For the second consecutive season the Millers away match in Devon has a poor London Millers following. Last season’s match in Exeter was on a Tuesday night in November which made travel from London nigh on impossible and although this season’s visit to Torquay is on a Saturday the return options by public transport aren’t any better. This means representation will just be a couple of us resident in the West Country (or so I thought… more later). I’m driving down from Cheltenham and meeting up with Dave Bates, the North Devon branch at Tiverton Parkway station.
I end up leaving home a bit later than planned. We are having our en suite bathroom refurbished after our shower decided to blow up and the plumber has turned up this morning to start ripping the old one out. It’s raining heavily as I leave and the forecast for the day isn’t good so I’m just hoping the match is still on. The one big advantage of having the game in Devon in November is that at least the M5 is clear and not full of holiday makers with caravans trying to get down to the South West.
Just south of Bristol I get a call from Dave telling me he’s running about twenty minutes late as he’s been delayed due to an accident on the way from Barnstaple. This means that even with my late start I still have time to ‘turn my bike round’ at Sedgmoor services. Ignoring the signs at Tiverton Parkway saying the main car park is full and to use the overspill car park I head for the main car park and manage to find a space. Less than five minutes later my phone goes and it’s Dave. He’s just arrived and is checking which car park I’m in. The rain gets heavier as I get out to buy a pay and display ticket and transfer over to Dave’s car. First Great Western have introduced parking fees in the car park - no doubt a way of recouping some of the lost income resulting from the below inflation fare rises imposed by the government but £3.90 for 24 hours is cheap compared with the petrol I’m saving by Dave driving the last leg so I’m not complaining.
Dave has brought along his mate, Andy, who is actually a Chelsea fan but is often dragged along by Dave to see the Millers. Andy is a true Chelsea fan and has followed them from long before the Premiership glory days and was actually on the Railway End at Millmoor when Rotherham famously beat Chelsea six-nil in the Eighties. The obligatory ribbing about this one out of the way we are back heading down the M5. We are heading for The Linny Inn, a pub in Coffinswell just north of Torquay which is the local of Dave’s Torquay-supporting mate, Richard, and conveniently does real ale. The instructions we have are to turn left at the brown sign by the garage selling cars on the A380!
Surprisingly these instructions work and after heading up some narrow country lanes where we are convinced we must have gone wrong we find the pub. It’s still raining as hard as ever as we dash across the car park and go inside. The pub is very much a dining pub with all the tables full of people tucking in to lunchtime meals. The steak and kidney pudding looks good but that’s not what we are here for.
We ensconce ourselves at the bar where we have a choice of two hand pumps. Dave goes for the Bass whilst I go for the Sharps Doom Bar, as the obligatory omen beer. Simon the landlord has been tipped off we were coming and it turns out he’s originally from Hammersmith so he soon starts discussing London football with Andy. Richard soon wanders in with his son, Seb. Richard is a friend of Ray Bishop, who used to play alongside Ronnie Moore during Ronnie’s brief spell at Cardiff City. Ray moved to Torquay to finish his career and still lives in the town and as a result Ray and Richard had been invited by Ronnie to take the kids along to meet the team at their hotel this morning. Richard has a camera phone full of picture taken with Ronnie and the players and an autograph book full of signatures that we struggle to decipher even with the players having written their squad numbers alongside. This is why I never became a professional footballer - not because my ball skills are next to none but the fact that I can’t do a totally illegible autograph.
Meanwhile the rain beats down outside and we wonder if the game will still go ahead but as there is no phone reception we have no way of knowing. Dave is driving and is determined not to miss kick off so at 2:15 decides against having more beer but Andy and I still have time for a swift third pint.
Dave gets directions from Richard on the quickest way from the pub to the ground and even though we take a wrong turn down one of the narrow country lanes we are still at Plainmoor in good time. Conveniently Dave finds a parking space by a parade of shops just round the corner from the ground. The sign says maximum one hour parking but he is confident that he won’t get a parking ticket. I’m not so sure as Torquay is one of the few places where I have received a parking ticket but as it’s still raining the traffic wardens are probably not out and about. So we leave the car and wander up to the ground.
Torquay have put a roof on the away terrace since my last visit in 2000 but even so it’s not helping much today. The wind is coming straight at us and the hardy Rotherham fans who have made the journey down are huddling at the back of the terrace to try and keep dry. Liz hasn’t trusted me with the London Millers flag today so I don’t have to try and find somewhere dry to hang it. After avoiding Port Vale last week for the warmer climes of England’s match in Dubai the Tivoli Millers are here with their flag today and it is taking a real soaking.
Walking along looking for a decent place to stand I suddenly spot the Sydney Branch of the London Millers. Dave Finnis, who always comes over at least once a year and tries to cram in as many Millers games as possible landed at Heathrow at silly o’clock this morning and has driven straight here to catch the game. Dave F hasn’t seen the Millers since last season so I quickly explain to him who the new boys are and who he’ll recognise from before. If I was doing this in some form of Venn diagram Paul Warne would be the intersecting sector as both a face Dave would recognise but also a new boy.
The main team changes from last week are Ryan Taylor is up front in place of Drewe Broughton and Lynch has replaced the injured Dale Tonge at right back. The match kicks off with Rotherham playing into the wind and driving rain. The ball is certainly splashing about in the centre and we wonder if the game will actually finish if it carries on like this. It’s Torquay who cope better with the conditions, producing some nice fast passing football while Rotherham struggle to string passes together. Halfway though the first half Paul Warne takes a heavy challenge and has to go off and is replaced by little Stephen Brogan who came on last week as a super sub. Despite lots of Torquay pressure Rotherham defend solidly and we go in at half time still nil-nil.
At half time Dave B gets a call from Richard who is behind the opposite goal. Richard is wearing a fluorescent yellow coat so we have no difficulty spotting him and all wave madly.
Over half time the wind and rain ease off with the Millers now having advantage of what wind there is. Rotherham start the half looking a little brighter but are soon under pressure again with Warrington having to pull off a string of fine saves. We are denied two good penalty shouts. The first when Law is brought down just inside the area as he is about to shoot and then an arm gets in the way of a Rotherham cross.
Ronnie makes a couple of substitutions with new boy and reformed alcoholic Gary Roberts coming on for Pablo Mills and Tom Pope replacing Ryan Taylor. The changes seen to make a difference, and with five minutes to go Alf has a shot blocked by the keeper’s knees and Kevin ‘Voldemort’ Ellison is quickest to the rebound and fires home. Fortunately, Liz is not there to see the flesh-exposing shirt over the head sliding into mud goal celebration. I’m going to be in for a last five minutes of blowing especially as Torquay proceed to fire a shot against the bar but finally in stoppage time I can relax. Alf gets the ball in the middle of the Torquay half, heads towards the penalty area and lofts the ball over the advancing keeper. The ball goes up and seems to hang in the air forever before landing in the net. Cue wild celebrations followed shortly by the final whistle.
Dave F, who’s still jet lagged after his 11,000 mile trip, makes a swift getaway and Dave B, Andy and I head back through the rain to see if Dave’s car has been ticketed. Fortunately, it hasn’t. We are back at the car in time toget the full classified results on 5 Live. Andy is also happy as Chelsea have won.
The traffic heading away from Plainmoor is solid and stationary so Dave makes a swift U turn and uses his local knowledge to find an alternative route out of town. We find a route where at least the traffic is flowing. We get another call from Richard ‘congratulating’ us on our victory. We admit to him we were lucky and the big difference between the two sides was we had someone who could put the ball in the back of the net. Before you know it, we are pulling off the motorway at Tiverton. I bid farewell to Dave and Andy and make use of the station facilities before getting into my car to head back home via the Chinese takeaway opposite Cheltenham station.
Wednesday, 25 November 2009
Monday, 16 November 2009
Reap The Wild Wind
To Euston bright and early, to meet up with John Kirkland and Chris Turner, the latter of whom turns out to be, unsually for him, feeling a little queasy after his Friday night out. As I wait for them, I spot my first ever Hayes and Yeading fans, who are going up to Wrexham, so that’s my excitement for the day out of the way already. We’re all expecting there to be some disruption on the trains, given that the country is experiencing bad weather of plagues of Egypt proportions, but everything’s nicely on time. On the way to Stoke, we discuss the big story in the papers, which is that the official dietary guidelines are wrong and we’re all able to have an extra four hundred calories a day without compromising our waistlines. The boys, of course, have worked out this means they could have those calories in the form of two pints of beer...
The Manchester Millers and my brother are waiting for us on Stoke station. They’re easy to spot as Kirkland Junior is, as ever, wearing last season’s glow-in-the-dark yellow away shirt. Fifteen minutes later we’re in Longport, trudging up the hill to the Bulls Head. I reckon the walk gives us another fifty calories on top of our extra allowance... Coming into Burslem, we pass the British Pole Dancing Academy. Chris T is disappointed to note that there are stairs down from the front entrance, and not a pole to slide down.
The pub is already open and as welcoming of away fans as ever, with the barbecue up and running in the back garden, all the guest beers having a Remembrance Day theme and the sloe wine too tempting to ignore. Robert informs me of Katie’s instructions to him before leaving for the day: ‘Don’t shout too loudly, Daddy, just point. Tell them which way to go.’ It’s lovely advice, but she’s too young to realise that we’re playing a team who are managed by Mickey Adams, and therefore discreet pointing is not an option!
As the session progresses, we’re joined by Martin Burton, who has Freddie with him. We need to make sure we leave in good time, as Vale Park is one of these grounds where you have to buy your ticket before you get to the turnstile, but just as we’re about to go, the ‘last orders’ bell is rung. We’re not all being turfed out at half-past two; instead, the landlord is making a collection, as the pub’s long-time assistant barman died recently. The money raised will go to the hospital which looked after him. Normally, I don’t put anything in a collection directly before a game, because when I do we always lose, but in these circumstances it would be churlish not to chip in.
Once in the away end, Robert and I tie the flag to the netting covering the front rows of seats, but the wind is already getting up and it won’t stay properly anchored for long. At least it’s directly behind the goal, so it may end up in a photo or two. The Port Vale mascot, Boomer the dog, is wandering round joshing with the away fans, and decides to blow me some kisses and do the Vic Reeves leg-rubbing routine. Has nobody told him I’m a cat person?
Vale run out to ‘Let Me Entertain You’, the only team who are really entitled to do so given Robbie Williams’ love and financial assistance for the club. He’s been in the country for the last few days, but there’s no sign of him soaking up the pre-match atmosphere. Rotherham are attacking the away end in the first half, which means we’re treated to the sight of Vale keeper Chris Martin, still the proud possessor of the biggest bottom in league football. Warney is playing in midfield instead of Danny Harrison, and Nicky Law is back after whatever forced him off at Wealdstone. We’re looking quite lively, but early in the half Kevin Ellison is injured and has to be substituted, with Stephen Brogan replacing him. Alf has a good opportunity to score but his shot is wild. Apart from that, about the only incident of note comes when Drewe Broughton decides to remove his vest mid-pitch, and Chris K forgets he should be preserving my moral well-being by distracting me from yet another exhibition of gratuitious male nudity. If Ted was writing this, there’d be some rant involving the words ‘big vest-wearing jessie’. I’m saying nothing...
We take the lead when Dale Tonge puts in an inviting cross and Brogan nips in front of the now vestless Broughton to head it in. His celebration goes on forever; the Vale fans may think he’s over-egging it, but this is his first goal since that horrible injury at Milton Keynes, and you can see just how much it means to him.
Unfortunately, the lead only lasts about five minutes, and their goal is a carbon copy of ours, with Luke Prosser heading in a cross from the right. After that, it all gets a bit silly for a few minutes. The ref (a Mr Quinn, who’s about my height and is being assisted by our old friend Ms Iringhova, who must be a late sub as she’s not listed in the programme). Nick Fenton is fouled (as with all Mickey Adams teams, there is a tendency for what some might call fierce tackling and others – us, mostly, but we’re not bitter – clogging), and a melee ensues, at the end of which three players have been booked, including Fenton himself and Prosser. A couple of minutes later, Prosser tugs Alf’s shirt to stop him getting past him, and is sent off for his pains. The Rotherham contingent gets excited, but as we know from the Notts County game the other week, having the extra man doesn’t always work in your favour.
The half-time entertainment involves a game of Play Your Cards Right with the away end, which is like having dear old Tom Coley with us all over again. The good news is that Freddie is chosen to play and the game is blatantly fixed in his favour, which means he wins a little Port Vale Boomer toy.
It’s ten-past four by the time the second half kicks off, and the wind is now a good two-thirds up the Beaufort Scale. It’s also blowing towards us, which will clearly help even out our one-man advantage. Fortunately, no players are wearing red boots, because they run the risk of a flying farmhouse bearing Dorothy and Toto landing on their heads...
The one good thing about the wind is Ronnie has claimed in recent games that we’ve relied on lumping the ball up to Drewe Broughton. Today, it’s just going to come swirling straight back at us if we try that, so we’re forced to play a passing game, which we’re actually rather good at. Even though we have the majority of possession, Port Vale defend doggedly and do their best to hit us on the break, although they don’t force Don into too many saves. Stephen Brogan is forced to change his shirt, but that’s because he’s got blood on it (it turns out he damaged his nose scoring the goal) and he does it much more discreetly than Mr Broughton. Andy Nicholas is booked: we’re convinced it’s simply for being a foot taller than the referee. The Vale fans are chanting ‘Mickey Adams’ black-and-white army’ relentlessly, convinced (as we are by now) that they’re going to hold out for a heroic point. My brother has completely forgotten Katie’s instruction about not shouting too loudly, and when they sing ‘There’s only one Mickey Adams,’ his response is one which would blister paint. Then, two minutes into stoppage time, Nicky Law gets the ball on the edge of the box and slots it past Martin. Now all you can hear is Rotherham fans singing ‘Ooh ah, Nicky Law’ and the sound of furious e-mails to Praise Or Grumble calling for Ronnie’s head being deleted, probably...
There’s time for a quick one in the Bulls Head before the trot down the hill to Longport. A group of teenagers loitering outside an off-licence try to menace us, but we’re too old and wily to respond. Shouldn’t they all be at home watching the England friendly or Strictly Come Dancing anyway?
On the train back to Stoke, we chat to a Vale fan who lives in Brighton. He’s gracious in defeat and tells us we’re one of the best teams he’s seen this season. We wish him luck for their Cup replay against Stevenage in the week.
At Stoke, we go our separate ways. John, Chris T and I enjoy a peaceful journey back, slowly working our way through the 47 different sections that come with his Times. There’s absolutely nothing in the sports supplement to suggest League Two might exist apart from the list of fixtures, but when was that ever any different? We’ve had a nice trip, been to one of our favourite pubs and seen the team win – what more could we ask for?
The Manchester Millers and my brother are waiting for us on Stoke station. They’re easy to spot as Kirkland Junior is, as ever, wearing last season’s glow-in-the-dark yellow away shirt. Fifteen minutes later we’re in Longport, trudging up the hill to the Bulls Head. I reckon the walk gives us another fifty calories on top of our extra allowance... Coming into Burslem, we pass the British Pole Dancing Academy. Chris T is disappointed to note that there are stairs down from the front entrance, and not a pole to slide down.
The pub is already open and as welcoming of away fans as ever, with the barbecue up and running in the back garden, all the guest beers having a Remembrance Day theme and the sloe wine too tempting to ignore. Robert informs me of Katie’s instructions to him before leaving for the day: ‘Don’t shout too loudly, Daddy, just point. Tell them which way to go.’ It’s lovely advice, but she’s too young to realise that we’re playing a team who are managed by Mickey Adams, and therefore discreet pointing is not an option!
As the session progresses, we’re joined by Martin Burton, who has Freddie with him. We need to make sure we leave in good time, as Vale Park is one of these grounds where you have to buy your ticket before you get to the turnstile, but just as we’re about to go, the ‘last orders’ bell is rung. We’re not all being turfed out at half-past two; instead, the landlord is making a collection, as the pub’s long-time assistant barman died recently. The money raised will go to the hospital which looked after him. Normally, I don’t put anything in a collection directly before a game, because when I do we always lose, but in these circumstances it would be churlish not to chip in.
Once in the away end, Robert and I tie the flag to the netting covering the front rows of seats, but the wind is already getting up and it won’t stay properly anchored for long. At least it’s directly behind the goal, so it may end up in a photo or two. The Port Vale mascot, Boomer the dog, is wandering round joshing with the away fans, and decides to blow me some kisses and do the Vic Reeves leg-rubbing routine. Has nobody told him I’m a cat person?
Vale run out to ‘Let Me Entertain You’, the only team who are really entitled to do so given Robbie Williams’ love and financial assistance for the club. He’s been in the country for the last few days, but there’s no sign of him soaking up the pre-match atmosphere. Rotherham are attacking the away end in the first half, which means we’re treated to the sight of Vale keeper Chris Martin, still the proud possessor of the biggest bottom in league football. Warney is playing in midfield instead of Danny Harrison, and Nicky Law is back after whatever forced him off at Wealdstone. We’re looking quite lively, but early in the half Kevin Ellison is injured and has to be substituted, with Stephen Brogan replacing him. Alf has a good opportunity to score but his shot is wild. Apart from that, about the only incident of note comes when Drewe Broughton decides to remove his vest mid-pitch, and Chris K forgets he should be preserving my moral well-being by distracting me from yet another exhibition of gratuitious male nudity. If Ted was writing this, there’d be some rant involving the words ‘big vest-wearing jessie’. I’m saying nothing...
We take the lead when Dale Tonge puts in an inviting cross and Brogan nips in front of the now vestless Broughton to head it in. His celebration goes on forever; the Vale fans may think he’s over-egging it, but this is his first goal since that horrible injury at Milton Keynes, and you can see just how much it means to him.
Unfortunately, the lead only lasts about five minutes, and their goal is a carbon copy of ours, with Luke Prosser heading in a cross from the right. After that, it all gets a bit silly for a few minutes. The ref (a Mr Quinn, who’s about my height and is being assisted by our old friend Ms Iringhova, who must be a late sub as she’s not listed in the programme). Nick Fenton is fouled (as with all Mickey Adams teams, there is a tendency for what some might call fierce tackling and others – us, mostly, but we’re not bitter – clogging), and a melee ensues, at the end of which three players have been booked, including Fenton himself and Prosser. A couple of minutes later, Prosser tugs Alf’s shirt to stop him getting past him, and is sent off for his pains. The Rotherham contingent gets excited, but as we know from the Notts County game the other week, having the extra man doesn’t always work in your favour.
The half-time entertainment involves a game of Play Your Cards Right with the away end, which is like having dear old Tom Coley with us all over again. The good news is that Freddie is chosen to play and the game is blatantly fixed in his favour, which means he wins a little Port Vale Boomer toy.
It’s ten-past four by the time the second half kicks off, and the wind is now a good two-thirds up the Beaufort Scale. It’s also blowing towards us, which will clearly help even out our one-man advantage. Fortunately, no players are wearing red boots, because they run the risk of a flying farmhouse bearing Dorothy and Toto landing on their heads...
The one good thing about the wind is Ronnie has claimed in recent games that we’ve relied on lumping the ball up to Drewe Broughton. Today, it’s just going to come swirling straight back at us if we try that, so we’re forced to play a passing game, which we’re actually rather good at. Even though we have the majority of possession, Port Vale defend doggedly and do their best to hit us on the break, although they don’t force Don into too many saves. Stephen Brogan is forced to change his shirt, but that’s because he’s got blood on it (it turns out he damaged his nose scoring the goal) and he does it much more discreetly than Mr Broughton. Andy Nicholas is booked: we’re convinced it’s simply for being a foot taller than the referee. The Vale fans are chanting ‘Mickey Adams’ black-and-white army’ relentlessly, convinced (as we are by now) that they’re going to hold out for a heroic point. My brother has completely forgotten Katie’s instruction about not shouting too loudly, and when they sing ‘There’s only one Mickey Adams,’ his response is one which would blister paint. Then, two minutes into stoppage time, Nicky Law gets the ball on the edge of the box and slots it past Martin. Now all you can hear is Rotherham fans singing ‘Ooh ah, Nicky Law’ and the sound of furious e-mails to Praise Or Grumble calling for Ronnie’s head being deleted, probably...
There’s time for a quick one in the Bulls Head before the trot down the hill to Longport. A group of teenagers loitering outside an off-licence try to menace us, but we’re too old and wily to respond. Shouldn’t they all be at home watching the England friendly or Strictly Come Dancing anyway?
On the train back to Stoke, we chat to a Vale fan who lives in Brighton. He’s gracious in defeat and tells us we’re one of the best teams he’s seen this season. We wish him luck for their Cup replay against Stevenage in the week.
At Stoke, we go our separate ways. John, Chris T and I enjoy a peaceful journey back, slowly working our way through the 47 different sections that come with his Times. There’s absolutely nothing in the sports supplement to suggest League Two might exist apart from the list of fixtures, but when was that ever any different? We’ve had a nice trip, been to one of our favourite pubs and seen the team win – what more could we ask for?
Tuesday, 10 November 2009
Stone Me!
Checking the results of the FA Cup qualifying ties on the way back from Bury, we were joking about the possibility of playing Wealdstone, and which end Tim would stand in if we did. You see, Tim’s another of the two-club brigade, having been following the nomadic Stones for many years after settling on them as the non-league alternative to watching Rotherham on a Saturday. So when we were actually drawn against them, I almost fell off the sofa cheering. That was before I realised quite how tiny their ground is and quite how few tickets we were going to be allocated and quite how many London Millers were going to want to go, and that all of this would suddenly become my problem. Everything seemed sorted, until Tim rings me to let me know Steve Czajewski has broken his ankle (we can only speculate how, but knowing Steve the reason is going to be bizarre...) and won’t be coming. I’ve got Mike Todd as the reserve if anyone dropped out, but when I contact him he’s made other plans instead. It’s not a problem, as Tim’s mate David, the Watford fan, will take it off my hands. David’s a good lad. He once drove us up to Rotherham and back, watched us beat Watford 2-1 and drove us back without succumbing to the temptation to leave us behind at Trowell services.
Wealdstone play in Ruislip, a place I’ve only visited once before, to interview a couple of adult babies, but now is perhaps not the time to go into my past existence. It’s a fair schlep from east to west, and when I get off the Central Line at Ruislip Gardens it’s to discover that only three other people have done so and not one of them is going in the general direction of the ground. However, the instructions are to look out for the pillar box at the end of Grosvenor Vale, the road which leads to the club, and the milling throng of six or seven people turning that way suggest I’m in the right place. And then I spot Chris Burrows, who’s come over from Ruislip proper. The first piece of the jigsaw falls into place...
The ground itself is a scene of organised chaos, with people queuing to collect tickets and/or have their faces painted. If I’m not careful, I’ll stand still for two minutes and come away with blue and white warpaint, like Mel Gibson in Braveheart. I spot Mark Hitchens, who helped sort out my ticket order, and go over to thank him. He tells me Rotherham actually had a few tickets left, so maybe I needn’t have been quite so worried about getting all the ones I needed.
Tim’s already in the social club, and points us in the direction of the Kirklands, who’ve commandeered a table in the corner. For the next hour or so, I dish out tickets. At half-past two, Diamond rings to say he’s only at Rayner’s Lane, but I assure him he’ll be with us well before kick-off, and he is. The rest of the assembled cast include Clarkey, Ian Armitage, Mick Walker, Andy Leng, Chris Turner, Phil the darts ringer, Martin Burton, Richard Burton, Phil Kyte, Watford Dan, Nigel Hall, Steve Exley, Rob Elston and Julia. We’re just waiting for Toddy and Graham and Brown (who, typically for Toddy, is only one person), but they’re coming up from the Cenotaph, having been there to remember fallen comrades, and could be anywhere. In the end, Tim takes their tickets so he can leave them on the gate if necessary – a) because he knows the people who know the people at Wealdstone and b) it will enable him to miss kick-off, which is his preferred method of watching a game. This gives me the opportunity to go and find somewhere to put the flag. Before we can fasten it to the fence, we’re approached by a camera crew for some Internet site (as Jenny isn’t with me, I know it won’t have a name like ‘two girls, one flag’) who film me, the Kirklands and Chris B holding it and singing, ‘Rotherham, Rotherham’. Having duly made fools of ourselves, we go back to what we’re doing.
We congregate on a little bit of concrete stand close to the corner flag. It’s a good place to stand, as it’s where the subs come to do their warming-up, which gives Clarkey the chance to bond with Paul Warne. Fortunately, Drewe Broughton (or Dave, as the programme has it) is in the starting line-up, otherwise we’d have been right behind his stretching routine and there might be minors present... By this time, Toddy and Graham and Brown have arrived. Toddy flashes us his medals. Graham, who’s a Southend fan, is more interested in whether ‘Drewe the legend’ is playing, and is delighted to see that he is.
The game quickly develops into a classic league against non-league cup tie. Wealdstone are determined to give us no time to settle, putting in some crunching tackles, one of which will eventually see Nicky Law being substituted at half-time. Like Barnet, they have a slope, and we’re kicking down it in the first half. When Kevin Ellison goes to take a corner, we hear the assistant referee telling him to put it further in the D. ‘It’s only supposed to touch the line,’ Lord Voldemort responds in his scarily high-pitched Scouse accent. Meanwhile, more subs have come to warm up. Mark Lynch is doing some weird skippy dance and the two Taylors, Jason and Ryan, are doing more chatting than stretching, like they’ve been let out of school early.
Andy reckons we need a goal to settle us down, but it doesn’t come for half an hour, and when it does, it’s a moment of pure comedy. Alfie, running on to the ball, trips, does a full forward roll, picks himself up and carries on. The keeper tries to clear the ball, which bounces against the Le Fondre backside and goes in. As we celebrate, we try to decide whether we want him to perform a cartwheel or a somersault before his next attempt.
Just before half-time, we’re two up. A clearance falls kindly to Kevin Ellison, who lashes in a thunderous shot. It seems like all the lucky breaks other teams have had against us in recent matches are now going our way, and we’re not complaining.
They’ve just done the draw for the second round and if we get through this tie (which quite a few people are still expecting us not to), we’ll be at home to either Luton or Rochdale. I’m convinced it will be Luton, simply as karma for all the people who were singing, ‘We’ll never play you again,’ when we beat them at Kenilworth Road back in March.
For the second half, we’re joined by a few Wealdstone fans who’ve moved round from the end behind the goal, and a man who claims to have Drewe Broughton’s phone number. Toddy promptly offers to buy it from him for a pound. Like Barnet, the Stones know how to use the slope to their advantage, and they bring on Danny Spendlove. He may have a porno name and a haircut to match, but he runs at our defence at pace and they don’t like it. It’s also his throw which starts the move which sees Ryan Ashe pull a goal back with a lovely curling effort.
Clarkey starts to get more shouty and exasperated as Wealdstone continue to attack, while Toddy starts asking how much time is left every couple of minutes. Graham is still confident that ‘the legend’ will do something for us, and he’s proved right. Teeny tiny Stephen Brogan comes on for his first appearance of the season with a few minutes to go, and when we get a rare free kick, he’s the one who takes it. Mr Broughton heads it in, much to the delight of the chap who’s got his number, although Wealdstone have clearly got it in for poor old Drewe, as they announce Brogan as the scorer.
‘Easy, easy,’ chants a visibly more relaxed Toddy. I tell him to shut up, because that’s obviously what provokes Wealdstone into a response. We give Ashe too much time to line up another shot, this one even better than the first. I do something I never normally do, which is applaud an opposition goal. Perhaps it’s because he’s non-league, or perhaps it’s because I sense it’s not going to make any difference. Even though the ref adds four minutes on, we manage to get the ball upfield where we can fanny about in the corner with it, and for the first time in a thousand years we’re through to the second round. Magnanimous in victory, we make sure to applaud every last Wealdstone player off the pitch, as they’ve played so well and pushed us all the way. I suspect we’d have been much more comfortable winners if the tie had been played at the DVS, but we’ll never know.
After a swift one in the packed social club, during the course of which we spot various of the Wealdstone players coming in, suited and booted, to meet family and friends, I make a move. Outside, Andy Nicholas is being interviewed by some member of the press or other, and the rest of the players are on the team bus, ready to go. Even allowing for a points failure on the District Line, I’m sure I’ll be home well before they are. Bring on the Luton, or the Dale. Round two beckons...
Wealdstone play in Ruislip, a place I’ve only visited once before, to interview a couple of adult babies, but now is perhaps not the time to go into my past existence. It’s a fair schlep from east to west, and when I get off the Central Line at Ruislip Gardens it’s to discover that only three other people have done so and not one of them is going in the general direction of the ground. However, the instructions are to look out for the pillar box at the end of Grosvenor Vale, the road which leads to the club, and the milling throng of six or seven people turning that way suggest I’m in the right place. And then I spot Chris Burrows, who’s come over from Ruislip proper. The first piece of the jigsaw falls into place...
The ground itself is a scene of organised chaos, with people queuing to collect tickets and/or have their faces painted. If I’m not careful, I’ll stand still for two minutes and come away with blue and white warpaint, like Mel Gibson in Braveheart. I spot Mark Hitchens, who helped sort out my ticket order, and go over to thank him. He tells me Rotherham actually had a few tickets left, so maybe I needn’t have been quite so worried about getting all the ones I needed.
Tim’s already in the social club, and points us in the direction of the Kirklands, who’ve commandeered a table in the corner. For the next hour or so, I dish out tickets. At half-past two, Diamond rings to say he’s only at Rayner’s Lane, but I assure him he’ll be with us well before kick-off, and he is. The rest of the assembled cast include Clarkey, Ian Armitage, Mick Walker, Andy Leng, Chris Turner, Phil the darts ringer, Martin Burton, Richard Burton, Phil Kyte, Watford Dan, Nigel Hall, Steve Exley, Rob Elston and Julia. We’re just waiting for Toddy and Graham and Brown (who, typically for Toddy, is only one person), but they’re coming up from the Cenotaph, having been there to remember fallen comrades, and could be anywhere. In the end, Tim takes their tickets so he can leave them on the gate if necessary – a) because he knows the people who know the people at Wealdstone and b) it will enable him to miss kick-off, which is his preferred method of watching a game. This gives me the opportunity to go and find somewhere to put the flag. Before we can fasten it to the fence, we’re approached by a camera crew for some Internet site (as Jenny isn’t with me, I know it won’t have a name like ‘two girls, one flag’) who film me, the Kirklands and Chris B holding it and singing, ‘Rotherham, Rotherham’. Having duly made fools of ourselves, we go back to what we’re doing.
We congregate on a little bit of concrete stand close to the corner flag. It’s a good place to stand, as it’s where the subs come to do their warming-up, which gives Clarkey the chance to bond with Paul Warne. Fortunately, Drewe Broughton (or Dave, as the programme has it) is in the starting line-up, otherwise we’d have been right behind his stretching routine and there might be minors present... By this time, Toddy and Graham and Brown have arrived. Toddy flashes us his medals. Graham, who’s a Southend fan, is more interested in whether ‘Drewe the legend’ is playing, and is delighted to see that he is.
The game quickly develops into a classic league against non-league cup tie. Wealdstone are determined to give us no time to settle, putting in some crunching tackles, one of which will eventually see Nicky Law being substituted at half-time. Like Barnet, they have a slope, and we’re kicking down it in the first half. When Kevin Ellison goes to take a corner, we hear the assistant referee telling him to put it further in the D. ‘It’s only supposed to touch the line,’ Lord Voldemort responds in his scarily high-pitched Scouse accent. Meanwhile, more subs have come to warm up. Mark Lynch is doing some weird skippy dance and the two Taylors, Jason and Ryan, are doing more chatting than stretching, like they’ve been let out of school early.
Andy reckons we need a goal to settle us down, but it doesn’t come for half an hour, and when it does, it’s a moment of pure comedy. Alfie, running on to the ball, trips, does a full forward roll, picks himself up and carries on. The keeper tries to clear the ball, which bounces against the Le Fondre backside and goes in. As we celebrate, we try to decide whether we want him to perform a cartwheel or a somersault before his next attempt.
Just before half-time, we’re two up. A clearance falls kindly to Kevin Ellison, who lashes in a thunderous shot. It seems like all the lucky breaks other teams have had against us in recent matches are now going our way, and we’re not complaining.
They’ve just done the draw for the second round and if we get through this tie (which quite a few people are still expecting us not to), we’ll be at home to either Luton or Rochdale. I’m convinced it will be Luton, simply as karma for all the people who were singing, ‘We’ll never play you again,’ when we beat them at Kenilworth Road back in March.
For the second half, we’re joined by a few Wealdstone fans who’ve moved round from the end behind the goal, and a man who claims to have Drewe Broughton’s phone number. Toddy promptly offers to buy it from him for a pound. Like Barnet, the Stones know how to use the slope to their advantage, and they bring on Danny Spendlove. He may have a porno name and a haircut to match, but he runs at our defence at pace and they don’t like it. It’s also his throw which starts the move which sees Ryan Ashe pull a goal back with a lovely curling effort.
Clarkey starts to get more shouty and exasperated as Wealdstone continue to attack, while Toddy starts asking how much time is left every couple of minutes. Graham is still confident that ‘the legend’ will do something for us, and he’s proved right. Teeny tiny Stephen Brogan comes on for his first appearance of the season with a few minutes to go, and when we get a rare free kick, he’s the one who takes it. Mr Broughton heads it in, much to the delight of the chap who’s got his number, although Wealdstone have clearly got it in for poor old Drewe, as they announce Brogan as the scorer.
‘Easy, easy,’ chants a visibly more relaxed Toddy. I tell him to shut up, because that’s obviously what provokes Wealdstone into a response. We give Ashe too much time to line up another shot, this one even better than the first. I do something I never normally do, which is applaud an opposition goal. Perhaps it’s because he’s non-league, or perhaps it’s because I sense it’s not going to make any difference. Even though the ref adds four minutes on, we manage to get the ball upfield where we can fanny about in the corner with it, and for the first time in a thousand years we’re through to the second round. Magnanimous in victory, we make sure to applaud every last Wealdstone player off the pitch, as they’ve played so well and pushed us all the way. I suspect we’d have been much more comfortable winners if the tie had been played at the DVS, but we’ll never know.
After a swift one in the packed social club, during the course of which we spot various of the Wealdstone players coming in, suited and booted, to meet family and friends, I make a move. Outside, Andy Nicholas is being interviewed by some member of the press or other, and the rest of the players are on the team bus, ready to go. Even allowing for a points failure on the District Line, I’m sure I’ll be home well before they are. Bring on the Luton, or the Dale. Round two beckons...
Confessions Of A Neutral Supporter Part Four
With our FA Cup game against Wealdstone having been moved to Sunday because there’s a function already booked for today in their social club, Ted has persuaded me to go see Darlo play Barnet. I shall be swelling what is likely to be a fairly small Darlo contingent, partly because of the impossibility of getting cheap tickets so close to the day of the game and partly because they were at Barnet only a fortnight ago. Indeed, Ted’s only arranged to meet up with John and Bev and Geoff the Plymouth fan for pre-match socialising.
We fortify ourselves with breakfast in the People’s Choice in Barbican. It’s one of Ted’s preferred haunts, even if he’s not over-keen on the French fry-style chips which accompany his egg, bacon and all the trimmings, across the road from a dance school, so you can look out and see tiny would-be ballerinas wandering past with their yummy mummies and always, but always, a brace of mounted policeman trotting along the road. From there, we walk to Old Street to get the tube as it’s such a beautiful morning, one of those glorious crisp November days.
Over the years, with London Miller and Darlo sorties to Underhill, I’ve been drinking in most of the decent pubs in Barnet, but today I’m going to the Lord Nelson for the first time. It’s in the old part of Barnet, which means a walk past a row of almshouses and various other historic buildings, plus a few houses which cost the number you first thought of plus a couple of noughts on the end.
The Lord Nelson is very much a local pub for local people, with not another obvious football fan to be seen. In fact, I’m probably the youngest drinker in the place, which is a very strange feeling. The music – the Shadows, Daniel O’Donnell and the like – is also a bit of a giveaway as to the average age of the clientele, but it’s a nice place to go drinking and there’s a pub dog for Ted to bond with. John arrives minus Bev, who’s had to get someone in to repair their boiler, with Geoff following shortly afterwards. We peruse John’s Daily Mirror, which has as one of its regulation heartwarming/quirky FA Cup minnow stories the tale of how the entire Wealdstone team will be wearing their lucky Superman undies tomorrow, complete with photograph. Must remember to take some Kryptonite with me...
As predicted, the Darlo turnout is on the low side, although we do join Martin and Pete, who only lives a short walk away and therefore has no excuse, and I have a quick chat with Gavin of legendarily bad jokes fame.
The minute’s silence for Remembrance Day is beautifully observed, and then it’s on with the game.
This is the first time I’ve seen Darlo since a night match at the same ground towards the end of the season before last, and in that time they’ve gone through administration and seen the team change out of all recognition, with only two senior squad members not exercising their right to go elsewhere over the summer. The result is a squad made of other people’s leftovers and loanees, patched together first by Colin Todd and then Steve Staunton, who made it to the last three on the shortlist for the Rotherham manager’s job, and it quickly becomes obvious that they aren’t really playing as a team. It also doesn’t help that there’s something about the Underhill slope which always makes for frantic, rushed football. Rotherham took Barnet apart without too much effort a few weeks ago, and yet today it’s the Bees who look composed and assured. Albert Adomah, who did nothing against us that day, causes Darlo’s defence more problems than he really should. Barnet’s first goal comes when Darlo don’t clear a ball properly and it’s laid back into John O’Flynn’s path for a fairly simple finish. Darlo are playing well up to the edge of the Barnet box, but they don’t seem to have the confidence to shoot – if they did, they’d probably go in level at half-time.
As an aside, visiting the ladies’ at half-time, I’m struck again by how Barnet is the only ground I’ve been to where there’s alcohol handrub rather than water. Given that it doesn’t take much for the average lower league toilet to resemble the one Ewan McGregor dives into in Trainspotting, it’s an idea I’m surprised more clubs don’t adopt.
Barnet quickly double their lead after the break, having played the old psychological game of keeping the opposition waiting for ages before they decide to come out. Paul Furlong, 75, fluffs his shot and Micah Hyde slots in the loose ball. That bloke who always insists on leading the fans in a chorus of ‘Twist And Shout’ goes through his routine. I bet he hogs the mike at karaoke nights, too. Their third is a header from O’Flynn, who performs the world’s most ostentatious handstand by way of celebration. Clearly, he fancies himself just a little bit...
Given the way in which Darlo are kicking, they really do have an uphill task now. However, Staunton makes a couple of changes, taking off Mark Convery and Jeff Smith and replacing them with Josh Gray and Mor Diop, winner of this season’s ‘player who sounds most like a character from Star Wars’ award. Darlo show more fight and force Barnet keeper Jake Cole, whose peroxide mop suggests he’s channelling Manuel Almunia, into making three or four great saves. Eventually, their persistence pays off and Diop’s trundling shot beats Cole, but although they keep pressing, that’s the final scoreline. Darlo are now officially concentrating on the league. Even the news that the Monkey Hangers have lost to Kettering can’t really lift the mood.
Back in town, we head to the Betjeman at St Pancras because Ted is hoping to sample the new Sambrook beer. Unfortunately, it isn’t on, so after a swift pint (and a nice, reviving cup of tea for me) we go to the King Charles, rapidly becoming Ted’s pub of choice. John rings Bev; the boiler is fixed but she declines to join us as that would involve a trek out in the cold. Sensible girl. The King Charles is quiet, and Ted and John monopolise the juke box. Geoff bids us adieu - maybe it’s the music? The barman offers us some excellent home-made crackling one of the regulars has brought in, and it’s still relatively early when Ted and I pick up a curry from a place just round the corner and go home, Ted to nod off in front of Match Of The Day, me to check and re-check I’ve got all the tickets in my bag for the game tomorrow.
We fortify ourselves with breakfast in the People’s Choice in Barbican. It’s one of Ted’s preferred haunts, even if he’s not over-keen on the French fry-style chips which accompany his egg, bacon and all the trimmings, across the road from a dance school, so you can look out and see tiny would-be ballerinas wandering past with their yummy mummies and always, but always, a brace of mounted policeman trotting along the road. From there, we walk to Old Street to get the tube as it’s such a beautiful morning, one of those glorious crisp November days.
Over the years, with London Miller and Darlo sorties to Underhill, I’ve been drinking in most of the decent pubs in Barnet, but today I’m going to the Lord Nelson for the first time. It’s in the old part of Barnet, which means a walk past a row of almshouses and various other historic buildings, plus a few houses which cost the number you first thought of plus a couple of noughts on the end.
The Lord Nelson is very much a local pub for local people, with not another obvious football fan to be seen. In fact, I’m probably the youngest drinker in the place, which is a very strange feeling. The music – the Shadows, Daniel O’Donnell and the like – is also a bit of a giveaway as to the average age of the clientele, but it’s a nice place to go drinking and there’s a pub dog for Ted to bond with. John arrives minus Bev, who’s had to get someone in to repair their boiler, with Geoff following shortly afterwards. We peruse John’s Daily Mirror, which has as one of its regulation heartwarming/quirky FA Cup minnow stories the tale of how the entire Wealdstone team will be wearing their lucky Superman undies tomorrow, complete with photograph. Must remember to take some Kryptonite with me...
As predicted, the Darlo turnout is on the low side, although we do join Martin and Pete, who only lives a short walk away and therefore has no excuse, and I have a quick chat with Gavin of legendarily bad jokes fame.
The minute’s silence for Remembrance Day is beautifully observed, and then it’s on with the game.
This is the first time I’ve seen Darlo since a night match at the same ground towards the end of the season before last, and in that time they’ve gone through administration and seen the team change out of all recognition, with only two senior squad members not exercising their right to go elsewhere over the summer. The result is a squad made of other people’s leftovers and loanees, patched together first by Colin Todd and then Steve Staunton, who made it to the last three on the shortlist for the Rotherham manager’s job, and it quickly becomes obvious that they aren’t really playing as a team. It also doesn’t help that there’s something about the Underhill slope which always makes for frantic, rushed football. Rotherham took Barnet apart without too much effort a few weeks ago, and yet today it’s the Bees who look composed and assured. Albert Adomah, who did nothing against us that day, causes Darlo’s defence more problems than he really should. Barnet’s first goal comes when Darlo don’t clear a ball properly and it’s laid back into John O’Flynn’s path for a fairly simple finish. Darlo are playing well up to the edge of the Barnet box, but they don’t seem to have the confidence to shoot – if they did, they’d probably go in level at half-time.
As an aside, visiting the ladies’ at half-time, I’m struck again by how Barnet is the only ground I’ve been to where there’s alcohol handrub rather than water. Given that it doesn’t take much for the average lower league toilet to resemble the one Ewan McGregor dives into in Trainspotting, it’s an idea I’m surprised more clubs don’t adopt.
Barnet quickly double their lead after the break, having played the old psychological game of keeping the opposition waiting for ages before they decide to come out. Paul Furlong, 75, fluffs his shot and Micah Hyde slots in the loose ball. That bloke who always insists on leading the fans in a chorus of ‘Twist And Shout’ goes through his routine. I bet he hogs the mike at karaoke nights, too. Their third is a header from O’Flynn, who performs the world’s most ostentatious handstand by way of celebration. Clearly, he fancies himself just a little bit...
Given the way in which Darlo are kicking, they really do have an uphill task now. However, Staunton makes a couple of changes, taking off Mark Convery and Jeff Smith and replacing them with Josh Gray and Mor Diop, winner of this season’s ‘player who sounds most like a character from Star Wars’ award. Darlo show more fight and force Barnet keeper Jake Cole, whose peroxide mop suggests he’s channelling Manuel Almunia, into making three or four great saves. Eventually, their persistence pays off and Diop’s trundling shot beats Cole, but although they keep pressing, that’s the final scoreline. Darlo are now officially concentrating on the league. Even the news that the Monkey Hangers have lost to Kettering can’t really lift the mood.
Back in town, we head to the Betjeman at St Pancras because Ted is hoping to sample the new Sambrook beer. Unfortunately, it isn’t on, so after a swift pint (and a nice, reviving cup of tea for me) we go to the King Charles, rapidly becoming Ted’s pub of choice. John rings Bev; the boiler is fixed but she declines to join us as that would involve a trek out in the cold. Sensible girl. The King Charles is quiet, and Ted and John monopolise the juke box. Geoff bids us adieu - maybe it’s the music? The barman offers us some excellent home-made crackling one of the regulars has brought in, and it’s still relatively early when Ted and I pick up a curry from a place just round the corner and go home, Ted to nod off in front of Match Of The Day, me to check and re-check I’ve got all the tickets in my bag for the game tomorrow.
Thursday, 5 November 2009
Confessions Of A Neutral Supporter Part Three
Even though Upton Park is practically on my doorstep, it’s very rare that I go to see a game there. I don’t believe you can really have a ‘second team’, and if I did, I’d have chosen one a little cheaper and easier to get into.
However, Ted’s mate, Steve, is a second team man, dividing his loyalties between Aston Villa and Darlo, which is why we’re off to West Ham v Villa, even though he’ll be sitting in the away end and we’re with the home fans. I have been in with the Villa before now, though, which is a vastly entertaining experience. The more agitated they get, the higher pitched their cries of ‘Come on, Villa!’ become, until they reach a level only dogs can hear...
But before the excitement of the match, I meet up with the boys in the Palm Tree in Mile End Park. They’ve already visited the Approach and the Eleanor Arms, which Ted is very impressed with having bonded with the landlord (a big CAMRA man and a dead ringer for Ricky Gervaise, apparently), and treated themselves to pie and mash on the Roman Road. Some of us, however, have to pace ourselves.
Ted and I have got seats in the East Stand at the Boleyn Ground, what was the old ‘Chicken Run’. It’s the only part of the ground which hasn’t been modernised, meaning that there’s not a great deal of leg room and people have to squeeze past us to get to their seats on the rows behind, as the stairway runs out just by us. This leads Ted into a general round of chuntering about ‘safe all-seater stadiums’, but I’m too busy watching the pre-match build-up to pay much attention. Fortunately, the Hammerettes cheerleading troupe seem to have bitten the dust; instead, the club’s two mascots, Herbie the Hammer and a bear whose name escapes me but is no way as cool as Miller Bear (unless it CAN drive a hovercraft) are wandering around, the half-dozen tiny mascots are being put through a very intensive coaching routine and Villa’s keepers are being warmed up by former Rotherham custodian Seamus McDonagh, the most Irish man ever to come from Canklow.
When the teams come out, they go through the ritual of lining up and shaking hands under an official Premier League canopy, though what this adds to the matchday experience I have no idea. As the line-ups are read out, I’m struck by quite how many of them I’ve seen play for various teams against Rotherham, including Matthew Upson, Carlton Cole, Steve Sidwell, Nigel Reo-Coker, Richard Dunne, Emile Heskey and Rob Green. When Alan Curbishley was managing West Ham and there were accusations of there being a materialistic, ‘Baby Bentley’ culture at the club, Green was quoted as saying that side of football wasn’t of any interest to him. So I won’t mention the time he was directly behind my friend, Pam, and me in a queue of traffic in Norwich, driving a big, black, shiny eff-off 4x4 with all the trimmings...
As the first half progresses, it soon becomes clear why West Ham were in the bottom three at the start of play. They’re playing like a group of individuals, rather than a team: they have the flash haircuts and boots and, striker Franco in particular, seem to fancy themselves as being that little bit better than they actually are. They also succeed in making Heskey, playing wide on the left, look as though he’s got silky skills. Villa, in contrast, stroke the ball around, and have two players in Ashley Young and Gabby Agbonlahor who can break at pace, though Agbonlahor, playing on the shoulder of the last defender, is regularly caught offside. Their fans are noisy and boisterous, with a song for just about every player. They also like to tell the West Ham fans where they can stick their bubbles, and have a couple of chants which prove swearing is neither big nor clever but can be funny. Villa force Green into making two smart saves which rouse the home fans into a chorus of ‘England’s number one’, about the only noise they’ve made all half. In contrast, Brad Friedel only has one fairly tame shot to stop.
West Ham’s cause isn’t helped by the fact they have to make a couple of substitutions. First Ilunga, who aided and abetted in Kenwyne Jones getting sent off at the weekend by pretending to be more badly hurt than he actually was, pulls something in the back of his leg and limps off. Karma, it’s a bitch. Then Carlton Cole has to come off, replaced by Zavon Hines. Even so, they create nothing until stoppage time. Hines gets the ball in what appears to be an offside position, runs into the box and is brought down. Mark Noble fires the resulting penalty high into the net. The crowd, who have been quiet as mice, suddenly start giving it large, and West Ham go in at half-time with an undeserved lead.
At half-time, a couple of Australian rugby players are interviewed pitchside to general indifference, but the players seem to be back out on the pitch nice and early.
Villa are handed a chance to get back into the game within a few minutes, when they’re awarded a penalty for climbing in the box. It’s not a great kick, though, and Rob Green saves it easily. The West Ham fans are now getting a bit cocky, but they’re silenced when Ashley Young curls a superb shot past Green from wide on the right. After that, the tempo seems to drop, with more than a few carthorse moments from each side. Reo-Coker replaces Heskey, and is roundly booed whenever he touches the ball. Then Habib Beye (about whom the Newcastle fans used to sing, brilliantly, ‘Sunday, Monday, Habib Beye’) brings down Jonathan Spector, who’s running a speed. Spector manages to fit in the full 360-degree roll before he touches the ground; Beye gets a second yellow and is off. Villa drop deeper to compensate, West Ham bring on Luis Jiminez, possessor of possibly the worst hair in the Premier League (and yes, I am including Fellaini at Everton in that list) but even then it still looks like the game is going to peter out into a draw. Then, in the third minute of four added on, Hines weaves his way past a couple of defenders to score the winner. Again, it isn’t really deserved, but the Hammers fans go mad and the first song to come on the Tannoy (after the night’s third, inevitable rendition of ‘Bubbles’) is Muse’s ‘Uprising', with its chorus of 'we shall be victorious’. Just rub it in, why don’t you? Though I'm sure even the most bumptious fan walking away from the ground will acknowledge that though the win was welcome, it’s only papering over some serious cracks.
Outside, we meet up with Steve to offer consolation, and then we do the only thing you can in the circumstances, which is go and get a curry. Needless to say, it goes down much better than the result...
However, Ted’s mate, Steve, is a second team man, dividing his loyalties between Aston Villa and Darlo, which is why we’re off to West Ham v Villa, even though he’ll be sitting in the away end and we’re with the home fans. I have been in with the Villa before now, though, which is a vastly entertaining experience. The more agitated they get, the higher pitched their cries of ‘Come on, Villa!’ become, until they reach a level only dogs can hear...
But before the excitement of the match, I meet up with the boys in the Palm Tree in Mile End Park. They’ve already visited the Approach and the Eleanor Arms, which Ted is very impressed with having bonded with the landlord (a big CAMRA man and a dead ringer for Ricky Gervaise, apparently), and treated themselves to pie and mash on the Roman Road. Some of us, however, have to pace ourselves.
Ted and I have got seats in the East Stand at the Boleyn Ground, what was the old ‘Chicken Run’. It’s the only part of the ground which hasn’t been modernised, meaning that there’s not a great deal of leg room and people have to squeeze past us to get to their seats on the rows behind, as the stairway runs out just by us. This leads Ted into a general round of chuntering about ‘safe all-seater stadiums’, but I’m too busy watching the pre-match build-up to pay much attention. Fortunately, the Hammerettes cheerleading troupe seem to have bitten the dust; instead, the club’s two mascots, Herbie the Hammer and a bear whose name escapes me but is no way as cool as Miller Bear (unless it CAN drive a hovercraft) are wandering around, the half-dozen tiny mascots are being put through a very intensive coaching routine and Villa’s keepers are being warmed up by former Rotherham custodian Seamus McDonagh, the most Irish man ever to come from Canklow.
When the teams come out, they go through the ritual of lining up and shaking hands under an official Premier League canopy, though what this adds to the matchday experience I have no idea. As the line-ups are read out, I’m struck by quite how many of them I’ve seen play for various teams against Rotherham, including Matthew Upson, Carlton Cole, Steve Sidwell, Nigel Reo-Coker, Richard Dunne, Emile Heskey and Rob Green. When Alan Curbishley was managing West Ham and there were accusations of there being a materialistic, ‘Baby Bentley’ culture at the club, Green was quoted as saying that side of football wasn’t of any interest to him. So I won’t mention the time he was directly behind my friend, Pam, and me in a queue of traffic in Norwich, driving a big, black, shiny eff-off 4x4 with all the trimmings...
As the first half progresses, it soon becomes clear why West Ham were in the bottom three at the start of play. They’re playing like a group of individuals, rather than a team: they have the flash haircuts and boots and, striker Franco in particular, seem to fancy themselves as being that little bit better than they actually are. They also succeed in making Heskey, playing wide on the left, look as though he’s got silky skills. Villa, in contrast, stroke the ball around, and have two players in Ashley Young and Gabby Agbonlahor who can break at pace, though Agbonlahor, playing on the shoulder of the last defender, is regularly caught offside. Their fans are noisy and boisterous, with a song for just about every player. They also like to tell the West Ham fans where they can stick their bubbles, and have a couple of chants which prove swearing is neither big nor clever but can be funny. Villa force Green into making two smart saves which rouse the home fans into a chorus of ‘England’s number one’, about the only noise they’ve made all half. In contrast, Brad Friedel only has one fairly tame shot to stop.
West Ham’s cause isn’t helped by the fact they have to make a couple of substitutions. First Ilunga, who aided and abetted in Kenwyne Jones getting sent off at the weekend by pretending to be more badly hurt than he actually was, pulls something in the back of his leg and limps off. Karma, it’s a bitch. Then Carlton Cole has to come off, replaced by Zavon Hines. Even so, they create nothing until stoppage time. Hines gets the ball in what appears to be an offside position, runs into the box and is brought down. Mark Noble fires the resulting penalty high into the net. The crowd, who have been quiet as mice, suddenly start giving it large, and West Ham go in at half-time with an undeserved lead.
At half-time, a couple of Australian rugby players are interviewed pitchside to general indifference, but the players seem to be back out on the pitch nice and early.
Villa are handed a chance to get back into the game within a few minutes, when they’re awarded a penalty for climbing in the box. It’s not a great kick, though, and Rob Green saves it easily. The West Ham fans are now getting a bit cocky, but they’re silenced when Ashley Young curls a superb shot past Green from wide on the right. After that, the tempo seems to drop, with more than a few carthorse moments from each side. Reo-Coker replaces Heskey, and is roundly booed whenever he touches the ball. Then Habib Beye (about whom the Newcastle fans used to sing, brilliantly, ‘Sunday, Monday, Habib Beye’) brings down Jonathan Spector, who’s running a speed. Spector manages to fit in the full 360-degree roll before he touches the ground; Beye gets a second yellow and is off. Villa drop deeper to compensate, West Ham bring on Luis Jiminez, possessor of possibly the worst hair in the Premier League (and yes, I am including Fellaini at Everton in that list) but even then it still looks like the game is going to peter out into a draw. Then, in the third minute of four added on, Hines weaves his way past a couple of defenders to score the winner. Again, it isn’t really deserved, but the Hammers fans go mad and the first song to come on the Tannoy (after the night’s third, inevitable rendition of ‘Bubbles’) is Muse’s ‘Uprising', with its chorus of 'we shall be victorious’. Just rub it in, why don’t you? Though I'm sure even the most bumptious fan walking away from the ground will acknowledge that though the win was welcome, it’s only papering over some serious cracks.
Outside, we meet up with Steve to offer consolation, and then we do the only thing you can in the circumstances, which is go and get a curry. Needless to say, it goes down much better than the result...
Wednesday, 4 November 2009
Boo! (That's A Scary Boo!, Not A Discontented One...)
When this trip was originally arranged, Clarkey suggested it as a mini-version of the Christmas trip – the fact it’s Hallowe’en is something of a coincidence. Typically, Clarkey has now had to bow out due to family commitments, so today’s stout party consists of me, Jenny, Chris Turner and Tim. Our numbers are lessened still further when Tim deserts us at Meadowhall and dashes (well, strolls sedately) across to the opposite platform so he can play a flying visit to Rotherham. As ever, though, Phil is already in the Fat Cat when we get there. Wednesday are in Bristol, so Shalesmoor is quiet, but the cheeky young barman seems pleased to see us all. Naturally, all the guest beers have a Hallowe’en theme, as is the case when we pop into the Wellington for a swift one before catching the tram.
When we get to the ground, the youth team are already sitting in our usual flag spot, but there’s still plenty of room as no one else has bothered to bring theirs. Aldershot, in contrast, have a high flag-to-fan ratio, though not many of them have travelled. On our way back to the stand, Jenny and I bump into a fiftysomething Shots fan who walks with a stick. He offers to buy ‘two beautiful ladies’ a drink, and though we’re charmed (outrageous compliments will do that every time, boys!) we decline his offer and tell him we hope he enjoys the game.
One or two people are wandering round in family dress – we spot a zombie and Captain Jack Sparrow, while the two children at the side of me are dressed as a witch (who is celebrating her ninth birthday, coincidentally) and a skeleton. As you’d expect, Miller Bear has got into the spirit of the day, sporting a ghoul mask and a cape and entertaining the crowd with his Thriller dance routine.
It has to be said the game does not thrill, on any any level. Aldershot haven’t kept a clean sheet all season and have come determined not to concede, while doing their best to catch us on the break. They’re one of those big, awkward teams, easily a head taller than our squad just about all round, and we’re clearly having an off day against them. They’re playing a formation which seems toe allow them to find plenty of space, and being helped in their endeavours by a referee (Mr Booth, a name designed to fill any Rotherham fan with dread...) who gives the majority of the decisions in their favour. It’s a half of few chances and little excitement. The nearest we come is with a Kevin Ellison corner which, like last week, he’s clearly aiming to go in the goal, but the ref blows for some infringement.
At half time I run round in search of London Millers with season tickets. Tickets for the FA Cup game against Wealdstone go on sale on Monday, and I’ve got the job of buying them as Jenny goes on holiday next week. They’ve allocated us just over 400 in total as their ground only holds 2300, and so many people have decided they want to go (including Diamond, who we all thought had dropped off the face of the earth) that I’ve got 21 orders – hence the need for season tickets to order them with. Fortunately, Steve Exley comes good, so hopefully no one will be disappointed (although the game and the result may be a different matter...)
Things improve slightly in the second half. Aldershot have a couple of chances, one of which Don saves and the other hits the post (that’s from a debatable free kick, Mr Booth having picked up where he left off). Our strikers aren’t having much in the way of service, and with about ten minutes to go, Ronnie substitutes Tom Pope with the ultra-bendy Drewe Broughton, who’s been stretching comprehensively throughout the game, using the new perimeter advertising boards to help him get his leg over (stop sniggering at the back, there!)
We have our best opportunity from an Andy Nicholas header, but their double-barrelled keeper is able to palm the ball over the top. The game ends to a chorus of boos from the home fans, who’ve been increasingly restless for the last twenty minutes or so. It hasn’t been a great performance by any means, but with most of the teams around us playing each other, results have generally gone our way. It’s the sort of reaction which makes me ashamed to be a Rotherham fan, and when I meet up with Jenny by the flag it’s clear she feels the same. By the tram stop, one of the stewards is complaining, ‘Under Robins, no one could beat us, and now everyone’s beating us.’ This baffles us, as we can’t actually remember Aldershot scoring a winning goal.
Chris tunes into Radio Sheffield’s ‘Praise Or Grumble’ on the train to Donny, only to hear the following priceless comment from a Rotherham caller: ‘I’ve got two words for you, Seth – sack him now.’ Much as it makes us laugh, this gets to the crux of the problem. The reaction to the return of Ronnie Moore was always mixed: some regard him as the returning M-word, while others didn’t really want him back. I was one of the latter, as I was worried about the expectations it would pile on him and the team, but now he’s back, you have to get behind him. Mind you, we could have won the last five games six-nil, and some people would still find something to moan about.
And so we find ourselves in Doncaster. On Hallowe’en. The question is, of course, how is it different from being in Doncaster on any other day? In the Corner Pin, we bump into our chum Mr Thorne Brewery, who has a good chat with us and lets us know how they’re getting on as a going concern. Apparently, their beers are on regularly in the Devonshire Cat in Sheffield, which we’re planning to visit on the Christmas trip, and he’s also got it as far north as Darlington (in the Quaker Cafe, one of Ted’s favourite pre-match haunts) and delivered some to the House of Commons bar.
On the train to London, we find ourselves sitting with some of the London Iron, who’ve watched Scunny lose to Swansea and recognise Chris from the darts. They play cards for most of the way back, although the game appears to fall apart as none of them has Mrs Bun the baker’s wife. There are also lone Donny and Plymouth fans, which makes it a real voyage of the damned! We pass the time spotting firework displays (Hertfordshire proves particularly fruitful for this) and Tim arranges to meet up with his brother-in-law, Ian when we get into Kings Cross. I decline to join the party as I have to go home and check on Ted. His trip to Hereford was curtailed at Paddington, possibly because of something he ate – but at least it spared him the sight of another Darlo defeat. And some of our fans think they have something to complain about...
When we get to the ground, the youth team are already sitting in our usual flag spot, but there’s still plenty of room as no one else has bothered to bring theirs. Aldershot, in contrast, have a high flag-to-fan ratio, though not many of them have travelled. On our way back to the stand, Jenny and I bump into a fiftysomething Shots fan who walks with a stick. He offers to buy ‘two beautiful ladies’ a drink, and though we’re charmed (outrageous compliments will do that every time, boys!) we decline his offer and tell him we hope he enjoys the game.
One or two people are wandering round in family dress – we spot a zombie and Captain Jack Sparrow, while the two children at the side of me are dressed as a witch (who is celebrating her ninth birthday, coincidentally) and a skeleton. As you’d expect, Miller Bear has got into the spirit of the day, sporting a ghoul mask and a cape and entertaining the crowd with his Thriller dance routine.
It has to be said the game does not thrill, on any any level. Aldershot haven’t kept a clean sheet all season and have come determined not to concede, while doing their best to catch us on the break. They’re one of those big, awkward teams, easily a head taller than our squad just about all round, and we’re clearly having an off day against them. They’re playing a formation which seems toe allow them to find plenty of space, and being helped in their endeavours by a referee (Mr Booth, a name designed to fill any Rotherham fan with dread...) who gives the majority of the decisions in their favour. It’s a half of few chances and little excitement. The nearest we come is with a Kevin Ellison corner which, like last week, he’s clearly aiming to go in the goal, but the ref blows for some infringement.
At half time I run round in search of London Millers with season tickets. Tickets for the FA Cup game against Wealdstone go on sale on Monday, and I’ve got the job of buying them as Jenny goes on holiday next week. They’ve allocated us just over 400 in total as their ground only holds 2300, and so many people have decided they want to go (including Diamond, who we all thought had dropped off the face of the earth) that I’ve got 21 orders – hence the need for season tickets to order them with. Fortunately, Steve Exley comes good, so hopefully no one will be disappointed (although the game and the result may be a different matter...)
Things improve slightly in the second half. Aldershot have a couple of chances, one of which Don saves and the other hits the post (that’s from a debatable free kick, Mr Booth having picked up where he left off). Our strikers aren’t having much in the way of service, and with about ten minutes to go, Ronnie substitutes Tom Pope with the ultra-bendy Drewe Broughton, who’s been stretching comprehensively throughout the game, using the new perimeter advertising boards to help him get his leg over (stop sniggering at the back, there!)
We have our best opportunity from an Andy Nicholas header, but their double-barrelled keeper is able to palm the ball over the top. The game ends to a chorus of boos from the home fans, who’ve been increasingly restless for the last twenty minutes or so. It hasn’t been a great performance by any means, but with most of the teams around us playing each other, results have generally gone our way. It’s the sort of reaction which makes me ashamed to be a Rotherham fan, and when I meet up with Jenny by the flag it’s clear she feels the same. By the tram stop, one of the stewards is complaining, ‘Under Robins, no one could beat us, and now everyone’s beating us.’ This baffles us, as we can’t actually remember Aldershot scoring a winning goal.
Chris tunes into Radio Sheffield’s ‘Praise Or Grumble’ on the train to Donny, only to hear the following priceless comment from a Rotherham caller: ‘I’ve got two words for you, Seth – sack him now.’ Much as it makes us laugh, this gets to the crux of the problem. The reaction to the return of Ronnie Moore was always mixed: some regard him as the returning M-word, while others didn’t really want him back. I was one of the latter, as I was worried about the expectations it would pile on him and the team, but now he’s back, you have to get behind him. Mind you, we could have won the last five games six-nil, and some people would still find something to moan about.
And so we find ourselves in Doncaster. On Hallowe’en. The question is, of course, how is it different from being in Doncaster on any other day? In the Corner Pin, we bump into our chum Mr Thorne Brewery, who has a good chat with us and lets us know how they’re getting on as a going concern. Apparently, their beers are on regularly in the Devonshire Cat in Sheffield, which we’re planning to visit on the Christmas trip, and he’s also got it as far north as Darlington (in the Quaker Cafe, one of Ted’s favourite pre-match haunts) and delivered some to the House of Commons bar.
On the train to London, we find ourselves sitting with some of the London Iron, who’ve watched Scunny lose to Swansea and recognise Chris from the darts. They play cards for most of the way back, although the game appears to fall apart as none of them has Mrs Bun the baker’s wife. There are also lone Donny and Plymouth fans, which makes it a real voyage of the damned! We pass the time spotting firework displays (Hertfordshire proves particularly fruitful for this) and Tim arranges to meet up with his brother-in-law, Ian when we get into Kings Cross. I decline to join the party as I have to go home and check on Ted. His trip to Hereford was curtailed at Paddington, possibly because of something he ate – but at least it spared him the sight of another Darlo defeat. And some of our fans think they have something to complain about...
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