Warthogs On The Pitch

It's belting down with rain as I dash between Monument and Bank stations, but what's going through my mind is not, 'Why do those blokes still need to wash the pavement with that high-powered hose?' but the Osmonds' song which goes, 'We're having a party, Gonna dance and play, We're having a party, While the folks are away.' Don't worry, I don't think about the Osmonds often, but today is, after all, the London Millers Christmas Party trip.
The London Millers may have officially in existence for 25 years, but the party trip has only really been around since December 2000. On that day, we managed to pull crackers, scoff mince pies, drink the gluhwein Rob Maxfield had brought back from the Frankfurt Christmas party and stuff copies of the London Miller magazine into envelopes - all between London and Swindon. As with most of our party trips since, the result that day didn't go our way, but we did have a great time. Since then, highlights have included a home trip against Preston, on the way back from which we initiated Phil Kyte ('the hapless Phil Kyte', as I later called him in the programme notes, much to the amusement of his dad) into the gang by making him sell raffle tickets to the drunkest Woking fans in Christendom. Then there was the Ipswich trip, where we not only celebrated a win (and are shown doing so - or at least applauding one of our goals - on that year's season highlights video) but Steve Ducker invented a new version of 'The 12 Days Of Christmas', where the 'true love' gave their paramour 'Division 2 for Sheffield Wednesday' and the then first choice Rotherham X1 by squad number. Even now, I can't hear the carol without wanting to replace the five gold rings with eight Chris Swailes... The most hilarious was the journey back from Cheltenham, where someone started describing how he'd seen a bloke dressed in a Father Christmas costume get into a scuffle in the away end. In the telling, this became inflated into a full-on Santa-off, with red-suited, white-bearded blokes being pulled apart by small children dressed as elves, yelling, 'Leave him, Dad, he's not worth it!' Meanwhile, the rest of the conversation was made up of what can only be described as single entendres about our then midfielder Martin Woods. A sex 'scandal' involving some Sunderland players had made the pages of the Sun, in which Martin had had a minor role (or as we inevitably described it at the time, a small part...).

So we're hoping for similar entertainment when we meet up at Kings Cross. There are eight of us - me, Jenny, Chris Turner, John Kirkland, Andy Leng, Rob 'still a jinx?' Elston, Stephen Armitage (making his first trip without his dad) and Clarkey. Stephanie, Clarkey tells us, has blown us out in favour of watching the X Factor final. Tim will be joining us on the train at Meadowhell and Phil Kyte and Chris Kirkland will be waiting in Sheffield, the latter having taken an earlier than usual train from Manchester to save 45p... Everything is going to plan, from the crackers, champers and party food on the train - Chris' cheese and silverskin onions on sticks the piece de resistance, as always - to gathering in the extra bodies en route. And then we board the tram, heading for the three pubs around West Street we were planning to visit, only for Phil to receive a text telling him the match is off! I ring my dad for confirmation. Yes, it's been on Radio Sheffield and Sky - the pitch is waterlogged and the ref has deemed it unfit for play. Disaster! Or maybe not. At last Phil is going to get the afternoon of drinking he's been suggesting all season - he can even pretend we'd won if he wants.

First stop is the Devonshire Cat, a weirdly modern pub which feels like an upmarket Wetherspoon - though the beer goes down well. We see a group of lads walk in and recognised them as Aldershot fans who we'd met on a train at the end of last season, when we'd been coming back from Mansfield and they'd been at Rushden & Diamonds. We'd had a good chat with them then, and they'd told us how, despite the romantic ideals of some of our fans, who were reckoning that if we hadn't found a buyer for Rotherham it would have been fun to start again in non-league football, that's the last thing anyone wants to do. They'd endured some miserable years since they went bust in 1992 thinking they would never see their team play league football again, and they wouldn't wish it on anyone. Now, they've come up to Sheffield for the whole weekend - and are probably going to have the opportunity to sample more pubs than they expected. Meanwhile, John and Andy are trying to find out whether Sheffield FC's game is on, working on the theory that we could go over and be the Mark Newsham fan club for the afternoon, as that's where he's pitched up on loan. The bad news, according to their website, is that the game is off. The good news is that their new replica away kit is now in stock - ideal if Andy fancies treating himself to a new shirt at two in the morning, as he sometimes does...

We end up spending most of the afternoon in the Bath Hotel, which is a great pub. Good beer, nice staff and possibly the world's tiniest kitchen, so it takes us a bit longer than we would normally expect for our food to arrive - but hell, we have all afternoon! Tim has been joined by a friend he knows through the When Saturday Comes messageboard, and Chris K and I keep the others up to date with the football scores via my radio and John's Blackberry (which Chris knows how to work a lot better than he does). There's a particularly massive cheer when Hull go two up against Liverpool, even though it doeen't stay that way.

A quickie in the Red Deer (where those whose view, unlike mine, wasn't blocked by a pillar were watch what appeared to be a burgeoning romance between two of the bar staff) is followed by the tram ride to the station, squeezed in among the Wednesday and Brizzle fans on the way back to the station. Someone should pour olive oil in through the windows so we can really recreate the full 'sardines in a tin' experience. In Donny, there is time to visit one of our favourite haunts, the Corner Pin, which endears itself to us even more by offering seasonal chip butties. They are devoured while we pick over the Green 'Un, which John has acquired from the stall at Doncaster station. It'll be a real shame if the pub is, as is threatened, demolished to make way for a new development in that part of Doncaster.

Part two of the party, the sweet course you might call it, takes place on the train back to London. It is a more sedate affair than on the way up, partly because the afternoon has been a little more alcohol-fuelled than people expected, and partly because we are in the quiet carriage and Clarkey manages to incur the wrath of a female passenger by raising his voice... Still, it's been a really good day, even minus any actual football - roll on the last game of the season, as that's our other excuse for a party trip!

Go West (In The Open Air)

As Exeter on a Tuesday night is too difficult to get to or from on public
transport from London - come to think of it, most places - this London
Millers blog is brought to you by Bro of London Miller who more conveniently
lives in the West, well Cheltenham, and also doesn¹t have to rely solely on
public transport.

I¹d had a good drive down to Exeter with only one minor hold up on the M5
where some inconsiderate person had decided to break down in the middle of
the roadworks on the Avonmouth Bridge. I was actually relieved that Q had
decided not to take up my offer of a lift; nothing personal, but it saved me
having to fight my way into Bristol where an even more inconsiderate lorry
had decided to shed a load of bricks on the M4/M32 junction. A minor detour
to a Tesco in Exeter to top up with cheap petrol (thanks to Coldwell
Maximus¹ discount vouchers) and then Tom Tom led me straight to the ground.
Nice to see the Rotherham team bus was already there, not so good to see
there was nowhere to park around the ground. So it was a swift drive back to
a car park I¹d passed half a mile down the road. Some good news here as it
was after 6 p.m. so the parking was free (you can take the boy out of
Yorkshire, as they say!). Still an hour to kick off so there¹s time for a
swift pint. Taking advice from the ŒFootball Ground Guide¹ and ŒGood Beer
Guide¹ I find myself in The Brook Green Tavern, just round the corner from
the away end. The pub is surprisingly quiet to say there is a match on but
it turns out to be a cracking pub. There is a happy mix of Exeter fans and
Millers, pool table, jukebox, Sky Sports News and beer wise there was a
choice of two real ales. (Two of which are Cornish!). What more could you
want? I plump for the Otter bitter due to the fact that a) I¹m driving and
it¹s the least alcoholic and b) it¹s the most local of the brews.

Pint over it¹s time to head back in to the cold and over to the ground. A
handful of Millers fans are making their way through the turnstiles and
parting with the very reasonable £13 for the night¹s entertainment. This is
my first visit to St James¹ Park and forget those distant days of
Championship football with its all-seater stadia this is what we really
want: a proper ground - uncovered narrow terracing with a real proximity to
the action. There is a display of cheerleading in progress. Oh, dear, they
like forming pyramids but rarely get above two high. Fortunately it¹s soon
over and the teams are out.

Before kick-off there is a well observed minute applause for two recently
deceased ex-Exeter players.

It¹s a lively start and Stockdale pulls off a superb save from a twenty-yard
volley after about five minutes. Surely not time to start blowing this early
on.

Rotherham are wearing their yellow away strip which gets a chorus of ŒAre
you Torquay in disguise¹ from the Exeter fans one of the few things we hear
from them apart from what must be the cheer leaders who are now in the
stands and give out high pitched yelps when ever Exeter attack. Someone has
brought a drum into the away end but fails really to get any sort of rhythm
going, a bit like the team, and after about 15 minutes it is handed over to
one of the ball boys. A group have also decided that even though the weather
is freezing they should take their shirts off. Obviously think they¹ve gone
to the other St James¹ Park.

The Millers have lots of possession but no end product. Green, Tonge and
Joseph all look threatening but fail to get decent crosses in. Then just as
we approach half time the Bobby¹s come as my father would say. Firstly there
is a low cross from the right which none of the Rotherham defence manage to
deal with but somehow the unmarked Exeter forward (Moxey) manages to miss
from two yards out but a minute or so later Rotherham fail to learn their
lesson. Another low cross comes in and this time it¹s one-nil.

Half-time comes and it¹s time to sample the catering. A Cornish pasty (we
are in Devon though, aren¹t we?) is very pleasant. After Liz¹s recent
exploits at Dagenham I end up having to kick the ball back to the warming up
Rotherham subs. Hopefully no spec on the Preening Lovely and fortunately I
don¹t drop my pasty in the process.

Second half starts with lots of Rotherham pressure. Dale Tonge forcing a
fine save with a twenty-yard volley but it¹s Exeter who should have doubled
their lead. Against the run of play there is a nothing challenge on the edge
of the Rotherham penalty area and the ref (who¹d had a reasonable game till
then) is pointing to the spot. Reuben Reid is warming up on the touchline
and his protests earn him a yellow card. Certainly the first time I¹ve seen
a player booked before he¹s taken the field but I am assured that a similar
thing happened to Alan Lee at Norwich. Stockdale pulls off a fantastic save
from the penalty and justice is done.

After the superb penalty save normal service is almost resumed when
Stockdale drops a cross but somehow Exeter pull off another fine miss and
the Rotherham defence manage to scramble the ball away for a corner.

The referee makes up for his first penalty when he the awards one to
Rotherham after Richie Barker, who was through on goal, is sandwiched
between defender and keeper and brought down. Reid, who is now on the field,
steps up to take the penalty and even though the keeper gets a hand to it
sheer power sees the ball into the back of the net.

It¹s then twenty minutes of blowing with the game capable of going either
way. When the fourth official holds up five minutes of additional time,
mostly for an injury to Exeter¹s Marcus Stewart that had seen him
stretchered off after a harmless challenge (serves him right for scoring
twice at Millmoor in his Sunderland days), the blowing increases but
Rotherham actually look the more likely to score but in the end the game
ends in draw and to be honest I¹d have settled for the point before the
game.

The toilets are right by the players¹ tunnel so I wander over to a) use the
facilities and b) clap the team off. It is a good job you can¹t get this
close to the exiting players and officials at Gillingham but that¹s another
story.

The toilets themselves are very reminiscent of old Millmoor but I don¹t
remember even those having ivy growing up the walls. A bottle of Diet Coke
falls out of my coat pocket into the trough and I decide against getting it
back to salvage the remaining drink (sometimes you can take the Yorkshire
out of the boy!)

It¹s a quick stroll back to the car park and the warmth of the car. The car
park is now is now full mostly of people who¹ve been to the match and all
want to leave but the queues aren¹t as bad as at those out of town grounds
like Northampton, Chester or Yeovil and soon I¹m heading back to the
motorway and home with Danny Baker on 606 for company.

A good trip but hopefully next season the Football League computer will do
the sensible thing and put this fixture on a Saturday when more that 106
people will make it to support Rotherham, including a few more from London.

Missing In Action

What should be a routine trip up to Sheffield starts with a mild panic when
there's no sign of Steve Ducker, even with a couple of minutes before the
train departs. Is he ill, or has the Northern Line swallowed him up? For the
first time in forever, we're going to be a Miller light (sorry!). Once Jenny
and I establish radio contact with Steve, it turns out he'd simply forgotten
he was booked on the trip. The two of us split his coffee and hope this will
turn out to be as good as our last 'ladies only' trip to Grimsby, which was
a surprisingly pleasant day, even if we did almost get mown down on
Cleethorpes prom by a couple of Grimsby players on pushbikes. The train
itself is packed with Arsenal fans, taking the alternative route up to
Manchester as the West Coast Line is engineering works central yet again. We
joke that we'll only see them on the way back if they've left early because
Man City are stuffing them - like that's going to happen...

Heading for the Supertram at Sheffield station, we spot a familiar red hat
on the platform. Chris Kirkland has made it over from Manchester unscathed,
so it's off to the Fat Cat to meet Mr Kyte.

Everything so far has been pleasantly uneventful, the weather isn't quite as
cold as we'd been expecting (though it's still chilly enough for my dad to
trot out the expression, 'Mrs Johnstone's on the doorstep,' which apparently
means there's a dew drop on the end of your nose) and as we wander down to
the DVS with The Tivoli's 'Drop Me Off In Rotherham', the official theme
tune for our years in exile, blaring over the Tannoy the omens seem good for
the match itself. The Bradford fans are here in number - as they should be
given the short distance they've had to travel, and their mascot is
wandering around, attempting to whip them into a frenzy as only a fat bloke
sporting a City shirt, bowler hat and briefcase can. You'd have thought this
would actually be an improvement on someone shuffling around in a furry
costume, but actually it isn't.

Unfortunately, the omens prove us wrong. We create so many chances in the
first half - from the very first minute, in fact, when Drewe Broughton
narrowly heads over - that we really should be three up by half-time. The
team line-up is considerably changed from the last few games, with Danny
Harrison and Reuben Reid both suspended, Don Warrington injured and Andy
Nicholas apparently just knackered, so Peter 'Pholmes' Holmes (so christened
last year to distinguish him from Derek 'Dholmes' Holmes), Jamie Green and
Ryan Taylor all start. Making his debut in goal is David Stockdale, on loan
from Fulham but better known to us from his time at Darlo, where he proved
himself to be the only man who's ever thought he looked good in a
fluorescent orange top with one white sleeve. Here, in a more subdued grey,
he only has one save to make before the break.

Of course, we are made to pay in the second half, as Bradford, who are
slightly improved but not greatly so, score with only their second attempt
on goal. We press for an equaliser and think we've got it following a
goalmouth scramble, though Sky's cameras later prove that Broughton's header
bounced down directly on the line but didn't go over it. I consider this
unlucky; the legendary Darlo Ted would describe it as inaccurate. While
we're still getting over the injustice of what we think at the time has been
a goal not given, Bradford go straight down the other end and score.
Typical.

The tram back into Sheffield is crammed with Bradford fans of the
particularly knuckle-dragging variety. 'Two shots, we only had two shots,'
they sing; I'd be with Ted on the inaccuracy of that one. Gloating, however,
has a nasty habit of coming back and biting you on the bum, and this lot are
doing so much of it they'll have to check their rear ends for teeth marks at
some point later in the season. Just at the point when we're beginning to
wonder why the police aren't around, a mob of the South Yorkshire
Constabulary's finest hove into view, truncheons akimbo. Jenny, Chris and I
leave them chasing the knuckle-draggers into the bus station and nip for a
quick pint in the Old Queen's Head.

On the train back, Jenny and I amuse ourselves with Stephen Brogan's Q and A
from the programme. Most of the questions are actually answered by other
players butting in on the interview and seem to relate to the amount of time
teeny tiny Stephen spends on his hair. I'm waiting for one which asks, 'Did
you know the London Millers saw twenty blokes on a train back from Aldershot
who all looked just like you?' but it doesn't materialise.' After that,
there's nothing much to do but spot how many people have already got their
Christmas lights up (by the time we travel back from the Aldershot game in a
couple of weeks' time, I'm sure parts of Luton will be visible from
space...), and wonder whether Steve is sitting at home thinking he
inadvertently made the right decision after all.

I'm A Miller... Get Me Out Of Here!

When people start excising themself about some voting scandal on 'The X Factor' or 'Strictly Come Dancing', it usually goes straight over my head, simply because I never see any of those programmes. At that time on a Saturday night, I'm usually on a train coming back from a match, or in the pub - though if my parents are reading this, I'm on a train! I'm aware that 'I'm A Celebrity... Get Me Out Of Here!' (or as it's known in our office, 'You're A Celebrity... Get Some Dignity!') is back on ITV. I'm also vaguely aware that the 'celebrities' on this series include Robert Kilroy-Silk (he's had his hand on my knee, you know), that bloke off 'EastEnders' who used to play a Miller but is actually a Gooner and some model who styles herself 'the ultimate WAG' but is actually the girlfriend of someone who plays for - er - Peterborough. But none of that concerns me, because if I want to see something shocking and unlikely, I don't need to switch on Esther Rantzen eating a live cockroach, I can just go and watch Rotherham play Gillingham. If there's one ground where we know we're guaranteed to have the referee conned into sending one of our players off, see a perfectly good goal disallowed or have the ball cross the line without a goal being given, it's the Priestfield.

Of course, we're not thinking about this as we meet up at Victoria. We usually turn up at Gillingham en masse, and today is no exception, as the travelling party includes Jenny, Tim, John Kirkland, Rob 'the jinx' Elston, my brother (who's providing the photographic reportage for the day), Clarkey and Stephanie, Nigel Bowns, Phil, Diamond and The Future Mrs Diamond - the latter three having come all the way from Rotherham in true 'gluttons for punishment' style. The South Norwood Gentlemen's Rambling Association (better known as Chris Turner, Andy Leng and Paul 'I was the Serge Gainsbourg of Masborough' Martin) have already set off, intending to visit The Barge, which is a decent pub but one which is just too much of a trek from the ground unless you really, really like your ale - which they do.

Our calling point is The Will Adams, which is a true London Millers favourite. Stephanie, her Gillingham-supporting friend Laura and Steven Armitage play pool, managing not to take anyone's eye out with a cue in the process. while my wee bro gets stuck into the chilli cheesy chips, which are always the high point of his trip. The landlord likes us because we turn up mob-handed, behave ourselves and put plenty of money behind the bar, and as he's a Gills fan who regularly travels to away games, he quizzes us on what the DVS is like and asks us where we go drinking - which, of course, turns out to be the very places he goes drinking when he's in Sheffield!

And so to the game, of which the less said the better. Gillingham go ahead to a fairly soft goal after five minutes, but we're back in it and looking threatening when Danny Harrison goes in for a tackle with both feet and gets the ball - though from the way their player goes down, you think he's taken a huge chunk out of him, too. He hasn't, but the ref's already reaching for the red. That, of course, changes the whole complexion of the game, as we have to sacrifice Omar Garcia, who's been playing really well on the wing, to bring on Mark Hudson and shore up the midfield. Meanwhile, I decide to concentrate on the most entertaining thing on show all afternoon - the unofficial 'ostentatious stretching' competition that's going on behind the goal line near us. Gillingham's Mark McCammon seems keen to demonstrate how he can wrap his leg round the back of his neck, while Drewe Broughton retaliates by going through chapters one to three of 'The Kama Sutra For One'...

In the second half, we try to press on and get caught on the break a couple of times. Three-nil. Then one of the Gillingham players goes for the ball and catches 'Don' Warrington instead (Micky Cummins will later claim this was a deliberate attempt to hurt him, and who am I to argue?). By now, we've already used our three subs, so Don has to struggle on, even while we're debating which outfield player should go in goal (my money's on five foot nothing Jamie Yates), and Gillingham help themselves to a fourth. 'Gillingham,' muses Tim, 'are they Kentish b*stards or b*stards of Kent?'

Nigel, Phil, Diamond and TFMD have already left for liquid refreshment, some time around the third goal going in. The SNGRA decide to make an evening of it in Rochester. Stephanie has a sleepover at Laura's. The rest of us trudge back to the Will Adams, where the Gillingham fans tell us they'll see us again next year, sensing that despite today's display we're not going down and they're not going up. Soon, John, Tim, Jenny, my bro and I are on the train back to London - probably the earliest we've left Gillingham in years, but then no one's in the mood to hang around today. John heads back to Harrow and the rest of us have a swiftie at the Wetherspoons' at Victoria (and for the benefit of my parents, I'm on coffee by now). Robert goes for the bus to Chelters, Tim and Jenny make an abortive attempt to meet Ted and Wycombe Paul at the Doric Arch and I go home to watch some rubbish Saturday night TV. Thank God that's over till next year...

Hit Me With Your Best Shot

Ah, the magic of the FA Cup. For some teams it began way back in August with
the extra preliminary round. For us, it begins now. Every year, I hope we'll
get either Hassocks (purely for the name) or the Metropolitan Police (purely
for the big policemen in shorts), but yet again they've bitten the dust
already and we're instead faced with a trip to Aldershot. It's our first
visit there since 1988, insists Tim. This is because the last time we played
them was the season they went bust and their results were expunged from the
records and so anyone who says they were actually there is making it up as
that game no longer exists.

Anyway, we're not worrying about that as we tuck into breakfast at Maries on
Lower Marsh, one of Ted's favourite cafes and one of a large number across
London which excels in both greasy spoon and Thai cuisine. Ted's decided to
join us for the trip, rather than go up to Darlington to watch them play
Droylsden (probably a decent move in hindsight, as that game turns out to be
a nil-nil draw), and we've linked up with Toddy at Waterloo. The Burton
brothers could have joined us, but it's ten a.m. and time for their first
pint of the day...
Toddy is over from the unpronounceable satellite state of Moldova where he's
currently working, to take in this game and the Remembrance Day parade. He's
particularly looking forward to some real bacon for once, as when he's not
enjoying a typical Moldovan breakfast, which he describes as a lamb's eye
floating in milk, he's based in Geneva, the muesli capital of the world.
We're joined by Tim and Chris Turner, who also realise the importance of
loading up on carbs (and black pudding, and mushrooms, and beans, and...)
before a big match.

Breakfast over, Ted and Chris go to catch the train to allow themselves more
drinking time, while Tim, Toddy and I meet up with Jenny and John Kirkland.
On the train, we manage to find out that we've drawn Darlo in the Northern
semi-final of the Johnstone's Paints Trophy, which will hopefully be a
chance for revenge after the recent league defeat.

Ted's choice of pub in Aldershot is the White Lion, which serves a decent
pint but is a bit of a slog from the station and does no favours to Tim's
knee, which he has managed to knacker in some unspecified fashion. As we
pass Aldershot's ground, we spot Rotherham's kit man wandering in the other
direction - we have no idea why. No sign of any of the players, though.
Ted and Chris have already met up with Chris Kirkland, and we're also joined
by Nigel Hall, who gives those of us who either don't want the long walk
back to the ground (Tim) or want to be there in good time to put the flag up
(me and Jenny) a lift. We still have to negotiate the hill and the walk
through woodland to the away end, but every little helps.

Having come out of the non-league so recently, Aldershot have a fairly
relaxed attitude. The stewarding is quite low-key, the programme seller
apologises for the fact they cost £3 and those who sample the burgers say
they rate fairly highly on a scale from one to Dagenham. We raise the flag
to one side of the goal, though Ted and Chris decide to stand in the paddock
along the side as they get a better view. The fact it's absolutely tanking
down doesn't deter them, but then I always thought Ted didn't have the sense
to come in out of the rain!

Indeed, it's so wet that you wonder whether the game isn't in danger of
being abandoned, given the way the ball is holding up on the more sodden
parts of the pitch. Whoever is playing down the slope has the advantage,
which in the first half is Aldershot, as Don is called on to make a couple
of good saves. Tonge and Garcia are linking up nicely on the right, but we
don't carve out too many chances.

However, ten minutes into the second half, we take the lead when Mickey
Cummins (a Darlo reject, as Ted points out) smashes home a shot from a
corner. After that, Aldershot throw just about everything at us. The section
of the home support near us is really vocal, marshalled by a drummer who
both Toddy and I suspect has military training - indeed, we almost expect to
see him raising his drumsticks to just underneath his nose when he completes
his paradiddles - but the Rotherham fans give as good as they get. Just when
victory looks all wrapped up, with about a minute of stoppage time to see
out, Nick Fenton concedes a penalty. Don gets his hand to it but can't keep
it out. Hey ho, back to the DVS for a replay...

More immediately, it's off to the pub. We head for what Toddy has reckoned
is a half-timbered haunted house behind the unused bottom terrace, but which
is actually The Crimea. Now, when we were coming back from Mansfield towards
the end of last season, we got talking to a group of Aldershot fans who got
on the train at Wellingborough, having been to their game against Rushden &
Diamonds. They'd invited us in to The Crimea if we came down to Aldershot,
but the mobile phone footage they showed us of one of their number standing
on a table singing 'Alouette' had led us to expect something a little less
sedate than we actually encounter. Perhaps it's different before a game, or
if Aldershot have won.

Waiting for the train back to London, we spot what appears to be today's
ref, Mr Singh, boarding the train on the opposite platform. If it is him,
he'll be journeying back with Kirkland Jr, who'd better not mention what he
thought of his performance, as after all, we'll be having him for the
replay!

On the train, we chat briefly to a bloke who's been at the game because his
cousin's playing for Aldershot. He turns out to be a Watford fan, so we ask
how Lee Williamson and Will Hoskins are doing, and also a former goalkeeper,
which enables Toddy to taunt me about my supposed goalie fetish. Meanwhile,
Chris and Jenny have noticed something very scary - about half-a-dozen lads
on their way for a night out who are not only identically dressed, but all
sporting Stephen Brogan's haircut. When we get off at Waterloo, another
dozen or so emerge from the carriage behind. One's even on a pair of
crutches, just like teeny tiny Stephen was until fairly recently. It's a
phenomenon which can only be described as the Midfield Cuckoos.

Minus John, we end the evening in The Hole In The Wall. It's a decent enough
pub, but is crammed with plastic fans watching the back end of Liverpool
against West Brom. When they leave, the place fills up with rugger types
who've been to watch England at Twickenham. Suddenly rugby songs are pumping
out of the loudspeakers, and going home to watch the FA Cup highlights on
ITV seems like a very good idea...

Wycombe In Peace

A quiet journey up for Clarkey, Steve Ducker and myself. At Sheffield station, we meet up with Jenny, who went up for the Darlo game, stayed up in Rotherham and is today feeling a little bit delicate after a ladies' day out in Manchester. Honestly, these senior citizens who lunch...

Mr Kyte is already in the Fat Cat when we arrive. We'd told him to keep his eye out for Ted's mate, Plymouth fan Geoff, who's in town to see them play Sheff U, but Geoff's texted Ted to let him know he's gone to the Devonshire Cat instead. Splitter. We do, however, see Paul, the Wycombe photographer, who's bonded with Ted when he's been doing his own spot of camerawork, and who we often meet in the Doric Arch on Saturday nights. The Fat Cat's resident moggy attempts to get into Paul's bag of camera equipment, but doesn't quite manage it, fortunately for both Paul and cat.

Paul leaves before the rest of us to get pitchside and take his first ever shots of the DVS. We wander over to the Wellington to have a swiftie before we catch the tram. We can tell Ted was in there before the Darlo game, as his DAFTS pocket guide, which gives the unwary news about his merry band of travelling supporters and has details of the pubs to visit in each town when Darlo play away. We knew he'd like the pub, as it has that indefinable 'old codger' vibe he really appreciates - despite how it sounds, this is not necessarily a bad thing.

The match itself seems always destined to end 0-0. Wycombe have definitely come not to concede. They are the most defensive team I've seen in this division - there are times when we have a corner and they don't have a single player in our half. Despite this, and the potentially damaging early loss of Reuben Reid to injury, we match them. Omar Garcia, the only man in the history of football whose CV will ever include spells at Athletic Bilbao and Rotherham, makes his debut for us and shows some real flashes of skill. We almost gift Wycombe a goal, when man of the match Dale Tonge underhits a backpass and plays them in, but Don makes a great save and honours finish even.

In the Old Queens' Head near Sheffield station, we meet up with Paul and his chum, Charlton Dave. I've written the London Millers notes for the club programme, and mentioned Paul extensively, usually in the context of being in a pub. Paul says he's had texts from someone he knows in the press box throughout the game pointing this out. I promise to assure Wycombe I've never seen him anywhere near alcohol on their time.

On the way home, the train is delayed by trespassers on the line near Wellingborough. Clarkey, ever reasonable, is of the mind that they should 'run the b*ggers over'. Mind you, he's excised himself debating the concept of 'franchise football' with a bloke sitting opposite us, who's from Milton Keynes but was at Doncaster today as he attempts to complete the 92 Club. He tells us he only needs the DVS to complete the set, but he won't be going there till March. Also travelling in our carriage are Lib Dem MP Simon Hughes and a group of Plymouth fans whose party trick is singing well-known songs and inserting the word 'knob' in the lyrics at appropriate points, which they find hilarious. It's strangely infectious, as when one of their number launches into 'Angels', Steve groans, 'Oh, God, it's Knobbie Williams.' The journey just speeds past...

Confessions Of A Neutral Supporter - Part One

With the fixture compiler having kindly scheduled Rotherham-Darlo as a
midweek game, Ted wins the household battle of who's going up to the DVS and
who's staying home to mind the cats. So I do the only thing a girl can under
the circumstances - go to watch Dagenham and Redbridge play Grimsby. I've
been to Dagenham a few times when I can't make a Rotherham game, mostly in
their non-league days, and have seen some pretty decent games, including a
three-all draw against Doncaster in the far-off days when Donny had my
current sponsored player, Andy 'Don' Warrington, in goal - and he was grey
even then!

For once, the District Line is running more swiftly than expected, and I'm
at Victoria Road by ten to seven. I head for the away end as I work on the
theory that I'm giving my money to the home club so I'll give my support to
the visitors. The gates aren't open yet, so I mill around in the freezing
cold with the twenty or so Grimbsy fans who are already there. We look like
the zombie extras outside the Big Brother house in 'Dead Set', only without
the life and vitality. By the time they let us through the turnstiles, it's
hailing, and I dive for one of Dagenham's legendary burgers to fortify
myself. I suspect they're not quite in the same class as the burgers Jamie
Oliver and his team were cooking outside Millmoor after the last match of
last season, but as catering at football grounds goes, they really are top
of the league.

The Grimsby keepers, Phil Barnes and the lovely Monty, emerge to warm up in
front of me and half-a-dozen lads who are braving the elements in little
more than replica tops (do they not know the meaning of the word
'hypothermia'). Said lads start chucking an inflatable banana about, and I
end up being treated to the surreal sight of them asking Barnes if they can
have their banana back. Meanwhile, I have to chuck a ball back to one of the
other Grimsby players when he scuffs it over the advertising hoarding - oh,
the glamour!

Mind you, that's about the height of the excitement for the evening, as the
game turns out to be almost ridiculously one-sided. Dagenham, despite their
lofty position in the table, aren't world beaters by any means, but Grimsby
make them appear so. When the Mariners came to the DVS a few weeks ago, they
didn't look a bad side, just one which was severely lacking in confidence.
Tonight, however, they're awful. They let in two soft goals before
half-time, the first from a corner no one deals with and the second a fumble
by Barnes which gives the Daggers an easy tap-in. Over behind the main
stand, a large firework display is taking place, presumably celebrating
Diwali. It's easily the most entertaining thing which happens in the first
45 minutes.

When the Tannoy announcer reads out the half-times, we discover that the
games at Luton and Wycombe have been abandoned due to bad weather.
Immediately, several Grimsby fans start praying for snow in the hope that
this game, too, will be called off.

Instead, we get persistent drizzly rain and the game continues. Dagenham
still look as though they could score with every attack, and the moaning
around me (the away following having swelled to a very impressive 232 hardy
souls) has stepped up a gear. Somehow, other teams' moaners are always more
interesting than yours, even if all they are doing is singling out one
player for constant criticism - in this case, Grimsby left-back Tom Newey.
'Do something, Grimsby,' yells a bloke to my left as the ball is hurriedly
hoofed into touch once more, 'even if it's only panic.' Sadly, the only
thing Grimsby do is let in two more goals - the third a great finish from
Daggers' Paul Benson, the fourth... Well, by then I've lost most of the
feeling from my shins downward, so I don't remember too much about it.
All that is keeping me vaguely alert is the banter between the banana boys
and Dagenham keeper Tony Roberts. Now, goalkeepers can broadly be divided
into two camps: they're either vain or eccentric (or, if they're Jens
Lehmann, vain and eccentric). Roberts, it has to be said, is the all-time
leader in the 'mad as a bag of rats' camp. Any comment about his weight or
physique leads to him going through a routine of muscleman poses, and when
the lads start chanting, 'Tony Roberts is a w*nker, is a w*nker,' his
reponse is, 'Well, every so often...' He clearly thrives on the banter,
though it's probably giving him something to do, as Grimsby barely threaten
his goal. By the end, people are just willing the game to be put out of its
misery.

The sympathy I have for the Grimsby fans in their plight evaporates as soon
as the other results are read out and a few cheers greet the fact that Darlo
have beaten us. We're still above them in the league, though, and on
tonight's showing likely to remain so. I head for home and a nice, reviving
cup of tea...

Macc Attack

Ah, Macclesfield in leafy Cheshire, one of those surprisingly nice little
towns which somehow finds itself home to a football league club. Meeting at
Euston for the trip north are Jenny, Chris Turner, John Kirkland and myself,
planning to see Kirkland Junior, who's coming over from Manchester where
he's studying, when we reach Macc itself. Our pub of choice will be the
Waters Green Tavern, close to the station, which comes highly recommended by
the DAFTS (Darlington Away Far Travelling Supporters, for those who love
tortuous acronyms) lads. So highly recommended, in fact, that it won their
Pub of the Season for 2007/08, and has been presented with a certificate to
prove it. My mission is to present the staff with a copy of the Darlo
programme in which Ted's write-up about the pub appeared.

A brief digression: the monument to dubious Seventies architecture in which I work has been chosen as one of the filming locations for the new series of 'Ashes To Ashes' (we had a memo telling us that if we had to work there this weekend we shouldn't be alarmed if we saw people waving guns and covered in blood). So cast members Dean Andrews (a Rotherham fan) and Marshall Lancaster (a Macclesfield fan) could quite easily be running round my building while I'm off watching Macclesfield play Rotherham. Strange...

Our train gets stuck behind a slow-moving local service and we're about
twenty minutes late getting into Macc. Chris, who's got there before us,
rings us and lets us know that the door of the pub is locked and we need to
ring him when he arrives and he'll vouch for us. It turns out that when he
arrived he'd told them there would be four of us turning up in 15 minutes
and they thought there were going to be 15 of us turning up in four minutes!
The pub, which I last visited with Ted a few years back, is as good as the
recommendation suggests ­ though it looks a little run-down and
unprepossessing on the outside, inside there is a number of real ales on and
good, home-cooked food. And they love the write-up. We're joined by Bob
Harrison and Nigel Hall, who offer to give us lifts to the ground, as the
weather is fairly filthy by now. We'll be standing on an open terrace, but
Bob's fine with that as he played golf yesterday and his golf umbrella is in
the boot. Except it isn't, and neither are his clubs, which he realises he's
left at the club house. Cue anxious call to the golf club...

Another brief digression: Macclesfield is the home of the Macc Lads, a legendary
band whose expletive-ridden back catalogue contains such gems as 'Julie The
Schooly', 'Dan's Underpant' and 'Mary, Queen Of Pox'. None of the lyrics can
be quoted on a family blog such as this one, but suffice it to say they make
Jonathan Ross and Russell Brand look like choirboys. Anyway, the Macc Lads
once obtained a franking machine as part of their mail order operation, and
in the space on the frank where you can put your company details etc., they
had the message, 'The Macc Lads Have Got A Franking Machine'. Class.

And so to the match, which gets off to a great start when, after five
minutes Dale Tonge shapes to shoot when everyone is expecting him to pass
the ball and scores his first senior goal ever. He admits afterwards that
his celebration is a bit rubbish, but he's never had to think of one before.
Apart from that, the most exciting incidents in the half are the news that
Bob's golf clubs have been found safe and sound, and the moment when Drewe
Broughton is made to change out of his cycling shorts because they're not
the same colour as his football shorts, giving everyone in the ground a view
of his pants. Except me, as I'm having my attention distracted by the
Kirklands, who are clearly concerned about my moral well-being.

In the second half, Macc are the dominant team. The football isn't great and
the weather, which the girl in front of us accurately describes as, 'Not
right cold, but it is', isn't helping improve our mood. However, about a
minute from time, we snatch a second goal when Ian Sharps puts in a header
and Andy Nicholas helps bundle it over the line. The phrase 'against the run
of play' has seldom been so apt.

Almost immediately, Macc go down the other end and score, and as one of
their players tries to retrieve the ball he and Sharps get into a scuffle.
The ref gives both players a second yellow when what he should really have
done is confiscated their handbags. And that concludes the action for the
day.

When we get back into town, the Waters Green is shut, so we head for a swift
pint in the pub closest to the station, having acquired another Manchester
Miller, Chris, on the walk. We check the results in the FA Cup qualifying
matches and plan our dream tie for the First Round Proper.

We occupy ourselves on the train back to London with the quizzes in the
Independent and Guardian. Even if we've learned nothing else today, we've
discovered that followers of the New Zealand cricket team are called the
'Beige Brigade'. Now don't you feel better for knowing that?

Barnet Not Fair

I blame John Kirkland for today's result. The reasons why will become
apparent as we progress, but it's a relaxed and jovial party who set off
from St Pancras. Relaxed apart from Clarkey, that is, who as always makes
the train with about 0.3 of a second to spare. He's sent his daughter,
Stephanie, on ahead while he grabs a coffee, and as the train pulls out with
no sign of him, Jenny, Steve, Chris Turner and I think we might be doing
some unexpected babysitting. Fortunately, he's made it.

Not that we haven't already had some excitement while we've been waiting for
the Clarkes. A bird of prey has been let loose into the massive arched
ceiling of St Pancras in order to scare away pigeons, and I ring Ted, who's
been known to have his twitching moments, to tell him about it. Of course,
he wants to know what type of bird it is, and concludes from my description
that it's a hawk. Actually, we could do with one of those in the park I pass
on the way to the tube station, as the crows there are now so big and so
cocky that I reckon a couple of them could carry me off between them if they
really put their little avian minds to it.

In Sheffield, we head for the Fat Cat. On the tram, Chris is alarmed to note
that the part of the sign for the Henderson's Relish factory, a true
Sheffield icon, has blown away, and now advertises 'Derson's Ish'. While we
wait for Phil to join us, we sit outside in the beer garden. Even though
it's October, we still manage about half an hour before the lure of the
pub's excellent hot food menu drags us inside. Steve opts for the
ploughman's, which is more like a cheese apocalypse. Now, I love cheese so
much my brother reckons I'm actually part mouse, but even so I would
struggle with the six big slabs of the stuff on Steve's plate...

So all in all, it's been a jolly morning. And then, when Jenny and I are
heading for our seats at the DVS after securing the London Millers flag in
place (which has taken some doing, as it's a windy day), we bump into John.
He tells us about the failures he's had in purchasing a ticket for the
Carling Cup game at Stoke, in getting Chris a new home shirt in his size
(they've got loads in stock back at the club shop in Rotherham; they just
haven't brought enough today) and in managing to find the way to the Fat Cat
by car. 'After all that,' he says, 'things can only get better.' The fatal
words.

At first, it seems they have. We score a very easy goal in the first ten
minutes, and then it's all downhill from there. It's the sort of game we've
played before, where a combination of our ineptitude and their forwards
scoring the sort of goal they'll probably never manage again is our undoing.
Even when Barnet give away a silly penalty and have a man sent off, Mark
Hudson only manages a weak kick which is saved. Their keeper, who's been
flapping at everything until then, gets a real confidence boost and manages
to stop just about everything we throw at them. We give them a couple more
goals, and the fightback only starts when we're 4-1 down (or as my dad calls
it as we bomb forward, 'The Light of the Charge Brigade'). With a couple of
minutes to go, we're pushing for the equaliser, but it's not to be. It's a
sickener, not just because a good result would have pushed us within
touching distance of overhauling both Barnet and Grimsby, but also because
Barnet's chairman was one of the members of the panel which handed out the
points deductions to us, Bournemouth and Luton, and a win would have been a
moral victory over his self-interest.
Despite the result, we're strangely cheerful on the way home. Steve has a
copy of the latest 'Good Beer Guide', and for some reason we decide to start
looking for pubs which have Millers players in their names. There turns out
to be a surprisingly large number of them, some more obscure than others.
We're also very taken by a hostelry called The Pigs in Edgefield, Norfolk,
which lets customers barter home-grown produce for beer and produces an
in-house magazine called 'The Pig Issue'. A close-season trip seems a must.

Back in London, the plan is to meet Ted in the Doric Arch at Euston, but he
lets us know it's shut. Instead, we join him and Wycombe club photographer
Paul Dennis in the Euston Flyer. Paul is a good lad, and he and Ted have
bonded while taking photos in the past. Wycombe are up at the DVS in a
couple of weeks, and Paul makes plans to see us in the Fat Cat. He also asks
how their old players are getting on at Rotherham - apparently both Reuben
Reid and Drewe Broughton had loan spells at Wycombe, though I doubt there's
a club in our division that hasn't had Mr Broughton on their books at some
point!

So in the end it's a nice day apart from the result (and how many times have
we said that) - but the next time John's having a bad matchday, I reckon he
should keep thinking it can only get worse, and maybe we'll all be
pleasantly surprised.

Natural Bourne Millers

Bournemouth - the seaside town with no sea, at least according to Tim, who
claims never to have seen it on his numerous visits to Dean Court (aka The
Fitness First Stadium). He's not making the trip this time, citing some
excuse about not wanting to use the bus replacement service between
Southampton and Bournemouth, so Jenny and her temporary lodger Nigel, Young Rob (so called because he's the newest and youngest of the
LM's three-Rob quotient) and I are the stout party meeting up at Waterloo.
Chris Turner joins us at Clapham Junction. I wave at yell at him as the
train pulls into the station, only to realise there's no way he can hear me
through a sheet of glass...

We pass the time filling in the huge football crossword in Nigel's Daily
Star, though some of the clues are so obscure they need either arcane
knowledge of Sixties cup finals or unlimited access to Google. Nigel is so
close to the £25 prize he can almost taste it, but reckons he'll be beaten
to it by Morecambe fans, whose journey to Gillingham must be the longest of
the day. The answer to seven down is Rotherham winger Alex Rhodes, which we
hope is going to be a good omen for today's result.
Once in Bournemouth, it's straight to the Railway Social Club, where the
legend that is Tom Coley, Bournemouth Miller, has organised us some
hospitality. As always when we play there, he's got the club staff to
organise a buffet, all Millers fans welcome, there's football on the big
screen and the boys who like such things say the Ringwood Forty-niner which
is the current guest beer hits the spot nicely. Tom no longer has his famous
inflatable ref, which he originally acquired to wave at our then goalie, Sir
Michael Pollitt, following his travesty of a sending-off against Derby, and
which has apparently succumbed to a slow puncture. However, he does have the
pack of over-sized playing cards he once used to organise an impromptu game
of 'Play Your Cards Right' in the away end at Vicarage Road, and soon the
Railway Club is ringing to cries of, 'Higher!,' Lower!' and, '*!@&!, Milton
Keynes have just scored!'

We are joined by various other LMs including the Exley family, Bob Harrison
and my wee bro, Coldwell Minor, who is making a weekend of it and has been
building sandcastles on the beach with daughter, Katie. Sadly, he hasn't
thought to collect any sand to prove to Tim that Bournemouth does, indeed,
have a coastline.

As for the match, it's played out in the most unseasonably warm weather, and
we bask like lizards. Bournemouth, who've had a day longer to recuperate
from their Johnson's Paint tie in the week, dominate the first half. Darren
Anderton strolls around the midfield, spraying passes here and there. He
definitely still possesses class, but you sense the Cherries might have
problems if he's out for any length of time. We come more into it in the
second half, though Bournemouth still have the best chance to win it when
Anderton, who's already spooned what looks like a sitter over the bar, hits
the post. Bournemouth get an injury time free kick, which convinces Bob,
who's sitting next to me, that we've thrown it away. However, my brother,
who is eerily Zen calm, given that he normally blows like a racehorse when
he's anxious, is convinced it's destined to finish 0-0 - and it does.
Back at the Railway Club, they're screening England v Khazakhstan. Fifteen
minutes or so have gone by the time we arrive and it's nil-nil at Wembley,
too. As the game progresses and England fail to score, it starts to become
obvious that a few people watching actually want the team to do badly. Quite
what this will prove to these people, I've never been sure, but it becomes
more apparent when Ashley Cole cocks up his back pass and the Khazakhs
score. Cue all the ranting about how much footballers get paid etc etc.
What's obvious is that getting on their backs doesn't actually help them put
in a performance, and as they relax once the two-goal cushion is restored,
the improvement in their play is visible. We discuss some of this over
plates of excellent chilli which is provided at half-time - if only football
clubs had the facility, or the wits, to provide something like chilli as
part of their catering, rather than the usual pies and indifferent burgers
(relax, Dagenham, I'm not looking at you...).

We're back in London at a reasonable time, tanned and glowing. Sometimes
it's nice to be beside the seaside, even if we haven't seen the sea.

The Rise And Fall Of The Fishy People

Before the Grimsby game, there was much excitement among our ranks about the return of a true icon from Hartlepool. No, not Peter Mandelson - Richie Barker, back on loan with a view to a permanent move in January. Not only is he a legend because he scored a last-minute winner against the Wendys at Hillsborough, he's also, according to everyone who's had dealings with him, a thoroughly nice chap. We like him, though, because he's a dead ringer for the LMs' Andy Leng. Indeed, we were in the sponsors' area at Millmoor a couple of seasons ago and Richie, as he often did when he either the Monkey Hangers weren't playing or he was out injured, turned up to watch the game and ended up sitting next but one to Andy. I tried to take a photo for the 'separated at birth' section of the newsletter, but my camera started playing up and a weird strobing effect appeared on all the shots. Proof, to me at least, that if you find yourself next to your doppelganger, it creates a small vortex of evil which has the power to disrupt machinery...

The day began as home games do, with the meet-up at St Pancras and the usual AMT run (the best coffee concession, without question). Clarkey, who normally turns up for the 9.25 with about ninety seconds to spare, failed to do even that and made his way via Donny instead. Once at Sheffield, Steve D headed off to meet family at Meadowhell - his first ever visit there, apparently - and Jenny and I took the Supertram up to Shalesmoor and The Wellington, the closest pub to the tram stop. It's a gem - an old-fashioned backstreet boozer with eight real ales on, all at Yorkshire prices rather than the £3 a pint we're used to in London, and a big soft dog called Harley, though whether that's after the bike or the ex-Sheff U player, we're not sure. Mr Clarke eventually caught up with us, and was impressed.

For once, we tried to make it to the Don Valley Stadium in decent time - not only because we had to hoist the London Millers flag, which made its debut at the Under-21s championship in Holland and has since been seen almost everywhere in League Two which doesn't require you to have a fire certificate, but also because I wanted, if possible, to watch Monty warming up. Monty, officially Gary Montgomery but probably not even called that by his parents, is the player I sponsored for a couple of seasons when he was with Rotherham, and is, frankly, charm on a stick . He's one of two former Rotherham keepers at Grimsby, which is just being greedy if you ask me, but it's Phil Barnes who's currently getting a game, leaving Monty on the bench.

The match itself was the traditional two halves affair. Grimsby, who haven't won yet this season, started the game a lot more brightly, and took the lead after half an hour with a shot which may have been wind assisted. With the stadium being open on three sides, the wind is bound to play a large part in results, depending on whether you're kicking into it or not. Though we haven't seen a truly freaky goal yet, Alex Rhodes' winner against Luton being more of a misplaced cross than anything else, it can only be a matter of time. The natives were not happy, and booed the Millers off at half-time. They got a little bit happier when Rueben Reid (or Reubinho, as the man behind me called him) equalised with a header. Grimsby's confidence, which is obviously fragile, wobbled, then evaporated altogether when a shot from Man of the Match (and one of the Football League's official Team of the Week) Mark Hudson squirmed under Barnes' body. Mickey Cummins made it three with a shot from outside the area, and then the scene was set for Richie to come on as a sub and score within minutes. The home fans were singing 'We're not minus any more', our 17-point deduction having been wiped off with the win, and the ovation as the team came off the pitch proves how fickle we are. Zeroes (or sub-zeroes, given our points total before the game) one minutes, heroes the next.

Even having to 'de-train' at Kettering due to a faulty power unit, and board the stopping train coming up behind it, meaning we got into London an hour late, couldn't wipe away the warm glow that comes from three hard-earned points. Steve, who is LM Statto and can pick random facts out of the air with impressive ease, reckons that depending on how Bournemouth and Luton fare, we could be the only team never to have been on zero points at any time during a season. It's something to think about - but not for long with the Paint Pot Trophy game against Leeds on TV in a couple of days' time...

Welcome

Here it is - the ramblings of Millers fans in exile and the South. Enjoy!