Chesterfield of dreams

When I arrive at St Pancras, it's crawling with Scotsmen in kilts, on their way to the rugby at Twickers. Bill Shipton, the brains behind 'Splosh!' magazine and possibly the funniest man in Britain, once suggested a radio station called Golden Punchlines, which would only broadcast the punchlines to really old jokes. As I make my way through the concourse, all I can think is, 'And coming up on Golden Punchlines this hour: no, it's all in perfect working order.'

I'm travelling on my own today and meeting Jenny and Tim in Sheffield, and the train is mayhem, full of people who've switched to this line because of engineering works elsewhere and who seem to be baffled by the concept of previously reserved seats. Most of them depart at Derby, but then at Chesterfield we're joined by dozens of their fans, most of whom seem determined to prove my dad right when he claims that they come from a town where they still point at aeroplanes. We lost at Saltergate to a goal in the sixth minute of added time back in September, and they haven't seemed inclined to let us forget it since. According to my dad, they've been ringing Radio Sheffield's 'Football Heaven' all week, claiming they're going to hammer us today. At the moment, though, they're more interested in singing songs about how much they hate Mansfield, and wondering whether they're going to have the chance of a ruck with Swansea, who are in town to play Wednesday.

All that's waiting for them at the Sheffield station, though, is police. I nip through the cordon to find Jenny and Tim, and we head for the Rutland. It was the pub we always used to use when we played Sheff U, but it's been closed for a while. However, a couple of people have told us it's reopened recently, so we investigate – only to find it shut. The alternative is the nearby Red Lion, where we're joined by Tim's mate, Andy, who's slightly baffled by the fact the city centre is full of people wandering round singing about how much they hate Cardiff...

Having lost to Aldershot in the week, we're not that optimistic about today's result. Chesterfield seem up for it, and there are some spiky exchanges between Dale Tonge and Drew Talbot, both of whom get booked for their pains. Jack Lester is, as you would expect, stationed somewhere near the halfway line for 97.4 per cent of the half: I'm sure if you saw his passport, his profession would read 'goalhanger'. Martin Gritton manages to miss an open goal and they also have a goal disallowed for offside. So it's all the sweeter that we're the ones who take the lead, with a nice three-man move being finished off by Reuben Reid. 'Ruby' rings out over the Tannoy, and I tell my dad that if Drewe Broughton scores, they should play Frank Sinatra singing 'Ain't That A Kick In The Head'.

At halftime, there's a five-a-side (or possibly five-a-day) game between the fruits and the vegetables. Quite why they think we want to watch a bloke dressed as a half-peeled banana nutmeg an opponent in a carrot costume I don't know, but it's still weirdly entertaining.

We expect Chesterfield to step it up after the interval, but instead we're the ones who come out on the attack, and what follows is the best ninety minutes of football I've seen us play all season. Reuben gets a second goal, latching on to a ball which Broughton heads into his path. Chesterfield have Talbot sent off for a challenge on Tonge after the ball. In no way is the Rotherham fans' delighted reaction to this influenced by the fact he used to play for Wednesday. Pablo Mills finally gets his first goal of the season with a 25-yard thunderbolt, and by the end the 'olés' are ringing round the stadium and the Spireites are streaming for the exit. 'Are you dressed as empty seats?' sings a bloke a couple of rows in front of us.

After the game, having given the players a generous ovation and collected the flag, Jenny and I go to The Old Queens Head (aka the Tudor Tavern). Tim and Andy join us, having managed to make a swift enough exit from the ground to fit in a pint at the Carlton before catching the tram.

On the train, we find ourselves sharing a carriage with the London Owls, one of whom is Tommy Craig, best known for his roles in 'Coronation Street' and 'Where The Heart Is'. 'Those DFS adverts can't be paying that well,' Jenny observes, 'because last time we saw him travelling, he was in first class!'

At a suspiciously Scotsman-free St Pancras, we meet up with Tim's brother-in-law, Ian, and Ted at the Betjeman. Needless to say, the beer goes down particularly smoothly after today's result. They're definitely not our bogey team any more...

Downing Dale

At the end of every season, I compile some unofficial awards  for the London Miller magazine: player of the year, goal of the year, best pub, that kind of thing. One of the awards is 'trip of the year', for the day when everything is perfect, or as near as makes no difference: company, journey there and back, pub, game and result. Unless something really amazing happens between now and the end of May, this is that trip.

Jenny, Clarkey, Chris Turner, John Kirkland and I convene at Euston. While I'm getting the coffees in from the ever-reliable AMT, I spot Ted's mates Howard and Martin dashing for the train to Stoke. Darlo are playing Port Vale today, which means a visit to the Bull's Head in Burslem, a pub which has claimed one of my awards before now.

The journey up is fairly quiet; there are a few Man U and Liverpool fans making their way up to Old Trafford for the early kick-off. It would be cruel and obvious to point out that none of them appears to have a Mancunian or Scouse accent, but... In a yard on the outskirts of Stockport, various old railway signs are stacked up. Chris and I spot a huge one reading 'Rotherham Central'. Is that today's omen?

At Manchester Piccadilly, we meet up with Chris Kirkland and two of his friends who are unofficial Rotherham fans for the day. Chris is twenty today, and I tell him I hope that Father Birthday brings him what he brought me for my birthday – three points. A swift walk through the city centre takes us to Victoria station; I haven't been to Manchester since we played Man City, a good seven years ago now, and I can't believe how much the area around Piccadilly has changed. The regeneration brought by the Commonwealth Games appears to have been good for the place; I'm hoping the Olympics does the same for East London.

Fifteen minutes on the train and we're in Rochdale, following the directions on one of Ted's patented 'find-a-pub' map. There's a bloke ahead of us who could do with a similar map to help him get where he's going, given the number of times he stops passers-by to ask for help. He's dressed in a full-length leather coat and boots with an outrageous number of buckles up the side; it might be hard being a cowboy in Rochdale, but dressing like something out of 'The Matrix' doesn't appear to be much easier.

The pub Ted has recommended, the Baum, is one he hasn't had the opportunity to visit yet. All I can say is, he'll love it when he does get there. On Toad Lane, where the Co-operative movement started, it's a picturesque gem at the side of an ugly dual carriageway. 'Eat Irlam's tripe' implores an old advert on the front of the building. The eight of us commandeer an alcove and the boys set about making a dent in the beer menu. It's one of the few pubs I've been in which offer third of a pint tasters, and the Kirklands go for the one which features all five real ales that are on. Chris puts more of a dent in them than his dad. We don't try the tapas menu, but the baguettes and chips (so big that Clarkey and Chris T use them to do impressions of Prince Charles' ears) are very good. Meanwhile, we're keeping up to date on the Man U-Liverpool score. By the time we've negotiated the almost impossible to cross dual carriageway and are on our way to Spotland, it's four-one to the Scousers. People are already making a mental note not to miss 'Match Of The Day' tonight...

In the ground, we bump into Nigel and Phil, still minus Diamond, who always seems to vanish off the face of the earth when things become serious between him and a woman. We're expecting a decent game – Rochdale are one of the best footballing teams in the division, and we tend to do well against teams who allow us to play, rather than those like Brentford, Wycombe and pre-adminstration Darlo, whose aim is to nick a goal and then shut up shop. They're causing us some problems, particularly Adam Rundle, who keeps getting past Dale Tonge on the wing, but the defence holds firm. Indeed, Don doesn't really have a serious save to make for about forty minutes. Meanwhile, Drewe Broughton is in the wars. He gets caught in a challenge (though, inevitably, Rochdale get the free kick), and at first it seems he's been patched up with the aid of half a tub of Vaseline, but the cut starts bleeding again and he's ordered off to get stitched. We play on for about ten minutes with ten men; Broughton finally emerges again and is having his head bandaged in preparation for coming on again when the bench appear to change their minds. 'You know what's happened,' says Clarkey from the row behind me. 'They've asked him to name nine of his old clubs and he can't, so they know he's concussed.'

Broughton is replaced by Mark Burchill, and the enforced change makes a difference. Early in the second half, Reuben Reid manages to turn his defender and scores with a low shot. Confidence floods through the team. Dale take off Rundle and their threat recedes slightly. Then Ryan Taylor fires in a curling shot from about twenty yards out. Not even he can quite believe it's gone in. Nigel and I hug like maniacs. There may even be some man-hugging going on behind us.

Rochdale get back in the game when Adam Le Fondre nods in a header with about 15 minutes to go, but we get a great opportunity to increase the lead when Taylor is tripped in the box and the ref awards a penalty. Nigel hugs me again. Reid takes it, but it hits the crossbar, and when he heads in the rebound it's disallowed as he's pushing the keeper. Burchill nearly grabs a third when he lobs the keeper, but the ball lands on the roof of the net. And then it's all over – ninety minutes which have reminded me just how much you can enjoy watching football.

We walk back to catch the train, having been joined by Chris Burrows, who we last saw in Macclesfield. We take the route through their good old-fashioned municipal park, complete with bandstand, bowling green and daft dog leaping up to grab at branches. At the station, I spot a small, wiry figure in a Rotherham tracksuit perusing the departure screen. It's Mark Burchill, so I congratulate him on the way he played today. When he emerges on to the platform, it's to a round of applause from the travelling Millers contingent.

Back in Manchester, Clarkey decides to get an early train to London so he can go out with some friends, no doubt to carry out the sort of dance moves that led Diamond to dub him 'Disco Duck'. The rest of us, at Chris T's suggestion, go looking for The Jolly Angler, a pub round the back of Piccadilly station which seems frozen in time in an area that's now all glass and chrome hotel and office blocks. It's a tiny little place with fossilised lino and no light in the ladies', and the landlady reminds me of one of the doddery little old ladies Julie Walters specialises in playing. 'They've got Harp on!' Nigel exclaims. 'Harp – stays sharp to the bottom of the glass.' Ah, the power of advertising. He drinks something else, mind.

Nigel and Phil are staying on for a visit to Chinatown, but some of us have got to get back to London. Again, there are Man U fans on the train, one of whom is describing the game to a friend on his mobile. 'Yeah, we were shit, but Liverpool were really shit.' There's also a Brighton fan who sounds positively suicidal, and Chris T recognises a couple of Orient supporters who he always sees at the Piglet beer festival.

As we get close to Euston, I get in contact with Ted, who's just left the Doric Arch. He says he'll see us in the Betjeman at St Pancras, and then I remind him which station we're coming into, so he does an abrupt U-turn. We find him with some of the London Wolves, who've been at Charlton. One of them is a little the worse for drink. 'Rotherham,' he says, 'I drove all the way up for that game [in the Carling Cup], you beat us and I had to drive all the way home again. And the worst part was I couldn't have a drink.' He then has to keep reminding himself that we're not Rochdale fans. But he does enlighten us as to which pubs in St Albans (or Snarlbans, as he pronounces it) are the gay pubs, so Ted can avoid them if he and the South Norwood Gentleman's Rambling Association do go drinking there before the Luton game.

Trip of the season, no question.