Coggeshall Town 2 Hertford Heath 3

August 16, 2026 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

Not since the 1990’s when I lived in the fair town of Ipswich, have I had the pleasure of being able to simply walk to a football match unless going to a game whilst away on holiday. There are mitigating circumstances today; I’m not actually starting from home but from stepson number two’s home, where I have left my wife Paulene to help prepare for this evening’s twice previously postponed celebrational family gathering, the purpose of which has now been lost in the mists of time, to me at least.

Google Maps tells us that it is a 2.3 kilometre walk from stepson number two’s house to The Crops, home of Coggeshall Town FC, who today play Hertford Heath FC in the snappily titled Thurlow Nunn Eastern Counties League First Division South. What Google Maps cannot convey is that it is a pleasant walk because Coggeshall is an attractive place full of ye olde worlde half-timbered houses, although in truth it is a bit twee for my tastes, but it doesn’t repel me like Lavenham, and when talking Grade 1 listed, Tudor houses the National Trust owned Pocock’s is a wonder to rival Ipswich’s Ancient House.

It’s a cloudy, sultry August afternoon as I set off, I check the time just a few yards down the road and it is twenty-three minutes past two. It is thirteen minutes to three when I hand over a fiver at the turnstile at The Crops asking for the ‘old gits’ admission price. I also ask if there’s a printed programme, but the turnstile operator says the programme is on-line and today contains fifty pages. But I’m not impressed; all that scrolling would make my eyes feel like the reels in a one-armed bandit. Thirsty and a bit sweaty after my walk in the heat of the afternoon, I head for the bar and the dubious pleasure of paying out six quid for a bottle of Adnams Southwold bitter. There are a lot of relocated Londoners in Coggeshall, and they seem to have brought their metropolitan prices with them. Although the beer comes from the fridge, I am delighted to discover that it is not so cold as to give me a headache, in fact it is just on the right side of refreshing, which, if I could get an appointment, is probably just what any doctor would have ordered.

I stand about on the decking outside the clubhouse, sipping my expensive beer and savouring each mouthful in the hope of extracting maximum value for money. I look at the team sheet posted on the wall of the changing rooms but don’t recognise any of the names so scan the faces of my fellow travellers. I recognise Jim who lives down the road from me and cheerily say “Hello Jim”, he says hello back, but he’s either giving me the cold shoulder or doesn’t remember my name. I watch the three match officials warm up. They’re all a little portly and I’m relieved to see that on such a warm day they don’t do much running, only stretches. The referee is Mr Oliver Townsend, a name which mashes together in my 1960’s and 1970’s coloured imagination the figures of Oliver Reed and Pete Townsend, neither of whom were probably ever suitable material as football referees.

Having run out of things to do except drink, I head for the low main stand to find a seat and take up residence in the back row of three, a couple of seats back from Jim. The teams eventually appear and when kick-off arrives, once the bearded Mr Townsend has carefully counted the players on each team, it is visiting Hertford Heath, who aren’t from Hertford at all but from somewhere called Stanstead St Margarets, who get first go with the ball, which they propel mostly in the direction of the goal at the clubhouse end of the ground. ‘The Heath’ as I’m sure they’re probably known, wear a strange kit of white shorts and socks and pale grey shirts. “I think they’ve been using the wrong washing powder” calls a bloke in the next block of seats, and I think he has a point; the grey football shirt is not a fashion icon. Coggeshall Town meanwhile, sporting their handsome signature kit of red and black-striped shirts with black shorts try to send the ball in the general direction of the West Street vineyard and Pocock’s, but hope the goal net will stop the ball before it gets that far.

“Come on Coggy” shouts a male voice as the action gets underway somewhat tardily at three minutes past three and I look down to pick up my beer and notice what looks like a small animal turd on the concrete floor of the stand. After just three minutes, the Hertford number ten launches a spectacular volley wide of the Coggeshall goal, but just two minutes after that they lead, as what might well have been intended as a cross from number three soars over the Coggeshall ‘keepers head and onto the top right-hand corner of the goal. “I’m not sure he meant that” says someone nearby, whilst back on the pitch, after celebrating the goal the advice is “back to work”. On the touchline the referee’s assistant appears to suppress a burp as if he’s not going to quickly forget what he had for lunch.

Six minutes have passed and in front of me someone remarks “No pattern at all today”. It’s ten past three and the nearby linesman, who can’t forget his lunch and conceivably has the same hairstyle that he had in 1978, looks at his watch; a look of disappointment follows as if to say “is that all?”. With twelve minutes gone, ‘Coggy’ have their first shot, which draws a flying save. “Good move that, wasn’t it” says the voice who had earlier discerned ‘no pattern at all today’. Coggy win the game’s first corner kick and in front of me Jim joins in with a conversation about how hot it is. “Bloody hot during the night, I know that” says Jim adding his two penn’orth. When a player goes down hurt, silence falls but for the sound of a plane buzzing lazily above as it cuts through the still, summer, afternoon air.

‘Coggy’ have been getting the ball down the flanks a bit, but just before three-twenty a punt forward through the middle bounces once near the edge of the penalty area and number nine lobs it over the advancing Heath goalkeeper, and the scores are suddenly level. It seems likely that the Heath hadn’t expected to concede and they are soon shooting over the ‘Coggy’ goal as over excitement spoils an inviting lay-off to the edge of the penalty area. On the far side of the pitch I notice that the linesman there is wearing glasses, perhaps in an attempt to deter any would- be terrace comedians from making wisecracks about his not having taken the opportunity to go to Specsavers. Closer to hand, it strikes me that all the players have what might be termed ‘sensible’ haircuts; not a mullet or a top-notch in sight, although I think one of the Heath substitutes might have ‘curtains’.

Another ‘Coggy’ corner is the last action before a drinks break at twenty-six minutes past three and one of the blokes in front of me asks of his neighbours “Did you hear about that woman who burned her three-month-old child with a hair dryer?”. “She should be burned at the stake” replies Jim. With play resumed, the number twenty for Hertford Heath collects the ball at the edge of the Coggy penalty area and shoots low into the corner of the goal and the Heath lead 2-1. “That’s what you get for having a drinks break” says someone off to my right as if Hertford Heath had just carried on playing.

A minute later and the Heath lead 3-1 as a loose ball falls to number nine, who lobs it over the Coggy goalkeeper and possibly most his teammates from perhaps 40 metres out. It’s a fantastic goal, well worth the price of a bottle of Adnams Southwold bitter and oddly therefore the entrance money. “Good start in’t it, 3-1 down in the first half” says a clearly disillusioned voice from somewhere in front of me.

The remainder of the half drags on giving time for the Heath’s number 20 to claim the first yellow card of the afternoon, perhaps for sheer petulance as much as serious foul play and I realise also that neither of these teams has a following of teenage or pre-pubescant ultras. The half ends at eight minutes to four and it seems that several people will likely be late home for tea this evening.

With the half-time break, I enquire at the tea hut whether they still ‘do’ those ‘nice’ locally made sausage rolls, but it seems they don’t have any today, although the young woman serving says she can put a sausage in a bread roll for me. As grateful as I am for the suggestion, it’s not quite the same thing.

I return to my seat just as the players return to the parched, sun-bleached pitch and its curiously anomalous green patches, where I can only think there are concentrations of more hardy weeds or clover. Eventually, the officials emerge from the dressing rooms too; I had been beginning to get worried that with the heat, one or more of them might have succumbed. The football resumes at nine minutes past four, again after Mr Townsend has carefully counted all twenty-two players.

The second half develops into one of gathering tetchiness, resultant yellow cards and increasing use of the word “fuckin”, most noticeably it seems from the Hertford Heath number six, who seems to believe it has motivational properties. Coggeshall win a couple of early corner kicks, neither of which manage to travel beyond the near post and then after collapsing to the ground clutching his shin or calf, the Heath number five raises himself and strides menacingly and even murderously towards the Coggy number two, who he then proceeds to jab his finger at threateningly. Much shoving and pushing ensues and I’m transported back to the school playground and the experience of tens of children all chanting “Fight, Fight, Fight! ”. The incident fortunately soon ends, if not amicably, then at least not embarrassingly either and Mr Townsend’s cards remain in his pocket.

With the clock ticking beyond twenty past four the first substitutions happen, whilst in the seats in front of me there’s a brief discussion about a ‘nice’ garden centre at Boxted where, it seems, it’s possible to get a free meal as long as you buy another one as well, and possibly some drinks. Speaking of which, the second half drinks break happens shortly after four-thirty. “This is the worst game I’ve seen them play for a long while” says the disillusioned local in front of me. “They haven’t a bloody clue, have they?” he adds.

A couple of bookings follow, one for each team, as two players appear to wilfully collide with others, and then at just before a quarter to five a Coggeshall shot strikes a Hertford Heath player and there are appeals for a penalty because of a perceived handball. Mr Townsend doesn’t seem to know what happened, but after consulting the linesman with the 1970’s haircut and indigestion he awards a penalty, and Coggy’s number fourteen boots the ball into the middle of the goal as the goalkeeper helpful throws himself out of its path. Hertford Heath don’t seem too aggrieved, so Mr Townsend’s decision seems likely to have been a good call.

With the home team now trailing by just a single goal and with just ten minutes remaining, Mr Townsend develops a heightened awareness of potential time wasting from the visiting team and begins counting down from five whenever Hertford Heath have a throw, free-kick, or goal-kick. Sometimes he shouts out the numbers and sometimes he holds a hand up and counts down with his fingers in the manner of the late gameshow host and alleged comedian Ted Rogers. It’s a helpful ploy from the referee, but somehow the Hertford goalkeeper still manages to get himself booked for time wasting.

Sadly for Coggy, but happily for the Heath, despite a more exciting final ten minutes, there are no further goals, with a decent header from a corner being saved by the goalkeeper and Coggy’s number two then heading the rebound over the bar as the final interesting action.

With the final whistle, I wait in my seat a minute whilst everyone else departs. I’ve enjoyed my afternoon in a short-sleeved shirt and shorts peering through the narrow gap between the roof of the stand and the perimeter fence. I hadn’t been to see at game at The Crops since August of last year, but I now realise what I’ve been missing. With Ipswich Town once again in the Premier League this season I might need more visits here as an antidote to all the hype and anti-social kick-off times.

Ipswich Town 1 Havre AC 0

August 7, 2026 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

According to the Chargemap app on my mobile phone, the 495 kilometre trip from my house to Stade Oceane in Le Havre, home of Ligue 1 football team Havre AC, would currently take seven hours and twenty-five minutes including two stops totalling fifty minutes to re-charge my planet saving Citroen e-C4. This is a trip I made only last month and is one I would recommend, provided you have the cash to pay for the motorway tolls and the fare for le shuttle. Le Havre is a fascinating port city and on account of its being re-built in concrete by Auguste Perret after the RAF flattened it, it is now a UNESCO World Heritage site. Disappointingly however, Havre AC were not at home when I visited last month, so I made do with a trip to the Museum of Modern Art to see Ai Wei Wei’s Lego interpretation of Monet’s Water Lillies, several beers in the excellent bars of le brasserie L’Havrais biere, and wandering amongst some of my favourite buildings. But the world and time are nothing if not round and a month later Havre AC have come to see me, playing a friendly versus Ipswich Town at Portman Road.

Unusually, my wife Paulene is coming to the match tonight, attracted by the promise of French footballers, although having grown up in Portsmouth she was, and as far as I know still is, always wary of French sailors. Our journey this evening is by planet saving Citroen e-C4 and we pick-up Gary on the way before parking very conveniently just around the corner from the Arb’. Gary is sporting the very latest replica Ipswich Town away shirt this evening, and gets the drinks in first; a pint of Estrella for him, a small glass of dry rose for Paulene and a pint of Nethergate Stour Valley for me. A woman in the bar compliments Paulene on her earrings before we retire to the garden and a table in the shade to talk of relatives and friends and other stuff, and Gary is impressed by my Havre AC T-shirt. In due course, I buy another round of drinks the same as before, but I opt for a pint of the weaker Nethergate Voyager this time and am disappointed that it tastes a little like the pipes have been cleaned but not rinsed very well afterwards, as in fact did the Stour Valley.

It’s about twenty past seven when we head for Portman Road and thankfully an easy downhill walk, because once again it is a very, very warm evening. There are long queues for the Cobbold stand in Portman Road, but what I notice first is that there are no programmes on sale again, which vexes me greatly; even in the days of Marcus Evans there were always programmes for pre-season friendlies, weren’t there? But my spirits lift slightly when I find there are no queues for the Sir Alf Ramsey stand and this gives me time to photograph Paulene with Town mascots Bluey and Crazee who are hanging around in the car park with a small man in spectacles. I tell Bluey and Crazee that Paulene has been photographed with an army of mascots, including Bouba the elephant in Monaco, Ri-Ri the Canary in Nantes, Auguste the lion in Reims, Merlux the Hake in Lorient, Erminig the ermine in Rennes, a very dodgy, moth-eaten looking Leopard in Rouen, but sadly not Sali the salamander in Le Havre. Bluey and Crazee unfortunately do not reply, and I commiserate with them that they do not speak.

Having been checked for scrap metal and explosives, I am ushered by a lady steward towards turnstile 61, but I tell her that I have to use turnstile 62, although I don’t know really know why and tonight’s match is only a pre-season friendly. “You never know” she says, and I think to myself “You never know what?” but like Bluey and Crazee I can’t say it. After venting excess spent Stour Valley and Voyager I meet up again with Paulene and Gary at our seats, which until we sit on them are an oasis of blue plastic amongst a sea of parents and children, many in last season’s replica kits. None of them are at all familiar and I look in vain for Pat from Clacton, Fiona, ever-present Phil who never misses a game, his son Elwood and the man from Stowmarket (Paul). I feel rather uncomfortable, like a walrus stranded amongst roosting penguins on a stoney beach somewhere in the South Atlantic. They seem to be giving off a lot of heat too because it is incredibly warm.

Eventually, the football begins with Town in their natural blue and white getting first go with the ball and kicking it towards the goal just off to our right. Havre are most disappointingly in all black rather than their signature pale blue and dark blue halved shirts and dark blue shorts, although a look on their website suggests they have no away kit, at least, perhaps not one they think anyone would want to purchase a replica of. Havre don’t know it, but they are of course kicking towards Cumberland Towers, a concrete building which is unlikely to earn Ipswich UNESCO World Heritage site status, but which I like because it looks a bit like a very big match box stood on its end.

In terms of football, the first half is awful, but this is at least consistent with most pre-season games. We amuse ourselves by working out which players are which on both sides. Gary asks who Mendel is and is more amused than he should be when I tell him that he is Mendelssohn’s father. This is probably the highlight of the half but only if I ignore the fact that Town’s new Japanese signing Daizen Maeda looks about sixty-five and nearly ready for his pension, but this is solely due to the strange silvery colour of his hair. Otherwise, all I recall are the numerous seagulls swooping overhead (have Le Havre brought their own?) and that Havre have a player whose surname is Pembele, which because it rhymes Dembele sets me off thinking about an imaginary team whose names all sound a bit like those of other, far superior players, like Zinedine Sedan, Bobby Carlton or Lionel Nessi.

The welcome relief of half-time is spent talking to Harrison, who Gary has never met before, although Paulene has. Harrison’s grandfather Ray is watching the match from his Heath Road hospital bed, from where he at least might have access to drugs. I will visit Ray a day or two later and he will tell me that he missed the first fifteen minutes because Town TV is not very good. I reassure him that in fact he missed absolutely nothing at all.

The match resumes at nine minutes to nine, predictably with a new Ipswich team. As happened in last week’s pre-season game versus Osasuna the more or less wholesale substitution of the team seems to do the trick and thirteen minutes later a Town goal is being celebrated as Chuba Akpom directs a free header into the Havre net after some startlingly bad defending from the Norman team and Town lead one-nil. On the touchline, the seldom smiling Havre manager Didier Digard, who incidentally played three games on loan for last week’s opponents Osasuna about ten years ago, is grim faced, looking as if he’s already deciding who to hit first when they all get back in the dressing room in half an hour’s time. Havre soon begun substitutions of their own, bringing on the players with the evening’s two most pleasurable surnames, Yanis Zouaoui and Hakim Dongopandji.

Twenty minutes of the second half have upped and left, and Jack Clarke has an early tilt at the worst shot of the season award as he shoots spectacularly wide and high. A minute later George Hirst is brought on to see if he can do better. Twelve minutes later, Havre produce what might be their only shot of the game, from substitute wide player Enzo Koffi, and the waning of interest in the stands begins to manifest itself with depressing calls of “Blue Army” from both adult males and small children. It’s something that doesn’t happen during ‘proper’ games and is another compelling argument for not attending pre-season friendlies.

The match nears its uninteresting conclusion and over the public address system we are told that collectively we number 6,669. It’s probably close to a capacity crowd for the limited areas of the stadium that are open, but I remain disappointed that I have not seen or heard a single French person in the crowd this evening, or smelled a Gauloise or even a faint whiff of garlic. I hope that we get to see RC Lens, Paris St Germain or Olympique Marseille at Portman Road before too long.

Ipswich Town 1 CA Osasuna 2

July 31, 2026July 31, 2026 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

The Google AI overview on the interweb tells us that Pamplona is the historic capital of the Navarre region in northern Spain and that “…it balances a vibrant modern lifestyle with ancient stone walls, green parks, and lively culinary traditions”. The ensuing Wikipedia entry goes on to tell us that Pamplona also has two football teams, one of which is CA Osasuna (Club Atletico Osasuna) who play in La Liga and that Osasuna means ‘health’ in the Basque language.

Combining this information I think firstly that balancing anything with ancient stone walls is quite a feat and that Pamplona must therefore be quite some place, and secondly the prospect of catching a glimpse of a vibrant modern lifestyle and lively culinary tradition by attending a football match is one I could not pass up. As luck would have it, tonight, Ipswich Town’s first pre-season friendly of 2026 is against CA Osasuna. In my younger days I lapped up pre-season friendlies like a thirsty kitten confronted with numerous saucers of milk and I was all in favour of adding stars to the Town shirts to commemorate the Willhire Cup wins of 1979 and 1980. Forty-five years on, life and loves have taken their toll and now I feel affronted to be asked to cough up my de-valued cash to watch a glorified training exercise but I am nevertheless unable to resist matches against foreign opposition as I strive to relive those European glory nights and compensate for the disaster that is Brexit.

The out in the middle of nowhere stadium near Colchester is just a 12km drive in our planet saving Citroen e-C4 down the A12 for me and my wife Paulene, and after queuing to wait for people to tap their car number plates onto a screen and ‘contactlessly’ pay £3 at the nearby Park & Ride facility, we do the same and are soon cutting our way through the evening heat, past the vicious barbs of rambling brambles that encroach over the footpath along Boxted Road and the approach to the home of Colchester United, where tonight’s friendly fixture will take place.

Access to our seats in the west Stand is via turnstile T3 and is governed by the deeply unsatisfying process of twice placing my mobile telephone up against a small glass window where once upon a time a turnstile operator might have wished me a cheery “enjoy the match” as they ripped a ticket from its stub. There’s still a good twenty-five minutes until the football is due to begin and therefore, whilst Paulene experiences the toilet facilities, I splash out on a bottle of water (£2.25) from the distinctly not at all busy refreshment kiosk beneath the stand, where two probable sixth formers smile willingly, happy to make contact with a real, fleshy human face, one that’s not an image on a mobile telephone screen.

Disappointingly, there is no programme for tonight’s fixture, so with nothing to read we seek our entertainment in the arrival of fellow supporters; at least two of whom are quite aged and only clamber up the steps of the stand with the aid of sticks and a helpful steward. A little curiously, in the seats in front of us a group of men and boys wear Witham Town shirts. Without a programme we have no clue as to the identity of the Osasuna players or even some of the Town players, who I will admit to not recognising. The stadium announcer fails to help us identify any of the players as the public address system turns out to be feeble and easily drowned out by the sound of people talking. It doesn’t help that the announcer also sounds either like he’s recovering from laryngitis or just has the sort of voice best suited to a life of religious devotion in a Cistercian monastery.

When the game begins, it is Ipswich who get first go with the ball, which they direct towards Colchester city centre, its castle and its surviving heaps of Romano-British rubble. Ipswich are as ever in blue and white. Osasuna meanwhile are kicking towards the A12 and Park and Ride car park; they wear red shirts and blue shorts, like an Iberian Aldershot Town. Back in a football stadium for the first time in over two months, I had almost forgotten how annoying I find my fellow human beings with their silly comments and conversation. “Why do people applaud?” asks Paulene earnestly as a hopeful cross from Town’s number 40 (recent signing Abdul Fatawu) sails harmlessly beyond the Osasuna far post and is greeted with a bout of clapping. “If it’s not a goal, then it’s nothing” she says. I tell her it’s because otherwise they might kill themselves due to loss of hope.

Four minutes have passed. Leif Davis is beaten on the left flank and a cross, a shot, a save from Alex Palmer and a follow up shot later and the ball is in the Town net. No one who doesn’t speak Spanish has any inkling as to the identity of the goalscorer. The sense of unexpected loss is palpable amongst the ‘home’ crowd but whilst some probably head off to graffiti the toilets, most just sit glumly, although when Fatawu jumps high to prevent an overhit cross field ball going out for a throw, the crowd cheer up a bit and applaud; the man in the seat behind me says “I like this bloke already”.

Fatawu is a hero again after eight minutes when an Osasuna player tries to relieve him of his shirt and is booked by the anonymous referee. “That wasn’t even subtle” snorts the bloke behind me. Amusingly, to me, Dara O’Shea is rightly booked for the same thing moments later provoking predictable complaints from Town supporters. Then Fatuwu gets behind the Osasuna defence, only to pick out the head of an Osasuna defender with his cross. The game proceeds uninterestingly, but for wondering who the Osasuna players actually are. Town’s first shot on goal arrives after twenty minutes courtesy of Nunez, who then has another shot three minutes later, earning the game’s first corner as a result. More exciting however is the ‘hydration break’ two minutes after that, which draws boos from Town fans who would probably complain that “they never had drinks breaks in my day” and possibly believe that Colchester United are now selling premium priced advertising on their streaming service.

The remainder of the half drifts away with Alex Palmer palming away a couple of shots, both teams trading lame corner kicks and a man in the seat next but one to Paulene breaking open a cellophane package containing a lurid green coil of something with the consistency of mozzarella cheese, from which he proceeds to break pieces off and give to the girl next to him; he eats the rest. Three minutes of added on time are announced because that was the length of the unpopular hydration break.

We stay in our seats for half-time as daylight fades into dusk and the sky explores deepening shades of blue. The half-time entertainment consists of the scoreboard advertising forthcoming attractions at “Layer Road” including an under 12’s disco and comedy nights, although Colchester United mostly now play on Saturday afternoons.

The football resumes at ten to nine with old hands Wes Burns and Chuba Akpom appearing in place of new boys Emersonn and Abdul Fatawu and the stadium announcer embarrassingly letting us know the substitutes’ identities as if they were challengers for a World Heavyweight boxing bout. For a full couple of minutes Ipswich display what looks like attacking intent and after eight minutes Akpom stretches for a deep hopeful cross and manages to direct the ball over or around the mystery Osasuma goalkeeper and into the goal. The goalkeeper looks somewhat disappointed. I tell Paulene I hadn’t expected to see an equaliser.

After the goal, a second hydration break follows unexpectedly in the sixtieth minute, but it transpires that it’s just an excuse to swap about the remainder of the Town team. Several fresh Town players appear, and I have no idea who they are, but it seems neither does the announcer, who maintains radio silence. I feign disgust, and referencing the lack of a programme or audible announcements speak to Paulene of an “utter shambles”, but in truth it’s just my way of enjoying the evening,

Once the game has re-started Paulene admits to boredom and a dislike of the people behind based on the sound of their voices. Perhaps annoyed by the growing pointlessness of the football Paulene goes on to comment that there are a lot of funny looking people here and we wonder whether they are from Ipswich or Colchester, or both. I admit that Ipswich is not renowned for its beautiful people, but where is? The bloke behind us starts sneezing loudly whilst several nearby children have started to repeatedly shout “Blue Army” in the shrill way that only children can. This then raises the question of why the Colchester United banner at the back of the stand behind one of the goals reads ‘Blue White Army’ and not ‘Blue and White Army’, and so the legend of the lost ampersands of Colchester edges out the football in terms of interest.

About twenty-five minutes remain to be endured and a Ben Johnson cross wins another Town corner. “I’m liking Chuba more than I thought I would” says the bloke behind me, who had previously unexpectedly liked Abdul Fatawu; he would seem to have a lot of love to give. The sands of time continue to run out but it’s only five minutes later when I look to the clock on the scoreboard again and wish they could run a bit faster. I realise that I’ve kicked over my bottle of water and most of the remaining contents have dribbled down the steps of the stand, and in a drought too. The two teams trade corner kicks and George Hirst replaces Chuba Akpom, a change which unlike the previous mass -substitution is unexpectedly announced over the public address system, and with incongruous enthusiasm.

Eight long minutes of normal time remain; some people are already leaving, their evenings and perhaps their lives defined by their desire not to queue when leaving the car park. Osasuna win a corner. The corner is taken and the ball diverted to the outside of the penalty area where some bloke in Aldershot Town kit lashes it into the top right corner of the Town goal via the underside of the cross bar. Osasuna lead 2-1 and what will prove to be the winning goal, if not worth the entry money on its own, has certainly been the only thing worth paying to see.

All that remains is for the stadium announcer to tell us that we numbered 4,685 before people started to leave early, and for three minutes of added time to be aimlessly endured. The final whistle is a gentle release, but at least I can now say I have seen Club Atletico Osasuna play, if anyone asks and I’m looking forward to the friendly versus Havre AC on Tuesday night already.

Mystery Under Sevens 1 Rain & Wind 2

June 19, 2026 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

As much as I like football, when the football leagues of England, France and Wales in which I take an interest come to an end sometime in May each year, I tend to breathe a sigh of relief and prepare to enjoy a welcome period of rest and recovery. For the best part of two months, I revel in the opportunity not to be a hostage to hope every weekend or suffer the pain of seeing those hopes dashed by referees, assistant referees, video assistant referees, goal posts, cross bars and opposition centre forwards.

Of course, there is the World Cup this summer, but thanks to Gianni Infantino and Donald J Trump I shall be boycotting that; I never much liked circuses and no one in their right mind has any truck with fascists. But casual, no strings attached football always remains alluring and when my stepson’s wife says come on down to Hampshire for the weekend to see the grandchildren, and the boy will be playing in a football tournament, my wife Paulene is already packing a bag and charging the car and I’m too daft not to say I would love to, but I’ve already arranged to stay in and wash my hair.

The tournament is on Saturday and Friday is a bright, sunny day as we stop off on the way for a gentle wander around the Henry Moore sculpture park in Much Hadham near Harlow. We even enjoy a picnic at one of those Yogi Bear -style wooden tables, and rocking up in Basingstoke, we sit outside at the local shopping centre drinking coffee and watching the world go by as we wait for our planet saving Citroen e C4 to recover a more or less full battery at the EV charging points in the Tesco car park.

After curry, beer, wine and a late night, on Saturday morning we awake to sun streaming round the sides of the bedroom curtains but then at breakfast there’s a heavy shower, a pattern that repeats itself until gone noon when the sun, fed up with playing gooseberry takes off his sou’wester and retreats indoors for the rest of the day, leaving the rain and wind to get it on alone. Shortly after one o’clock, following a journey of recklessly broken speed limits through a smattering of picturesque, semi-rural Hampshire villages, my stepson (the guilty driver), grandson and I (Paulene has cried off because the damp atmosphere will inflame her asthma) arrive at a village social club where the car park is full and we have to walk back in the rain from the village school a few hundred yards up the road. Beside the social club there is a dripping canopy under which a slightly unhappy looking man is not doing a roaring trade in barbecued hot dogs and burgers, and where I along with a small community of parents take shelter from the weather amongst the acrid curls and smell of barbecue smoke. Beyond the canopy are three mini football pitches, set-up across a single full-size pitch

There were supposed to be six teams in the tournament today, but it seems likely that one had too many weak swimmers and decided that discretion being the better part of valour they would stay indoors and plot their return to action on a day when drowning would be less of a risk. As if in some sort of under 7’s Hampshire-based Champions League, each team will play each other twice with the top two sides eventually meeting in a play-off final.

The matches begin promptly at half past one, I think, with the grandson’s team being one of two representing his local club and wearing an all-blue kit with yellow trim. The first match is on the pitch at the top of the field against a team in purple shirts and black shorts who very quickly create the impression that several of their players know what they’re doing. ‘The Purples’ as I quickly come to think of them dominate the ten-minute match and deservedly win 2-0, with their number twelve impressively fulfilling a sort of roving wing back role and claiming both goals in similar fashion, ghosting in from the right-hand side like a miniature Achraf Hakimi.

So far, so disappointing and to continue with the theme the next game will be at the other end of the field with the spectating area facing into the teeth of the gale. Apparently, this next fixture will be akin to a local derby as the two local teams play one another and if we’re unlucky, we may even get to hear someone mention “bragging rights”. The grandson’s team’s poor showing in their opening fixture looks to be continuing as they soon fall behind to a long-range goal from a large boy in glasses who also happens to be the son of one of the coaches. But largely, if not entirely through the efforts of their two best players, a diminutive but tenacious dribbler who sports blond hair tied back if not in a man-bun, then in a boy-bun, and a solid, steam roller of a boy, they rally to win by two goals to one.

It’s slightly uphill back again to the top of the field but the trek helps keep our blood circulating usefully and when we get there the wind and rain will be at our backs and battering not us, but the mature trees and hedgerow that mark the boundary with the agriculture beyond. By the time I’ve struggled through the storm I find I have missed kick-off but a lady who I think is the mother of by far the biggest boy in the team, helpfully tells me that it’s still goalless. Sadly, it doesn’t stay goalless for long and even more sadly for the grandson, it is his turn to play in goal. What follows is his team’s heaviest defeat of the afternoon, a stonking 4-0 reverse to a green-shirted team from Reading. In another one-sided game I can’t even report that the boy made a string of fine saves, he didn’t, and mostly only seemed to notice the ball if it came straight at him.

With spirits now more than just dampened we trudge back to the other end of the field for the final game in the first set of fixtures, which is against a team who sport an all-royal blue kit with extremely natty white trim and a club badge which is a blatant Reading FC knock-off but with added silhouettes of a ruin and World War Two fighter planes. Because of the colour clash however, the other team wear orange tabards. After their pasting in the previous game the grandson’s team surprisingly fare much better, scraping a goalless draw, although much of this is down to the goal being filled by the impressively big boy mentioned above, who in terms of mass is like any two other boys rolled into one.

With the tournament now at ‘half-time’ I reflect on what I have learned so far, which is mainly that the grandson is unlikely to have a career in professional or even amateur football unless a quirky rule change decrees that every team must include a slightly dreamy player who needs to take a run-up whenever he kicks the ball. Otherwise, I am only reminded of what I already knew, that under sevens football mostly consists of a knot of children hounding the ball as those of greatest ability dribble with it; oh, and some kids have plainly watched Match of the Day whilst others haven’t. I am intrigued to think what adult football would be like if played in this style and wonder if this is actually what the game was like back in the days when the likes of the Royal Engineers and Old Carthusians contested FA Cup finals.

My reverie is interrupted by the start of the grandson’s team’s return encounter with ‘The Purples’, whose real name I now know, courtesy of the daughter-in-law. Oddly for a youth football team from Berkshire, this team’s badge looks uncannily like that of Plymouth Argyle, and I worry that some dislocated ‘Janner’ is subverting young minds into becoming ‘Pilgrims’. Happily, the grandson seems immune to anything much to do with football, although his team goes on to perform much better in their latest encounter, losing by just a single goal to nil, and that was only from a long range shot when no one was paying attention.

Back down the field, it’s now time again to play the grandson’s club’s other team, the only side so far incapable of avoiding defeat to the grandson’s team. Slightly surprisingly the boy’s team proceed to win for a second time and by a barely believable four goals to nil. Flushed with success, the victors head back up the field to renew their acquaintance with the team in green and with the grandson again in goal. After going a goal down, we all think this version of the village team have claimed a creditable one-all draw when the boy who resembles a steamroller scores a late ‘equaliser’. But checking the scores at the end of the match the result has been recorded as a 2-1 win for the greens. Rumour has it that the greens’ coach had said to the teenage referee “so we won that one 2-1 then?” and not really knowing what the score was the callow youth agreed. But hey, what’s the occasional misreported result between soggy seven-year-olds? And in these conditions qualifying to play another game would be a mixed blessing.

For the grandson’s team the tournament ends with a three-nil defeat to the still nattily dressed team in all blue, with all the goals being scored by a blond lad who appears to me to have a prematurely receding hairline. With the game over, we head for the welcome shelter of the canopy where the smell of barbecued, reclaimed meat products still lingers. Although it would be nice to go straight home to dry out, we wait for the end of the play-off final after which all the players of all five teams will receive a medal for their participation. Perhaps unsurprisingly the final is between the Purples and the Greens, the two teams whose coaches, to my stepson’s amusement seem most eager for their teams to do well.

With medals having been presented, I venture out from under the canopy to meet and congratulate the grandson and take his photograph with his medal. I am however quickly warned off by the daughter-in-law who advises me that he is not in a good frame of mind being unhappily wet and tired. The grandson returns home with his mum whilst I bring the afternoon to a more satisfactory conclusion by heading off with my stepson to buy beer and this evening’s dinner.

The following day as my wife Paulene and I bid farewell, the daughter-in-law says she hopes I enjoyed the football. Seeing the blank expression on my face she adds with a laugh my anticipated response “What football?”. Ho hum, I think I will now wait patiently until August.

Ipswich Town 3 Queens Park Rangers 0

May 3, 2026May 4, 2026 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

I was awake before my alarm went off this morning, which was a good thing because being awoken by an alarm clock on a Saturday morning is plainly wrong. What was not a good thing however was that I had thought it necessary to set my alarm because the evil media moguls of Sky tv had decreed that Ipswich Town will begin their last match of the season, against Queens Park Rangers at just half an hour past noon and I am therefore having to catch a train to Ipswich before the clocks have struck ten o’clock. Having noted that the weather forecast from the met office predicted temperatures of almost 20 degrees centigrade today I decided to wear a lighter pair of trousers. Feeling in the pocket of these “cargo pants”, which I probably hadn’t warn since late last summer, I discover the receipt for a cheap bottle of champagne. I take it as a portent of celebrations yet to come.

At the railway station I wait with a man called Gareth who introduces me to Sally who is also going to the match. “How do you feel about the match?” asks Gareth. “Relaxed” I reply. Gareth and Sally laugh as if that can’t possibly be so. But it is. I always want Town to win, but if they don’t, then they don’t. I don’t want to get ill over it. I have no idea if the train arrives on time but I’m soon talking to Gary as we speed towards the promised land, Ipswich. Our only disappointment is that as we descend the hill through Wherstead a train passes in the opposite direction obscuring our potential view of the polar bears, but I still manage to see one. In Ipswich, the sun is shining as we walk to the Arb stopping only to purchase a programme from one of the kiosks that look like they should also sell ice creams. I explain to Gary that I am exceptionally buying a programme (£4.00) today because it will potentially be an auspicious occasion, although if Town don’t win I will likely be left with a programme I don’t really want, although the front cover does feature a picture in profile of Darnell Furlong staring moodily off into the distance.

Inside the Arb there is a queue for the bar and not wishing to cause a scene I reluctantly join it. Queues at the bar in pubs? The world has gone mad. Happily, the queue moves quickly, and I am soon looking for Gary in the beer garden whilst holding a tray on which sit a pint of Estrella Galicia for Gary and two pints of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride, one for me and one for Mick, who has texted me to say he will be arriving late. Our conversation today soon establishes that our lives are currently quite boring and uneventful although Mick is considering going to Venice by rail and is exploring the possibility of getting a ferry to Bilbao and then a train across southern France into Italy, perhaps stopping in Marseille to take in a match at the Velodrome. Two more pints of Suffolk Pride, a pint and half of Estrella and two whiskies later we are alone in the beer garden because all the other drinkers left a good ten minutes ago or more and we are ready to depart for Portman Road too.

There are no queues at the back of the Sir Alf Ramsey stand when I arrive and I even manage to use the side access normally reserved for people with disabilities, before accessing the stand through the illustrious turnstile sixty-two. I am venting spent Suffolk Pride when the excitable young stadium announcer announces the team and imagining I am in a pissoir, like a Frenchman at the Stade Jean Bouin or Stade Abbe des Champs I bawl the surnames of the few players whose squad numbers I can remember, or whose first names are long enough for me to work out which surname they belong to before the announcer finishes saying them. Up in the stand Pat from Clacton, Fiona, the man from Stowmarket (Paul), ever-present Phil who never misses a game, and his son Elwood are of course already here.

Eventually, with huddles having huddled, bursts of flame having died down and plumes of smoke having settled, the game begins with the Park Rangers of the Queen getting first go with the ball in their strikingly metrosexual livery of black and pinked halved shirts and black shorts. The Rangers try to point the ball in the direction of Norwich Road and local twentieth century public housing landmark Cumberland Towers. The Town are as ever in our signature blue shirts and white shorts and the teams wear Halos on their shirt fronts, instead of above their heads.

Inside two minutes Leif Davis is bearing down on Joe Walsh in the Rangers goal, but his low shot is saved by the former Eagles guitarist at the expense of a corner and an early rendition from me and as many as half a dozen others of ‘Come on You Blues’. As usual our shouts fall on stoney ground and the ball is cleared. But the Town are relentless, assaulting the Rangers goal with wave after wave of running at them with the ball down both flanks and through the middle. Within another two minutes Town lead, George Hirst kicking the ball over the goal line from improbably close range after slick passing finds Leif Davis crossing the ball low into the deepest recesses of the goal mouth. “E-I, E-I, E-I, O, Up the Football League we go!” fills the void, although in truth we can’t actually go any further up the Football league because Coventry have already bagged first position.

Behind me a bloke sings loudly and out of tune, like an international footballer rendering his national anthem as a tv camera looks up his nostrils. “Ipswich Town, Ipswich Town FC, the finest football team the world has ever seen” we bellow with tearful sincerity to the tune of The Wild Rover. This is how the match was meant to begin; it was how it began in Town supporters’ dreams and those dreams are becoming a reality. The onslaught continues with what seems like a season’s worth of attacking intent and desire rolled into one as if making up for lost time. It’s the tenth minute when more joyful running and passing leaves Jaden Philogene in front of goal and a jink and a twist later to avoid a Park Ranger he’s rolling the ball into the Rangers’ goal from about six metres away. Two-nil to Ipswich Town and that’s it; I reckon we’ve won.

With the game won, the excitement subsides a little and Town allow the Rangers a little more of the ball. Up in the Cobbold Stand, the Rangers’ supporters make the attacks that their team is unable to conjure by chanting “Football in a library, do-do-do”. I cope with the insult by thinking of tv’s Crossroads and inwardly laughing to myself that their number twenty-three is called Bennie, even if the spelling is wrong. The Rangers fans respond with “Two-nil and you still don’t sing”. The first half is half over and the bloke next to me says “It’s all about game management now”. I think to myself that our game management in the first ten minutes was pretty flippin’ good. Back on the pitch George Hirst goes to stamp on a balloon but it escapes from beneath his boot and he stamps on fresh air, which looks decidedly uncool. To escape further embarrassment and to punish the balloon George proceeds to pick it up and crushes it with his bare hands.

Town are managing the game well enough now that with six minutes to go until half-time the blokes behind me and a few from further along the row feel confident enough to repair to the bar for an early half-time beer. Within two minutes the Rangers win their first corner, but the ball is easily gathered by Christian Walton because generally, as Fiona remarks, corners are equally ineffectual for all teams. The words “Hot Sausage Company” scroll across the face of the Sir Bobby Robson stand in yellow on a vivid red background and we learn that five minutes of time are to be taken from our futures to make up for players lying prone on the turf during the previous forty-five minutes.

Unusually, the stolen five minutes provide some excitement as Town are awarded a free-kick just outside the Rangers’ penalty area and referee Mr Gavin Ward gets carried away marking out a line ten yards from the ball, applying his white spray with aplomb like a cross between Banksy and Jackson Pollock. From the free-kick a corner ensues, presenting the last time this season in which the Churchman’s ultras will chant “Come on You Blues” and share the disappointment of not scoring again.

With the half-time whistle I go for the final time, until August that is, to the front of the stand to speak with Ray, his son Michael and grandson Harrison and in passing to Dave the steward before venting more spent Suffolk Pride and returning to my seat in time for the re-start of the football at twenty-three minutes to two.

The second half is not unexpectedly different to the first, football mostly being a game of two halves. Rangers have made two substitutions, one having the unusual first name of Tylon to rhyme with Skylon and Nylon, and the players have evidently received a reminder from their French coach Monsieur Stephan about the need to try and score les buts. As a result, an early Town shot at Walsh becomes an isolated incident as Rangers proceed to soon win a corner and a free-kick and their supporters become optimistic enough to chant “Come on you R’s” with genuine enthusiasm. It seems that Monsieur Stephan has successfully injected a bit of va-va-voom and even “Je ne sais quoi” into his players. I am particularly impressed by Ranger’s number ten Ilias Chair, although he is quite small, more of a footstool or a pouffe than a chair really.

Despite the Rangers’ improved showing I don’t get the impression anyone is getting over-anxious. “Another goal would knock the stuffing out of them” says Fiona, and I agree with her, my only quibble with her analysis being that it makes QPR sound a bit too much like cuddly toys and I wouldn’t want to see the Portman Road pitch festooned with kapok.

With an hour gone the Rangers’ fans launch a final attempt to goad the home supporters with a chant of “Football in a library”. But their efforts fall on deaf ears, which is hardly surprising given the age of some of us in the Sir Alf Ramsey stand. Two minutes later and the traditional ‘half an hour left’ substitutions are made by a thoughtful looking Keiran McKenna as Philogene and Burns are replaced by Clarke and McAteer. Almost instantly, Town win a couple of predictably disappointing corners but it’s enough to re- invigorate the home crowd, who are soon back to chanting “E-I, E-I, E-I, O, Up the Football League we go” in the simple style of a class of primary school children. Twenty-one minutes of normal time remain when Jack Clarke shoots wide of the goal. A minute later and Nunez and Hirst depart for the bench to be replaced by Azon and Mehmeti in the well-rehearsed fashion. Across the illuminated centre of the Sir Bobby Robson stand the spirit of optimism is echoed in the words “The future of flat roofing today”.

Another goal would be good, and I sense some frustration that it hasn’t been scored yet as everyone yearns to see the game ‘put to bed’, perhaps with a milky cup of Horlicks or Cocoa. Leif Davis getting booked barely registers in the scheme of things now and the longed-for goal almost comes as Jack Clarke is fouled and from the free-kick the ball is headed across the face of the Rangers’ goal. Eleven minutes of normal time remain, and Rangers’ Smyth makes his mark on the game by having his name taken by Mr Ward for a foul on Darnell Furlong. Eight minutes of normal time remain, and the Sir Bobby Robson standers are now confident enough to test out a chant of “We are going up, We are going up”, which almost seems to be the signal for a parade of stewards and police in what look like uniforms that can easily be wiped clean to surround the pitch.

Seven minutes remain, and Christian Walton is forced into a flying save to keep out a shot from one or other of the Park Rangers and it’s as if the surrounding of the pitch by people dressed in black and day-glo orange might have been distracting. But three minutes later play is at the desired end of the ground again as Jack Taylor storms towards goal, the ball is blocked but runs to Kasey McAteer who guides it into the net and Town lead three-nil.

Now the game is truly over and promotion is secured, again. It doesn’t really matter that Dan Neil replaces Jack Taylor, that we number 29,636 today or that four minutes of added on time will be added on. With the final whistle, within seconds a swarm of supporters cover the pitch and Town are definitively promoted to what is called the Premier League. The last time I saw this many people on the pitch at a match versus QPR they were fighting each other.

Very few people leave to catch trains or buses today. I was going to, but against my better judgement I hang about pointlessly looking on at people milling about the pitch whilst the excitable young stadium announcer tells them that there will be no presentation of the runners-up trophy until the pitch is completely cleared. I am wasting my life away here. The game ended at twenty past two and its three o’clock by the time the presentation of the trophy is made but there are too many other people on the pitch to see that and then the team don’t parade it around the pitch, they just hang about near the halfway line enduring very loud music. A blast of Status Quo at getting on for two-thirty is the final straw and I head for the railway station and home to find that I must have already drunk that bottle of champagne for which I found the receipt.