mind later, Ellington found himself lining up to take it. In it went, the Brummie rejoiced, we?d taken the lead, and things were suddenly looking far rosier for the Throstles than they had just a few minutes before.

And it wasn?t all that long before we managed to grab another. This time, with about 20 minutes elapsed, someone was adjudged to have tripped Koumas as he tried to slot the ball towards one of his colleagues lurking nearer the target. Once more the ref pointed to the spot ? and in a totally unselfish gesture, our lot seemed to take a democratic decision to give young Nicholson his chance to get off the mark. At a time when the stock of professional footballers couldn?t get any worse with the non-footballing public, such magnanimity on the part of our senior pros was truly good to behold. In that one went, then ? as cool as you like was the lad - and suddenly we were ?cooking on gas?.

By that time, Cheltenham were very much a spent force. A shame, that, as they?d put up one hell of a fight, matching us and more for quite some time. Gentlemen, I salute you! They did kick and buck a couple of times in their death-throes ? thank goodness for the offside law, sometimes, I say! ? but they never again were the threat they?d been during that awful first half. Another interesting observation ? suddenly, as far as the lad Perry was concerned, it was very much a case of ?no more, Mister Nice Guy?, now dishing out just as much as he got, and enjoying himself enormously along the way, no doubt!

After all the trials and tribulations of the first half, the finish proved to be a bit of an anticlimax, really. As I mentioned earlier, even Joe Kamara managed to get a therapeutic 20 minutes or so towards the end, along with a certain Mister Greening, he of the lank locks. Gera even managed to put in a token five minutes or so, just before the final whistle. Thoughts? McShane ? he looks more and more like a youthful Len Cantello every single time I see him out there ? did OK, and Koumas?s form looked encouraging. I was dead pleased to see young Nicholson?s name end up in lights, of course. As for the ?prawn sandwich brigade?, why the hell they gave Ellington the MoM nod towards the end ? erm ? tell you what, ask me one on nuclear physics! More importantly, though, it didn?t end in tears, and for that, I?m enormously grateful. Whoever we?ve got in the next round, bring ?em on, I say!

And Finally?? One. Welcome to The Fart?s ?free and frank? pen-picture of The Noise! ?He?d give an aspirin a bloody headache, he would??.!?

Two. Jayne, The Noise?s missus, when trying to sort out some ticketing problem or other with the club on her hubby?s behalf, via the phone, and getting quite exasperated with Albion while she was at it: ?Look, you lot ? my husband?s supported Albion through thin and thin??..!?

 - Glynis Wright

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