A point'll be fine, thanks

P-Bo

Rotherham Away - 19 Jan 2008

So then, Rotherham. Actually, a club with which we should feel some kinship:

* club nickname taken from highly unglamorous, mainly defunct local trade (we subcontract all our milling to India these days, I hear)
* a team struggling to attract fans in the face of nearby, more glamorous clubs from larger towns
* ground stuck at the end of a grim industrial estate


This time, my fickle away fan shekels are coaxed from my meagre wallet by the promise of A Glamour Clash - well, by the limited standards of this godforsaken division. But we're shite against all the good sides, shout the forces of logic, surely we're going to get twatted? Yeah, well, a sense of perspective and supporting WWFC aren't always tidy bedfellows - so it's onto the train I hop.

The sound of broad Yorkshire vowels surrounds me - a happy reminder of steowdent days in Sheffield, a place where grown men call each other 'petal' and 'cock' without fear of getting their head kicked in. I can only wonder at the elegance and taste to be found within the 'Blue Minx Gentlemen's Club' that one passes on the walk to the ground. Fat men leering sweatily at plastic boobs. Nice.

The turnstiles beckon, and as is the tradition, a man in a bright yellow coat searches my bag. "You got a ticket, mate?" "No" "You want one?" "Um, yeah" (this is conventional currency to gain entry, no?)

And lo and behold, a ticket was mine. Free of charge (although I did look a bit bemused for a second and wonder if the bloke in front of me was a new hybrid of steward/tout). No wonder all these clubs are in dire financial straits if the security types go round randomly handing out tickets to away fans.

But hang on, the last time I was unexpectedly given a free ticket going into a game (by Television's Own Alan Parry™, no less), we got done over by Plymouth Argyle in the Carling Cup. As irrelevant omens go, this was not good.

Never mind though, I'm in. It's fair to say that Millmoor is a somewhat ramshackle affair, held together with string and sticky tape. So much so that today has been designated 'United Rotherham' day, which is Yorkshire-speak for waving printed placards around in the hope that it'll earn you a bright shiny new stadium from the council.

What? Oh yeah, the football. The usual suspects parade the famous blue quarters in front of us. Rotherham live up to their lofty billing at the top end of the table by piling on the pressure early doors. We particularly struggle to cope with the frequent breaks made by one Ryan Taylor up front for the home side.

However, it's a peach of a free kick (from a signature Doc foul) on 14 minutes that sends the travelling fans into bouts of uncontrolled swearing. The Wycombe choir shall not be moved, though, and continue to make themselves heard well above the oddly silent sellout home crowd.

The rest of the first half fails to provide much in the way of clear-cut openings for the boys in blue, and to be frank we escape by the skin of our teeth as a Derek Holmes effort hits the crossbar and is scrambled away. Talking of Frank, the boy Fielding in goal is again working his shaven-headed skag addict-esque magic between the sticks, pulling off some majestic saves whilst stood in a goalmouth of pure sand.

Half-time verdict: We've huffed and puffed, but never looked like blowing the house down, no matter how rickety the construction may look.

The interval sees a brace of special guest appearances: cycle-riding Blues fundraiser Adam Hayward is rightly applauded for his sterling efforts - and be-tashed child-botherer Barry Chuckle does the half-time draw.

Back for the second half - now this is more like it. Torres starts serging forward (ha) with increasing regularity and we are playing a neo-Gormanian game, with barely a hoof to be found.

Our way back into the game comes on 50 minutes, when a belting long-ranger from McGleish deceives the keeper and flies over him into the net. Even better, it had deceived jammy dodger McGleish too, who only meant to cross it - but fuck it, they all count.

The remaining 40 minutes play out to be an entertaining attacking battle from two decent sides. Mr Paul Lambert shows his winning intentions by bringing on pint-sized poutstrel Leon Knight for The Doc with quarter of an hour to go. LK impresses with some deft touches, often drawing a couple of defenders with him, and then beating both of them.

A draw, then. Very solid performance from us - we rode our luck at times, but who cares? Still in the mix, and for now that'll do nicely.

20.01.2008. 13:15

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