The Diary

11 February 2007: Saints Alive, We Nearly Curled Up And Died!

Oh, well ? yet another harsh lesson I?ve learned while negotiating the daily hurly-burly of the stuff Life tends to fling at one during the course of our allotted span, and it?s this: Confucius he say, it?s not really a good idea to go to The Hawthorns expecting to see a nice quiet game these days, because ?quiet? is a precious commodity our favourite football club simply don?t have stashed away for use as and when required. Today?s game was one of those where you didn?t dare take your eyes off any of the players, even for a single moment: had you done so, the chances were you?d miss a pivotal part of the action.

As far as excitement, thrills and spills go, neutrals must really love us ? today?s knife-edge Championship caper being a prime example of the fare routinely on offer at Planet Albion, second-highest goalscorers in the entire country, of course ? but when you come to look at things from the viewpoints of the people that really matter, our supporters, it?s got to be a miracle of almost Biblical proportions that most aren?t chewing their fingers right to the very knuckles that first gave them shelter, or alternatively, putting on a pretty good imitation of gibbering wrecks deliberately plonked in some out-of-the-way hole or corner, somewhere.

But the biggest miracle of the entire lot, in my reckoning, just has to be the bloody weather, which jumped upon us from a truly savage height yesterday, but failed miserably to inflict further grief upon us today. I certainly called that one wrong, but it really is one of those mistakes where you?re much happier in retrospect, resting in the certain knowledge that one?s worst fears hadn?t happened at all.

I?d woken around nine this morning, you see, not long after my other half left for the ticket queue at the ground: fearing the worst, I made to peek somewhat coyly from the vantage point of our bedroom curtains ? and, what did I see, O Baggie People? A whole lotta meltin? goin? on, as some elderly early rock singers might term it these days. Game or no game, not a minute too soon for this column: I really do loathe the stuff with every single particle of my entire being.

It?s at this point in the game that I must pause to send a great big sloppy hug in the direction of ?Im Indoors, who, fearing the adverse weather conditions might not be enough to deter really keen punters, bravely set out to do icy battle with the ticket queue about 20 or so minutes before I awoke. Once at the ground, just ten minutes drive away from our place, he found himself confronted by not the expected line, snaking sinuously in the direction of the Brummie Road, but a mere 30 or so early Baggies, all patiently waiting for the Ticket Office to begin business for the day.

Guess who was right at the very front? Yep, yer old chum The Fart who, not completely trusting Mother Nature to deter prospective overnight punters, had risen in the early hours to stake his own valid claim for those little bits of paper everyone was after. How early are we talking, here? How does half-five in the morning grab you? With an arrival time at the ground itself around 6.45 am? Yersss, I didn?t think that sort of time existed either!

The best bit, though, was his appearance, apparently. Sure, while accepting completely the concept that our ground, at that unearthly hour, isn?t really the sort of place where a dress code be de rigeur, even the most well-meaning of bystanders would have had to admit that The Fart?s very own concept of sartorial elegance certainly left a lot to be desired that day. Think ?Compo?, of ?Last Of The Summer Wine? fame, and you?d get it just about right, tousled hair, unshaven facial features, welly boots several sizes too big, the entire works. And all given that elegant but highly necessary finishing touch by the provision of a Baggies scarf or three for adornment purposes.

Beau Brummell it most certainly wasn?t, ditto Beau Geste, a distinct lack of sand and heat being the obvious giveaway there. Plus a paucity of French Foreign Legionnaires currently residing in the Handsworth area, of course. Anyway, on espying our tame senior lurking near the front, ?Im Indoors realised he?d found a kindred spirit, so joined him without further ado. Blimey, it?s bad enough having to do such things whilst in the first flush of youth, when you?re of such ancient vintage as The Fart, it ceases to be a laughing matter very quickly indeed.

Still, I can?t help but wonder whether Tel?s prolonged wait in the cold brought back distant memories of countless ?stand to? sessions conducted in the dawn twilight of the Western Front, circa 1916. More to the point, did our hero get a taste of the stuff that became so notorious as a direct result of the savagery of that conflict ? Army rum, the genuine article, I mean, and not the poor imitation flogged in off-licences innumerable, today?

Popular lore was, the stuff was issued as a matter of routine immediately prior to ?going over the top?, the (conspiracy?) theory being that by the time the order finally came, these guys would be so sozzled (and aggressively so, in most cases) they?d want to take on the entire German army and its brother. Not much different from the average Saturday night in town, really.

But back to the football. On arrival at the Hawthorns hotel, we then took the trouble of handing a congratulations card to young Carly, who?d recently landed that canteen job she?d mentioned just the other week. Plus another item, somewhat more edible than the first, but with a brand-name those who?d been on our recent Denmark pre-season jaunts would remember with remarkable ease. How does ?Spunk? grab you, then, Baggie-people?

Before anyone gets the wrong idea, it?s a brand-name for a Danish sweetmeat very much in the ?Tic-Tacs? mould, and packaged similarly, the only difference being the fact the contents are fruity, not minty. Oh ? and when quantities of the stuff were given to our finest immediately prior to one game in particular, the very act was immediate cue for complete chaos in the ranks. It?s bloody difficult to do a pre-match talk when half your players are rolling on the floor laughing! Probably one of the prime reasons why Megson split the blanket with our supporters so quickly afterwards!

On handing the stuff over to Carly, in the pub, her face, upon first reading the label, was an absolute picture: well, come on, what else would you expect from someone still deep in the clutches of rampant adolescent hormones? Poor Bethany, not yet being of an age where such things were common knowledge, demanded to be let in on the secret, so Pater sort of fobbed her off by telling her the laughs all lay in the fact it was to do with ?reproduction?. ?Oh, like you get in flowers, then?? said the poor innocent child, scoffing half the packet contents as she spoke. ?Coo, I don?t half like this ?spunk?, dad!?.? was the shouted announcement, in tones that must have penetrated every single able-bodied lughole in the entire place! Exit rapidly Dad and Distinctly Rubicund Eldest Daughter, both trying their level best not to laugh, but failing miserably!

And what of our very own early (Baggie?) bird, as double entendres aplenty washed across that massive round table we?d all hi-jacked. Well, while smut ruled the day at one end, our chum was preoccupied with thoughts of a much more intellectual nature: conversing with a group of Albion supporters who?d made the journey from Ellesmere Port, in Deepest Cheshire. Baggies since the year dot, the lot of ?em, and driven frantic trying to ascertain this morning whether or not there?d be a game to admire, once in situ, as it were.

Failing completely to get through to the club ? sounds familiar, doesn?t it? ? they decided to make the trip on spec anyway, which is why they?d landed up in our pre-match domicile in the first place. One had an interesting tale to tell, all about the 1968 Cup Final. Hands up, all of you who knew someone getting to the Twin Towers courtesy of a Black Maria, and not committing any offence to do so? Thought as much ? but this chap did. It was all because his sister, a Lambeth resident, happened to work in one of the Met?s canteens, and was well in with the local bobbies as a result. Got a lift to Wembley in one, did both he and his chums, on the day of the 1968 Cup Final ? but there was even more to come. They still had to sort out the small matter of a ticket, so, having bade farewell to their ?chauffeur? they stood on the pavement not far from the place, not quite knowing what to do next.

Enter Salvation, in the form of a band. No, nothing whatsoever to do with the world-famous Bible-bashers, more with the British Army, one of whose bands had been ?booked? by the FA to do the prestigious gig. Stopping a group of these uniformed guys in the forlorn hope they might be of some assistance, it turned out that they could, actually! One thing led to another, and the next thing the four of them knew, they were all safe inside. But it got even better for one particular Baggie in that party: by a process of wheeling and dealing that would have made even Bill Gates quake in his boots, he eventually found himself seated just two rows behind Royalty itself! The rest we all know, of course. Lovely stuff.

But wasn?t there a football match about to start over the road? Oh soddit, so there was. Taking our leave of that intrepid Cheshire group, finally, we shifted ourselves over the road, then into the ground, with a small diversion at Anorak?s Corner chucked in for good measure. And a large Bovril chucked in for me, as well: ?tis true that the snow was by now melting about as quickly as a Wulves promotion-place lead, back in 2001-02, but the cold was still pretty vicious, hence the pressing need for hot beefy beverages in my half-frozen innards.

Ah, well ? there was always Jean to natter to, and today bearing slightly better news about young Zoltan, now definitely missing part of his anatomy, of course. It now seems that the poor mog is actually asthmatic, a bit of a blow, that, as felines are, well, furry, and lots of human asthmatics considerably worsen the condition by living and working in close proximity to fur, and similar stuff! How the hell you treat the condition without easy recourse to that bog-standard human asthma remedy, a steroid inhaler, I really dread to think. Feline dosage steroid tablets for life, perhaps?

Out there on the pitch, there were a few personnel changes to assimilate, pre-match. With Jonathan Greening, suspended, left contemplating his own navel, in came Zoltan Gera for his first pukka midfield start in yonks, while Alby, looking to regain his place in the pecking-order after injury, got to gravitate to the bench, along with fellow outfield players Ellington, Carter and MacDonald, and Zoobie assuming Kiely?s understudy role for good measure. Saints? George Burley, a big mate of Mogga, by the way ? all stemming from their Ipswich days, apparently ? had seen fit to make three changes. Kenwyne Jones, Chris Makin, and Andrew Surman were in, while Inigo Idiakez (suspended), Marek Saganowski (benched) and Pele (no, I didn?t make that one up!) nursing a hamstring injury. Oh, and in keeping with the overall sogginess of the day, we even had a referee rejoicing in the name of Pike in charge! Now tell me the FA don?t have a sense of humour.

Having finally dotted every possible ?I?, and crossed every possible ?T? of the pre-match preamble, it was time for our piscatorially-named whistler to get us away, at long last, Albion attacking the Smethwick End, as per usual, that opening half. And in weather not quite as brutally cold as it had been just 24 hours ago, but even amongst all the fast-melting slush, Mother Nature was still more than capable of showing an equally-frostbitten countenance towards her general public, and one of her best sullen-grey blankets obscuring the sky.

First intimations this game wasn?t exactly going to be a pushover for either side came as quickly as the opening minute, when Albion, in a wonderfully fluent display of attacking football, nearly carved Saints right open from base to apex courtesy some pretty slick, exciting, death-dealing undoubtedly, passing and movement, right across the field, too. Although the move ended up coming to absolutely nothing ? the Koumas effort finishing up just wide of the post, as these things sometimes do - applause still rippled around the ground in waves, and deservedly so, in my book.

Then, with very little at all on the clock, came the incident we were lucky to survive without someone actually walking. Curtis Davies was the last man in this particular instance, clobbering a Saints player right on the edge of the box ? and only receiving yellow as a direct result of the tackle. Enter into the equation Gareth Bale, their wunderkind, and free-kick merchant extraordinaire, so it would seem.

But not this time, matey. Instead, we then saw Zoltan Gera have a go, and from a similar distance, too. Had he been at Twickenham, and busily pursuing the dubious delights of the ?odd-shaped ball? code, we would have very likely registered a hit: as things stood, though, Gera?s lofted effort, sailing way, way past, and straight into the Smethwick, fairly well packed with Saints followers, by then, continued the overall tone set by the visitors. But we wouldn?t enjoy parity for much longer: within but a few short minutes of their keeper having first repulsed our initial overtures, they managed to strike oil. And how easy it was to achieve: ?carved wide open? is the operative phrase best used to describe what happened, I reckon, the damage being done courtesy of a swift raid from their left flank, getting right behind our defence in the process, and the resultant cross meeting up with their lad Jones, who, in the absence of Kiely, preoccupied elsewhere, had but the simplest of tasks to tap it home.

That was all Saints needed, really: having gained the breakthrough, they weren?t going to cede it in a tearing great rush of blood and passion to the head. Well, not easily. With the awful conditions providing little in the way of succour for anyone, the game then gradually began to assume the title: ?The Irresistible Force Meets the Immovable Object? A bit like World War One battlefields, and involving ground that was rapidly turning into something that brave forefathers involved in that distant conflict would have recognised immediately. Yuk.

The early strike had served as a pretty hard and unappetising foretaste of what we could expect, were the game to continue in similar fashion, but at least we were trying like stink to regain lost ground. Not to mention a large part of the Hawthorns ambience, which seemed to desert the stadium badly on those occasions when a bit of a moral lift would have come as a welcome surprise to the side. First Gera, then Kamara, had goalbound efforts repulsed, then, right on the cusp of half-time, came the breakthrough we?d all fervently hoped for. Interesting, also, that yet again, we?d managed to upset a visiting side?s applecart by grabbing an equlaiser, just as the ref was about to take ?em in for the break.

What happened? Well, it all started when McShane managed to get the ball right into the middle of the box yet again. ?Not the most promising of material to work with?.? was the thought on everyone?s mind, and one reinforced hugely by the ball suddenly becoming very loose indeed. Up into the air it flew, then, finally descending to earth right in front of our Jase, who then belted the thing for all it was worth. Back it came, having hit something or other, and this time, right into the path of Kev Phillips, who needed no second asking this time round, fortunately. No sooner had the bladder been properly dispatched, the referee blew for the break ? and judging from the knackered look of some of those Albion faces as they trudged in, not a minute before time, either.

A half time break, then, in which John Homer regaled me with various tales of when he first started supporting the Baggies, some 40 years ago ? and don?t think you?ve been let off, John, I?ve still Sunday?s screed to write! ? it was time to get settled for the second helping, and whatever that would bring. Well, at least we were starting equal, once more, thanks to Kev Phillips doing the biz in such fine style.

Not so calm was The Bloke In Front Of Me, now rapidly approaching meltdown, owing to the frenetic pace constantly maintained by players of both sides. Having kept silence during the opening half, he now seemed to be making up for that in a big way, liberally peppering his comments with some very familiar screamed invective regarding the conduct of his favourites on the pitch: with only five minutes gone, we?d already travelled the full length of ?RUBBISH!....? and now putting out exploratory feelers with the full intention of giving ?GERRIMOFFF!...? a similarly successful outing also. And he wasn?t in any way discriminatory: just about everyone wearing the stripes this afternoon got it in the neck, one way or another.

The sad aspect of all this was the fact that our finest were handing ammunition to him on a plate time and time again. It isn?t half frustrating to see a player manage to extricate himself from the hole he found himself in by the clever use of ball skills, then go on to completely stuff up a pass that the player concerned could normally execute in his sleep. It didn?t help either that Bale was now proving to be a thorough menace on the flank, getting behind our rearguard time and time again. In fact, it was he that so nearly proved to be our undoing, one particularly horrible cross of his whipping right across the face of goal ? but with nary a South Coast boot handily placed to propel it beyond the goal-line, it simply coasted out of harm?s way instead. Had that not been the case, then we?d be mourning a loss, right now, and one very much of our own making, it has to be said.

Carelessness. That?s why we ended up losing the ball to them so many times, and, ergo, the prime reason why we continually failed in our constant efforts to clear the ball away from the danger-zone. Yet again, we were in dire danger of shooting ourselves right in the foot, and it seemed to me also that in addition to the above generous dollop of jam, on at least two other occasions that half, it was purely the intervention of Lady Luck that prevented us from conceding.

And what about the heart-stopping moment Keily caught ? then somehow spilled ? a nasty looking Saints cross? That particular error didn?t half take some sorting out before the danger was finally negated. Close ? but not nearly as close as the serial let-offs we had with around 15 minutes to go to the end. That was Kiely?s finest hour, it really was. Not content with repulsing one Saints goal attempt in fine style, just a second or so later, he then went on to break the heart of the guy trying his luck with the rebound.

What hadn?t helped either were our subbings: all our strikers worthy of the name replaced by people either playing second fiddle, or lacking sufficient ability to take the game to the enemy in similar fashion. With just a fraction of the half gone, Ellington was worth another go, sure, but he really does now seem to be a man motivated far more by various capricious worldly concerns rather than the basic desire to get on the scoresheet, no matter what. Get wise, Jase: be out of the side for very much longer, and you?ll become the Forgotten Man Of Halfords Lane!

I suppose the real heroes of today have to be our defence, who neatly frustrated the St. Mary mob?s goalscoring aspirations so many times in rapid succession. They kept us in it, and once our recognised strikers left the action, soaked up the increased Saints pressure in fine style. But all that apart, there was none more pleased than I to hear that final whistle sound, come the end of the second 45.

And that flighty strumpet Lady Luck had yet another surprise in store for us, as we made to leave the ground. Thanks to other results going badly for our immediate rivals ? the Preston-Dingles one springs immediately to mind in that context (see below for further comment!) ? we?d actually gained by getting that single point! Only for a matter of 24 hours, mind, what with Blues raring to go with a piece of their very own League action, but at least it?s better than a thump on the nose! And as for the thought, however unlikely it may seem now, of getting Saints in the play-offs?..ARGH! NOOOOOOooooooo???

And Finally?. One. Lest I allow the (imaginary!) sun to go down upon our matchday without reference to our brain-dead chums situated some way further up the A41, cop for this, as they say in the movies! As you will have no doubt gathered by now, Wulves somehow managed to beat Preston 1-0 away from home, a victory that must have had those Dingles really dancing in the aisles ere the precise moment the final whistle sounded at Deepdale.

Happy little Dingles indeed, they must have been, as they flocked and frolicked in the direction of coaches parked ready to bear them away from the scene of the crime at a rate of knots ? but, as our local rivals were to quickly discover, within the dank dusty folds of this somewhat unexpected three-pointer, there lurked one hell of a wonderfully-delicious irony for our Dingle chums.

Which was this: by beating the Deepdale mob on their own turf, they?d not only done their own away record no end of good, they?d also gone and left the way perfectly clear for our lot to slip quietly into their opponents? newly-vacated second-in-the-table slot. As I intimated earlier, so delicious was the irony, once the gold-and-cack persuasion finally reached their coaches, then spent the entire journey home doing a few very simple sums, the gradual dawn of realisation on their moronic faces ? ?UURGH! We?ve onny gone an? sent ?em secund, ay we?? must have provided those long-suffering coach drivers of theirs with one of the biggest-ever giggles of their entire lives!

Two. Thought For The Day. Bethany, before trying to get to grips with the arcane mysteries of Scandinavian sweets with dodgy brand-names, decided to purchase a key-ring from the club shop prior to meeting us in the pub. Why? To remind her of the Albion-Cardiff game while she spends a week in residential school, along with all the rest of her classmates (apparently, it?s something that all junior schools do these days, the idea being to help older kids gain a greater sense of independence through being away from mum and dad?s clutches for the very first time in their entire lives). On first hearing Bethany banging on about this key-ring, and the necessity for having it in the first place, I simply turned to the Noise, and said: ?Well, if she really wants to be reminded of Albion-Cardiff, why not go the whole hog, and give her a nice new pair of brass knuckle-dusters instead??

Three. ?Im Indoors, as we kicked off for the second half: ?Why do I keep smelling cat food?.....?

Me (After sniffing the air for myself, and not noticing a blind thing wrong about a funny niff: hardly surprising, really, given my current virus-riddled status!): ?It probably says quite a lot about the quality of the pies here, mate?.?

 - Glynis Wright

Contact the Author

Diary Index