Coggeshall Town 2 Felixstowe & Walton United 1

April 22, 2019 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ipswich Town 1 Birmingham City 1

April 15, 2019August 15, 2023 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mildenhall Town 0 Great Wakering 3

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ipswich Town 0 Hull City 2

April 1, 2019April 1, 2019 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

As I prepare to leave my house and head for Portman Road my wife Paulene is watching Aussie Rules footie on her lap-top, Geelong Cats are playing The Demons and whilst we don’t know it yet, the Cats will win by a massive eighty point margin. “Oh, are you going already” she says and I kiss her goodbye. Spring is here. It is the last weekend in March and as walk to the railway station the sky is a clear blue, it is sunny and verging on warm. A black cat looks down at me from a tree; I guess that it has climbed up there to avoid running across my path and bringing me good luck. Spicy smells waft from the local Indian restaurant; a man on the station platform is wearing sunglasses and shorts, which seems optimistic or foolish, perhaps both. The train is on time and busy with passengers, heads bowed in the thrall of their mobile phones. At Colchester a man in a Chelsea beanie hat picks his nose enthusiastically, gouging away at his left nostril with his index finger. A young woman opposite me wears leopard print sneakers. “Hold on Scarlett” says a big-chested woman to her young daughter as they pick their way between the seats and the train pulls away; she staggers a little and almost topples over “Whoops”. Sheep graze on the meadows near Manningtree and a haze hangs over the river, blotting out all sight of Felixstowe.

I’m first off the train at Ipswich and away over the bridge and up Princes Street. I look over the bridge parapet and in the beer garden of the Station Hotel a group of Hull City supporters all clad in black look like Goths, I photograph them and they wave; I wave back. In Portman Road I waste three pounds on a match day programme because somehow it wouldn’t feel right if I didn’t. I later regret my decision but am no doubt destined to repeat the mistake. There is a sense of sluggish anticipation outside the stadium as people wait for the turnstiles to open; some queue to collect tickets, others stand and munch on fatty fast food lunches. At St Jude’s Tavern the usual blokes in their sixties and seventies are drinking the usual beer. The Match Day Special is once again St Jude’s Goblin’s Piss (£2.50). I provoke a certain amount of jealousy because my pint has a head on it whilst everyone else’s looks flat. In truth the beer is cloudy and yellow and I now realise how it got its name. What it has to do with Goblins I don’t know, but I guess they couldn’t just call it Piss, although oddly I did once hear the lead singer of Brighton’s finest late 1970’s pub band The Piranhas (Boring Bob Grover) ask for a ‘pint of piss’ at a Student’s Union bar. The conversation is of French cricket teams, what a strange and wonderful country Belgium is, Belgian beer and football. I have a second pint of the Match Day Special and at about twenty to three depart for Portman Road.

The sun is still shining and walking down the hill towards the ground the huge, beaming face of Bobby Robson above the club shop seems to be peaking around the corner, as if he’s trying not to be seen. I pick my way through the crowds past queues into the increasingly shabby looking Cobbold Stand with its peeling blue paint.

I enter the ground through turnstile number seven where there is no queue, smiling broadly as I cheerily thank its moustachioed operator. After a visit to the gents I take up my usual place near Pat from Clacton, ever-present Phil who never misses a game and his young son Elwood. Pat tells me about how she spent the week before last at the Burlington Palm Hotel in Great Yarmouth, playing whist in the afternoons and evenings but seeing the sites, including Burgh Castle and the seals of Horsey Beach in the mornings; she tells me she enjoyed it a lot more than coming here.

The game begins with Town aiming for but not hitting the goal just to the right of me, Pat, Phil and Elwood. Town get first go with the ball. Today’s opponents Hull City, known as the Tigers wear their traditional kit of amber and black striped shirts with black shorts and amber and black socks. In the opening minutes Town look keen and push forward; “Paul Lambert is a Blue, He hates Norwich” sing the North Stand touchingly raiding their collective childhood memory of nursery rhyme tunes and re-purposing “London Bridge is falling down.” It’s ‘early doors’(!) but Ipswich are on top and the North Stand are getting carried away with it all, goading the 485 visiting Hullensians with a chorus of “You’re support is fucking shit” which seems a bit rich. It disappoints me; good humour and humility are called for when supporting a team as bad as Ipswich Town is currently.

Inevitably Hull’s revenge is swift and three minutes later the Ipswich Town defence clear off to that place that they go at least once every match, where no one can see them, but they leave the ball with Hull City who score; a nicely placed shot by Kamil Grosicki formerly of Rennes, who like a true artist makes full use of the space offered by an open goal. “How shit must you be, we’re winning away” is the questioning and not unreasonable retort from the Humberside 485, although in fact they have already won as many as four away games this season. But the answer to their question has to be “very”.

Four minutes later and Jon Nolan who is the subject of the “One to One” feature in the programme and has his name on the cover, retires hurt. Nolan is replaced by ‘the boy’ Dozzell. With Hull leading, Ipswich fade a little; they still have lots of the ball but don’t do much with it that might result in a goal. “It’s all nice knocking it about, but….” shouts an exasperated voice from the stand not needing to finish his sentence to convey what he means. The Ipswich defence evaporates again and Hull nearly score a second goal and at half-past three Myles Kenlock has a shot which sweeps above the cross-bar and the brief spurt of excitement inspires an unexpected burst of support “Come On Ipswich! Come On Ipswich! Come On Ipswich!” sing what seems like several people all at once.

A large, bright, luminous presence appears to my right hand side; it is a hi-vis coat and inside is a steward who after listening to his ear piece proceeds to ask me if I am in possession of a camera. Thinking naively that he just wants to talk about photography, I rather proudly tell him I am; well, it’s quite a good one and wasn’t that cheap. He asks me not to take any more pictures. I think it’s rather unfair to single me out when virtually everyone in the crowd is carrying a mobile phone and many of them are being used to take pictures and videos. I tell the steward so and he says “Yes, it is a bit of a grey area”. Football Association Ground regulations state that photos or videos captured on mobile phones must not be published or shown on social media sites. Yeah, right. It reminds me a little of the first and second rules of Fight Club.

1 Notwithstanding possession of any ticket the Club, any police officer or authorised steward may refuse entry to (or eject from) the Ground any person:

1.1 that fails (or in the Club’s reasonable opinion is likely to fail) to comply with these Ground Regulations or any reasonable instruction issued by a police officer or authorised steward; and/or

1.2 whose presence within the Ground is, or could (in the Club’s reasonable opinion), constitute a source of danger, nuisance or annoyance to any other person

16 Mobile telephones and other mobile devices are permitted within the Ground PROVIDED THAT (i) they are used for personal and private use only (which, for the avoidance of doubt and by way of example only, shall not include the capturing, logging, recording, transmitting, playing, issuing, showing, or any other communicationof any Material for any commercial purposes); and (ii) no Material that is captured, logged, recorded, transmitted, played, issued, shown or otherwise communicatedby a mobile telephone or other mobiledevice may be published or otherwise made available to any third parties including, without limitation, via social networking sites.

19 Save as set out in paragraph 16 above, no person (other than a person who holds an appropriate licence) may capture, log, record, transmit, play, issue, show or otherwise communicate(by digital or other means) any Material in relation to the Match, any players or other persons present in the Ground and/or the Ground, nor may they bring into the Ground or use within the Ground (or provide to, facilitate or otherwise assist another person to use within the Ground) any equipment or technology which is capable of capturing, logging, recording, transmitting, playing, issuing, showing or otherwise communicating (by digital or other means) any such Material. Copyright, database rights and any other intellectual property rights in any unauthorised recording or transmission is assigned (by way of present assignment of future rights) to the Club and the EFL. You further agree (if and whenever required to do so by the Club and/or the EFL) to promptly execute all instruments and do all things necessary to vest the right, title and interest in such rights to the Club and the EFL absolutely and with full title guarantee.

Peeved and wanting to begin a revolution I stand up, face the crowd behind me and try and encourage everyone to get out their mobile phones and take pictures, predictably I fail, but it strikes me as funny how cow-eyed and mindless everyone looks.

Town have a couple of shots cleared off the line in the closing minutes of the half but so what. Half-time arrives and I vent some more Goblin’s Piss, look at the half-time scores and have a chat with Ray who today is here with his wife Ros as well as grandson Harrison. This is Ros’s third game this season; she doesn’t seem to be enjoying it that much, nor am I anymore.

The second half is much like the first but probably less exciting. Hull score almost immediately as Jarrod Bowen makes a speedy, jinking run from the middle of the Hull half, all the way down Town’s left flank and then passes to Kamil Grosnicki who hits a precise shot off the far post and into the net. It’s a good goal but most teams would have got close enough to Bowen to knock him over before he got to the penalty area.

After that the Tigers seem largely happy to let Ipswich rain in a series of inaccurate crosses and mis-place their passes whilst they wait to run away down the wings again when they get the chance. Referee Mr John Brooks shares his name with my grandfather, but disgraces it with a series of unwelcome decisions. Had the late John Henry Brooks been in charge I am sure Ipswich would have won, not because he was an Ipswich supporter, he grew up in rural Oxfordshire, but because he would have had a bet on the game beforehand and would have backed the team with the longest odds.

Pat shows me some of the pictures she took of the seals on Horsey Beach; it’s a second half highlight. With an hour played the large and angular German, Collin Quaner replaces nippy Kayden Jackson, who has played quite well considering the standard of the overall team performance. Paul Lambert urges his team on, prowling the ‘technical area’ in his Marks and Spencer v-neck jumper whilst Hull’s manager is less animated and wears a jacket and tie and looks a trifle staid. On seventy four minutes eighteen year old French-Tunisian Idris El Mizouni from Meudon just outside Paris makes his first appearance at Portman Road. As I tell Pat, I met Idris’s dad in Meudon last September when I saw Meudon play St Ouen in an early round of the French Cup. I very much hope Idris does well, we need more foreign players, they’re better than the British ones, they tend to be able to control the ball and pass to their own team mates.

There are moments where Town ‘come close’ but never close enough. The old boy behind me isn’t happy “ We pay good money to see this” he says . It’s Hull that come closest to another goal in time added on as a Marc Pugh shot curls against a post. With the game in its final minutes the crowd show a bit of life with some rhythmic clapping and a few supportive chants from the North Stand, which is unusual after a not very-good performance. Nevertheless, such support is a good thing even if the team could perhaps have done with it earlier in the game, rather than as a show of sympathy at the end. The final whistle is greeted with a bit of a love-in at the North Stand end of the ground despite abject defeat and the fact that Paul Lambert’s record as manager is now worse than Paul Hurst’s. Relegation is as good as certain but a lot of supporters remain simply satisfied that Mick McCarthy is no longer manager, or that’s what they’re saying.

On the train home I speak with three Hull supporters who are saddened that Ipswich should be going down and surprised that we have never played in the national third tier. They add that they know from experience that third division football is bloody awful, we should do well.

Heybridge Swifts 2 Grays Athletic 1

March 25, 2019January 2, 2022 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

It’s a Spring-like Saturday in late March and there is just a week to go until the clocks go forward; there are tiny buds on the trees and although the sky is overcast the air smells fresh and clear. Frogs are mating in my garden pond and frisky Collared Doves are settling on my satellite dish and messing up the signal. It’s a beautiful day to make the twenty-odd kilometre trip by Citroen C3, past Feering to Tiptree and on through Great and Little Totham to Heybridge, a village of about 8,000 people on the north side of the River Blackwater from Maldon. Until September 1964 it would have been possible to catch a train from Witham to Maldon East and Heybridge station, but the evil Dr Richard Beeching put an end to that and thoughtlessly condemned this corner of Essex to a future of increased traffic and air pollution.

Leaving the B1022 I turn left into Scraley Road, home of Heybridge Swifts Football Club. Scraley Road is not an attractive name, it sounds a bit like Scaley Road and conjures up images of an unfortunate skin condition. It’s only about two-thirty but the rough, unsurfaced car park is already full; happily there is an overflow car park about 50 metres along on the right, although for some people that’s too far and they have chosen to park at the side of the road. The overflow car park is just a muddy track to the local rugby club but it’ll do and I pull up out of the mud and puddles onto a patch of lush grass to park the Citroen. I walk back to football ground which, as a large sign tells me, is now known as the Aspen Waite Arena, which sounds extremely posh. When did football grounds become arenas I wonder to myself; probably about the same time that ‘naming rights’ became ‘a thing’ I reply, but silently so as not to appear weird. I cross the main car park to the black and white painted metal turnstile block avoiding more puddles and form a fledgling queue behind one other person, although I have to walk around two others who seem to be having difficulty finding their money. Entry costs £10 for an adult and I ask for a programme too (£2). “There you are dear” says the friendly lady turnstile operator, handing me a glossy programme and a small amber cloakroom ticket with the word ‘Adult’ on, which I soon lose.

From the turnstile I emerge directly into an open space behind one of the goals; to my left a blue polythene tunnel doesn’t quite make it from the changing rooms to the perimeter of the pitch, beyond that is a well populated open patch of grass behind which sit the clubhouse/bar and the tea bar. I step inside the busy clubhouse but there’s no real ale on the bar, just the usual bland, mass-produced, heavily advertised fizzy stuff, so I head back outside to the tea bar to join a queue of one. With the previous customer gone away clutching a burger and cup of tea I ask the smiley-faced young woman behind the counter if there are any sausage rolls. There are and having found his oven gloves the ‘chef’, a more serious-faced, grey-haired man, takes a baking tray from the oven and prises a row of half a dozen sausage rolls from it with a spatula. I pay the young woman (£1.50) and smiling she hands me one of the ‘released’ sausage rolls in a white paper napkin. The sausage roll tastes much better for that smile but otherwise compares to one from Greggs, although not as greasy, which is a good thing.

I have time to wander around the ground and take in the architecture before the teams emerge from the blue polythene tunnel and line-up to say “hello” to one another; as they do so the theme from ‘Z Cars’ plays over the public address system. The music ends abruptly and the teams are announced very rapidly by a man inside a glass box in the middle of the Mick Gibson Family Stand. This afternoon’s opponents are Grays Athletic. As I drove here listening to BBC Radio Essex, the match was described as a ‘derby’ by a young-sounding presenter called Victoria. But given that all but six of the twenty teams in the Bostik Football League North Division there are from Essex there are rather a lot of ‘derbys’.

The Swifts kick-off towards the First Call Community Stand and the River Blackwater and Maldon beyond; they wear black and white striped shirts with white shorts and socks, a colour scheme no doubt inspired by the colours of Apus Apus, the Swift, although seen up close Swifts are actually dark brown. Grays Athletic meanwhile are in all blue with white sleeves and look a bit like Ipswich Town playing away to a team that wears white shorts; they are playing in the direction of the club house and Tiptree. As much as Grays might look like my team Ipswich Town and even though the legendary Fabian Wilnis played for them (33 times in 2008-09 season) I decide to support Heybridge Swifts today; Swifts are my favourite birds because they remind me of warm summer evenings, and Swifts is such a great if disappointingly rare name for a football club. I grew up in Shotley in Suffolk where the village team, now known as Shotley Rose after the village pub, were originally the Shotley Swifts; in the 1920’s my grandfather was on the committee and I have a much-prized photo of him with the team posing with a trophy.

A long line of home supporters file from the clubhouse to the far end of the ground to stand behind the goal into which the Swifts are hoping to score. The home team dominate the opening stages and have the first shot as the ball rebounds to their number seven, the top-notch wearing Elliott Ronto, whose shot is well saved by the Grays ‘keeper, the beautifully named Clark Bogard. Although he sounds like a matinee idol, Clark is a large man who clearly does not possess a ‘six-pack’ and from a distance his all yellow kit would, for a short-sighted person, perhaps give the impression of a naked Homer Simpson. Predictably the ‘wit’ of the home supporters is soon in evidence. “Come on Fatty” shouts an estuarine voice as Bogard lingers over a goal kick. There is a rowdy atmosphere on the shallow, covered terrace and two lads self-consciously bang a couple of drums, but not enough to really annoy anyone. “ E’s only ‘ere for the after match meal” shouts someone else at the ‘keeper. “The food’s good here” responds Clark with a greedy expression, admirably entering into the fun. “Ello princess” shouts a pre-pubescent lad following a strangely different tack. A man in his sixties shuffles through the stand selling half-time draw tickets. “Afternoon Steve, Bob” he says to a couple of regulars. I buy a strip of tickets, numbers 416 to 420 for a pound, I am not destined to win.

The name of Swifts’ Toib Adeyemi is an early entry in the notebook of the tall, elegant referee Mr Farai Hallam, but Swifts continue to get closer to the Grays’ goal than vice versa. It’s a bit after a quarter past three and Grays number 11 Joao Carlos surges past the Swifts’ left-back and crosses the ball, it ends up in the Heybridge net and Grays are winning; it’s an own goal and is attributed to Swifts’ number nine Daniel Walker. “Come on you Swifts” is the not-downhearted response from the terrace of the First Call Community Stand. A black-headed gull wheels above the pitch and disappears over the stand; I move from behind the goal to sit in the main stand, a structure with a row of tubular stanchions along its front, behind which the blue plastic seats have a shallow rake; it’s a classic non-league football stand in a classic non-league ground, a bit home-made looking and scruffy in places, but therein lies its character. A German Shepherd and two other dogs that look like poodles but aren’t look on, although it’s doubtful they brought themselves here on their own. As the half wears on I move again, closer to the tea bar this time, and am now amongst the Grays Athletic supporters. Grays are now doing better in terms of possession of the ball and are enjoying a few breakaways. Number eleven Joao Carlos is a threat down the left, “Go on Carlos” and “Get in the fuckin’ box” shout the Grays fans, before Carlos is booked by Mr Hallam for diving.

Half-time arrives a little late because of a few stoppages for injuries and I make the short walk to the tea bar but have to join a slow moving queue. Behind me two men, a West Ham supporter and an Orient supporter talk about the Orient; the football club, not the far East. The Hammers fan has a habit of finishing the O’s fan’s sentences, like in that sketch by The Two Ronnies, but not as funny. They agree that West Ham isn’t proper football anymore; this (Heybridge Swifts) is proper football. Eventually my turn comes and I ask the smiley-faced young woman for a tea (£1); she’s still smiling and her smile can’t help but raise the spirits of Swifts fans unhappy that their team is losing.

I drink my polystyrene cup of tea as I take a look through the programme. I read the thoughts of Swifts’ manager Julian Dicks which are plain and straightforward except for one sentence which reads “Then we gave away a free kick and no one stood on the ball and they popped the ball out and their forward hit a worldy. He wont hit a ball like that again down hill with the wind behind and Chris had no chance”. Sheer poetry.

It is five past four and with the start of the second-half I take up a place on one of the two rows of wooden benches in the Mick Gibson Family Stand. There don’t seem to be any families in the stand although the rest of the ground is well peopled with mums and dads and children of all ages. I wonder who Mick Gibson is or was and if the stand is just for his family. The Swifts seem re-invigorated by their half-time tea and the words of Julian Dicks. Firstly Manny Osei-Owusi gets wide and plays the ball back only for number four Nicholas Brown to skew his shot embarrassingly wide. But minutes later a corner is won, the ball is sent towards goal and repulsed, but only as far as Toib Adeyemi who is on hand to send it into the goal from close range and the scores are level at one each. The crowd cheers, although not as much as I thought they would, but then lunchtime and afternoon drinking does make you feel a little sluggish.

I make the same circuit of the ground that I made in the first-half enjoying the different back drops to the action on the field; bare trees on one side, 1960’s suburban houses on the other and blue skies and wispy cloud above. The sun is now shining through the cloud and shadows of trees and the Mick Gibson Family Stand play across the pitch. On the opposite side of the ground spectators shadows play against the corrugated metal boundary fence; it’s beautiful in a way that a football match inside a large stadium never can be.

I sit again in the main stand and catch half a conversation behind me as a man explains to his friend about a holiday or short-break he’s been on. “They’re good hotels too, they suit me, know what I mean?” he says. I don’t know what he means, but then he wasn’t talking to me. It’s about twenty five past four and the Swifts win a free-kick and rather unexpectedly their number eight, the ostentatiously named Jack Adlington-Pile scores with what might be termed a Jack Adlington-Pile driver, a thundering direct shot worthy of winning any game. Unavoidably there is a bit more of a reaction to this goal as people voice a collective “Cor!”. Grays are marshalled well by their imposing captain Stanley Muguo but they can’t get back in to the game and it’s the Swifts who come closest to scoring again as another free-kick, this time from number four Nicholas Brown defies the laws of physics by hitting the inside of a post and re-bounding out.

As the match heads towards its conclusion Adlington-Pile and Luke Wilson get to see Mr Hallam’s yellow card, as disappointingly they attempt to hang on to the lead by foul means as well as fair. Whilst the match remains interesting, Grays are just not good enough to score again and the fact that although only four places separate the teams in the league table, Swifts have nineteen, and now twenty-two more points tells a story.

With the final whistle the Grays Athletic players form a post-match huddle, perhaps to stem recriminations, whilst the Swifts enjoy a bit of a love-in with their justifiably appreciative supporters. It’s been a good match, and arguably going a goal behind and coming back to win is the best sort of win there is. Scraley Road, or the Aspen Waite Arena as it is known until someone makes a better offer, is a fine non-league ground even if they don’t serve proper beer and like Swifts on summer evenings I look forward to a return.