The Diary

10 March 2008: Gas Supply Well And Truly Cut By Wembley Bound Albion!

I must be dreaming ? pinch me, and quickly! Had anyone told me, last August, we?d not only be in an excellent spot from which to gain automatic promotion, but also find ourselves heading for our first FA Cup semi-final in 26 years, I would have strongly urged my informant to seek psychiatric help ? and quick! But it?s not a dream, is it? All for real, and versus Pompey, as per the draw held this afternoon, and long after I?d somewhat wistfully become resigned to not seeing Albion get that far in the competition, ever again.

What with every final since 1995 (when Everton lifted the pot), being a virtual top four Premier League carve-up ? had the Cup been a business, I reckon the Office Of Fair Trading would have dived, Stuka bomber-fashion, a hell of a long time ago ? Millwall apart, we Championship lesser-lights should just as well forget about it. Until this weekend just gone, that is.

And it wasn?t just me taking that pessimistic viewpoint, either. Prior to yesterday evening, most of my supporter chums, including even that most incurable of Baggie optimists, The Fart, had felt precisely the same way about it. How typically Albion, then, to let us all down by NOT letting us down! Aw, you get my drift.

Equally astonishing is the fact that this time round, and for the first time in a hundred years, apparently, three of the four semi-finalists DON?T come from the top flight. It?s now as wide open as the Grand Canyon, it really is. Before yesterday?s game, The Fart and I had racked our brains to the point where it hurt something chronic, in an abortive effort to remember the last time so many ?good? clubs had fallen by the wayside, so it?s nice to hear from one really authoritative source ? The Beeb, in this case ? that the number of people around the last time this happened can probably be counted on the fingers of one hand only.

Having well and truly set the scene with the above paragraphs, what of our Baggie threesome?s participation in yesterday?s history making game? Well, for starters, we nearly didn?t make it to The Memorial Ground at all. Or, to put it another way, we came very close indeed to keeping The King company in his heavenly efforts to urge us on. How come? Well, as we joined the M5 from the M42 interchange, some idiot, suddenly realising he was taking the wrong turn-off, cut us up really badly, an act of folly that had ?Im Indoors slamming on the anchors really savagely, this column turning the air a delicate shade of blue, and The Fart in a state of complete funk worse than the morning of July the 1st, 1916, the day the Somme bloodbath commenced. A$p fter the adrenalin surge subsided, and our collective heart rates finally returned to normal, we eased the residual tension by tuning into Radio Five, where there was live commentary to be had on the Middlesbrough-Cardiff Sixth Round tie currently in progress. Much to our astonishment, The Bluebirds were already one in front, and, what?s more, just a few minutes after joining the game, we heard further sounds of Welsh jubilation: incredibly, Cardiff had then gone on to double their lead. In fact, the home side seemed to wave a white flag at that point, because they just didn?t seem to hurt City in any shape or form after that.

By now, the approach to the Almondsbury Interchange, Bristol?s weedy answer to Spaghetti Junction, loomed very large indeed. Swapping the delights of the M5 for those of the eastbound M4, it was but a short hop to the M32 intersection, and our route into Fishponds, ironically enough, the former location of Rovers? Eastville ground, now an Ikea furniture store. Around the island we went, then up quite a steep hill (Bristol is plagued with the buggers), where some really decent parking, not to mention The Memorial Ground itself, could be found.

Finding a suitable place to plonk one?s chariot has always been a problem in the Bristol area, and having seen football at this particular location three times already, it?s no exaggeration to say that we were already acutely aware of that fact. But we needn?t have worried: there, before us, lay a superb mooring-spot, around three-quarters of a mile from the ground itself, so without further ado, made our vessel fast in that very spot.

The weather? Despite all the Met Office?s previous prophecies of wind, rain and low temperatures, the weather stubbornly remained beautiful: brilliant afternoon sunshine, and cold, but not unpleasantly so. Perfect conditions for a game, in fact. And with bags of time to spare before the kick-off, too, meaning a steady walk up the somewhat steep incline for Yours Truly. Not only that, we were to spend it in deep conversation with a very jolly Baggie contingent, too. (In case you?re reading this, sorry guys and gals: I know your faces, but first names simply elude me. Perhaps you might care to remind me, either by email, or the very next time we have a game?)

As we all slowly meandered towards the ground, yet another sight beckoned. That of a car bearing the most enormous flag I?ve ever seen, a ?skull-and-crossbones? number, and fully in keeping with the West Country side?s ?Pirates? nickname. Just one quick thought, though: when I say ?enormous?, I really do mean that, and to the point where it surely must have obscured the driver?s view. Was it strictly legal, I wonder? Of one thing I?m certain: it sure isn?t going to feature in ?Pirates Of The Caribbean?. Even with our very own Kev Phillips starring in the role made so famous by Johnny Depp!

Reaching the top of the hill, finally, it was but the work of a moment to turn left into a side-street where a jumble of housing, some ultra-modern, the rest terraces interspersed with pre-war semis, beckoned. And, to the right of all that, the small access road that led to the away turnstiles. But we sure weren?t the first Baggies there: a sprinkling of early enthusiasts had already taken up residence there, while, to our left, there stood a single Supporters Club coach parked in splendid isolation. How come that one hadn?t arrived with the bulk of the Baggie ?convoy?, then?

It didn?t take long to find the answer. That was the one bearing not gifts, but supporters from the Kiddy, Stourbridge and Halesowen areas: not having to pick up from The Shrine meant that those stewarding could ?do their own thing?, basically, hence the early arrival. But not for long. About 15 minutes later, the remainder of our travelling faithful arrived on the scene. Among those setting down was a policewoman chum of mine, so we spent a fruitful few minutes together putting the world to rights.

And, while all this was going on, what about ?Im Indoors and The Fart? First off, my other half: pre-match nerves doing some really awful things to his bladder by then, he headed off in the direction of some handy portable toilets. Unusual, that, facilities OUTSIDE a ground: it was only a few minutes later that we finally heard the penny drop. Located immediately adjacent to what looked very much like the sort of marquee you find at agricultural shows and similar, they were but one facet of what Rovers must have so proudly trumpeted ?pre-match corporate hospitality facilities? when advertising in the local press.

The Fart? Sitting upon the small scrap of raised roadside area that had the temerity to call itself a ?pavement?, he was. And prominently displaying a knitted blue and white scarf dating from our 1954 FA Cup Final appearance, too: of much more interest, though, were the multiplicity of small enamel badges that graced just about every inch of available space on the thing. In fact, you might like to call El Tel a ?walking Albion museum?. Just about every Baggies supporter artifact produced, officially or otherwise, since the early 1950?s was on proud display there, some more memorable than others.

Examples? Those player pictures enclosed by a plastic blue star (sold by roadside vendors outside the ground, and a very common matchday sight in both the 50?s and 60?s), a comparatively large one extolling the joys of ?Bionic Baggies? (had to be of 70?s vintage, that one), but real pride of place went to a cloth club crest, sewn on, not pinned, like the rest, that pre-dated the 1954 Cup Final itself. No wonder it was somewhat faded. And what about our hero?s mournful comment upon the relative lack of turnstile action from Rovers? ?Like waiting for an execution, this??

And it didn?t help either, seeing, through a gap in the enclosing fence, Rovers ground staff enthusiastically sprinkling half the contents of the average reservoir onto their pitch. A Luton-esque bit of craftiness, if ever there was one. But the extended wait also brought to mind another thought: if the wind was to pick up as promised, would their ?golf stand? away end then do a Mary Poppins, and sail merrily over the city centre? And with our lot still ?boinging? away with great merriment?

Not that we had to dwell upon such whimsical imaginings for much longer: a bunch of orange-clad people quickly entered, stage right, closely followed by the welcome sound of wooden doors aplenty being unbolted. Before you could say ?scrumpy?, even, they were ready to admit our people, so in we went, and without any further ado.

Once through, ?Im Indoors, already a convert, headed straight for the refreshment place just around the corner, and the home-made pasty-fix he?d craved for so long. Having had a bit of a gyppy tummy on the way down ? pre-match nerves asserting themselves, at long last? ? I decided not to partake, but very mindful indeed of the cold wind, asked for a hot chocolate drink instead. Big mistake, that. Drinks wouldn?t be ready for another 15 minutes, apparently. A bit of a puzzle, that. They?d had all afternoon to ensure everything would be closed up, cleared away, ready for action ? but not the necessary hot water, so it seemed. Last time we?d ventured there, it was the pasties that needed 15 minutes to warm up! Dearie, dearie me.

It was only when we were finally making our way to our seats that the full extent of Rovers? waterworks became apparent. The area immediately behind one of the goals? Bore a very strong resemblance to a Far East paddy field, so it did. Either that, or the kind of surface you see in so many mud-wrestling competitions. ?Battle of the Somme?-type surface? On balance, I reckoned all those fed-up, doomed squaddies you see in so many war books had the easier time of it.

By the time we located our seats, behind one of the goals, but slightly to the left, and about six or so rows back, the pre-match music was really winding up. The excellent ?Can You Hear The Boys In The Tote End Roar??, clearly a local band?s poignant paean of praise for the time Eastville was their home (by far and away the best football-related song I?ve heard in ages) was the real trend-bucker. The remainder? A wonderfully eclectic collection of 60?s soul, R and B, and reggae classics, it was, including Chuck Berry?s ?Johnny B Goode?, Desmond Dekker and The Aces, with ?Israelite?- still very much reminds me of our abortive 1969 semi-final with Leicester, that one ? but the best (or worst, depending upon one?s point of view) was still to come.

Hardly had the first bass notes of this particular number ? dum-di-dum-de-DUM DUM, de-diddly DUM DUM! ? thundered from the speakers above, you could see every single Baggie in that stand stropping their claws in eager anticipation of what was to come! Yep ? THAT Harry J And The All-Stars number, lately banned from our ground, sadly, but now given an unexpected reprise. Yes, let?s hear it for ?The Liquidator?! Or, as one Mrs. Malaprop-ish GD letter-writer once put it, ?The Liquidiser?.

Turning my head and eyes upwards in pretend supplication, and putting both hands together in mock ?prayer? I quickly said ?Forgive them, Lord, they know not what they do!....? The rest you can guess, of course. I can only assume that having heard our televised ?embellishments? from beyond the grave, Mrs. Mary Whitehouse?s earthly (earthy?) remains must have well and truly corkscrewed their way right through to Australia by now.

The next song, Jeff beck?s ?Hi-Ho Silver Lining? got a completely different reception in that away end, and just like the Harry J faux pas, for reasons the Rovers DJ wouldn?t have been aware of at all. Naught but boos of ear-splitting intensity from the away end greeted the start of that one: hardly surprising, considering that our geographical near-neighbours adopted it as a theme tune quite a few seasons ago.

I can only assume that the Rovers play-list, well put together as it was, and finishing with their ?signature tune, ?Goodnight Irene?, had originally been intended to serve as a means of getting their faithful, consumed by complete and utter torpor even at the best of times, well fired up for the 90 minutes to come. A shame, then, that it backfired so disastrously on them, wasn?t it? Whatever the underlying psychology that backed their choice of music, it didn?t do very much at all for their followers, but it sure as hell got our lot going!

Their ground? Let me put it this way: imagine what you?d get if you?d put a collection of architects in a room, and told each of them to design one bit of The Memorial Ground only, and with no crafty peeping over the shoulders of the rest of the mob to see what they?d done.

It?s not exactly rocket science to deduce that you?d quickly end up with one almighty mess. A rugger-bugger-type construction to our left, with ?The Guinness Stand, its smaller (and clearly temporary) sister by half, taking pride of place behind the corner-flag. To our right, running part the length of the touchline, a much more modern affair, clearly built with the requirements of football in mind.

Behind the goal opposite our end, one with an extremely low roof, housing the Rovers ?singers?. Well, that was the apparent source of what passed for noise in that ground, at any rate. Ours? Er ? think ?golfing stand? with a tent-style canvas roof that shed copious quantities of water onto those at the front every time we ?boinged? which was quite a lot of the time, naturally, and you?ve just about got it!

So, that was Rovers in a nutshell, then. Nothing to do but await the entry of our lot into the arena. And so they did, about five minutes after the last strains of ?Goodnight Irene? disappeared into the rapidly-darkening sky, with the moon now revealing a somewhat anorexic crescent to our left.

Team news? Mogga had given a start to young Jared Hodgkiss, now taking the place of the injured Carl Hoefkens at the back. Luke Moore, cup-tied, was out, and replaced by the normally-erratic Ish Miller. Just like the famous Forrest Gump remark about boxes of chocolate, when plumping for our ex-Man City man up front, ?you just don?t know what you?re going to get!? Our other change? Supermarket-man Morrison on the left, and there in place of Zoltan Gera, now tenanting the bench.

Shortly after that, referee Clattenburg got the show well and truly on the road. And a well-noisy one, at that: from the very first moment our noses had emerged from the tunnel, the entire ground was treated (if that?s the right phrase) to a continual musical bombardment, all of which emanated from the away end.

After a short period of time spent mutually mettle-testing, I?d say it was Rovers who were the first of the two to have a proper go at goal, and with around eight minutes showing on the clock. Former Hereford player Andy Williams (no, he DOESN?T sing ?Moon River? on request, according to my other half. Sorry.) was the guy responsible, and giving Robbo not a little food for thought along the way, too.

One more Rovers attempt well and truly snuffed out later, and it was the turn of young Miller to give Rovers something to remember us by. Well, that was the master-plan, but his long-range effort took a deflection on the way in for an Albion corner. That one came to nothing, but just a few moments after that, a Brunt cross saw Bednar try to put it away from pretty close range, but that bit the dust as well.

Deeper into the half, now, and the shots were raining in fast and furious, from both sides, too. Typical FA Cup stuff, in other words. Next to have a sniff of the goal-line was young Miller again: their keeper managed to prevent our lad scoring, then did very well indeed to stop Greening putting away the rebound, too.

Now, it was Albion going at it, hammer and tongs, every single Baggies surge up the pitch presaging a sinking for the Pirates. It could only be a mater of time, surely: our own contingent, sensing this, ?pumped up the volume? even more. Try as they might, Rovers just couldn?t get the ball into our half, so there was a certain air of inevitability surrounding what happened next. Bednar, supplied courtesy the deadly-accurate Brunt, was the first sharpshooter, but his effort was blocked. Not for long, mind. Up rushed Morrison, of all people: fair play to him, though, no sooner had the ball left his boot, it was well and truly in the back of the Rovers net and with but a third of the first half gone, too.

Result? Absolute delirium in the away end! One almighty ?boing? - which must have looked really impressive on the box. I was to bitterly regret, much later, the fact I ?boinged? properly after each of the five goals, i.e. the ?Full Monty?: lifting both feet off the ground at the same time, rather than just perform the hand-movements only, as is my normal wont - and closely followed by a near-obligatory rendition of the 23rd Psalm. Well, it was Sunday, after all. Next up in our parody of the Rovers play-list was the ?I go down, you go down, we all go down together?? ditty. But, as yet, no real mention of our dream destination in North London: Black Country people can be just as pragmatic as Yorkshiremen, sometimes!

But Rovers certainly hadn?t given up the fight. Just minutes after Morrison drew first blood for The Baggies, Kiely had his first serious bit of stopping work to do, and all because of one idiot player?s somewhat generous donation of the ball to a Rovers counterpart, and right inside our half, too. By rights, they should have equalised, courtesy Mister Williams, and with nobody but ourselves to blame, but we somehow managed to survive that one.

One scare gone, then. But it wasn?t too long before we had another reason for redoubling our vocal efforts: a real barnstorming effort from Ish Miller. One which former Baggie Cyrille Regis might have justifiably taken pride in, too. Starting on the flank, the lad led several Pirates a merry old dance before letting fly from about 20 yards range. It really was a scorcher: their keeper must have thought so, too, because his reaction, somewhat dazed and confused, was in the same spirit as that, allegedly, of the unfortunate Mayor of Hiroshima, viz: ?What the chuffin? hell was THAT??

No sooner had the ball gone in, the entire away end erupted once more. One massive ?Boing? later, the consensus was we?d got our Wembley tickets as good as booked. But Rovers still had a few tricks up their piratical sleeves. Just a scant minute later, they managed to get a corner. From that, the ball dropped right onto those positioned at the far post, leaving Rovers with what amounted to an easy six-yard strike, thereby pulling one back. Hell it even woke up the previously-somnolent home supporters, striking up with an impressive and impromptu rendition of ?Goodnight, Irene?, for what seemed to be the very first time the entire half.

Oh, whoops. But never mind, just keep singing to the point of complete and utter hoarseness (the chap behind us had already lost his voice!), and hope we could eventually make sure the tie was ours. Heartened by that success, Rovers became more adventurous, an almighty rocket from a distance of around 25 yards going much too close for comfort.

In what was to be about the last incident of the half ? the board for stoppage time had already gone up ? Miller could have quite easily broken Rovers harts, but ended up nearly breaking ours, instead! A superb bit of play saw the lad home free, and seemingly with just their keeper to beat, too. But the old trouble reasserted itself ? give the lad too much time to think about it, and he?ll stuff up loads more times than he wouldn?t.

Result? One shot going wide, and an awful lot of our people raining curses about his head, too. I could only hope his ears weren?t about to become a significant fire hazard, that?s all. Mind you, that?s nothing to what he must have got back in the dressing-room, just a matter of seconds later!

Come the second helping, come our lot kicking into the away end, at long last. Another narrow squeak for the home side not long after the restart: good, we were still well and truly up for it, then. As for the lad Miller, he really is his own worst enemy, sometimes. With around seven minutes of the half elapsed, there he was again, one-on-one with the opposing keeper.

An 80 year old granny with chronic sciatica could have potted it: I can only assume that the power of massed Gashead suggestion asserted itself by willing into existence some kind of horrid bobble or lump on the playing surface, and that eventually denying our lad, not his overwhelmingly capricious form!

That proved to be a bit of a turning point: Rovers, suddenly realising they might be in with a chance of an upset after all, stepped up a gear in their efforts to regain parity. Now it was our finest having considerable trouble getting the ball over the halfway line, not Rovers. One effort of theirs was deflected for a corner, with two more following a matter of seconds later. ?Time to change it, I said to my other half, ?And it?s got to be Gera: he?s so good on the ball, he can turn a game in the space of a second??

Blimey, proof positive that telepathy genuinely existed! Not long after that, frantic preparations were to be seen in progress around our dug-out. Sure enough, up stepped our tame Hungarian to await the referee?s summons. And not just him either. Also ready to take the bull by the horns was none other than Super Kev, with Bednar and Brunt (the twin subbings no reflection whatsoever on their abilities, by the way) proving the sacrificial lambs in this instance.

This was one call I?d sure got right, no question about it. But I do have to seriously question whether or not our third was strictly street-legal. We?d all thought the Miller strike grossly offside from the very same moment the ball left his foot, and, much later, TV footage I watched showed that to be the case.

What the lino was thinking of, by not deeming the lad to be interfering with play, I really don?t know! But the goal stood, much to our mutual surprise. (Mind you, I did later argue that it was a fitting payback for the ?oggie? we had disallowed for offside during the Sheffield Wednesday game!) Sometimes you really do need a bit of luck to make progress in the competition: that was ours!

With the two-goal margin now well and truly restored, and in such dubious circumstances, too, that was the real moment we genuinely knew the game was ours to win. Rovers had given up the ghost. Now the ?WEM-BER-LEE? choral references were coming thick and fast. All that, plus a very pointed rendition of ?ARE YOU WATCHING, WANDERERS?...? Not likely: I had real suspicions by then there was many a TV set being thrown through plate-glass windows, in the Land Of The Dingle!

Just a matter of minutes after that, Ish turned supplier, quickly setting up Old Man Phillips for his fourth. Well, the game wouldn?t have been the same without a contribution from the maestro, would it? One dying spasm from our West Country opponents saw them almost get one back, but fittingly enough, it was the Young Pretender that made it five and out for we Wembley Bound Albionites. The killer pass came courtesy the busy Gera, and it was the work of but a moment for the big lad to beat keeper Phillips for a fifth time, and really start those celebrations going with a claim for the match ball come the final whistle!

And what wonderful celebrations they were, too. Once the whistle had gone, all the players ran in the direction of the away end, so as to participate more fully in the action. Wow, what an evening. And, on leaving the ground, an impromptu ?glee-club? had gathered hard by their awaiting chariots, engines throbbing gently, nearby. Moving on after that, so taken had The Fart been by the sheer emotion of the night, he somehow managed to fall over, yet again! It?s getting something of a habit, this, Tel: first the purler at The Ricoh, and now this one! I wouldn?t exactly call sustaining serious bruising to one?s chest and abdomen a necessary adjunct to successful celebration of a famous Baggie victory, old mate! But there?s an additional problem: having ?celebrated? Cup success in such an unlikely ? not to mention masochistic! ? manner, we both demand you find something to trip over at Wembley!

El Tel?s mishap apart, we eventually arrived at our vehicle in fairly good order: having rapidly acquired ?wings? courtesy copious secretions of that well-known ?performance-enhancer?, adrenalin, as far as I was concerned, the lengthy walk wasn?t even half as bad as it had been before the game! A thought I was to subsequently regret, but of that, more in a moment. Meanwhile, The Fart, normal poise now re-established, managed to book a slot on Radio Five?s ?6.06? football phone-in, with ex-Dingle Steve Claridge presiding. One really apposite bit - The Fart?s, certainly not Steve Claridge?s! ? I particularly remember, was his description, during the course of his on-air conversation, of our current side as: ?Not a team consisting of individuals, any more, but a team PLAYING as a team?.? Spot-on as ever, Monsieur Fart!

Thanks to the brilliant location of our parking spot, escaping from the clutches of Bristol proved much easier than I?d imagined. A bit of traffic encountered on our way to the Fishponds M32 intersection previously described, and that was about it, really. In fact, I strongly suspect we?d got away before the coaches, who would have had considerable trouble negotiating their way through that part of the world. Trust me on that one: I did work down there for almost 12 years, after all said and done.

Back to our place, finally, after having dropped Mister Lack Of Balance off ? but not for coffee. Just in time to revisit our night of triumph courtesy Adrian Chiles, who must have wished like hell he?d been at the game, not stuck in some crummy TV studio. But that wasn?t to be the end of the story for me. Remember all that ? proper? boinging I did? Well, it sure crept up on me: no sooner had I arrived home, everything just seized up. Literally.

Couldn?t have moved a muscle, even if I?d wanted to. And as for sitting at a desk typing ? forget it. That?s the main reason why you?re reading this lot tonight. I had intended to spend some time reading instead, but no sooner had my other half departed for his pit, off I well and truly dropped. And didn?t wake up until six the following morning, too. Still on our sofa, to the complete puzzlement of my three felines, now vociferously demanding some much-delayed nosh from their mum.

How do I feel? Over the moon, cow, cat, fiddle and all. Sorry, but I really can?t be more original than that. But it?s not the right moment to get carried away. We still have loads of unfinished League business in hand, starting with the visit of Colin?s Crystal Palace side come Wednesday night. It?ll sure be a Nuremberg Rally-type reception for the lads, when they come out of that tunnel ? but will it all end just like ?After The Lord Mayor?s Show?? More thoughts apropos our next game tomorrow evening. By then, I should have descended considerably from my current cruising height of some 35,000 feet!

 - Glynis Wright

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