The Diary

23 December 2007: Albion's Life Fuller Misery After Stoke 3-Goal Romp.

?We love having Albion here, because it makes us feel good about ourselves?.?

Not my words, but those of Smudge Smith, Stoke City watcher extraordinaire, and editor of ?The Oatcake?, the City fanzine, for the past 18 years or so. We ran across him in the ?Power League? sports bar, whilst wetting our whistles prior to kick-off, the very first time our respective paths had crossed since November 1993, when we bumped into the lad at the ?comedy hour? England-San Marino game held in Bologna. Both sides being involved in the Anglo-Italian Cup at the time, the Stoke City persuasion had also taken the opportunity of watching our national side make a spectacular mucking fuddle of trying to qualify for the World Cup.

Times are hard for Smudge these days, given that his publication, which once sold thousands of copies each home game, enjoyed critical acclaim from the real media, and provided the lad with a pretty decent income along the way, is now lucky to see off five hundred per issue. Yet another casualty of the malaise affecting that particular genre: in fact, The Oatcake is one of the few originals from the heady days of the late eighties still going ? just about. Because Smudge has a missus and three hungry young mouths to feed as well, he has had no option, of late, but to go part-time, and get a ?proper? job to help keep the wolf from the door.

And as Smudge himself will cheerfully confess, Stoke now play a brand of football that?s hardly going to get either their followers or the football media clamouring for more at the final whistle of each successive home game, so our fixture must come like manna from heaven to them every single time we meet. Hence the above remark from Smudge after my other half bumped into him earlier today. There?s many a true story spoken in jest, and that just happens to be one of them.

What more can I say about what was a bloody disaster of a game by anyone?s lights? Put an Albion side ? ANY Albion side ? against an outfit from the Potteries, and the result will always be complete and utter shambles. That was the way it was when Lou Macari held sway at the club, back in the late eighties, and that?s the way it is now.

Allow those Potters to start with the rough stuff, and we simply can?t hack it, end of. By the time their third went in, we seemed almost fearful of running with the ball anywhere near them. Had we been playing anyone else, I could have made allowances, but when it?s a case of losing to a side that seems hell-bent on playing ?away? tactics of the cruder variety, even on their own turf, then you really do start to wonder what was going on out there. We should be skinning sides like that, not shying away from them. I really do despair sometimes.

At least it was great to be well and truly back in the groove once more, and before setting out for Stoke, heading to the Ticket Office in search of Ipswich tickets etc. (On New Year?s Day, so expect to see a plethora of pasty-faced kids, all looking very much the worse for wear, and groaning ?Never Again!? to anyone who will listen!) What wasn?t in the script, though, was the almighty queue we encountered there: it would seem that those going to Stoke by coach had had pretty much the same idea, hence the proliferation of Baggie bodies there. Still, at least the queue did move at a reasonable pace ? which was a lot more than could be said about the massive petrol-driven thrombus occluding the M6 when we joined it, around midday ? and from what the overhead signs were telling us, it was going to get much worse before we even hit Stoke.

A Plan B was called for ? and, once we?d got as far as Stafford, that?s precisely what went into operation. Ours involved a detour around the town, then joining the A34 for the rest of the way. Old fogies will remember that route as the one taken in pre-motorway days, when going to Manchester etc. And, guess what? By George I think we?d cracked it?. There was murk and gloom a plenty in those there parts, but of any sort of traffic, no sign whatsoever, which made the whole thing a complete doddle in the end.

A few calls on our mobile quickly established the precise whereabouts of the Lewis clan, already patiently awaiting our arrival, quite near the ground. In the ?Power League? car-park, in fact, which was fairly empty, still, so telling them to stay there, we made the miles to the Britannia Stadium in no time flat. Parking up in the place specified, it was but a matter of seconds before we heard the dulcet tones of young Bethany noisily acknowledging our arrival in that ?Potty Town? of theirs.

A not-so-quick pre-match liquid intake was called for, so we descended upon the sports bar that bears the name of the car park. That?s where ?Im Indoors bumped into Smudge, as per my opening lines. But before that, while The Noise was getting the drinks in, The Fart and myself leaned against the balustrade bounding that bit of the bar and watched the live game on the box, the Arsenal-Spurs encounter, still bloodless at that stage. ?Puts you in mind of watching from the old terraces?? declared The Fart, in an unusually nostalgic mood, for once.

?You know something, Tel?? countered this column, ?You might be onto something good, there. Just imagine it ? crush barriers all round the entire bar, for customers to lean on, a cold-air blower (or several, for the benefit of those of a more masochistic bent) going full-blast, and sprinklers delivering gallons of cold water onto the heads of the punters below. You could even market it as ?The Original Terrace Experience? and spend the rest of the time laughing all the way to the bank!?

I didn?t hear the reply, sadly, because at that very moment, our talkative chum reappeared, bearing gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh ? er, hang on a minute, wrong column! Let?s try again, then ? how does ?Coke, Mineral water and J2O? grab you, instead? Time now for the sad bit of my matchday piece. A fellow Baggie today informed me about the failing health of an old chap who?d been an ?ever-present?, almost, during our inaugural promotion push of season 20001-02.

Some of you may even remember the name ? Harold Salt, whose wonderfully witty and apposite mails were such a regular part of that promotion season. He always attended games accompanied by his two grandsons, one of whom I still see on a regular basis. Much of the material supplied by him ended up inside these very same diary pieces, so it was with great sorrow today that I heard he?d now hung up his Baggies scarf for good. His last Hawthorns game was the play-off semi versus the Dingles. Wow, Harold, what a game to bow out upon, and although you can?t make it any more in person, I certainly won?t forget you.

By that time, the room was becoming quite crowded. Bethany had gone ?plonk? on the floor, using the balustrade as a back-rest, Carly had disappeared to Heaven knows where ? she?s now covering similar ground to myself in her chemistry studies, and becoming just as confused, so there?s hope for me, yet! ? ?Im Indoors was happily nattering to Smudge, and as for The Fart, he was still using that very same balustrade as an impromptu ?terrace substitute?. Ah, bless?.

Oh, and a quick message to the Baggie party I ended up nattering to, the ones who anxiously enquired precisely what I was writing in that little notebook of mine. It?s OK, chaps ? I won?t tell everyone how versatile you found that whip, when used in conjunction with the pot of banana ice cream you so liberally anointed your lower reaches with! Let?s just say it?s a secret between we Baggies, eh? (A wodge of crisp tenners, sent to the usual address, will further ensure my secret stays safe from those wives and girlfriends whose curiosity gets the better of them! Don?t be late sending ?em, mind, you hear?)

As both Lewis offspring wanted to get inside the ground ? God knows why, especially after today?s result ? we made an early exit, heading for the ground via the entrance to the away coach compound. Blimey ? talk about ?Escape From Stalag Nine?. ?Why is there two lots of gates and two lots of fencing?? asked a puzzled Carly.

Good question, that: come to think about it, what did the Stoke police force use it for during the week? Holding political detainees? Not only were there double barriers preventing people getting in (or out), there was also a sizeable bit of ?no man?s land? separating the two lots of fencing. I?ll say one thing for the Stoke Police ? they sure as hell know how to make away supporters feel welcome!

Once inside, we weren?t too surprised to bump into The Royal Family, in the form of Laraine, Dawn and young Matthew. (Well, I THINK it was Matthew, all bundled inside lots and lots of warm layers of clothing! Getting him out of that little lot must have proven problematical for the Astle clan, after the game.) But the fickle finger of Fate managed to reserve its biggest raspberry for very last.

Heading off to our seats, no sooner had we sat down, when, in the row in front, and directly behind our party, sat down the noisome creature known to all and sundry as ?Brooksie?. Those of you not familiar with this gentleman, and the vagaries of his lower bowels, should note that he is, without doubt, Britain?s main contributor to the global warming problem. Methane, methane, all the way ? and once smelt, never forgotten. Today?s game was sure going to be a lively affair, one way or another.

That?s the scene set, then ? so what went wrong? If I could put my finger right on it, I?d be running our side myself, and using Mogga as the kit-man instead, but in lieu of that, my various thoughts, imperfect as they are, will just have to suffice. Football being the subjective thing it is, yours may be entirely different, but the real beauty of the game lies in the principle that everyone, no matter what their relationship with our football club, can exercise an opinion as potentially-valid as the next-comer. And long may that happy state of affairs reign. This is mine ? so here goes.

My first thoughts were apropos the curious atmosphere that existed inside the Britannia ? or, more to the point, the complete lack of anything resembling one. There was the usual token stuff as both sides entered the arena, but as a source of genuine atmosphere, I reckon the surface of the Moon would have yielded far more. Chances were it was just as cold up there as well. More surprising were the team changes employed by our manager, with Dean Kiely returning between the sticks, despite having broken a toe not so long back.

Also back in his usual socket was Carl Hoefkens, playing against his former club. Not that I was arguing about that one: today?s game was not one for so raw and impressionable an individual as young Jared Hodgkiss. Those Stoke bruisers would have eaten him alive, that?s for sure. On the bench, we had available Kev Phillips and Ish Miller, not to mention Messrs. Albrechtsen and Morrison, all of whom were returned injury victims, of course. Our Plan B if we stuffed it up again, in short. What a pity nobody told the individuals concerned?..

And so it was, to a somewhat less-than-earth-shattering roar, that this most hated of fixtures by this column finally got under way ? and to be scrupulously fair to the guys out there, all the early signs were good. We were trying to pass the thing, rather than lay it off in the panicky expectation it was an unexploded land-mine, and not a football we were dealing with. Everything was going swimmingly ? until we lost possession, that is.

The perpetrator of the foul deed managed to get the ball through to the predatory Ricardo Fuller, lurking with intent ? and he didn?t need any encouragement. Before you could sing the first line of ?Delilah?, even, there he was, belting the ball past our helpless keeper. Much controversy surrounded the strike, as both supporters and players told the ref in no uncertain terms that it had been a ?Maradonna Hand Of God? kind of incident, and the Potters strike therefore not at all legal.

You might as well have talked to the roof of the stand, for all the notice our whistling chum was taking of such ?advice?, well-meant though it was. Me? I didn?t see a hand, legal or otherwise, so it?s not really my argument. But try and tell that to some of our equally-convinced fellow-supporters, and see how far it gets you. As for Ricardo Fuller, that strike was just the start of a whole 90 minutes worth of accumulated nuisance value: come to think about it, if I were Kiely, I?d have looked very closely inside my bed before climbing into it tonight, just in case a Certain Stokie Striker was lurking there as well!

So, that was us one down, then. What could we do to remedy the situation? Well, Bednar did have one fleeting chance to cover himself in glory, but as per usual, there was a Stokie defender there to nullify completely any nascent ambitions of beating their keeper. In fact, that was the story of the whole game: every single time an Albion player tried to shoot, there was always a Stoke defender there to either put the block in, or kill the attempt at birth. Either that, or see our efforts to reach bodies in the box frustrated at every turn. And, having done so, every single time, there arose one almighty cry of ?HOOOOOF!? from our people, as City so inelegantly, yet so efficiently, shifted the ball right out of the target area, and damn near into Earth orbit at the same time.

Having kept up at least some pressure on the home side, and with the half entering its last ten minutes, we did entertain reasonable hopes that all would be rectified, in the end ? after all, Gera, twice, and Tex had all had laudable efforts at potting the prize ? but didn?t you just know what was going to happen? And it sure did: with around seven minutes of the half remaining, Stoke, who had found themselves having to soak up a fair amount of Albion pressure over the previous ten minutes or so, got themselves a free-kick on the right.

Yes, I do know ? we can?t defend set-pieces to save our lives, which was why Fuller, lurking expectantly on the far post (where in the name of God was the marking, by the way? Warming its frozen hands, mentally, at least, in our own dressing room?) managed to cash in with a typical header. GRRRRR?. Going into the break two goals down wasn?t exactly the kind of script we?d envisaged for this one, actually. And what made things worse was the freezing weather: just about everyone I could see around me could have profited handsomely from judicious use of a blowtorch to heat up the affected members.

I can only assume that Mogga then decided to throw everything he had against Pulis?s mob, because during the break, we quickly noticed the absence of two of our subs, Ish Miller and Kev Phillips, from the warm-up proceedings taking place on the pitch. No surprise, then, to find the board held up at the start of the second half, and the entry of both strikers into the fray formalised, Brunt and Tex playing the role of ?sacrificial pawns? in this particular instance.

If ever a side needed a bit of ?pazazz? in its strike department, it sure as hell had to be ours. And, with just three minutes gone, things were looking promising, Stoke having to look pretty lively to cut out a nasty little Robbo cross headed straight for Kev Phillips?s largely unmarked noddle. After that, first Koren, then Miller, had creditable enough punts at the pot ? in fact, the latter?s was literally cleared off the line by a vigilant Stokie. Had that gone in, who knows how things might have panned out?

But we were never to find out, and once more, it was sheer carelessness, allied with rank stupidity, that did for us. With just over 20 minutes of the game to go, we once more lost possession at a crucial moment: in fact, the incident was, in many ways, a replay of the one that led to Stoke getting their opener. The Laws Of Football are as immutable as those of Nature: muck around with the postulates of either one, and you?ll get well and truly caned for it! Once more the ball reached that man Fuller, now operating on the left, and after making Cesar look a complete idiot, he then pulled the trigger from just inside the 18-yard line. Result? Stoke 3, Albion 0.

That one was particularly annoying, considering the kind of dubious psychological tactics the home side were employing in an effort to stymie any possible chance of a late Albion comeback. As I remarked to my other half, after the final whistle, Stoke are about the only side I know who routinely employ ?away game tactics? during the course of a home game. Time-wasting, feigning injury, arguing with the match officials: all those questionable little stunts and many more were employed by Pulis?s men in their unceasing quest to put us off our normal game. And, just like they did at The Hawthorns, complete and utter success was their reward. So much for Premiership-standard referees, then.

With around ten to go, Bednar managed to salvage at least some of our pride, the assist coming from Gera, following the Potties failure to properly deal with an Albion corner, about the first time I?d seen their bastion crumble in the entire game, I reckon. Had we done that, say, 15 minutes sooner than we actually did, then the way back might just have opened up.

Still, game to the last, we kept plugging away, and might have had better luck than we actually did, when Bednar managed to intercept a shocking back-pass from Stoke then, straining every muscle he had in an effort to reunite limb with ball, only narrowly lost the race between him and the Stoke keeper for possession of the errant bladder. Just about typical of what happened today, I reckon. But that didn?t help assuage the strong feelings of frustration I felt right after the final whistle.

Why is it that every single time, Stoke bloody City do things to my nervous system no amount of drugs, therapeutic or otherwise, can? With some 25 years separating us from the last time we managed to gain three points on their own turf ? just in case you forgot, Margaret Thatcher was Prime Minister, we were still fighting in the Falklands, and we had narrowly avoided the drop at Leeds? expense ? isn?t it about time whatever curse that currently afflicts us was lifted, God? Come on, we?ve provided you with no end of laughs at our expense, over the years, haven?t we? Isn?t it time you found some other poor sods to play the role of patsy for your divine delectation? After all, the sheer entertainment value of watching thousands of Albion supporters simultaneously tearing their hair out must be wearing a trifle thin by now. Just like my own barnet, in fact.

As my old mum might have said: ?Goo on ? play in yer own cowin? end, yer yampy sod!? Translation: ?Do find yourselves an alternative victim, my good man; your constant use of our people in this role is becoming a trifle tedious, to say the least??

Will ?normal service? resume on Boxing Day, I wonder? More thoughts on that tomorrow night.

And Finally?.. Not too much to smile about, today, so I thought I?d zap you instead with my current contender for the ?Johnny Cash ?My Name Is Sue? Constant Toe-Curling Embarrassment Caused By Unfortunate Parental Name-Giving Award?, 2007. (If anyone can come up with one better than this, I?m all ears, by the way?.)

Not many people have ever heard of James Simpson, but countless numbers of pregnant mums certainly have good cause to be grateful to the Scottish gentleman. He was the chap who first discovered the anaesthetic properties of chloroform (modern-day teenage experimenters would find Simpson?s so-called ?research methods? very familiar indeed!) and what?s more, around November 1847, 160 years ago, almost to the day, he was the first doctor ever to deliver a baby using the stuff to knock out mum, the daughter of a certain Doctor Carstairs, of Edinburgh, during labour.

The (astonishing, for those days) announcement was made to fellow medics via a paper Simpson read to the Medical Chirurgical Society (no, I didn?t make it up, honest!) that very same month, and entitled ?An Account Of A New Anaesthetic Agent As A Substitute For Sulphuric Ether In Surgery And Midwifery?. A right mouthful it may have been, but it sure went down a stormer with the audience, and as a result, Simpson?s reputation as a cutting-edge obstetrician was confirmed for all time.

As for the blessed lady whose birth pangs provided Simpson with such a marvellous opportunity for making a name for himself, she was just grateful for the unexpected relief from agonising labour pain. So grateful, in fact, she was to give the child, a daughter, a very special name indeed. So raise a seasonal glass, Baggie-lovers everywhere, to young ANAESTHESIA! (And, while you?re at it, just ponder a while upon the sheer number of mental convolutions required, in later life, to explain that one away to friends, family, and prospective suitors alike?..)

 - Glynis Wright

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