The Diary

09 December 2007: YOICKS! TALLY-HO! Legal Foxhunting At The Walkers Stadium!

Amazing, isn?t it? After our self-inflicted Coventry loss, last Tuesday night, and the grim news that several more players were effectively hors de combat for today?s bash, the pre-match consensus among we supporters was that a sharing of the points versus Leicester was about the best possible result we could finish up with, today. No Kiely, no Hoefkens: our keeper now has a broken toe, would you believe? No Cesar, either, suspended, ditto Robbo, and all that without taking into account our long-term sick and lame, including two first-choice strikers in Miller and Phillips, plus the lad Morrison.

In lieu of the above experienced performers, then, we handed the keeper?s jersey to Luke Steele, while Shelton Martis and Jared Hodgkiss earned their stripes by stepping into the almighty breach left by the aforementioned injured personnel. In short, then, a makeshift side so patched up by Mogga in places, it could have been used with great success to advertise the adhesive virtues of Elastoplast.

Given all that by way of background information, at Leicester, we?d have gladly snatched the point from the hands that fed it, then ran like the clappers as soon as a suitable opportunity presented itself. But with typical Albion perversity, it wasn?t so much a case of ?They always let you down? come the final whistle at the Walkers Stadium today, more a hefty dose of ?They always surprise you?! But I?m not complaining, mind. Are you?

To be perfectly frank with you lot, the day didn?t exactly start with the promise of great deeds done in store. When we opened our curtains early this morning, the outlook was gloomy, to be honest. Clouds the colour of old-fashioned school writing-slates, temperatures expressed in single figures Centigrade, and nothing but driving, drizzly rain. In other words, conditions doing nothing whatsoever to commend themselves to we away travellers. All that, plus a 2.15 kick-off (those rugger buggers again, I?m afraid, Leicester Tigers at home to some French side or other, later that very same day).

When the three of us set out, both the M6 and M69 motorways were awash with water; the real proof lay in the fact that our windscreen wipers could barely shift the massive amount of gash liquid they were expected to cope with. No surprise, then, that flashing blue lights were seen aplenty during that journey, a sure sign that not all drivers had found road conditions easy to cope with.

Having been to Leicester on innumerable occasions in the past, we three intrepid travellers were all-too well aware of the capacity of that city to completely wreck any sensible pre-planned travel strategy. The place really is a massive gravity well of incredibly-steep gradient for motorists wanting to travel to and from games: once sucked into its inexorable grip, it can take you years to re-emerge blinking in the unaccustomed light. Well, that?s the way it felt like to us. But this term, we came equipped with a master-plan to beat the snarl-ups, courtesy of one of ?Im Indoors?s work colleagues. Hooray!

Basically, what we had to do was follow the instructions supplied once off the M69 and onto ?normal? road again. That we did (well, the info was so well done, even a Dingle with dementia could have done the same), and by so doing, we eventually landed up in Cavendish Road, an unprepossessing street lined with bog-standard terraced houses on both sides. The beauty of this destination? Easy: it was only about a mile from Ground Zero.

Compared with the mucking fuddle we found ourselves in last term, when Leicester Tigers were at home also, and through crass stupidity on the part of the authorities concerned, shared similar kick-off times, our journey in search of a suitable parking-spot on this occasion was a comparative doddle. A walk of a mile, while not exactly a piece of cake for me, is a tremendous improvement on having to hike halfway across the middle of the city, which was what we had to do, through sheer desperation, last year.

As for the walk itself, one thing did catch my eye amidst the intense cold and driving rain. The presence of a notice to drivers forbidding the performance of ?Certain Manoeuvres? on matchdays. Ooer. So what ?manoeuvres? would these be, pray? Army manoeuvres? Or the sort of ?manoeuvres? one tends to find in the sort of publications that lurk upon the very top shelf of little corner paper shops? Aw, you know, the sort that assume their readers are conversant with both the basics of the Karma Sutra and fairly advanced gymnastics, at the very least. If so, it must say an awful lot about the fitness-levels of a certain section of the adult Leicester citizenry. Not to mention their sex-hormone levels!

As the rain made it almost impossible to do anything else outside, and the turnstiles were already open, we decided to go in. Once inside, it was abundantly clear that an awful lot of Baggies had made a similar decision, because the concourse under the away stand was quite crowded with bodies already. It being so perishing cold outside, we both elected to grab hot drinks, hot choccy for me, and coffee for ?Im Indoors. The Fart doesn?t drink either, so he gave it a miss. I must admit I was surprised to see hubby indulging: when offered coffee normally, he keeps telling me: ?No, my body is a temple?? In his case, one in great need of some considerable input from the diocese Restoration Fund, perhaps?

Whenever we travel away, we normally take it as read to see supporters dressed up in some outlandish attire or other for specific reasons, but what both the Fart and myself saw today really took the biscuit. Well, I didn?t spot them first, but The Fart sure as hell did! Imagine, if you will, a couple of young girls, with looks suggesting they should be sitting in some suburban living-room somewhere, watching children?s shows on DVD, but with chronological ages greatly suggestive of the imminence of genuine adulthood, in this case celebrating 17 years on this benighted planet of ours.

Well, they certainly stood out from the crowd: pink sequinned ?Santa? type hats, skimpy T-shirts, and one with an Albion flag draped around her pert little bum. On the other was a sign declaring the wearer to be ?17 TODAY?. A pretty icy way of spending Saturday afternoon at the best of times, never mind your birthday, I mused ? but then, I spotted what has to be incontrovertible proof of impending sartorial insanity: both of them clad in lower garments so abbreviated, they could have been worn by ballet dancers without additional comment.

It was Tel (pensioners his age get away with absolute murder, they really do! Questions that would normally land any other enquirer in Casualty are not only dismissed with laughter by the person enquired of, further comment is confined to relatively mild expressions like: ?Silly old bugger?.? and nothing more!), who asked the obvious question, viz: ?Are you cold?? I say ?obvious? because outside, the clime was colder than the average domestic fridge! Their chorused answer? ?NO!? Ah, bless ? I used to be like that, once.

You could certainly tell the prospect of this game was starting to play on people?s minds. Enter Alan Cleverly, from the Gents? bog adjacent, stage left. Now playing the Prophet Of Doom in this particular Albion passion-play, he almost seemed to revel in the news that Steele, Hodgkiss and Martis would be busting their first-choice Albion cherries that afternoon. Around half our normal side would be mucked around with: to use a famous expression once monopolised by former England and Villa gaffer Graham Taylor, ?Do I not like that?.?

Still, we did have assurances from yet another supporter, goes by the name of Melvin, I believe, that whenever he came to watch the Baggies away from home, the three points invariably went in our favour! Three or four League trips thus far this season, with another a League Cup visit to Peterborough! Say no more, he?ll do for me!

Time to find our seats, then, and while taking a brief pause at the top of the stairs, where the floor faced onto a small balcony overlooking the packed concourse below, suddenly The Fart felt an almost irresistible urge to satiate latent thespian talents still lurking within the innermost recesses of his brain. Leaning over said balcony, and holding out imploring arms like a good ?un, he then regaled those below with a quick rendition of those famous Shakespearean lines: ?Romeo, Romeo ? wherefore art though Romeo?? Yerss, well ? don?t ring us, Tel, we?ll ring you! OK?

Dredging up that balcony scene from wherever his brain had mislaid it must have brought out something really theatrical in The Fart, for no sooner had he ascended the steps to our seats ? on the back row but one, more fool me, when I purchased said tickets, an act of sheer lunacy that left me struggling something awful to ascend those steps ? there he was again, but doing James Cagney impersonations this time, as per his starring role in the film ?White Heat?. ?Made it, Ma ? Top of the World!? was his battle cry.

In the film, having uttered those immortal lines, Cagney then gets blown to smithereens: The Walkers Stadium not being completely saturated with highly unstable industrial chemicals, however, our chum had no option but to content himself instead with a nice sit down afterwards. Not quite in spectacular Cagney mould, it has to be said, but El Tel does like his pleasures quiet, these days! And in any case, blowing himself up would only create a nasty mess on the concrete ? and the one thing our chum can?t abide is a mess on ANY surface, never mind one created as a direct result of his own ?pieceful? demise!

As we sat in fairly quiet anticipation of what was to come, of one thing we were sure glad ? that being at the very back, we were sure to dodge the worst excesses of the rain that was now pelting down with renewed vigour. The proof, if any were needed, lay in the form of massive puddles on the running track just behind the nearby goal: the ruination of the water?s surface with yet more descending droplets was copper-bottomed evidence that the precipitation was there for the remainder of the day. Snorkels and frogmen?s flippers, anyone?

Of one thing we were certain: if Leicester had any sense at all, they?d go at us something rotten, and by doing so, hammer our hastily-extemporised back four unmercifully. The prospect of that happening was a sobering one indeed. One bit of good cheer, though, just minutes before the ?entry of the gladiators?. Villa were three down versus Pompey! Wonderful stuff.

The major team changes I?ve already outlined, but there were also sundry minor tweakings with what we had out there. Chappy earned a recall to the bench, and so did Tininho: contrary to what Alan told us earlier, he wasn?t given a start. Pele was, though. But another sub?s name did provoke comment ? that of young Worrall, who, this time last year, was a Bury player, just short of his 17th birthday, and one on the fringes of breaking into their first-team, no less.

The bench-bound others? Shergar and Beattie. About par for the course, I reckon, but it was the inclusion of Beattie among the five that was to exert a telling (and very late!) influence on the game. My expectation-levels for this one? About as low as they could possibly be, and just one point gained come the final whistle, a heaven-sent bonus for which we?d offer libations to the gods innumerable afterwards.

But that was to come: right now, the stark reality was that of managing to survive the game with our goal net as pristine as could be hoped, given the awful circumstances prevailing at the time. And it was while all those varied thoughts were swirling about our heads that both sides emerged from the tunnel, to the sound of ?The Post-Horn Gallop?. No, that?s not a mad rush for prophylactics after the successful completion of certain coital manoeuvres, dearie (Oh dear ? I?m saying it, too!), just a very well-known piece of classical music, highly redolent of foxhunts innumerable! And Leicestershire being real foxhunting territory, legal, illegal or otherwise, that?s why they play it. Sorry.

Mind you, not being too conversant with the sort of away kit we?re sporting these days, hubby?s first reaction to our pristinely-white shirts was something like: ?Blimey ? it?s Hereford United in disguise!....? So, off we went, then ? but the sound we heard first of all wasn?t that of our followers singing, more the Voice Of The Fart, practically ordering other Baggies standing nearby to sit down! This he tried to achieve, in a voice that was truly ear-shattering (once you?ve had to give orders in a massively shell-struck First World War trench, you can cope with anything, I reckon!), but after nearly rupturing his larynx in the attempt, he had no option but to give it up as a bad job. And that, dear reader, is why I ended up so knackered afterwards! Standing up for the entire 90 minutes, when your back clearly doesn?t like it, is not an amusing experience, by any means!

But back to the game. And, during those opening minutes, I was pleasantly surprised, not to say dead impressed, with the calm way our newcomers coped with the situation thrust upon them. Young Hodgkiss even found it within himself to go on the attack early doors: having beaten his ?minder? then crossed the ball, it was only by the fortuitous intervention of a Leicester defender that we didn?t rack up our first much sooner than we actually did. And, just to prove this wasn?t a fluke, two further Albion raids had the Leicester defence worried.

Mind you, even off the pitch, we were giving the Leicester mob some early vocal grief. It must have really hurt some to chant it, but our lustily-bellowed ?THERE?S ONLY ONE GARY MEGSON!? certainly cut them to the quick. Clearly, the issue of our former manager?s arrival at the Walker Stadium, not to mention his equally-swift departure in the direction of Bolton, was still very much a contentious one with supporting counterparts seated to the immediate left of ourselves.

Contrary to popular expectations, as the game evolved further still, not only were we keeping them out, we were stringing together some pretty useful attacks of our very own. Good, solid football, it was, the sort that Baggies everywhere positively revel in. Balls to feet, pass and move, pass and move. And still Leicester were strangely low-key by way of response to something that was rapidly developing into a clear and present threat to their overall peace of mind. A good start, by anyone?s lights.

The sole thing letting us down, though, was our inability to properly finish the job. We were getting the ball into the box OK, but the final touch was badly lacking, and Bednar in particular dipping out because of it. So comprehensive was our domination of the game, it was only with just over 20 minutes gone that Leicester managed to mount their first serious threat to our wellbeing.

And really, they should have scored: not only did we get comprehensively tattered down the right, when the cross came, waiting for it was none other than ex-Dingle Carl Cort, who hit the ball as it reached his foot. Thank goodness that Barnett, wide-awake for once, especially after the serial failings of Tuesday night, managed to stifle the effort at birth. An excellent bit of goal-prevention, that. Manage to maintain that sort of sparkling form over a decent period of time, and I might even alter my current negative opinion of him! Also prompting an equally-rapid alteration of voew on my part, was young Hodgkiss. Since taking to the field for his very first ever start for the Baggies, he?d hardly put a foot wrong. One particular highlight, with 23 gone, was his classy clearance of the ball on the right side of the pitch, after first losing, then regaining possession. No doubt about it, he was gaining confidence in leaps and bounds.

Then with around 30 minutes gone, we actually managed to take the lead. It was Brunt who supplied the cross that really did the damage: with Greening ?sending? him, courtesy a nicely-judged pass, the lad then proceeded to weave a merry dance through Leicester?s rearguard, then laid on a pin-point cross for Zoltan Gera to put away with his head, no messing ? BANG! Blimey, if this was a ?scratch? side, what did that make our full-strength quota, then?

Unsurprisingly, no sooner had Gera?s cracker flown in, total Bedlam erupted in the away end! The thing was, our early domination of the game had come as a pleasant surprise indeed to the bulk of our support, a stark contrast to the complete ineptitude of Tuesday night. We Baggies have to take our pleasures, however fleeting, from whatever sources we can! But ?fleeting? wasn?t the sort of tag to hang onto this one: within a matter of minutes, we almost doubled our lead, a Gera cross, deflected badly, just missing goalmouth contact with Bednar?s foot.

Leicester were clearly inhabiting dodgy ground. Now they were one behind, surely they?d have to change tactics radically, and come at us, for once? But they didn?t: more to the point, it was only some timely intervention by ex-Dingle Cort, moonlighting in defence for once, that prevented Martis from joining the illustrious ranks of successful Albion goalscorers. In fact, it?s not unfair to say that during the period following our goal, and up to the moment in the 40th minute, when Andy King replaced the injured Wesolowski, Leicester only created one nailed-on chance, which they put over spectacularly, when it seemed much easier to stick the thing in the net and be done with it.

Yes, there was some really good work being done by our players out there, especially the stand?ins. Both The Fart and I had particular praise for Pele, who was putting in a really solid performance for the cause. And, not to be outdone, just before the break, the lad Steele somehow pulled off a stop that wouldn?t have disgraced ex-Leicester City (and Stoke, but we don?t like to talk about that bit!) Gordon Banks himself. How the hell he managed to see the ball on its goalwards flight, I haven?t the slightest clue. The header was one sent on its way from virtual point-blank range, and a downwards one also, meaning the lad had to do far more in the way of stretching to get to it. But ?get to it? he most certainly did, finger-tipping the Leicester attempt right over the bar, and by doing so, completely frustrating the striking ambitions of the player concerned.

That was the last incident of note that half, then. Time for both sides to retreat to their respective dressing-rooms, then, and try to put together some sort of second-half master plan with which to conquer the other. And time for the half-time ?entertainment? to emerge from the shadows, and on this occasion, one with a distinctively-festive touch: a brass band, albeit a small one, with a clear brief to get everyone into the Christmas spirit.

One small snag, though ? at the back of our stand, not a single note could be discerned! ?Are they playing ?Silent Night, then???, queried a clearly-aggrieved Fart. But what few notes we did manage to pick out, via a freak gust of wind, were those of ?Jingle Bells? which, of course, has a football-inspired refrain. Something on the lines of it being an awful load of fun to see our lot win away, n?est ce pas? Well, like it or not, that?s what the home crowd got regaled with!

Oh, and another thought, this time concerning a bloke in the seat in front, who seemed to have no less than six or seven kids in tow. Surely they couldn?t all have been his? Oooer ? better bash those well-supplied goolies with a half-end brick next time he gets fruity, missus!

And so to the second sitting, and with the emergence of both sides onto the pitch, sundry worrying thoughts percolated through the fevered brains of our massed support. Just what would Leicester?s game-plan be, this time? Surely they couldn?t maintain their laid-back persona the whole half? After all, it was them chasing the game, not we.

As far as we were concerned, though, it was more or less ?as you were?, with continued emphasis upon attack. Within minutes, Greening had a go at the jackpot, and followed, not all that long afterwards, by a magnificent display of ball-work from Gera, who jinked here, there and everywhere, beating his marker twice, for the fun of it, seemingly, before sending the ball winging on its way over the bar. A real shame. that, as his efforts were richly deserving of something substantially more.

And still Leicester failed to show. ?YOU SHOULD HAVE GONE CHRISTMAS SHOPPING!....? was the advice we were imparting to our Leicester counterparts, who were clearly not amused. Steady on, chaps ? we were only trying to be helpful! OK ? so they didn?t go much for following the madding mall crowd, then. Howzabout another piece of timely wisdom, then, viz: ?YOU SHOULD HAVE GONE TO THE RUGBY!...? Nope ? didn?t hit the spot, either! What an ungrateful lot you are, City!

But, even as we mocked our Leicester chums, distinct symptoms, highly redolent of Tuesday night?s Hawthorns fiasco, were beginning to creep in at the back. ?NO! NO! NO!? screamed The Fart, in strongly decibel-laden tones, as we mucked about at the back, rather than do the simple thing, and belt it into touch. Poor soul, he was practically having kittens by then!

But the pendulum quickly swung back in our favour, and soon after the hour mark, we earned no less than three corners on the bounce, with another after the ball had pinged around their box a bit, then been booted out somewhat unceremoniously by their defence. And it also served as something of a compliment to young Jared?s marking abilities that his ?target?, Chambers, was withdrawn around the same time.

Given our domination of the game was so complete by that time, I?m still left wondering how Leicester managed to get back into it, with around 15 minutes remaining. To me, there seemed little danger, as one ginormous ?welly? from their keeper actually managed to reach our box, and our lad Steele seemingly having it well-covered.

Now for the controversial bit: as he went to make the situation safe, in went one of their players, very hard indeed. Shades of Wembley, circa 1967, as our lad was upended, the ball then bouncing right to the very back of the net. And, just like what happened when Rodney Marsh practically brained poor Rick Sheppard that day, the ref inexplicably ruled that the goal would stand! Doo wot?

?A fortunate goal?. That?s what Radio Leicester called it, according to The Fart. You can say that again! Still, never mind that, just get on with it. Hadn?t we already proven that we were better than this lot, and by a country mile, too? But the bizarre circumstances in which we?d conceded had clearly rattled our lads. Barnett seemed to have reverted back to his previous skittery form; giving the ball away at a crucial time in the proceedings wasn?t his finest hour either. Once more, Steele found his custodial talents stretched to the very limit to keep City from grabbing an undeserved winner.

But then, just as we were sensing City might get something from this game after all, Fate finally looked graciously upon us. And even more amazingly, the source of our salvation was none other than Beattie, brought on to replace the knackered Bednar, just before Leicester had equalised. When I?d spotted him running with the ball on the left, then turning his marker, I?d actually groaned! ?No! No! ? don?t cross, you idiot, there?s nobody there! Oh, forget it?..? But Beattie had no need to rely on others for this one: before any of us could blink, even, over the keeper?s head went the ball, from a very narrow angle, too ? and into the back of the net it tumbled. A quick look at the clock ? it said 89 minutes, I think ? then the entire end went absolutely ape-shit!

Now our lot had real cause to panic. They clearly wanted it so badly, getting something from this game, and now they were so close to that aim, they were making daft mistakes at the back again. Typical Chaplow ? he?d come on for the equally-knackered Koren with around ten to go ? to contrive to lose the ball, and in our own half, too. Result. He conceded a free-kick around 10 or 15 yards to the side of our 18-yard area. My mind promised write-ups unmentionable for the bald-headed midfielder, should his terminal folly result in them grabbing another equaliser!

Three minutes worth of stoppage time to play out. The sound of fingernails innumerable being shredded rent the air. Now was that ?proper? stoppage-time, or what I?ve come to know and love as ?Miller Time?? Fortunately for us, the official concerned did not share the former whistler?s almost Einstein-like insistence upon stretching the passage of time beyond its normal limits: about on cue, the final whistle sounded, and we?d done it! ?EASY! EASY! EASY!? chorused the jubilant ?glee-club? in front: no, lads, I?d hardly call it that, not by a long chalk. Much more acceptable, though, was our chorused ?I go down, you go down, we all go down together??

To dig out a result like that, and when we were so many established first-teamers light, was not far short of miraculous. Beaause of our efforts, our second-place is still intact. Perhaps it?s just as well that by the time we come to play our next game, we should have at least some of our number back in harness. Charlton, our next opponents, got back to winning ways today, but it?s the mob we meet the week after that which concerns me far more. Bloody Stoke, and at their place, too. If ever we needed a strong side out for a game, it?s surely got to be for that one?

And Finally?. One. And what was, all in all, a perfect day, continued in similar vein, when the Dingles lost 2-3 to Burnley. Much Molineux muttering, come the final whistle, and some of it much louder than muttering, too! Remind me to be nice to Clarets supporters Alistair Campbell, the very next time I see him! Oh ? and we won ten quid on the Lottery, too. Yes ? it really has been ?our day? all round.

Two?. This is the text of a genuine conversation that took place between The Fart and those nice people at Radio WM, as we sped along the M69, following today?s game:

The Fart: ?How are the Wolves doing, by the way? No goals??

A pause then: ? Ah ? they don?t kick off until 5.15, then?. No wonder I haven?t heard anything!.....?

Three?. Blame this bit on Norm Bartlam, who texted us these questions ?on the hoof? before today?s game. One we did (eventually) work out the answer for, the other we still haven?t the faintest idea about. Well, go on, you have a go: and if you should have the solution to the second one at your fingertips, do let us know! The questions?

a) Who broke their leg around 30 years ago? (HINT: It wasn?t Bryan Robson!)

b) Who scored 5 goals in 11 minutes a hundred years ago? (No, it?s not WG Richardson, that feat happened in the early thirties, versus West Ham, away from home.)

 - Glynis Wright

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