The Diary

23 September 2003: A Dick Ed Gets Shirty With The King

The first chills of autumn are now beginning to permeate my little bones; tonight?s game was the first thus far this season I?ve needed the twin benisons of an overcoat and a drink of hot chocolate. Quite a contrast from the Palace game on Saturday when the temperature was in the eighties, and we were all sweltering in our seats. The years must be advancing rather more rapidly than I had originally thought! More about tonight?s game later, but what of the day in general?

One thing I did this lunchtime was pop into West Bromwich town centre on a mission of great urgency ? and yes, it was Albion-related. The problem? My away shirt, that?s what, or rather, the thundering great yellow rectangle on the back that confronts me every time I put the blasted thing on; it just didn?t look right. OK, I realise that was a deliberate act on the part of the manufacturer to get people to make a bee-line in the direction of the club shop to get their fave Baggie?s monicker stuck on there, but that didn?t help me one little bit, so in the end, I decided to bite the bullet and fill that gaping hole with something. Not courtesy of our favourite football club, though; instead, I simply headed off to the indoor market, where Steino, purveyor of football-related garments to the gentry, hangs out. Just a simple job for him; to put onto the back of the wretched thing the word ?ASTLE? with a number 9 below. Half an hour, he said, so I handed over my yellow and green number, then headed for W.H. Smiths, to check out the books. Oh, and while I was there, I also invested in another three pocket notebooks as well. There is method in my madness; this term, I?ve taken to bringing a pen and notebook with me to games, so that I can jot down any potential diary material as I hear it, so if you see me in a pub pre-match, and I?m scribbling like crazy, be very careful what you do or say! Already, I?m about halfway through the first one, and what with a glut of games coming up in the near future, it?s a fair bet I?ll be in dire need of a replacement before too long.

Back to the market, then; as I arrived, Steino was just making preparations to plonk my shirt into the heat-thingy that puts the numbers and letters there, so I didn?t have to wait that long for the finished article to be presented to me. Why Jeff?s name? Simple; so ephemeral are the careers of so many of our players at our club these days, I couldn?t really see the point of sticking the name of Hughsie, say, or Rob Hulse on the back of my holy garment. The other reason, of course, is when I was a teenager, I literally worshipped the ground Jeff walked on. Many was the detention I got for writing his name on my exercise books, and even though much water has flown under the bridge since then, and the King is no longer with us, the love I had for the man and his goals still remains. Even now, I?ve only to see a team picture from the sixties, or hear certain tunes of that period, and the memories all come flooding back, I?m fifteen or sixteen years of age, standing in the Woodman Corner in the garish yellow glare of the floodlights wearing a thick woollen striped Baggies scarf, and gleefully jumping up and down like Zebedee on acid because Jeff?s just banged another one in the back of the net. It?s difficult to convey to someone under the age of forty just how good Jeff was; it?s a shame he?ll always be remembered by most, not because of those bullet-headers of his, or his rare feat of scoring in every round of that FA Cup-winning run, but because he happened to miss a scoring opportunity during ?that? 1970 World Cup encounter versus Brazil.

Oh dear ? I?m getting all nostalgic now, and that will never do, so back to the present. On my way into town, I happened to pass by The Shrine, and noticed the team coach loading up for Hartlepool. No expense has been spared for tomorrow?s game, then; it looks as though our finest travelled up today, stayed in a nearby hotel overnight, and will put in a final bout of training before tomorrow night?s fun-fest. And, judging from the reserve team line up tonight ? Lee Marshall, plus an assorted cast of kids ? this means that our manager has taken with him an awful lot of fringe players as well, even Ronnie Wallwork. The suspicion?s rapidly percolating through what few brain-cells I still have left that we may well put out a side that is, shall we say, not of our best. I really hope not; it?s an awful long way to travel just to see us grimace our way through an ignominious exit from the competition. It?s not just that, after all the reverses and setbacks of the last couple of games, really going for it and consigning the Second Division side to the dustbin of history would serve as a marvellous tonic for the troops ? and I?m not just talking about us supporters either. A win tomorrow night would not only serve as a marvellous morale-booster, it would land us into that point in the competition where the big boys start playing; a home tie against one of them would be just tickety-boo.

So what do you know about Hartlepool, then? Not a lot? Here?s a potted history. The name probably derives from the Saxon words ?Heorot eg pol?. ?Heorot? = hart ( a type of deer), ?eg? = peninsula, and ?pol = pool. The place, originally a monastery, was founded by a woman around 640 AD, with a fishing village nearby. The Danes being the Danes, they destroyed the place in the 9th century, but the village carried on. The village grew after that, and became a town, getting its first charter from King John (the bloke everyone boos in Robin Hood films) in 1201. At that time, the population was only around a few hundred, but as the years rolled around, the market began to grow in importance. In 1315, despite the fact football hadn?t arrived as a spectator sport, the Scots totally wrecked the town; the problem was, the good burghers of the town started to build walls to keep them out, but they just weren?t finished in time! During the Civil War, the place was occupied by a Scottish army, who, for once, were taking the sides of the Brits, in this case, the Parliamentary sympathisers. These were replaced later by genuine Englishmen. During the 1830?s, new docks and a railway were built, making it possible to export coal hewed from the Durham mines. Additionally, a new town called West Hartlepool was created; this later amalgamated with Hartlepool proper. Later on still, a shipbuilding industry started, the last of the yards finally closing in 1962. In 1915, 3 German warships shelled the town, killing 128 people, and wounding around 400. Today, the yards and the mines have all gone, but there is a new marina there, also a nuclear power station, which will provide a warm welcome should there be an accident during the game!

Famous folkies? Peter Mandelson, of course, also Robert The Bruce, but that was a long time ago, and probably before the time he got interested in Scottish spiders crawling up the wall. There?s also Jeremy Spencer, of Fleetwood Mac fame, and last but not least, Reg Smythe, creator of Andy Capp, also hailed from those parts. And that?s it, without nary a mention of the infamous ?monkey-hanging? incident, which is still good for a laugh ? but not while you?re in the home end!

Returning to tonight then, our opposition was none other than Man United, accompanied by their own in-house TV station?s cameras. As I mentioned earlier on, the first chills of autumn permeated the place as our Premiership friends cruised to a 4-2 win over an Albion side that largely comprised kids, the exception being Lee Marshall, of course. No surprise that they marmalised us, but it has to be said, their victory wasn?t as emphatic as I?d somewhat gloomily forecast before the start. Predictably, United scored within minutes of the kick-off, with their lad Jones belting one low and hard that had Crane well beaten, and it could have been two moments afterwards, but for the heroics of our keeper.

Never mind, though; much to our collective surprise ? four of us Dick Eds, Steve The Miser, this column, ?Im Indoors and The Old Fart were present ? we managed to equalise five minutes later, thanks to a Patterson header from a corner. Normal service was resumed once more not long afterwards when United took the lead once more, courtesy of that man Jones again; this time, our defence were at fault for not snuffing out the danger in time.

Come the second half, United then made it 3-1; no surprise to us, as United were given the lion?s share of the possession throughout the first period, and could have doubled their score quite easily. This time, it was Fletcher doing the damage. Mind you, within a couple of minutes of that strike, we saw what had to be one of the best goals I?ve ever seen at that level, and I?m pleased to say an Albion player was responsible for it. What happened was, Patterson managed to evade the attention of several Mancs, then pass to Simon Brown, who let fly with an absolute belter from just outside the edge of the box; all their keeper could do was what I?m inclined to fondly call ?Mayor Of Hiroshima Impersonations?, i.e. ?What the chuffin? ?ell was that?? There then followed what must have been the most obscure penalty in the history of the game. The ball was in the Albion box, and one of ours challenged a Manc for it; from where I was sitting, the tackle looked about as malicious as one from my two year-old great-nephew, but the ref then totally flabbered my ghast by pointing to the spot! Doo wot? No point in arguing with the ?man in black?, a spot kick it was, and the visitors were quickly four goals to the good.

Unfair, certainly, but there?s no point in moaning about it; overall, I reckon United were easily the better side and worthy winners. Oh ? and just a small extension to the nostalgia trip I had earlier in this piece; not long after United?s fourth, Albion brought on a young sub, Tomlinson, I think it was. Talk about a blast from the past ? the minute I clapped eyes on him, I excitedly declared to the Old Fart, sitting beside me, ?He?s a dead-ringer for Chippy Clark at about the same age!? and our well-matured co-editor had no choice but to agree, because there he was, same hairstyle, same pointy chin, same facial features, same eyes, even. It really was like stepping into a time-machine and exiting in the early sixties. Let?s hope the lad can carry the similarity further by putting in some scintillating performances for the Baggies on the left before too many moons have come and gone!

That?s about it for today; my next instalment will come post-Hartlepool but in the wee small hours, bordering on the first rays of sunlight striking GD Towers even as I type!

And finally?.. One. Just to keep the old Wulves-mocking pot bubbling away merrily, here?s yet another. There I was this morning, reading my Daily Mirror and crunching my cornflakes, and what do I see? An opener which reads, ?It hasn?t been a great year for The Dingles!? To be sure, it was the TV page, and they were discussing the latest happenings in ?Emmerdale Farm?, but it still sounded good to me?..

Two. ?Im Indoors tells me that The Lunatic has struck again, the one based in Cheltenham, that is. According to the Birmingham Post, after the 3-0 drubbing they got on Saturday, instead of taking the post-match press conference himself, Barmy Bobby sent three of his senior players, SuperBob among them, to explain their supposed failings to the gathered newshounds. One of his absolutely barking ?motivational? stunts, of course - remember him getting our side to explain themselves to a supporter post-Bournemouth? ? and Supes is quite capable of whacking away for a six predatory bouncers delivered by hacks thirsting for blood, but is this sort of thing really something that senior players should be expected to do?

 - Glynis Wright

Contact the Author

Diary Index