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.