The Diary

17 August 2008: A Kick Up The Arse Gives Hope For The Future

Our inaugural Premiership game at The Emirates? Yes, we lost. Yes, the goal was a sucker punch, the result of defending more typical of Mussolini?s army than that of a competitor in what?s alleged to be the best league in the world. And, yes, the very manner of our loss was a tad disappointing. But that?s not the story by half. Defeated? Yes, we were, the first of a great long list of sides competing at Arsenal?s place this season, no doubt - but not disgraced, not by a long chalk.

The killer punch, which came in the first ten minutes of the game, represented a massive blow to our confidence, and, for a while, it showed on the pitch, with last-ditch defending becoming the name of the game. There?s nothing worse than the sickening feeling one gets when events on the field start to suggest one?s going to finish up on the wrong end of an absolute stonking. This, remember, was an Arsenal side that hadn?t tasted silver for the last three seasons or so - and for the ten minutes or so after their early opener, it showed.

But Arsene Wenger had somehow contrived to omit one very important detail: prior to kick-off, he?d neglected to show Mogga and his merry men their script, which is why, dear reader, Albion not only recovered a fair part of their composure they?d lost, they?d then gone on to inflict a few nasty scares of their own upon Wenger?s massively-talented defence. It?s fair to say that come the end of the game, they, and not The Arse, had looked the more likely side to violate the sanctity of the back of the net. A massive difference from the time we played them at Highbury as Premiership newbies absolutely reeking naivety from every pore, back in 2002, and ending the game completely slaughtered. There?s much that needs to be fixed in the side we currently have, ?tis true ? more about that later - but courage, belief, and raw competitive spirit doesn?t form any part of it whatsoever, thank goodness.

As I?ve been doing the same thing, more or less, for the past 45 years or so, so familiarity should have brought contempt eagerly rushing to fill the vacuum a long time ago, but whatever our League status, whatever the outcome of our close-season forays into the transfer market, the morning of our very first game never fails to fill me with that by-now-familiar heady mix of nervous anticipation and trepidation, seasoned with the dead certainty of meeting up with some very familiar Baggie faces indeed. Just like that very first day of the new school year, in fact.

Matchday friendships, some lasting twenty years or more, are to be happily savoured, just like fine food and wine. It?s not just from what happens on the pitch that we Baggies happily derive what our Chairman would no doubt term ?a positive matchday experience?. Not that he would get the point, mind, but that?s the way the world is: Chairmen are from Venus, long-standing (suffering?) Baggie people from Mars. It was a strange looking Hawthorns that greeted us when we made the short walk from Halfords Lane to the back of the East Stand, where our ?transports of delight? stood parked. Everywhere we looked bore the unmistakable mark of manual labour taken to a slightly-unnerving degree, and ongoing, still, at that unearthly hour: painters, decorators, carpenters, the whole shebang. Clearly the need to get the Halfords Lane Stand shipshape and Bristol fashion prior to our home Premiership debut next Saturday pressed hard.

A quick shufti at what The Blessed Jeremy had wrought, courtesy an emergency entrance left conveniently open nearby, was startling: a vastly-shrunk Halfords, no less. (The completely-transmogrified interior, lurking beneath in true iceberg fashion, was to prove an even bigger shock, but I?ll leave that one for another day.) Blimey, so that?s what happens when you leave an entire stand out in the rain overnight!

And, talking of ?shocks to the system? that bright and sunny morning, there was none bigger, for my money, than that first essential glimpse (well, for me, at least) of our spanking-new away shirt, as worn by scores of Baggie ?models? all eagerly heading for their coaches. Yellow. Bright yellow, painfully so. Lurid, or what? To put it another way, I wouldn?t have recommended migraine victims to tarry there for any great length of time: a definite ?sunglasses job? if ever there was one. What had Albion done? Left the entire lot, temporarily forgotten, to the radioactive mercies of some nuclear reactor, or something?

But there was, for me, one particular Unique Selling Point about those shirts which made me want to go out and buy one straight away ? no sponsor?s name on the front. Not a whiff, a letter, a single scintilla, even! Hallelujah! Bad for the commercial side, sure, but great for those not wanting to become a walking advertisement placard for some product or other they wouldn?t ever buy, even if their whole lives depended upon its immediate purchase.

That was quite enough insult to my visual apparatus for one morning, thank you very much. After that, it was a positive relief to find our coach, embark, and seek out relative normality, couched in the earpiece-clad shape of the Old Fart himself, watching the activity outside, which even more resembled the first day of term: much in the way of eager greetings, the frenzied pumping of hands, joyful hugs and kisses aplenty. There was even a banner informing all hands of ?MASCOTS ON TOUR?, these being both Baggie Birds, of course. A shame about the Dingles badge that shared banner-space with ours, though. Couldn?t somebody have obscured the flaming thing? There were kids present, and of Black Country oaths and exclamations, there were plenty of those, right enough. Another marker of our new-found elevated status: the TV van, complete with satellite dish, parked adjacent to the Astle Gates.

Then, just before we set off, great hilarity from The Fart, on espying Supporters Club chappie Alan Cleverly walking in front of our coach. It was the hat that did it, of course: those lawless Chicago streets of the 20?s and 30?s being ? erm ? ?old hat? for our resident wrinkly, he?d previously christened Alan?s titfer a ?Dillinger?, as per the notorious gangster of that era. I could certainly see Tel?s point; all the guy needed was a violin case in his hand, and no copper worth his name could ever have resisted the strong temptation to immediately apply handcuffs to wrists.

And, talking of The Fart, he recently spent a day on the beach ? er, in Brum, would you believe? Suitably transformed by deck-chairs and loads of imported sand, it was, and many took advantage of the unusual scene temporarily imparting a whiff of the old briny and ?KISS ME QUICK? mentality to the Town Hall and its immediate vicinity. ?Did you make any sandcastles?? enquired this column. ?Couldn?t find me bucket and spade!? replied The Venerable One. As our coach rapidly ate up the M1 miles to our destination, hubby and self occupied the time by taking in the contents of our respective newspapers. There was a lovely story in mine, concerning some poor sod being forced into choosing between the love of his life, and its footballing counterpart, Aston Villa. No contest as far as we Baggies are concerned, of course, but the star of the story clearly didn?t see things in quite the same light ? until his other half hung a bloody great banner right across some motorway bridge forming part of his homewards journey informing him in no uncertain terms of the choice he had to make!

The Fart? You might want to call it ?enjoying the Premiership?! Dead to the world, he was, slumbering like the proverbial babe in arms, only to resurrect himself inside the artificial metropolitan boundary formed by the North Circular Road. On spotting a train station sign for the same direction we were taking: ?Blimey, I could get off, and use me OAP pass from here?.?

A quick tootle through a part of London clearly very Jewish in character ? few High Street shops open, and fewer people still, despite it being Saturday ? then down another main thoroughfare very multicultural in character, and we were there, hence so many gasps of wonderment and awe from those on the coach. ?Bluddy ?ell!? was only the start of it!

And only a congenital idiot could have failed to express admiration for the sight that now beheld them: ovoid in shape, oozing conspicuous consumption from every orifice, and dominating the entire skyline, too, just like the UFOs in ?Independence Day?. Sopwith Camel Meets Concorde? is the phrase that sums it all up perfectly, I reckon, and while we?re at it, neatly defines the Grand Canyon-sized gulf that now exists between the two clubs as well. As ?Im Indoors so pertinently commented, a very good time to send a picture to the Dingle in your life. ?Welcome to the Premiership? indeed. Our initial impression of ?shock and awe? wasn?t to go away very easily: it was to be greatly reinforced, in fact, by the short visit we subsequently paid to their Club Shop, its floor space alone considerably more than that occupied by some well-known retail outlets. And as for the range of goods available inside, well? ? Just about everything you could think of, an Aladdin?s Cave of fashion, household goods, jewelry, electronics, the works - all with an ?Arsenal? theme superimposed, reasonably priced by London standards, and absolutely none of it ?tat?. Not for the last time that day were we made to feel like half-starved Victorian ragamuffins espying a classy confectioners, then, noses closely pressed to window, eyes goggling in sheer wonderment at the toothsome but completely unaffordable treasures contained within.

A considerable amount of thought had gone into stocking those shelves, in fact, something that isn?t normally the case when catering for the various demands of football?s foot-soldiers. One item that struck me in particular was the ?Arsenal Toaster?: not only was it red and white, and with the club badge proudly prominent on the casing, it also branded breakfast slices with the initials ?AFC?! What?s not to like, and can we have an Albion equivalent, please?

Moving rapidly onwards, and via a natural break designed to: a) allow The Fart to indulge in his ongoing passion for police horses, and b) the chance for us to natter with some very familiar Baggie faces indeed, we went through the away turnstiles much earlier than we normally would have: this being our first ever visit, we wanted to have a good look at the interior before small details like the kick-off came into play. And we weren?t to be disappointed, either: in short, the Emirates is everything the new Wembley should have been, had poor planning, both contractual and financial, London-centric bias, and then petty politics not blighted the venture well before the first brick was laid. My overwhelming first impression was the Wembley-ish one of light, and space ? lots of it, in fact. Behind us, and high above our heads, ran a band that encircled the entire ground, breaking down the club?s history on a season-by-season basis, and commemorating any winning of silverware that season by a small icon depicting the shape of the trophy in question. And padded seats, too, a surprisingly thoughtful touch my back was to appreciate greatly ? on those rare occasions during the game we didn?t have to stand, of course!

The last time I?d gasped such wonderment and awe was when we visited The Nou Camp, several years ago. Impressed? Not half, especially as the entire place had clearly been designed with the average supporter in mind, and not just the corporates, which made for a nice change at this level, I have to say. No wonder most of our clearly shell-shocked contingent busied themselves with the taking of numerous pictures, before the start! Mind you, it didn?t take long for the team announcement on the big screen to bring the vast majority down to earth with a pretty resounding ?bump?: well, I ask you, no start for Bednar, benched, and debuts for new boys Carson, Cech and Meite. But it was the names of the other ?bench-warmers? that extracted the greatest explosion of mirth from our party; Beattie, Shergar and Dorrens, plus Pele and Martis, for Pete?s sake. Talented players, all of them, but not quite up to the standard we so desperately need, sadly. In an ideal world, none of them would have even got so much as a sniff of a first-team shirt. If ever there was a moment that shrieked our current player shortages to the world, then that bench had to be it. According to the media, Mogga reckons he?ll be going for at least four new signings over the course of the coming week. Clearly, our chairman has temporarily relaxed his vice-like grip on the biscuit tin. Not a minute too soon, I?d say.

Soon after that, our finest lined up to commence what ?Im Indoors memorably tagged ?The Public Slaughter - Resistance Is Futile!?. Irony reared its head in heaps as our travelling contingent advised their Emirates counterparts to ?Stand Up For The Champions?.?, a concept that led to hoots of derision from the home end. Well, it was true; they?d won sod-all last season, whereas we had the silverware to amply justify the chant!

As for the game itself, The Arse threatened to bury us once they got their noses in front, and with only three or four minutes showing on the clock. The killer blow was clinically-simple in its execution, The Arse?s Clichy and Denison combining just inside the box to give Nasri a simple tap-in from close range, but having said that, they?d been threatening ever since the kick-off, missing another clear-cut chance just a couple of minutes before the successful strike.

The following period was largely one of containment for us, with a Brunt near miss from a set-piece just outside the box giving our travelling faithful at least one small pinprick of hope for the immediate future. But the main problem was our lack of suitable players: that, plus a distinct dearth of firepower up front. Sure, Ish Miller was busting a gut out there, but he?s not the finished product by any means, yet another reason why I couldn?t comprehend Mogga?s decision to leave Bednar out of the start. Our ghastly defending should have given The Gunners a green light to blast our side to shreds ? and boy, didn?t they try. But poor finishing frustrated them in their aims to grab a bagful before the end of the half, a deficiency they were to greatly regret, I?ll wager. ?Are you Stoke in disguise?? we chorally enquired. The ultimate insult! By way of contrast, there were some Albion performances to gladden the heart during that opening 45, especially that of Kim, who really looked the part out there, and despite his lack of Premiership nous up front, Miller did his level best to restore parity, despite being hampered by lack of a decent ammo supply.

During the interval, a curious sight: water sprinklers aplenty giving the pitch a darned good soak. But it being The Emirates, shouldn?t those busy sprinklers have gushed oil, not water? Time, also for a bit of a ?Doh!? moment from this column: sensing something distinctly fundamental missing from the half-time scene, I said to my beloved: ?Why haven?t we heard the half-time scores, yet?? Oh dear. Another aside about The Arse?s stewards: not normally one wishing to champion the cause of the men in fluorescent jackets, I could only admire their patience in dealing with a clutch of our own, well-drunk, and clearly hell-bent upon provoking the aforementioned gentlemen. And all because they were sitting in the wrong seats, apparently. Let?s put it this way, any other ground, and they?d have been either ejected or arrested in a matter of minutes: our own lot would have lost patience long before, I?m certain. And massive praise for the brave young Baggie lass that dived in to calm troubled waters when they started getting punchy, midway through the second half. So how long would it take the home side to finally stomp upon the irritating little pests from The Black Country? Surely they?d turn up the wick, put on their subs, and settle our hash for once and for all, this half? No they didn?t: in fact, if anything, we were the ones making the running that half. Just five minutes after hostilities resumed came our best chance yet: first off, Miller, put on by a resourceful Kim, forced Almunia into a panicked parrying of his shot, with the rebound falling to the lurking Robbo, who beat the keeper, only to see the effort somehow kicked off the line by a defender.

As the half wore on, Albion looked more and more capable of inflicting punishment upon the chance-wasting Gunners, a view borne out by the dead silence coming from the home support, the Highbury Library effect clearly lasting the journey to their new home, it would seem. Talk about a ?theatre audience???We won more than you last year!? we gleefully chorussed, an insult that clearly found its mark. That was when Mogga decided to go for it, bringing on Shergar, Beattie and Bednar in fairly rapid succession, with Cech, Miller and Brunt going the opposite way. ?Yo?m worrying?um, Albion, you?m worrying ?um!? shouted one Black Country analyst of the situation. But Beattie?s lack of experience at that level told, as did Shergar?s, the latter blowing hot and cold by turns at vital moments, but Bednar certainly worried their defence. I?ll bet you anything the home side were glad to hear that final whistle: in stark contrast to ours, theirs had not been a classic performance, by any means. Other comments? After the initial shock of the goal, and Arsenal?s subsequent threat to run amok, we then began to hold our own at the back, recover our shape, and gain in confidence considerably as a result. A smidgen more of pure luck, and we?d have given them massive dollops of not so much food for thought as outright indigestion. One could perceive a growing sense of ?we can do this, they?re not the all-conquering outfit their hype would have us believe..? emanating from those yellow-shirted ranks as the game wore on.

Our need for a forward or two to bolster what we?ve already got is growing more urgent by the hour. Let?s hope Mogga?s successful in his midweek search for something better, because even in our currently-enfeebled state, we?re not all that far short of what it takes to survive. Had our chairman had the good sense to make Kev Phillips an improved offer, we might now all be celebrating our first Premiership point: hearing of yet another successful Phillips strike in a Blues shirt serves only to fan the flames of personal fury. You screwed up big-time, there, so you owe us one, Jeremy. What are you going to do about it?

AFTERTHOUGHT?.. The Blight Of Brooksie has spread to the Smoke, it would appear. One of his mates, sat in front of me at The Emirates, solemnly informed me that our noisome chum had contrived to empty a pub in nearby Islington that very same morning, and in fact was sitting just a few rows behind us! Our mutual acquaintance then threatened to swop seats with our smelly pal, which swiftly brought the animated verbal reaction from me of ?Do that, mate, and you?re DEAD!??

 - Glynis Wright

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