The Diary

26 November 2006: Potters Pot Pen Past Potty Baggies!

If there was ever to be found living proof of the old Army saying ?Bull Baffles Brains?, then surely today?s game had to be the occasion to prove the link. Muscled out of it, first time, every time, so I?ll now put one short question to you all: anyone out there ever been (still are, when your kids aren?t watching, preferably?) a ?Beano? reader? No contest, really, loads of you have misspent your childhoods in that delightful way, I?ll bet. Well, if you are one of that happy band, then you?ll know straight away what I mean when I give our lot the accolade ?Softies?, and those in the employ of Stoke City ?The Bash Street Kids?. And, as per the famous D.C. Thompson comic, the Softies ? us ? lost out every single time the rough stuff started.

The more I think about it, the more certain people and events slot neatly into the handy little niche I?ve just found for them all. So who is the Potteries side?s Dennis The Menace, then? Lee Hendrie, without any shadow of a doubt? Or would he fit better into the ?Gnasher? role, perhaps? And, turning to our own lot now, in order not to bring gurt great coals of fire tumbling around my delicate little head, I?ll leave it as an exercise for the reader to allocate the ?Walter? accolade to the player they think most deserving of it!

The truth of the matter is we were turned over, completely and utterly, by a Stoke side that outfought - and, sometimes, out-thought - our lot to a terrifying degree, and in every single department, too. Our passing was woeful, our defending abysmal, our movement on a par with that of a three-toed sloth after a Mogadon overdose ? and as for our attacking, it says everything that our first serious shot on goal only came midway through the first half. In short, Stoke wanted it badly, so badly, it hurt, in fact.

And not only that, the ultimate City irony was that their playing style so closely resembled that of a certain temperamental ginger-headed gentleman, formerly in charge at our place, unemployed at present, and currently residing in the Sheffield area. Through sheer brute strength, they ran the midfield, prevented our more creative people from both getting and playing the ball long enough to start off any promising goalscoring moves. Their defence either kicked or barged our people out of it, while their muscle-bound attackers brushed aside our puny challenges with contemptuous ease. These same attacking gentlemen also had a propensity to topple like falling timber whenever they reached our box, and irrespective of whether we?d made a challenge for the ball, fair or otherwise: sometimes, it worked. Megson? Although still very much alive, his ghost constantly stalks both dugouts, City and Albion, and his considerable influence still lives on, even some hours after the final whistle?s gone. In short, we were beaten by a City side that out-Megsoned Megson by a country mile.

There?s much more to come apropos of today?s game, of course, but considering the journey to Stoke was so straightforward that morning, we?d already half-guessed we?d have to pay dearly for such luxuries in the end. For the entire length of the 45 minute journey up the M6, we had a nice ride going: not even half the vehicles normally seen at that time on an average Saturday morning, minimal road-works, and very few, if any, delays resulting from their presence. When was the last time you could say that about a journey of similar length? Gales? What gales? Are you sure you heard the weather forecast right, love? No rain, either: again remarkable, that, as it?s universally considered we?re now well and truly in the midst of autumn?s soggy and windy grip. One thing we did see, though, on our way to the Britannia, lots of supporters? coaches, and rapidly heading towards our tails, too. They must have set out at more or less the same time as we did, then.

Arriving at the ground with around two hours to burn, we decided to bite the bullet and head straight for the Harvester chain gastropub lurking with menace about 200 or so yards away from the ground itself. Once inside, we discovered the place to be populated by Albion and Stoke supporters in just about equal quantities, with the restaurant bit of the premises seeming to be relatively Stoke-free at that particular time. And just minutes after we?d found a table free, then commenced proper mutual conversation, we finally found ourselves able to relax, and take up the slack on the conversational front once more.

While ?Im Indoors fetched the drinks, I began listening to The Fart?s tales of his very own two-year spell defending Queen and country. No rifle-humping infantry for our lad once he?d reached the age of 18: into the Pay Corps he went, did Mister Fart, to the complete detriment of all concerned. El Tel also had fond memories of Hong Kong as per his posting there in the early fifties, the Star Ferry; The Peak, and all that jazz. A shame to tell him that owing to the astonishing amount of building work that had gone on since El Tel once graced those haunts, The Star Ferry Terminal building recently had to move location to a spot a few hundred yards further down from the world-famous original. Because of extensive land reclamation work ? yet more high-rise buildings needed! - the length of the journey?s been sliced drastically, but owing to the savage currents flowing out there in that channel, the actual time taken from A to B is around the same, still.

Incidentally, when their troopship stopped over in Singapore on the outward journey, Tel was temporarily billeted in the same barracks that was the setting for then-Pay Corps private Leslie Thomas?s famous National Service novel, The Virgin Soldiers. In fact, doing some judicious cross-checking of dates etc., I do believe our hero was there about the same time as Thomas himself, albeit for all of ten or so days. And there was to be something of a bonus, if that?s what you want to call it: most people tend to think that novelty football records are a fairly recent phenomenon, but The Fart begs to differ. Around the time he was in uniform, a certain Edmundo Ross made a record extolling the many virtues of a side called West Bromwich Albion. He could only recall brief snatches of the song, sadly, so if anyone else out there can supply me with the missing lyrics, I?d be more than grateful, even if the music world won?t!

It was about that time I happened to clap eyes upon a gentleman known to all and sundry as ?Long-Haired Mick?, of whom I?ve written elsewhere, of course. The first time I?d clapped eyes upon him for a very long time, this was, but that wasn?t what first drew my attention: the garment he was wearing under his coat most certainly did, making it look for all the world as though he?d gone and taken Holy Orders, or something. So that?s why he shouts ?Jesus flicking Christ!? every time the opposition score!

By now, most of you must have spotted one serious anomaly in my account of the day?s doings, that of the precise whereabouts of The Noise, plus brood. After all, Stoke and all stations west constituted his prime stamping-ground when not at The Hawthorns, so where was he, then? A quick call to Jayne, his long-suffering missus, soon put us right. It turned out that both he and his two kids were outside the ground, and patiently looking for us in the away supporters? compound. Nice, but we needed ?em in the Harvester! OK, said Jayne, she?d ring The Noise back, and ask him to set sail for the pub: a shame we were to discover afterwards that the local rozzers adamantly refused to let anyone out of that compound once they were in, an unnecessary edict that made it virtually impossible for both we and The Noise to arrange a suitable pre-match rendezvous.

Leaving the pub with around 30 minutes remaining before kick-off ? we briefly wondered why the place had emptied of football supporters so rapidly while we were seated in the ?restaurant? part ? it was the work of but a few minutes to reach the away turnstiles, then watch His Nibs having to endure a rub-down search from one of their stewards, but not a particularly efficient one, I have to say. Even an ingenious ten-year-old would have had little bother getting stuff past these blokes. As for this column, not one single person expressed any desire to properly ascertain whether or not I was trying to bring any contraband into their ground.

Our lot may have had their smuggling activities curbed to some extent, but no such restriction applied when it came to possession of a loud singing voice. Even outside we could hear them, warbling fit to bust in the bar area beneath the stand, and, by the sound of it, going through the support ?card? while they were at it. ?Stevie Bull?s A Tatter? was the ditty laid on for our collective delectation as we waited for the stewards to do their thing, then, once inside, through all the bog-standard stuff e.g. ?Slap A Dingle?, right through to that perennial favourite: ?I Go Down, You Go Down, We All Go Down Together?..? That was then followed by away sections of both Brummie and Smethwick staking claims to superiority in the chanting stakes, but after that, it got really silly. Started off with ?Super, SuperBob?.? ? Was he there, perchance? Not that I could see, and in any case, injury-wracked Kiddy would have had first dibs upon his superannuated shooting boots, and not us. ? then, inexplicably, a chant for the absent Hughsie, an unwilling guest of Her Majesty, still, and unlikely to be otherwise until next August at the very least.

Finding our seats fairly quickly ? why is it that every time we watch Albion away, our seats are usually to be found lurking right at the very back of the premises? ? I hadn?t been sitting there a full minute when I heard The Fart suddenly erupt with something that sounded very much like a half-laugh, half strangulated porker impersonation. So what was going on, then? Simple: on looking at his ticket more closely, he?d suddenly realised that his seat had been given the numbering ?9-11?. Ooer. Whatever next - a bunch of Islamic extremists trying to make a name for themselves by blowing up the away end, or something?

Eventually, both sides emerged from the tunnel area for real, and as they did so, young Carly erupted with delight. An awful lot of emotional baggage she?d retained, courtesy the implications for her at school the next week, should our lot not come up to scratch in today?s game. A tall order, that one, making a 16 year-old happy like that, but that was the name of the game we were in, of course.

Once all the preliminaries had been sorted out, it was then time to get the show on the road. But what of both teams? Jonathan Greening came back into the frame following his recent suspension, and the attack consisting of a Kamara-Phillips combo, with Duke Ellington tenanting the subs? bench once more. As for the home side, they?d seemingly managed to go out and grab just about every single loan player they could find, up to and including the unpleasant presence of a certain Lee Hendrie.

Mind you, just before the start, while watching both sides kick in, there was a tap on my shoulder. It was El Tel, and with a deeply-profound question concerning Life, The Universe, And Everything. Well, not so much that, as about their mascot, and precisely what species of animal they had actually adorning the pitch. ?What?s that bloody thing wearing a Stoke shirt meant to be, then?? asked ?Im Indoors.

?I think it?s meant to be a hippo,? said I, ?And what the hell that?s got to do with Stoke City, I haven?t a flaming clue, mascot or no mascot?.?

So what happened, then? Perhaps, if I tell you lot out there what took place after the start was more in keeping with a bunch of neophyte ballet-dancers trying to repel the best efforts of the Waffen SS, then you might understand today?s result a little more. Right from the very start, our bunch of pansies encountered great difficulties getting any change whatsoever out of the potty Potters: in fact, whenever they tried, their reward tended to lie within the boundary of a free-kick (or series of kicks) conceded for their pains.

Those Potters were first in just about every department you?d care to mention, quickly muscling our puny lot right out of it. The only reason we never had sand kicked in our face during the course of the game was mainly because most of it had gone to service the local gritters. What really did disappoint me, though, was the sight of some of our lot deliberately pulling out of the more crunching encounters. Sure, there?s always the risk of a leg fracture to consider, but that works both ways: no, one expects complete and utter commitment on the part of our finest at these kind of games, and to see people like Darren Carter not relishing the thought of getting up close and personal with the Potties really annoyed me.

What Stoke did today was right out of the Lou Macari Bumper Book Of Ways To Wind Up Albion, with bloody Mark Stein serving as co-author. Those performers in the red stripes around when we played them in the old Third Division, some 15 years ago, would have understood much, of that I?m sure. One promising Baggies attacking move in the first minute apart, most of the questions were being asked by the home side, and we really should have heeded the warning we got as soon as the tenth minute, when the home side managed to get the ball in the back of the net ? well, it was a simple tap-in, actually, once Houlty, totally committed, managed to miss gathering the rebound from the original shot, and was left floundering like a beached fish in the goalmouth ? but only to see their effort ruled ?offside?. The entire incident stemmed from yet another defensive error, the culprit being a normally-immaculate Paul Robinson, after which intercepting Stoke said ?Thank you very much?, as they buried the ball in the back of our net.

With the game still in its opening stages, I just happened to be looking around, when I spotted a very familiar face indeed installed in the seats to my immediate left. Welcome to the Pleasure Dome, Tim of Sutton Branch, scourge of training grounds and managers everywhere. Not the calmest of persons, even at the best of times, what was really getting his goat was the way in which we were constantly being deprived of possession, either via a badly-taken free-kick, or by various other means, most of them skirting the shores of legality.

Thanks to a combination of Hendrie?s theatricals and the propensity of Stoke to wilt like weeping willows deprived of water every time an Albion player so much as breathed on them, most people?s loathing of City was bubbling nicely in the pot by the halfway mark. Sometimes we were forthcoming with the subtle stuff, sometimes not, to most people?s annoyance. A lovely cross-field ball to find a team-mate lurking there was one thing, but having to defend one?s box all of a sudden, due to umpteen tweakings and meddling incurred during the course of the game, yet another.

It came as no real surprise to see us concede a penalty with around five of the half remaining. The incident had occurred during one of those fraught moments when the ball bobbled around the 6-yard area like a cork caught up in a whirlpool, the ref suddenly deciding that what had befallen Stoke?s Thorpe was not in keeping with the laws of the game, pointing to the spot as he did so. I have to say that as far as I was concerned, the penalty was a bit of a joke; the guy seemed to have fallen victim to the forces of gravity by sheer accident rather than design, but the ref was adamant ? and, to be scrupulously fair, whoever deserved to win this one, it most certainly wasn?t us. Up stepped Higginbotham, then, to place the spot-kick into the left hand corner, Houlty making a creditable effort to arrest the ball?s flight, but not being quite able to reach it with his fingertips.

?I?m getting this terrible feeling of deja-vu!? said I to El Tel, sitting to my left. No kidding, either: the penalty instantaneously brought flooding back unpleasant memories of various other Stoke games in which we?d both looked and come off second-best. And even their followers helped the process considerably by starting to sing bloody ?Delilah? for all it was worth. The Potters are always a bitch to play, whatever the era: some things never change, do they? And what a complete and utter nuisance their number nine was; shades of Mark Stein as he went about his business.

Come the interval, come what turned out to be a highly-apposite comment on our first half performance, someone right in front of me letting fly with a particularly-noisome corker of a fart, one that left pretty much everyone in our row gasping for breath once the full impact of those sulphurous fumes hit us all. Summed up our entire performance to date, that.

The second half? Let me put it this way, lots more of what took place during the first 45. We, the visitors, floundering in the face of Stoke?s robust play, while they ran amok in a midfield in which our lot seemed to have ceded possession long before. As you might remember, I recently quoted that famous Bill Shankly comment about stopping Bobby Hope if you wanted to stop Albion, bringing that statement completely up to date by inserting the name of Jason Koumas instead. And it was true: Koumas was nowhere to be seen, and City were bossing the midfield completely.

And, in all fairness, we did try and extract something from the wreckage, and might have done, were it not for one fundamental failing of ours: our complete inability to string two or more decent passes together. Frustrating in the extreme, as time and time again, promising moves broke down due to one or more players stuffing up badly in that department. With around 20 minutes gone, Mowbray tried Plan B, swapping Albrechtsen for Gera, now back from injury, and it wasn?t all that long afterwards we managed to look dangerous for about the first time in the entire game, when their keeper had to look to his laurels to tip a nasty-looking Koumas effort over the bar for a corner.

While all that was going on, what about The Fart, sat to my left? To say he?d ?lost it? would be an understatement of the greatest magnitude; as yet more Albion attacks broke down through sheer incompetence on the part of the perpetrators, the colour in his cheeks rose something awful. Meltdown was rapidly approaching, no doubt about it.

With around 13 to go, our leader tried yet another change: off went Kamara, and on went Ellington, who might have netted in the dying minutes had he not been forced off the ball as he was about to pull the trigger, deep inside the box. Shades of Derby thereafter, as Albion piled on the pressure in a last desperate effort to nick an equaliser, but it just wouldn?t come. As I said earlier, they wanted it, and with every single particle of their being, too. We didn?t. Simple, isn?t it?

Once the final whistle had sounded, cue for a considerable amount of anger on the part of supporters who felt that some of our finest had fallen somewhat short of the high standards normally expected from Baggies players. And it is a cardinal Black Country sin to visibly pull out of a tackle once fully committed to it; there really are times when Darren Carter doesn?t do himself any favours at all. Mind you, I?m struggling to recall even one of our lot putting in far more than the job actually needed that afternoon.

Of one thing I?m certain: we might walk like a Premiership side, and talk like one, even, but if we can?t actually make like one in the crudely-performing face of distinctly mediocre Championship-status opposition, we might as well forget booking any trips to the Emirates, or Stamford Bridge next term. OK, let?s assume for the moment we don?t land a top two place come the end of term, but sneak into in the play-offs instead. Suppose we then end up paired against an outfit that plays like Stoke today: in other words, a Championship outfit that very much plays the Championship way? How many ways can you say ?We got completely creamed??

So, here we are, down to eighth in the heap. And well out of touch with the top two. As the old Biblical saying puts it, there?s a time and a purpose for just about everything, fancy stuff included. But unless the mud-sloggers are given sufficient rein in the games where that robust style predominates, we?re stuffed before we even start. Don?t say I didn?t warn you.

And Finally?.. One. To finish on a serious note for once, this is to tell you lot about a project the Hayden family of Kiddy Branch SC are going to undertake come the end of the current season, all proceeds going to a leukaemia charity. The idea is to do a sponsored tour of every single League ground in England and Wales, be they Premiership, Championship, or just plain Divisions One and Two. They reckon they can complete the job in a fortnight, and it?s anticipated the project will kick off properly on the 17th of April, at Derby County, then on to complete the northern leg over the course of the following seven days or so, finishing up at Turf Moor the following Saturday, when Albion are due to play The Clarets.

The second week, they?ll be ?doing? the southern leg of the trip, winding up at The Hawthorns that Saturday. Technically, that will be the end, but the tour will officially finish at Coventry?s place some hours previously. No need to send money etc. as yet as plans still have to be finalised, but I will be keeping you all in touch with progress as and when I get it.

Two. ?Im Indoors: ?Stoke are bringing on Berger?.?

Me: ?Do you get fries with him??..?

 - Glynis Wright

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