Ipswich Town 1 Wigan Athletic 0

In 1978 when Ipswich Town were winning the FA Cup, Wigan Athletic finished second in the Northern Premier League behind Boston United and were elected to the Football League in place of Southport. Today, as ever-present Phil who never misses a game will later joke, Wigan are Town’s peers and today we meet. That’s a good joke Phil, you are wasted teaching IT to the youth of Northampton. Wigan bobbed about in the ‘lower divisions’ for several years, I remember seeing them lose frequently at Layer Road in the 1990’s, but eventually the club had the good fortune to be adopted by millionaire Dave Whelan who built them a stadium and paid their way in to the Premier League (spit). I met Dave Whelan once in a professional capacity; he flew down to Ipswich by helicopter just to meet me, and my colleague (boss). As we talked informally to break the ice my colleague, let’s call him Steve because that is his name, offered him a million pounds for Titus Bramble (then a Wigan Athletic player) and he accepted. I’m still not sure what we would have done with Titus Bramble in our office.

Today is a gloriously grey mid-December day. The sky is dull, the wind is gusty and the cold is very cold; so cold it cuts against my skin like a knife as I walk to the railway station. There are plenty of people waiting for the 12:57 train; Christmas shoppers mostly, heading for the bright, twinkling lights of Colchester. The train is late. A freight train seems to be to blame; it crawls through the station belching thick, dark diesel fumes. “Bloody hell” says a youth out to his impress his mates before he breaks into a bout of ostentatious coughing. More mature people cover their noses with their scarves or hold their breath. I wander down the platform and wait near a man who has hair like a young Sid James. The train is nine minutes late, but arrives in due course. As it draws into the platform two men in their late sixties manoeuvre themselves towards the sliding doors. “Ooh, it’s one of the refurbished ones, have you been on one of these?” says one of the men who has an unfortunate squint to one eye. The other man doesn’t answer. I imagine he’s thinking “Twat”.

The Christmas shoppers and Sid James desert the train at Colchester and I  am left to contemplate a sign inviting me to recharge my lap-top, tablet or phone, but only my lap-top, tablet or phone, from a sealed up power point. It’s as if Greater Anglia railways had considered being generous, but then thought better of it.

Ipswich is as grey and cloudy as the station where I began my journey and the streets are cold and quiet. I stride over the Princes Street bridge purposefully in my overcoat and blue and white scarf, probably smiling slightly to myself because I’m looking forward to the match; surely we can win today, I’m thinking. A woman in a car waiting at the traffic lights catches my eye and gives me the thumbs up. Yes, we will surely win today. I see the banners on the lamp posts advertising the Rodin exhibition at the gallery in Christchurch Park and am further inspired; I really must go and see ‘The Kiss’. We’ve got it all in Ipswich. Seriously.

Portman Road is quiet for a match day but perhaps that is because the turnstiles are already open and the people usually here at 1.30 are all inside doing whatever people who arrive an hour and a half before kick-off do. I head for the Fanzone to deliver a bag of groceries to the FIND foodbank charity; I’m not going into the Fanzone but a steward tries to stop me nevertheless because I haven’t shown that I have a match ticket, I tell them not to fret, I’m only going ‘over here’. Hopefully FIND will have had a successful day and will make further collections on future match days.

I head on to St Jude’s Tavern past a steward walking a car along Sir Alf Ramsey Way, I call to him that he needs a red flag. St Jude’s is very busy but I quickly avail myself of a pint of the Match Day Special (£2.50) which today is St Jude’s Thaddeus. I perch on a bar stool in a dark corner; it’s the only vacant seat left. I’m not quite half way through my pint when Mick appears at the door, the large fur-trimmed hood of his coat casts a deep shadow over his face and beard making him look a little like a slightly sinister polar explorer. Mick quickly acquires a pint of the Thaddeus too and we talk of car insurance, my recent weekend in Amiens, of Trappist beers (Orval and Chimay), Jules Verne, ethical candles, gilets jaunes and Emmanuel Macron. Finishing my first pint, I buy a pint of Mr Bee’s Black Bee (£3.40) and Mick has a half of the Match Day Special. Time flies by and it’s almost ten to three, I have to dash.

 I seem to be the last person to be making his way down Portman Road towards the glowing floodlights, in the nearing distance supporters scurry across from the car park and hurry through the turnstiles like people getting in, out of the rain. At the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand I greet the turnstile operator with cheery smile and proceed to the seats where as ever I will find ever-present Phil who never misses a game, and Pat from Clacton.

Phil hands me a Christmas card, which is nice  and after the referee Mr Scott Duncan poses for photos with the team captains and mascots the match is soon underway. Town get first go with the ball and are trying to send it in the direction of me, Phil and Pat. Town as ever wear blue and white shirts despoiled by the ugly advert for on-line betting whilst Wigan are obviously the away team because they are all in yellow.

The game is a bit of a mess. Town start slightly better than Wigan and mill around their goal for a bit, but without threatening to score. Not really making the best of the Latin rhythms of Guantanamera, the 310 Wigan supporters in the Cobbold Stand sing “Down with the Wanderers, You’re going down with the Wanderers”. Presumably they are addressing their song to Ipswich and not to their own team, but you never know. At the North Stand end of the ground the ambience is less Cuban and South American and more Spanish, although the chants of “Ole, Ole, Ole, Ole” are swept away on the icy wind above the muffled sound of drums. Wigan begin to have more of the ball, but are as ineffective close to Ipswich’s goal as we are to theirs.
The game settles down into scruffy mediocrity but the hope that everyone is drawing from the realisation that Wigan are as bad as we are is palpable; at times that hope congeals into belief and the vestiges of long lost vocal support ripple through the stands. “We’re going to see Tina Turner the musical on Friday, in London” I hear Pat say. “I’m not” says Phil.

There are several free-kicks and the Wigan players seem keen to hold proceedings up whenever they can by feigning mortal injury and clutching various limbs before skipping off to kick or shove someone in blue and white. Frustrated by another delay the old dear behind shouts “Keep it goin’, we gotta get home tonight. It’s obviously not cold enough for ‘em.”

With a half an hour gone a tuneless, droning chant of “Wigan, Wigan, Wigan, Wigan, Wigan” makes a succinct commentary on the type of game it is and makes me think of the Buzzcocks’ “Boredom” and I mourn the death of Pete Shelley quietly to myself whilst waiting for something good to happen. A page from a copy of the East Anglian Daily Times dances its way across the pitch, blown and buffeted by the wind. Then another page floats by and another. “ It’s coming across a page at a time” says the elderly voice behind me and she chuckles ,enjoying the sight of paper blowing about more than the match it seems. A serious looking steward with a head wrapped in earphones steps forward to grab a piece of the newspaper and dispose of it. “Underground, overground, Wombling free” I sing. It’s twenty-five to four and Freddie Sears breaks free of the Wigan defence, he bears down on goal, he shoots over the cross bar. Five minutes later Wigan’s, or more accurately Everton’s Callum Connolly misses the goal too after a corner, “Crikey, you’re worse than us” is the verdict from behind me.
Half-time is a blessed opportunity to thaw my hands beneath the warm air blowers in the gents’ toilet; it’s a cold day and I’ve drunk two pints of beer so I take the chance to use the other facilities too. Outside on the concourse I eat a Panda brand liquorice stick and then, back in the stand chat with Ray, who also hands me a Christmas card. It is starting to rain and it’s getting dark.
The second half of the match begins and the break has made me more conscious of the cold easterly wind; even Paul Lambert has a coat on this afternoon, even if he has left it not done up. For now, despite slowly numbing fingers due to fingerless gloves, I feel warm. My woolly socks, cosily fitting boxer shorts bought in an Amiens supermarket (Auchan), a T-shirt bearing the words “Allez-les bleus”, long-sleeve cotton 1950’s Ipswich football shirt, chunky woolly jumper, beneath a heavy overcoat, and a woolly ITFC badged hat and scarf seem to be doing the trick. I was worried about the boxer shorts because they have the word ‘Athletic’ all around the waist band, but have decided that like sticking pins in a wax effigy having a part of the name of our opponents printed on my pants will put a hex on them.

The standard of football doesn’t improve. “It’s probably better on the radio” says the old girl behind me. The cold intensifies with the rain and my feet start to feel like blocks of ice. Dean Gerken the Ipswich goalkeeper draws disapproving moans and groans from the crowd as he hurries a clearance, which screws away into touch. He glowers back at the crowd. Perhaps he senses and even resents the loyalty in the crowd to Bartosz Bialkowski. The wind and rain are making it difficult for players who like to hoof the ball, but I think we are right to expect better on this occasion. I begin to wonder if this game might not become the win we are waiting for, but despite that minor ‘altercation’ with “Gerks” there is still a prevailing atmosphere of hope and support. We know we aren’t here to be entertained, we are here to see a win and people are sensing that they have some part in making that happen because perhaps the team might not be able to do it alone. Every now and then a string of on-field events will cause an eruption of supportive sounds from the stands and belief is restored. Even when a shot from Wigan’s Reece James strikes the Ipswich cross bar it seems to galvanise the support, not make them depressed and scornful as would have happened last season. It’s gone twenty past four and an Ipswich ‘attack’ takes ‘shape’ in a random manner on the right. The ball is hit hither and thither and into the box where there is more bagatelle until Freddie Sears half volleys the ball into the ground and towards the goal, it strikes Everton’s Callum Connolly and, as Wigan goalkeeper Christian Walton looks over his shoulder, the back of the goal net. Ipswich Town are winning.
The remaining twenty four minutes are both awful and utterly enjoyable. The referee Mr Scott Duncan, despite having the name of a former Town manager whom the supporters respect, unlike the last four managers, makes a catalogue of dubious decisions many involving granting Wigan free-kicks around the edge of the penalty area. But this only draws everyone together, if we have to beat both Wigan Athletic and the referee so be it. Town manager Paul Lambert is equally gung-ho and has now discarded his coat like some sort of footballing King Lear challenging the wind and freezing rain to do its worst.  Wigan’s last chance is the ludicrous addition of seven minutes of time added on, it’s as if Wigan have benefitted from their own time wasting earlier in the match. But thankfully Wigan are not good enough to make anything of it. If it was a Friday in the 1960’s it would be time for Crackerjack by now, but at last Mr Duncan’s whistle draws its last and Town have won at home for the first time in just over six months and for just the third time this year.
This has  been the worst brilliant match I have ever seen and certainly the best terrible one too. The foul, freezing weather has just made it more marvellous, more memorable. This is what being a football supporter is all about, days like this. I have learned again the joy of a single win. The wait has been worth it. I feel sorry for those supporters of clubs who have never been bottom of the league in mid-December without a home win, they don’t know what they’ve missed. Today our souls have been enriched.
Tonight my wife and I shall drink champagne.

Haverhill Rovers 4 Wroxham 2

It’s a grey December afternoon, there is a strong, gusty wind and the forecast is for rain, or for showers at least; ideal weather for a football match, particularly one at step five of the non-league game where shelter from the cold and elements will be minimal. From where I live it is only possible to use public transport in getting to Haverhill by catching a train to Ipswich and then to Cambridge and then a number 13 bus, which overall would take about 4 hours. The 42 kilometre drive by Citroen C3 will take about a minute for every kilometre, perhaps a few more depending on the traffic. I opt for the car journey; I’ll have to make up for the impact on my carbon footprint another time.

Even on a grey day it’s a pleasant enough drive through north Essex, skirting Halstead and then Castle Hedingham, with a glimpse of the Norman castle off to the right, and on through the villages of Great Yeldham, Ridgewell and finally into Suffolk and Sturmer, one of my favourite place names. Arriving on the outskirts of Haverhill the dull estates of houses contrast with what went before. This doesn’t feel like Suffolk, it looks like a ‘new town’ and in a way it is, Haverhill having been expanded in the 1960’s and 1970’s as part the Greater London Plan to re-house people from Inner London. “Overspill” was the less than flattering word often used to describe the towns, and the people.

From Chalkstone Way (a street name made up by developers if ever there was one) I turn the Citroen right into the car park of the New Croft, home of Haverhill Rovers and the Haverhill Community Sports Association. I park up a short walk from the neat metal turnstile block. It’s not half-past two yet and I’m one of the first here.

I hand over my £6 entrance money and remark to the turnstile operator, a man who is probably in his late sixties that it’s good value for money and how surprised I was to have to pay £8 at Framlingham a few weeks ago.

He explains in a London accent how the league tells the clubs that they can charge between £6 and £8, but the club wants to get as many people in as possible, so why charge more than the minimum? Children are admitted free. I buy a programme (£1) and the man tells me I can get food at the tea hut or I can go inside in the warm, in the bar. I choose the tea bar where a mother and daughter combine to serve me with a bacon roll (£2.50); daughter takes the money, mum prepares the roll. It’s a very good bacon roll with two lean rashers of bacon, although in an ideal world a small baguette would get my vote over a soft roll, I blame Brexit.

I eat the bacon roll as the two teams warm up on the pitch in front of me; then I think I might have a drink in the bar, but sadly looking along row of pumps it doesn’t look like there is a real ale and I’m nothing if not discerning. Needing something to wash down the bacon roll I return to the mother and daughter for a cup of tea (£1.20) and then, paper cup in hand, I take a look about. The New Croft is a fine facility with its sports hall, spacious looking changing room and toilet block and 3G pitches, but for a non-league football ground it lacks character. It’s too neat and tidy and there is something a bit soulless and anodyne about it, with its two off the shelf metal stands and sturdy metal rail around the pitch; Meccano meets the Football Trust. The presence of a ‘lost’ football on the roof of the changing room is a good attempt at creating a bit of interest, but it doesn’t compete with the discarded double glazing and bollards of Stowmarket Town, the scaffolding poles of Ipswich Wanderers or the car park kiosk of Long Melford.

The concourse in front of the bar is getting busier as a steady flow of mostly men in their sixties and seventies make their way through the turnstile. The two teams, the referee and his assistants then appear from the Sports Centre building; they stand and wait a while as if to create some pre-match tension before parading onto the pitch and lining up in front of the main stand to indulge in the ritual handshakes.

It is the home team that get first go with the ball, kicking in the direction of Great Wratting and wearing an all deep red kit, and very good it looks too. Wroxham sport blue and white striped shirts with blue shorts and socks; they look like Brighton & Hove Albion and are playing into a strong wind rendered more unpleasant by a fine drizzle, the sort of thing that might well come off the English channel at Brighton. Nicknamed the Yachtsmen, Wroxham should at least be able to tack into this wind in the first half.
Opening exchanges are very messy as the ball is booted up and down the far touchline in turn by both teams.

I go and sit in the main stand which is adorned with two signs proclaiming that it is the Terry McGery stand; the match programme tells us that Mr McGery is the club president. The signs feature a photo of Terry smiling benignly like a pools winner from the side of a bus; it seems somewhat self-aggrandising to me, usually people wait until they’re dead to have football stands named after them. Soon enough however, the football settles down as the rain stops and the cloud clears to reveal a pale blue sky. It all looks rather beautiful with the sun illuminating the red and blue of the teams and the green of the pitch but the few spectators on the far side of the pitch and the occupants of the dugouts have to squint.

There are a number of old boys in the stand behind me each offering his own commentary of the game. “Bet they’re all called Roy” calls one making a weak joke about the Wroxham team and a well-known store local to Wroxham. “Yes, Roy’s of Wroxham” says another slowly and softly, as if explaining the joke to himself. Wroxham play fast flowing skilful football, but Haverhill look stronger physically and have two big blokes up front in their number nine and number ten, Graeme Turner and Mark Lovell. Haverhill’s strength and directness soon pay off as the ball drops back to Marc Abbott just outside the penalty area and he half volleys it with tremendous force into the far corner of the Wroxham net, it’s a helluva goal which has those capable of standing in the ageing crowd, on their feet. A couple of old boys behind me are very excited. “ It hardly left the ground” says one and then “ He must have been fully forty yards out”. It seems not so much that his eyesight is failing him, more that he is hallucinating.
Although Haverhill lead, the old boys behind me aren’t optimistic as Wroxham launch a series of quick passing moves, their nimble wide players creating chances which are spurned. “Good football” is the considered verdict from the commentary behind. “They’re a good footballing side”, “Attractive”. It takes twenty minutes, during which time Haverhill miss a good number of chances of their own, but eventually Wroxham do equalise as Nathan Stewart breaks clear of the Haverhill defence and Sonny Carey tidies up and places the ball in the net.
The skies have clouded over again but it’s an entertaining game and whilst it looks like Wroxham are quicker and more skilful they don’t seem able to stop Haverhill making chances. A minute before half-time there’s a free-kick and a scramble and the ball is diverted into the Wroxham goal from close range. “Who scored?”
– “It was Foxey”
– “Was it?”
-“Ask him when he comes off” So someone does because it’s now half-time, and it was Foxey, aka Jemel Fox.

I watch the teams and officials leave the field, referee Mr Chambers gingerly holding the ball perhaps because its unpleasantly wet and muddy.

It’s time for another £1.20’s worth of tea so I join the short queue. As I stand and wait I admire the large menu screwed on to the wall, it’s divided into four sections under the headings Food, Snacks, Drinks and Children. “Cheap prices aren’t they?” says a man spotting my interest in the sign. I can’t disagree.

The teams return to the fray and I take a stroll around the pitch. I smile to the linesman with the orange and yellow flag and we speak briefly, agreeing that it’s a bit parky, although I suspect he knows it more than I do because linesmen don’t generally get to wear woolly hats and scarves, although his colleague does look like he’s wearing a trackie top.
The open sides of the ground are bleak and windswept and I don’t linger between the dugouts for long before returning to the comparative warmth of the more populated side of the ground. I stand amongst a line of people stood behind the rail in the half of the field which Wroxham are defending. Haverhill’s Mark Lovell falls to the ground under a challenge from Wroxham’s captain Adam Plumstead as he charges into the penalty area. “ ‘e took his feet away” bawls a voice from behind the rail. Referee Mr Wayne Chambers, who reminds me of a mid-1970’s Eric Clapton agrees and Marc Abbott scores the penalty to put Haverhill 3-1 up.

I return to the comparative comfort of the Terry McGerty stand where the supporters are now more relaxed. Haverhill’s sturdier approach to the game has seen them dominate this half and Wroxham no longer draw their admiration with their ‘attractive’ football. But just before twenty-five past four a run down the left and a low cross, which appears to squeeze between a defenders’ thighs reaches Wroxham’s Adam Plumstead who makes the score 3-2 from close range. I’m expecting Wroxham, who are third in the league and ten points ahead of Haverhill to push for an equaliser but within two minutes a Haverhill corner is played to the near post where number four Jake Noble is unchallenged as he passes the ball into the goal from six yards. The sky has turned a deep cobalt blue and a bank of cloud has built up in the south, threatening a wet journey home. An aeroplane swoops low over the town and banks sharply on its approach into Stansted airport.
The sky has turned a deep cobalt blue and a bank of cloud has built up in the south, threatening a wet journey home. An aeroplane swoops low over the town and banks sharply on its approach into Stansted airport.

The remainder of the game sees substitutions and bookings as desperation takes hold. “You two, come ‘ere” says the Eric Clapton lookalike to Haverhill’s Ryan Yallop and Wroxham’s Sonny Carey as they reach for their inner naughty school boy. Mr Chambers has impressed me all afternoon with his casual approach to the game, he never seems to find it necessary to break into a run, preferring to get to the important incidents just on time as any blues guitarist might if they were a referee. Behind me someone calls out the latest scores at West Ham and Tottenham and one of the old boys gets excited calling out “Corner! Oh, no its not”.  The game ends and Haverhill Rovers deserve their win and we’ve all had our money’s worth from a very entertaining match. It’s good to see Suffolk beat Norfolk, even if this doesn’t really feel like Suffolk, with its Cambridge postcode and London accents although old blokes watching football are pretty much the same everywhere.

Ipswich Town 2 Bristol City 3

Night matches at Portman Road have become like buses supposedly are; I’ve not seen Town play at home in a night match all season and all of sudden two fixtures arrive almost together. In truth I’ve rarely lived in the sort of places where the bus service is frequent enough for that to happen, it’s more likely the bus won’t turn up at all and nor will the next one and on recent Town form that’s likely to be a better analogy.
Unlike last week’s evening match, tonight I am not leaving off early to use up flexi-time; tonight I am staying a bit later to rack-up some hours instead. By ten-past five however, everyone else has cleared off and I can’t stand to be alone in this place any longer so I make my way out into the deepening gloom of early evening, seeking the light of St Jude’s Tavern. The streets around the ground are quiet;

their stillness frozen by the harsh white glow that spills out from the hot food stands that are already set up and feeding stewards and those mysterious supporters who arrive hours before kick-off.
In St Jude’s it’s quiet too, with just four or five other drinkers scattered about as I order a pint of the Match Day Special (£2.50), which tonight is Mr Bee’s Best Beer. I sit and read ‘Unreliable Memoirs’ by Clive James, but with so few people in the bar it’s hard not to overhear conversations. A woman at the bar has a theory that a male friend is gay; something to do with him trying to ‘feel up’ another friend after a night out. No other evidence is put forward, and I don’t learn if the attempt to ‘feel up’ were successful or not. Relief from this gossip arrives in the shape of ever-present Phil who never misses a game; he has arrived hot-foot from Northampton. I’m soon chatting with Phil whilst eating a steak and kidney pie (my first choice, beef and onion was out of stock) and savouring a pint of Cliff Quay Brewery Tolly Roger (pie and a pint £5.00). I don’t like kidney but when I find a bit I just swallow it whole so as not to taste it. We’re not long talking before Mick arrives and he kindly buys me another pint of the Match Day Special whilst also getting one for himself. Phil leaves about ten to seven, which Mick puts down to Keenness but our conversation isn’t diminished, oiled as it is by another pint of the Match Day Special. It is twenty-five to eight by the time I leave Mick at the corner of Portman Road and I only just get to my seat in time for kick-off, therefore missing the match ball being plucked from its plinth as the teams walk out. “What time do you call this?” asks Ray. I don’t have a satisfactory answer other than to give him the correct time, which I sense wasn’t the true purpose of the question. Bristol City begin the game, un-necessarily wearing a change kit of white shirts and black shorts when their first kit is all-red; a polyester precis of what is wrong with modern football. Town are kicking towards me , Phil, Ray and Pat from Clacton, and of course wear blue and white and provide their own summary of football’s modern failings with the hideous logo of a gambling company, as ever despoiling the front of their shirts. If Town are relegated this season that logo and choice of an on-line gambling business as sponsor will be partly to blame. There are about ten thousand fewer people here than there were for the last game, but surprisingly the match atmosphere doesn’t seemed diminished by a corresponding 44%. The 13,436 of us here (that excludes the 290 Bristolians) are the hardened rump of Town’s support; we are , I like to think, the ones who care the most and so the sound of our anguish is louder and maybe we breathe more heavily.
Seemingly oblivious to the fact that their players are wearing a change kit, the Bristolians assembled in the Cobbold Stand chant “Red Army, Red Army” as their team has a couple of shots blocked and then earns a corner when Bartosz Bialkowski has to make the first save of the game. Perhaps through the eyes of a die-hard Robins fan Bristol City are always in red. But the Red Army domination is brief and Freddie Sears runs at them and has a shot blocked before then shooting wide. There’s enough here to please a home crowd whose desire to see Town win a home game almost has a physical presence. On the pitch there are fouls and free-kicks and a general lack of precision, which is what we’re used to. Jordan Roberts is the first name to be recorded by referee Mr David Webb, who like last Friday’s referee is not a tall man. “Short refs, we only get short refs” I sing, to the tune of Rodgers and Hart’s Blue Moon, but to no one’s amusement save my own.
Ipswich captain Luke Chambers makes a mistake to let in a Bristol player who shoots over the bar. “Should’ve volleyed it” says a lad behind me to his dad authoritatively. “I would have” he adds unconvincingly. He doesn’t say if he would have scored though. There is a touchline contretemps and Paul Lambert, as usual wearing his Marks & Spencer black jumper and black slacks, points and  jabs angrily. He is surrounded by coaches and trackie-bottom wearers all  trying to be as tough and angry as him, but their big, padded, shiny coats  say they never will be.

Town win their first corner and the half empty ground resounds or may be echoes to chants of “Come On You Bluuuues” But only the side netting is struck , and high hopes tumble. Paul Lambert swigs heavily from a bottle, of water, which doesn’t go un-noticed by the lad behind me. “ Lambert likes his bottles of water doesn’t he?” he says to his dad, omitting to tell him how he would have drunk it.
It’s a bit after eight o’clock when Cole Skuse passes to Freddie Sears and I get a head on view of Freddie’s gently bending shot into the back of the Bristol goal and Town are winning. There are scenes of gay-abandon and 13,000 odd people dare to wonder if Town might win. The lead remains intact and half-time is a happy event which follows rich applause. I celebrate by dispensing with some used up Match Day Special and by talking to Ray who offers me a bun made by his wife Roz, I accept the offer graciously.

Half-time flies by and the game begins again.  Ten minutes pass and Bristol City equalise. A hopefully swung boot from Bristol’s Senegalese Famara Diedhouru (who incidentally I believe I saw play for Gazelec Ajaccio in the French Ligue National in 2014) sends the ball towards Bartosz Bialkowski who is out of his goal. If Bart leaves the ball it will probably sail past the post, but he doesn’t and with a jerking, un-coordinated movement of his outstretched and be-gloved right hand he diverts it into the goal. It’s not really bad goal keeping, it just seems he can’t do right for doing wrong. He didn’t look like he wanted to do it, but he couldn’t stop himself.
From here the game becomes silly. Only three minutes later Freddie Sears scores and everybody other than the 290 temporary migrants in the Cobbold Stand is happy once again and daring to imagine Town winning. But the happiness is fleeting as a minute later the boyish sounding Jamie Paterson scores for Bristol and then an indecently brief four minutes later Famara Diedhiou makes a lonely run towards the ball as it is crossed into the box and from embarrassingly close range heads what will prove to be the winning goal.
The hope and belief of the crowd of six minutes ago is gone, it is nowhere to be heard. There is no reaction to this adversity, no will to spur their team on, to come back. Like cattle to the slaughter the home supporters accept their lot and give up. They seemingly have no conception of what to do. There are a few in the North Stand who try, but there are either too few of them or they lack decent singing voices. They need someone on a ladder with a megaphone; perhaps Marcus Evans could do it as penance. By contrast the Bristol City fans are able to indulge in the easy task of triumphalism and sing to tune of The Sparrow, recorded by the Abbey Hey Junior School choir about a “ …poor little Gashead (Bristol Rovers supporter), his shirt is all tattered and torn” and how they proceed to “hit him with a brick, and now he don’t sing any more”. Generously they avoid gloating about Town’s league position, possibly because they feel our pain from bitter experience of their own. On the pitch Town struggle on. Substitutions are made but they outnumber the decent attempts on goal. Behind me the lad says to his dad “It’s just a disappointment now isn’t it?” Although his dad doesn’t tell him he’s right, he is; there’s nothing like taking the lead twice only to lose to make you disappointed; except perhaps taking the lead three times, or four…. or five….or… may be things aren’t so bad.
With the final whistle there are some boos, I hope they are from people booing fellow spectators, for their poor support, but I doubt it. The meagre crowd disperses quickly to the exits but I stay to applaud, just a little. I’m used to this now, but I’m sure we’ll win next time.

Ipswich Town 1 West Bromwich Albion 2

It has been a grey November day, but this afternoon there have been glimpses of blue sky, small windows of hope amongst the otherwise perpetual gloom, proof perhaps that life is not all bad. Further proof, if further proof is needed lies in the existence of flexi-time. It is the end of the ‘flexi-month’ and I have worked so many hours these past four weeks that if I don’t leave at four o’clock today, I shall be working for free and that would be contrary to my strictly held religious beliefs. “Thou shalt not be a mug” is my credo.

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Tonight I’m a latter day Arthur Seaton and I’m out for a good  time so from work I head, with my accomplice Roly, for the Briarbank Brewery. The bar above the Briarbank Brewery is by far the best decorated bar I know, the walls festooned with black and white photos of closed Ipswich pubs, the sort Arthur Seaton would have drunk in had ‘Saturday Night and Sunday Morning’ been set in Ipswich, not Nottingham. I have a pint of Samuel Harvey VC (£3.50) a beer named after one of two men from Ipswich who were awarded the Victoria Cross medal. As well as a beer, Samuel (who was born in Nottingham) has a bus in the Ipswich Buses fleet that bears his name. My conversation with Roly covers a wide range of subjects including Noel Edmonds, Ciiff Richard and Sue Barker, Shake n’Vac and Billy Joel.
From the Briarbank Brewery, Roly and I make the short walk up Fore Street to TheOLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA Spread Eagle, a Grade 2 listed building that dates back to the 17th century, where I drink Grain Brewery Best Bitter (£3.50 a pint). The leather aprons of the bar staff remind me of Fred Gee, the pot-man at the Rovers Return in Coronation Street, but I don’t suppose he’s still in it, particularly since Fred Feast, the actor who played him died in 1999. Roly and I continue not to talk about football, not from any previous agreement, but just because there doesn’t seem anything to say. From the Spread Eagle it is a bit more of a walk along Orwell Place and Tacket Street, up Brook Street and Buttermarket, over Giles Circus and Cornhill, along Westgate Street to St Jude’s Tavern in St Matthew’s Street. They may not all be looking at their best, but Ipswich’s medieval or even Saxon pattern of streets remains and is brim-full of fine buildings; if only the locals appreciated it.
St Jude’s Tavern is busy with Friday night drinkers and football supporters when we arrive a bit before six o’clock. After a pint of the Match Day Special (£2.50) which tonight is St Jude’s Thaddeus (Thaddeus is another name for Jude in case you didn’t know), we have a beef and onion pie each, mine is accompanied by a pint of something the name of which I can’t recall (pie and a pint £5.00). I garnish my pie with red sauce, Roly prefers brown. After we’ve eaten, a drunk staggers into the pub and sits at a table of regulars; he tries to cadge a drink but the bar man is quickly wise to his presence and succeeds in throwing him out before apologising to his patrons; but we all re-assure him that we enjoyed the show, it beats open-mike night.
Beer glasses drained, Roly is keen to get to Portman Road because he is meeting his friend Andrew and because not satiated by a beef and onion pie, he has it in mind to eat a burger. Rolling down Portman Road the glow of the floodlights draws us like moths to a flame or in Roly’s case a glutton to a fast-food joint. The streets are unusually busy and due to the football club having made tickets being made available for the realistic price of ten pounds each a crowd of 22,995 will watch the game tonight. Roly meets Andrew, and I visit the club shop because at short notice I have been informed that ever -present Phil’s son Elwood is eight years old today! How I love the club shop and its fabulous array of blue and white toot. Today my eye is drawn to a gnome and the club’s ‘retro’ range which I imagine outsells everything else given that our best days are all in the past. Although at least we have won major trophies, something many of our rivals and other clubs from towns and cities bigger than Ipswich cannot claim with real conviction (League Cups pffft!).

 

 

It’s twenty-five past seven and a coach disgorges tardy West Bromwich supporters into Portman Road. An Ipswich fan points at a West Bromwichians yellow and green away shirt. “ You can’t wear that here mate”. OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA The visitor looks somewhat bemused and blurts some exasperated expletives in the direction of one of his fellow supporters; his thick Midland’s accent rendering them incomprehensible and unpleasantly nasal. I pass the grinning statue of Bobby Robson; his best playing days were arguably with the ‘Baggies’ of West Bromwich, but thankfully he never picked up the accent.
At the Alf Ramsey Stand (Churchmans) all the turnstiles are open but the queues are of OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAunequal lengths.; with a self-satisfied air of streetwise, intellectual superiority I join one of shorter ones and am inside the ground whilst others still queue. On nights like this it’s fun to laugh and sneer at those people who aren’t regular supporters and are only here because the tickets are cheap. I head for the betting shop bit beneath the stand where the handy shelf gives me somewhere to write the greeting on Elwood’s birthday card. I stop to talk to a steward I know called Dave, but at the very moment I arrive at his side so does another acquaintance of his who begins a personal monologue. I wait for the other man to pause so that I might speak to Dave, but the other man breathes through his ears and doesn’t draw breath for a second; so I screw my eyes up at Dave and nod sympathetically; I imagine my face might look a bit like the one Gary Lineker pulled in the 1990 World Cup semi-final after Paul Gascoigne was booked and became tearful. But tonight I’m not indicating that Gazza is upset, I’m signalling to Dave that I’m going to bugger off, and that’s what I do.
Up in the stand Bluey is playing the part of ‘greeter’ and gives me the thumbs up, which is nice, even though I do know he’s not a real Suffolk Punch. Ever-present Phil who never OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAmisses a game and son Elwood are already here and I settle down a couple of seats along before giving Elwood his birthday card and a few ITFC ‘goodies’. Phil tells me that earlier in the club shop Elwood had handed in an ITFC badge that he found on the floor to the staff serving behind the counter. One of the things I have given Elwood is such a badge; it seems like Elwood has been rewarded for his honesty and whilst we all know that’s not true, in an ideal world it would be.
Between each seat is a folded up piece of printed card which makes a clapping noise when hit against another surface; I saw that people were cynical about this on social media but I think it should be lauded; something needs to be done to shake Ipswich and Suffolk people out of their puritan misery and to “make some noise for the Tractor Boys”, as I believe the saying goes.

 


The teams appear; the match ball is plucked from its plinth and once multiple hands are shaken the game begins with Ipswich literally getting the ball rolling in the direction of me, Elwood, Phil and Pat from Clacton who has arrived a bit late due to the traffic. Town wear blue shirts and socks with white sleeves and shorts; West Bromwich cause offence to many by wearing yellow and green striped shirts with green shorts and socks. The Baggies win an early corner and Jay Rodriguez (that’s his ‘Equity’ name surely) heads the ball over the cross bar. There is noise in the ground tonight and it’s not all from the 1,000OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA odd West Bromwich Albion supporters cooped up in the corner of the Cobbold Stand. In the corner, in the bottom of the North Stand blue and white flags are being waved and drums drummed and voices voiced; for a little while anyway. But West Bromwich Albion are better at football than Town and as they start to dominate, some of the enthusiasm ebbs away, which is the opposite of what should happen of OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAcourse because it obvious that a struggling team needs most support. But then logic is not always a strong point in ‘Leave’ voting Ipswich. The West Bromwich fans soon sense our weakness and after first chanting something stupid about being a “…shit Norwich City”, which is a bit rich from people supporting a team wearing yellow and green, they go for the jugular with the reliable old “ Your support, your support, your support is fucking shit”. Cut to the quick I try some chants of my own but the cowering reticence of the Suffolk public means I’m beaten before I begin, even with my cardboard clapper, which is a little too lightweight and disintegrates as I bash it relentlessly on the back of the seat in front of me. Only ten minutes have gone and Town’s Matthew Pennington is booked by referee Mr Keith Stroud who is possibly theOLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA smallest referee I have ever seen; he doesn’t even rival Paul Hurst in stature.
On the touchline Paul Lambert prowls like a black panther in his trademark black Marks & Spencer jumper and black slacks, kicking every ball and seemingly feeling the self-same emotions as the fans in the stands, but with added Celtic menace. It’s a chilly evening and he should really get himself a coat, even if that jumper is pure new lambs’ wool. Perhaps Marcus Evans should put his hand in his pocket for a coat for our Paul.
Sadly, Town are second best to West Bromwich, who despite having been ‘a bit rubbish’ in the context of the evil Premier League last season are evidently still too good for us tonight. But we are trying and what we’re watching is recognisable as football, which wasn’t always true last season. Perhaps we can hold on and then sneak a goal I think to myself. A paper plane engineered from a re-purposed cardboard clapper lands next to the West Bromwich goal keeper Sam Johnstone. The fact that it disappoints the home crowd by not hitting Johnstone is a portent for the evening. Within minutes Town’s defence watch the ball cross from one side of the pitch to the other and back into the middle where Jay Rodriguez scores from very close to the goal. Oh well. How I was hoping that wouldn’t happen, and now it has. The West Bromwichians are happy though, their high spirits expressed by making good use of Chicory Tip’s 1972 chart topping single “Son of my father” with a chorus of “Woah wanky-wanky, wanky-wanky, wank-wanky Wanderers”, in honour of their own version of Norwich City, the neatly alliterative Wolverhampton Wanderers.
The clock moves on and behind me a man explains to his child that there are another five minutes until half-time and then another forty-five minutes after that before they can go home. A minute of the half left and Ipswich win a corner from which West Brom’ come closer to scoring than the home team as they breakaway courtesy of a failed tackle from Jordan Spence. One minute’s added time passes and then it’s half-time. I wander down to the front row of seats to have a chat with Ray and generously he offers me one of his wife Roz’s sausage rolls, I accept the offer. Behind us dancing girls with Lycra bottoms, bare mid-riffs and sparkly tops gyrate; a human manifestation of the popular retro-range.

 

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The second Act begins amidst shouts of “Come On Ipswich”, but the man behind me feels compelled to admit that West Brom’ are stronger than us “…in every department”; I think of Debenhams and John Inman. But Town are playing better than in the first half; they have more possession of the ball and in more locations across the pitch and Matthew Pennington even has a decent looking shot on goal. But then West Brom’ also have a decent shot, which causes a sharp intake of breath as it hits a post; a lad called Harvey Barnes is the perpetrator, it’s a name that sounds like it was copied from a 1914-18 War Memorial.
Town must be doing alright though, people aren’t moaning but still most of them aren’t really supporting either, at least not vocally. The club should have said “We’ll let you in for a tenner, but you have to make a noise or we’ll chuck you out”. The ‘Blue Action’ group in the North Stand do their best, but there aren’t really enough of them, Ultra Culture hasn’t yet made its mark in Ipswich. I remain hopeful however that the Rodin exhibition in the gallery behind Christchurch Mansion, which opens this weekend, will stir people’s inner passions. Rodin is to sculpture what Arnold Muhren was to midfield artistry.
We’re only losing 1-0, a draw is still a possibility, a win even. But the seventy sixth minutes arrives and that Harvey Barnes is in the penalty area, he shuffles about a bit and shoots; he scores. The shot somehow avoids at least four legs and Bartosz Bialkowski’s left hand. It couldn’t hurt more if he’d missed and the ball had hit me in the ‘groin area’.
Substitutions ensue and the West Brom’ supporters sing “Lambert, Lambert, what’s the score?” seemingly labouring under the mis-apprehension that he is still manager of Aston Villa. They compound their mistake with a rendition of “Shit on the Villa, shit on the Villa tonight” to the tune of ‘Roll out the barrel’. Ipswich supporters may not sing much, but at least when they do the songs are relevant.
Both teams have shots on goal which are blocked as the game heads towards its finale, Ipswich are looking as likely to score as concede, which on balance with only ten minutes left is a good thing. With six minutes of normal time left to play substitute Kayden Jackson scores for Town and there is belief that may be, just may- be, Town could get a draw. Clearly West Brom’ think so too and they resort to foul or generally unsporting play with Matthew Phillips, Kieran Gibbs and Sam Johnstone all getting their own personal viewings of Mr Stroud’s yellow card. Town have no luck however and when Jack Lankester’s shot hits a post and deflects away rather than hitting a heel or a divot and deflecting in to the goal, we get confirmation that Portman Road will remain joyless for another week.
The skies today were grey and despite glimpses of blue, they remain so. But at least there have been glimpses. I retain the faith and like Arthur Seaton I won’t let the bastards grind me down.

 

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Leiston 0 Rushall Olympic 1

Leiston is about 35 kilometres northeast of Ipswich and when my mother was a child she was taken there on the train to visit her grandfather who lived in nearby Aldringham. Remarkably perhaps, for a town of just five and half thousand inhabitants tucked away in a corner of rural Suffolk it is still possible to get to Leiston by rail today, but only if you’re the engine driver of the train collecting radioactive waste from Sizewell nuclear power station, a few kilometres east. Passenger services to Leiston ceased in 1966; the evil Dr Beeching saw to that, but on a Saturday afternoon the No 521 bus leaves Saxmundham railway station at 14:04, about ten minutes after the 13:17 train from Ipswich arrives there and it will get you to Leiston in time for a three o’clock kick-off at Victory Road, home of Leiston FC. Incredibly, there is also a bus back from Leiston to Saxmundham, at 1740. But with meticulous mis-timing however, the bus arrives in Sax’ three minutes after the 17:57 train back to Ipswich has left, giving you a fifty seven minute wait for the next one.
My excuse for not using public transport today is not because we are apparently being discouraged by poor timetabling from doing so, but rather because what goes around comes around and it’s now my mother’s turn to be visited, by me. Filial duty carried out, I proceed up the A12 on what is a beautiful, bright autumn afternoon. Letting the throttle out on the largely deserted dual carriageway between Ufford and Marlesford my Citroen C3 must feel like its back on the péage heading for Lyon, not Leiston. But Leiston it is and after skirting Snape and Friston, and passing pigs and pill-boxes outside Knodishall my Leiston FCCitroen and I roll into Victory Road at about twenty past two, where it is already so busy we are ushered into overflow car parking. I drive across the grass behind one goal and onto a field behind the pitch. Once out of my car a steward explains that entry today is through a side gate in order to keep pedestrians from slipping over where the cars have churned up the grass; health and safety eh? Entry costs £11, but I keep the gateman happy by tendering the right money. My wife Paulene has refused to join me today because she maintains that £11 is too much to pay to watch ‘local football’, and she makes a fair point, although today’s opponents aren’t exactly local, Rushall being about 285 kilometres away near Walsall in the West Midlands. In France it is possible to watch a fully professional second division match in a modern stadium for not much more than I have paid today, and sometimes for a bit less.OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA
There is plenty of time before kick-off so I have a look about and visit the club shop where I witness its first ever ‘card transaction’. The middle-aged lady serving seems genuinely excited and I suggest she should be giving her customer some sort of commemorative certificate to mark the occasion. Sadly, I cannot lay claim to becoming the second ever card-paying customer of the Leiston club shop, as I all too easily resist the temptation of a teddy bear (£12), mug (£5) or red, white and blue painted football rattle (£2), although I do try the rattle to see if it works; it does but it’s quite small and the action is a bit stiff. OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA
Leaving the shop I realise I don’t have a programme and I see if there is one available at the main turnstile, where a very apologetic man explains that due to printing costs and not selling all the programmes it’s no longer financially viable to produce one; he hands me a slip of paper which puts his words into print. I quite like the idea that the slip of paper could be distributed as a substitute programme if it was stamped with today’s date and name of the opposition.
Programme-less and therefore slightly crestfallen, I turn back from the turnstile but must wait as a steward ushers past a car towards the overflow car park, I tell the steward he needs a lollipop-man’s uniform or at least his lollipop, he doesn’t seem that keen. Still depressed at the state of modern football I head for the bar where a hand pump bears pump clips for both Adnam’s Ghostship and something called Garrett’s Ale. When I ask, the balding barman explains that Garrett’s is made in a micro-brewery down the road in the Long Shop museum, but then he says it’s not and he made it up. He says it’s brewed by Greene King, and he made the name up and then he says it’s actually Ruddle’s. Confused, I buy a pint (£3.20); it’s okay, but I wish I’d bought a pint of Ghostship.
I find a spot to drink my beer and speak briefly to a man who recognises me from matches at Portman Road; he is apparently originally from Aldeburgh and today is a guest of the match sponsors. Having drained my glass I head back outside to await the teams and in due course they emerge from a concertinaed tunnel, which is wheeled across the concourse from the side of the red-brick clubhouse.OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA
Victory Road is not really an attractive or interesting ground; the clubhouse looks like a massive Council bungalow, there is a small metal terrace stand at one end and opposite the bungalow a row of low metal prefabricated stands join together to create the Leiston Press Stand, in the middle of which sits a large glazed press box. Between the clubhouse and the main turnstile is a ten or fifteen metre terrace which misleadingly looks like a good place to wait for a bus. The setting is altogether a little dull.

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The two teams’ arrival on the pitch brightens things up a bit however, with Leiston all in blue and Rushall Olympic in black and yellow stripes with black shorts and socks, although from behind they’re kit is all-black, so they look like numbered referees. To make matters worse the referee Mr Hancock is also wearing all black, the first of a number of poor decisions he will make this afternoon.
With the multiple handshaking malarkey out of the way, Rushall kick-off in the direction of Aldringham and the metal terrace, the front of which is adorned appropriately with a large advert that reads Screwbolt Fixings. The early stages of the game are rough and shouty with plenty of strength and running on show but not the necessary guile to score a goal. It’s entertaining enough, but is more like all-in wrestling than the working man’s ballet. I stand behind the goal close to four blokes in their sixties; one wears a deerstalker, another wears a ‘Vote Leave’ badge and swears a lot whilst complaining that people don’t know how lucky they are that a little club like Leiston is playing at such a high level, and he’s right because he can’t be wrong about everything. A Rushall player sends a shot high over the cross bar and off towards Aldringham. Everybody jeers, “Three points to Wigan” shouts a grey-haired man.
The game is a struggle, Leiston are having the better of it but neither goalkeeper is exactly rushed off their feet with save-making. The wannabe coaches in the crowd offer their advice “Simple balls man, simple” calls one as the ball is lofted forward hopefully. “Keep it on the deck” shouts another. “Go on Seb” shouts someone else, taking a more OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAone to one approach. As half time nears I head back round towards the giant bungalow so that I can be handily placed for the tea bar when the whistle blows. As I watch on from behind the Leiston bench their number two Matt Rutterford commits a fairly innocuous foul, sidling up behind a Rushall player. Sadly for Leiston, Mr Hancock doesn’t consider that the foul is that innocuous and proceeds to whip out his yellow card in the direction of the unfortunate full-back, who having already seen the card once earlier in the game gets to see Mr Hancock’s red card also. Much wailing and gnashing of teeth ensues and there is a strong feeling that Leiston cannot now possibly win and Mr Hancock has ruined the game more than a few fouls ever could.
As the sun sinks towards the horizon everyone on the bungalow side of the ground has

to shield their eyes. Half-time can’t come soon enough. “How long to go lino?” asks the Rushall manager as the clock ticks past ten to four. “How long would you like?” says a voice from the crowd. With the half-time whistle I go indoors for a pounds worth of tea. Behind me in the queue is a man with white flowing hair and small beard, he looks like Buffalo Bill, but is wearing an Ipswich Town branded coat. “Don’t I know you from Portman Road or from a holiday in Majorca?” asks another man of Bill. “No I don’t think so, I haven’t been on holiday since I was thirty” says Bill. I tell him that his coat is a bit of a giveaway that he might have been to Portman Road. Tea in hand I seek the fresh air outside, and it is fresh. There has been a stingy east wind all afternoon and with the sun going down it’s getting even colder. Happily my tea is warm, but it’s also a bit weak and I suspect Leiston FC are cutting costs on tea bags as well as programmes, but I’m not surprised given the distances they have to travel to games in this very silly league, which stretches from Lowestoft in the east to Stourbridge in the west, a distance of over 330 kilometres.
At six minutes past four Mr Hancock begins the second half and the Screwbolt Fixings terrace is now occupied by about a dozen men, half of whom unexpectedly begin to sing. They go through a variety of chants and tunes including ‘Tom Hark’ and also Neil Diamond’s ‘Sweet Caroline’, betraying that they too may have been to Portman Road. What I like best about the Screwbolt choir is that they are all over forty and half of them are probably over fifty, something they confirm later when substitute Harry Knights comes on and they break into a chorus of Sham 69’s ‘Hurry Up Harry’.
Over by the main stand is a line of Rushall supporters some of whom sport black and gold scarves, like Wolverhampton Wanderers supporters on a day off. I sit for a while at the front of the stand. A Rushall shot hits the cross-bar at the Theberton end of the ground. Mr Hancock makes another dubious decision. “This referee’s from another planet” says a thick West Midland’s accent. Behind us the sky glows a violent red, but nobody panics because Sizewell nuclear power station is in the opposite direction. A man in the stand shouts “Come on Leiston” very enthusiastically; he’s the reporter from BBC Radio Suffolk. A Rushall player goes down “Get up you worm” shouts someone else, not very charitably.
OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAAs darkness shrouds the ground it loses its plainness and takes on a new atmosphere. The long shadows have gone to be replaced by the glow of the floodlights. On the pitch Rushall push forward and Leiston defend; their goalkeeper Marcus Garnham makes a couple of smart saves. Leiston try to catch Rushall on the break with quick, astute passes and diagonal punts but it doesn’t feel as though Leiston or their supporters expect to win, and holding on for the goalless draw will be victory enough, of a sort. The story is a simple one; Leiston must keep Rushall at bay. But there have been injuries and delays and time added on at the end seems interminable. It’s the ninety fifth minute and Marcus Garnham makes a spectacular reaction save, followed quickly by another but before we have time to applaud the ball runs to Rushall substitute Keiron Berry stood just three yards from the open goal, a prod is all that’s needed.
Back behind the goal the Leiston supporter who owns the flag that hangs over theOLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA pitchside rail says he’s “had it” with the referee and he’s going home, he starts to untie his flag. Another group of young lads head off too. “Fucking Toby’s fault” says a lad with long curly hair like Marc Bolan “it’s the same every time we come here with him”. The despondent occupants of the Screwbolt Fixings stand shuffle off with Mr Hancock’s final whistle whilst jeering at the Rushall goalkeeper Joseph Slinn, “Cheats” they shout, rather un-sportingly. In return the ‘keeper tells them how much he enjoyed their Neil Diamond song, but such is their disappointment they’re not listening and he was only trying to be friendly.
I head back to my Citroen C3 and catch a glimpse of the Rushall players enjoying a post-match cuddle through the side gate. The result leaves Leiston in fourth place in the Evo-stik Central Premier League, five points behind Kettering Town who are top and six-points ahead of Rushall Olympic. The last time I came to watch Leiston, they lost 3-1 to Gloucester in the FA Cup, I begin to wonder if I’m not a bit like Toby.

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