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...'
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