Five-Nil And Still Grumbling

New Year’s Day, and the snow has finally cleared enough to allow today’s game against Port Vale to go ahead. People who’ve been cooped up with the family over Christmas emerge blinking into the light, eager to see some football. Of course, there’s very little in the way of public transport, but luckily my dad and I get a lift to the ground courtesy of Gordon.

Once there, we find Jenny and Chris Turner lurking outside the turnstiles. Between us, we have a few complimentary tickets to dispose of, sent as a thank you for our continuing sponsorship. The nice letter from the commercial department includes the line, ‘If you’re unable to use them, perhaps you can pass them on to your staff.’ This is fair enough, given that most of the sponsorship is taken up by businesses, rather than individuals, but don’t they realise that when you work for yourself and have cats, that makes you the staff? Chris is taking one of the tickets, but everyone else we see who we know is already a season ticket holder. Jenny was hoping she could pass one on to Nigel Hall, who’s come up for the day, but he’s been dragged off to see relatives instead. We hope that, like Chris Kirkland on his enforced trip to Meadowhall, he’ll protest by sitting in the car, listening to the commentaries on Radio Sheffield...

As we go through the turnstiles, Howard Webb is being congratulated over the Tannoy for being awarded the MBE. No mention on how this news is being received in Holland...

Once inside, it’s clear there are plenty of non-regulars here today. Our chum on the row in front has brought his wife for once. Apparently, the last time she attended a game we won by a big score. Let’s hope she’s a lucky charm...

Port Vale arrive following the defection of manager Mickey Adams to Sheff U. If the team are hoping to impress whoever’s in caretaker charge, it doesn’t really work. Last time they came, they were bustling and purposeful, with Anthony Griffiths running the midfield. Today, they seem a little subdued, and we have the ball in the net in the first couple of minutes, only for Johnny Mullins to be ruled offside. A legitimate goal isn’t long in coming, though, fired home by Nicky Law, and after twenty minutes we’re two up, following a beautiful move and a Danny Coid cross which Ryan Taylor heads in.

Vale are trying to create chances, and their all-Richards strikeforce does look as though it could be more of a threat as the game goes on. Unfortunately for them, their keeper comes charging out when one-on-one with Marcus Marshall and brings him down. It’s not clear whether he’s handled the ball outside his area, but he’s certainly taken Marshall out, and the ref brandishes the red card. It seems as though every other time we play Port Vale, one side ends up with ten men. They have to take off Justin Richards to bring on their sub keeper, the amply-buttocked Chris Martin, and we see out the rest of the half without too many problems. The only nasty moment is when Coid gets heavily clattered in a challenge. He manages to play the half out, but at half-time he’s sent out to see whether he’s fit to carry on. He’s limping heavily, and Luke Ashworth comes on, with Mullins moving to fill Coid’s place at right back. Apart from that, the only other notable half-time moment is the huge cheer from the Vale fans when they learn Sheff U are losing 3-1. Not bitter, not at all...

Almost unbelievably, we score about ninety seconds into the second half. The Vale defence appears to stand still as Law puts in a cross and Will Atkinson taps it home. After that, things go from good to excellent. Ryan Taylor scores his second goal of the day with a beautiful acrobatic volley, and Mark Randall, playing for the first time since he broke his collarbone at Southend, makes it five when a free kick is played into his path and he lashes it in off the crossbar from about twenty-five yards out. We definitely have a lucky charm in our midst.

But even playing as well as we are, there’s still grumbling around us. Some people are baffled when Alfie is substituted with about fifteen minutes to go, while others are furious that we don’t appear to be going all out for a sixth goal. As the man sitting to my left points out, we play again on Monday. Why tire ourselves out needlessly?

But the most important question, as we file out at the end of the game is – just how sick is Nigel going to be that he missed this?

Pulling Crackers In Standard Class

Yay! The snow that denied us the – er – privilege of paying a daft amount of money to sit on scaffolding at the Priestfield last week has thawed enough that today’s game is on. And double yay! It’s our Christmas party trip. Though maybe someone should have a word with the fixture compilers, because two seasons ago, when the party trip took place but the match didn’t, we were supposed to play Aldershot.

Turning up with assorted goodies are Clarkey (so early for once we’re worried he might be ill...), Jenny (back from holiday in Cuba and surprisingly un-jetlagged), Tim, Ian Armitage, Chris Turner (fulfilling his sausage commitment, unlike the Hereford trip at the end of last season), Julia and me. We’re in the mood to eat, drink and be merry, which isn’t the greatest news for the girl with the other reserved seat on our table, but was out till stupid o’clock at a party last night and is hoping for a bit of shut-eye on the way to Sheffield. She does, however, revive enough to show us photos on her phone of how deep the snow was when she made the same journey this time last week, though we can't quite tempt her to indulge in the hair of the dog.

Chris hasn’t just brought things on sticks, he’s got Ploughman’s Lunches for us all, and he’s obviously been practising his party trick because he actually catches one of the onions in his mouth at the first attempt!

Our destination once we reach Sheffield is the Harlequin. At Tim’s insistence, we get cabs to cut down on inroads into our VDT (Valuable Drinking Time). I can’t resist a glass of the seasonal mulled cider. When it arrives, the boys take photos of it steaming gently, like a bald-headed player on a cold Tuesday night at Brisbane Road... We’re joined by Tim’s mate Andy, Joy, Frances, Phil Kyte, Chris Kirkland and, eventually, Chris Burrows, to whom Chris K has given instructions involving taking the tram to Shalesmoor and doubling back.

It would be tempting to stay in the Harlequin till it’s time to leave for the match, but this being the Christmas trip we’re determined to fit in at least one more venue. The Kelham Island is likely to be heaving with Wendies, particularly as they’re apparently going to turn out in force to welcome their ‘saviour’, new chairman Milan Mandaric. We go instead to the Fat Cat where yet another Ian (Hill, this time) joins the party. It isn’t compulsory to be called Ian, Steve, Chris or Rob to be a London Miller, but sometimes it feels that way! Despite everything we had to eat on the train, Chris T still finds room for a generous helping of steak pie and all the trimmings. The boys are intending to fit in a quickie in the Wellington (now brewing its own beer, according to Ted and Chris T, who had a crawl in Sheffield a couple of Saturdays ago), but Jenny and I are on flag duty, so we make a prompt exit. Which is when the fun starts.

The tram’s a couple of minutes late arriving, which isn’t unusual on a busy Saturday, but it makes it as far as the top of West Street, then comes to a halt. Eventually, the driver announces it’s due to football fans misbehaving ‘because they’re morons’. Quite what this misbehaviour involves isn’t clear, but as we approach the West Street stop veeeery slowly, there are plenty of police cars, vans, policemen and dogs in sight. Once we’re past the trouble, our progress is fairly swift, but there are trams backing up in the opposite direction and I have no idea how long it will take the boys to get to the DVS.

As it is, we go through the turnstiles at about a minute to three, and we’re still putting the flag up as the game kicks off. Unlike at Crewe the other week, this doesn’t prompt an early goal. There are a number of changes to the team – Ryan Cresswell has got over his back problems and returns to the back four, Johnny Mullins switches to right-back (Danny Coid, we find out later, has a slight hamstring strain). Tom Newey’s back, Jason Taylor’s in midfield and Will Atkinson, on loan from Hull, is on the wing in place of Kevin Ellison. Indeed, there’s a familiar-looking bloke in the scouts and hangers-on area in a Hull jacket, obviously there to report on Atkinson’s performance.

The first half is pretty even. Aldershot give the impression of having come not to lose, and we’re guilty of punting a few too many long balls forward as we try to bypass the packed midfield. The Shots have one good chance that forces an excellent save from Don (also returning after his paternity leave), then get a penalty when Atkinson clips Wade Small in the box. If they convert this they’ll probably spend the rest of the game stifling our attempts to equalise. However, Small decides to be a bit flamboyant with the penalty kick and succeeds in hitting the post. Miller Bear, continuing to prove he’s as mad as a bag of rats, celebrates by lying in one of the piles of snow they’ve cleared off the pitch and throwing snowballs into the air.

This is our let-off, and we capitalise on it thanks to a better bit of refereeing. Mullins is brought down, but the ref plays the advantage despite his assistant’s frantic flagging. Marcus Marshall wriggles to the byline and plays the ball across to Alfie, who fires his shot up into the roof of the net. Steve Kay, one of those London Millers who’s returned to the north for work (and see what I mean about the Christian name thing?) is in a seat just in front of me today, but he missed the goal as he was out on the concourse. It sounds just as good when I describe it as it did watching.

At half-time, the Millerettes do their routine in Santa hats, then hold up cards spelling out the message ‘Merry Christmas From The Millerettes’. ‘Stop trying to look up my skirt’ might be more appropriate... The 50-50 draw is performed by former Rotherham and Darlo manager Billy McEwan. Just reading that sentence will make a little bit of Ted die inside.

The second half is much better entertainment than the first. We’re buoyed by the goal and force Shots keeper Jamie Young to make a couple of excellent saves. Indeed, though he nearly gifts us a comedy goal when he muffs a clearance on the edge of his area and Alfie only just fails to convert the shot after the ball’s landed right at his feet, Young really is their star performer this afternoon, and keeps the score at one-nil long enough for Aldershot to think they have a chance of getting something from the game.

There’s a very nasty moment as Ryan Cresswell and Marvin Morgan tussle for the ball. Morgan hauls Cresswell down, and it’s obvious something bad’s happened as soon as Cresswell lands. The stretcher is called for. The Block 4 wags have been in good voice today (their crowning moment is a chorus of ‘All I Want For Christmas Is To Keep Alfie’, to the tune of ‘All I Want For Christmas Is My Two Front Teeth’) but now the chief wag comes into his own. As the stretcher bearers take to the pitch painfully slowly, he yells, ‘Hurry up, he’s dying,’ followed, as they don’t speed up in the slightest by, ‘Too late, he’s dead.’ Cresswell is eventually stretchered off to a standing ovation, but he’s going to be out for a while.

On a more positive note, Atkinson has looked more of a threat as the game has gone on, and Marcus Marshall is causing so many problems for the Aldershot defence that Jamie Vincent earns himself a second yellow card trying to stop him before he can get a cross in. There’s only a couple of minutes of normal time for them to hold out, but even with the ref adding six minutes, mostly for the delay in getting Cresswell off the pitch, we can’t score a second goal.

The trams are behaving themselves, even if the one we get on is pretty packed. We’re now minus Julia, who’s staying in Rotherham for the weekend. In the Old Queen’s Head we find Chris K’s chum, Tom, who’s been lured down by the fact they’re showing the Newcastle-Liverpool game. The last thing you want to see when you walk into a pub is Alan Pardew’s smug, grinning face on the big screen, but such is life...

We’re still in party mood on the train back, although we do worry we might have left Clarkey behind after he goes into the M&S on Sheffield station and doesn’t appear to come out. He joins us eventually, though, as does Ian Hill, who’s travelling as far as Derby. Also on the train are Martin Burton and his two lads, so we give them some parkin and a couple of the crackers Jenny brought along so they can have a little party of their own.

People have seemed chatty today. A girl sits with us between Derby and Leicester and tells us about the work Christmas do she’s off to. We wish her a good time as she disembarks. Then Clarkey has his usual snooze and the rest of us keep the party going until St Pancras. We’d almost forgotten how good the Christmas trip is when you actually win!

Eighty-nine Minutes Of Blowing

A civilised departure on the 10.40 for once, seeing how these days you can get to Crewe in about ninety minutes. It’s all to do with the track straightening at Rugby, at least according to an article I once read by Pete Waterman, who’s a massive train buff and used to – perhaps even still does – own that weird collection of old trains and rolling stock close to Crewe station. That’s not enough to forgive him for inflicting the Reynolds Girls on the world, but still...

There’s just Jenny and me travelling up. John Kirkland will be on a train an hour behind ours, simply because by the time he decided he wanted to come on the trip, all the cheap tickets on this train had gone. Judging by our fellow passengers, the Man U daytrippers beat him to it.

One smooth journey, complete with sighting of requisite South American wildlife just outside Crewe (new llamas – got to be an omen), later we’re meeting my brother on the station. Our destination this time isn’t our old favourite, the British Lion (aka the British Legion). Instead, we’re trying the Borough Arms, as recommended by Ted. It’s a bit of a trek, up into bits of Crewe we didn’t actually know existed - i.e the town centre. As we wait to cross the road by the retail park, an elderly coach does a circuit of the roundabout. From the expressions of the passengers inside, we can only assume there’s a woman standing up front with a microphone announcing, ‘And that concludes our tour of the roundabouts of Crewe...’

Fortunately, the walk is worth it. The Borough Arms is small and surprisingly busy, but the range of beers (including the flavoured ones my brother always refers to as ‘Belgian fruit juice’) is excellent, and the ladies’ is supplied with quality handwash (always a promising sign). Already ensconsed is Graham, an old schoolmate of Clarkey’s, along with a friend to whom we’re never formally introduced. Said friend, however, is a natural raconteur, and tells us a story about a man apparently vanishing into thin air on a trans-Atlantic flight that has to be heard to be believed. The pair of them saw our defeat to York in the Cup on Tuesday night and aren’t too positive about our prospects today. Apparently, the moral from that game is that we really, really need to take our chances.

By this time, we’ve acquired a brace of Kirklands and Chris Burrows, who’ve found the place without too many problems. They like it as much as we do.

We leave in good time to visit the chip shop by Gresty Road. The chips are well up to their usual standard, even if John K does manage to spill half of mine...

There are a couple of changes to the team. Baby keeper Jamie Annerson is in goal, as Don’s wife gave birth a couple of days ago, and Johnny Mullins is in at centre half as Ryan Cresswell still isn’t fit. However, it seems like the disappointment of Tuesday night has been put behind everyone. Barely have Jenny and I put the flag in place and the away support have aimed their first chorus of ‘What’s that coming over the hill? Is it the taxman?’ at Wednesday than we’re in front. A ball in from Marcus Marshall is put behind. The Crewe keeper flaps at the resulting corner, and though Mark Bradley celebrates the resulting goal, it’s actually come off one of the Crewe defenders. Cue blowing from my brother to the left of me

The rest of the first half is what you might call ‘open’. Ryan Taylor, Danny Coid and Alfie all have good chances, and Taylor hits the crossbar, while down the other end Ashley Westwood drags his shot wide when he’s only got Annerson to beat. We’re playing some really good football, with Marcus Marshall causing the Crewe defence all sorts of problems, while Fenton and Mullins are seeing off the threat of Clayton Donaldson, whose hairdo looks like the love child of My Little Pony and a scrubbing brush. We’re enjoying all this despite the distraction of the bloke behind Jenny, who keeps dropping his mobile phone under our seats. Fortunately, we manage to retrieve all the bits for him...

If the score was four-all at half-time, no one would be at all surprised. It’s been excellent entertainment, and the second half is even better. Dario Gradi makes changes to try and counteract the fact Tom Newey’s been keeping their right-winger really quiet, but we’re definitely in charge. Nicky Law is having one of his best games for us, and Kevin Ellison, back in place of teeny tiny Stephen Brogan, is winding up the Crewe fans a treat, as he always does. Annerson has to make a good fingertip save, but Crewe must know it’s not their day when the ref decides to award a goal kick, rather than a corner.

We should have extended our lead by now, and we get a great chance when we’re awarded a penalty after Crewe defender Ada has some kind of brainfart and bats the ball away with his arm. Alfie’s spot kick isn’t the greatest, though, and the keeper pushes it on to the post. Luckily, it doesn’t matter, though we keep pressing for a second goal right up to the final whistle.

The fans, so negative at the Southend game, have been behind the team all day today. They even have a song for Tom Newey, who’s been getting his share of stick in recent weeks. Midweek it was Ronnie out, today it’s Ronnie in. He must feel like he’s doing the Hokey-Cokey!

After the game, we pop into the Royal Hotel for a drink. This is where Clarkey comes when he stays over for his annual Spear Of Destiny weekender, and the place he meant to send us to last season. It’s manic at first, but quickly quietens down, and we find a table where we can avoid the Liverpool-West Ham game on the big screen, though the cheering from the other patrons lets us know that West Ham are getting trounced.

John’s on the same train as us on the way back, so we leave the Chrises to enjoy another drink, decant my brother (who’s finally stopped blowing) on to a train to Brum, then make our way home among yet more Man U daytrippers. They may have been to the Theatre of Dreams, and have the carrier bags to prove it, but I’m sure they can’t have enjoyed their day more than we have.

Getting Our Own Back For Bombalurina

The merry band assembling at St Pancras this morning consists of me, Jenny and Joy, all travelling up and back today, Julia, who’s staying over to visit family for the weekend and Steve Ducker and his wife, Fiona, who are going up for a family party. The last time I saw Fiona was at a London Welsh v Rotherham game, a couple of years ago. Gwenn had decided it was time I got an education in rugby, in return (pr, possibly, revenge) for being initiated into all things Millers, and we bumped into Steve and Fiona by pure chance. That was Eastertime, one of those days where you can experience all four seasons in a couple of hours, from sunshine to snow, so pretty much all we saw of Fiona that day was a face peering out of an anorak hood, bearing an expression reading ‘I really shouldn’t be here...’ Fortunately, it’s slightly warmer than that today.

Once in Sheffield, Steve and Fiona head for the B and B they’re staying in, near the Crystal Peaks entertainment centre where the function they’re attending is being held tonight. The rest of us make our way to the Fat Cat to meet Phil. (And if anyone who works in the Fat Cat kitchen is reading this, the people who had the chicken and sage pie said it went down a treat.)

On the tram to the DVS, we get into yet another of our periodic conversations about things you just don’t see any more. This time, it’s biscuit barrels. If you’re still using one, please let us know. We’d be strangely reassured...

Oxford are one of those teams who hung around in the Conference a little longer than a lot of their fans expected them to, and now they’re looking to make a speedy progression up this division. Unfortunately, they meet us on a day when we hit some sparkling form. This is partly due to the debut of Danny Coid at right back, on loan from Blackpool (and so far down the pecking order he didn’t even figure in the recent game where Ian Holloway made ten team changes and probably used all new ball boys as well...), and who brings a calm assurance to the defence. Marcus Marshall, who was probably our best player against York last week, is responsible for most of the good things that happen today. Both teams have had a couple of chances when Marshall goes on a mazy run. His shot is blocked, but comes out to Alfie, who checks to see whether he’s offside. When the flag doesn’t go up, he calmly slots the ball past Oxford keeper Ryan Clarke.

Alfie gets a second a few minutes later. Ryan Taylor heads the ball into his path, and though he looks to have scuffed his shot, it still beats the keeper. By now, we’re looking very comfortable, so it’s a bit of a surprise when Oxford score in stoppage time. Don parries the first shot, but Simon Clist beats him with the rebound.

It’s a slightly deflating end to the half, but things look up with the half-time draw. I would suggest we’re in the presence of greatness, but I might get done under the Trades Description Act, so let’s just say the draw is performed by celebrity Oxford fan Timmy Mallett. He’s got the requisite loud suit and even louder glasses, but there’s no sign of the trademark mallet. Presumably it’s in a locked vault somewhere, too valuable to be brought to a mere football stadium.

He’s probably hoping Oxford are going to carry on where they left off, but it doesn’t happen, even though Ryan Cresswell, who’s looked slightly hesitant in the first half, has to be replaced by Luke Ashworth. We find out later his back has gone again, which is worrying.

Still, it doesn’t appear to affect us too much. Nicky Law, playing in a central role, is looking impressive, and both he and itsy bitsy teeny weeny teeny tiny Stephen Brogan (sorry, couldn’t resist that...) have decent efforts on goal. Meanwhile, Don only has one real effort to save, tipping a shot over the bar.
A waiter from the hospitality suite walks through the stand carrying a dozen flat, square cardboard boxes. 'Pizza for Mallett!' yells one of the Block 4 Upper wags....
Tom Elliott, who’s been conspicuous by his absence for ages, appears as a late sub and has a shot he might have done better with if he hadn’t just come on, but the result is never really in doubt.

After the game, Jenny, Joy, Steve and I go to meet Fiona in the Old Queen’s Head. She’s been shopping in the city centre and is a little footsore but pleased with her purchases.

We leave the Duckers enjoying a drink and go to catch the train. Our carriage is full of Wednesday fans of a certain vintage, who start asking each other whether they remember various old players and then get on to the subject (as two or three Wednesday fans gathered together inevitably will) of the 1979 ‘Boxing Day Massacre’, when they beat Sheff U four-nil. (At least one Rotherham Owl in my class spent the next couple of months with a badge bearing the words ‘ Boxing Day Massacre’ pinned to the lapel of his blazer. Ah, those innocent days before rival fans could taunt each other about results on the Internet...). Eventually, they get on to the far more serious subject of Wednesday’s current financial plight, and how much their high spending on some of the players they’ve been talking about has contributed to the situation.

Back in London, Joy wends her way back East, while Jenny and I go to meet Ted in the newly opened Euston Tap. Sister to the Sheffield Tap and the York Pivni, it’s in Euston Lodge, just in front of the main station concourse. It’s a tiny little building, with a cosy upstairs that’s reached by means of a spiral staircase. Already there with Ted is Steve Duffy, down for a concert. We’re also joined by Wycombe Paul and all his photographic gear. He’s on good form, as they’ve just beaten Bradford one-nil in the Peter Taylor derby. A pleasant couple of hours later, we’ve decided this place will give the Betjeman and the Doric Arch a run for their money among the serious real ale buffs (and some of the mildly amusing ones, too...).

Up For The Cup - Sort Of

The draw for the first round of the FA Cup saw us get York at home, dashing Tim’s hopes that we’d get Hendon away (his next closest game to Wealdstone, who lost to the Met Police, who then lost in turn to Hendon – take notes as I’ll be asking questions later...). However, Tim’s got over that disappointment enough to travel to the game, along with me, Jenny and John Kirkland.

No hitches on the journey this time, and we meet up with Tim’s chum, Andy, to catch the tram to the Fat Cat. Once there, we link up with Kirkland Junior, who’s persuaded Tom that what he needs is another Saturday afternoon at the DVS. Tom’s planning a Sheffield pub crawl, so he picks our brains about where to go and how far apart everything is in terms of walking distance (to which the answer is surprisingly close, in most cases).

I have to leave earlier than usual, as I’m meeting my dad to pick up my match ticket. The timing’s perfect, as Jenny and I get off the train just in time to see my dad and Gordon wandering along from where they’ve parked.

Arriving at the ground, it’s obvious that quite a few York fans have travelled. But then it’s not too far to come, it’s a new ground for them and they can’t have played us for a good ten years. The last time I saw York play, it was at Bootham (then KitKat, now back to Bootham) Crescent against Darlo, the day John Batchelor took over the club. He paraded with his scarf and his grandiose plans, and those who’d seen George Reynolds do exactly the same at Feethams began to get an idea of how well all that was going to end...

It soon becomes apparent that a lot of the Rotherham fans have looked at the opposition and are expecting this to be a stroll against a non-league team. Of course, York aren’t looking at it that way, just as Rotherham would go into a tie against a team from a higher division looking to take a scalp. We make a decent start, having a couple of chances with ex-Darlo keeper Michael Ingham looking a bit flappy, though he does make one very good save when he scoops out a shot from Alfie that looks like a certain goal. When nothing goes in and York start making inroads on our goal (they really should score, but James Meredith seems determined to walk the ball into the net, which enables us to clear the danger), people start getting restless. ‘Come on, Rotherham,’ shouts someone behind me, ‘this lot are a pub team.’ There’s no need to go into how disrespectful this is to a) York and b) the Conference as a whole, but that attitude sums up the inflated expectations we (and probably the fans of a few other teams towards the top of our division) have somehow acquired. It also explains the boos at half-time.

In the first half, there’s been one of those irritating old boys sitting right behind me who loves to praise the opposition and criticise us, but he seems to have disappeared by the time the second half kicks off. Maybe he’s seen enough; he doesn’t miss much, because the second half is pretty much exactly the same as the first. York threaten on a couple of occasions, but we could probably play all night and neither team would score. For once, Ronnie doesn’t make any substitutions, possibly with one eye on Tuesday night’s game against Huddersfield in the JPT in mind, which only enrages an already riled home crowd even more. At the final whistle, there are even more boos. Some fans hang behind to applaud the York team off the pitch. It’s a gesture that might be more understandable if they’d beaten us, but it seems to be more about sending a message to Ronnie and the team than actually praising the opposition performance.

Both Jenny and Tim are staying in Rotherham for the weekend, so it’s just John and I who head for the Sheffield Tap, with Chris in tow. It’s nice and quiet when we arrive, as we’ve been the only club playing in Sheffield today. Chris travels with us as far as Chesterfield, rather than hang round Sheffield station when all the Leicester fans get back from Barnsley. However, it seems most of them have been put on a football special (see, they do still exist...) and we’re through Derby before the Pompey fans make it down to the station after their televised game. It’s a reflective journey back, but John is strangely confident about our chances in the replay. We’ll see...

The Return Of Disco Duck

It’s not quite Hallowe’en, but there are already weird creatures afoot. As I wait on Barking station for the train to Southend, Snow White and a novelty pirate wander past. At least, I think it’s a pirate: it could just be Andrew Stone out of Pineapple Dance Studios on his day off...

Jenny, Diamond and Chris Turner are already on the train. Chris has brought us snacks for the journey – after failing to get his Ploughman’s Lunch in a packet in Preston, he’s bought a card of the things online, and there’s one for each of us. Of course, he insists on throwing his onions in the air and trying to catch them in his mouth, which goes about as well as you’d expect.

Our pub of choice is the Lion and Lamb in Westcliff-on-sea. It’s a bit of a walk from there to Roots Hall, but it’s a good choice, festooned in fake cobwebs we spend the rest of the afternoon picking off ourselves. We’re joined by Dave Finnis, over from Australia, and his wife, Linda. He certainly has a knack of taking her to the most glamorous locations, as the last time we saw her was about five years ago, in Wigan. Following along shortly are Clarkey, Nigel Hall, Joy and Frances, whose dad is in the area CAMRA branch and recommended this place.

We arrive at the ground, looking forward to seeing the debut performance of Mark Randall, who we’ve just got on loan from Arsenal. Unfortunately, we don’t get to see that much of him. Is there a polite way of saying Southend are a dirty team? No? Okay, they’re a dirty team, and they target Randall, who looks very assured on the ball, with a number of hefty challenges, the last of which sees him leave the pitch injured after about twenty minutes. Unfortunately, we’re one-nil down by then. Southend have a bit of good fortune when Tom Newey slips, allowing them to put in a cross that Blair Sturrock heads against the crossbar and in. We have one good chance to equalise, but Southend’s keeper makes a very good save from Ellison’s shot.

How to describe the half-time entertainment? First, I’m not sure I’d use the word ‘entertainment’. Southend’s tweenie cheerleaders emerge with backcombed hair and ripped tights (‘It’s Motley Crue!’ exclaims Clarkey) and proceed to dance to Thriller. The performance ends with them lying on the floor, pretending to be dead, while Southend mascots Sammy the Shrimp and Elvis the Eel circle them for no apparent reason. All this is swiftly followed by a six-year-old Michael Jackson impersonator treating us all to the moonwalk. This is the kind of nightmare that scars impressionable children for life...

The nightmare’s only just starting, though. The fans around us, who’ve been quite buoyant and supportive in the first half, turn swiftly as it becomes apparent it’s Southend who are making most of the running in the second. Rotherham, who’ve been cowed by Southend’s overly physical tactics, need something to lift them – and they’re not getting it from the crowd. They’re not really creating any chances, and it doesn’t help that when Marcus Marshall is blatantly blocked while running to put in a cross, the referee (Phil Crossley, supposedly one of the most experienced on the list), ignores the foul. The woman sitting in my earshot is driving me crazy. I think she’s the one who always yells, ‘Gerrin!’ at a pitch that’s like fingernails down a blackboard, which is irritating enough, and she does nothing but criticise Ryan Taylor all game, but when she actively starts willing Southend to score a second in the dying moments of the match, I’m tempted to reach for the flag tape and gag her with it.

Afterwards, Jenny, Chris, Clarkey, Diamond, Nigel and I head for the Cricketers, which is halfway between the ground and Westcliff. It’s a nice enough pub, but it’s a big place on a corner and must at some point have all been knocked through into one bar, which doesn’t make it feel that welcoming. The beer’s decent, though, and Clarkey and Diamond bond with the barmaid, who keeps taking the mick out of Diamond’s accent after he asks for a bottle of ‘watter’.

Then it’s back to the Lamb and Lion, via a chip shop-cum kebab emporium, where Diamond attempts to find the football scores on Ceefax, until the staff politely ask him to stop. Walking back towards Westcliff station, we pass the Hamlet Court, a pub I frequented with Ted when Darlo last played at Southend. It’s had a bit of a makeover since then, but judging by the clientele outside, we don’t have enough in the way of sovereign rings to fit in...

We feel much more comfortable outside the Lamb and Lion, particularly when someone starts handing out fliers for the band playing in the Bar Lamb downstairs, Protex Blue. On learning they do punk numbers, Clarkey’s little eyes light up. I’ve already decided I’m catching an early train, but he somehow persuades the others to hand over their three quid entry. I say my goodnights and head for the station, leaving them to discover a) why Diamond knows Clarkey as ‘Disco Duck’ and b) whether punk really is dead...

An Offal Decision

For the first time in quite a while, Tim’s travelling up today. Clarkey was supposed to be joining us as well, but for whatever reason he doesn’t make it. Everything’s going smoothly until Derby, when the train develops some kind of problem that necessitates the arrival of engineers. The driver advises us to decant on to the Cross Country service a few minutes behind, which most of us do even though the guard on that train advises us our tickets won’t be valid. Everyone ignores him, as we’re jammed in so tightly the chances of him being able to move round checking tickets is nil. Jenny and I are squeezed within earshot of a Bournemouth fan who’s the type with an opinion on everything, and he’s complaining for some reason about how awful a ground the DVS is, and the fact it only has one proper stand. It would, of course, be impolite to mention at this point that Dean Court still isn’t finished...

Because we’re running slightly late, and because Tim needs to make arrangements to meet his sisters and hand over a package of sweetbreads (it’s a long story...), we have one in the Sheffield Tap, where we meet Tim’s mate, Andy, then get a cab to the Harlequin. Eight ciders (and a mulled option), a new hot food menu – this place is turning itself into a serious rival to the Fat Cat. Sarah and Judith arrive, and Tim hands over the meaty goods. When we leave for the game, the ladies head into Sheffield for a spot of shopping.

It’s that ‘Kick Racism Out Of Football’ time of year again, so the flag goes up alongside the one reading ‘One Game, One Community’.

As for the game, Ryan Cresswell damages his back in the warm-up, meaning Luke Ashworth has to play in defence. Somehow, Wycombe contrive to have two attacks and score two goals, the first a punt into the area that isn’t dealt with properly, and the second a shot from about twenty yards out. They should be cruising after this, but we respond with a well-worked move a couple of minutes later that’s finished off by who else but Alf, then Jason Taylor (from Stockport, as Tom Coley knows him) equalises. We should take the lead, but Nicky Law contrives to sidefoot a simple chance wide of the post. Typically, right before half time, Ashworth has to go off to get a head injury looked at, and while we’re down to ten men, Wycombe take the lead with a curling shot from Ben Strevens.

Half time is the usual mishmash of duff cheerleaders, an enthralling five-a-side and the new, souped-up Mayday draw machine not behaving itself. Then it’s back into the fray. When we get a corner and Exodus is climbed all over as he tries to go for the ball (and there’s a lot of him to climb over, so you really have to put in the effort!), the ref, Mr Quinn, gives a penalty immediately. Alfie slots it calmly past Rikki Bull (who still has two many Ks in his name for a grown man...) and it’s as you were. We even think we can win the game, Marcus Marshall coming on for Law and stepping up the pace. But with about five minutes to go, Kevin Betsy is tackled in the penalty area by Johnny Mullins. Mullins wins the ball cleanly, Betsy appears to think about his options, then falls over Mullins’ leg. The assistant referee doesn’t flag, but Mr Quinn signals a penalty. Amid much protesting, he charges over to have a word with his assistant, but doesn’t change his mind. Wycombe convert the penalty, leaving us feeling thoroughly cheated.

The mood as the teams and officials come off the pitch is very ugly. Fortunately, no one can get close enough to the ref to do him the damage they’d clearly like to. The people with the ‘One Community’ flag have taken it and made an early exit.

Back in Sheffield, still seething quietly, we take shelter in the calm of the Old Queen’s Head. One bar is full of Sheff U fans watching their game against Donny, but the other side, showing West Ham v Newcastle, is nice and quiet. We’re joined by Paul, the Wycombe photographer, who’d been hoping to see us in the Fat Cat before the game. He tells us how he thought he’d have a quick one in the Kelham Island first, only to realise it didn’t open till 12. Waiting patiently outside, sheltering from the rain, he thought he was the first there – until the doors opened and about twenty people dashed out from every other bit of shelter in the surrounding area... There’s a pound coin on the floor that I think Paul might have dropped. When he doesn’t claim it, and neither does anyone else, I go and drop it into a charity box. Mr Quinn’s performance really doesn’t influence my choice to give the money to the RNIB, honestly...

The journey back to London is less troublesome than the one up. We get chatting to a Bournemouth fan who’s worked for their club in his time, and is much more generous in his assessment of the set-up at Rotherham than the chuntering Cherry on the Cross-country train. The sour taste of today’s defeat has almost gone by the time we reach St Pancras, but only almost.