When the fixture computer threw this one up, we joked that our first game back in League Two had been Hereford away, so it would be only fitting if our last game at this level was Hereford away. That was before we (along with Bury, Dagenham and Cheaterfield) decided to spend the second half of the season blowing our shot at automatic promotion. That relative disappointment (and everything’s relative when you live with someone whose team has just been relegated into the Blue Square Prem) does little to dampen our enthusiasm for today’s main objective – partying!
There should be a big turn-out for this trip. Unfortunately, while Jenny, Joy, Julia, Clarkey, Tim, John Kirkland, Rob Maxfield and I are all present and correct, complete with the hats which are today’s official dress code, Andy Leng and Chris Turner are conspicuous by their absence. We have no choice but to leave without them, and it’s not long before Jenny gets a text to let her know they’ve both managed to oversleep. It has to be stressed that they were not in the same bed at the time, even though we now have an image of them in pyjamas and nightcaps à la Morecambe and Wise. More tragically, Chris now has 36 cocktail sausages sitting in his fridge which he was going to bring along today.
Not that we’re short of supplies. We have champagne, bagels, croissants and other nibbles, and there’s more than enough for Steve Czajewski, who joins us at Oxford, and my brother, who gets on at Worcester. Robert is wearing the Bombardier dragon hat he got at the GBBF a couple of years ago, but that’s discreet compared to the one John has for Chris, who’s joining us at Hereford – it’s in the shape of a lion’s head, which is kind of appropriate given the mane of hair he’s still attempting to cultivate. I’m wearing a more discreet plain black number, but I’m teaming it with Drewe Broughton tribute sweatbands because, frankly, it had to be done...
It’s a long journey (and involved a bleary-eyed eight a.m. meet-up at Paddington), but one through some very pretty countryside. Having met up with Chris and Chris at Hereford station, we make our way to the Barrels, flagship pub of the Wye Valley Brewery. Last time we were here, it was a sultry August day and we sat outside. Today, it feels twenty degrees cooler and we huddle inside. Phil Kyte arrives, with new girlfriend, Catherine, in tow. When he told her he’d be introducing her to the London Millers, I have no idea whether she realised we’d all be in novelty hats...
Nigel Hall and Steve Ducker make an appearance. Nigel has given Steve a lift because he’s been up till stupid o’clock the last couple of nights reporting on the election and its aftermath. The Devon Millers, Dave Bates and Andy, join us, and immediately make the rest of us feel underdressed in comparison by donning flowing Arabian robes and headdresses. They fit in beautifully when we get to the ground – plenty of people have come in fancy dress, and we spot monks, a bloke dressed as a beermat and a lad in a military jacket and pencilled-on moustache who appears to have escaped from the cast of Zulu. We’re squeezed in down one side because the stand behind the goal is condemned, making tatty old Millmoor look positively salubrious. There aren’t quite as many Rotherham fans as there would have been if we were still in with a chance of automatic promotion, but they’re in good voice, even if most of their songs are in tribute to Millers legend Alan Lee, who kept up his knack of scoring against Wednesday last week and helped ensure their relegation.
Sadly, we might have turned up but the team clearly hasn’t. Their performance reminds me of our game at Crewe a few years ago, when they still had a chance of relegating us and staying up themselves, but only if they overcame a goal difference of ten. Alfie has been rested, with Drewe Broughton taking his place, and no one seems to want to risk picking up an injury before next week. We’re playing in first gear, and Hereford are one up in five minutes, two up in twenty. In both cases, the defence simply goes missing.
Clarkey and Tim decide to amuse themselves by partying like it’s 1974. Cue chorus of ‘I was born under the Railway End’. At half-time, Catherine takes a team photo of us in our hats. My, how fetching we look. Meanwhile, I decide to plug myself into my radio to see if I can get some idea of the ups and downs in our league and the one above. Can Grimsby complete their unlikely resurrection? (No. After doing all the hard work and beating Barnet last week, they get stuffed by Burton and Barnet beat Rochdale, who seem to have lost interest since they actually got promoted.)
Will Hartlepool get relegated, appeal against their points deduction and cause mayhem for the fixture compilers. (No. Somehow Gillingham, the team everyone’s forgotten are still in the relegation scrap, go down, which means if we’re in League Two next season we can look forward to more dodgy decisions at the Priestfield.) And by the time the third Hereford goal goes in, right at the end of a second half in which Rotherham have played much better without carving out too many chances, Morecambe have scored against Aldershot. It means they finish fourth, and play Dagenham, who got the three points everyone expected they would at Darlington. We’ll be playing Aldershot on Saturday evening, which is a nice, easy trip if nothing else. The atmosphere is very flat as we leave the ground, but I’d rather we got a bad performance out of the way this weekend, rather than next.
There’s just time for a reviving drink in the Wetherspoon near Hereford station (coffee in my case, because it’s still freezing!). Clarkey and John K catch the train by the skin of their teeth and we trundle back as far as Worcester Foregate Street. Tim spots deer in a field, before he and Steve Cz start some London Underground-based trivia. (Example. Q: What letter starts the names of the most consecutive stations? A: H. Hounslow East, Hounslow Central, Hounslow West, Hatton Cross, the three stations round on the Heathrow loop and back to Hounslow East. Yes, I know it’s sneaky.) Steve gets the biggest laugh for naming all the stations in Ealing, including ‘Sexual Ealing’. It’s a shame we have to turf him off at Oxford, no, honestly it is...
As we get off, a couple sitting by us tell us they wish all travelling football fans were like us. Tell that to Mr Grumpy of Didcot!
At Worcester, we bid farewell to my brother and his daft hat, and pick up the train which will trundle us back to Paddington. Some rugby types behind us are playing a complicated drinking game, but we’re more concerned with trying to catch a glimpse of Wembley as London approaches, and keeping our fingers crossed for a more close-up view at the end of the month.
No comments:
Post a Comment