The Diary

28 September 2003: Stokies Stemmed As Red Cards Rule OK

If ever there was a game potentially full of nasty, slimy banana skins for us to pratfall upon, today?s had to be it. Not a sniff of a victory in 17 goes, us needing the points to keep in touch with the likes of Wigan and Sheff United, not to mention the morale-booster for our troops a win would give us, so an awful lot was riding upon what the final score would prove to be at five to five. Having said that, when I did finally emerge from the ground at the end of the game, although we?d done what was necessary to give those three precious points a good home, I could derive little satisfaction from having exorcised that particular ghost for one and for all. Unlike after the Ipswich game, when I exited the place thinking we could and should have pulverised them during that opening 25 minutes, today, my principal thoughts revolved around the fact that at no time had we looked at all convincing. And don?t even get me started on the League Cup draw against The Toon. Or is it just that I?m getting old?

The trouble with Stoke City is that despite the introduction of an ID card scheme last February, rightly or wrongly, their supporters are still perceived to lug an unpleasantly-large amount of unwelcome baggage with them. Smudge Smith of their fanzine ?The Oatcake? would argue otherwise, and rather vehemently, too, but today, our local plods certainly seemed to think different. When we arrived at the ground, at around half twelve, there were no less than 17 police vans parked in Halfords Lane, all stuffed to the gunnels with the West Midlands force?s finest. A job-creation-scheme by any other name, I suspect, especially in view of the subsequent post-match revelation that there were very few arrests at the ground, and those Stokies who did get their collars felt were the first since the ID card thingy came into being. Were those nickings solely to justify the existence of such a large body of plods at the game, I wonder? It wouldn?t be the first time it?s happened. If you want to learn more, just tune into the Stoke fanzine website, where an already-indignant Smudge is getting into second-gear already!

Today, we had a slight variation to our normal routine; after a glass or two at the Throstle Club, it was straight to The East Stand where Stan Rickaby, one of the four surviving members of that 1954 FA Cup winning side, was signing copies of his new book in the club shop. There was method in our madness; our purchase, now suitably autographed, will be offered to Dick readers as a future competition prize, so keep your lugholes peeled for that one. Oh, and before you ask, yes, The Fart was there as well; got on like a house on fire, did the pair of ?em, so I combined business with pleasure by taking a pic of them together for the fanzine. Having done that, it was then a case of waiting for The Noise?s daughter Carly, who had seemingly made it her life?s work to buy the whole place up before we kicked off! There?s a lot to be said for genetics, here, as her Mum also has the incredible ability to locust-strip the interior of any shop she happens to be visiting. It?s abundantly clear where all the relevant DNA went in this instance!

And so, to selling-mode. Not that we had much to flog anyway; the Hartlepool jaunt had left us bereft of great numbers of Dicks. All we had to our name were eighteen of the blighters, so we were relying upon The Miser to bring reinforcements; while we waited, off dashed Carly to get the autographs of both Rob Hulse and James O?Connor. Oh, and I was told The Noise also took time out to wish them well for the game. If that was the case, then I can only assume that escaping Martin?s conversational clutches, then getting changed in good time for the kick-off, must have been quite a feat for the pair of them

Once we?d been replenished with more stock, selling began apace, interspersed, as ever by conversation between myself and various readers who wanted to bat the breeze about this and that; all part of the PR-thing, I suppose, with one particular topic of conversation predominating. As it turned out, so numerous were the enquiries, I began to miss sales. There are times when I could really do with a recorded message, and this was one of them, but never mind. I?m sure it?ll all come out in the wash, eventually. Then it was time to go in; no turnstile queues, despite the lateness of the hour. I suspect Baggies are now operating on the principle of assuming the stile-cards won?t work rather than will, and are arriving earlier as a result. Trouble was, when we got to the entrance, Si went through, no problem, so the woman in charge waved me on, I stuck my card against the reader in the approved fashion ? nothing. Then, this lady informed me I?d gone through too quickly! Yes, but only because you bloody well told me to! AAARGH! Mind you, we were luckier than some; I?ve since heard from The Noise that the gadgets in the Brummie decided to withdraw their labour once more, and it was five past three before our talkative co?editor and daughter finally reached their seats. Yes, and they missed those sendings-off as well.

A good point to discuss what happened, then? Yep, you bet. The Noise may not have witnessed the incident, but we certainly saw the dismissals; as to what precipitated them, ask me one on sport! All I know is, Albion won a corner in about the second or third minute, and as we prepared to take it, there was quite a lot of jostling and shoving going on in the goalmouth, which is pretty much par for the course when a corner is being taken. The next thing I knew, play was halted, the ref called AJ and Stoke?s Eustace over, then he inexplicably brandished red at them both. Just what is it between referees, Albion, and Stoke City? According to The Argus, the red cards were for elbowing, but had there been that sort of thing going on, it must have been very well hidden, because I saw sod-all at the time, even though our seats are on the Smethwick End side of the Halfords, a little to the right of the away dug-out. Sure, if that was the case, then technically, I suppose they were caught bang to rights, but no-one was hurt, no-one was shouting the odds about being wronged, so why not a warning, or a yellow card for both of them? As it was, by sending the pair of them for an ultra-early bath, the referee effectively killed the game as far as the enjoyment of the paying punters was concerned. Oh, and just in case you?re wondering, come half time, I asked our resident oracle, John Homer, the last time an Albion player was dismissed so quickly, and without even blinking, he came up with the answer. George Reilly, the first five minutes of the Bass Charity Vase, 1987. So now you know. John, you?re a star!

The premature loss of our hirsute midfielder meant we had to ring the changes; Clem and The Scorched Bum dropped back, and Greegs moved into midfield, taking up AJ?s berth. The dismissals had also ignited collective passions in much the same way ants can be annoyed by the judicious placing of a stick inside their nest. The phrase ?cauldron of noise? is oft used when describing a contentious game, but seldom has it been so apposite. Both sets of supporters felt their favourites had been wronged, and were giving their vocal all by way of response. From the ? erm ? red corner, we had massive renditions of bloody ?Delilah?, plus that old Stoke standby, ?Boing, Boing, bag of S**t!?, and in the blue corner, we were treated to an emotive rendition of The 23rd Psalm, plus a few derogatory references to our downwardly-mobile and leaderless local rivals chucked in for good measure. Let?s just say the next ten minutes or so were noisy, ear-ringingly so, at times.

What was interesting, though, was the Battle Of The Gobs that was raging in the vicinity of both dug-outs. Our manager, although bawling fit to bust most of the time, confined his antics to the technical area; not so, Mr. Pulis, whose body roamed everywhere save that portion of the pitch designated as belonging to him, likewise, that awfully-loud bellow. The fourth official was certainly kept busy! Following that early sensation, Stoke certainly had their chances to break the deadlock, but it has to be said that we had the lion?s share of what was up for grabs. Hulse, twice, then Koumas, with an almighty piledriver that rattled the crossbar horribly, all went, oh, so close, but those bloody Potters just wouldn?t cave in when ordered. Clearly, this was going to be a war of attrition, and the second half was going to stretch interminably.

Off we went for the second portion, then, and about ten minutes later, Meggo decided to ring the changes. Off went Greegs, and on went Sakiri. About three minutes later, there occurred one of the most unbelievable misses it?s been my misfortune to see, and, yes, one of our own was the guilty party. Koumas was the start of it all when he whanged over a lovely cross from the right that found Scott Dobie, invitingly-unmarked, in front of the sticks, and around a yard from the line. The sun shone fit to bust, the clouds scudded across the sky, and the breeze was cool and slight. The sort of day for any striker worth his salt to gleefully get hold of the thing, ram it past the keeper, and blast it all the way through to Bradford?s Bakery, on the other side of The Brummie Road, which, to be fair, Dobes tried to do. Trouble was, instead of giving the keeper backache, Scott?s effort sailed merrily over the crossbar and landed around ?seat Z?. I know they like to play rugby in Cumbria, but that?s taking the mick ? what a bloody miss! For the purists, such spectacular incompetence is on a par with that of Luther Blissett, at Orient, about 11 years ago. Or Andy Hunt, at Bradford, around 1993. The distance was similar, and the circumstances; just insert different names.

Still, Scott wasted no time at all atoning for that ghastly howler. About a minute later, Hulse crossed, the ball ran to our hero, who made no mistake that time. In the back of the net it went, and one-nil to the good we were. Having broken the deadlock, finally, I thought we might then go for the jugular. The next few moments were promising, as Koumas had a go, his effort going narrowly over, then Clem whipped one in for the lurking Dobes, but at the crucial moment, he fell over, consequently, player and ball never connected. Most worrying, as failure to kill off our opponents cost us at Palace, last weekend, but come the 73rd, Stoke effectively signed their own death-warrant. In a moment of rashness, Marcus Hall saw fit to bring down Dobes just on the edge of the box. Was he the last man? Would the referee have the bottle to dismiss him also? Would Lord Hutton produce a red card for Tony Blair? Sure, the rules said he had to walk, but I had my doubts as to whether he actually would, especially when Mr. Laws ? what a lovely example of nominative determinism there! ? embarked on a long and seemingly-involved lecture to the player, but I needn?t have worried. Red it was, to great cries of ?Cheerio, cheerio, cheerio!? from the sadists in the Halfords Lane Stand as the transgressor slowly exited the field of play. So, a free-kick it was, having been advanced ten yards for dissent as well, in a lovely place for our set-piece experts to exploit to their advantage. Clem was the Baggie designated to do the honours, which he did with some panache, but the effort was turned away for a corner.

Into the last ten, then. The Twilight Zone, as Baggies who travelled to Palace would term it, and, as the clock began to run down, it seemed to me that we were making the same mistakes all over again. Careless errors began to creep in; we gave the ball away cheaply, we failed to close down Stoke attackers sufficiently, and they were allowed to get shots in, bloody good ones, too. Oh, and they brought on what I thought might be a threat, Akinbiyi. Just as well then, Houlty was on his toes, in tipping over one particularly nasty Stoke effort for a corner just before the end. Shades of far too many past Albion-Stoke encounters for this Baggie, I?m afraid, that five minutes of injury-time was hair-tearing, excruciating, even. Boy, was I glad to hear that final whistle!

So. Wigan drew, but Sheffield United won at Bradford earlier in the day. That means the deficit is now reduced to one point, which means the Millwall game will assume even more importance; look at where the Londoners are in the pecking-order right now, and you?ll see Tuesday?s tryst with them isn?t going to be a formality. Mark McGhee might be an ex-Dingle Scottish halfwit in our eyes, but he?s no mug. The other thing to bear in mind about them is that during our promotion season, they were the only side to do the double over us. Sure, we?re taking about different players, but it?s still quite a psychological barrier to surmount. Something tells me Tuesday?s fixture is going to be fraught.

Back home, then, nicely in time for the League Cup draw on Sky ? and when our name finally emerged from that little black bag, I just couldn?t believe it. Sixty two possible opponents in the hat for that one, and of those in the shake-up, only one could send us further afield than Hartlepool ? so what happens? Yep, you?ve guessed it, bloody Newcastle, at their place. At first sight, it might seem one of those games where we?re expected to turn up and simply make up the numbers, but, as the old song once said, ?it ain?t necessarily so?. Whatever they achieved last season, they sure as hell aren?t coming up with the goods this time round. To date, they haven?t won a home game, they?re currently in the drop-zone, so are likely to be concentrating on keeping themselves out of the smelly-stuff more than anything else. Oh, and as they?re still in Europe, it might be, they?ll put out as weakened side, as that?s where the real money?s made these days. And, maybe, just maybe, going into the game as the underdog might prove to be all the impetus we need. Said she. Hopefully!

And finally?.. You?ll be pleased to know that while make-believe medical drama was unfolding on Casualty tonight, I was doing it for real. Nothing as spectacular as the miracle-cures accomplished by Charlie Fairhead and his gang, but equally satisfying in its own way. The problem? My other half?s ear-wax. The quack told ?Im Indoors that the wax had to be softened before she could wield the syringe to good effect, so that meant lots of olive oil, poured down the offending orifice, which, in its turn, meant me, doing my Florence Nightingale bit. Having this morning persuaded our local chemist to give me the barrel of a syringe to do the job properly, I then attacked His Lordship good and proper with the thing after today?s game; trouble is, my other half is not a very good patient, and the sheer amount of liquid in his lughole has now rendered him temporarily deaf. Please feel free to bawl all the insults you can muster on Tuesday night ? because he won?t hear a blind word of it, I promise!

PS. A word for those who are reading this via the Boing website. Sorry for the delay. This was due to technical reasons beyond my control, and normal service should be resumed tonight!

 - Glynis Wright

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