Pulling Crackers In Standard Class

Yay! The snow that denied us the – er – privilege of paying a daft amount of money to sit on scaffolding at the Priestfield last week has thawed enough that today’s game is on. And double yay! It’s our Christmas party trip. Though maybe someone should have a word with the fixture compilers, because two seasons ago, when the party trip took place but the match didn’t, we were supposed to play Aldershot.

Turning up with assorted goodies are Clarkey (so early for once we’re worried he might be ill...), Jenny (back from holiday in Cuba and surprisingly un-jetlagged), Tim, Ian Armitage, Chris Turner (fulfilling his sausage commitment, unlike the Hereford trip at the end of last season), Julia and me. We’re in the mood to eat, drink and be merry, which isn’t the greatest news for the girl with the other reserved seat on our table, but was out till stupid o’clock at a party last night and is hoping for a bit of shut-eye on the way to Sheffield. She does, however, revive enough to show us photos on her phone of how deep the snow was when she made the same journey this time last week, though we can't quite tempt her to indulge in the hair of the dog.

Chris hasn’t just brought things on sticks, he’s got Ploughman’s Lunches for us all, and he’s obviously been practising his party trick because he actually catches one of the onions in his mouth at the first attempt!

Our destination once we reach Sheffield is the Harlequin. At Tim’s insistence, we get cabs to cut down on inroads into our VDT (Valuable Drinking Time). I can’t resist a glass of the seasonal mulled cider. When it arrives, the boys take photos of it steaming gently, like a bald-headed player on a cold Tuesday night at Brisbane Road... We’re joined by Tim’s mate Andy, Joy, Frances, Phil Kyte, Chris Kirkland and, eventually, Chris Burrows, to whom Chris K has given instructions involving taking the tram to Shalesmoor and doubling back.

It would be tempting to stay in the Harlequin till it’s time to leave for the match, but this being the Christmas trip we’re determined to fit in at least one more venue. The Kelham Island is likely to be heaving with Wendies, particularly as they’re apparently going to turn out in force to welcome their ‘saviour’, new chairman Milan Mandaric. We go instead to the Fat Cat where yet another Ian (Hill, this time) joins the party. It isn’t compulsory to be called Ian, Steve, Chris or Rob to be a London Miller, but sometimes it feels that way! Despite everything we had to eat on the train, Chris T still finds room for a generous helping of steak pie and all the trimmings. The boys are intending to fit in a quickie in the Wellington (now brewing its own beer, according to Ted and Chris T, who had a crawl in Sheffield a couple of Saturdays ago), but Jenny and I are on flag duty, so we make a prompt exit. Which is when the fun starts.

The tram’s a couple of minutes late arriving, which isn’t unusual on a busy Saturday, but it makes it as far as the top of West Street, then comes to a halt. Eventually, the driver announces it’s due to football fans misbehaving ‘because they’re morons’. Quite what this misbehaviour involves isn’t clear, but as we approach the West Street stop veeeery slowly, there are plenty of police cars, vans, policemen and dogs in sight. Once we’re past the trouble, our progress is fairly swift, but there are trams backing up in the opposite direction and I have no idea how long it will take the boys to get to the DVS.

As it is, we go through the turnstiles at about a minute to three, and we’re still putting the flag up as the game kicks off. Unlike at Crewe the other week, this doesn’t prompt an early goal. There are a number of changes to the team – Ryan Cresswell has got over his back problems and returns to the back four, Johnny Mullins switches to right-back (Danny Coid, we find out later, has a slight hamstring strain). Tom Newey’s back, Jason Taylor’s in midfield and Will Atkinson, on loan from Hull, is on the wing in place of Kevin Ellison. Indeed, there’s a familiar-looking bloke in the scouts and hangers-on area in a Hull jacket, obviously there to report on Atkinson’s performance.

The first half is pretty even. Aldershot give the impression of having come not to lose, and we’re guilty of punting a few too many long balls forward as we try to bypass the packed midfield. The Shots have one good chance that forces an excellent save from Don (also returning after his paternity leave), then get a penalty when Atkinson clips Wade Small in the box. If they convert this they’ll probably spend the rest of the game stifling our attempts to equalise. However, Small decides to be a bit flamboyant with the penalty kick and succeeds in hitting the post. Miller Bear, continuing to prove he’s as mad as a bag of rats, celebrates by lying in one of the piles of snow they’ve cleared off the pitch and throwing snowballs into the air.

This is our let-off, and we capitalise on it thanks to a better bit of refereeing. Mullins is brought down, but the ref plays the advantage despite his assistant’s frantic flagging. Marcus Marshall wriggles to the byline and plays the ball across to Alfie, who fires his shot up into the roof of the net. Steve Kay, one of those London Millers who’s returned to the north for work (and see what I mean about the Christian name thing?) is in a seat just in front of me today, but he missed the goal as he was out on the concourse. It sounds just as good when I describe it as it did watching.

At half-time, the Millerettes do their routine in Santa hats, then hold up cards spelling out the message ‘Merry Christmas From The Millerettes’. ‘Stop trying to look up my skirt’ might be more appropriate... The 50-50 draw is performed by former Rotherham and Darlo manager Billy McEwan. Just reading that sentence will make a little bit of Ted die inside.

The second half is much better entertainment than the first. We’re buoyed by the goal and force Shots keeper Jamie Young to make a couple of excellent saves. Indeed, though he nearly gifts us a comedy goal when he muffs a clearance on the edge of his area and Alfie only just fails to convert the shot after the ball’s landed right at his feet, Young really is their star performer this afternoon, and keeps the score at one-nil long enough for Aldershot to think they have a chance of getting something from the game.

There’s a very nasty moment as Ryan Cresswell and Marvin Morgan tussle for the ball. Morgan hauls Cresswell down, and it’s obvious something bad’s happened as soon as Cresswell lands. The stretcher is called for. The Block 4 wags have been in good voice today (their crowning moment is a chorus of ‘All I Want For Christmas Is To Keep Alfie’, to the tune of ‘All I Want For Christmas Is My Two Front Teeth’) but now the chief wag comes into his own. As the stretcher bearers take to the pitch painfully slowly, he yells, ‘Hurry up, he’s dying,’ followed, as they don’t speed up in the slightest by, ‘Too late, he’s dead.’ Cresswell is eventually stretchered off to a standing ovation, but he’s going to be out for a while.

On a more positive note, Atkinson has looked more of a threat as the game has gone on, and Marcus Marshall is causing so many problems for the Aldershot defence that Jamie Vincent earns himself a second yellow card trying to stop him before he can get a cross in. There’s only a couple of minutes of normal time for them to hold out, but even with the ref adding six minutes, mostly for the delay in getting Cresswell off the pitch, we can’t score a second goal.

The trams are behaving themselves, even if the one we get on is pretty packed. We’re now minus Julia, who’s staying in Rotherham for the weekend. In the Old Queen’s Head we find Chris K’s chum, Tom, who’s been lured down by the fact they’re showing the Newcastle-Liverpool game. The last thing you want to see when you walk into a pub is Alan Pardew’s smug, grinning face on the big screen, but such is life...

We’re still in party mood on the train back, although we do worry we might have left Clarkey behind after he goes into the M&S on Sheffield station and doesn’t appear to come out. He joins us eventually, though, as does Ian Hill, who’s travelling as far as Derby. Also on the train are Martin Burton and his two lads, so we give them some parkin and a couple of the crackers Jenny brought along so they can have a little party of their own.

People have seemed chatty today. A girl sits with us between Derby and Leicester and tells us about the work Christmas do she’s off to. We wish her a good time as she disembarks. Then Clarkey has his usual snooze and the rest of us keep the party going until St Pancras. We’d almost forgotten how good the Christmas trip is when you actually win!

Eighty-nine Minutes Of Blowing

A civilised departure on the 10.40 for once, seeing how these days you can get to Crewe in about ninety minutes. It’s all to do with the track straightening at Rugby, at least according to an article I once read by Pete Waterman, who’s a massive train buff and used to – perhaps even still does – own that weird collection of old trains and rolling stock close to Crewe station. That’s not enough to forgive him for inflicting the Reynolds Girls on the world, but still...

There’s just Jenny and me travelling up. John Kirkland will be on a train an hour behind ours, simply because by the time he decided he wanted to come on the trip, all the cheap tickets on this train had gone. Judging by our fellow passengers, the Man U daytrippers beat him to it.

One smooth journey, complete with sighting of requisite South American wildlife just outside Crewe (new llamas – got to be an omen), later we’re meeting my brother on the station. Our destination this time isn’t our old favourite, the British Lion (aka the British Legion). Instead, we’re trying the Borough Arms, as recommended by Ted. It’s a bit of a trek, up into bits of Crewe we didn’t actually know existed - i.e the town centre. As we wait to cross the road by the retail park, an elderly coach does a circuit of the roundabout. From the expressions of the passengers inside, we can only assume there’s a woman standing up front with a microphone announcing, ‘And that concludes our tour of the roundabouts of Crewe...’

Fortunately, the walk is worth it. The Borough Arms is small and surprisingly busy, but the range of beers (including the flavoured ones my brother always refers to as ‘Belgian fruit juice’) is excellent, and the ladies’ is supplied with quality handwash (always a promising sign). Already ensconsed is Graham, an old schoolmate of Clarkey’s, along with a friend to whom we’re never formally introduced. Said friend, however, is a natural raconteur, and tells us a story about a man apparently vanishing into thin air on a trans-Atlantic flight that has to be heard to be believed. The pair of them saw our defeat to York in the Cup on Tuesday night and aren’t too positive about our prospects today. Apparently, the moral from that game is that we really, really need to take our chances.

By this time, we’ve acquired a brace of Kirklands and Chris Burrows, who’ve found the place without too many problems. They like it as much as we do.

We leave in good time to visit the chip shop by Gresty Road. The chips are well up to their usual standard, even if John K does manage to spill half of mine...

There are a couple of changes to the team. Baby keeper Jamie Annerson is in goal, as Don’s wife gave birth a couple of days ago, and Johnny Mullins is in at centre half as Ryan Cresswell still isn’t fit. However, it seems like the disappointment of Tuesday night has been put behind everyone. Barely have Jenny and I put the flag in place and the away support have aimed their first chorus of ‘What’s that coming over the hill? Is it the taxman?’ at Wednesday than we’re in front. A ball in from Marcus Marshall is put behind. The Crewe keeper flaps at the resulting corner, and though Mark Bradley celebrates the resulting goal, it’s actually come off one of the Crewe defenders. Cue blowing from my brother to the left of me

The rest of the first half is what you might call ‘open’. Ryan Taylor, Danny Coid and Alfie all have good chances, and Taylor hits the crossbar, while down the other end Ashley Westwood drags his shot wide when he’s only got Annerson to beat. We’re playing some really good football, with Marcus Marshall causing the Crewe defence all sorts of problems, while Fenton and Mullins are seeing off the threat of Clayton Donaldson, whose hairdo looks like the love child of My Little Pony and a scrubbing brush. We’re enjoying all this despite the distraction of the bloke behind Jenny, who keeps dropping his mobile phone under our seats. Fortunately, we manage to retrieve all the bits for him...

If the score was four-all at half-time, no one would be at all surprised. It’s been excellent entertainment, and the second half is even better. Dario Gradi makes changes to try and counteract the fact Tom Newey’s been keeping their right-winger really quiet, but we’re definitely in charge. Nicky Law is having one of his best games for us, and Kevin Ellison, back in place of teeny tiny Stephen Brogan, is winding up the Crewe fans a treat, as he always does. Annerson has to make a good fingertip save, but Crewe must know it’s not their day when the ref decides to award a goal kick, rather than a corner.

We should have extended our lead by now, and we get a great chance when we’re awarded a penalty after Crewe defender Ada has some kind of brainfart and bats the ball away with his arm. Alfie’s spot kick isn’t the greatest, though, and the keeper pushes it on to the post. Luckily, it doesn’t matter, though we keep pressing for a second goal right up to the final whistle.

The fans, so negative at the Southend game, have been behind the team all day today. They even have a song for Tom Newey, who’s been getting his share of stick in recent weeks. Midweek it was Ronnie out, today it’s Ronnie in. He must feel like he’s doing the Hokey-Cokey!

After the game, we pop into the Royal Hotel for a drink. This is where Clarkey comes when he stays over for his annual Spear Of Destiny weekender, and the place he meant to send us to last season. It’s manic at first, but quickly quietens down, and we find a table where we can avoid the Liverpool-West Ham game on the big screen, though the cheering from the other patrons lets us know that West Ham are getting trounced.

John’s on the same train as us on the way back, so we leave the Chrises to enjoy another drink, decant my brother (who’s finally stopped blowing) on to a train to Brum, then make our way home among yet more Man U daytrippers. They may have been to the Theatre of Dreams, and have the carrier bags to prove it, but I’m sure they can’t have enjoyed their day more than we have.

Getting Our Own Back For Bombalurina

The merry band assembling at St Pancras this morning consists of me, Jenny and Joy, all travelling up and back today, Julia, who’s staying over to visit family for the weekend and Steve Ducker and his wife, Fiona, who are going up for a family party. The last time I saw Fiona was at a London Welsh v Rotherham game, a couple of years ago. Gwenn had decided it was time I got an education in rugby, in return (pr, possibly, revenge) for being initiated into all things Millers, and we bumped into Steve and Fiona by pure chance. That was Eastertime, one of those days where you can experience all four seasons in a couple of hours, from sunshine to snow, so pretty much all we saw of Fiona that day was a face peering out of an anorak hood, bearing an expression reading ‘I really shouldn’t be here...’ Fortunately, it’s slightly warmer than that today.

Once in Sheffield, Steve and Fiona head for the B and B they’re staying in, near the Crystal Peaks entertainment centre where the function they’re attending is being held tonight. The rest of us make our way to the Fat Cat to meet Phil. (And if anyone who works in the Fat Cat kitchen is reading this, the people who had the chicken and sage pie said it went down a treat.)

On the tram to the DVS, we get into yet another of our periodic conversations about things you just don’t see any more. This time, it’s biscuit barrels. If you’re still using one, please let us know. We’d be strangely reassured...

Oxford are one of those teams who hung around in the Conference a little longer than a lot of their fans expected them to, and now they’re looking to make a speedy progression up this division. Unfortunately, they meet us on a day when we hit some sparkling form. This is partly due to the debut of Danny Coid at right back, on loan from Blackpool (and so far down the pecking order he didn’t even figure in the recent game where Ian Holloway made ten team changes and probably used all new ball boys as well...), and who brings a calm assurance to the defence. Marcus Marshall, who was probably our best player against York last week, is responsible for most of the good things that happen today. Both teams have had a couple of chances when Marshall goes on a mazy run. His shot is blocked, but comes out to Alfie, who checks to see whether he’s offside. When the flag doesn’t go up, he calmly slots the ball past Oxford keeper Ryan Clarke.

Alfie gets a second a few minutes later. Ryan Taylor heads the ball into his path, and though he looks to have scuffed his shot, it still beats the keeper. By now, we’re looking very comfortable, so it’s a bit of a surprise when Oxford score in stoppage time. Don parries the first shot, but Simon Clist beats him with the rebound.

It’s a slightly deflating end to the half, but things look up with the half-time draw. I would suggest we’re in the presence of greatness, but I might get done under the Trades Description Act, so let’s just say the draw is performed by celebrity Oxford fan Timmy Mallett. He’s got the requisite loud suit and even louder glasses, but there’s no sign of the trademark mallet. Presumably it’s in a locked vault somewhere, too valuable to be brought to a mere football stadium.

He’s probably hoping Oxford are going to carry on where they left off, but it doesn’t happen, even though Ryan Cresswell, who’s looked slightly hesitant in the first half, has to be replaced by Luke Ashworth. We find out later his back has gone again, which is worrying.

Still, it doesn’t appear to affect us too much. Nicky Law, playing in a central role, is looking impressive, and both he and itsy bitsy teeny weeny teeny tiny Stephen Brogan (sorry, couldn’t resist that...) have decent efforts on goal. Meanwhile, Don only has one real effort to save, tipping a shot over the bar.
A waiter from the hospitality suite walks through the stand carrying a dozen flat, square cardboard boxes. 'Pizza for Mallett!' yells one of the Block 4 Upper wags....
Tom Elliott, who’s been conspicuous by his absence for ages, appears as a late sub and has a shot he might have done better with if he hadn’t just come on, but the result is never really in doubt.

After the game, Jenny, Joy, Steve and I go to meet Fiona in the Old Queen’s Head. She’s been shopping in the city centre and is a little footsore but pleased with her purchases.

We leave the Duckers enjoying a drink and go to catch the train. Our carriage is full of Wednesday fans of a certain vintage, who start asking each other whether they remember various old players and then get on to the subject (as two or three Wednesday fans gathered together inevitably will) of the 1979 ‘Boxing Day Massacre’, when they beat Sheff U four-nil. (At least one Rotherham Owl in my class spent the next couple of months with a badge bearing the words ‘ Boxing Day Massacre’ pinned to the lapel of his blazer. Ah, those innocent days before rival fans could taunt each other about results on the Internet...). Eventually, they get on to the far more serious subject of Wednesday’s current financial plight, and how much their high spending on some of the players they’ve been talking about has contributed to the situation.

Back in London, Joy wends her way back East, while Jenny and I go to meet Ted in the newly opened Euston Tap. Sister to the Sheffield Tap and the York Pivni, it’s in Euston Lodge, just in front of the main station concourse. It’s a tiny little building, with a cosy upstairs that’s reached by means of a spiral staircase. Already there with Ted is Steve Duffy, down for a concert. We’re also joined by Wycombe Paul and all his photographic gear. He’s on good form, as they’ve just beaten Bradford one-nil in the Peter Taylor derby. A pleasant couple of hours later, we’ve decided this place will give the Betjeman and the Doric Arch a run for their money among the serious real ale buffs (and some of the mildly amusing ones, too...).

Up For The Cup - Sort Of

The draw for the first round of the FA Cup saw us get York at home, dashing Tim’s hopes that we’d get Hendon away (his next closest game to Wealdstone, who lost to the Met Police, who then lost in turn to Hendon – take notes as I’ll be asking questions later...). However, Tim’s got over that disappointment enough to travel to the game, along with me, Jenny and John Kirkland.

No hitches on the journey this time, and we meet up with Tim’s chum, Andy, to catch the tram to the Fat Cat. Once there, we link up with Kirkland Junior, who’s persuaded Tom that what he needs is another Saturday afternoon at the DVS. Tom’s planning a Sheffield pub crawl, so he picks our brains about where to go and how far apart everything is in terms of walking distance (to which the answer is surprisingly close, in most cases).

I have to leave earlier than usual, as I’m meeting my dad to pick up my match ticket. The timing’s perfect, as Jenny and I get off the train just in time to see my dad and Gordon wandering along from where they’ve parked.

Arriving at the ground, it’s obvious that quite a few York fans have travelled. But then it’s not too far to come, it’s a new ground for them and they can’t have played us for a good ten years. The last time I saw York play, it was at Bootham (then KitKat, now back to Bootham) Crescent against Darlo, the day John Batchelor took over the club. He paraded with his scarf and his grandiose plans, and those who’d seen George Reynolds do exactly the same at Feethams began to get an idea of how well all that was going to end...

It soon becomes apparent that a lot of the Rotherham fans have looked at the opposition and are expecting this to be a stroll against a non-league team. Of course, York aren’t looking at it that way, just as Rotherham would go into a tie against a team from a higher division looking to take a scalp. We make a decent start, having a couple of chances with ex-Darlo keeper Michael Ingham looking a bit flappy, though he does make one very good save when he scoops out a shot from Alfie that looks like a certain goal. When nothing goes in and York start making inroads on our goal (they really should score, but James Meredith seems determined to walk the ball into the net, which enables us to clear the danger), people start getting restless. ‘Come on, Rotherham,’ shouts someone behind me, ‘this lot are a pub team.’ There’s no need to go into how disrespectful this is to a) York and b) the Conference as a whole, but that attitude sums up the inflated expectations we (and probably the fans of a few other teams towards the top of our division) have somehow acquired. It also explains the boos at half-time.

In the first half, there’s been one of those irritating old boys sitting right behind me who loves to praise the opposition and criticise us, but he seems to have disappeared by the time the second half kicks off. Maybe he’s seen enough; he doesn’t miss much, because the second half is pretty much exactly the same as the first. York threaten on a couple of occasions, but we could probably play all night and neither team would score. For once, Ronnie doesn’t make any substitutions, possibly with one eye on Tuesday night’s game against Huddersfield in the JPT in mind, which only enrages an already riled home crowd even more. At the final whistle, there are even more boos. Some fans hang behind to applaud the York team off the pitch. It’s a gesture that might be more understandable if they’d beaten us, but it seems to be more about sending a message to Ronnie and the team than actually praising the opposition performance.

Both Jenny and Tim are staying in Rotherham for the weekend, so it’s just John and I who head for the Sheffield Tap, with Chris in tow. It’s nice and quiet when we arrive, as we’ve been the only club playing in Sheffield today. Chris travels with us as far as Chesterfield, rather than hang round Sheffield station when all the Leicester fans get back from Barnsley. However, it seems most of them have been put on a football special (see, they do still exist...) and we’re through Derby before the Pompey fans make it down to the station after their televised game. It’s a reflective journey back, but John is strangely confident about our chances in the replay. We’ll see...

The Return Of Disco Duck

It’s not quite Hallowe’en, but there are already weird creatures afoot. As I wait on Barking station for the train to Southend, Snow White and a novelty pirate wander past. At least, I think it’s a pirate: it could just be Andrew Stone out of Pineapple Dance Studios on his day off...

Jenny, Diamond and Chris Turner are already on the train. Chris has brought us snacks for the journey – after failing to get his Ploughman’s Lunch in a packet in Preston, he’s bought a card of the things online, and there’s one for each of us. Of course, he insists on throwing his onions in the air and trying to catch them in his mouth, which goes about as well as you’d expect.

Our pub of choice is the Lion and Lamb in Westcliff-on-sea. It’s a bit of a walk from there to Roots Hall, but it’s a good choice, festooned in fake cobwebs we spend the rest of the afternoon picking off ourselves. We’re joined by Dave Finnis, over from Australia, and his wife, Linda. He certainly has a knack of taking her to the most glamorous locations, as the last time we saw her was about five years ago, in Wigan. Following along shortly are Clarkey, Nigel Hall, Joy and Frances, whose dad is in the area CAMRA branch and recommended this place.

We arrive at the ground, looking forward to seeing the debut performance of Mark Randall, who we’ve just got on loan from Arsenal. Unfortunately, we don’t get to see that much of him. Is there a polite way of saying Southend are a dirty team? No? Okay, they’re a dirty team, and they target Randall, who looks very assured on the ball, with a number of hefty challenges, the last of which sees him leave the pitch injured after about twenty minutes. Unfortunately, we’re one-nil down by then. Southend have a bit of good fortune when Tom Newey slips, allowing them to put in a cross that Blair Sturrock heads against the crossbar and in. We have one good chance to equalise, but Southend’s keeper makes a very good save from Ellison’s shot.

How to describe the half-time entertainment? First, I’m not sure I’d use the word ‘entertainment’. Southend’s tweenie cheerleaders emerge with backcombed hair and ripped tights (‘It’s Motley Crue!’ exclaims Clarkey) and proceed to dance to Thriller. The performance ends with them lying on the floor, pretending to be dead, while Southend mascots Sammy the Shrimp and Elvis the Eel circle them for no apparent reason. All this is swiftly followed by a six-year-old Michael Jackson impersonator treating us all to the moonwalk. This is the kind of nightmare that scars impressionable children for life...

The nightmare’s only just starting, though. The fans around us, who’ve been quite buoyant and supportive in the first half, turn swiftly as it becomes apparent it’s Southend who are making most of the running in the second. Rotherham, who’ve been cowed by Southend’s overly physical tactics, need something to lift them – and they’re not getting it from the crowd. They’re not really creating any chances, and it doesn’t help that when Marcus Marshall is blatantly blocked while running to put in a cross, the referee (Phil Crossley, supposedly one of the most experienced on the list), ignores the foul. The woman sitting in my earshot is driving me crazy. I think she’s the one who always yells, ‘Gerrin!’ at a pitch that’s like fingernails down a blackboard, which is irritating enough, and she does nothing but criticise Ryan Taylor all game, but when she actively starts willing Southend to score a second in the dying moments of the match, I’m tempted to reach for the flag tape and gag her with it.

Afterwards, Jenny, Chris, Clarkey, Diamond, Nigel and I head for the Cricketers, which is halfway between the ground and Westcliff. It’s a nice enough pub, but it’s a big place on a corner and must at some point have all been knocked through into one bar, which doesn’t make it feel that welcoming. The beer’s decent, though, and Clarkey and Diamond bond with the barmaid, who keeps taking the mick out of Diamond’s accent after he asks for a bottle of ‘watter’.

Then it’s back to the Lamb and Lion, via a chip shop-cum kebab emporium, where Diamond attempts to find the football scores on Ceefax, until the staff politely ask him to stop. Walking back towards Westcliff station, we pass the Hamlet Court, a pub I frequented with Ted when Darlo last played at Southend. It’s had a bit of a makeover since then, but judging by the clientele outside, we don’t have enough in the way of sovereign rings to fit in...

We feel much more comfortable outside the Lamb and Lion, particularly when someone starts handing out fliers for the band playing in the Bar Lamb downstairs, Protex Blue. On learning they do punk numbers, Clarkey’s little eyes light up. I’ve already decided I’m catching an early train, but he somehow persuades the others to hand over their three quid entry. I say my goodnights and head for the station, leaving them to discover a) why Diamond knows Clarkey as ‘Disco Duck’ and b) whether punk really is dead...

An Offal Decision

For the first time in quite a while, Tim’s travelling up today. Clarkey was supposed to be joining us as well, but for whatever reason he doesn’t make it. Everything’s going smoothly until Derby, when the train develops some kind of problem that necessitates the arrival of engineers. The driver advises us to decant on to the Cross Country service a few minutes behind, which most of us do even though the guard on that train advises us our tickets won’t be valid. Everyone ignores him, as we’re jammed in so tightly the chances of him being able to move round checking tickets is nil. Jenny and I are squeezed within earshot of a Bournemouth fan who’s the type with an opinion on everything, and he’s complaining for some reason about how awful a ground the DVS is, and the fact it only has one proper stand. It would, of course, be impolite to mention at this point that Dean Court still isn’t finished...

Because we’re running slightly late, and because Tim needs to make arrangements to meet his sisters and hand over a package of sweetbreads (it’s a long story...), we have one in the Sheffield Tap, where we meet Tim’s mate, Andy, then get a cab to the Harlequin. Eight ciders (and a mulled option), a new hot food menu – this place is turning itself into a serious rival to the Fat Cat. Sarah and Judith arrive, and Tim hands over the meaty goods. When we leave for the game, the ladies head into Sheffield for a spot of shopping.

It’s that ‘Kick Racism Out Of Football’ time of year again, so the flag goes up alongside the one reading ‘One Game, One Community’.

As for the game, Ryan Cresswell damages his back in the warm-up, meaning Luke Ashworth has to play in defence. Somehow, Wycombe contrive to have two attacks and score two goals, the first a punt into the area that isn’t dealt with properly, and the second a shot from about twenty yards out. They should be cruising after this, but we respond with a well-worked move a couple of minutes later that’s finished off by who else but Alf, then Jason Taylor (from Stockport, as Tom Coley knows him) equalises. We should take the lead, but Nicky Law contrives to sidefoot a simple chance wide of the post. Typically, right before half time, Ashworth has to go off to get a head injury looked at, and while we’re down to ten men, Wycombe take the lead with a curling shot from Ben Strevens.

Half time is the usual mishmash of duff cheerleaders, an enthralling five-a-side and the new, souped-up Mayday draw machine not behaving itself. Then it’s back into the fray. When we get a corner and Exodus is climbed all over as he tries to go for the ball (and there’s a lot of him to climb over, so you really have to put in the effort!), the ref, Mr Quinn, gives a penalty immediately. Alfie slots it calmly past Rikki Bull (who still has two many Ks in his name for a grown man...) and it’s as you were. We even think we can win the game, Marcus Marshall coming on for Law and stepping up the pace. But with about five minutes to go, Kevin Betsy is tackled in the penalty area by Johnny Mullins. Mullins wins the ball cleanly, Betsy appears to think about his options, then falls over Mullins’ leg. The assistant referee doesn’t flag, but Mr Quinn signals a penalty. Amid much protesting, he charges over to have a word with his assistant, but doesn’t change his mind. Wycombe convert the penalty, leaving us feeling thoroughly cheated.

The mood as the teams and officials come off the pitch is very ugly. Fortunately, no one can get close enough to the ref to do him the damage they’d clearly like to. The people with the ‘One Community’ flag have taken it and made an early exit.

Back in Sheffield, still seething quietly, we take shelter in the calm of the Old Queen’s Head. One bar is full of Sheff U fans watching their game against Donny, but the other side, showing West Ham v Newcastle, is nice and quiet. We’re joined by Paul, the Wycombe photographer, who’d been hoping to see us in the Fat Cat before the game. He tells us how he thought he’d have a quick one in the Kelham Island first, only to realise it didn’t open till 12. Waiting patiently outside, sheltering from the rain, he thought he was the first there – until the doors opened and about twenty people dashed out from every other bit of shelter in the surrounding area... There’s a pound coin on the floor that I think Paul might have dropped. When he doesn’t claim it, and neither does anyone else, I go and drop it into a charity box. Mr Quinn’s performance really doesn’t influence my choice to give the money to the RNIB, honestly...

The journey back to London is less troublesome than the one up. We get chatting to a Bournemouth fan who’s worked for their club in his time, and is much more generous in his assessment of the set-up at Rotherham than the chuntering Cherry on the Cross-country train. The sour taste of today’s defeat has almost gone by the time we reach St Pancras, but only almost.

Princess Tiaamii's Shoe

Despite signal failures and defective trains, I reach Euston in good time – unlike Joy, who’s texted Chris Turner to let him know she’s overslept and won’t be joining us today. Fortunately, we’re not relying on her to bring sausages!
On the journey up to Preston, Chris is complaining about being at his sister’s and having to watch one of her favourite programmes, the ITV2 series about the everyday life of Peter Andre and his lovely, shiny abs. Apparently, the episode went into the commercial break on a cliffhanger about whether they would find the missing shoes of his daughter, Princess Tiaamii, before they board a plane. Cue mass ranting about how much better TV was in the old days, when everything was black and white and 47 per cent of the day’s viewing consisted of the test card...
In Preston, we’re meeting Clarkey’s friend, Jackie, who somehow hasn’t been put off by spending the entire afternoon with us when our game at Accrington was called off back in January. We’ve only got time to fit the two pubs in this time. Cutting through the Preston Mobility Centre car park, as you do, we spot a lone shoe lying forlorn in the gutter, black suede with a diamanté buckle. Surely it must be one of Princess Tiaamii’s. Call Peter Andre! Crisis averted! Is there a reward?
Our destination is the Black Horse, with its lovingly preserved interior, all stained glass and little snug rooms. From there, it’s a detour via William’s the butchers’ for pies and Bamber’s cheese shop, where I can’t resist a chunk of the local blue cheese (for local people), Smelly ’Aperth. Then it’s on to the Market Tavern, which is really busy, but we find a spot in the front corner where Chris gets talking to an old Irish lady about her corns. There’s no Elvis playing today, but somehow we get on to the subject of great (or not so great) Elvis impersonators we’ve seen, and why they’re always ‘fat white jumpsuit Las Vegas’ Elvis rather than ‘young hot never tried a fried squirrel sandwich’ Elvis.
Jenny and I bid our farewells to Jackie and head for the station, leaving the boys to catch us up (unless they decide to stay in the pub all afternoon, grab a granny and pretend they’ve won...). We take a shortcut through the St George’s shopping centre, managing to weave our way through the crowds without picking up a subscription to Sky HD and a massive wedding cake on the way.
The first hint of problems comes when our train pulls in. Some lovely people have decided to vandalise a signal box, meaning the service that should go through to York is terminating at Blackburn, with a coach the rest of the way. Except when we get off at Blackburn, there’s no coach. Fortunately, Accrington is a reasonably priced taxi ride away, so we’re at the ground for half-past two. Clarkey suggests we investigate the Crown, next to the ground, but it’s packed and there’s no sign of anything resembling real ale, so we go inside.
It’s another ground like Aldershot, where everyone from bag searchers to turnstile operatives are chatty and friendly – but Jenny and I are dismayed to learn the ground now has a no-flag policy (apparently Morecambe is the same and it’s all something to do with Lancashire Council). Even the home fans have fallen foul of this, with no sign of the massive ‘Accrington Ultras’ banner. We spot Barry, over from Bury, and Phil, Nigel and Diamond. Chris is able to fill Diamond in on the hen party who were in our carriage on the Preston train, this being Diamond’s area of special scientific interest. While Jenny and I are making enquiries about the flag, Clarkey and Chris, baffled by the novelty of being in the ground so early, watch the Rotherham finishing practice taking in place in front of the away end. Despite his excellent goal last week, Nicky Law consistently misses the target. We join the boys and find a spot on the low terrace just to the left of the goal, while the team do the obligatory running between cones, then disappear to the changing room.
The Burtons join us shortly after kick-off, delayed by the transport chaos (well, that’s their excuse). Accrington are bright and nippy, and start the game sharper than us. They take the lead after about ten minutes, when Don is hesitant about coming to take the ball off Andy Parkinson, possibly concerned he’ll give away a penalty if he gets it wrong. It enables Parkinson to round him and score, to general grumbling. The dissatisfaction is eased when Alf is hauled down by Kevin Long and the ref awards us a penalty and sends Long off. Alf’s spot kick is hard and high, and Ian Dunbavin gets nowhere near it. However, the grumbling starts again when we don’t appear to be capitalising on the man advantage, even though we’ve played enough games where we’ve had a man sent off and gone on to outplay the opposition.
From that point on, the Accrington fans behind the goal start shouting for every decision that might affect us unfavourably, and once Kevin Ellison (who does like to put himself about at times) is booked, the players start trying to get him a second yellow and even the numbers up. We create a number of chances, but Dunbavin stops everything. One of these saves, from Alf’s long-range shot, is pretty impressive, but the rest end with Dunbavin on the floor, claiming to have been injured.
At half-time, Stanley boss John Coleman marches straight over to the ref to tell him what he thinks of his performance, then sends his players out a good minute or so after we’ve come back on the pitch, something managers obviously learn in Gamesmanship 101.
It seems to have worked, because almost immediately Accrington score from a corner which is played out to Jimmy Ryan, whose shot goes through a crowd of players. The moaning starts again, most of it reserved for Law and Tom Pope, who has two chances with headers, one of which goes well over but the other is a lot closer. We do have the ball in the net, but Alf is flagged offside after heading in Exodus Geohaghan’s long throw. When Accrington bring on a sub, there are comments directed at Ronnie about that being the way to manage etc etc. A couple of minutes later, Ronnie replaces Ellison with Marcus Marshall, possibly before he can get sent off. Marshall’s extra pace starts causing problems for Stanley, but while most of the play is in their half, Dunbavin is still keeping us at bay. With ten minutes to go, Ronnie replaces Mark Bradley with Ryan Taylor. Almost immediately we’re level, when Geohaghan heads in a corner. He celebrates by making spectacles round his eyes (sadly without going into a full-on Biggles...). We’re really going to miss him when he goes, but Peterborough want silly money for him. Some idiot runs on the pitch and tries to tangle with Dunbavin in the goalmouth, but is swiftly hauled away.
With three up front, we look better than we have all afternoon. Ryan Taylor heads the ball against the post. Three minutes of stoppage time are indicated and the Tannoy announcer gives the Stanley man of the match award to Dunbavin, which is the cue for him to pick the ball out of the net seconds later. Ryan Cresswell bullets in a header from yet another Geohaghan long throw. More idiots run on the pitch. To borrow a line from Ted, there are a few tea parties missing chimps this afternoon. The away terrace goes mental. Chris’ pies are in danger of getting squished by his own feet, or Clarkey’s. I’m in danger of being squished by Burtons. The final whistle goes and we’ve got out of jail.
We make a swift getaway, aiming to catch the train that leaves Accrington at 5.19 – if services are back to normal, that is. Clarkey had originally been intending to leave early to catch the 5.06, as he’s supposed to be seeing Killing Joke at Hammersmith Apollo with Andy Leng tonight. (And is it just me, or does anyone else think that ex-Brentford and Leicester manager Martin Allen is the spit of Killing Joke frontman Jazz Coleman? Okay, just me then.) However, he knocked that plan on the head as he had no idea if that train would be running, and given the result he’s really glad he did. There’s very little information when we arrive at the station, but the guard on a train going to Colne tells us the train to Preston and Blackpool is definitely running. It arrives about five minutes late, which isn’t too bad given everything that’s happened. We trundle through some beautiful, hilly countryside, stopping at places like Church and Oswaldtwistle and Pleasington, which sounds like the kind of town you’d move to in a horror film, only to discover that the idyllic surroundings and friendly faces are hiding something unspeakably nasty...
Back in Preston, we have time for a quick visit to the Fox and Grapes, where Chris is hoping to buy another Ploughman’s Lunch in a packet for a spot of onion juggling, only to discover they don’t have any. He’d seen them in the Market Tavern earlier in the day and decided against getting one – bet he regrets that now! The music on the jukebox is is a mixture of G’n’R and Northern Soul, the Caledonian Mellow Yellow is going down nicely with the boys and we could easily settle in here, except we’ve got a train at seven.
Our journey home is enlivened at Warrington when the carriage is invaded by a group of huge men in training gear carrying heroic quantities of alcohol. It’s Blackheath rugby club. One of their supporters wanders over and offers us some of his port, which we decline. We get chatting and he tells us they’ve beaten Sedgeley Park, who are geographically somewhere close to Bury. He might call football ‘wendyball’, but he’s watched a fair bit in his time and has a soft spot for Southampton. He even knows enough about Rotherham to ask whether Ronnie Moore is still our manager. The team may plough through the Carlsberg like it’s going out of fashion and be playing some drinking game that involves wearing a Hallowe’en mask, but there’s one who just sits opposite us, quietly reading his broadsheet, and as far as I can tell, they all keep their clothes on. (Spoilsports!)
We arrive at Euston about twenty minutes early, so Clarkey, having found out from Andy that the Joke weren’t starting till 9.15, makes a dash for the Apollo to catch as much of the set as they can. The rest of us make our respective ways home, where I make the discovery that the cats like Smelly ’Aperth nearly as much as I do...

Making A Weekend Of It

Today I’m doing something I don’t think I’ve ever done before, and that’s travelling south to watch a home game. Ted and I having a nice weekend in York, along with a selection of his fellow DAFTS and wives/partners. We’re staying in Bishops Hotel, owned and run by former Darlo legend (according to the boys...) Marco Gabbiadini. After a hearty breakfast, the chaps head for Darlo for their game against Hayes & Yeading while I go down to Sheffield. Everyone else will probably wander into York for a spot of retail therapy and possibly a trip to Betty’s tea room (well, that’s what I’d do, given the choice).
Jenny and Steve Ducker arrive on the good old ‘TCB Miller, MBE’, which has to be an omen. They’ve had a text to say Phil Kyte is running late, so he won’t be joining us in the Fat Cat. Steve has reserved his first ‘Derek Holmes, world’s slowest footballer’ until he reaches Sheffield, because he knows how much I’ll appreciate it. Poor old Derek – scored a hat-trick for us against Lincoln from a combined total of three yards out and this is how we repay him!
Outside the DVS, we spot Martyn Tait, who I haven’t seen in absolutely yonks. He’s having a dilemma – he’s got his wife, who’d probably rather poke her eyes out with rusty forks than watch a football game, sitting in the car, and he doesn’t know whether to actually go inside the stadium instead. We advise him to point her in the direction of Meadowhall, but he’s still dithering as Jenny and I go inside.
There have been a lot of comments from pundits about the standard of League 2 football so far this season, and how it seems more clubs than ever want to get the ball down and play. After comng up against two of those teams in the past couple of weeks, Chesterfield and Bury, we now welcome what look set to be one of the spoilers of the division, Stevenage. I could vent for quite a while on the subject of their self-promoting owner/manager, Graham Westley, and I’m sure I’m not the only one. Let’s just say one day he’ll work his way on to a list of those people who are rather too pleased with themselves, while his team are a bunch of big units who are mostly strung across midfield, more concerned for the most part with not conceding rather than creating too much. When the goalkeeper is timewasting after about twenty-five minutes, you know what you’re in for. We always have problems breaking down sides like this – whether it’s a lack of guile on our part I don’t know, but teams can bully us without actually being dirty. It’s so dull the ‘Booooook him!’ man and his chums in Block 4 Upper are reduced to chanting about the steward who looks like Rafa Benitez (which is funny because it’s true). That said, we take the lead on half time, when Alf plays the ball into the path of Nicky Law, who lashes it into the roof of the net.
The half-time Mayday draw is performed by Ryan Cresswell and the Mayor of Rotherham, who keeps taking the opportunity to give him a reassuring pat. Maybe she’s consoling him over his recent bereavement, or maybe she’s just having a sneaky feel of his biceps...
The second half is just as uninspiring as the first. We have the ball in the net again, but the ref rules out Fenton’s effort, presumably for pushing. Shortly after that, Fenton pulls up with an injury and has to be replaced by Dean Holden. Stevenage get more adventurous, but we keep them at bay until a combination of Don and the defence block an initial shot and the rebound is squared to John Mousinho, who celebrates his goal with some stupid galloping horse celebration he’ll no doubt be explaining on Saturday’s Soccer AM (and why does no one ever say, ‘I only did it because I wanted to be on Soccer AM?’).
Ronnie takes off Bradley and Pope and brings on Harrison and Ryan Taylor, gradually coming back from the pre-season injury that at one stage threatened to keep him out till Christmas. Stevenage think they’ve scored again, but the flag goes straight up for offside. Westley whinges about this after the game, but we could say exactly the same about our disallowed goal.
After the game, I travel back to Sheffield station with the Chrises, Kirland and Burrows. We leave Steve waiting for Jenny at the tram stop. The boys are off to meet Tom in the Old Queen’s Head, but I decline to join them as I’m straight back to York. The train takes me through Wakefield and Leeds, where I’m amazed at the number of Wednesday fans who get off.
Back in York, I meet up with Ted and co, fresh from their one-nil reverse to Hayes & Yeading and mulling over rumours that their manager, Mark Cooper, resigned during the game. Thankfully for them, these turn out to be false. On the way for an excellent meal in the Lime House restaurant, we bump into Gabbiadini and his wife, who’ve been at York Races. Drink may have been involved. We’re sure he’ll be feeling no ill-effects when he checks us out of the hotel tomorrow morning...

So Are They Bury Today Now?

At last the engineering works are being inflicted on the western end of the District Line, so it’s a quick, smooth ride into the centre of London today. At Euston, we bump into Monica Harland, Stoke supporter and long-time committee member of APFSCIL (the cumbersomely named Association of Professional Football Supporters’ Clubs In London). Normally, Jenny and I only spot her when we’re in the middle of a pig of a journey, wandering past randomly while we’re waiting for a delayed train at Northampton or Leamington Spa. Hopefully this isn’t some kind of omen.

Speaking of omens, I’ve got everyone in the habit of looking for them now. Clarkey was handed a flyer yesterday for a band called Bury Tomorrow, a bunch of flannel-shirted emo types none of us has ever heard of, while Joy and Chris Turner have spotted posters at Euston reading ‘Try Warrington’ and ‘Alf joins Priscilla, Queen Of The Desert’ (that’s a reference to the bloke out of Home And Away, for anyone horrified at the prospect of Mr Le Fondre dragging up). John Kirkland completes the travelling band.

The train leaves on time and arrives in Manchester on time, so that’s a bonus. Kirkland Junior is waiting for us at Manchester, and we head for the tram, which is now running direct from Piccadilly, sparing us the walk to Victoria. Various Millers we recognise get on at stops across the city centre, but they’ll most likely be going to pubs closer to the ground. At Bury, Jenny’s friend Jean is waiting for us, having somehow been persuaded that she really, really wants to spend her Saturday watching Rotherham again. We also spot Barry, our Bury-based Miller, who thinks he may go drinking in the Trackside but does eventually join us in the Rose and Crown.

Having learned from last season, Jenny got in touch with the pub’s landlady a few days ago and arranged to have food put on for us. This equates to meat and potato pie, peas, chips and rolls, all of which is almost ridiculously cheaply priced and much appreciated. Shame the apricot wine runs out when I’ve had a scant glass, but you can’t have everything.

We’re joined by Chris Burrows and three of his Manchester chums, and Diamond, Phil and Nigel, who can’t resist the lure of a night out in Manchester. Some promotion team in the city have been handing out sachets of Sukk, a green tea and lemon-flavoured fibre-filled jelly drink thing. Nigel has saved me a packet, just so he can see the expression on my face when I sample a mouthful of cold, lumpy jelly. Let’s just say it’s an acquired taste...

We arrive at Gigg Lane to find a healthy contingent of Rotherham supporters. The acoustics in the away end are good (so good that we immediately decide to sit as far away as we can from the bloke with the drum!) and Clarkey and Chris K are soon up and chanting.

It’s another good, inspiring Millers performance, though we’re playing in an unfamiliar formation. Alf is on his own up front, with Mark Bradley joining Jason Taylor and Danny Harrison in midfield. Ryan Cresswell is strangely absent and the team are wearing black armbands – these two facts turn out to be connected, as Cresswell’s grandfather, the man who took him to Millmoor was he was younger, died yesterday and he’s not in the right frame of mind to play today.

We very nearly take the lead in the first minute, but Bury clear the ball following a goalmouth scramble. Bury have Lenell John-Lewis (ex of Lincoln and still never knowingly under-goaled) up front alongside Ryan Lowe, but they don’t produce much in the way of shots on target. Meanwhile, Neil Cutler has taken up his usual position on the steps to get an elevated view of proceedings; we can see his head poking over the top of the dugout like a stern, beardy meerkat.

Alf is having a running battle with Efe Sodje, who gets a yellow card very early on for a foul on him, but then somehow escapes a second on a couple of occasions. He’s doing well in his lone frontman role, and has a shot that just flashes wide of goal, but it looks like the first half is going to finish all square. Then Exodus Geohaghon, who otherwise has another very good game (and whose name is increasingly being chanted by the Millers fans, though there’s no Paul Martin here to chip in with ‘movement of Ja people’, as he’d otherwise be tempted to do) passes back to Don a bit casually. I don’t know whether he doesn’t get a shout (though we’ve seen Don bellowing ‘away!’ at his defence in the past, only for them to completely ignore him), but Lowe latches on to the loose ball and rounds Don to score.

Bury are another team who try to cram as many forms of entertainment into half-time as they possibly can. They have tweeny cheerleaders who yell, ‘Go, Bury!’ and form themselves into wobbly human pyramids. One day, this will end badly. There’s a half-time schools six-a-side game, a load of little footballers being paraded for some reason or other (I’d kind of stopped paying attention to the announcer by this point) and Andy Dibble’s son, who’s on the books at Bury, being awarded with his first cap for the Welsh Under-19s. He’s called Christian Dibble. Parents, please think about these things...

Anyway, by now I’ve been distracted by Mr Cutler coming down to warm up Bury keeper Cameron Belford in the goal at our end. It never struck me last season just how tiny Belford is, but now I can see he only comes up to Ivor’s shoulder. There’s no law that says you have to be ludicrously tall to play in goal, but I thought the titchy keeper had officially died out when Neil Edwards, who was at Rochdale for about a thousand years, retired. The Rotherham fans give Ivor a generous round of applause, and he entertains us (okay, me) with some needless stretching.

We’re hoping for a good response from Rotherham in the second half, as we didn’t really deserve to be behind, but we didn’t think it would come as quickly as it does. A couple of minutes in, Kevin Ellison chases down a long ball the defender should probably clear, turns and hooks the ball across goal. Alf can’t resist the invitation and heads past the helpless Belford. His goal celebration ends with him rolling on the floor. I can’t tell what he was supposed to be doing, as a wildly leaping Mr Clarke obscures my view, but I’m sure ‘Soccer AM’ will enlighten me at the weekend (whether I want them to or not).

After that, we have a ten-minute spell where we’re really on top, but the second goal doesn’t materialise. Nick Fenton heads into the side netting, but that’s as close as we come. Alan Knill makes changes for the Shakers, taking off John-Lewis and David Worrall and bringing on Nicky Ajose and Andy Haworth. Last season, when he switched things round it paid off for them. Both Ajose and Haworth are lively, and it looks as though the same thing might happen again. But though Bury have a lot of possession as the game goes on, and the ball spends an awful lot of time in our box, Don only has about one shot to save. In the end, we hold out for a hard-earned draw.

At Bury station, Jean finally manages to escape the mayhem and go home, though she seems to have enjoyed herself. There’s certainly none of the grumbling among Rotherham fans on the tram we heard last time, and as Clarkey points out, the singing of ‘Ronnie Moore’s red army’ went on throughout the game for much longer than it has in a while.

Back in Manchester, we make the trek up the Rochdale Road to the Marble Arch, the main pub of the Marble Brewery (whose beers are a favourite of both Chris T and Ted). It’s a place I’d certainly like to spend more time in, with its original tiles and fixtures and its very enticing-looking menu. The ladies may have teased me for drooling over Mr Cutler, but that’s nothing compared to my reaction on seeing the list of cheeses on offer!

Our route back to the station takes us past the streets where they’re filming Captain America, chosen because they have a 1940s feel. Like all film and TV sets, it looks to be just a lot of people hanging about waiting for something to happen. We bid our farewells to Phil, Diamond and Nigel, who are off to Canal Street for the evening. Lock up your transvestites!

The London train is delayed. Is the Monica Effect kicking in? Fortunately not, as it pulls in about 15 minutes late and doesn’t get any further behind. It’s busy, but half the passengers seem to be shoppers on their way back to Wilmslow and Macc. We find seats in the quiet coach (apart from Clarkey, who was out till the small hours at a Kirk Brandon gig and goes for a quick snooze in first class – solidarity with the masses, brother!) and by Crewe we practically have the whole thing to ourselves. 

The temptation to start a conga line is overwhelming, but we resist. Maybe next time...

Dreaming Spireites

Clarkey should be joining us, but Jenny gets a text to let her know his plans have changed, so it’s just the two of us travelling up today. As our tickets allow us to get on the earlier train, we do just that. Palace are at Derby today, and a few of their fans are in our carriage, already on the cider at 9.30 in the morning. If you looked up ‘cast-iron constitution’ in the dictionary, that’s probably the image you’d see. A handful of Spireites get on at Chesterfield, but the lairy 12-year-olds we usually find ourselves travelling with are more than likely still doing their paper rounds or having a lie-in in preparation for some concerted taunting of our lairy 12-year-olds.

In the Fat Cat we’re joined by Chris Kirkland, who spent last Sunday moving all his stuff up to Nottingham ready to embark on his post-graduate studies (for which read stringing out joining the world of employment a little bit longer, though it won’t stop him using ‘Get a job’ as an insult again if necessary). With him is his friend, Tom, who’s doing his MA in Sheffield and has found accommodation in the student heartland around Shalesmoor. He was only originally intending to join us for a drink, but somewhere along the line he manages to persuade himself coming to the game might be a good idea. Given that last season he saw us lose to Bury and Darlo and scrape a draw with Torquay, he really must be a glutton for punishment.

A bunch of Chesterfield fans pile on the tram in the city centre, singing about Jack Lester, still their talisman even though he’s been surprisingly quiet against us the last few times we’ve played them. We sit quietly, wondering if they’ll be in such high spirits after the game.

The atmosphere at the DVS is building nicely as we arrive. As you’d expect from a derby game, it starts at a million miles an hour, with the first half containing possibly our best football of the season so far. There are chances at both ends, with pixie-faced Spireites keeper being forced into a couple of palm-stinging saves, in both cases just managing to grab the ball before anyone can pounce on the rebound. Jason Taylor is shooting on sight, and there’s plenty of purpose about our play. Chesterfield’s best chance of the half is a shot from the aforementioned Lester. There was a time when he’d have buried it (or, failing that, fallen over and won a free kick from which they’d have scored), but today Don has the better of him.

Half time is a feast for the eyes, in the same way that Greggs’ is a feast for white van drivers. Richard Lee is back, and so are High Definition – are these events in any way connected? The girls slink their way through a routine set to Michael Jackson’s ‘Smooth Criminal’, but they’re just a foil for Miller Bear, who gets to perform his full repertoire of moon-walking, crotch-grabbing Wacko Jacko dance moves. Meanwhile, in the schools’ six-a-side competition, Maltby Lilly Hall are handing out a good old-fashioned smishing to their hapless opponents. I can’t help thinking this is what the inside of Toddy’s head is like...

The second half picks up where the first left off. Chesterfield are a strong, organised side, but we’re matching them, and still playing great football. We score from what, it later turns out, is a move suggested by Andy Liddell, who’s now working on the coaching staff, having retired in the summer. Alf gets on the end of a Johnny Mullins throw and loops the ball brilliantly over Tommy Lee. Cue a concerted attempt by Chesterfield to get back on level terms. Jack Lester, who apart from that one shot has been kept pretty quiet by Exodus Geohaghon, is substituted. Don is forced into three more excellent saves, including one double save after a scramble at the corner (the ball already having hit Kevin Ellison, who’s on the far post, with the Chesterfield fans appealing for a penalty). It’s not all one-way traffic, though, and with a couple of minutes to go, Geohaghon, who’s unfortunate to lose out to Don for man of the match, runs half the length of the pitch and looks as though he might have an attempt on goal. It doesn’t quite happen, but it would have summed up what’s been a thoroughly entertaining match and one that, even with four minutes of added-on time that have the potential to get a bit nervy, we hold on to win. From being our bogey team, Chesterfield have now lost to us in six of the last seven league matches. My brother used to ask to be pinched when we were beating them, as it had to be a dream, but when I text him after the game he reckons it’s more like Groundhog Day.

Jenny’s staying up in Rotherham for the weekend, so I join Chris K, Tom and Chris Burrows to return to Sheffield. The first tram that goes through while we’re waiting is packed with Chesterfield supporters. Unbelievably, they’re twice as loud as they were on the way to the game – I dread to think what they’d be like if they’d won.

Eventually we manage to squeeze on to a tram. There’s just time for a quick drink in the Old Queen’s Head (which, as we’d hoped, is a lot quieter than the Tap would be, and keeps us away from any lingering Spireites), then I bid the boys farewell. The train is heaving. The Palace fans who get on at Derby are pretty subdued, as they’ve lost 5-0, but there are a few Southampton supporters who are fine when they stick to songs about winning the Johnstone’s Paints Trophy, but let the side down when the Pope and the IRA are brought up. Boys, it’s not big, it’s not clever and it’s really not necessary...

I Like The Pope, The Pope Likes The Slope

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Déjà Burton

It’s a jolly party consisting of Jenny, Joy, Clarkey and myself who make the trip up to Sheffield. Clarkey is buzzing as he’s been to see Muse (complete with Rotherham-supporting bass player, of course) at Wembley and is raving about how good they were. Having seen them play the same venue a couple of years ago, I have to agree. Still wouldn’t want them doing a U2 and knackering the pitch at the DVS, though...

In Sheffield, Clarkey goes off to meet his mum. We try to get him to persuade her to come out to the Fat Cat, but in the end they go somewhere in the city centre. Unlike Rotherham, even most of the ‘ordinary’ pub/eateries seem to have real ale available. The rest of us meet up with Mr Kyte, who’s seeking sponsors for a 100-mile bike ride he’s doing to raise money for a voluntary project in India. The things people will do to get out of watching us play Chesterfield! How does a pound per blister sound, Phil?

After the mayhem that was the Chelters game, I’m hoping for something a little more straightforward. I don’t get it. Within a minute, Kevin Ellison has scored from a free kick, though from our angle it seems like the keeper might have done better to keep it out. Have we peaked too early? Certainly, Burton respond well to going behind, but though they try loads of clever routines from corners and set pieces, Don has very little to save. They’re a team who are moulded very much in the style of their manager, Paul Peschisolido, who was a serial diver when he played against us – and a highly successful one, going by the amount of times he or his team scored from the free kicks and penalties he ‘won’. Burton haven’t quite mastered his dark arts, and if they stayed on their feet more, they might really be causing us some serious problems. As it is, we go further ahead, when an Exodus Geohaghon long throw is headed in by Ryan Cresswell. Even more improbably, we’re three-nil up at half time, this time from a lovely piece of interplay between Warney and Ellison is finished off by Alf. We can’t quite work out why we’re so far ahead, but we’ll take it.

And then the stadium announcer goes and opens his big mouth. It’s not Richard Lee but a stand-in, and when the half-time scores are read out, he can’t resist announcing that as things stand we only need one more goal to go top of the league. It’s just the kind of grandstanding that demands the gods of football step in and give us a shoeing for our arrogance.

Still, there are other things to distract us. The High Definition dance group are conspicuous by their absence, but the Millerettes are still shaking their tween stuff. More importantly, the schools six-a-side competition is back. Ah, real entertaiment!

Proving that what we could do in the first half, they can do in the second, Burton score in the first minute. Cresswell makes a sloppy pass back to Don, and Shaun Harrad intercepts and sticks it in the net. Despite this setback, we keep playing some decent football, even though Burton are getting a lot of possession. What really changes the game in their favour is the penalty decision. Alfie’s back in defence and when he dwells on the ball, he’s brought down by a Burton player. The ref (Mr Salisbury, whose name on the team sheet has always made my heart sink thanks to his displays) doesn’t do anything about that, but when plays goes and Johnny Mullins makes a desperate lunge to get the ball, he gives the penalty. Yes, it was a foul, but so was the one on Alf, so what’s the difference? For once, Don can’t save it, and now things are getting tight. That said, we still press forward when we can, and Danny Harrison has a long-range shot that’s only just wide of the post. But there’s an inevitability about the moment when Harrad slots home the equaliser. We've done exactly the same as we did against them here last season, except last time we only had the two-goal start. But if that means we'll have the same result against them at the Pirelli as we did last season, I'll take it.

On the balance of the play, a draw is probably the right result, but we weren’t three goals better than Burton in the first half and they weren’t three goals better than us in the second, and if the scoreline had fluctuated more, the result might be easier to take.

At the tram stop, we add Chris Burrows to our merry band, and head for the Sheffield Tap. When we get to Fitzalan Square, the heavens open, and we’re soaked by the time we reach the station. The pub is so busy there’s only room for three of us, so Clarkey and Chris do the honourable thing and wait outside till two others leave. Joy and Clarkey decide to take advantage of the fact the Tap does carry-out, treating themselves to a two-pint carton of Thornbridge Wild Swan to share on the train back to London. Until East Midlands Trains offer something more than the stuff that comes in cans with widgets, it’s the only civilized alternative. Well, that’s their story and they’re sticking to it...