The Diary

23 October 2007: Two Games, Several Bookshops, And An Edgar Street 'Funeral'!

?Absence Makes The Heart Grow Fonder?? ?Long time, no see?? Or is my reappearance on this site simply more a case of ?Oh, no ? not again?? Discuss. Alternatively, you can merely read and inwardly digest my doings around the periphery of what we old-timers once called the Fourth Division, as per Chester?s Bumpers Lane bijou residence, versus Hereford United, and, some eight days further down the line, at Edgar Street, where all the genuine bovine-lovers hang out, once more.

Chester? There was an Albion connection to note there, albeit a slight one. How many of you remember Bobby Williamson, a Hawthorns regular during the cost-cutting Ron Saunders (unwelcome attention from the latter?s Alsatian dog optional) 1980?s? Just in case you?d been losing sleep for several nights in succession wondering what had happened to him ? well, now you know. He?s their gaffer.

The Deva Stadium was just as we remembered it around Easter, 1993, when those nice chappies there, thoughts of jingling pound coins looming largely in their heads, kindly loaned us all three sides, moving their own people wholesale simply to accommodate our enormous away-travelling army. And, while we?re on the subject of ?memories?, guess who was the referee for this particular soiree? A certain Mister Oliver, who came very much to the attention of Albion supporters during the course of our disastrous evening meeting with Stoke City, would you believe?

Having travelled up much earlier by car, we?d arranged it so as to have some liquid refreshment by a riverside pub in the city, then travelled to the ground nicely in time to meet the Hereford away contingent, travelling by coach. So well did we time it, in fact, just moments after our arrival outside the away end, up rolled the coaches.

First to alight were Nick Brade and his mum (Marion is getting better after her stroke, apparently, but it will be a slow job, sadly): of the former, there is a tale to tell. He has a bad back, but with considerably more intestinal fortitude than this column, he?s gone in for some pretty unorthodox treatment, mostly involving someone who actually ?walks? all over his spine in order to cure the condition! No ? and I wouldn?t fancy it either.

Loved the safety message, from what sounded suspiciously like the club?s resident undertaker. So sombre was the delivery ? think ?bloke standing over his mother?s open grave?, and you?ve just about got it ? you half-expected to hear him finish his spiel by adding: ?Oh, by the way ? my missus has left home and taken the kids, the dog got run over, and my house got repossessed today?.?

The home lot seemed pretty vocal, as did the occupants of the away end. And rightly so, this one being more or less a top of the table jobbie for both sides. Oh, and it was about as close to a local derby as Hereford could aspire to (look at the map, and you?ll get my point immediately).

No sooner had the game kicked off, that Hereford goal came under almost constant siege, and it wasn?t long before The Bulls? keeper (who is far better than Fourth Division status, by the way) having to be at his talented best to keep out the home side?s determined and sustained onslaught upon his peace of mind. About ten minutes before the break, it seemed that the elegant, lovely and talentless Mister Oliver had struck again: the visitors had the ball on the goal line, over went the cross ? and a great cry of ?HANDBALL!? ascended from the away end, just behind the goal. Was it a penalty? Well, everyone in the vicinity at that time maintained that the shout was more than justified ? and given the total Horlicks that Mister Oliver made of our own game, I?m somewhat inclined to believe them.

It was around that time we first learned that Norwich City had signed John Hartson, on a three-month loan spell, and therefore no longer our responsibility. Champagne in Mogga?s office, I wonder? Or, more to the point, had Delia been at the cooking sherry in a big way when the deal was first mooted at Boardroom level, I wonder? And another half-time pronouncement, but not particularly suffused with the crack of doom, thank goodness. Apparently, Cyrille Regis was in the crowd, somewhere, the reason for the name-check being, of course, that Cyrille ended his playing career with the Deeside club.

Time for the second half, now, and I have to say that Chester didn?t half impress me, their highly-effective runs down the flanks, combined with some outstanding diagonal passing, causing Hereford no end of trouble. As for the visitors, yes, they had been under the cosh at the start, but come the break, they?d smelt the coffee sufficiently enough to manage to create some good chances of their own. Their weak spot? One of their strikers, who seemed no too good at holding up the ball, then laying it off for others. Strange, that, as he was built like the proverbial brick outhouse, and was certainly capable of brushing away resistance without the expenditure of too much energy on his part.

Then, 13 minutes into the half, disaster struck for the Bulls, when Simon Yeo, only recently joined the fray, lashed one in for Chester. Personally I reckon the Bulls had it coming in spades: their marking was absolutely shocking, enabling the villain of the piece to pick his spot at leisure. By way of response, the Bulls brought on ex-Ram Lionel Ainsworth ? and Chester didn?t exactly enjoy the experience: based on the right, he ran ?em ragged, his devotion to duty finally paying off when he supplied the ammo for Theo Robinson to strike oil about ten minutes from the end. A fair result, I?d say.

The best bit, though, was getting from Chester down to Herefordshire, where we have our little ?bolt-hole?. Normally, and with little traffic around at that time of night, it should have taken around two hours, but we hadn?t reckoned with the devious fiendishness of the Highways Agency, had we? They?d closed the main drag just short of Shewsbury, which meant following their diversion ? and boy, what a diversion it was, too. By the time we arrived at our destination, it was gone one in the morning, so our neighbours couldn?t have been best pleased by all the cursing, banging, crashing and muttering (mostly from me!) coming from outside.

The next day, being Saturday, saw us zoom off in the direction of Merthyr Tydfil, just a 90-minute drive away via the valleys. The journey, through the valleys and beneath the ever-brooding Black Mountains, was magnificent, making us mentally note making another visit during next summer. There was some drama, too, in the form of two rescue helicopters alighted not too far away from the carriageway: as the weather was pretty miserable, I can only assume someone had got stuck atop one of the peaks, then gone down with hypothermia, or similar.

I had been there before, but not in a footballing context, sadly ? more like acting as dock officer in the local Crown Court, back in the early 1980?s, around the time local boxer Johnny Owen lost his life in the ring. It has to be an index of how badly Merthyr and its surrounding districts had been affected by the recession at that time, to find that the entire place was in complete and utter mourning for someone who?d given locals just a little bit to cheer about, amidst all the monetarist economic gloom pervading the town back then.

But this was a journey much different from mine, from what seems like aeons ago, now. This time, I was there with Cup football in mind, the Third Qualifying Round, to be precise: last but one stop before the First Round proper, and a chance to grab a money-spinning tie ? although pretty modest at that level, for a club of Merthyr?s lowly stature, it?s most certainly not largesse to be sneezed at - with an established lower-division FL outfit.

The ground? A peculiar place, reached via a steep hill, with access to their car park covering the admission price also, and collected by the car-park attendants and not by some elderly gent stuck inside a turnstile. I haven?t come across this arrangement ever before (although master-ground-hopper Steve The Miser will tell me different, no doubt) which is why it stuck in my mind in the first place.

As for the ambience, the word ?antique? might serve us well, here. Very little sign of modernisation to be seen, apart from one glaring anomaly, a relic of Merthyr?s European jaunts, back in the days of the old Welsh Cup ? large safety gates adorning one end, now completely emasculated by the subsequent removal of all the accompanying fencing. Oh ? and another quirky touch: just before the start, a minute?s silence, for a member of the side?s granddad, would you believe?

Within seconds of the start, Paulton, Merthyr?s opponents, almost nicked one, the initial excitement then subsiding, to be replaced by what one might term a ?war of attrition?. But, with 17 gone, the lad who?d lost his granddad, one Steve Williams, banged one in for the home side, via a corner and with help from some shocking marking. Funny, isn?t it, that wherever you go to see a game, you?ll always encounter the supporting equivalent of ?The Bloke In Front Of Me?: i.e. a back-seat driver, in this case, one who?d been imbibing more than enough of the local falling-down water, if his florid facial features were anything to go by. Think of my Hawthorns chum, with an almost impenetrable Welsh accent thrown in, and you?ve got it.

The second helping consisted of more of the same, but with Merthyr finishing off the game with a successful execution of a ?one on one? towards the end. A really bad day for the newly-bereaved scorer of their second, too, booked for taking off his shirt by way of celebration, afterwards!

The following day, we shifted ourselves to Ludlow, and their Sunday market, then Hereford itself the following day. Come Tuesday, we meandered over to a distinctly soggy Abergavenny, and Wednesday saw us journeying to a rather pleasant Hay-On-Wye, and all my good intentions going completely out of the window, as I weakly succumbed to temptation, in the form of several books I?d been looking for. On the way back, we listened to the England-Russia commentary on the radio, the godawful reception and sound quality putting me in mind of furtive late-night listens to 1970 World Cup games coming from Mexico, the lack of satellite space meaning that only England games were being shown live on the box, hence my faithful tranny coming in for a bit of a bashing around that time.

The final score, although not completely down to the shortcoming of the eleven out there on the pitch, was a bit of a disappointment: I can?t help feeling that McClaren?s tenure in his present post will be a short and brutal one. A shame, that, as he came over as quite a genuine guy when the FA Roadshow hit the Hawthorns. I blame those doing the selection, personally: why on earth they didn?t offer Martin O?Neil the post in the first place is completely beyond my comprehension.

Thursday saw us visit yet another book outlet, Aardvark Books, not far away from our domicile, but I wasn?t all that impressed by what they had to offer, personally. Oh, well, can?t win ?em all, I suppose. Friday was spent at nearby Leominster, and Saturday saw us at sunny Edgar Street once more, and one ear cockled for news from Layer Road, where The Fart was doing our share of the shouting, in addition to his own normal output.

This one was considerably more than a bog-standard League encounter for the Bulls ? well, for my beloved, at least, it wasn?t. How come? Easy: their opponents that day were the MK Dons, aka The Franchise to all right-minded football supporters. Bear that in mind, and you?ll readily see where my beloved is coming from on this one. His normal mental state upon hearing That Unspeakable Name mentioned within hearing distance? Demented.

It?s a bit like Pavlov?s famed dogs, really: his antipathy towards Hereford?s visitors that day (just the mere mention of their name is sufficient to get him going!) was such as to make the spittle-generating rants of the late Herr Hitler mere bagatelles, by comparison. What?s made this worse is the fact they?ve undergone something of a renaissance, of late, the proof of the pudding being their current top slot, and 28 points in the bag, hence my beloved?s somewhat obsessive stance every single time their name comes to the fore.

Mind you, they had brought a fair number of their ilk to Edgar Street, Milton Keynes born and bred, no doubt, all the ?old Wimbledon? aficionados having since long departed to set up their own breakaway outfit, now piling ?em in just a few rungs down from the Football League itself. And what a lovely day for a game of football: no autumnal soggy misery, just a sky of baby-blue proportions, autumnal shades spanning completely the ?yellow-orange-red? end of the visual spectrum, and cold, but not unpleasantly so, the warmth of the sun?s rays proving enough to dispel any feelings of discomfort from that angle. Another reason for looking askance whenever their name was mentioned? Managed by ex-Dingle Paul Ince, with at least four Custard Bowl veterans in their playing ranks. That do you?

There was Albion interest lurking within the ranks of ?The Franchise?, though, namely a certain Lloyd Dyer, who?d wowed us so successfully during the fag-end of season 2003-04, when we?d employed him primarily as our ?secret weapon?. He had this knack, you see, of coming off the bench during the latter stages of a game, then proceeding to totally rip the opposition defence to shreds via some pretty damaging runs on the left. His apotheosis, so to speak, came during our ?shit or bust? game with Sunderland, at their place when, with the clock running down like crazy, and the game heading for certain stalemate, he unexpectedly got the ball.

Most professionals with experience would have taken the blasted thing to the corner flag, then ran down the clock by keeping it there. Not our man: before you could say ?Chippy Clark?, off he went, on yet another light-speed incursion into enemy territory, and with only a prescient Jason Koumas for company. A square pass from our lad neatly found Our Jase, lurking on the edge of the box, and before we had time to draw breath, even, there was the ball, smack in the back of the net, with some pretty mad Mackems in the home end ?telling us our fortune? in no uncertain terms! So late was that strike, we only had time to reach the centre circle again before the ref finally called a halt.

But back to Edgar Street and the game. Just when you?d thought it was safe to settle in your seat, up rolled the bovine gentleman known by all and sundry as ?Talking Bill?, some three or four minutes after the start. Poor lad ? he?d forgotten about the increased crowds the Bulls were attracting at their own pen, these days, hence the somewhat late arrival.

As for Lloyd Dyer, he was doing for The Franchise much the same as he?d done for the Baggies: causing havoc with his amazing busts of speed on the left. On the face of it, the visitors had carved out three clear-cut chances over the 45 minutes of the first half, and two of them pretty much ?nailed on? efforts, too. It was only thanks to some spiffing goalkeeping from the Bull beneath the sticks, and some pretty inept finishing from the MK Dons, that kept the score pristine. All was well with the Bulls, until calamity descended during injury time ? a most unfair sending off for Hereford?s Steve Guinon. Sure, his tackle on Lloyd Dyer wasn?t exactly brilliant, so the first thing I said to His Nibs was: ?He?s going to be booked for that?? To say my ghast was completely flabbered by the ref showing red for the offence ? the guy wasn?t even the ?last man?, for Heaven?s sake, and the former Baggie nowhere near the box at the time ? is a bit like saying the beach is home to hundreds and hundreds of grains of sand, i.e. the understatement of the year. Incidentally, some Sunday newspapers described the tackle as ?shocking?. Really? Were these people genuinely at the same game as me, I wonder?

With the half-time whistle going just seconds afterwards, you won?t be surprised to hear that the ref got a pretty hostile reception from the home crowd as he headed towards the tunnel. More importantly, though, at was now looking bleak for the Bulls. Having struggled to contain their visitors for a fair amount of the opening half, with one man light, they certainly weren?t going to trail a blaze of glory behind them during the second. Or so we?d thought.

Funny how some sides never appear to read the script mapped out for them by previous events, isn?t it? Instead of collapsing like a wheezy set of antique organ pipes, The Ten-Man Bulls made a pretty good fist of it during the second, defending well, and even managing to launch several long-range salvoes of their own. Admittedly, what with the extra ground they had to cover, being a man light, they did leave themselves vulnerable, at times, but much to their fury, The Franchise still couldn?t get past that solid wall of beefsteak.

What a shame, then, that with just three minutes left on the clock, The Bulls let their horns drop for one fatal moment, giving Dons midfielder Mark Wright sufficient chance to inflict the coup de grace. Poor ?Talking Bill? now reduced to doing what sounded remarkably like ?Kevin The Teenager? impersonations. ?That is SO UNFAIR!?.? was his constant mantra, wailed without pause until the merciful whistle finally blew for the end of the game. Mind you, we also had ample reason to start gnashing our teeth in pure frustration not long afterwards, with the final score from Layer Road revealed in a defeat for our lot.

That?s me up to date on the footie front, then, so time to turn my attention to tomorrow?s game. As I said, that Layer Road reverse was something we couldn?t really afford. If you want promotion, you have to win most home games, with some inbuilt leeway to crash and burn away from home territory. Unfortunately, following two away defeats on the bounce, first at Southampton, then at Layer Road, even that flimsy layer of protection is rapidly degrading: we?re now racing towards the time when a massive upsurge in our away form will prove necessary. Should we not do so soon, then we can kiss our chances of going up, come the end of the season, a fond farewell.

I need hardly say that the need to overcome Blackpool tomorrow night is absolutely imperative. We have to get back to winning ways, and quick. Bear in mind who we have to face next weekend, yeah? Mind you, if Hartson plays for them, then we may just stand the teensiest chance of getting something! (Ooo, stoppit, yer bitch?.)

Given that our old order seemed to be the guilty party responsible for the Colchester disaster, I?m now wondering whether Mogga will opt for radical changes tomorrow night. Our gaffer is quoted as saying he wants to use the two forthcoming home games to get back on track, but Blackpool may not prove to be an easy nut to crack. Currently 15th in the pecking order they may be, but they?ve only lost two on the road so far, two drawn, with just one win to show for their trouble. As for previous meetings between the two clubs, the last time we crossed paths was during the wonderful Ardiles promotion season, back in 1993, with a win for The Tangerines at their place, and a 3-1 triumph for our lot at The Shrine.

Our current problem seems to lie with the defence, which, being quite blunt about it ? erm ? isn?t! One conceded via a free-kick, the other two via a one-on-one and a penalty, isn?t scintillating form by any means. Our leader sounds as though he?s hopping mad about the performance of our rearguard (six goals conceded in the space of two away games isn?t exactly cheering news, is it?), so things have to improve, and fast. As for Barnett and Alby, they both worry me. Barnett I?ve had my doubts about from the start of the season, although I do have to say he had seemed to be putting his difficulties behind him, of late. As for Alby, I?m not really sure what?s going on inside his head, right now. Perhaps shaving all that hair off messed something up in his brain, n?est ce pas?

As far as tomorrow night goes, Blackpool will be without the lads Morell and Burgess (ankle knocks): so desperate is their injury plight, they?ve had to recall a lad called Marcus Bean, currently on loan at Rotherham, to get them back up to strength once more. One vagrant thought concerning that gentleman: I wonder whether he?ll name any future male sprog ?Heinz?? Aw, you know, on the ?Boy Named Sue? principle, as espoused by the late Johnny Cash: if you can survive all the mickey taking that would ensue, you?ll certainly have a personality robust enough to cope with just about anything life chooses to chuck at you, in later years!

As far as our lot go, as I mentioned earlier, the main change will very likely come at the back. What with Alby spectacularly stuffing up at Layer Road, and him having a bit of knock also, Mogga might see that as the perfect opportunity to give Cesar (so good, there?s a certain brand of cat food named after him!) a chance to shine. And what about Barnett, also to blame for at least one of the goals by giving away that late penalty? In any case, his performance overall appeared to be distinctly underwhelming, if the various accounts of the game I?ve read so far are correct.

There may also be another change at full back, what with Hoefkens not exactly covering himself with glory last weekend. Robbo, like the River Thames, goes on forever, but if Hoefkens does get the bum?s rush, then young Hodgkiss might just get another chance to shine. In midfield, as per usual, we have a vast array of options at our command. Perm any four from about eight, I?d say. As for the heavy artillery, then it?s got to be Kev Phillips and young Miller, surely? One late bit of news I hadn?t heard about before: Craig Beattie?s got flu, I understand, so won?t be playing. Presumably Shergar and/or Slusarski will tenant the bench, just in case a drastic change is called for.

The need to get a result tomorrow night is a pretty urgent one. Those back-to-back away defeats (plus the Stoke one, of course) mean we?ve now slipped to fifth spot in the pecking order ? and what?s worse, we?ve since been overtaken by those rampant Dingles. Eek! Still, two homes on the bounce should ? in theory! ? see our search for League points put firmly back on track once more. Should anything less be our lot, however, then the mutterings of discontent will be heard long in the land, no question about it. If that should be the case, then our gaffer will need the skin of a rhinoceros, not to mention the patience of a saint, to weather the inevitable vocal storm. Right now, I wouldn?t want his job for all the tea in China.

YOU ARE NOW ENTERING THE ?GOOD GIGGLE ZONE?!

ONE?. In the Western Mail, dated 16.10.07, of those voted the 50 Sexiest Men In Football, guess who crept into 49th place? None other than Robert Earnshaw, formerly of WBA, now with Cardiff City, of course, By the time we?d finished sniggering about that one, I later found another, which is:

TWO? In case you hadn?t noticed, Eric Clapton has just brought out his autobiography, called, courtesy an astonishing outburst of creativity from the megastar guitarist ?The Autobiography?, so I just had to read the review, didn?t I? Sad to say, nowhere in those 392 pages did it mention Clapton?s alleged espousal of the Baggies cause, back in the late 70?s/early 80?s, but I wasn?t surprised. Were you?

THREE? A definite case of ?You said it, not me!?, this one. Coming from within the Daily Mirror?s pictorial celebration of Emmerdale, I found this (unintentional, surely?) gem of a caption: HOUSE PRICES PLUMMET AS THE DINGLES DESCEND UPON THE VILLAGE??

FOUR?. This one comes courtesy Dave Watkins?s match report piece. Wonderfully imaginative variant upon a well-known away supporters? ditty, at Colchester?s ultra-bijou domicile, this weekend just gone?.. ?MY RABBIT?S HUTCH?.IS BIGGER THAN THIS?..IT?S GOT A DOOR AND A RABBIT, MY RABBIT?S HUTCH IS BIGGER THAN THIS!....?

 - Glynis Wright

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