Cornard United 2 Norwich CBS 2

January 7, 2019June 27, 2022 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

When Accrington Stanley’s name came out in the FA Cup draw I immediately had a premonition that the next name out would be that of my team, Ipswich Town; it was and I had every intention of travelling to The Crown Ground or ‘Wham Stadium’ as I believe the estate of the late George Michael now pays for it to be called, to witness the match. I still believe in the magic of the FA Cup, like my step-grandson still believes in Father Christmas; stupidly of course because the Premier League has ensured that in England only the same small group of ‘big’ teams will ever win anything ever again. Sadly, I never quite reconciled myself to forking out £37 for a ticket for an 800 kilometre round bus trip that would leave Ipswich at a quarter to seven in the morning, meaning I would have to get up no later than half past five, almost an hour earlier than I do when going to work. To misquote the lyrics of the marvellous Only Ones’ song Another Girl, Another Planet, long journeys wear me out and I can live without it. As a result, today I got up at a little after eight o’clock and am travelling a mere 20 kilometres from my home to Great Cornard to see Cornard United versus Norwich CBS in the Thurlow Nunn Eastern Counties League First Division North, an eight-word title worthy of the tenth level of the football league pyramid.
Cornard, which is largely Great Cornard is just outside Sudbury on the north bank of the River Stour, which marks the boundary between Suffolk and Essex. Great Cornard grew massively in the 1960’s with unflatteringly named ‘overspill’ from London, this will account for most of the accents I hear this afternoon being more “Gor blimey guvnor” than “Cor blaaast buh”. I only hear one Suffolk accent this afternoon, my own and I’m only putting it on. My journey today is mostly along the river valley, through Bures and up and down and along the twisting B1508, a rural ride if ever there was one. If I hadn’t felt the cold hand of death at my shoulder I might have taken the time to catch a train and then a No 754 bus followed by a ten or fifteen minute walk, but time is precious at my age so I rely on Andre Citroen’s latest C3 model to deliver me to Blackhouse Lane. Forgetting how close to Sudbury Blackhouse Lane is, I turn right too soon and take a detour in to Little Cornard, but I soon get back on to the B1508, make the correct right turn, and arrive at Cornard United’s Blackhouse Lane ground having allowed a number 754 bus that I first saw in my rear view mirror, to ‘overtake’ me due to my detour.

It is a cold, still, grey, January day. There are plenty of parking spaces in the car park from where it is a short walk along a gated concrete roadway to the ‘turnstile,’ except there is no turnstile just a gap in the conifer hedge marked by a large white sign with red letters that reads ‘Entrance’. The clubhouse is visible across a sports pitch that sits between the car park and the ground, the words Cornard United are painted in large letters on the side of the building to prove I am in the right place. A man in a shapeless blue sports coat stands in the gap in the hedge and retreats into a small wooden garden shed as I approach. I hand a clean, new ten pound note through a window in the shed to cover the entrance money (£6) and a programme. “We don’t do a programme” I am told and am given an explanation about costs and how the League has said they no longer need to produce a programme. I tell him I understand, and I do, but it’s disappointing; there is a programme on-line, but it’s not the same, it doesn’t even feature a league table let alone a half-time quiz. A printed programme, like a stand, a rail around the pitch or a turnstile marks the difference between a proper football club and just teams kicking around on the local rec’. Having discussed the programme, the man in the coat asks me hesitantly if I’m ‘normal’. Fortunately, I instinctively know what he means and tell him I am. Disappointingly, he seems a little surprised, possibly because the blokes who turn up to watch this level of football are mostly pensioners, but he goes on to explain how some folk will pay the concessionary price (£4) when he doesn’t really think they are as old as they are making out. Privately and controversially I put this down to Suffolk people being stingy and Londoners being dishonest, but I don’t say so.
As we part, the man in the shapeless coat tells me that the tea hut and bar are open and I head off towards the club house; it is thinly populated, just three blokes and the bar man, and noting that there is no real ale, I return outside where through a hatch in the front wall I buy a pounds worth of tea in a polystyrene cup. I stand and watch the two teams warming up, there is hardly anyone else here. As the Norwich CBS players and coaches then return to the dressing room prior to kick-off I ask one of them what the CBS stands for; he has no idea.

It’s soon approaching 3 o’clock and the referee is to be heard banging on the dressing room doors like a parent trying to rouse a teenage son from his bed; they evidently don’t have the luxury of bells in the dressing rooms here at Cornard. By and by the two teams line up at the double doors, which are just a few feet from the pitch, and Mr Darling leads them out. Unusually, there is no lining up on the pitch and shaking of everyone’s hands and instead the two teams sprint off to their respective halves of the pitch, with Cornard forming a team-building huddle. Eventually it is Norwich who get first go with the ball, kicking off in the direction of Little Cornard and wearing an unusual ensemble of lime green shirts and socks with grey shorts. Cornard, or The ‘nard as they are known, aim in the direction of the neighbouring Thomas Gainsborough School and Sudbury beyond, when they get the ball; they wear blue shirts with white sleeves, white shorts and blue socks, it’s a more tasteful version of the current Ipswich Town kit and doesn’t advertise on-line gambling; which is nice.
The opening couple of minutes of the match are fast, furious and very messy. Norwich immediately look more assured when in possession but not so when not; Cornard look a bit shaky whether they’ve got the ball or not. At four minutes past three a long through ball is chased by Norwich number ten Jordan Rocastle (nephew of the late Arsenal and England player David Rocastle); he catches up with it and places a low shot past joint manager and goalkeeper Matt Groves to put Cornard a goal behind. Suddenly, near to the Cornard dugout is not a good place to be for people likely to be offended by expletives, profanity and generally naughty words. “Fuckin’ shit, get you’re fuckin’ heads outta your fuckin’ arses” is the coaching advice from the technical area. These are not Suffolk dialect words.
Surprisingly, the coaching seems to work as within two minutes large ‘on-loan’ striker Ben Parkin, formerly known as ‘Omelette’ to his fans when at Wivenhoe Town wins a corner from a deflected shot. The corner kick is headed towards goal but is going well wide before Cornard number six Dave Dowding appears on the far side of the goal and heads the ball firmly across and into the other corner. The scores are level and compared to that of his counterpart, the advice of the Norwich coach is more considered, if less entertaining; “Start again”. Having paid out six quid to watch I hope they do start again, or with the game just six minutes old I shall feel somewhat short-changed.
With both teams having had the satisfaction of scoring a goal, the game settles down. Norwich still look the more accomplished side, but Cornard have improved hugely from the opening two minutes and their heads are now where they should be in relation to their bottoms. When Cornard have the ball they pass it well, when they don’t they defend well; it’s an entertaining match.
I watch from behind the dugouts where a covered pergola type structure shields the tea bar from stray footballs but also helps keep the cold out, a bit anyway. Off to the right, over the fence, beyond the Thomas Gainsborough School I can see the spire of Grade 1 listed St Andrew’s Church.

I decide to take a wander round and watch the game from different perspectives. The main stand is empty but for a lone man in an Ipswich Town beanie hat who seems to be making notes. I doubt he’s a scout, possibly just writing a match report. Further down the valley behind the stand is Sudbury rugby club; every now and then I hear what sounds like a hunting horn as if all the local Hooray-Henry types are now all watching the rugby since it’s illegal to chase foxes. There are nevertheless far more people watching the game there than there are here, I doubt the crowd watching this game exceeds thirty in number. AFC Sudbury are also at home today just a mile or two away and playing in a league two levels above Cornard are probably a bigger attraction to most, as is the Nethergate ale they serve in their clubhouse.
At twenty-five past three the floodlights flicker into life and then in an unrelated incident Cornard’s number four, Ryan McGibbon becomes the first player to be shown the glow of Mr Darling’s yellow card. Matt Grove makes a very impressive flying save from a volleyed shot following a corner. Norwich’s number three Kieran Rose, a bald man with a colourfully tattooed right arm shares Ryan McGibbon’s experience five minutes before half-time and then entertains everyone by slipping over as he goes to control the ball and then slicing it away, high between the dugouts; it’s an impressive feat of maximum technical difficulty and draws generous laughter from his own team mates and coaches.
Half-time arrives and I quickly get to the tea bar to warm my hands around another polystyrene cupped, pound’s worth of tea. Another man in a ‘sports coat’ who is taking away three cups of tea on a tray (presumably for the referee and his chums) fails to fool me into believing there are no more hot drinks, although it is a plausible ruse. I go inside the clubhouse to check the half-time scores; Ipswich aren’t losing, yet, brilliant! The clubhouse bar has an impressive parquet floor but the tables and chairs look like they might have had a previous life in a school dining room and there is perhaps a faint smell of school dinner, or it could just be floor polish.
At three minutes past four the second half begins and at four minutes past four Cornard’s number ten Jack Graham lobs the ball from a good 20 metres from goal over the advancing pink-clad Norwich goalkeeper who rather fabulously is called Asa Swatman; a name to grace any novel. There is a moment when time stops and nothing seems certain and then everyone sees the ball bounce up into the goal net. People cheer long and loud to make up for the lack of numbers in the crowd.
On the Norwich bench, or rather outside it because he is standing up, the Norwich coach is having a breakdown. “How does that happen?” he asks after clutching his head in his hands. “I can’t believe it”. It’s as if he’s never seen a football match in his life before. Perhaps his previous experience of football was coaching a team of robots. But as theatre he’s worth the entrance money and continues to do so as he queries the portly linesman’s decision that goalkeeper Matt Groves had caught the ball inside his penalty area as opposed to outside it. It’s as if sensing the futility of life he feels he might as well argue about anything, even though he can’t really be certain of the truth and it won’t make any difference anyway. I see one of the Norwich substitutes smiling to himself.

The linesmen by the way are called Mr Bigg and Mr Copsey; I’m guessing which one is which.
Norwich are dominating the game now with Cornard restricted to defending stoutly and engineering the occasional breakaway; but they’re doing a good job of it with Jack Graham running at and around the Norwich defenders like the proverbial pain in the arse. Norwich win a corner and the ball is swung in close to the goal but Cornard clear; the Norwich coach is allowing his frustration to run away with him and resorts to bizarre and previously unknown allegories. “We should start a fuckin’ perfume stand behind the goal” he moans surreally. “They should be fuckin’ throwing themselves in there” he adds, perhaps trying, but failing to make sense of his own words.
It’s not much after four fifteen and Norwich are somewhat fortuitously awarded a free-kick by Mr Darling just outside the Cornard penalty area. Their number ten Tim Hewery steps up to arc the ball over the defensive wall and in to the top left hand corner of the Cornard goal. The scores are once again level and Norwich seem to expect to go on and win; their general play indicates that they might but they don’t and striving to be more ‘direct’ they bring on a large, lumpy target man who they call Cookie, he’s a nuisance but the game is less beautiful for it. Cornard keep breaking away through Jack Graham and from one break a header hits the cross bar and they also hit a post. Matt Groves tips a Norwich shot acrobatically over his cross bar but it’s hard to say which team came closest to scoring.
The referee proves not to be the darling of either side as he makes decisions to frustrate and annoy both, although Norwich are definitely the most upset, no doubt because they expect to win and they aren’t doing so, whilst Cornard are just happy to be here, and not losing. At ten to five Mr Darling uses his whistle for the final time this afternoon and sets the Norwich number ten, Tim Hewery off on a mad rant both at him and possibly the whole Norwich team. He storms off to the dressing room alone, leaving an embarrassed silence amongst everyone else in the ground, which is quite an achievement.
It’s an entertaining end to what has been a very entertaining game. I take a final trip in to the clubhouse to syphon off some of that two pounds worth of tea and on the way out of the ground I speak to the other Cornard co-manager Mike Schofield, who like me, his brother Andy, Matt Groves, Ben Parkin and Ryan McGibbon is one of the many people to have left Wivenhoe Town in recent years. Mike is very pleased with the result, with the game having gone just as planned. Sadly Ipswich have lost at Accrington and are once again out of the FA Cup without making any impression whatsoever, but heck I’m alright I’ll be home in time for tea and although I don’t know it yet will witness Norwich City lose at home to Portsmouth on Serbian TV.

Postscript: An internet search reveals that CBS might stand for Carpentry and Building Services, but then again it might not.

Ipswich Town 2 Millwall 3

January 3, 2019 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

It is New Year’s Day and with it comes a third new beginning for Ipswich Town’s 2018/19 season. After two new managers and the hope they brought of something better, we now have the somewhat superstitious belief that merely changing the number of the year will have a miraculous effect, although it does also bring with it the opening of the transfer window and the possibility of obtaining some better players, which is really our only hope.

It is still with hope therefore that I travel to Ipswich today, and to help my mood the sun is shining and the train is on time. As I stand and wait on the platform two railway workers bemoan their Christmas working and the fact that despite the service being a reduced one, it seems just as busy. “I had three Shenfields and two Ipswiches, and a Clacton in there too, at the end” says one railwayman “What with just forty minute breaks?” says the other who wears an earring and has a sort of strangled falsetto voice. The train arrives and I board; it does seem busy like the railwayman said, although most of the bench seats are occupied by just one person. A good number of football supporters board in both Colchester and Manningtree, many sporting suspiciously new looking blue and white knitwear. As the train approaches the Suffolk border the sky clouds over. Proceeding into Ipswich past the old John Player sports ground a London accent behind me says “There’s football pitches there, ain’t there?” sounding slightly surprised. A similar sounding accent agrees; it would be outrageously argumentative not to. Passing the school pitches of the primary school on Maidenhall Approach the Londoner remarks that “Them goals are small ain’t they?”. His friend inevitably concurs.

At Ipswich station, what looks like a paramilitary ticket collector stands by the Christmas tree in the booking hall; outside stand police and there are ‘heavies’ on the door of the Station Hotel. It’s all proof that today Town are playing Millwall. Although I can’t see many Millwall fans about this is no doubt because they do not wish their club colours to diminish their fashionable look; last season they looked like an army of extras from Mary Poppins, this season there doesn’t seem to be a discernible ‘look’ . My grandmother was born in London and used to sometimes claim that Millwall were ‘her team’, but then she also said the same of West Ham, and that was long before dementia led her to use ten pounds notes as toilet paper. I don’t think she really understood football.

Portman Road is unusually busy for the time of day, mostly with people either waiting to buy tickets, or for the turnstiles to open whilst others stuff burgers into their faces. St Jude’s Tavern is reasonably busy too when I get there and I take a pint of the Match Day Special (Calvor’s Smooth Hoperator (£2.50)) to a vacant stool at a table surrounded by retired gentlemen, at least one of whom now knows my name and says hello. I join in with the conversation which is mostly football based and nostalgic; for aging and indeed for all Ipswich Town fans the past is a wonderfully comforting place. My own reminiscences are oiled with a second pint; this time Nethergate’s Suffolk County (£3.20) and surprisingly Colchester United and Harwich & Parkeston are looked back on fondly too.

Stuck in the past we may be, but time itself can’t help moving forward, leaving us even further behind, but at about twenty-five to three we manage to stir ourselves and head down to Portman Road. It’s now brighter than it was and the pale blue sky is just slightly grubby with clouds. I enter the Sir Alf Ramsey stand through turnstile three and cheerily greet the operator; I look upon turnstile operators as the football fan’s friend, the gatekeepers of a magical world of football fun, which begins today with a visit to the gents.

Relieved, I smile to the lady steward at the top of the stairs then wander down to sit next to Elwood who is sat next to ever-present Phil who never misses a game, who is sat in front of Pat from Clacton. Phil offers me a mince pie, which is very kind and generous of him and I greedily accept. As the teams enter the field I cannot clap or cheer because I am shovelling sugary shortcrust pastry and mincemeat into my mouth.
The match begins; Ipswich as ever in blue and white decorated with an invitation to gamble, and hopefully mostly running in the direction of me, Elwood Phil and Pat whilst Millwall are in a sunny all orange kit advertising drainage and aiming loosely in the direction of the former Anglesea Road hospital and it’s classical columns. The Millwall fans are quickly into taunting mode with a rendition of “I can’t read and I can’t write, but I can drive a tractor” a song not heard much at Portman Road since the 1970’s. The Town fans are no match for such untamed metropolitan wit but Jack Lankester, Town’s trusty number thirty-six is, and within three minutes he collects a wide pass, cuts inside a defender and curls Town into an unfamiliar early lead. Our joy is not bridled. Phil and I leap off our seats happily waving our arms about like men drowning in a wave of euphoria. Pat from Clacton is so impressed she gets us to pose afterwards for a photo- facsimile of the moment, we are happy to oblige and I scare myself with my own clenched fist and a sort of growl of encouragement. With play resumed strains of the theme from The Great Escape rise up from the Sir Bobby Robson Stand.

This first half is a good one as evidenced by the lack of any noise from the Millwall fans in the corner of the Cobbold Stand. Town win a corner, “Come On You Blues” I chant, largely on my own and to no real effect. Ten minutes later Teddy Bishop tumbles over in the penalty area and around me people bay for a penalty. They would have wasted their breath less if they had sung “Come On You Blues” with me.

Entirely predictably referee Mr Stephen Martin, who presumably doesn’t call himself Steve Martin in order to avoid people thinking he is the American comedian, does not oblige. This Steve Martin is clearly more of “The Jerk” rather than ”The man with two brains”.

The Sir Bobby Robson Stand sing “Ole, Ole, Ole” and some other hard to fathom words and my nostrils are assaulted by the drifting aroma of hot fat; I deduce that the hospitality package today could involve chips.

It’s about half past three and Jack Lankester falls to the ground as Millwall becoming increasingly physical. “That was a bloody foul, he must be ruddy blind” moans the old boy behind me , a hint of frustration in his voice. It’s now gone half-past three and the Millwall corner summon up what I imagine they think is defiance with a chorus of a song your mum would like, Rod Stewart’s Sailing. “We are Millwall, Super Millwall, No one likes us, We don’t care” they sing. Of all football supporters’ songs this is the one that comes closest to heart-rending. It’s a moving story, but I’m sure their ‘muvvers’ love ‘em.

Half time arrives and Town should have scored more goals, with Freddie Sears missing the best opportunity as he chooses to pirouette and fall over rather than hit the ball into the back of an almost open goal. But he’s still Elwood’s favourite player and deservedly so. The break in play affords me the opportunity to syphon off some more spent beer , enjoy a Panda brand liquorice bar and talk to Ray who wishes me a happy new year and I reciprocate; our conversation is only cut short by Ray’s need to visit the gents too. Ray is teetotal, and it’s good to know that the half-time rush to the khasi does not consist only of inveterate beer drinkers.

It’s three minutes past four and the second half begins; the light is fading fast, in fact it’s pretty much faded and then the same happens to Town. A bit before twenty past four Town captain Luke Chambers stretches for the ball as Millwall’s Tom Elliott inelegantly charges after it and from where I am sat it looks like the two collide. The Jerk considers that it is a penalty however, and Millwall equalise amidst some wailing and gnashing of teeth with Dean Gerken appearing to simply walk off to his right, as the ball goes to his left. Eight minutes later and Town’s Jordan Spence seems not to notice that the ball has bounced off Matthew Pennington’s head and allows it to roll out for a needless corner. But Spence isn’t entirely to blame and two or three Town defenders pay an equal lack of attention or allow themselves to be muscled out of the way and Millwall’s centre-half Jake Cooper scores a brutish centre-half’s goal, the sort Chambers and Tommy Smith would score back when Mick McCarthy managed Town. “Who the fuck, Who the fuck, Who the fuckin’ ‘ell are you?” sing the Millwall fans adding a depth of feeling and a coarseness to the Welsh hymn tune Cwm Rhondda that I’m sure its composer John Hughes never envisaged. This is what I had expected of Millwall; rich, spontaneous swearing to both celebrate themselves and abuse the opposition at the same time. What poetry.

The Jerk has made himself particularly unpopular and just keeps on giving by awarding free-kicks to muscular Millwall who are dominating the game in a way Mick McCarthy would have approved of. It’s a good job Mr Martin is here or else Town fans would have precious little to get excited about. He caps his display by booking manager Paul Lambert, possibly for refusing to wear a coat even now the sun has gone down and it’s really feeling a bit nippy. There is an atmosphere in the ground this afternoon, which on the one hand is good, but on the other it’s not because it is mostly the result of animosity towards Mr Martin who by now must be getting the message that he doesn’t know what he’s doing. But he’s not the only one as Matthew Pennington under hits a back pass to Dean Gerken, who goes shin to shin with one of Millwall’s Satsumas; as Gerken lies curled up grimacing and clutching his leg, the ball spins out to Elliott who shoots past Luke Chambers from close range. It’s a terrible mess of a goal, the sort I wouldn’t really enjoy very much if Town scored it unless it was against Norwich.

The Millwall fans can hardly believe their luck. Re-purposing Sloop John B they sing “ How shit must you be, we’re winning away” and then to no particular tune they launch into their repetitive piece de resistance “ You’re fucking shit, You’re fucking shit, You’re fucking shit”. Their joy at scoring is only matched by their joy at being able to tell the opposition how ‘shit’ they are, possibly revealing deep-rooted issues about their own lack of self-esteem; a right laugh though innit.

What started as a promising afternoon, as a promising new year, has turned into a slightly worse version of everything that has gone before. Our descent is seemingly gathering pace and a penchant for slapstick comedy. Kayden Jackson briefly entertains with a beautiful flick of the ball and then a spectacular shot that does what the best goals do and pings off the inside of one post and behind the ‘keeper to the other side of the net, but it feels like a waste of a marvellous goal, the best goal of the game.

With the final whistle it is at least pleasing that I don’t hear any boos. There are some sighs, but people seem to realise that there’s no point in castigating this team; they do seem to be doing their best, but many of them are still young and as a team they’re just not very good. But if we keep supporting them, they might improve. For now I am of course disappointed, but later on tonight, or may be tomorrow I will reflect that disappointment is a part of life, a part of that rich tapestry that means when the next win does arrive it will feel absolutely wonderful. There is something to look forward to and anticipation is everything.

Ipswich Town 1 Sheffield United 1

December 23, 2018April 6, 2022 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

The first time I saw Ipswich Town play Sheffield United was in April 1972; the result was a goalless draw but I remember the game not just because Sheffield had a character from Beatrix Potter playing for them (Len Badger), but because it was also the first time I had suffered the pain, shock and hurt of seeing a Town player sent-off. The late Colin Harper was that Town player; he had protested too much to the evil Gordon Kew who had awarded a penalty to Sheffield United; but Colin laughed last as Laurie Sivell saved the kick, because back then right was on our side, sometimes. At the end of the game the pitch was pelted with cushions by spectators in the West Stand who were aiming at Mr Kew and his police escort. It is now hard to believe that such passion could be shown by people in what is probably Portman Road’s most comatose of stands. The up-shot of this reminiscence however, is the admission that I have never much liked Sheffield United.

But today is a beautiful, bright winter’s day and it’s almost Christmas, so in the spirit of goodwill towards all men it would be very bad manners not to put my ill-will towards The Blades on hold. Feeling better for that loving feeling I arrive at the railway station to find that the 12:57 to Ipswich is delayed by six minutes due to ‘signalling problems’. I text my wife Paulene because she likes to know of all the small misfortunes that befall me and because she likes to have her already low opinion of Greater Anglia railways reinforced whenever possible. Paulene texts me back with a series of emojis; her interpretation of potential ‘signalling problems’.

As I wait for the train I enjoy the low winter sun; on the railway platform a sign advertises the services of The Samaritans, they are “in my corner” should I need them; but I’m not a boxing fan and the words don’t really work as a footballing analogy. The arrival of the train soon shakes me from my reverie. I sit on the grey moquette by a window and look about the carriage. The face of an ugly old woman with a big nose leers down at me from a poster advertising Simplicity Cremations, their strapline being ‘making funerals less of an undertaking’. I’m not sure when humour became ‘a thing’ in advertising for undertakers; I think of an alternative strapline with more of an accent on the ‘simple’ cremation “Light the blue touch paper and retire”. It is interesting that an undertaker would think that train passengers’ thoughts should turn to their own deaths, although when delays are really bad I guess people do begin to wonder if they will ever make it home and therefore begin to make plans.

Arriving at Ipswich there are two Christmas trees on the railway station concourse and two policemen guard the doors. A string of lights fail to make the Station Hotel look very festive; I hurry on towards Portman Road where there is little festive feel but for one steward in a red and white hat. For a reason I find hard to explain I buy a programme in the club shop, but it was worth it to see the display of Christmas themed soft toys and assorted tat.

Round the corner in Sir Alf Ramsey Way I pause to hear the Salvation Army band strike up with ‘Hark! The Herald Angels Sing’. Beginning to feel a lot as if it’s Christmas I head for St Jude’s Tavern to enjoy a pint of the Match Day Special (£2.50), which today is Maldon Brewing Co’s ‘Five Gold Rings’. I sit and read the programme, occasionally joining in with the conversation of the match-day regulars who are sat around the table next to me. I enjoyed the Match Day Special but variety is the spice of life and from my second journey to the bar I return with a pint of Maldon’s ‘Winter’s Ale’ (£3.20) and finally I drink a half of Earl Soham Brewery’s ‘Sir Roger’s Porter’ (£1.70). Glass drained I walk down Portman Road with one of the St Jude’s regulars with whom I had been sitting, I think his name is Ian; he is a bald man who currently has a limp, I discover that like me he has a penchant for French and Belgian football. I silently envy him his visits to Royal Antwerp and Aalst.
Portman Road is not overly busy, it’s close enough to 3 o’clock for most people to be already inside the stadium and by now only those who have struggled against Christmas crapulence to leave the pub are making their way through the turnstiles. I enter the Sir Alf Ramsey stand through turnstile No3 and bid the operator a cheery Christmas greeting. I make my way, via the gents, to my seat next to Elwood and ever-present Phil who never misses a game and just in front of Pat from Clacton. I ask Pat if she enjoyed Tina Turner The Musical, which she went to see yesterday, in London. She did; although it was the understudy who played Tina. I hand a Christmas card to Elwood, to give to his dad, who tells him to put it in their bag.
The game begins with Ipswich as ever in their blue and white kit, which this season has sadly been tainted by the ugly logo of an organisation peddling on-line gambling. Without good reason, unless they are showing solidarity with France’s gilets jaunes, Sheffield United eschew their proper colours of red and white striped shirts and black shorts in favour of luminous yellow shirts with black shorts. I keep a look out for piles of burning tyres and pallets but fortunately there are none to be seen as Town get the ball rolling towards me, Pat, Phil and Elwood. Another good afternoon’s work from Zero the sniffer dog.

“Oh when the Reds, Go marching in” sing the Yorkshiremen in the Cobbold Stand “Hark, now hear the Ipswich sing, the Norwich ran away” is the riposte from the Sir Bobby Robson Stand and I wonder if the Salvation Army have been co-opted into the Blue Action supporters group. The football is fast and furious but it’s Sheffield who are fastest. Town may have to bide their time this afternoon, Sheffield United look quite good despite their poor choice of shirts. In the Sheffield corner of the Cobbold Stand the Okey Cokey breaks out and all around the stadium is a sprinkling of Santas and people dressed as elves. At seventeen minutes past three Sheffield United ‘score’ but the ‘goal’ is disallowed, something to do with a breach of the offside rule it would seem. “Down with the Wednesday, you’re going down with the Wednesday” sing the Sheffielders, presumably not to their own team, although if not it doesn’t seem a very charitable thing to sing, given the time of year.
It’s almost twenty five past three when Town at last have a goal attempt of their own as a cross from the right is met by the head of Ellis Harrison, a man who until today I did not realise had such impressive calf muscles. The header is caught easily by the Sheffield goalkeeper Dean Henderson. Six minutes later a deep cross from Town’s Gwion Edwards drops into the edge of the Sheffield penalty area, Freddie Sears is running onto it, there is an audible gasp of expectation from the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand, but Henderson gets there first, giving him cause to dance and sing. Town then win a corner; Luke Chambers launches himself towards the goal like a human missile and heads the ball solidly into the roof of the net. The ‘goal’ however is disallowed by referee Mr Woolmer. “What the hell was wrong with it?” calls the old boy behind me, showing admirable bias towards his team. Unfortunately, the human missile took out a few too many Sheffield players in the course of its rather flat trajectory.
Having disallowed a ‘goal’ Mr Woolmer seemingly develops a taste for enraging the home crowd and awards a free-kick against Ellis Harrison when it’s likely he was the player who was fouled and when Town are heading towards the Sheffield goal. The crowd is at once energised. “Who’s the wanker in the black?” sing the Sir Bobby Robson Stand in a rare display of unified voice. I volunteer the information that the wanker in the black is Mr Andy Woolmer, a short balding man who every other step has to skip or jump to keep up with the longer strides of his assistants as they walk on and off the pitch…like Private Baldric on the opening credits of Blackadder Goes Forth. This is the fourth consecutive home match for which Town have been given a ‘short ref’. I think its about time we had a lanky one.

Perhaps it is just Ipswich’s good fortune, perhaps the Sheffield players are unnerved by the better than usual vocal support for Ipswich or by the use of the word ‘wanker; perhaps they have heard about the cushion throwing incident in 1972, but they proceed to muck up several passes leaving Ellis Harrison with a run on goal and space to shoot. Ellis shoots, Ellis scores. I get a perfect end on view of the ball swerving wonderfully inside the netting just behind the goal post; it’s a thing of beauty, it’s bloody marvellous. Joy abounds.
There are eight minutes until half time. “I hope we get to half-time without…..” says the old boy behind me, his voice trailing off as if he cannot bear to utter the words to complete the sentence. Half-time arrives and Town are still winning. It has been a struggle but in the last ten minutes we came good, in part thanks to the diminutive Mr Woolmer’s ability to stir up the supporters with his abject refereeing.
I visit the gents, I talk to Ray and hand him a Christmas card; a very small brass band play Christmas Carols in the centre of the pitch. On the concourse below the stand what looks like a soil pipe is decorated with a twist of blue lights, some rather feeble strings of lights dangle from the roof and a Christmas tree decorates the entrance to the upstairs hospitality area. The stadium announcer tells us that the Premier League half-time scores will be on the scoreboard, “should you wish to see them”, which I think is a nicely condescending touch, richly deserved by those who do wish to see them.
All is well until the second half begins and within a minute Sheffield equalise through Billy Sharp a man who despite his thirty-two years has a name which will forever sound like he’s a young scamp of an eleven year old who’s just stepped out of a Barry Hines novel. He should perhaps call himself Bill or William now he’s a bit older. “Well, we’re gonna see plenty of the ball this half then” remarks the old boy behind me looking on the bright side, sort of.
It turns out that whilst we do see quite a lot of the ball being passed between the gilets jaunes in our half of the pitch, they don’t manage to create many certain chances to score and Dean Gerken makes hardly any saves; far, far fewer saves than he did against Wigan last week. Sheffield’s dominance of possession leaves the Ipswich crowd quiet for long periods but no one moans to fill the void. Everyone outside that one corner of the Cobbold Stand is of course hoping for another Town goal, but a draw will be alright. The crowd is announced as 17.942 (1,292 from Sheffield) which is pretty good for a Second Division team bottom of the league on the Saturday before Christmas, and shows that people do still care and still believe that relegation will be avoided. At twenty-five to five a chorus of “Come On Ipswich, Come on Ipswich ” ringing around much of the ground is strong enough to prove the point.

This is an enjoyable game and the old dear behind me is getting her kicks from Mr Woolmer’s lack of height, “I don’t know how he can see the fouls, he int tall enough is he?” she says before querying how he can manage to measure out ten yards at a free-kick with “… his little legs”. Happily for those of us satisfied with a draw, only three minutes of added time are called and whilst Mr Woolmer books Jordan Spence and gives Sheffield United a free-kick just outside the penalty area in that time, his efforts to let Sheffield score come to nought. The game ends and a warm applause flows from the stands. “That was bloody brilliant” says the old boy behind me getting a bit carried away with it all. I wait to applaud the team from the field and of course boo the referee. If I had had a cushion I doubt I would have hurled it at Mr Woolmer, possibly because we didn’t lose, but probably because I’m quite mild-mannered really. It’s odd that we think we live in a more liberal society than we did in 1972, but hurling a mere soft cushion would probably see me tracked down and banned for life from Portman Road now.
It has been a grand afternoon at Portman Road and Town are well worth their point against a superior team. We seem to be successfully assuming the role of plucky underdog, which in a league rammed full of Premier League pretenders will allow us a wry smile come the end of the season when only three of them get what they wished for…..and of course they should be careful of what that is. As for Town, we’re bottom of the league at Christmas, but I’m happy……or as happy as one can be.

Ipswich Town 1 Wigan Athletic 0

December 16, 2018December 17, 2018 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

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

December 10, 2018 / martinpbrooks / 2 Comments

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.