The Diary

31 December 2006: Koumas The Star As The Tractor Boys Run Out Of Fuel.

To be perfectly honest with you lot out there, I really don?t know which of the two games I saw today ? this afternoon?s caper, and tonight?s Sky affair ? I enjoyed the most. It really was a close-run thing, and not because of any serious shortcomings on our part (those aspects of our play that did give me ample cause for concern, I?ll highlight in a minute), just the fact that both were end-to-end spine-tingling affairs, and must have left many feeling like limp rags, come the end of each game?s allotted spans.

To get tonight?s out of the way first, as you?ll be no doubt aware by now, I sorely lack the capacity to love Neil Warnock, and all who sail in him, but tonight was different. Sure, the man?s a complete and utter AAA, copper-bottomed wotsit, and more cunning than even a zoo-full of foxes, but when it comes to Arsenal being the opposition, even I can abandon the habits of a lifetime, purely and simply because of their manager, and his supercilious, arrogant ways, Gallic bean-pole (not my words, those of John Homer, so don?t blame me!) that he is.

The real fun started after Sheffield United took the lead, and in a manner not unlike one of the goals we saw at Small Heath last night, when Luton managed to dent their dignity (assuming Blues are intellectually capable of understanding abstract concepts such as ?dignity?, of course) by taking an unexpected lead in the second half. To put not too fine a point on it, Sheffield United ripped their defence completely apart. And, to give the devil his due, it was a thoroughly deserved lead, too.

Anyway, not long after that, the Blades? keeper managed to knacker what appeared to be a groin muscle, and via a freak accident: not a single Gunner was lurking within fouling-distance when it happened. A hard blow indeed for any side, but doubly so for United, as they don?t normally bother with luxuries like a substitute goalkeeper: anyway, to cut a long story short, they needed a replacement, sharpish, so one of their outfield players, Phil Jagielka was swiftly co-opted into taking up the custodial cudgels on United?s behalf, instead.

Real ?back-to-the-wall? stuff for the Blades, of course, as Arsenal sought to ?test? the non-keeper as savagely as they could ? but as soon as the new chap put on that jersey, that?s the moment I really knew Warnock would get away with it. And he did: despite the Gunners? best efforts to upset the guy, the ?conscripted custodian? played a blinder. How come? Easy: so closely are that lot bonded, as soon as one of their number was beset by adversity, that player?s colleagues immediately closed ranks, pulled together, covered for each other, thereby fully protecting him, and in a manner that did them real credit, too. Sheffield United got through courtesy sheer bloody mindedness: they couldn?t give a stuff for reputations, or elevated Premiership positions, they just get stuck in, a collective state of mind that causes complete and utter havoc among outfits as beset by sheer bloody arrogance as the North London lot.

And, in the middle of it all was Warnock, smiling serenely, and loving every minute of it: in fact, at one point, quite close to the end, he was seen actually ?managing? the crowd, urging them on to even greater vocal efforts ? and, yes, they responded instantaneously, too. Love him or hate him, you?ve got to respect him totally for what he does, and how well he does it. Give the guy a political party to work on, and I reckon he?d be British PM in no time flat. I used to say the following about Brian Clough, bless him, but if there?s a manager currently in the game with a stronger whiff of sulphur about him, wherever he goes, I?ve yet to hear about it.

And so, on to our own domestic affairs. We started the day off in very familiar surroundings indeed: West Bromwich town centre. Well, Argos, in fact, to complete the unfinished business of last Tuesday?s Argos visit, Oldbury-style. A quick pre-departure internet check revealed the West Brom branch did have both cordless phones and the correct satnav in stock ? we reserved the buggers this time ? so, armed with that information, we quickly hightailed it over there. No problems picking up, either, so we then shifted ourselves to WH Smith, to spend book tokens my sisters had given us for pressies this Chrimbo: two Carl Chinn local history books for me, and a murder mystery for him ? sorted.

Back to drop off our goodies, and for ?Im Indoors to make a bit more money on eBay flogging spare Albion stuff, then it was off to the game proper, with station stops at the club?s Press area (to pick up yet more ex-GD piccies from Lawrie Rampling) and the Hawthorns pub, as per usual. No Noise, or his two little shavers either, to greet us today: by that time, they?d be well and truly in Paris, soaking up all the local ambience and Gallic culture like a sponge. I really dread what damage The Noise did to the Entente Cordiale (in existence for just a tadge over 100 years, by the way) as soon as he opened his mouth. (Vagrant thought: during World War Two, on all those Royal Navy submarines, when being depth-charged, everyone had to stay silent, so as not to let the enemy?s sonar pick up the noise, thereby revealing the boat?s location and depth ? so how did those people stop those sailors hailing from The Potteries from chattering at inopportune moments, then?), as soon as he first opened that cavernous trap of his!

One unexpected bonus: we?d arrived just in time to see Villa get awarded a penalty versus Charlton, but not long after that, we saw The Addicks get it back, and right after one of Martin O?Neill?s mob getting a red card for hauling down an Addick reet close to the box, too. Said The Fart, who?d moaned so long and hard about Rob Styles, and the lad giving Villa the penalty in the first place: ?Good bloke, that Rob Styles!? Oooh, I bet yer nose drops off in the middle of the night, Tel, you double-talking little tinker, you! The best bit, though, came as we were about to leave the place, when Charlton actually took the lead, and right in stoppage-time, too! The roof practically lifted off that pub, so great were the Baggie cries of rejoicing at Charlton?s deliverance. But I get slightly ahead of myself.

Our other subject for debate? The granting of an MBE to Tara Phillips, horsey daughter of doubly-horsey Princess Anne. For ?services to sport? allegedly. Sounded a bit like giving a gratis new fridge to an ice-bound Eskimo, to me, but that?s the old honours game for you, I guess. Oh ? and just as we were about to leave the place, news from Roy Hayden that the Bulls had won their early-bird game versus Wrexham 2-0. So that was His Nibs happy, too!

And, just as we made to leave the building, down came the rain, in torrents. Luckily, we didn?t have all that far to go, unlike The Fart, who had to make his weary way along the Brummie Road, then via the car-park, into the East Stand. None of that supersaturated palaver for us, thank goodness, but en-route, a ?close encounter? with Albion?s resident anoraks instead, who we found dismantling their newly-minted wooden sign as hastily as they could. There?s a lot that sign will resist, but not tropical monsoons, apparently! At least we were spared the more arcane of their collective mental meanderings: after the third or fourth recitation of long-forgotten reserve and third-team players from pre-Great War times, you do tend to completely lose the will to live! Aarrgh!

Backing away with all the haste we could decently muster ? after all, who wants to fall victim to a load of anoraks? ? it was in the direction of our turnstile that we headed. In straight away (Crowds? What crowds?), it was the work of a moment to find our seats, and get on with the important task of estimating the size of the crowd, which I put at around 20K, including a substantial agricultural vehicle-type following, if you get my drift.

Team news? Nathan Ellington, hero of our last home game, was out: some sort of a virus, as we understood it. Up front, we had both Joe Kamara and Kev Phillips, the first time that particular pairing had operated since the complete and utter stonking we gave Ipswich at their place, last October. Paul Robinson? Suspended. Additionally, Clem was given a start, his first since last April, when he?d had to withdraw from the hurly-burly of relegation battles to have an op on his dicky knee. No Hartson, either, but Gera given a go, instead. Clearly, Mogga was looking to rotate his troops as far as he was able to: two games in the space of three days would certainly exert a savage toll on those personnel having to play in both. Expect to see subs used very freely indeed come the Southend caper.

The stakes were pretty high for both sides, of course: we wanted (and badly needed!) better than our current sixth placing, in order to at least make a semblance of a tilt at Blues, and their lofty castle, seemingly of sand-like construction, if what I saw last night was anything to go by. They?ve had more than their fair share of pure luck, along the way, but they?re riding it, holding that lady?s frilly knickers up for all to see, in fact ? and how. With a few more breaks going our way, for a change, it?s nice to think we might embarrass them in the same manner we did the Dingles, just five years ago. But this is ALBION we?re taking about, mind, so don?t hold your breath, eh?

For their part, 15th placed Ipswich, fresh from their conquest of Coventry on Boxing Day, wanted to do much better than their current League position indicated, and now was as good a time as any to start. And, talking of ?starts?, that?s precisely what the rain did, once more, making conditions underfoot absolutely diabolical for both sets of players, post-kick-off. Even well into the game, neither side seemed to have got the full measure of the quagmire rapidly developing beneath their feet ? and still the rain came down!

At one stage, I was half-expecting a boat, carrying two of every animal species in sight, to materialise on the saturated centre-circle: The Man saying, in effect: ?Right, I?ve tried just about everything else I can think of to make you humans get your act in gear ? now stitch this one for a barrel of laughs?..? Perhaps our PA bloke could have helped things along a little, by playing the Paul Simon number ?Slip-Slidin? Away?, or the Bobby Darren sixties hit ?Splish Splash?? On the other hand, perhaps not!

Of the two sides, it was Ipswich who seemed to be making the most of the earlier exchanges, two of their more creditable attempts giving Houlty something to think about. Naturally, it was around then that the real moaning started in the Halfords. Yes, even the Bloke In Front Of Me chipped in with his caustic tenpennorth, too: aw, come on, what else did you expect? Jam on it?

Then, just like the Sleeping Beauty, awakened from an age-long slumber by the man in her life, we suddenly cottoned on there was a game happening out there, and most of the action revolving around the busy figure of Jason Koumas. First off, he took a free kick from quite a way out, the ball sailing just over the bar, then, a scant minute later, yet another Koumas attempt looked a dead-eyed cert for a corner ? but, for reasons as yet inexplicable to Man, the lino flagged for the goal kick instead! Doo wot? Even Stevie Wonder would have flagged that one correctly. Needless to say, the Smethwick were absolutely incandescent with rage. And rightly so, I reckon.

Phillips was next to have a go, but after doing all the real hard work, dodging some nasty-looking attempts to unseat him along the way, when it came to actually pulling the trigger, the resultant effort ended up a real damp squib. Two minutes later, approximately, we found ourselves engaged in what can only be described as a prolonged bout of ?head tennis?, the midweek diversion beloved of professional coaches the world over. Well, considering it?s been around ever since the early seventies, at the very least, it?s got to have something going for it, hasn?t it?

Then, with about five remaining of the half, Ipswich came about the closest they had all afternoon. The ball that so nearly did the damage just missed the crossbar: quite a let-off for us, considering the guy responsible had pulled the trigger from quite a way inside the box, and relatively untroubled by markers, too. It could have so easily gone pear-shaped for us right then, but somehow, it didn?t.

There was one high-point of the half, though, the intricate bit of interplay I saw take place between McShane, Gera and Greening just before the break: pure class, it was. A shame that they then managed to lose the thing via a bit of a ?sucker punch? but that?s Albion for you. That was more than poor John Homer could bear, poor lad. ?WE?M IN THE STROIPES?.? he screamed, all semblance of dignity lost in the muddy morass coating the surface of the pitch, and getting worse with every additional minute played. And I?m damn sure the message reached our dugout, too: hell, anyone daft enough to remain seated within about 20 yards of our eardrum-damaging chum would most certainly have had irreversible damage done to their tympanic membranes by then, that?s for sure.

Come the interval, come the inevitable analysis of what was good, and what was less-so about our style of play. Certainly, after a poorish start, probably brought on by failure to get to grips with the prevailing weather conditions, we?d looked much better, much more proactive, even, come the end of it. The main thing was to keep that momentum going as far as we were able. But before the return of the gladiators, some light relief in the form of the usual ?crossbar challenge? where local kids, plus those drawn from the ranks of the opposition, try to land the ball right on the bar ? does what it says on the tin, really. Cue one small child to have his pop at the prize, a tee-shirt: unfortunately, as he was about to let fly, he slipped over in the mud, ending up completely horizontal. ?PENALTY!? bawled John, in his own inimitable style. As I said to his long-suffering ?other half?, Jean: ?You can?t take him anywhere, can you??

Out both sides squelched, once more, for another 45 minutes-worth of fun and laughter. And just think, kiddiwinkles: 45 minutes was the exact time Tony Blair reckoned it would take to for Iraq to launch a WMD missile attack against us. Lacking such firepower, all we could do was hope one or other of our strikers could be just as deadly ? and it didn?t take all that long to find out, either. With but a few minutes of the second helping swallowed, The Tractor Boys nearly ended up with their mangel-wurzels in complete and utter disarray.

For reasons best known to themselves, the Ipswich lads quite unexpectedly gifted the ball to the predatory Kev Phillips ? and in their own half, too. Suicidal tendencies, or what? Gleefully seizing upon this unexpected lifeline, our lad took the ball right to the Ipswich box, tried to round their keeper, but couldn?t quite pull it off, so he went for the next-best option instead ? taking the ball to the bye-line, then crossing. A shame, then, that this attempt was a comparatively feeble one: Joe Kamara did his level best to try and extract some crumbs from the table, but his shot could only hit the side-netting.

That, though, proved to be the metaphorical canap? to the first course proper, which we commenced supping with just a couple of minutes more on the clock. What happened? It all started when we charged like the Seventh Cavalry into their penalty box; danger loomed large for the beseiged Ipswich lot, so panic measures were called for: Unfortunately for them, those included downright illegality, the evidence for which was amply provided by a ruddy great bellow of "HANDBALL!" from the Brummie. Clearly, something naughty had gone on in that bit of 'twilight zone' 'twixt goalmouth and corner-flag: the ref, indicating total concurrence with the decision-making skills of some 8,000 of his 'assistants' behind the goal, for once, pointed straight to the spot. Being the ?injured party?, Joe stepped up to the spot, but it was about then that Ipswich embarked upon a series of delaying tactics, all engineered with the intent of putting our lad right off his strike. It didn?t help, either, that the ref appeared to fall for their unsportsmanlike nonsense hook, line, and stinker.

After a lot of fussy marshalling of the Ipswich lot so they didn?t violate the neutrality of the ?D?, the ref finally blew for Joe to have a go, but all the nonsense from the opposition had achieved the desired effect: the shot, when it came, was a feeble attempt. Astonishingly, though, Price, their keeper, couldn?t hold on to it: away shot the ball, and in rushed Kamara, getting the second chance he really didn?t deserve, to be frank. One swift tap of the ball later, Ipswich were one behind, and the Brummie was undulating like crazy.

That goal really altered things, and drastically so. Now the pattern of play was much more open in character, but both sides were taking chances: had the visitors been much more astute, they could so easily have pulled it back, on a couple of occasions. Conversely, Joe Kamara thrilled the crowd when he rode out a succession of Ipswich tackles while advancing on the target at what looked to be Warp Factor Nine. Three, four, was it? Then, he set himself up to administer the coup de grace. Had it gone in, as per the script, it would have been one of the best goals seen at our place in a bloody long time: sadly, though, when the attempt finally came, it went straight to the expectant Price instead.

Never mind, though: that was simply a postponement of the inevitable for the visitors. With around 70 gone by that stage, we finally got our much-needed second, and this time, Jason Koumas was the architect of Ipswich?s destruction. And what a glorious effort it was, too: Kamara, lurking leftwards, provided the cross-cum-assist, but the actual shot came from a fair way out: all their keeper could do was look a bit mystified by it all, then proceed to pick the ball from out of the old onion bag. Yet another superlative effort from the lad: in fact, that strike of his served to nicely round off a very profitable afternoon indeed for our lad: later still, the ?prawn sandwich brigade? made him their man of the match, and I don?t think a single supporter would have quibbled any at their verdict, at that point. Once more, both ends went ballistic: why, we even got a chorus of ?Tony Mowbray?s Barmy Army? from the Smethwick. Just like the famous ?first cuckoo of spring?, it was: to the best of my knowledge, that?s the first time ever I?ve heard our crowd sing our manager?s praises in such a fulsome manner.

The state of the pitch was taking its toll elsewhere, though. With around nine to go, off went Gera, and on came Chaplow. I strongly suspect the boggy conditions weren?t at all to the little lad?s liking. Then, with but a minute of normal time remaining, off went Kamara, and on came Watson. Shortly after that came one of the game?s few remaining mysteries: from where did the referee get the idea there was a whole FOUR MINUTES to add on? No serious injuries, some time for the penalty, certainly, but not all that much, surely? ?Im Indoors was sticking to the theory that he was penalising Russell Hoult for some time-wasting tactics earlier on. Well, if that was the case, I?d sure as hell failed to appreciate it for what it was. Not that it really mattered in the end: in fact, just before the end, we could so easily have gone one better, courtesy Alby?s superb defence-buggering run the whole length of the pitch, on the right, a move that culminated in a cross so tempting, it positively begged to be toe-poked in. Low, mean, nasty: it sure as hell ticked all the boxes. Sad then, that Phillips (I think) couldn?t convert it. But who am I to complain? We got our points, and Ipswich got their lumps. Look out, Southend, you are next!

Other thoughts? With the Dingles crashing and burning so badly, that?s got them off our back, for the moment. And our position in the table?s improved, somewhat. Now fifth, on 43, we are, and neatly sandwiched between Colchester, who are sixth, and in the lower bracket on goal difference (who would have thought it, eh? Sobering thought: we go to their place, come the middle of February), and Southampton, just one point in front, and fourth. There?s a good four points currently standing between us and the top three: the aim, now, has to be making up for more lost ground over the next few weeks, if we are to be serious about achieving escape velocity come the end of term. More thoughts about yesterday ? erm ? tomorrow! Including a few words about the lad McShane, too: I really am warming to that young man, and tomorrow, I want to explain why.

And Finally?.. And a genuinely serious one, for once. I was quite saddened to hear, today, about the death of Don Beddard, former Supporters Club Chairman during the Eighties, and after a very long battle indeed with cancer, as I now understand it. I was pretty aware of the fact he hadn?t been at all well for quite some time, but hadn?t quite appreciated the severity of his condition: despite everything, he always made an effort to attend games, and such things do tend to make us somewhat blind to realities at times. Those supporters relatively new to the Baggies won?t know Don, or his hard work for the supporters? club, come to think about it, but most of the long-timers will.

Certainly, Don?s heart was always in the right place, forever doing what he thought best for the Supporters Club, and the sure foundations he helped lay, back then, were to stand us in rather good stead through the lean years of the early nineties, and beyond. My sympathies, as always, go to the remaining members of his family, especially his son, whom I still see quite often, before games. Should Big ?G? want someone to chair meetings of the angelic hosts, however hastily arranged, schmoozle with Saint Peter prior to a personal appearance before his angelic minions, even, he?s got just the man for the job on his way up right now: in fact, given his considerable experience in such matters, I would strongly suggest to The Man that he gets Don kitted out with standard-issue wings and halo, and as soon as reasonably practicable, too!

 - Glynis Wright

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