The Diary

07 October 2007: The Saints Go Stomping In As Jaded Baggies Wilt

Back in the days when Adam was a lad, and Dingles were much more civilised people than they are now, there used to appear in the national newspapers a strip cartoon advert for a well-known so-called ?health drink?, in which wifey, bad-tempered at not getting enough on a regular basis ? sleep, dear Baggie people, sleep! Heaven forfend I sneakily allude to matters of the flesh, this is the 1950?s, remember? - gets very crabby with her other half, who comes home from work, not to a smiling and dutiful wife, but to find the children running riot and no dinner on the table as soon as his foot crosses the threshold. Because the concept of women?s lib still has to percolate through those twitchy lace curtains of 50?s suburbia, hubby threatens to leave her unless she quickly sees the errors of her ways and become a more sweet-tempered and dutiful wife.

In those days, divorce was a much more serious matter than it is now, a real neighbourhood scandal for those women cast from the marital nest, and the cartoon reflected that. Close-up of wifey, hands pressed to cheeks, with horror-struck expression blighting her face, and a little speech bubble emanating from the top of her pretty little head ? ?THINKS?.. My husband is angry because I am not a good wife and mother, what shall I do?...?

So there she is, in the next frame, seeing the old GP, who does the ?glasses-balanced-on-the-end ?of-the-nose? thing, finger wagging furiously, condescension dripping from every pore. ?My dear, the answer is simple. You have what we doctors call ?Night Starvation? and it is because you are not getting the right kind of sleep that you are too tired to be sweet and loving on your husband?s return from a hard day at the office. What you must do, my dear, is drink a cup of Horlicks every night, just before you go to bed, and your energy and vitality will return in no time??

Cut to final frame, with smiling hubbie hugging wifey, now radiant and sparkling eyed, and declaring to her invisible audience: ?Thanks to you, Horlicks, for saving my marriage, my night starvation has gone completely, and hubby says I?m a completely new woman!...?

So what has that little cameo of social and cultural history got to do with our favourite football team?s antics on the South Coast, then? Easy, that one. In both cases, 1950?s housewife, and 21st century Baggies player, chronic tiredness plays a pretty large role in precipitating the manifold problems that beset both of them, and with an equally-damaging possible outcome. Seriously. No kid. A constant footballing diet of two and three games per week gets you like that: ground down, browbeaten, demoralised and unpleasant to know, in the end.

Today, we looked downright knackered, jaded, washed out, call it what you will. Invoke ?Night Starvation?, even, if you feel like it, although I can?t see our lot taking too kindly to the ingestion of a steaming mug of malt-flavour milk drink every single time they feel constrained to head for their pits. We were two, possibly three, yards off our normal predatory pace, as slow as cold molasses to go for balls we would normally secure via seeming electromagnetic attraction, or so it appeared last Sunday, when everything was firing on all four cylinders and QPR were reduced to shreds by our strikeforce. It?s all quite strange, really: our finest only into early October, and looking completely shattered already? Something tells me we?re going to really need that fortnight?s break from the relative grind of the Championship, the one that?s coming up very soon indeed.

Our very own Saint Mary?s story began around nine that morning, when we joined an already-impressive clutch of parked cars behind the Tom Silk Building to trip the light fantastic with Baggies Travel, and friends, by coach. A shame that the great distances involved in the Southampton trip seemed to put the mockers on any stray Baggies who might have attended normally, but we still seemed to have a pretty healthy away following champing at the bit out there. And we?d need them, that?s for sure. .

As per usual there were the coaches, on the East Stand car park, their bright orange and red livery making a startling contrast with the navy blue and white striped hues of their soon-to-be passengers, on the one hand, and the distinctly gloomy overcast on the other. Dull as ditchwater: time to get on board, then, and grab a few seats for our party. As we?d arrived early, it was quite some time before The Fart arrived to take our stilecards, plus the necessary amount of cash.

In actual fact, he?d been waiting patiently outside the Ticket Office for quite some time, waiting for the place to open. Two hours, in fact, but it ensured he was second in the queue for his Colchester ticket etc. Commented our chum, as he made to sit down on the seat saved for him, ?The people in there look at you as if you?ve gone daft if you offer them money?..? Oh, dear! Time also to give our wrinkly chum a large amount of wonga, along with strict instructions to purchase tickets for the Watford bash, and coach travel, too, while we were away in the darkest wilds of Herefordshire, next week.

?Gosh! This must be the intellectual coach!? That was my other half?s astonished exclamation as he proceeded down the aisle of Coach Number Four, and clocked a few of its occupants. Just in front of the pair of seats we?d made our own sat Phil, the blind Baggie we?d known for years, who travels just about everywhere you can think of with our lot, and a few places we couldn?t as well. Sitting next to him was his lad, who does all the ?commentating? for him. And, in the seat to the right of the aisle, sat yet another chum of ours, Martin Grange, whom we?d known for absolute yonks. Ah, sweet mystery of life!

Off we went, only a few minutes later than advertised. And, as we left the M40 to steam down the A34, past Oxford, the sun, which had been a most reluctant fellow-traveller until now, suddenly decided to make a dramatic entrance into our little world. One small bit of drama first, though: the sight of a huge billowing oily-black plume of smoke, several miles ahead. Was it a farmer being naughty and burning stubble, in defiance of all the EEC directives on the subject? Er ? nope, just what was one white van, now most certainly NOT white, and, as we got nearer, it was possible to discern it was blazing like the clappers. No wonder the chap I can only assume was the owner had shifted quite some way away to phone the emergency services. But what really astonished me, as we passed the blazing wreck, was the heat, which I could discern quite easily through the window, despite being in the middle carriageway and the vehicle stuck about 20 yards away on the hard shoulder. Almost unbearable, it was, even at that sort of distance. Thank goodness there seemed to be no one trapped inside the thing: had there been, they would sure have been a goner by then.

Once we?d taken in that little bit of drama, the coach settled down to its normal turpitude once more. But ?Im Indoors had other ideas, and none of ?em involving turpitude in any shape or form. What gave him much impetus for the furtherance of mischief was the sight of The Fart in his seat, snoring like a good ?un, mouth open to such an extent, with a bit of luck in the shape of a passing theatre chappie, even the famous Great White Shark in Jaws might have had much difficulty getting work in that part of Oxfordshire thereafter.

By now, I knew precisely how my other half?s mind worked, and I wasn?t to be disappointed. Within a matter of seconds, before you could say ?Alexander Graham Bell? even, out came the old mobile phone ? followed, shortly after that, by the ?click? of the shutter doing its thing, and an image of The Fart?s ugly mush being kept for posterity. Someone, soon, was going to get that ghastly image, transmitted to their mobiles by very naughty hubby, and once the penny finally dropped, I almost started feeling sorry for them.

From a position of levity to discussion of something that could truly have enormous implications for our football club, now, and that concerned the situation regarding Jeremy Peace, and his publicly-declared intent of buying up more Albion shares. As I propose discussing this either tomorrow or later in the week, I?ll simply say that as a shareholder myself, I am very concerned as to what the ulterior motive is behind our chairman?s actions in trying to get hold of these shares. As per the terms of the offer to buy up shares belonging to minor shareholders, it would seem that by doing so, and pricing them so cheaply, our chairman has drastically undervalued the football club?s assets. Is the intention to buy these shares up cheaply now, then once the club has gained promotion and established itself in the top flight, will the club then be sold to someone else at what would be a considerable profit? More about this soon.

There?s one good thing about trying to put the world to rights, on the move ? and that means your journey time will pass in no time flat. And so it was proved today, as we rolled through the pleasant suburbs of the city, and towards the ground itself. Why, we even passed a cast-iron bridge, with a plaque displaying the manufacturer?s name quite prominent: what a huge delight it was, then, when we realised that the firm that put the bridge together in the first place, back in 1908, was based in West Bromwich, believe it or not!

Not long after that, we were at St. Mary?s ? but with a good two and a half hours to kill? Oh, sod it: there had to be a pub around here, surely? And, sure enough, there was. The Chapel Arms, about half a mile from the ground, and, thanks to the recent anti-smoking legislation becoming law, equipped with a modest outdoor smoking area, too. So, off we all toddled, Phil, his mate and we two, finishing up in that boozer, eventually ? and because His Nibs didn?t have to worry about driving home after the game, that meant he could survey the world as we knew it, back then, with complete impunity.

It sure was pleasant to sit out in the autumn sun, feeling the warmth of the last of its rays on my face. As for The Fart, once he?d discovered that they were screening Man United versus Wigan inside, that was him taken care of for the next hour or so. There?s nothing quite like a decent session in a pub to whet one?s appetite for the ordeal to come, is there?. And nothing quite like lazily batting the breeze about this and that, with the autumn leaves slowly spiralling down, and carpeting the ground under one?s feet, and the expectant buzz all around that you?ll find in supporters anticipating their side indubitably having the players to turn the other lot over in no uncertain terms. Ooops!

Come half-two, it was time to move back to the ground: as ?Im Indoors so pertinently pointed out, ?All these red and white shirts remind me too bloody much of Stoke?.? so before the poor chap developed a ?thousand-yard stare? or similar symptoms of severe trauma, having left The Fart quite happily watching Ferguson?s mob demolishing their near-neighbours, off we toddled in the other direction. And another happy thought, as we left the Chapel Arms: no problem there with drinking out of doors. Lots of rozzers around, but no hassle. Ditto home and away supporters mixing and mingling quite happily, both inside and out, and on the pavement, even. Snarled His Nibs, ?If they can do it here without any trouble, why can?t they adopt similar measures everywhere else?

The game? The best bit, from my point of view, was when they played Teenage Kicks by The Undertones, just before both sides came out, Fergal Sharkey?s familiar castrato-vibrato tones ululating all around the ground, the entire sound not too dissimilar to that of a chain-saw trying to slice through a particularly stubborn piece of wood. Even so, I loved it when it first came out, back in the late seventies, and I still love it to bits now. I?ve always had a soft spot for pop that sounds so raw, so elemental, you always wonder whether the artist has purloined someone?s bedroom or bathroom to put the recording together. Buddy Holly?s Peggy Sue is another classic example of the genre, so simply executed, it?s a joy to the ear, but Saturday definitely belonged to Fergal, scorched goolies, and all.

And that, my friends, marked the point at which everything started to go downhill with the rapidity of a 40-ton juggernaut with the brake-pipes severed. Suffice it to say that we were never at the races, despite having dropped Beattie and Morrison for this one, their replacements being Gera and Brunt. For the first ten minutes of the opening half, we were almost permanently camped in our own, unable to clear our lines properly, and providing Southampton with all the impetus they needed to launch a series of savage bombardments of our goalmouth. And didn?t you just know it, that with around 15 minutes gone, an ex-Bluenose, Stern John, would pop up to apply the coup de grace in unmerciful style, his first ever successful strike for the South Coast mob, from deep in our box?

Baggie looked at Baggie in complete bewilderment. This warn?t in the cowin? script, wor it, aer kid! But worse was to come around six minutes further down the line, when a 30-yard Saints shot masquerading as an Exocet strike from the newly-repaired Skacel streaked pasat Kiely as if he wasn?t there. The score? 2-0. Our reaction in that away end? Disbelief, complete and utter.

But this game would quickly provide yet another unexpected twist. Saints, you see, have a defence about as fragile as Henry Cooper?s jawbone. They can score them with about as much ease as we can, but they can also concede ?em, too.

By dint of an enormous amount of spadework applied to try and repair the damage, we started to play, at long last. With just under a quarter of an hour to go of the half, the ball was crossed, courtesy of Brunt, and in a bit of a tangle of players, Koren managed to toe-poke it over the line. Nope, they couldn?t defend, could they?

Following that successful strike, we seemed to be cooking on gas, at long last. Two more bloodcurdling efforts as the close of the half drew nearer, unsuccessful ones, ?tis true, but both close, bloody close, in fact. Well, Mogga must have thought in similar terms, because, come the break, he decided to effect a personnel change, Tex being the lad to head for the shower, and Shergar taking his place at the start of the second sitting instead.

But Saints, having had their two goal lead cut to one, were intent upon turning this one into a three-pointer, if it was the last thing they did. Once more, during those fraught opening minutes, poor Kiely had to endure what amounted to a blitz waged against his goal by the home side. Time and time again, shots rained in from all directions. How come we couldn?t keep them out? Well, as I?ve said before, the worst thing you can do when dealing with a side like theirs is gift them possession, like we did on occasions far too frequent to mention, and the root cause of this laxity being plain ornery fatigue.

But despite all that Saints pressure, it was Albion that hit the net, not them. This one was also a Koren effort, set up by young Miller, so all Mister K had to do was give the thing the merest of toe-pokes over the line. Suddenly, and very much against the run of play, we were back in it again. 2-2, all square.

But our return to parity didn?t last very long, either. Once more, it was Stern John who perpetrated the damage, following yet another goalmouth scramble that bore far more resemblance to one of those egg-rolling competitions you see in those there hills around Easter time than the sharp application of foot to ball from close range. And it could easily have been more for the newly-rampant Saints, who managed to elude Kiely?s attentions, only to see the effort miss the post by the thickness of a layer of paint, almost.

Despite chucking two more fresh faces into the arena, Beattie and Morrison for Gera and Brunt, some 15 minutes before the end, our doom was upon us, and we knew it. Of the two sides, it was becoming abundantly clear that if anyone was going to get another, the scorer would undoubtedly be wearing a red and white striped shirt. Again, most of this down to a combination of sheer carelessness, and fatigue: once Saints surged forward, not believing their luck, probably, but well and truly into their stride, there was very little out there to stop them. Oh, brother. Back to the drawing-board, Tony?

And it didn?t finish with the final whistle. Thanks to some sort of verbal altercation with their lot, it was ages before we could get out of the ground, even ? and when we finally returned to our vehicle, and someone jogged the driver?s memory to put on the football news, it was to hear that bloody Stoke City had somehow managed to squirm into fourth place in the table. My ears pricked up at that: WHAAAAT?

?Here,? said I, continuing, once I?d got shot of my coat. ?Who was it said cheats never prosper??

?Don?t worry,? said ?Im Indoors, ?They won?t keep it up, they can?t??? Want to bet? And still the radio carried on, trilling about ?7 games undefeated for Stoke, NOT the most attractive of sides?.? Mind you, once that piece of uncomfortable information left the broadcaster?s mike, it was then taken up by a goodly number of the coach?s Baggie occupants, all of whom chorused "YOU CAN SAY THAT AGAIN!"

Thoughts? What I found particularly hard to accept about this defeat was the fact that prior to this, we?d been regarded as very much the more successful side of the two. Saints? They thoroughly deserved the win: it didn?t escape my notice either that this morning, they were 17th in the table, and looking about ready for the corporation dust cart, on paper. And on paper, we should have wiped the floor with them, but notably didn?t.

If today was anything to go by, then someone got their homework badly wrong. Far from being mid-table mediocrity merchants, Saints genuinely looked the part, and once they get properly into their stride, it could well be that they?ll be giving quite a few of the so-called promotion sides in this division more than a little grief before the year?s out. The worst thing you can do with this lot is treat them with contempt, because, just like a mouthful of raw pickled onion, they?ll be back in your face, sooner or later.

Once more, we do have to ask ourselves just how much bearing the continued absence of Kev Phillips had upon our ability to get anything from this game, and whether we have as much strength in depth as we would like to think we do. As I said earlier, as a whole, we were very much off our pace, tired, jaded, weary, even ? and it showed. Southampton hit us with a couple of sucker punches pretty quickly, something that was most certainly not in the script, judging by the stunned silence that prevailed in the away end, after Saints had hit home. One man may not make a side, but his inclusion in it can sometimes go an awful way towards that being the case.

And Finally?.. Hands up all those who would like to get to their home games by a truly ?alternative? method of transportation. You would? Hokay, then ? this one?s for you. Apparently, some genius Baggie or other has come up with the spiffing wheeze of taking Baggies to the ball by ? er, wait for it! ? CANAL BARGE!

The scheme, which was touted in one of the local papers yesterday, proposes a picking-up point by The Mailbox, in Brum, of course, then a journey time of approximately an hour to The Hawthorns, with ample beer supplies laid on to make the whole enterprise an even more pleasant way of getting to games. Obviously, when I hear more details, I?ll shove ?em on here, but it certainly sounds a rather civilised way of making one?s way to The Shrine. Anything?s got to be better than a smelly old car, hasn?t it? Why, one never knows, I might even be tempted to take a trip into Brum on a matchday, just to try the service out for myself!

 - Glynis Wright

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