The Diary

04 November 2007: Hornets Have Their Sting Forcibly Extracted By Classy Baggies!

?Yow think yo?m a-gooin? ter Watford, doe yer? But we ay, we?m a-gooin? ter Blackpool, fower the lights, really?..?

That was the deadpan-delivery greeting my other half and I got from the steward as we prepared to board Coach One bound for Vicarage Road, this not-so bright and beautiful Saturday morning. So, what manner of occurrence had brought forth this genial riposte from the lips of our mobile guardian angel, you may ask yourselves? Easy, that one: ruddy Christmas decorations, that?s what, and tinsel-strewn the entire length and breadth of our soon-to-depart Watford transportation, as well.

Not only that, in the immediate vicinity of the driver?s seat were lots of Santas: big uns, little dinky ones, some of the adipose ?Ho, ho, ho!? variety, and others of the sleigh-bound members of the species ? and, I swear, every single one of the sods regarding me and my beloved with a twinkly eye, whiskers the colour of driven snow, and looking for all the world as though they were all about to burst forth with yet another rapid-fire burst of seasonal best wishes. And a flaming ?Ho, ho, ho!? to you too, mate.

But before that, while walking through the gates leading to the East Stand, and contemplating, with rather more than the usual amount of trepidation, the enormous task that faced our finest today, who should we bump into, but Dave Holloway ? but with one big difference. No, he hadn?t joined The Moonies, or, even more ridiculous, the Villa Supporters Club ? far from it: for the first time ever, I saw him with a slightly adipose brindle mutt in tow, a cross between a Staffordshire Bull Terrier and a Jack Russell is about the closest I can get to identification. As to precisely who was leading who, I?ll leave to your collective imaginations!

But there was a tale (tail?) to tell. Apparently, some six or so years ago, said mutt (who answers to the name of Marnie, by the way), got involved in a road accident and Dave, being the nice Baggie he is, and the dog being a stray, was significantly involved in the animal?s rescue, after which said canine was then despatched to an RSPCA animal shelter for treatment, and hopefully, eventual rehoming afterwards. (What they subsequently did with Dave isn?t recorded!)

Now for the squidgem-widgems bit that makes everyone go ?Aaaaah, bless?.!?: some ten or so days later, Dave rang the shelter to enquire about the dog?s injuries, and was told the animal was getting better ? but nobody had either claimed it, or expressed a desire to keep it as a pet, so what did our hero do? He purchased the animal himself, which is how he came to be taking it walkies this morning, before setting off for pastures new! See, you always get the nicest Albion stories from me!

But back to the matter in hand. And, as we?ve all seen today, what a ?matter? that was. There we were, belting along the M6 for all we were worth, a Baggie convoy destined to become some 2,000 strong on arrival at lovely Vicarage Road. And, let?s be quite frank about all this, given our fairly erratic record on the road this term, I hadn?t held out much hope of seeing our lot walk away with all three points, come the final whistle ? and, I suspect, neither had many of the so-called pundits, too.

The best I was expecting was a sharing of the spoils, with a mere microcosm of my mind reserved for the unlikely eventuality of us grabbing the single goal, or, say, two out of three on offer there, the whole thing culminating in one almighty scramble for supremacy as the end drew nearer. Unlikely, that, I thought to myself. No, the way The Hornets were playing on their own turf, they?d brush us aside with the ease of a Sherman tank overcoming physical barriers such as trenches, naively put in its destructive path.

Those were the distillations of my thoughts as we sped past Coventry, then onto the bit where the M6 becomes the M1. An important move, that, as someone had seen fit to supply the coach with a Peter Kaye tape ? and he, fellow Baggies, is very VERY LOUD! An acquired taste is our Pete ? and unfortunately, I never quite acquired the blasted taste. I also knew, with the sinking feeling born of complete certainty, that The Fart felt precisely the same way about the voluble stand-up comedian as I did, so I fully expected getting my ears bled horribly once we?d arrived at our destination.

But that was a long way away, still, so I settled down to admire the changing tints of the trees discernable from our vehicle, instead. Amazing, isn?t it? I was only nattering to my sister last night about how mild Bonfire Nights were becoming, of late: just 20 years ago, attendance at a fireworks party or display meant wrapping up in coats, scarves and gloves, otherwise the savage frosts normally experienced at that time of year would grab you by the throat, then quickly proceed to squeeze any residual circulating blood from the veins. Result? One VERY blue botty, not to mention hands and feet!

The last real frost I remember at this time of year was in 1993, when ?Im Indoors, Steve The Miser and myself set out very early one November morning, bound for Heathrow, and our plane to Florence, where Albion were due to play Fiorentina in the Anglo-Italian Cup, several days hence. So cold was it outside, we couldn?t get the car windscreen warm enough, so it kept freezing up again, making clear vision absolutely impossible. It was only after repeated warm-up attempts (stopping our car each time) we finally got everything sorted and our journey properly underway.

Imagine our astonishment, then, when we eventually landed in Italy (well, Pisa if you really want to know), and found the temperature there to be somewhere in the low 70?s. And that, my dear Baggie friends, is the sort of clime we?ve been getting of late, so now you know exactly where ours is heading also. Blame global warming, and once you get fed up of that, blame The Dingles instead. They?ll do.

I don?t know about anyone else, but I swear that when our driver took out the coach we were in, he ended up with the ?short straw? version. The best we could do was a sedate fifty or so, top whack sixty ? and, to make matters worse, covering the last few miles ?twixt Luton and the Watford exit, there were no end of road works, all in aid of the road-widening scheme they were putting into place in those there parts. Personally, I reckon it?s a waste of time: I know precisely what will happen, once everything?s done and dusted. Within a year of it opening for business, traffic will have built up to its former level once more. One day someone will clock there?s a scientific relationship going on there: the more road you build, the more cars, juggernauts etc. you encourage onto it. Dead simple, dead true. End of.

What with the aforementioned impedimenta slowing progress, it was well after half-one by the time we dropped anchor for real right outside Vicarage Road itself. No chance of fighting our way through the crowds in the nearby pub, so what we all did instead was take a slow mosey down to the end of the main street, and park our travel-weary botties on little brick benches thoughtfully provided for itinerant football supporters to rest their weary limbs.

Right opposite a ?greasy spoon? in fact, with a couple of tables and chairs helpfully laid outside as a belated concession to Watford?s embryonic ?caf? society?, so before anyone could stop me, there I was doing the Monty Python ?Spam? sketch like a good ?un, which got The Fart puzzled something rotten, if nothing else. And that?s where The Noise, ?Im Indoors, and a passing Baggie of slight acquaintance all commenced putting the world to rights, and in no uncertain terms too (don?t ask: I kept well and truly out of it!).

Having unloaded a considerable amount of verbal bile into the atmosphere, it was now high time to ? erm ? ?take our medicine like a man (or woman)?. Seriously, that?s how we all felt about the forthcoming event: a sickening certainty Watford would eat us alive. Any road up, off we toddled back to the ground, and to the away turnstiles, where an overzealous steward wanted to inspect the contents of my bum-bag. Grrrrr?.. Normally, so placid is my demeanour when on the supporting road, requests of that nature I?ll normally comply with, no sweat, but on this particular occasion, my ?inner rebel? was screeching the words ?NO WAY!? right down my delicate little lugholes.

Drawing myself up to my full height (which ain?t exactly a lot, even at the best of times!), the timbre of my voice intimated that nary a suggestion of mischief-making had even crossed my mind that day, more so because I was now of an age where such outrageous activities would be very much frowned upon by the fellow-members of the pensioners? day club I normally patronised, and might even result in my expulsion from the group! Guess what, dear readers? It actually worked! Blimey, ?the power of the walking stick? strikes again!

The first thing I discovered, once actually in the place, was their bogs ? or rather, the deplorable fact that there was insufficient room there to swing even the tiniest of kittens inside the rotten place. Although the actual number of people wanting to have a slash was minimal, the cramped conditions meant a considerable amount of shuffling around for those still awaiting their nitrogenous moment of liquid glory. If ever the ditty ?What a dump? could apply to a football club?s ?facilities?, then Watford was truly ?the one?.

A couple of purchases later, a Bov for me, and a coffee for The Noise, we were ready to seek out the action. Much to my surprise, I actually ended up with one of the best views I?ve had of a game thus far this term. Not intentional, mind, more the way our seats were placed. I sat on the one at the far end of the row, with ?Im Indoors to my left, and both Noise and Fart installed in the two seats beyond my other half.

Little had changed since my last visit: even the two almost-derelict stands on the ?dug-outs? side of the stadium were still to be seen, much to my astonishment. Once in the Prem, I?d assumed Watford would have got rid of both eyesores as quick as shedding accreted organic nitrogenous waste matter from off a digging implement ? but nope. There they both were: large as life, and twice as bad. Said I to my other half, ?One of these dark nights, a bunch of their own supporters are going to break in, and bung loads of sticks of dynamite right beneath that lot!?

As there was naught save black netting bounding my right hand side, I didn?t have to worry about sundry bladdered eejits wanting to be excused, say, just as we were about to take a crucial corner. Further than the netting was the relatively distant Hornet aficionados: add to that a good rake on the seats in front, meaning minimal standing for me, and I was truly ?cooking on gas?. Rejoice, rejoice!....

And so, onto the team stuff, courtesy an announcer who seemed to have suddenly caught a stiffish dose of irritating Americanisms, not my cup of char at all. As far as the home side were concerned, former Baggie Nathan Ellington was there, but only on the bench. What I didn?t like was the amount of boos whanged in his general direction by the away supporters: yeah, I know The Duke hasn?t exactly come up trumps since his recent elevation to the Watford ?peerage?, but my principal fears today revolved around us losing the game because of the lad deciding to pull up his socks there and then, on account of the treatment he was getting from our lot, and scoring for the Vicarage Road lot as a direct result of it.

The irritant zit called Ellington apart, as the theme from Z-Cars (a musical ?curse? they happen to share with Everton) wafted over both players and town, there were other small considerations to bear in mind about Watford. They had goal-merchant Marlon King ready and willing to muck in for the cause, as well as a lad called Doyley, Lord help us all (finds games for the first team a piece of cake, perhaps? Sorry, I don?t know what came over me just now, give me a couple of secs to get me coat and I?ll be outa here, OK?)

That was The Hornets? main men in a nutshell, then, and completely unchanged from previous stompings upon opposition sides, too, so what about our lot? In my opinion, the team change that really rubber-stamped today?s win for us was Mogga?s inspired inclusion of Zoltan Gera in the side, as replacement for Chris Brunt. For me, he was my Man Of The Match, front, back and sideways. His phenomenal heading power and intelligent reading of the game certainly proved a major asset to the cause, and not just up front, either.

As things turned out, he wasn?t at all averse to mucking in and helping out at the back whenever things were in danger of turning a little sticky. I can recall several incidents this afternoon where Gera?s amazing heading ability in our own box got us out of what might have easily turned into a bit of an awkward situation for our back four. Clearly miffed about being left on the sidelines for the last four fixtures, he spent the whole of today?s game demonstrating precisely why his previous non-inclusions had constituted a grave error on our part. Surely he?s worth a start versus Sheffield Wednesday, come next Tuesday night?

It was also noteworthy to see the generous amount of applause ex-Hornets Paul Robinson and Kev Phillips managed to amass between them, prior to the start of today?s game. It?s nice to think their followers aren?t sufficiently mean and nasty enough to not afford their ?exes? a decent welcome back to the place that gave both their initial chance in the game.

I?ll say one thing, mind: the start of this fixture was certainly a lively one, with the home side looking marginally the more dangerous of the two. But on the seven-minute mark, it was all up for Watford?s DeMerit, a journeyman Yank who secured a place in their side by the simple expedient of knocking on their door one bright sunny morning, and cheekily asking them for a trial!

With a brass neck like that, he deserved to succeed on that basis alone, but such amazing feats of derring-do seemed way past his capabilities after finishing up on the wrong end of a goalmouth collision between him and the quietly-lurking Ishmael Miller. Anyway, he was then stretchered off, and his replacement, yet another lad with a completely daft name, Adrian Mariappa ? sounds like an Italian mountain range to my untutored ears (?My dears, you really must go skiing in The Mariappas, this winter. The air is ever so bracing up there?.?) brought on to make up the numbers again.

As the game finally settled down into what appeared to be a much more stable pattern, several observations sprang to mind. Firstly, we seemed to be building up our moves right from the very back of the side, and in a considerably steadier, more patient fashion, too. Secondly, that didn?t prevent Watford from causing us the occasional bit of bother at the back, and with around 21 minutes gone, yet another corner conceded by the Baggies didn?t auger too well for our chances of emerging triumphant from the ordeal.

And that?s what made the entire shooting-match so surreal, folks. We were looking very confident, much more so than usual, but still vulnerable to those aforementioned petty pin-pricks. With around 22 minutes gone by, we honestly thought we?d blown it, when the home side?s supporters, massed at the opposite end, where they were shooting, started giving the vocals welly suggestive of their having beaten Kiely to the punch. Wrong, wrong ? and dead wrong! The ?goal? had come about as a result of the ball hitting the side netting, and perspective doing the rest, so we lived to fight another day ? but as far as I could see, the pendulum was most certainly swinging Watford?s way. Some of our old shortcomings were manifesting themselves once more, e.g. an inability to string passes together, also losing possession cheaply, again.

28 minutes gone, and it was a case of ?all hands to the pump? in our box, Kiely desperately punching the ball out for a Watford corner. It didn?t look good: a classic case of ?the end is nigh?, perhaps? We were never to find out for sure, as Albion immediately broke, with Gera taking the ball from our end, running practically the whole length of the pitch, crossing into their box ? but, as per usual, there was nobody there in a position to do serious damage to the League leaders.

That sure goes to show how wrong I?d got it, because just as I was pondering the vexed question of whether or not cunning Watford had watered the pitch, pre-match (our lot didn?t half spend a lot of time slipping on the turf), just after the game hit the 30-minute mark, up popped Ishmael Miller, Nemesis of defenders everywhere, to inflict fatal damage upon the Watford defence. Pretty much against the run of play, too, but no less welcome, all the same.

The strike came about as a direct result of some exceedingly neat one-two-type moves involving both Kev Phillips and the Man City loanee. Once in the box, possession passed to Our Kev, who let fly, no messing. The shot was blocked by their keeper, and I thought that was that ? but not so fast, there! The rebound landed right in the path of our predatory goal-merchant, who didn?t need a second invite to the ball. One-nil, and an unscripted one at that, was the general cry, while in the away end, our entire crowd went completely bananas.

But that wasn?t the last of it, by any means. Having conceded, the home side duly did the ?restart? thing incumbent upon them so to do. And that, my friends, was about the last move on their part that made any sense. It?s a crying shame that every single one of our supporters couldn?t have been at the ground to witness what happened next: my best hope lies in the hands of the TV people, who must have recorded what we saw for posterity ? and boy, did it warrant being digitally recorded! Having rescued the ball from the clutches of the home side, we then embarked upon a remarkable series of consecutive passes, each and every one finding an Albion man! I kid you not, our finest strung together no less than 30 on the bounce, much to the home side?s eternal frustration and fury! Up the park, down, back, sideways: you name it, we did it, but stopping short of actually sending someone onto a handy stand roof to give this entertaining interlude a better platform upon which to stage it, sadly. Had we done so, would the ref have waved a card for what the Army used to call ?dumb insolence?, I wonder?

I never got the chance to find out: Robbo had the ball, then set it up for Gera to pull the trigger from a fair distance outside the box. At first I thought it was going in ? but nope, it hit the crossbar instead, then bounced straight down, and back into ?the mixer? once more. Had it crossed the line, though? I thought it might have, but all further discussion on the subject was swiftly reduced to academic status only, when the lurking Morrison latched onto the rebound, belted it for all it was worth ? and Kev Phillips?s wandering limb diverting it past the banjaxed Watford keeper to make it an incredible two down for the home side!

It was not long after that, we finally seemed to have exorcised The Ghost That Haunted Innumerable Opposition Set Pieces Near Our Box. Watford had managed to grab a free kick, and one about as near the 18-yard line as makes no odds. With away end ?advisers? innumerable screaming instructions to our lot, and Mogga adding his own as we built the wall, it made for a fraught few minutes ? but it all ended up in total anticlimax, when the home side could only fire narrowly past the wrong side of the woodwork.

And that, my friend, is where A Biting Chant Was Born, moreover one that really cut the opposition to the quick. ?Two-Nil To The Football Team, Two-Nil To The Football Team?.? was the ditty in question ? and the home contingent adjacent to our right didn?t like it one little bit! No, Watford, you don?t have exclusive rights concerning who plays the game with finesse, and who doesn?t ? OK?

And it didn?t stop there, either, Further chants from them of ?We are top of the League, etc?.? were squashed flat by raucous shouts of ?SIDDOWN!? and, more predictable still, those of ?Who the reffin? ell are you?...? Amidst all the kerfuffle, another thought came to mind: while all this was going on, what did The Noise have to say about it all? My answer wasn?t long in coming: throughout the drama, all The Fart and my other half could hear were a series of inarticulate squeaks!

Watford? They were losing it, and big-time, too. Gera?s constant snapping at their heels, whenever they generated enough courage among themselves to mount a token attack, didn?t do a lot for their peace of mind. Yet another foul later, my comment went along the lines of: ?Good ? if they get narked, they lose concentration even more?.? Oh dear, poor Hornets, their sting completely neutralised by half-time. But there was even worse to come for them.

After revelling in the unexpected news that Hereford were winning 2-1 versus Darlo, you really had to wonder what Ady Boothroyd had said to his troops within their inner sanctum, during the break. I feared the worst, my scenario visualising them returning from the break with new heart, and managing to get one back very quickly. It was with good reason I said to The Noise: ?Those of you who have nails, prepare to shed them NOW!.....? But, whatever Boothroyd had said in there clearly had a negligible effect, for within five minutes of resumption of play, we went and rubbed their noses right in it, once more! This time, the scorer came in the unlikely form of Alby, who nutted a Greening free-kick right past their keeper. 3-0, and still looking dangerous ? amazing!

After that, the kindest thing you can say about the hosts was that they?d exhausted all their possible options. They?d gone completely ? and their supporters knew it. Applying vast quantities of salt to the gaping wound by enquiring of everyone that listened ?Can we play you every week?? wasn?t a diplomatic thing to do, really, but it was still fun to sing it, all the same!

This was the Mogga-inspired pay-back I?d been longing to see for quite some time. An Albion side fulfilling their clear potential, at long last, and it?s fair to say that of the two sides out there, only one looked like true promotion contenders ? and it sure as hell wasn?t The Hornets. And what joy to see us string all those passes together, somewhat arrogantly, at times, but on the other hand, doesn?t every successful side possess a sense of being part of an elite? ?We?re just too good for you!? was the next item on the choral agenda, as the quality of our football gushed delightfully forth: free-flowing and smooth as warmed treacle, it was.

And poor Watford could quite easily have been hit for even more. After a double-subbing that saw Roman Bednar get his inaugural Albion game in, finally, with Miller leaving the fray, then Chris Brunt replacing Morrison, and a rare mistake from our rearguard almost letting the home side in for a consolation, we nearly made it four. A handy through-ball courtesy Greening appeared to catch Kev Phillips unawares. Had he been ready to take the pass, he would have been away and free, but he seemed to stumble, thereby passing up the fleeting chance that presented itself.

With around 20 to go, the Watford manager tried introducing Nathan Ellington to the lion?s den ? but as my old mum used to say, ?it day werk, yer clarnet?? Poor Ellington: mocked by our lot one minute, vilified by theirs the next?. Not a happy chappie at all, that lad, his sole contribution to the proceedings consisting of a medium-range effort that belted by the outside of the post. With just ten left, debutant Bednar should have made a name for himself, his chance needing only minimal attention to see it zinging right past their keeper, but the lad stubbed his toe (or something similar) at a crucial stage in the proceedings, and stuffed up spectacularly instead. Oh, well ? Rome was never built in a day, and neither will a promotion-winning Baggies side be ? so there.

All that remained now was to see out the final few minutes of the drama. Not long after the Bednar thing, Kev Phillips got the rest he so badly needed, and was applauded all the way. On came Teixiera, but such was Albion?s total mastery of the situation, his contribution was, through no fault of his own, entirely minimal. As for the Albion ?glee club? now accreting members in that away end like there was no tomorrow, one of their number suddenly decided that a revival of the old ?Stevie Bull?s a Tatter? thing was worth doing ? and that?s how the ditty got its second wind at Vicarage Road, folks! The precise reason why still eludes me, but it sure sounded good at the time!

And still we passed up on a further late brace of opportunities to make it four and definitely ?out?! The prime offenders this time were, respectively, Bednar and Brunt, with the seemingly Duracell-powered Zoltan Gera making the bullets for Brunt to fire. A shame Brunt could only squeeze the ball just past the wrong side of the far post, but hey ? whaddaya want with it? Unlimited caviar, maybe?

Finally, the ref blew for time ? and to say the away end was really buzzing by that time is a bit like saying: ?The Universe is a bit bigger than West Bromwich town centre?.? It was more than that, a much needed return of pride to our players, a total resurgence of prime qualities like self-belief, the unwavering will to run until legs were in grave danger of dropping off through over-use, and not forgetting a more than adequate portion of sheer panache, the sort that comes as a direct result of being genuinely proud of what you do, week in, week out. If this is what we can do to the top of the table, then bring on the rest, say I!

My final Memory of Vicarage Road and all who sail in it? Outside the ground, after the game, and some Watford supporters rushing up to The Garrulous One, but not in Dingle fashion, armed to the teeth. All they wanted to say was: ?Nice football, mate?.? A tribute that speaks volumes, as far as I was concerned. What the interloper might have done had the setting been Molineux, and not beautiful downtown Watford, I absolutely dread to think! The end-result would have had the words ?Plastic surgery? writ large, one supects.

And Finally?.. It?s always the way. Whenever we register a decent win, the material flows thick and fast, so here goes?..

One?. So Coventry?s Iain Dowie told his little soldiers to treat Stoke as if they were a Premier League side today, did he? About the nearest Stoke will ever get to such exalted company ? and even if they did get there by some miracle, it?s a sure-fire certainty they?d be hurtling back down again, and with not a little embarrassment attached, too.

Two?.. According to today?s Daily Mirror, last week, Blues held their annual Halloween party for their kids. Well, that must have meant a considerable saving for the adults on horror masks, and similar. After all, you can?t improve upon what Mother Nature gave you in the first place, can you?

Three?. My, how things change?.. In the seat adjacent to ours were two little kids, both wearing their best Albion shirts, and clearly quite excited by the prospect of travelling away to support the lads. Watching them brought back distant memories of a time when I was of similar age, and doing similar things ? but what I wasn?t quite prepared for was their chosen method of passing the time en-route. PlayStation-type gadgets were quickly in evidence, each lad having his own to do things to: being a relative novice at these things, all I could gather was the fact that the nice images flashing across their screens represented some past Baggies encounter or other being re-enacted in cyberspace.

And, the sheer dexterity they brought to the task of controlling these electronic beasts was truly amazing, their fingers a mere blur on the control panel as they sought to score a winning goal, or save a penalty: ask these kids who the present PM is, and they haven?t the foggiest idea, but ask them technical questions about the spec of their latest bit of electronic kit, and you can?t shut ?em up. A bit different to my day, mind: when we travelled to away grounds, all we had to amuse ourselves en-route was a Mark One deck of playing cards! (Nostalgia time for Wink Martindale fans, already well-acquainted with how such a humble recreational item can simultaneously serve as Bible, prayer-book and almanac? ?I know, I was that soldier!....?)

 - Glynis Wright

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