The Diary

14 April 2007: Woeful Albion Owl With Pain As Wednesday Administer Friday The 13th Dicking.

What a mess. A farrago of wasted opportunities, misplaced passes, performances for which some should be completely ashamed of themselves, interspersed with an aggressive spirit of powder-puff proportions. That?s what comes of playing a game on Friday the Thirteenth, I suppose; in a much higher dimension, somewhere, Norse gods with long flowing beards, and horny helmets thicker than my forearm must have had a really good giggle at our Amateur Hour efforts to restore parity, then set in motion whatever it takes to make a chronically-underachieving Albion side totally screw up whatever it was they?d set out to do in the first place. ?Whosoever the gods wish to destroy, they first make mad.? I can?t quite remember who said that, right now, but it?s certainly spot-on. We were, once more, the architects of our own destruction ? and as for the vast majority of our followers, they were as mad as hell.

More to the point, though, what an unprofessional second-half performance we gave: totally lost it in the dying minutes, no discipline, no shape, no cohesion, no common sense, even. Wednesday must have been braying their bloody heads off every single time the referee reached for those trusty yellow and red cards. Just what they wanted, and we played straight into their hands. It?s the sort of shambolic performance that makes a ragged, ill-disciplined mob rampaging through some foreign city or other look like the Grenadier Guards, by comparison.

True, after an unbelievable 38 minutes before blowing up for the first ?proper? foul of the opening half, as opposed to offsides, the referee subsequently seemed to venture into the realms of mental hyper-drive in deciding to give both Clem and Darren Carter their marching orders, after two separate incidents towards the end. Monstrously unnecessary, in my book, but if you will go mixing it with the opposition like that, let testosterone aplenty go to your head, you always stand a pretty good chance of getting your fingers burned. Some decisions he?d previously given weren?t all that brilliant either, it has to be said, but the pair of them should never have allowed things to get to that sorry state in the first place.

Darren is young, still, and maybe not as well in control of his emotions as he should be at this level - but Clem? He?s been hanging around our penalty box an awful long time now, since 2001, in fact, is an experienced campaigner in both this division, and the Prem, so he, above all, should have known far better than let his temper get the better of him, tonight. Goddammit, he?s had much worse in the way of provocation over the years, and kept his cool marvellously well most of the time, too, so why go and completely lose it tonight, of all nights?

Our continual failure to score at home is gradually bleeding us dry, in terms of both points in the bag, and goals against. It?s absolutely no good to brag about the sort of superb away record we currently have, if you?re going to ship goals disastrously in front of your own lot, and not just once, but time and time again. Away from home, we?ve only lost one in the last three months ? and we all know who that was against, don?t we, children? At home, we?re leaking both points and goals left, right and centre. At times, our defence looked very much like one of those famous German dams, after Guy Gibson?s mob got to work on them, back in 1943. Very much breached, and in constant danger of complete collapse. Had we not been far more successful on other people?s turf over the course of the current season, then we could quite easily have been looking at a relegation struggle, by now.

As things are, yes, I do concur with what Mowbray had to say at tonight?s press conference. We?ll just about make the play-offs, and sod the finishing position on the last day ? we?ll take whatever comes, and worry about the opposition once all the hullabaloo dies down - but when it comes to actual sudden-death stuff, I?m going to put on my Mystic Mog hat, here, grab my little crystal ball very tightly indeed, then gather all three of my black cats to my weary side, in order to properly invoke the spirits specialising in that sort of thing.

The mists have long since cleared from my little quartz spheroid, and various shapes, both weird and wonderful, now manifest themselves beneath those crystalline depths. My personal play-off prediction for the Baggies? Easy, that: we?re going to bomb out completely at the two-legged stage. Why? Because if we proved one thing beyond all reasonable doubt tonight, when it comes to mixing it with sides that prosper by virtue of what might be euphemistically termed ?robust play? and/or ?gritty defending?, we?ve about as much chance of progressing to the final as Neil Warnock has of winning the Nobel Peace Prize.

Depressed? Me? Sure ? and I?ve every right to be. God knows I?ve been following our side enough years to take culpable reverses like this as a personal kicking. Or is that the problem? I care too much, while the professionals simply see it as another day?s work done, albeit very badly. Probably propping up a bar, somewhere, even as I write.

Angry? Even more than ever before, I am. Angry because our own players couldn?t keep their cool at a time when possession of cool, calm minds was paramount. Angry, also, because of both manager and club seemingly allowing a potentially-disastrous situation to prevail where we constantly end up scraping home on a wing and a prayer regarding injuries and suspensions. And all because we tried to mount a serious promotion drive with one of the smallest squads in the entire division. Hell, we didn?t have a keeper on the bench tonight, even.

Had this fine example of parsimony at its best come from Steve The Miser, I would have shrugged my shoulders, regarded it as very much par for the course, given his legendary frugality when it comes to money, and the spending of it, then simply walked away, shaking my head in wonderment. But it?s not, is it? Coming from a side that?s only been relegated from the top flight less than nine months, I find the entire situation quite bizarre. Surely we must have had some spare cash, stashed somewhere, to splash, last January? Not on world-beaters, either: just on good, reliable Championship-level performers, and blessed with lots and lots of good old-fashioned cardiac tissue to their names. Derek McInnes clones given preference, of course.

What was it I said, only the other week, about chickens finally coming home to roost? With the horrendous injury and suspension list we now have to contend with ? especially well done, Darren Carter, for effectively depriving your team-mates of your services until the end of the season, thanks to that late, late mad moment, and subsequent dismissal ? we?ll be really pushed to get any sort of a side out for the Burnley thrash, now, never mind one firing on all four cylinders. No word from the club about any appeal, thus far, by the way ? I now wonder whether they?ve simply decided to take their lumps, and carry on in the best way they can?

So what would we have done, had Kiely ended up crocked, then? Shove Duke Ellington between the sticks instead? Mind you, a precious few gems apart, for all the use he was tonight, that might well have constituted a distinct improvement. Operating so close to the edge might well prove an ideal arrangement for some cash-strapped club or other lower down the League, but not a ready-made excuse for one pushing for promotion to one of the world?s most prestigious competitions to operate in that amateurish fashion, pur-lease!

And what of our finishing ? or, more to the point, the distinct lack thereof? You don?t necessarily have to aspire to Astle-like standards when trying to head the ball past the goal-line - mere mortals frequently discover that the blasted thing will go in anyway, provided you get the basics right ? but what does help is getting the thing on target occasionally, not a constant succession of efforts ending by dint of looping over the crossbar, then halfway up the Brummie, which is what we were constantly subjected to, tonight. Not only that, in the main, our long-range efforts were distinctly well below par as well. And taking so long to crank up a decent-looking assault on their box, too. It seemed very much to me, tonight, that whatever our players do to practice these things in training, especially when it comes to having snap-shots at the opposition net, much more homework is desperately needed.

As for the heated debate that took place in our part of the Halfords following Wednesday?s controversial strike, it would appear that the club have since accepted the goal to be a legitimate one, having now scrutinised the TV coverage of the incident carefully, once the final whistle sounded, and all those watching spared further punishment.

And while I?m banging on about controversy, what about the time when a Wednesday player appeared to have sustained a hamstring injury ? down he went, clutching the back of his thigh like a good ?un, pretty diagnostic, that, normally. But these weren?t normal circumstances, were they? Robbo, enraged by the fact his opponent, recumbent just a foot or so away from the touchline, refused to move in that direction, dragged him over it, himself.

Silly boy. Already on a yellow, he could have quite easily been the first one to walk ? but the referee let it pass with a warning, fortunately. Mind you, I wonder if the same official saw the ?miracle recovery? the guy made once play finally resumed? I?m no Doctor Kildare, but if you?ve genuinely pulled a hamstring, there?s no possible way you can carry on as if nothing whatsoever had happened. He did come off eventually, of course, but the basis of my previous argument still stands.

But what really beggared belief were the two dismissals, one two minutes into stoppage time, and the other four minutes after the expiry of the normal ration. And in both instances, the alleged victim was the same, Wednesday sub Clarke, ?Fat Dingle B*****d!? according to popular Smethwick opinion. Clem was first to go, after a spat with the aforementioned gentleman, then, just two minutes later, it was Carter?s turn to take ?The Walk Of Shame? from the East Stand side of the pitch, but with no Anne Robinson anywhere to be seen, sadly.

Let me put my concluding thoughts this way: Norwich away, last Saturday, and tonight?s game, both as dissimilar as chalk and cheese. Three remaining, only, and we?re running out of road. Yes ? I can easily see us coming up with the goods on the day (although, personnel problems previously mentioned might chuck a pretty large spoke into that particular wheel for us, by then), but as the whole thing?s going to end in tears for us anyway, more than like, what?s the bloody point?

I will concede that Mowbray might well have a valid argument when he says that the fact two of our last three are away from home (Burnley, Coventry, both happy hunting grounds for us in recent seasons) might work to our advantage: by and large, we might play like a bunch of deranged Muppets in front of our own, more often than not, but when on our travels, yet another frustrating facet of our play comes into it: actually coming up with the biz, as per Norwich the other day.

And here?s another thought: when it comes to the last day, and that possibly-vital Barnsley game, suppose both sides need but one miserable point each to save their scrawny necks? I can just picture it now: the only football match to be played with mind-numbing courtesy the constant watchword for both sets of participants. Barnsley player: ?I say, you won?t mind awfully if I just pass the ball to my colleague standing by the corner flag, will you???

Albion player (casually strolling in the direction of his opponents? box): ?Not at all, old bean, feel completely free to do so, there?s a good chap ? and you really must join me in the players? bar after the final whistle, for a spot of liquid refreshment, what??.?

Barnsley player: ?Perhaps with 60 minutes gone, it?s high time I hit the ball in the general direction of your goal? But only for form?s sake, mind!?

Albion player: ?Oh, yes, please do ? and while you?re at it, you wouldn?t mind awfully passing this nice new stick of chewing gum to our chum Mister Kiely, would you??

Barnsley player: ?Never mind your keeper: hadn?t someone better wake up the referee and both assistants? They?ve all gone to sleep with all that heat and boredom, look, and if we don?t do something quickly, the assessors are bound to notice?..?

Albion player: ?I vote to let them sleep on: after all, they?ve had to travel a long way, poor lambs, and if we startle them unduly, they might just end up giving a daft decision against one or the other of us! Can?t have that, can we? Oh, dear ? now the entire crowd?s dozed off as well. Anyone out here got enough caffeine to pump into 20,000 people?? Aw, you get my drift.

Sorry this has all descended into something of a rant, tonight, but I really do feel frustrated, right to the point of smashing up some handy items of crockery, or something. At least we can both switch off by heading on out to our holiday retreat tomorrow lunchtime, then in the direction of Edgar Street, to watch them take on nigh-on doomed Boston in the Second. And sweat cobs over what our own play-off rivals have done ? or haven?t. I need a real break from our football club, desperately so, after what?s happened this evening.

By the time we return for the Burnley game, ?Im Indoors, this column, and The Fart should all be well and truly back within the range of normal values, regarding blood pressure. And hopefully, the journey up the M6 won?t be a wasted one, either. Please? Pretty, please?

And another thought, but one of a much more pleasant nature, this time?.. Regarding Tommy Gaardsoe?s missus. What I didn?t realise last night was the fact she is currently expecting her first, so sincere congratulations are in order to both her and Tommy, I reckon.

Apparently, theirs is a much wanted child, and for a very long time indeed, too, so it goes without saying I hope that the birth goes smoothly for the pair of them. Not that I would have noticed last night, mind: despite being some 28 weeks into the pregnancy, nary a bulge on her tum could I detect. I can only assume she?s either carrying the baby very high, or it?s a bit small for its expected date of delivery: if both my sisters were anything to go by, when they were blessed with child (Sairey Gamp was the local midwife, back then, that?s how long ago it was!) that lovely tell-tale bulge will be busting out all over, pretty soon, I reckon!

GROVELLING APOLOGY CORNER! URIAH HEEP ? NOT RENNIE ? EAT YOUR ?EVER SO ?UMBLE? HEART OUT.

Oh, dear, have I dropped some goolies over the course of the last couple of days, so here they all are, and profound apologies go to all those affected in any way by my erroneous thoughts.

NUMERO UNO. Mea culpa! And being very much of an age where pounds, shillings and pence were a major feature in my life ? I used to serve in my mother?s pub quite regularly ? I should have never made the error in the first place. As several people have since pointed out, ?25 guineas is not ?25.30 (new money), it?s ?26.30! A guinea is (or was) one pound one shilling, so, with twenty shillings to the pound, it?s dead easy to arrive at the correct answer, then convert to decimal currency. Unless your name happens to be Glynis Wright, of course! Oh, well ? arithmetic was never my best subject anyway. See - I told you I should have ignored my teachers and stuck to doing history at school!

NUMERO DUO And what a doozy this one was. Last night, at the Sutton Branch Tommy G-Ellis gathering, I had Deadly Doug getting something in the order of $35 billion dollars for Villa! Oh whoops ? me and my bloody hearing. And not letting plain common sense have its head, of course. That was the sum Lerner got for flogging his OWN business, not what he thought the claret-and-spew persuasion were actually worth! Now you know why I failed the auditions for Alan Sugar?s ?The Apprentice?, don?t you?

 - Glynis Wright

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