Since they started closing important eastern chunks of the District Line for engineering work at weekends, I don’t think I’ve ever got so much exercise on Saturdays. Even with the brisk walk down to Canning Town, I’m still at Paddington in plenty of time to hand over to Jenny those raffle prizes that might get confiscated by stewards, so she can stow them in left luggage (mini-dartboard, because you might do some damage with an inch-long dart; cologne, in case you’re struck with the need to squirt it into a player’s eye...). Also travelling, and bringing raffle prizes of various stripes, are Tim, Chris Turner, Diamond, Rob Maxfield and Julia, though Andy Leng’s had to cry off, although he’ll be coming to the draw this evening.
Oxford is beautiful, if heaving with tourists, but we don’t really linger to look at our historic surroundings. We’re heading for the Turf Tavern. It’s one of the most famous pubs in the city, featuring in a couple of the Inspector Morse novels, and as boards in the beer garden point out, a list of high-profile visitors including Stephen Hawking, Margaret Thatcher, Bill Clinton and David Mitchell (though presumably not all at the same time, although it would make for an interesting night...). A woman giving a guided tour of the place wanders past saying, ‘They used to have heaters out here, you know.’ Diamond, queuing beside me to get in, asks, ‘What happened? Did somebody nick them?’ You can take the boy out of Canklow...
Though the pub’s interior is small and cramped, there’s plenty of seating outside, which is useful as we’re gradually joined by the Czajewski family, Nigel Hall and my brother. The Kassam is another of those grounds that’s a stupid distance away from the centre of town, so it’s a case of either piling into a taxi or as Jenny, Robert and I do, getting a lift from Nigel. This would be fine, except Nigel’s sat-nav insists on trying to guide him down roads that are gated off – Oxford may be many things, but car-friendly is not one of them. Finally on our way, we go past some kind of protest camp sited on a traffic roundabout, which is the excuse for my brother to wind the window down and yell, ‘Get a job!’ as we go past, obviously channelling Chris Kirkland.
Even with the detours, we park up in good time, although we have to queue for a ticket before going through the turnstiles and they don’t seem to have anticipated how many fans we’re going to bring. Rotherham fans + stadium that’s new to them = big travelling support, almost without exception. It’s not new to me as I was here a few seasons ago with Darlo, but it still only has the three sides (though unlike last time, there don’t appear to be any toerags hanging around in the car park at the unbuilt end, ready to pinch the ball if it goes anywhere near them).
We’ve got a couple of new players on display – Callum Kennedy, on loan from Swindon (and who I’ve got to be very careful not to call Jordan Kennedy, the name I gave to a footballer in a story I just had published), is in at left back and Omar Daley, who we’ve got from Bradford in a loan exchange for Kevin Ellison, is on the bench. With Mark Randall in midfield, we look quite lively, but we’re soon forced into making a change. Ryan Taylor seems to pull something, and Daley comes on to replace him. It’s Oxford who take the lead when a cross comes in from the right and Heslop fires it past Don. We’re level before half-time, though, as Daley plays a great ball into Nicky Law, who chips it over the keeper.
At the interval, Chris Kirkland (who, along with his dad, is sitting with the loudest and lairiest Rotherham fans for some reason) brings over the raffle tickets he’s sold. It’s a sad moment, as Kirkland Senior is no longer able to buy a book on behalf of their goldfish, which has finally expired at the age of about a thousand.
The game turns in the second half when Kennedy not only gives away a penalty, but is sent off for the offence, both of which decisions look harsh from where we’re sitting. Don gets a hand to the shot, but can’t prevent it from going in.
After that, we’re actually the better team. We have a number of good chances to equalise, and should get a penalty when Alfie is bundled over, but the referee isn’t interested.
At the final whistle, we dash for the bus that’s waiting outside on the main road. Unlike at Wycombe, this is a normal service bus, so it doesn’t let all the other traffic leave ahead of it, and kit takes a fairly quiet route, so we’re back in the city centre in time to grab a quick drink. Diamond marches straight past a hotel bar near the station offering burlesque shows, even though Tim helpfully describes it to him as ‘classy stripping’, and instead we settle on the Oxford Retreat, which also happens to be convenient for Robert to catch his bus back to Chelters (via Witney, which presumably enables him to shout, ‘Get a job!’ out of the window at David Cameron).
Then it’s back to London and the Victoria near Paddington station, where we’re holding the raffle draw. Julia doesn’t join us, so she’s not around to see the barmaid draw her ticket as the winner of the top prize, hospitality for the game against Morecambe. Andy turns up, though, as does Sally Maxfield and Brad, who as ever steams in and wins several prizes with the tickets he’s sold (we’re never quite sure how he does it, but he always does). Rob M has sold the most tickets but only wins one prize, though it’s the one everyone wants, the Belgian beer gift set. And, of course, there are wins for the clientèle of the Bournemouth Railway Club, including Watford Mike, which is presumably compensation for him sitting through our Wembley defeat to Dagenham. Though in Tom Coley’s inimitable fashion, one of the winning tickets has nothing on it but a phone number (though at least it’s a legible phone number). And I’m the lucky winner of the lovely Pukka Pie mug, so I suppose today hasn’t been all bad...
