The Diary

26 September 2007: Bluebirds Batter Baggies Out Of The League Cup

Tonight, I spent much of my time before the game nattering to young Carly about chemistry, the science that deals with the nefarious doings of atoms and molecules, and the way they combine to make, well, horrible nasties, like you and me. And a pretty fascinating time of it I had, too, listening to the Noise?s eldest daughter as she excitedly clued me in on what particular aspect of the subject she was studying as part of her current AS Level course.

Little was I to know, though, that of all the desirable attributes one hopes to see in our players during games, especially the chaps tasked with securing the rearguard, the biggest absentee of the whole lot, tonight, would pretty quickly prove to be ? yep, right first time ? that elusive quality, ?chemistry?. How else could Cardiff find their evening?s task so easy? Four goals up as quick as Christ would let ?em, they were, and in about as much time as it takes for me to travel the three miles from our house into Brum city centre, too ? what an almighty embarrassment.

Don?t mind us: we?re only regarded as one of the best sides to watch outside the Premier League, and constantly tipped to be there or thereabouts, come the season?s end, that?s all. On the basis of tonight?s calamitous performance, were I a neutral, I wouldn?t have tipped this side to win a church raffle, even. No wonder there were people trying to leave, no sooner had the ball crossed the line for Cardiff?s fourth.

Rule Number One: They might all be of near-pensionable age, these days, those superannuated Bluebirds, but the one thing any self-respecting defender worthy of the appellation does NOT do is experience a bit of a ?Condor? moment when they?ve got the likes of Sinclair (we remember him turning out for Blackpool, back in 1991, such is the nature of his longevity; how embarrassing is that?) Fowler and Hasselblaink breathing down their scrawny little necks. Unbeaten at home, since last April, we were, and not conceding a single goal on our own turf, before tonight?s fiasco, and now the Welsh sods go and whup us, and by a country mile, too.

We didn?t really start playing until the beginning of the second half, either: ironically, had the rules allowed credit to be given for decent performances over one or other of the 45-minute periods, then it?s quite feasible that we would have, at least, ended up nominal winners of the second 45. Small consolation: still it?s better than a poke in the eye, I suppose. No wonder that by the time we left the ground, after the final whistle, the streets outside were already thronged with an endless procession of disgruntled home supporters, all of them muttering darkly. So how did it happen, then?

Looking back at the evening?s shambolic events (not so much in anger, as puzzlement, complete and utter, to be perfectly honest), I can only assume that Mogga?s serial tinkerings, especially with the defence, were primarily to blame for what transpired to be a complete and utter cock-up for the home side. And just what was the idea of changing a tried and tested 4-4-2 to a somewhat bizarre 4-1-4-1 format? In practice, that meant dropping or benching some extremely competent performers, and putting comparative strangers in their place, i.e.: in came young Jared Hodgkiss (who, to be fair, I?d wanted to see get a game tonight), Tininho, Pele, Beatty, Morrison, Chaplow, while giving a full Hawthorns debut to the lad Martis.

But it?s the full implications of what we?d left kicking their collective heels on the sidelines, one way or another? the likes of Phillips, Gera, Hoefkens, Barnett (benched), Greening (benched), Teixeira (also benched), plus Shergar (benched), and Robbo (injured) - that really gave me mental gyp. And just as the full implications of giving poor, inexperienced Jared the almost-impossible task of shackling one of the most competent attackers in the country outside the Premier League sank in, was it me, or did I feel the most horrendous shiver I?ve ever experienced commence its inaugural run up and down my poor little spine?

Had you polled any of our crowd, all sat in the Hawthorns pub prior to the game, as to what the final score would transpire to be, I genuinely doubt whether any of us would have come up with a 4-2 win for the sheep-worriers. Unless one of our number was having a bit of a giggle and wanted to share the joke with others, of course. Witnessing another master-class in attacking football at its best would have been much nearer the mark for most of us, I reckon.

Still, the night started fairly well for me, what with managing to have a decent conversation with the Noise?s eldest about chemistry, with a goodly lump of biology chucked in for good measure, an example of how closely the two interact as you start studying both subjects in much more depth. Listening to what she had to say, it seems that A Levels, or their contemporary equivalents, are, in many ways, a much more difficult proposition than some politicians would have you believe. I don?t recall having to do quite as much course work, for example.

Poor Carly reckons that so great are the academic demands of the course she?s on, she doesn?t get any time for basic socialising: sees her former schoolmates when going from lecture to lecture, or at lunchtimes, etc. but that?s about it. Strange, too, that she should echo my own thoughts, when I was around the same age, regarding watching The Baggies as a much-needed escape from all the everyday woes of essays, writing up lecture notes, etc.

But the serious stuff came to a very quick end, once the Fart came to join us. Gave me the perfect chance to tell Martin what had happened to Dot?s coat (see diaries passim for details), didn?t it? The best bit of all this is that Dot still remains quite mystified as to how her hubby managed to pick up, not only his own coat plonked right at the foot of the stairs, but his missus?s, too!

Never mind, Mister Fart, the entire tale?s been one ranking well up there with the time you lost your mobile phone, after a Gillingham away game, four or five seasons ago. Failing to find it anywhere in our vehicle, in fact, only to discover it to be sitting smugly inside your sandwich container, but only after we?d rung your mobile number, in a desperate effort to trace its whereabouts! Funny, though. Puts a completely different slant upon the common phrase: ?Eating up free talk-time?, doesn?t it?

As for The Noise himself, he can?t make the forthcoming Southampton shindig, sadly, but what he can do is come with us to Watford, when we play them at Vicarage Road. He?s also giving a couple of other away games serious thought, poor smitten lad. He also had quite an intriguing tale to tell about our ticket office: apparently, in slack moments, they?re told to be more proactive, by calling supporters who have purchased tickets from them before, and asking them if they?re interested in going to such-and-such a game. The best bit, though, came from Norm Bartlam, who had just joined us. Albion rang him, too ? but right in the middle of a staff meeting? Ah.

Thanks to The Fart, the conversation then veered completely away from football, and onto pettifogging little health and safety issues, instead. The product of an increasingly litigation-averse society, some would argue, with our elderly chum contributing several examples of such an attitude. One concerned Womens? Institute staff at a hospital, who had been in the habit of keeping knitting materials in their little shop ? needles, wool, all that jazz ? the idea being for patients to knit squares for blankets destined for the Third World when they had nothing to do.

And a splendid idea it was, too, with everyone deriving benefit from this activity ? until some jobsworth numpty or other put the kybosh on the whole thing by claiming the needles were presenting a health and safety threat! Long and loud was The Fart clucking and lamenting over this particular news item, so trust Norm Bartlam to reduce everyone to complete hysterics with his deadpanned suggestion that the rules were brought in ?Just in case someone goes a purler!? Aaargh! Hand me a sawn-off shotgun, somebody, quick!

We had quite a nasty shock when we finally made our way to Stattos? Corner, with around half an hour to go to kick-off. Was Steve unwell, or something? After all, it?s not every day you hear such an habitual monetary miser declare, in front of credible witnesses, that he doesn?t intend to get rid of his Albion shares! There?s got to be more to this than meets the eye: in fact, once I?ve heard more about this particular issue from every angle I can, plus other related stuff, this is a subject I particularly want to cover in this column, so expect to hear much more from me about this in the not-so-distant future.

But this was far from being the future: the present, right now, was bound up with Cardiff City, and what sort of outfit they intended to put out against us. Would they take it seriously? Come to think about it, would we? Well, as we both reached our seats, there was the nice little PA man giving out the respective starting line-ups. Cardiff, predictably enough, were going with both Hasselblaink and Fowler, plus that man Sinclair I mentioned at the beginning of this piece. It was at that moment I also learned that Greening was going to be sitting this one out, either in part, or wholly. It was at that precise moment, the first wisps of doubt began to pervade my puzzled little brain. Leave Greening out, of all people? Just what the pluck was going on?

Looking around me, it soon became perfectly obvious that whatever delights this game might have held for supporters, it hadn?t struck much of a chord with the majority. With around 15 minutes to go before the ?off?, there were still significant gaps to behold in both home ends, as well as the designated ?away? enclosure. That?s why I was so surprised when tonight?s attendance was announced as being somewhere in the region of 14,000, quite close to the end of the game.

Now let me make one thing perfectly clear: had anyone asked me before the start exactly how I thought the game would pan out, never in my most fevered nightmares could I have come up with the scenario that presented itself on a plate, tonight, that of us going behind after just three minutes on the clock. But that?s precisely what happened ? and yup, although we were still expressing severe reservations about that starting line-up at that time, we were as astonished as the next man.

No prizes for guessing who had perpetrated the damage, mind: that absolute pain in the butt Robbie Fowler, that?s who. And that?s what happens when you have inexperienced kids doing the marking: once that cross came hurtling in from the flank, you could just see what was going to happen ? and it did, with enough elbow room to accommodate a significant proportion of Bradfords? Bakery, too. One-nil to the visitors then, and their small but noisy contingent, tucked away in the corner of the Smethwick, just couldn?t believe their Welsh luck.

At least we did try and rectify things right after the restart: would have been a pretty peachy sort of equaliser from Miller, too, had not the whole shebang been ruled offside by the assistant, a smidgen before it crossed the bounds of the goal line. Not long after that, with around 5 on the clock, Miller had another go, with the end result, on that occasion, of the ball flashing narrowly over the crossbar. Better, Albion, better?..

But our vulnerability, caused primarily by those wholesale defensive changes I mentioned previously, was still there for all to see. What with Pele playing just in front of the back two, part of the 4-1-4-1 thing I mentioned earlier, our people didn?t seem altogether sure of what they were supposed to do. Confusion reigned, in heaps: Cardiff, realising that this could be their Christmas and birthday combined, surged forth in numbers reminiscent of Custer?s last cavalry charge. As for our lot, the best they could come up with, by way of reply, was a series of spectacular misses, mostly courtesy Mister Beattie.

Almost 22 minute gone, now, and Cardiff, having seen an Albion attack break down on the edge of the box, sprung straight back into lethal mode. So swiftly was that accomplished, I swear some spectators must have blinked and missed it. I certainly wasn?t expecting the visitors to attack as quickly as they did: no wonder we were caught napping at the back. What happened? Well, it was like this Yer Honner: the lad Hasselblaink got the ball about 25 yards short of the target, then let fly with an absolute rocket of a shot, the nature of which gave poor Deano absolutely no chance of stopping it. One minute the ball was in our half, danger seemingly minimal, the next? Well, let?s just say that none of this was included in the script, shall we?

Now two goals to the good, the Taffs in the away end celebrated like good ?uns. ?Que sera, sera, whatever will be, will be?.? they warbled, gushing forth with the well-known song that predicted an eventual Wembley appearance for them. ?Not with that lot, they?re not?? was my snarled, totally disdainful reply. And neither were we, come to think about it: conceding a penalty within minutes of going two behind isn?t exactly what one might call an ideal response, now, is it?

This time, the fault lay not at the hands of a defensive tyro, but those of newcomer Martis, who proceeded to chop City?s Ledley as he was about to pull the trigger. Up stepped Fowler, visibly salivating at the thought of burying the spot-kick in short order ? and that?s precisely what he did, sending the much put-upon Keily the wrong way as he did so.

?I?m going to wake up in a minute?..? That was my forlorn hope ? that all this had been but a figment of an overworked imagination, really, and with the coming of the dawn, so would wakeful reality finally triumph over slumbering fantasy. But it was to get even worse: just before the half-hour mark, it was Tininho?s turn to blunder, with a Cardiff cross steered right into the path of former Blackpool (and, much later, England) performer Sinclair. For someone as experienced as he, it was a task as easy as answering his own name, and before we knew it, almost, we were now four in arrears.

As everyone trotted back to the centre circle for the fourth time, you could almost touch the anger rapidly ascending from three sides of the ground. As for the fourth, their glee was almost palpable, too. Little wonder, that there then followed the sight, astronomically-rare, these days, of some very disheartened Albionites self-ejecting from their seats, ditto the exit, and from there, spilling straight onto the darkened streets outside. Meanwhile, amongst those hardy Smethwick souls that were still in situ, there was a spirited refrain of ?Give us our money back?.? Oh, whoops.

More chanting, from the Cardiff lot this time, when an attempt to pull back the deficit ended in mutual recriminations once the Chris Brunt effort whacked just over the angle ?twixt left-hand post and crossbar, of ?You?re not very good?.? Well, going by what we?d seen so far, it wouldn?t have been easy to sue for defamation, would it? Mind you, what was happening on the pitch prompted the chap sitting next door to us to get out a large packet of ovoid-shaped things, and stuff a couple inside his mouth like they were about to go out of fashion. ?Er ? they?re not suicide pills, are they?? was my polite query.

But I didn?t get a reply, purely and simply because that at long last, we?d finally managed to hoick back a small proportion of the total deficit. Miller was the lad with the brains to do so: at first, when his effort hit the post, I?d mentally switched off, thinking ?that?s the end of that one, then?, but this time, I was dead wrong. Instead of cannoning right out of play, as I?d expected, the ball rebounded back into the box once more, nicely placed for that man Miller to seize the chance with glee: giving his marker the slip, for once, he then gave the bladder one almighty whack, and from a fair few yards out, too. Result? We?d at least achieved partial respectability, which was something, I suppose.

From then until the end of the half, our time was mostly taken up by trying to grab another, the ubiquitous Miller being about the most proactive in that particular sphere, but it was to a subdued audience that our finest left the scene of the crime, come half-time. And it was while we were waiting for hostilities to be resumed once more that I spotted what some might have considered to be at the root of all our problems: the full moon, glowing with autumnal brightness, rising majestically above the roof of the Smethwick End stand.

Far be it from me to make the connection between lunar phases and the onset of madness, but it certainly seemed to me that there was lunacy of a very different kind working its way through our ranks that night. And profound Black Country anger in the seats, of a magnitude not heard at our place for an awfully long time, too. Given the complete pig?s ear we?d made of the opening half, so understandable; goddammit, I wasn?t exactly best pleased with what I?d seen. ?The Hawthorns Is A No-Smoking Stadium?, said the notice on the TV screen. And given the sheer amount of wispy stuff seemingly emanating from right out of the ears of the aforementioned furious supporters, and that no smoking veto, I reckoned it wouldn?t be too long before the cells situated at the police post in the Smethwick would be chock-full of disgruntled ?customers?.

Not long after that, the two sides emerged for business, once more. And., to no-one?s surprise in particular, we were making a couple of highly significant changes. Off went Pele and Chappy, and on came Greening and Tex, and with that, the entire nature of the game changed. Far from looking like a collection of dead-beats and no-hopers, the twin subbings seemed to have galvanised our finest into something resembling ?face-saving? mode.

Almost right from the restart, we were chasing them, the Miller-Tex combo almost producing dividends from one particular incursion into their box. But for their part, Cardiff weren?t entirely willing to undo all their hard work in the space of a few minutes? inattention: before too long had passed, they were keeping our defenders, poor Alby especially, running ragged trying to prevent them from making things even worse.

And the fact that Deano was now having a funny five minutes of his very own, didn?t help much either. On at least two occasions during that early period of the second half, he was seen to launch the ball into vertical flight, high above the expectant heads of defender and attacker alike. Made for a lot of nervous anticipation, waiting for Mother Gravity to finally claim what genuinely belonged to her, but at least it was a blue and white striped head that reached the bladder first, rather than one of predominantly Bluebird allegiance.

Although the chasm that separated the two sides was clearly beyond all reasonable hope of redemption by then, at least we did make some effort to try and rectify what had gone wrong. Miller was still chasing after the loose stuff like some demented Highland Terrier, Tex was inputting a smidgen of pure class into the proceedings, and Brunt was most unlucky not to get onto the scoresheet, too. Chances we had aplenty, so it?s particularly galling to realise that had we not stuffed things up so comprehensively right from the very start, we might well have managed to put them to the sword over the course of that second 45.

Sinclair prevented Beattie from getting on the scoresheet, fairly late on in the proceedings: in fact when the shot left his boot, it looked as good as in the back of the net, hence our disbelief when the former England player appeared from nowhere and kicked the ball right off the line, thereby foiling our lad?s best intentions in spectacular fashion. Brunt, too had more than his share of bad luck, having once more seen a fine effort stifled by the ubiquitous Sinclair.

With just 20 to go, Mogga then tried Plan B, which consisted of putting Shergar on in place of the unlucky (that half) Beattie. And he could have scored with what amounted to his first serious kick of the ball, the effort getting kicked off the line, yet again. Add to that Miller trying to change things courtesy what amounted to an all-out assault on their box, and you could see that our finest were now practically busting a gut trying to make the scoreline read a tad more respectably for us.

All this pressure did reap its own reward eventually, though: with around four minutes or so of normal time remaining, Miller was making a typically full-blown charge upon the Cardiff goalmouth, when in slid Cardiff?s Gunter, dispossessing our lad not only as quickly as you like, but illegally, too. With no hesitation whatsoever, the referee pointed straight to the spot. But who was going to take the thing? We needn?t have worried: up strode Miller once more, and without much in the way of further ado, then proceeded to bury it.

A much more respectable 2-4, then, but that deficit was still a task somewhat mountainous to accomplish. With the game ending not all that long afterwards, I suppose some might want to argue that as for as the second period was concerned, we?d beaten them out of sight ? but that initial Cardiff goal-fest, when they looked dangerous every single time they charged into our poorly-defended half, completely did for us. OK, we?re out of the competition, and Cardiff will probably get theirs in the next round, but it would have been nice to have made a little more progress, guys.

I reckon you lot owe us one, big-time, and a decent win against struggling QPR would go a long way towards making amends. And given that the guy who?s not only a descendant of Baggies pint-sized favourite Tommy Magee, but also George Bush?s speechwriter, will be visiting the place for that game, I would hope that we?d be able to decamp to The Vine with him afterwards, knowing full well that he?d obtained full monetary value from the full 90 minutes. We can only live in hope.

And Finally (well you?ve still got to laugh, haven?t you?)??.. One. And don?t blame me for this one, blame The Noise! A bloke goes into a chemist, and asks for assistance concerning the purchase of some condoms. ?I?m having ? er ? problems, finding ones to fit,? he explains to the bemused female assistant. Then, in whispered tones, ?Thick p***k, my dear??

Answered the dear lady: ?Well, put a Wolves shirt on it, then?..?

Two?? Yet another hormonally-charged revelation from young Carly, concerning some of Albion?s finest. Apparently, so ecstatic was she about Darren Carter planting a right old snorter on her lips, on one particular pre-match occasion outside the Halfords Lane players? car park, she dashed into the road with excitement ? only to be nearly flattened by a car. Which belonged to, of all people, Richard Chaplow!

Three?.. ?SPOOKY OR WOT? SLOT! Normally, I?m not in the slightest bit inclined towards the fey, but the Scunthorpe game photograph I saw in Monday morning?s Birmingham Post certainly sent cold shivers running right up and down my spine. It?s of the away end at Glanford Park, the subject is a BMW logo perched atop the stand roof ? and the name sitting proudly atop the thing? ?ASTLE?, believe it or not.

 - Glynis Wright

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