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...