Coggeshall

Harwich & Parkeston 1 Hackney Wick 1

/ martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

Having grown up in Shotley, in the extreme bottom right-hand corner of Suffolk, Harwich & Parkeston, in the extreme top right-hand corner of Essex had always been somewhere not very far from the top of the sludge in my mind.  All I had to do was look out of my bedroom window over the roofs of the Council bungalows behind our house, and along with Dovercourt, there they were across the River Stour estuary.  At night-time, the lights in the docks twinkled in the distance and at midnight on New Year’s Eve we would nip outside to hear the ship’s hooters and sirens sounding.   My maternal grandfather, who more or less lived in Shotley all his life would tell people who upset him to “Go to Harwich”, which was either an oblique way of telling them to go and jump in the river, or a polite way of saying “Go to Hell”, probably both.

My maternal grandmother meanwhile, was born in Hackney Wick and lived there as a child.  It is with these loose family connections in mind that I choose today to eschew the probable delights of football fixtures a little closer to home such as Halstead Town versus Sporting Bengal United, Cornard United versus Ely City, Coggeshall Town versus London Fennecs and Brantham Athletic versus Thetford Town to watch Harwich & Parkeston versus Hackney Wick in the Essex Senior League.

It is a wet, windy, miserable afternoon as I step out of my front door to walk to the railway station, and I half wish I hadn’t already bought my rail ticket (£10.70 with Senior Person’s Railcard).  It’s a fifty-minute journey to Dovercourt with the final eighteen minutes of the journey being from Manningtree to Dovercourt along what is now called the Mayflower Line.  The Mayflower Line is sadly not known as such because the Pilgrim Fathers at some time caught the train to Harwich before making their somewhat fateful but nevertheless well-intentioned journey, which has years later indirectly resulted in Donald Trump, but because Harwich was The Mayflower’s home port and was where it was built.   If, in our ever more likely looking dystopian future Americans were to buy the Mayflower Line, I imagine we could look forward to hearing Chattanooga Choo Choo played as we pull out of Manningtree station.

From Manningtree station, the train pulls gently uphill away from the River Stour to run along its south bank through Mistley and Wrabness, with murky views through the raindrop coated train windows of the River Stour at high tide, the southern shore of the Shotley Peninsula and the tower of the Royal Hospital School at Holbrook, where incidentally my father was an unhappy pupil back in the 1930’s.  Harwich International Station is just yards from the dockside and here it is possible to catch a glimpse of the red hull of the RRS David Attenborough, or to the 124,109 members of the Great British public who voted to name it so, Boaty McBoatface.

Arriving in Dovercourt, it is thankfully no longer raining, and it is just a ten-minute walk up Kingsway, along High Street and Main Road past what was Woolworth’s and what still is the Royal Oak pub to the Royal Oak Ground, home of Harwich & Parkeston football club.  When I last came here almost exactly eight years ago (Harwich & Parkeston v Benfleet) , I entered the ground through the turnstile down the side of the ground in the shadow of the main stand. Today however, the turnstile is shut, and although the external metal door is hanging off slightly, I wouldn’t be able to squeeze through even if I wanted to.  I return to the main road and am directed through to the far end of the clubhouse, which in the tradition of scout huts and community halls everywhere smells a bit of damp. 

At the far end of the musty clubhouse two men stand at a table with a carboard box.  The one on the left looks at me enquiringly and I ask for “One for an old git, and a programme please”.  I am very pleased to see that Harwich still bother to print a proper hold in your hand and stuff in your pocket programme rather than rely on some digital, virtual creation which only exists in the ether.

Having paid up my seven quid using cash, I am mugged at the door by an elderly man at least in his seventies, who relieves me of a further pound in exchange for a strip of draw tickets.  Folding the tickets away in my pocket, I head for the tea bar where I buy a paper cup of tea and am served by a surly woman who seems to think I should know the price.  “One-fifty? A pound?” I ask her as I reach for my remaining change. “Two pounds” she barks aggressively “Unless they haven’t told me.” she adds, supplementing her aggressive with some passive.  “Well, it’s the first time I’ve been here in eight years” I tell her, “So I don’t know”.   As I walk away with my tea, I see that above the word tea on the blackboard menu outside it says “£1.50”.  “I’d better rub this out then” I say, so I do.   Wiping my chalky finger on my trousers I consume my tea and then find a seat up in the main stand.

When the game begins, it is Harwich & Parkeston or ‘The Shrimpers’ as they are known colloquially that get first go with the ball, launching it towards the Royal Oak’s other covered stand more or less in the direction of Boaty McBoatface, the River Stour and Shotley beyond. Harwich & Parkeston look smart in their traditional black and white striped shirts and black shorts echoing the kits of their bigger east coast brothers Grimsby Town and Newcastle United.  Hackney Wick sport an all-cerise kit with yellow and green collars and cuffs and yellow numbers, which set off the dominant deep pink rather well. If it wasn’t for the yellow trim, and the heads and limbs, they’d look a bit like raspberry Mivvi ice lollies.  “Keep going Harwich” shouts somebody either from on the pitch or in the crowd, I’m not sure which, but the game has barely started.  I can’t decide if such a shout so early on is hyper-supportive or a bit pessimistic.  Either way, within a few moments Shrimpers’ number eight Jenson Goode lobs a shot over the Hackney Wick goalkeeper, but also wide of the goal.

From my seat, up in the vertiginous main stand, I can see dock cranes beyond the battered black and white corrugated tin roof of the one other stand, which backs on to Main Road.  Back on the pitch, both teams are looking to attack one another down the flanks.  The Hackney Wick ‘keeper Tyron Osadolor misses the ball completely as a Shrimpers cross from the left flies across the face of his goal. “Goalie, you’re rubbish” shouts a voice in the crowd, a little prematurely it will turn out. It’s nine minutes past three and The Shrimpers win the game’s first corner, but it comes to nothing and the match settles down to being a bit messy, perhaps in part because of the bumpy, slippery pitch and blustery wind.

I turn my collar up against the breeze, which is coming over the hill to my right and off the North Sea beyond.  It’s not cold but it’s unpleasantly drafty. Beneath me, the yellow pitch almost looks as if it’s coming back to life whilst we watch as it drinks up the rain that has fallen.  The Shrimpers number ten shoots on goal but the Hackney Wick goalkeeper makes a decent diving save at the expense of a corner.  Eighteen minutes have passed and it’s almost as if the sun is trying to shine, but not quite. “Ball forward, ball forward” shouts a wanna-be coach from the stand as Hackney Wick pass the ball amongst themselves in the centre circle.

Twenty-five minutes have gone and as Shrimpers’ number three Jack Cosby receives treatment in the centre circle, there is an ad hoc drinks break, and I decide the breeze up here in the stand is more than I can bear so I make for the other covered stand behind the goal.  Two minutes later and the Shrimpers take the lead as their number nine Joe Knight runs towards goal and takes a shot from outside the penalty box, which strikes a defender and is deflected over the out-stretched goalkeeper. Knight performs a knee-slide by way of celebration and a jolly, well-fed looking woman in the crowd rings a hand bell.

The last worthwhile action of the half sees Hackney Wick’s number ten Durnall Taylor go through on goal and confidently lift the ball over the on-rushing goalkeeper only for the ball to go well wide of the goal. Taylor looks absolutely incredulous, as if the goal had somehow moved between his kicking the ball and looking up to see it not go in the goal.  The jolly woman with the bell is laughing like a drain and an elderly man wanders around the ground with a small blackboard displaying the winning draw numbers, none of which are sadly replicated by the tickets in my pocket.

Too scared to encounter the woman in the tea hut again, I forego a half-time cuppa and spend a few minutes on the phone to my wife, catching up on the latest at home. It seems we’ve lost power to the garage, kitchen and the fountain in the garden pond, but she’s rigged up an extension-lead to keep the freezer going. Good job I’m here really.

The football resumes at five past four and from somewhere unknown three Hackney Wick fans have taken up residence in the stand behind the goal and are chanting “Hackney Wick, Na Na Na, Hackney Wick, Na Na Na” repeatedly.   I’m now stood by the Hackney Wick dug out from where one of two coaches, a serious, slightly unhappy looking man bawls “Keep that pressure” and indeed his team do, pinning back the Shrimpers from the start, with their number eleven Josh Okpa in particular very busy down the right flank. “The Wick’n, The Wick’n” (I think, but possibly The Wicker?) continue the either newly arrived or miraculously cured of shyness Hackney Wick supporters, one of whom wears a bucket hat and one a bright yellow anorak.  The Hackney Wick coach is becoming a bit more effusive too. “Keep that fuckin’ pressure” he bawls, adding seemingly unnecessary coarseness to his advice. 

It has just gone a quarter past four and Shrimpers’ number eight Jake Gordon surges forward, only to overreach himself and slide through the legs of Hackney Wick’s massive number five and captain Kogo Feyi, who drops to the ground like a felled tree.  After the usual mass complaining and sweary advice to the referee that invariably accompanies these incidents, Gordon becomes the recipient of the afternoon’s first yellow card, to which strangely he gives the thumbs up. Five minutes later and Hackney Wick equalise as the ball is slipped through the square Shrimpers defence for number fourteen Emmuael Odegah to run after and roll past the exposed goalkeeper Will Healy. “We are The Wick, We are The Wick” chant the Hackney Wick Three in celebration.

Another five minutes pass and both teams now make substitutions like they’re about to go out of fashion. Hackney Wick continue to press with the creative Josh Okpa revealing his frustration and possible artistic temperament as increasingly nothing his team does quite comes off.  The Shrimpers are the more stoic of the two teams.  “Gotta dig in” is their advice from the touchline. With the second half, half over, there is once again a hint of rain on the air, and the three Harwich & Parkeston coaches huddle conspiratorially to plan the ‘final push’.  There is mounting tension as both triumph and disaster remain possible outcomes for either team.  From the main stand a black and white dog (presumably a Shrimpers supporter) follows the action intently and every now and then barks his support or advice, I’m unsure which; he might even be swearing.

It’s nearly twenty to five. “Wicker Army, Oh, oh, oh” chant the Hackney Wick three, who just won’t shut up.  The Shrimpers win a corner; the ball sails over the penalty area but is crossed back in and number six Lewis Wood heads it firmly goalwards only for Wicker goalkeeper Tyron Osadolor to fly across the goal and spectacularly grasp it in mid-flight. It’s a save which reminds me of one I think I saw Ipswich Town’s David Best make against Real Madrid back in September 1973.

The end of the game is nigh.  One of the linesmen has to remind the referee to give a drop ball after he stops the game as Lewis Wood struggles to get up off the turf and then as sunshine momentarily threatens to break through the cloud, Wood recovers sufficiently to chip the ball against the Hackney Wick cross bar and number ten Leo Carty chases a ball over the top only for it to bounce off his shin and past the post.  The Shrimpers have ended the game more strongly and in the final minute a handball just outside the penalty area by goalkeeper Osadolor gives them a final direct free kick.    Substitute Joe Wood steps up to take the kick but his low shot is comfortably saved by the capable Tyron Osadolor.

The final whistle is blown at six minutes to five and there is a ripple of appreciative applause from the crowd, which I will later learn numbers 141, although I‘m not sure if that includes the dog.  I hang about to applaud the referee, linesmen and the teams from the pitch, but the teams take so long I am heading for the club house and the exit with the Shrimpers still on the field.  As I walk back to the railway station I reflect on what has made this an enjoyable afternoon and decide it is because the two teams were evenly matched, the Royal Oak Ground is delightfully scruffy and full of character, and there was a dog.  All that and I’ve still got the train ride home and another glimpse of Boaty McBoatface .

Stanway Pegasus 0 Haringey Borough 2

/ martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

Pegasus, Wikipedia tells us was a Greek mythological winged stallion, the offspring of Poseidon and Medusa who sprang from the Medusa’s blood when in an everyday incident for the characters of Greek mythology she had her head chopped off by Perseus.  After time spent carrying lightning bolts for Zeus, being ridden about by Bellophron and then as a constellation of stars, having been killed by Zeus who presumably then had to carry his own lightning bolts, between 1948 and 1963 Pegasus more prosaically became the name of an amateur football team made up of Oxford and Cambridge graduates obviously keen to mix football with their classical education.   Even more prosaically, the name of Pegasus then became that of a youth and then Sunday football team in Colchester and most recently that club has aspired to men’s senior football and for reasons unknown has attached the name Pegasus to Stanway, a suburb of Colchester that some of its residents still think is a village and which already had one senior football team in the shape of Stanway Rovers.

Today, Stanway Pegasus who are now in the snappily titled Thurlow Nunn Eastern Counties League South play Haringey Borough of the only slightly less snappily titled Spartan South Midlands Football League in the first qualifying round of the FA Vase, a competition which, to my shame, I have not witnessed a game in for over ten years.  It is for this reason, and it being the closest game to where I live, that today I choose to ignore the ’Town’ -centric draw of Braintree Town v Yeovil Town in the National League and the charming alliteration of Chelmsford v Chippenham in the National League South, and make my way to ‘The Crops’ in West Street Coggeshall home of Coggeshall Town but where Stanway Pegasus currently play their home games too.

After a morning breathing in noxious fumes from the white gloss paint I am applying to the banisters, skirting boards and miscellaneous surrounding woodwork of a domestic staircase, standing at a bus stop on the A120 under a grey late August sky feels like suddenly being on holiday.  The X20 bus to Stansted Airport via Coggeshall, Braintree and Great Dunmow turns up more or less on time and I cheerily tender the correct fare (£3) in coins to the driver, who wears a peaked cap in the style of the late Sir Francis Chichester.  The driver, who does not speak looks at me inscrutably from beneath the peak of his hat as if weighing up this passenger’s likely back story.  I look back at him in the same way, imagining I too am wearing a hat, before climbing the stairs to the top deck where I sit behind a man sporting short hair and an earring.  Behind us, a girl evidently lacking all sense of self-awareness talks loudly on her mobile phone, broadcasting the other half of the conversation on speaker phone.   Leaving the A120, the bus (fleet number 34423) wends its way through Coggeshall’s narrow medieval streets before I alight at the stop called ‘Nursery’ just a couple of hundred yards away from ‘The Crops’.

Arriving at the turnstile I’m not surprised to find there is no queue but am delighted to see a small pile of glossy programmes, which I had not expected.   I ask if I should pay by cash or card. “Cash if you’ve got it, please” says the turnstile operator “I’ve started to run out”.  This is the first time I have paid on the turnstile at a match since I turned sixty-five, and paying in cash adds something to this auspicious occasion as I tender a five pound note for my concessionary entry fee and a two pound coin for the programme.

Once through the turnstile I head for the bar at the far end of the ground; it is virtually empty,  and not liking the look of the fizzy draught beer on offer I warily request a bottle of Adnams Southwold Bitter (£6) from the fridge. Much to my surprise the beer is merely cool not chilled and therefore very drinkable.  I step outside to await kick-off amongst a good following of Haringey supporters identifiable from their club colours but also as the only people obviously in the throes of enjoying a day out.  Two of them wear pork pie hats and I wonder if they play the saxophone.  Except for an old couple sat in foldable chairs the home supporters are rather anonymous.  In the corner of the pitch by what passes as the players’ tunnel but looks a bit like a stockade stands a plinth on top of which sits the match ball.  The Haringey fans eye the plinth both jealously and with a degree of amusement discussing what design of plinth they might have if they were to have one of their own, they seem keen on something more sculptural. 

“Sing if you’re Haringey, Sing if your happy that way” chant the Haringey fans imaginatively to the tune of the Tom Robinson Band’s 1978 hit “Glad to be gay” as the team emerge from the stockade and the plinth fulfils its job of relieving the referee of having to remember to bring the ball with him from the dressing room.   The match kicks off at five minutes to three with Stanway Pegasus getting first go with the ball and sending it in the direction of the bus stop from whence I arrived and Coggeshall beyond. “You on a promise Ref?” bawls a Haringey supporter “It’s only five to three”.  “That’s close to being abusive, that is” says another Haringeyite.  “No it’s not, it’s just a question” continues the first supporter.  “A very personal one” is the response. “Alright, do you have something nice waiting for you when you get home, Ref?” Comes the re-phrased enquiry.

Pegasus are wearing a kit of yellow shirts with black trim and black shorts, which weirdly are also the colours of Stanway Rovers.  Haringey meanwhile sport a change kit of all over green as their supporters expand on their theme of chants based on ‘new wave’ hits of the late 1970’s and sing the praises of their team’s Matty Young to the tune of “To much too young” by The Specials and then sample the  oeuvre of Sham69 with chants of “Come On, Come On, Come on Haringey Come On, We’re going down the pub”.

Back on the pitch, one of the linesmen is attracting a lot of attention to himself both with his offside decisions and his insistence on explaining them to the players.  As if that isn’t enough, he is very bouncy on his feet and, because he sports a poorly shaped goatee beard and has grey highlights in his swept back hair I am reminded of the match between Arsenal and Liverpool in September1972 when one of the linesmen was injured and Jimmy Hill emerged from the stands to run the line.

At three minutes past three Haringey Borough take the lead with a neat shot into the corner of the goal from somewhere near the edge of the penalty area.  The goal scorer, I think, is the aforementioned Matty Young  who evidently continues to strive to allow people to look back and say he did a lot in his youth.   “We’re the Borough, The Mighty Borough, We always sing away, We sing away, we sing away, we sing away, we sing away” chant the Haringey fans in response to the goal, channelling Tight Fit’s  cheesy cover version of “The Lion Sleeps Tonight” from 1982.

The Jimmy Hill lookalike linesman continues to grab attention as he rules a Haringey player onside and then proceeds to explain that the Pegasus number five had played him onside. “Don’t tell them lino, they can learn for themselves” shouts an exasperated Haringey fan. The Haringey support delve into their ‘new wave’ singles collection once more, impressively getting “We’re Haringey, We’re Haringey” into The Jam’s “Going Underground”.

Haringey are clearly the stronger team, as their higher league status implied before kick-off and the majority of play is at the club house end of the ground, although in a rare breakaway the Pegasus number four , Harry Morton is free in the centre of penalty area, has the ball pulled back to him perfectly, but then contrives to hit a truly, spectacularly terrible shot as high and as wide as anyone not under the influence of mind expanding drugs could imagine; in some circles it might be called ‘a worldy’.   Morton might be excused however for blaming the pitch, very little of which is any shade of green except in a few ‘fairy circles’, and when more than a handful of players are in the penalty area a cloud of dust is kicked up which lingers momentarily over the pitch like a swarm of tiny insects.

I am stood to one side of the suitably bucolic looking main stand and every now and then I receive a whiff of pungent and rather cloying body spray or scent.  At first, I think it must be from the occupants of the stand, but to be honest they don’t look the sort to be familiar with anything more than an occasional dab of Old Spice or bit of talc.  I eventually realise, when he bouncily stops near me to signal another offside, that the culprit is Jimmy Hill, the unique styling of whose hair is challenged, but not matched only by the Pegasus number sixteen, Tom Lewis who has a neat blond bob.

The game is being played in a good spirit with unusually little, if any audible swearing from the players, or the management on the benches.  Pegasus’s number nine Callum Griffith is booked however, just as the first third of the game rolls into the second third when twice in quick succession he fails to give space for a free-kick to be taken.  As thoughts of half-time refreshment begin to form Pegasus win a couple of corners and then almost unexpectedly there is a second goal as a poorly cleared low cross reaches Haringey’s number fourteen who firmly and concisely despatches it into the opposite bottom corner to the first goal, and Haringey lead 2-0.

Due to judicious manoeuvring in the approach to half-time, I am first in the queue at the refreshment hatch where I invest in £1.50’s worth of tea in large paper cup.  I read the half-time ‘results’ as I wait for my tea to cool and then for the teams to re-emerge.  My mood is barely affected by the news that Ipswich are losing at Preston; it’s not a place we often do well at; “a difficult place to go” is probably the accepted wisdom, despite the M6.   At four minutes to four the football resumes and I move to the other end of the main stand expecting most of the action to again take place in the half of the pitch that Haringey are attacking.

The first half was adequately entertaining if not exactly a pulsating cup-tie.  Sadly, the second half does not live up to what we didn’t know at the time was the comparatively high standard of its predecessor.  The Haringey supporters nevertheless continue to enjoy themselves as they repeatedly dip into the back catalogues of Sham69, The Jam and with somewhat less ‘street credibility’, but plenty of irony, Tight Fit.  My highlight of the half is when I realise that Derek Asamoah is playing as number forty-four for Haringey.  He is a player who I probably last saw playing on the telly for Ghana in the African Cup of Nations. I should have really worked out he was playing when the Haringey fans chanted his name in the first half, but I was probably too busy wondering which Buzzcocks, The Clash or The Damned single it was they were singing to.

With the final whistle there is justified applause for everyone’s efforts and I leave The Crops to the sound of the Haringey fans singing “Bus stop in Tottenham, we’re just a bus stop in Tottenham” because wonderfully, as anyone who has travelled the W3 through north London will know, they really are and as far as I’m concerned that’s just as interesting as Greek mythology.

Ipswich Town 0 Wolverhampton Wanderers 1

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The relief brought on through the carefree joy of watching non-league football at Coggeshall last night was brief and within twenty-four hours I am back to watching “Championship” football, by which I mean Football League Division Two football at the theatre of the un-dead that is Portman Road.
But today’s game is against top of the league Wolverhampton Wanderers, a club that as much as Leeds United reeks of 1974, smells of the 1950’s and the scent of the Beverley sister who married Billy Wright. The Wolves have done very little of note in the last sixty years, but for a couple of League Cup wins in the 1970’s, and even Norwich have won the League Cup; but they still have a certain je ne sais quoi, as well as old gold shirts and black shorts.
It is a dull, grey January day as I walk to the railway station; there are spits of moisture in the air, the portents of more to come. I arrive at the station about a minute before the

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train, which is on time, I board a freshly refurbished carriage which has a faint smell of new car given off by its grey upholstery; the theme is grey, with a white ceiling; it’s bright but dull, but heck, it’s not my living room, just a train. On the opposite side of the carriage sits a man with a beer belly, he is slumped with his head resting against the window, a blue cable leads from his trouser pocket to the electrical socket beneath the window; it’s as if his loins are on a life support machine. He has hair like the late Reg Varney. Opposite him an unnaturally blond woman of a similar age is engrossed with a mobile phone. They both cough and get off the train together at Colchester. As the train pulls into a Manningtree a man is sat on a bench on the platform for London, he is wearing a large set of earphones and is eating a sandwich from a tin foil package spread open on his lap. Five people get onto the train, one is a man with a bald head and three rings through his left ear lobe that look like he could hang a curtain from them.

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In Ipswich the weather is the same. As I cross the road a group of blokes smoke cigarettes outside the front door of the Station Hotel, which is where Wolves supporters and only Wolves supporters have been directed to drink. On the back of a traffic light there is reminder of Town’s last home fixture against Leeds, a sticker that says

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“McCallister,Strachan, Batty, Speed, Last Proper Champions”. It is a view I subscribe to because the Premier League is an abomination, but I worry about the omission of the other seven players in the Leeds team of 1992, particularly Lee Chapman.

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Portman Road is being blocked off whilst supporters stand about waiting for the turnstiles to open. I follow a man up Portman Road who is wearing a grey tracksuit with a hood, he looks like an enormous toddler in a romper suit, the seat of his tracky bottoms is baggy like he’s forgotten to put on his nappy. I open the door to St Jude’s Tavern; bloody hell, the place is heaving. Most of the clientele are Wolves fans with a love of real ale. Having worked my way to the bar I order a pint of St Jude’s St Mary Stout (£3.60) and then work my way back to sit at a table where three blokes in their sixties are sat; they seem to be together but they’re not talking and even seem to be avoiding eye contact. I turn to one and say “Are you all Wolves fans then, or are you just here for a quiet drink?” . They’re Wolves fans and they’re up from London, they go to every game. They tell me that there are branches of Wolves fans from London, Daventry and Cheltenham in the pub. I remark that they are all men of a ‘certain age’ and they laugh agreeing that if you haven’t got a bus pass you probably don’t follow Wolves.
A friend of mine, Mick, soon arrives and we talk of blood pressure, the Hairy Bikers, tielles, sciatica, this blog, holidaying in Corsica and Marseille and the difficulty of choosing where to visit from so many wonderful places across Europe. I drink a pint of Irvin Ruby (£3.60) and we both have a half of St Jude’s Darkest Blessings (£3.80 a pint), which is very strong (9.5%) but smooth and delicious with a hint of hazelnuts and vanilla.
All the Wolves fans have already left when we leave the pub at about a quarter to three, Mick heads home and I head for the match. It’s raining properly now. Whilst I may tire of the present incarnation of Football League Division Two, I never tire of the sight of

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Portman Road with its proper floodlights at each corner and all the activity outside on match day as kick-off approaches, it’s what being is all about, especially when it’s raining. Martin Heidegger would have understood, although by all accounts he was a bit of a knob.
I pass through the turnstile and am approached by a steward who asks me about the photos I have taken out in Portman Road, I explain that they are for a blog and flick through a few of them for him. He seems happy with that, but I can’t imagine he knows what to say; what did he expect to see other than photos of Portman Road? I suppose my camera might have really been a water pistol, not a camera, I had one like that when I was about eight years old.
The teams are walking on to the pitch and in the stand I am surprised to find a man and a woman occupying my seat and the one next to it. They’re not doing anything rude, just sitting. I go and sit in the next seat along, I don’t care. One of them says something about not being able to see from their allocated seats and a steward had told them to sit anywhere where there was a space.
The game begins and it’s okay, a fairly even contest to start with and Town’s Callum Connolly has a shot after about 11 minutes. It only takes the Wolves fans eight minutes however to announce that “You’re support is fucking shit” and no one is arguing; no one even cares except perhaps for John Hughes who wrote the tune Cwm Rhondda; but that was in 1907, so he must be past caring by now. In the fifteenth minute it’s not only the support that is so scatalogically poor, as the Town defence dissolves into the rain, the ball is crossed and a bloke called Matt Doherty heads it unchallenged into the Town net; Wolverhampton Wanderers have, it turns out, won the match…and it had all started so well.
The Ipswich crowd do not react at all and make no effort to help raise their team’s game through vocal encouragement; I do though and throw myself into a few rounds of “Lo, lololo lolo, Allez les bleus” as Town win a couple of corners. There is not the slightest hint that anyone wants to join in with my efforts on behalf of the team and in a fit of pique I get up and leave my seat. I go to sit with Phil the ever-present supporter at the other end of the stand, who at least understands and will sometimes even join in with me, a bit.
The game carries on and Town play reasonably well in an unspectacular sort of a way, but Wolverhampton are good, they’re several points clear at the top of the league table and we are seeing why. A little short of 1,900 Wulfrunians are following their team today, but I’m a little disappointed by them. For a team who wear such a distinctive kit there is very little of the lovely old gold and black on display and they’re singing is mostly of a negative nature. But when I think I hear them sing “Wanky wanky, wanky wanky Southerners” to the tune of Chicory Tip’s ‘Son of my father’ it raises a smile, even though Ipswich is not in the South, it’s in the East. Bloody Brummies.
At half-time I stay where I am and enjoy the occasional drip of rain through the leaking roof on which I can see buddleia growing; I’m not sure that makes it a ‘green’ roof, but it’s a start. I have no half-time snack and don’t visit the toilet, but Phil does and I guard his bag whilst he’s gone. Town stalwart Tommy Smith appears on the pitch in a smart overcoat to say farewell to the crowd before he heads off to play for Colorado Rapids in Denver; he waves, I wave back.

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I then muse upon the names of the Wolverhampton team and feel strongly that Ivan Cavaleiro should be wearing a wide brimmed hat and a cape, or he should at least walk out onto the pitch in such attire, even if he doesn’t play in it. Wolverhampton Wanderers are owned by Guo Guangchang, one of China’s wealthiest people and in Helder Costa and Ruben Neves have the two most expensive players in League Division Two; midfielder Neves cost a colossal £15.8m and both players are clients of football agent Jorge Mendes who is an advisor to the club. Read more about Wolves’ attempt to buy success in the editorial to the February edition of the always excellent When Saturday Comes magazine.
The teams return, Phil returns and play resumes. Ipswich aren’t so good this half, I reckon Wolves have sussed us out and they control the game completely, because they have much better players, some of whom, as you now know have cost obscene amounts of money. They also have a manager called Nuno Espirito Santo who, with a name like that, you would always back against plain old Mick McCarthy. I have a theory that people voted to leave the EU mainly because they feel inferior to all these clever, stylish Europeans, and they are. Town have two new players in their team today, a free transfer called Gleeson and a thick-set monster of a man on-loan from Tottenham Hotspur, who rejoices under the seven syllables of the name Cameron Carter-Vickers. They do okay, but Bartosz Bialkowski is the star for Town as he makes a succession of essential saves to stop Wolverhampton scoring more goals. The Wulfrunians in the Cobbold Stand again sing coarsely of the execrable Ipswich support and look for the geography section of the library. Meanwhile, I continue to sing ‘Allez les Bleus’ very loudly and have a most enjoyable time. Singing is proven to be good for you and even though Town lose I am as happy as I can be given the pointlessness of it all. Watching Ipswich Town is what you make it.
The three minutes of added on time offer hope, but that’s all and soon the final chirrups sound from beneath the shiny and completely naked pate of referee Mr Simon Hooper. Unusually, I stand and applaud the teams today; all my singing has made me high as a kite.

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Whitton United 5 Coggeshall Town 4

/ martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

The Eastern Counties First Division is the tenth tier of English football, just a few seats, some floodlights and a half-time plate of sandwiches for the opposition committee separates it  from the clubs that play on a piece of waste ground and use jumpers for goalposts, well  almost.  But that doesn’t mean clubs at this level don’t have history; Whitton United have been going since 1926 and Coggeshall Town since 1878, the same year as mighty, illustrious Ipswich Town, former League Champions, FA Cup, UEFA Cup and Texaco Cup winners.

It says in the match programme that a Whitton team existed in the late 1800’s, back when Whitton was a small village a mile or more outside Ipswich.  But between the World Wars Ipswich Corporation, as it was then, began to build the Whitton estate providing much needed,  good quality, rented housing for working class people.  Whitton is now a part of Ipswich, and if supporters in the Eastern Counties league did sing (with the notable exception of Wivenhoe Town’s they tend not to) they could chant “Small club in Ipswich, You’re just a small club in Ipswich” without fear of contradiction.

Whitton United is a rare thing in the Eastern Counties League, a team representing a truly urban area, and more than that it might be said to represent a large council estate.  The contrast with Coggeshall therefore is on the face of it quite stark.  Coggeshall, with its National Trust owned medieval buildings and its vineyard and ley lines is positively poncey by comparison.  The other big difference is that Coggeshall Town are being bankrolled; there are stories of players attracted from beyond Essex on the promise of big appearance money.  The realisation of this is shown in their relative league positions with Coggeshall currently top of the table, where they have been virtually all season, whilst Whitton are merely near the top of the bottom half of the table, albeit on a roll of five consecutive victories.

The King George V Fields ground is outside the Whitton estate next to the main road out of town towards the A14 and Stowmarket.   A third of the pitch is overlooked by a large heap of rubble that was once the concrete floor of the Tooks bakery (aka bread factory), formerly the club’s neighbour. Behind one goal there is no accommodation for spectators whatsoever, just a stretch of grass from the goal net to a very big fence, with the road beyond.   There is a stand on each of the other three sides; two of them resembling country bus shelters, one of which is labelled ‘The Shed’; whilst downhill, behind the other goal is a pre- fabricated, metal stand containing the requisite number of seats for the club to play in the Eastern Counties Premier League. should the need arise.  The changing rooms have a wonderful green and white striped tin roof.

It’s a grey, blustery afternoon with a constant threat of rain, but the two teams in their striped kits, Whitton in green and white and Coggeshall in red and black stand out through the gloom and offer the promise of excitement.  I wander around the perimeter rail before the game kicks off and a bloke on his way to one of those ‘bus shelters’ and carrying a couple of pints of beer says hello; “ We need a good result today after last week” he says.  I have no idea what either team did last week, but I agree because it would be churlish and a bit weird not to do so and I’m not one to start an argument with someone I don’t really know.  To begin with, the promise of a good game is all there  as the ball bounces awkwardly on the soft pitch and is buffeted by the wind, producing a scrappy match with neither team looking much good.  Despite kicking up the not inconsiderable slope and against the wind however, Coggeshall gradually start to look the stronger team.

I walk round the back of the dugouts and towards the end of the ground where the only spectators are those in passing cars and buses who are probably surprised to find themselves watching a football match, albeit for a few fleeting seconds only.  One or two beep their car horns as they drive by.  Coggeshall are kicking towards the goal at this end and it doesn’t take long before they score, a close range tap-in from Scarlett, despite claims of offside from Whitton.  Somewhat bizarrely Coggeshall’s number four is booked in the aftermath and from what I can make of what referee Mr Pope seems to be saying, it is because he egged on the Whitton players in their offside protests. ‘You started it’ I think I hear the Pope say as if scolding Martin Luther.  The same player is then spoken to again by his holiness and told to concentrate just on the football by the Coggeshall coach; “I only said bad luck baldy” the player opines after Whitton’s follicly challenged centre-half concedes a free-kick on the edge of his own penalty area.

I drift back towards the Whitton bench having had enough of the Essex club’s manager’s questioning of Mr Pope and decide to briefly compare and contrast him with the Whitton manager.  I conclude that the Whitton man mostly complains to himself and to the bench in a sort of audible internal dialogue.  The results of the comparison fit with my own pre-conceived ideas of Ipswich and Essex people.  Happily for Whitton however, my move into their half coincides with a couple of attacks down the left, one of which results in a free-kick and ends with an unexpected, but not completely undeserved equaliser from Bell.

Half-time arrives with scores all square and I indulge in a pounds worth of tea and a warm in the clubhouse, although I have to be let in because the door only seems to open from the inside.  I return to pitch side too late for the re-start, but haven’t missed anything and take up a spot in the seats behind the goal.  It starts to rain.

With the wind at their backs and playing down the slope it seems like it might be easier for Coggeshall in the second half and gradually, as in the first half they begin to dominate the attacking play, but without really making any decent chances to score; then, a break down the left, a through ball and a goal for Whitton by Percy (sadly his surname not his first name).   It’s a bit of a surprise but the game returns to its previous pattern and with about fifteen minutes left, after some more Coggeshall domination the ball is crossed low, blocked and partly cleared before the Coggeshall substitute Guthmy coolly places the ball in the middle of the goal to equalise.  Now it really looks like Coggeshall will go on to win and that’s what the bloke behind me tells his children when they ask.

The good thing about football however is that is totally unpredictable, which is why all these ‘sports betting companies’ (bookies) advertise relentlessly to part mugs with their money.  Proof of football’s unpredictably arrived within just a minute or two as a deep cross from a corner was headed in at the far post by Griggs to put Whitton ahead again and then within minutes of that a through ball saw  Cheetham brought down in the box resulting in a penalty which gave Whitton a 4-2 lead. The rain had now eased and I stepped out of the stand so that I didn’t have to peer through a goal net and another bigger net placed across the front of the stand to protect inattentive spectators from stray footballs that might inadvertently smack them in the chops when they were looking at their mobile phones rather than the game; serves ‘em right I say.  Barely had I done this and with about six minutes left Whitton scored yet again with Cheetham ‘converting’ a cross by the beautifully named Franco Mallardo.

Surely that was it, 5-2 with just five minutes left? But no, Coggeshall rightly decided that the game wasn’t over until his holiness Mr Pope says so, and just as I would never leave a game before the final whistle, so the ‘Seedgrowers’ , for that is what their nickname is, continued to try and win the match.  And it was a good job they did or this report would be over already.  First, continuing the ecclesiastical surname theme started by the referee, Monk made it 5-3 with a fine half volley from the edge of the penalty area,  and a short while later he then crossed the ball for Nwachuku to smack a fourth goal high in to the Whitton United net.  There was still enough time for a free kick on the edge of the penalty area to be sent over the Whitton cross bar, but finally Mr Pope whistled Amen and the game was over.

It had been a most entertaining game, even if some of the defending had at times been hard to spot, and in difficult conditions on an awkward slopey pitch the players of both teams had given their all.  I was surprised therefore and disappointed that at the end no one clapped or cheered as the two teams left the pitch; but no one booed either, so it was one up on Portman Road I guess.   The 5-4 score line alone deserved some appreciation, but there was nothing, not a cough, not a wheeze, not even a tiny chortle. Everyone just filed away into the car park.   To an extent, at this level of football the result doesn’t matter as much as the fact that the two clubs are still there each week to play; this is perhaps true more for a real community club like Whitton United than a club like Coggeshall Town which has been adopted by someone with spare cash like a mini Roman Abramovich.

There was apparently only a crowd of 57 at this match, which is disappointing for a Saturday when Ipswich Town are not playing, and looking about there were very few people under thirty there.  A football match where you can drink in sight of the pitch should be a massive draw and at £6.00 entrance fee it provides good value for money compared to the £40 Norwich City wanted from IpswichTown fans to get into Carrow Road the following day.

Eastern Counties League Football should be the model for sustainable football, so I urge you, support your local team, it’s friendly, it’s funny, it’s fun, it is well worth it.  I had a lovely time.  Thank you Whitton United.