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?