Brewer’s Droop

At first, it looks like it might be another of those trips. We’ve set out from St Pancras in force (Jenny, Clarkey, Tim, Chris Turner, Steve Ducker, Joy, Julia and myself), and are planning to rendezvous with Chris Kirkland and possibly my brother at Derby for the Burton train. However, we start trundling along somewhere around Market Harborough. At first, Jenny and I think this might be due to some speed restriction following the derailment which held us up last week, but apparently it’s due to some problem with the Nottingham-bound train which left London half an hour before we did. Eventually, round about Wigston, which is the first place there are any suitable points (a term I had to explain to one of my American editors in the week), they direct us on to the opposite track and we are able to pass the faulty train. By now, we’re about twenty minutes late, and when Chris K rings me to check on our progress, I tell him we’ll see him in the Cooper’s Tavern, the first on a list of several pubs we’ve compiled between us.
The Tavern is a short walk from the station, past the sort of kooky little shops you rarely see in central London any more (a bridal wear boutique called Me & Mrs Jones, places where you can buy a guitar and get a body piercing, not necessarily at the same time...). When we get there, Chris, his friend Tom – who seemingly just can’t keep away from us any more – and my brother are happily ensconsed in a corner near the log fire. We also meet up with Graham and Gail, enjoying one of their easiest away trips of the season. It’s a cracking little pub, the only one I’ve ever been in where the ladies’ is thoughtfully provided with a heater because it’s effectively out in the yard. The beer selection is good and those who have the pork pies recommend them highly.
Our next stop will be the Burton Bridge Brewery Inn. The slow drinkers – me, my brother and Clarkey, whose pie has only just arrived – let the others go on ahead as my brother has a map printed off the Stedders football and real ale site. Unfortunately, as we soon find out, if you follow it you start heading in the wrong direction... Back on the right track, we’re in the middle of a conversation about Viz magazine’s ‘Borderline Boilers’ (it made sense at the time) when we spot Joy waving at us, guiding us in air traffic control-style. The others are are anxious to share the news that we’ve arrived on the day of the pub’s beer and sausage festival. Happy, happy, joy, joy! I don’t know whose sausages they’re serving, but the pork ones at least are meaty and delicious, just the way I like them.
Nicely bangered up, we push on to the Wetmore Whistle – or the Wetlock, as Phil calls it in his text when he lets us know he’s there with his dad It’s part of the Castle Rock brewery chain (you may remember we visited their Golden Eagle in Lincoln and Fox And Crown in Newark a fortnight ago, and we’ve still got Nottingham and the Vat And Fiddle to come...). By now, the slow party is me, my brother, Chris K and Tom, but we find the place without problems, unlike poor old Steve, who we’ve somehow managed to lose. We assume he’s already left with the others and are slightly surprised when Jenny gets a call to say he’d almost walked as far as the Wetmore Whistle, decided he must have gone too far and turned back! He tracks us down eventually, though.
When we arrive at the Pirelli Stadium there’s already a healthy contingent of Rotherham fans milling around – we saw a few when we arrived in Burton, but they just hived off into the nearest pub to the station, not being beer connoisseurs like what we are... It’s a tidy little ground where the stewards are friendly, directing Jenny and me to a spot where we can fasten the flag. It’s down in a corner, so we decide to stop there as the view’s as good as any. The boys are somewhere behind us and find a place to stand near the goal – indeed, if you watch the goals on the BBC website there’s a cutaway shot where Phil and his eyecatching anorak are clearly visible.

There’s a new face in the Millers line-up – Josh Walker, signed on loan from Middlesbrough roughly as we were stuck on the approach to Leicester – while Burton start with Steve Kabba, matching his boots to his yellow Brewers shirt with an attention to detail my brother would appreciate. We know from the Christmas trip that Burton are no mugs, and they should really take the lead. Don makes a save with his feet and then the rebound is fired wide. Apart from that, they don’t really give him much at all to do, and it’s nil-nil after a fairly even first half. Walker the newbie is looking impressive and Kevin ‘Voldemort’ Ellison is buzzing around busily.
We seem to step it up a gear in the second half, and Alf scores about ten minutes in, bundling in Warrington’s long punt. It’s not the greatest Rotherham route one goal ever – that was an exquisite volley by Will Hoskins from a Neil Cutler goalkick – but it settles any nerves. Alf should score a second, but his header hits the inside of the post and bounces out. As the half progresses, it’s interesting to listen to the comments of the stewards in front of us. While people around me are grumbling about something Nicky Law or Ellison has done wrong, they’re noticing the things we’re doing better than Burton. Seems they’re impressed with Walker, too, though his angry off-the-ball reaction to an incident which leads to him getting booked is something he’ll have to cut out. Meanwhile, Tim is discussing Burton-related puns, one of which provides me with the title for this post.
Ellison should seal the game a couple of minutes from time when he’s one on with their keeper, who was probably at fault for the goal but redeems himself here (if you’re looking at it from a Burton point of view) with a good fingertip save.
Alf comes off and is replaced by Pablo Mills. With Marcus Marshall already on for the visibly knackered Tom Pope, it’s a striker-free line-up but one which should – and does – see out the four minutes of stoppage time (which my brother probably spent blowing like Hurricane Katrina).
There’s time for another drink in the Wetmore Whistle, but then we have to be on the way back to Derby. The Manchester contingent (whose ranks have swelled to include Chris Burrows) and my brother, being on a later train, have detoured into the Devonshire Arms.
The train is packed with Derby fans on the way back from West Brom. I don’t spot him, but Gail says a bloke sitting somewhere behind me looks like he’s been beaten up, so obviously a good time has been had by all!
In Derby, as we’re on the flexible tickets now being offered for football travellers courtesy of East Midlands Trains, those of us who want to get back early (Steve, Joy, Julia and me) wait for the 19.01 while Jenny, Tim, Chris T and Clarkey go for a drink with Graham and Gail in the Brunswick Inn, another favourite pub. The ladies nip into the chippy across the road from the station, while Steve is baffled by the sight of two girls coming out of a nearby pub for a cigarette, minus coats, as a nasty drizzle falls. Some of the other LMs might be admiring their skimpy outfits but Steve, bless him, is just worried they’ll get hypothermia!
There are no hold-ups on the way back, so we’re back into London at a reasonable time. We’ve enjoyed Burton, but then nice drinking establishments and three points always help...