The Diary

04 February 2007: Hull Hell Gives Way To Happiness As Kamara Grabs Us Yet Another Three Points

Funny, isn?t it? Just a few short weeks back, my main Albion moan concerned our willingness ? or the lack of it - to play the pretty stuff more or less on demand, and at the expense of far more pragmatic tactical ideas, most of which involved putting a lot more steel into operations at the back, and midfield.

?Tippy-tappy football,? former manager Gary Megson used to call it, always sniffing somewhat disdainfully as he said it, like a Pekinese with a severe attitude problem, then wrinkling his nose alarmingly, eyes rapidly shooting skywards, a little bit like what used to happen when dowager duchesses regularly did a little bit of ?noblesse oblige? in the local slums to assuage their guilt-ridden social consciences: there would always be at least one home visited where the aroma was somewhat riper than usual, and the nobility reacted accordingly: the patrician spirit was willing, but the flesh it was weak. Give Gary a gilded pomander, and room to swing it, and he would really have looked the part.

But that was ?then?: Mowbray is ?now?, and boy, what a difference we?re seeing. Going to games is now a pleasure, a treat, a joyous, merry spring to our step, drooling anticipation of footballing riches beyond compare. But we haven?t quite forgotten how to find our ?inner animal?, out there, and that?s what was so pleasing about today. Unlike its predecessors, this win was hewn straight from the bedrock, no doubt about it.

Even before today?s game, Hull had flirted with the bottom three places, and very, very vulnerable they were because of it ? making them even more desperate than ever, of course. The Championship is a very lucrative place for clubs not normally aspiring to such dizzy heights: what with the TV money and an automatic place in the FA Cup Third Round, among various other perks, you still find that most newcomers from below are exceedingly reluctant to give up their hard-won new status, and will fight like the very devil to keep things that way.

And that was the nub of today?s performance, really: we wanted the three points to kick on further after our midweek home win versus Plymouth, while today?s home side needed the points to avoid getting sucked right into the relegation places ? and they weren?t too fussy as to how they did it, either. From the start, it quickly became abundantly clear that Hull would try to stop us playing every which way they could, then hit us on the break: the former, they did with a considerable degree of success, while we more or less stopped the latter in its tracks.

With a fair bit of the second half already gone, we?d spent much of our energy metaphorically pounding along a rocky seashore, like a massive great wave wanting to beach itself, and soon, soon, soon: Kamara?s ?money shot? was one of a very few clear-cut chances presented to us at the KC today ? and we needed no second asking. Just as well, really, as the game had been sliding in the direction of complete and utter stalemate for quite some time, before Joe finally did his thing.

A day made all the more pleasant by searing-bright sunshine, all married to perfect azure skies, too, as we made our way towards the ground, our jumping-off point for the long trek northwards, quite early this morning. With my other half still wrestling with the still-disobedient clutch on his new pride and joy, as ever ? and the thing ending up winning by two submissions to one, on this particular short journey.

Still, the short drive quickly brought us to the Tom Silk car park by the school, and from there, a short walk to our coach, situated on the other side of the ground. Although the hour was early, ours was already quite full when we boarded: separate seats only, reckoned the genial lad acting as steward. Not if The Fart could help it, mind: he?d already gone to the trouble of saving a couple for the two of us, so togetherness was to be our watchword, after all. Oh ? and yet another surprise. Our next-door neighbours, as near as dammit, occupying seats in front. Amazing, isn?t it, when you end up seeing far more of your neighbours at football matches than you ever do in the bloody street!

And then we were off, slightly later than planned, around eight charabancs all told. Considering our startling renaissance over the course of the last few games, that was a poor turn-out indeed. I can only assume that what with Christmas only just been and gone, and an awful lot more away games on the horizon, that Cup draw included, then followers were clearly being selective over which ones they attended. And I don?t blame them in the slightest: football?s a very expensive pastime, these days, something not always appreciated by those holding positions of influence in the game.

As per usual on these trips, the route taken was the M6, M42, then joining the M1, not far from East Midlands Airport. Just as we changed roads, I caught a long, long glimpse of something starkly beautiful: the sight of some nearby cooling-towers, dramatically wreathed in smoke, and its warm-coloured brickwork soaking up every last bit of the golden rays of the sun, a cloudless cerise sky providing a somewhat startling backdrop. It?s at times like that I really long for the use of my best camera.

Upwards, then, along a road some might term this country?s ?spinal chord?, through the edges of the Peak District, then skirting the outer environs of Sheffield. And, as there was a major air corridor above our heads, the frequent sight of silver-white vapour trails tearing through the pristine sky as if it wasn?t there. Express-delivery global warming, that little lot, of course, but on a super day like today, who was going to be the first to start complaining?

The only event of note to slightly detract from the calm and peaceful beauty of the journey was the bloody video, one of these comedy acts where the artist in question thinks it?s essential to the delivery and impact of his ancient craft to let rip with four-letter words at every conceivable opportunity. Dearie, dearie me. And while I?m banging on about ?obscenities?, what was my other half doing? Only reading a Dingles fanzine, that?s what: no wonder I let rip with a piercing scream the very first minute I first clapped eyes upon it.

Still, the birthday boy had been very happy with his gifts from me yesterday. Shame about the designer shirt I purchased for him, mind. A lovely, bright, multi-coloured stripey number, it was just the present I?d been seeking for ages. So what did idiot-features (me!) do? Only go and buy one with the wrong shirt collar size, that?s what. It?s at times like that you really do want to scream out loud: still, I?ll be taking it back to be swapped come Monday, so my other half will still be able to grab himself a permanent piece of the fluorescent action for himself very soon indeed.

Mind you, he was dead pleased with yet another gift: a presentation pack of various vodka miniatures, all differently flavoured with fruit: correct me if I?m wrong, but am I right in thinking fresh vodka, fruit flavoured, is the drink of trendy choice, these days, and never, NEVER served at room temperature? And thanks to the pongy toiletry items I purchased also, I reckon he?s got just about every angle covered, now: body, soul, the works.

A mass invasion of services near Doncaster later, for some much-needed coffee, and we were away again, still bathed in brilliant sunshine. One face we spotted there was that of Vic Stirrup, gnome-like, walking-stick to the fore, and still turning out for Baggies away games in his mid-eighties, along with his equally-crinkly chum, whom I know by sight, but the name escapes me, right now. If I?m still compos mentis enough to be dragging myself to similar far-flung destinations when I reach his age, I shan?t be complaining, either.

As we passed the Humber Bridge, now also bathed in brilliant sunshine, I began telling His Nibs about the town?s unique telephone system, which the council sold to BT fairly recently, for an enormous amount of money, some of which they still have sitting the bank to this day. Fair play to the council, though: once the ink was dry on the cheque, they decided to spend the money in the furtherance of various social projects, one of which was their school meals system, which they then made free to every child of school age in the city, irrespective of either age, or parental income.

They also did a ?Jamie Oliver? and improved what was on offer no end, introduced healthy choices at mealtimes, that kind of thing. So much so that both researchers and anecdotal writers have since observed that Hull children are a much better disciplinary proposition at school these days: there?s far less silly behaviour in class, chattering when the teacher?s trying to talk, or poor concentration, even. Most head teachers are now enthusiastic converts, apparently. It was while I was finishing that particular tale that we pulled into the ground proper. Probably the first time for most on that coach, but we?d ?done? the ground quite some time before, when they?d taken on Bristol Rovers at the end of the season, and won the game. And their first promotion, if my memory?s correct. But no police escort whatsoever for our transport, inside the city boundaries? Ah, they trusted us!

A short walk indeed very rapidly brought us to the turnstiles, and as there was little in the way of either amusement or refreshment to be found out there, we decided to go in anyway. It was while we were nattering with other supporters down in the concourse underneath that we first heard about the ?West Bromwich Albion Supporters? Golf Society?. No, this one is on the level, honest, but for reasons of space, I?ll have to leave it until tomorrow night?s piece. Albion supporters who also happen to be golf nuts will really love it, but all will be revealed in due course, I promise.

A good 30 minutes taking notes about the above venture for later use, there we were, genially acknowledging the greetings of those supporters on friendly terms, when a really awful pong began to assail our nostrils ? and it was getting much, much worse, too. How long before the stewards evacuated the entire place, I wondered ? also, the vexed question of precisely what was causing it. Already, even those Baggies possessing really seasoned stomachs and digestive systems were looking desperately for the location of the nearest toilet: then, in a blinding flash of insight, I understood.

The cause of all the stink? A certain Steve Brookes, of whose rotten internal organs I?ve made mention before: a one-man flatulence machine, if ever there was one. Keeping well downwind as I did so, I then asked Steve if he realised that the government had recently sought to restrict his movements ? although, not those of his bowels, sadly! ? on account of his enormous contribution towards global warming?

?Nope,? replied The Big Pong, ?What they?re going to do actually is bring back smoking, and ban farting!?

It was just after we?d fled in the noisome wake of his toxic emissions, that we bumped into yet another familiar face, that of Baz Plant, teacher at Langley High, and former manager of the Grorty Dick Strollers football team, back in the days when men were men, and former Baggies player Adrian Foster spoke in a falsetto squeak (that one mainly down to him being hit by a stray ball when watching one Strollers game very close to the touchline, and in a very nasty place indeed!)

He, too, had a tale to tell, of the far-off days when he also ran his school?s football team. Among the numerous lads who aspired towards playing for it was a gangly-looking youth, all arms and legs. The trouble was, though, Baz just didn?t rate him. In a fit of exasperation one day, Baz actually told a chum: ?Never make a bloody footballer, him?.?

That was his considered verdict, the subject closed, so it came as quite a surprise for Baz to meet up with the lad once more, after he?d left school, finally. The name of the kid in question? Carlton Palmer, who would go on to play for not just us, but Sheffield Wednesday and England, also! Never mind, Baz: if someone as eminent and distinguished as the Astronomer Royal can dismiss space travel as a ?complete load of bunk? just a few weeks before Russia launched its first Sputnik satellite into orbit, then you can get it just as wrong about ?Pinhead? Palmer?s long-term career prospects!

Time to climb the stairs and get an eyeful of that pitch, then. A bog-standard modern ground, with adverts extolling the virtues of Mr. Chu?s China Palace, Costello Taxis, and Total Fitness Health Clubs, among others. And, as is usual in these places, as far as atmosphere was concerned, forget about it. More to be had on the sun-blasted plains of Mercury, I reckoned. Mind you, the PA bloke was trying ever so hard out there! Not getting all that far with it, though. Imagine a male version of Delia Smith, with added cooking sherry or otherwise, bawling ?COME ON!? at the top of his voice. Again and again. Must have been on strong amphetamines since 4 am to get into that hyped-up sort of mood, I reckon.

When the team news got out, we were flabbergasted to hear that Nathan Ellington had come in from the cold, once more. Makes me wonder whether or not Mogga did have a little heart to heart with the lad on the quiet. I still wasn?t convinced he?d done the right thing ? Nathan?s head just isn?t right, at the moment ? but, as I said at the time, everyone deserves a fair chance of redeeming themselves, so we?ll just have to give the guy the supporting equivalent of lots of hugs and cuddles, precisely what David Cameron proposed in the case of ?hoodies?, remember?

Other than that little bombshell, that was about the only difference between the side that (eventually) sorted The Gargoyles, and the one that was preparing to go today. Then, we were away, with Albion defending the goal nearest we three, all sat in the Siege Perilous once more, the front row seats that nearly did for my specs at Blues, earlier this season. At first, it was Hull probing and pushing, with one other feature of their game also becoming horribly apparent: their dogged determination to stop us playing, whatever it took. Combine that with a side trying to catch us out on the break as well, and this could easily have been a fixture riddled with banana skins, right the way through.

But small details like that didn?t seem to matter to our massed following, all 1,800 of them, ish. Carrying on where they?d left off against The Dingles last Sunday, it was ?Stand up if you hate the Wolves.? sung loud and long in that away end. Quite unnecessary, really: after last Sunday?s game, I thought them rather pathetic, so why keep banging on about them all the time? The only way they?ll go up this term is if there?s a gas explosion at the ground.

With around 8 or 9 minutes on the clock, Joe Kamara decided to poke a tentative toe into the water to test it: a fairly nasty effort, it was, but their keeper seemed well able to sort out threats to his well-being such as those. Just three or so minutes later, Curtis Davies elected to have a pop; sadly, his aim was about the same as the fabled Mister Magoo, myopic hero of countless Hollywood cartoons.

Mind you, Kev Phillips should have done much better, on 12 minutes, his effort, struck from very close range indeed, seemed far easier to stick in the back of the net than stuff up ? but, yep, he managed it, and in fine style, too. Then it was Hull?s turn to grab a corner, our defenders seemingly doing just enough to put off Hull?s Damien Delaney well before nut rose to seek union with ball.

It was about that time that our faithful decided to proclaim their annexation of the South Bank at Molineux, as their very own. Not quite as serious as Herr Hitler?s annexation of Sudetenland, back in the 1930?s, but those Dingles must have been just as angry at the sight of their own haunts being usurped by maddened interlopers wearing funny clothes. Which was why the eagerness to relive the moment once more!

With just over 20 minutes gone, our new keeper, Dean Kiely, had to make his very first ?proper? save of the game. Not that the threat amounted to much, really: what did cause problems was our serial failure to shift the ball from out of our box. No wonder just about every Baggie with a throat still intact after last Sunday?s vocal excesses were screaming ?GET RID!? at the top of their voices. And, when retreating behind his net to recover a stray ball, Kiely?s quiet acknowledgment that he greatly appreciated what we were trying to do in the way of noise: I also get the feeling that this gentleman has quite a sense of humour about him, given the chance. Well, most keepers are mad, so they say. Why not yet another in a bloody long line, at our favourite football club?

Those initial assaults upon our peace of mind apart, the game was now entering a cagey sort of period. That time when both sides were testing out the other, trying to find the one chink in their armour that would quickly translate into goals and points. They had a go, quite a creditable one as well, then Chaplow, playing really well out there, also had a pot. Whatever his new-found ball-winning and chasing abilities, as far as goalscoring went, it was very much a case of: ?Don?t ring us, we?ll ring you?.? Yep, he really should have opened the scoring, but only succeeded in hitting the side-netting, instead.

And, with the break fast approaching, a bit of comic relief, as provided by their physio, running onto the pitch to render aid unto one of their stricken players. No, hang on a mo, belay my last ? perhaps I should amend ?running? to read ?wobbling?? Not a very good advert for his trade, that lad, which was why I had the phrase ?As fat as a cowin? tunkey pig? running through my head as he laid on healing hands: blame my mother for that one, but it sure as hell summed that guy up pretty neatly.

Clem had to be handily placed to prevent them going in front a few minutes before the break ? had the intervention not been as timely as it was, then the ref would have most certainly been directing us towards the centre-circle, and at the same time, telling the Hull lot to cease and desist in their hot pursuit of goal celebrations. Then, just a minute or so after that, we had what had to be the best chance of the half presented to us on a plate, almost. Koumas was the lad to almost do the damage, his Mach One shot from more than 20 yards out curling horribly in flight and hitting the retaining wall with an almighty smack, giving keeper Myhill no end of future bad dreams along the way, no doubt.

Half-time, and with that, a pause to take stock. We?d certainly given them a run for their money in the middle: in fact, Chappie was playing an absolute blinder out there, and both Koumas and Kamara ? Special ?K?, anyone? ? looked more than capable of settling things, eventually. The problem was, though, we just couldn?t break them down sufficiently enough to make clear cut chances happen. And they were proving to be a bit of a nuisance when trying to catch us on the break. That was their only hope of getting at us, really, and visions were already entering my head to the effect that we?d keep them out for eighty or so minutes, then fall victim to a shot so feeble, a trained Brownie could have dealt with it with consummate ease. As I?ve intimated before, it?s what you might want to call ?The Albion Way?. Oh ? and one other thing: yep, my birthday greeting for ?Im Indoors was duly read out, and with his full name, too ? Simon Fraser Wright (he really hates the middle bit!)

On with the show, then ? and it was seven minutes, approximately, before we saw yet another Joe Kamara effort come to naught, the shot being comfortably stopped by their keeper yet again. Not so much a game of football, more a war of attrition: how could we unlock that solid wall of theirs? The way I saw it, the win, if any, would be a narrow one, and the side making the first major error being made to suffer the most. This was going to be a pretty close-run thing, by anyone?s lights. And, to be fair to Hull, they?d done really well, up until then. Not for long, though. With our lot now shooting into the goal nearest us, we were given a grandstand view of what happened next.

The build-up, in some ways, had started a minute before, when their keeper narrowly won a race between him and Joe Kamara for the ball: getting there first, the lad punted upfield, but it came right back again within a matter of seconds. And Jason Koumas, lurking with menace a fair distance out, latched right onto the thing this time. Controlling it beautifully, he then waltzed past first one, then another Hull player, then laid it off to our man Joe, poised for action on the very edge of the box. Having shaken off the main part of his Hull ?minders?, he then took the ball a little way more, then let fly. Their poor sod of a keeper had no chance: one-nil it was, and to The Albion, as per the song!

One surprising move on the part of our gaffer as everyone trotted back to the centre circle: off went Koumas and Phillips, and on came Nathan Ellington and Zoltan Gera. At first sight, a strange thing to do ? but think on. We?ve got an awfulv lot of important games coming up, so it might just be he?s giving both as much rest as he possibly can, and while he?s in a good position to take the risk. Once we finally get through this forthcoming series of games, most of which are against decent sides, perhaps everyone can then relax that little bit more.

And with his very first kick of the ball, Duke Ellington almost managed to break his personal scoring ?hoodoo?, the (almost) perpetrator of the damage being a header, this time round. And that goal had had yet another effect: the pattern of play was now much more open than it had ever been before. Clearly, Hull were sticking their necks out, and taking some additional risks along the way, in an attempt to chase the game: don?t forget, only recently, they?d been in right lumber.

Enter into the story their keeper, once more. With around 20 minutes left to go, Duke Ellington nearly applied the coup de grace, and not once, but twice, only the brilliance of their keeper stopping the troubled lad from registering that vitally important, morale-boosting, second League win on the road in absolute yonks. Then, as the ball came whipping in around a minute after that, it was Chappie?s turn to have a pop from fairly-short range: this time, the ex-Seal managed to shift the thing over the bar, and into the rapidly gathering gloom at the back of the stand.

And all the while that was going on, we were hoping and praying they wouldn?t hit us on the break, and net one on the sly. After all, we weren?t exactly strangers to that sort of thing having been perpetrated on us many times before. But we needn?t have worried: thanks to something quite unexpected happening ? Hull having yet another player injured after they?d used up all their subs, their lad France being stretchered off after getting the worst of a challenge involving Paul Robinson ? they had no choice but to go down to ten men.

That meant even more space in which our ball-merchants could operate with impunity, but, sad to say, they couldn?t quite cash in. Our last attempt to increase our lead came when Koren, positioned about six yards away from the goal-line, somehow missed the chance for glory. That was the final straw for the sorely-pressed nervous wreck of a Fart, gibbering in the seat to the left of ?Im Indoors. ?NO! NO! NO!? he screamed in the elevated sort of pitch that the castrati choral talent scouts of the 17 and 1800?s Vatican would have absolutely killed for!

But, really and truly, we already knew in our own minds that the day would belong to us, although, what with the injury to the Hull lad - and one to Keily, in injury time, appropriately enough! ? we could still have been caught short. (On leaving the ground, someone I knew by sight intimated to me that had the ref seen that tackle on our keeper for what it truly was ? a Hammer Horror type-effort - the Hull lad doing the damage would have walked immediately. Sadly, he didn?t, so he didn?t either, if you get my drift!)

Kamara was then taken off ? a time-waster, that one, although to all intents and purposes, Hull had had it. Then the final whistle, and the realisation we?d once more notched up a much-needed win on the road. Kamara had his sixth strike in just four games, and his 18th of the season. Because Blues dipped, we moved into third place, and by doing so, finally overtaking those Bluenoses, at long last. See, I thought we?d nick it, in the end. Oh, ye of little faith! (Phew! Thank God it?s all over, but don?t tell anyone else I said that)

One quick stroll out of the ground and into the coach compound, and we were away in fairly short order, enjoying a wonderful sunset, all golds, reds and purples, as we made our way past the Humber Bridge and towards the motorway once more. And, following in its wake, the hypnotic brilliant glow of the planet Venus, aka The Evening Star, Hesperus, as bright as sin, but as hot as hell to live there, assuming you could, of course. A huge great silvery orb in the west, showing us the way forward. Praise be to the Goddess Of Love, what? And praise be to Joe Kamara. What a star - just like the one hanging in the low heavens, a blazing beacon guiding us right back to the Black Country. And, the way things are starting to pan out, right now, the Premier League, too.

And Finally?.. It was while we were in the services at Doncaster that I finally solved the eternal mystery of why Dave Holloway, Albion?s Baggies Travel organiser, kept muttering darkly, to my other half, every five minutes or so: ?YOU?RE the one to blame?..? It turned out that it was 23 years to the day that Dave was first ?volunteered? for the job of away match travel organiser for the Supporters Club by both my other half, and a chap called Dave Farr, also on the Supporters Club Committee at that time. At first, Dave had said ?No!?, and very forcefully, too, but after not a little heavy-duty arm-twisting on the part of our gruesome twosome, he eventually agreed to take it on ? and, some 23 years further down the line, almost to the day, he?s doing it still. And still cussing my other half something awful for having dropped him in it in the first place!

His first ?proper? game in charge was at QPR around 1983, but at the start of 1986-87, after relegation, we saw an enormous number of Baggies turn out for that inaugural Second Division away game, which we were expected to turn out for mob-handed for, at ? yep, that?s right ? Hull City. Newly-dropped, but still with bags of confidence, we were, that opening day. Oh dear. After missing far more chances than even our present forwards would have done ? I believe Stuart Evans was one of the guilty, which says it all, really: after spending all the game pegging back The Tigers ? errr - we went and lost 1-0, the strike coming hard on the one and only time they decided to have a go themselves. Familiar story?

 - Glynis Wright

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