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...