Little Oakley 1 Barking 1

January 26, 2025October 26, 2025 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

The village of Little Oakley in Essex, Wikipedia tells us, had a population in 2011 of 1,171 and is on the outskirts of Harwich. More precisely, Google maps tells us that Little Oakley is a four kilometre, fifty-eight minute walk from Harwich International railway station. Now, I reckon I could walk 4 kilometres in less than 58 minutes, but I am nevertheless of a lazy disposition and therefore, today I have opted to drive the thirty-six kilometres from my house to the Memorial Ground, home of Little Oakley FC in my planet saving Citroen e-C4, rather than enjoy a travel melange of rail, bus and walking, which would take me between one and half and two and a half hours depending on connections. Today at the Memorial Ground, Little Oakley FC are playing Barking in the Essex Senior League, the ninth level of English league football.

It’s a beautiful, bright, clear, winter’s day and but for a Luton van pulling out in front of me from a lay-by on the A120, I have a relaxed, trouble-free journey, played out to a soundtrack of the Saturday afternoon pre-match football coverage on BBC Radio Essex, featuring amongst others, the dulcet tones of Glenn Pennyfather and Danny Cowley. My Citroen’s SatNav doesn’t seem to know about the Memorial Ground, so my journey ends with an abrupt left hand turn when suddenly from the B1414 I see the street sign for Lodge Road, which I remember from looking at a map is adjacent to the Memorial Ground. I park up at the side of the narrow approach road, beneath an avenue of trees with a deep ditch on one side and wooden fence on the other on which several signs plead with drivers not to park too close to it. I make the short walk to the clubhouse enjoying the sound of birdsong whilst inhaling the smell of hot cooking oil, probably chip fat.

The clubhouse is welcoming and populated with happy pre-match drinkers. I buy a bottle of Adnams’ almost non-alcoholic ‘Ghostship’ (£3.20) and the bar maid asks if I’d like a glass, I would. I stand and look up at one of three TV screens showing Sky TV. From a hatch, behind which is the clubhouse kitchen, a middle-aged woman looks out glumly. “Fed up?” I ask her. “Bored” she says “It was busy, and now it’s quiet”. This lady seems responsible for fulfilling the whole crowd’s need for food and hot drink on her own but it will soon be kick-off, so for now she’s not needed.

I sink my low alcohol beer as quickly as I can without burping and head outdoors where a man with a loud, deep voice directs me to turn left beyond the shipping container at the far end of the car park. A short, friendly man emerges from a hut, a bit like municipal car park attendants used to in the far off days before ‘Pay and Display’, and asks if I’m a concession. I ask how old you have to be to be a concession; it turns out it’s sixty-five and he apologises when I tell him I’m only sixty-four. But it does mean I’m about six months further from the grave than I would have been if I’d been a concession, even if I will be three quid poorer for it. Having handed over my £8.00 in cash, I ask if there is a programme and am surprised to find that there is. “Here you are, if you’d like something to read” says the man, handing me six colourful sheets of A4 paper stapled together in the top left-hand corner. Best of all the programme is free, as if a little bit of France has been re-located to the top right-hand corner of rural Essex.

Pap-rock plays over the public address system as I take stock of the ground, which has two small pre-fabricated metal terraces behind one goal and another pre-fabricated metal stand with seats overlooking the far half of the pitch; it looks as if there wasn’t room behind the dugouts for the stand to be level with the half way line. The ground backs onto a hedge and a couple of Oak trees on one side and onto the gardens of a row of semi-detached houses on the other. At the far end there is just a playing field and a trio of teenagers have leaned their bikes against the rail around the pitch. I can also see from here that the clubhouse appears to have a partly corrugated metal roof; I bet it rattles when it rains.

The pap-rock gives way to Jeff Beck’s ‘Hi-Ho Silver Lining’ and the two teams amble onto the pitch; if there is any shaking of hands or other gestures of sportsmanship I miss them. I stand close to the home team dugout and next to me a man talking into his mobile phone says “We got two meal deals at the Co-op before we came out, so we ‘ad them”. In the ‘technical area’ in front of the dugout, a track-suited man calls out to the home players “Ave a look, ‘ave a look, just be aware of the fuckin’ double bluff”. I have no idea what he means, and decide not to ask him.

The match begins, and Barking get first go with the ball, their second touch being a hefty hoof out to the left wing. Little Oakley, known as ‘The Acorns’ are wearing blue and black striped shirts with black shorts, a bit like a destitute man’s Inter Milan and are defending the empty, featureless end of the ground with marshes, Hamford Water and the North Sea a kilometre or two beyond. Barking are all in yellow, with black sleeves, and they defend the clubhouse and Ramsey end of the ground, with the River Stour and Suffolk beyond that. Barking win an early corner with some clever play by their number seven Michele Maccari. “Why’s that big guy on the edge? ‘e’s got a massive head on him” asks a lad sat behind me of his two friends, who I think could all be Little Oakley players who are not playing today. The ‘guy on the edge’ is stood at the edge of the penalty box and whilst he is quite tall, I must admit I can’t really see that his head is any bigger than anyone else’s.

“Barking, Barking give us a song” chants a bloke tamely, somewhere off to my right. “If you all ‘ate Dagenham clap your ‘ands” comes the response from three or four other voices. Unfortunately, Little Oakley has no such choir. It’s just gone a quarter past three and despite Barking probably playing, or at least attempting to play the more attractive and neater football, it is Little Oakley who have the first decent shot on goal, as number ten, Daniel Rowe spectacularly volleys the ball against the foot of a goalpost creating a pleasing metallic pinging sound. Recovering from the momentary excitement, I notice that between the semi-detached houses on the far side of the ground and across the water inbetween, I can see two dockside cranes at the Port of Felixstowe, beyond which and unbeknown to me, Felixstowe & Walton Football Club are on their way to drawing nil-nil with Haringey Borough in the Isthmian League.

Barking make claims for a penalty as one of their number tumbles between two Oakley defenders and at this point the referee seems to lose any affection the visitors might have once had for him. “You’re a joke ref” calls a man from behind a camera with a tele-photo lens, “Absolute clown ref”. It’s nearly twenty-five past three and all of a sudden Barking take the lead; a clever, arcing cross being headed in at the near post by number six and captain Fahad Nyanja.

As the game is about to resume, an Acorns’ player calls out “We keep going, we fucking keep going”. It is stating the obvious and I for one would feel a bit short-changed if this early in the game they’d all along been secretly playing ‘next goal wins’ . As unnecessary as it should be, these apparent words of encouragement nevertheless almost work but in an unexpected way, as a low cross from the Oakley number seven, Idris Namisi is diverted against a goal post by Barking number four Sam Edwards. Idris Namisi seems a popular player amongst the home crowd, and I can’t help but like him too, even if it’s probably because his first name is the same as that of the dragon who lived in the firebox of Ivor the Engine.

Oakley’s number ten, Rowe claims the honour of being the first player to be booked as he pulls back a Barking player and I agree with the old boy stood next to me, whose grandson is the Oakley number eleven, Luke Hipkin, when he says it was a needless, stupid foul. The old boy asks me if I’m from Harwich and I tell him I grew up in Shotley just over the river from here. “Not far away, then “. He says. ”Not if you’ve got a boat” I reply. Back on the pitch, the Oakley players are arguing amongst themselves.

The half ends with Rowe being put through on goal for Oakley with just the Barking keeper to beat, but his shot is saved and Idris the popular dragon blazes the rebound high and wide. I check my phone and Ipswich are losing 0-3 at Liverpool, which makes me glad I’m here and not on Merseyside. With the half-time whistle I make for the club house to drain off excess low alcohol Ghostship and invest in one pound fifty’s worth of tea, because under a clear sky it’s beginning to get cold as the sun sinks in the west. The middle-aged woman in the kitchen is being cheerfully rushed off her feet serving tea, frying chips, griddling burgers and taking cash and card payments. I can’t help but think it’s a pity the players and managers of both teams can’t just get on with what they’re meant to be doing with as little complaint. I haven’t heard her say ‘fuck’ once.

I take my tea outside into the softening, late, winter afternoon sunlight and the match resumes at two minutes past four; I stand by the Barking dugout. “Get ‘old of the fucker” barks the Barking manager a seemingly irascible man sporting a stylish grey cap and white goatee beard, who sounds like Ray Winstone and mostly never says ‘fuck’ or ‘fuckin’ in a sentence unless he can say it half a dozen times. Mostly, his exasperation seems to be directed at his own Barking team who, I can only guess, aren’t playing so much like the Spanish national team, as may be he told them to.

Time goes on and Barking’s number eleven Ugonna Emineke is booked for time wasting as he delays taking a throw-in because there is a rumpus happening in the penalty area and he’s waiting for it to subside. Unfortunately for Emineke, the referee only had eyes for him and hadn’t noticed the pushing and shoving in the penalty area, although before the throw is eventually taken he has to go and sort it out and speak to his assistant about it. Then, with twenty minutes of the half gone Oakley equalise, Idris Namisi nipping in to poke a cross over the goal line from close range.

As it has progressed, the game has become increasingly fractious, with a number of Acorns players being quite aggressive, whilst Barking players have acted out fouls where none has been made, sometimes squealing and moaning for additional effect. All this has been against a background of some of the most liberal use of the word ‘fuck’ I have ever heard and I wonder what people do during the week to make them so angry on a Saturday.

Things don’t improve when at twenty-seven minutes to five Emineke is sent off for a ‘professional’ (or, as this is only the Essex Senior League perhaps ‘semi-professional’) foul, and The Acorns are awarded a penalty, which the balding and bearded Darren Mills takes and Daniel Purdue saves, diving excellently to his right. “How many more fucking chances do we get?” moans The Acorns’ number three Adie Cant. “Calm the fuck down” shouts the coach “Fuckin’ ‘ell”. It’s as if Peter Cook and Dudley Moore’s Derek and Clive had had an afternoon out at the football.

With the aftermath of the penalty, the worst of the afternoon’s fractiousness is over and much of the final twenty minutes plays out against the back-drop of a glorious, blood red sunset, A friendly man wearing a day-glo gilet bearing the words ‘LO Media Officer’ on the back, talks to me briefly and asks if I’m a ground hopper, “Not really” I tell him, “ I usually watch Ipswich”, although I don’t let on that for forty years I’ve kept a list of every game I’ve ever been to. He’s soon photographing the main stand against the sunset however, and the match plays out shifting freely from end to end, but with neither side looking much like scoring the winning goal. Meanwhile, I wonder at the name of a local fish and chip shop, Pieseas Chippy, which is advertised at the pitch side.

The final whistle blows at eight minutes to five and an appreciative crowd applaud the efforts of both teams in a match which whilst mostly not a thing of beauty, apart from the sunset, has been entertaining and hard fought. I think a draw is a fair result although home fans might not agree, and as I head for my car I hear a man muttering to himself about the ‘village team’ holding the team from the city (Wikipedia tells us that in 2011 Barking had a population of 59,011) as if the moral victory belongs to Little Oakley. Perhaps it does, but even if it doesn’t it’s been a lovely afternoon out.

Colchester United 2 Salford City 1

December 24, 2023January 20, 2024 / 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.