No Surrender To The IPA

The end of days is upon us. The weather is shaping up to be positively Biblical, and in the park a huge flock of pigeons has gathered, fluttering up all around me before going off to attack Tippi Hedren in an attic, or something.

The upper concourse at St Pancras is equally heaving with bodies. The police are massed in numbers, waiting for members of the English Defence League who are on their way to a demonstration in Luton. Most of them are wearing hoodies declaring themselves to be members of the North-east Portsmouth branch, and they all look about twelve (but then, so do more than a few of the policemen!). In the midst of this, former rugby player and advocate of the superior hair weave, Austin Healey, is able to stroll through the station ignored by almost everybody except us. ‘Us’, today, consisting of me, Jenny, Chris Turner, Steve Ducker and Clarkey.

On the train, Clarkey gets talking to a Millers fan called Ben, who’s currently studying at Leicester University, my dear old alma mater. He’s a nice, chatty lad, but he's not particularly confident about our chances today – indeed, we all seem to think a point would be a pretty good result, given our recent form.

Mr Kyte is waiting for us in the Fat Cat, but there’s no sign of Bury CAMRA who, according to a message from Barry on the London Millers loop, are on a Sheffield pub crawl. At least they didn’t decide today would be a good day to visit Luton...

It’s wet at the DVS, though not quite as blustery as it was for Southend’s visit. We fasten the flag under the canopy, where there’s no chance of it getting wet, unlike the one Crewe flag in evidence, which already looks pretty limp and miserable.

The game itself is anything but limp, with chances for both teams in the first half. Miller Bear, the hardest-working mascot in showbusiness, is playing his part in stoking the atmosphere, grabbing a red-and-white golf umbrella and getting the crowd rocking with a chorus of Singin’ In The Rain. It's the best perfomance of the song since Therapy? at Donington (younger readers, ask your parents...).

We take the lead just before half time, when Marcus Marshall puts in a cross that evades Alfie but falls nicely for Nick Fenton to slot home.

Half-time passes without incident, mostly because they’ve decided it might not be wise to use the machine that selects the Mayday numbers when it’s quite as wet as it is...

The second half starts in the same entertaining fashion as the first, and Crewe manage to grab an equaliser. Everyone around us is convinced Ajay Leitch-Smith is offside, but the flag doesn’t go up and he fires the ball past Don.

Marshall, who’s been struggling a little, goes off and Mark Randall comes on. We re-take the lead when the Crewe defenders misjudge a bouncing ball, allowing Alfie to lob the onrushing keeper. The shot seems to travel incredibly slowly, and Crewe claim they hooked the ball out before it actually went over the line, to no avail.

My dad makes some comment about how it would be nice to score again if we can, because it would help our ‘goal average’, at which point 1957 politely taps him on the shoulder and asks for its league table back. However, we do score again, with a stunning strike from Ryan Taylor, who gets the ball off David Artell as he’s trying to shepherd it out for a Crewe throw. His shot is so hard, you expect the ball to burst through the back of the net. The game has been a lot better than we’d expected, given quite how awful the weather is, and we’ve put a little bit of a cushion between Crewe, who’ve been going well, and ourselves.

It’s off to the Old Queen’s Head for a celebratory drinkie (in my case, a nice, warming cup of coffee. Did I mention it was cold, wet and windy?). Clarkey hands me his phone and gets me to read out the match report from the official website, to save him getting out his reading glasses. Not sure if this is down to idleness or vanity (sorry, Clarkey!). The televised game is Wolves against Man U. When we leave to catch the train, Wolves are two-one up. Amazingly, normal service is not resumed, and we’re delighted when we discover that’s the final score.

A group of lads get on the train at Chesterfield and sit opposite us. They’re all Scandinavian, but for some reason they like to go and watch the Spireites – no accounting for taste! Clarkey, who's sharing a table with them, bonds nicely with them, though. The rest of us speculate on what might have happened in, or to, Luton, but everything appears to be quiet as we trundle past. ‘Serious rioting causes million pounds’ worth of improvements to Luton,’ quips Steve. We’re just glad there’s no repeat of last season’s journey after the Bury home game, when we were stuck at Luton following a fatality at Harpenden. Who knows what might happen if Simon Callow and chum disembarked in a hurry, only to run slap-bang into the EDL? Though I do have a sneaky suspicion who’d win that particular dust-up...

That Banner Is Just Showing Off!

Tim, Jenny and I gather at a surprisingly quiet St Pancras for the journey north. In our carriage are a group of London-based Hereford fans, off to their FA Cup game against Wednesday. Spotting Tim’s Rotherham scarf hanging from the luggage rack, one of them comes over to wish us luck, as a good result against Stockport would do them a favour. In return, we let them know about the no-colours policy in the Sheffield Tap, and tell them to fit in some drinking in Shalesmoor if they have time.

As we wait to cross the road at the Shalesmoor roundabout, I get a call from Ted to let me know Darlo’s game against Kettering is off, due to a frozen pitch. That means a whole afternoon’s drinking in Darlington. The poor dear; however will he cope?

I’m on a mission in the Fat Cat, leaving a few copies of the London Drinker in a stealth raid, in return for making off with Beer Matters, Inn-spire and whatever other local mags are left there. (Though one of them is picked up by Chris Turner, who’s travelled independently of us today, which wasn’t quite the idea...) We join Phil, who’s already into his first pint. He’s drinking something called ‘Baby It’s Cold Outside’, which for him should be subtitled ‘So Let’s Stay Inside And Pretend We’ve Won’. We start working our way through the London Drinker’s fiendishly difficult quiz, sharpening our intellects in preparation for the afternoon’s entertainment. Unfortunately, the answers won’t appear for a couple of months, by which time we’ll have forgotten which questions we completed (although we know it wasn’t many!).

There’s no wind today, which should make for a better game than the one against Southend. The Stockport fans have arrived with the most ambitious banner I’ve seen at a game, the DVS presumably being one of the few places that gives them room to spread it out. They must need an industrial-sized washing machine to give it a good clean at the end of the season, that’s all I can say.

We have a player making his debut for us today, and after several attempts, Ronnie has finally got his man – or rather, his son. Yes, Our Ian™ has signed from Tranmere, and slots in on the left wing.

Stockport must sense it’s not going to be their day after ten minutes. Matt Glennon has already made one great save when Aaron Brown, playing his first game for them, diverts a Marcus Marshall cross past him. Their fans celebrate harder than we do – but then they did score the goal, and there’s always room for a bit of gallows humour at the bottom of the table, like the glorious April day we went to Yeovil when we were already relegated, and a conga line broke out on the terrace to a chorus of ‘Going down but we’re getting a tan...’

Ten minutes later, Dale Tonge scuffs a cross in the box, but Ryan Taylor still latches on to it and shoots past Glennon. Despite being two-nil down, Stockport are playing some good football, and on this evidence it’s hard to see why they’re bottom of the league. And perhaps it would stay two-nil, except their defence tries to play the offside trap, but Alfie gets clear and scores his first goal since December. His celebration rubs it in the faces of the Stockport fans somewhat, so I can only assume he didn’t leave the club on the best of terms.

Just before half-time, the two six-a-side teams trot out on to the running track ready for their game. ‘Sign them up, sign them up, sign them up,’ sing the Stockport fans.

The 50-50 draw is performed by someone from the Rotherham Beer Festival. After being held at Oakwood School for a number of years, it’s moving to the Magna Centre in Templeborough, but our conspiracy theory is that the football club is getting involved with promoting it because it’ll move to the new stadium once that’s up and running... Meanwhile, Sky are busy interviewing people in the crowd for some item or other, meaning the Millerettes only get to perform about thirty seconds of this week’s routine. If you’ve never seen a bunch of furious, disgruntled tweens before, it’s not a pretty sight!

The second half is really entertaining. It’s not just Glennon who has to make a couple of excellent saves; Don also has to be at his shot-stopping best to preserve his clean sheet. We add a fourth goal when Danny Harrison, in the team as Jason Taylor is still suspended, plays a great ball that Alfie chases to the byline. Instead of clearing it, the unfortunate Brown only succeeds in playing in Ryan Taylor for his second goal. There’s still time for Alfie to score possibly the greatest disallowed goal of all time. He lobs Glennon from about forty yards, but the ref decides he’s pushed one of the Stockport defenders before getting the shot away, and rules it out.

Our chum who sits in front of us has his wife with him today. She’s not doing too badly. Two games this season, nine goals for, none against. Someone tell her football isn’t always like this!

Back in the city centre, there’s time for a drink in the surprisingly busy Queen’s Head. While we’re in there, Southampton take the lead against Man U in the televised game, but by the time we check the score again later, normal service has been resumed and Man U have won. Tim is staying over, but on the train Jenny and I witness a Hereford fan making a bid to join the Manners Police and eclipsing even Clarkey’s gentlemanly acts in transit. He’s been chatting to the woman sitting next to him, and when she gets up to leave at Leicester, he actually helps her on with her coat. Chivalry is not dead, it’s just very, very poorly...

But What Happened To The Sticky Carpet?

A brisk walk down to Canning Town station is a bracing set-up for the day to come, but I’ll be glad when the District Line is back to something resembling a normal service at weekends. Last night Ted and I were out in Hammersmith, getting another fix of the excellent Masters Of Reality. They were one of the support acts for The Cult, the other being Romance, a group who appear to have just escaped from the sixth form, with a striking female bassist and a lead singer forged from off-cuts of Andrew Stone. He might speak like a polite prep school boy, but he has a real belter of a singing voice (though when he ripped off his shirt during the final number, I could hear my dad saying, ‘I’ve seen more meat on a butcher’s pencil.’) They’ll probably vanish without trace now I’ve said nice things about them..

Emerging from the Jubilee Line, I’d like to wind my way down Baker Street in tribute to the late Gerry Rafferty, but cutting through the back streets to Marylebone helps avoid the crowds and enables me to spot a van bearing the name ‘D.G. Moore’. Today’s lucky omen?

At the station, I bump into Wycombe photographer Paul, who’s already alerted us to the fact we’ll be on a replacement bus from Amersham to High Wycombe. He’s on the train before ours, but he lets us know where he plans to go drinking after the game, in case we want to meet up. There’s a decent London Miller contingent gathering at Marylebone – Jenny, Clarkey, Chris Turner, Rob Maxfield and Diamond, and we’ll be joined by Tim at Harrow. The replacement bus takes us through some of the nicer parts of the Home Counties (you can tell it’s posh – in Rotherham if you saw anything up on bricks in someone’s front garden it’d be a rusty Ford Escort, in Amersham it’s a speedboat...), and we’re soon ensconsced in the big back room of the Belle Vue in High Wycombe. There’s a photographic exhibition on the walls, featuring models with a variety of tattoos and piercings, including one woman who could be a third party in the Adam Le Fondre/young Marc Almond lookalike suggested by Paul Martin. The boys peruse the accompanying book of photographs with the ‘18+ Adult Content’ warning, but this is all a bit of a busman’s holiday for me...

Gradually, we’re joined by my brother, Mick Walker and Steve Czajewski, who has Joe with him. Somehow, Steve manages to wangle a lift to the ground for himself and Joe with a Wycombe fan who’s known as the Honey Monster. We never manage to find out why...

The rest of us pile into Robert’s and Mick’s cars. As we drive to the ground, a red kite swoops low over the car. The species is so prolific round here, it actually works its way into the match report in the Sheffield Star by Les Payne, a man who loves to have weird pegs on which to hang his descriptions of games.

Though Mick sets off before us, he somehow arrives later, by which time Tim, Robert and I have managed to get the last of the hot pork rolls from Linda’s snack van just outside the ground. The others have to make do with burgers, but if they enjoy them even half as much as the bloke I get chatting to who’s tucking into his cheeseburger with obvious relish (no pun intended), they’ll do all right.

And she was never seen again...

In the ground, I get the flag up just in time for kick-off (as the photo proves, from the back it looks like the stewards are escorting me out of the ground), then we get seats nice and close to the action, where we’re joined by the Burton brothers. Wycombe are another team like Southend; they know all the tricks, and Gareth Ainsworth, a man who always looks as though he needs a good shampooing, is never more than two inches from the referee’s ear. They take the lead when a cross isolates Jamie Green, the smallest Miller on the pitch, and Ainsworth heads past Don.

They’ve had the best of the first half, but we make a better fist of things in the second. Marcus Marshall starts to cause the Wycombe defence problems. We’re desperately unlucky when keeper Rikki Bull, still sporting at least one K too many, pushes a shot from Ryan Taylor on to his crossbar and it bounces the wrong side of the line as far as we’re concerned, while a free kick from Nicky Law is headed over the crossbar. Wycombe have a chance for a second goal just before full time, but Don makes a good save. They then decide to try and run time out by messing around with the ball in the corner, and when Jason Taylor has a bit of a hack to get it off them, their player does a spot of rolling around to earn Taylor a second yellow. It’s a bit of classlessness that ranks with the best (or worst) or Notts County last season.

When we pile on the bus that, after the usual long wait for all the traffic parked by the ground to leave first, will eventually take us back into town, there’s no sign of Clarkey. He’s so angry with the sending-off that he decides only a two-mile walk back will cool him down. By the time he finally joins us, the rest of the London-bound posse (Steve and Joe are getting a lift back with Robert, when they finally get out of the carpark...) are in The Bootlegger by the station. In its previous incarnation, this is the pub where several of the London Millers (myself not included) were ‘entertained’ by an exotic dancer writhing on the sticky carpet after a night game ten years ago. Now, it has about eight real ales on draught, as well as a selection of bottled beers to rival the Sheffield Tap and the Rake at Borough Market. And they do a nice hot chocolate, too, which is very welcome on a day like today. Diamond, meanwhile, falls in love with the hot Swedish cider.

Eventually, Paul arrives, along with two friends/camera bag roadies. Clarkey resists the temptation to harangue them too much about Wycombe’s style of play, and we could stay there for a while, chewing the fat, if it wasn’t for the fact the journey home is so tortuous. Indeed, Rob Maxfield has already made an early exit, intending to meet up with Sally on the South Bank.

When the replacement bus drops us off in Amersham, those who want to have time to grab sarnies from the Tesco over the road. They’ve officially gone past their sell-by date and appear to be getting cheaper by the minute. If we’d turned up half an hour later, they’d probably have paid us to take them away!

Back at Marylebone, Jenny, Chris, Diamond and Clarkey decide to head Euston-wards for further drinkies, but I call it a night. Note to self: vans may not be omens, after all...

Blown Away

Only the ladies are braving it for the trip up today – Jenny, Joy, Julia and myself. Joy was hoping to bump into a few of her Southend-supporting CAMRA chums, but massive engineering works on the C2C line have prevented them from travelling (well, would you trundle through Essex on a replacement bus unless you absolutely had to?).

Even the Fat Cat is pretty quiet, giving the resident cat the opportunity to stretch out in front of the fire. It’s obviously a position it adopts on a regular basis, as the bench it’s sitting on is decorated with a painting of a cat in exactly the same pose. Or maybe the Fiery Fox cider’s a bit stronger than I thought and I’m seeing double...

As soon as we get to the DVS, it’s obvious the wind is going to be a problem today. Securely tied as the flag is, it’s soon flapping loose of the railing. And the team are flapping, too. Or thinking about something other than football, because they give the ball away straight from kick-off, and seconds later Don’s picking it out of the net. It would be nice to think that Southend have PTE’d (which reminds me of Ted receiving a text from a friend suggesting that they’d peaked too early in a game and replying with, ‘At least we peaked’...). Unfortunately, Southend are using the wind to their advantage, and score a headed second fifteen minutes later. They’re also displaying more of the sly ‘professionalism’ we saw at Roots Hall. No one gets seriously damaged by them this time, but their attitude is summed up when Don has to retie his bootlace before he can take a goal kick and Barry Corr hangs around in the goalnet, hoping Don will forget he’s there so he can nip in and steal the ball off him. That mindset may help you win games, but I’m still glad we don’t play like that.

Someone vaguely important appears to be doing the half-time draw, but I’m not really paying attention. The half-time six-a-side is so much more compelling.

We get back into the game early in the second half, with a really scrappy bundled effort from Nick Fenton, but at times like this who cares how you score them? There are chances for an equaliser, but we don’t make the most of having the wind in our favour. The ref should add on a couple of minutes more for Southend’s time-wasting tactics, but it probably wouldn’t help.

Julia’s staying over, so Jenny, Joy and I make our way to The Old Queen’s Head. We’re in the process of trying to find out how Darlo have got on in the FA Trophy, as their result wasn’t included in the classified read-through, when Ted rings to let us know they’ve won. So at least he’s happy.

The journey back is quite sedate, though I do find myself trying to persuade Joy to have a session in a flotation tank. It’s an amazing eperience, enabling you to examine all the deepest corners of your inner self, although you might find yourself needing the mental equivalent of scary Kim off How Clean Is Your House? to give it a good dusting, particularly after a game like today’s...