The Diary

21 September 2003: Injury-Time Palace Malice!

It?s always frustrating when you travel a long way to see your favourite football team in action, only to see them ship a lead late doors, but today?s performance was doubly so because we let it slip, not once, but twice, the second in injury time. Sure, it?s not the referee?s fault he was concussed. Yeah, I know, the fact it was Paul Danson meant there wasn?t that much brain-tissue there to temporarily damage in the first place; even though the game wasn?t a dirty one, no less than eight players, three Palace, four Baggies, ended up on the receiving end of ?yellow?, but after witnessing what happened not long after the man in black was removed from the field of play, with birds visibly twittering around his hypertrophied head, I really began to wonder whether it was medically possible for temporary loss of one?s rational senses to be contagious. Certainly, as I saw it, that could be the only explanation for our kamikaze-like failure to latch onto Derry before he unleashed the 20-yard piledriver that Houlty could only partially parry, and Andy Johnson (theirs!) buried on the rebound.

Us four Dick ?Eds having been matchday travelling companions now for around ten years or so ? The Fart joined us late doors, comparatively speaking ? we certainly run the whole gamut of topics in The Dickmobile when journeying to away fixtures. That?s what happens when you have with you a bloke who can not only talk for England, but given a good run at it and a fair wind, he?d be quite capable of winning conversation?s equivalent of the Jules Rimet Trophy for you by way of bonus. Imagine, if you will, a grinning, toothless Nobby Stiles proudly holding aloft the famous prize, mentally substitute a gobby Martin Lewis instead ? then head for the vomit-bucket before you make a mess on the carpet. And what a range of topics we covered on the long, long journey down the M40 and around The Outer London Car Park, aka the M25. It all started off when The Noise told me that his missus, Jane, had received some blood-test results showing her to be slightly anaemic; what our talkative friend wanted to know was what that meant in non-medical terms, so I explained why people got anaemic ? usually, it?s due to iron deficiency ? and told him to get his other half some iron tablets, oh, and not to stand near any strong magnets while she was taking them! From there, we then covered the political consequences of the Iraq war, both short and long-term, The Hutton Inquiry ? don?t forget ?Lee Hughes? is giving evidence on Monday! ? the current economic situation, the origins of the current Middle East situation, plus, by way of light relief, the possibility of Saudi Arabia getting the Bomb. Oh, and we also discussed the reasons why people were less willing to engage in rational argument these days, especially where contentious topics like politics ? and, yes, Albion! ? were concerned. All that in between assessing our favourite football team?s immediate prospects in the First Division; not bad for a four-hour journey!

The real giggle, though, came when the speaking clock was discussed; aw, you know, several celebs, including Lenny Henry have recently recorded announcements for it, and it made me wonder about getting a Wolves supporter to do their version for British Telecom. You can almost hear it, can?t you; ?IT?S A QUARTER PAST COWIN? TWELVE, AND WHAT?S IT TO YOW, ANYWAY, YOW EFFIN? W****R!?..? It was while we were exploring the deliciously-delightful possibility of this happening that we ran into one hell of a jam on the M25, around Heathrow, which then launched a discussion about air-traffic control procedures. See, I told you the standard of debate in the Dickmobile was high! Still, the problem ? the terrestrial-traffic one, not the one in the air! - cleared itself before long, and we were able to proceed the last few miles without hindrance, but on the approach to Selhurst Park, yet another giggle-making incident. As usual, The Fart was ?plugged in?, this time, to the Wulves-Chelsea encounter. And, as we approached our parking-space, we heard Wulves had conceded early doors, which prompted The Noise to comment, ?There?s a film on tonight about Wolves Premiership aspirations, ?Gone In Sixty Seconds!? ? More about our Dingle neighbours later, but first, a quick glug in the Alliance pub, about ten minutes from the ground, and by God did we need it; the temperature outside was well into the high seventies, unseasonably so, and still climbing.

Out of the boozer again, and down to our normal Selhurst ?pitch?. Quiet, initially, but trade then began to increase as the away coaches rolled in. Oh, and yet another Molineux ?bulletin? from The Old Fart; the score was now four to Chelsea, and Alan Green?s comment on Radio Five was, ?I have to whisper it gently round here, but I think the atmosphere at The Hawthorns last year was much noisier?.? Then, much later, when we?d flogged every Dick in sight, we rejoined The Fart and his constantly-nattering chum outside the away turnstiles. We weren?t at all surprised to hear the score at The Custard Bowl was now five to Chelsea, and as The Fart imparted this news to the many Baggies in the area, the stupid grins broke out and spread like an attack of measles. The Fart then reminded me of a remark Charlie Ross (Dingle fanzine editor) had made in July: ?We?re not there (The Prem) to be tourists!?

Me: ?Yeah, American tourists ? there today, gone tomorrow!?

Having shifted pretty much all of our stock of Dicks, we then shifted our sweltering bodies into the ground. Seats about five rows back this time, but fully-exposed to the sun and baking heat, which was quite astonishing, considering the time of year. And then, the two warring factions entered the arena; as thought, we were back to normal service up front, and in the midfield; as I?d suspected, Volmer was out, and Gilly in, no Clement, O?Connor or Sakiri (injured) either, N?Dour deputised for Clem, and AJ got the nod over the waspy Irishman. It seemed to me from the start, that Palace had done their homework regarding what had to be done to stop us; every time Koumas had the ball, for example, there were a posse of Palace-ites on him like a dive-bomber, and this seemed to nullify his effectiveness considerably at first; for their part, Palace were making regular incursions on our goal, one early effort belting narrowly wide. Having said that, we also had our chances; both Koumas, free of his jailers for once, and O?Connor (later) forced their keeper into saves. Paul Danson being what he is, Siggy soon found himself in trouble for a tackle during the execution of which he also injured himself; right after he got ?yellow? he was taken off, and replaced by O?Connor. This seemed to breathe new life into proceedings, and we then upped the tempo, as per the O?Connor effort, but Palace were proving an awfully hard nut to crack, so it came as no surprise to see the game bloodless come half-time.

The restart could have ended in tears; within minutes, Palace howled for a spot-kick when one of theirs was seemingly bundled over in the box, but luckily for us, Danson was not in ?controversy-mode?, and we escaped unscathed. Then the play switched to the other end, when Hughsie should have done better when put through, closely followed by yet another Palace raid, which forced Houlty into swift action, conceding a corner as a result. And then, in the 52nd. minute, unbridled joy in the away-end! Hulse was put through by N?Dour, ran a short way with the ball, then blasted the bloody bladder into the net, and for all I knew, halfway to nearby Croydon. Much boinging ensued in the sweaty, almost-tropical heat; the deadlock was finally broken, and we were cooking on gas. And, it could have been two; not long afterwards, Hughsie missed yet again from almost point-blank range.

Trouble was, though, our much-vaunted unofficial motto, which I shouldn?t have to spell out for you by now. ?Let us down? they certainly did around seven minutes later, when, in a defensive blunder more reminiscent of past Albion sides at their horrible ?worst? than a side harbouring genuine aspirations of rapidly regaining their elevated League status, Palace regained possession on the edge of our box, the ball was rapidly crossed, and Freedman, no doubt thanking the good Lord for his luck, converted. Easy-peasy. Level-pegging, then, which on the balance of things, was probably a fair reflection on the game ? and then ?it? happened. Totally accidental, I have to say; it?s not that often I?ve seen a referee collapse as if shot after a collision on the field of play. Usually, that sort of thing is left to the various aspiring thespians in either side, but happen it did, and as Danson hit the deck, everyone cheered. Such is his love of the colours yellow and red, he?d never win a popularity contest, unless his mother was the judge, so it came as no surprise to hear a lusty cheer emanate from many Black Country throats as he fell. Trouble was, he didn?t get up again, and neither was he moving, either. Quickly, both physios were on the pitch, accompanied by the St. Johns? Ambulance people, and, I think, the Palace doctor. One of those neck-braces you see on Casualty was put around the head of the stricken official, and suddenly, it wasn?t funny any more. It took a good seven or eight minutes to finally immobilise Danson?s head and neck to the extent he could be moved without incurring the risk of worsening any possible spinal fracture; finally, he was stretchered off, to applause from many Baggies, and a few cheers from the moronic minority who thought it big or clever to do so.

Following that drama, one of the linos continued in the middle, and Albion continued their pursuit of the three points. Just before the end of the official ration, we thought we?d struck oil when we won a free-kick on the edge of the box, which Jason Koumas blasted into the back of the net with some panache. Uproar in the away end once more, and a reprise for some more celebratory boinging, as well. Under normal circumstances, that would have seen us home and dry, but because of the injury to Danson, the circumstances were far from ?normal?. The board showed eight minutes of stoppage time ? I couldn?t really argue ? so it should have been a case of our defence embarking on a bigger lock-down than even Winson Green jail could provide, then hanging on for the final whistle, but as I said in my opener, Andy Johnson, the Palace version, that is, went on to completely ruin our day with around three minutes of stoppage-time still left on the clock. Bugger.

Two each, the final score, then, and because Wigan succeeded where we?d failed, the gap between us and them has now widened from one point to three. One observation in particular springs to mind about what happened today, and it?s this. After Tuesday?s defeat at Wigan, I laid a good deal of blame for what happened at the feet of our manager for employing tactics that were just plain crazy, but as far as today was concerned, our leader was relatively blameless; the problem arose because having taken the lead, we couldn?t hang on to it. Not once, mind you, but twice. As The Noise commented as we left the ground for The Dickmobile, the defence we have right now isn?t a patch on the one that gained us promotion two seasons ago; then, once our noses were in front, there was very little chance of us allowing that lead slip away from us in such a careless fashion. Oh, and there was sardonic comment from some of us Dick Eds about N?Dour, but once the mushroom-shaped cloud had finally cleared from the interior of our little car, we quickly acknowledged that the transition from Senegalese football to that of the Black Country is of great magnitude, and First Division ways cannot be learned overnight, and The Noise promises to be more understanding in future! As for our trip to Hartlepool come next Tuesday, it is to be hoped that we can get back into winning ways at their expense, because what the lads need right now, in great big dollops, is goals, closely followed by a decent win. Should we manage to progress further in the competition, let?s hope the gains can transfer themselves to the field of play come next Saturday, when we ?entertain? Stoke City, a side we haven?t beaten in the League since 1988, when we stuck six past them. With memories of bloody Lou Macari and Mark Stein still fresh in the mind, it?s high time we sorted out the buggers for once and for all. Let?s hope that by then, we?re in a suitable frame of mind to do so.

And finally?. Many thanks, once more, to Tony Madigan, a Southern Ireland Baggie and supplier of the recent godawful Johnny Cash joke, for this one, which is dead true! Tony regularly commutes to games from Dublin Airport, and this morning, he was there waiting for the London flight to board. At the next gate down from his, there was a Birmingham flight, which had boarded most of its passengers, but was still waiting for stragglers. Just before the staff were about to button up, a couple of Dingles, wearing shirts, hurtled down the escalator at great speed; once down, they were looking for the Birmingham flight, but were clearly unsure as to which gate they should use. Enter Tony, saviour of the Universe, and thick Dingles everywhere! Standing up so they could see him clearly, he indicated in the general direction of the shortly-to-depart Birmingham flight, and bawled to the gormless pair, ?RELEGATION, THIS WAY!!? Seeing Tony?s magic finger pointing towards where they needed to go, they pelted towards the gate like bats out of hell ? then the full realisation of what our Baggie hero had said finally percolated through what passed for their brains, and before disappearing from sight for good, they both turned around and gave ?yer man? a filthy look that could have soured milk at ten paces!

 - Glynis Wright

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