The Diary

12 August 2007: It's Good To Talk, On Or Off The PItch, Albion!

?Earth calling Albion, Earth calling Albion?..? Hi there chaps. We supporters-cum-footsloggers would be ever so grateful if you could pass the following message on to those of our new arrivals who played at Turf Moor today, because if ever an outfit looked in urgent need of the following few words of advice, it sure as hell was them. Here goes, then. My bijou pearls of wisdom?

Easy: the very next time you take to the field of play for a 90-minute session that actually means something, it would be awfully spiffing if you could all mingle a bit beforehand, chat about the wife, the weather, the kids and what they did to Mister Perkins?s runner beans in next-door?s garden, the weather in Portugal (or wherever). The deplorable carryings on by the couple in Number Nine, and the inventive uses to which they put banana ice-cream when they think no-one?s watching?.. Anything at all that tickles your collective fancies, really: in short, flaming well get to know one another, to the point of embarrassing intimacy, should it prove necessary - and, more to the point, do it FAST. In time for the Bournemouth game would be favourite, I reckon, so what say you lot?

It?s absolutely no use at all having, say a midfielder, who?s the undiscovered gem of the Championship, and capable of twisting most defenders at this level of the game into pretzel-shapes that even topological maths experts would be hard put to describe and classify, or a goalkeeper whose near-prehensile goalmouth acrobatics elicit great cries of ?Ooooh!? and ?Aaaah!?, even: lovely to watch, but a complete and utter turkey if that player hasn?t the faintest as to what the recipient of their next pass is going to do with the ball once he?s got it. Or, more importantly still, if he hasn?t even the faintest idea of what YOU?RE going to do once the ball?s released, and, very likely, more in hope than expectation, if this opening day?s almighty stuff-up is anything to go by.

Today, we had around five debutants in the side that lined up for the Big Kick-Off, with a couple more sat on the bench. Was it really necessary to pack the side with so many newbies so quickly? Did the poor sods turning out in the famous stripes for the first time know even the surnames of their new-found colleagues, never mind fancy-dan frills like forenames? If you lack that sort of basic info, chuck in a language barrier, just to make it more interesting, then you?re stuffed before you start ? as proved to be the case this afternoon. After a couple of alarums and excursions when Burnley seemed to get behind our defence with alarming ease (at will?), we then started to play a bit, got the opening goal ? and, after falling victim to the softest of goals just after the break, from then on, the entire thing completely fell to pieces.

More about the Turf Moor caper later, but first, some info about What We Got Up To prior to the game. As ever, it was a wonderfully sunny start to the opening day of the season. The sky blue, the weather disgustingly sunny and bright ? after the dreadful monsoons of July and August, a welcome improvement ? all the more reason for diving into our jam-jar and heading up the M6 at a rate of knots. And, for the first time ever, our travels to the Clarets? Den conducted courtesy a smidgen of assistance from our trusty satnav, a relatively new acquisition this summer.

Mind you, since the last time we used it in anger, it?s undergone a bit of a sex-change. Up until around a month ago, the ?vocals? were provided by what sounded awfully like a dead ringer for Crocodile Dundee ? very male, very Aussie, and very reliable. Until about ten days ago. It all began when my other half loaned the blasted thing to a work colleague, who has ?form? when it comes to unwitting ?sabotage? of electronic gadgets, apparently.

We did get it returned promptly, OK, but when we next set it up for a look-see around various likely properties in the locality, could we get so much as a stifled ?squawk!? from the thing? Could we hell: stubbornly, it remained ?mute of malice? no matter what we did to try and coax it into action, which was a tad annoying, to say the least.

Clearly, someone had been poking their fingers where they damned well shouldn?t: we did get normal service resumed, eventually, but that was only after my other half threatened to chuck it out of the car window nearest his side. Who says inanimate objects can?t emote? Anyway, for whatever reason, suddenly, it started nattering like a Stokie on amphetamines ? but in a FEMALE voice! One of those no-nonsense jobbies, that would tell you to do up your overcoat properly, and not splash your wellies in the puddles, if it could. Or thought she could get away with it!

But I digress. The reason I mention this is because ?Im Indoors has an irritating habit of setting up the satnav to reach the desired destination, then taking not a blind bit of notice what it told him to do, preferring to do his own thing anyway! After being ignored three times in succession, Madame then fell into a sulky silence: suddenly, a wonderful thought occurred to me.

Suppose some future electronic genius took the concept a stage further, made it interactive? In that way, you?d get reminded in no uncertain terms if you neglected your navigational duties as perceived by this little box of tricks, and by the same token, if you told your electronic friend to: ?Shut up, you silly old bat!? the miniscule minder attached to your windscreen would immediately counter with: ?Oy ? who the $*&! are YOU calling a silly old bat? Any more of that, and I?ll throw a REAL wobbly, and land you all in Glasgow?? Not quite as spectacular an electronic microchipped rebellion as good old HAL?s in 2001 ? A Space Odyssey, I?ll grant you, but an eye-opener, just the same. I?ll leave the rest to your fertile imaginations.

And the opening day just wouldn?t be the same without a fair-sized hold-up on the motorway, would it? Caused by: 1) People rubber-necking over what was, essentially, a minor shunt, and all in hand anyway, and: 2) Those whose sorry state of mental health made it imperative that they, their kids and their pet frogs collectively make the spur-of-the-moment decision to travel to bloody Blackpool for the day. Maybe the bloke driving the Chelsea tractor in front had the right idea: ?Try Praying,? said the sticker on his back window, somewhat unhelpfully, in my opinion. But on the other hand, this government having made a complete and utter dog?s breakfast of transport policy already, it?s about all the hope we?ve got left, really.

Apart from the above, the journey went quite unremarkably, landing us in our usual car-park docking-point around midday. This year, we were going to ignore our usual pre-match licensed hostelry haunts, and head instead for Burnley Cricket Club, which came highly recommended. We?d always had a vague notion to pop in there for a pre-match wetting of the whistle, but we?d never quite got around to it ? this time, we were determined to rectify matters.

After a bit of an unscheduled detour, we were finally pointed in the right direction by a local: Aha! The cricket club was situated at the rear for the football club! One five minute walk later, we were hot-footing it to the top of their pavilion, where an excellent social club was playing host to Baggies from all four corners of the country. In fact, there were significantly more navy and white striped bums on the seats outside than there were pukka cricket buffs, or so it seemed.

We had around an hour and a half to kill, so had ample time to feed the old face. Made a welcome change from our GD-selling days, and we?re still revelling in the comparative novelty of the situation, which is why ?Im Indoors ordered a pint of bitter ? a rare treat, that, and for myself and Mister Fart, a pint of Coke apiece seemed to be just the thing to bludgeon those yammering thirst glands into submission. And there was a half-decent catering set up, with salads on offer, should we want to stave off the attentions of the Health Police, whose patrols were constantly conducted in conjunction with that well-known comrade in arms of theirs, called Guilt. Sod Guilt, I thought, just bring on the bloody chips. The best bit was my other half?s ?should I, shouldn?t I?? anguished musings ? but he too succumbed, in the end.

Chips consumed, blood cholesterol levels wildly elevated, we then popped out onto the sunlit stand for a quiet few minutes before we had to leave to join the Bedlam next door. And in between greeting friends both old and new, plus ringing The Noise, and going into a detailed description of the sybaritic lifestyle we now found ourselves enjoying in heaps, we actually managed to watch some of the cricket! There?s something decidedly civilised about watching a cricket match in the blazing sun, with only a few faint wisps of cirrus gossamer to disturb the uniformity of the baby-blue sky overhead; a more delightful precursor to the ?main attraction? next door I couldn?t even begin to imagine.

I?m no expert, but it seemed to me that of the wickets I saw fall, at least two were down to catches of a pretty high standard. And, typical Albion supporters, the very moment one of the bat and ball fraternity somehow stuffed up what should have been a shoo-in of a ?caught and bowled? jobbie, up struck our ?glee club? above, with the tune from ?Entry Of The Gladiators?, the one we sing whenever an opposition forward makes a complete and utter mullock of what should have been the easiest of strikes on the target. Aw, you know it?.

Mind you, I don?t think I could have left my car where some visiting Baggies had: as near to the other side of the white line denoting the boundary as dammit, and looking as vulnerable as hell to any stray balls (unguided missiles?) headed in that direction. What would be insurance companies? reaction to someone having their windscreen trashed in that manner, then trying to claim? These guys had left their vehicles right in the firing-line: should push come to shove, would the insurer adjudge at least part of the damage to be ?self-inflicted?, I wonder? After all, as we?ve seen from the recent storm damage claims, if an insurance company can possibly wriggle out of paying up, they?ll do everything in their power to do it, won?t they?

Come around 2.15, it was time to leave, sadly. Time enough to have a slow meander back to the ground ? where Mister Wills could caress the police horses to his heart?s content, of course ? and from there, taking the Baggie plunge. Just by where the turnstiles were spewing out people entering the ground, we came upon some chums of ours: Norm Bartlam was one, and he had a curious tale of woe to tell concerning a coach (not an Albion one) that blew up, or something, on the motorway, and held things up rather badly for his party. Rubber-neckers again. Really Sad Tale Of The Week? Dave Knott, of Supporters Club website fame, got flooded out recently ? right in the heart of Kingswinford, very much one of our house-hunting ?possibles?. What was that I heard you say about trying Halesowen instead, my beloved?

Those dreadful, dreadful Burnley bogs: only a handful of ?Ladies conveniences? to cope with the entire away end: as our lot tend to have more female supporters attend away games than most, I?ll leave that bit as an exercise for the reader. But then again, that entire away stand is a complete and utter throwback to the days when blokes wore cloth caps and mufflers to games, and smoked like factory chimneys for the entire length of the game; knock it down, and you?d do around ten bob?s worth of damage, as far as I can see.

Having found our seats, we sat down just in time to hear those already there applauding The Beast, who is a former Baggie-turned-Burnley-keeper, of course. And, being the genuinely-nice chappie he is, he applauded back. Quite right, too! A surreal moment was provided by some gent, whose idea of pre-match entertainment seemed to be attaching himself to a huge half-inflated white balloon (think of the thing in ?The Prisoner? that engulfed all those trying to escape from the clutches of those who controlled whatever it was Patrick McGoohan was incarcerated in), and, by using the ropes as a ?trapeze? cavorted all over the place. I could only hope that the thing had been tethered properly beforehand: one good gust of wind, and he?d be travelling to parts of the town he?d never even seen before!

Thus far, it really had been a lovely day ? the motorway journey; the lengthy sojourn in the nearby cricket club; the beer; the food; the excellent company ? shame a football match had to get into the way of everything, wasn?t it? And so it was that West Bromwich Albion ? well, the 2007 version ? took to the field of play in serious competition for the first time this campaign, to ear-splitting cries of encouragement from their multitudinous Black Country followers.

As I said earlier, Mogga?s team selection seemed to have been organised more in the way of an ?Excuse Me? foxtrot at the beginning of a local pensioners? Tea Dance, than in any sort of scientific manner. A small core of Hawthorns veterans, leavened by a goodly number of new arrivals, in short. Were any of the newcomers on first name terms, yet? More to the point, could this really be the first time some had clapped eyes on ANY of their new-found colleagues? Not good at all: suddenly, omen-y winds were blowing a bit of a gale around my nether regions, and a shiver ran down my spine. Was I not liking this.

Team news? As suspected. Mogga had indeed rung the changes. Hoefkens; Barnett; Tinhino; Teixeira; Beattie ? all the aforementioned were roped in for their Albion away debuts, with yet more ? Morrison, Pele ? on the bench. Curious, though: no Curtis Davies, or Paul Robinson, either. Will those pair be on their bikes afore too many moons have waxed and waned above the Hawthorns, I wonder? Hindsight?s a wonderful thing, of course, and there?s no shortage of that whenever and wherever football supporters of any description meet up post-match, but would it have hurt to tell our soon-to-be peripatetic Gruesome Twosome to play out there anyway, and give we followers something to really remember them by while they were at it?

Some really deafening mood-music later (am I right in thinking that noise loud enough to produce ringing in the old lugholes is really damaging to all those cute little bones and hairs that occupy the inner ear? After years and years of reluctant listening to the stuff, no wonder I?m as deaf as a post these days!), we were ready for the off. And within around 2 minutes of the start, Burnley had made the initial running, to the extent they?d already grabbed a brace of corners in that short space of time, one header from the high ball just missing the target. That right flank didn?t look at all safe to me, as later events were to sadly confirm.

Two minutes later saw Greening almost turn provider, his set-piece setting up the lad Barnett for what could well have been a nice little opener for his Albion career, had he been able to make proper contact with the bobbling ball. Another couple of Albion attempts followed, but there was real joy in the 18th minute when Kev Phillips notched his first of the current campaign. I have to say it was a well-executed strike, the preparatory moves involving three players before Phillips finally found himself in a position to do some meaningful damage to The Clarets. In it went, from about the edge of the 18-yard area ? and the away end went absolutely wild. Cue for our lot to joyously embark upon their ?signature dish?, and for the home lot to look peeved.

At that stage of the game, yes ? I would have said unreservedly that Albion deserved to be in the lead, and having broken the mould, you didn?t need to be Sherlock Holmes to work out that our players were hankering after more. Greening let fly with an almighty effort ? their custodian did well to see it, let alone stop it ? as did Tinhino: again, had the Burnley defence been up to the job (I do have my suspicions) they would have snuffed out the danger, no messing. We should have finished the whole messing business off well before half time, and the Burnley goal at our mercy: no surprise to report we screwed everything up very badly indeed, passing up on what should have been an absolute sitter, no matter what its presumed social status. Had there been any sort of justice, then Albion would have been heading for the away dressing-room, and the half-time break, with the game completely sewn up ? but this is West Bromwich Albion, don?t forget.

Come the interval, come a real Rave From The Grave ? the sight of Mickey Mellon, who played for both clubs, of course ? gracing the Burnley turf once more, to do their half-time draw for them. Once more, Baggies were generous to a fault with the old applause. Cue for the start of the second 45, then. But with just a scant minute of that half gone ? what caused it? God alone knows what, because even the opposition?s speculative punts on goal hadn?t worked very well up to that time, but suffice it to say that one moment of madness at the back caused us to loosen our grip on the game to an irretrievable extent, almost. Result? One Burnley equaliser, courtesy Duff?s far-from-duff header from the cross that came from the very early corner, and one fuming Albion manager in fits of apoplectic rage on the touchline, I?ll wager.

And this was about the time we all noticed things turning somewhat pear-shaped: from commanding the field of play with an ease that smacked of arrogance, almost, we were left in the embarrassing position of scrabbling feverishly for whatever small fragments of our game we could find in one piece, still. We even tried mass-subbings, the entire lot all on within ten minutes of Mogga actually making the decision to commit them all mob-handed. Off went Teixeira, Chappy (who?d come in for more than his fair share of flak from his former ?admirers?), and Beattie, and on came Morrison, Pele and Duke Ellington.

Oh, dear: a promising flurry when it briefly appeared that the wholesale changes might actually make a telling difference to our fortunes, then, once the rot set in again, sod all. As for the passing and such-like, it was literally like watching a bunch of strangers, a scratch team by any other name, try to improve matters. Balls going astray, passes either falling short, or wide of the mark. Goal kicks going everywhere except to a man in a blue and white striped shirt ? even the normally-sound-as-a-pound Kiely had contracted this mysterious malady. ?Talk to one another, for God?s sake?.? snarled this column, not for the first time, that blighted second half.

As the game dragged on remorselessly towards its conclusion, Burnley?s star swung even more prominently into the ascendant, so it came as no surprise whatsoever to see them finish the job, just about on the final ten-minute mark. What did surprise, though, was the circumstances leading up to the award of the penalty that finally sunk us stone dead.

When Clem?s on top form, his defensive abilities are second to none; attacker stopped legally, accomplices sent packing, and everyone happy. But this time round, when he quite clearly wasn?t? Oh, dear ? talk about a bunch of old ladies the first time a mouse dashes into the kitchen. Just a couple of moments further down the line, Clem suddenly found himself in the box, alone, save for an attendant Burnley attacker ? him against the Universe, really. Result? Panic, pure and simple. Result? Handball. Oh, whoops. The ref had no hesitation in pointing to the spot: bang to rights was Clem, according to the official, with The Clarets? representative on Earth, Andy Gray, potting the black with ease.

The penalty left us all watching proceedings in stunned silence. We?d imagined many an ending to this particular saga, as you might expect ? but one involving a spot-kick conceded in the most careless of circumstances, just before the start of the last ten minutes? One super fingertip save from the Burnley keeper in injury time, to keep a Gera Exocet from ruining his day, gave us fleeting hope ? but it wasn?t to be. And so depressing, too, watching what had looked a quite promising bunch of new lads have their morale blown to such a dizzying extent that every time Burnley looked in danger of transgressing the halfway line and entering opposition territory, you could visualise them adding to their lead again with consummate ease. What a bloody shambles??.

It?s a clear indication of how seriously we regarded this game, and what had happened to upset the Baggie applecart, that very little was said by we three once we?d returned to our car. Silence reigned as we left the car park and headed on out to the suburbs and the motorway junction, and silence still reigned as we headed south. What we?d seen today was profoundly worrying, to say the least. It is to be hoped that over the course of the next seven days, Bournemouth League Cup game included, our finest will embark up on a massive social whirl, an enormous ?getting to know you? session, both at the training ground, and elsewhere. Mind you, the multiplicity of languages spoken by all this lot can?t have helped either: even the UN Secretary General would have burst into tears trying!

With another 45 to go to the end of the season, the damage, collateral or not, is minimal, of course. And, casting my mind back to that baking-hot first day of season 2003-04, we were turned over in no uncertain terms by then-local rivals Walsall, conceding four goals at The Bescot Stadium, with but one from us by way of reply. Yes, we weathered that particular storm, tweaked and twiddled with the side we had, then went on to clean up nine months later. Result? We were promoted automatically with a couple of weeks of the season still remaining, so it?s in no way irretrievable, thank goodness. We are a side desperately in need of a backbone, not to mention a high-powered motivational job done on them. Communicate! Integrate! And the sooner the better. Now we?ll find out precisely how good Mowbray really is.

And Finally?? One. Albion supporters of the world beware! The word?s out that The Fart has finally found a proof-reader-cum-editor for his Baggie memoirs, which he?s been threatening to consign to print ever since the end of the last Ice Age. Be afraid. VERY afraid.

Two. This is what must be the most corny joke of all time: if you can?t stand the sight and smell of blood and gore, look away NOW! ?Im Indoors, inside Turf Moor, on observing a parachute with a square red canopy descend to earth (there must have been some sort of summery event going on, nearby): ?Well, that?s the parachute payments for this season delivered, then?.? Yes, reader ? I hit him!

Three. Snigger Corner ? and about the only laugh I got as we headed down the M6 after the game. Wolves v Watford, the allotted span almost up. The score on the doors? 1-1, honours shared, it would seem ? until the away side got a penalty right on the edge of time, that was! We were feeling sore, post-match ? but I?m willing to bet they were a damn sight more sore then we, once the ref blew for time!

 - Glynis Wright

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