The Diary

29 January 2007: Dingles Dumped From Cup In Fine Baggies Style!

WHOO-EE! According to The Fart?s accumulated wisdom, today was going to be very much a day of ?Gets?. ?Get there; get in; watch the game; get out; get back to the car (?in one piece? was the inference there, I reckon); get home?? Couldn?t say I blamed him: at the time, the loss of Houlty and Zoobie?s unexpected presence between the sticks apart, my other remaining worry was the possibility of getting them in the play-offs, but after today?s performance, I?d estimate the chances of our local rivals being in the final shake-up as minimal, at best. As our parting song implied: ?We?re just too good for you?..?

The day hadn?t started as well as it finished, mind, not by a long chalk, and all down to one of my cats, the one with the history of recent strokes, I mean. When I got up, there he was, on the bed, stretched out, as usual, deep in slumber, but when I put me clothes on, rather than stir in the direction of the kitchen to see what nosh was on offer that morning, he didn?t move a muscle. Eyes firmly shut, too.

With what the vet had told me about his probable life expectancy very much in mind, I began to panic: touching him gently, I half expected to find him very much an ex-cat ? but nope! The crafty little sod had been winding me up all the time, something rapidly confirmed by the way in which he opened one baleful eye, then, fixing me in his gaze, gave me a look that very much said: ?Had you going there, for a bit, didn?t I?? And people still insist on telling me cats don?t have ?personalities?? Yeah, right.

On the way over to Dingle Town, The Fart, ?Im Indoors and myself, we mused over the thought that Zoobie, and not Houlty, would be tenanting our goalmouth for the entire 90 minutes. I was comforted slightly by the reminder, given by someone on this site?s mailing-list last night, that Zoobie had been the one in goal the day we beat the Dingles 3-0 in the league, a few months back. ?Tis true, his handling that day ? or, more pertinently, his non-handling! ? prematurely aged most Baggies there that day by a factor of approximately ten years (some Dingle said afterwards, on the internet ?We were beaten on the day by ten class players ? and Coco The Clown!?) but despite all that, we still triumphed.

Discussing it in our car, I put forward the view that there were parallels in the way Grobellaar kept goal for Liverpool back in the eighties: despite his occasional brilliance, there were more than the odd few times when he could be just as much a liability as the current Albion incumbent, the only thing saving him from even worse embarrassment being their superb defence in front, plus the fact they scored far more than conceded. I could only hope that some appreciation of the sheer importance of the occasion would penetrate the sometimes-dense brain of our Switzerland international today.

Mind you, the gold-and-cack persuasion hadn?t exactly won the hearts of their fans over the arrangements for today, the normal occupants being temporarily turfed out of what is formally designated The South Bank, and with nary a conciliatory gesture, bar the offer of a free pie and a pint. Missing the mark by a thousand miles, Dingles: their real beef was with the fact they had to pay extra for the dubious privilege in the first place. I?m not quite sure as to who?s currently in the lead regarding this season?s ?Midlands Club Having The Most Difficulty Preventing Self-Inflicted Gunshot Wounds To Foot Award?, them or Blues, but this particular stunt must have given them not a few points towards their season?s end total, what?

By now, we were well within the boundaries of Dingles territory: about to negotiate the ring-road, in fact, but still no obvious sign there was a game on that day. Not even a marked increase in the volume of traffic, even, or gold-and-cack-clad pedestrians. What we did see, though, was a building bearing the sign ?Sexy Supermarket?. ?What, in Wolverhampton?? commented our back-seat wrinkly chum. Luckily, he didn?t pursue the topic any further, otherwise we may have entered territory where my little blue pencil might have to be brought into action with great rapidity!

An uneventful arrival, then, and one strangely devoid of humanity, be it either Baggie or Dingle, still, despite the relative lateness of the hour. From our normal parking spot, a journey conducted through streets surreally quiet, past a church with a service going full-blast ? well, if I could hear the words of the hymn they were singing in there, the volume of the noise must have been enough to keep the entire neighbourhood from getting a Sunday lie-in! ? and past a sign saying ?Quakers Meeting House?.

A strange sort of organisation to see in that city, their entire creed being based upon peaceful resolution of all conflict. Oh, and all their services being conducted in silence: just as well The Noise never hankered after joining, then, wasn?t it? All that, and with the distant chime of church bells somewhere in the background, something that instantly brought to mind the lyrics of XTC?s 1982 chart-topper ?Senses Working Overtime? ? ?I?ve got one, two, three, four, five senses working overtime??Pain and pleasure, and a church bell softly chiming?.? Just about summed up the ordeal to come, by my reckoning.

Just one thing that puzzled me slightly, as we neared the ground: why had the police blocked off most of the approach roads to the place, but left open the one actually going past their ground? Most surprised were we to encounter all that traffic there, given that the rozzers had recently issued Dire Warnings to everyone espousing the Albion cause, that access by car would be severely restricted. Oops.

Never mind, though, nearly there. One swift frisking session, and a flash of the relevant bit of cardboard later, we were in, and launched right into batting the pre-match breeze with the oodles of Albionites we knew, either personally, or by sight. But the really amusing tale came from a complete stranger to us all: an elderly Baggie, he was, and very Black Country, too. Rushing towards us, glee written all over his face, I immediately twigged that what he was about to say would be very funny indeed ? and it was! ?Them pies the Dingles am a-givin? away ? they?m 12 months outer date, ay thay?? I didn?t see any incriminating wrappers myself, but the guy wouldn?t have had a reason to lie to us, and being so advanced in years, it wouldn?t have been his style anyway, so I guess that was indeed the case! Time to amend the remarks I made earlier about a possible ?Shooting One?s Self In The Foot Award?: on my reckoning, the Dingles just had to be in front by a country mile!

Amidst all the familiar faces, though, one reassuring sign. That of our own stewards everywhere, a welcoming contrast to previous occasions where Baggies had tried to report ?friendly? gestures, like being ?bombed? by urine-filled condoms from above, or being spat on, ditto, to the Wolves stewards, only to be told they had to nail the offenders with complete certainty before they could act. Suppose, in a fit of pure malice, some Baggie with evil intentions had picked out some totally-innocent spectator as the culprit? Yeah, right?..

The pre-match conversation was also enlightened considerably by The Fart?s reminisces about January games long since gone. Not strictly relevant to today?s, ?tis true, but fascinating all the same, not least because this was the first time they?d ever seen the light of day after dwelling undiscovered for so long within the deepest recesses of The Fart?s cranium.

Memories like Charlton, The Valley, circa 1954, when it was so cold, Albion supporters were reduced to burning items like newspapers, scarves and hats on the open terraces there at the time, capacity 75,000 ? yeah, I can just see the police welcoming that one with open arms today! ? just to keep out the penetrating chill. If that?s what it was like for the spectators, I absolutely dread to think what conditions were like out there for the players. No undersoil heating back then, remember?

Just before we left to find our seats, a chance encounter with the Royal Family ? well, Laraine, at least, although Clare Astle was lurking somewhere nearby also. A good chance to bat the breeze generally, as we hadn?t spoken since the launch of Simon?s book, really. Slightly miffed, she was, too, at one family group picture, taken at The Hawthorns just a few years before Jeff died, ending up being sold: because of it being about the last picture taken at The Hawthorns of Jeff as he really was, Laraine regarded the picture as an intimate one, very much a family thing, and not for sale at any price. To their credit, when she complained, the club took the item off their website within a matter of minutes.

Just after she?d gone, I began to seriously wonder just what kind of substance it was The Fart had ingested in the back seat of our vehicle en-route to the game. Just before we parted, he burst into a rendition of the theme tune to ?High Noon?, an early fifties Hollywood Western starring Gary Cooper, and almost universally regarded as one of the best of its kind ever made. ?Do not forsake me, oh, my dar-leeng?? he warbled, to the complete astonishment of those supporters in close proximity, while aping the star of the show emerging from the Molineux players? tunnel with a couple of footballs tucked under his arms, in lieu of a brace of six-shooters! I?m given to understand the condition is completely curable ? er, provided it?s caught in good time, that is!

And so to the main ?dish of the day?, then. Finding our seats within a matter of minutes ? one hard against a concrete wall, to our left, separating us from where they had a temporary stand erected, for the duration of the single season they were a Premiership side, and, to the right, our former haunt on these occasions, the so-called ?Gobbing Gallery?, the reason for the nickname being all-too evident to those who?d visited the place over the course of our most recent League encounters. The last one?s around five seasons ago, now, but just like the spittle, and all those urine-saturated items of clothing, the memory still lingers on. Its current name, ?The Steve Bull Lower? fits the place beautifully.

That?s when what one might term ?serious psy-ops? first started. That?s the name the military customarily give to antics civilians would call ?mind-games?. Stuff delivered in such a way calculated as to greatly affect the morale of the other lot in a particularly adverse manner, in other words. Just how is that achieved within the surroundings of a football ground, then? Easy: you start off by gently reminding all those Dingles turfed out of their spiritual home, and sitting elsewhere, precisely who it was did the turfing in the first place. Once you?ve got that one established, the rest is an absolute doddle, although the later chucking in of a couple of goals conceded does make one hell of a difference to the final result, as will be seen shortly!

While we awaited the start, just a few seats in front, a very familiar face from the past showed up. Stew Jeens, ex-squaddie, and former GD subber ? but sporting an unfamiliar bleached-blonde barnet, now? Ooer. The reason, though, was simple: Stew?s fronting an Erasure tribute band these days, and on a semi-professional basis, too. Still couldn?t quite eradicate the strange look he had about him: no wonder all that hydrogen peroxide went missing recently: not so much in the hands of Al Qaeda as the Tipton Terror!

Oh ? and talking about ?mind-games?, a quick mention for what turned out to be A Really Cunning Plan devised by some unnamed Baggie genius or other, with evil foremost in their mind: leaving a whole host of stripey Tesco bags draped around seat-backs innumerable, after the game, the word having been spread via the internet, presumably. Must have done so like wildfire, judging by the sheer numbers left in place once the final whistle had gone!

And so to the game, then, all the principal characters only emerging from the tunnel after at least three false starts on the part of the Wolves PA bloke. The noise level as they did so? Sorry, what was that you just said, can?t hear you? Quite.

As for the eventual line-up, that was the Leeds side, essentially, plus Koumas. Gera was on the bench, with young Luke Daniels acting as Zoobie?s understudy, with the absence of Houlty from the secne. No John Hartson, though ? ?phoned in sick the previous night? was the official explanation. Hmmmm. Still, no time to speculate further, what with the start of the game imminent, and all that.

And, with a quick blow of the old whistle from referee Uriah Rennie, off we jolly well went, then. And quite a promising start it was, too, what with our lot being first to make the opening moves, and Zoobie passing his first test after only a couple of minutes, thanks to his team-mate, Koumas dallying too long on the ball, once it got too near their 18-yard line. Nice to see him getting back like that, of course, but there are times when it?s far more prudent to just ?get rid? and sod what the purists think about the quality of the move. And nice also to see Zoobie reacting with all due alacrity to the threat, as well.

All was forgiven, though, about ten minutes later, when our tame Welsh international let fly with an absolute scorcher that only narrowly cleared the crossbar, a move we could only hope was a portent of much better things to come. And, with that, came more in the way of practical crowd psychology, as demonstrated by our 5,000-plus followers massed right behind Zoobie?s goal. ?There?s only one Jez Moxey?.? they warbled happily, in the general direction of anything gold and black, closely followed by: ?Moxey, Moxey, give us a wave?.?

There then followed a couple of ?reasonable? chances, one from Kamara, and one from the Dingles, where Clem was responsible for averting the danger before it could become a danger, if you know what I mean! Then, not too long after that, it was that man Kamara again ? and what a tantalising sod of an opportunity that was, the ball drifting right across the face of goal, with nary a Baggie boot available to apply the gentle toe-poke required to send out lot into ecstasy, and their lot into fits of rage. Just about everyone missed that ball, as it shot right across the face of goal, of course, but a serious chance it most certainly was.

By that time, I?d roughly worked out that on the balance of things, we had our noses in front, just about, and all the signs were that it wouldn?t be too long before we penetrated their rearguard good and proper. Certainly, their counters to all that attacking football from us seemed to be quite feeble affairs, at best. Even Zoobie had managed to perform well, thus far, something that gave us every confidence, rapidly growing as the game progressed, we?d eventually win the day.

Mind you, life wasn?t completely devoid of little scares, like the time a Curtis Davies deflection saved our bacon after Olofinjana nearly had our brainless chums dribbling with excitement with his shot on goal. But the tide was turning, gradually: with around two thirds of the half gone, the gut feeling grew and grew that we were very much getting the upper hand in most encounters, and our defence happily soaking up what little pressure they managed to mount upon us.

Our ?glee-club? even found time to dredge up a couple of ?golden oldies?, like ?Stevie Bull?s a Tatter?, plus another reprise for the ever-popular ?SuperBob? number. Out there on the pitch, we were keeping everything on the ground, which was where we had the advantage: the wind, a swirly sort of number, was doing all sorts of peculiar things out there, and was best avoided, as far as I could see.

Kamara had threatened to do similar damage just moments before, but it was only in the last few minutes of the half that Joe finally split their defence wide apart: like cracking open a particularly tough nut, it really was. Kev Phillips was the Baggie who first set the whole thing in motion, his intelligent ball to Kamara leaving Dingles defender Little completely flat-footed and chasing, chasing, chasing, all the way from the halfway line, in fact. A couple of ineffectual snaps at Joe?s feet later, to which our hero responded by shifting up a gear ? and suddenly, there was Joe, free of all defensive restraint, their keeper completely out of it, and the lad bearing straight down on a goalmouth completely devoid of a recognised custodial occupant.

Result? Before finally netting, our lad had sufficient time to comb his hair neatly, take out his wallet, check as to whether he had enough cash on him to see him all right for the nights festivities, consult his diary to see what was on later that day, regarding his social whirl, and his part in it ? then, and only then, calmly placing the ball well and truly over the line. It was as easy as writing your own name, it really was, but then again, how many Dingles do YOU know that have sufficient mastery of literacy skills to write their own names?

The goal, when it came, was around a minute or so from the break, which gave us around 15 minutes longer in which to properly chew the cud. And while we were locked deep within the throes of earnest discussion, there was now the somewhat unusual sight of two cars being slowly driven around the ground?s running track to feast upon. ?Perhaps they?re two Dingles that took the wrong turning by mistake?? was my bijoux contribution to the ongoing debate! Oh ? and with almost a Freudian touch, punters there were then invited to ?Hit The Shed? a much more feasible achievement than our very own ?Crossbar Challenge? ?Hit the shed? as opposed to completely wrecking it: a shame, that, as the alternative would have been vastly more entertaining, I reckon!

And so to the second portion, then, for which our opponents had made two changes. And, with only a couple of minutes gone, we?d made it two goals! An ?oggie?, I reckon, as the ball had definitely hit a Dingle foot on its way in, but it would now seem that Kev Phillips, the original ?sharpshooter?, is laying claim to that one. I?m not too surprised that the defender who provided that inadvertent deflection, Collins, hasn?t exactly rushed to claim his rightful prize.

And as we celebrated mightily, with ?Boings?, the 23rd Psalm (very appropriate, considering the time of week, that) and more Albion-inspired Dingles insults ringing in our ears, time for a quick look at the creatures seated in the stand immediately adjacent to our own: oh, dear, talk about a whole load of bulldogs chewing a wasp they?d just swallowed?

That second strike just about finished off the Dingles as a force for evil in the Black Country. It didn?t help, either, when our lot piped up with ?We?re just too good for you?.? Trite, but true, as was our next comment upon the situation: ?You might as well go home?.!? Closely followed by that old chestnut: ?Can we play you every week??

Shortly after that came the only real time when we looked like getting into defensive trouble, the time Zoobie tried to retrieve the ball when outside the box, ran into all sorts of difficulties as a result, and got booked for his pains. But it wouldn?t be right to criticise too harshly: after all, thus far, he?d more than passed every single test chucked at him by the Dingles attack, for what it was worth. I will say that the resulting free-kick, taken on the edge of our box, could have landed us in serious grief, but didn?t, as it happened.

Another attempt by Koumas to make it three later, and an Albion subbing to boot, Gera replacing the useful Koren, with 15 to go to the end, and we were another one to the good! With about Gera?s first proper kick of the ball, too, with a Koumas corner, perfectly placed, serving as ?ammunition?. Mind you, you didn?t need to know the name of the scorer: just one glimpse of that trademark somersault would have told you the full story almost instantaneously, I reckon!

And it wasn?t quite over, either. During the course of those last few minutes, they could have conceded more quite easily, the most striking of these being a dreadful miss from Kamara, from all of six yards out, in response to our promptings of ?We want four!? presumably. Easier to put the blasted thing right over the goal-line and be done with it, I would have said, but that?s football for you!

?Three-nil, and we?ve got your seats!? warbled our choir in happy response to that late extension of our lead, but those comments were very much falling upon deaf ears by then, as a quick shufti in the direction of the nearest stand would have revealed. The moment Rennie signalled a return to the centre circle, that was the general cue for innumerable disgusted Dingles to quit the scene of the crime as quickly as humanly possible! And just by way of further insult, a further casual enquiry of ?How?s yer pies, lads?? as they all fled.

Another subbing, Kamara for Carter, as the game entered its dying stages, Yet more insults directed at the hapless Wulves administrator, Moxey, culminating in gleeful choruses of: ?Moxey OUT, Moxey OUT!....? and ?You?re just a fat Dingle B*****d?? Not too sure about the parentage bit, although you couldn?t have sued regarding the ?adipose? stuff. What undiminished mirth, the moment the ref blew for full time, and to a half-deserted Dingles ground, by that stage. Oh, dear, keen to rush for our Sunday lunches, were we, then?

What a victory, our most emphatic versus ?them?, on their own territory, since the Atkinson era of 1978-79, in which we also bested them by the same margin. And good to see our players looking genuinely delighted by what they?d achieved, too, especially Robbo, conducting celebratory operations from on the pitch. All we have to do now is await the draw for the next round, tomorrow. Let?s hope it?s at home, and involving a side we can put to the sword fairly easily. One of those Prem sides more on their uppers than usual would do nicely, I reckon. Or, failing that, one of the few remaining lower-division outfits. By this time tomorrow, we?ll see.

And Finally?.. Talk about ?quick off the mark?, the white van I spotted as we made our way through the city centre after the game. Very grimy, it was, too, but already bearing the legend, carefully finger-tipped from out of the yuk deeply coating it: ?ALBION 3 DINGLES 0 ? HA! HA! HA! HA!....?

 - Glynis Wright

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