These are the dog days of summer.  So named, Wikipedia tells us, because it’s the time of year when Sirius the dog star rises in the night sky. These are hot, humid days and the portent of ill-luck to some apparently,  It’s an appropriate time therefore to start the domestic football season, although I count myself lucky enough to have already dabbled in the exotica of the European Conference League back in July when I witnessed Haverfordwest County take on Floriana Malta in cosmopolitan Llanelli.

The Football League and FA Cup have already staged a staggered start over the past two weekends, but I eschewed them in favour of applying satin finish emulsion and gloss on the upstairs landing.  Today however, I have knocked off work a little early and now feel myself gently melting into the moquette on the 15:48 to London Liverpool Street as I embark on the epic journey to the deepest suburbs of southeast London, specifically Bromley.  It’s a journey that has been in the planning several weeks since Ipswich Town drew Bromley in the Football League Cup, which I believe is now known by younger people, duped by the concept of ‘energy drinks’, as the Carabao Cup.  Whatever happened to Milk?

 I have had a difficult few weeks since the draw was announced, wondering whether to travel by planet saving electric Citroen e-C4, or to reduce traffic on the roads and catch the train and risk being stranded in the big city if the game went to extra time and penalties.  But having learned that extra-time is now consigned to the dustbin of football history along with Dickensian sideburns, ‘dolly birds’ and the teleprinter I gained the confidence to sign up on the Bromley FC website, along with my friend of forty-seven years Chris (aka ‘Jah’ because of his love of Reggae) and acquire two tickets for the North Terrace (£19 each for over 65’s).

 I meet ‘Jah’ by platform 4 at Victoria Station, which today is doubling as a greenhouse.  By twenty to six we are on the packed train to far away Ramsgate which fortunately stops at South Bromley.  On the train, it seems like we are the only two people talking to one another, which is a good thing because my hearing isn’t what it was.  We quickly get the subject of the ‘Bromley contingent’ out of the way and share memories of having seen Siouxsie and the Banshees respectively in Durham and at the Ipswich Gaumont, but ‘Jah’ gains the greater credibility because he probably saw them in 1978, about the time ‘Hong Kong Garden’ was released, whereas I had waited until at least 1980.

Arriving at South Bromley railway station we emerge onto the broad high street and look up and down expectantly in the manner of Frank Sinatra and Gene Kelly on shore leave in New York.  But they had twenty-four hours, we only have two before kick-off at Hayes Lane.  We are drawn towards two policemen stood at the edge of the pavement, presumably on the look-out for “football hooligans”. We ask where to find the best of Bromley and they point us back towards the railway station implying that the best thing is the train out. Eventually, they direct us up the high street to “plenty of pubs and restaurants” and down the road to the “Bricklayers” which is the pub for away supporters.

Bromley is apparently the only town with a Football League team to also have a tory MP and from the comparative absence of empty shops on the High Street it certainly looks like the kind of place that can afford to say “we’re alright, we don’t care about you”.  Eventually arriving at a large Fuller’s pub called The Partridge, formerly a rather grand branch of the National Westminster Bank, we drink pints of Butcombe Rare Breed pale ale and reminisce about girls we once knew, a record player Jah owned when we were students and how his wife played pool with a family of Irish butchers in a Stockport pub.

Time moves on and so must we, to the Bricklayers Arms pub, which is much closer to Bromley’s Hayes Lane ground. Pints of Shepherd & Neame Whitstable Bay and Master Brew accompany packets of plain, and cheese and onion flavour Kent Crisps for about fourteen quid and we search out seats where we can hear each other above the noise of the television, which is belting out Sky Sports pre-match coverage from just down the road, which might explain why it’s so loud. Very soon however kick-off is a mere twenty minutes away and we must up-sticks again, with Jah not even having managed to finish his pint.

We make it through the turnstiles at Hayes Lane just as flames erupt into the evening sky from what look like darkly painted tea chests, and the two teams take to the field. I look in vain for a programme seller, but the game is about to start and so screwing up my disappointment into a knotted ball of resentment I head with Jah towards the partly open North Terrace.  “Don’t worry” says Jah, like a reassuring parent “You’ll probably find one on the floor on our way out at the end of the game.”   We make our way across the front of the stand and up the steps past the inevitable youth with a drum to a secluded spot beneath the shallow roof at the back of the terrace from where only one corner flag is obscured from view by the scaffolding tower atop which sits a Sky Sports television camera.  I convince myself that karma will reward me for sacrificing my full view of the pitch so that unknown couch potato subscribers to satellite television across the world may see all. Jah and I are stood behind a man with impressively well-conditioned, clean, brown, almost shoulder-length hair, which Sky TV viewers will probably not see.

The match begins and Bromley get first go with the ball, booting it towards the southern end of the ground where the Ipswich supporters are assembled to one side of a modern stand which looks like a very large grey shoe box that has had one side cut-off. On the rear wall of the shoe box neat letters spell out ‘The Glyn Beverly Stand’ which only in my mind is an anagram of ‘Clarks Kickers’. In reality, it simply seems that Bromley FC like to name the architecture of their ground after people who only supporters of Bromley FC are ever likely to have heard of. The John Fiorini Stand looks out on the tea chests whilst a little nearer to us just by the turnstiles is the Dave Roberts tea hut.  All along the eastern side of the pitch is a building site, one half of which shows recognisable progress with steel girders and concrete blocks arranged in the form of an embryonic but as yet disappointingly nameless stand.

Back on the pitch, Bromley are in an all-white kit with black trim, whilst Ipswich sport a cheap looking all red number, which closer examination reveals has blue scribble on the sleeves.  Bromley have very hastily won a couple of corners, and whilst the home crowd off to our right are noisy and excitable, the football shows room for improvement.  Ipswich are keen on the flanks but lack accuracy with crosses and presence in midfield.   Town’s Jack Clarks moves nicely but mostly runs diagonally like a stray dog.  Bromley are organised and alert and that’s about it.  Just as my thoughts are that it would have been nicer to have stayed in the pub, Jah distracts me by asking how I would define the beard on the face of the steward stood at the front of the stand.  The same steward also inspected the contents of Jah’s bag before we came through the turnstiles, when Jah had asked him if he was South African. It turns out he is French, but this doesn’t influence me in my decision that his beard resembles that of Ming the Merciless, who with the fall of his empire is now reduced to stewarding midweek matches for lower league clubs.

Half-time approaches with the memory of Ali Al-Hamadi having failed to make more of being put through on goal with just the ‘keeper to beat, Conor Chaplin whipping a shot narrowly over the cross bar and Jack Clarke having a not particularly hard shot stopped with a diving save.  For those around me one of the highlights of the half seems to have been receiving texts from friends and loved ones at home watching Sky Sports TV telling them that Ed Sheeran is in the crowd.  The chants of “Ed Sheeran, your music is shit” to the tune of Sloop John B would be understandable anywhere but are particularly so from inhabitants of a town where someone used to be next door neighbour to David Bowie.

The half ends with a corner to Bromley from which their second tallest outfield player, Deji Elerewe, scores with a header from improbably close range.  What had been a neutral half of inaccurate football, abusive chants and a shoe box has taken on a new level of disappointment for me, which I can only hope to assuage by obtaining a programme.  Jah fancies eating a pie, which doesn’t surprise me given the size of his stomach, but he foolishly says he’ll wait until I get back.  I return to a point close to the scene of my entry into the ‘stadium’ but can see no hint of a programme seller, only a couple of queues of thirsty, or hungry Bromley fans snaking away from the Dave Roberts tea hut.  I ask a young steward who is guarding the John Fiorini stand where I might find a programme and am surprised when he directs me to the tea hut. Excitedly I join the shorter of the two queues but there I stand for at least five minutes without progressing any closer to the hatch where I had expected to see a busy exchange of teas, programmes, cash and card payments.  Looking back towards the pitch to check that the second half hasn’t started yet I see Jah has now joined the other queue and having not seen anyone depart the tea hut hatches with a programme I decide they must be sold out and I abandon the queue to stand with Jah.  Eventually, Jah reaches the hatch only to discover that the pies (and indeed the programmes) have all sold out; unsure of what foodstuff can adequately compensate for the lack of meat, gravy and pastry in his diet this evening, Jah buys a Twix.

The players are by now back on the pitch and play has re-started as we head back to enjoy our slightly obscured view of the second half.  Jah eats his Twix, only to find that the chocolate coating has mostly melted, which is why Twixes will never replace pies.  The football is much the same as the first, but my spirits are raised after about ten minutes when substitute Ben Johnson scores for Town, although I do also start to worry that a draw and resultant penalty shoot-out will risk my missing my train out of here.  In truth, it is probably fourth division Bromley who have the better chances to score in the remainder of the game, despite Ipswich eventually introducing the players more likely to be considered ‘first choice’.   

There is something inevitable about the game descending into a penalty shoot-out, but that’s probably just because neither side looks capable of scoring another goal.  Our over-65 tickets now prove particularly good value as the penalty shoot-out takes place in the goal right in front of us, rather than at the far end where our obviously failing eyesight would render events somewhat mysterious. Hopes for catching the first available train home quickly receive a filip  as Town’s top striker George Hirst strikes the first penalty poorly and it is saved, although in my heart of hearts I’d rather it hadn’t been.  But a penalty or two later Bromley’s Ashley Charles, who to my out of date mind has the name of an actor rather than a footballer has his penalty saved too and I’m once again checking the time of the next train.  The first ten penalties pass into history with both teams scoring four and then the  hopeful release of  “sudden death” or “Mort Subit” as the French and Belgians call it arrives.  Death is indeed mercifully sudden as Bromley score their next penalty, but Ali Al-Hamadi doesn’t and for the umpteenth time this century Ipswich are knocked out of the League Cup by lower league opposition.  I can’t decide if Ipswich are consistently careless, uninterested, over-confident or just useless, but whatever it is, Town’s record in the League Cup has now become so atrocious that it is no longer embarrassing, it’s just what happens and there is no point bemoaning it. We can but look forward to next season’s defeat to Colchester, Swindon, Cheltenham, Newport, Wimbledon, Crawley, Newport, Bristol Rovers, Reading, MK Dons, Stevenage, Northampton Cambridge, Exeter, Leyton Orient, Barnet, Gillingham, Peterborough, or Bromley again.

Disconsolate but accepting of our fate I leave Hayes Lane with Jah and together we head back to South Bromley South railway station past the backs of people lauding their team at the front of the stand.  The one plus is that as I leave, as Jah predicted, I find lying on the concrete of the North Terrace a discarded or dropped programme which, after enquiring if it is the property of the people standing nearest, I claim as my own.  Life is never all bad I conclude.