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...