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.
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