Leeeewwissss! (Sorry, Couldn’t Resist It)

Since they started closing important eastern chunks of the District Line for engineering work at weekends, I don’t think I’ve ever got so much exercise on Saturdays. Even with the brisk walk down to Canning Town, I’m still at Paddington in plenty of time to hand over to Jenny those raffle prizes that might get confiscated by stewards, so she can stow them in left luggage (mini-dartboard, because you might do some damage with an inch-long dart; cologne, in case you’re struck with the need to squirt it into a player’s eye...). Also travelling, and bringing raffle prizes of various stripes, are Tim, Chris Turner, Diamond, Rob Maxfield and Julia, though Andy Leng’s had to cry off, although he’ll be coming to the draw this evening.

Oxford is beautiful, if heaving with tourists, but we don’t really linger to look at our historic surroundings. We’re heading for the Turf Tavern. It’s one of the most famous pubs in the city, featuring in a couple of the Inspector Morse novels, and as boards in the beer garden point out, a list of high-profile visitors including Stephen Hawking, Margaret Thatcher, Bill Clinton and David Mitchell (though presumably not all at the same time, although it would make for an interesting night...). A woman giving a guided tour of the place wanders past saying, ‘They used to have heaters out here, you know.’ Diamond, queuing beside me to get in, asks, ‘What happened? Did somebody nick them?’ You can take the boy out of Canklow...

Though the pub’s interior is small and cramped, there’s plenty of seating outside, which is useful as we’re gradually joined by the Czajewski family, Nigel Hall and my brother. The Kassam is another of those grounds that’s a stupid distance away from the centre of town, so it’s a case of either piling into a taxi or as Jenny, Robert and I do, getting a lift from Nigel. This would be fine, except Nigel’s sat-nav insists on trying to guide him down roads that are gated off – Oxford may be many things, but car-friendly is not one of them. Finally on our way, we go past some kind of protest camp sited on a traffic roundabout, which is the excuse for my brother to wind the window down and yell, ‘Get a job!’ as we go past, obviously channelling Chris Kirkland.

Even with the detours, we park up in good time, although we have to queue for a ticket before going through the turnstiles and they don’t seem to have anticipated how many fans we’re going to bring. Rotherham fans + stadium that’s new to them = big travelling support, almost without exception. It’s not new to me as I was here a few seasons ago with Darlo, but it still only has the three sides (though unlike last time, there don’t appear to be any toerags hanging around in the car park at the unbuilt end, ready to pinch the ball if it goes anywhere near them).

We’ve got a couple of new players on display – Callum Kennedy, on loan from Swindon (and who I’ve got to be very careful not to call Jordan Kennedy, the name I gave to a footballer in a story I just had published), is in at left back and Omar Daley, who we’ve got from Bradford in a loan exchange for Kevin Ellison, is on the bench. With Mark Randall in midfield, we look quite lively, but we’re soon forced into making a change. Ryan Taylor seems to pull something, and Daley comes on to replace him. It’s Oxford who take the lead when a cross comes in from the right and Heslop fires it past Don. We’re level before half-time, though, as Daley plays a great ball into Nicky Law, who chips it over the keeper.

At the interval, Chris Kirkland (who, along with his dad, is sitting with the loudest and lairiest Rotherham fans for some reason) brings over the raffle tickets he’s sold. It’s a sad moment, as Kirkland Senior is no longer able to buy a book on behalf of their goldfish, which has finally expired at the age of about a thousand.

The game turns in the second half when Kennedy not only gives away a penalty, but is sent off for the offence, both of which decisions look harsh from where we’re sitting. Don gets a hand to the shot, but can’t prevent it from going in.

After that, we’re actually the better team. We have a number of good chances to equalise, and should get a penalty when Alfie is bundled over, but the referee isn’t interested.

At the final whistle, we dash for the bus that’s waiting outside on the main road. Unlike at Wycombe, this is a normal service bus, so it doesn’t let all the other traffic leave ahead of it, and kit takes a fairly quiet route, so we’re back in the city centre in time to grab a quick drink. Diamond marches straight past a hotel bar near the station offering burlesque shows, even though Tim helpfully describes it to him as ‘classy stripping’, and instead we settle on the Oxford Retreat, which also happens to be convenient for Robert to catch his bus back to Chelters (via Witney, which presumably enables him to shout, ‘Get a job!’ out of the window at David Cameron).

Then it’s back to London and the Victoria near Paddington station, where we’re holding the raffle draw. Julia doesn’t join us, so she’s not around to see the barmaid draw her ticket as the winner of the top prize, hospitality for the game against Morecambe. Andy turns up, though, as does Sally Maxfield and Brad, who as ever steams in and wins several prizes with the tickets he’s sold (we’re never quite sure how he does it, but he always does). Rob M has sold the most tickets but only wins one prize, though it’s the one everyone wants, the Belgian beer gift set. And, of course, there are wins for the clientèle of the Bournemouth Railway Club, including Watford Mike, which is presumably compensation for him sitting through our Wembley defeat to Dagenham. Though in Tom Coley’s inimitable fashion, one of the winning tickets has nothing on it but a phone number (though at least it’s a legible phone number). And I’m the lucky winner of the lovely Pukka Pie mug, so I suppose today hasn’t been all bad...

No Surrender To The IPA

The end of days is upon us. The weather is shaping up to be positively Biblical, and in the park a huge flock of pigeons has gathered, fluttering up all around me before going off to attack Tippi Hedren in an attic, or something.

The upper concourse at St Pancras is equally heaving with bodies. The police are massed in numbers, waiting for members of the English Defence League who are on their way to a demonstration in Luton. Most of them are wearing hoodies declaring themselves to be members of the North-east Portsmouth branch, and they all look about twelve (but then, so do more than a few of the policemen!). In the midst of this, former rugby player and advocate of the superior hair weave, Austin Healey, is able to stroll through the station ignored by almost everybody except us. ‘Us’, today, consisting of me, Jenny, Chris Turner, Steve Ducker and Clarkey.

On the train, Clarkey gets talking to a Millers fan called Ben, who’s currently studying at Leicester University, my dear old alma mater. He’s a nice, chatty lad, but he's not particularly confident about our chances today – indeed, we all seem to think a point would be a pretty good result, given our recent form.

Mr Kyte is waiting for us in the Fat Cat, but there’s no sign of Bury CAMRA who, according to a message from Barry on the London Millers loop, are on a Sheffield pub crawl. At least they didn’t decide today would be a good day to visit Luton...

It’s wet at the DVS, though not quite as blustery as it was for Southend’s visit. We fasten the flag under the canopy, where there’s no chance of it getting wet, unlike the one Crewe flag in evidence, which already looks pretty limp and miserable.

The game itself is anything but limp, with chances for both teams in the first half. Miller Bear, the hardest-working mascot in showbusiness, is playing his part in stoking the atmosphere, grabbing a red-and-white golf umbrella and getting the crowd rocking with a chorus of Singin’ In The Rain. It's the best perfomance of the song since Therapy? at Donington (younger readers, ask your parents...).

We take the lead just before half time, when Marcus Marshall puts in a cross that evades Alfie but falls nicely for Nick Fenton to slot home.

Half-time passes without incident, mostly because they’ve decided it might not be wise to use the machine that selects the Mayday numbers when it’s quite as wet as it is...

The second half starts in the same entertaining fashion as the first, and Crewe manage to grab an equaliser. Everyone around us is convinced Ajay Leitch-Smith is offside, but the flag doesn’t go up and he fires the ball past Don.

Marshall, who’s been struggling a little, goes off and Mark Randall comes on. We re-take the lead when the Crewe defenders misjudge a bouncing ball, allowing Alfie to lob the onrushing keeper. The shot seems to travel incredibly slowly, and Crewe claim they hooked the ball out before it actually went over the line, to no avail.

My dad makes some comment about how it would be nice to score again if we can, because it would help our ‘goal average’, at which point 1957 politely taps him on the shoulder and asks for its league table back. However, we do score again, with a stunning strike from Ryan Taylor, who gets the ball off David Artell as he’s trying to shepherd it out for a Crewe throw. His shot is so hard, you expect the ball to burst through the back of the net. The game has been a lot better than we’d expected, given quite how awful the weather is, and we’ve put a little bit of a cushion between Crewe, who’ve been going well, and ourselves.

It’s off to the Old Queen’s Head for a celebratory drinkie (in my case, a nice, warming cup of coffee. Did I mention it was cold, wet and windy?). Clarkey hands me his phone and gets me to read out the match report from the official website, to save him getting out his reading glasses. Not sure if this is down to idleness or vanity (sorry, Clarkey!). The televised game is Wolves against Man U. When we leave to catch the train, Wolves are two-one up. Amazingly, normal service is not resumed, and we’re delighted when we discover that’s the final score.

A group of lads get on the train at Chesterfield and sit opposite us. They’re all Scandinavian, but for some reason they like to go and watch the Spireites – no accounting for taste! Clarkey, who's sharing a table with them, bonds nicely with them, though. The rest of us speculate on what might have happened in, or to, Luton, but everything appears to be quiet as we trundle past. ‘Serious rioting causes million pounds’ worth of improvements to Luton,’ quips Steve. We’re just glad there’s no repeat of last season’s journey after the Bury home game, when we were stuck at Luton following a fatality at Harpenden. Who knows what might happen if Simon Callow and chum disembarked in a hurry, only to run slap-bang into the EDL? Though I do have a sneaky suspicion who’d win that particular dust-up...

That Banner Is Just Showing Off!

Tim, Jenny and I gather at a surprisingly quiet St Pancras for the journey north. In our carriage are a group of London-based Hereford fans, off to their FA Cup game against Wednesday. Spotting Tim’s Rotherham scarf hanging from the luggage rack, one of them comes over to wish us luck, as a good result against Stockport would do them a favour. In return, we let them know about the no-colours policy in the Sheffield Tap, and tell them to fit in some drinking in Shalesmoor if they have time.

As we wait to cross the road at the Shalesmoor roundabout, I get a call from Ted to let me know Darlo’s game against Kettering is off, due to a frozen pitch. That means a whole afternoon’s drinking in Darlington. The poor dear; however will he cope?

I’m on a mission in the Fat Cat, leaving a few copies of the London Drinker in a stealth raid, in return for making off with Beer Matters, Inn-spire and whatever other local mags are left there. (Though one of them is picked up by Chris Turner, who’s travelled independently of us today, which wasn’t quite the idea...) We join Phil, who’s already into his first pint. He’s drinking something called ‘Baby It’s Cold Outside’, which for him should be subtitled ‘So Let’s Stay Inside And Pretend We’ve Won’. We start working our way through the London Drinker’s fiendishly difficult quiz, sharpening our intellects in preparation for the afternoon’s entertainment. Unfortunately, the answers won’t appear for a couple of months, by which time we’ll have forgotten which questions we completed (although we know it wasn’t many!).

There’s no wind today, which should make for a better game than the one against Southend. The Stockport fans have arrived with the most ambitious banner I’ve seen at a game, the DVS presumably being one of the few places that gives them room to spread it out. They must need an industrial-sized washing machine to give it a good clean at the end of the season, that’s all I can say.

We have a player making his debut for us today, and after several attempts, Ronnie has finally got his man – or rather, his son. Yes, Our Ian™ has signed from Tranmere, and slots in on the left wing.

Stockport must sense it’s not going to be their day after ten minutes. Matt Glennon has already made one great save when Aaron Brown, playing his first game for them, diverts a Marcus Marshall cross past him. Their fans celebrate harder than we do – but then they did score the goal, and there’s always room for a bit of gallows humour at the bottom of the table, like the glorious April day we went to Yeovil when we were already relegated, and a conga line broke out on the terrace to a chorus of ‘Going down but we’re getting a tan...’

Ten minutes later, Dale Tonge scuffs a cross in the box, but Ryan Taylor still latches on to it and shoots past Glennon. Despite being two-nil down, Stockport are playing some good football, and on this evidence it’s hard to see why they’re bottom of the league. And perhaps it would stay two-nil, except their defence tries to play the offside trap, but Alfie gets clear and scores his first goal since December. His celebration rubs it in the faces of the Stockport fans somewhat, so I can only assume he didn’t leave the club on the best of terms.

Just before half-time, the two six-a-side teams trot out on to the running track ready for their game. ‘Sign them up, sign them up, sign them up,’ sing the Stockport fans.

The 50-50 draw is performed by someone from the Rotherham Beer Festival. After being held at Oakwood School for a number of years, it’s moving to the Magna Centre in Templeborough, but our conspiracy theory is that the football club is getting involved with promoting it because it’ll move to the new stadium once that’s up and running... Meanwhile, Sky are busy interviewing people in the crowd for some item or other, meaning the Millerettes only get to perform about thirty seconds of this week’s routine. If you’ve never seen a bunch of furious, disgruntled tweens before, it’s not a pretty sight!

The second half is really entertaining. It’s not just Glennon who has to make a couple of excellent saves; Don also has to be at his shot-stopping best to preserve his clean sheet. We add a fourth goal when Danny Harrison, in the team as Jason Taylor is still suspended, plays a great ball that Alfie chases to the byline. Instead of clearing it, the unfortunate Brown only succeeds in playing in Ryan Taylor for his second goal. There’s still time for Alfie to score possibly the greatest disallowed goal of all time. He lobs Glennon from about forty yards, but the ref decides he’s pushed one of the Stockport defenders before getting the shot away, and rules it out.

Our chum who sits in front of us has his wife with him today. She’s not doing too badly. Two games this season, nine goals for, none against. Someone tell her football isn’t always like this!

Back in the city centre, there’s time for a drink in the surprisingly busy Queen’s Head. While we’re in there, Southampton take the lead against Man U in the televised game, but by the time we check the score again later, normal service has been resumed and Man U have won. Tim is staying over, but on the train Jenny and I witness a Hereford fan making a bid to join the Manners Police and eclipsing even Clarkey’s gentlemanly acts in transit. He’s been chatting to the woman sitting next to him, and when she gets up to leave at Leicester, he actually helps her on with her coat. Chivalry is not dead, it’s just very, very poorly...

But What Happened To The Sticky Carpet?

A brisk walk down to Canning Town station is a bracing set-up for the day to come, but I’ll be glad when the District Line is back to something resembling a normal service at weekends. Last night Ted and I were out in Hammersmith, getting another fix of the excellent Masters Of Reality. They were one of the support acts for The Cult, the other being Romance, a group who appear to have just escaped from the sixth form, with a striking female bassist and a lead singer forged from off-cuts of Andrew Stone. He might speak like a polite prep school boy, but he has a real belter of a singing voice (though when he ripped off his shirt during the final number, I could hear my dad saying, ‘I’ve seen more meat on a butcher’s pencil.’) They’ll probably vanish without trace now I’ve said nice things about them..

Emerging from the Jubilee Line, I’d like to wind my way down Baker Street in tribute to the late Gerry Rafferty, but cutting through the back streets to Marylebone helps avoid the crowds and enables me to spot a van bearing the name ‘D.G. Moore’. Today’s lucky omen?

At the station, I bump into Wycombe photographer Paul, who’s already alerted us to the fact we’ll be on a replacement bus from Amersham to High Wycombe. He’s on the train before ours, but he lets us know where he plans to go drinking after the game, in case we want to meet up. There’s a decent London Miller contingent gathering at Marylebone – Jenny, Clarkey, Chris Turner, Rob Maxfield and Diamond, and we’ll be joined by Tim at Harrow. The replacement bus takes us through some of the nicer parts of the Home Counties (you can tell it’s posh – in Rotherham if you saw anything up on bricks in someone’s front garden it’d be a rusty Ford Escort, in Amersham it’s a speedboat...), and we’re soon ensconsced in the big back room of the Belle Vue in High Wycombe. There’s a photographic exhibition on the walls, featuring models with a variety of tattoos and piercings, including one woman who could be a third party in the Adam Le Fondre/young Marc Almond lookalike suggested by Paul Martin. The boys peruse the accompanying book of photographs with the ‘18+ Adult Content’ warning, but this is all a bit of a busman’s holiday for me...

Gradually, we’re joined by my brother, Mick Walker and Steve Czajewski, who has Joe with him. Somehow, Steve manages to wangle a lift to the ground for himself and Joe with a Wycombe fan who’s known as the Honey Monster. We never manage to find out why...

The rest of us pile into Robert’s and Mick’s cars. As we drive to the ground, a red kite swoops low over the car. The species is so prolific round here, it actually works its way into the match report in the Sheffield Star by Les Payne, a man who loves to have weird pegs on which to hang his descriptions of games.

Though Mick sets off before us, he somehow arrives later, by which time Tim, Robert and I have managed to get the last of the hot pork rolls from Linda’s snack van just outside the ground. The others have to make do with burgers, but if they enjoy them even half as much as the bloke I get chatting to who’s tucking into his cheeseburger with obvious relish (no pun intended), they’ll do all right.

And she was never seen again...

In the ground, I get the flag up just in time for kick-off (as the photo proves, from the back it looks like the stewards are escorting me out of the ground), then we get seats nice and close to the action, where we’re joined by the Burton brothers. Wycombe are another team like Southend; they know all the tricks, and Gareth Ainsworth, a man who always looks as though he needs a good shampooing, is never more than two inches from the referee’s ear. They take the lead when a cross isolates Jamie Green, the smallest Miller on the pitch, and Ainsworth heads past Don.

They’ve had the best of the first half, but we make a better fist of things in the second. Marcus Marshall starts to cause the Wycombe defence problems. We’re desperately unlucky when keeper Rikki Bull, still sporting at least one K too many, pushes a shot from Ryan Taylor on to his crossbar and it bounces the wrong side of the line as far as we’re concerned, while a free kick from Nicky Law is headed over the crossbar. Wycombe have a chance for a second goal just before full time, but Don makes a good save. They then decide to try and run time out by messing around with the ball in the corner, and when Jason Taylor has a bit of a hack to get it off them, their player does a spot of rolling around to earn Taylor a second yellow. It’s a bit of classlessness that ranks with the best (or worst) or Notts County last season.

When we pile on the bus that, after the usual long wait for all the traffic parked by the ground to leave first, will eventually take us back into town, there’s no sign of Clarkey. He’s so angry with the sending-off that he decides only a two-mile walk back will cool him down. By the time he finally joins us, the rest of the London-bound posse (Steve and Joe are getting a lift back with Robert, when they finally get out of the carpark...) are in The Bootlegger by the station. In its previous incarnation, this is the pub where several of the London Millers (myself not included) were ‘entertained’ by an exotic dancer writhing on the sticky carpet after a night game ten years ago. Now, it has about eight real ales on draught, as well as a selection of bottled beers to rival the Sheffield Tap and the Rake at Borough Market. And they do a nice hot chocolate, too, which is very welcome on a day like today. Diamond, meanwhile, falls in love with the hot Swedish cider.

Eventually, Paul arrives, along with two friends/camera bag roadies. Clarkey resists the temptation to harangue them too much about Wycombe’s style of play, and we could stay there for a while, chewing the fat, if it wasn’t for the fact the journey home is so tortuous. Indeed, Rob Maxfield has already made an early exit, intending to meet up with Sally on the South Bank.

When the replacement bus drops us off in Amersham, those who want to have time to grab sarnies from the Tesco over the road. They’ve officially gone past their sell-by date and appear to be getting cheaper by the minute. If we’d turned up half an hour later, they’d probably have paid us to take them away!

Back at Marylebone, Jenny, Chris, Diamond and Clarkey decide to head Euston-wards for further drinkies, but I call it a night. Note to self: vans may not be omens, after all...

Blown Away

Only the ladies are braving it for the trip up today – Jenny, Joy, Julia and myself. Joy was hoping to bump into a few of her Southend-supporting CAMRA chums, but massive engineering works on the C2C line have prevented them from travelling (well, would you trundle through Essex on a replacement bus unless you absolutely had to?).

Even the Fat Cat is pretty quiet, giving the resident cat the opportunity to stretch out in front of the fire. It’s obviously a position it adopts on a regular basis, as the bench it’s sitting on is decorated with a painting of a cat in exactly the same pose. Or maybe the Fiery Fox cider’s a bit stronger than I thought and I’m seeing double...

As soon as we get to the DVS, it’s obvious the wind is going to be a problem today. Securely tied as the flag is, it’s soon flapping loose of the railing. And the team are flapping, too. Or thinking about something other than football, because they give the ball away straight from kick-off, and seconds later Don’s picking it out of the net. It would be nice to think that Southend have PTE’d (which reminds me of Ted receiving a text from a friend suggesting that they’d peaked too early in a game and replying with, ‘At least we peaked’...). Unfortunately, Southend are using the wind to their advantage, and score a headed second fifteen minutes later. They’re also displaying more of the sly ‘professionalism’ we saw at Roots Hall. No one gets seriously damaged by them this time, but their attitude is summed up when Don has to retie his bootlace before he can take a goal kick and Barry Corr hangs around in the goalnet, hoping Don will forget he’s there so he can nip in and steal the ball off him. That mindset may help you win games, but I’m still glad we don’t play like that.

Someone vaguely important appears to be doing the half-time draw, but I’m not really paying attention. The half-time six-a-side is so much more compelling.

We get back into the game early in the second half, with a really scrappy bundled effort from Nick Fenton, but at times like this who cares how you score them? There are chances for an equaliser, but we don’t make the most of having the wind in our favour. The ref should add on a couple of minutes more for Southend’s time-wasting tactics, but it probably wouldn’t help.

Julia’s staying over, so Jenny, Joy and I make our way to The Old Queen’s Head. We’re in the process of trying to find out how Darlo have got on in the FA Trophy, as their result wasn’t included in the classified read-through, when Ted rings to let us know they’ve won. So at least he’s happy.

The journey back is quite sedate, though I do find myself trying to persuade Joy to have a session in a flotation tank. It’s an amazing eperience, enabling you to examine all the deepest corners of your inner self, although you might find yourself needing the mental equivalent of scary Kim off How Clean Is Your House? to give it a good dusting, particularly after a game like today’s...

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!