The Diary

29 November 2007: Armchair Supporting - The Good, The Bad, And The Just Plain Panicky!

I?d never quite clocked it before, but now I come to think about it, there?s an awful lot of pre-match preparation involved in being an armchair supporter. First of all, you have to get tea (aka ?dinner?, by those better acquainted with the considerably more refined social whirl enjoyed by the Lower Gornal set! That right, Mister Homer?) well and truly out of the way. And that includes moggies, too; three felines, all howling to be fed at some crucial time or other, do not serve as an aid to concentration, nor completely dissipate the sick, fluttery-butterfly feeling that comes gratis with the package labelled ?pre-match nerves?. Long before the game kicks off, get them out of the room, using threats and/or bribery if you must! Offering to show moggy matriarch where the most flavoursome rats are at helps progress on that front enormously.

Got rid of pesky, distracting felines, finally? Good. Now you?re cooking on gas. Time to move to the next preparatory stage, The Great Ceremony Of The Bringing In Of The Radio, then tuning the darned thing in to WM. Realise we?ve run out of plug sockets, so I unveil my new purchase that day: a four-socket gang-plug thingy. I had meant to use it with our new reading-lights, but we now have a much more pressing need for it. Even so, I do take trouble of switching those reading-light plugs over, too. Growl menacingly at ?Im Indoors when he swaps wrong plug over at his end.

Switch on, tune in, finally - and discover Tony Butler waffling on at great length: right now, we need him like a right-sided hemicolectomy, general anaesthetic not supplied. Are WM going to cover our game at all, then? The question?s immediately answered for us, and in the negative, when someone announces they?re going to go over to Ewood Park for live commentary. Guess we?ll just have to rely on Sky, then.

Only minutes to go, now: time for the final touches to be applied. Rearrange back-support pillows at end of sofa, and deploy their neck-supporting counterpart. ?Im Indoors reckons it bears close resemblance to a toilet seat. I retort by saying it can look like the bloody cistern, chain and all, if it wants: it keeps my neck from aching, and that?s all I care about. Ensure there?s a plentiful supply of soft drinks to hand ? this ?wailing-and-gnashing-of-teeth? lark doesn?t half make you thirsty ? and see to it there?s ample stocks of nibbles to be ingested, should the tactical situation at Home Park necessitate it. ?Im Indoors twiddles his thumbs for a moment, then shouts ?Eureka?! No, we haven?t kicked off yet, so it?s not a cry of triumph: just that he?s belatedly realised he can also get a fair idea of what?s going on by dialling up a website that gives a blow-by-blow written account of the game. It?s all stats-studded stuff, which would have me snoring my bloody head off in seconds, were I to try and follow it, but each to their own, I say.

Now I know why it is my armchair-supporting brother-in-law always looks as though he?s treading on eggshells, every single time I see him. Talk about a bag of nerves ? and he doesn?t go to games much these days, either, poor old sod. Right, then. Are we sitting comfortably? Then we?ll begin ? or kick-off at Home Park, more like.

As it?s a monster European night on the box, wall-to-wall Champions League, involving a fair number of domestic clubs, that?s what they go for, unsurprisingly. But we do get occasional snippets of what?s happening in the only two Championship games taking place tonight, ours and The Dingles, who ? erm ? ?entertain? Colchester at their own place. Chaos in the studio as Chelski and Liverpool get early goals, the former quickly doubling their lead courtesy obnoxious little tow-rag Drogba.

Much lamenting from Scotland, all of a sudden. Well, it?s Gordon McQueen, actually, watching the studio monitor, and sounding like the Prophet Of Doom as he does so, as Celtic concede equally early, but hey! Isn?t that supposed to be in the natural order of things for the Glasgow green-hooped persuasion? Promising oodles, but cocking it up in fine fashion, the very first chance they get? Ah ? hang on a minute, that?s OUR speciality as well, isn?t it?

But not tonight, Josephine or otherwise. Eight minutes gone, and cut camera to Home Park, where there?s been a goal, evidently. And it?s Albion?s! Whoopee! Despite careful preventative measures taken before kick-off, my cats flee in all directions, as per usual. My scream of delight reaches my other half upstairs, so he thunders downstairs, at maximum warp speed. Cue for second attack of ?panicking cat syndrome?. Never mind that, I?m able to tell him it?s Bednar that?s done the biz. My similarly-delighted other half tells me that the ?word commentary? he?s watching has a bit of a time-delay on it, hence me getting the glad tidings before he did!

Keeping my eyes glued to the telly, despite all the nerve-frazzling going on, I suddenly spot something that really has me chuckling. It?s the side-panel on the screen where Sky put their latest scores, on a sort of ?rolling update? basis. One of the Champions League qualifying groups, can?t remember which one right now, bears the legend: BESK 0 MARS 0.

Yep, I know it?s the European Big One, but even so, that sure is one hell of an away trip to have to make: knocks teensy little strolls to the likes of Newcastle (yes, and Plymouth) into a cocked hat, by comparison. I wonder whether it?s that Leicester University chap with the ginger mutton-chop sideboards, Pillinger, the one that lost the British Mars probe a few years back, organising the away travel for that one? If it is, God alone knows when they?ll get back.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch?. Cut to Home Park yet again, where Sky?s linkman there asserts Plymouth are beginning to fight back. Suddenly they?re stringing passes together, with one serious attempt on goal already, involving a Kiely stop, perilously close to the target. Is this going to get really sweaty, I wonder. They are top-six fodder, after all, and certainly no mugs. News also from The Custard Bowl, but not good from the Albion point of view. They?ve gone one up against Colchester, dammit.

Cut back to the studio, where news is just in that Liverpool have conceded, putting them on equal terms again. But for me that?s all horse-pucky: The Champions League is as many light years away from the Championship as the nearest star to Earth, Proxima Centauri, and what?s more, I don?t anticipate ever seeing Albion compete in it in my lifetime. Note that word, please. EVER.

But while my thoughts temporarily dwell amidst the remote vastness of space that exists ?twixt the gravitational pulls of both the sun and our nearest stellar neighbour, there comes yet another announcement from the studio that they?re going back to Plymouth, ?where there?s been another goal?.? The question is, though, for which side?

And the news is good: with just two minutes to go to the break, Ronan Bednar has done it again, so it?s now Plymouth Argyle 0 Albion TWO. Yet another roar of triumph from me, and yet more thundering on the stairs from him! Wow, considering all the grave doubts I?d had about this fixture beforehand, it looks very much as though the lads are going to pleasantly surprise me after all. Rapid descent to Terra Firma on discovering the Dingles to be one up, still. Grrrrrrrr!

One other thing puzzling me is the strange manner of goal descriptions we?ve been getting from Sky?s tame journo at Home Park. It?s all very vague-sounding stuff when talking about Albion, viz: ??.the ball was taken down the right wing, then crossed to?.? No names, no indication of how the shot went in, either. Was it a header, a thirty-yarder, or simply one of those flukey ones that evade even the best of keepers, every so often? We don?t know, because Chummy?s keeping sctum on it. As my other half comments, he must be a local hack, and doesn?t know anything about our side at all.

Time for the break, then, and for this column, at least, a temporary release from nervous tension. Statto, having relinquished his vice-like hold on our PC for a while, informs me that we?ve had 5 shots on target, and three off-target, that half. For their part, Argyle have just one to seriously brag about. Interesting to think that tonight is Bednar?s first-team debut, and only there because of our current striker injury crisis. One debut, two goals. Brilliant.

Quite remarkable that we?ve once more unearthed a raw nugget, just needing the final polish put on it, before going on sparkling display. How far we?ve come in the space of but a few months: last season, a similar striker crisis would have floored us. Now, we simply rootle in the old locker for new ammunition ? bingo! Strength in depth, in other words ? and that?s the sort of thing that gets you promoted.

The clock now indicates the passing of several minutes into the second half ? and it?s back to Home Park again, where Bednar has put the ball in the back of the Plymouth net AGAIN. But this time, the flag?s up for offside, or something. Oh, and one other thing. Paul Sturrock has now abandoned his lofty perch in the stands for a quick-smart move to the technical area, and some much-needed, impromptu hands-on management. I say ?impromptu? because anything he decides to change must surely come via his number two matching shirt numbers with names.

Back to the studio again, where it?s ?cut camera time? again, to the Custard Bowl. Their chap on the spot is getting all excited, for some reason. Turns out he?s so enthused because the Dingles have actually managed to string FIVE passes together. ?FIVE passes ? well done, Wolves!? That?s hubby, sarcasm glands going at full-blast, as per usual. He does have a point, though: how many did we string together at Vicarage Road, in the build-up towards the second goal that finally killed them off? ?Im Indoors lost count around the thirty mark, if my memory serves me correctly.

Then Sky start to get really irritating. On at least two occasions, they promise to go to Home Park, getting well into the build-up both times ? only to get kicked out of the frame completely by bloody Celtic. And, what?s more, instead of going back to our game once Gordon McQueen?s blathered on a bit, they then dive off at an entirely different tangent, going straight to Champions League venues where there?s sod all different to report. Remind me to buy a head and shoulders bust of Rupert Murdoch tomorrow, and start sticking gurt great hat-pins in it. Ha! That?ll teach him.

But we do get an update, finally, and the score?s still the same, but canny, sensible Mogga?s now taken Bednar off, and brought on Beattie in his place. With us still strapped for strikers until Phillips and/or Miller return from the dead, we can?t afford to take any risks whatsoever in that department. Still around 20 minutes to go. The tension gets to my other half: ?I NEED MORE STATS!? he screams. My cats practically tear the door down trying to escape.

12 to go, and Mogga makes another tactical subbing: it?s Tex off, and Shergar on. A scant minute later, Plymouth also make a change, with Jermaine Easter coming on for Barry Hayles. ?Im Indoors returns once more, with graver news from the Western (cyber) Front: the home side?s subbing is making big problems for our defence. Plymouth are now chucking everything they?ve got left in the tank against us, and we?re beginning to buckle at the back. Hubby seriously doubts whether we can finish the game with a pristine goal-net, and an unsullied Kylie ? but there?s still that two-goal cushion, isn?t there?

Not for long. While I complain to hubby that Sky didn?t mention the subbing ? I only got it from him ? more news from Home Park flashes onto the screen, and it ain?t good. They?ve pulled one back, with 84 minutes gone. Six left to play and they?re roaring at us full-throttle, apparently, trying to salvage the point. This is going to prove a stern test indeed for our defence, who have only recently got the hang of managing to cling on to a slender lead. Squeaky-bum time, folks. Now where did I put my brown corduroy trousers and bike-clips?

Minutes pass, but given that football has a Relativity Theory all of its very own, all connected to a seemingly increased length of time elapsed when you?re trying to defend a narrow lead, the time taken for my digital watch to clock up the requisite number of minutes seems like an age to me. Then, Sky puts me out of my misery, finally. It?s all over, Plymouth 1, Albion 2. Whoopee! Oh, bugger ? that?s the cats panicking again, much more of that, and I?ll be getting a visit from the RSPCA!

My goodness, what a bonus. I didn?t expect to get anything tonight, but we have. We?ve also discovered that there is life after Kev Phillips and Ish Miller after all. More importantly, though, we?ve chopped down the gap separating us from Watford to just two points, not to mention substantially increase the divide that sunders us from next-placed Charlton. And it?s raised the stakes for our Saturday Selhurst Park jaunt enormously. Win that, and at the very least, we consolidate that second spot. In the unlikely event of Watford screwing up three times on the bounce, we both swap places. How sweaty do you want it?

Not that a certain person, snoring peacefully not a million miles away from me as I type this, will be accompanying me to South London. After they triumphed at Leeds the other week, my jubilant other half decided to watch Hereford take on Hartlepool United in the second round of the FA Cup instead, and, what?s more, swiftly purchased a ticket for said game. So it?ll be just the Fart and I (a good title for a movie musical starring Yule Brynner, that!) braving the slow-motion excesses of the M25 on Saturday, then. Look out, Warnock ? Albion?s coming to get ya! Again.

And it?s a good night from me. Back again on Friday night, by which time the old collywobbles will have surely returned to haunt me. I wonder which of the two of us will be smiling, still, after the weekend?

 - Glynis Wright

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