The Diary

29 August 2007: Baggie Brace Pushes Past Posh.

This was, above all, the game that had everything, Baggie people ? but not in the conventional sense of the phrase. Well, it?s not all that often you get the chance to stand up close and personal with Barry Fry, just miss the sight of Alex Ferguson slumming it at London Road ? presumably there tonight see what the apple of his eye was getting up to in the managerial stakes - and, according to Laraine Astle, sneaking inside the ground just before our coach rolled into the car park adjacent to the ground.

Oh, yes ? and shocking pink boots. Yep, that?s right. Just in case you think the moon?s got to me ? it?s a full ?un, and we all know what they all say about full moons and sanity, don?t we, children? - I?ll repeat that. SHOCKING PINK boots, and it was one of our finest wearing ?em, too. So, who was the little exhibitionist responsible, then? Patience, mon braves! I?ll let you all in on the secret later, if that?s OK with you.

But even better was the news from Molineux, courtesy El Tel?s vintage steam radio inside the ground, and after the final whistle, courtesy Radio Five Live, on the coach. Dingles 1, Morecambe 3, the scoreline evoking pleasant memories culled from the eighties apropos our noisome chums getting dumped from the FA Cup by lowly Chorley. You all know the theatrical phrase: ?There wasn?t a dry eye in the house?.?? Well, that was the situation in our end once the word finally got around ? and most certainly NOT salt tears, either.

Just this once, I was travelling away without my other half for company. Rather than endure the sundry perils and misfortunes of a late afternoon trip to Peterborough, he?d elected instead to head in the general direction of Small Heath, where League 2 Hereford United were billed to do battle with Premiership Blues. A very decent away following at St. Andrews, apparently, some 2,000 ? and guess what, children? Blues just couldn?t cope with hordes of mad stampeding Bulls, as they made their way towards the away turnstiles before the game.

Poor stewards had to open extra turnstiles, in the end. Apparently, once they?d kicked off, they gave our Bluenose chums not a little trouble, pulling one back from the two they?d conceded earlier on, with about 20 minutes still to go. And the home side didn?t have the most pleasant of experiences by hanging on like grim death, to keep their narrow lead intact to the end.

But back to Albion and Peterborough. Isn?t it strange what a bout of half-decent weather brings out? Take this afternoon: there we all were, sitting in our coach on the East Stand car-park, when who should roll up wearing an Albion top and with one small male child in tow? Er ? Steve The Miser, actually, much to my amazement.

Given that parsimony taken to ridiculous extremes is the name of his particular game, the surprise was he was there at all. First of all he entered our vehicle to commune with someone at the front, then headed off on out to the second coach parked alongside. Since Steve rarely treats anyone to ANYTHING, I could only conclude that he?d been taken ill with sunstroke at the weekend, or something, and signed the pair of them up for today?s trip whilst delirious!

It was certainly an afternoon for renewing old acquaintances: while waiting for the old ?Wagons Roll? from Alan Cleverly, I also spotted yet another character from the past, a certain England-supporting gentleman, known to all and Baggie sundry as ?Strodder? Crockett, former GD Stroller, and possessive of a distinctly dubious dress sense. There may have been only three coachloads departing from the ground, but it seemed to me like Nostalgia Unlimited On Tour. Most people on our vehicle staunch Baggies supporters, had been for years, and would undoubtedly be until the sounding of The Last Trump ? which is nothing to do with anyone?s errant digestive habits, before you ask.

It was a bloody good job I?d allowed myself plenty of time to get to the ground ? a good hour allocated to catching, and travelling on the 450 bus that ran close to The Hawthorns ? because when I finaly emerged from our place to stand in the bus stop, traffic going the other way was completely snarled up, not to mention backed up, and that was knackering the timing of most public transport headed towards the bus station. Result? A bus that should have turned up at 2.19 finally materializing at nigh on 2.40. Had I caught the later one set to depart around ten to three, I would have been pushing things very close indeed. There you go: I do get some things right, eventually!

Mind you, when the bus finally turned up, the driver, already trying to make up for lost time, approached near-light speed as he headed in the general direction of Smethwick, so I was deposited at the Halfords-Brummie junction with around 40 minutes to spare. Lots of time to kill, then ? so what to do? Aha! If in doubt, go into the Club Shop and give Dee an earhole-bashing!

For those who don?t know, when not serving supporters with their replica shirt wants, etc. Dee just happens to be a ?Mine Hostess?, in this case to several hostelries in the Shrewsbury area. And, amazingly, she?s about to acquire another. Distinct lack of success with trying to dislodge the bunch of Dingles who hold their supporters? club meetings in one of her places, though, but she?s working on it! When she can get her head straight after sampling some Grade A rotgut masquerading as rough cider last weekend, that is. Dead rats, rusting iron bars, the works: liver-rotting authenticity totally guaranteed, as I understand it.

By the time I?d finished batting the breeze with her, tempus had most certainly ?fugit?, and the proof visible, in the form of a couple of Leon?s coaches, now parked on the bit of tarmac at the rear. Time to grab a couple of seats for us both, then. Owing to the reduced numbers, this wasn?t too arduous a task, El Tel rumbling up some ten or so minutes later. Oh ? and he had a new nickname for Alan Cleverly, and That Bloody Big Hat Of His.

?Dillinger? was EL Tel?s new monicker for that gentleman?s headgear. How come? The name once belonged to a notorious American gangster, around Prohibition time: totally ruthless, his ?trademark? was a massive fedora-type garment. Wide-brimmed? Let me put it this way ? turned upside-down, it would be capable of supplying an appreciable proportion of the Black Country?s water needs for a very long time to come.

Maybe it was symbolic, or something, but as we made to leave the car-park, and head on out onto the Brummie Road, a huge cloud the colour of charcoal formed above the ground ? and hung there, as nasty-looking clouds sometimes do, unfortunately. But by the time we?d reached the M6 proper, and negotiated some newly-installed lights on the West Bromwich junction (they only turn green long enough to allow onto the main carriageway just one single vehicle, before reverting back to blushing red once more ? not the most ideal of starts, is it?), I was collecting some serious zeds ? and so was El Tel.

When I next awoke, it was to the sight of very unfamiliar territory indeed, the countryside bordering the city of Peterborough itself ? and very photogenic it seemed, especially around the River Nene, which seemed the perfect spot for American tourists to tarry a while before taking nice little pics to send to their folks back in the States. Oh, yeah ? and there was also an enormous building on the outskirts of the town bearing the legend ?SAMARITANS? on the front, and a myriad ways of contacting them should the urge to top oneself prove too overwhelming.

Exclaimed an amazed John Homer, on seeing the sheer size of the building: ?Ooh look, Samaritans ? we?m alroight now!?

For the benefit of those students of geography who sometimes tune in to my piece from time to time, the ground itself was situated not all that far from the river where, even at that relatively-late hour, hordes of swans gathered, in the (sometimes) forlorn hope of some tourist mug feeding them breadcrumbs, or similar. As we drew closer to the car-park, a sudden thought struck me. ?I wonder if Laraine (Astle) will be turning up tonight ? after all, they weren?t half good mates with Barry Fry, and Barry did turn up at Jeff?s funeral, if I remember right??

The answer to that one wasn?t so much blowing in the wind, as standing on the front concourse, where whatever passes for VIP?s at London Road mingle before finally going inside. Sure enough ? there was Laraine, stood next to two of the Hayden family, complete with Dawn and her talented little lad. And, as we said ?hello? to Laraine, who should show up, but Bazza himself.

Still the same old rubicund features, slightly-adipose body, sharp-cut suit. Oh, we hadn?t half missed him and his daft antics over the years. Quickly collecting up Laraine and her party, then shoveling them inside,he disappeared from view, so we turned to greet Roy Hayden, now reunited with his missus, who?d traveled alone. How come? Well, the poor chap was attending some kind of residential course there, so it made perfect sense for his beloved to let Baggies travel take the strain for the Grand Reunion.

Time, now, for a classic example of what I tend to call the ?Acting Unpaid Lance-Corporal Syndrome?. In this particular case, the ?sufferer? was a Peterborough steward whose over-inflated sense of importance ran to his job controlling access to the concourse I recently mentioned. Now, it was time for him to put into action his raison d?etre, in this case, a metal barrier that only covered half the dirt track that called itself a road, there. Naturally, odds and sods passing the time of day there were quickly turfed out, so Chummy could properly justify his existence: as I?ve said before, those cultivating the aforementioned personality defect in a manner that bordered upon the overzealous were pretty thick on the ground at London Road, it would seem.

It was while we were headed back to the away turnstiles that I saw a sight calculated to strike cold fear into the hearts of those witnessing it. Directly in front of us, something was causing grown men to faint, and their female counterparts to turn the delicate sort of shade of green that never did quite end up adorning the fashion catalogues. And, above it all, an indistinct black cloud, seemingly made up of many minute dots, all of which buzzed in a manner curious to behold. ?My God,? I cried, ?It CAN?T be?.?

Oh yes it was?. Albion's answer to La Petomaine. Just a minute later, there was Brooksie, accompanied by several boon companions ? well, those who didn?t mind the disgusting reek emanating from his rear-trouser region, I suppose. As for the numerous flies, they were doing manoeuvres preparatory to landing on that thick skull of his, that even the infamous Red Baron, Manfred Von Richtofen, would have abandoned as too crazy. Mind you, it was one hell of a stacking column they?d put in place, and one that wouldn?t have disgraced the surroundings of Heathrow Airport, either. As long as you could tolerate the appalling stench, that is. Every single bluebottle allocated its own slot in the stack, and all buzzing nicely in circles as they awaited the order to land. Thank goodness we were nowhere near him during the game!

After watching the team coach arrive, and trying to work out who was who, as they alighted, then headed on inside the ground ? we?re still having difficulties, El Tel and I ? we them embarked upon a slow walk back to the away end. To our right, in the front row of the car-park, stood a Radio WM car, complete with huge aerial on top of the roof. Must have stood around 20 feet, all told, and complete with a strong-looking bit of cable wound round and round the thing, from top to bottom. Then a thought struck me: ?Er ? suppose they come out of the ground in a hurry after the final whistle, then drive off, forgetting they haven?t taken down that aerial?? Replied Albion?s answer to Methuselah, ?It would certainly be interesting, the first low bridge they came to, that?s for sure!?

It was while The Fart was trying to get hold of Tony Butler of WM ? he does a football show at that time of the week ? that I observed our war veteran?s comb doing some very strange things indeed, like leap out of his pocket without so much as a bye-your-leave. Said an exasperated Terry, after the third time it popped out of his pocket to say ?hello?, ?I don?t know what?s the matter with this thing, it keeps shooting out?.? Me: ?I don?t know what kind of ?lodgers? you?ve got whooping it up inside your hair, Tel, but they ain?t half strong!?

A quick ?natural break? while our hero communed with The Bearded One on-air, and then it was through the turnstiles, and inside the ground. And what a culture shock the place was, too. Stuck atop the eyrie of clubs who?d spent serious amounts of moolah dragging their places from out of the Dark Ages, we were quite mortified to see old-fashioned wooden seats, a la Burnley, and, for those who still remember, the Rainbow Stand itself.

Opposite was Peterborough?s sole concession to modernity, a huge modern affair, with such refinements as plastic seats and what looked suspiciously like executive boxes. To our left, and behind one of the goals, were those Albion supporters who?d elected to stand ? and loving every minute of the novel situation, it would seem. As I watched them in full flow, I idly wondered how many of those standing there actually remembered the days when terracing was the norm, rather than the exception?

Meanwhile, on the pitch, our finest were engaging in a warm-up routine that owed more than a little to that old stalwart of wedding receptions and Saturday evening jollies, the Hokey Cokey, all the players standing in a circle, then rushing in one minute, rushing out the next.

Then, an even closer look revealed something truly horrible to behold ? an Albion player wearing SHOCKING PINK BOOTS. Over the years, I have seen many crimes committed in the name of football fashion ? red, white and blue boots, silver models, even, but a shocking pink pair? Deep into the second half, I was finally able to properly identify the culprit, as he?d finally come off the bench as part of a late subbing: readers, the owner of those shocking item of sportswear was ? roll of drums, etc. - Tinhinio (err, I think!)

Another throwback to a kinder age was The Posh Gent, the home side?s famous mascot, complete with top-hat, tails, tuxedo and cane, evoking memories of a time when brass bands, not raucous PA announcers, entertained crowds during the break, of the smell of hot Bovril that pervaded the nostrils once inside ? or ?erm ? ?other things?, a la Brooksie! ? men attired in cloth caps and mufflers supping M and B Mild in the bar behind the goals, and paying for the entire lot in LSD ? and I?m not referring to the stuff they put on sugar cubes these days, either.

As I?d suspected, the gaffer had wrought many changes to the side that bummed out to Sheffield United at the weekend. Young Jared Hodgkiss, Bostjan Cesar, Clem, Chappy, Zoltan Gera, Duke Ellington ? we?d heard before the start there were people from Watford at the game, which was to explain an awful lot as the game progressed! ? all IN, at the expense of Hoefkens, Barnett, Robbo, Pele, Morrison and Kev Phillips, although I suspect it was no reflection on absolutely any of them they were left out of the starting eleven.

I would imagine Albion had taken this game pretty seriously, not least because of the demolition job Posh had perpetrated on Championship Saints, during the previous round.

But pretty soon, the show was on the road ? and by the tenth minute, Albion had stuffed up, at the very least, enough chances to have gone at least three up by then. It was Craig Beattie who was the first to dip out, around the sixth minute, after Ellington and Chappy had set him up between them: to be perfectly honest, it seemed easier to score, but this was West Bromwich Albion, wasn?t it?

After that, Teixeira had an attempt blocked by their keeper, closely followed by Ellington himself. Then, it was Chappy once again ? but this time, acting in a most un-Chappy-like manner, waltzing the ball straight past several Boro guardians of the flame, but Chappy being Chappy, he quickly reverted to type, whacking the ball high over the bar in a move that seemed to owe more to the funny-ball code than anything seen on a football field. No wonder I frequently find myself wanting to strangle the lad.

On the terraces, and revelling in their unaccustomed surroundings, that evening, were our followers. Definitely Nostalgia Night, this: first of all we had the ?Smethwick, Brummie?? thing going, then it was ?Tony, Tony Mowbray?? to the same tune as the ?Tommy, Tommy Gaardsoe?? thing of yesteryear. And, as we were to see later in the game, a ?Boing? on terracing is far more spectacular than one launched forth from a seated position.

With a third of the half gone, it was clear we were punching holes in their rearguard with monotonous regularity, not to mention devastating accuracy, but once more, we were being seriously banjaxed by our maddening inability to take chances whenever they cropped up. Quite frustrating, watching perfectly good chances being squandered so recklessly.

So relentless was the flow of the game in the direction of the home side?s netting that it was as late as the 18th minute we first saw Borough register a serious shot on goal. Remember my mention of Aaron McLean, last night, and ?Im Indoors practically making the sign of the Cross at the mere mention of his name in these pages? Well, he was the lad that dipped out, unselfishly ceding possession to team-mate Low, who ended up blasting the thing just to the right of the post.

Two minutes later saw The Fart singing the praises of Chappy for once: after his earlier attempt, he had another go at keeping the ball instead of losing it ? and, as a result, both passed and distributed well. Mind you, had I been handed a fiver every single time my elderly chum snarled ?Lazy, Chaplow, LAZY!?.? I?d have ended up a very rich woman come the end of the show.

Come midway through the half, and the whole thing seemed to descend into those awful doldrums that tend to hit players and sides from time to time. Both sides were now playing variants of ?hit it, and hope for the best? which wasn?t exactly conducive towards entertainment, as you?ll readily appreciate. Cue our terrace-bound lot, trying to put some ginger into it courtesy a lusty rendition of ?Oh when the stripes!?..?

Two respectable attempts to open the deadlock on the part of the home side ? Kiely had had to look sharp to prevent disaster from striking each time, and Cesar?s awful backpass to Kiely can only be described as ?suicidal? ? Beattie had one cleared off the line. Getting closer, Albion, but you still need to concentrate more at the back, still.

Not that it became a major issue ? well, not after we finally made the breakthrough we?d been threatening all night, that is. The best things are usually the simplest, of course, and in this case, a corner accurately delivered by Clem found Zoltan Gera lurking on the far post. How the hell he gets to those headers in the first place, I?ll never know, but get to this one he did, and before you could say ?Hungary?, there was the ball, right where it should have been ages before, enjoying intimate relations with the netting behind the goal.

A huge sigh of relief descended upon the away end ? then, on the terracing to our left, commenced what was, to me, a pretty impressive ?Boing?. Yep, when it?s performed on terracing, the overall effect is always a hundred times better than if you?d just gone and done it in the seats. And his trademark somersault was pretty good as well!

Not long after that, The Duke almost doubled our lead, but stuffed up the shot: the ball did run loose to Beattie, who pounced with delight, but, sad to say, one of the home side kicked his effort off the line. Yes, it WAS that sort of night.

Then, just before the break, we did it again. Score, that is! And what a Keystone Kops-type strike it was, too. Talk about a comedy of errors: first of all, Gera had a go, and this their keeper stopped, but couldn?t hold on to it. The ball then bobbled around at bit, was picked up by Beattie ? who somehow managed to send the ball soaring up into the air, and not over the line, as was originally intended. This then dropped enticingly for Ellington, but he had to have several bites at the cherry before the thing would cross the line. Still, it finally did, and once more, those youthful Baggie ?Boingers? on the terracing gave it very big licks indeed.

I spent most of the interval reflecting upon what seemed a Damascene sort of conversion on the part of one supporter, who had bumped into me prior to the game, and ended up more or less agreeing with me over the contentious issue that the Prem was NOT necessarily the best competition in the world, and all the attendant hype would ruin the game, eventually. Quite a sea-change, that, from a view that had once regarded the Premier League as the Holy Grail of everything to do with football. And no ? I didn?t end up saying: ?See - I told you so!? although I was really tempted to do so, at times.

Back to the second half, then ? so, what was in the offing, then? We?d already heard that the Forest-Leicester tie had been abandoned after the collapse of a lad called, ironically enough, Clive Clark. From what they said on the radio, it sounded very much as like his heart had stopped in the dressing-room, and it had taken a couple of ambulancemen, armed with a defibrillator, to get it restarted again. No wonder the game had been abandoned.

Back to the second half, for our lot ? and the ever-present fear that Borough would step on the gas, hit us with two in succession, then have us running with our tails between our legs. But, during those opening few minutes, we were the first to show, the busy Beattie trying his darndest to upset the Borough applecart every single time we attacked.

It was about that time we both concocted the idea that John Homer had a little clone, somewhere, The trouble was his ?double? had about the same sort of face, but of a bigger build altogether, and much more hair lost. Still, the basics were there ? and you really did have to look twice to ascertain you weren?t seeing things. But did he have the same warped sense of humour, though?

Back to the game, then ? and a minute after Beattie should have wrapped it up good and proper, Borough forced Kiely into yet another top-notch stop, but instead of bouncing harmlessly out of touch, the darned thing ran to yet another opposition player ? who really should have done far better with the golden chance than he did. Rank bad luck, Posh, or serial palpable failure to convert? Debatable one, that, especially just a few moments later, when their lad Lee sent his effort just wide of the post, when he should have had the ref pointing to the centre circle, no messing. Halfway through, Cesar had one stopped, this one from a free kick, closely followed by both Gera and Ellington.

Time for substitutions, folks! Off went ?Tex?, to be replaced by Koren, then, later still, bye-bye Duke ? was this our very last glimpse of him wearing a Baggies shirt, I wondered ? and enter Shergar. Finally, with around five only remaining, off went the very frustrated Beattie, to be replaced by Tinhimho. (Er ? I think that?s how you spell it!)

By now, Posh had given up the ghost. And so had the Dingles, judging from what was coming through on The Fart?s radio. Now losing 2-1 after pulling back an earlier deficit ? and what?s more, it was going to get a lot worse. Oh dear- what a crying shame! All that remained was for the curtain to be drawn on our own game, and once that had taken place, it was back to the coach, to catch up on all the rest of the night?s scandal ? not to mention drama, as per the Clive Clark thing.

Overall, a competent enough win, although we still played like a bunch of complete strangers, at times. And, as for the sheer number of chances spurned, what more can I say? Except to go ?AAAARGH!? very loudly! So, now for the next round draw, when the really big boys come in. Let?s hope that we?ll have massively improved upon both our shooting accuracy, and communication at the back, by then. Still, as George Formby used to say, ?Turned out nice again, ain?t it??

And Finally?. Some People I?ll Never Understand, Part One. The young lad seated just in front of me who spent more or less the entire game texting on his mobile!

Some People I?ll Never Understand Part Two?. Albion winning away from home, two goals to the good, still 15 minutes to go ? and people making to leave early!

More about the Royal Army Pay Corps?.. The Fart, having read the remarks I?d penned about his old mob the night before, very kindly volunteered a brace of acronyms much used by other squaddies apropos that bean-counting military unit. The first? ?Rubber And Pencil Corps?. The second (a tad unflattering, this one)? The Rape And Pillage Corps, although it would take a considerable stretch of the imagination to see those chaps forgoing the endless joys of double-entry book-keeping to indulge in any kind of military activity involving the expenditure of raw passion, however unlawful!

Yet another name for Alan Cleverley coined by The Fart?. Valentine Dyall (aka The Man In Black). It??s all to do with Alan?s trademark fedora, folks. Oh ? and this one?s for Junior Baggies ? if you don?t know who Valentine Dyall was, go and ask your grandparents!

More Carly news?.. I?d always thought that those classical ?try-ons?, perpetrated upon new members of staff by their sniggering seniors, were a bit passe these days. Not so at Wedgwoods, it would seem. Having failed to ?bite? when sent for a ?long weight?, and a ?tin of elbow grease?, poor Carly did eventually succumb to a request to find a ?vegetarian chicken?, followed by a fruitless ten-minute hunt in a freezer for a ?leg of salmon?! How did I find out? Well, I do have my spies, shall we say.

 - Glynis Wright

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