Boo Boo

Ipswich Town 1 Wolverhampton Wanderers 2

/ martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

This week has felt somewhat depressing, probably because I have been reading ‘The Kevin Beattie Story’ as told to Rob Finch (Cult Figure Publishing 2007).  It’s a sorry tale of lost innocence and cruel fate and its sadness was not helped by the fact that my copy of the book had belonged to a close, longstanding friend who sadly died; his wife kindly asked me if I’d like any of his collection of ITFC related stuff, and the Beattie book was the one thing I didn’t have in my own museum.

Wednesday’s win for the Town in Bournemouth perked me up a bit, although I hadn’t bothered to find it on the telly, preferring to watch the second semi-final of the Coupe de France between AS Cannes and Stade de Reims.  But now, as I step out into a bright blue Saturday afternoon, my mood has performed a summersault, and I can only think of a Town home win, a series of further improbable wins and the greatest escape from relegation ever seen.  The season starts now and given that today’s game is only the second match at Portman Road in almost six weeks, it genuinely feels like it.

Unhappily, my journey to the match begins with a rail replacement bus service, but on the plus side I sit across the gangway from a woman of retirement age brandishing an ‘Extinction Rebellion’ placard.  I think to myself how I might like to go on some demos in my retirement.  As a baby-boomer, moulded by the 1960’s I think I owe it to future generations to stoke up a bit of revolution before I shuffle off this mortal coil.  The diesel engine powered bus ride is mercifully brief and I’m soon with Gary on an electric train to Ipswich looking out for polar bears.  We sit at a table and a man about the same age as me, possibly a little younger, sits down opposite us, first asking if we don’t mind if he sits there. “As long as you don’t disturb us” I tell him, by which I really mean “As long as you don’t join in with our conversation”, and that of course is exactly what he does.  I’m not sure why I feel averse to social interaction today, perhaps it’s because with no match for three weeks I ‘ve become overly introverted.

Our arrival in wonderful down-town Ipswich is heralded by loud chanting from the car park of the Station Hotel where Wolverhampton supporters are singing “We are Wolves, We Are Wolves, We Are Wolves”.  Such loud, pre-match singing has been unusual from visiting supporters this season and Gary and I speculate as we head for the Arb, that either the beer here in Ipswich is stronger than they’re used to in Wolverhampton, or they’ve all arrived early and been here for several hours.  Gary asks if I’m going to get an ice cream; I tell him I am, but as usual I come away from the blue booth with just a match programme (£3.50).

At the Arb, there is no queue for the bar and I am soon stood in the beer garden holding my pint of  Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride and one of something called Rosa Blanca belonging to Gary (the Lager 43 is ‘off’), as I wait for him to emerge from the toilet.  He takes an age, so regrettably I can’t help surmising that he must ‘doing a number two’.   Mick does not join us today because he is watching his paramour’s granddaughter play for Ipswich Town Under-16 girls against Leeds United at Needham Market (kick off 12:30).  I assume that the Leeds team is also made up of under 16 girls. After another pint of Suffolk Pride for me and an Estrella Damme for Gary, (he didn’t like the Rosa Blanca) it’s gone twenty to three and is time to leave for Portman Road and the main event of the day.

The back of the Sir Alf Ramsey stand is thick with queues when I arrive and as I stand in line I pass the time by looking up at the dark metal fascia of top of the stand, which is impressively streaked with guano, although there is not a seabird to be seen, as if when asked they will say “it was like that when we got here” .  The queue to turnstile 62 is as ever the slowest, so I switch to the seemingly better lubricated turnstile 61, but I’m still syphoning off excess Suffolk Pride as the team is read out and by the time I am reacquainting myself with Pat from Clacton, Fiona, the man from Stowmarket (Paul), ever-present Phil who never misses a game, and his young son Elwood, all trace of the excitable, young and somewhat lanky stadium announcer, and his sidekick Boo Boo, has gone.

It’s the Town that get first go with the ball this afternoon and naturally sporting the famous blue and white they are soon getting the ball to travel in the direction of the goal just in front of me and my fellow fifty plus (with the exception of Elwood) Ultras.  Wolverhampton are almost in their signature gold and black kit, but disappointingly their black shorts seem to be in the wash and their ‘gold’ shirts and substitute shorts aren’t that golden, more of a dark yellow, so anyone who is a bit short-sighted, or just contrary like me, might think they’re a poor man’s Cambridge United.

Pat is soon asking me if I’m well and we exchange complaints about aching knees and joints, it’s been that kind of a week.  “Oh when the Town go marching in” chant the north standers miserably as if we’ll be doing it under duress, and the Wolverhampton number twenty-seven shoots over the Town cross bar.  “Ed Sheeran, what a wanker, what a wanker” sing the Wulfrunians, as well they might, given that they share their love for their team with the likes of Robert Plant and Noddy Holder.

The Wolverhampton number nine shoots and Palmer saves as the prequel to repetitive chants of “Come on Wolvers” which are the soundtrack to three consecutive corners before Town earn a couple of corners of our own and I get to bellow “Come On You Blues”,  which always seems to amuse Pat from Clacton,   Then the ball is crossed in again.  Dara O’Shea heads the ball back across goal and Liam Delap slides in to score, and Town lead one-nil. “Liam Delap, Ole,” chant the multilingual home supporters and Pat from Clacton snaps pictures of our hysterical faces.    This is what being in the First Division is supposed to be like, but then reality bites as we have to wait for VAR to confirm that what we think we saw, we really saw.  “VAR don’t work in football” says the bloke behind me bitterly as we grow cold and old waiting for the decision, which presumably takes so long because there is controversy over whether the blade of grass on the toe of Liam Delap’s boot is a part of his boot, in which case he’d be offside, or part of the pitch, in which case he isn’t.  Surprisingly perhaps, the goal stands, and feeling even more excited than I did when we actually scored, I celebrate all over again.

High on the goal and VAR decision I am  more convinced than ever that the Town will escape relegation, and decide that the Wolverhampton number seven, who mysteriously is just called ‘Andre’ , looks a bit like Freddie Mercury.  Naturally intrigued, Pat from Clacton zooms in on him with her camera and disappointingly concludes that he looks nothing like him.  It must have been the spring sunlight playing across his dark moustache.  “Balustrades” reads the electronic advert between the tiers of the Sir Bobby Robson Strand, and then “Hot Sausage Company”, before then trying to convince us  it is the ideal place to get one’s pre-match meal, making me wonder in the interests of a balanced diet what vegetables they serve to accompany the hot sausage.

Life winds down towards half-time with an indirect free-kick on the edge of the Town six yard box after Alex Palmer misjudges a back pass and has to make a diving save to prevent the ball from going into the goal.   Another lengthy delay ensues as the referee struggles to employ the ten-yard rule within a space of only six yards, and predictably perhaps Wolverhampton miss anyway.  Alex Palmer is booked for encroachment, probably because he felt responsible.   Incredibly, but thankfully, only three minutes of added on time are added on and the first half ends with the home crowd feeling quite content with our lot.

Half-time is a blur of talking to Ray and his grandson Harrison, feeling a spot of water on my hand from the  sprinklers on the pitch, syphoning off more Suffolk Pride and eating an oddly named ‘Alibi’ chocolate bar,  which I found in the World Food aisle at Sainsbury’s and which comes from Poland and is a bit like a plain chocolate Toffee Crisp, but bigger; rather nice.

The football resumes at five minutes past four under the same clear blue sky that’s been here all day.  “Come On Wolvers, Come On Wolvers” is quaintly reprised up in the Cobbold Stand, Wolverhampton win a corner and Ipswich win two, but it is the team from the Black Country who are mostly running at the Town defence with the ball and looking quite good, much better than they did in the first half, unfortunately.  Silky Nathan Broadhead is replaced by the more combative Jack Taylor for Town.   There are only twenty minutes left and Town still lead but it doesn’t feel like it. “Come on Wolvers” continue the Wulfrunians and a SWAT team snatches away one of their number who has presumably been being doing something good football spectators shouldn’t. I beginning to think that the Wolverhampton team is a bit whingy, whiny and rough and a bad influence on their supporters.   “Hark now hear the Ipswich sing, the Norwich ran away” chant the Sir Bobby Robson standers referencing football hooliganism of yore in solidarity with the naughty boys of Wolverhampton.

After the seventy first minute, the seventy-second minute turns up as we expected it would, but with unexpected consequences as Wolverhampton’s Pablo Sarabia turns on the edge of the penalty area and shoots with no particular power at the Town goal.  From where I am sitting I am fully expecting Alex Palmer to dive across to his left and palm the ball away, but instead the ball unsportingly evades him and carries on onto the corner of the net.  Town are no longer winning and life is suddenly not as sweet as it was a few moments ago.  Of course, VAR has to give us false hope that a loose thread from a gold shirt was in an offside position and might have distracted Palmer,  but it is not to be and our pain is doubled with the seemingly inevitable confirmation that the goal was indeed a goal.

“We are Wolves, We are Wolves” chant the visiting Wulfrunians, at last feeling bold enough to identify themselves in public, and by way of confirmation we are told that there are 2,955 of them  amongst a total crowd of 29,549 and we are all thanked for our “incredible support,” which I can’t help thinking  gets a little less incredible and a little more ordinary every time we are told that it’s incredible.   Meanwhile, back in the Cobbold stand the Wulfrunians have broken free of their shackles and launched into a chorus of the socialist anthem the Red Flag, although despite the lyrics of the song expressly forbidding it, they have changed the colour of the flag from red to gold. Flippin’ revisionists.

Ten minutes of normal time remain as hopelessly inaccurate shots rain in on the Town goal and the Wolverhampton fans gain in confidence to the extent that they tell us we’re “Going down with the Albion”, by which I assume they must mean Burton Albion because both West Bromwich and Brighton & Hove are both securely mid-table.  Either their barbed taunts provoke a reaction, or Keiran McKenna looks at his watch and realises it’s nearly tea-time as he makes a sudden rash of substitutions with Delap, Townsend and Cajuste replacing Philogene, Davis and Hirst on the bench.  The changes unfortunately bring disaster for Town as within three minutes a run into the box and a low cross allows a large Norwegian by the name of Strand Larsen to score a close-range goal similar to that which Delap scored in the first half.  “Like a a bag of cement” says the bloke behind me about some Town defender or other. “Piss poor” he concludes.  VAR twists the knife by again making us wait for confirmation that the goal was a goal, as all hope at first slowly but then more quickly bleeds out of us.

Seven minutes of added time are of no help; we lose and are well beaten by a more skilful, more exciting, more proficient team, interestingly made up entirely of players from Portugal, Brazil, France, Spain and other countries that aren’t England.   But the league table still says that they are the next worst team after us.

Not to worry, this sorry tale of a season of lost innocence and cruel fate will soon be over.

Ipswich Town 1 Fulham 1

/ martinpbrooks / 2 Comments

It’s been a grey morning; warm but cloudy and breezy, with two very sharp, short showers.  The apple tree in the garden has provided a good crop this year and I’ve been cooking them ready to put in the freezer and ensure a future that contains crumble and blackberry and apple pie.  I mopped the kitchen floor too after making waffles for breakfast.  We didn’t get any post, but heck, there’s football this afternoon.

The train to Ipswich is on time, but the carriage I sit in is full of people seemingly with no ability to control how loud they talk, or rather shout. Do they all operate pneumatic drills during the week I wonder, or listen to marbles inside tumble driers as a leisure pursuit?  Gary joins me at the first station stop, I have texted him to tell him I am in the second half of the train, in the carriage with the pointy front; I think it’s called streamlining and is all the rage on modern trains. We talk of people we both know and of what Gary has arranged to do to fill his days now he is retired; weeks of badminton, ten-pin bowling, crown green bowls , indoor bowls and quizzing stretch out before him invitingly.  We spot all four polar bears as we glide down the hill towards Ipswich through Wherstead and one is taking a swim.  It’s a highlight of my day so far, has saved me the cost of entry to Jimmy’s farm, about twenty quid, and I’ve had a train ride and conversation with Gary thrown-in.

In Ipswich, the train stops conveniently close to the bridge that takes us across the tracks from Platform 4 to the exit and our walk along Princes Street, Portman Road and up to ‘the Arb’.  In the beer garden of the Station Hotel a chorus of “You’re going down, you’re going down, you’re going down “ rings out noisily. Premier League banter eh?  We buy programmes (£3.50 each) from one of the ice-cream booths that sell programmes on Portman Road.  Today’s front cover is in the style of a childishly drawn cartoon and very good it is too, and reminiscent of the cartoons that used to appear in the ‘A Load of Cobbolds’ fanzine in the 1980’s and 90’s, although not in a ‘My Sweet Lord’, by George Harrison, ‘He’s so fine’ by the Chiffons sort of a way.

‘The Arb’ is predictably busy and Gary gets the first round in, a pint of Lager 43 for him and a pint of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride for me (£8.58 with Camra discount).  It’s odd how the pub seems even busier than it did last season, even though there will be no more home supporters present than before. Perhaps all the ‘Johnny-come-lately’ fans have been reading up on what to do before a game to enjoy the ‘full Premier League matchday experience’.   We talk of the paralympics, Walton On The Naze, religious observance and the religious persecution of women, Ipswich  Town’s latest signings, how strawberries and blackberries are apparently not berries and other inconsequential matters that I can’t recall, before I buy a second round of Lager 43 and Suffolk Pride. After all the other pre-match drinkers have left for Portman Road, we leave too.

Gary and I part ways near Sir Alf’s statue and I head on down Portman Road, flitting as best as a 64 year old man with a dodgy achilles tendon can through the queues into the Cobbold Stand on my way back to my usual seat in the lower tier of Sir Alf’s stand.  The queues at the turnstiles are long again today, unlike for the Liverpool game where there were barely any queues at all. So slow moving is the queue for the illustrious turnstile 62, that like  an impatient driver approaching roadworks on a motorway I switch lanes and join the queue for turnstile 60, where evidently supporters are more proficient at flashing a bar code in front of a screen.

The teams are on the pitch by the time I take my seat and of course ever-present Phil who never misses a game, his son Elwood, Pat from Clacton and the man from Stowmarket (Paul) are already present.  Fiona however is not, and instead a man who quickly identifies himself as Ian, tells me that he is not Fiona.  Ian is in fact Fiona’s next-door neighbour.  On the pitch, a tall, slim, young man in a suit announces the teams enthusiastically and does a reasonable job of co-ordinating with the scoreboard so that ever-present Phil and I can bawl out the Town players’ surnames as if we were at the Stade de la Licorne or Stade Felix Bollaert, two of my favourite places in northern France. Beside the tall, slim young man, is a shorter young man in a suit and I think of Yogi Bear and Boo-Boo.  The last strains of The Beatles’ Hey Jude drift away as the game begins and Fulham get first go with the ball, aiming it roughly in the general direction of the telephone exchange and London Road Baptist church.  Town wear their signature blue shirts and white shorts, whilst Fulham are in their signature white shirts and black shorts, but with vivid red go faster stripes on their shorts too, that surprisingly look rather good, I think it’s the contrast with the red and the black.  Feeling a little pretentious, I think of Stendahl.

“Blue and White Army” roar some of the crowd above the general loud hubbub of nearly thirty thousand excited people. “Temporary Boiler Hire” flash the electronic advertisement hoards that sit between the upper and lower tiers of the Sir Bobby Robson Stand.  I think to myself that that could come in handy in the winter if the water from the taps in the Alf Ramsey stand toilets is as cold as it usually is.  After only three minutes Leif Davis is lying on the turf clutching his back. “Looks serious “ says the bloke behind me, but happily it’s not, and the crowd are soon merrily singing “Addy, Addy, Addy-O” as if imagining the soundtrack from “A Taste of Honey” starring Rita Tushingham and Dora Bryan, which is what I’m doing.

Five minutes in and Town win the game’s first corner; Jacob Greaves’ far post header is saved  athletically by Fulham goalkeeper Bernd Leno who I do not think is related to American TV presenter Jay Leno, but I don’t honestly know. Leno is wearing a slightly dull looking lime green ensemble, if lime green can be dull.  It takes two minutes for Fulham to level the corner count. “Come On Fulham, Come On Fulham, Come on Fulham” is the entreaty from a large part of the top tier of the Cobbold stand, but happily for Town, the Fulham football tean doesn’t oblige.  Two minutes later and Fulham step ahead in the corner count as Luke Woolfenden clears accidentally towards the Sir Bobby Robson stand from distance.  The Fulham fans chant “Come On Fulham” twice as many times as for the previous corner, but it makes no difference, although it adds to the already febrile match-day ambience.  Seeking reassurance after their team’s corner related failure, the Fulham fans sing “We are Fulham, We Are Fulham” and I think I even hear some reference to their postcode, SW6, which is nice for Royal Mail pensioners like Gary and myself.

After twelve minutes, Fulham have another corner as Woolfenden blocks a low cross from Adama Traore. “Quick aint he?” says the bloke behind me of Traore. “He aint normal.”  The Fulham fans have given up on their chants of “Come On Fulham” for the time being at least and switch to “No noise from the Tractor Boys”, which, as prophetic football chants go, turns out to be one of the worst of all time as within sixty seconds Leif Davis breaks out of defence, runs, squares to Liam Delap who also runs, but at the goal, and then diagonally, before turning slightly to leather a shot past Leno, who can touch the ball but not stop it rocketing  high into the net. Wow. Town lead 1-0. “Hark now hear the Ipswich sing, The Norwich ran away” sing the Sir Bobby Robson standers feeling prematurely, but understandably festive.

The goal lifts Town, who set about levelling the corner count and Liam Delap heads wide when there wasn’t anything or anyone really preventing him from scoring. Town are dominating. “For a team that’s still gelling, we don’t pay bad” says the bloke behind me, and he’s right.  Like someone recently injected with morphine, I sit back and just enjoy the sensation of watching some excellent football.  “Get your head up” shouts a berk from somewhere a few rows back as Sam Morsy wrestles to retain possession.  As if anyone in the crowd could possibly teach these players anything.

Then Fulham equalise, the game has just under an hour left of normal time.  Fulham weathered Town’s onslaught then steadied themselves with a bout of prolonged possession, which was on the verge of becoming boring before a pass out wide, a run to the goal line, a low cross, and a shot swept in by Traore running into an open space.  It’s how good football works I believe.  “Who are ya?” chant the Fulhamites inquisitively, perhaps worried that we are Fulham too, but luckily for them we’re not.   Fulham are now on top and Rodrigo Muniz heads at the Town goal, but straight at Aro Muric.  “We are Fulham, We Are Fulham” chant the Fulham fans again, clearly weirdly obsessed with people’s identities, and possibly postcodes.

Sam Morsy’s standard booking happens in the thirty-seventh minute as he clatters Muniz, but a fine passing Town move follows, which earns another corner, although Kalvin Phillips wastes it by hitting it hopelessly beyond the goal.  The young announcer announces two minutes of added time very excitedly and in a manner that personally I would only think was appropriate if announcing free beer.  At half-time the score is 1-1 and the man from Stowmarket (Paul) is very content with what he considers to have been an even first half.  I concur, but add that Fulham have probably had more possession, although they’ve not done much with it.

During the break, I speak with Ray and his grandson Harrison and Ray tells me that they have tickets to see Oasis at Wembley.  I am pleased for them, especially Harrison, who then further pleases me by asking about Robyn Hitchcock’s book ‘1967: How I got there and why I never left’ and the accompanying album (1967: Vacations in the past) which is released in the UK on 13th September. I tell Harrison I shall be seeing Robyn play in Hackney, the weekend after next.

The football resumes at three minutes past four and I’m soon noticing the raspberry blancmange like colouring of Aro Muric’s shirt and shorts, and how from a distance the ball looks a bit like a very un-ripe wild strawberry.  Back in the game itself, Sasa Lukic kicks Liam Delap’s feet away from under him and is booked by referee Mr Lewis Smith, whose first name makes me think of Lewis Carroll and Alice Through the Looking Glass.  “The Hot Sausage Company” appears in bright lights across the electronic advertising boards and Liam Delap shoots over the Fulham cross bar. Ipswich win a corner. Antonee Robinson, the spelling of whose first name would only be improved if it was Antonknee is booked by Mr Smith for shoving over Omari Hutchinson and then Town win yet another corner.  An hour of the match is lost to history and recorded highlights, and the Sir Bobby Robson standers come over all festive again and sing about endlessly fighting Norwich.  “Quick, Easy, Affordable Balustrades” announce the bright lights of the electronic advertisement boards and I try to think of the occasions when I have needed a cheap balustrade in a hurry before deciding that Adama Traore looks a bit like he could be a handy weightlifter when not playing football for Fulham.

The second half belongs to Ipswich and the game is mostly taking place up the other end.  When Fulham do win a corner, it dissolves into a series of wild grabs and shoves and I’m surprised Mr Smith doesn’t tell the players that if they can’t play nicely there won’t be any more corners. The game hurtles into its last twenty minutes and the first substitutions are made, Jens Cajuste replacing Kalvin Phillips for Town.  “I liked him the other night” says the bloke behind me, possibly revealing details of his private life, but more probably that he saw the midweek League Cup game against AFC Wimbledon.  Not to be outdone, Fulham make a substitution too and then today’s attendance is announced as 29,517 with 2,952 of that number being of a Fulham persuasion.  Fulham win a corner, Traore is shown Mr Lewis’s yellow card for tugging at Leif Davis. I’m surprised the hulk look-alike didnt tear Davis’s shirt clean off.

The final ten minutes witness mass substitutions for both teams including a first sight of another new signing for Town, Jack Clarke, but disappointingly nothing more leaps out at me from the electronic advertising boards. Pat from Clacton is feeling nervous and we’re not even winning, but there seems to be a commonly held belief that a point today will be good enough; Fulham are a decent side.  The allotted ninety minutes have expired and the young man in the suit announces that there will five more. “Five added minutes” he concludes portentously, and the crowd responds with a final roar of encouragement, perhaps inspiring Town to win a corner and Omari Hutchinson to turn and shoot and have his shot saved by Leno.

The final whistle draws a torrent of appreciation from the stands as Pat from Clacton and Ian make a swift exit, but with no train home for half an hour, I hang around to watch the ensuing love-in and reflect on what has been a really good match.  I thought last season’s matches were fast and intense, probably because I had become used to what went on in the loveable old third division, but this football, now, has stepped up to a far higher level again.  Happily, it looks like this evolving Town team are capable of playing here.  I don’t like the Premier League, I strongly disapprove of it and its greed, but I have to admit the football we’ve seen at Portman Road in these first two games has been brilliant. But what can you do? Let’s hope we find out soon, and do it.

Ipswich Wanderers 0 Coggeshall Town 3

/ martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

The historic and much under-valued port and town of Ipswich has two senior clubs within the pyramid of non-league football, albeit clubs close to or at the base of that pyramid. Whitton United has been knocking around since the 1920’s and possibly before, but Ipswich Wanderers are up-starts by comparison, having begun in 1980 as a boys’ team and joined the Eastern Counties League in 1987 they only became Ipswich Wanderers in 1988. The Wanderers are now struggling uncomfortably close to the foot of the Thurlow Nunn Eastern Counties League Premier Division, they are second from bottom and probably heading for relegation, whilst their opponents today from North Essex are second from top and keen to move up the pyramid from Step 5 to Step 4.

The Wanderers’ home on Humber Doucy Lane is on the north eastern edge of the town in a semi-rural setting which is actually within the village of Rushmere St Andrew. The environmentally responsible can access the ground by bus; not some country service that runs the third Tuesday of every month, but by Ipswich Buses route No 6 running every 20 minutes from Tower Ramparts bus station and passing near enough to leave just a five minute walk to the ground. But today I, along with my wife have been to visit my mum, so somewhat shamefully we have travelled by car.

It is a beautifully sunny, clear, winter’s day, some might think it spring-like, but it’s still a

 

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bit too damp and chilly for that. We draw up into the large car park at ‘the Doucy’, parking on the grass behind the blue metal fence and the row of low metal-roofed stands. It’s ten to three and most people who are going to be here are here. An impressive row of portakabins line the route to the entrance, Ipswich Wanderers may be struggling on the pitch but they have portakabins to spare. The entrance, although it is a

 

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couple of metres wide has a turnstile set on one side. I pay our entrance money (£6 each) to the cheery, welcoming gateman who records our presence with another couple of strikes from his biro on a piece of paper marked with ‘five bar gates’. We step past the turnstile, which I turn manually, just for fun so that it clicks twice; the gateman gets the joke, such as it is. I am disappointed to hear however that the programmes have sold out (normally £1.50).
Inside the ground the teams come onto the pitch to the strains of Dion’s “The Wanderer” but minus the words, meanwhile I fetch a couple of teas (£1 each) and start to see people I know; there’s Ipswich Town fan John, whose sister is serving in the tea hut, his friend

 

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Michael, Jimmy from Coggeshall who introduces me to his friend Shane, Keith and Jim who live down the road from me, Geoff the Coggeshall Town turnstile operator with his slicked back hair and pint in hand, and quietly spoken Paul who runs the Coggeshall Town website and films the match. Feeling thoroughly at home, I stand my tea on the perimeter wall and Coggeshall Town kick the game off in their black and red striped shirts and black shorts travelling towards the battered, cream coloured, metal fence and equally battered looking and hacked about row of conifers at the Rushmere Road end of the ground. Ipswich Wanderers are in all blue and the scene is a colourful one with the clear sky, backdrop of conifers and the chill in the air lending it a Nordic feel, as if we might all have come to see Osterlenn FF versus Solvesborgs.

Coggeshall are soon dominating play and most of the game is being played out in the Wanderers’ half of the pitch. There are a couple of close calls for the Wanderers and it’s barely 3:15 when a free-kick on the right is brought down by Coggeshall number 7 Tom Monk, who then turns and half volleys into the corner of the net to give the ‘Seedgrowers’ of Coggeshall the lead. The good following of fans from Coggeshall cheer and the Wanderers fans look on stoically having seen it all before. I stand with Paul who is filming the match from between two of the three wonderful ‘home-made’ looking stands on the Humber Doucy Lane side of the ground. In front of us the Wanderers’ kit man bobs up and down making sure there is always another ball available every time one is booted out into the car park, which happens quite often. He curses Paul’s camera

 

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and doesn’t seem happy in his work as he mutters profanities at the players of both teams when they don’t get the ball back into play as quickly as he’d like; he’s doing a worthwhile job though. I take a wander to view the game from behind the Coggeshall goal and then return to find my wife talking to Keith and Jim; they used to divide their football habit between Colchester United and Wivenhoe Town, but Coggeshall is much closer and have now taken Wivenhoe’s place as their second team. Keith is an upright, tall man whilst Dave is quite small; they make me think of Yogi and Boo Boo. Although I don’t think they’d nick anyone’s picnic or packed lunch, I think Keith would suit a hat.

Coggeshall still dominate but are struggling to turn possession into clear cut chances let alone goals. The Wanderers are in combative mood and always able to get a head or a foot in the way when it counts and when that fails their goal keeper Jack Spurling is always in just the right place to collect the ball. It takes until twenty to four for Wanderers to have a shot on goal as their lanky number 9 Ashley Rankin chases a punt forward and despite an over heavy first touch strikes a first time shot from a narrow angle, which the Coggeshall ‘keeper James Bransgrove parries before smothering. There’s still time for another Coggeshall attack, which Ipswich clear but not without a bit of a panic. It’s been a typically noisy game but now for the first time we get some really loud swearing; “Play the fucking ball deep” somebody shouts, forgetting to ‘Keep it down for the kids’.

Half-time arrives amongst lengthening shadows and it’s been a reasonably entertaining half. Coggeshall are clearly the better side going forward but Ipswich Wanderers have competed and defended well enough to thoroughly frustrate them and the result is still

 

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in the balance. We saunter towards the club house and the tea hut where I join a queue, which moves very slowly. As I reach the head of the queue there seems to be some sort of hiatus in the kitchen; one of my teas is placed before me but then there’s a delay and the kitchen staff gather round the large urn of hot water; one of the ‘tea-ladies’ turns towards me “I am sorry” she says sincerely “The lid of the tea pot has fallen in the urn”. The tallest person in the kitchen carefully fishes out said teapot lid, happily avoids serious scalding and I get the second tea just as the teams are coming out for the second half. Phew.

The long shadows have made the stand side of the ground even chillier than before so we crave what little warmth there is from the winter sun and stand behind the goal that Coggeshall are now attacking. Within minutes of the re-start Coggeshall score a second goal. A ball forward sees Tom Monk bearing down on Wanderer’s number five who struggles and slips and Monk is through on goal. From the corner of the box he wellies the ball solidly against the inside of the far post and a satisfying metallic crack rings out as the ball ricochets across into the far corner of the net; on the goal line Jack Spurling reacts quickly enough to turn and see his undoing. I feel blessed, I had a great view of the goal, but also if the ball hadn’t hit the post it would have hit me, and I would surely have dropped my tea.

The second half follows the pattern of the first with Coggeshall providing all the best bits, but Jack Spurling is providing his own one man show with call after catch after save after dive; a giant of a man having a giant of a match. The stand behind the goal is another beautiful self-build, with corrugated sheeting over a frame of scaffolding poles and a floor of paving slabs; it strongly reminds me of the metal bus shelters that used to stand on the Cornhill in front of Ipswich’s marvellous town hall, which incidentally has its 150th anniversary this year. Behind the dugout a tall green metal pole that looks like it might once have held up trolley bus wires adds to a likeable look of municipal knock-offs.

Architecturally the ‘Doucy is a treasure and today it is illuminated to advantage by the low winter sun. The crooked roof on the terrace is as quaint as any crooked half-timber Tudor house in Coggeshall, whilst the wooden tip-up seats (possibly from the director’s box at Portman Road?) are also something to admire. Strangely, overall it reminds me inexplicably of the stadium of an amateur club from Balaruc les Bains near Montpellier in southern France (see previous blog post in September 2017). In a way this is appropriate because supposedly the name Humber Doucy is derived from the French ‘ombres douces’ meaning soft shadows, which is how Napoleonic prisoners of war referred to the lane as they sought shade, having been working out in the open fields. I like to think they had a kick about too with berets and strings of onions for goalposts.

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The sunny side of the ground is more popular this half and the size of the crowd is doubled by the soft shadows on the metal fence behind.

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In the ‘Cornhill bus shelter’ a bunch of lads sing occasional songs, ironically aping those sometimes heard at Portman Road.    Twice Coggeshall ‘score’ only to see the flag of linesman Mr Elwalawang delete the achievement and the lads amuse themselves with a rendition of “You thought you had scored, you were wrong, you were wrong”. They progress later onto “You are my Wanderers, my only Wanderers you make me happy when skies are grey”. A gang of older men with silver hair stand in a group close to the corner; laughing and being blokes they are the singing lads fifty years on. A couple of them hadn’t noticed the score is now 2-0. A man who recognises me from pre-match drinking at St Jude’s Tavern says hello.

The shadows of trees forty metres behind the ground now stretch right across the pitch and I move to stand with Paul who has placed his camera in the corner of the ground by the club house; he has very kindly managed to get a programme for me through his contacts with the Coggeshall club officials. Mild-mannered Paul is secretly seething however, because the kit man caused him to miss the second Coggeshall goal, but a third goal, probably the best of the match hopefully applies balm to soothe his troubled brow. Coggeshall’s substitute Aaron Cosgrave repeats a trick of running along the edge of the box, taunting the Wanderers defence with his close control before eventually the ball runs to number nine Ross Wall who sends it firmly and neatly into the corner of the net from 20 metres or so.

There are only a couple of minutes to play now and Paul is wishing them away because on his own admission he is a bit under dressed today and is therefore freezing cold. The final whistle from referee Mr Carter is consequently a welcome sound. It’s been an enjoyable afternoon of decent football played competitively and sportingly in a quirky stadium of soft shadows and scaffolding poles. Ipswich’s Jack Spurling has been a colossus and a lesser goalkeeper might have let in six or seven. Coggeshall win, but Wanderers have the best player on the field .

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