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!