The Diary

17 February 2008: How To Make A Maltese Cross By Tony Mowbray. (Oh, The Old Ones Are The Best!)

Having felt really ghastly, of late ? and, much worse than that, having to miss yet another home game as a direct result of the havoc this latest brand of lurgi wreaked upon my already weakened body - it is therefore my profound pleasure and privilege to announce that, in more than one accepted meaning of the phrase, ?normal service has now been resumed?.

The fact I?m typing this at all tonight provides one almighty big clue as to what I?m banging on about - but the second? That?s merely my observation that this afternoon, we gave Coventry an FA Cup lesson they?re not likely to forget in a long, long time. Five goals shipped, and on their own turf, too. And a sending-off, just to add a soupcon of spice to the heady Baggie mix.

After that 4-2 Hawthorns aberration-cum-blip in which Mifsud ran riot, they most certainly sprouted ideas well above their station. Nice try, lads, but it?s an accepted law of the Universe, like gravity, or time: whenever Albion and Coventry lock horns, it?s invariably the bunch of saddos who only know one song that end up losing out. And boy, didn?t they just? That?ll teach your lot not to fart in church, won?t it?

Having taken Coventry to the metaphorical litter tray, and well and truly rubbed their noses in it, the next couple of months could prove to be an exciting time indeed for we Baggies. You?ve only to look at today?s FA Cup results to realise this: who, in their right minds, for example, would have placed serious money on Barnsley kicking Liverpool out of the tournament, and at Anfield, too? Not their supporters, that?s for sure: coming from God?s Own Country, Yorkshire, they?re far too tight with their wads to succumb to sheer impetuosity, however rock-solid their belief in jaw-sagging miracles might be.

And, not to be outdone, Bristol Rovers booked their passage into the 6th round with a 1-0 victory over Southampton. The Arse, too, have been given the big ?heave-ho? courtesy Man U. Result? The latter stages of this year?s competition could be split wider open than the crack in a builder?s bum, and for the first time in what seems like absolute yonks to me. Two more games to sort out tomorrow, Sheffield United v Middlesbrough, and Preston v Pompey, and we?ll have a pretty good idea of who we might get in M7onday?s 6th Round draw.

And think about it, fellow Baggies?.. Bar the Mancs and Chelski, we do stand a reasonable chance of pulling a side out of the hat who might not enjoy facing us when the heat?s on. Essentially, we play Premiership football and would, at the very least, give those outfits in the lower part of their table a run for their money. Get past that one OK ? and it?s the semi, at Wembley: after that, well - who knows? Conversely, we could just as easily crash and burn in the next round, then screw up our League hopes in precisely the same way we did last term. That much is true - but wouldn?t it be awful not to risk going the extra mile, trying to make all those daft dreams come true, then spend the next few months muttering variations upon a theme of ?sad gits?: ?if only?.??

But all that?s well into the future ? and, if things do go to plan, what a stunning two or three months to look forward to ? but, for the moment, it?s very much ?feet on the ground? time, and a happy retrospective upon what Messrs. Wallace And Grommit themselves might have called ?A Grand Day Out?(And No Cheese Whatsoever Harmed In The Typing Of This Piece, Honest!). Things started for us around half-eleven this morning, as the old GD Away Team gathered at our place preparatory to setting off for that wonderful Warwickshire Mecca of football, The Ricoh Stadium.

And what a splendid day for it, too. No clouds whatsoever to sully the sky?s pristine cornflower blue, a blazing sun casting a golden light upon the third of its orbiting children, not even the merest trace of wind to ruffle hair, or tree. The downside, of course, was the Arctic temperature: hovering around the 40F mark for most of the outward journey, and close to freezing on the way back after the final whistle. Around the operating temperature of the average domestic refrigerator, just in case you wondered ? and, in our bit of the Ricoh, the sun never once penetrated, so it wasn?t so much a case of wondering, just plain shivering!

Blimey ? I?ll say one thing for our chum The Noise. No sooner had our vehicle left our street and he was off on one of his notorious vocal chord-straining discourses, all about where the Lewis family had been of late, and yet more tales of his place of work, and the means they were currently employing to ensure Health and Safety kept off their corporate backs, in the event of an accident involving one or more of their employees. No kidding ? it was like he?d never been away!

As for The Fart, so heavily was he engrossed in perusing my newspaper: that, and listen to Radio Five on his crystal wireless set, we were having great difficulty getting any sense out of him. ?Earth calling Mister Fart, Earth calling Mister Fart!....? But he did have one startling fact to report, and that was meeting Brian May, former Queen guitarist, a few days ago. And, what?s more, had the photographic evidence to prove it, which has now joined the zillion others in his truly amazing collection, some of which must be worth a bob or three, by now. Well, when you?ve managed to collar Laurel and Hardy, in one of their rare appearances in this country, around 50 years ago, you?ve got ample cause to regard your photo albums with great satisfaction.

Not so satisfying, though, was our arrival at the ground. A few days previously, my other half had done a bit of digging regarding the provision of car parking facilities nearer to the ground (The walk there and back from the car park last season nearly finished me off!), but despite previous assurances there were ample places to head for, we sure as hell couldn?t find ?em. So, after three or four slowish circuits of their ground (had it been late at night, would we have been mistaken for dirty old sods looking for prostitutes, I wonder?), and still nowhere obvious in sight, we arrived at a Master Plan. Martin and ?Im Indoors would take the car to sort something out, then return, while The Fart and I could peruse the nearby shopping mall to our heart?s content.

Sounded OK by me, and OK by The Fart, so that?s what we did. A fatal move, that, for no sooner had my beloved dropped us off, what did I espy? A bookshop, shimmering slightly in the brilliant sunshine, a little like a mirage in the middle of an arid desert. A big one, too ? bookshop, that is, not mirage - ensuring a good browsing session once we both got there.

Once inside, I left my wrinkly chum perusing the modern stuff as quick as God would let me. No, he hadn?t developed an embarrassing ?personal problem?, all of a sudden, just that I could pick up the scent of my sort of books, and very close at hand, too. Even better, when I did reach the military history section, guess what? Two spanking-new publications on World War One: the first concerning Kitchener?s Army, and the second about the Battle Of The Somme. Needless to say, quicker than you could say ?I was Kaiser Bill?s Batman? my credit card was groaning mightily ? and so was The Fart, in despair. Or was that simply because I failed to find his picture in the ?Kitchener?s Army? volume, I wonder?

One pleasant surprise, as I browsed: the sheer numbers of Baggie people already in that shop, and with more coming in every single minute we were there. Hell, you couldn?t miss ?em: just look for those wearing the same kind of ?Mogga? coat I had on, with the giveaway T-Mobile logo emblazoned on the back. And, just like me, they were there to buy books, not simply killing time. But then again, I?ve always maintained our people are a little bit more than a cut above the rest, well, as far as intellect is concerned, that is.

Once I?d paid the nice lady, we then headed on back to the ground, where Messrs. ?Im Indoors and Noise had agreed to rendezvous with us, right outside the away turnstiles. Oh, how much more romantic can you possibly get, I ask myself? Not that the Eskimo-like additional layers of clothing I had on were proving alluring to any male odd-bod that passed by, mind. A definite passion-killer, if ever there was one. Finding a way through that lot to my naughty bits would be a challenge worthy enough for a whole troop of Venture Scouts to undertake. But better news, lads: just one casually-proffered Mars Bar and I?m anybody?s!

Unusually for us, we decided to go in more or less as soon as the turnstiles opened for business: well, the whole area being situated in the back end of beyond, there was very little in the way of amusement for the average Baggie to enjoy. Once inside, though, our hearts were lightened considerably by the presence of a burger franchise I?d thought had long since bit the dust. So a whopping great big round of applause for Wimpey, then, who have an outlet inside the away supporters? concourse. For this column, at least, a pleasure forgone for a good thirty years ? and some more besides. Still, ancient status notwithstanding, it sure as hell still slid down the hatch in a satisfactory manner.

We tarried but a short while down there, three of us. Tel, wanting to be different, elected to watch Sky below, which left three of us feasting our little eyes upon the Ricoh?s interior, the sun in the opposite end affording us very little comfort gained courtesy its rays. And, everywhere you looked, lots of sky blue coloured seats, with nary a body in them to upset anyone.

As the Big Kick-Off drew nearer still, out to warm up came our finest from the bowels of the earth. Well, from the interior, really: our lot would tax the resources of the average devil, that?s for sure. For once The Noise was silent; drinking in the ? erm ? ?atmosphere?, or something. Not the doing of the home supporters, who were their normal pathetic selves: nope, all the meaningful stuff was coming from the well-lubricated throats of our lot, some 6000 strong, and seemingly determined to make the Sky Blues suffer Death By Decibel. Even when the stadium was comparatively empty, our people were giving the vocals serious welly: time after time the message rang out, loud and proud, rolling like a prolonged thunderclap around the half-empty stadium: ?WE ARE ALBION, SAY WE ARE ALBION!....? Our followers may not be the world?s best authorities on acoustics theory, but they sure have a pretty extensive working knowledge of the subject. Enough to blow rank amateurs like the Sky Blues completely out of the water, that?s for sure.

Now for the team stuff: we had Bednar back, nicely in time to see him wreak havoc among their rearguard, and on his tod up front, although, given the way everyone?s getting on the scoresheet these days, it means diddly-squat in practice. Pele got the nod as the suspended Greening?s replacement, with Gera returning from injury as well. As for our bench ? well. How often do you see one crammed full of internationals at our level? You need not have looked further, today: Kev Phillips and Ish Miller; Beattie, and the inscrutable Kim, our new chappie from Korea, with Danek completing the cosmopolitan feel. Caps? Blimey, between that little lot, how many do you want? Managerless Coventry? That irritating little Malteser of theirs, Mifsud, was in his normal slot up front. The biggest pain in the butt emanating from that Mediterranean island since prime minister Dom Mintoff, back in the seventies, and still trying to win an Oscar, writer?s strike or no writer?s strike. What more do you need to know?

And so it came to pass that referee Roger Milford got us away nicely on time, and almost immediately, Coventry started to wish they hadn?t bothered turning up. As the opening minutes and seconds elapsed, the needle on the pressure gauge soared around the dial, coming to rest around the ?danger? mark. Time after time, Coventry found themselves defending their 18-yard box in the wake of yet another Albion onslaught. The home side were most certainly ?for it?: the only imponderable left in the equation was the question ?How long could they keep up their piteous ?Dutch Boy Holding Back The Leak In The Dyke With Just His Finger? impersonation??

Gera had gone close with a great header, the culmination of some wonderful pass-and-move football from Albion, then, a few minutes later, went closer still with a shot. Not satisfied with that, he so nearly started the ball rolling once more, but couldn?t apply foot to ball when most needed. As for Brunt, I don?t know what Mogga had said to him before they went out, but he sure was playing as though inspired. Time after time his crosses caused all sorts of problems for the home side: my gut feeling? ?Any minute now, any minute now?..?

Having to soak up that amount of pressure told on them eventually, though: as I said, it had been coming ever since the start. But strangely enough, it was Bednar that turned provider after 12 minutes, with Brunt nutting his cross over the line with no messing whatsoever, a remarkable reversal of our normal style of play. But what the hell, they all count, and in this case, our just reward for all the attacking we?d done. But could we hold it?

A few minutes after we?d opened our account, Coventry had their first genuine chance of the game, courtesy a free kick in a very awkward spot, almost on top of our penalty area. The initial effort was blocked by the wall, much to everyone?s relief, but the rebound fell to one of theirs, and we looked cold meat. Fortunately, that too suffered the fate of its predecessors, but only by the narrowest of margins: given a following wind and a tad more luck, the home side might have drawn level from it.

Coventry did have a couple more chances that half, grotty little pest Mifsud included, but he seemed to have left his shooting boots at home, fortunately. Another effort from the Sky Blues was headed over the bar, but the best chance of the lot fell to one of their own blokes ? for us! Embarrassment was deferred until the second half rout when the ?nearly oggie? hit the bar and went out for a corner. Oh dear. Ditto another Coventry effort that was the result of an almighty scramble in our box close to half-time; had that one gone in, subsequent events might have turned out differently, but it didn?t, so they didn?t. Aw, you know what I mean!

Not long after that, both sides left the field of battle for their warm dressing rooms and a nice hot drink, no doubt. Meanwhile, on the pitch, my heart went out to a group of girls dancing to contemporary music and, as is the normal fashion these days, dressed in some of the skimpiest garments I?ve ever come across: this, remember, on what has to be one of the coldest days this entire winter. Poor sods. But it was another sight that really warmed the cockles of my heart, that of Cyrille Regis, who played for both clubs, of course, including the Sky Blues FA Cup winning side, back in 1987 (or around that date). The John Sillett side, in case you forgot. Quite strange to se the lad wearing one of those old-fashioned ?gor-blimey? caps ,but nothing had changed regarding that wonderful melon grin of his. What a player. I wonder what he thinks of Ish Miller, who has considerably more than a whiff of the young Cyrille about him?

On to the second half, then, and with the setting sun having almost left the ground behind by then, the temperature was really starting to plummet. That must have been a bit of an omen for the home side, because about four minutes in from the restart, Coventry had a player go for an early bath, courtesy Mr. Milford, who had no hesitation flashing ?red? to Doyle, following a tackle on Gera.

It hadn?t seemed much of an issue at the time, so I could only assume that the ref had seen something we?d all missed. But here?s the strange thing: earlier tonight, Match Of The Day showed highlights of today?s beanfeast, including the dismissal ? and you know what? I cannot, for the life of me, work out why Milford got it into his head that the lad had to walk! The more replays I saw, the more I could only conclude that the Sky Blues bloke had been shown an unnecessary red card! I daresay he?ll appeal ? you can from a straight red ? but the damage has already been done, of course.

After that, it just got worse for the hosts. About ten or so minutes after the sending-off, their keeper well and truly entered into the spirit of things by ?doing a Crichton?. Who?s he? Swift digression: as per a complete and utter disaster of a keeper we had on our books way back in the mid-nineties, or thereabouts. When put under pressure from crowd abuse, which was often, his sensitivity to such things would bring on the complete and utter disintegration of any confidence he had in the first place ? and his clangers were always truly spectacular ones! A few seasons back, I saw him turn out for York, versus Hereford ? and yes, he was still a complete and utter disaster area between the sticks!

But back to the game. What Coventry?s Marshall did was to try and return the ball to the bloke who?d just passed it back: unfortunately, he completely failed to notice that Bednar was lurking with malice aforethought very, very close indeed, so the inevitable happened, didn?t it? Show our lad even a sniff of a striking opportunity, and he?ll be down on that ball like a dive-bomber- which is what happened. Bednar intercepted, then neatly rounding his victim, only had to pick his spot. Result? Coventry two goals down! Oh, whoops.

And worse was to come. Both for the opposition players, and an unfortunate spectator of the Sky Blue persuasion. The problem in question? Coventry conceded a penalty, contact by Ardan Zee Deuw being deemed ?handball? by the ref. Again, I saw the replay on Match Of The Day ? and I do have to confess that my perception was that the handling offence wasn?t quite as clear-cut as I?d thought at the time. Ball to hand (as the lad himself complained), or hand to ball? It?s an ?iffy? one for me, but now I?ve seen the incident several more times, I?m inclined to think the ref was right to award the pen. As the legal profession would say, ?on the balance of probabilities?. So there.

The incident concerning the Coventry lad? It all started more or less because there was a large contingent of home supporters to our immediate left, beyond the sterile area, manned by stewards. I should know because I was sitting right next to where the barrier was. Anyway, some of our lot clocked a lone City supporter looking all forlorn, as well you might be, having seen your side fall to a couple of entirely preventable strikes.

So, oozing schadenfreude from every pore, ?up struck the band?. ?You?re gay and you?ve got no friends!? was our message to this particular lost soul. Until his mates did turn up, finally, when the ?message? then changed to ?You?re gay, and you?ve got two friends?! There was some more banter, apropos the same poor sod, but that was rather near the knuckle, and not the sort of thing I?d want to repeat here.

With the potting of the penalty, courtesy Bednar, cue mass exodus of home supporters from the Ricoh, with numerous vocal ?farewells? coming from the massed ranks of Baggie well-wishers situated behind the goal. All of a sudden there was a swathe of empty seats to behold, with an ever-dwindling mass of diehards remaining in situ ? just like a suppository! And it got worse, much worse.

Directly after Bednar had sent the third well and truly on its way, he was subbed, and his replacement, Ish Miller, came off the bench, along with our new Korean lad, who replaced Tex. And it wasn?t long ? two minutes or so ? before Ish managed to get his name in lights once more. Cyrille Regis, watching from the stand, must have appreciated the style of its execution considerably more than most, because had you turned back the Baggies clock to some 30 years ago, that was precisely the sort of havoc our former electrician was wreaking among First Division defence. What Ish did was to grab the ball some way out, then power the thing into their box, using sheer muscular strength to fend off any petty pinpricks from opposing defenders, then whack the ball straight past their keeper for Goal Number Four. Our former striker must have seen it, and approved of much; a strike typical of Cyrille at his smokin? hot best. With a little luck on his side, who knows? Ish might well turn out to be the true successor to Cyrille?s vacant throne.

By now, as per the well-known Black Country saying, the dazed and confused Sky Blues didn?t quite know whether they were on this earth or Fuller?s Earth. "WE'RE JUST TOO GOOD FOR YOU!'we chirruped, just to reinforce the message. And, just in case they hadn't realised, by now, "YOUR GROUND'S TOO BIG FOR YOU"! But there was still one more humiliation to come: Death By Gera. His effort was typically spectacular, going through their defenders as if they weren?t there before potting the pink past their by-now-floored keeper. A well-taken effort and only the lad?s just reward for having narrowly missed out earlier in the game. A few more minutes of playing out time - Coventry looked a sorry mess, and to take further advantage would have been a bit like shooting Bambi ? we?d made the sixth round of the competition. We were absolutely delighted, and, as they made perfectly clear just a few minutes later, so were our players. I can?t remember who started it, but all of a sudden, there were shirts going into the crowd like nobody?s business, and some mighty cold-looking players baring their tired torsos to the elements. Even with the advantage of several layers of clothing around me, I was shivering: how our finest could do that is completely beyond me, but that?s me, I suppose!

Wow, what a game. I bet it?ll be a long time before Coventry want to tangle with us again, Cup or no Cup. There?s just tomorrow?s games to sort out, then it?s ?glued to the tranny? time on Monday, 1.30 pm, for the 6th Round draw. (Anybody but Man U or Chelsea: I want to see us take it a bit further. Am I being too hoggish for words? Discuss.) As I said at the start, the next few months could prove somewhat interesting. And I want to be in on that fairground ride right from the very start. And, so do you. Can?t wait!

And Finally?.. I suspect the emotion of the occasion got to The Fart, after the final whistle. Well, either that, or he?d been on the old cooking sherry! Making our way back to our car, one minute we were all walking in single file, with the dulcet tones of Tel, bringing up the rear, and in deep conversation with one of his media mates, the next I heard a very loud shout indeed from The Noise.

My first thought was: disgruntled home supporter taking his frustrations out on a small bunch of Baggies ? but, nope. Turning round, there, on the deck, was our wrinkly chum, and several other Baggies hovering anxiously over him. But he?s made of tougher stuff than that: within seconds, he was back upright again - and then came the explanation.

The reason why Tel had ended up horizontal was because he?d been so busy nattering, he?d failed to notice the presence of a lamp-post right in the middle of his path! The rest, as they say, is (comic-book) history, as per any Bugs Bunny cartoon you care to mention!

Two?. ?Im Indoors, to me, when we called into Tel?s place to try and fix his malfunctioning printer, and with particular reference to the zip on my coat, which had stuck. But was it? ?Im Indoors: ?When we get inside, ask Martin, and he?ll get your coat off, one way or another??? Oooh la la!

 - Glynis Wright

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