The Diary

23 October 2006: Dingles Dangle As Greening, Kamara And Hartson Strike Three!

?YERSSS!?.EDWARD ELGAR!??BILLY WRIGHT!?..STEVE BULL!?..DEREK DOUGAN?..ENOCH POWELL!?.DENISE LEWIS!??..ROBERT PLANT!?.DALE WINTON!?.ERIC IDLE!??ROY WOOD!??TESSA SANDERSON!??YOUR BOYS TOOK ONE HELL OF A BEATING!!?

Ahem ? that?s better! Cor, I really needed that ? and now I?ve had it, let?s away into the meat of tonight?s offering, what? One thing?s certain ? only four days or so into the job, his first competitive game, and Mowbray renders himself all-but bomb-proof in the space of ninety glorious, exquisite minutes. As far as our supporters are concerned, our gaffer could go and rob half the banks in Brum, make off with the contents of a couple of jewellers? shops, then proceed to trip up a series of old ladies returning from their Sunday devotions ? and they?d still love him to bits. As I said at the time: ?It?s men against boys?.? Literally, sometimes, as per the lad they brought on as sub, only 21, he was ? and looked it, too. ?Im Indoors? ?Premiership versus Championship?? was his laconic comment as our lot tore into their unsavoury opponents unmercifully, leaving Dingle soggy bits innumerable trailing in their wake, during those superlative opening 45 minutes.

Once again, I?ve left a football stadium feeling that same warm glow of satisfaction, of pride, even, that I used to feel back in the days when attacking football was truly King Of The Hawthorns ? and by God, isn?t it just great? Today, such was our drive to succeed, I reckon you could have matched us up with anyone in that league, and we?d have ended the game in precisely the same way, with the opposition leaving the park with chins trailing right down to anal sphincter level. Laugh? It being ?them? on the receiving-end, ?course I did, like a bloody drain, in fact!

Just one sour note, though. I?m sure it doesn?t need me to tell Mowbray where our weak link is situated, right now. In fact, right after I saw him grasp what?s left of his hair in clenched fists, then turn towards the dug-out in blind fury following yet another clanger dropped by this gentleman, I knew for sure that Zoobie?s card was well and truly marked. I don?t care what we have to do ? stick the club cat in there, if we have to - but for Gawd?s sake, please don?t include him in our short and medium-term plans. The man?s a complete and utter menace, hovering about the Paul Crichton scale of substandard custodial skills, almost (younger Baggies, ask your dad!). The only thing that prevented us from conceding as a result of his ineptitude was the fact we had a pretty solid back four in front; should he put on a repeat performance against someone else (Blues next Saturday, maybe!), I wouldn?t like to guarantee a similar happy outcome for us all. It should prove interesting who plays in goal against the Arse (reserves?) come Tuesday night. Should it be Houlty, or the new lad from United, Luke Steele, even, that?s the matter settled, very likely.

Other than the above, it was a very satisfactory day all round. Even the plods must have dipped in with their overtime payments, considering that as we walked up Halfords Lane to the pub, we counted no less than 27 police vans parked up there: assuming around a dozen flat-foot occupants per van, that gives me and my trusty calculator a grand total of 324 ossifers on the case. Not only that, but whoever was in charge had seemingly flung the constabulary net very wide indeed. British Transport Police more than held their own, one lot hailing from Wales (well I can?t think of many good reasons why English plods should need the backs of their fluorescent jackets emblazoned with what appeared to be the Welsh for ?Police?, can you?) Not only that, further along still, there were many helmets and uniforms quite clearly not of this region ? so if you got burgled today, or had your purse stolen in a shop, even, now you know where all your local bobbies were, don?t you?

At least The Hawthorns Hotel-cum-Throstle Club was open for business, which I must confess surprised me greatly. I would have thought the plods would have been all-too eager to squash that one flat. Still, I wasn?t going to argue very loudly about it, was I? On entry, and way across the darkened and crowded room, we didn?t see ?a stranger? as per South Pacific?s ?Some Enchanted Evening?, but what we did see was one Martin Lewis, hyper-vocal Baggies season-ticket holder, complete with daughters Carly and Bethany. ?Time to get young Beth?s autograph?, I thought. How come? Well, just the other day, her school had featured on Central News, and The Noise?s youngest was included, too ? hence my request for her signature! Fair play to her, though, I did get one off her, although I strongly suspect she realised I was winding her up.

Judging from the position of The Noise?s car when we arrived (they share the same parking-spot as we do), their arrival was well in advance of ours ? and yep, they had spent the time in McDonalds, as per usual, and one populated by a fair number of plods grabbing a pre-nicking bite to eat, it would seem. It?s been three weeks since I last saw our garrulous chum, and such was his eagerness to catch up with everything, out it came, just like a busted flush! Couldn?t shut him up to save my life, but having finally got a word in edgeways, and managing to write up my notes for this column (eventually!), who should walk in but The Fart!

?See ? I told you they had a 24-hours licence!? was his opening gambit, and aimed directly ? and deservedly - at me. Doubting Thomas that I am, I?d seriously questioned the possibility of the place being open when I?d spoken to him the day before. The best bit was to come, though. Apparently, after alighting from the Metro at the stop by the ground, the plods had threatened him with a bag and body search. Being well into pensionable age, and not likely to chuck anything in anger, this was an indignity too much for The Fart ? and what?s more, he told them so! Even more amazing, the plods backed off completely! Mind you, when you?ve faced Hun machine-guns innumerable on the Western Front, after that, there?s not much else the West Midlands Police can do to faze you, is there?

And that?s not all. When El Tel walked through the pub doors, who should be standing there, but Adrian Chiles, he of Radio Five Live, and all stations west, and a fanatical Baggie with it. Said our chum to him: ?Any chance of giving it a few words on your TV show tonight if we win?? Said Ade, in a mastery of understatement: ?Yep!? A lad of few words is Our Ade, sometimes, but you can bet your bottom dollar he didn?t let our win go unrecognised tonight! (According to my other half tonight, Alan Hansen fed him the line: ?Why are you looking so cheerful, tonight?? to which our hero replied: ?Because I saw my team beat Wolves 3-0 today?..?)

Having burst into our little circle so suddenly, it was then time for The Fart to go. ?Hmmm,? thought I, ?To commit some dastardly football-related crime outside, having managed to evade that constabulary search so successfully?? Yep, the old ones really are the worst! Not that we tarried much longer, mind. A few minutes later, it was into the open air we went, and turning right for the short stroll down to the Smethwick Corner of the Halfords. As we did so, our ears were assailed by the loud ?whop, whop? of an overhead helicopter, one belonging to the plods, probably. ?Coo!? said I, raising my eyes to the heavens, ?They?ve got a bigger chopper than the Bluenose Butcher!?

Unusually, despite there being around 20 minutes to the start, still, there was a short queue at the turnstiles. We could only imagine most had left their arrival very late, but as the wait wasn?t enormous, no problem, really. What was, though, was trying to fight our way through crowds wanting to patronise the bookies/purchase Dutch Courage in quantity/grab a pie. Even during our last Premiership stay, when crowds were generally ?full houses? we never had a congestion problem like that. Oh, well ? come the visit of The Arse, the situation would have returned to normal.

Taking our seats, finally, the sense of spine-tingling tension and expectation in the rest of the crowd was so strong, you?d have to be dead from the neck up not to catch a mental whiff of it. Two lots of very passionate people, giving it big licks, especially when the team news was read out by an announcer, one who sounded so ?fired-up? by the occasion, you would have thought his spell on the PA had been preceded by the ingestion of a line or three of cocaine. Dearie, dearie me.

As we expected, Kevin Phillips was out, so Duke Ellington and Joe Kamara were making the striking twosome instead, with Hartson on the bench. That was a clear indication that the problem with Phillips was something you couldn?t put necessarily right by just kissing it better and applying an Elastoplast. Bugger. Never mind, Joe Kamara was still banging ?em in, so no real harm done, then. Also out was Darren Carter, suspended, and Nigel Quashie taking his place, as per the script I previewed last night.

As it had been a good five years since both sides had met in the league, as you might expect, when they took to the field, the reception they got from both factions was nothing short of a Billy Graham revivalist meeting got a little out of hand, so loud, for the first time in yonks at a game, it left my ears ringing quite a bit. A visual cacophony of blues, whites, golds and blacks, in fact, and between them, exuding enough nervous energy to power the entire area. ?One quick burst of ?Oh, Molineux is full of S**t?.? led to a retaliatory burst, from the other end, of: ?We hate Albion, we hate Albion?? On such pleasantries do supporters score brownie-points at these derbies. The game hadn?t quite sold out, mind: a quick rubberneck into the Smethwick Corner revealed seats needing bums on aplenty there, also in the bit of the Brummie where the ?restricted view? ones lurked. As for ?them? they seemed to have brought a full complement with them: I could only hope that suitable decontamination arrangements had been made by the club before those seats came into use again.

Finally, everyone was set to start ? and just before they did, up piped my other half again, ?How many seconds before the first foul, then?? Before I could reply, even, I got my answer. Thirty seconds precisely ? and it was a Dingle on one of ours! As you might expect, despite those opening minutes being somewhat frenetic, there was very little of substance to be seen, both sides testing each other out ? and while that was going on, my first real glimpse of our new manager ? or rather, his back! Sensing my thoughts, His Nibs then muttered: ?There?s something of Ray Harford about him?? Yep, now he mentioned it, so there was. A similar taste in matchday suits, similar angular jaw structure, hairstyle, touchline stance, even. Compare and contrast his dapper appearance to that of Mick McCarthy in the Wulves section to the right. Silver hair, weatherbeaten features, tracksuit to the fore, and already exuding adrenalin from every pore.

It was Our Jase (who else?) to first rattle the Dingles? cage with a teasing, tantalising ball that whipped invitingly across the face of goal, our gold-and-cack chums only just putting it out for the corner. A shame no-one was handily positioned to whip the tap-in ? erm ? in! Never mind, though, better was to come, and in less than ten minutes, too. Only a few seconds after being booked by the ref for being naughty to the unfortunately-named Ricketts (they must be down to the bare bones when they use him), Jonathan Greening embarked upon an instant love-affair with our supporters by latching onto the ball after a Koumas pass from the wing. For reasons of which I?m not sure ? maybe their defence was busy checking their Lottery tickets or something? ? the lad then had all the time and space in the world to let fly from about 20 yards out, and right towards the middle of their goal. In it went, at supersonic speed, seemingly, and their keeper completely rooted to the spot! Albion 1 Wules 0 ? and the place went absolutely wild! Not our intellectually-challenged chums, though. Can?t think why for an instant, me!

Suddenly, there was John Homer, all gravitas savagely cast to one side, and doing a ?boinging duet? with the Bloke In Front Of Me, a huge grin plastered all over his normally-miserable face, for once. I could only hope that it didn?t stick! Mind you, he wasn?t the only one, a quick whooftie in the direction of both our ?ends? showed an undulating mass of folkies doing precisely the same thing! ?Always s**t on the old gold and black!? was the refrain, a la Monty Python?s Meaning Of Life finale, but distinctly lacking in crucifixions, you?ll be pleased to hear. That would hit the Dingles much later on, of course.

Having been buoyed up enormously by that lovely strike, suddenly, Albion had gone up a gear or three, and were playing football - fast, fluent, flowing as beautifully as water from a crystal-clear mountain stream - and positively lethal to Dingles defences. Two further efforts then followed, from both Quashie and Ellington, the first only narrowly over its target, the second a bit of a ?rugby-shot?. Never mind, though ? taking the play to them meant they couldn?t score, and that was the object of the exercise, after all.

It was all of 21 minutes before Wulves managed to let rip with something that could even remotely be classified as ?dangerous?. The problem was, though, our keeper, who, instead of gripping the blasted thing firmly, having saved it, managed to spill it instead. Somehow, we managed to retrieve the situation, but between you, me and the goal-post, I reckon we were lucky to get away with it. Poor John Homer, just in front of me ? going by the rate at which he was nibbling his knuckles, I reckoned on his fingers dropping away from their main anchors around midway during the second half! Not that the referee was helping, mind. Apologies if I?m mistaken, but it sure seemed to me that whenever one of ours was fouled, ?play on? was the order of the day, but whenever it was ?them? on the wrong end of some excess or other, imagined or real, we had our knuckles rapped every single time.

Nearly two-thirds of the half gone, now, and it was Ellington that nearly made it two, taking the ball around the halfway line, then running with it quite some distance before letting fly, the effort only just going wide. ?Your support is effin? s**t!? sang our followers, suddenly aware of a silence of almost Trappist proportions emanating from the away end. Mind you, about a minute later, that peace was well and truly shattered, and we have Joe Kamara to thank for that. Albrechtsen was the supplier, whipping in a cross of truly mean and nasty proportions, and Joe the finisher ? and what a finish it was, too, nutting the ball clean past their keeper to make it two.

Clearly, Joe had found the strikers? equivalent of the ?mother lode? and wasn?t going to relinquish his hold on it in a hurry. Blimey, talk about a ?wet dream?! Would I wake up and find it all the product of my fevered night-time imagination, or something? This Albion-supporting lark was getting even better by the minute: a side that attacked, playing fast and exciting football, just like the days of Hagan, Ashman, Atkinson ? Ardiles, even, steaming through a top-six-standard defence as if it just wasn?t there, and two classy strikes at the end of it all. The fact it was ?them? on the receiving end made it all the more delicious. I just didn?t want the game to finish. I briefly wondered what all the Baggie youngsters watching were thinking, their parents? words: ?I remember the time when we used to play like this every single game? ringing in their ears, no doubt. Suddenly, generation could speak unto generation, and find some common ground, at long last.

And just as our shell-shocked neighbours kicked off for the second time, over came a passenger plane, heading for the nearby airport, and very low indeed. I could just imagine the pilot announcing: ??And, if you look to your left, ladies and gentlemen, you will see The Hawthorns, Mecca of all that?s good in football?.? As for the Dingles themselves, they weren?t half sullen. Mind you, our ?serenade? of ?You might as well go home?.? went down like a lead balloon. Didn?t they realise they were in the presence of greatness?

More ?Dingle-baiting?, this time courtesy: ?You?re s**t, and you know you are?..? (reprise!), closely followed by the first cry of ?Gerrimoff!?.? from the Bloke In Front Of Me. Mind you, he had done well, leaving it until about ten minutes from half-time before letting rip ? and who do you think his comments were aimed at, kiddiwinkles? Even assuming he didn?t speak good English, I bet his ears were glowing incandescent red by then; you don?t need to be a talented linguist to clock the moment when everything you do is infuriating tens of thousands of people all in one go!

Then, with nine on the clock, it was Joe Kamara with another attempt on goal, breaking sharpish from a rare Dingles incursion, and Greening, no doubt buoyed up enormously as a result of his first strike, nearly laid on a repeat performance just before the break, the shot whistling harmlessly wide that time. That one brought the refrain ?Are you watching, Stevie Bull?? from the Smethwick. Curiously enough, in the few minutes that remained until the break, the Dingles managed to muster up a second-wind from somewhere, and briefly, we found our own territory under threat. No real danger, but all the same, it was quite a relief to hear the half-time whistle. With our keeper seemingly having a ?Condor moment? all of his own every time the ball came within reaching-distance, we didn?t really need the hassle.

Half-time, then, and as everyone settled again, a small poser. What on earth were two or three fully-spurred-and-booted coppers, complete with riot gear, doing in the gangway that led to the exit? In fact, they?d been standing there, doing a passable imitation of a statue, for most of the first half. Now don?t tell me ? they?d had a tip off that the travel rugs and Thermoses were going to be chucked in anger on a prearranged signal from one of our more venerable occupants? And all costing in the region of ?20 an hour to the taxpayer, too. You really do wonder, sometimes.

I don?t know what it was that Mick McCarthy threatened his shell-shocked little soldiers with come the break, but they certainly came flying out of the trap come the restart. Suddenly we found ourselves facing a succession of Dingles corners, and not clearing them properly each time, either. At one point, Perry nearly had his block knocked off trying to shift the ball away, diving bravely to negate the danger. Fortunately, the entire defence was functioning like a well-oiled machine ? all except Zoobie, unfortunately. Once again, it took him two attempts to smother a shot, as the entire Albion contingent screamed fit to bust with the tension and uncertainty of it all. Once more, we heard that anguished cry from in front: ?GERRIMOFF, FOR GOD?S SAKE?.? For once, I wasn?t arguing.

Yep, those Dingles were well and truly in their death-throes, by then. The only trouble was, they just wouldn?t lie down like outclassed opponents are supposed to. Perhaps they, too, had got a pretty good inkling of what we felt about our Swiss keeper, and were now trying to test our weakest link to complete destruction? Let?s face it, that was the only real chance they had of getting back into the game, and it was a worrying moment for us every single time they entered our half of the field. As I saw it, sooner or later, they?d strike oil.

Play then zig-zagged back and forth in this frenetic fashion for several minutes, both sides having ample opportunity to make their mark on events. ?Come on Albion, get a foot in. You?re making them look good!? Thus spake John Homer, Dingle-hater extraordinaire, after an almighty goalmouth scramble we were dead lucky to survive, as they came at us like Mexicans at The Alamo, wave after sodding wave of the buggers. Our opponents had even excavated a young kid off the bench by then, name of Clarke. A handy break in play, and it was the superlative Koumas off for a well-deserved rest, and Chaplow on to replace him.

For their part, our opponents had been dead lucky to survive not conceding again courtesy of a tantalising, teasing low cross ? I?m not quite sure who was responsible - whipped in beautifully right across the face of their goal. All it needed was a quick toe-poke to send it on its way home to Mum, but nary a single Baggie was suitably positioned to help it do so. A quick glance at John Homer at that point revealed someone with blood-pressure hovering at danger-level, almost! As for the crowd, from them, it was near-silence at that point: it didn?t take a great deal of intelligence to realise that the game had entered a crucial phase, and that?s what we were seeing out there by that time.

All this Dingle pressure did leave them very vulnerable to a lightning-strike Albion break out of defence, of course ? and they nearly paid the price around ten from the end, Kamara (again, who else?) nearly wrapping it up for us, their keeper. Murray, only saving the day late doors. They really should have taken that as a warning, because about five from the end of normal time, disaster struck again. Joe Kamara was the player chopped down in the box as he was about to pull the trigger, and the ref had no hesitation whatsoever in pointing to the spot. So who was going to (hopefully!) bury it right in front of the Brummie, then? Enter John Hartson, stage left. He?d been brought on in place of Ellington on 65, approximately. Ooer ? until then, he?d had a pretty nondescript sort of game, really. But we needn?t have worried: up strode ?yer man?, to belt the ball right in, no messing. PHEW!

It had taken an awfully long time to manage it, but finally, all the poison had been extracted. Never in my entire life have I seen so many depressed Dingles gathered in one place! ?You?re not very good?? was the Smethwick End refrain, as they walked, crestfallen, towards the centre circle for the third and last time. And just to apply the ?finishing touch? off went our followers in the Smethwick, closely followed by those in the Smethwick End portion of the East Stand, all ?boinging? away as if their entire life depended on it. Must have cheered those Dingles sandwiched in the away end greatly, I?m sure. Not. That was then followed by a nose-rubbing-in-it rendition of the 23rd Psalm. Well, it was a Sunday, after all said and done! A ?time-wasting? subbing, and Gera came off, to much applause, to be replaced by Watson. ?Can we play you every week?? enquired our chums in the Brummie, of their dumbstruck counterparts located at the opposite end of the ground. And then it was all over, our best win against ?them? for 25 years, apparently. Must have been the fog-shrouded performance I saw back in the days of Atkinson, I reckon.

Wow. What a win, and what football we saw while they were engineering it, as well. There seems to be no stopping us, right now: practically every side we face seems to crumble like dust in our presence, something that augers well for our trip to St. Andrews next Saturday. And, talking about that, we?ve had a massive change of heart regarding that game. Assuming we can get tickets tomorrow, I?ll be sorting a brace out tomorrow, along with Derby ones. And with El Tel keeping us company, of course. Well, the way we?re playing at the moment, taking the entire division by storm, we?d be bloody mad not to, wouldn?t we?

Could it be that for the first time in my entire life, I?ll get to see an Albion side win a League title? What I?m seeing right now is everything I?ve always wanted of an Albion side, irrespective of whoever is manager. Our name has always been synonymous with good football, and whenever we played the Route One stuff or similar, I?ve considered it to be an affront to my very being. Back in the days when autumn was an affair full of ?mists and gentle fruitfulness?, that?s what we used to get. Now those days seem to be returning once more, and I can?t get enough of it. Blues? Bring ?em on, I say!

Can?t fit in the Laraine Astle stuff tonight, but I haven?t forgotten, honest. I?ll probably cover it in tomorrow?s instalment, once I?ve tidied up loose ends from today, and had a run-down on who?s likely to be turning out versus The Arse on Tuesday night. Our choice of keeper should be interesting, to say the least! Additionally, I expect a bit of a rest for our key performers, who need to be kept fresh for the bump-and-grind of League action, both Saturday and the following Tuesday, versus QPR.

And Finally?. When checking through the Wolverhampton council website earlier tonight to grab some famous names for my opener, I came across the following, and its unfortunate wording: ?West Park ? A Stone?s Throw From The City Centre?..? I rest my case, M?Lud!

 - Glynis Wright

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