Helen Chamberlain, Where Are You When We Need You?

Rescheduled games are a pain. Moving them to midweek means either changing plans altogether or, more usually, not attending. This is slightly different. As our game against Shrewsbury has been moved from Tuesday to Monday for Sky, this game has been brought forward from Saturday to Friday. Jenny and I can still make it as we can stay in Rotherham overnight, but Joy, who was originally booked on this trip, has had to pull out due to work commitments.
I’m going straight home when we reach Sheffield, but Jenny is joining up with various reprobates mid-pub crawl. Chris Turner and Andy are up for the beer festival at Oakwood School, with Chris planning to begin his tour of Sheffield hostelries before midday (the man truly has a remarkable constitution!). Clarkey and Phil are also in the mix, and there’s at least one Chris coming over from Manchester. They’ve timed things to coincide their arrival at the Sheffield Tap with our train getting in, which is outstandingly sensible of them.
The traffic en route to Attercliffe is surprisingly light, given that Elvis (or a hologram simulation thereof) is appearing at the Arena tonight. My dad, Gordon and I take our seats in a stand which is fuller than we expected. It will turn out later that this is partly because Chris K has managed to persuade half-a-dozen of his student friends to accompany him over the Pennines. Manchester must be more dull than I was previously led to believe... The Torquay end is pretty sparse, as you’d expect, though the toy dolphin being waved by four or five of the lads at the back is a nice touch. Of course, there’s no sign of everyone’s favourite celebrity Gull, Helen Chamberlain, as she’ll be putting the last touches to tomorrow’s ‘Soccer AM’. Ted and I once took part in one of Coca-cola’s publicity campaigns for the Football League, part of which involved hoisting Ms Chamberlain aloft for some photos. I got to hold her ankles, but even that was enough to make Clarkey and the boys come over all jealous. Though she’s genuinely nice (unless like some ‘celebs’ I’ve had dealings with over the years), I still want her to be disappointed at the end of the evening.
And for most of the first half – one very early corner which prompts Don to make a fantastic save aside – she will be. We’re attacking on the ‘good’ half of the pitch, and we hit the post twice before Nicky Law appears to hit a cross too long, only for Danny Harrison to poke the ball home. Torquay may be a much bigger side than us, physically, and ex-Miller and man completely deserving of the nickname Psycho, may be getting away with manhandling Alfie at every turn, but we still feel comfortable going in at half-time.
There’s a real favourite ex-player back to do the half-time draw. Unfortunately, Richard Lee, who’s usually one of the best stadium announcers in terms of patter and professionalism, announces him as Paul Warne, rather than Paul Hurst. This, however, isn’t as bad as our previous announcer, who once asked us all to observe a minute’s silence for the very-much-still-with-us Jimmy Armfield, rather than Ian Porterfield!
Torquay pose more of a threat in the second half, though Alfie, hampered by the sand and loose turf in the 18-yard box, very nearly doubles our lead with a lobbed effort which hits the bar. By now, however, the crowd are starting to get a little tired of the ref, Mr Miller. He’s the one who wrongly awarded a penalty to Chesterfield for an offence outside the box (though to be fair to him, the linesman flagged for it – he just agreed with him...) and he always seems desperate to prove his surname doesn’t mean we’ll be favoured. In fact, he probably couldn’t do less to favour us. With only about five minutes to go, Torquay equalise from a throw which should have been ours, and there’s still time for Mr Miller to enrage us further by sending off Gary Roberts, giving him a second yellow for a challenge in which he’s clearly come off second best. If Clarkey had a banana skin, he’d be racing to drop it on the ref’s head as he leaves the pitch, as he’s threatened to do before.
I meet up with Jenny on Rotherham station on Saturday evening, and Clarkey joins us as we wait for the St Pancras train. Unfortunately, it quickly becomes apparent something is wrong. The incoming service is delayed, and when a train does arrive, we’re told to board it only to be asked to disembark again because a failed train at Market Harborough means there are no staff to crew it. As we make our way along the platform, Clarkey finds himself sympathising with a very drunk London Owl about the delay. ‘See that bloke over there?’ the drunk asks, pointing to a bald man in conversation with the guard. ‘That’s the West Ham chairman. [By which he means Eggart Magnusson, who’s just sold out to David Sullivan and co] I told him he should have used his facking helicopter!’
Eventually the service which starts in York pulls in and we pile on. We don’t leave immediately, though, as the police have to be called to an incident. It appears the drunken Owls have been fighting with some Sheff U fans, whose game at Peterborough was called off, giving them ample time to get back to Sheffield for a ruck. This is when we should begin to suspect we’re on the journey from hell. However, we’re conversing very pleasantly with some Ipswich fans, and all is fine until we reach Leicester and the train has to be diverted because the problem at Market Harborough means the line is completely blocked. The slow trundle through Rutland is very pretty during the day, but at night it’s just frustrating. Add extra stops at Kettering, Wellingborough and Bedford to accommodate passengers whose train has been cancelled, and we don’t get in to London till gone 11. At least we should get a refund – which is great news for the Ipswich lad who’s had to pay full fare for the journey.
Waiting for the Hammersmith and City Line, I find myself chatting to a man who’s also been on our delayed train and who turns out to have watched Torquay in the past, while he was studying there. And so the circle of life is complete...

Su Pollard And A Lesson In Spanish

It’s a ‘ladies’ trip’ this week – Jenny, myself and Joy, who’s just got back from a holiday in Cuba and is still a little jet-lagged (though that’s often the best way to watch Rotherham...). We spot Su Pollard boarding in first class, though it’s quite hard to miss her, given that she’s wearing a leopardskin coat and lime-green legwarmers. Mind you, I saw her doing her weekly shop in the Chapel Market Sainsbury’s about twenty years ago and her equally flamboyant appearance that day confirms she’s a woman for whom the words ‘casually dressed’ have no meaning.
Meanwhile, on checking the runners and riders as I always do it seems the horse name omen of the day is Broughton’s Swinger – now that’s worthy of a ‘Hi-de-hi’ punchline...
We change at Newark on to a train which warms up for a good while before we get on – which is very important, as it’s an unpleasantly damp, cold, drizzly day. I keep an eye out on the approach to Lincoln as one of my publishers has just moved to new, hi-tech premises on an industrial park there, but the one thing you can’t fail to miss is the cathedral, looming over the whole city. A mention of the Lincoln Imp sets Joy musing about liquorice Imps – something I’d completely forgotten about. For the younger generation, these were vile, hard nuggets of liquorice, which you can probably still get from some online retro sweetshop, though I certainly won’t be tracking them down. That gets us talking about why liquorice is known as ‘Spanish’ in Rotherham, and sweets as ‘spice’, and why no one else uses those terms.
We’re still no nearer enlightenment by the time we reach the Golden Eagle, where we’re meeting the Manchester axis of Chrises. They’re already settled in the window seat, watching the Saints v Pompey cup tie on one screen (reffed by Howard Webb, so no chance of seeing him in the away end at Sincil Bank this season) and Chelsea v Cardiff on the other. I’m distracted from the football by the books on the shelf near us. Lots of pubs have these, meaning you can take one and, if you’re feeling generous, leave one in return, but what strikes me is that along with ‘The Da Vinci Code’ and a blokey selection from Gerald Seymour, Andy McNab and Steven Leather, there’s a copy of Wendy Cooper’s seminal guide to the menopause, ‘No Change’. Ideal if you’ve popped in for a swift gin and hormone replacement tablet...
We’re joined by the Burton brothers, who are considerably more sober than when we last saw them in Lincoln. Richard tells me that’s because they were drinking with the Treeton Millers then, which is apparently not for the lightweights.
In the ground, we hitch the flag in the same place as last time – it’s not too windy, so we don’t have to sit and keep an eye on it. That enables us to give our full concentration for the match. Sometimes, I think I could just write a Lincoln report which says simply, ‘We won and they had a man sent off,’ which is pretty much how it always goes. However, that wouldn’t tell the whole story by any means.
Lincoln are a man light after about ten minutes, even though we no longer have Mark Hudson for them to cut their tackling chops on. We’ve started strongly and Alfie is running on goal when Moses Swaibu brings him down. The ref, Mr Singh (who once decided at Gillingham that it was possible for the slender, highlighted, be-earringed Martin Woods to foul an enormously beefy goalkeeper and so disallowed a goal) gives a penalty and sends Swaibu off. Chris K can’t watch and I’m equally worried that keeper Rob Burch will save it, as he’s one of the better goalies in this division, but Alfie sends it straight down the middle.
Other teams might fold at this point, but not Lincoln. They harry and chase us and mount attacks whenever they can. The headbanded Chris Herd, on loan from Aston Villa, is clearly modelling his hair on Chris K, who’s not impressed by the comparison – though at least no one in our end is telling Chris to get his hair cut this week. They’ve gone from ‘We want Ronnie out’ to ‘Ronnie, give us a wave’ in a week. How fickle!
Lincoln almost equalise, but hit the post. Danny Harrison, who the man behind me keeps grumbling about, is actually having a good game, and forces a couple of saves from Burch.
The half-time entertainment is a schools game, which are always good value. Joy’s other half has packed her up a flask of soup, sarnies and a hip flask of Whiskey Mac. She offers us a nip, but whiskey’s not my spirit of choice, even if it is the sort of day when you could do with something to warm the cockles...
The second half picks up pretty much where the first left off, with Lincoln still pressing. We are finding time to play some football, though, and one move, which features about ten passes before the ball is fed to Alfie, who just can’t get a toe on it to finish it off, is as good as anything I saw from Arsenal at Upton Park the other week. The crowd is getting a bit anxious, but the nerves are eased when a lovely move between Gary Roberts and Tom Pope ends with Roberts finishing coolly past Burch. Cue that weird goal celebration he does which looks like a long-necked dinosaur. It obviously means something to someone, somewhere, and at least he’s not rocking a baby!
We should see out the rest of the game in comfort, but it doesn’t quite work out like that. Lincoln bring on Lennell John-Lewis (never knowingly under-goaled), who goes into every challenge with his arms flailing dangerously but manages to be awarded most of the resulting free-kicks. Indeed, apart from the penalty decision, Mr Singh appears to have favoured Lincoln throughout the game. Lincoln score when John-Lewis goes down on the edge of the area, Gavin Gunning (who’s done well today otherwise) seems to concentrate on him rather than the man who’s marking and said man, Steve Lennon, lashes the ball past Don.
Again the Rotherham following (nine hundred out of a four thousand crowd according to the matchday announcer) get nervy. The blokes round us want a substitution – any substitution – and eventually Ryan Taylor comes on for Pope, who looks knackered. So even if the omen looks to have worked, there’s no to be no sign of Mr Broughton’s swinger today...
We get through the four minutes of added time without mishap, and for the third season in a row we’ve done the double over Lincoln. They must be getting sick of the sight of us. The Chrises make a swift exit to catch the train back to Sheffield. When Jenny, Joy and I leave, having collected a now rather damp and muddy flag, we find ourselves walking alongside the Rotherham fans who are deemed worthy of a police escort. There are about fifteen of them: one has his tween daughter with him and the rest all look to be of an age where they’ll be boasting about this at school on Monday (assuming they aren’t all wagging it, to use another good Rotherham expression...) At least we know the shortcut back to the station now.
In the ladies’ on Lincoln station, I find one of the most overwrought pieces of grafitti I’ve seen. It reminds me of the days when the Royal George on Charing Cross Road was a rockers’ hang-out, and one of the cubicles was the site of a written feud between two girls, one of whom had stolen the other’s boyfriend. The line which capped it read, ‘At least I can get a man with his own job and his own teeth’. This is just as good. ‘The best feeling is... when the guy you like looks at you. The worst feeling is... when the guy you fancy is being drawn on by the class slut. Thing is, it’s on his hand. She’s touching the hand you so desperately want to hold.’ You can’t help but feel the pain...
Our journey home takes us from one side of Newark to the other, which of course means a stop-off at the Fox and Goose and the excellent chip shop on Appleton Gate. Ted, who’s spending the weekend in Newcastle rather than going to see Darlo at Morecambe, rings to find out how I’m getting on. I manage to assure him – and the ladies’ - that we’re within sight of the pub, as I’m sure Jenny and Joy think I’m leading them down some dark, quiet street to get mugged! The pub, a sister to the Golden Eagle, is fairly quiet, though there’s a band setting up, and we enjoy a swift couple of halves before going to stuff our faces with chips (in a ladylike fashion, obviously).
We don’t spot any more celebs on the way home, but it’s been another thoroughly pleasant trip with, unlike last week, a result to match the rest of the day. More of the same, please.

Dar-low

It’s only half-past eight, but the Darlo contingent of today’s expeditionary force, including Ted, are already on their way north. There’s a good turn-out from the London Millers – Jenny, Steve Ducker, Chris Turner, Andy Leng, the rarely-spotted Paul Martin and Julia. The Norwood boys have managed to fit in breakfast at one of Ted’s haunts of choice, Da Vinci’s on Gray’s Inn Road, to fortify themselves for the trip. As their itinerary once they reach Darlington is going to include a stop-off for Taylor’s pies (again recommended by Ted – who rings to ask if someone can get the apple and raspberry for Martin the steward which he forgot!), I don’t think they’re going to go hungry today.
It seems strange not to start preparing to get off the train once we reach Doncaster. As we approach Darlo, it’s too foggy to see the local landmarks, including the white horse carved in the hillside at Kilburn and Middlesbrough’s training ground at Hurworth. Hopefully it will have lifted a little by the time the game kicks off.
Chris Kirkland is waiting for us on Darlington station. We’d been hoping to give him jip about being forced to go shopping at Meadowhell when last week’s game was called off, but when I was confirming train times with him in the week he let me know that he ended up sitting in the car listening to the Sheff U commentary while his folks were shopping, which apparently annoyed his mum more than him joining us on a pub crawl would have done! Chris also has his Newcastle-supporting chum Tom with him, who’s seen us once this season at Bury but is clearly a glutton for further punishment.
Ted is already enconsed in the Quaker House when we get there, along with John Wilson and Tony, one of the Darlington-based DAFTS. We make ourselves comfortable, which is quite easy to do. The Norwood boys roll up, pied up to the eyeballs, then Chris Burrows calls to say he’s arrived in Darlo and can he have directions to the pub? When he’s walked past Greggs twice he realises something’s amiss, but as the Quaker House is tucked down an alleyway it is quite easy to miss, so Ted goes out to guide him in, air traffic control style...
From the Quaker House, we move on to Number Twenty-2 on Coniscliffe Road, which is my favourite. It shuns alcopops and fizzy lager, serves cracking food and is known by the locals as ‘Jurassic Park’ because of the age of the clientele. Inside, I spot Paul Walker, who I haven’t seen for absolutely ages. When he lived in Essex, he and Ted regularly used to travel up to games together, but then work took him to Scotland. Paul has his daughter, Hayley, with him, who shows me a picture of her daughter, Shannon, Suddenly, I feel old. Hayley’s clearly settled where she is, as she seems to have picked up more than a touch of the local accent – very odd when mixed with her original Essex twang. When we were in the bottom division with Darlo last time round, Ted and I sponsored the matchball at all six games, and Hayley was the mascot at Millmoor. She was treated very well by everyone at the club, but we were a bit alarmed to see her joining in the pre-match huddle with the Darlington players. ‘They were all swearing their heads off,’ she told us when she came to sit with us, ‘and then one of them said, “I think you should put your hands over your ears, love.”’
Ted has organised taxis to take us all to the ground, giving us plenty of time to put the flag up. There’s quite a decent turn-out from Rotherham, but the end behind the Darlo goal is as sparse as I’ve ever seen it. If they do find themselves in the Conference next year, it may feel very empty when some of the smaller clubs in the league play there.
It’s safe to say what follows is not a very good game of football. Darlo are clearly up for it, and are unrecognisable from the limp shower I saw at Barnet – mostly because Steve Staunton has recruited loads of new players, most of them from Ireland, since then. They’ve recaptured some of the dirtiness they had under Dave Penney, too, with a few nasty-looking challenges going in. They take the lead when a shot which Don would have had covered hits the yellow-booted Curtis Main and goes in. We respond, and soon have the ball in the net, but the ref blows for a foul on their keeper.
There’s plenty of discontent in the away end, which gets louder and more vocal as the game goes on. We know that if we can get an equaliser, Darlo still look fragile. Instead, they go further ahead. Don spills a shot, nobody manages to clear the ball and Waite slots it in. Now the boos really start, which infuriates Chris K. ‘If you don’t like it, go and watch Barnsley,’ he yells at the little knot of fans at the back of the stand who are coming out with some anti-Ronnie chants (I’m paraphrasing his words slightly here, as this is a family blog...). ‘Get your hair cut!’ someone shouts at him. ‘Get a job!’ Chris shouts back – probably the first instance ever of a student directing that comment at someone...
A bloke sitting in front of us decides to engage us in conversation. He admires our positivity, he tells us, but we have to admit it’s not a good performance. We’re not saying it is, we reply, but we just don’t see how booing and barracking the team does anything to help them improve. He plays the ‘I’m a season ticket holder’ card. Jenny and I see him, and raise him ‘I’m a season ticket holder and I travel up from London’, at which point he mellows a little.
On the pitch, Ronnie has taken off Micky Cummins and brought on Drewe Broughton, who clearly unsettles the Darlo defence but fires the best chance he gets over the bar. At the end, the Darlo fans behind the goal stay for a few minutes to celebrate like they’ve stayed up, while one lone Rotherham fan continues his rant against the manager.
We head back to Twenty-2 to drown our sorrows, Ted having arranged taxis for us again. He’s already there when we arrive. Instead of gloating (which he knows only ever comes back on you), he shows us the column he wrote for the programme, which has the lovely picture of us he took outside the Wenlock Arms two Treasure Hunt Pub Crawl Thingys ago – and a standfirst courtesy of the programme editor which describes me as his wife! Cue much mirth. If I had a solicitor, he’d be in touch...
There’s time for a quick one in the Quaker House, which is showing England v Wales in the Six Nations. The one person who’s really interested in the game is Paul Martin, who manages to miss an England try by going to the gents’.
Bidding farewell to the Manchester contingent, whose train is twenty minutes after ours, we head for the station. The journey back is fairly riotous, given our despondency (Ted not included) about the result and performance. Andy is in the sort of pontificating mood which usually sees him going on the Rotherham messageboards and leaving comments for the most knuckle-dragging posters before treating himself to a lower-league Scottish away shirt. Ted has to explain to him that because he described Andy’s beloved Clarets watering hole as dark, dingy and full of old codgers, these are not bad points. Mr Martin decides to show us his spuds – having a photo of his most recent crop of new potatoes on his phone. Instead, he manages to find a shot of what appears to be someone he knows taking their trousers down in a local park. Meanwhile, Steve Ducker and I are discussing ‘Come Dine With Me’ and what we’d cook if we appeared, little realising that later in the week a Rotherham fan is going to appear on the show. (And Steve’s menu would have been better than his!)
At least the Taylor’s pies go down well.
By the time we arrive in London we’ve just about put the world to rights. Shame we might not have the opportunity to do it all again next season.

The Return Of Mission Aborted

It’s pretty much been the perfect week if you’re a Rotherham fan – firstly, the win against Grimsby was followed with a second at Chesterfield on Tuesday night. We seem to have pretty much buried the Saltergate hoodoo which followed us for years, and Tom Pope’s last-minute winner was the perfect revenge for losing there in the last minute last season. Then, on Wednesday, the site of the new stadium was announced, and it was the news we’d all been hoping for. It’s going to be built on the site of the old Guest and Chrimes foundry, and will be one of the only stadia in recent years which will actually be closer to the centre of town than the one it’s replacing. It’s also handily placed a) for the police station, for anyone who might have been thinking of misbehaving on match day and b) will be visible to the Booth family, reminding them of how foolish they were to get so stubborn over money that we moved away from Millmoor.
So it’s all set up for a good game against Macc. We’re hitting the north from two flanks. Jenny and I are going up from Kings Cross and Chris Turner and Clarkey are going from St Pancras, with the twain meeting eventually at the Fat Cat. Jenny and I are intending to head straight to Shalesmoor, while the boys are nipping into the Sheffield Tap first. On the tram platform, we’re joined by Chris Kirkland. It’s his grandma’s eightieth birthday, so a family celebration is planned. His mum and dad are on the way up, and will probably meet us in the Fat Cat, but every time Chris speaks to them, they’re ‘about an hour’ away from Sheffield, so we’ll see...
The first intimation that it might be another of those days is when we’re getting off the tram and Chris gets a message from Chris Burrows, who’s still in Manchester, to let him know there’s a pitch inspection at the DVS at one. Can we let him know as soon as we hear anything, as the last train he can catch which will get him here in time for kick-off is at 1.20. We debate the possibility of the game going ahead. It is absolutely freezing, but the sun’s out. Hopefully it will thaw in time.
At least the pub is nice and quiet when we get there. The resident cat, whose name we learn is Steffi, is torn between dozing and scrounging for leftovers, and there’s one girl in the corner waiting for some friends who turn out to be Plymouth fans. Unfortunately, they’ve followed her directions but found themselves in the Kelham Island Tavern instead (quite easy to do, as it’s the first pub you reach if you’re coming from the main road), so she’s going to have to go over there and round them up so they can come back here to eat.
By this time, I’m plugged in to Radio Sheffield, waiting for news. At ten past one, the white smoke appears and Howard ‘Howie’ Pressman (no relation to Kevin and his tray of pies, as far as we know) informs us the game has been called off. Chiz. Almost immediately, I get a call from my brother, who’s up for the weekend with Katie, asking whether I’ve heard the news. I have. I tell him to come over and have a drink with us anyway.
Chris T, Clarkey and Phil Kyte arrive, followed shortly afterwards by assorted Kirklands. We console ourselves with the possibility of a pub crawl, though the Kirklands go shopping in Meadowhall instead. Chris K does his best to get out of it, but no such luck. He will be mocked the next time we see him, oh, yes!
The Plymouth fans have finally found the pub. One of them is actually in shorts which, given our frozen pitch, is just extracting the Michael...
Fortified with leek and rosemary pie, among other things, Chris T, Clarkey and Phil decide to go to the Riverside – a pub we haven’t as yet tried. I stay behind with Jenny as my brother and Katie have just arrived. Katie has a new hobby since I saw her at Christmas, which is photography. She takes Robert’s camera and proceeds to photograph everything which moves – and everything which doesn’t, from the cat (which is now fast asleep) to the pub carpet to a Ruddles County beermat. She’s obviously a mini-Ted in the making, so I’ll give it a few years and see if she progresses to the pitchside photography.
We get a message to say the boys are moving on to the Gardener’s Rest and will see us there. Robert, having finished his pint and rounded Katie up from snapping the other customers, gives us a lift there. It’s not actually that far from where we are, but the one-way system, and the fact it’s not the easiest pub in the world to spot as it’s set back among what look like deserted buildings mean we don’t find it at first.
Inside, it’s surprisingly busy given its out-of-the-way location, but there’s a good choice of beers on draught and the landlord is chatty. He’s obviously been around a while, as for reasons which now elude me we get into a conversation about Peter Stringfellow and his brother, who the landlord used to know before Peter was into the thong swimwear and the considerably younger girlfriends...
We’re joined by Tim and his friend Andy, who we haven’t seen for a while. They want to know what’s going on at the Sheffield Arena, as they’ve been in the Carlton and the trams round Attercliffe were crawling with women of a certain age. Turns out it wasn’t a convention for members of the Drewe Broughton Appreciation Society, but ‘Strictly Come Dancing’ on tour.
Tales of packed trams reminds Jenny that we should be getting back to Sheffield before the hordes emerge from Hillsborough. Wednesday are winning, so there won’t have been mass sneak out-age before the end, and when we reach the Infirmary Road stop, we only have to wait a couple of minutes before a gratifyingly empty tram arrives.
The train from Sheffield to Donny is relatively empty, and when Jenny and I reach the Corner Pin, it’s to discover they have a beer festival on. It’s out in the beer garden (which we didn’t even realise they had until today!), which is bathed in an eerie red glow, giving it that ‘would you like a human sacrifice with your pint, sir?’ feel. As ever, our chum Mr Thorne Brewery is in, and he congratulates us on the new stadium. We tell him he should have a quiet word with the club to see if they’re going to need a beer supplier for the bars!
Waiting on Donny station, the cold wind is really slicing through us, though the train is nice and warm. I get a text fron Robert letting me know they’ve gone for a meal at the pub my parents visit every Saturday, and Katie is at it again, this time photographing a hen party. If Diamond resurfaces again, we’ll have to show him those, hen nights being one of his areas of special scientific interest.
It’s been quite a jolly day, all things considered, but that’s still quite enough postponements for one season, thank you...