The Diary

12 March 2007: Woe, Woe - And Thrice Woe! Dingle Doom and Gloom Draweth Nigh!

So, what was YOUR coping strategy after today?s final whistle, then? Don?t tell me you haven?t got one, because I adamantly refuse to believe it: were you actually present at the scene of the crime, or merely listening via the ancient medium of steam radio/new-fangled internet, EVERYONE must have reacted to the glum tidings emanating from The Custard Bowl in one way or another, be it good, bad, positive or negative. Above all, football is about passion, emotion, opinions, and never more so than in the immediate aftermath of one of the most keenly-fought local derbies to be found anywhere in the entire Football League.

With The Fart, what you get is a house cleaned to near-operating-theatre standards of bacterial sterility in no time flat; with me, it?s just retiring to some dark corner or other, growling and muttering vaguely. ?Im Indoors? Well, about a couple of years ago, he latched on to the sundry pleasures to be had from emulating the green-fingered feats of the late Percy Thrower, or, if you like your horticulture contemporary style, Monty Don. No sooner had we got back from that gold and black Den Of Iniquity, he retreated to his greenhouse, muttering darkly, all the while, about ?getting some seed trays sorted?, and there he was to remain, until the light got too bad for delicate manipulations of baby plants.

And from what little I was able to glean from The Noise, back in Sunny Stoke, he too was exploring the many joys to be had from green-fingered activities. Let?s face it, gardening is one of the few remaining leisure pursuits where he can monopolise the conversation completely. To the best of my knowledge and belief ? well, outside my well-thumbed copy of ?Day Of The Triffids?, at any rate ? plants rarely answer back!

Oh dear, what a disaster. It?s now looking very much as though it?s going to be the play-offs for us, and no better, sad to say. And, with only one point now separating us from seventh spot, we might not even achieve that. Try as I might, I really can?t see us improving, and, as I?ve reiterated over the course of these last few days, current form would seem to indicate that even if we do progress to the knock-out stages, we?ll like as not emerge from the experience shredded into tiny ribbons. Well, proof positive was provided by what happened to us today: in a game where we really needed to compete, battle, mix it, even, we blew it, falling to a sucker-blow just two miserable minutes from the end, despite dominating, just about, for hefty chunks of the entire game.

It?s also one of those times when you can wail, lament, ululate, even, in true Middle Eastern ?newly-widowed? style, if you want, but nothing will alter the simple fact that in addition to all the above, Joe Kamara should be examining his conscience at close range tonight. As I saw it, sufficient chances to scupper the home side completely fell at his ample feet, but whether through trying to ?showboat?, or make one hundred per cent certain the goalscoring opportunity by dint of procrastination and riding some stiff tackles, it just didn?t work. In fact, both strikers seemed a little too stale for comfort today.

Not that we can reach for the handy excuse of participating in too many games over the course of the previous week this time, mind. We?ve had a more-than-ample eight days in which to get our heads right for this one, and the problem now lies in how we?re going to react to today?s events, come the Palace game next week. Forget promotion for the minute. This is personal. They Owe Us One, Big Time. And if they haven?t clocked that simple fact by now, then all I can say is that when it comes to the continued maintenance of a completely sheltered lifestyle, then footballers these days must surely have Marie Antoinette skint all roads up.

And yet everything started so well. When we left our house, the sky was blue, the sun was desperately trying to catch up with its designated springtime role, daffodils and crocuses aplenty were reaping the many benefits to be had from such unexpectedly-temperate climes ? and The Fart was trying to tune in his very own answer to the common-or-garden portable radio: all the while he was struggling, I half-expected to hear something like: ?This is the BBC Home Service. Here is the news, and this is Bruce Belfrage reading it. Forty of our bombers were in action over enemy territory today. Fires were started, and from all these operations, one of our aircraft is missing?.?

Unfortunately, his reincarnated relic of days when things like ?valves? and ?condensers? ruled the ?wireless? roost was totally unable to conjure up the spirit of Winston Churchill. Had we been able to deploy that serially cigar-smoking gentleman in some ghostly playing capacity or another, then our finest might well have been treated to a pre-match talk of truly inspiring proportions, pre-kick off - but El Tel?s ancient cat?s whisker jobbie doesn?t run to those lengths, sadly.

Even en-route, I was experiencing profound misgivings about the probable outcome of today?s game, and it didn?t half show. ?Just think of it as a cultural experience!? said ?Im Indoors, trying to lay on the emollient with a builder?s trowel. This, mind, coming from someone who?d just hours before likened the whole thing to a weekly dose of double-maths! Yeah, right.

?Hang on a cotton-pickin? minute,? said I. ?If I?d have wanted an ?experience?, I?d have changed my name to Jimi Hendrix a long, long time ago!? Well, I did qualify on two counts, one being my ?southpaw? status, the second being the ability to actually play a guitar, albeit very badly indeed! Sadly, I fell down on the third ?essential?; these days, the strongest thing to pass my lips is Coke, and not the stuff that comes in white powdered form and gets you talking complete and utter rollocks within seconds of ingestion, either.

My profound unease regarding this game was not helped one little by the relative swiftness with which the gold and cack persuasion appeared to be coming out of the woodwork, just like the sighting of the first cuckoo in spring, it was, and in complete contrast to the situation that prevailed the last time we played them. El Tel, in a rare burst of imagination, likened their presence to that of the new TV series ?Primaeval? a Doctor Who-ish fantasy thing in which our heroes manage to establish some sort of temporal path back to prehistoric times, when dinosaurs and their reptilian chums walked the earth, then spend much precious programme time battling those of them inconsiderate enough to wear out their welcome. A bit like Villa, before Doug Ellis quit, if you like. Thinking about it, I could certainly see where he was coming from!

In complete contrast to our previous visit, parking proved to be no problem this time round, so after grabbing our ?normal? space, we then set sail for the Custard Bowl on foot, arriving in Waterloo Road, and the statue depicting the late Billy Wright ? ?Aha! The poor man?s Joe Kennedy!? declared The Fart, who should know ? just a matter of minutes later. And yes, it still looks to me very much as though the silly sod?s trying to get the hell away from the place!

It was while we were in those parts that we heard of the somewhat unseemly conclusion to the 1976 promotion side reunion thrash we attended just a matter of days ago. Nothing as spicy as an all-out punch-up; just the fact that the proceedings overran somewhat after we were forced to leave (?Im Indoors had a job to go to the following day), and the staff had little option but to suggest that the whole thing be knocked on the head in short order. It might have been connected to the above, or not, but I?m also given to understand that the beer ran out as well!

Not an occurrence entirely unknown to Albion supporters, as those attending the first leg of our 1993 play-off game versus Swansea will readily attest. In the small boozer close to the Vetch Field that we patronised that day, that astonishing state was reached with 30 minutes to go before the start, still! But even so, there?s a hell of a lot of difference between several hundred nervous Albion supporters, most of whom were trying to summon up Dutch courage in the face of what was to prove something of an ordeal for everyone, and 300-plus dress-coded supporters, so-called ?respectable? people, most of them ?mellow?, all reminiscing seriously, and with a three-course meal thrown in for good measure!

Mutual pleasantries having been exchanged, we then proceeded to the rear of the ground, where our ?normal? away end awaited. On the way there, we happened to pass an entrance designated for disabled supporters. ?Is that where John Hartson goes in?? asked The Fart. ?Naw,? said I, ?They?d have widened it specially, wouldn?t they??

And as we pondered, in the distance, the guttural sound of a thousand-plus throats, all desperately in need of a tonsil-rattling song or three, it would seem, signified the arrival in that part of the area colloquially known as ?Goose Green?? you work that one out for yourself, Baggies old enough to remember the Falklands conflict should win it in a walk ? of the main part of our coach travelling contingent. And the rozzers weren?t backwards in coming forwards: right across the road were strung enough riot-helmeted coppers to keep the entire bulk of the Daily Mail?s readership in a state of crime-free blissfulness, imaginary or real, for years.

Not wishing to get caught up in what would undoubtedly be a mad stampede for the turnstiles, we decided to get inside comparatively early, for us. For some unknown reason, their stewards ? the very first time I?ve ever been segregated by gender, by the way - seemed to find the mere presence of my walking stick an open invitation to search me for unspecified contraband. El Tel? Whisper it quietly, but he?d gone in search of Wulves fanzine editor Charlie Ross!

Once inside, time to find a handy pillar to lean against ? did that make me a ?pillar of the community?, I wondered idly - while ?Im Indoors concentrated on batting the breeze. We even encountered Adrian Chiles, trying like stink to remain ?incognito?, although quite how a face that well-known to the nation through the medium of various popular TV shows expects to remain so in a place like Molineux, is a complete mystery to me! ? quietly slinking through the nearby opening that sundered seat from concourse.

Then, as ?Im Indoors retired to the ?facilities? to do his thing (In stark contrast to previous seasons, where I?d made elaborate preparations to give to the Dingles what I truly thought they thoroughly deserved, and with added interest, a ripe bog-full of ?you-know-what?, I?d completely forgotten to maintain that tradition, this time round. OK ? so blame me, then!), over sidled John Homer, and his fedora-hatted Supporters Club sidekick, Alan Cleverly. I?d made a mullock, apparently: when reporting on Thursday night?s bunfight, I?d said that Mark Grew was the Baggie lad missing out on a medal. Er ? wrong! Derek Monaghan, actually! Bugger.

Enter onto the scene travel organizer Dave ?The Mammoth? Holloway, now suitably svelte after his recent health scare, but quite amused by my recent depiction of him as a trainee-undertaker! It was all down to the whistle and flute he was wearing at the time ? but what he also (rightly!) pointed out was that Alan, who?d driven a coach and horses through Albion?s dress code that night, had gotten away from my subsequent pen-wielding predations scot-free! No tie, tut-tut. Why, shame on you, Alan! Perhaps Albion will do a ?Captain Dreyfus? on you, stripping you of all insignia in front of a packed Brummie, then casting you adrift from the fold forthwith!

With a sun-drenched Custard Bowl rapidly filling up, time to find our seats, then. And the first thing that struck me? No, not a Dingle from above, just the fact that their stadium didn?t half seem dated, now. Duff TV screen at one diagonal, and all four stands now showing distinct signs of being badly in need of a titivational lick of paint, or three. Oh ? and Unfathomable Mystery Of Our Time: how was it that the gold-and cack persuasion, of all people, were allowed to have as shirt sponsors the name of one of the greatest exponents of our national literary heritage this country has ever seen? I refer to Chaucer, of course, author of The Canterbury Tales, among other Middle English gems. Mind you, had he been around to day, I reckon he?d have cottoned on to the Dingle mindset in seconds flat, and written of and about them accordingly.

And what about that enormous Dingles shirt they were passing around the South Bank just before the start? Blimey, I hadn?t realized John Hartson had signed for them on the QT: perhaps the twin questions of the entrance and the shirt were intertwined after all? Cue the entrance onto the field of a Dingle-lackey bearing a huge net containing gold and cack balloons aplenty, their close confinement within making them resemble some hideously complicated organic molecule, or other. The late Chemical Ali?s eyes would have lit up like a pinball machine at the very sight, make no mistake.

And that?s when it all began to go wrong, dear reader. And it all started off so well, too, our attack and midfield getting behind their defence via the flanks on more than one occasion ? but then making a real mullock of the ?killer pass?, a somewhat lamentable state of affairs that?s become such a regular occurrence, of late. Mind you, it didn?t help one little bit that Wolves keeper Murray chose today to have a truly inspirational game between the sticks. On at least three occasions, he denied Kamara the goal he should have had, and as Mowbray was to comment later, he was the fundamental difference between our lot running up the very same score we achieved last time round: that, plus our continual failure to stick the ball in the back of the net when we had them cold.

Mind you, it was pretty easy to understand why Baggie hearts were somewhat lax in taking up the challenge: this truly was a rip-roaring, pulsating, local derby, end-to-end stuff the entire duration of the game. Just how many of our foreign imports actually realized the true significance of this fixture to our club and its supporters, all of them roaring their lungs out in true Nuremburg Rally style? Neutrals must have absolutely adored it, mainly on account of the fact that so sterile is the Prem, these days, such passionate fare is a relative rarity experienced at that level.

I also got the sneaking suspicion that the referee, Andy D?urso, slumming it away from the Prem, for once, was that whistling rarity, a match official acknowledging that fact by letting the game flow, for the majority of the game. A policy that smacked of the curate?s egg, sometimes ? good in parts ? but on the whole, his application of sound common sense certainly differed radically from the bog-standard ?jobsworth? reaction of most whistlers at our level, who would have had their notebook absolutely bulging with the names of cautioned players ? or much worse - within around 20 minutes of the start.

Talk about the classic conundrum, that of the ?irresistible force? meeting the ?immovable object?. Of one thing I was certain: as I?d suspected, those pesky Dingles proved to be an entirely different kettle of tat to the dispirited lot we?d encountered just six weeks previously. Try as he might, even the best efforts of Jason Koumas to unlock their rearguard proved too much for even his undoubted talents to cope with. The blistering form of Dingle custodian Murray didn?t help either. Mind you, at the other end, and literally within seconds of another attempted incursion on our part foiled, sometimes, Dean Kiely had to be at his talented best to fend off their attempts to break the deadlock, too. Chappy, buzzing around like an angry wasp on strong amphetamines, Kev Phillips, they all had their moments, that fraught-ridden first half, but so did Kightly and Keogh, for the numb-nuts.

Mind you, just a few minutes before the break, we actually managed to get the ball in the back of the net ? or rather, Kev Phillips did, courtesy an assist from Kamara. A shame the lino nearest us ruled it was offside, though. Now that was a complete puzzle to me: we were more or less in line with the play when it happened, and I?m prepared to swear on a stack of Bibles that at the time the ball was played ? note that phrase, mes amis ? our hero was very much in an onside position, and so were his immediate colleagues. One I?d very much like to see replayed again, obviously: if I?m wrong, then I?ll eat humble pie in quantity, but if I?m right, I?ll be fuming fit to bust, make no mistake.

Having said all that, it?s not all that easy getting such decisions right, given the breakneck speed at which the game is played, these days. Once more, a heartfelt plea from this column goes out for the FA to live a little: drag our game, kicking and screaming, into the 21st century. Well, if the jolly old rugger buggers and their willow-whacking summer counterparts can cope with such refinements as high-tech video resolution of contentious issues, then so can we, surely?

Their swansong of the opening half was a free kick from them landing right in our box, then laid off to the predatory Ward. We were extremely lucky to get away with it, the aforementioned gentleman somehow managing to fire over from fairly close range. A pause (to get one?s breath back?) at half-time. Oh, well, after all that heart-stopping drama, at least there was a decent laugh to be had watching the Dingle persuasion attempt to get the better of the ?Hit The Shed? competition held during the break. And Tony Butler being his normal irritating self as he took to the mike: whenever he does that, my mind immediately roars back to the time, back in the winter of 1978-79, when we briefly topped the old First Division, and Old Motormouth himself coming onto the pitch in a similar capacity to over-hype the fact that we were first in the heap. Well done, the Brummie, for telling the bugger precisely what they thought of him. Which wasn?t an awful lot, as you can readily imagine!

So, with another ?peep? on the ubiquitous Mister D?Urso?s Acme Thunderer, away we went for the second helping. And with one very noticeable difference: this time, the Dingles were making a concerted effort to stop us playing, not allow us to settle on the ball for even a single moment. As regular Baggie-watchers will know all-too well, that was a policy that stood a real chance of succeeding: that was how Sunderland sorted us out just eight days previously, so I wasn?t too surprised by this particular development.

The crux of the matter lay in our ability to rise above it all, and still try and play football. That we were trying to do, like stink, too, but thanks to the sundry attentions of our local rivals, all these initiatives swiftly came to naught. At least we were temporarily bolstered by some shockingly-lax Dingle attempts on goal: not only that, with around five minutes gone, Joe Kamara should have killed it off there and then, courtesy a delightful Curtis Davies assist, his intelligent ball putting Joe well and truly through on goal. Once more, that man Murray was to completely scupper Joe?s well-meant attempts to force the issue, this time by coming out and smothering the ball before it could do serious damage.

Efforts from Jason Koumas and Zoltan Gera were to follow: each time, Murray was there to nullify the threat. On another occasion, the lino?s flag intervened. We also changed personnel, Shergar swopping with Kev Phillips with just under twenty minutes gone. For their part, The Dingles went close several times, first McIndoe, then Kightly having a serious poke at the prize: in the latter case, to me, the whole thing assumed an air of slow-motion, Clem, limbs seemingly moving as if immersed in thick treacle, putting in a vital tackle just a fraction of a second before the Dingles danger-man could pull the trigger. And looking as calm as you like as he did it. Phew! Then with around 20 minutes to go, Joe Kamara hit the post again; personally, I reckoned he should have done better, having jinked and twisted something rotten in an unsuccessful attempt to get a penalty. Had he just let fly when within range, we might well have gained somewhat richer pickings.

But the increased Dingle activity, thus far foiled, constituted a sentence deferred by the trial judge only. With the clock reaching the last ten minutes mark, I was very much thinking in terms of a point gained, and courtesy not a little help from Lady Luck, too. Both sides had gone at it hammer and tongs that half, and neither could penetrate the other?s ?exclusion zone?. Time for both sides to ?declare? maybe? Not on your nelly: just two or three heartbreaking minutes afterwards, the Dingles, who?d clearly been biding their time for just this telling chink in our armour to manifest itself, suddenly struck oil.

It all started with a Dingles free-kick out in midfield, the ball then falling right in the box, nicely for the lad Boothroyd to whammy us with a low effort that had Kiely beaten without doubt. Cue for the braindeads to start celebrating, and for us to feel a severe bout of nausea coming on. Sure, we?d lived very dangerously at times, that half, but most people thought we?d managed to weather the worst they could do. What an absolute sickener, and with very little time remaining in which to rectify the problem. What made our lapse seem much, much worse was the fact that with just a minute or so left, we were handed a gilt-edged chance to wipe the smile off their faces, a Gera header landing square upon the napper of the lurking Curtis Davies. Skull was applied to ball, all right, and from fairly close range, too ? but his header only succeeded in sailing right over the bar.

A truly testing situation, that ? but worse was to come. Kamara had another go in injury time, and the ball seemed well and truly on its way home to its mum, too. Wrong! Enter into the equation the by-now-jammier-than-Hartleys Murray, who somehow extended enough of a digit to keep us out. No wonder I screamed in pure frustration, at that particular point! And no wonder why I was like a bear with a sore head the entire remainder of the day.

So, that defeat now leaves us floundering in fifth place, and even further behind the current leaders than we were before. As I said at the start, unless something really drastic happens to turn the season around, it?s going to be the play-offs at best, for us. And I can only see that ending one way, sadly. But yet, I can see a recent parallel in Albion?s long history. Not quite the same set of circumstances, sure ? history only rarely repeats itself, after all ? but have a quick think back to 1993.

Some things are synonymous: a young and keen gaffer, with firm views on how the game should be played, and a personality pleasingly free of the predictable and bland bulls**t normally emanating from the mouths of managers. Add to that a division where the overall standard is so much higher than it was the last time we went up ? as I saw it, we and Norwich were about the best of an awfully poor bunch, back in 2003-04 ? the current crop of contenders all taking points off each other like crazy, with the inevitable result that it?s dead certain to go right down to the wire.

Back in the Ardiles era, we also had a striker scoring goals for fun, and supported by a midfield that positively revelled in charging right up that pitch and giving opponents what-for. And, had that been in any other season, we?d have gone through that division like a knife through butter. The main factor mitigating against that, at the time, were the annoying antics, most of ?em physical to a sickening degree, of Mark Stein and bloody Stoke City. And runners-up Bolton weren?t exactly shy in that respect, either. The basic problem was that no matter who we managed to beat, Stoke and Bolton would match us exactly, three-pointer for three-pointer.

Both those sides finished the season eight and five points in front of us respectively, with Port Vale, yet another minor annoyance, grabbing third spot. Not that it did them any good, mind: come the day of our Wembley encounter with John Rudge?s Potteries ?wrecking crew?, we simply blew the sods away. What a silly boy was Mister Swan, getting his marching orders for attempting to defile the pristine body of Albion royalty just as he was about to pull the trigger! Not that I was complaining, at that time, and neither was Bob, I suspect!

Oh ? and one final thought. Or is this yet another ?straw-clutching exercise? on my part? I did mention earlier that in the event of us going through the play-offs this time round, the likelihood was we?d be shredded into tiny soggy bits. You might want to argue, though, that our silky-skilled Ardiles side stood in very great danger of having the very same thing done to them, back in 1993 ? what used to be the Third Division has never been known as an incubator for the finest passing and shooting skills the modern game can offer ? but even so, and despite being kicked halfway to Mars by Swansea in the semis, class did prevail in the end!

And Finally?..One. Oh, well. At least the rumoured dastardly Dingle plot to ?bomb? us with carrier bags filled with something pretty evil didn?t materialise, thank goodness. Nary a nitrogenous droplet did I witness emanating from those elevated parts of the John Ireland, this lunchtime. Maybe it was due to the diligence of both police and stewards in confiscating the offending items well before they got within chucking-distance. If that was indeed the case, then today?s game must truly be the first one ever in the history of the League where the Law frisked spectators beforehand, for plastic bags bearing the logo of a certain well-known supermarket chain on the front!

Two? Nothing to do with today?s game, this, but there is an Albion connection. Well done, Danny Carey-Bertram, for scoring the necessary brace in Conference club Forest Green?s unexpected victory over high-riding Oxford United, yesterday! Just one thing, though: which one scored the first, Carey or Bertram?

Three?. The next time you see him wearing it at a game, check out ?Im Indoors and the brown leather jacket he has. Is it me, or does it make him bear an uncanny resemblance to the hero in The Beeb?s imaginative and popular ?retro? Seventies cop show, ?Life On Mars??

 - Glynis Wright

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