Lakenheath 2 Mulbarton Wanderers 0

April 29, 2019April 29, 2019 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

The village of Lakenheath, in the top left hand corner of Suffolk beyond Mildenhall is some 69 kilometres from the County Town of Ipswich, about an hour’s drive along the A14, the A1101 and then the B1112. Lakenheath has a railway station but hardly any trains stop there. If you want to watch Lakenheath FC play on a Saturday afternoon and you really, really want to travel by train two journeys are possible; leaving Ipswich at 8am and 8.08am these take you via Ely and Thetford or via Norwich and Thetford arriving at twenty four minutes past ten, giving you ample time to walk or even crawl the near 4.5 kilometres to Lakenheath village; no buses pass the station. You’ll need to take a sleeping bag because there is no train back from Lakenheath until the next day. If however, you like a lie-in on a Saturday morning but are still committed to saving the planet by using public transport then from Ipswich it is easier and quicker to catch the 11:20 train to Bury St Edmunds from where Mulley’s Motorways service 955 to Mildenhall connects with Coach Services service 201, which arrives ‘outside the post box’ (as opposed to inside it) at Lakenheath at 13.33. Getting back is difficult however because the last bus out of Lakenheath arrives in Mildenhall at 18.18, eight minutes after the last bus departed for Bury. The only way to return from Lakenheath therefore is to catch the 18.58 number 200 bus to Thetford, which is perfectly timed to arrive one minute after the train to Ely for the onward connection to Ipswich left at 19:24. The next train from Thetford is the 19:54 to Norwich from where a connection arrives back in Ipswich at 21:41. The on-line timetables tell us that the bus ‘services’ are supported by Suffolk County Council, but it’s as if they are trying to make them unusable, perhaps so a lack of passengers will justify not supporting them in the future.

With the best part of seven hours being a lot of time to spend on travelling to a ‘local’ football match, my wife Paulene and I reluctantly dodge the pleas of Greta Thurnberg and climb in to our trusty Citroen C3. Sadly, it’s not such a fine day to go travelling either, with low grey clouds, a strong blustery wind and the threat of rain casting foreboding over the Suffolk landscape. The countryside is bleak on a day such as this, although the open fields of Breckland with their rows of contorted Scots Pine trees (pine lines) leaning with the prevailing wind give this corner of Suffolk a distinctive character.

Lakenheath has a long broad main street; we pass the medieval church of St Mary the Virgin on our right and at the instruction of our French speaking satnav turn a droite into Wing Street and then a gauche into a rough car park and the gateway to ‘The Pit’ or ‘The Nest’ as Lakenheath’s football ground is known. Access is down a rough slope and round a sharp corner into another small rough car park; the site is an old chalk pit or quarry. We’ve definitely come to the right place as the Mulbarton Wanderers team bus is parked opposite and they are today’s opponents.

Tall trees surround us on three sides and as I lock up the Citroen Paulene takes crunchy footsteps across the car park to the small wooden turnstile hut without a turnstile. Paulene asks the man in the wooden hut how old you have to be to be considered a pensioner but he doesn’t answer and charges us full price (£5 each), we buy a programme too (£1). The players are out on the pitch warming up as we head for the clubhouse; Paulene remarks on the dugouts being on the far side of the pitch and admits to having hated having to trudge across the pitch from the changing room to the dugout in her time as physio with Wivenhoe Town. It looks like Lakenheath have recently moved theirs to the other side of the pitch, perhaps to improve the view from the stand.

The clubhouse is spacious, if a little dark as a result, but the bar and barmaid are bright and welcoming and I order a glass of rose for Paulene; sadly there is no real ale so I take a deep breath and order a half of Greene King IPA ‘Smooth’, although I would prefer almost any other beer, even if it’s rough; the two drinks cost £5.30. We sit at a table by a window. The TV is on but a caption says there is no signal, perhaps because we are in the bottom of a quarry. Without TV to dull people’s minds the room is filled with the sound of conversation but also the thumping rhythm of loud music from the changing rooms next door; I like to imagine it’s the referees not the players making the noise and that they are stood in their pants singing into hairbrushes and playing air-guitar . At the table behind us three middle-aged men talk very loudly as if trying to be heard above the sound of jet engines at the nearby air force base. They discuss retired footballers, most of whom are now dead. Although this is a far flung corner of Suffolk, the twang of London accents is evident. A man in a yellow and black jacket sells us a strip of yellow draw tickets, Nos 481 to 485. As usual I am destined not to win; the seller has got to me four strips too early.

Time passes quickly and it’s almost five to three. The loud men behind us have already left and we follow suit, downing what’s left of our drinks before braving the breezy outdoors; we both have our woolly hats on today. The two teams line up behind the referee Mr Cameron Saunders and his two assistants Messrs Andrew Hardy and Lewis Lofts, who sounds like he might offer to board over your attic. The group marches on to the pitch but quickly break formation, not hanging round for any ritual handshaking as happens at higher levels of the game.

Lakenheath get first go with the ball kicking towards Wing Street and wearing green shirts with white shorts and socks, they look a bit like French Ligue 2 club Red Star. Mulbarton Wanderers are in all pale blue with shirts sponsored by ‘Pip’s Skips’ and they play in the direction of the railway line far off to the north. The early pace of the game is fast with a clear desire to get the ball forward quickly. Mulbarton soon settle but look lightweight up front. Despite the blustery wind and a hard and uneven looking pitch some of the football is neat and good to watch. For both these clubs it’s their first ever season in the Eastern Counties League First Division, step-six of non-league football, and both have done well, with Mulbarton guaranteed a third place finish and Lakenheath set to finish fifth in the nineteen team league if they win today.

Weirdly Lakenheath don’t seem to have a team captain, with no one wearing an armband and no one annotated as such on the team sheet. As much as a sort of football-collective seems a good idea, their goal keeper Frank Gammon, which incidentally I think is a great name, seems to be taking on the mantle however, with his constant encouragement and advice from the penalty area. “Win your battles”, “Left Shoulder”, “No foul” he shouts, continuously. But he’s doing a good job and Mulbarton are kept at bay without much difficulty. Lakenheath seem to have just one striker, number nine Shaun Avis who the programme tells me has scored 15 goals in just seven games this season, which is rather impressive. He looks lively but misses the two chances he has, taking the ball around the Mulbarton keeper Tom Wright by the corner of the penalty area, but then going for the spectacular and achieving it with a spectacularly high and wide shot before also glancing a free header wide of the goal.

Paulene and I take a stroll around to take in the ambiance of ‘The Pit’, which we both agree is a much better name than ‘The Nest’ not just because it is devoid of unfortunate associations with Norwich City, which is very important in Suffolk. It’s a name that makes me think of Clive King’s children’s novel ‘Stig of the Dump’ and I imagine a variation of the story in which a boy makes friends with a team of Neolithic footballers and helps them erect a goal, which looks uncannily like Stonehenge. This is a lovely football ground, the steep sides of the former quarry and the tall trees acting like natural substitutes for tall stands and creating a sense of enclosure which few non-league grounds even at much higher levels can rival. Sadly it’s a grey day today but it must be beautiful in the sunshine; even today there is birdsong and the tall trees sway eerily in the wind; wild flowers grow behind the goal lines and one corner of the pitch is covered in daisies, albeit closed up ones. Sadly, it’s not yet possible to walk all around the pitch but a concrete path behind the dug-outs and right hand goal form the man stand is due to be completed in the close season.

Back on the pitch, Mulbarton appeal for a penalty. “Handball!” shouts someone, “Rubbish” shouts someone else in response from the stand. Either way no one seems to much like referee Mr Saunders and someone else shouts “Referee, you’re getting worse”. I am slightly suspicious of Mr Saunders myself, his hair is just a bit too neat; he could be a Jehovah’s witness or a Mormon. Meanwhile on the near touchline to the stand the grey-haired, be-spectacled referee’s assistant reminds me of a conductor on the Eastern Counties buses I used catch to school.

Half-time arrives and I depart for the clubhouse where there is a short queue at the bar for teas and coffees. As I queue the half-time draw is made; ticket number 501 wins first prize and the man behind me in the queue discovers he is the winner, but at least I get my tea before him. The tea (£1 per ‘cup’) is poured from a large pot into china mugs, this is sadly something that happens almost nowhere else in senior football any more but it should. If a football club is happy to get the china out it makes you feel like a human being, not as if any old plastic or polystyrene receptacle will do just to get another quid out of you; it feels like they want people to enjoy this tea, as if they care; and a very good cup of tea it is too. We drink our tea in the small brick stand, a homely and utilitarian structure with wooden benches, it’s beautifully dilapidated and I hope it’s never demolished to make way for one of the boring modern, ‘meccano’ stands.

Paulene and I are refreshed and the game begins again at precisely three minutes past four. Within six minutes Lakenheath are ahead. No one seems quite sure why, although importantly Mulbarton players do not seem to be complaining, but Mr Saunders awards a penalty to Lakenheath and top scorer Kelvin Enaro scores his twenty eighth goal of the season, booting the ball to Tom Wright’s right as he collapses to his knees. With a goal lead Lakenheath are more relaxed; the pace of the game is a little slower and the passing more accurate and more controlled, there’s less anxiety. Mulbarton look even less likely to score than they did in the first half, but do claim the first booking of the match as their number seven, the splendidly named Dom Doggett, incurs Mr Saunders’ wrath for a foul. It’s not long before Doggett is substituted for number fourteen, Charlie Norman.

For a while the game drifts and I listen to the birdsong and enjoy the lush greenery of the quarry banks. A tall, grey-haired man walks up into the stand carrying a match ball. “Man of the match Dave? What did you do, score a hat-trick?” asks a voice at the back. Eventually Lakenheath win a corner and the action steps up a gear. “Come on Heath” shouts a man in the stand; it’s not a very imaginative nickname for the club but it follows the pattern set at nearby Mildenhall who are known as ‘The Hall’. Personally, I reckon they should be known as ‘The Quarrymen’ . After one corner, follows another as a shot flashes past the post, deflected away by the Mulbarton defence. It’s twenty-five past four and Frank Gammon sends a kick deep into the Mulbarton half, the bounce fools the Mulbarton defence and number eleven James McCabe runs on to poke the ball over Tom Wright’s head and puts ‘The Heath’ (‘The Quarrymen’) two-nil up.

With the second goal the game changes and seems to lose the reserve it showed earlier. Lakenheath miss open-goals and hit the cross-bar whilst Mr Saunders the referee becomes rather officious and begins to wave his yellow card about with gay-abandon, booking players on both teams, mostly it appears for whinging and whining rather than anything particularly serious. I think it’s his way of adding to the entertainment, everyone loves a good moan about the referee. But happily if there is any ill-feeling it doesn’t last and with the final whistle Mr Saunders and his assistants stand together to receive the handshakes of both teams.

As the stand empties out after the game we stop and talk for several minutes with three people in orange hi-viz jackets, who are temporarily working on the air base, it’s almost as if we don’t want to leave. Driving back home along the B1112 Paulene and I reflect on our afternoon at ‘The Pit’ and both agree that we’ve had a most enjoyable time and importantly have witnessed a Suffolk team beating a Norfolk one which in my mind at least helps redress the recent imbalance between Ipswich Town and Norwich City. We look forward to returning on a sunny day.

Ipswich Town 0 Swansea City 1

April 25, 2019October 2, 2021 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

Despite being fortunate enough to grow up and go to school in Suffolk, I was born in Haverfordwest in Pembrokeshire, Wales, where I lived until I was a few months old and my parents moved to my mother’s home village of Shotley and took me and my sister with them, like the good parents that they were. The nearest Football League club to Haverfordwest is Swansea City, (still Swansea Town when I was born) and there is an argument that says I might follow their fortunes, but I don’t. The dual nationality comes in handy when Wales do well in the rugby and I like leeks, cheese on toast, Ivor the Engine, Sgorio and daffodils; but that’s as Welsh as I am see. I wouldn’t normally mention it but today Town play Swansea City, and I’ve written this first paragraph in a Welsh accent.

At the railway station it’s another gloriously warm, cloudless day and sunlight glints off the tracks. The only travellers are all bound for Ipswich and the match; the train is on time. The carriage is sparsely populated and I share it with a hard looking woman and two young children, a girl and a boy. As the train arrives into Colchester she scolds them in a harsh voice that sounds like a man’s. “Drake, McKenna get away from the door”. I can’t help but derive amusement from the names of children nowadays, it’s my age. The children seem almost to roll their eyes as she speaks. Pleasingly they leave the train at Colchester and twenty five minutes later I arrive peacefully in Ipswich.

Ipswich is best under a blue sky and everything is beautiful as I walk up Princes Street and past the peeling paint of Portman Road with its ragged club flag to St Jude’s Tavern, which is dingy and the customers are reassuringly as old and ugly as ever. I order a pint of the Match Day Special (£2.50) Nethergate Venture. At the bar I meet Kev’ who I know from my days with Wivenhoe Town. Kev’ is wearing a dark flat cap which in the gloom of St Jude’s looks like a beret. I am wearing my “Allez les bleus” T-shirt today and tell him I thought the French had come to take me “home” to where I imagine I belong – that’s France, not Wales. I sit with the regular old gits who assemble here on match days. I talk to one of them (Phil) about statues of footballers and tell him that even Carlisle United has one, although I can’t remember who it is a statue of. Phil suggests it’s not a footballer but one of the Hairy Bikers because he knows one of them is from Cumbria. I tell him the Hairy Biker he’s thinking of is from Barrow In Furness, where the nuclear submarines come from. I drain my glass and fetch a pint of Butcomb Gold (£3.60), which seems livelier than the Venture even though I can’t help thinking Butcomb might be a West Country word for anus.

With the big hand heading up the clock face towards the figure eight, the pub empties and carried on a gentle human tide I soon find myself back in Portman Road. A selection of people are hawking copies of the Turnstile Blue fanzine where Portman Road meets Sir Alf Ramsey Way and I buy one (£1); it’s issue 20 and it’s much like the previous nineteen in its tone, but it’s nice when things are familiar. Unusually there are queues to get into the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand; not because of weight of numbers but because not all the turnstiles are open. Nevertheless, despite my desire to be French I like a good queue to get in the ground; it carries a faint hint of the ‘big match’ atmosphere, which is the best 17,247 people can really hope for in a 30,000 seat stadium. I enter turnstile number seven and wish the bespectacled female operator a happy Easter as she returns my freshly scanned season ticket card to me. She looks up, surprised as if she’d forgotten about the resurrection.

Bladder drained, I occupy a seat near ever-present Phil who never misses a game and just along from Pat from Clacton. Pat is fed up because a large man in a red hat is sat directly in front of her today and she’s only short; whichever way she looks a big red head is in her field of vision. We sit and wait for the teams to appear from the tunnel.

Town have been officially relegated for over a week now and today’s match is amongst the most pointless they have ever played, childishly I live in the hope that they will therefore treat it as a bit of fun, a bit like testimonial games are supposed to be. Would anyone be bothered if the two teams each agreed to play a 2-3-5 formation? I am not optimistic for this however as professional football tends to take itself much too seriously, like many of the fans, as the drivel that appears on social media testifies. The teams are announced and my hopes of football for fun are dashed.

The flags of tiny mascots and larger furry mascots sway to an amplified soundtrack of swirling music giving an undeserved aura of grandeur to the two teams as they walk out for this meaningless encounter, but I stand and applaud nevertheless, swept up with the lie that this match is bigger than really it is. As the game begins the noise level simmers down and a degree of reality returns. Town are hopefully aiming at the goal just to the left of me, ever-present Phil and Pat from Clacton; they inevitably wear blue and white shirts adorned with the unwelcome red adidas stripes and that nasty sponsors’ logo. In crisp white shorts and black shorts Swansea look like Germany, they are the Teutonic Taffies.

“One Dylan Thomas, There’s only one Dylan Thomas” sing the male voice choir from Swansea from the top corner of the Cobbold Stand, or perhaps they don’t. A serious looking steward collects blue and white balloons that have drifted from the stand, thereby suppressing someone’s expression of joy; no doubt the balloons had strayed dangerously close to the pitch. I like to think that as part of the club’s Community programme the balloons will later be released at the birthday parties of deprived children. Next to me Pat from Clacton continues to glower at the big red hat on the big head of the big man sitting in front of her. On the touchline Paul Lambert is celebrating Easter with a new jumper, a grey one, an infinite number of shades lighter than his usual black one, and people still accuse Scots of being dour.

On the pitch referee Mr Darren England, which seems a good name for a football referee, makes himself unpopular with the home support by seemingly giving fouls against Ipswich players and not Swansea ones. “You’re not fit to referee Subbuteo, you tiny little bugger” bawls an incensed voice from somewhere behind me, failing to notice that being tiny is actually one of the main requirements of being a Subbuteo referee along with being made from brittle plastic and glued into a circular base. The game is rather boring and Swansea are hogging the ball; like every other club that has been to Portman Road this season, they have the better players. into the Swansea penalty area and wins a corner. Will Keane misses a header and scuffs the ball against a post, the ball bounces about like it’s made of rubber bands before Trevoh Chalobah sends it flying past the other post into the stand. Sixty seconds later, give or take, another corner is won and Toto N’siala heads Alan Judge’s kick solidly over the cross bar. The supporters behind the goal are getting almost as much possession of the ball as Andre Dozzell. Pat and I are breathless at the sudden burst of attacking football from Town and are glad for the rest that half-time soon brings.

I use the facilities beneath the stand, eat a Panda brand liquorice stick and catch up on the half-time scores. A young man in a shirt and tie and smart trousers compliments me on my ‘Allez les Bleus’ T-shirt, “Cool T-shirt” he says brightly. He’s not wrong. The match stats on the TV screen above the concourse are blatantly wrong however, claiming Ipswich have had eight shots to Swansea’s six; it’s as if the stats are being reported by Donald Trump or the Brexit campaign. I return to the stand to talk to Ray who confesses to being underwhelmed by the first half.

At six minutes past four the game resumes. I laugh when Gwion Edwards stretches to head the ball by the touchline then tumbles out of sight over the perimeter wall; “well for me” to quote Mick Channon, it’s the best move of the match so far. Happily, Gwion quickly bounces back up and plays on, but that’s the sort of entertainment end of season games need. Minutes later Dean Gerken makes a quite spectacular low, diving, ‘finger-tip save’ from a Daniel James shot before the very tiny, thirty-four year old Wayne Routledge, whose shorts almost reach his calves, runs the ball over the goal line and is met with jeers and guffaws from the appreciative crowd in the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand. But Wayne has a friend in fate today and within a few minutes a shot rebounds off Town’s right hand post and straight onto the turf in front of Wayne who is quick enough not to miss an open goal and Swansea are winning.

The attendance is announced as 17,247 with 557 of those being from Swansea; Collin Quaner and Kayden Jackson replace Andre Dozzell and Will Keane. Wayne Routledge is replaced by Nathan Dyer. “I can’t believe we’re losing again” says Pat from Clacton. I make a sympathetic humming noise in reply, I couldn’t think of any proper words to say. Behind Pat sit two large middle aged women. “We don’t really get the sun here, do we” says one obviously engrossed in the game, before adding “Coronation Street’s on tonight”.

Town struggle to equalise and Pat and I are a little despondent, “I don’t really enjoy coming here anymore” she says “It’s not like it used to be”. We are Ipswich’s spoilt generation who remember the 1970’s and early 1980’s. But Pat is already planning to renew her season ticket and might get one for her young niece too. Of course I am going to renew mine as well as will ever-present Phi who never misses game; I’m looking forward to the big discount when the other 13, 996 sign up. Pat takes a photograph using the 20x zoom lens on her compact Sony camera and picks out her brother stood in the North Stand, it’s one of the most impressive things I’ve seen all afternoon.

Time drifts by under a hazy blue sky and at last the stadium clock turns nine minutes to five. It’s been a disappointing hour and a half of football and to add insult to injury we are forced to sit through six minutes of time added on; as if relegation wasn’t bad enough we are now all in detention. Hopes are raised with a last minute corner and Dean Gerken leaves his goal to join in the penalty area melee at the far end; I stand up and lurch forward as if to join him too, but realise just in time that that sort of commitment is generally frowned upon nowadays. Little Alan Judge’s corner kick is poorly judged and sails away over everyone’s heads anyway. Finally Mr Darren England makes a belated and vain bid for popularity by blowing the final whistle.

Normally the team does a lap of honour or appreciation around the pitch after the last game of the season, but because the last game of this season will be against Leeds United that lap is occurring today. Having been relegated the Town players don’t want thousands of oafish Yorkshireman flicking v’s at the them and screaming at them from the Cobbold Stand to “Fuck Off” as they wander round clutching assorted babies and toddlers and waving nicely. The players re-emerge from the tunnel without delay and I slavishly applaud as they drift by beyond a wall of stewards; within a couple of minutes I go home for my tea.

Coggeshall Town 2 Felixstowe & Walton United 1

April 22, 2019 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

It’s Easter and it is unseasonably warm. The mercury hit 23 degrees in my back garden yesterday and today could be warmer. In holiday mood and beneath a clear blue sky my wife Paulene and I set off in our trusty Citroen C3 on the short journey to Coggeshall to watch Coggeshall Town play Felixstowe & Walton United in the Bostik League, Division One North. We are taking the scenic route today in order to drop off Easter eggs for the grandsons; I feel like the Easter Bunny.

On arrival at their house, their father Colin is slouched watching Tottenham Hotspur on the telly, he responds mono- syllabically to our attempts at conversation. Tottenham are losing, I quietly hope that they continue to do so. Grandson Harvey is as loquacious as his father, but does let Paulene know as economically as possible that it’s the same type of Easter egg we bought him last year.

With Easter eggs delivered we obligingly pop to the Co-op as their advertisements tell us to, so that I can draw some cash and Paulene can buy chocolate of her own; non-dairy chocolate, white vanilla by i-choc; Paulene is dairy intolerant. Leaving the treasures of the Co-op behind us we complete the third leg of our journey, heading along West Street before turning left in to the bouncy car park of what was once known colourfully as ‘The Crops’, but has boringly been re-christened the West
Street Ground; how dull. Our Citroen C3 wishes it was a 2CV. A steward directs me to pull up close “to that one over there” a large Vauxhall. We disembark and a car load of Felixstowe followers park up next to us in another, smaller Vauxhall. At the turnstile I hand over two ten pound notes and receive £3.50 is change (Adult £10, Pensioner £5, programme £1.50). “Enjoy the match” says the turnstile operator “You too” I tell him “If you get to see it”. Oddly, the cost of entry has gone up a pound since I last was here for the FA Cup tie versus Witham in August last year, maybe FA Cup ties are just cheaper

We walk along the concrete path to the clubhouse, looking down upon the pitch on to which water sprinklers gently play. The path along the ‘top of the ground’, behind the main stand is one of the things I like best about “The Crops”. In the clubhouse Tottenham are still on the telly and they’re still losing. To celebrate I order a glass of Rose and a pint of Adnams Ghostship (£7.90 for the two); disappointingly the Ghostship is of the fizzy variety, but at least it’s not Greene King.

Drinks in hands we step back outside and sit at a “Yogi Bear–style picnic table”, I order a sausage roll (£3.50) from the ‘tea-hatch’. £3.50 might seem a lot for a sausage roll but there is more sausage meat in this sausage roll than in all the sausage rolls ever sold by Greggs put together; and this is real sausage meat, not a weird pink paste. I exaggerate perhaps, but not much. In truth, there is perhaps so much sausage meat that I would recommend bringing a small selection of pickles to help it down and add further to your enjoyment.

A steady stream of locals and visiting Felixstowe supporters make their way to the clubhouse from the turnstile and car park beyond, along the concrete path. Eventually I finish my sausage roll and we decide to take shelter from the sun in the shade of the main stand, which the Coggeshall Town website tells us was erected in 1964. We find seats near the middle of the stand at the very back, two seats behind Keith and Jim, who are in the front row and kindly share their team sheets with us.

Keith and Jim went to watch Colchester United play Grimsby Town yesterday; Keith nearly fell asleep he tells us. A friend of Keith and Jim arrives and hands out bars of chocolate, explaining that he won’t be at the game next week.

The teams are announced over one of the clearest sounding PA systems I have ever heard at a football ground and the teams line-up for the ritual shaking of hands; “See, home team on the left, away team on the right” points out Paulene, giving closure to a conversation we had over dinner a few days ago. It’s something I had never noticed, perhaps because I don’t care enough.

Coggeshall kick-off in the direction of the clubhouse and Braintree far beyond, wearing their red and black striped shirts with black shorts and red socks; it’s a fine looking kit. Sartorially however, Felixstowe do their best to match them with an attractive away ensemble of pale blue and white striped shirts with white shorts; if the two-teams swapped shorts and Coggeshall bleached their socks it would look like AC Milan v Argentina. Felixstowe, known as The Seasiders, aim in the direction of the car park and downtown Coggeshall, with its clock tower and the Co-op. Coggeshall, or The Seedgrowers as they are known informally are swift going forward and dominate the early stages.

Felixstowe don’t look much good. The play is rough and the Felixstowe No3, Henry Barley goes down two or three times, much to the disgust of some of the home crowd. “Pussy” shouts one, “Watch him, he doesn’t fancy it anymore” says the man next to me, “It’s a man’s game” calls another. “Erm no, Aussie Rules is a man’s game” says Paulene as a quiet aside, just to me. So far the game has mostly been Coggeshall’s Nnamdi Nwachuku and Michael Gyasi harrying the Felixstowe defence with their speed and nifty footwork. Seventeen minutes pass, Coggeshall piece together a few passes down the right and a cross finds No8 Tevan Allen; he is on his own at the near post. With time on his hands Tevan kicks the ball up in the air and then, as it drops back down to head height, executes a spectacular overhead kick sending it into the far corner of the goal. It is a remarkable goal, even more so if the initial kick up in the air was intended rather than being a case of not quite controlling the ball, but the latter sadly seems more likely. Tevan celebrates appropriately.

With the breakthrough made, Coggeshall will surely go on score more. But no, with the breakthrough made Felixstowe improve and begin to get forward themselves, often on ‘the break’ with their No9, the heftily built Liam Hillyard, a sort of non-league version of former Ipswich Town player Martyn Waghorn, making the runs into the penalty area. The game stagnates a bit as it becomes more even, with neither side playing particuarly well. The referee Mr Karl Sear makes himself unpopular with the home supporters because he doesn’t book any Felixstowe players, only talks to them, whilst also awarding Felixstowe several free-kicks, seemingly for not much at all.

My attention wanders and I admire a rusty hole in the corrugated iron roof of the stand; ventilation is just what’s needed on a warm day like today.
With a fraction more than five minutes until half-time, Liam Hillyard breaks down the right for Felixstowe, he confuses the Coggeshall defenders sufficiently to pass the ball across the penalty area to Henry Barley who looks to have taken the ball too close to goal before booting it high into the net from an acute angle. After the comments made towards him earlier, Henry Barley might allow himself a wry smile (geddit?).

Things look bleak for Coggeshall; having failed to make the most of their advantage they have now lost it. But football as a game apart from being old is nothing if not funny and soon The Seedgrowers win a free kick. The ball is struck hopefully into the penalty area, players jump and the ball hits random body parts, boots are swung in the direction of the moving ball but none makes proper contact, a Felixstowe player sends the ball towards his own goalkeeper, two Felixstowe defenders go to aim a kick but politely leave it to one another; tired and bemused by its long journey across the penalty area the ball gives itself up to a surprised Nnamdi Nwachuku who happily scores a close-range goal as ropey as the Seedgrowers’ first goal was spectacular. The goal is greeted almost with jeers and laughter, but it still counts and it makes Nnamdi and this little corner of Coggeshall very happy.
Half-time soon follows and we leave our seats; Paulene to use the facilities, me to take our coats back to the car, we really won’t need them today. “Are you leaving?” asks Keith. I reassure him that
I’ll be back for the second half.

Returning from the Citroen I meet my next door neighbour Paul and his eldest son Matthew on the concrete path as they head to the car park end that Coggeshall will be attacking in the second half. Paul has captured the glory of Coggeshall’s second goal on his mobile phone, I think the best bit is where the two Felixstowe defenders let each other boot the ball and neither does. On the grass bank below the concrete path is Colin with his wife Tessa and grandson Harvey and Paulene; I join them in the sunshine and eat a coconut based flapjack that I bought at the Co-op and on which the chocolate has melted. I get just four out of ten in the “Seedgrowers’ half-time quiz” in the programme; how is any one supposed to know that Jamie Carragher has the middle names Lee and Duncan? The second half begins.

The expectation amongst those around me is that Coggeshall will score a third goal, but it doesn’t happen. The game becomes niggly and fractious with lots of swear words; Coggeshall Town is the place to come for sweary football. I kick back and stretch out on the grass enjoying the warmth of the Spring sunshine and the stillness of the afternoon, the peacefulness only punctuated by angry curses from players and supporters and frantic scribbling in his notebook by referee Mr Sear who books six players, three from each team including both Coggeshall goalscorers. Some decent chances to score are missed by both teams and Felixstowe perhaps have the best ones, but if you’d never been to a football match before and had come along because you’d heard about “the beautiful game”, you’d think Pele was a liar. The final act sees Felixstowe’s Callum Bennet sent off by Mr Sears for a poorly thought-out tackle, although conveniently for Bennett he didn’t have far to go because he committed the foul quite close to the corner of the field and the steps to the changing room; so it wasn’t all bad.

With the final whistle I reflect upon what has been a beautiful afternoon in the sun before we head back to the clubhouse for another drink; it’s that kind of a day. I look out for Jim and Keith as the ground empties but don’t see them, I worry that Keith thinks I didn’t return for the second half, which would make me no better than Pele.

Ipswich Town 1 Birmingham City 1

April 15, 2019 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

Today could be an auspicious occasion; today could be the day that Ipswich Town confirms its transition from the second division to the third division of English football. Towen ‘did their bit’ on Wednesday evening by losing at Brentford, but other clubs let them down by failing to win and make themselves un-catchable. Today however, anything but a win will mean Towen will play next season in the third tier and pretty much no one who isn’t at least seventy years old can remember that happening before. It’s nice that such a landmark can be achieved at Portman Road, in front of our own fans, and not on some ‘foreign field’ where mis-guided fools would only gloat.

I set off for the match in positive mood therefore, still believing in a miracle but also resigned to a fate that has been writ large on most walls since late October of 2018. It’s been a morning of sunshine and showers and cotton wool clouds are now heaped up in a pale blue sky, a corny metaphor for the darkness and light of life and football. The characteristic smell of settled dust on a damp pavement rises up with the warmth of the April sun. The railway station platform is busy with all types of people, Ipswich Town supporters, women in their early forties on a ‘girls’ outing, an unhappy looking hippy, teenagers taking selfies and a family of Birmingham City supporters. The train is on time. A poster catches my eye, “Delay, Repay, With Less Delay” it says, carefully avoiding to mention anything about ‘fewer delays’; it will prove prescient.

Arriving at Colchester, the train stops and the doors open. “What? Sorry, it’s cancelled?” shouts a guard down the platform giving unintended forewarning of what has happened. It transpires that a freight train has broken down further up the track; the train I arrived on disgorges its passengers and departs empty. Twenty minutes later the next train arrives and the same chain of events unfolds, although the guard doesn’t shout down the platform this time. If there’s a good thing about train delays it’s that people talk to one another, if only to share their annoyance and anxiety. People in club colours glance at other people in club colours. With both Ipswich and today’s opponents both wearing blue and white those glances are asking “Is he one of us?” A middle aged man with a monotone voice asks me how long it takes to drive to Ipswich. I guess he’s thinking of getting a taxi, or stealing a car. He’s a Birmingham fan who has travelled up from Torquay; he doesn’t go to home games, only away ones and it seems that he’s just as keen on visiting all ninety-two league grounds as following ‘The Blues’. I would speak to him more, but he’s a bit boring.

When the 13:48 to Ipswich arrives on platform two; it’s not cancelled and it departs twenty minutes later with the track ahead now clear. The voice of the lady train driver apologises for the delay and warns that a few more minutes are as yet likely to be added to the journey. “But we will arrive in Ipswich eventually, hopefully” she adds, with a final note of caution. Arriving in Ipswich at about twenty-five to three it is too late to go to St Jude’s Tavern and I have already texted Mick to cancel our planned triste; as he says in his reply “ …it would not be a social interlude, just necking a pint…”

Ipswich is busy, but weirdly the Station Hotel, which is reserved for away supporters, is empty. Outside a couple of bouncers relax and have a ciggy and talk to two of the unusually large number of police who are out on the streets today. I join the herd crossing the bridge opposite the station and heading for Portman Road. On a banner attached to a lamp post a blue cartoon Octopus called Digby urges everyone to love their streets and not drop litter; so I don’t. Birmingham accents assault my ears. “Excuse may” I hear one say politely as a prelude to asking where the away supporters end is. There’s nothing for me here so I move towards turnstile five where there is no queue. The glasses-wearing turnstile operator doesn’t look up as I hand him my season ticket card, he scans its bar code and hands it back to me. “Thank you” I say enthusiastically and with genuine gratitude, like I imagine Watch With Mother’s Mr Benn would, if he ever went to football match.

I speak with Dave the steward with whom I used to work and then make for my seat near ever-present Phil who never misses a game, his young son Elwood and Pat from Clacton. Today Phil is featured in the programme because it is 25 years since he last missed a Town game. Greetings, handshakes and presentations over, the game begins in brilliant sunshine beneath azure skies with Ipswich in their blue and white shirts besmirched by the naff logo of an on-line gambling organisation, kicking the ball in my direction. Birmingham City are sporting a kit of bright yellow shirts and socks with blue shorts, they could be confused with Sweden, Newmarket Town or may be Sochaux-Montbéliard from French Ligue 2. I am reminded of the first time I ever saw Ipswich play away (2nd April, 1977 at Maine Road Manchester), we wore yellow and blue; all away kits seemed to be yellow and something in the 70’s, except the ones that weren’t.

The visiting Brummies in the Cobbold Stand are first to burst into song with a rendition of the maudlin Harry Lauder number ‘Keep right on to the end of the road’. “That used to be our song, here at Ipswich” Pat tells me sounding a bit miffed and implying that Birmingham had pinched it. According to the Birmingham City club website, it has been their anthem since 1956. As if taking offence at Pat’s accusation, the Birmingham fans’ tone changes and they start to sing ‘You’re going down, you’re going down, you’re going down’, which is at once both a little uncharitable and a case of ‘stating the bleedin’ obvious’. There is no mention that Birmingham City have cheated their way to staying up by spending more money than league rules allow; Birmingham have been deducted nine points although even if they were re-allocated to Town it probably wouldn’t save us.

On the pitch Birmingham are already looking better than Ipswich and just to make the point, with little more than five minutes played Birmingham’s Lukas Jutkiewicz scores from very close range as if Ipswich were playing without any defenders at all, something they have practised all season. I leap from my seat cheering, I’m not sure why, I think it was the excitement of the start of the game spilling over and perhaps a sense that I’m fed up with waiting to be in the third division. Ever-present Phil and Elwood look at me disappointedly.

A goal down, Ipswich don’t improve and Birmingham look quicker, stronger and more skilful. The old boy and girl behind me moan about Collin Quaner when he loses the ball and his boot “He int kicked anything yet, how the hell’s his shoe come off” says one of them nastily. Myles Kenlock shoots not far over the Birmingham cross bar but it’s a rare foray forward for Town. I pass the time wondering if Birmingham’s full-back Colin who crossed the ball for the goal is Brazilian like Fred, Oscar and Cris; in fact he’s French, his first name is Maxime and it turns out he was born in Ipswich’s twin town of Arras; he’s ‘one of our own’, sort of. Despite early enthusiasm, the atmosphere amongst Town fans has cooled and the sunshine has been lost to cloud and rain showers. “Is this a library?” sing the Brummies enjoying some Italian opera before showing their less artistically appreciative side and singing “You’re support is fucking shit”. Eventually Town win a corner, Myles Kenlock again, and then another but we don’t do enough to puncture the Brummie fans’ sense of superiority as they chant in praise of Mick McCarthy and then claim they are relegating us. Birmingham City fans indeed know all about relegation their team having achieved it eight times since 1979, double the number of Town’s seasons of utter and abject failure in the same period.

It’s been a poor half from Town with four of our players also being shown a yellow card by the referee, Mr Jeremy Simpson, whose skin is sadly not also yellow like that of his cartoon namesakes. Half-time arrives as a bit of a relief and Ray stops to chat on his way to use the facilities. He tells me that he will be seeing Rod Stewart here in the summer and hopes it’s more entertaining. It’s Ray’s wife Roz who is the Rod Stewart fan, not Ray, he is more ‘into’ Jethro Tull and Yes. I ask him if will be seeing Hawkwind at the Corn Exchange in November; probably not. With no pre-match beer to drain off I remain in the stands and eat a Panda brand liquorice bar whilst enjoying the ornamental fountain-like display from the pitch sprinklers. I flick through the programme and seek amusement in the names of the Birmingham City players. Che Adams is a good name I decide and speculate that Mr and Mrs Adams are Communist Party members and have another son called Vladimir Ilich. The game resumes at six minutes past four.

Almost immediately Ipswich score, Gwion Edwards volleying in a cross from Kayden Jackson who has replaced the ineffective ‘boy’ Dozzell. Birmingham have defended like Ipswich, it’s almost like the two teams have come out for the second half wearing each other’s kits and so it continues with Ipswich now the better team and looking more likely to score again, although of course they don’t. The Ipswich supporters re-discover their voice and sing “Allez-Allez-Allez” or “Ole, Ole, Ole” I’m not sure which; personally I prefer the Allez, Allez, Allez version. The sunshine returns illuminating the verdant pitch, billowing white clouds are heaped up in the bright blue sky above the stands creating a scene worthy of an Art Deco poster. This is probably the most beautiful afternoon of the season so far, even if it is cold. “One Bobby Robson, here’s only one Bobby Robson” sing the lower tier of the Sir Bobby Robson stand slightly confusingly given that he’s been dead almost ten years. There’s something almost Neolithic about this reverence for ancestors. There’s no mention of Sir Alf Ramsey, but then he’s been dead nearly twenty years.

Next to me Pat is pleading for Town to score, to win, in between trying to persuade me to travel to games on the Clacton supporters’ bus. Today’s crowd of 17,248 with 1, 582 from Birmingham and Torquay is announced and Pat checks who’s won the sweepstake on the bus; then she checks again, paranoid about getting it wrong. Mr Simpson books Toto N’Siala who has replaced James Collins and for Birmingham City Jacques Maghoma replaces Kerim Mrabti meaning that probably for the first time ever there are two Congolese players on the Portman Road pitch. With time running out Myles Kenlock and Gwion Edwards both have shots blocked and little Alan Judge has one saved. Town ought to score, but it’s as if fate won’t allow it and finally Ipswich’s least favourite Simpson’s character calls time on the game and Town’s residency in Division Two.

There are emotional scenes before everyone goes home, with the players being applauded from the field after a few have sat down on the pitch in the traditional unhappy looking pose associated with defeat in defining games. Relegation has been certain for months now, but the final confirmation is so final that my heart and the back of my throat still ache a little. Ho-hum. I never liked the Championship anyway, with all its wannabe Premier League teams. I’m happy to return to our roots.

Mildenhall Town 0 Great Wakering 3

April 8, 2019September 25, 2021 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

Today, Ipswich Town, the team I have supported since 1971 are in the north west of the country playing away to Bolton Wanderers in what I still think of as Football League Division Two. I prefer to restrict my lengthy road trips to le péage of France if I can, but as une homage to my team’s direction of travel today, I am journeying to the far-flung north-west of Suffolk, to Mildenhall, to see Mildenhall Town play Great Wakering Rovers in the Bostik League North Division.

It was never possible to get to Mildenhall by train from the rest of Suffolk without first going to Cambridge. Then in 1962 the evil Dr Beeching did away with the Mildenhall branch line for passengers altogether, and now the only way to get to Mildenhall for a football match by public transport on a Saturday is by bus. The marvellously monikered Mulley’s Motorways operate service 355 which leaves Bury St Edmunds railway station at 22 minutes past each hour and takes 26 minutes to reach Mildenhall bus station, whilst Stephenson’s of Essex service 16 leaves at 52 minutes past the hour en-route to Newmarket and takes two minutes longer. Inevitably however, connections with trains from the direction of Ipswich are ‘clunky’ ensuring a bus has just been missed or there is a 25 minute wait for the next one. Getting back again is possible leaving at ten to five or ten to six or on the last bus out of town at ten minutes past six. Happily, Mildenhall bus station is but an under eleven’s goal-kick away from the football ground in Recreation Way. If travelling by train to Ipswich you won’t get back until almost seven-thirty, which given that it’s just just 74 kilometres away, works out at a feeble average speed of less than 30 kilometres per hour.

In common with everyone else I’m not getting any younger, and hoping to make the most of the time I have I left I reluctantly decide to further poison the planet but save time and travel by car. I fire up the trusty Citroen C3 and head off along the A14 towards Bury St Edmunds and then the lightly trafficked A1101 to Mildenhall. It’s a dull, grey, overcast day but it’s a pleasurable enough drive through Fornham All Saints, Hengrave, Flempton, Lackford and Icklingham, each with their own thatched cottages and medieval flint churches. From Lackford a change in scenery is perceptible as arable farmland begins to give way to the heath and pine trees of the Brecks.

I arrive in Mildenhall in good time and park up the Citroen in the free car park beyond Sainsbury’s supermarket, a very short walk from the ground; the River Lark is nearby and signs tell me that the area is liable to flooding, but I think my Citroen will be safe today. With almost 55 minutes until kick off I decide to explore and soon form the impression that Mildenhall is sadly a little down at heel. The town museum isn’t open yet, but the tourist information office at the bus station has already shut. The sixteenth century market cross, which features on the football club badge squats amongst parked cars by McColl’s convenience store in the rather shabby market place next to the uninspiring shopping precinct. But Mildenhall’s glory is its’ impressive, 14^th century, Grade 1 Listed parish church of St Mary’s, with its spectacular carved wooden angels in the roof. You can’t beat a bit of medieval woodwork and this is some of the best. But West Suffolk District Council needs to make more of Mildenhall, they can have that as the strapline. If the railway still ran to Cambridge it would surely be very different.

Spirits raised by the host of angels I head back to Recreation Way but struggle to find a way into the football ground as what looks like it should be the turnstile is locked. Spotting a trio of likely looking football watchers I follow them into Sainsbury’s car park, round the back of the Mildenhall swimming pool and down to a metal hut at the bottom end of the ground by Jubilee Park. It’s about twenty to two and I am one of five or six people all entering the ground at once, there’s almost a queue. I hand over a tenner and receive two fifty pence pieces in change, I tell the gateman that the club website says entry costs £8, he replies that that price is for members; it doesn’t say that on the website but I let it go unsure if the Trades Descriptions Act applies to football admission prices or the internet. Inside the ground there are people queueing up to take more money off me as first I buy a programme (£2) and then a man with barrow-boy patter tries to convince me that £2 for three draw tickets will be the best two quid I ever spend; “Not if I don’t win” I tell him. He looks slightly hurt by my harsh logic so guiltily and foolishly I hand over two pounds; I am destined not to win.

Weighed down with programme and draw tickets I head for the busy clubhouse and am excited to find four hand pumps on the bar; admittedly one is serving Greene King IPA, which is just about forgivable being just 22km from Bury St Edmunds, but the others are for Adnam’s Broadside, Mighty Oak Maldon Gold and Black Country Ales Chain Ale. This has to be the best selection of real ale at any football club in Suffolk; one-nil to Mildenhall Town. I choose a pint of the Chain Ale (£3); it’s a bit watery and flat but it leaves a pleasant aftertaste.

Clutching my plastic glass of ale I step back outside into the natural light to sample the pre-match atmosphere; a soporific ballad (I think it’s what is called R & B) is played over the PA system and a white-haired man struggles to copy down the details of the team line-ups into his programme. I am impressed that the metal perimeter fence has cup-holders for my beer; this is possibly the best thing I have ever seen at a football ground. I wander back down towards the players’ tunnel and arrive in time to see the gate across the terrace closed and the players lining up behind a steel grille at the side of the stand where a notice advises rather enigmatically that “obsessive foul or abusive language” will not be tolerated. I wonder to myself what constitutes obsessive foul language and decide it might be something like shouting “Arse!” or worse every time a member of the opposing team touches the ball; I then wonder if this sort of abuse is something peculiar to Mildenhall and West Suffolk because I have never seen such a sign anywhere else, or it could simply be that the sign writer meant ‘persistent’ not ‘obsessive’.

My reverie is interrupted by the teams bursting on to the field to the plodding strains of Thin Lizzie’s “The boys are back in town” with the referee and his assistants to line-up and shake hands before the appreciative crowd. The teams are announced over the PA system and with coin tossing, end selection and team huddling all out of the way the game begins with Mildenhall, known colloquially as “The Hall” kicking up the not inconsiderable slope in their yellow shirts and black shorts towards the bus station, Mildenhall Social Club and home of the local Sea Cadet troop. Great Wakering Rovers meanwhile, inevitably play down the slope towards Jubilee Park the River Lark and the tower of St Mary’s church Barton Mills beyond; they sport green and white striped shirts with white shorts and socks. Great Wakering’s is a bright, striking kit perfect for a dull day like today and has a hint of the 1940’s or 1950’s about it; it is probably the finest kit I have seen all season; with a kit like this even the rubbish games can look good.

Possibly in part due to the assistance of gravity, Great Wakering dominate the play from the very start with frequent breaks literally down the flanks. But early play is also very competitive and when The Hall’s combative number six Jordan Lawal is tripped by Rover’s colossal number nine Shomari Barnwell, Lawal is somewhat piqued and appeals to the referee Mr Andrew Hitchcock. “Ref-er-eeee” he says pleadingly before sagely adding “You gotta deal with that”. Only five minutes have passed since kick-off but Hitchcock surprisingly takes Lawal’s advice and displays his yellow card for all to see, confident he has not booked the wrong man.

Behind the goal which Rovers are attacking is a group of three or four youths with a green and white chequered flag. Like work experience versions of Ultras they bang on the perimeter fence and chant “Come on Rovers” as their team wins a corner and “You’re rubbish, you’re bleedin’ useless” when a Mildenhall player miscues a clearance. “Why don’t you shut-up?” calls a voice from the mass of drinkers stood in front of the clubhouse. “Why don’t you shut-up?” is the classic, typically teenage response from the work experience boys. Teenagers, you got to love them, because if you don’t they will grow up to be maladjusted adults, sociopaths and Norwich City supporters.

It’s about a quarter past three and the public address system announces that ticket number 371 has won the prize draw; my numbers (Nos 423 to 425) are forty-nine tickets too late, if I’d only got myself here sooner and hadn’t spent time gazing up at those angels in the church roof I might be £40 richer. One of those angels must have been Satan. But I barely have time to swallow my disappointment before The Hall grab my attention by going a goal behind. A short through ball lays waste the square defence and Shomari Barnwell runs through to take the ball around the solidly built Jake Hayhoe in the Mildenhall goal before rolling it into the net from an acute angle. No one can claim Great Wakering don’t deserve it and they continue to be the better team by some way. A low Great Wakering cross bounces up and there are appeals for handball, “Fuck off” says a derisive voice from the Mildenhall bench. I move round to stand between the dugouts to enjoy the swearing and fully appreciate the extent of the slope. “Good Ringo. George, George!” shouts one of the two Great Wakering coaches, presumably to number two Jason Ring and number four George Cox; it’s probably my age but I can’t help thinking of the fab four at least until one of them says “Coulda been good, but it was a shit touch”.

It’s half past three and in a rare, nearly effective attack Mildenhall almost equalise as the ball drops in the six yard box, but no one is close enough to prod it into the net before Gt Wakering goalkeeper Bobby Mason smothers it. The Mildenhall manager Ricky Cornish, whose nose reminds me a little of the late Bob Hoskins is less than happy and at times seems lost for words. In contrast, in an idle moment one of the Gt Wakering coaches says “I can’t remember the last time we lost” (it was four games ago) then adds mysteriously “Oh yeah, it was when we had that hologram in goal”. Mildenhall have the ball in the Great Wakering net at about twenty to four but the ‘goal’ is disallowed before Great Wakering have a second player booked; bald-headed number six Marc Gorball being punished by Mr Hitchcock for a foul on Mildenhall’s captain Luke Butcher.

“Come on Mildenhall” shouts a desperate sounding voice in the crowd “you’re going down” and with Romford currently winning Mildenhall are indeed now bottom of the league in 20^th place, fifteen points behind 15^th placed Great Wakering who, should they win today can be reasonably confident that they will be playing in the Bostik League again next season. With the half-time whistle I make my way to Mal’s diner (the tea hut) for a pound’s worth of PG Tips in a polystyrene cup before I check up on the half-time scores on the clubhouse TV; Ipswich are winning 2-0, which is nice. A part of the club house is screened off to provide a hospitality area for today’s match sponsors, KJM Roadsweepers. Before today I thought road sweeping was the preserve of local councils and hadn’t realised that private road sweeping businesses even existed, and I contemplate how ‘KJM’ might have started out with just a couple of stiff brooms but now has a fleet of modern mechanical road sweepers scouring the streets of West Suffolk.

A little after four o’clock the football resumes and with Mildenhall now kicking downhill they begin to benefit from the force of gravity that playing downhill seems to bring. The Hall spurn two good chances to score and Jordan Lawal shoots against Bobby Mason with the whole goal to aim at. Despite making more of a game of it and making Great Wakering look a little shaky in defence, Mildenhall are not playing accurately enough and optimistic crosses and passes inevitably end up as goal-kicks. It’s only a quarter past four and number eight for The Hall, Panny Boxer is replaced by number seventeen John Sands. The change of ends seems to have given Mildenhall a ray of hope, although as much as the slope helps them it seems to frustrate them too; but it’s probably not the fault of the slope, sadly like Ipswich Town, this season they’re just not good enough.

It is twenty past four and after struggling for a quarter of an hour or so Great Wakering suddenly and unexpectedly discover the joys of passing football. Four or five passes are strung together one after another ending with a low cross which is swept easily into the net by the big right boot of Shomari Barnwell; Great Wakering are two-nil up and the game is as good as won. It‘s a goal to be proud of. Needing to absorb the beauty of what I’ve just seen, I take a sit down in the sparsely populated metal pre-fabricated stand close to the ‘top’ corner of the ground opposite the club house.

Sat in the stand and looking around I decide I like Recreation Way with its slope and views of St Mary’s church tower beyond the incongruous white gable of the Sainsbury’s supermarket and the belisha beacons in its car park. The clubhouse is like one of the ugly bungalows visible beyond the opposite side of the ground which has mysteriously been mis-placed and equipped with a bar. At either ends of the ground high trees house nests of rooks and to cap it all it’s as good as in the town centre, where like cinemas, smart hotels, restaurants and bus stations football grounds should be.

The game enters its final fifteen minutes and the unexpected happens. Great Wakering’s Marc Gorball is turned and he grabs old of his tormentor. There are the expected howls of discontent and as far as Marc Gorball is concerned Mr Hitchcock is the man who knew too much and a red card is brandished. It’s not much of a walk for Gorball to the players’ tunnel but he makes the most of it turning to stop and point his finger on more than one occasion. As unfortunate as it is for the player concerned and the ‘good of the game’ I love a good sending off.

But football is nothing if not a mirror on the vagaries of life and within five minutes the ten men of Great Wakering create an opening down the left. Barnwell charges forward, exchanges a pass and then bears down on Hayhoe in the Mildenhall goal, slipping the ball past him into the net as he drops to the turf. It’s three-nil to Great Wakering and Shomari Barnwell runs towards the adoring trio of teenage fans behind the goal with his arms outstretched, like a huge cargo plane descending into the nearby US airbase before he is mobbed by ecstatic team mates. This is the goal that has definitely won the game.

It’s gone twenty to five now and the final minutes are perfunctory. Home fans leave disconsolate, or seek solace in the bar. Great Wakering fans gather to applaud their team from the field. Finally Mr Hitchcock calls time. Mildenhall are bereft, Great Wakering delirious, but regardless of the final score it’s been an entertaining afternoon. If Mildenhall are relegated they’ll be a welcome addition to the Eastern Counties Premier League and whatever happens Great Wakering will brighten up afternoon’s everywhere with their green and white striped kit.