The Diary

19 March 2007: Honours Even, But Eventual Promotion? On This Showing, No Chance!

Dear, dear ? I?m suddenly getting this awful feeling of d?j? vu, and not for the first time this term. So ? we take the lead after some pretty hard graft, during the course of which Blues obligingly go a man down, thanks to a judicious bit of red-carding from the voluptuous Mister Riley, then lose it once more just before the end, and for the same old reasons: not taking your chances when put there on a silver platter, and rank failure to defend properly.

What a familiar Hawthorns story: maybe some TV company or other could prosper by turning it into a reality show, or a soap, even? Titled: ?I?m A West Brom Player ? Get Me Out Of the Championship!?? Even a primary school eleven would have known better than try on the sort of awful stuff we did at the back today, especially towards the end. Play with fire, and you get your fingers scorched. End Of.

Talk about ?Damien: The Omen?, Satanic involvement or otherwise. I wonder if he was quietly swapped over at birth, then brought up as The Antichrist? If it?s not one flaming disaster, it?s another, and a brand of misery perpetrated upon a bi-weekly basis, at present. And don?t ask why our season is now falling to pieces quicker than an MFI fitted kitchen: the answer is staring you right in the face.

Maybe Joe Kamara should closely examine his conscience regarding his own specialist role in today?s disappointment: how many times today did I see him either taking on a defender too many, in a doomed effort to walk the ball in, or selfishly trying to finish the job on his tod, when there were other team-mates much better placed than him to apply the coup de grace? Not that the end of the season will get Mister Kamara fretting unduly over what might have been: wouldn?t surprise me at all if he?s already got a dream move, be it to the Continent, or an established top-flight outfit in this country, as good as lined up already. His agent certainly seems to have been proactive in this respect over the past few weeks and months. That?s the overwhelming impression I get from the media, be it right or wrongs. So that?s real peachy, Joe: you go and prosper, my lad, while the majority of your former colleagues stew in their own juice. Suits you, sir?

Oh, sod it: it?s probably because I?ve seen far too many strikers perform for the Baggies over the years, good, bad, or just plain indifferent, in every sense of the word. It?s that sort of background that makes me particularly critical of what they get up to during the course of a game. Don?t get me wrong: in common with most regular Baggie-watchers, I was more than appreciative of the sublime goalscoring efforts that landed Joe a place at the head of the Championship scorers? list so early in the current campaign, but to be a true goalscoring great, be it at club or international level, there has to be an additional dimension, maybe more, to one?s play.

True ?goal-poachers?, the sort who emerge from Mum trying to belt the obstetrician?s stethoscope across the delivery room and into the sink as soon as they draw their first breath, are about as rare as hen?s teeth, these days. Probably down to the fact that modern kids like to spend their spare time doing things other than standing beneath a handy lamp-post, night after night, practicing and developing latent ball-skills.

And I still reckon that far too many clubs coach natural ability out of youngsters the very first moment they get them signed on the dotted line. Not only that, but the game has changed beyond belief since the heady days of the Clarke family ? local born, and thorough pests in the six-yard box, the flaming lot of ?em - or Jimmy Greaves, who did sod-all for 95 per cent of the game when with Spurs, but was always capable of grabbing an unlikely winner from out of thin air, in the microseconds it takes to grab the ball in the box, then let fly on spec.

But there is one thing that, above all, serves to distinguish past Baggie goal-merchants from the modern-day rest, and that is a seeming detachment from the affairs of the club as a whole. The current crop don?t seem to want to get involved in the same way that, say, Bob Taylor did during his own playing days. The last one of an honourable dynasty, I wonder?

Perhaps it?s getting my gastric and bile juices overproducing massively on account of today?s fiasco, but it really does strike me, of late, that the enormous wages doled out to these people doesn?t necessarily go hand in hand with them adopting a caring attitude towards our club. Or am I really off-message, here? Perhaps I should calm down a hell of a lot further before saying more: probably do my hypertension a considerable amount of good playing it that way, as well.

And so, we return to the murder scene. Well, around two hours before the crime was committed, if you want me to go all pedantic on you. Just why it was ordained that this game had to kick off at such an unlikely time, I really don?t know. Sure, there have been problems, be they inside or outside the ground, in the dim and distant past, but not for several years, as far as I?m aware. And, in any case, just three or four seasons back, when both were in the Prem for the first time, I do recall both fixtures being played at a reasonable time of day.

Sure, the official reason is always ?on police advice?, and ostensibly to try to prevent supporters getting tanked up on strong waters beforehand, too ? but if that?s so, then why allow The Hawthorns Hotel to open early, and serve the old falling down water in unlimited quantities? I know it was open because I was in there! To a restricted clientele, admittedly, but still perfectly capable of getting bevvied up, then, either on impulse, or with malice aforethought, committing some public order offence or other during or after the game. And why far fewer police vans present than for the Dingles fixture, as well? Was this game a possible policing problem, or wasn?t it? Once more, the all-too familiar phrase ?job creation scheme? flits across my fevered brain. Sorry.

Mind you, had my other half been better at reading fortunes, we might have known the outcome of this game before it started, even. Puzzled? Well, so was I! It all began when I spilled some Coke over my jeans just before setting off for the Hawthorns: Im Indoors swore blind the damp patch looked like Batman, while I thought it bore closer resemblance to either a French poodle, or Mickey Mouse. Turned out that my other half was engaged in the sport, familiar to most Baggies, called Clutching At Straws: in other words, the sort our supporters desperately reach for each and every time they Seek An Omen. ?Sorry,? said I, ?but there?s absolutely no way on God?s earth I can see a home win among that lot. Nice try, though?..?

Half-nine. What a ridiculous time to be heading for the ground, and on a Sunday, too, Bluenoses or no Bluenoses. Mind you, to be scrupulously fair, we?d set out a tad earlier than most in order to secure those all-important Norwich tickets, and before the ? erm ? rush started! And, nicely on time, there were the Lewis clan, all patiently waiting for us ? no Carly this time: once more, work commitments had got in the way, but more than compensating for her absence was The Noise?s equally-voluble missus Jayne. Not a bad idea, either: the very last time she?d been to an Albion game, she saw us promoted! Yep, the Crystal Palace adrenaline-and tear-fest, around five years ago!

Also there, and sitting patiently on the sofa in the Ticket Office, was The Fart, a Sunday Mercury-free zone, for once. Aha! The old gang was all here for the regimental reunion, then, time to splash the old cash! Which I did, and to the tune of almost the ton: sure, there?s free coach travel involved, but it isn?t half becoming an expensive leisure pursuit, these days, watching our football team lose on foreign soil. Oh ? and another thought. The Noise isn?t half becoming hirsute, these days. When asked why he?d suddenly foregone the various pleasures of brand-new razor blade skilfully applied to chin, his answer was disarmingly simple: he wasn?t going to remove that load of fungal growth until we?d finally got three points! ?So if you see me looking like Osama Bin Laden, next game, you?ll know why?..?

In the Hawthorns, comparatively deserted, because most Supporters Club members had assumed the rozzers would close that as well, presumably, The Noise had another tale to tell concerning a relative of his, now stuck in a stroke rehabilitation unit. Apparently, although lacking mobility, compared to the other patients there, his ?rellie? is coming on in leaps and bounds, so he?s not the worst case there by any means. Anyway, come Comic Relief Day, a couple of the staff dressed up to perform that familiar surgical procedure called Parting People From Their Cash.

A shame no-one thought to warn in advance the really poorly sods in that ward: well, I ask you, you?re on pretty strong medication following a life-threatening illness, you?re quietly lying there, on a hospital bed, when in walks a horse and a cow, and both of ?em nattering away like the good Stokies they were! Oh dear. According to our bewhiskered chum, how the hell some of them didn?t have a relapse there and then is an absolute miracle!

More from The Noise, this time on referees. Hearing who was scheduled to take charge of our game today ? not suggesting that he?s in any way ?bent?, mind - he then embarked upon a diatribe concerning whistlers, and their general uselessness in that role. Just like me, during those quiet moments that come to everyone, and usually in the dead of night, he oft wonders whether all the millions currently sloshing around the game, be it from betting or corporates, has led to any whistlers/linos illicitly accepting pecuniary reward above and beyond that ordained by the FA.

And, just like me, he fails to accept that the game is genuinely squeaky-clean in that respect, also believing that several years further down the line, stinking pus will probably start oozing from the dressing that seemingly contains it at the moment. The current scandal brewing over Chris Tarrant?s ?Millionaire? show has demonstrated admirably that when human greed?s involved, attempts to gain money by deception/corruption know no bounds. Just you wait and see.

Time for a parting of the ways, then, and that coming with strict instructions for Jayne to work the same miracle she did for us in April, 2002! Oh, dear ? looks as though she?s got the sack, then. Bombing into the ground on my tod ? ?Im Indoors being well caught up with some obscure piece of club history or other in Anoraks? Corner: get ensnared by that lot, and it?s a bugger to get away, not forgetting the fact it was hailing ? it was time to look at the team. I?d already seen intimations via Sky: the Duke in, plus Koren, also new loanee Mister Sodje. All I needed now was those irritating I?s dotted, and T?s crossed. And all very quickly confirmed once inside, all those being replacements for Kev Phillips, benched, Chappy, left right out, this time, not even named as sub ? I wonder whether his awful performance last Wednesday evening had anything to do with it? ? also the stricken Curtis Davies.

I?d already suspected the weather would have an adverse effect upon today?s performance. When I?d called in at our local newsagents to pick up some Sunday papers, the tailwind almost propelled me down the street at a speed far in excess of what I?m used to. And it wasn?t just me, either; looking over the road, an elderly gent was experiencing similar problems. And, coming from the North, it was bloody cold, with it. About as changeable as a drag artist with a double-booking, too.

And it wasn?t just the imminent collapse of our season that was making me more apprehensive about this game than most: cast your minds back, if you will, to the year 2000, and about a fortnight before today?s fixture. That?s right, we played Blues back then, and in similar weather conditions, too. But that wasn?t the real reason why I?m dredging this one up, more to do with the fact that we lost 3-0 that day, in truly dreadful circumstances, and all with their jubilant away following crowing ?We?ll never play you again?.?

I also retain in my memory the abiding image of Little standing impassive in that technical area, and seemingly totally incapable of acting to stop the rot. At the time, I advanced the theory he?d suffered some sort of a breakdown: given the pressures inflicted upon managers these days, it?s a miracle more don?t fall victim to psychiatric illness of one sort or another.

That game proved to be Brian Little?s swansong, and one purely of his own making, too. Listening to him on local radio after the final whistle, the tenor of his remarks was highly-suggestive of him actually inviting our board to sack him. Some might have called it ?speaking frankly?. I called it an orally-administered suicide note: to no-one?s particular surprise, Little was out of the club come the following Monday. Enter Megson into the proceedings, not long after that. The rest we all know.

But back to today?s proceedings. Only a few minutes to go before the start, and still there were huge gaps in those seats. Not the best time to have a game like this, what with it being Mother?s Day, and everything viewable on the box, but even so, you would have thought that the potential juiciness of this top-six clash might have tempted far more people from out of their bunkers than was immediately apparent. As things subsequently showed, only 21 thousand souls could be sufficiently arsed to attend: says it all, really.

And so, my other half having turned up at last, off we went for the tuppenny ride around the pier, and all to the tune of ?Shit On The Villa?, dear reader. Not very often I find myself agreeing with the Small Heath persuasion, mind, but this was one occasion where I was more than willing to make an exception! Only one up front on this occasion, The Duke, with Kamara constituting back-up from the ?hole? behind. And, within a couple of minutes of the start, we could well have spoiled their whole day, an Albion corner spilled enticingly by their keeper. Same old story, though: nobody there.

Not long after that, we gained a free-kick, and in a potentially interesting bit of Bluenose territory, too. Cue for yet another bit of Hawthorns farce, as a mathematically-minded Smethwick loudly counted out the requisite number of paces for whistler Riley. Much to my surprise, it was The Duke that took the eventual set-piece: a pity it was to end up so wide of the mark. Of all those opening flurries, I would have put Albion in front on points, boxing-style. Later on, the lad Ellington was to have yet another go, with a much closer end result, that time. A cheeky lob, from all of 30 yards out, I would guess.

So quiet had the opposition been during those opening ten or twenty minutes, it was well into the game before they had their first serious poke at the prize ? well two, actually, the second being the more dangerous by half - which almost prompted John Homer, sat in front, to give birth to kittens on the spot. Said the guy sitting on the left hand side of my beloved ? not a particularly garrulous sort of cove, normally, but clearly stung by our serial ineptitude at the back ? ?Not one flamin? chance, but bloody TWO!....?

It was probably nerves that prompted it, but on seeing new lad Sam Sodje?s heavy involvement in keeping our local rivals out, it caused Mister Homer to come out with some of the most awful jokes in the entire history of the game. ?Play it again, Sam?? was just one, and that closely followed by: ?Of all the games, in all the world?..? Aaaargh! Humphrey Bogart must have turned in his grave. Death really is too good for John when he?s in that sort of mood. Perhaps I ought to pal him up with that other ace Baggie groan-maker, Norm Bartlam, then, in much the same way that scientists retreat from an atomic weapon shortly before they?re due to test it, having made all the necessary introductions, quietly retire to a safe distance, then watch for the appearance of a tell-tale mushroom cloud!

As for Mister Riley, he was sure imposing his own awful presence on the proceedings. ?Letting the game flow?, it?s supposedly called: read that as shorthand for penalising the home side at every available opportunity, but waving ?play on? whenever there was significant Bluenose involvement in similar incidents. Not to mention one of them delivering a crafty elbow to poor Ellington?s face fairly early on, and the officiating trio then adopting their best ?Three Wise Monkeys? poise to the whole affair.

?Bugger off back to the Premier League?.? was one of John?s more repeatable reactions to that incident. We saw what happened, so why the hell didn?t the lino on our side, placed on the touchline, and just a few rows in front from where we sit? Mind you, Riley did turn down a Blues penalty shout midway through the first course ? looked a half-decent one, too ? so he couldn?t have been all that bad, blatant hypocrite that I surely am!

Ten minutes before the break saw Joe Kamara embark upon a run that took him well into the Blues box, but not for the first time, he then hung onto the bladder, instead of laying it off, the effort going well wide, in the end. Then a couple of minutes later, he was to get another bite at the ball, and in similar fashion, too. I?m not quite so sure as to whether his ball was actually meant to reach Zoltan or not, but whatever his intentions were, try as he might, the elfin-faced Baggie lad couldn?t quite apply boot to ball: had he done so, then the Blues edifice would surely have toppled there and then.

With around five to go to the break, cue for some theatricals from the Blues bench, with Steve Bruce taking the Tom Hanks ?Forrest Gump? role. Not quite ?Run, Forrest, run!....?, but close. His somewhat animated protestations rapidly caught the beady eye of John Homer, as you might expect: ?Yow couldn?t tell a foul from a duck!? was our balding chum?s final word on the incident, and very loud it was, too. More than an even chance the message?s intended recipient got far more of it than he?d possibly bargained for! Then, clearly for my benefit: ?Yeah, I know I?m biased?? The Bloke To My Left was even more succinct: ?It?s a conspiracy!? was his own take on events.

Injury time, then, and the moment I?d thought Greening was going for an early bath. Blues managed to break clear, and their guy looked ominously close to getting a clear run at his target. Enter, then, our Frank Gallagher lookalike, who promptly went in hard, very hard. A red card seemed inevitable ? but, for some unaccountable reason, considering all the grief he?d given us previously, he only deemed a yellow necessary. I have seen people walk for much less. Phew!

Half-time, then, and an announcement that Albion were about to trial the opening of a cr?che, nicely in time for the next home game. Located in the school opposite, it?ll be open from 1.30 to 5.30, apparently. A pretty neat idea, that. I wonder if they take overwrought hubbies as well? And yet another job creation scheme for somebody: removing all the plastic bags the blustery wind had deposited onto the pitch.

Onto the second helping, then, with Bluenose Cameron Jerome batting the breeze with Jason Koumas, as both sides readied themselves for the finishing strait. Both at Cardiff together, of course, and still mates, it would seem. And still both sides persisted with their policy of only having one up at the sharp end: bearing that in mind, you had to wonder whether the game would finish as bloodlessly as it started. Not that I was wondering fro long, mind: with just five gone, Blues nearly went and sorted the entire thing on the spot. You could have shoved a Sherman tank in the amount of space we gave them, up close and personal with our box. Fortunately for us, though, the guy seemed to contract Kamara Syndrome: had he laid it off for the extra Bluenose, then we?d have been wearing black within seconds, but he hung onto it instead, with predictable results. Hell, Joe, you never told me it was contagious!

And so things proceeded in similar zig-zag fashion, first one set of combatants, then the other, gaining the moral and physical advantage, with a dollop of bloody good goalkeeping chucked in by Dean Kiely for good measure. By the BIFOM?s lights; it was a nervy time: two ?Gerrimoffs? apiece, with as many cries of ?Rubbish? as you would want to hear, chucked in as well! A classical ?war of attrition?, in fact. But no scores on the actual doors, as yet ? until it fell to Macca to change all that!

With just over 60 minutes gone, it was Koumas that turned creator, his well-struck ball spinning invitingly just in front of the intended rectangular target. Cue for Macca to barge in on the blind side, then, sending the ball on its merry way over the line with the minimum of fuss. Cue for our faithful to go barmy. And theirs to suddenly lose their taste for the only song they really knew, bar that ?We?re on the way!? piece of arrogant nonsense they like to employ, sometimes.

?Everything comes to those that wait?, that?s how it looked to us gleeful Halfords Lane people, as the Bluenose tendency made its rueful way back to the centre-circle once more. But this is West Bromwich Albion we?re talking about: such is the tenuous nature of our track record concerning such things, of late, you just knew how it was going to finish. Mind you, not so very much later, Macca nearly did it again!

That was the moment when all those visitors crammed into the Smethwick End must have thought they?d had their chips, because as our lad sped towards the target, the ball at his feet, and him showing a clean pair of heels, in came a right old clattering, from Gray. A clear goalscoring opportunity denied, it was ? mind you, had more referees have seen our blonde-headed defender go for goal, then they might well have thought twice on that score! ? so the errant Bluenose simply had to go, which he did.

?Keep right on till yo?m right off the pitch!? was John?s helpful suggestion to the bath-bound Bluenose! Mind you, I still reckon Riley ?bottled it? insofar as not awarding what looked suspiciously like a penalty at the time, but ruling instead that the offence took place right on the edge of the 18 yard area. Now they were down to ten, it did make the task in hand look much more achievable, or so it seemed at that time.

Talk about getting the taste for it: not all that much later, Macca even embarked upon the almost suicidal course of trying to nut the ball into the net in somewhat strange fashion, his unique refinement, in this instance, being the fact that the ball was still sitting upon the business-end of a Bluenose defender?s boot at the time! Only the Irish?..Ten out of ten for trying, mate, but nought out of ten from Nick Worth?s purely medical point of view!

The situation now became almost a reversal of Wednesday night?s doings. They were chasing the game, and a man light, and they were desperately trying to get back into the groove once more. And we, trying to increase our lead, were stretching things to dangerous proportions at the back. Unlike us on Wednesday, though, they actually succeeded in salvaging something from the wreckage: considering they were operating with a disparity in terms of numbers, what happened just five minutes before the end was negligence of almost criminal proportions, really.

Same old story: we just backed off and backed off when the lad Jerome got the ball to within hailing-distance of its intended destination, thereby giving fellow Bluenose Johnson full licence to belt the ball for all it was worth, and from a fair distance, too. Kiely stood no chance, and, as a result, neither will our promotion bid, it would seem. Just like Wednesday night, we did try to retrieve the situation, but now they?d had that absolute gift plonked on a platter, right in front of their very (Blue?) noses, there was about as much chance of that happening as a conscience-stricken Tony Blair - ?Iraq, Afghanistan, it?s all my fault, the whole lot! I should never have listened to that George bloody Bush?? - tearfully handing the keys to Number Ten over to a gleeful Gordon Brown.

As we?d already suspected, our ?best? just wasn?t good enough, and as a result, Blues were able to leave the field of play for the final time feeling pretty pleased with themselves. It?s not a particularly good result for them either, of course, but far more disastrous for us. It?s going to be the play-offs, come the end of term, and that if we?re lucky, from what I?ve seen over the course of the last few games.

Sure, looking at those final fixtures, we seem to be pitched up against sides whose interest in promotion or relegation has either been put on ?hold? for the remainder of the season, or looking very much as though they might depart from the wrong end of this league. But the latter can create problems all of their very own, of course: think ?rats in a trap? and you?ve just about got it in one.

Mind you, following the final whistle, we decided to ?chill out? by making our way to the working farm our local council have in Dagger Lane, and having some much-needed nosh in the caf? they have there. What it is to be greeted by an exhibitionist of a peacock, all feathers and colours, every single strand trumpeting the message: ?Notice Me!? There?s also a new crop of spring lambs there, triplets all, and with proud mums in close attendance, too. The Noise?s brood would have loved ?em to bits. And a rapidly growing lot of porkers, too: funny, though, idly watching one really large specimen snuffling his adipose way around the sty, his noisy antics didn?t half remind me of those of a certain manager, ex Man United player, place of work situated not a million miles away from Small Heath!

And Finally?.. And now for my very own ?Holding My Cards Very Close To My Chest Award?. And tonight?s winner is (suggestive crackle of paper, as envelope opens, but with seeming great reluctance, all of a sudden)??.The Fart! How come? Easy: unbeknown to any of us, he?d quietly applied for a ticket for the first ever serious Wembley game on re-opening, the forthcoming Under 21 international featuring England. And, what?s more, actually got one, too! Heaps more than a good many others got back, that?s for sure. You crafty little moo, you!

 - Glynis Wright

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