The Diary

11 February 2008: Barmy Baggies Barnsley Blunder

AND NOW THE PROLOGUE?? Sorry for the late publication of this thrilling episode, chaps and chapesses. By the time we got home, I was absolutely knackered. I did make a start, but after falling asleep at the keyboard several times, the last bringing my hubby out of our bedroom because I was snoring so much, I decided to knock the entire idea right on the head. It?ll come as no great surprise, either, to hear that when I went downstairs to get images of PC screens out of my head, I flaked out there, as well! But I did finish the job, eventually, hence all the stuff below. Happy reading!

It was the expression on Fab Traccana?s face, as we made for the coach after the final whistle, that really summed up this whole rotten afternoon for me. How does ?pained?, ?puzzled?, and ?with a smidgeon of honest-to-goodness fury playing about his painfully-pursed lips? grab you for starters?

Knowing Fab as I do, though, that was a pretty mild response to our defeat from him. The time you?re really in trouble is when he feels he has little choice but to seek comfort in his massive stock of swearwords, the efficacy of which range from what might be termed ?nursery naughties?, and, from there, all the way through this particular spectrum, eventually finishing way too deep in ?anatomically explicit, and riddled with sexual connotations throughout? territory. That?s when a pair of industrial-grade earplugs comes in very handy indeed, let me tell you.

But mock ye not: sometimes poor Fab is as blameless as the driven snow for his many Albion-precipitated outbursts. It?s the congenital idiot tendency he can?t stand ? and God alone knows how many we?ve had to put up with, over the course of the last few away games!

But being deadly serious once more?.If today?s defeat has highlighted one thing in particular for me, it?s got to be the fact that questions, pretty incisive and perceptive ones at that, now have to be asked about precisely what?s going on in that first-string of ours. Just as we saw at Preston the other night, no sooner had we conceded our first, heads dropped and confidence sagged en masse; time after time, Barnsley charged at us like good ?uns, only to see their ultimate dream of world domination founder for want of a final ?killer ball?.

And we weren?t half lucky to get away with it right at the very start of the game: to concede before the hands of the stadium clock had progressed past the five-minute mark, even, for four or so games on the bounce, is one thing, - but to still keep on doing it after remedial measures had supposedly been instituted and instigated, back upon the training-ground? No, we were useless, pathetic; even a team comprising eleven Brownies high on Ovaltine could have got past our somnolent rearguard. There?s something drastically wrong, out there: it?s a cancer eating away the flesh of the side every single minute of recent games, and if the cause isn?t eradicated, and quickly, it?s going to be last season?s heartbreak, all over again.

The pity of it all is that today, of all days, was one most suited to simply forgetting about residual cares and woes, and enjoying a bit of a lark on the park. The sun shone, the sky was a swathe of blue, flecked slightly by delicate little traceries of cirrus, all of which trailed way, way over our pretty little heads. The temperature out there wouldn?t have disgraced an early summer?s day, either ? and, as we lined up to set the ball rolling, was that the beginning of a distinctly worried look I saw adorning the faces of several of our finest?

But ? first things first. Hands up all those out there who have heard of Goodes Coaches, then? Aha, just as I thought, loads: several of today?s ?transports of delight?, in fact, came courtesy of this particular firm. And there?s more: back in the dim and distant days of world maps that showed predominantly red, indicating that the British Empire was still alive and kicking, and embroidery lessons, Yes, for little ole me (and Joseph Edward Cox Junior School: closed by Ofsted several years ago, and about the best thing they?ve ever done, in my opinion), Goodes used to be the coach firm of choice, were you resident in Friar Park and fancied a day out in Bklackpool, or whatever. Our class teacher also had very good cause indeed to keep on truckin? with Goodes? on school trips: when not accreting chalk dust in quantity about his person, or giving recalcitrant kids therapeutic clips around the lugholes, he used to moonlight as a driver with this particular firm.

But that wasn?t the main reason I did a quick double-take when passing this particular vehicle: whisper it quietly, out there, but did I see the legend ?Goodes Coaches, Crankhall Lane, Wednesbury, Birmingham? etc ? or was that just my imagination playing silly buggers? Nope, they really had cocked up, geographically speaking. Oh, whoops ? now go tell all those nice men down ?The Cabin? what you?ve gone and done, you silly people!

Normally, one can board coaches travelling to away trips, hand in one?s proof of payment, then sit down and await the convoy?s departure, all of which takes place under the auspices of a steward whose personal details are but a mystery to me ? but today, it really was worth taking the trouble to have a few pertinent words with the chap in front.

The reason? He?s now my real Albion hero, that?s why! This poor sod ? sorry, mate, I didn?t get your name: how silly of me ? was due to have a hernia op booked in for the fag-end of the current week. Just before he was due to go ?under the knife?, though, a couple of medical spokes in the wheel between them almost conspired to make that date with the surgeon a distinctly dodgy one.

Thanks to the miracle of ?keyhole surgery?, whether you?re a professional footballer, or ?A bloke wot goes down big drains in rubber boots?, a hernia op is no longer something that keeps you off work for ages. During the op, they also do the repair using what looks suspiciously like a bit of wire mesh nicked from the local hardware store, which is all good news, as it simplifies things enormously. But I digress.

The complicating factor was nothing to do with the above: just the fact that a pre-existing condition meant he couldn?t have a general anaesthetic given intravenously. The medics? solution? An epidural, as in ?pregnant women giving birth?! And guess what, ladies? My informant reckons that, we, the fairer sex, can keep it, as far as he?s concerned. ?Lumps of lead? is how he described his legs, after the anaesthetist had wreaked his terrible revenge upon our hero. But he still avowed to be here on that coach, come hell or high water, hence his physical presence, and, while he was talking to me, at least, a distinctly bow-legged stance ? John Wayne, eat your flamin? heart out! Oh ? and just in case you were wondering, I was also assured ?mother? and ?baby? are both doing just fine and dandy, thank you very much!

The impression we made on the normal workaday traffic using the Brummie Road, as the convoy swung out of the East Stand car park and towards the motorway island, was much greater than the one we made on it coming back, and for obvious reasons. The addition of a couple of orange-jacketed stewards performing traffic-control duties helped also: the best bit was seeing all that ?normal? traffic, backed up right to Junction One! Drivers new to the area must have wondered at great length as to what the flamin? hell was going on.

No sooner had we left the environs of the M42, the in-coach entertainment system crackled into life. Not a video, thank goodness, but audio ? The Bangles, just in case you wondered, singing ?Walk Like An Egyptian?. Remember it? Almost immediately, there commenced in the seat behind us a very familiar lament indeed, apropos the many shortcomings of ?modern popular music?. Yep ? that was The Fart, giving his considered opinion about a piece of ?modern music? that was, in fact, well over 25 years old! Well done, Tel ? and here was me thinking you?d fallen asleep, mate!

Sadly, this musical assault upon The Fart?s pre-match peace of mind lasted but a few minutes: after a few desultory hisses and crackles, the vehicle then reverted to the state of quiescence it had enjoyed previously. The radio was knackered, apparently.

But at least I could experience the many delights of listening to my artiste of choice: after a fair amount of snarling and cursing, ?Im Indoors finally got our iPod going. That, plus completing some OU work, was how I occupied myself for the remainder of the journey. Barnsley isn?t much further north than Sheffield, so it wasn?t too long before we found ourselves pulling into a lay-by, just off the Barnsley motorway exit road. Unsurprisingly, the principal reason for our unscheduled halt was to await a police escort: not surprising, considering the number of coaches pressed into service for this trip.

The game-plan was to shift us in batches of around 6 or 7 vehicles at a time: it did mean a bit of a wait, but it was no real hardship. Everywhere you looked betokened the coming of spring proper: strong sunshine on the windows, with a decent amount of warmth percolating through them, the beginnings of new growth on the surrounding fields and moorland. It was almost as if the entire area was busting a gut to show itself at its very best for the arrival of their temporary visitors from the Black Country.

?Twas almost as if our spirits were ascending in close harmony with that of the sap in the trees ? but our mellow mood was quickly shattered by South Yorkshire Police?s idea of a cordial welcome to the place. Their message of peace and love? ??.Do NOT go into the town centre; do NOT visit any public houses; do NOT pass ?go?; do NOT collect 200 pounds?.?

The last bit I lied about, of course, but that truly was the essence of the generally dispiriting welcome we got from these uniformed Sons Of Fun. Hey, and all we wanted to do was wet our collective whistles in good time for the kick-off! Unsurprisingly, I was left with the distinct feeling that it could have been handled a whole lot better than it actually was. Think about it, guys ? what?s the harm in advising supporters, ?I wouldn?t go into the town centre if I were you ? it?s very crowded on Saturdays, and the pubs there can?t cope with football crowds wanting a drink before the game?.? Remember what your old mum used to say: ?Good manners cost nowt?? Clearly, Tact And Diplomacy is one subject they don?t have on the Plods? Training School syllabus, irrespective of whether the crowd to be policed consists of striking miners or buoyant Baggies!

Getting there somewhat early, and with no boozer to head for, pre-kick-off, we had little choice but leave our coach on arrival, then slowly meander down to the bottom of the waste ground doubling up as a coach park, then go straight into the ground itself. And, as we ambled towards the turnstiles, we reminisced about other trips to this very same ground.

There certainly was plenty of ?material? at our disposal, it must be said. What about the time, around ten seasons ago, - and in the middle of November, would you believe? ? when The Noise, flogging GD?s outside the ground, somehow managed to get stung by a pretty angry wasp? After making soothing noises, and advising him that if he had been allergic to such things (that was the very first time ever our chum had been on the receiving end of such an attack), he would have dropped down dead within minutes - I am a cheerful little soul, aren?t I? ? news gradually filtered through that our garrulous chum wasn?t the only one to suffer such grievous insect-inflicted indignity.

When we eventually got into the ground, just a few minutes before the start, we discovered that the club?s First Aid Room had been practically besieged by Baggies, all of whom were sporting huge red lumps about their persons, each one throbbing like a good ?un. Ritchie Brentnall, sometime GD writer, was one such victim (and God help the wasp that did it: given the amount Ritchie normally shifted as part of his pre-match potations, it?s probably getting help from AA, even now!), among many, many others. Mind you, given that wasps are normally attired in yellow and black, and get as crabby as hell when riled, what else would you expect?

And what about the night towards the end of the season when we played them: as Barnsley were heading straight for the Prem that year, it came as no surprise to see us crash and burn ? but the best bit was the bewilderment on the faces of the locals every time Barnsley scored. Caused by us: what we were doing was breaking into loud bouts of cheering, chanting the name of the scorer, etc. Nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that every single time the home club stuck one into the back of our net, it was a dirty great nail in the Dingles? promotion coffin! Would we ever make so unsporting a gesture to a fine, old local rival? Er - yes, actually!

As grounds go, Barnsley?s isn?t at all bad. Bounded on three sides by modern stands, the ambience is only let down by a fourth, of wooden construction, erected in 1910, just two years before we played them in the FA Cup Final. The pitch? Now there?s a strange thing: we?d heard that the pitch was absolutely sodden, owing to the heavy rainfall in the area these past few days, but when we regarded that precious swathe of green with our beady Baggie eyes, not a single boggy bit could we see. Then we spotted the reason why: an enormous deposit of sand in both goalmouths and in the centre circle, enough to keep any Arab sheikh happy for ages, I reckon, camels or no camels.

Before the start, an almost carnival atmosphere had existed among our party of travelling troubadours, aided and abetted considerably by our finest, mucking about during the warm-up in similar fashion to London Road, Peterborough. What with the spring-like weather, and everything, that all-essential ?feel-good factor? was there in quantity, hence our ear-splitting rendition of ?We are Albion, say we are Albion?.? as our little soldiers returned to the dressing room for final instructions from Mogga.

And that, mes amis, was about the last time we really enjoyed what we were seeing on the pitch. Not long after that, both sides re-emerged, all the pre-match fol-de-rol was dealt with, and everyone gathered around the centre circle to commemorate the Munich dead with a minute?s silence, which, on the whole, was respected by the followers of both persuasions.

There was one loud cry of ?Albion, Albion, Albion?.? made to sound much louder than it actually was by that very same silence: at first, I was pretty disgusted, but afterwards, ?Im Indoors opined that the ?spoiler?s? cries had come from the bit at the rear of the stand that was open, and not from our stand. His theory was that the guy, coming through the turnstiles late, hadn?t even realised what was going on. Bet he was soon made pretty aware of the error of his ways, though!

Predictably enough, after normal service was resumed courtesy the ref?s whistle, the decibel levels in our stand soared stratospherically: how sad that come kick-off, all our hopes for the next 90 minutes would dissipate as quickly as the silence had done, when referee Tony Bates - he may have been The Noise?s chum, but he certainly proved to be no chum of ours - finally blew for the start.

There were a couple of changes to the normal line-up to take into account: Chris Brunt and Tex were back in the side, and Gera sitting this one out, on the bench. Missing completely was Robert Koren, still experiencing problems with his calf injury, surprisingly enough. I say ?surprisingly? because just 24 hours previously, some local rags were suggesting that he was fit enough to play. Quite a turnaround, that: one of 360 degree proportions, in fact. What was that all about, then?

Away we went, then ? and from the word go, you didn?t need the tactical perceptivity of Sky?s Andy Gray to see we were in deep defensive doo-doo. Once more, it was what I tend to call ?cold treacle syndrome? manifesting itself at the back, with not a few normally level-headed performers casting off the heavy cloak of good old-fashioned common sense for the duration.

Surprise, surprise - with just 2 minutes of the game gone, we were kicking a Barnsley effort right off the line, and into Row Z: oddly enough, this incident buoyed me somewhat. My reasoning was this: as we?d managed to concede so cheaply during the opening minutes of our last four or so games, the fact we?d narrowly avoided going behind, this time round, might just be an indication we were getting the measure of the problem, finally. The twisted logic of the condemned criminal, I know ? but when you?ve been a Baggie for as long as I have, I do expect to be cut a certain amount of slack in my dotage!

Not long after that, Cesar and Hoefkens decided to unleash their dual defensive impersonations of Laurel and Hardy upon an unsuspecting (and distinctly underwhelmed) travelling support. Dearie, dearie me, running into each other when trying to clear the ball is not to be recommended, children. We could have gone behind right there and then, and would have done, had Kiely not got his act in gear and snuffed out the danger before a lurking Barnsley striker could pounce.

So farcical was the whole thing becoming, it wouldn?t have surprised me at all to hear a bit of the theme music from ?The Benny Hill Show?- aw, you know, the bit where Benny gets chased by an outraged husband (or whatever) after getting caught in flagrante, with a whole load of others ?mostly sans underwear - chasing behind, the speeded-up film providing yet more laughs for the discerning viewer ? via the Barnsley PA system. Why are we so bloody useless at the back during the first ten minutes of games?

Come the ten-minute mark, and with the aerial Barnsley assault on our six-yard area showing few signs of abating, it was fast becoming crystal clear how this one was going to pan out. The only factor that remained unknown was how soon it would be before Kiely retrieved the ball from the back of his goal. And, believe it or not, as I timed it, our very first assault upon their domain only came just after we?d reached the 15-minute mark, and with Kev Phillips inadvertently doing The Tykes? job for them by blocking the effort - from Alby, I think ? but that was about the sole bright spot during an opening period where we?d most certainly looked the chumps, and Barnsley the champs.

More minutes elapsed, and still those shots and crosses rained down upon Kiely, whose goalmouth now bore strong resemblance to the Alamo, circa 1837, with Barnsley?s Nardiello playing the role of Mexican general Santa Anna. As for the away end, you could certainly smell the tang of fear pervading those who sat in it. For every fleeting moment we played like the champions-elect we should be, there were loads more where we bore a closer resemblance to carthorses, especially at the back.

But one thing above all was troubling me. Dean Kiely?s suicidal manner of dealing with clearances, and not just those completed under pressure, either. Or, to be scrupulously accurate, especially those NOT completed under pressure. As a way of dealing with what was rapidly developing into a state of total confusion, our followers embarked upon trying to get the old ?Smethwick-Brummie!? chant going, and with a certain amount of success, too. Must have confused the hell out of the home supporters, I suppose, but they weren?t to remain in that state of mind for much longer.

The goal, when it came, with around 15 minutes of the half still remaining, came as something of a relief to us: only a congenital idiot could have failed to see it coming, so when it finally did, there was instantaneous relief of tension in our bit of the ground. What happened? Surprise, surprise ? one of our defenders, Cesar, stuffed up spectacularly, again, in this instance by allowing Nardiello to take the bal from him when in possession, around the halfway line. After that, we tracked back, but kept backing off, backing off ? with predictable results. The net shook, and Barnsley, complete surprise showing on their facial features, found themselves one in front. We?re getting to do this about as often as an incorrigible thief ends up in the dock at Magistrates Court, these days ? and with similar results: we get punished, and hard.

The goal didn?t surprise me in the slightest ? as I remarked earlier, the writing had been on the wall for ages ? but what most certainly did was our response to the calamity of going one down. It might be depression that colours my view of games, right now, but it certainly seemed to me that instead of playing balls to feet, our trademark game when mounting an assault upon the opposition?s 18-yard area, we promptly resorted to use of the ?big hoof? in an effort to get results. Clearly, confidence was so low by then, our lot couldn?t see any way out of it save methods more usually seen in the basement leagues.

By this stage, you won?t be too surprised to learn that The Fart, furious at seeing player after player boot the ball right through the middle of the park, , was going absolutely spare. The colour of his face really worried me as well: he looked, for all the world, like a major heart attack just waiting to happen.

As well it might: just before the break, deep in injury time, Barnsley deservedly doubled their lead, and without breaking sweat, even. The culprit this time? Greening, who managed to stop the first effort, from Nardiello, right in its tracks, then boot it off the line, only for the semi-clearance to fall straight to Macken, who didn?t mess about. One quick toe-poke later, and Barnsley were celebrating yet again. Ever heard a howl of complete and utter fury simultaneously arise from the lips of around 4,000 Baggie people? Well, that?s what your sorely-tried lugholes would have felt, had you been there at the time.

A matter of seconds after that, the ref took them in for the break, and as our lot temporarily left the scene of the murder, they had to run the gauntlet of not a few supporters who had travelled expecting a lot better, to be perfectly frank. As you might expect, the game had caught the imagination of a goodly sized Baggie or three, by then. As for The Fart, he further jeopardised his cardiovascular system, but with one fundamental difference: this time, he was raging mad. ?YOU FOOLS! YOU BLOODY IDIOTS!? was his cry ? and that was only the bit I consider sufficiently clean enough to consign to print.

During our confab, one thing we were all agreed upon was the observation that there was something completely wrong out there. ?This is an appalling performance,? commented a despairing Fart, still very peeved indeed courtesy what had gone on during that disastrous 45 minutes. A little voice within was telling me that some item of furniture or other was going to get scrubbed to surgical standards of cleanliness within the next few hours.

And then there was the chimney, way over the other side of town, and first spotted by me, as I further luxuriated in the almost-spring-like Oakwell clime. The occupants certainly couldn?t have heard of the provisions of the Clean Air Act, that?s for sure, because theirs was the only one letting thick black smoke belch out of that orifice like there was no tomorrow. And not just any old smoke, mind. This variety was billowing voluminously, and a sure cert to infuriate any local housewife planning to chuck some clean washing onto her clothes-line. But considering that Barnsley used to be a coal-mining town, I shouldn?t be too surprised by what I?d seen. Old habits die hard.

Back to the game, now, and time for a repeat dose of the ?medicine? ? and one even the much-maligned NICE would have cheerfully accepted. There were changes in our ranks, too, Cesar and Bednar making way for Barnet and Beattie. And things, initially, at least, started to look marginally more promising, Tex, free of unwelcome attention from the home side, blasted away at the target once in the danger-zone, but because Warner was impeccably positioned, all he succeeded in doing was drive the ball straight into the welcoming arms of their keeper.

Five minutes later, we almost conceded again, this Tykes attack coming directly after we?d lost possession following a corner; the error meant that defensive cover was extremely limited, to say the lease, hence all the panic from Brunt, who was onto him like a dive-bomber: a successful move, that, as all the lad could do under pressure was drive the ball into the side-netting. Phew!

Still, you could never accuse our followers of being negative: even though we were still very much on the back-pedal, they broke into a lusty chorus of ?Oh When The Stripes Go Marching In?, aided and abetted by the many bits of corrugated sheets situated to the rear of the stand. I fleetingly wondered which would give way first: our supporters, or the bloody sheeting? Or would it be our patience that snapped? Our finest must have drawn considerable succour from our feeble attempts at further vocal encouragement because not long after that, we actually managed to plant one right at the back of Warner?s rigging.

Remember what I said about us repeatedly employing the ?Big Hoof? in an effort to get the ball up the pitch quickly, and from there, under the control of an Albion man? Well, my thoughts were largely vindicated by what happened: the strike owed its origins to some very classy ball work, both on the flanks and in the middle, one of those rare times, in fact, when we could pass opposing players ?to death? and gain from it. The ball reached Morrison, who took it to the box, then sought out Kev Phillips: very cleverly, our goal king then back-heeled the ball in the general direction of Morrison, once more ? and he didn?t stuff up the killer shot, either. Well, that?s half of the deficit wiped, I thought ? now for the rest!

That strike didn?t half do a splendid morale job on our followers: the precise moment that ball crossed the line, there was a lusty chorus of ?The Lord?s My Shepherd? ringing out from the away end. Suddenly, our forlorn bunch of Milquetoasts were performing like the champions-elect they should be, and even Deano seemed to have acquired an extra coat of super-glue for his gloves from somewhere.

Had we continued in that positive vein, I?m pretty certain that we would have cracked Barnsley open, eventually, but for reasons best known to themselves ? and Mogga too? ? back they went to ?Hoof And Hope?, and with it went our last remaining chance of salvaging something from the wreckage. By the time the final whistle sounded, we were just a pale imitation of the side that took Charlton to the cleaners, just before Christmas ? and this dramatic loss of both form and impetus was noticed by our people, quite a few of whom booed loudly as the weary warriors left the scene of battle.

There only remained the journey home, most of it in silence ? but one puzzling aspect of Albion supporting behaviour still had me scratching my head in bewilderment some six hours later. Wolves were at home to Stoke, and not unnaturally, quite a lot of Baggie people wanted to know how the game had panned out. It was Barnsley that provided the answer: Wolves 2, Stoke City 4. And that was when not a few supporters started cheering!

Clearly, they hadn?t got it: by triumphing over our detested local rivals, Stoke had contrived to do their own chances of going up automatically no end of good, which, in turn, was very bad news for us. My fingers positively itched for a chance to wring the scrawny neck of the idiot seated just a row or so in front of me. Just where do they find these cretins?

And Finally?? ?SOCCER THUGS RAMPAGE THROUGH BLACKPOOL PLEASURE BEACH, AND BIG WHEEL?..?

No ? I?ve not diversified into the sordid business of providing the ?Sunday Mercury? with yet another juicy tit-bit of scandal-fodder, all of a sudden. I?m not that hard up, for starters. No, this one came from The Fart, of all people, on the journey to Barnsley ? and concerns the time he and some Baggies-supporting chums of his journeyed to Blackpool to watch our finest at Bloomfield Road, back in the fifties. From what Tel told me, I gather they all saw the game OK, but afterwards, then had a fair amount of time to kill before boarding their coach again for the long, tedious ? no M6, back then, remember? - journey home.

One brief bout of deliberation later, they all decided to take their carcasses over to the Pleasure Beach, where the fairground lived. A jolly time was had by all, and, as their hour of departure drew near, they deliberated yet again, this time to decide what would constitute their last ride. One quick vote later, and before you could say ?Stanley Matthews?, there they all were, piling onto The Big Wheel. Up they soared, round and round, admiring the wonderful view of the coastline every single time they soared to the top, the sands, the Tower, the shimmering sea, the heavy shipping traffic making for then then-busy Port Of Liverpool ? and that was when the whole shebang came to a juddering halt! Thinking they were stopping to let each car-load of punters off as they reached the bottom, they didn?t worry too much, at first ? but then a minute passed with nary a shudder or jerk felt; then it was five minutes, ten minutes, fifteen?.

And what?s more, by that time, the wind was getting up a bit, and the falling temperature rapidly resembling those encountered in Arctic regions. Clearly, the power had gone, but what worried Tel and his muckers much more was the fact that they were getting horribly close to the deadline for the coach: in fact, from their elevated vantage-point, they could practically see the thing parked up! Luckily for them, the owners of the ride managed to fix the problem not long after that, but it was still one hell of a mad dash to reach that sodding charabanc before it finally disappeared into the sunset!

 - Glynis Wright

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