Eddie the Eagle

Colchester 1 Wycombe 0

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Remaining true to my fictional new year’s resolution to ‘get out more’, I return for the second dull Tuesday night in a row to the Weston Homes Out In The Middle of Nowhere Community Stadium for a second helping of Colchester United in the competition properly known at Football League Division Four.

Two pints of Adnams Old Ale in The Bricklayers Arms and a speeding, top-deck, bus ride that’s worth £2.50 of anyone’s money are the prelude to the shock of arriving at the stadium. There’s a queue at the turnstiles because tonight’s the night the U’s play Wycombe Wanderers, their meanest, nastiest foe who once, long ago in 1991 pipped the U’s to promotion by scoring more goals. The rotters. Like last week a steward asks if he can look in my bag, of course he can, but I tell him he probably won’t see much because its a navy blue bag and it’s awfully dark out here. He peers down perfunctorily and fondles the bottom of the bag just a little before turning away, perhaps a tad embarrassed.

Into the ground and I immediately meet my next door neighbour, who explains that she is here to see her son take penalties at half time with the Coggeshall Under 15’s team; I’ll look out for that I tell her. I meet her husband in the toilet who’s here for the same reason, although he’s in the toilet to have a piddle, like me.

After the usual modern age twee ‘sporting’ nonesense of handshakes and standing in a line, the game kicks off. The teams are made up of the usual collection of young men with serious yet silly haircuts and Colchester once again field ex Ipswich prodigy Owen Garvan – Hurrah! Wycombe meanwhile have a star in their midst , a star the size of a planet, Adebayo Akinfenwa who apparently weighs 16 stone. Mr Akinfenwa’s football career spans a century, albeit the 21st one and he is a Football League legend who has also won medals in the Premier League and the Welsh Premier League; with Barry Town; he is enormous, absolutely vast. It might be an exaggeration to say he is worth the entrance money alone, but you get a lot for your money with Ade. He doesn’t run so much as waddle about the pitch, but he knows where to be and when. He’s always in the right place at the right time, but when you’re as big as him it’s difficult not to be. Ade is apparently known as ‘The Beast,’ but he seemed like a very lovely man indeed, playing as he does with a smile on his face despite being called a ‘fat bastard’ by those Col U wags behind the goal. Far from being a beast, Ade is the sort of bloke you’d happily invite round for afternoon tea and a plate of fancies with your mum. You wouldn’t want to invite a ‘beast’ round for that would you, they might leave something nasty in your downstairs toilet, and as Kevin Keegan might say, no ones a fan of that.

Inspired by Ade, as anyone would be, the Wycombe fans are in good voice and have a drum, which they bang, or one of them does. Sensibly, those Wycombe fans who want to stand up do so at the back of the stand where they can see over the heads of those who prefer to sit. It looks a very neat and tidy arrangement, they’re evidently not daft in Buckinghamshire. Wycombe start well and whilst the Col U fans also have a drum, they have no rhythm yet and their unco-ordinated shouts produce a hollow echo off the tin roof and walls.

Colchester send a shot past the post and the U’s fans offer a double salvo of “Fuck Off Wycombe!” but it somehow doesn’t quite sound quite right, saying that to an innocuous town in the home counties; you wouldn’t say that to Gerrards Cross now would you, so why Wycombe? Things are getting nasty, well kind of, and Wycombe’s Will de Havilland is booked for not controlling his elbow well enough in the vicinity of someone else’s face. I imagine the referee asking his name and saying “Really? de Havilland? What like her in Gone With The Wind?”

Moments later the U’s are in front and no one looks more surprised than the goalscorer George Elokobi, whose spectacular effort from 20 odd yards arcs delightfully into the top corner; it might have been a cross originally though, there’s no knowing from where I’m sat. The U’s fans rise as one and a man in a beanie hat in front of me stands purposefully as if to address the players, and slowly stabs both his temples with his forefingers. Odd.

The U’s are in full flow and Brindley sends the ball low across the face of goal, like you do. Then at the other end Akinfenwa literally squashes Brindley, who has to be shaken back into shape by the physio. Mascot Eddie the Eagle then helps referee Mr Kettle to ensure the ball is placed accurately in the little ‘D’ for a corner kick. The scoreboard fleetingly advises us to kit ourselves out 24 hours a day, 7 days a week at cufc retail, and by the look of a few people around me they have done just that. Unimpressed, Olivia de Havilland shoves a Col U player and a bit later does it again, she is substituted at half-time.

The game is what you might call ‘attritional’. A Wycombe player with a hair cut which is part Marge Simpson, part skinhead gets in to a good position, but then sends his cross far over everyone’s head, before scratching his own as if unable to fully comprehend what just happened. Then U’s Lapslie has a free-kick awarded against him. “What about the foul earlier?” cries an angry, plaintiff voice. Indeed, what about it, eh, Mr Kettle? ” Oh sorry, you’re absolutely right, my mistake”. But no, Mr Kettle didn’t say a word to his accuser; how cool is that?

At number 12 Wycombe have a player rejoicing under the name of Paris Cowan-Hall. Paris, now there’s an exotic name for a footballer, but his double-barrelled surname perhaps suggests Patrician parents who benefitted from a classical education. In Greek legend Paris was a bit like a stereotypical Premier League footballer; he was ‘one for the ladies’ having a fling with a nymph called Oenone before getting Aphrodite, Hera and Athena to get their kit off and then eloping with Helen who was already married to Menelaus king of Sparta; all of which resulted in the Trojan Wars and that big horse and everything. Just thought you’d like to know in case they ask a question on University Challenge .

On the cusp of half-time and the U’s keeper tries to look busy as he taps the soles of his boots on the goal posts and swigs from a bottle, even though he is only seconds away from a nice cup of half-time tea. Sadly I am more than seconds from my half-time tea and spend so long in the not very long queue that I only return to the stand in time to see the Coggeshall Under 15’s leave the field, having presumeably scored all their penalties against the hapless Eddie the Eagle. I’ll lie to the neighbours.

There’s just time to enjoy Pulp’s Mis-shapes over the tannoy before the action recommences. An early boot into touch sees a wonderfully disinterested looking ballboy in a bobble hat take an age to return the ball to a Wycombe player who seems to curb his impatience because the lad is so very small and looks so much like he’d rather be elsewhere. I like to think that his dad was right chuffed to get young Tommy in as a ball-boy, but actually Tommy is day-dreaming about trying on his sister’s dresses or doing ballet.

Moving on and U’s earn an obvious corner . “Corner!” shouts a reedy voice behind me as if challenging Mr Kettle not to give it. Again Mr Kettle stays calm. The game rolls on and Colchester have the ascendency, doing most of the attacking and doing it with a fair lick of pace. This is in contrast to Wycombe who seem restricted to move at the same pace as big Ade, after all, they wouldn’t want to leave him behind. He nevertheless wins quite a few headers and defies physics for one final moment in injury time and has one cleared off the goal line. The Wycombe fans have been silenced largely, although with 10 minutes to go they had raise a few “Come on Wycombe” chants to save face.

Responding to a prompt from the scoreboard the U’s fans get behind the U’s once more to carry their team over the winning line on a wave of vocal encouragement. A fine win for the U’s and a most enjoyable evening for which credit must also go to the vanquished team and in particular Ade Akinfenwa, what a great bloke and worth a hundred Premier League players; by weight alone.

Colchester United 2 Crawley Town 3

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Emerging from Colchester station I crossed through a queue of cars and coughed a little at the fumes left hanging in the evening air. It was cool, it was mid- February, man. Valentines day and my wife had stayed in with Adrian Rabiot and Marco Verrati. A hoarding announced that a brick brutalist building (if that is possible), former offices overlooking the railway, is being converted into flats, Station Court it will be called, what a lovely name, only one down from Station Mews. I felt a little sick, it may have been those fumes, but was more likely the two Greggs sausage rolls eaten on the train from Ipswich. Note to self, never buy a Greggs sausage roll again, they only cost a pound each for a reason.

The Bricklayers Arms is a satisfyingly short walk from Colchester station and with a pint of Adnams Old Ale for £3.65 I sat down at a round table to sup and read. I was one corner of a triangle with two empty chairs, no one asked if they were free, the pub wasn’t that busy. I am reading a book entitled ‘The Numbers Game – Why Everything You Know About Football Is Wrong’ and soon I am going to catch a bus to see Colchester United play Crawley Town in what I call Football League Division Four. I am not a football obsessive though, in fact I hate the bloody game and later I am going to write a fucking blog about it.

There were only two other people on the top deck of the bus to Layer Road (£2.50 return fare), or the Weston Homes Out In The Middle of Nowhere Community Stadium as I believe it is more properly known. Lonely and scared I spoke to them; one was an occasional Crawley Town follower who only began to take an interest when they were drawn against Manchester United in the FA Cup; he knew nothing about their players but nevertheless liked the club and wore the scarf, he was like a reverse Manchester United fan, I thought he was laudable. His companion was in IT and had worked for Ipswich Town (haha ITIT) during the George Burley and David Sheepshanks era, but left disillusioned by the budget cutting Marcus Evans. What is Marcus Evans up to at Ipswich?

Having resisted the temptation to buy a cuddly Eddie the Eagle mascot in the club shop I queued for what must have been seconds to get into the stadium where I immediately met a lady steward I know, we hugged; I felt blessed, all football supporters should get a hug from a steward I thought (if they want one) , a sort of apology for that frisking and request to look in your bag.

After urinating in a slightly smelly and drafty room of shiny steel troughs and breeze blocks I sat down in time to hear the stadium announcer tell us that Owen Garvan would be wearing the two little ducks shirt; although he actually said twenty-two. Owen Garvan played for Ipswich Town, I am an Ipswich season ticket holder, Roy Keane sent Owen Garvan away to Crystal Palace, I liked Owen Garvan, I hate Roy Keane.

The Jam’s A Town Called Malice played on the public address, was it a reference to Colchester or Crawley? The ‘real’ Eddie the Eagle mascot did a Mick Jagger impression to a Rolling Stones tune and the scoreboard advertised a night out at the stadium to see the Rollin’ Clones, a tribute act . I wondered if it would be possible to clone Keith Richards or has his DNA been irreparably damaged like his face.

Yay, the game had started. George Elokobi was playing for Colchester and looked a different shape to when I had last seen him play for Braintree Town; was he slimmer or was he wearing a truss? For one moment the floodlights reflected so brightly off the head of Crawley’s Kaby Djalo I thought he was sporting a Davy lamp, he wasn’t. A Colchester player jumped at a Crawley man, falling over him as he followed the trajectory of the ball; free-kick to Crawley, “e’s given it the uvverway” moaned the bloke in front of me expounding his ongoing critique of the referee Lee Collins. As United’s Dickenson vainly tried to manoeuvre around the Crawley full-back and ran the ball into touch, another concerned Colcestrian desperately called out ” ‘elp ‘im” . But Colchester were doing alright, striking at the very heart of the Crawley defence and after 18 minutes Johnstone scored, shooting beneath ‘keeper Morris and all was well.

Having seen the joy that a goal can provide, five minutes on and Crawley Town got one too, a corner being diverted into the net from very close range by a man called Smith. That popular beat combo The Cure and their frontman Robert Smith were from Crawley. I hoped it was a relative at least. The scoreboard declared Barry’s 50 year love for Joan because it was Valentine’s day, but her joy was likely dented nine minutes later as a high cross was headed back to Smiffy and he volleyed the ball unsympathetically into the Colchester net. The natives were no longer happy . ” The trouble with this now is…” said a bloke behind me, but trailed off frustratingly; what was the trouble with this, apart from the obvious?

Half-time. Cup of tea for a pound and a check of the half time results, then back for more. Smith again, this time low and at an angle from 20 yards, 3-1 to Crawley. Smith 23,34,52 (HAT) read the scoreboard and Smith was worth his hat, although he deigned to wear it. Unless you were a fan of the 1946 New Towns Act and its subsequent sport related spin-off things were not looking good, although another bloke behind me insisted on encouraging the U’s by repeatedly yelling ” Come on U’s, you’re all over them”, but he might have been being ironic, it was hard to say. Another spectator was obsessed with Crawley Town having been a non-league side only recently, as if that meant they would be forever inferior. There’s never a psychologist about when you need one. Personally, I was now struggling with the smell of the after-shave or scent of the man in front of me who I thought, for a man in his seventies, had very, very neatly coiffured hair; I surmised he had a post match Valetine’s date with a lady who liked smelly old men.

The ninety minutes became 98 minutes because the referee had made a spectacle of himself by hurting his leg and eventually being substituted, and Colchester pulled a goal back. The locals emitted some throaty growls of encouragement , reviving memories of the Layer Road roar, but they couldn’t turn the tide of progress and Britain’s reputedly oldest town was unable to gain parity with one of Britain’s new towns.

Romans and Ancient Britons 2 Planned Post-War Utopia 3

I caught the bus, I caught the train, I walked home to my wife and her memories of Adrian Rabiot the pre-Raphaelite Parisian and Michaelangelo’s Paulo Verratti.