Another Shot At Winning

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...