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...
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