The Diary

02 January 2007: Shrimpers Pot Three Points At Woeful Albion's Expense.

Imagine, if you will, the aircraft conveying the vast majority of our first team lumbering down the runway, then taking off from Birmingham Airport without undue incident, fairly early on this morning. As it ascends to normal cruising height, our players commence indulging in the kind of time-filling trivia itinerant footballers have, ever since the day the game was invented, really: card games, newspapers, all augmented these days by that modern-day equivalent of three-card brag, et. al, the ?shoot-?em-up? computer game. Inside the cockpit, sealed off from the remainder of the plane as an anti-hijacking measure, both pilots yawn lazily, then settle down to what, to them, is the aeronautical equivalent of taking the 74 bus to its Dudley final station-stop, then returning again.

But there?s shortly to be a totally-unrequited interruption to their plans: using the back of a nearby bit of cumulus for concealment, there lurks the commander of an alien spacecraft, newly-armed with instructions from superiors to nab the first passenger jet that comes its way, then, having extracted the anatomical and physiological information about we Earthlings it wants, scuttle off as quick as Patrick Moore will let it, back into the unyielding interplanetary darkness from whence it came. Naturally, upon first spotting the airborne bark upon which our heroes are being stratospherically wafted, the tentacled laddie immediately lets rip with the alien equivalent of ?Gerrin there, my son?.? Then, immediately afterwards, instructing his overworked engineering department to ?Activate the tractor beams?..?

One mad, wild moment of total panic and disorientation later, our entire playing staff, coaches, manager, kit-man, the lot, suddenly find themselves not doing battle with some electronic equivalent of Darth Vader, but encountering the real thing instead. All strapped down on examination-tables, they are, and totally helpless, as their almond-eyed, silvery skinned tormentor instructs his crew: ?Activate the Anal Probes??.?

Mercifully for them, after the nice chap with the tentacles has poked and prodded to his complete satisfaction, all memory of what happened is then completely erased from the minds of his victims: not only that ? and this is the fiendishly-clever bit, my friends ? their plane, with both management and playing staff now well and truly back in it, is then re-inserted, not only into precisely the same latitude and longitude it had reached before, but the exact time, to the nearest hundredth of a second, our extraterrestrial chums caused it to disappear from air-traffic control radar screens in the first place.

Bar for a vague feeling of unease (and, for some, at least, a certain degree of ancilliary irritation and soreness around the ?tradesmans entrance?), our heroes then resume their journey as if nothing whatsoever had happened, arriving safely at their destination airport without any further incident. Following on from there, after a quick repose and meal at a hotel handy for the ground, they set out for Roots Hall, go through all the pre-match preliminaries, then exit the players tunnel, all full of Mogga?s pre-match discourse about the relative strengths and weaknesses of their opponents, and how to best overcome them.

And that?s when it all starts to unravel so badly: the very moment the referee puts Acme Thunderer to lips to signify the first free-kick of the game, the strange glint of the metal, newly exposed to the harsh glare of the floodlights, somehow dredges up recall that should have very much stayed buried subliminally deep in the skulls of our finest. Suddenly, our lot are getting flashbacks in triplicate, mostly concerning excruciating pain in a very tender area, total helplessness in the face of what subsequently happens, not to mention those of the strange-looking beings that inflicted such indignities in the first place, so the very last place they want to be, at that particular moment, is Roots Hall. And that, my friends, is why we put on such an abysmal display this afternoon!

OK, OK?.. I made up every single cotton-pickin? word of it (some denser-than-usual Dingles might conceivably have swallowed it, mind), but for the life of me, I can?t come up with a more rational explanation! Can you? (Message to the Birmingham Mail?s Chris Lepkowski: fancy going dibs on the above story with me, in lieu of unduly alarming the children and servants with a more realistic narrative of what actually happened? Your secret is safe with me?.)

All I do know is the gradual realisation, from my living-room perch, of an unmitigated disaster fast developing. Only 20 minutes gone, and Southend?s Campbell-Ryce banging in a brace already, the first with only 11 minutes on the clock, the second in the 28th minute? What in tarnation was going on out there? Really and truly, I should have guessed the very moment I heard a loud ?thud? hit the upstairs floor: my other half was there, listening to the commentary, as he did things to try and correct our once-more errant PC, so the news must have reached him slightly before it did similar to the Sky studios.

Then, with around two minutes to go to the interval, yet another dull ?thud? from upstairs told its own story: just seconds later, the Sky vidiprinter confirmed my grave suspicions. We were going into the break no less than three goals in arrears, thanks to the best efforts of Southend?s Lewis-Hunt, and totally unmarked, too.

Mind you, if we appeared suicidal at the rapidly-worsening news emanating from Roots Hall, you should have heard those Sky studio people (no prizes for guessing who they supported!) as the goals rattled in at the Madjeski Stadium. Come the break, the cameras cut back there, and to a candid shot of Alan Curbishley (our two-goal Southend tormentor was with Charlton during his reign, by the way) that said it all: had it been the First World War, and Curbs a traumatised squaddie, the diagnosis would have undoubtedly been ?shell-shock?. Just one look, and they would have shot him, if only out of kindness. I wonder if he was bitterly regretting leaving Charlton, when those all-revealing cameras focussed upon his troubled face?

Nosey space-aliens apart, just why we were so bloody awful today, I had no idea whatsoever. Trolling through the remainder of the Championship, the news thus far seemed a pretty mixed bag, some of our top-six companions doing well, others under a bit of a cloud. But not half as big as the one enveloping us, mind. Now let me get this straight: The Shrimpers were the strongest side in the entire division, in other words, propping up all the rest. By rights, we should have been inflicting a bout of severe backache on their keeper, by now: instead, they mocked unmercifully our top-six end-of-season aspirations by going into the break three in front, and without any reply whatsoever from we visitors. There?s got to be a rational explanation, but for the life of me, it?s completely eluding this column, right now. Maybe I should risk being certified officially-doolally, and plump for my ?alien abduction? theory instead?

Having now looked at Saint Mogga?s Gospel, as chronicled by his very own prophet on earth, Saint John The Simpson, plus sundry other disciples, it was rank awful defending that finally cost us the game. Apparently, come the break, our manager, so infuriated by what had just gone on, decided to make an unprecedented THREE subbings, Alby, Gera and Phillips all making way for Clem, Ellington and Hartson, respectively.

And the second episode wasn?t much better, either. Sure, John Hartson grabbed a consolation around the 63rd minute, but The Shrimpers still remained safely anchored to the seabed until the very end.

And there were further clues as to what had precipitated those shambolic scenes in the first place. Apparently, the rot set in after Jason Koumas belted away a Southend corner, and a very long way up the pitch, too. Unfortunately for our lot, Southend?s Campbell-Pryce got to the descending bladder first, then took it past both Carter and Gera before pulling the trigger from around 25 yards out.

That was Goal Number One, then, but just a few minutes later, our followers gained a glimmer of false hope courtesy a Koumas free-kick ?special?, which, being badly struck in the first place, their keeper dealt with comfortably. Mowbray then elected for the activation of Plan B, a cunning wheeze that involved the positional swapping around of Koumas and Kamara, and very similar sounding to the interval tactical changes of the previous Hawthorns caper, too. They also altered things to 4-4-2, as I understand it, but it did about as much good as a gulp of estuarine Thames water would do a thirsty (brave?) man. Just a couple of minutes after our leader made the change, Southend did it again, our downfall this time coming courtesy of a pre-planned corner routine that went badly pear-shaped.

From the breakdown of the move, the ball then fell straight to Southend: not quite believing their luck, I?ll wager, they headed goalwards once more, taking the ball right to the ?business end? of the pitch. Maher?s cross then fell to the lad Lewis-Hunt, who didn?t mess about, even though totally free of petty irritants like opposition markers by that stage. Three-nil it was, then: as for the loyal Baggie band that braved all manner of New Years Day hangovers to make the long coach trip (no convenient plane facilities for them, sadly!) I?m guessing that the last place they wanted to be, right then, was Roots Hall!

And things could have been much worse, by that stage, apparently. On at least two occasions after they?d grabbed their brace, Southend could have added more to their tally. On at least two occasions after they?d scored, Gower was unlucky not to inject further poison into the wound, and Houlty fortunate enough to smother a second. As for our lot, only Kamara looked likely to shift his arse sufficiently enough to look dangerous, forcing at least one good save from their keeper in the process.

With our strikeforce well and truly managerially blitzed come the break, and their replacements, Ellington and Hartson, with Kamara slipping back to midfield, in place, it was fervently hoped that our fortunes would change. And, at first, they flattered to deceive: Koumas and Greening had attempts foiled, as did Clem?s long-range effort, taken just before the Hartson consolation. Sadly, it was only the diligence of Houlty that prevented the Roots Hall upstarts from grabbing a deserved fourth.

After the Hartson strike, our lot did try to embark upon hasty repair work, but the damage had gone too far, way too far, by then. McShane came closest, apparently, with just three to go to the end, but Ellington, the intended recipient of his pinpoint cross, was close to stretching out a limb and connecting ? but not close enough to do real damage, sadly. Story of our entire day, really. Or did flashback images of alien-administered proddings and pokings in a really painful place return to haunt The Duke at a somewhat inopportune time, I wonder? Well, as an excuse, it?s got to be way more original and creative than anything our manager can come up with, over the course of the next few days!

Unbelievably, that win was only Southend?s second in the league from 22 games. Results elsewhere mean that we still retain fifth spot, on goal difference, in front of stratospherically-secure newcomers Colchester. Thanks to Derby beating Preston at their place, they now occupy the runner?s up slot, and an almost-unbridgeable seven points in front of the rest of the top-six field.

Despite what?s happened, Mowbray reckons he?s not going to be pressured into panic buys during the period of time the transfer window is open to all comers. Somewhat enigmatically, he commented afterwards, via the club website: ?I?d like to think we know the answers to our problems away from home. We?ll try to correct them, given the opportunity.

?We need to lose players before we bring any in, though, so we?ll have to see what develops. Some players we just won?t be able to get rid of. Others people might want, but might not meet our estimation of them, and there are some we just don?t want to sell. Also there is no guarantee in January, because it?s notoriously difficult to get the players you want??what?s important is the future of the club, and putting down the right foundations for the long-term, not a short-term fix, which you get wrong because you take a gamble?.?

I can see what he?s trying to say, mind: patience is a virtue, and no more so as when trying to sort out our own domestic problems. Clearly, we?ve got to sell in order to buy, although that was hardly a big club secret before all those (very damp!) squibs spat out in true machine-gun fashion to announce the arrival of the New Year late yesterday evening. Should those outgoing players not raise the sort of dough needed to invest defensively, it might even be we?ll have to place our assault on the promotion positions on the back burner, until the commencement of a new season. (The latter is my interpretation, not Mogga?s.)

And, in any case, I didn?t really want to go up anyway. Just another relegation fight in prospect, with further embuggeration factors, in the form of games timed to kick off during the wee small hours of Sunday, or very early on Friday morning, and needing a second mortgage to finance a season-ticket anyway. Not to mention crippling additional finance to secure regular attendance at away games! Chuck into the simmering pot additional stinking gobbets, in the form of awful refereeing decisions, supercilious little toe-rags like Mourhino, plus his Thespian-tendencied familiar, Didier Drogba, and that heady mix then becomes a distinctly-purgative dose, the sort of thing parents used to inflict on out-of-sorts, sometimes naughty, children, back in the heady days when Queen Victoria used to ingest hefty doses of hash to relieve her period pain, and totally without reproach, or an unexpected visit from the precursors of the Drug Squad, either.

Mind you, I wouldn?t have expected my imaginary aliens to have escaped totally scot-free, either. One incautious foray into the troubled minds of both our keeper and his defensive colleagues must have left the dwarfish silvery-skinned interlopers with naught but the rapidly-increasing urge to get the hell out of the Solar System, and before their entire home planet caught it!

And Finally?. Not really a day to be cracking jokes. Why imitate, when the real thing?s unfolding right in front of you? There was one bit of good news to be had, though, albeit slight, and that was concerning my ailing moggy. He?s now off his drip, off the painkillers, and resting. He?s got a pulse back in one femoral artery, but not the other, as yet. Obviously, that?s important: prolonged circulatory damage (causing loss of vital oxygen, and intracellular nutrients meant for the limb) can lead to the loss of the leg, with its obvious knock-on effect concerning subsequent quality of life. I might yet have to make some distressing decisions: come tomorrow, I should have better insight as to the ultimate prognosis, but I?m not holding my breath, shall we say.

 - Glynis Wright

Contact the Author

Diary Index