Rendezvousing at Paddington, it looks like we might be a couple of London Millers down before we even start – apparently, there’s a delay on the trains and the Kirklands are stuck in the wilds of Harrow. Fortunately, things soon get moving and they join up with Jenny, Chris Turner, Clarkey and myself for the journey out to Cheltenham. For some reason, we’ve been allocated tickets in the quiet coach (usually you have to specify it when you book), but as the carriage is almost empty, it’s not a problem, until a couple get on at Didcot. Their reserved seats are directly opposite ours, and it’s not long before they make it VERY clear that we’re talking too loudly for their liking – never mind the fact that they could, if they wanted, have taken different seats where we’d be out of earshot. We mute the volume, but make a mental note to bring airhorns and borrow the Aldershot drummer’s drum in case we bump into them again...
Chelters is my brother’s ‘home’ trip, and my parents are making a weekend of it, so the family is out in force when we arrive at the Swan. We’re joined by much of the rest of the Western Millers contingent – Steve Czajewski and Chas, the latter of whom we haven’t seen for ages as work keeps taking him to strange places like the Falklands, or so he claims, and David Bates and his mate Andy, up from Devon. Brian Cutler, who’s never had a good day until he’s visited as many of the decent pubs as he can comfortably fit into a pre-match session, appears for a pint, and even the Burtons are spotted lurking by the fruit machine. The usual representatives from the Rotherham constabulary pop their head round the door and all is very amicable. The main topic of conversation is the vacant manager’s job. According to my dad, Radio Sheffield say there have been around fifty applications, of which four were time-wasters. We reckon two of them were Czajewski and Ronnie Moore, but aren’t sure about the other two... Opinion is divided on whether getting Ronnie back would be a good or bad move (I’m not convinced by him, but others are more excited at the prospect), or whether it should be offered to some young up-and-comer or one of the more experienced applicants, who include ex-Chelters manager Steve Cotterill.
Meanwhile, Yorkshire are playing their penultimate game of the season, and if they could manage to beat Sussex it would go a long way to helping them stave off relegation. John K has been checking the score on a regular basis, but every time he looks at his BlackBerry another Yorkshire wicket has gone down, and in the end Chris confiscates it from him as he’s obviously jinxing the performance.
It’s a pleasant walk from the pub to the ground, in the surprisingly warm sunshine, and there’s a good turn-out in the away end. Jenny and I have some faffing around with the flag, as we have to wait and see whether they are going to use the empty area behind the goal to seat an overspill of fans; they don’t, but it means that by the time we’re tying it in place, Rotherham are already mounting their first attack.
What follows is one of the most one-sided games we’ve seen in a while. We’re creating plenty of chances, and might have a penalty when one of the Chelters players appears to handle the ball, but the ref doesn’t notice it. Nicky Law is again causing problems with his dead ball delivery, and Harrison and Mills are solid in midfield. In contrast, Cheltenham have Julian Alsop, the overweight man’s Drewe Broughton, and the Rotherham fans are enjoying taunting him with an inflatable banana, in tribute to the rather unsavoury incident which allegedly ended his career at Oxford. We finally take the lead just before half time, when the keeper fumbles a cross and Alf pounces on the loose ball. He celebrates directly in front of us, sliding on his knees in a manner which will earn him the inevitable lazy comparison to Adebayor on the league highlights.
At half time, John is finally allowed to check the cricket score again – unbelievably, Sussex are 80 for eight, and it looks as though Yorkshire will be staying up. There’s also a story going round that Steve Staunton (another front runner for the manager’s job) is in the ground; he’s either keen or got nothing else to do on a Saturday!
The second half continues much as the first. Chelters bring on Elvis Hammond (and if he scores, I’m sure there’ll be some comment to the effect that he left us all shook up), but we’re still clearly a cut above them. Danny Harrison hits the post, and then Nicky Law misses an absolute sitter. That’s the moment which turns the game, as Chelters promptly score with their only meaningful attack – and of course it’s Alsop who heads it in. They don’t deserve it, but that’s the way it goes sometimes. At least it means we’ll draw, or even win a game we don’t deserve to before the end of the season.
Afterwards, we go for a drink in the Kemble Brewery Inn, finding space in the beer garden of a pub which is usually too packed for us to venture into. There’s even time to visit the chip shop across the road from the station; Chris K recommends the egg, bacon and sausage bap, but then he is a growing lad...
We have to change at Swindon on the way back, but we manage to get home without anyone complaining about us being noisy. By next week we could have a new manager in place, and then we really might have something to shout about.
Friday 25 September 2009
Friday 18 September 2009
But What Is A Pellet Waggler, Anyway?
Welcome to the wonderful world of life in the post Mark Robins era. Earlier in the week he officially joined Barnsley, though the announcement was held up for a little while as he’s taken his coaching staff with him and there was some faffing over the compensation payments. This leaves us with our head of youth in temporary charge (he definitely doesn’t want the job full time), ably assisted by one-time London Millers Player of the Season, Paul Warne. Meanwhile, everyone from Steve Staunton to some lad who’ll have managed us to the Premier League on Championship Manager is applying for the job and Morecambe are rolling into town, hoping to take advantage of all this uncertainty.
Also rolling into town are Jenny, Steve Ducker and myself. Steve’s on a print deadline at work and keeps having to nip off and deal with anxious phone calls. ‘During the game, the phone is off,’ he declares.
We pick the tram up at Meadowhall and trundle past the DVS, trying to get a glimpse of whether the pitch has improved since last week. The Sheffield Eagles played there again last night, so I’m not hopeful.
It’s a gloriously sunny day, and we’re hoping on getting a seat in the Fat Cat beer garden, but for once Phil has only beaten us there by a couple of minutes, and the garden is already rammed. As always, we debate the merits of avoiding the game – which are stronger than usual – and as we wait, and wait, for a tram back to Attercliffe, we think it might have been the better plan. Nottingham Forest (and if you really, really want to wind their fans up, call them Notts Forest) are playing at Hillsborough, and we watch four trams go past in the opposite direction, packed with fans singing their heads off. They inform us what Nottingham is full of (parts of the female anatomy and Forest, apparently) and go through their full repertoire of songs about Nathan Tyson (which appears to be just the one). Finally, a Meadowhall-bound tram arrives, though by the time I finally take my seat (or, rather, Gordon’s seat, as he’s on holiday) we’re just kicking off.
Morecambe play the way we expected Accrington to in the first game of the season – they’ve drawn most of their matches so far, and it’s clear they’re primarily looking for a point today, though it’s the sort of performance which could easily turn into a smash and grab. They include ex-Miller David Artell in their ranks, another in the long list of players who support the theory that I can injure someone simply by talking to them. He was playing for Chester at the time, but already had a broken leg, which is why he was at Millmoor, and I asked how long he expected to be out. He was confident the pot would be off in a couple of weeks, but what neither of us knew was that it had accidentally been applied too tightly. That night he developed a deep vein thrombosis and narrowly escaped something very nasty indeed happening to him. Coincidence? I think not...
Also in the Morecambe ranks is Paul Mullin, who’s joined them after spending the best part of a century at Accrington. However, he doesn’t seem to possess the same threat as he did for them, which we’re quite happy to discover.
Morecambe are your clichéd ‘big, physical’ team – they don’t allow us to create too much, but they create very little themselves in return. They are aided by some fairly awful refereeing, with Mr Deadman (seriously, that’s his name) failing to notice the sly pushing and tugging from the Morecambe defence. About halfway through the first half, there’s an announcement over the Tannoy to the effect that a pair of spectacles has been found by the home turnstiles. ‘They’ll be the referee’s,’ says our friend with the two boys in front of us.
Half time brings the obligatory appearance by a Chuckle Brother to perform the draw – this week it’s Barry. I’m starting to believe the two of them are being kept in a holding pen somewhere behind the DVS gymnasium and are only let out on Saturdays.
Rotherham make a couple of enforced changes at the start of the second half. Warney and Nick Fenton replace the injured Law and Sharps. It’s revealed later that Nicky Law damaged his toe getting into his car to come to the ground – a comedy injury for which I was in no way responsible, for once. It doesn’t really change the pattern of the game – Kevin Ellison wastes a couple of good shooting opportunities, and Danny Harrison has a header cleared off the line, but that’s as close as it gets. Down the other end, Don has almost nothing to do. It’s likely that if we hadn’t had such an unsettled week we would have beaten Morecambe, but the mood lightens slightly when we discover that the other two managerless teams in the league, Lincoln and Northampton, have both been on the end of a good hiding.
We’re on an earlier than usual train out of Donny, so we just have time to pop into the Railway. It’s the first time we’ve been in since it’s been refurbished, and it’s full of people who’ve been to the St Leger meeting. There don’t appear to be any bottles of champagne on the table, so presumably no one backed the winner.
On the train, we discover just how much fun you can have with a copy of The Green ’Un. Having digestedthe day’s results, we start picking through the minutiae of the fishing results (pellet waggler is the way to lure carp in, it seems) and learn that Worsbrough Bridge Athletic have a player in their ranks called Dean Shirt – almost as good as the man with the finest name in football, Emanuel Panther, who was in the midfield for Morecambe this afternoon. We also peruse the personal ads, and I enlighten Steve and Jenny about the abbreviations used. LTR is ‘long-term relationship’, ‘OHAC’ is ‘own house and car’. Steve suggests that in some cases ‘OHAT’ for ‘own hair and teeth’ might be more appropriate. We’re a little alarmed by the man looking for a woman who ‘looks nice in black dress’ – is he taking her to a funeral for the first date? Meanwhile, the woman who asks if you’re ‘looking for the ride of your life?’ turns out to be into motorbikes. Truly, in terms of entertainment provided, this is the best 60p we’ve ever spent...
Also rolling into town are Jenny, Steve Ducker and myself. Steve’s on a print deadline at work and keeps having to nip off and deal with anxious phone calls. ‘During the game, the phone is off,’ he declares.
We pick the tram up at Meadowhall and trundle past the DVS, trying to get a glimpse of whether the pitch has improved since last week. The Sheffield Eagles played there again last night, so I’m not hopeful.
It’s a gloriously sunny day, and we’re hoping on getting a seat in the Fat Cat beer garden, but for once Phil has only beaten us there by a couple of minutes, and the garden is already rammed. As always, we debate the merits of avoiding the game – which are stronger than usual – and as we wait, and wait, for a tram back to Attercliffe, we think it might have been the better plan. Nottingham Forest (and if you really, really want to wind their fans up, call them Notts Forest) are playing at Hillsborough, and we watch four trams go past in the opposite direction, packed with fans singing their heads off. They inform us what Nottingham is full of (parts of the female anatomy and Forest, apparently) and go through their full repertoire of songs about Nathan Tyson (which appears to be just the one). Finally, a Meadowhall-bound tram arrives, though by the time I finally take my seat (or, rather, Gordon’s seat, as he’s on holiday) we’re just kicking off.
Morecambe play the way we expected Accrington to in the first game of the season – they’ve drawn most of their matches so far, and it’s clear they’re primarily looking for a point today, though it’s the sort of performance which could easily turn into a smash and grab. They include ex-Miller David Artell in their ranks, another in the long list of players who support the theory that I can injure someone simply by talking to them. He was playing for Chester at the time, but already had a broken leg, which is why he was at Millmoor, and I asked how long he expected to be out. He was confident the pot would be off in a couple of weeks, but what neither of us knew was that it had accidentally been applied too tightly. That night he developed a deep vein thrombosis and narrowly escaped something very nasty indeed happening to him. Coincidence? I think not...
Also in the Morecambe ranks is Paul Mullin, who’s joined them after spending the best part of a century at Accrington. However, he doesn’t seem to possess the same threat as he did for them, which we’re quite happy to discover.
Morecambe are your clichéd ‘big, physical’ team – they don’t allow us to create too much, but they create very little themselves in return. They are aided by some fairly awful refereeing, with Mr Deadman (seriously, that’s his name) failing to notice the sly pushing and tugging from the Morecambe defence. About halfway through the first half, there’s an announcement over the Tannoy to the effect that a pair of spectacles has been found by the home turnstiles. ‘They’ll be the referee’s,’ says our friend with the two boys in front of us.
Half time brings the obligatory appearance by a Chuckle Brother to perform the draw – this week it’s Barry. I’m starting to believe the two of them are being kept in a holding pen somewhere behind the DVS gymnasium and are only let out on Saturdays.
Rotherham make a couple of enforced changes at the start of the second half. Warney and Nick Fenton replace the injured Law and Sharps. It’s revealed later that Nicky Law damaged his toe getting into his car to come to the ground – a comedy injury for which I was in no way responsible, for once. It doesn’t really change the pattern of the game – Kevin Ellison wastes a couple of good shooting opportunities, and Danny Harrison has a header cleared off the line, but that’s as close as it gets. Down the other end, Don has almost nothing to do. It’s likely that if we hadn’t had such an unsettled week we would have beaten Morecambe, but the mood lightens slightly when we discover that the other two managerless teams in the league, Lincoln and Northampton, have both been on the end of a good hiding.
We’re on an earlier than usual train out of Donny, so we just have time to pop into the Railway. It’s the first time we’ve been in since it’s been refurbished, and it’s full of people who’ve been to the St Leger meeting. There don’t appear to be any bottles of champagne on the table, so presumably no one backed the winner.
On the train, we discover just how much fun you can have with a copy of The Green ’Un. Having digestedthe day’s results, we start picking through the minutiae of the fishing results (pellet waggler is the way to lure carp in, it seems) and learn that Worsbrough Bridge Athletic have a player in their ranks called Dean Shirt – almost as good as the man with the finest name in football, Emanuel Panther, who was in the midfield for Morecambe this afternoon. We also peruse the personal ads, and I enlighten Steve and Jenny about the abbreviations used. LTR is ‘long-term relationship’, ‘OHAC’ is ‘own house and car’. Steve suggests that in some cases ‘OHAT’ for ‘own hair and teeth’ might be more appropriate. We’re a little alarmed by the man looking for a woman who ‘looks nice in black dress’ – is he taking her to a funeral for the first date? Meanwhile, the woman who asks if you’re ‘looking for the ride of your life?’ turns out to be into motorbikes. Truly, in terms of entertainment provided, this is the best 60p we’ve ever spent...
Thursday 10 September 2009
I'm On Gardening Leave... Get Me Out Of Here!
It’s been a long, strange week. Barnsley, having sacked Simon Davey, have made a few very public comments about how they’re after a young, talented manager who’s currently in employment – indeed, their chairman might as well have tattooed ‘Mark Robins, the job’s yours’ on his forehead. Obviously the prospect of having to compensate us for the three years he still has on his contract doesn’t faze them. By yesterday, Robins had been given permission to discuss the vacancy at Oakwell and has been placed on ‘gardening leave’ - cue lots of cracks about how he’ll be able to spend time bringing the pitch up to scratch.
Speaking of the pitch, Sheffield Eagles played Barrow there on Thursday night, and the game was televised. As Ted and I were watching it, part of me was wondering if they’d cause any damage to the grass (‘It’ll be fine,’ said Ted. ‘At least it’s not rugby union. All those scrums really dig up the pitch.’) and part was trying to spot whether anyone in the fairly sparse crowd was sitting in my seat...
What’s adding to the strangeness is that our kick-off has been moved forward an hour because of the England game. As that’s just a friendly, we suspect the real reason may be to cut down on drinking time before kick-off and avoid trouble. Whatever, I’m at St Pancras by quarter past eight. This is early by our standards, but Ted’s already en route to Lincoln, having spotted Robert Wyatt at his usual breakfast spot and Sir Geoffrey Boycott boarding the 8.10 at Kings Cross. No celebs on the St Pancras route; just Jenny and I on a strangely quiet train, partly because we’re earlier than usual and partly because all the Championship teams have got the weekend off for good behaviour. Unlike last season, when the train was heaving with fans getting on at Chesterfield, we don’t see more than seven or eight teenagers in replica shirts this time. They might want to think on the fact that if they don’t want to get stopped by the police at Sheffield station, they probably shouldn’t pile off the trains, can in hand...
In a break from routine, we make our way to the Harlequin. We suspect we might be hanging around on the pavement waiting for the doors to open at 11.30 (and there isn’t even a nearby Lidl we can visit to kill time, Ted-style...). However, when we get there, they’re already serving.
The Harlequin is a good pub, but a strange one. Its décor, all floral patterned banquettes and thick carpets, suggests the sort of chain hostelry where they concentrate on family meals at the expense of decent beer, but there are nine or ten real ales on, as well as weiss beer, proper lager rather than the fizzy stuff and what my brother always refers to as ‘Belgian fruit juice’. They also do a nice line in live entertainment; one of the bar staff has the job of updating the week’s event on the chalk board above our heads, balancing precariously on a chair to do so. They’re already hosting a ‘gardener’s rest’ quiz (‘Shouldn’t that be gardener’s leave quiz?’ I ask Jenny), but when the girl chalks in ‘Green Onions’ as the Sunday night turn, I take it as an omen. I’ve no idea what Jamie Green and Graham Onions would sound like duetting together, but I bet Lily Allen would be down the front, moshing!
We’ve let people know we’re going to be drinking here, as Toddy’s got one of his rare pass-outs to come to a couple of games, but no one joins us and Jenny reckons they’ve probably gone to Hugh Vaughan’s regular haunt, the Carlton.
An hour ahead of our usual schedule, we somehow contrive to be at the DVS before half-past one. On the way down to the ground, we bump into Steve Czajewski. Naturally, we ask him whether he’s putting in his application for the manager’s job. Apparently, when Ronnie Moore was appointed, Steve did apply – and got a letter back from then chief exec, Phil Henson, regretfully turning him down!
For once, we actually get to see the pre-match warm-up (people running between cones, the keepers doing secret keeper-y things that only keepers understand etc.), as well as Miller Bear strutting his stuff to MC Hammer’s ‘U Can’t Touch This’. Someone get a decent clip of him up on YouTube, please!
Of course, the real buzz round the ground is being caused by all the speculation on whether Robins is actually off, who’ll replace him if he goes, will he come back and nick all our players in the transfer window and so on. That and the rather feisty atmosphere created by the bunch of Rotherham fans who’ve congregated in Block Six lower, which is as close as they can get to the Chesterfield fans. It’s loud, but good-natured, which is how you want it.
From kick-off, it’s obvious that the players aren’t letting what’s happened over the last couple of days affect them. We force pixie-faced keeper Tommy Lee into making a couple of good saves and are generally the team on top, until the moment which changes the first half. Drew Talbot is charging down the right wing and falls over Jamie Green’s invitingly outstretched leg. Leaving aside the fact he’s obviously another graduate of the Jack Lester School of Diving, the referee (Mr Miller, he of the old-school copper’s moustache) at first seems to decide it’s a free-kick. However, after consulting with his assistant, he changes his mind and points to the spot. TV replays will later show that the offence was committed a good couple of feet outside the box, so it’s no wonder the Rotherham players feel aggrieved. Chesterfield accept the gift and Jamie Lowry fires the penalty high into the net.
‘I don’t know why it is,’ says the bloke with the two boys who sits in front of us, ‘but I just hate losing to this lot.’ And we’re still losing at half-time. The mood is lifted slightly by the fact that not only do we have both Chuckle Brothers (both! You are really spoiling us...) to perform the half-time draw, but Jessica Ennis, the gold medal-winning heptathlete is here as a special guest, receiving a huge ovation.
Things turn early in the second half. Chesterfield have had a couple of attacks, though Jack Lester’s shot is tamer than the two kittens who are probably destroying a toilet roll back at our house right now, but they seem happy to sit back and defend their lead. Then we equalise with a clever free kick. John Breckin, in charge for today, says in his post-match interview it’s something he borrowed from Chesterfield, which makes you wonder how it catches them out. Nicky Law centres the ball, Alf either produces a cute dummy or a total mis-kick (I think it’s the former) and Danny Harrison slots the ball home. ‘If Rotherham let Nicky Law go for less than five million pounds, they want their bumps feeling,’ declares my dad.
Chesterfield have to come out and play now if they want to restore their lead, and that gives us more opportunities. Alf takes one of them, bundling home a Kevin Ellison header, and then Lord Voldemort himself gets the third. Ryan Taylor (on at half-time after Warney has been forced to go off – well, it’s a John Sheridan team, so you should expect that at least one of your players is going to have lumps kicked off him...) has a shot from about 25 yards out which hits the post, and Ellison slams home the rebound. Cue a mass stream-out of Chesterfield fans, just like last season. The man at the back whose catchphrase is ‘Boooook him!’ starts a chant of ‘Is there a fire drill?’ as they disappear.
There’s still time for Ellison to miss a good chance to make it four, and then Rob Page, clearly frustrated by the way we’ve taken the game out of the Spireites’ control, cynically takes Alf out with his arm. It should be a red card, but he gets away with a yellow. Meanwhile, the fans are chanting the name of Tony Stewart (and how often does a chairman get really vocal backing at a match?), and getting excited because Ronnie Moore is watching the game from the VIP/players’ lounge, along with one of Rotherham’s finest ever keepers, Mike Pollitt. Ah, Sir Michael... There was some research quoted in today’s paper which suggests that men tend to get more stupid around beautiful women (next week: water declared to be wet), but that there’s no significant response when women speak to handsome men. I would like to declare that research fundamentally flawed. I used to sponsor Mikey P’s kit, and during that time I spoke to him on a number of occasions. Every single time, I said, ‘Wibble...’
As Jenny and I are gathering up the flag, she lets me know that not only were Ronnie and Sir Michael present, someone had also spotted Steve Coppell. Now, he’d make a great manager, but Barnsley could give us all the compensation in the world and I still don’t think we could afford him.
Squeezing on to the tram, we bump into Chris Burrows, over from Manchester. The three of us go for a quick drink in the Old Queen’s Head, which is showing the Scotland-Macedonia. ‘George Burley will probably be available soon,’ I comment, the subject of managers still on my mind. And then Scotland score their second goal and we decide he might be in the job a bit longer...
The journey back to London is largely spent trying not to doze off – these early starts aren’t doing me any good at all! The euphoria of a good win against what is clearly no longer our bogey team is tempered by all the managerial uncertainty. If not Ronnie – and though he’s still massively popular, it was either Macbeth or Don Henley who said you should never look back – then who? If we’re looking at the ex-Rotherham factor, then pinching Paul Hurst and Rob Scott from Boston might be an option, as would offering the job to Martin McIntosh, who has no experience but like Robins is a popular, thoughtful and intelligent man who is keen to establish himself in management. Otherwise you’re looking at the usual suspects like recently unemployed Peter Jackson and his heavy metal hair. And what’s Big Ron Atkinson doing these days? Truly, as a Rotherham fan you always live in interesting times...
Speaking of the pitch, Sheffield Eagles played Barrow there on Thursday night, and the game was televised. As Ted and I were watching it, part of me was wondering if they’d cause any damage to the grass (‘It’ll be fine,’ said Ted. ‘At least it’s not rugby union. All those scrums really dig up the pitch.’) and part was trying to spot whether anyone in the fairly sparse crowd was sitting in my seat...
What’s adding to the strangeness is that our kick-off has been moved forward an hour because of the England game. As that’s just a friendly, we suspect the real reason may be to cut down on drinking time before kick-off and avoid trouble. Whatever, I’m at St Pancras by quarter past eight. This is early by our standards, but Ted’s already en route to Lincoln, having spotted Robert Wyatt at his usual breakfast spot and Sir Geoffrey Boycott boarding the 8.10 at Kings Cross. No celebs on the St Pancras route; just Jenny and I on a strangely quiet train, partly because we’re earlier than usual and partly because all the Championship teams have got the weekend off for good behaviour. Unlike last season, when the train was heaving with fans getting on at Chesterfield, we don’t see more than seven or eight teenagers in replica shirts this time. They might want to think on the fact that if they don’t want to get stopped by the police at Sheffield station, they probably shouldn’t pile off the trains, can in hand...
In a break from routine, we make our way to the Harlequin. We suspect we might be hanging around on the pavement waiting for the doors to open at 11.30 (and there isn’t even a nearby Lidl we can visit to kill time, Ted-style...). However, when we get there, they’re already serving.
The Harlequin is a good pub, but a strange one. Its décor, all floral patterned banquettes and thick carpets, suggests the sort of chain hostelry where they concentrate on family meals at the expense of decent beer, but there are nine or ten real ales on, as well as weiss beer, proper lager rather than the fizzy stuff and what my brother always refers to as ‘Belgian fruit juice’. They also do a nice line in live entertainment; one of the bar staff has the job of updating the week’s event on the chalk board above our heads, balancing precariously on a chair to do so. They’re already hosting a ‘gardener’s rest’ quiz (‘Shouldn’t that be gardener’s leave quiz?’ I ask Jenny), but when the girl chalks in ‘Green Onions’ as the Sunday night turn, I take it as an omen. I’ve no idea what Jamie Green and Graham Onions would sound like duetting together, but I bet Lily Allen would be down the front, moshing!
We’ve let people know we’re going to be drinking here, as Toddy’s got one of his rare pass-outs to come to a couple of games, but no one joins us and Jenny reckons they’ve probably gone to Hugh Vaughan’s regular haunt, the Carlton.
An hour ahead of our usual schedule, we somehow contrive to be at the DVS before half-past one. On the way down to the ground, we bump into Steve Czajewski. Naturally, we ask him whether he’s putting in his application for the manager’s job. Apparently, when Ronnie Moore was appointed, Steve did apply – and got a letter back from then chief exec, Phil Henson, regretfully turning him down!
For once, we actually get to see the pre-match warm-up (people running between cones, the keepers doing secret keeper-y things that only keepers understand etc.), as well as Miller Bear strutting his stuff to MC Hammer’s ‘U Can’t Touch This’. Someone get a decent clip of him up on YouTube, please!
Of course, the real buzz round the ground is being caused by all the speculation on whether Robins is actually off, who’ll replace him if he goes, will he come back and nick all our players in the transfer window and so on. That and the rather feisty atmosphere created by the bunch of Rotherham fans who’ve congregated in Block Six lower, which is as close as they can get to the Chesterfield fans. It’s loud, but good-natured, which is how you want it.
From kick-off, it’s obvious that the players aren’t letting what’s happened over the last couple of days affect them. We force pixie-faced keeper Tommy Lee into making a couple of good saves and are generally the team on top, until the moment which changes the first half. Drew Talbot is charging down the right wing and falls over Jamie Green’s invitingly outstretched leg. Leaving aside the fact he’s obviously another graduate of the Jack Lester School of Diving, the referee (Mr Miller, he of the old-school copper’s moustache) at first seems to decide it’s a free-kick. However, after consulting with his assistant, he changes his mind and points to the spot. TV replays will later show that the offence was committed a good couple of feet outside the box, so it’s no wonder the Rotherham players feel aggrieved. Chesterfield accept the gift and Jamie Lowry fires the penalty high into the net.
‘I don’t know why it is,’ says the bloke with the two boys who sits in front of us, ‘but I just hate losing to this lot.’ And we’re still losing at half-time. The mood is lifted slightly by the fact that not only do we have both Chuckle Brothers (both! You are really spoiling us...) to perform the half-time draw, but Jessica Ennis, the gold medal-winning heptathlete is here as a special guest, receiving a huge ovation.
Things turn early in the second half. Chesterfield have had a couple of attacks, though Jack Lester’s shot is tamer than the two kittens who are probably destroying a toilet roll back at our house right now, but they seem happy to sit back and defend their lead. Then we equalise with a clever free kick. John Breckin, in charge for today, says in his post-match interview it’s something he borrowed from Chesterfield, which makes you wonder how it catches them out. Nicky Law centres the ball, Alf either produces a cute dummy or a total mis-kick (I think it’s the former) and Danny Harrison slots the ball home. ‘If Rotherham let Nicky Law go for less than five million pounds, they want their bumps feeling,’ declares my dad.
Chesterfield have to come out and play now if they want to restore their lead, and that gives us more opportunities. Alf takes one of them, bundling home a Kevin Ellison header, and then Lord Voldemort himself gets the third. Ryan Taylor (on at half-time after Warney has been forced to go off – well, it’s a John Sheridan team, so you should expect that at least one of your players is going to have lumps kicked off him...) has a shot from about 25 yards out which hits the post, and Ellison slams home the rebound. Cue a mass stream-out of Chesterfield fans, just like last season. The man at the back whose catchphrase is ‘Boooook him!’ starts a chant of ‘Is there a fire drill?’ as they disappear.
There’s still time for Ellison to miss a good chance to make it four, and then Rob Page, clearly frustrated by the way we’ve taken the game out of the Spireites’ control, cynically takes Alf out with his arm. It should be a red card, but he gets away with a yellow. Meanwhile, the fans are chanting the name of Tony Stewart (and how often does a chairman get really vocal backing at a match?), and getting excited because Ronnie Moore is watching the game from the VIP/players’ lounge, along with one of Rotherham’s finest ever keepers, Mike Pollitt. Ah, Sir Michael... There was some research quoted in today’s paper which suggests that men tend to get more stupid around beautiful women (next week: water declared to be wet), but that there’s no significant response when women speak to handsome men. I would like to declare that research fundamentally flawed. I used to sponsor Mikey P’s kit, and during that time I spoke to him on a number of occasions. Every single time, I said, ‘Wibble...’
As Jenny and I are gathering up the flag, she lets me know that not only were Ronnie and Sir Michael present, someone had also spotted Steve Coppell. Now, he’d make a great manager, but Barnsley could give us all the compensation in the world and I still don’t think we could afford him.
Squeezing on to the tram, we bump into Chris Burrows, over from Manchester. The three of us go for a quick drink in the Old Queen’s Head, which is showing the Scotland-Macedonia. ‘George Burley will probably be available soon,’ I comment, the subject of managers still on my mind. And then Scotland score their second goal and we decide he might be in the job a bit longer...
The journey back to London is largely spent trying not to doze off – these early starts aren’t doing me any good at all! The euphoria of a good win against what is clearly no longer our bogey team is tempered by all the managerial uncertainty. If not Ronnie – and though he’s still massively popular, it was either Macbeth or Don Henley who said you should never look back – then who? If we’re looking at the ex-Rotherham factor, then pinching Paul Hurst and Rob Scott from Boston might be an option, as would offering the job to Martin McIntosh, who has no experience but like Robins is a popular, thoughtful and intelligent man who is keen to establish himself in management. Otherwise you’re looking at the usual suspects like recently unemployed Peter Jackson and his heavy metal hair. And what’s Big Ron Atkinson doing these days? Truly, as a Rotherham fan you always live in interesting times...
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