The Diary

29 April 2008: WE'RE UP! NOW GIVE QPR SUNDAY HELL! WE WANT THAT TITLE!

So, we?ve finally gone and done it, then. Promotion to the Prem, and with a little bit of spare slack left in the locker, too. Given the squeaky-tight nature of this year?s campaign, up until last night?s spine-chiller, I?d genuinely thought the whole thing would go right down to the wire ? in fact, when we hit the buffers of one mother of a really bad run just a few weeks back, its nadir being a 4-1 home defeat courtesy relegation-haunted Leicester, I?d just about given ?automatic? up for dead ? looking instead towards the play-offs, and its bosom pal, sheer unmitigated angst, by way of unsatisfactory conclusion to season 2007-08.

Let?s face it - what Baggie in their right mind would have wanted yet another (possibly-abortive?) sudden-death attempt to escape the gravitational pull of the Championship? $p After suffering shed-loads of Wembley trauma at the hands of Derby County, just short of 12 months ago? County?s subsequent embarrassment of a Premiership season proved incontrovertibly that the wrong side had gone up: to have to go through that all over again? Thanks ? but no thanks, which is probably why my heartfelt sighs of relief could have been heard as far back as West Bromwich town centre, when that final whistle went last night. But being Albion, and therefore into sadomasochism in a very big way indeed, you just knew that our players would cock a collective snook at the easy road to upwards mobility last night, didn?t you?

And what a night it was, too. But I?m getting way, way ahead of myself, as per usual. Come the actual morning of the game, the customary adrenalin rush had yet to manifest itself in my little body. The real reason for my unprecedented departure from that stressful end-of-season script, though, was simple: for the most part of the preceding weekend ? Hereford?s richly-deserved fairy-tale promotion at Brentford excepted, of course ? I?d been somewhat preoccupied sorting out an OU assignment due in before this coming Wednesday, which, if nothing else, succeeded in quelling the old pre-match nerves like nothing on Earth.

In fact, up to and including the time when both ?Im Indoors and myself jumped into the old jalopy at around six last night, I?d felt that given our recent upsurge in League form, commencing at Blackpool, and given a much-needed additional boost courtesy our classy midweek triumph at Molineux, we?d sort out Saints no bother, that evening. In fact, as we parked up in the usual matchday spot, we were both warbling that well-known Frank Skinner-inspired promotional perennial: ?We?re going up, we?re going up, we?re going/Albion?s going up!......? But as we made our gleeful way up Halfords Lane, two completely different factors quickly conspired to bring us both crashing down to earth with an almighty thud.

The first? Tim Joyner. He?s a Baggie-loving chap we?ve known for yonks, so it came as a complete surprise to both of us to see the lad propped against a handy fence, and looking for all the world as if his stomach contents were about to defy gravity and leave their mark in the form of an almighty Technicolor yawn on the pavement beneath. And before you ask ? no, he wasn?t drunk, just somewhat overwhelmed by the sheer importance of the occasion for Albion?s short and intermediate-term future. The Prem being the ultimate goal last night, literally millions of quid were at stake. All it took to completely stuff things up was a godawful Kiely miskick, or an uncharacteristic Phillips miss from point-blank range. Ironic, then, that both nightmare scenarios came to be, yet we still survived to tell the tale at QPR next Sunday!

As any battle-hardened Army NCO will happily tell you after a pint or six, fear ? and by that, I mean the real anal sphincter-relaxing McCoy, not its ?oh bugger, I?m going to miss the bus to work? counterpart ? is about as contagious as measles, given optimal conditions for its propagation in the first place: after leaving Tim?s pasty-faced company, it?s fair to say, beyond any shadow of doubt, we?d contracted it in heaps. And what didn?t help at all was the second of the brace of factors I mentioned above, namely Express And Dingles sellers innumerable, and all plying their inky wares with considerable gusto outside the ground.

So what?s so remarkable about that, then? Well you might ask: along with their newspaper, they were also handing out free ?Promotion Party Packs?. This, remember, before a single ball had been kicked in anger, even. Had someone from their sports desk omitted to inform the people responsible that Albion?s promotion that night was strictly contingent upon us getting at least a point from the sodding game in the first place? Talk about ?jumping the gun?, or, as the famous proverb so succinctly puts it: ?Never count your Throstles before they hatch?! I could only hope that by the end of the night, we weren?t left with large quantities of egg adorning Baggie faces.

Not the most comforting of pre-crunch-game sights, it has to be said. And, judging by the somewhat tense atmosphere prevailing inside the Hawthorns pub by the time we?d arrived, we weren?t the only ones sensing the simultaneous hatching of thousands of gastric butterflies, not by a long chalk. But the urgent need for pre-match anaesthesia must have been pretty overwhelming for some jangling Baggie nerves: strolling into the bar, with well over 90 minutes to go, still, the first thing to greet us was a drinks queue of record-breaking proportions! And the second? The noisy Lewis clan, who else?

We must have spent an hour or so in that bar, all told, and with young Carly rapidly pressed into service as ?drinks waitress?, poor girl. Had I had to queue for the length of time she did for that all-important hydrating first round, I reckon I would have given up the will to live there and then. But as she got them in, we were already preoccupied telling our chums all about Saturday?s Griffin Park promotion caper involving The Bulls, never really thinking that very much later that night, we?d both be participating in that age-old game of ?Compare And Contrast?. Their promotion and ours, in other words.

Young Bethany? Naughty lady that she was, she was busily completing some school homework that had to be in the following day. I could only hope she didn?t get the two separate activities all mixed up; somehow, I don?t suppose her science teacher would have been very amused to find the names Gera, Phillips, Greening etc. liberally distributed around all the scientific small change of chemical formulae, test-tubes and conical flasks!

Oh ? and lest I forget, at around the midpoint of our pre-match visit, we were joined by two more of our Baggie chums, namely The Fart (who swore blind that if we did it tonight, he?d be on that pitch quicker than Gordon Brown doing a U-turn on tax hikes for the low-paid! Which he duly did: ?Terry Wills, the oldest football hooligan in town?, anyone?), and Norm Bartlam, accomplished punster of that parish. Mercifully, he reckoned that the mere act of getting there would suffice for him!

After that, the time seemed to fly by, and before we knew it, there it was, loud and clear. The old GD rallying-cry of: ?Let?s get it over with, then?..? Reluctantly swapping the booze-fuelled Baggie bonhomie exuded by all in that pub, we now had to make the trip down Halfords Lane, and to our normal turnstiles. But not without a bijou side-trip to Anoraks Corner, where pecuniary peril, in the snatch-penny form of Steve The Miser, lurked completely free of any restraint whatsoever. Poor lad, he?d wanted to go to QPR this Sunday, but like a fair few other Albion supporters stuck in the very same boat, had found it quite impossible to purchase tickets. What? Steve, actually willing to spend great wodges of ?the M-word? in order to get in, come Sunday?

But time was pressing, so we had to scuttle off once more, this time in the general direction of our usual turnstile. Additionally, a somewhat tiresome precursor of petty Premiership annoyances to come dutifully showed up, in the form of a queue, of South African election dimensions. Oh dear, started already. But a trouble-free passage through the turnstile ensued, for once, so off we went to reclaim our seats.

One thing?s for sure, mind: Southampton don?t half have a noisy following. Occupying all but one section at the front of their end, they were busting a gut to step up the vocals. Our lot quickly rose to the challenge, mind, the Smethwick in particular taking considerable umbrage at the interlopers? abnormally high profile, and doing their level best to drown ?em out. Hell, what a ghastly journey there and back for their lot: midweek, travelling right from the heart of the South Coast, and knowing all-too well that abject defeat would propel them straight to the brink, no messing. Lovely stuff.

Strangely enough, though, in complete contrast to the electrically-charged tension so prevalent in the pub, something of a carnival atmosphere prevailed among our own inside the ground. Clearly, a fair proportion of supporters were taking it as read that we?d be a nascent Premiership side come the end of the allotted span, if the plethora of balloons, beach balls, life-rings and sundry other varieties of beach inflatables being hurled around the bits behind both goals was anything to go by.

And there was the chanting, too, when both camps? best efforts in that respect weren?t being completely drowned out by the manic (not to mention vocally-hyperactive) Albion PA person responsible, that is. A frenetically-hyped build-up too far for me, I?m afraid. Contrast last night?s Nuremburg Rally-esque pre-kick-off hysteria with the way they tend to do things lower down the Football League; records from the sixties, seventies and eighties, and not just the obvious stuff, Beatles, Stones etc. either, as those who travelled to Bristol for our Cup tie with Rovers will readily testify. And all that followed by a little PA man giving out both teams in much more measured tones than those currently prevailing at our place. It?s a FOOTBALL TEAM about to take to the field, you guys, not the sodding Second Coming Of Jesus. Do promise me you?ll buck up!

Mind you, our own people weren?t to be outdone by some failed showbiz person or other ?doing the Baggies? to earn an honest crust. Later in the game, we were to get a wonderfully-spirited rendition of that age-old Baggies favourite: ?Stevie Bull?s A Tatter?. ?Blimey, is this Request Night?? said I, astonished completely by the age-old stuff currently emanating from the Smethwick, ?They?ll be singing, ?Ay, Ay, Aye-Aye?.Astle Is Better Than Pele?? next! And what a pity they didn?t.

Unsurprisingly, Mogga decided to leave his side very much as they were for the duration of our barnstorming form these last four games or so, the exception to the rule coming in the somewhat muscular form of Ish Miller: as things panned out, his pace ensured that Saints? ageing defence had a right old torrid time trying to contain his explosive power on the flank. Clearly, the idea was down to Mogga himself, and one of his better ones, of course. A shame Ish can?t do a bit more about his finishing, really, but you can?t have everything in one great big lump, can you?

Southampton, now managed by former Baggies acting gaffer Nigel Pearson? weren?t going to let this one slip by them without a fight. They needed a straight win to extricate them from the smelly stuff, and by doing so, drop Leicester City right in it instead. Our lot? A win would see us home and dry, while a draw would still do it for us, courtesy that astonishingly-large goal difference we?d racked up over the course of this season. True, in theory, Hull could still catch us, but to do so, we?d have to lose at QPR next Sunday and Hull stick around twelve past their opponents. That?s sure as hell ?promotion? by any other name, as far as I?m concerned!

As you might expect, come the time for both sides to do it for real, the place was really jumping with noise, and from both ends of the ground, for once. Additionally, the amazing plethora of inflatables being chucked around both ends certainly added a new dimension to the game, albeit one not likely to be approved by the referee, whose assistants were the curiously-named Mr. Matadar and Mr. Bull. And before you ask too many impertinent questions apropos this peculiar choice of flag-happy combo on the night, I?m sure the League chose ?em in a purely-random manner. Still, it?s worth a bit of a giggle, isn?t it?

Off we went, then, and with our normal Halfords Lane Stand seated company going into vocal overdrive for once, too, bless all those little travel rugs and vacuum flasks! But of the entire lot, what did surprise me most of all was the constant caginess of our finest, as Southampton manfully strived to wrest all three points away from our vice-like grip instead.

It seemed to me that in an attempt to make the game safe, and not drop all three points under controversial circumstances, we?d temporarily expunged any form of entertaining football from the menu. Or was it just that Mogga simply wanted to doubly-ensure the coming of Premiership football to The Hawthorns next season? Whatever the reasoning behind all this, those opening minutes and beyond saw us playing what was, in effect, a long ball game. Not our cup of tea at all, and when a creditable Saints effort on goal gave our lot something of a wake-up call, some 7 minutes into the game, minds got concentrated wonderfully.

But ?safety first? has never been an issue with our own supporters. Never would be, never will. Whenever an Albion player managed to bust through the massed Saints defence, they?d simply come up against a phalanx of defenders; as per usual, we lacked sufficient application to deliver that all-important ?killer ball? to its correct destination. As it was, a full 15 minutes of mental torture elapsed before we finally managed a clear shot on target, our own inaugural effort coming from the well-worn boot of Old Man Goalscorer himself, Kev Phillips. This was to be but the first of a disappointing series of strikes for our Kev.

Then it was Ish Miller?s turn to get the bum?s rush in front of goal, with Koren almost netting not long after that. A word about Zoltan Gera: last night, he was my personal ?man of the match?. How come? Not just because of improved recent form, mind; at Norwich the other week, his India-rubber antics in and around the 18-yard area with the match ball, combined with typical gazelle-like grace when taking it further upfield, say, were just as evident then as they were last night.

It?s fair to say, in fact, that there were frequent moments with Zoltan that were wonderfully sublime: the only Albion player in recent years I?ve seen able to not only win back possession straight after dispossesion, but achieve it in sumptuous manner, too. What unmitigated joy to behold, and how the hell the PFA didn?t include him in their Championship ?side? at their awards do the other night, I really don ?t know. I hear a song in my heart every single time he gets possession. When was the last time I could say that with complete assurance?

The last third of the half approached, and as it did so, our efforts to achieve that tantalizingly elusive first goal also stepped up several gears. Their keeper did well to cut out a nasty looking Gera cross not long afterwards, closely followed by a Clem long-range attempt. And not to be outdone, Albion?s very own mobile tribute to Frank Gallagher, of ?Shameless? fame, Jonathan Greening, was left clutching his amply furnished thatch in disbelief when his long-range effort cleared the crossbar with naught but a coat of pint coming between it and the ball.

How many more chances would go begging like that? And by virtue of our redoubled attacking efforts, were we simply leaving ourselves wide open to a ?tip and run? breakthrough courtesy the away side? Well, that?s precisely what nearly happened about five minutes short of the break, when a rare Clem defensive boo-boo nearly let in Southampton?s Saganowski, who then proceeded to demonstrate wonderfully the precise reason their side?s in so much trouble: unmarked, in a position to virtually pick his own scoring spot, he then somehow contrived to fire well over the bar instead. Then, in another massed stripy cavalry charge on the Saints penalty area, the ball landed at Koren?s feet. He had a go, the ball rebounded out again, then ran loose, and just as Our Kev was about to give the battered spheroid sufficient impetus to carry it over the line, their previously-floundering keeper somehow smothered it.

That just about rounded of the first half, then. Was it my imagination, or did I REALLY hear a massive sigh of relief emanating from the throats of all our faithful, as both sides made to leave the pitch? But the crowd weren?t silent for too long: after his incredible feat of completing seven marathons over all seven continents, ?Blind Dave? and his sighted helper did a lap of honour encompassing all four corners of the ground, and to tumultuous applause from both home and away persuasions, too.

Time for the second bit, then, and for those who?d been prescient enough to bring ?em to the game, time to break out those prophylactic Valiums once more! And failing the Valium stash, some kind of throat spray would have been favourite around that time. Despite that late flurry when we might have got something, had the ball run more kindly for us, we still hadn?t properly unlocked their defence. So what would Mogga do about it, we wondered.

Come the resumption, the action largely moved to the goal Saints defended: Alamo Time for them, as first Gera, then Miller had creditable efforts thwarted, courtesy Saints keeper Wright, who, it?s fair to say, did a most creditable job between the sticks for them last night. And no, I?m not related. Sorry.

Ok, so we couldn?t breach the dykes, but we did know that a draw would see the job done, or as good as. Ad that?s the prime reason why the carnival atmosphere, evident before a ball was kicked, even, began to pervade the rain-soaked scene with increasing intensity as the second 45 ran its course nearer to a finish. Then it was Miller?s turn to test the Saints defence to near-destruction?. So near, yet so far away: ?COME ON, ALBION ? THEY?RE ROCKING?.? bawled my other half, all sense of decorum flown to the hills through sheer fright.

Interesting,listening to other people?s reactions, as the Albion attacking juggernaut warmed to its task yet again. Directly in front of me was John Homer, in company with his missus Jean, who only exploded whenever the visitors resorted to what the late Bill Shankly once termed ?Alehouse football? This game in particular seemed tailor-made for the aforementioned gentleman?s unique match official-baiting talents, as per when the lino on our side somehow contrived to flag offside someone still inside his own half! And no, there was nobody else forward of him at all, never mind over the halfway line! With the guilty party standing directly in front when he flagged, you?d have thought John would let fly with both barrels, wouldn?t you? But nope ? all he could produce was a gasped ?Ah doe believe ?Ee?s just dun that, do yow?....? A sense of restraint never once heard coming from Mister Homer before, some might say ? but I knew better. To use the wonderful Black Country vernacular John?s so familiar with, ? ?Ee?d just gid it neck?.?

The Bloke In Front Of Me (or, to be slightly more accurate, To The Left Of Me.)? Back to the same old routine, I?m afraid: cries of ?RUBBISH!? whenever things went wrong in the six-yard area, and snarls of ?LOOKATIT!? on those (frequent) occasions when it went slightly wrong in front of the Saints goal. And he turned distinctly apoplectic when Saints tore up the script completely by scoring with around twelve to go to the end!

But I?m getting ahead of myself. Miller should have made himself the hero of the hour around 15 minutes into the half, an astute Saints defender kicking his effort right off the line when it seemed a slam-dunk cert to go in: surely the moment of reckoning was coming? To give our efforts a further bit of pazzaz, Mogga decided to change it, Brunt replacing the injured Morrison, then, not long after that, Bednar replacing Miller, who, in all fairness, had run himself to the point of complete exhaustion.

A couple more close shaves for the visitors, then, Kev Phillips just missing out after a well-placed cross from Chris Brunt (who else?) found its target, then their keeper brilliantly denying Our Kev yet again from a suicidally-close range. The Southampton defence? They were more wobbly than a ?Prisoner Cell Block H? set, and just like those famous Star Trek phaser shields, theirs were definitely perforated. What did it take for us to score?

The answer, when it finally came, reduced the place to complete silence. We saw a goal, all right ? but at the other end of the park! All that attacking, all that hard work softening them up, only for them to break right out of defence, suddenly, and hit us on the break, a scenario we?ve encountered on several previous occasions this season, sad to say. Passed to death, hoist by our own petard, as Shakespeareans (no, not Craig) might have put it. And the scorer, Lallana, looked pretty smug about it too. As well he might, given the fact their own followers were celebrating like crazy in the corner of the Smethwick given over to them for the night. And as for the rest of the ground, you could have heard a pin drop, so stunning was the silence that replaced the former cauldron of noise.

Many in the Halfords, John Homer included, reckoned the original move that led to the pass that made their strike possible was offside. Not being directly in line at the time - and neither was John ? I wouldn?t like to call it either way. But many in the stand sitting nearer the Smethwick were telling the lino?s fortune in no uncertain terms, that?s for sure. Maybe I?ll get a better idea once I?ve seen the footage.

Oh ? and one other thing puzzled me. The fact that with a full ten still to go, plus injury time, a goodly proportion of Halfords Lane Stand folks were upping and leaving already. Rats deserting a sinking ship? Work it out for yourself. But a Mogga side?s a Mogga side, isn?t it? The answer to perforated goal netting? Keep attacking theirs until something gives, of course ? and that?s precisely what happened, and with around six to spare, too. So yah, boo, sucks to all those who jumped ship so precipitately, then!

A shame we couldn?t have done it before they netted first, but that?s the way the mop flops sometimes. After a Clem effort that really should have done the biz, it was Chris Brunt who became the hero of the hour by sticking Bednar?s cross right between the splayed legs of keeper Wright. A really undignified way of conceding, given the fact that without the guy?s brilliance between the sticks, Saints would have lost by a cricket score, but that?s the way it goes, sometimes.

And that?s the way the Hawthorns goes completely mental, too! Total pandemonium after an agonized millisecond of ?is he going to disallow the thing?? Then, blessed relief as the man in black pointed to the centre circle, signifying the strike was a pukka one. Phew! ?NOW I KNOW THERE?S A GOD!.....? shrieked this column, all decorum departed courtesy the 78 bus outside the very moment the ball crossed the line!

Cue resumption of celebrations put on temporary hold after we conceded, chaps! Louder and louder, from every corner of the ground, now, ?WE?RE GOING UP, WE?RE GOING UP, WE?RE GOING?ALBION?S GOING UP?? then, the inevitable, ?ARE YOU WATCHING, WANDERERS?? Personally, I doubted it: ?Wolverhampton TV screens innumerable with a size 9 boot through them tonight!? I mused.

Four minutes of added-on-time agony- fortunately, both sides seemed to have declared a ?truce? by then ? and then, echoing those famous words of 1966: ?They think it?s all over?.. IT IS NOW!? And that?s when the referee?s relative inexperience in such matters really showed. Anyone who?d been on the League list for longer would have previously arranged with the players a mutually-understood covert signal he was going to blow up for the end, thereby giving all concerned valuable ?escape time?. But he didn?t. Result? Nearly all the players engulfed by a human ?wave?: one not intending deliberate harm, of course, but when you?ve got so many bodies compressed into such a small space, anything can happen, can?t it?

In total, it took in excess of ten minutes to get the players out: only then could serious pitch-clearing operations commence. In an echo of the events of last Saturday?s Griffin Park promotion involving Hereford, not a few of our finest ended up almost completely denuded of clothing! Not that there was an indecency issue at stake, mind: even the most narrow-minded of maiden aunts wouldn?t have seen a blind thing amidst all that lot!

The best bit was when Robbo tried to flee the scene; one minute there was an upright footballer, the next, one of distinctly Australian status, viz: upside-down, the evidence being stockinged legs where the head should have been. Then Robbo re-surfaced, and in a very unusual way, too. Ever seen anyone attempt the breast-stroke, on dry land? No? Well, that?s how Robbo finally made it back to the relative sanctuary of the players? tunnel, his body being borne aloft on a sea of adoring Baggie arms. If you?ve ever seen Freddie Mercury do much the same thing on one of Queen?s more decadent videos, you?ll get the idea pretty quickly!

Finally, the chaos subsided enough to get our finest back on the pitch again, a move craftily preceded by getting Mogga to say something nice to the crowds ? which he duly did, of course. One quick lap of the pitch later, and that was our home programme done for a whole summer, thank you very much! And, just to say we?d done it, we went on the pitch as well. But we couldn?t emulate The Fart, who must have broken the land speed record getting from his East Stand seat to the running track the very moment the ref blew up for time! Mind you ? when you?ve experienced both the Relief Of Mafeking and the very first Armistice Day, anything?s possible for the old sod!

And Finally?..One. Here?s one from The Noise?. Stoke?s Britannia Stadium is built right on top of some very dodgy mine-shafts, so local rumour has it. And the pitch still very unstable, too: locals expect a thundering great hole to appear in the middle of their pitch any time now. But, as The Noise so rightly pointed out, when the thing does open up, and right in the middle of a home game, more like than not, you can bet anything you like on the probability of Ricardo Fuller going down?..

Two? Message to the Lovely Dee, she of Club Shop fame. Thanks for the lovely card you sent after hearing of our various house-moving trials and tribulations! Love it to bits.

 - Glynis Wright

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