The Diary

19 September 2007: Last Minute Robins Goal Thwarts Throstles In 1-1 Thriller

So our leader was ?extremely disappointed? about tonight?s result, was he? Had it been me in charge, I would have been wearing a huge sign on my back saying: KICK ME by now, purely and simply because the act of folly that led to the Bristol City equaliser was largely down to his insistence on making a subbing just as City were about to take that vital corner, around three minutes from the end. Now, come on: even the most obtuse of managers knows you don?t change defenders at such a vital point in the game, do you?

Maybe I am being a bit of an old grump about it all, having seen us stuff up spectacularly, when we should have collared all three points, no worries, so to provide a much-needed dollop of balance and perspective, let?s look at one positive in particular: I don?t know about anyone else in that away end, but it?s been an awfully long time since I last had the pleasure of witnessing such an incident-packed and entertaining 90 minutes. Had the scoreline stayed completely bloodless for the whole of the hour and a half, and not finished as a 1-1, this game?s incredible capacity for thrills and entertainment would still have made for a game worth every single penny of what we away travellers paid for our tickets beforehand.

Think back to all those sterile, insomnia-curing stalemates we witnessed when Albion were in the Premiership, compare and contrast with the tasty fare laid at our feet with as much fluidity and pazzaz as you?d ever wanted to see, tonight ? and then tell me that the overall standard met in the higher league is complete justification for swingeing price increases across the board, once a club achieves lift-off.

City? They?ve pleasantly surprised me tonight, and I would imagine I?m not the only Baggie sharing that particular point of view, as well. They defended doggedly in the face of whatever we contrived to chuck at them, their keeper playing completely out of his skin to deny us, at several points during the game: not only that, on the flanks and on the rebound following several Albion raids into their territory, they were greased lightning with the afterburners on, so our defence (Deanno Kiely pulled off a string of outstanding saves to deny City at various times during a pulsating first half) had to be very much on the ball to keep them from scoring first.

A dangerous side by anyone?s lights, and whatever we go on to achieve, come the end of the current term ? or not, as the case may be ? I doubt very much whether we?ll ever see a harder sharing of the points, either home or away. Come the final whistle, our players certainly recognised this fact: as both sets of combatants prepared to troop off the pitch, there seemed to be something of a mutual admiration society being created out there. To their players, holding us to a 1-1 was like winning a Cup tie. If City can only maintain this sort of scintillating form throughout the dark days of winter and beyond, prevent the injury and suspension gremlins getting a toe-hold, I strongly suspect they won?t be unduly beset by relegation worries, come the end of the current campaign.

As Ashton Gate is such an easy place to reach, being situated just 86 miles down the M5, we elected to travel to this one by car, as did numerous other Baggies, the real proof being the reduced numbers of coaches Baggies Travel took to Ashton Gate. In fact, what with the drinkers? coach, plus the club?s stuff, I made the total number of coaches travelling to Zoider Country five or thereabouts, and quite a low number by our fanatical standards.

But, stay thy dripping tongues, despite what appeared to be a drastic reduction in numbers, at least most of the away fixture ?regulars? could be spotted out there on the main drag, immediately prior to the game. Our starting time, around four in the afternoon, and heading towards Bristol via a rendezvous at Chez Fart, made for a steady ride. It was certainly a lovely early autumnal afternoon, warm sunshine, clear blue skies, as we left the grime of the city far behind: no leaves discolouring, as yet, but give it another few weeks, and the whole shebang would be an absolute riot of colour.

We?d decided that our approach to the ground would be via the south of the city (the M5/M4/M32 approach is such a horrendous bottleneck at that time of day, you?re best avoiding it like the plague), following the course of the river, and passing underneath the famous Suspension Bridge. Quite a popular haunt of potential suicides not so very long ago, I?m now given to understand that the council have since installed a direct line to the Samaritans at a convenient spot, in an attempt to dissuade those likely to jump.

Mind you, I did have to tell El Tel the astonishing tale of one potential suicide, a female, back in the late 19th century. So depressed was she, the lady tried to execute a swallow-dive right from the top of Brunel?s amazing erection, but sadly for her plans of instantaneous entry to an afterlife, what she got instead was her long skirt acting like a parachute, and setting her down in about six feet of mud bank. History does not record what she said on discovering she hadn?t popped her clogs after all! I can only assume she became so depressed, once more, on realising her soft landing would incur a colossal dry-cleaning bill (the bridge towers over a VERY muddy part of the river!), she elected to employ coal gas as her chosen method of dispatch, the next time she tried!

From Brunel?s brainchild, it isn?t all that far to Ashton Gate ? and, boy, was I in for a shock. Since the last time I travelled to those there parts, things have changed somewhat radically. A car park for away supporters situated right in the middle of the industrial estate, for starters. And that wasn?t all, either. Where there was once an enormous car park, right outside the ground, most of it has since disappeared into thin air, flogged off to multiple retail outlets and fast food chains innumerable. Had our pre-match priority been ?retail therapy? we would have been more than amply accommodated, I?m sure.

Segregation, Bristol City-style, was the issue that got the biggest laugh from we three intrepid travellers. As you walked past the KFC outlet, and towards the turnstiles, two huge entrances confronted you, one for home supporters and another for their travelling counterparts. No problem with that, segregation is very much par for the course at any ground, these days ? but the arrangement wasn?t quite what it seemed. Go through that ?away? entrance, and onto the bit of dead land in front of the away turnstiles, and?. Segregation? What segregation? For reasons best known to City and the local rozzers, once supporters of both factions were past those entrances, everyone involved could have a jolly old time hurling choice pre-match insults at each other, again!

As there was very little to do or see in the area, and as the temperature plummeted with the rapid approach of sundown, we decided to go into the ground, just as soon as the turnstiles were opened for business. Once inside, to your left, you come across a biggish catering hut. Our concern? After an interval of around nine seasons since we last played them, what were the chances of them having since acquired a half-decent Cornish pasty supplier?

As things turned out, no, they hadn?t, actually, but what I did notice, once I?d purchased the necessary ?eats?, and located our seats, was our presence, just in front of someone you might want to term a Very Special Supporter. Poor Vic Stirrup, not to mention his equally-elderly chum: it must have been Fate, after my mention of his Naval service on some of the worst convoys of the entire war, to have him end up sitting right behind me!

Not many takers, sadly, for a fixture involving one of the most entertaining clubs in the country ? some 16,000 souls turned up on the night, in the end ? and as I said before, in our bit of the ground, it was always going to be very much a case of ?regulars only?. In fact, what with myself, The Fart, Vic and his mate, and a grand total of around 200 years worth of Albion travel between us, ?Im Indoors was in the presence of some extremely venerable company!

As their PA system was worse than useless ? should Ashton Gate ever play host to some evil-looking middle Eastern people, remind me not to be in the crowd on that particular night! ? it was down to El Tel to find out who was playing. See, all that steam radio must have its advantages, sometimes! And there were the various botched practice goal-attempts to contend with: fail to notice the ball coming at you (we were seated right in the firing line!), and you could end up hearing the birds tweet for some considerable time!

In fact, as my other half reminded me, our chum, the late Chris Hartle suffered in a spectacular way when watching the Baggies in a friendly at Whitby Town (don?t ask!) one evening. There he was, bimbling along behind their goal, cups of coffee in both hands, not a care in the world ? when a stray shot more or less surgically removed them from his grasp. One minute they were there, the next? WHOMP! Gone, but because of the expense, certainly not forgotten.

But onto the team news. As we?d suspected last night, Mogga had chosen to change our main armament yet again. Four personnel changes to admire, as both sets of combatants prepared for the ref?s whistle signifying the commencement of hostilities: in were Koren, Gera, Beattie and Chappy, and benched for this one, the Morrison, Brunt and Miller trio, with Tex left out of the picture completely.

And from that moment on, Black Country nerves jangled, adrenalin-levels in that away end reached an unprecedented high, and nails were bitten right through to the very quick, as Albion commenced their efforts to unseat lively City, right from the word ?go?. Just one small snag, though: City most definitely didn?t want to be ?unseated?!

At first, it seemed to be City making the running, but the game hadn?t gone very far when we earned ourselves a corner, the Gera-Greening interchange with the ball ending with our international captain belting the thing anywhere but in the desired direction. Eastern Europe?s first ever space shot, anyone?

From there, City broke and play ended up in their goalmouth, the one behind which our lot were gathered. Not for the first time that night, the ball ended up wide of the mark. But, what was this? Only five minutes gone, and already, the game was proceeding at a blistering pace. Pausing to confirm that it wasn?t just an aberration of my fertile imagination, this scorching to-and-fro stuff ? nope, that?s the way it was, total end-to-end stuff. How the hell veteran performers like Kev Phillips would cope with all that highly-mobile action was certainly a source of nagging worry.

The City side had emerged from the tunnel to a miniature firework display, but the pyrotechnics on view then were nothing compared to the ones generated by the sheer industry of both sets of players. Fast and furious? Not ?arf: with around five on the clock, it was ex-Dingle McIndoe?s turn to have a pop, but the attempt simply sailed harmlessly wide of the mark.

More assaults on both goalmouths later, this game was rapidly assuming the characteristics of a rattling good movie, or play. Take your eyes off the screen or stage just for one instant, and you?d very likely missed something pretty vital: the same, of course, applied to tonight?s game. How the hell were they expected to keep this sort of blistering pace going for the next hour or so? With the aid of oxygen?

But Deanno didn?t have need for such artificial restoratives: with just over the 15-minute mark breached, a City free kick saw the ball aimed straight for the back of our net ? and that?s precisely where it would have ended up, had it not been for the swift reflexes of a certain Mister Kiely. How the hell he saw the ball from that short distance, let alone stop it, is a source of constant wonderment, but stop it he did. Give the man a banana, quick!

Play switching to the other end again, enter that unlikeliest of potential goalscorers, Chappy. Was it meant to be a cross, or a pukka shot, I wonder? Whatever the original intent, the ex-Burnley lad missed by only the narrowest of margins. Not long after that, it was ?bye-bye? to our ex-Dingle chum, McIndoe, who had to go off through injury ? or could it have been down to the torrent of mockery he was subjected to, every time the ball headed in his direction?

By the 30 minute mark, you could see where the main danger lay with the home side: down the flanks, every single time, their party-piece being to break swiftly from out of defence, then try and catch us cold on either flank. One improvement on last season, mind: so erratic were we, then, we would have succumbed, had a similar amount of pressure been applied. For me, the hero of the hour was Greening, playing the ball by the corner flag, and by dint of some careful work when surrounded by a couple of City players, finally winning the foul: not at all what those pair of Robins had in mind!

And, talking of ?Robins??. One huge difference I?d noticed since the last time we?d visited Ashton Gate, was the seeming absence of City?s well-known anthem ? ?When The Red, Red Robin Comes Bob-Bob-Bobbin? Along? ? from their supporters? ?repertoire?. All that?s gone by the board, it would seem: now, they tend to rely on the late Adge Cutler, and his ?70?s ?West Country bumpkin? group, The Wurzels, and their ?signature dish?, ?Drink Up Thee Zoider? for succour in times of stress. And how come Adge Cutler is ? erm ? ?late?? Well, just like the equally-late Marc Bolan, he wiped out his vehicle, in his case, while returning from a gig via the (old) Severn Bridge; went straight into a concrete pillar, as I understand it.

But back to the stuff on the pitch?.. Yet another Albion corner, but, this time, City almost stuffed themselves up, courtesy an impressive-looking near-miss of an ?oggie?, the ball only just clearing the crossbar in the end. Oops! One thing for certain: newly-promoted side they may be, but City certainly weren?t there just to look pretty. Sure, we?d given them a pretty torrid 45, but they had chances proffered to them on a plate also, as per the couple of times Deanno had to shift himself pretty smartly. And was our low vantage-point making things seem worse than they actually were, perspective causing all manner of deception, every time we defended a free-kick just outside the box, for example?

Just before the break, Albion wound themselves up for yet another assault upon the temple: twice, their keeper, name of Basso, apparently, turned out to be the hero of the hour, once following a Gera humdinger, and again when Hoefkens let rip from the edge of the box. The lad was having a blinder: had it not been for his blistering form, we would have gone in 2-0 up, surely? As The Fart commented: ?Either this is a great time to score, or a bad time to concede?..?

Half-time, then, and a search for the ?facilities? by me. Turned out that their Ladies loo had been designed by someone with a malicious sense of humour dying to get out into the open. Well ? I ask you: four cubicles only, and because of their width, or rather, the lack of it, measuring only about two feet maximum across. Which wouldn?t have mattered in the slightest, had it not been for the presence of a toilet roll holder on the left, a bin on the right, and the actual loo positioned facing the door. You needed to be a contortionist just to get inside!

What with all the impromptu Yoga moves being attempted in the toilets, I didn?t get back until just before the start of the second half. Nicely in time to see the first chance fall to our hosts, in fact. Such was the wailing, moaning and general gnashing of teeth emanating from the lips of Fraser and his Sutton Branch comrades, I was moved to tell the lad: ?Keep the noise down, there?s some of us here trying to get some sleep?.?

Mind you, while I?d been away exercising my bladder, it turned out that Bryn Jones, he of Bath University, had been asking for me. It was after he?d gone that my beloved hit upon a spiffing wheeze: there we had a psychology university lecturer, while back in sunny Stoke, there also resided an A-Level psychology student in the shape of Carly! Any chance of organising a meeting of minds, we wondered.

As for the stuff on the pitch, more of the same, I?m afraid. Both sides trying hell for leather to break the bloody stalemate, and both defences busting a gut to stop ?em. Could it be we were fast running out of ideas? Certainly, City had weathered well just about everything we?d chucked at them ? and still they wouldn?t cave in. Time for a subbing, perchance?

Just over 60 minutes gone, then: exit Beattie, enter into the fray Ishmael Miller ? and from then on, every time he got the ball within shooting range of their goal, he created absolute havoc. Try as they might, City had very little in their armoury to stop him with any degree of confidence. But it wasn?t just Miller causing problems: not long after the swap, Koren went close, ditto Gera. But the real spectacular came with around 15 minutes left. Once more, Gera played creator, slipping the ball to Miller yet again, with predictably-chaotic results in the City ranks: if truth were known, they just didn?t have a clue what to do with him, as he embarked upon a run that saw him evade two of his minders, then laying it off for Koren to apply the coup de grace from very close range indeed.

Finally, we?d broken them, and with very little time left for them to do something about it! Whoopee! Cue wild celebrations on the part of our Sutton Branch chums in front dancing a sort of manic rhumba ? and did I see Fraser giving my other half a bunch of ?high fives?, as he danced a gleeful jig around the dead space meant for patrolling rozzers and stewards?

But we should have known better ? or rather, Mogga should have. What manner of lunacy makes someone effect a defensive subbing just as the opposition are lining up to take a corner, the first real threat they?d offered since going behind? I?d thought we?d progressed beyond that state, but clearly, I was wrong. The change in personnel, and the break caused by it, both conspired to make us lose concentration, with predictable results: at first, I thought it had been successfully cleared ? but nope. A chappie called Orr got onto the other end of the rebound, and put it away. A disappointment? Er, yup ? you could say that. But, on the other hand, I?ll defy anyone to find me a more exciting game, at our level, anywhere. When Championship sides are prepared to hang everything that?s negative about the modern game, and willingly provide spectators with such thrilling fare, who needs the Premier League? Certainly not (Wulves 0: Hull City 1!) me.

And Finally?.. Imagine, if you will, the improbable sight of ghosties, ghoulies, poltergeists, phantoms and malevolent spirits innumerable, having just been given the biggest fright of their entire afterlives, fleeing mob-handed from Yorkshire?s answer to that most-haunted of Thirties residences, Borley Rectory, as fast as their dwindling ectoplasm supply will take them. Then, from there, and consumed by sheer terror, straight into the welcoming arms of the nearest crucifix-toting exorcist to hand.

You can? Oh, good ? because that?s the mental picture I currently have etched ineradicably into my brain, after spotting in a national newspaper this morning the title of a certain ITV2 programme, scheduled to hit our screens while we were at Ashton Gate tonight. ?Ghost Hunting With The Dingles?, it was so intriguingly called, so I?ll leave further delicious thoughts concerning what appeared at first glance a documentary, seemingly depicting a continual Titanic struggle ?twixt un-dead and brain-dead, strictly within the confines of your own fertile imaginations!

Two?. And, talking of things ?back from the dead?, how many of you lot actually saw Meggo featured on the Sky Sports Football League round-up show, last night? You could tell straight away he?d been out of the loop for well over a year, not because events had passed him by, but simply through trying to comprehend what he was actually banging on about. Not an easy task for people as hard of hearing as wot I am, trying like stink to get the general gist of what seemed to be distinctly frog-like croakings emanating from the pursed lips of our former manager, yesterday evening. Megson lose his voice, you say? A bit like the prospect of Gordon Brown losing his, I suppose, and the end result equally disastrous.

 - Glynis Wright

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