I’d completely forgotten that stupid o’clock on Sunday morning exists, and yet that’s when I had to get up to catch the train to Donny. Our game against Rochdale was put back 24 hours to accommodate U2, who played the Don Valley Stadium on Thursday night and needed the extra time to dismantle their needlessly huge stage set. That’s the problem when you’re a tenant in a ground like the DVS – if the biggest names in rock want to play there (and the venue has hosted such luminaries as Tina Turner, Bruce Springsteen, the Rolling Stones and – er – Gay Dad, who I only mention because I used to work in the same office as their lead singer), the landlords are unlikely to say no.
Kings Cross station is surprisingly busy, but the concourse clears when the 9.00 to Edinburgh is called. Obviously everyone’s off to the Festival. Jenny almost gets trampled in the rush. It’s like the stampede scene in ‘The Lion King’, except it’s not wildebeest which are going to mow her into the ground, it’s pieces of luggage the size of Swindon on wheels...
Only the two of us are travelling up, but when we get to the Fat Cat, not only is Mr Kyte basking in the beer garden, but so is Chris Turner, who left it too late to get a cheap rail ticket and so has come up on the bus. A very pleasant lunchtime ensues: for once, the place is busy not with football fans but for people who’ve just come to enjoy Sunday lunch and the good weather.
Getting off the tram at Attercliffe, I spot a familiar face – or, rather, the back of a familiar head. A couple of weeks ago, Ted and I went down to Hooper’s in East Dulwich to watch Darlo’s televised Carling Cup game against Leeds (a long way to go, admittedly, but it’s one of Ted’s favourite London pubs and they did show the match specially for him). We were joined briefly by a chap called Andy, who used to run the Gardener’s Arms in Lewes, a pub which was the recipient of the DAFTS Football Pub of the Year award a couple of seasons ago. He’s a serious, serious groundhopper, though many of the matches he fits in involve the three teams he supports – Swindon, Berwick and Lewes – and that night he was off to Dulwich Hamlet’s ground to see the reformed Fisher FC play their first ever league game. Today, he’s fitting in his 23rd game of the season already, having been up at Berwick yesterday. As we’re milling around outside the ground, we bump into my dad and Gordon, and get into conversation with a steward we used to chat to in the old Millmoor days. The topic of conversation is where the new stadium will be sited – the current favourite is a piece of land occupied until recently by B and Q, which is conveniently close to Rotherham town centre, but there are fears that nearby residents will object. Our steward chum has also been told that we’ll be moving back to Millmoor in the not-too-distant future, but no one seriously believes that’s going to happen.
I don’t have the flag with me as I’m staying overnight – after what Jenny and I told Drewe Broughton before the Accrington game, he’s going to think we’re either part-timers or drunk in a ditch somewhere. I get to my seat just in time to miss the new pre-match dancers, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Cheerleaders just don’t work at English games, though the LM boys who once spent an afternoon ignoring the match at Underhill in favour of watching Barnet’s pubescent dance troupe practising a very wobbly human pyramid may disagree.
We’ve been warned that the U2 concert will have caused ‘some discolouration’ of the pitch. What this means is that two-thirds of it is lush and green, the rest is a dirty yellow colour, with patches of dirt showing through. However, the ref has deeemed it playable, even though Rochdale’s manager Keith Hill (a man who’s not averse to having a moan when it comes to all things Rotherham) has apparently complained about it pre-match and will do so much more publicly after the final whistle.
Also causing a stink – at least among the Rotherham fans – is the fact that Rochdale have taken Chris O’Grady on loan from Oldham. He’s now known as O’Greedy, thanks to the fact that when we were in administration two seasons ago, he was the only player who refused to take a wage deferral, and his every touch is booed. He also falls over under minimal contact a couple of times, causing Miller Bear to mimic him with some extensive rolling over... Down the other (green) end of the pitch), we’re creating a number of chances, looking much more threatening than we did at Bournemouth. The Rochdale fans give us stick, as they did last season, by calling us ‘tax dodgers’ and referring to us as ‘Sheffield’. How blindingly original. We respond with a chorus of ‘Where’s your Alfie gone?’, in reference to Adam Le Fondre. He’s had the ball in the net, having got on the end of a very bad kick out from the Dale keeper, but the ref decides he used his arm to control the ball and it’s ruled out. However, a couple of minutes before half-time, we take the lead when Alfie gets on the end of a Nicky Law free kick and knocks in a real bullet header, much as he did against us at Spotland last season. It’s a deserved lead, but Dale equalise almost immediately, Chris Dagnall taking advantage of a slip in defence and slotting the ball past Don who almost, but not quite, keeps it from crossing the line. At least we know Rochdale’s defence are going to have to cope with the uneven bounce down that end of the pitch in the second half.
For the second half-time interval in succession, we have a Chuckle Brother performing the Mayday and 50/50 draws. Last time it was Paul (the short, be-mulleted, moustachioed one), this time it’s Barry (the tall, be-mulleted, moustachioed one). I wouldn’t be surprised if Howard Webb isn’t lurking somewhere, too. In the press area, we’ve got Ian Sharps, who’s out with a groin injury, and Richie Barker, who’s probably summarising for Radio Sheffield – ah, the glamour of being an ex-pro!
The winner comes with about half an hour to go. The bloke behind us has been grumbling about Tom Pope all game, and when he appears to have lost possession of the ball, he mutters, ‘That’s rubbish, Pope.’ Pope immediately makes up for his error by winning it back and putting in a really good ball which 36-year-old goal machine Paul Warne volleys home. Cue the man sitting on my left turning round and telling Mr Moaner what he thinks of his negativity. They don’t fall out too badly, but it’s noticeable that for the rest of the game the criticism of Pope is replaced by praise for Nick Fenton (who is, it has to be said, putting in a very good performance). At least it’s all sweetness and light among the children who sit round us, who band together to go playing somewhere as it’s clear the youngest out of each of the two pairs is thoroughly bored by the football...
After that, we revert to a traditional Rotherham failing by defending more and more deeply as we attempt to preserve our advantage. There is mass panic among the crowd whenever Rochdale have the ball, even though they aren’t doing a great deal with it and Fenton is winning everything in the air. Le Fondre and Warne are substituted for Kevin Ellison and Micky Cummins; the latter substitution is with about five minutes to go, and Cummins should probably have been brought on earlier, as he makes the midfield look a lot more solid. Dale have brought on the tricky Adam Rundle, who caused Dale Tonge so many problems last time we played them, but his best shot goes wide. Nicky Law is announced as sponsors’ man of the match, but then Don makes a couple of last-minute saves which ensure we take all three points and would surely have won him the award if it was voted for after the game.
This has been a decent test of the team – Rochdale are a good side, even if most of their fans now have an unaccountable downer on us – and this performance seems to indicate we’re going to be able to hold our own in the league. Time to get home and find out what’s happening in the small matter of the Ashes – Australia were something like 270-2 when we left the Fat Cat, but there’s still time for wickets to fall. And that really would put a gloss on what’s turned out to be not so bloody a Sunday after all...
Friday, 28 August 2009
Friday, 21 August 2009
Beside Ourselves At The Seaside
Thanks to engineering works, what should be a routine journey to Waterloo is turned into an underground/overground trek involving bus, Docklands Light Railway and the Waterloo and City Line. Michael Palin would probably make a documentary about it.
Jenny and Mick Walker have also worked round the various line closures and we have time for coffee and the first of Mick’s several cigarette breaks of the day (let’s hope I’ve not blown a secret there – I have a friend who claims her parents still don’t know she smokes, even though she’s been hiding the habit from them for the thick end of thirty years...). Chris Turner and Andy Leng join the train at Clapham Junction; Clarkey should be with them, but he got home late last night after spending the last few days walking part of the Pennine Way and has decided to have an extra hour in bed.
South-west Trains are running a special £10 day trip promotion on the line out to the South Coast, and if they’re doing it as a way of filling their trains it’s worked a treat, because the one we’re on is packed.
As always, Tom Coley is welcoming everyone to the Railway Club by the station – his ‘Save The Millers’ flag is hanging up outside, even though we feel well and truly saved, delays to acquiring the best piece of land on which to build the new stadium notwithstanding. The place soon starts filling up with people we know – the Maxfields, who are staying in a boutique hotel in Boscombe (and that’s a phrase I never thought I’d ever use), Kirkland père et fils, also making a weekend of it, Joy the Dagenham Miller and the Exley family (Mrs E will later opt for sitting in the car with a book, rather than watching the game). There are also plenty of other Rotherham fans, drawn in by Tom’s hospitality, reasonable bar prices (the Ringwood Forty-niner takes a particular bashing from the LM boys) and a buffet which includes more of the excellent chilli we were treated to last season. We use John Kirkland’s phone, which has the tiniest read-out in the world, to Google the answer to whether or not Andrew Ridgeley is married to one of Bananarama (don’t ask why, but on the way down I was convinced he is, and Andy Leng reckoned it was either Pepsi or Shirley – oh, the time just flies by on our trips...).Squinting at the screen, we see that I was correct. If anyone needs a phone friend for ‘Who Wants To Be A Millionaire’, my rates are very reasonable!
As we need plenty of time to put out the flag and get tickets from the ticket office, Jenny, Joy and I make the advance party heading for the Fitness First Stadium (it’ll always be Dean Court to me). My brother, who’s been spending the morning on the beach with the family, is waiting for us, and lets us know that this season we pay on the turnstiles, which leads to a few phone calls to let the stragglers know about the change.
We’ve all come prepared in case the weather is hot, having had the sun beating down on us in the away stand last season (and that was October – climate change is a freaky thing), but it’s overcast, and the sunglasses and SPF Whatever can stay packed away.
For some reason, Tom is travelling without props today – no oversized playing cards or brown toupée – and it’s left to a couple of blokes dressed head to toe in Hawaiian gear to try and get the party started. There’s a decent travelling contingent, who are noisy and in good spirits (beating Derby in the Carling Cup has probably raised their optimism levels), and there’s some banter between the crowd and the two members of the South Yorkshire Constabulary who always keep an eye on us all at away games. Indeed, they’ve already popped into the Railway Club, presumably having read Tom’s invitation on one of the message boards. There are chants of ‘Dodgy copper’ and the usual song about paying for your house, and even the police are laughing.
The first half of the game is fairly even. We have a really good chance after about a minute, but Kevin Ellison shoots wide. Neither keeper particularly has much to do, and Bournemouth seem to have one plan of attack, which involves getting the ball to their speedy right winger. Poor old Jamie Green, the smallest man in the team, is up against the bulk of Steve Fletcher, who’s always had a strangely plastic-y look about him and may well actually be two men welded together, but even so it’s nailed on as nil-nil until a minute before half-time, when a Bournemouth cross goes in (from where Clarkey and I are sitting, we’re not sure whether or not the ball has gone out of play) and is poked home by Ryan Garry, who doesn’t appear for the second half having suffered a concussion.
After that, the Cherries do everything they can to stop us getting into a rhythm and playing our way back into the game. This mostly involves going down injured and staying down for as long as possible. It’s a tactic which works. Our new signing, Adam Le Fondre, comes on to huge applause and looks as though he’ll definitely add something to the team, but at the moment it’s obvious that players are still trying to gel and learn how to play together. The ref, who seems a little naïve and is clearly swayed when it comes to making decisions by the reaction of the crowd, adds five minutes of time on, and then plays at least another minute after that – my brother texts me later to say he’s listening to Radio Solent in the car and people seem baffled as to where all this time has come from – but it doesn’t help us.
At the end of the game, the Bournemouth players go into a huge huddle and then bow to the crowd behind the goal – it all seems a little over the top, and Bradford and Shrewsbury might want to have a word with them about over-celebrating having beaten us.
Mick and Chris T have been shown a short cut by Tom, so we follow them over the cricket pitch and down a side street. I don’t know whether it’s any quicker, but it is quieter, and it does give us the opportunity to spot a rather burly transvestite applying a coat of lipstick while sitting in a van outside a local sauna. I do love genteel seaside towns...
We have a swift drink in the Railway Club, which is much quieter than at lunchtime, then it’s on to a train heaving with exhausted daytrippers and home. Our other seaside trip this season is Torquay, but that’s November – I think the wise move will be staying in somewhere warm that day!
Jenny and Mick Walker have also worked round the various line closures and we have time for coffee and the first of Mick’s several cigarette breaks of the day (let’s hope I’ve not blown a secret there – I have a friend who claims her parents still don’t know she smokes, even though she’s been hiding the habit from them for the thick end of thirty years...). Chris Turner and Andy Leng join the train at Clapham Junction; Clarkey should be with them, but he got home late last night after spending the last few days walking part of the Pennine Way and has decided to have an extra hour in bed.
South-west Trains are running a special £10 day trip promotion on the line out to the South Coast, and if they’re doing it as a way of filling their trains it’s worked a treat, because the one we’re on is packed.
As always, Tom Coley is welcoming everyone to the Railway Club by the station – his ‘Save The Millers’ flag is hanging up outside, even though we feel well and truly saved, delays to acquiring the best piece of land on which to build the new stadium notwithstanding. The place soon starts filling up with people we know – the Maxfields, who are staying in a boutique hotel in Boscombe (and that’s a phrase I never thought I’d ever use), Kirkland père et fils, also making a weekend of it, Joy the Dagenham Miller and the Exley family (Mrs E will later opt for sitting in the car with a book, rather than watching the game). There are also plenty of other Rotherham fans, drawn in by Tom’s hospitality, reasonable bar prices (the Ringwood Forty-niner takes a particular bashing from the LM boys) and a buffet which includes more of the excellent chilli we were treated to last season. We use John Kirkland’s phone, which has the tiniest read-out in the world, to Google the answer to whether or not Andrew Ridgeley is married to one of Bananarama (don’t ask why, but on the way down I was convinced he is, and Andy Leng reckoned it was either Pepsi or Shirley – oh, the time just flies by on our trips...).Squinting at the screen, we see that I was correct. If anyone needs a phone friend for ‘Who Wants To Be A Millionaire’, my rates are very reasonable!
As we need plenty of time to put out the flag and get tickets from the ticket office, Jenny, Joy and I make the advance party heading for the Fitness First Stadium (it’ll always be Dean Court to me). My brother, who’s been spending the morning on the beach with the family, is waiting for us, and lets us know that this season we pay on the turnstiles, which leads to a few phone calls to let the stragglers know about the change.
We’ve all come prepared in case the weather is hot, having had the sun beating down on us in the away stand last season (and that was October – climate change is a freaky thing), but it’s overcast, and the sunglasses and SPF Whatever can stay packed away.
For some reason, Tom is travelling without props today – no oversized playing cards or brown toupée – and it’s left to a couple of blokes dressed head to toe in Hawaiian gear to try and get the party started. There’s a decent travelling contingent, who are noisy and in good spirits (beating Derby in the Carling Cup has probably raised their optimism levels), and there’s some banter between the crowd and the two members of the South Yorkshire Constabulary who always keep an eye on us all at away games. Indeed, they’ve already popped into the Railway Club, presumably having read Tom’s invitation on one of the message boards. There are chants of ‘Dodgy copper’ and the usual song about paying for your house, and even the police are laughing.
The first half of the game is fairly even. We have a really good chance after about a minute, but Kevin Ellison shoots wide. Neither keeper particularly has much to do, and Bournemouth seem to have one plan of attack, which involves getting the ball to their speedy right winger. Poor old Jamie Green, the smallest man in the team, is up against the bulk of Steve Fletcher, who’s always had a strangely plastic-y look about him and may well actually be two men welded together, but even so it’s nailed on as nil-nil until a minute before half-time, when a Bournemouth cross goes in (from where Clarkey and I are sitting, we’re not sure whether or not the ball has gone out of play) and is poked home by Ryan Garry, who doesn’t appear for the second half having suffered a concussion.
After that, the Cherries do everything they can to stop us getting into a rhythm and playing our way back into the game. This mostly involves going down injured and staying down for as long as possible. It’s a tactic which works. Our new signing, Adam Le Fondre, comes on to huge applause and looks as though he’ll definitely add something to the team, but at the moment it’s obvious that players are still trying to gel and learn how to play together. The ref, who seems a little naïve and is clearly swayed when it comes to making decisions by the reaction of the crowd, adds five minutes of time on, and then plays at least another minute after that – my brother texts me later to say he’s listening to Radio Solent in the car and people seem baffled as to where all this time has come from – but it doesn’t help us.
At the end of the game, the Bournemouth players go into a huge huddle and then bow to the crowd behind the goal – it all seems a little over the top, and Bradford and Shrewsbury might want to have a word with them about over-celebrating having beaten us.
Mick and Chris T have been shown a short cut by Tom, so we follow them over the cricket pitch and down a side street. I don’t know whether it’s any quicker, but it is quieter, and it does give us the opportunity to spot a rather burly transvestite applying a coat of lipstick while sitting in a van outside a local sauna. I do love genteel seaside towns...
We have a swift drink in the Railway Club, which is much quieter than at lunchtime, then it’s on to a train heaving with exhausted daytrippers and home. Our other seaside trip this season is Torquay, but that’s November – I think the wise move will be staying in somewhere warm that day!
Monday, 10 August 2009
Hello, Hello, Good To Be Back!
Last night, I was at the farewell party for the Black Lace imprint. It was great to meet people who I haven’t seen, in some cases, for the thick end of 15 years (and to discover that, the odd receding hairline aside, no one has really changed), but I made an early exit because I want to be refreshed and ready for the big kick-off and the kind of early start I’ve forgotten about in recent weeks. I really need to let our new kittens know that on Fridays I like to get a decent night’s kip, because one of them decides it will be fun to climb all over me with tiny, needle-sharp claws to the fore at three in the morning. Grrrrr...
Still, I discover when I get to St Pancras that I’m in slightly better shape than Jenny, who’s on painkillers for a back problem. There are a number of Wednesday fans milling about, on their way up for a home derby against Barnsley. ‘Well,’ I tell Jenny, ‘you might have got a bad back, but they’ve got a bad side.’ Ba-dum tish! Mind you, if today’s game against Accrington Stanley is as poor as the one at the DVS in March (which only feels like five minutes), watching it with the help of some kind of anaesthetic might be the best idea!
Clarkey joins us and we find our seats on what’s a really packed train, though it does thin out when all the Leicester fans get off. Out of the three of us, he’s the most excited about the start of the season. I’d be more enthusiastic if the opposition were different (sorry, Stanley, but it was a dog of a game), but maybe the adrenalin will kick in as it gets nearer to three o’clock.
At Sheffield station, Jenny gets a text from Phil to let her know he’s heard a rumour that there’s a tram strike. As we’ve just watched one go past on the opposite platform, that seems unlikely; he’s probably been listening to the type of person who claims to be ‘in the know’ on the Rotherham messageboards, or who sound off on public transport (Jack Lester and Billy Sharp signing for us – yeah, that happened, didn’t it?). She lets him know there’s no truth in it and we’ll see him in the Fat Cat. The beer garden is full of more Barnsley and Wednesday fans, basking in the Shalesmoor sunshine, but we manage to grab a table and slap on the SPF30 as you can’t be too careful. Phil joins us, as does Mick Walker, who’s making a weekend of it. Jenny and I leave the pub earlier than usual as I have to meet up with my dad, who’s got my new season ticket. He’s late, as he’s got a lift from Gordon, who sits with us, and they’ve been stuck in traffic, but it gives us the opportunity to spot more people we haven’t seen for a while – or since the Exeter game, at least.
Once the vital documents have been handed over, Jenny and I go off to put up the flag. There are already two in place, and someone sitting alongside them in what would be the logical place to stick ours. ‘Perhaps we can ask this chap to move,’ suggests Jenny. ‘This chap’ is actually Drewe Broughton, sidelined for the next few weeks with a broken toe. He’s amenable to moving, explaining that he’s been sitting here for the pre-season friendlies, which have been flag-free – and he’s also a lot less scary in training gear than he is in a suit!
Jenny explains that we’ve travelled up from London, as we do for the majority of matches. ‘Tell me about it,’ says Drewe. ‘I was coming up from Milton Keynes all last season. How was the M1 today?’
‘We don’t drive,’ Jenny replies. ‘We travel on the train. You can’t have a drink if you’re driving.’ I can’t take her anywhere, though if any of the players have ever taken the trouble to read the London Millers programme notes in the past they may well have already gathered the impression that we’re all boozers and reprobates!
What makes this conversation all the more surreal is that it’s being conducted with a backdrop of small girls in leotards, queuing for their run-up to the vaulting horse in the gym which is built into this part of the stand. You really wouldn’t get this at Old Trafford on a match day...
There definitely is a buzz around the ground (well, the occupied quarter of it anyway). Three of our close season signings, Tom Pope, Kevin Ellison and Nicky Law, are in the starting line-up, but the changes don’t stop there. We’ve got a new matchday announcer – or, more accurately, an old one: Richard Lee, who did the job for several years back at Millmoor – and we no longer run out to Queen’s ‘One Vision’. Instead, we’ve gone hardcore drum n’ bass, as I believe the young folk call it, with Pendulum’s ‘Propane Nightmares’. Whatever we use, my dad’ll still think it’s a row.
Accrington have made changes, too – some of them enforced due to the match-fixing charges of which several of their current and former players were recently found guilty, while Colin Murdock, who did everything to keep us at bay here last season, has left the club.
Like every other League club this weekend, we have a minute’s applause to mark the passing of Sir Bobby Robson – so much more fitting a commemoration than silence when it’s for a person who wasn’t intimately involved with your club – and then we’re off.
Accrington take everyone – including, it seems, the Rotherham players – by surprise by attacking from the start. Last season, it seemed they’d come here not to lose; now they clearly want to win, much to their delight of the travelling fans, who are very few in number but very loud in volume. No sign of the ‘Accrington Ultras’ flag, though – they must be still on their holidays. Rotherham, in contrast, seem disjointed and a little sluggish. Nicky Law is putting in some great crosses and kicks from dead balls, but it doesn’t yet seem as though he’s on the same wavelength as everyone else. Don Warrington has to make a couple of good saves, and when Paul Mullin heads over from close range, my dad mutters his first, ‘That could have been who’d have thought it,’ of the season. Most of the problems Accrington are causing us are coming from the trickery of John Miles, even if he does have a tendency to go down under minimal contact. Music may be his first love (younger readers, check your dad’s record collection for the reference...) but he’s fond of falling over, too. Our best chance of the half comes when Tom Pope shoots just wide from a Nicky Law free-kick, but the Rotherham fans clearly expect to be ahead by now and there are murmurings of discontent as the players come off at half time.
If Accrington have had the first half, we have the second. Ryan Taylor, who’s been trying his best up front but gets pushed off the ball rather too easily (hurry up and heal, Mr Broughton’s toe!), is replaced by Paul Warne, recruited to fill the role of the prodigal son now Richie Barker’s been forced to retire. Warney may be 36, as is Andy Liddell, who we’ve also acquired on a short-term deal, but they’re spring chickens compared to Dean Windass, now at Darlo, and Paul Furlong at Barnet. A man behind me isn’t impressed. When it’s pointed out that Warne was Yeovil’s player of the season a couple of years ago, he retorts, ‘And their player of the season the next year was a Cox’s Orange Pippin.’ However sceptical he may be, Warne has that little bit more guile than Taylor, and gradually we take control of the game. Don still has to make a save from a stinging free-kick which would have Ted shouting, ‘Catch it, Grandad!’ if he were here, and Pablo Mills and Ian Sharps have a mix-up which nearly allows Accrington to score, but we’re having some chances. Accrington are no longer bossing the game and they don’t like it: their defending becomes more panicky, and they start wasting time. We’re not helped in our efforts by an assistant referee who gets a couple of offside decisions wrong and misses that their keeper has carried the ball out for a corner. Miller Bear, as shy and retiring as ever, shows what he thinks by miming walking with a white stick...
When Mark Robins substitutes Kevin Ellison and brings on Liddell, a bloke at the back of our block loses it, calling Robins a clown and using some fairly choice language. This is when it becomes apparent that all this time we’ve been sitting in the designated family area – this year there are signs to that effect, which weren’t there before. Stewards are called and he’s warned that if he can’t cool it, he’ll have to get a seat somewhere else. If only they could set one of the blocks aside as an official moaning area, a lot of people would be a lot happier.
With only a couple of minutes remaining, we win one last free kick. Ian Sharps rattles the ball against the bar; it doesn’t cross the line, but in the ensuing scramble it comes out to Paul Warne, who fires it home. The cheering is so loud and the release of pressure so obvious, it’s like the lid has come off a can. Warney celebrate by sprinting down to the home dugout; we can’t remember the last time we saw him move so fast!
At the final whistle, my dad calls the result ‘daylight robbery’. If Stanley had kept playing football, they’d have got something out of that game and could easily have won it, but when we wrested control from them as the second half went on, they didn’t really know how to respond.
Jenny, Clarkey and I head off to the Carlton, where Phil is waiting for us. A couple of Barnsley fans are also in there, having left Hillsborough at half time, when they were two-nil down, and not having witnessed their fightback for a draw. Clarkey’s keen to listen to ‘Test Match Special’; less so when the wickets start falling...
We’re travelling back to London in a carriage with seven or eight Barnsley fans in high spirits and a couple of subdued Wednesday fans. When the Barnsley lads find out we’re the London Millers there’s a bit of good-natured banter, and I end up having to get my flag out for the lads as the train zips through Bedfordshire. Yep, it’s good to be back!
Still, I discover when I get to St Pancras that I’m in slightly better shape than Jenny, who’s on painkillers for a back problem. There are a number of Wednesday fans milling about, on their way up for a home derby against Barnsley. ‘Well,’ I tell Jenny, ‘you might have got a bad back, but they’ve got a bad side.’ Ba-dum tish! Mind you, if today’s game against Accrington Stanley is as poor as the one at the DVS in March (which only feels like five minutes), watching it with the help of some kind of anaesthetic might be the best idea!
Clarkey joins us and we find our seats on what’s a really packed train, though it does thin out when all the Leicester fans get off. Out of the three of us, he’s the most excited about the start of the season. I’d be more enthusiastic if the opposition were different (sorry, Stanley, but it was a dog of a game), but maybe the adrenalin will kick in as it gets nearer to three o’clock.
At Sheffield station, Jenny gets a text from Phil to let her know he’s heard a rumour that there’s a tram strike. As we’ve just watched one go past on the opposite platform, that seems unlikely; he’s probably been listening to the type of person who claims to be ‘in the know’ on the Rotherham messageboards, or who sound off on public transport (Jack Lester and Billy Sharp signing for us – yeah, that happened, didn’t it?). She lets him know there’s no truth in it and we’ll see him in the Fat Cat. The beer garden is full of more Barnsley and Wednesday fans, basking in the Shalesmoor sunshine, but we manage to grab a table and slap on the SPF30 as you can’t be too careful. Phil joins us, as does Mick Walker, who’s making a weekend of it. Jenny and I leave the pub earlier than usual as I have to meet up with my dad, who’s got my new season ticket. He’s late, as he’s got a lift from Gordon, who sits with us, and they’ve been stuck in traffic, but it gives us the opportunity to spot more people we haven’t seen for a while – or since the Exeter game, at least.
Once the vital documents have been handed over, Jenny and I go off to put up the flag. There are already two in place, and someone sitting alongside them in what would be the logical place to stick ours. ‘Perhaps we can ask this chap to move,’ suggests Jenny. ‘This chap’ is actually Drewe Broughton, sidelined for the next few weeks with a broken toe. He’s amenable to moving, explaining that he’s been sitting here for the pre-season friendlies, which have been flag-free – and he’s also a lot less scary in training gear than he is in a suit!
Jenny explains that we’ve travelled up from London, as we do for the majority of matches. ‘Tell me about it,’ says Drewe. ‘I was coming up from Milton Keynes all last season. How was the M1 today?’
‘We don’t drive,’ Jenny replies. ‘We travel on the train. You can’t have a drink if you’re driving.’ I can’t take her anywhere, though if any of the players have ever taken the trouble to read the London Millers programme notes in the past they may well have already gathered the impression that we’re all boozers and reprobates!
What makes this conversation all the more surreal is that it’s being conducted with a backdrop of small girls in leotards, queuing for their run-up to the vaulting horse in the gym which is built into this part of the stand. You really wouldn’t get this at Old Trafford on a match day...
There definitely is a buzz around the ground (well, the occupied quarter of it anyway). Three of our close season signings, Tom Pope, Kevin Ellison and Nicky Law, are in the starting line-up, but the changes don’t stop there. We’ve got a new matchday announcer – or, more accurately, an old one: Richard Lee, who did the job for several years back at Millmoor – and we no longer run out to Queen’s ‘One Vision’. Instead, we’ve gone hardcore drum n’ bass, as I believe the young folk call it, with Pendulum’s ‘Propane Nightmares’. Whatever we use, my dad’ll still think it’s a row.
Accrington have made changes, too – some of them enforced due to the match-fixing charges of which several of their current and former players were recently found guilty, while Colin Murdock, who did everything to keep us at bay here last season, has left the club.
Like every other League club this weekend, we have a minute’s applause to mark the passing of Sir Bobby Robson – so much more fitting a commemoration than silence when it’s for a person who wasn’t intimately involved with your club – and then we’re off.
Accrington take everyone – including, it seems, the Rotherham players – by surprise by attacking from the start. Last season, it seemed they’d come here not to lose; now they clearly want to win, much to their delight of the travelling fans, who are very few in number but very loud in volume. No sign of the ‘Accrington Ultras’ flag, though – they must be still on their holidays. Rotherham, in contrast, seem disjointed and a little sluggish. Nicky Law is putting in some great crosses and kicks from dead balls, but it doesn’t yet seem as though he’s on the same wavelength as everyone else. Don Warrington has to make a couple of good saves, and when Paul Mullin heads over from close range, my dad mutters his first, ‘That could have been who’d have thought it,’ of the season. Most of the problems Accrington are causing us are coming from the trickery of John Miles, even if he does have a tendency to go down under minimal contact. Music may be his first love (younger readers, check your dad’s record collection for the reference...) but he’s fond of falling over, too. Our best chance of the half comes when Tom Pope shoots just wide from a Nicky Law free-kick, but the Rotherham fans clearly expect to be ahead by now and there are murmurings of discontent as the players come off at half time.
If Accrington have had the first half, we have the second. Ryan Taylor, who’s been trying his best up front but gets pushed off the ball rather too easily (hurry up and heal, Mr Broughton’s toe!), is replaced by Paul Warne, recruited to fill the role of the prodigal son now Richie Barker’s been forced to retire. Warney may be 36, as is Andy Liddell, who we’ve also acquired on a short-term deal, but they’re spring chickens compared to Dean Windass, now at Darlo, and Paul Furlong at Barnet. A man behind me isn’t impressed. When it’s pointed out that Warne was Yeovil’s player of the season a couple of years ago, he retorts, ‘And their player of the season the next year was a Cox’s Orange Pippin.’ However sceptical he may be, Warne has that little bit more guile than Taylor, and gradually we take control of the game. Don still has to make a save from a stinging free-kick which would have Ted shouting, ‘Catch it, Grandad!’ if he were here, and Pablo Mills and Ian Sharps have a mix-up which nearly allows Accrington to score, but we’re having some chances. Accrington are no longer bossing the game and they don’t like it: their defending becomes more panicky, and they start wasting time. We’re not helped in our efforts by an assistant referee who gets a couple of offside decisions wrong and misses that their keeper has carried the ball out for a corner. Miller Bear, as shy and retiring as ever, shows what he thinks by miming walking with a white stick...
When Mark Robins substitutes Kevin Ellison and brings on Liddell, a bloke at the back of our block loses it, calling Robins a clown and using some fairly choice language. This is when it becomes apparent that all this time we’ve been sitting in the designated family area – this year there are signs to that effect, which weren’t there before. Stewards are called and he’s warned that if he can’t cool it, he’ll have to get a seat somewhere else. If only they could set one of the blocks aside as an official moaning area, a lot of people would be a lot happier.
With only a couple of minutes remaining, we win one last free kick. Ian Sharps rattles the ball against the bar; it doesn’t cross the line, but in the ensuing scramble it comes out to Paul Warne, who fires it home. The cheering is so loud and the release of pressure so obvious, it’s like the lid has come off a can. Warney celebrate by sprinting down to the home dugout; we can’t remember the last time we saw him move so fast!
At the final whistle, my dad calls the result ‘daylight robbery’. If Stanley had kept playing football, they’d have got something out of that game and could easily have won it, but when we wrested control from them as the second half went on, they didn’t really know how to respond.
Jenny, Clarkey and I head off to the Carlton, where Phil is waiting for us. A couple of Barnsley fans are also in there, having left Hillsborough at half time, when they were two-nil down, and not having witnessed their fightback for a draw. Clarkey’s keen to listen to ‘Test Match Special’; less so when the wickets start falling...
We’re travelling back to London in a carriage with seven or eight Barnsley fans in high spirits and a couple of subdued Wednesday fans. When the Barnsley lads find out we’re the London Millers there’s a bit of good-natured banter, and I end up having to get my flag out for the lads as the train zips through Bedfordshire. Yep, it’s good to be back!
Thursday, 6 August 2009
And Now, The End Is Near...
You’ll probably have realised by now that the London Millers don’t need much of an excuse to turn a trip into a party. I’ll never forget the time we were on the train, coming back from the last game of that season (a 2-2 draw against Forest at home which we would have won if Jack Lester hadn’t been his usual underhand self and Mark Robins hadn’t had a goal disallowed) and enjoying the traditional end-of-season champers. We were spotted by a few Portsmouth fans, who’d clinched the title by beating us in a live Sky game the week before. ‘Who are they, then?’ one of them asked. ‘Rotherham,’ said his mate. ‘They’re celebrating finishing 15th...’
Today, there’s only Jenny, Clarkey and me heading out of St Pancras, but we still get a half-bottle of champagne and some orange juice from M&S for our Bucks Fizz breakfast, along with some bagels Jenny picked up on the way to West Hampstead. Well, you have to do these things properly!
We’re taking it fairly sedately at this stage because we’ve got a bit of a crawl planned once we get to Sheffield. With the Championship games not happening until tomorrow, it’s going to be quiet enough for us to take in the Shalesmoor Triangle of the Kelham Island Tavern, Fat Cat and Wellington, as well as the Harlequin (formerly the Manchester Arms), which is only a short walk away. Jenny makes calls to the people we’re planning to rendezvous with in Sheffield – Phil, Chris Turner and Chris Kirkland. Unfortunately, someone has rather overdone it in Manchester the night before, so her call to Chris K is actually his alarm. He’s missed the train he should have been on, and will meet up with us an hour later than scheduled. (Make your own disapproving ‘tsk’ noise about students at this point...)
A short walk from the station, down the Haymarket and close to what used to be Ward’s brewery brings us to the Harlequin. It’s a nice little pub with a decent range of beers on (I take a photograph of the list for Ted, who quizzes me on such things when I get home), and one we’ll probably spend more time in on a future occasion. We sit out in the beer garden briefly, which is just showing off as it isn’t quite warm enough, and when we venture back inside it’s to find the Burton brothers wandering in. They’ve got the same itinerary as us, but we’re going to spend the afternoon most of a pint ahead of them in terms of drinking, so we’ll be leaving pretty much as they are arriving. From the Harlequin, the next stop is the Kelham Island Tavern, which is where Chris joins us, looking a little the worse for wear. We have lunch in the Fat Cat; Chris may be suffering, but he still has the presence of mind to order a ploughman’s lunch so he can live off the leftovers for the rest of the week. Our final stop is the Wellington, where there’s just time for a swift half before Jenny and I dash off to put the flag up.
Outside the DVS, we spot Howard Webb. As it’s our last chance of the season, I wander over and politely ask if I can take his photo for a friend. I don’t mention that Gwenn named one of her goldfish after him, in case he thinks one or both of us is a deranged stalker.
When we go to put the flag in its usual place, we’re watched by about ten members of the Exeter squad, including the injured Marcus Stewart, who’ve found places there to watch the game. My brother’s up for the game, so I go to join him and my dad in the stand.
On the evidence of their display today, it’s hard to see how Exeter are in the promotion places. We have the better chances in the first half, and Drewe Broughton should really score, but he gives the defender enough time to get back and clear the ball off the line. Meanwhile, down the other end Don is in fine form, and it’s nil-nil at half-time.
The good news is that ‘Soccer AM’ are on hand to present the League 2A trophy, but the bad news is that it’s one of the crew members rather than Helen Chamberlain who’s here to do the honours. He’s been sitting up at the back of the press area, so we’re completely aware that the stupidly big, shiny trophy actually has its lid glued in place. Oh, the glamour!
Exeter take the lead by the simple act of taking off one of their small, nippy players and bringing on big Richard Logan, who has the height to get above Jamie Green and head the ball home. A few minutes later, they’re awarded a penalty when Dale Tonge brings down Craig McAllister in the area. McAllister goes down like he’s at Ponds Forge, home of diving, but the ref awards the penalty and sends Tonge off. Don pulls off a fantastic save, leaving me wondering if this is the first time we’ve ever conceded a penalty to the same time home and away and had each spot kick saved by a different keeper.
Exeter have started pulling a few timewasting stunts by now, and Miller Bear is on the touchline, doing one of his/her famous mimes to indicate that someone who’s claiming to be injured is really taking the mickey. It never fails to be funny.
The real highlight for the home fans is the appearance of Stephen Brogan as a sub, about fifteen minutes from the end. It’s the first time he’s played since the horrible injury against Milton Keynes, 15 months ago, and I’m sure Clarkey is happy to be proved wrong in his joky assertion that there wouldn’t be a place for him in the team. However, not even he can make the breakthrough and score the goal which would be the best way to mark his return, and we end the season with a defeat. Exeter are up in second place behind Brentford, with Wycombe, who led the league for so long, in the end pipping Bury to the third promotion place by a single goal.
Once the celebrating Exeter players and their fans have finally left, the team come out to do the traditional lap of honour – or in this case, the hundred metres of honour in front of the covered part of the stand (sadly not followed by the long jump of honour and the shot put of honour...). Clarkey is staying over in Rotherham, so Jenny and I get the tram to Meadowhall. There’s a bloke holding court, passing on the transfer rumours he swears are true. If he’s to be believed, Reuben Reid is on his way to Palace and we’re signing Jack Lester, as well as Billy Sharp on loan from Sheff U. Expect none of these to happen over the summer.
We make our last visit of the season to the Corner Pin and then it’s goodbye to all this until August, catching up with all the ups and downs courtesy of the Green ‘Un. Trips to Hereford, Northampton (so much for they’ll never play us again), Crewe (which is much more fun if you come back via Birmingham) and Cheltenham (my brother will be pleased) are on the cards.
As for this league, it can’t be denied that the points deductions have skewed the final outcome. If Darlo hadn’t gone into administration, I’m sure they would have gone up, and if we’d started on zero, we might well have done, too. Instead, two very defensive teams (Brentford and Wycombe) and one deeply ordinary one (Exeter) have been promoted. I’d like to see Rochdale go up via the play-offs, simply because they’ve played good football with a flair that I haven’t seen from any of the top three, but they seem to have a mental block when it comes to getting out of the bottom division.
As for the moments I’ll remember from this season, various things stand out: Drewe Broughton and Mark McCammon having their ostentatious stretch-off at the Priestfield; the Chesterfield fans melting away like snowdrops after Pablo Mills’ goal went in; the tiny ambulance at Port Vale; the Luton bat; the expression on Dale Tonge’s face when Tom asked him to sign his false teeth. All things considered, it’s been fun. Saturdays are going to be very dull for a while...
Today, there’s only Jenny, Clarkey and me heading out of St Pancras, but we still get a half-bottle of champagne and some orange juice from M&S for our Bucks Fizz breakfast, along with some bagels Jenny picked up on the way to West Hampstead. Well, you have to do these things properly!
We’re taking it fairly sedately at this stage because we’ve got a bit of a crawl planned once we get to Sheffield. With the Championship games not happening until tomorrow, it’s going to be quiet enough for us to take in the Shalesmoor Triangle of the Kelham Island Tavern, Fat Cat and Wellington, as well as the Harlequin (formerly the Manchester Arms), which is only a short walk away. Jenny makes calls to the people we’re planning to rendezvous with in Sheffield – Phil, Chris Turner and Chris Kirkland. Unfortunately, someone has rather overdone it in Manchester the night before, so her call to Chris K is actually his alarm. He’s missed the train he should have been on, and will meet up with us an hour later than scheduled. (Make your own disapproving ‘tsk’ noise about students at this point...)
A short walk from the station, down the Haymarket and close to what used to be Ward’s brewery brings us to the Harlequin. It’s a nice little pub with a decent range of beers on (I take a photograph of the list for Ted, who quizzes me on such things when I get home), and one we’ll probably spend more time in on a future occasion. We sit out in the beer garden briefly, which is just showing off as it isn’t quite warm enough, and when we venture back inside it’s to find the Burton brothers wandering in. They’ve got the same itinerary as us, but we’re going to spend the afternoon most of a pint ahead of them in terms of drinking, so we’ll be leaving pretty much as they are arriving. From the Harlequin, the next stop is the Kelham Island Tavern, which is where Chris joins us, looking a little the worse for wear. We have lunch in the Fat Cat; Chris may be suffering, but he still has the presence of mind to order a ploughman’s lunch so he can live off the leftovers for the rest of the week. Our final stop is the Wellington, where there’s just time for a swift half before Jenny and I dash off to put the flag up.
Outside the DVS, we spot Howard Webb. As it’s our last chance of the season, I wander over and politely ask if I can take his photo for a friend. I don’t mention that Gwenn named one of her goldfish after him, in case he thinks one or both of us is a deranged stalker.
When we go to put the flag in its usual place, we’re watched by about ten members of the Exeter squad, including the injured Marcus Stewart, who’ve found places there to watch the game. My brother’s up for the game, so I go to join him and my dad in the stand.
On the evidence of their display today, it’s hard to see how Exeter are in the promotion places. We have the better chances in the first half, and Drewe Broughton should really score, but he gives the defender enough time to get back and clear the ball off the line. Meanwhile, down the other end Don is in fine form, and it’s nil-nil at half-time.
The good news is that ‘Soccer AM’ are on hand to present the League 2A trophy, but the bad news is that it’s one of the crew members rather than Helen Chamberlain who’s here to do the honours. He’s been sitting up at the back of the press area, so we’re completely aware that the stupidly big, shiny trophy actually has its lid glued in place. Oh, the glamour!
Exeter take the lead by the simple act of taking off one of their small, nippy players and bringing on big Richard Logan, who has the height to get above Jamie Green and head the ball home. A few minutes later, they’re awarded a penalty when Dale Tonge brings down Craig McAllister in the area. McAllister goes down like he’s at Ponds Forge, home of diving, but the ref awards the penalty and sends Tonge off. Don pulls off a fantastic save, leaving me wondering if this is the first time we’ve ever conceded a penalty to the same time home and away and had each spot kick saved by a different keeper.
Exeter have started pulling a few timewasting stunts by now, and Miller Bear is on the touchline, doing one of his/her famous mimes to indicate that someone who’s claiming to be injured is really taking the mickey. It never fails to be funny.
The real highlight for the home fans is the appearance of Stephen Brogan as a sub, about fifteen minutes from the end. It’s the first time he’s played since the horrible injury against Milton Keynes, 15 months ago, and I’m sure Clarkey is happy to be proved wrong in his joky assertion that there wouldn’t be a place for him in the team. However, not even he can make the breakthrough and score the goal which would be the best way to mark his return, and we end the season with a defeat. Exeter are up in second place behind Brentford, with Wycombe, who led the league for so long, in the end pipping Bury to the third promotion place by a single goal.
Once the celebrating Exeter players and their fans have finally left, the team come out to do the traditional lap of honour – or in this case, the hundred metres of honour in front of the covered part of the stand (sadly not followed by the long jump of honour and the shot put of honour...). Clarkey is staying over in Rotherham, so Jenny and I get the tram to Meadowhall. There’s a bloke holding court, passing on the transfer rumours he swears are true. If he’s to be believed, Reuben Reid is on his way to Palace and we’re signing Jack Lester, as well as Billy Sharp on loan from Sheff U. Expect none of these to happen over the summer.
We make our last visit of the season to the Corner Pin and then it’s goodbye to all this until August, catching up with all the ups and downs courtesy of the Green ‘Un. Trips to Hereford, Northampton (so much for they’ll never play us again), Crewe (which is much more fun if you come back via Birmingham) and Cheltenham (my brother will be pleased) are on the cards.
As for this league, it can’t be denied that the points deductions have skewed the final outcome. If Darlo hadn’t gone into administration, I’m sure they would have gone up, and if we’d started on zero, we might well have done, too. Instead, two very defensive teams (Brentford and Wycombe) and one deeply ordinary one (Exeter) have been promoted. I’d like to see Rochdale go up via the play-offs, simply because they’ve played good football with a flair that I haven’t seen from any of the top three, but they seem to have a mental block when it comes to getting out of the bottom division.
As for the moments I’ll remember from this season, various things stand out: Drewe Broughton and Mark McCammon having their ostentatious stretch-off at the Priestfield; the Chesterfield fans melting away like snowdrops after Pablo Mills’ goal went in; the tiny ambulance at Port Vale; the Luton bat; the expression on Dale Tonge’s face when Tom asked him to sign his false teeth. All things considered, it’s been fun. Saturdays are going to be very dull for a while...
Dinner Is Served
There’s a lot of nonsense talked about how everything to do with Britain is comprehensively rubbish, but there’s one area of which we can always be proud, and that’s the large and varied number of eccentrics you see on your travels, going about their business unmocked and unmolested. Take the couple who take their seats next to Jenny and me on the train out of St Pancras. They’re dressed up like something from an Agatha Christie mystery: he has a topper, cane and the most impressive ginger handlebar moustache, and she has a little fur stole, a neat cloche hat and dainty gloves. Turns out they’re going to a wedding somewhere in Leicestershire, and in keeping with the theme, they have a book of home management from the 1930s as a gift for the happy couple. The woman can’t help reading out extracts as it’s fascinating stuff, though much of the thoughts on beauty and fitness for well-brought-up ladies aren’t that different from the kind of thing you’d read in Cosmo today. Tennis is recommended as an ideal pursuit for young gels, because all that looking up at the ball when you serve is just the thing for getting rid of a double chin. Must remember to try that one some time...
When we get to the Fat Cat, our usual table near the fireplace has been colonised by three beer tickers – an eccentric pursuit if ever there was one. We think at first they’re Shrewsbury fans, because they’re talking about the correct pronounciation of the town’s name (Ted and I argue about this all the time, and he always tells me I’m wrong because Shakespeare never wrote a play called ‘The Taming Of The Shrow’...) but it’s just part of a conversation which meanders via ‘Cadfael’ to Derek Jacobi to the Master and all things ‘Dr Who’. It’s a bit like being inside Toddy’s head. As he’s run out of excuses for not making it out as far as Shalesmoor, we finally have Phil’s dad with us, enjoying the pub for the first time. I think he’ll be back.
There’s no hanging out of the flag at the DVS today, as I didn’t have room to fit it in my bag along with the frock, high heels and all the other things I need to get ready for tonight’s end of season dinner. After all, it’s not as though I haven’t already had the importance of glamour and etiquette stressed on me already this morning.
Despite their relatively high position in the league, Shrewsbury have a truly appalling away record, having won only one game all season. So we should really guess how this one is going to go. Having acquired their new ground (the Prostar Stadium or, as Tim calls it, ‘Butch Meadow’) and spent some serious money on players, they seem to feel they are entitled to success. Having watched Peterborough spend their way out of this division last season, you can see why they think they have a point. However, they’re by no means the best team we’ve seen, but what they are good at is imposing their physical presence as, according to my brother, they did at their place before Christmas. Sadly, the Rotherham players let themselves be bullied out of things a little, and Shrewsbury take the lead just before half-time when the defence seem really slow to react in challenging Nick Chadwick and he slides the ball past Don almost in slow motion. Of course, the Shrews/Shrows fans are quick to tell us just how rubbish we’ve got to be if they’re winning away from home, so it’s a beautiful moment halfway through the second half when Ryan Taylor turns skilfully and equalises and we can give them some stick. Unfortunately, Shrewsbury are soon ahead again – we let one of their players have a run at us, and as Ian Sharps tries to cut his cross out, the ball loops off his foot and into the net. This sets the Shrewsbury fans off again – though is it really that we’re rubbish or they’re just spawny?
At the final whistle, they celebrate as though they’ve won the league. Admittedly we’ve done the same when we’ve ended a poor run of results, but even though this win gives them a great shot of cementing a play-off place I still have the feeling that, along with Bradford, we’ll be seeing them again next season.
Back at my parents’, it’s time for a quick wash and brush-up before the taxi arrives to take the three of us to Hellaby Hall, where the dinner is taking place. It looks like the evening will be over before it’s even started when a fire alarm starts ringing as we find our seats in the function room, but we’ve barely made our way to the evacuation point in the gardens before the panic is over. ‘Probably some Wednesday fan setting it off,’ mutters one of the other guests as we file back in.
Former Wolves player Steve Daley is the guest speaker tonight, and he wanders over to check with my parents that they’re not going to be offended by any of the choice language he may come out with. ‘Don’t worry,’ my mum assures him. ‘We don’t use the words, but we have heard them all before.’
We’re sitting on a table with some of the club’s younger employees, including Matt, the media officer, who’s actually been sitting bang opposite us in the press box all season, commentating on games for Millers World, without our actually realising who he is. All the tables have also been allocated a couple of players apiece. Those who’ve bought the VIP tables have had their choice of the most popular first-teamers (Sharps, Warrington, teeny tiny Stephen Brogan), and the rest have been divvied up around the room. The very dapper Marc Joseph appears to be at a table which consists almost entirely of women, which for some reason doesn’t surprise me at all. Unfortunately, one of our players is a no-show – poor old Mickey Cummins, who had to have an operation yesterday on the knee he damaged at Port Vale. The things men will do to avoid having to sit next to me at dinner! Someone, however, takes advantage of his absence, as suddenly Drewe Broughton bounds up to our table, looms over me (I’ve never realised until this moment just how enormous he is) and snaffles the unwanted bread roll off Mickey’s side plate.
Mr Broughton, it has to be said, completes our share of eccentrics for the day. There’s always one player at Rotherham who dresses badly – I suppose every club is the same. In the past we’ve had Ian ‘Trigger’ Gray, who my dad described as looking ‘like a bag of rags tied up with string’; indeed, we once spent the best part of half a season watching the sponsor’s name slowly disintegrate off the back of his tracksuit top and wondering exactly what he was doing to make that happen. Then there was Michael Proctor, whose tie and neck always appeared to be waving at each other from opposite sides of the room, and Shaun Barker, who gave the impression that he was wearing whichever suit he’d just pulled from a crumpled heap at the bottom of the wardrobe. With Drewe, on the other hand, everything appears to be just that little bit too tight. He’s also a terrible fidget, up and down like Paris Hilton’s undies between courses. ‘Why, he’s crackers!’ my dad says as we sit and watch him, fascinated – and it’s not very often he can say that about anyone else...
Fortunately, the one player who has joined us tonight is our token foreign signing, Omar Garcia. Although I’ve been warned in advance that his English isn’t great, he’s actually very fluent and I don’t have to fall back on any of my A-level Spanish. He turns out to be lovely, and he and my dad bond. Omar’s a fan of Barcelona, which enables my dad to trot out his spooky anecdote about the time he was on holiday over there and took the official tour of the Nou Camp. At one point, they were in the stand, looking at the pitch, and the guide asked them to sit down – at which point my dad realised he was in the exact same row and seat number as his season ticket at Millmoor. Then there’s their shared love of arroz con leche, the Spanish rice pudding which is traditionally served cold. ‘Oh, my God,’ says Omar, ‘my mum makes the best arroz con leche in the world!’ After that, they get on to the subject of how long my dad’s been watching Rotherham (his first game was during the war, since you ask). Omar wants to know if John Breckin, the club’s assistant manager and a man who made his debut for the club in the early Seventies, was playing at the time. ‘This was before John Breckin,’ says my dad, and Omar is clearly unable to conceive of such a time. It’s a shame that it hasn’t worked out for him and that he’s being released at the end of the season; when we leave at the end of the evening, my dad wishes him all the best in whatever he does next and means it sincerely.
Meanwhile, Richie Barker, no longer on the crutches we saw him using a few weeks ago, wanders over and enthuses to Matt about the chocolate fudge cake. Good to see all these finely honed athletes eat so healthily!
The evening is being compared by comedian Malcolm Lord, who is most definitely ‘working blue’ tonight, and once the meal is out of the way, the entertainment begins. There are speeches from Tony Stewart, Mark Robins and Chief Operating Officer Paul Douglas. Much of what we’d actually like to know regarding the location of the new stadium still can’t be revealed, but Douglas in particular speaks very well about the past and future of the club, and praises the efforts of everyone who’s worked so hard to make this season as successful as it has been, when we could have been down and scrapping to get away from the bottom of the table as long and as hard as Bournemouth had to.
Then comes the voting for the Young Player and Goal of the Season. Our away kit sponsors, Redtooth, are using us as guinea pigs for an interactive voting system. My favourite goal of the season, Jamie Green’s stunner against Gillingham, hasn’t actually made the shortlist, so my vote instead goes to Mark Hudson for his volley against Bournemouth. The winner, which my mother reveals she voted for, is Danny Harrison’s from the League Cup against Southampton. Jamie Green, however, does win the Young Player of the Year. Again, my mother has voted for him; something to do with her liking goalkeepers and full-backs, apparently, but it’s safer not to go there...
To round off the awards, Ian Sharps collects the overall Player of the Year title. Almost all the leading candidates in the voting were among the first choice back five (Sharps, Fenton, Warrington and Tonge) and it’s nice to see the award go to someone other than a forward, as is usually the case.
Next up is Steve Daley, but though his anecdotes, if a little rambling, are entertaining, some joker decides to heckle throughout and he gives up before the end of his allotted time, angry that people haven’t had the courtesy to listen to him. As it’s getting on for quarter to 12 by now, we decide it’s time to make a move ourselves, so I ring for a taxi. As we’re waiting for it to arrive, I take the opportunity to introduce myself to Andy Warrington, whose kit I’ve been sponsoring for the last couple of years. He’s a really nice bloke and we have a bit of a chat; he asks me my opinion on today’s game, and tells me the team is very much intending to push on and achieve promotion next season. That’s his sponsorship assured again!
There’s almost no traffic, apart from the stream of taxis and players’ cars departing Hellaby Hall, and we’re back in the house by midnight. It’s been a thoroughly enjoyable evening, and my parents have certainly had a good time. Who
says I don’t know how to treat them?
When we get to the Fat Cat, our usual table near the fireplace has been colonised by three beer tickers – an eccentric pursuit if ever there was one. We think at first they’re Shrewsbury fans, because they’re talking about the correct pronounciation of the town’s name (Ted and I argue about this all the time, and he always tells me I’m wrong because Shakespeare never wrote a play called ‘The Taming Of The Shrow’...) but it’s just part of a conversation which meanders via ‘Cadfael’ to Derek Jacobi to the Master and all things ‘Dr Who’. It’s a bit like being inside Toddy’s head. As he’s run out of excuses for not making it out as far as Shalesmoor, we finally have Phil’s dad with us, enjoying the pub for the first time. I think he’ll be back.
There’s no hanging out of the flag at the DVS today, as I didn’t have room to fit it in my bag along with the frock, high heels and all the other things I need to get ready for tonight’s end of season dinner. After all, it’s not as though I haven’t already had the importance of glamour and etiquette stressed on me already this morning.
Despite their relatively high position in the league, Shrewsbury have a truly appalling away record, having won only one game all season. So we should really guess how this one is going to go. Having acquired their new ground (the Prostar Stadium or, as Tim calls it, ‘Butch Meadow’) and spent some serious money on players, they seem to feel they are entitled to success. Having watched Peterborough spend their way out of this division last season, you can see why they think they have a point. However, they’re by no means the best team we’ve seen, but what they are good at is imposing their physical presence as, according to my brother, they did at their place before Christmas. Sadly, the Rotherham players let themselves be bullied out of things a little, and Shrewsbury take the lead just before half-time when the defence seem really slow to react in challenging Nick Chadwick and he slides the ball past Don almost in slow motion. Of course, the Shrews/Shrows fans are quick to tell us just how rubbish we’ve got to be if they’re winning away from home, so it’s a beautiful moment halfway through the second half when Ryan Taylor turns skilfully and equalises and we can give them some stick. Unfortunately, Shrewsbury are soon ahead again – we let one of their players have a run at us, and as Ian Sharps tries to cut his cross out, the ball loops off his foot and into the net. This sets the Shrewsbury fans off again – though is it really that we’re rubbish or they’re just spawny?
At the final whistle, they celebrate as though they’ve won the league. Admittedly we’ve done the same when we’ve ended a poor run of results, but even though this win gives them a great shot of cementing a play-off place I still have the feeling that, along with Bradford, we’ll be seeing them again next season.
Back at my parents’, it’s time for a quick wash and brush-up before the taxi arrives to take the three of us to Hellaby Hall, where the dinner is taking place. It looks like the evening will be over before it’s even started when a fire alarm starts ringing as we find our seats in the function room, but we’ve barely made our way to the evacuation point in the gardens before the panic is over. ‘Probably some Wednesday fan setting it off,’ mutters one of the other guests as we file back in.
Former Wolves player Steve Daley is the guest speaker tonight, and he wanders over to check with my parents that they’re not going to be offended by any of the choice language he may come out with. ‘Don’t worry,’ my mum assures him. ‘We don’t use the words, but we have heard them all before.’
We’re sitting on a table with some of the club’s younger employees, including Matt, the media officer, who’s actually been sitting bang opposite us in the press box all season, commentating on games for Millers World, without our actually realising who he is. All the tables have also been allocated a couple of players apiece. Those who’ve bought the VIP tables have had their choice of the most popular first-teamers (Sharps, Warrington, teeny tiny Stephen Brogan), and the rest have been divvied up around the room. The very dapper Marc Joseph appears to be at a table which consists almost entirely of women, which for some reason doesn’t surprise me at all. Unfortunately, one of our players is a no-show – poor old Mickey Cummins, who had to have an operation yesterday on the knee he damaged at Port Vale. The things men will do to avoid having to sit next to me at dinner! Someone, however, takes advantage of his absence, as suddenly Drewe Broughton bounds up to our table, looms over me (I’ve never realised until this moment just how enormous he is) and snaffles the unwanted bread roll off Mickey’s side plate.
Mr Broughton, it has to be said, completes our share of eccentrics for the day. There’s always one player at Rotherham who dresses badly – I suppose every club is the same. In the past we’ve had Ian ‘Trigger’ Gray, who my dad described as looking ‘like a bag of rags tied up with string’; indeed, we once spent the best part of half a season watching the sponsor’s name slowly disintegrate off the back of his tracksuit top and wondering exactly what he was doing to make that happen. Then there was Michael Proctor, whose tie and neck always appeared to be waving at each other from opposite sides of the room, and Shaun Barker, who gave the impression that he was wearing whichever suit he’d just pulled from a crumpled heap at the bottom of the wardrobe. With Drewe, on the other hand, everything appears to be just that little bit too tight. He’s also a terrible fidget, up and down like Paris Hilton’s undies between courses. ‘Why, he’s crackers!’ my dad says as we sit and watch him, fascinated – and it’s not very often he can say that about anyone else...
Fortunately, the one player who has joined us tonight is our token foreign signing, Omar Garcia. Although I’ve been warned in advance that his English isn’t great, he’s actually very fluent and I don’t have to fall back on any of my A-level Spanish. He turns out to be lovely, and he and my dad bond. Omar’s a fan of Barcelona, which enables my dad to trot out his spooky anecdote about the time he was on holiday over there and took the official tour of the Nou Camp. At one point, they were in the stand, looking at the pitch, and the guide asked them to sit down – at which point my dad realised he was in the exact same row and seat number as his season ticket at Millmoor. Then there’s their shared love of arroz con leche, the Spanish rice pudding which is traditionally served cold. ‘Oh, my God,’ says Omar, ‘my mum makes the best arroz con leche in the world!’ After that, they get on to the subject of how long my dad’s been watching Rotherham (his first game was during the war, since you ask). Omar wants to know if John Breckin, the club’s assistant manager and a man who made his debut for the club in the early Seventies, was playing at the time. ‘This was before John Breckin,’ says my dad, and Omar is clearly unable to conceive of such a time. It’s a shame that it hasn’t worked out for him and that he’s being released at the end of the season; when we leave at the end of the evening, my dad wishes him all the best in whatever he does next and means it sincerely.
Meanwhile, Richie Barker, no longer on the crutches we saw him using a few weeks ago, wanders over and enthuses to Matt about the chocolate fudge cake. Good to see all these finely honed athletes eat so healthily!
The evening is being compared by comedian Malcolm Lord, who is most definitely ‘working blue’ tonight, and once the meal is out of the way, the entertainment begins. There are speeches from Tony Stewart, Mark Robins and Chief Operating Officer Paul Douglas. Much of what we’d actually like to know regarding the location of the new stadium still can’t be revealed, but Douglas in particular speaks very well about the past and future of the club, and praises the efforts of everyone who’s worked so hard to make this season as successful as it has been, when we could have been down and scrapping to get away from the bottom of the table as long and as hard as Bournemouth had to.
Then comes the voting for the Young Player and Goal of the Season. Our away kit sponsors, Redtooth, are using us as guinea pigs for an interactive voting system. My favourite goal of the season, Jamie Green’s stunner against Gillingham, hasn’t actually made the shortlist, so my vote instead goes to Mark Hudson for his volley against Bournemouth. The winner, which my mother reveals she voted for, is Danny Harrison’s from the League Cup against Southampton. Jamie Green, however, does win the Young Player of the Year. Again, my mother has voted for him; something to do with her liking goalkeepers and full-backs, apparently, but it’s safer not to go there...
To round off the awards, Ian Sharps collects the overall Player of the Year title. Almost all the leading candidates in the voting were among the first choice back five (Sharps, Fenton, Warrington and Tonge) and it’s nice to see the award go to someone other than a forward, as is usually the case.
Next up is Steve Daley, but though his anecdotes, if a little rambling, are entertaining, some joker decides to heckle throughout and he gives up before the end of his allotted time, angry that people haven’t had the courtesy to listen to him. As it’s getting on for quarter to 12 by now, we decide it’s time to make a move ourselves, so I ring for a taxi. As we’re waiting for it to arrive, I take the opportunity to introduce myself to Andy Warrington, whose kit I’ve been sponsoring for the last couple of years. He’s a really nice bloke and we have a bit of a chat; he asks me my opinion on today’s game, and tells me the team is very much intending to push on and achieve promotion next season. That’s his sponsorship assured again!
There’s almost no traffic, apart from the stream of taxis and players’ cars departing Hellaby Hall, and we’re back in the house by midnight. It’s been a thoroughly enjoyable evening, and my parents have certainly had a good time. Who
says I don’t know how to treat them?
Sunday, 2 August 2009
Across Staffordshire With A Walnut Whip
Ah, there’s nothing like an early start on an Easter Monday, and this is earlier than it might otherwise have been, because thanks to engineering works we’re taking the scenic route. Jenny, Clarkey, Chris T and I are on the East Midland Mainline up to Derby, where we change on to a rattler which will take us through the boondocks of Derbyshire and Staffordshire, eventually getting off at Longport, a short-ish walk from Burslem (as any fule kno, Port Vale are the only team in the league which aren’t actually named after the place where they play – or used to play, before anyone mentions Arsenal and brings Tim out in a rash...). It’s certainly an interesting journey – as we pass through Uttoxer, we’re greeted by the sight of hundreds of mobile homes on the race course. As there’s no actual race meeting, we can’t think of any reason why they might be there, particularly as one caravan sports a saltire and another a Norwegian flag, and none of them actually appears to be occupied at the moment. Perhaps there’s some very quiet, sedate rock festival taking place in the area and we just haven’t realised...
At Stoke, a young lad and his rather attractive Scottish mum get on. Chris has the last of a three-pack of walnut whips remaining, and offers it to the boy when we leave at Longport, thereby teaching him the vital life lesson that it’s all right to take sweets from a single gentleman of a certain age.
It’s a warm day and a nice, if mostly uphill walk to Longport, but halfway there a car pulls up and my brother offers us a lift to the pub. Of course we accept.
The Bull’s Head in Burslem is a favourite with those London Millers who’ve visited it before, but there was a little anxiety that it might not be open, as it usually isn’t on a weekday lunchtime. Luckily, Easter is different, as a phone call from my brother (in his new role as London Millers pub secretary) ascertained. Last time we played here (Katie, my niece’s first – and so far only – Rotherham game, at the grand age of one), we coincided with the pub’s birthday celebrations and a barbecue they were putting on. We’ve dropped lucky again, as they and the other Titanic pubs in the area are hosting a series of events to mark National Cask Ale week and, yes, they’ve got a barbecue on again, with a free burger or hot dog with your first drink. Chris, who hasn’t been before, soon begins to appreciate why we like it here. Nice, welcoming pub, run by nice people.
We’re joined by Chris Burrows, representing the Manchester branch, and Hugh Vaughan, representing Ireland and the much-missed world of Moulin Rouge fanzine. We find seats right behind the goal – indeed, the official Rotherham site later has a photo of one of Vale’s rare attempts on goal, with the London Miller flag, Clarkey, Hugh and myself all visible. My brother claims that Clarkey and Hugh are looking bored and I’m just being me, though Hugh says that’s his standard expression.
Mind you, if the boys were bored, it wouldn’t be a surprise. Despite all the talk of where we’d be if we’d started on zero, virtual points aren’t the same as real ones, and this is very much a game between two sides who know they really have nothing to play for. Shots on goal are at a premium, with the best chances for each side coming from headers. Broughton hits the bar in the first half and Vale, fortunately, head wide right at the end of the game. The only moment of real note comes when Micky Cummins, our best player against Notts County and doing well again here today, damages his knee. It’s a serious injury, as is proved when the world’s smallest ambulance hoves into view. Micky having been shovelled inside, there isn’t room for the vehicle to then reverse back down the tunnel, so it has to do a full circuit of the ground – to generous applause from everyone as he’s an ex-Port Vale player. It’s the only time I’ve ever seen anyone taken away to hospital in a Tonka toy...
After the game, it’s briefly back into the Bull’s Head, then off to Longport station. We have Martin Burton and Freddie with us by now, Freddie’s desire to go to games having increased massively since he was mascot for the Brentford game. It might be downhill, but it’s still a long walk for him, though he doesn’t seem to complain. On the train, Martin breaks out the Dr Who Top Trumps. Freddie seems to win a suspicious number of games, until we realise his dad is dealing him the best cards from the bottom of the deck!
In Derby, there’s time for a quick one in the Brunswick Arms, yet another of our favourite pubs. Wolves have been at Pride Park, but their fans have pretty much all left by the time we’ve got a drink in, apart from a little group at a table who ask us who we support, how we got on and then offer us a go at ‘You Are The Ref’ from their copy of the Guardian.
The train to St Pancras, when it arrives, is absolutely packed, so we don’t have four seats together. Still, it gives us an opportunity to snooze, until my rucksack decides to slither off the luggage rack and land on me. Perhaps it’s the flag’s way of telling me it thinks it’s time for its annual wash. Only a couple more weeks to go now, and then it can have a long, luxurious soak...
At Stoke, a young lad and his rather attractive Scottish mum get on. Chris has the last of a three-pack of walnut whips remaining, and offers it to the boy when we leave at Longport, thereby teaching him the vital life lesson that it’s all right to take sweets from a single gentleman of a certain age.
It’s a warm day and a nice, if mostly uphill walk to Longport, but halfway there a car pulls up and my brother offers us a lift to the pub. Of course we accept.
The Bull’s Head in Burslem is a favourite with those London Millers who’ve visited it before, but there was a little anxiety that it might not be open, as it usually isn’t on a weekday lunchtime. Luckily, Easter is different, as a phone call from my brother (in his new role as London Millers pub secretary) ascertained. Last time we played here (Katie, my niece’s first – and so far only – Rotherham game, at the grand age of one), we coincided with the pub’s birthday celebrations and a barbecue they were putting on. We’ve dropped lucky again, as they and the other Titanic pubs in the area are hosting a series of events to mark National Cask Ale week and, yes, they’ve got a barbecue on again, with a free burger or hot dog with your first drink. Chris, who hasn’t been before, soon begins to appreciate why we like it here. Nice, welcoming pub, run by nice people.
We’re joined by Chris Burrows, representing the Manchester branch, and Hugh Vaughan, representing Ireland and the much-missed world of Moulin Rouge fanzine. We find seats right behind the goal – indeed, the official Rotherham site later has a photo of one of Vale’s rare attempts on goal, with the London Miller flag, Clarkey, Hugh and myself all visible. My brother claims that Clarkey and Hugh are looking bored and I’m just being me, though Hugh says that’s his standard expression.
Mind you, if the boys were bored, it wouldn’t be a surprise. Despite all the talk of where we’d be if we’d started on zero, virtual points aren’t the same as real ones, and this is very much a game between two sides who know they really have nothing to play for. Shots on goal are at a premium, with the best chances for each side coming from headers. Broughton hits the bar in the first half and Vale, fortunately, head wide right at the end of the game. The only moment of real note comes when Micky Cummins, our best player against Notts County and doing well again here today, damages his knee. It’s a serious injury, as is proved when the world’s smallest ambulance hoves into view. Micky having been shovelled inside, there isn’t room for the vehicle to then reverse back down the tunnel, so it has to do a full circuit of the ground – to generous applause from everyone as he’s an ex-Port Vale player. It’s the only time I’ve ever seen anyone taken away to hospital in a Tonka toy...
After the game, it’s briefly back into the Bull’s Head, then off to Longport station. We have Martin Burton and Freddie with us by now, Freddie’s desire to go to games having increased massively since he was mascot for the Brentford game. It might be downhill, but it’s still a long walk for him, though he doesn’t seem to complain. On the train, Martin breaks out the Dr Who Top Trumps. Freddie seems to win a suspicious number of games, until we realise his dad is dealing him the best cards from the bottom of the deck!
In Derby, there’s time for a quick one in the Brunswick Arms, yet another of our favourite pubs. Wolves have been at Pride Park, but their fans have pretty much all left by the time we’ve got a drink in, apart from a little group at a table who ask us who we support, how we got on and then offer us a go at ‘You Are The Ref’ from their copy of the Guardian.
The train to St Pancras, when it arrives, is absolutely packed, so we don’t have four seats together. Still, it gives us an opportunity to snooze, until my rucksack decides to slither off the luggage rack and land on me. Perhaps it’s the flag’s way of telling me it thinks it’s time for its annual wash. Only a couple more weeks to go now, and then it can have a long, luxurious soak...
Championes, Championes...
Another routine trip for the most part, spiced up by the fact that if we win (or at least don’t lose) today, we’ll be champions of League 2A, the league designed by ‘Soccer AM’ based on Luton, Bournemouth and ourselves starting the season with no points deduction. Helen Chamberlain is a bit of an icon among the London Miller boys, none of whom is in the least bit jealous that I’ve had my hands on her ankles, oh, no. (Before you ask, it was for a Coca-Cola photoshoot; I’m not some kind of peripatetic foot fetishist.) Perhaps if we win the trophy, she’ll speed up the M1 in her fancy sports car to present it.
And at half time it certainly seems as though that trophy is going to be coming our way. While we haven’t been as comfortable against the Magpies as we were at Meadow Lane over Christmas, we’re one-nil up, thanks to Mark Hudson, who had the most exquisite ball fed into his path by Mickey Cummins. Delroy Facey is still showing a lack of inclination to score against us, but Jonathan Forte, who we’ve also had on loan as part of Neil Warnock’s campaign to keep us in League One during the first of our recent spells in administratoin, is looking more lively. Reuben Reid doubles the lead, then we allow Forte to pull one back and it all starts looking a little more nervy. Still, the thought of that big, shiny trophy must be motivating the boys because they hang on for the win. League 2A is ours, hopefully for all time unless there’s another season where so many clubs have points deducted (which I wouldn’t wish on anyone, except maybe the plastic fans of the so-called ‘big four’ clubs, who really need to learn that there are much worse things in footballing life than not qualifying for the Champions League...).
In the Corner Pin in Donny, things take a very surreal turn. A games machine has been installed, and Jenny and I sit and watch a group of punters trying to solve some fiendishly difficult word puzzle. I’ve no idea what the clue is, but the answer appears to be ‘Pukka Pie’. We’re spotted by Mr Thorne Brewery, who comes over and asks where my husband is. It takes me a moment to twig that he means Steve, who I was with last time he saw me, so I clear up the confusion. This isn’t the first time I’ve been mistaken for the wife of one of the London Millers, the most worrying part of this being that past suspects have included my brother – more than once!
We’re joined by Tim for the journey back. As we get close to London, he decides to ring his brother-in-law, Ian, who lives not far from St Pancras, and see if he fancies a pint. Ian has travelled with us in the past when circumstances permit, but we haven’t seen him for a while. He’s up for it, so we ensconce ourselves on the comfy sofas at the Betjeman, along with Ted and John, who’ve been to watch Darlo at Chesterfield. Ted starts telling us about how their pub of choice, the Derby Tup, now opens half an hour later than advertised, and what they had to do to kill the intervening time. You can tell it’s going to be a quality anecdote when it includes the line, ‘Now, I’d never been to a Lidl before...’ It’s the perfect end to a championship-winning day, albeit one as spurious as League 2A. Though when you’ve had as rough a couple of years as Rotherham have, you’ll toast any kind of success when it comes. Cheers!
And at half time it certainly seems as though that trophy is going to be coming our way. While we haven’t been as comfortable against the Magpies as we were at Meadow Lane over Christmas, we’re one-nil up, thanks to Mark Hudson, who had the most exquisite ball fed into his path by Mickey Cummins. Delroy Facey is still showing a lack of inclination to score against us, but Jonathan Forte, who we’ve also had on loan as part of Neil Warnock’s campaign to keep us in League One during the first of our recent spells in administratoin, is looking more lively. Reuben Reid doubles the lead, then we allow Forte to pull one back and it all starts looking a little more nervy. Still, the thought of that big, shiny trophy must be motivating the boys because they hang on for the win. League 2A is ours, hopefully for all time unless there’s another season where so many clubs have points deducted (which I wouldn’t wish on anyone, except maybe the plastic fans of the so-called ‘big four’ clubs, who really need to learn that there are much worse things in footballing life than not qualifying for the Champions League...).
In the Corner Pin in Donny, things take a very surreal turn. A games machine has been installed, and Jenny and I sit and watch a group of punters trying to solve some fiendishly difficult word puzzle. I’ve no idea what the clue is, but the answer appears to be ‘Pukka Pie’. We’re spotted by Mr Thorne Brewery, who comes over and asks where my husband is. It takes me a moment to twig that he means Steve, who I was with last time he saw me, so I clear up the confusion. This isn’t the first time I’ve been mistaken for the wife of one of the London Millers, the most worrying part of this being that past suspects have included my brother – more than once!
We’re joined by Tim for the journey back. As we get close to London, he decides to ring his brother-in-law, Ian, who lives not far from St Pancras, and see if he fancies a pint. Ian has travelled with us in the past when circumstances permit, but we haven’t seen him for a while. He’s up for it, so we ensconce ourselves on the comfy sofas at the Betjeman, along with Ted and John, who’ve been to watch Darlo at Chesterfield. Ted starts telling us about how their pub of choice, the Derby Tup, now opens half an hour later than advertised, and what they had to do to kill the intervening time. You can tell it’s going to be a quality anecdote when it includes the line, ‘Now, I’d never been to a Lidl before...’ It’s the perfect end to a championship-winning day, albeit one as spurious as League 2A. Though when you’ve had as rough a couple of years as Rotherham have, you’ll toast any kind of success when it comes. Cheers!
Rob, It's Nothing Personal, But...
The last night game of the season – the last one I can make, anyway – and the clans are gathering in the Old Mitre in Barnet. Chris Turner, who’s bringing along his mate Danny the Fulham fan who we last saw in the Fat Cat before they played Wednesday in the FA Cup, and my brother are already there, and we’re eventually joined by a mob including Jenny, Rob Maxfield, Tim (who caught the bus and was making really good time until it decided to spend around twenty minutes trundling round a nearby housing estate) and both Kirklands, John literally just having got back in the country from a work trip. The last time we were in this pub, it had gone off a little both in terms of beer and atmosphere, but a new landlord seems to have got it back into shape. We’re having a pleasant time, but there’s this nagging feeling that it won’t last. You see, I’ve never seen us win at Underhill. The day we famously put five past them I was on holiday, and since then it’s just been a sequence of uninspiring draws or, more usually, defeats. Conversely, I’ve never seen us lose at Brisbane Road, but as Orient are currently in the division above us and the only time we get to visit the ground is for the Piglet beer festivals held at their supporters’ club, that’s no consolation.
What makes me think this isn’t going to change is that I took the call from Rob Elston at Luton last week where he was asking about ticketing arrangements, and Rob is, officially, the London Millers’ jinx. I’d ask him when he last saw a Rotherham victory, but I doubt he can remember that far back...
Despite the fact Rotherham announced they wouldn’t be running a supporters’ coach for this game, there’s one of Gordon’s finest parked by the away end. This probably has something to do with the fact that owing to our recent good form, if we win tonight, it will be a record sixth away victory in a row.
In the ground, we bump into a couple of familiar faces, including Steve Ducker and Steve Exley. The latter is rather annoyed that away fans can get concessions if they sit in the newly-built stand, which is about the size of most people’s front room, but not on the terrace, so he’s standing and Kiran is sitting. It’s obviously also the week for spotting players’ relatives. I look twice az a bloke who looks remarkably like someone I used to work with walks past only to realise that he has to be Nick Fenton’s brother. I often wonder whether the wife of a famous surgeon would watch him perform a heart bypass operation, or an accountant’s brother would shout encouragement as he went through a year-end audit, but it only seems to be sport where your family is routinely expected to turn up and supprt you as you do your job...
The game itself is not especially memorable. The fixture backlog looks to be finally taking a toll on the Rotherham players; this is the third trip south in the space of a week, and they give them impression they’re a little jaded. Reuben Reid, having been voted League Two’s player of the month, never looks like scoring, but although Barnet have the advantage of the slope, they’re not exactly making the most of it, either. Whoever scores first tonight will win, and unfortunately it’s Barnet when Paul Furlong, 75, outmuscles his marker and slots the ball past Don. His second goal is almost a repeat of the first. Thank you very much and goodnight. We really shouldn’t blame anyone for our rather limp display, but Rob, I’m looking in your direction. Perhaps when we play Barnet next season you could go watch your son do some of his rather excellent stand-up, or wash your hair, or something!
On the Northern Line back into London, Jenny and Chris T decide to go for a swift drink, but I decline to join them. I need my sleep just as much as, based on that performance, some of the players do, though at least unlike them I haven’t got a three-hour coach trip before I can hit the sack...
What makes me think this isn’t going to change is that I took the call from Rob Elston at Luton last week where he was asking about ticketing arrangements, and Rob is, officially, the London Millers’ jinx. I’d ask him when he last saw a Rotherham victory, but I doubt he can remember that far back...
Despite the fact Rotherham announced they wouldn’t be running a supporters’ coach for this game, there’s one of Gordon’s finest parked by the away end. This probably has something to do with the fact that owing to our recent good form, if we win tonight, it will be a record sixth away victory in a row.
In the ground, we bump into a couple of familiar faces, including Steve Ducker and Steve Exley. The latter is rather annoyed that away fans can get concessions if they sit in the newly-built stand, which is about the size of most people’s front room, but not on the terrace, so he’s standing and Kiran is sitting. It’s obviously also the week for spotting players’ relatives. I look twice az a bloke who looks remarkably like someone I used to work with walks past only to realise that he has to be Nick Fenton’s brother. I often wonder whether the wife of a famous surgeon would watch him perform a heart bypass operation, or an accountant’s brother would shout encouragement as he went through a year-end audit, but it only seems to be sport where your family is routinely expected to turn up and supprt you as you do your job...
The game itself is not especially memorable. The fixture backlog looks to be finally taking a toll on the Rotherham players; this is the third trip south in the space of a week, and they give them impression they’re a little jaded. Reuben Reid, having been voted League Two’s player of the month, never looks like scoring, but although Barnet have the advantage of the slope, they’re not exactly making the most of it, either. Whoever scores first tonight will win, and unfortunately it’s Barnet when Paul Furlong, 75, outmuscles his marker and slots the ball past Don. His second goal is almost a repeat of the first. Thank you very much and goodnight. We really shouldn’t blame anyone for our rather limp display, but Rob, I’m looking in your direction. Perhaps when we play Barnet next season you could go watch your son do some of his rather excellent stand-up, or wash your hair, or something!
On the Northern Line back into London, Jenny and Chris T decide to go for a swift drink, but I decline to join them. I need my sleep just as much as, based on that performance, some of the players do, though at least unlike them I haven’t got a three-hour coach trip before I can hit the sack...
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