Confessions Of A Neutral Supporter Part Five

With no trip arranged to our game at Bradford today, I’m taking the chance to take Gwenn over to Dagenham for their game against Bury. I’ve been turning Gwenn into a Rotherham fan very slowly over a very long period of time, and she’s come with us on both occasions we’ve played at Dagenham, but this will be her first time at a neutral game. Our excuse is that we’re going to check out the new arrangments in the away end, particularly regarding whether their legendary burgers are still up to snuff. It has nothing to do with a certain Mr Cutler being part of the Bury set-up. Oh, no...
First impressions of the new stand are good, even if they’re now charging twenty quid to sit there. The seating starts about ten feet up, so you have a decent view, and the players’ and officials’ facilities have been built into the stand, so they now enter and leave the pitch from behind the goal. Most importantly, the new tea bar is round the back of the stand and, yes, the burgers are as good as ever. The range of food has been expanded, with one Bury fan wandering past us with what looks like a foil dish of lasagne – how dangerously continental! However, points are lost for only having cold water in the taps in the ladies’, which is not what you want when the thermometer is hovering somewhere around zero, as it is today.
We settle in our seats and I have the joy of watching someone other than me attempt to tie a flag in place when there’s a gusty wind blowing. Mr Cutler is putting Bury keeper Wayne Brown through his warm-up routine, but he does take the time to do some pointless stretching and posing for our delectation. The other players are taking shots on goal, some of which are so wayward we begin to fear for the safety of our faces and our cups of tea. Gwenn wonders whether they’d come and check you were all right if they accidentally hit you with the ball, and I tell her Trevor Berry did that exact thing at Ashton Gate once, after he’d managed to clout some bloke on the back of the head so hard he knocked his glasses off. I’ve never seen anyone look so concerned and apologetic...
As the game gets under way, I have the joy of explaining to Gwenn various vital bits of knowledge, such as why Efe Sodje is wearing that bizarre piece of headgear. The Bury fans give her plenty of opportunity to learn all the words to ‘Alan Knill’s barmy army’, though she’s already familiar with Knilly from his Rotherham days. The teams appear to be fairly evenly matched, and I’m hoping they’ll cancel each other out as a draw would be the best result from a Rotherham point of view, but Dagenham take the lead when a spot of slapstick defending involving Sodje and Tom Newey (last seen here getting a load of stick from his own fans while playing for Grimsby) present the ball on a plate for Paul Benson to score. Sodje’s misery is compounded when he takes a blow to the head and has to go off for a couple of minutes, returning with a huge bandage under his bandanna. There’s disgruntlement in the away end, with words exchanged between one of the flag minders, who seems to be the stoic, ‘watch it with your arms folded because you’ve seen it all before’ type, and another bloke who’s more the ‘find a scapegoat and blame everything on him’ type. Dagenham think they’ve scored again, but it’s ruled out for a foul on Brown. As the half draws to a close, Nardiello misses a superb chance to equalise, but makes up for it a minute later when Bury get a corner, heading over mad Welsh goalie Tony Roberts, and the teams go in level.
During half-time, Mr Cutler takes Brown down to the opposite end to get him used to the goal he’ll be defending for the second half, while the Tannoy announcer tries to whip up support (and votes) for some girl called Stacey who’s from Dagenham and in the last three of The X-Factor. It obviously doesn’t work, as that evening she’s voted off the show. When the half-time results are read out, we’re 2-1 up at Valley Parade. I’d rather not know that, as it means I’m just going to spend the second half fretting about whether we can hold on to the lead.
Bury have clearly had a talking-to, as they step it up in the second half, just as they did when we played them. Gwenn goes to get more teas in and misses Dagenham having another goal disallowed for offside, but it’s Bury who look more likely to score. Andy Morrell has a one-on-one with Roberts and chips the ball over him, but it lands on top of the net. Sagely, I tell Gwenn that’s probably their best opportunity of the afternoon. Nardiello gets a booking and argues with the referee so fiercely he’s in danger of getting a second. Knill promptly substitutes him before he can get himself sent off. The group of fifteen or so grotty teenagers who gather as close as they can to the away end so they can indulge in banter rile one Bury fan so much he shouts, ‘Shut up, virgins!’ at them. Then Dagenham score a bit of a scrappy goal from a corner. Roberts does the world’s most rubbish forward roll (unlike Alfie’s at Wealdstone, this is intentional) and dances in front of the grotty teenagers, who love it. Gwenn and I have never seen anyone celebrate so hard who hasn’t had anything at all to do with the scoring of a goal.
Bury press for another equaliser but, deep into added time, Dagenham get a third, scored by the magnificently named Nana Ofori-Twumasi, who’s on loan from Chelsea. Again Roberts does the rubbish forward roll and dancing, which really is rubbing it in. The players troop off the pitch, with the new arrangements at least offering the away fans the chance to abuse the referee/opposition player/home player of their choice as they approach. Not that I’d ever condone this, you understand.
The final scores come in and we’ve won 4-2, which puts a little smile on Gwenn’s face as well as mine. I have trained her well...

Getting The Replay Blues

Luton on a wet Tuesday night. What could be finer? While you’re busily compiling a list (you can stop when you’ve come up with more than fifty things, which shouldn’t take you too long...), let me whisk you to the Bricklayers Arms, where Clarkey and Chris Turner have just got comfortable and I’m about to join them. With the later addition of Julia, this is the sum turn-out of the London Millers tonight. Clarkey is highly disgruntled by this – Jenny may be on her annual Christmas shopping holiday, but as far as he’s concerned, most of the others don’t have an excuse for not being here. Perhaps they’re not enticed by this replay of a game which, according to Clarkey, we should have won in the first leg, Luton apparently having been one of the poorest teams he’s seen all season. The reward for the winner is a trip to Southampton in the Third Round. Playing Southampton isn’t exactly a novelty for us as we beat them in the Carling Cup last season (and, memorably, knocked them out of the FA Cup at Millmoor a few years back), but it would give us a chance to visit St Mary’s.
Unlike our last visit, we make sure to give ourselves plenty of time to get to the ground, the away end being just that little bit further away than you always think. Clarkey is delighted to see that the sports bar just down the hill from the Bricklayers, which offers only smoothflow type beer, is pretty much deserted, while the real ale establishment we’ve just left was heaving. The new installation of a stretch of Zen pavement which tinkles when you tread on it is an exciting addition to our walk, but doesn’t quite distract from the view you get into back gardens piled with broken bikes and other rubbish as you cut along the side of the ground.
A couple of lads are putting up a flag we haven’t seen before. It has their names – Dave and some nickname beginning with K – emblazoned on it, and is made of that silky stuff usually associated with cheap knickers, and we give them some tape to help hold it in place.
For the first five minutes, it looks like Rotherham are really up for this tie. We have a couple of good chances to score in the first minute, with Sharps having a header saved and defenders scrambling to block another shot. Then, suddenly, Luton break away and Adam Newton scores. With Fenton suspended, we’re playing an unfamiliar back four of Lynch, Joseph, Sharps and Brogan, and the two full-backs are having problems dealing with Luton’s pacy wingers. We’re not playing particularly badly, but then Claude Gnapka awarded a rather dubious free-kick (he’s another one of these Drogba-esque big, strong players who crumples like tissue under a challenge when it suits him) from which Alan White scores. The Luton fans start getting a bit cocky, with the Rotherham support responding with a chorus of ‘minus points and we still stayed up’. We start looking for things to distract us from the rather flattering scoreline. On the touchline, Drewe Broughton is warming up in the unique combination of gloves and sweatbands. (Ted, who isn’t here tonight and wouldn’t have the sight of a bat to distract him if he were, would be making some comment about ‘big, glove-wearing jessies’). Clarkey decides the club is missing a trick – for those who can’t quite afford to sponsor a full kit, they could be offered Mr B’s sweatbands at £25 a time...
For much of the rest of the half, and much of the second, Luton continue to attack. Tom Pope is working very hard, but Alf is feeding on scraps. Luton’s third goal is another breakaway, finished off by Gnapka, who milks the moment and milks it again when he’s substituted. He’s received a booking for putting the ball in the net after not realising he was offside, even though the ref blew a good twenty seconds earlier (something players should really get booked for more often than they do); with any luck, it’ll eventually count towards a suspension which will rule him out of an important game. This may sound bitter but, like the Notts County strikeforce of Lee Hughes and Luke Rodgers, there’s just something objectionable about him.
We are still making chances, and I’m starting to understand what Ronnie sees in Gary Roberts, although he seems to be tiring as the game goes on. However, ex-Roth keeper Kevin Pilkington makes a couple of good saves, and we’ve already realised it isn’t going to be our night. Ronnie takes off Ellison and Pope and brings on Ryan Taylor and a thankfully gloveless Broughton. Big Drewe hits the bar with a header, but that’s as close as we come.
There is some disgruntled muttering from one or two fans as the teams come off the pitch, including the two lads taking down the other flag, but the players take the time to applaud the hundred and thirty-odd who’ve travelled tonight. They know they haven’t produced their best football, but it hasn’t been the complete humiliation all the press reports will later suggest by any means.
We’re back at the station in time to catch an East Midlands service back to St Pancras, rather than the much slower Thameslink. Sometimes, you can’t get out of Luton fast enough...

Gone For A... Yes, You Guessed It

Ho ho ho! It’s that London Millers Christmas party trip time of year again, and if anyone knows where the twelve months since the last one has gone, please leave comments below... Assembling at Kings Cross for the journey are Jenny, Tim, Clarkey, Chris Turner, Steve Ducker and Julia. Joy should have been joining us, but according to Julia she’s come down with the lurgi. It doesn’t stop the rest of us kicking the party off once the train’s gone through Peterborough. Jenny, as ever, has brought Waitrose crackers (good presents, rubbish jokes...), Chris has brought his legendary cheese and onion on sticks and I’ve gone all Graftons and made some good old Yorkshire parkin. For those not from the Rotherham area, Graftons was an excellent local baker which sadly went out of business a couple of years ago. Their finest creation was the Melting Moment, a combination of squidgy meringue, cream and jam. If anyone ever managed to recreate the recipe, I would be a very happy woman...
The original plan, suggested by Phil, who we’re meeting in Sheffield, is to visit the brand new Brewery Tap in Sheffield station. It’s the sister establishment of a bar in York which has been attracting great reviews and the boys are keen to try it. Unfortunately, Chris Kirkland rings to let us know he’s at the station and the bar will definitely not be open by the time we get there. We tell him we’ll meet him in the Bath Hotel instead.
We take the tram to West Street and walk through the back streets, which acts as a reminder of how much Sheffield has changed in the last few years. We cut through the West One shopping centre, where a newly-married couple are posing for wedding photographs. Clarkey, ever the gent, stops to offer his congratulations.
The Bath Hotel opens at 12, so Chris has been in the Wetherspoon, rolling up at the pub at the same time we do. We colonise the small back room and Clarkey starts handing out this year’s raffle tickets. The main prize this year is hospitality for our game against Chelters in April, by which point they may have actually sorted out their managerial situation...
Chris K decides to change his shirt in public; in a reversal of the usual roles, I really need Drewe Broughton to put his hands over my eyes!
It’s very tempting to stay where we are till much nearer kick-off, but there are people we’ve arranged to see in the Carlton, so we head for Attercliffe. There’s quite a large Rotherham contingent in there, now the landlord has dropped the ‘away fans only’ rule, which means we’re able to sell a football card to raise some funds. The winner is Dave Finnis, which means his trip over from Australia hasn’t been entirely without excitement!
Burton have brought slightly fewer fans than I’d expected, given it’s their first season in the league, but crowds always seem a little sparser in December as the cost of getting the Christmas shopping kicks in. When I was first on the student paper at Leicester University, several thousand years ago, the assistant editor was a lad called Nigel Poulson, who was a massive Burton fan at a time when almost no one followed non-league football as religiously as they do now. If I remember rightly, their manager at the time was Neil Warnock (but then someone’s manager has to be...). I’d love to know whether he’s still following them, and whether he’s here today.
If he is, he sees his side get off to a not particularly inspired start. Half the pitch is vile, with the parts which were covered for the U2 gig and subsequently relaid looking boggy and causing the ball to bobble unpredictably on the surface. Burton are attacking in the good half, which enables them to pass the ball around nicely, but even so their keeper is timewasting after about ten minutes. We have a decent shout for a penalty when the ball hits a Burton hand in the area, but the ref doesn’t see it. Two minutes later, exactly the same thing happens again, and this time he does point to the spot. Despite having missed a penalty against Lincoln, Alf steps up to take it. He doesn’t make the same mistake again. That’s sixteen for the season.
My dad and I are being entertained by our friends in the row in front. Lewis (we assume that’s what he’s called because that’s the name on the back of his replica shirt), who always plugs into his radio, is keeping us up to date with other scores. He seems strangely gratified that Wednesday aren’t doing very well (though to be fair, that’s the default position of most Rotherham fans). Meanwhile, the older of the two boys in front of us is complaining about the fact we always scrape through games. He wants to see us score a lot of goals, for once, and I think his dad would quite like that, too. But it’s only one-nil at half-time. Burton have been passing the ball around, probably helped by the fact Ronnie’s playing a central midfield combo of Nicky Law and Gary Roberts, neither of whom is particularly defensive minded, but they haven’t troubled Don too much.
The half-time draw is performed by Billy McEwan, always popular with the Rotherham fans, but don’t mention his time at Darlo to Ted... Strangely, the Rotherham United dance troupe seem to have bitten the dust, though no one seems to mind too much.
In the second half, we get the good half of the pitch, and for about twenty minutes we have Burton under the cosh. Alf hits the crossbar with an audacious lob, with Adam Rundle (on loan from Rochdale and officially Alf’s BFF) failing to convert the rebound, and the keeper has to make a couple of good saves. We get a second goal when the Burton defence briefly goes missing, allowing Rundle to slot a good little ball into Alf’s path, which he converts with a poacher’s instinct. We haven’t had a player who could score goals of the same quality and with so much variety since Mark Robins.
Unfortunately, Burton pull one back a couple of minutes later, when we neglect to take a couple of opportunities to clear the ball and Webster curls a shot past Don. The Burton defence continues to look porous, but the game turns when Fenton is sent off for sliding in on Webster. The ref doesn’t hesitate to pull out a red card, which would be fair enough if one of the Burton players hadn’t put in a very similar challenge on Nicky Law and not even received a yellow for it. Clarkey points out later that if we’d had big Pablo or Harrison in midfield, they’d have cut the attack out without Fenton needing to make the challenge.
Ronnie takes off Rundle and brings on Marc Joseph, but Burton sense they’ve been given the upper hand and keep on attacking. Miller Bear is trying his best to get an atmosphere going by banging his drum, but one of the legs keeps falling off, which kind of ruins the effect. Never mind, Bear, I’m sure Santa will bring you a new one for Christmas if you’re good!
Burton get an equaliser when we again fail to clear a ball and Pearson capitalises on our mistakes. We have a chance to score right at the end, but Joseph heads over. Unsurprisingly, there are a few boos at the end, even though other results mean we’re still third in the league. We wander off to the Carlton, in theory to meet Tim, although he’s decided to visit the Cocked Hat instead. No one is entirely sure why...
Back in Donny, we have a swift one in the Railway, before boarding the train for the return leg of the party. With the aid of the ‘25 Years Ago This Week’ feature in the Green ’Un, Steve decides to play a game which involves naming all the members of the team who’d played against Newport. This was when the much-reviled George Kerr (every time I type that name, a little bit of my brother dies inside...) was in charge, so it takes a while as most people have desperately tried to blank that season from their memory. By the time we’ve got them all, we’re well past Grantham and all the parkin and sausages (including a fesh packet Steve was saving for the way back) have been scoffed.
As we come into King’s Cross, Tim rings Ian Chaplain and invites him for a drink. I have to get home and attend to three hungry cats, so I decline to join them. But at least we’ve had two party trips in a row where we haven’t lost the game, which must be some kind of record, and not even the idiots on the Tube having a celebration much more drunken and raucous than ours can spoil the mood

November Rain

For the second consecutive season the Millers away match in Devon has a poor London Millers following. Last season’s match in Exeter was on a Tuesday night in November which made travel from London nigh on impossible and although this season’s visit to Torquay is on a Saturday the return options by public transport aren’t any better. This means representation will just be a couple of us resident in the West Country (or so I thought… more later). I’m driving down from Cheltenham and meeting up with Dave Bates, the North Devon branch at Tiverton Parkway station.
I end up leaving home a bit later than planned. We are having our en suite bathroom refurbished after our shower decided to blow up and the plumber has turned up this morning to start ripping the old one out. It’s raining heavily as I leave and the forecast for the day isn’t good so I’m just hoping the match is still on. The one big advantage of having the game in Devon in November is that at least the M5 is clear and not full of holiday makers with caravans trying to get down to the South West.
Just south of Bristol I get a call from Dave telling me he’s running about twenty minutes late as he’s been delayed due to an accident on the way from Barnstaple. This means that even with my late start I still have time to ‘turn my bike round’ at Sedgmoor services. Ignoring the signs at Tiverton Parkway saying the main car park is full and to use the overspill car park I head for the main car park and manage to find a space. Less than five minutes later my phone goes and it’s Dave. He’s just arrived and is checking which car park I’m in. The rain gets heavier as I get out to buy a pay and display ticket and transfer over to Dave’s car. First Great Western have introduced parking fees in the car park - no doubt a way of recouping some of the lost income resulting from the below inflation fare rises imposed by the government but £3.90 for 24 hours is cheap compared with the petrol I’m saving by Dave driving the last leg so I’m not complaining.
Dave has brought along his mate, Andy, who is actually a Chelsea fan but is often dragged along by Dave to see the Millers. Andy is a true Chelsea fan and has followed them from long before the Premiership glory days and was actually on the Railway End at Millmoor when Rotherham famously beat Chelsea six-nil in the Eighties. The obligatory ribbing about this one out of the way we are back heading down the M5. We are heading for The Linny Inn, a pub in Coffinswell just north of Torquay which is the local of Dave’s Torquay-supporting mate, Richard, and conveniently does real ale. The instructions we have are to turn left at the brown sign by the garage selling cars on the A380!
Surprisingly these instructions work and after heading up some narrow country lanes where we are convinced we must have gone wrong we find the pub. It’s still raining as hard as ever as we dash across the car park and go inside. The pub is very much a dining pub with all the tables full of people tucking in to lunchtime meals. The steak and kidney pudding looks good but that’s not what we are here for.
We ensconce ourselves at the bar where we have a choice of two hand pumps. Dave goes for the Bass whilst I go for the Sharps Doom Bar, as the obligatory omen beer. Simon the landlord has been tipped off we were coming and it turns out he’s originally from Hammersmith so he soon starts discussing London football with Andy. Richard soon wanders in with his son, Seb. Richard is a friend of Ray Bishop, who used to play alongside Ronnie Moore during Ronnie’s brief spell at Cardiff City. Ray moved to Torquay to finish his career and still lives in the town and as a result Ray and Richard had been invited by Ronnie to take the kids along to meet the team at their hotel this morning. Richard has a camera phone full of picture taken with Ronnie and the players and an autograph book full of signatures that we struggle to decipher even with the players having written their squad numbers alongside. This is why I never became a professional footballer - not because my ball skills are next to none but the fact that I can’t do a totally illegible autograph.
Meanwhile the rain beats down outside and we wonder if the game will still go ahead but as there is no phone reception we have no way of knowing. Dave is driving and is determined not to miss kick off so at 2:15 decides against having more beer but Andy and I still have time for a swift third pint.
Dave gets directions from Richard on the quickest way from the pub to the ground and even though we take a wrong turn down one of the narrow country lanes we are still at Plainmoor in good time. Conveniently Dave finds a parking space by a parade of shops just round the corner from the ground. The sign says maximum one hour parking but he is confident that he won’t get a parking ticket. I’m not so sure as Torquay is one of the few places where I have received a parking ticket but as it’s still raining the traffic wardens are probably not out and about. So we leave the car and wander up to the ground.
Torquay have put a roof on the away terrace since my last visit in 2000 but even so it’s not helping much today. The wind is coming straight at us and the hardy Rotherham fans who have made the journey down are huddling at the back of the terrace to try and keep dry. Liz hasn’t trusted me with the London Millers flag today so I don’t have to try and find somewhere dry to hang it. After avoiding Port Vale last week for the warmer climes of England’s match in Dubai the Tivoli Millers are here with their flag today and it is taking a real soaking.
Walking along looking for a decent place to stand I suddenly spot the Sydney Branch of the London Millers. Dave Finnis, who always comes over at least once a year and tries to cram in as many Millers games as possible landed at Heathrow at silly o’clock this morning and has driven straight here to catch the game. Dave F hasn’t seen the Millers since last season so I quickly explain to him who the new boys are and who he’ll recognise from before. If I was doing this in some form of Venn diagram Paul Warne would be the intersecting sector as both a face Dave would recognise but also a new boy.
The main team changes from last week are Ryan Taylor is up front in place of Drewe Broughton and Lynch has replaced the injured Dale Tonge at right back. The match kicks off with Rotherham playing into the wind and driving rain. The ball is certainly splashing about in the centre and we wonder if the game will actually finish if it carries on like this. It’s Torquay who cope better with the conditions, producing some nice fast passing football while Rotherham struggle to string passes together. Halfway though the first half Paul Warne takes a heavy challenge and has to go off and is replaced by little Stephen Brogan who came on last week as a super sub. Despite lots of Torquay pressure Rotherham defend solidly and we go in at half time still nil-nil.
At half time Dave B gets a call from Richard who is behind the opposite goal. Richard is wearing a fluorescent yellow coat so we have no difficulty spotting him and all wave madly.
Over half time the wind and rain ease off with the Millers now having advantage of what wind there is. Rotherham start the half looking a little brighter but are soon under pressure again with Warrington having to pull off a string of fine saves. We are denied two good penalty shouts. The first when Law is brought down just inside the area as he is about to shoot and then an arm gets in the way of a Rotherham cross.
Ronnie makes a couple of substitutions with new boy and reformed alcoholic Gary Roberts coming on for Pablo Mills and Tom Pope replacing Ryan Taylor. The changes seen to make a difference, and with five minutes to go Alf has a shot blocked by the keeper’s knees and Kevin ‘Voldemort’ Ellison is quickest to the rebound and fires home. Fortunately, Liz is not there to see the flesh-exposing shirt over the head sliding into mud goal celebration. I’m going to be in for a last five minutes of blowing especially as Torquay proceed to fire a shot against the bar but finally in stoppage time I can relax. Alf gets the ball in the middle of the Torquay half, heads towards the penalty area and lofts the ball over the advancing keeper. The ball goes up and seems to hang in the air forever before landing in the net. Cue wild celebrations followed shortly by the final whistle.
Dave F, who’s still jet lagged after his 11,000 mile trip, makes a swift getaway and Dave B, Andy and I head back through the rain to see if Dave’s car has been ticketed. Fortunately, it hasn’t. We are back at the car in time toget the full classified results on 5 Live. Andy is also happy as Chelsea have won.
The traffic heading away from Plainmoor is solid and stationary so Dave makes a swift U turn and uses his local knowledge to find an alternative route out of town. We find a route where at least the traffic is flowing. We get another call from Richard ‘congratulating’ us on our victory. We admit to him we were lucky and the big difference between the two sides was we had someone who could put the ball in the back of the net. Before you know it, we are pulling off the motorway at Tiverton. I bid farewell to Dave and Andy and make use of the station facilities before getting into my car to head back home via the Chinese takeaway opposite Cheltenham station.

Reap The Wild Wind

To Euston bright and early, to meet up with John Kirkland and Chris Turner, the latter of whom turns out to be, unsually for him, feeling a little queasy after his Friday night out. As I wait for them, I spot my first ever Hayes and Yeading fans, who are going up to Wrexham, so that’s my excitement for the day out of the way already. We’re all expecting there to be some disruption on the trains, given that the country is experiencing bad weather of plagues of Egypt proportions, but everything’s nicely on time. On the way to Stoke, we discuss the big story in the papers, which is that the official dietary guidelines are wrong and we’re all able to have an extra four hundred calories a day without compromising our waistlines. The boys, of course, have worked out this means they could have those calories in the form of two pints of beer...
The Manchester Millers and my brother are waiting for us on Stoke station. They’re easy to spot as Kirkland Junior is, as ever, wearing last season’s glow-in-the-dark yellow away shirt. Fifteen minutes later we’re in Longport, trudging up the hill to the Bulls Head. I reckon the walk gives us another fifty calories on top of our extra allowance... Coming into Burslem, we pass the British Pole Dancing Academy. Chris T is disappointed to note that there are stairs down from the front entrance, and not a pole to slide down.
The pub is already open and as welcoming of away fans as ever, with the barbecue up and running in the back garden, all the guest beers having a Remembrance Day theme and the sloe wine too tempting to ignore. Robert informs me of Katie’s instructions to him before leaving for the day: ‘Don’t shout too loudly, Daddy, just point. Tell them which way to go.’ It’s lovely advice, but she’s too young to realise that we’re playing a team who are managed by Mickey Adams, and therefore discreet pointing is not an option!
As the session progresses, we’re joined by Martin Burton, who has Freddie with him. We need to make sure we leave in good time, as Vale Park is one of these grounds where you have to buy your ticket before you get to the turnstile, but just as we’re about to go, the ‘last orders’ bell is rung. We’re not all being turfed out at half-past two; instead, the landlord is making a collection, as the pub’s long-time assistant barman died recently. The money raised will go to the hospital which looked after him. Normally, I don’t put anything in a collection directly before a game, because when I do we always lose, but in these circumstances it would be churlish not to chip in.
Once in the away end, Robert and I tie the flag to the netting covering the front rows of seats, but the wind is already getting up and it won’t stay properly anchored for long. At least it’s directly behind the goal, so it may end up in a photo or two. The Port Vale mascot, Boomer the dog, is wandering round joshing with the away fans, and decides to blow me some kisses and do the Vic Reeves leg-rubbing routine. Has nobody told him I’m a cat person?
Vale run out to ‘Let Me Entertain You’, the only team who are really entitled to do so given Robbie Williams’ love and financial assistance for the club. He’s been in the country for the last few days, but there’s no sign of him soaking up the pre-match atmosphere. Rotherham are attacking the away end in the first half, which means we’re treated to the sight of Vale keeper Chris Martin, still the proud possessor of the biggest bottom in league football. Warney is playing in midfield instead of Danny Harrison, and Nicky Law is back after whatever forced him off at Wealdstone. We’re looking quite lively, but early in the half Kevin Ellison is injured and has to be substituted, with Stephen Brogan replacing him. Alf has a good opportunity to score but his shot is wild. Apart from that, about the only incident of note comes when Drewe Broughton decides to remove his vest mid-pitch, and Chris K forgets he should be preserving my moral well-being by distracting me from yet another exhibition of gratuitious male nudity. If Ted was writing this, there’d be some rant involving the words ‘big vest-wearing jessie’. I’m saying nothing...
We take the lead when Dale Tonge puts in an inviting cross and Brogan nips in front of the now vestless Broughton to head it in. His celebration goes on forever; the Vale fans may think he’s over-egging it, but this is his first goal since that horrible injury at Milton Keynes, and you can see just how much it means to him.
Unfortunately, the lead only lasts about five minutes, and their goal is a carbon copy of ours, with Luke Prosser heading in a cross from the right. After that, it all gets a bit silly for a few minutes. The ref (a Mr Quinn, who’s about my height and is being assisted by our old friend Ms Iringhova, who must be a late sub as she’s not listed in the programme). Nick Fenton is fouled (as with all Mickey Adams teams, there is a tendency for what some might call fierce tackling and others – us, mostly, but we’re not bitter – clogging), and a melee ensues, at the end of which three players have been booked, including Fenton himself and Prosser. A couple of minutes later, Prosser tugs Alf’s shirt to stop him getting past him, and is sent off for his pains. The Rotherham contingent gets excited, but as we know from the Notts County game the other week, having the extra man doesn’t always work in your favour.
The half-time entertainment involves a game of Play Your Cards Right with the away end, which is like having dear old Tom Coley with us all over again. The good news is that Freddie is chosen to play and the game is blatantly fixed in his favour, which means he wins a little Port Vale Boomer toy.
It’s ten-past four by the time the second half kicks off, and the wind is now a good two-thirds up the Beaufort Scale. It’s also blowing towards us, which will clearly help even out our one-man advantage. Fortunately, no players are wearing red boots, because they run the risk of a flying farmhouse bearing Dorothy and Toto landing on their heads...
The one good thing about the wind is Ronnie has claimed in recent games that we’ve relied on lumping the ball up to Drewe Broughton. Today, it’s just going to come swirling straight back at us if we try that, so we’re forced to play a passing game, which we’re actually rather good at. Even though we have the majority of possession, Port Vale defend doggedly and do their best to hit us on the break, although they don’t force Don into too many saves. Stephen Brogan is forced to change his shirt, but that’s because he’s got blood on it (it turns out he damaged his nose scoring the goal) and he does it much more discreetly than Mr Broughton. Andy Nicholas is booked: we’re convinced it’s simply for being a foot taller than the referee. The Vale fans are chanting ‘Mickey Adams’ black-and-white army’ relentlessly, convinced (as we are by now) that they’re going to hold out for a heroic point. My brother has completely forgotten Katie’s instruction about not shouting too loudly, and when they sing ‘There’s only one Mickey Adams,’ his response is one which would blister paint. Then, two minutes into stoppage time, Nicky Law gets the ball on the edge of the box and slots it past Martin. Now all you can hear is Rotherham fans singing ‘Ooh ah, Nicky Law’ and the sound of furious e-mails to Praise Or Grumble calling for Ronnie’s head being deleted, probably...
There’s time for a quick one in the Bulls Head before the trot down the hill to Longport. A group of teenagers loitering outside an off-licence try to menace us, but we’re too old and wily to respond. Shouldn’t they all be at home watching the England friendly or Strictly Come Dancing anyway?
On the train back to Stoke, we chat to a Vale fan who lives in Brighton. He’s gracious in defeat and tells us we’re one of the best teams he’s seen this season. We wish him luck for their Cup replay against Stevenage in the week.
At Stoke, we go our separate ways. John, Chris T and I enjoy a peaceful journey back, slowly working our way through the 47 different sections that come with his Times. There’s absolutely nothing in the sports supplement to suggest League Two might exist apart from the list of fixtures, but when was that ever any different? We’ve had a nice trip, been to one of our favourite pubs and seen the team win – what more could we ask for?

Stone Me!

Checking the results of the FA Cup qualifying ties on the way back from Bury, we were joking about the possibility of playing Wealdstone, and which end Tim would stand in if we did. You see, Tim’s another of the two-club brigade, having been following the nomadic Stones for many years after settling on them as the non-league alternative to watching Rotherham on a Saturday. So when we were actually drawn against them, I almost fell off the sofa cheering. That was before I realised quite how tiny their ground is and quite how few tickets we were going to be allocated and quite how many London Millers were going to want to go, and that all of this would suddenly become my problem. Everything seemed sorted, until Tim rings me to let me know Steve Czajewski has broken his ankle (we can only speculate how, but knowing Steve the reason is going to be bizarre...) and won’t be coming. I’ve got Mike Todd as the reserve if anyone dropped out, but when I contact him he’s made other plans instead. It’s not a problem, as Tim’s mate David, the Watford fan, will take it off my hands. David’s a good lad. He once drove us up to Rotherham and back, watched us beat Watford 2-1 and drove us back without succumbing to the temptation to leave us behind at Trowell services.
Wealdstone play in Ruislip, a place I’ve only visited once before, to interview a couple of adult babies, but now is perhaps not the time to go into my past existence. It’s a fair schlep from east to west, and when I get off the Central Line at Ruislip Gardens it’s to discover that only three other people have done so and not one of them is going in the general direction of the ground. However, the instructions are to look out for the pillar box at the end of Grosvenor Vale, the road which leads to the club, and the milling throng of six or seven people turning that way suggest I’m in the right place. And then I spot Chris Burrows, who’s come over from Ruislip proper. The first piece of the jigsaw falls into place...
The ground itself is a scene of organised chaos, with people queuing to collect tickets and/or have their faces painted. If I’m not careful, I’ll stand still for two minutes and come away with blue and white warpaint, like Mel Gibson in Braveheart. I spot Mark Hitchens, who helped sort out my ticket order, and go over to thank him. He tells me Rotherham actually had a few tickets left, so maybe I needn’t have been quite so worried about getting all the ones I needed.
Tim’s already in the social club, and points us in the direction of the Kirklands, who’ve commandeered a table in the corner. For the next hour or so, I dish out tickets. At half-past two, Diamond rings to say he’s only at Rayner’s Lane, but I assure him he’ll be with us well before kick-off, and he is. The rest of the assembled cast include Clarkey, Ian Armitage, Mick Walker, Andy Leng, Chris Turner, Phil the darts ringer, Martin Burton, Richard Burton, Phil Kyte, Watford Dan, Nigel Hall, Steve Exley, Rob Elston and Julia. We’re just waiting for Toddy and Graham and Brown (who, typically for Toddy, is only one person), but they’re coming up from the Cenotaph, having been there to remember fallen comrades, and could be anywhere. In the end, Tim takes their tickets so he can leave them on the gate if necessary – a) because he knows the people who know the people at Wealdstone and b) it will enable him to miss kick-off, which is his preferred method of watching a game. This gives me the opportunity to go and find somewhere to put the flag. Before we can fasten it to the fence, we’re approached by a camera crew for some Internet site (as Jenny isn’t with me, I know it won’t have a name like ‘two girls, one flag’) who film me, the Kirklands and Chris B holding it and singing, ‘Rotherham, Rotherham’. Having duly made fools of ourselves, we go back to what we’re doing.
We congregate on a little bit of concrete stand close to the corner flag. It’s a good place to stand, as it’s where the subs come to do their warming-up, which gives Clarkey the chance to bond with Paul Warne. Fortunately, Drewe Broughton (or Dave, as the programme has it) is in the starting line-up, otherwise we’d have been right behind his stretching routine and there might be minors present... By this time, Toddy and Graham and Brown have arrived. Toddy flashes us his medals. Graham, who’s a Southend fan, is more interested in whether ‘Drewe the legend’ is playing, and is delighted to see that he is.
The game quickly develops into a classic league against non-league cup tie. Wealdstone are determined to give us no time to settle, putting in some crunching tackles, one of which will eventually see Nicky Law being substituted at half-time. Like Barnet, they have a slope, and we’re kicking down it in the first half. When Kevin Ellison goes to take a corner, we hear the assistant referee telling him to put it further in the D. ‘It’s only supposed to touch the line,’ Lord Voldemort responds in his scarily high-pitched Scouse accent. Meanwhile, more subs have come to warm up. Mark Lynch is doing some weird skippy dance and the two Taylors, Jason and Ryan, are doing more chatting than stretching, like they’ve been let out of school early.
Andy reckons we need a goal to settle us down, but it doesn’t come for half an hour, and when it does, it’s a moment of pure comedy. Alfie, running on to the ball, trips, does a full forward roll, picks himself up and carries on. The keeper tries to clear the ball, which bounces against the Le Fondre backside and goes in. As we celebrate, we try to decide whether we want him to perform a cartwheel or a somersault before his next attempt.
Just before half-time, we’re two up. A clearance falls kindly to Kevin Ellison, who lashes in a thunderous shot. It seems like all the lucky breaks other teams have had against us in recent matches are now going our way, and we’re not complaining.
They’ve just done the draw for the second round and if we get through this tie (which quite a few people are still expecting us not to), we’ll be at home to either Luton or Rochdale. I’m convinced it will be Luton, simply as karma for all the people who were singing, ‘We’ll never play you again,’ when we beat them at Kenilworth Road back in March.
For the second half, we’re joined by a few Wealdstone fans who’ve moved round from the end behind the goal, and a man who claims to have Drewe Broughton’s phone number. Toddy promptly offers to buy it from him for a pound. Like Barnet, the Stones know how to use the slope to their advantage, and they bring on Danny Spendlove. He may have a porno name and a haircut to match, but he runs at our defence at pace and they don’t like it. It’s also his throw which starts the move which sees Ryan Ashe pull a goal back with a lovely curling effort.
Clarkey starts to get more shouty and exasperated as Wealdstone continue to attack, while Toddy starts asking how much time is left every couple of minutes. Graham is still confident that ‘the legend’ will do something for us, and he’s proved right. Teeny tiny Stephen Brogan comes on for his first appearance of the season with a few minutes to go, and when we get a rare free kick, he’s the one who takes it. Mr Broughton heads it in, much to the delight of the chap who’s got his number, although Wealdstone have clearly got it in for poor old Drewe, as they announce Brogan as the scorer.
‘Easy, easy,’ chants a visibly more relaxed Toddy. I tell him to shut up, because that’s obviously what provokes Wealdstone into a response. We give Ashe too much time to line up another shot, this one even better than the first. I do something I never normally do, which is applaud an opposition goal. Perhaps it’s because he’s non-league, or perhaps it’s because I sense it’s not going to make any difference. Even though the ref adds four minutes on, we manage to get the ball upfield where we can fanny about in the corner with it, and for the first time in a thousand years we’re through to the second round. Magnanimous in victory, we make sure to applaud every last Wealdstone player off the pitch, as they’ve played so well and pushed us all the way. I suspect we’d have been much more comfortable winners if the tie had been played at the DVS, but we’ll never know.
After a swift one in the packed social club, during the course of which we spot various of the Wealdstone players coming in, suited and booted, to meet family and friends, I make a move. Outside, Andy Nicholas is being interviewed by some member of the press or other, and the rest of the players are on the team bus, ready to go. Even allowing for a points failure on the District Line, I’m sure I’ll be home well before they are. Bring on the Luton, or the Dale. Round two beckons...

Confessions Of A Neutral Supporter Part Four

With our FA Cup game against Wealdstone having been moved to Sunday because there’s a function already booked for today in their social club, Ted has persuaded me to go see Darlo play Barnet. I shall be swelling what is likely to be a fairly small Darlo contingent, partly because of the impossibility of getting cheap tickets so close to the day of the game and partly because they were at Barnet only a fortnight ago. Indeed, Ted’s only arranged to meet up with John and Bev and Geoff the Plymouth fan for pre-match socialising.
We fortify ourselves with breakfast in the People’s Choice in Barbican. It’s one of Ted’s preferred haunts, even if he’s not over-keen on the French fry-style chips which accompany his egg, bacon and all the trimmings, across the road from a dance school, so you can look out and see tiny would-be ballerinas wandering past with their yummy mummies and always, but always, a brace of mounted policeman trotting along the road. From there, we walk to Old Street to get the tube as it’s such a beautiful morning, one of those glorious crisp November days.
Over the years, with London Miller and Darlo sorties to Underhill, I’ve been drinking in most of the decent pubs in Barnet, but today I’m going to the Lord Nelson for the first time. It’s in the old part of Barnet, which means a walk past a row of almshouses and various other historic buildings, plus a few houses which cost the number you first thought of plus a couple of noughts on the end.
The Lord Nelson is very much a local pub for local people, with not another obvious football fan to be seen. In fact, I’m probably the youngest drinker in the place, which is a very strange feeling. The music – the Shadows, Daniel O’Donnell and the like – is also a bit of a giveaway as to the average age of the clientele, but it’s a nice place to go drinking and there’s a pub dog for Ted to bond with. John arrives minus Bev, who’s had to get someone in to repair their boiler, with Geoff following shortly afterwards. We peruse John’s Daily Mirror, which has as one of its regulation heartwarming/quirky FA Cup minnow stories the tale of how the entire Wealdstone team will be wearing their lucky Superman undies tomorrow, complete with photograph. Must remember to take some Kryptonite with me...
As predicted, the Darlo turnout is on the low side, although we do join Martin and Pete, who only lives a short walk away and therefore has no excuse, and I have a quick chat with Gavin of legendarily bad jokes fame.
The minute’s silence for Remembrance Day is beautifully observed, and then it’s on with the game.
This is the first time I’ve seen Darlo since a night match at the same ground towards the end of the season before last, and in that time they’ve gone through administration and seen the team change out of all recognition, with only two senior squad members not exercising their right to go elsewhere over the summer. The result is a squad made of other people’s leftovers and loanees, patched together first by Colin Todd and then Steve Staunton, who made it to the last three on the shortlist for the Rotherham manager’s job, and it quickly becomes obvious that they aren’t really playing as a team. It also doesn’t help that there’s something about the Underhill slope which always makes for frantic, rushed football. Rotherham took Barnet apart without too much effort a few weeks ago, and yet today it’s the Bees who look composed and assured. Albert Adomah, who did nothing against us that day, causes Darlo’s defence more problems than he really should. Barnet’s first goal comes when Darlo don’t clear a ball properly and it’s laid back into John O’Flynn’s path for a fairly simple finish. Darlo are playing well up to the edge of the Barnet box, but they don’t seem to have the confidence to shoot – if they did, they’d probably go in level at half-time.
As an aside, visiting the ladies’ at half-time, I’m struck again by how Barnet is the only ground I’ve been to where there’s alcohol handrub rather than water. Given that it doesn’t take much for the average lower league toilet to resemble the one Ewan McGregor dives into in Trainspotting, it’s an idea I’m surprised more clubs don’t adopt.
Barnet quickly double their lead after the break, having played the old psychological game of keeping the opposition waiting for ages before they decide to come out. Paul Furlong, 75, fluffs his shot and Micah Hyde slots in the loose ball. That bloke who always insists on leading the fans in a chorus of ‘Twist And Shout’ goes through his routine. I bet he hogs the mike at karaoke nights, too. Their third is a header from O’Flynn, who performs the world’s most ostentatious handstand by way of celebration. Clearly, he fancies himself just a little bit...
Given the way in which Darlo are kicking, they really do have an uphill task now. However, Staunton makes a couple of changes, taking off Mark Convery and Jeff Smith and replacing them with Josh Gray and Mor Diop, winner of this season’s ‘player who sounds most like a character from Star Wars’ award. Darlo show more fight and force Barnet keeper Jake Cole, whose peroxide mop suggests he’s channelling Manuel Almunia, into making three or four great saves. Eventually, their persistence pays off and Diop’s trundling shot beats Cole, but although they keep pressing, that’s the final scoreline. Darlo are now officially concentrating on the league. Even the news that the Monkey Hangers have lost to Kettering can’t really lift the mood.
Back in town, we head to the Betjeman at St Pancras because Ted is hoping to sample the new Sambrook beer. Unfortunately, it isn’t on, so after a swift pint (and a nice, reviving cup of tea for me) we go to the King Charles, rapidly becoming Ted’s pub of choice. John rings Bev; the boiler is fixed but she declines to join us as that would involve a trek out in the cold. Sensible girl. The King Charles is quiet, and Ted and John monopolise the juke box. Geoff bids us adieu - maybe it’s the music? The barman offers us some excellent home-made crackling one of the regulars has brought in, and it’s still relatively early when Ted and I pick up a curry from a place just round the corner and go home, Ted to nod off in front of Match Of The Day, me to check and re-check I’ve got all the tickets in my bag for the game tomorrow.

Confessions Of A Neutral Supporter Part Three

Even though Upton Park is practically on my doorstep, it’s very rare that I go to see a game there. I don’t believe you can really have a ‘second team’, and if I did, I’d have chosen one a little cheaper and easier to get into.
However, Ted’s mate, Steve, is a second team man, dividing his loyalties between Aston Villa and Darlo, which is why we’re off to West Ham v Villa, even though he’ll be sitting in the away end and we’re with the home fans. I have been in with the Villa before now, though, which is a vastly entertaining experience. The more agitated they get, the higher pitched their cries of ‘Come on, Villa!’ become, until they reach a level only dogs can hear...
But before the excitement of the match, I meet up with the boys in the Palm Tree in Mile End Park. They’ve already visited the Approach and the Eleanor Arms, which Ted is very impressed with having bonded with the landlord (a big CAMRA man and a dead ringer for Ricky Gervaise, apparently), and treated themselves to pie and mash on the Roman Road. Some of us, however, have to pace ourselves.
Ted and I have got seats in the East Stand at the Boleyn Ground, what was the old ‘Chicken Run’. It’s the only part of the ground which hasn’t been modernised, meaning that there’s not a great deal of leg room and people have to squeeze past us to get to their seats on the rows behind, as the stairway runs out just by us. This leads Ted into a general round of chuntering about ‘safe all-seater stadiums’, but I’m too busy watching the pre-match build-up to pay much attention. Fortunately, the Hammerettes cheerleading troupe seem to have bitten the dust; instead, the club’s two mascots, Herbie the Hammer and a bear whose name escapes me but is no way as cool as Miller Bear (unless it CAN drive a hovercraft) are wandering around, the half-dozen tiny mascots are being put through a very intensive coaching routine and Villa’s keepers are being warmed up by former Rotherham custodian Seamus McDonagh, the most Irish man ever to come from Canklow.
When the teams come out, they go through the ritual of lining up and shaking hands under an official Premier League canopy, though what this adds to the matchday experience I have no idea. As the line-ups are read out, I’m struck by quite how many of them I’ve seen play for various teams against Rotherham, including Matthew Upson, Carlton Cole, Steve Sidwell, Nigel Reo-Coker, Richard Dunne, Emile Heskey and Rob Green. When Alan Curbishley was managing West Ham and there were accusations of there being a materialistic, ‘Baby Bentley’ culture at the club, Green was quoted as saying that side of football wasn’t of any interest to him. So I won’t mention the time he was directly behind my friend, Pam, and me in a queue of traffic in Norwich, driving a big, black, shiny eff-off 4x4 with all the trimmings...
As the first half progresses, it soon becomes clear why West Ham were in the bottom three at the start of play. They’re playing like a group of individuals, rather than a team: they have the flash haircuts and boots and, striker Franco in particular, seem to fancy themselves as being that little bit better than they actually are. They also succeed in making Heskey, playing wide on the left, look as though he’s got silky skills. Villa, in contrast, stroke the ball around, and have two players in Ashley Young and Gabby Agbonlahor who can break at pace, though Agbonlahor, playing on the shoulder of the last defender, is regularly caught offside. Their fans are noisy and boisterous, with a song for just about every player. They also like to tell the West Ham fans where they can stick their bubbles, and have a couple of chants which prove swearing is neither big nor clever but can be funny. Villa force Green into making two smart saves which rouse the home fans into a chorus of ‘England’s number one’, about the only noise they’ve made all half. In contrast, Brad Friedel only has one fairly tame shot to stop.
West Ham’s cause isn’t helped by the fact they have to make a couple of substitutions. First Ilunga, who aided and abetted in Kenwyne Jones getting sent off at the weekend by pretending to be more badly hurt than he actually was, pulls something in the back of his leg and limps off. Karma, it’s a bitch. Then Carlton Cole has to come off, replaced by Zavon Hines. Even so, they create nothing until stoppage time. Hines gets the ball in what appears to be an offside position, runs into the box and is brought down. Mark Noble fires the resulting penalty high into the net. The crowd, who have been quiet as mice, suddenly start giving it large, and West Ham go in at half-time with an undeserved lead.
At half-time, a couple of Australian rugby players are interviewed pitchside to general indifference, but the players seem to be back out on the pitch nice and early.
Villa are handed a chance to get back into the game within a few minutes, when they’re awarded a penalty for climbing in the box. It’s not a great kick, though, and Rob Green saves it easily. The West Ham fans are now getting a bit cocky, but they’re silenced when Ashley Young curls a superb shot past Green from wide on the right. After that, the tempo seems to drop, with more than a few carthorse moments from each side. Reo-Coker replaces Heskey, and is roundly booed whenever he touches the ball. Then Habib Beye (about whom the Newcastle fans used to sing, brilliantly, ‘Sunday, Monday, Habib Beye’) brings down Jonathan Spector, who’s running a speed. Spector manages to fit in the full 360-degree roll before he touches the ground; Beye gets a second yellow and is off. Villa drop deeper to compensate, West Ham bring on Luis Jiminez, possessor of possibly the worst hair in the Premier League (and yes, I am including Fellaini at Everton in that list) but even then it still looks like the game is going to peter out into a draw. Then, in the third minute of four added on, Hines weaves his way past a couple of defenders to score the winner. Again, it isn’t really deserved, but the Hammers fans go mad and the first song to come on the Tannoy (after the night’s third, inevitable rendition of ‘Bubbles’) is Muse’s ‘Uprising', with its chorus of 'we shall be victorious’. Just rub it in, why don’t you? Though I'm sure even the most bumptious fan walking away from the ground will acknowledge that though the win was welcome, it’s only papering over some serious cracks.
Outside, we meet up with Steve to offer consolation, and then we do the only thing you can in the circumstances, which is go and get a curry. Needless to say, it goes down much better than the result...

Boo! (That's A Scary Boo!, Not A Discontented One...)

When this trip was originally arranged, Clarkey suggested it as a mini-version of the Christmas trip – the fact it’s Hallowe’en is something of a coincidence. Typically, Clarkey has now had to bow out due to family commitments, so today’s stout party consists of me, Jenny, Chris Turner and Tim. Our numbers are lessened still further when Tim deserts us at Meadowhall and dashes (well, strolls sedately) across to the opposite platform so he can play a flying visit to Rotherham. As ever, though, Phil is already in the Fat Cat when we get there. Wednesday are in Bristol, so Shalesmoor is quiet, but the cheeky young barman seems pleased to see us all. Naturally, all the guest beers have a Hallowe’en theme, as is the case when we pop into the Wellington for a swift one before catching the tram.
When we get to the ground, the youth team are already sitting in our usual flag spot, but there’s still plenty of room as no one else has bothered to bring theirs. Aldershot, in contrast, have a high flag-to-fan ratio, though not many of them have travelled. On our way back to the stand, Jenny and I bump into a fiftysomething Shots fan who walks with a stick. He offers to buy ‘two beautiful ladies’ a drink, and though we’re charmed (outrageous compliments will do that every time, boys!) we decline his offer and tell him we hope he enjoys the game.
One or two people are wandering round in family dress – we spot a zombie and Captain Jack Sparrow, while the two children at the side of me are dressed as a witch (who is celebrating her ninth birthday, coincidentally) and a skeleton. As you’d expect, Miller Bear has got into the spirit of the day, sporting a ghoul mask and a cape and entertaining the crowd with his Thriller dance routine.
It has to be said the game does not thrill, on any any level. Aldershot haven’t kept a clean sheet all season and have come determined not to concede, while doing their best to catch us on the break. They’re one of those big, awkward teams, easily a head taller than our squad just about all round, and we’re clearly having an off day against them. They’re playing a formation which seems toe allow them to find plenty of space, and being helped in their endeavours by a referee (Mr Booth, a name designed to fill any Rotherham fan with dread...) who gives the majority of the decisions in their favour. It’s a half of few chances and little excitement. The nearest we come is with a Kevin Ellison corner which, like last week, he’s clearly aiming to go in the goal, but the ref blows for some infringement.
At half time I run round in search of London Millers with season tickets. Tickets for the FA Cup game against Wealdstone go on sale on Monday, and I’ve got the job of buying them as Jenny goes on holiday next week. They’ve allocated us just over 400 in total as their ground only holds 2300, and so many people have decided they want to go (including Diamond, who we all thought had dropped off the face of the earth) that I’ve got 21 orders – hence the need for season tickets to order them with. Fortunately, Steve Exley comes good, so hopefully no one will be disappointed (although the game and the result may be a different matter...)
Things improve slightly in the second half. Aldershot have a couple of chances, one of which Don saves and the other hits the post (that’s from a debatable free kick, Mr Booth having picked up where he left off). Our strikers aren’t having much in the way of service, and with about ten minutes to go, Ronnie substitutes Tom Pope with the ultra-bendy Drewe Broughton, who’s been stretching comprehensively throughout the game, using the new perimeter advertising boards to help him get his leg over (stop sniggering at the back, there!)
We have our best opportunity from an Andy Nicholas header, but their double-barrelled keeper is able to palm the ball over the top. The game ends to a chorus of boos from the home fans, who’ve been increasingly restless for the last twenty minutes or so. It hasn’t been a great performance by any means, but with most of the teams around us playing each other, results have generally gone our way. It’s the sort of reaction which makes me ashamed to be a Rotherham fan, and when I meet up with Jenny by the flag it’s clear she feels the same. By the tram stop, one of the stewards is complaining, ‘Under Robins, no one could beat us, and now everyone’s beating us.’ This baffles us, as we can’t actually remember Aldershot scoring a winning goal.
Chris tunes into Radio Sheffield’s ‘Praise Or Grumble’ on the train to Donny, only to hear the following priceless comment from a Rotherham caller: ‘I’ve got two words for you, Seth – sack him now.’ Much as it makes us laugh, this gets to the crux of the problem. The reaction to the return of Ronnie Moore was always mixed: some regard him as the returning M-word, while others didn’t really want him back. I was one of the latter, as I was worried about the expectations it would pile on him and the team, but now he’s back, you have to get behind him. Mind you, we could have won the last five games six-nil, and some people would still find something to moan about.
And so we find ourselves in Doncaster. On Hallowe’en. The question is, of course, how is it different from being in Doncaster on any other day? In the Corner Pin, we bump into our chum Mr Thorne Brewery, who has a good chat with us and lets us know how they’re getting on as a going concern. Apparently, their beers are on regularly in the Devonshire Cat in Sheffield, which we’re planning to visit on the Christmas trip, and he’s also got it as far north as Darlington (in the Quaker Cafe, one of Ted’s favourite pre-match haunts) and delivered some to the House of Commons bar.
On the train to London, we find ourselves sitting with some of the London Iron, who’ve watched Scunny lose to Swansea and recognise Chris from the darts. They play cards for most of the way back, although the game appears to fall apart as none of them has Mrs Bun the baker’s wife. There are also lone Donny and Plymouth fans, which makes it a real voyage of the damned! We pass the time spotting firework displays (Hertfordshire proves particularly fruitful for this) and Tim arranges to meet up with his brother-in-law, Ian when we get into Kings Cross. I decline to join the party as I have to go home and check on Ted. His trip to Hereford was curtailed at Paddington, possibly because of something he ate – but at least it spared him the sight of another Darlo defeat. And some of our fans think they have something to complain about...

Shake Down

Jenny, Clarkey and I head out of Euston hoping for another fruitful day in the North-west. It’s my first trip to Gigg Lane, even though I’ve seen Bury a few times, including one memorable occasion at Darlo’s old ground, Feethams, when Chris Billy was in the Bury line-up and some bloke standing in the Tin Shed behind us just kept randomly shouting, “Chris Billy,” every seven or eight minutes. Then, as we were leaving the ground, we spotted a couple of their players, packets of chips under their arms, legging it back down Victoria Road to where the team bus was waiting for them. Ah, the glamour of lower league football...
At Piccadilly station, we meet Chris K, along with his friends Tom, who came with us to Rochdale last season, and Lawrie, who’s getting his first taste of Millers action. The tram line through Manchester is currently being repaired, so it’s a short walk through the city centre to Victoria, where we pick up the tram to Bury. The journey takes us through Besses O’The Barn, which sounds like one of the most romantic places in England – shame that as you look out of the tram window, you don’t see rolling fields and Lorna Doone tripping through the mist, just a massive car dealership...
Jenny’s friend, Jean, is waiting for us at Bury station. Over the years, the two of them have developed the art of the several-hour lunch, as well as going on a variety of exotic holidays – which is a dirty job, but someone has to do it.
Our pub of choice is the Rose and Crown, on the Old Manchester Road. When we arrive at about ten to one, we’re told it won’t be opening for another five minutes. We pop our head round the door of the nearby Trafalgar, but Clarkey fails to spot anything resembling a hand pump, and walks out on principle. There isn’t a Lidl nearby, so we can’t borrow Ted’s favourite method of time killing, but the Rose and Crown does open after a couple of minutes, and it turns out to be a great choice. There are half-a-dozen real ales on, with the opportunity to sample before you buy. We’re joined by Chris B and his friend, Matt, and a couple of friends of Clarkey’s who have only come for the drinking and whose names now escape me (I should really make notes, you know!) Jenny enquires about the possibility of sandwiches, as the website has stated there are no meals on Saturdays, to be told by the landlady, Val, that they put on a corned beef hash after the game. This is no good to us, as we’re straight back to Manchester afterwards, but when she finds out how far some of us have come, she says she’ll dig round and see what she can put on for us. This turns out to be cheese pie, chips and garlic bread and is very much appreciated. We shall definitely be back there if we’re in the same division as Bury next season.
We take a leisurely walk to the ground, put the flag up (which for once gets some lovely coverage on the Football League highlights) and get seats behind the goal. Clarkey is in fine voice and airing a new chant or two, including, ‘Allez, allez, allez, allez, Alfie, Alfie,’ in honour of Adam Le Fondre, who sounds so French and yet is so from Stockport. I must admit I’m slightly distracted by the antics of Neil Cutler on the Bury bench. Well, I say on the bench. He’s actually standing on the steps at the side of the home dug-out, which would see any member of the paying public being told to sit down or even getting slung out, but if you’re staff, you can get away with it, I suppose. He looks like the dominant cat in a household, manoeuvring itself to the highest point so it can look down on everyone else. Vying for attention, though, is our own Drewe Broughton, going through his ostentatious and positively X-rated stretching routine on the touchline in an attempt to be crowned the most supple man in Europe. Women of a certain age all over Bury will be in need of cold showers, and I’m surprised the people sitting in that stand aren’t choking on all the testosterone...
Dragging my attention back to the football (and probably back above waist level, too!), we’re definitely on top in the first half. Alf, Dale Tonge and Nicky Law are linking up well on the right, but when Alf finds himself completely unmarked, he can only shoot straight at Bury keeper Wayne Brown. We should have a penalty when one of the Bury defenders gets a huge fistful of Law’s shirt, but it goes unnoticed. Brown makes one other very good save, but hurts himself in the process and has to go off, to generous applause from the Rotherham fans. He’s replaced by Cameron Belford, who sounds more like a firm of shipbuilders than a footballer. Just on the stroke of half-time, for the second time in two away games, Kevin Ellison scores directly from a corner. I don’t celebrate at first, as I’m sure the ref is going to disallow it for a foul on Belford, but it stands – much to the fury of Mr Cutler, who goes up and remonstrates with the officials as they’re coming off the pitch.
At half-time, there’s a schools five-a-side match and some tiny cheerleaders, who Chris K reckons are the schoolboy footballers’ WAGS. Cheerleaders are still wrong, whatever their age...
Bury come out with more purpose in the second half, and are level within five minutes. Jenny reckons Ryan Lowe is offside when he picks up the ball and slots it past Don, but it’s difficult to tell. Then they get a penalty – after Ian Sharps has made a beautiful clean tackle. The assistant ref doesn’t flag for it, but Mr Webb (sadly, not Howard) goes and consults with him anyway before awarding it. Justice is done, though, as Don saves what’s actually a pretty poor kick before the rebound is lashed over the bar. Man-hugging ensues, with Clarkey getting so excited he’s actually jumping up on the back of the seat in front of him – though he could just be attempting to prove that he’s the dominant cat!
We hope that will be the turning point of the game, but with only a few minutes left, a clearance bounces straight into the path of Bury’s Richie Baker, who accepts the slice of fortune and scores. We press for the equaliser, and right at the very end Sharps has a header which is somehow kept out by the sub keeper.
On the tram back to Bury, the Rotherham fans are restless. Some bloke behind me is chuntering on his mobile, ‘That’s it, Ronnie Moore’s got to go, he’s a knobhead.’ Now that's what I call giving your manager time...
There isn’t time for a pint in Manchester – well, not for those of us who are going back to London, anyway. With neither Manchester side playing till tomorrow, the train is refreshingly free of plastic fans with their equally plastic Man U Superstore carrier bags. As we go through Stoke, the ring road is lit up in shades of purple and green. It’s what being on acid must be like – but then Stoke in general is what being on acid must be like!
Clarkey bids us farewell at Euston, and Jenny and I go up to the King Charles to meet Ted. He’s with the Wilsons, Bev being the only happy one among us as Chelsea have just won five-nil. The place is packed with people celebrating an engagement, but there’s still room for Ted to get chatting to a man who turns out to be a brewer from Rye. He has his dog, Spud, with him, who is apparently something of an Internet legend – in the same way as we have Clarkey, probably. Nice day, shame about the result, but then isn’t that so often the case?

Clarkey Is A Legend!

On some trips it feels like the circus is never very far from rolling into town, but today that’s most definitely the case. Notts County have been Hoovering up all the media attention in the division ever since they were bought out by a mysterious consortium who may either be among the richest men in the Middle East or just a bunch of crooks depending on who you listen to, and come to the DVS having, on the face of it, sacked their manager because they’re not ten points clear at the top already (and if that’s what they wanted, they should have bought Oxford United...). So it should all be fun and games, then.
The LM contingent consists of me and Jenny – who are, as ever, at King’s Cross in good time – and Clarkey and Stephanie – who, as ever, make the train by the skin of their teeth. The Clarkes are staying in Rotherham for the weekend as it’s Cla rkey’s mum’s birthday and he’s taking her somewhere nice for lunch tomorrow. On the way up, Stephanie happens to mention that her friends think Clarkey is a legend. Now, we’ve called him a few things in our time, but...
As we walk from the tram to the Fat Cat, Stephanie asks me whether I still look out for signs before games, just at the moment when a lorry with ‘Travel Green’ on the side goes past. ‘Yes,’ I say, ‘and that’s today’s.’ Even though I know it doesn’t make any difference to the result, and everyone else knows it doesn’t make any difference to the result, it still has to be done.
Phil is waiting for us in the pub. After the game, he’s off to Nottingham to meet Watford Dan, as they’re going to the Carl Froch fight. It doesn’t actually kick off (or whatever the technical term is) until two in the morning, so they’ve got a list of pubs to try before they have to be in the venue at 11. Fortunately, Nottingham isn’t exactly short on good pubs, though we think Phil might be flagging a little come the end of the night.
On the tram to the stadium, we bump into the Manchester contingent, both of whom also have dads who are legends: Chris Burrows because his father was one of the London Millers’ founder members, tracked down after he rang Greater London Radio to talk about Rotherham on a phone-on show, and Chris Kirkland because – well, you only needed to watch him following the Yorkshire score on the way to Chelters to know why! After the game, the plan is to meet up and present Andy Warrington with the Player of the Season trophy, which Jenny had made in Rotherham, along with a replacement the John Ward trophy (named after another of the original London Millers and the man responsible for devising the voting system for each game’s man of the match, who sadly died eight years ago), the original of which was either lost by persons unknown at Millmoor or is in a box in Alan Lee’s attic.
The Greasebrough Millers flag is already on show for once (glory hunters!) and there’s definitely a bigger crowd than usual, though Notts County, although spilling over into the uncovered part of the stand, haven’t brought quite as many as we thought they might given their new-found money and relative success. The more excitable Rotherham fans have got seats in block six lower, closest to the away fans, so they can treat them to the predictable chorus of ‘scabs’. Let it go, boys, let it go...
I go to join my dad, who is a legend for more reasons than can be counted, his surreal abuse of referees and assorted players among them. Before kick-off, the photographers line up on the track in front of the directors’ box, snapping away at Sven. The lad who sits next to our chum with the two boys, and who’s kind of bonded with us, lets me know that Broughton and Nicholas have come in for Pope and Green. I suspect this is tactical, having watched Notts County’s televised game against TV, because their defence couldn’t cope with Torquay’s long throws (which are an important part of Nicholas’ game) and the awkward striker Tim Sills. We start brightly, but then Nicholas gets hurt in a clash of heads and has to go off to be stitched up, leaving us playing with ten men for a good ten minutes. Meanwhile, Nick Fenton gets booked when he tackles Lee Hughes (who is being roundly booed by the Rotherham fans) and Hughes lies on the ground beating the turf with his fist as though he’s seriously hurt. Of course, once Mr Boyeson has dished out a yellow card, Hughes gets up and trots off. If this was ‘Match Of The Day’, they would show you this booking as shorthand for ‘he’s off later’.
County are making the most of the extra man, and our passing is breaking down because the temptation can’t be resisted to just lump the ball to Drewe. Nicholas comes back on, but when the cut opens up again he’s replaced by Jamie Green. It’s not the greatest half of football we’ve ever played, and Don has to make a couple of important saves, but similarly Kaspar Schmeichel has to tip the ball over the bar (you don’t see any of our chances on the Football League highlights later, strangely...).
It being ‘Kick It Out’ week, there’s a half-time game between two teams of girls. What this has to do with eradicating racism from football isn’t immediately obvious, but it’s good entertainment nonetheless.
Five minutes into the second half, we’re down to ten men. Fenton makes a challenge and Ben Davies makes the most of whatever contact there might have been. However, this only serves to make the team play better. Big Pablo drops back into defence so we don’t have to sacrifice a forward. Nicky Law goes on a couple of threatening runs and the crowd really starts to get behind the team. County respond with more rolling around and feigning injury, with one of their players trying to imply that Ellison has elbowed him. Maybe they think they’d have a chance against nine men. All they do is prove that money really doesn’t buy you class...
They make a substitution, bringing on Luke Rodgers to double their quotient of bald, objectionable strikers, and Don is forced into action again, saving well before Pablo blocks the rebound. Right at the end, County think they’ve won it, but Rodgers’ shot is flagged offside.
Last week we drew and it felt like a defeat; this week we’ve drawn and it feels like a win. As I’m going to collect the flag, the League Two scores are coming through, and Darlo have won for the first time this season. I’m sure people think I’m mad when they see me cheering, but perhaps they just think I had a bet on them!
As we’re making our way to the sponsors’ lounge, someone manages to drop a tray off a trolley he’s wheeling. Chris K, ever the gent, goes to pick it up and only succeeds in getting grease down himself.
They park us in the executive lounge for a few minutes, where we spot Tony Stewart working the room and Nick Fenton collecting his wife and children, who presumably think his sending-off was as harsh as we do. Then Mr Warrington arrives and we join the queue of various sponsors and mascots for their presentation photo. He seems genuinely thrilled to have won our award (and met Clarkey the legend, of course), and we even get him to take away a London Miller questionnaire to fill in, including the obligatory question about bears and hovercraft. Speaking of which, we’ve already asked Miller Bear that one, because the opportunity was too good to miss. Safe to say a hovercraft won’t be joining his drum in his repertoire of crowd-pleasing accessories any time soon!
As we leave the ground, we spot Pablo Mills, who appears to be meeting his mum, and the match officials. We restrain ourselves from telling the ref what we thought of his performance, because we can behave ourselves sometimes.
At the tram, we go our separate ways. I get a call from Ted to tell me he’s at LAX, waiting for his flight home. ‘I just got a text from Tim about our win,’ he says. ‘Sent him one saying I hadn’t seen it because I’m in LA. He sent me one saying, “I’m in Ruislip.”
The journey back is quiet, apart from a couple of Watford fans in the carriage who are engaging in some fairly half-hearted chanting as they’ve beaten Middlesbrough. Where are those two very drunk QPR boys when you need them?

Deep In The Hole

Squeezing on to the train at King’s Cross, Jenny and I are convinced we’re travelling with a party on their way to the 37th annual huge luggage convention in Edinburgh. What else could explain their need to tow something quite so large around with them?
Otherwise, it’s a particularly quiet Saturday. It’s international weekend, so there are no games in the top two divisions, and even Leeds have managed to get their game called off. When we arrive at the Fat Cat, it’s almost deserted – apart from Phil, who as ever is working his way through a pint and a paperback as he waits for us. Unlike a fortnight ago, it doesn’t seem as though any of the away fans have wandered out as far as Shalesmoor in search of a decent drink.
There are no hold-ups on the tram, as no one’s going to Hillsborough, and when we arrive at the DVS there’s plenty of time to put up the flag before that part of the stand is colonised by the youth team. Off you go, you small boys...
For the third game in a row, we’re playing one of the teams who was relegated from League One last season and, like Northampton and Crewe, Hereford are lurking down towards the bottom of the table. However, they’ve recently beaten Bournemouth and drawn with Dagenham, and the last time we played them at Millmoor they beat us with a classic one-nil ‘smash and grab’, so we can’t assume they’re going to be a pushover.
As the first half progresses, though, it looks like that’s exactly the case. Hereford are poor, giving us an awful lot of space and time to play the ball – and we play as well as we have done all season, creating chance after chance. Pope puts a superb ball into Alf’s pass, though he can’t make the most of it, and a couple of minutes later, Ellison slides an equally good ball for Alf to latch on to. One-nil. After that, big Pablo shaves the bar with a shot, Fenton hits the bar and Alf fires narrowly wide. Don, on the other hand, doesn’t make a save until about forty minutes in. We should be four-nil up by half time and it wouldn’t flatter us, but we’re not, and even though Hereford haven’t looked in the least threatening, you still have the nasty feeling that failing to finish our chances could cost us.
Half-time sees a schools five-a-side game in conjunction with some community initiative or other, and a sight which would no doubt have been picked up on camera for Adrian Chiles to have a chuckle over on Match Of The Day 2 if this was the Premier League – my dad playing air guitar to Status Quo’s ‘Whatever You Want’, which, asks the half-time quiz, was part of this week’s top five, but in what year? (Answer at the end – and don’t just scroll to the bottom, that’s cheating...)
Hereford start making substitutions, and show more in the way of attacking intent. We don’t have the freedom we did in the first half, but we still look comfortable. Nick Fenton has to go off with a dead leg, and Pope is replaced by Drewe Broughton, who can’t quite repeat his supersub antics from last week, but has one good chance with a header that he just can’t get enough power into. Alf, meanwhile, has faded a little as the balls to him have begun to dry up. And then, with about thirty seconds to go, we don’t clear a ball in the area and Hereford get an equaliser. The superb first-half performance is forgotten, and the team is booed off the pitch by fans whose expectations are getting rather too high. After all, we’re in the top three, unbeaten at home, averaging two points a game and, in Alf, we have a striker who’s in double figures in early October. Some people are never happy...
Back in Donny, Jenny and I pop into the Corner Pin, which tonight appears to be twinned with Twin Peaks. On the train home, we get talking to the chap sitting opposite us, who’s a southern Leeds fan and something in the legal profession. We have an interesting chap and he has a few things to say about the situations at both Leeds and Notts County, which we’d love him to expand upon, except we’re suddenly at King’s Cross and I have to escort Ted home after a hard day not actually getting to see Darlo play Dagenham. Though, as he points out, at least it means he’s never seen them lose there!
(And the answer to the Status Quo question – 1979. Gold star and a tick if you got it right.)

Drewe Does Crewe

Sometimes you set off for a game with a real feeling of optimism. Other times – well, let’s just say I’ve been to Gresty Road on three previous occasions and never seen us score, let alone win; Crewe took the decision yesterday to sack Gudjon Thordarson (who we once saw at a managers’ forum on the Isle of Man and who proved to be as charming and erudite in a foreign language as Stan Ternant wasn’t in his own...) and replace him with club legend and Jack Duckworth lookalike Dario Gradi and, perhaps most importantly, the referee is one Trevor Kettle. Rotherham fans have a history with Mr Kettle, though we’re not alone in that respect. When Mick Harford was manager we played Barnsley at Oakwell. In the course of the game, Kettle sent off two players during the game and a third after the final whistle and played over an extra minute of stoppage time above what had already been announced, in the course of which Barnsley equalised with a goal which didn’t cross the line – certainly not if the reaction of our keeper that day, the very lovely Neil Cutler, was anythig to go by. We’ve been reffed by him once since then, and won the game, but that was at home to Morecambe, which doesn’t do much for his reputation as a homer... So when I meet Jenny and Joy at Euston, I’m convinced this may well be a fruitless trip. Unlike me, Jenny was at Northampton in midweek – they’ve definitely taken over from Chesterfield as our bogey team, and our performance there was apparently full of uncharacteristic defensive lapses as well as an unstoppable own goal. We’re all hoping that was one of those matches where you get all the silly mistakes you’re going to make for a while out of the way at once.
Fifteen minutes away from Crewe, I get a call from Chris Kirkland to say that the Manchester contingent, aka him and Chris Burrows, have arrived and will be waiting for us on the platform. Meanwhile, my brother lets me know he’s going down to the pub to bag us a table.
This is one of the easiest trips you can make in terms of getting to the ground and a decent pub – turn left out of the station and you’re at Gresty Road within a couple of minutes; five minutes further in the same direction and you reach the British Lion, or as my brother calls it, the British Legion. Sure enough, when we get there, he’s claimed a table, though the pub isn’t particularly busy. It soon starts to fill up, though, and into their second pint of Beartown’s Bearskinful, the boys twig that someone is eating chips. As the pub doesn’t serve food, they check whether people are allowed to bring their own in; they are, so Chris K and Joy take our orders and head off to the rather good chip shop by the ground. ‘This is going to win pub of the year,’ says my brother, tucking into his sausage.
So by the time we leave the pub we’re all in a pretty good mood, despite the slight drizzle in the air, and this persists when the stewards are really helpful when we ask about displaying the flag. Shame the next ninety minutes is going to let us down...
And that certainly seems to be the case when Crewe score after about five minutes. Seems like the defensive lapses have carried over from the other night, as it’s all too easily for their nippy winger to get past Tonge and cross the ball for Steve Schumacher to score. Our equaliser is a little fortuitous; Kevin Ellison’s corner is probably assisted by the blustery wind as it evades everyone, including the Alex keeper, and nestles in the top corner. The Crewe fans seem particularly excited about having Gradi back because they’ve always felt they have some kind of monopoly on playing nice passing football, which they apparently lost when Thordarson took over. Certainly they can string passes together to the extent where the crowd is ‘Olé’-ing, but these moves usually break down without much in the way of an end product. And we’re responding with some decent stuff of our own, though there’s plenty of height in the Crewe team, notably in the shape of their two centre-backs and striker Calvin Zola, who Ronnie actually sold to Crewe when he was at Tranmere, which means the ball is in the air quite a lot of the time.
We get chatting to the bloke at the side of us, who points out how there was always talk of the need to improve the Main Stand at Millmoor, and how Crewe have one stand which is conspicuously better than the rest, but it hasn’t stopped them sliding back into the bottom tier. The converse of this is that they’ve spent much of half time announcing details of their Christmas functions, and having those better facilities enable you to bring in money on non-matchdays, something which can keep a club from sliding into financial difficulties. It’s ironic, as well, given that I’d spent part of the journey up discussing a Channel Five show about stadiums which had featured the Bradford disaster – and how we’d had to get rid of the old stand at Millmoor because it was made of wood and so could have been closed down at any time for safety reasons.
Crewe take the lead again early in the second half; Nick Fenton tries to slide the ball away from Calvin Zola, but it just bounces back to Zola for an easy finish past Don. Heads could drop, but they don’t. Nicky Law is giving Crewe some problems on the wing, but we can’t quite produce a decent opening, and then Crewe hand us one on a plate. Le Fondre takes the ball into the penalty area, but he’s going away from the goal as Harry Worley brings him down from behind. Trevor Kettle awards penalty to away team shocker! Alf dispatches it confidently, and it gives us the lift we needed.
However, what changes the game is a substitution – not always something you’ve been able to say about Ronnie in the past. Mark Robins was always willing to make changes, but what he’d have done here would be bring on Mickey Cummins to shore things up defensively and make sure we come away with a point. Instead, it’s our new best friend Drewe Broughton who’s stripping off several layers of clothing – but not to the extent where Chris Kirkland might have to distract me to protect my morals, fortunately. It’s what Brian, who we used to sit by in the abovementioned old Main Stand, would refer to as ‘bringing on a bit of height and beef’ – Tom Pope, who we bought from Crewe in the summer, has been trying that little bit too hard to prove they were wrong to let him go, and Mr Broughton brings more in the way of physical presence and is harder to knock off the ball. My brother points out after the game that you could see Crewe’s confidence, which is a little fragile after recent results, starting to drain away once Drewe came on. Jenny says Mr B is the sort of player Ronnie will like as they’re in a similar mould; I compare him to Alan Lee, though with less finesse (but a slightly better temperament).
Meanwhile, Crewe have taken off Zola, who must have taken a knock, as I can’t see why they’d sub him for tactical reasons, and brought on Danny Shelley, who appears to have one of my old haircuts. It suits him even less than it suited me...
It’s supersub Drewe who scores the winner – and what a winner it is. He gets the ball with his back to goal, turns and lobs it over the keeper. Cue delirium among the sizeable travelling contingent. We even have chances to extend the lead after that, but Dale Tonge passes when he could have shot, and then we try running the ball into the corner to eat up the three minutes of injury time, something we’ve never been particularly good at. We get away with it, though, and celebrate our first win of Ronnie’s second spell in charge. The consensus is that we probably didn’t deserve it, but then we didn’t deserve to only come away from Chelters with a point, so maybe the results have evened out.
The absent Clarkey has suggested we try the Crewe Arms Hotel after the game as the British Lion won’t be open, but the bar is shut, so, apart from Joy, who’s on an earlier train back, we head to the Brocklehurst on a nearby industrial estate. It’s packed with families making the most of an early evening meal deal, but according to my brother it serves a decent pint of Pedigree and is better than any of the nearby alternatives.
When Jenny and I get back into London, we go to King’s Cross to meet Ted, who’s coming back from Darlo. He wants to try the King Charles I, off Pentonville Road, as it serves Brodie’s (brewed in East London, fact fans) and is getting decent reviews. It’s a quirky little pub; the music is a little loud for us, but it is a Saturday night, after all, and the barman bonds with Ted over their taste in music. We’ll be back there. Funny how sometimes the least promising trips can turn out to be among the best days of the season...

Taking Care Of Business

So the puff of white smoke has emerged from the Barbot Hall chimney and Ronnie Moore has been announced as the new manager. While some of the other London Millers are getting really excited at the thought of having him back, I’m simply incandescent with indifference. Given everything he achieved the first time round – followed by the appalling season he put us through when he started being distracted by personal problems – it’ll take quite a bit to convince me that this was the best decision. And, as I make perfectly clear as I’m getting the coffees at King’s Cross, the words ‘king’ and ‘messiah’ are banned, in case people mistake us for sad Newcastle fans.
As with the Morecambe game, it’s Jenny, Steve Ducker and me travelling up, via Donny and Meadowhall. As we pass the DVS, Steve says we should keep an eye out to see whether the hordes are already queuing in anticipation of Ronnie’s return, but as ever the only people walking down to the stadium at this time of day are the waiting staff for the hospitality suite.
We’re almost to the Fat Cat when we realise we’re being followed by Chris Kirkland, resplendent in his yellow away shirt. Also wandering to the pub are a couple of Barnet fans. One of them asks me whether there’s anywhere else where rival fans would go so far from the ground to the pub, but as I tell him (and he can’t help but agree) it’s a good pub.
Surprisingly, it’s less busy than we expected, given the glorious weather, and along with Mr Kyte we find a table in the beer garden. Steve is drinking a pint of Red Molly, which he says he’s chosen as it’s a reference to a character in a Fairport Convention song. The things you learn on a football trip...
Jenny wants to make sure she’s at the ground early to guarantee she gets a programme, and when we arrive at the tram stop the conductor tells us they’re turning a train round as there’s a gap in the service. Cardiff are at Hillsborough – draw your own conclusions. We still have to sit on the tram for a while, but Chris is in contact with Chris Burrows, who’s already in the ground, and puts in an order for programmes. Of course, when we finally get to the DVS there are more programme sellers milling around than we’ve seen in ages, but Chris has already done the business and got everyone who wanted one a ‘Ronnie souvenir special’.
We think we’ll be fighting for space to hang the flag again, but there’s no sign of the Greasebrough Millers or the other odd flags which appear from time to time. Again, Jenny and I bump into our new best friend Drewe Broughton, but this time we don’t have to ask him to move anywhere. He probably just thinks we’re stalking him now...
Everything is building up to the big moment – no, not kick-off, but Ronnie being introduced to the crowd. He gets the expected massive ovation as he makes his way to the directors’ box, thugh there’s a little scepticism about his appointment in our corner of the family stand, but today isn’t about him, really; it’s about the team Steve Thornber and Paul Warne have put out in their last game as caretakers and whether they can achieve anything against a Barnet team who did the double over us last season.
Within five minutes it seems they might, as Kevin Ellison makes a well-timed run from behind the Barnet defence; Alf slips the ball into his path and it’s a simple finish. However, I seem to recall that last season we took the lead against this lot really early on and then got complacent. No such behaviour today, though. We’re managing to keep their main threatxs, winger Albert Adomah and Paul Furlong, 75, quiet. Barnet are a bit of a dirty team, but the ref is letting a lot of stuff go – as my dad points out towards the end of the game, he gives Barnet all the decisions in the first half and us all the decisions in the second. They have one good chance, but Don makes the only real save they force him into for the whole game. We double the lead when Pope takes the ball down the wing and Nicky Law, who missed such a good chance to win the game at Chelters last week, gets it right this time, dinking the ball over the keeper.
Amazingly, the half-time draw is a Chuckle Brothers-free zone – I’d like to think that they’ve escaped from wherever they’re being held captive by sawing off their feet with a big two-handled saw, saying, ‘To me, to you,’ as they do, but the truth is they’re probably off somewhere rehearsing for the panto season. Instead, ex-player Mark Todd does the honours and we’re treated to another underwhelming display from the four-woman Millers Dance Troupe, or whatever they’re called this week.
In the second half, Barnet continue to huff and puff. Dale Tonge gets a blow to the head and has to be replaced by Mark Lynch, while Pope, who’s put in a good, solid shift, is substituted for Ryan Taylor. Taylor has a couple of chances, and Ellison, who’s definitely the man of the match today, skews the ball horribly wide, though we can’t decide whether he was shooting or crossing. Le Fondre gets our third goal, again beating the offside trap, before being replaced by Warney in what could well be a vanity substitution. Again, Barnet have only had one really good chance in the half, and it’s probably our most assured performance of the season so far.
Back at the tram stop, we just miss one and have to wait ages for the next – obviously they still haven’t sorted out the service after whatever happened earlier. However, we get a fast train to Donny, so we’ll still have time for all the vital tasks – a pint, a Green ’Un and a sandwich. I get a text from my brother to say that Colin Todd has left Darlo. Ted hasn’t bothered with their trip to Grimsby today – his theory is that they’ve won so well there over the last few seasons without his presence that the time he turns up is the time they’ll lose. They’ve drawn, as I find out when I bump into Ted’s mate Martin on Donny station. He’s resigned to the situation (no pun intended), but his main priority at the moment is nipping off to get some chips before he catches his train back to London.
Again, we wring the maximum entertainment value from the Green ’Un on the way home, though after last week’s De-da Derby much of the paper is taken up with United and Wednesday fans sniping at each other. We can just sit back and enjoy it, knowing who’s really supporting the best team in Sheffield...