There’s a lot of nonsense talked about how everything to do with Britain is comprehensively rubbish, but there’s one area of which we can always be proud, and that’s the large and varied number of eccentrics you see on your travels, going about their business unmocked and unmolested. Take the couple who take their seats next to Jenny and me on the train out of St Pancras. They’re dressed up like something from an Agatha Christie mystery: he has a topper, cane and the most impressive ginger handlebar moustache, and she has a little fur stole, a neat cloche hat and dainty gloves. Turns out they’re going to a wedding somewhere in Leicestershire, and in keeping with the theme, they have a book of home management from the 1930s as a gift for the happy couple. The woman can’t help reading out extracts as it’s fascinating stuff, though much of the thoughts on beauty and fitness for well-brought-up ladies aren’t that different from the kind of thing you’d read in Cosmo today. Tennis is recommended as an ideal pursuit for young gels, because all that looking up at the ball when you serve is just the thing for getting rid of a double chin. Must remember to try that one some time...
When we get to the Fat Cat, our usual table near the fireplace has been colonised by three beer tickers – an eccentric pursuit if ever there was one. We think at first they’re Shrewsbury fans, because they’re talking about the correct pronounciation of the town’s name (Ted and I argue about this all the time, and he always tells me I’m wrong because Shakespeare never wrote a play called ‘The Taming Of The Shrow’...) but it’s just part of a conversation which meanders via ‘Cadfael’ to Derek Jacobi to the Master and all things ‘Dr Who’. It’s a bit like being inside Toddy’s head. As he’s run out of excuses for not making it out as far as Shalesmoor, we finally have Phil’s dad with us, enjoying the pub for the first time. I think he’ll be back.
There’s no hanging out of the flag at the DVS today, as I didn’t have room to fit it in my bag along with the frock, high heels and all the other things I need to get ready for tonight’s end of season dinner. After all, it’s not as though I haven’t already had the importance of glamour and etiquette stressed on me already this morning.
Despite their relatively high position in the league, Shrewsbury have a truly appalling away record, having won only one game all season. So we should really guess how this one is going to go. Having acquired their new ground (the Prostar Stadium or, as Tim calls it, ‘Butch Meadow’) and spent some serious money on players, they seem to feel they are entitled to success. Having watched Peterborough spend their way out of this division last season, you can see why they think they have a point. However, they’re by no means the best team we’ve seen, but what they are good at is imposing their physical presence as, according to my brother, they did at their place before Christmas. Sadly, the Rotherham players let themselves be bullied out of things a little, and Shrewsbury take the lead just before half-time when the defence seem really slow to react in challenging Nick Chadwick and he slides the ball past Don almost in slow motion. Of course, the Shrews/Shrows fans are quick to tell us just how rubbish we’ve got to be if they’re winning away from home, so it’s a beautiful moment halfway through the second half when Ryan Taylor turns skilfully and equalises and we can give them some stick. Unfortunately, Shrewsbury are soon ahead again – we let one of their players have a run at us, and as Ian Sharps tries to cut his cross out, the ball loops off his foot and into the net. This sets the Shrewsbury fans off again – though is it really that we’re rubbish or they’re just spawny?
At the final whistle, they celebrate as though they’ve won the league. Admittedly we’ve done the same when we’ve ended a poor run of results, but even though this win gives them a great shot of cementing a play-off place I still have the feeling that, along with Bradford, we’ll be seeing them again next season.
Back at my parents’, it’s time for a quick wash and brush-up before the taxi arrives to take the three of us to Hellaby Hall, where the dinner is taking place. It looks like the evening will be over before it’s even started when a fire alarm starts ringing as we find our seats in the function room, but we’ve barely made our way to the evacuation point in the gardens before the panic is over. ‘Probably some Wednesday fan setting it off,’ mutters one of the other guests as we file back in.
Former Wolves player Steve Daley is the guest speaker tonight, and he wanders over to check with my parents that they’re not going to be offended by any of the choice language he may come out with. ‘Don’t worry,’ my mum assures him. ‘We don’t use the words, but we have heard them all before.’
We’re sitting on a table with some of the club’s younger employees, including Matt, the media officer, who’s actually been sitting bang opposite us in the press box all season, commentating on games for Millers World, without our actually realising who he is. All the tables have also been allocated a couple of players apiece. Those who’ve bought the VIP tables have had their choice of the most popular first-teamers (Sharps, Warrington, teeny tiny Stephen Brogan), and the rest have been divvied up around the room. The very dapper Marc Joseph appears to be at a table which consists almost entirely of women, which for some reason doesn’t surprise me at all. Unfortunately, one of our players is a no-show – poor old Mickey Cummins, who had to have an operation yesterday on the knee he damaged at Port Vale. The things men will do to avoid having to sit next to me at dinner! Someone, however, takes advantage of his absence, as suddenly Drewe Broughton bounds up to our table, looms over me (I’ve never realised until this moment just how enormous he is) and snaffles the unwanted bread roll off Mickey’s side plate.
Mr Broughton, it has to be said, completes our share of eccentrics for the day. There’s always one player at Rotherham who dresses badly – I suppose every club is the same. In the past we’ve had Ian ‘Trigger’ Gray, who my dad described as looking ‘like a bag of rags tied up with string’; indeed, we once spent the best part of half a season watching the sponsor’s name slowly disintegrate off the back of his tracksuit top and wondering exactly what he was doing to make that happen. Then there was Michael Proctor, whose tie and neck always appeared to be waving at each other from opposite sides of the room, and Shaun Barker, who gave the impression that he was wearing whichever suit he’d just pulled from a crumpled heap at the bottom of the wardrobe. With Drewe, on the other hand, everything appears to be just that little bit too tight. He’s also a terrible fidget, up and down like Paris Hilton’s undies between courses. ‘Why, he’s crackers!’ my dad says as we sit and watch him, fascinated – and it’s not very often he can say that about anyone else...
Fortunately, the one player who has joined us tonight is our token foreign signing, Omar Garcia. Although I’ve been warned in advance that his English isn’t great, he’s actually very fluent and I don’t have to fall back on any of my A-level Spanish. He turns out to be lovely, and he and my dad bond. Omar’s a fan of Barcelona, which enables my dad to trot out his spooky anecdote about the time he was on holiday over there and took the official tour of the Nou Camp. At one point, they were in the stand, looking at the pitch, and the guide asked them to sit down – at which point my dad realised he was in the exact same row and seat number as his season ticket at Millmoor. Then there’s their shared love of arroz con leche, the Spanish rice pudding which is traditionally served cold. ‘Oh, my God,’ says Omar, ‘my mum makes the best arroz con leche in the world!’ After that, they get on to the subject of how long my dad’s been watching Rotherham (his first game was during the war, since you ask). Omar wants to know if John Breckin, the club’s assistant manager and a man who made his debut for the club in the early Seventies, was playing at the time. ‘This was before John Breckin,’ says my dad, and Omar is clearly unable to conceive of such a time. It’s a shame that it hasn’t worked out for him and that he’s being released at the end of the season; when we leave at the end of the evening, my dad wishes him all the best in whatever he does next and means it sincerely.
Meanwhile, Richie Barker, no longer on the crutches we saw him using a few weeks ago, wanders over and enthuses to Matt about the chocolate fudge cake. Good to see all these finely honed athletes eat so healthily!
The evening is being compared by comedian Malcolm Lord, who is most definitely ‘working blue’ tonight, and once the meal is out of the way, the entertainment begins. There are speeches from Tony Stewart, Mark Robins and Chief Operating Officer Paul Douglas. Much of what we’d actually like to know regarding the location of the new stadium still can’t be revealed, but Douglas in particular speaks very well about the past and future of the club, and praises the efforts of everyone who’s worked so hard to make this season as successful as it has been, when we could have been down and scrapping to get away from the bottom of the table as long and as hard as Bournemouth had to.
Then comes the voting for the Young Player and Goal of the Season. Our away kit sponsors, Redtooth, are using us as guinea pigs for an interactive voting system. My favourite goal of the season, Jamie Green’s stunner against Gillingham, hasn’t actually made the shortlist, so my vote instead goes to Mark Hudson for his volley against Bournemouth. The winner, which my mother reveals she voted for, is Danny Harrison’s from the League Cup against Southampton. Jamie Green, however, does win the Young Player of the Year. Again, my mother has voted for him; something to do with her liking goalkeepers and full-backs, apparently, but it’s safer not to go there...
To round off the awards, Ian Sharps collects the overall Player of the Year title. Almost all the leading candidates in the voting were among the first choice back five (Sharps, Fenton, Warrington and Tonge) and it’s nice to see the award go to someone other than a forward, as is usually the case.
Next up is Steve Daley, but though his anecdotes, if a little rambling, are entertaining, some joker decides to heckle throughout and he gives up before the end of his allotted time, angry that people haven’t had the courtesy to listen to him. As it’s getting on for quarter to 12 by now, we decide it’s time to make a move ourselves, so I ring for a taxi. As we’re waiting for it to arrive, I take the opportunity to introduce myself to Andy Warrington, whose kit I’ve been sponsoring for the last couple of years. He’s a really nice bloke and we have a bit of a chat; he asks me my opinion on today’s game, and tells me the team is very much intending to push on and achieve promotion next season. That’s his sponsorship assured again!
There’s almost no traffic, apart from the stream of taxis and players’ cars departing Hellaby Hall, and we’re back in the house by midnight. It’s been a thoroughly enjoyable evening, and my parents have certainly had a good time. Who
says I don’t know how to treat them?
Thursday, 6 August 2009
Sunday, 2 August 2009
Across Staffordshire With A Walnut Whip
Ah, there’s nothing like an early start on an Easter Monday, and this is earlier than it might otherwise have been, because thanks to engineering works we’re taking the scenic route. Jenny, Clarkey, Chris T and I are on the East Midland Mainline up to Derby, where we change on to a rattler which will take us through the boondocks of Derbyshire and Staffordshire, eventually getting off at Longport, a short-ish walk from Burslem (as any fule kno, Port Vale are the only team in the league which aren’t actually named after the place where they play – or used to play, before anyone mentions Arsenal and brings Tim out in a rash...). It’s certainly an interesting journey – as we pass through Uttoxer, we’re greeted by the sight of hundreds of mobile homes on the race course. As there’s no actual race meeting, we can’t think of any reason why they might be there, particularly as one caravan sports a saltire and another a Norwegian flag, and none of them actually appears to be occupied at the moment. Perhaps there’s some very quiet, sedate rock festival taking place in the area and we just haven’t realised...
At Stoke, a young lad and his rather attractive Scottish mum get on. Chris has the last of a three-pack of walnut whips remaining, and offers it to the boy when we leave at Longport, thereby teaching him the vital life lesson that it’s all right to take sweets from a single gentleman of a certain age.
It’s a warm day and a nice, if mostly uphill walk to Longport, but halfway there a car pulls up and my brother offers us a lift to the pub. Of course we accept.
The Bull’s Head in Burslem is a favourite with those London Millers who’ve visited it before, but there was a little anxiety that it might not be open, as it usually isn’t on a weekday lunchtime. Luckily, Easter is different, as a phone call from my brother (in his new role as London Millers pub secretary) ascertained. Last time we played here (Katie, my niece’s first – and so far only – Rotherham game, at the grand age of one), we coincided with the pub’s birthday celebrations and a barbecue they were putting on. We’ve dropped lucky again, as they and the other Titanic pubs in the area are hosting a series of events to mark National Cask Ale week and, yes, they’ve got a barbecue on again, with a free burger or hot dog with your first drink. Chris, who hasn’t been before, soon begins to appreciate why we like it here. Nice, welcoming pub, run by nice people.
We’re joined by Chris Burrows, representing the Manchester branch, and Hugh Vaughan, representing Ireland and the much-missed world of Moulin Rouge fanzine. We find seats right behind the goal – indeed, the official Rotherham site later has a photo of one of Vale’s rare attempts on goal, with the London Miller flag, Clarkey, Hugh and myself all visible. My brother claims that Clarkey and Hugh are looking bored and I’m just being me, though Hugh says that’s his standard expression.
Mind you, if the boys were bored, it wouldn’t be a surprise. Despite all the talk of where we’d be if we’d started on zero, virtual points aren’t the same as real ones, and this is very much a game between two sides who know they really have nothing to play for. Shots on goal are at a premium, with the best chances for each side coming from headers. Broughton hits the bar in the first half and Vale, fortunately, head wide right at the end of the game. The only moment of real note comes when Micky Cummins, our best player against Notts County and doing well again here today, damages his knee. It’s a serious injury, as is proved when the world’s smallest ambulance hoves into view. Micky having been shovelled inside, there isn’t room for the vehicle to then reverse back down the tunnel, so it has to do a full circuit of the ground – to generous applause from everyone as he’s an ex-Port Vale player. It’s the only time I’ve ever seen anyone taken away to hospital in a Tonka toy...
After the game, it’s briefly back into the Bull’s Head, then off to Longport station. We have Martin Burton and Freddie with us by now, Freddie’s desire to go to games having increased massively since he was mascot for the Brentford game. It might be downhill, but it’s still a long walk for him, though he doesn’t seem to complain. On the train, Martin breaks out the Dr Who Top Trumps. Freddie seems to win a suspicious number of games, until we realise his dad is dealing him the best cards from the bottom of the deck!
In Derby, there’s time for a quick one in the Brunswick Arms, yet another of our favourite pubs. Wolves have been at Pride Park, but their fans have pretty much all left by the time we’ve got a drink in, apart from a little group at a table who ask us who we support, how we got on and then offer us a go at ‘You Are The Ref’ from their copy of the Guardian.
The train to St Pancras, when it arrives, is absolutely packed, so we don’t have four seats together. Still, it gives us an opportunity to snooze, until my rucksack decides to slither off the luggage rack and land on me. Perhaps it’s the flag’s way of telling me it thinks it’s time for its annual wash. Only a couple more weeks to go now, and then it can have a long, luxurious soak...
At Stoke, a young lad and his rather attractive Scottish mum get on. Chris has the last of a three-pack of walnut whips remaining, and offers it to the boy when we leave at Longport, thereby teaching him the vital life lesson that it’s all right to take sweets from a single gentleman of a certain age.
It’s a warm day and a nice, if mostly uphill walk to Longport, but halfway there a car pulls up and my brother offers us a lift to the pub. Of course we accept.
The Bull’s Head in Burslem is a favourite with those London Millers who’ve visited it before, but there was a little anxiety that it might not be open, as it usually isn’t on a weekday lunchtime. Luckily, Easter is different, as a phone call from my brother (in his new role as London Millers pub secretary) ascertained. Last time we played here (Katie, my niece’s first – and so far only – Rotherham game, at the grand age of one), we coincided with the pub’s birthday celebrations and a barbecue they were putting on. We’ve dropped lucky again, as they and the other Titanic pubs in the area are hosting a series of events to mark National Cask Ale week and, yes, they’ve got a barbecue on again, with a free burger or hot dog with your first drink. Chris, who hasn’t been before, soon begins to appreciate why we like it here. Nice, welcoming pub, run by nice people.
We’re joined by Chris Burrows, representing the Manchester branch, and Hugh Vaughan, representing Ireland and the much-missed world of Moulin Rouge fanzine. We find seats right behind the goal – indeed, the official Rotherham site later has a photo of one of Vale’s rare attempts on goal, with the London Miller flag, Clarkey, Hugh and myself all visible. My brother claims that Clarkey and Hugh are looking bored and I’m just being me, though Hugh says that’s his standard expression.
Mind you, if the boys were bored, it wouldn’t be a surprise. Despite all the talk of where we’d be if we’d started on zero, virtual points aren’t the same as real ones, and this is very much a game between two sides who know they really have nothing to play for. Shots on goal are at a premium, with the best chances for each side coming from headers. Broughton hits the bar in the first half and Vale, fortunately, head wide right at the end of the game. The only moment of real note comes when Micky Cummins, our best player against Notts County and doing well again here today, damages his knee. It’s a serious injury, as is proved when the world’s smallest ambulance hoves into view. Micky having been shovelled inside, there isn’t room for the vehicle to then reverse back down the tunnel, so it has to do a full circuit of the ground – to generous applause from everyone as he’s an ex-Port Vale player. It’s the only time I’ve ever seen anyone taken away to hospital in a Tonka toy...
After the game, it’s briefly back into the Bull’s Head, then off to Longport station. We have Martin Burton and Freddie with us by now, Freddie’s desire to go to games having increased massively since he was mascot for the Brentford game. It might be downhill, but it’s still a long walk for him, though he doesn’t seem to complain. On the train, Martin breaks out the Dr Who Top Trumps. Freddie seems to win a suspicious number of games, until we realise his dad is dealing him the best cards from the bottom of the deck!
In Derby, there’s time for a quick one in the Brunswick Arms, yet another of our favourite pubs. Wolves have been at Pride Park, but their fans have pretty much all left by the time we’ve got a drink in, apart from a little group at a table who ask us who we support, how we got on and then offer us a go at ‘You Are The Ref’ from their copy of the Guardian.
The train to St Pancras, when it arrives, is absolutely packed, so we don’t have four seats together. Still, it gives us an opportunity to snooze, until my rucksack decides to slither off the luggage rack and land on me. Perhaps it’s the flag’s way of telling me it thinks it’s time for its annual wash. Only a couple more weeks to go now, and then it can have a long, luxurious soak...
Championes, Championes...
Another routine trip for the most part, spiced up by the fact that if we win (or at least don’t lose) today, we’ll be champions of League 2A, the league designed by ‘Soccer AM’ based on Luton, Bournemouth and ourselves starting the season with no points deduction. Helen Chamberlain is a bit of an icon among the London Miller boys, none of whom is in the least bit jealous that I’ve had my hands on her ankles, oh, no. (Before you ask, it was for a Coca-Cola photoshoot; I’m not some kind of peripatetic foot fetishist.) Perhaps if we win the trophy, she’ll speed up the M1 in her fancy sports car to present it.
And at half time it certainly seems as though that trophy is going to be coming our way. While we haven’t been as comfortable against the Magpies as we were at Meadow Lane over Christmas, we’re one-nil up, thanks to Mark Hudson, who had the most exquisite ball fed into his path by Mickey Cummins. Delroy Facey is still showing a lack of inclination to score against us, but Jonathan Forte, who we’ve also had on loan as part of Neil Warnock’s campaign to keep us in League One during the first of our recent spells in administratoin, is looking more lively. Reuben Reid doubles the lead, then we allow Forte to pull one back and it all starts looking a little more nervy. Still, the thought of that big, shiny trophy must be motivating the boys because they hang on for the win. League 2A is ours, hopefully for all time unless there’s another season where so many clubs have points deducted (which I wouldn’t wish on anyone, except maybe the plastic fans of the so-called ‘big four’ clubs, who really need to learn that there are much worse things in footballing life than not qualifying for the Champions League...).
In the Corner Pin in Donny, things take a very surreal turn. A games machine has been installed, and Jenny and I sit and watch a group of punters trying to solve some fiendishly difficult word puzzle. I’ve no idea what the clue is, but the answer appears to be ‘Pukka Pie’. We’re spotted by Mr Thorne Brewery, who comes over and asks where my husband is. It takes me a moment to twig that he means Steve, who I was with last time he saw me, so I clear up the confusion. This isn’t the first time I’ve been mistaken for the wife of one of the London Millers, the most worrying part of this being that past suspects have included my brother – more than once!
We’re joined by Tim for the journey back. As we get close to London, he decides to ring his brother-in-law, Ian, who lives not far from St Pancras, and see if he fancies a pint. Ian has travelled with us in the past when circumstances permit, but we haven’t seen him for a while. He’s up for it, so we ensconce ourselves on the comfy sofas at the Betjeman, along with Ted and John, who’ve been to watch Darlo at Chesterfield. Ted starts telling us about how their pub of choice, the Derby Tup, now opens half an hour later than advertised, and what they had to do to kill the intervening time. You can tell it’s going to be a quality anecdote when it includes the line, ‘Now, I’d never been to a Lidl before...’ It’s the perfect end to a championship-winning day, albeit one as spurious as League 2A. Though when you’ve had as rough a couple of years as Rotherham have, you’ll toast any kind of success when it comes. Cheers!
And at half time it certainly seems as though that trophy is going to be coming our way. While we haven’t been as comfortable against the Magpies as we were at Meadow Lane over Christmas, we’re one-nil up, thanks to Mark Hudson, who had the most exquisite ball fed into his path by Mickey Cummins. Delroy Facey is still showing a lack of inclination to score against us, but Jonathan Forte, who we’ve also had on loan as part of Neil Warnock’s campaign to keep us in League One during the first of our recent spells in administratoin, is looking more lively. Reuben Reid doubles the lead, then we allow Forte to pull one back and it all starts looking a little more nervy. Still, the thought of that big, shiny trophy must be motivating the boys because they hang on for the win. League 2A is ours, hopefully for all time unless there’s another season where so many clubs have points deducted (which I wouldn’t wish on anyone, except maybe the plastic fans of the so-called ‘big four’ clubs, who really need to learn that there are much worse things in footballing life than not qualifying for the Champions League...).
In the Corner Pin in Donny, things take a very surreal turn. A games machine has been installed, and Jenny and I sit and watch a group of punters trying to solve some fiendishly difficult word puzzle. I’ve no idea what the clue is, but the answer appears to be ‘Pukka Pie’. We’re spotted by Mr Thorne Brewery, who comes over and asks where my husband is. It takes me a moment to twig that he means Steve, who I was with last time he saw me, so I clear up the confusion. This isn’t the first time I’ve been mistaken for the wife of one of the London Millers, the most worrying part of this being that past suspects have included my brother – more than once!
We’re joined by Tim for the journey back. As we get close to London, he decides to ring his brother-in-law, Ian, who lives not far from St Pancras, and see if he fancies a pint. Ian has travelled with us in the past when circumstances permit, but we haven’t seen him for a while. He’s up for it, so we ensconce ourselves on the comfy sofas at the Betjeman, along with Ted and John, who’ve been to watch Darlo at Chesterfield. Ted starts telling us about how their pub of choice, the Derby Tup, now opens half an hour later than advertised, and what they had to do to kill the intervening time. You can tell it’s going to be a quality anecdote when it includes the line, ‘Now, I’d never been to a Lidl before...’ It’s the perfect end to a championship-winning day, albeit one as spurious as League 2A. Though when you’ve had as rough a couple of years as Rotherham have, you’ll toast any kind of success when it comes. Cheers!
Rob, It's Nothing Personal, But...
The last night game of the season – the last one I can make, anyway – and the clans are gathering in the Old Mitre in Barnet. Chris Turner, who’s bringing along his mate Danny the Fulham fan who we last saw in the Fat Cat before they played Wednesday in the FA Cup, and my brother are already there, and we’re eventually joined by a mob including Jenny, Rob Maxfield, Tim (who caught the bus and was making really good time until it decided to spend around twenty minutes trundling round a nearby housing estate) and both Kirklands, John literally just having got back in the country from a work trip. The last time we were in this pub, it had gone off a little both in terms of beer and atmosphere, but a new landlord seems to have got it back into shape. We’re having a pleasant time, but there’s this nagging feeling that it won’t last. You see, I’ve never seen us win at Underhill. The day we famously put five past them I was on holiday, and since then it’s just been a sequence of uninspiring draws or, more usually, defeats. Conversely, I’ve never seen us lose at Brisbane Road, but as Orient are currently in the division above us and the only time we get to visit the ground is for the Piglet beer festivals held at their supporters’ club, that’s no consolation.
What makes me think this isn’t going to change is that I took the call from Rob Elston at Luton last week where he was asking about ticketing arrangements, and Rob is, officially, the London Millers’ jinx. I’d ask him when he last saw a Rotherham victory, but I doubt he can remember that far back...
Despite the fact Rotherham announced they wouldn’t be running a supporters’ coach for this game, there’s one of Gordon’s finest parked by the away end. This probably has something to do with the fact that owing to our recent good form, if we win tonight, it will be a record sixth away victory in a row.
In the ground, we bump into a couple of familiar faces, including Steve Ducker and Steve Exley. The latter is rather annoyed that away fans can get concessions if they sit in the newly-built stand, which is about the size of most people’s front room, but not on the terrace, so he’s standing and Kiran is sitting. It’s obviously also the week for spotting players’ relatives. I look twice az a bloke who looks remarkably like someone I used to work with walks past only to realise that he has to be Nick Fenton’s brother. I often wonder whether the wife of a famous surgeon would watch him perform a heart bypass operation, or an accountant’s brother would shout encouragement as he went through a year-end audit, but it only seems to be sport where your family is routinely expected to turn up and supprt you as you do your job...
The game itself is not especially memorable. The fixture backlog looks to be finally taking a toll on the Rotherham players; this is the third trip south in the space of a week, and they give them impression they’re a little jaded. Reuben Reid, having been voted League Two’s player of the month, never looks like scoring, but although Barnet have the advantage of the slope, they’re not exactly making the most of it, either. Whoever scores first tonight will win, and unfortunately it’s Barnet when Paul Furlong, 75, outmuscles his marker and slots the ball past Don. His second goal is almost a repeat of the first. Thank you very much and goodnight. We really shouldn’t blame anyone for our rather limp display, but Rob, I’m looking in your direction. Perhaps when we play Barnet next season you could go watch your son do some of his rather excellent stand-up, or wash your hair, or something!
On the Northern Line back into London, Jenny and Chris T decide to go for a swift drink, but I decline to join them. I need my sleep just as much as, based on that performance, some of the players do, though at least unlike them I haven’t got a three-hour coach trip before I can hit the sack...
What makes me think this isn’t going to change is that I took the call from Rob Elston at Luton last week where he was asking about ticketing arrangements, and Rob is, officially, the London Millers’ jinx. I’d ask him when he last saw a Rotherham victory, but I doubt he can remember that far back...
Despite the fact Rotherham announced they wouldn’t be running a supporters’ coach for this game, there’s one of Gordon’s finest parked by the away end. This probably has something to do with the fact that owing to our recent good form, if we win tonight, it will be a record sixth away victory in a row.
In the ground, we bump into a couple of familiar faces, including Steve Ducker and Steve Exley. The latter is rather annoyed that away fans can get concessions if they sit in the newly-built stand, which is about the size of most people’s front room, but not on the terrace, so he’s standing and Kiran is sitting. It’s obviously also the week for spotting players’ relatives. I look twice az a bloke who looks remarkably like someone I used to work with walks past only to realise that he has to be Nick Fenton’s brother. I often wonder whether the wife of a famous surgeon would watch him perform a heart bypass operation, or an accountant’s brother would shout encouragement as he went through a year-end audit, but it only seems to be sport where your family is routinely expected to turn up and supprt you as you do your job...
The game itself is not especially memorable. The fixture backlog looks to be finally taking a toll on the Rotherham players; this is the third trip south in the space of a week, and they give them impression they’re a little jaded. Reuben Reid, having been voted League Two’s player of the month, never looks like scoring, but although Barnet have the advantage of the slope, they’re not exactly making the most of it, either. Whoever scores first tonight will win, and unfortunately it’s Barnet when Paul Furlong, 75, outmuscles his marker and slots the ball past Don. His second goal is almost a repeat of the first. Thank you very much and goodnight. We really shouldn’t blame anyone for our rather limp display, but Rob, I’m looking in your direction. Perhaps when we play Barnet next season you could go watch your son do some of his rather excellent stand-up, or wash your hair, or something!
On the Northern Line back into London, Jenny and Chris T decide to go for a swift drink, but I decline to join them. I need my sleep just as much as, based on that performance, some of the players do, though at least unlike them I haven’t got a three-hour coach trip before I can hit the sack...
Thursday, 30 July 2009
Another Shot At Winning
The stout party which departs Waterloo en route to Aldershot consists of – er, me. Fortunately, I don’t look like Little Wolfie No-mates for too long as the two Chrises, Turner and Kirkland, and Clarkey join me at Clapham Junction. The tranquility of the quiet carriage, where I’ve inadvertently found seats, is ruined briefly by a VERY ANGRY MAN ranting on his mobile phone, but once enough people have told him to take his issues somewhere else, he slopes off to continue his call. Because of engineering works, we change at Woking on to a branch line. My brother is supposed to be joining the same line at Ash Vale (or as he puts it, ‘where?’), so I ring to find out whether he’s on the train. Unfortunately, he’ll be on the one behind ours, because he let a train pull out at Reading station as he wasn’t timetabled to be able to make the connection. Still, it’s his valuable drinking time, not ours...
At Aldershot station, we bump into the Treeton Millers. Non-Rotherham fans will probably know them from the fact they travel everywhere watching England and always make sure their flag is in a prominent position for TV cutaways. We briefly discuss flag-related matters, though they don’t have a girl among their number to do the important tasks like carrying and washing it. The Chrises know the shortcut to the main road, having been in the advance party with Ted when we played here in the FA Cup, so they help the Treeton Millers with directions. They have about a dozen pubs to visit, but none of them is the White Lion, where we’re headed. It’s a surprisingly warm day, and everyone’s ready for a drink by the time we get there. The chap Ted always chats to in the White Lion, Quentin, is there, sporting one of the last Hawkwind teeshirts in captivity (Ted has almost all the rest...) and we say hello. We’re eventually joined by my brother, followed by Nigel Hall, then David Bates and chum, up from the West Country. Jenny and family have said they’ll see us if they get up from Newquay in time, but in the end we don’t see them till we get in the ground. I also get a call from Nigel and Phil, down from Rotherham for the day but still minus Diamond, who’s been AWOL since it started getting serious with his woman. They may join us, unless they get just that little bit too comfortable wherever they’re drinking at the moment. We’re quite comfortable ourselves, having befriended the pub dog, a cute little bandanna-sporting terrier named Millie. The boys, of course, decide this is short for Miller and take it as an omen.
Once in the ground, we fortify ourselves with burgers (nice, but not quite up to Dagenham standards) and set up the flag on the terrace behind the goal, then go to stand on the sunny paddock to work on our tans. Rotherham are playing uphill in the first half, as on our last visit, and we take the lead early on, when Reuben Reid’s audacious lob just sneaks over the keeper. We’ve seen his dad and brother wandering past us, and Reuben appears to pick them out with his celebration.
After that, the rest of the first half is very comfortable. Danny Harrison has to leave the field with an injury and Mark Hudson, who was unlucky to be left out after his display (and goal) at Luton comes on. Some bloke behind us keeps singing ‘Mark Hudson’s on fire’ to the tune of ‘Sex On Fire’ by the Kings of Leon, and he’s right – Hudson is indeed playing incredibly well today.
Our old chum the military drummer is doing his best to rouse the home support, while the Rotherham fans on the terrace respond, as they did right till almost the end of the Cup game with a chant of ‘Still one-nil’. All through the second half, as the drumming begins to resemble the Edinburgh Tattoo and the Shots fans continue to be reminded that it’s still one-nil, there’s the nagging feeling that Aldershot will again nick something right at the end. We haven’t beaten them in three attempts already this season, and some people are starting to think they have the Indian sign over us. In truth, they don’t really threaten that much, and this time we do leave with a win.
Clarkey and Chris T have plans to go drinking in Farnham, so my bro, the two Nigels, Phil, Chris K and I decamp to the Crimea for a quick one before getting the train. We get talking to one of the Aldershot fans who’s a bit of a big lass and apparently caused quite a sensation by dancing along to some old rock classics coming over the Tannoy at half-time at the DVS the other week. Leaving Nigel Hall, who’s driving home, on his own (they’re friendly people here; he’ll be all right...) we head for the station. We’re earlier than last time, so we don’t spot any Stephen Broganalikes togged up for a night out in London.
As we trundle sedately through Virginia Water on the longer-than-normal journey back, I ask Phil and Nigel how they got on in Manchester, as the last time I saw them, they were heading for Chinatown. ‘We ended up on Canal Street,’ says Nigel (which really doesn’t come as any surprise). ‘We were in this lesbian club and we saw this real tall, striking transvestite...’
‘Yeah,’ jokes Phil. ‘It were Drewe Broughton. You could tell by the calves!’
Lovely, thanks for putting that image in my head, boys!
Chris gets off at Clapham and Nigel and Phil go back to St Pancras via Vauxhall. I squeeze on to the Jublilee Line, wondering why it’s quite so packed, until a girl breaks into a chorus of ‘Dancing On The Ceiling’ that wouldn’t see her troubling the ‘Britain’s Got Talent’ judging and I realise they’re all on their way to see Lionel Ritchie at the O2. Me, I’m off home to put my feet up and savour the novelty of being home early on a matchday...
At Aldershot station, we bump into the Treeton Millers. Non-Rotherham fans will probably know them from the fact they travel everywhere watching England and always make sure their flag is in a prominent position for TV cutaways. We briefly discuss flag-related matters, though they don’t have a girl among their number to do the important tasks like carrying and washing it. The Chrises know the shortcut to the main road, having been in the advance party with Ted when we played here in the FA Cup, so they help the Treeton Millers with directions. They have about a dozen pubs to visit, but none of them is the White Lion, where we’re headed. It’s a surprisingly warm day, and everyone’s ready for a drink by the time we get there. The chap Ted always chats to in the White Lion, Quentin, is there, sporting one of the last Hawkwind teeshirts in captivity (Ted has almost all the rest...) and we say hello. We’re eventually joined by my brother, followed by Nigel Hall, then David Bates and chum, up from the West Country. Jenny and family have said they’ll see us if they get up from Newquay in time, but in the end we don’t see them till we get in the ground. I also get a call from Nigel and Phil, down from Rotherham for the day but still minus Diamond, who’s been AWOL since it started getting serious with his woman. They may join us, unless they get just that little bit too comfortable wherever they’re drinking at the moment. We’re quite comfortable ourselves, having befriended the pub dog, a cute little bandanna-sporting terrier named Millie. The boys, of course, decide this is short for Miller and take it as an omen.
Once in the ground, we fortify ourselves with burgers (nice, but not quite up to Dagenham standards) and set up the flag on the terrace behind the goal, then go to stand on the sunny paddock to work on our tans. Rotherham are playing uphill in the first half, as on our last visit, and we take the lead early on, when Reuben Reid’s audacious lob just sneaks over the keeper. We’ve seen his dad and brother wandering past us, and Reuben appears to pick them out with his celebration.
After that, the rest of the first half is very comfortable. Danny Harrison has to leave the field with an injury and Mark Hudson, who was unlucky to be left out after his display (and goal) at Luton comes on. Some bloke behind us keeps singing ‘Mark Hudson’s on fire’ to the tune of ‘Sex On Fire’ by the Kings of Leon, and he’s right – Hudson is indeed playing incredibly well today.
Our old chum the military drummer is doing his best to rouse the home support, while the Rotherham fans on the terrace respond, as they did right till almost the end of the Cup game with a chant of ‘Still one-nil’. All through the second half, as the drumming begins to resemble the Edinburgh Tattoo and the Shots fans continue to be reminded that it’s still one-nil, there’s the nagging feeling that Aldershot will again nick something right at the end. We haven’t beaten them in three attempts already this season, and some people are starting to think they have the Indian sign over us. In truth, they don’t really threaten that much, and this time we do leave with a win.
Clarkey and Chris T have plans to go drinking in Farnham, so my bro, the two Nigels, Phil, Chris K and I decamp to the Crimea for a quick one before getting the train. We get talking to one of the Aldershot fans who’s a bit of a big lass and apparently caused quite a sensation by dancing along to some old rock classics coming over the Tannoy at half-time at the DVS the other week. Leaving Nigel Hall, who’s driving home, on his own (they’re friendly people here; he’ll be all right...) we head for the station. We’re earlier than last time, so we don’t spot any Stephen Broganalikes togged up for a night out in London.
As we trundle sedately through Virginia Water on the longer-than-normal journey back, I ask Phil and Nigel how they got on in Manchester, as the last time I saw them, they were heading for Chinatown. ‘We ended up on Canal Street,’ says Nigel (which really doesn’t come as any surprise). ‘We were in this lesbian club and we saw this real tall, striking transvestite...’
‘Yeah,’ jokes Phil. ‘It were Drewe Broughton. You could tell by the calves!’
Lovely, thanks for putting that image in my head, boys!
Chris gets off at Clapham and Nigel and Phil go back to St Pancras via Vauxhall. I squeeze on to the Jublilee Line, wondering why it’s quite so packed, until a girl breaks into a chorus of ‘Dancing On The Ceiling’ that wouldn’t see her troubling the ‘Britain’s Got Talent’ judging and I realise they’re all on their way to see Lionel Ritchie at the O2. Me, I’m off home to put my feet up and savour the novelty of being home early on a matchday...
Tuesday, 14 July 2009
Mad Hatters
Tuesday afternoon, five o’clock, and I’m waiting outside the Bricklayers’ Arms for Ted. Inevitably, he travelled ahead of the pack so he could check out the English Rose instead, but then the reason he joins us for games is the drinking, not the football. The Bricklayers’ is one of his favourites - and it is a nice pub, though it’s a while since we’ve actually visited it, given the divergent paths we’ve taken since we last played (and relegated, though we don’t talk about that) Luton eight years ago. As I’m waiting, my brother rings to let me know he’s about half an hour’s drive away. I also get a call from Rob Elston, who can’t make it tonight but wants to know whether Barnet next week is tickets in advance (in Jenny’s absence, I’m the go-to girl for such matters, though anyone uttering the words ‘assistant travel secretary’ runs the risk of being attended to with pointy, hurty implements). To which the answer is, ‘As if - and are you sure you want to go to the match, Rob? We always do so much better when you’re not there…’
Ted joins me, gets a beer and a corned beef roll in and stooges off to put some quality rock on the jukebox. He also manages to accidentally select the Libertines - which is, of course, the track which is playing as Chris Turner settles down at our table. Soon my brother has joined us, heralding a steady stream of London Miller-age. It’s one of the best turn-outs for ages - as well as the already assembled reprobates there’s Clarkey, Rob Maxfield, Chris Kirkland, Phil, Phil’s dad and Phil’s mate, Dan (who is a Watford fan and therefore is taking no pleasure in Luton’s current plight. Oh, no.) We even spot Julia and Joy the Dagenham Miller, who we haven’t seen at a game for ages. Meanwhile, Ted has noticed die-hard Luton fan and man a volume of whose poetry is lurking on the pub’s bookshelves John Hegley, as well as some bloke who’s an actor we both recognise but aren’t sure from where or, indeed, what he’s called. By the time we start making the trek to the ground, everyone is in high spirits.
Luton is, by and large, an unlovely town (and that’s a bold statement to make when you come from Rotherham!) and Kenilworth Road is in the unloveliest part of it. We negotiate the overpass, Sainsbury’s carpark and the maze of streets in which the ground is buried, arriving just as the game is kicking off. There’s always someone who is visiting Luton for the first time, and who is startled by the fact that you appear to walk through someone’s back garden to get to the away end, but us old lags are used to it. We’re more concerned with getting the flag in place and finding a decent seat. The Luton fans are in full voice, going through their repertoire of ‘two fingers to the Football League’ songs, and receive a generous amount of applause from the Rotherham fans. Solidarity, brothers, solidarity…
I’d hoped the game would be an improvement on Saturday, but even so I’m not prepared for what follows. Luton have won something like the last four games in a row, prompting mutterings that they might, somehow, get out of the bottom two, so they’re obviously in decent form. They are, however, in the Johnstone’s Paint Trophy final on Sunday (and how we’d have loved to be facing them at Wembley), so we wouldn’t have been surprised if their players were taking it slightly easy to avoid injury before the big match. There’s no sign of that as they attack from the off. We take the lead, though - Reuben Reid manages to out-muscle the defender who’s paying close attention to him, turns and shoots from the edge of the box. Minutes later, it’s two-nil: Drewe Broughton shows real persistence, squeezing the ball in while he’s practically lying on the ground, before celebrating with a few fans down in front of us and making a show of kissing his badge. Hopefully not too many of the Luton supporters have seen that, given that not only is he a huge Hatters fan but his brother works for the club as youth development officer, as tonight’s programme helpfully explains. Despite all the excitement, Ted’s attention has been captured by a bat, which spends about 15 minutes fluttering around in the glow of the floodlights before disappearing back into the night. Even Luton pulling a goal back before half-time doesn’t rouse him that much.
Mick Harford has been receiving a fair amount of taunting from the Rotherham fans, and as he wanders across the pitch (for those who’ve never been to Kenilworth Road, the dug-outs are on the opposite side to the players’ tunnel), he raises his fingers to indicate that the final score is going to be three-two to Luton. At least, I think that’s why he’s got two fingers up.
The second half turns into pure attack against defence. And yet, despite creating lots of chances, Luton go further behind when the ball pings around the area and Danny Harrison heads it in. They score a second, from a long-distance shot which Andy Warrington seems to get fingertips to, but Mark Hudson makes the game safe with the goal of the night, a beautiful volley from wide on the left. By this time, Luton have got about six strikers on, but we manage to repel everything we throw at them. Some (Ted) might describe us as having been under the cosh, but I prefer to think of it as soaking up the pressure and catching them on the break.
The mood among the travelling fans has changed, with the earlier solidarity giving way to chants of ‘We’ll never play you again.’ We know this is rubbish and I’m sure the more sensible Luton fans know this is rubbish, too, but after recent seasons where the likes of Northampton have dished out this kind of nonsense to us, a few people are taking the chance to throw it back.
The final whistle gives everyone a chance to catch their breath. Luton have given us a real game, and if they’d started playing like this earlier in the season, rather than the pallid, defensive stuff they served up at the DVS, they might well have stood a chance of pulling off a most unlikely escape. We collect the flag and pleasantly wish the stewards goodnight. They seem quite a miserable lot, but whether that’s got anything to do with tonight’s result we’re not sure.
We’re back at Luton station just in time to catch a Midland Mainline service that has us back at the Betjeman well before last orders. Ted, the two Chrises and I have a swift drink and then call it a night. Clearly all this excitement has tired us out…
Ted joins me, gets a beer and a corned beef roll in and stooges off to put some quality rock on the jukebox. He also manages to accidentally select the Libertines - which is, of course, the track which is playing as Chris Turner settles down at our table. Soon my brother has joined us, heralding a steady stream of London Miller-age. It’s one of the best turn-outs for ages - as well as the already assembled reprobates there’s Clarkey, Rob Maxfield, Chris Kirkland, Phil, Phil’s dad and Phil’s mate, Dan (who is a Watford fan and therefore is taking no pleasure in Luton’s current plight. Oh, no.) We even spot Julia and Joy the Dagenham Miller, who we haven’t seen at a game for ages. Meanwhile, Ted has noticed die-hard Luton fan and man a volume of whose poetry is lurking on the pub’s bookshelves John Hegley, as well as some bloke who’s an actor we both recognise but aren’t sure from where or, indeed, what he’s called. By the time we start making the trek to the ground, everyone is in high spirits.
Luton is, by and large, an unlovely town (and that’s a bold statement to make when you come from Rotherham!) and Kenilworth Road is in the unloveliest part of it. We negotiate the overpass, Sainsbury’s carpark and the maze of streets in which the ground is buried, arriving just as the game is kicking off. There’s always someone who is visiting Luton for the first time, and who is startled by the fact that you appear to walk through someone’s back garden to get to the away end, but us old lags are used to it. We’re more concerned with getting the flag in place and finding a decent seat. The Luton fans are in full voice, going through their repertoire of ‘two fingers to the Football League’ songs, and receive a generous amount of applause from the Rotherham fans. Solidarity, brothers, solidarity…
I’d hoped the game would be an improvement on Saturday, but even so I’m not prepared for what follows. Luton have won something like the last four games in a row, prompting mutterings that they might, somehow, get out of the bottom two, so they’re obviously in decent form. They are, however, in the Johnstone’s Paint Trophy final on Sunday (and how we’d have loved to be facing them at Wembley), so we wouldn’t have been surprised if their players were taking it slightly easy to avoid injury before the big match. There’s no sign of that as they attack from the off. We take the lead, though - Reuben Reid manages to out-muscle the defender who’s paying close attention to him, turns and shoots from the edge of the box. Minutes later, it’s two-nil: Drewe Broughton shows real persistence, squeezing the ball in while he’s practically lying on the ground, before celebrating with a few fans down in front of us and making a show of kissing his badge. Hopefully not too many of the Luton supporters have seen that, given that not only is he a huge Hatters fan but his brother works for the club as youth development officer, as tonight’s programme helpfully explains. Despite all the excitement, Ted’s attention has been captured by a bat, which spends about 15 minutes fluttering around in the glow of the floodlights before disappearing back into the night. Even Luton pulling a goal back before half-time doesn’t rouse him that much.
Mick Harford has been receiving a fair amount of taunting from the Rotherham fans, and as he wanders across the pitch (for those who’ve never been to Kenilworth Road, the dug-outs are on the opposite side to the players’ tunnel), he raises his fingers to indicate that the final score is going to be three-two to Luton. At least, I think that’s why he’s got two fingers up.
The second half turns into pure attack against defence. And yet, despite creating lots of chances, Luton go further behind when the ball pings around the area and Danny Harrison heads it in. They score a second, from a long-distance shot which Andy Warrington seems to get fingertips to, but Mark Hudson makes the game safe with the goal of the night, a beautiful volley from wide on the left. By this time, Luton have got about six strikers on, but we manage to repel everything we throw at them. Some (Ted) might describe us as having been under the cosh, but I prefer to think of it as soaking up the pressure and catching them on the break.
The mood among the travelling fans has changed, with the earlier solidarity giving way to chants of ‘We’ll never play you again.’ We know this is rubbish and I’m sure the more sensible Luton fans know this is rubbish, too, but after recent seasons where the likes of Northampton have dished out this kind of nonsense to us, a few people are taking the chance to throw it back.
The final whistle gives everyone a chance to catch their breath. Luton have given us a real game, and if they’d started playing like this earlier in the season, rather than the pallid, defensive stuff they served up at the DVS, they might well have stood a chance of pulling off a most unlikely escape. We collect the flag and pleasantly wish the stewards goodnight. They seem quite a miserable lot, but whether that’s got anything to do with tonight’s result we’re not sure.
We’re back at Luton station just in time to catch a Midland Mainline service that has us back at the Betjeman well before last orders. Ted, the two Chrises and I have a swift drink and then call it a night. Clearly all this excitement has tired us out…
Another Fine Mess, Stanley
On reflection, today would have been the perfect day to put into practice Phil’s long-cherished plan of spending the afternoon in the Fat Cat rather than going down to the DVS, particularly as some bright spark decides to keep our train waiting for a free platform at Donny just long enough for the train we’d usually catch to Sheffield - and the one a couple of minutes after that - to leave without us. Fortunately, today’s intrepid travellers (me, Jenny and Steve Ducker) catch a break when we pull into Meadowhall station in time to catch a tram which has been itself delayed straight up to Shalesmoor. It’s just as well, as Steve has to dash off early to meet his nephew. Phil is waiting for us - minus his dad, who still keeps promising to come for a pre-match drink with us but has a more important engagement with his caravan, or something - and we get to enjoy the sight of the pub’s resident cat tarting itself round various diners in the hope of getting a sneaky titbit, before being spooked by a terrier which has been brought into the pub and disappearing into a secret hidey-hole somewhere beneath our feet. It’s a hard life, being a cat.
Mind you, it’s also hard being a Rotherham supporter this afternoon. The weather is freakily wet and windy, and as Jenny and I try to secure the flag in place I’m convinced that al it will take is a rogue gust and one of us will be whisked away like Mary Poppins. The Accrington fans, who appear to have the highest flag-to-supporter ratio of any team in the division (including one belonging to the Accrington Ultras, which is a bit like calling yourself a Christian devil-worshipper…), are also doing their best not to be blown away. It’s obvious that the conditions aren’t going to make for a particularly good game of football, and this is exacerbated by the fact that Accrington haven’t just decided to park the bus, as dear old Jose would put it, but the entire National Express fleet. The swirling wind means the ball is in the air for much of the time, which plays straight into the hands of our former defender, Colin Murdock. The one thing we know about him is that he could happily head the ball away from now until the end of time - and that’s exactly what he does. There may be some goalmouth action at some point during the game, but most of the crowd has lost the will to care even before the second half kicks off. People have suggested that to make football more exciting, there should be no points awarded for a nil-nil draw. I don’t agree with that, as goalless games can feature plenty of incident, and there can be much pleasure to be had from watching a determined defensive performance. However, Accrington’s tactics, although they ultimately prove fruitful, can only provide ammunition for those who think that goals should equal points.
As Jenny is due to go off on holiday with her brother and sister, she’s staying in Rotherham, so Steve and I head back to Doncaster and the Corner Pin. There, we get chatting to a bloke who pegs us as real ale aficionados (the fact we’re snaffling the last couple of copies of the Donny Drinker could be the giveaway). He explains that he’s starting up a brewery in Thorne, which is designed not so much to generate profit but to create employment in the area. He’s recruited a brewer who’s previously worked for the well-regarded Abbeydale Brewery and is looking for people who are willing to invest a small amount of money in the scheme; the plan is they’ll be paid their dividends in beer rather than cash. It’s an unusual idea, but it might just work…
The train journey back is spent perusing the tables in the Green ’ Un, Steve being a bit of a stats freak on the not-so-quiet, and discussing the merits of vegetarian haggis (the fact it doesn’t come wrapped in a sheep’s stomach apparently being the main one). Roll on Tuesday night and Luton, because given their position in the league and their desperate need for points, the last thing that game is going to be is dull and defensive…
Mind you, it’s also hard being a Rotherham supporter this afternoon. The weather is freakily wet and windy, and as Jenny and I try to secure the flag in place I’m convinced that al it will take is a rogue gust and one of us will be whisked away like Mary Poppins. The Accrington fans, who appear to have the highest flag-to-supporter ratio of any team in the division (including one belonging to the Accrington Ultras, which is a bit like calling yourself a Christian devil-worshipper…), are also doing their best not to be blown away. It’s obvious that the conditions aren’t going to make for a particularly good game of football, and this is exacerbated by the fact that Accrington haven’t just decided to park the bus, as dear old Jose would put it, but the entire National Express fleet. The swirling wind means the ball is in the air for much of the time, which plays straight into the hands of our former defender, Colin Murdock. The one thing we know about him is that he could happily head the ball away from now until the end of time - and that’s exactly what he does. There may be some goalmouth action at some point during the game, but most of the crowd has lost the will to care even before the second half kicks off. People have suggested that to make football more exciting, there should be no points awarded for a nil-nil draw. I don’t agree with that, as goalless games can feature plenty of incident, and there can be much pleasure to be had from watching a determined defensive performance. However, Accrington’s tactics, although they ultimately prove fruitful, can only provide ammunition for those who think that goals should equal points.
As Jenny is due to go off on holiday with her brother and sister, she’s staying in Rotherham, so Steve and I head back to Doncaster and the Corner Pin. There, we get chatting to a bloke who pegs us as real ale aficionados (the fact we’re snaffling the last couple of copies of the Donny Drinker could be the giveaway). He explains that he’s starting up a brewery in Thorne, which is designed not so much to generate profit but to create employment in the area. He’s recruited a brewer who’s previously worked for the well-regarded Abbeydale Brewery and is looking for people who are willing to invest a small amount of money in the scheme; the plan is they’ll be paid their dividends in beer rather than cash. It’s an unusual idea, but it might just work…
The train journey back is spent perusing the tables in the Green ’ Un, Steve being a bit of a stats freak on the not-so-quiet, and discussing the merits of vegetarian haggis (the fact it doesn’t come wrapped in a sheep’s stomach apparently being the main one). Roll on Tuesday night and Luton, because given their position in the league and their desperate need for points, the last thing that game is going to be is dull and defensive…
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