The Diary

29 November 2006: Three And Easy For Wednesday On An Awful Baggie Tuesday.

Look out behind you: the mighty Baggie promotion juggernaut is about to engage reverse gear! Too late, that warning ? it already has, and some more besides! OK, then, joke over ? just how bad was it? You want my ?diplomatic answer?, or my ?gut response?? As the latter would all-too likely result in a ban, I suppose I?d better hit you with something carrying more than a whiff of euphemism about it instead. But not too much, mind: the very last thing I?m looking for, at this unearthly hour, is excuses, glib or otherwise, for what happened earlier.

So where do I start, then? Difficult to say, really. I could pitch you lot straight into it, full horror and all, nothing spared, were I feeling sufficiently motivated to do it that godawful way, but some things are truly too horrible to contemplate full-on, so I?ll lead you all into it gently. That all right by you? Good.

My sad saga began in sunny Bearwood, where I patiently awaited my ?chariot?, driven by chum Ian Thomson, and ?passengered? by The Fart, just before tea-time. As I explained yesterday, Ian had kindly offered the pair of us a lift to Sheffield, and being the daft (senile? I?m seriously beginning to wonder!) mugs we both are, we bloody well went and decided to take him up on his blasted offer, didn?t we? NB: Anyone seeing me about to embark upon such an act of folly in future, do try and talk me out of it first, won?t you? You know it makes sense!

Probably started the old Albion rumour-mill going full-blast by being seen at an away ground with another bloke in tow, but what the hell. Be like our defence, live a little dangerously, that?s what I say! At least the act of getting into his motor, then driving away with a flourish, took me well away from the tangled world of gas pipes and condenser boilers that now held sway in our house, with Norm presiding over the metallic mess like some sort of coppery King Canute. Once I?d heard the knock on the door, I left our plumber chum with strict instructions to make sure the front door was closed properly when he left ? his departure would precede hubby?s arrival from work ? as I didn?t want a nasty burglar to prosper at our expense. It?s bad enough having our football club constantly extracting money from our wallets, without the local criminal population getting the idea they could join in as well.

Not being entirely conversant with the dynamics of traffic flow, perhaps someone could explain to me why it is that whenever I?m with His Nibs travelling to midweek games, it?s a given that the roads will be jam-packed, traffic lights exhibiting sloth-like speed when changing, plus a couple of accidents on the motorway itself to make life even more interesting for everyone. Sitting in a similar-sized vehicle, but with a completely different driver, the precise opposite occurs: clear minor roads, minimal motorway traffic, and not a single person sustaining injury as a result of erratic driving habits, despite it being late afternoon, and most workplaces beginning to empty. All in all, a relatively stress-free existence ? or is it simply the fact that my other half attracts motoring problems like some people attract biting insects, while Ian just bimbles along in a fairly blameless manner?

As I said, the outbound leg of the trip was a doddle: so much so, I?d fallen into the welcoming arms of Morpheus as soon as we?d hit the A38, not regaining full consciousness until we were about to leave the M1 motorway, at a point just north of the Sheffield turn off proper. When my eyes had first closed, dusk was advancing upon the landscape at a rate of knots, but opening them once more, just a matter of an hour or so later, revealed naught but an ink-black nothingness speckled at intervals by very faint pin-points of light, stars, to be sure, but very much sans stripes tonight. Or were our stripes sans stars? Whatever.

Heavy traffic from the motorway junction to the ground made for relatively slow progress, but even the tardiness of the locals couldn?t prevent us getting there with about an hour to spare. Once at our destination, we had a teensy pow-wow: too late to visit a decent boozer, certainly, so it was mutually agreed that both The Fart and myself ?abandon ship? while Ian searched for a suitable mooring spot for his jalopy. A swift stroll up a couple of back streets, all lined with loads of the funny little terraced houses so popular in those parts, then in at the away turnstiles ? but not before The Fart had latched on to a couple of police horses (and riders, of course!) lurking outside. Equines, especially those working on behalf of the forces of law and order, happen to be our elderly chum?s weak spot: show him a nag, however decrepit, and it?s like flicking a switch inside the old sod?s head! Before you know it, there?s loads of heavy-duty patting, and tickling of collective muzzles going on ? and that?s only for the coppers in charge, never mind the hosses!

Dragging him away before the embarrassment factor became too great to bear, then through the turnstiles themselves ? curious, we were both given to understand that admission would be ?11 for we fogies on the night, yet the attendants only charged us ?10: not that I?m arguing, mind! ? we discovered a relative dearth of Baggies batting the breeze in the concrete bit under the stand, where the pies etc. were being sold. Reason? You didn?t have to be Slipper Of The Yard to work it out: as we came in, we?d spotted a posse of police motorcycling chappies parked on the slip-road near the motorway exit, and eagerly awaiting the arrival of our little ?convoy? on the scene. No surprise that they appeared to be still stuck there, then.

Feeding our faces with a cheese and onion pie for The Fart and a hot-dog for petite moi, we then stood and awaited further developments, which swiftly came in the form of Ian himself announcing that he?d found quite a spiffing ?resting place? just five minutes walk away. Well done, that man! Ian?s arrival also presaged that of the bulk of the travelling support, by only a matter of a few minutes: as the area gradually filled up, many familiar Baggie faces stopped in our vicinity just to say ?hello?.

One swift look at our watches later, we realised it was high time we pushed off, so up the short flight of steps and into the maw of the ground itself we went. And that?s when I got the shock of my life, for who should I see at the foot of the gangway, talking to a female steward, but our old mucker, Dave Hewitt, happy-snapper to the gentry ? not to mention the odd railway magazine! ? but most certainly in ?off duty? mode tonight. He also had with him a little mate ? ?Joe?, was it? ? who was to enthuse greatly about our book and all who sailed in it, but also wanted to take His Nibs to task because of an incorrect description of some Albion game or other.

I would have put him straight through to my other half, too, had I been able to! Tried ringing our house number on my mobile, but the blasted thing kept sending out ?engaged? tones left, right and flaming centre. As it did the entire length of the game, and for the duration of the subsequent return journey, too! It was clear what had happened, the silly sod hadn?t ended some call or other properly, which was why our digital cordless was giving me the ?brush-off? every single time I tried to ring home. He?s fast in the Land Of Nod as I pen these words, but just wait until I speak to him later this morning!

Bidding Dave adieu, finally, we then went to head for the seat number shown on our tickets, but as I prepared to ascend the flight of stairs, the steward informed me that we could sit anywhere we liked. Suited me, that, climbing steep flights of stairs not being a leisure pastime I particularly enjoy these days, so I bawled as loud as I could to arrest our Crimea vet?s upwards motion. And on he sailed, still. Bugger ? he hadn?t got his hearing aid switched on! What to do, then? Bawl again, only much louder! Certainly, those at the back of the stand heard my dulcet tones ? it?s not all often I have to shout so loud these days, but it?s an art similar to that of riding a bike: once you know how, the knack never leaves you ? so, in order to prevent further aural assault and battery, not to mention the danger of flying glass, en-masse, they not-so-tactfully informed The (now high-flown!) Fart that I had a message for him! Hooray, success at last!

Swiftly finding a perch for three in a much more accessible part of that away end, we then settled down to watch what we all fervently hoped would be 90 minutes? worth of pure, undiluted Baggie brilliance. Well, we all know the correct response to that one, now, don?t we, children? Now it?s the turn of all you lot out there: consult your dictionaries, turn the pages of your thesaurus, grab a hold of all those long-forgotten English grammar books, even, then come up with as many ways as possible of doing adequate written justice to an Albion performance that had the phrase ?BLOODY AWFUL? scrawled right across it, as if put there by some deranged graffiti artist or other just before the kick-off.

I kid you not, peeps: tonight, we were truly pants. Also (and not necessarily in strict order of appositeness, mind), ghastly: awful: below-par: lacklustre: crap: not fit for purpose: pusillanimous: useless: clueless: lacking both focus and motivation: like rabbits caught in car headlights, or lemmings collectively looking for a handy bit of cliff to jump from: in short, a real Hammer Horror of a first 45 minutes. The reason? Conceding two goals in the space of but four minutes, although the warning signs had been fatally beckoning, just like the brilliant red spot situated on the underbelly of a Black Widow spider, right from the flaming kick-off. For all those that had eyes to see, too, which is why I?m now assuming Albion were playing in Braille during those opening few seconds and minutes.

As scientific formulae go, it was relatively easy to apply: two crosses, one from a set-piece (did I hear a groaned ?Oh, no ? not again!? from several of you out there?), two headers, two goals, the first on around ten minutes, and the second on the quarter-hour mark, Whelan nutting the first, and Bougherra their second. The by-now-delirious Hillsborough lot must have thought it were truly Christmas come early, not to mention birthdays, and all served up with a christening or two to make it all the more interesting for the home crowd.

Talk about a double-whammy: as I looked around the stand at my fellow Baggies, it seemed to me they were collectively suffering from the advanced stages of shell-shock, but without any prospect of a merciful death by firing-squad, sadly. As for what was happening out on the pitch after we?d gifted Wednesday that dream start, there was not so much a football team performing out there as eleven aimless and profoundly dispirited individuals. Had a total stranger wandered into the ground right there and then, they would have rapidly surmised that the outfit in the green and yellow stripes were the ones likely to be hitting relegation trouble come the end of term, not the chaps in the bright blue version. It truly was that bad.

Let me see, now. Passes going astray in somewhat clownish manner: fouls innumerable conceded: possession relinquished stupidly, both in close proximity to, not to mention right inside, our own penalty area. Plus the presence of what seemed to be the ?invisibility ray? of science fiction fame, its action or otherwise signified by the random drifting of certain Albion defenders in and out of the game. Had it not been for the quick reactions of Houlty on a couple of occasions, I reckon the scoreline might well have been a complete and utter embarrassment come the interval. And even he descended to the level of his team-mates, eventually. With around 30 minutes gone, and Wednesday setting up camp in our box once more, out he came to deal with yet another high cross ? one of the few activities pursued by anyone wearing an Albion shirt that night which actually proved successful ? but on this occasion, Houlty only succeeded in missing the blasted thing completely!

Amazingly, we got away with it that time. How come? Because of the home side?s tardiness in getting marauding bodies to points where they could inflict the maximum damage, that?s why! As things were, with no human agent around to assist the ball on its homeward flight, it simply lolloped out of play instead, but most certainly not out of mind. Especially if you were sat in the away end, and frantically chewing your knuckles to the very bone.

It wouldn?t have been so horrendous had we gathered both our wits and courage sufficiently enough to try and snatch at least one in reply, but such was our ineptitude, the only time we really looked like hurting them that half was when we were awarded a free kick not long before the end of the half, the offence being deemed to have taken place around 25 yards distant. Up stepped the only man likely to grab at least something from the ashes, Jason Koumas ? but even he had succumbed to the horrible miasma surrounding everything we did by then. Way, way over the bar it sailed, more in the way of a rugby set-piece, rather than something emanating from the spherical-ball code. Just after that, the referee blew up for the break, so as not to inflict any further suffering upon the away end, I guess. But that wasn?t the end of it. As our tarnished heroes trudged off the pitch, they were sent on their not-so-merry way with the cheering message ?WHAT A LOAD OF RUBBISH?.? ringing in their shell-like lugholes. Plus the by-now obligatory boos and cat-calls, of course.

To be perfectly fair, though, come the interval, Mogga did try to rescue at least something from the wreckage. Swopping the cast around a tidge, with Perry sacrificed to bring in Paul McShane ? perhaps he should have been there right from the very start: at least he gets stuck in ? and a trio comprising Kev Phillips, Joe Kamara and, effectively, Koumas going well forward, the hope being to push right up, go at Wednesday, and get behind their defence that way. You could almost hear the managerial words in our dressing-room ? Koumas to be the main man in midfield, and everything to go via him. And, during those opening minutes, at least, we really seemed to be hurting them, at long last. Even so, Wednesday could have quite easily broken and further extended their lead, only a completely unintentional block from resident Baggie blonde McShane preventing hope from becoming fact on one particular occasion that threatened to happen.

At least some of our stuff was, by now, getting within genuine sniffing distance of its intended target. First Joe Kamara had a go, and should have done better, then a fortunate deflection put paid to a ? Quashie, was it? ? effort. Then Phillips had a further pop at the target. Better, Albion, much better! And we were seeing much more of the ball, too. Being much more proactive brought its own reward, in the form of possession, enough to mount more than one promising sequence of moves upfield. Obviously, we were still highly vulnerable to Wednesday breaking out of defence and hitting us on the break, so it came as no real surprise to see us survive at least two such incursions by the very skin of our teeth.

With around 20 minutes to go to the end, our leader decided to change things again, in this case by bringing Zoltan Gera into the fray, Carter getting to take a premature departure from the pitch as a result. No reflection on the lad?s abilities or workrate, mind: along with Houlty, he was worthy of at least some praise for his efforts to stem the tide. With around ten to go, Phillips managed to squeeze a save out of the Wednesday keeper, but it was Jason Koumas who, right at the death, managed to spark the guttering, faltering flicker of Baggie hope back into healthy radiance once more. It just had to be him, and what a lovely long-range effort it was, too, a real Exocet of a strike. It certainly surprised their keeper: come to think about it, it certainly surprised us!

Jase?s unexpected strike had struck right at the end of normal time: not too surprisingly, by the time Wednesday kicked off again, every single Baggie who?d previously elected to stick it out until the bitter end immediately ramped up the ?volume? by several increments. Once more, that most ancient of Hawthorns battle-cries: ?ATTACK! ATTACK! ATTACK, ATTACK, ATTACK!? rang out, loud and proud. But this is West Bromwich Albion we?re talking about, remember? And a former fanzine with the motto ?They Always Let You Down? always emblazoned prominently upon its front cover?

Yep, you sure as hell couldn?t have complained to Trading Standards about this particular finish: with a troubled and distinctly-rattled Wednesday trying like stink to apply the ?killer blow? before we could snatch a valuable point at the other end, one of their marauding raiders rode out the first lunging Albion challenge with comparative ease, but there was no chance whatsoever of the second going unpunished. Down he went like a sack of spuds, the ref pointing straight at the spot immediately afterwards. Greening was the culprit, I believe, and McClean the Wednesday penalty machine: shades of ?physician, heal thyself? as victim turned full-time tormentor.

Moments later, the ref blew the whistle for the very last time. And if you?d grasped a very real sense of our away support being pretty narked at half-time, then you just had to be there to fully appreciate the sheer amount of common or garden opprobrium being heaped upon the collective shoulders of our tarnished heroes as they made to quit the scene of this particular crime against Albion supporters. That?s what massively-unfulfilled expectation-levels do to you. All that, plus extremely loud chants, redoubled in intensity from those of the break, of that hardy Albion perennial: ?WHAT A LOAD OF RUBBISH!?.?

Said one supporter, as Curtis Davies made to applaud his ?audience?, now completely beside themselves with both frustration and fury: ??Ee?s gorra reffin? cheek clappin? we lot!? Turning round, I immediately gave him my personal take regarding what he?d done, viz: ?Personally, I thought he was being very brave?..? Well, either that or completely suicidal!

Back at Ian?s car again, we quickly caught up with the other Championship games going on, and the news wasn?t at all good. For one thing, Stoke, our conquerors of but three days ago, had whopped high-flying Cardiff at home by three clear goals. Even once-awful Sunderland are now within six points of a play-off spot. Preston were held: bad news for us, because should Blues win theirs tonight, they go top of the heap. Not that it makes any real difference to us at this stage in the game: we?re well out of the promotion spots, and even a cherished top-six place is but a tantalising memory, and a rapidly fading one, at that.

Just what is it that makes a side consisting of some of the most skilful performers to be seen at this level suddenly start to play like a whacking great dollop of horse-manure? Has there been some sort of bust-up behind the scenes that we don?t know about? Has the true immensity of the task before him finally got to Mowbray? Don?t ask me, because I?m just as much in search of some answers myself. But I still reserve the right to suspect that something of colossal proportions was responsible for the complete abortion of a performance we all witnessed last night. I refuse to believe that every single one of our players was going through a drastic loss of form. Sooner or later, the truth will out, but far too late to save our season. Any takers on one or more of our more talented performers going in football?s equivalent of the January Sales?

And Finally?. Something to cheer you all up on what?s been, quite frankly, a bloody awful night for we Baggie people making the trek to Sheffield. Headline in today?s ?Guardian? newspaper?. ?Poll Backs Nurses Being Allowed To Give Abortion Pills.?

Blimey, he can?t even get 90 minutes? worth of controlling 22 blokes and a ball absolutely right, never mind go around telling the NHS what to do!

 - Glynis Wright

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