The late, late show

For once, I'm travelling up to Sheffield on my own, Jenny having stayed up in Rotherham over the New Year and everyone else presumably having better things to do than go watch us play the Daggers. King's Cross is the quietest I've seen it in a long time, though the train I'm on, one of the little four-carriage Hull Trains services, is packed with exiled Magpies going to see Newcastle play Hull in the FA Cup. I  keep an eye out to see if I can spot the Dag and Red squad, which isn't as unlikely as it seems. The team have a policy of travelling by train whenever possible, and last season they were on the same service as us when we were going up for our home game against Grimsby and they were on their way to Rochdale. Clarkey's comment at the time – that I only realised who they were because I recognised their goalkeeper's backside – was completely uncalled for! Meanwhile, Ted has seen them this season and last when they've played up at the Darlo Arena ( I would give the name of the stadium, but given the number it's had since George Reynolds had it erected as a monument to himself, it'll probably have changed again by the time you read this), and according to him they're going first class this season. Insert your own overpaid prima donnas comment here.

When I open my morning paper, the magazine supplement which falls out has an advert on the back for Sharps bedrooms. Pay attention, because that may or may not become significant later.

I make the connection at Donny with seconds to spare, but the train waits at Rotherham Central for five minutes for no apparent reason, ensuring Jenny and I just miss the tram we would otherwise have been on. It's not the kind of day to be hanging around in the cold for long, even though it's noticeably warmer than it is down in the capital. As ever, Phil is waiting for us in the Fat Cat, having bagged the table nearest the fire. We're joined by Chris Turner (who gets the inevitable ribbing about how he's doing as caretaker manager of Hartlepool) and a friend of his who's a Fulham fan up for their game against Wednesday. We all really, really want Fulham to win – I just can't tell him that in case it jinxes our own result.

Dagenham's fans haven't exactly travelled in numbers – a pretty poor show given how well they're doing in the league and the fact they've only had to come about five miles further than I have! As the game progresses, it seems their league position has less to do with their quality and is more a reflection the standard of the league as a whole. John Still has bulked his squad out (literally) with big, physically  imposing players who make things awkward for the opposition – the sort of team we never enjoy playing against. That said, we generally have the better of things, forcing Tony Roberts, who must be doing his nut over the fact he's got nobody behind the goal to talk to apart from some junior school-age ball boy, to make a couple of good saves. And then, early in the second half, we somehow contrive to let Dagenham's smallest player – Matt Richie, on loan from Pompey – head the ball home. After that, the Daggers reckon they should have a penalty when Stockdale appears to bring Richie down, but then they could easily have been playing with ten men if the ref had given their defender a red card, rather than a yellow, for what looked like a deliberate handball. Stockdale makes a great save which probably turns the game, but though we press for an equaliser, nothing happens and the natives are disgruntled. Drewe Broughton is substituted for Richie Barker, who's just signed a permanent deal with us, and it seems nailed on that he'll score when we get a free kick. Of course, it doesn't happen. 'They've had us licked since the goal went in,' grumbles the man behind us, as all around us the sneaking out has begun in earnest. Three minutes (sorry, a minimum of three minutes – which again may or may not be significant) are announced. 'Come on, Rotherham, one last chance,' I shout, as I usually do in similar circumstances. 'It's too late, gel,' my dad replies. Until one of the Dagenham players gives away a needless foul right on the edge of the box. All the messing around getting the wall back ten yards takes us well over the stated three minutes. Reuben Reid, who's rumoured to want away from the club and who a couple of people around us have offered to drive him there, given his seeming lack of interest during the previous ninety minutes, slides the ball round the wall, rather than over it, and it goes in off some part of Ian Sharps' anatomy. The power of the omen yet again.

There's nothing like a spawny equaliser with the last kick (or, more accurately, pelvic thrust) of the game to put a smile on your face. Jenny and I take the tram to Meadowhall to get the train to Donny. On the platform, a man is wandering around randomly announcing, 'We are Leeds,' every couple of minutes, while a lad who's still in his yellow steward's jacket is telling a female friend we had the Carlisle manager in the VIP area today. Bonus points to anyone who can name him.

Ted and his tunnel steward chum Martin are on the same train as us, but in a different carriage. They don't bother to join us, but Ted, Jenny and I do decide to go for a couple in the Doric Arch. He's happy because Darlo nicked three points against Bournemouth (and did us a favour in the process) with a last-minute penalty. A case of the late, late show all round.