The stout party which departs Waterloo en route to Aldershot consists of – er, me. Fortunately, I don’t look like Little Wolfie No-mates for too long as the two Chrises, Turner and Kirkland, and Clarkey join me at Clapham Junction. The tranquility of the quiet carriage, where I’ve inadvertently found seats, is ruined briefly by a VERY ANGRY MAN ranting on his mobile phone, but once enough people have told him to take his issues somewhere else, he slopes off to continue his call. Because of engineering works, we change at Woking on to a branch line. My brother is supposed to be joining the same line at Ash Vale (or as he puts it, ‘where?’), so I ring to find out whether he’s on the train. Unfortunately, he’ll be on the one behind ours, because he let a train pull out at Reading station as he wasn’t timetabled to be able to make the connection. Still, it’s his valuable drinking time, not ours...
At Aldershot station, we bump into the Treeton Millers. Non-Rotherham fans will probably know them from the fact they travel everywhere watching England and always make sure their flag is in a prominent position for TV cutaways. We briefly discuss flag-related matters, though they don’t have a girl among their number to do the important tasks like carrying and washing it. The Chrises know the shortcut to the main road, having been in the advance party with Ted when we played here in the FA Cup, so they help the Treeton Millers with directions. They have about a dozen pubs to visit, but none of them is the White Lion, where we’re headed. It’s a surprisingly warm day, and everyone’s ready for a drink by the time we get there. The chap Ted always chats to in the White Lion, Quentin, is there, sporting one of the last Hawkwind teeshirts in captivity (Ted has almost all the rest...) and we say hello. We’re eventually joined by my brother, followed by Nigel Hall, then David Bates and chum, up from the West Country. Jenny and family have said they’ll see us if they get up from Newquay in time, but in the end we don’t see them till we get in the ground. I also get a call from Nigel and Phil, down from Rotherham for the day but still minus Diamond, who’s been AWOL since it started getting serious with his woman. They may join us, unless they get just that little bit too comfortable wherever they’re drinking at the moment. We’re quite comfortable ourselves, having befriended the pub dog, a cute little bandanna-sporting terrier named Millie. The boys, of course, decide this is short for Miller and take it as an omen.
Once in the ground, we fortify ourselves with burgers (nice, but not quite up to Dagenham standards) and set up the flag on the terrace behind the goal, then go to stand on the sunny paddock to work on our tans. Rotherham are playing uphill in the first half, as on our last visit, and we take the lead early on, when Reuben Reid’s audacious lob just sneaks over the keeper. We’ve seen his dad and brother wandering past us, and Reuben appears to pick them out with his celebration.
After that, the rest of the first half is very comfortable. Danny Harrison has to leave the field with an injury and Mark Hudson, who was unlucky to be left out after his display (and goal) at Luton comes on. Some bloke behind us keeps singing ‘Mark Hudson’s on fire’ to the tune of ‘Sex On Fire’ by the Kings of Leon, and he’s right – Hudson is indeed playing incredibly well today.
Our old chum the military drummer is doing his best to rouse the home support, while the Rotherham fans on the terrace respond, as they did right till almost the end of the Cup game with a chant of ‘Still one-nil’. All through the second half, as the drumming begins to resemble the Edinburgh Tattoo and the Shots fans continue to be reminded that it’s still one-nil, there’s the nagging feeling that Aldershot will again nick something right at the end. We haven’t beaten them in three attempts already this season, and some people are starting to think they have the Indian sign over us. In truth, they don’t really threaten that much, and this time we do leave with a win.
Clarkey and Chris T have plans to go drinking in Farnham, so my bro, the two Nigels, Phil, Chris K and I decamp to the Crimea for a quick one before getting the train. We get talking to one of the Aldershot fans who’s a bit of a big lass and apparently caused quite a sensation by dancing along to some old rock classics coming over the Tannoy at half-time at the DVS the other week. Leaving Nigel Hall, who’s driving home, on his own (they’re friendly people here; he’ll be all right...) we head for the station. We’re earlier than last time, so we don’t spot any Stephen Broganalikes togged up for a night out in London.
As we trundle sedately through Virginia Water on the longer-than-normal journey back, I ask Phil and Nigel how they got on in Manchester, as the last time I saw them, they were heading for Chinatown. ‘We ended up on Canal Street,’ says Nigel (which really doesn’t come as any surprise). ‘We were in this lesbian club and we saw this real tall, striking transvestite...’
‘Yeah,’ jokes Phil. ‘It were Drewe Broughton. You could tell by the calves!’
Lovely, thanks for putting that image in my head, boys!
Chris gets off at Clapham and Nigel and Phil go back to St Pancras via Vauxhall. I squeeze on to the Jublilee Line, wondering why it’s quite so packed, until a girl breaks into a chorus of ‘Dancing On The Ceiling’ that wouldn’t see her troubling the ‘Britain’s Got Talent’ judging and I realise they’re all on their way to see Lionel Ritchie at the O2. Me, I’m off home to put my feet up and savour the novelty of being home early on a matchday...
Thursday 30 July 2009
Tuesday 14 July 2009
Mad Hatters
Tuesday afternoon, five o’clock, and I’m waiting outside the Bricklayers’ Arms for Ted. Inevitably, he travelled ahead of the pack so he could check out the English Rose instead, but then the reason he joins us for games is the drinking, not the football. The Bricklayers’ is one of his favourites - and it is a nice pub, though it’s a while since we’ve actually visited it, given the divergent paths we’ve taken since we last played (and relegated, though we don’t talk about that) Luton eight years ago. As I’m waiting, my brother rings to let me know he’s about half an hour’s drive away. I also get a call from Rob Elston, who can’t make it tonight but wants to know whether Barnet next week is tickets in advance (in Jenny’s absence, I’m the go-to girl for such matters, though anyone uttering the words ‘assistant travel secretary’ runs the risk of being attended to with pointy, hurty implements). To which the answer is, ‘As if - and are you sure you want to go to the match, Rob? We always do so much better when you’re not there…’
Ted joins me, gets a beer and a corned beef roll in and stooges off to put some quality rock on the jukebox. He also manages to accidentally select the Libertines - which is, of course, the track which is playing as Chris Turner settles down at our table. Soon my brother has joined us, heralding a steady stream of London Miller-age. It’s one of the best turn-outs for ages - as well as the already assembled reprobates there’s Clarkey, Rob Maxfield, Chris Kirkland, Phil, Phil’s dad and Phil’s mate, Dan (who is a Watford fan and therefore is taking no pleasure in Luton’s current plight. Oh, no.) We even spot Julia and Joy the Dagenham Miller, who we haven’t seen at a game for ages. Meanwhile, Ted has noticed die-hard Luton fan and man a volume of whose poetry is lurking on the pub’s bookshelves John Hegley, as well as some bloke who’s an actor we both recognise but aren’t sure from where or, indeed, what he’s called. By the time we start making the trek to the ground, everyone is in high spirits.
Luton is, by and large, an unlovely town (and that’s a bold statement to make when you come from Rotherham!) and Kenilworth Road is in the unloveliest part of it. We negotiate the overpass, Sainsbury’s carpark and the maze of streets in which the ground is buried, arriving just as the game is kicking off. There’s always someone who is visiting Luton for the first time, and who is startled by the fact that you appear to walk through someone’s back garden to get to the away end, but us old lags are used to it. We’re more concerned with getting the flag in place and finding a decent seat. The Luton fans are in full voice, going through their repertoire of ‘two fingers to the Football League’ songs, and receive a generous amount of applause from the Rotherham fans. Solidarity, brothers, solidarity…
I’d hoped the game would be an improvement on Saturday, but even so I’m not prepared for what follows. Luton have won something like the last four games in a row, prompting mutterings that they might, somehow, get out of the bottom two, so they’re obviously in decent form. They are, however, in the Johnstone’s Paint Trophy final on Sunday (and how we’d have loved to be facing them at Wembley), so we wouldn’t have been surprised if their players were taking it slightly easy to avoid injury before the big match. There’s no sign of that as they attack from the off. We take the lead, though - Reuben Reid manages to out-muscle the defender who’s paying close attention to him, turns and shoots from the edge of the box. Minutes later, it’s two-nil: Drewe Broughton shows real persistence, squeezing the ball in while he’s practically lying on the ground, before celebrating with a few fans down in front of us and making a show of kissing his badge. Hopefully not too many of the Luton supporters have seen that, given that not only is he a huge Hatters fan but his brother works for the club as youth development officer, as tonight’s programme helpfully explains. Despite all the excitement, Ted’s attention has been captured by a bat, which spends about 15 minutes fluttering around in the glow of the floodlights before disappearing back into the night. Even Luton pulling a goal back before half-time doesn’t rouse him that much.
Mick Harford has been receiving a fair amount of taunting from the Rotherham fans, and as he wanders across the pitch (for those who’ve never been to Kenilworth Road, the dug-outs are on the opposite side to the players’ tunnel), he raises his fingers to indicate that the final score is going to be three-two to Luton. At least, I think that’s why he’s got two fingers up.
The second half turns into pure attack against defence. And yet, despite creating lots of chances, Luton go further behind when the ball pings around the area and Danny Harrison heads it in. They score a second, from a long-distance shot which Andy Warrington seems to get fingertips to, but Mark Hudson makes the game safe with the goal of the night, a beautiful volley from wide on the left. By this time, Luton have got about six strikers on, but we manage to repel everything we throw at them. Some (Ted) might describe us as having been under the cosh, but I prefer to think of it as soaking up the pressure and catching them on the break.
The mood among the travelling fans has changed, with the earlier solidarity giving way to chants of ‘We’ll never play you again.’ We know this is rubbish and I’m sure the more sensible Luton fans know this is rubbish, too, but after recent seasons where the likes of Northampton have dished out this kind of nonsense to us, a few people are taking the chance to throw it back.
The final whistle gives everyone a chance to catch their breath. Luton have given us a real game, and if they’d started playing like this earlier in the season, rather than the pallid, defensive stuff they served up at the DVS, they might well have stood a chance of pulling off a most unlikely escape. We collect the flag and pleasantly wish the stewards goodnight. They seem quite a miserable lot, but whether that’s got anything to do with tonight’s result we’re not sure.
We’re back at Luton station just in time to catch a Midland Mainline service that has us back at the Betjeman well before last orders. Ted, the two Chrises and I have a swift drink and then call it a night. Clearly all this excitement has tired us out…
Ted joins me, gets a beer and a corned beef roll in and stooges off to put some quality rock on the jukebox. He also manages to accidentally select the Libertines - which is, of course, the track which is playing as Chris Turner settles down at our table. Soon my brother has joined us, heralding a steady stream of London Miller-age. It’s one of the best turn-outs for ages - as well as the already assembled reprobates there’s Clarkey, Rob Maxfield, Chris Kirkland, Phil, Phil’s dad and Phil’s mate, Dan (who is a Watford fan and therefore is taking no pleasure in Luton’s current plight. Oh, no.) We even spot Julia and Joy the Dagenham Miller, who we haven’t seen at a game for ages. Meanwhile, Ted has noticed die-hard Luton fan and man a volume of whose poetry is lurking on the pub’s bookshelves John Hegley, as well as some bloke who’s an actor we both recognise but aren’t sure from where or, indeed, what he’s called. By the time we start making the trek to the ground, everyone is in high spirits.
Luton is, by and large, an unlovely town (and that’s a bold statement to make when you come from Rotherham!) and Kenilworth Road is in the unloveliest part of it. We negotiate the overpass, Sainsbury’s carpark and the maze of streets in which the ground is buried, arriving just as the game is kicking off. There’s always someone who is visiting Luton for the first time, and who is startled by the fact that you appear to walk through someone’s back garden to get to the away end, but us old lags are used to it. We’re more concerned with getting the flag in place and finding a decent seat. The Luton fans are in full voice, going through their repertoire of ‘two fingers to the Football League’ songs, and receive a generous amount of applause from the Rotherham fans. Solidarity, brothers, solidarity…
I’d hoped the game would be an improvement on Saturday, but even so I’m not prepared for what follows. Luton have won something like the last four games in a row, prompting mutterings that they might, somehow, get out of the bottom two, so they’re obviously in decent form. They are, however, in the Johnstone’s Paint Trophy final on Sunday (and how we’d have loved to be facing them at Wembley), so we wouldn’t have been surprised if their players were taking it slightly easy to avoid injury before the big match. There’s no sign of that as they attack from the off. We take the lead, though - Reuben Reid manages to out-muscle the defender who’s paying close attention to him, turns and shoots from the edge of the box. Minutes later, it’s two-nil: Drewe Broughton shows real persistence, squeezing the ball in while he’s practically lying on the ground, before celebrating with a few fans down in front of us and making a show of kissing his badge. Hopefully not too many of the Luton supporters have seen that, given that not only is he a huge Hatters fan but his brother works for the club as youth development officer, as tonight’s programme helpfully explains. Despite all the excitement, Ted’s attention has been captured by a bat, which spends about 15 minutes fluttering around in the glow of the floodlights before disappearing back into the night. Even Luton pulling a goal back before half-time doesn’t rouse him that much.
Mick Harford has been receiving a fair amount of taunting from the Rotherham fans, and as he wanders across the pitch (for those who’ve never been to Kenilworth Road, the dug-outs are on the opposite side to the players’ tunnel), he raises his fingers to indicate that the final score is going to be three-two to Luton. At least, I think that’s why he’s got two fingers up.
The second half turns into pure attack against defence. And yet, despite creating lots of chances, Luton go further behind when the ball pings around the area and Danny Harrison heads it in. They score a second, from a long-distance shot which Andy Warrington seems to get fingertips to, but Mark Hudson makes the game safe with the goal of the night, a beautiful volley from wide on the left. By this time, Luton have got about six strikers on, but we manage to repel everything we throw at them. Some (Ted) might describe us as having been under the cosh, but I prefer to think of it as soaking up the pressure and catching them on the break.
The mood among the travelling fans has changed, with the earlier solidarity giving way to chants of ‘We’ll never play you again.’ We know this is rubbish and I’m sure the more sensible Luton fans know this is rubbish, too, but after recent seasons where the likes of Northampton have dished out this kind of nonsense to us, a few people are taking the chance to throw it back.
The final whistle gives everyone a chance to catch their breath. Luton have given us a real game, and if they’d started playing like this earlier in the season, rather than the pallid, defensive stuff they served up at the DVS, they might well have stood a chance of pulling off a most unlikely escape. We collect the flag and pleasantly wish the stewards goodnight. They seem quite a miserable lot, but whether that’s got anything to do with tonight’s result we’re not sure.
We’re back at Luton station just in time to catch a Midland Mainline service that has us back at the Betjeman well before last orders. Ted, the two Chrises and I have a swift drink and then call it a night. Clearly all this excitement has tired us out…
Another Fine Mess, Stanley
On reflection, today would have been the perfect day to put into practice Phil’s long-cherished plan of spending the afternoon in the Fat Cat rather than going down to the DVS, particularly as some bright spark decides to keep our train waiting for a free platform at Donny just long enough for the train we’d usually catch to Sheffield - and the one a couple of minutes after that - to leave without us. Fortunately, today’s intrepid travellers (me, Jenny and Steve Ducker) catch a break when we pull into Meadowhall station in time to catch a tram which has been itself delayed straight up to Shalesmoor. It’s just as well, as Steve has to dash off early to meet his nephew. Phil is waiting for us - minus his dad, who still keeps promising to come for a pre-match drink with us but has a more important engagement with his caravan, or something - and we get to enjoy the sight of the pub’s resident cat tarting itself round various diners in the hope of getting a sneaky titbit, before being spooked by a terrier which has been brought into the pub and disappearing into a secret hidey-hole somewhere beneath our feet. It’s a hard life, being a cat.
Mind you, it’s also hard being a Rotherham supporter this afternoon. The weather is freakily wet and windy, and as Jenny and I try to secure the flag in place I’m convinced that al it will take is a rogue gust and one of us will be whisked away like Mary Poppins. The Accrington fans, who appear to have the highest flag-to-supporter ratio of any team in the division (including one belonging to the Accrington Ultras, which is a bit like calling yourself a Christian devil-worshipper…), are also doing their best not to be blown away. It’s obvious that the conditions aren’t going to make for a particularly good game of football, and this is exacerbated by the fact that Accrington haven’t just decided to park the bus, as dear old Jose would put it, but the entire National Express fleet. The swirling wind means the ball is in the air for much of the time, which plays straight into the hands of our former defender, Colin Murdock. The one thing we know about him is that he could happily head the ball away from now until the end of time - and that’s exactly what he does. There may be some goalmouth action at some point during the game, but most of the crowd has lost the will to care even before the second half kicks off. People have suggested that to make football more exciting, there should be no points awarded for a nil-nil draw. I don’t agree with that, as goalless games can feature plenty of incident, and there can be much pleasure to be had from watching a determined defensive performance. However, Accrington’s tactics, although they ultimately prove fruitful, can only provide ammunition for those who think that goals should equal points.
As Jenny is due to go off on holiday with her brother and sister, she’s staying in Rotherham, so Steve and I head back to Doncaster and the Corner Pin. There, we get chatting to a bloke who pegs us as real ale aficionados (the fact we’re snaffling the last couple of copies of the Donny Drinker could be the giveaway). He explains that he’s starting up a brewery in Thorne, which is designed not so much to generate profit but to create employment in the area. He’s recruited a brewer who’s previously worked for the well-regarded Abbeydale Brewery and is looking for people who are willing to invest a small amount of money in the scheme; the plan is they’ll be paid their dividends in beer rather than cash. It’s an unusual idea, but it might just work…
The train journey back is spent perusing the tables in the Green ’ Un, Steve being a bit of a stats freak on the not-so-quiet, and discussing the merits of vegetarian haggis (the fact it doesn’t come wrapped in a sheep’s stomach apparently being the main one). Roll on Tuesday night and Luton, because given their position in the league and their desperate need for points, the last thing that game is going to be is dull and defensive…
Mind you, it’s also hard being a Rotherham supporter this afternoon. The weather is freakily wet and windy, and as Jenny and I try to secure the flag in place I’m convinced that al it will take is a rogue gust and one of us will be whisked away like Mary Poppins. The Accrington fans, who appear to have the highest flag-to-supporter ratio of any team in the division (including one belonging to the Accrington Ultras, which is a bit like calling yourself a Christian devil-worshipper…), are also doing their best not to be blown away. It’s obvious that the conditions aren’t going to make for a particularly good game of football, and this is exacerbated by the fact that Accrington haven’t just decided to park the bus, as dear old Jose would put it, but the entire National Express fleet. The swirling wind means the ball is in the air for much of the time, which plays straight into the hands of our former defender, Colin Murdock. The one thing we know about him is that he could happily head the ball away from now until the end of time - and that’s exactly what he does. There may be some goalmouth action at some point during the game, but most of the crowd has lost the will to care even before the second half kicks off. People have suggested that to make football more exciting, there should be no points awarded for a nil-nil draw. I don’t agree with that, as goalless games can feature plenty of incident, and there can be much pleasure to be had from watching a determined defensive performance. However, Accrington’s tactics, although they ultimately prove fruitful, can only provide ammunition for those who think that goals should equal points.
As Jenny is due to go off on holiday with her brother and sister, she’s staying in Rotherham, so Steve and I head back to Doncaster and the Corner Pin. There, we get chatting to a bloke who pegs us as real ale aficionados (the fact we’re snaffling the last couple of copies of the Donny Drinker could be the giveaway). He explains that he’s starting up a brewery in Thorne, which is designed not so much to generate profit but to create employment in the area. He’s recruited a brewer who’s previously worked for the well-regarded Abbeydale Brewery and is looking for people who are willing to invest a small amount of money in the scheme; the plan is they’ll be paid their dividends in beer rather than cash. It’s an unusual idea, but it might just work…
The train journey back is spent perusing the tables in the Green ’ Un, Steve being a bit of a stats freak on the not-so-quiet, and discussing the merits of vegetarian haggis (the fact it doesn’t come wrapped in a sheep’s stomach apparently being the main one). Roll on Tuesday night and Luton, because given their position in the league and their desperate need for points, the last thing that game is going to be is dull and defensive…
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