Spoilt rotten

Harry Secombe

Wycombe Wanderers 0 Dagenham & Redbridge 1

Shortly before kick-off, sinister rumours are sweeping the Valley End that those pathetic socialists at the FA have ordered Dagenham to find a new nickname. A top local journalist has let it be known that, with the East End in knife-crime turmoil, there was an ultimatum from Barwick’s red madmen to get rid of the “Daggers” moniker erm … sharpish.

Much discussion followed of political correctness gone mad and what aspect of East End life should be reflected in the new title – jellied eels? the car industry? pearly queens? multiculturalism? Or maybe they should make use of the Redbridge connection – their turn perhaps? But these riveting lines of thought were rudely interrupted by the football.

We are all unusually optimistic after the Chairboys 1-0 demolition of the Spireites on Saturday, as the game kicked off, and only slightly worried at Bloomfield’s absence. We were reassured that we could cope without him in that first quarter as there was space and generosity aplenty in the Daggers’ (go on, say it while you can, the Daggers’) defence. Surely our stellar cast of model pros, respected journeymen, Premiership loanees and ex-Championship bad boys can deal with this hapless bunch. Indeed the Daggers defence puts one on a plate for Sutton – the centre-back ducking under the ball in an “after you” moment - only to see the big man loop it tamely into Tony Roberts’ grateful arms. And the ball seems always to fall to one of our midfielders – Doherty and Holt in particular seeing plenty of the ball.

But Bullock and Martin are making minimal headway down the right, suggesting that “Gollum” is as short on confidence as he is on match practice. In one pleasing but apparently accidental moment he finds himself at the byeline but the cross disappoints – a touch of vertigo, maybe. And the half drifts further into aimlessness the longer it goes on. If this team gave the impression on Saturday that they could have strung crisp, effective passes together to infinity, so tonight they show glimmers of inspiration, but are always thwarted - not on the same wavelength, the pass just misdirected, or the run mistimed – and most tellingly, the final ball just isn’t there. Even Beardy Tom looks weighed down, probably by eric plant’s post Chesterfield hyperbole.

But still, the Daggers haven’t threatened us. Oh, hang on. Big Leon, who’s made two mistakes all season, makes two in a minute. He slips and allows Strevens a run in on goal. A corner results, as Fielding tips the shot wide. But from the corner the ball is struck back into the box and strikes Leon on the arm. The ref pauses a moment – ball to hand, or hand to ball? - then points at the spot. Rainford, whose only previous function seems to have been to kick Doherty, tucks the penalty away without fuss.

This sours the half-time mood. Dream up a challenge for Bodger? “How about he tries supporting Marlow for a season?” mutters my usually affable companion. But surely we can’t lose to this lot?

The second half starts tamely and dismally for poor Bullock, who tries to take on Griffiths, the excellent Daggers’ (sod you and your lefty friends Brian, I said the DAGGERS’ …) left back. Griffiths has excellent East End credentials: looks like a bovver boy and has his Nan’s “they shall not pass” attitude. For every attempt by Bullock to take him on, he emerges with the ball and launches Dagenham forward. Cruelly baited by the crowd, Bullock is withdrawn to cries of “gerrrimoffffffff” from the sympathetic voices in the Valley.

Perhaps sensing the lack of entertainment on offer, John Still generously brings on Alan Biley to put in a shift up front. It’s some hair cut, to be sure.

But things are starting to look up. Little Leon has replaced Bullock and looks distinctly lively. We’ve lost a bit of shape, but we’re having a go now. On 70 minutes Knight guides a shot goalward but too close to Roberts in the Daggers’ goal. We’re having the vast majority of the pressure and the possession, but there’s still space for Doherty to send a back pass across his goal to one of the Daggers’ front men. Thankfully it’s not Shevchenko this time, but even so, I swear I see Doherty’s lips through the facial hair cursing eric plant.

The players squander opportunities like their paymasters squander cash. In rapid succession, Sutton and Knight combine as the latter sends a cross flashing across the six-yard box, but McGleish fails to get a toe on it. The Doc then gets to the byeline only to see his cross cleared. All this pressure must surely get us a goal. We end up playing a 3-2-5 formation which I haven’t seen since I played for the cubs and Doherty gets tetchy with one of the Daggers’ lads, just to use up some time.

The game peters out and we troop out, despondent, as the opposition players celebrate on the pitch. Like we celebrated at Maine Road and the Memorial Ground, I guess. A gaggle of their fans in the car park are singing out their delight at an unexpected win.

That nickname? The 'Bridge Boys? The Motors? No. The Spoilers sounds better. A fair jibe at a game plan to strangle the life out of the game and steal it? Or a noble East End name in the tradition of Cable Street and living through the Blitz – making the best of the little you’ve got? Oh … and it has the added benefit of being something they like to tart up their cars with.

A bad night. But the Milkmen had better watch out Saturday.

31.01.2008. 09:42

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