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...