We're not shivering, we're excited

oily sailor

Wycombe Wanderers 1 Rotherham United 0

The usual people were along for this one. There was Captain Scott, Roald Amundsen, Captain Oates and that Ben Fogle, all men with experience of the cold, but none of them were prepared for the Valley End. As leering specialists with Nikons snapped the red kites shitting frozen pellets onto the pitch like dark rain, the mutterers prepared for Wycombe’s latest attempt to win a home game since the bad run had begun after someone had said “oh we’re strong at home, yeah”.

It was the same line-up as the midweek CAPITULATION at Bury, which meant that the shortbread snappers were raging at 45 central midfielders and barking out sentences like “I’m worried, the Scottish don’t really cope with cold weather, we need some Bucks men from the central Bucks plainlands where horses stamp their hooves through frozen puddles just to look at their own reflection”.

These men are, were and will be idiots all their lives.

Still, the temperature had now dropped to -8c and one fan was licking a frozen pool of Bovril from his own twitching arm. Could things get worse? Yes, Wycombe were attacking the Valley End first half, which is the football equivalent of eating your piri-piri chicken leg before the cabbage. Not wise.

Still, Rotherham were here with their cultured Euro ways, a 39 metre TIVOLI flag announcing their continental prowess. Faceless northern team in a yellow away shirt is another way of looking at it but let’s not get nippy, it was nippy enough.

The first half flashed by with few chances, though Sergio Torres did wail an effort high of the bar at some point. This inspired a “S-e-r-g-i-o” chant but through gritted chattering teeth it sounded more like Monday morning in the East Penge Constipation Clinic. Neil Lennon was impressing some fans with his endless time on the ball and calm delivery, while others were flecking up with rage that he was not surging past the Millers’ defence like Jermaine McSporran on a motorbike.

It could well have been this latter group that booed as the referee (not bad for a terrorist) blew his whistle for half-time. Booing the team when they’re level in a promotion clash at the break is about as ungrateful as urinating on your grandmother’s face on Christmas morning as she weeps uncomprehendingly into the fudge. There is a culture at Wycombe that needs to be stamped out, and fast.

The second half was a little more entertaining, with the game opening up, especially after SMBU cult hero David McCracken scored his first Wanderers goal on 50 minutes. McCracko has decent hair, is a leader of men and is Scottish. All great teams have a Scottish captain and Cracky is as Scottish as a Buckfast soaked pound note.

You would have expected promotion-chasing Rotherham to have mounted a counter-surge but this never really transpired. Gary Holt and Neil Lennon formed an auburn axis that looked solid and once Matt Bloomfield had come on for Michael Knight Wycombe could have extended their lead further. To be honest, it was hard to see what was going on at the other end of the pitch as the cold had brought on Aurora Borealis above Sands, although it could have been the new disco lights going into the Hour Glass.

Wycombe fans traipsed out of the ground as happy as they ever can be, frozen fingers trying to pull pound coins from cylindrical plastic money pouches slung around their necks. As the windowless bleak beacon that is Scores dragged us inside, Captain Oates whispered to me: “I’m going to queue at the bar, I may be some time.”

20.02.2008. 12:47

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