We paid for quality

So 2008 ends in exactly the same way 2007 did, with a trip to Meadow Lane. I'm picked up by Jenny's brother, John, who drops us off at the Belvedere, the pub by Thomas Rotherham College, where we're meeting Bob Harrison and Tim. Bob is the one who's actually giving us a lift to Nottingham, John having another carful to collect and take to the match. We make decent time despite roadworks on the M1 near Mansfield. On the way, we're discussing the new mascot which was unveiled by Rotherham on Boxing Day, Millers Bear. There's a long-standing debate between Phil and Toddy about whether a bear can drive a hovercraft, inspired by some half-remembered episode of Gentle Ben, and this seems set to start it off all over again. 'But why a bear?' I ask. 'Why not something which alliterates, like Millers Monkey, or Millers Moose or – Millers Barn!' Okay, so there's no alliteration there, but said pub, which we drove past in the middle of my rant, looks like today's omen.

Now here comes the brief history of the omen. It all started a few years ago, when we were driving up for an FA Cup tie against Southampton which had been rearranged due to bad weather. On the M1, we spotted a couple of lorries which had the surnames of either one of the then Rotherham players or manager Ronnie Moore on the side. We duly won the tie 2-1, and so began the search for omens. Then someone (okay, me) suggested that we raise some money for our funds by putting a few quid on Monty's Pass in the Grand National. We didn't, but ever since I've been looking for proptitious racehorse names on matchdays, too. This season, for example, we've had wins when I've spotted Harrison's Flyer, Henry Joseph and Broughton Green (two for the price of one, there...). Newsham's Glory, on the other hand, failed to do the business for us, but that suggests if a player's on loan elsewhere, his name doesn't count.

Omen duly spotted, I can relax. When we get to the centre of Nottingham, we take a few inadvertent detours because Bob, whose parents used to run a pub in the city a good few years ago now, heads for the old Victoria station, which doesn't exist any more. Eventually, we find the main railway station and the Vat and Fiddle, the excellent Castle Rock pub a few hundred yards down the road which is one of our favourite haunts. Already there are Jenny's friends Graham and Gail, who live in Derby, and we're soon joined by Phil and his girlfriend, Helen. We haven't seen Helen for several years, since she came to a game at Selhurst Park – maybe watching Rotherham once a decade is enough for sensible people...

The ground, when we get there, is heaving with Rotherham fans. Apparently we've taken over 1500. There's been a bit of controversy over the fact that the Notts County fans are only being charged five pounds to get in, whereas we're paying twenty. Not that we haven't offered special prices for our own supporters before now. Of course, there are a couple of dozen Millers who've bought tickets for the home end, and are very quickly outed, as Reuben Reid scores in the opening five minutes. None of them have the sense to keep quiet and not celebrate, though instead of ejecting them, as had been promised, the stewards lead them down to where we're sitting. Jenny reckons they should be forced to go out and pay to come in again. The usual chants of 'scab' which blight any game we play against either of the Nottingham clubs or Mansfield ring out, with the County fans responding with a chorus of 'UDM, UDM...' It wouldn't be so bad, but most of the people involved weren't even born during the miners' strike and are just raking over some very old and tired coals. However, the banter gets more imaginative as the game goes on. 'You've only come cos it's a fiver,' sing the travelling support, followed by, 'We paid for quality.'

That said, despite our early lead, there isn't too much in the way of quality in our performance, and Notts County have a couple of threatening moments, including a free kick which former Miller Delroy Facey smashes well over the bar. That changes very early in the second half. Tim actually misses our second goal – a simple tap-in by Drewe Broughton following some neat interplay between Reid, Mark Hudson and Jamie Green –  as he's scrambling back into his seat. He certainly sees the third, five minutes later, though – Mickey Cummins lashing the ball into the top corner from twenty yards. After that, we all feel more comfortable. Apart from Tim, that is. He's been to Meadow Lane twice before, and both times he's seen us ship four goals in a twenty-minute period. Despite the fact that we're completely in control of the game, with only County's Jamie Clapham, their best player by a mile, threatening to cause any problems, Tim can't start to enjoy it until he reckons we've reached a stage where even the ref adding on a silly amount of stoppage time can't give County long enough to score four. Meanwhile, I feel compelled to congratulate Graham on staying awake, given what Gail was saying earlier about his ability to sleep through a match even on the coldest of days. 'You should have seen him in the first half,' says Gail. 'He nodded off then...'

Not only do County not get four, they don't even manage one. Mark Lynch comes on as a sub after being out for three months following a shoulder injury, and slots into the team as though he's never been away. The Rotherham fans start singing, 'Robins, Robins, give us a wave,' and when Mark Robins duly obliges, they then direct the chant at everyone on the bench, from assistant manager John Breckin to fitness coach Nick Daws to Omar Garcia. Whether his English has reached a good enough standard to be able to understand them or whether someone has simply given him a nudge, he waves back, getting a massive cheer. When Robins comes on to the pitch at the end of the game and salutes us all in the time-honoured 'we're not worthy' gesture, you can understand why.

So it's back to the Vat and Fiddle so Bob and Tim can collect the car and set off for London, and the rest of us can have a quick drink. The pub is absolutely heaving, and we quickly realise it's because the last Sunday of the month is jazz night, and we're being treated to the gypsy stylings of The Hot Club, which just sounds like inoffensive noodling to us non-jazz fans.

Jenny and I take the train back to Rotherham. There are a few other Millers on the train and we think at first they're going to be rowdy, but they just seem content to bask in the warmth of three well-earned points. Given the vagaries of fixture compiling, we'll probably end up seeing out 2009 in Nottingham, too, but there are worse places...