The Diary

25 February 2007: Hard Cheese (And Onion Flavour!) At The Walkers Stadium.

?WE ARE TOP OF THE LEAGUE, WE ARE TOP OF THE LEAGUE?.!?

Well, that?s what my other half has been chanting from the very first moment we arrived back from Leicester, earlier this evening, then throughout just about every TV programme we?ve had on since. Poor mite, he doesn?t get out an awful lot, even at the best of times, and this is his way of compensating for that sad fact, I reckon!

But he?s perfectly right. A big ?Well done? to our gaffer, Tony Mowbray, for sticking to his guns when things were going somewhat pear-shaped around the festive season, finally hitting upon the winning formula, then chasing that horrendous nine point gap separating us from the early pace-setters. All that work has finally hit pay-dirt, and there?s none more pleased we?re now living up to all that pre-season hype, than this column.

?Tis true we dropped a couple of points today when we should have bagged all three, and for that teensy disappointment I largely blame the punishing schedule of midweek games we?re currently engaged in ? there were some extremely tired legs out there by the time today?s game reached the mid-point of the second half ? but, hey, we?re Number One, Numero Uno, for the first time in around three years, as I make it. Sod the fact it?ll only be until next Tuesday evening: enjoy the moment. Rejoice! Rejoice!

This morning, though, I was engaged in the throes of serious debate apropos whether I should alter the title of this piece to: ?How to hang on the horns of an awful dilemma? instead? Well, that?s how I felt, as I reluctantly forsook my pit in order to face whatever lumps of stinking ordure the remainder of the day was minded to throw at me. Which, in practice, meant Leicester City, Walkers Stadium or no Walkers Stadium. Not so much the thought of us three visiting a ?new? ground today ? we?d already done that around three seasons ago, in cold and miserable February, watching The Foxes square up, honours eventually shared, to their then-promotion rivals, Neil Warnock?s Sheffield United ? as witnessing an act akin to placing the supernatural equivalent of a Stinger device right in front of our formidable promotion juggernaut.

Quite a tall order, that: one (very small!) person?s actions well and truly putting the kybosh on our Premiership aspirations, but you will understand better when I also tell you that my horrible quandary revolved around whether or not to give my spanking-new 1978-era replica away shirt ? aw, you know, the rightly famous green and yellow number, as per that wonderful Atkinson era, when we also scored goals just for fun ? an inaugural Championship airing. Nasty little poser? If I did so, would it adversely affect our first team?s bid to top the division come the final whistle? That, then, was the crux of the sticky situation I found myself in, this morning.

Daft, isn?t it, coming from someone whose normal attitude to all things witchy or wizardy is to run a mile on first suspicion of genuine contact? ?Science Rules OK? is my customary riposte to most of the Black Country?s more eccentric beliefs. But then you start to think on, back to the dim and distant days when you were a four or five year old kid, and clutching Mummy?s hand tightly as she headed for the shops. Were you, like me, trying like stink to avoid cracks in the pavement because you?d heard from the other kids that if you didn?t, a nasty monster would spring out and gobble you up?

Not that you actually believed such nonsense, of course, but when you?re of tender years, and possessing a horribly-vivid imagination with it, you?re not exactly going to rush to put it to the test, are you? And lest all you rational adults out there start to get all smug on me, all of a sudden, what?s your present-day equivalent? Try saying the Lord?s prayer backwards. In a churchyard. At midnight. Alone.

Folklore has it to be an excellent way of summoning up Satan himself, so if you?re feeling brave enough, tonight, then go for it. A completely irrational superstitious belief, that one, and an anachronism of almost mediaeval proportions in what?s fast becoming a secular age, yet I?m still willing to bet whatever amount you care to name that there won?t exactly be hordes of takers hammering at my door for that one. And, yes ? I did end up wearing that shirt, in the end. All you have to do now is work out whether or not I?m the one to blame for dipping out on the maximum reward today!

Still, games may come and games may go ? but that was one hell of a nice day we had going for us, as we three left the Black Country, around midday. The weather promised the first proper caresses of spring this year: cotton-wool ball clouds, baby blue sky, and, not to be outdone, there was Old Sol, high in the sky and sharing all his surplus warmth with we mere mortals heading at a rate of knots along the motorway below.

Time, too, for a certain ?Boy with a toy? to properly get to grips with his latest four-wheeled acquisition: by ?boy?, I mean my other half, and by ?toys?, I allude to his latest horseless carriage, only purchased a matter of two or three weeks ago. ?Great, this cruise control thing!? enthused my other half, as this peculiarly American motoring innovation kicked in for the very first time. A shame, then, that while he was busy enthusing to The Fart and myself about having no need to keep his foot on the pedals, any more, he somehow managed to miss the correct turning off the M6 for the M69! Oh whoops.

And while all that was going on, what was The Fart up to? Sitting in the back, Walkers crisp packet in hand, and consuming the contents like they were about to go on ration. While listening to the radio, of course. Well, when you?ve gone and ate the crisps, that puts you automatically under a bit of a moral obligation to go to the stadium that bears their name, doesn?t it? Don?t forget to baggy me the salt-and-vinegar stand, will you?

Never mind, we did manage to get back onto the correct bit of road, eventually, and nicely in time to join the enormous convoy of Supporters Club coaches that were also conveying Albion supporters in quantity that lunchtime. Hardly surprising, when you consider we?d completely sold out of tickets for this one, by last Tuesday night.

It was on the hour mark, more or less, when we finally hit the town good and proper ? and that was the moment we first hit one almighty snag, as far as we were concerned. For reasons as yet unfathomable to Man, our chums in their nice police force had decided to allow Leicester Tigers, aka ?that cowin? yampy lot of rugger buggers up the road?, to play home games on the same day as their spherical-shaped ball enthusiast cousins. Result? Because the Tigers kicked off at one, and we at three, nowhere at all for we away travellers to park our ample butts. Or our cars, come to think about it.

Time, then, to embark upon a bit of a Magical Mystery Tour around the city, in search of a suitable place to drop anchor. Pretty abortive it proved to be, too: nearer the ground, all we could find was a large wall proclaiming Tony Blair?s various faults and shortcomings to the world, and in perfectly good English prose, too. That was pretty much how I felt about him, also ? so no love lost there, then!

Still, we did eventually ? a good half-hour later! ? manage to stumble upon more congenial surroundings for our parked vehicle, having left/?abandoned? it with the promise of eventual reunification gurgling around its electronic innards. Just one snag, though. We?d gone around in circles so much, we hadn?t the faintest clue where it was we?d ditched our car: that was where The Fart came in, buttonholing all the locals, and getting them to give us a route back to Leicester?s ginormous crisp packet of a stadium.

Once our wrinkly chum had got the locals to co-operate, we very soon ascertained our precise whereabouts: about half an hour?s walk away from where we actually wanted to be! No help for it, then, but to have to slog out the distance on foot, which we did in rapid order, passing a polluted bit of river on the way, a couple of very brave ducks indeed trying to keep up appearances for their public. ?Not so much the Blue Danube, as the Brown Braunston!? remarked The Fart.

Not to worry, we were almost there, and the ground in view, at long last. A few more minutes, and we were there ? and at that point, we were treated to the incredible sight of all those supporters? coaches arriving at precisely the same time as ourselves. The same lot we?d overtaken on the motorway?

An explanation was simple: they?d clearly been kept waiting just outside the city boundaries, pending the arrival of a police motor cycle escort to take them in ? a frustrating process, that, by my reckoning, knowing how long it had taken us to get parked up, they?d been stuck in ?durance vile? for the best part of an hour before finally resuming their journey under that incredibly noisy police escort of theirs. What was it I said earlier about little boys with toys?

But that was them. As for ourselves, no sooner had we gained admission, who should be the very first Albion people we met? None other than our very own next-door neighbours! Once more, a case of seeing them far more often at games than in our street, and in this instance, looking very smug indeed when they heard of the almighty problems we?d had finding a parking spot in the city.

?Ah!? they chorused, nodding sagaciously as they did so, ?You should have done what we did. Get the train to Leicester instead. It only cost us around seven quid?.? Sod, sod ? and triple sod. Now why the hell did we not think of that? And our chums weren?t alone in plumping for that particular mode of away travel: as we were to discover somewhat later, Norm Bartlam had done similar. It was around that time that my legs and back started to really protest at the indignities they?d had to suffer, so after that, it was very much a case of grabbing our seats, and staying there.

Having been there for both a League game and, come the end of last season, the Conference play-off Final, we were pretty au fait already with what the ground had to offer, seating included. But this was the very first time we?d sat in what?s normally used as their away end: just one addition to the scenery to report, a bloody great gasometer peeping coyly from behind the stadium roof at the other end, something that put Norm Bartlam ? he?d joined us by then ? very much in mind of Bristol Rovers, and their old Eastville HQ, now demolished to make way for a supermarket.

Talking about gasometers, while we were there waiting to start, who should turn up, but our old mucker Dave Watkin, former GD Stroller, and world traveller extraordinaire, when not watching the Baggies. He also puts together an excellent potted match report on the Boing list, for the benefit of exiles, mostly ? so if you?re reading this for the first time, and want to find out what others think of our performances, simply sign up. You know it makes sense.

And boy, weren?t those warped sense of humour glands of his producing copiously, cheeky git. ?We?re getting to be a bit of a regular again, aren?t we?? was his teasing take on my other half?s presence, as we awaited the emergence of both sides from the tunnel. Never mind, I?m sure we can sort him out eventually, one way or the other.

By this time, our hosts were striving valiantly to get their punters suitably ?fired up? for the occasion, one such ditty played on their PA being that familiar supporter staple of recent times: ?Mama?s Got A Brand New Pig-Bag?. Oh, whoops. That, of course, is the one where we normally sing: ?Da-da-da-da ? Jason Koumas, da-da-da-da?..? And that?s precisely what we did, drowning out their own followers with ease. Not that that was difficult, mind. Our bit of the ground apart ? packed, as you would expect ? there were some pretty ugly gaps showing elsewhere: whole swathes of stadium with nary a bum on seat in evidence. With an attendance of only 25,000 or so today, apathy clearly ruled OK in Leicester, it would seem.

Team news? Very much ?as you were? for our lot, the only variable factor in the equation being Curtis Davies, now back from suspension, of course. He replaced Alby, who was benched once more, with Paul McShane shifting to the right back slot. No place anywhere for John Hartson, though. As for The Foxes, Geoff Horsfield and Andy Johnson, both of them firm crowd favourites when at The Hawthorns, found themselves very much part of The Dark Side for this one. And getting a better reception from our followers than they did from theirs. Mind you, come the end of the game, it was very much a case of going over to our end and?.. But I get ahead of myself a tad. Back to the present.

The referee? Uriah Rennie, who did such a good job when we played the Dingles at their place in that FA Cup game, but was to crash and burn appallingly when it came to handling things today. More of that in a bit, but it was Leicester who first came close to opening their account, after around five minutes play, with what amounted to a real scorcher of a ?free header? from very close range indeed. They?d set out their stall, all right: their mission was to stop us playing, pure and simple, and given the frenetic quality of the play during those opening minutes, we were going to be in for a very rough ride indeed.

Not so off the pitch, mind: I?d have put our supporters, and the almighty racket they were making, ahead of their Leicester counterparts on points. But for how long? Things looked ominous out there as The Horse almost set up a team-mate for their opener, the shot giving our lad Kiely something to think about, as he beat the ball away for a corner.

We had to wait until the half was almost a third of the way through ? aw, you know what I mean! ? before we first clocked up any sort of serious incursion towards their goalmouth. As ever, the creative spark came from Jason Koumas, who nearly put Phillips through on goal, the eventual shot causing Foxes keeper Henderson not a little trouble negating the danger. And it didn?t help one bit when Leicester cocked up the clearance, thereby giving their players the let-off they truly didn?t deserve.

And that?s around the time when Uriah Rennie started to get very silly indeed. The problem? Our players having several varieties of lumps kicked out of them every single time they found themselves in possession, and likely to do some damage as a result, and Rennie not putting a stop to it by the judicious use of a yellow card or three waved under noses in a meaningful manner. Then, the very first time in the game when Richard Chaplow went in hard, that was him well and truly in the book! Verily I say unto you, O ye brothers, the actions of Rennie truly passeth all understanding - and I kid you not. The man?s a menace.

But, those minor frustrations apart, we were starting to show our superiority, overall, which was at least one pleasing aspect of our game. It was yet another attempt by the busy Chaplow to put Phillips through that led to the latter giving Henderson yet more on his plate, then, come the 28th minute or so, we earned ourselves a penalty.

It all started when Kamara charged into the box, ball at his feet, as per usual. Time for the Foxes to use last-ditch methods of stopping our tame Senegalese national in his tracks ? so they did. Over went poor Joe, and ?Pheep!? went Rennie?s busy whistle. Penalty! Bang to rights, too, and Joe seeking to have the last word by administering the coup de grace to The Foxes himself. In it went, no messing, 1-0, and a fair reflection of the amount of attacking Albion were doing, at that time.

And, no sooner had City kicked off after falling to that strike, they could quite have easily found themselves two down. It was Phillips that tried to lob the City keeper ? and nearly did it, too, the poor lad having to shift in spectacular fashion in order to spare his colleagues the ordeal of having to trot back to the centre-circle for the second time in as many minutes.

Then it was Clem?s turn to have a go from a very long-range indeed, closely followed by Koren, whose shot really did deserve better than it actually got. All seemed set fair for we Baggies to extend that lead even more ? then, completely out of the blue, Leicester managed to grab an equaliser. It came from a set-piece, actually, the resultant close-range header when the ball landed on McAuley?s napper catching Kiely completely unawares. Very much against the overall run of play, that one ? but these things are sent to try us, I suppose.

It momentarily looked as though we would keep our record going of being at our most dangerous just before the break, when their keeper somehow contrived to fumble a Koumas shot, the lad only grabbing it properly at the second time of asking. But that wasn?t all. McShane seemed to end up on the wrong end of The Horse?s ample elbow, but for some reason fathomless to Man, Rennie didn?t even bother to act. Apparently, Mowbray went absolutely spare at the time, but as you know and I know, if the ref chooses not to exert his authority when a certain situation is reached, then you might as well talk to the urinal beneath the stand, as speak to Rennie. Well, at least the two would share the same name, even if only phonetically!

There endeth the first half, so on with the second. With virtually all of our promotion rivals having seemingly dropped themselves even deeper in it, going by the scores at the break, what a golden chance of further cementing that lead we now enjoyed? Desperation stakes ruled OK for Leicester at first, but that was before The Horse nearly put one away all on his tod, closely followed by a colleague, who would have bust the net with that one, had he got it past the line first. As things were, once more, Kiely managed to earn his coin in fine style.

Oh, dear ? 60 minutes gone already, and it just wasn?t working, was Mogga?s Master-Plan to ensnare the entire Leicester team, then force them to concede further. Time for a brace of subbings, then: off went Koumas and Phillips, on went Gera and Ellington. Well, it had to be done: it seemed to me we were rapidly running out of ideas, and Leicester, not quite believing their luck, getting bolder by the minute.

Another almighty let-off for us with around twenty to go, then, just minutes later, Leicester had yet another bite at the cherry. Their game plan of staying right in our face was reaping handsome dividends: I wonder how many other club scouts saw what Leicester did today, and made careful notes to that effect, saying that was a sure-fire way of chucking cold water upon any future dreams of away-ground domination we might have? And a fair number of occasions when playing on our own muck-heap, too.

Still, they didn?t get it all their own way: apart from one Leicester attempt fired straight at Kiely, with around five to go, Chaplow almost potted the black for us, courtesy some sterling work from Gera. Suddenly, the tempo quickened, and we stepped up a gear, chucking just about everything we had into the maw of what?s popularly known as ?the mixer? in football parlance.

And that?s when Uriah Rennie then elected to show everyone the depth of his knowledge concerning Einstenian Relativity Theory, and the Time Dilation Effect that?s a well-known consequence of trying to drive up the M1 at near-light speed. Or something. In other words, the faster you go, the slower time travels, as demonstrated by Rennie, when he signalled to the fourth official that he wanted three minutes of extra time played ? that was the figure stated over the Leicester PA system, and heard quite clearly by everyone stationed in our end ? then ended up actually playing a good six minutes over, possibly seven!

Being at my most charitable, I?ll accept the simple explanation: so immersed in what he was doing was the lad, he completely forgot the time. On the other hand, knowing Rennie for the muck-stirring, controversy seeking, jumped-up little sod he is, was the aim to play until one side or the other got a late winner, thereby ensuring banner headlines in the Sunday tabs, the very next day, I wonder? I wouldn?t put it past him.

Finally, errant stop-watches or otherwise, it was all over. That was when we finally learned Derby had lost again, and at home ? see, your great Aunty Glynis saw what was coming! ? and so had Blues, making us the division?s front runners, on goal difference. And didn?t we let the rest of the world know! Presumably, the whole of the city of Leicester was more than well acquainted with our feat of mountaineering skill by the time our gang finally dispersed to catch their own particular modes of transport!

Sure, that was a pretty good point away from home for us, given the tenacious way City got stuck in, but I can?t help but feel it?s going to get much, much tougher as we approach the season?s end. Just look at the current table: the tightest it?s been for years, I reckon. Normally, you?ve got one or two well ahead of the chasing pack, by now, but what with the top eight all taking points off each other, of late, it?s rapidly becoming far too close to call.

A top eight fairly clear of the next lot, Stoke, and with just four points separating everyone, from top to bottom. Derby still have one in hand on us, Blues have two. And even The Dingles seem to have undergone something of a renaissance, of late: they?re quietly collecting wins, both home and away, so I don?t think we?ve quite heard the last of them. Not just yet.

It?s next week when it starts to get really interesting. Only Stoke and Barnsley doing battle next Monday, but come Tuesday night, when we are otherwise engaged in FA Cup business with bloody Boro, Blues take on Leeds, this division?s nearest current approximation to ?dead men walking?. Unless that fabled gipsy curse on St Andrews decides to assert its virulence once more, it?s a pretty safe bet that we?ll lose our pole position after that one.

Three days later, come Friday, Derby host Colchester, who have given a good many in our division a pretty torrid time of it already, both on their travels, and at their place. Should give us a pretty clear indication of how far the rot?s set in with Billy Davies?s mob, if nothing else. 24 hours later, Wulves go to Luton, who need the points to keep out of trouble, while we, of course, face what?s going to be a massive, massive game ? the visit of Sunderland to our place. I?m not going to say outright that the winner of that one will go up, but it?s going to have one hell of a bearing upon the final outcome. Fasten your seat-belts, ladies and gentlemen: it sure is going to be one hell of a bumpy ride.

And Finally?. West Ham United ? A Cautionary Tale? While we lovely Baggie people happily contemplate a possible return to the Big Time, ere the moment early summer pokes its pert little nose from out of the apple-blossom, spare a thought or several for my old mucker Tony Fowles, West Ham supporter to the gentry, who is staring the Championship straight in the face following that awful 4-0 stonking at the hands of Charlton today. You wouldn?t believe the half of the almighty mess that club finds itself in, right now. I really feel for Curbishley, also: he?s a bloody sound manager, and it must be frustrating to be in a situation where you?ve effectively got one hand tied behind your back all the time.

Sometimes, getting taken over by someone with far more money than sense isn?t a very sensible thing to have happen to a club. What?s happened at Upton Park stinks something awful: rotten to the core, it is. And don?t think it couldn?t happen to us: as the recent Liverpool takeover intimated, there?s no club immune to that sort of thing.

Tradition can go take a running jump as far as all these latter-day barrow-boys are concerned. Bill Shankly must be doing such a spin in his grave, right now, his earthly remains will probably fetch up in Perth, Australia, before too long. In short, there?s nothing whatsoever stopping our current chairman from walking away, were the price for doing so to prove sufficiently tempting.

 - Glynis Wright

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