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...