The Diary

20 January 2008: Cardiff's Late, Late 'Oggie' Leaves Us Still Top Of The Heap.

You can certainly sense a marked diminution in this country?s customary January chill, right now. Down in Cornwall and West Wales, great fields of daffodils currently have their delicately hued sepals and petals on display to the world at large. And, this lunchtime, much closer to home ? well, in Halfords Lane, and quite close to the Metro station, if you want to get all picky on me about it? I even espied a husband-and-wife magpie combo diligently weaving bits of twigs and branches together to make an avian des. res. comfortable enough for a soon-to-arrive brood of little magpies. I can only hope the weather doesn?t throw another ?nasty? on them: Mother Nature can be quite cruel, sometimes.

Look for the signs carefully enough, and you?ll quickly acquire proof positive that global warming is most certainly not the figment of a budding sci-fi author?s overheated imagination. Some would take all these things, a mere bagatelle in themselves, as a Dire Warning, ominous in the extreme. So where do we Baggies fit into this great scheme of things? Well, it certainly got a bit ?omen-y? last night for this one: having lived in one particular street for the past 19 years, and considering myself extremely lucky to have seen one single starling, even, on our return from my stepmother?s place around nine that evening, for the first time ever, I spotted a full-grown FOX crossing our path. ?Tis true we aren?t about to play Leicester City in a hurry, but that must mean SOMETHING, surely?

Being the incurable pessimist I am, I was very much inclined towards interpreting that unusual sighting to mean we?d dip out today ? but nope. Honours shared at three goals each, come past five o?clock (yes, it WAS a disgustingly late finish, but more on that anon) ? but, my goodness, what a hard slog it was. Some around me were loudly expressing considerable displeasure, come the final whistle, on the grounds we should have done somewhat better against Dave Jones?s mob than we did, but as I pointed out in last night?s piece, despite that relatively lowly eighth spot in the table, Cardiff are certainly no pushovers.

They?d done their homework most diligently, see, those Welshmen, aided and abetted considerably by what they?d learned from that 4-2 League Cup stonking they inflicted upon us last September. In other words, hit us with an early goal ? they must have thought it was Christmas come early when that one went in - come at us constantly, play us at our own attacking game, while trying to stop us acquiring any sort of rhythm and consistency to our own play, chuck in a teensy bit of psychological warfare in for good measure, hit us hard on the break?.

Et voila! And it damn near worked, too. Just a scant twelve months ago, such undesirable proactivity on the park would most certainly have struck oil for Dave Jones?s leek-munching wrecking crew: go two in arrears, as we did today, and we?d have given up the ghost there and then: massive ?clangs?, as Baggie heads dropped everywhere, some pretending to care, some genuinely caring, a few downright indifferent either way. But that was the fundamental difference: much more in the way of fighting spirit, once the penny dropped, and we realised we could inflict material damage upon them, for a change.

It was a bit ironic that our late, late equaliser came as a direst result of Cardiff dropping themselves in it, courtesy an ?oggie?. Was it me, or was that really the only serious clanger they dropped the entire game? It certainly seemed that way, given that we spent so much of the second half trying to get the better of them. Shades of Stoke and Sheffield Wednesday, too, as their canny application of gamesmanship threatened to reduce the whole thing to a complete and utter farce. Another prophecy fulfilled, then: Mister Friend was, once more, no friend of ours. And as for the idiot-brained lino on the Halfords Lane side of the ground?.. Quite.

Leaving our house in the capable hands of our estate agent for the afternoon ? they were showing two prospective buyers around ? we set off for the ground around midday, with a ?prisoner exchange? of computer equipment for The Noise effected car-to-car on arrival. That was the ?Friday afternoon? jobbie we gave up on, but our garrulous chum reckons he knows a bloke who can revive it?..and the best of British luck to him in his quest! Had it been a sick animal, that machine would have come in for the lethal attentions of the vet?s syringe ages ago!

No Bethany today ? attending a drama rehearsal, or something, apparently - but she was most certainly not forgotten. Stitched up by her big sister most splendidly, she was, and in a most unusual way, too. Again, more on that anon, but when we finally got to the Hawthorns pub, despite the relative lateness of the hour (for thirsty football supporters), the place seemed almost empty. Still, Carly was in the chair for a round of drinks ? wow, the sudden acquisition of adult responsibilities: in time, though, she?ll learn to take a leaf from Steve The Miser?s well-thumbed ?excuse? book, and hide in the loo when it?s her turn to visit the bar!

Into our second round of drinks, now, and finally, the place was accreting bodies. All the usual faces, of course ? poor Annette, matriarch of the Drinking Family: she?s torn a muscle in her leg, and is now limping like a good ?un, despite having something called ?hydrotherapy? on the NHS in an attempt to put the condition to flight. And Annette wasn?t the only visitor that raised my eyebrows a fraction, for standing at the table next to the exit was none other than Andy Johnston, well known Baggie in times of yore, of course.

I don?t know what it was that gave Carly the idea in the first place, but one minute she was seated contentedly among our little crowd, and the next having a whispered but VERY animated discourse with our former midfielder. And it involved a mobile phone, too ? Carly?s, duly handed over to AJ once she?d dialed a certain number. Just what the hell was she up to? Then we found out. What she?d done was phone young Bethany, back in Stoke, got AJ to tell her who he was ? and according to Big Sis, the conversation then went something like this?.

AJ: ?Why are you missing the game, Bethany??

Bethany: ?Er, ?cos I?ve got to do drama?.?

AJ: ?Well, you won?t miss any more, will you??

Bethany (now petrified!) ?I?m sorry, I won?t do it again?.? (AJ then hands phone to Carly, who then says something to little Sis, and terminates the conversation.)

Carly: ?She?s terrified, now?.. She?s just told me ?I?ve got to go to every game , now, because Andy says I?ve got to!.....? The thing is, she takes everything people say to her so seriously!? Carly, if that girl grows up with a complex a mile wide, I?ll blame you, OK?

But the best entertainment came towards the end of our stay. Yes, as promised, it involved a certain amount of (criminal?) damage done to one of the pub?s tables, and a small quantity of drink spilled as a result (is NOTHING sacred?), but in what has to be a ?first? in the entire history of Cardiff City Football Club, it wasn?t their supporters who were responsible, this time round!

Had there been a Daily Mail reporter at the scene of the ?crime? their Monday editorial piece would have been frothing at the mouth, metaphorically speaking. Aw, you know, stuff like: ?We didn?t spend six years fighting the Germans during World War 2 to see this country irreparably blighted by the hooligan element that seems to think it can run rampant wherever and whenever it likes. Hang ?em, flog ?em, then transport ?em to the Colonies for a sharp dose of National Service, we say. It?s the only language they understand?.?

Which would have been an admirably-emotive bit of prose, bar for one fundamental snag. The ?thug? doing the damage was none other than our very own Mister Fart! It all started when our hero, in an attempt to get a better view of the Sheffield derby being shown on the big screen, sat on the round table-top, which then started to groan somewhat ominously under his weight. I could certainly hear the sound of metal fatigue being perpetrated at a rate of knots, down below, but El Tel clearly hadn?t.

For a microsecond, I thought he?d got away with it, but nope ? with the sort of almighty ?crash? more commonly associated with brawny Irishmen, heavy masonry, and wrecking balls, over went the table, slowly at first, a but like the Titanic, finally coming to a dignified rest with the top delicately pointed downwards at an angle of around 45 degrees, with sundry drinkers trying to hang onto their downwardly-sliding glasses for dear life. (Well, one has to get one?s priorities right, doesn?t one?) As for the supporting metal strut below, let?s just say that on peering beneath, I quickly discovered that Tel?s weight had imparted something of a futuristic design to the thing, and leave it at that, eh?

Shades of Exeter, 1993, after we?d come back from two down to win 3-2: something similar happened in a pub close to their ground, after the game, but it was ?boinging? doing the damage, back then, not Mister Fart. A moment?s horrified silence from the large crowd of Baggies gathered in our immediate vicinity ? then the place absolutely erupted with gales of laughter. Poor Carly, so consumed was she by complete hysteria, at one point, I?d thought her in imminent danger of having a nasty little ?accident?! What made it really amusing, of course, was our hero?s normal robust attitude concerning matters of crime and punishment: zero tolerance, nothing more, nothing less. Now, there he was, surrounded by the wreckage of what had once been a perfectly serviceable pub table, the bang-to-rights perpetrator of the ?crime?, and with loads of witnesses present, too!

Oh dear, Mister Fart, that was absolutely DISGRACEFUL, and at your venerable age, too ? looks as though you?ll just have to keep the thing completely self-contained by sending yourself to the Colonies ASAP! Just don?t forget to let the Daily Mail know where you?ve gone, mind, so they can justify their existence by printing a load of vitriolic trash about ?old-age football aggro?, OK? (Next week: ?Terry Wills, The Oldest Man In Town With A Football-Related Criminal Record?.??)

Yes, I know it?s all schadenfreude writ large, but the tears were still streaming down my face when we left the pub, about five minutes later. (Well, you?d want to scarper quick-sharp after being associated with something like that, wouldn?t you?) In some ways, it was good to head off in the direction of the Brummie turnstiles, to await The Coming Of The Noise. We needed his stilecard to get him a Preston away ticket, see, and experience had told us that was by far and away the easiest way to do it.

Get it poked through the iron bars on the game in the corner. Just one snag, though ? he never turned up. Solution? Ring Carly?s mobile, and ask where the hell he?d gone. The answer? In the loo, apparently: the lad was taken short without warning ? that?s what you get through drinking Coke in quantity, and very quickly, so there - and had no option but to give his horribly distended bladder the treat of a lifetime.

No problem for us getting through the turnstiles, I?m glad to say. In fact, we were slightly early, if anything, giving us ample time to properly scrutinise the huge Cardiff contingent occupying their bit of the Smethwick. Predictably, the noise-level was of almost eardrum-shattering proportions: say what you like about their lot, but one thing they really do well is wear their heart on their sleeve when it comes to all things Bluebird. The fact they?ll then wrap it right round your neck, and strangle you with it, is neither here nor there!

As we?d thought, the master-plan was to ring the changes around as many of those who?d had to put in the hard yakka on Tuesday night as possible. That meant a bevy of swaps for the starting line-up: back into the fold came the previously-rested Kev Phillips, with Ish Miller providing the supporting role, thereby (in theory) giving Bednar a well-deserved rest from his midweek labours, and midfield swapsies for Messrs. Brunt and Koren, with Morrison benched, in company with Our Zoltan. (Incidentally, the ?feline version? is once more in the doghouse, according to Jean Homer. Said I to her, just before the game started: ?Something tells me yours will be the first ever cat to get an ASBO?.?)

And not even the delightful talents of J.K. Rowling could have made up what happened within about 30 seconds of the ref getting the show on the road. One minute, there I was, happily settling down in my seat for the first 45 ? the next, I was cursing a blue streak. All down to ex-Hereford United player Paul Parry: that, and the ball taking an almighty deflection off someone, once the long-range effort parted company with his boot. Over the head of Deano it sailed, and straight into the back of our own ruddy net! I reckon everyone in the home crowd was too stunned to respond in any meaningful way: still, no good crying over spilt milk ? or busted tables, eh, Terry? ? so we just had to get on with it, grievous body-blow or not.

Buoyed up by the sheer improbability of their opener, the Cardiff contingent burst into song en-masse. ?One-Nil To The Sheep-Shaggers?.? Again, it?s something they do very well: singing, that is, not ? errr?..! I hope. Later, they treated us ? if ?treat?s? the operative word ? to a spirited rendition of ?Men Of Harlech?. I wonder if they know the same rude version I learned when I was a student, all those years ago? Meanwhile, we had managed to regain some composure, finally, enough to begin mounting attacks of our own, but with around 13 gone, the gods cackled mightily once more, as yet another setback descended upon our manager like a ton of bricks.

This time, it was injury to Ish Miller had Mogga practically tearing his hair out on the touchline. At first, I?d suspected he?d dropped in an attempt to win himself a refereeing decision in his favour, but as the seconds and minutes passed, it became painfully clear ? in all senses of the word, as far as our Man City loanee was concerned ? that poor Ish wasn?t going to be taking any further part in the proceedings. A hamstring, apparently: it just remains to see how serious the problem actually is. Some clear up with minimal time away, while others can be an absolute sod to sort out. I guess I?ll be doing a modicum of research among all the medical stuff I?ve got, in good time for my next thrilling episode.

Poor Roman Bednar. The lad finally gets some time off to enjoy, only to discover relatively early in the game he?s got to do a whole lotta running around, again. A shame, that, as he really looked knackered on Tuesday. Still, the only thing to do is get on with it Which we did, Tex having a fairly reasonable attempt stopped an instant before he could properly pull the trigger, and Kev Phillips also being frustrated by the agility of Oakes in saving his own long-range attempt so well.

As for the referee, try as I might, I couldn?t quite get my head around the way he was letting lots of infringements favouring the visitors go, and pulling us up for the slightest thing. Ditto his lino on our side of the park: certainly, it wasn?t too long before John Homer, patience at boiling-point by then, pointedly offered the guy the use of his glasses! As for the BIFOM, the Silence Of The Fan boded ill for the remainder of the game: sooner or later, he?d reach breaking-point, at which juncture, everyone in the ground would get to know about it! Ooer.

With the half about two-thirds gone ? aw, you know what I mean ? it was Cardiff?s turn to have to pull off an injured player. A classic demonstration of Newton?s Third Law, really, and Bednar providing the ?action? with Cardiff?s Kev McNaughton suffering the ?reaction?. Not as good as Big Dave?s 2001 Molineux illustration of the same law of physics, and Newton The Dingle ? who else? ? ending up the worse for wear because of it, but a telling moment, all the same. His replacement was the unfortunately-named Darcy Blake: well, with a Christian name as daft as that, you can only go one way, can?t you?

Come the 32nd minute, there was more misery for the Baggies, and more mirth for the Welsh contingent, some of whom, located in the Halfords, celebrated their second rather vigorously, which naturally led to resentment among the regulars seated around the knot of cuckoos in their nest. It was quite some time before relative calm descended upon the Smethwick Corner once more. More importantly, we?d conceded again, Paul Parry being the perpetrator of the damage once more, having skinned poor Pele before registering the strike. (GLYNISNOTE: It?s got to be Fate: not so long ago, we had the opportunity to buy the lad from Hereford for a song, but we prevaricated, so the chance was gone for ever?.)

But, despair ye not, just a couple of minutes later, we managed to reduce the deficit by half. The goal was a classic header, very much in the style of The King, and as there was only one bloke with the ability to put them away like that, it wasn?t too difficult to identify Bednar as the perpetrator of the damage. Better, Albion ? much better.

But the sheer ability of Cardiff to get us into an almighty funk every single time they had the ball was worrying, to say the least. You could just imagine Dave The Ex-Dingle issuing pre-match instructions to his troops?. ?Run at ?em, keep running at ?em, don?t give ?em a minute to settle on the ball, and keep annoying them by going down like a stuck pig every single time they come anywhere near you?.? Crude, but effective. We could only hope that the second half would bring us better fortune.

Before that, though, it was no thanks to the ignorance of Albion?s PA bloke at half-time that Jean Homer nearly achieved meltdown within a matter of seconds. The problem? An unfortunate mispronunciation when reading out 40th birthday greetings intended for The King?s daughter, Dawn Astle: instead of including the ?T? in the name, he left it silent, thereby pronouncing Dawn?s surname ?Assle?.

I?m willing to swear on any Bible you care to produce, the very same moment that lot left his lips, a huge mushroom-shaped cloud appeared above Jean?s head. Just like me, she worships the Astle clan with every particle of her being, and won?t allow such blasphemies to sully her vestibular apparatus at any time. Jeff?s magnificent reputation as a goalscorer for our club transcends both space and time: you insult his memory at your peril, intentionally or otherwise! I could only hope Jean and that PA bloke never meet in person: something tells me I know too darned well who would come off worse! And it?s not the male of the species, either.

But back to the matter in hand. Which took a distinct turn for the worse not long after the restart, sadly. Once more, we conceded from a set-piece ? but not in the accepted sense of the word, given that the set-piece was one of ours, at their end, Cardiff then busting upfield like things demented, and far too swiftly for our sorely-put-upon defence to do anything much about it. This time, Parry was to turn goal provider, with Ledley finishing off what the former Bulls player had started. Talk about the mass-popping of suicide pills?.

Now two behind again, some drastic solutions were called for, so Mogga rang the changes, finally. On came Gera and Morrison, and off went Koren and Pele ? and, thanks to the elf-like Magyar lad?s undoubted skill with the ball, wide on the one flank, and Morrison on the other, our attacks started to hurt Cardiff, at long last. Cue for the Welshmen to indulge in a further bout of Thespian-inspired behaviour: had there not been a writers strike on in Hollywood, the Ninian Park persuasion would surely have walked off with a fair number of gongs, all for ?best performance?, natch.

And the referee wasn?t helping matters, either: to our absolute amazement, with Albion in possession and, having weathered all manner of skullduggery to remain so, bearing down upon the Cardiff goal from the left ? I think it was Brunt had the ball, but don?t quote me on that one ? our chum Mister Friend then decided to pull play back, and award a free-kick to the Baggies! Suffice to say, nobody in the Albion camp was overly impressed by that mysterious decision! And then referees wonder why they get more than their fair share of abuse from the crowd! I wonder whether the NHS do common-sense transplants?

With around 63 minutes gone, we actually managed to get the ball in the back of the net. But it was too good to be true: right on cue, up popped our chum the lino, the one on the East Stand side this time, to flag for offside. Judging from the angry bellowing coming from that part of the ground, more than a few in the East Stand had made helpful suggestions as to where he could put that busy flag of his!

Far too distant for me to say whether it was or not; no doubt someone will enlighten me, eventually. And, a scant minute later, another attack on the left nearly struck oil. Cardiff were clearly worried, rattled, even. Off romped the Smethwick, ?WE ARE ALBION, SAY WE ARE ALBION?.? and the words now chanted with a fervour that was almost frightening in its intensity. Hitler, presiding over one or other of his infamous Nuremberg Rallies, would have understood much.

I?ll say one thing for that Cardiff crowd, mind: they?d set the choral pace, had bucked up the atmosphere immensely, so it was now practically mandatory we had to jump in with the vocals too. Wow ? what an atmosphere, easily the best since the Dingles play-off game last season. Closer and closer we got to the target, with one effort in particular somehow getting kicked right off the line by a Cardiff boot. They do say that everything comes to those that wait, though, and just a few minutes further on, our lot were to prove the veracity of that statement incontrovertibly.

Again, it was Brunt?s pin-point accuracy with a cross that proved Cardiff?s undoing. In roared Alby to meet it, from a fair way out, and in it went, like all good little balls should, right to its mum. 2-3, and only one more to pull back to get something from the encounter. Bedlam in the Brummie: suddenly, the atmosphere was white-hot. Now our lads could scent fresh blood, and they weren?t about to let their quarry off the hook that easily, either.

More maddening tactics from the Welsh side, quite rightly realising that they had to disrupt our pattern of play again, and quickly. But still the Baggie tide surged forward, with the visitors? goalmouth resembling the last stages of the Alamo siege, the one involving a certain Davey Crockett, man-marked by General Santa Anna, late of the Mexico squad. Having done so much to spoil the game, it was entirely appropriate that they should also fall by their own hand. It was Gera who did the initial damage, with yet another dead accurate cross rattling the Cardiff collective cage - and it was Cardiff?s Johnston who sliced the ball, thereby sending it spinning past their keeper. ?Justice is done!? said I. Mind you, we?d left it awfully late, just three minutes remaining when it finally crossed the line.

Now City were being made to pay for their nicely-judged delaying tactics: that, plus the brace of genuine injuries necessitating the referee to add on some six minutes extra to the allotted span. Still glad you wanted to hang on to the ball when it went out for a goal-kick, Cardiff? Sensing a last-minute winner in the offing, our crowd pushed themselves to new vocal heights: in fact, such had been the sheer effort put into their support by the Cardiff crowd, our lot, both Smethwick and Brummie, had no real alternative, but to give the vocals big licks themselves.

With eardrums galore registering decibels at rather painful levels by then, it wasn?t beyond the realms of possibility that we could have deprived them of the smirking-rights right at the very end. That would have been the best possible answer to their Stoke-style gamesmanship (but, to be scrupulously fair, they had far more skill about them than the Potteries club ever will) ? in fact, it was that Man Gera who almost made the fairy tale come true during stoppage time that lasted a good six minutes, but in the end, we simply ran out of time.

3-3, after looking to all intents dead and buried? I?m not complaining, and, what?s more, thanks to Watford and Charlton effectively neutralising each other courtesy the game that kicked off directly after ours finished - final score 1-1 ? we?ve ended up leading the pack by three clear points. As for all those tired legs out there this afternoon, they?ll get a seven-day respite over the course of the coming week ? until it?s time for the next Cup game, and all the angst that goes with it!

AND FINALLY ? BUT JUST A QUICKIE THIS TIME ROUND?..

New words Carly has learned this afternoon?.. ?Voyeurism?, and ?aphrodisiac?. As for the precise context in which those fine words were used by us today, that would be telling, wouldn?t it?

 - Glynis Wright

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