The Diary

02 September 2007: Terrorising Tykes Tamed By Tex!

Blimey, what a frabjously marvellous day I?ve had, today. Well, by Albion standards, that is. Ever had the gut feeling that no matter what the world contrives to chuck against you, you know it?s still odds-on you?ll emerge from it all, smelling of naught save Chanel Number Five? That sure was this column, earlier in the day, as various disparate strands of Fate came together in one concerted effort to banish everyday cares and woes to some unspeakable dimension, never to darken my doorstep ever again. (Well, cutting out the hyperbole a tad, banishing ?em until the next League game, at the very least).

And what occurrence was instrumental in bringing about this miraculous transformation? Well, two, really: the first, I reckon, is self-explanatory, and with more than a smidgen of Albion involvement about it, while the second comes within the bounteous balliwick of Lady Luck. Welcome to The Glorious First Of September, Baggie-people, where Yorkshire opponents are put to the sword courtesy two splendid goals, and not long after that, this column manages to grab four balls on the Lottery. Not exactly a life-changing amount entering my bank account, sure, but at fifty or sixty quid, not to be sniffed at, either.

My tale began VERY early this morning: so early, in fact, that after sorting yesterday?s offering out, I stayed up to do some reading, fell asleep, and before I knew it, daylight was creeping through our living-room window. Not that it mattered too much, mind, as we were both having to get up much earlier than normal on the Saturday of a home game. The reason? To grab ourselves those all-important Scunny tickets as soon as the Ticket Office declared itself open for business, around nine in the morning, so rising with the lark was definitely favourite, in this instance, even though it came about by accident, in this instance!.

Normally, I don?t surface from my pit until the sun?s approaching the yardarm, but because of the ticket situation, I was, most certainly, a Girl With A Mission. Oh, well ? at least my dawn dalliance with The Land Of Nod meant I had plenty of time to bimble around to our local newsagent, and in this instance, just in time to hear the proprietors give their teenage son one almighty rollicking: apparently, he?d been tasked earlier with putting all the dailies out on the sales racks, but had only got as far as sorting out the Sun before considering his mission complete. How could I tell? All I could find there were copies of the Sun, loads of ?em, and nothing else, which was no sodding use to me at all.

It was only when the aforementioned customer complaints started hitting their sales counter with monotonous regularity ? ?Wheere?s me cowin? Daily Mail, then? Ay it cum, or summat? Am they on stroike?....? ? that the owners realised that their son and heir had been found distinctly wanting when it came to being left to putting newspapers on display. Mind you, from what I could hear of the subsequent telling-off, the acne-riddled little shaver ? think ?Kevin The Teenager?, a la Harry Enfield, and you?ve got it - did not have a nice time of it at all!

Anyway, by the time I?d made my purchases, it was time to head on out to The Mecca Of Football (well, that?s how it seems when I?ve had one of those vivid dreams helped along considerably by a liberal intake of cheese on toast before bedtime!). As it turned out, even though we were there around 20 minutes before the ?proper? opening time, the numbers were in no way excessive: true, there were around fifty prospective purchasers, all-told, but matters were helped along considerably by the presence of The Fart at the head of the queue. What a star, but at what unearthly hour had he left his house to take up pole position outside the Ticket Office entrance? It just didn?t bear thinking about ? well, not to someone like me, who believes early starts are something other people have to suffer.

Anyway, while His Nibs waited for things to start moving, I remained with our trusty steed, handily berthed on the East Stand car-park for the moment. A propitious time to update my notes for this piece (I always carry a notebook with me, to cover those amazing moments when inspiration suddenly strikes from out of the blue).

Not that I felt any real guilt at the fact he was queuing: in this case, his ordeal was very brief, around twenty minutes, in fact, and before you could say ?Kevin Phillips?, out he came, with our ancient chum in tow ? wanted to be dropped off by the Metro, apparently, so we obliged him. But before that, even, while I was waiting there, I did see a very familiar face heave into view: that of the olfactory-malodorous (but definitely methane-ridden) Brooksie, striding purposefully in the same direction as the one my other half had taken not so long before.

Presumably, gaseous emissions on an industrial scale, per anus, must have powered his journey to the Shrine. Must have been a bit earlier for his normal retinue of accompanying bluebottles, too, as not a single buzzing insect could be discerned doing ?circuits and bumps? around his head. Or, it being Saturday, had they been given the morning off? Even Beelzebub has his caring moments on occasions, I?ll have you know.

So, why such an early start for us? A couple of reasons, which I touched on briefly yesterday:

a) Supply of Scunny tickets reportedly limited, only going on sale to home season-ticket holders that morning, after the away season-ticket holders had snaffled up their entitlement, and:

b) We had two appointments arranged to view properties located on the ?pretty side? of Stourbridge, not too far from Kiddy, later that morning. Even if the Ticket Office was on the ball in processing everyone?s wants, time would be tight, so it was in our interests to be at or near the front of the line.

It was while I was waiting, and just before His Nibs returned with The Fart. That I happened to notice a Baggie, clearly there for tickets also, pushing a small child seated in a baby buggy. Wild thoughts flitted around my head like crazy: was the child going to be proffered in a straight swap for the much-desired bits of paper? Knowing the extremely fractious nocturnal habits of most two and three year-olds, it wouldn?t have surprised me in the slightest.

As for the viewings mentioned previously, because we were prompt in getting to the ground, we were left with some time to spare before departure for Destination Two, as it happened, the result being, I was subsequently able to start digesting both the paper and my breakfast. And, as things turned out later, it was Number Two House that really interested us: one big ?plus-point?, NO UPWARD CHAIN! Whoopee!

From Viewing Numero Deux, it was the easiest of tasks to head straight back towards the ground, via the M5. Interesting to note how easy-peasy the journey was from where we?d just been, something else that augured well for choosing that property: within less then 30 minutes, we were moseying on up Halfords Lane, and in the direction of our normal pre-match haunt, the Hawthorns pub. As per usual, the twin Guardians Of The Entrance greeted us ? as I?ve said previously, getting past the dripping fangs of Cerberus, guard dog to Hades, would have been marginally easier for most thirsty Albionites seeking rapid fluid replacement.

Not many people there, as we entered the Supporters Club?s matchday Sanctum Sanctorum, save three of the Lewis clan, the fourth, Bethany, being conspicuous by her absence: apparently, a sleepover followed by a ?stay-over? with her mate came higher on her list of weekend priorities, this time round. Oh, well, you win some, you lose some?? And, talking of which, you get drawn to play some, too. Caught up by our house-seeking activities, it completely slipped our mind that the draw for the League Cup was being made earlier that morning. Turned out we?d been drawn to play Cardiff City, at our place.

Oh well ? could have been paired with a big outfit, great if you liked that sort of thing, but not usually conducive towards further progress in knockout competitions. As things stood, get past them, Robbie Fowler, Hassleblaink and all (how the hell were the sybaritic joys of becoming a Bluebird sold to those pair, I wonder? Whoever was responsible must also be dead proficient at flogging sand to Arabs, I reckon) and we?d be in with a decent shout for a place in the final stages. As things stand, the attrition rate of Premiership clubs in that competition has been staggering, thus far, so it?s not completely beyond the realms of the wildest imagination.

Returning to The Lewis family again, it turned out that they?d been putting themselves about a bit, earlier in the week. Birmingham and Blackpool were their respective destinations, days off, for the use of. What really amazed both Pater and Lewis Elder Daughter was the Bull Ring, the sheer size of it, I mean. It being right on our doorstep, we get quite blas? about the place, but to people coming in from other towns and cities, it must seem enormous to them. Apparently, so engaged were they in ?retail therapy? there, they quite missed out on the various other joys the city has to offer.

As for the Blackpool trip, according to Carly, this consisted of her dragging Dad onto some quite stomach-churning so-called ?amusement rides?. One such horror, laughingly given the title ?Crazy Frog? inflicted huge bruises on poor daughter?s upper body. Now tell me again, Carly, these rides are meant for amusement, entertainment, even, right? Oh, and talking about that young lady, she?s recently been indulging in even more car-driving practice, off-road. ?I stalled a lot of the time, at first, but didn?t the second time ? and neither did I hit the wall?? Help!

A brief dalliance with Norma Bartlam later, and we were heading off out in the general direction of our turnstiles, with a brief station stop at Anorak?s Corner, and Steve The Miser. Turned out that both he and David had intended to travel on Tuesday afternoon, but somehow, Albion had stuffed up the booking. No trace could be found, by which time, the coach seats were all taken. Knowing Steve as I do, all that money owing won?t be staying long in Albion?s clutches!

If in doubt as to the outcome of a game, always seek one?s ?lucky turnstile? which, in our case, seemed to be C2. No stilecard trouble for me, this time: the afternoon of the Preston game, the electronic readout tried to tell me I hadn?t paid! Luckily, the steward knows me, shoved in the override, and suggested I see the Ticket Office, which I did a few days later. Yup ? as I?d thought, nothing wrong with my card, just temperamental flaming technology!

Getting in there slightly earlier than normal, at first, it seemed as though the visiting supporters had decided to withdraw their labour, as only a sprinkling could be seen in their away end, and three sad-looking flags draped over a wall denoting territorial pretensions, but closer to kick-off, more and more appeared, from the very bowels of the earth, it seemed. A bit like vaguely-agitated ants emerging from a slightly-disturbed nest, if you like, and making their numbers look slightly more respectable than I?d previously thought.

As the Barnsley mob made their entrance onto the Hawthorns stage, and their side announced, it was positively heart-warming to hear our people give returned Baggie Andy Johnson such a generous reception, liberally dosed with a dollop of genuine applause for the lad. As I?ve said many, many times over before, it?s unusual for a Hawthorns crowd to react negatively to the presence of a former player who?d worked his socks off to aid the cause, while at the club. Today was no exception: fair enough, AJ?s hard work when at our place deserved such favourable recognition from our followers.

On to our lot, now, and one change to last week?s League line-up, Zoltan Gera taking the place of Pele, with the previously-suspended Chris Brunt and new bug Bartosz Sluskarski ending up on the subs? bench, pretty much as expected. A shame for poor Brunt, though, who got it in the neck from the Barnsley-ites the very moment his name was announced on the PA: the perils of being of the (former) Wednesday-ite persuasion, I suppose.

Off we went, then, without too much in the way of complications, and no surprise at all to find we were going pretty large on the passing game right from the start, the sheer fluency of some of those opening moves bringing gasps of admiration issuing forth from that most discerning bunch of paying customers, those sitting in the Halfords. Blimey, I hadn?t seen those travel-rugs and vacuum flasks waved so energetically since the night of the Dingles play-off game!

But, as in every form of human activity on this planet, there has to be a downside ? and in this instance, it was in the demeanour of the New Improved Barnsley, now under new leadership since that fatal day, last May, when we took them to the cleaners, to the tune of seven goals rattled into the back of their net, and chronic backache for their poor keeper, no doubt.

There was certainly a raw, niggly and nasty edge to their game I hadn?t seen previously, and certainly not the last time the two sides met. A bit like a faithful, but dozy, Labrador dog unexpectedly developing Rottweiller tendencies, and badly savaging the Corgi next door. About as unexpected as a clap of thunder on a clear day, and all the more startling and/or disturbing because of it.

Not that the roughhouse tactics were getting them anywhere, mind: early on in the game, their keeper was lucky to keep his clean sheet intact following some really awful handling of the ball under pressure. Not that we needed their help, intentional or otherwise: within a matter of minutes, Kev Phillips had told the Yorkshire side their fortune with an effort that should have done better than it actually did, then, two minutes later, Teixeiara managed an effort that would have looked good in front of a Rugby goal ? a ?try?, without any shadow of doubt! ? but leaving Hoefkens, whose skills enabled Tex to be in suitable alignment to inflict the damage in the first place, looking not a happy chappie at all!

One thing I did notice during those early minutes was the fact that apart from the odd minor hiccup, our players seemed to have cracked their long-standing communication problem, finally. Where there were once misunderstandings and confusion galore, there were now sweet flowing moves up the park, all conducted in a positive manner that was most pleasing to the eye.

There always has to be one exception to the rule, mind, that today, that accolade seemed worthy of bestowal on the lad Barnett. Talk about ?start as you mean to go on?: within ten minutes of the start, he?d stuffed up, ceded possession to the visitors deep in his own half, and the end result being a ?one-on-one?, almost, with Kiely. Luckily for us, Barnsley weren?t the best finishers in the world, so once more, our netting remained pristine. But Mister Barnett did find himself repeating that particular ?party trick? later in the game ? and not just the once, either.

Cue for the current Barnsley gaffer, Simon Davey, to start yelling to his troops in the sort of shrill-hoarse hybrid cracked-record tones that accompany Army drill instructors terrorising platoons of recruits. As we?ve seen over the years, some gaffers are deep thinkers, and others more at home on a barrack square: I?m not yet totally convinced into what particular camp their boss happens to fall in at the moment: he might be ?playing the ogre? to terrorise the buggers. Still, if he survives the season without getting his P45, I guess we?ll know for sure.

Back to the stuff on the pitch, then, and despite the visitors going down the same road of lots of other sides by hauling in the defence to do their stuff very deep, and making it difficult for our ball-merchants to perform their particular brand of wizardry, we did have our moments. Cue for a Hoefkens/Greening combo to work, and quite beautifully, as it so happened, as Barnsley didn?t like the pressure one little bit. Neither did they like a long-range effort from Tex that nearly came off.

What with Gera buzzing round like an angry wasp confronted by a human armed with a rolled-up bit of newspaper, and flashes of Morrison?s potential capabilities, and not forgetting Beattie, on target or not, we were still the better side by a reasonable amount, but never quite enjoying the same sort of massive superiority we had on the day of that end-of-season Hawthorns massacre. What didn?t help was the aforementioned Beattie: verily I say unto you, his crossing and finishing moves were, quite frankly, bloody awful. My ?school report? on our recently-acquired striker? ?Must Do Better?. He needed a League goal, and badly.

Despite the above glitches in our performance, it was rapidly becoming apparent that despite one scare, when Robbo was the victim of a ?mugging? and the visitors almost made free with the unexpected chance they?d been gifted, to take the lead, Barnsley were leading a charmed sort of existence in their own box. Sooner or later, their luck would run out, our strikers would get the ball on target for once, and they?d find themselves picking the ball from out of their own net. And, what?s more, we wouldn?t have to wait too long to see it happen, either.

Barnsley shot their bolt not too long after a little nuisance in their ranks, their Number 5, Kosluk, was earning loathing and abomination in heaps from our supporters, following some thespian antics that conned the referee ? not the best example of match officialdom I?ve seen thus far this term ? hook, line and sinker, and not just the once, either. After the third such stoppage, I thought John Homer, sat directly in front, was in dire danger of blowing either a gasket or a major cerebral blood vessel. Yer pays yer money and takes yer choice ? or, taking the mainly medical viewpoint ? ermmm ? ?Different Strokes For Different Folks?, anyone? Sorry, I?ll get me coat.

But, just a couple of minutes later, all that nonsense was to be instantaneously forgotten ? and it was to be an Albion player that precipitated such a massive bout of amnesia on the part of a football crowd, furthermore, one commonly known to all and sundry by the name of Teixeirea. Once more, the strike simply oozed class from every single pore, Tex beating first one Tyke, then another, in his headlong charge towards the box, the end result being that by the time he got to within striking distance, the banjaxed visitors had left the sort of gaping hole at the back you could have shoved a 74 bus through quite happily, and no real danger of damaging the paintwork, either. Result? Albion one, Barnsley nil, and, on the balance of things, richly deserved, in my opinion.

As the closing minutes of the half approached, it was rapidly becoming clear that the visitors had more than a routine attack of ?niggle? about them. Frustration, a lot of it, but even more reprehensible by virtue of some particularly savage attacks on Hoefkens, who appeared to be enjoying little in the way of protection from the referee, by that stage of the proceedings.

Then, about five minutes from the conclusion of the opening 45, Albion struck again ? and this time, courtesy of Barnsley defending that was, quite frankly, richly deserving of ?Amateur Hour? billing. I have seen parks players, put in the same position as their professional so-called ?betters?, do considerably better, to be quite honest.

What happened? It was all down to a chap called Souza, who struck a really bum note for the visitors when he dropped an almighty clanger in the middle of the park, thereby allowing the lurking Beattie to crow ?Ta very much!?, then proceed with the ball in the direction of the Barnsley goal, like greased lightning on afterburners. A brief worry that our newish import would stuff up his chance of a spectacular Hawthorns goal, but put to rest by the sheer aplomb in which our hero made the back of the net rattle. Whoever was going to try and pull off a face-saving miracle that afternoon, it sure as hell wasn?t going to be their keeper.

Now we were two in front, we really started to pile on the fancy stuff: why, even Clem, warming up on the touchline, simply smiled at them indulgently when they got their cages rattled and wouldn?t give our people the ball back as requested. As for Beattie, having struck oil once, he then tried to repeat the feat, but luck wasn?t on his side this time, the effort, a long-distance one, going just wide of the target.

Sure, Barnsley, pretty badly stung by now, tried to get back into things as the break loomed large, but having forced us to concede a corner, and actually looking somewhere near dangerous with it, by smacking in a long-range effort that could have done damage, it was Albion that almost had the last word. It came courtesy that man Phillips, whose fine effort smacked against the bar with a resounding ?thwack?, but around a minute or so later, a Zoltan Gera sizzler certainly made their keeper jump around: so fierce was the drive from the little Hungarian, it took all the best efforts of their keeper to prevent the onset of yet another massacre.

That was about the sum-total of the action for the opening half, then. Just as Albion took the corner resulting from the above incident, the ref then decided to blow up for the break. More hilarity of the unintentional kind, and this time, it came courtesy our very own PA bloke. ?Let?s check the half-time scores,? he breezed brightly, clearly expecting to see Albion?s TV screens light up with info concerning everywhere else in that league. But we knew better, didn?t we, O naughty children! Instead of football scores, what we got instead was continual footage of a singer not only performing her latest hit, but one wearing very little in the way of clothes at all.

Said John Homer, sitting in front of me, more large than life than not (pointing to figures on video screen): ?Ha! They?m a group called The Half-time Scores?.?! Onto yet another issue, now, but one genuinely serious, all the same. Apparently, Albion are currently looking for a family with four generations of supporters in it. The idea is that, once identified, 4-4-2 football magazine want to do a feature on such a daft Baggie version of a family, so if you think that old Bert?s increasing dodderiness at games is getting to be a bit of an issue with all the grandchildren and great-grandchildren in his life, but he would undoubtedly assist in any way possible because he loves the club, then get in contact with Albion (contact person: Jenny Hadley) as fast as your little legs can stand it.

Onto the second half, then, where the visitors came once more under the cosh, and almost instantaneously, too. The trouble was, their nasty little ways were again doing little to endear themselves to the crowd, and what?s more, after being somewhat lenient regarding some of the rough stuff, the ref finally decided to penalise one particularly nasty specimen of the genre. And quite right, too! (See below for John Homer?s truly groan-making take on the matter!)

Strange, then, to see Gera booked, for what was a very mild infringement, on the scale of things, although ironic cheers aplenty rang round the ground when one of theirs finally entered the referee?s little black book, well into the half. More worrying, though, was clear evidence they were finding their own men with the aid of a new-found facility not seen during the opening 45.

Time for them to shove on a sub: unfortunately, it just happened to be the one chap who would automatically qualify for life membership of Dorks Unlimited, the lad Ricketts, a former Dingle. He came trotting onto the field of play with the words ?Dingle reject!? ringing in his delicate little ears, poor mite.

With around 15 gone, and no more goals in prospect, the Smethwick suddenly cast around for a source of savage amusement ? and, very soon, found it. ?Halfords, Halfords, give us a song?? was the cry from behind the Smethwick goal. What ? and disturb all those walking travel-rugs and vacuum flasks from their senescent slumbers? Not bloody likely.

Time for Barnsley to make a subbing of their own, and this time, the sacrificial lamb happened to be AJ, whose input into today?s game for Barnsley had been decidedly minimal, to say the least. The old fire that once sparked every single Albion performance was missing, today, leaving his game looking less than ordinary. Still, he left the pitch to a torrent of generous applause from all four sides of the ground, and a warm rendering of that age-old Hawthorns favourite: ?There?s only one AJ?.?

And it wasn?t just Barnsley that were looking to freshen things up, either: down in our dugout, Something Stirred, in this case gruesome twosome Brunt and Miller at the expense of Morrison and Beattie, both of whom had been, in their own little ways, absolutely central to what was going to almost certainly be a timely Baggies victory.

No sooner had we changed personnel, Barnett, yet again, was guilty of losing possession deep inside our half. I had thought he?d cast such silly notions out of his head after his first half faux-pas, but I was clearly wrong. After some urgent goal-preventing defensive action on our part, Mogga was heard shouting some very naughty words indeed ?$p ?That was reffin? too straight!...? - to the principal offender!

Well, the introduction of Messrs Miller and Brunt certainly livened things up: within minutes of coming on, the pair of them had involved the Barnsley keeper in more hard work born of desperation than he had been for several previous entire games. And even Chappy, introduced with but 15 or so minutes to go, contributed well, and with far less of his normal party piece, losing the ball, in evidence than normal. Oh, yes ? and when Barnsley also made a subbing, fairly late, on, it was to a chorus of ?You don?t know what you?re doing!? from their own followers! Mind you, it was left to the hirsute Greening to have the final say, deep in injury time, his rocket-assisted effort only narrowly missing the target.

Thoughts? Not the most skilful or spectacular result we?re going to get this term, but a competent one all the same. The most positive aspect of all this for me was actually seeing every department finally starting to gel, develop the sort of near-telepathy that sets truly great sides apart from the rest. It?s not quite there ? but it sure as hell is coming, and that can only be to the good, can?t it? There could be hope for us yet!

And Finally?. Are you sitting comfortably? Then let John Homer and his decidedly warped sense of humour have you reaching for the sick bucket in a matter of seconds! One particularly awful example? Right after the beginning of the second half, when Barnsley were guilty of a particularly crude tackle upon Hoefkens. Said an indignant John: ?Is that what they call a Barnsley chop??

John again, giving vent to his spleen regarding his favourite matchday topic ? the shortcomings of referees, in this instance, Graham Laws, who, despite the optimistic-sounding surname, indicating a modicum of nominative determinism on his part, proved totally inept in his interpretation of the rules, on several vital occasions, in this case, ignoring a foul on Robbo in the box. Bawled John, after the aforementioned incident happened: ?Yo?m c**p, Laws ? yow couldn?t referee a tiddlywinks match!?

Then, not long after that, the lino on our side felt the lash of John?s avenging tongue. Once more, Robbo was the man meeting with injustice, but this time, at the incompetent hands of the flag-waver in question. More seriously, this alarming bit of negligent flagging ? or non-flagging, to be more accurate - let in Barnsley on our goal. Had not Kiely not been as alert as he was to the danger, then the visitors would have undoubtedly pulled one back. Said a by-now-apoplectic John: ?Linesman, yow couldn?t tell a cow from a duck?.?

 - Glynis Wright

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