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.
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...
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