Born To Schmooze

Today is one of the big days of the season for the London Millers - we're sponsoring the matchball and providing the mascot for the game against Brentford. Already waiting at Kings Cross when I arrive are Tim, who's having to forgo the ritual schmoozing in favour of visiting his dad in hospital, and Bournemouth Miller Tom Coley, whose granddaughter won the first prize of two hospitality packages in the raffle back in January. He has his son-in-law, Scotty, with him, and is taking the day so seriously he's come dressed in a suit and is sporting his false front teeth. Completing our party are Jenny, back from Australia and ever so slightly jet-lagged (though I know from experience that sometimes that's the best way to watch the Millers), Clarkey and Chris Turner. Phil will be joining us en route.

The journey up to Donny is fairly uneventful; Tom, whose picture could probably appear in a dictionary as the definition of 'boisterous', and Scotty are a little subdued as they've been up since half-past four or something ridiculous. They've found their second wind by the time we arrive at the Carlton in Attercliffe, taking with us a Man City -supporting groundhopper we've acquired along the way, who is bringing his tour of the 92 grounds up to date by visiting the DVS. Tim's brother Adrian wanders in, says hello briefly, then makes for the back room to listen to the end of 'The Now Show'. I hope it's not a comment on our scintillating conversation.

Mr Clarke is just debating whether there's time to get another drink in when I receive a call from Martin Burton. He's at the ground and we need to hand over the cheque for the sponsorship money so his son, Freddie, can be kitted out ready for his mascot duties. We don't quite break the speed record for walking to the ground from the pub, but it's close.

Tom breezes past the woman on the stadium gate, announcing, 'Fourth official,' before asking Dale Tonge, who's on his way to the player's entrance, how we get to the VIP lift. While we're having our credentials checked, we spot a familiar face - Peter Ruchniewicz, former club chairman and part of the ill-fated Millers 05 consortium who attempted to pry the club out of the clutches of the Booth family. He's here with his wife, as part of a party which includes fellow 05 members Chris Dobbs and David Veal, and former chief executive and Rotherham manager Phil Henson (known by my dad, inevitably, as Gladys - though I don't expect anyone under the age of about 65 to get that reference...) Though Millers 05 aren't fondly remembered by a section of fans, largely because although they were Rotherham supporters they didn't actually live in Rotherham, they had the ongoing livelihood of the club at heart, though sadly not the finances to match their ambition.

This is our first experience of the DVS hospitality. Back at Millmoor, you were in what was grandly known as the Marquee, which was a tent attached to the back of the half-finished main stand. This is a little bit more impressive.

Commercial director and twin brother of the chairman, Terry Stewart, introduces himself to us. 'Ask me anything you like,' he offers. 'Ask me about the new stadium. Everyone else does.' So we do. He tells us that, as has been reported elsewhere, the club are looking into three sites, though he doesn't reveal where any of them are (speculation has long been that one of the sites is currently occupied by B&Q, on a roundabout close to Millmoor and another is a piece of land near the Tinsley viaduct which may or may not actually lie within the boundary of Sheffield, which would of course render it unsuitable, and that an announcement on which one has been chosen will hopefully be made in the next couple of weeks. He also enthuses about the new training complex, which will house the club's Centre of Excellence, as well as facilities for the senior players. Tom, meanwhile, is bonding with Miller Bear.

With kick-off approaching, Jenny and I spot Mark Hitchens, who's helped us out with our sponsorships in the past, and ask him for the quickest way out front so we can put the London Millers flag in its usual place. Instead, he gets a steward to escort us down to pitch level, which is all very impressive.

Finally, we're settled in the posh seats as the game unfolds below us. Brentford, just as they did at Griffin Park back in August, have set up in a very defensive formation, and chances are pretty thin on the ground. Indeed, very little of any significance happens at all in the first half. Drewe Broughton has a couple of chances, but that's about it. One thing we do notice, as we're on our way back out for the second half, is that Howard Webb is watching the Millers for the second Saturday running. We know that Tom, who actually is a qualified referee, would like to have a word with him, but he's nowhere to be seen, and by the time we manage to drag him back outside, Howie has disappeared back to his seat. Tom makes up for his disappointment by continuing to bond with Miller Bear, who's twenty feet below us, strutting along the touchline.

The second half is as largely uneventful as the first, apart from one nasty moment. Nathan Elder, who has come on a sub for Brentford, challenges for a ball with Pablo Mills and is caught by Mills' arm. We know it has to be fairly serious, as he's stretchered off to a generous amount of applause from the whole crowd (and Tim later sees him being delivered to the Hallamshire Hospital, still in his heavily bloodstained kit), but we don't find out till the next day that he's suffered a broken eye socket. The Bees' manager Andy Scott makes a huge fuss after the game and tries to get the FA to ban Pablo, but their view is that the incident was an accident. Apart from that, Jamie Green comes closest to scoring. Tom's pre-match flutter was on a three-all draw, but given that these are two of the meanest defences in the league, the final score of nil-nil would have been a much better bet.

The real entertainment comes once we're back in hospitality. As well as getting the usual matchball from the man of the match (Nick Fenton, according to today's main sponsor), we're also presenting Pablo Mills with our much-delayed player of the season trophy. In addition, there will be a couple of other players coming into the lounge, which happens on a rota basis, apparently. They turn out to be Dale Tonge, probably still reeling from his first encounter with us earlier in the day, Stephen Brogan, who is only just back playing for the reserves after breaking his leg in two places at Milton Keynes a year ago and... 'Who's the one at the back?' Tom asks me as he takes me to one side. 'That's Jason Taylor,' I tell him. 'We got him from Stockport.' Tom walks over to him. 'Jason Taylor!' he announces, as though he's known him all his life. 'What's it like here compared to Stockport?'

Meanwhile, Clarkey is making his own entry in the 'embarrass a player' contest. I've been going round getting my team sheet signed, and I've asked Stephen Brogan whether we're likely to see him playing again before the end of the season and he says he's hoping to be back in for the last four or five games. 'But how are you going to get in the team?' asks Clarkey, who's an even bigger tart round players than I am.

Overall winner, though, is Tom. 'Dale, do me a favour, will you?' he asks. 'Would you sign these?' And then he pops out his false teeth. Poor Dale looks horrified. It's no surprise that they all beat a fairly hefty retreat after that.

We're still in good spirits on the way back to London, even though Tom and Scotty have been up for about 17 hours by now. When I speak to Ted, who's been at Darlo v Macc, he tells us he'll meet us in the Betjeman at St Pancras, as they've got a beer festival on. Even Tom and Scotty have a swift one before starting the rest of the journey back to Bournemouth, and we swell the coffers of Ted's 'Drink For Darlo' fund. It's an idea we started the first time we were in administration, being a tax paid every time you get a beer in. The boys are impressed with the range of beers on, and Clarkey's favourite turns out to be the Twickenham Naked Ladies, which is really no surprise at all...

Imp My Ride

I know what's going to happen in the game today; I dreamed it last night.
Danny Harrison is going to score directly from a corner, and the goal will
be disallowed. This would be a more realistic prospect if a) Danny Harrison
actually took corners for us and b) Drewe Broughton was running round the
pitch in a sweaty vest at the same time, as in the dream. That's the last
time I have Stilton before I go to bed, I can tell you.
You may scoff, but I have in the past had dreams which have correctly
foreshadowed a scoreline. A few years ago, we played Reading in a game which
was moved forward for Sky. On a Bank Holiday Monday. At the same time as the
unwashed hordes were making their way home from the Reading festival. Great
timing, Sky, thanks. However, the night before I was dreaming about the
game; it was nil-nil at half time, and then I woke up. So when we were
sitting in the Madjeski the following day, I was quite relaxed in the first
half, as I knew no one was going to score ­ and they didn't. It was only
after the break that I began to get anxious, seeing as I hadn't dreamed the
final result.
But that's all to come. First John K and I have got to get up to Newark and
rendezvous with Chris, who's coming over from Manchester and has three
minutes to make the connection, though at the least his train pulls in on
the adjacent platform, so he's got a fighting chance of making it, which he
does with time to spare. As we're getting off the train in Lincoln, a bloke
spots Chris' Rotherham shirt and gets chatting to us about a schoolfriend of
his who's a Rotherham fan. It turns out he's talking about Richard Burton,
who my dad used to stand with on the Tivoli before he got his seat in the
old main stand. So I promise that if I see Richard later, I'll tell him that
Andy says hello.
Andy also points out the swiftest route to the pub the Kirklands and I are
trying ­ the Green Dragon. Normally, we'd head for the Golden Eagle, which
is a great pub but is always rammed on matchdays, but Ted was in Lincoln for
Darlo's abortive attempt to play them a couple of weeks ago, and recommends
the downstairs bar in the Green Dragon, as it has 12 real ales on and isn't
too busy. It proves to be a good choice and, suitably fortified, we had for
Sincil Bank.
We end up sitting right by the corner flag near the away turnstiles, because
I've done my best to tape the flag down securely, but it's so windy it ends
up flapping about and I want to be close to it as one of the stewards is
concerned about the safety implications of someone tripping over it. At
least he hasn't demanded it should have a fire certificate, unlike at Milton
Keynes (not that I'm still sore about having it confiscated that day. They
do have a stadium where smoking is banned, after all...). It means we're in
the perfect position to spot the Burton brothers as they go past, and when I
start telling Richard about bumping into a mate of his, they decide to join
us. As we're sitting close to the disabled area, our little corner is soon
completed by one of the regular Rotherham programme sellers and her other
half, who's in a wheelchair. It means we end up doing a lot more chatting
than usual during the game ­ not that what's happening on the pitch isn't
gripping, but Martin Burton¹s lad is going to be the mascot for our
sponsored game against Brentford, so we discuss how well the mascot is
always treated by the club on the day. I'm also curious to see where the
brothers have been drinking, and with them starting at nine this morning,
apparently, it's more a case of where they haven't been drinking. Meanwhile,
Richard has prised from the programme seller the revelation that she's
actually a Wednesday fan. It's very tempting to bind her up in my flag tape
and teach her the error of her ways, but we don't, because she's nice and
it's far more fun learning about her massive crush on Chris Sedgwick, our
one-time dribbling winger who's now at Preston, though finding out she once
saw him stark naked at the training ground is probably more information than
we need!
Last season's game here was probably one of the best of the season. This one
doesn't match those heights, but it's still entertaining. My dream turns out
to be partially correct, in that we do have a goal disallowed, but it's
because Drewe Broughton (wearing the regulation yellow away shirt,
thankfully) is offside when Jamie Clarke slips him the ball. Meanwhile,
Lincoln's Paul Green decides he's going to take part in the annual 'Remove
Everything South Of Mark Hudson's Kneecaps' contest, with a nasty-looking
tackle that leaves Hudson on the ground for a while. Last season's entrant
earned a red card, but this time it's only a yellow, much to the fury of
Chris, who has turned into a small fangy, clawy ball of fury and is yelling
at the ref that he's bottled it. The Rotherham fans have already pretty much
offered the Lincoln fans outside collectively in their general chanting, and
the mood seems to have spread to the players, with Nick Fenton and Geoff
Horsfield also getting booked for jostling and looking at each other in a
funny way.
The other real excitement during the first half is the realisation that
tanned colossus Howard Webb, 'England's top referee' TM, is sitting in the
crowd with his children. We saw him at Millmoor a couple of times last
season, but this is the first time I've spotted him at an away game. It
prompts chants of 'Webby is a Miller', which he takes in good part.
We've had all the best chances, but it's nil-nil at half time. We take the
lead about 15 minutes into the second half, when Jamie Clarke wriggles past
the defence, gets in a shot which is saved, rebounds to Broughton, is saved
again and is slotted home by Mickey Cummins. As both Broughton and Cummins
seem to be standing about six inches away from the goal line, one or both of
them surely has to be offside, which is why I don't leap up and celebrate.
But the flag stays down, the ref points to the halfway line and Martin
Burton hugs me gleefully, so we must have scored, then. After that, we seem
to be completely in control of the game. Lincoln are playing a lot of aerial
balls, which Ian Sharps in particular repels with ease, and though Don
Warrington has one dodgy moment when he thinks he's let the ball run out of
play, only for the forward to nick it off him, he really doesn't have much
to do in the way of making saves. Ryan Taylor replaces the sluggish-looking
Reuben Reid and has a couple of decent chances, then Jamie Green almost wraps
things up with a couple of minutes to go, with a carbon copy of his shot
against Gillingham, but this time the ball hits the crossbar. Lincoln very
nearly make us pay for this when they hit our bar with the last move of the
game, but that would have been an unfair reflection of the pattern of play.
Chris heads back to Manchester via Sheffield, and John and I take the first
train to Newark, to try out two more of Ted's recommendations - the Fox and
Crown pub and the Appleton Gate fish bar. The pub is full of people watching
Ireland v England in the rugby, but is the sort of place you wouldn't mind
having more than a quick pint in, while the chip shop is as good as Ted
claims, as the queue out of the door testifies. After a trip like this,
there should be some sweet dreams tonight...

Stinking Up Sky Sports

I don¹t normally find myself standing outside pubs waiting for them to open,
honest. There was that one time at the White Lion in Rotherham with Jenny,
but that was a few years ago, and... Well, the Belle Vue in Wycombe is only
just opening its doors at two minutes past its scheduled opening time of
five, and there was a couple already waiting when Ted and I got here.
When Sky moved our game at Wycombe to a Monday night for reasons known only
to them, Ted decided he would join the London Millers, if only for the
drinking. Mind you, our numbers certainly need swelling. My brother joins
us, suited and booted having conveniently arranged a meeting in London for
mid-afternoon, though he¹s got a change of clothes with him so as not to
turn up at a match in something he¹s never worn before. (Told you we¹re a
superstitious family.) In due course, Tim and Clarkey arrive, and that¹s it.
Robert drives us up to the ground, having discovered last season that the
usual £3 parking charge is waived if you have a full complement of
passengers. When asked if he has a car full, he replies, ŒYes, and they
don¹t even like football. I¹ve only brought them so I can park for nothing.¹
Fortunately, it gets a laugh.
Actually, the stewards at Wycombe are among the most friendly and helpful in
the division, which is probably why the club is always in the running for
the Football League Community Club award. Last time, they pointed us in the
direction of the best of the food vans around the ground, Lindy¹s, so we
head there again. Sadly, they¹re not doing their hot pork breadcakes
tonight, but they have pretty decent burgers instead, which are some
consolation.
Inside, we set up the flag, Clarkey having ascertained the spot where it¹s
most likely to be picked up by the Sky cameras. No doubt he¹s thinking about
the South Norwood Gentlmen¹s Rambling Association and other London Millers
watching the game either at home or in a pub. That¹s something I really
don¹t enjoy, even though I watched the Johnstone¹s Paint Trophy game against
Leeds on Sky. It sounds strange, but when you¹re at a match, you somehow
feel as though your presence will influence events. You can shout, you can
encourage your team. If you try to do the same at home, you end up, like I
once did, watching us play Nottingham Forest and yelling, 'Who¹s picking up
Louis-Jean?¹ at the screen as Forest mounted an attack. You can get taken
away for less...
Clarkey, for one, is certainly determined to shout and make his influence
felt tonight. He barely stops making a noise throughout the match. 'You can
stick your minus points up your arse,¹ the Rotherham fans inform the FA as
the game kicks off. Wycombe, as per the other night, don¹t do much singing,
but the drummer strikes up. Tim and Clarkey launch into a chorus of, 'I hear
the sound of distant bums,¹ followed by such retro hoolie classics as, 'I
Was Born Under The Railway End¹ and 'Rotherham Boot Boys¹. 1973 called; it
wants its chants back...
On the pitch, it soon becomes obvious that we¹ve come not to lose. It
doesn¹t make for scintillating viewing, either in the ground or at home.
Chris, one of our Manchester-based London Millers, later comments that he¹s
never been so tense and yet bored at the same time. Ted, who¹s not bothered
about the outcome one way or the other, is maintaining an air of festering
indifference. Quite early on, Wycombe appeal for a penalty, when Matty
Phillips goes over Mark Joseph¹s outstretched leg. We¹re down the other end
from the incident, but it appears as though he¹s looking for the decision,
and the ref waves it away. Ted, who¹s the arbiter on these matters,
naturally, reckons the ref has got it right. As that turns out to be the
only controversial incident in the whole game, Sky apparently show it again
and again and again...
At half time, a couple of Rotherham fans dance around behind the goal, one
in a Peter Beagrie mask, the other in a Chris Kamara one. The things people
will do to get on TV.
My fears have proved groundless. I should have trusted my horoscope in this morning's Express, in which Justin Toper told me I 'won't be wandering forlornly'. Wycombe haven¹t really improved since Tuesday. They do more of the attacking, but then they¹re the team at home. We manage to repel everything they throw at us, Dale Tonge making one vital
block, but we¹re not creating a great deal.
With about 15 minutes to go, Robins makes a change, taking off Thomas and
bringing on Drewe Broughton. Though Broughton immediately starts making his
trademark nuisance of himself, and almost scores with a header, Clarkey is
doing his nut. 'Why haven¹t we gone three up front? Where¹s the flair?
Robins, this is poor!¹ He¹ll sleep well tonight, bless him.
The final whistle puts us all out of our misery, and we gather up the flag
and dash for the bus to the station. Typically, all the traffic which has
parked on the approach to the ground is allowed to leave first and Tim,
who¹s supposed to be meeting a friend in a pub near the station, is
distinctly agitated ­ and the last thing anyone wants is an agitated Tim.
Though Robert¹s not faring any better; I get a text at ten to say he¹s still
waiting in the carpark. When we finally get to the station, there¹s a
fifty-minute wait for the next train, so Ted, Clarkey, Wycombe Paul and I go
to the Belle Vue, where Ted gets to tart a sweet, curly-haired dog by the
name of Duffy.
We finally get back to London about ten to midnight, the train having
stopped at every piddly station between High Wycombe and London (apologies
to Denham Golf Club if you¹re not actually piddly). People waiting for a
train on the Hammersmith and City platforms at Baker Street might be a bit
alarmed to see Ted and I dance like maniacs when we realise a Barking train
is pulling in immediately. They don¹t realise it¹s probably the most
satisfying result of the night...

Confessions Of A Neutral Supporter ­ Part Two

At Ted¹s suggestion, we take a gentle jaunt out on the District Line to
watch Dagenham take on Wycombe. It¹s considerably milder than when I was
here in October, watching Grimsby, and the Wycombe fans are already there in
decent numbers as we wander on to the away terrace, munching the usual
excellent Dag-burgers. We wander right down to the front and are soaking up
the ambience, or something, as the Wycombe players start their running drill
immediately in front of us. ŒSingles... Doubles!¹ barks the fitness coach,
as they do their tippy-toes comedy sprint and the smell of liniment wafts on
the air. They¹re so close I hope I¹m putting a little bit of spec on them in
preparation for when we play them next Monday, but we shall see...
The game, like the weather, is a marked improvement on last time. Dagenham
look really lively, with Matt Richie, still on loan from Portsmouth, causing
all sorts of problems for the Wycombe defence. Indeed, Dagenham should take
the lead, but Ben Strevens¹ effort is ruled out for offside, though Ted¹s
not convinced it¹s the correct decision. The Wycombe fans aren¹t
particularly happy. They have a drum, in preference to singing, and Ted and
I have a small number of the dreaded species Smartarsus Middle-agedicus
standing next to us, including one who¹s so one-eyed we have to keep
checking he¹s not actually a Cyclops.
Despite all Dagenham¹s dominance, it¹s level at half-time. Wycombe appeal
for a penalty when one of their players looks to be tugged back in the box,
but he already seemed to be falling before the contact and the ref ignores
it. The photographer squatting in front of us (not Ted¹s mate, Paul, though
he is in attendance) reckons it was a pen, but Ted disagrees. Eventually,
however, the Daggers are made to pay for not taking their chances. John-Paul
Pittman turns his defender and fires past Tony Roberts, who¹s just about to
play his 400th game for Dagenham and is probably getting frustrated by the
lack of reference to his age/weight/mobility/Welshness from the Wycombe
fans. Though it has to be said that Wycombe decide to chant when they¹re
winning, prompting some derisive comments from the Daggers fans. ŒDoes your
mother know you¹re here?¹ sing Wycombe (as well as the middle-aged smart
arses, we¹re also in the vicinity of some teenage boys who appear to have a
mother fixation). ŒDo the circus know you¹re here?¹ respond the Daggers.
ŒThey should do, you¹re in it,¹ yells one of the mother-lovers, about thirty
seconds after the moment has passed. Come back and do proper banter when
you¹re old enough, sonny...
Having taken the lead, Wycombe simply shut up shop. The only excitement
comes when one of the assistant referees pulls something and has to be
substituted for the fourth official. Though Dagenham deserve something from
the game, they don¹t get it. I haven¹t been particularly impressed with the
way Wycombe have played, but it¹s safer not to say anything, in case they
play a collective blinder next Monday. We shall see.

Roses Are Red, The Gills Are Blue

No girl wants to be blown out on February 14th, but that¹s what happens to
me ­ though only by Clarkey, who was going to be joining me today, but
instead is going to do something slightly more romantic with Mrs C than
watch Rotherham take on Gillingham. Phil, however, is in the Fat Cat when I
get there ­ my alternative plan, if no one else was around, was to go
shopping in the centre of Sheffield rather than drink on my own. I fancy
mooching round Cow on West Street, if only so that when someone says, ŒWhere
did you get that frock? It¹s really nice,¹ I can smile sweetly and reply,
ŒCow!¹
However, Phil saves me from a spot of ill-advised retail therapy, and
instead we avoid the main bar, which appears to be occupied by the entire
population of Hull, and watch the antics of a Brummie-sounding couple of a
certain age who have obviously decided that the most romantic thing they can
do on Valentine¹s Day is go ticking in a real ale pub. He¹s in charge of the
extremely battered copy of the ŒGood Beer Guide¹ and the important task of
choosing which beer to sample next, while she records his opinions in a
notebook. How sweet...
There¹s not much love on display at the DVS. There are, however, a couple of
new faces on display for the Millers. The first, Jamie Clarke, we¹re aware
of, as he signed for us on transfer deadline day but hasn¹t been able to
make an appearance yet due to the Bury and Barnet games being postponed. The
other is a complete surprise ­ Simon Thomas, on loan from Palace. It turns
out that Drewe Broughton is suspended, and no one¹s twigged that ­ including
Gillingham, who Mark Robins reckons will have set up their tactics
accordingly. Hence, Thomas¹ signing was only announced an hour or so before
kick-off, to catch everyone on the hop. After what happened at the
Priestfield, it seems Robins is determined to get the upper hand this time.
Though it¹s obvious Thomas isn¹t entirely match fit, having only been
turning out for Palace¹s reserves, he looks useful. I doubt very much that
Neil Warnock would loan us a duff player ­ after all, when we were in
financial trouble a couple of years ago, he let us borrow Jonathan Forte and
Stephen Quinn for nothing, and the latter did as much as anyone to help keep
us up that season. Clarke also looks lively on the left wing ­ and, indeed,
is the scorer of the first goal, slotting in a rebound after the Gills¹
keeper has saved Thomas¹ shot.
At half-time, we spot Nigel Worthington sitting in the seats behind the
press box, though whether he¹s scouting for Northern Ireland or simply stuck
for anything better to do on a Saturday afternoon isn¹t clear. I wonder
whether we could convince him we have a bright young prospect called Jamie
O¹Green...
Gillingham really aren¹t having any joy in breaking us down, and in the
second half they replace a couple of their smaller, nippier players,
including their top scorer, Simeon Jackson, with the more ­ er ­ awkward
Dennis Oli and Gary Mulligan. It almost has an instant impact, but Don
Warrington makes a great save with his feet from Oli, which is about the
only one he has to make all afternoon. After that, their threat is largely
nullified by Mark Robins bringing on Mark Joseph and pushing Jamie Green
(who should be desperately checking to see if he can discover a long-lost
Irish granny) forward. The Gills are further enraged when Simon King (no,
not the bald, whispering wildlife expert) gets injured in a tackle and has
to be substituted, though they seem to have forgotten that it was a
challenge by one of their players on Don which saw him missing a couple of
months of the season.
Jamie Green (who might well have once drunk a pint of Guiness, if that would
helpŠ) settles the game when he runs on to a ball from Ryan Taylor, takes it
about thirty yards and slams it high into the net. Revenge duly
accomplished.
I¹ve got some time to kill in Donny, so I pop into the Frenchgate shopping
centre by the station which, for all that it¹s had a recent facelift, is
still one of the most staggeringly depressing places on Earth. The shops are
closing for the night, and the place is littered with groups of teenagers,
giggling and clutching their Valentine¹s day goodies. It seems this year¹s
must-have accessory is a boyfriend who¹s skinner and spends more time on his
hair than you do, which seems vaguely wrong. There¹s even a Goth wandering
around with a rose he¹s either giving or receiving, though to keep in with
the image it should really be a black one.
On the station, the mood is hardly one of carefree romance, mostly due to
the fact the police are doing their best to marshal the groups of Hull fans
on their way back from playing Sheff U in the FA Cup. Unfortunately, when I
get on the train back to London I¹m saddled with the world¹s smuggest
Doncaster fan (from Brighton ­ no, I have no idea why). At least he only
makes the one long, loud, boring phone call to a mate about how Donny play
the best football in the known universe, otherwise I might be forced to beat
him senseless with my rolled-up copy of the Green ŒUn...