The Diary

03 February 2008: How To Beat Lancashire Upstarts The Hard Way, By WBA!

Go on, you can tell your Great Auntie Glynis: have your nerves finally stopped jangling, yet, after our adrenaline-laced nail-biter versus Burnley, this afternoon? Sure, we got there in the end ? just! - but for each moment we were in there cheering like mad, there must have been a good ten more when we were climbing up the girders in sheer frustration, with a liberal dash of plain ornery fury chucked in for good measure.

Having gone behind to a goal so early it needed a travel alarm to register on the scoresheet on the two previous occasions, you would have thought we?d twig there was a pattern developing, by then ? but nope. With less than 3 gone, it was Groundhog Day ? and it had to be Fate at its most bitter and twisted to ordain the scorer to be a certain James O?Connor, former Baggie of the parish.

Happiness was restored once Carl Hoefkens pulled it back for us, around halfway through, but it took a Bednar strike straight out of the Jeff Astle Textbook Of Headed Goals to really raise the roof. Plus enough angst to bury half of Hollywood right at the death, when things really looked sweaty ? but, hey! We?re still top, albeit with a lead reduced to two points after Watford won (can?t those bloody Dingles get ANYTHING right?), but our stonking goal difference, way in front of the rest of the field, effectively gives us another point should things start to look hairy at the end of the current season. More about the Clarets etc. later, of course, so, without further ado, on with the show!

Poor ?Im Indoors. Not only is he another year closer to the knacker?s yard today, he also received in the post a birthday present he certainly hadn?t bargained for. Sod all to do with me, I hasten to add, as I don?t do speeding tickets as a hobby. Flashed by one of those beastly bright yellow, ugly-as-sin boxes one finds littering countryverges with increasing regularity, he was, on the main Worcester road, last Sunday.

Must have happened when we were en route from Hereford?s Cup tie with all those charming Cardiff chappies, according to the blurb they sent with their horrid billet doux. Naturally, it?s a three point licence endorsement jobbie, plus fine, plus massive hike on our car insurance when we next renew it, no doubt. Doubly galling, because by their own admission, my beloved was only seven mph over the speed limit (30, for heaven?s sake) on that particular bit of road.

And here was me thinking that the likes of Dick Turpin had been made extinct some 200 or so years ago: nowadays, they just call themselves ?enforcement officers?, but they still dance to the same merry tune. The only difference being that Turpin was taken to London for execution: his modern-day equivalents also get a trip to the capital, eventually, but to receive gongs from Her Maj, not a ruddy great noose round their necks. I?m sure the Exchequer will be very grateful for this completely unrequited addition to their stash: rest assured fervent curses will go with it.

But unsolicited nastygrams from the rozzers apart, my other half did appreciate mightily what I gave him this morning (for his birthday present, dearie: this isn?t that sort of diary. Sorry.?.) Item number one was a docking station for our new iPod, with matching speakers, plus clock radio alarm, which means we can take it with us when we travel overnight, still have music, and get reliably woken up each morning. Blimey, it even had a remote! Item number two? A couple of high-class smellies, plus a chocolate gorilla, one of Thornton?s best, complete with His Nibs?s name proudly emblazoned upon on the primate?s belly, in icing. Not that I was hinting at anything, mind!

?You OLD MAN!? That was the cordial greeting ?Im Indoors got from Noise Junior, on hearing how old he was today. Whisper it quietly in these parts, but Carly gets more and more like her old man every time I see her. No sooner had we got into the pub, she then commenced gassing to my other half about Life, The Universe and Everything (teenage version!) and, I swear, never once stopped to draw breath the whole time we were there. If that?s what she?s like at college, God help those poor lecturers!

It was while she was giving her tongue a very rare rest that we discovered that The Fart, yet again, had managed to hit the pages of our matchday programme. How come? Recently, he met up with Talk Sport?s Mike Parry and Andy Townsend (the Albion connection is obvious to regulars), hence the picture and accompanying piece in the prog.

Now here?s a fact not many will be aware of: back in 1969, our wrinkly chum was the first ever caller to the then-fledgling Radio Birmingham?s phone-in. A pioneering effort from the Beeb, that: widely heard abroad, especially in the US of A, of course, but a relatively new phenomenon to these shores back in the late Sixties. Talk to the old reprobate nicely, and he?ll even regale you with tales of the latest-score semaphore news service he started, back in the days when El Tel served The Raj on the old North-West Frontier. No wonder the Taliban are still after him!

Now here?s a funny thing. Hands up, all those who have been asked to take a young girl to the toilet? You have? And lots of times, sure - but when the person being escorted is a good seventeen years of age? The problem: Carly swears blind the Ladies bog in the Hawthorns Hotel is haunted, and insisted I go with her while the place was quiet, which I did, just to keep the peace. And she was dead serious, too. Personally, I reckon she?s been sampling what other people have left in the way of white powder on top of the cisterns in there: just remember to quote the above by way of mitigating circumstances to the magistrates once the Drug Squad catches up with you!

Enter The Fart, managing to look both cheesed off and frozen at the same time, a rare feat indeed. The problem? Stoke 2 Cardiff 1, which is enough to send anyone up the wall, even at the best of times. An own goal and a penalty, which sounded about par for the course for them. Even better, we subsequently found out that the ?oggie? merchant for Cardiff was Roger Johnston, who?d netted for us when we played them! Still, just to cheer him up a tadge, I then told him about Carly?s current toilet problems.

Said The Fart:: ?I?ve never been to the toilet at a football match, ever?.?

Me, overhearing what he?d just said: ?Tel, you must have the bladder of a bloody camel....?

Our hero also came bearing photographic gifts, mostly in preparation for the post-match beano we were having at The Vine, come the final whistle, but one picture in particular was meant for The Noise. It depicted both The Fart and he on the Mersey Ferry, with the famous Liver Building, complete with Bird, in the background. If I remember rightly, we played Tranny Rovers that day, and, arriving very early indeed, decided to board the ferry just to say we?d done it. Looking at that picture, most people not in on the circumstances would assume that the horrid greenish hue on the Noise?s face was down to some fault or other in the colour-balance of the processing machine ? but nope.

Despite the pic being taken while the boat was proceeding in the lee of the river estuary, and therefore sheltered from the full effects of the waves, our garrulous Stoke chum was feeling very badly the effects of sea-sickness! My comment of ?How does it go, Mart? Up and down and side to side, with greasy bacon and runny eggs for breakfast?.? did not go down at all well. Just like the day the shot was taken, in fact?.

A quick tete a tete with Norm Bartlam, and we were heading in the direction of Anorak?s Corner, where the two regular incumbents were as eager as anything you like to give us the latest team news. Kev Phillips would be starting ? somebody up there sure loves us ? and, amazingly, our new keeper would be on the bench, too. Hell, what good would that do? He couldn?t speak a word of English, hence Bednar being appointed to be his ?minder?.

But ?Im Indoors had another take on the situation, and one I hadn?t thought of, to be truthful. If right, it was a pretty cute bit of practical psychology on Mogga?s part. First off, it would help our newcomer assimilate, learn the overall Albion ethos, and secondly (much more importantly, perhaps?), seeing him there would furnish Deano with a not-so subtle reminder that he wasn?t a permanent fixture between those sticks by any means.

Arriving at our normal matchday ?perch? there was Jean, with yet another tale of woe concerning Zoltan, the one with the tail and whiskers, that is. She?s now firmly convinced that the many problems ailing her moggy are down to the fact that last Christmas, he managed to consume one of the light bulbs off her Christmas tree, and it?s whatever is leaking from that into his stomach that?s causing all the problems. My comment apropos ?Shove a camera down his guts, and if you see the bugger flashing, still, you?ll know you?ve guessed right?? didn?t help all that much, I have to confess?

But back to the matter in hand, namely bloody Burnley. Some familiar names in their ranks, of course. The Beast, the one and only Brian Jensen, between the sticks, of course, and ex-Baggie James O?Connor in midfield. Plus Old Man Cole on the bench, as I?d suspected last night, along with fellow newcomer Mark Randall. Oh, not forgetting ex-Dingle Akinbyi ? as if I could! As for their supporters, they?d certainly brought a crowd, as you would rightly expect from a side storming to eighth place in the table, and shit-hot away from home. Predictably, a massive splodge of fluorescent green plod-wear kept the peace between the two rival factions. Rightly or wrongly, Burnley still have a quite tasty reputation when it comes to extra-curricular activities of the worst kind.

Albion? The news about Kev Phillips I?ve already touched upon. He had Bednar as his attacking partner, as you?d expect, leaving Tex to cool his heels on the bench. And, yup ? Danek was on the bench, as promised. What he made of today?s various alarums and excursions, heaven alone knows. Is there a direct translation for ?We hate Wolves scum?.? I wonder? Or do the Czech language and Black Country dialect have common roots?

There was certainly fun and games out there once the ref blew for the game to start. With only a matter of seconds gone, the poor bloke suddenly found himself having to sort out a bit of a barney between Deano and Akinbiyi. Ooh ? hit yer with me ?andbag, I will?.

That brought a smile to everyone?s face, but any such levity quickly dissipated just three minutes later, when The Clarets managed to snatch a lead ?and, guess what, kiddies, yet again, we fell behind courtesy an opposition free kick! Into the box came the ball, and as it did so, up rose Unsworth, knocking it down to O?Connor, who didn?t need asking twice, of course. In it went, as sweet as you like: as everyone trotted back to the centre circle, the Brummie collectively fumed ? as did our bench, no doubt ? while the visitors just couldn?t believe their luck. The silence was deafening.

Seconds later, they nearly pulled the same stunt: this time, they were allowed to proceed without anything in the way of let or hindrance coming from us, their move concluding with a nasty 20-yarder that only just flashed wide of the target. Our defenders were definitely in need of some sort of positive reinforcement: never mind wimpish slavering dogs and bells, too tame by far. A great pity the rules of the game didn?t allow our physio to insert jump-leads, heavy-duty batteries and long-range remote-control apparatus up the appropriate orifices!

Well, I had expressed the thought last night that if Burnley decided to run at us, we might have problems. Not a pleasant way to discover you?ve called it right, but that?s precisely what Burnley were doing, and at around a breakneck hundred miles per hour, I?d say. Bar the successful strike, we managed to weather the initial storm, then took the game to them, a wonderfully cohesive attacking move on our part ending with a header just over the bar, put out by an interfering Claret after Morrison had had his evil way with it: corner to us.

Do supporters of either side suffer from any sort of neck disorder, I wonder? If so, they?ll certainly be seeking out their GP?s surgery this coming Monday morning, I suspect. First one end of the park, then the other, felt the massive onrush of both sides towards the target area.

More from Burnley, then it was our turn to get them worried: first of all Phillips, twice, went close, then Zoltan Gera had rotten luck with his effort. ?Pass the ball!? screamed John Homer, all semblance of dignity long since vanished. Then Bednar had a pop at the prize, closely followed by Kev once more. How much more could they take without buckling at the seams? We didn?t have to wait long to find out: yet another Albion corner, expertly directed by yer man Greening. Over whistled the ball, and up popped Cesar to make space for himself, then finally put the bloody thing away. Albion 1 Burnley 1. Now we really had a game on!

No sooner had the whole thing started again, we somehow managed to spurn what was, for me, one of the golden chances of the entire game. If I remember correctly, it was The Beast at fault for Burnley, a nasty looking Albion cross left him completely stranded after committing to negating the danger, and stuffing up badly while trying to do so. That left a gaping Beast-sized hole in their goalmouth: an empty net beckoned, in short. It took a truly desperate clearance from the visitors to prevent us grabbing the lead for the very first time in the game: certainly, someone in the stripes was bombing in at a rate of knots at that time, and I suspect the ?somebody? was our very own Kev Phillips.

Not long after that, the tension was relieved by not a little humour, as Burney?s ex-Baggie keeper, instead of booting a perfectly straightforward clearance right up the park, managed to propel it into touch instead, giving rise to the predictable chorus, from the Smethwick, of ?The Beast Is An Albion Fan?.?

And in the remaining time from then on in to the break, both sides still went at it hammer and tongs. Once more, if you were a neutral, you?d have got more than your money?s worth, but with virtually 100% of the crowd having a vested interest in the outcome, whether for Burnley or Baggies ultimately proving victorious, the tension in the place was more than acutely palpable. Of the lot, Morrison?s had to be the closest. Most spectacular, though, was a Zoltan Gera overhead-kick jobbie: that should have struck oil right there and then, if only on principle! But Burnley went on the attack again, very late doors indeed, after our own attack broke down. Claret shirts everywhere ? AARGH! Fortunately, when the cross did go in, it proved far too fierce to do any sort of damage. Phew.

A much-needed break was finally called by the referee (who seemed to be letting an awful lot go, on both sides, presumably in the interests of ?letting the game flow?. Either that, or he was genuinely as blind as a bat!) But in a half absolutely riddled with risible errors, misplaced passes galore, with a few, more dangerous efforts, chucked in for good measure, Burnley were still a major threat, and it was therefore quite easy to see just how they?d managed to come up on the blind side, and hence into serious play-off contention, at the very least.

The half-time news from elsewhere was also thought-provoking. Bristol City losing to QPR, for starters. Plus that Stoke final score, of course. Then a thought struck me: Stoke City, the only side to win promotion to the Prem by boring everyone else to death? Imagine it on the last day, say: they nick promotion, but all their supporters are fast asleep when they do it, so never awake from their slumbers sufficiently enough to enjoy the moment!

But back to the second half. For reasons best known to themselves, The Clarets seemed to have given up on their previous opening policy of running right at us. For me, I?d thought it was by far the best way of hurting us, as their initial first-half flurry had incontrovertibly demonstrated, but that?s football for you. In fact, both sides seemed to have slowed the tempo right down. But not for long, mind. With 15 minutes gone, an excellent Greening cross saw Morrison unlucky not to get his just reward. Better, Baggies.

It?s at times like these you?ve just got to be grateful for the likes of Roman Bednar, haven?t you? Just a scanty minute after his team-mate dipped out, we were ahead for the first time in the game. The goal? A pretty spectacular effort, and one coming straight out of the Jeff Astle Bumper Book Of Headed Goals, too. What happened? Robbo was the provider, courtesy an inch-perfect cross from the left: aimed for the far post, as it approached the target area, up rose the Baggies striker to well and truly bury it with a header The Beast had no chance whatsoever of stopping. 2-1 to the Baggies, and accompanied, predictably enough, by much in the way of ?Boinging?.

But the real ?goal providers? I would rweckon, had to be The Smethwick, who started of an almighty chant of ?When The Stripes Go Marching In.?Normally, it?s the devil of a job to get even a small section of the crowd to join in and lift the mood, but for whatever reason, today, the remainder were well up for it. Before you could say ?Pendle Witch Trials?, the Brummie caught the refrain, closely followed by some in the East Stand. Hell, even the Halfords elected to join in after that: stung into participation by the noisy buggers in the Smethwick, I shouldn?t wonder. The real clincher was the Bloke In Front Of Me: a good 25 years have I occupied that seat of mine, and today was the very first time ever I?d seen yer man get up and actually sing with the rest of ?em!

The players weren?t slow to respond. They were trying like hell to kill the game off: typical was the Cesar effort that got engulfed in an almighty tangle of stray arms and legs in the middle of the goalmouth, before finally reaching the welcoming arms of The Beast. But the best chance of the whole lot we managed to stuff up in typical Baggies fashion. I?m talking about that penalty incident, of course.

How did it come about? One minute, Koren had the ball, and was advancing like a steam train with the safety valve in its innards suddenly blown, when he was upended in the box by a Claret on a one-man clobber-fest. The referee pointed to the spot straight away, and as quick as you like, up rolled the wronged party, Koren himself, to put the thing away, as per his just desserts.

But it didn?t turn out that way: instead, the shot got saved by The Beast, our second effort completely squashed at birth, much to the fury of the home contingent. Maddening in the extreme, that, given it didn?t do better than get buried deep in the side-netting. Maddening also, as we had in our hands the means of stifling any future come-back on their part, then lost it once more.

But we did have more shots on target, one in particular being an effort that The Beast almost didn?t hold. And it was very much a case of ?hearts in mouths time, chaps? in there. Our rearguard could have eased their problems massively had they embarked upon a policy of playing the ball right out of danger, no matter how small the threat. But there was still the offside law to reckon with, something that could have left us badly unstuck indeed. And did: so affected was one Albionite in our stand by what he?d seen us do (or not!), the very next word heard around us was a very loudly bawled ?IDIOT!....? Naturally, the ball came lamping right from the back, once more, and once more, our flustered rearguard was forced into committing errors. Yet another reason why everyone and their brother needed that final whistle so badly! And yet another reason why those closing minutes proved so fraught for us?

6 to go. How anyone wanted to leave at this late stage, and with the game so delicately poised, was completely beyond me. By now, Andy Cole had come on for the visitors, but to our amusement, every time he tried to make things happen for Burnley, he was getting caught offside! 2 to go?. Why was it that Burnely always managed to find their men first time of asking, while at the other end of the park?.

1 to go, and an Albion free-kick, in our half ? and as we were going to take it, up went the board. Four minutes? FOUR STINKING MINUTES? What planet was this idiot on, perchance? Another Clarets attack, another Cole offside. Cue for sniggers in the Smethwick. Then, just before the end, Koren should have buried the chance that went begging at his weary feet.

With every Claret but the club cat committed to restoring parity once more, our lad regained possession, broke clean away from any unwanted attention, headed right to the other end, then let fly from long range. Groans galore as the effort just shaved the post, and headed out of play, but the ordeal was almost through. ?Why do we have to do it the bloody hard way, every single sodding time?? was my screamed comment directed towards the heavens above. Just seconds after that, the ref blew for time ? and never in my whole life has a whistle sounded so sweet.

A quick leap into our car ? after rejoicing at the other Championship scores, most of which indicated our main rivals had failed in their own bids to get closer to us, plus that of Hereford, who?d also registered an excellent win of their own at third-placed Rotherham, which means they?re back in there pitching, too - and we were heading on out for the Vine pub, where, hopefully, the Northern Baggies would be a-gathering. The Fart? He was going to make his own way there. Once inside, a merry crew greeted us, flushed with the joys of grabbing all three points ? just!

?I feel wrung out? was my enfeebled comment on the proceedings, and the effect they had wreaked upon our Baggie brains.

?Never mind, commented ?Im Indoors, ?We?ve got the three points, and and we?ve got a full week as well?..?

Me: I?ll need a week to get over it!?

In tomorrow?s thrilling instalment: all about the Northern Baggies, The Fart and Czechoslovakia-based Baggie exile Jim Curry, and what they all got up to in The Vine, while the Dingles got thrashed at Watford?..

And Finally?.. One. How gross do you want to get? If you?re name?s Carly Lewis, it looks very much as though it?s a case of ?very gross indeed?. Apparently, she and her little chums collectively decided to have a sleep-over, teenage version - but this one came with a subtle difference.

Chocolate ? lots of it. One of those kilo weight gargantuan blocks you see on sale in supermarkets ? but not just the one, oh dearie me, no. There were ten of them present, and each one chipped in for a bar, making it a kilo bar EACH. Oh ? and didn?t I mention the Chinese meal they all had, as well? I didn?t? Oh, dear. Well, they did, with the massive chocolate-fest coming afterwards. Next up: a block booking for a health farm?

Two?. Snigger Of The Week. This one comes courtesy of The Noise (once he?d gotten over my leetle ?reminder? of his ferry trip, that is?) Apparently, Stoke City had the brass neck to put a serious bid in for Theo Walcott, during the transfer window! In an effort to make The Arse play ball, they said they?d pay what wages they could, with The Arse to make up the difference. Me: ??And when last seen, Theo Walcott was rolling around on the floor, helpless with laughter?..?

Three?. Second Snigger Of The Week. Blues 1, Derby 1, the County equaliser coming late, late, late, after the home side had led virtually the whole game. You really know you?re awful when you can?t even take points from the Premier League?s perennial whipping-boys! But the best bit was the name of the Derby County scorer ? a chap called ? erm ? VILLA ? would you believe?

 - Glynis Wright

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