Month: January 2025

Little Oakley 1 Barking 1

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The village of Little Oakley in Essex, Wikipedia tells us, had a population in 2011 of 1,171 and is on the outskirts of Harwich.  More precisely, Google maps tells us that Little Oakley is a four kilometre, fifty-eight minute walk from Harwich International railway station.  Now, I reckon I could walk 4 kilometres in less than 58 minutes, but I am nevertheless of a lazy disposition and therefore, today I have opted to drive the thirty-six kilometres from my house to the Memorial Ground, home of Little Oakley FC in my planet saving Citroen e-C4,  rather than enjoy a travel melange of rail, bus and walking, which would take me between one and  half and two and a half hours depending on connections.  Today at the Memorial Ground, Little Oakley FC are playing Barking in the Essex Senior League, the ninth level of English league football.

It’s a beautiful, bright, clear, winter’s day and but for a Luton van pulling out in front of me from a lay-by on the A120, I have a relaxed, trouble-free journey, played out to a soundtrack of the Saturday afternoon pre-match football coverage on BBC Radio Essex, featuring amongst others, the dulcet tones of Glenn Pennyfather and Danny Cowley.  My Citroen’s SatNav doesn’t seem to know about the Memorial Ground, so my journey ends with an abrupt left hand turn when suddenly from the B1414 I see the street sign for Lodge Road, which I remember from looking at a map is adjacent to the Memorial Ground.  I park up at the side of the narrow approach road, beneath an avenue of trees with a deep ditch on one side and wooden fence on the other on which several signs plead with drivers not to park too close to it.  I make the short walk to the clubhouse enjoying the sound of birdsong whilst inhaling the smell of hot cooking oil, probably chip fat.

The clubhouse is welcoming and populated with happy pre-match drinkers.  I buy a bottle of Adnams’ almost non-alcoholic ‘Ghostship’ (£3.20) and the bar maid asks if I’d like a glass, I would. I stand and look up at one of three TV screens showing Sky TV.  From a hatch, behind which is the clubhouse kitchen, a middle-aged woman looks out glumly. “Fed up?” I ask her.  “Bored” she says “It was busy, and now it’s quiet”.  This lady seems responsible for fulfilling the whole crowd’s need for food and hot drink on her own but it will soon be kick-off, so for now she’s not needed.

I sink my low alcohol beer as quickly as I can without burping and head outdoors where a man with a loud, deep voice directs me to turn left beyond the shipping container at the far end of the car park.  A short, friendly man emerges from a hut, a bit like municipal car park attendants used to in the far off days before ‘Pay and Display’, and asks if I’m a concession.  I ask how old you have to be to be a concession; it turns out it’s sixty-five and he apologises when I tell him I’m only sixty-four. But it does mean I’m about six months further from the grave than I would have been if I’d been a concession, even if I will be three quid poorer for it.  Having handed over my £8.00 in cash, I ask if there is a programme and am surprised to find that there is. “Here you are, if you’d like something to read” says the man, handing me six colourful sheets of A4 paper stapled together in the top left-hand corner.  Best of all the programme is free, as if a little bit of France has been re-located to the top right-hand corner of rural Essex.

Pap-rock plays over the public address system as I take stock of the ground, which has two small pre-fabricated metal terraces behind one goal and another pre-fabricated metal stand with seats overlooking the far half of the pitch; it looks as if there wasn’t room behind the dugouts for the stand to be level with the half way line.  The ground backs onto a hedge and a couple of Oak trees on one side and onto the gardens of a row of semi-detached houses on the other.  At the far end there is just a playing field and a trio of teenagers have leaned their bikes against the rail around the pitch. I can also see from here that the clubhouse appears to have a partly corrugated metal roof; I bet it rattles when it rains.

The pap-rock gives way to Jeff Beck’s ‘Hi-Ho Silver Lining’ and the two teams amble onto the pitch; if there is any shaking of hands or other gestures of sportsmanship I miss them. I stand close to the home team dugout and next to me a man talking into his mobile phone says “We got two meal deals at the Co-op before we came out, so we ‘ad them”.  In the ‘technical area’ in front of the dugout, a track-suited man calls out to the home players “Ave a look, ‘ave a look, just be aware of the fuckin’ double bluff”.  I have no idea what he means, and decide not to ask him.

The match begins, and Barking get first go with the ball, their second touch being a hefty hoof out to the left wing.  Little Oakley, known as ‘The Acorns’ are wearing blue and black striped shirts with black shorts, a bit like a destitute man’s Inter Milan and are defending the empty, featureless end of the ground with marshes, Hamford Water and the North Sea a kilometre or two beyond.  Barking are all in yellow, with black sleeves, and they defend the clubhouse and Ramsey end of the ground, with the River Stour and Suffolk beyond that.   Barking win an early corner with some clever play by their number seven Michele Maccari. “Why’s that big guy on the edge? ‘e’s got a massive head on him” asks a lad sat behind me of his two friends, who I think could all be Little Oakley players who are not playing today. The ‘guy on the edge’ is stood at the edge of the penalty box and whilst he is quite tall, I must admit I can’t really see that his head is any bigger than anyone else’s.

“Barking, Barking give us a song” chants a bloke tamely, somewhere off to my right.  “If you all ‘ate Dagenham clap your ‘ands” comes the response from three or four other voices.  Unfortunately, Little Oakley has no such choir. It’s just gone a quarter past three and despite Barking probably playing, or at least attempting to play the more attractive and neater football, it is Little Oakley who have the first decent shot on goal, as number ten, Daniel Rowe spectacularly volleys the ball against the foot of a goalpost creating a pleasing metallic pinging sound. Recovering from the momentary excitement, I notice that between the semi-detached houses on the far side of the ground and across the water inbetween, I can see two dockside cranes at the Port of Felixstowe, beyond which and unbeknown to me, Felixstowe & Walton Football Club are on their way to drawing nil-nil with Haringey Borough in the Isthmian League.

Barking make claims for a penalty as one of their number tumbles between two Oakley defenders and at this point the referee seems to lose any affection the visitors might have once had for him. “You’re a joke ref” calls a man from behind a camera with a tele-photo lens, “Absolute clown ref”.  It’s nearly twenty-five past three and all of a sudden Barking take the lead; a clever, arcing cross being headed in at the near post by number six and captain Fahad Nyanja.

As the game is about to resume, an Acorns’ player calls out “We keep going, we fucking keep going”.  It is stating the obvious and I for one would feel a bit short-changed if this early in the game they’d all along been secretly playing ‘next goal wins’ .  As unnecessary as it should be, these apparent words of encouragement nevertheless almost work but in an unexpected way, as a low cross from the Oakley number seven, Idris Namisi is diverted against a goal post by Barking number four Sam Edwards.  Idris Namisi seems a popular player amongst the home crowd, and I can’t help but like him too, even if it’s probably because his first name is the same as that of the dragon who lived in the firebox of Ivor the Engine.

Oakley’s number ten, Rowe claims the honour of being the first player to be booked as he pulls back a Barking player and I agree with the old boy stood next to me, whose grandson is the Oakley number eleven, Luke Hipkin, when he says it was a needless, stupid foul.   The old boy asks me if I’m from Harwich and I tell him I grew up in Shotley just over the river from here. “Not far away, then “. He says. ”Not if you’ve got a boat” I reply.  Back on the pitch, the Oakley players are arguing amongst themselves. 

The half ends with Rowe being put through on goal for Oakley with just the Barking keeper to beat, but his shot is saved and Idris the popular dragon blazes the rebound high and wide.   I check my phone and Ipswich are losing 0-3 at Liverpool, which makes me glad I’m here and not on Merseyside.   With the half-time whistle I make for the club house to drain off excess low alcohol Ghostship and invest in one pound fifty’s worth of tea, because under a clear sky it’s beginning to get cold as the sun sinks in the west.  The middle-aged woman in the kitchen is being cheerfully rushed off her feet serving tea, frying chips, griddling burgers and taking cash and card payments. I can’t help but think it’s a pity the players and managers of both teams can’t just get on with what they’re meant to be doing with as little complaint. I haven’t heard her say ‘fuck’ once.

I take my tea outside into the softening, late, winter afternoon sunlight and the match resumes at two minutes past four; I stand by the Barking dugout. “Get ‘old of the fucker” barks the Barking manager  a seemingly irascible  man sporting a stylish grey cap and white goatee beard, who sounds like Ray Winstone and mostly never says ‘fuck’ or ‘fuckin’ in a sentence unless he can say it half a dozen times.  Mostly, his exasperation seems to be directed at his own Barking team who, I can only guess, aren’t playing so much like the Spanish national team, as may be he told them to.

Time goes on and Barking’s number eleven Ugonna Emineke is booked for time wasting as he delays taking a throw-in because there is a rumpus happening in the penalty area and he’s waiting for it to subside.  Unfortunately for Emineke, the referee only had eyes for him and hadn’t noticed the pushing and shoving in the penalty  area, although before the throw is eventually taken he has to go and sort it out and speak to his assistant about it. Then, with twenty minutes of the half gone Oakley equalise, Idris Namisi nipping in to poke a cross over the goal line from close range.

As it has progressed, the game has become increasingly fractious, with a number of Acorns players being quite aggressive, whilst Barking players have acted out fouls where none has been made, sometimes squealing and moaning for additional effect.  All this has been against a  background of some of the most  liberal use of the word ‘fuck’ I have ever heard and I wonder what people do during the week to make them so angry on a Saturday.

Things don’t improve when at twenty-seven minutes to five Emineke is sent off for a ‘professional’ (or, as this is only the Essex Senior League perhaps ‘semi-professional’) foul, and The Acorns are awarded a penalty, which the balding and bearded Darren Mills takes and Daniel Purdue saves, diving excellently to his right.  “How many more fucking chances do we get?” moans The Acorns’ number three Adie Cant.  “Calm the fuck down” shouts the coach “Fuckin’ ‘ell”. It’s as if Peter Cook and Dudley Moore’s Derek and Clive had had an afternoon out at the football.

With the aftermath of the penalty, the worst of the afternoon’s fractiousness is over and much  of the final twenty minutes plays out against the back-drop of a glorious, blood red sunset,   A friendly man wearing a day-glo gilet bearing the words ‘LO Media Officer’ on the back, talks to me briefly and asks if I’m a ground hopper, “Not really” I tell him, “ I usually watch Ipswich”,  although I don’t let on that for forty years I’ve kept a list of every game I’ve ever been to.  He’s soon photographing the main stand against the sunset however, and the match plays out shifting freely from end to end,  but with neither side looking much like scoring the winning goal. Meanwhile, I wonder at the name of a local fish and chip shop, Pieseas Chippy, which is advertised at the pitch side.

The final whistle blows at eight minutes to five and an appreciative crowd applaud the efforts of both teams in a match which whilst mostly not a thing of beauty, apart from the sunset, has been entertaining and hard fought.  I think a draw is a fair result although home fans might not agree, and as I head for my car I hear a man muttering to himself about the ‘village team’ holding the team from the city (Wikipedia tells us that in 2011 Barking had a population of 59,011) as if the moral victory belongs to Little Oakley.  Perhaps it does, but even if it doesn’t it’s been a lovely afternoon out.

Ipswich Town 0 Manchester City 6

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This morning, I read that Pierre de Coubertain, the Frenchman who founded the modern Olympic Games had said, in French “The important thing in life is not the triumph but the fight.  The essential thing is not to have won but to have fought well”.  Such a view seems rather out of date nowadays, but to his credit he was born in 1863 and when he was a lad the high ideals of amateurism and the Corinthian spirit still flourished.  I have a lot of sympathy for such views because if winning is important then some people will cheat, and when that happens we might as well pack up our goal nets, deflate our footballs, give the referee his bus fare and just go down the pub.

To save time, I haven’t put up nets or inflated any footballs today but I will soon be in ‘the Arb’ with Gary and Mick.  Although beneath cold, grey skies, Gary and I had a largely enjoyable train journey to Ipswich, talking humourously, I think, about Memorial Matchdays, last wills and testaments, and postmen working in the afternoons as pall bearers.  But best of all, we saw two polar bears, one of which was almost pulling the classic Fox’s Glacier Mints pose, even if it did look like it had also been rolling in his own excrement.   On Princes Street bridge a middle-aged Manchester City supporter asked us (Ipswich Town) to go easy on them (Manchester City) today and I felt somewhat resentful of his probable sarcasm.  “Are you being sarcastic?” I enquired, unable to think of anything in the least bit clever to say, and I still haven’t.   In Portman Road we each buy programmes (£3.50) in the modern cashless manner from a bloke with a little blue trolley, and to make up for my electronic ticket having worked first time at the railway station, the technology fails and I have to type in my PIN number.  Leaving the programme seller to his trolley, we speak of how dull and uninspiring the front covers of the programme is compared to the poster design inside the back page.  Town’s kit manufacturer Umbro reportedly objected to the posters because they don’t flaunt the Umbro logo,  and I tell Gary I dream of a fans’ rebellion a bit like Mai ’68 in Paris, but with a boycott of replica kits under the slogan of “You can stick your Umbro up your bum Bro”.

The Arb is predictably busy when we get there and it takes a short while for Gary to kindly buy me a pint of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride whilst treating himself to a pint of Lager 43 too.  Mick is already in the beer garden, sat alone at the sort if wooden table Yogi Bear might have known, but he’s soon released from his isolation as we arrive to talk about the new Bob Dylan film, which Gary has seen and Mick and I haven’t and whether Mick has drunk the Calvados I gave him before Christmas (he has).  More conversation, Suffolk Pride, Lager 43 and a Jamieson Whisky for Mick follow (£13 something for the three), before most if not all of the other drinkers have departed for Portman Road and then we do the same, parting ways within earshot of Sir Alf Ramsey’s statue, if only Sir Alf’s bronze effigy could hear.

The queues for the turnstiles are much shorter today than they were on Thursday evening, and seemingly cured of my need to always use turnstile 62, I enter by turnstile 59, that number corresponding to the year I was conceived.  As ever, Pat from Clacton, Fiona, the man from Stowmarket (Paul), ever-present Phil who never misses a game, and his son Elwood are all here before me, lapping up the loud music and pyrotechnics that crowds of 29,000 people demand.  I smile broadly as Pat from Clacton takes my photograph before the excitable young stadium announcer tells us today’s team and I attempt to bawl out their surnames in the manner of a Frenchman in the tribunes of  Stade de la Mosson or Stade Geoffrey Guichard.

Death however, stalks every football match nowadays like the smell of frying onions used to, and after Thursday’s Memorial Matchday, today we have a minute’s silence for the very recently deceased Denis Law.  But there is no silence, as the Manchester City fans , musical and loud as they are, like the ugly Gallagher brothers, won’t stop singing some song or other to which the words are completely unintelligible, and so the silence isn’t a silence, it becomes an  applause, and it doesn’t seem like it lasts a minute either, but I don’t suppose Denis is bothered.

Finally, after the na-na-nas of  The Beatles’ “Hey Jude”, the match begins and Manchester City get first go with the ball, which they mostly pass in the direction of the goal in front of the Sir Bobby Robson stand.  The Town are of course in their signature blue and white kit, and therefore Manchester City are in a change kit of all burgundy or claret, like eleven fine wines but minus the bouquet of damson, truffle, chalk and damp fur.  These footballers probably smell of eau de parfum by Chanel or Guerlain.

Excitement reigns in the opening minutes as the home fans chant “Addy-Addy, Addy O “ and City fans chant “City, City, City, City” as if  people have become incapable of singing verses, being  mesmerized by the incantation of endless choruses.  It works for Town, who inside three minutes win a corner when Omari Hutchinson shoots goalwards, and then win another. “Come On You Blues” is my mantra.  “Good start” says the bloke beside me appreciatively and perhaps with a hint of surprise.  “Who the fook are Man Uni-ited”  sing the City fans to the tune of “Glory ,Glory, Allelujah” and Erling Haaland the Norwegian sky-blue shoots over the Town cross-bar and then the City number eight does so too before City win a corner as they dominate possession, but don’t  seriously look any more likely to score than the Town do, and fifteen minutes have already disappeared for ever.

O’Shea heads at the City goalkeeper from a free-kick after  a rampaging Liam Delap is fouled, and I realise I’m not noticing the adverts on the Sir Bobby Robson Stand, I’m watching the match.  “At least we’ve had a shot on target” says Fiona.  But then something goes wrong on the Town right, de Bruyne is behind the Town defence, he passes and Foden scores, hovering in mid-air to control the ball before flicking it into the Town net.  It feels a bit like our best chance of not losing has just gone. Confirmation comes three minutes later as short, quick passing ends with a low hard shot into the corner of the Town goal from the edge of the penalty area, and we’re losing 2-0.

“Down with United, you’re going down with United” chant the City fans to the Cuban folk tune Guantanamera, as if our losing brings more joy to them than their winning.  I suspect it’s a result of low self-esteem, like a lot of things in England; and they are from ‘Up North’.   Half-time is approaching and de Bruyne and Foden do pretty much what they did for the first goal and the score is three – nil.   Usually, with Town losing like this I would have been distracted by player’s with funny names or what the team managers are wearing, but despite the pain tonight I’m strangely absorbed by the football.

I speak to the man from Stowmarket (Paul) and then Dave the steward and Ray and his grandson Harrison.  The mood is one of cheery resignation; everyone thinks we’ve played quite well, it’s just that Manchester City are out of our league; they’re backed by the 34th richest nation on the planet, while we’re backed by a firemen’s retirement fund. They have players worth as much as our entire squad, and to think I can remember when City were like a northern Tottenham Hotspur or West Ham United , clubs with a decent history but now seemingly playing mostly for laughs.  Despite his status as  a convicted sex offender, former radio summarizer Stuart Hall accurately referred to Old Trafford as the Theatre of Dreams and Maine Road as the Theatre of Base Comedy.

At twenty-five to six, as much of the  nation sits by roaring log fires tucking into toasted crumpets and Battenburg cake as they watch Country File, the second half begins. Almost immediately, and I think four minutes later can probably be called ‘immediately’ in the context of a lifetime, Town almost score, as a flowing move ends with a shot from Ben Johnson being saved by the City goalkeeper Ederson,  Moments later however, Doku who hopefully has a sister called Sue, runs down the Town right hand side into the penalty area and scores with a lucky deflection.   Nine minutes later, with Pat from Clacton quietly singing “We’re gonna win 5-4” to the tune of Rodgers’ and Hart’s “Blue Moon”, Erlong Haaland scores a fifth goal after Jack Clarke spoils an otherwise tidy performance by passing directly to the player he should have probably taken most care not to pass to, Jeremy Doku.

Town do win a corner,  and make lots of substitutions, but then so do City.  Kevin de Bruyne, whose haircut is clearly an homage to that of former Town legend Ted Phillips is replaced by Jack Grealish, a man whose transfer fee was at least as much as the entire Town team added together and whose large calf muscles seem to have piqued the interest of Pat from Clacton.  I resist telling her that I think I’ve got quite an impressive set of calves myself, and shapely with it.

Just beyond the hour both Town players with the initial JC ( Jack Clarke and Jens Cajuste) are substituted, and perhaps because this is some sort of blasphemy, it’s only seven minutes later that a sixth goal is conceded as two of City’s players move on a different plane to everyone else with a high diagonal pass being met with a looping header as everyone else looks on.

There are twenty minutes still to go and the home crowd is subdued, but still happy in their resignation.  Some leave, perhaps because they think they’re too good for this, but they’re really not, and many who remain sing, not defiantly or sarcastically but appreciatively, because as the bloke next to me says, two years ago we were losing at Oxford United but now we’re losing to that season’s European Cup winners.  Ever since relegation to the third division in 2019, Town fans seem to have understood about supporting a losing team.

I can’t pretend I’m not happy as the final whistle blows, not with result of course, but because the ordeal is over and at least Pierre de Coubertin would have been impressed.

Ipswich Town 0 Brighton & Hove Albion 2

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It’s been a much more eventful, activity-packed day than usual, with visits to my dentist and my surviving aged parent, a bit of driving around Ipswich, and spending my once a week day in the office, from the window of which I saw the Brighton and Hove Albion team bus drive by.   It’s nevertheless been a grey day, but now, as I pass through the portals of ‘the Arb,’ darkness has fallen and as it’s not raining or snowing the weather is no longer noticeable, although for January it’s quite mild.  Most incredible of all however, today is Thursday, and the Town will be playing at home tonight.  Foolishly nostalgic, I pine for the days when no football was ever played on a Thursday unless it happened to be Boxing Day, or two clubs were embroiled in multiple FA Cup replays, such as when Ipswich gloriously beat Leeds United on Thursday 27th March 1975, or less gloriously lost at home to West Ham United on Thursday 6th February 1986. But whatever, I’m here now.

In the present, Mick is already stood at the bar ordering a pint of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride and some food and he kindly buys me a pint of the same, and when I say I want to order some food too, he says he’ll pay for that as well; what a great bloke he is.  We repair to the beer garden, which is deserted, and wait for our food.  Over vegetarian burgers with what we think are sweet potato chips, we discuss how our lives and attitudes have been shaped by passing the 11-plus and being sent from rural primary schools to ‘posh’ schools at the expense of the County Council,  working class people’s mistrust of authority,  comedy, and how the environmentally friendly ‘Ecover’ cleaning brand is actually owned by evil multi-national Johnson and Johnson. After another pint of Suffolk Pride for me, and a Jura whisky for Mick because I misheard the bar maid when she said they only had Jamieson Stout and thought she said that the Jamieson is ‘out’, it is nearly ten past seven and time to exit through the now totally deserted bar towards Portman Road.

With ten minutes until kick-off, Portman Road is thick with queues, but I buy a programme from a queue-free seller and make my way around to approach the Sir Alf Ramsey stand from the direction of Russell Road. I join a shuffling queue but am quickly ushered towards a side gate in the style of Mr Benn and find myself inside the stadium just in time to bawl out the surnames of Burns, Broadhead, Hutchinson and Delap like a Frenchman would, as the excitable young stadium announcer reads out the Town team.  Around me, the familiar faces of Pat from Clacton, Fiona, the man from Stowmarket (Paul), ever-present Phil who never misses a game, but not his son Elwood, who is absent tonight, await the imminent kick-off to a soundtrack of na-na-nas from The Beatles’ song ‘Hey Jude’.  Kick-off is delayed however because tonight is the annual “Memorial Matchday” and we are told that a minute’s applause for recently deceased Town fans will begin with the referee’s whistle, but instead it starts straight away, so keen are the remaining Town fans to celebrate the dead. Perhaps football has finally replaced religion.

It’s Brighton who get first go with ball, which they mostly try to send in the direction of the goal fronting the Sir Bobby Robson stand; they wear a kit of all yellow, just as they did when I first saw them play a league game at Portman Road back in 1980.  Unless you’re FC Nantes, in which case it’s your home kit, all-yellow is the anonymous, archetypal away kit, which is what away kits used to be before everything was put up for sale, or ‘monetised’.  The Town are of course in blue and white.

“Al-bion, Al-bion” chant the Brighton fans boringly, as if they’re here under duress, before launching off into some song or other which at one point sounds disturbingly like ‘On The Ball City’.  On the pitch, Brighton start well, selfishly keeping the ball to themselves.  “Who’s the Brighton manager?” asks Pat from Clacton.  He’s German isn’t he says Fiona.  “I don’t know who he is” I reply, “Alan Mullery?”.   “Alan Mullery!” says Pat as if she’s really saying “Pffft”.   “I suppose Steve Foster is playing at the back is he?” scoffs Fiona.  Behind me, two blokes discuss the Brighton team, although this mostly consists of them saying players’ names and then adding “Yeah, he’s good”.

Brighton claim the game’s first corner in the eighth minute and we are treated to more morose repetition of “Al-bion, Al-bion”, which compares unfavourably with what I expected to hear, which was the much more upbeat “Sea-gulls, Sea-gulls”.  But in the final league table of disappointment over the course of the evening I don’t expect it to rank highly.  Ten minutes have passed and so far the game is all Brighton, and Ipswich fans are looking to the floor or the sky and whistling as if a little embarrassed, before some Bobby Robson standers eventually sing “Hark now hear the Ipswich sing, the Norwich ran away” in an attempt to change the subject.

“Thank you to today’s sponsors” reads the illuminated strip between the two tiers of the Sir Bobby stand but I quietly curse Umbro for apparently objecting to the poster style front page of the programme like philistine, money-obsessed bastards. The Brighton fans sing “Football in a library, der, der, der” to no particular tune.  Twenty minutes pass and Brighton have dominated them all, but without looking as if they will score, and therefore the belief remains that if only Ipswich can keep the ball for more than a few seconds they might nip away and demonstrate to Brighton what the point of the game is.  Brighton win another corner to no effect, before hope springs from the fleet of foot Nathan Broadhead, who runs away down field, shoots and the modern equivalent of Perry Digweed makes a diving save to give Town a corner and an opportunity to shout “Come On You Blues” with feeling .  It’s an event that changes the pattern of the game and enlivens the home crowd as chants of “Blue and white army” ring out. The twenty fifth minute, and Omari Hutchinson runs and shoots and ‘Digweed’ saves again.  “Town have woken up.“ says the bloke behind me and three minutes later Liam Delap runs and shoots at ‘Digweed’ too.  The words “Mezzanines, Staircases” flash across the front of the Sir Bobby Robson stand and Liam Delap oafishly barges his marker Paul van Hecke, to the amusement of many, and referee Mr Harrington awards a free kick.  Moments later Delap is fouled by van Hecke in what looks like revenge, but Harrington plays on.  “Winding him up” says the bloke behind me.

The Town continue to look the most likely team to score; Hutchinson sends Wes Burns down the right, Burns pulls the ball back but Jens Cajuste and Hutchinson both go to shoot at once and bounce off one another like Keystone Cops as the ball runs on and is cleared.  “Blue and white army, Blue and white army.” Chant the Sir Bobby Robson standers over and over and over again. Pat from Clacton tells me she had her tea before she came out; toad in the hole.  Brighton win a corner, “Al-bion, Al-bion.”  “Blue and white army, Blue and white army, Blue and white army.”  Two minutes to half-time and again Hutchinson shoots and ‘Digweed’ saves.  A minute of added on time is taken from the well of infinity and I wonder if we get ‘added on time’ when we’re about to die; if so, I expect to get quite a bit, some for the few days when I was in a coma in 2019, but mostly just for time wasting.  With that minute soon gone forever and half-time in full swing I go down to the front of the stand to chat with Ray, who with his wife Ros has been on a cruise to the unfortunately named Canary Isles and has missed the last three home matches.  He was sick in the Bay of Biscay too; I’m glad I stayed at home, not that I was invited, that would have been very weird.

The football resumes at twenty-eight minutes to eight.  “RJ Dean Plasterers” say the bright lights of the illuminated adverts on the Sir Bobby Robson stand and I think of Pearl and Dean the cinema advertisers before Liam Delap seemingly barges Joel Veltman just for the hell of it, like a sort of hobby to undertake in idle moments; Delap is booked.  Four minutes later, Joao Pedro, Brighton’s number nine, raises the level of violence as he flies through the air to shoulder charge Christian Walton.  Pedro is also booked, despite much baying for a red card from home fans, and VAR confirms that a yellow card is sufficient censure, possibly because he didn’t draw blood.

The half is almost twelve minutes old and the ball drops to Wes Burns in the Brighton penalty area, but his snapshot carries on beyond the far post.  It will prove to be the Town’s last decent attempt on goal and the game is about to change course as within two minutes Jacob Greaves can’t quite stop a ball from going beyond him and Yasin Ayari gets behind the Town defence and pulls the ball back to O’Riley, but it’s Mitoma who sweeps it into the net.  It’s the goal either Jens Cajuste or Omari Hutchinson would have scored in the first half had they not both tried to score it at the same time. 

It’s only 1-0, we’ve been one down before, but from here on Town are not going to be in the game. Pedro turns and forces an excellent flying save from Walton, Brighton win corner after corner and Town play the ball across their defence but seldom retain possession as far away as the centre circle.  Substitutions make no difference and finally, eight minutes from the end of normal time a free kick on the left is played into the Town penalty area, is deflected onto Jack Taylor and falls to Georginio Rutter, who is able to turn and stroke the ball into the Town goal.  VAR decides that the man on the pitch with the best surname, Lewis Dunk was not interfering with play when stood offside and Town are losing two-nil.

“How shit must you be , we’re winning away” sing the Brighton supporters, putting yet another set of carefully crafted lyrics to the football supporters’ staple ‘Sloop John B’, and the excitable young stadium announcer tells us that our ‘incredible’ support numbers 29,403, although 2,977 of us have been shouting for the wrong  but nevertheless winning team.

Six minutes of additional time fail to adequately atone for the lost hope and disappointment suffered, and with the final whistle Pat from Clacton, Fiona and ever-present Phil are away faster than greyhounds out of a starting trap.  I’m hot on their heels as I try to put distance between myself and the scene of yet another of life’s failures but feel a bit like I’m the dog who’s been doped.  I’ll be back on Sunday though, having forgotten all about it, perhaps until that final moment when my life will flash before me and I head for the ultimate memorial matchday.  Once a Blue, eh?

Ipswich Town 3 Bristol Rovers 0

/ martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

It’s been cold lately, which is reassuring because it is January, and low air temperatures at this time of year are part of the recurring pattern of life that means the FA Cup third round is upon us, albeit a week later than it was when I were a lad.  Neolithic farmers had stone circles and henges aligned to the  stars to mark the changing seasons, we have football fixtures.

Feeling at one with Mother Earth, I walk beneath a pale blue, winter afternoon sky to the railway station, where I meet Roly, who will be attending his first  game of the current season after three failed attempts to score a ticket for a league match, which has left him bitter and disconsolate; this is what being in the Premier League does to people.  A young girl stood next to us on the platform with what are possibly an older brother and her mother, remarks that I am wearing odd gloves (a blue and red one and a black and orange one) and so I explain to her that the other halves of the pairs of gloves had holes in them, although I don’t tell her that one of the gloves is a “Marcus Stewart” glove, because I guess that she wouldn’t know who Marcus Stewart is. Her brother supports West Ham, and her mother seems to be ignoring them both, and I sense the children are pleased that someone is talking to them, even if it’s Roly who is now feeling left out.

At the first station stop, Gary boards the train and soon joins us on our journey having made his way down the carriage.  Like the three witches in Macbeth in reverse, we discuss when we all last met and decide that like so much, it was ‘before lockdown’.  But then, if you’re no longer at primary school most things were before lockdown.  We continue to talk aimlessly until like pensioners on a sightseeing trip we all peer out of the window to catch a glimpse of the polar bears that mark the approach to Ipswich.  I think I see one lying on its back as if sunbathing, but it might just be my excitement playing tricks on me.

Once in Ipswich, I struggle at the platform barrier with my electronic ticket as Gary and Roly, who relied on cardboard but had to kill a tree in the process, wait patiently on the other side.  We amble up Princes Street and Portman Road and take turns to buy programmes from one of the ice cream kiosks, and then complain that there is no groovy design on the cover, (damn you Umbro) or anywhere come to that, and the programme is a bit thin for £2.50. “Less of the usual rubbish to read though “I say cheerfully as we walk on up to the Arb, and occasionally I steer Roly in the right direction, as he seems to have forgotten the way; he’s only forty-seven.

On High Street, Roly reaches the front door of the Arb first, but ushers me through before him like a man much practiced in avoiding buying the first round, or any round. But then, he does have a wife and child to support, and he clearly gets his haircut more often than me too, although he doesn’t buy many razor blades.  We are soon clutching pints of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride, Nethergate Venture and Lager 43 (£13 something for the three with Camra discount) and greeting Mick, who is already sat in the shelter in the beer garden with a pint of Suffolk Pride of his own.  We talk of this and that and sometimes we laugh.  Gary buys another round of drinks after a while, but this time he and Roly only have halves and Mick has a whisky.  By twenty-five to three our glasses are once again empty and so with at least one other Town supporter still in the bar, if his shirt is to be believed, we leave for Portman Road.

In Portman Road the queues at the turnstiles are impressive in their length and the variety of speeds at which they move.  We join the queue for turnstile 62, but as ever it seems slower than the others and so we slip across towards turnstile sixty as two young women wave illuminated scanners at us. I tell them I can save them some effort if they let me know what they are looking for; apparently it’s weapons.  We hand over our assault rifles and grenades and move on up the queue.

Once in my seat, I find I have missed the excitable young stadium announcer’s reading out of the team, which is mildly disappointing, but more so is the absence of Pat from Clacton, although Fiona, the man from Stowmarket (Paul), ever-present Phil who never misses a game, and his son Elwood are all here, even if many other regulars aren’t.  Fiona tells me that Pat had said she wasn’t going to come to this game, sadly it seems she’s no longer turned on by the FA Cup like we all are.

It’s the Town who get first go with the ball, which they pass around in the general direction of me and my fellow ultras; Town wear blue and white of course, whilst Bristol Rovers sport a change kit of plastic green shirts decorated with areas of black check, like a small geometric rash; their shorts are black like the rash.  The words “External Render” flash across the illuminated strip between the two tiers of the Sir Bobby Robson stand, and the Bristol Rovers supporters mournfully sing of when the Gas go marching in, and how they want to be in that number, or pipe, when it happens.  It’s the sixth minute and Ipswich have a free kick from which they win a corner and I bellow “Come On You Blues”.  Fiona gamely joins in, but we are lone voices in a sea of silence.  A second corner follows but things don’t improve chorally. “You’re supposed to be at home” sing the Bristolians to the tune of Cwm Rhondda and then they shout a short chant of “Football In a Library“, which quickly fades away into a stifled mumble as if someone had disapprovingly raised their finger to their lips and pointed to a sign that says “Silence”.

It’s the twelfth minute of the game now and Jack Clarke falls to the turf in the Rovers penalty area, raising his head and looking pleadingly at the referee as he does so.  He should probably be booked for such a poor attempt at scamming a penalty but isn’t.  Meanwhile, the Rovers supporters start singing “Que sera sera, Whatever will be will be, We’re going to Wemb-er-ley, Que sera, sera” revealing an unexpected love of the hits of Doris Day, a healthy optimism and a sense of the ridiculous all at once. Town have a corner, and a game of head tennis follows before the ball is claimed by the Bristol goalkeeper Josh Griffiths, and the Rovers fans begin to goad the pensioners and small children in the adjacent Sir Alf Ramsey stand by singing “Small club in Norwich, You’re just a small club in Norwich”.  The Rovers fans will later realise their mistake as they begin their drives home by looking for the A11.

Town are dominating the game, which is taking place mostly around the Bristol Rovers penalty area and with seventeen minutes lost to the history of the world’s oldest cup competition, it is from just outside that penalty area that Kalvin Phillips strikes an exquisitely placed shot into the left-hand corner of Griffiths’ goal, and Town lead one-nil.  For a while, Phillips’s name and image do not appear on the scoreboard, almost as if they can’t be found because he hadn’t been expected to score, but eventually we get to see him, and his haircut.  “Sing when you’re winning” chant the Rovers fans and they’re not far wrong, except today most of us aren’t even doing that.

Town’s one-nil lead lasts just six minutes and then makes way for a two-nil lead as Jack Clarke is suddenly left with the simple task of passing the ball into an unguarded net after a shot by Ali-Al-Hamadi is blocked.  “Fawlty Towers Dinner Show” announces the illuminated advert strip between the two tiers of the Sir Bobby Robson stand before the game descends towards half-time, and as Griffiths receives treatment, everyone else receives fluids, succour or remedial coaching on the touchline as required.

With eight minutes of the first half remaining, Town score again as Jack Taylor is suddenly stood before Griffiths with no one else near, and confidently strokes the ball past him, almost as if taking a penalty.  The excitable young stadium announcer weirdly tells us that the goal is scored by “our Jack Taylor” and we wonder if Bristol Rovers score will he say the goal is scored by  “their” whoever.  We very nearly find out in the forty-third minute as Aro Muric passes straight to a Bristol player, but Muric then saves the resulting shot with his feet.  He hasn’t had much to do in the first half, so perhaps it was just Muric’s way of keeping his eye in.  The half ends with another Town corner courtesy of Wes Burns, and two minutes of additional time, but no more goals are scored and with the half-time whistle it’s time to quickly visit the facilities, because it’s a cold day and those two pints of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride were seemingly only on hire.

Three-nil up with not much effort and the second half is anticipated eagerly, pregnant as it is with the possibility that ex-Town players Grant Ward or James Wilson might score own goals, and the excitable young stadium announcer will say that the goals are scored by “formerly our” Grant Ward or James Wilson.  Half-time passes with me turning round and recognising the man sat behind me; we both used to drink before matches in St Jude’s Tavern; apparently, he doesn’t anymore because his knees mean he no longer rides his bike.

The football resumes at four minutes past four and our Ben Johnson, as opposed to the seventeenth century playwright and poet, replaces our Wes Burns, as opposed to just any Wes Burns.  Mick is eating a vegan pie, which he says is very good.  After five minutes Town earn another corner and then a minute later are awarded a penalty as Grant Ward (not to be confused with Grant Wood, painter of ‘American Gothic’) does his former team a favour by handling the ball.  Ali Al-Hamadi steps up to fool Griffiths by shooting hopelessly wide of his right-hand post with one of the worst penalty kicks ever seen at Portman Road.

The embarrassment of the penalty miss seems to put a damper on the whole match now, which like me never seems to recapture its initial zest for life.   At half-time the names of two-hundred people (mostly children by the look of their fashionable 21st century names) attending their first game appeared on the electronic scoreboard and I’ve now come to notice several people in pristine examples of what can only be described as ‘this season’s blue and white knitwear’.  My reverie is broken by a rare Rovers corner. “Come on Rovers, Come on Rovers” chant the Bristolians, and I enjoy the burr of their west country accents, which can plainly be heard in the word ‘rovers’.  Bristol’s brief brush with attacking football ends with a free-kick to Town, which displeases the travelling supporters.  “Wankerr, Wankerr” they chant at the referee Mr Langford, and then, strangely obsessed with masturbation “He wanks off the ref, He wanks off the ref, Ed Sheeran, he wanks off the ref” to the tune of Sloop John B, something that Brian Wilson probably never foresaw, despite tripping on LSD, when the Beach Boys popularised the Bahamian folk song back in 1966.

The match drifts on towards the inevitable final whistle; I tell Mick that I saw some of the ‘new’ film version of ‘West Side Story’ on tv the other night and liked it, a bloke somewhere behind me believes Al-Hamadi is trying too hard and Mick and I agree that a city the size of Bristol should really have a team in the first division, “Like Lincoln” says Mick, misguidedly. 

There are still more than twenty minutes left as Bristol bring on the clunky sounding Gatlin O’Donkor in place of Chris Martin, who in another world would have been made to play alongside Michael Jackson (Preston & Bury) and Paul Weller (Burnley & Rochdale).  I tell Mick that I think we’ve reached the stage where someone now needs to release a dog onto the pitch.  More substitutions ensue for both teams, but they don’t compare to bringing on a dog, and then the excitable young announcer thanks all 27,678 of us (541 from Bristol) for our ‘incredible’ support.

A seventy-eighth minute corner for Town raises a spark of interest and mysteriously several people all around the stadium illuminate the torches on their mobile phones; Aro Muric is swapped for Cieran Slicker, who Gary is convinced is no longer an Ipswich Town player. Not ‘our’ Cieran Slicker at all then, according to Gary.  A final hurrah sees George Hirst lob the ball over both Griffiths and the Bristol cross bar, and some late enthusiasm amongst the crowd in the Sir Alf Ramsey stand has some gobby pre-pubescent chanting “Blue Army” and a lot of people echoing his chant; it sounds dreadful, and I imagine the participants all with drippy grins on their faces thinking how cute it is.

Just a minute of added on time is to be played, which is unbelievably brief given the number of substitutions made, but I guess the fourth official is as keen for this all to end as I am.  Town have won, and won easily, and it’s not what we’re used to anymore.  As the man from Stowmarket (Paul) said at half-time, it’s bit of a Sunday afternoon game, one put on for the children.  Gary and Mick are quickly off into the night after the final whistle and I soon follow, for what else is there to do but await the fourth round draw.