Struck With The Urge To Buy A Sofa

Arriving at St Pancras, I get a text from Ted letting me know he’s spotted Alan Pardew at King’s Cross this morning. This being one of the signs of the apocalypse (one of the others being if Ted gets to Cleethorpes for his pre-Blundell Park drinkies and doesn’t see any donkeys on the sands), goodness knows what we’re in for today.

When I pop into AMT for the tea and coffee order for Jenny, Julia, Chris Turner and myself, the bloke behind the counter gets chatting to me, curious as to why he sees me pretty much every other week. Am I travelling to visit family? So I enlighten him about Rotherham. But not the whole ‘why we’re playing in Sheffield but getting excited about moving back to Rotherham (apart from its lack of decent pubs) next season’ part. Because a) he wouldn’t be interested and b) there’s a queue behind me...

The Fat Cat is quiet after last week’s festival. That changes a little when Chris Kirkland arrives. He enlightens us about his plans to come back to Sheffield to do a PhD, being determined to remain a student for as long as possible (probably about another year, given the increase in tuition fees), and find a place to live within easy staggering distance of the Fat Cat. He also had a fun day at the Oval for the Fourth Test, finding himself seated behind Father Christmas, a nun, the Pope and Jesus. The only thing that could have topped that would have been the appearance of the woman we saw in the away end at Mansfield, dressed as a cigarette.

The most important non-appearance of the day is actually that of Adam Le Fondre. He’s completed a move to Reading, having successfully passed his medical, agreed personal terms and, presumably, managed not to giggle at Sir John Madejski’s hairstyle. As a result, the mood’s a little flat as the game kicks off, with people digesting the news and wondering where our goals are going to come from. It’s also quiet because Mr Random Stream Of Consciouness behind me is also a no-show. Or maybe, I suggest to my dad, we really have gone deaf. With impeccable comedy timing, he replies, ‘Pardon?’ Our Edinburgh Fringe residency can only be a matter of time...

For a game that begins the day as second against third in the table, it lives up to the suggestion that these will be two decent, evenly matched teams. Gillingham, naturally, have the little bit of whinge and niggle that comes from having Andy Hessenthaler in charge, as opposed to Barnet last week, who had the gamesmanship without the added dirtiness. We’re effectively playing with five at the back, including Marcus Marshall at right-back, and Jason Taylor is back in midfield, but he isn’t having his greatest game, finding himself caught in possession several times. Indeed, a few passes go astray as the team adjust to their unfamiliar formation and lack of Alf, but Gillingham aren’t doing too much to trouble us. Logan only has one real save to make, bravely getting down at the feet of Danny Kedwell (and as Mr Warrington will tell you, that’s a risky strategy against the Gills, because you could end up getting kicked in the head for your pains...), while Gillingham’s keeper makes two saves from Gareth Evans right at the end of the half, one of which is a really good flying effort.

The old chap who’s been sitting at the side of me in the first half decides to take the seat on the aisle usually occupied by Gordon, another one who’s not here today (anyone would think it was holiday season or something), which gives my dad a whole new audience for his observations. It’s another formation change that makes the difference on the pitch, though. The crowd is growing increasingly exasperated with Jason Taylor, and about five minutes into the second half, Andy Scott replaces him with Mark Bradley. A couple of minutes later, the ball goes out for a throw-in. It should be Gillingham’s, but the assistant referee awards it to us. When the ball reaches Danny Schofield he twists, turns, twists a bit more, adds a turn then crosses past the bamboozled defender. Danny Harrison hangs in the air in a manner that suggests if he was only seven foot tall he’d have a career in basketball and heads home. Gillingham’s players, naturally, complain about the incorrect throw (and one of them gets booked for his pains), but with the catalogue of dodgy sendings-off, goals not given despite being a foot over the line and disallowed goals we’ve endured against them over the last few years, we’ll take this bit of fortune all day.

With Bradley now spraying the ball around in midfield and Gillingham clearly letting the lino’s call get to them, it’s not long before we score again, Lewis Grabban latching on to a lovely pass from Bradley. Gillingham bring on Dennis Oli and Luke Rooney (no relation), but we’re playing some gorgeous football and have taken control of the game. There’s one nasty moment when a swirling ball nearly catches Logan out at the post, and another moment when everyone expects the ball to go out for our goal kick, only for it to stop dead on the line, prompting a scramble for Logan to clear it in time, but apart from that we look very comfortable. Marcus Marshall causes Gillingham problems every time he makes a run, and Grabban nearly scores again, but there’s so little pace on his shot it’s one step up from a back pass.In the end, Gareth Evans gets the third goal, which is the perfect reward for all the hard work he’s put in today.

Apparently, there’s some kind of altercation between Andy Hessenthaler and the ref at full time, but I miss it as I’m collecting the flag. However, outside the ground I bump into Tim, who’s full of the joys of just having spent a couple of minutes yelling at Hessenthaler for being – how shall we put this? – aesthetically challenged. This is considerably politer than some of the things assorted London Millers have called him over the years...

In the Old Queen’s Head, Jenny and I have a drink with Chris T, who’s staying up in Rotherham for the weekend, Toddy, now gainfully employed once more, and Toddy’s friend Kirby. It means Jenny’s can relieve Toddy of his subs and other monies he owes her, and I can hand over the scarf I’ve been holding ransom carrying around for him since last December. He’s depressed by the fract we’re winning, and playing good football, as this is outside his natural order of things. He also informs us that Diamond’s going back into the licensed trade, running a pub in Braithwell which, by a bizarre twist of fate, used to be run by one of Jenny’s relatives.

There are all kinds of fun and games on the way back to London. It starts innocently enough, when Jenny and I find we’re sitting opposite a tableful of London Owls. This isn’t surprising, as they use the same East Midlands booking scheme for football travellers as we do. However, somewhere around Derby, a large ginger gentleman asks whether the seat next to me is free and plonks himself down to read his Green ’Un. It’s celebrity Wednesday fan, Tommy Craig. I’m struck with the sudden, inexplicable urge to buy a sofa... When he finds out Jenny and I are Rotherham fans, he can’t resist giving us gip, but it’s all amiable enough.

At Derby, the world’s loudest Gillingham fans get on. They sneaked out when the third goal went in, and have been trying to get back to London on trains they weren’t booked on, meaning they’ve been turfed off at Chesterfield, then Derby. They aren’t particularly rowdy, or quite as entertaining as the two spectacularly drunk QPR fans who tried to get us to egg John Prescott a couple of seasons ago, but their conversation is hard to ignore, punctuated as it is by the regular popping of ringpulls. In addition, one of the women has a laugh that could drill holes in concrete. As one of the London Owls points out, it’s like listening to a southern version of Shameless. Eventually, Tommy decides he’s going to go down to first class to schmooze with fellow celebrity Wendy, Martyn Ware out of Heaven 17. Though he does wish us all the best when we all get off at St Pancras, which is nice.

Ted lets me know he’s off to the Euston Tap for a nightcap, but I decide to go home, stroke the cats and let them know they’re still the best thing to come out of Gillingham...

The Last Van Dyke Beard In Captivity

There’s only one thing better than spending a Saturday lunchtime at the Fat Cat, and that’s spending Saturday lunchtime there during their beer festival. Just as last year, it’s coincided with a home game, and when the travelling London Millers contingent – Jenny, Joy, Steve Ducker and myself, along with Graham and Gail, who join us at Derby – arrive there, Mr Kyte and Andy Leng are already comfortably ensconsed in the beer garden, pints in hand. The tickers are out in force, but we’re more concerned with discussing today’s game, which has all the signs of being a potential banana skin. Barnet have started well, and held Gillingham to a draw in the week. It did us a favour, but it suggests the Bees have improved since last season. I’ve done my usual trick of checking the list of today’s horseracing runners and riders and found nothing with a name to suggest it might be a Rotherham omen – but there is a Barnet Fair running today, which could be ominous.

Phil has our sponsored shirt from last season, to pass on to Clarkey. I take it from him, as I’m the only one with room in my bag, but it looks like I’m going to be carrying it round for a while, as Clarkey’s dashing off to catch the early train tonight to make some gig in London.

On the way to the DVS, Gail manages to drive us all demented by telling us she saw one of the London Millers at the Oxford game, but can’t remember his name. ‘He’s dark-haired, losing it at the back, quiet and hasn’t travelled with you for a while,’ she says. We run through the card of all the obvious suspects, but you can rule most of them out not so much on the grounds they still have their hair, but they’re definitely not quiet! Even now, I still haven’t worked out who she was talking about, so if you are that mystery Miller, please make yourself known...

Barnet are now being managed by Lawrie Sanchez, possessor of the last Van Dyke beard in captivity, and he’s beefed them up with the addition of Jason Price, ludicrously tall even without the exploding mushroom of hair, who seems to be in the team primarily for his skill with back headers. They’re organised and very efficient at closing us down and not giving us any time on the ball. We’re missing Jason Taylor and Ryan Cresswell, who got injured at Crewe, and Dale Tonge looks strangely off the pace today, slipping and losing the ball in dangerous areas on a couple of occasions. The game has the feel of a scrappy nil-nil, but Barnet take the lead about ten minutes before half-time, Clovis Kamdjo scoring a soft header from a corner kick. The fistful of Barnet fans in attendance, including the four who’ve been singing, ‘We are Barnet, no one likes us, we don’t care,’ without any sense of irony, go barmy. Mr Random Stream Of Consciousness behind me has been fairly quiet, apart from randomly asking one of his companions if he’s human or if he’s dancer, but now he has a good old grumble. At half time, the eight surviving members of Rotherham’s 1961 League Cup runners-up team are being presented to the crowd, and he rants that they should come on in the second half because they’d show more effort than the current 11.

Said 1961 team get a brilliant reaction from the crowd, and the BBC’s Football League Show are here to record the occasion in the shape of Mark ‘Clem’ Clemmett, last seen having his ear bent about all things Darlo when he happened to share a train back from Manchester with Ted in February.

Andy Scott makes the changes the crowd has been hoping for Tonge and Lewis Grabban are replaced by Marcus Marshall and Chris Holroyd. There must have been a stern half-time talking-to, because Rotherham play with renewed vigour, and equalise from a corner almost immediately. I’m sure the goal will be disallowed, because Troy Brown appears to be climbing all over the man marking him before he volleys the ball past Dean Brill, last spotted at the DVS being caught out by a freaky Alex Rhodes cross cum shot while in goal for Luton.

Barnet retake the lead when Izale McLeod is tugged down in the box by Michael Raynes, and gives Conrad Logan no chance with the resulting penalty. Incidentally, my dad and I have been discussing the fact that my trademark shout at the keeper to ‘have a run with it’ takes on a whole new dimension when you’te telling someone called Logan to do it. Goodness knows what’s going to happen to him when he hits thirty...

Ahead once more, Barnet start timewasting with a vengeance. Having a manager who was once part of the Crazy Gang, they’ve certainly got the art of gamesmanship down pat. Mr Random Stream Of Consciousness, having had a good old moan in the first half, now starts berating those of us around him for our apparent lack of support for the team. We’d like to express it, believe us, but we simply can’t get a word in edgeways.

Things could get a lot worse when McLeod looks to have beaten Logan in a one-on-one, but Brown clears the ball off the line. Mark Bradley, who’s having a decent game, hits the crossbar, and we have a really good claim for a penalty of our own, but the referee ignores it. However, before any feeling of injustice about the decision can fester, we equalise, Danny Harrison slipping a great ball through to Alf, who slots it through Brill’s legs. With the other goals having been scored by a Clovis, a Troy and an Izale, it’s nice to see the man with the oldest name in the (good) book rounding off proceedings. We’d more than likely have lost this game last season, but in the end this was a pleasingly resilient performance after the sloppiness in the first half.

Jenny’s staying in Rotherham for the weekend, so Steve, Joy, Graham, Gail and I go to the Old Queen’s Head. QPR are playing in the televised game, which gives us a chance to go into a flight of fancy involving Neil Warnock as England manager – because it would be entertaining on so many levels and it would be nice to have a former Rotherham player in charge of the national team. In the course of this conversation we learn Gail’s one of the few people who doesn’t know why Warnock’s nickname is Colin, so naturally we enlighten her...

The train journey down is as quiet as the one up, though the good news is the Green ’Un  is now reaching the station in time for us to pick up a copy, meaning Steve and I can catch up on the fishing results. Hoorah! All is right with the world once more...

Happy, Happy, Joy, Joy

According to an item on the breakfast news, today is supposed to be the happiest day of the year. It’s something to do with nice weather, the possibility of impending holidays and the like. No mention of the new season, which is the reason why the clans are gathering at St Pancras once more, discussing new signings (or the lack) of and their team’s prospects for the coming year. I’m travelling up with Jenny, Steve Ducker, Chris Turner and Clarkey. Jenny and Chris were in Amsterdam last weekend, as part of the London Millers’ annual trip to see Yorkshire play the Netherlands at cricket. We’ll gloss over the result of that one…

By the time we’re hitting the outskirts of Sheffield, it’s like we’ve never been away. There’s no sign of the torrential rain promised on the weather forecast, which up the happiness quotient, though it’s lowered again by the sight of a very dead, very squashed rat in the road just by the Shalesmoor roundabout. Which, admittedly, is preferable to seeing a live one.

We’re joined by Phil in the Fat Cat, where it’s very nearly steak pie all round (indeed, there was probably more discussion of the pie on our way up than there was of our chances against Oxford). The kitchen staff have not let their culinary standards slip over the summer, you’ll be pleased to hear.

The Kirkland family arrive while we’re stuffing our faces. The last time we saw Chris’ mum was when she and John decided to make a weekend of it on the outskirts of Burton, and as ever she’ll be keeping well away from the game today. Jenny and I make an early exit, as we need to get down to the DVS to collect our season tickets (hers is waiting in the ticket office, while my dad has mine). A bunch of Oxford fans on the tram are getting very excited about the fact AFC Wimbledon have just equalised against Bristol Rovers. Until today, I’d never been aware of any long-standing rivalry between the Us and the Pirates, so if anyone can shed any light on that, please do. It all becomes irrelevant anyway, as Rovers go on to win the game.

There’s a definite buzz outside the turnstiles, and so many people have already turned up that Jenny fails to get a programme. Presumably as we’re going to have so many unfamiliar players on display, people feel the need to see the squad list so they know who they’re watching. While I’m waiting for my dad, Chris Burrows arrives. The rest of our posse are on the way to Attercliffe, so he’s going to wait and go in with them.

Once my ticket has been ceremonially handed over, it’s off to put up the flag, which has had its summer wash. (Biological powder, 40 degrees, no pre-wash, since you ask.) As Jenny and I are finishing taping it in place, some of the non-playing players turn up to sit by it, but without a programme the squad numbers on their tracksuit are no help in identifying them. Though we think one of them is Johnny Mullins, whose Rotherham career the London Millers will be finishing by sponsoring him this year – sorry, Johnny!

The pre-match build-up and arrival of the teams now appears to come with added Chase The Sun by Planet Funk, better known as ‘that song from the darts’. Surveying the line-ups, the new players in the starting eleven include keeper Conrad Logan, on loan from Leicester and a particular favourite of Ted’s chum John (ahem), Troy Brown, Danny Schofield, Chris Holroyd and Lewis Grabban. However, the shaven individual at left back isn’t a newcomer. Instead, Tom Newey’s had a rather radical haircut that won’t spoil his pretty-boy good looks.

Oxford also have a number of new signings, the most recognisable being Michael Duberry, last seen getting sent off for trying to bisect Will Hoskins at the knees while playing for Stoke. They seem bigger and more solid than last season, and the man sitting behind us is certainly impressed. He keeps up a non-stop stream of random conversation to his friend, spending the first ten minutes or so repeatedly opining, ‘These lot are going to beat us, because these lot are class.’ When an Oxford player puts a free header wide, he exclaims, ‘You know who’d have scored that? Andy Gray. Joe Royle. The Royle Family. Ricky Tomlinson…’ If this was a Harry Pearson book, he’d come across as an endearing eccentric. Instead, he’s just a pain. The man to my left looks like he’d swap his life savings for a pair of earplugs at this moment. ‘At least he’ll never get lockjaw,’ my dad comments. When he and his friend go for refreshments at half-time, my dad looks round, establishes his seat is empty and, with a well-timed pause, says, ‘Thank goodness for that. I thought I’d gone deaf.’

On the pitch, things are slightly less frantic. Oxford’s early spell of possession has come to nothing, their best chance being when they hit the post and Duberry spoons the rebound over the bar. In return, their keeper is forced to make a fingertip save that keeps the scores level at half-time. So far, Schofield has looked the pick of the new players, but Grabban, Holroyd and Alfie are combining well as a front three, and of the old players, Danny Harrison in particular looks reinvigorated. The London Miller boys are sitting about three rows from the front, and Clarkey’s thrown the ball back when it came into the crowd at one point. Ted needs to enlighten him on the art of heading it back. Over the summer, the Football League has done away with the multi-ball system. While this prevents certain managers cough Alan Pardew cough taking away all the spare balls when their team takes the lead, it means our tiny ball boys spend forever chasing the ball over the running track. Please don’t view this as any kind of time-wasting tactic. If we wanted to waste time, we'd lure Neil Cutler out of retirement to go back in goal...

The Millerettes haven’t gone away, and are probably still basking in the glow of being voted the league’s best cheerleaders. They do their thing while the new Mayor of Rotherham performs the half-time draw. Top-notch entertainment as always.

Oxford are out well in advance of the second half, but if they’ve had a stern talking-to by manager Chris Wilder (ex-Rotherham player in charge of Oxford, while Andy Scott having played for Oxford provides delicious symmetry), it hasn’t worked. Within a couple of minutes, we’ve taken the lead, when Jason Taylor threads a ball through the midfield and when Grabban picks it up, he scores with a beautiful, powerful side-footed shot.

This rouses Oxford, who press for an equaliser. They fizz the ball across the box from a corner, but no one connects with it. We make a couple of substitutions, Gareth Evans coming on for Holroyd and having an attempt on goal from distance that just goes over the bar. Grabban has a great shot well saved by the Oxford keeper, and apart from one chance very close to the end, Oxford don’t look like getting back into the game. The man behind us with the verbal diarrhoea has now decided we’re the ones who are ‘class’, though his opinions are still surrounded by what the man to my left calls ‘the longest suicide note in history’.

It’s a toss-up whether the most remarkable moment of the ninety minutes is the sponsors’ man of the match award going to Jason Taylor, to general disbelief (he’s not had a bad game by any means, but obviously the crowd don’t agree with today’s sponsors, who we reckon are Jason Taylor’s parents) or the sight of Alfie chasing back sixty yards to try and get the ball off an Oxford player.

Both Jenny and Clarkey are staying up in Rotherham for a few days, so Chris T, Steve and I head for a quick drink in the Old Queen’s Head, where the TV screen is showing Leeds going two down to Southampton, to almost general approval, before catching the train. Chris gets into conversation with a Wednesday fan and his son, who tell us to look out for David Prutton’s goal on the highlights as by all accounts it’s a cracker. Chris, naturally, tells them the same about Grabban’s. It also appears Chris O’Grady, better known to Rotherham fans as O’Greedy for refusing to defer his wages in our time of crisis, is about to join the Wendies. Chris declines to comment…

Somewhere outside Leicester, a rainbow appears in an unbroken arch. The gold is buried in Oadby, unless my compass is off. It might not have been the happiest day of the year, but all things told, we’re pretty content.