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...
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