The Diary

03 May 2003: Is there a Referee in the House?

"Marvellous!" "Funny!" "A crying shame a club like that's going down..."

Those were just a few of the comments from the home crowd about our end-of season fancy dress thrash at Ewood Park today, brought to you courtesy of genuine whistler and avid Blackburn fan Kevin Nolan, who kept his ample lug-holes well and truly to the ground for this column today. More from Kev later, but what of our followers? Well, I can only say one thing; I've been following football for around forty years, now, and as far as I'm concerned, today's end-of season display from our followers was one of the funniest sights I've ever seen - and I've witnessed a few, believe you me, including the 'original' at Hull, the disastrous 'Togas at Rovers', the Beachwear Party at Rotherham in 1993, and the dressing-up day at QPR. I don't know whether the lad responsible for the idea happened to latch onto the Baggie zeitgeist at precisely the right moment, but 'catch the mood of the time' he certainly did; what a tremendous turn-out of willing participants, who gave our club no end of good (and world-wide) publicity, thereby making partial amends for the violent behaviour of some of our so-called 'followers' in Halfords Lane after the Liverpool fixture.

The fun started for us as we left the Black Country for the M6, and our rendezvous with The Noise, who was patiently waiting on a motel car-park adjacent to Junction 15. This column, 'Im Indoors, and The Old Fart were all toting the regulation gear, right down to those long woolly black and white stockings that refs are prone to display for our delectation. A fast-track route to deep-vein thrombosis, I reckon, but what the hell; it was only for one day, and I reckoned my legs' venous system could cope with such constriction for a couple of hours. All that remained, then, was to get The Noise similarly clad, and we had a spare kit in stock for that very purpose. But first, a surprise.. When we arrived at the meeting-place, The Noise happened to point out one Lou Macari, who was clearly meeting a buddy prior to doing his thing for Sky at Old Trafford; on hearing this, quick as forked-lighting on speed, out dashed The Fart, camera in hand, clearly determined to record the occasion for posterity. A few words with the former Stoke gaffer, and we were lining up with a somewhat bemused Lou in all our finery. Once the shutter had clicked, we explained our purpose to our former Third Division Nemesis, and upon hearing our tale, he replied, "Blimey - I'd really thought you were all going to ref a game!..." An interesting concept, that, given added 'spice' by the fact that I'm very much grey of hair, walk with a stick, and always wear glasses! Or is that the 'profile' of a successful whistler these days?

It's at this point I have to thank Anc somewhat profusely. The reason? Just like RAF bombers during the war, he was acting as a sort of 'pathfinder' for the main body of Baggies; having encountered a rather nasty tail-back as a result of an even nastier accident involving a lorry, he'd tipped us off, via his mobile, therefore we were able to make our escape via Stoke's notorious 'D' Road, then back on to the M6 around Sandbach; from where we rejoined, there was only a mile or so of jam to negotiate, so we were fortunate. Less so were those supporters who left it comparatively late setting off; they were well and truly stuck, by all accounts. Luckily, once past the scene, the rest of the journey was a doddle, and we arrived in the Lancashire town at around 12.15; a rapid stroll to the pub - the one that encouraged away followers, though the sodding name escapes me for the moment - and that's when the old chuckle-muscles began to really ache, folkies?

Refs, absolutely everywhere, zillions of 'em, all toting red/yellow cards, all sending each other off like crazy, and all guzzling pints like beer was going out of fashion, much to the amusement of passing locals, sundry curious bus passengers, and the plods, all of whom found great difficulty keeping a straight constabulary face for the occasion. Just to add a certain frisson to the scene, we were further blessed with the presence of 'Adolf Hitler' who had clearly delayed the invasion of Poland to officiate at our game, an 'Eva Braun', complete with blonde plaited wig and fish-net tights (plus a whistler's kit, of course), a 'clown' who declared by means of a notice nicely positioned above her chequered derriere, that she was currently in training to officiate at our level; the scene was also somewhat enlivened by a Stevie Wonder look-alike, plus, of course, The Satanic Nurses, who, to a man, all assumed the sort of innocent expression you'd expect to see on the faces of children immediately after the commission of some venial family sin or another. Start this lot? Us? Sacre bleu? Absolutely superb, a scene made even better by the weak sunshine that was making a brave attempt to break through the Manc-bound rain-clouds, and something I'll never, ever forget.

On then, to Ewood Park, and selling duties. Because of that accident, the coaches -18 of'em according to Dave Holloway - were somewhat late arriving, but it didn't affect sales that much as loads of our followers had made their own travel arrangements. More time, also, to grab more pics - God knows, there was material aplenty sculling around that away turnstile block - and patiently answer questions from the Blackburn supporters who were eager to know why we were all in the guise of whistlers; usually, a brief explanation brought an instantaneous ear-to-ear grin from the home lot, and a further comment, which was usually on the lines of: "Smashing!" or "Fair play to you lot." Then, about an hour later, the mighty convoy hove into view. I left 'Im Indoors to gather yet more photographic evidence, of which there was plenty, believe you me, as the main body of our supporters poured off their 'transports of delight'. And, as promised, there was SuperBob, wearing a ref's kit like everyone else, and 'slumming it' in our end as well. A pause for a quick picture with this column, and he was away towards the visitors' turnstiles, a sizeable entourage of black-clad followers trailing in his wake. Absolutely brilliant; somehow, I get the feeling this is not how Premiership players are supposed to behave, but what the hell: after ten years proud wearing of the sacred blue and white stripes in our name, he's most certainly one of ours now, albeit by adoption. The only other Baggies players I've ever seen elevated to similar God-like status are The King and Bomber Brown, which certainly says something about the genuine deep affection our supporters feel for Bob. Long may it continue?

Inside Ewood Park itself, more fun beckoned. The usual array of beach-balls, Lilos and inflatables whanged around our area, to the general detriment of anyone fool enough (me!) to stand at the front for any length of time, and, of course, there was a continuation of the yellow and red-carded lunacy that had taken over at the pub. Enter the real match officials on the scene prior to kick-off - apparently, when warming up, they'd spotted the profusion of both varieties of cards from our lot to them, and, realising what was going on, completely cracked up with laughter - and then, both lots of players emerged from the players' tunnel also. It wasn't long before we realised today's game was going to be a tad different to the norm; within seconds of the start, the first foul of the game was greeted with - yep, give the man at the back a banana - loads of furiously-waving red and yellow cards, accompanied by a frenzy of booing that would have been more suited to the pantomime season and the appearance of the evil villain on the stage, something that continued throughout the whole length of the 90 minutes! So fascinated were the Press photographers by our antics by then, they concentrated on that, to the almost complete exclusion of the purpose for which their presence was originally required! Clearly, the po-faced Premiership is in great need of livening up; if it's OK by you, will the season after next suit you, guys?

Back to the stuff on the pitch, then. A few surprises from our leader for our Premiership away-game swansong, the main one being that of Chambo J. being used in central defence, and Dessie Lyttle starting at right-wing-back.. Oh - and a mention for young Simon Brown, who was also included in the squad - had Meggo read my words, I wondered? - and had to be allocated the number 28 slot, which hadn't existed before. I have to say that after the collapse of the previous game versus The Scousers, we really gave notice that we were 'up for it', and gave Friedel ample food for thought on more than one occasion, all accompanied by tremendous vocal support. One thing was sure; we were going down all right, but most certainly not quietly!

After that opening flurry on our part, Blackburn began to impose their presence on things, and this culminated in their strike, courtesy Damian Duff, who neatly evaded his marker then blasted the bladder past Houlty's outstretched arm. Not altogether surprising, as this was one we'd mentally written off right from the start, but instead of the expected goal-fest from Rovers, we began to hold our own out there; not that many had noticed, mind; it was more fun to observe the antics of our fellow supporters, quite a few of whom were making merry by the perimeter wall. With astonishing rapidity, a conga-line then began, the participants being - and I crap you not - a 'Urinal Rennie', complete with toilet seat around neck, a 'Juan Kerr (don't ask!), a 'Stevie Blunder' (ditto!), a 'giraffe', Eeyore, a 'penguin', a 'Womble', 'Adolf', who, unsurprisingly, was demanding some 'liebensraum' of his own, plus something from 'Wizard of Oz' the rear of the procession being brought up by the aforementioned 'clown'! And, later, a giant Newcastle Brown bottle. So spirited was the performance of the long-necked and dappled animal impersonator, he was the recipient of numerous 'dedicated' chants, e.g. "There's only one Gee-raffe!" and "Gee-raffe Barmy Army!" Well, the two or so inflatable 'refs' in the nearby seats certainly enjoyed the chanting. As for the Blackburn followers, all I could hear was the sound of jaws dropping in synchrony all around the ground. And another thing; as they seemed to be suddenly devoid of power of speech (and song!) we helped them along a little with a few of our own! Wasn't that nice of us?

Half time, then, and for me a quick tootle to the 'Powder Room', but not before snatching a brief glimpse of our long-necked friend trying to purchase a pint from the bar. I really had to leave at that point, as my knickers were by then in grave danger of an unrequited soaking. Not because I'd been taken really short, though; I simply couldn't stop laughing at Chummy's attempts to slake his thirst via the twin media of a giraffe neck and a full pint-glass ! Back for the second half, then. By that time, we'd finally located the whereabouts of a certain Mr. Taylor; it wasn't that difficult to find him, all you had to do was follow the direction of the regular chanted paeans of praise for our much-lauded striker! Meanwhile, on the field of play, Jason Koumas gave a rather convincing demonstration of the reason why he is so highly rated in football circles. It all started around the middle of the park, where he first collared the ball, then, leaving all his minders totally for dead, advanced on goal, then whacked the ball past a seemingly shell-shocked Friedel. Parity restored, and an absolutely fantastic strike into the bargain. Cue for a massed outbreak of 'boinging' from the away end, and more emotive drizzle-soaked renditions of "The Lord's My Shepherd", plus the reprise of that old favourite: "I Go Down, You Go Down, We All Go Down Together.." That goal seemed to spark something long-buried within the souls of our finest, because, suddenly, it was Blackburn on the back-pedal, and they most certainly weren't laughing when Jason Roberts nearly ended his goal drought; the shot, unfortunately, was stopped by the alert Friedel.

Come the last quarter, and Blackburn finally snapped out of their torpor. Suddenly, we were subjected to an almost constant succession of raids from the flanks, and things were looking grim. Just as well Houlty was on the ball, really. Or was it just us panicking needlessly? Finally, the real referee blew his whistle for the end of the allotted span; cue for more away-end celebrations from our followers. And, just afterwards, a nice little touch. Most of our players wandered over to our little patch and threw their shirts to their admirers, and we reciprocated with thunderous applause. Sure, it was only a point, and we were down anyway, but, as Einstein might have said, everything's relative, and right then, all we cared about was holding to a draw a side who were seventh in the heap, and had last conceded at home just after Christmas. Chicken-feed to Fergie and Arsene, probably, but to us, it meant the whole world. So much so, we even gave the 'giraffe' another rousing chorus of "There's Only One?" as he wobbled his weary way out of the ground then made determined strides towards the nearby pub! ?

And finally.. One. More from tame whistler Kev as promised - and this is a genuine story, honest? Apparently - I must confess I didn't notice at the time - one of the real linos fell over during the first half, the incident occurring at our end of the park. At half-time, the guy was clearly unable to continue, because a PA announcement was made for another referee (Blackburn knew he was at the game) to take over the fourth official's job so that gentleman could take over where the stricken flag-waver had left off. Blackburn must have had real difficulty locating the guy, because not long afterwards, yet another heartfelt plea went out over the airwaves to rescue the match officials in their hour of need, and this is where the fun starts, folkies.

Also in the home end was a mate of Kev's, one Alan Simiaski, who just happens to be not only a Grade Five ref - that allows you to officiate up to Midland Combination level, apparently - he's an avid Baggie to boot, and was wearing his referee's kit as well, so as to enter into the spirit of things. Hearing the announcement, and realising that the real 'men in black' were in a bit of a hole, he then went to a steward and volunteered his services in lieu of the absent whistler not showing his face where it was wanted, and further pointed out that as he was dressed for the occasion, so to speak, he could take over with the minimum of fuss. Big mistake. The guy took one brief look at Alan, dressed in his whistling finery, heard the broad Black Country accent, instantly rearranged his facial features in such a manner as to suggest instant souring of milk on sight, and, simultaneously gesturing at our end with his thumb, dismissed our hero in somewhat contemptuous tones: "Yeah, yeah - and there's 4,000 other refs out there.." In the end, Alan had to produce his official ref's ID card to prove he was on the level!..

Two... This will be my last offering for six days, as we're going down to deepest Herefordshire for a peaceful country break tomorrow. I'll be resuming operations prior to the last home game of the season, versus Bobby Robson's lot, on Friday night. See you all then?

 - Glynis Wright

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