No more snow, no more pitch inspections – things are looking positive as I walk down the Euston Road to meet Jenny, Chris Turner and Clarkey. And when I’m crossing the road outside the inexplicably popular Rocket on Chalton Street and a van belonging to Brogan’s Scaffolding goes past, I know it’s an omen.
We’re on the train to Preston, where the plan is to have a drink or two before carrying on to Accrington in time for kick-off. The journey up is fairly uneventful: QPR are at Blackpool today, and they’re travelling in numbers, but most of their fans seem to be in other carriages. We just have four in the seats behind us who are starting the day off with a nice glass of wine. West London is soooo sophisticated. As for South London, or the part of it which is Clarkey’s manor, it’s not so pleasant: he regales us with the story of how he offered assistance to a lad who was mugged outside his house the other night. Truly, he is a legend.
Once at Preston, we meet Jackie, a friend of Clarkey’s who he’s known since university and who now lives in Southport. She joined us for a drink in Manchester a few years ago, the day we played Man City – which, if I ever get round to doing London Millers Gold on this blog, will be recounted in loving detail, it truly being one of our most unforgettable trips...
Between Chris, Clarkey and Jenny we’ve racked up a decent list of pubs to visit, and we’re just deciding which should be the first as Jenny rings Accrington to check the game’s going ahead. To our utter disbelief, heavy overnight rain has left the pitch waterlogged and it’s off. Preston are away in Bristol today, so there’s only one thing for it – we’re going to have to spend the afternoon working our way through that list of pubs.
Our first port of call is the one furthest from the station, Ye Olde Blue Bell. It’s a Sam Smith’s pub, warm and welcoming, with a fire burning in the grate, and Chris, who’s getting the beers in, can’t believe he’s only being charged £1.23 a pint. If we weren’t only having one in each pub, we could happily have whiled away a couple of hours here.
Next is the Market Tavern. We walk past the Miller Arcade to get there, but obviously there’s no point taking note of omens now. Inside, the pub seems to have retained all its original Victorian features, with lots of mirrors, ironwork and brass plating all round the bar. Elvis is playing on the sound system, which makes Clarkey strangely nostalgic, even though his tastes are rooted in punk.
By now, people are starting to get peckish, so we decide to see whether the next pub on our route, the Black Horse, has food on or will let you take your own in (as the Market Tavern does). If not, we’ll investigate the chip shop in the market square. At least that’s the plan, until we go past William’s butchers. They claim to sell what’s the best pork pie in town, and at 69p, no one can resist except me – I get a couple of meat and potato pies to take home to Ted, even though he will, inevitably, compare them to the Taylor’s pies he gets from Darlo). Next door is Bamber’s cheese shop which, as you know, gets me where I’m living. It’s not quite up to the magnificence of Paxton and Whitfield in Bath, where their extensive cheese selection is sold and maintained by some very cute, very posh boys, but the mild and crumbly Lancashire is fantastic.
The Black Horse is my favourite out of the pubs we visit today. It’s a Robinson’s pub, another one with an authentic interior, featuring lots of little rooms off the main bar. It also has the only toilets I’ve ever been in where the mirrors are on the backs of the toilet doors – strange, but useful. Jackie gets a selection of crisps to keep us going, and for some reason we get on to the subject of Yorkshire pudding and the traditional way of eating it (before the main course, with lots of gravy, as a way of filling you up so you didn’t need as much meat). It turns out I’m not quite as weird as I thought I was, as I’m not alone in my preference for having it smeared with golden syrup.
A short walk away, we find the Black Bull. This is apparently the top rated pub in the area, but though there’s a very good, well-kept beer selection, the place has been fitted out with a stupid number of big screens, all of which are currently showing the Stoke-Liverpool game. Our timing is perfect, as Stoke equalise just as we’re ordering. The result goes down very well with the viewing audience. A few people leave as the game ends, so we get a table without any problems. It’s decorated with beermats got up as £7 notes, advertising a new series of ‘Minder’. Clarkey makes sure to make off with a couple so he can throw them in the direction of Chris ‘O’Greedy’ O’Grady when he goes to our rescheduled game against Rochdale. This sets us reminiscing about O’Grady being forced to do laps of the pitch on his own after our sponsored game against Brentford the other season, when he’d refused to take a wage deferral and been dropped from the squad, and how Chris very nearly did laps with him, wearing the Perspex presentation box for the match ball on his head. It would have been worth the ban from the ground, honestly, Chris...
A very short walk up the road is the Dog and Partridge. It’s a nice enough pub, probably the quietest we’ve been in, and the beer is fine, but the area where we’re sitting has a distinctive aroma which the boys are convinced is cats’ pee. This enables me to bore on about our three-cat, eleven-pawed household for a while. Fortunately, Jackie’s a cat lover, too.
Pub number six is the New Britannia. It’s been modernised to an extent, with what looks like a freshly painted bar, but it’s still kept some of the old tiling on the floor. It’s almost empty, so we colonise the comfy sofas. There’s a TV in the other room, where the pool table is, as easy to ignore as the ones in the Black Bull were intrusive, and Chris and I pop over to get all the full time scores. Dagenham have just crept above us, but to say we haven’t played for over a month and we’re fourth in the league is oddly reassuring.
From the New Britannia, we go on to the Fox and Grapes. It’s quite a narrow little pub, but we find seats at the back. This is when things start getting silly. Chris notices snacks behind the bar called a Ploughman’s Lunch, which none of us have seen before but he remembers from the Moulder’s Rest in Rotherham. He decides to treat us to this culinary experience, which consists of two cream crackers, a Laughing Cow cream cheese triangle and some silverskin onions. That sound you hear is Jamie Oliver gnawing his own feet off in frustration... Clarkey attempts to show off by throwing an onion up in the air and catching it in his mouth. It takes him four or five goes before he actually manages it, by which time the rest of us are in hysterics. ‘Ah, the North,’ declares Clarkey, ‘it’s just like the South, but with bad haircuts.’ We really can’t take him anywhere.
Before we go to our final stop on the crawl, we make sure Jackie is safely on the bus back to Southport. Without realising it, we’ve got her to the bus stop five minutes before the last limited stop service of the night leaves. Once she’s on her way, we head for the Old Vic, opposite the station. At the front is a traditional bar, with a couple of TVs showing the Everton-Man City game, but we find a quiet area at the back. Although this seems to be generally regarded as somewhere to have a quick one before you get your train, the boys say their pints as are good as anything they’ve had today.
Our train is running five minutes late, which stretches to twenty as we’re is waiting for the arrival of a crew member who’s on a delayed train coming North. Again we have QPR supporters on the train and again only a handful are near us, but forget what I said earlier about West London sophisticates as the horde in the next carriage are obviously acting up seriously. Clarkey and Chris end up rubbing up against them on their way to the toilet, which is apparently fine in the case of the girl in the short, clingy dress, but it sounds like there’s smoking, mooning and general ASBO-worthy behaviour. God knows what they’d been like if they’d lost, rather than snatching a draw. We make unscheduled stops at Crewe and Stafford, though I have no idea whether this is to eject troublemakers. The bloke sitting opposite us is seriously hacked off by this, as he’s going to miss a connection, though he mellows a little when he finds out we’re not QPR fans. ‘Rotherham. You haven’t played since December 12th, have you?’ he says. Ah, how word gets round...
We take the opportunity to rank the pubs we’ve visited today in order of preference. To remind us of which was which, we have a one-word description for each, which sounds like a mnemonic for remembering the periodic table, or something: Cheap Elvis Rooms Screens Piss Sofas Onions Station. Totting up the votes (three points for first, two for second, one for third), the winner is Ye Old Blue Bell, with the Market Tavern second and the Black Horse third.
At Euston, the police are having a word with a few of the QPR fans. Clarkey and Chris are heading for the Victoria Line, while Jenny and I walk up to St Pancras. We’re all agreed it’s the best away trip we’ve ever had with no football involved. Let’s just hope there aren’t any more of them this season.
Friday, 22 January 2010
Confessions Of A Neutral Supporter Part Six
I hadn’t planned to go to yesterday’s postponed game at Rochdale (given that one of us might have been in the FA Cup today, if it hadn’t been for that pesky Luton), so I haven’t suffered another fruitless journey. To help us avoid football cold turkey, Ted is taking us to West Ham’s FA Cup tie against Arsenal. The game is live on ITV, which probably helps to explain the availability of tickets, even with prices having been reduced from extortionate to only slightly extortionate.
Outside the ground, we bump into Ted’s Arsenal-supporting compadre, Mark, who’s waiting for a friend to arrive with his ticket. They catch up on news and discuss all things space rock until my eyes glaze over, at which point Ted decides we perhaps ought to be getting inside.
The pre-match build-up music is almost preposterously pompous, Guns ’n Roses’ ‘Sweet Child Of Mine’ followed by smug Britain’s Got Talent string quartet Escala’s renditions of ‘Palladio’ (you know the one, it was used on an advert for dishwashing powder) and ‘Kashmir’. By this time, the hairs on the back of my neck are standing up, but that’s only because I’m shivering in the sub-zero temperatures.
We’ve got seats in the Bobby Moore Lower, although we don’t actually end up sitting in them. This part of the ground is where the hardcore Irons congregate, and they stand for the whole match. They also go through a repertoire of chants in the ninety minutes which aim the usual anti-Semitic jibes at Tottenham, declare Valon Behrami’s wife to be worthy of a spot of self-pleasuring and dismiss Frank Lampard as fat (and looking at the spare tyres of some of the men in the seats around me I can imagine their wives and girlfriends looking them up and down and saying, ‘Well, I wish you were as fat as him...’). Most impressively, particularly if, unlike us, you haven’t heard them do it before, they also sing ‘I’m Forever Blowing Bubbles’ to the tune of ‘Chitty Chitty Bang Bang’. I have no idea who first worked out it’s a perfect fit, but it is.
That said, there is discontent in the ranks. Alongside another of those knicker-material flags, a banner fastened to the edge of the stand proclaims ‘Sell the club, not the players’, and we find ourselves next to the angriest man in E13. As far as he’s concerned, Gianfranco Zola is manager simply because he’s a yes man, and they need to get rid of him and find someone who’ll stand up to the owners.
On the pitch at least, Mr Angry doesn’t seem to have too much to be angry about. They’re missing a few players through injury, including Carlton Cole and Scott Parker (or as he’s known in our house, Scotty Parkery), but so are Arsenal. Indeed, it isn’t quite as much of a reserve line-up as you’d expect from the Gunners, who clearly don’t view the FA Cup as much of a priority. First-choice keeper and man who looks like a cross between Basil Fawlty and the contents of a textile recycling bin, Manuel Almunia, may be missing, but the defence is pretty much their first choice and they have promising youngsters Aaron Ramsey and Jack Wilshere in midfield (though it must really be killing Wenger to have that English player in his line-up...). Arsenal make most of the running, and it seems to be a case of not if they’ll score but when, forcing a couple of decent saves from Rob Green. However, it’s West Ham who take the lead right at the end of the half, when Diamanti breaks free of Arsenal’s attempt at an offside trap. One-on-one with the keeper, he still looks like he’s going to muck it up, but his shot creeps in. Cue mass hysteria around us. On balance, West Ham might not have deserved it, but we’ll be quite happy for them to put one of the ‘big four’ out, Man U already having been disposed of by Leeds in the one o’clock kick-off.
Half-time entertainment is provided by a shoot-out between two sets of kids representing West Ham and Arsenal. Now seems as good a time as any to put forward my theory that this is how the finals of major international tournaments shoud be settled – hold a half-time penalty shoot-out between, say, England under-nines and Germany under-nines, and should the game end level after extra time then whichever nation won the little kids’ shoot-out is awarded the trophy. I’d love it, if only to see how viciously the tabloid football journos would lay into a bunch of eight-year-olds if we lost.
Bouyed by the goal, West Ham come out of the traps fastest in the second half and should increase their lead, but Frank Nouble and Junior Stanislas waste a couple of chances, and as the half wears on the whole team begins to show a marked reluctance to shoot at goal, much to the crowd’s frustration. Mind you, Arsenal seem equally reticent. Maybe they really aren’t bothered about progressing. Then Wenger substitutes Wilshere and Fran Merida for Diaby and Nasri, which seems to move them into a higher gear. Aaron Ramsey equalises with a low shot past Green, and while the Hammers are still adjusting to having been pegged back, Eduardo scores Arsenal’s second with a header that Green almost gets a hand to.
Mr Angry is apoplectic, but I don’t think there’s a word in his sweary repertoire I don’t already know. The faithful start sneaking out, even though Ted and I are convinced West Ham will equalise simply to prove you should never leave early. It doesn’t happen. The Arse go through and we go home for a hot cup of tea and to get the feeling back in our feet. So much for that extra pair of socks...
Outside the ground, we bump into Ted’s Arsenal-supporting compadre, Mark, who’s waiting for a friend to arrive with his ticket. They catch up on news and discuss all things space rock until my eyes glaze over, at which point Ted decides we perhaps ought to be getting inside.
The pre-match build-up music is almost preposterously pompous, Guns ’n Roses’ ‘Sweet Child Of Mine’ followed by smug Britain’s Got Talent string quartet Escala’s renditions of ‘Palladio’ (you know the one, it was used on an advert for dishwashing powder) and ‘Kashmir’. By this time, the hairs on the back of my neck are standing up, but that’s only because I’m shivering in the sub-zero temperatures.
We’ve got seats in the Bobby Moore Lower, although we don’t actually end up sitting in them. This part of the ground is where the hardcore Irons congregate, and they stand for the whole match. They also go through a repertoire of chants in the ninety minutes which aim the usual anti-Semitic jibes at Tottenham, declare Valon Behrami’s wife to be worthy of a spot of self-pleasuring and dismiss Frank Lampard as fat (and looking at the spare tyres of some of the men in the seats around me I can imagine their wives and girlfriends looking them up and down and saying, ‘Well, I wish you were as fat as him...’). Most impressively, particularly if, unlike us, you haven’t heard them do it before, they also sing ‘I’m Forever Blowing Bubbles’ to the tune of ‘Chitty Chitty Bang Bang’. I have no idea who first worked out it’s a perfect fit, but it is.
That said, there is discontent in the ranks. Alongside another of those knicker-material flags, a banner fastened to the edge of the stand proclaims ‘Sell the club, not the players’, and we find ourselves next to the angriest man in E13. As far as he’s concerned, Gianfranco Zola is manager simply because he’s a yes man, and they need to get rid of him and find someone who’ll stand up to the owners.
On the pitch at least, Mr Angry doesn’t seem to have too much to be angry about. They’re missing a few players through injury, including Carlton Cole and Scott Parker (or as he’s known in our house, Scotty Parkery), but so are Arsenal. Indeed, it isn’t quite as much of a reserve line-up as you’d expect from the Gunners, who clearly don’t view the FA Cup as much of a priority. First-choice keeper and man who looks like a cross between Basil Fawlty and the contents of a textile recycling bin, Manuel Almunia, may be missing, but the defence is pretty much their first choice and they have promising youngsters Aaron Ramsey and Jack Wilshere in midfield (though it must really be killing Wenger to have that English player in his line-up...). Arsenal make most of the running, and it seems to be a case of not if they’ll score but when, forcing a couple of decent saves from Rob Green. However, it’s West Ham who take the lead right at the end of the half, when Diamanti breaks free of Arsenal’s attempt at an offside trap. One-on-one with the keeper, he still looks like he’s going to muck it up, but his shot creeps in. Cue mass hysteria around us. On balance, West Ham might not have deserved it, but we’ll be quite happy for them to put one of the ‘big four’ out, Man U already having been disposed of by Leeds in the one o’clock kick-off.
Half-time entertainment is provided by a shoot-out between two sets of kids representing West Ham and Arsenal. Now seems as good a time as any to put forward my theory that this is how the finals of major international tournaments shoud be settled – hold a half-time penalty shoot-out between, say, England under-nines and Germany under-nines, and should the game end level after extra time then whichever nation won the little kids’ shoot-out is awarded the trophy. I’d love it, if only to see how viciously the tabloid football journos would lay into a bunch of eight-year-olds if we lost.
Bouyed by the goal, West Ham come out of the traps fastest in the second half and should increase their lead, but Frank Nouble and Junior Stanislas waste a couple of chances, and as the half wears on the whole team begins to show a marked reluctance to shoot at goal, much to the crowd’s frustration. Mind you, Arsenal seem equally reticent. Maybe they really aren’t bothered about progressing. Then Wenger substitutes Wilshere and Fran Merida for Diaby and Nasri, which seems to move them into a higher gear. Aaron Ramsey equalises with a low shot past Green, and while the Hammers are still adjusting to having been pegged back, Eduardo scores Arsenal’s second with a header that Green almost gets a hand to.
Mr Angry is apoplectic, but I don’t think there’s a word in his sweary repertoire I don’t already know. The faithful start sneaking out, even though Ted and I are convinced West Ham will equalise simply to prove you should never leave early. It doesn’t happen. The Arse go through and we go home for a hot cup of tea and to get the feeling back in our feet. So much for that extra pair of socks...
Wednesday, 20 January 2010
Mission Aborted Part Two
With Boxing Day's game against Darlington having been called off (I blame Darloids doing the Indian Snow Dance for the postponement, but when I call Ted back in London he remains strangely quiet on the subject), Jenny and I are a little more optimistic as we meet up at Rotherham station ahead of our scheduled one o'clock kick-off at Chesterfield. There's been no news of an inspection and it's not been that cold overnight. Unfortunately, two minutes after the train pulls out of Sheffield, I get a call from my parents. The ref has arrived at Saltergate and promptly called the game off. Jenny calls her brother to let him know, as he's taking some friends to the game. He says it's been called off in the few minutes between him leaving home, having seen a piece on Sky Sports News where Chesterfield's groundsman has said he has no doubts the game will go ahead, and reaching the home of one of those friends.
All we can do is get off at Chesterfield as scheduled, where a phalanx of large policemen is waiting for the travelling Millers contingent, and turn round. Standing in the vestibule of the Cross-country train which very helpfully pulls in a couple of minutes later, we get chatting to a girl who's going from Tamworth to York to visit friends. She's not having the best of trips - she's had to stand most of the way and she's decided to wear a frock for a day out which involves ice skating - but she's pleasant company for the short journey back to Sheffield.
We've got half an hour to kill before the next train to Rotherham, so we take the opportunity to visit the new Sheffield Tap bar on the station. First impressions are good - there are eight Thornbridge Brewery beers on draught, a selection of assorted fruit beers, wheat beers, lagers and ciders and, for the wusses among us (yep, that's me!) a nice cup of coffee. With filled rolls being delivered while we're there, this is a place we'll be visiting again - and hopefully next time there will be some football involved, too!
All we can do is get off at Chesterfield as scheduled, where a phalanx of large policemen is waiting for the travelling Millers contingent, and turn round. Standing in the vestibule of the Cross-country train which very helpfully pulls in a couple of minutes later, we get chatting to a girl who's going from Tamworth to York to visit friends. She's not having the best of trips - she's had to stand most of the way and she's decided to wear a frock for a day out which involves ice skating - but she's pleasant company for the short journey back to Sheffield.
We've got half an hour to kill before the next train to Rotherham, so we take the opportunity to visit the new Sheffield Tap bar on the station. First impressions are good - there are eight Thornbridge Brewery beers on draught, a selection of assorted fruit beers, wheat beers, lagers and ciders and, for the wusses among us (yep, that's me!) a nice cup of coffee. With filled rolls being delivered while we're there, this is a place we'll be visiting again - and hopefully next time there will be some football involved, too!
Mission Aborted Part One
Baby, it's cold outside, so Jenny, Steve Ducker and I have wrapped up well. We know there's a pitch inspection planned for 9.30 ahead of the game against Dagenham, but as we're on the 9.10 out of Kings Cross we have to take the chance and get on the train. Twenty minutes out of London, my parents ring to let me know the inspection actually took place at nine and the game is off. We had been talking about spending the day in Sheffield if there was no football, but the early warning gives us the opportunity to get off at Stevenage and make our way back to our nice, warm homes. At least we tried...
Friday, 18 December 2009
Confessions Of A Neutral Supporter Part Five
With no trip arranged to our game at Bradford today, I’m taking the chance to take Gwenn over to Dagenham for their game against Bury. I’ve been turning Gwenn into a Rotherham fan very slowly over a very long period of time, and she’s come with us on both occasions we’ve played at Dagenham, but this will be her first time at a neutral game. Our excuse is that we’re going to check out the new arrangments in the away end, particularly regarding whether their legendary burgers are still up to snuff. It has nothing to do with a certain Mr Cutler being part of the Bury set-up. Oh, no...
First impressions of the new stand are good, even if they’re now charging twenty quid to sit there. The seating starts about ten feet up, so you have a decent view, and the players’ and officials’ facilities have been built into the stand, so they now enter and leave the pitch from behind the goal. Most importantly, the new tea bar is round the back of the stand and, yes, the burgers are as good as ever. The range of food has been expanded, with one Bury fan wandering past us with what looks like a foil dish of lasagne – how dangerously continental! However, points are lost for only having cold water in the taps in the ladies’, which is not what you want when the thermometer is hovering somewhere around zero, as it is today.
We settle in our seats and I have the joy of watching someone other than me attempt to tie a flag in place when there’s a gusty wind blowing. Mr Cutler is putting Bury keeper Wayne Brown through his warm-up routine, but he does take the time to do some pointless stretching and posing for our delectation. The other players are taking shots on goal, some of which are so wayward we begin to fear for the safety of our faces and our cups of tea. Gwenn wonders whether they’d come and check you were all right if they accidentally hit you with the ball, and I tell her Trevor Berry did that exact thing at Ashton Gate once, after he’d managed to clout some bloke on the back of the head so hard he knocked his glasses off. I’ve never seen anyone look so concerned and apologetic...
As the game gets under way, I have the joy of explaining to Gwenn various vital bits of knowledge, such as why Efe Sodje is wearing that bizarre piece of headgear. The Bury fans give her plenty of opportunity to learn all the words to ‘Alan Knill’s barmy army’, though she’s already familiar with Knilly from his Rotherham days. The teams appear to be fairly evenly matched, and I’m hoping they’ll cancel each other out as a draw would be the best result from a Rotherham point of view, but Dagenham take the lead when a spot of slapstick defending involving Sodje and Tom Newey (last seen here getting a load of stick from his own fans while playing for Grimsby) present the ball on a plate for Paul Benson to score. Sodje’s misery is compounded when he takes a blow to the head and has to go off for a couple of minutes, returning with a huge bandage under his bandanna. There’s disgruntlement in the away end, with words exchanged between one of the flag minders, who seems to be the stoic, ‘watch it with your arms folded because you’ve seen it all before’ type, and another bloke who’s more the ‘find a scapegoat and blame everything on him’ type. Dagenham think they’ve scored again, but it’s ruled out for a foul on Brown. As the half draws to a close, Nardiello misses a superb chance to equalise, but makes up for it a minute later when Bury get a corner, heading over mad Welsh goalie Tony Roberts, and the teams go in level.
During half-time, Mr Cutler takes Brown down to the opposite end to get him used to the goal he’ll be defending for the second half, while the Tannoy announcer tries to whip up support (and votes) for some girl called Stacey who’s from Dagenham and in the last three of The X-Factor. It obviously doesn’t work, as that evening she’s voted off the show. When the half-time results are read out, we’re 2-1 up at Valley Parade. I’d rather not know that, as it means I’m just going to spend the second half fretting about whether we can hold on to the lead.
Bury have clearly had a talking-to, as they step it up in the second half, just as they did when we played them. Gwenn goes to get more teas in and misses Dagenham having another goal disallowed for offside, but it’s Bury who look more likely to score. Andy Morrell has a one-on-one with Roberts and chips the ball over him, but it lands on top of the net. Sagely, I tell Gwenn that’s probably their best opportunity of the afternoon. Nardiello gets a booking and argues with the referee so fiercely he’s in danger of getting a second. Knill promptly substitutes him before he can get himself sent off. The group of fifteen or so grotty teenagers who gather as close as they can to the away end so they can indulge in banter rile one Bury fan so much he shouts, ‘Shut up, virgins!’ at them. Then Dagenham score a bit of a scrappy goal from a corner. Roberts does the world’s most rubbish forward roll (unlike Alfie’s at Wealdstone, this is intentional) and dances in front of the grotty teenagers, who love it. Gwenn and I have never seen anyone celebrate so hard who hasn’t had anything at all to do with the scoring of a goal.
Bury press for another equaliser but, deep into added time, Dagenham get a third, scored by the magnificently named Nana Ofori-Twumasi, who’s on loan from Chelsea. Again Roberts does the rubbish forward roll and dancing, which really is rubbing it in. The players troop off the pitch, with the new arrangements at least offering the away fans the chance to abuse the referee/opposition player/home player of their choice as they approach. Not that I’d ever condone this, you understand.
The final scores come in and we’ve won 4-2, which puts a little smile on Gwenn’s face as well as mine. I have trained her well...
First impressions of the new stand are good, even if they’re now charging twenty quid to sit there. The seating starts about ten feet up, so you have a decent view, and the players’ and officials’ facilities have been built into the stand, so they now enter and leave the pitch from behind the goal. Most importantly, the new tea bar is round the back of the stand and, yes, the burgers are as good as ever. The range of food has been expanded, with one Bury fan wandering past us with what looks like a foil dish of lasagne – how dangerously continental! However, points are lost for only having cold water in the taps in the ladies’, which is not what you want when the thermometer is hovering somewhere around zero, as it is today.
We settle in our seats and I have the joy of watching someone other than me attempt to tie a flag in place when there’s a gusty wind blowing. Mr Cutler is putting Bury keeper Wayne Brown through his warm-up routine, but he does take the time to do some pointless stretching and posing for our delectation. The other players are taking shots on goal, some of which are so wayward we begin to fear for the safety of our faces and our cups of tea. Gwenn wonders whether they’d come and check you were all right if they accidentally hit you with the ball, and I tell her Trevor Berry did that exact thing at Ashton Gate once, after he’d managed to clout some bloke on the back of the head so hard he knocked his glasses off. I’ve never seen anyone look so concerned and apologetic...
As the game gets under way, I have the joy of explaining to Gwenn various vital bits of knowledge, such as why Efe Sodje is wearing that bizarre piece of headgear. The Bury fans give her plenty of opportunity to learn all the words to ‘Alan Knill’s barmy army’, though she’s already familiar with Knilly from his Rotherham days. The teams appear to be fairly evenly matched, and I’m hoping they’ll cancel each other out as a draw would be the best result from a Rotherham point of view, but Dagenham take the lead when a spot of slapstick defending involving Sodje and Tom Newey (last seen here getting a load of stick from his own fans while playing for Grimsby) present the ball on a plate for Paul Benson to score. Sodje’s misery is compounded when he takes a blow to the head and has to go off for a couple of minutes, returning with a huge bandage under his bandanna. There’s disgruntlement in the away end, with words exchanged between one of the flag minders, who seems to be the stoic, ‘watch it with your arms folded because you’ve seen it all before’ type, and another bloke who’s more the ‘find a scapegoat and blame everything on him’ type. Dagenham think they’ve scored again, but it’s ruled out for a foul on Brown. As the half draws to a close, Nardiello misses a superb chance to equalise, but makes up for it a minute later when Bury get a corner, heading over mad Welsh goalie Tony Roberts, and the teams go in level.
During half-time, Mr Cutler takes Brown down to the opposite end to get him used to the goal he’ll be defending for the second half, while the Tannoy announcer tries to whip up support (and votes) for some girl called Stacey who’s from Dagenham and in the last three of The X-Factor. It obviously doesn’t work, as that evening she’s voted off the show. When the half-time results are read out, we’re 2-1 up at Valley Parade. I’d rather not know that, as it means I’m just going to spend the second half fretting about whether we can hold on to the lead.
Bury have clearly had a talking-to, as they step it up in the second half, just as they did when we played them. Gwenn goes to get more teas in and misses Dagenham having another goal disallowed for offside, but it’s Bury who look more likely to score. Andy Morrell has a one-on-one with Roberts and chips the ball over him, but it lands on top of the net. Sagely, I tell Gwenn that’s probably their best opportunity of the afternoon. Nardiello gets a booking and argues with the referee so fiercely he’s in danger of getting a second. Knill promptly substitutes him before he can get himself sent off. The group of fifteen or so grotty teenagers who gather as close as they can to the away end so they can indulge in banter rile one Bury fan so much he shouts, ‘Shut up, virgins!’ at them. Then Dagenham score a bit of a scrappy goal from a corner. Roberts does the world’s most rubbish forward roll (unlike Alfie’s at Wealdstone, this is intentional) and dances in front of the grotty teenagers, who love it. Gwenn and I have never seen anyone celebrate so hard who hasn’t had anything at all to do with the scoring of a goal.
Bury press for another equaliser but, deep into added time, Dagenham get a third, scored by the magnificently named Nana Ofori-Twumasi, who’s on loan from Chelsea. Again Roberts does the rubbish forward roll and dancing, which really is rubbing it in. The players troop off the pitch, with the new arrangements at least offering the away fans the chance to abuse the referee/opposition player/home player of their choice as they approach. Not that I’d ever condone this, you understand.
The final scores come in and we’ve won 4-2, which puts a little smile on Gwenn’s face as well as mine. I have trained her well...
Getting The Replay Blues
Luton on a wet Tuesday night. What could be finer? While you’re busily compiling a list (you can stop when you’ve come up with more than fifty things, which shouldn’t take you too long...), let me whisk you to the Bricklayers Arms, where Clarkey and Chris Turner have just got comfortable and I’m about to join them. With the later addition of Julia, this is the sum turn-out of the London Millers tonight. Clarkey is highly disgruntled by this – Jenny may be on her annual Christmas shopping holiday, but as far as he’s concerned, most of the others don’t have an excuse for not being here. Perhaps they’re not enticed by this replay of a game which, according to Clarkey, we should have won in the first leg, Luton apparently having been one of the poorest teams he’s seen all season. The reward for the winner is a trip to Southampton in the Third Round. Playing Southampton isn’t exactly a novelty for us as we beat them in the Carling Cup last season (and, memorably, knocked them out of the FA Cup at Millmoor a few years back), but it would give us a chance to visit St Mary’s.
Unlike our last visit, we make sure to give ourselves plenty of time to get to the ground, the away end being just that little bit further away than you always think. Clarkey is delighted to see that the sports bar just down the hill from the Bricklayers, which offers only smoothflow type beer, is pretty much deserted, while the real ale establishment we’ve just left was heaving. The new installation of a stretch of Zen pavement which tinkles when you tread on it is an exciting addition to our walk, but doesn’t quite distract from the view you get into back gardens piled with broken bikes and other rubbish as you cut along the side of the ground.
A couple of lads are putting up a flag we haven’t seen before. It has their names – Dave and some nickname beginning with K – emblazoned on it, and is made of that silky stuff usually associated with cheap knickers, and we give them some tape to help hold it in place.
For the first five minutes, it looks like Rotherham are really up for this tie. We have a couple of good chances to score in the first minute, with Sharps having a header saved and defenders scrambling to block another shot. Then, suddenly, Luton break away and Adam Newton scores. With Fenton suspended, we’re playing an unfamiliar back four of Lynch, Joseph, Sharps and Brogan, and the two full-backs are having problems dealing with Luton’s pacy wingers. We’re not playing particularly badly, but then Claude Gnapka awarded a rather dubious free-kick (he’s another one of these Drogba-esque big, strong players who crumples like tissue under a challenge when it suits him) from which Alan White scores. The Luton fans start getting a bit cocky, with the Rotherham support responding with a chorus of ‘minus points and we still stayed up’. We start looking for things to distract us from the rather flattering scoreline. On the touchline, Drewe Broughton is warming up in the unique combination of gloves and sweatbands. (Ted, who isn’t here tonight and wouldn’t have the sight of a bat to distract him if he were, would be making some comment about ‘big, glove-wearing jessies’). Clarkey decides the club is missing a trick – for those who can’t quite afford to sponsor a full kit, they could be offered Mr B’s sweatbands at £25 a time...
For much of the rest of the half, and much of the second, Luton continue to attack. Tom Pope is working very hard, but Alf is feeding on scraps. Luton’s third goal is another breakaway, finished off by Gnapka, who milks the moment and milks it again when he’s substituted. He’s received a booking for putting the ball in the net after not realising he was offside, even though the ref blew a good twenty seconds earlier (something players should really get booked for more often than they do); with any luck, it’ll eventually count towards a suspension which will rule him out of an important game. This may sound bitter but, like the Notts County strikeforce of Lee Hughes and Luke Rodgers, there’s just something objectionable about him.
We are still making chances, and I’m starting to understand what Ronnie sees in Gary Roberts, although he seems to be tiring as the game goes on. However, ex-Roth keeper Kevin Pilkington makes a couple of good saves, and we’ve already realised it isn’t going to be our night. Ronnie takes off Ellison and Pope and brings on Ryan Taylor and a thankfully gloveless Broughton. Big Drewe hits the bar with a header, but that’s as close as we come.
There is some disgruntled muttering from one or two fans as the teams come off the pitch, including the two lads taking down the other flag, but the players take the time to applaud the hundred and thirty-odd who’ve travelled tonight. They know they haven’t produced their best football, but it hasn’t been the complete humiliation all the press reports will later suggest by any means.
We’re back at the station in time to catch an East Midlands service back to St Pancras, rather than the much slower Thameslink. Sometimes, you can’t get out of Luton fast enough...
Unlike our last visit, we make sure to give ourselves plenty of time to get to the ground, the away end being just that little bit further away than you always think. Clarkey is delighted to see that the sports bar just down the hill from the Bricklayers, which offers only smoothflow type beer, is pretty much deserted, while the real ale establishment we’ve just left was heaving. The new installation of a stretch of Zen pavement which tinkles when you tread on it is an exciting addition to our walk, but doesn’t quite distract from the view you get into back gardens piled with broken bikes and other rubbish as you cut along the side of the ground.
A couple of lads are putting up a flag we haven’t seen before. It has their names – Dave and some nickname beginning with K – emblazoned on it, and is made of that silky stuff usually associated with cheap knickers, and we give them some tape to help hold it in place.
For the first five minutes, it looks like Rotherham are really up for this tie. We have a couple of good chances to score in the first minute, with Sharps having a header saved and defenders scrambling to block another shot. Then, suddenly, Luton break away and Adam Newton scores. With Fenton suspended, we’re playing an unfamiliar back four of Lynch, Joseph, Sharps and Brogan, and the two full-backs are having problems dealing with Luton’s pacy wingers. We’re not playing particularly badly, but then Claude Gnapka awarded a rather dubious free-kick (he’s another one of these Drogba-esque big, strong players who crumples like tissue under a challenge when it suits him) from which Alan White scores. The Luton fans start getting a bit cocky, with the Rotherham support responding with a chorus of ‘minus points and we still stayed up’. We start looking for things to distract us from the rather flattering scoreline. On the touchline, Drewe Broughton is warming up in the unique combination of gloves and sweatbands. (Ted, who isn’t here tonight and wouldn’t have the sight of a bat to distract him if he were, would be making some comment about ‘big, glove-wearing jessies’). Clarkey decides the club is missing a trick – for those who can’t quite afford to sponsor a full kit, they could be offered Mr B’s sweatbands at £25 a time...
For much of the rest of the half, and much of the second, Luton continue to attack. Tom Pope is working very hard, but Alf is feeding on scraps. Luton’s third goal is another breakaway, finished off by Gnapka, who milks the moment and milks it again when he’s substituted. He’s received a booking for putting the ball in the net after not realising he was offside, even though the ref blew a good twenty seconds earlier (something players should really get booked for more often than they do); with any luck, it’ll eventually count towards a suspension which will rule him out of an important game. This may sound bitter but, like the Notts County strikeforce of Lee Hughes and Luke Rodgers, there’s just something objectionable about him.
We are still making chances, and I’m starting to understand what Ronnie sees in Gary Roberts, although he seems to be tiring as the game goes on. However, ex-Roth keeper Kevin Pilkington makes a couple of good saves, and we’ve already realised it isn’t going to be our night. Ronnie takes off Ellison and Pope and brings on Ryan Taylor and a thankfully gloveless Broughton. Big Drewe hits the bar with a header, but that’s as close as we come.
There is some disgruntled muttering from one or two fans as the teams come off the pitch, including the two lads taking down the other flag, but the players take the time to applaud the hundred and thirty-odd who’ve travelled tonight. They know they haven’t produced their best football, but it hasn’t been the complete humiliation all the press reports will later suggest by any means.
We’re back at the station in time to catch an East Midlands service back to St Pancras, rather than the much slower Thameslink. Sometimes, you can’t get out of Luton fast enough...
Tuesday, 15 December 2009
Gone For A... Yes, You Guessed It
Ho ho ho! It’s that London Millers Christmas party trip time of year again, and if anyone knows where the twelve months since the last one has gone, please leave comments below... Assembling at Kings Cross for the journey are Jenny, Tim, Clarkey, Chris Turner, Steve Ducker and Julia. Joy should have been joining us, but according to Julia she’s come down with the lurgi. It doesn’t stop the rest of us kicking the party off once the train’s gone through Peterborough. Jenny, as ever, has brought Waitrose crackers (good presents, rubbish jokes...), Chris has brought his legendary cheese and onion on sticks and I’ve gone all Graftons and made some good old Yorkshire parkin. For those not from the Rotherham area, Graftons was an excellent local baker which sadly went out of business a couple of years ago. Their finest creation was the Melting Moment, a combination of squidgy meringue, cream and jam. If anyone ever managed to recreate the recipe, I would be a very happy woman...
The original plan, suggested by Phil, who we’re meeting in Sheffield, is to visit the brand new Brewery Tap in Sheffield station. It’s the sister establishment of a bar in York which has been attracting great reviews and the boys are keen to try it. Unfortunately, Chris Kirkland rings to let us know he’s at the station and the bar will definitely not be open by the time we get there. We tell him we’ll meet him in the Bath Hotel instead.
We take the tram to West Street and walk through the back streets, which acts as a reminder of how much Sheffield has changed in the last few years. We cut through the West One shopping centre, where a newly-married couple are posing for wedding photographs. Clarkey, ever the gent, stops to offer his congratulations.
The Bath Hotel opens at 12, so Chris has been in the Wetherspoon, rolling up at the pub at the same time we do. We colonise the small back room and Clarkey starts handing out this year’s raffle tickets. The main prize this year is hospitality for our game against Chelters in April, by which point they may have actually sorted out their managerial situation...
Chris K decides to change his shirt in public; in a reversal of the usual roles, I really need Drewe Broughton to put his hands over my eyes!
It’s very tempting to stay where we are till much nearer kick-off, but there are people we’ve arranged to see in the Carlton, so we head for Attercliffe. There’s quite a large Rotherham contingent in there, now the landlord has dropped the ‘away fans only’ rule, which means we’re able to sell a football card to raise some funds. The winner is Dave Finnis, which means his trip over from Australia hasn’t been entirely without excitement!
Burton have brought slightly fewer fans than I’d expected, given it’s their first season in the league, but crowds always seem a little sparser in December as the cost of getting the Christmas shopping kicks in. When I was first on the student paper at Leicester University, several thousand years ago, the assistant editor was a lad called Nigel Poulson, who was a massive Burton fan at a time when almost no one followed non-league football as religiously as they do now. If I remember rightly, their manager at the time was Neil Warnock (but then someone’s manager has to be...). I’d love to know whether he’s still following them, and whether he’s here today.
If he is, he sees his side get off to a not particularly inspired start. Half the pitch is vile, with the parts which were covered for the U2 gig and subsequently relaid looking boggy and causing the ball to bobble unpredictably on the surface. Burton are attacking in the good half, which enables them to pass the ball around nicely, but even so their keeper is timewasting after about ten minutes. We have a decent shout for a penalty when the ball hits a Burton hand in the area, but the ref doesn’t see it. Two minutes later, exactly the same thing happens again, and this time he does point to the spot. Despite having missed a penalty against Lincoln, Alf steps up to take it. He doesn’t make the same mistake again. That’s sixteen for the season.
My dad and I are being entertained by our friends in the row in front. Lewis (we assume that’s what he’s called because that’s the name on the back of his replica shirt), who always plugs into his radio, is keeping us up to date with other scores. He seems strangely gratified that Wednesday aren’t doing very well (though to be fair, that’s the default position of most Rotherham fans). Meanwhile, the older of the two boys in front of us is complaining about the fact we always scrape through games. He wants to see us score a lot of goals, for once, and I think his dad would quite like that, too. But it’s only one-nil at half-time. Burton have been passing the ball around, probably helped by the fact Ronnie’s playing a central midfield combo of Nicky Law and Gary Roberts, neither of whom is particularly defensive minded, but they haven’t troubled Don too much.
The half-time draw is performed by Billy McEwan, always popular with the Rotherham fans, but don’t mention his time at Darlo to Ted... Strangely, the Rotherham United dance troupe seem to have bitten the dust, though no one seems to mind too much.
In the second half, we get the good half of the pitch, and for about twenty minutes we have Burton under the cosh. Alf hits the crossbar with an audacious lob, with Adam Rundle (on loan from Rochdale and officially Alf’s BFF) failing to convert the rebound, and the keeper has to make a couple of good saves. We get a second goal when the Burton defence briefly goes missing, allowing Rundle to slot a good little ball into Alf’s path, which he converts with a poacher’s instinct. We haven’t had a player who could score goals of the same quality and with so much variety since Mark Robins.
Unfortunately, Burton pull one back a couple of minutes later, when we neglect to take a couple of opportunities to clear the ball and Webster curls a shot past Don. The Burton defence continues to look porous, but the game turns when Fenton is sent off for sliding in on Webster. The ref doesn’t hesitate to pull out a red card, which would be fair enough if one of the Burton players hadn’t put in a very similar challenge on Nicky Law and not even received a yellow for it. Clarkey points out later that if we’d had big Pablo or Harrison in midfield, they’d have cut the attack out without Fenton needing to make the challenge.
Ronnie takes off Rundle and brings on Marc Joseph, but Burton sense they’ve been given the upper hand and keep on attacking. Miller Bear is trying his best to get an atmosphere going by banging his drum, but one of the legs keeps falling off, which kind of ruins the effect. Never mind, Bear, I’m sure Santa will bring you a new one for Christmas if you’re good!
Burton get an equaliser when we again fail to clear a ball and Pearson capitalises on our mistakes. We have a chance to score right at the end, but Joseph heads over. Unsurprisingly, there are a few boos at the end, even though other results mean we’re still third in the league. We wander off to the Carlton, in theory to meet Tim, although he’s decided to visit the Cocked Hat instead. No one is entirely sure why...
Back in Donny, we have a swift one in the Railway, before boarding the train for the return leg of the party. With the aid of the ‘25 Years Ago This Week’ feature in the Green ’Un, Steve decides to play a game which involves naming all the members of the team who’d played against Newport. This was when the much-reviled George Kerr (every time I type that name, a little bit of my brother dies inside...) was in charge, so it takes a while as most people have desperately tried to blank that season from their memory. By the time we’ve got them all, we’re well past Grantham and all the parkin and sausages (including a fesh packet Steve was saving for the way back) have been scoffed.
As we come into King’s Cross, Tim rings Ian Chaplain and invites him for a drink. I have to get home and attend to three hungry cats, so I decline to join them. But at least we’ve had two party trips in a row where we haven’t lost the game, which must be some kind of record, and not even the idiots on the Tube having a celebration much more drunken and raucous than ours can spoil the mood
The original plan, suggested by Phil, who we’re meeting in Sheffield, is to visit the brand new Brewery Tap in Sheffield station. It’s the sister establishment of a bar in York which has been attracting great reviews and the boys are keen to try it. Unfortunately, Chris Kirkland rings to let us know he’s at the station and the bar will definitely not be open by the time we get there. We tell him we’ll meet him in the Bath Hotel instead.
We take the tram to West Street and walk through the back streets, which acts as a reminder of how much Sheffield has changed in the last few years. We cut through the West One shopping centre, where a newly-married couple are posing for wedding photographs. Clarkey, ever the gent, stops to offer his congratulations.
The Bath Hotel opens at 12, so Chris has been in the Wetherspoon, rolling up at the pub at the same time we do. We colonise the small back room and Clarkey starts handing out this year’s raffle tickets. The main prize this year is hospitality for our game against Chelters in April, by which point they may have actually sorted out their managerial situation...
Chris K decides to change his shirt in public; in a reversal of the usual roles, I really need Drewe Broughton to put his hands over my eyes!
It’s very tempting to stay where we are till much nearer kick-off, but there are people we’ve arranged to see in the Carlton, so we head for Attercliffe. There’s quite a large Rotherham contingent in there, now the landlord has dropped the ‘away fans only’ rule, which means we’re able to sell a football card to raise some funds. The winner is Dave Finnis, which means his trip over from Australia hasn’t been entirely without excitement!
Burton have brought slightly fewer fans than I’d expected, given it’s their first season in the league, but crowds always seem a little sparser in December as the cost of getting the Christmas shopping kicks in. When I was first on the student paper at Leicester University, several thousand years ago, the assistant editor was a lad called Nigel Poulson, who was a massive Burton fan at a time when almost no one followed non-league football as religiously as they do now. If I remember rightly, their manager at the time was Neil Warnock (but then someone’s manager has to be...). I’d love to know whether he’s still following them, and whether he’s here today.
If he is, he sees his side get off to a not particularly inspired start. Half the pitch is vile, with the parts which were covered for the U2 gig and subsequently relaid looking boggy and causing the ball to bobble unpredictably on the surface. Burton are attacking in the good half, which enables them to pass the ball around nicely, but even so their keeper is timewasting after about ten minutes. We have a decent shout for a penalty when the ball hits a Burton hand in the area, but the ref doesn’t see it. Two minutes later, exactly the same thing happens again, and this time he does point to the spot. Despite having missed a penalty against Lincoln, Alf steps up to take it. He doesn’t make the same mistake again. That’s sixteen for the season.
My dad and I are being entertained by our friends in the row in front. Lewis (we assume that’s what he’s called because that’s the name on the back of his replica shirt), who always plugs into his radio, is keeping us up to date with other scores. He seems strangely gratified that Wednesday aren’t doing very well (though to be fair, that’s the default position of most Rotherham fans). Meanwhile, the older of the two boys in front of us is complaining about the fact we always scrape through games. He wants to see us score a lot of goals, for once, and I think his dad would quite like that, too. But it’s only one-nil at half-time. Burton have been passing the ball around, probably helped by the fact Ronnie’s playing a central midfield combo of Nicky Law and Gary Roberts, neither of whom is particularly defensive minded, but they haven’t troubled Don too much.
The half-time draw is performed by Billy McEwan, always popular with the Rotherham fans, but don’t mention his time at Darlo to Ted... Strangely, the Rotherham United dance troupe seem to have bitten the dust, though no one seems to mind too much.
In the second half, we get the good half of the pitch, and for about twenty minutes we have Burton under the cosh. Alf hits the crossbar with an audacious lob, with Adam Rundle (on loan from Rochdale and officially Alf’s BFF) failing to convert the rebound, and the keeper has to make a couple of good saves. We get a second goal when the Burton defence briefly goes missing, allowing Rundle to slot a good little ball into Alf’s path, which he converts with a poacher’s instinct. We haven’t had a player who could score goals of the same quality and with so much variety since Mark Robins.
Unfortunately, Burton pull one back a couple of minutes later, when we neglect to take a couple of opportunities to clear the ball and Webster curls a shot past Don. The Burton defence continues to look porous, but the game turns when Fenton is sent off for sliding in on Webster. The ref doesn’t hesitate to pull out a red card, which would be fair enough if one of the Burton players hadn’t put in a very similar challenge on Nicky Law and not even received a yellow for it. Clarkey points out later that if we’d had big Pablo or Harrison in midfield, they’d have cut the attack out without Fenton needing to make the challenge.
Ronnie takes off Rundle and brings on Marc Joseph, but Burton sense they’ve been given the upper hand and keep on attacking. Miller Bear is trying his best to get an atmosphere going by banging his drum, but one of the legs keeps falling off, which kind of ruins the effect. Never mind, Bear, I’m sure Santa will bring you a new one for Christmas if you’re good!
Burton get an equaliser when we again fail to clear a ball and Pearson capitalises on our mistakes. We have a chance to score right at the end, but Joseph heads over. Unsurprisingly, there are a few boos at the end, even though other results mean we’re still third in the league. We wander off to the Carlton, in theory to meet Tim, although he’s decided to visit the Cocked Hat instead. No one is entirely sure why...
Back in Donny, we have a swift one in the Railway, before boarding the train for the return leg of the party. With the aid of the ‘25 Years Ago This Week’ feature in the Green ’Un, Steve decides to play a game which involves naming all the members of the team who’d played against Newport. This was when the much-reviled George Kerr (every time I type that name, a little bit of my brother dies inside...) was in charge, so it takes a while as most people have desperately tried to blank that season from their memory. By the time we’ve got them all, we’re well past Grantham and all the parkin and sausages (including a fesh packet Steve was saving for the way back) have been scoffed.
As we come into King’s Cross, Tim rings Ian Chaplain and invites him for a drink. I have to get home and attend to three hungry cats, so I decline to join them. But at least we’ve had two party trips in a row where we haven’t lost the game, which must be some kind of record, and not even the idiots on the Tube having a celebration much more drunken and raucous than ours can spoil the mood
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