The Diary

26 November 2007: A Point Gained For Them, Or Two Lost For Us? Discuss.

?Oh, f*** - just look at the time!? Or words to that effect, as we Slumbersome Ones discovered with much alarm that we?d overslept for far longer than intended, this not-so-sunny morning. Which wouldn?t have mattered diddly-squat on normal matchdays, but the Dingles being the Dingles, and our local boys in blue being consumed by total panic every single time this fixture is played, that meant an early kick-off for the players, and an early start for us. Or not, as was the case today.

Talk about ?greased lightning with afterburners fitted??. Even Billy Whizz of comic strip fame couldn?t have bettered our time, as we speedily got to grips with the intricacies of washing, dressing, breakfasting (the indigestion came later), feline-feeding, dosing ourselves with various proprietary medicaments (?Im Indoors was nursing the first symptoms of a cold), grabbed our Sunday papers ? two tabs, two broadsheets - from a very startled Asian shopkeeper: all that, and still out of the door within the space of around 30 minutes. Good, or what?

Would our tardy resurrection prove to be something of an omen for the ordeal to come? A fair question, that, and one that was uppermost in our minds as we headed off at a rate of knots in search of The Hawthorns. The second burning issue of the day? Whether or not the Hawthonrs pub would be throwing open its doors to punters that early in the day: I did have a vague feeling that with Sunday opening, there was no built-in leeway concerning early start-times: it was eleven o?clock, no earlier, and no variations on that theme whatsoever accepted by The Law.

Once we arrived, though, much to my amazement it was, although, going by the length of the queue of Black Country bodies waiting to be served at the bar, I suspect what they?d done was admit the customers early, then proceed to serve them as far away from the official start time as they dared, in this case, some 20 minutes beforehand, I reckon. But, what the hell, and I?m sure the police wouldn?t have quibbled, given that early opening took people off the streets and away from potential trouble. Plus, lurking in the background, ultimate sanction in the form of expulsion from the supporters club and withdrawal of the facility, should anyone be fool enough to start anything in the pub itself.

All the above meant that the only trouble we encountered was that of trying to locate the precise whereabouts of The Noise, plus brood. Normally a task so easy, it was like writing our own names ? just listen out for the incessant chatter! ? this time round, we were having problems. How come? Because our specs had steamed up, that?s why: the temperature difference between outside and inside was a pretty steep one, hence the problems with our gig-lamps. But we did locate their whereabouts eventually, sitting on one of the sofas positioned around the perimeter of the room, and with The Fart in tow as well. Quite right too ? SOMEONE has to keep an eye on the old reprobate, don?t they? Hell, without our constant care and protection, he might end up doing something really daft, like ringing some local radio station or another, and praising the Dingles to the highest heaven!

Just one small snag, though: capacious as they were, those sofas couldn?t cope with the expansion in numbers of our happy band, so we took a democratic vote, and on the strength of it, moved to a vacant table nearer the middle. Right where both the matriarch and patriarch of The Drinking Family were both supping. Thanks to a combination of their kids finding other things to do pre-match and money being tighter, they don?t attend games as a family so much, these days, which is a shame: the varied pre-match antics of them and theirs have provided me with endless amusement, not to mention ample copy for this blog, over the years.

And weren?t they quiet, these days! Their simple explanation? ?It?s ?cos the kids don?t come any more?? As above, in other words. Quite a turnaround from the heady days, just 5 or 10 seasons ago, when the quality of pre-match debate from their considerable brood was very much better than that found in both chambers of The Mother Of All Parliaments. At least you tended to get far more sense out of them: try any sort of intelligent discourse with most politicians these days, and they?ll either try to blind you with science, treat you in a patronising way, or simply give you the verbal equivalent of the old ?bums? rush?.

Not long after we?d shifted elsewhere, there came The Ancient Ceremony Of The Completion Of The Card, in effect, a lottery where, for the outlay of a quid, you can select from a number of teams named on said card, append your name, and once the little strip at the bottom is peeled away, if the name revealed matches the one you?ve chosen, then a small prize will rapidly wing it?s merry way to you. As per usual, we all entered, more in hope than expectation, then forgot about it.

Time also for a curious conversation with one of the girls ? not one of the regulars, otherwise this wouldn?t have cropped up at all - taking the thing round and collecting the money. ?What are you writing in there?? ?There?, of course, being the notebook I take to games, the jottings in which always provide the basis for this piece.

Sadly, I was feeling in a somewhat facetious mood today, so I simply replied, almost glibly, ?Er ? ?War And Peace?, actually?.? Big mistake, that. This lass was not at all conversant with the works of Tolstoy. Wheeeee ? SPLASH! Another close scrutiny of my notebook and the words contained within, then, ??Do you make it up??

?Nope,? I replied, then, with literal truth, offered, ?The Albion always do it for me?..? Exit card-lady, looking most confused, in search of more helpless victims to ?mug?. Mind you, given that most people tend to leave my company looking confused, that?s hardly a recommendation, is it?

As for the rest of our party, a fair proportion of today?s pre-match debate revolved around our midweek trip to Elland Road, and that impressive Hereford victory we witnessed. As I said at the time, not only were they the better side for most of the game, it was also interesting to note that when you gave closer scrutiny to what Leeds were doing out there, the more you gained the impression that they were giants with feet of clay. They might have gained a few unexpected League One scalps along the way, this term, but they sure looked ordinary to my neutral eyes.

From there, the discourse somehow meandered into the realms of politics, and precisely who gave authorisation for those missing disks to be sent via the normal internal post, and not registered or tracked in any way. Sadly, Tel got the wrong end of the stick, and thought I was defending the current lot in power! Coo, talk about a nuclear explosion.

Far from it: all I wanted to do was point out that if this was how they handled sensitive data now, what the hell would happen when ID cards came in? Yet another excellent reason for this country not going down that pernicious road: despite what happened in the week, though, I strongly suspect that our PM?s mind is already made up on that particular issue.

Thank heaven the conversation then took a sharp turn in the direction of the so-called beautiful game once more. This time, debate focussed upon what loads of phone-in callers had told a national radio station after Boro let their pollution-saturated followers down yet again. Never mind McClaren, they said, what about getting Tony Mowbray in to do the job? To say this got the personal radar of every single listening Baggie screaming ?RED ALERT, RED ALERT?..? would understate the issue by a country mile, hence all the nervousness I encountered in the pub before today?s game.

Given that Mogga is still considered more of a national hero up there than Winston Churchill, I could see where they were coming from as clear as day, and, more alarmingly, where our leader might be going, were he presented with the right sort of offer by the Boro board. Just like my thick tabby cat still cuddles the ?security blanket? he used when a kitten, I?m still mentally clinging to the increasingly-wobbly thought that Mogga doesn?t come across as someone with eyes only for his own advancement, but someone I rate unlikely to leave a particular situation until the job?s been thoroughly completed. Said she. Nervously!

Remember the card we all paid a quid into, in the faint hope of grabbing for ourselves a bit of buckshee Sabbath loot? Well young Bethany certainly will, because it was her quid that won the spot prize! Thanks to her efforts, she?s now some ?30 better off. Let?s just hope, for all our sakes, she doesn?t blow it all on those E-number-saturated sweets that send her as high as the stratosphere every single time she indulges in the darned things. Oh ? and my perfectly reasonable offer to be her financial manager met with a predictable rebuff, too. Damn.

Slight consternation in the camp, next, when The Fart discovered, via his vintage wireless set ? those valves must be getting pretty hard to replace, now, eh, Tel? ? that today?s referee was none other than confirmed congenital idiot Chris Foy. Remember those old cartoon pictures entitled, by way of facetious example, ?The Man Who Decided To Fart During The Queen?s Speech?, usually depicting the ?offender? committing some outrageous social gaffe, then curling up with complete embarrassment as the horror-struck remainder of his company glare furiously? Well, that was the look on the faces of our group, no sooner The Fart dropped his broadcast bombshell. Oh dear, time to face the music.

A brief pause on Statto territory brought with it something I hadn?t clocked before. Zoltan Gera, and his international career, I mean. 28 caps for his country so far, making him Albion?s most capped player. I probably misunderstood Colin McKenzie, when he imparted this news to me, but I somehow got the impression that this made him Albion?s most-capped player ever, which couldn?t be right, as I can quite clearly remember various Welsh and Scottish players getting international call-ups galore, over the years. And that was years before the ?furriners? invaded. Just tell me it ain?t so, Colin!

Just one team change for both sides, to take in once we were seated. Out for us was James Morrison, injured, with Chris Brunt taking his place. The Dingles absentee was Freddie Eastwood, benched. This game was our 155th close encounter of the Dingle kind, the record stretching right back to 1886, which, in historical terms, means that inaugural Black Country derby took place just after the discovery of germs by Pasteur, and that of antisepsis in operating theatres by Lord Lister. By the same token, the Boer War was but a faint black splodge on the horizon, manned powered flight still some 17 years into the future, and cars merely a noisy, smelly little hobby indulged in by a bloke called Benz. So now you know.

And, just seconds before Chris Foy literally started the ball rolling, some last-minute words of wisdom from John Homer, viz: ??Any injury time will henceforth be designated ?Miller Time??.? The ref, he means, not the player. And with that little homily burning a hole in our brains, off we went. For once, all the media hype concerning the attendance actually proved to be on the level: look as I might, I couldn?t see many gaps anywhere, not even in the away end. That, plus both factions giving it their all, vocally, certainly made for a highly-charged atmosphere, come kick-off time, and no prospect of the MEB coming in to switch off the current, either.

It certainly started well for us, with our people getting the lion?s share of the midfield, and the old enemy being forced backwards to their own bit of the pitch, bar one alarming occasion early on, when they got through, but fired wide. Phew. But normality was soon restored, thanks to a quite suicidal move on the part of their defence, someone more brain-dead than is normal for a Dingle nearly heading an Albion free-kick right into the back of their own net. That would have resulted in Baggies galore wetting themselves with helpless laughter for the next hundred years, had it crossed the line, but their keeper, Hennessy, who acquitted himself all too well that afternoon, somehow managed to clear it away for a corner.

After that early chance, the game then settled down into the nervous routine of most local derbies: a scrappy and tense encounter, with both sides making errors, and not allowing the game to flow. Mind you, I did get the distinct impression that this was very much part and parcel of the Wolves game plan: having crashed and burned on four occasions last season, they?d decided to play it rough instead, not giving our players any time whatsoever to settle on the ball, being very much ?in yer face? when it came to contesting aerial duels, or 50-50 balls. In short, they unsettled us, a ploy that was to prove pretty effective in stopping us.

And, with just minutes gone, time for Mister Homer to get his ?match official hate-glands? in gear, the unfortunate victim this time being the lino patrolling the touchline nearest the Halfords. The issue at stake was a pretty obvious infringement on the part of a Dingle, but with no flag raised whatsoever. ?Blimey!?. If yow day see that offside, yow must be as blind as Stevie Wonder, lino!? Now you all know why I rate all of John?s critical touchline ?observations? an entertainment in themselves, and well-worth the season ticket money on its own.

Mind you, a scant minute after John had delivered those well-chosen words of ?advice?, and with the Dingles again attacking, this time the flag was raised within a fraction of a second of the ?offender? landing in an offside position. See ? they do take notice, sometimes!

With the game temporarily assuming a state of error-ridden stalemate, it was high time for both sets of supporters to pick up the psychological torch. It all started when our people started signing the theme tune from The Addams family, complete with innuendo about unspeakable sexual offences committed among close family members. That must have well and truly hit the spot, because, not long after that, our local rivals then countered with a ditty of their own, the lyrics of which intimated we?d gone to Wembley and ? erm ? ?tucked it up?.

As you might expect, John Homer was quickest by far to respond, bawling ?And where were yow, yow bunch of cretins?....? Closely followed by our Smethwick End glee club getting a verbal bulls-eye with the following pointed chorused remark, well and truly aimed in the direction of last season?s Play-Off Semi-Final losers, ?Where were YOU at Wember-lee?? Now tell me again, someone ? what is it they say about people in glass houses not chucking stones?

With around 50% of the first half completed, at a rough count, I would have said the honours were about even. Both sides had been given three bites of the cherry each, thus far, and all of them wasted, for one reason or another. This had all the signs of becoming a monstrous war of attrition, the irresistible force well and truly meeting the immovable object ? who was NOT John Hartson, before you ask!

Then, after an appalling miss from Koren, who should have buried the damn thing rather than allow it to sail high above the Brummie crossbar, it was ?hearts in mouth? time for the home followers. It all started when the ref gave our Dingle chums a corner: as both sides jockeyed for pole position, John spotted something our players quite clearly hadn?t. ?Who?s marking their Number Six?? he wailed. Clearly, Mister Nobody had been allocated the task, because just as the words left his Black Country lips, the Dingles hit the post. No prizes for guessing the perpetrator of the damage!

Poor John. Going by the moaned fervour of his imprecations for our lot to ?Gerra cowin? foot in?, plus other sundry remarks, he was, mentally, at least, kicking every single ball the players were. Not that his reaction was all that unusual, mind: this is a local bean-feast anticipated with great relish by all concerned, and for months in advance of the actual date both fixtures take place. It?s people like John that make it so special: scathing witticisms, carefully honed on the machine-tools of caustic Black Country wit, then spread around liberally, in similar fashion to that of broadcast seed on a ploughed field. The Scousers might think they have exclusive ?humour rights? on derbies, but I know better!

Strangely enough, we then enjoyed a bit of a purple patch, corner after corner sailing over their six-yard box, with deflections of one sort or another proving to be Albion party-poopers each time. With one in particular, the ball could have gone absolutely anywhere. Sadly, that remit didn?t include their net on this occasion! But the point still remained ? they were really rocking at the back, and to us, it only seemed a matter of time before Joshua sent the walls of Molineux tumbling down, so to speak.

That culminated in a genuine streak of ?Miller Time? with the lad, strangely quiescent up till then, grabbing the ball somewhere in the middle of the park, then taking it right into the box, brute strength completely felling all-comers ? only to pull the trigger when aiming straight at the under-siege Hennessy! AARRGH! He?d done the hard bit, so why screw up at that late stage in the game?

After that, things then zig-zagged crazily from one end of the park to the other. They had their chances to break the deadlock, and so did we. But not as good as the one they had, and as close to the break as you wouldn?t want to see, their sweeping move ending in a pin-point cross that found its target with an uncomfortable accuracy. Just as well the Dingle on the receiving end hit the post, then, wasn?t it? After that almighty closing flurry of end-to-end action, the end of the half came very welcome indeed to our exhausted followers. One incident of note, though: as our rearguard prepared to repel boarders for the umpteenth time, and with just minutes to go until the break, the away contingent burst forth with a chorused cry of ?What a frigging s**t-hole!? (Cleaned-up version.)

Retorted our resident wit, with lightning speed: ?Onny since yow got ?ere!?

Looking at the half as a whole, I would say the honours ended up being distributed fairly evenly. We had that purple patch, where we had them on the run, and their defence wobbling badly, but they managed to hit the woodwork. In short, we bossed the midfield, but they created (and wasted) some cast-iron chances of their own. Additionally ? and this was prior to his injury, mind ? I was far from convinced that Miller?s mind was properly on the task at hand. He seemed somehow distant, today, a couple of yards slower, a little clumsier than is his normal wont. But now he?s out, that issue is completely redundant, of course.

Time for the ?crossbar challenge?, then, in which kids drawn from both supporting factions try to hit the bar with an attempt made from a set distance from goal, a club T-shirt being the reward for their endeavours. And, no sooner had the PA mentioned that a couple of young Dingles would be participating, my other half immediately burst forth with a series of alarming-sounding sniggers. Once he?d shifted the tears from his eyes, he explained everything: ?Just what would a Dingle want with a Junior Baggies T-shirt?? Quite.

More merriment from our ?resident comedian? when it was announced the raffle prize winner came from Quarry Bank, a part of the world where the local accent is almost incomprehensible, even to those, like me, born and brought up in the area.

?There?ll be an ?ot toime in the owd town tonight?.? he chuckled. Then, as some PA-generated crowd noise shattered our peace yet again, ??That?s the sound of Quarry Bonk celebratin?!?

On with the show, then ? and with it the burning question of whether or not Mogga would stick with what he had out there already, or change it. An interesting point, that. I reckoned he?d go until the 60 minute mark, then change it, unless we?d conceded before that time, in which case anything was possible.

It all started in a deceptively low-key manner, as far as both sets of supporters were concerned. Not for both linos, though, their flags going up and down quicker than a pair of tarts? knickers. But, as the half progressed, it was clear that Mick McCarthy?s tactics of not giving us room to play was proving very effective indeed. Rattled, frustrated, we started to make basic errors. Above all, we needed to get balls to feet, a point that was rammed home tersely by the BIFOM, who, because of sheer nerves, had had a quietish sort of game, thus far.

Then with the half around ten minutes gone, a smidgen of magic from Tex almost brought the stalemate to a spectacular end, getting the ball, then rounding the defending Dingle before letting fly with an absolute scorcher: such was the sheer power of its flight, the most Hennessy could do with it was turn it round the post for a corner.

Not long after that, their lad Kightly, who had been an absolute pain in the fundament to us before then, had to go off through injury. Suited us nicely, that, even with his replacement being the allegedly caravan-dwelling Freddie Eastwood. Three minutes later, it was Beattie?s turn to enter centre-stage for the Baggies, as replacement for Chris Brunt. Better than that, he nearly scored within minutes of coming on.

And so the game bumbled along, with both factions having ample opportunity to bag all the spoils, but it was only in the closing stages the really contentious stuff reared its ugly head. First of all, less than ten minutes from the scheduled end of play, the lad Miller got caught up in a goalmouth tangle at the Smethwick end ? but, ominously, failed to recover afterwards. Over went the physio, but you didn?t need to have the medical acumen of Doctor Findlay, casebook or not, to suss that this one was bad. Off went the lad, then, very VERY slowly. Ouch!

The second? Well, it just had to be that penalty, didn?t it, the one where the defending Dingle chose that particular moment to try and kick Beattie halfway to Australia, both depriving him of the ball, and the Dingles, any chance of potting all three points. Now hang on a cotton-pickin? minute though?. With all our class sharpshooters out of action, just who was left capable of doing the deed? Much to our consternation, up stepped Zoltan Gera, star of stage, screen, and from what the Homers had told me, plastic double-glazing window sealant, too. A heart-stopping moment, as the lad started his charge on the ball, closely followed by a massed cry of ?OMIGOD, HE?S FLOPPED IT!? (Or words to that effect!) I guess Dingle Hennessy won?t have to buy any drinks tonight. After that disappointment, what else could you possibly say?

My verdict? Honours about even, I reckon: we had the penalty, and blew it, but they had their own chances of regaining some local pride. Listening to local radio afterwards ? well done, Mister Fart, you were a star, as per usual! ? the Dingle consensus was more that of a point gained, rather than two lost. Our first goalless draw in 73, amazingly enough. And we still went second, above Charlton. We must try and keep these things in true perspective.

More worrying for us, though, are the implications of that Miller injury. ?Lateral knee-ligament damage. Four to six weeks,? said a mournful Mogga right after the final whistle, but ? and I?m probably clutching at straws here, but what the hell ? the lad will be having a proper scan tomorrow, when the true extent of the problem can be more accurately assessed.

I personally reckon that the delay will also allow time for some of the initial bruising and swelling to dissipate, which will also make for a better and clearer interpretation of the findings. I guess we?d all better pray like stink that our medical staff have gone for ?worst case scenario? and the true extent of the problem will actually be revealed as considerably less than first feared. Please. Pretty please?

And Finally?. Not a very good time for poor Zoltan, really. Not only did he miss that penalty, but the night before, he was seen to enter John and Jean Homer?s living-room, bearing, in his mouth, a piece of the brand-new sealant they?d had put on their double-glazing to replace that damaged by the aforementioned Zoltan several months before. Zoltan The Cat, that is. Those of you residing in the Gornal area, now you know what that mushroom-shaped cloud was doing hanging above a certain house!

 - Glynis Wright

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