In the evening, we still have the scheduled London Millers raffle draw at the Doric Arch. Clarkey presides, my brother ventures over from Chelters for the event (and his missus wins a prize, so it's not entirely a wasted journey), the South Norwood Gentlemens' Rambling Association (Paul, Andy and Chris Turner) arrive bearing gifts following an extensive pub crawl of the Kentish Town area, Brad puts in an appearance and Ted joins us when he gets back from Darlo, to act – as he also does with the AGM in the summer – as the UN's neutral observer. We persuade the barmaid to draw the top prize (which is tickets and hospitality for the home game against Brentford if you're a Rotherham fan, £75 if you're not), and the winning ticket belongs to the granddaughter of Tom, our Bournemouth Miller. She may be a little bit too young to appreciate the sponsors' lounge at the DVS, so we suspect he'll take the cash. It's an enjoyable evening, and if you see us next season and we're clutching raffle tickets, buy a book. All the money goes towards sponsoring a matchball, mascot and even a players' kit, depending on how much we raise. We think it's a good cause...
Saturday 21 February 2009
And The Winner Is...
Return Of The Macc
Despite all the temptations – most notably the fact that just about everything on the menu today, barring the ploughman's which will not only feed Chris this lunchtime but provide him with sandwiches for the rest of the week, comes in a big Yorkshire pudding – the match wins out. It proves to be a good choice.
Indeed, the first half is deja Bournemouth. Again, we take the lead in the first quarter of an hour, and again Mark Hudson is the scorer, this time following a really good move involving four players. After that, it all seems to go a bit quiet.
In the second half, Macc ramp it up a bit, but that's more in terms of putting in a few hefty challenges, one of which flattens Drewe Broughton. While there's a certain amount of grumbling from his number one fan behind me about the amount of time he spends on the floor, the player who clashed with him is later given the footballing equivalent of being asked to report to the headmaster's study, suggesting there was more to the incident than we realised. But it's not long before the Broughton Fan Club has had enough, and wanders off with about 25 minutes of the match still to go. My dad starts complaining to Mr Tache that it's like taking a book out of the library, reading two-thirds of it and then taking it back. There's an absolutely classic moment as he launches into an oft-told anecdote about almost leaving a dull match early and nearly missing a wonder goal in the process, which encouraged him never to do it again, all the while keeping half an eye on the game going on in front of us. 'And we used to stand at the bottom end in those days, so we were walking up Millmoor Lane GET A GRIP, REFEREE! and then John Breckin picked up the ball...'
We finally put the game out of Macc's reach when Rueben Reid collects a ball Broughton has headed on and chips it over the keeper. Macc protest that he was offside, but they're already playing a snatch of the Kaiser Chiefs' 'Ruby' over the Tannoy by way of celebration. (Well, anything's a welcome change from 'Chelsea Dagger'). Someone a couple of rows behind us launches a toilet roll into the air. It fails to unfurl, sails over my head, missing me by an inch or so (good job I'm tiny, otherwise I might have suffered a TP-related comedy injury) and lands on the seat belonging to the lad in front. Cue me and his dad trying to explain why someone is throwing toilet rolls about. I hope we managed to convince him it's neither big or clever, or their house will be an Andrex nightmare for the rest of the weekend.)
Jenny, Steve and I travel back via Donny, sneaking in a quick one in the Corner Pin, and then it's home – Steve to his usual home-cooked dinner, Jenny to all the packing she's got to do before flying out to Australia and me to Ted, who is surrounded by the remnants of a post-Dagenham curry and feeling very smug following a decent 1-0 win against the Daggers and an after-match session at the Palm Tree in Bethnal Green. Some people really know how to enjoy themselves...
Sunday 15 February 2009
Grimsby Fiendish
Kings Cross is heaving with Millwall fans as we wait for our train. Fortunately, they're off on the Hull service, meaning we'll be spared their presence. Not that you should pre-judge a situation, but we've been on trains in the past where their idiot minority have decided to trash a carriage or commit some other kind of mayhem which has led to them being delivered into the care of the British Transport Police. It does nothing to help the image of those of their fans who just want to go and enjoy a game, or travelling fans in general.
Rant over, on with the journey. On the way up to Doncaster, Jenny, Chris Kirkland and I discuss the possible comings and goings during the transfer window. All the rumours surround Rueben Reid, though there is no definite news of anyone putting in a bid for him, or even being seriously interested. Jenny mentions that a couple of blokes who sit in front of her were talking about the Reid situation at the last home game. 'One of them said, "Yeah, I hear Rueben Reid wants to get away," and the other one asked, "Like where? Lanzarote?"
We're off somewhere nearly as glamorous as Lanzarote – Cleethorpes, jewel of the Lincolnshire coast.
We link up with John Kirkland on the platform at Donny station and take the trundler out to the seaside. En route, we pass Glanford Park, and I do my best to flick some spec at the club in preparation for the second leg of the Johnstone's Paints Trophy regional final (though at two-nil down after the game at their place, it'll take quite a bit of malign fluence to help us turn the tie round). Glanford Park is, of course, the original out-of-town stadium, though as you pass it you find yourself wondering whether it's even in the same time zone as Scunthorpe, never mind the same town. We also get quite a good view of Blundell Park as we approach Grimsby, particularly the low, unprepossessing away end, which is my family's small footnote in football history, as my grandfather was responsible for its construction back in the 1930s. Glamorous, I know...
At some point in every Rotherham child's life, they will find themselves standing on the front at Cleethorpes, looking out to the horizon and wondering where the hell the sea has disappeared to. This rite of passage has, somehow, passed John by. This lunchtime, the tide is in, which doesn't explain his bafflement as he gazes at the beach. What he can't quite believe is that a group of donkeys are plying their trade on this sunny but chilly January day, a couple of toddlers riding happily on their backs. Last season, Jenny and I got into Cleethorpes slightly earlier, and were treated to the sight of some of the Grimsby players, including the lovely Monty, jogging on the sand. Insert your own donkeys joke here.
We head for Willie's, a little haven on the front with its own brewery, oodles of Belgian beer and good food. They also have bands on in the upstairs room, from which you have a panoramic view over the Humber estuary. What more could you want?
When we arrive at the ground, there are only two turnstiles open. For some reason, they've seriously underestimated the number of Rotherham fans travelling, possibly because when we played there last season a lot of people boycotted the game at the request of the supporters' trust, who were asking people to put the ticket money towards our survival fund. By the time we get inside and start laying out the London Millers flag, they've already kicked off and the usual witty chants about Grimsby stinking of fish are in full flow. Chris is taken by the fact that one of the female stewards, sporting a fetching woolly hat, appears to be Agnetha out of ABBA. The rest of us are distracted – and not in a good way – by a shirtless bloke who props himself up by the side of a stanchion. This isn't the first time the Topless Millers have made an appearance – my brother copped for them at Exeter – but it's a trend which is neither big nor clever. I blame the Toon Army and that fat lad who supports Wednesday.
Apparently, the Rotherham Advertiser has gone overboard in its assertion that, following the win against Bournemouth, we are now safe from relegation. What more incitement could the gods of football have to give us a right kicking?
Actually, Grimsby do quite a bit of the kicking themselves. Mike Newell has recruited a load of new signings and loan players, and the side is now unrecognisable from the one which capitulated so limply on the previous two occasions I've seen them this season. The standard of their play has improved, but they've also developed more aggressive tendencies, together with a habit of falling over at the slightest contact. There is one nasty-looking moment when Ian Sharps and one of their players clash heads and both have to be taken off to get stitched up, but there are also a few feigned injuries. Indeed, once Andy Nicholas gets booked, they do their best to persuade the ref to give him a second. It might be what Newell feels will keep them up, but it's not the way I'd want to see Rotherham play.
That said, we go in level at half time. Robins takes Nicholas off before he can be sent off, but we're doing okay until the football gods get involved. Joe Widdowson, who we were borrowing from West Ham last season until we went into administration and weren't allowed to extend the loan, puts in what he intends as a cross, but which finds the back of the net. Then the ref gets involved. He appears to have given a free kick, but then inexplicably changes his mind and awards a penalty. The players don't seem to know why. The home fans behind the goal haven't appealed for anything. Chris, who's got his radio with him, says even the local reporter admits he has no idea why, 'but we'll take it'. It later turns out it was for a shirt tug. If that's the case, then a dozen should be given every game, and we should certainly have one when Drewe Broughton's shirt is tugged right in front of us a couple of minutes later. Of course, it isn't.
Though we haven't played especially well, the third goal, scored as we're chasing the game, flatters Grimsby. Not that they mind.
We trudge back to the station, past the fabulously named Shampoodles dog grooming parlour. The sea might be in or out, but you can't really tell in the dark. John leaves us at Doncaster to go back to Rotherham and Jenny, Chris and I go for a swiftie in the Corner Pin. Someone is holding a private party in the posh side, but there are sandwiches and fairy cakes on the counter for the rest of us. We get chatting to a couple of Villa fans who've been to their cup tie against Donny, but as they launch into a game of darts, we have to get back to the station.
Sitting near us in the carriage is a rather spectacular transvestite. I've long had a theory that trannies fall into three camps in their dress sense and demeanour – the Cher, the Thora Hird and the Pam Ayres – and this one is definitely the former, with white platform stiletto boots, tiny miniskirt and lashings of eyeliner. Sadly, we don't have a camera to record the expressions of the policemen on King's Cross station as she minces past them
'Good job there aren't any Millwall fans around,' says Chris.
'What are you on about?' I retort. 'She is a Millwall fan...'
