Cutler, Callow And Cat Milk

The stout party leaving St Pancras today consists of me, Jenny, Chris Turner and Steve Ducker. We should have had Joy with us, but work commitments prevent her from coming. East Midlands are getting much more sophisticated in their computer reservations arrangements; the ones above our seats now bear the legend ‘ROTHERHAM UN’, but that’s only so fans of more successful clubs can point and laugh as they pass. Rummaging in my rucksack, I discover I’ve neglected to take out a bottle of cat milk I bought while doing the weekly shop. If we win today, am I going to have to carry it around for the rest of the season to keep our luck in? Fortunately, I spot an alternative omen as we go through Leicester – a train with the name plate ‘TCB Miller, MBE’. Meanwhile, Chris is enlightening us with the details of his dream last night. Apparently, he had acquired a video called Susan Boyle’s Guide To Real Ale. If it actually existed, we reckon we’d buy it just to see her recommendations. She strikes me as the Bitter And Twisted type...
To the Fat Cat, where Phil and his dad are waiting for us. The place is pretty busy, but a group who are moving upstairs offer us their table. They’re wearing a variety of extremely camp hats and tell us they’re celebrating the thirtieth birthday of one of their party. They seem like nice people, but they prove blokes have to have really good legs to get away with tiny leather shorts.
Derby are in town, but fortunately they don’t descend on the pub in the same numbers as Leicester did, and apart from one fairly rowdy tramful on their way to Hillsborough, they don’t seem to be causing any problems. They’ve got Robbie Savage, so they’ve already suffered enough.
Jenny has to collect some tickets when we get to the DVS, and while I’m waiting for her I spot Howard Webb walking past. Given that big Drewe is back from exile in Lincolnshire and Neil Cutler’s going to be doing his dominant cat impression in the Bury dug-out (and no, that’s not why I accidentally brought the cat milk), the stadium is going to be a seething cauldron of testosterone this afternoon.
If we win today, we go above Bury. As with just about every club in this division (Bradford and Chesterfield the honourable exceptions), Bury have brought fewer here than we took to their place. They’re noisy, mind, but we’re playing well enough that they don’t have too much to shout about. Kiegan Parker, who they’ve borrowed from Oldham, has the ball in the net, but it’s so long after he got called up for offside he should get a booking for it, but doesn’t. We should get a penalty when a Bury arm is flung out in the area to divert the ball for a corner, but the officials don’t see it. The ref does, eventually, see one of the many fouls Efe Sodje has been getting away with and books him. Like Daniel Nardiello at Dagenham, Sodje argues the decision so hard he’s in danger of getting another yellow, but unlike Nardiello, he doesn’t get subbed by Alan Knill. He ends up picking up an injury which sees him having to be subbed and means Bury lose most of their aerial threat. We lose Nick Fenton to a calf problem, but Pablo Mills slots comfortably into his place.
The half-time draw is performed by Jonathan Howard, best known to neutral supporters for scoring the goal which should have been given when Chesterfield played Middlesbrough in the FA Cup. The Tannoy announcer confuses us all by calling him ‘John’ and leading us to expect someone else entirely. Meanwhile, Mr Cutler is coaching Wayne Brown in the important arts of time-wasting and shouting, which he’s going to put to good use for most of the second half and big Drewe does some attention-seeking stretching, made even more noticeable by the fact he’s in a fluorescent orange bib.
Attacking the good end of the pitch, we have one shot which forces Brown to make a stinging save, but it seems the game is in danger of petering out to nil-nil. Ronnie takes off Nicky Law at just the point when the people around us are desperate for a substitution, and brings on Abdulai Bell-Baggie, who’s on loan from Second Division Reading (as my brother will call them from now till the end of time). His pace worries Bury and gives the crowd a lift. Then Marcus Marshall just about keeps the ball in, and when the ball is laid off to Josh Walker, his beautiful strike gives Brown no chance. Instantly the time-wasting stops as Bury are forced to chase the game. Big Drewe comes on for Marshall, who’s played really well but seems to have picked up a knock. Just like when I saw them at Dagenham, Andy Morrell has their best chance of the match, but his header late in added-on time hits the bar. We’re all pleading for the whistle, and finally the ref puts us out of our agony. With the news that Bournemouth have lost and Chesterfield only drawn, we’ve crept back within touching distance of the top three.
As Jenny and I are collecting the flag, we spot the Mayday machine, unattended and waiting to be picked up. We hatch a plan to take out all the numbers except hers and my dad’s, because it’s the best chance either of them will have of winning the £1000 prize.
Back in Sheffield, we grab a drink in the Old Queen’s Head, as the Sheffield Tap is bound to be packed. There are some very disgruntled Bury fans on the table next to ours, one of whom exclaims, ‘We can’t shoot!’ about forty times in two minutes. He’s probably still saying it now.
Luvvie alert! Simon Callow is on our train back to London, which is fairly packed due to being a carriage short. Everything is progressing very smoothly until we grind to a halt at Luton station. It soon becomes apparent that the train ahead of ours has struck someone further down the line and nothing is going anywhere until the police have done whatever they need to do. The doors are unlocked so people who want to can make alternative arrangements to reach London. First off and sprinting for the taxis are Mr Callow and a young male companion...
We amuse ourselves with the thought of Susan Boyle in CSI: Harpenden (boredom can do that you), while Jenny rings Nigel Hall to check whether making our way to a station on the line into Euston is feasible. After several grovelling apologies from the train guard, followed by a long period of radio silence, the train is suddenly on the move again after an eighty-minute delay. Perking up visibly, Steve invites us to take part in his alternative pub quiz. Questions include, ‘What are you looking at?’, ‘D’you want some?’ and the tie-breaker to be answered in 12 words or less, ‘We can take this outside because...’ Still, at least we weren’t reduced to drinking the cat milk!

Flying The Flag

For once, I don’t have to worry about early starts and making it to the station on time. Instead, I get a bit of a lie-in and a leisurely breakfast and then it’s off to collect my parents from the West Ham United hotel. They’ve come down for the Dagenham game and Ted decided to treat them to a night in the hotel simply because he wanted a good nose round. The corporate hospitality boxes double as hotel rooms, and having been in a guest in one of the boxes a couple of years ago, Ted now wants to know how they function as bedrooms. They’re actually quite impressive, with an en suite shower and a view out over the pitch. As West Ham are away at Chelsea this weekend, the ground staff were taking the opportunity to shine sun lamps on the pitch, so if you wanted to you could actually sit and watch the grass grow.

Those who are travelling from points further west are meeting in the Black Lion in Plaistow, but as it makes more sense for us to go straight to the ground, we have time to watch a bunch of Rotherham fans trying to kick balls through the replica of the Premier League trophy on Soccer AM. They manage the grand total of two. ‘I hope the fact they were rubbish isn’t an omen for this afternoon,’ comments my mum, who’s having to go to the game as there are no nearby attractions in the Dagenham area to occupy her instead. (Unless they do guided tours of what’s left of the Ford factory we’re not aware of.)

‘Well, Aston Villa got nine the other week and then lost the League Cup final,’ I tell her, ‘so I don’t think it’s anything to go by.’

We get to the ground nice and early, spotting Ronnie Moore and John Still deep in conversation at the entrance to the players’ tunnel. They look as though they genuinely get on. I hitch the flags to the railings in a nice, prominent position. A steward helpfully informs me where the tea bar is. I tell him I already know, as I visited earlier in the season and I’m pleased to see the burgers are still as good as ever. He seems shocked we rate the catering, but he must never have had one of the leathery things they dish up at Barnet.

By coincidence, we’re sitting pretty much where Gwenn and I were for the Bury game, which means a good chance of getting a ball in the face from the subs warming up, though Pablo Mills curls in a couple of impressive finishes which earn him applause from the watching fans. If only he could replicate one of those in an actual game!

When the rest of the LM contingent roll up, they’re already stuffing their faces as the old tea bar just by the turnstiles is open today, which it wasn’t on my last visit. Maybe they know quite how many burgers we can get through when we put our minds to it.

Something’s different about Dagenham’s style of play since the last time I saw them. They seem to have gone more direct, lumping the ball forward for the front two of Benson and Scott to run on to. They have a couple of new faces in the line-up, including Graeme Montgomery, who Tim clearly recognises from the fact he yells, ‘Wealdstone reject!’ at him at quite frightening volume when he gets the opportunity. We, meanwhile, are giving a début to Craig McAllister, who we’ve got on loan from Exeter. Fortunately, he played against us at the DVS last season, rather than being one of the squad players I did my best to put the spec on when they were watching me and Jenny putting up the flag, so he may have a successful Rotherham career.

All the guile in the Dagenham team comes from the right, courtesy of Danny Green, who gives the less-than-pacy Mark Lynch a few problems. We’ve started well, though, and the support is in good voice, clearly relishing the acoustics of this new stand. I look round after about ten minutes and spot Clarkey chanting and clapping away. If you ever wanted a picture to define the term ‘happy as a pig in muck’, it’s his face at that point. Sitting beside Clarkey is a lad who turns out to be a friend of Marcus Marshall’s brother, come to give him a report on how Marcus plays, as he couldn’t make it today. Marshall has started for the first time and is doing okay in front of Lynch.

Neither team creates much in the first half, but Dagenham come fairly close early in the second when Don has to tip a header over the bar. Montgomery goes off, obviously cowed into submission by Tim, and on comes Darren Currie, 78. Which is when we score. Marshall puts in a good cross which both Fenton and McAllister fail to convert, but Alfie is on hand to put away the third attempt. The Rotherham fans get in the usual banter with mad goalie Tony Roberts, who loves every minute of it. Though I’m not sure how he feels about the chants of ‘Tony for England’, being so Welsh and all.

After the goal, it becomes something of a backs-to-the-wall performance. Dagenham throw everything at us in an attempt to equalise. ‘Why doesn’t Ronnie realise he should do something about their number seven?’ asks my mum, referring to Green. I think she might actually be enjoying herself, despite having got out of the spectating habit a long time ago. Eventually, Ronnie substitutes Lynch, who hasn’t played badly but can no longer keep up with Green, with Dale Tonge. Around me, there’s general panic because so much of the play is in our box, but I have reached that strange stage of Zen calm where I feel sure everything’s going to be fine. And it is – even with the four minutes of injury time the ref adds on, Dagenham can’t make anything happen.

On the way out, we spot Nick Fenton’s lookalike brother hanging around, obviously waiting to have a word with him when he comes off the pitch. There’s no hanging round from our lot, though, not when there’s drinking to be done. Most people are heading straight for the Doric Arch, where the raffle draw is taking place. The South Norwood (And Addiscombe) Gentleman’s Rambling Association is doing a detour via the nearby Bree Louise, and my parents and I go to get a coffee and a sandwich in Euston station before joining the others. Ted and John Wilson have made it back from Northampton and Bev’s arrived from Stamford Bridge, so it’s a very pleasant gathering. Brad, who hasn’t been at the game, rolls up in time for the draw.

We manage to grab one of the bar staff to pull the first prize, which goes to one of Tom Coley’s cohorts, Wolves Kev. At least his name is legible – we’ve had to guess at Tom’s handwriting before now (a career as a GP surely beckons) and we don’t mention the time one of the prizes was won by a ‘Big Tits’. Tom later told us three people claimed that ticket was theirs – and one of them was male. Second prize goes to Steve Ducker’s missus, Fiona, Steve not actually having made it to the game today because it’s their wedding anniversary. (Cue chorus of ‘Who gets married in the football season?’) One of Martin Burton’s children wins the mascot prize. The evening drifts slowly down from there. Once all the proper prizes have been won, Andy starts drawing raffle tickets in answer to random questions such as ‘Who should be the next Rotherham manager?’ and ‘Who will bring world peace?’ (The answer to that one was Nigel Hall. Good luck, Nigel.)

Then it’s back home in time to catch the Football League Show and see the flag in all its glory. Fame at last...

Realising You're Just A Substitute For Leeds

Manoeuvring through the lumbering herds of luggage on wheels at St Pancras, I get a call from Jenny to tell me the train we’re booked on is delayed, but thanks to our flexible football tickets we can get on the one which is scheduled to depart in five minutes. It’s the slow train, so it won’t make much difference to the time we arrive in Sheffield, but at least we won’t be stuck here waiting.

On board, we manage to grab seats, and find ourselves sitting by the poshest Brentford fans in Christendom, on their way up to Leeds. They’ve come well prepared with packed lunches, but the young boys in the party are already flagging by the time we get to Derby – and it’s going to be a long day for them...

For once, no one is joining us in the Fat Cat. Mr Kyte can’t make it to the game, and the Manchester posse are on a late train, so Jenny’s seeing them at the DVS to collect the raffle tickets they’ve sold in advance of next week’s draw.. In their absence, the pub fills up with what appears to be the entire population of Leicester. However, unlike the Forest fans and others earlier in the season, they’ve managed not to louse up the trams, so we’re at the ground in good time to meet the boys.

There was a thread on one of the Rotherham message boards in the week, asking who’s responsible for putting up the London Millers flag, and does it mean we’re somehow sitting in the posh seats? Sadly not, and we haven’t even had the excitement of finding a space to hoist the flag which isn’t occupied by the youth team for a while now.

When I get to my seat, the bloke from Thomas Rotherham College and his two boys aren’t there and a man with two girls is occupying their place. Apparently, the boys are among today’s mascots, so hopefully they’re having a good time.

Today is part of ‘Football For Heroes’ week, so the teams are led out by a guard of soldiers, a couple of whom will later do the half-time draw. Bradford are now under the management of Peter Taylor, so we’re expecting a dour, defensive performance like the one we got when he brought Wycombe here last season. He’s already made a few signings, and appears to be turning the Bantams into the patented big, physical team which is what’s thought to be needed to succeed in League Two. Certainly, they don’t have much in the way of skill, but the defence (including Matt Clarke, who I always reckoned Ted had a bit of a man crush on when he played for Darlo...) are quite adept at manhandling Alfie off the ball. This is the kind of game where we’d benefit from Drewe Broughton, who really doesn’t stand for that kind of nonsense, but he’s been farmed out to Lincoln. Ronnie tried to sign Mark McCammon (last seen taking on big Drewe in the ostentatious stretch-off at Gillingham...) in his place, but he was pinched from under his nose by Bradford, where he’s among today’s subs. We should go in ahead at half time, but the ball is cleared by the Bradford defence in a frantic goalmouth scramble before Gavin Gunning heads it against the bar.

In the corresponding game last season, Bradford had three shots and two went in. This time, they again score with a breakaway move which is just about their first attempt on goal. We press for an equaliser, but as with the first half the ball is saved or blocked about three times in the same attack. Then, in injury time, one of the Bradford players handles the ball in the area. Alfie calmly slots the resulting penalty, and that should be it. A hard-earned point. Unfortunately, Bradford promptly go down the other end and get a corner. Nick Fenton either slips or is pushed, giving the man he’s marking a free header. Two-one. The Bradford fans go absolutely berserk. Funny to think that a few years ago they were in the top division and now they’ve slithered down below Leeds and Huddersfield, to reach the point where they have to consider us their local rivals...

When Jenny and I are collecting the flag, a man wanders past who I’m sure I know from somewhere. He smiles at me, I smile back and as I clock the Bantams crest on his big, padded scout’s-type coat I realise it’s John Hendrie. Nice chap and all that, but at least I may have put a bit of spec on Bradford...

Outside the ground, Steve Exley is really going into one about how our display this afternoon means he won’t be going to Dagenham. I’m not taking things that personally, not while we’re still in the play-off places and Darlo are still bottom. It would make me seem a little spoilt.

We have time for a swift half in the Sheffield Tap, then get a train which isn’t half as busy as I was expecting. Either the Leicester fans sneaked out of Hillsborough to catch an earlier train because they were losing or they’re staying on for drinkies somewhere.

Back in London, we meet Ted in the Betjeman to commiserate over our results and generally put the world to rights. Just because you have to, you understand.

Brewer’s Droop

At first, it looks like it might be another of those trips. We’ve set out from St Pancras in force (Jenny, Clarkey, Tim, Chris Turner, Steve Ducker, Joy, Julia and myself), and are planning to rendezvous with Chris Kirkland and possibly my brother at Derby for the Burton train. However, we start trundling along somewhere around Market Harborough. At first, Jenny and I think this might be due to some speed restriction following the derailment which held us up last week, but apparently it’s due to some problem with the Nottingham-bound train which left London half an hour before we did. Eventually, round about Wigston, which is the first place there are any suitable points (a term I had to explain to one of my American editors in the week), they direct us on to the opposite track and we are able to pass the faulty train. By now, we’re about twenty minutes late, and when Chris K rings me to check on our progress, I tell him we’ll see him in the Cooper’s Tavern, the first on a list of several pubs we’ve compiled between us.
The Tavern is a short walk from the station, past the sort of kooky little shops you rarely see in central London any more (a bridal wear boutique called Me & Mrs Jones, places where you can buy a guitar and get a body piercing, not necessarily at the same time...). When we get there, Chris, his friend Tom – who seemingly just can’t keep away from us any more – and my brother are happily ensconsed in a corner near the log fire. We also meet up with Graham and Gail, enjoying one of their easiest away trips of the season. It’s a cracking little pub, the only one I’ve ever been in where the ladies’ is thoughtfully provided with a heater because it’s effectively out in the yard. The beer selection is good and those who have the pork pies recommend them highly.
Our next stop will be the Burton Bridge Brewery Inn. The slow drinkers – me, my brother and Clarkey, whose pie has only just arrived – let the others go on ahead as my brother has a map printed off the Stedders football and real ale site. Unfortunately, as we soon find out, if you follow it you start heading in the wrong direction... Back on the right track, we’re in the middle of a conversation about Viz magazine’s ‘Borderline Boilers’ (it made sense at the time) when we spot Joy waving at us, guiding us in air traffic control-style. The others are are anxious to share the news that we’ve arrived on the day of the pub’s beer and sausage festival. Happy, happy, joy, joy! I don’t know whose sausages they’re serving, but the pork ones at least are meaty and delicious, just the way I like them.
Nicely bangered up, we push on to the Wetmore Whistle – or the Wetlock, as Phil calls it in his text when he lets us know he’s there with his dad It’s part of the Castle Rock brewery chain (you may remember we visited their Golden Eagle in Lincoln and Fox And Crown in Newark a fortnight ago, and we’ve still got Nottingham and the Vat And Fiddle to come...). By now, the slow party is me, my brother, Chris K and Tom, but we find the place without problems, unlike poor old Steve, who we’ve somehow managed to lose. We assume he’s already left with the others and are slightly surprised when Jenny gets a call to say he’d almost walked as far as the Wetmore Whistle, decided he must have gone too far and turned back! He tracks us down eventually, though.
When we arrive at the Pirelli Stadium there’s already a healthy contingent of Rotherham fans milling around – we saw a few when we arrived in Burton, but they just hived off into the nearest pub to the station, not being beer connoisseurs like what we are... It’s a tidy little ground where the stewards are friendly, directing Jenny and me to a spot where we can fasten the flag. It’s down in a corner, so we decide to stop there as the view’s as good as any. The boys are somewhere behind us and find a place to stand near the goal – indeed, if you watch the goals on the BBC website there’s a cutaway shot where Phil and his eyecatching anorak are clearly visible.

There’s a new face in the Millers line-up – Josh Walker, signed on loan from Middlesbrough roughly as we were stuck on the approach to Leicester – while Burton start with Steve Kabba, matching his boots to his yellow Brewers shirt with an attention to detail my brother would appreciate. We know from the Christmas trip that Burton are no mugs, and they should really take the lead. Don makes a save with his feet and then the rebound is fired wide. Apart from that, they don’t really give him much at all to do, and it’s nil-nil after a fairly even first half. Walker the newbie is looking impressive and Kevin ‘Voldemort’ Ellison is buzzing around busily.
We seem to step it up a gear in the second half, and Alf scores about ten minutes in, bundling in Warrington’s long punt. It’s not the greatest Rotherham route one goal ever – that was an exquisite volley by Will Hoskins from a Neil Cutler goalkick – but it settles any nerves. Alf should score a second, but his header hits the inside of the post and bounces out. As the half progresses, it’s interesting to listen to the comments of the stewards in front of us. While people around me are grumbling about something Nicky Law or Ellison has done wrong, they’re noticing the things we’re doing better than Burton. Seems they’re impressed with Walker, too, though his angry off-the-ball reaction to an incident which leads to him getting booked is something he’ll have to cut out. Meanwhile, Tim is discussing Burton-related puns, one of which provides me with the title for this post.
Ellison should seal the game a couple of minutes from time when he’s one on with their keeper, who was probably at fault for the goal but redeems himself here (if you’re looking at it from a Burton point of view) with a good fingertip save.
Alf comes off and is replaced by Pablo Mills. With Marcus Marshall already on for the visibly knackered Tom Pope, it’s a striker-free line-up but one which should – and does – see out the four minutes of stoppage time (which my brother probably spent blowing like Hurricane Katrina).
There’s time for another drink in the Wetmore Whistle, but then we have to be on the way back to Derby. The Manchester contingent (whose ranks have swelled to include Chris Burrows) and my brother, being on a later train, have detoured into the Devonshire Arms.
The train is packed with Derby fans on the way back from West Brom. I don’t spot him, but Gail says a bloke sitting somewhere behind me looks like he’s been beaten up, so obviously a good time has been had by all!
In Derby, as we’re on the flexible tickets now being offered for football travellers courtesy of East Midlands Trains, those of us who want to get back early (Steve, Joy, Julia and me) wait for the 19.01 while Jenny, Tim, Chris T and Clarkey go for a drink with Graham and Gail in the Brunswick Inn, another favourite pub. The ladies nip into the chippy across the road from the station, while Steve is baffled by the sight of two girls coming out of a nearby pub for a cigarette, minus coats, as a nasty drizzle falls. Some of the other LMs might be admiring their skimpy outfits but Steve, bless him, is just worried they’ll get hypothermia!
There are no hold-ups on the way back, so we’re back into London at a reasonable time. We’ve enjoyed Burton, but then nice drinking establishments and three points always help...