The Diary

24 September 2003: Hartley's In Dollops At Hartlepool!

I?m beginning to wonder if I?m turning nocturnal, I really am. What with last Tuesday?s late (early?) session typing up my thoughts on that night?s game versus Wigan, and now the 400-mile round trip to Hartlepool, I?m dam near certain there will come a time soon when you?ll find me snoozing not in my own little bed, but upside-down, with my wings folded, and suspended perpendicularly from the ceiling. Mind you, I?d then be a protected species, which would be bad news for one or two people that currently don?t see eye to eye with me.

Tonight?s game? How many ways can you say ?lucky?? My pocket thesaurus lists around ten, but that doesn?t even go halfway towards doing justice to the prodigious amount of Hartley?s well-known fruit preserve we dolloped on ourselves tonight. And, what?s more, we got away with it; our manager and his minions must be laughing their socks off right now. Mind you, I?d also like to think our sheer good fortune was further aided and abetted by my spanking-new ?ASTLE 9? thingy on the back of my away shirt, plus another recent addition to the Dick Ed armoury; our shiny-bright vacuum flask, which had its first away outing tonight, the other having died on us at Palace last Saturday. Shame, that; the old Thermos had given us sterling service for the last 4-5 seasons, including the promotion one. Well do I remember breaking out the celebratory coffee after ?that? Bradford game, not to mention the life-saving service it performed after a freezing midweek game at Grimsby, when our car heating packed up. But I digress; back to the business in hand.

One-thirty in the afternoon is a rather strange time to set out for a game, but the hellishly-long distance covered for this one made a virtue of necessity on this occasion. For once, The Fart came to us, not the other way round; we?d agreed to rendezvous with The Noise on a small hotel car-park not far from the Derby Ring Road, and as we travelled up the A38, we mentally girded our loins for the conversational ordeal to come by saying very little. While we?re on the subject of our very own in-car entertainment system, as we neared the hotel, I did suggest to the other two Dick Eds that Frank Bruno?s recent well-documented psychiatric problems might stem from the moment he rashly entered into conversation with our over-garrulous co-editor the day we played Newcastle at their place last season. More than enough to drive any bloke insane, I reckon!

From Derby, once Martin and that bloody awful coat of his had come on board, the rest of the journey passed with comparative ease; normally, the M1/A1 route is beset with hidden snags cunningly designed to ensnare the unwary traveller, but this time, even the huge pantechnicons and those godawful wide loads elected to take the afternoon off. The weather, usually awful in those parts, also decided to take a crafty half-day, and leave us with naught save a swathe of trees just on the green side of autumnal, and a crisp blue sky with few clouds. Lovely weather for a long-distance drive, and it seemed but a moment before we finally dropped anchor outside our chosen pre-match hostelry, Jackson?s Wharf, situated around ten minutes walk from the ground.

As for the name of the place, you certainly couldn?t sue. There it was, amidst a small jetty that jutted partially into the marina, and adjacent to HMS Trincomalee, a 19th century sailing-ship, turned into a floating museum, but most definitely closed by the time we got there. Shame! As for the pub itself, once inside, the place seemed triply-themed. Walk into the raised section at the rear, and you found yourself in an imitation of a 19th century schoolroom, complete with children?s alphabet primers, ancient class group photos, and textbook-like wall pictures depicting common wild and domestic animals, although Dingles were omitted from the bestiary for some reason. Move closer to the bar counter, and you found yourself in an area totally devoted to the doings of Hartlepool United; the whole area was festooned with team pictures past and present, programmes (including one from our time in the Third Division), and other related memorabilia. As for the third part (where we were), that was a shrine to things nautical, as you might expect. There was an additional bonus; their meal-deal, two for the price of one. ?Im Indoors and this column went for the shepherd?s pie plus the usual stuff, while The Fart opted for a veggie-baked potato combo. The Noise? That disgustingly-fattening chocolate pudding with back cherry sauce soon put a stop to all that nattering!

While we were at the table, we were joined at various times by Norm Bartlam and one of the Satanic Nurses, who simply wanted to bat the breeze for a while. Somehow the conversation turned to nuclear power stations (Hartlepool has one quite close to the town), which prompted The Noise to come out with a revelation about his missus; apparently, she?d once gone on one of those ?mystery tours? ? and ended up visiting, er, Sellafield! Blimey, that?s why she had two heads and appeared to buy shoes in fours! By this time,. The Fart was getting his dinner-manglers around some sort of a rum-based dessert, and very calorie-ridden it looked as well. More time spent in the gym tomorrow, Tel?

Finally, having fed our faces, we set off for the ground, the day fading into night in that lovely golden brick-pink way autumn evenings do. A strange statement, suddenly, from The Fart, who gestured wildly towards a nearby place of worship: ?That church tower doesn?t half remind me of Disneyland Florida!?? How much bloody rum was in that dessert, Tel? A pause to take pictures of the now-distant naval vessel, silhouetted against the gathering twilight, and before we knew it, the floodlit ground loomed ahead. Already, a goodly number of Albionites were gathered there; being down to the diehards, the real Baggies nuts, most of the people we saw there were known to us either by name, or by face. Apparently, on arrival, the local plods told some supporters, ?You won?t be able to come where you came before.?

Albion Supporter: ?Eh? We haven?t been here for ten flamin? years!?

Once there, it was into full selling-mode for ?Im Indoors and The Noise ? well, almost; we only had thirty-odd Dicks left to flog ? for The Fart and myself, a full photo-shoot beckoned, but first, a few encouraging words to Big Dave, who we spotted lurking around what laughingly-passed for an ?executive entrance? in Hartlepool?s book. Although very chirpy, as usual, we couldn?t help but notice he was still limping. Get right soon, Dave ? we couldn?t half do with you at the back right now. Having done our ?happy-snapping? tour of the perimeter, we then returned to the other two, and not long after that, into the ground proper.

I have to say that since I last set foot in the place, it?s changed beyond all recognition. Gone are the ramshackle structures supporters were expected to stand in; instead, there is now what appears to be an all-seater set-up, much more civilised ? and, unlike 1991, absolutely no fairy-rings on the bloody pitch! No room to swing a cat in that tiny away-end either; talk about ?in your face?, seating ?up close and personal? with the goal immediately in front of us, and should shots go narrowly wide, a somewhat dangerous place to be during the course of the game, so we moved from our original perch to another. And, like the ?Old Bill? of First World War fame, to a ?better ?ole? at least four times before we finally found a decent resting?place, just before the fun started in earnest.

Once we?d kicked off, within a matter of minutes we quickly came to the conclusion that tonight?s man in the middle had seemingly been given away with a crisp-packet, or something, because whatever phrases you could use to describe the bloke?s handling of the game, ?competent? was most certainly not one of them; his name, Prosser, said it all, just knock out the first two letters, substitute them with one only, and you?ll get a brief summation of his abilities. Mind you, he probably couldn?t even have got that right.

From the start, Hartlepool came out of the traps intent on giving us as much trouble as they could, and their cause was much-furthered by the aforesaid match official?s inability to differentiate between a splendid display of acting on the part of the home side ? yes, you, Gabbadini! ? and the genuinely-illegal. For all that, we started off quite well, and could have given Pools something to think about before ten minutes lad elapsed. More worrying, though, in between our incursions, were the several assaults on our goal by the home side; in the 14th minute, things looked sticky, as AJ was booked for encroachment, and the mandatory ten-yard advance was paced out by Mr Useless. Thank goodness our rearguard was up to the job, because the ball then hit one of our own, then the bar, in rapid succession. From the rebound, another monkey-hanger, Gabbiadini, came tearing in; thank goodness for Houlty, who turned the effort away for a timely corner.

From then on in, the game settled down into a niggly sort of stalemate during which time, our friend in black seemingly made it his lifelong mission to enter into his little black book every transgressor, however slight, including another player ? Hartlepool?s, this time ? for encroachment. Surely this idiot had missed his true role in life; should he not have been a traffic-warden instead? At least someone in close proximity to where I was sitting had the right idea; not long after the kick-off, the Baggie sitting directly in front sniffed the air in a dubious sort of way, then remarked to me, ?Can you smell it?? I quickly engaged in a sharp intake of breath also ? and then I realised. A pungent aroma, not so much of baccy, but its ?wacky? variant. Someone, somewhere, was watching the whole thing with a cheesy grin on his or her face, plus a purple haze in their mind, and the way we were playing right then, who could blame them?

Come the last few minutes of the first period, I was resigning myself to us going into the interval goalless, when the fickle finger of Fate, well and truly aided and abetted by the onanist in the black, suddenly pointed its gnarly digit right at us. The ball entered the Albion penalty area, seemingly, nothing was on for the home side ? and then the referee interrupted proceedings by inexplicably pointing right at the spot! Don?t ask me why. I?ve since heard that N?Dour was deemed to have handled the thing, but the way our friend was performing with the whistle, even if someone had shown me a replay proving incontrovertibly our dark-hued defender was at fault, I still would have demanded a recount. Any road up, howl as we might, but that was that, and Pool wasted no time in converting the spot-kick.

A gloomy interval, then, only enlivened by the news Jason Roberts had scored for Pompey, not once, but twice. What a set-back for us, and just before the break, as well. I could only hope Meggo had a plan ?B?, because we sure as hell needed one right then. On with the second helping, then, and within a very short space of time, some changes. Off came Hughsie, who?d not had one of his better games that night, to be replaced by Dobes, and not long afterwards, N?dour, replaced by Clem. That, I reckon, was the turning-point of the game. Within a very short space of time, Hartlepool defender Westwood was pointed in the direction of a premature bath; that?s what happens when you upend Dobes, the last man ? but he was once a Dingle, and could therefore plead insanity! A free-kick on the edge of the box, then. Who ya gonna call? Not ?Ghostbusters?, just a certain Neil Clements, who may not be all that good with errant occult entities, but is an absolute whiz at taking these sort of set-pieces. Boot met ball, which thundered home, nicely in the top corner. One-one, and lots of thankful boinging in the away end!

Game on, once more, and, to be fair, it could have gone either way. Gabbiadini, an old pro, of course, was seemingly getting into practice for the forthcoming Oscar ceremonies, by deceiving Mr. Useless time and time again, and this could have cost us; thank goodness he was substituted, seemingly-knackered, around 20 minutes from the end. On the other hand, Rob Hulse could have wrapped it up for us earlier than he finally did, one effort going for a corner. Oh, and Martin?s prophecy about James O?Connor ? ?he?ll do us a job, but never, ever score!? ? came to fruition about ten minutes from the end, when he got the ball, beat around half the population of the town to get it into the danger area, then, having done the difficult thing, let go with a half-arsed sort of shot, which gave the keeper no bother at all.

Extra time and possible penalties loomed large; one Albionite summed up the situation perfectly by bawling, ?Come on, Albion ? some of us have got to go to bloody work in the morning!? A perfect time, then, for Dobes to gratefully accept AJ?s spherical gift, and pass to Hulse, who was lurking with intent in a perfect place to plop the thing past Provett, and us into the lead. Phew! My main impression of those frenzied last minutes is The Noise, eyes bulging, purple-faced, neck-veins dangerously-engorged, bawling like crazy, ?MARK ?EM UP!? every time the home lot took the ball anywhere near the danger-zone. I?d have hated to see his blood-pressure reading right then! Even then, our favourites could have brought tears to our eyes; on one particular occasion, quite near the end, a dangerously-accurate cross from the home side seemed destined to cause us grief; up went the Hartlepool head it was intended for, and right then, it seemed curtains for us. Instead, it missed its target by a whisker, and landed harmlessly just over the netting for a goal-kick. Thank goodness the referee blew up not long after that incident ? I don?t think my sorely-frayed nerves could have withstood much more. My heroes of the night? AJ, who worked tirelessly all evening for the cause, Houlty, for that marvellous save in the first half, Clem, for that superb set-piece, and Rob Hulse, for making it game, set and match at such a crucial time for us.

Out of the ground then ? not much celebration, though, I think we were all still thanking our lucky stars at our deliverance! ? and a steady walk back to The Dickmobile, in the genial company of one Neil Robinson, a Hartlepool supporter. And, before you ask, we?d never met him before in our entire lives, just that particular night, but having made our brief acquaintance, he wished us luck, hoped we got to The Prem once more, and also informed us that pretty much all the home supporters had considered the man in the middle about as much use as a chocolate fireguard as well. So, it wasn?t just us, then! Apparently, they?d had Prosser refereeing League encounters loads of times before, and current opinion of his (in)abilities matched ours perfectly. It?s nice when both sets of supporters unanimously agree the man in black?s an idiot!

Back to our jalopy, then, and we took our leave of our new-found mate, whose parting-shot was a warning about the local plods and their propensity to nick for spending anything that moved on the main road out of town, and for this advice we thanked him profusely. Good to report our ride home went smoothly; we deposited The Noise (and gave our lugholes a much-needed rest) at around half-twelve, The Fart at half-one, arriving home around a quarter to two. And here I am, at half-four, finishing off this instalment!

So, another tie beckons, with the big boys coming out to play for the first time of asking. The consensus among the Dick Eds is we?d like a low-level Premiership side at home, pretty please, or failing that, one of the big boys, who might, just might, elect to put out a weakened side against us ? and provided Lady Luck is amenable to some flattery and blandishments, we might find it within ourselves to progress further. Right now, my horizons stretch no further than a warm bed, several hours putting in loads of zeds ? and sweet dreams about a date with Destiny at Cardiff come next March!

Two. Comment from The Noise, as we sped away from the town after the game: ?Well ? that?s another game David Blaine?s missed!?

 - Glynis Wright

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