The Diary

07 May 2007: Albion In Seventh Heaven, Courtesy Blighted Barnsley

Amazing, isn?t it? During the hours and minutes immediately prior to today?s goal-fest, the consensus among most Baggies was that today?s game would be nervy in the extreme ? and close. How close? Well, how does ?rush-hour-in-the-London-Underground-system-close? grab you? Up close, personal and very, very sweaty with our Yorkshire comrades-in-arms for much of the game, in other words. A ?bike-clip job?, even. Some went further, expressing serious worries that we?d blow it completely ? and, I will confess, I succumbed to not a few mental collywobbles along those lines as kick-off time drew nearer ? but, as the late George Formby would have no doubt put it, when not crooning double-entendres about window-cleaners, and Chinese laundrymen, with the aid of a handily-placed ukulele, that is: ?Turned out nice again, ?asn?t it??

After witnessing what amounted to a complete and utter trashing of poor old Barnsley, today, it only remains for me to comment: ?What was all the bloody fuss about, then?? $p Our main problem was grabbing that much-needed opener, and once we?d clocked up the brace, it was then pretty much open season on anyone hailing from that part of Yorkshire. Much to my delight, we wound up 2006-07 proper with a scintillating display of passing and movement ? yes, and net-busting, too - that must have wowed Sky viewers from Carlisle to Camelford.

Yes, I do know that our forthcoming play-off opponents, the Dingles, netted no less than four away from home themselves, but what a chilling message that seven-strike blitz of ours must have sent out to players and supporters already infected with serious gold-and-cack inclinations. I?ve already heard it said that the one side our doltish chums really dreaded facing, for our forthcoming coda to the current term, was us. Now they?re faced with the stark reality ? and, if we can muster up some additional power and grit, an intravenous infusion of bravery ?above and beyond?, the same sort of deadly form we saw this lunchtime, the avowed intent to keep our heads, no matter what the nature of the provocation (reading this, Macca?), some top-notch vocals from our followers, and not a little plain honest luck, then just about anything is possible.

This our tale, then, as genuinely penned by me on the back of an envelope! (I?d forgotten to take my little notepad to the ground, which is why?.) And that does leave me with a nasty little dilemma to sort out, come next Sunday. Do I carry on as normal, take my notebook, or do I not tempt fate by the simple expedient of deliberately leaving the thing at home, and relying upon scraps of paper at Molineux, once more? Trouble is, will a conscious act of will render completely null and void the ?good omen? aspect of all this, or not? Ain?t easy, is it?

But back to the fabric of my tale. An early start, today, owing to the daft 1.00 pm kick-off time, arriving at the ground nicely in time to grab a prime parking-spot ? and to notice that The Noise had risen, Lazarus-like from his sick-bed, to aid his favourite side in their hour of greatest need. Well, that?s how we interpreted his empty vehicle parked up not too far away from our own space: a complete lack of occupants suggested they?d either decamped to MacDonalds for the duration, or were hanging around the players? car-park like so many Stage Door Johnnies.

Also hanging around were something in the region of seven or eight copper?s vans. God knows why: sure, Barnsley did have their moments, back in the eighties ? and so did most other outfits, if my memory serves me well ? but were now totally incapable of punching their way out of a paper bag, even, in these more enlightened climes. Further along was another curious sight: a flag and banner seller, his blue and white wares totally engulfing their vendor, the arrangement of bunting, lettered flags and endless combinations of squares, dice, etc. making the whole scene bear more than a passing resemblance to the line of signal flags Lord Nelson?s men must have hoisted on the decks of the Victory, prior to the battle that made the lad a national hero. Not knowing an awful lot about naval signaling methods myself, I took a quick look, and promptly surmised one particular display to read: ?My bottom needs barnacles scraping from it urgently, my boiler needs a quick decoke and rebore, and I also have on board someone showing symptoms of bubonic plague?..? Or something like that. Probably explains the great reluctance of the bobbies to feel anyone?s collar, today, come to think about it!

Only one place to go, today ? straight into what is now the Throstle Club. And yet another change manifested itself, no sooner had we both walked through that door. A bank of UV lights, ?illuminating? ? allegedly, although personally, I found it an annoyance in the extreme ? the bar area. Sure as hell would stop mainlining drug-users in their tracks (it?s very difficult to see veins prior to injection of whatever kind of intravenous cack they?ve happened to score, on that particular day). As a device for assisting the counting of money prior to payment, however, complete and utter pants. But get this, fellow-Baggies: once more, very few bar people, no Coke, no mineral water, either. Just bloody J2O, mango variety. I really do despair, sometimes.

The moment we?d walked through those portals, we?d been greeted by young Bethany, then hoiked somewhat unceremoniously in the direction of the table where the Lewis clan were noisily (how else?) holding forth. The lad himself, The Noise, looked much more up for it than he had been, of late, which was particularly good to see. Get in those damned play-offs, and his recovery would be immensely facilitated, purely and simply because a football team ? any football team ? is a lot more than just eleven blokes kicking a ball around. In some quarters, it?s a complete way of life, a social service for the community, even ? and long may it stay that way.

One topic on everyone?s lips was the so-called ?newspaper talk? that some had called for Mogga?s removal, should we have not made it today. As The Noise quite reasonably pointed out, our current leader came into things with a pretty tough row to hoe already, what with him being appointed with less than three-quarters of the current season remaining. The only area he could influence would be the January transfer window: until then, he was more or less stuck with what he?d got. And afterwards? Well, Mogga doesn?t control those purse-strings, Jeremy Peace does, as I?ve made clear on numerous occasions. All our leader can do is recommend players he likes the look of: the rest is then down to the chairman and all who sail in him.

It was while the debate was swinging back and forth across the table, I managed to have a few words with young Carly. Her written GCSE exams are very close, now, June being the main time for them. No less than TWENTY papers she has to sit, including around six maths ones. I?m sure I never sat that many in my day. Brought back painful memories of the agonies I suffered all those years ago, mind: I?d rather watch Albion-Dingles any time.

Anyway, she?s starting off with PE and RE papers: pray tell me, someone, just how you sit a PE exam? Do physical jerks in the exam room, or something, with a chappie from the exam board marking your every move, marks deducted for ending up too knackered to complete the full set? And as for RE, does a candidate get extra marks for praying to their Maker very hard, or does the examiner get a Divine Sign when the Main Man considers one candidate more worthy of passing than another?

Once those are out of the way, it?s to FE college, and AS levels in chemistry, biology, French, and sports science. Makes my eyes water just thinking about all the study involved. Still, the young lady?s going to give my own studies a bit of a fillip by passing on everything she knows about organic chemistry ? not to mention her make of scientific calculator. When I last studied chemistry, there were no such things as calculators, let alone scientific buggers. Which really dates me, I know. Oh dear.

But back to the football. At least The Fart?s entrance in the room got noticed, by someone behind letting off an air horn ? or was that just plain ?letting-off?? Assuming the commission of an antisocial act, I muttered to Carly, ?I?d do something about my diet if I was him?.? And that was the moment The Fart unleashed his ?secret weapon? on us all. Nothing whatsoever to do with the wind-expelling properties of the anal sphincter, this time, just a mini League table, painstakingly copied out by ?yer man? and seemingly referred to every couple of minutes, every single time various permutations and combinations of potential play-off participants were discussed, in fact. Not that he was going to stay to celebrate, come the final whistle: result or no result, the lad was off to watch Birmingham Speedway. Hell, he even showed me his scarf, festooned aplenty with badges dating from the late forties. Wow, I bet that yellow and red stripey scarf could have told some tales.

And then came the dreaded call to action. Oh well, no time for agonising about it all, what was done, was done. It was now very much down to eleven players in the stripes, and what kind of magic they could produce to turn our play-off dream into reality, come one o?clock. Out we spilled, into Halfords Lane itself, wished The Noise well ? he has to see his GP and works quack next week ? then proceeded on our merry way towards the Halfords.

One slightly-discordant note ? the Barnsley supporter, clearly completely out of his tree, trying to incite a Baggie, leaning against the fence and minding his own business, to fisticuffs, or worse. First of all his mate tried to stop him, then the Old Bill rushed in, mob-handed and possibly adding further fire to the flames. Immediately, the chap trying to stop his mate tried to prevent the police from taking action ? and fair play to them, they seemed willing to allow their antagonist a lot more leeway than they normally do. Usually, such miscreants are bundled into the back of a police van within milliseconds of the fuzz intervening. Or was it just that our local constabulary was also feeling the significant upsurge in mood that comes with the arrival of pleasanter climes?

What made the whole thing more unusual was the reaction from those stood around. Years ago, such nonsense was all-too familiar: now, the incident turned heads merely because such occurrences were so unusual, these days. And quite right, too, but by that time, we were standing in Anorak Corner, and getting the latest gossip from Steve The Miser and his equally anorak-ish mates. Coo, talk about a ?mutual appreciation society?!

Into the ground for the final time, then, as far the current season?s League programme was concerned; after that, anything else would be a bonus. To our right was a goodly contingent of Barnsley people, a pretty impressive number of flags draped all over the area designated as ?no-man?s land?, and representing most towns in England, too. They certainly had a varied following, did our visitors.

But that thought pattern lasted only briefly, as both sides took to the field of play. Thanks to a variety of reasons, we were without some key players: Kamara, Clem and Carter suspended (I?ve a nasty feeling we finished up with one of the worst disciplinary records in the Championship, by the way), Curtis Davies with a grotty metatarsal, and John Hartson nursing what was described as a ?chest infection?. Mowbray didn?t tinker too much, relegating Zoltan Gera to the bench, and bringing in Duke Ellington and Koren instead.

And we certainly set out our stall in no uncertain terms: within minutes of the start, Barnsley suddenly discovered we weren?t messing around. Duke Ellington and Koren were the first to show, both of them having efforts go very close indeed. And that was the overall pattern of those opening minutes: Albion having most of the play, but not quite in the business of turning superiority into nailed-on goals. This was something that cost us dear, this season, and it was to be hoped our lot would find an extra gear, and pretty quick. Chaplow and Koumas also had efforts narrowly miss their intended target, but just after the 20-minute mark, we finally found the net, much to the relief of the massed faithful.

Once more, Macca was the creator of our chance, his centre, low, mean, nasty, sailing before Barnsley in much the same manner as a fully-rigged man o?war. It was Ellington that first made contact: that one was well and truly blocked, but who should pop up to ram home the rebound? Up popped Kev Phillips, the vastly more modest and unassuming member of Albion?s regular striking duo; before you could say ?National Union of Mine Workers?, even, there he was, slamming in the rebound. Strike One to us, then, and things in the garden were now looking vastly more rosy for the Baggies, all of a sudden.

Our next strike was largely down to crass stupidity on the part of Barnsley, who should have known better. Talk about ?amateur hour?, when they conceded that penalty. Koren was the victim, unceremoniously upended in the box, and Barnsley?s Luke Potter the perpetrator. A more badly-executed bit of defending you couldn?t hope to see in a million years of trying. Much to my amazement, Duke Ellington stepped up to the plate, but nobody on our side seemed inclined to argue the toss. Oh well ? at least it might do him some good in the popularity stakes, were it to go in ? and, boy, did it go in. A cooler bit of penalty taking I haven?t seen in years. One quick shimmy, just as the lad was about to let fly, and their poor sod of a keeper was diving the wrong way completely.

So far, so good, then ? but this was Albion. We knew their various foibles and shortcomings of old; not a single veteran supporter would be satisfied until we?d grabbed at least another one. Not only that, not all the infection had been lanced from the boil. Barnsely, irritating sods that they were, were trying to get back into the game ? and our lot were making life much easier for them by panicking horribly, like so many boat passengers, on suddenly hearing the captain?s order to ?abandon ship?. Poor Kiely was getting a bit of a torrid time between the sticks, all of a sudden.

And, as if The Bloke Upstairs had finally heard our plea, and decided to give those fervent prayers priority treatment ? or was that Carly, doing some last-minute RE ?revision? in the Brummie? ? enter blessed salvation, in the unlikely form of Duke Ellington. Afterwards, I could only concur with The Noise, who said words to the effect of wishing like hell he could do that much more often, as that was the sort of thing he was doing with Wigan for fun, almost, when we decided to bring him to the Black Country. As it was, the execution of that goal, Albion?s third, around six before the break, was something else. Over his head shot the ball, and through sheer strength, finally shoving away his marker in the outer bit of the box, managing finally to create space enough to loop the ball right over the head of the unfortunate Lucas. Three-nil, it was, and much better than in our wildest dreams, even.

But there was lots more to come: with but five left on the clock, a wonderful spell of the old ?pass and move? stuff gave Greening sufficient motive, means and opportunity to commit murder himself. It was his pass that found Koren, and it was the foreigner?s low shot from distance that gave Lucas yet more goalkeeping grief to occupy his mind. After all that little lot, I bet Barnsley weren?t half glad to hear that face-saving half-time whistle, at long last. Well, put in their shoes, even temporarily, I most certainly know I would.

Half-time, then, and with it, an indiscretion rattling forth from the sulphurous tongue of John Homer, now looking quite mellow and relaxed, for once. Or is that simply down to whatever Mrs. H?s shoves in his food, these days, I wonder? Anyway, what Jean otld me was absolutely priceless. Apparently, John had told his kids recently that should Shergar come on and score for us today, he was going to: a) Eat his jeans (he did point out that he wasn?t wearing them, but that didn?t serve to get him off the hook: the poor lad was trying to secure a play-off ticket for him, today), or b) Run around Lower Gornal completely naked, one dim and dark evening. And that?s what led to great hilarity in our end of the Halfords, come the break, when Jean spilled the beans. Difficult as it was to visualise, we were trying to conjure up a mental picture that had our lad John in it, and giving everyone something really unpleasant to look at, too. Or the means of instant turn-on ? depends upon your own ?bent? I suppose.

Anyway, whatever the end result, it was looking very much as though John would have not a little bit of worrying to do, that half, when Shergar finally took to the field of play: a couple of more missed chances, and that was the important reminder John needed. ?Oh dear,? we both muttered, outwardly sympathetic, but really and truly busting a gut inside. Were the lad to actually score, John would have had a lot of uncomfortable wriggling to do, believe you me! At one stage, I was conjecturing upon where I could find a handy knife and fork, in order to literally ?make him eat his words?.

And, while all that was going on, what about matters on the pitch? The first effort was one from the visitors, who seemingly, couldn?t hit a barn door at ten paces, all of a sudden. Then it was the turn of Jason Koumas to have a go, quality uppermost. But the next one, from Koren, really had ?em rocking and rolling in their seats. And, after that close shave for the Tykes, they conceded yet again. Ellington had a hand in it, his pass providing sufficient impetus for Kev Phillips, lurking in the middle again, to put it away with minimal fuss. Five-nil already, and no sign whatsoever of our lot conforming to normal custom and practice at this level, and ?declaring?.

Thanks to a little more sustained pressure from Barnsley, no doubt trying to achieve some form of respectability for the final score ? two creditable attempts brought two close shaves ? the focus shifted away from the Barnsley keeper, but it wasn?t all that long before his backache was exacerbated considerably. Kev Phillips, yet again ? how Barnsley must have wished a black hole would swallow him up, or something ? wrapping up his hat-trick about 20 minutes from time, seemingly having the full width of the nearby M5 in which to perpetrate the damage, as he did it. Marking? Er ? what marking?

Six past the lad Lucas, now. Surely our lot would finally call a halt to the slaughter, or someone on the Barnsley bench would do the footballing equivalent of a battered boxer?s corner throwing in the towel? Not on your nelly: just three or so minutes later, we struck again. This time, Gera got on the scoresheet, and ? significantly for John Homer, he of the rash remark I mentioned earlier, Shergar had more than a minimal role in the creation of that strike. Had the Dutch lad been better placed to ram the ball home, then I strongly suspect John might have had some pretty swift excuse-making to do!

So seven it was ? but it so easily could have been more, believe you me. And, had the chances not run so unkindly for the visitors ? or their forwards not performed so incompetently - they too might have at least achieved some form of respectability, before the ref called a halt to the whole miserable affair. Mind you, at least their supporters retained at least some semblance of dignity amidst what amounted to an almighty stonking for their favourites. Around midway through the half, someone in the Smethwick started off a Mexican Wave.

At first, the visiting supporters didn?t quite cotton on, but the very next time the ?wave? passed around the ground, there they were, joining in just as enthusiastically! Not only that, they certainly came up with more than their fair share of ?gallows humour?. One pretty memorable chant, from them, was that variation on a well-known theme: ?Can you score a goal for us?....? Somehow, those wags in the Smethwick also persuaded our leader, safe in his dug-out, to ?start the wave ? which he duly did, to much cheering from that part of the ground.

Oh yes ? and before I forget, some eagle-eyed person happened to spot Bob Taylor sitting in the bit of the Halfords nearest The Smethwick. Milliseconds later, up rose the familiar cry: ?SUP-ER, SUPER BOB, SUPER BOBBY TAYLOR?..? In the end, the lad had to stand up to take his bow, and shut them all up. (I wonder whether or not he was watching all those goals go in and wishing, just for one second, that time could suddenly reverse its course, and plonk him back on that familiar playing surface once more, somehow re-clad in the precious stripes, bearing down upon the Barnsley goal like a Chieftain Tank run amok, and their keeper suddenly finding renewed interest in a sudden change of underwear?) Yes, it really was that sort of game.

But whatever. After the final whistle, after the strong temptation to donate some of my strongest back pills to Barnsley?s by-now shell-shocked keeper had finally passed, we got up to date on who would be joining us in the knockout portion of the competition: as we?d thought, The Dingles would be our opponents in those fraught semis to come. Not my ideal choice of sparring-partner, but that?s the way the mop flops, sometimes. Our rite of passage finally confirmed, it was then time to follow yet another hallowed end-of-season ritual for us, heading off in the direction of The Vine pub, about two miles away from the ground. Terrible traffic around Brasshouse Lane, but we finally managed to shift clear of the stuff: once clear of Rolfe Street, the rest was a doddle.

As those of you regulars will know already, The Vine is a most peculiar Black Country institution, but one very much loved by all its patrons. A seemingly-bijou place from the outside, it?s only when you venture within, you begin to seriously wonder whether Doctor Who?s Tardis has assumed that precise shape and form, just for a bit of a laugh. With little rooms, alcoves and booths just about everywhere in the place, it can suck up an astonishing number of thirsty Baggies post-match, believe you me.

Combining the wants of so many football supporters, a decent pint, accompanied by a top-notch ?Ruby Murray?, its fame has spread far and wide: one time, I even found it mentioned in the Sunday Times Magazine?s restaurant critics? Good Food Award. A bit like Albion being chosen from many to host a prestigious game, if you like. But the grub they do there really is the biz, which is why we asked Martin and his brood to come round after the final whistle. Finally appearing on the scene around ten minutes after we got there, ?Im Indoors and Carly then went in search of some suitably Asian cuisine from the nearby open kitchen, located at the rear of the premises.

Much, much later ? there was one hell of a queue of hungry Baggies to accommodate, apparently ? they both returned, bearing gifts of chicken tikka, naan bread, onions, lettuce, and a very acceptable mint dip, for cooling purposes. Not thermal cooling, oh dearie me, no ? just the sort necessary once you?ve ingested a piece of fiery chicken, with a spicy hit seemingly on a 10-second delay fuse. Well, that?s the way it seemed to me, but on the other hand, my stomach?s tolerance for such things being absolute ziltch, these days, I leave that sort of thing to my other half, who seems to have a cast-iron digestive system when it comes to such important matters! Still, I did manage to eat some ? and very tasty it was, too ? but later regretted it, the blitz effect it had on my bowels being absolutely unrepeatable in this kind of diary!

Oh, and another thing. While we were there, we ran into an old mucker of ours, Ritchie Brentnall, he of GD, a tome about traveling the length of the country watching The Baggies ? Long-Haired Mick was one of his associates, back then - and also another Albion-based book, this one largely about his European travels with our club, back in the late seventies and early eighties, and the aforementioned Mick featuring heavily also. Very tall, with somewhat acromegalic facial features, built like a brick outhouse, and with a capacity for alcohol that would have even the keenest Chicago bootlegger struggling to keep up with his bibulous wants, we?ve known him for years and years. And, just like not a few other supporters we?ve known, he has this knack of landing in situations that would either kill or seriously injure another bloke, but in that funny way God sometimes has of looking after both drunks and small children, walking away from the wreckage completely unscathed, more often than not.

Take one trip to Selhurst Park, the year we went down to the Third Division, back in 1991. After the game, versus ground-sharing Charlton (which we lost!) we all headed back to some pub or other in the middle of (I think!) Croydon. Now, this pub had two features of note: firstly, an upstairs bar, and secondly, a large set of French windows at the extreme end of said bar. It was while we were all getting seriously stuck in (anaethsetised, in medical-speak: with Albion playing so badly at that time, we all desperately needed something to take away the hurt and pain!), we suddenly heard a loud cry of alarm from a knot of Baggies at the other end of the room.

What had happened? It seemed Ritchie had gone to those windows ? it was more a case of ?blood in alcohol?, rather than the more conventional ?alcohol in blood?, for him, by then ? opened them, thinking there was a way out to the garden, and, stepping out somewhat unsteadily, suddenly found Mother Gravity claiming his booze-ridden body. A sight much like that of a cartoon character encountering an unsuspected cliff-edge, then, after a pregnant pause in mid-air, finally shooting downwards, apparently!

Over we all rushed, expecting to see, at the very least, Ritchie?s crumpled, unconscious form sprawled below ? mind you, given the amount of strong water he?d consumed by that stage, his actual state of consciousness would have been open to some considerable debate, I would imagine ? but, nope! What we did see was Ritchie slowly regaining his balance, straightening up, dusting all the garden detritus from his body, then, just like the hero of some bizarre Wild West movie, heading off into the London sunset, as if nothing whatsoever had happened. This, mind, after a straight drop of some twenty or so feet, and with anything but a ?soft landing? to cushion the fall!

Anyway, returning to the present, I was quite astonished, today, to learn that he was now living in Spain. Took redundancy, he had, sold up his house, then moved there, all of a sudden. And absolutely loving it, he told me: now, he goes to watch Barca, when he has the chance, but still can?t tear himself away from his ?first love?. Once a Baggie, always a?.. Well, as you wouldn?t be reading this, were it otherwise, you all know how to complete that sentence.

What with one thing or another, it was well after five before we finally made tracks, The Noise back to lovely Stoke (who didn?t make the play-offs, tee-hee!), and we two back to sunny Bearwood. And nicely in time to grab a butcher?s at ITV?s Championship round-up, later this evening. My goodness, didn?t Blues make a pig?s ear of their game? Were the narrative of that fiasco turned into a Shakespearean play, as per the bent of modern luvvies to set these things in contemporary style, would the chosen piece be ?A Comedy Of Errors?, I wonder?

And Finally?. Oh, well ? see you lot at Molineux, in a week?s time. Back to The Gobbing Gallery for this one, unfortunately ? in an episode of unbridled temper tantrum and sheer petulance that would have made even the infamous Violet Elizabeth Bott of ?Just William? fame look like the epitome of sweet reason, The Dingles (for that, read Jez Moxey) have cut our ticket allocation considerably. It?s all to do with what we did to their pride during and after that hilarious Cup game, of course.

That?s fine and dandy by us, so we?ve now gone and done precisely the same thing to them! Talk about childish: even young Bethany has got far more about her than some of those so-called ?adults? at The Custard Bowl. Could well badly backfire on them, mind, should they need the troops there in quantity, come the second leg. But since when did Dingles ever have any significant grasp of abstract qualities like ?fairness?, I ask myself? Not for the first time, I?ll be hoping like hell they end up with egg in quantity adorning their horrid faces. Serve the sods right for passing flatus in church, I say.

 - Glynis Wright

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