The Diary

24 October 2007: Tangerine Dream, Albion Nightmare?

Tonight?s offering? Something very much in the Mack Sennett tradition, starring the Keystone Kops, I?m afraid, and very much accompanied by the ghost of a certain diminutive, moustachioed, bowler hatted individual walking that famous legs-akimbo walk, stick in hand, and a bit of a silly grin on his face, very much to the fore.

Very Chaplinesque, the entire 90 minutes ? all it needed for full effect was one of those dodgy open-topped motors the aforementioned Kops got to play with on jerky pre-Great War celluloid, spluttering and banging an unsteady course across the arena - but at least we just about managed to put a pretty impressive Blackpool to the sword in the end, albeit with a fair number of heart stopping moments along the way. Come to think about it, if I were a Tangerine tonight, I might well have come away from our place breathing fire and brimstone in quantity, and all the while muttering darkly about the sheer injustice of it all.

Well, that?s football for you. Second in the heap, we are now, for at least the next 24 hours or so: with a couple of our fellow top six travellers plying their own footballing wares tomorrow night, should they triumph, then our tenure of that part of the table will be of considerably less substance than a politician?s promise. But it?s a start, considering that at one point in tonight?s proceedings, we were most certainly heading for something of an embarrassment courtesy the Seasiders.

As per usual, an early arrival at the ground brought us into the sparsely populated Hawthorns Hotel, making it the easiest of tasks to locate both The Noise and his two daughters and heirs, all seated around one of those funny round tables they use for furniture in there. Mere nanoseconds after we sat down, off went The Noise, slipping into ?conversation mode? about as easily as a condom slips onto a lover?s grossly tumescent ?main armament? and with similarly-climactic results.

So what was the topic that prompted him to come in with all guns blazing? Macclesfield Town?s pricing structure, actually: not because it was vastly overpriced, mind, quite the opposite, you?ll be pleasantly surprised to hear. Apparently, he and young Bethany decided to go to one of their home games the other weekend - and what a fantastic deal they have to grab kids while they?re small, then keep ?em coming for a long time afterwards. For the proud parent(s), ?10 admission. For under 12?s? Nil. Zilch. Sod-all. At their place, the younger element get in free, and should Carly, or those of similar age want to join in the fun, the admission price then rises to the dizzying heights of a fiver. Yep, that?s right ? about the cost of a couple of pints at your local boozer, should you see fit to equate it with such intemperate naughtiness.

And that wasn?t all. Their opponents that day were Wrexham, who took the lead very early on. Despite Macclesfield chucking everything at ?em but the kitchen sink, that was the way the score stayed: come the dying minutes, however, a different story began to emerge, and not to the visitors? advantage, either. Come the end of the game, the ref added on four or so minutes for stoppages ? and this was the cue for the home side to completely ruin Wrexham?s day.

They?d hardly got past the first minute of added-on time, when Maccie pulled one back, and no sooner had both sides resumed hostilities once more, the Moss Rose merchants then went and did it again! Final score? Macclesfield 2, Wrexham 1, which didn?t please most of the away followers one little bit. As our voluble chum was leaving the ground, Bethany in tow, one really disgruntled Welsh individual rushed up to our little Baggie pal, and snarled a mouthful of abuse, the subject matter of which revolved around an overall theme of: ?Suppose yer smilin? now, eh?

Said The Noise, more anxious than normal to avoid any conflict, on account of Bethany being there, and trying to play the Neville Chamberlain appeasement game, circa 1938, as a result: ?No, I?m neutral ? now go and hit somebody else!?

And there was yet another bit of ghastly news courtesy the Lewis household: Carly wouldn?t be coming to the Norwich game next weekend. How come? She?s doing a 14 hour shift at Wedgwoods staff restaurant, apparently. Sure, she?s been assured she?ll get all her meal breaks, but at that age, is this legal? As I said to her tonight, my head shaking disbelievingly all the while I spoke: ?Rearrange the following well-known phrase or saying: ?You mental be flippin? (cleaned-up version!) must?.? ?

As for Bethany herself, that young lady was about as high as the Himalayas, tonight: when in that sort of mood at home, she must be very hard work indeed. As she was bouncing up and down like a rubber ball gone all demented on me, for about the zillionth time, I turned to Dad, and wearily pointed out that if ever corroborating evidence were required as to the adverse effects upon children brought about by rapid ingestion of a batch of luridly coloured sweets containing just about every e-number ever envisaged by the boffins, then Bethany could provide it without any bother whatsoever!

One way or another, it was something of a relief to get outside, at long last, and head straight for our usual turnstile, with a brief visit to Anoraks? Corner beforehand chucked in for good measure. But I was having to wait to relocate myself to our normal ?perch?, the reason being a queue snaking right outside the Ladies? bog, a pre-match phenomenon practically unknown at this level. Still, the line of desperate ?customers? dissipated pretty rapidly, which meant I was in my seat and nattering to John Homer, with oodles of time to spare. And, for the first time ever, catching a glimpse of a young child sitting in the seat next to my other half, along with her proud Baggies-regular granddad. Amy?s her name, so his Nibs tells me, and tonight was her first ever Albion game, poor sod. Er - shall I ring Social Services, or will you?

Team news? Well, as per last night?s effort, I?d already guessed defensive heads had to roll, so it wasn?t altogether surprising to find that young Barnett had been dropped for this one. Taking his place tonight was one Bostian Cesar. Blimey ? a Baggies player named after a well-known brand of cat food. Whatever next? Also a casualty of last weekend?s Layer Road slip-up was Robert Koren, with Chris Brunt given preference instead. The rest was normal ? whatever your personal definition of ?normal? is, of course. The ref? A chap with the wonderfully-alliterative name of Mike Pike, I?ll have you know!

After a rip-roaring start, with Morrison and Kev Phillips both trying to get things going on the goal front, we settled down, and a few alarums and excursions aside, seemed to be gradually gaining the upper hand. Come the 20 minute mark, or as near to it as makes no odds, we finally managed to turn all that superiority into scores on the doors: who else but Ishmael Miller to bang what we fondly hoped was the first nail of many, into the Seasiders? tangerine tinted coffin. And what a classy effort it was, too: bottom left-hand corner, placed, not blasted, finally creeping past the outstretched arm of their keeper as sweet as a nut. Just the first of what we all hoped was many ? but this is Albion, remember? We don?t do ?predictable? any more!

Before I go any further, two more little snippets for you to ponder. The first? That young child, Amy, brought to The Hawthorns by her proud granddad, of whom I made mention earlier. Just before the Miller opener, the young lady in question suddenly decided that a visit to the Ladies was just the thing to relieve a pretty distended bladder, so being the nice chap that he is, His Nibs?s next door neighbour got up to accompany her to the door. He?d only been gone thirty seconds, when ? yes, you?ve guessed it! One-nil to the Baggies, and a somewhat resigned expression now adorning the weary face of young Amy?s ?minder?!

My second vagrant thought? This one?s about the Blackpool supporters, by far and away the best (in terms of actual noise, that is) to show their faces in the Smethwick End at this particular stage of the season. You certainly couldn?t fault them regarding enthusiasm and effort: even when they went a goal down, they still managed to get right behind their players, vocally, at least.

How that ?phantom drummer? ? or were there more than one in on the act, I wonder? ? kept up that insistent rhythmic pounding of drumstick on skin for the entire length of the opening 45, I have no idea whatsoever. Fair play to his fellow-travellers, too, their raising of the noise level undoubtedly assisting their side greatly in the execution of their duties. Come to think about it, the aforementioned ?drummer? must have had some of the strongest wrists in the business, the very mention of which takes me into some very murky territory indeed, if I?m not too careful!

Just think about it a little, and if your train of thought?s on the same tracks as mine, then you?ll see what I?m on about. The thing is, it takes some African tribes a day or two?s persistent drumming and dancing before they can achieve that trance-like zombified state beloved of shamanic priests everywhere. With this lot in the background and going at it with all guns blazing, they?re capable of achieving precisely the same end result in just 90 long minutes!

Even when they went behind, they never gave up: if anything, the volume and passion of their support increased in direct proportion to the efforts their players were making to reclaim parity once more. Several defensive and midfield clangers later, and very much mindful of The Curse Of The Set Piece With Malice Aforethought, our reaction to Blackpool corners etc. put me very much in mind of a Womens? Institute meeting where some practical joker?s released six or seven mice for a laugh: in other words, total panic from a load of Nervous Nellies.

Not for the first time that night, I was put in mind of the comedic efforts of the aforementioned Mack Sennett and his slapstick team of law enforcers. Result? Predictable. With two thirds of the half elapsed, Blackpool?s Vernon evaded the attentions (should that be ?inattentions?, perhaps?) of a couple of our finest to stick the bladder past Kiely. In the away end, their voluble followers were going absolutely mental, and their phantom drummer, renewed passion now coursing through his veins, thumping his way to a colossal migraine, no doubt. As for our own followers, they too were going mental, but for a completely different reason entirely.

As for the second half, the operative word was ?tense? with but a hefty great chunk of ?idiocy? chucked in for good measure as well. All was not well with the lads on the park: passes going badly astray, or, worse still, straight to the opposition, even: goal attempts, risible, to put it kindly: clearances falling straight to our Tangerine chums, with not-so-happy returns, all of which was the direct result of people not being able to find that ?extra gear? within themselves. Even the normally-reliable Kiely seemed to have suffered contagion.

That enormous weight of expectation was rising rapidly, and threatening to completely overwhelm their feeble efforts by hanging around their person, in much the same way as the Albatross shot by The Ancient Mariner. Result? People getting very restless indeed, and muttering audibly about the complete Horlicks they were making of what should have been a simple job of work. Our manager must surely have caught the Hawthorns zeitgeist without too much trouble: all he had to do was sit and listen to the increasingly sulphurous language being hurled in his direction!

But there was a somewhat bizarre interlude, during the earlier part of the second half. It all started when the ref stopped the game, then wandered over to the fourth official on the touchline. A long consultation later, back he went to the place where play had ceased ? but then thought better of it, and went to speak to the fourth official again. Another lengthy consultation period, another return to the action ? and another change of mind! This time, the man in black chose to speak with the lino on our side of the park! ?Blimey,? I muttered, ?Why the hell doesn?t he make a really good, democratic job of it, go to the directors? box, and start a focus group, seek a consensus, or something?? ?Narked? wasn?t the word for it, as far as I was concerned.

In an effort to try and nip whatever was ailing our finest in the bud, our leader tried subbings. First of all, with 63 minutes gone, Brunt made way for Shergar (with both Jean and myself volubly reminding John Homer that the bet for him to run naked around Gornal if the lad scored still stood!), Greening was next to be sacrificed (ooer ? and here?s me, can?t stand the sight of blood!) on 70, with Koren joining the battle in his place, then, come just before the last 15 minutes of the game, an early shower was indicated for Teixeira, with Zoltan Gera (I wonder if HE ever pulls the sealant off double-glazed windows, just like his Lower Gornal feline namesake?) replacing him.

Of the three, I would say the entry of Gera into the fray made the most impact. Suddenly, there was a buzz around the place we hadn?t experienced for well over an hour ? and, even more gratifying, it would seem that our tame Magyar was actually hurting them with his electrifying skills. Our supporters, realising the enormous change in the side, began to apply their vocal efforts to the cause, at long last. Suddenly, it wasn?t just Blackpool?s followers making the noise ? ours were contributing in equal measures, at long last, and it didn?t half lift the place.

The breakthrough, when it finally came, with some 12 minutes or so to go, did have a certain risible ring to it. Nothing to do with the players out there, more down to the unintentionally funny emotional outburst coming from the Bloke In Front Of Me, when Morrison, in possession began his run in the direction of the Blackpool box, then wellied the ball as hard as he could in the direction of the visitors? goal. Thinking this effort about to simulate the drop-kicking antics of our rugger-playing brethren, over the weekend, yer man shouted ?RUBBISH!? (No, originality has never been his strong-point, poor lad) ? and just as the words were leaving his lips, the bladder, as if having heard the BIFOM?s insults and thinking ?Right, I?ll show the sod,? decided to take a completely different trajectory instead: an almighty last-minute downwards dip, ending up in the top right hand corner of the net!

Well ? bugger me senseless with a blowtorch. Of all the possible scenarios I?d been prepared to witness that half, our lot grabbing a late winner certainly wasn?t one of ?em. With the game well and truly into the ?Twilight Zone? by then, it was ?squeaky botties and bike-clips? time all round: players, coaching staff, Mogga, the wildly-boinging lot in the Smethwick End, the club cat, even. Assuming we?ve got a club cat, of course. And the funereal atmosphere had completely disappeared, replaced by both sets of supporters urging on their Chosen Ones with lung-busting passion. Wow, what a finish. And not even our renewed interest in play leading to acts considered suicidal in the extreme by most could completely dissipate the fervour that had suddenly crept into the game.

Three or so angst-ridden injury-time minutes later, and it was all over. We?d snatched the three points (some would say ?robbery with violence, and from poor Blackpool, too?), but what the hell. A very nervous day at the office, and a fraught one for most of our followers, but good triumphed in the end ? er, I think!

As for Blackpool themselves, for a side that ended up in 17th place as a result of our exertions, they don?t half look good. Why the hell they?re languishing in the bottom half of the table at all is a complete mystery to me. From what I?ve seen tonight, they?ve got players capable of much, much more. As for their fantastic supporters ? well words fail me, they really do. To keep that constant level of sound going, for the whole 90 minutes, sure takes some doing. By far and away the best lot of away supporters I?ve seen at the Hawthorns, thus far this season. Can?t say the drumming does a lot for me, though: if nothing else, I?ll bet the earplug manufacturers don?t half have a surge of sales in that area, every darned time Blackpool have a home fixture!

A GOOD CAREER MOVE FOR JOHN HOMER?

Word has reached my shell-like ears that the Black Country Museum are to hold a Halloween ?Ghost Night? scare-fest on their premises next week, with many ?guest appearances? planned from various ghosties and ghoulies famed in the world of literature, not to mention common or garden crime. And that?s where the elegant, lovely and ghoulish John Homer comes in, folks. According to his missus Jean, he?s down to play none other than ?Jack The Ripper? come the great occasion. Well, to be perfectly frank, what with him being dubbed the ?Gornal Cat Strangler? by this column, and everything, I reckon he?s eminently well-qualified for the post!

Still can?t compare with 90 minutes worth of bloody Stoke City, mind. Now there?s a REAL horror show for you, and what?s more, you don?t have to wait until Halloween to see it!

 - Glynis Wright

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