As someone who enjoys going to football matches and has a collection of favourite clubs, I am sometimes torn between actually experiencing the real world and going to a game, and just staying at home and vicariously living life through watching a match featuring one of ‘my clubs’ on the television.  Today is potentially such a day because Haverfordwest County (Hwlfordd in Welsh) are playing at Ammanford (Rhydaman in Welsh) in the third round of the FAW Welsh Cup (Cwpan Cymdeiths pel-droed Cymru in Welsh), with kick off at the predictably unusual time of twenty past two. Haverfordwest are one of ‘my club’s and the game is on the telly, on channel S4C home of Sgorio (‘Scoring’ in English) and the soap opera Pobol y cwm (The people of the valley’ in English).

Had it been raining, or snowing, or blowing a gale I might have stayed home and sat in front of the telly, but it’s not, and I’ve already texted Gary to see if he fancies catching the bus to Coggeshall to see Coggeshall Town play top of the table Harlow Town in the Thurlow Nunn Eastern Counties League First Division South. He does, and there’s no backing out at the last minute because he will already be on the bus forty-five minutes before the Welsh cup tie kicks off.    A blue double-decker bus hoves into view pretty much according to when the timetable predicted it would and having tendered my £2 fare and collected my bus ticket I turn to see a grey-haired man in a tan coloured puffa-style jacket wave to me.  Fortunately, it’s Gary, but I can’t deny I’m disappointed to find him sat downstairs in what used to be called the saloon. I can’t shake myself from thinking that sitting downstairs on buses is for wimps and old or incapacitated people.

It’s only a ten-minute trip to Coggeshall, or ‘Coggy’ as I have decided to call it, and today’s trip is even shorter because we accidentally alight at the stop before the one we really want, getting off at ‘Paycocke’s’ instead of ‘Nursery.’  The extra 200 metre walk to Coggeshall Town’s ground is good exercise I tell Gary and it allows us to see more of Coggeshall’s quaint vernacular architecture, but he is more concerned that he can’t see the floodlights yet.  Walking to the match is as much a part of going to a game as the game itself , even in Coggeshall, where to disprove my point it seems that the car park is already full and people are parking on the road outside.    I think to myself how different L S Lowry’s “Going to the match” might look if painted today and wonder if anyone could be persuaded to pay £7.8 million for a painting of a car park.

At the turnstile, Gary and I are first and second in a quickly forming queue of four people.  Feeling nostalgic I tender cash (£8) and after turning down the chance to purchase a golden goal ticket or two with a polite “Not today, thank you” I push through the turnstile which clicks satisfyingly.   Gary attempts to pay in the modern cashless manner but eventually gives up because the technology refuses to work; I blame the ley lines which supposedly converge on Coggeshall.  Gary pays with cash and we are soon wandering along the concrete path which looks down upon the pitch and leads to the club house and its bar, where I buy a pint of something called San Miguel for Gary, and a pint of Guinness for me (£10 the pair) because there doesn’t seem to be any real beer available.  Pints in hand, we stand out on the decking amongst numerous excitable Harlow Town supporters and wait for the teams to emerge from the changing rooms to stand on the steps down to the pitch, which strangely are shielded from view by a high stockade fence.  As the teams finally process onto the pitch one of the excitable Harlow Town fans winds up a siren as if to announce an imminent flood or air raid.  Fortunately, no one panics and the people who smile seem to do so happily rather than nervously or uneasily.

The game begins at two minutes past three with Coggeshall getting first go with the ball, sending it mainly in the direction of the clubhouse, and Braintree beyond, where Braintree Town are simultaneously playing AFC Fylde.  Coggy wear the current incarnation of their usual red and black striped shirts and black shorts, whilst Harlow sport a change kit of predominantly off-white shirts decorated with random, overlapping, shadowy geometric shapes, paired with navy blue shorts.  I like to think it’s a design inspired by the angular lines of Britain’s first tower block (The Lawn built in 1950),  which is in Harlow, or the luxuriant moustache of its architect Sir Frederick Gibberd, but given that Harlow Town are playing in the catchily titled Thurlow Nunn Eastern Counties League First Division South, the tenth level of senior men’s football in England, it doesn’t seem likely.

The game soon settles into an oddly enjoyable pattern of unsuccessful passes and balls over the top sprinkled with clumsy tackles.  “Ref! ‘Ave a word!” is the call from the main stand as Coggy’s centre half and captain Tom Johnson pushes over Harlow’s Jack Zieleinski.  “Movement, Movement!” bawls the Coggeshall goalkeeper in an unrelated incident which nevertheless singles him out as the frustrated choreographer in the team.   Back in the main stand the ‘banter’ is being directed at the referee. “You’re ‘avin’ a mare already ref. Just because they’re top of the league” shouts a home supporter weirdly.

A very early substitution occurs after Harlow’s Teddy Jones is left in a crumpled heap near the centre circle, but he manages, after treatment, to make it to the touchline where Dan Heald replaces him.  It occurs to me that from where I’m sitting I think the referee looks a bit like a young Harry Kane. But then again I figure that anyone with a pointy beard, high forehead and fair hair probably would.  I discuss with Gary whether the linesman on our side of the ground looks like a bloke we used to work with twenty years ago who lived in Clacton.   Gary proudly manages to recall the Clacton man’s name and that when answering the phone he would always say his first name twice before giving his surname – a bit, but not exactly like James Bond does when introducing himself; in fact, a lot more like a stutter.

At seventeen minutes past three we witness the first shot on goal of the game as Coggeshall’s Alex Banyard seizes an opportunity to make a penetrating run and shoot past the near post.   Three minutes later, as a succession of balls are booted over the perimeter fence and into the field beyond, a couple of old blokes in the row in front remark on how so far this season surprisingly few balls have been booted out of the ground.  “Bust a gut!” shouts someone all of a sudden, I’m not sure why, but I don’t think it’s to do with the lost balls.

Coggeshall are looking quite strong on the left where Banyard occasionally links up with full-back James Long.  The Harlow goalkeeper also looks a little suspect with his handling. Now Banyard runs into the penalty area and as he goes to take the ball past a defender, he could not be more scythed down if the defender had actually been wielding a scythe.  Harry Kane awards a penalty without hesitation and Connor Randall scores from the spot to give Coggeshall a one-nil lead which, on the basis that they are the only team to have had a shot on goal, they deserve.  

To our right the sun is sinking low in the sky, just about shining, albeit murkily through a pale yellow gash in the cloud. On the far side of the ground beyond the perimeter fence leafless trees stand gaunt and bare, beyond them and out of sight is the river Blackwater.  “Keep up with play lino” calls someone in the crowd, perhaps feeling unable to goad the referee now he has been good enough to award Coggeshall a penalty.  “He hasn’t had anything to keep up with” shouts someone else not unreasonably.  It is twenty nine minutes to four and the Coggeshall captain is booked for holding a Harlow player.

With not much more than five minutes to half time Harlow are  enjoying a rare attack and spell of possession on the left. The ball is passed into the Coggeshall penalty area; it is booted out and comes to Harlow’s Syrus Gordon who thunderously boots it back from 25 yards away, but into the top right hand corner of the Coggeshall goal; it’s a barely believable goal but the score is definitely now one-all, the siren has sounded again and the Harlow fans behind the goal are jumping about in the time-honoured manner.   The half closes with a couple of corners to Coggeshall, but Gary and I are already heading for the tea bar, only looking back over our shoulders to ensure we don’t miss something worth seeing, we don’t.

Gary kindly buys the teas, and we check on the local half-times, discovering that Braintree v Fylde is nil-nil and Colchester United are losing by a single goal.  Frustratingly, we can’t find any news of the score in Ammanford but to compensate we discuss how Harlow Town once beat Leicester City in the FA Cup ( I say I think it was about fifty years ago but it might have been a recently as 1980 – which in fact it was) , and how poorly Colchester continue to do under the management of the Cowley brothers, who I think I dislike because I don’t see why they always work together; it’s the sort of behaviour that if normal would have seen Mike McCartney (aka Mike McGear) in the Beatles instead of George Harrison.

The match resumes at six minutes past four and I ask Gary if he fancies standing to watch the second half, but he doesn’t and we return to the seats and shadows of the main stand.  I’ve zipped my coat up now but I still don’t feel as cold as I thought I might and the sun has pretty much set.  As Coggeshall win a succession of corners, the Harlow number twelve Oluwakorede Akintunde bounces up and down on his toes at what looks like the edge of the penalty area.  Surprisingly, Harry Kane then books him and when someone in the crowd asks the linesman why, he says it’s because he didn’t retreat ten yards from the corner kick, but I would still prefer a talking linesman to VAR.

Confused, but not worried, just keen to have a good time, I ask Gary why he thinks Harlow Town’s nickname is The Hawks; but he has no more idea than I do unless like Havant & Waterlooville it’s simply because the first two letters of their name are the same as the first two in hawk, and hawks are considered more exciting than hamsters, who would be the only other easily remembered alternative if wanting a name from the animal kingdom.  Our reverie is broken by a sudden outburst of anger from the Harlow Town bench, who it seems have become suddenly incensed because they haven’t been awarded a throw -in.  A little more than five minutes later, the Coggeshall Town bench suffer a similar fit of apoplexy, but over a perceived foul.  “Sit down, shut up, Sit down shut up” chant the Harlow fans, and the big hands on clocks everywhere starts to head up towards the number twelve.   In front of us and an old boy turns round to tell a Harlow supporter that he doesn’t think there will be any more goals this afternoon.

Harlow win a couple of corners as twenty-five to five approaches and from the second one a header from very, very close range from Nana Agyemang does the only thing it can do and finds itself in the net and giving Harlow Town the lead.  Once again, the siren sounds and a few of the older supporters look in vain for a table to crawl under.  “Everywhere we go” sing the Harlow fans behind the goal, but I can’t quite work what happens everywhere they go and am frankly not interested enough to ask, although I like to think that everywhere they go they sing the praises of the 1946 New Towns Act.

Coggeshall don’t look in the mood to be able to score an equaliser and the game continues to take place mostly off to our left  before at nineteen minutes to five Harlow substitute Jack Haley stands alone at the far post as a cross loops over everybody else and he heads it firmly to score Harlow’s third goal.  To add to the spectacle the Coggeshall goalkeeper Joe Hodgson gets his hands to the ball but can only punch it up into the roof of the net, making the goal look a bit more exciting than it probably was.   The siren sounds for what will be a final time today as the Harlow supporters celebrate  and the last ten minutes are played out to an earache inducing cacophony of tuneless singing and chanting as if the Harlow fans have all suddenly become very, very drunk.

As normal time expires and we begin to enjoy time added on, Gary and I make a move for the clubhouse and the gents toilet, getting ready to make ourselves comfortable for the walk back to Coggeshall town centre and a final drink before the bus arrives to take us away.  Happily, time added on is brief, although we are surprised to find that even after we have drained off excess tea and beer, the Harlow players are still milking applause from a lap of honour.

It’s not been a particularly good game, but it was good enough and what is not to like about drinking beer, travelling on buses and watching football. More importantly however, not seeing Haverfordwest County on the telly has not stopped them winning 10-9 on penalties .