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...
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