Wolves at Home 2016/17 – Pickled

Yuk. Where’s the paracetamol?

Anyone expecting a sensible report should probably turn away now. This was one of those games. Sometimes, when you’re child free and your friends are egging you on, there’s only one way to go. You vaguely think to yourself ‘what will I write tomorrow?’ and ‘I hope work will be ok’ and then you do it anyway because, damn it, going to the pub with your friends after a reasonably comfortable 1-0 win is FUN. Without the win, though, the returns diminish. There was some football played last night, and most of it by us.

Let’s go back to the beginning though. There was a train strike on, but to say it was beginning to bite would be a lie. In fact yesterday was one of the most comfortable days of travel I’ve yet had. I had to go to meetings in London in the day. OK, so I had to get a cab to Brighton and then a Thameslink to somewhere in London that was miles from my office but the train I did get was less busy than normal at least. On the way back I managed to get a Gatwick Express that actually lived up to its name (normally they should be rebranded the Gatwick Snail) and therefore managed to arrive at the Park and Ride at Sainsbury’s in plenty of time for the first bus. This allowed me to have one of the Chicken Vindaloo pies for dinner (a triumph, 10/10) and start in on the Harvey’s. Then the leader of the cheese eating poker school appeared for the first time this season with family who were over from Australia (who would provide the neutral’s view later on that would confirm my own thoughts on the game) and things went rapidly downhill. Not for the Albion you understand. Just my liver.

The Albion were doing just fine. Wolves looked, well, distinctly average and we settled on the ball and began to force set pieces. An early free kick from Knockaert out wide missed everyone and had to be tipped over. A corner somehow evaded the tiny touch needed to put it in. Then, still with less than fifteen minutes played, we recovered the ball out in left midfield and Bong was set off on an overlap. His tempting cross was met by Baldock who stuck away an excellent header and we were one up. Stockdale had to make a similar tip over from a similar wide ball in, but from open play, and that was that. “Fancy a half time pint?” asked Steve. Did I ever.

After that stuff happened. Things. Bits. Incidents. I remember Wolves going through and shooting just over under pressure. I remember us coming close from a corner. And I definitely remember us sitting back in the last ten minutes, inviting Wolves on and making it squeaky bum time all over the WSU, and not just because of the vindaloo pie. But we held on for a just about deserved victory.

The neutral’s view was that we had dominated the game, that our wide players and centre backs were excellent and that Murray was pretty ordinary. I realise that’s hardly Gary Neville-like analysis but it chimed with my own thoughts. Another of our poker friends thought Skalak had been excellent and he certainly put himself about. Everyone agreed Wolves were average.

So, then, all hail train strikes. Well, all apart from Paul Barber and Tony Bloom. The usual post match beer queue in the WSL failed to appear. I checked my train app, expecting us to have to get a night bus with the students (or a cab) but, instead, there was a train every 15 minutes back to town. No one was on it. We STROLLED on. We got a seat. Thanks RMT.

Then to the pub and that’s where it started going really wrong. I won’t bore you with the details. I need another coffee.



Wolves at Home – Typical

If ever a game summed up our season…….

Let’s be honest, this season has been severely disappointing on the pitch. We have underachieved as a club for a myriad of reasons and, in general, the fans have not had value for money. Twenty seven thousand may have held tickets for yesterday’s game but I doubt there were very much more than twenty thousand inside the ground. Our squad, hastily cobbled together at the last minute has played, most of the time, as if they were hastily cobbled together. We are by no means safe. Our form under Chris Hughton has been much better in terms of points, and I still have no doubts  he’s the man to take us forward, but there are certain football crimes that have characterised the season and yesterday they were all present.

It has not been a season of total loss though. From a personal point of view there have been some highly satisfying and fulfilling achievements. This blog can focus on what a friend and fellow blogger calls “the Brian Johnstone moments” – not so much cakes, buses and young ladies as pies, beers and conversations – but that is because they have been the only satisfying element. My son has gone from keen observer to die hard Albion fan with an away game under his belt, a genuine favourite player, a cynicism towards referees and an understanding that we do not like Crystal Palace. I have made a genuine friend, a friend who has made the trips to and from The Amex (and Charlton) a pleasure. We moved seat but luckily to an area where the people around us, particularly the lads behind us, are funny, engaging and typical old school fans who like a sing-song. Off the field it’s been great.

Yesterday morning we had “a scene” at home as The Boy refused initially to go for a haircut, unfortunate because, if he’d found himself stood up in the broom cupboard people would have turned him upside down and used him as a mop. Eventually, as all parents do, I resorted to bribery, or rather the withdrawal of privilege.  Get your hair cut or no football. The prospect seemed to genuinely terrify him and after more tears than I could imagine he followed me to the barbers. That’s the one that cuts hair. I’m saving Paul for when he’s really naughty. A-ha. Yes, the prospect of missing a match, even in this season, actually upset him. Halfway through the first half the action was so riveting he’d resorted to reading his programme.

So a typically pleasant journey to the ground and pre match pint were followed by a typical Albion performance. The team that had lost pitifully at Reading were hacked apart, Hughton making six changes. A typically shaken up team also contained players typically out of position. With no squad place for Ince or JFC we selected a right back at right midfield (again) and a midfielder, in Dale Stephens, at inside left. Kayal and Holla were to do the water carrying, and CMS was to lead the line with Tex flitting between inside right and tucked in behind. The back four was unchanged.

The reason behind the tinkering soon became apparent. Wolves are not the strongest side in midfield that I’ve seen this season. In fact, despite maintaining a fairy regulation shape they barely seemed to have one. In such a set up Kayal excelled and Holla showed why he’s not been selected as much as a man on a three year contract should be, the former winning and playing intelligent ball, the latter giving it away again, including the dead balls he’s supposed to excel at. We dominated possession and, soon enough, we’d created an excellent chance. Teixeira opened up the Wolves defence and a cross from the right found a man unmarked with a header from six yards. Unfortunately it was CMS, one league goal all season. He headed straight at the keeper. Typical.

Then, despite our dominance, we should have gone one down. Dunk who has been excellent most of the season slipped and fell and presented a clear through chance to Afobe. There was a real chance the game could have been stopped and Dunk dismissed as he tried to handle to ball away but the referee played advantage and Afobe’s run was brilliantly ended by Stockdale, before Greer cleared the rebound off the line via Sako. Phew. Typical though.

At the other end Tex was proving to be a real handful, Stephens was proving he wasn’t an inside left and Holla was proving my initial praise of him premature. Then CMS was put through and though the shot was at a tighter angle than he would have liked, he screwed it wide. Typical. And all season long typical. Right now I’ve given up hope on a twenty goal a season forward. A five goal a season forward would be nice. The rest of the half? Us with ineffective possession. The boy read his programme. The adults talked. Time passed. Slowly.

I don’t know what it is that Chris Hughton says at half time but I trust the club has a good supply of tea cups. Just as we have typically done in this second half of the season, in the second half of a game, we came out far brighter and actually looked to create penetrating chances. A Wolves defence that was tiring of CMS and his eager puppy runs and Tex’s flair were losing the small amount of protection they’d had from a Wolves midfield that was taking tea with its Auntie Mabel. We bore down on goal, turned the screw, but, typically, did not create good enough chances. Until THAT moment. Teixeira shot, the ball spilled loose, CMS tucked in the rebound (who said he couldn’t score) and hared off towards the Family Stand in celebration, only to see the assistant’s flag up for offside, a close call that I wouldn’t mind seeing again on replay. Bollocks. Typical.

Then, with the game seemingly drifting to 0-0, we scored for real, neat work from Calderon forcing space in the box and, when his shot was parried, Bruno arrowed the rebound back in to the far corner of the net. We’d scored, not from our forwards or attacking midfielders but from a defender. Again. Typical. It did not mask the joy however.

So, on this most typical of days, what happened next? “I give it five minutes before we concede” said Steve. “Three minutes” the bloke behind us reckoned. “Two” said the absent Mark, via text message. In fact it was four. Four minutes between scoring and conceding. A-sodding-gain. Four minutes in which we backed off and invited Wolves to attack. Four minutes in which we did not touch the ball. Four minutes capped off by another howler from Stockdale, who somehow contrived to juggle a deflected cross from van La Parra, Wolves’ outstanding player on the day, in to his own net. Typical. With a word beginning with F in front of it.

There was still time for us to make a total hash of a free kick in a dangerous position before switching off at the back and allowing Sako space to receive a cut back. His shot was impressively, outstandingly, impossibly saved by Stockdale. As one of my regular twitter mates commented last night the bloke’s Marmite.

Afterwards we had a quick beer, a quick chat and caught an overloaded train full of people moaning about Stockdale and CMS back to Brighton. Typical.