The Diary

08 April 2007: Surrender To Bloody Stoke Again - And For Me, More Questions Than Answers.

Why is it that whenever I come out of an Albion-Stoke City game, I do so possessed by an almost uncontrollable urge to smack some unsuspecting soul right in the face? Or, to put it far more accurately, today?s pathetic showing versus those awful Potties was yet another good reason for me coming out and wanting to?..etc. Let?s face it, we were truly dreadful today, and got just about what we deserved, too. The fact that our other play-off rivals dipped badly ? Blues, The Dingles, Preston (like us, going backwards at a rate of knots: three defeats in a row, now), and Cardiff all losing, with only Sunderland and increasingly-dangerous Southampton grabbling all three points, meaning the Saints are now but one behind us ? gets us off the hook a little, but for how long will that sort of luck hold, I ask myself?

The problem I?m having with today?s defeat is the fact that it raises far more questions than answers, some awkward, others ?not so much, but we would like some sort of clue, Jeremy?, with a goodly bit put by for a really old fashioned bout of spleen-venting, along the lines of ?What the bloody hell were they playing out there this afternoon? Tiddlywinks?? Or maybe I should amend that last one to ?Silly buggers?, that well-known phrase being a far more accurate description of what transpired for most of the hour and a half we?d paid good money to watch.

Questions? Too bloody right there are. Loads of ?em, too. Today?s debacle owed an awful lot to the fact we simply didn?t have players strong enough to cope with Stoke?s rough-house tactics: that, plus a referee (Paul Taylor: not a name I?m familiar with, must be a newbie) who was far too weak to nip that sort of thing in the bud right from the start. With a past history such as the one Stoke have, as these encounters go, this game really cried out for someone pretty experienced when wielding the whistle, while somewhat more resistant than most to the many wiles of players, both physical and mental. But we didn?t. Result? A fair bit of rough-house play from The Potties, during those opening minutes, and our players were bullied out of it completely. Ball-players like, say, Koumas, possibly believing they wouldn?t get proper protection, thought more than twice when in possession. Why no experienced ref in charge?

As I also see it, we were shy of a decent goalscorer, someone with a bit of the old Derek McInnes-type fighting spirit about them in the middle, a no-nonsense defender (sure, Macca did try his level best to mix it with them this afternoon, but he?s not really cut out for that sort of thing, not just yet, at any rate.) Oh, and we really should have on the bench a capable understudy for Kiely, too. Not at all likely to be called into action, sure, but not having a keeper on the bench at all isn?t the best of policies, in my view. You encounter that sort of thing at lower levels, of course, and due to finances being too tight to allow for a decently-sized squad, but when you?re as high as we are, and with a pedigree to match, you expect rather more. First question, then? Why did we not splash the cash in any sort of meaningful way come the transfer window not long gone, and why? Had we done so, the situation might have looked vastly more promising, by now.

That?s two seasons, now, where a large size injection of new blood might have swung it for us, both in the Prem last year, and in the lower sphere this time round ? but we didn?t dust off the biscuit tin to any great extent on either occasion, and suffered materially as a result. Again, to the point of inane repetition, why? Any manager worth their salt would have been hammering on Jeremy Peace?s office door long before we got to this sad stage, so another question then generates itself. Did Mowbray assert himself as fully as he should have done, come last January, I wonder?

And, assuming he did, what kind of reply did he get from our chairman? Going by the rapidly deteriorating situation we now find ourselves in, and, Kiely, Koren and Shergar apart, the distinct lack of further reinforcements arriving on the scene over the course of the opening weeks of the New Year, was the answer he finally got from Jeremy Peace a far from positive one, I wonder? Strange, when we?re constantly told our finances are some of the soundest in the entire Championship, not to mention the Premiership, and we?ve got real plans for this and that new venture, come the near future - so what?s the problem, Jeremy?

The writing has been on the wall for an awful long time, it has to be said, and a fair proportion of what?s gone wrong has to owe much to the fact that we have at this club one of the smallest squads in the entire division. For a side aspiring to return to the Prem in one, it?s an absolute joke. It?s not necessarily about signing people worth millions, mind: what?s needed as much as quality is simple basic cover for key players out due to suspensions, injury etc. and today really had those chickens all a-headin? to their barn for a quiet night?s roost. We lack the necessary strength in depth, among many other shortcomings, precisely the situation I?d feared months ago - and didn?t it show, today?

I was interested, tonight, to read on the club website that Mowbray reckoned injuries and illness were very much part of the reason why we?d dipped this afternoon. Apparently, Joe Kamara was on the bench because he?d been laid low by a virus all week, not, as I?d thought, because Mowbray didn?t want to risk him going over that nine-bookings demarcation line, and automatically incurring a two game ban. He?s doubtful for Monday also. Clem? An ankle injury ruled him out, and a knock was the reason Sodje was taken off at half-time. What we?re going to do for a central defender at Carrow Road, I really don?t know. Oh, and just to really make things interesting, we?ll be without Darren Carter, the only one of Albion?s Terrible Three to see yellow today, the end result being an enforced absence for two away games in succession, versus Burnley and Coventry respectively, of course.

And that brings me to yet another question regarding Clem, and a below-par Robbo, too, whom I?d thought was primarily at fault for Stoke?s first. Was it really wise having them both play on, while pumping pain-killers into their bodies, as and when? Were Clem?s problems a direct result of that? After all said and done, as I?ve constantly maintained, pain is just Nature?s sign that the part of the body concerned has had enough and needs a break. Again, the profound sense of chickens finally coming home to roost is overwhelming.

And I also clocked it right regarding our three hovering on the brink, as far as yellow cards were concerned: no, this game being the rough-house it always is, there was never the remotest of chances of one or more of that three getting through the entire game without incurring the wrath of the referee. Given the bone-crunching format of most other Pottie encounters in the past, it was the biggest non-starter this side of a twenty year-old Lada, it really was.

As per usual in these cases, it was what went on before the game that provided us with the most fun. For some reason, our arrival in our usual parking spot was timed to coincide with that of The Noise, plus Carly. What, no Bethany? Oh, dear ? what a sad tale they had to tell. Apparently, as a bit of a treat, her parents allowed her to choose where they were going to eat out, yesterday, so the young lady duly opted for ?. Er, should I be doing this, or wimp out of naming and shaming, I wonder? Aw soddit, I?ll partially wimp out ? a well-known fast food place with a name synonymous with that of the New York version of the Underground, if you must know. But, lawyers please note ? no blame directly attached or implied, honest.

Once there, Bethany went for some sort of tuna and chicken combo baguette filling, moistened by loads of mayo. And very enjoyable it was, too, apparently ? until the tummy trouble started, much later on. At one point, she spent a good five hours hovering near to, or over, the Big White Telephone: not good for someone ten years of age, hence her absence from the matchday scene today. At least I managed to tell Jayne about my own stock remedy for diarrhoea and vomiting: no solids, just Coke, allowed to go flat before drinking (a doctor recommended that one to me once, and it really works), or half a teaspoon of salt to a pint of water, with a bit of sugar mixed in with it. The salt to maintain what?s called an ?electrolyte balance? ? without, you dehydrate rapidly - and the sugar for energy. So now you know.

Mind you, just to show there?s always someone worse off than yourself, the saga of Martin?s stroke victim brother-in-law still drags on: only four days out of hospital for him, thus far this year, poor sod. His relatives are now negotiating with the quacks about him having an occasional Sunday afternoon off, if only to give him something to look forward to. And another kick in the sphericals for Lewis Major ? his stile card, sent Royal Mail by Steve The Miser around nine days ago, went missing in the post. The club have provided The Noise with replacement tickets via The Miser, of course, but it was still yet another worry he could have really done without.

Once in the pub, earnest conversation with young Carly about love lately lost. Aah, teenagers, don?t you just love ?em? To these kids, sixteen is like being left out on the shelf, too old by far, past sell-by date, even ? and, thus affected, she thinks she?ll never find another true love, ever again. Still, we did try to cheer her up: boys are like buses at that age, aren?t they? Miss one, and there?ll definitely be another along in a minute.

It spoke volumes about our collective unease about today?s game and its outcome that we spent much of the time studying League tables and fixtures to try and second-guess who we?d be meeting in the play-offs ? assuming we don?t blow that as well, of course! Hoping like hell we wouldn?t run up against the buffers of either Wolves, Derby, Blues ? and with increasing prospects of them going up as of right anyway, rendering all bets well and truly off ? Sunderland, of course.

Cue for The Fart to have a good moan about Chelsea manager Mourhino, whose side was doing battle with Spurs, on the big screen. ?Got more time for Donald Duck,? said the old curmudgeon. ?Can?t stand him?.?

?Who ? Donald Duck?? said I. 4p ?No,? said Tel, ?Mourhino. But Donald Duck talks far more sense?.?

Then the moment for our departure came, in similar mood, I would imagine, to that of the famous Captain Oates, about to meet Destiny, in the form of fatal hypothermia, when he made his excuses and left Captain Scott?s tent for ever. Unusually, we were accompanied by both The Noise and Daughter, the former having to pick up those promised tickets from Steve The Miser.

When we finally reached Anorak?s Corner, much consternation when all the assembled Stattoes suddenly rumbled that Carly was growing at a rate of knots. Proof positive was provided, in the form of Steve standing back to back with the young lady. ?Blimey,? he remarked, ?I can remember being invited to her christening, and actually going?.? And that?s when yet another hitherto-unknown facet of Lewis family life emerged, folkies. After the ceremony, Steve was busily nattering to our chum ? now there?s a surprise ? and The Noise let it slip that he and Jayne were busily trying for a second addition to the family. In answer to the inevitable question that came tumbling forth from the Miser?s tight lips: ?No, we haven?t succeeded yet, but it hasn?t half been fun trying???

On that hilarious note, we finally parted ? and once inside, we heard something that sounded uncannily like an air-raid siren about to herald the arrival of a whole load of unrequited fun, courtesy the Luftwaffe. Once near the pitch, though, everything became clear: nothing to do with Hitler, however tardy his aerial wrath might have been in turning up, more to do with an opera singer brought in for the occasion, giving ?Nessun Dorma? the big-decibel treatment. ?None Shall Sleep?, in English, and you certainly couldn?t sue. Next came ?Jerusalem?, William Blake version (I was ?on the throne? by that time), with The 23rd Psalm reverberating around the ground when I emerged once more. Different, I suppose.

And that?s about when it really started to go sour on us. When both sides came out, with the team changes I?ve already outlined ? no Clem, Carter or Kamara, either ? and Alby, Duke Ellington, and Chappy taking their places. Both of us had a profound sense of unease about this fixture, but never in our wildest imaginings did we ever come close to visualising what was about to happen.

Off we went, then, in brilliant sunshine, and warm with it, too ? no coat necessary, thank goodness. And within literally seconds of the start, City provided us with a Dire Warning, when they earned themselves an early corner, which we made an absolute pig?s ear of dealing with courtesy an awful mis-kick from someone at the back, Eustace being allowed to get the long-range shot away, and only narrowly scraping past the post, too.

Had Phillips put away a chance that fell to him just minutes later, then the outcome might ? just might, although I severely doubt it, given Stoke?s remarkable capacity for ?robust play? ? have been markedly different. Koumas was the provider, his ball dropping beautifully for his colleague, and right in front of the Brummie, too, but the outcome was not as they would have ideally wished it, sadly, that ball also going narrowly wide.

Very much a cup-tie atmosphere about the place, now, with The Potties in the Smethwick already murdering the tune of a well-known pop song, as once sung by a Welsh windbag called Tom Jones, and our lot giving the 23rd Psalm big licks by way of reply, as you might expect. Although shaping up to be one of those games where the impetus would swing madly from end to end, I would have said that we were, just about, getting the lion?s share of the passing, and Jason Koumas even taking on half the entire Stoke side, or so it seemed, before blasting away a creditable goal attempt from very long range indeed, an event that got Pulis furiously jumping up and down in his technical area like one of those little rubber balls, but with a baseball cap attached ? and then it happened, and with only a third of the half gone, too.

I?d originally thought Robinson was the man at fault, but time has shown it to be otherwise, Sam Sodje belatedly emerging as the real guilty party, in my book. After he?d made a right pig?s ear of his intended clearance, the ball then dropped nicely for ?nearly-Baggie? Ricardo Fuller to outwit poor Robbo ? again, you have to wonder about the wisdom of those pain-killing injections ? and lamp the ball into the back of the bloody net. Once more, The Curse Of The Rampant Pottie had struck, and we only had ourselves to blame for it.

As everyone headed back towards the centre circle, and Stoke were doing a swap, due to injury on the part of one of theirs, the thought briefly flashed through my head that one conceded wasn?t an irretrievable situation, necessarily, and given a modicum of luck, parity would soon be restored. I couldn?t have got it more wrong, could I? Just five minutes later, it was ?game over, effectively, 2-0 and their innings well and truly declared. Once more, the root cause was Sodje, well and truly bundled out of things by Fuller, his crossed assist launched from the bye-line meeting with the lad Parkin, who put the ball away, no messing. As The Bloke Behind Me was heard to plaintively moan: ?Too easy?.?

You wouldn?t have thought it could possibly get any worse, could you? But it did, and within the space of about a minute after the restart. This time, we seemed to have swallowed a whole job-lot of suicide pills: either that or, unbeknown to us, our entire defence had submitted documents to the Charities Commission registering themselves as one, pre-match. Whatever the background to this debacle, it was a bad move for us: following the breakdown of an Albion attack, the ball then ran to yet another Stoke player ? yes, bloody Ricardo Fuller, again.

He didn?t need telling twice: within a matter of seconds, he was inside enemy territory once more, pulling us completely apart. One neat pass to the ubiquitous Parkin later, and it was 3-0. As for one chap sitting just a few rows in front of me, that was the moment he finally snapped, his angrily-hurled programme ending up somewhere in the region of the home dug-out. How the hell the stewards didn?t clock what he did, I don?t know, otherwise he would have been looking at a rapid ejection by then. Or was that his real intention, I wonder? And did the stewards reckon leaving him alone was punishment enough? Wouldn?t have surprised me in the slightest, by that somewhat farcical stage of the proceedings.

Oh, dear. Talk about getting hit by a trio of sucker-punches. The zingy atmosphere had leaked from the ground, to be replaced by one oozing anger and hurt from every single pore. Other than in the Stoke bit, of course. They were busy giving ?Delilah? the treatment ? and who could really blame them? Albion tried to get back into the swing of things again, but after that triple hammer-blow, it would have taken a miracle of saint-making proportions to do it.

Looking at Mowbray?s impassive, suited form, observing events from the touchline, I wondered what was going through his head at that very moment. Thoughts apropos stringing our entire (non)defence up from the shower heads, come the break? Or something more on the lines of: ?Why the hell didn?t I stay in bloody Scotland?, maybe?

Cue for the Bloke In Front Of Me, to finally emerge from what, for him, had been an unusually quiet spell, given the circumstances. Mind you, he soon made up for it, making the wearing of industrial-grade earplugs in that area pretty much mandatory, before too long. First off, when indicating in the direction of the home dugout, where Mowbray kept a lonely vigil, still: ?CHANGE IT!...? then, ?DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT!...? finally qualifying that last statement with ?GET CHAPLOW OFF, THEN GET ONE OF US ON?.? As I?ve commented on numerous occasions, the lad?s so full of Albion-generated angst, it?s untrue.

At least Macca and Koren were flying well in the face of current trends, by mixing it with their muscular opponents, showing real determination to win the ball, the latter to let fly in the box from a fair distance out, around eight minutes from the break. Previous to that, only Chappy had ventured to enter Terra Incognito, so it was good to see at least they were trying ? yes, I know, in every sense of the word! But fair play to him, Duke Ellington?s speculative effort just minutes later nearly hit pay-dirt, the shot landing with an enormous THWACK! ? yes, you could genuinely hear it land, so quiet was the place by that time! ? right on the crossbar. At least he had the courage to try, which was more than could be said of some.

Come injury time, three minutes of it, up piped John Homer and the BIFOM, with a wonderfully impromptu one-liner double-act. ?Well,? said The Homer, ?WG Richardson managed to get a hat-trick in five minutes??? Butted in the BIFOM, patience sorely dented, by then: ?Any chance of digging him up??

Finally, we head the whistle for the break to many boos from all points around the ground, predictably. Let?s just say it hadn?t exactly been our finest hour, and leave it at that, eh? Well at least conversation in our dressing-room would prove somewhat stimulating ? and no hairdryers whatsoever necessary, either during the break, or post-match, too. Meanwhile, on the pitch, the only guy to come out of today?s game at all well: he?d just won the raffle, and was now a thousand quid to the good, lucky bloke.

By the time things were starting to move in preparation for the second course, it was abundantly clear Things Were Going To Get Changed. Shergar, young Hodgkiss, and Carter entered the fray, and Greening, Phillips and Sodje left it. At least we got off on the right foot: a lovely series of flowing moves found us right up close and personal with their box, for once. Not so good was Chappy stuffing up completely when in sight of the target! Koren and Duke Ellington were next to come close ? with, much to our surprise, Hodgkiss getting a good sniff of the target indeed with his inaugural effort. In fact, that young man was looking quite dangerous every single time he got the ball on the right: a real shame, then, that some of his colleagues didn?t seem to want to involve him in things, mind, hence much ironic cheering every time he did ge the ball.

At least we were getting the ball into their box with far more frequency during the course of those opening minutes: in fact, it looked very much as though City had become somewhat wary of us, all of a sudden. Once more, you have to ask the question ?Why?? Given our pathetic form to date, they could all have visited the toilets en-masse, and still found ample time and space to keep us out.

Come the middle portion of the half, we?d all thought young Hodgkiss had finally made his mark upon the Stoke net, only to see the effort ruled out for offside. Just about summed up our day, really. A shame that, as the lad really was busting a gut to change things, but as the game went on, it became clear that we weren?t to see a repeat performance of the one we laid on at Upton Park, that second promotion season under Megson. Nice thought, but?.

Fifteen minutes from the end, there came our consolation, courtesy Koumas, his first in Lord knows how many barren months. A bog-standard 20-yarder, it was, and looking a dead cert to go wide, once more ? but on its way in, it took an almighty deflection from a Stokie instead, and landed in the net. As soon as it did, we?d both said, simultaneously, ?Oggie!?, but the PA bloke said otherwise, finally crediting Our Jase with the strike ? not that he?d be arguing muchly, mind!

For a brief spell, hope of snatching something from the wreckage was resurgent, but with Stoke?s reinforced concrete defence reigning absolute, there was no chance whatsoever of the game finishing with an upset ? and our lot knew it. Finally, we were put out of our misery by the ref?s whistle, and we could all go home, whether to lick wounds or not.

What a bloody awful day, and one I don?t want to see repeated any time in the near future, either. The true irony of it all is the fact that a rock-solid and VERY physical defence apart, Stoke have nothing. They flattered to deceive, thanks to more than a little help from our own blighted rearguard. Another time, and any half-competent Championship side would have beaten them completely out of sight. They really aren?t all that good ? but too good for us on the day, sadly.

As I said earlier, at least the afternoon didn?t end in complete disaster: thanks to sundry slip-ups from our fellow-travellers, we haven?t taken too many hits. But the pressure?s very much on Monday, and Norwich, that?s for sure. What we need is about three wins to ensure our passage to the knock-out stage of the play-offs, but with the end in sight, will we run out of road, instead? Somehow, I reckon we?ll get a good intimation of our chances of actually staying the course, come Monday?s Carrow Road show-down: stuff that one up, and we might well be looking at a longer stay in the Championship than originally intended. Which brings me quite neatly back to my original remarks, those about pertinent questions we ought to be asking of both our manager, and the board that appointed him in the first place. Not that I totally lay the blame at Mogga?s feet: I strongly suspect that our chairman had more of a role in this than even we had thought, more in jest than serious enquiry. Not so much a case of chickens coming home to roost, by now ? more one of bloody great vultures, all assembling, and eagerly awaiting rich pickings. ?Nuff said?

And Finally?.. One. Despite everything, there is one bit of good news to relate, today, folks. But not from what used to be our favourite football club, sadly. After a very long period during the course of which nothing whatsoever happened, and he?d despaired of ever having something tangible to show for his horticultural labours, ?Im Indoors?s cucumber seeds have finally germinated! Whoopeeee! So rapid was their emergence from within those tiny compost-filled cubes in the seed tray, it was literally, a case of ?nothing doing? this morning, but definite green shoots are now showing following our return from the horror-show, earlier this evening. At least they haven?t let us down, which is more than can be said for a certain football club, of course.

Two?. And now, just to lighten the dismal mood ? all strictly for fun, please note, all you right-on PC people out there: I have no issues whatsoever with those who practice a sexual agenda other than the mainstream one! ? a leetle joke, as told to me by The Noise, pre-match, so here goes: Elton John, Robbie Williams and Lulu are all walking down the street. While they?re doing so, Lulu gets her head stuck in some railings. So, not wishing to miss a chance when he sees it, up comes Robbie, and gives her what some might refer to as ?a good rogering?, from behind. Having done that, and Lulu still stuck fast, Robbie then turns to Elton and says: ?Now it?s your turn, mate??

Says Elton, distinctly-miffed: ?Don?t be daft, how the hell can I get MY head stuck through those railings?....?

There is a small coda attached to the above joke, mind. When The Noise and Carly were both giggling over it, in the privacy of their own house, young and innocent Bethany, on overhearing both the joke and the laughter, wanted to know just one teensy little thing: ??.But why would he want to get his head stuck in the railings, Dad??

 - Glynis Wright

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