Bury irritating

It's not often I actually take time off work to catch a midweek home game,
but this is one of those rare occasions. Jenny is waiting for me at St
Pancras as I battle my way through the lunchtime shoppers, but the train
itself is quiet and we're in Rotherham without any hitches by mid-afternoon.
She goes up to her brother's and I go to my parents' - home, after all,
being the place where they feed you properly. It means we both have to pass
on joining Phil Kyte and his dad for a pint of watery Stones' in the
Attercliffe Liberal Club before the game, but sometimes you have to make
these sacrifices...
On the bus to Meadowhall, my dad gets talking to a bloke we often used to
see on the way down to Millmoor. He proudly claims not to have missed a home
game in the last ten seasons, as well as making around half of the away
games, and given that he's clearly well into retirement, this puts mine and
even Jenny's dedication to shame.
This is my first night game at the DVS, and with Bury turning up on the back
of three straight draws, we should probably realise how this one is going to
go. The Shakers, these days, are a bit of Rotherham old boys' club. They're
managed by Alan Knill, who kept us up against all the odds the first time we
went into administration but couldn't repeat the feat the following season
when we started on (a mere) -10 points and was duly sacked. His assistant,
until recently, was former Miller Chris Wilder, who's been replaced by Chris
Brass (forever more known as 'poor old Chris Brass' after scoring that
comedy own goal against Darlo in which he managed to smack himself in the
face with the ball and break his own nose). Their goalkeeping coach is yet
another ex-Miller, Neil Cutler, known to the London Millers as Ivor after
the late Scottish poet, musician and thorough-going eccentric. I did find
myself explaining the nickname to him in the hospitality marquee at Millmoor
after a game a couple of seasons ago, but that's a story for another time...
Completing the connections, among the squad is Rotherham-born Ryan
Cresswell, who became a legend based on one substitute appearance on loan
last year, in which he helped turn a losing scoreline against Morecambe into
a 3-1 win, before promptly being recalled by Sheff U and being sent out to -
yes, you guessed it, Morecambe.
Knill has produced yet another of the division's big, physical, organised
teams, and in rainy, windy conditions they've clearly come determined not to
concede. The man to my left raves all game about Efe Sodje and what a great
defender he is - though what he's really great at is those little nudges and
tugs on players which are designed to go unnoticed by the ref. Commentators
call it 'experienced defending'. I think the bandanna baffles people...
Half-time is enlivened by a bunch of lads in replica away shirts dancing
randomly down the front of the stand and Ivor putting Bury's keeper, Wayne
Brown, through a spot of catching practice. I assume they work on such
essential aspects of a goalkeeper's game as pointless shouting at defenders
and timewasting at goal kicks on the training ground.
The game seems destined to peter out into a draw until about ten minutes
from the end, when Drewe Broughton is fouled in the area and Reuben Reid
converts the resulting penalty. It looks as though we're going to hold out
for the win, but then Bury get a free-kick. Everyone seems to forget about
marking the man with the silly headgear, and Sodje slams in a header to
equalise. It's a real sickener, even though ten minutes ago we would all
happily have settled for a point.
At Meadowhall bus station, my dad and I get the X78 back to Rotherham. Also
on the bus are the random dancers. It doesn't surprise either of us when,
back in Rotherham, they pile on the bus to East Dene. It's that kind of
place...

Chesterfield of dreams

When I arrive at St Pancras, it's crawling with Scotsmen in kilts, on their way to the rugby at Twickers. Bill Shipton, the brains behind 'Splosh!' magazine and possibly the funniest man in Britain, once suggested a radio station called Golden Punchlines, which would only broadcast the punchlines to really old jokes. As I make my way through the concourse, all I can think is, 'And coming up on Golden Punchlines this hour: no, it's all in perfect working order.'

I'm travelling on my own today and meeting Jenny and Tim in Sheffield, and the train is mayhem, full of people who've switched to this line because of engineering works elsewhere and who seem to be baffled by the concept of previously reserved seats. Most of them depart at Derby, but then at Chesterfield we're joined by dozens of their fans, most of whom seem determined to prove my dad right when he claims that they come from a town where they still point at aeroplanes. We lost at Saltergate to a goal in the sixth minute of added time back in September, and they haven't seemed inclined to let us forget it since. According to my dad, they've been ringing Radio Sheffield's 'Football Heaven' all week, claiming they're going to hammer us today. At the moment, though, they're more interested in singing songs about how much they hate Mansfield, and wondering whether they're going to have the chance of a ruck with Swansea, who are in town to play Wednesday.

All that's waiting for them at the Sheffield station, though, is police. I nip through the cordon to find Jenny and Tim, and we head for the Rutland. It was the pub we always used to use when we played Sheff U, but it's been closed for a while. However, a couple of people have told us it's reopened recently, so we investigate – only to find it shut. The alternative is the nearby Red Lion, where we're joined by Tim's mate, Andy, who's slightly baffled by the fact the city centre is full of people wandering round singing about how much they hate Cardiff...

Having lost to Aldershot in the week, we're not that optimistic about today's result. Chesterfield seem up for it, and there are some spiky exchanges between Dale Tonge and Drew Talbot, both of whom get booked for their pains. Jack Lester is, as you would expect, stationed somewhere near the halfway line for 97.4 per cent of the half: I'm sure if you saw his passport, his profession would read 'goalhanger'. Martin Gritton manages to miss an open goal and they also have a goal disallowed for offside. So it's all the sweeter that we're the ones who take the lead, with a nice three-man move being finished off by Reuben Reid. 'Ruby' rings out over the Tannoy, and I tell my dad that if Drewe Broughton scores, they should play Frank Sinatra singing 'Ain't That A Kick In The Head'.

At halftime, there's a five-a-side (or possibly five-a-day) game between the fruits and the vegetables. Quite why they think we want to watch a bloke dressed as a half-peeled banana nutmeg an opponent in a carrot costume I don't know, but it's still weirdly entertaining.

We expect Chesterfield to step it up after the interval, but instead we're the ones who come out on the attack, and what follows is the best ninety minutes of football I've seen us play all season. Reuben gets a second goal, latching on to a ball which Broughton heads into his path. Chesterfield have Talbot sent off for a challenge on Tonge after the ball. In no way is the Rotherham fans' delighted reaction to this influenced by the fact he used to play for Wednesday. Pablo Mills finally gets his first goal of the season with a 25-yard thunderbolt, and by the end the 'olés' are ringing round the stadium and the Spireites are streaming for the exit. 'Are you dressed as empty seats?' sings a bloke a couple of rows in front of us.

After the game, having given the players a generous ovation and collected the flag, Jenny and I go to The Old Queens Head (aka the Tudor Tavern). Tim and Andy join us, having managed to make a swift enough exit from the ground to fit in a pint at the Carlton before catching the tram.

On the train, we find ourselves sharing a carriage with the London Owls, one of whom is Tommy Craig, best known for his roles in 'Coronation Street' and 'Where The Heart Is'. 'Those DFS adverts can't be paying that well,' Jenny observes, 'because last time we saw him travelling, he was in first class!'

At a suspiciously Scotsman-free St Pancras, we meet up with Tim's brother-in-law, Ian, and Ted at the Betjeman. Needless to say, the beer goes down particularly smoothly after today's result. They're definitely not our bogey team any more...

Downing Dale

At the end of every season, I compile some unofficial awards  for the London Miller magazine: player of the year, goal of the year, best pub, that kind of thing. One of the awards is 'trip of the year', for the day when everything is perfect, or as near as makes no difference: company, journey there and back, pub, game and result. Unless something really amazing happens between now and the end of May, this is that trip.

Jenny, Clarkey, Chris Turner, John Kirkland and I convene at Euston. While I'm getting the coffees in from the ever-reliable AMT, I spot Ted's mates Howard and Martin dashing for the train to Stoke. Darlo are playing Port Vale today, which means a visit to the Bull's Head in Burslem, a pub which has claimed one of my awards before now.

The journey up is fairly quiet; there are a few Man U and Liverpool fans making their way up to Old Trafford for the early kick-off. It would be cruel and obvious to point out that none of them appears to have a Mancunian or Scouse accent, but... In a yard on the outskirts of Stockport, various old railway signs are stacked up. Chris and I spot a huge one reading 'Rotherham Central'. Is that today's omen?

At Manchester Piccadilly, we meet up with Chris Kirkland and two of his friends who are unofficial Rotherham fans for the day. Chris is twenty today, and I tell him I hope that Father Birthday brings him what he brought me for my birthday – three points. A swift walk through the city centre takes us to Victoria station; I haven't been to Manchester since we played Man City, a good seven years ago now, and I can't believe how much the area around Piccadilly has changed. The regeneration brought by the Commonwealth Games appears to have been good for the place; I'm hoping the Olympics does the same for East London.

Fifteen minutes on the train and we're in Rochdale, following the directions on one of Ted's patented 'find-a-pub' map. There's a bloke ahead of us who could do with a similar map to help him get where he's going, given the number of times he stops passers-by to ask for help. He's dressed in a full-length leather coat and boots with an outrageous number of buckles up the side; it might be hard being a cowboy in Rochdale, but dressing like something out of 'The Matrix' doesn't appear to be much easier.

The pub Ted has recommended, the Baum, is one he hasn't had the opportunity to visit yet. All I can say is, he'll love it when he does get there. On Toad Lane, where the Co-operative movement started, it's a picturesque gem at the side of an ugly dual carriageway. 'Eat Irlam's tripe' implores an old advert on the front of the building. The eight of us commandeer an alcove and the boys set about making a dent in the beer menu. It's one of the few pubs I've been in which offer third of a pint tasters, and the Kirklands go for the one which features all five real ales that are on. Chris puts more of a dent in them than his dad. We don't try the tapas menu, but the baguettes and chips (so big that Clarkey and Chris T use them to do impressions of Prince Charles' ears) are very good. Meanwhile, we're keeping up to date on the Man U-Liverpool score. By the time we've negotiated the almost impossible to cross dual carriageway and are on our way to Spotland, it's four-one to the Scousers. People are already making a mental note not to miss 'Match Of The Day' tonight...

In the ground, we bump into Nigel and Phil, still minus Diamond, who always seems to vanish off the face of the earth when things become serious between him and a woman. We're expecting a decent game – Rochdale are one of the best footballing teams in the division, and we tend to do well against teams who allow us to play, rather than those like Brentford, Wycombe and pre-adminstration Darlo, whose aim is to nick a goal and then shut up shop. They're causing us some problems, particularly Adam Rundle, who keeps getting past Dale Tonge on the wing, but the defence holds firm. Indeed, Don doesn't really have a serious save to make for about forty minutes. Meanwhile, Drewe Broughton is in the wars. He gets caught in a challenge (though, inevitably, Rochdale get the free kick), and at first it seems he's been patched up with the aid of half a tub of Vaseline, but the cut starts bleeding again and he's ordered off to get stitched. We play on for about ten minutes with ten men; Broughton finally emerges again and is having his head bandaged in preparation for coming on again when the bench appear to change their minds. 'You know what's happened,' says Clarkey from the row behind me. 'They've asked him to name nine of his old clubs and he can't, so they know he's concussed.'

Broughton is replaced by Mark Burchill, and the enforced change makes a difference. Early in the second half, Reuben Reid manages to turn his defender and scores with a low shot. Confidence floods through the team. Dale take off Rundle and their threat recedes slightly. Then Ryan Taylor fires in a curling shot from about twenty yards out. Not even he can quite believe it's gone in. Nigel and I hug like maniacs. There may even be some man-hugging going on behind us.

Rochdale get back in the game when Adam Le Fondre nods in a header with about 15 minutes to go, but we get a great opportunity to increase the lead when Taylor is tripped in the box and the ref awards a penalty. Nigel hugs me again. Reid takes it, but it hits the crossbar, and when he heads in the rebound it's disallowed as he's pushing the keeper. Burchill nearly grabs a third when he lobs the keeper, but the ball lands on the roof of the net. And then it's all over – ninety minutes which have reminded me just how much you can enjoy watching football.

We walk back to catch the train, having been joined by Chris Burrows, who we last saw in Macclesfield. We take the route through their good old-fashioned municipal park, complete with bandstand, bowling green and daft dog leaping up to grab at branches. At the station, I spot a small, wiry figure in a Rotherham tracksuit perusing the departure screen. It's Mark Burchill, so I congratulate him on the way he played today. When he emerges on to the platform, it's to a round of applause from the travelling Millers contingent.

Back in Manchester, Clarkey decides to get an early train to London so he can go out with some friends, no doubt to carry out the sort of dance moves that led Diamond to dub him 'Disco Duck'. The rest of us, at Chris T's suggestion, go looking for The Jolly Angler, a pub round the back of Piccadilly station which seems frozen in time in an area that's now all glass and chrome hotel and office blocks. It's a tiny little place with fossilised lino and no light in the ladies', and the landlady reminds me of one of the doddery little old ladies Julie Walters specialises in playing. 'They've got Harp on!' Nigel exclaims. 'Harp – stays sharp to the bottom of the glass.' Ah, the power of advertising. He drinks something else, mind.

Nigel and Phil are staying on for a visit to Chinatown, but some of us have got to get back to London. Again, there are Man U fans on the train, one of whom is describing the game to a friend on his mobile. 'Yeah, we were shit, but Liverpool were really shit.' There's also a Brighton fan who sounds positively suicidal, and Chris T recognises a couple of Orient supporters who he always sees at the Piglet beer festival.

As we get close to Euston, I get in contact with Ted, who's just left the Doric Arch. He says he'll see us in the Betjeman at St Pancras, and then I remind him which station we're coming into, so he does an abrupt U-turn. We find him with some of the London Wolves, who've been at Charlton. One of them is a little the worse for drink. 'Rotherham,' he says, 'I drove all the way up for that game [in the Carling Cup], you beat us and I had to drive all the way home again. And the worst part was I couldn't have a drink.' He then has to keep reminding himself that we're not Rochdale fans. But he does enlighten us as to which pubs in St Albans (or Snarlbans, as he pronounces it) are the gay pubs, so Ted can avoid them if he and the South Norwood Gentleman's Rambling Association do go drinking there before the Luton game.

Trip of the season, no question.

Born To Schmooze

Today is one of the big days of the season for the London Millers - we're sponsoring the matchball and providing the mascot for the game against Brentford. Already waiting at Kings Cross when I arrive are Tim, who's having to forgo the ritual schmoozing in favour of visiting his dad in hospital, and Bournemouth Miller Tom Coley, whose granddaughter won the first prize of two hospitality packages in the raffle back in January. He has his son-in-law, Scotty, with him, and is taking the day so seriously he's come dressed in a suit and is sporting his false front teeth. Completing our party are Jenny, back from Australia and ever so slightly jet-lagged (though I know from experience that sometimes that's the best way to watch the Millers), Clarkey and Chris Turner. Phil will be joining us en route.

The journey up to Donny is fairly uneventful; Tom, whose picture could probably appear in a dictionary as the definition of 'boisterous', and Scotty are a little subdued as they've been up since half-past four or something ridiculous. They've found their second wind by the time we arrive at the Carlton in Attercliffe, taking with us a Man City -supporting groundhopper we've acquired along the way, who is bringing his tour of the 92 grounds up to date by visiting the DVS. Tim's brother Adrian wanders in, says hello briefly, then makes for the back room to listen to the end of 'The Now Show'. I hope it's not a comment on our scintillating conversation.

Mr Clarke is just debating whether there's time to get another drink in when I receive a call from Martin Burton. He's at the ground and we need to hand over the cheque for the sponsorship money so his son, Freddie, can be kitted out ready for his mascot duties. We don't quite break the speed record for walking to the ground from the pub, but it's close.

Tom breezes past the woman on the stadium gate, announcing, 'Fourth official,' before asking Dale Tonge, who's on his way to the player's entrance, how we get to the VIP lift. While we're having our credentials checked, we spot a familiar face - Peter Ruchniewicz, former club chairman and part of the ill-fated Millers 05 consortium who attempted to pry the club out of the clutches of the Booth family. He's here with his wife, as part of a party which includes fellow 05 members Chris Dobbs and David Veal, and former chief executive and Rotherham manager Phil Henson (known by my dad, inevitably, as Gladys - though I don't expect anyone under the age of about 65 to get that reference...) Though Millers 05 aren't fondly remembered by a section of fans, largely because although they were Rotherham supporters they didn't actually live in Rotherham, they had the ongoing livelihood of the club at heart, though sadly not the finances to match their ambition.

This is our first experience of the DVS hospitality. Back at Millmoor, you were in what was grandly known as the Marquee, which was a tent attached to the back of the half-finished main stand. This is a little bit more impressive.

Commercial director and twin brother of the chairman, Terry Stewart, introduces himself to us. 'Ask me anything you like,' he offers. 'Ask me about the new stadium. Everyone else does.' So we do. He tells us that, as has been reported elsewhere, the club are looking into three sites, though he doesn't reveal where any of them are (speculation has long been that one of the sites is currently occupied by B&Q, on a roundabout close to Millmoor and another is a piece of land near the Tinsley viaduct which may or may not actually lie within the boundary of Sheffield, which would of course render it unsuitable, and that an announcement on which one has been chosen will hopefully be made in the next couple of weeks. He also enthuses about the new training complex, which will house the club's Centre of Excellence, as well as facilities for the senior players. Tom, meanwhile, is bonding with Miller Bear.

With kick-off approaching, Jenny and I spot Mark Hitchens, who's helped us out with our sponsorships in the past, and ask him for the quickest way out front so we can put the London Millers flag in its usual place. Instead, he gets a steward to escort us down to pitch level, which is all very impressive.

Finally, we're settled in the posh seats as the game unfolds below us. Brentford, just as they did at Griffin Park back in August, have set up in a very defensive formation, and chances are pretty thin on the ground. Indeed, very little of any significance happens at all in the first half. Drewe Broughton has a couple of chances, but that's about it. One thing we do notice, as we're on our way back out for the second half, is that Howard Webb is watching the Millers for the second Saturday running. We know that Tom, who actually is a qualified referee, would like to have a word with him, but he's nowhere to be seen, and by the time we manage to drag him back outside, Howie has disappeared back to his seat. Tom makes up for his disappointment by continuing to bond with Miller Bear, who's twenty feet below us, strutting along the touchline.

The second half is as largely uneventful as the first, apart from one nasty moment. Nathan Elder, who has come on a sub for Brentford, challenges for a ball with Pablo Mills and is caught by Mills' arm. We know it has to be fairly serious, as he's stretchered off to a generous amount of applause from the whole crowd (and Tim later sees him being delivered to the Hallamshire Hospital, still in his heavily bloodstained kit), but we don't find out till the next day that he's suffered a broken eye socket. The Bees' manager Andy Scott makes a huge fuss after the game and tries to get the FA to ban Pablo, but their view is that the incident was an accident. Apart from that, Jamie Green comes closest to scoring. Tom's pre-match flutter was on a three-all draw, but given that these are two of the meanest defences in the league, the final score of nil-nil would have been a much better bet.

The real entertainment comes once we're back in hospitality. As well as getting the usual matchball from the man of the match (Nick Fenton, according to today's main sponsor), we're also presenting Pablo Mills with our much-delayed player of the season trophy. In addition, there will be a couple of other players coming into the lounge, which happens on a rota basis, apparently. They turn out to be Dale Tonge, probably still reeling from his first encounter with us earlier in the day, Stephen Brogan, who is only just back playing for the reserves after breaking his leg in two places at Milton Keynes a year ago and... 'Who's the one at the back?' Tom asks me as he takes me to one side. 'That's Jason Taylor,' I tell him. 'We got him from Stockport.' Tom walks over to him. 'Jason Taylor!' he announces, as though he's known him all his life. 'What's it like here compared to Stockport?'

Meanwhile, Clarkey is making his own entry in the 'embarrass a player' contest. I've been going round getting my team sheet signed, and I've asked Stephen Brogan whether we're likely to see him playing again before the end of the season and he says he's hoping to be back in for the last four or five games. 'But how are you going to get in the team?' asks Clarkey, who's an even bigger tart round players than I am.

Overall winner, though, is Tom. 'Dale, do me a favour, will you?' he asks. 'Would you sign these?' And then he pops out his false teeth. Poor Dale looks horrified. It's no surprise that they all beat a fairly hefty retreat after that.

We're still in good spirits on the way back to London, even though Tom and Scotty have been up for about 17 hours by now. When I speak to Ted, who's been at Darlo v Macc, he tells us he'll meet us in the Betjeman at St Pancras, as they've got a beer festival on. Even Tom and Scotty have a swift one before starting the rest of the journey back to Bournemouth, and we swell the coffers of Ted's 'Drink For Darlo' fund. It's an idea we started the first time we were in administration, being a tax paid every time you get a beer in. The boys are impressed with the range of beers on, and Clarkey's favourite turns out to be the Twickenham Naked Ladies, which is really no surprise at all...

Imp My Ride

I know what's going to happen in the game today; I dreamed it last night.
Danny Harrison is going to score directly from a corner, and the goal will
be disallowed. This would be a more realistic prospect if a) Danny Harrison
actually took corners for us and b) Drewe Broughton was running round the
pitch in a sweaty vest at the same time, as in the dream. That's the last
time I have Stilton before I go to bed, I can tell you.
You may scoff, but I have in the past had dreams which have correctly
foreshadowed a scoreline. A few years ago, we played Reading in a game which
was moved forward for Sky. On a Bank Holiday Monday. At the same time as the
unwashed hordes were making their way home from the Reading festival. Great
timing, Sky, thanks. However, the night before I was dreaming about the
game; it was nil-nil at half time, and then I woke up. So when we were
sitting in the Madjeski the following day, I was quite relaxed in the first
half, as I knew no one was going to score ­ and they didn't. It was only
after the break that I began to get anxious, seeing as I hadn't dreamed the
final result.
But that's all to come. First John K and I have got to get up to Newark and
rendezvous with Chris, who's coming over from Manchester and has three
minutes to make the connection, though at the least his train pulls in on
the adjacent platform, so he's got a fighting chance of making it, which he
does with time to spare. As we're getting off the train in Lincoln, a bloke
spots Chris' Rotherham shirt and gets chatting to us about a schoolfriend of
his who's a Rotherham fan. It turns out he's talking about Richard Burton,
who my dad used to stand with on the Tivoli before he got his seat in the
old main stand. So I promise that if I see Richard later, I'll tell him that
Andy says hello.
Andy also points out the swiftest route to the pub the Kirklands and I are
trying ­ the Green Dragon. Normally, we'd head for the Golden Eagle, which
is a great pub but is always rammed on matchdays, but Ted was in Lincoln for
Darlo's abortive attempt to play them a couple of weeks ago, and recommends
the downstairs bar in the Green Dragon, as it has 12 real ales on and isn't
too busy. It proves to be a good choice and, suitably fortified, we had for
Sincil Bank.
We end up sitting right by the corner flag near the away turnstiles, because
I've done my best to tape the flag down securely, but it's so windy it ends
up flapping about and I want to be close to it as one of the stewards is
concerned about the safety implications of someone tripping over it. At
least he hasn't demanded it should have a fire certificate, unlike at Milton
Keynes (not that I'm still sore about having it confiscated that day. They
do have a stadium where smoking is banned, after all...). It means we're in
the perfect position to spot the Burton brothers as they go past, and when I
start telling Richard about bumping into a mate of his, they decide to join
us. As we're sitting close to the disabled area, our little corner is soon
completed by one of the regular Rotherham programme sellers and her other
half, who's in a wheelchair. It means we end up doing a lot more chatting
than usual during the game ­ not that what's happening on the pitch isn't
gripping, but Martin Burton¹s lad is going to be the mascot for our
sponsored game against Brentford, so we discuss how well the mascot is
always treated by the club on the day. I'm also curious to see where the
brothers have been drinking, and with them starting at nine this morning,
apparently, it's more a case of where they haven't been drinking. Meanwhile,
Richard has prised from the programme seller the revelation that she's
actually a Wednesday fan. It's very tempting to bind her up in my flag tape
and teach her the error of her ways, but we don't, because she's nice and
it's far more fun learning about her massive crush on Chris Sedgwick, our
one-time dribbling winger who's now at Preston, though finding out she once
saw him stark naked at the training ground is probably more information than
we need!
Last season's game here was probably one of the best of the season. This one
doesn't match those heights, but it's still entertaining. My dream turns out
to be partially correct, in that we do have a goal disallowed, but it's
because Drewe Broughton (wearing the regulation yellow away shirt,
thankfully) is offside when Jamie Clarke slips him the ball. Meanwhile,
Lincoln's Paul Green decides he's going to take part in the annual 'Remove
Everything South Of Mark Hudson's Kneecaps' contest, with a nasty-looking
tackle that leaves Hudson on the ground for a while. Last season's entrant
earned a red card, but this time it's only a yellow, much to the fury of
Chris, who has turned into a small fangy, clawy ball of fury and is yelling
at the ref that he's bottled it. The Rotherham fans have already pretty much
offered the Lincoln fans outside collectively in their general chanting, and
the mood seems to have spread to the players, with Nick Fenton and Geoff
Horsfield also getting booked for jostling and looking at each other in a
funny way.
The other real excitement during the first half is the realisation that
tanned colossus Howard Webb, 'England's top referee' TM, is sitting in the
crowd with his children. We saw him at Millmoor a couple of times last
season, but this is the first time I've spotted him at an away game. It
prompts chants of 'Webby is a Miller', which he takes in good part.
We've had all the best chances, but it's nil-nil at half time. We take the
lead about 15 minutes into the second half, when Jamie Clarke wriggles past
the defence, gets in a shot which is saved, rebounds to Broughton, is saved
again and is slotted home by Mickey Cummins. As both Broughton and Cummins
seem to be standing about six inches away from the goal line, one or both of
them surely has to be offside, which is why I don't leap up and celebrate.
But the flag stays down, the ref points to the halfway line and Martin
Burton hugs me gleefully, so we must have scored, then. After that, we seem
to be completely in control of the game. Lincoln are playing a lot of aerial
balls, which Ian Sharps in particular repels with ease, and though Don
Warrington has one dodgy moment when he thinks he's let the ball run out of
play, only for the forward to nick it off him, he really doesn't have much
to do in the way of making saves. Ryan Taylor replaces the sluggish-looking
Reuben Reid and has a couple of decent chances, then Jamie Green almost wraps
things up with a couple of minutes to go, with a carbon copy of his shot
against Gillingham, but this time the ball hits the crossbar. Lincoln very
nearly make us pay for this when they hit our bar with the last move of the
game, but that would have been an unfair reflection of the pattern of play.
Chris heads back to Manchester via Sheffield, and John and I take the first
train to Newark, to try out two more of Ted's recommendations - the Fox and
Crown pub and the Appleton Gate fish bar. The pub is full of people watching
Ireland v England in the rugby, but is the sort of place you wouldn't mind
having more than a quick pint in, while the chip shop is as good as Ted
claims, as the queue out of the door testifies. After a trip like this,
there should be some sweet dreams tonight...

Stinking Up Sky Sports

I don¹t normally find myself standing outside pubs waiting for them to open,
honest. There was that one time at the White Lion in Rotherham with Jenny,
but that was a few years ago, and... Well, the Belle Vue in Wycombe is only
just opening its doors at two minutes past its scheduled opening time of
five, and there was a couple already waiting when Ted and I got here.
When Sky moved our game at Wycombe to a Monday night for reasons known only
to them, Ted decided he would join the London Millers, if only for the
drinking. Mind you, our numbers certainly need swelling. My brother joins
us, suited and booted having conveniently arranged a meeting in London for
mid-afternoon, though he¹s got a change of clothes with him so as not to
turn up at a match in something he¹s never worn before. (Told you we¹re a
superstitious family.) In due course, Tim and Clarkey arrive, and that¹s it.
Robert drives us up to the ground, having discovered last season that the
usual £3 parking charge is waived if you have a full complement of
passengers. When asked if he has a car full, he replies, ŒYes, and they
don¹t even like football. I¹ve only brought them so I can park for nothing.¹
Fortunately, it gets a laugh.
Actually, the stewards at Wycombe are among the most friendly and helpful in
the division, which is probably why the club is always in the running for
the Football League Community Club award. Last time, they pointed us in the
direction of the best of the food vans around the ground, Lindy¹s, so we
head there again. Sadly, they¹re not doing their hot pork breadcakes
tonight, but they have pretty decent burgers instead, which are some
consolation.
Inside, we set up the flag, Clarkey having ascertained the spot where it¹s
most likely to be picked up by the Sky cameras. No doubt he¹s thinking about
the South Norwood Gentlmen¹s Rambling Association and other London Millers
watching the game either at home or in a pub. That¹s something I really
don¹t enjoy, even though I watched the Johnstone¹s Paint Trophy game against
Leeds on Sky. It sounds strange, but when you¹re at a match, you somehow
feel as though your presence will influence events. You can shout, you can
encourage your team. If you try to do the same at home, you end up, like I
once did, watching us play Nottingham Forest and yelling, 'Who¹s picking up
Louis-Jean?¹ at the screen as Forest mounted an attack. You can get taken
away for less...
Clarkey, for one, is certainly determined to shout and make his influence
felt tonight. He barely stops making a noise throughout the match. 'You can
stick your minus points up your arse,¹ the Rotherham fans inform the FA as
the game kicks off. Wycombe, as per the other night, don¹t do much singing,
but the drummer strikes up. Tim and Clarkey launch into a chorus of, 'I hear
the sound of distant bums,¹ followed by such retro hoolie classics as, 'I
Was Born Under The Railway End¹ and 'Rotherham Boot Boys¹. 1973 called; it
wants its chants back...
On the pitch, it soon becomes obvious that we¹ve come not to lose. It
doesn¹t make for scintillating viewing, either in the ground or at home.
Chris, one of our Manchester-based London Millers, later comments that he¹s
never been so tense and yet bored at the same time. Ted, who¹s not bothered
about the outcome one way or the other, is maintaining an air of festering
indifference. Quite early on, Wycombe appeal for a penalty, when Matty
Phillips goes over Mark Joseph¹s outstretched leg. We¹re down the other end
from the incident, but it appears as though he¹s looking for the decision,
and the ref waves it away. Ted, who¹s the arbiter on these matters,
naturally, reckons the ref has got it right. As that turns out to be the
only controversial incident in the whole game, Sky apparently show it again
and again and again...
At half time, a couple of Rotherham fans dance around behind the goal, one
in a Peter Beagrie mask, the other in a Chris Kamara one. The things people
will do to get on TV.
My fears have proved groundless. I should have trusted my horoscope in this morning's Express, in which Justin Toper told me I 'won't be wandering forlornly'. Wycombe haven¹t really improved since Tuesday. They do more of the attacking, but then they¹re the team at home. We manage to repel everything they throw at us, Dale Tonge making one vital
block, but we¹re not creating a great deal.
With about 15 minutes to go, Robins makes a change, taking off Thomas and
bringing on Drewe Broughton. Though Broughton immediately starts making his
trademark nuisance of himself, and almost scores with a header, Clarkey is
doing his nut. 'Why haven¹t we gone three up front? Where¹s the flair?
Robins, this is poor!¹ He¹ll sleep well tonight, bless him.
The final whistle puts us all out of our misery, and we gather up the flag
and dash for the bus to the station. Typically, all the traffic which has
parked on the approach to the ground is allowed to leave first and Tim,
who¹s supposed to be meeting a friend in a pub near the station, is
distinctly agitated ­ and the last thing anyone wants is an agitated Tim.
Though Robert¹s not faring any better; I get a text at ten to say he¹s still
waiting in the carpark. When we finally get to the station, there¹s a
fifty-minute wait for the next train, so Ted, Clarkey, Wycombe Paul and I go
to the Belle Vue, where Ted gets to tart a sweet, curly-haired dog by the
name of Duffy.
We finally get back to London about ten to midnight, the train having
stopped at every piddly station between High Wycombe and London (apologies
to Denham Golf Club if you¹re not actually piddly). People waiting for a
train on the Hammersmith and City platforms at Baker Street might be a bit
alarmed to see Ted and I dance like maniacs when we realise a Barking train
is pulling in immediately. They don¹t realise it¹s probably the most
satisfying result of the night...

Confessions Of A Neutral Supporter ­ Part Two

At Ted¹s suggestion, we take a gentle jaunt out on the District Line to
watch Dagenham take on Wycombe. It¹s considerably milder than when I was
here in October, watching Grimsby, and the Wycombe fans are already there in
decent numbers as we wander on to the away terrace, munching the usual
excellent Dag-burgers. We wander right down to the front and are soaking up
the ambience, or something, as the Wycombe players start their running drill
immediately in front of us. ŒSingles... Doubles!¹ barks the fitness coach,
as they do their tippy-toes comedy sprint and the smell of liniment wafts on
the air. They¹re so close I hope I¹m putting a little bit of spec on them in
preparation for when we play them next Monday, but we shall see...
The game, like the weather, is a marked improvement on last time. Dagenham
look really lively, with Matt Richie, still on loan from Portsmouth, causing
all sorts of problems for the Wycombe defence. Indeed, Dagenham should take
the lead, but Ben Strevens¹ effort is ruled out for offside, though Ted¹s
not convinced it¹s the correct decision. The Wycombe fans aren¹t
particularly happy. They have a drum, in preference to singing, and Ted and
I have a small number of the dreaded species Smartarsus Middle-agedicus
standing next to us, including one who¹s so one-eyed we have to keep
checking he¹s not actually a Cyclops.
Despite all Dagenham¹s dominance, it¹s level at half-time. Wycombe appeal
for a penalty when one of their players looks to be tugged back in the box,
but he already seemed to be falling before the contact and the ref ignores
it. The photographer squatting in front of us (not Ted¹s mate, Paul, though
he is in attendance) reckons it was a pen, but Ted disagrees. Eventually,
however, the Daggers are made to pay for not taking their chances. John-Paul
Pittman turns his defender and fires past Tony Roberts, who¹s just about to
play his 400th game for Dagenham and is probably getting frustrated by the
lack of reference to his age/weight/mobility/Welshness from the Wycombe
fans. Though it has to be said that Wycombe decide to chant when they¹re
winning, prompting some derisive comments from the Daggers fans. ŒDoes your
mother know you¹re here?¹ sing Wycombe (as well as the middle-aged smart
arses, we¹re also in the vicinity of some teenage boys who appear to have a
mother fixation). ŒDo the circus know you¹re here?¹ respond the Daggers.
ŒThey should do, you¹re in it,¹ yells one of the mother-lovers, about thirty
seconds after the moment has passed. Come back and do proper banter when
you¹re old enough, sonny...
Having taken the lead, Wycombe simply shut up shop. The only excitement
comes when one of the assistant referees pulls something and has to be
substituted for the fourth official. Though Dagenham deserve something from
the game, they don¹t get it. I haven¹t been particularly impressed with the
way Wycombe have played, but it¹s safer not to say anything, in case they
play a collective blinder next Monday. We shall see.