The Diary

23 September 2007: Albion's Late Strike, While The Irons Weren't Hot!

You know something? More and more, our side is becoming one where we can play like sixpennorth of tripe for the whole of one half, then, come the start of the next 45, suddenly regain consciousness, realise they?re actually chasing the game, not coasting it ? then, and only then, actually try to do something about it. Today?s game was also one of contrasts: in the red corner (albeit playing in their ?home? colours of claret-and-spew: yet another excellent reason for reviling them at every given opportunity) was Scunthorpe, very little in the way of sophistication to be seen, there, but by God was it effective during that opening 45. The direct things done well, in other words.

And, in the blue corner, a certain football team based not a million miles from the Black Country, albeit one that seemed to revel in similar manner to a horde of celebrity chefs, all crowding fussily around some creation of theirs, and all competing like stink to dish up food items replete with the most pernickety, over-elaborate decorations and garnishes ever seen this side of a Michael Winner Sunday Times restaurant review at its most deconstructive. And that, my friends, was the difference, in a nutshell. But only as far as the first half was concerned, mind: more about what ensued later.

At least the new morrow found my other half much more compos mentis than he had been just over 12 hours before. Still running one hell of a temperature, mind, a bit like sharing a bed with a mobile furnace, really, but now in a much more cheerful frame of mind. It seemed that my strong pills had not only helped ease the symptoms, they?d also knocked him out for most of the evening and night. ?Blimey, what?s in those things?? he somewhat blearily enquired.

?Oh, a fair bit of codeine, some paracetamol,? was my airy reply, ?Er, why, do you want some more??

?NO, NO! ? just get me some normal strength ones!? Oh, dear ? something in my water told me that my little painkilling pills had reduced his thought processes to cream cheese overnight!

Still, when I fetched the paper, that?s precisely what I did. Purchased some over-the-counter Panadol for my stricken other half, poor lamb. Oh, well, at least he was spared the long drive to Scunny: this morning, the coach was taking the strain, and quite right, too! In fact, we arrived at the Hawthorns about 30 minutes before the scheduled departure time ? but we weren?t the first of the former GD ?Away Team? to show up. The Noise was the very first, and had put the spare time to good use by snaffling seats for the rest of us. As for The Fart, he was lurking outside, participating in the ?Baggies Travel? social whirl.

But back inside the coach, to sort out our stuff, and to greet The Noise: the lad must have been suffering from a severe case of ?Yak Deprivation Syndrome? because once his vocal chords really warmed to their onerous task, it was the devil of a game to make ?em stop! God only knows what the rest of the coach thought about Martin?s prowess as an impromptu ?entertainment system?. Today?s jaunt to Glanville Park represented the lad?s first away trip for absolute yonks ? Wembley was his last, if I remember correctly ? so by the time we got underway, that poor tongue of his must have been fraying at the ends, a bit like those battered old Union Jacks you sometimes see gracing the frontages of government buildings, police stations, and so forth. No sooner had we settled down, he was off ? and just like being caught by aliens in the depths of Outer Space, there was absolutely nowhere for us to hide, anywhere! Ooer.

Once the coach really got going, my thoughts quickly turned to sleep. Not so The Noise: every now and again, I?d surface once more, and every time I did, there would be that darned voice of his, still droning on in the background like a good ?un. As far as I could ascertain, Stoke?s main motormouth?s monologues consisted of stuff about his new post-illness role at Wedgwoods, training up agency staff to work the various machines and kilns there, and filling in for any number and/or manner of absent staff. ?I?m their ?utility player?,? was one memorable phrase of his that somehow managed to filter through to my semi-comatose brain.

Further on still, my subconscious also registered him mentioning Carly?s interest in applying for a teaching post at the gym the whole family attends these days: apparently, that young lady had been tipped the wink they might be interested in having her on the staff on a part-time basis. And, much later still, the inevitable stuff about who would be playing today, how we might do, and so forth, then rounding off this virtuoso performance (well, it HAD been a long time!) with a detailed account of Bethany?s visit to an open day at a local veterinary surgery: she wants to become a vet, but doesn?t yet realise quite how competitive entry to the profession really is.

Not long after that, I was roused from my slumbers by the appearance of a coach conveying a number of Swansea supporters to their game at Elland Road. As we drew level, they decided to take the opportunity of indulging in a frenetic bout of jeers and hand gestures, mostly to the effect they were going to win 2-0 there, or something! Half-opening a quizzical eye, I realised what was going on, then turned to my beloved, and said, ?Aw, sod it ? just shout ?1993 Play-Off semi-finals!? at them; that should shut them up?.?

Not that we needed to: on our way back, after the final whistle, we were quickly reminded of the fact that revenge can be so sweet, sometimes. Leeds 2 Swansea 0, the Elland Road persuasion?s SEVENTH win on the bounce, that. No longer with the millstone of points deductions hanging round their scrawny necks ? they?d wiped that out ages before ? it now seemed they were genuinely embarking upon a sacred mission to get promotion, despite everything that had befallen them these past few months.

Once past some road works that were a real pain in the fundament, the remainder of the journey went like a dream. And what a lovely day for a coach trip, too: although being late September, thanks to global warming, those warm autumnal colours so beloved of artists and photographers had yet to catch up with the local flora, this far North. What we had instead were entire fields completely denuded of corn, and with just the stubble remaining, and, just as a small reminder autumn was just around the corner, some fields already ploughed, and patiently awaiting the sowing of the next crop on the agenda. And, all the while, I could see lots of little bunnies playing all around the perimeters of those shorn golden acres. What a delightful journey: a shame, really, that the afternoon?s football would probably prove to be the ?downer?!

It wasn?t long after that we finally reached our destination, not too far from the actual turn-off for the town itself. As I said yesterday, Glanville Park was constructed on an out-of-town site: the locals clearly didn?t want the hassle a football stadium situated in more civilised surroundings would create. But there was one significant item at variance with what my other half had told me about the place: no more carrot fields, thank goodness, but what they had instead was one of those new-fangled ?retail developments?. Aw, you know the sort of thing I mean, a McDonalds, KFC, massive supermarket, a couple of boozers that did meals, all that kind of stuff. Plenty of choice for those that liked a pint or three of ale, and for those whose pleasures did not lie with either grape nor grain, the aforementioned fast-food places, plus that supermarket.

As for the ground itself, think ?Walsall, but before they added the extra tier to the home end, but in a slightly more run-down condition?. In fact, having now seen it for the first time, I can?t help but wonder whether Walsall?s supporters had an identity crisis every time they travelled there. I crap you not, everything, fixtures, fittings, the works, was exactly the same as The Bescot, and probably right down to the dodgy ladies toilets in their away end, too. But I forge ahead of myself. Once off the coach, we elected to head for a nice looking boozer, preferably away-fan-friendly, in this particular case, The Old Farmhouse (only ten years old, actually, but who am I to quibble?).

No shoehorning of bodies inside, either: the thoughtful management had laid on a tent, which did duty as an outside bar, selling all the basic bottled stuff, etc. so all The Fart and I had to do was sit down on a nearby bench, while my other half and Stoke?s Gatling Gob went in search of refreshments. Ah, this was the life ? and from what I could see elsewhere, a fair number of our travelling support had decided to descend upon the place also.

Our drink-purchasers having finally returned, also bearing gifts in the shape of various bags of crisps (Interesting idea that pub had, plastic glasses, but glass bottles! Now you work out the sense in that one?), all our potable and eatable needs were finally catered for. There we all were, bathed in the residual warmth of the weakening sun?s rays, little knots of blue and white, and yellow and green, quietly supping our beverage of choice, while in a nearby tree, some birds, species unknown, were doing their utmost to chirp an official complaint about those awful people who had upset their fledglings with all the noise.

To my right, a couple of blue and white clad kids, kicking a ball around fairly energetically, and, like as not, trying to emulate the very people they would be watching themselves, in but a short space of time. To my left, another group were carefully unfurling an Albion flag they?d brought with them. As someone nearby commented: ?What a civilised way to go and see a game?.?

Absolutely, and it was one hell of a wrench to tear ourselves away from that idyllic spot, and go and watch a bitsy little footie, instead. Still ? it was the dirty job that had to be done, so with around 30 minutes to spare, we headed on out for the trail. Interesting to note that in the other pub, Frankie and Johnnie?s, both sets of supporters were mingling, and quite contentedly, too. Mind you, our own arrival at the away turnstiles wasn?t without incident: for some unknown reason, the stewards wanted to see inside my bag. When I pointed out that neither my age nor physical condition was the sort of which troublemakers are made, they just pointed to my stick, then said, somewhat enigmatically: ?We?re much more worried about what you might do with that!? Blimey, notoriety, at my time of life. Officer, apply the bracelets swiftly, and be done with it, I say! I do believe they?ve just opened a ?pensioners? prison? down Pompey way, with facilities that would put a good many normal old codgers? homes to shame, so send me down without any further ado, what?

Once inside, finally, the comparison with Walsall?s place was really uncanny. Plonk a set of supporters of either Walsall or Scunthorpe persuasions in this place, blindfold, then remove said visual encumbrance ? would they be able to successfully discern their true location, I wondered. Meanwhile, out on the pitch, both sets of players were warming up for the fray to come. All the usual suspects from our lot were out there, so it came as a bit of a shock when the teams were announced, and ours based upon a slightly different formation than we?d previously suspected. Much head-scratching ensued: a bad time indeed for Scunny to play that Jeff Beck song, the one the Dingles use while they warm up. Unsurprisingly, the boos and catcalls were deafening.

So what had our leader decided to do, then? Starts for Koren, Miller, Brunt, Tex and Gera, with both Phillips and Beattie staying on the bench, surprisingly. But it was the decision to deploy Miller as a lone ranger up front that really raised the eyebrows. The lad I really felt sorry for, though, was Chappy, who had played out of his skin the other night: one of his best performances ever in an Albion shirt, and after all that, he gets dropped for the Scunthorpe trip. We know this was going to be a hard one, a game really crying out for a ?scrapper?, so where was the logic in that?

As for Scunthorpe, there was a little bit of an Albion interest ? well, quite a lot, really, considering the time he was with us ? and that was a certain Joe Murphy, now performing between the sticks for the Lincolnshire club. More about Joe later. So, there it was: a lovely mild day, hazy sunshine, 2,000 Albion supporters in the away end, which was blessed with a very low roof, thereby providing superb acoustics for our travelling band. Oh ? and Fraser Allen and his Sutton Branch mob parking their little bots on the seats in front of us again, just like at Ashton Gate. Were they trying to stalk us? A perfect day for football, in fact. Well, until we kicked off, that is.

And, for the first few minutes, we did seem to be the livelier of the two sides. With only a few minutes on the clock, Miller had a pretty good attempt swish over the crossbar, and, not long after that, another, which ended up as a corner. From that lot, Scunny then broke very swiftly indeed, the very speed of their advance meaning that Alby had to look pretty lively to sort out and lessen the considerable threat. You didn?t need to be a mind-reader to work out what they were going to do: stick to the simple stuff, and try and stop us playing.

With eleven minutes on the clock, Koren was guilty of an appalling miss, the excellent Gera having supplied the ammo in the first place. A simple tap-in I could have put away myself, dodgy back or otherwise. I could only hope that it wouldn?t cost us. But it nearly did. With only 16 or thereabouts gone, the referee inexplicably awarded a spot-kick to Scunthorpe: ?tis true I saw their man go down in the box, but Hoefkens, the alleged assassin, hardly seemed to touch him. And, as the incident occurred at the away end, I was only about 20 or so yards away when it happened.

As you can imagine, in the away end, that decision went down about as well as a bag of pork scratchings in a Baghdad mosque. Absolute fury as the lad Crosby put the ball past Kiely, but there was no point whatsoever in moaning about spilt milk, was there? Having fallen behind in such an infuriating fashion, all we could do was hope we could get it back, and soon. The trouble was, though, that while Scunthorpe were tearing us to shreds up the flanks, then causing havoc with those horribly curly goalmouth crosses of theirs, we were taking an absolute age in getting the ball anywhere near their box, hence my opening simile about loads of TV chefs trying to over-gild the goalmouth lily.

What didn?t help also was a lino, flagging on our side of the away end, who seemed to be conducting a private little war against anything in an Albion shirt. On several occasions, he completely missed blatant Scunthorpe infringements, and was far too eager by half to deploy that flag in anger, for my liking. The bit where Scunthorpe gave a clear foul throw, and Chummy chose with that there flag to ignore it, was particularly fraught.

But that was only one of a series of telling blows aimed at our defensive system: as the game progressed, it was the home side who were doing all the simple things well, and getting heaps of praise for doing it, while our finest ? and Tex was one of the worst offenders ? still insisted upon going ?the pretty way? when it came to the creation of clear-cut chances. Needless to say, by the time our play got to the stage where we might have constituted a danger, the Scunthorpe defence had been given ample time to organise, then repel boarders, so to speak.

?CUM ON ALBION, YO?M REFFIN? BERRA THAN THIS!? This was the anonymous but powerful entreaty to the better natures of our finest that blasted right through our end like a more than unusually abrasive desert sandstorm. Watching yet another promising Albion attack founder and sink, it was painfully evident that our strategy of playing the solitary striker up front wasn?t working. Such was the lightning speed with which the game could progress at their end, given a decent break and a following wind, no wonder they constituted such a grave threat to our happiness.

As the interval drew nigh, though, with lots of goal attempts on our part, but for the above reasons, naught to show for it, would Mogga decide to carry on in the same vein, by sticking to just one striker only, or go for broke, by bringing on either Mister Phillips, or Mister Beattie, and giving the existing incumbent, pounding a solo beat for so long, a bit of a rest? But first, an injury-time minor sensation, when Miller managed to do something no other Baggie had been able to do that half ? he actually hit the post.

Having almost netted at the end of the opening 45, it was to be hoped we could repeat the dose in the second, but going one better, actually making it count. A little frustrating for our supporters, seeing precisely the same Baggie crew lining up for the resumption of hostilities: as it seemed to us, far more logical to get either Beattie or Phillips on, then redouble our efforts in restoring parity. All managers have little idiosyncrasies: clearly, ours was only interested in changing it once 60 or so minutes had elapsed.

More of the same frustrating stuff, then? Nope ? suddenly, our finest were looking really dangerous for, possibly, the first time in the game. With just a minute or so gone, a really good Gera effort brought its own reward, in the form of a corner. To my immediate right stood The Fart, shaking his fist in pure excitement, adrenaline (and testosterone?) surging forth in abundance as he tried to will the ball into the back of the net. Blimey, he wasn?t half getting aggressive in his old age: was there an antidote out there, should it become necessary to administer one?

That one was repelled, ?tis true, but the let-off for the home side was only temporary: with but five on the clock, Albion forced yet another corner. Once more, our travelling support wound themselves up into a frenzy: what with the low roof, and everything, the amount of noise out there was quite impressive. Over the goalmouth soared the ball, and up popped Barnett, suddenly finding the ball right at his feet. He didn?t need asking twice: a millisecond?s hesitation ? and bang! Poor Joe Murphy well beaten, and our travelling contingent having something to smile about, for a change.

A minute or so later, Miller found himself both in possession, and on the periphery of their box, bearing down upon the rapidly-advancing Joe Murphy like a Sherman tank equipped with afterburners. You could see precisely what was going to happen, and we weren?t to be disappointed, either. A combination of a fifty-fifty ball, and two whacking great hunks of muscle, both of them with a vested interest in getting to the thing first, and one where only the ambulance people would win. With a sickening thud, audible enough from where I was sitting, both of them collided. Miller, a little groggy, managed to get onto his feet, eventually, but Murphy still remained inert. On rushed both physios (thought: how does the Scunny physio feel about his duties, knowing that his gaffer is also a qualified physio?), then a stretcher was called for. Suddenly, it wasn?t looking at all good for the former Albion keeper.

It was our contingent that eased the tension, finally, by chanting ?There?s only one Joe Murphy? in the direction of the prostrate figure lying on the pitch, a gesture which the Scunny people applauded richly. Much to my surprise, he was not only revived, but appeared to be carrying on: only a minute or so earlier, I?d thought him concussed, and ripe for going off. But was he fully compos mentis?

That little drama having passed, the game was allowed to continue. With 15 or thereabouts gone, Gera managed to shove the ball through to that man Miller, now steaming at almost warp speed in the direction of the Scunny goalmouth. With Murphy bravely trying to spoil his day, once more, Our Ishmael got his shot away, but Joe Murphy managed to parry it ? straight into the welcoming path of Chris Brunt, tearing in around the vicinity of the far post. He didn?t need a second invitation to whack home the rebound, and neither did our contingent, to celebrate taking the lead, at long last.

Was I deafer than usual, or what? Suddenly, they were unusually quiet in the adjacent stand, whose inhabitants had, until then, spent most of the game giving us a heap of unrequited advice, most of it quite obscene. And now it was us, and not they, in the driving seat. So, what had changed to bring about this startling reversal in fortune? Well, Tex was now acting as a virtual forward, so that was giving our efforts on goal a bit of additional pazzaz. I?d also gained the impression we were playing less deep, too, although that might have been my imagination at work.

Meanwhile, Scunthorpe had effected a double subbing, bringing on two attackers as a straight swap for an attacker and a defender. Clearly, they still wanted to make a fight of it, something that was made all-too plain not so long afterwards, when we nearly gifted them an equaliser. Barnett was the guilty party in that one: as I?ve commented before, it?s an aspect of his play I find quite infuriating. I had thought he?d finally got that sort of thing out of his system, but clearly not, sad to say.

By now, there was only 12 to go ? and boy, did we need another goal. Another lino on our left flank wouldn?t have gone amiss, either: after yet another laughable bit of flagging from this chap, The Noise was doing his crust: ?That reffin? lino, he hasn?t given us anything!? stormed Stoke?s foremost conversationalist ? but, just this once, what he did with that sodding flag made not the slightest bit of difference.

It was a bit of ?smash and grab? from Tex that started the whole thing off, catching a Scunny defender napping, and in a most vulnerable place, too. Trying to get the ball to Miller, the thing rebounded straight back to him instead: he didn?t need any asking, one minute the ball was at his feet, the next, it had crossed the line. 3-1 to us, then, with accompanying pandemonium in that away end, renditions of the 23rd Psalm aplenty, and much boinging, just to show them how it?s done. ?Sit down, shut up,? was the friendly advice doled out to them, after that late strike of ours. With around ten to go, now, it looked as though we?d finally settled their hash ? but this is Albion we?re discussing, remember?

Enter into the equation a certain Craig Beattie, an 84th minute subbing for the plainly knackered Miller. Once more, the creative Gera was provender of the scoring chance, threading through a dream of a ball for the Scotsman to put away ? I kid you not, it was easier to put into the back of the net than deal with it in any other way ? but, being Beattie, he stuffed up with what would have been a sure-fire fourth. Appalling finishing, bad defending: would it cost us? Said I to The Noise, almost presciently, as it turned out: ?I hope to hell we don?t pay for that?..?

Five to go, then, and the nerves were jangling something awful, both where we were, and out there on the pitch. ?What?s it like to lose at home?? was the somewhat unkind enquiry we directed at the former holders of what had been a splendid unbeaten home record. Then, just to show they weren?t finished yet, back came Scunny, capitalising on a smidgen of uncertainty on our part. Close, bloody close ? they?d only gone and hit the post, hadn?t they? ?For Chrissakes CONCENTRATE!? That was The Noise, all semblance of decorum long gone.

Amazingly, shortly after that, Beattie was to get yet another gifted chance to finish the game off: in a one-on-one with Murphy, he tried to lob the keeper when a simple drive wide of the guy would have sufficed ? and blew it. Worse than that, we?d now lost possession. Just before the end of normal time, an uncharacteristic mistake from Alby led to them getting a second, something that should never have happened, and had everyone sweating cobs for the remainder of the game?s allotted span.

The problem you see, was injury time ? owing to various mishaps, a flurry of late bookings, and those goals, officially a good five minutes long ? but according to my other half, the announcement had come deep into what should have been extra time anyway, thereby prolonging the agony for our flustered players.

Oh, and it didn?t help to see Robbo get clobbered once the board had gone up: he had to retire after lengthy treatment, so that was a chunk more chucked onto the total! Even our friend the lino had to have his pound of flesh, too: giving a throw the other way when a Scunthorpe player had been last to touch the ball, and indisputably so, as far as we were concerned.

The whole nail-biting thing was a bit like those US ice-hockey games, where stoppages of but a second or so are deliberately engineered once the finishing line draws near: play halting, seemingly, with every minute of the added-on stuff that elapsed, a short pause, then things resuming once more. Then, another stoppage, as the ref decided to pass the time of day with the fourth official: a good three minutes more elapsed while they were both engaged in the throes of debate about something or other. Probably about who was getting the drinks in. ?When you?re ready, chaps, don?t mind us!? That was one of the very few printable comments on the subject emanating from our end!

Not so good on our poor nerves, that! Not so good on Mogga?s nerves, either: to our left, in the dug-out further upfield, he and everyone else were making pointed gestures in the direction of their watches, each and every one of them going increasingly ballistic with every morsel of ?extra-extra? time that passed. Who would blow first? Mogga, mentally, or this horologically challenged ref?

?Keep the bloody thing by the corner flag, will you?? That was The Noise again, determined to make this, his first away trip this season, a happy one. And, just a minute later, so it was ? after a bit of a false alarm ,where we?d thought the ref had blown up, but hadn?t! Yes, it was that sort of a game, but now it was all over and we could smile, once more.

It was only a short distance from exit to coaches, and so we loaded up pretty quickly. But first, for me, practically cross-legged, a much needed trip to the coach?s toilet: as I told some people sitting in the next seat: ?These away wins don?t half have an effect on my bladder!? By the time we finally got away, a small knot of acne-ridden Scunthorpe followers had congregated in the vicinity of McDonalds, and were engaged in dishing out what they fondly thought were ?words of advice? as each coach passed them by. Commented The Noise, after one of these uncouth youths indicated to us that they?d finished the game scoring two to our three: ?Get yerself home, afore yer curfew runs out!? Trust our garrulous chum to have the right words for the occasion!

And Finally?.. One. More about Bethany, The Noise?s younger daughter. Apparently, in order to assist her charges to learn the four points of the compass - north, east, south, west ? her class teacher recently gave the entire class this cute mnemonic: ?Never Ever Support Wolves!........?

Two?..Following Jose Mourhino?s shock departure from Chelski earlier in the week, probably as a direct consequence of various recent differences of opinion with Abramovic, what now for the ?Not-So Special-One??

Well, of one thing I?m sure: after that almighty spat with the Russian billionaire, if I were him, I?d not only be heading to the nearest Army surplus store in search of a reliable, sensitive Geiger counter, I?d also be investing some of that whopping pay-out he got from Stamford Bridge in some lead-lined clothing. Oh, and another thing, Jose. Should any strange men with funny sounding names invite you to take tea at some swanky London hotel or another, just ensure beforehand that the proffered teapot containing dark brown liquid ISN?T hot, in more than the usual sense of the word!

 - Glynis Wright

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