Cutler, Callow And Cat Milk

The stout party leaving St Pancras today consists of me, Jenny, Chris Turner and Steve Ducker. We should have had Joy with us, but work commitments prevent her from coming. East Midlands are getting much more sophisticated in their computer reservations arrangements; the ones above our seats now bear the legend ‘ROTHERHAM UN’, but that’s only so fans of more successful clubs can point and laugh as they pass. Rummaging in my rucksack, I discover I’ve neglected to take out a bottle of cat milk I bought while doing the weekly shop. If we win today, am I going to have to carry it around for the rest of the season to keep our luck in? Fortunately, I spot an alternative omen as we go through Leicester – a train with the name plate ‘TCB Miller, MBE’. Meanwhile, Chris is enlightening us with the details of his dream last night. Apparently, he had acquired a video called Susan Boyle’s Guide To Real Ale. If it actually existed, we reckon we’d buy it just to see her recommendations. She strikes me as the Bitter And Twisted type...
To the Fat Cat, where Phil and his dad are waiting for us. The place is pretty busy, but a group who are moving upstairs offer us their table. They’re wearing a variety of extremely camp hats and tell us they’re celebrating the thirtieth birthday of one of their party. They seem like nice people, but they prove blokes have to have really good legs to get away with tiny leather shorts.
Derby are in town, but fortunately they don’t descend on the pub in the same numbers as Leicester did, and apart from one fairly rowdy tramful on their way to Hillsborough, they don’t seem to be causing any problems. They’ve got Robbie Savage, so they’ve already suffered enough.
Jenny has to collect some tickets when we get to the DVS, and while I’m waiting for her I spot Howard Webb walking past. Given that big Drewe is back from exile in Lincolnshire and Neil Cutler’s going to be doing his dominant cat impression in the Bury dug-out (and no, that’s not why I accidentally brought the cat milk), the stadium is going to be a seething cauldron of testosterone this afternoon.
If we win today, we go above Bury. As with just about every club in this division (Bradford and Chesterfield the honourable exceptions), Bury have brought fewer here than we took to their place. They’re noisy, mind, but we’re playing well enough that they don’t have too much to shout about. Kiegan Parker, who they’ve borrowed from Oldham, has the ball in the net, but it’s so long after he got called up for offside he should get a booking for it, but doesn’t. We should get a penalty when a Bury arm is flung out in the area to divert the ball for a corner, but the officials don’t see it. The ref does, eventually, see one of the many fouls Efe Sodje has been getting away with and books him. Like Daniel Nardiello at Dagenham, Sodje argues the decision so hard he’s in danger of getting another yellow, but unlike Nardiello, he doesn’t get subbed by Alan Knill. He ends up picking up an injury which sees him having to be subbed and means Bury lose most of their aerial threat. We lose Nick Fenton to a calf problem, but Pablo Mills slots comfortably into his place.
The half-time draw is performed by Jonathan Howard, best known to neutral supporters for scoring the goal which should have been given when Chesterfield played Middlesbrough in the FA Cup. The Tannoy announcer confuses us all by calling him ‘John’ and leading us to expect someone else entirely. Meanwhile, Mr Cutler is coaching Wayne Brown in the important arts of time-wasting and shouting, which he’s going to put to good use for most of the second half and big Drewe does some attention-seeking stretching, made even more noticeable by the fact he’s in a fluorescent orange bib.
Attacking the good end of the pitch, we have one shot which forces Brown to make a stinging save, but it seems the game is in danger of petering out to nil-nil. Ronnie takes off Nicky Law at just the point when the people around us are desperate for a substitution, and brings on Abdulai Bell-Baggie, who’s on loan from Second Division Reading (as my brother will call them from now till the end of time). His pace worries Bury and gives the crowd a lift. Then Marcus Marshall just about keeps the ball in, and when the ball is laid off to Josh Walker, his beautiful strike gives Brown no chance. Instantly the time-wasting stops as Bury are forced to chase the game. Big Drewe comes on for Marshall, who’s played really well but seems to have picked up a knock. Just like when I saw them at Dagenham, Andy Morrell has their best chance of the match, but his header late in added-on time hits the bar. We’re all pleading for the whistle, and finally the ref puts us out of our agony. With the news that Bournemouth have lost and Chesterfield only drawn, we’ve crept back within touching distance of the top three.
As Jenny and I are collecting the flag, we spot the Mayday machine, unattended and waiting to be picked up. We hatch a plan to take out all the numbers except hers and my dad’s, because it’s the best chance either of them will have of winning the £1000 prize.
Back in Sheffield, we grab a drink in the Old Queen’s Head, as the Sheffield Tap is bound to be packed. There are some very disgruntled Bury fans on the table next to ours, one of whom exclaims, ‘We can’t shoot!’ about forty times in two minutes. He’s probably still saying it now.
Luvvie alert! Simon Callow is on our train back to London, which is fairly packed due to being a carriage short. Everything is progressing very smoothly until we grind to a halt at Luton station. It soon becomes apparent that the train ahead of ours has struck someone further down the line and nothing is going anywhere until the police have done whatever they need to do. The doors are unlocked so people who want to can make alternative arrangements to reach London. First off and sprinting for the taxis are Mr Callow and a young male companion...
We amuse ourselves with the thought of Susan Boyle in CSI: Harpenden (boredom can do that you), while Jenny rings Nigel Hall to check whether making our way to a station on the line into Euston is feasible. After several grovelling apologies from the train guard, followed by a long period of radio silence, the train is suddenly on the move again after an eighty-minute delay. Perking up visibly, Steve invites us to take part in his alternative pub quiz. Questions include, ‘What are you looking at?’, ‘D’you want some?’ and the tie-breaker to be answered in 12 words or less, ‘We can take this outside because...’ Still, at least we weren’t reduced to drinking the cat milk!