The Diary

24 September 2006: The Fart In Total Meltdown As Albion Denied Last-Gasp Winner!

(Alternative title? ?How To Get Out Of Sainsburys? Car Park Post-Match Without Completely Losing Your Rag In The Process?! Stick with me, you?ll see why soon enough, I promise?.)

So ? someone out there, please, please tell me I imagined it all, quick! Yet another ?game of two halves?, dogged by some awful defending, a midfield that seemingly wanted to act like a newly-announced Lottery winner i.e. remaining completely anonymous; a Swiss international keeper busting a gut, almost, in the seeming process of all-too hastily trying to assume the slippery mantle that fumble-merchant-in-chief Paul Crichton discarded when he left the club around the time Tony Blair first tried to play at being Britain?s PM. Not only that, we also had a referee (allegedly) by the name of Phil Dowd ? The Noise informed me, much later still, that this guy just so happens to be the second arm in a sort-of whistling-while-dishing-out-of-verbal-diarrhoea Stokie ?Axis Of Evil?, the first being the bloke that officiated ?and stuffed up - our Southend home game the previous Saturday, of course. Too knackered to check up on his name right now, but you get my general drift, don?t you?

It was thanks to the kind attentions of today?s match official, I actually saw The Fart completely lose it for what has to be the very first time ever in recorded history. Unless British Army records can show incontrovertible proof that when posted to the Western Front, circa 1914, he tried to repulse night-time trench raids instigated by Kaiser Bill?s lot by howling abuse at them in the very same manner as today, of course. The full extent of Tel?s sound and fury certainly surprised and shocked all those Baggies sitting immediately around him ? not to mention frighten the living daylights out of me!

The reason why our well-ripened hero hovered so near a state of total apoplexy for so long? That disallowed last-gasp winner, of course. With the free-kick that led to them regaining the lead so quickly once more after we?d put away that hard-earned equaliser running it a close second. We former Dick ?Eds were situated in the front row seats of that away end, and slightly to the left of the rigging itself. Our overall view of the box, just a matter of a few measly yards distant at the most, was nigh-on perfect in that delightful afternoon sun. Had there actually been an Albion infringement out there, then The Fart would have most certainly seen it. And so would I, my own perch being a matter of just two seats further down the row and a tad nearer the goalposts.

Laugh at The Fart all you like, if you want, but he does happen to be one of the very few remaining adherents to a strict Boys? Own-type code of sporting conduct, the sort subliminally imposed, almost, by adult Authority in all its forms back then, the sort that obliges you to automatically ?fess up to any sneaky-beaky naughties you might have craftily perpetrated out there with the referee not looking. In other words, had he seen anything wrong with that goal whatsoever, small, large indifferent, total Baggie fanaticism notwithstanding, our wrinkly chum would have said so, end of story. As I said, The Fart is a complete gentleman, first, last, always. So there.

All in all, it?s not exactly been one of our finest moments, today, for The Fart, ?Im Indoors and ? last but not least - this column. In fact, after finally making landfall in Bearwood tonight, around 4 hours after the game eventually finished, I?m still trying to work out precisely what, if anything, went RIGHT. The League Cup draw this lunchtime, perhaps? The Arse (reserves?) at our place, The Noise?s ever-obliging lady, Jayne ? now that?s a pretty nifty title for a Rolling Stones album track, isn?t it? ? getting up real close and dirty with her TV screen in order to give us the glad tidings, just about the time when we were collectively ready to perpetrate murder on someone or something, thanks to the real-life horror movie commonly known to all and sundry as Luton town centre, and our serial failure to properly get to grips with it. Forget the notorious Bermuda Triangle ? this is a phenomenon much, much worse. Trust me.

It must have been the outward journey that gave us such a stunningly-false sense of security, belting hell for leather down the M1, and our vehicle cocooned in delightful early autumn sunshine. Look upwards and there was a pale blue sky almost devoid of cloud-like distractions of whatever sort. Just the perfect day for a bit of an away jaunt, in fact. And that, dear readers, was the basic error we made, all three of us. Hadn?t we learned, even after all this time. Nothing ? I repeat NOTHING ? is ever as straightforward as it seems when operating in the same environment as our favourite football club!

After traipsing miserably up and down one dual carriageway in particular, then completely failing to spot a casino ? the vital landmark for locating Sainsburys, apparently ? we eventually came upon the place by complete accident. Just as well, really, as the only other form of parking on offer nearby today was metered ? and with an amount of time totally-insufficient for our needs on the dial, too. No worries ? pay yer money, grab a ticket off the nice man, then proceed at a leisurely pace towards the car-park proper.

Having done all that, it was then high time to shift in the general direction of Kenilworth Road, where the action was. Or was it? Lurking in the same part of the car-park as ourselves was a former Baggies travel partner, back in those delightfully-surreal Third Division away ground experiences that brightened up the early nineties so wonderfully for us. Talk about a ?blast from the past?. His name is Mike ? he was but a mere uni student, back then, but his conversational ?modus operandi? was to wind The Noise up about as far as he thought he could get away with without our garrulous chum eventually resorting to violence, then sitting back and taking great delight in the end results ? which were generally explosive, as you can well imagine. I also remember the lad grabbing the jackpot (very handy if the player just happens to be a student, of course!) from some geriatric fruit machine or another situated in a delightful waterside pub in the middle of Chester ? then putting most of it straight back when we returned to our idyllic little haunt, right after we?d gone and sorted out the local side to the order of three or so successful strikes. And taking over three parts of their ground, too.

Having thoroughly batted the breeze with him for a few more minutes, off we jolly well went again. En-route to the ground proper, we also caught a brief glimpse of what passed for Luton?s executive box-holders? car park, the access to which, quite frankly, differed very little to that of some out-of-the-way scrap metal merchant?s main entrance. Along a couple of narrow streets, full of terraced housing, through the slim-line alley spanning one side of the ground, and, almost before we knew it, in fact, we were in that bit of road immediately adjacent to the away turnstiles. Former Dick readers will remember it as the place where we used to park our bots while shifting stock in quantity, of course.

Given Luton?s much-straitened circumstances and status these days, you would have put decent money on the official presence in that street being minimal, at best, wouldn?t you? Wrong! Before entry, not only were our tickets carefully checked for validity by their stewards, we were also searched. Now hang on a cotton-pickin? minute, here. Both The Fart and myself are no spring chickens, either of us; in fact, my back condition makes it almost impossible for me to even contemplate, however briefly, any thoughts of indulging in wanton acts of ripping out seats willy-nilly, then kicking in the head of some poor copper told to sort it out, and my chum?s various conditions don?t make things too easy for him, either. So why bother at all, in our case? Taking the optimist?s point of view, I suppose you could have regarded it as a sort of ?back-handed compliment?. Being considered capable of doing naughty things at my age, I mean!

Once inside, a brief pause at the top of the flight of steps that faced us on entry, for a quick butchers? over the top of the gantry that gives visiting supporters such an intimate peek into the precise nature of Mrs. Khan?s washing hanging so proudly on the clothes-line there ? big-baggy-underpants-strewn, as it happened. Priceless, quite priceless. Now we really knew we?d fetched up in the Championship. Moving from there to the actual rear of the tatty structure that deigned to call itself an ?away end?, a horribly-familiar sight then greeted our eyes. Talk about a ?blast from the past? ? and I do mean that literally! There they were, in all their awful aquatic majesty, great columns of the wet stuff, now being somewhat liberally distributed among both goalmouths. It?s quite reassuring to know some things never change, isn?t it?

The deal being a ?sit where you like? sort of thing ? well, unofficially, at any rate, as far as I could see ? we headed towards the front, where opaque Baggie bodies obstructing one?s view would be far fewer, and any danger of missing some of the action because of that minimised greatly also. Yet another plus-point would be not having to stand up every single time we looked like scoring. Time to - erm ? shift there, then. Once nearly down there, we just happened to spot lurking in the vicinity a certain Harold Salt, accompanied by one of his grandsons, and what looked very much like his girlfriend, to me. The grandson?s Significant Other (well, that?s how Del Boy would have described things, n?est ce pas?), in other words.

Not the greatest viewpoint to be had (not least because the pitch being raised above the level of the seating brought back bittersweet memories of sundry Wulves-Baggies encounters scattered throughout the years, of course), but because of where it was, in addition to all the above, the leg-room was more than ample for its purposes, too. It would seem, also, that the general level of bonhomie generated by the unseasonably-mild conditions had proven just the ticket for drastically improving the morale of our massed faithful, also. ?We want your manager, we want your manager?.? was the cheeky musical battle-cry of our massed faithful, as both sides warmed up.

And there was Russell Hoult, too, busily doing his thing. I?d heard not long ago, that he?d become the proud owner of a four-bedroomed house in Tividale, but how near the truth that one actually was, I?ve absolutely no idea. And, as the rest of them contorted and twisted in the sunshine ? something struck me. No, not a missile thrown by an opposing supporter (or one of our own, trying to extract some belated revenge for some slight or other, imaginary or otherwise), just the horrific thought that since our very last visit to the place ? had to be 1997, or similar ? nothing whatsoever about the place had changed! Fixtures, fittings ? the whole flaming works, in fact ? all much as I remembered it the night I had the pants well and truly bored off me. (Ooer ? could be taken completely the other way, that!)

Time for our noisy lot, almost 1,800-strong, and very much ?up for it? today, to break into a spontaneous chant of: ?My garden shed is bigger than this?..?, rapidly followed by a kind of ?tailored greeting? that matched the individual concerned as closely as humanly possible. An almost continental touch, that. And that chant of theirs, unoriginal though it was, had a tad more accuracy about it than I?d previously realised. All told, the capacity of their place is but a mere 10K souls, good and true. Or something.

And so to the team news, then. The main surprise, as far as we were concerned, was the unexpected inclusion of a certain Jason Koumas in the starting line-up, his first such start since Boxing Day 2004, apparently. He?d got what he wanted ? now it was very much up to him to show he still had what it takes to ?quote a Baggie very happy? indeed?.. Also included was Steve Watson, now back from injury. Shifted to the bench to make way for the returned prodigal was Zoltan Gera. Our ?secret weapon?, as it turned out. Best laugh at that precise moment? When our lot (and theirs!) emerged from the tunnel, with the ?lyrics? of one ditty-cum-?sales-talk? in particular ? ?Mike Newell is an Albion fan!? ? resounding in their shell-like ears, then, with morale seemingly restored after some recent upheavals, it was straight into that all-time Brummie Road End favourite: ?I go down, you go down??, etc, the one that finishes by threatening to do all sort of unpleasant things to our claret-and spew counterparts. And yummy ? with the ?off? less than five short minutes away by then, Luton once again decided to liberally soak both goalmouths. No wonder water authorities located somewhat nearer the capital were struggling horribly to get the better of an embryonic drought situation!

Time to start knocking that bag of wind about a bit, then. Not surprisingly, it was Luton who seemed much keener to properly show what they were made of. In fact, come the middle of that half, we?d had more than our fair share of dire warnings, not to mention a whole host of horribly-simple scoring chances totally cocked up by the home side. It was more via an accidental combination of both luck and judgment we weren?t more horribly enmeshed by the gungy, grotty morass that just happened to call itself Kenilworth Road. Headers, from point-blank range, straightforward goal attempts sent sailing right over the crossbar ? all of those and more went begging. And our Swiss custodian?s seeming antipathy towards crosses, a most Dracula-like aspect of his repertoire not really picked up on, was beginning to give rise to not a little unrest in our ranks, too. By now, the game had seemingly descended about as low as it possibly could ? but how wrong could I be.

With all that little lot bubbling away in the background, and our finest scattered all over the place, it had to come, eventually. A Luton opener, I mean. We hadn?t long swapped the still-injury-wracked Watson for Gera when we stuffed up one time too many, and they scored. Well, we?d held the proverbial candle to the Devil on so many occasions thus far, it really had to come. The lad Vine was the one to do the damage, and all his labours performed seemingly without any form of Albion challenge to them as well.

As for Zoobie, his somewhat eccentric custodial style was, quite frankly, giving our faithful the willies, complete and utter. Now his latest ?party trick? was stopping the ball?s flight on its way towards the goal-line with what amounted to consummate ease? then, once grabbed, dropping the damned thing again, and right in the middle of our bloody goalmouth, too! Things were looking pretty grim for us ? and then we got the lifeline we didn?t really deserve. Enter Darren Carter, Saviour Of The Universe (and a little bit of Tantany we hadn?t noticed before, sadly!) No Flash Gordon-type antics from the lad, unfortunately, not even a hint of Freddie Mercury/Queen either - just an almighty wallop from about 25 yards or so. As for their keeper, I doubt very much whether he even saw the thing pass the line in the first place, never mind try to do something about it.

An unlikely equaliser, then, somewhat fortuitous, even, if truth were known. Time for Fate, gaudy-looking in her torn fish-net tights and ?slap?, her ample dress revealing many more bulges than were originally intended, to show her thorny, wizened hand. Oh, sod it why not place the blame where it truly belongs, right with the man in the middle? We?d only just sat down after all those relieved celebrations, we travelling Baggies, when the ref, completely out of the blue, decided to give the home side a free-kick in a very dodgy position indeed. A totally-inexplicable decision, that one. Why we?d been deemed guilty of something or other in the first place, I haven?t the foggiest. All I do know is that once taken, the inevitable happened, and somehow, our precious hard-won parity had completely gone for a Burton once more.

Time, now for those wonderful Luton stewards to really upset a goodly number of our travelling faithful, and mostly those sitting in the front row, it would seem. The initial trouble arose when two of their orange-jacketed number decided that they simply had to continue standing in order to perform their duties properly, an aspect of their work that we followers found extremely irksome, not the least because they were totally blocking people?s view of the game. Tempers were rising because of this, a fair number of Baggies were becoming decidedly het up about it all ? yet still those pair of idiots had secretions from their ?common-sense glands? totally switched off.

Loud murmurs from everyone there apropos precisely how much people had paid to watch the game, not least from a furious Fart, quite beside himself with rage by then. This was a bellicose aspect to the lad I?d never, ever seen before, but my main concern right then was whether or not those pair of goons would call up the ?heavy mob? via their radios, and get him chucked our, or worse. Eventually, cometh forth a supervisor who, fortunately, had his ?common sense glands? very much producing, finally telling his minions to do what they should have done off their own bats several minutes earlier.

That goal from out of the blue seemed to knock some of the stuffing out of our lot, but come the end of the half, we had recovered from the shock sufficiently to give the home side not a little ?something? to worry about themselves. As both sides left the pitch, to no-one?s surprise in particular, the poor official was being reviled in no uncertain terms by our lot. Being called a ?cheat? was the least of his worries ? as was a much later monicker. Just look up the word ?Onanist? (cleaned-up version!) in your dictionaries, and you?ll certainly get the rough idea! Oh ? and to no-one?s particular surprise, come the break, on went those bloody sprinklers once more! So powerful were those errant jets of spray, they were even reaching our little perch. Are the good people of Luton part of a half-forgotten amphibian race, or something, compelled by some innate primitive urge or other to half-drench visitors en-masse?

And, just before everything started for the second half once more, who should come along the front row, ambling in familiar fashion, but Dubbsey, an estate-agent Baggies nut we?ve known for donkey?s years. He?s also a collector of weird countries, it would seem. Yep ? the more obscure and seemingly inhospitable these places are, the more Dubbsey likes ?em! Just enough time to exchange mutual pleasantries and let him know precisely when ?Im Indoors?s book was going to hit the shelves, and it was time to start again.

Just like Tuesday night, to use that horrible old clich? once more, it was, truly, ?a game of two halves?. If our deficiencies at the back and in the middle had stood out like a sore thumb the previous half, this time round, we were at least trying to take the fight to them for a change. Nearly getting completely caught out with less than five on the clock, when they hit the bar with an almighty ?crack?, the play then moved to the Luton half, their keeper finally making a telling contribution to medical science, by demonstrating beyond all reasonable doubt that the bacterial organism giving Zoobie so much grief was highly contagious. Suddenly, it was he that got landed with a pretty bad case of ?Butterfingers Syndrome?. Oh dear.

Our much more proactive start to the half finally hit pay-dirt with around 15 minutes gone. The cross was supplied by Ellington, bombing along at nearly warp-speed to get the cross in, but the true glory belonged to the delicately-featured Gera, who suddenly found he had acres of space to bury the thing in, for once. In it went, finally ? and the whole place shook to the very foundations. 2-2 it was, then ? and after all those horrible missed chances, screwed-up passes, and downright wasted set-pieces, it truly had to be, didn?t it? I retain in my memory, a wonderful vignette of Zoltan, McShane and another Baggie, whose identity I can?t quite remember, turning towards that away end, all shaking their fists in triumph, mouths all set in a rictus grin of quite frightening proportions, with McShane himself bawling very loudly indeed to our massed followers, loud enough to rise above all the noise out there: ?COME ON!?..? Albion had stuck to their guns in order to speculate, so now was the very time to accumulate, or so it seemed.

Coming from behind yet again served as an excellent confidence-booster, of course. Sure there were more scares, some of them quite serious, and, in other circumstances, quite unforgivable, but that wasn?t our game right then. What was, though, was grabbing that all-important winner, and the nearer the clock crept to the home straight, the more we piled on that pressure ? and I don?t suppose the Hatters were enjoying it one little bit, either. Cue, then, for the very last minutes of play, and what turned out to be a bit of a hectic finish. Once more, our best efforts were well and truly undone by the cruel hand of Fate, hiding from all-comers in the in the somewhat unlikely form of the ?man in black?, of course.

With just about every Albion supporter in creation roaring them on from behind that goal, with seconds to spare, literally, we managed to get the ball in the back of the net once more. But our joy was to be short-lived. Within seconds of having ?scored?, poor Ronnie Wallwork ? who?d seemingly swept the thing over the line by sheer power of common or garden ?mind over matter? ? found the effort wiped out once more. And that?s the strange thing about the whole affair. Not one single person I spoke to after we came out could come up with a valid reason for the ref scrubbing our ?winner?. I certainly couldn?t see anything wrong with it ? and, as I said earlier, neither did The Fart, bless his little cotton socks. As you might expect, once more, fury, total, complete and utter, broke out in that away end once more. Yet again, sundry accusations of so-called ?sharp refereeing practices? were bandied about ad lib, and just like the previous time, the hapless Mister Dowd learned certain things about himself and his personal habits that might have surprised him somewhat, if only for their frankness. Oh, dear.

Back to our car, then ? and back to some more pin-prick frustrations, all of which involved trying to leave Sainsbury?s car park ? it took us the best part of an hour to do so ? then, once on the M1 again, try to evade another queue of quite horrific proportions. And the daft thing was, when we finally did outrun all the traffic, there was not a blind reason to be seen anywhere for the sheer vehicular volume that had caused the problem to get worse in the first place! Today?s game has to be a ?first? ? the one and only time it?s taken us more time to get back from Kenilworth Road than it would to return from Sunderland ? the distance involved being around twice that than for the Luton caper! More thoughts on that game tomorrow night. Right now, I?m off to my kip after a job well done! (Well I think so ? and if you can?t bang your own drum sometimes, who else is going to do it for you, say I?)

And Finally?. Before setting out for Kenilworth Road this morning, I just happened to mention to ?Im Indoors that according to the Daily Mirror, several Dingles were jailed yesterday for causing trouble at West Ham United ? and what a transformation there was in the normally-calm demeanour of my other half! For starters, his eyes glazed over, a really wicked grin hi-jacked his lower face, then, shortly after all that little lot had occurred unto me, he then declared, all hate-glands secreting to the max: ?Now that?s a Crown Court jury I would have REALLY loved to have served on???

 - Glynis Wright

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