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...