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.