Up For The Cup - Sort Of

The draw for the first round of the FA Cup saw us get York at home, dashing Tim’s hopes that we’d get Hendon away (his next closest game to Wealdstone, who lost to the Met Police, who then lost in turn to Hendon – take notes as I’ll be asking questions later...). However, Tim’s got over that disappointment enough to travel to the game, along with me, Jenny and John Kirkland.

No hitches on the journey this time, and we meet up with Tim’s chum, Andy, to catch the tram to the Fat Cat. Once there, we link up with Kirkland Junior, who’s persuaded Tom that what he needs is another Saturday afternoon at the DVS. Tom’s planning a Sheffield pub crawl, so he picks our brains about where to go and how far apart everything is in terms of walking distance (to which the answer is surprisingly close, in most cases).

I have to leave earlier than usual, as I’m meeting my dad to pick up my match ticket. The timing’s perfect, as Jenny and I get off the train just in time to see my dad and Gordon wandering along from where they’ve parked.

Arriving at the ground, it’s obvious that quite a few York fans have travelled. But then it’s not too far to come, it’s a new ground for them and they can’t have played us for a good ten years. The last time I saw York play, it was at Bootham (then KitKat, now back to Bootham) Crescent against Darlo, the day John Batchelor took over the club. He paraded with his scarf and his grandiose plans, and those who’d seen George Reynolds do exactly the same at Feethams began to get an idea of how well all that was going to end...

It soon becomes apparent that a lot of the Rotherham fans have looked at the opposition and are expecting this to be a stroll against a non-league team. Of course, York aren’t looking at it that way, just as Rotherham would go into a tie against a team from a higher division looking to take a scalp. We make a decent start, having a couple of chances with ex-Darlo keeper Michael Ingham looking a bit flappy, though he does make one very good save when he scoops out a shot from Alfie that looks like a certain goal. When nothing goes in and York start making inroads on our goal (they really should score, but James Meredith seems determined to walk the ball into the net, which enables us to clear the danger), people start getting restless. ‘Come on, Rotherham,’ shouts someone behind me, ‘this lot are a pub team.’ There’s no need to go into how disrespectful this is to a) York and b) the Conference as a whole, but that attitude sums up the inflated expectations we (and probably the fans of a few other teams towards the top of our division) have somehow acquired. It also explains the boos at half-time.

In the first half, there’s been one of those irritating old boys sitting right behind me who loves to praise the opposition and criticise us, but he seems to have disappeared by the time the second half kicks off. Maybe he’s seen enough; he doesn’t miss much, because the second half is pretty much exactly the same as the first. York threaten on a couple of occasions, but we could probably play all night and neither team would score. For once, Ronnie doesn’t make any substitutions, possibly with one eye on Tuesday night’s game against Huddersfield in the JPT in mind, which only enrages an already riled home crowd even more. At the final whistle, there are even more boos. Some fans hang behind to applaud the York team off the pitch. It’s a gesture that might be more understandable if they’d beaten us, but it seems to be more about sending a message to Ronnie and the team than actually praising the opposition performance.

Both Jenny and Tim are staying in Rotherham for the weekend, so it’s just John and I who head for the Sheffield Tap, with Chris in tow. It’s nice and quiet when we arrive, as we’ve been the only club playing in Sheffield today. Chris travels with us as far as Chesterfield, rather than hang round Sheffield station when all the Leicester fans get back from Barnsley. However, it seems most of them have been put on a football special (see, they do still exist...) and we’re through Derby before the Pompey fans make it down to the station after their televised game. It’s a reflective journey back, but John is strangely confident about our chances in the replay. We’ll see...

The Return Of Disco Duck

It’s not quite Hallowe’en, but there are already weird creatures afoot. As I wait on Barking station for the train to Southend, Snow White and a novelty pirate wander past. At least, I think it’s a pirate: it could just be Andrew Stone out of Pineapple Dance Studios on his day off...

Jenny, Diamond and Chris Turner are already on the train. Chris has brought us snacks for the journey – after failing to get his Ploughman’s Lunch in a packet in Preston, he’s bought a card of the things online, and there’s one for each of us. Of course, he insists on throwing his onions in the air and trying to catch them in his mouth, which goes about as well as you’d expect.

Our pub of choice is the Lion and Lamb in Westcliff-on-sea. It’s a bit of a walk from there to Roots Hall, but it’s a good choice, festooned in fake cobwebs we spend the rest of the afternoon picking off ourselves. We’re joined by Dave Finnis, over from Australia, and his wife, Linda. He certainly has a knack of taking her to the most glamorous locations, as the last time we saw her was about five years ago, in Wigan. Following along shortly are Clarkey, Nigel Hall, Joy and Frances, whose dad is in the area CAMRA branch and recommended this place.

We arrive at the ground, looking forward to seeing the debut performance of Mark Randall, who we’ve just got on loan from Arsenal. Unfortunately, we don’t get to see that much of him. Is there a polite way of saying Southend are a dirty team? No? Okay, they’re a dirty team, and they target Randall, who looks very assured on the ball, with a number of hefty challenges, the last of which sees him leave the pitch injured after about twenty minutes. Unfortunately, we’re one-nil down by then. Southend have a bit of good fortune when Tom Newey slips, allowing them to put in a cross that Blair Sturrock heads against the crossbar and in. We have one good chance to equalise, but Southend’s keeper makes a very good save from Ellison’s shot.

How to describe the half-time entertainment? First, I’m not sure I’d use the word ‘entertainment’. Southend’s tweenie cheerleaders emerge with backcombed hair and ripped tights (‘It’s Motley Crue!’ exclaims Clarkey) and proceed to dance to Thriller. The performance ends with them lying on the floor, pretending to be dead, while Southend mascots Sammy the Shrimp and Elvis the Eel circle them for no apparent reason. All this is swiftly followed by a six-year-old Michael Jackson impersonator treating us all to the moonwalk. This is the kind of nightmare that scars impressionable children for life...

The nightmare’s only just starting, though. The fans around us, who’ve been quite buoyant and supportive in the first half, turn swiftly as it becomes apparent it’s Southend who are making most of the running in the second. Rotherham, who’ve been cowed by Southend’s overly physical tactics, need something to lift them – and they’re not getting it from the crowd. They’re not really creating any chances, and it doesn’t help that when Marcus Marshall is blatantly blocked while running to put in a cross, the referee (Phil Crossley, supposedly one of the most experienced on the list), ignores the foul. The woman sitting in my earshot is driving me crazy. I think she’s the one who always yells, ‘Gerrin!’ at a pitch that’s like fingernails down a blackboard, which is irritating enough, and she does nothing but criticise Ryan Taylor all game, but when she actively starts willing Southend to score a second in the dying moments of the match, I’m tempted to reach for the flag tape and gag her with it.

Afterwards, Jenny, Chris, Clarkey, Diamond, Nigel and I head for the Cricketers, which is halfway between the ground and Westcliff. It’s a nice enough pub, but it’s a big place on a corner and must at some point have all been knocked through into one bar, which doesn’t make it feel that welcoming. The beer’s decent, though, and Clarkey and Diamond bond with the barmaid, who keeps taking the mick out of Diamond’s accent after he asks for a bottle of ‘watter’.

Then it’s back to the Lamb and Lion, via a chip shop-cum kebab emporium, where Diamond attempts to find the football scores on Ceefax, until the staff politely ask him to stop. Walking back towards Westcliff station, we pass the Hamlet Court, a pub I frequented with Ted when Darlo last played at Southend. It’s had a bit of a makeover since then, but judging by the clientele outside, we don’t have enough in the way of sovereign rings to fit in...

We feel much more comfortable outside the Lamb and Lion, particularly when someone starts handing out fliers for the band playing in the Bar Lamb downstairs, Protex Blue. On learning they do punk numbers, Clarkey’s little eyes light up. I’ve already decided I’m catching an early train, but he somehow persuades the others to hand over their three quid entry. I say my goodnights and head for the station, leaving them to discover a) why Diamond knows Clarkey as ‘Disco Duck’ and b) whether punk really is dead...

An Offal Decision

For the first time in quite a while, Tim’s travelling up today. Clarkey was supposed to be joining us as well, but for whatever reason he doesn’t make it. Everything’s going smoothly until Derby, when the train develops some kind of problem that necessitates the arrival of engineers. The driver advises us to decant on to the Cross Country service a few minutes behind, which most of us do even though the guard on that train advises us our tickets won’t be valid. Everyone ignores him, as we’re jammed in so tightly the chances of him being able to move round checking tickets is nil. Jenny and I are squeezed within earshot of a Bournemouth fan who’s the type with an opinion on everything, and he’s complaining for some reason about how awful a ground the DVS is, and the fact it only has one proper stand. It would, of course, be impolite to mention at this point that Dean Court still isn’t finished...

Because we’re running slightly late, and because Tim needs to make arrangements to meet his sisters and hand over a package of sweetbreads (it’s a long story...), we have one in the Sheffield Tap, where we meet Tim’s mate, Andy, then get a cab to the Harlequin. Eight ciders (and a mulled option), a new hot food menu – this place is turning itself into a serious rival to the Fat Cat. Sarah and Judith arrive, and Tim hands over the meaty goods. When we leave for the game, the ladies head into Sheffield for a spot of shopping.

It’s that ‘Kick Racism Out Of Football’ time of year again, so the flag goes up alongside the one reading ‘One Game, One Community’.

As for the game, Ryan Cresswell damages his back in the warm-up, meaning Luke Ashworth has to play in defence. Somehow, Wycombe contrive to have two attacks and score two goals, the first a punt into the area that isn’t dealt with properly, and the second a shot from about twenty yards out. They should be cruising after this, but we respond with a well-worked move a couple of minutes later that’s finished off by who else but Alf, then Jason Taylor (from Stockport, as Tom Coley knows him) equalises. We should take the lead, but Nicky Law contrives to sidefoot a simple chance wide of the post. Typically, right before half time, Ashworth has to go off to get a head injury looked at, and while we’re down to ten men, Wycombe take the lead with a curling shot from Ben Strevens.

Half time is the usual mishmash of duff cheerleaders, an enthralling five-a-side and the new, souped-up Mayday draw machine not behaving itself. Then it’s back into the fray. When we get a corner and Exodus is climbed all over as he tries to go for the ball (and there’s a lot of him to climb over, so you really have to put in the effort!), the ref, Mr Quinn, gives a penalty immediately. Alfie slots it calmly past Rikki Bull (who still has two many Ks in his name for a grown man...) and it’s as you were. We even think we can win the game, Marcus Marshall coming on for Law and stepping up the pace. But with about five minutes to go, Kevin Betsy is tackled in the penalty area by Johnny Mullins. Mullins wins the ball cleanly, Betsy appears to think about his options, then falls over Mullins’ leg. The assistant referee doesn’t flag, but Mr Quinn signals a penalty. Amid much protesting, he charges over to have a word with his assistant, but doesn’t change his mind. Wycombe convert the penalty, leaving us feeling thoroughly cheated.

The mood as the teams and officials come off the pitch is very ugly. Fortunately, no one can get close enough to the ref to do him the damage they’d clearly like to. The people with the ‘One Community’ flag have taken it and made an early exit.

Back in Sheffield, still seething quietly, we take shelter in the calm of the Old Queen’s Head. One bar is full of Sheff U fans watching their game against Donny, but the other side, showing West Ham v Newcastle, is nice and quiet. We’re joined by Paul, the Wycombe photographer, who’d been hoping to see us in the Fat Cat before the game. He tells us how he thought he’d have a quick one in the Kelham Island first, only to realise it didn’t open till 12. Waiting patiently outside, sheltering from the rain, he thought he was the first there – until the doors opened and about twenty people dashed out from every other bit of shelter in the surrounding area... There’s a pound coin on the floor that I think Paul might have dropped. When he doesn’t claim it, and neither does anyone else, I go and drop it into a charity box. Mr Quinn’s performance really doesn’t influence my choice to give the money to the RNIB, honestly...

The journey back to London is less troublesome than the one up. We get chatting to a Bournemouth fan who’s worked for their club in his time, and is much more generous in his assessment of the set-up at Rotherham than the chuntering Cherry on the Cross-country train. The sour taste of today’s defeat has almost gone by the time we reach St Pancras, but only almost.