London Millers

Dead Birds Are Not An Omen

2011-11-25T07:33:00.001-08:00

The day gets off to adecent enough start – waiting at Euston for the train to be called,we make some bloke’s morning by letting him know England havebeaten Scotland in the rugby. Jenny, Joy and I have a last-minutetravelling companion in the shape of Clarkey, who’s probably puthimself right in the dog house by coming to the game but doesn’tseem too bothered about it. As we wander down the platform in searchof our reserved seats, Joy notices a squashed bird still stuck on thetrain’s engine. What is it with us and splattered wildlife thisseason?

We’re supposed to bemeeting my brother at Crewe station, but his texts inform me thetrain he’s on has had to push another one whose engine has failed,and he’s running late from Birmingham. Chris Kirkland is alsodelayed, having had to wait for forty minutes or so to collect histicket at Sheffield station. Chris Burrows has made it over fromManchester without any difficulties, and it seems Robert’s actuallygoing to make the connection to Longport, as the train’s beenpushed back to let the one he’s on come through first – right upuntil the moment when they decide the Crewe train has priority.Luckily, as soon as he gets to the bus stop outside the station thebus to Burslem pulls in, so he won’t be too far behind us.

Already, the day isfreakily hot, and it’s all uphill from Longport station, so by thetime we arrive at the Bull’s Head, we’re in need of a drink. It’smore than warm enough to sit outside – where, as ever, the barbequeis already in full spate, turning out burgers, hot dogs and baconrolls. Of course Ted simply has to be informed that you can have theoption of black pudding with your burger.

Robert eventually joinsus, as does Chris K, and we all sit basking in the Staffordshiresunshine. One of the Port Vale fans drinking at a neighbouring tablewanders over, but instead of discussing prospects for thisafternoon’s game, he treats us to his surreal, vaguely Marxiststand-up comedy routine about football. As you do...

While we’re puttingup the flag behind the goal, Boomer the Port Vale mascot wanders overand starts rubbing his furry thighs in a Vic Reeves stylee. I blowhim a kiss in return, and before you know it, I’m being hugged by asix-foot squashy dog. Fortunately, no one is able to whip out acamera quickly enough to record the start of this beautifulfriendship for posterity.

The defence has beenrejigged again, with Michael Raynes, who we later find out has beenill all night and probably shouldn’t be playing, and Johnny Mullinsas the centre backs and Troy Brown at right back, and unfortunatelythe result is decided by two defensive mistakes. Port Vale’s firstgoal comes from a Marc Richards free-kick which Logan only fumbles ashe tries to save it, and the second is as a result of the defence infront of Logan going AWOL, leaving Richards with a one-on-on that hedoesn’t miss. Tom Pope, who’s been on the end of some pretty uglychants from the Rotherham support, provides the assist for the goal,which only goes to show what happens when you dish out the nastystuff to a former player.

After that, we tryeverything we can to get back in the game, but it doesn’t happen.Tonge comes on for Brown at the start of the second half, and startslinking up well with the players in front of him. We actually havethe ball in the net a couple of minutes into the second half, butit’s disallowed because Grabban is ruled offside. Apart from that,our best chance comes right at the end of the half, when Newey putsin a fine ball from a corner for Mullins to head home, but it’ssaved.

The only thing to do isgo back to the Bull’s Head – Robert pointing out the Guest andChrimes hydrant cover in the square by the pub, a little bit ofBurslem that is forever Rotherham – and drown our sorrows.

On the train back toLondon, Joy and I find ourselves perusing the match programme. Wecan’t decide whether one of the sponsors pictured posing with MarcRichards after their last home game is actually a pre-op tranny orjust this year’s winner of the tallest woman in Europe contest.It’s amazing what you think of to pass the time on the way home.But at least we now know that, unlike pressed rats, dead birds arenot an omen.

We have to wait agesfor a tube out of Euston Square, the delay caused by somevomit-related incident which must have been of Exorcistproportions if it forced a whole train to be taken out of service.Ted eventually gets on at Kings Cross and we have the fun of watchinga couple of lads trying – and failing conspicuously – to chat upa girl from Darlington. Blame it on the heat...

Jamie, If You’re Reading This, Give It Back

2011-10-21T08:02:00.001-07:00

Ted’s on a one-man mission to baffle Jenny this morning, arriving at St Pancras before I do and claiming he’s got me tucked in his rucksack. In reality, he’s off for breakfast before his trip to Cambridge and has come to wave us off. It’s ladies only on the way up, as Jenny and I are joined by Julia, who busies wading through about 147 sections of an unwanted Telegraph a fellow passenger hands over to us, trying to find the sports section. Failing to find any coverage of the lower leagues (in a broadsheet? What a surprise!), she regales us with a story about how her family had been on holiday and her son-in-law went to collect the baby buggy from the baggage carousel to find it wasn’t there. Instead, an identical buggy, but an older and tattier version, was still circling – and bearing a luggage label reading ‘Jamie Redknapp’. Jamie, if you’re reading this, do the decent thing and give it back…

Once in Sheffield, Julia heads for Rotherham and Jenny and I go to the Fat Cat, where one of the regulars is feeding pub cat Steffie one of those meat stick treats. We have no idea how many years you have to have been drinking there before you’re allowed that privilege. It’s so civilised in there, we make the usual comment about staying all afternoon. Maybe we should have.

Today’s opposition, Southend, are even more of a pound-shop Stoke than they were last season. There’s barely a player below six foot tall in the side, and they rely on set pieces and a bloke who could probably chuck the ball the width of the English channel if he tried. It can’t be denied it’s an effective style of play, and we won’t be the only team to fail to find a way of combating it, but I couldn’t watch it week-in, week-out. They take the lead after ten minutes, Peter Gilbert lashing in the rebound from his own corner, and already the natives are restless. The grumbling doesn’t subside for the rest of the half, even though we have a couple of good chances to equalise, the best of these being Lewis Grabban’s effort which is only just cleared off the line.

Things get worse, particularly for those of us in danger of expiring from passive moaning, as Southend score again within a couple of minutes of the second half kicking off. Unsurprisingly, it’s a long throw that causes the problems. When they score a third, people get up and start walking out. We’re not the only fans to do this (Gillingham did exactly the same when we put three past them a few weeks ago), but it does seem that over the last few years supporters as a whole have become less inclined to stick around if the going gets tough in a particular game. Whatever happened to staying and suffering till the end? To compound our misery, Southend get a fourth. What’s really annoying is that they’re doing quite a bit of time-wasting and falling over. You could understand this if they were defending a one-nil lead and anxious not to concede an equaliser, but when they’re so comfortably ahead it makes you wonder if it’s just engrained in their DNA.

At least there’s one bright spot for us as Johnny Mullins (proudly sponsored by the London Millers, as I’m contractually obliged to point out) makes his comeback from injury, appearing for the last 15 minutes. Given that it was originally thought he might be out till Christmas, it’s nice to see him back.

After the game, Jenny and I meet up with Clarkey at the tram stop, and we pop into the Old Queen’s Head. It’s much busier in there than usual; a bunch of people look to be meeting up before heading off to another venue, or maybe they’ve escaped en masse from a wedding reception, while a few members of a TV outside broadcast crew are wandering round. We’ve no idea what they’re in Sheffield to film, but their van is parked just down the road. The landlord of the pub commiserates with us on losing to our “bogey team”, but I don’t think we bust his pools coupon this week…

The three of us peruse the programme on the train back to London. There’s a big interview with Drewe Broughton, Southend and Rotherham of course being two of the 18 and counting clubs he’s been at, having just signed a (very) short-term contract with Alfreton. Apparently, he’s been doing a diploma in athletics and body performance. Now all his infamous, X-rated gyrations on the touchline at Gillingham and Bury make sense – that must have been the practical part of the exam!

A Pot of Gold Somewhere Just Outside Oadby

2011-09-23T10:35:00.001-07:00

For once, Ted isn’t off at the crack of doom, as he’s only travelling to Luton today. He takes the tube in with me, and though we leave in good time, it looks like things might go horribly wrong when there’s a signal failure in the Kings Cross area. Luckily, it doesn’t hold us up too badly and we get to St Pancras to he can wave off the travelling London Millers contingent – with more than two fingers, you’ll be relieved to hear.

On the trip for our first meeting with Dagenham since that fateful day at Wembley Jenny, Steve Ducker, Chris Turner, Clarkey and myself. The train is pretty packed, and then the women on the table behind us start unwrapping an array of samosas, cakes and other home-made goodies, Chris wonders if he should recruit them to do the catering for our next Christmas trip. Things get even busier at Leicester, as hordes of fans pile on, en route to their game at Barnsley. Gail and Graham manage to squeeze on at Derby. Trackside problems between there and Long Eaton slow us down, but don’t cut into our valuable drinking time too badly.

It’s very windy when we pitch up at the DVS, making us wonder how good a game we’re going to get. The Brinsworth Club Millers (‘me and our lass’, as he always introduces them to the stewards), and we swap banter about getting our respective flags on TV at Swindon. There’s just time to have the annual conversation with Steve Exley about how it costs him a fortune now Kiran’s in adult-size replica shirts (though that’s pretty much been the case since he was 12!) and then it’s into the fray.

Dagenham have lost the likes of Paul Benson and Danny Green since we last played them, and Tony Roberts looks to have finally hung up his goalkeeping gloves. We shall miss him and his rubbish forward rolls...

We start in lively fashion, and take the lead when Marcus Marshall puts in a cross. Alex Revell tries to get on the end of it, gets a whack from a defender for his pains, but Lewis Grabban slots in the loose ball. Instead of pressing on, we sit back, and get punished for it when Dagenham equalise. Scott doe heads in a corner, and though Dale Tonge tries to keep it out, he only succeeds in nodding it further into the net.

There aren’t many Dagenham fans – Clarkey says later he started counting them but got distracted by something (possibly in a small dress, going by past form...) - but they’re quite lively, twice bursting into a chorus of ‘Cheer up, Stevie Evans.’ Of course, their distaste for the Crawley manager is well known, dating back to all the antics when Evans’ Boston got promoted ahead of Dagenham, before certain financial irregularities came to light.

We quiet them a little by getting two more goals before half-time. Grabban scores the first of these, getting a glancing header to another Marshall cross, though TV footage later suggests it was an own goal. There’s no doubt about his second, though, his shot coming after great persistence from Evans in the first place.

The significance of the anti-Evans chants becomes obvious when the half-time scores reveal Crawley are losing 2-0 to Morecambe. That’s good news for us, but better news is that the Broadsword schools six-a-side competition is back – still the best half-time entertainment anywhere, with Thornhill beating Greasebrough on penalties.

The second half is going to have to go some to match it, but after Tonge hits the crossbar from distance, we go into our shell again, seemingly content to defend the lead. Dagenham threaten to get a goal back, but the nearest they come is when they hit the bar. Their keeper makes a great save to deny Grabban his hat-trick, but people are now more interested in what’s happening at the Crawley game, where rumours that Morecambe have gone five-nil up, then added a sixth, are quickly confirmed.

The other result that seems to grab the imagination is Doncaster’s loss to Cardiff,, with murmurs of ‘Donny’s going down’ all round me as I go to collect the flag.

Jenny’s staying in Rotherham for the weekend, so I meet up with Gail and the boys at the tram stop and we go for a drink in the Old Queen’s Head. Clarkey suggests taking advantage of the flexible tickets to go back on a later train and check out the Rutland. Steve and I decline, but the others head off there.

The train's quieter than on the way up, but we have two people booked from Sheffield to Leicester in the seats next to us. I assume they’re going to be Foxes fans. Instead, we get a nice, middle-aged couple who enjoy their M&S salads and a glass of vino. So much for me and my preconceptions.

Yet again, there’s a spectacular rainbow in the sky as we approach Leicester. I wouldn’t be at al surprised if there’s a pot of gold somewhere just outside Oadby. It’s the perfect setting to digest the fishing reports in the Green ’Un, crowned by the tale of one angler who won a competition despite having had a pint of beer poured over his head in the week by a girl he dumped by text message. Apparently, there’s a silver lining to that story, too. It wasn’t his pint...

Yay, Just Seen The Flag!

2011-09-17T08:04:00.000-07:00

Lunchtime kick-offs, don’t you love ’em? It being international weekend, Sky need a game to be the appetiser for Scotland v the Czech Republic, and they’ve chosen our game against Swindon, purely because they’re now being managed by the somewhat volatile Paolo di Canio. Most of the London Millers have decided to watch the game on TV, and with entry to the County Ground a whopping £25, who can blame them? Only Jenny and I make the journey (passing through Reading, new home of Adam Le Fondre, where the last of the festival is being packed away and innumerable tents have been rounded up in a field…), meeting up with my brother at Swindon station.

The flag, not being fastened to seats...

It’s a sedate walk to the ground, where we’re aided in the setting-up of the flag by some of the most helpful and friendly stewards you’ll find anywhere. The only rules are that we can’t place it right behind the goal (at the behest of Sky) and we can’t fasten it to the seats, but that’s not a problem. Once it’s in place, we join Robert in the vast Arkell’s stand. The last time we played here, it was in our first recent spell of administration, when the away following was one of the best and most vocal you could wish for. There aren’t quite so many here today, but they’re still noisy, doing their best to drown out the pre-match build-up. We’ll draw a veil over the dance stylings of Swindon mascot Rocking Robin and the Rockettes, which almost, but not quite, make me warm to the Millerettes, then the Tannoy bursts into La Donna E Mobile, so the crowd can sing di Canio’s name. Yep, it’s all about Paolo. Of course, our fans respond with a much ruder chant to the same tune, chants of ‘Leon Clarke’, who di Canio had a much-publicised bust-up with at the end of their game in mid-week, and that lovely old hymn, ‘Wednesday reject’.

Within moments of the game kicking off, it becomes clear today’s actually about two men – di Canio and the referee, Carl Boyeson, a man whose name causes Millers hearts to sink. He sets the pattern for the day by booking Alex Revell, making his debut for us, for his first tackle. Then Conrad Logan gets whacked in the face while coming to collect a ball. There’s claret – lots of it – and Don starts warming up furiously in case he can’t continue, but once all his orifices have been plugged with cotton wool, he seems to be okay. It’s not a great game – we’re getting used to the novelty of having a big man up front, while Swindon seem to be getting used to the novelty of each other, if some of their defending is anything to go by – but we take the lead. The ball comes to Ryan Cresswell, who nods it into the path of Revell, his goal hopefully starting his Rotherham career the way it means to go on. It stays that way until almost half-time, when Swindon equalise through Matt Richie’s deflected shot.

The cheerleaders are back at half-time, while a presentation is made to Swindon’s steward of the year for going above and beyond the call of duty. Apart from actually helping to deliver a baby, I can’t see what they could do that goes any further above the call than most of them appear to already…

Early in the second half, I get a text from Tim, reading, ‘Yay, just seen the flag!’ He follows that up with a request for me to put the spec on di Canio. I don’t know whether it makes any difference, but shortly after that Revell scores his second goal, another header. All we need to do now is try and see the game out – except Danny Schofield, already on a yellow card, puts in a needless tackle and Mr Boyeson doesn’t hesitate to send him off. Swindon equalise almost immediately – they get a corner and sub Alan Connell heads it in. With the man advantage, they look more dangerous, and Connell proves anything Revell can do, so can he, heading home what proves to be Swindon’s winner. There’s still time for Alberto Comazzi to be sent off, making it ten a side. It’s a soft challenge that earns him a second yellow card, but the way Boyeson’s been dishing them out, it’s hardly surprising. Di Canio and his bench prove they’re not the classiest bunch around, by getting into a spat with Dale Tonge when the ball finds itself in their dug-out and they refuse to give it back. Andy Scott, who’s been known to have a rant or two in his time, manages to retain his dignity, but the manner of the result – with yet more operatic warbling in celebration of the victory – leaves a slightly sour taste.

A teeny-tiny post box, yesterday

The only way to wash it away is with a few drinks at The Gluepot, hidden away among all the old railway cottages, with the teeny-tiny post box outside that we once filled to bursting with copies of the London Miller. It’s quiet, but the beer’s good and the bloke behind the bar is friendly, even half-remembering our order (for some reason, he pegs Jenny as a stout drinker…).

On the train back to London, we bump into Andy the groundhopper and former landlord of the Gardener’s Arms in Lewes, here in his official capacity as a Swindon supporter. He explains to us the reason the Swindon fans were giving Alex Revell some stick is that they had him on loan and he didn’t do too much for them, yet can’t stop scoring against them, no matter who he plays for.

There’s just time for an eyeballing by East London’s hardest fox, before getting back in the house in time for all the duff Saturday night TV I usually miss because I’m on a train. At least normal service will be resumed next weekend…

Struck With The Urge To Buy A Sofa

2011-08-29T09:07:00.000-07:00

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

2011-08-29T09:05:00.000-07:00

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

2011-08-13T09:23:00.000-07:00

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.

Mission Aborted – Now With New And Improved Pub Crawl

2011-04-01T09:24:00.001-07:00

Today’s plan is straightforward. Tim, Clarkey and I will be meeting Jenny at Sheffield station, while Julia heads off to check in to her hotel, as she’s attending a function at Bramall Lane tonight. Except Jenny rings me just past Chesterfield to tell us the game’s off, due to a waterlogged pitch. The weather’s been pretty miserable, with a very thin covering of snow the further north we’ve gone, but nothing to suggest a postponement.

Still, we’re flexible. Julia discovers a friend of hers is shopping in Sheffield, so goes off for lunch with her, while the rest of us meet Jenny in the Tap and decide on a route for a crawl. As Wednesday are at Birmingham in the FA Cup today, this would give us a clear run at pubs like the Hillsborough Hotel, which we’d never usually visit. I ring Ted, to let him know our game’s off. ‘Why don’t you try the Hillsborough Hotel?’ he suggests.

So we plan on the New Barrack Tavern, the Hillsborough Hotel and the University Arms. The New Barrack Tavern is a short trudge down the hill from the Bamforth Street tram stop, and it’s pretty quiet when we arrive. It’s another of the Castle Rock chain, like our old favourite the Vat And Fiddle in Nottingham, and it has a fine selection of their beers on. We settle in the front room and tuck in to bacon, Stilton and mango chutney baguettes. Clarkey’s theme of the afternoon is couples who go out and never say a word to each other, as there’s one sitting in the other room. He’s distracted from his musings when I get a phone call from Ted, who’s in Nailsworth, watching Darlo play Forest Green. ‘Control to Clarkey! Control to Clarkey!’ Apparently, they have a female assistant referee running the line, one he hasn’t seen before, and she’s rather nice. If you’re a connoisseur of such things...

At the Hillsborough Hotel, the plan is to meet up with Tim’s chum, Andy, who’s been running errands. Unfortunately, despite giving him instructions on how to find us, he doesn’t turn up. He’s made it as far as the correct tram stop, then nothing. For all I know, he’s probably still wandering round S6 now...

Tim leaves to catch a train that will get him back into London in time to attend a preview performance of a friend’s play. Clarkey, Jenny and I head for the University Arms, managing to walk straight past it at the first attempt, as it looks more like a university lodge (which it probably once was) than a pub. On the way, we pass the Harley, which describes itself, charmingly, as ‘Sheffield’s home of live music and gin’. A combination you can’t argue with.

The University Arms has been recently refurbished, hence the smell of fresh paint, but it has a definite vibe, and it’s a place we’ll certainly revisit in future. (We’d visit the other two again, but it all depends on where Wednesday are).

Back in London, I go to meet Ted and John Wilson in the Euston Tap. John has to leave once he’s finished his pint, but Ted and I are joined in due course by Paul Dennis and his friend Accrington Dave (to distinguish him from Charlton Dave). A nice, convivial end to an unexpectedly football-free day.

Confessions Of A Neutral Supporter Part Eight

2011-04-01T09:23:00.000-07:00

Why visit one great seat of learning a week when you can visit two? That’s my excuse for why I’m standing in the rain by the side of the dual carriageway at Bromley-by-Bow station, waiting for Howard to pick us up for the journey to Cambridge. Darlo should have played there the Saturday before Christmas, but the game was snowed off and rescheduled for tonight.

The route out of East London takes us past the Olympic Park, and I get my first close-up view of the main stadium. Speaking with plenty of experience of watching football from the other side of a running track, West Ham fans are going to hate playing there, but it’s a mighty impressive sight, as are the rest of the new buildings.

It’s a smooth route until we get to the outskirts of Cambridge, at which point the signs for the ring road apparently ‘just disappear’ and we find ourselves in the heart of the city, rather than out by the ground. Fortunately, the streets are slightly more pedestrian-unfriendly than the centre of Oxford, without barriers blocking our way, so we eventually get back on the right track. At the R.Costings Abbey Stadium, Ted goes to get his press pass, then orders a taxi to take the three of us back into the city. His plan is to go drinking at the Cambridge Blue, then on to the Devonshire Arms. Howard fancies a spot of light retail therapy, beginning in the Amnesty Book shop just down the road from our dropping-off point, while I wander into the centre to take a look at all the historic buildings. Kings College, even from the road, is unbelievably impressive, even to a redbrick-educated oik like my good self, and if the weather was better I’d have a stroll along the Backs, down to the river. Instead, I nip into Lakeland (becoming probably the only supporter ever to get a cast-iron baking tray into a football ground without problems), then have a warming latte in a coffee shop whose clientele appear to be 90 per cent essay-writing students ekeing out a small coffee for as long as humanly possible and 10 per cent their tutors.

Joining Ted at the Devonshire Arms, I learn the Cambridge Blue is shut for refurbishment. He’s made himself comfy here and has been joined by John Wilson. In due course, our rag-tag band acquires Howard (who caught me in the Market Square earlier, buying old-fashioned sweeties, though I passed on the delightful Wills and Kate commemorative tea towel, which would have made a great raffle prize if I’d seen it a week earlier), John’s mate Rockabilly Steve, Paul Brown and Iain Swallwell. When it turns out the Live And Let Live, the final stop on Ted’s itinerary, opens later than advertised, he decides to give it a miss and stay where we are. Personally, I don’t see the need to go anywhere else. The Devonshire is the latest pub in the same chain that includes the Pembury Tavern in Hackney, and it’s a gem. The bar staff are chatty and friendly, as are the customers, and the food’s good, too.

From there, it’s a good trot out to the stadium, across the dimly-lit park, but we arrive in good time for Ted to set up his camera equipment. There’s a small but hardy band of Darlo fans, including Martin and the legendary Darlo Neil, who I haven’t seen in a while. Sitting in front of us are an old and incredibly posh but really sweet couple from somewhere in Hampshire, who should really be sporting rattles and bobble hats. They don’t get to see the team much, apparently, but they have a great time tonight.

The Cambridge Tannoy announcer has the task of letting everyone know that there’s some offer meaning if the U’s Luke Berry is first scorer, supporters are entitled to a free ‘big-ass burrito’ at a local Mexican restaurant. There’s much merriment at his attempts to pronounce it politely. Within the first few minutes, though, there’s a chance the offer will be claimed, as Cambridge win a penalty and Berry steps up to take it. He doesn’t look too confident, which isn’t surprising as Cambridge are on a poor run, with some financial turmoil behind the scenes, and his shot is easily saved by Sam Russell. Darlo get into the game as the half progresses, but though they create a couple of decent chances, the score is nil-nil at half time.

There’s not much in the way of half-time entertainment, apart from another amusing reminder of the burrito offer. Ted samples the bacon rolls, which he says are decent enough, but not quite up to the standards of the days when, along with the hot pork rolls at Lincoln, they set the standard for lower league catering.

Darlo take the lead early in the second half, Gary Smith heading in a nice cross past former Darlo keeper Simon Brown. After that, they should really go on and take total control of this game. They have a couple of decent players in the shape of the experienced Marc Bridge-Wilkinson and Aman Verma, who’s on loan from Leicester, but they seem to lack the ruthless edge that should see them kill a fairly toothless Cambridge off.

Despite everything, the Cambridge fans are in good voice. The ‘Amber Army’ behind the far goal keep up a sustained burst of Bob Marley’s Three Little Birds, accompanied by the kind of steady drumbeat that used to set the pace for Roman galley slaves. ‘Don’t worry about a thing, ’cos every little thing’s going to be all right...’ Unfortunately for them, it’s all right for Darlo – on the pitch at least, as they see the game out pretty comfortably.

However, on the way out, we spot Gavin, who’s usually a beacon of gloom, muttering about new financial woes at Darlington. It quickly becomes apparent that he’s serious, with problems between Darlo’s chairman, Raj Singh, and the holding company who own the club. The news puts a damper on what’s generally been a very pleasant evening.

Howard’s got a carful on the way back, giving lifts to those who need to go south of the river. The fact he gets lost on the way back is surely God’s way of telling him he needs a sat-nav. Still, we’re dropped off in Bow at a reasonable time – all mid-week trips should be as civilised as this...

Leeeewwissss! (Sorry, Couldn’t Resist It)

2011-03-11T02:44:00.001-08:00

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...

No Surrender To The IPA

2011-02-25T02:35:00.000-08:00

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!

2011-02-04T08:28:00.000-08:00

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?

2011-02-04T07:36:00.000-08:00

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

2011-02-04T07:31:00.000-08:00

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...

Five-Nil And Still Grumbling

2011-01-28T08:03:00.001-08:00

New Year’s Day, and the snow has finally cleared enough to allow today’s game against Port Vale to go ahead. People who’ve been cooped up with the family over Christmas emerge blinking into the light, eager to see some football. Of course, there’s very little in the way of public transport, but luckily my dad and I get a lift to the ground courtesy of Gordon.

Once there, we find Jenny and Chris Turner lurking outside the turnstiles. Between us, we have a few complimentary tickets to dispose of, sent as a thank you for our continuing sponsorship. The nice letter from the commercial department includes the line, ‘If you’re unable to use them, perhaps you can pass them on to your staff.’ This is fair enough, given that most of the sponsorship is taken up by businesses, rather than individuals, but don’t they realise that when you work for yourself and have cats, that makes you the staff? Chris is taking one of the tickets, but everyone else we see who we know is already a season ticket holder. Jenny was hoping she could pass one on to Nigel Hall, who’s come up for the day, but he’s been dragged off to see relatives instead. We hope that, like Chris Kirkland on his enforced trip to Meadowhall, he’ll protest by sitting in the car, listening to the commentaries on Radio Sheffield...

As we go through the turnstiles, Howard Webb is being congratulated over the Tannoy for being awarded the MBE. No mention on how this news is being received in Holland...

Once inside, it’s clear there are plenty of non-regulars here today. Our chum on the row in front has brought his wife for once. Apparently, the last time she attended a game we won by a big score. Let’s hope she’s a lucky charm...

Port Vale arrive following the defection of manager Mickey Adams to Sheff U. If the team are hoping to impress whoever’s in caretaker charge, it doesn’t really work. Last time they came, they were bustling and purposeful, with Anthony Griffiths running the midfield. Today, they seem a little subdued, and we have the ball in the net in the first couple of minutes, only for Johnny Mullins to be ruled offside. A legitimate goal isn’t long in coming, though, fired home by Nicky Law, and after twenty minutes we’re two up, following a beautiful move and a Danny Coid cross which Ryan Taylor heads in.

Vale are trying to create chances, and their all-Richards strikeforce does look as though it could be more of a threat as the game goes on. Unfortunately for them, their keeper comes charging out when one-on-one with Marcus Marshall and brings him down. It’s not clear whether he’s handled the ball outside his area, but he’s certainly taken Marshall out, and the ref brandishes the red card. It seems as though every other time we play Port Vale, one side ends up with ten men. They have to take off Justin Richards to bring on their sub keeper, the amply-buttocked Chris Martin, and we see out the rest of the half without too many problems. The only nasty moment is when Coid gets heavily clattered in a challenge. He manages to play the half out, but at half-time he’s sent out to see whether he’s fit to carry on. He’s limping heavily, and Luke Ashworth comes on, with Mullins moving to fill Coid’s place at right back. Apart from that, the only other notable half-time moment is the huge cheer from the Vale fans when they learn Sheff U are losing 3-1. Not bitter, not at all...

Almost unbelievably, we score about ninety seconds into the second half. The Vale defence appears to stand still as Law puts in a cross and Will Atkinson taps it home. After that, things go from good to excellent. Ryan Taylor scores his second goal of the day with a beautiful acrobatic volley, and Mark Randall, playing for the first time since he broke his collarbone at Southend, makes it five when a free kick is played into his path and he lashes it in off the crossbar from about twenty-five yards out. We definitely have a lucky charm in our midst.

But even playing as well as we are, there’s still grumbling around us. Some people are baffled when Alfie is substituted with about fifteen minutes to go, while others are furious that we don’t appear to be going all out for a sixth goal. As the man sitting to my left points out, we play again on Monday. Why tire ourselves out needlessly?

But the most important question, as we file out at the end of the game is – just how sick is Nigel going to be that he missed this?

Pulling Crackers In Standard Class

2010-12-17T05:05:00.000-08:00

Yay! The snow that denied us the – er – privilege of paying a daft amount of money to sit on scaffolding at the Priestfield last week has thawed enough that today’s game is on. And double yay! It’s our Christmas party trip. Though maybe someone should have a word with the fixture compilers, because two seasons ago, when the party trip took place but the match didn’t, we were supposed to play Aldershot.

Turning up with assorted goodies are Clarkey (so early for once we’re worried he might be ill...), Jenny (back from holiday in Cuba and surprisingly un-jetlagged), Tim, Ian Armitage, Chris Turner (fulfilling his sausage commitment, unlike the Hereford trip at the end of last season), Julia and me. We’re in the mood to eat, drink and be merry, which isn’t the greatest news for the girl with the other reserved seat on our table, but was out till stupid o’clock at a party last night and is hoping for a bit of shut-eye on the way to Sheffield. She does, however, revive enough to show us photos on her phone of how deep the snow was when she made the same journey this time last week, though we can't quite tempt her to indulge in the hair of the dog.

Chris hasn’t just brought things on sticks, he’s got Ploughman’s Lunches for us all, and he’s obviously been practising his party trick because he actually catches one of the onions in his mouth at the first attempt!

Our destination once we reach Sheffield is the Harlequin. At Tim’s insistence, we get cabs to cut down on inroads into our VDT (Valuable Drinking Time). I can’t resist a glass of the seasonal mulled cider. When it arrives, the boys take photos of it steaming gently, like a bald-headed player on a cold Tuesday night at Brisbane Road... We’re joined by Tim’s mate Andy, Joy, Frances, Phil Kyte, Chris Kirkland and, eventually, Chris Burrows, to whom Chris K has given instructions involving taking the tram to Shalesmoor and doubling back.

It would be tempting to stay in the Harlequin till it’s time to leave for the match, but this being the Christmas trip we’re determined to fit in at least one more venue. The Kelham Island is likely to be heaving with Wendies, particularly as they’re apparently going to turn out in force to welcome their ‘saviour’, new chairman Milan Mandaric. We go instead to the Fat Cat where yet another Ian (Hill, this time) joins the party. It isn’t compulsory to be called Ian, Steve, Chris or Rob to be a London Miller, but sometimes it feels that way! Despite everything we had to eat on the train, Chris T still finds room for a generous helping of steak pie and all the trimmings. The boys are intending to fit in a quickie in the Wellington (now brewing its own beer, according to Ted and Chris T, who had a crawl in Sheffield a couple of Saturdays ago), but Jenny and I are on flag duty, so we make a prompt exit. Which is when the fun starts.

The tram’s a couple of minutes late arriving, which isn’t unusual on a busy Saturday, but it makes it as far as the top of West Street, then comes to a halt. Eventually, the driver announces it’s due to football fans misbehaving ‘because they’re morons’. Quite what this misbehaviour involves isn’t clear, but as we approach the West Street stop veeeery slowly, there are plenty of police cars, vans, policemen and dogs in sight. Once we’re past the trouble, our progress is fairly swift, but there are trams backing up in the opposite direction and I have no idea how long it will take the boys to get to the DVS.

As it is, we go through the turnstiles at about a minute to three, and we’re still putting the flag up as the game kicks off. Unlike at Crewe the other week, this doesn’t prompt an early goal. There are a number of changes to the team – Ryan Cresswell has got over his back problems and returns to the back four, Johnny Mullins switches to right-back (Danny Coid, we find out later, has a slight hamstring strain). Tom Newey’s back, Jason Taylor’s in midfield and Will Atkinson, on loan from Hull, is on the wing in place of Kevin Ellison. Indeed, there’s a familiar-looking bloke in the scouts and hangers-on area in a Hull jacket, obviously there to report on Atkinson’s performance.

The first half is pretty even. Aldershot give the impression of having come not to lose, and we’re guilty of punting a few too many long balls forward as we try to bypass the packed midfield. The Shots have one good chance that forces an excellent save from Don (also returning after his paternity leave), then get a penalty when Atkinson clips Wade Small in the box. If they convert this they’ll probably spend the rest of the game stifling our attempts to equalise. However, Small decides to be a bit flamboyant with the penalty kick and succeeds in hitting the post. Miller Bear, continuing to prove he’s as mad as a bag of rats, celebrates by lying in one of the piles of snow they’ve cleared off the pitch and throwing snowballs into the air.

This is our let-off, and we capitalise on it thanks to a better bit of refereeing. Mullins is brought down, but the ref plays the advantage despite his assistant’s frantic flagging. Marcus Marshall wriggles to the byline and plays the ball across to Alfie, who fires his shot up into the roof of the net. Steve Kay, one of those London Millers who’s returned to the north for work (and see what I mean about the Christian name thing?) is in a seat just in front of me today, but he missed the goal as he was out on the concourse. It sounds just as good when I describe it as it did watching.

At half-time, the Millerettes do their routine in Santa hats, then hold up cards spelling out the message ‘Merry Christmas From The Millerettes’. ‘Stop trying to look up my skirt’ might be more appropriate... The 50-50 draw is performed by former Rotherham and Darlo manager Billy McEwan. Just reading that sentence will make a little bit of Ted die inside.

The second half is much better entertainment than the first. We’re buoyed by the goal and force Shots keeper Jamie Young to make a couple of excellent saves. Indeed, though he nearly gifts us a comedy goal when he muffs a clearance on the edge of his area and Alfie only just fails to convert the shot after the ball’s landed right at his feet, Young really is their star performer this afternoon, and keeps the score at one-nil long enough for Aldershot to think they have a chance of getting something from the game.

There’s a very nasty moment as Ryan Cresswell and Marvin Morgan tussle for the ball. Morgan hauls Cresswell down, and it’s obvious something bad’s happened as soon as Cresswell lands. The stretcher is called for. The Block 4 wags have been in good voice today (their crowning moment is a chorus of ‘All I Want For Christmas Is To Keep Alfie’, to the tune of ‘All I Want For Christmas Is My Two Front Teeth’) but now the chief wag comes into his own. As the stretcher bearers take to the pitch painfully slowly, he yells, ‘Hurry up, he’s dying,’ followed, as they don’t speed up in the slightest by, ‘Too late, he’s dead.’ Cresswell is eventually stretchered off to a standing ovation, but he’s going to be out for a while.

On a more positive note, Atkinson has looked more of a threat as the game has gone on, and Marcus Marshall is causing so many problems for the Aldershot defence that Jamie Vincent earns himself a second yellow card trying to stop him before he can get a cross in. There’s only a couple of minutes of normal time for them to hold out, but even with the ref adding six minutes, mostly for the delay in getting Cresswell off the pitch, we can’t score a second goal.

The trams are behaving themselves, even if the one we get on is pretty packed. We’re now minus Julia, who’s staying in Rotherham for the weekend. In the Old Queen’s Head we find Chris K’s chum, Tom, who’s been lured down by the fact they’re showing the Newcastle-Liverpool game. The last thing you want to see when you walk into a pub is Alan Pardew’s smug, grinning face on the big screen, but such is life...

We’re still in party mood on the train back, although we do worry we might have left Clarkey behind after he goes into the M&S on Sheffield station and doesn’t appear to come out. He joins us eventually, though, as does Ian Hill, who’s travelling as far as Derby. Also on the train are Martin Burton and his two lads, so we give them some parkin and a couple of the crackers Jenny brought along so they can have a little party of their own.

People have seemed chatty today. A girl sits with us between Derby and Leicester and tells us about the work Christmas do she’s off to. We wish her a good time as she disembarks. Then Clarkey has his usual snooze and the rest of us keep the party going until St Pancras. We’d almost forgotten how good the Christmas trip is when you actually win!

Eighty-nine Minutes Of Blowing

2010-12-10T12:58:00.000-08:00

A civilised departure on the 10.40 for once, seeing how these days you can get to Crewe in about ninety minutes. It’s all to do with the track straightening at Rugby, at least according to an article I once read by Pete Waterman, who’s a massive train buff and used to – perhaps even still does – own that weird collection of old trains and rolling stock close to Crewe station. That’s not enough to forgive him for inflicting the Reynolds Girls on the world, but still...

There’s just Jenny and me travelling up. John Kirkland will be on a train an hour behind ours, simply because by the time he decided he wanted to come on the trip, all the cheap tickets on this train had gone. Judging by our fellow passengers, the Man U daytrippers beat him to it.

One smooth journey, complete with sighting of requisite South American wildlife just outside Crewe (new llamas – got to be an omen), later we’re meeting my brother on the station. Our destination this time isn’t our old favourite, the British Lion (aka the British Legion). Instead, we’re trying the Borough Arms, as recommended by Ted. It’s a bit of a trek, up into bits of Crewe we didn’t actually know existed - i.e the town centre. As we wait to cross the road by the retail park, an elderly coach does a circuit of the roundabout. From the expressions of the passengers inside, we can only assume there’s a woman standing up front with a microphone announcing, ‘And that concludes our tour of the roundabouts of Crewe...’

Fortunately, the walk is worth it. The Borough Arms is small and surprisingly busy, but the range of beers (including the flavoured ones my brother always refers to as ‘Belgian fruit juice’) is excellent, and the ladies’ is supplied with quality handwash (always a promising sign). Already ensconsed is Graham, an old schoolmate of Clarkey’s, along with a friend to whom we’re never formally introduced. Said friend, however, is a natural raconteur, and tells us a story about a man apparently vanishing into thin air on a trans-Atlantic flight that has to be heard to be believed. The pair of them saw our defeat to York in the Cup on Tuesday night and aren’t too positive about our prospects today. Apparently, the moral from that game is that we really, really need to take our chances.

By this time, we’ve acquired a brace of Kirklands and Chris Burrows, who’ve found the place without too many problems. They like it as much as we do.

We leave in good time to visit the chip shop by Gresty Road. The chips are well up to their usual standard, even if John K does manage to spill half of mine...

There are a couple of changes to the team. Baby keeper Jamie Annerson is in goal, as Don’s wife gave birth a couple of days ago, and Johnny Mullins is in at centre half as Ryan Cresswell still isn’t fit. However, it seems like the disappointment of Tuesday night has been put behind everyone. Barely have Jenny and I put the flag in place and the away support have aimed their first chorus of ‘What’s that coming over the hill? Is it the taxman?’ at Wednesday than we’re in front. A ball in from Marcus Marshall is put behind. The Crewe keeper flaps at the resulting corner, and though Mark Bradley celebrates the resulting goal, it’s actually come off one of the Crewe defenders. Cue blowing from my brother to the left of me

The rest of the first half is what you might call ‘open’. Ryan Taylor, Danny Coid and Alfie all have good chances, and Taylor hits the crossbar, while down the other end Ashley Westwood drags his shot wide when he’s only got Annerson to beat. We’re playing some really good football, with Marcus Marshall causing the Crewe defence all sorts of problems, while Fenton and Mullins are seeing off the threat of Clayton Donaldson, whose hairdo looks like the love child of My Little Pony and a scrubbing brush. We’re enjoying all this despite the distraction of the bloke behind Jenny, who keeps dropping his mobile phone under our seats. Fortunately, we manage to retrieve all the bits for him...

If the score was four-all at half-time, no one would be at all surprised. It’s been excellent entertainment, and the second half is even better. Dario Gradi makes changes to try and counteract the fact Tom Newey’s been keeping their right-winger really quiet, but we’re definitely in charge. Nicky Law is having one of his best games for us, and Kevin Ellison, back in place of teeny tiny Stephen Brogan, is winding up the Crewe fans a treat, as he always does. Annerson has to make a good fingertip save, but Crewe must know it’s not their day when the ref decides to award a goal kick, rather than a corner.

We should have extended our lead by now, and we get a great chance when we’re awarded a penalty after Crewe defender Ada has some kind of brainfart and bats the ball away with his arm. Alfie’s spot kick isn’t the greatest, though, and the keeper pushes it on to the post. Luckily, it doesn’t matter, though we keep pressing for a second goal right up to the final whistle.

The fans, so negative at the Southend game, have been behind the team all day today. They even have a song for Tom Newey, who’s been getting his share of stick in recent weeks. Midweek it was Ronnie out, today it’s Ronnie in. He must feel like he’s doing the Hokey-Cokey!

After the game, we pop into the Royal Hotel for a drink. This is where Clarkey comes when he stays over for his annual Spear Of Destiny weekender, and the place he meant to send us to last season. It’s manic at first, but quickly quietens down, and we find a table where we can avoid the Liverpool-West Ham game on the big screen, though the cheering from the other patrons lets us know that West Ham are getting trounced.

John’s on the same train as us on the way back, so we leave the Chrises to enjoy another drink, decant my brother (who’s finally stopped blowing) on to a train to Brum, then make our way home among yet more Man U daytrippers. They may have been to the Theatre of Dreams, and have the carrier bags to prove it, but I’m sure they can’t have enjoyed their day more than we have.

Getting Our Own Back For Bombalurina

2010-12-06T13:28:00.000-08:00

The merry band assembling at St Pancras this morning consists of me, Jenny and Joy, all travelling up and back today, Julia, who’s staying over to visit family for the weekend and Steve Ducker and his wife, Fiona, who are going up for a family party. The last time I saw Fiona was at a London Welsh v Rotherham game, a couple of years ago. Gwenn had decided it was time I got an education in rugby, in return (pr, possibly, revenge) for being initiated into all things Millers, and we bumped into Steve and Fiona by pure chance. That was Eastertime, one of those days where you can experience all four seasons in a couple of hours, from sunshine to snow, so pretty much all we saw of Fiona that day was a face peering out of an anorak hood, bearing an expression reading ‘I really shouldn’t be here...’ Fortunately, it’s slightly warmer than that today.

Once in Sheffield, Steve and Fiona head for the B and B they’re staying in, near the Crystal Peaks entertainment centre where the function they’re attending is being held tonight. The rest of us make our way to the Fat Cat to meet Phil. (And if anyone who works in the Fat Cat kitchen is reading this, the people who had the chicken and sage pie said it went down a treat.)

On the tram to the DVS, we get into yet another of our periodic conversations about things you just don’t see any more. This time, it’s biscuit barrels. If you’re still using one, please let us know. We’d be strangely reassured...

Oxford are one of those teams who hung around in the Conference a little longer than a lot of their fans expected them to, and now they’re looking to make a speedy progression up this division. Unfortunately, they meet us on a day when we hit some sparkling form. This is partly due to the debut of Danny Coid at right back, on loan from Blackpool (and so far down the pecking order he didn’t even figure in the recent game where Ian Holloway made ten team changes and probably used all new ball boys as well...), and who brings a calm assurance to the defence. Marcus Marshall, who was probably our best player against York last week, is responsible for most of the good things that happen today. Both teams have had a couple of chances when Marshall goes on a mazy run. His shot is blocked, but comes out to Alfie, who checks to see whether he’s offside. When the flag doesn’t go up, he calmly slots the ball past Oxford keeper Ryan Clarke.

Alfie gets a second a few minutes later. Ryan Taylor heads the ball into his path, and though he looks to have scuffed his shot, it still beats the keeper. By now, we’re looking very comfortable, so it’s a bit of a surprise when Oxford score in stoppage time. Don parries the first shot, but Simon Clist beats him with the rebound.

It’s a slightly deflating end to the half, but things look up with the half-time draw. I would suggest we’re in the presence of greatness, but I might get done under the Trades Description Act, so let’s just say the draw is performed by celebrity Oxford fan Timmy Mallett. He’s got the requisite loud suit and even louder glasses, but there’s no sign of the trademark mallet. Presumably it’s in a locked vault somewhere, too valuable to be brought to a mere football stadium.

He’s probably hoping Oxford are going to carry on where they left off, but it doesn’t happen, even though Ryan Cresswell, who’s looked slightly hesitant in the first half, has to be replaced by Luke Ashworth. We find out later his back has gone again, which is worrying.

Still, it doesn’t appear to affect us too much. Nicky Law, playing in a central role, is looking impressive, and both he and itsy bitsy teeny weeny teeny tiny Stephen Brogan (sorry, couldn’t resist that...) have decent efforts on goal. Meanwhile, Don only has one real effort to save, tipping a shot over the bar.
A waiter from the hospitality suite walks through the stand carrying a dozen flat, square cardboard boxes. 'Pizza for Mallett!' yells one of the Block 4 Upper wags....
Tom Elliott, who’s been conspicuous by his absence for ages, appears as a late sub and has a shot he might have done better with if he hadn’t just come on, but the result is never really in doubt.

After the game, Jenny, Joy, Steve and I go to meet Fiona in the Old Queen’s Head. She’s been shopping in the city centre and is a little footsore but pleased with her purchases.

We leave the Duckers enjoying a drink and go to catch the train. Our carriage is full of Wednesday fans of a certain vintage, who start asking each other whether they remember various old players and then get on to the subject (as two or three Wednesday fans gathered together inevitably will) of the 1979 ‘Boxing Day Massacre’, when they beat Sheff U four-nil. (At least one Rotherham Owl in my class spent the next couple of months with a badge bearing the words ‘ Boxing Day Massacre’ pinned to the lapel of his blazer. Ah, those innocent days before rival fans could taunt each other about results on the Internet...). Eventually, they get on to the far more serious subject of Wednesday’s current financial plight, and how much their high spending on some of the players they’ve been talking about has contributed to the situation.

Back in London, Joy wends her way back East, while Jenny and I go to meet Ted in the newly opened Euston Tap. Sister to the Sheffield Tap and the York Pivni, it’s in Euston Lodge, just in front of the main station concourse. It’s a tiny little building, with a cosy upstairs that’s reached by means of a spiral staircase. Already there with Ted is Steve Duffy, down for a concert. We’re also joined by Wycombe Paul and all his photographic gear. He’s on good form, as they’ve just beaten Bradford one-nil in the Peter Taylor derby. A pleasant couple of hours later, we’ve decided this place will give the Betjeman and the Doric Arch a run for their money among the serious real ale buffs (and some of the mildly amusing ones, too...).

Up For The Cup - Sort Of

2010-11-29T09:41:00.001-08:00

The draw for the first round of the FA Cup saw us get York at home, dashing Tim’s hopes that we’d get Hendon away (his next closest game to Wealdstone, who lost to the Met Police, who then lost in turn to Hendon – take notes as I’ll be asking questions later...). However, Tim’s got over that disappointment enough to travel to the game, along with me, Jenny and John Kirkland.

No hitches on the journey this time, and we meet up with Tim’s chum, Andy, to catch the tram to the Fat Cat. Once there, we link up with Kirkland Junior, who’s persuaded Tom that what he needs is another Saturday afternoon at the DVS. Tom’s planning a Sheffield pub crawl, so he picks our brains about where to go and how far apart everything is in terms of walking distance (to which the answer is surprisingly close, in most cases).

I have to leave earlier than usual, as I’m meeting my dad to pick up my match ticket. The timing’s perfect, as Jenny and I get off the train just in time to see my dad and Gordon wandering along from where they’ve parked.

Arriving at the ground, it’s obvious that quite a few York fans have travelled. But then it’s not too far to come, it’s a new ground for them and they can’t have played us for a good ten years. The last time I saw York play, it was at Bootham (then KitKat, now back to Bootham) Crescent against Darlo, the day John Batchelor took over the club. He paraded with his scarf and his grandiose plans, and those who’d seen George Reynolds do exactly the same at Feethams began to get an idea of how well all that was going to end...

It soon becomes apparent that a lot of the Rotherham fans have looked at the opposition and are expecting this to be a stroll against a non-league team. Of course, York aren’t looking at it that way, just as Rotherham would go into a tie against a team from a higher division looking to take a scalp. We make a decent start, having a couple of chances with ex-Darlo keeper Michael Ingham looking a bit flappy, though he does make one very good save when he scoops out a shot from Alfie that looks like a certain goal. When nothing goes in and York start making inroads on our goal (they really should score, but James Meredith seems determined to walk the ball into the net, which enables us to clear the danger), people start getting restless. ‘Come on, Rotherham,’ shouts someone behind me, ‘this lot are a pub team.’ There’s no need to go into how disrespectful this is to a) York and b) the Conference as a whole, but that attitude sums up the inflated expectations we (and probably the fans of a few other teams towards the top of our division) have somehow acquired. It also explains the boos at half-time.

In the first half, there’s been one of those irritating old boys sitting right behind me who loves to praise the opposition and criticise us, but he seems to have disappeared by the time the second half kicks off. Maybe he’s seen enough; he doesn’t miss much, because the second half is pretty much exactly the same as the first. York threaten on a couple of occasions, but we could probably play all night and neither team would score. For once, Ronnie doesn’t make any substitutions, possibly with one eye on Tuesday night’s game against Huddersfield in the JPT in mind, which only enrages an already riled home crowd even more. At the final whistle, there are even more boos. Some fans hang behind to applaud the York team off the pitch. It’s a gesture that might be more understandable if they’d beaten us, but it seems to be more about sending a message to Ronnie and the team than actually praising the opposition performance.

Both Jenny and Tim are staying in Rotherham for the weekend, so it’s just John and I who head for the Sheffield Tap, with Chris in tow. It’s nice and quiet when we arrive, as we’ve been the only club playing in Sheffield today. Chris travels with us as far as Chesterfield, rather than hang round Sheffield station when all the Leicester fans get back from Barnsley. However, it seems most of them have been put on a football special (see, they do still exist...) and we’re through Derby before the Pompey fans make it down to the station after their televised game. It’s a reflective journey back, but John is strangely confident about our chances in the replay. We’ll see...

The Return Of Disco Duck

2010-11-17T10:05:00.000-08:00

It’s not quite Hallowe’en, but there are already weird creatures afoot. As I wait on Barking station for the train to Southend, Snow White and a novelty pirate wander past. At least, I think it’s a pirate: it could just be Andrew Stone out of Pineapple Dance Studios on his day off...

Jenny, Diamond and Chris Turner are already on the train. Chris has brought us snacks for the journey – after failing to get his Ploughman’s Lunch in a packet in Preston, he’s bought a card of the things online, and there’s one for each of us. Of course, he insists on throwing his onions in the air and trying to catch them in his mouth, which goes about as well as you’d expect.

Our pub of choice is the Lion and Lamb in Westcliff-on-sea. It’s a bit of a walk from there to Roots Hall, but it’s a good choice, festooned in fake cobwebs we spend the rest of the afternoon picking off ourselves. We’re joined by Dave Finnis, over from Australia, and his wife, Linda. He certainly has a knack of taking her to the most glamorous locations, as the last time we saw her was about five years ago, in Wigan. Following along shortly are Clarkey, Nigel Hall, Joy and Frances, whose dad is in the area CAMRA branch and recommended this place.

We arrive at the ground, looking forward to seeing the debut performance of Mark Randall, who we’ve just got on loan from Arsenal. Unfortunately, we don’t get to see that much of him. Is there a polite way of saying Southend are a dirty team? No? Okay, they’re a dirty team, and they target Randall, who looks very assured on the ball, with a number of hefty challenges, the last of which sees him leave the pitch injured after about twenty minutes. Unfortunately, we’re one-nil down by then. Southend have a bit of good fortune when Tom Newey slips, allowing them to put in a cross that Blair Sturrock heads against the crossbar and in. We have one good chance to equalise, but Southend’s keeper makes a very good save from Ellison’s shot.

How to describe the half-time entertainment? First, I’m not sure I’d use the word ‘entertainment’. Southend’s tweenie cheerleaders emerge with backcombed hair and ripped tights (‘It’s Motley Crue!’ exclaims Clarkey) and proceed to dance to Thriller. The performance ends with them lying on the floor, pretending to be dead, while Southend mascots Sammy the Shrimp and Elvis the Eel circle them for no apparent reason. All this is swiftly followed by a six-year-old Michael Jackson impersonator treating us all to the moonwalk. This is the kind of nightmare that scars impressionable children for life...

The nightmare’s only just starting, though. The fans around us, who’ve been quite buoyant and supportive in the first half, turn swiftly as it becomes apparent it’s Southend who are making most of the running in the second. Rotherham, who’ve been cowed by Southend’s overly physical tactics, need something to lift them – and they’re not getting it from the crowd. They’re not really creating any chances, and it doesn’t help that when Marcus Marshall is blatantly blocked while running to put in a cross, the referee (Phil Crossley, supposedly one of the most experienced on the list), ignores the foul. The woman sitting in my earshot is driving me crazy. I think she’s the one who always yells, ‘Gerrin!’ at a pitch that’s like fingernails down a blackboard, which is irritating enough, and she does nothing but criticise Ryan Taylor all game, but when she actively starts willing Southend to score a second in the dying moments of the match, I’m tempted to reach for the flag tape and gag her with it.

Afterwards, Jenny, Chris, Clarkey, Diamond, Nigel and I head for the Cricketers, which is halfway between the ground and Westcliff. It’s a nice enough pub, but it’s a big place on a corner and must at some point have all been knocked through into one bar, which doesn’t make it feel that welcoming. The beer’s decent, though, and Clarkey and Diamond bond with the barmaid, who keeps taking the mick out of Diamond’s accent after he asks for a bottle of ‘watter’.

Then it’s back to the Lamb and Lion, via a chip shop-cum kebab emporium, where Diamond attempts to find the football scores on Ceefax, until the staff politely ask him to stop. Walking back towards Westcliff station, we pass the Hamlet Court, a pub I frequented with Ted when Darlo last played at Southend. It’s had a bit of a makeover since then, but judging by the clientele outside, we don’t have enough in the way of sovereign rings to fit in...

We feel much more comfortable outside the Lamb and Lion, particularly when someone starts handing out fliers for the band playing in the Bar Lamb downstairs, Protex Blue. On learning they do punk numbers, Clarkey’s little eyes light up. I’ve already decided I’m catching an early train, but he somehow persuades the others to hand over their three quid entry. I say my goodnights and head for the station, leaving them to discover a) why Diamond knows Clarkey as ‘Disco Duck’ and b) whether punk really is dead...

An Offal Decision

2010-11-05T04:45:00.001-07:00

For the first time in quite a while, Tim’s travelling up today. Clarkey was supposed to be joining us as well, but for whatever reason he doesn’t make it. Everything’s going smoothly until Derby, when the train develops some kind of problem that necessitates the arrival of engineers. The driver advises us to decant on to the Cross Country service a few minutes behind, which most of us do even though the guard on that train advises us our tickets won’t be valid. Everyone ignores him, as we’re jammed in so tightly the chances of him being able to move round checking tickets is nil. Jenny and I are squeezed within earshot of a Bournemouth fan who’s the type with an opinion on everything, and he’s complaining for some reason about how awful a ground the DVS is, and the fact it only has one proper stand. It would, of course, be impolite to mention at this point that Dean Court still isn’t finished...

Because we’re running slightly late, and because Tim needs to make arrangements to meet his sisters and hand over a package of sweetbreads (it’s a long story...), we have one in the Sheffield Tap, where we meet Tim’s mate, Andy, then get a cab to the Harlequin. Eight ciders (and a mulled option), a new hot food menu – this place is turning itself into a serious rival to the Fat Cat. Sarah and Judith arrive, and Tim hands over the meaty goods. When we leave for the game, the ladies head into Sheffield for a spot of shopping.

It’s that ‘Kick Racism Out Of Football’ time of year again, so the flag goes up alongside the one reading ‘One Game, One Community’.

As for the game, Ryan Cresswell damages his back in the warm-up, meaning Luke Ashworth has to play in defence. Somehow, Wycombe contrive to have two attacks and score two goals, the first a punt into the area that isn’t dealt with properly, and the second a shot from about twenty yards out. They should be cruising after this, but we respond with a well-worked move a couple of minutes later that’s finished off by who else but Alf, then Jason Taylor (from Stockport, as Tom Coley knows him) equalises. We should take the lead, but Nicky Law contrives to sidefoot a simple chance wide of the post. Typically, right before half time, Ashworth has to go off to get a head injury looked at, and while we’re down to ten men, Wycombe take the lead with a curling shot from Ben Strevens.

Half time is the usual mishmash of duff cheerleaders, an enthralling five-a-side and the new, souped-up Mayday draw machine not behaving itself. Then it’s back into the fray. When we get a corner and Exodus is climbed all over as he tries to go for the ball (and there’s a lot of him to climb over, so you really have to put in the effort!), the ref, Mr Quinn, gives a penalty immediately. Alfie slots it calmly past Rikki Bull (who still has two many Ks in his name for a grown man...) and it’s as you were. We even think we can win the game, Marcus Marshall coming on for Law and stepping up the pace. But with about five minutes to go, Kevin Betsy is tackled in the penalty area by Johnny Mullins. Mullins wins the ball cleanly, Betsy appears to think about his options, then falls over Mullins’ leg. The assistant referee doesn’t flag, but Mr Quinn signals a penalty. Amid much protesting, he charges over to have a word with his assistant, but doesn’t change his mind. Wycombe convert the penalty, leaving us feeling thoroughly cheated.

The mood as the teams and officials come off the pitch is very ugly. Fortunately, no one can get close enough to the ref to do him the damage they’d clearly like to. The people with the ‘One Community’ flag have taken it and made an early exit.

Back in Sheffield, still seething quietly, we take shelter in the calm of the Old Queen’s Head. One bar is full of Sheff U fans watching their game against Donny, but the other side, showing West Ham v Newcastle, is nice and quiet. We’re joined by Paul, the Wycombe photographer, who’d been hoping to see us in the Fat Cat before the game. He tells us how he thought he’d have a quick one in the Kelham Island first, only to realise it didn’t open till 12. Waiting patiently outside, sheltering from the rain, he thought he was the first there – until the doors opened and about twenty people dashed out from every other bit of shelter in the surrounding area... There’s a pound coin on the floor that I think Paul might have dropped. When he doesn’t claim it, and neither does anyone else, I go and drop it into a charity box. Mr Quinn’s performance really doesn’t influence my choice to give the money to the RNIB, honestly...

The journey back to London is less troublesome than the one up. We get chatting to a Bournemouth fan who’s worked for their club in his time, and is much more generous in his assessment of the set-up at Rotherham than the chuntering Cherry on the Cross-country train. The sour taste of today’s defeat has almost gone by the time we reach St Pancras, but only almost.

Princess Tiaamii's Shoe

2010-10-17T07:14:00.000-07:00

Despite signal failures and defective trains, I reach Euston in good time – unlike Joy, who’s texted Chris Turner to let him know she’s overslept and won’t be joining us today. Fortunately, we’re not relying on her to bring sausages!
On the journey up to Preston, Chris is complaining about being at his sister’s and having to watch one of her favourite programmes, the ITV2 series about the everyday life of Peter Andre and his lovely, shiny abs. Apparently, the episode went into the commercial break on a cliffhanger about whether they would find the missing shoes of his daughter, Princess Tiaamii, before they board a plane. Cue mass ranting about how much better TV was in the old days, when everything was black and white and 47 per cent of the day’s viewing consisted of the test card...
In Preston, we’re meeting Clarkey’s friend, Jackie, who somehow hasn’t been put off by spending the entire afternoon with us when our game at Accrington was called off back in January. We’ve only got time to fit the two pubs in this time. Cutting through the Preston Mobility Centre car park, as you do, we spot a lone shoe lying forlorn in the gutter, black suede with a diamanté buckle. Surely it must be one of Princess Tiaamii’s. Call Peter Andre! Crisis averted! Is there a reward?
Our destination is the Black Horse, with its lovingly preserved interior, all stained glass and little snug rooms. From there, it’s a detour via William’s the butchers’ for pies and Bamber’s cheese shop, where I can’t resist a chunk of the local blue cheese (for local people), Smelly ’Aperth. Then it’s on to the Market Tavern, which is really busy, but we find a spot in the front corner where Chris gets talking to an old Irish lady about her corns. There’s no Elvis playing today, but somehow we get on to the subject of great (or not so great) Elvis impersonators we’ve seen, and why they’re always ‘fat white jumpsuit Las Vegas’ Elvis rather than ‘young hot never tried a fried squirrel sandwich’ Elvis.
Jenny and I bid our farewells to Jackie and head for the station, leaving the boys to catch us up (unless they decide to stay in the pub all afternoon, grab a granny and pretend they’ve won...). We take a shortcut through the St George’s shopping centre, managing to weave our way through the crowds without picking up a subscription to Sky HD and a massive wedding cake on the way.
The first hint of problems comes when our train pulls in. Some lovely people have decided to vandalise a signal box, meaning the service that should go through to York is terminating at Blackburn, with a coach the rest of the way. Except when we get off at Blackburn, there’s no coach. Fortunately, Accrington is a reasonably priced taxi ride away, so we’re at the ground for half-past two. Clarkey suggests we investigate the Crown, next to the ground, but it’s packed and there’s no sign of anything resembling real ale, so we go inside.
It’s another ground like Aldershot, where everyone from bag searchers to turnstile operatives are chatty and friendly – but Jenny and I are dismayed to learn the ground now has a no-flag policy (apparently Morecambe is the same and it’s all something to do with Lancashire Council). Even the home fans have fallen foul of this, with no sign of the massive ‘Accrington Ultras’ banner. We spot Barry, over from Bury, and Phil, Nigel and Diamond. Chris is able to fill Diamond in on the hen party who were in our carriage on the Preston train, this being Diamond’s area of special scientific interest. While Jenny and I are making enquiries about the flag, Clarkey and Chris, baffled by the novelty of being in the ground so early, watch the Rotherham finishing practice taking in place in front of the away end. Despite his excellent goal last week, Nicky Law consistently misses the target. We join the boys and find a spot on the low terrace just to the left of the goal, while the team do the obligatory running between cones, then disappear to the changing room.
The Burtons join us shortly after kick-off, delayed by the transport chaos (well, that’s their excuse). Accrington are bright and nippy, and start the game sharper than us. They take the lead after about ten minutes, when Don is hesitant about coming to take the ball off Andy Parkinson, possibly concerned he’ll give away a penalty if he gets it wrong. It enables Parkinson to round him and score, to general grumbling. The dissatisfaction is eased when Alf is hauled down by Kevin Long and the ref awards us a penalty and sends Long off. Alf’s spot kick is hard and high, and Ian Dunbavin gets nowhere near it. However, the grumbling starts again when we don’t appear to be capitalising on the man advantage, even though we’ve played enough games where we’ve had a man sent off and gone on to outplay the opposition.
From that point on, the Accrington fans behind the goal start shouting for every decision that might affect us unfavourably, and once Kevin Ellison (who does like to put himself about at times) is booked, the players start trying to get him a second yellow and even the numbers up. We create a number of chances, but Dunbavin stops everything. One of these saves, from Alf’s long-range shot, is pretty impressive, but the rest end with Dunbavin on the floor, claiming to have been injured.
At half-time, Stanley boss John Coleman marches straight over to the ref to tell him what he thinks of his performance, then sends his players out a good minute or so after we’ve come back on the pitch, something managers obviously learn in Gamesmanship 101.
It seems to have worked, because almost immediately Accrington score from a corner which is played out to Jimmy Ryan, whose shot goes through a crowd of players. The moaning starts again, most of it reserved for Law and Tom Pope, who has two chances with headers, one of which goes well over but the other is a lot closer. We do have the ball in the net, but Alf is flagged offside after heading in Exodus Geohaghan’s long throw. When Accrington bring on a sub, there are comments directed at Ronnie about that being the way to manage etc etc. A couple of minutes later, Ronnie replaces Ellison with Marcus Marshall, possibly before he can get sent off. Marshall’s extra pace starts causing problems for Stanley, but while most of the play is in their half, Dunbavin is still keeping us at bay. With ten minutes to go, Ronnie replaces Mark Bradley with Ryan Taylor. Almost immediately we’re level, when Geohaghan heads in a corner. He celebrates by making spectacles round his eyes (sadly without going into a full-on Biggles...). We’re really going to miss him when he goes, but Peterborough want silly money for him. Some idiot runs on the pitch and tries to tangle with Dunbavin in the goalmouth, but is swiftly hauled away.
With three up front, we look better than we have all afternoon. Ryan Taylor heads the ball against the post. Three minutes of stoppage time are indicated and the Tannoy announcer gives the Stanley man of the match award to Dunbavin, which is the cue for him to pick the ball out of the net seconds later. Ryan Cresswell bullets in a header from yet another Geohaghan long throw. More idiots run on the pitch. To borrow a line from Ted, there are a few tea parties missing chimps this afternoon. The away terrace goes mental. Chris’ pies are in danger of getting squished by his own feet, or Clarkey’s. I’m in danger of being squished by Burtons. The final whistle goes and we’ve got out of jail.
We make a swift getaway, aiming to catch the train that leaves Accrington at 5.19 – if services are back to normal, that is. Clarkey had originally been intending to leave early to catch the 5.06, as he’s supposed to be seeing Killing Joke at Hammersmith Apollo with Andy Leng tonight. (And is it just me, or does anyone else think that ex-Brentford and Leicester manager Martin Allen is the spit of Killing Joke frontman Jazz Coleman? Okay, just me then.) However, he knocked that plan on the head as he had no idea if that train would be running, and given the result he’s really glad he did. There’s very little information when we arrive at the station, but the guard on a train going to Colne tells us the train to Preston and Blackpool is definitely running. It arrives about five minutes late, which isn’t too bad given everything that’s happened. We trundle through some beautiful, hilly countryside, stopping at places like Church and Oswaldtwistle and Pleasington, which sounds like the kind of town you’d move to in a horror film, only to discover that the idyllic surroundings and friendly faces are hiding something unspeakably nasty...
Back in Preston, we have time for a quick visit to the Fox and Grapes, where Chris is hoping to buy another Ploughman’s Lunch in a packet for a spot of onion juggling, only to discover they don’t have any. He’d seen them in the Market Tavern earlier in the day and decided against getting one – bet he regrets that now! The music on the jukebox is is a mixture of G’n’R and Northern Soul, the Caledonian Mellow Yellow is going down nicely with the boys and we could easily settle in here, except we’ve got a train at seven.
Our journey home is enlivened at Warrington when the carriage is invaded by a group of huge men in training gear carrying heroic quantities of alcohol. It’s Blackheath rugby club. One of their supporters wanders over and offers us some of his port, which we decline. We get chatting and he tells us they’ve beaten Sedgeley Park, who are geographically somewhere close to Bury. He might call football ‘wendyball’, but he’s watched a fair bit in his time and has a soft spot for Southampton. He even knows enough about Rotherham to ask whether Ronnie Moore is still our manager. The team may plough through the Carlsberg like it’s going out of fashion and be playing some drinking game that involves wearing a Hallowe’en mask, but there’s one who just sits opposite us, quietly reading his broadsheet, and as far as I can tell, they all keep their clothes on. (Spoilsports!)
We arrive at Euston about twenty minutes early, so Clarkey, having found out from Andy that the Joke weren’t starting till 9.15, makes a dash for the Apollo to catch as much of the set as they can. The rest of us make our respective ways home, where I make the discovery that the cats like Smelly ’Aperth nearly as much as I do...

Making A Weekend Of It

2010-10-15T08:56:00.000-07:00

Today I’m doing something I don’t think I’ve ever done before, and that’s travelling south to watch a home game. Ted and I having a nice weekend in York, along with a selection of his fellow DAFTS and wives/partners. We’re staying in Bishops Hotel, owned and run by former Darlo legend (according to the boys...) Marco Gabbiadini. After a hearty breakfast, the chaps head for Darlo for their game against Hayes & Yeading while I go down to Sheffield. Everyone else will probably wander into York for a spot of retail therapy and possibly a trip to Betty’s tea room (well, that’s what I’d do, given the choice).
Jenny and Steve Ducker arrive on the good old ‘TCB Miller, MBE’, which has to be an omen. They’ve had a text to say Phil Kyte is running late, so he won’t be joining us in the Fat Cat. Steve has reserved his first ‘Derek Holmes, world’s slowest footballer’ until he reaches Sheffield, because he knows how much I’ll appreciate it. Poor old Derek – scored a hat-trick for us against Lincoln from a combined total of three yards out and this is how we repay him!
Outside the DVS, we spot Martyn Tait, who I haven’t seen in absolutely yonks. He’s having a dilemma – he’s got his wife, who’d probably rather poke her eyes out with rusty forks than watch a football game, sitting in the car, and he doesn’t know whether to actually go inside the stadium instead. We advise him to point her in the direction of Meadowhall, but he’s still dithering as Jenny and I go inside.
There have been a lot of comments from pundits about the standard of League 2 football so far this season, and how it seems more clubs than ever want to get the ball down and play. After comng up against two of those teams in the past couple of weeks, Chesterfield and Bury, we now welcome what look set to be one of the spoilers of the division, Stevenage. I could vent for quite a while on the subject of their self-promoting owner/manager, Graham Westley, and I’m sure I’m not the only one. Let’s just say one day he’ll work his way on to a list of those people who are rather too pleased with themselves, while his team are a bunch of big units who are mostly strung across midfield, more concerned for the most part with not conceding rather than creating too much. When the goalkeeper is timewasting after about twenty-five minutes, you know what you’re in for. We always have problems breaking down sides like this – whether it’s a lack of guile on our part I don’t know, but teams can bully us without actually being dirty. It’s so dull the ‘Booooook him!’ man and his chums in Block 4 Upper are reduced to chanting about the steward who looks like Rafa Benitez (which is funny because it’s true). That said, we take the lead on half time, when Alf plays the ball into the path of Nicky Law, who lashes it into the roof of the net.
The half-time Mayday draw is performed by Ryan Cresswell and the Mayor of Rotherham, who keeps taking the opportunity to give him a reassuring pat. Maybe she’s consoling him over his recent bereavement, or maybe she’s just having a sneaky feel of his biceps...
The second half is just as uninspiring as the first. We have the ball in the net again, but the ref rules out Fenton’s effort, presumably for pushing. Shortly after that, Fenton pulls up with an injury and has to be replaced by Dean Holden. Stevenage get more adventurous, but we keep them at bay until a combination of Don and the defence block an initial shot and the rebound is squared to John Mousinho, who celebrates his goal with some stupid galloping horse celebration he’ll no doubt be explaining on Saturday’s Soccer AM (and why does no one ever say, ‘I only did it because I wanted to be on Soccer AM?’).
Ronnie takes off Bradley and Pope and brings on Harrison and Ryan Taylor, gradually coming back from the pre-season injury that at one stage threatened to keep him out till Christmas. Stevenage think they’ve scored again, but the flag goes straight up for offside. Westley whinges about this after the game, but we could say exactly the same about our disallowed goal.
After the game, I travel back to Sheffield station with the Chrises, Kirland and Burrows. We leave Steve waiting for Jenny at the tram stop. The boys are off to meet Tom in the Old Queen’s Head, but I decline to join them as I’m straight back to York. The train takes me through Wakefield and Leeds, where I’m amazed at the number of Wednesday fans who get off.
Back in York, I meet up with Ted and co, fresh from their one-nil reverse to Hayes & Yeading and mulling over rumours that their manager, Mark Cooper, resigned during the game. Thankfully for them, these turn out to be false. On the way for an excellent meal in the Lime House restaurant, we bump into Gabbiadini and his wife, who’ve been at York Races. Drink may have been involved. We’re sure he’ll be feeling no ill-effects when he checks us out of the hotel tomorrow morning...

So Are They Bury Today Now?

2010-10-07T07:11:00.000-07:00

At last the engineering works are being inflicted on the western end of the District Line, so it’s a quick, smooth ride into the centre of London today. At Euston, we bump into Monica Harland, Stoke supporter and long-time committee member of APFSCIL (the cumbersomely named Association of Professional Football Supporters’ Clubs In London). Normally, Jenny and I only spot her when we’re in the middle of a pig of a journey, wandering past randomly while we’re waiting for a delayed train at Northampton or Leamington Spa. Hopefully this isn’t some kind of omen.

Speaking of omens, I’ve got everyone in the habit of looking for them now. Clarkey was handed a flyer yesterday for a band called Bury Tomorrow, a bunch of flannel-shirted emo types none of us has ever heard of, while Joy and Chris Turner have spotted posters at Euston reading ‘Try Warrington’ and ‘Alf joins Priscilla, Queen Of The Desert’ (that’s a reference to the bloke out of Home And Away, for anyone horrified at the prospect of Mr Le Fondre dragging up). John Kirkland completes the travelling band.

The train leaves on time and arrives in Manchester on time, so that’s a bonus. Kirkland Junior is waiting for us at Manchester, and we head for the tram, which is now running direct from Piccadilly, sparing us the walk to Victoria. Various Millers we recognise get on at stops across the city centre, but they’ll most likely be going to pubs closer to the ground. At Bury, Jenny’s friend Jean is waiting for us, having somehow been persuaded that she really, really wants to spend her Saturday watching Rotherham again. We also spot Barry, our Bury-based Miller, who thinks he may go drinking in the Trackside but does eventually join us in the Rose and Crown.

Having learned from last season, Jenny got in touch with the pub’s landlady a few days ago and arranged to have food put on for us. This equates to meat and potato pie, peas, chips and rolls, all of which is almost ridiculously cheaply priced and much appreciated. Shame the apricot wine runs out when I’ve had a scant glass, but you can’t have everything.

We’re joined by Chris Burrows and three of his Manchester chums, and Diamond, Phil and Nigel, who can’t resist the lure of a night out in Manchester. Some promotion team in the city have been handing out sachets of Sukk, a green tea and lemon-flavoured fibre-filled jelly drink thing. Nigel has saved me a packet, just so he can see the expression on my face when I sample a mouthful of cold, lumpy jelly. Let’s just say it’s an acquired taste...

We arrive at Gigg Lane to find a healthy contingent of Rotherham supporters. The acoustics in the away end are good (so good that we immediately decide to sit as far away as we can from the bloke with the drum!) and Clarkey and Chris K are soon up and chanting.

It’s another good, inspiring Millers performance, though we’re playing in an unfamiliar formation. Alf is on his own up front, with Mark Bradley joining Jason Taylor and Danny Harrison in midfield. Ryan Cresswell is strangely absent and the team are wearing black armbands – these two facts turn out to be connected, as Cresswell’s grandfather, the man who took him to Millmoor was he was younger, died yesterday and he’s not in the right frame of mind to play today.

We very nearly take the lead in the first minute, but Bury clear the ball following a goalmouth scramble. Bury have Lenell John-Lewis (ex of Lincoln and still never knowingly under-goaled) up front alongside Ryan Lowe, but they don’t produce much in the way of shots on target. Meanwhile, Neil Cutler has taken up his usual position on the steps to get an elevated view of proceedings; we can see his head poking over the top of the dugout like a stern, beardy meerkat.

Alf is having a running battle with Efe Sodje, who gets a yellow card very early on for a foul on him, but then somehow escapes a second on a couple of occasions. He’s doing well in his lone frontman role, and has a shot that just flashes wide of goal, but it looks like the first half is going to finish all square. Then Exodus Geohaghon, who otherwise has another very good game (and whose name is increasingly being chanted by the Millers fans, though there’s no Paul Martin here to chip in with ‘movement of Ja people’, as he’d otherwise be tempted to do) passes back to Don a bit casually. I don’t know whether he doesn’t get a shout (though we’ve seen Don bellowing ‘away!’ at his defence in the past, only for them to completely ignore him), but Lowe latches on to the loose ball and rounds Don to score.

Bury are another team who try to cram as many forms of entertainment into half-time as they possibly can. They have tweeny cheerleaders who yell, ‘Go, Bury!’ and form themselves into wobbly human pyramids. One day, this will end badly. There’s a half-time schools six-a-side game, a load of little footballers being paraded for some reason or other (I’d kind of stopped paying attention to the announcer by this point) and Andy Dibble’s son, who’s on the books at Bury, being awarded with his first cap for the Welsh Under-19s. He’s called Christian Dibble. Parents, please think about these things...

Anyway, by now I’ve been distracted by Mr Cutler coming down to warm up Bury keeper Cameron Belford in the goal at our end. It never struck me last season just how tiny Belford is, but now I can see he only comes up to Ivor’s shoulder. There’s no law that says you have to be ludicrously tall to play in goal, but I thought the titchy keeper had officially died out when Neil Edwards, who was at Rochdale for about a thousand years, retired. The Rotherham fans give Ivor a generous round of applause, and he entertains us (okay, me) with some needless stretching.

We’re hoping for a good response from Rotherham in the second half, as we didn’t really deserve to be behind, but we didn’t think it would come as quickly as it does. A couple of minutes in, Kevin Ellison chases down a long ball the defender should probably clear, turns and hooks the ball across goal. Alf can’t resist the invitation and heads past the helpless Belford. His goal celebration ends with him rolling on the floor. I can’t tell what he was supposed to be doing, as a wildly leaping Mr Clarke obscures my view, but I’m sure ‘Soccer AM’ will enlighten me at the weekend (whether I want them to or not).

After that, we have a ten-minute spell where we’re really on top, but the second goal doesn’t materialise. Nick Fenton heads into the side netting, but that’s as close as we come. Alan Knill makes changes for the Shakers, taking off John-Lewis and David Worrall and bringing on Nicky Ajose and Andy Haworth. Last season, when he switched things round it paid off for them. Both Ajose and Haworth are lively, and it looks as though the same thing might happen again. But though Bury have a lot of possession as the game goes on, and the ball spends an awful lot of time in our box, Don only has about one shot to save. In the end, we hold out for a hard-earned draw.

At Bury station, Jean finally manages to escape the mayhem and go home, though she seems to have enjoyed herself. There’s certainly none of the grumbling among Rotherham fans on the tram we heard last time, and as Clarkey points out, the singing of ‘Ronnie Moore’s red army’ went on throughout the game for much longer than it has in a while.

Back in Manchester, we make the trek up the Rochdale Road to the Marble Arch, the main pub of the Marble Brewery (whose beers are a favourite of both Chris T and Ted). It’s a place I’d certainly like to spend more time in, with its original tiles and fixtures and its very enticing-looking menu. The ladies may have teased me for drooling over Mr Cutler, but that’s nothing compared to my reaction on seeing the list of cheeses on offer!

Our route back to the station takes us past the streets where they’re filming Captain America, chosen because they have a 1940s feel. Like all film and TV sets, it looks to be just a lot of people hanging about waiting for something to happen. We bid our farewells to Phil, Diamond and Nigel, who are off to Canal Street for the evening. Lock up your transvestites!

The London train is delayed. Is the Monica Effect kicking in? Fortunately not, as it pulls in about 15 minutes late and doesn’t get any further behind. It’s busy, but half the passengers seem to be shoppers on their way back to Wilmslow and Macc. We find seats in the quiet coach (apart from Clarkey, who was out till the small hours at a Kirk Brandon gig and goes for a quick snooze in first class – solidarity with the masses, brother!) and by Crewe we practically have the whole thing to ourselves.

The temptation to start a conga line is overwhelming, but we resist. Maybe next time...

Dreaming Spireites

2010-10-01T12:19:00.000-07:00

Clarkey should be joining us, but Jenny gets a text to let her know his plans have changed, so it’s just the two of us travelling up today. As our tickets allow us to get on the earlier train, we do just that. Palace are at Derby today, and a few of their fans are in our carriage, already on the cider at 9.30 in the morning. If you looked up ‘cast-iron constitution’ in the dictionary, that’s probably the image you’d see. A handful of Spireites get on at Chesterfield, but the lairy 12-year-olds we usually find ourselves travelling with are more than likely still doing their paper rounds or having a lie-in in preparation for some concerted taunting of our lairy 12-year-olds.

In the Fat Cat we’re joined by Chris Kirkland, who spent last Sunday moving all his stuff up to Nottingham ready to embark on his post-graduate studies (for which read stringing out joining the world of employment a little bit longer, though it won’t stop him using ‘Get a job’ as an insult again if necessary). With him is his friend, Tom, who’s doing his MA in Sheffield and has found accommodation in the student heartland around Shalesmoor. He was only originally intending to join us for a drink, but somewhere along the line he manages to persuade himself coming to the game might be a good idea. Given that last season he saw us lose to Bury and Darlo and scrape a draw with Torquay, he really must be a glutton for punishment.

A bunch of Chesterfield fans pile on the tram in the city centre, singing about Jack Lester, still their talisman even though he’s been surprisingly quiet against us the last few times we’ve played them. We sit quietly, wondering if they’ll be in such high spirits after the game.

The atmosphere at the DVS is building nicely as we arrive. As you’d expect from a derby game, it starts at a million miles an hour, with the first half containing possibly our best football of the season so far. There are chances at both ends, with pixie-faced Spireites keeper being forced into a couple of palm-stinging saves, in both cases just managing to grab the ball before anyone can pounce on the rebound. Jason Taylor is shooting on sight, and there’s plenty of purpose about our play. Chesterfield’s best chance of the half is a shot from the aforementioned Lester. There was a time when he’d have buried it (or, failing that, fallen over and won a free kick from which they’d have scored), but today Don has the better of him.

Half time is a feast for the eyes, in the same way that Greggs’ is a feast for white van drivers. Richard Lee is back, and so are High Definition – are these events in any way connected? The girls slink their way through a routine set to Michael Jackson’s ‘Smooth Criminal’, but they’re just a foil for Miller Bear, who gets to perform his full repertoire of moon-walking, crotch-grabbing Wacko Jacko dance moves. Meanwhile, in the schools’ six-a-side competition, Maltby Lilly Hall are handing out a good old-fashioned smishing to their hapless opponents. I can’t help thinking this is what the inside of Toddy’s head is like...

The second half picks up where the first left off. Chesterfield are a strong, organised side, but we’re matching them, and still playing great football. We score from what, it later turns out, is a move suggested by Andy Liddell, who’s now working on the coaching staff, having retired in the summer. Alf gets on the end of a Johnny Mullins throw and loops the ball brilliantly over Tommy Lee. Cue a concerted attempt by Chesterfield to get back on level terms. Jack Lester, who apart from that one shot has been kept pretty quiet by Exodus Geohaghon, is substituted. Don is forced into three more excellent saves, including one double save after a scramble at the corner (the ball already having hit Kevin Ellison, who’s on the far post, with the Chesterfield fans appealing for a penalty). It’s not all one-way traffic, though, and with a couple of minutes to go, Geohaghon, who’s unfortunate to lose out to Don for man of the match, runs half the length of the pitch and looks as though he might have an attempt on goal. It doesn’t quite happen, but it would have summed up what’s been a thoroughly entertaining match and one that, even with four minutes of added-on time that have the potential to get a bit nervy, we hold on to win. From being our bogey team, Chesterfield have now lost to us in six of the last seven league matches. My brother used to ask to be pinched when we were beating them, as it had to be a dream, but when I text him after the game he reckons it’s more like Groundhog Day.

Jenny’s staying up in Rotherham for the weekend, so I join Chris K, Tom and Chris Burrows to return to Sheffield. The first tram that goes through while we’re waiting is packed with Chesterfield supporters. Unbelievably, they’re twice as loud as they were on the way to the game – I dread to think what they’d be like if they’d won.

Eventually we manage to squeeze on to a tram. There’s just time for a quick drink in the Old Queen’s Head (which, as we’d hoped, is a lot quieter than the Tap would be, and keeps us away from any lingering Spireites), then I bid the boys farewell. The train is heaving. The Palace fans who get on at Derby are pretty subdued, as they’ve lost 5-0, but there are a few Southampton supporters who are fine when they stick to songs about winning the Johnstone’s Paints Trophy, but let the side down when the Pope and the IRA are brought up. Boys, it’s not big, it’s not clever and it’s really not necessary...

I Like The Pope, The Pope Likes The Slope

2010-09-23T13:54:00.000-07:00

When I roll into the beer garden of Ye Olde Mitre, the advance party consists of – my brother. The South Norwood Gentleman’s Rambling Association haven’t made an early visit to the Lord Nelson as they did last season – presumably because there are no shirtless builders on display, unlike before, although the weather is just about warm enough to merit the removal of tops.

And the winner is...

Gradually, the London Miller hordes begin to arrive. Steve Czajewski has Joe in tow, who’s anxious to show off his judo moves. Coupled with the eagerness with which Joe persuades people to have a go on the football card, we may have a potential future fundraising officer on our hands... They’re followed by (in no particular order) Jenny, Tim, Ian Armitage, Chris Kirkland, Chris Turner, Nigel Hall, Andy Leng and the unholy trinity of Diamond, Nigel and Phil, who’ve brought along a new Rotherham-supporting friend they made on the Northern Line. The screen in the back room is showing Stoke v West Ham, but no one is particularly paying it any attention. As ever, when Brad arrives, we know it’s there can only be about twenty minutes till kick-off, so it’s time to go down and put up the flag.

I used to come to Underhill confident in the knowledge that we’d get nothing from the game, but after we won here in April I really don’t know what to expect now.

We’re kicking up hill in the first half, and we look pretty solid, even if the ball does appear to be in the air for at least 50 per cent of the half. Barnet keeper Jake Cole makes a couple of fairly routine save, while down the slope Don is sent scrambling by a long-range shot, but Barnet don’t manage anything on target. One of their defenders, Leach, is forced off with an injury just before half-time, though how much that has to do with him tumbling after being pushed over earlier by Alf, who’s a fraction of his size but must be deceptively strong, we don’t know. It’s scoreless at half-time, but we’ve definitely been the better team.

Steve Ducker wanders over from the stand, where he’s sitting with his father-in-law, to give me a press cutting for the London Miller mag. It’s a piece by Mike Pollitt, about his seduction at the hands of a ‘cougar’. Sadly, it’s not a confession by our old keeper, even though he was definitely a lust object for the Millmoor MILFs.

Going up the slope in the second half seems to galvanise Barnet; they keep the ball on the floor, rather than launching it skywards, and they very nearly take the lead. Glenn Southam forces Don into a good save from a free kick, and the spectacularly named Clovis Kandjo hits the bar with the rebound. Quite a few of the travelling Rotherham fans are vocally disgruntled, and Ronnie reacts to the growing Barnet threat by replacing Paul Warne and Jason Taylor with Tom Pope and Mark Bradley. The changes work; Warney will run round all day, but Pope has more of a physical presence, which we’ve lacked, while Bradley is one of those players who can somehow influence a game without being particularly noticeable.

We get a corner. An initial header hits the bar, and the rebound is scrambled in by Ellison, giving Robert, in a So Solid Crew stylee, 21 minutes to blow. A couple of minutes later, it’s two-nil. Nicky Law makes a great run along the byline and presents Pope with the simplest of finishes. With the Papal visit still in full swing, what could be more appropriate. When Danny Harrison makes it three from a cute Law cutback, the Barnet fans must be wondering what the hell has happened. We’d be celebrating, if it weren’t for what happened last week. And when Barnet pull one back when Don loses out in a one-on-one with Mark Byrne, we start thinking surely there’s no chance we could throw away another decent lead? But we don’t, and Alf even manages to score his eighth of the season with a minute or so to go, when Cole parries Ellison’s shot into his path.

It’s back to the Mitre for almost everyone, to enjoy the last of the evening sun, a nice pint and Sunderland against Arsenal on TV. I’ve just got on the tube back to Central London when Sunderland score their equaliser – should make watching Match Of The Day fun, if only to see how many ways Arsène Wenger can find to complain about the result...

Déjà Burton

2010-09-23T12:21:00.000-07:00

It’s a jolly party consisting of Jenny, Joy, Clarkey and myself who make the trip up to Sheffield. Clarkey is buzzing as he’s been to see Muse (complete with Rotherham-supporting bass player, of course) at Wembley and is raving about how good they were. Having seen them play the same venue a couple of years ago, I have to agree. Still wouldn’t want them doing a U2 and knackering the pitch at the DVS, though...

In Sheffield, Clarkey goes off to meet his mum. We try to get him to persuade her to come out to the Fat Cat, but in the end they go somewhere in the city centre. Unlike Rotherham, even most of the ‘ordinary’ pub/eateries seem to have real ale available. The rest of us meet up with Mr Kyte, who’s seeking sponsors for a 100-mile bike ride he’s doing to raise money for a voluntary project in India. The things people will do to get out of watching us play Chesterfield! How does a pound per blister sound, Phil?

After the mayhem that was the Chelters game, I’m hoping for something a little more straightforward. I don’t get it. Within a minute, Kevin Ellison has scored from a free kick, though from our angle it seems like the keeper might have done better to keep it out. Have we peaked too early? Certainly, Burton respond well to going behind, but though they try loads of clever routines from corners and set pieces, Don has very little to save. They’re a team who are moulded very much in the style of their manager, Paul Peschisolido, who was a serial diver when he played against us – and a highly successful one, going by the amount of times he or his team scored from the free kicks and penalties he ‘won’. Burton haven’t quite mastered his dark arts, and if they stayed on their feet more, they might really be causing us some serious problems. As it is, we go further ahead, when an Exodus Geohaghon long throw is headed in by Ryan Cresswell. Even more improbably, we’re three-nil up at half time, this time from a lovely piece of interplay between Warney and Ellison is finished off by Alf. We can’t quite work out why we’re so far ahead, but we’ll take it.

And then the stadium announcer goes and opens his big mouth. It’s not Richard Lee but a stand-in, and when the half-time scores are read out, he can’t resist announcing that as things stand we only need one more goal to go top of the league. It’s just the kind of grandstanding that demands the gods of football step in and give us a shoeing for our arrogance.

Still, there are other things to distract us. The High Definition dance group are conspicuous by their absence, but the Millerettes are still shaking their tween stuff. More importantly, the schools six-a-side competition is back. Ah, real entertaiment!

Proving that what we could do in the first half, they can do in the second, Burton score in the first minute. Cresswell makes a sloppy pass back to Don, and Shaun Harrad intercepts and sticks it in the net. Despite this setback, we keep playing some decent football, even though Burton are getting a lot of possession. What really changes the game in their favour is the penalty decision. Alfie’s back in defence and when he dwells on the ball, he’s brought down by a Burton player. The ref (Mr Salisbury, whose name on the team sheet has always made my heart sink thanks to his displays) doesn’t do anything about that, but when plays goes and Johnny Mullins makes a desperate lunge to get the ball, he gives the penalty. Yes, it was a foul, but so was the one on Alf, so what’s the difference? For once, Don can’t save it, and now things are getting tight. That said, we still press forward when we can, and Danny Harrison has a long-range shot that’s only just wide of the post. But there’s an inevitability about the moment when Harrad slots home the equaliser. We've done exactly the same as we did against them here last season, except last time we only had the two-goal start. But if that means we'll have the same result against them at the Pirelli as we did last season, I'll take it.

On the balance of the play, a draw is probably the right result, but we weren’t three goals better than Burton in the first half and they weren’t three goals better than us in the second, and if the scoreline had fluctuated more, the result might be easier to take.

At the tram stop, we add Chris Burrows to our merry band, and head for the Sheffield Tap. When we get to Fitzalan Square, the heavens open, and we’re soaked by the time we reach the station. The pub is so busy there’s only room for three of us, so Clarkey and Chris do the honourable thing and wait outside till two others leave. Joy and Clarkey decide to take advantage of the fact the Tap does carry-out, treating themselves to a two-pint carton of Thornbridge Wild Swan to share on the train back to London. Until East Midlands Trains offer something more than the stuff that comes in cans with widgets, it’s the only civilized alternative. Well, that’s their story and they’re sticking to it...

An Evolutionary Tale

2010-09-07T01:59:00.000-07:00

After last week's trip to Hereford the football league fixture computer has produced another trip to almost Wales. Once again due to the distance and difficult train journey from London there is going to be another poor London Millers turn out. Liz has decided to support Non-League Day and go with Ted to Eastbourne to see their match against Darlington so once again the blog is coming from Little bro. I received an e mail from Jenny letting me know that Dave Finnis, our Australian branch, who was the only other person interested in going to Shrewsbury had now been called back to Australia due to work commitments so in the end the turnout was just me.

Shrewsbury's new ground The Greenhaus Meadow, as it is known this season, is another example of why I'm so relieved we are building the new stadium at Guest and Chrimes in Rotherham town centre Shrewsbury have taken the opposite approach and sited their stadium in open countryside right on the edge of the town. The location of the ground and that fact that I'm not meeting up with anyone else in the town means that I have decided to drive. The decision to drive has an added advantage in that it means I can leave home a lot later then if I'd been going on the train so it means I can be around for the blind man who is visiting us. This is a man who fits blinds not a man who can't see as we've just had a new conservatory roof fitted and we are now having it measured for some new roof blinds.

The drive is fairly easy the M5 being fairly quiet the main holiday season being over. One of the fun things of driving around on a Saturday during the football season is spotting which other supporters are on the road. As there are no premier or championship games this week the usual hoards of Man U fans heading from Cornwall to Old Trafford are missing but I do pass a minibus declaring its self to be the "Bridport Glovers" I'm actually surprised that a town as small as Bridport can actual find enough Yeovil fans to fill a minibus. The journey takes a turn for the worst when just past West Bromwich I join the end of the queue for the M5/M6 junction it takes a slow twenty-minute crawl to get on to the M6 where the traffic flows freely again. I spend most of the queue stuck behind a van from "Elliot's" van hire which I take to be a potential omen although as Tom Elliott wasn't fit to play against Hereford it might not. As it turns out later Elliott does play – well, for 48 minutes anyway.

The Charles Darwin - creationists welcome?

Based on advice from the Internet Football Ground Guide I've decided to park at The Charles Darwin, a pub about 15 minutes walk from the ground. When I get there the car park is remarkably quiet but as the parking is free I'm not complaining. The pub is a typical estate pub that serves an acceptable pint of Banks's. The pub is named after Charles Darwin who was born in Shrewsbury. The pub slowly fills up with Shrewsbury fans who seem remarkably friendly to the few Rotherham fans although I do keep hearing a Basil Fawlty style voice in my head saying "Don't mention the Auto Windscreens Trophy!"

After a couple of pints it's time for a stroll to the ground. The referee today is our old friend Trevor Kettle who will always be remembered for an infamous game at Barnsley when he sent off three Rotherham players and gave Barnsley a goal that never crossed the line. However he did give us a penalty when he refereed us at Crewe last season so I'm prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt unlike a number of Rotherham fans who, as I enter the ground, are telling him exactly what they think of him as he warms up with the other officials.

Former Rotherham captain Ian Sharps, who moved to Shrewsbury in the summer and is now their captain, on the other hand, is given a polite round of applause as the teams are read out.

Shrewsbury start the match the more lively, running at the Rotherham defence and making them look worried. I have the feeling that it's going to be a long afternoon! Mr Kettle then demonstrates that he really is a poor referee when, in the first couple of minutes, Tom Newey goes down in the box with an obvious head injury he just waves play on fortunately Shrewsbury don't score while his is down but in the next attack Rotherham aren't so lucky. Johnny Mullins, who is making his first start at right back because Holden, on loan from Shrewsbury, is ineligible to play, lets Craig Disley get a cross in and Lionel Ainsworth is standing on his own in the middle of the box with an open goal he can't miss. One-nil. It's definitely going to be a long afternoon. Shrewsbury dominate the first half, helped by an ability to fall down very easily which Mr Kettle as falls for every time. However, they are unable to make the possession count and so it's still only a one goal advantage they have at half time.

The match turns early in the second half. After a couple of minutes Elliott has to go off with an injury and is replaced by Paul Warne. Suddenly Rotherham are a different side. Warney's energy seems to be contagious. Shrewsbury are under constant pressure for forty minutes as Rotherham attack after attack batters their goal. Warney is in the faces of the defence and allows Alfie to play a bit more Rooneyesque, slipping back in to the hole in front of midfield, and their defence just can’t cope with that, unable to mark him out of the game as they had tried in the first half. Unfortunately for Rotherham, Shrewsbury could have another potential Joe Hart on their hands as Chris Neal pulls of a string of fine saves, and on the one occasion that he is beaten the whistle has already gone for a foul on him. He also resorts to some serious time-wasting which goes unpunished. On the final whistle Shrewsbury celebrate as if they've already won the league. Just be warned, boys; look where Rotherham were this time last season!

The walk back to the car is a disappointed but not downhearted one. If Rotherham continue to play as they did in the second half then it could be another promising season. I text Liz to let her know what's gone on and get a reply that makes me think the spirit of Mr Kettle has been with her, as she has seen two sendings off and that she has been trying to put the spec on John Terry.

The pub car park is rapidly emptying as I get there and I don't stay to drown any sorrows. One advantage of the pub is it is on the right side of the ground to get an easy escape back to the motorway with not much traffic.

On the way home I listen to Five Live who are also covering Non-League Day on 6-0-6 and happen to mention that John Terry was at Eastbourne. Too late, BBC, you've been beaten to the news once again.

Confessions Of A Neutral Supporter Part Seven

2010-09-05T06:32:00.000-07:00

Leaving my brother to enjoy the delights – or otherwise – of Shrewsbury, I’ve decided to join Ted and his Darlo cohorts for the trip to Eastbourne. While it might look as though I’ve jumped on the ‘Non-league Day’ bandwagon, I’d picked out this game, and Darlo’s visit to Cambridge on December 18th when we’re away at Torquay (cheers, fixture compilers!) when the Conference fixtures were first announced.
As you’d expect when Ted’s involved, it’s a ludicrously early start. He’s meeting his mate Tony at King’s Cross, then I’m joining them for breakfast at the Regency Café, just off Horseferry Road, at 8.30. What should be a very simple journey, thanks to engineering works, today involves a bus and three tube lines. However, a gentle stroll from St James’s Park tube, deliciously empty on a Saturday morning, and I’m at the café just as Ted and Tony come wandering up Regency Street. The place is a wonderful Fifties timewarp that appears to be run by someone who loves both boxing and Spurs, judging by the memorabilia on the white tiled walls, and it’s unlike anywhere else we’ve been for breakfast in that you place your order, then go and collect it from the counter when it’s ready, rather than having it brought to your table. The woman taking the orders is a demure-looking, softly spoken blonde, but when the food is done she announces it in the most amazing teak-veneered baritone. My ‘TWO EGG... TWO TOAST’ sets me up nicely for the day ahead, while Ted and Tony pile into bacon, tinned tomatoes, black pudding, eggs and lovely crispy chips (I get to sample a couple...).
When we arrive at Victoria, he entrance to the tube station has been taped off and there are fire engines on the forecourt, but fortunately the rail service isn’t affected. Ted’s Plymouth-supporting chum, Geoff, joins us. As far as I know, it’s the first time he’s seen Darlo play since the FA Cup tie at Barnet last season, but he’s more concerned with discussing Plymouth’s failed bid for Adam Le Fondre. (Money plus Rory Fallon was apparently offered. We’d still rather have Alf.)
The ranks of our party are swelled further at Gatwick Airport. John Bell has used his air miles to treat himself to a flight from Manchester which, even with airport check-ins, saves travelling time. None of us particularly knows this part of the world (apart from Lewes, where Darlo played a cup tie a few years ago, and where the Gardener’s Arms subsequently became DAFTS Pub of the Year), so we admire the spectacular scenery of the South Downs and the strange chalk cliffs that appear just beyond Lewes.

Geoff’s friend Andrew, who lives in Eastbourne, is waiting at the station, as is Brummie Tony, who’s followed Darlo for years despite having no connection to the area. The main rendezvous point for everyone else we’re seeing today is the Eagle, a five-minute walk away, but Ted hasn’t managed to find out when it opens. John goes on ahead, while we pop into the Wetherspoon near the station. When we get the news the Eagle is open (or has landed, or something), we finish up and leave – just as Steve Duffy is ordering a pint! He, along with Geoff and Andrew, will catch us up.
In the Eagle, the boys have the choice of pint jugs (which Ted thinks are just plain wrong) or straight glasses. The place is fairly quiet, MK Dons v Hartlepool on the TV in the corner not being the biggest draw in the world, but soon begins to fill up with more Darloids. Along with the stragglers from the Wetherspoon, we gradually gather up Alisdair, a university friend of Steve, who now lives and works in Eastbourne, Steve’s brother, Martin and their Villa-supporting crony Pat, who’s something in East Sussex CAMRA. Ian Swallwell brings along a friend who’s a Brighton fan. Brighton should be playing Plymouth today, but the game’s off due to international call-ups, even though Geoff claims Plymouth haven’t got that many international players. Finally, Colin and his wife, Gill, arrive from Nottingham. Colin is going to be today’s ‘expert summariser’ on the radio commentary alongside journo Ray Simpson, and he’s taking the task so seriously that he’s not drinking and has a sheaf of research notes that would put John Motson to shame.
Ted needs to set up his camera equipment in good time, so Ian gives him, me and Tony a lift to the ground. It’s about three miles out of the town centre, and we manage to take a wrong turn somewhere in the housing estate that surrounds the ground, but a bloke walking his dog gives us very accurate directions and we find it without further problems.
The Langney Sports Club, where Eastbourne Borough play, is tucked away in the middle of a quiet residential area. You don’t know the ground is there until you’re right on top of it. As we’re walking towards the turnstiles, a rabbit is hopping around on a little track that leads behind the neighbouring houses, and I’m able to get pretty close to it before it finally gets spooked. Certainly not something you see every day.
Once inside, we find ourselves in a ground made up of low, covered cinderblock terraces and a main stand that takes us about two-thirds of the main stand. Pretty much what you’d expect from an outfit who are still part-timers. We find a spot just by the corner flag. There’s no segregation, though most of the Darlo fans appear to be behind the far goal. Their ‘band’ is certainly there, making themselves heard – not so much Four Poofs And A Piano as Four Darloids And A Drum. There are also quite a few Brighton fans in evidence, and when the crowd is eventually announced, it’s over 1400.
Darlo are attacking towards us, and they start in pretty lively fashion. This close to the action, you can hear everything that’s being said, and Eastbourne’s No 3, Neil Jenkins, has a few choice (and unrepeatable words) for the referee and his assistant, who looks about 16, whenever a decision goes against him. When Jenkins goes through Darlo’s Gary Smith with a tackle, the ref barely hesitates before getting out his red card. We think the decision was harsh, but we can’t help thinking it may be as much for what Jenkins has said as the tackle. Things go from bad to potentially farcical for Eastbourne a couple of minutes later. Their keeper, Rikki Bull, who’s already misjudged the number of Ks a grown man should have in his name, misjudges the ball he’s collection and handles the ball outside the area. The referee has no choice this time, and Bull gets second use of the soap. He’s replaced in goal by midfielder Matt Smart, whose long hair and sharp features make him look like the runt of the Gareth Ainsworth litter. Living up to his name, though, he makes a smart save from the free-kick the Quakers are awarded for Bull’s offence. ‘We might just scrape a point from this one,’ a Darlo fan mutters to Tony as he goes past to the gents’.
By this time, the natives at the side of us are getting very restless, and a couple of the boys fancy a pre-emptive half-time burger, so we move round to the snack bar. That’s where we’re standing when Chris Senior scores for Darlo. The Eastbourne defence let the smallest man in the team get in a header which gives Smart no chance.
At half-time, I join Ted, who’s set up his camera position behind the far goal. He gets a message from his contact at the Northern Echo, asking if he can take some shots of John Terry, who’s here today watching his brother, Paul. As Ted wanders off to perform said chore, I wonder if I should send some spec in the direction of JT. So far, he’s seemed quite capable of putting the spec on himself, but I do it anyway from force of habit.
As the second half begins, Darlo look confident. Paul Terry is controlling the midfield, and Paul Arnison is putting in some great crosses from the right wing, but none of the resulting shots are really testing Smart. Ted has a bit of banter with Gary Smith, who last season had long enough hair to need a headband. Ted lets him know the new short style is a vast improvement with the confidence only a man who hasn’t had his hair cut for the last several years can.
Meanwhile, I’ve been roped in as camera roadie, as Ted switches from one to the other, depending on whether he’s taking close-ups or action shots. It’s called earning my keep...
A young seagull settles on the terrace just behind us, and stands there for a minute or so. Seems like all the wildlife round here is strangely confident!
Darlo boss Mark Cooper, standing in his shirtsleeves on the touchlines, makes a couple of substitutions, taking off Liam Hatch and Jamie Chandler and bringing on Josh Gray and Richard Offiong, the latter of whom once very nearly came to Rotherham on loan, but if anything it’s Eastbourne who are starting to look the stronger team. Smart makes a save and punches away a ball with the surety of a man who’s played in goal before. It reminds me of going to see Darlo play Brighton when they were based at the Priestfield. Darlo’s David Preece was sent off, Carl Shutt replaced him in goal and had an absolute blinder, only for it to emerge later that Shutty had kept goal regularly in his youth.
I disappear into the ladies’. As I emerge, Tom Hark is playing over the Tannoy, so Eastbourne must have scored. Ted lets me know that Darlo have somehow managed to give the smallest man on the opposition side a free header from a corner.
After that, Darlo press for another goal, but a combination of Smart and the Eastbourne defence keep them out. At the final whistle, Smart turns to sarcastically applaud the Darloids who’ve been giving him a bit of gip during the game, only to find they’re giving him a genuine ovation for his efforts.
That said, the mood as we walk back to the car is pretty downbeat, not helped when I find out we’ve lost one-nil to Shrewsbury. In the pub, I get a text from Robert, telling me exactly what he thinks of the Shrews and their ‘cheating, time-wasting’ tactics...
There’s time for a quick one back at the Eagle before Ted, Tony, Steve, Martin and I head for the station. Steve and Martin are off back to Brighton for a home-cooked dinner courtesy of Martin’s missus. Ted gets chatting to some bloke with a tripod who turns out to be a birdwatcher, while Martin tells us about the walks he’s been talking over the Downs. (So now you know what rock musicians do in their down time...)
We bid farewell to the Duffy brothers at Lewes. After a nicely uneventful journey, it’s back home to go for dinner with Tony, who’s claimed a bed for the night before his early train back to Darlo, at our favourite curry house. A nice end to non-league day.

Hereford Bar T'at

2010-08-30T13:24:00.000-07:00

With Simon Davey having quit Darlo for Hereford in what could be termed controversial circumstances this summer, which meant that we had to make time in our holiday week to Amsterdam to listen to the Radio Tees phone-in on the subject, I decided to boycott the Hereford game in a gesture of solidarity. Well, that's my story and I'm sticking to it. So here's the trip from my brother's point of view...

Phil and Nigel let the side down by drinking lager

Not seeming like five minutes since we were last making this trip the London Millers are off to Hereford again although this time it’s a lot smaller London Millers turn out than last season’s end of season hat fest.

I’ve taken the local train from Cheltenham up to Worcester where I join the train carrying the London contingent which this time consists only of Jenny and Chris T, who has managed to set his alarm and make it this time. Chris has brought with him the sausages on sticks that he’d meant to bring the last time although I am assured it is not the same sausages but a fresh lot. We tuck into these together with some of Darlington’s finest Pork pie and cheese and onion on sticks as the train slowly wends its way through the Malverns. Just three hours and twenty minutes after Jenny and Chris left London we arrive at Hereford; Chris says the trip by Eurostar to Holland to watch Yorkshire play cricket a few weeks ago was quicker. On our way to the Barrels we notice that the main street is cordoned off and forensic investigators are present. We suspect that someone has borrowed the crossbow from the town hall and killed a Welsh person they’ve spotted in the street as apparently local bylaws still allow you to do. We comment that no one suggested repealing this law when the coalition government were recently looking for laws to get rid of. Outside the Barrels Jenny meets up with her friend, Anne, who lives just outside Worcester. Anne is meeting us for drinks but we fail to persuade her to come to the match, too. The Barrels have their annual charity beer festival after last week’s match when the Fat Cat had a beer festival on and also last season’s trip to Burton we take this as a lucky omen in many ways. The first round of drinks is from the Wye Valley selection on the main bar before we head out in to the rear courtyard to sit in the sun and peruse the festival beer list. Only fifty beers plus ciders to choose from. The closest to an omen beer we can find is Cotleigh Blue Jay in honour of Jason Taylor. A wasp decides it is going to end its days by drowning itself in my beer.

Dave sits quietly for The Librarians

We are convince by the local rotary club to by raffle tickets for their duck race. The prize is £1000 but we are convinced that if we get a phone call next week telling us we’ve won a grand we will just put the phone down assuming it’s one of the usual spam phone calls. The festival programme has a quiz in it: 25 music questions, all with a drink theme. We do better on the alcohol related ones than the teetotal selection. What that says about us – answers on a post card, please. Slowly we are joined by a few more of the London Millers. Martin Burton and his son, Alfie, have come across from Derby, Dave Bates has travelled up from North Devon, Nigel and Phil have come down from Sheffield and Dave Finnis is still in the country on business from Australia. One of the down sides of the beer festival is they have live entertainment. The band for the lunch time session is a folk duo called The Librarians and Chris reckons we should all go, ‘Shush, be quiet,’ when they come on. However when they do appear on stage we are more intrigued in working out whether the female fiddler is pregnant or has a baby tightly bound to her bosom. It turns out to be the latter. The plus side of the beer festival is it is the only occasion when the Barrels does food so we are able to fill our faces with burgers before we leave for the match.

CSI Hereford are still investigating in the market place but Anne’s local knowledge means we just have to take a minor detour via a back alley to the ground. The teams are just coming out as we arrive with the only change for the Milers being Paul Warne starting up front instead of the injured Elliot. However for me seeing the Millers for the first time this season there are quite a few new faces but still no excuse for me mixing up Nicky Law and Danny Harrison which I do later in the match. The first half is fairly uneventful with a much better Rotherham performance than last season as the players actually look interested. Then right on half time the Hereford defence fall asleep when Rotherham take a quick throw in and Warney gets his head on to a le Fondre cross. On Chris’s advice a sample a Hereford beef and onion pie at half time which was pretty good and leads to a suspicion to where the bull that used to be paraded around Edgar Street before games has ended up.

Hereford come out more strongly in the second half but seem unable to score. Even Stuart Fleetwood, who caused many problems for Rotherham when he played for Forest Green, is off form. The blowing really starts when Hereford start to pile the pressure on in the last five minutes and then the ref seems to find added time from nowhere and with Don having to pull off two fine saves we think the referee is going to keep playing until Herford equalise. He does finally blow the whistle and we can all celebrate the fist win at Hereford for as long as any of us can remember.

Unfortunately there just isn’t time to make it back to the Barrels after the game so Jenny, Chris, Nigel, Phil and myself make the usual stop at the Wetherspoons near the station before we get the train. The demise of Sky Sports News from Freeview means the pub are only showing BBC news so we are reliant on Phil’s phone to bring us all the rest of the scores. Beers quickly downed we head back to the station where fortunately our train is waiting on the first platform. Phil and Nigel will have an hour and a half wait in Birmingham so we try and give them directions to the Wellington as it’s a much better place to kill time than the pub on New Street station.

Jenny, Chris and I get off at Worcester Foregate Street and stop off in the Tesco Express by the station so Jenny and Chris can stock up on supplies for the long journey back to London as Jenny’s previous experience indicate that their train will be an old boneshaker with no buffet (she’s right). On returning to the station we discover that my train to Cheltenham has been cancelled with a two-hour wait before the next one. The ticket clerk tells me to join the London train and change at Worcester Shrub Hill where there will be a Cheltenham connection. It turns out that the incoming train that should form the Cheltenham service is running late so is going to be terminated and turned round at Worcester Shrub Hill rather than going through to Great Malvern. So I travel up to Shrub Hill where a leave Jenny and Chris for their long, slow journey back to London. The train I’m waiting for arrives but the staff don’t let us board until it has gone down to Foregate Street to turn round before heading back down south. There’s organisation for you! In the end I’m only five minutes late arriving in Cheltenham so just time to pick up a Chinese takeaway before catching the bus home. So even First Great Western can’t ruin a great day that had good weather, a beer festival and three points.

When Football Games Go Mad

2010-08-23T04:22:00.001-07:00

St Pancras is unpleasantly clammy, the couple of lurking policeman presumably there to keep an eye out for any rogue Millwall supporters taking the circuitous route to Leeds. It can’t be for the Brighton fans en route to Hillsborough – from past experience, they’re more likely to go looking for the local Waitrose than any form of trouble.

Ted’s sitting chatting to Jenny when I arrive. Even though his train is a few minutes after ours, he made an early start so he could get his breakfast. A man needs to fortify himself when he’s lugging a huge rucksack full of camera equipment up to Kettering, don’t you know?

We’re joined by Chris Kirkland, Chris Turner and Clarkey. Mr Turner apologises for being a little sweaty, but he’s made part of his journey by ‘Boris Bike’. At least, that’s his excuse for breaking out the continental lager as the train trundles through Cricklewood...

When we reach Sheffield, Chris K hangs back to meet Chris Burrows, who’s coming through from Manchester and needs guidance in finding the Fat Cat. It’s the pub’s 29^th birthday beer festival, and though the advertised barbecue won’t be starting till after we’ve left for the match, as long as there’s steak pie on the lunch menu, people will be happy.

Ted’s mate, Brian, is already in the Fat Cat, having decided a jaunt round the fine pubs of the city where he lives is preferable to an afternoon in Kettering. He has a pint with us, shares his always unique view of the world, then departs for the Devonshire Cat. At some point in these proceedings, we’re joined by Phil, Frances and Joy.

As always, I’m looking for omens in beer names. There’s nothing referencing the current squad, but Clarkey samples the Monty’s Midnight stout, in tribute to the very lovely Gary Montgomery, who turned his back on football after being made surplus to requirements at Grimsby and started taking his cricket seriously. Unfortunately, by signing for Lancashire, he’s gone over to the dark side of the force, but no one’s perfect. He actually made his first team debut in a televised CB40 game against Somerset this week. No wickets in his bowling spell, but he did take a catch, prompting the predictable cracks from the boys about him holding on to the ball for once. He was last man in, and the batsman down the other end was out before he could face a ball, which Clarkey reckons means he now has a batting average of infinity! Brian, à propos of very little, had made a remark about people not knowing the difference between sarcasm and irony. So, Brian, what’s the correct grammatical term for discussing cricket scores before going on to witness what’s about to happen at the DVS?

Jenny and I leave in good time, as she’s arranged to meet Dave Finnis. As ever, his need to travel over from Australia has coincided with some football matches. She gives him a small selection of the programmes she’s been collecting for him – the rest will be going to Hereford next week, presumably in a small suitcase... We also bump into Hugh Vaughan, who has daughter Sian with him. He claims she’s only here for the pre-match pie! Hugh was at our reserve game against Bradford in the week. We won 5-0, but he claims he’s still not convinced about a couple of the players on display lasting a full ninety minutes of action, including Marcus Marshall. I reckon it’s going to be useful to have players like Marshall to come on towards the end of a game if Ronnie needs to change things. We shall see.

Since we last played Cheltenham, which only feels like a couple of weeks ago, they’ve got rid of veterans Barry Hayles and Julian Alsop (now back plying his trade at the mighty Bishop’s Cleeve). The game has barely settled down when one of their new-look front line, Jeff Goulding, scores. It’s a good goal, but it’s come out of nothing and it instantly deflates the crowd. I console myself with the thought they’ve probably peaked too early. I seem to have been proved right when Tom Elliott plays a clever ball into the path of Alf, whose far-post finish comfortably beats the Chelters keeper, Scott P Brown. (They did have two Scott Browns in their squad last season, hence the initial. This season they only appear to have one, but presumably he didn’t want anyone to take the P. He’s also decided to team a fluorescent orange jersey with lime green socks. Don’t try this at home, children.)

There’s a raft of scouts in the seats behind the press desks, and furious scribbling breaks out. There’s no sign of Mr Scouts With Wolves, who was a regular visitor last season, but there’s certainly someone with a Derby badge on his padded jacket. ‘And Derby probably needs someone,’ says our chum with the two boys in the row in front. ‘They’ve lost again today.’

We have a good chance to take the lead, but Nicky Law can’t keep his shot down. Then, for some reason, we forget how to defend for ten minutes. The normally impeccable Don starts to come for a ball, stops, and allows a Chelters player to pass the ball to Wesley Thomas for an easy tap-in. While we’re still reeling from this lapse, Exodus Geohaghon plays a casual pass to Dean Holden. He’s beaten to it, and Shaun Jeffers, who’s on as a sub for Goulding, makes it 3-1 to Chelters. All around me is despondency. ‘When did we last score four in a game?’ asks my dad, the answer being at Bradford, just before Christmas last year. Our chum in front is cursing Danny Harrison for not having the best of games, and I’m starting to believe that people are calling for some new Russian signing, ‘Ronnie Gerrimoff’. An enormous dragonfly floats past, oblivious to the gloom. Just before half-time, Nicky Law lays a ball into the path of Harrison, who curls the ball beautifully into the top corner. ‘Okay, I’m a hypocrite,’ confesses our chum in front when he finally stops eulogising over the finish. Even though we’re still behind, the mood has changed and the team is applauded off the pitch.

At half-time we’re again treated to the underwhelming dance stylings of the Millerettes and High Definition, but we are in the presence of greatness, as the Chuckle Brothers perform the half-time draw. Presumably, they’re contractually to do this at least once a season, being honorary Presidents of the club.

The match turns on an incident a couple of minutes into the second half. One of the Cheltenham defenders pushes Elliott over in the box. It’s a silly, obvious foul and the ref points to the spot immediately. Brown does his best to psych out Alfie, lingering by the ball when it’s been put down, then making himself look huuuuge in the goal. It almost works, as he saves the penalty, but the rebound falls straight to Alfie, who slots it between Brown’s legs.

This is when things start to get seriously weird. A couple of minutes later, we get a free kick, which Tom Newey takes. There’s a scramble in the area, and who should get his head on it but Alfie. Finally, after scoring two in a game on so many occasions last season, he’s got his first hat-trick for us.

Not to be outdone, Ryan Cresswell quickly heads in a fifth, and people are starting to lose track of the score. There’s a bloke sitting two rows in front of us with a little boy of about four. He has to keep taking him out to the toilets or the concessions, and he’s missed Harrison’s and Cresswell’s goals. ‘Keep going outside,’ my dad tells him, ‘because every time you do, we score.’

It does look like we could score another every time we go forward. Alf volleys a spectacular-looking shot, but Brown saves it comfortably. Then Ellison rolls the ball into Alf’s path. Brown gets fingertips to it, but it rolls into the net. Cheltenham can’t know what’s hit them. It’s not as though the players’ heads have dropped, and they’re still trying to get back into the game. Shaun Jeffers has a shot that hits the post. In the efforts of Don and the defence to clear it, something happens that causes the ref to blow for a penalty, but in the tangle of arms, legs and bodies it’s hard to see exactly who gave it away. Don isn’t quite so theatrical about making his presence known to the penalty taker, but like Brown he also makes a save – except he manages to push it behind for a corner, which we clear.

Ronnie takes off Elliott, who looks to be struggling, and Ellison, who is injured in a challenge, and brings on Marcus Marshall and Paul Warne. Marshall seems very confident, presumably after scoring against Peterborough, and has one beautiful moment when he controls a long diagonal ball in a way we keep being told English players just don’t have the technical ability to do. Warney, meanwhile, is his usual livewire self, trying to score the seventh but also haring back to defend when he needs to. Because we’re still pushing forward, we get a bit sloppy at the back again, and allow Chelters to score a rather soft goal from a corner. I’ve never seen ten goals in a game before – the best I managed was nine, a few Christmases ago, when we went 5-1 up against Hull and somehow let them pull it back to 5-4. In a recording studio somewhere, Danny Dyer is probably already being dusted off to put a voiceover on this game for some end-of-season bloopers and highlights compilation.

As I go to collect the flag, I’m punch-drunk. I can only imagine how the Cheltenham fans feel. I text my brother to find out whether he’s sleeping on the couch tonight, being married to a Cheltenham girl and all, but apparently it’s always a happy house when Rotherham win. Meanwhile, Ted seems to have lucked out, as the Kettering-Darlo game has finished nil-nil.

At the tram stop, Clarkey and the Chrises are as bewildered by events as I am (Jenny’s stopping over in Rotherham tonight, presumably in a darkened room with a wet flannel over her forehead after all the excitement.) Chris T claims that at some point in the second half, when there hadn’t been a goal for about ten minutes, he heard some bloke behind him shout, ‘Sort it out, Ronnie, it’s gone flat!’

We go down to the Sheffield Tap, where Chris T and Clarkey have what they decide is their best pint of the day, the Hawkshead Lakeland Pale Ale. It’s threatening to spit with rain, but sitting outside is still more pleasant than the muggy interior of the pub, and it allows for better people watching. Plenty of Brighton fans are streaming in, fresh from their defeat by the Wendys. A couple of them fall foul of the ‘no colours’ policy, but the bouncers are reasonable enough about it, as they have been with us in the past.

Getting on the train back to Sheffield, I spot one of the Cheltenham players lugging his kit bag into a carriage further down the platform. The rest of the train is mayhem, as one of the carriages is faulty, but by the time we’ve left Chesterfield we’ve finally managed to get four seats together. Clarkey spots a bloke he knows called Ian, who organises the travel for the London Owls, and they compare performances today. It seems the number of Wednesday fans travelling up from the capital is dwindling – just like us, they’ve got members who’ve moved back north, or have family commitments or financial constraints preventing them from getting so many games.

I get distracted from the serious conversation by something far more important, spotting another of my omen obsessions – llamas! Llamas I’ve never seen before! There are three of them in a field, somewhere near Long Eaton, but we don’t usually pass through this area slowly enough to notice them. Now the day truly is complete.

As we approach London, Chris T and Clarkey debate the idea of going for a swift pint, either at the Betjeman or somewhere near Victoria station, but when we get off the train it feels much later than half-past eight and everyone’s shattered, so we all decide going straight home is the best option. It’s true what your parents told you when you were little – all that excitement will tire you out!

Confessions Of A Baffled Armchair Viewer

2010-08-14T09:55:00.000-07:00

Having decided to forego the lengthy trip to Morecambe (I'll save those delights for the Manchester branch and Joy, who's able to combine the game with a weekend in Blackpool...), I'm left with the usual dilemma of how to pass the afternoon without fretting too much about what might be happening on the pitch. Sitting in front of Sky's Soccer Saturday with a cup of tea should be the default position, but that's way too stressful. I've learned from experience that however hard you concentrate on the list of current scores, willing the number by 'Roth' to flick from a zero to a one (or whatever we need to get us back in a game), it almost never happens. Add to that Jeff Stelling's habit of trying to tease you into guessing which team has scored a vital goal, and it plays havoc with your blood pressure. The year we were vying with Millwall to get promoted to what was then called Division One, we played them at Millmoor just before Christmas and I didn't go. We sneaked the win right at the end of the match, but as Stelling announced, 'There's been a goal at Millmoor... but which way has it gone, Alan McInally?' I was literally down on my knees yelling at the TV set, 'Just tell me!' Dignity, always dignity...
So Plan B (actually, Plan A, because it predates our having satellite TV), is to do some baking with Five Live's commentary game on in the background. There's somethng very therapeutic about rubbing butter into flour for scones while listening to Blackpool fans get the hell patronised out of them by some touchline reporter. (This being the modern media, which assumes we can't last five minutes' discussion of any subject without hearing the opinion of some ordinary members of the public...) The game rapidly turns into a cakewalk for Blackpool, largely thanks to Roberto Martinez' preference for picking the other Chris Kirkland ahead of Rotherham legend Sir Michael Pollitt, and anyway, my scones are done, so I risk a quick check of the League Two scores. 'Morecambe 0-0 Rotherham'. Fair enough; I'll take that as a result now, given Morecambe's old ground hasn't been particularly lucky for us (three visits, one win, two defeats) and they'll be on a high after their midweek victory in the Carling Cup.
Flicking channels (athletics, old film, old film, Gok Wan, old film - you get the general picture), I discover that S4C are showing action from the League of Wales, Carmarthen against Aberystwyth. I wouldn't normally pay it much attention, but in goal for Aberystwyth is former Rotherham keeper, Steve Cann. We might have dubbed him the Preening Lovely, because of the way he came and flicked his hair in front of us during a half-time kickaround at Hereford, but he seemed like a nice boy. He was certainly thankful to me and Gwenn for saving him from teeny tiny Stephen Brogan's stalker, who used to hang round after games at Millmoor chasing the younger and prettier members of the squad. And he also got the team through to the Northern Final of the Johnstone's Paints Trophy a couple of seasons ago, by making a save in the penalty shoot-out against Darlington with a rather delicate part of his anatomy... Sucked in by the sight of a familiar face in a strange environment, I stick around and watch most of the second half.
If I have learned nothing else today, it's that John Hartson is a fluent Welsh speaker (he's summarising during the game). Fortunately for those of us who aren't, you can pick up the English commentary via the red button. They also have the latest scores scrolling up the screen, but this is more fascinating than nerve-wracking, because they use the Welsh spellings of a lot of team names. It enables me to toast Darlington's opening victory in the Conference, against Casnewydd (Newport County, since you ask). Morecambe and Rotherham are simply Morecambe and Rotherham (I thought they might have a Welsh version, even if we didn't), and have remained goalless. So I've not really missed anything, thankfully.
Meanwhile, the Carmarthen/Aberystwyth game develops into a five-goal thriller, with Cann making a really good save with his feet that prevents Carmarthen grabbing an equaliser. We taught him everything he knows, you know....
Next week, it's back to normal (or as normal as a home trip ever gets). But this odd Welsh interlude has been strangely entertaining.

The Delroy Facey Rainbow Coalition

2010-08-12T08:47:00.000-07:00

Wembley only seems like five minutes ago as Steve Ducker, Clarkey and I congregate on the upper concourse at St Pancras. Jenny should have been with us but she’s up in Rotherham, looking after her brother who’s convalescing following a minor operation. Just to remind us of what we could have won, the fixture compilers have decided to send Dagenham & Redbridge to Hillsborough today, and a few of their fans are waiting to get on the same train as us. Of course, Clarkey can’t resist suggesting the reason they’re travelling in numbers is because West Ham aren’t at home...

Steve cracks his first 'Derek Holmes, world’s slowest footballer' joke approximately three minutes after we pull out of St Pancras. Oh, yes, it’s good to be back...

At Sheffield station, Steve heads off to meet his sisters at Meadowhall. One day, he’s really going to have to persuade them the Fat Cat’s a better option than a shopping mall food court! A quick call to Jenny establishes that she’s on the bus over from Rotherham, so I let her know Clarkey and I will see her in the pub.

Already in the Fat Cat are Joy and Frances, who set off up the M1 at some ridiculous time this morning, and Julia. No sign of any Daggers, who all appear to have opted for the Kelham Island Tavern. We commandeer enough tables not only for Jenny when she arrives, but for Nigel Hall and his nephew, Karl, who he’s persuaded to visit the DVS. One of the beers on draught is from the good old Thorne Brewery. Dunston’s Ships is described by the barman as a ruby bitter. Both Clarkey and Nigel, who sample a pint, approve.

Jenny and I leave in good time to meet my dad, who’s got my season ticket, at the stadium. Of course, he and Gordon arrive ten minutes after they thought they would, but it gives us the chance to spot a few familiar faces, including Mick Walker. No sign of Howard Webb, who I thought might be taking the opportunity to watch the Millers seeing as he’s got some time off following the World Cup final. At least the Dutch seem to have stopped being mean about him, which means I no longer have to think about forgoing our annual week in Amsterdam next year in protest...

A couple of players are sitting in the block of seats above where Jenny and I fasten the flag. I don’t recognise them, but then I don’t recognise half our squad, there have been so many comings and goings in the summer. My dad, who’s already been to one of the pre-season friendlies and not had a clue who anyone was, and I were joking that as Lincoln have signed Drewe Broughton and another ex-Miller, Delroy Facey, we’ll know more of their team than we will ours!

An aside (because I’ve got this far without digressing, which is pretty good going for me): before he played for us, we once met Delroy Facey’s cousin in the buffet car of a train coming back from Sheffield. We got talking because she overheard me talking about Darlington, which is her home town. Nice girl.

Anyway, before the end of last season, the annual ‘Matt Hamshaw to sign for Rotherham’ bandwagon creaked into sight. Hamshaw’s a Rotherham boy and a Rotherham fan, and at least one poster on one of the Millers messageboards has a real fetish about him coming to the club. I was waiting for yet another story about our being interested in Jack Lester, while my brother declared he was joining the ‘Bring Back Delroy Facey Rainbow Party Coalition’. Just because he could, you understand.

As it is, stadium announcer Richard Lee, who seems to be having a first day back at school sugar rush, going by all the new musical stings that accompany his announcements, has his work cut out introducing the new players. In no particular order, we give warm DVS welcomes to Dean Holden (on loan from Shrewsbury, lovely shiny hair), Exodus Geohaghon (on loan from Peterborough, spectacular name), Ryan Cresswell (signed from Bury, Rotherham boy and Rotherham legend following a very brief loan spell two seasons ago), Tom Newey (also signed from Bury, recipient of dogs’ abuse while playing for Grimsby at Dagenham two seasons ago), Tom Elliott (on loan from Leeds, also spent time at Bury – Alan Knill doesn’t really need a scouting report on us, does he?) and Mark Bradley (signed from Walsall, a Welsh international despite coming from somewhere in the West Midlands. Marcus Marshall has made a permanent move from Blackburn and Jason Taylor is back from his loan spell at Rochdale. As well as big Drewey, out have gone Marc Joseph, Mark Lynch, Micky Cummins, Andy Nicholas, Pablo Mills, David Haggerty, Andy Liddell and Ian Sharps, who surprised everyone by turning down a new contract and signing for Shrewsbury. Splitter! You can see why this will take us a while to adjust.

Lincoln have made a few changes of their own, mind. They’re playing big Drewey as the lone striker in a 4-5-1 formation, supplemented by speedy wingers Mustapha Carayol and Albert Jarrett. This will work well for them in plenty of games this season, but Cresswell and Geohaghon seem quite able to cope with Drewey, who’s had his elbows refurbished over the summer. The ref is surprisingly lenient with him – for us, he usually got booked, or at least sternly ticked-off, the first time he got over-physical. The first ‘booooook him’ from the blokes at the left of us comes after four minutes. Their song about Alf being the white Pele is still failing to catch on whenever they sing it. As I said, it’s good to be back...

Such considerations seem pretty immaterial after ten minutes, as Kevin Ellison volleys a shot, it gets stabbed off the line and Alf fires the clearance into the roof of the net. ‘We are top of the league!’ chant the blokes on my left. Calm down, dears, it’s only our first goal of the season. Still, it damps down the restlessness that would otherwise have grown the longer we go without scoring.

Elliott is winning plenty of balls in the air, and has a couple of headers that go narrowly wide of the goal. Don is a virtual spectator, and we look more and more comfortable as the half progresses.

The half-time special guest for the Mayday draw is... the Mayor of Rotherham! In addition, there are not one, but two new troupes of cheerleaders, the tweenie Millerettes and the slightly older High Definition. I’ll be surprised if either of them are still around by October.

Lincoln pull the old stunt of leaving us waiting for a while before emerging for the second half. They show more aggressive intent, though we’re still keeping Drewey quiet. Then Carayol breaks at speed, despite all the cries from the crowd that he’s offside, and fires in a curling shot from the left side of the box to equalise. It doesn’t take long for the discontented grumbling to start. ‘Rubbish... Can’t string two passes together..,’ come the comments, though with so many new faces in the team, it’s bound to take some time for the team to learn how to play together. Lincoln look threatening, but they’re still not giving Don a lot to do. Carayol has another run and a couple of stepovers, but his shot is well over the bar. At the other end, Alf fails to get a header on target. Ronnie eventually makes a substitution, bringing on Bradley for Harrison. Lincoln respond with the arrival of Clark Keltie, who’s the subject of a bet between Ted and his friend, Chris. Chris reckons Keltie will play at a higher level than League Two. Ted reckons his money is safe...

Bradley’s appearance seems to move us up a gear. We begin to attack the Lincoln goal with purpose. The crowd have gone from doom and gloom to shouting, ‘Olé!’ in the space of twenty minutes. I love a healthy sense of perspective...

With a couple of minutes to go, Nicky Law puts in a great cross from the byline. Ryan Cresswell gets his head on it and enhances his legendary status by scoring the winning goal on his début.

On the way to collect the flag, I bump into Steve Exley, who comments that Law should get to the byline more frequently. He seems happy enough with the result, though.

Clarkey is stopping in Rotherham tonight, so Steve D and I go for a swift drink in the Sheffield Tap before catching the train. The weather, which has been beautiful all day even though we saw heavy rain between Leicester and Chesterfield on the way up, is nice enough to persuade people to sit outside, though we prefer the cool of the interior.

There are more Dagenham fans on the way back, a little subdued having lost to Wednesday. A few Barnet fans get on at Chesterfield, equally subdued after their result. Obviously someone thought it made sense to have Barnet christen the B2Net...

We didn’t get to see Delroy in action, but we do see a rainbow, stretching over Leicester University as the rain comes down again. If there’s a pot of gold anywhere on campus, I never found it in my time there!

Somewhere around Bedford, I get a call from Ted’s mobile, but it’s not him on the other end. He and Chris Turner have been on a crawl round North London, and he’s managed to leave his phone in the Pineapple. Fortunately, he’s already rung me to let me know he and Chris will be in the Betjamen when we arrive at St Pancras. Steve bids me goodnight and goes off for some good home cooking, while I join the boys to be regaled with tales of bearded dragons in the Oakdale Arms and patting Gavin Esler’s dog in the Pineapple. With all that excitement, it’s no wonder the phone got forgotten. At least I can fill Chris in on all the details of our satisfying start to season and let him know, far more importantly, that when we’re back up in a fortnight, it’s the Fat Cat Birthday beer festival. Does it get any better than that?

So Close...

2010-08-06T06:48:00.000-07:00

Oh, the tension! I didn’t intend to set off quite as early as I do, but I’m just so nervous I can’t sit at home any longer. I had all the anxiety dreams last night, from the one where Ian Sharps scores in the first minute and we’re trying to hang on to the lead for the rest of the game, to the one where we’re wandering round Harrow looking for the pre-match pub. Most bizarrely, and having nothing at all to do with Rotherham, is one about a professional assassin who’s been contracted to off various footballers. His latest target is Liverpool’s Lucas, who he lures to a formal dinner. He waits till Lucas closes his eyes and bows his head to say grace, then shoots him in the top of the head. If the people who make all those howlingly mad Jason Statham thrillers are reading this, my subconscious is available for storyline meetings for a reasonable fee...

The District Line is out, so it’s a bus to Canning Town. From the conversations around me, various people are en route to Wembley, but they don’t appear to be Dagenham fans – rather, they’re Hammers going for the day out. They all seem to be meeting in pubs at Baker Street or near the ground – which is why we’ve chosen to go further afield, as it’ll be quieter.

At Finchley Road, I bump into the Maxfields, Sally looking infinitely more relaxed than Rob. There are a few Dagenham fans on the tube, the genuine article this time, so we all wish each other luck. They get off at Wembley Park while we continue on to Harrow-on-the-Hill.

Walking away from the station, we spot Jenny and the Ketton family waiting to cross the road, so we join their merry band. The route towards the Castle pub is actually alarmingly similar to the one in my dream, but we manage to find it without too many problems. I’ve never been to this part of Harrow before, and it’s beautiful. There’s actually a gap between a couple of the school buildings that if you look through, you have the most incredible view across London, Wembley prominent in the foreground. There are a few grumbles about the distance from the station to the pub, but it’s worth it once we get there.

Some London Millers are already colonising the beer garden, including the entire Kirkland family (no idea who’ll be listening to the commentary in the car park today...) and my brother. Gradually, the biggest turn-out of our merry organisation I’ve seen in one place gathers, all in various stages of anticipation – and this doesn’t include various people, including Steves Exley and Ducker and Phil Kyte, who don’t make it all the way out to Harrow for whatever reason. Apologies to anyone who gets left off the list, but this is everyone I spot in the pre-match session. There are the regulars and semi-regulars: Tim, Ian Armitage and Steven, the South Norwood Gentlemen’s Rambling Association, Clarkey (along with Stephanie, James and Laura), Steve Czajewski, Brad, Julia, Joy and Frances. There are those we haven’t seen for a while: Q, who’s been working on his music career in Bristol; Chas, who’s been bothering the penguins in the South Atlantic; Diamond and Phil (but no Nigel, who’s unwell). Still others have brought along non-Miller chums to be part of the festivities: Toddy is with Graham and Brown, who’s still only one person. They’re wearing their Drewe Broughton tribute sweatbands, which makes me realise what a trendsetter I am. And Tom Coley is here, along with Scotty and two of his Watford-supporting mates from Bournemouth, still getting over the night before.

I didn’t bring the flag, as it breaks Wembley’s strict size policy, but Tom has his, and he lines us up for photos with it. Everyone’s in high spirits. Toddy regales us with some of his choicest anecdotes, including the time we played King’s Lynn in the FA Cup and they set off a flare down the Railway End. ‘I mean, where do you get flares in the first place?’ he asks. ‘Apart from Clarkey’s wardrobe, of course...’

At the bar, Chris Turner gets talking to the Beeb’s Mark ‘Chappers’ Chapman, who’s not covering the game today but has just come for a quiet pint with his missus as it’s one of his local pubs. At least we’re all out in the garden, rather than ruining his Sunday lunch with Miller-age.

We’ve arranged to meet my dad, Gordon and his son-in-law, another Rob, outside the turnstiles, so we make a move, along with Jenny and her party. Walking back through Harrow, my brother notices a hydrant cover in the pavement, made by Guest and Chrimes. This, of course, is the firm whose former premises are the site of our new stadium, so of course Robert is convinced that’s an omen. At the tube, we spot Tim’s wife, Effie, and Ian Chaplain. Somehow, Ian Armitage has wangled them all seats in the corporate section, so hopefully they’ll all be on their best behaviour...

Wembley Way is heaving with red-and-white. We don’t know whether all the Dagenham fans have gone in early to soak up the atmosphere, but it does seem to be mostly Rotherham fans heading for the stadium. Everyone’s in high spirits: flags are being waved and faces painted.

We find my dad without problems and head inside. Thanks to the whims of the Ticketmaster system, our seats are on the front row. There’s the occasional whiff of drains, though that stops once the game kicks off and everyone takes their places in the stadium, but we couldn’t have a better view. As we arrive, so do the Chuckle Brothers – their image, flashed up on the jumbo screens, gets one of the biggest cheers of the day. We’re alongside a group with a baby who can’t be more than six months old. It’s very warm where we are – anyone sitting here for the Cardiff v Blackpool game last weekend would have fried – but fortunately the baby seems to be sleeping peacefully, for the time being.

The heat intensifies as the players emerge from the tunnel, as some bright spark has decided to greet their appearance with flames (on our side of the pitch, at least. Fireworks are going off on the far side.) The teams are introduced to the dignitaries, we sing the National Anthem and away we go.

We start more brightly than Dagenham, but there’s no sign of my first-minute Sharps goal. We come agonisingly close, though, with a Ryan Taylor has an effort that really has mad Welsh keeper Tony Roberts scrambling to get anywhere near it. Taylor’s obviously in the mood, as it’s not long before Roberts has to save his header. At the other end, Don makes one really good save, then a second from a free kick that he must have seen really late. Just as we’re starting to think he’s having the kind of performance that means it’s going to be our afternoon, the Daggers take the lead. Paul Benson is given too much space and time, and curls a shot past Don. The commotion is enough to wake the baby at the side of us.

Incredibly, we’re level within a minute. From the kick-off, we get a throw-in. The ball goes to Ellison, who picks out Ryan Taylor with a cross. This time his header isn’t saved. Everyone goes mad with joy, including Taylor, who flings himself into the arms of teeny tiny Stephen Brogan, suited and booted among the non-playing squad members.

Dagenham go ahead again about ten minutes into the second half. This time it’s Danny Green, who my mum identified as their danger man when she saw us play them in March, who scores from the edge of the box. Still we won’t be beaten. Nicky Law puts in a cross and Ryan Taylor has time to compose himself and shoot past Roberts. This time, he hurtles towards the Rotherham fans behind the goal, pulling off his shirt and vest as he does. He earns a yellow card for his pains, but he probably thinks it was worth it, as was far too warm to have a vest on in the first place!

Alf has been having a quiet game, by his standards, and when he does find himself with the ball at his face and Taylor in space, he passes unselfishly. Unfortunately, the fairytale isn’t completed, as Roberts saves the shot.

The game takes its last, cruel twist when a Dagenham corner isn’t cleared and Nurse’s shot is deflected in off a defending leg. We do everything to get back into the game. Danny Harrison hits the bar. Ronnie brings on Marshall and Bell-Baggie, and in the four added minutes we have Dagenham hanging on, as Fenton’s header is just over the bar.

As the Dagenham players celebrate the final whistle, poor old Don is absolutely dejected, and when the players do a semi-circle of honour to applaud the crowd for their support, we’re close enough to see that he’s been crying his eyes out. He’s not the only one...

We stay to applaud Dagenham as they’re presented with the trophy, because you have to show class in defeat, then we make our way back to Harrow. The mood of the Rotherham fans leaving the stadium is down, but not out. We played well; we just didn’t have that little bit of good fortune when it mattered. And while everyone was talking before the game about fighting off bids for Alf, it’s Ryan Taylor who’s put a couple of noughts on his value.

As you’d expect, the numbers are somewhat depleted. Indeed, it’s just me, Jenny and the Kettons, Rob and Sally, the South Norwood Gentlemen and my bro. Ian Armitage joins us; Tim, who’s such a bad loser he won’t even watch the highlights on The Football League Show unless we win a game has gone off to sulk over dinner somewhere in Harrow. Ian has a swift pint with us, then wends his way. The rest of us have another drink, then my bro heads off to the end of the line to pick up his car while everyone else plans a trip into town. I say my farewells to them all at Finchley Road. Ted, along with his sister and niece, has gone to see Punishment Of Luxury (don’t ask...) and I’ll have the house to myself for a nice bath and some quiet reflection on what could have been.

And so we bid farewell to another long, strange season. As ever, the things that stand out in my mind aren’t necessarily the obvious ones. Andy Warrington, utterly devastated after the final whistle at Wembley; Drewe Broughton making sweet, sweet love to the touchline at Gigg Lane (well, that’s what it looked like from our angle, anyway); Simon Callow, beating a hasty retreat from the train at Luton; Boomer the dog giving me the eye at Vale Park; seeing us win at Barnet for the first time this century; monsoon season arriving in the second half against Crewe. Oh, and Su Pollard. Just for being Su Pollard.

And when the season starts again, seemingly only five minutes after the last one ended, I’ll be in a household which is now 50 per cent non-league, and I’ll still have the crazy, optimistic feeling that, this time, we’re going up...

The Secret Is To Stand In The Paddock...

2010-05-25T07:00:00.000-07:00

Ah, Sky! On the one hand, they decide to televise your games and give you some money for the privilege. On the other hand, they decide to televise your games and move them to bizarre times, like six o’clock on a Saturday night. Which is why a somewhat depleted London Millers party (Jenny, Julia and myself) are metting at Waterloo at two in the afternoon. Clarkey has a decent excuse – he’s up in Crewe reliving (continuing?) his misspent youth at the Westworld weekender, a couple of people may be working, but most of the others would rather be watching in a local pub and fretting than actually going to the game and fretting.

A handful of Aldershot fans get on the train at Brookwood and Ash Vale, cans in hand and a little rowdy but not annoyingly so. They just seem more confident than we do, but as our record in the play-offs is pretty duff (getting relegated in the days when a play-off game could send you down as well as up and losing a semi-final to Leyton Orient on pens) it’s probably understandable.

Once we’ve arrived, Julia and I head for the White Lion while Jenny makes a detour to the ground to get a programme for Dave in Australia. When she joins us, she’s empty handed, as they won’t be going on sale till the programme sellers arrive at 4.30. There are seven or eight people watching the Cup Final in the main bar, but the smaller side room is screen-free and quiet, though Julia eventually wanders off to watch it once penalties start being missed and the excitement level cranks up.

As well as the White Lion’s regular dog, Millie, there’s another mutt with cracking ten-to-two paws soaking up the sunshine. When my brother arrives, I ask him to take a photo of said dog. This leads him into a conversation with the owner, who explains how the dog ruptured its cruciate ligament (it was run into by another dog during some boisterous play. This was an accident – it didn’t find itself being deliberately taken out by the canine equivalent of Roy Keane), necessitating £3000 of vet’s bills to fix it. The things you learn when you start photographing dogs!

Mick Walker is the last of our little party to arrive, having had another quiet drive over (presumably everyone’s watching the Cup Final). Jenny’s arranged to meet Steve Exley in the Royal Staff to hand over some tickets, so Mick gives us all a lift over there. Steve’s in, along with Martin Burton, the son of a friend who couldn’t make it to the game and Hugh Vaughan, sporting his new Alan Lee tribute teeshirt. We ask Steve if he had fun at the end of season dinner and whether his bread roll escaped unscathed. Apparently, he had a great time, ending up chatting to the legend that is Howard Webb until the bar closed. Photos of the event are up on the official site, including a photo of the whole squad which makes them look, as Gwenn remarked sagely, like one of the failed entries from Last Choir Standing. It’s no surprise at all to see big Drewey yet again wearing a suit that appears to be a size too small for him...

When we reach the ground, it’s to see that half-a-dozen flags are already on display in the away paddock. A couple we’ve seen before, including the much-travelled Tivoli Millers and the Scarborough Millers, but the rest have emerged from the woodwork. Still, we find a space and take up residence in the sunshine. We’re in a great position to be picked up by the cameras, and my dad later tells me we get a mention on Radio Sheffield. What shameless media tarts we are.

There’s a great atmosphere building up as the game gets close to kick-off. Some of the Aldershot fans have been given banners with the players’ faces on them to hold up, and the ball is brought out to the centre circle by a couple of members of the armed forces. There are about five hundred in the travelling Rotherham contingent, and one of them has a drum. We do wonder if it could be Miller Bear in mufti, though we have no idea whether he got his drumsticks back after he told us at the Cheltenham game someone had pinched them!

Having rested Alf last week, Ronnie’s restored him to the line-up alongside Ryan Taylor, but Harrison and Mills are preferred to Walker in midfield. However, the real tactical masterstroke comes when we win the toss. Knowing Aldershot like to kick uphill towards their fans in the second half, we make them do it in the first instead.

The game is tight and tense, as is probably to be expected. Aldershot fizz a shot across goal; Robert, Exley and co hurl coordinated invective at the assisant referee, convinced he should have given an offside decision. Alf collides with the Aldershot goalkeeper while contesting a ball, with the result that the keeper picks up some kind of injury and has to be subbed. That’s pretty much the height of the excitement until the very end of the half, when sub keeper Jaimez-Ruiz saves an admittedly tame shot from Alf, Aldershot immediately mount an attack and Don saves with his feet. The defence has looked solid, Nicky Law is having a good game and Clarkey would be impressed by the chants of ‘Ronnie Moore’s red army’, which must have gone on for fifteen minutes straight.

The Crossbar Challenge game is played at half-time, but without an away fan taking part this time. Instead, the contestants are the Shots’ phoenix mascot (who’s been busy handing out sweets throughout the first half, even to the photographers behind the goal) and what I’m sure the announcer describes as ‘a fat bloke, a Mexican and a nice bit of crumpet’, though I could have somehow wandered into an episode of Ashes To Ashes by mistake...

The second half progresses much the same as the first. Ryan Taylor, who’s certainly benefited from his time at Exeter, judging by his improving physical presence on the ball, curls a shot wide of the post. Aldershot have a couple of decent opportunities, but nothing on target. The longer the game goes on, the more it seems we’re going to be happy with a nil-nil draw. Then, with a couple of minutes to go, Brown in the Aldershot defence sends a rather casual backpass towards the keeper. Alf is on to it like a flash, but even as he’s charging on goal, we’re still convinced he’s somehow going to miss. He doesn’t, and comes dashing over to the corner flag to celebrate. We’re starting to think standing on the paddock is the secret to guaranteeing a Rotherham win, as this is where we were when we won courtesy of Reuben Reid’s spectacular lob last season.

The three minutes the ref adds on seem to last forever. When the whistle goes, the players come over to applaud us for our support, but they don’t over-celebrate, or do anything to suggest the tie is somehow now sewn up.

A few of the Aldershot supporters are hurling abuse – and, according to later stories, coins, though we don’t see any evidence of that – towards the away part of the terrace, so fans are being let out at the point furthest away from them, and when we’ve finally taken down the flag, we get safe passage courtesy of a police escort. Mick and Robert head straight for their cars, anxious to be away from any potential trouble near the ground. Walking back to the station, I’m more tense than if we’d lost, or if there’d been no score. Already, we’re thinking of all the ways Rotherham could mess this up in the second half.

I’m not going to the home leg – it’ll be my turn to fret in front of the TV – but as we say our goodnights at Waterloo, a faint hope glimmers that, this time, we might actually make it to Wembley...

Two Arabs, A Beermat And Some Bloke Out Of Zulu

2010-05-19T04:42:00.000-07:00

When the fixture computer threw this one up, we joked that our first game back in League Two had been Hereford away, so it would be only fitting if our last game at this level was Hereford away. That was before we (along with Bury, Dagenham and Cheaterfield) decided to spend the second half of the season blowing our shot at automatic promotion. That relative disappointment (and everything’s relative when you live with someone whose team has just been relegated into the Blue Square Prem) does little to dampen our enthusiasm for today’s main objective – partying!

There should be a big turn-out for this trip. Unfortunately, while Jenny, Joy, Julia, Clarkey, Tim, John Kirkland, Rob Maxfield and I are all present and correct, complete with the hats which are today’s official dress code, Andy Leng and Chris Turner are conspicuous by their absence. We have no choice but to leave without them, and it’s not long before Jenny gets a text to let her know they’ve both managed to oversleep. It has to be stressed that they were not in the same bed at the time, even though we now have an image of them in pyjamas and nightcaps à la Morecambe and Wise. More tragically, Chris now has 36 cocktail sausages sitting in his fridge which he was going to bring along today.

Not that we’re short of supplies. We have champagne, bagels, croissants and other nibbles, and there’s more than enough for Steve Czajewski, who joins us at Oxford, and my brother, who gets on at Worcester. Robert is wearing the Bombardier dragon hat he got at the GBBF a couple of years ago, but that’s discreet compared to the one John has for Chris, who’s joining us at Hereford – it’s in the shape of a lion’s head, which is kind of appropriate given the mane of hair he’s still attempting to cultivate. I’m wearing a more discreet plain black number, but I’m teaming it with Drewe Broughton tribute sweatbands because, frankly, it had to be done...

It’s a long journey (and involved a bleary-eyed eight a.m. meet-up at Paddington), but one through some very pretty countryside. Having met up with Chris and Chris at Hereford station, we make our way to the Barrels, flagship pub of the Wye Valley Brewery. Last time we were here, it was a sultry August day and we sat outside. Today, it feels twenty degrees cooler and we huddle inside. Phil Kyte arrives, with new girlfriend, Catherine, in tow. When he told her he’d be introducing her to the London Millers, I have no idea whether she realised we’d all be in novelty hats...

Nigel Hall and Steve Ducker make an appearance. Nigel has given Steve a lift because he’s been up till stupid o’clock the last couple of nights reporting on the election and its aftermath. The Devon Millers, Dave Bates and Andy, join us, and immediately make the rest of us feel underdressed in comparison by donning flowing Arabian robes and headdresses. They fit in beautifully when we get to the ground – plenty of people have come in fancy dress, and we spot monks, a bloke dressed as a beermat and a lad in a military jacket and pencilled-on moustache who appears to have escaped from the cast of Zulu. We’re squeezed in down one side because the stand behind the goal is condemned, making tatty old Millmoor look positively salubrious. There aren’t quite as many Rotherham fans as there would have been if we were still in with a chance of automatic promotion, but they’re in good voice, even if most of their songs are in tribute to Millers legend Alan Lee, who kept up his knack of scoring against Wednesday last week and helped ensure their relegation.

Sadly, we might have turned up but the team clearly hasn’t. Their performance reminds me of our game at Crewe a few years ago, when they still had a chance of relegating us and staying up themselves, but only if they overcame a goal difference of ten. Alfie has been rested, with Drewe Broughton taking his place, and no one seems to want to risk picking up an injury before next week. We’re playing in first gear, and Hereford are one up in five minutes, two up in twenty. In both cases, the defence simply goes missing.

Clarkey and Tim decide to amuse themselves by partying like it’s 1974. Cue chorus of ‘I was born under the Railway End’. At half-time, Catherine takes a team photo of us in our hats. My, how fetching we look. Meanwhile, I decide to plug myself into my radio to see if I can get some idea of the ups and downs in our league and the one above. Can Grimsby complete their unlikely resurrection? (No. After doing all the hard work and beating Barnet last week, they get stuffed by Burton and Barnet beat Rochdale, who seem to have lost interest since they actually got promoted.)

Will Hartlepool get relegated, appeal against their points deduction and cause mayhem for the fixture compilers. (No. Somehow Gillingham, the team everyone’s forgotten are still in the relegation scrap, go down, which means if we’re in League Two next season we can look forward to more dodgy decisions at the Priestfield.) And by the time the third Hereford goal goes in, right at the end of a second half in which Rotherham have played much better without carving out too many chances, Morecambe have scored against Aldershot. It means they finish fourth, and play Dagenham, who got the three points everyone expected they would at Darlington. We’ll be playing Aldershot on Saturday evening, which is a nice, easy trip if nothing else. The atmosphere is very flat as we leave the ground, but I’d rather we got a bad performance out of the way this weekend, rather than next.

There’s just time for a reviving drink in the Wetherspoon near Hereford station (coffee in my case, because it’s still freezing!). Clarkey and John K catch the train by the skin of their teeth and we trundle back as far as Worcester Foregate Street. Tim spots deer in a field, before he and Steve Cz start some London Underground-based trivia. (Example. Q: What letter starts the names of the most consecutive stations? A: H. Hounslow East, Hounslow Central, Hounslow West, Hatton Cross, the three stations round on the Heathrow loop and back to Hounslow East. Yes, I know it’s sneaky.) Steve gets the biggest laugh for naming all the stations in Ealing, including ‘Sexual Ealing’. It’s a shame we have to turf him off at Oxford, no, honestly it is...

As we get off, a couple sitting by us tell us they wish all travelling football fans were like us. Tell that to Mr Grumpy of Didcot!

At Worcester, we bid farewell to my brother and his daft hat, and pick up the train which will trundle us back to Paddington. Some rugby types behind us are playing a complicated drinking game, but we’re more concerned with trying to catch a glimpse of Wembley as London approaches, and keeping our fingers crossed for a more close-up view at the end of the month.

Down Came The Rain

2010-05-19T03:20:00.001-07:00

The last home game of the season (possible appearance in the play-offs notwithstanding), and there’s a decent turn-out. Jenny, Joy, Clarkey, Chris T, Steve D and myself. The train’s pretty packed, it being a Bank Holiday, even though all the Championship games are taking place tomorrow – including the winner-takes-all Wednesday/Palace tie which probably 99.9% of Rotherham fans are hoping Palace win. (I’m keeping an open mind...)

At the station, we meet up with Phil in the Sheffield Tap. He tells us he was out leafleting for some cause the other day, and a couple of people came up to him and said, ‘You’re him, aren’t you?’, meaning celebrity chef James Martin. It’s strange – you couldn’t describe them as actual lookalikes, but for a long time we’ve thought that there is a certain resemblance in terms of appearance and mannerisms, and this just confirms it.

As is becoming usual for the last home game, we divert from the regular ‘straight to the Fat Cat’ pattern. Instead, our first stop is the Harlequin, where I’m delighted to see they have a cider festival on the go. Couple that with pork and stuffing rolls and some truly world-class crackling provided as bar nibbles and I could happily stay here all afternoon. Instead, we have one drink at the Harlequin then visit the Riverside, a few minutes’ walk away. It’s a big, airy pub with a bit of a café feel to it, and it’s warm enough to sit outside, admiring the river view.

The ladies make an early move, as Jenny has to pick up tickets for the Hereford game next week. Fortunately, the queue is very short, unlike the one to collect pre-ordered home shirts, which snakes impressively along the concourse. We spot Steve Exley, waiting to pick up a shirt for Kiran, who’s already taking a large adult size. Steve reckons he and I should have done some kind of deal, as I fit the largest junior size and therefore pay the junior price!

Robert has driven over for the game and is in his seat when I arrive. There’s a small but noisy Crewe following – there’s nothing for them to play for, and so no real inclination to travel in numbers. For us, the maths is simple – two more points will absolutely guarantee a play-off place, though a win today would be nice. We start with purpose, while Crewe seem content to play on the counter attac. The closest either side comes in the half is hitting the bar; apart from that, both keepers only have one shot to save.

Everything changes when the weather does. Richard Lee, rattling through the Fifty-fifty numbers and the answer to the ‘this was the top five, but in which year?’ competition, announces that the rain is on its way in minutes. When it does, it’s less rain and more a mini-monsoon. Water is soon standing on the pitch, and if it wasn’t so late in the season with no real opportunity to reschedule the game, there’s a good chance this would be called off. Walker (who still seems to be suffering from the knock he picked up last week) and Marshall are replaced by Bell-Baggie and Broughton. The change nearly pays off, but Alfie insists on shooting, hitting the side netting, when passing to an unmarked Broughton would surely have led to a goal, while Broughton himself loses his footing on the sodden turf when in on goal. Crewe also have chances, but the game has pretty much been reduced to a farce by the freak weather.

Despite requests not to, at the final whistle there’s a soggy pitch invasion. The players are due to come out for the traditional hundred yards of the track of honour but, collecting a flag which now weighs a good four pounds more than it did dry, we decide against staying to watch it. The London-bound party instead reconvene in the Sheffield Tap, where a large bouncer comes over and tells me they have a no colours policy. (I don’t usually wear a replica shirt on matchdays, but it was today’s unofficial dress code). As I’m removing the shirt, he asks me how we got on. ‘I’m Wednesday,’ he admits. ‘We’ll be playing you lot next year.’

The good news is that, thanks to other results, not only are we definitely in the play-offs, with Morecambe and Aldershot playing each other next week, we can’t finish any lower than fifth, meaning the home leg will be mid-week. However, things are so tight that our opposition could be any one of about seven clubs – either of the aforementioned teams, Dagenham, Cheaterfield, Bury, Port Vale or Northampton. Exciting, eh?

Back in London, Chris, Jenny and I meet Ted for a drink at the Betjeman. Darlo have beaten Macc and he’s already planning his trip back there next season – either with us if we don’t go up or, failing that, on a weekend when the Quakers are somewhere he doesn’t fancy visiting. We colonise the comfy sofas outside, which is pleasant until a group of Belgian schoolchildren fresh off the Eurostar start charging around. As with all such parties, their parents/teachers have sent them away to play so they can have a pint in peace. Zut alors!

Chris Kirkland Is A Very Angry Man

2010-04-26T10:29:00.001-07:00

Last night, I was at Sh!, the ‘women’s store’ in Hoxton, reading one of my short stories. Pink bubbly was on hand to lubricate the old vocal chords, so it’s nice to have a later start than usual. Even so, it’s a surprisingly warm day and I’m feeling the effort as I trudge up the hill from the tube station exit, weighed down by the flag. (That’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it.) The South Norwood (And Addiscombe) Gentlemen’s Rambling Association have made an early detour to the Lord Nelson where, as we were when we visited before Darlo’s FA Cup game, they will more than likely be the youngest drinkers in the place. When I reach the Old Mitre, Jenny and her brother, John, fresh and tanned from their week in Cornwall, are already there, as are Joy and Frances. We thought Frances might have had enough of the Millers after seeing their lacklustre display at Aldershot the other week, but she’s been tempted over to Barnet purely on the strength of the pies served at the Old Mitre. It has to be said when they turn up they do look very nice, coming encased in a triangular wedge of pastry which would impress even Ted, who’s the fussiest man in the world when it comes to the whys and wherefores of the meat-and-shortcrust-based comestible. However, it’s taking roughly an hour for food orders to arrive (though you are warned of this when you order), so it’ll be the good old Underhill catering for me. Everyone is out in the beer garden, and the ‘stable bar’ is open, showing the Man U/Spurs game to a bunch of excitable drinkers.

Gradually, the hordes arrive – in no particular order, Rob Maxfield, Tim and Ian Armitage, Clarkey, who’s brought along Stephanie, nephew James and one of Stephanie’s friends who has somehow been persuaded that coming to see Rotherham will be fun (poor girl!), Nigel Hall, the Kettons and the Manchester axis of Chrises. The latter two are both dressed for the North-west at six-thirty a.m., which was clearly about twenty degrees colder than positively steamy North London. Chris K has even had a haircut. Well, I say ‘cut’ – attacked with shears might be a more accurate description. He tells me he’s working on the theory that his mother will think growing it long is the better option if it looks like this when it’s short. Finally, the SN(AA)GRA arrive, with my brother, Julia and Phil the darts ringer in tow. Apparently, there were shirtless workmen on the building next door to the Lord Nelson who they can all describe in rather more detail than is healthy. Not that I’m fussed about missing out on sights like that, oh, no.

There are enough London Millers in attendance to run a football card for fundraising purposes. Even the Burtons have a go, though both are complaining they’ve already been cleaned out by the price of a pint. If they will go drinking in the tourist traps of Camden first, what can they expect? The card is won by Gail, though Graham should take half as he actually picked her square for her.

When Brad arrives, the early party realise it’s time to wander off and put the flag up. There’s a better turn-out than I expected given recent results, but we find an empty stretch of crash barrier close to the corner flag. The others begin to drift in, having finished their pints and ambled down the hill (much easier than the opposite journey, I can tell you). Chris K is absolutely apoplectic about the fact concessions are only available in the stand, not the terrace, and he doesn’t do sitting down unless he absolutely has to. Steve Ducker ambles over from the stand to have a quick word with us – he’s got his father-in-law with him, so he’s sitting today. We can spot him from where we’re standing, looking rather tense, though that could just be because he’s obviously sitting fairly close to the woman who always screams ‘Gerrin!’ at obnoxiously loud volume whenever she thinks a Rotherham player should be making a challenge. Never mind that if they ‘gorrin’ as often as she’d like them to, we’d probably end every game with seven men...

Mind you, she’s like a church mouse in comparison to young master Kirkland, who’s been wound up by the ticketing arrangements and returns to them throughout the game. At one point late in the first half, he muses, ‘I wonder what Barnet are going to do if they need new players in the summer. After all, they DON’T DO TRANSFERS!’ He’s a seething cauldron of testosterone, and my brother and I decide we really, really need to find him a girlfriend.

All of which distracts from what’s actually a pretty good performance on the pitch. Like Aldershot, Barnet’s tactics rely on trying to use the sloping pitch to their advantage, but where the Shots have the sprightly Marvin Morgan leading the line, Barnet have the geriatric (in footballing terms) Paul Furlong. Add to that the fact we’re double-teaming the London Millers’ new best friend Kevin Ellison and Gavin Gunning on Barnet’s real threat, Albert Adomah (which sounds like it should have been the plot of one of the stories at the Sh! reading last night), and the opposition really don’t look like much. That said, we’re squandering some decent chances, the best of which comes when Josh Walker smacks a free kick against the post. We also get the opportunity to admire Walker’s overly elaborate tattoos when he comes to take a corner. They neatly avoid his elbow; perhaps that would have been too painful. Then Ellison gets a free kick fairly close to where we’re standing, which goes in without anyone else touching it, despite the protests of the Barnet players. Unlike the goal against Notts County, and even with a ref who clearly doesn’t want to give us anything, it stands.

There’s some kind of presentation at half-time which appears to involve a boxer, but the Barnet announcer, when he isn’t exhorting the fans to get behind the team for their most important game of the season, is fairly low key.

In the second half, we’re attacking down the slope. Ronnie has had to substitute Walker, who was on the end of a fairly hefty challenge and was forced off, with Bell-Baggie, and we’re very much in control of the game. Keeper Jake Cole has obviously decided looking like Manuel Almunia may not be best idea and has ditched the blond highlights, though he still almost makes a muff the Spaniard would be proud of when he tries to dribble the ball out of his area and is very nearly robbed – did he not see the Chelters highlights from last week? Barnet make changes, because with Grimsby beating Darlo, which would lower the gap between them to four points, they have to. They start bringing on more attackers, including Ryan O’Neill (no, not that one), and even push a defender up front. Despite the fact most of the play is now a lot closer to where we’re standing than most of us would like, we’re still standing firm. Ellison, who’s clearly been enjoying himself today, to the extent that he was even laughing when one of the Barnet players contrived to kick the ball out of play on the touchline by us, has a great chance to make it two, but he hits the post. Ronnie takes Bell-Baggie off and brings on Micky Cummins, on the surface a defensive move which has a few disgruntled Rotherham fans walking out, but Cummins actually helps to create a couple of shooting opportunities. Paul Warne comes on as a late sub, to a fantastic reception, and links up well with Cummins – indeed, we think Warney’s shot in for a moment, given the angle we have.

Even with five minutes added on, plus more for Warney’s appearance and whatever else the ref decides to add on, we hold out. John O’Flynn has a free kick very late on, but puts it over the bar. All Andy Warrington has really had to do is collect one cross, and Sharps had to stab the ball over the bar in the first half, but that was pretty much it. The back four of Lynch, Sharps, Fenton and Gunning have been superb, along with Mills and Ellison in front of them. At the final whistle, the team comes over and milks the applause, but it’s deserved. For the first time in all my many visits to Underhill, I’ve actually seen a team win here which wasn’t Barnet. The last time we were victorious here was in 1992, and I was out of London that day.

Our joy is not as unconfined as it might be, as Bournemouth have beaten Burton and taken the third automatic promotion place. People are already speculating – possibly not without justification – as to how many of the clubs who’ve gone up may start next season with points deductions, given their financially precarious positions. At the tube station, we go in various directions – Clarkey and family shoot off as he’s off to a gig, partying like it’s 1976, as ever. The SN(AA)GRA have plans to visit Kentish Town and all points south. Chris and Chris are on some tortuous route back to Manchester. Jenny, John, the Kettons, Joy, Frances, Tim, Ian A, Nigel, my brother and I head back to the Old Mitre. It’s a lot quieter now the sun’s gone down a little, and though the Arsenal/Man City game is showing, hardly anyone’s interested in watching it.

Ian forces himself to leave early by having a pint of Guinness, as nothing else sits easily on top of that. Robert and I have a leisurely pint (sparkling water in my case), then go to catch the Tube into town, leaving the others to plot the dress code for our trip to Hereford. As long as it doesn’t involve dressing as a cigarette, I don’t particularly mind.

View From The Posh Seats

2010-04-23T07:29:00.001-07:00

St Pancras is mayhem as I arrive – with all flights grounded due to the cloud of volcanic ash spewing out of Iceland (personally, I blame ex-West Ham chairman Eggert Magnusson, last seen vainly trying to board a train at Sheffield station...), more people than usual are queuing for the Eurostar. Nipping swiftly up to the first floor level, I bypass the milling hordes to join those travelling up to enjoy the hospitality as today’s matchball and programme sponsors. On the train are me, Jenny, Clarkey, Steve Ducker, Chris Turner and Ian Armitage. Once in Sheffield, we’ll be meeting Tim (who should have been on the train with us but went up yesterday instead as his dad’s back in hospital), Tim’s mate Andy, my brother and Phil Kyte.

As the train goes through Chesterfield, most of the party get their first good look at the Spireites’ new stadium. It’s another one which is going to be a trek from the town centre, but apparently it’s only about as far out as Saltergate is in the other direction.

Andy joins us in the Sheffield Tap, though he makes the mistake of ordering a pint of the world’s most extreme chocolate stout, which is too chocolatey for people who really like stout, and way too stouty for people (like me) who really like chocolate. We’re supposed to be meeting Phil here, too, but he texts to let us know he’s running late and has gone straight to the DVS, so we pile into taxis and head over to find him. Tim arrives at roughly the same time as Andy, Jenny and myself. The others have spent a while taking team photos by the new fountains at Sheffield station (which only have the effect of making it look as though water is jetting out of Ian A’s head), and they roll up just as my brother’s car is pulling into the carpark.

Ronnie Moore, his relatively new wife and small daughter arrive just as we’re walking to the VIP entrance, so Clarkey goes over and wishes him good luck for the game. Let’s hope that’s not the kiss of death, given our less-than-sparkling record when it comes to the results of our sponsored games.

The meal is good (pate, beef stroganoff and apple crumble, since you ask), though Clarkey’s not impressed that I can’t manage to finish my main course. ‘What would Ted say if he saw you leaving food?’he asks. ‘Probably, “I’ll have that,”’ chips in Jenny. Ted himself rings to find out how we’re all getting on. I go to take the call on the balcony outside, which is an absolute sun trap on a glorious day like this. Just before I leave the room, they announce the winning team on the football card which has been doing the rounds. It was Man City. That’s clearly not an omen for the Manchester derby, as I walk back in the room to see Paul Scholes has scored the winner with seconds to go...

Jenny and I go to put the flag up. We’re hoping we won’t have to move Mr Broughton again, as he’s nowhere to be seen on the teamsheet. It turns out he’s actually been taken sick – though that’s more than likely sick of having the mickey taken out of him by us... We do, however, bump into Tony Stewart and our new, uber-smooth (but very successful, as the hospitality’s been sold out for ages) commercial director, so we briefly introduce ourselves as part of the London contingent. Meanwhile, most of the boys have gone down to take the matchball out to the centre spot and have their photo taken with the officials, team captains and Miller Bear. Tim has his Rotherham scarf round his neck, clashing beautifully with his Hawaiian shirt, and tells us later Ian Sharps asked him why he’s wearing a towel. (Ah, the endlessly witty banter footballers are so famed for!) Mind you, Sharps almost signed my mum’s coat once, having mistaken it for a Rotherham shirt, so he’s got previous with us. Nicky Law has a word with my brother as and the others are sauntering off the pitch like South Yorkshire’s answer to Reservoir Dogs. Unfortunately, Robert doesn’t, as I would have, tried to find out what’s actually tattooed on Law’s arm. We know it’s a football with writing round it; we just need to know whether the writing says, ‘This is a football. Kick it at the goal...’

The match is very similar to the one at Whaddon Road earlier in the season, in that we batter Cheltenham for most of the ninety minutes with very little reward. The best chance comes when Chelters’ keeper (Scott P Brown, the initial being to distinguish him from the other Scott Brown in their squad, in the same way that Yngwie J Malmsteen’s initial was to distinguish him from all the other famous Yngwie Malmsteens) tries to dribble the ball in his area. Alf robs him of it and passes to Kevin Ellison, who seems certain to score but slips at the vital moment. Alf has an overhead kick saved but is offside anyway, has another shot which he puts just wide and Brown redeems himself with a decent save or two. Meanwhile, Don has almost nothing to do in our goal except work on his tan.

From this vantage point, I can finally see the blokes who started the Alfie song (which still hasn’t caught on). One of Chelters’ players is down for a while (they’ve already started timewasting, which is a sign of how determined they are to get a point out of game), and when he gets to his feet and goes off the pitch at a snail’s pace, they shout, ‘Ouch!’ in unison with every step, which is quite funny. Jenny and Robert, sitting behind me, are getting fairly irate with the referee, whose last great moment was sending off both Broughton and David Stockdale at Shrewsbury last season, and it’s a competition to see which of them is actually going to explode first. At least Robert’s calmed down a bit compared to Notts County, where his furious bellowing of, ‘Linesman! Linesman!’ made me think he was channelling Graham Taylor.

At half-time, Robert and I go to see my dad, as I have some seed potatoes to pass on to him from Gwenn. (No, this is not a euphemism for anything. They both grow potatoes, all right?) The others have headed back to hospitality, so they miss a hapless female photographer getting absolutely drenched when the sprinkler system (for which, read hose with a hole in it) is turned on.

The second half is just as frustrating as the first. Chelters look a little bit more threatening but Pablo Mills has a shot cleared off the line and Ellison’s attempt is saved. Gunning and Walker go off, Walker still feeling the effects of a challenge in the first half, and Jamie Green and Bell-Baggie come on. Chelters retaliate with by substituting Barry Hayles with Julian Alsop, whose massive bulk is directly up against tiny Jamie Green. A thunderbolt from a Cheltenham player hits Nick Fenton smack in the face, but he’s made of tough stuff and carries on. Alsop may look as though he’s just on the pitch to block out the sun more effectively than any cloud of volcanic ash, but he makes a nuisance of himself and has one good opportunity to score, but the header is well over the bar. In stoppage time, Brown makes a great save from Craig McAllister and the away contingent (who could probably have come over from Gloucestershire in my brother’s car...) can go home happy.

Back in the sponsors’ lounge, it’s just a case of waiting for the man of the match, Kevin Ellison, to come in for the presentation. In the meantime, we have our photos taken with Miller Bear and I grab autographs from Marc Joseph and Paul Warne, who’ve both come in for a quick meet-and-greet. Warney is still as ridiculously handsome as he was when I presented him with the London Millers Player of the Season trophy before the first game of the 2001-02 season, though with rather less hair... At last Kevin Ellison appears. The boys go up for the matchball presentation, Jenny and I for the programme presentation. He’s affable and ludicrously tall, and nobody mentions to him we reckon his lookalike is Lord Voldemort out of Harry Potter. We get a signed shirt, which will become one of the prizes in next year’s raffle. As they’re obviously using up all the remaining stock they have before the new kit comes in next season, it turns out to be extra-large junior size, meaning it’ll fit the average 13-year-old boy, or me. Clarkey is charged with getting the matchball back to London safely – and deciphering all the signatures before he gets home! There’s just time to get Ronnie to sign my copy of You’ll Never Take Don Valley (aka the London Miller magazine), then it’s off for the tram. Tim shoots off to visit his dad, Phil leaves for the wilds of Barnsley and Robert gives Jenny a lift back to Rotherham as she’s off on holiday with her brother and sister. The rest of us say goodbye to Andy at Sheffield station and settle down for a quiet journey home.

That plan falls apart when a bunch of Palace fans get on at Derby. There’s no sign of the one we saw on Leicester station this morning, in replica shirt, combat pants and 14-hole cherry red DMs (‘He’s spent too long living in Leicester, obviously,’ was Clarkey’s comment), but the few there are certainly make their presence felt, going through their repertoire of songs. They have one about Alan Lee, but it’s not as good as our one about him, obviously. We just sit and admire the stunning volcanic ash-influenced sunset and reflect on what’s been a pretty good day out.

At St Pancras, Ian, Clarkey and Chris go to the Betjeman to finish off the festivities (and hopefully not lose the matchball). I go home to feed the cats and find out how Ted’s getting on in Bournemouth. Turns out he and his fellow DAFTS are in the same Bournemouth fish restaurant as the lovely Debbie McGee. But that’s still not as cool as meeting Miller Bear...

Going Downhill Fast

2010-04-16T07:30:00.001-07:00

When people picture groups of football fans gathering at a station ready for the day ahead, I’m sure they don’t think of a posse of nice, respectable-looking women. But that’s how today’s trip begins. Jenny, Joy, Frances, Julia and I are getting on the Aldershot train at Waterloo and the Kirklands, Chris Turner and Clarkey are joining us at Clapham Junction. Except when the men get on, Clarkey isn’t with them as he’s decided to get a later train. Never mind the fact we’ve arranged our itinerary today to reflect the fact Clarkey wanted to go drinking in the White Lion.

Still, the pub is as pleasant as ever when we get there, and their food menu has been beefed up (no pun intended) with the addition of burgers, bacon rolls and ham and cheese baps. Julia is joined by a Norwegian friend, Kjell, who, like so many Scandinavians, has a string of alliances to English clubs – in his case, Arsenal and Hartlepool (who’ve been owned by Norwegians for several years now) as well as the Millers. Over the years, he’s become a real ale drinker, and is keen to sample and detail as many different ones as he can on his trips over to the UK, but I’m sure he’s slightly thrown by drinking a pint of FFF’s Pressed Rat And Warthog. He can also forget about the level of today’s game being anything like Arsenal v Barcelona, which is the game he attended in mid-week. Although Alf and Lionel Messi are pretty much the same height and build...

Clarkey eventually turns up, as does my brother, who’s parked his car at the other pub we’d planned to visit, the Royal Staff. The rest of the LMs form the advance party to the Royal Staff, while I wait with Robert and Clarkey till they’ve supped up, then we follow on. The pub is nice and close to the away end, but there aren’t too many Rotherham fans in when we get there – there’s another pub even closer and they’re probably all in there. We catch the end of the Yeovil/Leeds game (with most people sneakily hoping Leeds will lose..), then head for the ground.

We hitch the flag to a crash barrier, where we’re joined by Mick Walker, looking very smug because it’s taken him less than forty minutes to drive from home to the ground. It’s a beautiful day by now, and Rotherham get off to a really promising start. We have David Wickes lookalike Kevin Friend refereeing, and for once we seem to be getting our share of decisions. Aldershot’s military-style drummer is nowhere to be heard, and we suspect he’s been called up since our last visit! For the first ten minutes or so we’re all over Aldershot, who are playing down the slope in the first half, until there’s some kind of mix-up between Mills and Gunning which lets Marvin Morgan break away to score.

Still, it looks as though we’re certain to get back in the game. Josh Walker finds himself clear on goal, but instead of shooting himself he squares it for Craig McAllister and the pass is cut out. Then Alf’s curling shot hits the bar, but there’s plenty of time to turn it round when we have the advantage of the slope in the second half.

At half-time, there’s a ‘crossbar challenge’ game between a Shots fan and a Rotherham fan, but neither of them manages to hit the bar (perhaps Alf should show them how it’s done?). The subs are having their usual kick-around: for some reason Drewe Broughton has got a teeshirt tucked down the back of his tracksuit bottoms, giving him a half-man, half-horse appearance. ‘Now I know what they mean by pin the tail on the donkey,’ my brother comments.

Just like the first half, we start the second much the better team. Alf has a shot in the first minute which the keeper somehow gets to. It’s the first of two or three good saves he has to make to keep Aldershot ahead. Again, they score against the run of play. Their strikers give every impression of being chosen for their sprinting ability ahead of any football skills, and their second comes when Morgan outpaces Pablo and shoots under Warrington. Sharps has to come off for some reason, Ronnie already having replaced Marshall, who’s had a decent game, and McAllister with Ellison and Pope, and is replaced by Broughton (now minus tail...). We’re still chasing the game, and Aldershot get the opportunity to add a very flattering third goal. The result hauls them up to just a point behind us, but Bury and Chesterfield are still doing their best to implode, too, so it’s not the disaster it otherwise might have been.

Back in the Royal Staff, we spot Martin Burton and his son, Arthur, who’s looking forward to being the mascot in a couple of weeks. He’s now convinced we’re going to meet Aldershot in the play-offs and it’s all going to end horribly. However, a couple of Shots fans come to chat with us and it’s clear they feel they were lucky today. ‘If it was a fight, you’d have beaten us on points,’ one says.

Clarkey and Chris T have gone to make an evening of it in Farnham, and my brother heads back to Gloucestershire. On Aldershot station, Julia spots Les Payne, the Sheffield Star’s Rotherham correspondent, and goes to have a chat with him. He tells her his report will reflect the fact it wasn’t a three-nil game.

We’re a little subdued on the way back to London, even though Joy offers us a swig from her trusty hip flask to cheer us up. Indeed, Chris K actually falls asleep, which is the quiestest he’s been all day.

People have work tomorrow, so we go our separate ways at Waterloo. I travel with Joy and Frances as far as Limehouse, where they have to throw themselves on the mercies of the C2C service. With no one planning to go to Morecambe next weekend, the next trip is the biggie – the sponsored game against Chelters...