The Diary

12 November 2006: Canaries Clobber Bird-Brained Throstles!

Ever felt like you?ve just gone two or three rounds in a Cassius Clay fight, moreover, one that sees you playing the role of the badly-stuffed Sonny Liston? That?s me tonight, sure enough: talk about a state of complete and utter confusion and bewilderment on account of what happened this afternoon. Yes, chaps, we all know it was Armistice Day today, so why the reminder in the form of strong indications we?d already signed some sort of non-aggression pact with Norwich, immediately prior to kick off?

Right now, were the North Koreans to get a little too proactive for comfort, and pre-empt our chums from Washington a little by letting rip with a kiloton or so?s worth of nuclear weapon right over the centre of Brum, thanks to my somewhat shell-shocked state, I would, in all probability, simply dismiss all the wanton destruction, mushroom-shaped cloud, gamma radiation etc. as being the fault of the wind, and nothing more. My wind, mind, not the sort that abruptly parts leaves from trees within a very short space of time.

Befuddled? Not half: in fact, I?m now seriously considering starting one of those support groups that sufferers from little-known diseases get going, once they find out there?s more than one of them in the UK with the same complaint. ?Complaint?? That?s not the half of it. After today?s embarrassing stuff-up, that?s about the most apposite word I can muster in this particular instance, not to mention the most polite, so what could we call ourselves, should we subsequently decide to take a gentle stroll along the road marked ?Militancy?? ?Albion Regulars Getting Horrid? (acronym ?A.R.G.H.?)? Caught Unprepared by Norwich Today, Suckers? (acronym ? yerss, well, not while the kids are awake, eh?)? Or, should that one not glide from the angry, intemperate tongue with sufficient gravitas, what about ?Baggies Only Loathing Linos Of Completely Kakistocrat Sensibilities?? (acronym ? erm ? well, you work that one out for yourselves as well, chucks - and, before you ask, yep, ?Kakistocrat? IS a pukka word, honest!).

By now, you should have got my message loud and clear ? I?m not dealing with Dingles, here, after all - and what?s more, you don?t necessarily have to be an Albion supporter to understand, do you? Just how many more times do we have to sit and watch our lot repeatedly snatching defeat from the jaws of victory, for Heaven?s sake? No less than six Albion efforts hitting the woodwork over the course of the 90 minutes, three in each half, and still we somehow managed to hand them the full ration of points on a silver platter. Delia, no doubt, will have chucked all three into the frying-pan, along with a few fresh herbs, a goodly glug of white wine, and a rich but delicate saucy number to accompany ?em, by now. That?ll do for a starter, all right, and that closely followed by the meat course: Stuffed Throstle, what else? Afters? You won?t find this one in a normal cookery book, of that I?m sure: how does ?Laughing Stock? grab you, then?

It really is getting beyond a joke, and going by the way things seem likely to pan out over the course of the next few weeks, I really do harbour nervous thoughts of us not reaching the play-offs at all come the end of term. Laugh? I nearly cried. Daft, isn?t it? On paper, we have a squad that could conquer this division in a walk, the Universe, even, were they to put their minds to it: out there on the pitch, there are even tantalising stroboscopic-type flashes of unmitigated brilliance from certain individuals, but when it comes to bump-and-grind practicalities, and the general cut and thrust of this division?s domestic affairs, more often than not, we simply end up making Accrington Stanley in a snowstorm look good. This shouldn?t be happening, period. Just what the flaming hell is going on?

Well, our first team might put on a performance that rated as complete and utter crud on legs, our gates might undergo serious atrophy, but at least we can all admire the new (sort of!) improved Throstle Club premises, the one that got the revamp the other week, I mean. Gone for good are the Valentino-esque black drapes, and the little twinkly fairy lights, and in their place, we now find a plethora of mirrors lining all four walls, plus something that bears an uncomfortably close resemblance to the stuff they line padded cells with, in fairly small squares dotted all around the room. And the ceiling.

Blimey, I know our football team can get us so irate we?re in danger of hitting the roof, on occasions, but I never once thought the owners of the Hawthorns Hotel would be that concerned for our matchday welfare! And there?s more - groups of spotlights placed in fours all around the room, a great improvement on previous light levels, I reckon. Just one small snag, though, chaps: tables, round, Baggies for the use of. There just ain?t enough any more. Mind you, the way things are going right now, I seriously doubt whether the relative lack of comfortable drinking space will continue to be a serious issue before too long.

While we were in the pub, it just so happened that some Scots lads came to sit on the same table as ours; big mistake, that, especially when The Noise found out that at least one of them was au fait with Motherwell, our chatty chum?s ?second? side. One other was of a Celtic bent, the last one just a guy with Albion tendencies working in the Glasgae area, Jimmy. Cue for the Noise to ignite the conversational afterburners, then: believe you me, once he gets to that stage, you can consider the verbal battle well and truly lost. Nice chaps, both of ?em, but I didn?t half get the impression they couldn?t quite believe what they were seeing (not to mention hearing!) every time our Stokie chum paused to draw breath, which wasn?t all that often, either.

I can only assume The Noise secretly trains in much the same way as those South Sea pearl divers of old: by hyperventilating for ages first, in order to rid the lungs of gash carbon dioxide and greatly increase oxygen-carrying corpuscular endurance capabilities, then coming out with impossibly-long sentences, and because of all those preparations beforehand, circulation suitably flushed clear of carbon dioxide immediately prior to commencement of machine-gun conversational delivery, not even having to draw breath as nearly as often as we non-Stokies would. You really couldn?t stem the flow: pure vintage Noise, in short. No wonder the poor sods left relatively early!

Earlier, we?d gone and handed over a copy of ?Im Indoors?s new book to Albion photographer Laurie Rampling, to the bemusement, complete and utter, of the burly guy manning the front entrance to the Press room. The Albion commissions apart, you?d not look twice if you saw him in the street ? but there?s far more to the lad than initially meets the eye. Laurie, bless his many telephoto zooms, just happens to live in sunny Essex, very close to Norwich territory, in fact. And it doesn?t stop him coming to every single home game, the leetle teenker; the Albion church is a pretty broad one, after all said and done, and Laurie is a darned good lensman. The man?s a hero, the real McCoy, in fact, for coming from that awful distance week in, week out ? so more power to his photographic elbow, I say!

Back to the present, then, by which time we?d left the pub, and moseyed by way of an impromptu Baggies Statto-type meeting held just outside the players entrance ? Steve ?Call me boring? Carr is one such degenerate ? to our Smethwick End entrance point, plonking in our seats with around ten or so minutes to the kick-off: our earliest arrival for yonks, in fact.

While we were all waiting for something to happen, I decided to have a bit of a natter with Jean, John Homer?s other half. The latest on her new kitten, Zoltan, is that it?s now taken to drinking water from just about any flower vase it can find, mucky moggy that he is. At least I?m assuming ?Zoltan? is a feline, and not the Baggies player of the same name. On the other hand, if any of you do happen to see The Real McCoy drinking out of gash flower vases all of a sudden, don?t hesitate to get in touch!

Much nearer the ?off?, now, and both sides being read out by the chappie wielding the mike. Shame about the low turnout for this one, mind ? only 18K, all told, a situation reflected in the total lack of interest shown in the relatively unpopulated away end, abaft the Smethwick. But back to the team news. A much-altered Albion line-up today, some of whom I hadn?t expected, if truth were to be known. First off, we had Goldilocks McShane coming into the side, and the injured Zoltan Gera munching the contents of a cat-food tin ? er, belay my last, ?sitting this one out?, OK? Consigned to the bench for similar reasons was poor Richard Chaplow, with the badly out of form Ellington just plain dropped, I guess. In to replace them were Kev Phillips and Darren Carter.

And this is the precise moment at which reality decided to take a leisurely stroll in Forge Lane, rather than give us a little bit of timely assistance, folkies. I?m not discussing the minute silence, impeccably observed by both Canary and Throstle factions, nor the coin-tossing exercise, either. No, what happened after all that started to exert its malign influence on our game as soon as the show got on the road, and although I have little love for today?s ref, a creature by the name of Laws (now there?s a good example of what I like to call ?nominative determinism?: with a monicker like that, you simply have to take up that sort of occupation, don?t you?), you certainly couldn?t hang our mistakes on his all-too convenient peg.

The truth of the matter is this: Although we had less time in possession than our Norfolk chums ? 46% to their 54% - what we did have was six shots on target to their five, and an almighty ten shots off target to their four. Corners? Won in a walk, twelve to their six. As for infringements, we were far more sinned against than sinning the entire 90 minutes. Plus those incredible SIX strikes on the woodwork I mentioned before. And still we lost, thanks to the efforts of a lad we offloaded onto the Canaries not too long ago. There?s got to be a moral in that, somewhere, but I?m buggered if I can think of one right now.

As for the sordid details, these are what might be described as the ?highlights?, but not necessarily those on the pitch: sometimes, I found the antics of those watching far more mirth-making than whatever manner of incompetence was happening out there. Jean, John Homer?s missus, started things quite nicely just before the kick-off, when she muttered darkly: ?That Laws (the referee), I really hate him, I do??

So, the Armistice Day stuff finally done and dusted, off we all went. Surprise, surprise ? we hadn?t even moved out of the first minute, when the Canaries Glee Club decided to join in with our own chant of: ?Stand Up If You Hate The Wolves?, that one closely followed by the chorus, from ?them?, of: We only hate Wolves And Ipswich?.? Well, I guess that well and truly put the position straight on both sides: once more, The Dingles found to be universally hated in this division!

Not much to report in those wary opening minutes, save the sartorial contrast between the two gaffers, Mowbray looking suave in a powder blue-grey sort of number, and his ?oppo? newbie Peter Grant, tracksuited and doing what appeared to be an excellent imitation of one of those ?tic-tac men? you used to see on racecourses, signalling the odds to others in their own inimitable way, via a complex system of hand signals. Before the half was even a third gone, I?d already estimated the favourite for the 3.30 at Ripon to start at around 3-1 on! ?It?s a bit soporific,? remarked Jean to her ever-lovin? hubby. John: ?Er ? what does ?soporific? mean??

Well, we certainly weren?t exactly short of chances to put the Canaries to the sword that half. Loads of corners, loads of scoring chances created, only to see just about the whole of our stand end up tearing our hair out with the sheer frustration of it all, and, as the half progressed further, our rapidly-developing catalogue of failure didn?t smooth out ruffled tempers any, either. Typical, with 12 gone, was McShane, losing out on a ball he should never have attempted to play. ??Orrible, Bloody ?orrible?? came a familiar sepulchral voice from the seat in front. Yep, welcome to the real world, Mister Happy!

Already, the dreaded portents of impending doom were there: our efforts in the goalscoring department proving quite ineffectual, moves breaking down far too easily, rank careless play when in possession, or simply not anticipating what the other guy was likely to do next: in short, all the elements for a repeat of last week?s Derby fiasco. And it didn?t help one bit either when Watson somehow managed to stuff up a simple chance that should have seen him busting the net at any other time. Oh dear.

And that wasn?t the last, either. Norwich had enjoyed a fair amount of possession to start with, but around midway, the percentages started to change quite a bit. First of all Koumas had a go, then not long after that, Phillips thought he?d cracked it ? only to see his efforts in that direction more or less cleared off the line. Chances? They were lining up like so many buses during the Birmingham rush hour, one after the other. From the previous effort, we got the corner, courtesy Carter: over it came, and the ball dropped invitingly into the path of Jason Koumas, who gratefully belted it for all he was worth. Typical Albion that Gallagher, the Norwich keeper, was cutting the mustard so successfully between the sticks today: one rapid dive, and the problem was solved.

At that point, you really did have to ask the question: despite all that possession, just what did we have to do to flaming score? Then the action swung to the other end, with Earnie denied late doors indeed thanks to some pretty nifty defensive intervention. Back the ball came once more, and it was Greening?s turn to look distinctly miffed. Watson then hit the woodwork; after that, the action swung back in Norwich?s favour momentarily, and Earnie nearly capitalising nicely on that fact, Houlty stopping his tap in the end.

Back the ball came, and the Norwich Woodwork Got Struck Yet Again. This time, Phillips was the latest Baggie to cry, in distinctly Meldrew-esque tones: ?I DON?T BELIEEEEVE IT!? as the blasted bladder hit with a resounding ?Thwack!? Mind you, there were many Baggies providing backing vocals on that particular ?crie de coeur? by then! And, not to be outdone, we quickly managed to hit the woodwork a THIRD time! Did Norwich have a Star Trek deflector shield in place around their goalmouth, or something? Much more of this, and it really would be a case of ?Beam me up, Scotty??, for some!

The ghastliest miss of the entire lot has to be that made by Phillips, with about five remaining to the break. Unmarked, about a dozen or so yards out, and with every possible incentive to blast the ruddy thing right through the net, and all the way down to the bottom of Halfords Lane, what happens? Aiming accuracy that owed far more to Mister Magoo than Thirties Baggies shooting star Tommy Magee, that?s what!

It was all too much for John, sadly. He simply had to go downstairs for liquid refreshment, in the form of hot chocolate, or something similar. Watching him returning to his seat shortly before the break, and toting the cup containing the precious liquid in his hand, I simply had to say it: ?Is that to make the lethal pills go down quicker, then, John??

If the first half had ended with sod-all to show for our efforts, then the second would end in far more frustrating fashion ? but we weren?t to know that at the time, of course. Once more, we went at them, hammer and tongs, almost, and yet again, the visitors found themselves occupying some extremely shaky real-estate; Kamara was the guilty party that time.

It was not long after that we had our first real warning, courtesy Old Man Dublin; fortunately, his attempt to get off the mark was well wide. We really should have heeded the signs, because not too many minutes after that, they finally got the ball in the back of the net, something we?d been half-expecting from Norwich for most of the game. As for the marking, you could have shoved a 74 bus in the space between the former Baggies player and the nearest Albion man. What a bloody cock-up: as for Norwich, it was their Christmas and New Year celebrations all combined: don?t forget, prior to today?s shambles, they were occupying Championship territory well below ours.

Even before we?d conceded, I?d surmised we?d completely run out of ideas up front: now we were chasing the game, the task of restoring parity seemed totally beyond the capabilities of our players. They knew it, we knew it: cue for an increasing barrage of boos and jeers to ring around the ground. As I?ve remarked before, the expectation level on Planet Albion is exceptionally heavy right now, and it?s a wise player that refrains from doing anything to make the situation worse.

Enter our gaffer into the equation, by chucking Ellington into the fray, and removing Watson from it. To be perfectly honest, I couldn?t see a good reason for bringing on the former Wigan man, only loads of bad ones. And that, apart from a couple of attempts that were fairly creditable, turned out to be the case. Even before today Ellington?s seeming lack of finishing ability had incurred the wrath of the crowd something awful: unsurprisingly, it wasn?t too long before supporters were picking up right from where they?d left off, come the end of the previous game.

Then, a couple of Kamara-inspired chances went begging, but by that time, we?d already seen ample proof that the Baggies had well and truly shot their collective bolt. And there was another difficulty: constantly chasing the game meant that of necessity, we had to leave ourselves more open than the Reverend Ian Paisley?s capacious mouth, even. Great for a neutral to watch, I suppose, but about as funny as a night spent in the local Crem for this particular column. After one such effort, Norwich themselves were laid bare, and it took all the energy they could muster just to shift themselves from one end of the pitch to the other.

About 15 minutes before the final whistle, Albion managed to strike the woodwork yet again ? dearie me, wasn?t it getting to be such a habit with some people? ? with Curtis Davis acting in the ?fall guy? role once more. Then, in injury time, the crossbar found itself living somewhat dangerously, again, and largely because of yet more alleged assaults upon the goal?s dignity.

But long before that time, very few Albion people were caring, much: instead, their manner of play, stultifying, at even the best of times, positively shrieked ?Boring ? And Still Completely Useless? at just about anyone feeling suicidal thoughts, which meant a fair proportion of the spectators, of course. So badly had heads dropped by then, even the simple stuff was being screwed up in a fashion truly wondrous to behold. As for the unrest, that was spreading around like wildfire; from what were fairly accomplished passers of the ball at the start of the game, come the end, our efforts in that department had deteriorated with a speed terrifying to behold, and, much worse still, into naught but a godalmighty scramble to get the blasted ball as far away from the scene of the crime as was humanly possible.

More thoughts, post-match ones this time? Don?t tempt me! I'm in no fit state to comment in a mature manner! Tomorrow, I should be thinking far more rationally, but right now, I feel far too weary and put-upon to make even faintly humorous comment apropos of what happened today. Whichever way you look at it, today was undoubtedly an unmitigated disaster, both for us as a going concern, promotion-wise, and in the old credibility stakes, too. It?s a nice thought to want to play the purist stuff all the time, and yes, that?s what I would rather see at the Shrine, were things looking far more rosy for us ? but right now, it?s all we can do to keep just a tenuous foothold of those precious play-off spots. First things first, I say. Steady the ship first, and once that?s been done to everyone?s satisfaction, then and ONLY then, start coming on strong with all the fancy twiddly bits. You know it makes sense.

And Finally?.. One. Remember what I?d said about our grievously errant central heating boiler last night? Well, it would seem that The Curse Of The Electronically Controlled Domestic Appliance has also struck in various other directions this week. In the space of just 48 hours, not only has my big sister suffered a related domestic disaster, (totally without warning, her washing machine rapidly developed all the symptoms of an electronic ?heart attack?, and the poor thing had to be put out of its misery in the end!), according to the garrulous Mister Noise, at around the same time, precisely the same thing happened to their machine also! Blimey, I never knew washing machine malfunctions were contagious as well. Wonder when I?ll see it all written up in the ?Lancet??

Two? Just when you thought it was safe to take out the earplugs?? Publish it not in Gath: whisper it not in Ashkelon, lest the Daughters Of Albion throw a complete wobbly. The Big Scoop? Guess who?s returning to management again, then, kiddies. Give up? OK, it?s none other than our old, somewhat ill-tempered friend, Alan Buckley, may his arrogance forever flourish around the mouth of the Humber. And that?s the clue: for reasons best known to themselves, Grimsby Town have now decided to hitch their wagon to his well-ravaged frame once more, which means that future trips to Blundell Park will now be considerably enlivened by the constant barrage (cabaret?) emanating from their ?home? dugout!

 - Glynis Wright

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