Jenny, Clarkey and I head out of Euston hoping for another fruitful day in the North-west. It’s my first trip to Gigg Lane, even though I’ve seen Bury a few times, including one memorable occasion at Darlo’s old ground, Feethams, when Chris Billy was in the Bury line-up and some bloke standing in the Tin Shed behind us just kept randomly shouting, “Chris Billy,” every seven or eight minutes. Then, as we were leaving the ground, we spotted a couple of their players, packets of chips under their arms, legging it back down Victoria Road to where the team bus was waiting for them. Ah, the glamour of lower league football...
At Piccadilly station, we meet Chris K, along with his friends Tom, who came with us to Rochdale last season, and Lawrie, who’s getting his first taste of Millers action. The tram line through Manchester is currently being repaired, so it’s a short walk through the city centre to Victoria, where we pick up the tram to Bury. The journey takes us through Besses O’The Barn, which sounds like one of the most romantic places in England – shame that as you look out of the tram window, you don’t see rolling fields and Lorna Doone tripping through the mist, just a massive car dealership...
Jenny’s friend, Jean, is waiting for us at Bury station. Over the years, the two of them have developed the art of the several-hour lunch, as well as going on a variety of exotic holidays – which is a dirty job, but someone has to do it.
Our pub of choice is the Rose and Crown, on the Old Manchester Road. When we arrive at about ten to one, we’re told it won’t be opening for another five minutes. We pop our head round the door of the nearby Trafalgar, but Clarkey fails to spot anything resembling a hand pump, and walks out on principle. There isn’t a Lidl nearby, so we can’t borrow Ted’s favourite method of time killing, but the Rose and Crown does open after a couple of minutes, and it turns out to be a great choice. There are half-a-dozen real ales on, with the opportunity to sample before you buy. We’re joined by Chris B and his friend, Matt, and a couple of friends of Clarkey’s who have only come for the drinking and whose names now escape me (I should really make notes, you know!) Jenny enquires about the possibility of sandwiches, as the website has stated there are no meals on Saturdays, to be told by the landlady, Val, that they put on a corned beef hash after the game. This is no good to us, as we’re straight back to Manchester afterwards, but when she finds out how far some of us have come, she says she’ll dig round and see what she can put on for us. This turns out to be cheese pie, chips and garlic bread and is very much appreciated. We shall definitely be back there if we’re in the same division as Bury next season.
We take a leisurely walk to the ground, put the flag up (which for once gets some lovely coverage on the Football League highlights) and get seats behind the goal. Clarkey is in fine voice and airing a new chant or two, including, ‘Allez, allez, allez, allez, Alfie, Alfie,’ in honour of Adam Le Fondre, who sounds so French and yet is so from Stockport. I must admit I’m slightly distracted by the antics of Neil Cutler on the Bury bench. Well, I say on the bench. He’s actually standing on the steps at the side of the home dug-out, which would see any member of the paying public being told to sit down or even getting slung out, but if you’re staff, you can get away with it, I suppose. He looks like the dominant cat in a household, manoeuvring itself to the highest point so it can look down on everyone else. Vying for attention, though, is our own Drewe Broughton, going through his ostentatious and positively X-rated stretching routine on the touchline in an attempt to be crowned the most supple man in Europe. Women of a certain age all over Bury will be in need of cold showers, and I’m surprised the people sitting in that stand aren’t choking on all the testosterone...
Dragging my attention back to the football (and probably back above waist level, too!), we’re definitely on top in the first half. Alf, Dale Tonge and Nicky Law are linking up well on the right, but when Alf finds himself completely unmarked, he can only shoot straight at Bury keeper Wayne Brown. We should have a penalty when one of the Bury defenders gets a huge fistful of Law’s shirt, but it goes unnoticed. Brown makes one other very good save, but hurts himself in the process and has to go off, to generous applause from the Rotherham fans. He’s replaced by Cameron Belford, who sounds more like a firm of shipbuilders than a footballer. Just on the stroke of half-time, for the second time in two away games, Kevin Ellison scores directly from a corner. I don’t celebrate at first, as I’m sure the ref is going to disallow it for a foul on Belford, but it stands – much to the fury of Mr Cutler, who goes up and remonstrates with the officials as they’re coming off the pitch.
At half-time, there’s a schools five-a-side match and some tiny cheerleaders, who Chris K reckons are the schoolboy footballers’ WAGS. Cheerleaders are still wrong, whatever their age...
Bury come out with more purpose in the second half, and are level within five minutes. Jenny reckons Ryan Lowe is offside when he picks up the ball and slots it past Don, but it’s difficult to tell. Then they get a penalty – after Ian Sharps has made a beautiful clean tackle. The assistant ref doesn’t flag for it, but Mr Webb (sadly, not Howard) goes and consults with him anyway before awarding it. Justice is done, though, as Don saves what’s actually a pretty poor kick before the rebound is lashed over the bar. Man-hugging ensues, with Clarkey getting so excited he’s actually jumping up on the back of the seat in front of him – though he could just be attempting to prove that he’s the dominant cat!
We hope that will be the turning point of the game, but with only a few minutes left, a clearance bounces straight into the path of Bury’s Richie Baker, who accepts the slice of fortune and scores. We press for the equaliser, and right at the very end Sharps has a header which is somehow kept out by the sub keeper.
On the tram back to Bury, the Rotherham fans are restless. Some bloke behind me is chuntering on his mobile, ‘That’s it, Ronnie Moore’s got to go, he’s a knobhead.’ Now that's what I call giving your manager time...
There isn’t time for a pint in Manchester – well, not for those of us who are going back to London, anyway. With neither Manchester side playing till tomorrow, the train is refreshingly free of plastic fans with their equally plastic Man U Superstore carrier bags. As we go through Stoke, the ring road is lit up in shades of purple and green. It’s what being on acid must be like – but then Stoke in general is what being on acid must be like!
Clarkey bids us farewell at Euston, and Jenny and I go up to the King Charles to meet Ted. He’s with the Wilsons, Bev being the only happy one among us as Chelsea have just won five-nil. The place is packed with people celebrating an engagement, but there’s still room for Ted to get chatting to a man who turns out to be a brewer from Rye. He has his dog, Spud, with him, who is apparently something of an Internet legend – in the same way as we have Clarkey, probably. Nice day, shame about the result, but then isn’t that so often the case?
Wednesday, 28 October 2009
Friday, 23 October 2009
Clarkey Is A Legend!
On some trips it feels like the circus is never very far from rolling into town, but today that’s most definitely the case. Notts County have been Hoovering up all the media attention in the division ever since they were bought out by a mysterious consortium who may either be among the richest men in the Middle East or just a bunch of crooks depending on who you listen to, and come to the DVS having, on the face of it, sacked their manager because they’re not ten points clear at the top already (and if that’s what they wanted, they should have bought Oxford United...). So it should all be fun and games, then.
The LM contingent consists of me and Jenny – who are, as ever, at King’s Cross in good time – and Clarkey and Stephanie – who, as ever, make the train by the skin of their teeth. The Clarkes are staying in Rotherham for the weekend as it’s Cla rkey’s mum’s birthday and he’s taking her somewhere nice for lunch tomorrow. On the way up, Stephanie happens to mention that her friends think Clarkey is a legend. Now, we’ve called him a few things in our time, but...
As we walk from the tram to the Fat Cat, Stephanie asks me whether I still look out for signs before games, just at the moment when a lorry with ‘Travel Green’ on the side goes past. ‘Yes,’ I say, ‘and that’s today’s.’ Even though I know it doesn’t make any difference to the result, and everyone else knows it doesn’t make any difference to the result, it still has to be done.
Phil is waiting for us in the pub. After the game, he’s off to Nottingham to meet Watford Dan, as they’re going to the Carl Froch fight. It doesn’t actually kick off (or whatever the technical term is) until two in the morning, so they’ve got a list of pubs to try before they have to be in the venue at 11. Fortunately, Nottingham isn’t exactly short on good pubs, though we think Phil might be flagging a little come the end of the night.
On the tram to the stadium, we bump into the Manchester contingent, both of whom also have dads who are legends: Chris Burrows because his father was one of the London Millers’ founder members, tracked down after he rang Greater London Radio to talk about Rotherham on a phone-on show, and Chris Kirkland because – well, you only needed to watch him following the Yorkshire score on the way to Chelters to know why! After the game, the plan is to meet up and present Andy Warrington with the Player of the Season trophy, which Jenny had made in Rotherham, along with a replacement the John Ward trophy (named after another of the original London Millers and the man responsible for devising the voting system for each game’s man of the match, who sadly died eight years ago), the original of which was either lost by persons unknown at Millmoor or is in a box in Alan Lee’s attic.
The Greasebrough Millers flag is already on show for once (glory hunters!) and there’s definitely a bigger crowd than usual, though Notts County, although spilling over into the uncovered part of the stand, haven’t brought quite as many as we thought they might given their new-found money and relative success. The more excitable Rotherham fans have got seats in block six lower, closest to the away fans, so they can treat them to the predictable chorus of ‘scabs’. Let it go, boys, let it go...
I go to join my dad, who is a legend for more reasons than can be counted, his surreal abuse of referees and assorted players among them. Before kick-off, the photographers line up on the track in front of the directors’ box, snapping away at Sven. The lad who sits next to our chum with the two boys, and who’s kind of bonded with us, lets me know that Broughton and Nicholas have come in for Pope and Green. I suspect this is tactical, having watched Notts County’s televised game against TV, because their defence couldn’t cope with Torquay’s long throws (which are an important part of Nicholas’ game) and the awkward striker Tim Sills. We start brightly, but then Nicholas gets hurt in a clash of heads and has to go off to be stitched up, leaving us playing with ten men for a good ten minutes. Meanwhile, Nick Fenton gets booked when he tackles Lee Hughes (who is being roundly booed by the Rotherham fans) and Hughes lies on the ground beating the turf with his fist as though he’s seriously hurt. Of course, once Mr Boyeson has dished out a yellow card, Hughes gets up and trots off. If this was ‘Match Of The Day’, they would show you this booking as shorthand for ‘he’s off later’.
County are making the most of the extra man, and our passing is breaking down because the temptation can’t be resisted to just lump the ball to Drewe. Nicholas comes back on, but when the cut opens up again he’s replaced by Jamie Green. It’s not the greatest half of football we’ve ever played, and Don has to make a couple of important saves, but similarly Kaspar Schmeichel has to tip the ball over the bar (you don’t see any of our chances on the Football League highlights later, strangely...).
It being ‘Kick It Out’ week, there’s a half-time game between two teams of girls. What this has to do with eradicating racism from football isn’t immediately obvious, but it’s good entertainment nonetheless.
Five minutes into the second half, we’re down to ten men. Fenton makes a challenge and Ben Davies makes the most of whatever contact there might have been. However, this only serves to make the team play better. Big Pablo drops back into defence so we don’t have to sacrifice a forward. Nicky Law goes on a couple of threatening runs and the crowd really starts to get behind the team. County respond with more rolling around and feigning injury, with one of their players trying to imply that Ellison has elbowed him. Maybe they think they’d have a chance against nine men. All they do is prove that money really doesn’t buy you class...
They make a substitution, bringing on Luke Rodgers to double their quotient of bald, objectionable strikers, and Don is forced into action again, saving well before Pablo blocks the rebound. Right at the end, County think they’ve won it, but Rodgers’ shot is flagged offside.
Last week we drew and it felt like a defeat; this week we’ve drawn and it feels like a win. As I’m going to collect the flag, the League Two scores are coming through, and Darlo have won for the first time this season. I’m sure people think I’m mad when they see me cheering, but perhaps they just think I had a bet on them!
As we’re making our way to the sponsors’ lounge, someone manages to drop a tray off a trolley he’s wheeling. Chris K, ever the gent, goes to pick it up and only succeeds in getting grease down himself.
They park us in the executive lounge for a few minutes, where we spot Tony Stewart working the room and Nick Fenton collecting his wife and children, who presumably think his sending-off was as harsh as we do. Then Mr Warrington arrives and we join the queue of various sponsors and mascots for their presentation photo. He seems genuinely thrilled to have won our award (and met Clarkey the legend, of course), and we even get him to take away a London Miller questionnaire to fill in, including the obligatory question about bears and hovercraft. Speaking of which, we’ve already asked Miller Bear that one, because the opportunity was too good to miss. Safe to say a hovercraft won’t be joining his drum in his repertoire of crowd-pleasing accessories any time soon!
As we leave the ground, we spot Pablo Mills, who appears to be meeting his mum, and the match officials. We restrain ourselves from telling the ref what we thought of his performance, because we can behave ourselves sometimes.
At the tram, we go our separate ways. I get a call from Ted to tell me he’s at LAX, waiting for his flight home. ‘I just got a text from Tim about our win,’ he says. ‘Sent him one saying I hadn’t seen it because I’m in LA. He sent me one saying, “I’m in Ruislip.”
The journey back is quiet, apart from a couple of Watford fans in the carriage who are engaging in some fairly half-hearted chanting as they’ve beaten Middlesbrough. Where are those two very drunk QPR boys when you need them?
The LM contingent consists of me and Jenny – who are, as ever, at King’s Cross in good time – and Clarkey and Stephanie – who, as ever, make the train by the skin of their teeth. The Clarkes are staying in Rotherham for the weekend as it’s Cla rkey’s mum’s birthday and he’s taking her somewhere nice for lunch tomorrow. On the way up, Stephanie happens to mention that her friends think Clarkey is a legend. Now, we’ve called him a few things in our time, but...
As we walk from the tram to the Fat Cat, Stephanie asks me whether I still look out for signs before games, just at the moment when a lorry with ‘Travel Green’ on the side goes past. ‘Yes,’ I say, ‘and that’s today’s.’ Even though I know it doesn’t make any difference to the result, and everyone else knows it doesn’t make any difference to the result, it still has to be done.
Phil is waiting for us in the pub. After the game, he’s off to Nottingham to meet Watford Dan, as they’re going to the Carl Froch fight. It doesn’t actually kick off (or whatever the technical term is) until two in the morning, so they’ve got a list of pubs to try before they have to be in the venue at 11. Fortunately, Nottingham isn’t exactly short on good pubs, though we think Phil might be flagging a little come the end of the night.
On the tram to the stadium, we bump into the Manchester contingent, both of whom also have dads who are legends: Chris Burrows because his father was one of the London Millers’ founder members, tracked down after he rang Greater London Radio to talk about Rotherham on a phone-on show, and Chris Kirkland because – well, you only needed to watch him following the Yorkshire score on the way to Chelters to know why! After the game, the plan is to meet up and present Andy Warrington with the Player of the Season trophy, which Jenny had made in Rotherham, along with a replacement the John Ward trophy (named after another of the original London Millers and the man responsible for devising the voting system for each game’s man of the match, who sadly died eight years ago), the original of which was either lost by persons unknown at Millmoor or is in a box in Alan Lee’s attic.
The Greasebrough Millers flag is already on show for once (glory hunters!) and there’s definitely a bigger crowd than usual, though Notts County, although spilling over into the uncovered part of the stand, haven’t brought quite as many as we thought they might given their new-found money and relative success. The more excitable Rotherham fans have got seats in block six lower, closest to the away fans, so they can treat them to the predictable chorus of ‘scabs’. Let it go, boys, let it go...
I go to join my dad, who is a legend for more reasons than can be counted, his surreal abuse of referees and assorted players among them. Before kick-off, the photographers line up on the track in front of the directors’ box, snapping away at Sven. The lad who sits next to our chum with the two boys, and who’s kind of bonded with us, lets me know that Broughton and Nicholas have come in for Pope and Green. I suspect this is tactical, having watched Notts County’s televised game against TV, because their defence couldn’t cope with Torquay’s long throws (which are an important part of Nicholas’ game) and the awkward striker Tim Sills. We start brightly, but then Nicholas gets hurt in a clash of heads and has to go off to be stitched up, leaving us playing with ten men for a good ten minutes. Meanwhile, Nick Fenton gets booked when he tackles Lee Hughes (who is being roundly booed by the Rotherham fans) and Hughes lies on the ground beating the turf with his fist as though he’s seriously hurt. Of course, once Mr Boyeson has dished out a yellow card, Hughes gets up and trots off. If this was ‘Match Of The Day’, they would show you this booking as shorthand for ‘he’s off later’.
County are making the most of the extra man, and our passing is breaking down because the temptation can’t be resisted to just lump the ball to Drewe. Nicholas comes back on, but when the cut opens up again he’s replaced by Jamie Green. It’s not the greatest half of football we’ve ever played, and Don has to make a couple of important saves, but similarly Kaspar Schmeichel has to tip the ball over the bar (you don’t see any of our chances on the Football League highlights later, strangely...).
It being ‘Kick It Out’ week, there’s a half-time game between two teams of girls. What this has to do with eradicating racism from football isn’t immediately obvious, but it’s good entertainment nonetheless.
Five minutes into the second half, we’re down to ten men. Fenton makes a challenge and Ben Davies makes the most of whatever contact there might have been. However, this only serves to make the team play better. Big Pablo drops back into defence so we don’t have to sacrifice a forward. Nicky Law goes on a couple of threatening runs and the crowd really starts to get behind the team. County respond with more rolling around and feigning injury, with one of their players trying to imply that Ellison has elbowed him. Maybe they think they’d have a chance against nine men. All they do is prove that money really doesn’t buy you class...
They make a substitution, bringing on Luke Rodgers to double their quotient of bald, objectionable strikers, and Don is forced into action again, saving well before Pablo blocks the rebound. Right at the end, County think they’ve won it, but Rodgers’ shot is flagged offside.
Last week we drew and it felt like a defeat; this week we’ve drawn and it feels like a win. As I’m going to collect the flag, the League Two scores are coming through, and Darlo have won for the first time this season. I’m sure people think I’m mad when they see me cheering, but perhaps they just think I had a bet on them!
As we’re making our way to the sponsors’ lounge, someone manages to drop a tray off a trolley he’s wheeling. Chris K, ever the gent, goes to pick it up and only succeeds in getting grease down himself.
They park us in the executive lounge for a few minutes, where we spot Tony Stewart working the room and Nick Fenton collecting his wife and children, who presumably think his sending-off was as harsh as we do. Then Mr Warrington arrives and we join the queue of various sponsors and mascots for their presentation photo. He seems genuinely thrilled to have won our award (and met Clarkey the legend, of course), and we even get him to take away a London Miller questionnaire to fill in, including the obligatory question about bears and hovercraft. Speaking of which, we’ve already asked Miller Bear that one, because the opportunity was too good to miss. Safe to say a hovercraft won’t be joining his drum in his repertoire of crowd-pleasing accessories any time soon!
As we leave the ground, we spot Pablo Mills, who appears to be meeting his mum, and the match officials. We restrain ourselves from telling the ref what we thought of his performance, because we can behave ourselves sometimes.
At the tram, we go our separate ways. I get a call from Ted to tell me he’s at LAX, waiting for his flight home. ‘I just got a text from Tim about our win,’ he says. ‘Sent him one saying I hadn’t seen it because I’m in LA. He sent me one saying, “I’m in Ruislip.”
The journey back is quiet, apart from a couple of Watford fans in the carriage who are engaging in some fairly half-hearted chanting as they’ve beaten Middlesbrough. Where are those two very drunk QPR boys when you need them?
Friday, 16 October 2009
Deep In The Hole
Squeezing on to the train at King’s Cross, Jenny and I are convinced we’re travelling with a party on their way to the 37th annual huge luggage convention in Edinburgh. What else could explain their need to tow something quite so large around with them?
Otherwise, it’s a particularly quiet Saturday. It’s international weekend, so there are no games in the top two divisions, and even Leeds have managed to get their game called off. When we arrive at the Fat Cat, it’s almost deserted – apart from Phil, who as ever is working his way through a pint and a paperback as he waits for us. Unlike a fortnight ago, it doesn’t seem as though any of the away fans have wandered out as far as Shalesmoor in search of a decent drink.
There are no hold-ups on the tram, as no one’s going to Hillsborough, and when we arrive at the DVS there’s plenty of time to put up the flag before that part of the stand is colonised by the youth team. Off you go, you small boys...
For the third game in a row, we’re playing one of the teams who was relegated from League One last season and, like Northampton and Crewe, Hereford are lurking down towards the bottom of the table. However, they’ve recently beaten Bournemouth and drawn with Dagenham, and the last time we played them at Millmoor they beat us with a classic one-nil ‘smash and grab’, so we can’t assume they’re going to be a pushover.
As the first half progresses, though, it looks like that’s exactly the case. Hereford are poor, giving us an awful lot of space and time to play the ball – and we play as well as we have done all season, creating chance after chance. Pope puts a superb ball into Alf’s pass, though he can’t make the most of it, and a couple of minutes later, Ellison slides an equally good ball for Alf to latch on to. One-nil. After that, big Pablo shaves the bar with a shot, Fenton hits the bar and Alf fires narrowly wide. Don, on the other hand, doesn’t make a save until about forty minutes in. We should be four-nil up by half time and it wouldn’t flatter us, but we’re not, and even though Hereford haven’t looked in the least threatening, you still have the nasty feeling that failing to finish our chances could cost us.
Half-time sees a schools five-a-side game in conjunction with some community initiative or other, and a sight which would no doubt have been picked up on camera for Adrian Chiles to have a chuckle over on Match Of The Day 2 if this was the Premier League – my dad playing air guitar to Status Quo’s ‘Whatever You Want’, which, asks the half-time quiz, was part of this week’s top five, but in what year? (Answer at the end – and don’t just scroll to the bottom, that’s cheating...)
Hereford start making substitutions, and show more in the way of attacking intent. We don’t have the freedom we did in the first half, but we still look comfortable. Nick Fenton has to go off with a dead leg, and Pope is replaced by Drewe Broughton, who can’t quite repeat his supersub antics from last week, but has one good chance with a header that he just can’t get enough power into. Alf, meanwhile, has faded a little as the balls to him have begun to dry up. And then, with about thirty seconds to go, we don’t clear a ball in the area and Hereford get an equaliser. The superb first-half performance is forgotten, and the team is booed off the pitch by fans whose expectations are getting rather too high. After all, we’re in the top three, unbeaten at home, averaging two points a game and, in Alf, we have a striker who’s in double figures in early October. Some people are never happy...
Back in Donny, Jenny and I pop into the Corner Pin, which tonight appears to be twinned with Twin Peaks. On the train home, we get talking to the chap sitting opposite us, who’s a southern Leeds fan and something in the legal profession. We have an interesting chap and he has a few things to say about the situations at both Leeds and Notts County, which we’d love him to expand upon, except we’re suddenly at King’s Cross and I have to escort Ted home after a hard day not actually getting to see Darlo play Dagenham. Though, as he points out, at least it means he’s never seen them lose there!
(And the answer to the Status Quo question – 1979. Gold star and a tick if you got it right.)
Otherwise, it’s a particularly quiet Saturday. It’s international weekend, so there are no games in the top two divisions, and even Leeds have managed to get their game called off. When we arrive at the Fat Cat, it’s almost deserted – apart from Phil, who as ever is working his way through a pint and a paperback as he waits for us. Unlike a fortnight ago, it doesn’t seem as though any of the away fans have wandered out as far as Shalesmoor in search of a decent drink.
There are no hold-ups on the tram, as no one’s going to Hillsborough, and when we arrive at the DVS there’s plenty of time to put up the flag before that part of the stand is colonised by the youth team. Off you go, you small boys...
For the third game in a row, we’re playing one of the teams who was relegated from League One last season and, like Northampton and Crewe, Hereford are lurking down towards the bottom of the table. However, they’ve recently beaten Bournemouth and drawn with Dagenham, and the last time we played them at Millmoor they beat us with a classic one-nil ‘smash and grab’, so we can’t assume they’re going to be a pushover.
As the first half progresses, though, it looks like that’s exactly the case. Hereford are poor, giving us an awful lot of space and time to play the ball – and we play as well as we have done all season, creating chance after chance. Pope puts a superb ball into Alf’s pass, though he can’t make the most of it, and a couple of minutes later, Ellison slides an equally good ball for Alf to latch on to. One-nil. After that, big Pablo shaves the bar with a shot, Fenton hits the bar and Alf fires narrowly wide. Don, on the other hand, doesn’t make a save until about forty minutes in. We should be four-nil up by half time and it wouldn’t flatter us, but we’re not, and even though Hereford haven’t looked in the least threatening, you still have the nasty feeling that failing to finish our chances could cost us.
Half-time sees a schools five-a-side game in conjunction with some community initiative or other, and a sight which would no doubt have been picked up on camera for Adrian Chiles to have a chuckle over on Match Of The Day 2 if this was the Premier League – my dad playing air guitar to Status Quo’s ‘Whatever You Want’, which, asks the half-time quiz, was part of this week’s top five, but in what year? (Answer at the end – and don’t just scroll to the bottom, that’s cheating...)
Hereford start making substitutions, and show more in the way of attacking intent. We don’t have the freedom we did in the first half, but we still look comfortable. Nick Fenton has to go off with a dead leg, and Pope is replaced by Drewe Broughton, who can’t quite repeat his supersub antics from last week, but has one good chance with a header that he just can’t get enough power into. Alf, meanwhile, has faded a little as the balls to him have begun to dry up. And then, with about thirty seconds to go, we don’t clear a ball in the area and Hereford get an equaliser. The superb first-half performance is forgotten, and the team is booed off the pitch by fans whose expectations are getting rather too high. After all, we’re in the top three, unbeaten at home, averaging two points a game and, in Alf, we have a striker who’s in double figures in early October. Some people are never happy...
Back in Donny, Jenny and I pop into the Corner Pin, which tonight appears to be twinned with Twin Peaks. On the train home, we get talking to the chap sitting opposite us, who’s a southern Leeds fan and something in the legal profession. We have an interesting chap and he has a few things to say about the situations at both Leeds and Notts County, which we’d love him to expand upon, except we’re suddenly at King’s Cross and I have to escort Ted home after a hard day not actually getting to see Darlo play Dagenham. Though, as he points out, at least it means he’s never seen them lose there!
(And the answer to the Status Quo question – 1979. Gold star and a tick if you got it right.)
Monday, 5 October 2009
Drewe Does Crewe
Sometimes you set off for a game with a real feeling of optimism. Other times – well, let’s just say I’ve been to Gresty Road on three previous occasions and never seen us score, let alone win; Crewe took the decision yesterday to sack Gudjon Thordarson (who we once saw at a managers’ forum on the Isle of Man and who proved to be as charming and erudite in a foreign language as Stan Ternant wasn’t in his own...) and replace him with club legend and Jack Duckworth lookalike Dario Gradi and, perhaps most importantly, the referee is one Trevor Kettle. Rotherham fans have a history with Mr Kettle, though we’re not alone in that respect. When Mick Harford was manager we played Barnsley at Oakwell. In the course of the game, Kettle sent off two players during the game and a third after the final whistle and played over an extra minute of stoppage time above what had already been announced, in the course of which Barnsley equalised with a goal which didn’t cross the line – certainly not if the reaction of our keeper that day, the very lovely Neil Cutler, was anythig to go by. We’ve been reffed by him once since then, and won the game, but that was at home to Morecambe, which doesn’t do much for his reputation as a homer... So when I meet Jenny and Joy at Euston, I’m convinced this may well be a fruitless trip. Unlike me, Jenny was at Northampton in midweek – they’ve definitely taken over from Chesterfield as our bogey team, and our performance there was apparently full of uncharacteristic defensive lapses as well as an unstoppable own goal. We’re all hoping that was one of those matches where you get all the silly mistakes you’re going to make for a while out of the way at once.
Fifteen minutes away from Crewe, I get a call from Chris Kirkland to say that the Manchester contingent, aka him and Chris Burrows, have arrived and will be waiting for us on the platform. Meanwhile, my brother lets me know he’s going down to the pub to bag us a table.
This is one of the easiest trips you can make in terms of getting to the ground and a decent pub – turn left out of the station and you’re at Gresty Road within a couple of minutes; five minutes further in the same direction and you reach the British Lion, or as my brother calls it, the British Legion. Sure enough, when we get there, he’s claimed a table, though the pub isn’t particularly busy. It soon starts to fill up, though, and into their second pint of Beartown’s Bearskinful, the boys twig that someone is eating chips. As the pub doesn’t serve food, they check whether people are allowed to bring their own in; they are, so Chris K and Joy take our orders and head off to the rather good chip shop by the ground. ‘This is going to win pub of the year,’ says my brother, tucking into his sausage.
So by the time we leave the pub we’re all in a pretty good mood, despite the slight drizzle in the air, and this persists when the stewards are really helpful when we ask about displaying the flag. Shame the next ninety minutes is going to let us down...
And that certainly seems to be the case when Crewe score after about five minutes. Seems like the defensive lapses have carried over from the other night, as it’s all too easily for their nippy winger to get past Tonge and cross the ball for Steve Schumacher to score. Our equaliser is a little fortuitous; Kevin Ellison’s corner is probably assisted by the blustery wind as it evades everyone, including the Alex keeper, and nestles in the top corner. The Crewe fans seem particularly excited about having Gradi back because they’ve always felt they have some kind of monopoly on playing nice passing football, which they apparently lost when Thordarson took over. Certainly they can string passes together to the extent where the crowd is ‘Olé’-ing, but these moves usually break down without much in the way of an end product. And we’re responding with some decent stuff of our own, though there’s plenty of height in the Crewe team, notably in the shape of their two centre-backs and striker Calvin Zola, who Ronnie actually sold to Crewe when he was at Tranmere, which means the ball is in the air quite a lot of the time.
We get chatting to the bloke at the side of us, who points out how there was always talk of the need to improve the Main Stand at Millmoor, and how Crewe have one stand which is conspicuously better than the rest, but it hasn’t stopped them sliding back into the bottom tier. The converse of this is that they’ve spent much of half time announcing details of their Christmas functions, and having those better facilities enable you to bring in money on non-matchdays, something which can keep a club from sliding into financial difficulties. It’s ironic, as well, given that I’d spent part of the journey up discussing a Channel Five show about stadiums which had featured the Bradford disaster – and how we’d had to get rid of the old stand at Millmoor because it was made of wood and so could have been closed down at any time for safety reasons.
Crewe take the lead again early in the second half; Nick Fenton tries to slide the ball away from Calvin Zola, but it just bounces back to Zola for an easy finish past Don. Heads could drop, but they don’t. Nicky Law is giving Crewe some problems on the wing, but we can’t quite produce a decent opening, and then Crewe hand us one on a plate. Le Fondre takes the ball into the penalty area, but he’s going away from the goal as Harry Worley brings him down from behind. Trevor Kettle awards penalty to away team shocker! Alf dispatches it confidently, and it gives us the lift we needed.
However, what changes the game is a substitution – not always something you’ve been able to say about Ronnie in the past. Mark Robins was always willing to make changes, but what he’d have done here would be bring on Mickey Cummins to shore things up defensively and make sure we come away with a point. Instead, it’s our new best friend Drewe Broughton who’s stripping off several layers of clothing – but not to the extent where Chris Kirkland might have to distract me to protect my morals, fortunately. It’s what Brian, who we used to sit by in the abovementioned old Main Stand, would refer to as ‘bringing on a bit of height and beef’ – Tom Pope, who we bought from Crewe in the summer, has been trying that little bit too hard to prove they were wrong to let him go, and Mr Broughton brings more in the way of physical presence and is harder to knock off the ball. My brother points out after the game that you could see Crewe’s confidence, which is a little fragile after recent results, starting to drain away once Drewe came on. Jenny says Mr B is the sort of player Ronnie will like as they’re in a similar mould; I compare him to Alan Lee, though with less finesse (but a slightly better temperament).
Meanwhile, Crewe have taken off Zola, who must have taken a knock, as I can’t see why they’d sub him for tactical reasons, and brought on Danny Shelley, who appears to have one of my old haircuts. It suits him even less than it suited me...
It’s supersub Drewe who scores the winner – and what a winner it is. He gets the ball with his back to goal, turns and lobs it over the keeper. Cue delirium among the sizeable travelling contingent. We even have chances to extend the lead after that, but Dale Tonge passes when he could have shot, and then we try running the ball into the corner to eat up the three minutes of injury time, something we’ve never been particularly good at. We get away with it, though, and celebrate our first win of Ronnie’s second spell in charge. The consensus is that we probably didn’t deserve it, but then we didn’t deserve to only come away from Chelters with a point, so maybe the results have evened out.
The absent Clarkey has suggested we try the Crewe Arms Hotel after the game as the British Lion won’t be open, but the bar is shut, so, apart from Joy, who’s on an earlier train back, we head to the Brocklehurst on a nearby industrial estate. It’s packed with families making the most of an early evening meal deal, but according to my brother it serves a decent pint of Pedigree and is better than any of the nearby alternatives.
When Jenny and I get back into London, we go to King’s Cross to meet Ted, who’s coming back from Darlo. He wants to try the King Charles I, off Pentonville Road, as it serves Brodie’s (brewed in East London, fact fans) and is getting decent reviews. It’s a quirky little pub; the music is a little loud for us, but it is a Saturday night, after all, and the barman bonds with Ted over their taste in music. We’ll be back there. Funny how sometimes the least promising trips can turn out to be among the best days of the season...
Fifteen minutes away from Crewe, I get a call from Chris Kirkland to say that the Manchester contingent, aka him and Chris Burrows, have arrived and will be waiting for us on the platform. Meanwhile, my brother lets me know he’s going down to the pub to bag us a table.
This is one of the easiest trips you can make in terms of getting to the ground and a decent pub – turn left out of the station and you’re at Gresty Road within a couple of minutes; five minutes further in the same direction and you reach the British Lion, or as my brother calls it, the British Legion. Sure enough, when we get there, he’s claimed a table, though the pub isn’t particularly busy. It soon starts to fill up, though, and into their second pint of Beartown’s Bearskinful, the boys twig that someone is eating chips. As the pub doesn’t serve food, they check whether people are allowed to bring their own in; they are, so Chris K and Joy take our orders and head off to the rather good chip shop by the ground. ‘This is going to win pub of the year,’ says my brother, tucking into his sausage.
So by the time we leave the pub we’re all in a pretty good mood, despite the slight drizzle in the air, and this persists when the stewards are really helpful when we ask about displaying the flag. Shame the next ninety minutes is going to let us down...
And that certainly seems to be the case when Crewe score after about five minutes. Seems like the defensive lapses have carried over from the other night, as it’s all too easily for their nippy winger to get past Tonge and cross the ball for Steve Schumacher to score. Our equaliser is a little fortuitous; Kevin Ellison’s corner is probably assisted by the blustery wind as it evades everyone, including the Alex keeper, and nestles in the top corner. The Crewe fans seem particularly excited about having Gradi back because they’ve always felt they have some kind of monopoly on playing nice passing football, which they apparently lost when Thordarson took over. Certainly they can string passes together to the extent where the crowd is ‘Olé’-ing, but these moves usually break down without much in the way of an end product. And we’re responding with some decent stuff of our own, though there’s plenty of height in the Crewe team, notably in the shape of their two centre-backs and striker Calvin Zola, who Ronnie actually sold to Crewe when he was at Tranmere, which means the ball is in the air quite a lot of the time.
We get chatting to the bloke at the side of us, who points out how there was always talk of the need to improve the Main Stand at Millmoor, and how Crewe have one stand which is conspicuously better than the rest, but it hasn’t stopped them sliding back into the bottom tier. The converse of this is that they’ve spent much of half time announcing details of their Christmas functions, and having those better facilities enable you to bring in money on non-matchdays, something which can keep a club from sliding into financial difficulties. It’s ironic, as well, given that I’d spent part of the journey up discussing a Channel Five show about stadiums which had featured the Bradford disaster – and how we’d had to get rid of the old stand at Millmoor because it was made of wood and so could have been closed down at any time for safety reasons.
Crewe take the lead again early in the second half; Nick Fenton tries to slide the ball away from Calvin Zola, but it just bounces back to Zola for an easy finish past Don. Heads could drop, but they don’t. Nicky Law is giving Crewe some problems on the wing, but we can’t quite produce a decent opening, and then Crewe hand us one on a plate. Le Fondre takes the ball into the penalty area, but he’s going away from the goal as Harry Worley brings him down from behind. Trevor Kettle awards penalty to away team shocker! Alf dispatches it confidently, and it gives us the lift we needed.
However, what changes the game is a substitution – not always something you’ve been able to say about Ronnie in the past. Mark Robins was always willing to make changes, but what he’d have done here would be bring on Mickey Cummins to shore things up defensively and make sure we come away with a point. Instead, it’s our new best friend Drewe Broughton who’s stripping off several layers of clothing – but not to the extent where Chris Kirkland might have to distract me to protect my morals, fortunately. It’s what Brian, who we used to sit by in the abovementioned old Main Stand, would refer to as ‘bringing on a bit of height and beef’ – Tom Pope, who we bought from Crewe in the summer, has been trying that little bit too hard to prove they were wrong to let him go, and Mr Broughton brings more in the way of physical presence and is harder to knock off the ball. My brother points out after the game that you could see Crewe’s confidence, which is a little fragile after recent results, starting to drain away once Drewe came on. Jenny says Mr B is the sort of player Ronnie will like as they’re in a similar mould; I compare him to Alan Lee, though with less finesse (but a slightly better temperament).
Meanwhile, Crewe have taken off Zola, who must have taken a knock, as I can’t see why they’d sub him for tactical reasons, and brought on Danny Shelley, who appears to have one of my old haircuts. It suits him even less than it suited me...
It’s supersub Drewe who scores the winner – and what a winner it is. He gets the ball with his back to goal, turns and lobs it over the keeper. Cue delirium among the sizeable travelling contingent. We even have chances to extend the lead after that, but Dale Tonge passes when he could have shot, and then we try running the ball into the corner to eat up the three minutes of injury time, something we’ve never been particularly good at. We get away with it, though, and celebrate our first win of Ronnie’s second spell in charge. The consensus is that we probably didn’t deserve it, but then we didn’t deserve to only come away from Chelters with a point, so maybe the results have evened out.
The absent Clarkey has suggested we try the Crewe Arms Hotel after the game as the British Lion won’t be open, but the bar is shut, so, apart from Joy, who’s on an earlier train back, we head to the Brocklehurst on a nearby industrial estate. It’s packed with families making the most of an early evening meal deal, but according to my brother it serves a decent pint of Pedigree and is better than any of the nearby alternatives.
When Jenny and I get back into London, we go to King’s Cross to meet Ted, who’s coming back from Darlo. He wants to try the King Charles I, off Pentonville Road, as it serves Brodie’s (brewed in East London, fact fans) and is getting decent reviews. It’s a quirky little pub; the music is a little loud for us, but it is a Saturday night, after all, and the barman bonds with Ted over their taste in music. We’ll be back there. Funny how sometimes the least promising trips can turn out to be among the best days of the season...
Friday, 2 October 2009
Taking Care Of Business
So the puff of white smoke has emerged from the Barbot Hall chimney and Ronnie Moore has been announced as the new manager. While some of the other London Millers are getting really excited at the thought of having him back, I’m simply incandescent with indifference. Given everything he achieved the first time round – followed by the appalling season he put us through when he started being distracted by personal problems – it’ll take quite a bit to convince me that this was the best decision. And, as I make perfectly clear as I’m getting the coffees at King’s Cross, the words ‘king’ and ‘messiah’ are banned, in case people mistake us for sad Newcastle fans.
As with the Morecambe game, it’s Jenny, Steve Ducker and me travelling up, via Donny and Meadowhall. As we pass the DVS, Steve says we should keep an eye out to see whether the hordes are already queuing in anticipation of Ronnie’s return, but as ever the only people walking down to the stadium at this time of day are the waiting staff for the hospitality suite.
We’re almost to the Fat Cat when we realise we’re being followed by Chris Kirkland, resplendent in his yellow away shirt. Also wandering to the pub are a couple of Barnet fans. One of them asks me whether there’s anywhere else where rival fans would go so far from the ground to the pub, but as I tell him (and he can’t help but agree) it’s a good pub.
Surprisingly, it’s less busy than we expected, given the glorious weather, and along with Mr Kyte we find a table in the beer garden. Steve is drinking a pint of Red Molly, which he says he’s chosen as it’s a reference to a character in a Fairport Convention song. The things you learn on a football trip...
Jenny wants to make sure she’s at the ground early to guarantee she gets a programme, and when we arrive at the tram stop the conductor tells us they’re turning a train round as there’s a gap in the service. Cardiff are at Hillsborough – draw your own conclusions. We still have to sit on the tram for a while, but Chris is in contact with Chris Burrows, who’s already in the ground, and puts in an order for programmes. Of course, when we finally get to the DVS there are more programme sellers milling around than we’ve seen in ages, but Chris has already done the business and got everyone who wanted one a ‘Ronnie souvenir special’.
We think we’ll be fighting for space to hang the flag again, but there’s no sign of the Greasebrough Millers or the other odd flags which appear from time to time. Again, Jenny and I bump into our new best friend Drewe Broughton, but this time we don’t have to ask him to move anywhere. He probably just thinks we’re stalking him now...
Everything is building up to the big moment – no, not kick-off, but Ronnie being introduced to the crowd. He gets the expected massive ovation as he makes his way to the directors’ box, thugh there’s a little scepticism about his appointment in our corner of the family stand, but today isn’t about him, really; it’s about the team Steve Thornber and Paul Warne have put out in their last game as caretakers and whether they can achieve anything against a Barnet team who did the double over us last season.
Within five minutes it seems they might, as Kevin Ellison makes a well-timed run from behind the Barnet defence; Alf slips the ball into his path and it’s a simple finish. However, I seem to recall that last season we took the lead against this lot really early on and then got complacent. No such behaviour today, though. We’re managing to keep their main threatxs, winger Albert Adomah and Paul Furlong, 75, quiet. Barnet are a bit of a dirty team, but the ref is letting a lot of stuff go – as my dad points out towards the end of the game, he gives Barnet all the decisions in the first half and us all the decisions in the second. They have one good chance, but Don makes the only real save they force him into for the whole game. We double the lead when Pope takes the ball down the wing and Nicky Law, who missed such a good chance to win the game at Chelters last week, gets it right this time, dinking the ball over the keeper.
Amazingly, the half-time draw is a Chuckle Brothers-free zone – I’d like to think that they’ve escaped from wherever they’re being held captive by sawing off their feet with a big two-handled saw, saying, ‘To me, to you,’ as they do, but the truth is they’re probably off somewhere rehearsing for the panto season. Instead, ex-player Mark Todd does the honours and we’re treated to another underwhelming display from the four-woman Millers Dance Troupe, or whatever they’re called this week.
In the second half, Barnet continue to huff and puff. Dale Tonge gets a blow to the head and has to be replaced by Mark Lynch, while Pope, who’s put in a good, solid shift, is substituted for Ryan Taylor. Taylor has a couple of chances, and Ellison, who’s definitely the man of the match today, skews the ball horribly wide, though we can’t decide whether he was shooting or crossing. Le Fondre gets our third goal, again beating the offside trap, before being replaced by Warney in what could well be a vanity substitution. Again, Barnet have only had one really good chance in the half, and it’s probably our most assured performance of the season so far.
Back at the tram stop, we just miss one and have to wait ages for the next – obviously they still haven’t sorted out the service after whatever happened earlier. However, we get a fast train to Donny, so we’ll still have time for all the vital tasks – a pint, a Green ’Un and a sandwich. I get a text from my brother to say that Colin Todd has left Darlo. Ted hasn’t bothered with their trip to Grimsby today – his theory is that they’ve won so well there over the last few seasons without his presence that the time he turns up is the time they’ll lose. They’ve drawn, as I find out when I bump into Ted’s mate Martin on Donny station. He’s resigned to the situation (no pun intended), but his main priority at the moment is nipping off to get some chips before he catches his train back to London.
Again, we wring the maximum entertainment value from the Green ’Un on the way home, though after last week’s De-da Derby much of the paper is taken up with United and Wednesday fans sniping at each other. We can just sit back and enjoy it, knowing who’s really supporting the best team in Sheffield...
As with the Morecambe game, it’s Jenny, Steve Ducker and me travelling up, via Donny and Meadowhall. As we pass the DVS, Steve says we should keep an eye out to see whether the hordes are already queuing in anticipation of Ronnie’s return, but as ever the only people walking down to the stadium at this time of day are the waiting staff for the hospitality suite.
We’re almost to the Fat Cat when we realise we’re being followed by Chris Kirkland, resplendent in his yellow away shirt. Also wandering to the pub are a couple of Barnet fans. One of them asks me whether there’s anywhere else where rival fans would go so far from the ground to the pub, but as I tell him (and he can’t help but agree) it’s a good pub.
Surprisingly, it’s less busy than we expected, given the glorious weather, and along with Mr Kyte we find a table in the beer garden. Steve is drinking a pint of Red Molly, which he says he’s chosen as it’s a reference to a character in a Fairport Convention song. The things you learn on a football trip...
Jenny wants to make sure she’s at the ground early to guarantee she gets a programme, and when we arrive at the tram stop the conductor tells us they’re turning a train round as there’s a gap in the service. Cardiff are at Hillsborough – draw your own conclusions. We still have to sit on the tram for a while, but Chris is in contact with Chris Burrows, who’s already in the ground, and puts in an order for programmes. Of course, when we finally get to the DVS there are more programme sellers milling around than we’ve seen in ages, but Chris has already done the business and got everyone who wanted one a ‘Ronnie souvenir special’.
We think we’ll be fighting for space to hang the flag again, but there’s no sign of the Greasebrough Millers or the other odd flags which appear from time to time. Again, Jenny and I bump into our new best friend Drewe Broughton, but this time we don’t have to ask him to move anywhere. He probably just thinks we’re stalking him now...
Everything is building up to the big moment – no, not kick-off, but Ronnie being introduced to the crowd. He gets the expected massive ovation as he makes his way to the directors’ box, thugh there’s a little scepticism about his appointment in our corner of the family stand, but today isn’t about him, really; it’s about the team Steve Thornber and Paul Warne have put out in their last game as caretakers and whether they can achieve anything against a Barnet team who did the double over us last season.
Within five minutes it seems they might, as Kevin Ellison makes a well-timed run from behind the Barnet defence; Alf slips the ball into his path and it’s a simple finish. However, I seem to recall that last season we took the lead against this lot really early on and then got complacent. No such behaviour today, though. We’re managing to keep their main threatxs, winger Albert Adomah and Paul Furlong, 75, quiet. Barnet are a bit of a dirty team, but the ref is letting a lot of stuff go – as my dad points out towards the end of the game, he gives Barnet all the decisions in the first half and us all the decisions in the second. They have one good chance, but Don makes the only real save they force him into for the whole game. We double the lead when Pope takes the ball down the wing and Nicky Law, who missed such a good chance to win the game at Chelters last week, gets it right this time, dinking the ball over the keeper.
Amazingly, the half-time draw is a Chuckle Brothers-free zone – I’d like to think that they’ve escaped from wherever they’re being held captive by sawing off their feet with a big two-handled saw, saying, ‘To me, to you,’ as they do, but the truth is they’re probably off somewhere rehearsing for the panto season. Instead, ex-player Mark Todd does the honours and we’re treated to another underwhelming display from the four-woman Millers Dance Troupe, or whatever they’re called this week.
In the second half, Barnet continue to huff and puff. Dale Tonge gets a blow to the head and has to be replaced by Mark Lynch, while Pope, who’s put in a good, solid shift, is substituted for Ryan Taylor. Taylor has a couple of chances, and Ellison, who’s definitely the man of the match today, skews the ball horribly wide, though we can’t decide whether he was shooting or crossing. Le Fondre gets our third goal, again beating the offside trap, before being replaced by Warney in what could well be a vanity substitution. Again, Barnet have only had one really good chance in the half, and it’s probably our most assured performance of the season so far.
Back at the tram stop, we just miss one and have to wait ages for the next – obviously they still haven’t sorted out the service after whatever happened earlier. However, we get a fast train to Donny, so we’ll still have time for all the vital tasks – a pint, a Green ’Un and a sandwich. I get a text from my brother to say that Colin Todd has left Darlo. Ted hasn’t bothered with their trip to Grimsby today – his theory is that they’ve won so well there over the last few seasons without his presence that the time he turns up is the time they’ll lose. They’ve drawn, as I find out when I bump into Ted’s mate Martin on Donny station. He’s resigned to the situation (no pun intended), but his main priority at the moment is nipping off to get some chips before he catches his train back to London.
Again, we wring the maximum entertainment value from the Green ’Un on the way home, though after last week’s De-da Derby much of the paper is taken up with United and Wednesday fans sniping at each other. We can just sit back and enjoy it, knowing who’s really supporting the best team in Sheffield...
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