Another view of yesterday's game from Glynis Wright.
Upon our arrival in Hereford, we were whistling merry tunes after Albion had at least maintained the relegation status quo and remarkably even scored a goal away from home. We parked up outside Edgar Street and embarked upon a bit of a scouting mission, in the town itself, for I was looking for some new jeans. No worries there, either. Quickly bagging two pairs straight from the rack, we then looked for a place of sustenance - and that's the first inkling we had that Morris dancers were only a hop, skip and a jump away from us, honest! All gathered around the nearby Cornish pasty shop, and all caught for all eternity in the act of massed-deglutition. Just watching them was a bit of an eye-opener; dressed in multi-hued clothing, with bells and feathers sewn into awkward places, rat-catcher type trousers, the ones with the drawstrings at the bottom of each leg, with a soupcon of pagan ritual chucked in for good measure as well. It's at times like that I positively long for the use of my trusty Nikon camera. Oh - and while we're on the subject of stereotypes, you can't get more stereotypical than a young bloke sporting a bushy beard of fungal-growth proportions, and looking as though he's about to launch into a serious burst of heavy-duty folk singing, can you?
Shame about all the blacked-up faces, though - a more 'non-PC' manner of dress I've yet to come across. Or perhaps not; some of you might already know that Cornwall's Padstow recently ran into a spot of similar bother with its annual 'Darkie Day', a local tradition with distinctly-murky roots hidden in the mists of time, where every young bloke in the vicinity paraded through the town wearing black theatrical slap on their faces, while dancing also to the distinctly asthmatic, wheezy almost, sound of concertinas being squeezed to mutually-assured destruction, almost. And something called the Padstow 'Oss, black, vaguely menacing to look at, and cavorting all the while about the town on the day in question. Pagan religions really do have a lot to answer for in these isles!
And, while I was all agog waiting for 'Im Indoors to augment his personal pasty supply, I took the opportunity of listening to one of their number pontificating on his mobile to some woman or other. During the course of the conversation, I couldn't help but notice that the word 'Baggies' didn't half crop up a lot. Another believer? Yep - and one who vaguely knew me, seemingly enough, judging by the enormous number of funny looks I was getting every time. Or was that just the 365-degree rotation of my head? Just as we were about to head back towards the ground, up spoke this chap, the biggest and hairiest Morris dancer I?d ever seen in my entire life, to exhort "Come on you Baggies!" That was his battle-cry - so without further ado, I flashed him the biggest bloody grin you'd ever seen in your entire life!
From that pasty shop, it was just a mere five minute walk to Edgar Street - and once there, it was rapidly becoming abundantly clear that if nothing else, this game was going to be pretty well attended. Even our 'normal' entrance had a queue stretching right round the corner of the small players' car-park, so without further ado, newly-purchased jeans and all, we dived straight in. Luckily, most of the old codgers responsible for gumming up the works had already gone through, so our passage was therefore rendered painless, almost. Mystery Of The Universe Part One: Why is it that this football club employs on this particular entrance one of the slowest turnstile operators it's ever been my misfortune to meet? Just what is it about handing over money and getting a ticket by way of return that's so darned complicated, I ask myself? Yeah, I know - why is the sky blue? Why do all the dickie-birds sing like things demented during the hours of dawn and dusk? Why is Tony Blair still Prime Minister? Sometimes, there are things in life that even pass the normal bounds of human understanding. So there.
Stanley had brought with them a goodly sort of following, I suppose, but what particularly struck me about them were those flags and banners, oodles of 'em, and all parked in the huge empty space that passes for an away end behind one of the goals. Not opened terribly often, which is why the Accrington lot were invited to park their numerous bits of supporting paraphernalia right there. When their lot emerged from the tunnel, onto the pitch also went the biggest quantity of paper streamers I've ever seen in my entire life. The stewards got tasked with clearing it all up, of course: moving the stuff was like trying to shift very long strands of white spaghetti from the area! Oh, and let's not forget the guy with the drum, if only because of the considerable noise factor very much ensuring none of us couldn't!
As I said the other night, on paper, this looked quite an interesting encounter, first versus second, but the truth was that Stanley were 16 points in front of The Bulls anyway, so a result wasn't a matter of such aching urgency to either side, strictly speaking. Still, it was genuinely billed as one of the main highlights of their season, which was fair enough, I suppose.
Also curious were the astonishing number of parallels this game had with our Chelski affair last Saturday. Like their moneybags West London counterparts, Accrington were not only runaway Conference leaders, just like a certain Arrogant One we've all grown to know and love during the course of the last few days, they, too, have an absolute pain in the posterior patrolling the technical area. No, he's not elegantly dressed, and possessing a suntan most models would kill for, he's very bald, a bit stumpy with it, and when in full flow, his voice sounds very much like the honking of a hugely demented seal, but just like his awful Prem counterpart, he didn't half make life miserable for all three match officials - not to mention the fourth one on the touchline. In fact I've an idea he actually got 'sent off' towards the end of today's game, so that alone should give you a pretty good indication of this guy's nuisance-value.
On the pitch were other strong similarities, too. They, too, sported a blue strip of similar hue. As and when they perceived the need to arise, Accrington weren't at all averse to indulging in similar acts of 'gamesmanship' to the stuff we all witnessed the other Saturday afternoon, either. It being the Conference and not the Prem, they were very short on subtlety and all-too long on crudity, and before too many minutes had ticked by, more than one Hereford player fell victim to those cynically-scything legs and feet I mentioned earlier. Mind you, this happened to cut two ways; by 15 or so minutes into the game, the visitors had run up a truly enormous number of free-kicks against them. "Bet you any money Stanley don't finish the game with eleven on the pitch!" said I - and, yep, it sure as hell turned out I'd got that one right as well!
Watching them in action, you could quite easily see how they'd got to where they were: good, disciplined defence, but with a shocking tendency to go for the X-rated stuff, more often than not, a solid midfield, which worked in synchrony, almost, with a strikeforce that was rapacious, almost. Stuff up in the six-yard box against this lot, and you were as dead as the dodo. But by playing good passing football, Hereford proved they could more than match anything the opposition came up with, but it was the visitors that finally struck the first blow. David Brown, an ex-Bull, I believe, put Stanley ahead in the first half, an 'oggie' from Tam Mkandawire making it two in the second half.
The Bulls looked dead and buried - but it was around that time Stanley's cynical 'stopping' and time-wasting tactics really started to badly rebound on them. The rot started when they had Danny Ventre sent off for deliberate handball - well, if you will try to get an impromptu game of beach volleyball going in the Hereford box, thereby stopping the opposition from netting in a highly-unusual manner, Stanley, what else do you expect? - Hereford's Fleetwood finally potting the black from a penalty rebound. The dismissal really changed the ground-rules; suddenly, The Bulls had more space than they knew what to do with: as a result, the final fifteen minutes became somewhat - erm - 'lively', shall we say?
A sustained period of Bulls pressure saw the visitors buckle badly, but not cave in completely; in the end, they resorted to type, and yet more spoiling tactics became the order of the day, among these being the time actually taken for substitutions stretched way, way beyond their elastic limit. The referee finally 'lost it' when their manager blatantly left his technical area, and started coaching from the vicinity of the corner-flag! No surprise to learn that he ended up walking, too! No surprise, either, when the man in black finally ordained that a full six minutes of extra-time be played. That was to prove Stanley's real undoing: in a real barnstorming finish I've not seen on a football pitch for absolute yonks, The Bulls eventually netted a well-deserved equaliser, about halfway through the extended injury-time period previously stated. Blimey, what a game!
Text at top (next game etc)
Next Game: Home Against Southport In The League On Saturday January 18th At 3.00pm