Another Shot At Winning

The stout party which departs Waterloo en route to Aldershot consists of – er, me. Fortunately, I don’t look like Little Wolfie No-mates for too long as the two Chrises, Turner and Kirkland, and Clarkey join me at Clapham Junction. The tranquility of the quiet carriage, where I’ve inadvertently found seats, is ruined briefly by a VERY ANGRY MAN ranting on his mobile phone, but once enough people have told him to take his issues somewhere else, he slopes off to continue his call. Because of engineering works, we change at Woking on to a branch line. My brother is supposed to be joining the same line at Ash Vale (or as he puts it, ‘where?’), so I ring to find out whether he’s on the train. Unfortunately, he’ll be on the one behind ours, because he let a train pull out at Reading station as he wasn’t timetabled to be able to make the connection. Still, it’s his valuable drinking time, not ours...
At Aldershot station, we bump into the Treeton Millers. Non-Rotherham fans will probably know them from the fact they travel everywhere watching England and always make sure their flag is in a prominent position for TV cutaways. We briefly discuss flag-related matters, though they don’t have a girl among their number to do the important tasks like carrying and washing it. The Chrises know the shortcut to the main road, having been in the advance party with Ted when we played here in the FA Cup, so they help the Treeton Millers with directions. They have about a dozen pubs to visit, but none of them is the White Lion, where we’re headed. It’s a surprisingly warm day, and everyone’s ready for a drink by the time we get there. The chap Ted always chats to in the White Lion, Quentin, is there, sporting one of the last Hawkwind teeshirts in captivity (Ted has almost all the rest...) and we say hello. We’re eventually joined by my brother, followed by Nigel Hall, then David Bates and chum, up from the West Country. Jenny and family have said they’ll see us if they get up from Newquay in time, but in the end we don’t see them till we get in the ground. I also get a call from Nigel and Phil, down from Rotherham for the day but still minus Diamond, who’s been AWOL since it started getting serious with his woman. They may join us, unless they get just that little bit too comfortable wherever they’re drinking at the moment. We’re quite comfortable ourselves, having befriended the pub dog, a cute little bandanna-sporting terrier named Millie. The boys, of course, decide this is short for Miller and take it as an omen.
Once in the ground, we fortify ourselves with burgers (nice, but not quite up to Dagenham standards) and set up the flag on the terrace behind the goal, then go to stand on the sunny paddock to work on our tans. Rotherham are playing uphill in the first half, as on our last visit, and we take the lead early on, when Reuben Reid’s audacious lob just sneaks over the keeper. We’ve seen his dad and brother wandering past us, and Reuben appears to pick them out with his celebration.
After that, the rest of the first half is very comfortable. Danny Harrison has to leave the field with an injury and Mark Hudson, who was unlucky to be left out after his display (and goal) at Luton comes on. Some bloke behind us keeps singing ‘Mark Hudson’s on fire’ to the tune of ‘Sex On Fire’ by the Kings of Leon, and he’s right – Hudson is indeed playing incredibly well today.
Our old chum the military drummer is doing his best to rouse the home support, while the Rotherham fans on the terrace respond, as they did right till almost the end of the Cup game with a chant of ‘Still one-nil’. All through the second half, as the drumming begins to resemble the Edinburgh Tattoo and the Shots fans continue to be reminded that it’s still one-nil, there’s the nagging feeling that Aldershot will again nick something right at the end. We haven’t beaten them in three attempts already this season, and some people are starting to think they have the Indian sign over us. In truth, they don’t really threaten that much, and this time we do leave with a win.
Clarkey and Chris T have plans to go drinking in Farnham, so my bro, the two Nigels, Phil, Chris K and I decamp to the Crimea for a quick one before getting the train. We get talking to one of the Aldershot fans who’s a bit of a big lass and apparently caused quite a sensation by dancing along to some old rock classics coming over the Tannoy at half-time at the DVS the other week. Leaving Nigel Hall, who’s driving home, on his own (they’re friendly people here; he’ll be all right...) we head for the station. We’re earlier than last time, so we don’t spot any Stephen Broganalikes togged up for a night out in London.
As we trundle sedately through Virginia Water on the longer-than-normal journey back, I ask Phil and Nigel how they got on in Manchester, as the last time I saw them, they were heading for Chinatown. ‘We ended up on Canal Street,’ says Nigel (which really doesn’t come as any surprise). ‘We were in this lesbian club and we saw this real tall, striking transvestite...’
‘Yeah,’ jokes Phil. ‘It were Drewe Broughton. You could tell by the calves!’
Lovely, thanks for putting that image in my head, boys!
Chris gets off at Clapham and Nigel and Phil go back to St Pancras via Vauxhall. I squeeze on to the Jublilee Line, wondering why it’s quite so packed, until a girl breaks into a chorus of ‘Dancing On The Ceiling’ that wouldn’t see her troubling the ‘Britain’s Got Talent’ judging and I realise they’re all on their way to see Lionel Ritchie at the O2. Me, I’m off home to put my feet up and savour the novelty of being home early on a matchday...

Mad Hatters

Tuesday afternoon, five o’clock, and I’m waiting outside the Bricklayers’ Arms for Ted. Inevitably, he travelled ahead of the pack so he could check out the English Rose instead, but then the reason he joins us for games is the drinking, not the football. The Bricklayers’ is one of his favourites - and it is a nice pub, though it’s a while since we’ve actually visited it, given the divergent paths we’ve taken since we last played (and relegated, though we don’t talk about that) Luton eight years ago. As I’m waiting, my brother rings to let me know he’s about half an hour’s drive away. I also get a call from Rob Elston, who can’t make it tonight but wants to know whether Barnet next week is tickets in advance (in Jenny’s absence, I’m the go-to girl for such matters, though anyone uttering the words ‘assistant travel secretary’ runs the risk of being attended to with pointy, hurty implements). To which the answer is, ‘As if - and are you sure you want to go to the match, Rob? We always do so much better when you’re not there…’
Ted joins me, gets a beer and a corned beef roll in and stooges off to put some quality rock on the jukebox. He also manages to accidentally select the Libertines - which is, of course, the track which is playing as Chris Turner settles down at our table. Soon my brother has joined us, heralding a steady stream of London Miller-age. It’s one of the best turn-outs for ages - as well as the already assembled reprobates there’s Clarkey, Rob Maxfield, Chris Kirkland, Phil, Phil’s dad and Phil’s mate, Dan (who is a Watford fan and therefore is taking no pleasure in Luton’s current plight. Oh, no.) We even spot Julia and Joy the Dagenham Miller, who we haven’t seen at a game for ages. Meanwhile, Ted has noticed die-hard Luton fan and man a volume of whose poetry is lurking on the pub’s bookshelves John Hegley, as well as some bloke who’s an actor we both recognise but aren’t sure from where or, indeed, what he’s called. By the time we start making the trek to the ground, everyone is in high spirits.
Luton is, by and large, an unlovely town (and that’s a bold statement to make when you come from Rotherham!) and Kenilworth Road is in the unloveliest part of it. We negotiate the overpass, Sainsbury’s carpark and the maze of streets in which the ground is buried, arriving just as the game is kicking off. There’s always someone who is visiting Luton for the first time, and who is startled by the fact that you appear to walk through someone’s back garden to get to the away end, but us old lags are used to it. We’re more concerned with getting the flag in place and finding a decent seat. The Luton fans are in full voice, going through their repertoire of ‘two fingers to the Football League’ songs, and receive a generous amount of applause from the Rotherham fans. Solidarity, brothers, solidarity…
I’d hoped the game would be an improvement on Saturday, but even so I’m not prepared for what follows. Luton have won something like the last four games in a row, prompting mutterings that they might, somehow, get out of the bottom two, so they’re obviously in decent form. They are, however, in the Johnstone’s Paint Trophy final on Sunday (and how we’d have loved to be facing them at Wembley), so we wouldn’t have been surprised if their players were taking it slightly easy to avoid injury before the big match. There’s no sign of that as they attack from the off. We take the lead, though - Reuben Reid manages to out-muscle the defender who’s paying close attention to him, turns and shoots from the edge of the box. Minutes later, it’s two-nil: Drewe Broughton shows real persistence, squeezing the ball in while he’s practically lying on the ground, before celebrating with a few fans down in front of us and making a show of kissing his badge. Hopefully not too many of the Luton supporters have seen that, given that not only is he a huge Hatters fan but his brother works for the club as youth development officer, as tonight’s programme helpfully explains. Despite all the excitement, Ted’s attention has been captured by a bat, which spends about 15 minutes fluttering around in the glow of the floodlights before disappearing back into the night. Even Luton pulling a goal back before half-time doesn’t rouse him that much.
Mick Harford has been receiving a fair amount of taunting from the Rotherham fans, and as he wanders across the pitch (for those who’ve never been to Kenilworth Road, the dug-outs are on the opposite side to the players’ tunnel), he raises his fingers to indicate that the final score is going to be three-two to Luton. At least, I think that’s why he’s got two fingers up.
The second half turns into pure attack against defence. And yet, despite creating lots of chances, Luton go further behind when the ball pings around the area and Danny Harrison heads it in. They score a second, from a long-distance shot which Andy Warrington seems to get fingertips to, but Mark Hudson makes the game safe with the goal of the night, a beautiful volley from wide on the left. By this time, Luton have got about six strikers on, but we manage to repel everything we throw at them. Some (Ted) might describe us as having been under the cosh, but I prefer to think of it as soaking up the pressure and catching them on the break.
The mood among the travelling fans has changed, with the earlier solidarity giving way to chants of ‘We’ll never play you again.’ We know this is rubbish and I’m sure the more sensible Luton fans know this is rubbish, too, but after recent seasons where the likes of Northampton have dished out this kind of nonsense to us, a few people are taking the chance to throw it back.
The final whistle gives everyone a chance to catch their breath. Luton have given us a real game, and if they’d started playing like this earlier in the season, rather than the pallid, defensive stuff they served up at the DVS, they might well have stood a chance of pulling off a most unlikely escape. We collect the flag and pleasantly wish the stewards goodnight. They seem quite a miserable lot, but whether that’s got anything to do with tonight’s result we’re not sure.
We’re back at Luton station just in time to catch a Midland Mainline service that has us back at the Betjeman well before last orders. Ted, the two Chrises and I have a swift drink and then call it a night. Clearly all this excitement has tired us out…

Another Fine Mess, Stanley

On reflection, today would have been the perfect day to put into practice Phil’s long-cherished plan of spending the afternoon in the Fat Cat rather than going down to the DVS, particularly as some bright spark decides to keep our train waiting for a free platform at Donny just long enough for the train we’d usually catch to Sheffield - and the one a couple of minutes after that - to leave without us. Fortunately, today’s intrepid travellers (me, Jenny and Steve Ducker) catch a break when we pull into Meadowhall station in time to catch a tram which has been itself delayed straight up to Shalesmoor. It’s just as well, as Steve has to dash off early to meet his nephew. Phil is waiting for us - minus his dad, who still keeps promising to come for a pre-match drink with us but has a more important engagement with his caravan, or something - and we get to enjoy the sight of the pub’s resident cat tarting itself round various diners in the hope of getting a sneaky titbit, before being spooked by a terrier which has been brought into the pub and disappearing into a secret hidey-hole somewhere beneath our feet. It’s a hard life, being a cat.
Mind you, it’s also hard being a Rotherham supporter this afternoon. The weather is freakily wet and windy, and as Jenny and I try to secure the flag in place I’m convinced that al it will take is a rogue gust and one of us will be whisked away like Mary Poppins. The Accrington fans, who appear to have the highest flag-to-supporter ratio of any team in the division (including one belonging to the Accrington Ultras, which is a bit like calling yourself a Christian devil-worshipper…), are also doing their best not to be blown away. It’s obvious that the conditions aren’t going to make for a particularly good game of football, and this is exacerbated by the fact that Accrington haven’t just decided to park the bus, as dear old Jose would put it, but the entire National Express fleet. The swirling wind means the ball is in the air for much of the time, which plays straight into the hands of our former defender, Colin Murdock. The one thing we know about him is that he could happily head the ball away from now until the end of time - and that’s exactly what he does. There may be some goalmouth action at some point during the game, but most of the crowd has lost the will to care even before the second half kicks off. People have suggested that to make football more exciting, there should be no points awarded for a nil-nil draw. I don’t agree with that, as goalless games can feature plenty of incident, and there can be much pleasure to be had from watching a determined defensive performance. However, Accrington’s tactics, although they ultimately prove fruitful, can only provide ammunition for those who think that goals should equal points.
As Jenny is due to go off on holiday with her brother and sister, she’s staying in Rotherham, so Steve and I head back to Doncaster and the Corner Pin. There, we get chatting to a bloke who pegs us as real ale aficionados (the fact we’re snaffling the last couple of copies of the Donny Drinker could be the giveaway). He explains that he’s starting up a brewery in Thorne, which is designed not so much to generate profit but to create employment in the area. He’s recruited a brewer who’s previously worked for the well-regarded Abbeydale Brewery and is looking for people who are willing to invest a small amount of money in the scheme; the plan is they’ll be paid their dividends in beer rather than cash. It’s an unusual idea, but it might just work…
The train journey back is spent perusing the tables in the Green ’ Un, Steve being a bit of a stats freak on the not-so-quiet, and discussing the merits of vegetarian haggis (the fact it doesn’t come wrapped in a sheep’s stomach apparently being the main one). Roll on Tuesday night and Luton, because given their position in the league and their desperate need for points, the last thing that game is going to be is dull and defensive…

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...