colchester

Ipswich Town 1 CA Osasuna 2

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The Google AI overview on the interweb tells us that Pamplona is the historic capital of the Navarre region in northern Spain and that “…it balances a vibrant modern lifestyle with ancient stone walls, green parks, and lively culinary traditions”.     The ensuing Wikipedia entry goes on to tell us that Pamplona also has two football teams, one of which is CA Osasuna (Club Atletico Osasuna) who play in La Liga and that Osasuna means ‘health’ in the Basque language.

Combining this information I think firstly that balancing anything with ancient stone walls is quite a feat and that Pamplona must therefore be quite some place, and secondly the prospect of catching a glimpse of a vibrant modern lifestyle and lively culinary tradition by attending a football match is one I could not pass up.  As luck would have it, tonight, Ipswich Town’s first pre-season friendly of 2026 is against CA Osasuna.  In my younger days I lapped up pre-season friendlies like a thirsty kitten confronted with numerous saucers of milk and I was all in favour of adding stars to the Town shirts to commemorate the Willhire Cup wins of 1979 and 1980.  Forty-five years on, life and loves have taken their toll and now I feel affronted to be asked to cough up my de-valued cash to watch a glorified training exercise but I am nevertheless unable to resist matches against foreign opposition as I strive to relive those European glory nights and compensate for the disaster that is Brexit.

The out in the middle of nowhere stadium near Colchester is just a 12km drive in our planet saving Citroen e-C4 down the A12 for me and my wife Paulene, and after queuing to wait for people to tap their car number plates onto a screen and ‘contactlessly’ pay £3 at the nearby Park & Ride facility, we do the same and are soon cutting our way through the evening heat, past the vicious barbs of rambling brambles that encroach over the footpath along Boxted Road and the approach to the home of Colchester United, where tonight’s friendly fixture will take place.

Access to our seats in the west Stand is via turnstile T3 and is governed by the deeply unsatisfying process of twice placing my mobile telephone up against a small glass window where once upon a time a turnstile operator might have wished me a cheery “enjoy the match” as they ripped a ticket from its stub.  There’s still a good twenty-five minutes until the football is due to begin and therefore, whilst Paulene experiences the toilet facilities, I splash out on a bottle of water (£2.25) from the distinctly not at all busy refreshment kiosk beneath the stand, where two probable sixth formers smile willingly, happy to make contact with a real, fleshy human face, one that’s not an image on a mobile telephone screen.

Disappointingly, there is no programme for tonight’s fixture, so with nothing to read we seek our entertainment in the arrival of fellow supporters; at least two of whom are quite aged and only clamber up the steps of the stand with the aid of sticks and a helpful steward. A little curiously, in the seats in front of us a group of men and boys wear Witham Town shirts.  Without a programme we have no clue as to the identity of the Osasuna players or even some of the Town players, who I will admit to not recognising.  The stadium announcer fails to help us identify any of the players as the public address system turns out to be feeble and easily drowned out by the sound of people talking. It doesn’t help that the announcer also sounds either like he’s recovering from laryngitis or just has the sort of voice best suited to a life of religious devotion in a Cistercian monastery.

When the game begins, it is Ipswich who get first go with the ball, which they direct towards Colchester city centre, its castle and its surviving heaps of Romano-British rubble.  Ipswich are as ever in blue and white.  Osasuna meanwhile are kicking towards the A12 and Park and Ride car park; they wear red shirts and blue shorts, like an Iberian Aldershot Town.  Back in a football stadium for the first time in over two months, I had almost forgotten how annoying I find my fellow human beings with their silly comments and conversation. “Why do people applaud?” asks Paulene earnestly as a hopeful cross from Town’s number 40 (recent signing Abdul Fatawu) sails harmlessly beyond the Osasuna far post and is greeted with a bout of clapping. “If it’s not a goal, then it’s nothing” she says.  I tell her it’s because otherwise they might kill themselves due to loss of hope.

Four minutes have passed.  Leif Davis is beaten on the left flank and a cross, a shot, a save from Alex Palmer and a follow up shot later and the ball is in the Town net.  No one who doesn’t speak Spanish has any inkling as to the identity of the goalscorer.   The sense of unexpected loss is palpable amongst the ‘home’ crowd but whilst some probably head off to graffiti the toilets, most just sit glumly, although when Fatawu jumps high to prevent an overhit cross field ball going out for a throw, the crowd cheer up a bit and applaud; the man in the seat behind me says “I like this bloke already”.

Fatawu is a hero again after eight minutes when an Osasuna player tries to relieve him of his shirt and is booked by the anonymous referee.  “That wasn’t even subtle” snorts the bloke behind me. Amusingly, to me, Dara O’Shea is rightly booked for the same thing moments later provoking predictable complaints from Town supporters.   Then Fatuwu gets behind the Osasuna defence, only to pick out the head of an Osasuna defender with his cross.  The game proceeds uninterestingly, but for wondering who the Osasuna players actually are.  Town’s first shot on goal arrives after twenty minutes courtesy of Nunez, who then has another shot three minutes later, earning the game’s first corner as a result. More exciting however is the ‘hydration break’ two minutes after that, which draws boos from Town fans who would probably complain that “they never had drinks breaks in my day” and possibly believe that Colchester United are now selling premium priced advertising on their streaming service.

The remainder of the half drifts away with Alex Palmer palming away a couple of shots, both teams trading lame corner kicks and a man in the seat next but one to Paulene breaking open a cellophane package containing a lurid green coil of something with the consistency of mozzarella cheese, from which he proceeds to break pieces off and give to the girl next to him; he eats the rest.   Three minutes of added on time are announced because that was the length of the unpopular hydration break.

We stay in our seats for half-time as daylight fades into dusk and the sky explores deepening shades of blue.  The half-time entertainment consists of the scoreboard advertising forthcoming attractions at “Layer Road” including an under 12’s disco and comedy nights, although Colchester United mostly now play on Saturday afternoons.

The football resumes at ten to nine with old hands Wes Burns and Chuba Akpom appearing in place of new boys Emersonn and Abdul Fatawu and the stadium announcer embarrassingly letting us know the substitutes’ identities as if they were challengers for a World Heavyweight boxing bout. For a full couple of minutes Ipswich display what looks like attacking intent and after eight minutes Akpom stretches for a deep hopeful cross and manages to direct the ball over or around the mystery Osasuma goalkeeper and into the goal.  The goalkeeper looks somewhat disappointed.  I tell Paulene I hadn’t expected to see an equaliser.

After the goal, a second hydration break follows unexpectedly in the sixtieth minute, but it transpires that it’s just an excuse to swap about the remainder of the Town team.  Several fresh Town players appear, and I have no idea who they are, but it seems neither does the announcer, who maintains radio silence.  I feign disgust, and referencing the lack of a programme or audible announcements speak to Paulene of an “utter shambles”, but in truth it’s just my way of enjoying the evening,

Once the game has re-started Paulene admits to boredom and a dislike of the people behind based on the sound of their voices.  Perhaps annoyed by the growing pointlessness of the football Paulene goes on to comment that there are a lot of funny looking people here and we wonder whether they are from Ipswich or Colchester, or both.  I admit that Ipswich is not renowned for its beautiful people, but where is?  The bloke behind us starts sneezing loudly whilst several nearby children have started to repeatedly shout “Blue Army” in the shrill way that only children can.  This then raises the question of why the Colchester United banner at the back of the stand behind one of the goals reads ‘Blue White Army’ and not ‘Blue and White Army’, and so the legend of the lost ampersands of Colchester edges out the football in terms of interest.

About twenty-five minutes remain to be endured and a Ben Johnson cross wins another Town corner.  “I’m liking Chuba more than I thought I would” says the bloke behind me, who had previously unexpectedly liked Abdul Fatawu; he would seem to have a lot of love to give.  The sands of time continue to run out but it’s only five minutes later when I look to the clock on the scoreboard again and wish they could run a bit faster.  I realise that I’ve kicked over my bottle of water and most of the remaining contents have dribbled down the steps of the stand, and in a drought too.  The two teams trade corner kicks and George Hirst replaces Chuba Akpom, a change which unlike the previous mass -substitution is unexpectedly announced over the public address system, and with incongruous enthusiasm.

Eight long minutes of normal time remain; some people are already leaving, their evenings and perhaps their lives defined by their desire not to queue when leaving the car park.  Osasuna win a corner. The corner is taken and the ball diverted to the outside of the penalty area where some bloke in Aldershot Town kit lashes it into the top right corner of the Town goal via the underside of the cross bar. Osasuna lead 2-1 and what will prove to be the winning goal, if not worth the entry money on its own, has certainly been the only thing worth paying to see.

All that remains is for the stadium announcer to tell us that we numbered 4,685 before people started to leave early, and for three minutes of added time to be aimlessly endured.  The final whistle is a gentle release, but at least I can now say I have seen Club Atletico Osasuna play, if anyone asks and I’m looking forward to the friendly versus Havre AC on Tuesday night already.

Stanway Pegasus 0 Haringey Borough 2

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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 Brentford 1

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It seems to have been a week of looking back on momentous events, with the 80th anniversary of the liberation of Europe, my own twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, and also the forty-seventh anniversary of Ipswich Town winning the FA Cup.  Today however, I am returning to the present and am preparing to see Ipswich play Brentford, a club which back in 1978 had just won promotion from the fourth division, which perhaps helps explain why I always think of them as a ’lower division’ team, like Colchester United or Newport County.

For the first time this year It is warm enough not to need a coat, and I walk to the railway station beneath a clear blue sky.  It’s a pleasant walk, disturbed only by the loud, wailing sirens of four ambulances and a police car, which careen past me slaloming between lanes of traffic.  The train seems on time, but I don’t really know if it is, only that it smells unpleasantly of the on-board toilet.  The carriage is mostly empty and surprisingly seems devoid of Brentford fans.  Gary joins me at the first station stop and we talk of nothing much in particular, although the polar bears of Wherstead inspire a brief conversation about whatever happened to the soft drink known as ‘Cresta’, a beverage which was possibly at the height of its popularity in1978.   The fur of one of the polar bears looks very clean today and we speculate briefly about polar bears and shampoo.

In Ipswich, we head for ‘the Arb’ as quickly as Gary’s dawdling gait will allow, pausing only to buy a programme each (£3.50) at one of the booths that look as though they might also sell ice creams. As ever, I am disappointed that they don’t and that the programme seller doesn’t wish me ‘bon match’.   Today’s front cover design, which is not the front cover of the programme thanks to the evil capitalists of the Umbro sportswear company, is an ITFC version of Peter Blake’s sleeve design for The Beatles’ Sgt Pepper album.  You can’t beat a bit of Pop Art, and for a moment I find myself daydreaming of seeing Ray Crawford, Ted Phillips or Sir Alf Ramsey as they might have been portrayed by Andy Warhol, Pauline Boty or Roy Lichtenstein.

At ‘the Arb’, there is literally a queue at the bar, which I think I succeed in jumping because in my world people don’t queue at pub bars because the bar staff always know who’s next.  Happily, it’s not long before Gary and I are soon in the beer garden clutching pints of Lager 43 and Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride (£9 something for the two with Camra discount) and looking for a place to sit. Mick appears from the back gate and while he is getting himself a pint of Suffolk Pride, Gary and I share a table with a man and a woman and two small dogs who are on a pub crawl of Ipswich’s dog friendly pubs; they’ve already been to the Woolpack and the Greyhound and have five more pubs to visit, when the dogs will qualify for ‘free’ bandanas.   I take their photo for them to record the event for their Facebook friends, and reminisce about visiting numerous Tolly Cobbold pubs in the early 1980’s in order to acquire a ‘free’ T-shirt advertising Tolly ‘Original’.

After Gary has bought a further round of drinks and Mick has promised that it will definitely be his round next time, we eventually find ourselves with empty glasses and nothing else to do but head downhill to Portman Road and the afternoon of delights that awaits us.  I bid Gary and Mick farewell somewhere near the statue of Sir Alf Ramsey, which isn’t in the Pop Art style, and this is probably a good thing.  The queues at the turnstiles to the Sir Alf Ramsey stand are short, but it still takes longer than expected to gain entry because of zealous use of scanners by the security staff, although I get the impression that they are losing heart because no one seems to be trying to smuggle in firearms or explosives; it can’t be good for their morale never discovering anything.

By the time I am reacquainting myself with Pat from Clacton, Fiona, the man from Stowmarket (Paul), ever-present Phil who never misses a game, and his son Elwood, the teams are on the pitch, balls of flame have burst into the sky, and a pall of smoke is drifting across the pitch as if all the explosives the security staff had hoped to find, but hadn’t,  had been let off at once.  The excitable young stadium announcer, whose grey suit looks as if he’s only just got it back from Sketchley’s reads out the teams and I bawl the Town players’ surnames as if I was in the tribunes of the Stade du Moustoir, Lorient or Stade Gabriel-Montpied, Clermont Ferrand.

Ipswich, sporting their usual blue shirts and white shorts get first go with the ball and are mostly trying to kick it towards the goal just in front of me and my fellow ultras.  Meanwhile, Brentford sport their traditional red and white striped shirts and black shorts, although closer inspection reveals that the black of the shorts bleeds into the red of the stripes and there are black bits underneath the armpits of the shirts too, as if the players were all using an experimental pitch or creosote-based under arm deodorant.

The game has only just begun, but already I’m thinking that Conor Chaplin is looking different today.  At first I think it must be his haircut, but then decide he has a beard, although such thoughts are suddenly swept away as Omari Hutchinson crosses and Liam Delap heads towards the goal, but Mark Flekken the Brentford goalkeeper, who is Dutch but has a French tri-colour against his name on the back of the programme makes a neat but not overly difficult save.  ‘Edison House Group’ reads the electronic billboard at the far end of the ground, and although I try not to, I hear ‘Love grows where my Rosemary goes’ playing in my head.

Ten minutes pass and Brentford begin to hog the ball, and then they win the game’s first corner.  “Football in a library” sing the Brentford fans perhaps expecting us to cheer their corner, and Pat asks who the well-known Brentford players are so she can photograph them.  But Fiona and I don’t really think any of them are well-known, although Fiona has heard of Mark Flekken.  I tell Pat I expect they’re well-known in Brentford.  With fifteen minutes up, the referee Mr Barrott, whose surname pleasingly rhymes with carrot decides it’s time Brentford scored from a corner and keeps giving them corners until they do.  Part way through the catalogue of corners the match is paused for VAR to check for a possible penalty due to over-enthusiastic grappling. “Place your bets” I tell Fiona and Pat from Clacton, but surprisingly no penalty is awarded, although Jack Taylor and Christian Norgaard are both booked.    From the next corner however, Brentford score as Kevin Schade, who in his spare time also plays for  Germany, rises unopposed at the near post and heads just inside the far post.

Ten minutes elapse after we rapidly come to terms with the likelihood of another home defeat, and Town then win a corner of their own.  “Come On You Blues” I bellow, hopefully, but the ball doesn’t even get past the first Brentford defender, who is stood at the near post. “Gotta beat the first man” says the bloke behind me censoriously.  The familiar sound of ironic cheers follows two minutes later as Omari Hutchinson wins a rare free kick for Town,  but two minutes later Brentford have the ball back and Alex Palmer is making a decent save to prevent a goal.

The final seven minutes of the half witness corners to both sides, more chants of “football in a library” from the Brentford supporters, Jack Taylor shooting wide of the goal and Pat from Clacton complains about the bloke behind her constantly talking (and swearing), most weeks as Pat tells us, there’s a “…nice, quiet older man sitting there”. 

After two minutes of added on time, half-time arrives as expected and the disappointments of the first half are forgotten as I go to the front of the stand to talk to Ray and his grandson Harrison, applaud the promotion winning women’s team, see Harrison’s 21st birthday announced on the big screen  and finally  enjoy a Polish Przy Piatczku chocolate wafer bar courtesy of  the World Foods aisle in Sainsbury’s.  Unfortunately, the chocolate on one side of the wafer has melted in the warmth of the afternoon, and through being in my pocket , so after I’ve eaten it I have to ask Fiona if I’ve got any chocolate around my mouth; I haven’t and I think she’s pleased she’s not going to have to dab anything off with a hanky as if she were my mum.  

The second half brings the usual misleading, renewed hope, and after ten minutes Jack Clarke, or “Jack Claaarke” as the excitable young announcer calls him replaces Conor Chaplin.  Pat from Clacton shifts her attention away from the constant talking of the bloke behind her to the Brentford manager Thomas Frank, who apparently is “always chewing” and with his mouth open too, yuck.   More substitutions follow just five minutes later as Jens Cajuste and George Hirst replace Jack Taylor and Liam Delap.   Alarmingly, George Hirst has dyed his hair blond and now looks like a cross between a Midwich cuckoo and Sick Boy in the film of Trainspotting.

The game is a little more than two-thirds over and I’m beginning to feel a bit annoyed like Pat from Clacton, but my irritation isn’t down to talking and chewing, but down to the Brentford players who, when not charging at the Town players ( I think it’s called ‘pressing’), seem a whingy, whiny lot who are constantly running to the referee, ‘pressing’ him to give them free-kicks.  I begin to wonder if Brentford aren’t called The Bees because they’re always buzzing around the referee, although having grown up in the country I’d be tempted to liken them more to flies around a cow’s arse.   

Another Brentford corner brings another VAR check for a possible penalty, which is again turned down, this time with the explanation that there had been ‘mutual holding’,  which in the privacy of one’s own home sounds quite appealing and probably explains why no one was booked this time. Less appealing is a somewhat reckless overhead kick by Yoane Wissa which makes contact not with the ball, but with Jacob Greaves’ face, although fortunately he is not hurt and manfully he carries on despite the taste of dubbing.

The closing fifteen minutes of the match play out in a way that cruelly allows Town fans to retain hope of an equaliser,  which of course never comes.  Sam Morsy shoots over, George Hirst bursts through and shoots powerfully wide, Omari Hutchinson shoots beyond a far post too and Town win more corners.   Today’s attendance is announced by the now unctuous sounding but still excitable young stadium announcer as 29,511, of whom 2,953 are here for ‘the Brentford’ and indeed “You’re only here for the Brentford” is what they touchingly sing to one other.  Five minutes of added on time produce another shot on goal for Town which I think is saved, but before it was it had me off my seat almost thinking it was a goal.

The final whistle is greeted with applause for the Town players today and the realisation that with a bit more luck we might have got a draw and we would have deserved it, and so perhaps, like the season as a whole, it hasn’t been a complete waste of time.

Ipswich Town 6 Sheffield Wednesday 0

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Although I began watching football in 1971, it took until September 1984 for me to first see Sheffield Wednesday play Ipswich Town.  This was largely because, despite an illustrious past back in the days of Arthur Balfour and then Ramsay McDonald,  Sheffield Wednesday were until 1984 bobbing about in the second division and then even visiting the likes of Layer Road, Colchester rather than Portman Road.  Indeed, I had first seen Wednesday five years before when they played out a thrilling goalless draw at Layer Road in what was only my third ever visit to the then home of our pauper cousins from over the border in Essex. That first encounter with Ipswich ended in a draw also, but four goals were shared that late summer or early autumn day, I honestly don’t remember which it was. Since then, I have seen Town play Sheffield Wednesday a further twenty-four times and of those games Ipswich have won a paltry six, with Sheffield winning an indecent eleven, including a five-nil embarrassment at Hillsborough in April 1994 and a relegation confirming one-nil defeat in May of 1986.  So, with this record in mind I feel I have good reason to bear Sheffield Wednesday a degree of ill-will, and on the morning of our latest encounter I hope for retribution, vengeance and other things Jesus wouldn’t have approved of.

It’s been a beautiful, bright spring morning; I had awoken to sunlight streaming into the bedroom and birds chirruping from the branches of the tree outside my window, in spite of the world of pain beyond.  After a hearty breakfast and a morning of garden tidying and playing at being Andy Warhol with photos of Ray Crawford and Ted Phillips, I leave my wife watching people in lycra cycling round Italy, to catch the train to Ipswich.  The train arrives on time, but leaves late. I sit opposite an elderly Town fan who I recognise from previous journeys to the match.  He tells me how watching football has been “…a way of life” for him, and how he would travel on the train to watch Sudbury Town when he was at Earls Colne Grammar school.  He asks me if I remember certain players like he does, they all have names like Len and Reg, Syd and Larry.  He’s seen them all he tells me, but the best player he thinks he ever saw was Ipswich’s Billy Baxter.  I ask him how old he is; he’s eighty-seven, and every other Saturday his daughter buys him a match ticket and a train ticket and puts him on the train to Ipswich.  I hope I’m still doing this when I’m eighty-seven, I think to myself.

Approaching the next stop, I remember I had arranged to meet Gary on the train, but I’ve been so busy talking about football in the 1950’s I have forgotten to text him to tell him which carriage I’m in.  Fortuitously, my carriage pulls up against the platform just where a slightly perplexed looking Gary is standing.  I leave my seat and walk over to the door as it opens so Gary can see me.  Unfortunately, I have lost my seat by the man from the 1950’s, but I’ll look out for him next time. Arriving in Ipswich, Gary and I head for ‘the Arb’ pausing only so that I can buy an ice cream in Portman Road, but as usual I come away with just a programme (£3.50).   At the bottom of Lady Lane an odd-looking man on an electric scooter covered in stickers weaves his way past us with a mobile phone pressed up against his ear.  Gary and I look at one another and burst out laughing.  I tell him I often see strange things in this part of town, but then, Lady Lane was the site of a medieval Catholic shrine.

Once at ‘the Arb’ I buy Gary a pint of Lager 43 and myself a pint of Maldon’s Suffolk Pride (£8 something with Camra discount) before we repair to the beer garden where all the seats at tables are taken and we have to sit on a park bench next to the back gate.   We talk of people we worked with in the 1990’s,  how Gary’s season ticket is next to someone who is a close relative of a friend of my sister, and discover that Gary has forgotten that we have tickets to see Stewart Lee at Chelmsford Civic Theatre next Friday.  Gary buys another pint of Lager 43, and another pint of Suffolk Pride for me and has spotted a free table which we then occupy.   Soon we are the only people left in the beer garden and it’s not even twenty to three; belatedly we join the herd.

Having bid Gary farewell within earshot of Sir Alf Ramsey’s statue, it’s not long before I’m queuing at turnstile 62 and then shuffling past Pat from Clacton and Fiona to my seat, next but one to the man rom Stowmarket (Paul) and two rows behind ever-present Phil who never misses a game, and his son Elwood.  As usual, my arrival has pretty-much coincided with the appearance of the teams and I joke with the man from Stowmarket that this is because I have in fact just left the dressing room having given the team talk.  On the pitch one of today’s mascots is wearing a Town shirt and pink party dress, I hope the kit designers at Umbro are taking notes. Murphy the stadium announcer reads out the teams, and as if in a French football crowd ever-present Phil and I shout out the surnames.  As usual, the first few names appear on the scoreboard and Murphy is in time with them, but it doesn’t usually continue like that . The names keep appearing and Murphy keeps on reading and the names keep appearing and Murphy keeps on reading and I’m still waiting for the two to fall out of sync, but we’ve reached the substitutes and they haven’t.  Ever-present Phil turns around wide-eyed and incredulous, we can’t believe what we’ve witnessed, Murphy has only gone and done it!  He’s read out the team in sync with the names appearing on the scoreboard.  “Crikey” I think to myself “We must be going to win by seven or eight today”.

The game begins, Sheffield Wednesday getting first go with the ball and pointing it mostly in the general direction of the Co-op on Norwich Road, Castle Hill and Whitton Sports Centre.  Sheffield wear a smart but not eye-catching kit of white shirts and black shorts, like Germany or Port Vale.  As ever, Town are in their signature blue and white. “Hi-Ho, Sheffield Wednesday” sing the visiting fans to the tune of Jeff Beck’s ‘Hi-Ho Silver Lining’, although Wikipedia tells us that the song was first released by a band called The Attack a few days before Beck’s version in March 1967.  Weirdly, the Wednesday fans only sing those four words, as if they couldn’t think up any other lyrics, but liked the tune anyway.  The net effect is like a musical version of driving into a cul de sac, but there’s no harm in it and they soon move on to April of 1967 with a fuller rendition of Frankie Valli’s ‘You’re just to good to be true’ .  Their efforts deservedly earn Wednesday a corner after just four minutes, which is a full six minutes before Ipswich ‘s first corner and my first chance to bellow “Come On You Blues”, but to no avail .  “Not comfortable at the back” says the bloke behind me of Sheffield Wednesday.  “Don’t like pressure do they?” adds his sidekick.

Fourteen minutes pass. “Football in a library, do-do-do”.  So far, so ordinary, then Wes Burns crosses the ball from the right. The ball is played to Omari Hutchinson, he turns and in a perfect impersonation of Conor Chaplin accurately places a not unnecessarily hard shot inside a post and into the net. Town lead one-nil.  “Aye Aye Ippy Ippy Town, Singing Aye Aye Ippy Ippy Town” I sing, hoping to encourage a new craze of referring to Ipswich as “Ippy” because it sounds appropriately hip and happening.

Eighteen minutes gone and Town win another corner and I bawl again,  and then a minute later,  mysteriously six people in black anoraks arrive and sit down just over the gangway from us. “Men in black” says the bloke behind me. “Is there a funeral?” I ask Fiona.   Nobody knows, but with the half, half over Axel Tuanzebe earns another Town corner. “Come On You Blues” chant our tiny band of Ultras.    But it’s soon Vaclav Hladky who is being applauded as he has to make a diving save and Sheffield have a corner of their own before Town win another and as Sheffield threaten to breakaway, Omari Hutchinson is booked by the uncharacteristically tall referee Mr Leigh Doughty for nothing more than a playful shove.

There are ten minutes until half-time and disaster strikes as despite having won yet another corner for Town, Wes Burns is down on the pitch clutching his leg and has to go off; the only good thing being that he only had a short walk to the players’ tunnel, although I don’t suppose players generally think to themselves “I don’t mind getting injured as long as I don’t have to walk far back to the players’ tunnel”.

When the corner is eventually taken, Keiffer Moore heads the ball against the cross bar, it drops down, isn’t cleared and Cameron Burgess wellies it into the net from inside the six-yard box.  Town lead 2-0 and Cameron’s goal possesses the blunt, messy ugliness that has us reminiscing about the days of Mick McCarthy.  Kayden Jackson replaces Wes Burns and Portman Road is very nearly reverberating to the sound of chants of “Blue and White Army, Blue and White Army”.  For pretty much the first time in the game the Sheffield fans have fallen silent.  “Ipswich Town, Ipswich Town FC, The finest football team the world has ever seen” sing the Sir Bobby Robson Stand digging into their stash of Irish folk songs.

Another Town corner comes and goes before Wednesday’s number thirty-six, Ian Poveda runs worryingly at the Town defence.  “Don’t stand off ‘im Wolfie” calls the bloke behind me not expecting his advice to be taken. “As soon as he lets him get in the box he’s fucked” says his sidekick.  But happily disaster is averted, nothing unfortunate happens to Wolfie  and with three minutes of injury time announced Kayden Jackson sprints down the right, crosses low towards the goal and Nathan Broadhead subtly clips the ball into the goal from close range to give Town a 3-0 lead. It’s the best goal so far and makes half-time a time to kick back, relax and hope for another three goals in the second half, which is what I tell Dave the steward and Ray.

No sooner have I eaten a Nature Valley Oats and Honey Crunchy bar than the second half is upon us and Sheffield have substituted their star player, Barry Bannan, which is a shame because players called Barry are a rarity.  Omari Hutchinson quickly shoots over the cross-bar before there is a minute’s applause for another recently deceased Town fan, someone myself, Fiona, Pat from Clacton and ever-present Phil all remember from our days twenty-odd years ago of travelling to away matches with the Clacton branch of the supporters’ club.  By beautiful coincidence and synchronisation worthy of  stadium announcer Murphy,   on the stroke of the minute ending,  Town score a fourth goal, Omari ‘Mbappe’ Hutchinson despatching a decisive shot after an equally decisive run and pass from Nathan Broadhead.  The goal provokes a dash for the exits from an indecently large  number of Sheffield Wednesday supporters who have either just remembered they have urgent appointments elsewhere or who feel unable to support their team when the going gets this tough.

Happily, I have never seen Town surrender a four goal lead and so I am now confident of victory.  Massimo Luongo is as confident as me it seems and shoot from almost the half way line to earn yet another corner. “E-i, E-i, E-i-o, Up the Football League We Go! “ Sing the Sir Bobby Robson Stand triumphantly and a substituted Sheffield Wednesday player walks grimly, head down, along the touchline to the tunnel, in a long black hooded coat, looking a bit like he’s lost his scythe.

The pre-match blue skies have now gone to be replaced by a glorious grey expanse , like one massive dull cloud that surrounds the stadium making it feel like a shining, green, floodlit  island within a becalmed sea of gloom.  I can’t imagine how the Sheffield supporters are feeling.  Keiffer Moore shoots over and Town win another corner as the first hour of the game recedes into recent history and Pat tells us that she’s off to Great Yarmouth next week to play whist.  All of a sudden, Sheffield unexpectedly break away and Ike Ugbo is bearing down on goal, but as he shoots Cameron Burgess whisks the ball away for a corner “He came from nowhere” says the bloke beside me,  exaggerating very little.

“ We love you Wednesday, we do” sing the Wednesdayites admirably, before reprising “You’re just too good to be true” and then going on the offensive with the oddly familiar chant of “ Your support is fucking shit”, which despite occasional outbursts of passion is a mostly a fair point, well made.   If Ipswich has a distinct ‘fan culture’ it is one of stoic reticence. “Four-nil and you still don’t sing” chant the Wednesdayites providing the evidence to back up their earlier assertions.

But oddly, the game has gone a bit flat. “Come On Town” calls the bloke behind me echoing my inner dialogue and right on cue Kieran Mckenna, like someone brandishing a carton of Shake n’Vac,  makes the substitutions needed to put the  freshness  back.  Jeremy Sarmiento and Ali Al-Hamadi replace Nathan Broadhead and Keiffer Moore, and Murphy tells us that collectively we are 29,325 with 1,945 from Sheffield.  “Thank you for your continued support” he adds, like a man fully capable of reading out the team names as they appear on the scoreboard.

Sixteen minutes of the future still to look forward to and Al-Hamadi runs and shoots, but embarrassingly wide. To make Ali feel better about himself, Kayden Jackson then fluffs a volley with equal aplomb.  “Football in a library, do-do-do” chant the Wednesdayites again, reliving one of their early triumphs of the first half before revisiting the well-worn path of our support being faecal and the familiar and satisfying rhyming couplet of “No noise from the Tractor Boys”.  The Wednesday fans are sounding increasingly angry at the Town fans for being so quiet, as if it is almost an affront to them, which it probably is. I can imagine them sitting in the Cobbold Stand saying “These Ipswich fans, 4-0 up, they don’t know they’re born. Back in my day we’d be thirty-four nil down at half time, with ten players sent off, and we’d have all had our heads cut off by over zealous stewards and we’d still be singing.”

But now the final ten minutes are here, the time when in popular fan culture Ipswich are lucky because they score goals and win the game.  Today of course we’re all ready 4-0 up so it’s just for old times sake that Omari Hutchinson runs, Jeremy Sarmento shoots and Ali Al-Hamadi taps in the rebound after the Wednesday goal keeper only parries Sarmiento’s shot.  It’s 5-0 to Ipswich and more Wednesday fans remember urgent appointments.  “We want six” I chant.   “Stand up if you’re five-nil up” chant lots of Town fans and we have to stand up or else we can’t see anything. Why can’t we just do something like “Go Weeee” if we’re five-nil up, why is it always the standing up?  

Six minutes left and we haven’t scored enough goals in the final ten minutes yet, so the remainder of the midfield is replaced.  “You’re fucking shit, you’re fucking shit, you’re fucking shit” chant the Sir Bobby Robson Stand uncharitably to the visitors, but no doubt finally confident that with less than five minutes to go Town shouldn’t lose now, before optimistically asking “ Can we play you every week?”.  The final minute arrives and we still need another goal to fully avenge that 5-0 defeat in 1994. Omari Hutchinson runs, he shoots or may be crosses the ball and Al-Hamadi taps in again, and Town will win six nil for the third time in twelve months. “We want seven” I chant greedily, but three minutes of added on time evaporates and I have to make do with six.

With the final whistle, Pat and Fiona are quickly away into the early evening. I linger to applaud the team and Kieran McKenna and reflect on a day of perfect timings.  I shall be cracking open the Cremant tonight.

Colchester United 2 Salford City 1

/ martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

Although I do want to see Col U play Salford City, it is against my will that I am driving to the Colchester Park and Ride car park because, scandalously, there is no public transport to the out in the middle of nowhere Community Stadium, and the one bus service (Shuttle S1) that is within a twenty minute walk might require leaving before the end of the match to get back to the railway station in time for the last train home.  When Col U first moved from lovely, ramshackle Layer Road to remote, windswept, Cuckoo Farm there were buses laid on from all points of the compass and from across the road to the Bricklayers Arms, a five-minute walk from the railway station.  Despite a lot of talk about being green and saving the planet, no one really cares do they? I’d advise everyone to stop having children now because we’re surely condemning them to a horrible future and probably a lingering death.

But what the heck, ‘tis the eve of the eve of Christmas Eve and Col U are about to play Salford City, the only current members of the Football League that I haven’t seen at some time or other. As I tell Gary, who I had arranged to meet in the Park & Ride car park, I’ve not been to what I still like to call “Layer Road” since October last year, when Col U played Harrogate Town, another Football League club I hadn’t previously seen play.  The Colchester Park and Ride car park is a bleak, desolate place and Gary and I walk as swiftly as we can along the barely lit path towards the bridge over the A12.  The lighting either side of the path is phenomenally ineffective, illuminating nothing more than a tiny circle around each light and casting no light whatsoever over the path itself, it’s so useless it could have been designed by any or all the UK’s last five Tory Prime Ministers.

The Community Stadium floodlights shine like a beacon along with the neon signs of the nearby McDonald’s and like moths around a flame Colcestrians are drawn to both.  Gary and I head for the turnstiles, and I hand him my mobile phone on which there is an e-mail with a ticket and QR code. Waving the phone about in front of something works, and Gary is in; he hands the phone back to me as the turnstile clicks. The e-mail says I would be sent two e-mails, but only one ever arrived.  However, it doesn’t matter, there is a second ticket and I wave it about and a green light comes on, I’m in too. Before heading for our seats I pause to collect a free programme for each of us from three neat piles, a woman eyes me suspiciously as if I’m about to set fire to them or steal hers.   Despite my misgivings about the location of this football ground and its accessibility, the free programme is a sign of true civilisation, it’s like being in France.

“The teams are in the tunnel” announces the electronic scoreboard, as if this might be an exciting development. “Make some noise” entreats the stadium announcer and from the loudspeakers up in the eaves comes the sound of the splendid “Post horn galop”, which Wikipedia tells us was composed in 1844 by German cornet player Hermann Koenig. Flags are waved in the South Stand and a drum beats to chants of Ole, Ole, Ole, sung in a style that sounds to my admittedly, slightly blocked up ears, like Olde English folk music.  The evening is off to a good start. 

With the teams lined up it is Col U who get first go with the ball, which they are hoping to put in the goal at the far end of the ground which backs picturesquely onto the A12.  Salford are kitted out uninspiringly in all-black, as if they couldn’t be bothered to come up with an original away kit, which they don’t need tonight any way because Salford’s club colours are red and red. The latest incarnation of Col U’s kit is probably one of the worst, with the normally blue stripes of the shirts faded to a washed out grey like they’ve been put on too hot a wash.  The pale green goalkeeper’s kit looks similarly carelessly laundered.  From their kits alone it’s easy to see why Col U are languishing in 22nd place in the twenty-four team fourth division and Salford are 20th

A couple of elderly latecomers arrive and we have to stand to let them past.  One brandishes a plastic bag “Been Christmas shopping have we?” I ask, insolently, implying that’s why I have been inconvenienced. Four minutes gone and Salford win the game’s first corner.  The drums are still beating. The scoreboard tells us that tonight’s match is sponsored by the Colchester and East Essex Cricket Club. The first player who has come to my notice is the Col U number 7, a small bloke with floppy hair who seems to fall over a lot. I don’t think he’s diving, he’s just little and not very steady on his legs when a big northerner comes up behind him.  “Too easy, too easy” exclaims the bloke behind me as Salford string two passes together and threaten to undo the Col U defence; a timely tackle saves the day.  An empty crisp packet blows across the pitch and I notice a possible redeeming feature of Col U’s kit, hooped socks. “ If only we had a target man” says the bloke behind me longingly, adding an unexpected frisson of homo-eroticism to the evening.

After fifteen minutes we witness the first shot on target, the Salford number seven is guilty however of failing to place it anywhere either side of the Col U goalkeeper who promptly catches it without having to move.  Two minutes later and referee, the suspiciously neat Mr Finnie, airs his yellow card for the first time, his victim being Col U’s Arthur Read, a man who in my opinion has the best name of anyone on the pitch; it’s as if he has travelled to us through time and he makes me think of Arthur Seaton in Alan Sillitoe’s novel ‘Saturday Night and Sunday Morning’. Arthur Seaton would definitely have been first into the book too.

Salford win a free-kick and tension mounts as we wait for it to be taken, but we needn’t have worried as once again it goes straight to the goalkeeper.  There follows warm applause, not because of good play, but merely relief.  Arthur Read has a shot and earns a corner. “Well done lino” says a voice bizarrely as Col U quickly win another corner. “Where’s Tom Eastman when you need him?” asks the bloke behind me. “Enjoying life at Dagenham” says the bloke next to him, suggesting another side to Dagenham  I hadn’t previously imagined.  This a strange game, neither side is very good,  but they are both trying to play decent football and they are evenly matched, which between the poor passes and lack of a plan makes for quite an absorbing encounter.  Col U’s Connor Hall is booked for possibly the least subtle shove off the ball of an opposition player I have ever seen; is this what being ‘an honest professional’ means I wonder?

The game rolls on towards half-time and Salford create the best chance so far as a clever series of no more than two passes puts McAleny through with just the goalkeeper to beat, but he doesn’t. Salford earn their first booking, but only after Mr Finnie walks back and forth a bit as if forensically examining the scene of the foul, whilst also possibly listening to the advice of the home crowd.  Col U win another corner; the Salford goalkeeper pats the ball down in a sudden panic and somebody clears it or deflects it high over the goal, possibly Curtis Tilt, whose surname is ideal in a match where action in the penalty area resembles that on a pinball table.

Three minutes remain until half-time when a run down the wing, a low cross, and a half-hearted, indecisive looking nudge-on precede the ball running to Joe Taylor and he shoots with ease past the Salford goalkeeper. Col U lead 1-0 and the final three minutes of the half plus minute of added on time are much more exciting as both teams decide to get a bit of a sweat up before half-time.

With the half-time whistle, Gary and I opt for a change of scenery and retreat beneath the stand, for no reason in particular.  I ask Gary if he’d like anything from the catering facilities, but he’s not keen, and nor am I. Fizzy beer and fatty snacks are not enticing and it’s not a particularly cold evening, so hot drinks aren’t needed either. We stand, and talk, and reminisce about Friday evenings at Layer Road in the dim and distant past of Roy McDonagh and Tony Adcock and the Barside.  I ask him if he’s ever been to any of the events that are held up here, such as the comedy nights. “I’ve been to Slimming World” he says.

We time our return to our seats to perfection and as we sit down the teams reappear on the pitch.   The game is now wonderfully scrappy. Col U’s number seven seems to fall over even more than he did in the first half.  We both agree that the far end of the ground is somewhat dingy and it’s not always easy to follow the path of the ball even though it is bright yellow.  The scrappiness of the game matches the acoustics of the stadium, hollow shouts and guttural moans echoing off the steel roof, plastic seats, concrete and empty spaces.  It might not sound it, but it’s pretty enjoyable, this is what fourth division football is all about, especially when the teams in twenty-second and twentieth positions meet.

Col U make a double substitution; not to be out done so do Salford, for whom Matty Lund replaces Liam Humbles. Lean, 33-year old Lund is described on Wikipedia as a “real good passer of the ball” and he cuts a dash with his grey hair, like a fourth division Zinedine Zidane.  Col U earn a corner after a decent shot from the exotic sounding Jayden Fevrier and then a foul by a Salford player provokes chants of “You dirty Northern bastard”  from the South Stand, and my evening is almost complete. 

More substitutions follow for Col U with about twenty minutes still left to enjoy and endure. Goalscorer Taylor is replaced by John Akinde, an enormous man with no hair who stirs memories of former Wycombe Wanderer Ade Akinbiyi, and is so popular with the crowd that he only has to boot the ball off the pitch for people to cheer. Col U have been the better team in the second half without making the chances to prove it,  but full-time is approaching and the anxiety of holding  onto the win elicits chants of “Come on Col U, Come on Col U”.  An eighty seventh minute Curtis Tilt cross and a powerful header over the cross-bar by Matt Smith don’t help, but then unexpectedly Akinde delivers a precise through ball, Chay Cooper is away beyond the Salford defence and passes the ball beyond Cairns the Salford ‘keeper.  Col U lead 2-0 and if anyone wants to leave early for that stupidly early last bus, they probably can.

But the modern game produces things like six minutes of added on time, even in the fourth division and within a minute Salford are back in the game as McAleny turns and produces an instant shot into the top corner of the Col U goal from over 20 metres out.  It’s a spectacular goal, the sort that people prone to exaggeration might say was worth the entrance money alone. The remaining minutes are tense.  Akinde is the fifth and final Col U player to be booked by the overly neat Mr Finnie and a final substitution of Will Greenidge for Fevrier is made. “Fuck off Greenidge” shouts a committed fan, and one of the possible reasons why Col U are struggling becomes apparent.  But the final minutes are played out and all that happens is that I notice the Salford number three has the name John on the back of his shirt, I wonder for a moment if he is a Brazilian like Fred and  Oscar, but the back of the programme tells me he is Welsh, and his first name is Declan, which oddly sounds Irish.

The final whistle brings a rare victory for Col U and applause from the crowd. As we head back to our cars I confess to Gary that I quite enjoyed the match and I think he did too. “But was it worth £21.00?” I ask him. “No” says Gary without hesitation and in the context of what we used to pay to see at Layer Road forty years ago I don’t suppose it was.