SCO Angers 2 Olympique de Marseille 5

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Angers is an historic city in the valley of the River Loire in western France famed for its massive castle, partly built by the early Plantagenet kings of England, which is home to the remarkable fourteenth century Tapestry of the Apocalypse.  Visiting the castle to see the tapestry is one of the reasons why my wife Paulene and I have made the eight hour, seven-hundred- and twenty-three-kilometre drive in our planet saving Citroen e-C4 to be here, but another is that today SCO Angers are playing Olympique Marseille (OM) at the Stade Raymond Kopa in a Ligue 1 fixture.  We have seen Angers play OM before, back in 2015 at the Stade Velodrome in Marseille (Angers won 2-1), but being the type of people who feel strangely compelled to watch football in as many French towns and cities as possible, this is an opportunity not to be missed.  Also, it’s easier to get tickets for Angers v OM than it is get them for Ipswich Town away games, which I have therefore given up on.  Meanwhile, Paulene is the only person in the world to be a fan of both OM and Paris St Germain!

From our hotel near the St Serge University, it’s a two-minute walk to the tram stop where a Ligne A tram takes us to Foch Haras from where we change to an articulated number one bus that makes its way up rue Paul Bert and rue Volney towards Saumuroise, where we alight (fare 1.70 euros) and then take a short walk down rue du Colombier to the Stade Raymond Kopa.  The Stade Raymond Kopa was until 2017 called the Stade Jean Bouin, but since 2019 it has been undergoing its latest upgrade with two new stands being built.  From rue du Colombier Stade Raymond Kopa now looks less like a football stadium and more like a large, perforated, grey metal box, largely because it is. The dark grey reflects the monochrome club colours of SCO Angers but could probably do with a few splashes of white or some groovy signage to jazz it up a little, especially on a grey, cloudy autumn day like today.

It’s about twenty past one and crowds are gathering in the street at the back of the Tribune Saint-Leonard awaiting the arrival of the Angers team who soon step out of a compact black and white coach and skulk into the stadium through an anonymous opening in its grey metal walls.  A crowd of mostly children cheer and wave black and white flags whilst cheerless looking security guards look out from beneath frighteningly short haircuts.  The players are greeted and ushered beyond the grey wall by people in shiny suits wearing huge white plimsolls, which make them resemble the children on the Magic Roundabout.

With the Angers players safely inside the stadium, an air of expectancy still lingers in the street outside and perhaps even increases because the OM team bus is now on its way.  OM are without doubt the biggest club in France but they have no dodgy middle eastern state to bank-roll them and are instead mis-managed by a succession of incompetent owners who ride the football gravy train, sell any decent players, buy in those the top clubs don’t want and build up debts before moving on, leaving in their wake a sort of underfunded, Mediterranean version of Tottenham Hotspur.  But OM supporters are all over France and are faithful to their club, they are also probably masochists.

At last, the blue lights of the police motorcycle escort appear and following behind the OM team bus, which parks up behind the lines of comically grumpy security staff and disgorges its cargo of shifty looking athletes into the grey metal box. We stand next to a man who shouts insults at the players and doesn’t seem to notice the scary looks he receives from a huge security guard standing just a metre away.  With the excitement over, Paulene and I head round the corner to the fanzone, where there is a bouncy castle, a bar, tables and chairs and a trestle table from which an attractive young couple are flogging a limited range of club ‘merch’.  Also here is a collection of balloons arranged in the shape of a heart to promote ‘October Rose’, an annual event in French football to raise awareness of and money for research into breast cancer.  Most clubs produce a special shirt and associated merchandise and have a fixture dedicated to it.  Today, Angers will be wearing their special shirt.  Paulene shows solidarity by buying a pink scarf and we are both given pink ribbons to wear on our coats.  With an hour still until kick off I make a trip to the bar for a 50 cl ‘glass’ of Affligem beer (9 euros for the beer and 1 euro for the re-usable ‘October Rose’ branded cup).  It might be expensive and a bit too cold, but Affligem is a decent enough beer (even if it is now owned by Heineken) which at 6.7% alcohol by volume offers a strength and flavour no one would dare allow football fans in England to enjoy.

Having supped the Affligem, we head into the grey box.  There are no turnstiles, just people with scanners to check your ticket or the QR code on the screen of your mobile phone.  Everyone, everywhere, as at all French football game wishes you “bon match” and everyone is given a polythene flag displaying the SCO Angers club badge.  Inside the grey box it is as grey as it is outside, with the steel frame of the stand painted grey or coated with what looks like a hard, grey pulp or even icing.  The perforated metal walls let in a lot of light however and the concourse is spacious, although the toilets aren’t and streams of people made anxious by full bladders snake out of them.

There are two flights of stairs up to our seats in the lower tier of the Tribune Colombier but conveniently our seats are at the end of the row.  Three unaccompanied youths, who look no more than twelve years old sit in front of us but then move to the seats next to me, and a nervous looking man with dark receding hair and a young boy sit in front of us instead; he gives the three boys a slightly quizzical and disapproving look as if to ask, “Vos meres savent-elles que vous etes ici?” (Do your mothers know you are here?)

When the game begins it is OM who get first go with the ball, which they are aiming at the goal in front of the Tribune Colombier, which is the fullest of the four stands and is where Paulene and I are sitting.  Somewhere far behind us is the suburb of Trelaze where the number one bus that we caught was heading.  Today, OM are wearing a change kit of all navy blue whilst Angers are not in their usual black and white stripes that make them look like a classy, Gallic Harwich & Parkeston FC but instead wear their special, all-white with a pink splodge on the front, ‘October Rose’ kit.

The ball is quickly booted into touch from kick off as if OM never really wanted first go with it anyway.  Over to our left in the end of the otherwise mostly empty Tribune Jean Bouin the OM ultras are in full voice, waving banners and jumping about, as they have been since we arrived. “Marseille! Tum de tum, Te dum dum! Marseille!” they chant, according to the scribble in my notebook.   It is OM who have the first shot on goal when after nine minutes Igor Paixo strikes the ball wide of an Angers post at the end of a coherent passing move.  Two minutes later, and as I am afflicted by wafts of body spray from the nervous looking man with a receding hairline sat in front of me, Anthony Lopes the Angers goalkeeper gesticulates unhappily at the players in front of him.  A pattern begins to emerge as another good passing move from OM in the twelfth minute ends with Tochukwu Nnadi also shooting wide.

Angers haven’t featured much so far but this of course means that in the fourteenth minute a cross from the left sails over the head of Angers’ Lilian Raolisoa only for it to strike an OM defender deflect back onto Raolisoa and into the goal knocking Raolisoa over in the process.  It’s a comedy goal as many that OM concede are, but it gives Angers a surprise one-nil lead, nevertheless.  “Allez Angervins” chant the home crowd and the nervous looking man in front stands up to wave his polythene flag and jump up and down, and he encourages the boy to do so too. Perhaps he’s not so nervous after all.

A goal down, some of the OM players begin to roll around on the floor when the opportunity arises but the referee Monsieur Jeremie Pignard ignores them quite brilliantly and as the first half of the first half fades into the past OM shoot wide again and then do nothing memorable with the game’s first corner before Angers make an inevitable quick break away, only for Amine El Ouazzani to shoot spectacularly high and wide of the OM goal.

The first third of the match is over and to mark the occasion Raolisoa slices a clearance to give OM a second corner, but OM only proceed to miss a couple more chances and Paixao has a header easily saved by Lopes when he probably should have scored. Another OM corner is then easily cleared before finally, with seven minutes left until half time, a cross from Timothy Weah is headed firmly but simply into the Angers net from close range by bearded OM captain Himad Abdelli.  “Ole, Ole, Ole” chant the OM fans to the tune of the Beatles’ “Yellow Submarine”. In all the stands OM fans stand up to cheer and unlike in England where people are outraged when an “away” supporter sits in the “home” end, no one seems that bothered, but then unlike the English, the French like to save their anger for the things that matter, like liberty and equality.

Three minutes remain until half time and OM up the corner count again when Lopes saves another shot, this time from Amine Gouiri. From the resultant corner, despite being 1.83m in height Nouhoum Kamissoko seems to go un-noticed by the Angers players and he heads firmly into the middle of the goal and OM lead 2-1.  A minute of added on time is added on but nothing changes except for a lot of cheering from pre-pubescent voices; Paulene suggests that someone has just found a stash of sugar.

Half-time is a time to vent some spent Affligem, buy a bottle of water (3 euros) and see the Angers mascot, Scoty the Panda swagger onto the pitch in a somewhat surly manner with feet at ‘ten to two’, perform some perfunctory task and then frighten a couple of children and swagger back into the stand.  My father, a naval man, would have said he walks like a “dockyard matey”.  We had hoped to meet Scoty in the fanzone but we’re not so disappointed that we didn’t now, he just looks like a fat middle-aged bloke in tracky bottoms with a panda head on; added to which the pink splodge on the front of his October Rose shirt makes him look like he’s been stabbed or is coughing up blood.

It is a minute past four when the football resumes, and OM are now sending the ball towards the cathedral and castle in the city centre and the Angers ultras in the Tribune Coubertin. OM quickly win another corner and Lopes saves from Nnadi, before with the new half twelve minutes old Angers make a first substitution, swapping the wonderfully named Louis Mouton (it means Louis Sheep but sounds like Louis Vuitton) for the equally wonderfully named Prosper Peter (just nice alliteration).   The impact is immediate as Amine Gouiri runs at the Angers defence and into the penalty area and has his ankle tapped by Yassin Belkhdim and Monsieur Pignard awards a penalty.  Gouiri’s penalty is saved but Lopes can only parry the shot and Gouiri scores from the re-bound. It’s 3-1 to OM.

The game moves into its final third and Paulene and I resign ourselves to the nervous looking man with the receding hair and child not returning, he left at the end of half-time and hasn’t been seen since. I didn’t like the smell of his body spray anyway, so am quite pleased.  Prosper Peter is looking alert for Angers as his name suggests to me he should be, and as the game moves on through the sixty-fifth and sixty-sixth minutes he heads wide and then delicately flicks a cross onto the OM cross bar.  Angers’ Emmanuel Biumla then fouls Gouiri and consequently sees Mr Pignard’s yellow card before the OM ultras embark on a chorus of “Aux Armes, Nous Sommes les marseillais, Et nous allons gagner, Allez l’OM!” (To arms, We are the Marseillais, And we are going to win, Go OM!) and the OM fans scattered throughout the rest of the stadium attempt to echo the chant.

More substitutions are made by Angers and this time the effect is positive as three minutes later they win a corner and in defending it Nnadi wrestles Carlens Arcus to the ground and Mr Pignard awards a penalty to Angers, which Amine El Ouazzani quickly and confidently despatches past Jeffrey de Lange, who effectively steps out of the way of the kick, and the score is 3-2. Nnadi is booked.  “Lo lo lo, Allez les SCO’s” sing the home supporters optimistically, and then sing it again  and again, and again. “Faites du bruit” (Make some noise) announces the scoreboard simultaneously advertising a barbers’ shop called ‘Point-Cut’, and they do.

The final ten minutes approach and there is hope for an unlikely Angers comeback as OM make a couple of substitutions. “Allez les SCO’s” continue the home supporters but once again the substitutions seemingly have instant results and a square ball across the edge of the penalty area from Nnadi is soon expertly stroked into the Angers goal beyond Lopes by Amine Harit to make the score 4-2 to OM. A minute later and the score is 5-2 as a lobbed ball forward from Egan-Riley is headed back by Weah and drops to Paixao who strokes the ball into the net in a similar manner to Amine Harit but from about five metres nearer to the goal.

It doesn’t seem likely that Angers will make any sort of comeback now although OM have often shown themselves to be more than capable of snatching defeat from the jaws of victory in the past.  Both teams eke out the remaining five or six minutes or normal time with more substitutions and another six minutes of added-on time are added on too, but with a steady rain now falling the score remains unaltered.

With the final whistle the OM players go over to their ecstatic ultras to share a rare success and milk the moment in the likely knowledge that disappointment and frustration are never far away.  It’s been an entertaining game in terms of the number of goal scored and OM games are always fun if only for the presence of their fans who Paulene as a Pompey fan considers she has a strong affinity with.  Happy therefore, Paulene and I steal away into the deepening gloom of the damp October evening and walk back up rue Volney and rue Paul Bert to the tram stop and the ride back to our hotel.  Tomorrow we return home.

Stade Lavallois 3 Clermont Foot 3

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The French town of Laval is home to about 50,000 people, about 300 kilometres west of Paris and is the capital of the Mayenne departement, roughly in the bit of France where Normandy, Brittany and what was the historic County and later Duchy of Anjou all meet.  Back in the Middle Ages it became rich on textiles and linen but nowadays is big in dairy products. The medieval dukes of Anjou made the city of Angers their capital and conveniently for me and my wife Paulene we are staying most of this week there, and it is only seventy odd kilometres south of Laval, which means that with Stade Lavallois taking on Clermont Foot 63 tonight it shouldn’t be too taxing a drive up the D775 and D962 to experience some Friday night football in the French second division, more properly known as Ligue 2.

It’s been a bright, unseasonably warm and sunny morning beneath a pale blue autumn sky.  But cloud has begun to roll in and having re-charged the battery of our planet saving Citroen e-C4 at a handily located Carrefour supermarket, it’s looking distinctly grey by the time we set off for Laval around four o’clock and once on our way there are soon raindrops streaking the Citroen’s windscreen.  By the time we reach Laval, after a somewhat tortuous journey along two lane roads and across numerous roundabouts, the rain is easing off but the rush hour traffic is building up.  We make it to the Stade Francis le Basser before the Avenue Pierre de Coubertain in which it is situated is closed to traffic for the match, and park up just long enough for me to run to the guichets to discover what tickets are available.  There are places in the small Popular Stand for 9 euros, places in the Tribune Presidentielle for 25 euros, or places in the Tribune Credit Mutuelle for 18 euros.  Believing in moderation in all things I buy two of the 18-euro seats and ask the woman in the booth where is good to park. She shrugs her shoulders and says “Anywhere”.

There are still almost three hours until kick-off, so we head in hope for the centre of town but get stuck in traffic.  Eventually, parking up in a bijou multi-storey car park near the river we search out the sights of Laval on foot and foolishly follow signs for the tourist information office, which turns out to be away down several grey streets completely in the opposite direction to the castle and Hotel de Ville, which seem likely to be the main attractions. To add to our misery, by the time we reach it, the tourist information office is shut.  Gloomily, we find our way back to the car park and cursing Laval a little head back out to the Avenue Pierre de Coubertin where our luck changes and we find a free parking space just down the road from the stadium.  The gates are not yet open but a good size crowd of people of all ages mixes with passing pedestrians and a few policemen and queues at two food stalls to buy and munch on combinations of French sticks, sausages and chips.  Not wanting to feel left out I buy a Merguez sausage sandwich too, the chewing of which successfully fills me and the time until the gates open.

Once through the security checks and virtual turnstile, where everyone wishes us “bon match”, we are soon at the hatch in the side of a small hut that is the club boutique, inside which are a couple who are probably older than me. She stands behind a table on which various items of football club ‘merch’ are displayed; he wears a cardigan and takes the money. Behind her, amongst the replica shirts hangs a tiger suit.  I select a petit fanion (pennant) for my pointless collection of the same whilst Paulene chooses between a lion in a t-shirt and a bright orange tiger for her collection of club mascots; she picks the tiger because the lion looks a bit dowdy.  Clutching our purchases we make for our seats only to meet the real-life mascot who is extremely tall and thin and is possibly a lion but is the blinding, almost day-glo tango colour of the tiger minus his stripes.  Significantly, Stade Laval’s club colours are orange and black and Paulene poses for a photo with the mascot who I will later discover is called Tangoal.  Post-impressionist painter Henri Rousseau was born in Laval, and I take comfort and amusement from the possibility that the lions and tigers in some of his paintings are the inspiration for Tangoal, or may be even the other way round.

Upon arrival at our seats half-way up Block C of the Tribune Credit Mutuelle, we find that they are wet.  There doesn’t appear to be a hole in the roof of the stand, and we guess the rain must have just blown in quite a long way.  We wipe the seats with a linen shopping bag Paulene happens to have about her and sit down to absorb the view of the stadium with its two small stands flanking a big one opposite, and no stands at either end, just a large white hospitality tent to our right and a fierce orange sunset taking place behind it, although it’s not quite as shockingly colourful as Tangoal the mascot.  The PA system meanwhile belts out a club song which sounds like it’s travelled here from the 1970’s and contains the words “Allez Laval” and “Prenez la balle, gardez la balle”; it is accompanied by the stamping of feet from the crowd whilst the bloke in the seat in front of me seems to be exuding a pungent body spray.  Thankfully, the song finishes and the teams are announced by a typically enthusiastic announcer and whilst the crowd are almost as enthusiastic as he is when shouting out the surname of the goalkeeper Maxime Hautbois, they quickly seem to lose that enthusiasm as the remainder of the team is introduced, to the point that I begin to wonder if the supporters even know who some of the players are.

Eventually the teams process onto the pitch and echoed by a chorus of childish voices, the neon scoreboard and the stadium announcer count down, “three-two-one” like some sort of Gallic Ted Rogers and the game begins.  Clermont Foot get first go with the ball, which they boot in the general direction of the big white tent and the burning sunset beyond.  The supporters in the Tribune Credit Mutuelle stamp their feet wildly on the pre-fabricated floor of the stand making an impressively intimidating sound, well it made me feel uneasy anyway. “Whoa-oh-oh, La La, La, La La, La-La” chant the youths in the Popular stand behind the banner that reads ‘Laval Crew’. 

Although Laval win three corners in the first twenty minutes, Clermont perhaps have more possession.  Overall, however, the standard of play is poor as befits a fixture between the two teams that are bottom and second from bottom of the league.  Most passes tend to end up with opposition players.  Paulene asks me if this match might lead me to re-consider my verdict that our seven-year-old grandson is unlikely to have a future as a professional footballer; but no, as a footballer he really does stink.  Twenty-three minutes pass and Clermont win a corner. An occasional drummer strikes up somewhere in front of us and off to our left but then seems to realise the corner is to the opposition and he/she suddenly stops.

Just as my interest is waning and I begin counting the Clermont fans in the dimly lit left-hand stand opposite (I think there are ten), a measured cross from the right from Clermont’s number seventy-seven Enzo Cantero is met by the huge, almost horizontal, flying figure of the towering centre-forward wearing the number ninety shirt, the improbably named Christ Okou, who heads the ball past the startled Maxime Hautbois from about 5 metres out. Clermont lead 1-0.

Unfortunately, the goal doesn’t inspire either team to play any better and Paulene and I are soon discussing the colour of Clermont’s kit; I can’t decide if it’s black or very dark grey.  Paulene thinks it’s green, but the Clermont Foot website reveals that their third kit is dark grey, a colour, apparently inspired by that of the dark Volvic volcanic rock that defines the Auvergne region and much of Clermont-Ferrand’s historic architecture.  The game is a third over and Clermont’s number twenty-eight, Ivan M’Bahia becomes the first player this evening to be booked; a small man, he turns and struts away with his head held high as if he had perhaps read and been oddly inspired by the promotional guff about the third kit on the club website.

Seven minutes remain until half-time and another attempted Laval attack sees Clermont’s number seven Florian Bianchini breaking away at speed from within his own half towards the Laval goal; he checks, lays the ball off to Christ Okou, who bundles it back to him and he then proceeds to curl it at pace into the far corner of the goal from about a metre outside the penalty area.  Clermont’s lead is thereby doubled.  It’s a cracking goal, which even a few home supporters seem to appreciate, although for many more it’s a reason to boo their own team.   A minute of added-on time is played during which Clermont win another corner and then the half-time whistle is met with more booing from the Laval supporters who seem to have higher expectations of the team that is bottom of the league, but then Clermont have so far not won a match all season.

It’s not much past nine o’clock when the second half begins with Laval making a substitution and then booting the ball directly into touch, as if they were playing rugby.    Two minutes later Laval trail 3-0 as Christ Okou latches onto a poor back-header from Laval’s Jules Gaudin, breaks through the middle of the Laval defence, swivels clumsily and sends a shot heading beyond the far goal post, only for the Gaudin to hopelessly finish the move he began by slamming the ball high into the roof of his own goal net from close range.  The goal is met with outrage by many Laval ‘supporters’ some of whom rise from their seats and storm for the exits as if the goal was a terrible affront to them and they deserve better, or they had heard a fire alarm.  I think I hear some of them snort with indignation.

It feels like the game is already over, despite a fifty-second minute shot at goal for Laval and a corner eleven minutes later; but then Laval make three substitutions, at least one of which is booed by the home crowd, who clearly have favourites amongst the squad, but not many.  One of these substitutions will prove significant, although within a minute a Clermont shot on the break earns the away team another corner.  In the seats immediately in front of me sit two rows of probable grandfathers; there has to be over four-hundred years of footballing spectating here; they likely remember back when Laval were in Ligue 1 and knocked Dynamo Kiev out of the UEFA cup.

It’s the seventy-second minute and suddenly a cross from the right is met by the head of Laval substitute Aboubakary Kante and the score is 1-3.  The home crowd cheers and rattles the floor of the Tribune Credit Mutuelle again.  Stade Lavallois have started to play and perhaps in response Clermont make two changes, one of which is to take off Christ Okou who, as a man trying to live up to that first name needs to, has been involved in all three Clermont goals.  Ten minutes later, another right wing cross and Kante heads towards goal again, but this time the goal will need to be about four metres high for the header to bother the scoreline. In a quieter moment I count the Clermont fans again and now think there might be twelve of them that have made the five hundred and twenty kilometre trip up from Clermont-Ferrand.

Eighty-four minutes have departed and for what it’s worth Laval have yet another corner.  Another three minutes clear off into history taking another Laval substitution with them and it’s Kante who again has an attempt on goal, a shot which is well saved by Theo Guivarch in the Clermont goal. Full-time is fast approaching and Clermont, perhaps ill-advisedly make another two substitutions, one of which causes confusion as the referee Monsieur Soulimane Chamel seems to only allow one of the substitutes onto the pitch.  With Clermont temporarily down to ten men Laval take a free kick, Kante heads towards goal, Guivarch saves but the ball hits his right hand goal post, bounces and across the goal and Side Bane knocks it over the goal line from no distance at all.  All of a sudden, the score is 2-3 and we are being told that there will five minutes of added on time.

As it turns out, Laval only need another minute to equalise as number seven Chafik Gourichy twists and turns his way into the penalty area, shoots, and the ball is deflected up into the air to become an angled cross which Kante once again heads into the goal from close range to conclude an unexpected and remarkable comeback to the din of more stamping feet rattling the fabric of the stand. “Allez Laval!  Allez Laval!” chant the somewhat fickle crowd. With the final whistle we make our way out into the chilly night and back to our planet saving Citroen and the drive back to Angers where we will reflect upon a Clermont performance which began like a volcano but then solidified.

Ipswich Town 2 Fulham 1

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It seems hard to believe that despite it now being a third of the way through October, and with the football season having started in August, Ipswich Town have so far only played two league games at home. But that’s modern football and the Premier League for you, just another part of the mad scramble to concentrate as much money as possible into the hands of as few people as possible before the apocalypse, which will probably be streamed live on tv.  Today, as the season begins for a second time, Ipswich will play funny old Fulham, the jokey little London club loved by Tommy Trinder, Wolfie Smith and Terry McCann.

It had been quite a good week, I had returned home from my personal pilgrimage to Haverfordwest and spent a day with my brother-in-law, which was entertaining.  Yesterday however, I received the sad news that my dear friend Ray had died that afternoon.  As everyone I know who knew him agrees, he was such a lovely bloke; thoughtful, funny and kind, he was so good at being those things he didn’t need to be anything else.  Ray didn’t believe in God and given that he is now dead, but Donald Trump still lives, I think he was probably right.  The existence of Satan might be a different matter, however.  On a happier note, this morning I have been vaccinated against influenza, so that’s good.

The train to Ipswich is late but only by a minute or two and when Gary boards at the next station stop it’s not a topic of conversation, instead we talk of my trip to Wales and of the contrasting customer service of Greene King and Royal Mail. In my recent experience Greene King dispense beer vouchers and complimentary cases of beer whilst Royal Mail witter on in lengthy AI generated e-mails and pay no attention to what you tell them; as Royal Mail pensioners, Gary and I both agree it wasn’t like that in our day.

Arriving in Ipswich, the sky is overcast and the station forecourt and Princes Street are busy with folk. We make our way through the town past the ‘new’ (it was the original town museum) ‘Museum of the Environment’ on aptly named Museum Street to the Arb, where I join a queue for the bar whilst Gary heads for the beer garden to look for a vacant table.  Mick soon appears and he buys the drinks, a pint of Estrella Galicia for Gary and pints (one each) of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride for Mick and me.  As we emerge into the light of the beer garden Gary simultaneously nabs a table as other lunchtime drinkers leave.  Our conversation rambles, I buy another round of drinks (Suffolk Pride, half of Estrella and a Jameson’s whisky for £12 something with Camra discount) and we express surprise and amusement at how by half past two we seem to be the only people left in the beer garden.  Mick attributes this to a modern epidemic of anxiety. I worry he might be right.

At twenty to three we drain our glasses and set off for Portman Road.  As ever, there are queues for the Cobbold Stand in Portman Road and at the back of the Sir Alf Ramsey stand.  Making a quick assessment of the relative length and speed of each queue I join the shortest, fastest moving one where I stand behind two men discussing their holidays. “Yes” says one “We went on a cruise down the Rhine” and then as if it was the most natural thing in the World “It was drink all you want”.  I’ve stopped smirking by the time I reach the front of the queue where I congratulate and name as ‘employee of the month’ the young, handsome man of Asian origin who is so quickly scanning us for weapons and scrap metal and letting us go onto the second challenge of the afternoon, the turnstiles.  The queue for illustrious turnstile 62 looks a bit sluggish so I go for the next best thing, turnstile 61, which turns out fine once a steward explains to the bloke in front how to present his mobile phone, and I’m soon shuffling past Pat from Clacton and Fiona to my seat where I say hello to the bloke next to me and to the man from Stowmarket (Paul), and see the backs of the heads of ever-present Phil who never misses a game, and his son Elwood.

The game begins beneath grey clouds after the Fulham captain Bassey (Shirley) has got up off his knees and finished praying, to whom or what, or for what it is impossible to say.  It is Ipswich who get first go with the ball though, sending it when they can, mostly in the direction of the goal in front of me and my fellow ultras.  Ipswich are of course in classic blue and while, whilst Fulham look a mess in red and black chequer-board shirts and red shorts, when their traditional white shirts and black shorts would have suited the occasion perfectly well.  We can but hope however, that they will lose as a result.  “Fulham, Fulham” chants the Fulham supporters, supportively, before launching into a rendition of Frankie Valli’s 1967 hit “Can’t take my eyes of you” which sadly sort of peters out after the words “I love you Fulham”, as if nobody was really sure of the words after that.  “MSC, moving the world together” announce the neon advertising boards on the Sir Bobby Robson stand and I feel we should get the United States government to fund a message directly after it reading “Donald Trump, moving the world further apart”.

“Super Fulham, Super Fulham” sing the Fulham fans and after eleven minutes and a spell of pressure Ipswich become the first team to win a corner. “Come On You Blues” everyone chants, more or less.  “Create more space with a mezzanine floor” announces that neon sign, which seems to have taken to providing surreal in-game coaching advice to the team.  Two minutes later and Town have another corner, the game is fast and Portman Road is noisy, a few of us again chant “Come On You Blues!”!  A further three minutes pass and the highlight of the half for Town arrives with a neat move down the right, a touch back and a measured, curling, low shot past the post from Julio Enciso.

The first half is never as good again for Town and Leif Davis is soon booked for a not particularly bad foul. “Sets a precedent” says the bloke beside me suggesting anyone could be booked for anything from now on.  The sky remains cloudy and grey, Fulham win a corner, “Come On Fulham” chant their fans and the neon sign says “Hot Sausage Company” and then “The ideal pre-match meal”, hopefully information that any watching scouts from Town’s next opponents, Manchester City will take to heart and implement. On the touchline, Gary O’Neil strikes a pose which if he was wearing a white suit with wide lapels and flared trousers rather than a zip-up cardigan might make him resemble John Travolta.

Fulham have begun to dominate possession and in one of the growing number of dull moments Pat asks if I’ve seen her new blue and white earrings, which she then displays by turning her left ear towards me. I ask if she’s wearing her blue pants too and a look of horror crosses her face as she realises she has forgotten them, although happily she does have some underwear on, although apparently it is beige.   Fulham’s dominance of possession continues and chants of “Blue Army!” fail to reverse the tide. Fulham win a second corner and hit a shot wide of the Town goal.  “The future of flat roofing today” says the neon signage.  The half concludes with a minute of added on time and an equalising booking for Fulham’s number seven Gonzalo, who tackles Lukic in a different financial year to the current one.

At half-time, the scoreboard wishes happy ninetieth birthday to Sheila who sits across the gangway from Pat from Clacton, and who miraculously doesn’t really look any older than Pat does. I use the remainder of half-time to vent spent Suffolk Pride and then chat briefly with Dave the steward, to whom I proudly reveal that I am now retired and it’s marvellous. Dave won’t retire for another four years, poor devil. The football resumes at two minutes past four and Leif Davis is soon launching a really lousy free-kick high over the Fulham cross bar before at the other end Fulham players come out with some very imaginative appeals for a penalty before hanging about in the Town box winning three corners in quick succession.  The third corner is headed clear by Diop but falls to Fulham’s Ryan Sessegnon, who is lucky enough to see his speculative low shot from 25 yards avoid all of the thirty to forty ankles and boots in between and then nestle in the corner of the Town goal. “Super Fulham, Super Fulham FC, the finest football team the World has ever seen” chant the Fulham fans and then “We are staying up, We are staying up”, which seems an unusually modest ambition for the greatest football team the World has ever seen.

Within five minutes, Ipswich come close to equalising but Emmerson ’s close range header hits a post instead of the net and the Fulham fans begin to get a bit cocky with chants of “No noise from the Tractor Boys” and “How shit must you be we’re winning away”.  Without the gift of foresight they are living in the moment, blissfully unaware of what is to come.

It is the sixty-second minute, and Town bring on Exequiel Palacios and Jack Clarke for Florentino and Philogene, immediately improving the team. “Come on Town!” shouts the bloke beside me with rekindled optimism “These are fucking rubbish”. Palacios soon helps Town to gain and keep more possession whilst Clarke runs at defenders.  Nine minutes later and Akpom and Flemming replace Enciso and Emmerson.  The grey cloud has lifted, the sky is blue and the sun shines into the faces of the Fulham fans in the Cobbold stand.  Fifteen minutes remain and Daizen Maeda prompts VAR into action after he falls to the ground in the penalty area, but predictably no foul is acknowledged. The best substitution of the match follows soon afterwards when Fulham replace Bobb with Kevin, although regrettably the excitable young stadium announcer wastes the opportunity to pronounce Bobb in the way that Rowan Atkinson did in the first episode of Blackadder 2.

The last ten minutes of normal time arrive with a final substitution for Town as Eggy replaces Daizen, which is nice for our Norwegian supporters but less so for our Japanese ones.  Today’s attendance is announced as being 29,445 and we are thanked for our “…incredible support”, and without a hint of sarcasm. Town are dominant but I am far from convinced that we are going to do anything other than lose one-nil. Pat from Clacton debates whether or not to get the masturbating monkey charm out of her handbag but she probably shouldn’t, Fiona’s niece is here with us today and she’s only twelve.  Town are getting plenty of crosses into the Fulham penalty area. Another goes in and is cleared by Shirley (Bassey) but only to Abdoul Outtara who has been brilliant at right-back all afternoon.  Outtara takes a touch, steps forward and unleashes the proverbial ‘rocket of a shot’ from may be 30 metres out; it arrives instantaneously just inside the far post, and the score is one-all. As if being an 88th minute equaliser isn’t enough it’s fantastic, it’s spectacular and makes Sessegnon’s earlier flukey goal look like a tap-in.

There will be five minutes of added time and having scored so late we could be happy with a draw, but the feeling is we can win this, it’s like Escape to Victory all over again.  The match is now into time added on and Chuba Akpom wins a freekick on the left; Jack Clarke takes it, flighting the ball to the near post, and then the ball bulges the net from Dara O’Shea’s imposing header.  Town lead two-one and there are ecstatic arms, legs, bodies and other things joyously jumping, flailing and hugging and being thrown and bounced around all over the place.   There’s still time for Christian Walton to make a match winning save with his left leg from Kevin but in yet another marvellous climax Town emerge victorious and Fulham live up to the comedy billing of their eternal association with Citizen Smith.

Fiona and Pat from Clacton make their customary sharp exits with the final whistle but I hang on to applaud and sing of Edward Ebenezer Jeremiah Brown, who everyone calls Ted.  In truth, Town have only been good in parts, but what parts they were and of course football punditry wisdom tells us that it’s good to play badly and win, even if in fact we didn’t play badly. Whatever, it was a magnificent win and although I’m not a sentimental man it feels to me like a win for Ray.

Haverfordwest County 0 Flint Town United 1 (Hwlffordd 0 Y Fflint 1)

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It is the first Saturday in October, and with my wife Paulene I have been in Haverfordwest in Pembrokeshire since the previous Wednesday, familiarising myself with the town and county where I was born but which I hardly know.  We have explored St Davids, Solva, Milford Haven, Dale and Haverfordwest itself, discovering that on the wall of the former hospital where I was born not one but two blue plaques have been placed.  One plaque marks the birthplace of Terrence Higgins, and one marks the birthplace of Terrence Higgins in Welsh. I hadn’t really expected more.

Our visit has been timed to not only coincide with my retirement and resulting re-birth as a man of leisure, but also with Haverfordwest County playing at home so that I may fulfil one of my typically modest ambitions in life.  It’s unusual for the whole Cymru Premier programme to take place all at once on a Saturday afternoon, but today is the day when that is just what is happening.  Also unusual is that the games kick-off not at three o’clock, but at half past two, it’s as if someone, somewhere at Cymru Premier headquarters just wants to be a bit different. 

Bridge Meadow, or the Dynamite Bridge Meadow Stadium as it is currently known, hopefully in honour of Alfred Nobel, is the home of Haverfordwest County and is hidden away at the back of an industrial estate, which is itself hidden behind a Morrison’s supermarket in the flood plain of the River Cleddau.  It’s a 2 kilometre walk from our hotel to the stadium but it’s uphill on the way back and Paulene probably wouldn’t make it, so we take the planet saving Citroen e-C4 and park up on the rough gravel car park behind the clubhouse.  Entry to the game costs a fiver for over sixty-fives and I am delighted to find that Haverfordwest produce a programme (£2); a beautifully plain, sixteen page effort in black and white but with a front cover in colour featuring a faceless cartoon style footballer in Haverfordwest kit; I decide that the player remains faceless so that supporters can draw in his facial expression after the game to reflect the final score.

At first, once inside the ground Paulene and I do not notice the door into the clubhouse, and I begin to speculate that there is no bar.  It seems unlikely, but Pembrokeshire used to be one of the Welsh counties where the pubs didn’t open on a Sunday, and back in 1960 my grandfather would be let into the Griffin Inn in Dale ‘round the back’.  The clubhouse is a spectacularly plain building, to which the word functional does not do justice.  This may be why we missed the door to the bar on the way in.  But still, with a half an hour until kick off we need something to do and so looking again we find the door to the neat and tidy bar where Paulene has a 25cl bottle of rose, and I have a can of John Smith’s bitter because all the beers on tap are lagers.  “It’s all we’ve got” apologises the woman behind the bar.  The drinks cost £7.50, which seems cheap and maybe that’s why the bar is doing a good trade.

People finish their drinks and leave as the two-thirty kick-off nears and we find a spot at the back of a shallow, open terrace next to the box-like main stand, where we can lean on a stanchion.  It is a gloriously warm, bright, sunny afternoon, the very essence of an Indian summer’s day.   Our position at the back of the open terrace is a pleasant one with the sun on our backs, a view to our right of the clubhouse and to our left and straight ahead the backdrop of trees overlooking the ground as does the Medieval tower of Grade II listed St David’s church.  I am impressed by the number of people who have brought their dogs to the game and guess that there are more dogs at this game than at any game I have ever been to; there are even two within a few metres of where we are standing. Curiously, none of the dogs is very big.

At twenty-nine minutes to three, after an impeccable minute’s silence for the former Tote Manager for the club, Kenny Ellis who died recently, the game begins.  County’s opponents Flint Town United, known as ‘The Silkmen’ because, I speculate, of their choice of under garments or ties, get first go with ball, which they boot mostly in the direction of the clubhouse, car park and centre of Haverfordwest beyond, with its twelfth and thirteenth century castle and three medieval churches. Flint are decked out in black shirts with a white front and sleeves, and black shorts with white trim.  Haverfordwest, known colloquially as ‘The Bluebirds’ are in all-blue.

Despite much hope and a little bit of expectation, much like Haverfordwest’s game in Cardiff the previous Tuesday this will sadly not prove to be a great match.  The Bluebirds start the better team and win a corner after just seven minutes and after a fine save by the Flint goalkeeper they quickly win another.  Like most corners, the second one comes to nothing, but it allows time to note incidentally that the Flint goalkeeper is called Jack Flint, and it makes me imagine a world in which Rod Hull (and Emu) had played for Hull City.

The first half proceeds with Flint’s Ben Woollam living fast and dying young by being the first name in referee Jordan Harman’s notebook and then six minutes later the first player to be substituted. Just before ten to three Haverfordwest win a third pointless corner but then Flint’s Ben Hughes hits Haverfordwest on the break, bears down on goal and has his low shot saved by Bluebirds’ goalkeeper Ifan Knott.  The two dogs that are closest to us are lying on the warm concrete terrace looking bored.

Injury to Bluebird’s Ben Walker, after Flint’s Akeel Francis lands on top of him, delays the game as three o’clock approaches and Walker has to be substituted, but shortly afterwards Haverfordwest almost take the lead as a shot is deflected wide for another corner.  In the final third of the half Flint get a couple of corners of their own and also claim a couple more bookings from Mr Harman who seems eager to show off his yellow card as often as he can.  Bluebirds’ Corey Shepherd is nicely set up but shoots straight at Flint the goalkeeper who is proving to be a rock at the back as well as a Flint.  Meanwhile, on the path overlooking the north-east corner of the ground, in a gap in the trees a man in a pale blue shirt watches the game for free, cheapskate.

An announcement is made over the public address system that there will be four minutes of added on time and this is accompanied by the announcer entreating the crowd to “Make some noise for your bloooo-b-i-r-ds”, confirming for me that I wouldn’t want to be a football stadium announcer.  Sadly, the announcer’s plea seems to fall on deaf ears, perhaps because the PA system has previously been too loud.    Mr Harman has by now also shown his yellow card to Haverfordwest’s Kyle McCarthy and will raise it to Ben Phillips too before the half time whistle is blown.

With half time I reflect upon a generally poor half of football, which has been punctuated by isolated moments of excitement and several bookings.  I decide that Flint Town United are a team with big blokes at the front and big blokes at the back and both teams are playing a game perhaps better suited to the muddy, village pitches of Cymru in February rather than the flat, true, artificial surface that is now the Bridge Meadow, which invites quick flowing, passing football.  The stadium announcer tells us that in a fortnight’s time in the Welsh FA Cup Haverfordwest will be at home to Cardiff Corinthians before the disco stylings of ABBA’s “Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! (A Man After Midnight)” take us back to 1979 and I temporarily leave Paulene’s side to do some sightseeing around the ground during which time ABBA make way seamlessly for Donna Summer’s “Hot Stuff”, leaving us stranded in 1979 and unfortunate memories of when Britain gained its first woman Prime Minister.

Fortunately, at twenty-five minutes to four the match resumes and 1979 is once again banished to history.  Within six minutes Mr Harman has waved his yellow card at two more Flint players and a minute later Haverfordwest have the ball in the Flint net after a free-kick and a goalmouth melee, but the ‘goal’ is disallowed with the slow raising of a linesman’s flag.  The celebratory music that had burst from the PA system stops as quickly as it started, if not quicker.

A half an hour of the game remains.  Haverfordwest fashion another corner kick.  The freeloader watching from the corner between the trees has disappeared. Flint win a corner and then introduce two substitutes and once again the PA announcer pleads with the crowd to “Make some noise for the Bloooo-bi-r-r-ds”; I feel embarrassed for him and try to concentrate on the game. For what it’s worth Haverfordwest then win yet another corner kick.

Four o’clock is fast approaching and the course of the game is about to change.  Haverfordwest’s number eight Corey Shepherd runs after a miscontrolled ball, but Flint’s Namory Kane gets to it first and boots it away.  Shepherd cannot stop in time and whilst he turns his back to cushion the impact his dangling right foot makes contact with Kane’s foot and Kane collapses in a leggy heap.  The officious official Mr Harmon quickly decides to reach for his red card and sends Shepherd off.  There is a delay whilst VAR is consulted, for what it’s worth, but whoever is sat watching the telly probably has no more clue than the referee.  Shepherd hangs about hopefully, but his expulsion is not reversed.  Haverfordwest have been struggling to score all afternoon and did so for their previous two games when they had eleven players, it seems unlikely they can do it now with one less.  

Flint win a corner, Mr Harman books Namory Kane, Ifan Knott is hurt and recovers, both Haverfordwest and Flint make substitutions, Haverfordwest win another corner and then another as Abbrusseze’s low shot is palmed away by Flint’s Flint. Flint get a corner and it’s nearly twenty past four when ideally the game will end. At twenty past four a long ball is punted forward from inside the centre circle and whoever is wide on the left for Flint chases it and gets in a cross to the near post. Goalkeeper Ifan Knott jumps with Flint’s Tunde Owalabi but merely succeeds in patting the ball down and onto the head of Flint’s Joe Malkin, from whence it bounces into the goal to give Flint a fortunate but predictable one-nil lead.

It is the ninetieth minute and there will be five minutes of added on time; time in which Haverfordwest force two more corner kicks, after the first of which a short, dark-haired man with a lot of facial hair shouts what sounds like “Fucking clowns!”.  With three minutes left Haverfordwest make a final substitution, and Ifan Knott joins the scrum in the Flint penalty area to greet the final corner kick, but to no avail.

With Mr Harman’s final whistle, the crowd drifts away, back down the lane beside the industrial estate towards the town. Despite the warm sunshine, the bright blue sky and the fact that it’s barely half past four a pall of gloom hangs over everyone except the small cluster of Flint fans who have made the 237 kilometre, four-and-a-half-hour trip from the opposite end of the country.  Paulene and I head back to our planet-saving Citroen to contemplate how to spend our last evening in Haverfordwest and the expression I am going to draw on the face on the front of the match day programme.

Cardiff Met’ 1 Haverfordwest County 0

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(Met Caerdydd 1 Hwlffordd 0)

I cannot help but think that I have been waiting all my working life just to retire. Despite a university education, I have never been ambitious or really interested enough to ‘progress’ or have a career.  I’ve earned enough to buy a house and sufficient beer, football tickets, books and long-playing records to keep myself amused, but sadly I have had to wait until the state is prepared to pay me a pension before I can afford to retire.  Finally, however, after forty-four years of unbroken public service my time has arrived, and I feel reborn.  Symbolically perhaps therefore, today I am on a pilgrimage in my planet saving electric Citroen e-C4 to the place of my original birth, Haverfordwest in Pembrokeshire, and whilst there I will fulfil a typically modest ambition to visit the Bridge Meadow and see Haverfordwest County play at home in the Cymru Premier League. 

It is a discouraging 500 km journey from our house to Haverfordwest, but with no restraints on time, except the ultimate one, my wife Paulene and I have broken the journey up into manageable pieces, staying last night with my stepson and his family in Basingstoke, before today driving on to Cardiff . Conveniently tonight, as a sort of hors d’oeuvre to seeing them playing at home this coming Saturday, Haverfordwest County have a Cymru Premier match in Cardiff versus Cardiff Metropolitan, a university team.

After an early dinner of grilled salmon and steamed vegetables, washed down with a pint of S A Brain’s Barry Island IPA (strapline: ‘Fresh, Hoppy, Tidy!’) in the Cardiff Novotel ‘Customs Shed’ restaurant, where waitress Evie looks after us brilliantly, we allow time for digestion before setting out for the Cyncoed campus of Cardiff Metropolitan University.  The Citroen’s Satnav leads us on a complicated, five-and-a-half-kilometre path through the Cardiff suburbs of Roath and Pen-Y-Lan down both narrow, terraced streets of parked cars and along more opulent tree lined avenues. The 52 bus runs from the city centre to the campus but heaven knows how long that would take or when the last bus leaves, and bizarrely in the United Kingdom our English bus passes aren’t valid in Wales.  On arrival, the Cyncoed campus reveals itself as a campus as dull as the word campus suggests it might be, but we are able to park up in the first car park we come to and then look to the now darkened skies for the glow of floodlights. 

I always enjoy the walk to the match, even when only from a nearby car park; I think it’s the anticipation.  This evening is warm and finding our way between what might be student residences, we embark on a walk of discovery.  “Do you know where it is?” asks a man on his own who has the air of an anxious groundhopper about him.  He hurries off towards a second glow in the sky before we get much of a chance to reply. The glow in the sky that we have just arrived at has proved to be an athletics track, but beyond that and something that looks like a massive white tent is another rectangle of not quite heavenly light; this we will discover is the 3G pitch that passes as the home ‘stadium’ of Cardiff Met.

It was possible to pay for our admission online but logging in and typing out personal and account details is a ridiculous faff when all we want to do is watch a football match which will attract a crowd of less than three hundred.  A well-built bloke directs us to the gate where a middle-aged woman in a red and white jumper says: “Ten pounds please”.   “Two over-65’s please” I reply.  “Oh, twelve pounds then please” smiles the woman, and I dare to think that she probably doesn’t think I look old enough.  I hand over a ten-pound note and two one-pound coins, which seems to please her because she won’t have to mess about giving me change. Disappointingly however, Cardiff Met’ FC do not produce a programme, which is surprising because I would have thought it could have been a module in some sort of media studies degree.  Just as surprisingly, Cardiff Met does not seem to have a bar or even a hut or hatch from which burgers, chips and bacon rolls are dispensed.  The only catering facility seemingly being the serving of coffee from the back of a muddy-coloured Bedford Rascal van, which if the sign writing on the side is accurate belongs to a smug looking bloke with glasses called Donald.  I speculate that Donald is studying for a master’s degree which combines catering, graphic design, sports management and vehicle maintenance.  To his credit, Donald charges a very competitive 30 pence less for a double espresso than Marks & Spencer do for a single at the Leigh Delamere services on the M4.

With nothing else to entertain us, Paulene and I take a stroll around the ‘stadium’ to the strains of various 1980’s disco ‘hits’ including “Oops upside your head” by the Gap band.  I take in the architecture, which amounts to two low stands (one either side of the pitch) and the high, green metal fence on three sides.  We settle in the back row of the four-seat deep stand on the far side of the pitch from the entrance, between four youths in hoodies and an earnest looking man who is on his own.  Time moves on and after a burst of Fatboy Slim’s “Right Here, Right Now” the names of the Haverfordwest team are announced over the public address system before the announcer perhaps takes a gulp of one of Donald’s double espressos and launches much more excitedly into the names of the Cardiff Met team; his doctorate on the art of stadium announcing in a postmodern context will be a doddle.

At seven forty-four the game begins, although the large digital clock on the side of the adjacent sports hall is trying to convince us that the time is only 18:36. The undergraduate who has been asked by his tutor to provide a practical demonstration of horology, sport and the built environment is contemplating re-sits. It is Haverfordwest County who get first go with the ball, which until half-time they will mostly attempt to send in the direction of the huge white tent and the athletics track beyond.  Haverfordwest sport an away kit of white shirts and black shorts, whilst Cardiff Met’ model burgundy shirts with a blue and yellow band like a bib up the front, and navy-blue shorts.

Early exchanges are tentative.  A bunch of pre-pubescent ultras in the corner of the ground by the big white tent chant “Archers, Archers”, not because they are fans of the wireless soap opera, nor because they have been tasked with advertising brands of peach schnapps, but because Archers is the nickname of Cardiff Met sports clubs and the club badge depicts a stylised rendition of a bloke with a bow and arrow.  After five minutes, Cardiff record the first shot on goal, which is easily collected by the Haverfordwest goalkeeper Ifan Knott.

The match settles down into a dull contest only brightened by the orange shirts of the referee and his assistants, and the bald head of the referee as occasionally the glare of the floodlights reflects off his naked scalp.  At ground level the players kicks are met with puffs of tiny rubber balls leaping up from the artificial playing surface.  After twenty-one minutes another Cardiff shot fails to trouble the Haverfordwest goalkeeper as this time it travels over the surrounding fence and high into the trees that back onto the road outside. Five minutes later Haverfordwest’s Ricky Watts claims the first yellow card of the evening, although I’m not sure why.  Met’s Toby Raison levels the score in this regard a bit later because of a push or a shove or perhaps a bit of both.  As a highlight of the half it’s a poor one and as the half-time whistle is blown, I reflect on a half in which Met’ looked a little but not much more motivated than Haverfordwest and their number twenty-nine showed himself either to be a delicate boy or to be studying dramatic arts, although no one took much notice.  But as the half wore on Haverfordwest had begun to dominate possession although without looking like they knew why they were doing it.

Half-time is as dull as the first half had been and looking for excitement Paulene and I walk to the other side of the ground, and I vent some spent Barry Island IPA.  We take up a position for the second half in the back row of the three-seat deep stand behind the dug outs, which I will later discover backs onto no less a structure than the National Indoor Athletics Centre.

The football resumes at sixteen minutes to nine (19:21 by the stadium clock) and is as unprepossessing as it was in the previous forty-five minutes. But then, all of sudden, the referee Mr Kenny awards Haverfordwest a penalty.  Again, I’m not sure why because I wasn’t really paying attention; I think it was for a foul rather than handball, but I can’t be sure.  There then follow minutes of doubt and uncertainty because the Cymru Premier, a league of all round similar standard to step four or five of English non-league has VAR!  So, we and the players hang about until Mr Kenny inevitably goes to look at the tv screen at the side of the pitch and decides it’s not a penalty after all. “Fuck VAR, fuck VAR, fuck VAR” chant the Haverfordwest fans with the most limited sex lives. The football resumes again, Cardiff launch a cross to the far post and their somewhat lumbering, top heavy looking number thirty six, Sam Snaith heads goalwards, Ifan Knott blocks the effort but as he tumbles to the ground the ball drops to the feet of Snaith who has a simple task of rolling the ball into a now unguarded net. From thinking they had a penalty kick just moments before, Haverfordwest County are now losing one-nil.  “Sods law” says a grizzled, grey-haired man in the row in front of us “Better side all night” he adds, bending the truth a little but not too much.

A goal down, Haverfordwest begin to dominate the match as they desperately search for a goal. Number ten Dan Hawkins is probably the best player on the field, but he can’t do it on his own and for the most part County are playing a game of hit and hope in which their crosses are mostly too deep and no one quite seems to quite know what anyone else will do next.  The group of Haverfordwest supporters behind the goal with their flag tied to the high fence begin to pass the time exchanging ‘banter’ with some home fans.  My wife Paulene gets her entertainment from the interaction between a group of teenage girls stood down the front and a group of teenage boys sat a few seats along from us.  One of the lads appears with what looks like a cardboard box containing a quite pungent shepherd’s pie, suggesting that there is food available, but it’s not burgers or chips.

A couple of head injuries, one for each team and multiple substitutions add on time such that the final count for time added on is eight minutes.  But tonight, Haverfordwest probably wouldn’t score if Mr Kenny added on eighty minutes.  The eight minutes slide away, taking with them the result and the three points which go to Cardiff Met’.  I had been looking forward to tonight, probably for several years, but the match and the result have both been disappointing.  So much for feeling re-born. All I can do now is to enjoy the drive back to our hotel through the dimly lit streets of Cardiff, drown my sorrows in another pint of Barry Island IPA, and look forward to Saturday at the Bridge Meadow .