FC Lorient 3 AS Monaco 1

October 1, 2025October 3, 2025 / martinpbrooks / 1 Comment

At the risk of becoming extremely boring, my wife Paulene and I have now holidayed in Carnac in Brittany for four years running. There are probably several even more boring reasons for this, one of the less boring however, because it is made up, is that I like to think of myself as being in touch with my Neolithic ancestors on a sort of yearly pilgrimage to see the Neolithic standing stones, cairns and tumuli that abound in Brittany and particularly Carnac, which this year has become a UNESCO World Heritage site as a result. Another more truthful reason is that it’s only a 40-odd kilometre trip up the E60 and along the N165 to the Stade du Moustoir to see FC Lorient play and FC Lorient’s mascot is a hake.

Our holiday is now sadly drawing to a close this year and today is the penultimate day before we must drive home in our planet saving Citroen e-C4. But today, FC Lorient play AS Monaco in Ligue 1, the French version of the Premier League but with a less self-important title. The match kicks off at 5 pm and we park up at the underground Place d’Armes car park about four hours beforehand to give time to explore a little of Lorient and at about 3pm see the Lorient team arrive at the Stade du Moustoir amidst bagpipe playing, banner waving and handshakes from Merlux and Mini-Merlux the FC Lorient mascots, (merlu is the French word for a hake).

I imagine that to a lot of people Lorient is a dull sort of a place. Ninety-five percent of it was completely flattened by allied bombing in World War Two and therefore it consists almost entirely of buildings erected in the second half of the twentieth century. But that’s why I like it; it’s not quaint or olde worlde and harking back to some forgotten or imaginary past, architecturally it’s modern and functional and was built with the optimism of the post-war years, the years before some people started to forget what Fascism did and how it started. Our walk through Lorient is guided by a leaflet we were given in the Office du Tourisme which describes some of the buildings and the art and history of the town.

Around three o’clock we interrupt our walk to be at the Stade du Moustoir for the arrival of the Lorient team off the team bus in their Breton-style, stripey, pre-match shirts. I make the obligatory visit to the club shop and buy a postcard of the stadium, and whilst Paulene then enters the Tribune d’honneur to find our seats, I make a detour up the road to find Les Halles de Merville, the town market hall, which is featured in the leaflet from the Office du Tourisme and is described as a “concrete and metal ring built in 1964”; it looks like a flying saucer that is no longer flying, perhaps because it is weighed down with fruit, veg, meat and fish. On my way back from Les Halles I cross the path of a bunch of FC Lorient supporting youths who are making their way to the Stade du Moustoir whilst chanting, banging drums and waving flares. A few bemused bystanders look on, as do two gendarmes in a dark blue Renault, but these young ultras are largely left to their own devices, as if being on a ‘demo’ is a sort of rite of passage.

Back at the Stade du Moustoir, I make my way past the security where a man perhaps as old as me pats me down and wishes me ‘bon match’ and another then scans the bar code on my ticket with what looks like a toy ray gun and then says the same. Our seats are once again in the fabulous Tribune d’honneur, a small, seated, stand of vaulted, shuttered concrete dating from 1959 with metal struts to ensure the cantilever roof remains cantilevered. After locating my seat, I set off to find Breizh Cola for Paulene and beer for myself and to check that it is still possible to walk all the way around the stadium and back to my seat; it is, and this is because the away supporters access their seats over a bridge. As before, different food counters are serving different types of food and feeling a little hungry at the thought of this I buy a Croque Monsieur (8 euros 50) from the ‘Parisienne’ counter, thinking that when Paulene reads this it will be the first she knows of it. I don’t buy Paulene any food because her intolerances to wheat, dairy, and rapeseed oil make it highly unlikely there is anything on offer that she will be able to eat. Sated with ham, bechamel sauce, melted cheese, toasted bread and a couple of squirts of mustard I return to Paulene with just a re-usable 40cl plastic cup of Breizh Cola (pronounced Brez, not Breej I learn from the young bloke who serves me before he wishes me ‘good match’) and a re-usable 40 cl plastic cup of Breton-brewed Lancelot IPA (10 euros 50 for the two).

An hour, a half an hour and ten minutes before kick-off (coupe d’envoi in French) a foghorn (corne de brume in French) sounds, a bit like the bell at the end of the interval in the theatre, but appropriately for coastal Lorient, a bit more nautical, and louder. It adds to the pre-match build-up, which eventually reaches a climax with the Breton anthem on bagpipes with karaoke style words in the Breton language on the big screen in the corner of the stadium, then a second Lorient hymn is played and the bloke next to Paulene joins in, which isn’t a good thing because as Paulene says, his voice sounds out of tune when he’s only speaking, “Allez Les Merlus” chant the crowd as the teams process on to the pitch, youths wave banners, and a series of not particularly impressive Roman Candle style pyrotechnics ejaculate onto the grass,

Once everything cleared away it is Lorient who get first go with the ball, which they are mainly passing in the direction of the club shop, hotel de ville, docks and Office du Tourisme. Monaco meanwhile point themselves towards the far-off towns of Quimper and Brest. This season Lorient sport progressive looking shirts of orange and black check, which leans to one side like italics, and black shorts. Monaco are wearing an away kit of all purple with gold trim, like you might imagine a team of footballing Catholic bishops to wear.

It is a bright, sunny afternoon but the blue Breton sky is ruffled with high white cloud. Within two minutes Lorient win a corner and two minutes later they get another. After nine minutes the joyfully monikered referee Monsieur Ruddy Buquet records his first yellow card (carton jaune) of the evening in the shape of no less a player than the Monaco captain Thilo Kehrer who carelessly, even negligently sends Lorient’s Arthur Avom Ebong up into the air with a supposed tackle. Oddly, however, Monaco are dominating possession, although it takes another ten minutes before we see what can reasonably be called a decent shot on goal, and that is from Lorient’s number eleven, the short but enthusiastic Theo Le Bris, whose uncle Regis used to manage Lorient but is now manager at Sunderland.

Monaco’s confusing approach to the fixture is further shown just two minutes later when Vanderson also gets to smell Monsieur Buquet’s yellow card after he fouls Arsene Kouassi, who rolls and rolls and rolls about on the ground and appears to go into spasms before incredibly, getting up and carrying on. Another two minutes dissolve and Lorient’s Mohamed Bamba shoots over the cross bar. Despite Monaco’s hogging of the ball for much of the game so far almost a third of it is history before they record a proper shot on goal as Takumi Minamino bounces a somewhat weak snap-shot past a post after what had looked a promising series of passes.

Meanwhile, in the Kop Sud there is a sudden outbreak of orange streamers and the chants of “Allez, Allez, Allez” seem inexplicably louder as if brightly coloured crepe paper has unexpected acoustic properties. The additional orange on an orange background seemingly also causes problems for Lorient goalkeeper Yvon Mvogo who a short while later surprisingly boots the ball out to Minamino who, whilst looking confident and composed only manages to chip the ball over and wide of Mvogo’s goal whilst the Lorient supporters amongst whom I include myself and Paulene all hold our breath as one.

As if a punishment for such profligacy with gifts from fate, a minute later Monsieur Buquet adjudges that Thilo Kehler has fouled Lorient’s Dermane Karim (Dermane to readers of the back of his shirt), and sufficiently badly for him to show him his yellow card for a second time and consequently his red card too. From the subsequent free-kick out on the Lorient left, the ball is crossed in, falls to Mohamed Bamba and he scores from very close range to give Lorient an unexpected lead. “BUT!” announces the electronic scoreboard colourfully as the stadium announcer bellows Mohamed and we all shout “Bamba”, not just once but three times before signing off by shouting his full name just in case anyone was still in doubt about the goalscorer’s identity.

With a one goal lead and an extra player Lorient start to dominate . Bamba is set up well but shoots straight at the Monaco goalkeeper Philipp Kohn and a minute later Kohn is stood in the right place to catch a spectacular overhead kick from Tosin. Monaco win a late corner to raise spectres of those horrible goals against the run of play and do it again inside the four minutes of added-on time, but the Kop Sud remain buoyant, bouncing up and down in the central terrace (safe-standing area to FFF and UEFA officialdom) and singing “Lorientais, Lorientais, Lorientais” like it was going out of fashion.

Half-time is a time of applause and an invasion of the pitch by players of mostly very youthful appearance, although one has a beard, who try to score “one-on-one” with the goalkeeper. The players in green shirts seem to win out over those in blue, and Merlux and Mini-Merlux look on feigning acute excitement or deep frustration and remorse according to whether players score or they don’t. The French version of RADA for people dressed as outsized and vaguely cuddly fish seems to be doing a good job.

The proper football resumes at five minutes past six and Monaco have made some half-time⁹ substitutions; their manager or Prince Albert having presumably realised they need someone on the pitch who is the equivalent of two players. The half starts strangely for Lorient, who appear to be trying to emulate Monaco’s first half display as they have two players, Dermain Karim and Mohamed Bamba booked in quick succession in the early minutes. The sky has clouded over since the first half and its feeling cooler, so I put on my coat, covering up my orange and black Ipswich Town shirt, which was offering chromatic support to Lorient and badge-based support to Ipswich, both successfully as it turns out because both teams are currently winning.

As sure as night follows day, after half-time at Lorient comes the fifty-sixth minute, which is when the foghorn or ship’s siren sounds again, and the scoreboard entreats us all to make a noise. This phenomenon is explained by the facts that Lorient is in the departement (like an English County) of Morbihan and in France each departement is numbered, more or less alphabetically, and Morbihan’s number is fifty-six. After the relaxation of half-time, the fifty-sixth minute seems an ideal time to wake everyone up to shout “Allez les Merlus!” and the encouragement nearly works as the minute ends with Tosin Aiyegun shooting over the cross bar at the far post just as the noise subsides. Meanwhile, Lorient fans are probably thankful their town is not located in Val d’Oise, (departement number ninety-five) .

With an hour then gone both sides indulge in double substitutions before Lorient’s number five Bamo Meite sends a spectacularly awful shot from a good 20 metres out high into ‘Agglomeration de Lorient’ stand and a man sat in the row in front of me becomes very excited about a goalmouth scramble which has him bouncing up and down on his seat. The attendance is then announced with the words “Vous etes 15,561 spectateurs et spectatrices” as the French language politely acknowledges that there are both male and female people watching.

The final twenty minutes arrive pretty much on time, as expected, and Lorient manager Olivier Pantaloni chooses this as the time substitutes the trouble-making Derman Karim from Togo for Pablo Pagis. It’s a good move from Pantaloni as within five minutes Pagis is suddenly slaloming through the middle of the penalty area before poking the ball beyond the Monaco goalkeeper, and Lorient lead two-nil. “Pagis” bawls the crowd each time the announcer shouts “Pablo”, and then they finish off the celebration by bawling out his name in full. The sound of the crowd is wonderful; it matches the goal.

Lorient are dominant. Three shots are blocked in the Monaco penalty area in quick succession, Pagis shoots at the goalkeeper and then from the right hand edge of the penalty area Pagis strokes the ball with his right foot into the top left-hand corner of the Monaco goal as if effortlessly creating a beautiful work of art, as if it was naturally occurring, like a rainbow. “Pablo!”, “Pagis!” rings out again. Lorient lead three-nil. Monaco are abject. The bloke in front of me who was excited by the goalmouth scramble is now beside himself with joy. punching the air and hugging the lad beside him, who I imagine is his son, but you never know.

It’s getting on for seven o’clock now and as the natural light fades shadows of the players begin to be cast onto the pitch by the floodlights from atop their concrete pylons; up beyond the floodlights the blue skies and sunshine have given way to cloud. The five minutes of added on time are unexpectedly mostly played in the Lorient half and they win a couple of corners. With the second corner comes a delay and a hiatus of doubt. Monsieur Buquet consults VAR and awards a penalty, nobody knows what for but Monaco’s Ansu Fati scores anyway, giving his team underserved but more satisfyingly, scant consolation.

With the final whistle the Monaco goal is nothing more than a meaningless footnote to the match, a match that is just the frame for the masterpiece that was Pagis’s two goals. Paulene and I head off back through the departing crowds to our planet saving Citroen in the Place des Armes car park, along the Quai des Indes. We will have fish for our dinner, but haddock, not hake. It’s been yet another fine afternoon in Lorient and although we may not return next year, I don’t want to stay away for too long from my Neolithic ancestors and the Stade du Moustoir.

Billericay Town 1 Sheppey United 1

October 16, 2023August 30, 2024 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

It’s a bright sunny day and I have spent the morning trimming the hedge that sits between my garden and the footpath outside my house and the road beyond. I didn’t know when I started hedging, that today was the day of the fourth qualifying round of the FA Cup, but something inside is nagging at me telling me that I should be seeking out non-league football on a sunny October Saturday when Ipswich Town aren’t playing. In one of the many breaks from hedge trimming that I need in order to admire my work and drink tea, I therefore discover on the interweb that today is indeed an FA Cup day, and scanning the fixtures for ‘local’ games I see that Billericay Town will be playing Sheppey United.

Like seeing Haverfordwest County, which I did back in August, seeing Sheppey United has always been an ambition of mine. My father’s parents lived in Sheerness on the Isle of Sheppey from the 1930’s until they died forty odd years or more ago. I can recall visiting them and discovering Sheppey United’s ground, which was then somewhere amongst the seeming maze of back alleys between their house in Vincent Gardens and Sheerness High Street. My father always laughed about Sheppey United, and I was a bit disappointed that neither he nor my grandfather ever suggested we go and watch them. So, today presents an opportunity to fulfil a longstanding wish. To add to the family association, when my grandmother and father were first married, she apparently worked in Billericay, and the story goes that at this time she fell pregnant with twins. There are no birth or death certificates for the twins however, so it is assumed they miscarried, but the story put about by my uncle was that she was going to name them Billy and Ricky, (as in Billericay) which seems unlikely, a bit ridiculous, and also very tragic all at the same time. But my uncle did have an odd sense of humour.

Google maps tells me that I am only forty-five kilometres from Billericay Town; a thirty-five-minute drive down the A12 and along the B1007. I drove that far a fortnight ago to see Garde St Cyr Moreac play OC Vannes in the fourth, and still amateur, round of the Coupe de France, so it only seems fair that I should drive as far to watch an FA Cup game this afternoon. I ask my wife Paulene if she would like to accompany me, because after all she was with me in Moreac, but her response today is verging on the impolite, and so having had a light lunch of potato crisps and left over pizza I set off alone in my planet saving Citroen e-C4.

It’s an easy drive from my house to Billericay, but I nevertheless set the Satnav to take me to New Lodge, Billericay Town’s home ground. I listen to BBC Radio Essex in the car in the hope of gleaning pre-match insight, but talk is mostly of Colchester United, Southend United and also Aveley, who like Billericay are playing in the FA Cup today, but at home to current National League leaders Barnet. I am kept amused meanwhile by the Satnav, which changes the pronunciation of the last syllable in Billericay from the usual ‘Key’ to ‘kay’. As the writers of ‘Gavin and Stacey’ and possibly my uncle knew, there is may be something inherently funny about Billericay.

The Satnav in my car unerringly takes me to Billericay Town FC as expected, but had not foreseen that the club car park would be full, and so I switch ‘her’ off and pop down a nearby side road to doubtless annoy someone by parking outside their suburban bungalow. At the bottom of the road on which I am parked, four blokes are getting out of a pick-up truck. A man stands on his front porch opposite and tells them to turn right then left to get to the ground, I guess they must be from Sheppey. “Up from Sheppey are you?” I ask. The answer is as expected, and our conversation reveals not only that the bloke I’m talking to is the Sheppey United manager’s son, but that one of the blokes with him owns a house in the same street in which my grandparents lived.

New Lodge lies down Blunts Wall Road, a bucolic, tree-lined lane which conveniently brings the pedestrian to a bank of four turnstiles at the corner of the ground. Being the modern tech-savvy bloke that I’m not, I had already purchased my ticket on-line just minutes before I set off from home, responding to the advertised promise on the club website of not having to queue at the turnstiles. It was a lie, there is no express check in, and so I begin to queue at the first in a row four turnstiles with all the mugs tendering bank cards and even cash. When I get to the front of the queue, I present my phone to the turnstile operator, who promptly apologises that she can’t let me in here and I must queue at turnstile number four. Luckily, having queued at the first in a row of four turnstiles it’s easy to work out which must be number four, although the turnstiles are not actually numbered. At least when I begin queuing again I can confirm to the two blokes behind me who also already have their tickets, that they are in the right queue.

Emerging from the turnstile, the pitch and stands of a very neat and well-appointed stadium appear before me, but sadly the same can’t be said of anyone selling programmes. The only programme today is an electronic one, and when I photograph the QR code and go to look at it, I find only the programmes from four previous matches; although one of them was an FA Cup tie, it was versus Stowmarket Town. A little down-hearted, I turn my attention back to my surroundings. The pitch is synthetic and in the tradition of non-league football grounds it appears to slope, in this case from east to west; I had thought that artificial pitches needed to be level, so perhaps it’s the stands that are sloping, or me. The stands are very smart, painted blue with neat rows of narrow, white roof stanchions fronting the pitch in wonderful repetition on all sides. The ground seems almost too smart for non-league, and it comes as a relief to spot some flaking white paint on the main stand, even if the metal beneath is shiny not rusty. The club house is large with two bars that wouldn’t look out of place in a Wetherspoons. There are further outdoor bars in the southern corners of the ground.

I eventually settle on the terrace where most of the Sheppey fans seem to have gathered. The teams process onto the pitch and the game begins. It’s Billericay who get first go with the ball and they are kicking towards the northern end, where I am standing. Billericay wear blue shirts and white shorts whilst Sheppey are in red and white stripes with black shorts; the scene is a perfect picture. The opening minutes of the game are dominated by people carrying plastic pints of beer and lager re-locating from the south end of the ground to the north, the end that Billericay are attacking. Billericay’s number seven has a shot during this time and fortunately it flies over the cross bar, if it had gone in, I fear the walkways around the ground would have been awash with beer.

The sun is shining strongly into the stand and I decide it’s too warm, so when the Billericay Town diaspora is over I go and find a seat in the front row of the stand on the west side of the pitch, which is shaded. It’s a good view if a little low down and afflicted with the pungent smell of what I think is pine from a close neighbour’s aftershave or may be an open bottle of toilet cleaner. Despite the main migration having finished, there is nevertheless still a constant flow of mostly blokes with pints from the bars.

As might have been expected, because Billericay Town are in a league a level above Sheppey United, the home team have the ball more of the time than do their visitors. Despite a lot of possession however they don’t have many shots at the Sheppey goal and Sheppey break down their attacks easily. It’s only twelve minutes past three and another attack is broken down and Sheppey send the ball off down their right flank from where it is played through to their number nine who quickly sets himself up for a shot and scores. Sheppey United lead 1-0 and there is an explosion of joy amongst the red and white shirts and scarves off to my left.

“Everywhere we go…” sing the Sheppey fans and then “No noise for the Essex Boys” which provokes the quickly thought out response “Essex, Essex , Essex” from the boys. Billericay continue to keep the ball a lot of the time but it’s as if they think that’s all they have to do. At twenty past three it’s Sheppey who win the first corner, and I notice the row of four Oak trees at the southern end of the ground, one of which is inside the ground, although it doesn’t look as healthy as the others. It’s a beautiful light blue afternoon with heaped up clouds like cotton wool decorating the sky and puffs of black rubber springing up from the synthetic pitch.

Sheppey’s number eight shoots on goal. “Oh, no-oo” exclaims the bloke next to me a moment before the ball skims just beyond the far post and I hear him sigh with relief. Sheppey win another corner, and then another but in between Billericay have another extended period of ultimately aimless possession. It’s not until gone twenty-five to four that Billericay win a corner of their own, but the Sheppey goalkeeper is the first to the ball when is sails into the box. The sight of groups of home and away fans side by side behind the goal has me reminiscing about the North Stand at Portman Road back in the 1970’s.

With half-time approaching I decide to make my way to what I think is a tea hut, but is actually another bar, situated in the corner by the turnstiles. I pause and watch the last action of the half from near the bar as Billericay gain another corner. The ball is not cleared and to end the archetypal goal mouth scramble the Billericay number 10 jabs the ball into the net from close range and the scores are level. I’m a bit disappointed. After a minute’s worth of added on time it’s half-time, and hiding my disappointment that Sheppey are no longer winning I step away to the bar to get a tea (£1.20) and worry that the woman who serves me is eyeing me suspiciously because I seem to be the only person who isn’t buying beer.

Having previously felt too warm, by the end of the first half I was beginning to feel too cold, so for the second half I return to the terrace that’s in the sun at the north end of the ground, which reminds me of the old ‘Popular’ side at Layer Road, Colchester, but without the rust and with a better rake on the terrace. The football begins again at six minutes past four.

“Get into ‘em and fuck ‘em up” chant the Billericay fans repeatedly and rather unpleasantly and their team responds with an early shot high into one of the Oak trees. The afternoon’s attendance is announced as being 1,241 and the announcer thanks everyone for their “fantastic support”. Billericay have the ball most of the time still and the football is neat and thoughtful, only occasionally punctuated by agricultural clearances from the big blokes at the back. In front of my terrace fat blokes continue to ferry beers. It’s nearly twenty-five past four and Billericay win a corner. “Come On You Blues” chant the home crowd from the other end of the ground. A minute later Sheppey make the game’s first substitution and have a creative spell, which first sees number eleven volley the ball against the Billericay goalkeeper’s chest , before number six is booked and then number seven has a rising shot blocked by the up stretched arms of the Billericay ‘keeper. Meanwhile, the Sheppey fans chant “Come On Sheppey” and in a quieter moment a pied wagtail flits across the pitch, confused perhaps by the synthetic grass.

Twenty-five to five slips by and Billericay make a substitution. “Blue Army, Blue Army” chant the home crowd like a scratched record. “Come on you Ites” chant the Sheppey fans, suddenly remembering their team’s slightly odd nickname; Ites being short for Sheppeyites. Their team earns a corner and number four heads over the cross bar. It’s now almost a quarter to five and as Billericay make a double substitution I notice two advertisement boards on opposite sides of the pitch; one for Greenlight Insurance, the modified car insurance specialists, and the other for Bumps Away Minor Body Repairs; the symmetry appeals to my cliched picture of south east Essex as the home of the boy racer and his souped up Vauxhall Nova.

Only a few minutes of normal time remain but away to my right two young blokes return to their friends with more beer and two polystyrene trays of chips for which a blue recycling bin makes a convenient table. On the pitch, Sheppey’s number seven joins the list of cautioned players and the Sheppey supporters regale the referee with chants of “You don’t know what you’re doing”. It’s ten to five when I decide to head towards the exit, making my way along the front of the main stand in instalments before resting near where I ended the first half. With time running out and a midweek replay back in Kent looming, both teams make final desperate efforts to win. Billericay hit the Sheppey cross bar with a free-kick and then inside the four minutes of time added on Sheppey also have a shot that unexpectedly strikes the cross bar too. But then it’s all over and amidst applause, relief, disappointment and appreciation I make my way back out into Blunt’s Wall Road and the short walk back to my planet saving Citroen e- C4.

The lesson learned today is that the FA Cup is still a wonderful thing, which at non-league level in particular still excites and enthuses, because it is all about the glory. This afternoon’s match has done the old competition proud, and I can now go back to my hedge trimming to reflect on an afternoon well spent, to wonder about who Billy and Ricky would have supported, and to bask in the self-satisfaction that I have at last seen Sheppey United.

Further reading: ‘How Steeple Sinderby Wanderers won the FA Cup’ by J L Carr.

IpswichTown 2 Sheffield Wednesday 2

February 12, 2023 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

In my near fifty-two seasons of watching professional football, I’ve seen Sheffield Wednesday play twenty-five times, and today will be the twenty-sixth. The majority of those games have also involved Ipswich Town, with just two being against Colchester United. Like those Colchester matches, today’s game, in common with the previous two is a third division fixture. This is a very boring introduction to this match report, but it’s about history, which for many is possibly the whole point of watching football. Both Ipswich Town and Sheffield Wednesday have a history of glory which they currently exist in the shadow of. Ipswich’s glory was over forty years ago, but it’s recent compared to that of Sheffield, which was over forty years before that, with Wednesday last winning the FA Cup in 1935 and the League in 1930, beyond living memory for most mortals. Today is important therefore.

Looking forward and only in my rear view mirror when necessary I park up my air-quality enhancing Citroen e-C4 and head across Gippeswyk Park for Portman Road and the joys of ‘The Arb’ beyond. The streets are full of policemen in uniforms that look as if they have been designed to be wipe-clean. A tall, wide-eyed man approaches me and asks what the score will be. “2-0 to Town” I say because I always expect Ipswich to win and he cheers and lurches off up the road. Two policemen eye him suspiciously as if it might be a crime to be a bit eccentric or off your gourde. In Portman Road, the boringly grey Sheffield Wednesday team bus is backing into its parking space behind the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand. I stop at one of the kiosks which look like they should sell ice cream, and attempt to buy a programme (£3.50) using my season ticket card. Predictably this doesn’t work, but I realise my mistake at the about the same time as the young man in the kiosk and blame it on my bank card and season ticket card both being blue.

At ‘the Arb’ I order a pint of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride (£3.41 with the 10% Camra discount) and retire to the beer garden where the covered shelter is occupied by people who seem unable to talk without shouting; it’s as if I’m hearing a conversation between a group of town criers. I move away into the beer garden fearing permanent damage to my ears. Mick soon appears, unexpectedly making his entrance through the side gate. He disappears into the building and quickly returns with his own pint of Suffolk Pride and packet of Fairfield’s Farms cheese and onion crisps. We talk of our distrust and dislike of Ipswich’s Tory MP’s and their attempts at political point scoring off Ipswich’s Labour led council, of forthcoming fixtures, of Grayson Perry, of transitioning and of sexual politics.

At about two-thirty the beer garden suddenly falls silent as everybody else departs for the match leaving just Mick and I supping alone. For a moment we don’t know what to say other than to remark on how quiet it is. We drain our pint glasses and it’s not long before we leave for Portman Road ourselves, feeling like reluctant followers of fashion. We part in Sir Alf Ramsey Way as I head off between the assembled supporters’ buses and coaches towards the Constantine Road entrance and Mick finds a place to park his pushbike. At the portal to the Sir Alf Ramsey stand there are no queues and of turnstiles 59 to 62, only the latter is not open, I choose turnstile 61 and am entreated to “enjoy the match” by the brown-haired woman who nonchalantly scans my season ticket card. In the stand, Pat from Clacton, Fiona, ever-present Phil who never misses a game, the man from Stowmarket, and his grandson are all here and the sense of anticipation is palpable.

As stadium announcer and former BBC Radio Suffolk presenter Stephen Foster reads out the Town team I shout out the surnames in the French style and am pleased that ever-present Phil joins in , although I botch it a bit because the scoreboard isn’t keeping up with Stephen Foster and I find I’m not quite as good at picking the right surnames to match the first names as I ought to be. It’s a lot of fun nevertheless, but then we pause to show our respects to the many thousands who have died in the recent earthquake across southern Turkey and Syria. The silence is well observed as it should be; the only sounds being the squawking of seagulls and shushes from the Sheffield fans to those of their number emerging onto the stand ignorant of the gesture being made.

At two minutes past three o’clock the games begins with Town getting first go with the ball and hoping to stick it in the net closest to me, Pat, Fiona and Phil. Town are in resplendent in royal blue shirts and white shorts whilst Wednesday are anaemic in pale yellow shirts with pale blue sleeves and pale blue short; it’s a kit that looks like it’s been washed too many times or has faded in strong sunlight whilst on the washing line. “Hark now here the Wednesday sing, United ran away” chant the northerners in the Cobbold Stand showing an unexpected appreciation of Harry Belafonte and Boney M, which is matched by the Town fans in the Sir Bobby Robson stand who proceed to sing the same song but about Town and Norwich. Other parts of the ground remain silent as if still remembering the earthquake victims.

Almost a quarter of an hour passes before any football breaks out and supporters are reduced to jeering and cheering throws and mis-placed passes. A tall man sat next to me tenses and jerks forward every time it looks like the ball will come near the goal. Conor Chaplin bounces a shot into the ground which is easily collected by the Wednesday goalkeeper Cameron Dawson, who is a vision in cerise. A Wednesday shot travels spectacularly high over the Town cross bar. “Tell you what, they’re big at the back int they” says the bloke behind me of the three Sheffield defenders Akin Famewo, Dominic Iorfa and Aden ‘Larry’ Flint. Iorfa previously played for Town, but looks to have been on a course of steroids since then.

The afternoon is dull and still, the flags on the Cobbold stand hang lifelessly beneath heavy grey cloud, it’s like a summer’s day, just a bit colder. The fifteenth minute brings a corner to Town and then another. With the second corner kick Wes Burns falls to the ground inside the penalty area. I see him fall but don’t spot the perpetrator who must have had a getaway car waiting, and it seems like that is everyone’s experience including the referee’s assistant who gingerly and briefly signals for a penalty kick. The referee, Mr Geoff Eltringham walks over to speak to his assistant before a posse of Wednesday players run over to argue the toss like professional footballers always do. “Get over it” I shout, uncharacteristically. “Haven’t you ever conceded a penalty before?” I’m not sure what’s the matter with me.

Eventually, about four minutes later, the penalty is taken and Conor Chaplin’s kick fails to find any of the important corners inaccessible to goalkeepers and instead it strikes the diving figure of Dawson. What disappointment. But life and the game carries on. “He’s a unit, we’re not gonna beat him in the air” says the bloke behind me of ‘Larry’ Flint, still obsessing about the size of the Wednesday defenders as a Wes Burns cross is repelled. It takes twenty-five minutes, but finally the Wednesday supporters find their Welsh hymn books and sing “Your support , your support , your support is fucking shit”. Two minutes later their piety and use of rude words is rewarded as Town ignore the fart-joke aficionados’ favourite player Josh Windass, allowing him as much time and space as he wants to cross the ball for the more prosaically named Michael Smith to twist a spectacularly decent header from near post to far post and into the Town net, and Sheffield lead.

Depression is setting in at Portman Road and only mild relief comes from Geoff the ref showing Wednesday’s Will Vaulks his yellow card for aimlessly wandering off with the ball in an attempt to waste time. The pleasure this brings is soon lost however as a minute later Wednesday score a second goal when the ball is crossed and then drops to the ground conveniently for George Byers to smite into the goal. Another goal almost follows as Town get in a muddle and Vaulks has a shot saved by Christian Walton. A few rows behind me it’s all too much for one bloke who erupts into a tirade of expletives and sounds like he might burst into tears at any moment. A woman with him seems to plead for a more rational approach but this only seems to fuel his ire provoking a full scale ‘domestic’ which ends with what sounds like him telling her “Leave me alone”. All this and a football match to watch too!

The quiet, even silent brooding of the home crowd ,with the obvious exception of the two having the domestic, is worrying me and as Town win a free-kick for a foul on Nathan Broadhead near the penalty area I begin to sing “Come On You Blues” and “Allez les bleus” in the hope that others will join in to build a crescendo of noise which will carry the team to victory. Ever-present Phil joins in and I think Fiona and Pat do too; I keep it going for long enough for several people to look round fearfully to see who the weirdo is. Then Nathan Broadhead takes the free-kick and hits the top right-hand corner of the goal net with the ball, it’s a fantastic goal. “Your singing, it worked” says a young girl in front of me smiling broadly amongst the cheers and the joy. Well, why wouldn’t it?

Four minutes of added on time are the prequel to half-time and I go down the front to see Ray and his grandson Harrison. The consensus is that Wednesday are big and physical and do a lot of pushing for which the Geoff the ref has not given us the appropriate number of free-kicks. Also, until we let Wednesday score we were doing alright; after that it wasn’t so good. Ray asks about my solar panels because his wife has asked him to ask me about them. Regrettably I have not come to football armed with the facts and figures, so I tell him I will have to gather the data and let him know, although the main point is that money aside, whilst the solar panels are making electricity no one is having to burn fossil fuels to power my house or car, hence life on Earth will be saved and future generations will be able to enjoy football like we do.

Returning to my seat, the bloke behind me apologises for his language, I shrug my shoulders and purse my lips as if I were French. I hadn’t really noticed to be honest, and he should probably apologise to Pat rather than to me. The game resumes. Within five minutes the scorer of Wednesday’s second goal, Byers, is booked for a foul on Conor Chaplin and from the free-kick Leif Davis launches the ball into the top corner of the goal. That’ll teach Byers. It’s a fabulous comeback by Town and without doing much more than taking a couple of free-kicks after getting hacked down by the dirty Wednesday players. I am at once both ecstatic that we are no longer losing but disappointed that we haven’t yet scored a proper goal by carving open the opposition defence with cunning passes and superior wit. Pat from Clacton reveals that in the ‘draw the correct score’ competition on the Clacton supporters’ bus she has drawn 3-2 to Town.

The second half largely belongs to Ipswich. Corners are won and the ball is passed and seldom comes near Christian Walton’s goal. Town have shots on goal, but most are blocked and when Conor Chaplin fashions a seemingly spectacular effort, turning and striking the ball athletically in a single movement it seems impossible that it ends up going straight to the goalkeeper for an easy catch. The usual clutches of substitutions are made, and for once they don’t make much difference. For a short while Wednesday get back into the game as they hurl in some long throws and win a couple of corners that threaten, and ‘Larry’ Flint finds space to head across goal and then blast the ball over the cross bar. Today’s ‘sold out’ attendance is announced by Stephen Foster as 29,072 with 2,148 fans from Sheffield although he doesn’t mention that where I am sat there are at least six empty seats within a couple of metres of me. For a sell-out crowd the level of vocal support for the Town has been very disappointing however, just as it was against Plymouth, with an aire of tortured anxiety pervading the stands.

The game rolls on towards its not fully satisfactory conclusion. Desperation arrives as Pat from Clacton releases the figure of the masturbating monkey from her bag and rubs his head for luck. Sadly, the powers of this Cambodian or Vietnamese lucky charm seem to have drooped or left him altogether. Sheffield Wednesday substitute their small Scottish captain Barry Bannan for Dennis Adeniran and I remark to Fiona that there have never been many players called Barry, past or present. We try to think of some, but all I can come up with are Barry Sheen and Barry White, neither of whom were footballers. At primary school a teacher sat me next to a boy called Barry, hoping I would be a good influence on him, but sadly it was bad Barry who had more influence on me. A late flurry sees Freddie Ladapo have a shot which looks like it is goalward bound, but it flies past the side of the goal post that doesn’t have a net to stop it and that’s that, the game is drawn.

It’s both a point gained and two points lost for Town today, so it’s best not to dwell on it, we can leave that for the future when it won’t feel like it matters so much and it’s just history .

Post Script: I remember Barry Butlin playing for Luton Town.

Oxford United 2 Ipswich Town 1

January 22, 2023January 23, 2023 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

Oxford United is another football club for which I might claim some affinity due to genealogy. My father’s father was from the Oxfordshire village of Cuxham, with a family history there going back into the 1700’s, whilst my wife’s mother was from Iffley, which is now a suburb of Oxford. Added to that, my mother had a book of poems by Pam Ayres and rather liked Sir John Betjeman (a failed Magdalen College student) and Ernie the milkman too, but I never heard my grandfather speak of Oxford United, and I think he might have had a brother who played for their local rivals Reading. Personally, I hate the bastards. That is an attempt at a joke of course, but from the demented outlook of a football fan I do have cause not to like Oxford United much. Ipswich Town have never won a league game in Oxford and the old Manor Ground in Headington, the scene of much Town disappointment for Town followers in the mid to late 1980’s and into the 1990’s, was an absolute dump, guaranteed to give you pneumonia from standing in the open in the rain, or cholera if you used the toilets, even though Town did get promoted there in 1992. Adding an extra layer of resentment is the fact that my only previous attempt to attend a match at the Kassam Stadium, when spending a weekend in Oxford back near the turn of the century, a time I no longer really remember, ended with the game being called off due to a heavy frost.

With my mind a tortured maelstrom of contradictions and stuff I set out for Oxford, not in my trusty Citroen C3 but in my new electric Citroen E-C4 as I simultaneously attempt to right the wrongs of football watching history and save the planet from carbon monoxide poisoning at the same time. The car won’t make a round trip of 240 miles without re-charging the batteries so I have been worrying and losing sleep all week imagining that I will not be able to re-charge the car and get home. My research into the Zap-Map App and the comments of electric car users, intended to allay my fears through comprehensive preparation have only added to my insecurity. I needn’t have worried of course, because having made the obvious choice to make a pre-match visit to the Redbridge Park and Ride super hub thing, I now am easily restoring the magical power of electric traction to my hopefully trusty but definitely clean air promoting Citroen EC4. I find a small community of electric car users there who are willing to help and discuss best electric car-practice, although I can’t say much of the clique of Tesla users who have their own bank of charging points away from the hoi-polloi as if Elon Musk, the weirdly monikered owner of Tesla is trying to create his own fan base or private army over whom he has dominion.

With enough miles in the Citroen’s battery to ensure my return home after the match, I head for the Kassam Stadium just a few kilometres along the southern ring road. It’s been a pleasant drive to Oxford on free-flowing motorways under pale blue skies and winter sun. That was until I crossed the border from Buckinghamshire. Descending the awesome Aston Hill chalk cutting through the Chilterns ( aka the Stokenchurch Gap) Oxfordshire is usually spread out below, but today it has been replaced by a murky, blurry smudge as if Mark Rothko had painted a life size landscape. To the side of the road, twenty or more large birds circle, they might by Kites but to my worried imagination they look like vultures; I’ve entered a scene from a fantasy novel in which the hero journeys into the cold and eerie kingdom of his evil nemesis, and to save battery power I haven’t even got the car radio on to keep me company.

An hour and a half later I have rocked up at the free-parking at the Kassam Stadium, where despite the car park being full, and it’s only half-past one, the little fella on the gate let’s me in and says if I can find a space I can stay. After another steward directs me to some disabled parking spaces and I have to explain that I’m not disabled (not in any way that counts anyway) I follow the lead of another searcher and bump up onto a verge, which is very handily placed near the entrance for a quick getaway at the end of the game. I switch off the car and eat the lunch that I brought with me, two poached salmon and water cress sandwiches on soft malted brown bread and two handcrafted classic pork sausage rolls. I consume a chapter of my current read, a book entitled “Raw Concrete, the beauty of Brutalism”. Outside of my Citroen it is foggy and grey and cold, and the home end of the Kassam stadium looms out of the misty gloom. Just before two o’clock, I venture out to explore what lies beyond the sea of parked cars all around me. I talk briefly to a man on a motorbike, who complains that people on foot won’t get out of his way. I tell him I didn’t hear him, and it’ll be even worse when he has an electric bike; he doesn’t believe that will ever happen. Although an Oxford supporter, the biker seems to think Ipswich will win by a couple of goals because they have some good players. We part agreeing that we are both out to enjoy the afternoon whatever the result.

Outside the main stand I buy a programme (£4.00) from a woman stood behind a table. I had thought she said it was only £1, and as I tender a single small coin I tell her “That’s cheap”. “Oh go on with you” she says as if I’m mucking about, and my brain quickly reconsiders what I’d heard and tells me to hand over two larger coins and take the small one back, which in fact makes the programme rather expensive. I wander on through more parked cars, past the statue of a bull with an impressive scrotum towards the club shop which is behind a cinema. The club shop is a wonderful experience and I particularly enjoy the mugs celebrating the fact that Oxford lost three-nil at home to Arsenal in the third round of the FA Cup; also for sale is a large mounted photo of the stadium that night, as if Oxford supporters need something to put up on their walls to prove that the stadium was very nearly full once. There are also gnomes.

It’s one of those days when it seems I can’t help but catch people’s eye, and they nod as if they know me. A policeman did it a minute ago and now a steward does it as I step up to turnstile three of the main stand. Approaching the turnstile, I don’t know why but I half expect it to be automatic, and I’m slightly taken aback to see the face and hand of a woman appear at a small window from which she scans my ticket. Inside the stand, the walls are a mellow shade of breeze block, I buy a coffee (£2.20) and the young woman who serves me hopes that I enjoy it, which is good of her considering it’s just a paper cup of Kenco instant granules and hot water. A man is selling programmes from behind a wall, and as if by way of advertisement he is reading a copy, pausing occasionally to call out “Programmes” in the manner of someone with Tourette’s syndrome, or like an evening paper seller. There are the names of successful Oxford teams of the past printed on boards attached to the walls. I find myself feeling slightly jealous of the names Cyril Toulouse and Les Blizzard.

Clutching my coffee to warm my hands, I find my seat, which is in the back row of the bottom tier of the stand, seat number 78, I chose it because that was the year Town won the Cup. Behind me is a wall of beautifully smooth polished concrete on the other side of which are Oxford’s ‘executive’ boxes. An old boy on the back row stands to attention to let me past him as I ascend the steps, but I point to the seat and tell him I’m sitting next to him today. As I stand by my tip-up seat and survey the ground the old boy fills me on our neighbours; the seats next to him and his friend are empty today because “they’ve got a do, this evening” , whilst the bloke who sits in seat the other side of me will turn up just before kick-off, and in front of me will be a bloke wearing a cap with horns on and annoyingly the horns will always be in my field of vision. The other seats about us are mostly filled with old blokes in woolly hats, the sort who I’m more used to seeing at non-league games. I feel comfortable here, probably because I’ll soon be an old bloke myself. An impressively loud chant suddenly booms through the fog from the Town supporters who are in the stand directly opposite me. It’ll be good if they can keep that up during the game and for more than the few seconds it lasted this time.

The man with the horns duly arrives as does my other neighbour, just as the old boy predicted, although he didn’t say he’d be eating a Twix, which he is. In time the teams appear, ushered onto the pitch between lines of flag waving children. Oxford United get first go with the ball and kick towards the end of the ground where there is no stand, just a scoreboard and fence with parked cars beyond. Reassuringly both teams are wearing their proper first choice kits, although hi-viz versions would be handy today. “Good player , him” says the old boy about Sam Morsy. “Good goalie, him” says the old boy about Christian Walton.

Only five minutes have elapsed and the Town fans opposite are unimaginatively already singing “Is this a library?” Has anyone ever walked into the Bodleian and chanted “Is this a football ground?” I wonder to myself. “You’re support is fucking shit”, continue the Town supporters, just like every other club’s fans do at Portman Road. The illuminated advertising boards suddenly announce “County Plumbing Supplies” and I am reminded of my wife’s niece’s husband, who is a plumber up the road from Oxford in Banbury. “Ethically sourced coconuts” reads the electric sign less prosaically moments later. So far, on the pitch, the football is all pretty humdrum, and Oxford are boldly not giving Town time to pass the ball about much, which from their perspective seems like a good tactic. “Oxford Fabrications Ltd” reads a plain old wooden advert hoarding down in front of me.

“Here we go” says the old bloke as Town move forward quickly in their first proper attack. The bloke the other side of me finished his Twix a while ago and opens a flask of coffee. At the end of the ground with a stand, Oxford supporters sing rounds of “We’re the left side” “We’re the right side” as Town fans used to back in the 1980’s; I had expected these Oxfordians to be more cutting edge, despite the soft lilt of their bucolic accents. The fog is swirling in an out and around the ground, hiding and revealing the occupants of the other two stands in turn.

Town earn their first corner after just ten minutes. “Come On You Blues” chant the Town fans with quite impressive volume. Sam Morsy commits a foul and concedes a free kick half-way into Town’s half of the pitch. “Yellows, Yellows” chant the home fans briefly. “We forgot, We forgot , We forgot that you were here” lie the Town fans unconvincingly. As a quarter of the game recedes into the forgettable past, the Town fans are desperate enough to sense the need for encouragement; “Come On Ipswich, Come On Ipswich” they chant, a couple of times, to remind themselves that they are here. A minute later Marcus Harness lashes the ball over the Oxford cross bar, it is a good chance wasted.

The fog has thickened, and the orange and black clad and totally bald referee Mr Robert Madden calls for a day-glo ball. I joke with the old boy beside me that it has a bell in it and lights up too; standard football match humour, but it made him laugh, although he must have heard it before at his age. “Football in a library, do-do-do” chant the Town fans before asking “Shall we sing, shall we sing, shall we sing a song for you?” Nobody responds, but the bloke with the horns gets up and heads downstairs, presumably to use the facilities. Town win a second corner. The bloke with horns returns and the bloke sat next to him leaves; Wes Burns trundles through the Oxford defence and strikes a firm shot against the Oxford cross bar. Like Harness before him he probably should have scored. A third of the game is gone forever, unless the match is abandoned, and as a broken down Oxford player receives AA assistance, everyone else gets a drink and remedial coaching on the touchline. Sam Morsy even changes his boots, perhaps for comfort, perhaps for fashion reasons, we will never know.

The game restarts and Conor Chaplin is soon flashing a header from a Marcus Harness cross straight into the arms of the goalkeeper. A minute later Oxford’s Yanic Wildschut stumbles goalwards through attempted tackles from Sam Morsy and Luke Woolfenden to find himself just six or seven yards from goal with a large space to aim at to Christian Walton’s left. It’s an opportunity he doesn’t hit over or against the cross bar preferring to roll it accurately behind the far post to give Oxford the lead. The old boy beside me is very happy indeed, if surprised. I stand up with those all around me, just to be polite really. Goals are sponsored by Tripp Hearing the electric advert boards tell us, who will also unblock your ears, presumably for a fee.

It takes just three minutes for Ipswich to equalise as Janoi Doncian breaks forward with no one to stop him and Marcus Harness crosses the ball to the far post where the unmarked Leif Davies is free to head the ball into the goal very easily indeed. I hadn’t expected Town to score so soon but am pleased they did. “You’re not singing any more” chant the Town fans, but I’m not sure anyone was.

The remaining eight minutes of the half drift off forgettably, Oxford win a free-kick from which a direct shot on goal is possible. “Yellows, Yellows” implores the scoreboard and two mournful chants of the two words emanate from the end that has a stand; the shot goes over the Town cross bar and after three minutes of additional time it’s half-time.

Half-time is still cold and foggy and I take a walk to the front of the stand to help move the blood in my veins. On the pitch a small collection of former players is gathered including Ron Atkinson famous for his awkward, room-silencing racist asides; I hadn’t realised he was still allowed out in public and just hope Marcel Desailly isn’t here too. I browse the programme, which I decide I like, despite costing four quid, because it doesn’t have many adverts and other than the cover is not printed on glossy paper. Less attractive is another hoarding in front of me advertising Mola TV which shows Belgian football on-line in the UK, but also the podgy, grinning face of Alan Brazil who, as great a player as he was for the Town does a fair impression of a complete arse on the radio.

At six minutes past four play resumes, with the break having typically made us all feel a little bit colder than we were when the first half ended. Town soon win a corner and chants of “Come On You Blues” can be heard through the fog. The bloke sat beside me with the Twix and the coffee drinks some more coffee and eats another bar of chocolate of unknown brand. A break down the right from Marcus Harness ends with a low cross and George Hirst driving a first time shot past an Oxford goalpost, it might go down as third opportunity missed.

Two thirds of the match is gone forever and Oxford win their first corner of the match, closely followed by the second. “ Come On You Yellows” seeps through the fog from the end with a stand. Marcus Harness and George Hirst are replaced by Nathan Broadhead and Freddie Ladapo and Oxford swap Wildschut and Mcguane for Joseph and Taylor. A little creepily Oxford manager Karl Robinson seems to like to cuddle and fondle his players as they enter and leave the field of play; I’ve always thought touching in the work place was strictly out of bounds.

Less than twenty to minutes to go and Oxford win a third corner, but the north stand has melted completely into the fog. Conor Chaplin heads past the post from a horizontal position with his feet closest to the goal. The game now stops as Mr Madden consults both captains and the managers, presumably about the deepening gloom and whether it is wise to carry on. Cross field passes and long balls are now even more hit and hope than usual. The old boy beside me seems sure the game is going to be abandoned; I think he’d like to get home in the warm. Some people in front of us do get up and leave. “Where are ya?, Where are ya?” chant the Town fans playfully. “What’s going on, what’s going on?” chants the end with the stand, sounding more anxious. The game resumes, but on the far side of the ground my view of the match is reduced to one of shadows and fog; if this was West Ham, Jack the Ripper might come on as substitute and we wouldn’t notice.

The game is into its last ten minutes of normal time and Oxford replace the improbably spelt Tyler Goodrham with Djavan Anderson. The ball is in the Ipswich penalty area and comes out the edge where Cameron Branagan chances a shot on the half-volley which ends up in the top corner of the Ipswich goal. It was to an extent a hit and hope a case of fortune favouring the brave, but Town are losing and on the basis of what has happened so far this afternoon defeat looms out of the fog. Town’s response is to quickly replace as many players as possible and all three remaining substitutions are made in a sort of hopeful ‘powerplay’ of ‘fresh legs’. Town win their second corner of the half, and then another and the ball strikes the cross bar for a second time, on this occasion from a Harry Clarke header. The pressure on the Oxford goal recedes. “No noise from the Tractor boys” chant the occupants of the end with a stand, and the game staggers on into seven minutes of added on time. But Town don’t look like scoring again and they don’t.

With the final whistle I exit sharply, taking care not to bowl over any of the old boys carefully descending the stairs. I am soon back at my car where the fog is freezing to my windscreen and with no queuing whatsoever am out onto Grenoble Road and then onto the B480 towards the motorway, the high road out of the fearful darkness that is Oxfordshire. It’s a great ending to an otherwise very disappointing afternoon, if I decide to care overly about the result, but as the old boys have no doubt learnt over time “You can’t win ’em all”, even when you’re expected to. Sometimes just being happy you can get home after a day out is enough.