The Diary

30 December 2007: Clear Christmas Table-Toppers, As Predicted By Albion's Mystic Fab!

After today?s amazing game ? perhaps they should make a feature film about it, titled ?One Offside, One Sending-Off, And A Penalty?? - and the equally remarkable result, for quite different reasons, emanating from Watford v QPR, I?m beginning to think that born-again Baggie Fab Traccana has acquired some sort of psychic gift from somewhere.

Just a few weeks ago, at an away game, I got talking to him, mainly about the fact that the prodigal Baggie had returned to his spiritual home at long last, after an absence of some two or three seasons. All to do with the dreary style of play dished up in recent times: there?s only so much a bloke can take, said Fab, but now Mogga was in charge, and the lads coming up with the sparkling goods on a weekly basis, entertainment writ large, just you try and keep him away.

And that?s where the psychic bit comes in: just before we went our separate ways, the soothsayer, albeit one with a Black Country accent you could make faggots with, not to mention a vast range of choice language, guaranteed to turn the air in any room a delicate shade of blue, spake thus: ?We?ll goo top of the league over Christmas, ?an there?ll be nobody con touch us after that?.?

Me? I laughed the laugh of the truly cynical ? it comes with the territory, once you?ve been a follower for as long as I have ? but I can only say that when I came out of the ground at the end of today?s game, Fab?s words came back to me, as clear as a bell, and with as much mental impact as a half-end brick bounced off my bonce. Any chance he can pick my lottery numbers, as well?

The stark proof, my little friends, lies with the current League tables: undisputed festive table-toppers, and now with a little more clear blue water to spare below our keel. Mind you, the unexpected collapse of Watford at Vicarage Road didn?t half help: come half-time, and the news from one of our seated neighbours that they were three down already, my brain totally refused to accept the news for what it was.

You know how it is: the old ?enemy dancing upon wet plank, send three and fourpence?? thing, aka the muddling process that goes on when information has to reach its destination by a convoluted route, but quietly and without repetition. How many times have we seen the same thing happen at Albion games where knowledge of the progress of rivals was paramount? That?s why I?d thought someone had got it wrong in the telling. But, nope: dead on the level, as the big screen was to show a few minutes later. Incredible, that.

OK, the final score was 4-2 to the struggling Londoners, come the end, but you really do wonder what?s gone so wrong at Vicarage Road to precipitate the current crisis they?re having. How many home games have they blown, now, and to opposition they should have been wiping the floor with? Personally, I think they?ve blown up: whoever is in the frame come the summer, unless they pull their socks up soon, it sure as hell won?t be them. Look out for Crystal Palace, coming up fast and hard on the blind side: there?s always a dark horse, and this season, it?s going to be them.

But, as I said, today was a pretty weird sort of day all round. When we shifted ourselves to the pub before the game, the Lewis family were there already, and going by the way young Bethany was bouncing around like a little rubber ball, it was ten pounds to a penny she?d been partaking of the dreaded E-numbers in industrial quantities. By way of complete contrast, there was her big sister, doing her level best to look cool; trying to speak to friends etc. via the old mobile while chemically-induced mayhem was going on around her.

But that wasn?t what had me laughing like a drain within minutes of walking into the place. What did was a picture in the programme, one of The Fart and his missus, and both wearing ?crowns?. It turned out that while they were swanning around the Greek islands on a cruise last summer, they both signed up for entry to a ?Champion Rock And Rollers? competition. And, guess what ? they won! The picture is of them both trying to look suitably regal ? but ROCK AND ROLL, Tel? Ooer. Just how much WD40 did the pair of you have to apply to your creaking joints, after that little lot?

Now for ?Confession Time?, the moment when this column has no alternative but to hang its little head in complete and utter shame. How come? Well, while we were in the pub, young Bethany tested everyone out as to how much everyone knew about ?Shaun The Sheep? (could be taken in an altogether different way, that, but I?ll let it pass, this time round, eh?). All right, so ?Im Indoors is bragging about getting eight out of ten ? creep! When it came to my turn to answer the questions, I?m ashamed to say I got less than half of them right, and got ribbed unmercifully by the others as a result. As I despairingly wailed to young Bethany, by now completely convulsed with laughter, ?Ask me something sensible, like science! I know something about that!....?

One thing I DON?T know anything about, as yet, is the successful zipping up of bench coats, Albion managers for the use of. Once we emerged from the pub, we quickly discovered that the wind chill factor, formerly a mere nuisance, had now increased to ?quick-chill? proportions. Time to do my coat up ? but for the life of me, I still don?t know how to properly manipulate those sodding zips! It?s a subtle form of IQ test, really ? and I?ve failed it. Even ?Im Indoors tried, and he couldn?t either. Help!

Mind you, once inside, the relative draughtiness of my nether regions was quickly forgotten once I?d spotted Scunthorpe player Youga, and that truly amazing barnet of his. I swear to God that if anything, the diameter of his coiffure had increased by a factor of around ten, compared with the last time I clapped eyes on him, at their place, early in the season. Just in case you haven?t seen it for yourself, if you imagine someone with one finger stuck immovably in a domestic plug socket, and the other hand resting upon that old standby of the physics lab, the Van De Graaf generator (produces static electricity in quantity, hence the astonishing ?hair-raising? appearance that results when someone is daft enough to put a hand to one), then you?ll get the picture pretty quickly! No wonder he keeps getting red cards: for ?Crimes Against Fashion?, more than anything else, I would say.

As for Scunny?s followers, they sure had brought a respectable number with them, all the way from not-so-sunny Lincolnshire. I suppose that because of the fact we?d only played one another in the Cup before, and the last time that happened being lost in the mists of time, that made the trip a pretty attractive one to do for the ?ground hoppers? of the species. And, even if they had been before, the Hawthorns they saw back then would bear not one iota of similarity to the one they were seeing now. A shame their journey turned out to be a bit of a waste of time, but that?s football for you, I suppose.

Team news? I reckon Mogga must have been reading my thoughts, last night! More or less going with the bunch that started the Bristol City game, in other words, with Phillips and Bednar up front, and Miller in reserve, on the bench, along with Brunt, Beattie, Tex and Alby. No keeper, either. I wonder who?d get saddled with the job should Deano get clobbered, and no ?proper? understudy on the bench?

I reckon my recent thoughts regarding a possible dive into the transfer market for a keeper are looking more spot-on with every day that passes. Oh, and one other thought ? it was nice to see Joe Murphy strutting his stuff between the sticks today, albeit for Scunny. When you think about it, he wasn?t a bad keeper at all: a real shame we had to inflict a massive dose of chronic backache upon him today.

So, out came both sets of players ? and as they did so, the squealing from all those kids massed everywhere, as per the ?kinds for a quid? thingy the club were offering for this one, reached ear-splitting proportions. Shouldn?t they be up chimneys, cleaning them, or something? God knows what the Noise Abatement Society would have said about it: probably chucked themselves into the nearest canal in despair, I reckon.

The best bit, though, was the sight of our captain, Jonathan Greening, celebrating his 150th appearance in the stripes by emerging from the tunnel with a really small child, blue bonnet on head, cradled in his arms. Literally holding the baby, he was. Blimey ? with all that vast earning power at his disposal, you would have thought that at the very least, he?d be able to rustle up some form of reliable last-minute childcare, wouldn?t you?

Considering the industrial sized quantities of drama that was to pervade our game lateish in the first half, the start was a very low-key affair indeed. Of the first ten minutes, were it a boxing match, I would have said the home side were just about ahead on points. As I?d thought, they tried to pack the midfield, put everyone behind the ball, but it wasn?t working terribly well, really.

Certainly, Scunny?s Youga, aided by that spectacular coiffure of his, found himself in great defensive demand over the course of those opening minutes. (Does it count as ?simulation? if the hairstyle ?dives?, but the player doesn?t?) One way or another, that man Phillips was wreaking absolute havoc out there, aided and abetted by his trusty sidekick Bednar. Getting our first could only be a matter of time, surely.

And while all that was going on, a horribly familiar sound started to erupt from the seat right in front of us. That of uncontrollable coughing: yep, John Homer?s fallen victim to the very same bug that laid us both so low recently! Well, they do say Christmas is a ?time of giving?, so why should such laudable festive sentiments not apply to pathogens? Think yourself lucky it wasn?t bubonic plague, John.

As the game moved into its next phase, enter Zoltan The Destroyer. Time and time again, he was tearing their defence to shreds on the flanks, but we couldn?t make decent use of the chances thus created. Gera and Cesar both had pretty respectable chances to break the deadlock. And the offside trap they were springing most times we went on the attack was proving to be a tad frustrating ? but not half as frustrating as what was to happen very, very soon. To them, not us.

When an Albion free-kick resulted in yet another ball whizzing over their crossbar, the Scunthorpe supporters reacted to the massed groans that erupted from various parts of the ground by singing: ?Sit down, shut up?? The Smethwick squelched that one pretty decisively, by singing: ?We forgot that you were here?.?

And it was around that time that the visitors almost created a cast-iron chance to go into the lead themselves, the Scunthorpe cross into the box ? was it Youga?s hairstyle rebelling again? - only just failing to connect with an anticipatory Irons boot, lurking with massive intent, within the bounds of our six-yard line, and on the far post. Had footwear connected with ball as intended, Deano would have found himself doing unaccustomed stretching and bending exercises behind his goal line. ?I?m Scunthorpe till I die?? warbled their followers, ecstatic at seeing their favourites almost catch us on the hop. And that prompted an immediate question, from me, to my beloved, sitting in the adjacent seat. ?Is it right that Scunthorpe supporters don?t die, they only get rusty??

But, just a few minutes later, Scunthorpe hearts were broken aplenty. Ironically enough, it all kicked off just after the Irons miss mentioned above, when the Bloke In Front Of Me was heard to mutter, in his own inimitable style, ?Yow know wot?s gunner ?appen ? the best we con get?s a draw?.? Cor, just call me ?Mister Sunshine?! And was that a nasty little thundercloud I saw forming just above his head? Unless he can come up with anything better very soon, that one will have to take near top spot on my Wildly Inaccurate Supporter Prediction Chart, that?s for sure.

Just a minute or so later, the BIFOM found himself somewhat overtaken by events. Talk about three-cornered luck: it all started when Kev Phillips, lurking way up front, managed to latch on to a ball that looped over his head and landed perfectly, right at his feet. But he must have been offside, surely? Where I sit was more or less in line with the play: expecting to see the lino?s flag pop into view at any moment ? I would say Kev was a couple of yards in arrears - I?d already half written off his valiant efforts to get off the mark.

But the lino never flagged, not even the merest twitch of his upper right limb marked his progress down the line! With the remaining 21 players on that pitch frozen fast, not quite believing what they?d just seen, Our Kev had the gumption to carry on, round the banjaxed and beaten Murphy with some aplomb, then reap the inevitable applause as the ball plopped into its rightful socket. A moment?s hesitation, while the message from nervous system to brain reached its rightful destination ? then, all hell erupted on that Scunthorpe bench!

As their supporters commenced singing: ?One-nil to the referee?..? Scunthorpe gaffer Nigel Adkins protested so furiously, in the end, he was banished to the VIP area at the back of our stand for shouting his mouth off: it is to the credit of some of our more honest and sympathetic supporters that his passage to his place of exile was greatly marked by comments like: ?Hard luck, mate,? and ?It WAS offside??

Not much in the way of consolation, I know, but it?s not something you?d get from some supporters I could mention! And the trouble wasn?t finished, by any means: within a matter of seconds, a steward had been dispatched to the rear of the stand. I could only assume that Adkins, red mist descending in heaps, had upset someone up there as well. The assessors, perhaps?

Back in our bit of the stand, opinions were mixed. Some felt genuine sympathy for Scunny and their manager, while others, of more sanguine disposition, argued that the error was only right and proper payback for some of the more outrageous decisions that had gone against us, over the course of the current campaign. Of one thing I?m sure: whatever the level of competition, whenever you?re struggling, you?re sure out of luck. Thinking back to our Premier League days, how many times have we left grounds feeling as though the referee had robbed us blind? And how many times were we subsequently proven right, courtesy of TV technology? What comes around, goes around?. Ain?t that right, Mister Miller?

But there was much worse to come for poor Scunthorpe. It all started around seven or so minutes later, when the lad Williams saw red for trying to remove Zoltan Gera?s shirt from his back, a move that wouldn?t have mattered in the slightest, had not poor Zoltan been in possession of the ball at the time. Again, there?s a miasma of suspicion hanging around this one: was the Scunny lad the proverbial ?last man? or not? And would a ?clear goalscoring opportunity? have materialised, had the Scunny defender not intervened in such a highly unorthodox manner? Again, it?s something you can debate right about the houses, and still not get a clear consensus of Baggie opinion.

Now down to ten men, try as the visitors might to put in enough effort to seem like eleven on the pitch, the game was only going to go one way from there. When you?ve got the best goalscoring record in the entire division, not to mention all four major competitions, there could only be one outcome.

Our second, duly potted by a delighted Robert Koren, after the initial effort got kicked off the line, more or less guaranteed all three points ending up in the home dressing-room. One little cameo I noticed: when the lad ran towards the corner of the Smethwick to celebrate ? that?s where his family must have been sitting, for this one - I spotted him trying to remove his shirt. Great visions of bookings for doing so entered my head, but before you could say ?sorry, ref??, one of his colleagues must have urged caution on that particular front. Suffice to say that we only saw around half of the lad?s pallid torso displayed to public view, and not the Full Monty!

More ructions at the back, no doubt Nigel Adkins-inspired. Once more, a steward ventured into the fray. ?He?s gonna get chucked out in a minute. This is terrible, this is,? predicted the BIFOM, ever the archetypal son of fun. Mind you, just what IS the situation, when a gaffer is deemed to commit a public order offence? Like yer actual Joe Soap supporter, can they be carted off, decanted into a Black Maria, then deposited at Smethwick Police Station, to tenant the cells there for a while, with or without subsequent charges being proffered? Visions of their team coach, rolling up at the cop shop after the final whistle, to bail him out, proliferated wildly for an imaginative few moments!

Come the break, John proffered his woolly hat at all and sundry, suggesting we all contribute to a whip-round for the benefit of the lino whose mistake had led to our opener. Then another thought crossed the lad?s fertile brain: ?Perhaps we oughter ask the bloke at the back (the sorely-tried Mister Adkins) if he wants ter chip in as well?.? Ooo, you are a naughty leetle teenker at times, my lad.

More fun ? it really was that sort of game ? later in the interval, when a supporter was led onto the pitch, his mission being to propose to his girlfriend in front of around 27,000 people. A brave thing to do, that: when he took the mike and asked the question of his swain, then got the answer ?YES!? by way of reply, that was the cue for a general chant of ?YOU DON?T KNOW WHAT YOU?RE DOIN??.? Cynics, the whole lot of ?em!

Time to hear of the incredible latest score from Vicarage Road I mentioned earlier, then it was time to once more pick up the threads of what we were doing before the break. One major development, before the resumption of business: the sight of Ish Miller on the touchline, and about to come on, with the hard-working Bednar the one to leave the fray. Said my amused other half, tongue practically bursting from cheek as he said it: ?He didn?t score for a whole 45 minutes, so they?ve taken him off?? Sensible, that, given we?ve got another hard slog at Ipswich coming our way in a matter of days.

Now the spadework had been done during the first half, it was only a matter of a very short space of time before the walls started tumbling down for poor Scunthorpe. First of all Miller had a pop from distance: that one was successfully repulsed by Murphy, but even he couldn?t do diddly-squat about what happened next. Ironically enough, when he stopped a Morrison effort in its tracks, he must have thought he?d done sufficient to negate the danger, but in a vicious little twist to the plot, the ball plopped right at the feet of that man Phillips, again. With the keeper still out of position, up soared the ball, in an arc, and into the back of the net it went. 3-0 it was, then ? and still we hadn?t finished.

Miller, especially, had endless chances to get off the mark himself: in my opinion, it was pure selfishness that prompted him to hang onto the ball when others were racing into much more profitable positions, but I suppose you could argue that selfishness goes with the territory, as far as the better ones are concerned. But the lad did win a penalty in the 59th minute, when he appeared to trip over Youga?s eccentric hairstyle. Or something like that. Up stepped Kev Phillips, to seal his hat-trick ? and he went and missed!

A shame, that, as he was subbed not long afterwards, with Beattie taking his place. But it wasn?t just one-way traffic: Scunny, too, had a chance to reduce the deficit. Just as well our keeper was on his toes to repel their efforts twice on the bounce, then, wasn?t it? After that little scare, we turned up the wick once more, with Miller dipping out yet again.

?WE ARE TOP OF THE LEAGUE, SAY WE ARE TOP OF THE LEAGUE?? was the holy mantra coming from both ends of the ground, by now. ?You?ll only come back down?? countered the shell-shocked visitors, something that prompted John to mutter, ?Speaking from a position of great authority, obviously?.?

We had to wait until about 12 from the end for the fourth. And what a strike worth waiting for! Zoltan Gera was the perpetrator of the damage this time, letting fly from the left, some 20 yards out, the ball arcing once more, right into the top right hand corner. Poor Murphy couldn?t have known what hit him. Cue for Zoltan?s trademark celebratory gymnastics, a double somersault, I think, that time.

Over the course of the numerous years I?ve been watching the Baggies, there aren?t all that many I?ve seen go in to top THAT one. Come on, Mister Fart, what do you reckon? And what sublime memories of today will all those kids taking advantage of the reduced admission price take away with them, I wonder? Only the other day, I was reminiscing with one of my sisters about the fantastic goal Bomber Brown put away at Sheffield Wednesday, back in 1970. So good, the Beeb used it as their Match Of The Day opener for yonks. And it?s a regular feature of most ?Greatest Albion Goals? compilations, too. Will Gera?s stunner be seen in a similar light by those same wide-eyed kids, some 30-odd years further down the line, when uncritical wonderment has been tempered by the multitudinous cares of adulthood?

Three minutes or so later, it was Beattie?s golden chance to finish what others had started ? and ?finish? he did, in what was almost a carbon-copy of the one he put away at Leicester. And not too dissimilar to the magnificent Gera effort, either, rounding the defender, then lobbing the ball into virtually the same spot Gera had aimed for, just minutes before. 5-0 it was, then ? and believe you me, it could have been many, many more.

I still feel a great deal of sympathy for Scunthorpe, and the cruel manner in which they first fell behind, mind. I forget who, among our matchday companions, originally said it, but someone compared the massacre of the Lincolnshire innocents to what happens, as a matter of course, at grounds like Old Trafford and The Emirates, most weeks. Newbies are regularly eaten alive, then spat out, with the minimum of fuss, at such places, as we know to our cost. And who was it, who turned the whole thing nicely on its head, by wickedly intimating that Arsenal were really the West Bromwich Albion of the Premier League? You naughty little monkey, you!

And Finally?.. Picture, if you will, all those Dingles emerging from Carrow Road after the final whistle, and all feeling quite pleased with themselves that they?d not only gained a good away point, but actually managed to score away from home, as well. Further imagine said highly contented Dingles arriving back at their cars/coaches/flying saucers/ponies and traps/whatever, turning on the radio ? then hearing the plummy tones of James Alexander Gordon announce OUR result! The rhythmical, steady patter of hollow skulls being bashed against walls, in sheer frustration, must have reverberated like serially-detonating high explosive, all over that ancient town!

 - Glynis Wright

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