The Diary

27 January 2008: Terrace-Bound Baggies Enjoy A Really 'Posh' Rave From The Grave

It was the sheer novelty of the situation, the unconstrained freedom of it all that this, our post-Taylor Report generation, relished the most, I reckon. Apparently, come the half-time break, no end of adolescents and young adults alike were extolling the praises of Peterborough?s capacious away end. Terraced, not a seat within sight, and with a capacity of around 4,000: plenty spacious for 3,660 travelling Baggies, who made the journey to London Road today. His Nibs reported exultant youthful comments such as: ?Wow, this ay arf great, we con jump about all we loike, and no cowin? stewards to soddin? stop us?.?

As far as we elder statesmen of West Bromwich Albion FC are concerned, it?s preaching to the converted: just about everyone I know, of my age or thereabouts, cut their youthful supporting teeth at the front of either the Brummie, or the Smethwick. This bit, right behind the goals, served as a kind of ?kindergarten? in those days, with the real youngsters plonked right at the very front, where any sudden terrace surges wouldn?t harm them, and the rest stacked behind, depending upon age, height and build, of course. The real rite of passage came when you graduated to the very back, where there was real fun to be had, both in the singing and the supporting. Not to mention the slightly naughty feeling one got when mixing it with what we thought were the real ?hard cases?, back then.

All respectable grandparents by now, of course, and making the regular weekly trip to the Post Office for their retirement pensions! A shame it?s only occasions like today when modern kids can get at least some flavour of what it was like to be a Baggie, back then ? but, hey, it was pretty good fun watching them all revel in such unaccustomed freedom, wasn?t it? When it?s done on a terrace, even the mundane act of ?boinging? takes on a whole new dimension, as oodles of recent ?converts? will now testify most enthusiastically, no doubt.

Our story begins that very same morning, when The Fart met up with us at Chez Wright. He?s been quite a busy lad of late, has our Baggie ?elder statesman?. Not only has he been doing his normal thing, he?s also been popping up in some quite unexpected places and situations. Take last Thursday evening, when we tuned in to Midlands Today on the Beeb. There he was, wearing a hard hat, and extolling the virtues of what used to be Stirchley Baths, closed about 20 years ago, now turned to virtual rack and ruin. The TV people captioned him, ?A Swimmer?.

Strange, that, as the only time I?ve ever seen him get really wet was at Swindon, the horrendous day we nearly all succumbed to hypothermia, stuck on their open away end during an autumnal cloudburst, with wind straight from Arctic regions chucked in for good measure! Before his TV appearance, he was Radio Five?s 606 phone-in, last Saturday night. Local radio is Tel?s usual bag. All that, plus being described as an ?Observer reader? by that paper (who would disapprove mightily, should they ever discover the true extent of his written media tastes!), and knocking ?em dead as a theatre critic for ?The Stirrer? website. Should we start calling him ?Anchor? because he spreads himself around a lot? And, yes ? he does do funerals and bar mitzvahs, if you ask him nicely!

The poor lad?s also having to cope with the literary outpourings of ?Daft Dave? a Brighton Baggie who used to converse on a regular basis when we did the fanzine, but now writes to Tel. Dave does have rather eclectic tastes when it comes to decorating envelopes ? and it doesn?t half cause some head-scratching, believe you me. Tel?s a relative newcomer to the game: don?t worry, mate, it all becomes perfectly clear after around the sixth pint!

But back to the matter in hand. The temperature was on the unseasonably right side of 50 Fahrenheit, as we left the sunny climes of Bearwood for the Great Outdoors of Fenland. (So warm is it, right now, one of ?Im Indoors?s workmates now has daffs and tulips poking inquisitive shoots towards the increasingly-strengthening sunlight.) Such a nice day, so it was, even the sun was trying to make a cameo appearance, after peering somewhat coyly from behind a sheet of very high cloud. A more pleasant day for a bit of Baggie-watching you couldn?t wish for, really.

As our elderly chum had gone to the Hawthorns Main Branch meeting last Thursday night, he spent much of the journey filling us in on what happened there. Roman Bednar stole the show, apparently. Not that I was all that aware of what was said: I?d long-since entered the Land Of Nod, by means of the Tradesmen?s Entrance, of course.

With just 20 miles to go, signs of Baggie-dom were appearing everywhere. Loads of cars bedecked with stickers, etc. also a pub full to the gunnels with well-oiled wearers of the sacred stripes, with what used to be Warwick Branch predominating. They?ve never been ones to pass up on the chance of a decent wetting of the whistle. A pub will do. ANY pub! Clearly, breaking their journey in such pleasant fashion was favourite, today. Around 20 stood outside: many of them faces all-too familiar to us, so what else could we do but sound our horn in salute?

On the outskirts of the city, we ran into a bit of a problem ? roadworks, which we had been warned about. But how to avoid them? Our satnav had thrown a hissy fit and wasn?t talking to ANYONE - so there, I?ve stamped my foot! We could see quite clearly where we needed to be: the problem was those blasted alterations to the route. God knows how I did it in the end ? technology is NOT my bag, believe you me ? but somehow, I managed to cure its laryngitis attack on the spot. Just as well, really, as navigation was a real pain in the butt until I did.

Once there, we parked up in a cul-de-sac that bore a slight resemblance to the one used in 80?s soap ?Brookside?. Unusually for such things, this one had a large viewing area where residents could watch the indigenous wildlife of the wetlands just behind those houses. What a brilliant idea. Provided the local kids are taught to respect it, of course.

Having sorted out our berth for the afternoon, we tried to find a suitable hostelry to park our bums in. Big problem: most baggies had set out somewhat earlier, so by the time we pulled into town, all the locals were bulging at the Baggie seams. I couldn?t walk far, and as we were planting our carcasses on the terraces, I needed to conserve my energies for later on. In the end, we split from The Fart, in a different part of the ground, and made our own way inside instead.

Having not encountered the sybaritic delights of lower league football terraces for quite some time, I really had forgotten what a complete pain in the fundament the Ladies toilet arrangements could be. And Peterborough?s didn?t disappoint in that respect. With 45 minutes to go, still, there was a queue. The reason? Only two provided! Clearly, females in the Second Division didn?t travel away anywhere near as much as our lot did: mind you, we?ve always had more female followers than most other sides, even back in the sixties, when football was a leisure pastime respectable ladies didn?t participate in. As I said to the lady just in front of me in the queue: ?Blimey, this is going to get really cosy, once the away coaches get here?.?

Returning to my other half, who?d feared I?d fallen down the hole by then, one quick explanation later, and we were off to claim a prime piece of terrace ?real estate? for ourselves. With terraces, the trick is to grab a bit of barrier for yourself, and when there?s very little other competition to be found. It also helps to position yourself so you can see the goalmouth quite easily. Near the corner-flag is about the best in that respect ? and that?s precisely what we did. Amazing how quickly all the ground-rules come back to you.

A quick word about the Peterborough stewards, who we found to be universally friendly and courteous in every respect. What really endeared them to me was what they did for one Baggie, a young adult, who had cerebral palsy (well, that?s what it looked like to me). What the lad needed most of all was some kind of seat ? he was on crutches, but his legs wouldn?t support him for the full whack, that was clear. So, what did the Posh people do? They fetched him a chair. Not just any old number, mind, but one that came complete with upholstery, as well, plonking it right at the very front of our terracing, and just behind the goal, too. How very thoughtful, and not something officials in our end of the League would be very likely to do, it has to be said. Ten out of ten, Posh.

Their ground? In case you never read my remarks the last time we came, here?s some more. One very modern stand, along one side of the ground, and the rest, our bit included, pretty old by comparison. Running adjacent to ours, along the other side from the modern bit, was more seating: this was where the bulk of those Baggies able to get seats had gone, with home supporters occupying the other half. I don?t know whether it was the fact that this game was an FA Cup number, or what, but the situation positively reeked anachronism. Our ?glee-club? must have experienced similar sentiments: we hadn?t been in the place five minutes, when they commenced a choral walk down Memory Lane.

First of all, we had the one that?s a pure insult-fest about Steve Bull, gleefully chorused to ?My Old Man?s A Dustman?, in case you?d forgotten, swiftly followed by the one that?s sung to the tune of ?Mary?s Boy Child?, and is a paean of praise to Bob Taylor. Another amusing chant, although one that largely owed its parentage to relatively modern times, was ?Sit DOWN if you hate the Wolves?.? Loved it. And, another directed at the Peterborough home crowd, viz: ?There?s only ten of you singing!? Oh ? and the ?phantom drummer? was there, too. Glad I wasn?t stood nearby.

And there was more. When our lot emerged come kick-of time, we were dressed in white, a strip design that would achieve immediate resonance with those Baggies of my generation: remove all the sponsors? stuff and players? names, and you ended up with a 1968-style shirt, more or less. The other surprise was seeing Jonathan Greening taking part, Kev Phillips ? who doesn?t do Cup games, normally - too, and Greening not on the bench at all. Kev was, but his moment of glory would come very soon, believe you me. Discussing this most surprising development with His Nibs, I eventually came to the conclusion that Kev had been included just in case of emergencies.

After seeing what a terrible effect our midweek Charlton marathon had wrought upon our Cardiff encounter, just a few days later, I could only assume that Mogga was keen to avoid a replay, at all costs. Oh ? and another bit of anachronism for you: Remember the old Posh mascot, who used to dress up ? erm ? ?posh? for home games, top hat, tails, the works, then walk around the entire ground? Well, even in the cynical commercialised Noughties, there he was, doing his thing, as if the cataclysmic changes wrought upon the game over the course of the last 30 years or so simply hadn?t happened! At first, our lot took the mickey, a chorus of ?Who the reffin?ell are YOU?? reverberating about his toffed-up persona as he paraded in front of our away following, waving his silver-tipped cane, not turning a single hair at the barrage of insults he was getting. (In fairness to our lot, they did applaud him afterwards for being such a good sport!)

So there it was, then. Our actual side? A 4-4-2 jobbie: Kiely; Hoefkens, Alby, Cesar, Robinson; Morrison, Koren, Greening, Tex; Bednar and Beattie up front. Subs? Steele, Brunt, Phillips, McDonald, Barnett. The referee? A chap called Moss, not a name I?m familiar with. Is he a Rolling Stones fan, I ask myself? Sorry, that?s what comes of listening to Norm Bartlam too often ? blame him. As for our old mate Miller, he didn?t feature in any Cup game today, so I checked the League?s site instead. For what it?s worth, he gave Saturday a miss. Barnsley have got his nuisance next Tuesday night! Serve ?em right, too!

So, off we jolly well went, then. The lino on our side didn?t get off to a particularly auspicious start: he flagged for a Peterborough throw when the ball had quite clearly been put out by them, and the referee wasn?t much better, letting things go that should have been well and truly nipped in the bud, right from the start. Posh might have capitalised when their star man McClean almost came ? erm ? ?clean away? from his Baggie minders, after a corner, but there was an Albion boot handy to remove the problem pretty sharpish, fortunately. Posh had looked pretty lively, those opening minutes, but it didn?t take long to break their hearts: just eight minutes showing on the clock, in fact.

Tex was the real architect of the damage, his ball reaching Beattie, who then put it in the path of Bednar, lurking with malice aforethought on the far post. Well, it was all he needed, wasn?t it? In went the bladder, as sweet as a nut: just milliseconds after that commenced one almighty ?Boing? in the away end. And, as I intimated earlier, it was one with all constraints well and truly thrown to the four winds: those kids were really revelling in it, believe you me.

And while Posh were still striving manfully to get into the game, after that early shock, we struck again, around the 15 minute mark. Beattie was involved again, releasing Morrison down the right. Over went the cross, a short ?will it go in, or won?t it?? kind of brief hiatus - then the away end went ballistic again. This time, we had Koren to thank, as we?d failed to complete the task first time round, the initial shot getting blocked. Time for yet another classic ?Boing? ? yes, they really do go better on terracing: just ask anyone who was at the second leg of the Swansea game, back in 1993.

Two in front, then ? looked pretty much like ?job done?, didn?t it? But we are talking Albion here, where nothing whatsoever can be taken for granted! Following the ones that counted, we then managed to put away two that didn?t, both deemed offside. Not that our lot cared: on each occasion, ?boinging? activities commenced with great enthusiasm! More fun when the old ?Smethwick-Brummie? thing started up: oh dear, this was getting really silly now!

30 minutes into the game, and Deano really earned his corn, tipping one almighty stinger of a Posh effort over the bar for a corner. His Nibs maintained he?d got it well and truly covered. Me? I wasn?t so sure! And how unkind can you get, singing ?Reffin? Useless? to the tune of that old away support standby, Momma?s Got A Brand-New Pig-Bag?? Oooh, well below the belt, that one: after all, they were top-six material, in their own League.

Two minutes from the break, our ref once more demonstrated his perversity. Hoefkens got pushed over, blatantly so, in fact. Our whistling charmer?s considered verdict? A free-kick ? to them! It was also around that time we first got intimations of what was happening at Anfield, when our lot broke into a chorus of ?Havant And Waterlooville?. Nothing could have prepared us for the almighty shock we had, mind, when we found out they were actually 2-1 in front! Still, as the players trooped off the park, we declared ourselves well satisfied with how things had panned out.

During the break, I spotted a mate of ours, Albion photographer Lawrie Rampling, toting no less than two cameras, but what really got my sympathy glands going was the sheer size of the rucksack he was carrying. Loads bigger than he, it was, and evoked distant memories for me of Royal Marines yomping across the Falklands, back in 1982! Better watch out for those Argies, the next time you bring it, Lawrie!

Strange things were afoot, the moment our lot took to the park once more. There was Kev Phillips, on the touchline, and clearly making ready to come on! Blimey, was Mogga really sure he wanted to take Bednar off, and involve our leading striker in this one? Seemed as though he did: either that, or Kev had insisted he get at least part of a game. So one came the hero of the hour ? and we didn?t have to wait too long before he made his presence felt, either. But first, Posh had a little scare of their very own to deliver, Deano having to look lively indeed to tip nuisance-man McClean?s shot, dipping horribly all the way, over the bar and out of play for a Posh corner.

It was with around ten gone that Posh became architects of their own destruction. Greening had the ball, and came storming right into their box. It looked a nailed-on cert he would score ? then up stepped Posh?s Morgan to stop him in his tracks. And not legally, either: up in the air went our hirsute midfielder, and off went the Peterborough man. Even worse for them, we got a penalty from the incident. Who do ya call? Kev Phillips! Up stepped our man, and ?whomp? went the ball, right into the back. If the dismissal hadn?t completely scuppered them, then the 3-0 deficit arising from it most certainly did.

With all resistance nullified, what else to do but milk the occasion for all it was worth? The old ?Wemberlee, Wemberlee?.? chant got an airing, as did that old standby, ?We?re Just Too Good For You? as performed at Molineux last season, so Posh followers shouldn?t feel too insulted by it! With just the dotting of the metaphorical ?I?s? to complete, our followers let their hair down, finally. As Beattie left the scene of the massacre, and Shergar replaced him, our lot actually chanted his name. After that, we managed to string together around 20 passes in succession, with our followers cheering every successful completion.

Then, inevitably, Posh regained possession once more ? so our lot simply cheered their players in similar fashion! As I said, it was getting really silly by then. A real touch of genius after that: a chant of ?Seating, seating, start the wave?.? ? and they did, too, the surge carrying right around the away terracing before dying a death when it reached the Posh persuasion sitting on the other side. Boo! But Mogga obliged, when requested to! And, just to round things off nicely, what about a little burst of ?Astle is our King?? More stuff apropos Mister Taylor ? was he actually in the ground, I wonder, hence all the interest? ? before all was quiet once more. And even at that late stage, we could have quite easily added to the tally, first of all courtesy Beattie, then nearly a Posh ?oggie? just before the end.

A Baggie standing immediately behind was a little unkind, as Shergar got the ball, and made to run with it towards the Posh goal. ?Run, Forrest ? RUN!....? was his heartfelt cry, that particular phrase coming from the Tom Hanks film ?Forrest Gump? which featured a bloke with the intelligence of a Dingle being in the right place at the right time ? even the Vietnam jungle - and profiting handsomely as a result.

Come the last few minutes, Mother Nature herself decided to draw a fitting close to our Cup exertions, in the form of a wonderfully photogenic sunset. All mauves, pinks and blood-red, it was, and splashed across a backdrop of the most beautiful shade of blue I?ve seen in ages. South Pacific islanders would have killed for one as vivid as that. And, as our lot approached our end of the ground to do the ?usual?, they went and did something quite unexpected, instead. As they approached, most people in that away end were ?boinging? with unbridled glee ? so, off went our finest, too! Mind you, their technique does need a little more practice, I reckon!

It was interesting to see that Mogga had used precisely the same phrase I did to describe today?s performance, after the final whistle. The word he?d used to sum up our performance was ?professional?, precisely the same one I?d used to His Nibs, right after the final whistle. See, great minds do think alike, don?t they?

And Finally?.. Why is it that whenever we head for Brum to drop The Fart off after an away trip, the West Midlands force?s finest decide to raid some premises or other, blocking off most of the surrounding streets in that area, and causing untold chaos everywhere as a result of their efforts? That?s the second time it?s happened to us, and in as many weeks, too. What should have been a straightforward journey of around 15 minutes either way very quickly becomes one of 45 or more, thanks to their efforts. Surely some genius with a bit of rank on their shoulders should have detailed extra police to sort out the complete and utter mess they?d caused to the traffic in that area, which was considerable by then, believe you me!

 - Glynis Wright

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