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.
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