The Diary

15 October 2006: Black Country 'Men In Black' Terminally Torment Poor Ipswich

What an absolutely amazing day I?ve had at Portman Road, one the like of which I haven?t experienced since the time Big Fat Ron was at the managerial helm, and we?d gained ourselves a late Christmas present by stuffing the Mancs to the tune of five goals on their own patch, and the home side drumming up a minging, manky three by way of reply. And, yes ? there we were, on the coach coming back, and the pair of us busting a gut trying to remember whether we?d managed to grab a similar goal tally away from home since then. At the time of writing, it?s looking very much as though the answer to that one is going to be a resounding ?Nyet?. Unless one of you lot out there knows better, of course.

Good to see also just how much today?s win meant to our players, each celebration a genuine expression of triumph, and not just trying to look good for the sake of the media. Mind you, had the late Mrs Mary Whitehouse been around to witness our players celebrating Albion?s third, I strongly suspect there would have been rude letters galore winging their way in the direction of both Albion and the FA within hours of the final whistle. Kev Phillips, the scorer, had no chance; no sooner had the ball entreed the back of the net, he then ran in our direction, but got overtaken by five or six of his colleagues, and ended up completely buried in a celebratory Baggie mass instead.

As for what the guys all piled on top of the perpetrator of the damage were trying to do, all wriggling away furiously in a most lewd and licentious manner, well?. Perhaps it?s better not to even try to ask! Looked more like one of those Scandinavian ?art? films one can purchase with such ease out there, to me. Appropriately enough, by the time he?d extricated himself from the pile, one could easily discern the most wicked ear-splitting grin you?ve ever seen in your entire life plastered all over Mr. Phillips?s facial features.

What a day to savour indeed. Quite exhausted I was, by the time we?d both alighted from the coach, back in West Bromwich. Massive away wins don?t half take it out of me these days: must be the old hormones talking, or something. Or was it just the unaccustomed heady joy of being thoroughly intoxicated on the simple pleasure of watching an Albion side play attractive, attacking football, for once? The perfect end to a perfect day, which started for me around half-eight this morning, when ?Im Indoors got me out of my pit. One quick wash and brush up later, then some nosh, and it was off to The Hawthorns I went, with ?Im Indoors playing the role of chauffeur, versatile hubby that he is.

Having dropped off in Halfords Lane, it was then the work of a moment to hoik me and my little body over the road, and through the Smethwick End gates, where our transports of delight awaited. Somewhat depleted in numbers these days, although today?s affair might well change all that for the Palace game, but even so, Dave Holloway had managed to fill around five or six of the beasts for the long trip eastwards. Finding mine, Number One, it was dead simple to locate my traveling companion for the day, The Fart, nestling comfortably amidships, adjacent to the toilet. Reading the Daily Mail. (Yes, there?s got to be a joke in that, somewhere, but I can?t think of one for the life of me, right now!)

More or less on time, what was now in effect Tony Mowbray?s Barmy Army moved away for the short journey to the M5 motorway junction and the long pull towards East Anglia. But it wasn?t long before things began to brighten up from the fog-shrouded scene that had greeted us around the ground. Before too long, the sun (our planetary star, not the newspaper!) finally condescended to make an appearance, its unseasonably-warm rays zapping through the surrounding grey crud like a knife going through butter. The downside? The nearer we got to East Anglia, the flatter the surrounding countryside, a feature typical of those counties, of course. And yet the trees were barely sullied by the annual havoc autumn wreaks upon their leaves. Global warming really does have a lot to answer for, something I was telling ?Im Indoors about just two days ago.

The place? Tintern Abbey, a ruined former mediaeval monastery situated not all that far from Chepstow, on the Welsh side of the Severn Bridge, and very popular with day-trippers, too. Being there brought back distinct memories of the time I?d first passed by that way, back in mid-September 1978. But with one enormous difference. Back then, just about every tree within sight had turned one or another of an enormous range of reds, browns oranges and yellows. One of those wondrous moments I?d genuinely wished I?d had a camera handy, in fact. This time, although we?d come more than three weeks later than my initial visit, all those years ago, pretty much all the greenery was precisely that, still ? green. And still we?ve yet to experience a frost in these here parts. George Bush might not think it?s going to happen, but it sure as hell is.

Now where was I? Oh, yes. Going through a still-verdant East Anglia, that?s where. Some of the most boring countryside it?s every been my misfortune to clap eyes on, is the Fenlands. On, endlessly on it goes, with no let-up within miles, either. Made me think about The Catholic Church?s recent decision to do away with Limbo, actually. No, not the famous body-contorting dance, the place they reckon you go to if you snuff it without having being baptised beforehand. Not a good career-move, is Limbo, just featureless sameness for the poor sods consigned there, day after bloody day, I?m given to understand. And there you have it ? East Anglia, in a nutshell!

Another thing the long haul to Portman Road demonstrated all too well ? I?m no longer able to keep awake for the duration of the trip. Even with the stimulus of a newspaper, I still found myself nodding off with but an hour of the journey on the clock! Mind you, The Fart went one better, beating me to the draw by around 30 minutes or so!

One o?clock saw us pulling up in the coach park not far away from the ground proper: easy peasy, and with two hours to kill before the kick-off. Outside, a lovely early-autumn day awaited our pleasure, mild with it, too, and lots of familiar faces converging on Portman Road in one great mass. Plus a certain Mark Jenkins, too. No sooner had The Fart sighted Albion?s finance-wallah, his instinctive response was a bit like that of a ?twitcher? encountering a particularly uncommon avian specimen: once seen, a mad dash over the road in order to check his ?discovery? out even further.

Show The Fart an Albion person on the loose, and he?s like he?s died and gone to heaven. Anyway, within around five seconds of having caught up with him, poor Mark found himself subjected to a barrage of questions even the Spanish Inquisition might have balked at putting to their victims. Most of my traveling companion?s queries were regarding our new manager and when he?d actually sign on the dotted line, and whether or not he was aware of our chairman?s seeming preference for a Director Of Football-type set-up.

The results were very much as I?d guessed. Mark was either unable, or unwilling, to dish whatever dirt there was to be dished, so no joy there, then. Still, you had to have a go, didn?t you|? By tha ttime, we?d reached the far end of Prtman Road itself: before us lay one side of the ground, and various turnstiles taking supporters into the interior. But first, a bit of a nifty natter to the Hayden family, who were ranged around the near side of the ground. And they weren?t alone, either, for sitting patiently among them was what looked very much like a Labrador to me. Cue for what had to be the obvious question ? were they planning to take the mutt into the ground with them?

Apparently not, it would seem. The game-plan was for a couple of the female family members (plus canine!) to go into town and shop until they dropped, basically. What I did get, though, was news of their latest ?away weekend?, a trip to Grimsby, where Walsall were due to play, a week or so ago (incorporating nearby Cleethorpes, too, of course), the weather dead mild, and the sun ?bostin??! But the week before that had been a bit different, so I was told. Then, the Haydens had taken the trouble to travel to Darlo, who were at home that day. ?Absolutely awful!? was Roy?s verdict on that game, the home side literally tearing themselves to shreds in the process. And, on discovering the precise whereabouts of my ?other half?, Roy?s verdict on the likely outcome of Hereford?s game, which so happened to be against Darlo? ?Hereford will have absolutely no bother beating them today!? Hmmm?..

And, talking of ?Im Indoors, now was a good time to get on the blower to him ? or so I?d thought. Turned out that despite the comparative lateness of the hour, my other half was still on the road to Hereford, and had to pull over sharpish to take my call. Still, I did pass on Roy?s little ray of comfort, and yes, my beloved was as equally dubious as myself concerning the likelihood of what was predicted actually coming to pass! Comes with the territory of being a Baggie, all that worldly cynicism. Or something.

Alan Cleverly had an interesting tale to tell The Fart, mind. During their last supporters? club meeting, one where a couple of players were present, the audience suddenly discovered Luke Steele, Albion?s third-string keeper, to be one of the stars of the show. During the course of the meeting, it emerged that Luke had been playing for quite some time with a dislocated finger, which certainly explained a lot. Said El Tel, agleam with righteous indignation, ?Huh! John Osborne played for ages with TWO taped together!?

Time to go in, then, and I do have to say that whatever other odds might be stacked up around them this season, Ipswich do have a nice little ground going for them. Sparkly-clean ladies? conveniences, all navy blue and white ceramic tiles, decent catering, and a pitch that looks hardly played on, virginal, almost, even though we?re fast approaching the first quarter of the season gone. All mowed in a careful diagonal diamond pattern, it is, an effect achievable, presumably, by mowing at a 45 degree angle to the touchline in one direction, then having done that, moving to the corner diagonally opposite with the mower, then doing exactly the same thing, but the other way. Very smart it looks, too, but what an almighty fiddle to get to that pristine state.

We had heard that Tony Mowbray would be watching proceedings from the stand, poor sod. No surprise there, as he was George Burley?s Number Two for so long back in the heady days when they too were jet-propelled to a status way above their optimum standard of living. He was five years at Portman Road, all-told, I believe. Tell you what, though: I?d have loved to have sat next to him this afternoon, gauged his responses to events, listened to his verdict on our current first-teamers, that sort of thing. Must have amassed enough notes to rival the thickness of the Birmingham Telephone Directory by the time the final whistle came, I reckoned.

The team news? Curtis Davies was back from the dead ? well, a broken foot, actually, but what?s a bit of literal licence between friends, eh? - nicely in time to fill in for the suspended McShane, in fact. Also starting for the first time in yonks was the formerly-injured Joe Kamara, whose amazing comeback off the bench last week resulted in such a satisfactory outcome for us all, Kevin Phillips his striking partner-in-crime. And Koumas taking the place of the distinctly-adipose John Hartson, an unsurprising development in view of the difference he made versus Leeds the other week.

Oh ? and one other small detail before I make a start. Albion had chosen to wear their BLACK number for this one, a detail that didn?t sit all that comfortably with me. Why? I honestly don?t know. Perhaps my subconscious viewed it as far too morbid, or something. Any psychologists out there, do feel free to pitch in! One sour note, though ? the referee, whose name I hadn?t clocked, until ?Im Indoors reminded me. Chap by the name of Woolmer, he was, and labeled already with the dubious distinction of Hereford U|nites expressly requesting of the FA that he never again be appointed to run one of their games. There?s not all that many games where you see a referee book no-one in the first half, then proceed to show yellow to a stonking SEVEN during the course of the second 45, is there? Well, that?s what happened today: more on that anon.

From the very first minute Albion were trying to stamp their mark upon the game, Carter belting the ball just wide with his first goal attempt of the game. Things then carried on in similar vein, and with the visitors just about claiming the honours once the opening skirmishes had all been done with. That was certainly so as far as the nose-levels were concerned; form reasons I know not of, suddenly, our lot burst into a spontaneous chorus of: ?Stevie Bull?s A Tatter?, closely followed by that all-time chart-topper ?Super, SuperBob?.?, then, just for fun, ending with ?Astle Is Our King?. No, I don?t know what brought that lot on either! And, with 13 minutes gone by my reckoning, Carter had yet another go for glory, his effort being easily dealt with by their keeper that time.

And that was typical of our play at that stage: time after time, we were taking the game into their half in a manner joyous to behold, but falling down with that all-important final pass. We then won a corner, had that repulsed, and not long after that, saw Koumas let fly from the edge of the box, the effort ending up well over the crossbar. Were form to count, then we?d have been streets in front by then, the principal architect of our goalscoring efforts being a certain Jason Koumas, bossing the midfield already, and looking even more dangerous with every single minute that elapsed. Dare I say it, confidently, arrogantly, even, spraying passes around the field of play in a manner uncannily similar to that of the great Bobby Hope in his prime? What a turnaround: from stroppy prima-donna, to skilful midfield architect, and all in the space of just a handful of games. And the departure of Bryan Robson, of course.

Such great emphasis upon the attacking side of the game had to hit pay-dirt eventually, especially when you consider that Albion were by now far more in the Ipswich box than out of it, the home side?s sole effort to date resulting in naught but a corner for their pains. With Jason Koumas playing like a man possessed, we just knew it was only a matter of time. And so it proved: with almost two-thirds of the first half gone, it was Our Jase?s wonderfully-placed pass to Joe Kamara that set the whole thing up, really. Cue for the lad to show the Town defender assigned to him a clean pair of heels, take the ball right to within reasonable shooting-distance, then let fly, low and nasty, right in the bottom right-hand corner. Wow, what a goal, and double wow, the Koumas pass that made it possible in the first place. Only a minute before, the same situation had presented itself, but with a less-desirable outcome that time. Never mind, though, we were in the lead, and deservedly so, too.

?Time to ring my other half at Edgar Street,? thought I ? so I did. Sadly, his volume control was kaput for some reason or other, so there then began a shouting match that must have been heard right in the players? dug-out, right across the pitch. I could hear ?Im Indoors perfectly well ? the Bulls were losing at that stage of the game ? but he couldn?t hear me! Oh well, there was always half-time to catch up.

Not long after I?d given up on that idea, there came the moment that had me wailing, along with around 1,400 other itinerant Baggies, ?Oh no, here we go AGAIN!? The reason? An Ipswich equalizer, some ten minutes before the break ? and in the most daft circumstances imaginable, too. Hell, I?d never before realized that football had its own Comedy Hour equivalent! What happened? Well, it was like this, Yer Honour. Ipswich?s Billy Clarke had the ball, and was haring in on our goal like a steam-train with the safety-valve knackered. In dived Curtis Davies, just outside the box, just as the Ipswich man was about to pull the trigger, but instead of running harmlessly away, the ball bobbled mightily, then bounced off the ample chest of the lad Perry, also helping out in defence. Result? The ball shot straight off his torso, then into the back of the net, with Zoobie reduced to being just a mere witness of the disaster. Dearie, dearie me ? back to the Albion we all know and love, and with Ipswich?s only shot on target to date!

But it didn?t quite work out that way, fortunately for us. Within around four minutes of conceding, that man Koumas had done it again, setting up a wonderfully-taken free-kick just outside the left-hand side of the box, to give the lurking Phillips the far post header. Complete and utter delirium in the away end once more, and rightly so, say I!

At least our activities got the Ipswich supporters moaning for England, which they did when we were awarded a free-kick in the face of what they thought was incontrovertible evidence the advantage should have been theirs. What they didn?t see, though, was our lad tripped right after winning the ball fair and square! Naughty, naughty Ipswich! And, just short of half-time, we could have quite easily got a third. It was a Gera pass that got things going in the first place, the resultant Phillips header only narrowly clearing the crossbar. What a great note upon which to end the first 45.

Come the interval, I tried to rung His Nibs once more. Half-time there, as well, so I was able to conduct a conversation in a relatively normal fashion, for once. Most surprised at our score, he was, and by that time, quite envious of what we were seeing. The Edgar Street Division Two caper was going a tad better for the Bulls by then, but in an interminably-dull fashion. For their part, the score was now a much more respectable 1-1 As for the remainder of our followers, there were lots and lots of discussion going on about our remarkable performance, which was what you might expect, given the circumstances.

Out came our finest, at long last, for their second and final dose of their Division One stimulant. And no sudden personnel changes sprung upon them, either, something that made quite a change from what usually happened when Robson had held the keys to the castle. And, once away, we simply carried right on from where we?d left off, with Jason Koumas once more taking the star role, chasing, harrying, orchestrating, worrying by degrees ? in short, making a thorough nuisance of himself out there. Town were quite wary of him by that point, always wondering precisely what he?d do next. And you could say the same about Zoobie, who was now intercepting the ball from crosses as cleanly and calmly as you like. Blimey, a quarter of the season gone, and he finally discovers what he?s supposed to do when dealing with dangerous dead-ball situations!

The walls of the castle having already been well and truly breached, it came as no real surprise to see ?em go tumbling yet again, with just short of ten minutes of the half gone. Incredibly, Zoobie was the bloke to literally start the ball rolling, courtesy a nifty throw out to Joe Kamara, who then donated the gift to Jason Koumas, fangs already dripping blood in anticipation of what was likely to happen ? which was a marvelous diagonal pass that completely took in both sides of the field while doing so. On the other end of it was the lad Gera, who has that sort of thing for breakfast, of course. Over went the ball again, this time into the box, where Phillips awaited his moment of headed glory. And what a celebration once the ball passed over the line! As I said right at the start, Mrs. Mary Whitehouse would not have been amused, were she alive today. Also good to see was our players? genuine pleasure at being able to entertain in such wonderful fashion ? and didn?t it show!

Goal Number Four? That one arrived just three minutes after that wonderfully-worked Phillips creation I just described. This time it was Phillips that turned provider, slinging Joe Kamara a defence-splitting pass that left him one-on-one with their keeper. Neatly side-stepping his lumbering attempts to stop Our Joe from pulling the trigger, he then took the ball a little way further on before sidestepping the ball neatly into the back of the net.

Suddenly, it was party time in that away end. ?Bring On The Dingles!? was one very loud chant, quickly followed by ?Are you watching, Wanderers?? followed in quick succession by ?I Go Down, You Go Down, We All Go Down Together?.? And we simply couldn?t let the occasion pass without singing that all-time Baggies favourite: ?If You?re Proud To Be A Baggie, Clap Your Hands?? Which we did, to the point of excruciating soreness. Something tells me local GP?s are going to be rather busy come Monday morning, treating a sudden spate of laryngitis cases, not to mention a fair number of badly-chapped hands!

Quite a demolition job, this, and there was more to come. But first, a quite unnecessary booking for Phillips, who, not hearing the ref?s whistle signifying offside, had carried on in the belief he was clear to score yet again. No question whatsoever of doing it deliberately, mind. Is it mandatory for these people to have their common sense surgically removed on appointment to the League list for the very first time, I wonder? Crazy.

And, just as I?d put my trusty notebook and pen away for the last time, Albion went and did it again, this time in injury time. By trying to make the score look a tad more respectable, and knowing we?d already withdrawn two of our most effective performers, Ipswich were trying to grab a late consolation. And boy, did it rebound on them. Committed totally to getting bodies inside the box, once the ball landed at the feet of an Albion player, that was it, they were well and truly in the smelly stuff, and no way possible of getting out of it.

Suddenly, Phillips found himself in possession, and no member of the home side around to impede his progress too seriously. Breaking into their half like a bat out of Hell, the lad then took the ball into the box, and with their keeper committed, let fly from just inside the boundary. In it went, and as it did, out went the greater part of the home crowd. Come the final whistle, most of those remaining let their feelings be known in no uncertain terms. Mind you, at least they did stick it out until the end, which is more than could be said for some of their comrades, who quit the scene shortly after we got our fourth!

No such despondency about our little tribe. Over came the players, as they should, to take their much-deserved applause. Once more, I knew precisely what it was that made me support Albion in the first place. It?s been a long time coming, this new emphasis upon the finer points of the beautiful game, but none the more welcome, all the same.

Back to the coach, then, and after a wait of almost an hour to properly get away, it was ?Home, James, and don?t spare the horses?. From then on in, it was a trouble-free return to West Bromwich, where dearest hubby awaited us both, still snarling mightily about the Edgar Street game he?d witnessed. But thinking on a little bit, it?s a crying shame that the real genius behind today?s result will be quitting the place come Wednesday next. Apparently, Mark Venus won?t be accompanying our new gaffer southwards, but Pearson doesn?t want to stay, apparently.

A bloody shame, that: together, the two of them might just have hit upon a devastating managerial combo. But at least Pearson will get a final chance of leaving his unique personal stamp upon the club. Come Tuesday next, it?s off to Palace they go. Win that one, and the future will be so bright, I?ll have to wear shades, as they said in the pop song. Normally, I regard the trip down there as an imposition to be endured, not enjoyed. For what has to be the first time ever in my entire life, I?m genuinely regretful I?m not going.

And Finally?. Just who was the drunken Scandinavian gentleman who hailed, then accosted me (in the nicest way possible, of course!) on the stairs, as we headed for the exit after the final whistle? In the interests of meaningful Anglo-Swedish/Danish relations (you tell me, ?cos I haven?t the slightest clue who it was right now!), I think we ought to be told!

 - Glynis Wright

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