Chris Kirkland Is A Very Angry Man

Last night, I was at Sh!, the ‘women’s store’ in Hoxton, reading one of my short stories. Pink bubbly was on hand to lubricate the old vocal chords, so it’s nice to have a later start than usual. Even so, it’s a surprisingly warm day and I’m feeling the effort as I trudge up the hill from the tube station exit, weighed down by the flag. (That’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it.) The South Norwood (And Addiscombe) Gentlemen’s Rambling Association have made an early detour to the Lord Nelson where, as we were when we visited before Darlo’s FA Cup game, they will more than likely be the youngest drinkers in the place. When I reach the Old Mitre, Jenny and her brother, John, fresh and tanned from their week in Cornwall, are already there, as are Joy and Frances. We thought Frances might have had enough of the Millers after seeing their lacklustre display at Aldershot the other week, but she’s been tempted over to Barnet purely on the strength of the pies served at the Old Mitre. It has to be said when they turn up they do look very nice, coming encased in a triangular wedge of pastry which would impress even Ted, who’s the fussiest man in the world when it comes to the whys and wherefores of the meat-and-shortcrust-based comestible. However, it’s taking roughly an hour for food orders to arrive (though you are warned of this when you order), so it’ll be the good old Underhill catering for me. Everyone is out in the beer garden, and the ‘stable bar’ is open, showing the Man U/Spurs game to a bunch of excitable drinkers.

Gradually, the hordes arrive – in no particular order, Rob Maxfield, Tim and Ian Armitage, Clarkey, who’s brought along Stephanie, nephew James and one of Stephanie’s friends who has somehow been persuaded that coming to see Rotherham will be fun (poor girl!), Nigel Hall, the Kettons and the Manchester axis of Chrises. The latter two are both dressed for the North-west at six-thirty a.m., which was clearly about twenty degrees colder than positively steamy North London. Chris K has even had a haircut. Well, I say ‘cut’ – attacked with shears might be a more accurate description. He tells me he’s working on the theory that his mother will think growing it long is the better option if it looks like this when it’s short. Finally, the SN(AA)GRA arrive, with my brother, Julia and Phil the darts ringer in tow. Apparently, there were shirtless workmen on the building next door to the Lord Nelson who they can all describe in rather more detail than is healthy. Not that I’m fussed about missing out on sights like that, oh, no.

There are enough London Millers in attendance to run a football card for fundraising purposes. Even the Burtons have a go, though both are complaining they’ve already been cleaned out by the price of a pint. If they will go drinking in the tourist traps of Camden first, what can they expect? The card is won by Gail, though Graham should take half as he actually picked her square for her.

When Brad arrives, the early party realise it’s time to wander off and put the flag up. There’s a better turn-out than I expected given recent results, but we find an empty stretch of crash barrier close to the corner flag. The others begin to drift in, having finished their pints and ambled down the hill (much easier than the opposite journey, I can tell you). Chris K is absolutely apoplectic about the fact concessions are only available in the stand, not the terrace, and he doesn’t do sitting down unless he absolutely has to. Steve Ducker ambles over from the stand to have a quick word with us – he’s got his father-in-law with him, so he’s sitting today. We can spot him from where we’re standing, looking rather tense, though that could just be because he’s obviously sitting fairly close to the woman who always screams ‘Gerrin!’ at obnoxiously loud volume whenever she thinks a Rotherham player should be making a challenge. Never mind that if they ‘gorrin’ as often as she’d like them to, we’d probably end every game with seven men...

Mind you, she’s like a church mouse in comparison to young master Kirkland, who’s been wound up by the ticketing arrangements and returns to them throughout the game. At one point late in the first half, he muses, ‘I wonder what Barnet are going to do if they need new players in the summer. After all, they DON’T DO TRANSFERS!’ He’s a seething cauldron of testosterone, and my brother and I decide we really, really need to find him a girlfriend.

All of which distracts from what’s actually a pretty good performance on the pitch. Like Aldershot, Barnet’s tactics rely on trying to use the sloping pitch to their advantage, but where the Shots have the sprightly Marvin Morgan leading the line, Barnet have the geriatric (in footballing terms) Paul Furlong. Add to that the fact we’re double-teaming the London Millers’ new best friend Kevin Ellison and Gavin Gunning on Barnet’s real threat, Albert Adomah (which sounds like it should have been the plot of one of the stories at the Sh! reading last night), and the opposition really don’t look like much. That said, we’re squandering some decent chances, the best of which comes when Josh Walker smacks a free kick against the post. We also get the opportunity to admire Walker’s overly elaborate tattoos when he comes to take a corner. They neatly avoid his elbow; perhaps that would have been too painful. Then Ellison gets a free kick fairly close to where we’re standing, which goes in without anyone else touching it, despite the protests of the Barnet players. Unlike the goal against Notts County, and even with a ref who clearly doesn’t want to give us anything, it stands.

There’s some kind of presentation at half-time which appears to involve a boxer, but the Barnet announcer, when he isn’t exhorting the fans to get behind the team for their most important game of the season, is fairly low key.

In the second half, we’re attacking down the slope. Ronnie has had to substitute Walker, who was on the end of a fairly hefty challenge and was forced off, with Bell-Baggie, and we’re very much in control of the game. Keeper Jake Cole has obviously decided looking like Manuel Almunia may not be best idea and has ditched the blond highlights, though he still almost makes a muff the Spaniard would be proud of when he tries to dribble the ball out of his area and is very nearly robbed – did he not see the Chelters highlights from last week? Barnet make changes, because with Grimsby beating Darlo, which would lower the gap between them to four points, they have to. They start bringing on more attackers, including Ryan O’Neill (no, not that one), and even push a defender up front. Despite the fact most of the play is now a lot closer to where we’re standing than most of us would like, we’re still standing firm. Ellison, who’s clearly been enjoying himself today, to the extent that he was even laughing when one of the Barnet players contrived to kick the ball out of play on the touchline by us, has a great chance to make it two, but he hits the post. Ronnie takes Bell-Baggie off and brings on Micky Cummins, on the surface a defensive move which has a few disgruntled Rotherham fans walking out, but Cummins actually helps to create a couple of shooting opportunities. Paul Warne comes on as a late sub, to a fantastic reception, and links up well with Cummins – indeed, we think Warney’s shot in for a moment, given the angle we have.

Even with five minutes added on, plus more for Warney’s appearance and whatever else the ref decides to add on, we hold out. John O’Flynn has a free kick very late on, but puts it over the bar. All Andy Warrington has really had to do is collect one cross, and Sharps had to stab the ball over the bar in the first half, but that was pretty much it. The back four of Lynch, Sharps, Fenton and Gunning have been superb, along with Mills and Ellison in front of them. At the final whistle, the team comes over and milks the applause, but it’s deserved. For the first time in all my many visits to Underhill, I’ve actually seen a team win here which wasn’t Barnet. The last time we were victorious here was in 1992, and I was out of London that day.

Our joy is not as unconfined as it might be, as Bournemouth have beaten Burton and taken the third automatic promotion place. People are already speculating – possibly not without justification – as to how many of the clubs who’ve gone up may start next season with points deductions, given their financially precarious positions. At the tube station, we go in various directions – Clarkey and family shoot off as he’s off to a gig, partying like it’s 1976, as ever. The SN(AA)GRA have plans to visit Kentish Town and all points south. Chris and Chris are on some tortuous route back to Manchester. Jenny, John, the Kettons, Joy, Frances, Tim, Ian A, Nigel, my brother and I head back to the Old Mitre. It’s a lot quieter now the sun’s gone down a little, and though the Arsenal/Man City game is showing, hardly anyone’s interested in watching it.

Ian forces himself to leave early by having a pint of Guinness, as nothing else sits easily on top of that. Robert and I have a leisurely pint (sparkling water in my case), then go to catch the Tube into town, leaving the others to plot the dress code for our trip to Hereford. As long as it doesn’t involve dressing as a cigarette, I don’t particularly mind.

View From The Posh Seats

St Pancras is mayhem as I arrive – with all flights grounded due to the cloud of volcanic ash spewing out of Iceland (personally, I blame ex-West Ham chairman Eggert Magnusson, last seen vainly trying to board a train at Sheffield station...), more people than usual are queuing for the Eurostar. Nipping swiftly up to the first floor level, I bypass the milling hordes to join those travelling up to enjoy the hospitality as today’s matchball and programme sponsors. On the train are me, Jenny, Clarkey, Steve Ducker, Chris Turner and Ian Armitage. Once in Sheffield, we’ll be meeting Tim (who should have been on the train with us but went up yesterday instead as his dad’s back in hospital), Tim’s mate Andy, my brother and Phil Kyte.

As the train goes through Chesterfield, most of the party get their first good look at the Spireites’ new stadium. It’s another one which is going to be a trek from the town centre, but apparently it’s only about as far out as Saltergate is in the other direction.

Andy joins us in the Sheffield Tap, though he makes the mistake of ordering a pint of the world’s most extreme chocolate stout, which is too chocolatey for people who really like stout, and way too stouty for people (like me) who really like chocolate. We’re supposed to be meeting Phil here, too, but he texts to let us know he’s running late and has gone straight to the DVS, so we pile into taxis and head over to find him. Tim arrives at roughly the same time as Andy, Jenny and myself. The others have spent a while taking team photos by the new fountains at Sheffield station (which only have the effect of making it look as though water is jetting out of Ian A’s head), and they roll up just as my brother’s car is pulling into the carpark.

Ronnie Moore, his relatively new wife and small daughter arrive just as we’re walking to the VIP entrance, so Clarkey goes over and wishes him good luck for the game. Let’s hope that’s not the kiss of death, given our less-than-sparkling record when it comes to the results of our sponsored games.

The meal is good (pate, beef stroganoff and apple crumble, since you ask), though Clarkey’s not impressed that I can’t manage to finish my main course. ‘What would Ted say if he saw you leaving food?’he asks. ‘Probably, “I’ll have that,”’ chips in Jenny. Ted himself rings to find out how we’re all getting on. I go to take the call on the balcony outside, which is an absolute sun trap on a glorious day like this. Just before I leave the room, they announce the winning team on the football card which has been doing the rounds. It was Man City. That’s clearly not an omen for the Manchester derby, as I walk back in the room to see Paul Scholes has scored the winner with seconds to go...

Jenny and I go to put the flag up. We’re hoping we won’t have to move Mr Broughton again, as he’s nowhere to be seen on the teamsheet. It turns out he’s actually been taken sick – though that’s more than likely sick of having the mickey taken out of him by us... We do, however, bump into Tony Stewart and our new, uber-smooth (but very successful, as the hospitality’s been sold out for ages) commercial director, so we briefly introduce ourselves as part of the London contingent. Meanwhile, most of the boys have gone down to take the matchball out to the centre spot and have their photo taken with the officials, team captains and Miller Bear. Tim has his Rotherham scarf round his neck, clashing beautifully with his Hawaiian shirt, and tells us later Ian Sharps asked him why he’s wearing a towel. (Ah, the endlessly witty banter footballers are so famed for!) Mind you, Sharps almost signed my mum’s coat once, having mistaken it for a Rotherham shirt, so he’s got previous with us. Nicky Law has a word with my brother as and the others are sauntering off the pitch like South Yorkshire’s answer to Reservoir Dogs. Unfortunately, Robert doesn’t, as I would have, tried to find out what’s actually tattooed on Law’s arm. We know it’s a football with writing round it; we just need to know whether the writing says, ‘This is a football. Kick it at the goal...’

The match is very similar to the one at Whaddon Road earlier in the season, in that we batter Cheltenham for most of the ninety minutes with very little reward. The best chance comes when Chelters’ keeper (Scott P Brown, the initial being to distinguish him from the other Scott Brown in their squad, in the same way that Yngwie J Malmsteen’s initial was to distinguish him from all the other famous Yngwie Malmsteens) tries to dribble the ball in his area. Alf robs him of it and passes to Kevin Ellison, who seems certain to score but slips at the vital moment. Alf has an overhead kick saved but is offside anyway, has another shot which he puts just wide and Brown redeems himself with a decent save or two. Meanwhile, Don has almost nothing to do in our goal except work on his tan.

From this vantage point, I can finally see the blokes who started the Alfie song (which still hasn’t caught on). One of Chelters’ players is down for a while (they’ve already started timewasting, which is a sign of how determined they are to get a point out of game), and when he gets to his feet and goes off the pitch at a snail’s pace, they shout, ‘Ouch!’ in unison with every step, which is quite funny. Jenny and Robert, sitting behind me, are getting fairly irate with the referee, whose last great moment was sending off both Broughton and David Stockdale at Shrewsbury last season, and it’s a competition to see which of them is actually going to explode first. At least Robert’s calmed down a bit compared to Notts County, where his furious bellowing of, ‘Linesman! Linesman!’ made me think he was channelling Graham Taylor.

At half-time, Robert and I go to see my dad, as I have some seed potatoes to pass on to him from Gwenn. (No, this is not a euphemism for anything. They both grow potatoes, all right?) The others have headed back to hospitality, so they miss a hapless female photographer getting absolutely drenched when the sprinkler system (for which, read hose with a hole in it) is turned on.

The second half is just as frustrating as the first. Chelters look a little bit more threatening but Pablo Mills has a shot cleared off the line and Ellison’s attempt is saved. Gunning and Walker go off, Walker still feeling the effects of a challenge in the first half, and Jamie Green and Bell-Baggie come on. Chelters retaliate with by substituting Barry Hayles with Julian Alsop, whose massive bulk is directly up against tiny Jamie Green. A thunderbolt from a Cheltenham player hits Nick Fenton smack in the face, but he’s made of tough stuff and carries on. Alsop may look as though he’s just on the pitch to block out the sun more effectively than any cloud of volcanic ash, but he makes a nuisance of himself and has one good opportunity to score, but the header is well over the bar. In stoppage time, Brown makes a great save from Craig McAllister and the away contingent (who could probably have come over from Gloucestershire in my brother’s car...) can go home happy.

Back in the sponsors’ lounge, it’s just a case of waiting for the man of the match, Kevin Ellison, to come in for the presentation. In the meantime, we have our photos taken with Miller Bear and I grab autographs from Marc Joseph and Paul Warne, who’ve both come in for a quick meet-and-greet. Warney is still as ridiculously handsome as he was when I presented him with the London Millers Player of the Season trophy before the first game of the 2001-02 season, though with rather less hair... At last Kevin Ellison appears. The boys go up for the matchball presentation, Jenny and I for the programme presentation. He’s affable and ludicrously tall, and nobody mentions to him we reckon his lookalike is Lord Voldemort out of Harry Potter. We get a signed shirt, which will become one of the prizes in next year’s raffle. As they’re obviously using up all the remaining stock they have before the new kit comes in next season, it turns out to be extra-large junior size, meaning it’ll fit the average 13-year-old boy, or me. Clarkey is charged with getting the matchball back to London safely – and deciphering all the signatures before he gets home! There’s just time to get Ronnie to sign my copy of You’ll Never Take Don Valley (aka the London Miller magazine), then it’s off for the tram. Tim shoots off to visit his dad, Phil leaves for the wilds of Barnsley and Robert gives Jenny a lift back to Rotherham as she’s off on holiday with her brother and sister. The rest of us say goodbye to Andy at Sheffield station and settle down for a quiet journey home.

That plan falls apart when a bunch of Palace fans get on at Derby. There’s no sign of the one we saw on Leicester station this morning, in replica shirt, combat pants and 14-hole cherry red DMs (‘He’s spent too long living in Leicester, obviously,’ was Clarkey’s comment), but the few there are certainly make their presence felt, going through their repertoire of songs. They have one about Alan Lee, but it’s not as good as our one about him, obviously. We just sit and admire the stunning volcanic ash-influenced sunset and reflect on what’s been a pretty good day out.

At St Pancras, Ian, Clarkey and Chris go to the Betjeman to finish off the festivities (and hopefully not lose the matchball). I go home to feed the cats and find out how Ted’s getting on in Bournemouth. Turns out he and his fellow DAFTS are in the same Bournemouth fish restaurant as the lovely Debbie McGee. But that’s still not as cool as meeting Miller Bear...

Going Downhill Fast

When people picture groups of football fans gathering at a station ready for the day ahead, I’m sure they don’t think of a posse of nice, respectable-looking women. But that’s how today’s trip begins. Jenny, Joy, Frances, Julia and I are getting on the Aldershot train at Waterloo and the Kirklands, Chris Turner and Clarkey are joining us at Clapham Junction. Except when the men get on, Clarkey isn’t with them as he’s decided to get a later train. Never mind the fact we’ve arranged our itinerary today to reflect the fact Clarkey wanted to go drinking in the White Lion.

Still, the pub is as pleasant as ever when we get there, and their food menu has been beefed up (no pun intended) with the addition of burgers, bacon rolls and ham and cheese baps. Julia is joined by a Norwegian friend, Kjell, who, like so many Scandinavians, has a string of alliances to English clubs – in his case, Arsenal and Hartlepool (who’ve been owned by Norwegians for several years now) as well as the Millers. Over the years, he’s become a real ale drinker, and is keen to sample and detail as many different ones as he can on his trips over to the UK, but I’m sure he’s slightly thrown by drinking a pint of FFF’s Pressed Rat And Warthog. He can also forget about the level of today’s game being anything like Arsenal v Barcelona, which is the game he attended in mid-week. Although Alf and Lionel Messi are pretty much the same height and build...

Clarkey eventually turns up, as does my brother, who’s parked his car at the other pub we’d planned to visit, the Royal Staff. The rest of the LMs form the advance party to the Royal Staff, while I wait with Robert and Clarkey till they’ve supped up, then we follow on. The pub is nice and close to the away end, but there aren’t too many Rotherham fans in when we get there – there’s another pub even closer and they’re probably all in there. We catch the end of the Yeovil/Leeds game (with most people sneakily hoping Leeds will lose..), then head for the ground.

We hitch the flag to a crash barrier, where we’re joined by Mick Walker, looking very smug because it’s taken him less than forty minutes to drive from home to the ground. It’s a beautiful day by now, and Rotherham get off to a really promising start. We have David Wickes lookalike Kevin Friend refereeing, and for once we seem to be getting our share of decisions. Aldershot’s military-style drummer is nowhere to be heard, and we suspect he’s been called up since our last visit! For the first ten minutes or so we’re all over Aldershot, who are playing down the slope in the first half, until there’s some kind of mix-up between Mills and Gunning which lets Marvin Morgan break away to score.

Still, it looks as though we’re certain to get back in the game. Josh Walker finds himself clear on goal, but instead of shooting himself he squares it for Craig McAllister and the pass is cut out. Then Alf’s curling shot hits the bar, but there’s plenty of time to turn it round when we have the advantage of the slope in the second half.

At half-time, there’s a ‘crossbar challenge’ game between a Shots fan and a Rotherham fan, but neither of them manages to hit the bar (perhaps Alf should show them how it’s done?). The subs are having their usual kick-around: for some reason Drewe Broughton has got a teeshirt tucked down the back of his tracksuit bottoms, giving him a half-man, half-horse appearance. ‘Now I know what they mean by pin the tail on the donkey,’ my brother comments.

Just like the first half, we start the second much the better team. Alf has a shot in the first minute which the keeper somehow gets to. It’s the first of two or three good saves he has to make to keep Aldershot ahead. Again, they score against the run of play. Their strikers give every impression of being chosen for their sprinting ability ahead of any football skills, and their second comes when Morgan outpaces Pablo and shoots under Warrington. Sharps has to come off for some reason, Ronnie already having replaced Marshall, who’s had a decent game, and McAllister with Ellison and Pope, and is replaced by Broughton (now minus tail...). We’re still chasing the game, and Aldershot get the opportunity to add a very flattering third goal. The result hauls them up to just a point behind us, but Bury and Chesterfield are still doing their best to implode, too, so it’s not the disaster it otherwise might have been.

Back in the Royal Staff, we spot Martin Burton and his son, Arthur, who’s looking forward to being the mascot in a couple of weeks. He’s now convinced we’re going to meet Aldershot in the play-offs and it’s all going to end horribly. However, a couple of Shots fans come to chat with us and it’s clear they feel they were lucky today. ‘If it was a fight, you’d have beaten us on points,’ one says.

Clarkey and Chris T have gone to make an evening of it in Farnham, and my brother heads back to Gloucestershire. On Aldershot station, Julia spots Les Payne, the Sheffield Star’s Rotherham correspondent, and goes to have a chat with him. He tells her his report will reflect the fact it wasn’t a three-nil game.

We’re a little subdued on the way back to London, even though Joy offers us a swig from her trusty hip flask to cheer us up. Indeed, Chris K actually falls asleep, which is the quiestest he’s been all day.

People have work tomorrow, so we go our separate ways at Waterloo. I travel with Joy and Frances as far as Limehouse, where they have to throw themselves on the mercies of the C2C service. With no one planning to go to Morecambe next weekend, the next trip is the biggie – the sponsored game against Chelters...

Vale Of Tears

 Today gets off to a strange start. I’m waiting for a DLR train on Canning Town station when a chap of German or Scandinavian extraction wanders over and asks me a question. I’ve got my headphones in and only catch the words, ‘Baker Street,’ so I assume he’s wanting directions – which, with half the Tube system shut for engineering works, may not be easy. When I ask him where he wants to go, he says, ‘No, in the Seventies there was a song called Baker Street. Can you tell me who is singing it?’ I let him know it was Gerry Rafferty, he thanks me and walks happily back to his friends. When I tell Jenny about this, she says I should have told him I’m far too young to remember the Seventies. I think I just walk round with a big sign over my head reading ‘Non-threatening’.

It’s just the two of us travelling today, and when we reach the Fat Cat there’s no sign of Phil, who’s apparently doing a spot of DIY, as is traditional over Easter. Instead, we bump into Joy and Frances. Frances is going off to Meadowhall, though she’s planning to come to the game at Aldershot on Monday (that part of the world not exactly being renowned for its world-class shopping facilities), and as she’s driving she drops the three of us off at the DVS. Jenny has to collect her order of tickets for the last game of the season at Hereford (which have already all but sold out, since they only gave us an allocation of six hundred). In the queue just ahead of her is a scout for Reading, who I assume has come to report on Abdulai Bell-Baggie, who we’re borrowing from them. Also wandering past is Howard Webb, who must be refeering one of tomorrow’s games.

It’s ‘kids for a quid’ day, and the children in the crowd have the opportunity to have their faces painted or acquire horns and drums. It’s very tempting to see if we can snaffle a horn for the next time we meet some miserable so-and-sos who take the concept of the quiet carriage just a little too far, but we resist. A small boy on the row in front of us has, however, got a plastic-topped tom tom which he’s banging enthusiastically. ‘That’ll look well as a top hat,’ my dad comments, miming bringing it down over the boy’s head.

Before the game, there’s a standing ovation for referee Mark Halsey, taking charge of his first game since recovering from throat cancer. The first half is a gentle introduction back for him, as it’s all pretty forgettable. Port Vale are on a decent run, but neither team really creates much in the way of chances.

Keeping with the Easter theme, local ‘celebrity’ Jive Bunny has been recruited to perform the half-time draw, before he and Miller Bear do the twist to one of the band’s hits. Forget all the silky, pretty football fans of teams like Arsenal expect to see, this is what we pay our money for: a grown man dressed as a bear dancing with a grown man dressed as a rabbit...

The second half picks up much where the first left off, and it looks like we might be destined for a dull draw. Then Port Vale take the lead when Pablo Mills, who’s been otherwise faultless in defence, slips and offers Vale an easy cross and tap-in. A couple of minutes later, they double their lead. The man sitting behind me has done nothing but moan from the moment the game began, and now he’s contemplating only going to away games for the rest of the season. Good. I may appear non-threatening, but these persistent moaners (of which Rotherham have more than their fair share) make me feel that smashing a plastic tom tom over their head might be a viable course of action, if only to shut them up. However, he suddenly perks up when Bell-Baggie comes on, though it’s hard not to as the tiny winger really does look like he might create an opening with every touch.

Josh Walker pulls a goal back with about ten minutes to go, in the form of a beautifully-stuck free kick which Port Vale keeper Chris Martin (he of the ginormous behind) can’t do anything about. We almost equalise in stoppage time, but Gunning’s header is cleared off the line.

Walking out of the ground, we bump into Steve Exley and Toddy, who is over from Switzerland. While Exley (yet again) gives up on the Millers for the season, while Toddy tells me about his latest exploits, which involve being at an Ivory Coast World Cup qualifier and hurling abuse at Didier Drogba from seventy-eight rows back in the crowd. ‘I was the only white face there,’ he says. ‘They must have thought I was the FIFA assessor.’ I’m sure they thought he was a few other things, too, but it’s safer not to go there.

Jenny and I go for a swift one in the Sheffield Tap, where we manage to get a seat next to a couple of lads who’ve been at the Sheff U-Barnsley game, and earwig as they check on various other scores. Ted will have had a good time in Burton – Darlo may have only beaten three teams all season, but they’ve now beaten all three of them twice!

After our recent eventful journeys home, today’s is very quiet, which makes a nice change. Now it’s just a matter of negotiating my way through the bits of the Tube system which are working to get back to East London...

Tied Up In Notts

Just for a change, my brother suggests I should write the blog from the perspective of the London Millers flag: ‘I was bundled into a bag and carried around for hours, then tied to a chair while a couple of policeman looked on.’ As bits of that sound far too much like the kind of fiction I write during the rest of the week, I think I’ll stick to the usual format, thanks, Rob!

Our trip today is going to be rather more of a social event than usual, though not necessarily for the usual suspects gathering at St Pancras (me, Jenny, John Kirkland, Chris Turner and Clarkey), but for Ted and some of the DAFTS contingent, who have decided to spend the day on a crawl round Nottingham, rather than go see Darlo at Shrewsbury. They like the drinking in that part of the world; they just don’t like the schlep out to the Shrews’ new ground – but who does?

Somehow, we’ve been reserved seats which don’t actually exist in the carriage we should be in, so we go on the hunt for five together – which we manage to find as the train isn’t that busy, even if we do manage to completely hack off a couple who want two seats for themselves and two for their luggage. I could go on about people who do that for quite a while, if anyone from the production team of Grumpy Old Women is reading this...

Still, we’re far from grumpy when we reach Nottingham, even if we are infected with a group pessimism that we’re going to lose the game today. Ted, along with fellow DAFTees Brian and Lance are already in the Vat and Fiddle when we get there, while local boy and England Subbuteo international Colin is on his way. The Manchester axis of Chrises arrive, as do the Kettons. John K is deep in conversation with a Notts County-supporting friend of his, who’s confidently predicting that if the away fans wind Lee Hughes up, he’ll score a hat-trick. Hughes has apparently manipulated the timing of a booking and subsequent suspension so he can miss an ‘easy’ game and be ready for us, which doesn’t surprise anyone. He’s already shown his true colours as a player by helping to get Nick Fenton sent off at the DVS.

Also wandering round the Vat is someone who looks so much like Hugh Vaughan several people are on the point of saying hello until they spot the County scarf round his neck. The facial resemblance, style of dress and demeanour are all uncannily similar. Maybe we all have a doppelgänger supporting another club? Ted and Tim have been confused on several occasions (usually by the grumpy landlord of the Head of Steam), so it’s quite possible.

Colin has arrived and is flashing his new 2D retro Subbuteo players around. A couple of people are startled to learn the game is played at international level, rather than just on bedroom carpets, but Ted and I have seen Colin competing in a tournament, and know just how seriously everyone involved takes things. Chris K, meanwhile, is taking advantage of the Castle Rock ‘one over the eight’ promotion, as he and Chris B did at the Golden Eagle in Lincoln. A free drink’s a free drink after all, even if your dad’s chipping in for the odd round...

The Darlo posse set off for the tram to Basford, while we make our way to Meadow Lane. We’ve been given the whole of the Jimmy Sirrel Stand, having brought close to 1800 supporters. Jenny hopes we’re giving the ticket money directly to Burton, who were left waiting for a payment when the finances at County began to unravel. She also bonds with the cheeky young steward who helps us put the flag up, but even he can’t help her find a programme for Dave in Australia. It seems as though not enough have been printed, and so none have been sent round to our stand.

The banter between the two sets of fans at kick-off and throughout the game is much the same as it’s always been – the usual unimaginative chants of ‘scabs’ livened up with ‘murderer’ jibes at Lee Hughes – but this time there’s an unpleasant edge which hasn’t been present for the last couple of seasons, when there’s been very little riding on the game. At least one Rotherham fan is hauled away by police and stewards in the first couple of minutes.

On the pitch, Notts County are all over us – for the first fifteen minutes or so. They hit the woodwork twice and Lee Hughes has a goal disallowed for offside. After that, we get back into the game, and Pablo Mills, who has a superb game, gradually gets the measure of Hughes. County’s real threat appears to be Luke Rodgers, the other half of their bald, eminently dislikeable strike force. Halfway through the half, I get a mysterious phone call. I answer it automatically because I think it’s Ted; actually, it’s Tim from Skin Two magazine (if you don’t know, it’s safer not to ask) ringing to pick my brains, though he doesn’t clarify this till he calls me back at a less fraught time.

At half-time, the pitch sprinklers come on, for no apparent reason. The last thing we want to see after the winter we’ve had is more water on a pitch!

We play really well in the second half. Marcus Marshall thinks he’s scored – as do we – but the linesman rules it out, claiming that Alf, who was offside, got the final touch. Given that Alf isn’t rushing to celebrate makes that a little unlikely, but it doesn’t surprise us to be on the rough end of a decision like that. Ronnie replaces Craig McAllister with Drewe Broughton with about twenty minutes to go. Drewey, as always, offers more in the way of physical presence, and it looks like we’re heading for a well-earned draw until the very last minute. We’re pushing forward, still trying to sneak the three points, which lets County go route one for Rodgers to score.

At the final whistle, instead of celebrating with their own fans, a few of the County players decide instead to wind the Rotherham supporters up by posturing and gesticulating in front of us. One of our lardier idiots actually gets on the pitch and goes for Hughes, who makes more gestures from the safety of a cordon of players while Warrington and Sharps try to stop the bloke from doing anything more stupid than getting himself banned from going to games. It’s all so unnecessary and leaves an even worse taste than the actual result.

Jenny, Rob, Chris T and I have a quick one in the Vat and Fiddle, then go to join the others in the Newshouse, another Castle Rock pub on the other side of the very lethal Canal Street (drivers, kill your speed, not a London Miller!). It turns out Darlo have done the double over Shrewsbury, so some people are happy, at least,and it helps keep the Shrews outside the play-off places (seeing as we’re having to calculate all the possibilities). Colin is loud and effusive, Brian is pretty much asleep and Ted is telling us about his exploits on the crawl, including bonding with ‘one of those dogs they have’. We work out he means a Staffy, but from now on Crufts should have a category titled ‘Best One Of Those Dogs They Have’.

John, Clarkey, Ted and I leave to get the 18.28. Jenny and Chris, who are just nicely settled, decide they’ll get the train an hour later. Ted at first takes his allotted seat in first (it cost him the vast sum of a pound more than standard), but then comes and joins us in pleb class. The journey back is pleasantly lively, despite our disappointment, and the strangest part of the whole day comes when Ted and I get off at our tube stop, only for him to bump into the bloke he’d been sitting opposite in first class. East London, twinned with The Outer Limits...