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London Millers
We don't live in Rotherham, we don't even play football in Rotherham, but we still have a good time!

Tuesday, 25 May 2010
The Secret Is To Stand In The Paddock...

Ah, Sky! On the one hand, they decide to televise your games and give you some money for the privilege. On the other hand, they decide to televise your games and move them to bizarre times, like six o’clock on a Saturday night. Which is why a somewhat depleted London Millers party (Jenny, Julia and myself) are metting at Waterloo at two in the afternoon. Clarkey has a decent excuse – he’s up in Crewe reliving (continuing?) his misspent youth at the Westworld weekender, a couple of people may be working, but most of the others would rather be watching in a local pub and fretting than actually going to the game and fretting.
A handful of Aldershot fans get on the train at Brookwood and Ash Vale, cans in hand and a little rowdy but not annoyingly so. They just seem more confident than we do, but as our record in the play-offs is pretty duff (getting relegated in the days when a play-off game could send you down as well as up and losing a semi-final to Leyton Orient on pens) it’s probably understandable.
Once we’ve arrived, Julia and I head for the White Lion while Jenny makes a detour to the ground to get a programme for Dave in Australia. When she joins us, she’s empty handed, as they won’t be going on sale till the programme sellers arrive at 4.30. There are seven or eight people watching the Cup Final in the main bar, but the smaller side room is screen-free and quiet, though Julia eventually wanders off to watch it once penalties start being missed and the excitement level cranks up.
As well as the White Lion’s regular dog, Millie, there’s another mutt with cracking ten-to-two paws soaking up the sunshine. When my brother arrives, I ask him to take a photo of said dog. This leads him into a conversation with the owner, who explains how the dog ruptured its cruciate ligament (it was run into by another dog during some boisterous play. This was an accident – it didn’t find itself being deliberately taken out by the canine equivalent of Roy Keane), necessitating £3000 of vet’s bills to fix it. The things you learn when you start photographing dogs!
Mick Walker is the last of our little party to arrive, having had another quiet drive over (presumably everyone’s watching the Cup Final). Jenny’s arranged to meet Steve Exley in the Royal Staff to hand over some tickets, so Mick gives us all a lift over there. Steve’s in, along with Martin Burton, the son of a friend who couldn’t make it to the game and Hugh Vaughan, sporting his new Alan Lee tribute teeshirt. We ask Steve if he had fun at the end of season dinner and whether his bread roll escaped unscathed. Apparently, he had a great time, ending up chatting to the legend that is Howard Webb until the bar closed. Photos of the event are up on the official site, including a photo of the whole squad which makes them look, as Gwenn remarked sagely, like one of the failed entries from Last Choir Standing. It’s no surprise at all to see big Drewey yet again wearing a suit that appears to be a size too small for him...
When we reach the ground, it’s to see that half-a-dozen flags are already on display in the away paddock. A couple we’ve seen before, including the much-travelled Tivoli Millers and the Scarborough Millers, but the rest have emerged from the woodwork. Still, we find a space and take up residence in the sunshine. We’re in a great position to be picked up by the cameras, and my dad later tells me we get a mention on Radio Sheffield. What shameless media tarts we are.
There’s a great atmosphere building up as the game gets close to kick-off. Some of the Aldershot fans have been given banners with the players’ faces on them to hold up, and the ball is brought out to the centre circle by a couple of members of the armed forces. There are about five hundred in the travelling Rotherham contingent, and one of them has a drum. We do wonder if it could be Miller Bear in mufti, though we have no idea whether he got his drumsticks back after he told us at the Cheltenham game someone had pinched them!
Having rested Alf last week, Ronnie’s restored him to the line-up alongside Ryan Taylor, but Harrison and Mills are preferred to Walker in midfield. However, the real tactical masterstroke comes when we win the toss. Knowing Aldershot like to kick uphill towards their fans in the second half, we make them do it in the first instead.
The game is tight and tense, as is probably to be expected. Aldershot fizz a shot across goal; Robert, Exley and co hurl coordinated invective at the assisant referee, convinced he should have given an offside decision. Alf collides with the Aldershot goalkeeper while contesting a ball, with the result that the keeper picks up some kind of injury and has to be subbed. That’s pretty much the height of the excitement until the very end of the half, when sub keeper Jaimez-Ruiz saves an admittedly tame shot from Alf, Aldershot immediately mount an attack and Don saves with his feet. The defence has looked solid, Nicky Law is having a good game and Clarkey would be impressed by the chants of ‘Ronnie Moore’s red army’, which must have gone on for fifteen minutes straight.
The Crossbar Challenge game is played at half-time, but without an away fan taking part this time. Instead, the contestants are the Shots’ phoenix mascot (who’s been busy handing out sweets throughout the first half, even to the photographers behind the goal) and what I’m sure the announcer describes as ‘a fat bloke, a Mexican and a nice bit of crumpet’, though I could have somehow wandered into an episode of Ashes To Ashes by mistake...
The second half progresses much the same as the first. Ryan Taylor, who’s certainly benefited from his time at Exeter, judging by his improving physical presence on the ball, curls a shot wide of the post. Aldershot have a couple of decent opportunities, but nothing on target. The longer the game goes on, the more it seems we’re going to be happy with a nil-nil draw. Then, with a couple of minutes to go, Brown in the Aldershot defence sends a rather casual backpass towards the keeper. Alf is on to it like a flash, but even as he’s charging on goal, we’re still convinced he’s somehow going to miss. He doesn’t, and comes dashing over to the corner flag to celebrate. We’re starting to think standing on the paddock is the secret to guaranteeing a Rotherham win, as this is where we were when we won courtesy of Reuben Reid’s spectacular lob last season.
The three minutes the ref adds on seem to last forever. When the whistle goes, the players come over to applaud us for our support, but they don’t over-celebrate, or do anything to suggest the tie is somehow now sewn up.
A few of the Aldershot supporters are hurling abuse – and, according to later stories, coins, though we don’t see any evidence of that – towards the away part of the terrace, so fans are being let out at the point furthest away from them, and when we’ve finally taken down the flag, we get safe passage courtesy of a police escort. Mick and Robert head straight for their cars, anxious to be away from any potential trouble near the ground. Walking back to the station, I’m more tense than if we’d lost, or if there’d been no score. Already, we’re thinking of all the ways Rotherham could mess this up in the second half.
I’m not going to the home leg – it’ll be my turn to fret in front of the TV – but as we say our goodnights at Waterloo, a faint hope glimmers that, this time, we might actually make it to Wembley...
Posted by London Millers at 07:00 0 comments Wednesday, 19 May 2010
Two Arabs, A Beermat And Some Bloke Out Of Zulu

When the fixture computer threw this one up, we joked that our first game back in League Two had been Hereford away, so it would be only fitting if our last game at this level was Hereford away. That was before we (along with Bury, Dagenham and Cheaterfield) decided to spend the second half of the season blowing our shot at automatic promotion. That relative disappointment (and everything’s relative when you live with someone whose team has just been relegated into the Blue Square Prem) does little to dampen our enthusiasm for today’s main objective – partying!
There should be a big turn-out for this trip. Unfortunately, while Jenny, Joy, Julia, Clarkey, Tim, John Kirkland, Rob Maxfield and I are all present and correct, complete with the hats which are today’s official dress code, Andy Leng and Chris Turner are conspicuous by their absence. We have no choice but to leave without them, and it’s not long before Jenny gets a text to let her know they’ve both managed to oversleep. It has to be stressed that they were not in the same bed at the time, even though we now have an image of them in pyjamas and nightcaps à la Morecambe and Wise. More tragically, Chris now has 36 cocktail sausages sitting in his fridge which he was going to bring along today.
Not that we’re short of supplies. We have champagne, bagels, croissants and other nibbles, and there’s more than enough for Steve Czajewski, who joins us at Oxford, and my brother, who gets on at Worcester. Robert is wearing the Bombardier dragon hat he got at the GBBF a couple of years ago, but that’s discreet compared to the one John has for Chris, who’s joining us at Hereford – it’s in the shape of a lion’s head, which is kind of appropriate given the mane of hair he’s still attempting to cultivate. I’m wearing a more discreet plain black number, but I’m teaming it with Drewe Broughton tribute sweatbands because, frankly, it had to be done...
It’s a long journey (and involved a bleary-eyed eight a.m. meet-up at Paddington), but one through some very pretty countryside. Having met up with Chris and Chris at Hereford station, we make our way to the Barrels, flagship pub of the Wye Valley Brewery. Last time we were here, it was a sultry August day and we sat outside. Today, it feels twenty degrees cooler and we huddle inside. Phil Kyte arrives, with new girlfriend, Catherine, in tow. When he told her he’d be introducing her to the London Millers, I have no idea whether she realised we’d all be in novelty hats...
Nigel Hall and Steve Ducker make an appearance. Nigel has given Steve a lift because he’s been up till stupid o’clock the last couple of nights reporting on the election and its aftermath. The Devon Millers, Dave Bates and Andy, join us, and immediately make the rest of us feel underdressed in comparison by donning flowing Arabian robes and headdresses. They fit in beautifully when we get to the ground – plenty of people have come in fancy dress, and we spot monks, a bloke dressed as a beermat and a lad in a military jacket and pencilled-on moustache who appears to have escaped from the cast of Zulu. We’re squeezed in down one side because the stand behind the goal is condemned, making tatty old Millmoor look positively salubrious. There aren’t quite as many Rotherham fans as there would have been if we were still in with a chance of automatic promotion, but they’re in good voice, even if most of their songs are in tribute to Millers legend Alan Lee, who kept up his knack of scoring against Wednesday last week and helped ensure their relegation.
Sadly, we might have turned up but the team clearly hasn’t. Their performance reminds me of our game at Crewe a few years ago, when they still had a chance of relegating us and staying up themselves, but only if they overcame a goal difference of ten. Alfie has been rested, with Drewe Broughton taking his place, and no one seems to want to risk picking up an injury before next week. We’re playing in first gear, and Hereford are one up in five minutes, two up in twenty. In both cases, the defence simply goes missing.
Clarkey and Tim decide to amuse themselves by partying like it’s 1974. Cue chorus of ‘I was born under the Railway End’. At half-time, Catherine takes a team photo of us in our hats. My, how fetching we look. Meanwhile, I decide to plug myself into my radio to see if I can get some idea of the ups and downs in our league and the one above. Can Grimsby complete their unlikely resurrection? (No. After doing all the hard work and beating Barnet last week, they get stuffed by Burton and Barnet beat Rochdale, who seem to have lost interest since they actually got promoted.)
Will Hartlepool get relegated, appeal against their points deduction and cause mayhem for the fixture compilers. (No. Somehow Gillingham, the team everyone’s forgotten are still in the relegation scrap, go down, which means if we’re in League Two next season we can look forward to more dodgy decisions at the Priestfield.) And by the time the third Hereford goal goes in, right at the end of a second half in which Rotherham have played much better without carving out too many chances, Morecambe have scored against Aldershot. It means they finish fourth, and play Dagenham, who got the three points everyone expected they would at Darlington. We’ll be playing Aldershot on Saturday evening, which is a nice, easy trip if nothing else. The atmosphere is very flat as we leave the ground, but I’d rather we got a bad performance out of the way this weekend, rather than next.
There’s just time for a reviving drink in the Wetherspoon near Hereford station (coffee in my case, because it’s still freezing!). Clarkey and John K catch the train by the skin of their teeth and we trundle back as far as Worcester Foregate Street. Tim spots deer in a field, before he and Steve Cz start some London Underground-based trivia. (Example. Q: What letter starts the names of the most consecutive stations? A: H. Hounslow East, Hounslow Central, Hounslow West, Hatton Cross, the three stations round on the Heathrow loop and back to Hounslow East. Yes, I know it’s sneaky.) Steve gets the biggest laugh for naming all the stations in Ealing, including ‘Sexual Ealing’. It’s a shame we have to turf him off at Oxford, no, honestly it is...
As we get off, a couple sitting by us tell us they wish all travelling football fans were like us. Tell that to Mr Grumpy of Didcot!
At Worcester, we bid farewell to my brother and his daft hat, and pick up the train which will trundle us back to Paddington. Some rugby types behind us are playing a complicated drinking game, but we’re more concerned with trying to catch a glimpse of Wembley as London approaches, and keeping our fingers crossed for a more close-up view at the end of the month.
Posted by London Millers at 04:42 0 comments Down Came The Rain

The last home game of the season (possible appearance in the play-offs notwithstanding), and there’s a decent turn-out. Jenny, Joy, Clarkey, Chris T, Steve D and myself. The train’s pretty packed, it being a Bank Holiday, even though all the Championship games are taking place tomorrow – including the winner-takes-all Wednesday/Palace tie which probably 99.9% of Rotherham fans are hoping Palace win. (I’m keeping an open mind...)
At the station, we meet up with Phil in the Sheffield Tap. He tells us he was out leafleting for some cause the other day, and a couple of people came up to him and said, ‘You’re him, aren’t you?’, meaning celebrity chef James Martin. It’s strange – you couldn’t describe them as actual lookalikes, but for a long time we’ve thought that there is a certain resemblance in terms of appearance and mannerisms, and this just confirms it.
As is becoming usual for the last home game, we divert from the regular ‘straight to the Fat Cat’ pattern. Instead, our first stop is the Harlequin, where I’m delighted to see they have a cider festival on the go. Couple that with pork and stuffing rolls and some truly world-class crackling provided as bar nibbles and I could happily stay here all afternoon. Instead, we have one drink at the Harlequin then visit the Riverside, a few minutes’ walk away. It’s a big, airy pub with a bit of a café feel to it, and it’s warm enough to sit outside, admiring the river view.
The ladies make an early move, as Jenny has to pick up tickets for the Hereford game next week. Fortunately, the queue is very short, unlike the one to collect pre-ordered home shirts, which snakes impressively along the concourse. We spot Steve Exley, waiting to pick up a shirt for Kiran, who’s already taking a large adult size. Steve reckons he and I should have done some kind of deal, as I fit the largest junior size and therefore pay the junior price!
Robert has driven over for the game and is in his seat when I arrive. There’s a small but noisy Crewe following – there’s nothing for them to play for, and so no real inclination to travel in numbers. For us, the maths is simple – two more points will absolutely guarantee a play-off place, though a win today would be nice. We start with purpose, while Crewe seem content to play on the counter attac. The closest either side comes in the half is hitting the bar; apart from that, both keepers only have one shot to save.
Everything changes when the weather does. Richard Lee, rattling through the Fifty-fifty numbers and the answer to the ‘this was the top five, but in which year?’ competition, announces that the rain is on its way in minutes. When it does, it’s less rain and more a mini-monsoon. Water is soon standing on the pitch, and if it wasn’t so late in the season with no real opportunity to reschedule the game, there’s a good chance this would be called off. Walker (who still seems to be suffering from the knock he picked up last week) and Marshall are replaced by Bell-Baggie and Broughton. The change nearly pays off, but Alfie insists on shooting, hitting the side netting, when passing to an unmarked Broughton would surely have led to a goal, while Broughton himself loses his footing on the sodden turf when in on goal. Crewe also have chances, but the game has pretty much been reduced to a farce by the freak weather.
Despite requests not to, at the final whistle there’s a soggy pitch invasion. The players are due to come out for the traditional hundred yards of the track of honour but, collecting a flag which now weighs a good four pounds more than it did dry, we decide against staying to watch it. The London-bound party instead reconvene in the Sheffield Tap, where a large bouncer comes over and tells me they have a no colours policy. (I don’t usually wear a replica shirt on matchdays, but it was today’s unofficial dress code). As I’m removing the shirt, he asks me how we got on. ‘I’m Wednesday,’ he admits. ‘We’ll be playing you lot next year.’
The good news is that, thanks to other results, not only are we definitely in the play-offs, with Morecambe and Aldershot playing each other next week, we can’t finish any lower than fifth, meaning the home leg will be mid-week. However, things are so tight that our opposition could be any one of about seven clubs – either of the aforementioned teams, Dagenham, Cheaterfield, Bury, Port Vale or Northampton. Exciting, eh?
Back in London, Chris, Jenny and I meet Ted for a drink at the Betjeman. Darlo have beaten Macc and he’s already planning his trip back there next season – either with us if we don’t go up or, failing that, on a weekend when the Quakers are somewhere he doesn’t fancy visiting. We colonise the comfy sofas outside, which is pleasant until a group of Belgian schoolchildren fresh off the Eurostar start charging around. As with all such parties, their parents/teachers have sent them away to play so they can have a pint in peace. Zut alors!


Posted by London Millers at 03:20 0 comments Monday, 26 April 2010
Chris Kirkland Is A Very Angry Man

Last night, I was at Sh!, the ‘women’s store’ in Hoxton, reading one of my short stories. Pink bubbly was on hand to lubricate the old vocal chords, so it’s nice to have a later start than usual. Even so, it’s a surprisingly warm day and I’m feeling the effort as I trudge up the hill from the tube station exit, weighed down by the flag. (That’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it.) The South Norwood (And Addiscombe) Gentlemen’s Rambling Association have made an early detour to the Lord Nelson where, as we were when we visited before Darlo’s FA Cup game, they will more than likely be the youngest drinkers in the place. When I reach the Old Mitre, Jenny and her brother, John, fresh and tanned from their week in Cornwall, are already there, as are Joy and Frances. We thought Frances might have had enough of the Millers after seeing their lacklustre display at Aldershot the other week, but she’s been tempted over to Barnet purely on the strength of the pies served at the Old Mitre. It has to be said when they turn up they do look very nice, coming encased in a triangular wedge of pastry which would impress even Ted, who’s the fussiest man in the world when it comes to the whys and wherefores of the meat-and-shortcrust-based comestible. However, it’s taking roughly an hour for food orders to arrive (though you are warned of this when you order), so it’ll be the good old Underhill catering for me. Everyone is out in the beer garden, and the ‘stable bar’ is open, showing the Man U/Spurs game to a bunch of excitable drinkers.
Gradually, the hordes arrive – in no particular order, Rob Maxfield, Tim and Ian Armitage, Clarkey, who’s brought along Stephanie, nephew James and one of Stephanie’s friends who has somehow been persuaded that coming to see Rotherham will be fun (poor girl!), Nigel Hall, the Kettons and the Manchester axis of Chrises. The latter two are both dressed for the North-west at six-thirty a.m., which was clearly about twenty degrees colder than positively steamy North London. Chris K has even had a haircut. Well, I say ‘cut’ – attacked with shears might be a more accurate description. He tells me he’s working on the theory that his mother will think growing it long is the better option if it looks like this when it’s short. Finally, the SN(AA)GRA arrive, with my brother, Julia and Phil the darts ringer in tow. Apparently, there were shirtless workmen on the building next door to the Lord Nelson who they can all describe in rather more detail than is healthy. Not that I’m fussed about missing out on sights like that, oh, no.
There are enough London Millers in attendance to run a football card for fundraising purposes. Even the Burtons have a go, though both are complaining they’ve already been cleaned out by the price of a pint. If they will go drinking in the tourist traps of Camden first, what can they expect? The card is won by Gail, though Graham should take half as he actually picked her square for her.
When Brad arrives, the early party realise it’s time to wander off and put the flag up. There’s a better turn-out than I expected given recent results, but we find an empty stretch of crash barrier close to the corner flag. The others begin to drift in, having finished their pints and ambled down the hill (much easier than the opposite journey, I can tell you). Chris K is absolutely apoplectic about the fact concessions are only available in the stand, not the terrace, and he doesn’t do sitting down unless he absolutely has to. Steve Ducker ambles over from the stand to have a quick word with us – he’s got his father-in-law with him, so he’s sitting today. We can spot him from where we’re standing, looking rather tense, though that could just be because he’s obviously sitting fairly close to the woman who always screams ‘Gerrin!’ at obnoxiously loud volume whenever she thinks a Rotherham player should be making a challenge. Never mind that if they ‘gorrin’ as often as she’d like them to, we’d probably end every game with seven men...
Mind you, she’s like a church mouse in comparison to young master Kirkland, who’s been wound up by the ticketing arrangements and returns to them throughout the game. At one point late in the first half, he muses, ‘I wonder what Barnet are going to do if they need new players in the summer. After all, they DON’T DO TRANSFERS!’ He’s a seething cauldron of testosterone, and my brother and I decide we really, really need to find him a girlfriend.
All of which distracts from what’s actually a pretty good performance on the pitch. Like Aldershot, Barnet’s tactics rely on trying to use the sloping pitch to their advantage, but where the Shots have the sprightly Marvin Morgan leading the line, Barnet have the geriatric (in footballing terms) Paul Furlong. Add to that the fact we’re double-teaming the London Millers’ new best friend Kevin Ellison and Gavin Gunning on Barnet’s real threat, Albert Adomah (which sounds like it should have been the plot of one of the stories at the Sh! reading last night), and the opposition really don’t look like much. That said, we’re squandering some decent chances, the best of which comes when Josh Walker smacks a free kick against the post. We also get the opportunity to admire Walker’s overly elaborate tattoos when he comes to take a corner. They neatly avoid his elbow; perhaps that would have been too painful. Then Ellison gets a free kick fairly close to where we’re standing, which goes in without anyone else touching it, despite the protests of the Barnet players. Unlike the goal against Notts County, and even with a ref who clearly doesn’t want to give us anything, it stands.
There’s some kind of presentation at half-time which appears to involve a boxer, but the Barnet announcer, when he isn’t exhorting the fans to get behind the team for their most important game of the season, is fairly low key.
In the second half, we’re attacking down the slope. Ronnie has had to substitute Walker, who was on the end of a fairly hefty challenge and was forced off, with Bell-Baggie, and we’re very much in control of the game. Keeper Jake Cole has obviously decided looking like Manuel Almunia may not be best idea and has ditched the blond highlights, though he still almost makes a muff the Spaniard would be proud of when he tries to dribble the ball out of his area and is very nearly robbed – did he not see the Chelters highlights from last week? Barnet make changes, because with Grimsby beating Darlo, which would lower the gap between them to four points, they have to. They start bringing on more attackers, including Ryan O’Neill (no, not that one), and even push a defender up front. Despite the fact most of the play is now a lot closer to where we’re standing than most of us would like, we’re still standing firm. Ellison, who’s clearly been enjoying himself today, to the extent that he was even laughing when one of the Barnet players contrived to kick the ball out of play on the touchline by us, has a great chance to make it two, but he hits the post. Ronnie takes Bell-Baggie off and brings on Micky Cummins, on the surface a defensive move which has a few disgruntled Rotherham fans walking out, but Cummins actually helps to create a couple of shooting opportunities. Paul Warne comes on as a late sub, to a fantastic reception, and links up well with Cummins – indeed, we think Warney’s shot in for a moment, given the angle we have.
Even with five minutes added on, plus more for Warney’s appearance and whatever else the ref decides to add on, we hold out. John O’Flynn has a free kick very late on, but puts it over the bar. All Andy Warrington has really had to do is collect one cross, and Sharps had to stab the ball over the bar in the first half, but that was pretty much it. The back four of Lynch, Sharps, Fenton and Gunning have been superb, along with Mills and Ellison in front of them. At the final whistle, the team comes over and milks the applause, but it’s deserved. For the first time in all my many visits to Underhill, I’ve actually seen a team win here which wasn’t Barnet. The last time we were victorious here was in 1992, and I was out of London that day.
Our joy is not as unconfined as it might be, as Bournemouth have beaten Burton and taken the third automatic promotion place. People are already speculating – possibly not without justification – as to how many of the clubs who’ve gone up may start next season with points deductions, given their financially precarious positions. At the tube station, we go in various directions – Clarkey and family shoot off as he’s off to a gig, partying like it’s 1976, as ever. The SN(AA)GRA have plans to visit Kentish Town and all points south. Chris and Chris are on some tortuous route back to Manchester. Jenny, John, the Kettons, Joy, Frances, Tim, Ian A, Nigel, my brother and I head back to the Old Mitre. It’s a lot quieter now the sun’s gone down a little, and though the Arsenal/Man City game is showing, hardly anyone’s interested in watching it.
Ian forces himself to leave early by having a pint of Guinness, as nothing else sits easily on top of that. Robert and I have a leisurely pint (sparkling water in my case), then go to catch the Tube into town, leaving the others to plot the dress code for our trip to Hereford. As long as it doesn’t involve dressing as a cigarette, I don’t particularly mind.
Posted by London Millers at 10:29 0 comments Friday, 23 April 2010
View From The Posh Seats

St Pancras is mayhem as I arrive – with all flights grounded due to the cloud of volcanic ash spewing out of Iceland (personally, I blame ex-West Ham chairman Eggert Magnusson, last seen vainly trying to board a train at Sheffield station...), more people than usual are queuing for the Eurostar. Nipping swiftly up to the first floor level, I bypass the milling hordes to join those travelling up to enjoy the hospitality as today’s matchball and programme sponsors. On the train are me, Jenny, Clarkey, Steve Ducker, Chris Turner and Ian Armitage. Once in Sheffield, we’ll be meeting Tim (who should have been on the train with us but went up yesterday instead as his dad’s back in hospital), Tim’s mate Andy, my brother and Phil Kyte.
As the train goes through Chesterfield, most of the party get their first good look at the Spireites’ new stadium. It’s another one which is going to be a trek from the town centre, but apparently it’s only about as far out as Saltergate is in the other direction.
Andy joins us in the Sheffield Tap, though he makes the mistake of ordering a pint of the world’s most extreme chocolate stout, which is too chocolatey for people who really like stout, and way too stouty for people (like me) who really like chocolate. We’re supposed to be meeting Phil here, too, but he texts to let us know he’s running late and has gone straight to the DVS, so we pile into taxis and head over to find him. Tim arrives at roughly the same time as Andy, Jenny and myself. The others have spent a while taking team photos by the new fountains at Sheffield station (which only have the effect of making it look as though water is jetting out of Ian A’s head), and they roll up just as my brother’s car is pulling into the carpark.
Ronnie Moore, his relatively new wife and small daughter arrive just as we’re walking to the VIP entrance, so Clarkey goes over and wishes him good luck for the game. Let’s hope that’s not the kiss of death, given our less-than-sparkling record when it comes to the results of our sponsored games.
The meal is good (pate, beef stroganoff and apple crumble, since you ask), though Clarkey’s not impressed that I can’t manage to finish my main course. ‘What would Ted say if he saw you leaving food?’he asks. ‘Probably, “I’ll have that,”’ chips in Jenny. Ted himself rings to find out how we’re all getting on. I go to take the call on the balcony outside, which is an absolute sun trap on a glorious day like this. Just before I leave the room, they announce the winning team on the football card which has been doing the rounds. It was Man City. That’s clearly not an omen for the Manchester derby, as I walk back in the room to see Paul Scholes has scored the winner with seconds to go...
Jenny and I go to put the flag up. We’re hoping we won’t have to move Mr Broughton again, as he’s nowhere to be seen on the teamsheet. It turns out he’s actually been taken sick – though that’s more than likely sick of having the mickey taken out of him by us... We do, however, bump into Tony Stewart and our new, uber-smooth (but very successful, as the hospitality’s been sold out for ages) commercial director, so we briefly introduce ourselves as part of the London contingent. Meanwhile, most of the boys have gone down to take the matchball out to the centre spot and have their photo taken with the officials, team captains and Miller Bear. Tim has his Rotherham scarf round his neck, clashing beautifully with his Hawaiian shirt, and tells us later Ian Sharps asked him why he’s wearing a towel. (Ah, the endlessly witty banter footballers are so famed for!) Mind you, Sharps almost signed my mum’s coat once, having mistaken it for a Rotherham shirt, so he’s got previous with us. Nicky Law has a word with my brother as and the others are sauntering off the pitch like South Yorkshire’s answer to Reservoir Dogs. Unfortunately, Robert doesn’t, as I would have, tried to find out what’s actually tattooed on Law’s arm. We know it’s a football with writing round it; we just need to know whether the writing says, ‘This is a football. Kick it at the goal...’
The match is very similar to the one at Whaddon Road earlier in the season, in that we batter Cheltenham for most of the ninety minutes with very little reward. The best chance comes when Chelters’ keeper (Scott P Brown, the initial being to distinguish him from the other Scott Brown in their squad, in the same way that Yngwie J Malmsteen’s initial was to distinguish him from all the other famous Yngwie Malmsteens) tries to dribble the ball in his area. Alf robs him of it and passes to Kevin Ellison, who seems certain to score but slips at the vital moment. Alf has an overhead kick saved but is offside anyway, has another shot which he puts just wide and Brown redeems himself with a decent save or two. Meanwhile, Don has almost nothing to do in our goal except work on his tan.
From this vantage point, I can finally see the blokes who started the Alfie song (which still hasn’t caught on). One of Chelters’ players is down for a while (they’ve already started timewasting, which is a sign of how determined they are to get a point out of game), and when he gets to his feet and goes off the pitch at a snail’s pace, they shout, ‘Ouch!’ in unison with every step, which is quite funny. Jenny and Robert, sitting behind me, are getting fairly irate with the referee, whose last great moment was sending off both Broughton and David Stockdale at Shrewsbury last season, and it’s a competition to see which of them is actually going to explode first. At least Robert’s calmed down a bit compared to Notts County, where his furious bellowing of, ‘Linesman! Linesman!’ made me think he was channelling Graham Taylor.
At half-time, Robert and I go to see my dad, as I have some seed potatoes to pass on to him from Gwenn. (No, this is not a euphemism for anything. They both grow potatoes, all right?) The others have headed back to hospitality, so they miss a hapless female photographer getting absolutely drenched when the sprinkler system (for which, read hose with a hole in it) is turned on.
The second half is just as frustrating as the first. Chelters look a little bit more threatening but Pablo Mills has a shot cleared off the line and Ellison’s attempt is saved. Gunning and Walker go off, Walker still feeling the effects of a challenge in the first half, and Jamie Green and Bell-Baggie come on. Chelters retaliate with by substituting Barry Hayles with Julian Alsop, whose massive bulk is directly up against tiny Jamie Green. A thunderbolt from a Cheltenham player hits Nick Fenton smack in the face, but he’s made of tough stuff and carries on. Alsop may look as though he’s just on the pitch to block out the sun more effectively than any cloud of volcanic ash, but he makes a nuisance of himself and has one good opportunity to score, but the header is well over the bar. In stoppage time, Brown makes a great save from Craig McAllister and the away contingent (who could probably have come over from Gloucestershire in my brother’s car...) can go home happy.
Back in the sponsors’ lounge, it’s just a case of waiting for the man of the match, Kevin Ellison, to come in for the presentation. In the meantime, we have our photos taken with Miller Bear and I grab autographs from Marc Joseph and Paul Warne, who’ve both come in for a quick meet-and-greet. Warney is still as ridiculously handsome as he was when I presented him with the London Millers Player of the Season trophy before the first game of the 2001-02 season, though with rather less hair... At last Kevin Ellison appears. The boys go up for the matchball presentation, Jenny and I for the programme presentation. He’s affable and ludicrously tall, and nobody mentions to him we reckon his lookalike is Lord Voldemort out of Harry Potter. We get a signed shirt, which will become one of the prizes in next year’s raffle. As they’re obviously using up all the remaining stock they have before the new kit comes in next season, it turns out to be extra-large junior size, meaning it’ll fit the average 13-year-old boy, or me. Clarkey is charged with getting the matchball back to London safely – and deciphering all the signatures before he gets home! There’s just time to get Ronnie to sign my copy of You’ll Never Take Don Valley (aka the London Miller magazine), then it’s off for the tram. Tim shoots off to visit his dad, Phil leaves for the wilds of Barnsley and Robert gives Jenny a lift back to Rotherham as she’s off on holiday with her brother and sister. The rest of us say goodbye to Andy at Sheffield station and settle down for a quiet journey home.
That plan falls apart when a bunch of Palace fans get on at Derby. There’s no sign of the one we saw on Leicester station this morning, in replica shirt, combat pants and 14-hole cherry red DMs (‘He’s spent too long living in Leicester, obviously,’ was Clarkey’s comment), but the few there are certainly make their presence felt, going through their repertoire of songs. They have one about Alan Lee, but it’s not as good as our one about him, obviously. We just sit and admire the stunning volcanic ash-influenced sunset and reflect on what’s been a pretty good day out.
At St Pancras, Ian, Clarkey and Chris go to the Betjeman to finish off the festivities (and hopefully not lose the matchball). I go home to feed the cats and find out how Ted’s getting on in Bournemouth. Turns out he and his fellow DAFTS are in the same Bournemouth fish restaurant as the lovely Debbie McGee. But that’s still not as cool as meeting Miller Bear...
Posted by London Millers at 07:29 0 comments Friday, 16 April 2010
Going Downhill Fast

When people picture groups of football fans gathering at a station ready for the day ahead, I’m sure they don’t think of a posse of nice, respectable-looking women. But that’s how today’s trip begins. Jenny, Joy, Frances, Julia and I are getting on the Aldershot train at Waterloo and the Kirklands, Chris Turner and Clarkey are joining us at Clapham Junction. Except when the men get on, Clarkey isn’t with them as he’s decided to get a later train. Never mind the fact we’ve arranged our itinerary today to reflect the fact Clarkey wanted to go drinking in the White Lion.
Still, the pub is as pleasant as ever when we get there, and their food menu has been beefed up (no pun intended) with the addition of burgers, bacon rolls and ham and cheese baps. Julia is joined by a Norwegian friend, Kjell, who, like so many Scandinavians, has a string of alliances to English clubs – in his case, Arsenal and Hartlepool (who’ve been owned by Norwegians for several years now) as well as the Millers. Over the years, he’s become a real ale drinker, and is keen to sample and detail as many different ones as he can on his trips over to the UK, but I’m sure he’s slightly thrown by drinking a pint of FFF’s Pressed Rat And Warthog. He can also forget about the level of today’s game being anything like Arsenal v Barcelona, which is the game he attended in mid-week. Although Alf and Lionel Messi are pretty much the same height and build...
Clarkey eventually turns up, as does my brother, who’s parked his car at the other pub we’d planned to visit, the Royal Staff. The rest of the LMs form the advance party to the Royal Staff, while I wait with Robert and Clarkey till they’ve supped up, then we follow on. The pub is nice and close to the away end, but there aren’t too many Rotherham fans in when we get there – there’s another pub even closer and they’re probably all in there. We catch the end of the Yeovil/Leeds game (with most people sneakily hoping Leeds will lose..), then head for the ground.
We hitch the flag to a crash barrier, where we’re joined by Mick Walker, looking very smug because it’s taken him less than forty minutes to drive from home to the ground. It’s a beautiful day by now, and Rotherham get off to a really promising start. We have David Wickes lookalike Kevin Friend refereeing, and for once we seem to be getting our share of decisions. Aldershot’s military-style drummer is nowhere to be heard, and we suspect he’s been called up since our last visit! For the first ten minutes or so we’re all over Aldershot, who are playing down the slope in the first half, until there’s some kind of mix-up between Mills and Gunning which lets Marvin Morgan break away to score.
Still, it looks as though we’re certain to get back in the game. Josh Walker finds himself clear on goal, but instead of shooting himself he squares it for Craig McAllister and the pass is cut out. Then Alf’s curling shot hits the bar, but there’s plenty of time to turn it round when we have the advantage of the slope in the second half.
At half-time, there’s a ‘crossbar challenge’ game between a Shots fan and a Rotherham fan, but neither of them manages to hit the bar (perhaps Alf should show them how it’s done?). The subs are having their usual kick-around: for some reason Drewe Broughton has got a teeshirt tucked down the back of his tracksuit bottoms, giving him a half-man, half-horse appearance. ‘Now I know what they mean by pin the tail on the donkey,’ my brother comments.
Just like the first half, we start the second much the better team. Alf has a shot in the first minute which the keeper somehow gets to. It’s the first of two or three good saves he has to make to keep Aldershot ahead. Again, they score against the run of play. Their strikers give every impression of being chosen for their sprinting ability ahead of any football skills, and their second comes when Morgan outpaces Pablo and shoots under Warrington. Sharps has to come off for some reason, Ronnie already having replaced Marshall, who’s had a decent game, and McAllister with Ellison and Pope, and is replaced by Broughton (now minus tail...). We’re still chasing the game, and Aldershot get the opportunity to add a very flattering third goal. The result hauls them up to just a point behind us, but Bury and Chesterfield are still doing their best to implode, too, so it’s not the disaster it otherwise might have been.
Back in the Royal Staff, we spot Martin Burton and his son, Arthur, who’s looking forward to being the mascot in a couple of weeks. He’s now convinced we’re going to meet Aldershot in the play-offs and it’s all going to end horribly. However, a couple of Shots fans come to chat with us and it’s clear they feel they were lucky today. ‘If it was a fight, you’d have beaten us on points,’ one says.
Clarkey and Chris T have gone to make an evening of it in Farnham, and my brother heads back to Gloucestershire. On Aldershot station, Julia spots Les Payne, the Sheffield Star’s Rotherham correspondent, and goes to have a chat with him. He tells her his report will reflect the fact it wasn’t a three-nil game.
We’re a little subdued on the way back to London, even though Joy offers us a swig from her trusty hip flask to cheer us up. Indeed, Chris K actually falls asleep, which is the quiestest he’s been all day.
People have work tomorrow, so we go our separate ways at Waterloo. I travel with Joy and Frances as far as Limehouse, where they have to throw themselves on the mercies of the C2C service. With no one planning to go to Morecambe next weekend, the next trip is the biggie – the sponsored game against Chelters...
Posted by London Millers at 07:30 0 comments Vale Of Tears

Today gets off to a strange start. I’m waiting for a DLR train on Canning Town station when a chap of German or Scandinavian extraction wanders over and asks me a question. I’ve got my headphones in and only catch the words, ‘Baker Street,’ so I assume he’s wanting directions – which, with half the Tube system shut for engineering works, may not be easy. When I ask him where he wants to go, he says, ‘No, in the Seventies there was a song called Baker Street. Can you tell me who is singing it?’ I let him know it was Gerry Rafferty, he thanks me and walks happily back to his friends. When I tell Jenny about this, she says I should have told him I’m far too young to remember the Seventies. I think I just walk round with a big sign over my head reading ‘Non-threatening’.

It’s just the two of us travelling today, and when we reach the Fat Cat there’s no sign of Phil, who’s apparently doing a spot of DIY, as is traditional over Easter. Instead, we bump into Joy and Frances. Frances is going off to Meadowhall, though she’s planning to come to the game at Aldershot on Monday (that part of the world not exactly being renowned for its world-class shopping facilities), and as she’s driving she drops the three of us off at the DVS. Jenny has to collect her order of tickets for the last game of the season at Hereford (which have already all but sold out, since they only gave us an allocation of six hundred). In the queue just ahead of her is a scout for Reading, who I assume has come to report on Abdulai Bell-Baggie, who we’re borrowing from them. Also wandering past is Howard Webb, who must be refeering one of tomorrow’s games.
It’s ‘kids for a quid’ day, and the children in the crowd have the opportunity to have their faces painted or acquire horns and drums. It’s very tempting to see if we can snaffle a horn for the next time we meet some miserable so-and-sos who take the concept of the quiet carriage just a little too far, but we resist. A small boy on the row in front of us has, however, got a plastic-topped tom tom which he’s banging enthusiastically. ‘That’ll look well as a top hat,’ my dad comments, miming bringing it down over the boy’s head.
Before the game, there’s a standing ovation for referee Mark Halsey, taking charge of his first game since recovering from throat cancer. The first half is a gentle introduction back for him, as it’s all pretty forgettable. Port Vale are on a decent run, but neither team really creates much in the way of chances.
Keeping with the Easter theme, local ‘celebrity’ Jive Bunny has been recruited to perform the half-time draw, before he and Miller Bear do the twist to one of the band’s hits. Forget all the silky, pretty football fans of teams like Arsenal expect to see, this is what we pay our money for: a grown man dressed as a bear dancing with a grown man dressed as a rabbit...
The second half picks up much where the first left off, and it looks like we might be destined for a dull draw. Then Port Vale take the lead when Pablo Mills, who’s been otherwise faultless in defence, slips and offers Vale an easy cross and tap-in. A couple of minutes later, they double their lead. The man sitting behind me has done nothing but moan from the moment the game began, and now he’s contemplating only going to away games for the rest of the season. Good. I may appear non-threatening, but these persistent moaners (of which Rotherham have more than their fair share) make me feel that smashing a plastic tom tom over their head might be a viable course of action, if only to shut them up. However, he suddenly perks up when Bell-Baggie comes on, though it’s hard not to as the tiny winger really does look like he might create an opening with every touch.
Josh Walker pulls a goal back with about ten minutes to go, in the form of a beautifully-stuck free kick which Port Vale keeper Chris Martin (he of the ginormous behind) can’t do anything about. We almost equalise in stoppage time, but Gunning’s header is cleared off the line.
Walking out of the ground, we bump into Steve Exley and Toddy, who is over from Switzerland. While Exley (yet again) gives up on the Millers for the season, while Toddy tells me about his latest exploits, which involve being at an Ivory Coast World Cup qualifier and hurling abuse at Didier Drogba from seventy-eight rows back in the crowd. ‘I was the only white face there,’ he says. ‘They must have thought I was the FIFA assessor.’ I’m sure they thought he was a few other things, too, but it’s safer not to go there.
Jenny and I go for a swift one in the Sheffield Tap, where we manage to get a seat next to a couple of lads who’ve been at the Sheff U-Barnsley game, and earwig as they check on various other scores. Ted will have had a good time in Burton – Darlo may have only beaten three teams all season, but they’ve now beaten all three of them twice!
After our recent eventful journeys home, today’s is very quiet, which makes a nice change. Now it’s just a matter of negotiating my way through the bits of the Tube system which are working to get back to East London...
Posted by London Millers at 06:39 0 comments Older Posts Home Subscribe to: Posts (Atom) About Us...

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