The Diary

07 January 2007: Birthday Boy McShane Fires Home As Baggies Progress To The Next Round.

The dawning of the new year inevitably brings far more to we football supporters than a whole host of drunken strangers and not-such-strangers, each and every one of them vying for the dubious honour of becoming the first of the nascent year to cross the sacred portals of several houses, preferably those where the families within are known to be generous with the old falling-down water. Bearing that in mind, it?s hardly surprising that the most popular greeting, come the morrow, just happens to be ?Oh me aching head?.? Or, failing that, ?Where do you keep the aspirin, mate??

Yes, for a multitude of reasons, the first month is equally important to just about every football supporting man, woman, child and Dingle. Not only is it the time when the sales are in full flow, the start of the year also brings with it something loved and hated by we supporters in equal measures, the 3rd round of the FA Cup. Ah, the so-called ?magic of the Cup?: not so magic for us around 16 years ago, mind, when pygmy club Woking bundled us out of the competition with such indecent haste, in combination with so many goals in the back of our own net. Or, for that matter, the time when Halifax Town gave us the bum?s rush at their place, just four years after the Woking affair. Over the course of the last 16 years, we?ve only managed to reach Round Five on one occasion. Awful.

Great for those previously unloved, greatly unappreciated soccer outposts of the Conference North, say, or clubs plying their trade just one rung below League status proper: these days, the large sums of money dished out by the FA for reaching the dizzy heights of the Third Round and beyond makes a good Cup run a pretty lucrative prospect for those living in professional football?s basement. Not so great for clubs such as ours, of course: the potential for total humiliation (and, just to make it much, much worse, right in front of the TV cameras) is truly enormous.

This year, though, we were lucky. No banana-skin potential at all to be had today, both participants coming from the same division of the League, albeit from opposite ends of the table, of course. Mind you, in some ways, you really had to feel sorry for poor Leeds. Not only do they look like exiting our division from the ?back end?, come the end of the current season?s hostilities, their financial situation still remains quite awful. A very few honourable exceptions apart, I?ve never really liked their supporters, either ? or is it just down to the fact I?ve seen them misbehaving at our place so many times in the dim and distant past? These days, though, I?m more inclined to a somewhat more charitable view: whether the passage of the years has caused my opinion of them to mellow considerably, I don?t really know, but supporters of any side that has Denis Wise for a manager, and Ken Bates for a chairman, should be pitied, not pilloried, in my humble opinion.

So much for the background, then, on to my narrative. First things first: today, we finally got Puss back from the vets, and with a whole new lot of drugs to try and stop the problem occurring over the course of the next few days. (As for the long-term, we?re in no doubt what?s going to happen, so we?re pretty much resigned to eventualities on that score.) A busy time for His Nibs: earlier that morning, he was talking turkey with a dealer about buying a new car. Because of the time factor, he was unable to pursue the matter properly, so he?s still to make up his mind. What with that, then a quick dash over to the vets to collect our ailing moggy, he certainly had quite a busy few hours.

Once we?d installed Puss in his new abode ? his days of going out with the others are now very much over ? and settled him down, it was now time to see to yet another ailing cause, our very own football club. Despite our late arrival, parking proved no problem whatsoever ? but no Noise-mobile occupying his usual spot? Ooer.

We needn?t have worried, though. Heading to the Hawthorns Hotel in advance of His Nibs, engaged in collecting another lot of archived piccies from Lawrie Rampling, and handing another batch over by way of exchange, the first people I noticed were The Noise, plus brood. No car, though? Well, yes and no, really: no, they didn?t have the use of their own, the exhaust dropped off earlier in the week, apparently, and yes, they did have the use of a vehicle, one belonging to The Noise?s dad. Our voluble chum reckoned he hadn?t told Pater why he needed it: personally, I?d have thought it was something the guy could work out for himself by the simple expedient of looking in the back pages of today?s papers, but who knows? Perhaps the guy just doesn?t bother reading papers?

Once I?d sat down, both Lewis Minors regaled me with tales of their recent trip to Paris. No frogs-legs or escargot, sadly, but plenty about Carly having to order food for the whole lot of them when in cafes, etc. As with people from any foreign country, the French are much more appreciative of those visitors who, at the very least, make a determined effort to speak their language, so Carly found herself much in demand.

Reminds me of my niece, Dawn, who lives in Tenerife with her feller, and her own small child. Apparently, they have now become firm friends with a German family living in the house opposite, who have twins of about the same age as young Rhianna: unsurprisingly, they all play together quite a lot. Result? Not only is Dawn?s toddler fluent in Spanish and English, she can now add German to the list: for their own part, the twins now speak English quite well! Should all be interesting when they all get to go to the local school, where Spanish is the main spoken language, in just a few weeks time!

But back to my narrative. Carly tells me she?s going back to France come April, but as part of a school trip for those taking GCSE?s in the subject. My God ? a massive party of kids from Stoke hitting the Eiffel Tower and the Champs Elysee! General De Gaulle must be turning in his grave at the very prospect, poor deceased Gallic sod that he is.

Meanwhile, on the big screen at the front, Tamworth v Norwich was proceeding apace: unsurprisingly, the visitors were comfortably in front by that stage, to the tune of three clear goals, and no reply whatsoever forthcoming from The Lambs. Oh ? hang on a mo, it?s four, now, and that last one all-too easy for the East Anglians, the Canary responsible lobbing their keeper after having ripped their defence to shreds. And well done, Tamworth, in finally getting a very late consolation, something that caused great cheers to erupt from the Black Country audience watching the game.

Then, a remark from young Bethany that had me in absolute stitches: ?Simon, can I play with your toy?....? When I?d finished howling with laughter, and wiping the tears from my eyes, it turned out that Bethany was requesting the loan of the ?Flushed Away? toy given away in nearby McDonalds, and donated to my other half by the Lewis family. (The fact he spent most of our time in there playing with the thing has given me ample cause for concern, by the way. Do you think he needs the services of our local Mental Health team, perchance? )

We even had time to natter about the relative merits of various popular TV shows, ?soap? and reality-type fare constituting a microscopically-small proportion of my own viewing habits, thank goodness. Guaranteed to turn the human brain to cream cheese, first time, every time, as far as I?m concerned. The main reason why I don?t watch much TV these days, much preferring to read books during moments of relaxation. And, much to my surprise, The Noise agreed with me, and unreservedly, too. He, too, wants something to challenge the brain, after switching off said organ for so long, when in the employ of Wedgwoods: as far as he?s concerned, trivia like Big Brother completely fails to cut it. There, you see, there IS hope for my Baggie-brother, after all!

The main thing I noticed after exiting the pub, and heading down Halfords Lane was the sheer multiplicity of police vans parked down the length of it. Some eighteen of the buggers, if you really want to know: calculating on the basis of twelve coppers for every single vehicle, and eighteen vehicles present, that gives the grand total of 218 rozzers, no less. Some would be sergeants and inspectors, of course, but that still leaves an enormous number of them policing the immediate area. Given that the number Leeds currently take away is but a pale remnant of former glories, quite why they needed such an overbearing police presence there, I can?t imagine for one minute. Taking the cynical view, it was nowt but an almighty job-creation scheme: even taking a far more charitable stance, some eight or so hours after the final whistle, I still fail to see the need for quite so many.

One quick pause at ?Anorak?s Corner?, later, and we were inside. And what a shock we both had, on leaving the underside of the stand for the open spaces up top. On all the bits of the ground they called their own, a sprinkling of Baggies only. Leeds, for their part, had been given the entire Smethwick: even so, the multiplicity of gaps I spotted there told its own tale. As far as the popularity stakes were concerned, this game was a definite non-event, even when checking numbers just prior to kick-off. A mini-surge of bodies, and on all sides of the ground, served to swell the numbers slightly, but nowhere was there enough for respectability to fully assert itself once more.

Team news from the ?front line?? In were aspiring OAP John Hartson, young Chaplow, and Clem: acquiring bum-splinters in quantity were Zoltan Gera, Darren Carter, with Alby, currently hors de combat, sitting this one out completely. Also on the bench was our new signing, Robert Koren, who did get a few minutes towards the end. Leeds? They, too, had elected to keep both new signings on the bench, those being Tore-Andre Flo, and his sidekick, Amando Sar.

Today was also significant for young Rob McShane, the lad sent off during our last encounter with Leeds, back in early autumn, but still winning, despite being a man short for quite some time. How does the song ?Twenty one, and never been kissed?? appeal to your sensibilities? Well, hardly ever, so rumour has it?.!

Despite being much-depleted in numbers these days, what Leeds supporters there were to be seen certainly made up for the relative lack of bodies in the Smethwick. Good for them, but not so good for us, the change round resulting in the loss of quite a noisy section of Baggie-bodies during normal games. Less atmosphere to be savoured from us, but plenty emanating from their end, commencing their ?repertoire?, right from the kick-off, with such gems as ?We?re Leeds, and we?re proud of it?.? All sentiments augmented considerably by the bog-standard insult commonly hurled at visiting fans by the home crowd: ?You?re s**t, and you know you are?? And privately agreeing with our snap-assessment of their side?s capabilities, if truth were known.

As for our lot ? players, that is ? we started the affair in quite bright a fashion: with just five minutes gone, Koumas, I think, had gone very close indeed, tantalisingly so, his effort spat out for a corner with the bare minimum of ceremony. Clem took it, then: that was the moment birthday boy McShane, lurking with malice aforethought just on the other side of the six-yard box, lashed in our first. One-nil to the Baggies, then, and a big ?well done? to our bleach-blonde defender for being sufficiently astute enough to spot the gap in the first place. Got to be worth a fair number of drinks, wherever he chose to celebrate, tonight.

Fair play to their followers, though, even when in arrears so early in the game, they didn?t once flag on the vocals. Meanwhile, at the other end of the pitch Leeds were striving valiantly to restore parity, one of theirs taking the ball right to the edge of our box before letting fly. Sadly, their accuracy was woeful; no wonder the danger of relegation loomed so large for them.

Then play switched to the other end once more, and at light-speed, too: from the above incursion, Joe Kamara took the ball right to the edge of their box, and in wonderful fashion, too. Just one question troubling me, though: was his effort a genuine shot, a cross-cum-shot, or simply one meant for another team-mate? I reckon I?ll need to either phone a friend, or do a nifty fifty-fifty on that one: whatever its purpose, Joe?s shot skittered right across the Leeds goalmouth, but with no-one around in a decent position to convert.

A real shame, that: all it needed was the slightest of toe-pokes to get the referee pointing to the centre-circle once more. Perhaps we might have done things better by delaying things slightly, in order to give the two or three blokes in the stripes running hell for leather in the direction of their box, a decent chance of getting there, then converting. One of many chances we might have bitterly regretted not capitalising upon, after the final whistle, had our Cup density not been subsequently altered by a huge slice of plain old-fashioned Hartley?s Jam.

But, I get ahead of myself once more. With several minutes having elapsed after our opener, we began to suspect the onset of what?s proven to be a distressing malady for players and supporters alike: a horrible tendency to push every panic button going, when tracking back in defence. The basic problem was sheer inability to clear the ball from out of the danger area, and cleanly, with it. Instead, what we were getting was Leeds picking up the ball once more, and in annoyingly-cheap fashion, too, thereby getting sufficient chance to press home their attack. Quite ineffectual, their efforts on goal, at that point in the game, but it would prove to be a real worry much later on.

The real problem was, our supporters were reduced to nervous wrecks, practically ? and it showed, in the form of almost-complete silence from all parts of the ground. We?d had access to similar scripts on several occasions thus far this season, remember? ?S**t ground, S**t fans?? was the cry coming from the Smethwick, and I could only agree with them, given our own considerable lack of enthusiasm for the cause, precipitated by an acute attack of ?nerves?.

Then, just a couple of minutes afterwards, there came a sublime moment from our lot, and a build up to the resultant strike quite exquisite in its performance. Houlty was the real instigator of what transpired, his long goal-kick totally banjaxing one of the Leeds defenders, and right at a very unfortunate time, too. It was John Hartson that latched onto the ball, even pausing slightly to get the thing under full control once gravity had reclaimed it. From there, it was the work of but a moment to fire the thing over the head of their onrushing keeper, who had no chance. Two in front, with the half still young: who would have thought it, eh?

Just a couple of minutes further on, Hartson was dead unlucky not to make it three, nutting one of Clem?s bestest crosses narrowly wide. It was also around that time, I heard the Leeds contingent actually booing their heroes. I could certainly see why: up to then, Leeds had very much played second fiddle to our lot, and, with 20 minute gone, conceding a corner in truly comical fashion. The late Laurel and Hardy would have split their sides laughing at their discomfiture, no question about it. At that point in the game, you really had to wonder how many we were going to rack up at their expense: just about every single Albion attack was ending in grief of one sort or another for the visiting side.

Meanwhile, back in the Halfords, John Homer was busily engaged in a matchday pastime quite unusual for him. Cadbury?s Roses were being broken out, and in very generous fashion, too. (Now let me guess, John: just how many of your relatives decided to give you those for Christmas, eh? Don?t be shy, your secret is safe with me. Ish!) ?Is this a trap?? enquired this column, as the plastic bag containing its delectable contents went round our row for the third time. ?Are they spiked with Polonium 210, or something??

A free kick in a dangerous spot was dealt with quite easily, but just a few seconds later, Houlty had to look pretty sharp to prevent them getting one back. But, with two thirds of the half elapsed, it was the turn of Leeds to gulp mightily at their deliverance. McShane was the provider, his cross falling handily for Hartson, whose header looked a copper-bottomed cert to go in. ?Not so fast (or something!)? cried their keeper, getting to our bald chum?s near post header in truly brilliant fashion.

And that, my leetle chums, marked the point at which we first embarked upon closer inspection of the button marked ?SELF DESTRUCT?. Don?t ask me why, because I just don?t know. Some people, kids, mostly, like to play ?chicken? on express railway lines, or in the fast lane of the M6: our lot specialise in giving away daft balls, and at the most inopportune of moments, too. Not life-threatening, sure, unless you want to count the rage of our followers every time our lot made even the simple stuff look hard. Example? Kamara, he put in some wonderful crosses earlier in the game, but spoiled it all by completely stuffing up a perfectly easy throw. And, on the other side of the pitch, it was only the lino?s offside flag that saved Houlty from having to sort out a totally unnecessary ?one-on-one? with a Leeds attacker.

That proved the catalyst for a pretty sticky spell for our lot: McShane and Greening setting the general tone by ending up in a defensive mix that would have been truly comical, were the proceedings not so deadly serious. The point was, though, from the resultant Leeds throw, poor Houlty ended up in the thick of things yet again, having to pull out all the stops to sort out another corner playing hard on the heels of the first. Finally, we got the goal kick we needed as a breathing space. ?Two-nil, and you still don?t sing?? chorused our oppos in the Smethwick: how I longed to say to them: ?with a defence as daft as ours, you?d have your nerves in shreds as well?.?

On 42, McShane had a bit of a brainstorm, failing to realise that what he?d thought to be a throw was, in actual fact, a free-kick for Albion! Oh dear, then, in stoppage time, Joe Kamara brilliantly managed to evade his Yorkshire tormenters, not once, but an incredible three times on the bounce. He then slipped the ball to Koumas, but all he could do was fire wide. Tinme for the ref to confuse everyone: we all thought he?d blown for the break, which was why there was a mad stampede for the exits when he?d done so. But no ? he?d only blown for the goal kick, leaving more than a goodly number of our fans looking a tad silly! Whoops!

Come the break, then, and the crossbar challenge, both sets of participants coming from both sides, as per usual. What wasn?t, though, was the dynamic duo sharing the turf with the prospective kickers. Dressed in orange furry suits? Quick, phone All Saints, to see whether they?d lost a couple over the last few hours! But, strange fluorescent creatures or not (something to do with a floorings form that advertises heavily in the ground, apparently), it was one of the Leeds kids that won the prize: more than that, once he?d returned to the anonymity of the away end, he was roundly cheered by his grown-up compatriots for having, in his own small way, upheld the reputation of Leeds United, and creditably so. ?Sign him up?? was the cry: well, they could do far worse!

On to the next course, then, with a clearly-furious Denis Wise chucking all three Leeds subs on in an effort to retrieve the situation. The gaffer also spurned his seat in the nearby VIP box, in order to better supervise matters from dugout-level, instead. It was a particularly anxious time for we Baggies: clearly, whatever their gaffer had said in that dressing room had hit the spot right on the nose, something that spelled real trouble for us.

Within the space of but 20 minutes, their lads engaged in a savage bombardment of our goal, from which we were very lucky to emerge unscathed. Thank the following combo, if you want: Lady Luck, coupled with some truly dismal finishing from Leeds. Oh, and not forgetting Houlty, who was truly magnificent, that second half, preventing some genuine dead-cert Leeds efforts from crossing the line, along the way. Two? Three? Four? Got to be, for sure.

The really annoying bit was the fact that most of the gaffes leading to them gaining repossession, then threatening our six-yard box with menace, were truly preventable. The root cause of most lay in a combination of sheer complacency in the middle, coupled with an inability to clear the ball away from dangerous positions. In other words, no sooner had we nullified one thereat, we were having to sort things out pretty fast in order to stop the next. Why the hell we have to turn even the simplest of situations into panic-stricken flight every single time we were the subject of opposition attack, really escapes me. One such failure brought the familiar, but plaintive cry of ?GERRIMOFF!? from the Bloke In Front Of Me. Mind you, he is getting better: that shout was his first in around 60 minutes of footie, thus far, so there were some faint glimmers of hope discernable in and around his balding nut.

Much further into the half, now, and Leeds really had us squirming on the rack. Three corners for them, on the bounce: thus far, Houlty?s handling and anticipation had been superb, but there has to come a time when even the great Lev Yashin would have thrown up his arms in total despair at the clownish antics going on directly in front of him. Despite all that, I was quite surprised to see a massed-exodus of scouts from other clubs, eying up the talent on offer, presumably.

And including a certain gentleman called Keith Curle, now earning his bread in the service of some other League club. For one fleeting moment, I was sorely tempted to remind him of the time when both our paths had regularly crossed: down in Bristol, during the early eighties., when Curle had been an integral part of the Bristol Rovers master-plan to conquer the Universe. Didn?t stop him from getting completely rats-arsed on the rare occasions they dropped him, though: you could follow his progress through the village pub by counting all the empty bottles and glasses he left trailing in his unsteady wake.

It was now around ten minutes remaining to the end, and with the situation still so tense, our manager decided to change things around himself. Two subbings, then: off went Joe Kamara, to be replaced by new boy Koren, also Chaplow, with Darren Carter getting to see at least some of the action for himself. Not in itself the real cuase of what happened just seconds later, but it might well be that the changes upset the Leeds rhythm slightly. Whatever the reason, one swift break upfield later, we were three in front, Koumas doing the initial spadework down the wing, and Phillips latching onto the ball in the middle of the box, then shoving it right into the back of the net.

Along with all the usual celebratory stuff, you could hear a massive sigh coming straight from all four sides of the ground, almost: that goal had been both timely, and welcome. Jesus, did we need that goal! Had we not buried it, then the final outcome could well have been placed in considerable doubt. Up to that point, just about every single time Leeds went on the attack, they looked uncomfortably likely to score: once we?d potted that third, though, they quickly curled up and died. But not completely: even though they were pursuing a lost cause by then, they still managed to nab a very late consolation, and, on the balance of the play that fraught half, most stuff tending to go in favour of Leeds, one truly deserved, too. Now here?s a sentiment you don?t often see me expressing apropos that Yorkshire club: I genuinely wish them well in their subsequent efforts to escape the drop! There, now I?ve said it.

Still, into the next stage of the competition, we surge. The draw is at half-one on Monday, and televised on BBC2, just in case you don?t have a workaday schedule to follow. Anyone at home will do me quite nicely, and it would be nice to recreate what we veterans experienced back in the heady days of Astle And Co, by progressing even further in the competition. Even just the once: come on, God, give us lot a break, given the contrary and inconsistent outfit we support, we certainly deserve one, if only to assist in the repair of badly shredded nerves! Yeah, I know: our defence can be a complete and utter joke, at times, but if bloody Millwall can get as far as the final, then there?s got to be some semblance of hope for us also, hasn?t there?

And Finally?. One. More from last Thursday night?s Supporters Club meeting, where Supes and Don Goodman were the guest speakers. This one comes from Don: back at the end of the eighties, there used to exist a facility for supporters called ?Clubcall?. The idea was, supporters would ring the number for their club, and once through, would receive all the latest news about their favourites.

There was a small price to pay for this service, though ? well, quite a big one, actually. Those ringing their club?s number had to pay top rates for the privilege. ?Tis true that the club also got a cut from the manic-fingered antics of their anxious followers, but let?s face it, you had to be a bit of a sad sack in the first place to use this service on a regular basis. (Now hands up, all those who did, and are willing to admit it?. Oh, hang on, my hubby?s just confessed to a ?three-a-day? habit! Yes, you tell him, not me?)

Anyway, one day, the telephone in our dressing-room rang, and Don just happened to be around to answer it. Who was it? Why, the people behind Clubcall, actually, and on the lookout for suitable Baggie people to interview for their service. In this case, John Paskin, the South African player, who?d only recently joined the Baggies from Oxford United. No, he wasn?t there at the time, but a wicked thought suddenly entered Don?s head. Suppose he pretended to be John Paskin, South African accent and all?

And that?s what he did, dear reader, and proved the veracity of his tale to the audience by coming out with an accent so strong, you?d have thought it was Mister Apartheid himself, their then-President Botha talking, and not a bloke who would have probably been run in by their cops on purely racial grounds from the very first moment the plane?s wheels made contact with the runway, had he been so foolish as book a holiday there. Which made the jape all the more funny, by the time Don?s John Paskin ?interview? finally hit the phone wires!

Two?.. Come Twelfth Night, all those ghastly grotty Crimbo pieces brought into His Nibs?s place of work got returned to their respective owners, including, much to my dismay, the ?cane toad? that gave one of Si?s gaffers such an awful fright one evening, as she was about to exit a now-deserted office. The good news? For reasons best known to itself, the creature in question returned to our place toting a hefty dose of ?laryngitis?. Not the sort caused by bugs, mind, the electronic variety. The very first time I heard it after it came back, I thought something was catching right at the bottom of our front door. But nope, we now have an electronically stressed-out small reptile gracing our doormat, poor thing! The sooner it curls up and dies, the better, as far as I?m concerned. Anyone out there willing to apply the ?coup de grace? to this ghastly creature for me, don?t hesitate to get in touch.

 - Glynis Wright

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