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...
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