The Diary

07 November 2007: A Miller's Tale, One Told By An Idiot, Full Of Sound And Fury, Signifying Nothing.

So ? where do I start with this one, then? Look, I've even gone all Shakespearean with the title! Even now, some 90 minutes after that final whistle from idiot-boy-in-black Miller drew the proceedings to such a chaotic close, I?m still bloody incandescent with rage: the only other game that?s kick-started my emotions into a similarly-adrenalin charged state, thus far this season, has been the one involving the equally-odious Stoke City. True, I?d expressed severe misgivings about this game last night, but come on!?.. Not even the late Doris Stokes could have predicted what happened tonight.

But, with Stoke (no, not Stokes, unless Tony Pulis?s lot have gone and crossed The Great Divide recently!) at least you knew that the problem had lain primarily at the feet of our own incompetence, with some horrendous roughhouse and blatantly time-wasting Stoke tactics chucked in for good measure: with this one, the end result was totally down to the referee?s incompetence. Well, his, and that of his seriously myopic lino, stationed on the Halfords Lane Stand side of the park, also seemingly trying to mount a serious challenge for receivership of any award given for officiating idiocy, it would seem. Which would come first, I wondered: his official blind registration, or a new pair of bottle-lensed glasses, courtesy the local SpecSavers branch?

And once we?d arrived back home, and both calmed down sufficiently enough to watch the Champions? League highlights on the box without seriously endangering the patency of our coronary arteries again, who should get on the blower to us, but an equally furious and frustrated Fart? But he did have a tale to tell: apparently, Mogga, all patience completely spent as a result of what he?d just had to suffer, spitting bricks in quantity, said on local radio something to the effect of: ?the referee lacked integrity?, and was prepared to risk a nasty FA fine (or worse) for saying so, too.

Not typical Mogga behaviour, that. As I?ve pointed out before, our leader, when moved to rare displays of anger, very much reminds me of a schoolteacher having to reprove a promising pupil for some uncharacteristic lapse in behaviour: his post-match comments are always couched, not in red-mist anger, but very much in decorous sorrow. In other words, our leader?s demeanour in these circumstances is normally ?dignified?. Tonight, the precise opposite was the case, and that, for me, speaks volumes.

For Mogga to apparently lose control of his emotions to that alarming extent, things must have got to him so much, he couldn?t have been too far away from belting someone in sheer frustration at being robbed so blatantly. Oh, and for what it?s worth, The Fart reckoned local radio (in the shape of Tony Brown) also said that the same ref officiated the last time we played them here, when Robbo got sent off. That I could not comment upon, one way or another: I?ve been to bed since then, but I?m certainly prepared to take his word for it.

As for the injury to Kev Phillips, stretchered off midway through the second sitting, Radio WM had originally said the problem was a dislocated knee, but when interviewed by the local media (after he?d finally finished doing his crust over the current sorry state of refereeing standards, presumably) Mogga reckoned nobody knew precisely what was wrong, or for how long our genius striker would be out of action, even.

Presumably, he?ll have to go to hospital tomorrow, then have X-ray and other scans done to assess the amount of damage done, and from that, a definitive diagnosis finally made. Fingers crossed it?s only something rectifiable by lots of rest, but even if that proves to be the case, I reckon he could well be out for at least a couple of games (conservative, with a small ?c?, guesstimate from this column). The trouble is, when players get to that sort of age, what would be just an inconvenience to a younger guy, can suddenly become, through varying complications, quite a lengthy spell out of action. I hope to God I?m wrong.

And while I?m banging on about the vexed question of ?right? or ?wrong?, I?d really love to hear what the assessors in the stand (or anyone reading this that?s had extensive experience of whistling at this, or a similar level), made of the lino?s decision to flag for an infringement, believed to be offside, when the ball was smacked over the goal-line and into the back of the net by one of Wednesday?s own players in the first half. Right, then, you pair of clever-clogs up there ? now explain to me how it is an own goal, clearly stuck in by a Wednesday player situated about as close to the goal-line as makes no odds, can in actual fact, make an Albion player suddenly ?offside??

And there?s also the farcical circumstances of that late, late Wednesday equaliser to rationalise to furious Albion supporters ? assuming such crass incompetence can support rational explanation, of course. First off, there?s the amount of time added on to the three minutes originally stated by the fourth official, after Robbo went down. Six and a half minutes played over, as a lot of people in our stand made it, once Robbo recovered sufficiently enough to walk off the pitch under his own steam.

Then, after play finally resumed, and Wednesday embarked upon that almighty charge upfield into our box, and with us still down to nine (Robbo not yet back on the pitch), just about the only person in the ground that didn?t see the blatant push on poor Hoefkens was ? yep, you?ve guessed it ? our hero in black. And it just had to be ex-Albion man Steve Watson inflicting the killer blow, didn?t it? Unbelievably, their equaliser was only Wednesday?s second direct shot on goal the entire half, their first coming just after the board had gone up for the ?legal? three minutes we were expecting, and dealt with competently by Kiely. Blimey, they couldn?t have got out of jail as successfully if they?d had 60?s TV defence attorney Perry Mason (ask Granddad!) playing up front for them.

No wonder the genius with the whistle needed a police escort after he so conveniently blew for time, just a matter of seconds after Wednesday committed their late, late act of robbery with violence. Angry? Me? You can say that again ? and a hell of a lot more beside. As far as I?m concerned, after what happened, I wouldn?t have wept salt tears had both referee and lino had their balls forcibly extracted in public, then fried in boiling oil, and fed to local stray dogs. Assuming local stray dogs appreciate being offered such dubious delicacies, of course.

But, look on the bright side, at least we found the pre-match craic in the Hawthorns boozer well up to standard. As per usual, the two Lewis offspring were suitably zingy. Yet again, the dreaded E-numbers, in the shape of ?suck? purchased courtesy of some local Arthur Daley?s mobile confectionery stall. Apparently, before we?d showed up, the entire clan were in the McDonalds over the road from the ground (as per usual, pre-match), when who should they spot there, but none other than Big Dave!

The Lewises, being of well-tested (and proven!) garrulous stock, quickly engaged the Great Man in conversation, and asked him how he was doing at Derby. ?A new challenge every week!? was our lad?s enigmatic reply. Even better, Carly, thinking quickly, grabbed her mobile and took a picture: the results I saw before the game. Oh, and another thing. As I?d loaned that young lady my OU textbook until after Christmas, I asked her if it was any use ? and apparently, it is! It ties in quite nicely with work they?re currently doing about the composition and functions of cell membranes, so I?m dead pleased it?s been of help to her.

Enter The Fart, and very early for him, too. Must have grabbed good connections on the Metro, or something. And he did have a spot of interesting news for us concerning recent speculation that Bolton (manager Megson, of course), were trying to snatch Zoltan Gera and/or Ish Miller from the succour of our delicate little bosom. Apparently (Tel was at a supporters? liaison committee meeting held at the ground the other night) the Word From On High is that Bolton can go whistle; we?re not letting anyone go, and in any case, Miller is contractually with us until the cessation of hostilities, come May.

Not only that, both we and City have already agreed a fee, and because of that, we have first option upon his permanent services. Mind you, such is the parlous state of relations existing between both our chairman and Megson, still, could you honestly see Jeremy wanting to do our former manager any such favours? Yeah, right ? and if Meggo was foolish enough to try to open negotiations about either of the two, I can only assume that any reply from Albion would have been swift ? er, VERY swift, in fact - and couched in just two simple words, one of which just happens to be ?OFF!?

A strange situation in the Ladies toilets underneath the Halfords, tonight. One of those traffic cone thingies, the sort they use in training, plonked right underneath one of the washbasins. Quick-fire speculation as to why the thing was there in the first place does suggest to me that Albion might well be putting together and practicing set-piece variants upon the word ?dribbling?? Well, I always said that footballers? humour was somewhere near ?bog-standard??..

Once more, it was nice of the Homer duo to present us with a Mars bar to chomp upon during the game. Normally, we take such glucose-rich treasures at half-time, the reason being it has been known for one or the other of us to nearly choke fatally when Albion have scored while we?ve been chomping, but tonight, we couldn?t wait. I must have needed it, mind; mine sank below the surface in seconds flat.

Only one change to tonight?s line up; as per Watford, with the exception of Morrison (so good, they named an entire supermarket chain after him!) being benched to make way for Teixeira. As for Wednesday, they had Steve Watson, former Baggie, of course, of whom I made mention in my opening remarks.

Wednesday, wearing an away kit of violent, almost radioactive, orange hue that would have gone down well in Guantanamo Bay ? and, after tonight, you might well want to argue that durance vile in ?Gitmo? was just the place for them, and until Hell froze over, too ? found it difficult to get a handle on our methods at first ? within two minutes of the start we earned ourselves a corner ? but just after that, there was an almighty clash of heads, Ish Miller and Wednesday?s Akpo Sodje being the pair involved, the whole thing ending with poor Miller having to go off for stitches, returning, later, looking very much like Geronimo on a bad scalping day.

There then followed a sustained attacking spell from our finest, and no less than four Albion corners, one after the other. But still no Miller, thereby prompting the comment from ?Im Indoors: ?Do they stitch players up like they change tyres in Formula One?? It?s a thought, and perhaps not one for my fevered imagination to dwell upon for too long, lest I snigger so much I widdle myself. However, the prodigal did return to us, not long after that, and, within a matter of minutes, was to prove to all and sundry that the bang on the head hadn?t affected his faculties one little bit courtesy a bit of useful work in their goalmouth.

And so it was that the game bimbled along in similar fashion, with Albion mostly calling the shots by that time, bar for one worrying moment, when Kiely had to shift smartly to foil a Wednesday race for possession. The reason we couldn?t make more progress out there was simple: call them what you want, but they?d done their homework, that?s for sure. In short, they?d opted for the same sort of ?in yer face? stuff that had assisted Stoke so readily weeks before.

And then came what Agatha Christie would have no doubt labelled ?The Strange Case Of The Offside Own Goal?. Ish Miller was the architect of this one, put through courtesy Tex, and his cross reaching not an Albionite, but one of Wednesday?s own instead. It all looked up for them when the player concerned netted: an ?oggie? by anyone?s lights, so we all celebrated.

Then, out of the corner of our eye, we saw the lino?s flag, raised. John achieved critical mass within seconds: just like me, he couldn?t work out how the lino had worked it out that we were offside! Ticklish one, that, a poser that not even the most glib of politicians could have wormed their way out of. Margaret Thatcher, maybe, but not many more. Needless to say, the whole ground was incandescent with fury by that stage. Just seconds after that, when the lino responsible had cause to take both him and his beastly flag to the halfway line, the next thing I saw was Mogga and Venus having a few well-chosen words with the guy, with the fourth official striving valiantly to keep the peace. Venus just couldn?t leave it alone: the way he was going on, I could readily see the next thing being a long slow walk to the stand for the ex-Dingle.

The bellicose mood of the spectators quickly transferred to the players; first off, Cesar got booked, then the tackles really started sliding in. And most without further penalty, strangely enough. Finally, the place erupted with ironic cheers as an infringement actually went our way, for once! As for our chum, the erring lino, when he flagged for a straightforward Albion throw, some Black Country wit or other shouted, in tones that must have easily penetrated both dugouts: ?That?s the fust thing yow?ve got cowin? roite, linesman?.?

During a lull in the noise ? ?Pity yow ay as good as yer mate, lino!? was yet another gem of wit imparted to Chummy with the flag on our side, by a still-furious John Homer ? our strangely-acting man in the middle then saw fit to lecture our lot about their behaviour. I say ?strange? because, of the two, ours seemed more sinned against than sinning.

Nearly at the end of the half, and with things relatively calm, once more, the genius with the whistle just had to bring himself to our attention again. This time, it was through halting the taking of a Wednesday corner to check whether the ball was correctly placed in the quarter-circle, or not. I?m sure it impressed the assessors in the stand right enough, but as a means of letting the game flow, it didn?t help either side a lot. Feel better now you?ve been a ?Jobsworth?, mate?

Come the break, the daft thing was this: by now, we should have been at least three in front. The fact we weren?t was largely due to idiot-boy flagging on the touchline: that, plus one from Phillips that hit the woodwork, and the sustained brilliance of their keeper. As for the rest, such had been the sustained enormity of that Albion pressure on the Wednesday defence, you really had to ask yourself how they?d managed to survive with their goals against tally still pristine. Needless to say, the aforementioned official got hell, as he left the scene of his serial incompetence for temporary sanctuary, in the form of their dressing-room.

Back for the second helping, then, and from the off, some determined running from the bandaged Miller saw us grab both a throw and a corner, in quick succession. Start as you mean to go on, I say?. So Phillips did, the shot ending up looping over the bar. In short, the second half was mostly Albion?s, with Wednesday only making a token contribution to the proceedings with around 60 minutes played, their shot missing the target by a country mile.

Some more sterling work from their keeper followed, as Kev Phillips then proceeded to carefully dissect their errant defence apart several times on the bounce. How the scores were still level was a complete mystery to everyone around us. Just what did we have to do to get the opener we so richly deserved? Tie the lino?s flag to his torso? Arrange the rapid alien abduction of their keeper?

The answer, when it finally came, was simple. Get Robbo to turn creator, for once, which he did superbly. With 20 to go, his cross reached Our Kev, who then, wisely enough, simply nutted the thing for all it was worth, in the direction of the net. Successfully, too. Disallow THAT one, then, you misbegotten flag-waving tosser!

A hard-fought half had brought success, finally. But, in typical Albion fashion, we nearly threw it away, and for that, we didn?t need any assistance from ?men in black?. Just some horrible kicking on the part of Kiely, who must have been mortified to see what should have been a straightforward clearance hit a Wednesday player, then rebound with their guy charging it down like an express train with the safety-valve removed from its steam boiler. A Wednesday corner was the end-result, but one nullified perfectly by our rearguard.

It was with around ten minutes to go that poor Kev met his Waterloo. The incident that caused it, in their box, was quite innocuous, or so it seemed. Play went the other way, with the ball looping upfield, and it was only then everyone realised Kev had a problem. A stretcher was called for, then produced, our striker being loaded upon it, then taken round the running-track with commendable swiftness. We could only hope it wasn?t serious, but the other thing was that by then, we?d used all our subs, so would have to operate with just ten men on the pitch. That was the moment when the heebie-jeebies I?d had about this game suddenly manifested themselves once more.

Once Kev was gone, that?s when things started getting worrying. With the full 90 having come and gone, up went the board. Three minutes stoppage time left, which seemed reasonable enough, all told. But then came the incident that had everyone around us spluttering with fury. It all started when Robbo went down injured, in our box. Again, a stretcher was called for, but didn?t materialise, this time. Off went Robbo, as per normal after a stoppage, but with him waiting to come back on, and every Baggie there going bananas over the extra amount of time added on, that was when ex-Albionite Watson seemed to foul Hoefkens, then fire through an almighty ruck of players of both persuasions decamped in our box.

And that, my friends, was when the place REALLY erupted. Unsurprisingly, the referee called ?time? just a few seconds after that, and amidst much confusion, too: it was only when the rozzers appeared at his side to act as ?minders? for the long, potentially fraught walk to the tunnel that we realised it was over. We were to hear, later, that Mogga had then taken the opportunity of telling the bloke in black a few home truths of our gaffer?s own devising, but I very much doubt whether anyone did find the erring official with his head firmly shoved right where the sun don?t shine!

And Finally?. One. On this godawful night, at least I?ve found something our favourite football club have done, and as a result, had me in stitches ever since. Turn to tonight?s programme, and you?ll see them advertising a trip to the Nou Camp as a competition prize. Very enterprising too, may I say. The snag? The closing date - which just happens to be the 31st of October, so get those entries in quick, folks! By courtesy of Doctor Who and the Tardis, preferably. Oops!

And, even better, they also goofed up on the big screen, come half-time tonight. Different thing, but same cock-up, the event being publicised having taken place already ? erm ? on the 3rd of November, would you believe?

Two?. Ian Hamilton, remember him? No, I?m not on about the WW1 general that stuffed up the 1915-16 Dardanelles operation for the British Army, just the midfield player we had around the time of our 1993 Wembley triumph, and beyond. The one that liked to turn upon his own axis a lot, a bit like those Dervishes they have in Turkey, only slower. According to the Lewis family, he?s been spotted quite often at the ground in recent weeks. ?He?s looking VERY ? errr ? ?mature?!? commented Carly, who could remember the bloke from when he actually played for us.

?Yeah, just like me....? was my weary parting shot to the dear lady.

Three?. Mad fool that I am, I?ve gone and succumbed to temptation to travel to Palace with The Fart. Having informed my other half of my decision ? he wasn?t too surprised I?d decided to go, to be fair ? he then commented: ?You?re only going to wind up Neil Warnock?.? Me? Moi? Damn, rumbled again!

 - Glynis Wright

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