The Diary

11 December 2006: A Reet Owd Tussle With The Tykes

?..And so, it came to pass that precious few men and women in Baggie-land answered the call, and made the long pilgrimage to Albion?s equivalent of the Annual Tortures, bloody Barnsley?? Not a whisper of a win there since 1949, and today?s trip to Oakwell never really looked set to break the mould, either.

Want to know something? Every single time I?ve watched the Baggies away from home, of late, I?ve had this terrible feeling of d?j? vu descend upon my five foot two inch frame in one almighty ?whomp? within milliseconds of the game commencing. No supernatural forces whatsoever responsible, mind, just the cold clammy feeling that descends each and every time I?m about to witness our finest cock up in true Albion fashion ? and pretty spectacularly, like as not.

Now let me see?.. First off was Blues, when all our defenders seemingly chose to indulge in the ingestion of some powerful drug or other, pre-match: whatever it was, it sure as hell wasn?t ?performance-enhancing?! Derby we could (and most certainly should) have wiped the floor with ? but after first taking the lead, ended up with naff-all to show for our labours come the final whistle. After that one, it was bloody Stoke City?s turn to make us look extremely silly, truly a triumph of the ?might is right? tendency, or, as I put it that day, and in this very same missive: ?Bulls**t Baffles Brains?. Sheffield Wednesday (on ? erm - Tuesday!)? Best not go there, eh: too many Baggie brain-cells still red-raw and weeping copious amounts of pus over that one for comfort.

Not too difficult to see where this argument?s leading, is it? Unless we start putting all those yummy ?sit-up-and-beg? scoring chances away, and soon, especially those created on other clubs? premises, come the last few games of the current season, we?re going to find it a bloody steep climb just to reach the dizzy heights of the play-offs, never mind an automatic spot. And it?s at this point I can hear a fair few mentally comment: ?So what?s so bad about finishing in the top six, then? After that, it becomes a lottery by any other name, and we?d be in with an equally valid shout as all the rest??

Wrong, wrong ? and double wrong. Look at some of the other sides likely to be in contention come the end of hostilities, and it doesn?t exactly make for comfortable reading. Forgetting those far more likely to bag those coveted top two slots for the moment, that means outfits of similar ilk to Stoke City, Burnley, and our old friends the Dingles, of course (who currently labour in mid-table, of course, but could be propelled right back into the mixer should they string together a few straight wins on the bounce).

Well, would you fancy our knockout chances against those ghastly ruffian Potters at their place, or the gold-and-cack tendency just up the road, even? Quite. To put it bluntly, we just ain?t got the right mix of players in our squad to grind out that sort of hard, physical, bruising stunt these days. We saw what happened at The Britannia Stadium and Hillsborough ? seeing people literally get stomped on for the entire 90 minutes isn?t the most edifying of what the men in suits would undoubtedly term ?matchday experiences?, is it? You want more of THAT, and just as the weather?s taking a turn for the summery better, as well? Blimey, you do need help, and quickly: here, let me introduce you to a psychiatric nurse I know fairly well, a couple of meaningful natters with this bloke ? one of The Satanic Nurses, I?ll have you know, accept NO imitations! ? and you?ll be as right as ninepence in no time, I promise!

So much for The Ghost Of Albion Future, then. What about the here and now, The Ghost Of Albion Present, in other words, as demonstrated by our finest over the entire course of today?s game? That?s the main reason why I?m getting far more than my fair share of the heebie-jeebies while penning this piece, and my main reason for highlighting the issue in the first place. ?Im Indoors, having already cited ?Baggie battle fatigue? as a valid excuse for not making the two-hour journey up the M42 and M1 motorways, watched our Sabbath tussle from the womb-like comfort of his reclining leather armchair, and who could blame him?

That left just the two of us, this column and The Fart, to proudly carry the ex-GD flag into what used to be rock-solid Arthur Scargill territory: as with most Albion stories, our sorry tale began in close proximity to an extremely cold and rain-swept Hawthorns, and at the ungodly hour of nine in the morning, too, that disgustingly-early start being down to the capricious whims of Sky TV, of course. Having to abandon my endless quest for zeds in favour of rushing to catch a coach departing in good time for a lunchtime kick-off does not significantly improve my temper! You?ll have to trust me on that one, I suppose. Trust ?Im Indoors, my chauffeur, to have the last word on the trip: ?I hope you think it?s all worth it by the time you come back?.?

Another sign of the times, as I bade farewell to my other half, then headed off in the direction of the East Stand car-park: just FOUR coaches there to meet our transport needs. Not that I could fairly affix the blame to the stripey shirt-tails of our more fickle followers, mind: what with Christmas coming on and Baggie fiscal belts well-tightened throughout the Black Country by way of response; it being early Sunday morning; the weather lousy, and our eternal quest for three-pointed happiness looking even more likely to end in tears than before, and everything. Plus that well-known ?crowd-killer?, and one more than serially-prolific, of course. The old goggle-box, and its nigh-on insatiable demands for live games aplenty, I mean. No wonder loads of ?regulars? simply couldn?t be arsed to make this one.

By the time I ascended the steps of our own ?transport of delight?, it looked pretty much full already. Hail to The Fart, though, for having kept free a perch alongside him: well, him and the Sunday Mercury, actually, which was unusually blessed today with an absolute plethora of Albion material, even for them. Most of it on the basis of pure scandal and speculation, sad to say, but that?s the way you shift newspapers these days, by chucking in more than a soupcon of ginger in order to enliven things.

A quick sort-out of what stuff I?d need on the journey, and I was ?sitting comfortably?, as the BBC creators of that wonderful Fifties steam-radio mummies? standby, Children?s Hour, would have termed it. And, as one of the few British Army veterans still qualified to fire flintlock muskets filled me in on the paper?s main Baggies stories, off our pitiful ?convoy? went, in the general direction of the motorway island nearby.

I don?t know whether it was the ridiculously-early departure time that did it or not, or our woeful recent form away from home, but things weren?t half quiet to begin with. That all changed, though, when our steward-chappie inserted a video cassette into its relevant socket. The film? Ooer ? treading on treacherous ground here, and not just because of the controversy generated by its recent release, either. Sacha Baron Cohen was the ?star? ? if that?s what you want to call him ? and the movie something called ?Bhorat?, I think.

A running joke, it is, that plot, and done with all the subtlety of a nuclear explosion, too. Cohen plays a bloke from one of the former Soviet ?stan? states, with a viewpoint on modern-day female and racial rights issues somewhat to the right of Genghis Khan, allegedly travelling to the USA on a fact-finding mission for his government. That?s what he tells his ?victims?, who fall for the story hook, line and sinker. By careful employment of lashings of irony, sarcasm and all stations west, he traps an awful lot of outwardly-nice people into revealing all those nasty slimy little prejudices they?ve got crawling around just beneath.

So carefully hid from the outward trappings of civilisation before, all those awful racist and sexist preconceptions, but their fundamental hypocrisy shoved so callously into the public spotlight by Cohen?s outwardly biased deeds and sayings. The controversial bit? Not a few of these people never once cottoned on to the basic fact they were being ? well ? erm, used! And Ali G?s former Frankenstein?s now laughing all the way to the bank, of course. Several of his infuriated Stateside ?victims? have since threatened lawsuits, you?ll not be too surprised to hear: I await the outcome with great interest!

Not really my cup of tea, that one, and neither was it The Fart?s. Time to dig out the old Sunday ?scandal sheet? and peruse it with avid interest, then. Despite the awful blustery showers that swept the motorway from time to time, we didn?t encounter too many hold-ups, fortunately, arriving at our motorway junction rendezvous with South Yorkshire Constabulary?s finest with well over 90 minutes to kill before the kick-off. ?Mek sure them seat-belts am on befower they gerron?? implored our driver, not wishing to incur undue constabulary wrath over the issue. That we did, then: ?When the final whistle guz, get back ter the coach quick, ?cos the Perlice ?ave sed they ay waitin? after a quarter past three: they?m a-gooin?, an? if yow ay on the coach by then, tough?.?

That I couldn?t believe for one minute: who the hell was to say precisely how long a game would go on for, for starters? Chuck on a decent amount of stoppage time, both halves, and you would automatically enter the realms of ?nearer half-past three?, none of which would be the fault of those still watching the game. Any minute now, I expected to see a monocled person, complete with duelling scars in all the requisite places, and wearing German Army field grey, to pop up and announce to all the weary travellers within easy listening-range: ?Please note, gentlemen. Anyone attempting to escape will be shot?..? All that I then explained to El Tel, busily engaged in meaningful conversation with the bloke in the seat behind, a fellow ?wrinkly?: at that point in time, both were sharing mutual rose-tinted memories of wartime football played at The Hawthorns, and it seemed such a rotten shame to jolt the pair of them right back to 2006 once more!

Chucking on some extra layers en-route, I headed for the exit ? and nearly got soaked in the process. By now, the rain was more than making a token appearance, and the wind had intensified, also. Maybe it was because I?d been lulled into a false sense of security courtesy the recent mild weather, or something, but I didn?t half feel the cold bite as I alighted. And not just me, either: even The Fart, veteran of many a chilly night on the Somme with naught but a Lee Enfield rifle for company, balked at the astonishingly-sudden drop of the mercury.

Fortunately, someone at the club had been blessed with sufficient presence of mind to open the away turnstiles: no having to wait on draughty street corners, for once. Give it a few more years, and they might even get to grips with the even more radical concept of flogging ?refreshments? worthy of the name, and sensibly priced, too! Or would that one be an innovation too far for South Yorkshire mindsets, I wonder?

As the entire stand entrance was acting as one gigantic ?wind tunnel? we quickly decided it was much more prudent to spend our pre-match time conversing with the various acquaintances we knew under the stand itself. And that?s when a former chum of mine rolled up: his sister attended the same school as myself, and until we?d lost touch, been good mates, as well. ?Twas Greg Stokes, the guy who spent the Derby game in the company of Lenny Henry: they too were good mates in the innocent days of youthful bliss. Had I got his email, he wanted to know. Er ? nope, said I.

Oh bother, or words to that effect, so by dint of ringing up ?Im Indoors, and The Fart also passing on a useful email address, we eventually managed to ensure the efficient exchange of mutual thoughts via the electronic miracle of the internet. It turned out Greg wanted to invite the pair of us to The Lamp Tavern, in Dudley, a Bathams-owned place, which excited my other half no end once I?d told him! What for? To read out excerpts from The Book to Greg?s literary circle, of course! He also gave me a wonderful (true) Dingles story, which I?ll repeat at the end, as per usual.

We also learned, from various Supporters Club dignitaries, that our manager would be appearing unto the masses at The Hawthorns next Wednesday evening, with a two quid admission charge imposed, as well. Furious, I was, at first, mostly on principle, but I later discovered that the main beneficiary would be a charity supported by the club, and not Albion itself. It still rankles with my sense of morality, albeit slightly, though.

Having batted the breeze with just about everyone, and the kick-off getting nearer, we then decided to decamp upstairs. It speaks volumes about the depleted attendance figures, we weary travellers being informed we could sit just about anywhere we liked for this one. Not that I was complaining, mind: it makes one hell of a difference to grab a seat considerably nearer the exit than is normal for these affairs. No problem with certifiable idiots drunkenly blocking our view of the game, either: just like we?d died and gone to heaven, it was!

Team news? Much to my surprise, Mogga had handed a first-team starting berth to John Hartson, in place of the suspended Joe Kamara. Sure, he?d grabbed us a useful ?get out of jail card? with that last-gasp winner of his against The Rams the other Saturday, but I?d not thought that sufficient justification for keeping him there right from the very start. I was glad to see McShane at the back, too; possibly too much of a good thing, at times, but rock-solid with it, and injecting some much-needed pazzaz into our game as necessary. But what do I know? Just a supporter, me, and thanks to the rain, a very soggy one, too?

As for the remainder of the ground, vast swarths of red seats on the three remaining sides told their own apathetic story, most Tykes seemingly content to watch this one enveloped in the womb-like comfort of a particularly saggy sofa, and with a glass of something alcoholically refreshing close at hand, too. A stray polar bear might have found the Oakwell ambience wonderfully inviting, but I most certainly didn?t!

Oh ? and one nice touch, for the benefit of those ubiquitous TV cameras, an advertising hoarding that constantly revolved ? but instead of issuing forth with some horribly bland advertising copy or other, giving the previously-hospitalised Ronnie Wallwork best wishes for a speedy recovery. Incidentally, I?ve not long heard he?s now out of hospital, and will be continuing his recovery at home. The guy who allegedly did the damage has also turned himself in, so with any luck, we might quickly achieve what oodles of trendy psychologists just love to call ?closure?.

So, there it was: cold, damp, wind, rain, and in massive quantities, too. One sure-fire way of blasting the old cobwebs free from their moorings, then! The stage now nicely set, time for the dramatics, amateur or otherwise, to begin in earnest. One vagrant thought of mine at that precise moment: what a delightfully-Northern name one Barnsley player had in particular: Hecklingbottom, would you believe? ?Eh up, chuck, there?s trouble down at t?mill again! Get thee whippets shut in t?kennel reet quick, an? onto t?picket line yer go, lass??

Checking the name of the ref in charge immediately brought a train of thought all of its own into very sharp focus: a gentleman by the name of Tony Bates, he was, and very familiar to The Noise, who could boast at least some personal knowledge of the guy. Not that it had helped in any way, mind: to be perfectly honest, in all of our encounters thus far, I?d found Mister Bates to be an eejit of the first order, and not particularly inclined towards being generous with the old favours, but that?s whistlers for you, ain?t it!

And he went and proved it by awarding the home side a contentious free-kick, and right on the edge of the box, too, McShane being the Baggie adjudged to be at fault. Fortunately for us, all Barnsley could do with it was send it speeding slightly above the crossbar. Not long after that, Nardiello could ? and should ? have done far better than he did with the chance he was gifted, the effort also reintroducing player to woodwork. As for ourselves, our approach during those opening moments was ultra-cautious, the overall reduction of impetus transferring to both sets of supporters and chucking even more gloom onto an already gloomy encounter! Time to wake up the locals, then: ?You?re supposed to be at home!? was adopted as our battle-cry, and quite right, too.

A few minutes more into the game, and there was, quite frankly, an almighty stuff-up blossoming at the back, what The Fart quite rightly called a failure to play the simple ball there in order to get us out of trouble: it?s ?faffing? about unnecessarily that?s the root cause of a fair number of our current problems, and we seem to land ourselves in it every single time.

Enter into the equation a lino who must have been a signaller on the flag-deck of the Victory in times of yore: every single time we broke, up went that bloody flag. I swear to God he?d invested in covert mechanical aids to make the job of waving the bloody thing much simpler! Then, just after the ten-minute mark came and went, we got our first goal attempt away! Whoopee! Champagne in Mogga?s office tomorrow, perchance? Cue for our massed support to try the ?It?s just like being in church?? approach ? and do you know what? They were dead right: more life in a bottle of pop long since gone flat than there was in their fellow supporters. Any hard-of-hearing Baggies present would have had ample grounds for assuming their hearing-aids had packed up on them: personally, I thought it was a shame to intrude on their slumbers in the first place.

To be truthful, the plethora of daft mistakes now creeping in just about summed up this game perfectly. On one such occasion, Greening launched an Exocet of a cross that the predatory Hartson should have buried with consummate ease, had the flight of the ball been in front, and not behind, his huge bulk. But it wasn?t, so the chance went whistling harmlessly by instead.

And, just minutes after that one, for reasons known best to themselves, both Greening and Gera suddenly decided to lay on a Laurel And Hardy impersonation, which wouldn?t have mattered in the slightest, had their theatrical leanings not been given an outlet in our own six-yard box! Curtis Davies managed to get it away, but straight to one of their blokes: just as well Houlty was alive to the danger, then, but not to the extent of fully-negating the problem, unfortunately. Once again, Houlty?s goal came under fire, and at point-blank range, too: enter McShane, saviour of the Universe, in managing to put off the marauding Tyke sufficiently enough to save the situation.

But Houlty?s goal was still being used as Barnsley target-practice: this time, he managed to get enough of his hand to the thing to concede the corner and not a pukka goal. But it?s really peculiar how these things work: looking at the notes I made earlier today, I?d written, come the 28-minute mark: ?We looked dead, dead, dead, as Barnsley charged in on goal once more, thanks to yet another daft defensive cock-up on our part?.? And it was literally milliseconds after I?d consigned those few words to my little book that Jason Koumas struck with a vengeance. And what a strike, from a fair distance, it was, setting all those shivering Baggies in the away end alight with pure joy, not to mention some help with all those sluggish circulatory systems out there. Would our massive Oakwell jinx finally bite the dust, I wondered.

Now come on ? I didn?t say I was silly, did I? Yep, just five or so minutes later, parity was restored, more in the manner of a pinball machine?s shiny orb pinging back and forth through the sensors, and noisily racking up the points, than something achieved as part of the beautiful game. Beautiful, it most certainly wasn?t: first of all they hit the woodwork, back in the box came the ball, Houlty then came out to grab and cocked up completely, the ball then falling to (I think) Nardiello. That one was blocked, but the return effort wasn?t, sadly. And I?m not entirely sure that everything Barnsley did was completely street-legal, but what the hell. We stuffed up, we got to take the lumps as a direct result of our incompetence, and in great dollopy heaps, too. A couple of fairish chances for both sides later ? in retrospect, maybe Hartson should have done much better with the chance he was gifted to regain the lead ? but then it was time for the break. Also time to ring ?Im Indoors, watching the game in the comfort of his own armchair, of course! I must say I was quite surprised to hear that the TV people had cited a difficult, swirly wind as the prime cause of our keeper?s problems: sure, there was a bit of a blow going on out there, but not one capable of sending the corner flags all a-flutter, even.

Back to the second helping, then. As I saw it, one of our more serious failings had been a tendency to over-elaborate when within decent sight and sound of the opposition net; by way of contrast, Barnsley were at their most dangerous when within easy range of our own net, always trying to do the simple thing. Another cause of difficulty was our somewhat alarming tendency to needlessly give away daft free-kicks, and in the most awkward of places, sometimes. Something we had to sort out before it sorted US out!

Maybe our lot had somehow utilised telepathy, or something, for within about 30 seconds of the restart, Hartson so nearly put us in front once more. Yet another manifestation of ?nearly-scored syndrome? on our part? I don?t rightly know the answer to that one, but what I can say is that the home side only survived courtesy the assistance of a massive dollop of good, old-fashioned Hartley?s jam. First of all, the Hartson effort hit the post, the rebound then reaching the fairy-like feet of Kev Phillips: so quickly did he have to react to the situation, he did extremely well just to toe-poke another by way of return.

On its way to the target, the ball took a bit of a deflection, somehow hitting their keeper along the way. With the goalmouth invitingly open to all comers, at any other time, it would have been ?game, set and match? to the visitors, and no arguments, but on this occasion, the ball flew off for a corner, instead. There are times when you really begin to wonder whether the opposition do have a ?deflector shield? in place, as per Star Trek episodes too innumerable to mention!

On twelve minutes, and Hartson reverting to his normal persona in trying to pass the ball to The Invisible Man lurking close by, cue the beginnings of a fairish sprinkling of boos and jeers whenever he got the ball. Oh, dear. And, with a third of the half gone, we had to say ?farewell? to McShane, knackered as a result of a nasty collision with Houlty: his barnstorming style of football got its just reward when he was clapped by appreciative Albion supporters just as he disappeared into the murky darkness of the tunnel.

You really do have to wonder just what the hell went on with about ten minutes or so remaining on the clock, mind. As I saw it, Jason Koumas was toppled on the very edge of the box, but most certainly within its dank confines. Our Stokie chum didn?t see it that way, though; a free-kick, and not a penalty was the decision that time. Now I know I am a bit lacking in the old eyesight department, but what I unquestionably saw didn?t involve the patient construction of a defensive wall some way out. Just about summed up the entire afternoon, that!

Other frustrations? Their supporters, marginally indulgent in the old ganja stakes, possibly, appending the cry ?Hand-Ball!? to just about every situation they could think of! And quite a few they couldn?t, just by way of a change! And as for the lino I?d previously mentioned, death was too good for the guy. But the biggest frustration of all was our continual failure right in front of goal. Something?s got to be done, and soon, if we are to launch a serious assault on those elusive top six places (but not top two: I genuinely feel we?ve shot our bolt in that respect).

Time for me to get some serious zeds in, I reckon. See you all tomorrow night, by which time I should have gathered my thoughts into something sufficiently cogent to pass muster. You know it makes sense!

And Finally?. And now for the Dingles-oriented tale I mentioned! A sad one, this, and it concerns my chum accompanying his Wulves-lovin? mate to a game at Molineux, recently. (Yes, I know, we all have our weaknesses!) Some way into the game, the Dingles scored, and what happened next is the gospel truth, according to my informant. The Wulves-lover in question had a mobile phone about his person, which he reached for the precise moment the ball crossed the line, staring at the screen as if his entire life depended upon it thereafter. Why? He was awaiting his service-provider?s automatic text message informing him the Dingles had scored, that?s why! Dearie, dearie me! Yet another awfully bad show for the ?care in the community? lobby, methinks! Now promise me you?ll ensure they take their full dosage of medication, and at the correct times, won?t you?

 - Glynis Wright

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