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.