Princess Tiaamii's Shoe

Despite signal failures and defective trains, I reach Euston in good time – unlike Joy, who’s texted Chris Turner to let him know she’s overslept and won’t be joining us today. Fortunately, we’re not relying on her to bring sausages!
On the journey up to Preston, Chris is complaining about being at his sister’s and having to watch one of her favourite programmes, the ITV2 series about the everyday life of Peter Andre and his lovely, shiny abs. Apparently, the episode went into the commercial break on a cliffhanger about whether they would find the missing shoes of his daughter, Princess Tiaamii, before they board a plane. Cue mass ranting about how much better TV was in the old days, when everything was black and white and 47 per cent of the day’s viewing consisted of the test card...
In Preston, we’re meeting Clarkey’s friend, Jackie, who somehow hasn’t been put off by spending the entire afternoon with us when our game at Accrington was called off back in January. We’ve only got time to fit the two pubs in this time. Cutting through the Preston Mobility Centre car park, as you do, we spot a lone shoe lying forlorn in the gutter, black suede with a diamanté buckle. Surely it must be one of Princess Tiaamii’s. Call Peter Andre! Crisis averted! Is there a reward?
Our destination is the Black Horse, with its lovingly preserved interior, all stained glass and little snug rooms. From there, it’s a detour via William’s the butchers’ for pies and Bamber’s cheese shop, where I can’t resist a chunk of the local blue cheese (for local people), Smelly ’Aperth. Then it’s on to the Market Tavern, which is really busy, but we find a spot in the front corner where Chris gets talking to an old Irish lady about her corns. There’s no Elvis playing today, but somehow we get on to the subject of great (or not so great) Elvis impersonators we’ve seen, and why they’re always ‘fat white jumpsuit Las Vegas’ Elvis rather than ‘young hot never tried a fried squirrel sandwich’ Elvis.
Jenny and I bid our farewells to Jackie and head for the station, leaving the boys to catch us up (unless they decide to stay in the pub all afternoon, grab a granny and pretend they’ve won...). We take a shortcut through the St George’s shopping centre, managing to weave our way through the crowds without picking up a subscription to Sky HD and a massive wedding cake on the way.
The first hint of problems comes when our train pulls in. Some lovely people have decided to vandalise a signal box, meaning the service that should go through to York is terminating at Blackburn, with a coach the rest of the way. Except when we get off at Blackburn, there’s no coach. Fortunately, Accrington is a reasonably priced taxi ride away, so we’re at the ground for half-past two. Clarkey suggests we investigate the Crown, next to the ground, but it’s packed and there’s no sign of anything resembling real ale, so we go inside.
It’s another ground like Aldershot, where everyone from bag searchers to turnstile operatives are chatty and friendly – but Jenny and I are dismayed to learn the ground now has a no-flag policy (apparently Morecambe is the same and it’s all something to do with Lancashire Council). Even the home fans have fallen foul of this, with no sign of the massive ‘Accrington Ultras’ banner. We spot Barry, over from Bury, and Phil, Nigel and Diamond. Chris is able to fill Diamond in on the hen party who were in our carriage on the Preston train, this being Diamond’s area of special scientific interest. While Jenny and I are making enquiries about the flag, Clarkey and Chris, baffled by the novelty of being in the ground so early, watch the Rotherham finishing practice taking in place in front of the away end. Despite his excellent goal last week, Nicky Law consistently misses the target. We join the boys and find a spot on the low terrace just to the left of the goal, while the team do the obligatory running between cones, then disappear to the changing room.
The Burtons join us shortly after kick-off, delayed by the transport chaos (well, that’s their excuse). Accrington are bright and nippy, and start the game sharper than us. They take the lead after about ten minutes, when Don is hesitant about coming to take the ball off Andy Parkinson, possibly concerned he’ll give away a penalty if he gets it wrong. It enables Parkinson to round him and score, to general grumbling. The dissatisfaction is eased when Alf is hauled down by Kevin Long and the ref awards us a penalty and sends Long off. Alf’s spot kick is hard and high, and Ian Dunbavin gets nowhere near it. However, the grumbling starts again when we don’t appear to be capitalising on the man advantage, even though we’ve played enough games where we’ve had a man sent off and gone on to outplay the opposition.
From that point on, the Accrington fans behind the goal start shouting for every decision that might affect us unfavourably, and once Kevin Ellison (who does like to put himself about at times) is booked, the players start trying to get him a second yellow and even the numbers up. We create a number of chances, but Dunbavin stops everything. One of these saves, from Alf’s long-range shot, is pretty impressive, but the rest end with Dunbavin on the floor, claiming to have been injured.
At half-time, Stanley boss John Coleman marches straight over to the ref to tell him what he thinks of his performance, then sends his players out a good minute or so after we’ve come back on the pitch, something managers obviously learn in Gamesmanship 101.
It seems to have worked, because almost immediately Accrington score from a corner which is played out to Jimmy Ryan, whose shot goes through a crowd of players. The moaning starts again, most of it reserved for Law and Tom Pope, who has two chances with headers, one of which goes well over but the other is a lot closer. We do have the ball in the net, but Alf is flagged offside after heading in Exodus Geohaghan’s long throw. When Accrington bring on a sub, there are comments directed at Ronnie about that being the way to manage etc etc. A couple of minutes later, Ronnie replaces Ellison with Marcus Marshall, possibly before he can get sent off. Marshall’s extra pace starts causing problems for Stanley, but while most of the play is in their half, Dunbavin is still keeping us at bay. With ten minutes to go, Ronnie replaces Mark Bradley with Ryan Taylor. Almost immediately we’re level, when Geohaghan heads in a corner. He celebrates by making spectacles round his eyes (sadly without going into a full-on Biggles...). We’re really going to miss him when he goes, but Peterborough want silly money for him. Some idiot runs on the pitch and tries to tangle with Dunbavin in the goalmouth, but is swiftly hauled away.
With three up front, we look better than we have all afternoon. Ryan Taylor heads the ball against the post. Three minutes of stoppage time are indicated and the Tannoy announcer gives the Stanley man of the match award to Dunbavin, which is the cue for him to pick the ball out of the net seconds later. Ryan Cresswell bullets in a header from yet another Geohaghan long throw. More idiots run on the pitch. To borrow a line from Ted, there are a few tea parties missing chimps this afternoon. The away terrace goes mental. Chris’ pies are in danger of getting squished by his own feet, or Clarkey’s. I’m in danger of being squished by Burtons. The final whistle goes and we’ve got out of jail.
We make a swift getaway, aiming to catch the train that leaves Accrington at 5.19 – if services are back to normal, that is. Clarkey had originally been intending to leave early to catch the 5.06, as he’s supposed to be seeing Killing Joke at Hammersmith Apollo with Andy Leng tonight. (And is it just me, or does anyone else think that ex-Brentford and Leicester manager Martin Allen is the spit of Killing Joke frontman Jazz Coleman? Okay, just me then.) However, he knocked that plan on the head as he had no idea if that train would be running, and given the result he’s really glad he did. There’s very little information when we arrive at the station, but the guard on a train going to Colne tells us the train to Preston and Blackpool is definitely running. It arrives about five minutes late, which isn’t too bad given everything that’s happened. We trundle through some beautiful, hilly countryside, stopping at places like Church and Oswaldtwistle and Pleasington, which sounds like the kind of town you’d move to in a horror film, only to discover that the idyllic surroundings and friendly faces are hiding something unspeakably nasty...
Back in Preston, we have time for a quick visit to the Fox and Grapes, where Chris is hoping to buy another Ploughman’s Lunch in a packet for a spot of onion juggling, only to discover they don’t have any. He’d seen them in the Market Tavern earlier in the day and decided against getting one – bet he regrets that now! The music on the jukebox is is a mixture of G’n’R and Northern Soul, the Caledonian Mellow Yellow is going down nicely with the boys and we could easily settle in here, except we’ve got a train at seven.
Our journey home is enlivened at Warrington when the carriage is invaded by a group of huge men in training gear carrying heroic quantities of alcohol. It’s Blackheath rugby club. One of their supporters wanders over and offers us some of his port, which we decline. We get chatting and he tells us they’ve beaten Sedgeley Park, who are geographically somewhere close to Bury. He might call football ‘wendyball’, but he’s watched a fair bit in his time and has a soft spot for Southampton. He even knows enough about Rotherham to ask whether Ronnie Moore is still our manager. The team may plough through the Carlsberg like it’s going out of fashion and be playing some drinking game that involves wearing a Hallowe’en mask, but there’s one who just sits opposite us, quietly reading his broadsheet, and as far as I can tell, they all keep their clothes on. (Spoilsports!)
We arrive at Euston about twenty minutes early, so Clarkey, having found out from Andy that the Joke weren’t starting till 9.15, makes a dash for the Apollo to catch as much of the set as they can. The rest of us make our respective ways home, where I make the discovery that the cats like Smelly ’Aperth nearly as much as I do...

Making A Weekend Of It

Today I’m doing something I don’t think I’ve ever done before, and that’s travelling south to watch a home game. Ted and I having a nice weekend in York, along with a selection of his fellow DAFTS and wives/partners. We’re staying in Bishops Hotel, owned and run by former Darlo legend (according to the boys...) Marco Gabbiadini. After a hearty breakfast, the chaps head for Darlo for their game against Hayes & Yeading while I go down to Sheffield. Everyone else will probably wander into York for a spot of retail therapy and possibly a trip to Betty’s tea room (well, that’s what I’d do, given the choice).
Jenny and Steve Ducker arrive on the good old ‘TCB Miller, MBE’, which has to be an omen. They’ve had a text to say Phil Kyte is running late, so he won’t be joining us in the Fat Cat. Steve has reserved his first ‘Derek Holmes, world’s slowest footballer’ until he reaches Sheffield, because he knows how much I’ll appreciate it. Poor old Derek – scored a hat-trick for us against Lincoln from a combined total of three yards out and this is how we repay him!
Outside the DVS, we spot Martyn Tait, who I haven’t seen in absolutely yonks. He’s having a dilemma – he’s got his wife, who’d probably rather poke her eyes out with rusty forks than watch a football game, sitting in the car, and he doesn’t know whether to actually go inside the stadium instead. We advise him to point her in the direction of Meadowhall, but he’s still dithering as Jenny and I go inside.
There have been a lot of comments from pundits about the standard of League 2 football so far this season, and how it seems more clubs than ever want to get the ball down and play. After comng up against two of those teams in the past couple of weeks, Chesterfield and Bury, we now welcome what look set to be one of the spoilers of the division, Stevenage. I could vent for quite a while on the subject of their self-promoting owner/manager, Graham Westley, and I’m sure I’m not the only one. Let’s just say one day he’ll work his way on to a list of those people who are rather too pleased with themselves, while his team are a bunch of big units who are mostly strung across midfield, more concerned for the most part with not conceding rather than creating too much. When the goalkeeper is timewasting after about twenty-five minutes, you know what you’re in for. We always have problems breaking down sides like this – whether it’s a lack of guile on our part I don’t know, but teams can bully us without actually being dirty. It’s so dull the ‘Booooook him!’ man and his chums in Block 4 Upper are reduced to chanting about the steward who looks like Rafa Benitez (which is funny because it’s true). That said, we take the lead on half time, when Alf plays the ball into the path of Nicky Law, who lashes it into the roof of the net.
The half-time Mayday draw is performed by Ryan Cresswell and the Mayor of Rotherham, who keeps taking the opportunity to give him a reassuring pat. Maybe she’s consoling him over his recent bereavement, or maybe she’s just having a sneaky feel of his biceps...
The second half is just as uninspiring as the first. We have the ball in the net again, but the ref rules out Fenton’s effort, presumably for pushing. Shortly after that, Fenton pulls up with an injury and has to be replaced by Dean Holden. Stevenage get more adventurous, but we keep them at bay until a combination of Don and the defence block an initial shot and the rebound is squared to John Mousinho, who celebrates his goal with some stupid galloping horse celebration he’ll no doubt be explaining on Saturday’s Soccer AM (and why does no one ever say, ‘I only did it because I wanted to be on Soccer AM?’).
Ronnie takes off Bradley and Pope and brings on Harrison and Ryan Taylor, gradually coming back from the pre-season injury that at one stage threatened to keep him out till Christmas. Stevenage think they’ve scored again, but the flag goes straight up for offside. Westley whinges about this after the game, but we could say exactly the same about our disallowed goal.
After the game, I travel back to Sheffield station with the Chrises, Kirland and Burrows. We leave Steve waiting for Jenny at the tram stop. The boys are off to meet Tom in the Old Queen’s Head, but I decline to join them as I’m straight back to York. The train takes me through Wakefield and Leeds, where I’m amazed at the number of Wednesday fans who get off.
Back in York, I meet up with Ted and co, fresh from their one-nil reverse to Hayes & Yeading and mulling over rumours that their manager, Mark Cooper, resigned during the game. Thankfully for them, these turn out to be false. On the way for an excellent meal in the Lime House restaurant, we bump into Gabbiadini and his wife, who’ve been at York Races. Drink may have been involved. We’re sure he’ll be feeling no ill-effects when he checks us out of the hotel tomorrow morning...

So Are They Bury Today Now?

At last the engineering works are being inflicted on the western end of the District Line, so it’s a quick, smooth ride into the centre of London today. At Euston, we bump into Monica Harland, Stoke supporter and long-time committee member of APFSCIL (the cumbersomely named Association of Professional Football Supporters’ Clubs In London). Normally, Jenny and I only spot her when we’re in the middle of a pig of a journey, wandering past randomly while we’re waiting for a delayed train at Northampton or Leamington Spa. Hopefully this isn’t some kind of omen.

Speaking of omens, I’ve got everyone in the habit of looking for them now. Clarkey was handed a flyer yesterday for a band called Bury Tomorrow, a bunch of flannel-shirted emo types none of us has ever heard of, while Joy and Chris Turner have spotted posters at Euston reading ‘Try Warrington’ and ‘Alf joins Priscilla, Queen Of The Desert’ (that’s a reference to the bloke out of Home And Away, for anyone horrified at the prospect of Mr Le Fondre dragging up). John Kirkland completes the travelling band.

The train leaves on time and arrives in Manchester on time, so that’s a bonus. Kirkland Junior is waiting for us at Manchester, and we head for the tram, which is now running direct from Piccadilly, sparing us the walk to Victoria. Various Millers we recognise get on at stops across the city centre, but they’ll most likely be going to pubs closer to the ground. At Bury, Jenny’s friend Jean is waiting for us, having somehow been persuaded that she really, really wants to spend her Saturday watching Rotherham again. We also spot Barry, our Bury-based Miller, who thinks he may go drinking in the Trackside but does eventually join us in the Rose and Crown.

Having learned from last season, Jenny got in touch with the pub’s landlady a few days ago and arranged to have food put on for us. This equates to meat and potato pie, peas, chips and rolls, all of which is almost ridiculously cheaply priced and much appreciated. Shame the apricot wine runs out when I’ve had a scant glass, but you can’t have everything.

We’re joined by Chris Burrows and three of his Manchester chums, and Diamond, Phil and Nigel, who can’t resist the lure of a night out in Manchester. Some promotion team in the city have been handing out sachets of Sukk, a green tea and lemon-flavoured fibre-filled jelly drink thing. Nigel has saved me a packet, just so he can see the expression on my face when I sample a mouthful of cold, lumpy jelly. Let’s just say it’s an acquired taste...

We arrive at Gigg Lane to find a healthy contingent of Rotherham supporters. The acoustics in the away end are good (so good that we immediately decide to sit as far away as we can from the bloke with the drum!) and Clarkey and Chris K are soon up and chanting.

It’s another good, inspiring Millers performance, though we’re playing in an unfamiliar formation. Alf is on his own up front, with Mark Bradley joining Jason Taylor and Danny Harrison in midfield. Ryan Cresswell is strangely absent and the team are wearing black armbands – these two facts turn out to be connected, as Cresswell’s grandfather, the man who took him to Millmoor was he was younger, died yesterday and he’s not in the right frame of mind to play today.

We very nearly take the lead in the first minute, but Bury clear the ball following a goalmouth scramble. Bury have Lenell John-Lewis (ex of Lincoln and still never knowingly under-goaled) up front alongside Ryan Lowe, but they don’t produce much in the way of shots on target. Meanwhile, Neil Cutler has taken up his usual position on the steps to get an elevated view of proceedings; we can see his head poking over the top of the dugout like a stern, beardy meerkat.

Alf is having a running battle with Efe Sodje, who gets a yellow card very early on for a foul on him, but then somehow escapes a second on a couple of occasions. He’s doing well in his lone frontman role, and has a shot that just flashes wide of goal, but it looks like the first half is going to finish all square. Then Exodus Geohaghon, who otherwise has another very good game (and whose name is increasingly being chanted by the Millers fans, though there’s no Paul Martin here to chip in with ‘movement of Ja people’, as he’d otherwise be tempted to do) passes back to Don a bit casually. I don’t know whether he doesn’t get a shout (though we’ve seen Don bellowing ‘away!’ at his defence in the past, only for them to completely ignore him), but Lowe latches on to the loose ball and rounds Don to score.

Bury are another team who try to cram as many forms of entertainment into half-time as they possibly can. They have tweeny cheerleaders who yell, ‘Go, Bury!’ and form themselves into wobbly human pyramids. One day, this will end badly. There’s a half-time schools six-a-side game, a load of little footballers being paraded for some reason or other (I’d kind of stopped paying attention to the announcer by this point) and Andy Dibble’s son, who’s on the books at Bury, being awarded with his first cap for the Welsh Under-19s. He’s called Christian Dibble. Parents, please think about these things...

Anyway, by now I’ve been distracted by Mr Cutler coming down to warm up Bury keeper Cameron Belford in the goal at our end. It never struck me last season just how tiny Belford is, but now I can see he only comes up to Ivor’s shoulder. There’s no law that says you have to be ludicrously tall to play in goal, but I thought the titchy keeper had officially died out when Neil Edwards, who was at Rochdale for about a thousand years, retired. The Rotherham fans give Ivor a generous round of applause, and he entertains us (okay, me) with some needless stretching.

We’re hoping for a good response from Rotherham in the second half, as we didn’t really deserve to be behind, but we didn’t think it would come as quickly as it does. A couple of minutes in, Kevin Ellison chases down a long ball the defender should probably clear, turns and hooks the ball across goal. Alf can’t resist the invitation and heads past the helpless Belford. His goal celebration ends with him rolling on the floor. I can’t tell what he was supposed to be doing, as a wildly leaping Mr Clarke obscures my view, but I’m sure ‘Soccer AM’ will enlighten me at the weekend (whether I want them to or not).

After that, we have a ten-minute spell where we’re really on top, but the second goal doesn’t materialise. Nick Fenton heads into the side netting, but that’s as close as we come. Alan Knill makes changes for the Shakers, taking off John-Lewis and David Worrall and bringing on Nicky Ajose and Andy Haworth. Last season, when he switched things round it paid off for them. Both Ajose and Haworth are lively, and it looks as though the same thing might happen again. But though Bury have a lot of possession as the game goes on, and the ball spends an awful lot of time in our box, Don only has about one shot to save. In the end, we hold out for a hard-earned draw.

At Bury station, Jean finally manages to escape the mayhem and go home, though she seems to have enjoyed herself. There’s certainly none of the grumbling among Rotherham fans on the tram we heard last time, and as Clarkey points out, the singing of ‘Ronnie Moore’s red army’ went on throughout the game for much longer than it has in a while.

Back in Manchester, we make the trek up the Rochdale Road to the Marble Arch, the main pub of the Marble Brewery (whose beers are a favourite of both Chris T and Ted). It’s a place I’d certainly like to spend more time in, with its original tiles and fixtures and its very enticing-looking menu. The ladies may have teased me for drooling over Mr Cutler, but that’s nothing compared to my reaction on seeing the list of cheeses on offer!

Our route back to the station takes us past the streets where they’re filming Captain America, chosen because they have a 1940s feel. Like all film and TV sets, it looks to be just a lot of people hanging about waiting for something to happen. We bid our farewells to Phil, Diamond and Nigel, who are off to Canal Street for the evening. Lock up your transvestites!

The London train is delayed. Is the Monica Effect kicking in? Fortunately not, as it pulls in about 15 minutes late and doesn’t get any further behind. It’s busy, but half the passengers seem to be shoppers on their way back to Wilmslow and Macc. We find seats in the quiet coach (apart from Clarkey, who was out till the small hours at a Kirk Brandon gig and goes for a quick snooze in first class – solidarity with the masses, brother!) and by Crewe we practically have the whole thing to ourselves. 

The temptation to start a conga line is overwhelming, but we resist. Maybe next time...

Dreaming Spireites

Clarkey should be joining us, but Jenny gets a text to let her know his plans have changed, so it’s just the two of us travelling up today. As our tickets allow us to get on the earlier train, we do just that. Palace are at Derby today, and a few of their fans are in our carriage, already on the cider at 9.30 in the morning. If you looked up ‘cast-iron constitution’ in the dictionary, that’s probably the image you’d see. A handful of Spireites get on at Chesterfield, but the lairy 12-year-olds we usually find ourselves travelling with are more than likely still doing their paper rounds or having a lie-in in preparation for some concerted taunting of our lairy 12-year-olds.

In the Fat Cat we’re joined by Chris Kirkland, who spent last Sunday moving all his stuff up to Nottingham ready to embark on his post-graduate studies (for which read stringing out joining the world of employment a little bit longer, though it won’t stop him using ‘Get a job’ as an insult again if necessary). With him is his friend, Tom, who’s doing his MA in Sheffield and has found accommodation in the student heartland around Shalesmoor. He was only originally intending to join us for a drink, but somewhere along the line he manages to persuade himself coming to the game might be a good idea. Given that last season he saw us lose to Bury and Darlo and scrape a draw with Torquay, he really must be a glutton for punishment.

A bunch of Chesterfield fans pile on the tram in the city centre, singing about Jack Lester, still their talisman even though he’s been surprisingly quiet against us the last few times we’ve played them. We sit quietly, wondering if they’ll be in such high spirits after the game.

The atmosphere at the DVS is building nicely as we arrive. As you’d expect from a derby game, it starts at a million miles an hour, with the first half containing possibly our best football of the season so far. There are chances at both ends, with pixie-faced Spireites keeper being forced into a couple of palm-stinging saves, in both cases just managing to grab the ball before anyone can pounce on the rebound. Jason Taylor is shooting on sight, and there’s plenty of purpose about our play. Chesterfield’s best chance of the half is a shot from the aforementioned Lester. There was a time when he’d have buried it (or, failing that, fallen over and won a free kick from which they’d have scored), but today Don has the better of him.

Half time is a feast for the eyes, in the same way that Greggs’ is a feast for white van drivers. Richard Lee is back, and so are High Definition – are these events in any way connected? The girls slink their way through a routine set to Michael Jackson’s ‘Smooth Criminal’, but they’re just a foil for Miller Bear, who gets to perform his full repertoire of moon-walking, crotch-grabbing Wacko Jacko dance moves. Meanwhile, in the schools’ six-a-side competition, Maltby Lilly Hall are handing out a good old-fashioned smishing to their hapless opponents. I can’t help thinking this is what the inside of Toddy’s head is like...

The second half picks up where the first left off. Chesterfield are a strong, organised side, but we’re matching them, and still playing great football. We score from what, it later turns out, is a move suggested by Andy Liddell, who’s now working on the coaching staff, having retired in the summer. Alf gets on the end of a Johnny Mullins throw and loops the ball brilliantly over Tommy Lee. Cue a concerted attempt by Chesterfield to get back on level terms. Jack Lester, who apart from that one shot has been kept pretty quiet by Exodus Geohaghon, is substituted. Don is forced into three more excellent saves, including one double save after a scramble at the corner (the ball already having hit Kevin Ellison, who’s on the far post, with the Chesterfield fans appealing for a penalty). It’s not all one-way traffic, though, and with a couple of minutes to go, Geohaghon, who’s unfortunate to lose out to Don for man of the match, runs half the length of the pitch and looks as though he might have an attempt on goal. It doesn’t quite happen, but it would have summed up what’s been a thoroughly entertaining match and one that, even with four minutes of added-on time that have the potential to get a bit nervy, we hold on to win. From being our bogey team, Chesterfield have now lost to us in six of the last seven league matches. My brother used to ask to be pinched when we were beating them, as it had to be a dream, but when I text him after the game he reckons it’s more like Groundhog Day.

Jenny’s staying up in Rotherham for the weekend, so I join Chris K, Tom and Chris Burrows to return to Sheffield. The first tram that goes through while we’re waiting is packed with Chesterfield supporters. Unbelievably, they’re twice as loud as they were on the way to the game – I dread to think what they’d be like if they’d won.

Eventually we manage to squeeze on to a tram. There’s just time for a quick drink in the Old Queen’s Head (which, as we’d hoped, is a lot quieter than the Tap would be, and keeps us away from any lingering Spireites), then I bid the boys farewell. The train is heaving. The Palace fans who get on at Derby are pretty subdued, as they’ve lost 5-0, but there are a few Southampton supporters who are fine when they stick to songs about winning the Johnstone’s Paints Trophy, but let the side down when the Pope and the IRA are brought up. Boys, it’s not big, it’s not clever and it’s really not necessary...