The Diary

19 August 2007: Alphabetical, My Dear Watson! WBA 2, PNE 0.

Phew! Thank goodness everything went right in the end, and we emerged triumphant at the other end of the 90-minute angst-fest that calls itself West Bromwich Albion. Mind you, from where I was sitting, it didn?t half look like a close-run thing: immediately prior to Kev Phillips?s timely opener, I was very much of the opinion that if anyone was going to open the scoring that afternoon, it would surely be the visiting side. Some of our antics at the back verged upon the ?suicidal? end of the spectrum, and no matter what we tried, that sodding Preston rearguard just would not buckle.

Shades of a youthful Cyrille Regis?s amazing show-stopper versus Boro - that was also at the start of a season ending in the figure ?seven?, wasn?t it? ? when the lad Miller (just call me Ishmael?), went through the Preston defence as if it wasn?t there, then let fly from just within the 18-yard box. No wonder I was practically deafened by the massed roars of ?BLOODY HELL?.? when it smacked over the line and into the rigging behind. Seems like a nice boy ? and guess what? After the final whistle, young Ishmael dedicated his first ever goal for the club to his mum! Ahhh, isn?t that sweet?

If there?s one major problem that our recent near-stampede of incoming players has caused among we followers, it?s got to be that of recognition. Three games in, and I?m still desperately trying to identify all these guys, as they either strut their stuff alongside the running track during games, or actually turn out for the Stripes. It ain?t easy, believe you me. Even when we passed the players? car-park at around one this afternoon, there were several well-built tracksuited figures there OK, all of ?em giving autograph hunters their undivided attention, but I sure as hell wouldn?t have liked to stand up in a court of law and positively identify these people.

They look like footballers, they talk like footballers: hell, they even walk like footballers ? but who the hell are they? All that head-scratching I?ve been doing during games, lately, the casual observer would have assumed I?d contracted a hefty dose of fleas. Looks very much as though I?ll have to spend a further few productive hours marrying up squad numbers to faces, folks!

So perturbed was I over the fact these guys just didn?t register with me, I almost missed young Bethany?s effusive greetings for the pair of us was we strode through the door of our usual pre-match watering hole. Dead eager for her and Sis to bat the breeze with my other half, so she was. And, talking of young Carly, she had an interesting tale to tell, once we?d all settled down, liquid refreshment very much in hand. It all concerns Paul Robinson, former want-away, now a shining example of Baggie pragmatism, of course. Apparently, Carly managed to ?have words? with the lad after Tuesday?s League Cup win over The Cherries ? with a surfeit of Lewis conversational DNA in her body already, I guess that meant them both chewing the fat until midnight, practically! ? her particular angle being the lad?s recent differences with the club, and his (then) heartfelt desire to go somewhere else.

What he had to say was mildly interesting, I suppose: he told Carly he?d never wanted to leave, and ? interesting, this bit ? that the press had ?shot him in the foot?. ?Don?t believe everything you read in the papers,? were his parting words to young Carly, who reckons he came over as a really nice bloke. He also told her that he couldn?t understand why a section of the crowd started booing him over what had happened. Well, if he can build upon the Brownie points he gained via gutsy displays seen last Tuesday evening, also earlier today, then he won?t have too much to worry about.

Paul?s problems with our supporters came as quite a shock to me, I must confess. Unobservant Baggie that I am, I hadn?t been aware this was the case. Curtis Davies got it in heaps during the pre-season friendlies, that?s for sure, but that was primarily about playing his face to the newspapers like a mardy-ass, then behaving like a tired and fractious toddler found bawling his bloody head off in the middle of a supermarket, when the club recently told him ?NO!? Of the two players in dispute, only one of them handled it in a dignified, adult manner ? and it sure as hell wasn?t Davies.

While we idly batted the breeze in the Supporters Club premises, a drama of a different kind was being played out on the large TV screen in front of us. By that, I mean the goalscoring feats of an aged gentleman called Kanu, chronological age still frozen at 29, by all accounts. Yep ? yet another in the old onion-bag for Pompey. Talk about the Peter Pan of football: is his personal Never-Never Land Fratton Park, or has he done a really private deal with The Devil, temporarily putting the ravages of Time on hold, in exchange for his very soul?

If there?s one thing guaranteed to make The Noise even more vocal than usual, right now, it?s got to be the perennial media speculation about whether or not A-Levels and/or GCSE?s are getting easier. Not to mention the scorn heaped upon those taking subjects perceived to be ?soft options? by the sort of press that makes Attila The Hun look like a hyperactive Socialist Worker seller.

As he said today (The Noise, not Attila The Hun, although, in his more garrulous moments, there?s not a lot to choose between the pair of ?em!): ?Try telling that to Carly (who gets her results next Thursday, by the way, so do light her a few candles for luck, all you lovely Baggie people out there!). She?s only been doing GCSE?s, but I know she?s been slogging her guts out solid, doing revision night after night, for months and months on the bounce, and losing sleep something awful through worry about them, poor sod? GRRRRRR!.?

Yep - I know precisely what he means: people who should know better claiming that both A Levels and university entrance standards have dipped enormously, in order to allow those from State schools an easier passage to the more prestigious institutions.

?Over 50% of our admissions come from State schools already?.? screeched an outraged admissions tutor from one well-known Russell Group establishment, trying to justify their stance the other day. But that?s only part of the story: they do let in over 50 percent originating from the ?wrong side of the tracks?, sure, but what they don?t make clear is the position of the other 50 per cent that get in. Most of them originating from the private sector, which only educates some 7-8% of all British children. Looks a little different now, doesn?t it?

Ah well ? time to go and suffer. We took our leave of The Noise outside, still snarling something awful about right-wing newspapers and politicians with a radically different agenda to that of most people, when it came to the education of middle-class kids. Nothing like a rattling good Baggies game to take one?s mind off such contentious matters, is there?

By now, the sky had taken on the sort of puke-making hue one customarily associates with the dreaded magnolia paint: all that, plus a fine drizzle, too, the sort that seems to penetrate clothing far more than the conventional rainy stuff. Only a brief stop at Anoraks? Corner this time round ? there?s a lot I?ll do for the statistical persuasion, but getting soaking wet isn?t one of them ? and an even briefer one at the turnstile. Talk about a ?lucky dip?. Which entrance would guarantee us three points today, we briefly mused. C1? C3? Oh, soddit ? give blasted C2, our previous-season let-down, another chance to redeem itself.

Once perched in our seats and nattering to our immediate neighbours ? regulars all, and of oodles of years, natch, it was as if we?d never had the summer break. Only one deviation from the ?norm?, what appeared to be a brand-new sitting tenant in the seat next to mine. Seemed a nice sort of chap, but possessing tolerance levels even shorter than we regulars!

And, directly in front, as per usual, the Homer duo, man and wifey. For them, recent events have been like the proverbial Curate?s Egg ? good in patches. Plus One on the ?happiness scale? for Jean: Zoltan is well, finally! The cat, not the Baggie lad from the Balkans! Minus One, though, for poor John. Apparently, on the way home from Tuesday night?s game, at around eleven, his superannuated vehicle, a Rover of great antiquity with around 50K on the clock, poor thing, finally expired in spectacular fashion. It literally blew up on Castle Hill, Dudley, not far from what used to be the Odeon fleapit there!

Still, there was other news of great cheer for the lad. He?s now working on a part-time basis for Beacon Radio, giving Albion games a certain ?local flavour? via that acerbic Black Country wit he deploys so frequently, in and around our seated vicinity. Beacon, taking Baggies games for the first time in yonks, wanted to get away from the normal format of asking a former player to give his own viewpoint on-air. The feed-back from them is that they?re more than happy with how he goes about his duties ? well, anyone sitting in our part of the Halfords knows he?s a ?natural? ? so long may the broadcast battle-cry be: ?Goo ?an bile yer yed, referee!?.? With printed translations of all remarks made supplied, by personal enquiry to John himself, right after the final whistle, perchance?

And so to the moment we?d all been waiting for, the entry of our finest upon the field of mortal combat. And Preston, of course, fresh from their embarrassing home Cup defeat versus Morecambe. Precisely how much bearing would that have upon the final outcome? Team news? Now blessed with an embarrassment of riches, personnel-wise, Moggs had made several changes from the outfit that faced the Cherries in midweek. In were Carl Hoefkens, Leon Barnett, Kev Phillips and Zoltan Gera, with Teixeira and The Duke relegated to the bench once more, and both Cesar and young Jared Hodgkiss left out altogether.

As for Preston, they too had had problems of one sort or another ? but be of great heart, ye sons of Northern toil, for The Anointed One, made flesh in the form of former Baggie Darren Carter, is now among you. And getting a decent reception from our lot, which did surprise me a little, to be perfectly honest. And, to be even more honest, they?d brought a pretty good-sized bunch of followers with them, too.

Away we went, then, with the away contingent in the Smethwick warbling ?PNE, PNE, PNE?? to the familiar Sousa ditty ?The Stars And Stripes For Ever?. ?Blimey,? said I to my other half, ?sounds a bit like some horrible medical syndrome or another, doesn?t it? Forget PMT, girls, why not try PNE for size instead??

Talk about coincidence: literally within seconds of those well-chosen remarks, I nearly developed a form of PMT only acquired by long suffering female Albion supporters ? and it?s Dean Kiely we had to ?thank? for the near-cock-up, with only around three minutes on the clock.

What happened? Well, imagine that old advert for ?Condor? cigars, again, featuring something the agency had wittily named a ?Condor Moment? -then apply similar to our keeper. What should have been as routine as asking the guy his name, rapidly turned into an incident of hair-whitening proportions, when the advancing Neil Mellor almost intercepted our custodian?s awful clearance attempt. Just as well our lad somehow palmed the ball away, and onto his immediate opponent?s body, the momentum of the ball taking it over the line for a goal kick, thankfully enough.

Not a particularly auspicious start for the rearguard, now, was it? I couldn?t spot any signs of brown matter leaking from under our keeper?s shorts at that time, but it was noticeable thereafter that he was a damn sight more attentive when trying to snuff out forward-line danger at the moment of birth.

That early excitement must have given the Deepdale mob some kind of delusions of grandeur, because, not long after the start, they were heard singing, to the tune of ?Cwm Rhondda?, ?Who The Reffing ?Ell Are You??. The predictable reply, as delivered, somewhat volubly, from the other side of the Smethwick, courtesy our own ?glee club?? ?WE ARE ALBION, SAY WE ARE ALBION?.? Oh, well ? ask a silly question?.

Meanwhile, out on the pitch, bar one incident when a Beattie cross almost let in Gera, life seemed to have finally settled down, at long last. Now it was Preston?s turn to have a go, the lad Ormerod almost bringing smiles to all those Northern faces with a nasty-looking header that was only just wide of the mark, one that could have easily troubled our defenders far more, and that followed by the near-embarrassing spectacle of Darren Carter almost getting his first for Preston, and strictly at our expense, too.

The Baggies? It was just like trying to hammer against a solid brick wall, and with equally predictable results: great passing and movement, evoking sundry cries, almost replete with sensual in nature, of ?Ooooh!? and ?Aaaaah!? from the faithful, but no sooner did we heave within sight of their box, it was as if we?d never tried to launch any attacks at all. Everything was breaking down come the very moment that crucial final ball had to be sent merrily on its rubbery way into the box, and we couldn?t see any way of overcoming this penny-dreadful failing in ourselves, either.

But, with two-thirds of the half almost gone, near enough, Beattie suddenly came up with the sort of scintillating form that drives radio pundits to near-orgasm, and gets opposing managers fervently hoping the nuisance in question contracts an instantaneous dose of bubonic plague. Whichever way you look at it, the former Celtic lad certainly made their keeper think, what with his air-sizzling curler of a shot, the ?evidence? only narrowly flashing wide of the post, in the end. Bet that one cost one of our YTS lads a ?proper? paint and brush up replacement job afterwards.

And, not all that much later, it was Preston?s turn to experience the tightening of the thumbscrew for themselves, courtesy an amazing let-off that saw our shot literally scoot right across the face of an unguarded goal, and one of their adrenaline-crazed defenders belting the ball into touch for all it was worth. Typical Albion, that: a bit like a badly-tuned sports car, going ?splutter, cough, bang? juddering and bucking its merry way along the road to the break.

The second half started about as inconclusively as the first, with Pele and Beattie the ones coming closest to penetrating Preston?s more impregnable defensive bastions. And, just like the first cuckoo of spring getting Times amateur ornithologists all excited, there it was: the first plaintive cry of ?Gerrimoff!? emanating from my part of the stand. Finally, The Bloke In Front Of Me had expressed his considered opinion regarding the performance of his favourites ? or, more to the point, the ones that weren?t!

Greening, deservedly named Man Of The Match come the end, was really revelling in his new-found captain?s role, the softly-falling precipitation plastering those long lank locks of his to his face as if superglued there, while, at the other end of the pitch, former Celt Beattie was also doing his level best to run him close in the Hammer Horror Lookalike Stakes. Once seen by children of a nervous disposition, never forgotten - but there was still not the slightest of hints as to what was about to happen very, very shortly indeed.

Certainly, the game needed some sort of pazzaz injected into its sclerotic-looking vascular system, that?s for sure: in fact, I would say that on the overall balance of play, that opening part of the second half, we were in increasing danger of falling behind to an easily-mounted sucker-punch of a sudden Preston break from defence, rather than on the verge of witnessing something quite remarkable. But first, an Albion subbing, Pele off and Teixeira on.

The change seemed to up the Albion tempo considerably, with Phillips stuffing up what seemed like an easy tap-in to me, with Beattie, ideas man instrumental in the creation of the Phillips effort, letting fly with a humdinger of his own shortly after that, from just on the edge of the box.

But the best was about to come, and it is to be noted that whereas most of our attacks had fallen down one way or another, either because of unnecessary elaboration when in the vicinity of the box, or simply players appearing too scared of doing anything really proactive and useful with the ball when in possession, this particular incursion was as direct and to the point as anyone could hope for. That?s why the end result was so satisfying.

It all started in the middle of the half, when Morrison, jettisoning the fancier stuff in favour of a more barnstorming approach, ran hell for leather through the outer reaches of the box, then laid the ball off to the predatory Phillips, lurking ominously near the far post. That was all he needed, wasn?t it? Wallop! ? ball well and truly over goal-line, and as I?d intimated earlier, the strike couldn?t have come at a more crucial time.

Poor Kev! No sooner had he accepted the smoochy compliments proffered by his comrades in stripes, Mogga was hauling him off the park! Blimey, if the scoring of a goal is cause enough to get our gaffer tapping the fourth official?s shoulder, what the hell does he do when he?s really narked with one of his players? Reach for a sawn-off 12-bore shotgun ? and use it?

Never mind ? off the lad came, to thunderous applause, a good job jobbed indeed. His striking replacement was the lad Miller, he of the recent transfer in, of course. And, as we all know now, didn?t he make an instant impact on the place. Strange, isn?t it. Prior to this moment, Zoltan Gera?s contribution to the game had been minimal ? and that?s being charitable. Far too many passes going astray, or simply ?telegraphed?, for my liking. Even those delightful ?spring-heeled Jack? headers, where he rose right above players twice his size, seemed to have gone walkabouts, this afternoon.

Whatever species of magic normally claimed him, it certainly seemed to have done a runner on this occasion, that?s for sure. But there was a faint residue of twinkly fairy-dust about the guy, still, just enough to get the entire ground roaring its approval, as his slide-rule pass found his new team-mate on the flank. Miller? Once he?d got the ball, nothing save death was going to part him from it: brushing past at least one defender as if he wasn?t there, and the crowd in the Brummie roaring him on, his momentum found him nearing the Sanctum Sanctorum known as the penalty area, the goal to his front, and not an opposing player within sniffing-distance.

Only one thing to do, then ? hit the blasted thing as if his life depended upon it. Their keeper, seemingly drawn hopelessly out of position, floundered horribly ? but Miller didn?t. Just a fraction of a second later, the net shook ? and so did the ground, reverberating to the deserved accolades heaped upon someone perpetrating an act of true genius. So hyped up was everyone by then, the ground was still buzzing some ten minutes later. Brilliant, just brilliant. Yes, I know history doesn?t repeat itself but, in some ways, Miller?s strike was more than reminiscent of the dazzling effort a youthful and gawky Cyrille Regis potted on his Albion home debut, versus Middlesbrough. Amazing coincidence time? Back then, the year also ended in the figure ?seven?!

Two strikes, both within the space of around six minutes, the second an act of pure genius, and finally, you began to sense Preston had given it up as a bad job. But not entirely, it would seem: their late sub Carroll tried to retrieve the situation not long before the end, but as the shot ended up in the arms of Kiely ? er ? harmlessly! ? I don?t think any of our now-jubilant followers were going to lose any sleep worrying over it.

All that remained now was for the ref to call a halt to the proceedings, and for the late Mister Mercury to serenade us as we made our happy way towards the exits. ?Don?t stop me now, I?m having such a good time, I?m having a ball?.? Those familiar Queen lyrics poured forth from the speakers, as we made ready to face the damp and wet outside once more. The thing is, though, after that wonderful goal, and the almighty ?high? it produced among our people - did anyone really notice how soggy they became?

AND FINALLY?. One. Ah, the sweet innocence of kids #1?.. Yet again, ?Im Indoors secured yet more supplies of that Danish sweetmeat commonly known to all and sundry as ?Spunk?, and as befitted the owner of such largesse, he generously donated several packets of the stuff to innocent young Bethany, busy Doing Things with her mobile phone at the time. So busy, in fact, she asked her dad to ?put this in your pocket for me?? Said I, as The Noise trousered the goods in question, ?You be careful where you put your Spunk ? could get a bit messy when you next put your hand in there?..? Innuendo, what innuendo?

NIGGLE OF THE DAY?. Those bloody TV screens, what else? Is anyone else out there about as fed up as I am with seeing yet another advert pop up the very instant the ball either goes out of play, or there?s an interruption for some other reason. I don?t want to see constant government health warnings about not standing up at games, or ads extolling the many virtues of the University Of Central England, every time the ref calls a halt ? I just want to see basic replays of what immediately preceded the stoppage in question, provided there?s no real nastiness involved, of course, which tends to be the case more often than not. Other clubs seem to get the mix about right and without treating paying customers like brainless little kids, so why the hell can?t we?

WAS IT A PEN OR NOT? Many thanks to a Baggie chappie called Tim Stephens, who dropped me a line earlier today. Apparently, he too was at last Saturday?s Turf Moor thrash, and being either in the home end, or very near to it, was in the perfect spot to see Clem give away that spot-kick for their equaliser.

Monday?s BBC Midlands TV replay of the incident seemed to provide conclusive evidence that what had been previously regarded as a ?bang to rights? job was really shrouded in several layers of uncertainty, thanks to the camera angle making it look as though things were not as they seemed. Armed with what I?d thought was pukka info, I then cast personal aspersions upon the ref?s decision-making processes. As in ?Who?s a silly plonker, then??

Oh, whoops. According to Tim, the ref was dead right and I was dead wrong. Clem did handle the ball ?with intent?, as the legal eagles would term it, and the subsequent spot-kick very much what we deserved for showing such terminal stupidity in the first place. OK ? lead me to the nearest birch tree, and I?ll purloin several twigs from it, then proceed to scourge my nether regions to within inches of my life. Oh, well, la-di-da. That?ll teach me not to fart in church, won?t it?

MISTAKE OF THE WEEK?. No names, no pack-drill, eh, Carly? Or, should I say ?Blondie?? Confucius he say, she who work in Wedgwood?s canteen and try to mount an ?economy drive ? all of her own, by flogging thirsty punters pots of tea containing boiling water, but no teabags in ?em, truly deserve the accolade ?Plonker?! Mind you, given the amount of mind-numbing parsimony seemingly endemic in that place, she could well earn herself a place on their board on the back of that, if she plays her cards right!

IS THIS THE FINAL WORD? The Noise, apropos the aforementioned Paul Robinson thing?. ?It?s marvellous what you can pick up standing at the Players? Entrance (before a game)?.?

Me, brightly: ?Venereal disease??

 - Glynis Wright

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