The Diary

24 April 2007: The Referee 3, Albion 2.

It was a very subdued and saddened trio of Albionites that headed out of a somewhat damp and soggy Burnley, not long after the final curtain rang down upon a game that saw yet another nail driven in the coffin that now represents the sum total of what?s left of all our various play-off hopes and fears. And that was the distinctly downbeat mood that The Fart conveyed to Radio WM listeners via their post-match phone-in, the sort of reportage that makes a constant diet of Leonard Cohen records a barrel of laughs by comparison. Plus the brief but frank discussion we?d had with The Noise, who?d watched the whole thing on TV, sending-off included, poor thing.

Once both were done with, and we were on the motorway proper, I don?t suppose much more than seven words passed between the three of us for the remainder of the two-hour return trip. Misery sure loves company, and boy, was there a surfeit of the stuff flying around our poor little jalopy. As we chomped up the homeward miles, and in a desperate attempt to lighten the mood somewhat, I did try giving our CD player something worthwhile to do, but after a while, even that seemed about as inappropriate an activity as playing The Sex Pistols? Greatest Hits at full-volume, right in the middle of an emotionally-charged funeral service.

The stark truth, dear readers, is that this season - the one that promised so much after the early departure of Bryan Robson, and the subsequent arrival of new Premiership prophet Tony Mowbray, remember? - is fast collapsing around our ears, literally crumbling to dust in our hands, like some delicate and ancient piece of parchment exposed to the cold light of day for the first time in aeons - and there?s sod all we can do about it. Save send a ?quickie? to The Man Upstairs, I suppose, but even last-ditch measures like that are very much contingent upon the deity of your choice happening to like the Baggies. Right now, I?m succeeding in somehow convincing myself that the lad with the white robe and flowing beard is really a Dingle, and boy, is he having one hell of a snigger at our plight, right now.

You don?t need a Gary Lineker, or Andy Gray (the one that works for Sky, not the Burnley two-goal destroyer of dreams) to analyse precisely what did for us tonight: even a six year-old grossed out on a constant diet of Spiderman cartoons could have pointed an accusatory finger, and hit the target the very first time of asking, too. The answer, my friends, is not so much ?blowing in the wind?, as ?blowing the sodding whistle?. Yep ? just when I?d thought that even the amazing Mister Rennie could neatly encapsulate the unerring ability of these black-clad gentlemen to completely spoil a Championship outfit?s whole day, up pops someone with the ability ? no, make that ?sheer genius?, eh? - to go one better.

It is with this in mind that I now salute Michael Jones, tonight?s referee. It sure as hell takes a goodly amount of creative genius to turn what was purely a simple clash of heads into something resembling a hanging offence. And that was the top and bottom of the whole thing, honest. With the half-time break looming large, Paul McShane and former Baggie James O?Connor rose to meet the same ball with their ample nuts: as we all know, both players are far from shrinking violets when placed in this situation. And, of course, going head-to-head with another player to prevent the opposition from getting the ball is bread-and-butter stuff to most players. More often than not, both parties then bang together in similar fashion to billiard balls, not long after an opening break ? and that?s the end of that.

But tonight was different. Both players rose to meet the aerial challenge, all right, but after doing so, O?Connor folded like a soggy cardboard box, and didn?t get up again. Over rushed the ref, ostensibly to check on O?Connor after both nuts had clashed, I?d thought ? but nope. First of all, he pulled McShane to one side ? always a portent of bad omen, that ? then, after waving away numerous protests from other Albion players, pulled out the red card.

Cue for an enormous expostulation of the phrase ?You WHAT?? from the lips of those massed behind the goal, of course. Rapidly followed by a dreadful word that?s not really suitable to repeat in a piece like this, lest small children suddenly acquire a yen for repeating said insult parrot-fashion, and at inconvenient times, too, like when the local vicar visits on his rounds. Let me just put it this way, eh? What imagery does the phrase ?forty nine, change hands?? convey? No, don?t all rush at once to tell me?.

Only one thing to do at half-time, then ? well, after shifting our collective chins from the vicinity of floor-level, of course - and that was ring an armchair-bound Mister Noise, if only to confirm what I?d seen occur before my very own eyes i.e. Paul McShane get his marching orders for something that didn?t even happen! And, when he finally answered, he was only too happy to confirm my worst suspicions ? both players had gone in hard, very hard indeed, and with a determination considered about par for the course, at this level, too - but there was nothing illegal about our activities whatsoever, as The Noise was only too happy to confirm, of course. No wonder, come the very end of the game, just about every Baggie in that away end immediately broke into a spontaneous rendition of: ?3-2, to the referee, 3-2, to the referee?.? Not quite possessing the same cachet as the mid-eighties Pet Shop Boys hit, sure, but Neil Tennant is no doubt working on it, even as I write.

It now appears that Albion will appeal against the dismissal, and from what I saw of the incident, quite right too. The trouble is, though, that despite just about everything having being rendered null and void by such activities, the damage has now been done. McShane?s eyes were firmly fixed upon the ball, and nowhere else, when he went for it. The upshot of all this is that he now faces a four-game ban, having also been sent off earlier in the current season. Let?s just hope that Mogga can sort things with the FA, eh?

A shame things had to turn out like this, really, as we?d kept our promise to The Noise by turning up mob-handed at his place earlier that afternoon, while en-route to tonight?s game. When we got there, we found our chum watching Sky Sports News, and ?entertaining? ? if that be the correct term ? both offspring. I?m happy to report that he is gradually getting better, but I also strongly suspect it?s going to be a much longer job than the 14 days his GP originally envisaged. And our football team aren?t exactly helping him recover, either!

Still, we did manage to drop off some books for his delectation, while recovering. Some are about football, and others not, so that should keep him off the streets for a little while longer, I reckon. But the biggest puzzler of the afternoon was Carly?s maths homework, believe it or not. Algebra, it was, the multiplication of said stuff, to be precise ? and I hadn?t a sodding clue how to proceed when working such things out. Somewhere, a little voice from within told me I had to multiply what was in the brackets first, but other than that, you might as well have asked me something about practical brain surgery, such is my ignorance of such matters! As for Carly, she?s welcome to every single problem she gets set by her teacher!

That little lot sorted out, we then made our way back to the motorway ? and that?s when we started to hit the traffic. Sure, the outskirts of Manchester are rarely havens of peace and tranquillity at that particular time of day, but when we hit the bottlenecks, it genuinely seemed as though Manchester had been saving its grottiest weather (and almost-gridlocked traffic) for us three. Normally, footie-related hold-ups can be found in the vicinity of the junction for Old Trafford, with the lesser effects tailing off as you proceed northwards in search of your own game, but not tonight. Everything suddenly ended up in a blasted crawl, and the mess was still with us when we finally hit the Burnley junction. This was going to be tight, what with finding a parking-spot, then making the long trek to the ground, and everything. But, for once, a minor miracle ? a car-park that still had spaces in it, and wasn?t too far away: in fact, we?d dropped anchor there the last time we?d travelled to Turf Moor for a game. A serendipitous discovery indeed, that?s for sure.

Far from having to rush to make the kick-off, that unexpected turn of events meant we could then shift to the ground with plenty of time to spare. And, not only that, grab some coffee with which to bung down the receptive throat of His Nibs, our chauffeur for the night.

Burnley is a lovely old ground, every single nut, bolt and rivet a veritable paean of praise to players and admin bods long since quit this mortal coil ? and it shows! So much so, they still retain the familiar wooden seats of Rainbow Stand vintage. Go in the Ladies, and another facet of being one of the League?s oldest clubs soon hits you, i.e. doors covered from top to bottom with graffiti. Some of it is a tad smutty, while the rest simply advertises the presence of just about every football club to play either Mancs ever since the advent of the League itself. But nothing whatsoever from ours, it would seem! Did that mean we could boast a much better class of supporter living at The Hawthorns, I wonder?

Then, just before both sides entered Stage Left, up strode a very unlikely figure indeed, Adrian Chiles, complete with retinue of chums, and wanting to plonk down in our vicinity, too, so we pointed the lad in the general direction of The Fart, who, being most amenable towards that kind of thing, was most happy to oblige anyway. And so the stage was finally set for what we?d hoped would be a master-class for Burnley in the not-so-noble art of grabbing points aplenty.

A small interlude before I proceed any further, mind: the look of sheer amazement on the faces of just about every Albion supporter, the moment John Hartson?s name was read out as sub: so badly was I affected, I was still in a state of hysterical shock some seven hours later!

But back to the game: not long after the start, we had a warning of what was to be when the lino on our side completely missed the fact our opponents were the last to touch the ball, so the throw went to them, not us. Oh whoops. And both our local rivals came in for special treatment, too, ranging from the bog-standard ?Stand Up If You Hate The Wolves? to ?S**t On The Villa?. It was during the first of these I uttered the immortal words: ?Er ? would it be OK if I just farted, chaps??

Then came the all-too brief ecstasy of going two up in around five minutes, our first coming from Koumas, courtesy one of the best strikes I?ve seen from an Albion player in many a year, managing to lead at least two Clarets a merry dance, before applying the coup de grace in ruthless fashion. Our second? That came around a couple of minutes later, when Nathan Ellington headed home from a Gera cross.

In both cases I would say that we were aided considerably by a couple of defensive howlers from Burnley ? perhaps The Beast might want to examine his conscience on that score regarding our second ? but we, too, seemed to catch the same complaint with just 17 minutes on my watch. Dean Kiely, a normally-reliable custodian, must have been on the old suicide pills in quantity around that time, because it was his attempted upfield throw, when screwed up, set the home side up for their first reply.

Having said that, I?m also given to understand that the scorer was offside when he put the ball away. TV replays don?t half have a lot to answer for. Would it have been better had I never found out, I wonder? Would have saved me an awful lot of frustration, certainly. And our away following an awful lot in terms of wailing and gnashing of teeth!

Despite Burnley grabbing that one back under somewhat dubious circumstances, we were still looking pretty good for finishing the game three points better off ? and that?s when the elegant, lovely and talented Mister Jones began to impose his considerable presence upon the proceedings! As the chant, sung to the ?Blue Moon? theme implied: ?We always get s**t refs?.? After the dismissal, we?d lost a considerable amount of aerial prowess at the back, so no surprise whatsoever when Burnley equalised not long after the start of the second half.

As you might expect, once more, the referee bore the brunt of any insults going, up to and including our people roaring ?Off! Off! Off!? every time a Burnley player conceded a foul, which was often. And yet more suggestions the referee was the real match-winner for Burnley. Yep ? sarcasm is well and truly alive in The Black Country, folks. Not to mention irony.

It was around that time that it began to dawn upon most Baggies present that the opportunity was there for us to become our ?twelfth man? so to speak ? and boy, didn?t the concept spread like wildfire, wafting swiftly around the away end courtesy a process not all that far removed from osmosis. First of all, the 23rd Psalm got the treatment, then there commenced an astonishingly long rendition of ?Tony, Tony Mowbray?? as per ?The Entertainer? film theme, interspersed with ?Oh When The Stripes?.? And both complete with constant clapping, and lasting, I reckon, for at least two thirds of the entire half, and interrupted by neither man nor beast. Not even the former Albion one stood between the sticks, and right in front of us, that half!

It says much for our determination to salvage something from the wreckage that we actually managed to go to within around five minutes before the end of normal time before Burnley finally crashed in the winner. Thank Dean Kiely, whose goal came under almost constant siege that half, I suppose. But with that, I really must question the lamentable lack of plain ordinary ?blood and guts? shown by some of our performers before that strike went in, even. During those all-too-frequent moments when they either gave the ball away cheaply, or misplaced a pass so badly, it hurt, I found myself screaming ?Do you really want to salvage something from this, or not??

But, as I said, the inevitable happened, and we came away from Turf Moor pointless, again. Sure, the ref was principally to blame for what happened ? up until the moment he put an oar into the proceedings, we were pretty much on top, and would have gone on to emerge the winner of the contest ? but you also have to look, once more, towards the downright short-sighted policy we?ve had of allowing players to go, but not replacing them, resulting in a situation where we?ve had to operate with a very much depleted first team squad.

What with tonight?s nonsense and everything, I reckon we?re now down to about thirteen fit blokes. And that?s about all we have left. Should McShane not win his appeal (and if he doesn?t, then all I can say is that the FA must walk around with their eyes in a completely different location to mine), then we?ll be so far up S**t Creek, we?ll need the services of an ocean-going tugboat to get us out again. Just whose bright idea was this in the first place, I wonder? A species of crass stupidity I?ve never before encountered, except at lower levels, where basic economics largely dictate the eventual size of your first team squad.

When we all get together again, prior to the Coventry game, and conduct hasty pub post-mortems concerning tonight?s fiasco, it should be borne in mind, perhaps, that not all the blame should lie at the feet of our manager. For reasons outlined in my preceding paragraph, the board must shoulder a fair proportion of responsibility, also, for allowing this farcical situation to develop in the first place. Should we finish the season in seventh place, and dip out of the play-offs altogether, maybe it?s high time Jeremy Peace et. al. hold their well-manicured hands up and admit the fault lies with them, also. Sure, we?ve all been affected badly by what?s happened on the pitch, but is it really not within the bounds of possibility that we can?t demonstrate a lot more forward planning ability than we have done, of late?

Once more, we?re down to what might be termed ?The Cold Equations?. The title?s not mine, it being used for a sci-fi short story around forty years ago, one concerning a girl who decides to stow away on her brother?s spacecraft not knowing that the laws of physics mean a stark choice for the brother of either chucking her through the airlock on discovery, or letting her stay, and the ship not reaching its destination at all, owing to the excess weight causing more fuel to be used up, ditto oxygen, food and water. Hence that title ? the laws of physics can?t make allowances for sentimentality, so cute little sis, ribbons, bows and all, has no option but to take a walk in deep space, with big brother himself throwing the switch that operates the air-lock. The parallels with our own plight are there for all to see.

Our own ?cold equations? throw up six points, max, for our last two games. Even then, we?re not complete masters of our own destiny, probably needing to rely upon the shortcomings of others to see us through to the knockout stages. It?s a pretty big ask, but not completely impossible. It?s at times like these I wish we had a Megson-type side to choose from: as my other half pointed out earlier, had The Soup Dragon?s influence been operative regarding team selection tonight, I doubt very much whether we?d have lost at Turf Moor, dismissal or no dismissal.

Perhaps that?s one of the many lessons our club should take on board next season: providing breathtaking and entertaining football is both desirable and laudable, but there are most certainly times when the need is for more robust performers to be given their head as well. Let?s hope we learn that lesson well.

And finally?.. Racked off by Burnley?s awful PA system, which was deafening just about everyone within earshot ? poor Ade Chiles had to take a phone call largely conducted by way of inarticulate bellows, before finally admitting defeat and heading straight for the back of our stand, where the decibel levels hovered on the more reasonable ?right? side of ?permanent deafness? - I finally hit upon a solution, albeit a drastic one. ??1,000 to the first Albion supporter to take a hammer to his sodding turntable and trash it beyond all recognition? growled I, after yet another eardrum-piercing announcement sent yet more shafts of pain lancing through my sorely grieved tympanic membranes!

 - Glynis Wright

Contact the Author

Diary Index