The Diary

04 October 2007: Albion, Stoke, Both Share The Points, But Football Is The Real Loser.

(THE PROLOGUE??) Apologies if this piece seems a tad repetitive, as far as the serial misdemeanours of Stoke are concerned. It?s just that I was so incensed by what I?d seen tonight, I simply had to let off steam by consigning all my thoughts on the subject to bytes and megabytes. As for tonight?s visitors, if someone went and dropped a nuclear device on the Britannia tonight, it wouldn?t be a moment too soon, for me?..

Well, everyone and their rich uncle came to the Hawthorns tonight, knowing full well what Stoke would try to do, but not even the most hard-bitten and/or cynical Baggie could have predicted what kind of contemptuous travesty of the beautiful game they could convert this one into, aided and abetted by a referee worse than useless in keeping the lid on Stoke?s serial eye-watering excesses, of which there were many.

Having been around just long enough to witness yet another side with similar unsporting ideas gain success in similar fashion, the bone-jarring Don Revie Leeds outfit of the sixties and early seventies, I?d thought I?d seen just about every trick in the book possible perpetrated upon our players, both past and present, over the years ? but, I have to admit it, this current Tony Pulis outfit had the antics of the late Billy Bremner And Co. completely licked tonight. So-called ?gamesmanship?? Were the footballing authorities ever to create a GCSE in how to spoil the beautiful game for everyone watching, then Tony Pulis and his thuggish chums would be getting A* grades every single time, no bother.

When it came to the commission of a multiplicity of cynical, professional fouls, blatant time-wasting tactics, constant intimidation of a frankly naive referee, who ended up completely out of his depth tonight ? on a night that so badly needed a match official genuinely possessive of a cast-iron will, in order to oversee events from a position of strength, then make important decisions accordingly, but instead, what we got was the precise opposite ? then Stoke should surely be awarded medals galore for their achievements in this particular field, come the end of the season.

The unfortunate, not to mention downright incompetent Mr. Oliver, should either hang up his whistle for good now, or get lessons from someone far more experienced at controlling both games and sides such as these, and quick. If he doesn?t, he won?t remain on the League list for long. Tonight showed him to be an utterly weak man who, following a succession of disgracefully contrived incidents cynically calculated to pull the wool right over his very eyes, lost it completely. We knew it, our players knew it, both gaffers knew it, hence the high degree of frustrated anger shown by tonight?s crowd.

Pulis must have thought his luck was really in, early on, once his side had tentatively tested the water, imposing some crude but highly effective mob psychology upon the guy before finding it astonishingly congenial to bathe in. I?d give my right arm to read tonight?s assessors? report, I really would. They are a complete and utter disgrace to the game, are Stoke, no doubt about it.

Were I a supporter, and having to watch THAT kind of ugly gore-fest every week, I?d be raising several kinds of hell with the club, via the local media, about ?value for money? and other related issues, not to mention the sheer ham-fisted crudity of it all. Supporters might well place all manner of illegality on their personal ?wish lists? for the clubs they support, but deep down, they all want to leave grounds feeling they?ve been entertained, which was most certainly not the case for either side, tonight.

But we shouldn?t lay all the blame for tonight?s frustrating turn of events entirely at Stoke?s cheesy feet, mind. Before Stoke?s Shawcross stuck the ball in the back of the net, with just 28 minutes of the first half gone, we should have been in front long before then. That?s where we were missing the vast store of goalscoring experience, not to mention sheer nuisance-value, carefully assimilated, over the course of season after long season, by the currently sidelined Kev Phillips. As things stood, our equaliser was also a bit of a mess, the ball pinging right around their box for a time, before finally being put away by the lad Barnett, but only after two or three of our finest had tried to propel the ball on its way goalwards, first.

Phillips?s understudy, Beattie, was a complete and utter flop up front, having had one of the worst games I?ve ever seen him play, tonight, thus far this term ? a real ?mare? in other words. It was The Bloke In Front Of Me who finally hit the nail right on the head, midway through the first half, gleefully awarding him the mocking appellation of ?The new John Hartson?! No doubt about it at all: Beattie has to shape up or ship out ? and fast. It?s not something of which I would normally approve, this savage kind of knee-jerk judgment and slaughter of a player currently having a right old rotten time of it, but someone has to make him realise a few home truths.

But he shouldn?t have to shoulder all of the blame for our dilatory performance in their six-yard area, either. Ishmael Miller also missed an absolute sackful of scoring chances throughout the entire 90 minutes. Most maddening of all was his shocking complete and utter lapse of concentration, just moments before the final whistle: with the lad one-on-one with the City keeper, and not a Stoke defender within light-years of the ball, you would have thought there could only be one possible ending written for the script unfolding before our very eyes. I would have bet serious money on him finding the job of writing his own name a darned sight harder, in fact, so no wonder I was cursing richly, just seconds later.

By rights, the lad should have drilled a hole right through both keeper and net there and then, the ball?s sheer momentum and mass then taking it clean through the back of the Brummie, straight over the Brummie Road behind, scaring the wits right out of the night shift, grafting away like stink in Bradfords sodding bakery, before coming to rest, finally, in their wrapping department, or similar. Had that one gone in, then justice would surely have been done, and in heaps, too, but it just wasn?t to be, sadly.

And I wasn?t the only one possessing such a poor opinion of our visitors: after the final whistle, when we finally got to our car, and tuned the radio to BBC WM, the airwaves were positively buzzing, thanks to various remarks made, on air, by their commentators, plus with additional comments made by phone-in people, who?d actually seen the match, and all concerning the sheer potential for unbridled GBH shown by that X-rated Stoke side, tonight. And, what?s more, those same comments managed to take the form of an awful lot of home truths aimed at both the Potters, and their noisy supporters. Let?s not beat about the bush, here: they were a complete and utter disgrace to the beautiful game, tonight: the sooner we can somehow contrive to lose them from this division, the better for football it would be, methinks.

What a contrast our game was to the happy scenes in the Hawthorns pub, beforehand. By the time we got there, the place was filling up fast, but The Noise and Carly had both done their jobs well. Our places at our fave table were there for us, as anticipated. There was one notable absentee from the proceedings, mind, and that was young Bethany. Something to do with one of her mates, apparently, but of the rest, I haven?t the slightest clue what?s what.

It was a good indicator of just how seriously The Noise was taking tonight?s game, him sitting there with an awfully grim expression splashed right across his ugly mug. Down here, Stoke may come and Stoke may go, but we go on forever: with Martin, though, the arrival of The Potties is tantamount to an immediate declaration of war. Having been really wound up by the City faction normally resident at The Noise?s place of work earlier that day, nothing but a home win achieved in the most embarrassing of manners for City would do ? and it showed. There was an enormity of expectation lurking in that cavernous skull of his, all right. How did I know? Easy, he wasn?t nattering his usual ten to the dozen, that?s how!

Mind you, it always helps to have a spy in the enemy camp. Apparently, the lad Pericard, of whom I made mention yesterday, was most discomfited by his recent prison sentence. During his time inside, a bloke in the next cell went and hung himself, apparently. Much wailing, moaning and gnashing of teeth from the lad, as reported in their local rag, The Sentinel.

Even Carly was in a right old strop ? and having heard the sordid details, so would I. Apparently, the poor lass got her first French essay back this week ? and was absolutely tamping to discover that she?d missed an ?A? grade by a factor of just two measly marks, and those dropped for what sounded, quite frankly, trifling issues. It being a French essay, it wouldn?t have surprised me at all to hear her shouting ?Merde!? to every passing Baggies supporter in the place, tonight.

As the evening advanced, queues at the bar grew longer - and longer, and longer. Pre-match anaesthesia? Too bloody right: Albion supporters didn?t need the services of some idiot local radio commentator to tell them just how apprehensive they were feeling about the game, by then.

Enter, stage left, The Fart, who had clearly read my recent remarks about the capacious interior of his bag, pointing out he?d left the thing at home, tonight. Bugger. But that wasn?t the reason for him having an animated conversation with The Noise: no sirree, his personal bone of contention ? well it was, before the game started! ? the huge amount of antipathy he felt towards the sacked Jose Mourhino, whom he variously labelled ?cynical? and a serial teller of porkies. Mind you, what are his true feelings, now he?s seen precisely how low Stoke could stoop, having been given a pretty decent chance to do so? It was also then that The Noise stated his aim of travelling with us to Watford, when we play them, a few weeks hence. It would seem that his recent trip to Scunny finally reawakened something lurking deep within the cavernous recesses of his brain: well, given that this one?s already shaping up to be something of a humdinger on paper, by the time we come to play the game, their ground should be bubbling away like a cauldron containing naught but concentrated sulphuric acid.

And that wasn?t all. Thanks to The Noise, we?ve now heard of the miscellaneous torments and travails suffered by former GD reader and contributor, and Brummie Road Ender extraordinaire, Kev Powell, poor lad. As some of you may know, Kev is a pop singer by trade, and currently fronting a group that really is, to use the familiar expression, ?big in Japan?. As is normal for this time of year, his band is currently beavering away on the ?live gig? circuit, in Exeter ? and that forms the basis of my little tale. On the face of it, last Sunday?s problem was simple for Kev. How could he rest up properly after the previous night?s gig, then belt hell for leather in the direction of The Black Country, so as to see the QPR game, then belt back, arriving nicely in time for him to complete whatever ritual it is such groups perform on the stage, prior to the gig in question?

Fair play to the guy, mind. Despite all the many constraints on his time, and his constant need to rehearse, Kev still managed to make our game. It was one hell of a battle, apparently, Kev racing up the M5 at a rate of knots, arriving very close to the start, but eventually getting in and watching the game, almost to the end, then racing back at near warp-speed, nicely in time to take to the stage at a live venue, somewhere in that lovely Devon city. Makes me blood run cold to think of it!

By the time we?d left the pub, darkness had descended over much of the Black Country. Not that we needed any form of lighting aid to commune with the likes of Carly and Bethany, mind. Time now for something a lot more serious: heading on down to Anoraks Corner, from where the sound of skull-bound cogs could be heard grinding merrily away. It was while we were being updated with the latest on the whereabouts of various ex-Baggies, we suddenly bumped into John Homer, doing his peripatetic best to drum up support, and dashing here and there, finally ending up in a right old tizz as a direst result of his considerable mental exertions. Before he departed, though, we did hear that the Vilades had both enjoyed their tour of the Black Country museum enormously, arriving not long after the museum opened, then, after being conducted around by the Gornal Cat Strangler himself (for more on the feline front, see below), departing around half-three in the afternoon.

And from there, it was just a mere bagatelle to enter the ground itself. Once inside, I had a little pre-match chinwag with poor Jean Homer, who is currently being driven completely frantic by the various doings of her moggie, who rejoices in the unfortunate name of ?Zoltan?. This time, the problem revolved around spanking-new double-glazing, all of which had recently been installed in the Homer household. Or, more to the point, the sealant strips used on those windows. Good old Zoltan: it didn?t take him long to pull the whole lot off the windows: about fourteen hours, according to Jean. It?s with good reason that John?s best ?strangling fingers? are twitching like good ?uns, right now!

All that bonhomie, and just before what would undoubtedly be one of the most fraught games we?d ever play in that division, this season. No wonder everything went down the pan the first moment both sides stepped onto the Hawthorns turf. And I do mean ?everything?: both my pens, first-choice and back-up, went on the blink midway through the second half. Just about indicative of our luck, tonight, mine and theirs.

The referee, Stoke?s cynicism, and what our supporters thought of it all, I?ve covered already. Suffice to say it came as no great surprise to either of us to see Stoke take the lead, with 28 minutes gone. Having seen their people kick ours so high into the firmament, the local Air Traffic Control was getting worried, the scenario of last season was undoubtedly repeating itself. Thanks to the City intimidatory tactics I?ve described, our chances of a comeback looked increasingly slim, the longer the game went on. To counter this, we tried a much-needed change in the second half, Hoefkens and Beattie both taken off around the 65th minute, with Gera and Brunt replacing them both, and Shergar replacing Tex with 12 just minutes remaining to the end.

And it seemed that the introduction of fresh legs was one of Mogga?s better ideas. Not long afterwards, having seen us win corner after corner, and not get anywhere: thanks to the twin combination of Stoke packing their half, and employing some pretty ugly defensive tactics as well, they still remained in the lead. Unsurprisingly, the crowd were getting even more restless with every single minute that elapsed by that time ? and once more, just after the clock hit the 70 minute mark, Albion were given yet another free-kick, this time, pretty close to the box.

It was to be one of Tex?s last acts in this game ? and what a telling contribution it was. Over went the ball, to the far post, and up popped Our Zoltan, trying like stink to knock it down. That he did, and no sooner had he done so, in barged Barnett, who somehow managed to scramble the ball over the line. Not pretty or clever, by any means ? but the main thing is that no matter what the means, they all count in the end. At least our late point-saver had the additional bonus of those Stokies shutting the hell up for a while.

And, as I intimated earlier, we could have actually gone on and won it. With only a matter of a minute or so to go, Ishmael Miller had them cold. Put through courtesy of a beauty of a ball by Koren, and just a few yards out, with only their keeper (who played an absolute blinder, that half, by the way) to beat ? and he only goes and stuffs it up completely, the ball ending up in the keeper?s loving arms, rather than the back of the net! Now you know why I?m currently creating yet more hollow dents in the living-room wall, to add to the one put there by my disbelieving nut, some two or three days previously!

And Finally?.. One. Having been tipped off by Sutton Branch Secretary Amanda Miles about her forthcoming appearance on Anne Robinson?s ?The Weakest Link?, we were given to understand that Monday was to have been the Great Day. Unfortunately, for reasons we still don?t rightly understand, come the actual day, we completely forgot! We did realise, eventually, and duly switched channels the very moment the little light bulb in our heads lit up, but by the time we got there, it seemed that Amanda?s moment of glory had come and gone. Four people still left in the game, but none of them our little chum, sadly.

?Oh bugger?.? we said, and other words to that effect ? but stay thy beating hearts, dear readers! About two days later, we received an email from the gal in question to say that the Beeb had rang her early that Monday morning to say that they were going to change the running order of the shows already in the can, which effectively meant that the world was still waiting to see the lass in action, and with it, upholding the good name of West Bromwich Albion on the box!

Two? After Sunday?s game, when The Noise was driving up Halfords Lane, Carly spotted some of our players walking the other way, and as their car could only proceed at Walking pace, if that, she gave Bethany strict instructions to dive out of the vehicle as quick as her legs would take her, and grab some signatures as quick as lightning.

It was while she was telling Bethany what to do that she spotted yet another group, also walking in the same direction, and unlike our own lot, absolutely dripping with bling of the most ostentatious sort. Said Carly to her dad: ?They look fit?? (translation: ?I don?t half fancy them?). Said world-weary Pater: ?They look like bloody gangsters to me?.?

Close, Mister Noise, but not too close, sadly. It turned out that, far from being criminals, one of their number was Manchester City player Micah Richards, and the rest either City trainees, or members of their reserve side. The reason they were slumming it at our place? To watch Ishmael Miller strut his stuff at The Hawthorns, that?s why!

Three?. Songs About Felines, Part One. (This example to be sung to the tune of ?Three Coins In The Fountain?) ?Our cat?s got a fountain, somewhere in the living-room?.? Jean Homer?s attempt to introduce a little levity into the proceedings, shortly before the start of tonight?s game!

 - Glynis Wright

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