The Diary

16 September 2007: Poor Ipswich Shown The (Portman) Road To Hell By Ishmael,Tex And Kev!

Ah, what a lovely evening it?s turned out to be, after all. I?ve got that 4-0 feeling, so much so, I?ve even passed on the chance of watching a rattling good bit of sci-fi movie to type up and post these notes. At present, ?Im Indoors is watching ?Independence Day?, which, if you don?t know already, concerns the alien equivalent of the Dingles, playing away from home, and looking to give Planet Earth a right good kicking along the way.

Some impressive special effects make the whole thing the blockbuster it truly is, but, as for the start ? oh, dear. Had I not known better, I would have said it was lifted straight from the opening chapters of ?Childhood?s End?, the Arthur C. Clarke literary take on the very same subject, but with one important difference. In his book, the aliens prove considerably more benevolent than the ones depicted on the film. Mind you, if there are aliens out there with modes of transport etc. as per the Hollywood version, and seething good and proper after picking up similar images via interstellar signals, I wonder if it?s possible for them to sue for defamation of character, extra-terrestrial or otherwise?

But sod all that, on with the footie. My goodness, four goals in the pot, and three of ?em scored in the fag-end of the game?s natural lifespan, much to the Ipswich bench?s fury. As we had taken the game by the scruff of the neck during the first half, courtesy of an Ishmael Miller blockbuster, early doors, so had they threatened to nick it from us for long periods of the second. At times, that one-nil advantage of ours looked awfully dicky, about the consistency of badly-set strawberry jelly, I would say, and what with the visitors suddenly discovering we didn?t like crosses whipped into the box mean, low and curly, they threatened to deny us time and time again.

True, we always had the better players, on the whole, but all they?d needed was a slightly better rub of the green than they?d had. Cor, what a relief, when we finally settled their hash very late on, firstly doubling our lead with a couple of minutes remaining on the clock, then putting poor Ipswich to the injury-time sword twice and thrice more, before the referee finally blew up for time. A shame for the visitors, that scoreline, because it was a pretty poor reflection of the way the greater part of the game had progressed, until the last-minute collapse I mentioned. The end result, a unexpectedly-startling ascent to third position, is something of a bonus. Having said all that, if Watford should triumph in their game tomorrow, then they, and not Bristol City (who would have thought it, eh?) will be in pole position by the time we get to grips with the Ashton Gate mangel wurzel merchants next Tuesday night. And should Watford not take advantage tomorrow, we could be top ourselves, should we prove triumphant on our little bitsy West Country jaunt. That?s the overall synopsis, then, so let?s now rewind everything right to the very beginning - OK?

No new properties to look at, this morning ? we did have one lined up, but the vendor cried off at the very last minute, sadly ? so we took ourselves to what?s known as The Back Shop, instead, about 15 minute?s walk away from our place. No prizes for guessing what line of commerce those guys deal with, the idea was to source ideas for household items designed to reduce the impact of chronic back pain (cue for joke: yeah, I know, perhaps we should send the Ipswich keeper a brochure?) on people?s everyday lives. As it turned out, the guy didn?t try it on with a sales pitch, he did come up with some genuinely useful ideas, so when we finally do get to completion date on the purchase of a house, we?ll be calling in there to sort out some additional items of furniture for yours truly, e.g. stuff suitable for plonking in a conservatory, where I can languish in a manner more suited to a lady of my noble breeding. Well, that?s my story, and I?m flaming well sticking to it!

That having been done, it was then off at the speed of light (well, sort of!) in the direction of The Hawthorns, and a drop-off with a difference. Unfortunately, the journey to and from the back place, on foot there and back, ended up ? yes, you?ve guessed it - knackering my back! That meant my other half dropping me outside the ground, then sorting out a suitable parking spot for our jam-jar elsewhere: in the meantime, I simply sat on the steps of our former GD selling spot, the Police Post, and eagerly awaited his return. From there, it was but a swift toddle to the Hawthorns Hotel, where The Noise eagerly awaited our presence ? but minus Carly? I was puzzled.

Turned out that she was being very conscientious, and taking considerable time and trouble to train up another young lady new to her waitressing job in Wedgwood?s staff restaurant. Can?t say that I would have foregone my precious leisure time to do that for The Noise?s favourite pottery firm, but Carly, being of a more conforming generation, sees such things through somewhat different eyes to my frankly-cynical stance. But we did have Bethany, though: started her big school this week just gone, and already had a postcard sent to her parents praising her efforts in class. Funny, that ? the only postcards both my sister and I ever got from school were ones containing strong hints of serious rollickings in the offing! And so do times change.

As for The Noise himself, he was banging on about something called ?The Inner Piglet?. At first, I thought the sun had got to him, but nope ? it?s all part and parcel of some popular psychology maxim or other. In any given group of people engaged on a particular task, the theory goes that they all subdivide into various characters from ?Winnie The Pooh?, thereby giving you ?Eeyore? types, ?Kanga and Roo? personalities (look, I didn?t invent this stuff, blame the sodding shrinks, not me!) ? and, last but not least, the aforementioned ?Inner Piglet?. ?Christopher Robin?? Indubitably, old bean! When our hero declared, in the staff canteen, one day, that he?d finally found his ?Inner Piglet?, 95% of his colleagues wanted him certified on the spot! ?No worries,? said the lad, ?I?m on medication for that already?..?

As for the absent Carly, and yet another little secret of hers out into the open, finally, see below! On to other things, then, and discussion about the somewhat startling news Meggo had got the Leicester City post after all. It was about that time yet another thought struck us all: one of the Chambo combo, Jay, who had fallen out with our former leader while in our tender care, then departed for pastures new, in this case?.yersss, you?ve got it in one.

Poor sod must have thought he was as safe as you like from any further rollickings delivered at Mach Nine velocity, but he ain?t no more, now, is he? Vague ideas of the footballing equivalent of a matter-anti-matter collision (result mutual annihilation, in case you didn?t know already!) entered my brain at that point, as did vivid images of a mushroom-shaped (Meggo-shaped?) cloud, with Ground Zero sitting plumb-spang on the centre circle of The Walkers Stadium. Doesn?t bear thinking about, does it?

With a better start in life, young Bethany would have become Prime Minister some day. How come? Well, while we were in the pub, she suddenly decided she wanted a plain bap, no burger, no trimmings, nothing. Unusual, sure, but that?s the Lewis family for you: think of one particular course of action, and they do the precise opposite, every single time. In this case, Bethany actually had the brass neck to go outside and ask the hot dog vendor on the car-park for one ? and guess what? So taken aback was that gentleman with her shining example of entrepreneurial skill, she was never even charged for it!

It?s at this point I break off briefly to tell you all about a chap we know called Ed Vilade. Everything I say from this moment on is dead serious, mind, so listen up, you guys. Ed, bless his little laptop PC, just happens to be George Bush?s speechwriter ? and, via some bizarre forms of political prostitution I?ve never encountered before, he also happened to perform the very same service for Bill Clinton, when he was an Oval Office incumbent! He?s also done similar for several other leading lights in US politics, Jimmy Carter and Walter Mondale being two (could you imagine similar in our country, Gordon Brown?s speeches written by someone just as equally well-versed in the doings of the Opposition, and Dave Cameron?), so he?s certainly had a chequered career, if not a confusing one: running with both the hare and the hounds can?t be very easy, can it?

But that isn?t the real reason why he?s so important to us: Ed, believe it or not, is actually a direct descendant of Thirties Albion favourite Tommy Magee, and what?s more, he?s visiting this country within the next few weeks. One of the thing he plans to do when over here is look up his remaining kith and kin in West Bromwich ? and (this is where we come in, folks), he?s also going to take in a couple of Albion games, too, one being the QPR caper, on our own muck-heap. We passed his details on to John Homer today, so hopefully, the Supporters Club will pull out all the stops for him: not only that, we?ve also arranged for him to visit The Vine right after the final whistle, and in the good company of all the former GD crew, too.

After this all-too brief exposure to Black Country culture at its best ? not to mention The Noise, going at full-throttle the whole time! - I reckon even the most glaring examples of George W?s torturously-mangled speeches could get a whole lot more interesting, after that! Might there now be references to a whole new ?Boing Boing? policy in, say, Iraq, or a new, improved, Baggie-enlightened Dubya, actually quoting the 23rd Psalm verbatim during subsequent White House media briefings? Just watch this space!

All-too soon, it was time to head on out towards Destiny, in this case cloaked in the unlikely guise of Ipswich bloody Town, a side that had once proven to be such an almighty pain in the butt for us, but following a couple of big-time trouncings inflicted on them last time round, reduced to mere nuisance value, this season. Err ? we hoped! But before that, we managed to bump into Dawn Astle, she of the Crufts-qualifying Labrador called ?Astle?, news of which immediately rockets that mutt straight into the top fifty or thereabouts Labradors in the entire country. Wanted to know whether we?d got her message or not: we certainly had, hence my inclusion of the news in a recent posting, but what really drew my attention was young Matthew.

Every single time I see that lad, the resemblance to his granddad grows ever stronger: the eyes, the wicked grin, the sense of humour, everything. Genetics can?t half chuck up an uncanny resemblance via a stray segment of DNA, when and where it wants to. It really is creepy, and I can quite easily visualise the time, when he reaches the age of 16 or thereabouts (probably playing for a League club, by then - and hopefully ours, if current accounts of his progress are to be believed), there?s one little old lady ? me! - going to be really spooked every time she claps eyes on him! Should he actually take to the field of play wearing the sacred stripes, there?s no knowing what my emotions might do, given the unusually poignant circumstances.

And so we move to the actual game. All the usual cast-list were there in place, as both sides took to the pitch: this column, ?Im Indoors, John Homer, Jean, The Bloke In Front Of Me, The Voice Of Eternal Optimism to my rear, Uncle Tom Baggie and all, you might want to say.

As I?d thought, we did ring the changes, but only to a slight extent. Out completely was Gera, knackered after his international wanderings, and, relegated to the bench, the lad Beattie, also heavily involved in international duties earlier that very same week. Our commitments in that direction gave Ishmael Miller a belated pop at a full debut for the Baggies, Chris Brunt ditto. Also benched was poor Robert Koren, now pretty much recovered after his attempted recent emulation of King Harold, so famously speared in the eye on the Hastings field of battle, some 900 or so years ago. Did he prove an ? erm ? ?willing pupil? finally ?looking Fate straight between the eyes? eventually ?seeing the error of his ways?? Ooo, stoppit, you bitch!

One curiosity attendant upon Ipswich Town: they had a reserve keeper on their bench, rejoicing in the name of Supple! Nominative determinism truly at its best, if ever I saw it! And so, there it was: conditions, bright sunshine, residual summery warmth in abundance, few clouds and those of cotton-wool consistency only, all of that conspiring to make for perfect footie-watching weather. What a shame fewer than 20,000 were there to see what subsequently came to pass.

No sooner had we kicked off, despite a couple of ?sort of? efforts of their own, Ipswich fell right under the Baggie cosh, conceding about three corners on the bounce, Kev Phillips going very close indeed on two of those occasions. No less than five Albion corners racked up over the course of those opening minutes, with Miller constantly threatening to add to the absolute scorcher he powered home during the Preston caper. And a virtuoso display of pin-point Albion passing, too: crossfield balls, on the diagonal, delivered under some pressure from Ipswich minders? No problem, mate: here, Brunty, cop this one for a game of soldiers! Which he duly did, and the resultant cross ending up flashing right across the goalmouth, but with nary a Baggie boot in a position to take full advantage.

It?s around this time that the lino, plodding up and down our side of the pitch, suddenly had a brainstorm. Well, either that or his entire youth had been spent ?bunting tossing? on the flag deck of HMS Ark Royal, for every single time an Albion player broke, up that blasted flag went, first time, every time. A bit like Pavlov?s wretched dogs and the ?conditioned responses? he trained the animals to perform: Albion player cut through Ipswich defence, up went that sodding flag, and reflexively so. ?Tis true that Chummy did get it right more than wrong, but on the other hand, I can recount at least two other occasions when his beastly flag should most certainly have stayed right where it was. Dead in line with play, I was, both times - and offside? No bloody way: it?s at moments like that you positively itch to stick that bloody flag right where it truly belongs.

Trust John to catch the zeitgeist: his initial plea of ?Get level with it, lino!? having been studiously ignored by the chap with the flag, his next verbal offering, one of ?Yo?m an idiot!...? quickly cemented the bloke?s election, on the spot, as The Most Unpopular Bloke In The Entire Ground, courtesy all those indignant Halfords Lane Stand people whose seats were situated just over the halfway line, and going in the direction of the Smethwick. Mind you, the lad did land up on the receiving end of what was, for John, a pretty tame example of his justly renowned lung-busting vocal prowess.

Then, just 60 seconds after the last of those kerfuffles, Miller chose to impose his considerable presence upon the proceedings. Strange that Miller is not the most graceful of players: those recently-minted Cyrille Regis superlatives apart, watching him in action is a bit like eavesdropping upon a Carlton Palmer clone, with all the resilience of Garry Thompson chucked in for good measure. Whatever the provenance of his strange talent for homing in on goal, I sure as hell wasn?t complaining when he got the ball on our right, then used his formidable presence to first escape his minder, then power his way right back into their box.

The coup de grace was applied deftly, a perfectly placed shot, tantalisingly sent bumbling and bobbling, just out of reach of the despairing, diving Alexander. Result? One-nil to the Baggies, and a brief cameo of the Ipswich gaffer doing his crust in the technical area. Who said there wasn?t any justice, after that lino took it upon himself to go so disastrously flag-crazy? And did I mistake it, or did the benched lad Beattie so plaintively wail ?Oh, s**t!? as Ishmael?s strike found its target with all the accuracy of a heat-seeking air-to-air missile?

Now we had our noses in front, time for a master-class in super, scintillating Albion football. Pass and move, pass and move, subtly, sublime, even. Was this the cultured Albion game I remembered from days of yore? If not, it was a pretty good imitation. One snigger-making episode, some seven minutes or so from the break: during a curiously-silent lull in proceedings, the Ipswich gaffer could be heard, quite clearly, berating his errant side in terms of Anglo-Saxon at its most crude, his more anatomically and genealogically accurate remarks eliciting quite a cheer from among the rugs and Thermos flasks surrounding us! Not that his ?advice? helped any, mind: within a matter of seconds, only pure bad luck prevented Miller racking up yet another.

A joyous sight indeed, an Albion side finally ?cooking on gas? and looking hellish dangerous as a result, irrespective of opposition faced. The shift in emphasis, from distinctly low-key, to rapaciously swift, and all in a frighteningly short space of time, was truly astonishing. A bit like the driver of some vintage sports model suddenly engaging ?overdrive? and vanishing in a puff of black smoke. Every single time we cantered up that pitch, we looked dangerous. Even at the back, we were trying to play the ball, rather than boot the thing straight into near-Earth orbit. Right then, I could have sworn Albion were more than capable of taking on Osama Bin Laden, even, Tora Bora Mountains or not, and getting something even the Yanks, with all their massive firepower, couldn?t achieve, even if they?d wanted to ? a genuine result.

It was an unusually long half-time interval for us, so much so, people all around were pointedly consulting watches, then checking their accuracy via the clock located atop the Smethwick. Much surprise that Miller stayed on; late in the first half, he?d come off worst courtesy of an accidental collision, so it was curious that our leader wasn?t going to risk pushing fresh legs into this particular energy-sapping fray after all. Well, not at that particular moment ? but stay thy smiting hand, O fellow Baggies, the night is but young, as yet.

Crunch time: with both lots of players resuming their starting places for the next course, just what were the patched up Ipswich going to do about the plethora of potential defensive perforations scattered all around their ranks, I wondered? We didn?t have long to wait: whether we?d genuinely gone ?off the boil? or not, I?m not too sure, but the Suffolk-based lot seemed to be of a most tenacious ilk, all of a sudden.

As if by magic, the emphasis was being suddenly and firmly placed upon the other foot: they were now getting behind our own defence, and whacking in some truly horrendous crosses all of their very own: low, hard and with the vicious sort of curl that had to be seen to be truly appreciated. Allied to that was a constant failing of ours: failing to spot the elusive Ipswich chappie known to all and sundry as The Runner! On occasion, such lapses, minor as they were, could quite easily have seen us going backwards with great rapidity. And, just one other minor thing, Albion: re-entering the ranks for a moment, they wanted this, they wanted the other, then they wanted blood. And we nearly obliged them, too: one Baggies free-kick on the edge of the box later, almost resulted in us finally drawing blood in sufficient quantities to end the contest right there and then.

But Ipswich, with more attempted come-backs than the much-maligned Terminator, weren?t finished yet. It was clear that an Albion subbing was in the offing ? but who to sacrifice? A rasping Ipswich free-kick, landing too damn close to the target for comfort, seemed to settle the issue in Mogga?s mind for once and all. Screamed the BIFOM, all dignity gone, by now: ?There?s a cowin? gap in the bluddy wall, there, ay theer ? aw, sod it, nearly too late???

Right after that, enter Koren and exit Morrison. No, not the supermarket of similar-sounding name, you silly Baggie. But things still hovered in the balance: a new Ipswich refinement was having a runner lurking around at inopportune moments, and continually, we were threatened by our complete and utter failure to properly sort it. First of all Ipswich had a header stopped, then they hit the post, and Hoefkens finally saving the day with a timely bit of defending. As for those in the Halfords, everyone sitting these had long since passed the hair-tearing stage. Know the name of a good wig-maker, anyone?

By now, it was virtually one-way traffic, and all in the direction of our goal, sad to say. Our defence, sorely put upon by that stage, buckled, bent even, something awful, at times ? but still it refused to yield. Surely it could only be a matter of time before the visitors finally got what they so richly deserved ? an equaliser?

It?s at times like this you really start to wonder about the game of football: come the last ten minutes, there we were, the entire lot of us, completely under the cosh and every single one of our defenders staging an accurate re-enactment of the famous defence of the Alamo, with Davy Crockett taking the starring role ? or should I amend that to Dean Kiely, I wonder? ? and what do we go and do? Break right from out of defence, catch Ipswich, now thoroughly committed to attack, right on the hop, with Tex the real star of our late, late show.

The telling pass came from that unlikeliest of sources, Robbo, whose microscopically-accurate crossfield diagonal ball had to be truly seen to be believed. Well, it certainly had me rubbing my eyes in complete and utter disbelief at what I?d just witnessed! Any road up, the ball landed right at Tex?s willing feet, and from that standing start, he then proceeded to battering-ram his way into the box ? and then, only then, let fly with a strike of devilishly-subtle accuracy that had their poor sod of a keeper wondering what the hell had hit him. 2-0 to the Baggies, suddenly, and with the ensuing relief from remorseless Ipswich pressure, the remainder of the side then took it upon themselves to go slightly potty.

A scant minute later, the roles reversed, Tex supplying the ammo for Kev Phillips, who?d had a pretty undistinguished game up to that point. All he needed was the one chance: thanks to Tex?s supply services, the net bulged once more, making it three to the good. Suddenly, I remembered the bet Labrokes were displaying below prior to the game: stick your mazooma on Albion to win 3-0, and this could be your lucky day. Richly cursing the fact I hadn?t bitten one minute, I was suddenly mighty glad I hadn?t: just before the final whistle, we went and made it four, Robbo once more playing provider, with Mister Phillips converting in fine style.

Oh ? and Confucius he say, Baggie who stick both notebook and pen back into bag, thinking that was the day?s scoring over and done with, get caught out by the oldest Albion proverb in the book: ?They always let you down?, the ?let-down? one being me, thinking myself safe in the knowledge we?d won it comfortably, then having to dig my notes out once more to commit Kev?s second to posterity. Just after that came the final whistle: cue for Freddie Mercury to celebrate yet another fine Baggies victory from beyond the grave. ?Don?t Stop Me Now? was the chosen ditty ? and yes, we were having a ?good time?, and we sure as hell didn?t ?want to stop at all?, especially with news gradually trickling through of that delicious Dingles defeat in a land far, far away.

And Finally?.. One. Conundrum Of The Week, as posed by The Noise. Apparently, his dad considered the following question at great length, recently, viz: if moths are always attracted to the brightest light, how come they don?t fly straight to the moon?

Two. More about young Carly and her budding college career. It all started during her first psychology lecture, when the lecturer divided the class into twos, then had each of them listing the other?s likes and dislikes. In the case of Carly?s oppo, this was to prove somewhat revelatory, especially when the other young lady intimated she was dead keen on watching football. Seeking to follow this up, and suspecting her partner in crime to be either an armchair Man U or Chelsea admirer, or, failing that, a devotee of either Stoke or Vale, you could have knocked her over with a feather when the real truth came out?.. Whisper it quietly around these here parts, but the lady in question proved to be - Gasp! Shock! ? a Dingle! EEEEK!

Oh dear. Must have been the most short-lived student collaboration in the entire history of psychology, that one! Mind you, actually finding a Dingle with sufficient mental equipment to pursue an A-Level course, not to mention hold a rational conversation with an Albion supporter, must have proven a first for that particular college, never mind anything else!

Three?. This one comes courtesy The Fart, and a Dire Warning from him of what awaits you, Albion-wise, should you then decide to dial up The Hawthorns on Google Earth. Key in ?West Bromwich Albion? and the site simply shrugs its shoulders, electronically speaking, rapidly coming up with the equivalent of ?Ask me one on sport, guv!? Key in The Hawthorns, however, and within the twinkling of an eye, what you see before you on screen is a splendid aerial view of ? errrr ? a PUB?

 - Glynis Wright

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