The Diary

17 December 2006: Mercy's Sakes Alive - It's FIVE!

Strange, isn?t it, how a game like today?s can result in one assumed role morphing into something entirely different? I?m not banging on about the win itself; as I said yesterday, Coventry City have been pratfalling on our sword ever since Adam was a Junior Baggie, so what happened this afternoon was altogether in keeping with the natural laws of the Universe. Off the pitch, however, it was an entirely different kettle of Sky Blue: I can?t ever remember a time, over the course of the many seasons in which our paths and theirs have crossed, that their followers ever showed even one iota of originality and/or wit. Yet they did today ? and how. We may have won the battle on the pitch OK, but off it, their wonderful followers simply blew us away.

It wasn?t for nothing I asserted yesterday that all they knew was The Sky Blue Boating Song, and as long as that could get past their lips, all the rest of the civilised world could go hang, as far as they were concerned. But I had quite a shock to the system today: for the first time ever, in my considerable experience, they actually put our feeble efforts in the same department to complete and utter shame, and as the game progressed, and the goals rattled in, so did the noise from their end increase in direct proportion to the sheer misery undoubtedly experienced by their favourites on the field of play.

Strange, wasn?t it? We ? with the help of our wonderful sponsors (doff cap, tug forelock, and look suitably humbled! ?Thanks fer yer luvverly inflatables - bless yer, Guvnor!?) T-Mobile, of course ? were scripted en-masse to add a tad more atmosphere to a home end that?s rapidly becoming a pisspoor travesty of its former glories, so the noise should have been ours, and no-one else?s. Those Coventry supporters, shoehorned in the ?away? section of the Smethwick, decided differently, once Goals Number Three and Four had rattled the back of their net.

Yeah, they do have another song in their repertoire, surprisingly enough, and it?s called ?Twist And Shout?, the very same version as performed by those lovable mop-tops The Beatles, back in the days when Alec Douglas Hume was PM, The Great Train Robbery was more than just a gleam in a career criminal?s eye, and a Gannex-clad, pipe-puffing Harold Wilson was already casting predatory eyes upon Number Ten Downing Street. The Coventry version? It would appear that the general idea is to whirl around like a Dervish on crack cocaine, flailing arms, legs, scarves, whatever, while singing the lyrics, all at the same time, and all at the top of one?s voice, trademark Beatles ?OOOOH!!!? at the song?s climax, mandatory.

Who?d have thought it, eh? Sky Blues followers actually succumbing to an acute attack of originality! And, in the process, reducing our own people to what I can only assume was stunned silence: come the final whistle, a complete stranger would have been very hard put indeed to discern which was the winning side, so noisy were the visitors. Fair play to them, though, they did their side proud, which is a damn sight more than we could, if truth were known. Remember the happy days when we could make a racket like that, wherever we went? Quite.

Five goals without reply is a pretty good total to rack up, by anyone?s lights, so I?m not going to complain. Well, not too much: there are still many areas of our play that need to be improved, and fast, if we are to have any say at all in who gets a seat on the Premiership Space Shuttle, and who remains Earthbound. But, hey ? this lunchtime, as we made our way into the murky recesses of the Hawthorns Hotel, despite a moderate chill to the air, the sun was shining, and just about every Baggie in creation was enjoying the unaccustomed benison of its brassy glow.

And, again, we were surprised to find that the interior had undergone yet another change: a bit like the process caterpillars undergo when they progress to the pupal stage, really. Nothing to see outwardly, but internally, wholesale changes taking place ? and that?s how it is in the Throstle Club temporary HQ, right now. Will we see the eventual emergence, there, of an adult butterfly, Albion-style, I wonder? A fabulous blue and white winged beauty, stretching its newly-acquired iridescent-winged flying powers in the wintry sunshine, while taking all the plaudits going from every ?admirer? it encounters, perhaps? Remind me to ask Alan Cleverly the very next time I see him.

Yeah, the interior changes included the loss of quite a number of tables in there, the idea being for those wanting a drink to stand up: apparently, more drink?s consumed when punters stay on their feet. I?m sure the psychologists could have a field-day on that one, but so could they with the enormous round ceiling hanging, above, that looked for all the world like one mother of a digestive biccie, and badly in need of an equally capacious teacup to dunk it in, too. Just one snag with all this: it does help if you have some stock to sell there in the first place, as Im Indoors was to quickly discover: no Coke to be had at any price, no draught bitter, either until later. The barman even had the nerve to try and convince my other half they?d never stocked Coke. A surprise, that, considering half of what cold stock they did have there was being kept cool in a chiller cabinet conspicuously marked ? erm ? Coke! Come on, was this amateur hour, or what? With that amazing amount of commercial acumen at their disposal, it can only be a matter of time before the directorship of a large multinational concern awaits the brewery bod responsible!

Enter The Fart, stage left, dripping scarves, badges, flushing toilets: the works. And bearing gifts, too: along with a Christmas Card, an Evening Mail article he wanted to show us ? the stuff Ade Goldberg had written about Lee Hughes and Si?s book, actually ? also a brand new scarf. How come? Despite all his moans about the cost, he?d gone and used his club shop voucher to purchase the latest model. Still no sign of The Noise, though. In McDonalds, presumably.

Mind you, our garrulous chum?s still having no end of trouble with his domestic appliances. First of all his car, then his washing machine - and now it?s his fridge-freezer that?s chosen to withdraw its icy labour, as well. Well and truly Gone To The Great Igloo In The Sky, it has. And all within the space of but a few short weeks, too. Knowing Martin?s normal rate of verbal delivery, had I been the manufacturer of any of those errant items, my ears would have caught alight weeks ago. No, cancel that: more like a series of sharp pains consistent with someone repeatedly applying pins to a very rude part of a wax effigy!

But, arrive they eventually did, and while young Carly was regaling ?Im Indoors with the latest convolutions of her hectic love-life, El Tel was showing me an Argus piece in which John Hartson was pleading, basically, with our somewhat bitter and twisted followers: ?Like me, PLEEEEAAASE!?. Then, there was a bit of news Carly wanted to share with me: in her mock GCSE exams, she?d only gone and walked away with an impressive collection of A?s and B?s, with a few A* clever-clogs-type passes thrown in for good measure. And, to my genuine delight, in all three sciences, too. Well done, gel ? but don?t some people just make you sick?

The dear lady tells me she wants to study Btec Sports Science at Further Education College next academic year, with French chucked in for good measure ? she really is a whiz at the subject, which is a damn sight more than I was at a similar age. I was told I ?ruined the French language?, and failed the blasted O Level miserably, but I?ve since had the last laugh: wherever I?ve gone in the world where French is spoken as a first language, I?ve had no probs whatsoever making myself understood. And, in any case, if the famous Long-Haired Mick can get by in foreign climes by the simple expedient of muttering ?Arrr?? at the locals occasionally (it?s dead true, that!), then so can I!

Over to ?Anoraks? Corner?, where a bevy of the severely statistically-impaired awaited. (Anyone know the collective noun for a group of these semantically and statistically-sad people, by the way?) And they?d even semi-formalised the arrangement by pasting a notice to that effect on the wall behind. ?ANORAKS CORNER?, it read, ?YOUR LOGO IN THIS SPACE FOR A FIVER?.? You don?t need to be Sherlock Holmes to work out who thought that one up, do you? One ?downer? though: to ?Im Indoors?s disgust, Hereford had lost 3-0 to Shrewsbury, the game having kicked off slightly earlier in the day. Mind you, given the awful state of Gay Meadow ? flooded, as per usual ? my other half was dead surprised to hear the game had gone ahead at all. Perhaps they?re all turning amphibian there: isn?t that precisely what Darwin said about ?evolution?? An organism changing in form and function in order to cope better with external threats to its survival? Expect to see them all going ?RIBBIT!?, hopping, not running, and doing strange things to flying insects with their tongues, the very next time we meet them in serious competition.

Inside, now, and the full-on version of those awful pink and white inflatables, as threatened by our sponsor. The bloody things had proliferated mightily, just like a nasty skin infection, resistant to treatment. Argh! But there was much worse to come, and by that, I mean the bloody News Of The World Score Angels, as well, all dressed up in skimpy Santa outfits, and boppin? like crazy around the centre-circle, too. Oh, well ? it was them getting hypothermia. Not me. As for those wretched balls, most of our followers seemed to be employing them in traditional ?beach ball? fashion, as per our numerous end-of-season awayday thrashes. As my late mother would have said about all the corporate nonsense on display out there: ?They?m a tratin? we loike cowin? mawkins, ay thay?? Couldn?t have put it better myself, Mater.

Thanks to John Homer, we?d had advance warning of what manner of footballing horror was about to be inflicted upon ourselves: Gera relegated to splinter-sampling duties, and OAP?s Hartson and Phillips up front, so help us, God. I could only hope Nick Worth had remembered to bring copious supplies of Sanatogen and Phyllosan, for prophylactic purposes only, of course. With a Zimmer frame handy, as well. And a geriatric consultant from what used to be The West Bromwich and District Hospital, too. Never can be too careful when dealing with the aged and infirm, can you? Kamara back from suspension, also. As for the rest, it was more or less the same deal as previously.

As for Coventry, they had both Adebola and Stern John in their ranks, nuisances both. So ? there you had it. The stage was well and truly set, the audience waited in their seats, expectant in the hope of a Baggies victory. The away lot? Singing their Sky Blue Boating Song, as per script, with no sign or symptom whatsoever of what was to come from their end much later on in the game. The ref blew the whistle, then, so away we went.

And, straight from the ball leaving the safe haven of the centre circle, damn near letting one in, right at the very start! Just seconds gone on my watch, as Houlty pulled out one hell of a stop from Adebola to nip the visitors? naughtiness right in the bud. Thank goodness his mind was already focussed properly: had it not been thus, we could so easily have ended up chasing the game. Such is the narrowness of the margin ?twixt winners and losers, as we were about to demonstrate, and in pretty spectacular fashion, too.

There was but an additional ten seconds on the clock, when it happened: from Houlty?s piece de resistance, the ball whanged out as if jet-propelled, to Koumas, if I remember rightly, and Joe Kamara grabbing the eventual through ball, so perfectly judged, it left Coventry for dead, and their keeper floundering: all Joe then had to do was, literally, walk the thing into the back of the net! Amazing, and not even a minute elapsed of the full 90. Reminded me of the time when we played Stockport, the ?nearly? relegation season Megson rescued us from the rockpile, at their place, it did.

With people still emerging from the nearby burger bar, they completely missed Hughsie planting one right in the back of their net, just after the start. That was the moment we ?Dick Eds? had to provide folk with an impromptu ?summary? of what had just taken place. Our goal also brought back memories of the time, back in November 1993, we travelled to Italy, to watch Albion play Fiorentina in the Anglo-Italian, first and foremost, but also took in the San Marino-England World Cup qualifier, in nearby Bologna, as well.

We hadn?t sat down to watch the game, even: as I was about to do so, San Marino surged forward, in similar fashion to today?s opener ? and scored! Embarrassing, or wot? Normal service was resumed much later, of course, but when it happened, all I could do was laugh like crazy. And, no ? my actions didn?t exactly win the affections of a nearby group of neo-Nazis, doing their racist thing under that all-encompassing ?Inger-land, Inger-land, Inger-land?.? umbrella, either.

But back to today?s game, and to our finest, now one to the good, of course. As a stunned John Homer was to admit, he was half-expecting the ref to blow up for an infringement, or something ? and so was the rest of the crowd, no doubt. After that, the Coventry box bore a certain resemblance to Beirut, after the Israelis shelled it earlier in the year: shots coming from all over the place. Kamara had another go, and so did Hartson, who was looking miles better than the puffing, panting joke he?d seemed somewhat earlier in the season. But we weren?t having things all our own way: one of the most maddening aspects of today?s display was the sheer number of potentially-costly errors we made at the back. Had the visitors had anything at all about them today, and Houlty not up to the mark, we?d have found the chore of seeing them off a much tougher proposition altogether. On one particulary fraught occasion, Adebola was allowed to get what was virtually a free header in. And nearly on target, too. Where the hell was our bloody marking that time, then?

Up spake the Bloke In Front Of Me: ?Come on, John,? he screamed at our follicularly-challenged striker, ?Bluddy RUN!?

Said me, by way of reply: ?Now, steady on?..?

Two more pokes at the target from Phillips, one of them a real Exocet of a ball, and the busy Hartson was in the thick of things once more. In fact, despite my grave misgivings at his inclusion, he was having a really good game, for once, those clever little flick-ons of his causing no end of damage to the visitors? hopes of extricating something from the mire. Not only that, his ability to hold up the ball when necessary was a real asset to our cause.

And, as for some of the football we played out there?.. Wow. Wonderful stuff, it really was, at times, truly imaginative interplay involving people like Robinson, Alby, Koumas, Greening. Quashie, Kev Phillips, Uncle Tom Cobley and all. Pass and move, pass and move?.. Just what the doctor ordered for our ailing promotion push, and much appreciated by those around me. And this column, of course.

Sure, the visitors were still trying to pull the goal back, but they were distinctly hampered by the simple fact that, despite our dozy midfield and defence giving the ball away in somewhat cheap fashion at times, they couldn?t hit a barn door at twenty paces. That?s when they started to get really narked, and the fouls conceded by them started to rack up like scores in a pinball machine. On one memorable occasion, poor Greening was scythed somewhat unceremoniously, and needlessly, so it came as absolutely no surprise whatsoever to see them concede a penalty with around two-thirds of the half gone.

What happened? Confucius, he say, ?He who chop Joe Kamara down in box, made to suffer for it?. No kidding, either. A small grain of doubt crept into our heads when we saw the injured party get to his feet preparatory to taking the spot-kick, a situation not helped by some pretty cute Coventry delaying-tactics. Just as well our hero was having none of it, then: without further ado, he sent their keeper the wrong way, thereby doubling our lead. Blimey.

Time, then, for a spontaneously-brilliant chant from our followers in the Smethwick, and one directed straight at the lumpen mass of Sky Blue neighbours to their right. ?You should have gone Christmas shopping?.? was the timely advice meant for the visitors, with a ?Ronnie Wallwork? one thrown in gratis, too. Perhaps the Sky Blue throng should have heeded their words: with but seven minutes remaining to the end of the first 45, we struck once more, making it three.

It was Phillips that made it possible, his ball getting Jason Koumas away, and marker-free. At first, I thought he?d taken the ball too far, thereby letting the fleeting moment pass ? and so did ?Im Indoors. ?Wide?.? he sighed, in despairing tones ? but it wasn?t. Parallel to the post, it slithered, then in it went ? and most certainly on the ?right? side of the upright. 3-0, and still a couple of minutes of the opening half to run? Just like all those times we beat them in the past, it was: Memory Lane, here I come! ?That?ll teach the buggers not to fart in church,? was my laconic comment on the proceedings, thus far!

A few more minutes elapsed, during the course of which the visitors seemed to be extracting some sort of revenge on our lot, and by the simple expedient of kicking just about everything in the air wearing blue and white stripes, too. Eventually, the ref tired of these antics, booking their lad Duffy, and, surprisingly, Kamara, naughty boy that he was.

And so, the interval beckoned. Time once more for the dolly-birds to take to the pitch, accompanied by a cameraman whose sole mission in life seemed to be grabbing shots via the good offices of a lens aimed right up their (very!) brief skirts. Dearie, dearie me. Dunno where these images were going, mind, as our TV screen was showing completely different pictures: piped into one or more of the hospitality lounges situated in the East Stand, perchance? Wherever it was going, whoever was on the receiving end, it was hardly the sort of thing you?d want impressionable kids to see. Just another nasty taste left in my mouth by the faceless, suited jerks who laid this sort of demeaning stuff on in the first place, I?m afraid.

Much more acceptable was the tale Jean Homer was telling me about her pet cat, Zoltan. Apparently, their Christmas Tree now lives in their porch. The reason? Poor Jean did try to decorate the thing with the requisite amount of tinsel, baubles, etc. but within seconds of having completed the job, in rushed little Zoltan, all full of feline evil, and within the time it took to grab our first today, off it all came again! A one-cat demolition-squad, he is, according to Jean, and nothing in that house is safe from his antics. He does have a curious ?party trick? though ? and that?s drinking water using his paw only, and not doing the job in ?approved cat fashion?, i.e. by lapping the stuff up with his tongue, like all the cat reference books tell you they should.

On to the next phase of the proceedings, then. ?Yow bunch of cheatin? gits!? Er ? that was the sound of John Homer ?greeting? the arrival of the opposition onto the field of play, courtesy his very own inimitable style! As for what happened once the game got under way once more, well, it was more of the same, from our point of view. But not before Houlty had to deliver a pretty decisive punch out, the moment when Adebola whacked a nasty sort of ball right into our box, and the ball likely to fall dangerously for us, with only around four minutes gone.

Mind you, taking of ?gone?, by and large, that was Coventry ? and that?s when the ?gallows humour? began in the away end. Realising the situation was pretty hopeless, they?d elected to whoop it up instead, the end result being that amazingly-prolonged performance of ?Twist And Shout? I mentioned earlier. With both John Lennon and George Harrison in ghostly attendance? Wouldn?t surprise me in the slightest, that!

With Coventry looking so rocky, it could only be a matter of time before another Baggie struck oil out there: this time, it was Kev Phillips, and with just 13 minutes gone of the half, courtesy an intercepted Coventry pass, then running with the ball a tad before blasting the thing nearly into Smethwick High Street, such was the force of the successful strike. Four-nil, it now was, a pasting by any other name.

And yet, City might well have got one back not long afterwards. After Hartson went off, to deserved applause, with Ellington replacing him, and Coventry changing their line-up also, we almost fell victim to an awful defensive lapse: Curtis Davies was the Baggie at fault, in completely missing a Coventry left-wing cross, his boo-boo almost letting in the newly-arrived Kyle, and practically unmarked, too. Had it been any other outfit in our division, the ref would have been pointing towards the centre-circle within a matter of seconds ? but this was Coventry! Once more, even the chronically-myopic Mister Magoo, of cartoon fame, would have done a damn sight better, the eventual shot, from point-blank range, ending up sailing in the general direction of Row Z, instead! Ooops!

All this, dear reader, and still those crazed Coventry followers ?twisted and shouted? on with gay abandon. Just what had they ingested before the game, I wondered? And, more to the point, would they have any of the stuff spare for me? Finally, after knocking on the door for much of the half, and after Clem came onto the scene, once more, Albion got their fifth, the scorer somewhat surprising, Paul Robinson, no less. Greening was the provider, his ball falling with such pinpoint accuracy on Robbo?s napper, the eventual header was but a formality. A nice touch from Robbo when he celebrated: over to the technical area, he trotted, to shake Mowbray by the hand. An ostentatious way of getting the message through to those who still weren?t one hundred per cent concordant with our gaffer, perhaps?

That fifth strike was the finish of Coventry, all right ? but not their supporters! A sort of amazed hush fell on our home supporters as they marvelled at the noisy antics of their Warwickshire counterparts, the silence from our lot increasing in direct proportion to the racket created by them! Once more, I?ll say it: who would have thought Coventry City could come up with something original in the chanting and singing line, eh? Wonderful ? by the people, of the people, and, what?s more, for the people. Who needs the heavy hand of corporate involvement when you can appreciate the real McCoy so easily?

That excellent win of ours, in the face of one of the best rearguards in the entire division, before today, leaves us in 8th place, just one point shy of the play-off places (still strange to see bloody Colchester hanging on in there, mind!). Should our away form improve, we?ve still got something to play for; as I?d predicted earlier in the season, Cardiff seem to have shot their bolt, finally. Now they?re in a much more realistic fourth spot, as opposed to being at the top of the heap just a few short weeks before. It wouldn?t surprise me at all if they slip out of contention altogether, such has been their dismal form, of late.

The real crunch is going to come over Christmas: grab a useful clutch of points, and we?re back in there, pitchin?. Mind you, we?d have to go some to stop Blues, who now seem virtually promoted, along with The Rams: strange, after the awful starts they both had, of course. And, come the New Year, there?s the opening of the transfer window to think about, and those allegedly refusing to shape up the Mogga way getting shipped out with unceremonious haste, presumably. I reckon most supporters can work out who?s likely to be taking their boots elsewhere, by now: let?s just hope we can spend the resultant cash wisely.

Oh ? just one other thing. Coventry were pretty awful today, to be sure, but that wasn?t the first time I?d seen ?em in action this season. In the Second Round of the League Cup, they?d ended up paired with lowly Hereford United, at Edgar Street. Result? Similar to today?s, really, bar the fact that Albion?s strikers got the breaks, and The Bulls counterparts didn?t. The Sky Blues had what amounted to a complete first team out for this one ? and they still ended up getting deservedly whupped. Had someone from the planet Tharg been watching, they would have had no way whatsoever of properly discerning the true League status of either side. Hereford played them completely off the park, as it happened, and as for Coventry ? well, so useless were they at the back, they deserved everything they had coming to them. At times during the game, it really looked as though the final score was going to end up looking rather embarrassing for the visitors: fortunately for them, the Cider-slurpers couldn?t quite bury their multitude of scoring chances. No wonder I was getting such an awful feeling of d?j? vu as the Coventry defence collapsed around its ears!

And Finally?. One. The Noise, around half-two, as we were packing up preparatory to going into the ground: ?Oh, well ? let?s get ready to grumble?..?

Two?. Poor Carly, today?s her day to be really ?outed?! Never mind, gel, just think of it being part and parcel of the process of proper acceptance into the adult Baggie-following community. First off, when sorting out a deal for her new mobile, she was asked if she wanted it insured. ?Oh ? hang on a minute,? said the young lady, ?I need to get my National Insurance number?.? Wrong!

Second? As we were leaving the Hawthorns Hotel, Carly caught a brief glimpse of Ade Chiles, nattering to a posse of attentive Baggie people, just inside the door, and adjacent to the bar. Pausing, briefly, for confirmation from me as to his alleged celeb status, which I readily gave, of course, she then shrieked with all the lung-power her bijou chest could muster: ?Oh! He?s on the telly, he?s on the telly!?.? Time for Pater ? currently engaged in animated conversation with the guy, of course: what else did you expect? ? to do the introductions, with young Bethany chucked in for good measure as well.

And time for the years to slide away from me, once more, with my sixteen year-old former self standing in wondrous adoration at the sight of The King, strutting his pre-match stuff in similar fashion, and not the Lewis clan with Ade. Good on yer, mate, giving the pair of ?em a sloppy great kiss apiece. There?s sure as hell two Baggies who won?t forget what you did for a bloody long time. On emergence from the room?s murky depths, you could almost see the stars scintillate and coruscate like crazy in that young lady?s well-glazed eyes, now as big as organ-stops, of course! Bet the pair of them don?t wash for a week after that little lot!

 - Glynis Wright

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