Hereford Bar T'at

With Simon Davey having quit Darlo for Hereford in what could be termed controversial circumstances this summer, which meant that we had to make time in our holiday week to Amsterdam to listen to the Radio Tees phone-in on the subject, I decided to boycott the Hereford game in a gesture of solidarity. Well, that's my story and I'm sticking to it. So here's the trip from my brother's point of view...

Phil and Nigel let the side down by drinking lager

Not seeming like five minutes since we were last making this trip the London Millers are off to Hereford again although this time it’s a lot smaller London Millers turn out than last season’s end of season hat fest.

I’ve taken the local train from Cheltenham up to Worcester where I join the train carrying the London contingent which this time consists only of Jenny and Chris T, who has managed to set his alarm and make it this time. Chris has brought with him the sausages on sticks that he’d meant to bring the last time although I am assured it is not the same sausages but a fresh lot. We tuck into these together with some of Darlington’s finest Pork pie and cheese and onion on sticks as the train slowly wends its way through the Malverns. Just three hours and twenty minutes after Jenny and Chris left London we arrive at Hereford; Chris says the trip by Eurostar to Holland to watch Yorkshire play cricket a few weeks ago was quicker. On our way to the Barrels we notice that the main street is cordoned off and forensic investigators are present. We suspect that someone has borrowed the crossbow from the town hall and killed a Welsh person they’ve spotted in the street as apparently local bylaws still allow you to do. We comment that no one suggested repealing this law when the coalition government were recently looking for laws to get rid of. Outside the Barrels Jenny meets up with her friend, Anne, who lives just outside Worcester. Anne is meeting us for drinks but we fail to persuade her to come to the match, too. The Barrels have their annual charity beer festival after last week’s match when the Fat Cat had a beer festival on and also last season’s trip to Burton we take this as a lucky omen in many ways. The first round of drinks is from the Wye Valley selection on the main bar before we head out in to the rear courtyard to sit in the sun and peruse the festival beer list. Only fifty beers plus ciders to choose from. The closest to an omen beer we can find is Cotleigh Blue Jay in honour of Jason Taylor. A wasp decides it is going to end its days by drowning itself in my beer.

Dave sits quietly for The Librarians

We are convince by the local rotary club to by raffle tickets for their duck race. The prize is £1000 but we are convinced that if we get a phone call next week telling us we’ve won a grand we will just put the phone down assuming it’s one of the usual spam phone calls. The festival programme has a quiz in it: 25 music questions, all with a drink theme. We do better on the alcohol related ones than the teetotal selection. What that says about us – answers on a post card, please. Slowly we are joined by a few more of the London Millers. Martin Burton and his son, Alfie, have come across from Derby, Dave Bates has travelled up from North Devon, Nigel and Phil have come down from Sheffield and Dave Finnis is still in the country on business from Australia. One of the down sides of the beer festival is they have live entertainment. The band for the lunch time session is a folk duo called The Librarians and Chris reckons we should all go, ‘Shush, be quiet,’ when they come on. However when they do appear on stage we are more intrigued in working out whether the female fiddler is pregnant or has a baby tightly bound to her bosom. It turns out to be the latter. The plus side of the beer festival is it is the only occasion when the Barrels does food so we are able to fill our faces with burgers before we leave for the match.

CSI Hereford are still investigating in the market place but Anne’s local knowledge means we just have to take a minor detour via a back alley to the ground. The teams are just coming out as we arrive with the only change for the Milers being Paul Warne starting up front instead of the injured Elliot. However for me seeing the Millers for the first time this season there are quite a few new faces but still no excuse for me mixing up Nicky Law and Danny Harrison which I do later in the match. The first half is fairly uneventful with a much better Rotherham performance than last season as the players actually look interested. Then right on half time the Hereford defence fall asleep when Rotherham take a quick throw in and Warney gets his head on to a le Fondre cross. On Chris’s advice a sample a Hereford beef and onion pie at half time which was pretty good and leads to a suspicion to where the bull that used to be paraded around Edgar Street before games has ended up.

Hereford come out more strongly in the second half but seem unable to score. Even Stuart Fleetwood, who caused many problems for Rotherham when he played for Forest Green, is off form. The blowing really starts when Hereford start to pile the pressure on in the last five minutes and then the ref seems to find added time from nowhere and with Don having to pull off two fine saves we think the referee is going to keep playing until Herford equalise. He does finally blow the whistle and we can all celebrate the fist win at Hereford for as long as any of us can remember.

Unfortunately there just isn’t time to make it back to the Barrels after the game so Jenny, Chris, Nigel, Phil and myself make the usual stop at the Wetherspoons near the station before we get the train. The demise of Sky Sports News from Freeview means the pub are only showing BBC news so we are reliant on Phil’s phone to bring us all the rest of the scores. Beers quickly downed we head back to the station where fortunately our train is waiting on the first platform. Phil and Nigel will have an hour and a half wait in Birmingham so we try and give them directions to the Wellington as it’s a much better place to kill time than the pub on New Street station.

Jenny, Chris and I get off at Worcester Foregate Street and stop off in the Tesco Express by the station so Jenny and Chris can stock up on supplies for the long journey back to London as Jenny’s previous experience indicate that their train will be an old boneshaker with no buffet (she’s right). On returning to the station we discover that my train to Cheltenham has been cancelled with a two-hour wait before the next one. The ticket clerk tells me to join the London train and change at Worcester Shrub Hill where there will be a Cheltenham connection. It turns out that the incoming train that should form the Cheltenham service is running late so is going to be terminated and turned round at Worcester Shrub Hill rather than going through to Great Malvern. So I travel up to Shrub Hill where a leave Jenny and Chris for their long, slow journey back to London. The train I’m waiting for arrives but the staff don’t let us board until it has gone down to Foregate Street to turn round before heading back down south. There’s organisation for you! In the end I’m only five minutes late arriving in Cheltenham so just time to pick up a Chinese takeaway before catching the bus home. So even First Great Western can’t ruin a great day that had good weather, a beer festival and three points.

When Football Games Go Mad

St Pancras is unpleasantly clammy, the couple of lurking policeman presumably there to keep an eye out for any rogue Millwall supporters taking the circuitous route to Leeds. It can’t be for the Brighton fans en route to Hillsborough – from past experience, they’re more likely to go looking for the local Waitrose than any form of trouble.

Ted’s sitting chatting to Jenny when I arrive. Even though his train is a few minutes after ours, he made an early start so he could get his breakfast. A man needs to fortify himself when he’s lugging a huge rucksack full of camera equipment up to Kettering, don’t you know?

We’re joined by Chris Kirkland, Chris Turner and Clarkey. Mr Turner apologises for being a little sweaty, but he’s made part of his journey by ‘Boris Bike’. At least, that’s his excuse for breaking out the continental lager as the train trundles through Cricklewood...

When we reach Sheffield, Chris K hangs back to meet Chris Burrows, who’s coming through from Manchester and needs guidance in finding the Fat Cat. It’s the pub’s 29^th birthday beer festival, and though the advertised barbecue won’t be starting till after we’ve left for the match, as long as there’s steak pie on the lunch menu, people will be happy.

Ted’s mate, Brian, is already in the Fat Cat, having decided a jaunt round the fine pubs of the city where he lives is preferable to an afternoon in Kettering. He has a pint with us, shares his always unique view of the world, then departs for the Devonshire Cat. At some point in these proceedings, we’re joined by Phil, Frances and Joy.

As always, I’m looking for omens in beer names. There’s nothing referencing the current squad, but Clarkey samples the Monty’s Midnight stout, in tribute to the very lovely Gary Montgomery, who turned his back on football after being made surplus to requirements at Grimsby and started taking his cricket seriously. Unfortunately, by signing for Lancashire, he’s gone over to the dark side of the force, but no one’s perfect. He actually made his first team debut in a televised CB40 game against Somerset this week. No wickets in his bowling spell, but he did take a catch, prompting the predictable cracks from the boys about him holding on to the ball for once. He was last man in, and the batsman down the other end was out before he could face a ball, which Clarkey reckons means he now has a batting average of infinity! Brian, à propos of very little, had made a remark about people not knowing the difference between sarcasm and irony. So, Brian, what’s the correct grammatical term for discussing cricket scores before going on to witness what’s about to happen at the DVS?

Jenny and I leave in good time, as she’s arranged to meet Dave Finnis. As ever, his need to travel over from Australia has coincided with some football matches. She gives him a small selection of the programmes she’s been collecting for him – the rest will be going to Hereford next week, presumably in a small suitcase... We also bump into Hugh Vaughan, who has daughter Sian with him. He claims she’s only here for the pre-match pie! Hugh was at our reserve game against Bradford in the week. We won 5-0, but he claims he’s still not convinced about a couple of the players on display lasting a full ninety minutes of action, including Marcus Marshall. I reckon it’s going to be useful to have players like Marshall to come on towards the end of a game if Ronnie needs to change things. We shall see.

Since we last played Cheltenham, which only feels like a couple of weeks ago, they’ve got rid of veterans Barry Hayles and Julian Alsop (now back plying his trade at the mighty Bishop’s Cleeve). The game has barely settled down when one of their new-look front line, Jeff Goulding, scores. It’s a good goal, but it’s come out of nothing and it instantly deflates the crowd. I console myself with the thought they’ve probably peaked too early. I seem to have been proved right when Tom Elliott plays a clever ball into the path of Alf, whose far-post finish comfortably beats the Chelters keeper, Scott P Brown. (They did have two Scott Browns in their squad last season, hence the initial. This season they only appear to have one, but presumably he didn’t want anyone to take the P. He’s also decided to team a fluorescent orange jersey with lime green socks. Don’t try this at home, children.)

There’s a raft of scouts in the seats behind the press desks, and furious scribbling breaks out. There’s no sign of Mr Scouts With Wolves, who was a regular visitor last season, but there’s certainly someone with a Derby badge on his padded jacket. ‘And Derby probably needs someone,’ says our chum with the two boys in the row in front. ‘They’ve lost again today.’

We have a good chance to take the lead, but Nicky Law can’t keep his shot down. Then, for some reason, we forget how to defend for ten minutes. The normally impeccable Don starts to come for a ball, stops, and allows a Chelters player to pass the ball to Wesley Thomas for an easy tap-in. While we’re still reeling from this lapse, Exodus Geohaghon plays a casual pass to Dean Holden. He’s beaten to it, and Shaun Jeffers, who’s on as a sub for Goulding, makes it 3-1 to Chelters. All around me is despondency. ‘When did we last score four in a game?’ asks my dad, the answer being at Bradford, just before Christmas last year. Our chum in front is cursing Danny Harrison for not having the best of games, and I’m starting to believe that people are calling for some new Russian signing, ‘Ronnie Gerrimoff’. An enormous dragonfly floats past, oblivious to the gloom. Just before half-time, Nicky Law lays a ball into the path of Harrison, who curls the ball beautifully into the top corner. ‘Okay, I’m a hypocrite,’ confesses our chum in front when he finally stops eulogising over the finish. Even though we’re still behind, the mood has changed and the team is applauded off the pitch.

At half-time we’re again treated to the underwhelming dance stylings of the Millerettes and High Definition, but we are in the presence of greatness, as the Chuckle Brothers perform the half-time draw. Presumably, they’re contractually to do this at least once a season, being honorary Presidents of the club.

The match turns on an incident a couple of minutes into the second half. One of the Cheltenham defenders pushes Elliott over in the box. It’s a silly, obvious foul and the ref points to the spot immediately. Brown does his best to psych out Alfie, lingering by the ball when it’s been put down, then making himself look huuuuge in the goal. It almost works, as he saves the penalty, but the rebound falls straight to Alfie, who slots it between Brown’s legs.

This is when things start to get seriously weird. A couple of minutes later, we get a free kick, which Tom Newey takes. There’s a scramble in the area, and who should get his head on it but Alfie. Finally, after scoring two in a game on so many occasions last season, he’s got his first hat-trick for us.

Not to be outdone, Ryan Cresswell quickly heads in a fifth, and people are starting to lose track of the score. There’s a bloke sitting two rows in front of us with a little boy of about four. He has to keep taking him out to the toilets or the concessions, and he’s missed Harrison’s and Cresswell’s goals. ‘Keep going outside,’ my dad tells him, ‘because every time you do, we score.’

It does look like we could score another every time we go forward. Alf volleys a spectacular-looking shot, but Brown saves it comfortably. Then Ellison rolls the ball into Alf’s path. Brown gets fingertips to it, but it rolls into the net. Cheltenham can’t know what’s hit them. It’s not as though the players’ heads have dropped, and they’re still trying to get back into the game. Shaun Jeffers has a shot that hits the post. In the efforts of Don and the defence to clear it, something happens that causes the ref to blow for a penalty, but in the tangle of arms, legs and bodies it’s hard to see exactly who gave it away. Don isn’t quite so theatrical about making his presence known to the penalty taker, but like Brown he also makes a save – except he manages to push it behind for a corner, which we clear.

Ronnie takes off Elliott, who looks to be struggling, and Ellison, who is injured in a challenge, and brings on Marcus Marshall and Paul Warne. Marshall seems very confident, presumably after scoring against Peterborough, and has one beautiful moment when he controls a long diagonal ball in a way we keep being told English players just don’t have the technical ability to do. Warney, meanwhile, is his usual livewire self, trying to score the seventh but also haring back to defend when he needs to. Because we’re still pushing forward, we get a bit sloppy at the back again, and allow Chelters to score a rather soft goal from a corner. I’ve never seen ten goals in a game before – the best I managed was nine, a few Christmases ago, when we went 5-1 up against Hull and somehow let them pull it back to 5-4. In a recording studio somewhere, Danny Dyer is probably already being dusted off to put a voiceover on this game for some end-of-season bloopers and highlights compilation.

As I go to collect the flag, I’m punch-drunk. I can only imagine how the Cheltenham fans feel. I text my brother to find out whether he’s sleeping on the couch tonight, being married to a Cheltenham girl and all, but apparently it’s always a happy house when Rotherham win. Meanwhile, Ted seems to have lucked out, as the Kettering-Darlo game has finished nil-nil.

At the tram stop, Clarkey and the Chrises are as bewildered by events as I am (Jenny’s stopping over in Rotherham tonight, presumably in a darkened room with a wet flannel over her forehead after all the excitement.) Chris T claims that at some point in the second half, when there hadn’t been a goal for about ten minutes, he heard some bloke behind him shout, ‘Sort it out, Ronnie, it’s gone flat!’

We go down to the Sheffield Tap, where Chris T and Clarkey have what they decide is their best pint of the day, the Hawkshead Lakeland Pale Ale. It’s threatening to spit with rain, but sitting outside is still more pleasant than the muggy interior of the pub, and it allows for better people watching. Plenty of Brighton fans are streaming in, fresh from their defeat by the Wendys. A couple of them fall foul of the ‘no colours’ policy, but the bouncers are reasonable enough about it, as they have been with us in the past.

Getting on the train back to Sheffield, I spot one of the Cheltenham players lugging his kit bag into a carriage further down the platform. The rest of the train is mayhem, as one of the carriages is faulty, but by the time we’ve left Chesterfield we’ve finally managed to get four seats together. Clarkey spots a bloke he knows called Ian, who organises the travel for the London Owls, and they compare performances today. It seems the number of Wednesday fans travelling up from the capital is dwindling – just like us, they’ve got members who’ve moved back north, or have family commitments or financial constraints preventing them from getting so many games.

I get distracted from the serious conversation by something far more important, spotting another of my omen obsessions – llamas! Llamas I’ve never seen before! There are three of them in a field, somewhere near Long Eaton, but we don’t usually pass through this area slowly enough to notice them. Now the day truly is complete.

As we approach London, Chris T and Clarkey debate the idea of going for a swift pint, either at the Betjeman or somewhere near Victoria station, but when we get off the train it feels much later than half-past eight and everyone’s shattered, so we all decide going straight home is the best option. It’s true what your parents told you when you were little – all that excitement will tire you out!

Confessions Of A Baffled Armchair Viewer

Having decided to forego the lengthy trip to Morecambe (I'll save those delights for the Manchester branch and Joy, who's able to combine the game with a weekend in Blackpool...), I'm left with the usual dilemma of how to pass the afternoon without fretting too much about what might be happening on the pitch. Sitting in front of Sky's Soccer Saturday with a cup of tea should be the default position, but that's way too stressful. I've learned from experience that however hard you concentrate on the list of current scores, willing the number by 'Roth' to flick from a zero to a one (or whatever we need to get us back in a game), it almost never happens. Add to that Jeff Stelling's habit of trying to tease you into guessing which team has scored a vital goal, and it plays havoc with your blood pressure. The year we were vying with Millwall to get promoted to what was then called Division One, we played them at Millmoor just before Christmas and I didn't go. We sneaked the win right at the end of the match, but as Stelling announced, 'There's been a goal at Millmoor... but which way has it gone, Alan McInally?' I was literally down on my knees yelling at the TV set, 'Just tell me!' Dignity, always dignity...
So Plan B (actually, Plan A, because it predates our having satellite TV), is to do some baking with Five Live's commentary game on in the background. There's somethng very therapeutic about rubbing butter into flour for scones while listening to Blackpool fans get the hell patronised out of them by some touchline reporter. (This being the modern media, which assumes we can't last five minutes' discussion of any subject without hearing the opinion of some ordinary members of the public...) The game rapidly turns into a cakewalk for Blackpool, largely thanks to Roberto Martinez' preference for picking the other Chris Kirkland ahead of Rotherham legend Sir Michael Pollitt, and anyway, my scones are done, so I risk a quick check of the League Two scores. 'Morecambe 0-0 Rotherham'. Fair enough; I'll take that as a result now, given Morecambe's old ground hasn't been particularly lucky for us (three visits, one win, two defeats) and they'll be on a high after their midweek victory in the Carling Cup.
Flicking channels (athletics, old film, old film, Gok Wan, old film - you get the general picture), I discover that S4C are showing action from the League of Wales, Carmarthen against Aberystwyth. I wouldn't normally pay it much attention, but in goal for Aberystwyth is former Rotherham keeper, Steve Cann. We might have dubbed him the Preening Lovely, because of the way he came and flicked his hair in front of us during a half-time kickaround at Hereford, but he seemed like a nice boy. He was certainly thankful to me and Gwenn for saving him from teeny tiny Stephen Brogan's stalker, who used to hang round after games at Millmoor chasing the younger and prettier members of the squad. And he also got the team through to the Northern Final of the Johnstone's Paints Trophy a couple of seasons ago, by making a save in the penalty shoot-out against Darlington with a rather delicate part of his anatomy... Sucked in by the sight of a familiar face in a strange environment, I stick around and watch most of the second half.
If I have learned nothing else today, it's that John Hartson is a fluent Welsh speaker (he's summarising during the game). Fortunately for those of us who aren't, you can pick up the English commentary via the red button. They also have the latest scores scrolling up the screen, but this is more fascinating than nerve-wracking, because they use the Welsh spellings of a lot of team names. It enables me to toast Darlington's opening victory in the Conference, against Casnewydd (Newport County, since you ask). Morecambe and Rotherham are simply Morecambe and Rotherham (I thought they might have a Welsh version, even if we didn't), and have remained goalless. So I've not really missed anything, thankfully.
Meanwhile, the Carmarthen/Aberystwyth game develops into a five-goal thriller, with Cann making a really good save with his feet that prevents Carmarthen grabbing an equaliser. We taught him everything he knows, you know....
Next week, it's back to normal (or as normal as a home trip ever gets). But this odd Welsh interlude has been strangely entertaining.

The Delroy Facey Rainbow Coalition

Wembley only seems like five minutes ago as Steve Ducker, Clarkey and I congregate on the upper concourse at St Pancras. Jenny should have been with us but she’s up in Rotherham, looking after her brother who’s convalescing following a minor operation. Just to remind us of what we could have won, the fixture compilers have decided to send Dagenham & Redbridge to Hillsborough today, and a few of their fans are waiting to get on the same train as us. Of course, Clarkey can’t resist suggesting the reason they’re travelling in numbers is because West Ham aren’t at home...

Steve cracks his first 'Derek Holmes, world’s slowest footballer' joke approximately three minutes after we pull out of St Pancras. Oh, yes, it’s good to be back...

At Sheffield station, Steve heads off to meet his sisters at Meadowhall. One day, he’s really going to have to persuade them the Fat Cat’s a better option than a shopping mall food court! A quick call to Jenny establishes that she’s on the bus over from Rotherham, so I let her know Clarkey and I will see her in the pub.

Already in the Fat Cat are Joy and Frances, who set off up the M1 at some ridiculous time this morning, and Julia. No sign of any Daggers, who all appear to have opted for the Kelham Island Tavern. We commandeer enough tables not only for Jenny when she arrives, but for Nigel Hall and his nephew, Karl, who he’s persuaded to visit the DVS. One of the beers on draught is from the good old Thorne Brewery. Dunston’s Ships is described by the barman as a ruby bitter. Both Clarkey and Nigel, who sample a pint, approve.

Jenny and I leave in good time to meet my dad, who’s got my season ticket, at the stadium. Of course, he and Gordon arrive ten minutes after they thought they would, but it gives us the chance to spot a few familiar faces, including Mick Walker. No sign of Howard Webb, who I thought might be taking the opportunity to watch the Millers seeing as he’s got some time off following the World Cup final. At least the Dutch seem to have stopped being mean about him, which means I no longer have to think about forgoing our annual week in Amsterdam next year in protest...

A couple of players are sitting in the block of seats above where Jenny and I fasten the flag. I don’t recognise them, but then I don’t recognise half our squad, there have been so many comings and goings in the summer. My dad, who’s already been to one of the pre-season friendlies and not had a clue who anyone was, and I were joking that as Lincoln have signed Drewe Broughton and another ex-Miller, Delroy Facey, we’ll know more of their team than we will ours!

An aside (because I’ve got this far without digressing, which is pretty good going for me): before he played for us, we once met Delroy Facey’s cousin in the buffet car of a train coming back from Sheffield. We got talking because she overheard me talking about Darlington, which is her home town. Nice girl.

Anyway, before the end of last season, the annual ‘Matt Hamshaw to sign for Rotherham’ bandwagon creaked into sight. Hamshaw’s a Rotherham boy and a Rotherham fan, and at least one poster on one of the Millers messageboards has a real fetish about him coming to the club. I was waiting for yet another story about our being interested in Jack Lester, while my brother declared he was joining the ‘Bring Back Delroy Facey Rainbow Party Coalition’. Just because he could, you understand.

As it is, stadium announcer Richard Lee, who seems to be having a first day back at school sugar rush, going by all the new musical stings that accompany his announcements, has his work cut out introducing the new players. In no particular order, we give warm DVS welcomes to Dean Holden (on loan from Shrewsbury, lovely shiny hair), Exodus Geohaghon (on loan from Peterborough, spectacular name), Ryan Cresswell (signed from Bury, Rotherham boy and Rotherham legend following a very brief loan spell two seasons ago), Tom Newey (also signed from Bury, recipient of dogs’ abuse while playing for Grimsby at Dagenham two seasons ago), Tom Elliott (on loan from Leeds, also spent time at Bury – Alan Knill doesn’t really need a scouting report on us, does he?) and Mark Bradley (signed from Walsall, a Welsh international despite coming from somewhere in the West Midlands. Marcus Marshall has made a permanent move from Blackburn and Jason Taylor is back from his loan spell at Rochdale. As well as big Drewey, out have gone Marc Joseph, Mark Lynch, Micky Cummins, Andy Nicholas, Pablo Mills, David Haggerty, Andy Liddell and Ian Sharps, who surprised everyone by turning down a new contract and signing for Shrewsbury. Splitter! You can see why this will take us a while to adjust.

Lincoln have made a few changes of their own, mind. They’re playing big Drewey as the lone striker in a 4-5-1 formation, supplemented by speedy wingers Mustapha Carayol and Albert Jarrett. This will work well for them in plenty of games this season, but Cresswell and Geohaghon seem quite able to cope with Drewey, who’s had his elbows refurbished over the summer. The ref is surprisingly lenient with him – for us, he usually got booked, or at least sternly ticked-off, the first time he got over-physical. The first ‘booooook him’ from the blokes at the left of us comes after four minutes. Their song about Alf being the white Pele is still failing to catch on whenever they sing it. As I said, it’s good to be back...

Such considerations seem pretty immaterial after ten minutes, as Kevin Ellison volleys a shot, it gets stabbed off the line and Alf fires the clearance into the roof of the net. ‘We are top of the league!’ chant the blokes on my left. Calm down, dears, it’s only our first goal of the season. Still, it damps down the restlessness that would otherwise have grown the longer we go without scoring.

Elliott is winning plenty of balls in the air, and has a couple of headers that go narrowly wide of the goal. Don is a virtual spectator, and we look more and more comfortable as the half progresses.

The half-time special guest for the Mayday draw is... the Mayor of Rotherham! In addition, there are not one, but two new troupes of cheerleaders, the tweenie Millerettes and the slightly older High Definition. I’ll be surprised if either of them are still around by October.

Lincoln pull the old stunt of leaving us waiting for a while before emerging for the second half. They show more aggressive intent, though we’re still keeping Drewey quiet. Then Carayol breaks at speed, despite all the cries from the crowd that he’s offside, and fires in a curling shot from the left side of the box to equalise. It doesn’t take long for the discontented grumbling to start. ‘Rubbish... Can’t string two passes together..,’ come the comments, though with so many new faces in the team, it’s bound to take some time for the team to learn how to play together. Lincoln look threatening, but they’re still not giving Don a lot to do. Carayol has another run and a couple of stepovers, but his shot is well over the bar. At the other end, Alf fails to get a header on target. Ronnie eventually makes a substitution, bringing on Bradley for Harrison. Lincoln respond with the arrival of Clark Keltie, who’s the subject of a bet between Ted and his friend, Chris. Chris reckons Keltie will play at a higher level than League Two. Ted reckons his money is safe...

Bradley’s appearance seems to move us up a gear. We begin to attack the Lincoln goal with purpose. The crowd have gone from doom and gloom to shouting, ‘Olé!’ in the space of twenty minutes. I love a healthy sense of perspective...

With a couple of minutes to go, Nicky Law puts in a great cross from the byline. Ryan Cresswell gets his head on it and enhances his legendary status by scoring the winning goal on his début.

On the way to collect the flag, I bump into Steve Exley, who comments that Law should get to the byline more frequently. He seems happy enough with the result, though.

Clarkey is stopping in Rotherham tonight, so Steve D and I go for a swift drink in the Sheffield Tap before catching the train. The weather, which has been beautiful all day even though we saw heavy rain between Leicester and Chesterfield on the way up, is nice enough to persuade people to sit outside, though we prefer the cool of the interior.

There are more Dagenham fans on the way back, a little subdued having lost to Wednesday. A few Barnet fans get on at Chesterfield, equally subdued after their result. Obviously someone thought it made sense to have Barnet christen the B2Net...

We didn’t get to see Delroy in action, but we do see a rainbow, stretching over Leicester University as the rain comes down again. If there’s a pot of gold anywhere on campus, I never found it in my time there!

Somewhere around Bedford, I get a call from Ted’s mobile, but it’s not him on the other end. He and Chris Turner have been on a crawl round North London, and he’s managed to leave his phone in the Pineapple. Fortunately, he’s already rung me to let me know he and Chris will be in the Betjamen when we arrive at St Pancras. Steve bids me goodnight and goes off for some good home cooking, while I join the boys to be regaled with tales of bearded dragons in the Oakdale Arms and patting Gavin Esler’s dog in the Pineapple. With all that excitement, it’s no wonder the phone got forgotten. At least I can fill Chris in on all the details of our satisfying start to season and let him know, far more importantly, that when we’re back up in a fortnight, it’s the Fat Cat Birthday beer festival. Does it get any better than that?

So Close...

Oh, the tension! I didn’t intend to set off quite as early as I do, but I’m just so nervous I can’t sit at home any longer. I had all the anxiety dreams last night, from the one where Ian Sharps scores in the first minute and we’re trying to hang on to the lead for the rest of the game, to the one where we’re wandering round Harrow looking for the pre-match pub. Most bizarrely, and having nothing at all to do with Rotherham, is one about a professional assassin who’s been contracted to off various footballers. His latest target is Liverpool’s Lucas, who he lures to a formal dinner. He waits till Lucas closes his eyes and bows his head to say grace, then shoots him in the top of the head. If the people who make all those howlingly mad Jason Statham thrillers are reading this, my subconscious is available for storyline meetings for a reasonable fee...

The District Line is out, so it’s a bus to Canning Town. From the conversations around me, various people are en route to Wembley, but they don’t appear to be Dagenham fans – rather, they’re Hammers going for the day out. They all seem to be meeting in pubs at Baker Street or near the ground – which is why we’ve chosen to go further afield, as it’ll be quieter.

At Finchley Road, I bump into the Maxfields, Sally looking infinitely more relaxed than Rob. There are a few Dagenham fans on the tube, the genuine article this time, so we all wish each other luck. They get off at Wembley Park while we continue on to Harrow-on-the-Hill.

Walking away from the station, we spot Jenny and the Ketton family waiting to cross the road, so we join their merry band. The route towards the Castle pub is actually alarmingly similar to the one in my dream, but we manage to find it without too many problems. I’ve never been to this part of Harrow before, and it’s beautiful. There’s actually a gap between a couple of the school buildings that if you look through, you have the most incredible view across London, Wembley prominent in the foreground. There are a few grumbles about the distance from the station to the pub, but it’s worth it once we get there.

Some London Millers are already colonising the beer garden, including the entire Kirkland family (no idea who’ll be listening to the commentary in the car park today...) and my brother. Gradually, the biggest turn-out of our merry organisation I’ve seen in one place gathers, all in various stages of anticipation – and this doesn’t include various people, including Steves Exley and Ducker and Phil Kyte, who don’t make it all the way out to Harrow for whatever reason. Apologies to anyone who gets left off the list, but this is everyone I spot in the pre-match session. There are the regulars and semi-regulars: Tim, Ian Armitage and Steven, the South Norwood Gentlemen’s Rambling Association, Clarkey (along with Stephanie, James and Laura), Steve Czajewski, Brad, Julia, Joy and Frances. There are those we haven’t seen for a while: Q, who’s been working on his music career in Bristol; Chas, who’s been bothering the penguins in the South Atlantic; Diamond and Phil (but no Nigel, who’s unwell). Still others have brought along non-Miller chums to be part of the festivities: Toddy is with Graham and Brown, who’s still only one person. They’re wearing their Drewe Broughton tribute sweatbands, which makes me realise what a trendsetter I am. And Tom Coley is here, along with Scotty and two of his Watford-supporting mates from Bournemouth, still getting over the night before.

I didn’t bring the flag, as it breaks Wembley’s strict size policy, but Tom has his, and he lines us up for photos with it. Everyone’s in high spirits. Toddy regales us with some of his choicest anecdotes, including the time we played King’s Lynn in the FA Cup and they set off a flare down the Railway End. ‘I mean, where do you get flares in the first place?’ he asks. ‘Apart from Clarkey’s wardrobe, of course...’

At the bar, Chris Turner gets talking to the Beeb’s Mark ‘Chappers’ Chapman, who’s not covering the game today but has just come for a quiet pint with his missus as it’s one of his local pubs. At least we’re all out in the garden, rather than ruining his Sunday lunch with Miller-age.

We’ve arranged to meet my dad, Gordon and his son-in-law, another Rob, outside the turnstiles, so we make a move, along with Jenny and her party. Walking back through Harrow, my brother notices a hydrant cover in the pavement, made by Guest and Chrimes. This, of course, is the firm whose former premises are the site of our new stadium, so of course Robert is convinced that’s an omen. At the tube, we spot Tim’s wife, Effie, and Ian Chaplain. Somehow, Ian Armitage has wangled them all seats in the corporate section, so hopefully they’ll all be on their best behaviour...

Wembley Way is heaving with red-and-white. We don’t know whether all the Dagenham fans have gone in early to soak up the atmosphere, but it does seem to be mostly Rotherham fans heading for the stadium. Everyone’s in high spirits: flags are being waved and faces painted.

We find my dad without problems and head inside. Thanks to the whims of the Ticketmaster system, our seats are on the front row. There’s the occasional whiff of drains, though that stops once the game kicks off and everyone takes their places in the stadium, but we couldn’t have a better view. As we arrive, so do the Chuckle Brothers – their image, flashed up on the jumbo screens, gets one of the biggest cheers of the day. We’re alongside a group with a baby who can’t be more than six months old. It’s very warm where we are – anyone sitting here for the Cardiff v Blackpool game last weekend would have fried – but fortunately the baby seems to be sleeping peacefully, for the time being.

The heat intensifies as the players emerge from the tunnel, as some bright spark has decided to greet their appearance with flames (on our side of the pitch, at least. Fireworks are going off on the far side.) The teams are introduced to the dignitaries, we sing the National Anthem and away we go.

We start more brightly than Dagenham, but there’s no sign of my first-minute Sharps goal. We come agonisingly close, though, with a Ryan Taylor has an effort that really has mad Welsh keeper Tony Roberts scrambling to get anywhere near it. Taylor’s obviously in the mood, as it’s not long before Roberts has to save his header. At the other end, Don makes one really good save, then a second from a free kick that he must have seen really late. Just as we’re starting to think he’s having the kind of performance that means it’s going to be our afternoon, the Daggers take the lead. Paul Benson is given too much space and time, and curls a shot past Don. The commotion is enough to wake the baby at the side of us.

Incredibly, we’re level within a minute. From the kick-off, we get a throw-in. The ball goes to Ellison, who picks out Ryan Taylor with a cross. This time his header isn’t saved. Everyone goes mad with joy, including Taylor, who flings himself into the arms of teeny tiny Stephen Brogan, suited and booted among the non-playing squad members.

Dagenham go ahead again about ten minutes into the second half. This time it’s Danny Green, who my mum identified as their danger man when she saw us play them in March, who scores from the edge of the box. Still we won’t be beaten. Nicky Law puts in a cross and Ryan Taylor has time to compose himself and shoot past Roberts. This time, he hurtles towards the Rotherham fans behind the goal, pulling off his shirt and vest as he does. He earns a yellow card for his pains, but he probably thinks it was worth it, as was far too warm to have a vest on in the first place!

Alf has been having a quiet game, by his standards, and when he does find himself with the ball at his face and Taylor in space, he passes unselfishly. Unfortunately, the fairytale isn’t completed, as Roberts saves the shot.

The game takes its last, cruel twist when a Dagenham corner isn’t cleared and Nurse’s shot is deflected in off a defending leg. We do everything to get back into the game. Danny Harrison hits the bar. Ronnie brings on Marshall and Bell-Baggie, and in the four added minutes we have Dagenham hanging on, as Fenton’s header is just over the bar.

As the Dagenham players celebrate the final whistle, poor old Don is absolutely dejected, and when the players do a semi-circle of honour to applaud the crowd for their support, we’re close enough to see that he’s been crying his eyes out. He’s not the only one...

We stay to applaud Dagenham as they’re presented with the trophy, because you have to show class in defeat, then we make our way back to Harrow. The mood of the Rotherham fans leaving the stadium is down, but not out. We played well; we just didn’t have that little bit of good fortune when it mattered. And while everyone was talking before the game about fighting off bids for Alf, it’s Ryan Taylor who’s put a couple of noughts on his value.

As you’d expect, the numbers are somewhat depleted. Indeed, it’s just me, Jenny and the Kettons, Rob and Sally, the South Norwood Gentlemen and my bro. Ian Armitage joins us; Tim, who’s such a bad loser he won’t even watch the highlights on The Football League Show unless we win a game has gone off to sulk over dinner somewhere in Harrow. Ian has a swift pint with us, then wends his way. The rest of us have another drink, then my bro heads off to the end of the line to pick up his car while everyone else plans a trip into town. I say my farewells to them all at Finchley Road. Ted, along with his sister and niece, has gone to see Punishment Of Luxury (don’t ask...) and I’ll have the house to myself for a nice bath and some quiet reflection on what could have been.

And so we bid farewell to another long, strange season. As ever, the things that stand out in my mind aren’t necessarily the obvious ones. Andy Warrington, utterly devastated after the final whistle at Wembley; Drewe Broughton making sweet, sweet love to the touchline at Gigg Lane (well, that’s what it looked like from our angle, anyway); Simon Callow, beating a hasty retreat from the train at Luton; Boomer the dog giving me the eye at Vale Park; seeing us win at Barnet for the first time this century; monsoon season arriving in the second half against Crewe. Oh, and Su Pollard. Just for being Su Pollard.

And when the season starts again, seemingly only five minutes after the last one ended, I’ll be in a household which is now 50 per cent non-league, and I’ll still have the crazy, optimistic feeling that, this time, we’re going up...